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zepskies · 1 year ago

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And So It Goes - Part 20

Pairing: Billy Butcher x OFC (Latina!OC)

Summary: As Madelyn Stillwell’s personal assistant, Helena Flores finds herself caught between protecting her job, and more importantly her life—or helping Billy Butcher bring down the supe who killed her best friend, Becca.

AN: We’re almost to the end!

Word Count: 5,000

Tags/Warnings: Angst, peril, love triangle, a final showdown, character death, and a goodbye…

ASIG Series Masterlist

20: Father & Son

We’re probably gonna die, Helena thought, as M.M. pulled their off to a shaded side street behind Vought Tower.

Kimiko and Frenchie soon split off to get down to the lab, after Helena gave them precise directions on the best way to get there. While Hughie went to the Security control room to try and evacuate the building, Helena went with M.M. and Annie up several floors to find Butcher and Soldier Boy.

Once they got up to the upper floors, they came across a few stray Vought employees that were hastily making for the stairwell. When M.M. questioned where they were going in such a hurry, one of them answered, “Homelander’s about to fight Soldier Boy.”

Helena, M.M., and Annie continued at a faster clip down the hall, where they were able to hear familiar voices. M.M. slowed them to a stop in front of an office door, drawing his gun. Annie stepped in front of them protectively.

When she broke into the room, she raised a glowing hand. She soon dimmed it when she realized what was happening. Even M.M. stopped short, but Helena pushed through them both as her mouth fell open.

“Ryan!” she gasped.

He was with Homelander at the far end of the room. They, along with Butcher, Maeve, and Soldier Boy turned their heads at the intrusion. It was three on two, but Homelander had a loose and familial hand on the boy’s shoulder.

“Ryan, a—are you okay?” Helena asked. She tried to step forward, but M.M. held her back. She glanced at him in annoyance, but he raised his brows at her.

She realized then he was just trying to protect her from making a potentially dangerous move forward, even though he was probably still angry at her. She was grateful, but still worried when she met Ryan’s blue eyes.

“I’m fine,” Ryan answered, though his voice had a slight shake to it. He seemed happy to see her (as happy as he could be in a moment like this), but Homelander’s hand kept the boy from taking a step forward. Helena softened, her heart aching. Homelander must have found him…and taken him.

She glanced at Butcher next. He was eyeing her in what the bloody hell are you doing here sort of way. She gave him a look he ought to know well.

For you, you idiot. But her focus shifted back to Ryan.

Without Helena realizing, Ben’s gaze had drawn to her—at her panic-stricken face when she saw the boy with Homelander. Now that he knew who Ryan was, it made Ben look at her harder. She’d known what she was doing when she kept that information to herself, about her best friend’s son. His grandson. But Ben also begrudgingly understood why she kept that secret.

She was an idiot to come here though. His mouth firmed in a line when, unbidden, something she’d told him filtered back through his mind, on that first late night in her home.

“Why’re you up, anyway?” Ben asked.

“Well, I could blame it on the pain,” she replied, after downing two pills with her water. “But um…I keep replaying yesterday in my head, over and over like a bad movie. It always stops at the part where I look up at Homelander’s psychotic fucking eyes, and I just…I knew.”

Helena shook her head. Ben’s lips tugged downward.

“Knew what?” he asked.

“I’m officially on his hit list now,” she said.

And the way she couldn’t help but look at Homelander in fear, like the supe was some kind of monster… Ben couldn’t help thinking (deep down), would she say the same of him?

“Don’t you see?” Homelander said. Once again, he commanded the attention in the room, even though it was Ben he was talking to, as if all the others didn’t matter. They were just specks in the realm of his existence.

Homelander smiled. “You have a family. You have him, and you have me.”

He nodded at Ryan, his hand tightening a fraction on the boy’s shoulder. Ben saw the kid tense up a little. Ryan’s eyes shifted from Homelander behind him, to Ben. And then beyond him, to Helena, and even Butcher. He wasn’t sure where he wanted to be, and Ben saw it.

Deep down, he could relate.

He stared back at Homelander, this thing that should’ve been his son. Ben’s lips quirked, and he stepped forward.

“It’s a shame that I’ve missed so much,” he said, in the face of Homelander’s burgeoning tears. “I wish I could’ve raised you, and taught you, father to son.”

“That’s okay,” Homelander whispered. “We’re not alone anymore. We have each other.”

Ben’s smile became more dry. He grasped Homelander’s shoulder. “Maybe if I’d raised you, I could’ve made you better. And not some weak, sniveling pussy, starved for attention. But there’s no fixing that now.”

“Weak?” Homelander echoed. His expression had dropped from tearfully hopeful, to shocked, and the beginnings of anger. “I’m you.”

“I know,” Ben said, hating the way his lips actually trembled at the admission. “You’re a fucking disappointment.”

He grabbed at Homelander’s face, tilting his laser eyes back. Butcher and Maeve came up on either side to secure the supe, but Ryan protested.

“Ryan, get out of the building, now!” Butcher told him. Still, the kid pushed back to try and help his father.

Helena broke away from M.M. and Annie in their shock to go to Ryan, but M.M. reacted at the last second to grab her arm.

“Let go of me!” she whipped back. M.M. stared down at her incredulously. She was human, the same as him, but unlike him, she wasn’t a fighter. She didn’t even have a weapon on her, let alone one that would work on Homelander or Soldier Boy.

“Are you crazy?!” he asked.

“Are you?” she retorted. She twisted out of his grip and managed to slip away from him.

By the time Helena turned back to the scene before them, Ryan’s eyes were glowing red.

He shot a laser beam right at Soldier Boy, knocking him through the far wall and onto his ass. When he got up, shaking rubble from his shoulders, he clearly wasn’t happy about it.

Fortunately, Helena reached Ryan just as Ben took a few intimidating steps forward.

“Ben, stop!” she shouted.

And it actually halted the supe’s steps. His brows were furrowed and his lips were pulled into a frown. His gait was tense, but she held her ground with her arms wrapped around Ryan. The boy’s fear made his eyes dim back to their normal hue as he glanced up at her, and then back at Soldier Boy. She was able to slowly tug Ryan behind her.

“Please, don’t hurt him,” she said. Her tone was pleading, a hint unsteady. If he really wanted to get to Ryan, he’d have to go through her first.

Ben knew it…and found himself conflicted.

Meanwhile, Butcher had been mostly distracted with trying to help Maeve (and now Annie) keep Homelander held down. Now, he realized just how much this was all about to cost him. His eyes widened when he saw Soldier Boy’s threatening stance.

“Helena!” he called out, just before Homelander broke free. He punched Butcher down with a crack against his face. V24 was coursing through the man’s veins, allowing him to take the hit and deliver one right back.

“Scorched earth, eh William?” Homelander taunted. His red-hot gaze glanced in Helena’s direction. Butcher sneered and landed a blow right between the supe’s eyes.

Helena and Ben shared one last look.

Finally, he relented. He turned away with a surly frown, jumping back into the fray with Homelander. That was his real target, and she was grateful, blowing out a relieved breath before she turned back to face Ryan.

“What’re you doing here?” he asked.

She set her hands on his shoulders. “That’s my line, bud. Come on, let’s go.”

He resisted when she tried to pull him away from the warzone happening far too close for comfort, in an office that was not meant to contain a whole five-on-one super battle.

“No!” Ryan refused to move, shirking her grasp. “Homelander…he’s my dad. He cares about me.”

Helena let out a shaky breath. She laid more gentle hands on his arms.

“Ryan, he’s using you,” she said. “Whatever he told you, maybe he believed it…but I doubt he’s truly capable of caring about anyone but himself.”

“No, that’s…that’s not true,” Ryan shook his head in protest. When he pulled away from her, she tried to hold onto him a bit tighter so he wouldn’t get caught in the crossfire of the battle. M.M. saw them both and was trying to get around the danger zone himself to help them, but Ryan wasn’t helping Helena at all.

In fact, he broke away from her with such strength, he actually pushed her to the ground. She gasped at the impact when she fell. Not just at the shock of it, but at the pain; it disrupted her still broken ribs…which she’d ironically gotten when Homelander shoved her into a wall back at Herogasm.

Fuck, she sucked in a pained breath. She also saw the shock and dismay cross Ryan’s face. He hadn’t meant to push her that hard, to hurt her. She knew it when she saw that look.

She held up a hand to him, “It’s okay. I’m okay—”

But in his guilt, Ryan backed away from her. He bolted out of the enclosed office and towards the rest of the fight that had finally moved into the other room.

“Ryan!” Helena called, even as he was escaping her. With difficulty, she got back onto her feet.

She was startled half out of her skin when Ben was flung into a nearby wall, making her scream and duck for cover as debris and office supplies exploded as a result. She took another painful spill across the floor. And rolling out of her inside pocket of her jacket came a small, green vial of V24.

Her eyes zeroed in, just before her hand closed around it. She dragged herself off the floor and back onto her feet, and then towards Ben, who was growling and shaking the dust off. He was prepared to head back into the fray, where the rest of them were still fighting Homelander. Ryan was hovering at the edge, scared and worried, no matter who got punched or tossed.

That’s it, Helena thought. Fuck it all.

“Ben,” she said raggedly, earning his attention. “Can you do me a favor?”

She went to him and offered him the tail end of a syringe she’d been storing in her other pocket. It was a miracle that it hadn’t broken in her tumbles.

“Out of the fucking way,” he barked, after he eyed her in irritation. Clearly, I’m busy, his face suggested.

She took one of the biggest chances of her life and grabbed his arm.

“Please! I need your help,” she said.

He looked down at her through furrowed brows, asking a silent question with his eyes. Why me?

Her hand was shaking. She really just couldn’t bring herself to inject her body full of poison…but she had to.

“I don’t want to be anyone’s weakness. I don’t want to be collateral damage,” she said. “But more than anything, I’m sick of being afraid.”

She grabbed his hand and put both the vial and the syringe in it.

��Goddamn it, Ben, just do it!” she said, through tears.

Gritting his teeth, he grabbed her arm, found a vein, and did his best to inject her correctly. But when that vile shit hit her system, she nearly collapsed.

“Fuck,” he muttered, but he kept her upright. She shuddered, her eyes briefly closing. All the while, Ben’s grip remained steady. Inside, however, he didn’t know why the fuck he was doing this.

It felt too close to being soft. But maybe it was because a part of him, deep down (a part he didn’t want to think about), wanted to prove he was still some kind of hero. Or maybe, it was because he felt like he was repaying a debt.

When the pain subsided, her body hummed with chemical electricity in her blood. She breathed through it and nodded.

“Thank you,” she said. After a short hesitation, his hands fell from her. Ben responded with a nod.

He turned on his heel and was about to head back into the battle fray, but was hit with a star bolt. It pushed him back a few feet but didn’t bring him down. His head snapped up with annoyance. Helena looked over with wider eyes to find Annie, now joined by Frenchie, Kimiko, Hughie. M.M. sideswiped Helena, forcing her out of the way while Kimiko and Annie surged forward against Ben.

With the temporary V coursing through her veins, Helena was finally strong enough to push back against M.M., making him stumble. He stared back at you in surprise.

“Are you on V?” he asked. “Did you just shoot the fuck up?”

Her lips pursed. She couldn’t deny it, nor would she.

“You know it’s fatal after a few doses, right?” he said tersely.

Helena’s eyes widened. She looked over at Butcher, who was still fighting Homelander and taking hot lasers to the arm, blocking his face.

She didn’t know how many doses he’d taken, but she could hazard a guess.

Too many.

Ben startled them both by tossing both Annie and Kimiko at opposite ends of the room. He stalked forward, ignoring her and M.M. in order to get to Homelander.

M.M. tensed up, like he was about to follow the supe, but Helena grabbed his arm.

“Look, I know what he did to you, but let him at least end Homelander, for fuck’s sake!” she snapped.

“Do you want the entire building to blow the fuck up?” he shot back. He gestured over at Ryan, still huddled against the wall. “Try to get him out of here first!”

On that, they could agree.

Just then, Homelander tore through the room with his laser vision, regardless of who or what he hit. When the beam swept across the middle and went for Ryan on the other side, Helena ran to him and had them both dive for the ground. She protected his head.

Meanwhile, Butcher grabbed the supe by the cape in attempt to bring him to heel. Ben came up on the other side and pinned him down to the ground while Homelander fought both of their holds.

Ryan turned onto his side after Helena raised off of him. He looked up at her with wide eyes, but there was guilt behind them, lingering from when he pushed her.

“Why…why are you and Butcher here? Why do you hate my dad?” he asked. His voice was so small and upset, it made tears well up in Helena’s eyes.

“I’m here because I care about you,” she said. “Homelander’s not your father. Not really. He’s the reason you and your mom were alone for all those years. He’s the reason she couldn’t be with Billy, and why you had to grow up alone. Your mom was protecting you from him.”

Tears stung at Ryan’s eyes as well. He bit his lip and shook his head; he didn’t want to believe her.

“You’re wrong,” he said tremulously. “He’s…he’s not mad at me for what happened to Mom. For…”

Helena had to try and swallow past a tight ball of emotion. She was about to respond when an iron grip tangled in her hair and grabbed her up. A shriek tore from her throat as she was yanked to her feet and almost off the ground. Her hands flew up to claw at Homelander’s.

Ryan’s eyes flew wide again. He scrambled onto his feet as well and faced his father.

“Stop!” he pleaded. “Don’t hurt her!”

Homelander tilted his head at his son, with a grim set to his face. “Don’t you see? They’re all cockroaches. They’re mud people. Ryan, they’re not like us.”

V24 didn’t take away her fear, Helena realized. It just magnified what was already inside.

“Leave him alone, you son of a bitch,” she hissed, regardless of the terrified, angry tears burning in her eyes.

Across the room, M.M. stared down at Butcher angrily. It was hard to maintain it when the other man had just saved him from getting pounded with Soldier Boy’s shield, but M.M. had a high threshold of “Fuck you, Butcher” leftover.

Despite that, M.M. helped Butcher pick himself up from the rubble. Then he noticed something else.

“Butcher,” M.M. said sharply. Butcher followed his gaze and landed on Homelander; he saw the supe’s killer grip on Helena’s hair, with Ryan pleading at him to stop.

Butcher’s eyes widened. He called her name from across the room.

Slowly Homelander’s head turned.

He smirked. The kind of manic smile that said he’d get to have his revenge twice.

His eyes took on a red, glowing hue.

But a violet haze surged from Helena’s hands, not only disrupting Homelander’s concentration, but forcing him to let go of her entirely. It was a forcefield that threw him back across the far wall.

She stumbled to her feet and would’ve fallen if Ryan hadn’t reached out to steady her. She gave him a grateful smile, and she let her arm fall around his shoulders.

Butcher was shocked, relieved, and angry all at once.

When and how the fuck did she take Temp V?

Despite the look of surprise on most faces in the room, Ben was the only one who remained stoic.

Homelander peeled himself from the wall with a growl. He stalked forward, but he was met with Butcher stepping in front of Helena and Ryan.

Butcher blocked the first punch Homelander threw. He just couldn’t avoid the second brutal one that cracked against his nose. Homelander twisted his arm and wrenched, until Butcher was forced almost to his knees.

“You may be hopped up, but you’re just a try-hard, dick-sucking groupie,” Homelander taunted. “Real power is—”

Ryan stumbled forward and pushed Homelander hard in the chest, enough to make the other man’s grip on Butcher loosen. Ryan moved to stand in front of Butcher and Helena.

“Son?” Homelander asked, with wide, confused eyes.

All the commotion in the room paused. Even the fight against Soldier Boy came to a standstill, including Maeve, who was sporting one eye and a bloody hole where the other used to be (courtesy of Homelander). She propped herself up against the wall and watched Homelander intently.

Soldier Boy watched as well. If he lit up the nuclear power in his chest now, he could make Homelander powerless. But…it would be hard to control it in here. He glanced at Butcher and Helena kneeling on the ground. She’d come to his side and was propping him up, just as his arm was around her protectively.

I don’t want to be collateral damage, she’d said.

Meanwhile, Ryan was scared with tears in his eyes, but he held his ground against his father with determination.

“Stop,” he said. “Please just stop.”

Homelander couldn’t believe what he was seeing. His own son was protecting the one man he hated most in this world.

“But…why?” he asked incredulously. “I’m your blood. I’m…I’m your family.”

Butcher grabbed Ryan’s jacket.

“Ryan, don’t,” he said. Ryan looked over his shoulder at them, at Butcher.

“It’s okay,” he said.

Butcher didn’t entirely know what that meant, but he couldn’t help but marvel when the kid turned back to face his father.

“I understand you, Ryan. Better than anyone,” Homelander said earnestly. He probably even believed that.

