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shellshocklove · 6 months ago

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does anyone know where the love of god goes? | joel miller

pairing/AU: joel miller x female!reader – post breakout & no ellie AU

summary: crossing the country alone as he searches for his brother, joel stumbles on a farm. winter is closing in, and against his better judgement he's convinced to stay. as the frost covers the land like a blanket, a warmth ignites in his heart for the young woman who's home he finds himself in.

warnings: this is an 18+ fic so minors dni!!! canon-typical violence, age gap (reader is mid to late twenties), swearing, dead animals, joel being a sad man, masturbation, no use of y/n

a/n: i soft launched this ao3 last month and it flopped lol so i'm gonna keep my expectations low for this series. anyways this has been a story i've been thinking about since probably october. this is the first part of what i'm hoping will be 3 parts. happy reading i guess

main masterlist / series masterlist / ao3 / playlist

from the river to the sea, palestine will be free 🇵🇸 this account stands with palestine. the creator of tlou is a zionist, and the second game is largly based on israel/palestine. please, everyone who interacts, educate yourself about the genocide happening right now, and support/donate.

The leaves rustled against Joel’s boots with every step he took. The sun had turned traitor cold, and he couldn’t feel its kiss against his cheek no more. The trees shivered above him in the wind – the only sound for miles except his heavy steps.

Did he still exist, with no one around? Joel had never minded being alone; after the breakout he’d found that he sometimes preferred it. People could be… well, when you’ve seen the worst of humanity, maybe it’s best to leave it behind.

And wasn’t he the worst of humanity? The things he’d done. The people he’d killed, and killed for. The people he’d lost.

But he had to keep going. For Tess. He promised.

Every night as he stared into the flames his thoughts would drift to her – the memories flickering in the fire. They should’ve never gone through that museum – it was supposed to have been empty – they should’ve never left Boston in the first place. Now Tess is gone because of him, him and his stupid plan to find his brother.

And for what? How is he ever gonna find Tommy?

Joel didn’t even know where he was. Nebraska? South-Dakota? Maybe he’d made it to Wyoming and just didn’t know it? Abe had told him ‘Cody Tower’, but Joel hadn’t seen anything other than mother nature for weeks.

Everything had started to look the same. Trees and more trees, a mountain in the distance, a grey and heavy sky above him. He’d been walking for forever. Slowly he moved west– or at least he thought he was. On the days where the sun hung high in the sky and wasn’t shielded behind a cloudy partition, he liked to watch it as it dipped below the earth. As the days turned shorter and shorter, the display of color had started to get more vivid. Joel would watch the light blue turn red and bloody, fiery tongues of flames licking over the horizon while the sharp edges of the mountains, and the triangular shapes of the trees faded into an intense black– like the shape of the mountain and the trees had been cut out with scissors. There wasn’t much to stay alive for anymore– but Joel lived for those few moments where nature painted with fire. Humanity might’ve gone to shit, but the cyclical regularity of mother nature gave Joel a small sense of peace.

But he missed the kiss of the sun against his cheek now. He’d moved into a large forest a few days ago. Tall trees hovered over him like giants and cast shadows down at him. It was colder here than out in the open country, but at least he’d been somewhat shaded from the rain pouring from the grey cover above his head the last few days.

Thwack. Thwack. Thwack.

The sound stopped Joel in his tracks. Muscle memory worked on its own, gripping the shotgun slung over his shoulder. He listened for the sound again, to the steady rhythm echoing through the forest.

Thwack. Thwack. Thwack.

With slow calculated steps Joel walked in the direction of the sound with the shotgun held tightly to his chest, his finger hovered over the trigger. The chopping sound got louder as he closed in on a man. He couldn’t tell his age with the man’s back turned – but he was strong – Joel could tell from how hard the man’s axe hit the tree trunk.

Taking another silent step, Joel got in position, “How ‘bout you slowly turn around and place that axe on the ground.”

Joel’s voice was hoarse after no use, but still cold and calculated as he spoke his order. He could see he’d startled the man, probably thinking he was alone, just like Joel had thought mere minutes ago.

The man obeyed, turning around slowly. He was older than Joel, maybe mid-seventies, maybe older if the wrinkles and creases around his eyes and nose were to be believed. His hair was white as snow matching his unkempt beard. Joel caught his eye. Strong and steady, no trace of fear one would think a man would feel while having a gun pointed at them.

Joel’s grip around the gun tightened. He wasn’t afraid to pull the trigger if that’s where this was headed. The man watched him calmly before he bent his knees, throwing the axe haphazardly on the ground.

“Kick it over here,” Joel commanded again, and the man obeyed, kicking the axe clumsily towards Joel.

Slowly Joel crept closer, gun still pointed at the man. He locked the heel of his shoe against the shaft, dragging the axe behind him and out of the way.

“Hands where I can see ‘em.”

“Are you going to kill me, son?”

The man’s question puzzled Joel. He said it so calmly, like how you’d ask someone to pass the salt.

“That depends on you.” Joel’s answer pulled at the old man’s lips, a small huff of a laugh escaping them.

“Well, you’re the one with the gun. I think it depends on you.”

Joel tightened his grip on the shotgun again – he didn’t know why –to frighten the man? He didn’t seem very frightened.

“Are you alone?” Joel asked.

“Not anymore,” the man answered.

“Don’t be a smartass,” Joel gritted through his teeth, “who you travelin’ with?”

“No one,” the man’s eyes never left Joel, “I live at a farm about a mile away.”

“Take me to it.”

The man walked with a limp Joel noticed. It was barely there, you wouldn’t see it if you didn’t pay attention, but it was there. The man acted tough enough, but his body revealed his weaknesses. It would be easy to kill him, Joel thought, if it came to that.

He followed the man through the trees with his gun pointed at his back. When they reached the end of the forest a clearing revealed itself. They followed a path through a field of, tall but wilted, brown grass until they reached an overgrown gravel road with a fence running along it. Looking out in the distance, Joel could see small spots of white and black wool. The gravel moaned under their feet as they closed in on a small farm. A two-story house sat in the middle of the barnyard where it was surrounded by a barn who’d seen better days, a silo, and a smaller farmhouse – a stable – Joel noticed as they walked closer.

The man trudged up the front stairs of the main farmhouse, a hand on the handrail keeping him steady.

“Put that gun away would you, son? I don’t want you frightening my wife.” The man broke the silence between them, speaking for the first time since they left the woods.

Joel’s grip on his shotgun didn’t loosen. How could he be sure that this man’s ‘wife’ wasn’t some gang of raiders hiding behind the front door? A question he asked the man through gritted teeth when he turned around to look at Joel.

“There’s nothing of the sort around here,” the man said, “we don’t even see any infected.”

When Joel didn’t say anything, and didn’t lower the gun, the man spoke again, “Who are you?”

“Just someone passin’ through,” Joel answered, making the man chuckle.

“You’re something else, passer-througher,” the old man smiled before he turned around again and stepped inside, leaving Joel on the porch alone.

Abandoned outside he lowered his gun slightly. Inside he could hear muffled voices, a deeper one, definitely the old man, and a brighter one, a woman’s voice. He listened, trying to make out their words with no prevail. The man seemed to have spoken the truth up until now. He most definitely lived on this farm – a seemingly normal farm. This man was just someone making an honest living – even after the apocalypse.

Lowering the gun completely, Joel put the safety on before he slung it over his shoulder. Taking a hollowed step towards the front door, movement in the window to the right of him caught his eye. It was there and then it was gone – just a ruffle of blonde curtains. Then, the door opened revealing an elderly woman.

The man’s wife.

“Welcome, traveler,” she greeted, stepping aside to let Joel in.

He passed through the doorway with a “Thank you, ma’am,” never forgetting his manners even after pointing a gun at her husband.

Inside it looked like a picture taken straight out of a Homes & Gardens magazine. The house was cozy, but it was small. He’d been welcomed into what probably used to be a parlor, but now served its purpose as their living room. It was hard to get a read on the house. Not like those open-floor plan houses he’d built too many of back before the outbreak – this was old, maybe hundreds of years old. The floorboard creaked under his shoes as he walked deeper into the living room, the rest of the house locked away like a secret behind three closed doors. The man was seated in a lounge chair by the fireplace, watching Joel with an expression Joel found it hard to decipher.

“Would you like some tea?” the woman asked, “It’s peppermint from our garden.”

Joel turned his head to the woman. She must be around the same age as the old man, Joel thought. He cleared his throat before he answered with a nod, “Thank you, ma’am.”

She pointed to the sofa, urging him to sit down with a smile before she disappeared through one of the doors to what Joel thought must be the kitchen. He felt the old man watching him as he slid his backpack off his shoulders, placing it on the creaky wooden floor behind the sofa. Joel hesitated for just a second when placing the shotgun up against the back, but decided he wasn’t in any imminent danger.

Joel almost groaned as he sat down. He’d been walking for so long, slept on the hard ground for months, he’d almost forgotten what a comfortable chair was. It almost felt surreal, being invited in for tea, like the outbreak had never happened. Here, it was like the time had stood still.

“So,” the man started, “where are you heading to if you’re just ‘passin’ through’?”

Joel cleared his throat again, “I’m lookin’ for my brother,” he answered truthfully, “last I heard he was somewhere in Wyoming.”

“If you’re going to Wyoming, then what you’re doing all the way up here?” The man queried with a chuckle.

Annoyed, Joel grinded his teeth, “Not many signs in the fuckin’ woods are there?” He huffed.

“I guess not,” the man shrugged, “but you’ve made a heck of a detour… where did you come from? Texas? You sound it.”

“Boston.”

“Boston?” the man didn’t hide his surprise, breathing out chuckles in disbelief, “I’ll give it to you, that’s one long trip.”

Joel only huffed in agreement, turning his head from the man to the window overlooking the barnyard.

“Well,” the man broke the growing silence between the two men, “you’re more than welcome to stay for dinner and for the night– you look like you could need a hot meal and a warm bed.”

Joel’s instinct was to say no, but before he could the front door opened, revealing a young woman. You.

You stopped dead in your tracks as you laid your eyes on Joel, “Oh!”.

The door slammed behind you. Under your arm you were carrying a metal bucket filled with apples. You were beautiful, young, but still beautiful – Joel couldn’t deny it.

“This is…” The man paused.

“Joel.” He cleared his throat, introducing himself, “Joel Miller.”

“Mr. Miller is just passing through– he’s looking for his brother,” the old man explained to you.

You nodded at the information, sat the bucket down before you reached out a hand for Joel to take, introducing yourself. Your hand in his was warm and soft while his own dwarfed yours, rough and calloused. He couldn’t help but think about what his hands had done, the people they’d killed. He shouldn’t be tainting yours, painting them red. Joel quickly drew his hand back, balling it into a fist at his side.

Joel looked over at the old man, “Your daughter?” he asked with a tilt of his head in your direction.

“Oh, no,” the man answered with a playful smile, “You’re not the first person ‘passin’ through’ who’s shown up on our doorstep.”

The door to the kitchen opened to reveal the old woman with a teapot in her hand, and a stacked tower of teacups in the other.

“Let me help you Alma,” you said, taking the teacups from the old woman’s hand before placing them on the table; one in front of Joel, a second in front of the old man, “Here you go Arthur,” and a third next to Joel.

“Did you also want some tea, sweetie?” Alma asked you as she placed the steaming teapot on the table.

“Yes, please, but I can grab a cup myself– sit down,” you smiled and padded the old woman’s shoulder, then you grabbed the bucket of apples and disappeared into the kitchen.

Alma started pouring the tea as a silence fell over the room. A small, “Thank you, ma’am,” left Joel’s lips as she moved on to pouring tea for her husband.

“So,” the man started before taking a sip of his tea, “what do you say Mr. Miller? You staying for the night?”

That night as he laid in a real bed for the first time in months, Joel had trouble falling asleep. He wasn’t used to this. Hadn’t been used to it for a while. His belly full, soft fabric against his skin, feeling warm, and clean. The old couple had offered him one of the two bedrooms on the first floor, the two mystery doors in the living room now revealed. Laying in his new bed he tried not to think about who he was sharing a wall with.

You.

You were something else, helpful and kind. Everything Joel hadn’t seen since the outbreak. At the dinner table you’d asked him questions and listened intently – even when his answers were short and brisk. There was a glimmer in your eye, and it touched something inside him he hadn’t felt in a long time. But you were young, mid to late twenties he reckoned, maybe a little older– anyways, he shouldn’t be harboring anything for you, it wouldn’t be right. Especially now, now that he’d agreed to stay.

After the dinner plates had been cleared, Arthur had folded a big map out on the table. “Here are we now,” he’d pointed a finger at the map. Montana. Southern Montana to be precise. “I’ll give it to you Mr. Miller, if you’ve made it this far on your own you probably won’t have any trouble making your way down south to Wyoming.”

“But?” Joel watched the grimace pulling at the old man’s face.

“But,” Arthur had said, “Winter is just around the corner and… well, going back out there in the wilderness alone during our winters is a dead trap, I’ll tell you that much.”

Joel had let the man go on about the far below freezing temperatures, the heavy snow, and the tough wind, but Joel wasn’t stupid. He knew the winters up here were harsh. It wasn’t even winter yet, but every day he’d felt the temperature drop lower and lower, and the last few of nights he’d even had to get a fire going, against his better judgement.

So– the deal was: Joel would stay over the winter. Just for the winter, he’d been adamant on not staying longer. He’d get a place to stay, a warm bed to sleep in, and food in his belly on one condition – he’d help out on the farm.

The fire crackled loudly, red tongues licking up the chimney as Joel fed it another log. He watched as the fire caught in the new log, devouring it quickly and with no mercy. It was really starting to heat up now. A small flicker of pride sparked in Joel chest. He’d always been good at building a fire. It was one of those things, Joel had come to learn, where you needed to pay attention, to have patience.

When he was younger, he’d take Tommy out camping sometimes, just the two of them. Mostly they’d go during the summer; Tommy wasn’t a fan of sleeping outside in the cold, though cold had meant something different back then in Texas. But Joel remembered one time he’d managed to convince him to go with him. It was right after he’d gotten his driver’s license, and his parents had given him a beat-up truck for his birthday – for sharing – they’d told him, “You need to give your little brother a ride when he needs it!” Joel wasn’t exactly thrilled about his future as Tommy’s private driver, but it didn’t mean he didn’t love his brother.

A few weeks into October he’d managed to convince Tommy to go camping. They’d packed the truck with their tents, sleeping bags, and fishing equipment, before they’d gotten on the road, driving to a lake where they knew there were fish to catch. Finding a place to camp was always difficult with Tommy. They’d parked Joel’s truck at the edge of the forest before they’d followed a hiking trail. Joel was convinced they’d walked at least three quarters of the way around the lake before they found a spot good enough for Tommy.

It had to be flat, but also shielded. There couldn’t be too many rocks, but there also had to be enough rocks to build a hearth. Tommy wanted it to be private, but he also wanted it to be open enough that he could see if someone would stumble upon their camp. Joel knew not to argue with him when he got like that, opting instead for a defeated, “Whatever.”

Setting up camp went relatively easy. They’d worked together building the tents, collecting rocks for their fireplace, and even managed to find a fallen tree to use as a bench. When the night slowly started to cover them in darkness, Tommy decided to get the fire going. Joel watched him work the logs into a pile as he started on filleting the fish they’d just caught.

“You’re doin’ it wrong,” he’d told his brother, “You’re suffocatin’ it.” He’d washed his hands in the lake, ridding himself of the slimy smell of fish, before crouching down next to Tommy.

The fire was one big bowl of smoke, and Joel caught himself wondering what messages Tommy must’ve been sending to the heavens. He removed some of the heavier logs, and the fire could breathe.

“See?” he’d looked at Tommy, “It just needed air.” Joel had shifted the smaller pieces of wood around and not long after the fire was alive.

That Joel, that green boy who liked to take his little brother camping, that Joel didn’t know how much those skills would come in handy in a few years when the world would get turned upside down.

“Do you have any mittens, Joel?”

Your question pulled Joel from his memories. He turned his head slightly, meeting your gaze from where you were huddled up in the corner of the couch. You looked cozy, but he knew you weren’t. The house was cold this morning, outside a thin layer of frost had stuck to the grass during the night. It was early too, the sun not having climbed high enough yet to peek over the mountains. You looked tired where you sat, clad in a wool sweater with a blanket pulled over your knees. Under the blanket Joel remembered you were still wearing your pajama pants, and in your hand you held a steaming cup of tea, peppermint, Joel knew, his own cup abandoned on the coffee table.

“What?” Joel answered, eyebrows furrowed.

“Do you have any mittens, Joel?” you repeated softly, like the way people tended to speak in the mornings, like they were afraid they’d wake up the world.

His calves were starting to burn from the strain of being crouched in front of the fireplace for a moment too long, and he tried his best to hide his groan, biting his teeth together as he stood to his feet, knees cracking loudly.

“Um, no,” he said, confused about your question.

“I’ll knit you a pair then,” you smiled before putting your cup down next to his.

“That’s… that ain’t necessary,” Joel hurried, but you waved him off.

“Sure it is,” you smiled again, much to Joel’s annoyance. He didn’t deserve your kindness, but you gave it away like it cost nothing. “If you’re gonna be helping Arthur out in the woods this winter, you need some mittens.”

Joel watched as you got up from your home on the couch and vanished into your bedroom. A moment later you appeared in the doorway with a basket under your arm.

“Also…” you gave him another smile as you sat back down again, placing the basket in your lap. It was close to overflowing with yarn, balls of black and white in varying sizes peeking over the top, the homespun ends fraying against the rough edges of the basket. “I’ll have something to do during the evenings,” you winked before you rummaged through the basket and fished out a measuring tape.

Joel shifted his weight from one foot to the other as he watched you. Mittens? Joel can’t remember if he’s ever owned a pair of mittens. Gloves, sure, but mittens?

You patted the cushion next to you, urging him to sit down, kind smile hanging off your lips like always. Sitting down, he folded his hands in his lap, suddenly very aware of how close you were sitting. It wasn’t like he hadn’t sat next to you before; he’d been here a few weeks now, and he was starting to know you, but for some reason, this felt different. Maybe it was the early morning, the quiet house, or the fact that Alma and Arthur were still sleeping upstairs, but it felt like it was just the two of you, alone, and Joel didn’t know how to feel about it.

You shifted towards him, the blanket slipping slightly off the couch with your movement, in your hands you held the measuring tape while you looked at him expectantly.

When Joel didn’t move, a smile quirked at the corner of your mouth before you grabbed one of his hands resting in his lap. You uncurled his fingers slowly, one by one, making Joel hold his breath.

“I need to see how big I need to make them,” you whispered, holding his hand very gently.

Joel’s heart hammered in his chest. Your hand was warm and soft, like the last time he’d touched you as you’d introduced yourself to him. Joel didn’t dare look at your face, or he’d say something stupid, so he didn’t. He looked at your joined hands, his brain trying to remember the last time someone had held his hand as gently as you did, your thumb running over the back of it soothingly.

He can’t remember. His hands are always empty.

With your other hand, a finger curled around the measuring tape, you slipped it around his wrist before leaning closer to look at the numbers.

“Is this too tight you think, or do you want them to be looser?” You asked through your lashes, eyes sparkling in the low morning light.

Joel cleared his throat, “No, that’s fine.”

“Okay,” you nodded, slipping the measuring tape from his wrist to write down the measurement. He hadn’t noticed your notebook until now. It was a little rough around the edges from use, the spined cracked and the paper a little yellow. Placing the pen in the seam, you grabbed the measuring tape again.

Loosening your grip on his hand you placed it over the thick of your thigh. Joel drew a quick breath, his heartbeat hammering in his ears, under his hand he could feel the warmth of you through the soft flannel.

You continued taking your measurements. You didn’t say anything, so neither did Joel, but you looked up at him through your lashes sometimes, and Joel thought that maybe the most useful thing one can do with empty hands, is hold on.

The creak of the stair made Joel jump, and like he’d been burned his hand retracted on reflex, as Arthur’s heavy steps got closer.

“Morning,” Arthur greeted as he ducked his head through the door to the living room.

“Mornin’,” Joel mumbled, head lowered as he gathered his hands in his lap.

“Good morning!” you smiled, always with that kind smile, “Did you sleep well, Arthur?” you got up from your seat before grabbing your teacup to follow Arthur into the kitchen, leaving the yarn and Joel.

Taking a deep breath, Joel pinched the top of his nose. He needed to get it together. You were just being your regular kind self; your soft touch was nothing more than that. Standing to his feet, Joel grabbed his own cup, trudging into the kitchen.

In the kitchen Arthur sat in his usual spot at the dining table, the chair closest to the window. “I need to get on with this barn soon,” Joel heard him say as he sat down opposite him. “It’s gonna fall apart come spring if we get as much snow as we did last year.”

Joel tried his best not to look at you as he heard you hum. You were stood at the kitchen counter slicing the bread Alma had baked yesterday, readying breakfast. Instead, Joel opted to gaze down into his teacup, where the peppermint leaves had all gathered at the bottom.

“Um,” Joel cleared his throat, “what needs fixin’?”

“What doesn’t need fixing in that barn?” Arthur sighed, peeling his eyes from out the window to Joel.

“I can uh,” Joel eyes shifted quickly to you before he cleared his throat again, “I can take a look at it, if ya want?”

Arthur’s eyebrows met in a furrow as he looked at Joel.

“I used to be a contractor,” Joel explained with a shrug, before taking a last cold sip of his tea.

“So, you know a thing or two about buildings I reckon?” Arthur asked.

“Yeah, well I used to,” Joel leaned back in his chair.

“Well, that would be very helpful Joel– I’d appreciated it!” Arthur smiled before leaning back in his chair making room for you as you started setting the table. Joel gave him a short nod in return, trying to fight the urge to look at you as you placed the food on the table.

Arthur had downplayed the state of the barn – it was a mess – it was dangerous, and had Joel told him as much. But it was nothing Joel couldn’t fix, as long as he had the right supplies, fortunately for him the forest would provide them with what they needed.

Thwack. Thwack. Thwack.

The axe dug a deep wound into the bark with every swing. Joel’s breath was heavy, and his arms ached, but it was a welcomed form of tiredness. A month into it, he was starting to get used to the work. There was something so satisfying about manual labor, of using his hands, of making something – he’d almost forgotten.

The routine of the work felt good. Waking up at dawn, then breakfast, he could use his body for something useful for the first time in twenty years and end the day with a warm meal for supper. This new temporary life was simple, but it was strangely normal.

Originally, Joel was only helping Arthur out in the woods for firewood through the winter– but now with the barn, they’d changed course. The last few days they’d started to become more selective with the trees; looking for the tallest and straightest ones that would fall safely.

A frozen sky hovered over the men as they worked. This morning when Joel had woken up, the thinnest layer of snow had fallen like powdered sugar during the night, turning the world bright with winter. Earlier in the week the frost had perched on the farm, and Joel had known winter was closing in. He’d lost count of the days and months passing while on his own, but Arthur had told him it was late October.

“It will start snowing properly soon,” Arthur said, breaking the silence between them.

Joel hummed before taking a bite of his packed lunch. They’d worked all morning – Joel felling the trees and Arthur cleaning them up and removing the branches. Now they were sat on a fresh tree stump each, their first break of the day.

“I have an old logging sled in the barn– used to be my father’s,” Arthur explained, “I think we should leave the trees here until the snow gets deep enough for the sled and have the horses pull them back to the farm.”

