#they scooped the marrow out of his bones to make them lighter

[dragons-socks]

Baby Bumblebee chptr 4

////////Six Months Later\\\\\\\\\

Bee was walking home from school. Lennox and Ironhide were hunting down Decepticons in Europe, so he didn’t really have a ride today, which was fine. He didn’t mind not going back to the house when Lennox or Ironhide wasn’t there. It’s not that Bee didn’t like Sarah or Annabell, but they just didn’t really get each other. Annabell tried to poke at every nerve Bumblebee had, just testing his patience. And Sarah either babied him too much or acted as if he should already know how to do some complex human thing.

And then there was school. Apparently, Sarah was right about his name. Though Bee still didn’t understand how a girl in his class can be named ‘jasmine’ after a flower, but to be called after the insect that lets that flower grow and flourish… that’s taking it too weird? Not to mention no one in the institute knows morse code, and only a few, including his teacher know sign language. The school said they’d set him up with an interpreter. That has yet to be seen.

“Oh, hey, you’re Honey Bee, right?” Bumblebee jumped as a boy his physical age tapped him on the shoulder. Bee pulled out a small keyring of flash card that said common phrases to help him interact with people who couldn’t understand his other forms of communications. He tapped on the one with his actual name on it. “Oh, well I’m Raven.”

Bee made a saluting gesture; instead of his hand being horizontal and pushed in front of him, his palm was vertical and facing out while his hand moved away to the side of his temple. Then, Bee finger-spelt the boy’s name. Raven looked at his hands with wide eyes.

“Woah, you really can’t speak, can you?” Raven asked. Bee let out angry trills, glaring at the boy. He started to walk faster, getting away from the human. “No, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it like that!”

Bee chittered, turning around and raising an eyebrow. You have one chance.

“I just didn’t want to believe Harvey. He’s always making up things about other people. My mom says he’s a bully.” Raven rambled. Bee nodded in agreement. Harvey was a larger kid in his class who kept trying to pick fights and make fun of Bumblebee. Bee would hand the kid’s ass to him, but he was still an Autobots and harming humans was still a big ‘no’ in his books. “We should be friends. I see you like Voltron. My favorite is the red lion, but the yellow one is alright too.”

Bumblebee shrugged, not knowing what this ‘Voltron’ was, but decided not to try to confuse the other with too complex interactions. This is the most pleasant conversation he’s had since being forced to partake in the human learning institution.

Soon Raven had to split off to go to his own home, but made Bee promise to meet up tomorrow to walk to school. Bee felt lighter for some reason, almost like he wasn’t so alone. Annabell picked up on his good mood as soon as he entered the house. A toy sailed through the air and whacked him in the forehead.

“Hey, Bee.” She smiled.

“Annabell, stop throwing toys. Go sit in the corner.” Sarah gawked. This turned into a ten minute scream-cry feast in which Annabell was forced to spend time in the corner for longer than her original sentence. Bumblebee was already set up at the table by this point, pulling out his homework. “How was school, Bee?” The woman said as she signed the words.

‘Good, I meet a new friend. His name is Raven.’ Bee signed, his feet kicking in the open air under the table.

“Oh, that’s nice, what did you guys talk about?” Sarah leaned over the counter, ruffling Bee’s hair. He huffed and waved her hand away.

‘He kept talking about some lion-show called Voltage or something? Said I liked it too, but I don’t know why he would think that.’

“You mean Voltron? Your bookbag is designed to look like one of the characters on the show. He probably thought you got the bag because you liked the show, not because it was yellow and black.” She explained, lifting up the bag in question. On the back in vinyl letters did read ‘Voltron’. “We could watch it. So you know what your friend is talking about.”

Bee shrugged at this. He’s tried to watch human entertainment, but nothing really caught his interest. Well, he’s only really seen whatever the Witwicky’s watched, and that was just through their living room window as he was parked in their driveway. Recently, Annabell has been making him watch her shows, which were all about learning numbers, colors, and being nice. At least she has her numbers and colors down.

“Yeah, it can be our thing, when you’re done with your homework we can watch a few episodes.” Sarah nodded to herself.

Annabell was returned from her sentencing. She shuffled up to Bumblebee, holding out the wooden block that she had thrown at him earlier.

“M’sorry, Bee.” She toed at the ground and gave him large puppy dog eyes. Bee huffed and took the block from her. He’s learned pretty fast to accept her peace offerings or have her throw another tantrum.

‘Yeah, I’m sure you are.’ Bee signed back. Annabell jumped around to her mom.

“Mom, what did he say?” Sarah shook her head at the young autobot. “He said, ‘apology accepted’.”

It didn’t take long to finish the easy equations or sentence structures his teachers assigned for his class. As soon as he put his work back into his bag, Sarah ushered him onto the couch and turned on their television.

“Get comfortable, sweetie, the first episode is the longest.” Bee wrapped himself in the yellow blanket that he’s since claimed as his own. As the episode went on, Bee found himself drawing parallels of his own life and the autobots to those of these characters. He was so immersed into this stupid cartoon that he didn’t even notice that Lennox had arrived and sat down next to his wife. Not until the episode was paused.

