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senualothbrok · 4 months ago

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Open Hands, Open Hearts

Summary: With the Netherbrain defeated and the companions about to go their separate ways, Gale decides to be honest about his feelings for Tav.

A slow burn one-shot, featuring pining Gale, monk Tav, and agony aunt Shadowheart.

Word count: 5.4k

Non-18+. Gale x Tav (f!monk). Pining. Mild hurt/comfort.

AO3 link

A/N: Big thanks to @inglorionamy-ammy for being my beta-reader extraordinaire. I hope you enjoy some slow-burn pining and reflections on the philosophy of non-attachment. As always, comments and feedback are welcome!

She stands apart.

She cannot see you watching her. She swirls an untasted drink, her gaze drifting over the bustling merriment of the weaving crowd. You are memorising the curves of her face, illuminated in the glow of the bonfire. The gossamer scar on her left cheek, and the lilting arc of her nose. The weather-worn dips of her skin. Amidst the clatter of trenchers and shouts of laughter, she wears a faint smile like a veil. As usual, she is lost in a world of her own.

It had been you who suggested celebrating your victory against the Netherbrain with drinks in your hands and reckless abandon in your hearts. You had been swept up in the elation of the moment, the flurry of embraces from your companions, all grins and clasped shoulders. The dizzying promise of freedom as you clutched the mark of the orb on your chest. Tav had nodded at you, smiling brightly, her dark eyes glimmering before she looked away. She had maintained her customary reserve, as she does now, as she has done at all the parties and gatherings since this journey began.

Tav has always worn her hair in a tight bun, as though any concession to beauty would be a distraction. But tonight, obsidian locks tumble over her shoulders like the feathers of a raven. Against the hard muscles of her frame, her tresses look impossibly soft. You wonder, not for the first time, how they would feel against your lips.

You throw back the wine in your glass.

“Enjoying the view?”

You spin towards Shadowheart’s dulcet drawl. She smirks before taking a sip of wine, then wrinkles her nose in disgust.

“I hope it makes up for this disappointing vintage. I suppose even the heroes of Baldur’s Gate don’t deserve the best wine in the cellars.”

You shift along the bench, making space for her. “Alas, beggars can’t be choosers. We’re remarkably fortunate there are any wine cellars left, all things considered.”

Shadowheart huffs as she sinks down beside you. Her voice is light with affection.

“Ever the optimist, aren’t you?”

You titter, setting your empty glass on the ground. “I auditioned for the role of pragmatist, but you'd scooped that up already.”

Her eyes dance. You can sense the intensity of Shadowheart’s appraisal as she looks from you to Tav. She clears her throat.

“I don’t mean to be blunt, Gale,” she begins.

You arch an eyebrow. “Don’t you?”

“Well.” She sighs. “Maybe I do.”

You are all immeasurably tired, not just from your adventures, but from the lives you have led. The battles you have endured, together and alone. You can forgive any directness on Shadowheart’s part. You have grown accustomed to it, after all - maybe even fond of it.

“You do realise that after tonight, we might never see each other again?”

You baulk at this. You almost make a reflexive joke to dismiss it - that you are looking forward to being spared Astarion’s cutting remarks, or the overpowering evidence of Minsc’s poor hygiene. But sorrow quivers in Shadowheart's brow. You realise that the thought is anguish to her too.

“Of course we will,” you manage. “Bonds forged in blood aren't so easily severed.”

Shadowheart stares at you. There is a heaviness in her eyes that makes you look away.

“If we do, who knows how long it’ll be before our paths cross again.”

You are reminded of your hasty farewells on the docks. You still half expect Wyll to appear beside you with a chuckle. A hearty slap on the back from Karlach. A solemn hum from Lae'zel. Their absence is a living, breathing thing that simmers between you.

You wave your hand weakly, an attempt at dismissal. But the determination in Shadowheart's features arrests you.

“If you have important things to say to her, Gale, you should say them now.”

You frown, backfooted. “What could I possibly have to say to our fearless leader that I haven't already said in the many months we've enjoyed together?”

Shadowheart snorts. “Come now, Gale. You're many things, but you're not subtle.”

You try to feign ignorance, but it does not deter her.

“I’d have to be blind not to catch all those longing looks and stolen glances, or notice the purple wash of your tent on lonely nights.”

You start in your seat. Fire blazes up your neck, burning in your cheeks, smouldering in your ears. You gape, resisting the urge to bury your face in your robes.

Shadowheart chortles, patting you briskly on the shoulder. “Not to worry. We're all mature adults.”

You cough. At a loss, you fumble at your breeches, wringing your hands. You wonder if it would be unconscionably rude to misty step away from this conversation altogether.

Amusement crinkles in Shadowheart's gaze. There is tenderness there. All at once, you are reminded that every moment left with your companions, however mortifying, is precious. And perhaps it was foolish to expect such things to remain hidden, living in close quarters as you have been, forever teetering on the precipice between life and death. You have all been stripped bare with each other.

In the end, it has been an honour. To know and be known, after an eternity of being alone.

You would not usually discuss the matters of the heart so openly. But Shadowheart is right. Who knows how long you have left?

You clear your throat, your gaze returning to Tav like an anchor. She is crouched now, ruffling Scratch’s dusty fur intently as he nestles into her. You steady yourself.

