#nightfall chapter 7

[pro-logue-epi-logue]

He does like her but not in a romantic way, got it.

Also, emmy sarcasm is the best and my favorite.

IMAGINE A CHAPTER OF JUST EMORY AND BANKS BEING SARCASTIC MAYBE INSERT DAMON IF YOU WANT BUT THESE TWO ALONE WILL BE BEST.

Cant wait for the best two characters of these series to talk.

[sol1loqu1st]

WOO finally slogged through a version of chapter 17 i'm somewhat happy with

[punkshort]

i know who you are | 7. the week

Pairing: Joel Miller x f!reader

Chapter Summary: Joel is on a mission to win you back. You struggle with your feelings and visit an old friend for some perspective.

Chapter Warnings: language, angst, pining, sad!Joel, amnesia, slow burn, physical violence, wounds/blood/injuries/gore, vague reference to suicide (Joel remembering his incident after Sarah), alcohol consumption, non-descriptive smutty memory, mentions of murder (adults and children), mentions of pregnancy (not reader)

WC: 7.7K

A/N: I took some liberties with the background of the Fireflies, it's not exactly canon.

Series Masterlist

Somewhere in Northern California

It took two days.

Two full days of freezing temperatures and frigid wind as he traversed up and down mountains, through snow covered forests with little to no shelter, but he finally made it. Right before nightfall, he approached the edge of the town you grew up in. The town your parents still lived in ten years ago. The town that holds a history of you and everything you hold dear.

It was too dark and he was too tired to enter the town and go any further, but fortune smiled upon him for the first time since he left Jackson when he spotted a dilapidated woodshed tucked into the forest. It was small, no bigger than a bedroom, but it would do. It would be the first time in two days he would get to sleep with a roof over his head, and he desperately needed it.

He grossly overestimated his ability to survive out in the wild. He did it before, of course, but life in Jackson made him soft. Made him complacent. Made him weak.

Time took its toll on his body. His age was an offensive reminder every time his knees creaked or his back twinged. He wasn't as fast as he used to be, nor as strong. But he was determined and stubborn, two things that would never change.

With hands trembling from the cold, he jabbed his knife into the lock and broke it with ease, a small triumph in an otherwise unforgiving journey. The shed was mostly empty, save for a pile of wood and an axe. Plenty of room for both him and the horse.

After he scattered some oats on the floor, he grabbed his rifle and marched back out into the snowy tundra to do a perimeter check, knowing he would fall asleep the moment he allowed himself to slow down. By the time he deemed the area safe, he retreated back into the woodshed and lit a fire in the tiny furnace to warm up a bit.

Once he got feeling back in his fingers, he cracked open some stew and ate it cold straight from the can, too impatient to warm it up and too eager to get some rest. The wind howled outside, practically screaming at him with every gust: How could you say that to me?

The horse nickered softly, her head lowered, one back leg cocked as she began to doze off. He laid on the wooden floor, partially resting inside his sleeping bag, ready to strike if there was an intruder. The back of his wrist laid against his forehead while he stared blankly at the ceiling, wondering for the umpteenth time if what he was doing was even going to work. If he would even be capable of finding your house in this town, let alone finding any pictures still in good enough condition to bring back to you.

But it was all he had.

You had mentioned to him when he was sick, after you saw the photo of Sarah, how you wished you had pictures of your family. You looked so somber and distant and he was once again reminded that even though you lost them ten years ago, in your mind you only lost them months ago.

He couldn't imagine losing Sarah twice. Waking up one day, thinking she was alive and healthy and late for school just to be told she was killed mercilessly ten years prior and died in his arms. You were so much stronger than him. You always were. You were told your whole world changed, your family gone, and then tossed into a house with him, pressured by everyone every damn day to regain your memories and become a completely different person when he knew deep down if the same had happened to him, his answer would lie at the end of a barrel. But unlike before, he might not flinch.

You really fucking hurt me, Joel.

He rubbed his face aggressively, the pain and anguish in your voice haunting him. This trip left him with too much time to get lost in his thoughts, too much time to wallow in his grief and replay every single painful memory from the past several days.

Sighing, he dropped his hands to his chest and tried to think about something else. Letting his eyes drift shut, he let his mind wander back to before. Before your accident, before he fucked everything up, back to a time when you were happy and stupidly in love.

"What's cookin', good lookin'?" he heard your voice behind him.

He grinned as he stirred a pot of sauce on the stove while you wrapped your arms around his midsection, burying your face against his back.

"My accent rubbin' off on you now?"

You giggled and let go, walking over to grab the bottle of whiskey and pouring you each a glass.

"Maybe."

You handed him his glass and clinked them together before taking a sip.

"How was patrol?" he asked, turning his attention back to the pasta.

"Boring," you replied, hopping up onto the counter next to him, swinging your legs back and forth. "Jesse has a lot of work to do. He's not seasoned enough to be out there without one of us."

He nodded thoughtfully and lifted the spoon up to your lips to taste the sauce. "Needs lemon," you said, licking your upper lip while he snatched a lemon from a basket in the corner of the kitchen and sliced it in half.

"Yeah, I know, but he's got potential. Just gotta get him to focus a bit more. Gotta be more aware of his surroundings."

You hummed and rubbed the back of your neck with a wince.

"You hurtin'?" he asked, but you shook your head immediately.

"Just tired."

"You sure?" he said while he strained the pasta. "I can rub your neck later."

"Oh, well in that case, yes. I'm absolutely aching over here," you said with a smile.

"Don't tempt me, baby," he told you, setting down the pot before wedging himself between your knees, his hands rubbing over your thighs. "Might not stop at your neck."

"Is that right?" you teased, pulling your lower lip between your teeth playfully.

"Mhmm. First it's your neck, then shoulders," he said, pressing a gentle kiss against your lips, "then your back," he dragged his hands up your back and pressed you forward, nearly pulling you off the counter.

"Then what?" you asked breathlessly, arms loosely draping around the back of his neck.

"Before y'know it, you'll be pullin' at my belt, tellin' me you got an ache someplace else 'n you need me to stuff you full of my cock." His hands dragged up and down your back, his mouth nipping gently at your throat as you tipped your head back with a gasp.

"You know me so well," you murmured, a lazy smirk spreading across your face when you felt the urgency behind his touch.

"Yeah I do, baby," his words getting lost against your skin, "know you like the back of my hand. Know what makes you tick. What makes you feel good. Know what makes you scream my fuckin' name." His lips slotted over yours urgently, the pasta cold and long forgotten as you wrapped your legs around his waist and pulled him close.

"Take me to bed, Joel," you begged after you pulled your head away, breaking the kiss and then quickly latching onto his neck. "Need you. I want - shit!" you cursed when one of you accidentally pushed a plate off the counter and it smashed into pieces against the floor.

"Leave it, don't care," he said, picking you up and pulling your attention off the shards of ceramic littering the floor. "I'll clean it up later."

His eyes popped open, the echo of your giggle from that night bouncing around his skull. It was almost laughable now, thinking he felt lonely before compared to how he felt in the middle of fucking nowhere with only a sleeping horse to keep him company.

He wasn't stupid. He knew he would need to do more than bring home some pictures to convince you to forgive him. But it was a start, and maybe, just maybe with time, you would come to understand what you meant to him.

And if he was really lucky, he might end up meaning something to you, too.

It was stupid and it didn't mean anything.

That's what you kept telling yourself ever since Joel left and you found yourself curling up in his bed at night instead of yours.

His bed was more comfortable. His room didn't store the bad memories of your fight. It was simply easier to sleep there.

It certainly didn't have anything to do with the way the sheets still smelled like him. Like the soap you both used combined with the outdoors and a hint of his sweat. And on the third night when you picked out a flannel of his from the closet and wrapped it around yourself, it was only because it was a particularly frigid night.

You didn't miss him.

Well, you missed having another person in the house, sure. But you didn't miss him on some deeper level. Maria and Ellie were wrong. They had no idea what they were talking about. They had no idea what was going through your head, what you were feeling, what you were struggling with.

There was no possible way you could have feelings for Joel. Not after everything he did and said. Not after the lies and the cheating and the deception.

But then why, when you were struggling to fall asleep at night, did your mind always wander back to the way he looked at you in the meadow, or the way his arms felt wrapped around you on the back of the horse, or the way he made you laugh when you played Monopoly?

And why did it feel like a part of you left with him that night?

"Pathetic," you muttered to yourself, pulling the sheets tighter and rolling over onto your side, his soft, worn flannel like butter against your bare skin. You squeezed your eyes shut, forcing the memories from your mind and instead, replaying what he told you about the hospital.

He almost killed you. He was seconds away from putting a bullet in your head and only after presumably begging for your life did he let you go, and then he had the nerve to keep that information from you not only once, but fucking twice.

He was protecting Ellie.

But he still shouldn't have lied.

With a groan, you rolled onto your back and stared up at the ceiling, sleep so far out of reach you didn't even feel like trying anymore. Then a thought occurred to you:

You weren't the only one he let live. There were two other people in Jackson who were there, who were shown mercy and didn't appear to hold any resentment towards him for it. In fact, they seemed rather happy with the second chance they were given.

You hadn't seen Ben or Lisa in a long time. The opportunity never presented itself for you to seek any perspective from them about that day.

Perhaps it was time to change that.

It took him a few hours to scope out the town and venture out of the woods, but by late morning he was heading down what looked to be one of the main thoroughfares in town, eyes squinting against the blowing snow as he tried to pinpoint the location of town hall.

All he remembered was your street name but he had absolutely no idea how to find it, so his plan was to break into the town hall and find a map. From there, he prayed Ellie's drawing was truly accurate enough to narrow down your parents' house.

He was freezing. His face was numb and his back was fucking killing him from riding so much, but he was so close. If he was lucky, he could find your house, get what he needed and head out all before nightfall. Maybe he could even spend another night in the woodshed. It wasn't so bad. At least he was warm.

As he continued to steer his horse down another road, he couldn't help but think Tommy was right about the storm. It was providing him some cover, just in case there were survivors around that wouldn't take kindly to his intrusion. He just hoped it would blow through in a day so his ride back would be clear.

After another thirty minutes of wind whipping at his face, the cold penetrating his coat and several layers underneath, he finally saw it. It was a smaller building than he imaged it to be, but the sign was clear. Hoping that the town size was as small as the town hall, he steered his mare down the drive and through the parking lot, making sure to take in his surroundings, confirming he was truly alone before he slid down from the saddle and trudged through the snow to the front doors.

He wiped away the snow from the window, peering inside before heading to another one and doing the same. It appeared to be empty so he tried the door, unsurprisingly finding it locked. He pulled out his knife and worked on the lock, his fingers stiff and his ears so cold he could barely feel them anymore. Finally, he broke the lock but when he shoved the door, there was something blocking him on the other side.

"Shit," he muttered, glancing around, kicking and dusting snow off the surrounding area, looking for a brick or a rock. Giving up, he grabbed his rifle from the saddle and angrily made his way to the nearest window, smashing the butt of his gun against the glass repeatedly until it shattered. He gasped for air, not realizing how much energy he was exerting before he continued, knocking out as much of the glass as he could.

Sticking his head inside, he looked around. The place seemed empty. It was quiet, covered in dust and debris. Untouched dust was good. It meant nobody had been there in a while. Human or otherwise.

He crawled through the window, taking great care to not catch on any jagged edges. He held his breath, ears straining for any noise that might give someone away, but all he heard was the howling wind outside. This is your fault. Still, he kept his guard up. He walked room to room, finding his way to the lobby and searching the front desk for a map.

"You gotta be fuckin' kiddin' me," he grumbled as he opened and shut each drawer in the desk, only pausing to snatch up an old protein bar and shoving it in his pocket.

With a sigh, he looked around the room. There were a couple benches, chairs that were moved and tipped over, papers scattered about but his eyes were drawn to the portraits on the wall. There were a few paintings of men he would never recognize, unknown sheriffs and mayors, and some framed pictures of the staff, but the one that really drew his attention was the large map on the wall next to the front doors.

It was a road map of the town. Simple, but it was all he needed. He rounded the desk and shined his flashlight over the map, studying it, searching for where he was before looking for your street.

"Grant Street."

"Grant?" he repeated, his fingers lightly skirting up and down your bare back.

"Mhmm," you confirmed, eyes closed, a small, satisfied smile tugging at your lips as you buried your face into his neck.

"That's funny," he said, his hand wandering past your waist and over your ass.

"Why's that?"

"Grant's my Mama's maiden name."

Your eyes opened and locked onto his. "Maybe it's fate, then."

Maybe it was.

Grant was only four blocks north. It didn't look like a very long road, either.

He could do this.

He was so close.

Lisa answered the door with the same look of surprise as before, although this time she was clutching needles and yarn in her left hand while the fire quietly crackled behind her.

"Hey," you said, arms wrapped around yourself as the snow storm continued to swirl behind you. "Can I come in?"

"Oh! Of course!" Lisa said, stepping back, "how rude of me. Can I get you something warm to drink?" She closed the door behind you and took a step towards the kitchen. "I just boiled some water for tea, it's still hot."

"Tea sounds lovely, thank you," you said as you hung up your coat and scarf, trying your best not to make a mess of melted snow all over her floor.

She told you to make yourself comfortable while she prepared your tea, so you wandered into her tiny living room, the space seeming a little larger now without your two imposing men.