Ryan lip wobbled with emotion. He hadn’t realized it, not until Homelander grabbed Helena and threatened to kill one of the only people who’d ever been nice to him. Ryan saw it when Homelander had turned to Butcher next, with something evil in his eyes.

“You’ve hurt everyone I care about,” Ryan realized, with a small gasp of a sob. “You…you hurt my mom.”

Homelander’s eyes soon became glassy, angry, and insane.

“I think you took the fucking cake on that one, sport,” he retorted.

Ryan flinched. Tears poured down Ryan’s cheeks as that blow cut into him.

But he instinctively let those emotions fuel him. He hovered above the ground in flight, almost eye-level with Homelander. His eyes glowed red.

Homelander smirked through unshed tears. He supposed it was fine; he’d been prepared to rule through fear before.

You don’t need anyone, that voice deep inside whispered. Not even Ryan.

And here, Ben finally saw his chance.

“Hey, Real Power,” he snarked, just before he grabbed Homelander by the edge of his cape and headbutted him. After throwing him off balance, Ben kicked him into a glass coffee table, making it shatter. He continued forward and grabbed Homelander by his collar next.

Then he began to charge up that nuclear power in his chest. Homelander grabbed his arm and tried to twist out of his grip, but Ben held on in determination. Maeve helped him by kicking out Homelander’s knee. She and Ben briefly shared a grim look.

“We could’ve taken on the whole world,” Homelander gritted out. Ben smirked.

“Maybe. But I never took well to sharing the spotlight,” he said, and threw another punch that snapped Homelander’s head back. All the while, his chest continued to illuminate and become impossibly hot.

If Ben let go of his power now, he could end Homelander for good. But if he did, he’d probably level the whole block. He glanced over Homelander’s shoulder. Butcher held both Helena and Ryan, waiting to protect them from the impending blast.

Butcher kept Helena close with an arm around her waist. Deep down, Ben reluctantly felt a twinge of jealousy. Until Helena peeked up fearfully and found Ben’s eyes. Even with the power V24 gave her, he doubted it would do them much good.

With that brief distraction, Homelander broke free with an angry shout.

“Goddamn it,” Ben growled.

While the other supe tried to fly backwards to save himself, Ben rushed forward and leapt, grabbing the supe in mid-air. They both crashed through the far window out of the Tower.

Ben blasted him with everything he had.

Homelander tried to fight off his hanger on, but the power behind the blast disrupted his own, including his flight.

And from that great height, Soldier Boy and Homelander fell. Whatever wasn’t contained by the two of them grappling hit the rest of the Tower behind them.

Inside the building, Helena managed to draw up a forcefield that protected them all from the initial blast. Whatever she couldn’t cover was eaten away, leaving a giant hole in the side of the building. Butcher looked up at the violet haze, then at her with consternation.

“Oh, don’t even,” she snapped at him. “One dose of Temp V won’t kill me.”

His lips pursed, but he still helped her up to her feet, along with Ryan. Helena checked the boy to make sure he was all right. She brought her hands up to his cheeks and held his face.

“You okay?” she asked.

Ryan smiled a little a nodded. “Yeah.”

She smiled back. “Good.”

Butcher’s lips twitched. He laid a hand on the boy’s shoulder, but he also moved a hand down to the small of Helena’s back, earning her attention. For a moment, their eyes met. That look was charged with unspoken meaning, cutting through things like, “I told you so,” and “What were you thinking?” And, “You ass.”

But the common denominator of it all was this.

Butcher tugged her close for a hard kiss. His beard was rough, his grip was tight, but his lips were tender. She responded in kind, gripping the shorter hair at the back of his head and matching his passion with her own.

He pulled away after a moment, meeting her eyes with a silent request. She held his cheek, and she nodded. Later they would hash the rest of this out, but for now, this was enough.

Butcher then turned to Ryan and took a knee in front of him.

“You don’t hate me anymore?” Ryan asked, in a small voice.

Butcher sighed, wiping a hand over his tired face.

“I’m sorry,” he said, “for what I said last time. What happened to Becca, to your mum…it ain’t your fault, son.”

Ryan’s eyes glistened with tears. He sniffed, and Butcher squeezed his shoulder.

“Look, kid. I’m not a good man. Christ, you’re already a better one than me. But, as long as you want me around…I’m here for ya.”

Ryan hugged him. Butcher was surprised by it at first, but slowly, he let himself hug Ryan back.

Helena teared up and laid a gentle hand on Butcher’s back. Hughie even came up on her left to nudge her shoulder. She smiled and patted his arm back. The others, though battered, bruised, and in some cases bloody, had gotten back on their feet.

“Butcher, we gotta go,” M.M. reminded him. “Homelander and Soldier Boy damn dear exploded the block down there.”

Homelander’s crash landing had created a crater inside the ground outside of Vought Tower. Coils of smoke came off of his body, as most of his uniform was burnt off, along with a good part of his neck and torso.

Butcher stood over him, creating a shadow that Homelander couldn’t escape. Homelander opened his eyes wide, as if to laser him, but nothing came out.

His eyes widened in shock this time. “What the fuck…”

He crawled out of the crater, his uniform in tatters. He managed to stumble to his feet and throw a punch at Butcher, who easily dodged.

The blast had done its job. Homelander was a powerless mess. That realization dawned on the man, and soon had him frothing at the mouth in disbelief. Butcher pulled out a gun from his belt, a formerly useless gun, and shot Homelander in the head. Right between the eyes.

Homelander’s body fell to the ground, just as Helena came out of the building with Ryan. With a gasp, she shielded the boy’s eyes.

“Don’t look,” she told him. Ryan allowed himself to bury his face against her chest, biting his lip as a few tears escaped and soaked into her shirt.

Grace Mallory showed up minutes later with two SUVs of CIA agents for the cleanup—not only to set a perimeter around the crater, but to take Homelander’s body. Helena had Mallory steer Ryan away, though she promised to check on him soon.

Helena was going to join where Butcher, M.M., and the rest of them had gathered next, but she noticed something. There were drops of blood leading away from the crater, into a nearby alley.

With suspicion churning in her gut, she followed the trail into the alley. By now it was still dark outside, even with the sun starting to peek out from between the city skyscrapers. The deeper part of the alley was still cast in darkness.

A hand shot out and grabbed her by the waist, at the same time another covered her mouth. She gasped and was about to scream, when she came face to face with Ben. He shushed her.

She frowned at him with furrowed brows.

“Ben?! What the hell?” she hissed between his fingers and tried to pry them off. He eventually let her go. He still had a supe’s strength, so she could assume that the blast had only taken away Homelander’s powers, not Ben’s.

“What are you doing?” she asked, both incredulous and annoyed. “Are you okay?”

He gave you an amused smirk. “I’m fine.”

He hadn’t been sure what she would do when she saw him. Ask about his wellbeing wasn’t it, but it had smugness welling up in his chest. It seemed like she didn’t hate him too much after all.

“I know all about the Mob Squad’s genius plan to gas me up and stuff me in a goddamn box,” he said, less pleasantly. “That’s not fucking happening.”

Helena’s lips pursed. “So what are you going to do?”

Maybe she didn’t want to see him in a box either, and maybe he’d just done the entire world a solid by taking out Homelander, but that didn’t mean Ben wasn’t dangerous all on his own.

“I’m taking my well-earned vacation,” he said. His smirk deepened. “But two tickets to paradise could be arranged.”

Helena sighed with a smile, shaking her head.

“I don’t think so, Ben,” she said, though she tilted her head at him. “You could be a real hero, you know. If you did the work.”

He stared down at her for a moment. He eventually quirked a grin.

“A lot of your friends would call that a lost cause,” he said.

“Prove your father wrong. Prove me right,” she said, raising a brow. “I dare you.”

“Hmm,” Ben said. He considered her as his smirk softened slightly, into a more sincere smile.

Instead of answering her, he slid a hand around her waist and pulled her flush against him. She gasped and held onto his arms on reflex. It gave him the opening he needed to steal a kiss.

Helena was too shocked to heed her first instinct, which was to slap him in the face.

He soon pulled away, giving her another familiar smirk at her angry, blushing face.

But after he stroked her cheek and finally let go of her, she realized that this was a goodbye.

“Maybe next time, sweetheart,” said Ben.

He backed away from her, deeper into the darkness of the alley. She couldn’t see him well, just the outline of his broad form, but she thought she heard the last bit of his voice.

“Goodbye, Helena.”

And then he was gone.

AN: Sigh. Thus ends Homelander, son of no one. How did you like Ben and Helena's goodbye? 😂

We're at the end, folks.

Next Time:

When his gaze found hers, they didn’t need words.

They were home.

His head bowed to greet Helena with a kiss, languid and unhurried.

His hand moved under the sheets to slip under her silky top, splaying across her lower back. Her arm twined around his neck in turn, her fingers slipping into his dark hair. Hers was already wild this morning; it both tickled his arm and fanned across her pillow.

She nipped his bottom lip and earned a pleased sound from him, deep in his throat. But before he could roll her onto her back, they heard quick footsteps coming up the stairs.

Butcher groaned, dropping his forehead onto her shoulder. But a smile twitched at his mouth.

“Incoming,” he muttered.

Keep Reading: Epilogue

The Boys Masterlist

Main Masterlist

Ko-Fi Me ☕

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coro-chan6 · 2 years ago

Text

Somehow Supernatural

Summary: What happens when you somehow end up in the Supernatural universe? What happens when you're somehow special in the Supernatural universe? Read on to see the chaos that ensues.

Warnings: poc!character, gn!character, teen!character, heavy cursing, Winchester madness, Dean needs a warning just for himself

Word Count: 2018

Chapter One: What The Fuck and Where The Fuck

Do you ever feel like time is going slow? I usually don’t because I’m a fast-paced type of person, but lately, I’ve felt like time has come to a standstill. It feels like my 10th-grade year ended three months ago when it’s only been three weeks. I feel like I haven’t seen my friends in 2 weeks and not the mere two days that it actually has been.

I don’t know why my world feels like it’s spinning at half the speed it usually does. Maybe it’s because I’m excited? In August, I’ll start my junior year. My first year in high school that I’ll be an upperclassman. Maybe I’m happy at the prospect of almost being done with high school. Or… is time not going by because I’m not having fun? I haven’t been completely bored, but it hasn’t been the best summer I’ve ever experienced.

Is there something waiting for me in the near future? Did my world slow because I have something to look out for?

I know this sounds really dramatic. Some 16-year-old goof with an overactive imagination. Perhaps that’s it… but something in me can’t let it go.

Welcome to my thoughts! They never end, even when I’m asleep. They take me down dark and gorey paths and also wildly stupid would-never-happen-in-a-million-years paths as well. All this shit in my mind flying around at lightspeed is probably why I’m such a good writer. Or, at least I think I’m a good writer. And my mom, but do moms really count?

I come up with things that are unique and cool. Because I’m a unique and cool person. I don’t know who I’m talking to but I feel like I’m talking to someone so instead of letting you suffocate in the hornets nest that is my mind, I’ll introduce myself.

I’m… actually I don’t want you to know my name, but I’ll tell you other things. I’m 16 and I like anime, and colorful stuff, and reading, and writing, and basically anything. I’m flexible like that. I can deal with people until I run out of battery like most introverted people. I have a severe superiority complex that I like to pretend isn’t a thing, but it’s definitely a thing. It doesn’t affect how I interact with people, but since you’re in my head, um, you’ll see all of it. I thought I’d give you a heads-up.

Anyway, what are you doing in my head? Who are you? It may be my superiority complex talking here but… am I some special being that’s about to save the universe or something?

…I’ll take your silence as a no.

Could you talk to me though? It’d make me feel much less lonely and a lot less crazy.

…

Oh my god, what am I doing? There’s no one in my head. There’s no one listening to my thoughts. I am quite literally just a goofy teenager that thinks they’re gonna gain superpowers but, let’s be honest, what I really gained was a mental illness.

That’s what this is, isn’t it? I have split personalities like Tobias Hankel in Criminal Minds. Am I gonna start killing people because my alter ego demands it of me? Am I gonna go to prison? I know I’ve talked huge crap about how tough I am to my friends, but I would be deluding myself if I thought I could survive prison. I would be eaten alive!

Wake up!

Be so hilariously for real! I am so awake I can see the words spinning around in my head. I’m so awake that I could pinch my arm - when I find it - and it would hurt as much as my self-harm! I am awake!

…

Okay, I can’t find my arm. I know I said I would so I could pinch it, but I look down to where my arm should be and there’s nothing there but black. And I’m not saying that because I’m black because I’m not. All black people are brown, let’s get real. It’s a dark ass void. Like, a space of complete emptiness.

Maybe I’m not as awake as I thought I was.

Wake up!

Dude, I’m trying! It has never been this hard for me to wake up in my life. Even when I was having those dreams about that tall, gnarly-handed fucker chasing me around I still had an out. I had that key that I would find and it would wake me up. And, yes, that sounds like the most made-up shit in existence, but those are my dreams. They’re a fucking acid trip.

“Wake up!” Hold on just a second… I’ve heard that voice before. It’s familiar, at least.

Not my mom, not my dad, not either of my brothers, none of my friends sound like that. It’s kinda looking like I don’t know this eerily familiar voice and I’m making shit up to sound cool, but I’m not!

I feel someone shaking my shoulders like I’ve pissed them off or something. I would have been upset, but the feeling in my shoulders means I have to have arms! Right?

“Wake up! I did not hit you that hard!” They continued to shake me like I was a fucking snow globe, “You better not be messing with me, dude!”

The dark void and my thoughts that I could see as words in front of me were starting to fade away. After they did, I was kinda hoping that I could’ve stayed in the darkness forever. I mean, if this was a dream - and it definitely was - this was one of the most realistic ones I’ve had. So realistic that it was practically rude.

The image that replaced the void was a face. A face that I never thought I’d see except for on my calendar and TV. If I wasn’t going batshit crazy, I was seeing the Dean Winchester leaning over me as I was laid out flat on… hardass concrete?

“I swear I taught you how to avoid that move weeks ago. Where’s your head?” My head, Mr Dean Winchester sir is still trying to grasp the fact that you are a living, breathing, hunk of a man that is occupying the same space as me.

My mouth opened and closed like a brainless goldfish until I finally managed to word, “What the fuck?”

Dean looked taken aback. It was the type of face you’d give someone when they do something unexpected and I curse all the fucking time. This shouldn’t be surprising to him. Plus, he shouldn’t even know me in the first place!

“Where the fuck and what the fuck?” I sounded like a psychopath. Wording wasn’t going very well for me right now.

“Okay, let’s get you off the floor, and then we can talk about any brain damage you may or may not have gotten,” The next thing I knew, Dean’s firm arms were wrapped around my torso and my world expanded from just his face to… a storage closet room thing?

There were those old-looking boxes that looked like fake wood but were really plastic stacked all over the room on various shelves. Toward the edge of the floor-to-ceiling concrete room was an opening through the shelves that seemed to go into another room. In the center of the room we were in - I know, a lot to keep track of - there was a white-painted demon star thing. Dean sat me in the chair that was presumably moved from the middle of the demon star.

“What the hell is going on with you right now?” Dean was now crouched in front of my chair staring at me with half-worried eyes.

“Dean…” I started.

“Yes?”

“Where the flying fuck am I?” His half-worried expression went to full-blown worry in a split second.

“Does your head hurt?” He tried to feel the back of my skull but I quickly shifted away from him, “What’s wrong? Why are you acting like you don’t know where you are?”

“Because I don’t know where I am! I’m not stupid enough to think I’m actually in the bunker!”

Dean looked as confused as I felt, “Kid, you are in the bunker.”

“And you’re Dean Winchester,” I scoffed, “You may look like him, but that’s kinda impossible.”

I know I said it was impossible, but remember that superiority complex I mentioned earlier? It kept making this whole situation more believable the longer I sat here looking at what looked like Dean Winchester and made me think I was here to save the universe or some shit.

…look, man, I can’t help it!

“I’m getting Cas,” Dean huffed and turned to see the angel himself standing behind him. He let out an inhuman squawk of surprise that I wasn’t gonna let him forget before he reprimanded Castiel for probably the umteenth time for sneaking up on him.

“Dean,” Castiel said in his monotone voice, interrupting the hunter from his lecture, “Their energy is off.”

Dean quickly turned back to look at me before responding to Castiel, “What do you mean off?”

“It shifted. Like they’re like a whole different person.”

“May I interject?” I said… interjecting, “I don’t know who the fuck you knew before, but I am definitely not them. I’ve never met either of you in my entire life.”

“And they’re not a demon, Dean,” Castiel spoke up when he noticed Dean reaching for something - probably a knife - in his pocket. I owed Castiel one. I was not trying to get stabbed today.