“That ship sailed long ago, Shadowheart. In fact, it didn't just sail. It arrived at its location and returned a few times over.”

It still pains you to admit it. Pathetic, you know. You have tried, in vain, to rid yourself of your feelings. It was easier, with the constant threats to your existence, the relentless fight for survival. There was always some danger to distract you from that gnawing ache. Now, with the joy of victory, you are left with the suffering of wasted love.

What a sad, sorry thing.

Shadowheart grimaces. “Yet you’re still waiting at the docks.”

You stare at her, questioning. Once again, she sighs.

“Tav’s a monk, Gale. An incredibly committed one. She was trained to deny every single desire she has. To sacrifice her every need for the greater good. You know that, right?”

She stresses every word, like it is a secret code. You strain against her meaning.

She grizzles. “You have no idea? None at all? Truly?”

You suddenly sense where this is going. And truthfully, there was a time when you had wondered. You remember standing beside Tav, so close you could smell the tang of her sweat, the Weave flowing between you, making you one. Awe radiated from her, her vision lit up by the miracle of a magic that was not Ki, cocooning her in an altogether different kind of peace. In the purity of that instant, you were overcome by a longing to be closer. You let your eyes soak in every inch of her, the perfect balance of her body, the softness within her hardness. So much strength, always wielded in kindness, never for cruelty. So much power, always wielded for life, never for death.

You wanted to understand, then. The Way of the Open Hand, and all its tenets she held so dear. The mystery of her, in all her quiet glory. The secret behind her unwavering goodness. The resilience of her peace. Such tranquility, such certainty of purpose. Such a far cry from the rot inside you, the crushing burden of your mistakes.

She is beautiful, you thought, knowing she would feel your thinking of it.

When the image first came to you, you struggled to parse it. The fluttering of her cut and calloused fingers over the bristles of your beard. The warmth of her bruised skin against your own. The quiver of her plump and parted lips, searching for and finding yours. A swirling wet desire, raw and piercing.

When you realised what it was, you gasped. You stepped back. She withdrew too, her dark eyes averted, her face shadowed and unreadable. And then the connection had broken, and as you felt the Weave dissolve into the hollow night, a silence descended on you like a flood.

Perhaps you had imagined it. She could not have felt such a thing. The desire had been so intense, so sharp, like the grasping thrust of a blade. It could not have belonged to someone whose hands were always open, whose entire being was steadfast as still waters that had never seen a storm. She was a master of the Way, a seeker of Enlightenment. She lived like she had surpassed the passions of the heart and flesh.

You had planned to forget it. Ignore it. Pretend it never happened. But the image stirred something inside you, hot and red and hungry. It grew with every brush of her fingers as you traded tomes and scrolls, every flicker of her curious eyes when you shared musings great and small. Every evening lounging beside her as she meditated, cloaked in a peace that transcended words.

But when you had confessed to her on that fateful night, beneath the canopy of beauty and wonder you had conjured in her honour, she had turned away. She had whispered a choked apology, her brow twisted like never before. For the first time, shame and guilt trembled in her features as she retreated.

That had been the end of it. For Tav, perhaps, but not for you.

Shadowheart narrows her eyes. “So you didn't find it strange to see the calmest, most courteous woman in all of Faerun lashing out at Elminster Aumar, the most respected wizard in all the realms?”

You frown. It is true. Tav had been unusually animated, maybe even a little brusque, when Elminster had asked you to sacrifice yourself. You had chalked it down to pragmatism, weariness, maybe. An inordinately long day, or a torturously sleepless night. You did not have the presence of mind to reflect on Tav’s reaction, anyway, in the midst of your own devastation.

“Even paragons of virtue aren't immune to the short fuse of fatigue,” you suggest. “And cheese can wreak havoc on one’s digestive system, particularly in the amounts we consumed that evening. In fact, on more than one occasion, troubles in my breadbasket have led me to some rather disgraceful outbursts to Tara-”

Shadowheart groans. “Are you telling me that Tav disrespected the Sage of Shadowdale because she was a bit tired and had too much cheese?”

You swallow. Resolve clenches in her jaw in the awkward pause that follows. She tries again.

“You never wondered whose idea it was for me to make you all those special remedies, to take the edge off your orb pain?”

You scratch your head. “Was this a question I ought to have asked?” You are confused. “Should I have doubted your kindness and generosity?”

“Your faith in me is flattering,” Shadowheart drawls. “But we were practically strangers back then. I would have needed some incentive. Tav didn't. Your existence was incentive enough.”

A memory assails you. The aftermath of your defeat of Ketheric Thorm, when Tav was forced to draw on your ingenious resurrection protocol. Her juddering breaths as she leaned over your bleeding body. The anguished panic in her eyes. The muffled sound she made as you revived, lurching towards you and then flinching away. Her face impenetrable, her chest heaving as she withdrew.

No. It cannot be.

You shake your head. “You've misunderstood, Shadowheart. Tav cares for all of us. Everyone, indiscriminately and in equal measure.”

‘To walk the Path of Enlightenment,’ Tav had said when you asked her what she desired above all else. ‘To defend the weak and defenseless.’ If Tav loved anything, it was that grand purpose. There was no room for anything, anyone, else.