‘HEY!’ Bumblebee turned to Sarah, jumping a little when Lennox was also there.

“Hey to you too, kid.” Lennox said, his voice thick and his face contorted into worry. Bumblebee sat up.

‘Is Ironhide okay?’ Bee signed, trying to twist out of his cocoon to get a better look outside for the mech.

“He’s fine, Bee. But I do have some bad news. The Decepticons found the base. The Autobots had to be relocated and for your safety, we might not be getting their new location.”

‘But what about Ironhide? He still needs Energon to function. How will I find them once we’ve figured out how to change me back?’ Bee asked.

“They don’t think there’s a cure for you, Bee. Optimus thought it best to cut ties. Don’t worry about Ironhide. We’re still going to get shipments of Energon for him.” Lennox pulled Bee into his chest. Bee didn’t have room to sign his frustrations, but he also didn’t have energy to fight off his prison of warm arms. Instead he let Lennox’s voice swirl around his own thoughts that wanted to drown him.

_______________

Bee slipped out of the house. The moon, street lamps, and his blinking shoe steps were his only light to navigate out of the neighborhood and try to find his way back to Optimus. The mech might not want him, but that was where he belonged, and he wasn’t going to take no for an answer.

It wasn’t the first time that he realized that walking was much more time consuming than driving. This was just another time that the notion ingrained itself into his head. This was the first time Bumblebee found himself walking for a long time after sunset. It seemed to take longer in the dark. It took so much longer to reach the school than it usually does.

Maybe it wasn’t the darkness of night that had Bumblebee shuffling his feet. Maybe it was the thought of seeing Optimus and the others after a month of not seeing them. Maybe it was the knowledge that this was in direct opposition of Optimus’s orders. This is the most rebellious he’s been in a long time. Bumblebee finds his feet stopping. He looks around and realizes he’s walked himself all the way just a house past Sam’s. The chill has already settled into his skin, but he’s just noticed his minutely shivers. His teeth are chattering, and he feels tired seeping into the very marrow of his human bones. His feet and legs ache. It must have been half the night gone by now.

A rumbling sound brings the rest of the world back into focus. Cars race towards him, screeching to a halt and boxing him in. At first he thinks its normal bad humans, until he recognizes the cars and notices the Decepticons’ insignias.

“I don’t get it.” Starscream’s voice is audible from his vehicular mode. “There is but a human child where the signal emits. No energon, no Autobots. Nothing.”

Bumblebee’s heart spikes. He backs away from Megatron’s right-hand. The other ‘Cons have switched back to their natural state. They leer down at Bumblebee. One even tries to grab at him. He rolls to the side, and books it for a crack in their formation. Breakdown snagged Bee’s leg, scooping him upside-down, before he could make it. Bee kept hissing and sputtering at the Cons, but they weren’t intimidated.

“It appears, Starscream, that the boy is the origin of the signal. Maybe Knockout’s weapon wasn’t as defective as we had first thought. This human child does have a striking resemblance to their mute scout.” Breakdown muses.

Bee lets out sharp whistles, hoping the sleeping humans around them will awaken, but its almost no use. His vision starts to blur as the Cons start moving away. He doesn’t know what to do. He starts pushing against the metal fist around his leg, but with each shove the only result is his palms getting hotter.

Bumblebee can feel in his gut that Breakdown is about to shift. He can hear the t-cog clicking its gears in the split second preparation of turning into the alt mode. Bee panics, pulling his arm as far back as he could and smacking hard onto Breakdown’s grip. Instead of being halted by the warm living metal, his hand pushed in with no resistance. A shot of blue energy cut a path from his hand to the open sky. Breakdown drops Bee on the ground in surprise. Bee is able to twist himself to land on his back rather than just his head. He ignores the searing pain of smacking into the asphalt and scrambles away from his capture. The other Cons make a quick double-back, but not before Bee is on his feet. His palms and fingers tingle from the heat, but are unharmed from the powerful blast-ray. Cons surround him. He pulls his arm back and lets out another blast, sweeping his arm in an arc and taking out a line of the enemies, and also some of the residential appliances.

“Bee?” It’s Sam’s voice as he scampers out of his house in a shirt and boxers. “Where’s Lennox? Why are you here?” Bee doesn’t answer. He can’t answer. He sidesteps a blast from the Cons. Its not enough, Bee is grabbed again. His arms are pinned to his side in Starscream’s hand.

“I’ve got him, retreat.” Starscream proclaimed, ignoring Bee’s chitters and Sam’s shouts. A ground bridge was opened a few feet away. Starscream watched his men walk into the portal before turning to Sam with a viscous grin. “Till the next time, Witwick-”

Bee was once again hitting the ground. His back is singing and his ears are ringing from the gunshot. His vision is blurry, but he can still make out Mikaela cocking back a rifle as Sam ran to him. Sam carefully moved Bee away from the Decepticon, who was clutching his shot-up hand. There was a moment where it looked like Starscream was going to exact revenge. Luckily the portal behind him started to close and if he wanted a ride back home he couldn’t fight the humans. Everyone sighed with relief until they looked down at Bee.