"Where's Ben?"

"Working," she said, setting down a teacup and saucer next to hers. "I put a little sugar in it."

"Oh, thank you, that's perfect. I like it sweet," you replied, sitting down on the same couch as before and bringing the cup to your lips.

"I know, I remember," she said, and when she sat down and fixed her billowy top, you noticed for the first time the small bump protruding low on her hips.

Your eyebrows shot up in surprise and she followed your gaze.

"Oh, yes," her tone soft, "I'm due this spring."

"Wow. Congratulations, Lisa. That's wonderful, I had no idea. I thought I would have seen you from time to time at the infirmary," you explained, setting down your tea.

"Nick agrees to see me after hours, sometimes he makes house calls," she said, picking up her needles again.

You titled your head to the side. "Why do you want to be seen after hours?"

Her lips pressed into a thin line, eyes fixed on the yellow blanket she was making. "I still find it difficult sometimes to face some of the others in town, I suppose. I know I shouldn't but the guilt sticks with me."

"Guilt?"

Her eyes flicked up to yours and she shifted her weight. "I know Ben mentioned the Fireflies to you." She held out her wrist, showing you the small moth-like symbol tattooed there. "I'm not sure how much you know or remember-"

"Actually, that's why I'm here," you said, taking a deep breath. "Joel told me everything. About the Fireflies. About the hospital."

Her eyes widened, the needles abandoned in her lap.

"Oh."

"Yeah," you said, chewing on your lip and glancing at the fire. "He told me what he did there. Told me he spared us, let us go."

"Yes, he did," she agreed softly.

"Can you tell me more about that day?" you asked, dragging your eyes back to meet hers. "I'm having trouble understanding how I could have known this before and still managed to fall in love with him."

She frowned. "What do you mean?"

You laughed dryly and shrugged. "I mean he almost killed us. He killed countless innocent people, friends of ours I'm assuming, and I'm expected to believe I just looked past it? We just looked past it?" You motioned between the two of you. "He's a murderer, Lisa. He-"

"We're murderers," she corrected, and you fell silent. "We killed innocent people. We helped lead a revolution that resulted in hundreds of deaths, and where did that get us? Nowhere! People weren't any better off. In fact, they were worse. Friends and family killed, caught in the crossfire, tangled up in this idea of freedom and safety and giving their lives to an empty cause."

You swallowed as you watched Lisa's face, her eyes fiery and her tone hardened, transforming into a different version of herself before your very eyes.

"What Joel did..." she trailed off as she thought back to that day. "We did bad things. So did he, but he single handedly cut the Fireflies off at the legs. He stopped the insanity, stopped the war, stopped the ridiculous experiments and half baked ideas to save the world, regardless of the lives lost along the way. You don't remember, I understand, but allow me to explain."

"Please," you begged softly, "please tell me everything."

She rested a palm against her swelling stomach and leaned back. "We realized we made a mistake pretty early on," she began, "but we didn't have anywhere else to go. We had been living in the wild for so long. We were tired and hungry and weak and we fell for it. Fell for the sales pitch when they found us. We were told we wouldn't have to fight, but they didn't tell us what they expected us to do."

"W-what did we do?" you stammered, sitting on the edge of your seat.

"We killed people. Innocent people, point blank. FEDRA soldiers. Civilians who ratted out our location for extra food for their family. Children-" her voice wobbled a bit as she looked down at her stomach. "Children who were experimented on, vaccine prototypes tested on, who became horribly disfigured a-and screaming in pain, begging to be put out of their misery-"

"Okay," you said, cutting her off and taking a deep breath, unable to hear much more. It was becoming clear why Joel kept this from you, and although you had a right to know, you were beginning to understand his motivation. He was trying to protect you.

"Anyway," Lisa continued, flicking a tear from her cheek, "we planned on getting out. We couldn't do it anymore. Then, Joel showed up."

You held your breath, waiting for her to continue.

"We were doing perimeter checks. Loosening a spot in the gate so we could sneak out later that night. Then we heard the gunshots. And at first, we thought some infected got in. It was the perfect distraction, so we grabbed our gear and made a run for it."

She paused to take a sip from her tea, her eyes looking miles away.

"We almost made it. We were in the parking garage loading up a vehicle when he snuck up behind us. Told us to lay face down on the ground with our hands behind our heads. We never saw him and it wasn't until later we found out he was all alone. The whole time we were convinced it had to have been a group of men. It seemed impossible for one man to do what he did, but somehow..."

She trailed off again and cleared her throat.

"He gave us a second chance when we didn't deserve it," she said solemnly. "You and Ben dealt with the weight of what we did far better than me. I still struggle with the guilt, I can't..." she looked up at you, "I hope you never remember."

A chill went down your spine and you nodded.

"Try not to hold it against him," she said, offering you a small smile. "We've all done terrible things. It's not all black and white."

It ain't black and white.

"Yeah, okay," you replied quietly, standing up from the couch, your mind reeling. "Thanks," you added, motioning to the tea before she walked you to the door, "and congratulations again."

"Thank you," she said, rubbing her belly, her green eyes sparkling. "I'm glad you stopped by. The truth is sometimes ugly, but that doesn't mean you don't deserve to understand the whole picture." You nodded and bent over to shove on your boots. "Joel's not a bad man. I'm sure he was just trying to protect you by leaving some things out about our past. He would have told you eventually."

When the whole goddamn world ends and all you got left is one or two people you care 'bout, you'll do whatever you gotta do to protect 'em.

"Yeah, I'm starting to realize that now," you said, shrugging on your coat with a wry smile.

The whole way home, you practically kicked yourself for not visiting Lisa sooner. Maybe it would have made a difference, maybe not. But it finally felt like a missing puzzle piece was back in place and you could begin to make sense of your confusing feelings for Joel.

Ellie was incredibly talented.

He needed to make sure to remind her of that when he got home because even through the blowing snow, in near whiteout conditions, he was still able to figure out which house was yours because Ellie's drawing was so detailed, so accurate that it almost felt like he had been there before.

He was eager and impatient. He just wanted to get inside and get what he needed and leave, but before he did, he peered inside the windows and did a walk around the whole house three times, just in case. It was a small brick ranch and if the snow wasn't so thick, he would be able to see the black shutters framing the front windows, just like in the drawing.

He shouldered open the side garage door first, a pile of fluffy snow spilling over the hard concrete as he stumbled in and shimmied open the roll top door so he could bring his mare inside.

He pat her between the eyes, murmuring his thanks for being so damn tough and sprinkled some more oats on the ground before slipping inside the house.

The door from the attached garage led right into a kitchen, which, by the looks of it, was rifled through on more than one occasion. No doubt some survivors had come through over the years and turned the place upside down for anything useful, but that didn't matter to him. What he needed wouldn't be stolen.

Glancing at the fridge, he paused when he saw some photos stuck to the door. He leaned his rifle against the wall and shook his head, curls flinging melted snow over the dusty floor, then bent over to examine the pictures. Most of them didn't have you and he began to worry he was in the wrong house after all, but then he saw it: at the very top was a picture of four people, all wearing summer clothes and Mickey Mouse ears with the Cinderella castle in the background. A middle aged man and woman bookended a young man, lean but muscular with his arm draped around your shoulders.

You were younger, maybe still in high school, and your hair was longer and lighter, but he would recognize that smile anywhere.

He carefully plucked the photo from the fridge and brought it closer, his eyes raking over every detail of the picture, from the brightness in your eyes to the cotton candy pink sky behind you.

You looked so happy.

Nothing like the way you looked when he last saw you: broken and bruised. Ruined and dejected. Because of him.

You spared my life just to break my heart.

He blinked and pocketed the photo before turning around. The living room was in worse condition. It appeared someone must have stayed there at one point because the couches were shifted around, an armchair wedged in front of the door, cushions flung around haphazardly.

He had to move furniture out of the way, dig around a bit through broken bookshelves, but he managed to finally unearth an old photo album. Resting on one of the couch cushions with a huff, he took a few moments to flip through it, smiling now and then when he saw an especially cute picture of you. The wind outside was howling so loudly, the old house creaking with every gust that he couldn't hear when footsteps slowly crept up behind him and knocked him unconscious with the butt of his own rifle.

Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.

He knew better. He should have scoped out the inside of the house before getting distracted. But he was too excited and too eager to get what he came for that he forgot his own rules. And he took for granted the snowstorm would hide his tracks.

Now he was hunched over on the living room floor, leaning against the wall with his wrists tied behind his back while five raiders went through his things.

"Hey man, don't you like peaches?"

"Fuck yeah I do, give it here."

Joel groaned, the back of his head throbbing, thick, sticky blood slowly trickling down the back of his neck.

"He's waking up."

"Hey, princess, how's the head?" one said with a sinister laugh. Joel ignored him.

"You got some nice shit. Wanna tell us where your camp is?"

Joel opened his eyes and glared at the man in front of him, wearing a leather jacket and leather gloves and a black bandana pulling his dark, wiry hair off his scarred face.

"Fuck you."

The punch came fast and hard across his jaw, making him see stars for a moment. The other men chuckled and got back to dividing up his things.

"You wanna try that again?" the first man asked, crouching down in front of him. Joel tugged on the rope holding his wrists together. The knot was tight but it wasn't foolproof. He just needed a little time to loosen it up.

"Don't got a camp."

"Bullshit," the man barked, spitting against the wall next to Joel's head. "Ain't nobody out here with this kinda gear and a goddamn horse roughing it all alone. Now, just tell us the city and we'll take it from there. We'll even let you live."

He heard one of the other men scoff but the rest remained quiet, and if Joel wasn't already convinced they were planning to kill him either way, he definitely was now.

"Boise."

"Boise?" he repeated, and Joel nodded, twisting his hands behind his back, feeling the coarse rope burn against his skin. The man in the leather jacket sighed and hung his head before landing another blow, this time across the mouth. Joel's lower lip got snagged on his teeth and tore. Blood trickled down his chin as he angrily whipped his head back towards the raider.

"I told you what you wanted!"

"You fed me a bunch of bullshit is what you did," he said, kicking Joel in the ribs. He gasped for air, doubled over against the wall, coughing and spraying blood across the faded floral wallpaper. He wondered if your parents did the wallpaper themselves, if your mom picked it out, or did the house already come like that?

Joel tugged harder on the rope, feeling it start to give. He needed to stay focused. He needed to make every move count if he wanted to get out of this alive.

The raider pulled a revolver from the back of his pants - Joel's revolver - and flipped it over in his hands. Back and forth, back and forth. Then he leaned forward and pressed the barrel against Joel's forehead.

"I'll give you one more chance, asshole," he said, his dark eyes boring into Joel's, "tell us where your camp is or else I shoot you in the fucking head."

"What the hell was he doing here anyway?"

"Shut up, Mike," the guy in the leather growled, eyes still trained on Joel.

"No, but seriously. There's nothing in this house worth taking. We've been through this neighborhood months ago."

The raider's eyes flickered around the room and Joel tugged harder on his restraints when he looked away. Then the man spotted the photo album lying face down on the ground.

"What's this?" he asked, lowering the gun and picking up the album. He began to flip through it and Joel felt the rope finally give. The raider let out a low whistle and slid a photo out to look at it closer. "Don't tell me you came out in the middle of a storm just to find something to jack off to," he teased, holding up a photo of you in a yellow bikini by a pool. He flipped the picture back around and grinned. When he went to stuff it in his pocket, his attention momentarily diverted, Joel took his opportunity to strike.

In the blink of an eye, he snatched the revolver from the raider's fingers and shot him in the temple, his body immediately falling limply to the side. Wet, sticky blood sprayed all over Joel's hand but he just tightened his grip on the gun, taking aim and bringing down another one of the men while they were still too stunned to move.

"Fuck!" one of the remaining three men screamed as they scrambled for cover. Joel ducked behind the couch and held his breath, straining to hear the scuffling of their boots, trying to pinpoint where they were in the small room. When he heard one of them accidentally knock against the kitchen table, the wooden legs scraping against the linoleum, he straightened up and took aim, taking out another man with a bullet right between the eyes, but unfortunately one of the last two men got a shot in as well.

The bullet grazed against his left bicep. Joel hissed and ducked back behind the couch. He would deal with it later.

"Come on, man, we can work something out," one of the men called out after a minute. "Let's just go our separate ways. Act like this never-"

Joel jumped up and shot the man in the cheek, the bullet traveling through his mouth and out the back of his head, leaving brain matter that looked like globs of gelatin dripping down the kitchen cupboards after he fell lifelessly to the ground.

Joel stepped towards the kitchen, now only one on one. He got cocky. He was feeling too confident with how quickly he took out the group. He didn't even see it coming when the knife lodged into his side, just above his hip. Without thinking, he yanked the knife out, twisted around and jammed it into the final raider's throat, watching as he fell to the floor, choking on his own blood, and didn't look away until he stopped twitching.

Adrenaline still coursed through his veins and he used it to his advantage, his left hand pressing weakly against his wound, the wound in his arm preventing it from being very effective while he searched the dead bodies of the men for anything useful. He had brought some first aid with him when he left Jackson but he was too far from home, he would need antibiotics, at least, if he was going to make it back.

Of course, he came up empty, so he snatched his first aid kit from the table and stumbled down the little hallway, searching for a bathroom. He knew it was a lost cause, the raiders already admitted to clearing the place out months ago, but he had to try.