“Fine by me,” Joel took another bite of his lunch.

“The logs will have to dry out over the winter,” Arthur mused, “Then come spring we can start the repairs on the barn.”

Spring. If everything goes according to plan, Joel won’t be here come spring. He needed to find Tommy– he couldn’t, and he wasn’t gonna stay on the farm for any longer than necessary. He’d already decided– when the snow finally started to melt, Joel was gone.

Joel hummed, a non-committed answer. It was easier that way, to not get Arthur’s hopes up. He liked Arthur, he was a good man, a hard worker even in his old age, and silent when Joel wanted him to be. Joel liked Alma too, but her age shined through more easily than Arthur’s. Joel couldn’t help but notice her repeating herself more often and forgetting where she put things. It made life harder for you, Joel could see it. Your responsibilities were already a lot to handle as you took care of the animals mostly by yourself, but as Joel had discovered Alma starting to struggle with the housework, he’d noticed you starting to help her more often. In Joel’s mind it was unfair to you, but it wasn’t like he could blame Alma for growing older, in this world it was a feat.

Still, he’d try his best to help you when he could, like doing the dishes after dinner as you dried them off and put them away. The first few times you were both quiet, it was strangely intimate, only the sound of splashing water filling the space between you. One night he'd gotten brave, breaking the comfortable silence and asked you ‘What you thinkin’ about, sweetheart?’ You’d looked at him with big eyes, searching his own for something, but before he could figure out what it was, you’d answered him with a shrug. It was unlike you, unlike you to be this silent, but Joel didn’t push. The next night the silence persisted, and he’d thought adding ‘Sweetheart’ had been too much, but then the next night you’d sighed quietly and whispered, “I’m worried about Alma.”

Looking down at the mittens in his lap, the guilt gnawed at him. The look of worry in your eyes, Arthur’s hopeful wishes, and Alma’s aging. Joel couldn’t have anything tying him to this place. He was supposed to find his brother.

Suddenly, a black and orange butterfly landed on Joel’s knee. Joel stopped breathing, body going rigid as he tried not to move. How the hell was this butterfly still alive? It sat quiet on his knee, wings slowly retracting and widening behind it. Memories pushed its way to the forefront of Joel’s mind then.

Sarah. Another year had gone by, and the thought made his chest tighten.

“That’s quite a sight at this time of year,” he heard Arthur say, “Beautiful, aren’t they?”

“Y-yeah,” Joel stammered out an answer, afraid his voice would scare it away.

The longer Joel watched the butterfly he found his guilt started to slowly melt away. It’s okay, dad. It was like the rustling of the trees carried her voice with them. You’re on the right path.

“I can do that f’you want, sweetheart.”

Joel’s boots creaked under him as he walked across the barnyard. You looked up at the sound of his voice, smile blossoming across your face as you tightened your grip on the shovel.

“It’s alright,” you said with a grunt as you picked up more snow, adding it to the growing pile, “Good for me to get some physical work in.”

Joel nodded as you straightened up, hand going to your hip while the other leaned on the shovel, your heavy breath curled in small plumes out of your mouth. You took him in for a second, eyes flickering over his form before they fell on the rabbits hanging over Joel’s shoulder.

“Where’d you get those?” you asked, and Joel shrugged.

“Shot ‘em,” he said simply, “they walked right by me as I was choppin’– seemed too good to pass up.”

“Not for the rabbits,” you muttered, and Joel had to fight the urge to smile.

“You a vegetarian or somethin’?” he asked with a single raised eyebrow, and you waved him off.

“No,” you said pointedly, but a teasing lilt lingered, “Just stating a fact... we don’t eat a lot of rabbit around here, is all.”

Joel nodded slightly; it made sense. He knew there was a gun in the house, but it was a revolver– too small to do any real hunting, and Joel didn’t even know if there were bullets for it. So, Joel didn't ask further. Lucky for him, you did.

“So, you just shot those?” you asked, a frown pulling at your eyebrows, “Aren’t they fast?”

Joel made a nonchalant sort of face. “Ain’t that hard when you can aim straight.”

“Well, how do you aim straight?”

“You learn to shoot.”

You let out a small laugh, one that pulled at Joel’s lips. “And how did you go about learning that?”

Joel felt his smile drop, the leather strap of his shotgun weighing heavy on his shoulder, “Practice.”

You didn’t seem to notice the change in his demeanor as you dug the shovel into the snow, so it stood by itself like a watchman. “Can you teach me?” you asked, the snow creaking under your shoes as you took a few steps closer.

His lips pulled at the corner, “No.”

Your eyes widened with disappointment, eyebrows pulling together in a frown as you asked, “Why?”

“Nothin’ good ever comes from it,” Joel shrugged.

“Okay,” you huffed a laugh, “that’s sinister.” Then you narrowed your eyes at him, gearing up for an argument no doubt with the way you rested your hand on your hip. “What if I also wanted to go hunting?” you posed, and Joel shook his head.

“That ain’t happenin’, sweetheart.”

“Okay, but now you’ve brought us rabbits– and what if I end up really liking rabbit?” you bit down on your bottom lip, unconsciously showing off you own rabbit teeth.

Cute.

“Then I’ll shoot as many rabbits as you want,” Joel countered with a teasing smile before tightening his hold on the rope slung over his other shoulder (the one he’d tied the rabbits to), and walked towards the kitchen door at the back of the farmhouse.

He heard you huff in defeat behind him, your creaky steps following him up the stairs and inside. Walking into the kitchen Joel placed the rabbits on the table before he pulled at his mittens, stripped off his jacket, and hung it neatly over the back of one of the dining chairs. Grabbing one of the rabbits he brought it to the kitchen counter to start dressing it, fighting the urge to turn his head as he heard you enter the room.

“Come on, Joel,” you whined, “Why won’t you teach me?”

“Told you already,” Joel replied, “Nothin’ good comes from learnin’ to shoot things.”

Shifting the rabbit around on the counter he reached for the butcher knife in the knife block.

“You know, that’s a really stupid way of saying you don’t want to spend the time,” you told him, your voice closer now as you leaned against the kitchen counter.

“When exactly did ya hear me sayin’ I don't wanna spend time with you?” Joel asked, his eyebrows pulled together in a frown.

“You won’t teach me to shoot,” you teased, and Joel could hear the smile in your voice.

Joel huffed out a laugh, “Damn right I won’t.”

He heard you let out a whiney huff, before you turned on your heel, muttering out a curse under your breath when you accidently bumped your hip into the counter and Joel couldn’t help the smile teasing at his lips. You sat down with an overdramatic sigh, and Joel still didn’t look at you – he knew he’d cave eventually if he did, say yes against his better judgement – so he kept his eyes on the knife in his hand.

“How’s Arthur?” Joel asked as he worked.

“I don’t know,” you sighed, “The same I think– Alma was up there looking after him last time I checked.”

This time Joel allowed himself to look at you. You sat sideways on the wooden chair, legs crossed and tucked under your chair with your head hanging, eyes glued to your lap. Gone were the teasing, and gone were the smiles.

“He’ll be fine,” Joel said, his eyes back on the rabbit, “it’s just a cold.”

“Yeah… but he’s been getting sick a lot more often,” your voice was low, like you didn’t want them to hear you upstairs, “you can’t help but think the worst you know?”

Joel put the knife down and moved over to the sink. He quickly washed his hands before grabbing a towel to dry off, twisting it in his hands as he approached you. Placing the towel on the counter, he hesitated for a moment as he watched you, watched the way you twisted your hands in your lap with no sense of purpose or intent. It was like the worry dripped down your body. Pushing off the counter Joel knelt in front of you, a grunt escaped him as his knees clicked loudly, his balance slightly off on his haunches.

“Shit,” Joel huffed out a laugh, and you followed. Your palms landed on his knees to keep him steady, warmth spreading like jolting electricity.

“Sweetheart, I’ll tell you what–” he stopped himself when you looked at him through your lashes, trying to ignore the way your eyes focused on his mouth as he spoke. “’s just a cold, he’ll be up ‘n walkin’ tomorrow– man’s got gumption.”

“Yeah?” your eyes flickered upwards, meeting his.

Suddenly, under your gaze Joel felt brave. His hand moved on its own accord, cupping your cheek in his hand. He let his thumb ghost over your skin, still cold under his fingertips from being outside, but warming under his touch.

“Yeah, sweetheart.”

You didn’t say anything for a moment, you only watched him with glimmering eyes, like you were under a spell. Maybe he was too.

“Still,” you sighed, “Would be better if I could pick up more of the slack around here... Arthur does a lot, and I wish I could do more to support them.”

“Like what? You take care of the animals all by yourself– that’s more than enough.”

“Well, I could learn to shoot rabbits,” you told him, before the corners of your mouth pulled into a pleased smirk as he rolled his eyes at you.

Reluctantly, he pulled his hand away, making a move to stand when you grabbed his wrist, stopping him.

“I’m kidding, Joel,” you smiled, before a more serious look washed over your features. “I mean it’s… It’s gonna be empty here without you,” you said, “I’m starting to really like having you here, Joel.”

Joel turned his hand to rest the back of it on your thigh, your hand fitting in his.

“I uh,” his eyes fixated on your joined hands, then he cleared his throat, “I’ll stay as long as you need me to. I’m not leavin’ you alone, sweetheart.”

Your eyes lit up at his words, smile growing large across your face. Joel’s heart drummed in his chest as your eyes flickered down to his mouth again.

“Thank you,” you said in a low voice, and then you did something Joel thought was gonna make his heart stop beating. You leaned forward and pressed a soft kiss to his cheek. It bloomed against his skin, and made wings flutter against the walls of his stomach.

“You’re a good man, Joel Miller,” you whispered before you pulled away, looking at him with kindness in your eyes.

If only you knew, Joel thought, if only you knew the blood on his hands.

He couldn’t look at you when you looked at him like that. Like you believed your own words. So, he cleared his throat awkwardly and stood to his feet, his knees clicking as your hand slipped from his movement. He walked back to the counter, fingers grabbing the towel with no other purpose than to calm himself down.

After placing the towel back where it usually hung, he grabbed the knife again, turning his attention back to the rabbit, allowing himself to steal a few glances at you where you sat looking out the kitchen window.

“Hey, uh,” Joel broke the growing silence after a few minutes, “how ‘bout rabbit stew for lunch?”

Your head snapped to look at him as he spoke, a smile ghosting over your lips as you said, “I’ll go get some vegetables from the cellar.”

Joel wouldn’t necessarily call himself a good cook – he wouldn’t even call himself a cook in the first place. Back before the outbreak he’d been forced to learn the basics as a fresh single dad, but he’d never been able to provide Sarah with gourmet meals very often, and when Sarah had gotten older, he’d been embarrassed to say that her food was always better than his – eggshells and all. One summer he’d bought himself a nice grill– one of those way too expensive gas grills with too many fancy accessories for Joel to regularly use. He’d had a job that ended up paying well, some rich guy’s mansion that needed renovating, and decided to treat himself for once. That summer all their meals had come from that grill, well mostly, and afterwards Joel looked at himself as a pretty good griller, if nothing else.

You on the other hand, you knew what you were doing, it was clear in the effortlessly way you moved beside him as you got the vegetables ready for the stew. Joel seared the meat to the best of his abilities, making sure it was properly browned on both sides before setting it aside. After that, it was clear that you were in charge, and Joel let you boss him around and tell him what to do. It made his heart warm around the edges, watching how you put so much love and care into everything you did.

An hour later you finally sat down to eat; two hearty bowls of stew each as light snowflakes covered the world outside. You’d let the pot simmer on low over the heat as you’d wanted to bring up a bowl for Arthur and Alma later.

“So…” you started, watching as Joel dug into his bowl, “How’s the stew?”

“’s good!” Joel nodded through a mouthful, and he wasn’t lying. It was good, really good in fact.

“Yeah?” you bubbled through a smile, before you dug into your own bowl to see if he’d spoken the truth. He watched as you face brightened as you chewed, nodding your head to confirm his verdict.

“I think I really like rabbit, Joel,” you said through a teasing smile, and Joel couldn’t fight the chuckle from spilling.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” you nodded, teasing smile not going anywhere, “So… when are you teaching me to shoot?”

“Shut up.”

The living room was quiet, safe for the cracking of the fire. It had almost died out when Joel had stepped out of his room. He’d been twisting and turning again, counting sheep, but nothing had been able to pull him under the blanket of sleep. He was plumb tired too, that was the worst part. The embers hummed with a low light, and with a small stick Joel had spread them out before placing a small piece of wood on top. No less than a minute later the fire fed on the log.

Taking a seat and leaning back in the lounge chair, Joel looked out the window with tired eyes. The moon looked down on him, big and bright, it shone its white light over the barnyard like a spotlight. His thoughts were clouded over as he gazed up. A billion little lights turning into bright spheres in the sky.

On nights like this, Joel felt like he was barely breathing at all.

His thoughts didn’t stray for long before they found you again. Lately, you were always on his mind. He thought about how you’d looked mere hours ago, when he’d sat in this same exact chair, only this time it was facing towards the sofa and not the window.

You’d been sat curled up in the corner, blanket thrown over your lap with a book in hand. You’d told him you’d read all the books in the house already, but it didn’t stop you from coming back to your favorites. Joel had been reading his own book, an old western he’d found in the bookshelf in the upstairs hallway a few days ago. It was entertaining, but not enough to hold his attention. He found his eyes had a mind of their own, slipping over the top to steal a peek at you as you read, feeling a smile tug at his lips at the barely there furrow of concentration between your eyebrows.

“Joel.”

Joel perked up at the whisper of his name, the memories fading like ripples in still water. He looked around the room –nothing. He sat quietly in his chair for a moment, listening, as his heartbeat quickened in his chest. It had been your voice, hadn’t it? Or was he starting to lose it? His eyes fell to the door of your bedroom. He hadn’t noticed it until now, but he could see it was slightly ajar.

“Joel.”

The voice was louder this time, almost strained, but it was yours. A thousand scenarios flashed before his eyes then at your tone. Was there someone in your room? Were you in danger? Seconds later Joel crossed the room, a mix of fear and protectiveness overcoming him.

Leaning up against your door he listened for the intruder as he readied himself. The soft crinkling of your sheets combined with your strained whimpers was all it took for him to push the door open, fearing the worst.

And…

It was empty, your room, you were alone. Joel immediately felt stupid– the only intruder here was him.

He was about to step out, embarrassed at his actions, when he heard it again, his name falling from your lips. It was all Joel needed to finally take in your body, squirming under your sheets, still asleep. The realization of what he’d just walked in on made Joel’s eyes widen.

Laying on your back, the duvet had slipped down your torso from your movements to reveal the thin t-shirt you wore to bed. Like this he could see your perked nipples through the fabric, as your chest quickly rose and fell, making Joel’s imagination start to run wild.

“Joel.”

In his pajama pants, Joel could feel his cock come alive from the soft whimper that left your lips along with his name. He couldn’t move, like some farm elf had glued his feet to the floor while he wasn’t looking. He watched as you scrunched your face together in pleasure, another whimper falling from your lips, and all the blood in Joel’s body rushed down south.

As if the soundwaves from your voice had broken against him, he took a step backwards, and then another, and another until he crossed the threshold of your door. He tried his best to be quiet, to not wake you and have you catch him in your room in the middle of the night.

The image of you squirming under your sheets, dreaming of him, didn’t leave him as he closed the door to his own room. With a sigh his head fell against the door, a strong hand gliding down his front to hover over his aching cock.

Joel Miller was no saint, but what he was doing– what he was about to do, was bad.

“Shit,” he quietly hissed, running his hand up his clothed cock. He hadn’t touched himself properly in a long time, not since he left Boston.

His cock reacted to his touch, growing harder and harder until he couldn’t take it anymore. He hooked his finger around the hem of his pajama pants, pulling them down to the thick of his thigh, freeing himself. He hissed at the cold air hitting his length, as it bopped with the movement of being freed. Bringing his hand to his mouth, Joel spat, before he wrapped his spit-soaked hand around himself.

His mind found you again as he started stroking himself, slowly at first, pumping himself with a practiced hand, squeezing himself at the base before bringing his hand up to thumb at the tip. Joel couldn’t get the way you sounded out of his mind. Couldn’t forget how you were squirming in your bed, dreaming of him. Couldn’t shake the thought of pulling those moans and whimpers from you with his hands, and his mouth, and with his cock.

“Fuck.”

Joel tried to be quiet, but he couldn’t fight the moan from slipping from his lips. Fuck, he wanted you. He wanted his hands all over you. Closing his eyes his mouth dropped open as he imagined what he was dying to do to you.

How much he’d wanted to help you out of your t-shirt, run his hands over your breasts and tease your nipples. Take his time to pull those moans and whimpers from your soft lips as he teased you with kisses down your body, down the valley of your breasts, your tummy, down to you to your–

Another low moan fell from Joel’s lips. He squeezed himself tighter as he jerked himself off, precum pearling at the tip, and slipping down his length, mixing with his spit.

The sound of the slick rhythm of his hand filled his bedroom as he increased the pace of his strokes. He had to bite down on his lip to strangle a groan when thoughts of getting between your legs, spreading them open and getting his mouth on you filled his head. He fantasized about how you’d taste falling apart on his tongue–Fuck, how you’d sound falling apart around his cock.

His eyes fell shut as he fisted himself faster. Joel could feel his orgasm quickly building, coiling tight in his tummy. With his free hand he cupped his balls, and then he couldn’t help but imagine it was you, a picture of you on your knees before him flashed behind his eyelids, your tongue lapping at his balls while your hand pumped his cock.

“Shit.”

With a strained groan, thick ropes of cum spilled over his knuckles and down his length, coating him in his release. His breath came out ragged, as he continued his strokes, milking himself of the rest of his release.

Fuck.

His cock softened in his hand as he calmed down from his high. With a quiet groan he pushed himself off the door, looking around his room for something to clean himself up with.

The guilt of what he’d done washed over him quickly, settling in his chest like a heavy weight. You were so young, and beautiful, and Joel just an old man. He shouldn’t want you like this, shouldn’t want you this much.

Climbing under the covers, Joel couldn’t shake his thoughts of you, of you dreaming about him in your bed, about your smiles, and your touch. A supercut of you rolling like a tape in his minds eye. A supercut of you bundled up under a blanket on the sofa, knitting him his mittens. Of you, your own knitted hat pulled tightly down over your ears as you stepped out into the snow to check on the animals. Of the way you’d looked at him for the first time, with the bucket of apples under your arm, and the sweet taste of them as you’d offered him one later, after dinner.

Finally, Joel could breathe.

next part -> here! i hope someone liked this? if you did a comment, reply or an ask is always welcome and they make me super happy <3 other than that thank you for reading!!

#joel miller #joel miller x reader #joel miller x you #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller fanfic #joel miller smut #joel miller angst #joel miller fluff #tlou smut #tlou fanfiction #the last of us smut #the last of us fanfiction #pedro pascal

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nataliasquote · 4 months ago

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Sun-kissed by an angel | n romanoff

summary: the perfect lazy morning in the Romanoff summer beach house

wc: 1.5k

notes: I know I’ve been MIA for a while, but I’m back with a short but soft and fluffy oneshot. I wish this was my life tbh, I feel like a beach holiday and a cozy morning with a hot girl would make my life so much better

-⧗-

The gentle tickle of the ocean breeze brushed across the sleeping woman’s exposed skin, stirring her from her heavy slumber with the promise of sun. It dappled through the open curtains of the balcony doors, but the light wasn’t harsh like it usually was. Many days had started just like this, crumpled sheets and exposed limbs being warmed by the dazzling sun. Y/n blinked to adjust to the brightness, stretching her limbs out across the expanse of soft white blankets, frowning as her palms landed upon nothing but fabric. The bed was larger, far bigger than any she’d slept in before, but it felt even bigger without her person by her side.

Waking up with the sea view directly in front of her was a dream but even the gentle rolling waves didn’t quite tug the smile back to her lips as she swung her legs out of bed and let her feet land upon the sanded hardwood floor. Without pulling on anything to cover her blue pyjama shorts set, she wandered down the hallway of the country style house, passing the photo covered walls and airy windows, until she reached the kitchen.

The radio on the windowsill crackled out nostalgic tunes and Y/n paused in the doorway, taking in the sight before her. The redheaded woman she adored with her whole heart was swaying softly to the music, the oversized white button down that adorned her body hanging loosely from her shoulders and stopping mid thigh. The large window above the sink was wide open, letting in a deliciousness to drift from the beach below and mix with the combination of freshly brewed coffee and the new bouquet sitting in prize position on the grand windowsill.

Natasha’s back was turned as she hummed to herself, allowing her wife a moment of admiration before she crossed the tiled floor and slipped her arms around the redhead’s waist. Natasha wasn’t startled, she was an ex spy after all, but her body immediately relaxed into the touch of her wife. They stayed embraced for a few moments, Natasha’s head tilting backwards to rest on Y/n’s shoulder behind her. She smiled lazily and brought her own hands up to grasp onto her lover’s, holding her tightly.

“Did you sleep well?” She muttered softly, goosebumps littering her skin as Y/n’s hands grazed her stomach.

Y/n hummed, turning her wife around so they were finally face to face. “I would have slept better if you didn’t leave before I woke up.” Her mouth pouted slightly but Natasha quickly kissed her lips, her remedy for unhappiness.

“I’m sorry, baby,” she apologised, “I just wanted to surprise you with breakfast.”

Y/n’s eyebrows furrowed at the mention of food. Her wife was a lot of things, but a cook she was not. She followed Natasha’s gaze to a pan on the stove where a sorry looking egg was cooking - or at least trying to.

“Tasha, honey… you haven’t turned the stove on.”

Natasha went to protest but Y/n pressed the button and turned the dial, the pair of them watching as the oil in the pan began to sizzle. Y/n smiled, trying to hide her laughter but Natasha caught her and huffed, sliding away from the stove and dragging Y/n over to the other counter, trapping her body in between the granite countertop and her strong body.

“How long have you been trying to cook that egg?” Y/n asked with fake seriousness, one which Natasha saw straight through. She rolled her eyes and pressed her hips forward, grabbing her wife’s face in her scarred palms.

“You’re lucky that I love you and will put up with this teasing after everything I do for you,” she grumbled, even though she wasn’t at all offended. Her wife was the light of her life and a far better cook, despite Natasha’s best efforts. She gazed into her love’s eyes, watching them sparkle in the sunlight and she couldn’t hold herself back anymore. Natasha pressed their lips together in a loving but firm kiss, almost like she was trying to kiss the smirk off her wife’s face. Her hands cupped Y/n’s cheeks with such tenderness that the other woman melted slightly, her body falling forwards into the comfort of her wife.

“You’re too good at that, my love, but that egg will burn if we continue like this,” Y/n started, trying to push Natasha away, much to the redhead’s disdain. The promise of breakfast was far in the back of her mind and she ignored Y/n’s help of protest when she grabbed the backs of her thighs and lifted her up onto the counter, spreading her thighs to stand between them with a smirk.

“You were saying?”

Y/n shook her head, a playful smile dancing across her lips. Her wife really was unbelievable. “At least turn the stove off, Nat. We just had this kitchen redone.”

“It’s barely warmed up.”

“And I know you. You’ll forget all about it and then complain when it’s black.” Natasha opened her mouth. “Don’t protest, you know I’m right.”