“I certainly don't hold a special place in her heart. Far from it. When I…” You grimace, sweeping your hand through your hair. “Well, she set me straight in no uncertain terms. Whatever feelings you imagine she harbours for me are confined to the bonds of simple friendship, nothing more.”

Shadowheart sucks in a breath. She looks up, as if she is appealing to the heavens for strength.

“I never thought an archwizard could be such a fool.”

You bristle. “An archwizard would have little tolerance for unwarranted displays of discourtesy.”

At your reaction, she softens. For an instant, she looks almost sheepish. Leaning back, she gestures towards Tav. Tav is cross legged now, her head tilted upwards, seeking the stars overhead. She had marvelled, too, at the azure sky you created for her, as though every constellation you crafted carried the wisdom she so craved.

“Do you know how hard it is to make Tav laugh?”

There is a wistfulness in Shadowheart’s tone. A kind of recognition. You remember that she knows the struggle for joy better than most, having spent most of her life cloistered in darkness and loss. You wonder, vaguely, whether that is so different from being cloistered in the confines of virtue.

“Not that polite smile,” she goes on. “Or that little nod she does. A real laugh, like she truly feels it.”

You know. You store each peal of Tav’s laughter within you like a priceless treasure. You have beheld each occasion as a miracle, a fleeting glimpse behind the veil.

“It's a rare and beautiful sight.”

“It is.” Shadowheart holds your gaze. “And she only does it for you. Your awful puns, and what you think passes for witty observations. Your unnecessarily detailed anecdotes.”

Something is unfurling inside you. Fear and courage, swirling into something swollen that throbs with every pulse of your heart. You struggle to keep still.

“Please just talk to her,” Shadowheart says. “Consider it a favour to me, so I don’t have to spend the rest of the night watching you drinking bad wine and pining miserably.”

You recoil. “Excuse me, but I don't pine. Pining is not something I do. In fact, I most certainly-”

“Yes, yes.” She rolls her eyes. “You don't pine, and Tav is an open book. You're both paragons of healthy communication.” She swigs her wine, pursing her pale lips in distaste. “I don't even know why you're still talking to me, at this point.”

You huff. Turning slowly, your eyes seek Tav’s across the expanse. A strand of hair trails over her collarbone, caressing the peak of her breast. She dips her head gently towards you.

Who knows how long you have left?

You slap your knees, take a shaky breath, and rise.

******

“How does it compare?”

Her eyes are burnt almonds framed by butterfly lashes. The firelight draws out the sun-kissed olive of her skin. It has a warmth that burns within you even in her absence. As you approach her, she bows slightly.

You point upwards. “The celestial canvas,” you explain. “The real thing. How does it fare against my earnest imitation?”

You have never spoken of that night, not even to mention it in passing. After her retreat, you were too desperate to salvage whatever remained between you. Any bond with her, any friendship, was worth more than kingdoms, even if you could not win her love.

But tonight, with Shadowheart's words reverberating in your mind, you feel brave. Reckless. Inexpressibly grateful. And now that you have come to the end of the road, what more do you have to lose? You may never see her again. This may be your last chance.

Something flickers on Tav’s face. You cannot quite place it.

“The art reveals the artist, and the creation the creator, as you told me before.”

Her words are so soft, you must dip forward to catch them. The petals of her mouth curve into a smile.

“Nothing could rival the beauty of a night sky wrought by your hands.”

You remember that conversation well, but you did not think she would. It was only one of hundreds you have shared. For a second, you let yourself indulge in the fantasy that she cherishes your words with the same passion and reverence with which you treasure hers. You let yourself imagine that her words carry an affection which mirrors your own.

But Tav speaks in formalities, riddles and proverbs. Her true feelings remain, as always, a mystery.

You listen to the rhythm of her breathing. Though even, there is a laboured focus in her breaths, as though she is forcing her intention. You recall an evening when you had sat beside her for a lesson in meditation. You had been lost in her closeness, her earthy scent, the supple arcs of her relaxed form.

‘In times of turmoil, we return to our breathing,” she had explained. ‘The breath is an anchor. A reminder that all is temporary. Every burden, every struggle, every blessing. All is dust, and all will pass.’

Does she seek relief from turmoil now, you wonder? What burden strains against her breathing? What load does she struggle to lay down?

She shuffles a little. You gesture towards a bench nearby. She drifts towards it, her hand grazing yours as you both sit. She does not shift away.

“So.” You fiddle with the edge of your robe. “Where does your path lead now?”

She looks towards the bonfire. “My duty will be to return to the Order in Neverwinter.”

“Your duty.”

She nods. “It is what is expected for a monk of my position.”

“I see.” You study the stillness of her features in profile, impassive as ever. “And is that your desire?”

She turns towards you briefly, but does not meet your eyes. Her gaze returns to the sparkling canopy above, as if the distant stars steel her soul.

“I have always seen the monastery as my home. I know it does not serve, to cling to the idea of a home. We must be adaptable to change, to move where the Way takes us. And on this journey we have shared, I have seen and learned more than I ever would, had I remained in the monastery. Immeasurably more.”

She draws in a long breath.

“And I would be deceitful if I said that I would not…miss….this.”