He flung open the medicine cabinet with a grunt, the pain beginning to set in now. Pressing his bloody fingers against the stab wound as hard as he could, he rummaged around the cabinet, leaving paths of red everywhere his fingers touched, then tried the drawers under the sink.

Nothing.

"Fuck," he muttered, collapsing onto the cool tile floor as he began to sort through his first aid kit. There were no towels left but he was sitting on an old bathmat. He groaned in pain when he lifted his hips to pull the bathmat out, shook out the dust and dirt, then pressed it against his side, bringing his knee up to hold it in place.

With trembling fingers, he threaded a needle. He wiped the blood from his hands on his shirt, but they were stained red. Ripping open his jacket and flannel, he lifted the two other layers he had on underneath and lowered his leg to get a look at the wound.

It was deep and he was losing a lot of blood, but he was fairly certain the knife wasn't long enough to knick any organs. His stomach wasn't swelling, that was a good sign.

He only had a small bottle of antiseptic, so he used most of it to clean the wound and then the needle, saving a little bit to use on his arm later.

He took several quick breaths in, hyping himself up, then paused when he first shoved the needle through his skin. Tears sprung up, blurring his vision, but he blinked them away.

Focus. Focus. Focus.

In and out, in and out, he slowly stitched himself up. The angle was awkward and the stitches were ugly, but it got the job done: the bleeding stopped. His heart was hammering in his chest, sweat poured from the sides of his head, mixing with all the blood drying on his face and beard. He slumped to the ground with a pained groan, lying flat on the floor in a pool of his own blood, staring up at the ceiling. He just needed a moment to rest, a moment to catch his breath and then he would go.

Would he ever see you again? Would you ever even know why he came out there? Would you always wonder what happened to him? You told him you cared about him, but was that even true anymore? After what he did?

"C'mon, baby, gimme a sign," he whispered to himself, "gimme a sign that I still got a chance in hell 'cause if I don't, I'm not sure I got the strength to make it home." Tears welled up in his eyes again and this time he let them fall. He sniffled and waited. For what, he wasn't sure. Divine intervention? Genius to strike? A brilliant idea to form? But all he heard was the blowing wind outside.

The tile felt so cool against his burning hot skin. A small voice in the back of his head told him the longer he stayed there the weaker he would become, but he was just so tired. He rolled his head to the side, his eyes about to slide shut when he saw it: a dusty, opaque orange bottle rolled all the way against the wall underneath the sink.

Blinking a few times, he wondered if he was imagining it.

He wasn't.

Stretching his arm out, he slowly reached underneath the vanity and pulled out the half empty bottle. Holding it above his face, he squinted at the letters on the faded sticker.

Penicillin. Use as directed by your dentist.

His breath caught in his throat when he read your name on the label.

He finally got his sign.

"What happens when we die?"

"What?"

You rolled over onto your side to face him, wrapping your arm around his waist. He looked so peaceful, lying in bed like that. His eyes closed, face relaxed. You repeated your question.

"Don't know," he said, cracking open one eye to look at you. "Haven't died yet."

You giggled and he smiled, pulling you closer. He smelled so good. Like the rain and sex and smoke from the fire.

"I mean... do you think there's a heaven?"

He hummed and kissed the top of your head, his fingers lightly trailing up and down your bare arm.

"Yeah, I do."

You swallowed nervously and drew invisible circles into his skin, making him shiver.

"Do you think..." you trailed off and he froze, picking up on your tone.

"What, darlin'?"

"Do you think we'll make it? To heaven, I mean?"

His eyebrows pinched together. "Why wouldn't we?"

"You know why," you replied softly, "we've done bad things, Joel."

"Yeah, but we ain't bad people," he reminded you, then rolled over, pushing you onto your back so his arms caged you in. One knee slotted between yours and you spread your legs, hooking your ankles around the backs of his thighs.

"Are you sure?"

"I'm sure," he said, dipping his chin down and pressing his lips firmly against yours. You sighed, your shoulders finally relaxing. "Besides, this is heaven right here," he murmured against your mouth, feeling you smile.

"Ain't nothin' better than this."

You awoke with a gasp, your heart fluttering wildly in your chest. That was the first time you had a dream about Joel, and something about it made you uneasy.

You had slept in his bed the entire week, wrapped in his clothes, and today was the day you had expected him to come home. Shrugging off the dream to no more than your subconscious fixated on his return, you forced yourself to get out of bed, fixing the sheets so it wouldn't look like you had been sleeping there and then headed to your room to change and freshen up.

The past couple days you had secretly hoped he would come back sooner but you refused to let it show. If Ellie or Dina or Maria asked you about it, you played it cool, or at least you thought you did. But every night you stayed up as late as you could, curled up on the couch all alone, waiting. Every time someone walked by, your body stiffened and your pulse raced, expecting to hear his heavy footsteps walking up the porch, but they never came.

But today was the day. The seventh day. His note said a week, and you knew if Joel was alive, he would stick to his word.

His absence afforded you a lot of time to think. Time you didn't realize you desperately needed, and now that you were able to process everything clearly without his overwhelming presence muddying the waters, you felt confident you knew what you wanted now.

All day at work, you were distracted. Nick had to call your name repeatedly to get your attention on more than one occasion, and by the fifth time you felt guilty. He didn't say anything, though. He understood. By then, most of the town knew Joel had left. Word spread like wildfire, especially once the storm passed through. It didn't take a genius to figure out how difficult it would be to survive all alone in those conditions.

Then the rumors started.

You tried to ignore them, but it was hard. When people began drinking and getting loud in the dining hall, it was impossible not to hear.

When you heard a man claim he saw Joel's horse frozen in a river during patrol, you stopped going to the dining hall to eat.

It was dark, it was just a deer, Tommy had told you later after he went out to the river to check, but it still shook you up.

When the sun set on Jackson on the seventh day and Joel still hadn't returned, the fear began to take hold. Your stomach churned, making it impossible to eat the following morning. You had hardly slept, the bags under your eyes dark and heavy. Nick begged you to take the day off but you insisted you needed to stay busy, although it didn't help much. On your lunch break you tried to casually walk by the main gate, the one near the stables, hoping to catch a glimpse of him returning, but you had no such luck.

So you went back to work. You kept your hands busy, tried to keep your mind occupied, but it was impossible.

I'll spend the rest of my life makin' it up to you.

You couldn't get those words out of your head. The guilt was weighing you down as you grew worried that was going to be one of the last things he ever said to you.

"Went on a date the other night."

"With who?"

"Cindy, from the kitchen."

Ricky laughed heartily and Andrew smacked his shoulder with the back of his hand.

"Shut up, man. We're on watch, we can't be giving ourselves away."

"It's the middle of the goddamn night and we haven't seen any infected in weeks. It's too cold for them, they're all frozen somewhere waiting to thaw in the spring," Ricky said, shouldering his rifle.

"Yeah, but still. You never know. There's more than just infected out there."

Ricky chuckled and shook his head. "Tommy telling you ghost stories again?"

"Raiders ain't ghost stories, asshole," Andrew shot back.

"And raiders never make it this far up the mountains, asshole," Ricky replied, mocking Andrew's tone.

Andrew grumbled under his breath and strolled away from the tower, towards the gate, his eyes scanning the treeline. He couldn't see a damn thing. It was pitch black and deathly quiet.

He turned on his heel and began the slow walk back towards the tower where he could see Ricky unwrapping a granola bar and pulling a paperback book from his back pocket.

Just as he was about to chastise him for letting his guard down, he heard twigs snapping in the woods. He whipped around, bringing his rifle up so he could get a better look with his scope.

"What the hell was that?" Ricky's whisper materialized in his ear.

"Dunno. Something's out there."

Ricky lifted his own rifle and scanned the trees as well, both of them holding their breath, waiting for another noise.

"Maybe-"

Then they heard more twigs snapping and pine trees raking against fabric. Louder this time.

"Fuck," Ricky muttered nervously, his palms growing sweaty inside his gloves.

"There," Andrew said lowly, and Ricky followed his aim. Something was approaching in the dark. Something big.

"I got it."

"No, just wait a second," Andrew said, squinting through the scope. Then his jaw went slack when he realized what it was.

"It's a horse."

"What?"

"It's a fucking horse, bro," Andrew repeated, his voice rising a little.

When it finally emerged from the forest, they saw the rider slumped over, covered in snow, their face buried in the horse's mane.

"Holy shit," Andrew said, slinging his rifle over his shoulder and racing towards the ladder. "Radio Tommy!"

"W-what do I say?" Ricky stammered, fumbling with the radio dial.

"Tell him it's Joel!"

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[thatsmzbitchtoyou]

Sweet Pumpkin Chapter 1

Summary:  Bucky is struggling with the dating world and knows that if he ever hopes to have a serious relationship, that he needs to get through his touch deprivation issues.  It’s not that he doesn’t want to touch people, or them to touch him, but after decades of pain he doesn’t know how to accept physical intimacy from others, or how to give it himself.  He hires Y/N, an intimacy coach and professional cuddler, who comes highly recommended.  Will his heart be able to distinguish between a service given versus real love?

Warnings: mentions of past violence and past sexual assault, language, physical intimacy, eventual smut

**curvy reader

Next chapter

Bucky had walked out on his date.  He rubbed his face harshly in embarrassment and shame.  She seemed nice, but was overly flirtatious, and kept reaching out and touching his hand, his arm, even ran her fingers through the front of his hair, then had all the audacity to trace her finger over his lower lip.  He’d pulled back harshly at that point, excusing himself to the bathroom, but instead swerved to the host stand, paid for the food and ran like his life depended on it.  He’d gotten home and immediately showered, scrubbing the spots she’d touched nearly raw.  It wasn’t that he didn’t want to be touched.  He actually wanted it…craved it.  But not like that.  She was a stranger, and had felt some kind of entitlement to his personal space right off the bat.  

He’d heard of people who suffered from touch starvation.  Sam had hinted at it once when Bucky flinched away from the friendly touch of a fellow agent they had been working with on a stealth mission.  Bucky knew he had a problem, but didn’t realize just how bad it was until the date.  He sighed harshly as he dried himself off from the shower and got into his pajamas for the night.  He picked up his phone and texted Sam.

B: What was the name of that intimacy coach you had mentioned? 

S: Y/N Y/L/N.  I’ll send you her info.

Bucky thanked him once her contact information popped up on his screen.  He braced himself as he clicked on her phone number.  He sent her a message, being vague but asking for help.  He didn’t expect to get an answer back, seeing as how it was almost 11:00 p.m., but was surprised when she texted back within a few minutes.

Y/N: I’ve been wondering when you would reach out.  How does Friday at 7:00 p.m sound?

Bucky gawked at her message.  

B: Do we know each other?

Y/N: No, Sam just talks too much.  ;) 

He rolled his eyes.  Of course Sam had already talked to her about him.

B:  Now I’m worried.

Y/N:  Don’t be.  

B:  Okay.  Friday at 7.

Y/N:  Awesome.  Here’s my address…

***

Friday at 6:57 Bucky stood outside her door.  He was fighting off his panic and stress.  He needed this.  This would be good for him.  If he ever hoped to move on and have some semblance of a normal life he’d have to be able to accept love from others.  He wanted this.  He swallowed harshly and sighed before knocking on the door.

There were shuffling sounds from the other side and then it swung open.  A woman stood in front of him that looked like the physical embodiment of softness.  She was short, plump, and dressed in an all-off-white sweater and sweatpant outfit that looked like it was made of faux sherpa.  She smiled up at him pleasantly, her eyes twinkling.  

“Sergeant Barnes?” she asked.  

Bucky just stared at her for a moment.  Even her voice was soft.  He nodded before clearing his throat.  “Bucky.  Y/N Y/L/N?”

“Yep,” she nodded.  “Come on in.”  She stepped back and held her arm out as a welcome gesture.  Bucky gave her a quick, tight smile before walking inside.  As she shut the door behind him he looked around her apartment.  It was just as soft as she was.  All the colors were muted with pastel greens, more off-whites mixed with rich browns from wooden accents littered around the decor.  There were plants all along the windows, and since nightfall was setting in she had an array of small lamps on and candles lit around the main living room.  In one corner of the room was a large mattress covered in the softest looking blankets and pillows he’d ever seen.  Every surface seemed soft and cozy.

“Are you thirsty?  I can get you some water, soda, juice, even alcohol if you need some liquid courage,” Y/N asked from behind him.

Bucky turned to look at her.  She was watching him, the side of her mouth upturned in a small smirk.  He felt like she could see through him, making him feel unnerved but also strangely understood at the same time.  “I’m alright for now, thank you.”

Y/N nodded and then walked past him to one of the large chairs near the furthest window.  “Well, how about you make yourself comfortable and tell me why you’re here?” she said, plopping down on the chair and grabbing a notebook and pen on a small side table sitting next to it.

Bucky blinked before toeing off his shoes and hanging up his jacket on the hook near the front door.  He slowly walked over to the chair opposite her and sat down.  She was watching him again, the smirk never leaving her face.  “Well, uh, I’m not sure how much you already know about me and my past,” he started, his hands wringing in his lap, not quite meeting her gaze.  