The redhead rolled her eyes but stepped away for two seconds, keeping her eyes locked on her wife on the counter as she fiddled around for the knob, turning it with a click. She raised an eyebrow, almost asking ‘happy?’ and Y/n nodded whilst beckoning her back over.

“That wasn’t hard now, was it?”

Natasha stayed quiet. Her fingertips slowly danced up Y/n’s bare thighs, tracing invisible patterns on her freshly tanned skin until they reached the hem of her shorts. Natasha laid her palms flat, suddenly looking up at her wife again through her lashes, giving her a look that melted the world away.

“Stop…” yet she wasn’t at all convincing. Y/n’s own hands absentmindedly drifted to the open collar of Natasha’s shirt, her collarbones just showing under the soft linen. “I love this shirt on you, my god.”

“Yeah?”

“Mhm,” Y/n hummed softly. She followed her fingers with her eyes, connecting the freckles on her wife’s pale skin across her chest. Regardless of her hours spent in the sun, Natasha was never tanned, but it only made her look more ethereal in Y/n’s eyes. Like an angel with a glowing halo of hair about her head.

They didn’t need to talk, not in moments like this. Their eyes spoke a thousand words, and the soft call of seabirds in the distance reminded them both of the life they now lived, the craziness of the Avengers a thing of the past. A slow life was their new normal, and Natasha had moulded into her new role surprisingly well.

“Why don’t we go to the farmer’s market today?” Natasha suggested, her hands still resting on her wife’s thighs, her favourite place to be.

Y/n narrowed her eyes, seeing through that innocent facade. “You want me to make my salad don’t you?”

Natasha grinned, moving her hands up to Y/n’s waist, pulling her closer until her legs wrapped around Nat’s waist and they were as close as they could be. Natasha was an utter simp for her wife, and she wasn’t ashamed of that. Not at all. She would get it tattooed on her forehead if she could.

“I do, but I also want to see you in a pretty summer dress in our town today.” Another weakness, Natasha was feeling extra soft today, and Y/n would never complain. Natasha’s possessiveness came out extra strong when Y/n wore one of her favourite dresses. They always attracted extra attention and there was nothing more that the redhead loved more than to slide an arm around her waist or stop her in the street and kiss her fiercely. Just to shut down the wandering eyes of the other men and women in their small coastal town.

“What my wife wants, she gets,” Y/n leaned down and kissed Natasha’s forehead before signalling to get down. “What about breakfast?”

They both peered over at the half cooked mess of an egg on the stove before bursting into laughter. Straight into the trash it went, that was clear.

“I’m going to take my gorgeous wife out for breakfast,” the redhead announced, twirling Y/n under her arm in time to the music still playing from the radio. “With the promise of properly cooked eggs and a beautiful view.”

“I already have a beautiful view.” Cheesy.

“Get out of here,” Natasha joked, administering a slap to her wife’s ass as she ran out of the kitchen and down the hallway, a redhead hot on her heels.

But their urgency to leave was short lived as Natasha tackled Y/n onto the bed, peppering her face with kisses as they rolled around on the crumpled sheets, acting more like teenagers than thirty year old women. But they were allowed to, Natasha had been robbed of a childhood after all.

Breakfast could wait, this morning was much more important.

#Natasha romanoff #black widow #natasha romanoff imagine #natasha x reader #natasha romanoff fanfic #natasha romanov #natasha romanoff fluff #natasha romanoff oneshot #natasha romanoff x reader #marvel #fanfic #beach #summer #avengers #wlw #soft sapphic #soft wlw

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radio-fmm · 5 months ago

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Kiss

Ace x reader

fluff drabble + fem reader

“Oh god, I don’t even remember the last time I was kissed” embarrassment and booze tinted your voice as you giggled at your hopelessness, the moon hanging high above you the only witness of your statement besides your dear commander and friend

Ace’s eyebrows jump in surprise, surely you were just being modest right? You were the most beautiful person that had crossed his path, funny, clever, easy at conversation and so unique; there was no way you didn’t had people begging for your attention and at least a peck, hell he’d give everything for just one kiss of yours

“You’re joking” your face drops, that natural shyness creeping its way to your cheeks making him regret his teasing tone

“Am not” you say now serious as you balance yourself on the edge of the ship, eyes looking at the bottom of your glass in regret or embarrassment? Ace couldn’t tell since his attention was being stolen by your pouting lips “Before becoming a pirate, I only dated this one guy,”- you trailed off, your tongue running lose and a sour taste spreading at the memory.- “He was not only my last kiss but also my first”

Ace stays silent clinging at every word that leaves your pretty mouth. You’d always restrained from talking about your love life whenever the crew bring the topic to the table, staying still and quiet as you listened attentively, claiming to never having anything important to say on the matter, and he now understands why

“Do you… love him still or…?” The idea of your heart belonging to someone else made him burn, nevertheless he would understand, after all, he wasn’t that big of a deal and in his eyes you deserved better

“Absolutely not”- it’s almost comical how you were quick to answer. -“I did love him I guess once upon a time, but he wasn’t a good lover” your eyes trail off again now to look at the ocean waves crashing below, there’s certain hurt that fills your atmosphere that has Ace’s mind reeling

He wanted to show you how you deserved to be loved, every fiber of his being burning at the thought of this stupid guy taking you from granted; you alway caring and thoughtful, witty and kind heart that accompanied your otherworldly beauty that had charmed him

So lost in his thoughts he doesn’t catch how he’s looking at you heavily, eyebrows angry with a frown that makes you take a swing of your drink already hating the course of the conversation

Your voice brings him back to earth “You must think I’m a loser”- an awkward laugh follows, hanging in the air as you wished you had more alcohol to down

“NO!” Ace practically screams, immediately feeling embarrassed as your big eyes gaze at him surprised- “I respect that”

The silence that follows his statement makes you want to crawl out of your skin before the ocean takes you away and spits you out on the opposite side of the grand line, too ashamed to even walk away and run from him you remain focus on the stars twinkling above the commanders head, alike the ones that paint his face

“But if you want to change that, I could help” your vision quickly falls on him, his freckles that you had recalled before being dusted in pink, his brown orbs patiently awaiting for a response as they trace every inch of you over and over

Your breath starts to pick up speed, your breasts peeking from your shirt when you take in air that you fight to keep in but it just escapes you. Your mouth stays agape as it struggles to concoct a yes or a no, only luring the man before you like a light house in the middle of the merciless sea. You wanted this so bad like nothing ever before, your heart that laid on the hands of the fire fist the moment your eyes met now being close to combust

“Yes, I would like that” a whisper could be louder than the words that had escaped you, landing right into Ace’s heart

He can’t believe it, his ears only understanding the yes that started your sentence as the rest died before he could make them out. He had been dreaming of you so long it was almost pathetic

Your eyes stay still taking in their favorite view of each other as he walks closer caging you in, his wide frame covering you like a warm blanket against the cold sea breeze. One of his hands travels to cup your cheek, immediately melting under his touch like wax over a candle. His face shows his hesitation, afraid you are already regretting this but you immediately reassure him by hanging by his neck, your hands grasping his raven locks making him hold in a shaky breath of pleasure

His head finally falls so he can meet your lips halfway as you reach up. The moment he delicately grazes the lips he had been staring at the whole night making hi mind buzz

Ace kisses you with much feeling, basking in the way your mouth fits in his, having to stop himself from losing control of his actions as to not scare you away. Eventually as you grow more confident after feeling acquainted with the way he kisses, you let go. It becomes urgent and greedy, breaths mingling as your mouths open so you can access more of each other, a dance of lips, tongues and yearning that numbs every other sense

However, you cannot kiss forever, so it ends as Ace steps back to allow you to catch your breath, an understanding sinking in both of you as you finally realize that the thoughts and feelings that plagued you also went after him

“Let’s do that again”

Masterlist

#one piece #ace x reader #ace imagine #one piece portgas d ace #portgas d ace #portgas d ace fluff #portgas d ace x y/n #portgas d ace x you #portgas d ace imagine #portgas d ace x reader #one piece x y/n #one piece x you #one piece x reader #x reader #one piece imagine #ace one piece #ace

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brewed-pangolin · 6 months ago

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There is just something so endearing about Soap MacTavish in the morning.

The soft golden light of the sun playing along the tips of his disheveled mohawk. Its bright honey color accentuated the stubble along his chin, dabbling it in crystalline sunlight flecks that glisten with every movement of a dreamlike breath.

Yet, somehow, despite the glowing aura that currently surrounded him, it was his eyes that always seemed to pull you in the most in the early hours of the day. Still hidden from view underneath heavy lids and caged behind thick lashes that never ceased to tear a jealous groan from the depths of your chest.

Slowly, as to not outright disturb him from his much needed slumber, you inched yourself closer until your chest pressed against the flesh of his arm. Dipping beneath to place yourself between his muscular reach and the density of his torso. Laying your head just below the cusp of his underarm as your hand delicately laid out atop the flesh of his chest.

A subtle twitch to the corner of his mouth is the first indication that your gentle measures are quickly culminating to the desired effect.

You feel the muscles tighten beneath his taut skin as he expands the bulk of his chest to inhale a heavy breath. Dense fibrous tissue rippling underneath his flesh to the flexion of his limbs, stretching his stiff form from the tight grip of sleep to pull you closer against him as a breathy growl rolls over a lengthy exhale.

"Mornin', bonnie," he mutters. Voice groggy and thick with Scottish brogue while his eyes still hide behind the curtains of his lids.

"Good morning, mo cridhe."

And likes Moses with the Red Sea, that simple term of Gaelic endearment uttered so sweetly from your lips finally parted the veil to his soul as he cast down his celestial gaze upon you.

"Hmm. Yer learnin', hen."

"I do what I can, Johnny," you breathed lowly. Catching a lump in your throat as your thoughts bottle between the walls of your windpipe.

"Besides, I love waking up to those beautiful blue eyes of yours."

"Jus' me eyes, lass?"

The sun's light trickled at the edges of his cerulean maelstroms, igniting a golden blaze that licked towards the flexing obsidian and tugged you further into the gravity that was him.

Words dissolved on the tip of your tongue as you lost yourself within the immensity of his stare. No other could make you forget the simplicity of language and the necessity to breathe like John MacTavish. Only with the gentle feel of his thumb against your shoulder did you ultimately fall back to Earth. Landing in his bed of unending affection to nestle yourself forever into the deep crevices of his heart.

"Not just your eyes, Johnny."

Your admission falls on a gradual exhale, fingers traversing along the middle of his torso between the deep grooves of his abdomen. Guided by a trail of perfectly dusted hair beneath his navel, only to halt your descent and place the palm of your hand along the curve of his Adonis belt.

"Then wha' is it, bonnie? Wha' is it about me eyes tha' makes ya go all dopey?"

You contemplated your answer for a moment. Running your fingers along the length of his pelvis to feel the tightening tension beneath his skin.

"They're like a second dusk before the blinding brightness of the sun washes them away. A last glimmer of twilight peaking through the ether, only to succumb to the glare of breaking dawn."

"Steamin' Jesus, lass. Ya jus' come up with tha' one? Or have ya been holdin' on tae tha' fer a while?"

"Little bit of both."

Your confession rolled over your trembling bottom lip like fog on a pebbled shore. Embedded with a hint of humor that never went unnoticed as Soap responded in kind by gently shifting you onto your back.

Bringing your hands to rest along the dense curvature of his neck, hovering above and caging you against the mattress as he lowered himself between the spreading valley of your open legs.

"Ya keep talkin' like tha', bonnie, an' yer gonnae find these eyes between a pair of very familiar thighs."

"Wouldn't be the first time."

"Wonnae be tha' last either."

Soap's eyes lit up like glistening orbs caught in a raging firelight. His smile etched across the entirety of his mouth, only further accenting his paradisical demeanor as he graced your lips with a kiss that breathed new life into the dawning of your groggy soul.

Immediately granting him entry into the warm chasm of your mouth. His exquisite tongue carrying the remnants of last night's whisky with the subbtle smokiness of tobacco etched along its fragrant border.

The mind-altering concoction seeping into your bloodstream like a substance not meant for the frailty of this world. Tearing away the cemented walls of reality as you fell like a heavy stone into the sunken fabric of the mattress beneath.

"Wha- what about me, Johnny?" You crooked when his lips tore away from your mouth, moving across your jaw and into the curve of your neck.

"You? Wha' ya mean?" He questioned between gentle, open-mouthed kisses against your neck. Voice subdued and muffled as his tongue lapped at the divine saltiness of your skin.

"What am I to you, Johnny? Right now."

Soap reluctantly pulled his mouth away to stare into your fluttering depths once more. Minding the growing fluster behind your eyes, taking note of your change in breath and the deep flush emanating from the valley of your chest.

"You, mo ghrádh," he started. Accent thicker than molasses and collapsing like time hardened lumber.

"Yer like the first sip of scotch on a cold winter's mornin'. Hot, heavy, and so damn addicting."

The air in your lungs froze, leaching their life giving oxygen into your pleading bronchioles. Halted by his unapologetic sincerity as your blood purged from your chest to pool within the deep chasm of your core.

"Jesus Christ, Johnny. You just bought yourself a one way ticket to Poundtown for that one."

"Aye? Complimentary in flight meal?"

"Of course. Only the best for you."

"There's a good lass."

He pressed his lips to yours for one final union. Only to begin his methodical descent, traversing over the curve of your neck and into the deep vale between your breasts. His calloused yet tender hands following in their wake, gliding over the perking flesh of your nipples while his mouth ghosted over the undulating skin of your stomach. The sporadic movement of your diaphragm creating a constant wave to your torso, tugging a smile to the corners of his mouth as he breathed a muffled chortle against the suppleness of your skin.

"Didnae expect so much turbulence, bonnie."

"Shut up, Johnny."

The bed shifted beneath your trembling frame as he repositioned himself between your thighs. Only now, with heat of his body pulled away did you feel the wetness embedded within your folds. The cool air causing a shiver to run up your spine as he cradled your knees over the sculpted broadness of his shoulders.

"Fuckin' hell, lass. Yer soakin' fer me already," he muttered against the sensitiveness of your inner thigh.

Prolonging the inevitable. Torturous intent with an impish furrow to his brow as he patiently waited for that simple utterance to give him the verbal go ahead.

"Johnny, please.."

"Aye. There it is."

Tagging the Soap Sqaud, as this will be my last post for the season.

@deadbranch @ohgeesoap @writeforfandoms @efingart @sofasoap @d3athtr4psworld @mini-metal @shotmrmiller @homicidal-slvt @glitterypirateduck @astraluminaaa @ghosts-goldendoodle @a-small-writer-in-a-big-world @crashtestbunny @greatstormcat @crashandlivewrites @glossysoap @soapsgf @devcica @gazs-blue-hat @tacticalanxiety @chamomiletealeaf @thetrashpossum @simpingoverquestionablemen @queen-ilmaree @weebumochi @dustycrusty09 @sadstone-s @foxface013 @lily-ilo @slutweeds

#soap squad™️#morning glory #soft!soap #johnny soap mactavish #john soap mactavish #soap mactavish #john mactavish #soap mactavish x you #soap mactavish x f!reader #johnny mactavish x you #johnny mactavish x f!reader #cod fanfic #call of duty #cod

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muzzlemouths · 1 month ago

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Day 1 — "Best friend"

"Alright, I've got one. How do you make a tissue dance?"

You stifle a snort, smiling ahead of the punchline. "How?"

"You put a little boogie in it!" Sun slaps his knee with a metallic clang that echoes, shoulders bouncing with laughter that mirrors your own. "Get it?"

"Very funny," you answer. "Did you hear about the guy who stole all that soap?"

The kiddie chair groans under his weight as Sun leans closer, his laughter momentarily forgotten. Suddenly he's very, very serious. "I haven't heard a thing," his rays dance a little, shrinking inward. "Did they catch him?"

Humming, your hand digs idly into the tub of pony beads sitting between you, dragging the answer out as long as you can. A theatrically deep sigh escapes you. "I'm afraid not," you tell him. "They say he made a clean getaway."

A smirk slowly creeps onto your face as he twitches in your peripheral vision. The wall clock ticks once. Twice.

"Oh, you sneaky little—" He breaks for laughter, wheezing with an automated grind of rusty levers deep within his chassis that sounds more akin to a deflating balloon. "The set up, the punch line, the drama," his palm lands with a humored thump against the table, bouncing the beads in their tub. "That was a good one. You're going to beat me at my own game, at this rate!"

"Oh, hardly." Your hand swims through the rainbow sea of beads in search of a specific shade of blue. "I'm just repeating what I remember out of my jokes book."

Sun threads a letter bead onto the elastic cord pinched between his thumb and forefinger. "A whole book full of jokes?" His faceplate spins with excitement. "Oh, pinch me! What a thrill!"

"Yeah, it was pretty cool, I guess. The library billed me for its hospital stay, though."

"Hospital—huh?"

"Well I had it so long, I broke the spine," you curb your laughter behind a façade of seriousness, not allowing him enough time to process the first punch line before decking him with the second. "I tried getting an appointment with a good doctor, but they were all booked!"

Sun is doubled over before the last of it is even out of your mouth, having evidently picked up on where the joke was headed, already, and still it has him entirely consumed by glee. He's going to break the kid's table between you if he slams his fist into it any harder.

Having successfully located the correct shade of blue, you slide the last bead to sit beside the rest and finally tie the cord off with a knot, neat and tidy. It's nothing special as far as kandi bracelets go, but you're proud of the effort behind it, regardless. After all, you weren't prepared to do any crafting today in the first place. Sun had asked you to help him sort the new shipment of beads before you went home for the night — one thing led to another and, well, here you are.

"All finished!" Sun quells his laughter enough that he can tie off his own bracelet; a parade of pastels in every color with the letter's "BFF" at the center. It hangs on a single finger, dwarfed by his massive hand, as he offers it to you with a big, cheesy grin. "Well? What d'ya think?"

The bracelet slips over your palm and comes to a rest just below the joint like a slipper made to fit. "BFF?"

"Best friends forever!"

"I love it," you tell him, feeling warmed by the notion. "Want to see mine?"

Too impatient to wait for an answer, you hand over your second bracelet of the night — a string of midnight blue with chunky yellow stars in between — and watch as his eyes light up and his voicebox crackles with a certain gravel that isn't quite his.

"Pretty," he says. Too short of a remark to have come from Sun. He slides it along his own wrist to sit above the yellow bracelet already there.

"Well, I should get home." The miniscule chair topples backwards as you stand, hands bracing against the table. "Sorry I couldn't stay longer tonight. There's a concert opening downtown and I want to get back before the traffic gets too bad."

Sun follows your lead and awkwardly squirms his way out of the kid's chair. "You could always stay the night," he says. The giggle in his voice is the only way to know for sure that he's joking. "Let me walk you out, at least."

These moments are your favorite. When the world is quiet, and you can enjoy each other's company without worrying about what tomorrow brings. It makes every goodbye feel like it will last forever. Who would have known that a friend could ever feel so much like home.

Sun opens the door for you, but stands in its path, shifting the weight between his feet with a metallic ring of his bells and a doting expression like he has a thousand things he wishes to say to you. Ultimately, he settles for something simple, yet no less fond.

"See you in the morning."

#drabbles #dca fandom #brownie points to anyone who recognizes this moment #as it's mentioned in one of my other fics :)#(<- grinning evilly)#i'd say the name but this fic is so soft and tender #i wouldn't want to...RUIN the moment......#hehe. hehehehe.#anyway this is probably the shortest 'fic' i've ever written #but i promised myself i wouldn't write at-length for promptover because i ALWAYS do and i ALWAYS burn myself out b4 the end #hopefully the tag still works since i've already talked SO MUCH lmao #dcatober24

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targaryenimagines · 1 month ago

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Shattered Wings

Dark!Daenerys Targaryen x Fem!Reader

Word Count: 21,652

Summary: You had known, from the moment you stepped foot onto Westeros, that this cursed land would take from you more than you were willing to give; rip you apart, only to put you back together slightly off so you were never truly whole again. You just never expected, never even believed, that it’d be your darling son, your precious Prūmia, your Viserion, that would have to pay the price; and that it would be all due to the actions of your Khaleesi.

Warning(s): G!P Daenerys, angst with a happy ending, angry/grieving sex (trying to numb the pain), dark thoughts, grief, self-worth issues, and slight self-harm (R digs her nails into her arms). Reader is not in a good place. (This is just very angsty.)

Notes: Still not over how the sweetest baby Viserion got treated by D&D (nor how we barely got any scenes of Daenerys dealing with said event — both in Season 7 and in Season 8 when she found out he was enslaved by the Night King; even a scene with her and his shattered body would have been something). Hopefully, in this story, I can do their bond justice (along with the reader's bond with him, of course). Forewarning as well that the Reader puts Dany through the wringer; anger and grief can change someone in ways that you’d never imagine… Is it wholly fair to Dany? Absolutely not. Just wanted to let you all know that beforehand as it’s not pretty for a bit… Also is this the source of Daenerys not being able to sleep without the Reader next to her? Yes… Yes, it is.

Series Masterlist

The salty breeze of Dragonstone carries with it the scent of the sea, mingling with the distant cry of seabirds that circle the rocky cliffs, brushing across your cheeks in a phantom caress; its presence cool, but not cold, against your skin — a gentle reminder that summer was still hanging on even though its grip was beginning to weaken.

You had known it’d be a beautiful day from the moment you had awakened. A feeling that had only grown as the sun began to rise high into the sky and the world seemed to come alive underneath the splendor of its golden presence.

Even now, the sky was a deep blue, unmarred despite the growing bank of clouds on the horizon — holding an ominous presence as if the storm they promised would happen in only a matter of time, but, for the moment, they were fine with holding back, waiting until it was the perfect time to roll in. You had always known the weather within Westeros wouldn’t be like Essos. With the shimmering rays of gold and the endless crystalline expanse of the sky, but you hadn’t expected it to be quite so fickle.

Or perhaps, you muse, this rocky isle, not unlike the ones who had claimed it, had a temperament that was ever changing. Always one step away from a roaring storm or a clear sky.

Despite the overarching beauty of the day, and the initial lightness it brought to your chest, you couldn’t help the heaviness that was beginning to weigh you down as it continued to progress. Something that you could normally attribute to the simple knowledge of the shifting weather, but the tension coiling within you didn’t feel like the apprehension one would face in concern of a coming storm.

Its source, in fact, wasn’t one you could truly place — only heightening the tension further.

You’re currently seated on the edge of a cliff, a familiar perch where you often found peace, the waters of the bay below sparkling under the sun, a stark contrast to the gathering gloom ahead; one that soothes your wayward thoughts for the moment. Drogon soars above, his massive form casting a shadow that briefly blots out the light as he passes above you, continuing to dip and dive; his playful movements a reminder that despite his appearance, he was still young. His roars of joy, carrying easily upon the ocean wind, echoes across the bay, the familiar sound pulling your lips into a smile.

Rhaegal lay beside you, his large head near your lap, bronze eyes half-lidded in contentment. His breaths slow and rhythmic, the warmth of his body radiating through the cold stone beneath you, as your fingers absentmindedly trace the ridged scales of his brow; an action that causes Rhaegal to hum softly in response, a deeply resonate sound.

