Sea of Dreams

Rowan was running.

Barefoot, breathless, laughing—not with effort but with wonder. The sea beneath him was calm as glass, stretching endlessly in every direction like a world forgotten by time. His feet skimmed the surface without breaking it, sleep pants fluttering around his ankles, as if the water itself had agreed: yes, this dream is real, and in dreams, you are weightless.

It wasn't strange. Not here. Not now. After all, Shipframes floated. Avalon floated. Even boys who didn't know what they were doing could run across the sea, if the story demanded it.

And ahead of him, just out of reach, danced the most beautiful girl he'd ever seen.

Lightning.

But not the shimmering blue ghost who chirped in his ear or flicked through his visual cortex. No, this was her made flesh. Real. Radiant. Her dark brown hair flowed behind her in lazy arcs, catching golden light like ribbons in a summer breeze. She wore a sundress the color of spring skies and starlight, her skin glowing with the warmth of everything she'd ever been to him and more.

A goddess on the sea. His goddess.

She skimmed backwards with impossible grace, her bare toes brushing the surface, trailing little splashes of laughter in her wake.

"C'mon, Cap!" she called, grinning over her shoulder. "I made you faster than that!"

He reached for her, hand outstretched—but she danced a half-step away, again and again, always just beyond the edge of his fingertips.

The sea stretched forward—endless still, but no longer empty.

A shape rose on the horizon, vast and gleaming in the morning light. Not a shadow of war, but a promise. A homecoming. A place he'd never seen, but somehow remembered. Familiar and sacred. The silhouette of a mighty vessel emerged from the mist—a battleship of impossible scale and quiet majesty, resting on the waves like a cathedral afloat.

Letters, impossibly tall, named it as the GNS Bismarck. It wasn't the Bismarck, not really. And yet somehow it was. It was the ideal of all battleship. And Rowan guessed that if he had to dream of the concept of a battleship it was fitting that he'd make it belong to her...

Lightning spun mid-air, dress flaring as she turned, and pointed toward it with childlike glee.

"C'mon, Rowan!" she shouted. "Let's go!"

Then she sprinted—up the curving flank of the ship, racing along the hull with wild delight. Her laughter echoed across the sea like music, and something inside him stirred, pulled forward by pure joy. He followed without hesitation. No fear. No doubt. His feet struck the steel with rhythmic cadence, a song of heartbeats and happiness. He didn't even question how the incline failed to slow him—of course he could run up a battleship in his dreams.

The two of them rounded the deck together, vaulting the railing like children breaching the walls of some sunlit castle.

Lightning dashed ahead, zipping between the forward turrets in a blur of giggles and glee.

Rowan chased her, faster now, filled with that dreamer's determination to catch the light—just once.

And then he heard a laugh. Not Lightning's.

Softer. Lower. A velvet voice, stripped of command and made... human.

He glanced sideways—and nearly tripped.

Bismarck.

But not the iron-willed duelist or the scowling thundercloud he'd faced before. No uniform, no medals. She wore soft gray sleepwear, a loose top slipping from one shoulder, her silver hair unbound and drifting in the wind. Her alabaster skin utterly flawless in the light. She looked like she'd just woken from a peaceful dream of her own, and her smile—

Her smile made him want to weep.

There was no duty in it. No weight. Just radiance.

"Where are you running, Herr Rowan?" she asked, her voice warm, teasing—but not sharp.

He skidded to a breathless stop, grinning like a fool. "I'm playing tag with Lightning! You wanna play too?"

She laughed again, bright and unrestrained. "Ja, ja!"

Without thinking, he reached out and took her hand.

It was small. Delicate. Warm.

And it fit his perfectly.

Lightning popped up again between the turrets, eyes widening in mock outrage.

"Hey!" she cried. "You brought backup! No fair!"

Bismarck's eyes twinkled as she called out, "You had better run, Frau Lightning! I will help him catch you!"

Hand in hand, they chased the goddess.