The worried shouts of his friends were cut short as Bee’s small body finally gave it quits and fell asleep.

[thewhumperinwhite]

Soulmate Drabble

Okay listen, my explanation for this is, because they meet younger in Soulmate AU, Sol hasn’t been on T as long, and also ow ow ow ow ow

TW for: gender dysphoria, bathroom language, menstruation and all that entails. Also brief reference to Kent’s suicide attempt.

Not tagging anybody directly in this because i have no idea if it is for anybody except Me Personally and it isn’t even really whump

----

Sol doesn’t even make a conscious decision not to say anything. It isn’t like it’s a secret. Yes, saying it out loud does objectively make it worse, makes him use words that shouldn’t be his anymore, goddamn it, but he isn’t really thinking about that, at least not consciously. He just scrubs out the toilet--not because he’s hiding the evidence, but because he cares about cleanliness, and also possibly because it’s been a little while since he’s had to share a bathroom with anyone--and makes a mental note to whine to his endocrinologist.

Later. When he isn’t feeling--the way he’s feeling now.

There’s a fog that takes over when this happens, that fills his brain up and hovers between him and anybody else, and it’s--it’s thicker and worse every time, because he always hated this but the feeling that it’s supposed to go away somehow makes it worse; he handled it fine before, really only worried about it when it meant he had to open packaging in public restrooms, but it’s worse now, is so much not a part of who he is now, which is to say that he emerges from the bathroom deep inside his own head and doesn’t notice Kent pause at the window where he’s fussing with his plants; part of him probably sees Kent stop and turn back to him with a look somewhere between confusion and concern, but he doesn’t have the brain space to make anything of it.

Even separate from whatever he feels about it emotionally, Sol’s periods have always hit him like a ton of bricks.

He could, if he wanted, flop dramatically over the arm of the couch and moan loudly and curse the heavens or whatever, but his experience has been that it doesn’t fucking help, so he sits down like a human being instead, and turns on the TV with full knowledge he is not going to watch whatever’s on.

“Hey,” Kent’s voice says softly from directly over Sol’s shoulder, and he jumps a little; he fully had not realized Kent was hovering behind the couch looking worried. “You okay?” 

He blinks at Kent. Kent is still holding the little ceramic watering can they bought him at Goodwill last week. It’s shaped like a little bird, and the details are painted in summer-sky blue, which is Kent’s color. The plants were Sol’s idea--he didn’t say to Kent, “hey, you better stay alive to take care of these plants,” but he thinks the implication was clear--and the little pitcher was Pax’s contribution, and Sol doesn’t think either of them expected Kent to love it so much, like no one had ever given him a gift before.

“Yeah,” Sol says, and he isn’t even lying on purpose; Kent is standing there with his bandaged wrists and Sol is immediately not thinking about his own bullshit anymore. “What’s up, baby, you need anything?”

Kent frowns at him, like he’s confused. “No,” he says slowly, like he’s waiting for Sol to say something. “You--are you sure you’re okay, Sol? I thought--I can--are you sick, or something?”

Sol stares at Kent blankly for a second, and then he is on his feet and staring at his Soulmate with absolute horror, because Kent can feel his pain.

Which he fucking knows, which shouldn’t be a fucking revelation, Kent must’ve always been sensitive but now that they’re together he’s a fucking feelings bloodhound, and there is--there is no logical reason why that should be sending violent spikes of panic through his already-roiling stomach now, when Sol already knew he could do that, and yet--and yet that’s exactly what’s happening; Sol is standing here staring at the mild concern on Kent’s face and feeling his pulse hammer in his ears and his breath speed up.

“None of your fucking business,” he practically snarls.

Kent blinks at him, and to his infinite credit, does not crumble like a puppy that’s been yelled at, which he would absolutely be within his rights to do, just looks at Sol like he’s got no idea what he’s talking about and says, “Huh?” 

Which is exactly what Sol needs, it turns out. Because now he remembers he’s not talking to kids at school, or even to some nebulous idea of a Soulmate he spent years worrying would call him a girl, he’s talking to Kent, who cried when Sol bought him a spider plant and is objectively more feminine than he is and also loves him.

Sol laughs once, feeling his shoulders loosen, and scrubs his hand over his face, a little embarrassed now. “Sorry, man,” he says ruefully. “I just, uh, you know.” He gestures vaguely at himself. “Cramps.”

Kent blinks at him, and then his eyes widen in sympathy, which makes Sol tense a little. “You--wait, really? It feels awful.” 

Sol laughs again, in spite of himself. That’s--okay, he can’t put his finger on why, but that’s the right response, that feels good. “Yeah,” he says. “Fucking murderous, right? Always have been.” He smiles at Kent, who looks faintly ill, even at the second-hand version of the pain. “I get, fucking--my legs get all funny, too. Like somebody scraped out my bone marrow with an ice cream scoop.”