Her focus falls on the living tapestry before you, swathed in the music of joy and celebration. Astarion's fanged grin, returned wryly by Shadowheart. Minsc’s booming guffaw as Boo twirls in his palm. Jaheira’s lively gestures to a chuckling Halsin.

It is unmistakable. For an instant, Tav’s mask slips, and you see sorrow, tender and true. You had wondered if she felt the pain of parting, having always kept herself at a distance. Now, you are certain that she does.

Without thinking, you reach for her hand. Then you catch yourself. Your fingers hover above hers.

“It doesn’t have to be goodbye.” Your voice quavers. “It would be…a great loss to me, to lose the honour of your company. A very great loss indeed.”

Her brow steeples as she looks into your eyes. Then her features tremble, her hand jerking into her lap. You retract yours briskly.

There is a long pause. It feels like a misstep, an intrusion. A boundary you have crossed, as you had when you bared your soul to her beneath your northern lights. Mentally, you curse yourself, fretting and fumbling for an escape. And yet, you cannot ignore the tension that hangs in the air between you. The murmur of something you do not recognise, peering out from the depths.

When she speaks, you do not expect it.

“My Masters taught me to eschew attachment. Desire.”

She halts at the word, as though it is an admission that shames her.

“We are to alleviate suffering, wherever we find it. Desire and attachment do not serve…”

Her voice breaks. You have never heard that before. She has always been so sure, her speech always level and calculated, echoing her constancy. You are overwhelmed, not just by a yearning to understand, but to comfort.

“They are a distraction, then,” you say. “From your purpose.”

She averts her eyes. Her sigh is weary - a weariness that has always been subsumed by her stoic exterior.

“Everything is temporary,” she breathes. “Nothing endures.”

She closes her eyes. You watch as she lifts her hands, turning her palms up towards the constellations.

“We are taught to live with open hands. To let all things flow through us, and never to be tethered to the current. So it is with every privilege, every gift, every… person… that comes our way.”

She opens her eyes, staring into the space above her fingers.

“If I do not grasp it tightly, when it goes, there is no pain.”

She balls her hands into fists.

“If I hold fast to it, when I lose it, I mourn.”

Her brow knits.

“It does not serve.”

She looks down, her hands returning to rest on her thighs.

“Attachment only brings loss. Desire only brings pain. Everything is temporary. Nothing endures.”

The realisation is a lightning bolt that pierces you. The answer to the puzzle of her detachment. The reason for her ceaseless distance. Why she has always held back from your merry band of companions, avoiding connections beyond superficial courtesy. You see it now, as clear and certain as her kindness. It is not just a habit, the preference of an introvert more comfortable with solitude than companionship. It is not just a setting aside of distractions for the pursuit of a grand purpose.

It is a fear of loss. Abandonment. Grief.

All this time, she has been protecting herself. The revelation fills you with a desperate urgency.

“Does desire always beget suffering?” There is pleading in your voice. “Can attachment not be a source of wonder, beauty, goodness?”

She is taken aback by your abruptness. In this moment, you wish you still had a tadpole, so you could show her without words. You wish you could reveal how your bond gave you a reason to live when you thought there was none. How she gave you hope when you thought the only meaning to be salvaged from your life was through your death. How she brought the dawn in what you believed was an endless night.

“Your friendship, your kindness - they kept us all alive,” you say instead. “Our attachments were a source of strength. They alleviated our suffering, they never compounded it.”

You know it would be easier not to love her. If you had no attachment to her. You would not yearn for her like a lost part of yourself. There would be no agony of wanting, no suffering within your solitude. But then you would not know the wonder of her nature. The light of her laughter. The balm of her goodness and grace, unwavering as the sunrise. You would not trade them for anything, not even freedom from pain.

She is quiet, her head bowed. An ebony curtain falls around her face. You know the weight of what you are asking her to consider. But you cannot bear to see unnecessary suffering, especially not in the woman you cherish above any other.

“Is it actually possible?” you ask. “To never forge a bond with another? To remain…forever empty-handed?”

Determination hardens in her eyes as she lifts her head.

“It is a path. I strive to reach the destination. It is a great struggle. A journey without end.” She straightens, her frame tensing. “Perhaps I am too weak and wretched to achieve it. But I must make myself worthy. Every day, I try harder.”

You stare at her in disbelief. “You are the kindest, wisest, most patient person that I know. You give of yourself without asking anything in return. You saved the world,” you gesture to your bustling companions within the throng, “each and every one of us.”

When you try to hold her shifting gaze, all you see is doubt.

“You don’t see it, do you?” You resist the urge to clasp her by the shoulders. “You’re extraordinary, just the way you are.”

She shakes her head. “I am like any other soul on the Path to Enlightenment.”

You do not allow her to avert her eyes. “No, Tav. You're much, much more than that.”

“Gale.” Her brow creases. “There are many, many more important things to consider than…my own selfish doubts and desires.”

You can see the mask returning to her features. That impenetrable fortress of sagely Tav, a vessel of virtue without self. You have come too far to return to the facade now.

“What of your own suffering?”

Confusion twists in her face. But the truth is a tide that rushes from you, and you cannot stop it.

“What of the joy you forfeit as you watch from the sidelines? The loneliness you carry as you stand apart, shirking companionship? Denying your own desires, crushing your attachments - surely that begets a suffering of its own?”