Lightning danced ahead, flitting between gun mounts and radar towers, her sundress fluttering like a battle flag. She darted behind a secondary turret and vanished—only to reappear behind the next, grinning like a bandit.

Rowan and Bismarck split, instinctive and wordless—flanking her like wolves on either side.

They nearly had her.

But she slipped between them with a shriek of delight, twirling low and sliding beneath an open catwalk. "Too slow!" she called, laughing so hard she almost tripped over her own feet.

"Ugh!" Bismarck growled in mock fury, doubling back. Her hand caught Rowan's again, and she tugged him along behind her with surprising force. "We must go faster! She is getting away!"

Rowan stumbled once, then caught his footing, heart racing—not from exertion, but from the thrill of it. Of her. Of this dream that felt more real than any waking hour.

"Okay! Okay!" he laughed, letting her pull him. "I'm right behind you—let's go!"

And so they ran.

The trio thundered toward the aft deck, bare feet slapping against polished steel, laughter pealing through the morning mist. The battleship itself seemed to echo their joy—its long guns gleaming, its flag snapping proudly in a wind that came from nowhere.

And then—

"Yahooooo!"

Lightning vaulted off the edge of the ship like a diver from heaven, arms spread wide, her voice trailing behind her like a banner: "You can't catch me! I'm the fastest Frame ever built!"

Rowan and Bismarck skidded to a stop at the railing.

For a heartbeat, they looked at one another.

No fear. No hesitation.

Only joy.

They jumped.

Hand in hand, they leapt from the gunwale together, plunging after her into the endless blue below.

Rowan landed with a whumph.

Not into water.

Onto silk.

He blinked.

Gone was the ocean. Gone the battleship, gone the laughing chase. He lay now on something impossibly soft—a feather mattress, perhaps? Beneath him, polished wood creaked gently, and from somewhere above came the flap of canvas, the snap of wind in sailcloth.

A ship?

A sailing ship?

But before he could piece it together, breath hitched in his throat.

Because she was there.

Hood.

Not in uniform. Not in armor. But in something impossibly antique and wholly inappropriate. Lace-trimmed corsetry clung to her figure like a whisper—dark navy silk and ivory boning that hugged her curves with aristocratic precision. Her long blue hair spilled down in a cascade of soft, perfumed waves, framing her like a portrait stolen from time.

And her eyes…

God, those eyes.

Crimson and aglow with something he didn't recognize at first—until he did.

Affection.

Desire.

A predator's playfulness, yes—but underneath it, genuine warmth. Wanting.

She straddled him, slow and languid, dragging a single sharp nail across his chest. "Master Takeda," she purred, like it was a title he'd earned, "you appear quite tired, old boy. Just rest. Let me take care of everything."

Her mouth descended.

Her lips met his.

And the world went incandescent.

Fire flooded his veins—like lightning given warmth and memory. That promise on the rooftop, half-spoken and half-remembered, ignited into full bloom. She tasted like powder smoke and cherries. Like battlefield roses. Like pride wrapped in perfume.

He pulled her to him, wrapping her in his arms.

And then—

"Careful, Hood," said a familiar, smug voice overhead. "He doesn't know what he's doing yet."

Rowan broke the kiss with a gasp.

Floating above their bed—their bed?!—was Lightning. Not translucent. Not flickering. But whole, radiant, and entirely too amused. She hovered horizontally, chin propped on her hands, sundress fluttering in some invisible breeze.

"If you push your tongue that far into his mouth, he might panic," she added helpfully. "Relax, Cap. She's not gonna eat you." She winked. "Grab her butt. She's proud of it."

"I am proud of it," Hood said, not missing a beat. She sat up with imperious grace, took his hand in hers, and guided it—unapologetically—to the swell of her perfectly sculpted rear.

Rowan sputtered. His hand stayed.

It was, admittedly… spectacular.

His mouth opened to speak, but no words came. His thoughts were clouded. His heart was thundering.

And yet—

Something was wrong.

A note out of tune.