“Ugh,” Kent moans, which was the intention. Sol grins at him and flops back on the couch, feeling--well, physically still awful, but a lot lighter, mentally. “Can I help? Do you need anything?” He comes around the front of the couch so Sol can see him shake his head and wrinkle his nose. “I can’t even feel it properly and I hate it.”

“Nope,” Sol says cheerfully. “Nothin’ to do now but wait it out, baby.”

Kent does flop dramatically over the arm of the couch, sliding in next to Sol. “That’s awful, man.”

Sol grins and wraps his arms around Kent’s shoulders so he can pull him properly into his lap. “Your sympathy changes nothing,” he lies easily. He can’t stop smiling, now. “You are useful only as a heating pad. C’mere.”

“You’re warmer than me,” Kent points out, while he obligingly arranges himself between Sol’s knees, with his chest against Sol’s stomach and his head a warm perfect weight over Sol’s heart.

Kent really isn’t a good heating pad--he runs cold from being so skinny, and he’s all elbows. But the pain feels thinner for being spread around, easier to see through. And Sol’s chest is more than warm enough for the two of them now, anyway.

----

Pax comes back a half-hour later with their arms full of groceries and finds both their soulmates half-asleep on the couch, in a tangle of arms and legs. Kent opens one eye to look at them without moving an inch.

“We’re having cramps,” he tells them.

“Ah,” Pax says solemnly. They disappear in the kitchen for almost a full thirty seconds before they come back with a heated rice pillow Sol knows he didn’t used to own. “Budge up,” they say.

Sol rolls his eyes and sits up just enough for Pax to slide in behind him and pass him the little warm pillow. Kent makes a happy noise when Sol tucks it between them, enjoying the warmth.

Sol leans back against Pax’s chest. Pax tucks their arm around him, and changes the TV neither Sol nor Kent has been watching to some wrestling match they’re somehow interested in.

Fair enough, Sol figures, sleepy and warm, inside and out.

[fierypen37]

Virtue a Veil, Vice a Mask Chapter 8

Chapter 8

 Jon cursed his lurching belly for the thousandth time. After falling into an exhausted sleep after dinner, he woke during the hour of the wolf to retch. Again. Even the fresh air above deck was no solace. Sleep was beyond him, thus he paced the deck. The damned sea churned beneath them, though the captain had been quick to reassure them that the weather was fine for sailing. The food was enough to turn his stomach—an overboiled pottage of grain and leeks. The berth bed was too small. Not that he minded sharing space with his wife. Still, he was unable to seek a more comfortable spot for fear of waking her.

His poor love. She suffered so much in her life. And yet, despite it, her heart shone bright and pure as a star. Gods, a festering rage boiled in his guts. He wanted rain fire and blood on those that had wronged her, exact every second of pain they’d inflicted on her tenfold on them. The love he held for her, so sweet and young yet, deepened into a fierce tenderness. A wave made the ship list drunkenly to one side and his thrice-damned stomach churned.

“Fuck,” Jon said, before retching up the remnants of the grain and leek pottage. He spit in the sea, rinsed his mouth with wine from his wineskin and spit again. The wine was weak and thin, more vinegar than any true vintage, but small sips washed the acrid taste from his mouth. Jon mopped the clammy sweat from his face on his cuff. The helmsman hummed some song in bastard Valyrian, another crewman cursed at a tangle of rope. Jon rested his chin on his folded arms, gazing at the waxing paring of the moon, falling now as dawn neared. The sky above was cloudless, stars shining cold. If he squinted behind them, he could make out the Ice Dragon. Ahead, he saw the Stallion galloping across the sky. The sharp salt smell of open water, the cool kiss of the breeze. Yes, if it wasn’t for his damnable stomach, then he could consider sailing to be pleasant.

Jon ambled along the deck, a fog of weariness blurring the edges of the world. The hours wore on as he walked. The moon sank toward the sea, the stars began to fade as dawn approached beyond the ship’s brow. A glory of colors: the black softening into indigo, then cerulean, seashell pinks and a brilliant limning of gold.

The captain approached him as the sun peeked over the horizon, a squat man with a long black beard.

“You’re up early, ser. Belly still troubling you?” he said in a thick Pentoshi accent, his voice sympathetic. Jon’s back went up regardless, disliking the implied mockery.

“Better today, ser. Thank you.” If the captain heard the ice in his tone, he chose to ignore it.

“A fine day for sailing,” he remarked, thumbs tucked into his belt.

“Indeed. My wife and I thank you for allowing us passage,” Jon said politely. The captain murmured something in reply, but Jon barely heard him. It felt as if his skull had been stuffed with cotton. He paused at the bucket of freshwater. Instead of risking waking Daenerys to groom, Jon finger-combed his hair, dashed ice-cold water on his face and rinsed his mouth.  