“If they’re not a demon,” Dean stopped reaching for his weapon but was still tense, “Then what are they?”

Castiel and Dean both turned to me thinking I knew what the fuck was going on. I’m just as confused as you two!

“Well, my name is Jenny.”

“Don’t lie or I’ll be forced to look through your mind,” Castiel threatened.

“Maybe you should do that anyway,” Dean stated.

“No!” My voice cracked as I tried to keep my cool, “My real name is Casey. I’m a quirky 16-year-old from the barren land of the Quakers and I don’t mean any harm. I mean, look at me. Do you really believe I could do any harm?”

“They do have a point,” Dean said, “They’ve always been kinda skinny and noodly.”

His saying that made me look down at my body. I was wearing a plain red T-shirt with dark blue jeans and cringe-looking sneakers. I did look pretty skinny. My body - which was most definitely not this one - was more muscular than skinny. I also didn’t have hair scratching at my neck because I cut it when I was 13, but with this person's body, my hair was down to my shoulders. At least I was still my beautiful, golden brown skin tone.

“So… can I get up now or…?” I don’t know if it was a conscious thing or not, but Dean and Castiel had blocked my escape from my chair with their bodies. If I wanted to get up, I would have to push them, and I didn’t want to break the very thin layer of trust we had built up with my cooperation.

They seemed to have a whole conversation in their mind - maybe they did, I don’t know the extent of angel shit - before they eventually gave me space to stand.

I stood. Honestly, I thought I was going to fall over for some reason, but I didn’t. My new, skinny body did what it was told and stayed upright.

“Okay,” I smiled, “Where’s Sam?”

“How the hell do you know Sam? And how did you know my name?” Dean was still a bit suspicious of me. Telling him that he was part of a TV show I watched during COVID would probably make me sound crazy so I just went with:

“It’s a long story.”

Dean squinted his eyes at me as if he could actually see if I was telling the truth or not then, let out a huff, “Fine, come on. We’re going to the meeting room for a meeting.”

Oh boy.

AN: First chapter of my new series. Really excited to see how it goes! I have a bunch of chapters already written. I might post one every week. Hope you enjoyed!

#my oc stuff #supernatural #deanwinchtser #sam winchester #oc character #nonbinary #spn fanfic #spn fandom #spnfandom #superpowered oc #dean x castiel #castiel #teen!reader #dean winchester #samwinchester #alternate universe #poc!oc

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drabbles-blurbs-words · 2 years ago

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Chapters: 52/? Fandom: 僕のヒーローアカデミア | Boku no Hero Academia | My Hero Academia Rating: Not Rated Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings Relationships: Bakugou Katsuki/Original Female Character(s), Bakugou Katsuki/Original Character(s), Bakugou Katsuki/Female character Characters: Bakugou Katsuki, Midoriya Izuku, Yagi Toshinori | All Might, Aizawa Shouta | Eraserhead, Ashido Mina, Uraraka Ochako, Class 1-A (My Hero Academia), Tokoyami Fumikage, Kirishima Eijirou, Jirou Kyouka Additional Tags: Midoriya has a friend, BAMF oc, Protective Bakugou Katsuki, Parental Yagi Toshinori | All Might, Dadzawa, Parental Aizawa Shouta | Eraserhead, POC!female character, Anxiety, PTSD, Trauma, latina, PR - Freeform, Arroz con habichuelas y viandas es lo que hay, Bakugou/reader - Freeform, OC, Pining Bakugou Katsuki, Denile is a river and Bakugou is drowning in it, Slow Burn, VERY VERY VERY slow burn Summary:

Torn from her home, Isabel Garcia finds herself in a new school and a new country. With All Might in her corner and being a powerhouse in her own right, there isn't much she has to be worried about. Or at least she tries to believe that.

Follow her story as she finds friends, fights off her demons, and somehow manages to navigate the chaos that is class 1-A.

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

Updates the first Sunday of every month. There may be some drabbles popping up in between chapters. Will follow the anime, movies, and OVAs. I have a Beta and she is super amazing! She's on Tumblr as princess-marida. Isabel and her family are my creative children, everything else belongs to the wonderful Horikoshi Kohei.

#update #petardo #bakugou katsuki #my hero academia #boku no hero acedamia #mha fanfiction #bnha bakugou #bnha fanfiction #katsuki #bakugou #poc!OC #latina!oc

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melaninforkings · 11 months ago

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a piece of me dies every time im reading a fic and taylor swift lyrics pop up😭 then i realize the description of the oc or “reader” are very white coded like OH! that’s not…

#black reader #x reader #x oc #LIKE PLSSS I PROMISE THERE ARE OTHER ARTISTS WITH BETTER SONG TO USE #austin butler x black!reader #timothee chalamet x reader #black!reader #carmen berzatto x reader #paul atreides x reader #jake sully x reader #austin butler x reader #kennedy talks #peeta mellark x reader #finnick odair x reader #poc!reader

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hazzelle-kento · 8 months ago

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‘You make me whole, Brat.’

Soft!Sukuna is making me feel all types of ways ☺️💖

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floredaqueen · 5 months ago

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✿︎𝐀 𝐁𝐢𝐭 𝐨𝐟 𝐀𝐬𝐬𝐢𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐞✿︎

𝐒𝐡𝐨𝐰𝐞𝐝 𝐚 𝐰𝐢𝐩 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐚 𝐟𝐞𝐰 𝐝𝐚𝐲𝐬 𝐚𝐠𝐨! 𝐘𝐞𝐬, 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐚 𝐰𝐢𝐩(𝐥𝐨𝐥). 𝐈 𝐟𝐢𝐧𝐢𝐬𝐡𝐞𝐝 𝐢𝐭. 𝐈 𝐝𝐨𝐧'𝐭 𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰 𝐰𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐞𝐥𝐬𝐞 𝐭𝐨 𝐬𝐚𝐲 𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐧 𝐈 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐭𝐨 𝐬𝐞𝐞 𝐢𝐭.♡

✿︎♡︎𝐏𝐥𝐬 𝐞𝐧𝐣𝐨𝐲♡✿︎

𝐌𝐮𝐭𝐮𝐚𝐥 𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐬 (𝐩𝐥𝐬 𝐝𝐨𝐧'𝐭 ��𝐞 𝐦𝐚𝐝 𝐚𝐭 𝐦𝐞): @rafeyscurtainbangs @xxbimbobunnyxx @eddiesxangel @loserboysandlithium @userchai @stvolanisinvenus @babygorewhore

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arabellasleopardcoat · 8 months ago

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The girl with the pearl necklace (Daemon Targaryen x Reader)

Summary: You marry Daemon to secure an alliance. But surprisingly, you find a haven in him.

Warnings: Fluff. Smut. Oral (F receiving) Talks of race, colorism, racism, and self-esteem issues.

A/N: This has to be my most personal fic. It might not be as universal because it is part of my personal experience with race as a mixed person living in what is essentially a mixed region. I hope I do not get a bad response, but I will remind you what the title of my blog says.

“YOUR HAIR IS ugly.” The girl says, displeased. She is trying to comb through your hair with some coconut oil, but instead of curling prettily, your hair just falls flat. She has been at it for at least half an hour, her tugs to your hair getting increasingly more painful.

This time, you cannot hide the flinch. Pain, you had excused with being her first day. Making a mess, with her being unused to your hair. But calling you ugly? She was but a serving girl, she had no right.

The girl looks horrified at what she has just said. She is barely fourteen. But yet again, you are too. You have never called anyone ugly to their faces. You keep those kinds of thoughts to yourself.

“She is young, milady.” The older maid, the one that is supposed to supervise her, says. She smooths your hair back, trying to fix it. Her touch gets more and more desperate the more she tries. Your hair will simply not obey. The younger one has put so much product on your hair, it looks greasy and unwashed.

You stare at your features in the mirror. The lighter skin, the shock of unruly hair, not quite a wave, not quite a coil, but rather something in the middle. Bad hair, your previous maids called it. You wonder why you bothered trying with maids again.

It is your cousin’s wedding. A lovely young woman, with beautiful dark hair that you bet never reacts this way.

“I am sorry, milady.” The younger maid offers.

Your eyes are still fixated on your mirror. You wonder if your mother ever has these troubles too. With her sleek hair, and foreign features, you doubt anyone dares call her ugly. She may not have a title, as you do, but she was once regarded as the most beautiful woman in Lys.

But you. Oh, you. With your too wide nose, but too upturned to be a dornish one. With your high cheekbones in a short face. With dark eyelashes, purple eyes, and hair that is not quite right.

It screams outsider. It screams, not here, not there. Not a famed beauty in Lys, not quite the Sword of the Morning.

“Get out.” You say, to the serving girl. “Get out, both of you.”

You need to wash your hair three times for all the product to come out. You are late to the wedding.

The serving girl is relocated to the kitchens, where no one needs to talk to her. The older one is sent to tend to your father. You pass her sometimes, in the hallways of Starfall, and wonder if she is thinking your hair is ugly too.

You wonder the same thing on the day your fate changes. You are getting dressed when you see her, an ill omen in the middle of Starfall. Prince Qoren has summoned all the unwed noble ladies of Dorne to Sunspear, wishing to announce something. You think it can’t be anything good, considering he has refused to use a royal proclamation to do so.

The travel to Sunspear is taxing. You travel to the capital accompanied by your mother, a day before the actual meeting is set to take place. It allows the two of you to spend the night in a manse before having to meet the royal family.

She doesn’t know how to fix your hair. Your mother’s hair is pale silver, easy to manage and twist in the ways women up north prefer. She had tried hard to tame yours as a child, spraying it with water and stretching the curls with a brush so it laid flat. It never seemed to work as it did in hers.

You pin your hair up, a clip made of pearls and amethysts keeping it up. You do not have the same texture most women here have, that ensures gorgeous volume, so you play to your strengths, showcasing the deep color you have and using it as a backdrop for gorgeous accessories.

Your dress is chosen with great care. A deep lavender, with a tasteful cleavage, held at your shoulders by twin brooches of falling stars. Not even hearing your mother say you look beautiful eases your anxiety. You had seen her, the servant. She only appeared in your life when something was about to happen.

You are not the superstitious kind, but when you stand in a line in front of Prince Qoren’s throne with all the noble maidens of Dorne, you know you were right. That woman was a bad omen.

Prince Qoren smiles. It doesn’t reach his eyes.

“I am glad all of you chose to accept my invitation.” He stands. All the women in the room drop into a curtsy. “When I look at you, I see the best this Kingdom has to offer. It makes me proud. And it makes me confident enough to know I can ask this of you.”

You tense. Whatever he is going to ask is something bad, you can already tell. Some of the more clueless girls in the room look flattered by the delicate compliment, but it is a tactic you know well. You have been mocked enough to know that when someone compliments you so elaborately, a but usually follows. And it tends to be devastating.

His kind demeanor isn’t fooling you. Not in the least.

“We have never coddled our women, as the other Kingdoms do. War is coming for us, and we need strong allies. The Iron Throne offers us their support, but as always, it comes with a price.”

War. Of course it comes down to it. You have heard your parents whispering about it when they think you cannot hear. How Prince Qoren is thinking of sending his troops, instead of his money. How he expects your brother or father to lead them, sometimes against the Triarchy, sometimes against the Iron Throne.

It seems he has made his choice. Against the Triarchy. Your heart is seized by the sudden terror of the thought of your father going to war and not coming home. His sword, Prince Qoren called him.

Your house has been Dorne’s sword for decades. Ever since the first Dayne picked up their sword from the heart of a flaming star, you have defended the Kingdom against their enemies. Your very home once burned because of it.

Amongst the tales of flaming swords and fallen stars, you had never thought war would touch your home. Your brother was the current wielder of Dawn. Your father the head of your house. They would have to fight.

“A marriage pact. From a daughter of Dorne, to a Targaryen Prince. To bind our kingdoms, to ensure peace in this new alliance we embark. Dorne must remain unbowed, unbent, unbroken. House Martell has no daughters of their own to offer, so we ask one of you to go on our stead. It’s us who will pay your dowry, and you shall always have a home here.”

His words barely register as you brood about the upcoming war. You have heard of the Crabfeeder, and his brutality. You think of your kind, kind brother, and his sweet smile. He is a few years younger than you, untested in battle yet.

Some girls cheer. You look at your mother and notice she has the same stricken look you must be sporting. Some of the other parents talk animatedly between themselves, calculating the potential such a match offers their daughters. None seem to realize what it means.

War. War will come for Dorne, and the situation might turn out so bad, proud Prince Qoren will need the dragons’ help. The once unbowed man is being made to bow so low his forehead is touching the floor.

Prince Qoren raises a hand, quieting the hall.

“I am not asking for volunteers. I simply wished to gaze upon you myself, and decide who will marry Daemon Targaryen.”

Mumbles start again, some girls sounding disgruntled. Others preen and titter, trying to attract the Prince’s gaze. You keep your eyes firmly trained on the wall in front of you.

You would rather not marry this Daemon Targaryen. The politics in the other kingdoms are not your forte, but you have a vague notion of him being the brother to the current King. He must have a dragon, of course. And you think he is the one who has been in the conflict at the Stepstones, so he must be some sort of warrior.

No matter how much of a catch he might be, you wish to stay. If war is truly coming, you cannot bear to think of being separated from your family. Your mother will need you, when your father and brother are called away. And you don’t imagine yourself in a foreign land, waiting for news about them on your own.

Prince Qoren makes his way down the line of maidens. You barely spare him a glance, your mind thousands of miles away. But he pauses in front of you, looking at the shooting stars in your shoulders, the deep lavender of your dress.

“I hear Daemon Targaryen likes his women fair.” He comments. “And you are the fairest of us all.”

You swallow, throat suddenly dry. It takes all of your willpower not to fidget under his gaze. You give him an awkward smile.

Prince Qoren reaches to touch the brooch. His hands are elegant, fingers long and lean. He is about your mother’s age, and wears it just as well.

“Lady Dayne, is it?”

“Yes, my Prince.” You say, meeting his eyes. You may not be a classic dornish beauty, but you were still raised by the most charming woman in Lys. There are hardly any other women with manners as refined as yours, and you know all about the games men in power enjoy playing.

You cannot fawn over him. You cannot show him weakness. Because if you do, you will be common in his eyes, unespecial. It is not about beauty. It never is. That thought has given you great comfort during the years.

“How fitting. My dearest sword will be the one to defend her kingdom.”

Your hands begin to sweat. His choice is predictable. It is the same thing you had been thinking about your father and brother, House Dayne is the sword of Dorne. And swords, even more feminine ones, are only useful when war comes.

It doesn’t make it easier, that you should have expected it. It only makes your chest hurt. You do not dare look at your mother.

Instead, you drop into a curtsy and look at Qoren Martell as if he has made you the happiest woman in the world.

“I will be honored, my Prince.”

He smiles.

“Please, call me Qoren. We are to be family now.”

You look at your mother, insides turning to ice. You wonder how long until he takes you away from her.

In the end, it only takes a month. Qoren had been eager to depart and fix the realm’s issues. You now know plenty about the war in the Stepstones. Apparently, your future husband had secured the victory, giving the killing blow to the leader of the opposing army. But while won, the threat to your Kingdom remains. The Triarchy shall always reform, and not even the death of the Crabfeeder can stop them. Like one of those awful serpents from myth, you cut off its head and two more appear.

Pulling your support as the Triarchy was losing had been a bad move. They blamed Dorne for their defeat, and the Iron Throne thought the dornish were cowardly, only making their choice when it was clear who would lose. To avoid petty revenges and more bloodshed, Dorne needed new allies. And you needed them fast.

“We negotiated a new title for you.” Qoren tells you, as the carriage takes you from the docks and towards the Red Keep. “When you marry, you will become a Princess too, instead of remaining a Lady.”

“That sounds exciting.” You give him a bright smile. It's a very genuine one. Hearing yourself announced in such a manner would please you. “It will be strange, of course, changing it.”

“Nonsense.” Qoren laughs. “Only the best for my daughter.”

You falter, and decide to peer out of the window to hide your expression from him. You do not want him to think you are ungrateful.

The night is awfully cold, but you barely feel it. You are dressed in a purple velvet dress, still amazed by the material. You had never worn something so expensive, or made of such a warm fabric. It has the traditional dornish cut, with a plunging cleavage, but you find the added long sleeves fascinating.

The royal family had spared no expense in preparing your trousseau. As a daughter of House Martell, only the best would do. Obviously, all in their colors. This purple velvet gown was one of the few purple items you had been allowed to bring. It saddened you, having to forsake the color. You had always felt pretty in purple, since it matched your eyes.

You weren’t too sure how you felt about everything. Being sent to protect your kingdom and, by extension, your family from war was a great thing. But you were also being asked to leave your identity behind.