Even in this fevered dreamscape, something inside him whispered: Where is Bismarck?

His fingers tightened reflexively around her waist.

She didn't resist.

In fact, she leaned in—pressing her weight against his chest like a velvet siege engine, lips tracing the line of his jaw, then lower, toward the tender spot at his throat. Her breath was warm, impossibly so, and smelled faintly of black tea and summer roses.

His hand—still cradling the generous curve of her rear—trembled, but she only hummed approvingly. "Good," she whispered. "You're learning."

Rowan's thoughts scattered like leaves in a gale.

Was this a dream? A vision? Some fever-woven tangle of his deepest, dumbest wants?

Yes.

And still—

God help him, he didn't want to wake.

Not when she looked at him like that.

Not when her hair slipped over her shoulder in a silken wave, cascading across his bare chest.

Not when her eyes—those royal, ridiculous, devastating eyes—held him like prey and poetry all at once.

"Tell me," Hood murmured, mouth brushing his collarbone. "Does this scandalize you? Or did you imagine it already…?"

Her fingers danced down his ribs—taunting, featherlight.

"Me. In silk."

He tried to speak.

Failed.

His mouth moved around a shape that might've been her name, but all that emerged was breath. And then she kissed him again.

But this time it was neither playful nor coy.

It was absolute.

A soul-deep surrender. Not of her to him—but of him to the fire she lit in his marrow. Her lips claimed his, and there was no hesitation in it. No doubt. No clock to watch or distance to measure.

Just sensation.

Just the creak of wood, the heat of her skin, and the growing certainty that he would die happy if this dream never broke.

His hands moved of their own accord—curling around her hips, drawing her closer.

She allowed it. Welcomed it. Devoured him with the grace of a duchess and the hunger of something far more ancient.

He forgot his name.

He forgot Avalon. War. Duty. The pressures of college and the weight of his responsibilities. Of being the first person in his family to go to college... None of that mattered when wrapped in the embrace of Catherine Wren, Captain of the HMS Hood.

Not when Hood whispered, "Just a little longer, darling," and kissed him once more like she meant to brand him.

And in that moment— Rowan Takeda was lost...

At least he was about to be, but before Hood could do anything extremely distracting... She sat bolt upright.

The move wasn't sultry or elegant, but one of fury.

"I don't care what you think, you silver sow!" she bellowed at something unseen. Her voice rang like cannon fire in the small quarters. "The Picasso stays!"

Rowan blinked. "What—?"

He tried to sit up, to reach for her, to calm her down—

But his arms wouldn't move.

Nor his legs.

He was no longer in a bed.

He was tied to a chair!

Thick, red velvet ropes wound around his chest and limbs, soft but unyielding, like some deeply sensual kidnapping. His sleep pants were still there—thank God—but the dream had changed.

The bed was gone and so was the ship.

Now— He was in a church.

No, not quite. An old world cathedral. Columns rising like the ribs of a beast. Stained glass awash with moonlight. Incense-smoke haze drifting lazily toward vaulted heights. The air smelled of candle wax, gunpowder, and storm-wet silk.

But the altar—

Where the Savior should've stood—

There was only an iron crossbeam, bent in two. An outline of a naval vessel loomed above, cracked in half, as if shattered mid-baptism.

And standing beneath it, at the pulpit, flipping through the dustiest, most antiquated naval manual ever bound, was Lightning.

Wearing a nun's habit.

Her veil was askew, revealing tousled dark hair and a bored expression as she cleared her throat dramatically.

"We are gathered here today," she intoned, "to witness the legally questionable union of Captain Rowan Takeda—blessed be his poor confused soul—and literally everyone who wants to kill each other over him."

Rowan's jaw dropped.

"Lightning?! What the hell is this?!"

She flipped another page with exaggerated solemnity. "Please hold your objections till the stabbing portion of the ceremony."

And there they were.

Hood and Bismarck.

Nose to nose. Brow to brow. Eyes locked in a battle of wills only rivaled by the Cold War.