She turns away. Anxiety flares within you. Perhaps you have gone too far. It is too much for her. You begin to wrench at yourself. You have pushed her back into her shell, an armour against hurts that you will never know. In your folly and impatience, you have lost her. In the silence, you mourn.

And then, a confession.

“My parents gave me to the Masters when I was a babe,” she whispers. “The Way is all I know. All I have.”

You spin towards her. The torment of memory lingers in every fibre of her frame. You understand her in a way you never have before. She is a woman without a family, forever apart. She is a door cracking open now, allowing you entry. You leap through it.

“Not so.” You lean towards her. “You have me.”

Fear roils in the black sea of her eyes. You know what you are asking. You are asking her to trust in a love that could endure the vicissitudes of life, the foibles of human lack, the everyday tragedies from which no one is spared. You are asking her to lay down every tool she has wielded, every defence she has erected against the loss that trails behind her like a shadow.

You are asking her to trust you.

“I know I speak out of turn.” Your voice swells. “I know you’ve made it clear that there’s no place for me in your heart. But I can’t remain silent, after all we’ve been through, knowing there’s any inkling of a chance that I might not lose you forever. I can’t remain silent, when there’s a chance that I could relieve you of the burdens that you carry alone.”

She is shaking now. You can almost feel the reverberations. But she is still here, still listening. It gives you strength to go on.

“I cherish you, Tav. It's beyond desire. Beyond attachment. More than admiration, infatuation, or lust. I love you, more than I’ve ever loved anyone or anything. To me, you’re perfect. There’s no one like you. There never has been, and never will be.”

You can hear a catch in her breathing. She has frozen still, so still, as if she would crack if you touched her. Your words are broken and tattered, but you do not stop.

“I can’t promise that I won’t age or die. That I won’t change, as everyone and everything in life does. But I promise that I will love you for as long as I draw breath. I promise that my love for you will endure. And I promise to walk the Way with you. I will never abandon you. You need not walk alone.”

Her eyes widen as she clasps her palm to her lips. You hold your heart out like an offering before her open hands. Your chest heaves as you wait, trying desperately to parse her silence.

She turns away, lurching upwards, retreating into the night.

Her withdrawal wounds you like a blade to the gut. A muffled cry escapes you as you watch her receding back.

It is over.

The tears scald your skin as they fall. You wince through the rending of your heart. But amidst the fracturing, waves of gratitude ripple through you. To have beheld the glory of her, to have earnestly loved her in the stolen moments you shared, however fleeting - it was the privilege of a lifetime. An honour which will endure beyond the anguish of love’s passing. You are sure of it.

It takes you a moment to register it. She has stopped in her tracks. Her body, usually as elegant as the wind’s caress, judders as she turns back to face you. Through the mist of your grief, you see that her eyes are glistening with tears. You bound towards her, distressed beyond measure. It is the first time you have seen her cry.

She does not speak. In the waterfall that cascades down her scarred cheek, the throbbing ache in her gaze, you see an emotion that needs no words.

You surge forwards. You are so close that you can smell the jasmine notes of her hair, feel the spasm of her breath against your collarbone. You take her quivering hands and press them against your beard. Her eyelids flutter, but she does not pull away. You whirl with surprise, relief, elation, yearning - a thousand feelings you can name and more that you cannot.

“I have tried,” she chokes. “With everything I have…for so long I have tried. But I could not…”

Her words are torn whispers, panting breaths. Her fingers grasp at your bristles, dancing into your hair. Her touch is dizzying, lithe and earnest, tracing every part of you. You draw your fingers up the dip of her neck, cupping her cheeks as you have longed to so many times before.

“You don’t need to anymore.”

Her skin feels as you have always imagined it - firm, smooth and warm. As you brush her tears away, she falls into you, and you catch her parted lips with your own. Her mouth is wet and hot, and she tastes of spring flowers and salt musk. You gasp at the pulse of her tongue, the hard heat of her body flush against yours. Her desire rips through you as keenly as your own, a whirlpool of love and longing which holds you fast.

She is everything you ever dreamed of and more.

You are not sure how long you remain wrapped up in each other, clutching, tasting, searching and finding. Hoots and hollers begin to reach your ears, familiar voices, teasing and congratulatory. You tear away from each other, foreheads pressed together, swaying breathlessly in a stupor. With her crimson cheeks and half-lidded eyes, her lips swollen from desire, it takes all the resolve within you not to whisk her away to your bedroom.

You must steady yourself. You know that you must tread slowly. Love is a brave new world for her, and there are a thousand nights ahead of you.

“There’s a monastery in Waterdeep,” you say eventually.

Through halting breaths, she struggles for words. It is intoxicating, to see Tav’s unyielding stoicism dissolve into her need for you. You have never felt so powerful. You plant a trail of kisses from her forehead to her chin. She nibbles at your earlobe, nuzzling into the crook of your neck.

“The Monastery of The Sun,” she murmurs after a while. “Notorious for heresy. I have always wanted to see whether the controversy is well-founded.”

You take her hands in yours. You swallow, the last remnants of apprehension churning within you.

“Would you return with me to…”

She looks at you, wide-eyed and curious as always. A smile breaks on your lips. You know, then, that there is nothing more to fear.