Never having left Dorne before, the journey had excited you, but also made you feel acutely lonely. And the thought of having to let behind your family, your colors, and even your name, only served to make you feel worse.

Your father would not be the one giving you away during your wedding, nor would your maiden cloak be the one of House Dayne. Instead, you would wear the sun and spear of House Martell.

But at this moment, as Qoren gets out of the carriage and extends you a hand, you are a Dayne. The purple dress acts a beacon, attracting the gaze of every servant in the vicinity. You stand tall, a star pendant hanging between your breasts.

You will enter decked on your colors. You will greet your future husband as you are, dressed in royal purple. Be a Dayne one last time, before war takes even that from you.

You breathe in and out, the polluted night sky so different from the beautiful stars in Dorne. This is it, you think, a chance to start over. To be whoever you wish to be. These people do not know what a dornishwoman should look like, or how she should behave. They do not know your hair is odd, and so are your eyes. They will only know what you want them to know.

“Go change, my sword. Your maids have selected a dress.” Qoren places his hand between your shoulder blades, pushing you towards the Red Keep. Your smile falls. For a second, you had thought you could attend the feast as you were, draped in your familiar purple and silver. “Make us all proud.”

You should have known better. But it is no matter now. A new life awaits you. Not even Qoren can sour your mood. You square your shoulders and smile.

So focused you are on your inner motivational speech, you do not notice the man watching you, his features covered by a black hood.

The day of your marriage, Daemon presents you with a beautiful pearl necklace. It is made of the purest pearls, with the biggest one you have ever seen right in the middle. It is bigger than the fingertip of your thumb, a perfect circle, roughly the size of a gold dragon.

“My cousin helped me commission this.” He says, during the wedding feast. He presents it to you in a small box, insides lined with velvet. As you reach for it, Daemon closes it, nearly catching your fingers with it. You laugh, startled. He grins at you. “Ah, I want to help you put it on.”

Your fingers fiddle with the simple silver chain you wear, star pendant hanging between your breasts. The hesitation must show on your face because Qoren, at your side, answers for you.

“She is honored, I am sure. Such a gorgeous jewel, to sit in the neck of the greatest beauty Dorne has to offer.”

You smile, trying not to let the sudden flare up of bad memories the words bring you. You remember a young girl, calling your hair ugly. Your grandmother’s face, sneering as you passed her in the hallways. Half-breed, she says, after having too much wine. Not quite right.

The subtle, more hidden, cruelties of girlhood that made your heart ache. When you did not make the list of the most beautiful girls some page was making. How much of a late bloomer you were, by dornish standards. How you had to wait so long for your first kiss, when it seemed like all the other girls were having them already.

Will this be all your life will ever be? Looking for the poison dripping from each word? Doubting every compliment?

You give Daemon what you hope is a seductive look, from beneath dark lashes. You are not good at seduction, having been an observer most of your life. But you are good at pretending.

It has worked, so far. Your arrival, on Qoren’s arm and with an honor guard fit for a Queen, had made people look at you differently. Men, specially, look at you as something exotic. They whisper about your Lyseni mother, and the tricks you must know how to perform. It fills you with dread because once again your looks set you apart, and you don’t quite feel like a person. You had hoped things would be different here.

And they are. Their attention is different, but it’s still wrong and you don’t quite believe them. They only want you because of the novelty, because of rumors about dornishwomen, about how your mother trapped your father. Not because you are beautiful or desirable. It’s sickening.

“Come, husband. Take my necklace off.” And Daemon obeys you, coming to stand behind you. Before he can begin to fumble with your hair, you reach for your hair on your own and lift it to expose your nape. You twist it into a pretend up do, holding it up with your hand.

The gesture is as languid as you can make it, highlighting the curve of your arm, and the elegance of your movements. The cold air hits your neck, making the hairs there stand up.

You both feel and hear Daemon’s sigh. He blows a soft puff of air against your hair, the noise very loud in the small table that seats only Qoren, Daemon, and you. The Queen has already retired, her sickly husband in tow. The Princess and her husband are dancing merrily between the tables.

When you had met Daemon, your first impression of him had been that he was very Valyrian looking and surprisingly whole for someone fresh out of war. And then, he had looked at Princess Rhaenyra and you had understood what Qoren meant when he said he liked his women fair.

Your stomach had turned, back then. Valyrian indeed. Rhaenyra was all milk white skin, light lashes and soft features. You couldn’t compete, you had thought. But then, you had noticed how his eyes followed little Laena Velaryon and you had known there was a chance for you to succeed too. It wasn’t skin color, but Valyrian heritage.

You have been trying to seduce him, with various degrees of success. The attention men pay you is helping you, and so are your purple eyes. You hope tonight goes well. You think you have just about enough Lyseni blood in you to keep him hooked.

His hands gently unclasp your pendant. He pockets it, you think. A memento or because he intends to give it back to you? You feel as his fingers whisper against your collarbones, and this time it’s you who sighs.

You are dramatic about it. Your lips part, as if about to be kissed. Your head tilts back.

“Beautiful.” Daemon whispers, in your ear. He kisses the shell of it.

“It is a gorgeous necklace.” You reply, feeling your face heating up. You feel drunk already, and you have not drank a single goblet of wine yet.

“No. You.” And the kiss against your ear becomes open-mouthed, his heavy breath filling your hearing. His hips brush against the backrest of the chair, searching for closeness. This is something that cannot be faked, you think. Not this kind of desire.

He wants you. He wants you, and you only wish to close your eyes and let him take you right here at this table. You are no blushing maiden, for sure, but you still are new to intimacy. Too many hang-ups about your body and not quite pleasing attempts have not contributed to building a vast knowledge of it. The fact that he wants you so badly makes you wild.

“I think that is my cue.” Qoren says, breaking you out of your stupor. He drains his cup, clearly in preparation for leaving. You had never felt such a connection with someone, not even in Dorne, where pleasure was loud and open. You press your hands to your face, ashamed of having forgotten he was there. Daemon simply chuckles.

“You don’t have…”

“Dearest sword.” He says, as he plants a kiss to your forehead. “You are as tempting as your husband is selfish. He doesn’t seem in the mood to share you.”

“I am not.” Daemon agrees, squeezing your shoulder. He exchanges a look with Qoren over your head. You can only see Qoren’s answering smirk.

“I think I should call for the mummers early.”

You and Daemon slip away as a company of puppet masters from Dorne make their grand entrance, throwing colorful powders in the air.

Later that night, as he sleeps in your shared rooms, you slip on a robe and stand in front of the mirror. Daemon has a massive one, right at the foot of the bed. Mirrors have always scared you, and sleeping so comfortably as he does with one reflecting him is unfathomable. You only intend to cover it.

Mirrors are supposed to be portals to other worlds, your mother used to say. The thought is stuck in your head, so you have grabbed a linen and are ready to place it over it when something catches your attention.

Your reflection. She is glowing, barefoot and in a simple robe, but still wearing the necklace your husband has given you. It should look gauche. It should look too much. But somehow, the necklace looks just right in your neck. You remember Daemon’s eyes, filled with desire when you had bared your neck to him. The sensual way he had touched you tonight, cradling you in his arms, rolling around in his bed. The necklace on the nightstand.

You look at the way the pearls light up your face. For the first time, you feel beautiful.

You make your first mistake a few days after.

It’s the first day of the week, and the Queen has asked you to have tea with her. You go, happily. After Qoren’s and the guards left, you began to feel lonely. There is not much to do here, either. Most of your usual entertainments are considered too sinful or crass. You can not even go for a walk around the city because they deem it too dangerous.

The meeting with the Queen is sour. She is trying, you can tell, but you still hear the disdain in her voice when she talks about your customs, or your people. She eyes the necklace you wear with distaste.

You get the feeling she buys the tales about you. That you are some dornish beauty, exotic and trained in the arts of seducing men. She comments on your mother, on her luck for marrying up, and you have to remember yourself to bite your tongue.

From what Daemon tells you, she is very lucky herself. Going from Lady to Queen is almost as impressive as going from merchant’s daughter to Lady, and you know which one of them did not need to spread her legs for it, and it’s not her. Not if you judge by her plain face.

You look at her, scandalized and pious as she is, ranting about acceptance of bastards of all things, and you surprise yourself at your own cruelty. You should not have thought that. But you are just so angry…

You take a deep breath and look away, trying to calm down. It is then you notice. In the door of the solar, standing to attention, is a man who looks like you.

He has inky dark hair, and olive skin. His eyes are dark, and he has a light stubble, probably because when you have hair as dark as he does, it is difficult to hide body hair. He wears armor and a white cloak. Kingsguard, you think. Why hasn’t anyone told you there was someone else from Dorne here, too? How could you not know?

Queen Alicent follows your eyes, suddenly noticing you are not paying attention. Your eyes are glued to the knight. She frowns in disapproval.

“That’s Ser Criston Cole. My sworn shield.” She stresses the word my. You grab your teacup and take a sip, to hide your smile. Is the pious Queen in love with her knight? “And a member of the Kingsguard.”

She is reminding you of his vow of celibacy. You almost laugh. If she wasn’t so repressed, she would realize she is the one who wants to jump his bones. The only interest you have in him is the fact that he might become a friend.

“Do your guards always stand inside your rooms?” You ask her, doing your best to sound puzzled. “The King’s guards stand outside his, and so does the sworn shield of the Princess.”

“…” Queen Alicent blushes, and averts her gaze. There are no further invitations to have tea with her.

You spend a lot of time staring at Ser Criston. He never returns your gaze. You seek him at mealtimes, you greet him in the corridors, but he always manages to evade you before you can properly start a conversation.

Daemon notices. He always does. He is finely attuned to you, his perfect wife. His prize after the war, his star. A study in contradictions, brazen and bold one moment, shy the next. He seems to like you even more for it. What he doesn’t seem to like is your sudden fixation on Criston Cole.

“You should stay away from him, star.” Daemon whispers, when he catches you staring at him once more. His voice sounds irritated. Accusing. As if you have done something wrong. It makes you bristle immediately.

“I am doing nothing wrong.”

“No one said you are. But Cole is….” Daemon shakes his head. “It is unwise. That’s all I mean to say.”

“What is unwise?” You scowl. You are glad that the table is long enough that no one else overhears you. Knowing Daemon, things are about to get nasty. He will throw in so many insults, Ser Criston would beat him into a pulp if he heard. No matter how competent your husband is, you still worry. “Trying to talk to him?”

“He is a cunt.” He says, cutting your meat for you as if you were a child. From your place in the dais, you seek him once more. Ser Criston is standing on the entrance of the hall, watching carefully as his Queen dines with the King and the two of you.

As if sensing your gaze, he looks towards you. Then, he quickly averts his eyes.

“I merely wish to speak with him.” You say. “He is like me. Dornish.”

“Ser Crispin will only disappoint you. Both in personality and in prowess.” Daemon warns. He pushes his goblet closer to you. “Here, try this. Arbor gold. How does it compare to the swill you like to drink?”

You take a sip of his goblet. You scrunch up your nose, The wine is cloyingly sweet, lacking the strong notes Dornish Reds always have.

“Ugh.” Your lips pucker up in disgust. Daemon laughs, and steals a kiss from you, licking into your mouth for good measure. But before you can begin to properly enjoy it, Queen Alicent coughs. You push Daemon away, even though you are doing nothing scandalous. “You taste like it too.”

“And you taste of that swill you dornish call wine. Yet, I am not complaining.” He takes a sip of his goblet.

“Are you jealous of him?” You ask, suddenly. You have heard about the rivalry between the two of them. Everyone knew of how Cole had obtained his position. He had been a simple knight, until Daemon had lost to him during a tourney. The act had caught Princess Rhaenyra’s attention, and secured him a white cloak. “Ser Criston?”

The thought of Daemon thinking you want to invite Cole to your bed is enough to amuse you. While in Dorne, paramours are more common than here, you are finding monogamy pleasant. You had never been much for sex without love, after all. Only one taste had been enough to satiate your curiosity.

“You shouldn’t toy with fire.” He growls, perhaps confusing your amusement with a deliberate attempt to tease him. It only makes your smile widen.

“Did you know…?” You begin, with an airy tone. Daemon sets down his cutlery. He turns to look at you, licking his lips. “My ancestor, Ser Joffrey Dayne, crossed paths with Queen Visenya. She burned Starfall, after he attacked Oldtown.”

“House Targaryen has always defended the Highcunts, it seems.” Daemon’s brows furrow together. It is no surprise he knows about it. One of the things that have bonded the two of you together is the fact that both of you are obsessed with family history. What he doesn’t know is why you are referencing it now.

You smile. One of your hands goes to toy with the necklace he has given you and that has become your constant accessory, bringing attention to your neck. It is a deliberate move. You intend to be ravished tonight

“I do not fear fire. We Daynes got Dawn from the heart of a falling star. “

Daemon kisses your temple.

“Oh? And I cannot wait to see you burn.” And he is pulling you to your feet, and you are slipping outside with a hurried curtsy.

Despite Daemon’s warnings, you still decide to approach Criston Cole. It takes you almost a week to build up the courage to do it, and another more to mention it to Daemon.

You do not want him to feel blindsided, so you include him in your planning. It is only when he shows up at the Sept that you realize Daemon intends to go with you.

Even the Septon pauses when he sees the two of you enter the Sept. Considering the court thinks you a temptress, and him a rogue, you are not surprised.

You are not particularly pious. While you had been educated on the Faith of the Seven, Dorne practiced a much diluted version. You had not attended a service in quite some time, but you try to focus on it to keep your nervousness at bay.

The plan is to intercept Ser Criston when the service ends. Daemon is under strict instruction to remain sitting, as to not unnerve the other man. But of course, things do not go according to plan.

As soon as the Septon gives his last blessing, you sprung up and step closer to the knight.

“Ser Criston, a word?” You ask him, your voice soft and nonthreatening. It is not as if you want to impose your presence on him, but you are unsure of why he flees rooms when he sees you. Perhaps he is shy, or perhaps you have offended him, but you will never know if he doesn’t speak to you.

“Do not talk to me!” He snarls, getting up from the bench. You try to reach for his arm, but Cole is quicker than you, grabbing your wrist tightly. Out of the corner of your eye, you can see Daemon getting up from the bench where he was waiting for you.

“Ser… I only wished you to invite you to have tea with me.”

“I will not get into your bed, Lady Targaryen.” The man snarls at you. “Perhaps it is allowed in Dorne, but I assure you, here we do things differently than your people. Propositioning a man is…”

“I am not propositioning you!” You say, hotly. The words he is spewing at you leave you bewildered. You have never heard another dornishman speak so. “What do you even mean by that? Your people! You are dornish too.”

“I am not.” But before he can give you an explanation, Daemon is stepping in, and unsheathing his sword. He places his body between Ser Criston and you.

“I would suggest you unhand my wife.” His voice is cold. “Or you will lose the hand.”

“And you! You support her… Her… She should be sent back to Dorne, but she doesn’t even belong there, does she?” And Ser Criston stomps off, clearly unwilling to engage Daemon in what would probably end up as a fight to death.

Daemon looks willing to go after him, but you make a pitiful noise that is a cross between a sob and a whine. The rejection hurt more than usual, having grown unused to cruelness during your stay on King’s Landing. And the remark about you not belonging in Dorne?

It stung. You had not heard that insult in ages. It made you think of the serving girl, and your grandmother muttering you had bad hair, of your odd little features and strange coloring. Not quite Andal, not quite Rhoynar, not quite Lyseni.

Ser Criston looked like you. Of everyone, you would have expected him to understand. To see you.

You had only wanted a reminder of home. Careful with what you wish for, indeed. Your eyes feel suspiciously wet.

“Oh, that cunt. I’ll cut off his dick and feed him to Caraxes…” Daemon mutters, a thunderous look in his purple eyes. He then presses his forehead to yours, giving you an impish grin. “Not that it would be much food, would it? Like a worm, I bet.”

It makes you laugh, despite yourself.

“There you are.” Daemon smiles, brushing your tears away. “Come. I need you to see something.”

He takes your hand and leads you towards your shared rooms. You frown, slightly. Does he have some sort of present to give you? It’s unusual to be going there so early in the morning.

When Daemon opens the door, a maid is still sweeping the room. He barely spares her a glance, dismissing her with a wave of his hand. The girl looks disgruntled. You offer her a silver dragon for her troubles as she leaves, noticeably cheering her up.

The bed is freshly made, and the room smells of lavender. Outside the windows, the birds chirp. You see nothing unusual.

“What was I supposed to see? You interrupting the maid? Poor girl.” You mutter, kicking off your shoes. “Do try to make her life easier.”