Y/N hummed.  “Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes, born March 10, 1917, which would make you 107 years old now.  Grew up in Brooklyn, New York.  Drafted to join the army in WWII, where you were unfortunately captured, experimented on and tortured by Hydra.  You’re best friend and newly made Captain America, Steve Rogers, rescued you and other prisoners and then made a team called the Howling Commandos.  You were a sniper.  You fell from a train during a mission and were presumed dead in 1943.  And then reappeared decades later as the fist of Hydra, the Winter Soldier, where you were brainwashed and forced to do their bidding.  From there it gets a bit muddy with specifics and government cover ups, but you made it out the other side a free man.  And now I’m assuming you’re here talking to me of all people because after all that, you now struggle with being physically close to others because you’re afraid of more pain and being taken advantage of, yes?”

Bucky blinked at her in shock, slowly nodding his head.  “Did Sam tell you all that?”

Y/N shook her head.  “I do my research.  Sam said you’re a great guy who just needs some help.  And any friend of Sam’s is a friend of mine.”

Bucky slightly smirked back at her.  “And how are you friend’s with Sam?”

“I was in his grief counseling support group at the VA,” Y/N said.  

“Well you know an awful lot about me, but I know nothing about you.  Makes me feel a bit out of my depth,” he confessed, his eyes narrowing at her.

“What do you wanna know?” Y/N asked, setting the notebook and pen back down on the side table, lifting her feet up to sit criss-cross.

Bucky took that as an invitation to get comfortable and leaned back in the chair more.  “Same stuff you know about me would be a good start.”

Her smile widened.  “Alright.  I’m Y/N Y/M/N Y/L/N.  Born Y/B/D.  Grew up in Queens, New York.  I came from a military family, but never joined myself.  I lost my brother to an IED in Baghdad.  My parents died a year later from a car accident.  Then I was sexually assaulted by a close friend.”  Bucky frowned.  “I went through a few years of severe depression, got some serious therapy then help from an intimacy coach.  It made a huge impression on my life so I decided to get licensed and trained to be one, too.  Now I’m here,” she said, looking around her apartment.  “Any questions?”  Bucky shook his head.  “So what are you hoping to accomplish from this?” she asked him, reaching for her notebook again but not opening it.

He sighed again, looking down at his hands.  “Sam and I talked about being touch starved.  I’ve been through…a lot of shit,” he paused, swallowing harshly.  “A lot of pain, in all different forms.  But I want…I want to be able to open myself up to physical i-intimacy in the future,” he stuttered.  “I went on a date the other night, and she was nice, but she kept touching me, and I couldn’t…I…” he shook his head, closing his eyes and frowning.

“Where did she touch that bothered you?” Y/N asked softly.

Bucky shifted in the chair, opening his eyes to glance at her.  “My hand, my arm, but it was worse around my hair and my face,” he said quietly.

Y/N nodded in understanding.  “That makes sense.  Our heads, hair, our faces, are a lot more intimate than people think they are.  So to have what I’m assuming was a stranger just randomly touch your hair and your face was triggering.”  Bucky nodded.  “Would it be okay if I move my chair close to yours?”

Bucky glanced at the space between their chairs.  He slowly nodded and Y/N stood, dragging her chair close to where he was sitting.  She sat back down and scooted the chair a little closer so that her crossed legs were next to his legs.  She gave him an encouraging smile.  “So how does it feel having me sit close to you like this?”

Bucky looked down at the few inches that separated their legs.  “It’s fine,” he said.

Y/N nodded then scooted closer until her knees were touching his knees.  “How about now?”

He could feel a small uptick in his heartbeat, but he breathed through it.  “It’s…okay,” he said.

Y/N moved away from him, keeping the inches between them.  “So not very comfortable,” she said with a knowing smile.  Bucky huffed a silent laugh.  “How about if I shook your hand?” she asked, sticking out her right hand.

Bucky quickly shook her hand. “That’s fine.”

“Because it’s formal,” Y/N assumed, her eyes narrowing at him.

“Yes,” he agreed.

She nodded again and released his hand.  “Can I hold your hand?”

Bucky blinked rapidly.  “Okay.”  She waited for him to reach his hand out first, then leaned forward and slowly grasped his hand so that she was holding his fingers.  They sat like that in silence for a moment.

“How does that feel?” Y/N asked, watching his face intently.

“It’s…”  Bucky was breathing deeply, trying to keep any panic at bay.  He couldn’t tell if it was the contact itself or the fact that it was contact with a pretty girl that was making his heart rate spike again.  “It’s nice.”

Y/N smiled and then her thumb swept over his knuckles slowly.  “And that?”

Bucky suddenly felt a rush of emotions.  He couldn’t understand why, but something about her firm but gentle grasp on his fingers grounding him and then the soft affection of her thumb across his knuckles brought tears to his eyes.  “That’s really nice,” he whispered, not trusting his voice.

Y/N kept holding his hand, her thumb randomly rubbing across his knuckles and squeezing his fingers lightly.  She leaned forward a little more.  “If I gave you permission to touch me, would that help?”

Bucky quickly sniffed then looked at her quizzically.  “Touch you where?”

“My hands, my arms, my face,” she said.  “The same places you were touched and unsure of.”

Bucky glanced at each spot on her body where the girl on the date had touched him.  “Maybe,” he shrugged.  Y/N let go of his hand and put her hands on her knees.

“Would it be easier for me to look at you while you do it or close my eyes?” she asked him.

“Close your eyes,” Bucky nodded.  He wasn’t sure he could handle her deep, knowing gaze while he was allowed to touch her.

Y/N smiled at him then closed her eyes.  Bucky looked at her for a long moment before reaching his hand out.  He touched her right hand first, laying his hand flat on it, then paused.  She didn’t move or flinch, her eyes staying closed.  He then slipped his hand up to her forearm and gave it a light squeeze.  Bucky then lifted his hand toward her head.  His fingers were shaking as he slowly moved some of the hair at her forehead away like his date had done.  Then his fingers traced down the side of her face until he was cupping her cheek.  

Bucky sat there the longest.  Y/N didn’t move, her face completely neutral as her eyes barely moved behind her eyelids.  She was completely trusting in him.  “Open your eyes,” he whispered.  Y/N opened her eyes, blinking a couple of times as she looked at him.  He stared at her, taking courage in her kind eyes.  “She touched my lips,” he said, frowning in trepidation.

Y/N merely nodded at him.  Bucky inhaled deeply, then watched as his thumb moved along her cheek until he swept it across her lower lip slowly.  She still didn’t move, her gaze never straying from his eyes.  When he was done he dropped his hand from her face, but didn’t lean away.  “How did that feel?” she asked quietly.

“Good,” he answered just as quietly.

Y/N’s smile reappeared.  “Good.”  A ping from her phone had her breaking eye contact as she glanced at it.  “Wow, it’s already time,” she said, leaning away from him.  She smiled at him again.  “I’d like for you to keep coming, Bucky, so we could work toward building your trust and comfort level with touch.  Would you like to continue?”

Bucky nodded, his own smile brightening his face.  “Yes, I’d like that.”

Y/N smiled even wider.  “Then I’ll see you next week.”

@mishkatelwarriorgoddess @cjand10 @railmesebstan

[imaginespazzi]

Part 7: Home

Masterlist - Part 1 - Part 2 - Part 3 - Part 4 - Part 5 - Part 6

These hands had to let it go free and this love came back to (us)

(In which with bittersweet feelings, a nostalgic writer, finally writes the end of the story)

Pairing: Paige Bueckers X Azzi Fudd

Themes: Angst and Fluff

Words: 7.1K

TW: Swearing, Alludes to Sexual Content

A/N: Hello my loves! I can't believe we've actually reached the end, who would have thought huh? I'm not sure if there will be an epilogue, mainly cause I don't know what I'd write but never say never. I don't really know how I feel about this chapter and if I've done the end I pictured justice but I really hope y'all like it anyways. There's a fair amount of creative liberty taken with WNBA logistics but please just accept it for the plot. Per usual, did I edit? Yes. Are there grammar mistakes and typos anyways? Yes. As always, let me know what you liked and disliked. And finally, to all my lovelies who have liked, reblogged, commented, sent in an ask, dm-ed me or simply just silently read this fic, I just wanna say thank you guys so, so, much, y'all have made writing every word worth it and I hope you enjoyed reading this as much I enjoyed writing it <3

August 2018

Paige swears, tonight, there are stars in the Minnesota night sky she’s never seen before in her life. The summer sky has darkened with nightfall, yet the shine of the moon and its companions make it still seem ever so bright. Or maybe, it’s just the girl lying next to Paige that makes tonight feel luminescent, sparkling with the promises of something not quite like friendship that Paige has never felt before. She’d spent the whole day with Azzi at the Minnesota State fair, trying to suppress these new butterflies in her stomach that seemed to have taken birth over their time in Latvia. Or well, maybe they’d been there from the start, but they’d really only started this dance of theirs, the one that makes Paige feel all tingly when Azzi smiles, over the course of this summer. 

“Paige it’s cold, stop hogging the blanket,” Azzi chastises, breaking Paige from a trance, as she tugs on the pink and purple blanket covering the two of them, “I knew we should have brought two of them.”

“It’s barely on me” Paige argues for the sake of arguing but she shifts anyway to allow the younger girl to pull the blanket, so clearly meant for one person, a little more towards her, “besides, it’s about sharing body heat.”

“You’re not even warm enough to share body heat,” Azzi mocks as she makes a show of tracing a finger down Paige’s arm and everything in the blonde feels like it’s been lit on fire at the touch. And she wonders if Azzi feels it too, the electricity, the sparks of this could ruin me that scatter through her veins before finding themselves setting her heart ablaze. It’s too much and Paige shakes Azzi’s hand off with a little more force than she means too. 

When Azzi sends her questioning look, she splutters through an excuse, “your hands are cold too. Can we just do the boring shit we’re here to do.”

"Stargazing is not boring,” Azzi says indignantly, opening the little stargazing booklet she’d brought with her, flicking through the pages looking for something specific. 

To be honest, sitting still in an open field and squinting at the sky trying to figure out a distant constellation isn’t really Paige’s brand of entertainment. She’s a fidgety person by nature, constantly embroiled in the urge to be moving. But Azzi had brought it up the other day, with pleading eyes and a hopeful grin and well, sometimes it felt sinful to deny Azzi of anything she wants. And that’s how they’d ended up at a campsite, not too far from the State fair, lying on the grass, heads tilted towards each other, with a single blanket shielding them from the summer breeze. 

“Okay,” Azzi says after a while, using her fingers to point out a pattern in the sky, “I think that one’s Cassiopeia.”

“If you say so,” Paige nods, not really sure what she’s supposed to be looking at. 

“Paaaaige,” Azzi whines, “focus.”

“Dude I can barely see anything, the fuck am I supposed to focus o-”

Before Paige can finish her sentence, she feels herself being pulled by the younger girl, the side of her body fitting into the crook’s of Azzi’s like a perfect puzzle piece. She looks over at the brunette, and the protest dies on the tip of her tongue, as she realises just how close Azzi is to her now, all semblance of air leaving her lungs. Paige gulps, eyes tracing every inch of her best friend’s face, stopping of their own accord at Azzi’s lips, before guiltily flashing back to meet the younger girl’s eyes which are just as focused on Paige. And it feels like there’s no force in this world right now that could make either of them look away. Except maybe the force of friends don’t do this. 

“Just focus,” Azzi breaks contact first, turning her face back at the stars, before gently grabbing hold of Paige’s hand so she can guide it in the pattern of the constellation. And Paige still doesn’t really see it, doesn’t even particularly care about seeing it, but if it gets Azzi to hold her hand, soft skin putting light pressure against her palm, she thinks she’ll try to see some random lines in the sky forever. 

“It’s pretty.”

“You don’t see it do you?”

“Nope,” Paige’s grin widens when Azzi chuckles, shaking her head fondly. Something in her blooms, delighted at being the reason for that. And she’s always prided herself in being funny, she thinks of herself as a little bit of a comedian really, but she’s never wanted to make anyone laugh quite as much as she wants to make Azzi laugh. 

“Well that’s enough stargazing for us then,” Azzi rolls her eyes, closing her little booklet and making a move to sit up but Paige is quicker, pulling the younger girl back down and interlocking their fingers. Her own overeagerness causes a tinge of embarrassment to race up her cheeks, and she hopes it’s dark enough that Azzi won’t see the pale pink blush taking over her face. 

“It’s peaceful out here,” she says quietly, sounding shy even to her own ears and she can’t help but wonder when the hell that happened, “you wanna stay a little longer?”

“Yeah okay let’s stay longer,,” Azzi agrees  and sometimes when Azzi speaks like that, her voice lyrically soft with a secret smile hidden in it, Paige wonders if maybe it would be okay to hope for, to feel something more because maybe, just maybe, Azzi feels it too. 

“You know you should come to the state championship,” Paige says after a second of silence, trying to keep her voice nonchalant but she can hear the wishfulness bleeding into it anyways. 

Azzi raises an eyebrow, “isn’t that in March? That’s like months and months away.”

“Yeah but- well-” Paige shrugs, cheeks burning just a little bit, “you probably wanna book in advance cause like tickets and stuff you know?”

“You don’t even know if you’ll be in the state championship. There’s still a whole season to go.”

“Oh I know. I know we’re definitely gonna be there.” Paige smirks, cockiness back in full-fledged form. 

“Then I’ll be there,” Azzi says, as if it’s the simplest thing in the world, “you better win though Bueckers.”