While Viserion, your golden boy, is curled up on the opposite side; large body coiled around you. An aureate gaze closed, but far from asleep — his breathing too measured, too conscious of your every move — and his attentiveness, even as he basked underneath the sun, soothed you. Leaning against his side, being lulled by the rise and fall of his chest against your back, you go back to watching Drogon dance upon the wind. Every now and then, you notice, out of your periphery, that Viserion’s tail flicked lazily, a sign of his growing restlessness; an emotion that was stemming from your own — even as you try to distract yourself with the world around you to halt it — due to the bond that you share. While you’re bonded to all of your sons, and love them as any mother would her children, the connection you have with Viserion goes a bit deeper; there’s an intrinsic understanding, one that goes beyond mere words. He knows that you’re troubled, even if he doesn’t know the cause, his continued presence is meant to soothe, to shield you from whatever is brewing within your heart, and you couldn’t be more grateful for him. For the love that he has for you.

The wind picks up slightly — a howl beginning to intertwine within it — bringing with it a chill that has nothing to do with the weather. Your eyes, as if pulled by some greater power, shift back to the horizon; to the dark clouds that continue to gather, seemingly growing thicker and thicker with each passing moment. It’s a sight that causes your previous sense of foreboding to make an instant reappearance, curling tightly within your stomach, and, in response, you press back into Viserion; seeking the warmth and reassurance only he could provide. The unease doesn’t subside, not in a manner you wish it would, as it decides to gnaw at the back of your mind instead; reminiscent of a splinter you couldn’t remove. An unsettling entity but one that you’d be able to handle given enough time and care; that’s what you hope, at least.

Looking down at the beach below, where a mixture of Dothraki and Unsullied work hauling Dragonglass and other needed supplies, the smallest of frowns furrow your brow. From this vantage point, and due to the simple fact that few were idiotic, and even fewer brave, enough to approach slumbering dragons — especially dragons that had one of their mothers nearby — left the area upon the cliff free of anyone else, you’re able to see how the few Northerners that had made the journey to Dragonstone were treating them; bodies tense, eyes narrowed in barely concealed agitation, whispered conversations taking place the moment they’re left to congregate amongst themselves, hands constantly reaching towards their hips for swords that aren’t present. It’s a sight that leaves a sour taste in your mouth and a protective outrage roaring within your chest.

The Dothraki and Unsullied did not ask for this war; did not ask to be treated with such obvious disdain from the people that supposedly needed their help. They had agreed to come to Westeros, to fight underneath the banner of House Targaryen, of Daenerys Stormborn, to reclaim the Iron Throne from Cersei Lannister, but their loyalty, their faith, in their Khaleesi led them to where they are now. If the North is in such dire need of help why are they biting at the hand that’s offering it to them?

Your brow furrows into an even more pronounced frown, but, before you’re able to delve even deeper into the thoughts that would, no doubt, dampen your already darkening mood, the sound of raised voices coming from behind you causes your attention to snap back to the world at large. Twisting, and leaning slightly to peer around Viserion’s head, you see Daenerys storming across the rolling grass with Tyrion following behind; even from a distance you can tell it’s a heated discussion. Tyrion is speaking once more, words likely chosen carefully, but whatever it is he’s saying it isn’t easing her agitation. You’re not able to see your dragon’s face, but you’re able to surmise what must be etched across it from memory, and Tyrion’s own expression, alone — eyes narrowed in determination, nostrils slightly flared, some amount of frustration evident, focused solely on her Hand.

As if she’s trying to bend him to her will through sheer force alone.

Not being able to hear their words doesn’t inhibit you from understanding what they’re discussing, your heart turning heavy at the realization. The plan to capture a White Walker had been a thorn in your side since it had been constructed — believing heavily that it was a gamble that relied on too many unknowns. That night, in your shared chambers, you had argued, even falling to the point of pleading, for Daenerys to take King’s Landing first; to solidify her claim and then use the might of the Seven Kingdoms to march North, but your words had fallen on deaf ears. Jon Snow, with his depictions of the Night King and the Army of the Dead, had shifted her focus entirely, convincing her that the real war lay beyond the Wall; not in the South.

At what cost? You remember asking her, in the quiet that had followed your discussion, after all the plans had been laid out. What would happen if our children got hurt? Or worse, killed? For a plan that rests on the hope that they might bring back a creature of myth?

Daenerys had tried to reassure you, warm hands cupping your face, lips gentle against your own before peppering lingering touches across your forehead, but the fear, like the multiple kisses that had been laid upon your skin, had lingered; a cold knot in your gut that refused to loosen.

Now, watching her argue with Tyrion, you can’t help but feel the fear twist into something sharper; something that bordered on anger. How could she risk so much for so little? How could she gamble the lives of your children — as you had heard the varying conversations about potential rescue missions — who had been with you both since the beginning, who had saved you more times than you could count, with such a plan?

Letting your eyes slip shut, trying to center yourself once more, you press a kiss to Viserion’s snout, a gentle rumble sounding softly in response. The clouds continue to gather, something you’re certain of despite your current blindness to them, but you force yourself to focus on the warmth of your sons; the steady breaths of Rhaegal and the comforting presence of Viserion.

Footsteps growing closer cause you to innately turn towards the sound — already knowing, by the lack of reaction from your sons, who it would be — and watch as Daenerys heads towards you; Tyrion still behind her with concern written across his face while Daenerys’ own was unreadable. Her approach causes the knot within your chest to loosen somewhat, as her presence has always wielded a calming influence unto you, but the tension within your shoulders grows just a bit more. You know that the coming conversation will not be an easy one, but it’s one that neither you, nor Daenerys, could avoid any longer.

She halts a few paces away, gaze softening when it lands on you. “There you are,” she greets, a note of warmth suffused within her tone; something that eases the tightness in your chest momentarily. It’s a fleeting entity, quickly remembering the subject matter behind the impending conversation, and taking notice of the determination within her violet depths. A sight that you’re all too familiar with, the burning resolve that has taken her through countless trials, the appearance of it being one that typically soothed you, but, with everything happening, it only deepens your concern.

“You’ve been arguing with Tyrion again,” you comment, trying to maintain a level of calmness that the roiling storm of emotions beneath the surface wished to disrupt.

The observation causes a soft sigh to fall from Daenerys’ lips, a delicate hand quickly rising to brush silver-gold strands behind her ear, while she moves to sit beside you; pausing only briefly for her gaze to linger on the forms of your shared children, before gentle violet finally settles back to you. “Tyrion thinks I’m being reckless,” she admits, the faintest creasing of her brow giving away the frustration she feels. “He just doesn’t understand the urgency of the situation.”

“Do you, Daenerys?” You rebuke, unable to keep the edge from your tone. “Do you understand what you’re asking them to do? What you’re risking?”

A spark of defiance roars into life within her gaze. “I’m not asking them to do anything I wouldn’t do myself.”

“That’s not the point.” Taking a breath through your nose, trying to maintain a level head, you continue. “The point is that this plan, this rescue mission you and your council have concocted, is too dangerous. What if something goes wrong? What if one of our children gets hurt? Or worse?”

They’re questions you’ve asked before — countless times since hearing about the possibility of your Khaleesi heading North — and you’re certain they’ll be met by the same response.

Daenerys looks away, jaw clenched. “I can’t let them die.”

“You don’t even know if this will work,” you argue. “We didn’t know enough about the White Walkers, about their strengths or weaknesses, and those men left with that knowledge, understanding what they were getting into, because apparently one of those creatures may convince Cersei Lannister to help us.” Irritation lances through your heart. “Now, after all of that, you wish to head North, with our sons, to potentially rescue men that understood they may not come back once going beyond the Wall.”

“I have to try,” she replies firmly, eyes blazing within renewed determination. “If we do nothing, we’ll end up risking everything. The North, the South, everything we have ever fought for would be for nothing. If there’s even a chance that Cersei might listen, and that Jon Snow is still alive, and, with him, our only ties to the North, then I have to take it.”

You shake your head. “At what cost?” The old question, once again, falls from your lips, imploring Daenerys to actually hear it. “What will you do if they truly are gone? If, by doing this, our children are hurt?”

For a moment, the briefest crack appears in dragon-scaled armor, Daenerys hesitating, expression faltering as her vulnerability makes an appearance, but, before you can blink, it quickly buried beneath a resolved demeanor; one that has defined her since you’ve known her. “Every day I make choices that could mean the difference between life and death for thousands. I carry the weight of every decision, every sacrifice, but I cannot, will not, be paralyzed by fear,” she intones, even as her voice cracks ever-so-slightly, betraying the sense of fear she’s trying so hard to conceal. “I’ll do what I must. Like I have always done.”

Your heart clenches at the words; the anger you had been trying so hard to suppress flaring into something more intense, but, only by a small margin, you’re able to stay calm. “I’m not asking you to be paralyzed by fear, Dany. I’m asking you to consider what you’re risking. I’m asking you to think about what you’ll lose if this goes wrong,” you reiterate, reaching out for her, knowing how much physical touch means to her. “We can find another way. A way that doesn’t risk more lives.”

Daenerys only looks down at the proffered appendage for a moment before taking it in hers. “That’s something I never stop doing, ñuha perzys. I have considered every option, and I wish it were that simple,” she murmurs sorrowfully. “But the time for simple solutions is over. This is the only way.”

You pull your hand back, the warmth of her touch only deepening the growing ache in your chest, tension coiling in your shoulders. “And if it fails? If they’re already dead? What will you do then? If our children die in the pursuit of this mission? Will it be worth it? Will you be able to live with yourself?”

“I have to believe it will work. I have to believe that this is the way to save them. To save us all.”

Lips thinning into a line, her response pressing down onto you like a physical burden, you can’t help the strained quality within your voice. “I can’t do this.” The wind ghosts across your face, offering its own form of support for you to continue. “I can’t watch you risk everything, risk our sons, for something so uncertain.”

“I don’t want to lose them either. Of course, I’d never wish to lose our children.” Her voice cracks slightly at the thought of it. “But, I can’t stand by and do nothing, I can’t let those men die without trying to stop it.”

A long silence settles between you then, only the distant roar of the ocean against the surf, along with the occasional huff from either Rhaegal or Viserion, intercepting it, the tension palpable, its presence a heavy weight that neither of you can shake.

Finally, after another beat of silence, you let out a shaky breath, hands digging into the exposed skin of your forearm slightly, as you gather the strength needed to say what’s on your mind. “If you do this,” you begin, the words sour on your tongue, stomach twisting. “Promise me that you’ll come back. Promise me that you’ll bring them back.”

Daenerys looks at you then, the emotion within her eyes telling you she understood who you were referring to. That you weren’t asking for a promise to bring the men back — your words weren’t a plea for the plan to work; they were a mothers desperate attempt to ensure the safety of her children — and your Khaleesi doesn’t hesitate. “I promise,” she affirms. Even still, a weight has settled within you that wouldn’t become easier to lift until she returned back from the desperate attempt to right a wrong that wasn’t her fault. There wasn’t more to truly say after that, no argument that you could come up with that’d make her change her mind, so you settle, once more, into the silence that descends.

The storm on the horizon draws ever closer, dark clouds beginning to loom over the bay, while the wind picks up speed; whipping through your hair and clothes as if trying to pull you away. You’re aware of what she’s about to do, even if she hasn’t outright said she’d be departing now, and it absolutely terrifies you.

Daenerys stands, gaze lingering on you for a moment longer, before it shifts to the dragons. Knowing what is to occur, even if that doesn’t make it any easier to digest, you follow her lead, rising to your feet and move over to Viserion. Your precious boy lifts his head in response, bright eyes locking with yours, not unlike his other mother had done a moment prior, and you feel a pang of sadness deep within your chest. You reach out, hand resting against his cheek, the warmth of his pebbled scales seeping into your chilled skin.

“Be safe, Prūmia,” you whisper, pressing a kiss to his cheek; Viserion nuzzling against you in response, a low rumble vibrating through his body. The sound being one of comfort, of reassurance, but it does little to ease the fear beginning to gnaw at your heart.

You move over to Rhaegal next, placing a gentle kiss to his nose. The soft huff, a warm gust of air that seems to sink deep into your soul, brings a small smile to life; despite the tears that were welling within your eyes. “Don’t do anything rash, Bāne.”

Finally, you approach Drogon, who had landed nearby, watching you with his crimson gaze. Once you’re near, he lowers his massive head, allowing for you to scratch the underside of his chin, a spot that has been his weakness since he was a hatchling, and you respond with a light chuckle of your own when he admits a huff of amusement — the closest thing, you’ve found, to laughter that a dragon can emit — the corners of his mouth seemingly lifting into a smile of his own. “Protect her, Mīsio.”

It’s a rare moment — even with your warring emotions — of levity in a time that feels anything but light.

Daenerys, simply watching as you say your farewells, meets your gaze steadily once you finally turn back to her, greeting you with a soft expression; the love she feels for you evident within pools of violet, but, underneath it all, hidden away in a place only you could find, there was sadness, genuine regret that she was parting with you mixing within it. It’s only when she steps closer, wrapping her arms around you in a much needed embrace, that the tension, you hadn’t even realized had been there, slackens. Her hold on you was tight, as if she was trying to anchor herself to you one last time before the storm took her away. Daenerys had always likened you to home; the one safe harbor she felt she had within this world. Where she could lay down her titles, her shield, and her worries, to truly be herself once more — simply Dany.

“I love you,” she whispers into your ear, voice trembling. “More than anything. Please know that.”

You press your cheek against hers, inhaling the familiar scent of the love of your life; a gentle fragrance of something sweet mixed with lavender, underscored by smoke and dragon fire. The duality of Daenerys Targaryen showcasing itself even within something so mundane. “I love you too,” you reply. “Always.”

Not wishing to let go, you cling to each other a moment longer, the world fading, as it always does, as you focus on the warmth of her body, the steady beat of her heart, but, all too soon, she pulls back, violet eyes glistening with unshed tears as she reluctantly steps away. Only to return, seemingly unable to stay away, to place a gentle kiss upon your lips, her words ghosting across them. "I will be back soon,” she vows. “You'll be cuddled up with our children and me before you know it."

With one final embrace, and another brief kiss, Daenerys approaches Drogon, who had been waiting patiently, and climbs onto his back, the great dragon unfurling his wings with a powerful gust of wind; Rhaegal and Viserion following suit, their massive wings beating in unison as they rise into the sky.

You watch them, heart aching as they disappear into the horizon, get swallowed by the gathering storm, the weight in your chest nearly unbearable; a mixture of fear, sorrow, and an overwhelming sense of loss that you couldn’t comprehend. The smart thing to do would be to head inside, to find shelter from the oncoming storm, but you can’t bring yourself to move. Instead, you stand on the cliff's edge, the wind whipping through your hair, as you look in the direction of where the woman you love and your children vanished into the darkening sky.

A tear slips unbidden down your cheek and you don’t bother to wipe it away. The void within your chest, that had been created by the unceasing weight pressing upon it, threatened to consume you once you realized just how along you truly are now. Your children, alongside the love of your life, were heading into the unknown, and all you could do was stand, waiting within Dragonstone, and hope that they would return.

But, deep down, the sense of unease, the tension that had been coiling tighter and tighter, that continued to gnaw at you, was now settled like a stone in your gut; an unshakeable feeling that something terrible was about to happen settling over you.

For now, until your family returned to you, persevering was the only option — even if it meant burying the dark emotions welling up — and hope that Daenerys would keep her promise, that she would bring them back to you. That she would come back to you.

And, as the first rumble of thunder echoed over the bay, you closed your eyes, silently praying for the strength to face whatever was to come.

When the storm had rolled in, many within Dragonstone believed it would abate quickly, but it had only seemed to worsen as time wore on — as hours turned to days and those days turned to weeks — and, within that period there hadn’t been any news from the North.

It’s late. The kind of late that bleeds into the early hours of the morning, when even the wind is quiet, too tried to howl against the ancient castle; despite the storm still being an ever-present entity. Typically, it’s considered to be a tranquil hour to be awake, despite the earliness of it, and that the sky was still dark, but the silence of it was suffocating — pressing down on you with a weight that makes it hard to breathe. You had become too accustomed to silence, to the sound of your heartbeat and thoughts uninterrupted by anything else, and you absolutely detest it. When Dragonstone awakens — when servants, guards, and dignitaries alike travel through its halls — do you feel more at ease, because, at least when you hear them, you know you’re not truly alone.

The chambers you share with Daenerys, so shockingly cold without the presence of your dragon, to warm it, were dark, save for the faint embers that still valiantly clung to life within the hearth, and the stone walls seemed to close in around you. Ever since Daenerys had left this room had felt like a prison; each hour within it that passed stretching into eternity as you waited for word — any word — of Daenerys and your children. You had barely been able to sleep, being unable to banish the terrible images that haunted your dreams when you tried. Your dreams become consumed by what-if scenarios, each one darker than the last. You see them, your children, in your mind’s eye, falling from the sky, their magnificent wings torn and battered, fire extinguished as they plummet to the unforgiving earth below. You see Daenerys, silver-gold hair matted red with blood, the bright fierceness of her eyes dulled by the hand of death. No matter how hard you tried, no matter how much you prayed to the Gods to grant you mercy, even if it was only for a short while, those images wouldn’t stray far from your mind; they were relentless, merciless, in their endeavor to tear you apart from the inside out.

Still, even when you were awake, you found no solace, not a sense of peace. The idea of your family, all that you truly had within this world, flying into that forsaken land, facing dangers beyond comprehension, you couldn’t properly stomach it; couldn’t discern the varying emotions that had constantly been battling within you. Anger and fear had been your constant companion — Tyrion, Grey Worm, and Missandei tried to help but there wasn’t much they could do; not when you shut yourself off from the world — and, within that time you’ve spent with them, you understand that the majority of it, while directed towards the events as a whole, centered around Daenerys and her unwillingness to bend. Her fervent need to prove herself, to be the hero.

You know that Daenerys, for all of her pride in being a Targaryen, was weighed down by the actions of her father and brother, know that she desperately didn’t wish to become something that many had already foretold her being, that she was so afraid of becoming Queen of the Ashes. It’s something you detest — the fear that had been instilled into your ferocious dragon; clipping her wings the moment she had stepped ashore Dragonstone— and something you’ve been trying to dispel; never truly understanding why Daenerys would wish to be Queen of the Seven Kingdoms if the common folk detested her so based simply off the actions of her forefathers.

Understanding all of that, knowing the insecurities that plagued her, you could see why Daenerys had made the decisions that she has, but you couldn’t understand why she was willing to risk the people that had already proved their loyalty, their unwavering devotion, to serve people that’d sooner call her the Mad Queen, the next coming of Maegor, then see her for what she truly was, to see beyond the fact that she shared blood with Aerys Targaryen.

Even still, knowing this, no matter how much it may squeeze your heart, you couldn’t help the growing chasm of anger that has settled within your gut at her actions. Wishing that, for once, she’d just let sleeping dragons lie, but, on the other hand, if she did, she wouldn’t be the woman you had fallen in love with, which is why a gnawing sense of fear had decided to accompany the anger in a sickening duo.

Daenerys had promised she would come back, that they would all return, but promises are fragile things, easily shattered by the brutality of war, by the merciless cold of the North, and the seemingly unending nightmare of the Night King’s army. Even still, her promise, her commitment to you, was the only thing you could truly still hold onto without falling apart, because, despite everything, you had faith in your Khaleesi, believing in her gave you the hope to believe that everything would turn out okay in the end.

Now, even in the dead of night, when the world is still, and the air is thick with the scent of salt and sea, as you lie awake staring at the ceiling, you hold onto that hope, to the one source of light that would guide you from the darkness. You’re not sure how long you lie there, caught between sleep and waking, your one shred of hope battling against the dark twisted dreams that wish to prey upon you, when you hear a disturbance: the creaking of the door, a faint rustling of fabric, as someone enters the room. And, without having to even look at, you know it is, you would always know. You could feel her presence like a healing salve to your soul, the warmth that radiates from her, the smell of smoke and ash with something sweeter, something distinctly Daenerys, that fills the air — replacing the scent of the sea.

You turn to look at her slowly, heart pounding, a strange mixture of relief and dread coursing through your veins. She’s back. She kept her promise. But, as you make out her form, standing there in the dim light, you know something is wrong.

Daenerys — the unstoppable force that brought many to heel, your dragon that burned with the fires of Old Valyria through her veins, who loves you with an ardency that rivaled the sun itself — looked broken.

There’s no other word for it: shoulders slumped, usually bright eyes dull and haunted, face drawn and pale. She looks like she’s carrying the weight of the world on her shoulders — more so than usual — and, for a moment, you can’t breathe.

She doesn’t say anything as she walks towards you, her movements slow, each step measured in a way you’ve never seen before, as if each one took an enormous amount of effort. The bed dips slightly as she sits on the edge of it, and you can see the way her hands were trembling, imperceptible if you had been anyone else, when she reached out for you. “I’m back,” she whispers, her voice so soft that it’s almost lost in the quiet of the room, but there’s something in her tone that makes your blood run cold.

You sit up, eyes searching hers for answers, for some kind of reassurance, but all you see is pain.

“Where are they?” The question slips out before you can stop it, fear clogging your throat making it even harder to breathe. “Where are the boys?”

Daenerys flinches at the words, at such a seemingly innocuous question, that you know within an instant. You know before she even says anything — understanding intrinsically where the aching hollowness had appeared from; a gaping void where your golden boy had once been — in response, but you can’t accept it. You won’t.

Violet eyes fill with tears, and she looks down at her hands, the one that had been abandoned by your own twisting in the fabric of the bedspread, as the other rests uselessly in her lap. “I’m sorry,” she breathes. “I’m so, so sorry.”

Your heart stops, the world stops, everything just stops as her apology hits you with the force of an arrow; the meaning behind it crippling in its intensity. The room, that had become your prison since she left, seems to close in on you: the walls pressing in, the air growing thin. You can’t breathe, can’t think, can’t do anything but stare at her, waiting for her to take it back, to tell you it’s not true.

She doesn’t.

Daenerys just sits there, tears valiantly remaining in place, whole body trembling as if she’s going to shatter into a million pieces.

You shake your head. “No,” you whisper, refusing to believe that it could be true; willing it to not be true. “No, no, no, no…” The words spill out in a desperate wave, pleading as if you can somehow make reality change by denying it.

“I’m sorry,” Daenerys repeats, voice thick with held back tears, and she reaches out for you once more, but you jerk away; the movement is violent, instinctive.

“Don’t touch me!” You snap, sharp and harsh, tone filled with a venom you hadn’t known you were capable of. The grief, the anger, the pain, all crashing down on you at once; a tidal wave that threatens to drown you. “Say it. I want you to say the words”

Daenerys flinches at your ire, just barely, but enough for you to notice; to feel the faint sting of seeing her so shaken. Her lips part, as though she’s about to speak, but the words catch in her throat, and she finally looks away, unable to meet your gaze.

“Say it,” you repeat. A part of you needed to hear her say the words, because, you know, a small part of you would cling onto the shred of hope that it wasn’t true, that Daenerys must be mistaken, if she didn’t. “Say it, Daenerys!”

She still doesn’t turn to look at you, but her shoulders slump even more. “He’s gone. Viserion is gone.”

Why does expecting a blow not make it hurt any less? Why does knowing the pain is coming fail to lessen its sting? Your mind cries out as your heart begins to break. Is it because the expectation of the hit, of knowing what’s coming, evolves into its own kind of torture? Amplifying the pain as it echoes through your mind long before the blow ever truly lands.