Each wore a full wedding gown.

And not demure ones.

Hood's was some ridiculous Regency-era affair—corseted and ruffled with a train that belonged in a museum.

Bismarck's was sleek, satin, and shoulderless, but with a saber strapped casually to her garter.

"Your taste in art is as muddled as your tactics!" Bismarck hissed.

"At least I have taste, you German harpy!"

"You take that back!"

"Shan't!"

They lunged—nearly—but Lightning snapped the naval manual shut with an echoing thump.

"Ladies! Ladies!" she barked. "If one of you rips the other's dress before the vows, you forfeit the honeymoon privileges!"

Both froze.

Then turned—in perfect synchronization—to glare at Rowan.

He gulped.

Tugged at his velvet bindings.

And whimpered, "Why me?"

Lightning flipped the book open again, this time with a far-too-pleased smirk. "Because you're the Captain, Cap. And someone's gotta take responsibility."

They were stalking toward him now.

Hood and Bismarck—brides in white, fury in their eyes, like angels gone rogue.

But it wasn't love in their voices. No sweet nothings. Just—

"I get the sink on the left!" Bismarck was yelling.

"Fine! But I always sleep nearest the door!" Hood was saying.

"Agreed! And besides, I wager you snore like a cursed tugboat!" Bismarck shouted in reply.

"At least I don't talk to luggage!" Hood said.

Rowan blinked as the two of them continued to stalk toward him. "What does that even mean?!"

They were closing in, faster now. Lace and malice, made of petticoats and righteous fury.

He struggled against the velvet ropes. No good. Still bound.

Then—

Lightning appeared beside him.

And the nun's habit was… gone.

In its place was something that belonged in the clearance bin of a morally bankrupt costume shop. It might technically qualify as a nun's outfit if you squinted—very hard—and ignored the cut-outs, lace, garters, and the exposed skin that absolutely shouldn't have been exposed.

Especially not when she was real now.

So real. Flesh-warm and soft, radiant with sensual mischief. Close enough to feel, but with his hands bound, just beyond reach.

Always beyond reach.

She bent at the waist, her perfectly bare chest brushing the sides of his arm as she coiled around him, practically purring.

"You better wake up, Cap," she whispered into his ear, breath like summer lightning. "Because they might actually kill each other this time."

"What?" he gasped, still staring at the brides.

"What are you talking about? Wake up from what—?"

She giggled, nipped his earlobe between perfect teeth, and tugged playfully.

"Wake up, Captain."

And then—

PAIN.

White-hot. Blistering.

His ear! His ear felt like it had been clamped in a vice and bitten.

He screamed—

And sat bolt upright in bed, panting.

Lightning, still mostly hardlight and digital flicker, hovered above him grinning like a devil.

"Oh thank God," she said sweetly. "I was really starting to worry. You've been out for a way too long. How the hell can you sleep with this racket? You were muttering about weddings and sinks. It was getting weird."

He clutched the side of his face.

"You bit me?!"

"Better than letting them get you." She huffed. "You should be grateful." She stuck her tongue out at him and vanished in a puff of digital sparkles.

From down the hall, even through the closed door, came the unmistakable sounds of shouting.

Two voices.

Arguing.

"You will not commandeer my wardrobe, you imperialist cloth-hoarder!" Bismarck was shrieking, defiantly.

"Do not accuse me of fashion imperialism! You have three identical uniforms!" Hood returned fire.

Rowan's face paled. "Oh no."

Lightning floated beside him, humming.

"Rise and shine, lover boy. Looks like we got company."

And in her inner workings, Lightning's logic circuits entered an irate feedback sequence. For Rowan's dreams were her dreams too.

And she had been enjoying herself!

She honestly thought the nun to nun change had been a good one! Rowan drew them all the time, the fantasy bouncing around in their shared head like a sonar return. Then the battle barges had started arguing over a painting! What were they even doing here?! She was supposed to have Rowan all to herself this morning!

Boy did those bitches know how to ruin a good time!