“Watch me,” and she’s jutting her chest out in arrogance sure, but really everything inside her is swelling with something else, a feeling she’s starting to understand a little too well, a feeling that terrifies her, a feeling she doesn’t think she’s quite ready to let herself feel yet, “it would be nice you know, to win a championship together at some point.”

“I don’t think my parents would be on board with moving to Minnesota.”

“I’m sure I could convince them,” Paige feels a little giddy at the thought, “but I meant more like college, like UConn.”

It’s a topic they’ve stumbled upon a couple of times, with each other, and with the other girls at Team USA. And as much as Paige would love for her other teammates to follow her to her dream school, she’s practical enough to know they might have other priorities. But the thing is that with the rest of the girls, it’s just something she’d like to happen but with Azzi, now that Paige has said it out loud, she’s beginning to realise how desperately she wants that, her and Azzi, on the same team, fighting the same battles and winning the same wars, together. 

“Don’t think you can win a national championship without me Bueckers?” Azzi smirks, twisting her head towards Paige, eyebrows cocked in arrogance. 

“Of course I can,” Paige’s face softens, the vulnerability that only ever seems to come out around her best friend seeping on to her features, “but I think it would be fun to win one with you. Someday.”

“Someday, “ Azzi whispers back, giving Paige’s hand a light squeeze, and then her eyes widen at the sky, “holy shit is that a shooting star? Oh my god Paige look up, quick, it’s beautiful.”

In the dark of the night, a rare flicker of gold shoots across the obsidian Minnesota sky. Paige has never seen one before but it seems fitting really, that she’d see one tonight. 

“We have to make a wish,” she whispers and Azzi, never one to really believe, rolls her eyes but she follows Paige’s lead, closing her eyes. And the thing is Paige could wish for a lot of things really, but she finds herself thinking of only one word that sums up all she could ever want: someday.

***

August 2026 

They’ve been playing against each other for years now and yet the thrill of the face-off still hasn’t quite worn off. Back in the handful of games in high school, it had been quickfire friendly trash talk, two best friends going at it like the competitors they were. College had been drastically different, each game, each play, underlined with the tension of two people who still hadn’t quite figured it out. But Paige thinks her favourite version of them as opponents is definitely this one, the one where they might be on different teams in the WNBA, but off the court, they both know they’re on the same side, together. 

Their relationship isn’t quite a secret; it would have been impossible to hide if after the kiss at the 2025 national championship. But they’d kept as quiet about it as possible, skillfully dodging media questions, wanting to shelter it from the prying eyes of the public. It makes playing each other on national television, just that little bit more entertaining, trying to keep things as cordial as possible. If Paige’s hands end up just a little too close to Azzi’s waist, lingering a little longer than necessary against the patch of skin she’d marked with a hickey earlier this morning, and it makes the younger girl shiver, then that’s just a tactic to win. And if Azzi breathes seductive thoughts of what she’d like to do after the game when guarding Paige, and it makes the blonde want to turn around and kiss the smirk off of her girlfriend’s lips, well that’s just another innovative defensive strategy. 

“Be a good girl for me and move,” Paige whispers, the double entendre in her voice apparent, as she tries to dribble the ball past Azzi. There’s only a minute or so left in the last meeting of the regular season between Paige’s Lynx and Azzi’s Mystics -funny how that had worked out-  and the score is painfully close, with the Mystics closing in on the Lynx’s two point-lead. 

“Always a good girl for you P,” Azzi smirks, her voice the quietest it could possibly be, but Paige hears her next words like they’re on a loudspeaker in the area,  “it’s why I’m wearing your favourite purple panties.”

It takes a second, a second where Paige’s eyes gloss over with lust, as her mind rushes back to the last time she’d seen, the last time she’d touched the silky undergarment, for the ball to be stolen from her hands. She’s a step too slow to recover and by that time Azzi’s already scored the easy lay-up to tie up the game, a mischievous grin adorning her normally stoic game face. 

On the other end of the court, Napheesa draws a foul and Paige and Azzi end up next to each for free throws. Paige is seething, unsure if the heat curling up her spine is from the game or the girl standing next to her. 

“Sorry baby, all’s fair in love and war right?” Azzi teases, pinky brushing against the blonde’s, “I’ll make it up to you later if you want.”

“You’re such a fucking menace,” Paige practically growls. She does want, in fact she’d like it right now if it was possible. Two years they’ve been together, longer if you count the inbetween, and still, every time Azzi lights a match, Paige feels herself burn just as brightly as the first time she’d felt that magnetic pull. 

“Learnt from the best,” Azzi hums with a grin as Napheesa hits both free throws. 

The rest of the game passes in a blur of frenzied shots and hurried fouls but the Lynx pull out an eventual, much-needed win, to better their chances of clinching a higher seed in the playoffs. After missing the playoffs in 2024, the Lynx, despite having relatively low odds, had secured the no.1 pick and there had never really been a doubt that they would pick Paige. She’d helped the team get back to the playoffs last season but they hadn’t made it out of the first round. A championship doesn’t seem quite possible yet, but Paige has her fingers crossed that they’d at least make it to a semi-final this time. 

“The two of you are terrible at this,” Aaliyah’s the first person to hug Paige during the handshake line, “I thought you’d jump each other’s bones in the middle of the game today.”

“We’re not that bad,” Paige rolls her eyes at her former teammate. She high-fives a few more of the Mystics team until she gets to Azzi, who’s already smiling, despite the loss. The cameras are quick to crowd them, clearly wanting a more sensational picture than the one they’re likely to get. Still, despite the unwanted attention, Paige lets herself nestle into the crook of Azzi’s neck. 

“You owe me twice tonight,” she whispers into the younger girl’s ear, “one for the win and one for that bullshit you pulled on the court tonight.”

Azzi’s voice is breathless when she replies, “I can give you way more than two.”

“Is that a challenge?”

“It’s a promise.”

***

“With the new rules, after this season you’ll be a free agent, have you given any thought to that?”

Waiting for the Lynx’s turn in the media room, Paige hadn’t been paying much attention to the questions being asked to the Mystics players, her focus solely on how hot her girlfriend always looked post games. But the words ‘free agent’ pique her interest. The W had changed the rookie contract rules for first round draftees to two years and that meant both Paige and Azzi would be free agents after this year. But while it hadn’t reached the media quite yet, the Lynx were likely to use their core designation on Paige. Which meant the only one of them making any decision about next season would be Azzi. It was a subject the two of them were cautiously tip-toeing around, using the shield of distance to avoid talking about what it could mean for them. 

“I’m focused on the season, this team and the rest of our games. I’m not really thinking about the future,” Azzi answers diplomatically. 

“You’ve obviously got very strong ties to the DC area but you also went to UCLA, if the Sparks or maybe even the Valkyries, considering your connection to Steph Curry, were interested, and there have been rumours that they are, would you consider it?” the same reporter prods. 

“Again, I’m not currently thinking about any of that,” to anyone else Azzi probably sounds neutral but Paige has studied the sheet music of Azzi’s voice to the point where she knows what’s hidden behind every note, behind every little indent. The tinge of irritation is masked by a smile, but the line of questioning is clearly unappreciated. 

“And what about the Lynx?” the persistently oblivious reporter continues and this time Paige sucks in a breath, “you have some ties to that team don't you? Have you given some thought to maybe going there?”

Azzi’s eye twitches ever so slightly, “the Lynx just beat my team. The only thoughts I have right now are about how to beat them next time.”

That elicits a laugh from the media and finally the rather obtuse reporters seem to understand that he’s not going to be able to pry anything newsworthy from Azzi’s mouth. But even if he hasn’t achieved his desired effect, he’s succeeded in making Paige’s mind start running in circles. She hadn’t let herself think about it yet, the potential of Azzi joining the Lynx, the potential of playing with Azzi, the potential of finally just being with Azzi. Because facing the potential for all of that, facing all the things she wants means also facing the potential that maybe Azzi doesn’t want any of that. 

***

The air in Paige’s living room is thick with a suffocating tension as she and Azzi sit on opposite ends of the couch. It reminds Paige a little bit of the before, a dreaded version of them she’d foolishly thought they grown out of, until something reminiscent of their past problems had reared its ugly head, and suddenly it feels a bit like she’s playing a losing game. 

“Will you please stop that,” she bites out, referring to where Azzi’s foot is incessantly tapping on the wooden floors, “it’s giving me a headache.”

Azzi’s eyes narrow, flashing with irritation, “is it my tapping or the alcohol giving you a headache Paige?”

“I didn’t even drink that much,” Paige says through gritted teeth and Azzi scoffs. 

It’s a lie. After both teams were done with post game pressers, she, Azzi and a couple of the other girls had ended up at a local bar as they often did when the other team didn’t have to fly out til the next day. Paige had been tense the whole evening and trying to pretend not to be, especially when Azzi could see right through her façade, had only made the whole thing worse. She wasn’t one to drink too much, always happy just being sufficiently tipsy but then she’d gotten in her head too much. And when the first shot didn’t quite hit the way she needed it to, she’d kept on going, receiving worried looks from all the girls, until Azzi had finally stepped in. The ride back from the bar had been a sobering experience, one look at Azzi’s stoic face, giving away her irritation. 

“That’s why you still reek of tequila?” 

“How the fuck would you know? You haven’t come near me all night.” 

“Don’t you dare try and turn this on me Paige. I tried to talk to you all night til you decided you wanted to act like freshman frat boy,” Azzi spits out, hurt and anger colliding in her voice, “we barely get to spend time together during the season and the one night in forever that we do, you pull this shit?”

They haven’t had an argument like this since they’ve been officially together, the kind of argument that has them balancing on a delicate tight rope, too afraid to take a step backwards in their relationship, and too prideful to take a step forward towards each other. 

“I didn’t think you cared about spending time together during the season,” Paige accuses and there’s a sensible part of her, one that’s currently being held captive by the dangers of liquor, that knows it’s a ridiculous allegation. 

Azzi stares at her, lips opening and closing in disbelief, “excuse me?”

“It’s pretty simple really Azzi. If you wanna spend the whole season together, the option is right fucking there, but I- I can’t even tell if you’re interested in taking it,” Paige is pacing now, teeth gnawing at her lips like they always do when she’s nervous. 

“What- what are you even talking about?” Azzi asks, clearly confused. 

“Free fucking agency. They asked you about it and you said you hadn’t thought about it at all. That’s really great to hear Az, really great to know you haven’t thought about how that could literally change our whole fucking life,” and even as the words waterfall out of her mouth, Paige knows she’s being unreasonable, but the mix of stress and alcohol churning in her stomach is just enough to keep her from taking the words back. 

“I didn’t- that’s not even what I said. Jesus fucking christ Paige,” Azzi rubs her face, looking defeated.

“So you have thought about it then?”

“Of course I’ve thought about it, “ Azzi throws her hands up, “but I wasn’t gonna tell the media about all of that. But you- you seriously think I haven’t thought about what this means for us? You don’t- do you really think I’m not thinking about you- about us- while trying to make this decision?”

“Well you definitely didn’t think of me- of us- when you chose UCLA,” Paige’s eyes widen at her own words, knowing immediately that of all things she could have said, those were the worst ones, “I- I didn’t mean it like that.”

In front of her, Azzi has gone deathly still, face completely devoid of emotion, until the first tear drops and all of Paige’s anger dissipates, the guilt clawing back with full force. 

“I thought we were over that,” Azzi whispers, voice trembling, as she looks down at her hands, “but maybe we’ll never be over that.”

“We are,” Paige sinks to her knees in front of the younger girl, tugging Azzi’s hands into her own, “we are over it. I just- it just slipped out.”

Azzi’s quiet for a moment before she pulls her hands out of the blonde’s grip, sidestepping her as she stands up and Paige feels empty and cold and just a little bit broken. 

“Are you leaving?” she whispers, peering up at Azzi through tear soaked eyelashes. 

“I think I should, before anything else just slips out,” Paige flinches and Azzi’s expression softens, “I know- I know you didn’t mean it like that but I just- I need some space.”

Panic filters into Paige’s lungs, wrapping its dirty hands and squeezing so tight that she can barely breathe. She’s not sure when she’ll see Azzi again, now that there’s no more Lynx-Mystics games left in the regular season and it’s unlikely with their expected seedings that they’d meet at some point in the playoffs. It’s not like distance is new to them, but in the last two years, they’ve only ever said goodbye with an i love you attached to the end. 

“Are you-,” Paige gasps for air, “are you leaving me?”

And it must be written all over Paige's face, just how petrified she is of this moment, because that's all it takes for Azzi to rush back into Paige’s space, hands cupping her cheeks, “oh baby of course not. I just- you’re still drunk and I’m upset and I don’t want us to say anything we don’t mean. And I- need time to think about free agency and I think you- you need time to think about why that slipped out.”

Paige sighs, melting into Azzi’s touch as the knots in her stomach begin to untangle themselves, “you’re so logical.”

“Someone has to be,” a half-smile flitters across the younger girl’s face as she wipes at Paige’s tears, “we’ll figure this out okay? Just- just give me a little bit of time.”

Give me time. It’s a familiar line, so similar to what Azzi had asked for when she was making a decision about college and Paige would be lying if she said there isn’t a part of her that’s terrified fate is going to make them repeat the same mistakes. But part of growing up, Paige surmises, is letting time test you with the same trials and tribulations, and the next time, coming out of the other end on the right side. 