You’re the one that flinches this time, the words piercing through you as easily as Valyrian Steel would flesh, and can’t keep the pained noise lodged within your throat trapped any longer; a noise that instantly has Daenerys reaching out for you, trying to comfort you as she has always done. Only this time you couldn’t stand to be near her, didn’t think you’d be able to handle her touch, not when your entire world had been thrown on its axis. Jerking away from her touch, as if it burned, you scramble off the bed, needing to put distance between you, needing a moment to breathe.

Daenerys stands in response, movements slow, hesitant, as if she was afraid that one wrong move will shatter whatever fragile thread that’s holding you together. She doesn’t speak, she doesn’t move closer even though you can tell she’s fighting her natural urge to do so, allowing you a moment, giving you an opportunity to sort through your thoughts. It’s something she had done since your friendship began — back when she hadn’t been the Khaleesi, hadn’t been what she is now, when she was a lost girl with a vindictive brother — when things got overly heated, overly emotional, and it never failed.

Until now.

Until you realized that the thoughts spiraling through your mind weren’t your own — not truly — as they were all poisoned by the darkness of your grief, of your anger, of your pain and bitterness. The longer you were left to listen to them now gave you more and more time to get lost under the sea of anguish that’s refusing to let you come back to the surface.

“How?” You don’t know why you’re asking, it’s not something you truly wish to know, but you just wanted the thoughts to stop, to let you breathe without reminding you that Viserion would never do so again. “How did it happen?”

Daenerys hesitates. “The Night King.” That you had surmised as there would be nothing in this world that would have saved Jon Snow if he had been the one to physically kill your son; him being a short-sighted imbecile notwithstanding. “H-He had a sp-spear—”

You don’t let her finish, you can’t let her finish, not when the imagery of those simple words alone was enough; the haunting dreams coming to fruition. The bubbling anger, that you had been trying to stave off since she had arrived, finally erupting. “I told you not to go!” You shake your head, turning away from her with your hands clenched. “I told you that this would happen!”

When Daenerys doesn’t respond, you turn back to look at her, seeing the tears that were now steadily making trails across fair skin, clearly having lost the battle that she had fought earlier by not letting too many tears escape. It’s a sight that should soften your heart — the woman you love more than anything in this world in clear anguish — and make you want to comfort her, because, it’s obvious, she’s lost too, but all it does is fuel the fire of your anger; something that causes another piece of yourself to wither away.

“How could you do this?” You demand, wanting to know, aching to know: your Dany wouldn’t have done this, your Dany would have tried everything before risking the lives of your sons for a fool's errand. “How could you risk them like that? How could you risk him?”

“I had to,” Daenerys replies. “I had to save them.”

Despite yourself you take a small step closer. “At what cost?” A wave of emotions rushes through you, burning your throat with grief. “At what cost, Daenerys? You’ve lost him! We’ve lost him!”

“I know,” she cries out, anguish palpable. “I know and I’m sorry, but I had to do it. I had to try.”

“But you didn’t have to risk him!” You scream, the dam within you finally bursting as tears stream down your face, your grief and anger consuming you whole. “You didn’t have to risk Viserion! He’s dead, Daenerys! He’s dead because of you!”

The words are out before you can stop them, before you can think about the impact they’ll have, and you watch as Daenerys recoils as though struck, eyes wide with hurt and shock. For a moment, the anger drains from you, replaced by a sickening sense of guilt, but it is too late to take it back; the damage has been dealt.

Daenerys takes a step back, the first time she had put distance between you instead of trying to close it, arms dropping back to her sides, an expression of heartbreak, with the barest hints of disbelief, directed at you. “Do you truly believe that this is what I wanted? That I wanted this?” She questions, voice quivering. “You think I wanted to lose him.”

‘No.’ You want to will the word through your lips, to make any sort of noise that’d indicate that you didn’t believe that — not truly — but, even if you had said it, you’re not certain if she would have heard.

“I did what I had to do,” she continues. “I did what I thought was right. We lost Viserion because of it, which will be something that I’ll live with for the rest of my life, but I had to make that choice. I had to do what I thought was best for all of us. For you, for them, for the world.”

“For the world?” You repeat, not even trying to dampen the bitter sarcasm laced within the words. “What about our world, Daenerys? What about our family?”

Her gaze softens, even though the tears remain ever present, and she takes a tentative step forward, reaching out for you again; bridging the gap that she has made earlier. “We’re still a family,” she insists, unwavering. “We still have Drogon and Rhaegal. We still have each other.”

You shake your head. “It’s not the same,” you whisper. The truth in those four words sends another lance of pain straight through your heart. “It will never be the same.”

“Please,” Daenerys begs, realizing that she was losing you, setting in; a desperate panic begins to take form across her beautiful face. “Please don’t push me away.”

How can you not? When her mere presence is a living reflection of the conflict warring inside of you; part of you, buried deep, wanting to reach out, to be held, while the other part wanted to make her hurt like she has hurt you, to get some form of justice for Viserion. So, you do, you push her away with a force that has her stumbling back, tears blurring your vision as you turn and flee from the room.

Your feet carry you down the cold, winding corridors of Dragonstone; shadows looming around you like specters. You don’t have a destination in mind, just the overwhelming need to get away, to be alone with your grief.

It isn’t until you reach a familiar door that you realize where you’ve been heading all along — a room deep within the heart of Dragonstone; where the remnants of the egg shells, the very shells from which your sons had hatched, are kept in separate, ornate cases. The sight of them is enough to send you fully over the edge, your knees buckling as you collapse onto the stone floor, sobs wracking your body as the full weight of your loss crashes down upon you.

Viserion.

Your sweet, gentle Viserion. You’ll never feel his warm breath against your skin again, never hear his soft purrs as he nuzzled into you, seeking comfort and affection. The bond you had shared, that indescribable connection, is gone, severed by the cruel hand of fate, by the cold touch of the Night King.

You reach out, fingers trembling, and brush against the case that holds the remnants of Viserion’s egg; the smooth, hardened shell that once contained the precious life that was now lost to you forever. The tears flow freely down your cheeks, dampening the stone beneath you, as you weep for your son, for the life that was so violently taken, for the gentle flame that had been put out too soon.

Tugging the box closer, your breath catches at the familiar sight of the cracked shell that Viserion had emerged from so long ago.

The shell was pale, a shimmering blend of cream and gold, almost ethereal in its beauty. It sits nestled in the box, as if cradled by the very Gods themselves, the cracks across its surface, that once promised the appearance of new life, are now jagged reminders of all you’ve lost. You reach out once more, fingers trembling even more as they brush against the surface, the coolness of the shell seeping into your skin, sending a shiver down your spine.

As you carefully lift the shell, memories flood your mind, each one yet another blow to your already broken heart. You remember the day Viserion had hatched, the first time you had seen him when Daenerys had emerged from the pyre, a miracle of life amidst the barrenness of the Red Waste. He had been so small, his scales soft and glistening, his eyes wide with wonder as he observed the world from near Daenerys’ feet, until his aureate gaze locked onto you. It was in that moment, you knew he was yours, your Prūmia, your beloved son.

You had watched him grow, from a curious hatchling to a majestic dragon, his pale scales shimmering like molten gold beneath the sunlight. He had always been the gentlest of the three, his temper calm, his touch tender. Where Dragon was fierce, and Rhaegal wild, Viserion was your peace, your warmth on the coldest nights, the soft presence that guided you when all seemed lost.

The shell feels heavier now — as if the weight of your grief had embedded itself into it — making it impossible to hold. A sob escapes your lips, raw and broken, the sound filling the room, echoing off the stone walls until it is all you can hear.

You close your eyes, cradling the shell to your chest, the way you once cradled Viserion when he was small enough to fit in your arms. Your mind is a storm, torn between the memories of his soft purrs, the way he could never get enough gentle scratches underneath his chin, and the knowledge that his lifeless body was now lost within the frozen landscape beyond the Wall.

“Prūmia,” you murmur. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.”

The words feel hollow, wholly inadequate in the face of the overwhelming loss that has consumed you. They’re empty, meaningless, a feeble attempt to make sense of the senseless, to find solace in a world ripped apart. You press your forehead against the shell as if, by some miracle, you could draw him to you; as if your love could bridge the gap between life and death and bring him back.

But there is no answer, no soft purr, no warmth to chase away the cold that has settled into your bones. There is only the silence, the crushing weight of the reality that he’s gone, and you are alone within the room that used to represent life and love, but now could only ever be likened to one thing in your eyes.

A tomb.

In the darkness of your grief, you can almost convince yourself that you feel his presence, the ghost of his touch against your skin, the whisper of his breath as he used to curl around you in sleep, but when you open your eyes, there is nothing, only the shell in your hands, a reminder of what once was, and what will never be again.

Viserion was gone and, with him, a part of you died too.

The world is a blur of icy winds and burning cold, a barren wasteland where the air itself is laden with dread; a storm rages, tearing through the desolate landscape, howling its fury as it sweeps across ice and snow. Your heart pounds in your chest, a drumbeat of fear and despair, as you search the endless white horizon for a glimpse of gold — his gold.

“Prūmia.” It’s a whisper on your lips, the name that had never been uttered without fondness was now intertwined with a darkness you couldn’t escape from; it’s a plea, a prayer, but the storm swallows your voice leaving you with nothing except the howling wind and biting cold.

Viserion was out there, somewhere within this forsaken land, a simple fact that you knew as surely as your heart felt the panic clawing at your insides. He’s out there, battling the storm, the ice, the cold — battling death itself.

And you are helpless to reach him.

You run, as you always do, feet pounding against the ice — slipping, sliding — as you race against the storm. Maybe this time will be different? Maybe you’ll be faster? Maybe you’ll be better? Each step feels like a lifetime, each heartbeat a desperate cry for time, for fate, for anything to have mercy on you. Your hands reach out, fingers trembling, aching to touch him, to feel his warmth once more; as if the very act would make him appear, would bring him back.

The world shifts around you, the ice cracks, and you’re falling — falling into the abyss of nothingness, into the frozen depths where hope dies.

You see him then, above you, flying through the storm, searching for you too. His wings beat with desperate strength, pale scales shimmering through the haze of snow and darkness. For a moment, just a fleeting blip of time, you feel relief washing over you like a balm. He’s there. He’s alive. He’ll catch you. He’ll—

Everything around you shifts once more, ripping you away from your one semblance of peace, tilting everything into chaos. Your body slams into solid ground once more, but you barely notice it, not being able to tear your eyes from the sky above you.

Darkness swarms around him, creeping up his massive form like tendrils of death, and you can only watch in horror, suspended in time while everything beyond seems to move too quickly, as the night closes in on him. His roar shatters the air, a sound of agony, of finality; you scream his name, the sound tearing from your throat like a roar of your own.

Viserion’s aureate gaze finally finds yours and, for a split second, everything stops — the storm, the wind, the world itself. In that moment, you see the fire within him, the life, the soul that is yours as much as it is his. You reach out with all that you are: your heart, your soul, your everything, trying to keep him with you.

But ice, as you have found, is relentless; it strikes with lethal precision, piercing through the fire, freezing it from the inside out. Viserion’s roar turns into a strangled cry, his wings faltering, body writhing in the throes of death. The golden light in his eyes dims, flickers, and then — like a candle snuffed out by the cold — it vanishes.

You scream, heart shattering into a million pieces, as he falls from the sky; his massive form crashing into the icy ground with a sound that rips the world apart.

Running to him isn't even an action you registered doing, it was just innate within, instinctual to the most basic degree. You had always come running when any of your children had gotten hurt — tending to their aches and pains, the majority of which being healed by a simple kiss to the affected area — but, as you fall to your knees beside him, you know that this won’t be something you can fix with love, with tender affection.

Your hands reach out to his lifeless body — being unable to not at least try; even though you’re aware it would never work — and shudder at the coldness you find. The ice spreads, creeping over his golden scales, turning them to blue, to white, to nothing. You try to fight it, try to warm him with your touch, try to bring him back from the depths of the chill coursing over him.

But there was no bringing him back from where he’s already been lost.

His golden eyes are closed, his chest still, his fire extinguished, and you are left with nothing but the cold, the darkness, and the empty, hollow ache that gnaws within you.

Another scream rips through the air, but this one is a completely different entity. It’s not a scream of fear, or of pain; it’s one of rage, of a fury so deep you felt like you’d never find the bottom of it, of a mother’s desperate anguish at the loss of her child. It echoes through the void, reverberating through the emptiness, through the nothingness, tearing at the fabric of the world itself.

The world doesn’t care. It keeps spinning, keeps turning, oblivious to your loss, your grief, your pain.

And, in that moment, as the ice claims Viserion’s body completely, as the cold creeps into your bones, you know one thing with absolute certainty.

This is all your fault.

You failed him.

You were supposed to protect him, to keep him safe, to be the mother he deserved, but you didn’t.

You let him go. You let him fly into the storm, into the darkness, into death.

Now he’s gone.

The darkness closes in around you, the storm howling its triumph, and you are left with nothing except for the icy void that has taken Viserion from you — that now represents your life without him.

You fall into it, letting it claim you, letting it consume you, because without him, there is nothing left.

Awakening with a start, heart pounding, breath coming in ragged gasps as the remnants of the nightmare cling to you, a suffocating shroud of grief and despair, is something you’ve become all too familiar with. The room around you is dark, cold, unfamiliar — the walls pressing in around you like the ice that claimed Viserion.

With your body still trembling, you sit up, skin damp with sweat, and you try to shake off the nightmare even though you know it’s no use. The images are burned into your mind, seared into your soul: Viserion’s lifeless eyes, his body turning to ice, his fire snuffed out by the cold — they haunt you, refusing to let go.

You bring your hands up to your face, trying to steady your breathing, trying to calm the storm raging within you, but the void is still there at the end of it all; still gnawing hungrily at every scrap of weakness it can find, leaving behind a hollow ache that nothing could fill. The cold still lingers over you — icy tendrils creeping over your skin, freezing you from the inside out — and you rub your arms to chase it away but, like with all of your actions, it does nothing. Yet another cruel reminder of what you’ve lost.

Prūmia.

The name is a whisper within your heart, a desperate plea to the Gods to bring him back, to undone what has been done, but you know it’s futile. The Gods are cruel, indifferent to your pain, to the loss that still doesn’t feel real.

Viserion is gone and nothing can bring him back.

Not being able to handle being in bed any longer, you swing your legs over the side of it, bare feet hitting the cold stone floor, sending a jolt down your spine. The room still hasn’t become familiar to you, even after the two days you had been using it, a level of coldness remaining that you couldn’t shake, a stark contrast to the warmth and comfort of the chambers you shared with Daenerys, but you couldn’t stay there. Not after—

You can’t even think about it. The pain is too much, the grief too raw, a wound that refuses to heal.

Rising from the bed, not even surprised anymore by the trembling of your legs — your body weak from the weight of what your grief has done — you make your way over to the small window that overlooks the sea. Moonlight reflects off the waves, casting an eerie glow over the water, but you don’t see it, not truly, not as you once would; all you see are the barest hints of darkness, like a veil of sorrow draped over the night. The water, once a canvas for the moon’s gentle touch, now seems a restless sea of shadows, each ripple a whisper of your pain. Argent light, fractured and cold, dances on the waves like the fleeting echoes of a forgotten lullaby. While the serenity of the night has become a vast, indifferent expanse, a mirror reflecting the hollow cavern of your grief, where each shimmering wave is a silent testament to the void left by Viserion’s absence.

The sharp pain of your nails digging into your forearm is a welcome distraction, one that helps pull you from the void, even if it was only for a minute, and you drag them down, leaving red welts in their wake. It’s a fleeting sense of pain, but it’s barely a whisper compared to everything else.

Your thoughts spiral, a whirlwind of guilt, of anger, of pain. You should have done more. You should have protected him. You should have been the mother he deserved.

You failed him just as you have failed yourself.

Tears come then, hot and bitter, sliding down your cheeks in silent streams. You don’t bother to wipe them away; they are just another small comfort that you’ve been able to find for yourself, a release, a way for you to let some of the pain escape.

It’s not enough, it’ll never be enough, but it was something.

Cold stone greets your back when you can’t find the strength to stand straight anymore, your body beginning to shake with the force of your silent sobs, as another wave of grief washes over you, drowning you in its icy depths. There’s no solace, no comfort, no reprieve, at least not you’ve been able to find; only the void, the darkness, and the unbearable weight that seems to only get heavier as time went on.

You can’t fight it, you’re not sure if you even want to, not when it’s all you have left of him: this grief, this sorrow, this endlessly aching pain.

You’re not sure how long you stand there, leaning against the wall with the last vestiges of your strength, body still trembling. Time had lost its meaning long ago — hours blending into one endless stretch of darkness and despair — but the tears eventually came to a gradual halt, leaving you drained. The void is still there, feasting away, but it has dulled somewhat; leaving behind a numbness that is almost worse than the agony.

While the agony hurt, fierce and relentless, it was a constant, burning reminder of what you had lost; it was sharp, immediate, and painfully real, a torrent of raw emotion that you could still grasp and confront. Now, the pain has given way to a familiar numbness that seeps into every corner of your being, a heavy, suffocating silence that drowns out even the sharpest cries of grief. This numbness was insidious — it doesn't allow you to feel the sting of loss, but instead wraps you in a cold, unfeeling shroud. Stripping you of the ability to mourn, to scream, to find any kind of release; an absence of feeling that gnaws at you, leaving you stranded in a void where even the pain is too distant to touch. It’s a feeling that makes every moment feel like a slow drift through an endless abyss where nothing can penetrate or soothe the emptiness, leaving you with an overwhelming sense of being lost and alone.

Pushing away from the wall, as if trying to distance yourself from the feelings, or lack thereof, plaguing you, you make your way back to bed on unsteady legs. The sheets are cold, unwelcoming, but you can’t bring yourself to care. Crawling beneath them, curling into a ball, your body innately searching for the warmth that could only ever be provided by one person, you will sleep to take you. It’s a pitiful attempt, you’re aware of this, but you can’t bring yourself to stop trying — not if it meant that you might finally be fast enough.

You turn on your side, conceding to the lost battle to find sleep for the time being, and stare at the wall, watching the shadows dance across the stone. You know you should go to her, to Daenerys, but you can’t. Not with everything that’s happened, not with the anger still rising to the surface every time your mind drifted to her.

So, you stay here, in this cold prison you had created for yourself, because it’s easier that way. Blaming Daenerys was easy, being angry at her was simple, but it wasn’t the only reason you had locked yourself away; it wasn't the only reason why you’re haunted by the ghost of your precious boy.

You should have stopped her. You should have convinced her to stay at Dragonstone. You should have kept firm, not bending to her will, or, at the very least, convincing her that all three of your sons needn’t have gone.

You should have done something.

Instead you had done nothing and Viserion was dead because of it.

It’s a truth that you can’t bear to face during the light of day — not when it was so much easier to blame her, when you can get lost in the angry spite that erupts within you.

Staying in this room, locking yourself away — letting them consume you — is the only thing that feels right. It’s the only thing that feels like it would ever be enough to atone for what you’ve lost.

For what you’ve done.

Days pass in a blur, each one blending into the next, indistinguishable from the last, causing you to lose track of time, lose track of everything that isn’t beyond the four walls you’ve trapped yourself within. The world outside your small chamber might as well not exist — there’s nothing there for you, nothing that can pull you from the depths of your despair.

You eat little, sleep even less, and spend most of your time staring out the small window; watching the waves crash against the rocks below, their ceaseless rhythm a dull backdrop to the storm raging inside of you. You don’t leave the room, don’t venture out into the halls of Dragonstone, don’t seek out anyone — especially not her.

She’s worried about you. Even after the fight, even after your continued silence, you can still feel her presence outside your door, hear the soft footsteps as she lingers just beyond the threshold, hesitating uncertainty. Characteristics that were so unlike her it nearly made you weep for an entirely different reason. You know she wants to come in, to comfort and hold you, but you can’t bear it. Can’t stomach the thought of being near her, of feeling the icy numbness transform into raging anger, as you try to come to terms with the part she played in Viserion’s death.

It was her need to save everyone that caused this, your mind hisses. If she had just heeded your words, if she had just listened to you for once, this wouldn’t have happened.

The spiteful anger, the ferocity that scorched through your veins, even if it has been held back by chains, as you don’t wish to unleash something you don’t know if you’ll be able to control, isn’t one you’ll ever get used to, but it’s one that offers you some form of solace from the numbness and unending cycle of grief and pain. Pacing your room in controlled anger, fists clenched at your sides, was much more bearable than sobbing in a ball underneath the covers of the bed.

But you hadn’t pressed her on it either. You didn’t let her know what you were feeling. If you had shown her what you were feeling, if you had shared that with her, maybe she would have listened. The other part of your mind whispers, the part that had been progressively getting beaten back to the recesses of it as the anger began to take over. Neither of you knew this would happen. How could you? Go to her. Be with her. Grieve with her.

You don’t. You push the pleading words away, ignoring the ache of your heart, as you push the rest of the world away with them; letting the silence wrap around you like a shroud.

Not that it gives you any reprieve. The silence was also your enemy — as it’s in the quiet moments, when the world is still, that the memories come; unbidden, unwelcome, dragging you back into a nightmare.

You see his eyes — golden, warm, full of life — turning cold, lifeless, as the ice claims him. You hear his roar — strong, fierce, filled with fire — turn into a strangled cry of pain as death takes him. You feel his warmth, his presence, his soul — so intricately intertwined with your own — fade into nothingness.

Digging your nails into your arms, into your legs, anywhere you can reach, as you tried to feel anything besides the gaping hole inside you, but the pain is fleeting — it’s not enough to keep the darkness at bay for long; not when the pain is done by your own hands and not its own.

The room felt smaller tonight; the walls closer, the air more frigid, the festering emotions welling with you more pressing. From the small window — your only connection to the outside world — you can see that the moon has begun its ascent, casting pale silver light onto the world below. An almost eerie silence descending upon the small chambers you have made into your sanctuary, despite the crashing of waves on the rocks below, the faint whistling of the wind, you’ve grown used to the silence, to the empty numbness that it typically brought, but something feels different.

It’s not until a bolt of anger shoots through you, sudden and sharp, like the crack of a whip against your skin, that you understand that the most fiery of the emotions that had been growing within you — the one you had tried to control more than the others, even if it was always present — had been silently working its way through the tight bonds you had held it in; choosing this moment, this silent night, to finally break free; one that promised only more destruction.

You try to calm yourself, to take a deep breath and wrangle the anger back into its cage, back where it belongs, but it only flares hotter in response, stronger in its defiance to not be leashed any longer. Like a wildfire catching the wind. Clenching your fists, nails biting into your palms, hoping that the pain would distract you enough to allow your anger to be reined back in, but not even the subtle sting could ground you.

The fire within you has been smoldering for too long and now that it’s finally had a chance to ignite you couldn’t stop it.

Why did she go beyond the Wall? Why did she risk him, risk everything? The questions that have plagued you for days spin around in your mind with no relief, no answers. You know the reasoning that Daenerys had given you, but it never felt good enough — never the exact words that you needed to hear on why she had risked it all on something that would obviously end in some manner of death.

You’ve isolated yourself, hoping the distance would dull the sharp edge of your grief, of your bitterness, and fierceness of your anger, that staying away from Daenerys so she wouldn’t ignite the anger that’s been lit all by itself.

Pacing the room, each step heavy with the weight of your emotions, hoping that the repetitive movement that you’ve grown used to would soothe you in some way, but the restless motion seems to agitate you further. The chamber feels too small, too cold, too far removed from the life you once had. From her.