But he doesn’t answer, choosing instead to pull out the chair in your vanity. It is a rarity, the whole set a gift from Qoren to furnish your new rooms. It has a beautiful mirror attached that reflects you from the waist up when you sit in front of it.

“Come.” Daemon says, simply. So you do. You know better by now than to disagree with him when he is in one of his moods.

You sit in the chair, dutifully. Your reflection looks a fright, so you try to avoid looking at yourself too much. He stands behind you, hands caressing your shoulders lighty, prompting you to look up.

“I have noticed.” Daemon starts, meeting your eyes in the mirror. “That you are always self-conscious when I look at you for too long. Or when I take your clothes off.”

You avert your eyes. It is true. You feel strange when Daemon looks at your body. The awe he holds in his gaze is both exciting and humbling. You never feel worthy of such worship.

“I would say we are past the maiden’s modesty.” He chuckles. “We made sure of that, didn’t we?”

“I…”

Daemon begins to unlace your gown. The presence of the mirror is making you self-conscious, so you reach for your bodice, and hold it up with one hand.

He pauses. He studies your expression, before dropping a kiss to your curls.

“Don’t cover yourself, wife. I love looking at you.”

You take a deep breath. You want to tell him the truth, for once. Daemon has started to suspect that despite how much you enjoy intercourse with him, something is wrong with your self-esteem. Otherwise, he wouldn’t have staged this intervention.

“I just don’t like how I look much.” You keep your voice low. Shame begins to freeze you up, making you tense and unable to speak. Your heart beats loudly in your ears.

“Madness.” Daemon laughs. He kisses you, slow and sweet. His lips move tenderly against yours, coaxing you out of your shell. You wonder how such an impatient man can have such infinite patience when it comes to you.

The thought makes you melt. Daemon smiles against your mouth and pulls back. He comes back to standing behind you.

“Look.” He orders. And you, helpless under his spell, cannot disobey.

You look at your reflection. Your hair is in even more disarray than before. Your lips are red and kiss swollen. And your eyes… You look dazed.

“We are just getting started.” Daemon promises, his hand coming to caress your collarbones. This time, when he pulls down the bodice, you do not fight it.

He kisses your head.

“You asked me once, if I was jealous.” You turn towards him, confused at the sudden change of topic. Daemon shushes you, squeezing the back of your neck as if you were a misbehaving pup. You look at yourself again, knowing there is no point in disobeying. Daemon always gets his way.

“I am jealous.” His voice is firm. He leans in, and kisses the top of your hair. His talented, skilled hands, take the pins off from it, so it frames your face once more. You fight the urge to fix it, to give more volume to your roots. You don’t like how limp it falls sometimes. Daemon presses a kiss to your earlobe, and whispers. “Of the very breeze against your hair.

Your eyes widen. You do not dare take them away from the mirror. On it, you watch as he presses a kiss behind your ear, as he mouths at your neck, just barely reaching the necklace that sits there.

“Of the pearls you wear, for holding on to your neck. “ You feel his words against your skin, making you shiver. He wraps it around one of his fingers, the pearls tensing just so to feel more restrictive against your neck.

Your lips part in a sigh. The tension of the pearls makes you think of a collar, and his deft handling of them a leash. Ownership.

“Sometimes, when I see you around court, I imagine this.” He tugs the pearls upwards, placing them between your lips. You watch, in a daze, as your reflection parts her lips more, welcoming him in.

He places the biggest pearl between your teeth. You find yourself mesmerized by this stranger you are watching, being turned into an artwork in front of your very eyes.

“You are exquisite.” Daemon gives the pearls a tug, pulling them slightly up. They catch on your hair, contrasting beautifully with the dark curls. There is something haunting about the image, something that tugs at you and makes you see yourself from his eyes.

Like this, with him calling you exquisite, pearls adorning your face and hair, you can almost believe it.

“Do you know what I think of more, when I see these pearls?” Daemon chuckles. It’s a dark, masculine sound. You are unable to form a word. “Hm. Perhaps I should show you.”

He finishes pulling the necklace from you. Over your head and out they go. Suddenly able to speak, you find yourself at a loss for words.

Daemon kneels behind you. He meets your eyes in the mirror, again.

“I am jealous of the moon, and the sky, and this damn mirror even.” It sounds like nonsense. It should sound like nonsense, but somehow, it is disarming, this newfound honesty of his. The one where he stumbles over words in his eagerness, in his need to call you beautiful, to call you his. “Because you want to gaze at them. Your eyes should be only for me.”

He cradles your face in his palm, forcing you to keep eye contact with your reflection. His thumb brushes over your lips. You just stare.

“And even of the wine you drink, when you wet your lips.”

You kiss his thumb. Your eyes sting. This is quickly turning unbearable.

“Daemon… Please…”

“Oh, but your eyes.” He praises, sounding almost drunk. He begins to kiss a path down your collarbones and towards your breasts. “I love your eyes. They are maddening to me.”

He continues to kiss your skin, inhaling deeply. The closer he gets to your breasts, the hungrier he becomes. Daemon is gorging himself on you, biting and nipping at your bosom, sucking at your nipples until you cannot help the moans coming out from your mouth.

Liquid, molten pleasure, begins accumulating at the base of your spine. Warming up your body, making you sweat with the exertion of keeping still.

“You are so beautiful, I fear anyone will want to steal you away.” Daemon whispers, grabbing your hips in an almost bruising grip. “And I fear if I don’t hold tight, it will be my fault.”

You look at yourself. At the half lidded eyes, the softness of your chest. At the attitude of surrender, as your thighs part, and you feel him bury his nose on the roses of your mound. As he inhales, trying to memorize your touch, your smell, your sounds. As he decides to drink from you, making your face go slack, brows pinched together, eyes glassy and absent.

Beautiful, you think, as you reach your peak with a scream so loud you fear the rest of the Red Keep might have heard.

Daemon laughs, doing his best attempt to suck a bruise on your thigh.

“And you haven’t even seen what I plan on doing with the pearls.”

516 notes · View notes

zepskies · 1 year ago

Text

And So It Goes - Part 18

Pairing: Billy Butcher x OFC (Latina!OC)

Word Count: 5,600

Tags/Warnings: Love triangle, tension, more of Ben’s asshole behavior, angst, hurt/comfort, implied smut

ASIG Series Masterlist

18: Being Human

Maybe I really do have a death wish, Helena thought, as she let the most wanted supe alive into her home.

Butcher and Hughie joined him, with the latter taking in her two-story house for the first time.

“Nice,” Hughie said with a nod. “This place is beautiful.”

Helena gave him a small smile. “Thank you.”

Though she gave Ben a pointed look. “Try not to break it, please.”

He shot her a raised brow, but didn’t comment. Instead, he watched her turn and show them one of the guest bedrooms on the first floor. Meanwhile, his gaze lingered on the curve of her ass in those jeans.

Butcher caught the supe’s lazy perusal with a sharp eye. Ben felt his stare and had the gall to shoot him a wink with his smile. Ben’s steps had a certain swagger as he followed Helena down the hall.

It succeeded in setting Butcher even more on edge.

Hughie glanced over at his friend with concern; he’d seen the exchange between the men and didn’t like the fact that Helena was caught in the middle. More and more, he was starting to question just what the hell they were doing.

“Are you sure about this?” Hughie asked.

Butcher didn’t even look at him. His ears were perked to the conversation Soldier Boy and Helena were having down the hall, about fresh bedsheets, of all things.

“There’s no turning back now,” Butcher said.

Hughie frowned. “I know, but…”

Butcher ignored him in favor of starting down the hall to follow Helena and the unstable supe he’d brought into her home.

After everyone had showered and changed and devoured a few pizzas Helena had ordered, Ben puttered through her living room, rummaging through her things. He opened drawers and surveyed her various picture frames, like he was actually interested in her life or something.

“Got any reefer?” he asked.

Helena rolled her eyes. There goes that theory.

Not that she wanted his interest.

“Fresh out,” she said wryly.

She watched him from her corner of the sofa while Hughie graciously did the dishes. Butcher was sitting at the breakfast nook with a cup of tea.

Helena knew he was monitoring the supe out of the corner of his eye, but she was now very careful in what she left on the TV. She didn’t think Dumb and Dumber should have anything triggering.

She eyed him more sharply when Ben started thumbing through her record collection.

“Hey, easy with my vinyl, please,” she said. “It’s vintage.”

He raised up one of your favorites: I Wanna Dance with Somebody.

“Sweetheart, I’m vintage. I think Whitney Houstonis safe with me,” he quipped wryly.

She rolled her eyes at him, but she had to fight a laugh.

“I knew her, by the way,” he mentioned.

Helena’s interest was piqued, with a tilt of her head. “Did you?”

“Yeah. Her and Bobby knew how the fuck to get down. That’s for damn sure.”

“Oh my God,” Helena giggled.

Butcher couldn’t fucking believe what was happening in front of him.

Well, technically, behind him. He was facing the kitchen, and it gave Hughie the vantage point to see Butcher’s irritation.

Helena was more amused than disgusted by the man’s ridiculous flirting. He was an old, old man in that 40s-ish, practically indestructible body. He was like a man out of time, complete with outdated sexism and hyper-machismo. His attempts were often so obvious, it was funny.

But, she also felt guilty for being able to laugh and be pleasant, when this was a man who had killed, and not just during his PTSD-fueled episodes over the past few days. This was the man who murdered M.M.’s grandfather.

The problem was, she had long ago become desensitized to asshole supes. And she couldn’t help her gut instinct…that there was more to Ben than met the eye.

Helena called it a night an hour or so later, when her eyes were starting to droop. She’d slept for a couple of hours in the car, but there was nothing like being back in her safe space, in fresh clothes, and soon to be in her own bed.

A knock at her bedroom door had her frowning in confusion. She put on a robe over her pajamas and opened the door. Her brows raised at finding Butcher there.

“Hey,” he said. His voice was deep and tired, full of gravel. He tried to slip past her inside the room, but she grabbed the doorjamb, blocking his way. She gave him a flat look.

“Where do you think you’re going?” she asked. He gestured to the bed with raised brows.

“To sleep. I’m fucking knackered, love.”

Helena’s lips formed a thin smile.

“There’s a guest bedroom down the hall,” she said. For a moment, they just stared at one another, as one refused to leave, and the other refused to bend.

“Hel,” Butcher tried.

“You ended this,” she said, pushing him back with a hand in the center of his chest.

“Technically, that was you,” he returned. He backed up a step, but wouldn’t let her move him much farther.

This time, her lips pursed and her expression tightened.

“You know what you said, Billy,” she said. “And you know what you did. You still don’t even have the decency to apologize.”

She stepped closer into his orbit, until her breasts barely brushed against his chest. He could feel the warmth of her skin under the thin cotton of her shirt, could see that she wasn’t wearing a bra.

She leaned up on her toes and almost brushed her lips against his. She smelled minty fresh, along with the jasmine shampoo she often used.

“You…don’t get any part of this,” she said. “And you certainly don’t get to make some kind of claim on me just because you’re jealous.”

Helena pulled away. Butcher didn’t know what was more infuriating: not being able to touch her, or the deadly accuracy of her words.

“Jealous?” he said incredulously. “Of fucking what, might I ask?”

Instead of answering him, she smiled and closed her door in his face.

Butcher was left in the hall, teeth gritted and fists clenched. What the bloody hell just happened?

When he couldn’t stand the silence any longer, he trudged down the hall and into the second bedroom, where Hughie was already slipping into the queen-sized bed. Butcher yanked him out of bed, despite the younger man’s yelp and protest.

“Hey!”

“There’s a couch nice and comfy there for ya,” Butcher said, gesturing at the nearby sofa. It was little more than a loveseat. If Hughie was lucky, it would only be his legs hanging off the side.

He frowned. “Come on, man.”

Butcher shrugged off his jacket and boots, tossing them on a nearby accent chair.

“You can try your luck bunking with Soldier Boy downstairs, but that might be ill-advised,” he retorted.

And he got into bed, turning out the bedside lamp as he went.

Helena slept for maybe a couple of hours before her eyes opened in the dark, her heart racing. She groaned and covered her face with a hand.

She still saw flashes of manic blue eyes in her mind, a hand wrapped around her throat. She felt throbbing pain radiating from the side of her head and half her ribcage.

It forced her out of bed in search of her medication, which Butcher had somehow gotten for her without a prescription. She chose to ignore that fact, and she grabbed her pill bottle, put on her favorite robe over her pajamas, and ventured downstairs for a glass of water.

When she turned on the kitchen light, her bleary eyes made out a shape sitting at the breakfast nook.

She jumped halfway out of her skin, until she realized that it was just Ben, sitting there with two cartons of Mint Milano cookies and three empty beers from her fridge. He raised his brows at her.

“Evening, sweetheart,” he said, smirking when he eyed her fuzzy purple robe. “Cute.”

“Down, boy,” she warned. She laid a quivering hand on her chest and caught her breath. “You scared the shit out of me.”

She retrieved the jug of water from the fridge and asked him if he wanted some. He shook his head, leaving her to consider him as she poured herself a glass of water. She saw the familiar threads of self-medicating with the empty beer bottles.

“I can make you some tea,” she offered.

Ben frowned. “Piss water, you mean? I’ll pass.”

Helena rolled her eyes. She got out the chamomile anyway and started up the kettle. It was an electric brewer, so the water would be hot within minutes.

“It could help you sleep better,” she pointed out. She felt his hot gaze on her back as she went about her business in the kitchen. She set up two mugs and took out the bottle of honey.

“One of two things helps me sleep,” said Ben. “Good drugs or a good fuck.”

Helena paused. Her hand clenched on the honey bottle on reflex, and made a large spurt squeeze out in one of the mugs. She eyed him tartly over her shoulder.

“You’ll find neither in this house,” she said. Her tone was pointed. His sly gaze said he wasn’t too sure about that.

“What’s keeping you up?” she asked, and she put a cup of tea in front of him with honey already stirred in. He gave her a flat look.

“I don’t drink that shit,” he said. She smiled.

“But I made it especially for you,” she replied, saccharine sweet. “I thought guys like you were supposed to be chivalrous.”

Ben just stared at her, hard.

She stared at him right back and raised her brows.

“Just try it,” she cajoled. “You might like it.”

He still didn’t look convinced, but after a moment, he slowly reached out and took the handle of the mug. He brought it to his lips and took a reluctant sip.

He grimaced. It was everything he thought it would be: weak in flavor, but warm and a hint sweet.

Helena smiled in satisfaction, and he fought one of amusement, even as he considered how sweet she might be to taste.

She went to get her own mug and her bottle of pain meds. While her back was turned, Ben poured most of the tea into the sink.

“Why’re you in my kitchen, eating all my cookies?” she asked, glancing back at him over her shoulder while holding up one of the empty boxes of Milanos. “These are my favorites.”

Ben’s gaze roamed down the length of her fuzzy robe. It hinted at curves he’d already seen and taken note of. She was the hottest young thing he’d seen in…well, a while. Still, he’d be willing to eat up Miss Chiquita Banana and leave no crumbs.

“I’ve slept long enough,” he said. She turned back around, and he tried to disguise his hunger (for now).

Helena glanced up at him wryly. “Hmm. You’re allowed to say you can’t sleep.”

Ben didn’t answer, but he watched her struggle to open her pill bottle. She twisted and twisted the cap, applying pressure, but it refused to budge.

“Damn it. What, did they reinforce this with, titanium?” she muttered.

The pill bottle eventually broke free, raining little white pills onto the counter. A few of them rolled off to the floor.

Her shoulders deflated. “Of fucking course.”

With a sigh, she slowly bent down and gathered up the pills that fell. She grabbed onto the counter, but the sharpening pain in her ribs wouldn’t let her straighten up, let alone get back onto her feet. She looked up at Ben in annoyance. He was just sitting there, watching her in bemusement.

“Coño pero… Are you gonna help me, Mr. Chivalry?” she snarked. “Best generation, indeed.”

Ben raised a brow at her. “I might, if you ask a little fucking nicer.”

Helena gaped at him. What a dick.

But she expected nothing less, really. She let out a tense breath through her nose and through much effort, she angled a less pissed off face at him.

“Will you please give me hand off the damn floor?” she asked.

A smirk crossed his lips. He actually obliged her, sliding off his seat and coming her way around the kitchen counter. He bent down and helped her up with a hand on her lower back and her elbow. He didn’t back away from her until her feet were steady on the ground, and she nodded in thanks. He took a few pills out of her hand as payment, popping them into his mouth like Tic Tacs.

Helena sighed in annoyance. Unlike him, she actually needed those.

“Why’re you up, anyway?” Ben asked.

Helena shook her head. Ben’s lips tugged downward.

“Knew what?” he asked.