And so she squeezes Azzi’s hand, matching the younger girl's half smile, with a soothing one of her own, “okay.”

***

November 2027 

Paige doesn't know when she ended up in a love triangle with Azzi and the state of California but she wishes she was competing against an actual person. At least then she could throw a punch at the other guy. The W season is barely over and it seems like every front office has thrown themselves headfirst into convincing free agents to join their team. There’s a couple of teams interested in Azzi, but no one seems to be trying harder than the Los Angeles Sparks. Paige thinks whoever gave that city a name meaning “the angels” could not have been more wrong because really it’s a city full of devils constantly trying to steal her girl and no she’s not being dramatic. 

They’re supposed to be leaving for thanksgiving dinner when Azzi’s phone rings and Paige can’t help but roll her eyes when Cameron Brink’s name flashes on the CallerID. The Sparks seemed to have put her as head of their recruiting Azzi campaign and Cam had been diligently doing her part. 

“Azzi, Cam’s calling again,” Paige yells out to her girlfriend who’s still not quite finished getting ready.

“Can you pick it up?”

“Do I have to?”

“Paige,” Azzi whines and Paige sighs, hitting the green answering button. 

“The amount of times you’ve called my girlfriend this week, Brink, should I be concerned?”

“Jealous I’m replacing you as her favourite blonde?” Cam’s voice always sounds like she’s smiling and Paige can’t help her own smile. Goddamn Cameron Brink for always being the sweetest soul on this planet. 

“As if,” Paige scoffs, “it’s a holiday Cam, give the recruiting a rest.”

“Hey, I’m just calling to wish her a happy thanksgiving,” Cam defends. 

“Mmmhmm where’s my thanksgiving wish?”

“Oh please, the two of you are basically a unit. Wishing her is wishing you,” Cam is quiet for a second before speaking again, “the Sparks would be a good fit for her Paige.”

Paige sucks in a sharp breath, “I’m not the one you’re gonna have to convince.”

“I know but you know your opinion means a lot to her. I know you want her in Minnesota and she'd be good there too and I- I know it isn’t my place to say any of this but just- just don’t discourage her from doing what’s best for her,” there’s not a hint of malice in Cam’s words, there never is, but they pierce at Paige’s skin anyways. 

“Okay I’m ready, hand me the phone,” she’s saved from having to answer by Azzi waltzing into the living room and prying the phone from her hands. 

Paige watches silently as Azzi talks animatedly with Cam, noticing the way her girlfriend’s smile widens while talking about certain spots in L.A. They’d subconsciously decided not to breach the subject of free agency after that night. Paige hadn’t interfered in any of the Lynx’s conversations with Azzi, deciding that this time, she’d stay out of it. It hadn’t been easy, every little bit of her itching to pitch why the Lynx were the perfect fit, why Paige was the perfect fit, but she was determined to give Azzi the space -the time- she’d wanted. This time she’d leave the choice solely up to Azzi and whatever she decided, Paige would find her happiness in that. 

“Paige you ready to go,” Azzi waves a hand in front of Paige’s face, eyebrows raised in question when the older girl doesn’t make a move to get off the sofa, “hey, you good?”

“Cam says the Sparks would be a good fit,” Azzi stiffens at Paige’s words. 

“Paige-”

“She’s right,” Paige concedes, fingers fidgeting as she averts Azzi’s gaze. 

The younger girl blinks at her, clearly not having expected that, “she is?”

“Yeah. They need a shooting guard and you,” Paige smiles, reaching out to pull Azzi onto the couch with her, “you’re the best there is.”

“I wouldn’t go that far-”

“You are to me and it’s why I want you on the Lynx,” they both let out a breath with that. It’s not a secret of course but Paige hasn’t said it out loud before. 

“Paige-”

“But it’s okay if you don't wanna be on the Lynx, if you wanna be on the Sparks or stay here with the Mystics or on any other team, if you think it’s the right move for you and for your career then that’s fine. It’s okay and you don’t- you don’t need my permission or anything of course but I just- whatever you decide, I’ll support it okay? What I said that night about UCLA-  it wasn't- it wasn’t about you. I thought about it like you asked me to and it’s me. I was scared that I would fuck it up again and I’d lose you again-”

“You won’t,” Azzi grabs Paige’s hand, giving it a gentle squeeze,  “I won’t let you.”

“I know. I know now that whatever happens, we’ll be okay. And so you can choose whatever team you want and it won’t- it won’t affect us, I promise. It won’t be like last time I swear. When you make your decision- I just- I don’t want you to make it for me or for us, cause you and me? Baby we’ll be just fine no matter what. Wherever you go and wherever I am, we’ll make it work, just as we have for the last two years,” Paige smirks, “besides I kinda enjoy kicking your ass.”

Azzi lets out a snort as she climbs onto Paige’s lap, thighs straddling her hips, “you really had to ruin it with that last part huh?”

“Was getting a little too sappy for me,” Paige mumbles and when she looks up, the emotions floating in Azzi’s eyes make Paige’s heart stutter. Because no one else gets this Azzi. This Azzi, who wears her heart on her sleeve, who lets her walls down, only for Paige’s eyes to see, only for Paige’s mind to memorise, only for Paige’s heart to keep. 

“You mean it?” Azzi whispers, brushing a strand of hair out of Paige’s face, touching lingering, “you’d be okay with anything?”

“Yeah, yeah I do,” Paige cups Azzi’s cheeks, brushing her lips against the younger girl’s, “whatever you choose, we’ll be fine. No matter what, I believe in us.”

***

January 2028

Paige groans when her phone rings at 2 a.m., fumbling around in the dark trying to answer it. 

“I swear you better be dying if you’re calling me this late,” she grumbles into the phone, voice scratchy with sleep. 

“Not quite,” Azzi says, and Paige’s eyebrows furrow at the amount of background noise she can hear behind her girlfriend. 

“Dude where the hell are you at 3 in the morning?” she asks, now a little more awake as she sits up. 

“I uh- I had a bit of a revelation,” and Paige can practically picture Azzi, wherever she might be, fidgeting with her fingers and biting her lips. 

“That doesn’t explain anything.”

“I know. I know. Shit, I was supposed to do this in person. I had a whole plan but apparently being with you has made me impatient,” Azzi rambles. 

“You’re still not making any sense,” but Paige’s heart is starting to beat erratically fast in anticipation. 

“I had this realisation while I was in the gym today, it was really quiet and peaceful and I was fine you know- all day I was fine- just doing daily routines and then I just- I missed you. I miss you all the time do you know that?”

Paige does know, knows it far too well. Sometimes she thinks missing Azzi comes as naturally as breathing, an innate part of her day to day, a constant ache that she’s felt since she was 15. 

“I miss you too,” she whispers. 

“And I’ve learned to survive with that feeling, with missing you constantly. I mean it’s been more than 10 years at this point, how could I not? But what I realised today is that just because I can- just because I can live missing you- doesn’t mean I want to.”

“What are you saying Azzi?”

“DC is my childhood. My family is close to there, it’s part of where I grew up. It’ll always be my first home. And LA is where I found myself, my identity, and for a while it felt like home too.”

“Azzi,” Paige breathes out, hands gripping the phone as tight as possible, wrapping that one syllable in emblems of give me forever. 

“But my forever home isn’t in DC or LA and it’s not really in any other place either because-  Jesus this might be the clichést thing I’ve ever said but-,” Azzi lets out a chuckle, “my home is wherever you are Paige. Wherever we’re together, that’s home.”

It feels a little bit like the end of a drought, the wetness on Paige’s cheeks like the rain that comes after. In the pitch black of her room, phone clutched closely to her ear with Azzi’s words floating through it like a swan song, Paige swears she’s never felt the world glow quite like this before. 

“Are you saying what I think you’re saying?”

“Beating your ass has been fun as hell but I think we’d make a pretty good team Bueckers.”

And it’s a good thing Paige’s walls are soundproof because the delighted whoop she lets out practically vibrates around the room, all previous wisps of tiredness completely gone from her body. Azzi lets out a tearful laugh and Paige wishes they were together right now so she could tattoo this happiness onto both of their skins. 

“The greatest team ever,” Paige affirms, “When are you com-”

“Attention passengers Delta Airlines Flight 1248 to Minneapolis will be boarding soon, please have your passport and ticket ready to check at the gate.”

“About that,” Azzi says shyly as Paige’s mouth drops open at the announcement, “I uh- I had a moment of spontaneity.”

“Who the hell are you and what have you done with my overthinking girlfriend?” Paige demands and Azzi giggles on the other end of line.

“I know it’s last minute, like really last minute and it was meant to be a surprise actually but I just- I really wanna see you. Is that okay?”

“Is that okay? Fuck Azzi, it’s all I want. Baby,” Paige breathes out softly, “come home.”

*** 

Time isn’t going nearly fast enough Paige thinks as she checks the arrivals board for the nth time. She’d tried for about four seconds to fall back asleep after hanging up the phone but her entire body had been buzzing with excitement. And so she’d gotten to the airport far earlier than necessary, and had maybe one too many cups of coffee if the jittery shake in her left hand is anything to go by.

She swears she feels her before she sees her. The air is electric as if the whole city, the whole state is waiting for Azzi too, for them to get their elusive forever. This moment feels like years in the making, and Paige is ready, ready to grasp it and make it hers. And then there’s Azzi, a clearly chosen-at-last minute wrinkled t-shirt, eyes drooping from the tiredness from not having slept all night, baby hairs in a frenzy across her forehead. To Paige, she’s still the prettiest girl in the entire universe. 

Azzi’s eyes scan through the airport until they land on Paige, a dazzling smile illuminating her exhausted features. It’s the exact same smile that Paige had first elicited from her on the flight back from Argentina when she’d told Azzi she had a feeling they'd make great friends. It’s her Paige smile. The world is still for a second, everything melting away except them and the whispers of the journey it had taken them to get to this point. Every delicately placed step towards each other feels like an ode to every year they’d spent apart. And then Paige is running, not caring about everyone else around her. She jumps into Azzi’s arm, all 6 feet of her, tangling her legs around the younger girl's waist while her arms fasten around the neck. It forces Azzi to let go of her small carry-on, not caring that it falls to the floor with a thud, as her hands wrap around Paige’s back, steadying her girlfriend’s weight on top of her. 

“You’re here,” Paige whispers, still a little in disbelief, “you’re really here.”

“I’ve been in Minny plenty of times before,” Azzi quips, adjusting her balance to properly hold the girl clinging to her like a koala. 

“Shut up you know what I mean. You’re here forever this time.”

“Well I don’t know about forever- OW,” Azzi shrieks, as Paige pinches her arm, “do you want me to drop you woman?”

“You’re never allowed to leave.”

“That sounds vaguely threatening.”

“Good because it definitely is a threat,” Paige says before pulling Azzi into a searing kiss, “welcome home baby.”

***

October 2028 

There are moments in life you remember forever. Sometimes you know they’re going to happen, sometimes they take you off guard and sometimes, it’s a combination of both. The Minnesota Lynx’s journey to the WNBA finals this season had always felt inevitable but the journey there, for a team that had unexpectedly fallen to the 4-seed despite pre-season clamour of them being number one, had been filled with bitter losses and moments of pure uncertainty. In a way, it perfectly mirrors Paige and Azzi’s relationship. 

There’s 11 seconds separating the Lynx from their 5th championship trophy as they lead the Sky by two points. The crowd is up on their feet, ready for their cheering to turn into roars the minute the final buzzer rings. Paige has the ball in her hands on the inbound, Coach Reeves yelling at her from the bench what to do, as she makes eye contact with Azzi. There are no words, not even a gesture that the other team might be able to interpret, but they know exactly what play they’re about to run.

Truth be told it hadn’t been the seamless transition the two of them had expected when Azzi joined the Lynx. They’d been naive to think years of not playing together wouldn’t have affected the backcourt chemistry they’d had almost instantly once upon a time. The first few games, there had been an embarrassing disconnect between the two of them that had resulted in a nasty berating from Coach Reeves and a subsequent argument between the two of them that had lasted into the next morning. It had taken several more practices, and a couple more games of flailing around, for them to finally become the duo Paige had always known they would. 

The game buzzer beeps and Paige throws the ball to Azzi who immediately returns it back to her, and then she’s running off screen after screen to get herself open on the wing, her sweet spot. Paige dribble penetrates into the paint, dragging an extra defender with her as they try to prevent her from getting a layup, the other defender blocks her from stepping back into a pull-up. Azzi’s defender has a momentary lapse in judgement, falling for the age-old trick of thinking she should help on defence, and that’s all it takes. A second for Paige to see Azzi open on the corner and pass it to her. A second for Azzi to shoot it. 

The three-pointer falls through the next with a perfect swish. Dagger shot. 

A small smile flits across Azzi’s face, the only emotion she’s shown all game and Paige can’t help the much larger grin that starts to flash on her own face. She can almost taste victory on the tip of her tongue, the two seconds left in the game are the only thing separating her from finally getting her version of the things we live for. Behind her she can hear Coach Reeves yelling at them to not foul, the 5-point lead enough of a cushion for them to withstand a last minute shot. But the Sky barely make it over midcourt and when Marina Mabrey heaves up a last second prayer, Paige doesn’t bother to see if it goes in as the buzzer sounds throughout Target Arena. The Minnesota crowd explodes in noise and colour as confetti falls from the sky. 