Because, no matter how angry you are with her, no matter how much a part of you hated her for the part she played in Viserion’s death, you still needed her like the air you breathed.

It’s a realization that strikes through you like lightning, a sudden, almost violent, force that ignites every nerve, feeling it burn through your chest, a molten heat that rises to your throat. Now unleashed fully, it overwhelms the grief, filling the hollow space inside you with something sharp, something dangerous.

Your hands tremble, breath quickening, as the anger flows through, unbound from its chains, feeling the heat radiating throughout your body, and, before you know it, you’re moving — feet carrying you swiftly toward the door.

You don’t think as the anger propels you down the dimly lit corridors of Dragonstone, each step harder than the last, until you reach the chambers you once shared with Daenerys. The place that had been yours together, now nothing more than a reminder of what you’ve lost.

Without pause, knowing if you faltered you’d self-destruct in a different way, you push open the door to the chambers, the heavy wood creaking under your forceful shove. The room inside is dim, lit only by the flickering flames of the hearth. She’s there, seated by the fire, her silver-gold hair catching the light as she stares into the flames, lost in thought.

For a moment, she doesn’t notice you, and you stand there, seething, your heart pounding with the force of your anger and pain, and, for a brief moment you believe that just looking at her would be enough to soothe the flames within you, but the moment she looked up, her violet eyes meeting yours, something snapped inside of you.

You don’t give her time to speak, to offer apologies or explanations; even as she stands up to greet you properly. You don’t want to hear them. You can’t bear to.

In an instant, you close the distance between you, your body colliding with hers in a forceful, desperate motion. She gasps, her breath catching as you press her against the wall, your hands finding purchase on her waist, fingers digging in harder than you mean to. You’re trembling, the anger boiling just beneath the surface, and all you can think is that you want to forget. You need to forget, even if it’s just for a moment.

Need to forget the warmth of Viserion’s gaze, the sound of his loving croon as he nuzzled you, the way his scales sparkled so ethereally underneath the sun… The way you had felt the bond snap within your heart — leaving you adrift, untethered from what you had always believed would be there.

Daenerys looks at you, her expression startled, her lips parted as if to speak once more, but you don’t let her, can’t let her; silencing whatever words she might have uttered with the heat of your body pressed against hers, your heart pounding violently in your chest.

Her hands come to rest on your shoulders, hesitant, unsure, but you don’t stop. You can’t stop. The rage, the grief, it’s all too much, and you need something, anything, to drown it out. You don’t care that it’s rough, that it’s unrelenting — knowing that Daenerys would be able to push you off if she didn’t wish for your attention; that, even in your darkness, you’d stop the moment Daenerys wished for you to do so — you just need to feel something other than the crushing, unbearable void that grown larger as the days went by.

You lean in, your forehead pressing against hers, nose gently grazing her own, breaths coming in ragged bursts. She can feel the tremors in your body, the raw emotion barely contained, and her hands, though gentle, feel like fire on your skin, fueling the storm inside you.

“Please,” Daenerys murmurs, voice trembling with the weight of her own pain. “Talk to me. Let me help.”

You can’t — talking won’t help.

Words won’t bring him back, and, as of right now, the only thing that feels real is the heat between you, the desperate need to lose yourself in something other than the pain. Your fingers tighten on her waist, your breath harsh against her neck as you wait for her to take charge; to be your Khaleesi.

She doesn’t disappoint.

Without warning, she crashes her lips against yours; an action that causes your heart to flutter in your chest — not out of love, but out of the need to forget, to make the pain go away, and finally receiving that release. It’s a desperate kiss, full of anger and need, your hands rising to fist in her hair as you pull her closer, demanding more.

Needing more.

Daenerys gasps into the kiss, her hands gripping your shoulders, body pliant, yet unyielding, against yours — a duality that only she could possess. She doesn’t push you away, doesn’t fight you, simply letting you take what you need, her lips moving against yours in a way that only feeds the fire burning inside you; tongue grazing against your own as she sought to taste you after so long apart. Her own desperation became apparent.

Even as your bodies pressed together, as you lose yourself in the heat of the moment, of the warmth seeping into your skin from every inch of you she caresses, the pain still lingers, just beneath the surface. The anger, the grief, was still there, simmering, waiting to pull you back under, and you refuse to let that happen.

Your fingers, that were still woven through the silky strands of her hair, tug her head back, forcing Daenerys lips away from you own; a snarl of displeasure rumbling from your dragon’s throat at the added distance, but the look in your gaze must have halted her from reclaiming your lips in a feverish embrace. “Claim me.”

Make me forget…

The force in which Daenerys collides with you again, fingers digging more incessantly into your waist, causes you to stumble back, only her arms keeping you steady against her solid form, as she descends upon you with a fervor that nearly takes your breath away. Her lips traveling down the length of your neck, tongue and teeth clashing in a heated battle to ensure you wouldn’t forget her presence, even after she had pulled away, down towards your breasts.

Daenerys kissed as much skin as your dress would allow, small noises of displeasure rumbling from the back of her throat when the fabric of it impeded her progress on tasting you further, the frustration mounting in a manner that Daenerys was typically able to temper, but it had been too long since she held you in her arms, since she had you squirming beneath her as waves of ecstasy cause you to clench around her length.

It’s an image that causes a hint of darkness — lust mixed with her natural possessiveness — to flicker through her violet gaze, giving you all the warning you needed, when, with a soft grunt, Daenerys simply gripped the thin material of your bodice and ripped it apart; exposing your heaving chest for her hungry eyes.

“That’s better,” Daenerys purred, mostly to herself, as she lowered her head to take a nipple into her mouth; biting the hardened tip before she soothed it with the warmth of her tongue. Your dragon, ever the thoughtful lover, giving your neglected breast much needed attention with her hand; slender fingers rolling a hardened peak in the exact way that caused your back to arch, a moan catching in the back of your throat. The halted noise causes Daenerys to bite down on the underside of your breast — teeth sinking into the tender flesh, ensuring you’d have her mark for days. “None of that, ñuha perzys, I want to hear you sing, I want to hear all of your pretty noises.”

The sound that’s released from you when Daenerys finally pushes you down onto the large bed, her undershirt hanging open, revealing full breasts that caught the eye, but didn’t hold your attention like the growing hardness within her breeches, is practically wanton in nature — a noise that belonged in a pleasure house that the ancient stronghold of the Targaryen legacy.

With your dragon hovering above you — lithe arms bracketing your head — the darkness recedes, the flaming entity that is your anger transforming into burning lust. Your hand trails down her chest, briefly tweaking a hardened nippled before continuing, descending until you got to the laces of her breeches, making quick work at unfastening them in order for you to slip your hand inside.

Hardened warmth greets your palm as you grip Daenerys’ throbbing member — an action that causes her to hiss sharply through her teeth, hips flexing as she tries to hold off from intuitively thrusting forward — ensuring you had her by the base of it.

“You would do anything to bury yourself in me, wouldn’t you?” Even if your core clenched at the thought of being stretched by Daenerys’ thickness, you wanted her to work for it. This night was about your pleasure, about lust and desire being stronger than anger and grief. “To have me mewling beneath you as fill me again and again.” Each word is coupled by a stroke of your hand, feeling the way Daenerys began to tremble under your touch, clearly fighting herself to hold back, to let you run the show for the moment; a response that is rewarded by a quick swipe of your thumb over the tip, smearing the precum down the rest of her shaft to give you an easier time. “Answer me, Daenerys, or I’ll stop and you’ll have to deal with this on your own.”

The spark of fire that ignites within the violet depths sends a powerful jolt to the apex of your thighs, more wetness appearing because of it, as you know you’ll be paying for this in the best possible way later, but Daenerys, not wanting to even take the chance of you leaving, finally relents. “What will you have me do, vāedar hontes?”

Instead of answering her vocally, your hand unlatches from her cock, giving you a clear view of the wetness clinging to your fingers as you bring them to your mouth sucking off Daenerys’ essence; loving the salty, yet slightly sweet, flavor. It’s a sight that causes Daenerys’ eyes to darken further, but you don’t give her time to say anything, your fingers popping out from your mouth as you shift to grip the back of her neck, pushing her downward to where you needed her most.

“Put that talented mouth to use, Khaleesi.”

Daenerys bites your hip bone in retaliation, the sharp sting being soothed with her tongue after a beat, as her mouth trails lower; veering away from your aching center to lavish attention to the trembling thighs. Peppering kisses on the heated flesh, leaving more marks that’d remind you she had been there, as she cleaned the wetness from them, humming lowly at the taste.

A wet kiss pressing against sensitive skin, right next to where you need her the most, a shiver wracks your body, goosebumps rising all over. Gentle puffs of air greets your overheated flesh as Daenerys peers up at you between your legs, ensuring that you’re watching her as she takes her first lick through your slit; from top to bottom and back again.

Daenerys’ hands, sturdy with slight callouses from gripping onto Drogon, glide over your thighs to keep you held open for her; in the next moment it seems as if her entire mouth covers your center, tongue lashing across the little bundle of nerves that makes your entire body quake, before barely dipping into your entrance. You knew that Daenerys probably wished to tease you, to prolong your pleasure as she typically does, but it had been too long since she last had you — since she had felt you cum in her mouth, since she had been buried inside of you, since she had felt you falling apart in her arms — and, selfishly for once, she refuses to wait, her aching length getting little relief from the thick blanket beneath her.

Moans escape your lips brokenly when Daenerys begins to scoop her tongue inside of you, rolling your hips to meet the thrusts of Daenerys’ talented tongue, the sound of Daenerys’ clear enjoyment at the act — soft hums, the clear sight of her swallowing your juices, and a hooded expression on her beautiful face — only adds to the intensity of the entire act, heat pooling with more fervor as two fingers begin to stimulate your clit.

Needing Daenerys closer, you thread your fingers through silky locks, tugging her further into you as you continuously roll your hips. “Fuck,” you cry out, a sharp keen ripping itself from your throat. “Right there. Don’t stop.”

A familiar pressure was building in your core — the trembling of your thighs keying Daenerys into what was about to occur, her efforts doubling as she latches onto the small bundle and sucks.

Overwhelming pleasure courses through you, mouth falling open in a silent scream, as your climax finally crashes through, tilting the world on its axis as you buck into Daenerys’ mouth. The earlier intensity from her tongue turning gentler as she helps you down from you high, softly cleaning you up, groaning headily at your taste, before she pulls away completely; resting her cheek on your thigh as she looks up at you.

She looked completely debauched — slick shining wetly on her face, hair in complete disarray from your hands, face slightly red from her efforts — but she didn’t seem to care in the slightest; not as crawls up you body, taking a nipple briefly into her mouth, sucking harshly, before she settles firmly on top of you.

“I believe it’s my turn now,” she husks, barely giving you a moment to react before she’s fully sheathed within you — your wet heat stretching to accommodate her thickness — a moan leaving you just as a soft groan escapes Daenerys. “Perfect.”

Daenerys, knowing you didn’t want soft or gentle tonight, not with the way you had come to her, sets a brutal pace from the beginning; where it was almost imperceptible to notice when her cock wasn’t within you, thrusting so hard she hit the sweet spot within you over and over again. Your back was officially off the bed as you cling tightly to Daenerys’ back, nails sinking into fair skin, as you had torn her undershirt off ages ago, as broken moans keep falling from your lips, barely able to take a proper breath as your dragon refuses to falter.

The sound of flesh slapping against flesh echoed through the room, intercepted by a mixture of low grunts and high-pitched moans, as the air thickened around you; mingling both of your scents into a heady concoction that caused you to instinctively tighten around Daenerys’ rigid length. An action that causes Daenerys to press her face against your neck with a low groan, teeth digging into your shoulder, as if she was keeping you in place, as she continued to rut against you; your walls continuously milking her, trying to keep her inside for as long as you could, before she plunged back in, and the process continued.

Needing to do something your mouth, as you could feel the urge to talk, as you typically did when your Khaleesi was lost in her passion like this, but knowing that you weren’t here for that — you didn’t come here for normal, you came here for Daenerys to fuck you until you forgot everything — so you force Daenerys away from your shoulder and claim her lips in a sloppy kiss; tongues battling as teeth clash. It was raw, dirty, and completely what you needed as mewls continued to escape, Daenerys unrelenting as your pleasure grew higher and higher — until the familiar peak was in sight.

Daenerys grips the rumpled blanket next to your head as her pace begins to speed up, feeling the way your walls were beginning to flutter, more wetness coating her cock, as a familiar heat begins to build within her own body, but she wouldn’t release until you did. “Come for me, ñuha perzys,” Daenerys whispers hotly against your ear, biting at the lobe as she jerks harshly against the sensitive spot within you. “Let me feel you tighten around me.”

It was as if your body has been waiting for Daenerys’ permission, waiting to feel your dragon’s warm breath against your skin as she whispered sinful words to you, as a cry rips itself from deep within your chest as your body spasms, walls tightening to such a degree that Daenerys couldn’t even thrust anymore — not unless she wished to potentially hurt you — but her own orgasm soon follows, lithe form hunching over you as strong jets paint your insides white with her seed, hips slightly jogging in order to get it as deep as she possibly could. The feeling — of her warmth steadily filling you — only prolonged your own release, eyes rolling to the back of your head as your vision went completely white. Leaving you floating in a void between pleasure and the real world.

When you come back to, chest heaving in exertion, skin gleaming with sweat, you notice that Daenerys had shifted positions; having leant back so you were now straddling her lap, her slowly softening cock still within you, as Daenerys soothingly ran her hands up and down your spine. An action she always did in order to help you settle back into your body, a lovingly gentle action that causes a chaotic array of emotions to run through you, as Daenerys hums an older Valyrian hymn against your ear.

But it was too soft, too much, as the familiar dark emotions that had been lurking beneath the lust and flames of desire, began to make a reappearance. So, you scratch down Daenerys’ back, causing her humming to stutter to a halt, and begin to roll your hips, feeling the way her length began to immediately harden within you, claiming her lips with your own — tongue immediately requesting access so you could get lost in the taste, in the feeling, of her.

You needed to forget and, as Daenerys began to respond with her own thrusts into your core, you knew that this was the only way you’d be able to do so.

A cocoon of darkness, is what you become aware of first, finally pulling yourself from the light slumber that your earlier passion had sent you into, embers from the dying hearth sending small slivers of orange to dance across the stone walls; while the air is thick with the lingering heat of your bodies, sheets still tangled around your legs, dampened by sweat. Lying next to Daenerys, chest heaving, skin still humming from the intensity of what had just occurred, you take note of the aftermath your coupling had wrought across the bed; rumpled linen, pillows cast to the stone floor, sheets strewn in a manner that only came from the most intense of passion. It’s a chaos that aptly matches the turmoil in your heart.

Daenerys shifts beside you, breath slowing, skin warm against where she presses against your own, the steady rise and fall of her chest, her very presence, so familiar to you; yet she had never felt farther away.

Once this would have been enough.

Once the quiet moments after lovemaking would have brought peace; a refuge from the outside world that no one but the two of you could ever enter.

Now, with everything that has happened, the peace is unattainable, shattered by the memories that haunt you.

The anger that had driven you to her, the overwhelming grief that had spiraled into fury, has been temporarily sated. It’s something you can still feel — a dark cloud on the edge of your consciousness that has decided, for the moment, to remain elusive until it decides to rain hell upon your world once more — however you’re semi-secure in the knowledge that it had been soothed for now. You have tried everything to escape it — drown it in drink, bury it under layers of numbness, letting it loose to the winds in an agonized cry — but nothing has worked.

Not until now.

Not until this moment — a moment enshrouded with the raw, physical connection alongside the woman you love with your entire being.

The woman you blame for your pain.

It leaves you feeling sick with the knowledge that everything you had tried to grasp, to gain control over, had already been out of reach, lulling you into a false sense of security, allowing you to take without thought; the guilt of using Daenerys to temper the roaring typhoon of emotions within your body is yet another emotion you don’t wish to deal with. That you don’t know how to deal with.

Closing your eyes, willing the tears that sting the corner of them to stay at bay, wishing, with every fiber of your being, that you didn’t feel this way. You didn’t want to be angry with her. You didn’t want to blame her. You didn’t want to have all of these dark emotions swirling within you. The way you felt for Daenerys had never been eclipsed by any other emotion except love — by the Gods how you love her — but that very love is now tainted with the bitterness of loss, of a stinging sense of betrayal, and the fiery anger you can’t seem to shake. It festers inside you, feasting on all of the soft parts leaving nothing except a hard exterior behind, turning every moment of closeness into a reminder of what you’ve lost.

You turn your head to look at her, heart aching at the sight; silver-gold hair spills across her pillow in a wild halo, lips swollen from your kisses, violet eyes half-lidded in the aftermath of your intimacy. She looks peaceful, ethereally beautiful, and for a moment, as you observe the love of your life, you almost forget: the pain, the anguish, the grief, the anger. For just a moment you allow yourself to believe that things were as they used to be; before the Wall, before Viserion, before everything changed.

Daenerys moves once more, her hand now resting on your chest, and you feel the warmth of her touch seeping into your skin. It’s comforting — in a supremely twisted way given the raging emotions within you and the state your relationship is currently in — to feel her there, to know that she’s real, that she’s here with you. Your eyes slip shut once more, letting the sensation wash over you, part of you hoping this contact will help soothe the burgeoning anger, trying to hold onto this fleeting moment of peace.

“I missed spending moments like this with you,” she whispers, her voice soft, barely more than a breath. “When it’s just us and the rest of the world fades away; nothing else matters in the end.”

The words are innocent, a simple reflection on the time you’ve spent together, on the love that has bound you together, but they’re an unintentional dagger to the heart. How can she speak of moments like this like nothing has changed? How can she talk about the world not mattering when your own has been torn apart? When Viserion is gone and the emptiness he’s left behind is all you can feel?

A surge of anger, that you’ve been desperately trying to suppress, rushes to the surface, sharp and searing. The brief moment of peace you had found within her arms shatters — leaving you raw and exposed. You can’t do this. Can’t pretend that everything is alright; that her touch is enough to keep the darkness at bay. Feeling all the negative emotions at once — the loss, the bitterness, the helplessness — drives you out of the bed, tearing yourself from the loose embrace.

Daenerys sits up, alarm flashing in her eyes as she watches you scramble to your feet; movements frantic, desperation tinged within each motion, as you rush to try and escape. “What’s wrong?” She asks, concern so apparent within her tone, but you didn’t think you could respond to her if you wanted to; not having the wherewithal to explain the storm that rages inside you.

You need to get away, to put distance between yourself and the source of your pain, but before you can reach the door, Daenerys is standing before you, blocking the way. Sometimes you forgot how quick she could be if she had good enough reason to be; having already pulled on the tunic she had previously discarded.

“Don’t run from this,” Daenerys pleads, taking a hesitant step closer. “Don’t run from me.”

It’s an understandable request given the situation, and the years you have spent together, but it’s not one you can acquiesce to. You can’t face her right now; not with everything that’s boiling up within you. “I can’t do this,” you manage to choke out, hands shaking due to the force of your broiling emotions. “I can’t pretend that everything is alright.”

Her expression crumples at your words, but she doesn’t back down. Instead, Daenerys reaches for you, her fingers brushing your arm, trying to ground you, to keep you from slipping away. “We’ll get through this,” she insists, voice a mixture of desperation and determination. “Whatever we have to face, we will do it together. Just like we always have.”

The heartfelt plea is one that’d normally soften your countenance, opening your heart back up to the warmth of her love, but you don’t think you could bear it now. Not as your thoughts twist and turn the light your shared love has brought to you into unending darkness; reminding you that she was the one that brought Viserion beyond the Wall, the one that left you behind, the one who’s actions have caused a death that could have been avoided.

“The fire that burns within a Targaryen is a double-edged sword,” you muse, a sardonic twist to your lips, as the realization suddenly settles within you; something you had been too blind, too besotted with love, to notice until now. “It can forge a kingdom from the ashes or it can reduce a kingdom to cinders. Those who follow them must always be prepared to walk through the flames and emerge either as conquerors or as nothing more than ash.”

Your words hang heavily in the air — striking Daenerys with a lethal precision, making her flinch as if you’ve physically struck her — but you can’t stop the torrent of emotions that have been unleashed.

“It’s a neat adage, don’t you think? Something I read long ago, in Meereen perhaps, but I have never given it much thought since. Never let it settle long enough to become tangible within my mind,” you continue, the bitterness welling within you impossible to mask. “You’re the Mother of Dragons, Dany! The Unburnt! You’ve always walked through flames and those who follow you — those who love you — have no choice but to do the same, but not everyone emerges unscathed. Not everyone survives.”

Realization dawns within her violet gaze, Daenerys finally understanding where your words were heading. “Don’t,” she murmurs, voice breaking as she reaches for you once more, but you step back, shaking your head; even if your heart tugs at the sight of her despair.

“Viserion didn’t survive,” you press on, the statement a dagger to your own heart as much as hers. “You took him beyond the Wall and now he’s dead.”

Violet eyes shimmer with unshed emotion — her desperation causing her to try and bridge the distance between you both once more, but you hold up a hand, keeping her at arm's length. “I never wanted this,” she breathes. “I never wanted to lose him. I never wanted to hurt you.”

“But you did,” you snap. “You did, Daenerys, and now I have to live with the consequences.”

She shakes her head, tears falling freely, but her eyes never waver from yours. “Please,” she begs, raw with emotion — completely open at this moment, allowing you to see every single portion of her pain. “Please don’t leave me. We can’t let this tear us apart; not when we’ve already lost so much. I-I can’t lose you too.”

Her words, the sincere emotion behind them, cut deep, cause you to hesitate; the love you feel for her, that you will always feel, warring with the overwhelming grief that has consumed you, but the pain is too great, the loss too unbearable, and you know staying here will only add salt to an already stinging wound.

“I need time.” It seems like a reasonable request. You know, deep within yourself, beyond the anger and pain, that you need Daenerys, but, at the current moment, you can’t be in her presence and heal to the level you need to. However, you allow her next attempt to touch you, knowing that she needs physical contact, not having the heart to deny her again, and soon her hand makes contact with your arm, gripping in a firm, yet still gentle, manner. “I need to think. I need—” You breathe harshly through your nose. “I need space.”

The grip on your arm tightens slightly, her eyes searching yours, looking for something — for anything — that might give her hope. Something that you can’t give her right now. Not when everything was still so fresh. Not when you didn’t even know if the person you used to be — the woman that Daenerys had fallen in love with — was still underneath all of the darkness.

“I’m sorry,” you say, meaning the words despite everything else. “I can’t stay.”

It’s in that very moment that you see her heart break — the realization that you’re truly leaving, finally registering — and it tears at something inside of you, but you push that feeling deep down. Right now, all you can think about, all you can handle doing, is getting away; finding some peace, some clarity.

“Please,” Daenerys whimpers, a sound you never expected to hear her make, let alone be the reason behind it. “Don’t go. Don’t leave me alone.”

That, more than anything, causes your breath to catch in your throat, a new kind of pain searing through your chest. You hated this — the parts of you not held down by the darkness were screaming at you to stop this, to hold your Khaleesi and never let go — but there’s nothing else you could do. Not in the state you were in because, if you stayed, if you bent, then you’d keep bending until you were broken completely.

You try to ignore the growing sense of distress emanating from your dragon, moving ever closer to the door of the room, subtly switching to the position she had once held, you shared within Dragonstone — a room you knew you wouldn’t enter for a long while after this — to ensure a quick escape.