In their cabin, Daenerys had her back to him, bent straightening the bedclothes. Jon’s mind was wiped clean at the sight of her ripe buttocks in those leather trousers. Gods, she was glorious. Jon felt a tug low in his belly, the mild strain of their recent abstinence piquing his hunger all the more. She hadn’t yet done her hair in their usual complicated braids, it hung nearly to her waist in a thick wavy silver tumble. Starlight on the sea. He loved her hair. Combing it, tugging it as he thrust—The lurid imagining was broken by her turning at the sound of the door. She smiled, folding her cloak neatly.

“Good morning, Husband. Are you feeling better?”

Jon cleared his throat.

“Much the same, but I’ll be all right.”

Daenerys set aside the folding and cupped his cheek. Those lovely big eyes, long-lashed and the color of twilight. A concerned frown marred her brow. The burn of desire deepened into devotion.  

“You look tired. Did you sleep at all?”

“A bit.”

Daenerys made a low sound of sympathy, standing on tiptoe to drop a sweet little kiss on his nose. Jon wound his arms around her. It felt so right to have her in the circle of his arms. Like home. Daenerys nuzzled his chest with happy little sigh.

“I’m surprised to see you awake so early, Wife. Yesterday, I had to coax you from the bower like a yearling,” he teased.

Daenerys snickered, pinching his arse in reproach. Resting her chin on his chest, she peered up at him from beneath her lashes.

“Take it as a mark of how I esteem you, my dragon. I will seek you out before my morning tea.” Jon failed to stifle his grin at her casual endearment.

“‘My dragon?’” he repeated. A charming blush bloomed on the apples of her cheeks.

“Do you like it? You just have so many lovely names for me, I wanted to--”

Jon stemmed the surge of anxious words with a kiss. Mm, yes. That delicious yielding. She opened to him like a flower. The silky glide of her tongue, the eager little noises she fed him. Her arms wound around his neck, fingernails lightly scraping his neck. He was drunk on her, aflame with need. He would be her dragon. Her protector, her companion, her mount. Yes, yes, she could ride him as often as she pleased. A demented thought presented the image of just that: Jon tied to the bed, helpless and hard, ready for her to fuck at her leisure. Despite his mutinous stomach, despite his weariness, his cock had some very definite ideas of how to show his wife how he cherished her and any sweet name she wished to call him.

The pitch of the ship beneath their feet aided him a bit too strongly when he nudged her back. Daenerys staggered, catching herself against the berth bed with her elbow.

“Fuck. I’m sorry, love. The damnable ship--”

Daenerys shook her head in impatience, reaching for him.

“Come here, Jon.” That husky tone, the stern command had his stiff cock twitching. Hard and hungry and all hers. Jon fell forward into the cage of her arms, braced over her on the bed. The kiss was ravenous, a heated battle of tongues. Yes, he loved the teasing flicks of her tongue along the roof of his mouth. Jon angled his head, sucking gently of her tongue. Her fingernails bit sharp into the back of his neck, hips bucking against his. So sweetly responsive. Heat pounded thick through his veins. He could do this forever. Just kiss her. The heat and pleasure of it stunned and staggered him. Should he tell her she was his first kiss as well? Raised amongst guards and cousins, Jon had never even danced with a girl except at the occasional feast. Even then, there was always Uncle and Aunt Catelyn, watching with bright, avid eyes to see if a northern girl caught his interest.

Daenerys. He was fated to be hers and only hers. Jon smoothed his hands down her body, cupping the soft heft of her breast. Even through the smallclothes and tunic, her nipple pebbled beneath his careful plucking. Daenerys wound her legs around him, drawing his hips into the cradle of hers. As they kissed, they rocked together, aided by the ship’s roil. Yes. Yes. Even through their clothes, pleasure crackled like a stoked fire. Jon could scoop her up, fuck her hard against the wall . . .

No, no, no. Not even a hint of roughness today. Not after what she told him. Daenerys deserved his tenderness. All the pleasure her body could stand. Jon pulled back, breath heaving. His fingers fumbled with the laces of her trousers. With a husky laugh, Daenerys helped him, peeling off the butter-soft leather trousers. Jon pried her thighs apart, already salivating for the taste of her.

“Jon, wait. Wait. Are you sure? Your stomach--”

Jon grinned, nipping her thigh.

“Trust me Dany, your honey is all the sustenance I need.” Daenerys bit her lip, an over-bright shine to her eyes. His wife, his love. She was so surprised by pleasure, by care. Jon would change that, he resolved to himself. Lavish her with love and pleasure until she knew in her bones, in her marrow that she was worthy of it.