Despite the chaos of everything, Paige has never seen Azzi clearer than in this moment. Since she’d met the girl, in all of Paige’s prayers about winning a championship, one thing had always been constant, that when they’d come true, they’d come true with Azzi by her side. And she had been. The high school state champion, the college national championship, Azzi had been there for both but on the bleachers, as a spectator and as Paige’s biggest fan. But this, winning a championship with Azzi as her teammate, as her ally, as her partner, means something more. This win is theirs. 

“Do you remember when we saw that shooting star?” Azzi says softly, as they find their way into each other’s arms, not caring that there’s a thousand cameras capturing their every move. Paige pulls Azzi closer to her, every inch of her body pressing into the other girls until she’s not sure where she begins and where Azzi ends. 

“That was years ago,” Paige remarks but she can see it clearly, two young girls underneath the stars, unaware of what their future would be but sure that the other would be in it. Those girls would probably laugh at how long it had taken Paige and Azzi to figure out what had seemed so simple back then. 

“Yeah, yeah it was. Do you remember what you wished for?” Azzi asks, smiling when Paige nods, “do you wanna know what I wished for?”

“What did you wish for Az?”

“Before we saw the star you- you said it’d be nice to win a championship together someday. And so I-,” Azzi looks down shyly, “so I wished for someday. I wished for today.”

Paige stares at Azzi, drinking in the sincerity on the shooting guard’s face, silently letting herself absorb the meaning of Azzi’s words. And then she lets out a laugh because of course of course. 

“I didn’t realise I’d said anything funny for you to be laughing at me,” Azzi scrunches her nose, looking slightly offended. 

“God baby no,” Paige cups Azzi’s face, and she thinks this smile on her face will last forever as long as this is her reality, “I’m not laughing at you. I just- do you know what I wished for?” 

Azzi shakes her head. 

“This. The same exact thing you did. For someday.”

It’s not quite the shade of blue Paige had imagined them in, the Lynx blue its own shade, something inbetween UConn’s navy one and UCLA’s sky one. But it’s perfect nonetheless. And when Azzi crashes her lips against Paige’s, someday feels a lot like forever and always.

[azukiel]

Nightfall Heir Chapter 1

🔞 MDNI 🔞 NSFW

Warnings (as a whole): Explicit sexual content, Graphic descriptions of violence, PTSD, Angst, Blood kink, Kidnapping, Pregnancy and Childbirth

Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5 | Chapter 6 | Chapter 7 | Chapter 8 | Chapter 9 | Chapter 10 | Chapter 11 | Chapter 12 | Chapter 13 |

⭐Here is the story on Archive of Our Own ⭐

Summary: Two years have passed since the events surrounding the destruction of the Absolute. Baldur's Gate is slowly rebuilding itself from the rubble, and you and your companions have established yourselves within the city to help in its restoration.

You and your vampiric lover, Astarion, had been nigh inseparable since coming back together. Yet a certain turn of events saw to your kidnapping and then... to your unexpected pregnancy.

🔥Comments and reblogs are much appreciated! 🔥

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

As you lay in Astarion’s arms, you relished in the bliss that coddled your heart.

Alas, your mind wandered. It had not always been like this.

Blissful.

Your memories vividly recalled the time you had first laid with him, the time where the soft glow of fireflies had danced in the air, casting shadows that whispered secrets into the grass beneath you. The subsequent times thereafter had also been a symphony of sensations - feverish rustling of bedsheets, and the intoxicating scents of his cologne mingled with the musky aromas of passion. Back then, Astarion had always assured you that your very essence would be enveloped in a euphoric blend of pleasure and ecstasy. However, beneath the surface of those passionate encounters lay a web of deception. Your trysts had been nothing more than a meticulously crafted facade, a mask to conceal the collective traumas that haunted you both. Astarion had sought protection and trust from you, while you had yearned for a semblance of true companionship and belonging from him.

Still, the scars you both carried were etched into your souls, impossible to conceal. They were etched into the very fabric of your beings, leaving invisible wounds that refused to heal.

You flinched at the painful recollections as you looked up again at his peaceful, sleeping face. Closing your eyes for a moment, you took in a deep breath. His scents of bergamot, rosemary and aged brandy eloped you with a warmth like a midsummer’s kiss. His enchanting perfume restored a sense of peace. Yet, the darkness that still lingered in the back of your mind clawed its way into your consciousness once more.

Shuddering, you pressed yourself harder against his body to shield yourself, and though, in his sleep, he tightened his arms around you, you felt your walls again crumble. As the salt of your tears stung at the corners of your eyes, your unscrupulous mind continued to ravish your heart…

You were flung back to your childhood, vividly recalling the relentless barrage of blows, the sound of bones cracking, the scathing verbal assaults, and the relentless condemnations. The overpowering stench of sweat and blood used to fill your nostrils as you were forced to confront opponents far stronger than yourself, all for the perverse amusement of the masses... enduring unspeakable torment that had assaulted your body and mind alike. Such was the brutal reality of the Drow society that had shaped your upbringing. And yet, your tortures were not so different to that of which your lover had suffered at the hands of his old tormentor, Cazador.

The torment you had both endured had left deep scars, which had resulted in your eventual separation. The memory of it lingered, triggering a silent sob from you. In the past, you and Astarion had made the mutual decision to remain ‘just companions,’ driven by guilt over having used each other as shields for your sufferings. It had seemed like the ideal solution, a way to aid in healing. But unbeknownst to either of you, it had only exacerbated the anguish, a truth you both refused to acknowledge, even to yourselves.

At least, not until the events in Cazador's gloomy prison had unfolded.

Your mind, shrouded in darkness, conjured up a vivid and haunting replay of the events...

Your heart had been torn asunder as you had watched Astarion confront his old, wicked master. The anguish inflicted upon Astarion had been unbearable, a raw wound visible in your eyes. Alas, the hunger for power had consumed him, a voracious appetite for ascension that had wrapped around him like a suffocating web. In a mere breath, the Astarion you had known and loved had vanished. The vibrant essence of the witty, sassy, and flamboyant Elven vampire you cherished had been replaced by a feral beast. The sight of his former slaver, now succumbed, bloodied and kneeling, blurred the line between captor and captive.

You recall having exerted every ounce of your strength, having plead with Astarion to resist the seductive pull of power, to spare the lives of the countless thralls and spawn. The weight of this decision had threatened to consume his true self, which would have rendered him unrecognizable. Unimaginable sorrow had consumed you as you had contemplated the magnitude of such a loss.

The anguished cries that had escaped him as he struck down Cazador had reverberated through your being, threatening to shatter your very core. Even though Astarion had eventually yielded to your pleas, a deep resentment had grown within him towards you.

Your mind then shifted to when you and your companions had returned to the Elvensong Tavern nigh your vampiric companion. Your body had trembled uncontrollably, with tears streaming down your face, your sobs wracking your entire being. The weight of your despair had felt like an unbearable burden, threatening to consume you entirely. You remember the painful pounding of your heart in your chest, the rhythm deafening in your ears, and your breath coming in ragged gasps as you struggled to regain control. Halsin’s sudden powerful embrace had provided a sense of stability, and his firm hold had offered a sense of security that you had desperately needed in that moment. He was, in fact, the only companion strong enough to hold your arms to prevent you from burning down the place in your despair. You recalled the surrounding room blurring as your vision had become clouded by tears; the world reduced to a haze of pain and anguish.

The others, your companions, had surrounded you, and eventually their presence had become a comfort amidst the chaos. Their words of reassurance and support had washed over you, their soothing voices attempting to ease the torment that had consumed your mind. Though their words had been barely audible through the fog of your despair, their presence alone provided a sense of unity and shared strength.

Sighing inwardly as you nestled yourself in the crook of Astarion’s shoulder, you remembered that back in that tavern on that night, time had seemed to lose all meaning to you. You had continued to tightly cling to Halsin as he cradled you, and your body had gradually succumbed to exhaustion.

After what had felt like an endless stretch of time, Astarion had finally returned. You recall that the room had been dimly lit by then, and the dancing candle light had cast long shadows on the worn wooden floor. You had heard the faint echoes of his fervent apologies, his voice trembling with remorse. The weight of his rage, which had been directed solely at you, had torn through your heart like a sharp knife. Truly, you hadn’t blamed him. It had been a battle within himself, a struggle to maintain control. Nevertheless, it had still shattered your already delicate heart and mind.

And then you recollected, amidst the heaviness of the situation, he having expressed his gratitude. The words had hung in the air as he had thanked you for rescuing him from the brink of losing his very self. You had saved him from becoming a reflection of the one he despised most in the world. Cazador Szarr.

Late that same night, under the glowing moonlight, he had guided you through the calm silence of the local cemetery. After having reached a secluded plot, he had unveiled a tombstone that had been crafted for him upon his ‘death’ as a mortal elf. The tombstone had stood there, adorned with weathered vines, a testament to the passaging of two long centuries. The air surrounding you both had carried a hint of mustiness and an earthy scent, mingling with the faint aroma of decaying leaves. A chilling breeze had whispered through the graveyard, causing a shiver to run down your spine. Astarion’s voice had broken the silence then, and he described how this tombstone represented not only the end of his previous life in Cazador’s clutches, but also the death of the creature he could have become had he ascended. In that moment, he had realised he was no longer a mere spawn, but finally, truly free.

And as he often reminded you, even now, it had all been because of your unwavering perseverance, infinite patience, and resolute devotion. Your enduring devotion to him. For that, he had fallen profoundly for you and had not hesitated to confess his adoration right in front of his grave. He had not hesitated to guide you down onto the mound of earth, where your bodies soon intertwined with an intense fervour, either.

You remembered the fierce emotions that had flooded your body. Every touch and every caress from Astarion had sent shivers down your spine, electrifying your skin and loins with an unbearable ecstasy. The air around you had seemed to crackle with an intoxicating energy, as if the gods themselves had acknowledged the depth of your connection.

Your breath had hitched with each movement, the anticipation coursing through your veins. The taste of passion had lingered on your lips as a mix of desire and a hint of rebellion. The gritty texture of the earth beneath you had only heightened the rawness of the moment, grounding you in the physicality of your love.

You bit your bottom lip with the memories which now overwhelmed your senses. You felt it all again. With each feverish thrust, the passion had intensified. The heat between your bodies had grown to burning new heights and had wrapped you both in a cocoon of shared desire. Astarion’s touch had ignited a fire within you as his hands had explored every inch of your body with a frenzied hunger. The world around you then had faded into a blur, leaving only the two of you entangled in a dance of unbridled passion.

In that moment, the boundaries of time and place had ceased to exist. Moans and gasps had mingled in the air, a symphony of pleasure and longing as you had moved together with an unspoken understanding.

It had been just you and him in that graveyard, your souls entwined as one. The world could have crumbled around you once again, yet you would have remained oblivious, lost in the sheer intensity of your love.

You trembled at the memory of the last echoes of ecstasy fading away, and the intense heat between your thighs after he had filled you. You had found solace in the knowledge that your devotion had been reciprocated with equal fervor.

As your mind floated back to your present time, you shivered again at the sudden delicious tingle at your junction, a soft moan escaping your lips. You froze, glancing up at your sleeping lover, hoping you had not been loud enough to stir him, but he was as still as the tombstone that adorned his grave. Which brought your salacious thoughts back to that night. That night had cemented your relationship once and for all. He was now yours and you were now his and the both of you had been inseparable since that night two years ago.

[inthedayswhenlandswerefew]

When The World Is Crashing Down [Chapter 9: We’re Friends When You’re On Your Knees]

Series summary: Your family is House Celtigar, one of Rhaenyra’s wealthiest allies. In the aftermath of Rook’s Rest, Aemond unknowingly conscripts you to save his brother’s life. Now you are in the liar of the enemy, but your loyalties are quickly shifting…

Chapter warnings: Y'all, you are not ready for this one. Language, warfare, violence, serious injury, alcoholism/addiction, sexual content (18+), murder, Aemond "there are other Targaryens" Targaryen having feelings again (good ones?? not good ones?? both?? who knows bestie, not me!), an unexpected family reunion, must be the season of the witch... 👀

Series title is a lyrics from: "7 Minutes In Heaven" by Fall Out Boy.

Chapter title is a lyric from: "Our Lawyer Made Us Change the Name of This Song So We Wouldn’t Get Sued" by Fall Out Boy.

Word count: 8.4k.

Link to chapter list: HERE.

Taglist (more in comments): @tinykryptonitewerewolf @lauraneedstochill @not-a-glad-gladiator @daenysx @babyblue711 @arcielee @at-a-rax-ia @bhanclegane @jvpit3rs @padfooteyes @marvelescvpe @travelingmypassion @darkenchantress @yeahright0h @poohxlove @trifoliumviridi @bloodyflowerrr @fan-goddess @devynsficrecs @flowerpotmage @thelittleswanao3 @seabasscevans @hiraethrhapsody @libroparaiso @echos-muses @st-eve-barnes @chattylurker @lm-txles @vagharnaur @moonlightfoxx @storiumemporium @insabecs @heliosscribbles @beautifulsweetschaos @namelesslosers @partnerincrime0 @burningcoffeetimetravel-fics @yawneneytiri @marbles-posts @imsolence @maidmerrymint @backyardfolklore @nimaharchive @anxiousdaemon @under-the-aspen-tree @amiraisgoingthruit @dd122004dd @randomdragonfires @jetblack4real @joliettes

Let me know if you’d like to be tagged! 🥰💜

You watch her from the shadows of the dungeons, rusted iron, phantom echoes of falling water, chilling drafts that come from nowhere and everywhere. She has not yet noticed you. She is beautiful, regal, arrogant, even as she sits gnawing on crusts of bread and the gristle of chicken bones, scraps that Lord Larys throws to her like she’s a pig nosing its way through a trough, an animal that is clever and yet condemned. And if she is livestock, then what are you? A creature of darkness, of nightfall, lethal and treacherous, a wolf or a bat or a spider. You step forward and into a ray of light that cuts across the stones like the path of a comet.