“Would you allow me to take you there?”

In your tumultuous life, you have seen many things. You have beheld the singular beauty of the Outer Plains, the unparalleled majesties of your home city, manifold vistas of nature’s bounty. But nothing compares to what you see before you now.

Joy, plain and pure, beams in every line and curve of Tav’s features. A chord of laughter bursts from her, crisp as birdsong. She radiates with love.

She kisses your hands, then cradles them against her heart.

“Nothing would give me greater pleasure.” *****

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seancekitsch · 1 month ago

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Can’t Stand Me Now; a modern Aegon x Stark! reader fic

CHAPTER FOUR: Sat in Your Lap

Y/N Stark and Aegon Targaryen. Aegon Targaryen and Y/N Stark. Inseparable since both eldest children met at Kings Landing University, until they weren’t. One night of drunken passion ruins it all.

Five years later, Aegon is coming off a broken engagement to Larissa Lannister and sends a risky Instagram DM to none other than Y/n Stark.

series masterlist here

warnings for the series: smut, smoking, drinking, friends to strangers to lovers, angst, fluff, more to come as needed

You’re pacing back and forth in the dimly lit store, your boot heels clacking against the hardwood as you nervously keep checking your phone. It’s an hour past closing time, and five minutes until Aegon arrives. You reach for your emergency perfume stash- always in the drawer under the till. After living here for almost ten years, you still cannot get used to how even chilly weather in King’s Landing is warmer than Winterfell’s summer. You spritz yourself frantically all over, making several passes over your hair and pits. You flap your hands and flip your hair, hoping that it isn’t obvious what you’ve just done. This is you frantic, this is you nervous.

One drink couldn’t hurt, right? You have a wine fridge in the back for private appointments. You could uncork one bottle and have a glass so maybe your hands wouldn’t shake when you go to open the door for him. You could have two glasses and still maintain poise in conversation. Three and you could still talk your way out of an argument. This justifies what you need it to as you walk over and gladly grab the bottle, wine glasses already perched on end tables for decor. The cork is impaled and easily slides out, the motions like a second nature to you, wine not lasting long at all in your clutches.

The bottle glugs as you unceremoniously pour, and then silences when you place it down, your hands replacing it with the glass. You resume your pacing, easier now than it was with your phone in your hand. You put the wine to your lips and take a deep sip, savoring the mouthful before swallowing. It’s Dornish, but not overly expensive. A bottle that costs more than your bills has never been your desire, despite the fact that all the wine you knocked from cabinets in the cellar as a kid easily cost more than your current flat. You take another sip, and step over towards the couch, finally ready to sit.

But just as soon as your boots hit the rug, you’re stopped by the rapping of knuckles on the wooden doorframe. Behind the glass, Aegon stands on the sidewalk bathed in the reddish warm glow of your shops outside lighting. Like this, his hair looks red like his mother’s, his face looks gaunt and haunted. Even still, handsome as ever. You sigh, fingers flexing against your wine glass. No way to change your mind and escape this. Traversing the hardwood is easy, easier than it should be. It feels almost as if your body is ready to welcome Aegon back, despite all the hurt still stored in your heart and head as your hand makes quick work of the locks and open the door.

“Started without me?” he asks, tipping his chin towards your wine.

“I’ll— I’ll pour you a glass.”

You don’t spare him another glance as you walk away from him, autopilot back to the wine fridge as you go back to your opened bottle. You eye it up, then turn to look at him. If Aegon is watching you, he’s doing an amazing job of hiding it. He looks around the dim shop, face turning from one rack to another. You decide to top yourself up again before you pour his glass.

You offer it to him with a clearing of your throat. Now that he’s here and in front of you, words leave you. What to even say to him? You feel small, like the sad graduate who waited all day and night for him to return. You feel the same way you did when you packed up his belongings to leave for him at his parent’s doorstep.

Aegon reaches for the glass, his fingers just barely brushing yours. Your first instinct is to rip your hand away, but the need to not shatter the glass against your floor stops the impulse.

“Cheers.”

“Yeah, cheers.”

Silence settles over the two of you, but it’s not exactly uncomfortable. For as loud as you and Aegon made things in university, there were just as many times where it was the two of you quiet and lounging, indulging in blunts or a bottle of wine and just decompressing together. Entire nights spent in Aegon’s lap drunk and escaping whatever drama your friend group had created, a break up, or worst and most commonly a call from your respective families. Granted, that was secret. Those moments were just for you and Aegon and no one else.

“You did it,” He whispers, hand gesturing all around before sipping his wine. You nod. Yes, you did. Part of you excitedly wants to talk business with Aegon, your first supporter and first wearer of your designs, but instead you just take a long drink.

“I’m so proud of you,” he tells you, his smile warm and his eyes sincere.

“Why are you here?”

“You invited me?” he looks confused, pouting as his brows scrunch up, “you said this was neutral ground to talk. But I don’t even know what you mean by that. We’ve never needed —“

“No; I mean…” you gather your courage with another sip, “Why are you sliding into my DM’s? Why are you back? Why are you being kind to me when I’m nothing but cold towards you?”

“I don’t care if you’re cold to me,” he scoffs, “Everyone’s cold to me.”