“I’m officially on his hit list now,” she said.

She knew it was partly her own fault. She chose to follow Butcher, to keep making reckless decisions. But at least now she wouldn’t have to spend every damn second of every day looking over her shoulder. She could just turn around and accept whatever happened next.

Helena could admit it though. She was afraid.

“What’s it like, not being afraid?” she asked Ben, with a small sarcastic huff. His brow arched.

“When you’ve routinely pounded Nazis up the ass, nothing much bothers you after that,” he said, sipping at his mug of tea. Though he soon grimaced again at the taste and pushed the offending drink away.

Deep inside, however, he refused to acknowledge the darker chasms. Stolen years that were now blurred together in memory, and yet, certain moments rang painfully clear. His eyes were unseeing for a moment, before they glanced back up at Helena.

He nearly missed the way she chuckled.

“That shit isn’t fooling for a second,” she said. “I saw you lose your grip, Ben.”

His gaze sharpened. His fist clenched on the counter.

“Careful, sweetheart,” he warned.

Her eyes narrowed. “Let me ask you a question. Do you really not remember M.M.’s family? Or was that routine for you too?”

He paused, his brows crunched in irritation.

“I don’t have to fucking justify myself to you. I was doing my fucking job. Sometimes—”

“What, shit happens?” She threw her hands up mockingly. “God, you’re just like Homelander. Like almost every supe I’ve ever met.”

He rolled his eyes, dismissive, but his anger was prickling just under the surface of his stoic front.

And on the off chance that it was a mask for any spark of shame he felt deep down, Helena was at least a little satisfied. For 100-something years of machismo and supe arrogance, that spark would’ve been well-won.

“Regret is human, Ben,” she said. “So is fear. And pain. And love.”

His face remained stoic. “I’m a lot fucking more than human.”

She huffed at that. “If you say so.”

She shook her head and delved back into her pantry. As a peace offering, she broke out her secret backup stash of cookies, that she doubted even Butcher knew about. They were raspberry and milk chocolate Milanos. She subtly shook the box at Ben with a smile.

He tilted his head. “I don’t remember that flavor.”

“Ooh. Brace yourself,” said Helena. She dug out the first two sleeves of cookies and gave him one.

“How come there’s five in yours?” he asked with a frown. There were only four cookies in his sleeve.

“The Lord giveth, and he taketh away,” she joked. “I get the bonus cookie.”

Ben gave her a deadpan look, but he ate in silence. He looked all surly, and she had to hold in a laugh. What a man-child.

Instead, she tossed her extra cookie at him. He raised a hand to instinctively fend off a projectile.

“Hey,” he said, with his mouth full.

Helena ended up giggling at the sight of crumbs falling from his mouth and in his beard. Again, man-child.

She wanted to hate him.

She should hate him, on principle alone.

Perhaps she had a weakness for deeply flawed men with massive egos. But fleeting as they were, she saw the glimpses of humanity in Ben—rare moments that got swallowed up by Soldier Boy.

In the morning, Butcher aimed to work on the list of safehouses where one of his most paranoid of ex-teammates, Mindstorm, could be hiding out. This next one was a few hours north. He’d be gone for the day, at least.

He was forced to leave Helena and Hughie behind, but not without a warning for the latter. Butcher had pulled Hughie aside and let him know that he wasn’t to leave her alone with Soldier Boy again, under any circumstances. Hughie didn’t have to ask “or what.”

Butcher was gone early in the morning. It allowed Helena and Ben to make their way into the kitchen slower in the morning. She was dressed for the day with her coffee mug in hand, sitting at the breakfast nook while Hughie caught up on the news from her laptop in the living room.

Ben grabbed a cup of coffee and took a seat next to her.

“What do you say you get started on breakfast. Huh, baby doll?” he asked. Or more like demanded, by his actual tone.

Helena shot him a dry look. “There’s cereal in the pantry.”

“Come on, now. I could use a home cooked meal,” he said.

Her brow twitched in irritation.

“It might be nice, since I have cracked ribs at the moment, if you might make yourself something,” Helena replied.

Ben gave her a smirk as he eyed her. “Why would I do that when you look like a perfectly good cook.”

“Oh, I am,” she said. “But I’m neither your servant nor your maid.”

“You’ve got two working hands, don’t you?” Ben remarked, as he sipped his coffee. “God fucking knows you’ve got a working mouth.”

Helena seethed as she got up from her chair, but not to make anyone a damn thing. She went to the sink to dump her empty coffee mug. She turned back to Ben and opened her mouth to say something she would very likely regret, but Hughie interjected, perhaps seeing that an explosion was about to happen.

“Uh, why don’t I make us something?” he said, getting up from the couch and heading into the kitchen with Helena. “I can whip us up some scrambled eggs. Bacon, if you’ve got it. Ooh, looks like you’ve got bread to make toast.”

She gave him a tight smile. “Knock yourself out.”

She ate her eggs on the couch in simmering silence while the news played on the TV. Hughie sat with her, casting her a look of concern every now and then. She ignored it all, including Ben’s less than discreet grumpy staring.

Apparently, he couldn’t contain himself any longer.

“I swear to Christ. What the fuck is wrong with women today?” he said.

What a good start, Helena thought sarcastically.

“My mom never kept my father waiting for a meal. Even when he came home at whatever goddamn hour of the night, she had a plate waiting for him,” he said.

Helena rolled her eyes and quipped dryly, “That plate must’ve been cold as hell.”

Ben eyed her as she got up from the couch and went to bring her plate to the sink. She had her back to him as she began to rinse the dishes and put them into the sink.

“When did women get so fucking lazy? And disrespectful,” he remarked.

Helena hit the lever on the sink closed to turn off the faucet. She turned around to face the man and crossed her arms.

“You want a fuckable maid, pay extra,” she said. “But if you want a partner you can rely on. Someone you can trust not to give you to the damn Russians, then you share the load. And you respect the woman who lets you into her bed.”

She turned back to the dishes so she wouldn’t have to look at Ben’s angry, brooding face. But the way she turned her back on him, along with her pointed words, irritated enough to spark his anger. He got up from his seat.

Hughie sensed the danger before Helena did. He stood and made a cautious approach to the kitchen.

Helena reached for a hand towel, and found her wrist encased with an iron grip. She gasped as Ben turned her to face him.

“I’ve put up with a lot from you,” he said. “I think I’ve been a gentleman, considering what a disrespectful little brat you are. But I really think you wanna get bent over my knee.”

His face told her that she wouldn’t enjoy it.

“Hey,” Hughie tried to intervene. “Let’s just calm down, all right?”

Helena let out a shaky breath, but she looked up at Ben and somehow managed to hold her ground, despite the iron grip on her arms.

“If it makes you feel better, go ahead,” she said. “Slap me around until I break.”

“Soldier Boy!” Hughie said in warning.

Ben ignored him. He stared down at Helena with cold anger in his eyes. His hold on her arms tightened, and it hurt. She failed to stifle a gasp of pain.

But she stared up at him defiantly, even though there were tears forming in her eyes.

“You want me to respect you? You killed my friend’s family, and you don’t even care,” she said. “I don’t see anything here that earns my respect.”

Ben reacted to her words, mostly with anger as his brows furrowed.

Hughie grabbed the supe’s shoulder. “Hey, man, just let her go!”

Ben shoved Hughie away so hard that it made the younger man slide across the kitchen and into the far wall, until he hit a bookshelf and fell to the ground.

Helena flinched in shock, and pain at the way he was still holding her. Ben saw it play across her face…and he let her go abruptly. He stared down at her for a moment, nostrils flaring with his heavier breathing. She tried to calm her own breathing as she met his gaze, wondering what he would do. Wondering if this was the moment she’d signed her own death warrant by being her smartass self.

But Ben walked away from her.

Well, stalked away, more like. He left through the front door and it swung open on its hinges.

Helena took in deep breathes of relief. Eventually she gathered enough of her wits to go to Hughie, who was still picking himself off the floor.

“I gotta go after him,” he said with a sigh.

“Get that man away from my house. I don’t care where you take him,” Helena said, frowning tersely. Hughie couldn’t blame her.

“Are you okay?” he asked, and touched her arm gently. She pulled away from his touch and held herself with crossed arms.

“I’m fine. Just go get him,” she replied.

He nodded and took off after Soldier Boy. It gave Helena the reprieve she needed to let out a long, tremulous breath. A tear fell down her cheek as she leaned on the kitchen counter.

She just couldn’t help taking her life into her hands.

Butcher returned to Helena’s house in the evening. Her car was still in the driveway, but when he let himself in with the spare key she’d given him, he realized that the house was empty, except for her.

She was washing dishes from a dinner she’d clearly made for just herself: a Lean Cuisine.

“Where the hell are Hughie and Soldier Boy?” he asked, approaching where she stood in the kitchen, dressed down in a long-sleeved shirt and yoga pants.

“I couldn’t give a fuck,” she said. “Hello to you too, by the way.”

Her voice had little energy in it, save for anger and sarcasm, and Butcher took notice. He frowned.

“You’re the one who brought ‘em here. Weren’t my fucking idea, remember?” he snarked back.

Helena finally gave up on the dishes and turned to him with angry tears in her eyes.

“But you’re the one who made it happen, Billy. You wanted to cut a deal with that ancient, unstable fucking asshole? Well, you got your damn wish,” she said. “You are the reason we’re in this mess.”

Butcher paused at the sight of her unshed tears. His jaw worked as he tried to make sense of why she was this upset, when just yesterday she was joking and laughing with the supe like he was the guest of honor.

His brows drew together. “What did he do?”

Helena refused to answer.

Butcher went to her and tried to grasp her arm, but she pulled away from him with a flinch. Her eyes flicked away from his.

Unbidden, it reminded him of the day he waited for her at her apartment. And she’d come home after work looking skittish and drained. She’d flinched away from his touch then, just like she’d done now. That had been the day Homelander nearly strangled her to death.

“What the fuck did he do, Helena?” Butcher repeated. She met his gaze.

“You better find him,” she said, “before he blows up another damn building.”

Butcher stared hard at her, but she wouldn’t say anything more.

He fished out his cell and called Hughie, who told him that he’d brought Soldier Boy to the Legend’s penthouse apartment in the city.

“Good,” Butcher nodded. “Keep him settled there while I look for Mindstorm.”

He glanced at Helena, but she was already walking away from him to finish cleaning up her kitchen.

Butcher ended his call. For a moment, he wasn’t sure what to say.

“I’ve gotta go,” was what he settled on.

She shrugged. Butcher nearly sighed. He went to her though, while she was wiping down the counter with a clean rag. His hand reached out to touch her back, but at the last moment, he thought better of it. His arm drifted back to his side.

“You okay?” he asked gruffly.

“Like you care,” she said. Her tone was one of both snark and exhaustion. “Just go.”

Reluctantly, he went.

Helena was angry, to say the least—at Butcher, at Soldier Boy, and even at Hughie. She was also angry at herself for not having been able to leave well enough alone when Butcher left the first time.

Which first time? She snorted.

But she was especially mad at herself when she allowed the three men to traipse back into her home, a week later.

“‘Ullo, love,” Butcher greeted at her door.

They were covered with dried sweat and dirt, like they’d been hiking. She only let them in because of how they looked—each a bit rattled by whatever they’d faced. Her house was safer than the Legend’s at this point, Butcher explained.

“Just one night,” he asked. “We’ll fuck off in the morning.”

“Fine,” she agreed, despite her better judgment. Again, it was that look in his eyes. Unsteady.

Ben gave her a predictable once-over of her pajama shorts and tank-top, but it seemed he didn’t have it in him to volley with her like usual, especially after what happened last time. He didn’t acknowledge that as he made his way to one of the guest rooms.

Helena followed Hughie and Butcher upstairs…but something made her grab Butcher and steer him away from the second guest bedroom.

He wasn’t sure what she was doing while she guided him into the bathroom in her room. There he leaned against the counter of the bathroom sink. She picked the twigs out of his hair and brushed the dried mud from his shirt.

“Did you take a dirt nap or something?” she asked.

“Something like that,” he replied.

“What the hell happened then?”

He looked down at her. “Mindstorm is dead.”

She sighed at that, but something else was there, behind his eyes. Just under the surface.

“And what else?” Helena asked.

Butcher remained quiet, hesitating. She slowly took a chance by reaching for his scarred hand. She held it with both of hers.

He couldn’t help himself. He brushed his thumb over the back of her warm, tan, smooth hand, reminding himself that she was real and alive. And he wasn’t locked in his mind.

“When I left for the SAS,” he said, “I left my little brother behind…with our raging cunt of a father.”

Helena inhaled deeply; she remembered what Butcher had told her about Lenny, about how he died young. But somehow, Butcher had left out this detail. He met her gaze with tears forming in his red-rimmed eyes.

“I shouldn’t have left him,” he confessed.

Helena was half in shock as she watched the first tear roll down his cheek. She realized then that she had never seen the true depths of this man. Not until tonight.

Her eyes burned with sympathetic emotion as she reached for him and pull him into her arms. He held her back, burying his face in her neck and grounding himself in her as his body shook. Those brutal memories, along with the grief that had been locked deep inside had loosened, and the doors were now swinging open on their hinges.

“Jesus Christ, Helena…I’m sorry,” he said. His voice wavered, and his hand clenched in her hair. “For what I keep doing to ya. Dragging you down with me with every goddamn step.”

He pulled back enough to see her, to be faced with her tears as she bit her lip.

“And for what I said…to you, and to the kid. I’m fucking sorry,” he said.

Helena broke down just as much as he did then. She nodded in acceptance, and she held his face in her hands. Then she brought him down for a tender kiss. Butcher gave into the soft warmth of her as he held her against him, unwilling to let go this time.

And she led him back into her bed.

In the late hours of the night, Butcher returned to Helena’s bed after a shower. She was already fast asleep. He slid in behind her, gently caressing the back of his hand up her naked back and over her shoulder, down her arm…

And he saw it. A purplish, yellow band around her arm.

It looked like a bruise, formed by a large hand. A man’s hand.

Butcher was damn certain it wasn’t his own, and he’d just finished tracing all the contours of her body tonight.

Though he was reminded of what happened a few days ago…

His brows drew together. “What did he do?”

Helena refused to answer.

Butcher went to her and tried to grasp her arm, but she pulled away from him with a flinch. Her eyes flicked away from his.

Soldier Boy. That old cunt.

Rage built and built inside him. That unfathomable rage that so often fostered lethal energy in Butcher’s blood.

Carefully he slipped out of bed. He got as far as the doorway before he looked back at Helena. He focused on her easy breathing, her messy dark hair splayed on her pillow.

The rage he felt began to simmer down, bit by bit, into self-loathing. Because he did this.

She’d been right before. Butcher made the deal with Soldier Boy. And Butcher brought this shitshow into her home.

So he forced himself to join her back in bed. He traced down the back of her neck, down the length of her lotus tattoo. It made her shiver in her sleep.

Butcher had failed his brother, and Becca. But he couldn’t fail this time. He’d keep Helena and Hughie safe, and alive.

Butcher’s phone was on silent, but the light from his phone on the nightstand illuminated the dark room and stole his attention. He grabbed it and frowned at the strange number on the caller ID. He took the phone into the bathroom and closed the door.

“Hello?” he answered.

“I need to talk to Hughie. Where is he?” Annie asked.

“Oh, Starlight. How delightful,” he muttered. And then he lied.“He’s just popped out for a bit.”

“Okay, well he’s not answering his phone.”

“Bit hard to keep a phone when you’re teleporting all day, innit, love? How can I help?”

“Temp V is going to kill you both,” she said.

“Well, it’s gonna have to join the queue,” he quipped.

“I was just in the lab. It causes lesions, okay? It turns your brain into fucking Swiss cheese!” she shouted. “So please be honest with me, and tell me how many doses have you taken?”

Butcher hesitated at that. His stomach began to churn.

“Just a couple,” he replied. Or a few.

“Jesus Christ,” she said. “Butcher, five to six doses kills you. Got that? You need to tell Hughie.”

Butcher hesitated. “Yeah…yeah, I will. I promise.”

“Okay, but I’m calling every five minutes until—”

He hung up on her. All the while, his mind was reeling.

Fuck, he thought. Fatal after five doses. He’d already had three. Hughie’d had two.

And they needed more, if they were going to face Homelander and Black Noir.

“Scorched earth” was going to come at a price. Butcher had known that going into this, but it suddenly took on new meaning as he opened the bathroom door and looked over at Helena, peacefully sleeping in bed.

Butcher thought of Ryan, and all of his broken promises.

But come the morning, Butcher didn’t tell anyone of what he’d learned.

AN: Oooh, we're getting so close to the end here, folks!