Daenerys steps forward. “Ñuha perzys.” Hands outstretched to take your own once more — panic-stricken desperation etched across her face, while violet pools shimmer with more tears — but you twist away from her. Knowing, deep within yourself, that if you let her touch you, if you let her in now, you’d crumble, and that’s not something you’ll allow yourself to do. Not now. Not with this. Not when your son was dead and you’re still breathing, and you still needed to come to terms with that. “Please.”

But, even now, even with all the pain, the grief, the anger, swirling within your body, the familiar urge to look at your Khaleesi, to find solace within her gaze, within her presence, trickles through you like a mountain stream; eroding the miasma of emotions for just enough time that you felt compelled to listen. Maybe because you knew it could be the last time you do so?

The sight that greets you is one that’ll haunt your dreams — just like the emptiness within your heart will forever carry Viserion’s loss — and you wish, for just a moment, that the love you shared with Daenerys wasn’t so strong, so overwhelmingly life-changing, so you could look at her, look at the woman that took away your son, your Prūmia, and feel absolutely nothing at the sight of her devastation, of her anguish.

But that’s the problem, isn’t it? You think, watching as Daenerys tries to center herself, hands curling around the ends of the loose tunic she had thrown on in her haste to catch you. She has always made you feel too much. Awakening things within you that you never believed possible. You just never imagined that she’d be the cause of this much darkness when she’s always been your light.

“I never thought this would happen. Never even believed it to be a possibility.” A bitter smile curls your lips, tears finally slipping down your cheeks, matching the ones falling across Daenerys’. “It’s my own fault, of course. For not foreseeing this to some degree. I was foolish enough to fall in love with a dragon never expecting to be burnt. Now I’m left behind with the scars of what once was and the ashes of what could have been.”

You don’t give her time to respond — knowing that nothing will change the outcome of this, because no matter what she said, no matter what reasons she gave you, or how much she pleaded, how much she begged, Viserion would still be gone when her words turned into mere echoes within Dragonstone — fleeing from the room that had once been your sanctuary in times that have always been rife with uncertainty.

Ignoring the wail of your name as the doors slam shut with a finality that’d echo within your memories for far longer than you think you can bear.

It’s the second time you have done that, you realize. The second time you had left her behind.

It hadn’t gotten any easier nor do you think it ever would, and you hated yourself just a bit more for falling back into her arms, for seeking her out, and causing more pain because of it. There was more than enough of that already.

Viserion was gone, your son was dead, but there was some form of peace in that, in knowing that he was laid to rest. Even if his memory would still haunt you until the day you drew your last breath. While Daenerys was a living ghost, a tangible phantom, who’d bring her own whirlwind of grief and agony.

You don’t know which is worse; living with the memory of your dead son or with the living ghost of the love of your life that caused his death — both haunting you, one in every shattered dream and the other in every hollow embrace.

Daenerys may still be alive, but you’ve lost her just the same, and you don’t know if you’ll ever find her again.

The days following your disagreement with Daenerys passed in unending monotony, self-inflicted numbness casting the world into varying shades of gray.

But could you truly trivialize the harsh words you had hurled at Daenerys as a mere disagreement? It’s something that you have wondered every time your mind inevitably went back to that moment — observing how everything came into fruition; how a brief moment of peace had been torn apart due to the unending despair that has plagued your every waking moment since you heard the news — wherein your normally loving words had twisted into something that seemed like it was coming from someone else.

They were a poison, seeping into the fragile bond you both had fought so hard to build, had spent years strengthening into an enduring relationship built upon a foundation of love and trust stronger than even Valyrian Steel. The memory of her eyes, usually burning with resolve, haunted you — clouded with hurt and grief, not just for Viserion, for the bond that had severed the moment he fell from the sky, but the knowledge that she had possibly lost you too. You had seen the pain you caused etched on her face, and that image refused to leave your mind.

Even thinking of it now, the despair so clearly burning within her normally vibrant violet gaze, causes you to flinch at the reminder that you had been the one to cause such a state; something that you had always vowed to never do. You had seen the way Daenerys clung to people that had earned her loyalty, earned her love, her devotion. She had already lost so much: her parents, her siblings, her husband and unborn son, warriors that had sworn to fight under her banner, and numerous others that promised to be there for her but had proved to be nothing but snakes in the end; just waiting for a time to strike while reaping the benefits of being in the presence of the last dragon.

You had loved Viserion as fiercely as any mother loves her child and his death had shattered you in ways you hadn’t known were possible. The bond you shared with him had been unlike anything else in this world — an extension of your soul, a piece of your very being. Now, with him gone, it felt as if that part of you had been violently torn away, leaving behind a bleeding, festering wound that no amount of time could ever hope to heal; a wound that had birthed the vicious words that you had hurled at Daenerys — they were daggers, sharp and unforgiving — with the sole purpose of hurting her in the way that she had hurt you.

Spite and cruelty had never been part of your repertoire — kindness and compassion had always been at the very crux of your being — but it has suddenly become the only thing you could stand to grasp. As if, in the absence of love, bitterness was the only armor strong enough to protect the shattered remnants of your heart. The warmth that once defined you has been buried beneath layers of resentment, each act of malice a desperate attempt to shield yourself from further pain, even as it pulls you further away from the person you once were; from the woman that you have loved since she had awakened the feeling within you.

Grief is a poignant beast, you’ve come to realize, dragging its heavy claws across the heart, carving deeper and deeper burrows that widen into an endless chasm; devouring the light, leaving behind a void so vast that no bridge of time or love can seem to span it. A chasm that yawns wider with each passing day, echoing with the sounds of what once was, relentless and unyielding in its pursuit of every lingering joy. Until all that remains is the hollow ache of absence and the weight of memories too heavy to bear.

Dragonstone had become almost unbearable to traverse during the day: filled with Dothraki and Unsullied, with advisors and allies, with friends, all knowing what had occurred between you and Daenerys. Their gazes ranging from pity to curiosity to a protective rage — an emotion that gave you an inkling about how Daenerys has been faring in the days since your disagreement — and you couldn’t stand to be analyzed in such a way, couldn’t stand to be the source of courtly intrigue, nor could you stand the constant need for people to try and help; even if it’s from the best possible place.

You found that the nights didn’t bring you much solace either. In the stillness, the weight of your grief pressed down even harder, a suffocating blanket of despair that wrapped around you, refusing to let go. The walls of Dragonstone, cold and unyielding, seemed to close in, amplifying the emptiness inside you. Sleep eluded you, and when it did come, it still brought the nightmares that have consumed you since you heard the news — visions of Viserion taunting you; his comforting roar turning into a screech of agony, golden eyes that blazed like the sun being extinguished, his fire, his warmth, disappearing forever. Each time, you woke with a start, the sound of his loving croons resounding in your ear, following each beat of your shattered heart.

So, not knowing what else to do, not being able to withstand the prison you had constructed any longer, you sought refuge on the rugged cliffs of Dragonstone; away from the bustling interior of the castle, but not too far to make you feel completely disconnected from the world around you. It’s a haven you find yourself standing upon now, the cold wind whipping around you as you stare out at the churning sea below.

Here, amidst the raw beauty of the cliffs, you let your thoughts wander; the vast expanse of the ocean stretching before you gives the perfect view to let go, to let your eyes watch the soothing way in which the waves continue to move, a stark contrast to the confined spaces of Dragonstone. It feels like a place where you can breathe, if only slightly, away from the prying eyes and well-meaning, but intrusive, concerns of the court.

Your thoughts shift, as they often do, to Daenerys wondering what she could be doing in the wake of everything that has happened. Your mind’s eye brings a vivid picture of her in the chambers that you had stormed out of days prior, a place that you used to find solace, now filled with a heavy silence. How does she cope with Viserion’s death? With the burden of your anger still lingering in the air? Does she, too, seek refuge in the quiet spaces of Dragonstone? Or is she out there, being the indomitable conqueror that’d make her ancestors proud, dealing with the fallout of her decisions; attempting to carry on despite the wounds that she now bears?

The thought of her enduring similar pain tugs at something within you. Despite the anger and pain that still chokes you every time you take a breath, despite the grief that’s still burrowed deep within your heart, a part of you — the part that is still trying to hold all your shattered pieces together; the part that remembers the kindness and love that had encompassed who you are — understands that she is as broken by the loss as you are. It’s a realization, one that had taken days to finally come to terms with, that makes your own pain more poignant; knowing that the woman you’re at odds with is also mourning. Possibly even feeling abandoned and misunderstood — yet another promise that you had broken in the dark abyss of your grief.

You think about the last words you had exchanged, the vitriol behind them on your side and the pleading desperation on her own, and it stings to remember how your pain had twisted your words into something that only deepened the ever growing rift between you both.

If only you’d been able to see through your anger, you think, jaw clenched in an effort to stop the scream that wished to tear itself from your throat; announcing to the world the depths of the opposing emotions within you. If you had then you might have been able to approach her with the understanding that, despite everything that has transpired, she was grieving just as profoundly.

Standing on the cliff, cool air washing over you, the sound of waves crashing against jagged rock resounding within your ear, you try to clear the fog of anger and regret that has hung over you. Reconciliation had always been something you knew would be inevitable — despite the pain, the anger, and overwhelming sorrow — understanding that a life without Daenerys wasn’t a life worth living. You also know that, if you truly wish to reconcile with your soulmate, you need to move beyond the blame and confront your own feelings. Reconciliation wasn’t about who was right or wrong, but about finding common ground in your shared loss.

But how could you?

How could you bridge the gap when your emotions were so tangled? When the anger and grief that you directed at her felt justified in your own suffering but wrong when you considered her side? The hurt had been real, but it wasn’t all that defined her actions; she had lost Viserion too, and her heart was likely just as broken as yours, though perhaps in different ways.

The waves continue their relentless assault on the rocks below, and you find a kind of solace in their persistence; they remind you that even in the midst of turmoil, there is a rhythm to life that continues, a reminder that healing is a process that takes time and effort. It may not be possible to find perfect words or to erase the pain that has accumulated, nor do you think that pain will ever truly go away, not when its origin is the way it is, but you have to try.

Determined, you turn away from the edge and make your way back to the castle. Perhaps the path to healing is not in grand gestures or perfect apologies, but in the simple act of showing up, of being willing to face the difficult truths and seek understanding.

To honor the love that, despite everything, still exists between you.

You brace yourself for the confrontation that looms ahead; the entire thing feeling inevitable. The days of avoidance, of festering wounds and unspoken grief, have stretched on for far too long. Hearing Daenerys out, allowing her the chance to air out her pain, the anger and sorrow that has been gnawing at her heart since Viserion’s death was the least you could do after everything you’ve already done. Even if all the things you hurled towards Daenerys, at the time, felt justified, you know that they’re anything but; now they’re simply an added weight that you must now shed if you are to continue forward.

If you are to heal.

But healing doesn’t come easy and it certainly won’t come without more pain. You’re aware of this, knowing that when you face Daenerys it will not be simple apologies and easy forgiveness; she will be rightfully angry and hurt. You had abandoned her in the aftermath of Viserion’s death, retreating into your own grief, leaving her to carry the burden alone; with the added weight that she might not have only lost her son but you as well. Daenerys was strong, the strongest person you’ve ever met, but you know her, know that beneath her strength lies a heart that feels too deeply, a soul that has been wounded again and again. Your actions had only wounded her further, something you had promised yourself you’d never do so long ago, with your absence, with your vitriolic words and then your silence, and, potentially above all, your inability to stand beside her when she needed you most.

With each step back towards the castle, the enormity of what you’ve done presses down upon you — it’s not only about Viserion, not anymore, it’s about the distance you’ve allowed to grow between you and Daenerys; the love that’s been overshadowed by loss and anger.

Blaming her had been easier — allowing him to go North, not protecting him as fiercely as you would have — but you now know it had all been a smokescreen for your own feelings of failing as Viserion’s mother; for not being there to save him like he had always saved you.

And now you’ve been absent in saving the only other person who matters most to you — Daenerys.

The ancient castle looms ahead, its dark silhouette stark against the fading light of day, the closer you get causes your chest to tighten. You don’t know how to fix this, don’t know how to find the words that will make her understand how much you regret what’s happened, how much you hate the distance that you’ve created, but you have to try. You don’t know what you’d be if you didn’t.

Viserion may have been your heart — your Prūmia — but Daenerys was your soul.

Moving through the corridors of Dragonstone, each step louder in the silence of your surroundings, as the air around seemed colder in comparison to the warmth of the sun; the fire that had once warmed the halls seems dim now, almost as if it was reflecting that coldness that had descended between you and Daenerys. Not knowing where exactly your dragon was, but allowing your instincts to guide you, you find yourself heading towards the chambers that Daenerys often retreats to when she needs solace.

When you reach the doors to the chambers you had once shared, the flickering torch light casts your shadow on the stone walls; a subtle reminder of the darkness you’ve both been carrying.

It’s a long time before she responds — leaving you to linger in the silence you’d rather forget — but then the door finally opens, Daenerys standing before you, a vision of fragile strength: silver-gold hair falling in loose waves around her face, undone from the typical Dothraki braids, a pallid hue to her skin that brings out the darkened circles beneath her brilliant violet gaze.

A gaze that was harder than you could ever remember, but all that you could imagine yourself deserving after everything that’s happened. Sharper, as if the amethyst hue had been honed by the same grief and guilt that had cut into you, the room behind her, lit by only the hearth, causes a glow to wrap around her — ethereal as your dragon has always been.

“Why are you here?” It’s a pointed question, one that lingers due to the coldness within her tone; protective walls firmly in place. “Is there something you need?”

You open your mouth to speak, the words die as soon as they’re born on your tongue, her questions hanging in the air between you, but the answer you wished to give seemed so much more complicated than you could ever put into words.

Why are you here? To apologize? To seek forgiveness? To mend what’s been broken? Perhaps you wished to do all of it, but none of it feels like enough.

“I came to—” You search for the right word, but you can only manage a feeble one, voice quieter than you intended. “—talk.”

Daenerys narrows her eyes slightly, the hurt and anger she’s been carrying apparent, but she steps aside; allowing you to enter, but the distance between yourself and your dragon felt more than physical. It feels as though the Narrow Sea stretches before you — filled with all the things left unsaid, all of the pain neither of you had fully acknowledged, simply letting it drown in the murky waters — but if the Dothraki could find the courage to cross it then so would you if it meant your Khaleesi would be waiting for you on the other side.

Taking in the room, a familiar sight but somehow different all the same — just like everything between you and Daenerys; similar but different, right but wrong, close but distant — as the fire crackles in the hearth, doing little to warm the coldness that had settled within the chambers. You watch as Daenerys moves to stand beside the hearth, refusing to sit, seemingly believing this wouldn’t be a conversation long enough wherein she’d have to get comfortable, her posture defensive; her violet eyes filled with a wariness that should never be within her gaze.

“You said you wished to talk,” she says, voice quiet but steady. “So talk.”

You swallow hard, the words still struggling to come out: Where do you even begin? How do you properly explain the storm of emotions that had made their home within your body since you had been told the news of Viserion’s death.

“I’m sorry,” you finally reply, the simplest of all words, but heavy with the weight of everything that’s been left unsaid for too long. “I’m sorry I left you to deal with everything alone. I’m sorry that I had let my anger control me that night. I’m sorry for blaming you when—” You falter for a moment, remembering the way you had sharply blamed Daenerys, putting the horrific accusation into words, even though you had never said it since. “—when it wasn’t your fault.”

Daenerys’ expression slightly softened, her head tilting as her eyes searched yours as she decided whether or not to believe you.

“Do you even know what you’re apologizing for?” It’s a bitter question, one borne from your constant rejection of her love, and it’s something you deserve to shoulder. “You left me. Twice. You blamed me. You abandoned me when I needed you most. And now, after all this time, you show up and say you’re sorry?”

Her words sting like a blade to the heart — making you realize exactly what your own, much harsher, words had done to her; as Daenerys wasn’t aiming to hurt you, not truly, but when you had been lost in your grief, in the darkness it brought, you had been doing so. “I know,” you concede, not even trying to defend your actions. All you wished to do was explain and see where it led you and Daenerys from here. “I hurt you, I made things worse, and I don’t have an excuse except to simply say that I was lost. When Viserion died it felt like a part of me died with him. I didn’t know how to handle it.” You look away from your Khaleesi then, shame lying heavily upon your shoulders. “I didn’t know how to stay.”

Violet eyes blaze into life from her anger — the flicker of emotion she’s been holding back finally breaking through — as she tenses. “And you think I didn’t feel the same? He was my son too, I loved him just as much, maybe in a different way but no less profound, but I didn’t get to fall apart, did I? I didn’t get to disappear. I had to keep fighting, keep leading, keep moving forward, and where were you?” Her voice cracks with emotion and, for a brief moment, the anger in her gaze is replaced by something far more vulnerable; pain, raw and unfiltered. “Where were you?”

“I don’t know,” you admit, voice breaking under the weight of the truth. You hadn’t known where you were. Not truly. Your body may have been in Dragonstone physically, but you hadn’t truly been here for such a long time. “I don’t know why I couldn’t stay, I should have, but I was so angry.” Fists clenching at your sides, you shake your head, as if to clear the fog from your mind. “Angry at the world, at everything that had happened, and I took it out on you because you were the only person I could blame when I didn’t wish to face the truth. It was easier to blame you than facing the fact that I couldn’t protect him. That I wasn’t there for him in the way that he deserved.”

The silence that follows your admission feels like a chasm, similar to one the darkness had created within you, vast and unbridgeable, as you watch the way Daenerys tenses even further, lips thinning, as she struggles to hold back her emotions further.

“I needed you,” she whispers, finally breaking the silence. “And you weren’t there.”

Those words, devastating in their simplicity, shatter something inside you, causing you to take a step toward your dragon, but she doesn’t move. Daenerys’ arms remain crossed, her posture still defensive, but the violet pools you adore were shimmering with unused tears. And it breaks you even more to see her like this — your strong, unconquerable dragon — like this.

To know that you had been the one to cause it.

There’s nothing you could truly say to make up for what you’ve done — what you’ve put her, and yourself, through — but you’d never stop trying. “I know,” you say, regret filling you. “I failed you, Daenerys. I let my own pain blind me to yours, I let the grief and bitterness consume me, and I left you to bear the weight of it all alone.” Your lips thin into a line, nails slightly digging into your palms. “And I hate myself for that. I hate that I wasn’t strong enough for you, for us, like you have always been towards me.”

The tears that had been gathering in her gaze finally spill over, cascading down her cheeks like falling stars, glimmering underneath the light, and she turns away from you; as if she was trying to hide the vulnerability in her expression, her hands gripping the back of the chair that was situated before the hearth, knuckles white from the effort.

“I didn’t want to be alone.” Daenerys’ typically strong voice trembles under the weight of her emotions, her confession hanging in the air; as if on a delicate thread made entirely of fear and vulnerability. The room seems to shrink around her, the silence amplifying the rawness of her words. Her fierce exterior, always so carefully maintained, now cracks, revealing the depths of her isolation. “I didn’t want to carry the pain alone, but I didn’t have a choice when you left me.”

You take another tentative step toward her, heart aching at the sight of her crumbling before you; the woman you have seen standing tall before armies, who had survived betrayal, loss and death, in a manner you couldn’t truly comprehend, now stood before you broken because of your absence, by the weight of the grief you shared.

“I didn’t know how to be there,” you admit. “I didn’t know how to stay when hurt so much, when I could barely contain the anger within me, but I know now that leaving you was the worst thing I could have done.”

Daenerys turns to face you once more, and this time you don’t find any anger within her violet gaze — only pain that mirrors your own. “Why now?” The fragility of the question showcasing how afraid Daenerys was of your answer. “Why come back now?”

The words that flow from your lips leave as easily as a dragon flies through the air — an innate response that you didn’t need to ponder, to question, or feel as if it wasn’t enough. “Because I can’t do this without you. It took me a lot longer than I’d ever like to admit, to realize that I was using my isolation as a shield and you as the martyr I needed to disappear.” You shake your head, agitated at what you’ve done even if you know that it might have been for the best at first, but you shouldn’t have continued to stay away, continuing to let the darkness fester within you. “As much as I tried to shut out the pain, trying to convince myself that it’s easier to stay away, because then I’d be away from the woman my darkness had blamed, it wasn’t. It was yet another lie my mind had created, a feeling of false security, to ensure I wouldn’t get hurt again, trying to protect what I had left. But it didn’t help, it only made things worse, unbearable, because I need you, Daenerys. I always have and always will.”

Her expression softens at your confession, your heartfelt admission to how you almost lost yourself to your own mind, the rest of the sharpness in her gaze fading away, becoming open. Taking a step forward, you watch, with bated breath, as Daenerys’ arms uncross and she tentatively reaches for you, testing if it was safe to touch again — clearly remembering the times you had rejected her affection. When the warmth of her hand finally rests upon your chest, over your heart, the contact is like a lifeline you’ve needed for so long, pulling you from the murky waters that have been trying to pull you under, grounding you in the reality of her presence.

“I missed you,” she confesses in return, voice thick with emotion. “Every day, I missed you. Even when I was angry, even when I was hurt by your actions, even when I thought I hated you.”

The words hit you like a wave, almost causing you to detach from the buoy her touch had given you, but you refuse to let yourself sink again, to be consumed by the darkness when finally in the face of your sun. You reach up to take her hand in yours, holding it tightly to ensure she didn’t slip away, as you reply. “I missed you too. Even when I was at my worst, even when my thoughts didn’t feel like my own, some part of me, the truest part of me, missed you too. I’m just glad I didn’t ruin everything.”

Daenerys shakes her head, tears still steadily slipping down her cheeks, but she no longer looks devastated. “We’ve both made mistakes,” she admits. “We’ve both been hurt, but the one thing that could never change is the love I feel for you, not even when it felt like everything was falling apart, my love has always remained true.”

You can’t hold back your tears any longer, blurring your vision for a moment, as you pull her into your arms, holding her as tightly as you can; trying to make up for all the time you had lost while apart. Daenerys, in return, clings to you just as tightly, body trembling against yours as the weight that seemed to have pressed upon day-by-day began to finally lift.

“I’m so sorry,” you whisper against the soft skin of her neck, your face pressed as close as you can manage; delighting in the familiar scent of your Khaleesi. “I’m so, so sorry.”

“I know,” Daenerys soothes, arms tightening as she presses a kiss to your temple. “I’m sorry too.”

For a long time, you just hold each other, the silence that had descended between you — not the familiar entity that had kept you company for so long — filled with an unspoken understanding that you both had been through hell, but you’ve managed to come out on the other side.

The scars are still there, the wounds still fresh, but the love that has been between you is there, shining through the pain. A North Star in the darkness that promised salvation, leading you home within your Khaleesi’s embrace.

Eventually Daenerys pulls back, only slightly as she didn’t wish to put too much distance between you, but just enough to be able to look at you fully. Her eyes, still red and swollen from crying, are filled with a warmth that you haven’t seen in such a long time; amethyst pools shining like the precious gems as Daenerys seemed to glow from within.

“We’ll get through this,” Daenerys vows, determined to not falter again. “We have to get through this, ñuha perzys. We belong together.”

All you can do is nod in response, throat too tight with emotion to allow any form of speech, instead you lean forward to press a kiss to your Dany’s cheek, nuzzling against the warmth you find there, heart swelling with a mixture of relief and love.