Jon bent to his task. He spent some time kissing the tender skin of her thighs, nuzzling her dark blond curls, breathing in the strong musky smell of her. Mm, her nether lips were swollen, flushed, and he’d barely kissed her. Daenerys carded her fingers through his hair lovingly. Jon’s heart gave a sharp twist inside him. Dany. He spread her open with his tongue, seeking more of that wonderful musky-sweet taste. Her cunt was so beautiful, a glass garden flower with petals in gradients of pink and red and scarlet. He wanted to overwhelm her with pleasure. Jon lapped at her nether lips alternating between broad and pointed strokes, listening to every catch of breath. He fisted himself, stroking roughly through his trousers. Yes, yes yes--

“Lighter, love. Gently,” she whispered. Jon kissed her thigh in apology. In his excitement, his strokers were too fast, too rough. He began again. Gentle on her sensitive little pearl of flesh. He licked in patient strokes, soft and slow, sliding one finger inside her, then another. Snug, plush flesh, slick with her honey. His mouth watered for more. Dany answered him with a broken litany of his name, begging for more. Oh fuck yes. Dany arched beneath him in climax, her muscles spasming around his finger. Jon groaned against her, easing her through it with gentle kisses. His cock ached, yearning for her. Dany’s dark violet eyes met his. Jon held her gaze as he kept at her, urging her on. Dany whimpered. He could feel the tension building and building again, quicker and sharper than before. Yes, almost . . . Daenerys’s cry was hoarse as she came again.  

“Seven hells,” Jon muttered. Gods, watching her writhe under his ministrations soaked his brain in fire. He had to, he had to—he fumbled with the laces of his trousers. His cock throbbed in the cooler air, the head seeping fluid. He stroked himself, to clear a little space. Her pleasure was paramount. Jon kissed her cunt messily, drenching his beard in her honey. Daenerys’ heels dug into his back, her hands tangled in his fistfuls of his hair. Riding his face.    

“Yes, Jon. My love, my dragon, my husband. I love you, I love you,” she said, hoarse and wrecked underneath him. Awkward with his left hand, Jon squeezed the base of his cock, overwrought. Desperate, Jon lapped at her pearl again, curling his fingers inside her. Once more, he needed her to come once more. The cadence of her breathing was harsh, gasping, tension quivering through her muscles. Yes love, yes Daenerys. Come for me. Come!

“Jon!” Daenerys arched beneath him. Her pleasure touched his like a match to a wick and he was ablaze with it. Heat and pleasure and glory. When Jon returned to himself, he was slumped against her thigh, come sticky on his hand, belly and trousers.

“Gods, Jon. You’re incredible,” Daenerys said, tugging him up to lay draped boneless on her chest. Jon hummed happily, his mind blank and empty. Though bare-arsed and sticky with sweat and come, Jon couldn’t convince himself to care, not with Daenerys warm and sweet in his arms, peppering his face with little kisses. They whiled away several minutes nuzzling and kissing. Sleep beckoned.

“Wait a moment, my dragon,” Daenerys crooned, wiggling free of his embrace. Jon grumbled, but rolled away, watching her as she rose to fetch a cloth from beside the ewer.

“Let me tend you,” she said. Tenderly, she washed him, adjusted his clothes, and tucked the blankets around him.

“Sleep awhile,” she said, kissing his lips. Jon fell into sleep with a smile on his face.

The warm scent of bread woke him. Jon stirred, cracking open one eyelid to find Daenerys sitting cross-legged on the floor, supping on toasted white bread and crumbly cheese. His stomach gave a long liquid growl.

“Good morning, slugabed. Hungry?”

“Ravenous,” he said with wink as he rolled free of the berth bed. Daenerys giggled. Jon sipped ginger tea and nibbled on the warm bread, grateful to feel it settle in his belly without a fuss.

“How long did I sleep?”

“Maybe a watch? It’s not yet midday,” Daenerys said. Jon nodded as he chewed. Missandei had performed her magic, twisting Daenerys’s hair into its usual intricate braids. Something was missing.

“Where is your wedding ribbon?” Jon asked. Daenerys gave a sheepish smile, wagging where it lay twisted around her wrist.

“I spilled tea on it this morning. I’m letting it dry.”

Jon nodded.  

“How do you feel?” Daenerys asked, a trace of anxiety marring her brown. Jon captured her hand and kissed the palm, as he had in the Red Keep. A lover’s kiss.

“Much better. Especially since I had my dessert earlier,” he said. Daenerys blushed, her gaze skittering away. Who knew he could turn a fierce dragons queen into a blushing maid? Still, Jon felt a hint of disquiet.

“What is it?”

Daenerys busied her hands with tidying their breakfast.

“It’s nothing.”

Jon stopped her, drawing her to sit directly across from him. He cradled her cheek.

“Tell me, love.”

Daenerys chewed on her lower lip. Such a distracting habit. Jon’s gaze fell to her lips. He hadn’t kissed her enough today. Not nearly enough. Her answer startled him.

“You’re just so . . . so generous.” From her tone, he gathered it wasn’t coin she meant. Jon frowned. Had he done something wrong?

“Is that bad?”

Daenerys’ hands tightened around his.

“No, of course not. I just . . . I feel selfish.” Now Jon did utter a snort.

“Though I haven’t known you long, I can say with confidence that you are not selfish. In bed, or out. Your people love you, that means you put their needs before your own. And with me . . .” Heat stung his cheeks. Gods, why was is so strange to speak of it when he’d fucked her with his fingers only a couple hours ago?