Next Time:

“Why are you being so fucking stubborn?” Butcher asked.

Her head tilted as she gave a wry smile. “What do you mean?”

His grip on her waist tightened a little.

“Why’re you staying with me?” he pressed. “Hel, you know where this ends.”

“Billy, I don’t have a death wish,” she told him. She squeezed his arms back. “But I don’t just want you alive for me. Ryan needs you too.”

Keep Reading: Part 19

The Boys Masterlist

Main Masterlist

Ko-Fi Me ☕

Tag List:

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#Being Human #And So It Goes #Part 18 #the boys #billy butcher #soldier boy/Ben #soldier boy #billy butcher x oc #butcher x oc #billy butcher x ofc #poc!oc #billy butcher x reader #Butcher x Latina!OC #karl Urban #poc oc #latina!oc #hughie campbell #zepskies writes

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coro-chan6 · 1 year ago

Text

Somehow Supernatural

Tags: teen!oc, gn!oc, poc!oc, Dean being Dean, weird dreams, CROWLEY, demon dogs, Dean being scared of said demon dogs

Summary: Casey goes to bed, has weird dreams, and gets to meet the King of Hell.

Chapter Three: Yummy Food and Weird Shit

I will never deny that I was a foodie. I mean, if you saw me when I devour anything put in front of me, you wouldn’t even have to ask. I love everything about food. Sometimes I mix stuff together that other people think is weird like when I dip my waffles and pancakes in orange juice. I used to be the kid in elementary school who would mix everyone’s leftover lunches together and actually go through with eating it.

One thing I learned from all my years of eating is that post-panic attack meals are the best. After crying half my weight in water and depriving my brain of oxygen, food just hits different. Plus, Dean brought back chicken nuggets.

“Slow down, you’ll choke,” Dean said as he reached his hand to take my nuggies away. I obviously wasn’t gonna just let him do that so, I smacked the shit out of his hand. I didn’t think I put that much power into it but when I heard the smack echo, I knew.

“Mmfh,” I was trying to apologize before he kicked me out on my ass, but my mouth was full of about 4 chicken nuggets. Dean glared at me and went back to eating his double bacon cheeseburger.

Sam had come to sit down across from Dean and me after he had finished preparing his salad. Dean asked if his brother wanted anything from the restaurant, but Sam insisted on eating salad. I love salad as much as anyone, but when someone offers to buy you fast food, you fucking take it. Salad be damned.

Castiel was seated next to Sam opposite of me. He didn’t need to eat, so he was just reading the menu that had come with the fast food. Occasionally, he would look up from his reading to glance at me. It didn’t look threatening, but it did look like he had something to say.

“So,” I had finally swallowed down the colossal amount of chicken I stuffed down my face, “When are we going to go on a hunt?”

“We?” Dean quirked his eyebrow at me.

“Yes, we, Dean. I might as well since I’m here. What else am I supposed to do?”

Dean crumbled up the empty wrapper of his meal, “Nothing.”

“Sam?” I turned to the younger Winchester. He had been really nice to me. He wouldn’t agree with Dean.

“I agree with Dean.”

Well fuck.

So, basically, I was in this new universe and I couldn’t do jack shit but sit underground. That was so unfair! They should at least take me once, but from their faces, it didn’t look like they were gonna change their minds.

What did they even have to do in the bunker? I know they have alcohol. Too much alcohol, in fact, but even if I was of age, I’m not really interested. They also have a library full of hunter books. I know that sounds cool and I shouldn’t be complaining, but who would want to read books about these cool ass monsters if you could see them in person? Not me, that’s for sure.

“They should go on a hunt,” Castiel stated, not taking his eyes off his menu. How was that so interesting to him?

…wait.

“Did you just say I could go?!” I squealed.

“Did you just say they could go?!” The brothers yelled in unison.

“They can go with me,” Castiel said finally putting his menu down, “They won’t be harmed.”

I ran over to the other side of the table to tackle Castiel in a hug because I was so happy. Fried nerves be damned. He kind of froze for a second before awkwardly patting my back. Sam and Dean were still trying to get the angel to not bring me, but he didn’t budge.

“Who would watch them if we’re all gone? They’re a child, they need protection.”

Dean scoffed at that like it wasn’t kind of true before he stood from the table and stalked off. Presumably to his room. Sam shook his head in disbelief before he retired as well.

Soon, Castiel and I were the only ones left at the table. I was still eating my fries and Castiel was staring at me. It would have been creepy if it had been anyone besides him, but he had this innocence about him that didn’t make him all that scary. Even though he was the only one here with powers strong enough to do God-knows-what, he didn’t make me feel frightened at all.

“Casey,” I perked up, “you should get some sleep. It’s late.”

I wasn’t sure how late it was because we were underground and I never asked, but now that Castiel brought up the subject of sleep, it made me yawn. I didn’t even register I was tired. It felt like it’d been so long since I last slept. I wasn’t sure if that was because of my eventful day or because it really had been that long.

I got up from the table and waved Castiel goodnight. I was halfway down the hallway before I realized that I didn’t know where I was going to sleep. No one had given me a room or anything.

I wonder where my body was staying before I got here.

Not wanting to bother anyone, I slinked over to the couch I had sat on earlier and laid down. The couch had a blanket that was thick enough and a couple of pillows that weren’t too uncomfortable.

The thing that made me so uneasy was the fact that it was out in the open. The couch sat against one of the walls of the library. I never did well with new sleeping spaces, but when those sleeping spaces were so big and dark that you weren’t sure what was hiding in there… I did not like it. Plus, I couldn’t watch YouTube before bed.

I’m not sure how, but I eventually went to sleep. I ended up in another void. This time I couldn’t see all my thoughts as words. This time I could see my mom. She was in the kitchen chopping vegetables. There was nothing on the stove and there was nothing in front of her to put the vegetables in. The only thing on the entire counter was the chopping board and the single carrot she was chopping. I wanted to know what she was doing and I tried to ask, but my mouth wouldn’t move. She looked me right in my eyes before she disappeared.

Next, I saw my dad. He was in the garage sitting on his motorcycle. The engine wasn’t running and the garage wasn’t even open, but my dad had all his gear on like he was gonna take off at any second. He wasn’t wearing his helmet though. I was standing in the doorway that lead from the house to the garage. My dad was facing in the other direction. He looked frozen in time. I couldn’t even see his body shift from breathing. It was like he was paused. I tried to walk up to him to tap him on the shoulder, but - again - I couldn’t move. My dad finally turned his face to me. Blood dripped from his mouth. Then, he disappeared too.

I saw my older brother out on the front porch. He was sitting in the gray chair that was facing me yet, I couldn’t see his face. His neck… his neck somehow had his head on backward. His fingers still typed at the computer on his lap even though he couldn’t see it. I didn’t try to move this time, but my brother did. One of his hands lifted off of the keyboard to point at something behind me. Then, he disappeared.

My little brother was next. He was in the basement playing on his gaming setup. Well, at least he was sitting at his gaming setup. His arms were at his sides and he was staring at a blank screen. I was standing directly behind him. I wanted to run. I didn’t want to see this creepy shit anymore, but I was stuck in place. I had to watch my little brother melt into a pile of flesh in his chair.

I didn’t like this dream. No matter how hard I tried to wake up, I couldn’t. I was stuck. Stuck watching some creepy version of my family from afar. I wished that I could hear Dean’s voice again. I wished he would wake me up by shaking my arms like he did before, but his voice never came. No one ever came. This wasn’t me feeling like a failure that didn’t deserve to be saved. I wanted to be saved. I needed to be saved.