Knowing, with everything within you, that as long as you had her by your side, your Khaleesi’s warmth keeping the cold at bay, you’d be able to face whatever comes next.

Together.

#daenerys targaryen #daenerys targaryen x reader #daenerys x reader #daenerys targaryen imagine #daenerys #game of thrones imagine #got imagine #game of thrones #daenerys imagine #game of thrones imagines #house of the dragon

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aliciavance4228 · 2 months ago

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Bitches be like "Oh Hades always has to deal with his stupid youngest brother Zeus who cannot keep it in his pants."

First of all, Ancient Greeks didn't wear pants.

Secondly, Hades and Zeus are actually decent with each other. Hades isn't ashamed of asking him for help whenever he considers that there's the case, whereas Zeus trusts his eldest brother enough to give one of his daughters as his wife. There's also this whole discourse claiming that Zeus got the best and Hades got the worst, but if you actually give a second thought to it the Underworld actually has some of the greatest peaks: besides the fact that you're extremely rich all the mortals eventually become your subjects. Even poets stated that in numerous works:

Ovid, Fasti 4. 443 (trans.Boyle) (Roman poetry C1st B.C. to C1st A.D.) :

"[Zeus speaks :] ‘My rank is no greater [than Haides]. I hold court in the sky; another rules the sea [Poseidon], and one the void [Haides].’"

Or:

Seneca, Hercules Furens 53 (trans. Miller) (Roman tragedy C1st A.D.) :

"Dis [Haides] himself, who drew a lot equal to Jove's [Zeus's]."

But if you're so desperate to give Hades a brotherly rivalry then I'm here to tell you that there's no need to erase all of Zeus' qualities (leadership skills, wisdom, long-term planning, determination, cunning etc.) and over exaggerate all of his bad actions in order to portray him as an incompetent asshole Hades always has to deal with. You could simply give Hades and Poseidon this type of dynamic instead.

Poseidon is way more impulsive, temperamental and testy than Zeus. He doesn't hesitate to show his wrath, let aside make others suffer because of it. On top of that, he's the god of the sea and earthquakes, and he's also almost as powerful as Zeus. His attributes and realm could easily represent a threat to the Underworld if he lets his anger go too far.

Take this passage from the Iliad as a relevant example:

Homer, Iliad 20. 67 ff :

"Poseidon from deep under them shuddered all the illimitable earth, the sheer heads of the mountains. And all the feet of Ida with her many waters were shaken and all her crests, and the city of Troy, the ships of the Akhaians (Achaeans). Aïdoneus [Haides], lord of the dead below, was in terror and sprang from his throne and screamed aloud, for fear that above him he who circles the land, Poseidon, might break the earth open and the houses of the dead lie open to men and immortals, ghastly and mouldering, so the very gods shudder before them; such was the crash that sounded as the gods came driving together in wrath."

Dude was freaking out in this scene. During the entire Greek Mythology he's presented as stoic and rarely frightened, but when his brother was causing a strong earthquake he was shitting himself and sucking his thumb like a baby (metaphorically). For the first and last time we see a god being vulnerable and scared by other gods in a similar way a mortal who is about to lose all of his property and belongings would be. Poseidon is pretty much capable of drowning the entire Underworld or exposing it to the Aboveworld if he wants to, so who's actually the more problematic brother? The one who can maintain his calm and control and understands better how distructive power can be, or the one whose anger was on the edge of breaking the border between the realms of the living and the dead?

What if people would stop completely changing the original personalities of the Greek Gods and create more headcanons and fanfictions based on what's actually stated (or at least what is suggested/more plausible) in the myths?

#greek mythology #greek gods #hades #poseidon #zeus #i'm just rambling

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moonchild9350 · 1 month ago

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Fate Within the Depths of the Sea

Summary: Minho is saved by you, a siren, while out at sea. It seems like your fate is intertwined as you both fall in love. However, fate never seemed to work out for a pair of star crossed lovers.

Pairing: Minho x Siren gn reader

Genre: angst, smut-18+ MDNI, fantasy au

Word Count: 4.3k

Warnings: nudity, brief mention of blood, shapeshifting, violence, coercion, stalking, public sex, unprotected sex (don’t), mention of breeding, creampie, heartbreak, mentions of death

Notes: Week 2 of Spooktober continues, this time with a whirlwind of an emotional ride.

If you enjoyed, please like, reblog, comment as it makes my day ♡

Divider by @saradika-graphics

"What once was had, forever lost; thy fate is destined, thy love star-crossed." -Nenia Campbell

It was a warm, sunny day, the sun beating down on you as you perched upon your favorite rock, watching the sea. There was stillness in the waters, as ships had not passed through for quite some time. It was peaceful, with only the occasional caw of the birds in the sky, leaving you to your thoughts.

You flipped your fins, the hues of blue and purple mixing with the clear water below, causing water to splash up and onto the rock and your body keeping you cool. You had nothing to do at the moment, as there were no humans in site.

Honestly, you were bored, needing the thrill and excitement of messing with humans, their awe and cooing turned to screaming and then silence, simply music to your ears.

You let out a long sigh, flipping your hair back, your chest on display. Oh how you wished a ship would pass through, so you could have some fun.

Turns out you didn’t have to wait long, as a large ship made its way through the waters, the waves picking up at the disturbance. You grew excited as the ship sailed closer. You could see tiny specks walking to and from on the deck, the crew members busy with their chores.

You jumped into the water and quickly swam over to the ship. You saw some of your clan making their way over to the ship as well, excited for the new prey.

Once at the ship, you all swam up to the surface, your heads breaking through the tension with ease. With a deep breath, you and the others began to sing an ethereal song, the notes like soft petals floating through the air as it traveled to the unsuspecting crew members.

It didn’t take long until you all were noticed, the men hurrying to lean over the railing to seek the source of the sound. Knowing that you had them, you projected your voice louder, the song thick like honey, landing on their ears.

One man in particular noticed you. His eyes glued to your form, as it floated in the deep blue sea below. He thought your face most beautiful, the water droplets slowly dripping down your face, the sun catching them causing a rainbow effect.

He thought your voice the most surreal of all, your song luring him in, making him feel as if he wanted to join you, to be near you. He wouldn’t mind to do so, feeling like he’d be the luckiest man alive.

You looked up as you sang, catching the eyes of the man above you. You faltered slightly, the note you were singing breaking off momentarily, as you looked at the beautiful sailor. You felt in a daze, not noticing that your clan had started to attack the ship, trying to get to the men on board.

You watched as sailor after sailor fell into the water, their awes turning into screams as they succumbed to their fates. You watched as the man fell into the sea, his head bobbing above water frantically as he tried to find purchase on a nearby floating piece of wood.

You panicked at his struggle and not knowing what came over you, you quickly swam over to him, grabbed him by the arm, and tried to pull him to safety.

He struggled against your hold, wanting to get away. You listened as he pled for his life, his voice laced with fear. Your heart hurt at his pleas, as you did not want to hurt the man.

After swimming aways, you finally arrived at the patch of land you were aiming for, as you had sunbathed there many times. You watched as the man’s feet touched land and scrambled away from you.

He truly was beautiful, with shaggy hair framing his face. He had dark brown eyes that were widened in terror as they looked at you or…where he thought you were.

After making sure he was safe, you quickly swam away, hiding behind a rock that was little ways off the shore. From this distance, you were free to gaze upon the man. He seemed confused, lost, as he searched for you, his rescuer. You’ve never given a second thought to your prey, content on watching their misery as the succumbed to the depths. So why did you save this man today?

You’re not sure how long you hid behind that rock, watching the man’s every move, watching as he paced back and forth, back and forth across the sand. He was probably hoping to be rescued, hoping that there was a survivor to take him to shore.

Nightfall was close, the sun casting a golden glow across the horizon, the moon making its appearance in the sky. A small boat made its way across the sea, spotting the man on the island. The man had eventually made a fire, the smoke floating high up into the sky to act as a signal. You watched as he got up and made his way to his rescuers, scrambling to board the ship.

Once aboard, the ship slowly sailed away toward the mainland, taking the mysterious man with it. You decided to follow it, to see where this man lives. It didn’t take very long to get there, as the mainland was not far off. As you watched the men exit the ship one by one, you made a decision here and there to follow the man.

You very rarely visited the mainland, preferring the sea and your natural form over the human form. However, you thought this an appropriate time to transform. You made your way out of the water, your legs slowly taking shape as you made your way further up the bank. You found a piece of cloth on the side of the bank, most likely from a ruined sail, and made a makeshift outfit so you’d look decent to walk among humankind.

While you were disguising yourself, you briefly lost sight of the man, but found him instantly as someone was chastising him. You listened closely, as the other person yelled at the man, telling him he was late and where was the rest of the crew. He kept calling the mysterious man ‘Minho’ and you figured that must be his name.

You tried saying his name, shivers running down your spine as the syllables rolled off your tongue. You said it again and again, a smile gracing your face as you fell in love with the man’s name.

You heard the man called Minho curse and watched as he stormed away, making his way further in land. You decided to follow him, curious as to what he gets up to once the sun goes down. You glided after him, your footsteps soundless as you moved with grace.

Minho moved down the crowded streets, before sneaking down an empty alleyway. He walked until he came to a run down building. Sliding a key into the lock, he let himself in the house before sliding the lock in place. He was home, safely at that.

He sat down in a chair near the fireplace and unlaced his shoes, tossing them aside. He’d need to clean the muck from the sea off of them later. As he sat, he closed his eyes reminiscing on the day. He almost met his fate, as death was looming over his head. It had taken his comrades, but somehow he escaped its clutches.

Minho remembered you, your soft, wavy hair cascading down your back. Your beautiful green eyes on an even more beautiful face. He remembers your body and ultimately your tail, the colors of your fins radiating in the midday sun. Why’d you save him? Why’d you not take him just like the others took his comrades? These were all questions that he wished he knew the answer to.

To make matters worse, no one believes him and his tale. Seungmin definitely didn’t, the man getting angry with him and chewing his head off as to why he was late for his afternoon duties. It sounds almost like a fairytale, he won’t lie. He wonders if he’ll ever see you again? Does he even want to see you again?

These were all questions that ran through his mind as he drifted off.

You peeked through the window, watching as Minho sat down and removed his shoes. He looked relieved to finally be home. His home wasn’t much and honestly looked like it could use some repair. You watched as he drifted off to sleep, his head slightly slumping over, his beautiful, long hair falling in his face, obscuring his eyes.

You were curious, wanting to know more about this man that you decided to save on a whim, and once you decided on something you stuck to it. Seeing that he will most likely be asleep the rest of the night, you made your way down alleys and back to the main street, back to your home, the sea.

You shed your makeshift dress and hid it among the rocks, not wanting it to get ruined. After, you walked into the sea, the waves wrapping around your feet lovingly, welcoming you home. You shifted back into your siren form before swimming away, leaving the mainland behind.

You planned to visit Minho once more. Tomorrow couldn’t come soon enough.

Everyday since your chance encounter, you would visit the mainland taking your human form, and visit Minho. You’d watch his day to day activities, watch how he’d move lumber to and from, and load boxes onto the ships. You could tell he was strong, watching his muscles bulge as he worked long hours.

You loved watching him within his home, as he busied himself making dinner, as he lounged on the couch reading a book, as he slumbered peacefully, none the wiser to your presence.

You were falling in love with this human, the feelings causing your heart to ache in longing for their touch, their voice, for them. It wasn’t unheard of for a siren to fall in love with a human, one of your clan members having done so not too long ago. Their love didn’t work out, but you knew this would be different. You would have Minho as your lover.

One night as you gazed at Minho sleeping peacefully, you decided then and there to take things to the next step in making him yours.

The opportunity presented itself sooner rather than later, as he came to the sea shore one day. Minho gazed out to sea, his eyes glossing over as he watched the waves ripple and crash onto the beach, the sound soothing to his ears.

Minho often thought of you during his visits to the sea. He wondered where you were and what you were doing. He wishes he could see you again, he’d do anything to see you.

As he stood there, he noticed movement in his periphery, causing him to look to see who it was. What he saw took his breath away. A beautiful person was walking, no gliding his way, a serene smile on their face. His heart skipped a beat once, twice, as he stared at you. You seemed familiar, but he couldn’t quite place where he’s seen you before.

Today was the day you would make Minho yours, you could not fail. Once you were standing right in front of him, you smiled, as you reached out to brush the back of your hand down his cheek.

Minho held your gaze, never faltering as he leaned into your touch. You began to sing a gentle song, one you’d heard your mother sing to your father many times. Your smile widened as you saw Minho shuffle closer to you, his hand reaching up to grasp yours in his.

“Minho,” you breathed, your voice laced with love, “you will be mine.”

Minho nodded his head, surrendering himself to you. “I’m yours,” he breathed in reply.

You leaned forward, bringing your face to his, before pressing your lips to his gently. Minho relaxed further into your hold, chasing your lips as you withdrew. You smiled as you let go of his face and brought your hands to your makeshift dress, unfastening the knot you’d made to keep the dress upright.

Minho watched with bated breath as your dress dropped to the sand, your body on display for him. You seemed to glow, the outline of your body having a luminescent glow to it. His eyes roamed from your face to the swell of your breasts, to your legs. He could feel his cock start to swell, the appendage filling out within his trousers.

You reached your arms out to Minho, watching as he closed the space between you in a few steps. You were met with a kiss, his lips molding with yours, the kiss becoming more heated as Minho gently laid you down.

You watched as Minho shucked his shirt off, tossing it into the sand. In his haste to feel you, he lowered his trousers enough to free his hardened cock. You spread your legs wider so he could more easily slot himself between them.

“Can I?” Minho moaned, stroking his cock through your folds, causing your pussy to quiver.

“Of course my love,” you said, pulling the man to your chest as he pushed his cock within you, your walls welcoming his cock, wrapping snuggly around him.

Minho let out a groan as he began to thrust into you, burying his face in your neck. You cradled his head, a grin on your face. He was yours finally you thought as you moaned out in pleasure. His cock was hitting your sweet spot just right, causing you to clench around him.

You threw your head back to look at the man above you, watching the sweat drip down his face, his beautiful brown orbs dilated as he gazed down at you, love and lust present in his eyes. You grasped his arms, your nails digging into the flesh drawing blood as he brought you to your high, the hair donning his pelvis providing the extra stimulation you needed against your clit.

Minho was lost, his head a fuzzy mess as he became drunk on you. His mouth gaped open as he watched your breasts bounce with each thrust into your warm walls, your nipples peaked in the cool afternoon air. He fell more in love with you as you sighed out his name, his cock swelling even more at the sound of your voice.

He was close and all he could think of was to breed you full, make you his forever.

“Mm close,” he moaned out as he continued to thrust into you, his hips moving at a leisurely pace.

You let out a soft groan at his words. “Let go Minho,” you said, wrapping your legs around him to pull him even closer to you.

“Make me yours as I have made you mine,” you said, feeling the coil in your belly build as you stared into Minho’s eyes.

He never took his eyes from yours as he let out a deafening wail as he came, his cum flooding your walls. The feeling of being full triggered your high as you released around him, your walls spasming around his cock, milking him dry.

Minho collapsed on top of you, his face buried in your neck once more, as he breathed heavy. You laced your fingers within his hair, dragging them nimbly through the strands. You both laid there for what seemed like eternity as you both came down from your highs, cradled in each other’s embrace.

Finally, Minho sat up, withdrawing his softened cock from you, his release seeping out of your pussy and onto the sand below.

“Come back to my home with me,” Minho said as he fixed his trousers and put his shirt back on.

He reached for your dress and handed it to you, watching as you put it back on.

You smiled, “of course I’ll come back with you,” you said, your heart swelling at the invitation.

Minho stood up and helped you up, ever the gentleman. He took your hand and guided you through the streets, walking the well known path to his home. You feigned ignorance as he showed you where different shops were, explaining which were his favorites. He could never know you have watched him for almost a fortnight go to the said shops and go about his daily life.

You came to a halt in front of his building, Minho stopping to place a key into the lock of the door. He pushed the door open and beckoned you inside, stepping in behind you. Your eyes wandered around his abode, taking in the sights that you have grown accustomed to.

Minho guided you to his bed, pulling you beneath the blanket and into his arms. You laid there in silence, listening to the sound of Minho’s heartbeat, a sound so foreign to you as your heart did not beat within. The constant thump thump, thump thump caused a weird feeling to grow within you.

Listening to his heart reminded you that he was a human, and you a creature of the deep, posing as a human.

“Minho,” you breathed, adjusting yourself so you could see him better.

Minho looked down at you, curiosity in his eyes. You loved this man, loved him with all your being, the short while you’ve known him feeling like an eternity. However, you understood now what your clan members meant, that humans and sirens just couldn’t be. You were about to break his heart, breaking the artificial love between you two.

He could tell something was wrong, as your face seemed pained, a frown etched across your forehead. He leaned down to press a kiss to your lips, pulling you closer. He desperately needed you, just like he needed air to breathe. He’s not sure why he didn’t realize this sooner, wishing he could have met you sooner.

A part of him knows what you’re about to say, but he doesn’t want to hear it. He doesn’t want to hear the words you will utter that will ultimately break his heart. He just couldn’t take it. He thinks that you both can make this work. He can visit you everyday, and have long chats with you by the sea. Every now and then you can venture on land, stay with him, and let him spoil you.

No, Minho doesn’t want to hear it, not at this moment. He hopes to distract you, as he pulls you ever closer and buries his cock within your walls once more, listening as you yelp in surprise. He buries his face within your hair, the strands tickling his nose as he ruts against you, his cock dragging to and fro within your walls.

He cups your breasts within his hands, toying with your nipples, listening to your sweet moans, the melody causing his heart and his cock to swell. He tries not to listen as you mumble out ‘we can never be, we can never be,’ chanting the phrase like a prayer.

You feel something wet fall down the back of your neck and dribble down your shoulders, your breasts. Realizing that Minho is crying, you squeeze his hand tighter, holding him closer to you as he thrusts into you over and over. You uttered the words that would break him, just as you thought.

No tears graced your face however; after all, you are a siren, a cold hearted creature. You could hear Minho pleading behind you, “please, please, please.” His words went through one ear and out the other. You should have let him be, let him succumb to his fate just like the rest of his crew members.

Minho was close, despite the melancholy within, his orgasm steadily approaching as he buried himself deeper within your walls, giving himself body and soul fully to you. He wanted, no needed you to cum with him, granting him this one wish. Reaching his hand around your body, he found your clit, circling his finger over the nub in gentle circles. He heard your breath catch, his mouth curling up into a smile despite the turmoil he was experiencing within.

With a few more thrusts, he stilled as he came, squeezing you to him as you fell apart beside him. He couldn’t see your face, couldn’t memorize the look of pleasure one last time. He felt more tears grace the corners of his eyes as you disentangled from his arms and got up from bed, leaving him a fraction of the man he used to be.

You couldn’t look at the man below you as you dressed, fastening your makeshift dress to your body one last time. You hardened your facial expression, disdain in your heart for the weakness of the man you thought you loved. You ignored the pleas from Minho, slowly walking to the door.

“Please my love, please, don’t leave!” Minho cried out, his body shaking from the sobs wrecking his frame.

He watched you open the door and walk out, shutting the door behind you. He felt a sharp pain in his chest, squeezing, constricting, making it difficult to breathe. The feeling spread throughout his body, causing him to curl up in a ball. He felt as if he was broken, the effects of your siren charm gone. He didn’t know how or when he’d be able to get up, the pain too much for him to handle. All he understood in that moment was you took his heart through the door as you left for good.

You made your way back to the sea, feeling cleansed after your realization. Yes, a part of you still longed for Minho, the feeling trying to claw its way into your non-beating heart. However, you pushed it down, buried it in the depths of your soul and continued your walk back to your home, back to where you belonged.

Days turned into weeks, which turned into months since you have last seen Minho. You were once more perched on your favorite rock, the sun beating down and warming your skin. You fell back into your routine, playing your role of capturing sailors unawares with a new fervor.

You felt at ease, the thoughts and feelings you had for that man successfully buried deep within. You didn’t care at all for the man, not even wanting to think of his name. Despite this feeling, you once more found yourself swimming out to sea and making your way to the main land.

You arrived at the rock you used to hide at and watch him as he labored by the docks. Nightfall was nearing, and the other men were clearing out, making their way home to their families. As time went on, all but one man remained.

You watched as Minho finished up his duties, a quickness to his step. You figured he was ready to go home, more than tired after laboring in the heat all day. Without knowing what came over you, you swam out to the dock, and stopped, your head bobbing above water to gaze at him.

Minho looked up, feeling the intensity of someone looking at him. He dropped the nets he was holding at the sight of you, the siren that once saved him and broke his heart all within the span of weeks.

He felt the healing seams of his heart rip, the pain searing through him once more as it did months ago. Despite this, he felt something else bubble up, a warmth that tickled his soul like a flame to a candle. The thoughts of your love for him occupied his mind, but also the pain of you walking out plagued him as well.

You watched Minho. You knew he was internally battling with himself, the reminders of what was and could have been tormenting his mind. You should have just swam away, leaving the man alone for good on the dock, so he could get home just like any other night.

However, you decided you couldn’t let your prey go, not this time. Therefore, you stayed in place, treading water as you watched Minho.

‘Fuck it,’ Minho thought. He could be with you. He wants to be with you. Before he knew it, he was making his way to the sea, putting one step in front of the other. His eyes never left your form, not wanting to blink and then open his eyes and find you gone.

You watched as Minho got closer to you, as he waded out to sea, the water getting higher and higher around him until he had to swim.

Minho began swimming, pumping his arms and kicking his legs, propelling himself further out to you. He could feel the burn as he swam further and further away from the shore. He didn’t care however, as long as he was closer to you.

You opened your arms, awaiting Minho, as he was closer than ever, hope written on his face. As he reached your arms, you wrapped them around him, bringing your forehead to his. You felt Minho’s breath against your neck as he breathed a sigh of relief, wrapping his arms tighter around you.

“We can make this work,” he breathed, his eyes pleading you to understand. “Please don’t leave me again.”

You nodded your head, as you played along, the ruse only a trick to capture your prey. You held him tighter in your embrace, feeling him shake within your hold.

“We can be together forever Minho,” you whispered.

Minho looked at you with tears in his eyes, elated that you were not going to give up on him.

Fate has a cruel way of making its face shown, sometimes ending in a not so happy ending. You felt it was your fate to love this man but also be his downfall. Holding onto Minho ever tighter, you placed one last kiss on his lips and began to swim down into the depths of the sea.

Minho’s face widened as he realized what was happening, his body beginning to twist and turn as you swam deeper into the sea with him tow. He didn’t want it to end this way. You had tricked him and he was too late to realize it. He thought you both were destined to be together but maybe he was wrong after all. Alas, it was too late, as his struggle was moot.

Fate brought you both together, but fate also took away everything. How cruel can fate be.

Taglist: @jehhskz @jeonginsleftcheek @simpforleeknaur @armystay89 @palindrome969 @slut4hee @ivydoesit23 @amarecerasus @kaysungshine @fun-fanfics @baby-stay92 @seungfl0wer @velvetmoonlght

#stray kids x reader #stray kids smut #lee know x reader #lee know smut #minho smut #skz x reader #skz smut #stray kids fanfic #minho x reader #lee know fanfic #stray kids imagines #minho angst #skz angst #lee know angst #minho fanfic #stray kids angst #stray kids kinktober #caitlins spooktober 24

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