“You—You are exceptionally generous with me. Do you truly think I’m not enjoying myself?” There was a heartbreaking doubt embroidering her expression.

“My former husband--” Jon stoppered the words she was about to say with a gentle fingertip.

“Is dead,” he said with some savagery, “Ash. You are mine. And it is my joy to give you pleasure.”  With something like a sob, Daenerys fell into his arms.

“I love you,” she whispered against his neck. Jon stroked her back.

“I love you too,” he said, “no more talk of being selfish.”  

The day wore on. Jon sat with Daenerys in their cabin, his head pillowed on her lap. Their conversation meandered to simple things. Horses, food, music. Her dragons. The places she’d seen. Stories of King’s Landing and Winterfell and all the lands in between. Uncle and Aunt Catelyn and his cousins.

“When he fled Dragonstone after my mother died giving birth to me, Ser Darry took me to Braavos. There was an old house with a lemon tree outside the window. I loved that place best.” Jon luxuriated in the peace of having her to himself and the sweet sensation of her combing his hair.

“We should find a beautiful place and build a house. We can plant all the lemon trees you want,” Jon said drowsily.

“Yes, that’s a wonderful idea. I think--”

A muted hail of shouting. Stomping feet. Jon shot up straight, already reaching for his swordbelt. A warning quell of nausea roiled in his belly. Seven fucking hells. A moment later Grey Worm burst through the door, along with Missandei.

“Corsairs, Jelmazmo,” he said.

Jon cursed, tightening his belt. He’d heard Tyrion speak of corsair kings raiding supply ships from Dorne, or the Stepstones. Raquira should be too small and poor a target for such an attack. What bounty was salt and wool to a corsair? A horrible thought occurred to him.

“If would risk attacking a ship like Raquira, then it’s not gold they’re after,” he said. Grey Worm understood, his black eyes were afire. Daenerys reflected that look of hatred, twining her hand with Missandei’s.

“Slavers,” Daenerys said. His father’s words echoed in his head. It might be sooner than later when you raise your sword in anger. It is not an easy thing, to kill a man. He would honor his vows to protect her. Jon bent and kissed Daenerys hard.

“Stay here. Stay hidden. Keep your dagger close.”

                                                          ~

 The door shut behind Jon and Grey Worm with a thud. In answer, Daenerys’ heart thudded hard against her ribs. Before leaving for King’s Landing, her bloodrider Rakharo bemoaned that she only chose to take three bodyguards. A khalasar would be better, he said. She had scoffed, thinking three was too many for such a short and straightforward journey. Now bloodriders and husband both went to defend her from slavers. Missandei’s face was pale and drawn. She muttered something under her breath in the Summer Islander language, her own mother tongue. Gods, this was a horrific echo her first kidnapping when she was a child. Daenerys wound her arms around Missandei. They rocked together on the floor as the din overhead grew louder.

“I can’t lose him, Dany. I can’t! I’m so afraid,” Missandei wept, her tears hot against Daenerys’ neck. Her heart gave a sharp twist in her chest. It wasn’t even for herself that put her in such a state, but the thought of losing Grey Worm.

“It will be all right, Missandei. It will. We have strong and skilled friends to protect us. Grey Worm will come back. Jon will come back.” He must come back. The Valyrian steel dagger felt heavy in her hand, awkward. She had no skill with it. Daenerys missed her dragons so much it was dull ache beneath her breastbone. Wait, dragons . . .

“Missandei, come. We can help!” Daenerys said. Missandei’s golden eyes blinked at her.

“He—Help?” she asked, cold hands painfully tight on her shoulders.

“Yes, we can help Grey Worm and Jon. Come!”

                                                            ~

 The corsair ship was twice the size of Raquira. Jon saw immediately they had no chance to outrun her. The captain and crew were trained fighters. Maybe they could win free. The helmsman veered sharply to one side to avoid the boarding bridges, but two landed hard, hinged iron claws biting deep into Raquira’s rail. Jon’s gorge rose and he had to turn to retch over the side. Gods how he wished for land. A shield. Ser Barristan at his back. A dragon or three.

Black-clad corsairs bellowed as they crossed, wielding swords and spears and boarding axes. With nimble ease, they picked their way across the boarding bridges, some swung across on ropes. Jon and Grey Worm, Kovarro and Aggo and the crew stood near the mast, in a rough approximation of a shield wall. The two Dothraki shrieked and howled curses at the corsairs. Aggo’s whip cracked like thunder, the end coiled around a corsair’s ankle. A deft yank and the men fell shrieking into the sea. Another lash opened a man’s face, he fell to his knees, blood pooling in his upraised palms. Two crewmen with crossbows shot from the rigging overhead. The corsairs staggered at the assault.