He rolls his shoulders, as if shrugging off a shroud. He finishes his wine quickly. Aegon contemplates his words, his eyes traveling your body as he does, his lip sucked between his teeth as he sighs.

“I couldn’t let things end the way they did with us.”

And how did they end? Did they end at all? Even real break ups came with closure, this gave you nothing but an aversion to the color green and a heightened need to hide from the tabloids. Countless times since graduation your father had called you, begging you to bring your business up north if you would not join the family business, to get away from paparazzi that chase heiresses with a penchant for club hopping. Though you cannot blame him, he’s lost all three of his children to the decadence and fast pace of the south. More or less, to the way of the Targaryens.

“Your sister told me that my name is a curse,” you bring up, annoyance growing, “Apparently you lot seek out Starks lately.”

Aegon sighs again, and places the wine glass down as he runs his hands through his hair. He nods as he squeezes his eyes shut, and you down the rest of your wine, gulping it down.

“Has been since I left your flat, if I’m being honest,” he chuckles, his lips pouting, “basically destroyed my life because I missed you.”

You nod in understanding, a tear escaping the corner of your eye as you take him in, getting a really good look at him. The other night he had been blurred by streetlights, obscured by rum. Now his features are laid bare to you, now you see the real him. He looks tired, in every sense of the word. His hair is unkempt, clearly due for a hair cut. There are deep circles under his eyes, and if you didn’t know better you’d think they were bruises.

“So why now?” you ask, your voice struggling to keep an even tone, “Why blow your life up and come find me now?”

“Would you believe that Aemond set me straight?” He asks, and you shake your head. No, of course you wouldn’t. Aemond is stoic, and as far as you know, has always completely hated you. More than a few times you’d stumbled into the Targaryen summer house absolutely hammered, hanging onto Aegon as you sang bantered and made Aemond lose sleep for the entire night. You annoyed the serious son.

“I mean, I had a model influencer for a fiancee, I had good standing in the company, a fuckin’ Lambo!” He chuckles, but there’s no humor in his voice, “Yet all I could think, every hour on the hour: Where did it all go wrong?”

You cannot help but chuckle at that. It would be a lie to say you don’t find yourself asking the same question from time to time.

“You’re what went wrong, by the way. Aemond pushed me to reach out after the stunt I pulled, even though I told him you probably hated me.”

You’re going to have to send Aemond some kind of basket or something, or pay for an excursion for him and his fancy older professor girlfriend. But Aegon was right too, you had hated him, or at least convinced yourself that you did. When his father died, you only sent condolences to his mother; you debated burning everything of his that he’d left in your flat; you refused to make any of your designs in green, in irrational fear that it would signal forgiveness or yearning. His lack of presence had never gotten easier though, and the yearning only got easier to ignore but not extinguish. Hells, you’d even been stupid enough one night to fuck Martyn Reyne, and after that unsatifsying night the rest of Aegon’s friend group had kept their distance from you as well. You lost all of your close friends in a short span of time, you’d refused to go home despite the city feeling like a ghost of your past.

More tears escape, and Aegon is immediately drawing you into him, pulling you close as he whispers to you in a vain attempt at comfort.

“It’s okay, it’s okay,” he tells you, or maybe tells both of you from the raggedness of his breathing. Your arms weakly return the hug, first circling him gently, then returning his hold. The two of you hug tightly, pressing yourselves together like it’s the last time, and maybe it will be.

“Why did you leave that day?” you ask him, more abrupt than you had wanted to, but the words are out there. The moment of truth.

“I didn’t want to,” he says, and his voice sounds so fucking small. Somehow, that enrages you. His sadness, his pain at this situation you’re both in.

“So why did you?” you ask, pulling back, voice sharp as a needle.

Aegon appears pricked by it, good. He clenches his jaw, and backs away. The distance between you mere inches but also cavernous.

“I got her fucking pregnant, alright!” His voice raises, but you don’t flinch. The truth finally out, filing the cavern.

Your chest feels hot, heavy, like a stone.

“Aegon?” you had roused him from his silence, a blunt passed between the two of you as you you lounged on your bed. He hummed as he opened an eye, his sock covered feet tapped a beat against your wall.

“What do you want for your life?” you had asked. Aegon had shown up miserable, ready to fight and rage, and you had tamed him with a blunt. Only then did he tell you his parents had ended their lunch visit by berating him about his future.

“Not work at the fucking company,” he scoffed.

“Well obviously,” you rolled over, leaned on your elbows as you examined his face.

“Neverending party?” He phrased it like a question.

“Boring,” you poked his nose, “We already have that.”

“A family?” another question, “Be a better parent than mine, I guess.” You nodded, then ducked your head down to rest your face against his shoulder.

“The fact that you’re even thinking of that tells me you will be,” you told him.

Aegon tilted his head to lean against yours.

“And I want you in my life.”

You promised him you always would be, and cuddled closer as the blunt fizzled out.

You recall that conversation the moment the words leave his mouth. Suddenly, you don’t blame him for ghosting you. You and your love for him did not fit into an equation where Aegon was going to have a child with Larissa Lannister. You want to cry again as you nod at him, your eyes searching his, desperately hoping he can see the sympathy in yours. The anger you felt takes a back seat to clarity.