“Save me!” A voice echoed through my head that I’d never heard before. I never heard this voice before, but I felt linked to them somehow. I wanted to reach out and save them like I wanted someone to save me. For the first time since my dream started, my body moved. I reached my hand out for this voice. I swear I felt them reach back.

~~~

“Fuck!” I woke up sitting straight up on the couch I fell asleep on. My hand was outstretched like I was reaching for… something? Someone. Who was I reaching for?

My blanket and pillows had fallen to the floor which wasn’t a surprise to me. Even when I wasn’t having creepy ass weird ass dreams, I was still a wild sleeper. What the fuck was that dream about anyway? I liked to believe that all dreams mean something, but I didn’t understand that one. Or maybe I was too scared to want to understand it. I’d come back to it later.

Right now, I was more concerned with the man sitting in the library. He looked concerningly like the King of Hell.

“Hello… new child,” Crowley said in his british accent. He was casually sipping on some of Sam and Dean’s alcohol stash. I felt underdressed even though I was wearing the same shit since I got here. It wasn’t half bad, but I kinda wanted to meet Crowley looking like myself. Or at least with my own dressing style and not this cringe shit. He was one of my favorite characters after all.

“How long have you been there?” I asked, slowly placing my feet flat on the floor.

“Not that long,” he shrugged.

I got up and walked toward him. I know he’s the King of Hell and all that jazz, but I really wanted to shake his hand. He didn’t look like he wanted to hurt me. He actually looked kind of curious.

I offered him my hand, “I’m Casey. Nice to meet the King of Hell face to face.”

Crowly smirked and shook my hand, “You know who I am and you think it’s nice to meet me. I’m surprised the Winchesters haven’t told you-”

“Get away from him!” Sam shouted as he practically slid into the room. It seemed like he rushed in here so fast he forgot to put a shirt on. He was only wearing his blue-patterned pajama pants. I looked at him with a ‘what the fuck’ face before turning back to Crowley. I know Sam was trying to look after me and shit, but he was not gonna make me walk away from the motherfucking King of Hell.

“I have so many questions if you don’t mind,” I told Crowley as I sat next to him. Sam let out a sound of protest, “What do the demon dogs look like? I know the whole thing is not seeing them, but I’ve always been curious. Also, what’s your favorite task to do as the King of Hell? Do you enjoy torture or do you only do it because you have to? Are other demons dumb cause how do they get killed by Sam and Dean so easily? Do you have wings-”

“You have to give me time to answer, you know,” I snapped my mouth closed, “For your first question… I could bring the demon dogs here if you’d like.”

“Yes!” I squealed.

“No!” yelled Sam.

Crowley brought out the summoning whistle from his jacket pocket. Sam looked like he was about to pass out, but he somehow managed to stay upright. I sorta forgot that Sam had trauma from the demon dogs. They killed his brother in what? Season 3?

I didn’t think Crowley was actually gonna go through with it, but he blew the whistle. I guess if the dogs don’t have orders to kill anyone, they won’t… hopefully.

“How can you tell when they’re here-”

I was cut off but something warm and wet wiping up my face. I let out a yelp of surprise before I realized it was most likely the dogs. I cautiously reached my arms out to feel for its body. My hands connected with soft fur. The dog or dogs - I felt multiple tongues licking at my face - were pretty big by the feel of it. Maybe the size of a pony? They were muscly as hell though.

“How many did you call?” I asked Crowley.

“Just one. They have multiple heads. You can ask Dean about that.”

Sam gave the demon a glare for his assholish comment before he spoke up, “Why the hell are you here, Crowley?”

“Well,” Crowley looked back at me. I bet it looked like I was petting air, “I came here to see them.”

Sam was confused. I was confused. Why the hell did the King of Hell have business with me? Even though I had no idea what Crowley wanted with me and whether or not I was in danger, I kept petting the demon dog. I didn’t know when I was gonna have the opportunity to do this again.

“You’re not taking them,” Sam said, pulling an angel knife from his ass.

“I’m not taking them. Calm down, moose,” Crowley finally stood up from his chair, “I just wish to talk with them.”

“I don’t see why not,” I pipped in.

“He’s the fricken King of Hell!” Sam yelled like ruling the underworld was a crime.

“And?” I replied.

“And you're not talking to him!”

“Well, last time I checked, you weren’t the fucking boss of me, dude.” I stood up from petting the demon dog and gave Sam a glare. I was getting fed up with Sam telling me what to do. First, he told me he didn’t want me going on hunts, and now this? I hadn’t even known him for a full 24 hours!

“You’re a child, Casey! No!”

“I’m not your fucking child, Sam, so buzz the fuck off!”

The demon dog started barking really loud after I said that. The air stilled. Crowley was smirking throughout Sam and I’s whole argument, but now his face was filled with genuine surprise. Sam looked scarily angry.

“You lied,” Sam stated. The angel knife that was once pointed at Crowley was now pointed at me, “You are some kind of monster.”

“What the fuck are you talking about?” I said, breathless. Fear shot up my spine.

“Your eyes… they turned red.”

AN: Crowley's one of my favorite characters and in later chapters sometimes he just comes back for not reason other than I like him. I know I do shit on Dean, but like, I still like him. He's just not my favorite out of the trio. And yes, superpowered OC. Gotta love it.

#spn fanfic #oc character #crowley #nonbinary #teen!oc #poc!oc #gn!oc #sam winchester #deanwinchtser #dean x castiel #castiel #demon dogs #weird dreams #superpowered oc #supernatural #spnfandom #spn fandom #supernatural fanfiction

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mrscarpenter · 28 days ago

Text

“We were always meant to burn together.”

Summary: Daemon hasn’t seen his niece in a decade, and drama unfolds on driftmark.

Includes/warnings: hightower!reader, aegons twin. this is probably horribly written so thats a warning in itself, not proof read but i believe Y/N has been used on multiple occasions. Did not give reader a description other than female & lilac eyes. There is an age gap in this (reader is 15 and daemon is whatever his canon age was in that time. My memory is awful) like i said, not proof read, if you see any spelling errors feel free to point them out! If i missed any warnings, please lmk :)

🪐notes: its been a while since i’ve seen season 1 so please ignore any timeline mistakes. Daemyra does not exist in this. :)

Daemon hadn’t seen you in ten years, ten whole years. In his mind you were still that five years old little princess, cheerful and trusting, unlike your mother. Alicent Hightower. Daemon hated that entire Hightower-Targaryen bunch, but never you, he could see you weren’t like them. But he never spent much time with you, opting to steer clear of you so your mother wouldn’t rotten your mind like she did the rest. But now, you were five and ten. Standing next to your uncle, Gwayne Hightower, whom you had spent all those years with in Oldtown.

Daemon couldn’t seem to keep his eyes off you, which is odd because it used to be Rhaenyra who drew his attention like a moth to a flame. The first time he’s seen you in ten years, and its at his late wife’s funeral, lady Laena Velaryon. He wondered about you, did you know valyrian? Did your dragon egg hatch? Were you still that same girl?

You avoided his gaze, but it made you nervous nonetheless. You weren’t close with Laena, but it still saddened when you heard of her death. As boring as Oldtown was, it meant you didn’t have to be wed to anyone. After hearing of the late Queen Aemma, and now Laena, you hoped you’d never have to experience childbirth. It deeply frightened you.

Shaking off your thoughts and daemons lingering gaze, you decided to focus back on Ser Vaemond, Laena's uncle and Lord Corlys's brother, as he spoke.

"Tubī Velario Lentro Ābrāzme Laene iēdrarta mōrqittot, māzīlarē tubirri Elēdrion ziry umīsilza luo dāriot, hannagon Embrurliot gierūlti.” We join today at the Seat of the Sea to commit the Lady Laena of House Velaryon to the eternal waters, the dominion of the Merling King, where He will guard her for all days to come.

Among the other mourners, your family also sailed to driftmark to attend the funeral. You allowed your gaze to shift to them for a moment, your eyes landing on your father, King Viserys Targaryen, next your mother, Queen Alicent Hightower, and then your siblings. Your younger sister, Helaena. Your younger brother Aemond, who like you, was without dragon. And your twin brother, who couldn’t be more different from you, Aegon. When you noticed Aegon snap his gaze towards you, you quickly looked away, focusing on someone else. Your half-sister, Rhaenyra.

You kept the most contact with her, unlike your mother, Rhaenyra always answered your letters. Updating you on everything that happened in the red keep, and on her family. But Rhaenyra’s gaze wasn’t on you, it was on Alicent.

You took her from the only home she's ever known, Rhaenyra thought bitterly, her throat tightened. You took her away from everyone, From Daemon, From Corlys, from Laenor... from me. But I won't let you deprive us of her like you did before. Not if I have anything to say about it.

Vaemond, while delivering the eulogy, could not resist looking at Rhaenyra's alleged sons with Laena's brother Laenor – Prince Jacaerys, Prince Lucerys, and the baby Prince Joffrey. The elder Velaryon knight felt his blood boil and his face twisted in a scowling disgust at the lack of resemblance to Laenor, they looked nothing like him. "Velario ānogro rȳ lopor ojāris.” Salt courses through Velaryon blood. he continues. "Īlvo qumblī iāris. Īlvo drējī iāris. Se dōrī vajiñagon īlvo bēvilis.” Ours runs thick. Ours runs true. And ours must never thin.

While Daemon is somewhat somber at his late wife's death, he cannot help but start giggling at Vaemond's pettiness in bringing this up now of all times. You, meanwhile, glanced briefly at your uncle, hearing his giggle. Corlys and Rhaenys also noticed the apparent disrespectful behavior during their daughter's funeral.

"Talus mandus ñuhus. Inkoso kostōbāpis aōhis jelmīs sagon, gīso lykāpas aōhas embis, se prūmȳsa lēdāpas aōhas manengīs. Hen embār masti. Va embrot āmāzīli.” My gentle niece. May your winds be as strong as your back, your seas be as calm as your spirit, and your nets be as full as your heart. From the sea we came. To the sea we shall return.

Gripping the ropes tightly, the Velaryon men-at-arms began gently pulling backward to slide Laena's stone coffin closer to the edge of Driftmark's coastal cliff before dropping into the sea, to rest beside her ancestors. Before long, the services slowly began to die down.

––––––––––––––––––––––––––

Following the funeral, the mourners solemnly make their way to the cliffside courtyard of High Tide castle for the wake. Despite the atmosphere being predominantly filled with awkward silences and strained conversations, the presence of seven Targaryen dragons currently bonded to their riders soared overhead, including the likes of Rhaenyra's Syrax, Daemon's Caraxes, Rhaenys's Meleys, Laenor's Seasmoke, Aegon’s Sunfyre, Helaena's Dreamfyre, and Baela's Moondancer. The gathering is a significant event, one that has earned Driftmark the nickname "New Valyria" among observers.

The only one that was not present now was Vhagar, the Queen of All Dragons. Many speculated the ancient dragon was not in attendance because of the emotional grief over outliving another rider; others suggest that Vhagar had returned to one of her nesting grounds in the Narrow Sea to live out the remainder of her life as a wild dragon. However, there were sights of Vhagar apparently bereaved near the dunes of Driftmark's sandy beaches.

Rhaenyra looked amongst the gathering before finding one of her sons, Lucerys

"Have you seen your father?" she asked.

Lucerys shook his head. "He said he wanted some alone time," he answered.

"Your little cousins have lost their mother. They could use a kind word. Go comfort them?" And without further words, the boy went over to his nieces.

Meanwhile Rhaenyra found you, alone staring out at the sea. “Sister.”, you could hear the smile in her voice, and sure enough, you looked over and she had half a smile on her face. “Rhaenyra” you acknowledged her softly, your voice gentle as always.

As you two caught up, Ser Criston spoke to Alicent. "Lyonel Strong's son's been staring at you since the moment we arrived, Your Grace. Unabashedly," Criston informed her.

"It is only a look of pride, Ser Criston," Alicent remarked coolly. "Larys is the new Lord of Harrenhal."

Viserys, on the other hand, glanced at his estranged younger brother Prince Daemon whom he hadn't seen in over a decade. There were so many things he wanted to say to him. They did not part ways on good terms when it became known that Daemon escorted Rhaenyra to a brothel – little did he know it was not the case. He took Rhaenyra to a brothel, yes, but he did not have sex with her.

––––––––––––––––––––––––––

As the skies began to darken with the arrival of dusk, King Viserys, like everyone else, began to retire for the evening. Ever exhausted with each step he took and Laena's death in childbirth clearly reminding him of his first wife's similar death years before, Viserys couldn't help but think of Aemma Arryn again. Oh, by the Gods, the king missed her so much. "I'm going to bed, Aemma," he accidentally said to his second wife.

Alicent looked quietly unnerved. "What did you just call me?" she said offended. Ser Harrold intervened. "Shall I send after Queen Alicent, Your Grace?" he gently corrected.

Viserys now realized who he was talking to. Trading glances between his second wife and Ser Harrold, he swears he was losing his mind. "No, Ser Harrold," the king declined and returned to the castle for a night's rest. "Very well, Your Grace," Harrold acknowledged. "You have the night's watch, Ser Criston," he instructed his subordinate.

Criston noticed the awkwardness as well. "Lord Commander," he acknowledged.

Alicent, however, curled her fists into a ball. How dare Viserys call her by his late wife's name? She was a living girl, and the king was still in love with a dead one! She was not going to forget such an insult.

Gwayne walked over to Alicent, guiding you along with him with a hand on your back. “Dear siste-“

“Why is she here? Take her back to Oldtown, i dont want her here.”

Your heart broke at Alicent’s words, you’d think she’d be happy to be reunited with her daughter after ten years, but alas.

––––––––––––––––––––––––––

From a distance, Aemond observed his surroundings. Qarl brought Laenor back to the courtyard, but the heir to Driftmark broke free from his lover's embrace and entered the castle alone, still grieving for Laena. As he watched them, Aemond heard a dragon's faint but mournful roar nearby - Vhagar, the Queen of All Dragons, the oldest and largest in Westeros. As per the stories, her flames were so intense that they could melt a knight's armor and cook him inside, she could devour a whole horse in one gulp, and her mighty roar could shake the very foundation of Storm's End.

« There are other options in case an egg doesn't hatch. You need to know where to look. »

Aemond, being a Targaryen without a dragon, recalled his fathers advice. Heeding Viserys’ words, Aemond realized that there were alternative means to become a dragonrider in the event of an unhatched dragon egg.

After ensuring that no one was around, the young prince took the opportunity to secretly trail Vhagar's outline as it flew close to one of Driftmark's sandbanks. Little did Aemond anticipate the consequences of his actions, which would go down in history as a controversial political scandal.

––––––––––––––––––––––––––

You were seated by the fireplace of your guest chambers when Ser Criston bursted into your chambers, “your mother has requested your presence in the hall, an incident has happened.”

Quickly pulling your nightly robes shut to make yourself decent, you follow Criston’s fast paces to the hall.

Upon entry, you see the hall divided, Rhaenyra, Daemon, both their children, Rhaenys and Lord Corlys on one side, your siblings, mother and the hightide maester, on the other. “What happene-“ you stop speaking when your eyes land on Aemond, one eye having just been sowed up by the maester. Your hand covers your mouth in shock as your eyes scan the room, wondering what the hell happened here. The room quickly went into disarray, everyone shouting at someone.

King Viserys rushed to the Hall of Nine upon receiving a warning from his grandchildren, but unfortunately, he arrived too late. The damage has already been done. He used his cane to demand silence and restore order. "How could you allow such a thing to happen? I will have answers!" he insisted, furious with the Kingsguard for not protecting princes of royal blood.

"The princes were supposed to be in bed, my king," Harrold informed. "That was until a certain dragon woke everybody up in Driftmark," Arryk mentioned. "Who had the night's watch?"

"Ser Criston did, Your Grace," Erryk answered. "The young prince was attacked by his own cousins, Your Grace," Criston protested.

"You swore oaths to protect and defend my blood!"

"I'm very sorry, Your Grace," Harrold apologized. "The Kingsguard has never had to defend princes from princes, Your Grace―" Criston tried protesting again. "THAT IS NO ANSWER!!" Viserys shouted angrily.

Alicent looked at her son. "It will heal, will it not, maester?" she inquired.

Maester Kevlyn shook his head. "The flesh will heal. But the eye is lost forever, Your Grace," he replied. "You," the queen turned to her firstborn son, your twin brother. "Where were you?!"

"Me?" Aegon answered obliviously. But he was soon slapped across the face. "Ow! What was that for?!" he complained.

"That was NOTHING compared to the abuse your brother suffered while you were drowning in your cups and lusting after the serving girls AGAIN, you bloody fool!"

“This is not the time to turn against each other” you warned your mother, stepping up for your twin, not that he deserved it.

"They attacked me!" Aemond shouted.

"You attacked Baela!" Jacaerys shouted back.

"He broke Luke's nose!" Baela chimed in. "He stole my mother's dragon!"

"He was going to kill Jace and Luke!" Rhaena accused. "IT SHOULD BE MY SON TELLING THE TALE!!" Alicent shouted.

All the children began talking over each other; Aemond claimed the other children attacked him, and the other children said they were only defending themselves. Otto stood in cold silence, while Daemon leaned against the wall with his arms crossed; although the Rogue Prince did not express himself, he was furious when he found out what his nephew had done to his daughters. Both parties kept going at it until King Viserys felt a headache coming.

"Enough... Enough!" King Viserys ordered.

"He called us―" Jacaerys tried to speak.

"Be quiet," Rhaenyra instructed silently. Then, when nobody went silent, Otto raised his voice. "HOLD YOUR TONGUES!!"

"SILENCE!!" King Viserys shouted.

The room went quiet as both voices boomed with firm, authoritative tones. "He called us bastards," Jacaerys whispered to his mother.

You, having heard what he said, turned your glare to aemond. Bloody fool you thought. You felt daemon near you, his breath hitting your neck and his hand on your back, using the moment to be near you.

"Aemond," Viserys limped over to his youngest son, "I will have the truth of what happened. Now."

"What else is there to hear?" Alicent angrily interjected. "Your son has been maimed. Their sons are responsible. Prince Lucerys brought a blade to the ambush. He meant to kill my son!"

"It was my sons who were attacked and forced to defend themselves! Vile insults were levied against them," she defended.

"What insults?" King Viserys inquired.

"The legitimacy of my sons' birth was put loudly into question. To question their birth is the highest of treasons. Prince Aemond must be sharply questioned so we might learn where he heard such slanders."

"Over an insult?" Alicent questioned. "My son LOST AN EYE!"

Now that he has been made aware of the rumors surrounding Jace, Luke, and Joffrey from his grandchildren, the king redirected his attention toward his wounded son. "You tell me, boy. Where did you hear this lie?" he asked.

"The insult was training yard bluster. The lot of boys. It was nothing," Alicent said. Viserys ignored her. "Aemond... I asked you a question," he reiterated. "Where is Ser Laenor, I wonder? The boys' father? Perhaps he might have something to say in the matter."

"Yes. Where is Ser Laenor?"

Rhaenyra felt the eyes drawn on her. "I do not know, Your Grace. I... could not find sleep. I had gone out to walk," she feigned ignorance.

"Entertaining his young squires, I would venture," Alicent snidely remarked. "That's enough out of you," Rhaenys warned harshly. Corlys glared at the queen as well over this insult. Criston smirked but ceased when he noticed Harrold staring at him.

"Aemond... look at me. Your king demands an answer. Who told these lies to you?" The king asked for the third time. “Aemond," you stared at him, "your king is speaking to you. Answer him."

Aemond, with only one eye remaining, felt his breathing tremble. Both his father and eldest sister were pressuring him. But after a tense moment looking towards his mother, he decided to speak. "It was Aegon," he answered.

"Me?" Your twin asked with disbelief at the insinuation that his brother used him as a scapegoat.

King Viserys turned to his second son and approached him. "And you, boy?" he said to his face. "Where did you hear such calumnies?" he asked. No answer. "AEGON!" he shouted again. "Tell me the truth of it!"

"We know, father. Everyone knows. Just look at them. They don't look anything like us."

"Doesn't mean you can insult them like that!" You shouted at your twin. "hush," Alicent said to you firmly. “Do you believe such lies?” Viserys now turned to you, his eldest daughter.

You hated this, seeing your ailing father like this, hoping for an answer. "I... can't deny i’ve heard the rumors as well, father," you spoke slowly. "It's not uncommon for Targaryens to not share our physical traits. Take, for example, Princess Rhaenys's mother, Lady Jocelyn, who was born a Baratheon. Despite not resembling us at first glance, your cousin proved herself once she reached adulthood. So is it fair to discriminate against a family based solely on their appearance, trueborn or no?"

Jacaerys and Lucerys both looked at their aunt, who spoke up in defense on their behalf. Meanwhile alicent glared, how dare her daughter speak up in defense of rhaenyra’s family.

Viserys was beside himself. How could things deteriorate so badly with his family? He turned to Rhaenyra, his only surviving child from his first marriage. His daughter shielded her sons, but kept a stoic expression at him. The king then turned to his second wife. "This interminable infighting must cease!" he shouted, distraught. "All of you! Now make your apologies and show goodwill to one another. Your father, your grandfather, your king demands it!"

"Aemond has been damaged permanently, my king. 'Goodwill' cannot make him whole." Alicent hisses, making you clench your jaw. Let it rest mother, please, you pleaded with your eyes. “I cannot restore his eye” Viserys spoke.

"No, because it's been TAKEN!"

"What would you have me do then?"

"There is a debt that needs to be paid." Alicent turned to Rhaenyra and her sons. "I shall have one of her son's eyes in return." Rhaenyra immediately moved her sons Jacaerys and Lucerys behind her. "Alicent, stop! Enough! Do not... allow your temper to guide your judgment," viserys yelled.

"Your Grace," you addressed your father disappointingly, "I fear the queen is not in the right state of mind." Not that she ever was in the beginning, of course. Viserys knew there was no going back.

Alicent, upon regaining her composure, saw red hearing her daughter speak about her in such a way. "So be it. If the king will not seek justice, the queen will. Ser Criston... bring me the eye of Lucerys Velaryon," she ordered. "Mother!" Lucerys screamed. "He can choose which eye to keep, a privilege he did not grant my son."

"You will do no such thing," Rhaenyra warned.

Viserys turned to Criston. "Stay your hand!" he commanded.

"No, you are sworn to me!" Alicent yelled. "As your sworn protector, my queen," Ser Criston said.

"This matter... is finished. Do you both understand?" Viserys turned to face the gathered assembly. "And let it be known, anyone whose tongue dares to question the birth of Princess Rhaenyra's sons should have it removed."

"Thank you, father," Rhaenyra sighed.

Alicent, still shaking with fury that Viserys had apparently once again chosen his children's side over hers, refused to accept this. When the king's back was turned, the queen quickly snatched the Valyrian steel dagger from his belt and rushed across the room toward the ones responsible for maiming her son. "Your Grace! Stay with the king," Harrold beckoned.

"Alicent!" Viserys shouted.

"Hold your approach!"

"Sister, look out!" You warned, while moving forward to get in between your mother, who was charging to your sister, or lucerys. Or both.

As Alicent’s blood-curdling scream flooded the room, before she could reach them, You moved as fast as you could to block her. However, Alicent had gotten too close by then and stabbed you in the left shoulder with the dagger.

You growled in pain. But held on firmly by grabbing Alicents shoulder with your right hand and her wrist with the left. No matter the momentum, you forcibly stopped Alicent in her tracks and restrained her.

“Sister!” Rhaenyra yelled in shock.

Criston moved to Alicent but was held back.

"Do not, Ser Criston!" Harrold warned.

Daemon unsheathed Dark Sister and pointed it at the Kingsguard knight. Soon enough, the Rogue Prince and Lord Commander prevented Criston from helping the queen as more Kingsguard moved to restrain him. "Stay your hand, Cole!" Harrold reiterated. "Now, do you see what your queen has done?" Daemon asked. "You are a fool, Ser Crispin."

You suddenly gripped tighter. Slowly turning her head to meet Alicent’s gaze, the Young Dragon's pale lilac eyes burned with the fireplace's illuminating hue. You slowly raised Alicent’s hand, holding the Valyrian steel dagger out of your shoulder, the blade covered in your blood to the hilt. "Let them see you for who and what you are," you pushed against her. "An insignificant, disloyal, power-hungry wretch with no shame or guilt." Then, once you felt the dagger removed from your shoulder, you began twisting alicent’s wrist. "I bet that felt good, keeping up the facade hmm? Not so confident now, are you? The only loyalty you have is to yourself.”

Viserys limped closer, stunned by what he had seen: his second wife tried to go after his daughter, and grandchildren, but it was his second eldest daughter who withstood the worst of it with her blood. You coldly stared at your father, disappointed in him. Your blood stained your outer gown, and dripping blood trickled on the floor. Daemon, Rhaenyra, Rhaenys and Corys were quick to surround you. Daemon holding you softly, already looking at the wound you suffered.

The room falls silent; then everyone leaves for the night.

Aemond steps forward and, despite the grievous injury to his face, shows no ounce of remorse for what he did. “Do not mourn me, mother. It was a fair exchange. I may have lost an eye... but I gained a dragon.”

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The next morning daemon sat across from you, as the maester sowed your shoulder and tried his hardest to mend the wound. Daemon was furious at you, for putting yourself in harms way. “You shouldn’t have done that.”

“And then what? Let alicent hurt sweet luke? Let her cut out his eye?”

“You got hurt!”

You scoff, “i’ll live.”

Daemon sighs, “Come back to dragonstone with us, with me, Kostilus.” Please.

@just-some-random-blogger LOOK HANNAH, I DID ITTT 🫂

it is open to a part 2 if people want it (i didnt realize til now that theres barely any daemon x reader moments)

explore post. masterlist.

please comment and reblog if you enjoyed. <3