It was enough. Jon picked out the brute picking his way across the boarding bridge. With a shout, Jon lunged. His sword stabbed true, through the man’s belly. Blood trickled hot down the silver-bright steel. The brute fell off his blade and into the sea. Jon took a half-step back, staggering at the roil of the sea underfoot. Another corsair thrust with his spear. Jon darted back, not fast enough to dodge the spear. The edge sliced a jagged line of pain up his thigh. Jon snarled. The corsair pulled back and stabbed his spear at Jon’s belly. Jon caught the shaft and sliced off the spearhead. Blinking dumbly at the stub of his spear, Jon hamstrung him with a terse hack. As he fell to his knees, howling, Jon silenced him with a slice across the throat.

A tangle of men advanced toward him. Jon jumped back. He collided with someone. He swiveled; sword raised. Grey Worm stared back at him. Together they picked apart the group as if they’d been born fighting side by side. With a swift nod, they stood back to back. Somewhere to his right, he heard Kovarro and Aggo. Their sharp Dothraki war cries cut through the scrum of men, punctuated by the crack of Aggo’s whip.

Time seemed to crumple and tear like parchment. At once it felt as if he’d been fighting days and only heartbeats. A bearded corsair falling to his knees with Jon’s sword in his throat. The sour taste of bile. Retching on another corpse he’d made. Blood slid down his sword to slick the braided hilt. Grey Worm stalwart and unstoppable at his back. Throbbing pain in his thigh, the back of his shield arm. His sword arm growing sore and tired. Thirst.  

“Fire! Fire!” a man shouted.

Jon looked up to find the deck of the corsair ship ablaze. Corsair and sailor alike stared dumbly at the orange flames licking at the mast and sails. Chaos erupted. The corsairs hurried back to the ship to quench the flames. Kovarro and Aggo gave chase, slaying many as they fled. Grey Worm uttered a harsh cry, almost a sob.  

“Missandei! Keligon! Māzigon aril!” Grey Worm shouted, frantic. {Stop! Come here!} Jon followed Grey Worm’s gaze and found Missandei crouched atop the helmsman’s lean-to, holding a bottle of rum with a burning rag stuffed in it. Gods, Missandei had started the fire. Clever. Frightened golden eyes found Grey Worm and Jon. She pointed.

“They have Daenerys!”

On the boarding bridge, two corsairs, and a flash of silver hair between them.

Jon moved without thinking.

Dany. Dany. Dany!

“Come, we free the khaleesi!” Kavarro said, hot on his heels.

The boarding bridge wobbled beneath their feet. Yards below, the sea churned dark and cold. Thick with floating corpses. Jon hauled Kovarro over the rail on the corsair ship. The fire roared from the bowels of the hold. The heat seared his skin. Jon ducked low, coughing. Tears stung his eyes.

“Dany! Dany!” he bellowed, choking on the thick black smoke. Where? Where? Where was she? The corsairs paid them little mind, they were focused on trying to lower their dinghies or to smother the blaze. Kovarro’s square hand on his shoulder, they minced forward. Kovarro murmured under his breath in Dothraki. If they were prayers, they sorely needed them.

A woman’s scream. Jon flinched as if struck.

“Dany!” he shouted.

From the tail of his eye, Jon glimpsed her, struggling in a corsair’s grip. The brute had a fistful of her hair, dragging her. Jaw set, Daenerys planted her feet and tried to shove free. Time seemed to slow. Through watering eyes, he saw the corsair trip, fall. Fall toward the maw of flames. A breathless instant teetering on the edge before the flames swallowed them. The corsair’s dying scream.

The world fell from beneath Jon’s feet. Gone. Gone!

A shriek tore free from him. Of rage. Of grief. Madness swallowed him. He would kill them. He would kill them all before he followed her into death! Hard hands held him, dragging him back. His breath sawed harsh in his ears, blinded by smoke and tears.

“Dany, Dany,” he wept. He sat down hard, curling into himself like a wounded animal.

“Jon? Jon? Talk to me. Are you hurt?”

It couldn’t be. Jon lifted his head. Daenerys knelt beside him, naked, soot-stained, but whole and alive.

“Alive?” he croaked. Gods, his throat felt raw, “How?” Daenerys’s answering grin looked almost sheepish. Aggo thumped a cloak onto her shoulders.

“Thank you, Aggo. I suppose I should have mentioned it. When Khal Drogo’s pyre burned and my dragons sang to me, I—I heard them. I wanted to join them. So I walked into the flames. And when the sun rose, I was unhurt. The Mother of Dragons.”

Goddess. Jon’s mind flailed, drowning in the truth of her. His wife was born of some god, surely. How could a mere mortal walk through fire unharmed and tame dragons? Jon’s mouth worked like a landed fish.

“Are you hurt?” she repeated, reaching for his hand. Her grip, warm and real, anchored him. Jon yanked her into an embrace, needing her warmth and solidness more than his next breath. A formless need wanted to drag her closer, kiss her, fuck her, remind himself that she was here and alive and his. Into her smoke-scented hair, he murmured: “I thought you were dead.”

“I’m so sorry Jon. I should have told you.”

Jon grunted, closing his eyes. She was alive. That was all that mattered.