But wait…

“Then where is-?”

“She didn’t even end up having the kid, but she sure ran straight to her father and mine about it,” he interrupts you, bitterly recalling the events as if the words were poison in his mouth.

“I just…” He pouts, a hopeless face, “I couldn’t face you and they all finally liked me, and then even that wasn’t worth it. So I wrote a speech about everything I wanted to say to you and I read it and Otto tried to make Mum disown me.”

You had already heard about that. All of the puzzle pieces now finally fell into place. He had hurt you, he had probably hurt Larissa many times, he had hurt the company. It’s no wonder Helaena had called your name a curse. But now, Aegon is free from burden, yet he doesn’t look like a man at ease.

“Can I have another glass?” He asks you, and of course you oblige. You lead him to the back room, and let him select what he wants. He picks a sweet one, a sangria blend.

“Take the whole bottle, I’m about to,” you tell him, and grab yourself a dry one that tastes of oak and the berries back home. He uncorks both of them, and walks back into the main store room to retrieve the glasses. He pours yours first, nearly filling the wine glass. He then pours his to the brim as well.

“Cheers.”

“I had a date planned.”

You nearly spit your wine back into the glass at the confession.

“A date? When?”

A part of you is worried that he has a driver out there waiting to take you to somewhere lavish or to one of your old spots, maybe even the pier.

“That day. I was going to take you around the city to all of our spots, grab a drink at each, and I was gonna tell you something over every drink.”

“Like what?”

“Like how I realized I wanted to be with you when I watched you take a blowjob shot at Sylvie’s in Fleabottom. I was so angry at the way I saw Martyn watching you that night. Wanted to kill him for looking at what’s mine.”

You laugh, genuinely. You remembered only part of that night; a drunken stupor of karaoke, dancing, shots with your hands behind your back, and then clinging to Aegon as he held you up by the end of the night. His arms saving you from your knees hitting cobblestones, his continuous joking stopping you from falling asleep on the train. You had almost kissed Aegon that night; his haircut was fresh and his aftershave minty and intoxicating, you hung onto him even before you needed his help walking. That was sophomore year.

Aegon takes a long drink from his glass, and stares at the floor.

“She was at my dorm when I got back to change. So was Dad.”

In the four years of university that Aegon attended, you’d only ever heard of Viserys Targaryen going to see his children from his second marriage a total of twice, and both were for building dedications and not actually to see his children. You take a longer drink than his last, letting the wine fill your mouth in gulps.

“I wish I had known,” you say between gulps, “But I don’t know how much that would have changed things.”

He nods, the understanding hanging in the space between you. Aegon finishes off his glass of wine, his eyes searching you the entire time. Maybe, you think, this is his first time seeing you without the rose colored glasses of nostalgia as well. Five years of life to take in. Would he notice your tattoo? The changes to your hair? The inevitable beginning signs of wrinkles that smoking like a chimney gives you?

Insecurity creeps up your skin like a rash, heat flooding your system at the scrutiny. Your mind swirls, but more than anything you wonder: Does Aegon like what he sees? Does Aegon like what he sees? Does Aegon like what he sees?

“I have loved you for so long,” Argon’s voice cracks as he speaks, his eyes glassy and wide, “Its good to see you again.”

Your mind stops, heat remaining under your skin changing into something else. Part of you wants to throw your cares and your wine to the wind and rush forward to embrace him, another part of you wants to react like a woman scorned.

“I loved you too,” is all you offer instead, finishing off your glass of wine as well. Your bottles sit on the table, almost empty at this point. The lamp light illuminates the wine golden, almost sparkling. You focus on how it glitters, the way both of them sit with their liquid below the label.

“Loved?”

There’s a tear in the corner of his eye, threatening to fall down his cheekbone.

“Aeg,” you shake your head, not sure how to say the words, “I… I spent so much time trying to hate you.”

Aegon steps forward, closing the gap between you. His fingers twitch, as if he’s going to reach out for your own, yet the contact doesn’t come.

“Only try?” he snorts in laughter, smiling; not smirking, not sneering.

“Trying didn’t really suit me,” you tell him, tilting your head as you joke.

A half hour later, both bottles as well as the first bottle you opened are done, and Aegon is holding the door for you as you both finally exit the shop. The tension between the two of you is gone, yet no boisterous laughter or singing commences. What remains is subdued, a reconciliation not translated to a restoration. He stands protectively over you as you lock the door a final time, as if you do not do this alone almost every night, as if this is not a safe posh neighborhood. He sways on his feet, the wine definitely having gone to more than just his head. Yet, he remains cautious.

“Listen, if I walk you home safe, can we be friends again?” He asks, and you pretend to think about it.

“I think we can try.”

“Try? Try, you’ve said you try things,” he mumbles, the drunk leading the drunk as you giggle at his rambling. He uses a hand against the window to stabilize himself as he tries to turn towards the train stop the next block over, however his feet dont quite cooperate. You make a point to jingle your keys a little extra before dropping them into your bag, rolling your eyes at him and his doubts.

“C’mon, let’s catch the train,” you tell him, stumbling as your toes catch on one another as you turn.

You can try to be friends again, you think.

#aegon targaryen x reader #aegon x reader #modern aegon x reader #modern aegon targaryen

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