Baela gasps and drops the tibia she’d been working on, cracking it in two, sucking out the dead-blood marrow. Her wide-set, almond-shaped eyes catch on you. She is not afraid; you have never known Daemon Targaryen’s eldest daughter to be afraid of anything. She is fascinated.

“I’m sorry,” she says, crawling across the floor of her cell. She grips the metal bars and peers out at you, kneeling there like she’s praying. You suspect Baela has never prayed to anyone or anything. “I didn’t mean to almost burn you. I didn’t realize you were standing on the steps with him until after I’d given Moondancer the order. It all happened so quickly.”

You cannot appear to be angry. You have no reason to be angry if you are Aegon’s captive. “I take no offense. I wasn’t harmed.”

“No one had any idea the Usurper was here,” Baela says. Still her eyes are bright, entranced. “We believed Dragonstone to be vacant.”

Good. You give her a dismal smirk. “No. Not so vacant after all.”

“Are you with child yet?”

A bolt shoots down your spine like cold lightning. “What?”

“That’s what he’s trying to do, isn’t it?” Baela says. “He wants an heir from you. His wife is dead, his sons are dead. He couldn’t get his claws on me or Rhaena. But you can give him a Valyrian-blooded prince.”

Aegon has never mentioned having children with you. You don’t know if this means he doesn’t want them, or if he does not wish to place demands upon you, or if he is indifferent, or if he believes it to be impossible. “I have nothing to show for his efforts.”

“Has it been unspeakably awful?” And if Baela seeks to console, this is secondary to her personal interest; she is curious, she is absorbed. Her fingers close more tightly around the iron bars. “He’s a drunk, a degenerate. He’s vile. He’s deformed. Has he tortured you? Has he violated you in a hundred different ways? Does he tie you down, does he strike you, does he cut and bruise you?”

And this is the Blacks’ story, one they could never begin to suspect might be fiction: that you are a martyr, that Aegon is a monster. In place of an answer, you give Baela the treasures you have brought her. You pass them through the gaps between the bars: a bottle of ink, parchment, a quill with a point like a blade.

Baela takes these objects, amazed. “You can help me send a letter back to Harrenhal?”

“I don’t know if I will be able to get to the rookery. But I’ll try.”

“The Usurper allows you this much free rein?”

He trusts me. He loves me. He’s bedbound and in agony. “He’s rather distracted at the moment.”

“He’s dying, hopefully,” Baela says. She has already begun to write. And there’s a reptilian sort of coldness that is snaking deeper into you, constricting around your bones, gliding through the blood-slick chambers of your heart, too much a part of you to ever rip out. But now Baela’s face softens. She looks up dolefully. “Moondancer, she’s…she’s gone, isn’t she?”

You bow your head as if this is something tragic. “She did not survive Sunfyre’s attack.”

“Fucking beasts,” she seethes, resuming her writing. “When my father learns of this, he and Caraxes will come to rescue us. And he will burn the Usurper alive.” She finishes her letter, rolls up the parchment, and hands it back to you.

“How will Daemon know that you authored this and under no duress?”

“My signature,” Baela says, grinning. “I end all of my correspondence to him with Your ever-obedient daughter. It is a joke between us. If it was absent, he would notice. His suspicions would be aroused. That is how I would signal if I was ever forced to write to him against my will.”

There is dark satisfaction like a spell shimmering in your arteries, nerves, the void-black pupils of your eyes. You return her smile. “Perfect.”

“Don’t fear,” Baela tells you, and reaches through the rusted iron bars to clasp your hand. You fight the reflex to tear away from her, this woman who certainly maimed Aegon and might have killed him. You find yourself studying her, measuring her height and weight, calculating how much milk of the poppy it would take to end her life. “Cregan Stark is south of the Neck now. He will move heaven and earth to possess you, everyone knows that. Soon we will have Northmen marching through the Riverlands with Caraxes and Sheepstealer safeguarding them from above. And after the Riverlands they will be in the Reach, and then finally King’s Landing to stabilize the capital. The Usurper and Sunfyre cannot fight. Daeron is scarcely more than a boy. The Betrayers are avaricious, overconfident drunks. The Greens will be vanquished before winter.”

“And what about Vhagar?”

“Together, Caraxes and Sheepstealer can bring her down.” But there is doubt in Baela’s voice, yes, a vacillation that is rarely heard from her.

“I hope so,” you reply, one of countless lies.

You take Baela’s letter to the rookery, open it, examine it carefully for the subtleties of her handwriting: slopes and dots and lines. Then you get a fresh piece of parchment and painstakingly draft a very different message. Not a plea for help, but an assurance that all is well; not a summons to Dragonstone, but a confirmation that the castle was found to be unoccupied and is now held firmly by Baela and Moondancer.

And you end the letter before tying it to a leg of the raven trained to fly to Harrenhal:

Your ever-obedient daughter, Baela Targaryen

~~~~~~~~~~

“Please eat something, Your Grace. I beg you.” Lord Larys Strong’s face is creased with servile, attentive worry. On the plate before you is fresh, warm bread and a dish of salted butter. In your bowl is a crab soup thick with vegetables, the broth tomato-based and red like Autumn’s hair, like blood.

“I can’t.”

“Would you like me to bring you something else? I could have the chefs prepare roast chicken, or duck, or boar…”

“No.” You push the bowl of soup away. You and Larys are alone in the Great Hall, seated at the high table which presides over a silent, vacuous chamber. The room was built to resemble a dragon lying on its belly; the entranceway is its mouth, two massive doors edged with stone teeth. There are dragons everywhere, these talismans of Aegon’s house, these creatures that are monsters to some and saviors to others.

Larys studies you closely. His voice is tender. “Your Grace, please. Can I do anything for you?”

You consider him, an enigma that is useful and subtle and dogged in his loyalty. “What is it that binds you so faithfully to Alicent and her children, Lord Larys? House Strong was so favored by Rhaenyra. Her heirs were your blood, no matter how much she tried to deny it. You could have risen high in the Black Council. Make no mistake, I am very thankful for your service to the Greens. I am glad to count you among the greatest of our fortunes. But what inspired you to turn your coat?”

Larys smiles at you. He has eyes like rain, the wavy abundant brown hair of his spurned family. His hands rest on the handle of his cane. “Your eldest brother is an acclaimed swordsman.”

“Yes,” you agree, caught off-guard.

“And so was mine,” Larys says. “House Strong, is it any wonder what we valued most? My father loved Harwin. He was so fiercely proud of him. He was interested in him, he understood him. They would whisper to each other all through feasts, all through tourneys, conspiring, chortling, enmeshed in this synergy that left no air for anyone else to breathe.”

“And your father never understood you.” Just like Bartimos Celtigar overlooks Everett, a son gifted with books and quills instead of horses and swords. “Never even tried to.”

“It is a terrible thing to be in the midst of your family and yet feel alone.”

“It is,” you say, remembering the Blacks’ festivities in King’s Landing.

“Now Lyonel and Harwin Strong whisper to no one,” Larys says, his smile widening into a dark, victorious grin. “And I am the Master of Whisperers.”

You remember the words that Otto Hightower spoke to you as he waited for his execution in the dungeons of the Red Keep: These dark, contagious facets of life change us all. They ruins us. Time, heartache, violence. You become capable of inconceivable things. You would scheme and deceive. You would murder. “Do you ever regret it?” you ask Larys softly. Becoming a sinner, a killer, a kinslayer.

“Never,” he replies. “Dowager Queen Alicent was the first person to ever truly listen to me. To make me feel worth something. Worth anything. To advance her interests in every way possible…that cannot be an injustice. It is the cleanest kind of loyalty. And I have no doubt my sacrifices will be repaid. If the Greens triumph, that is. When this war is over, Alicent’s son must sit the Iron Throne.”

“You mean Aegon.”

“Yes, of course.” But something mournful passes over Larys’ face like a shadow; he peers down at his hands to hide this from you.

He doubts Aegon will live. He foresees Aemond or Daeron inheriting the throne instead. You stand from the table, your chair squealing shrilly against the stone floor. “We should bring the king his supper,” you tell Larys. “He needs his strength.”

Aegon does not like you to be there when the maesters prod at him, scrub his wounds, rebandage his shattered legs. You were once his healer, yes, but now he believes you to be his wife. He does not want to be your patient. He does not want you to see him as a wounded man writhing in bed, as someone helpless, pathetic, weak, doomed.

The maesters are just finishing when you arrive with a tray of buttered bread and fresh soup, steam rising from the bowl of red like entrails that litter the earth once a battle has ended. The maesters are gathering up bloody strips of linen to be burned. Aegon is sobbing; his silver hair hangs in chaotic waves, both hands cover his face.

Your voice is hushed and heartbroken. “Aegon…”

“No, I’m okay,” he says, sniffling, mopping the tears from his cheeks with his bare palms. Then he reaches out to you. “Come here, come here, come here.”

You go to him, sliding the tray onto his bedside table until it clinks against the glass bottles there: rose oil, red wine, milk of the poppy. You climb onto the bed and Aegon’s arms circle around your waist, pulling you in closer as he buries his face in the warmth of your chest, your throat, covering you in hurried, imprecise kisses. Dimly, you wonder what he tastes when he breathes you in; you wonder what colors bloom in the sunless passages of his lungs.

“I missed you,” he murmurs. You can feel the dampness of his tears on your bare skin, the roughness of his scars.

“I was only gone for a few hours.”

“Too long,” he says. “Far too long. How’s Sunfyre?”

“He’s down on the beach, Your Grace,” Larys answers from the doorway where he has materialized like stars at dusk.

“Is he eating? Ambulatory? Wading in the water?”

“He’s…” Lord Larys hesitates. “He seems to be in a great deal of discomfort.” And yes, you know this to be true: Sunfyre the Golden’s wings hang in shreds, his wounds are inflamed with infection, and there is something wrong with him inside as well, a wheezing when he inhales, blood that seeps from his nostrils and his jaws. There’s nothing anybody can do for him. No one can touch him but Aegon, and Aegon can’t leave his bed.

Aegon says to Larys, low and sinister: “I want Baela dead. I want her burned.”

“She is far more valuable to you alive, Your Grace.”

“I am the king and I wish her to die.”

“Corlys Velaryon is her grandsire,” Larys implores. “If he discovers you executed Baela, he may recommit himself to Rhaenyra’s side. He may launch his own rebellion even after Rhaenyra is defeated. If you wish to win and keep the Iron Throne, I advise you to spare her.”

Aegon sighs and glares out the window that overlooks the Narrow Sea, his arms still linked around your waist. You begin to weave his braid for him. “Aegon,” you say gently. “We’ve brought you supper. Please eat it.”

“I’m afraid I’m too nauseated by my own inadequacy. Perhaps later.”

“You want to be well again. And you will be. But you have to eat.”

“I really don’t think I can.”

“Aegon, please.”

“Well…” He glances over at the bowl of soup and then gives you a mischievous smirk. “I suppose nothing tastes better than a crab, does it? Particularly when it is served in bed.”

“Or on the floor of a library.” You smile and kiss him: his pale face, his trembling lips. You finish his tiny braid like a silver chain and tuck it behind his ear. Then you pour him a cup of milk of the poppy, just one pearl-white splash, just enough to sand the serrated edges off his anguish.

“No.” He stops you, a hand on your wrist. “I don’t want to be useless again. I don’t want to be swimming in dreams. I want to be here with you.”

You shake your head. There are tears stinging in your eyes. “But you’re in pain.”

He grins, brushing your hair back from your face. “I’ve been in pain my whole life, Angel.”

And he manages to force down half the soup and two brimming goblets of wine before he sinks beneath the sea of his consciousness, while outside waves crack open against the rocks and Sunfyre leaks viscous threads the color of crimson, roses, flames.  

~~~~~~~~~~

“You sent that raven a week ago,” Baela tells you when you bring her your offering, your clandestine kindness: apple cake, black tea. “More than enough time has passed for it to be received at Harrenhal and acted upon.”

You fill a porcelain cup with tea from the kettle and give it to her through the iron bars of her cell. “Perhaps the raven went astray.”

Baela ponders this as she alternates between unladylike chomps on a wedge of apple cake and slurps from the cup. “Maybe my father has been away from the castle. Maybe he’s out on the battlefield with the Stark men.”

Or maybe he believes you and Moondancer to be perfectly well and presiding unopposed over Dragonstone, and therefore not in need of his attention. What a welcome delusion to live under. I’m sure he’d rather be fucking Nettles anyway. You take the empty cup when Baela has drained it and refill it with tea. Baela accepts the nearly overflowing cup gratefully. She has had nothing to drink since she was taken captive except muddy rainwater that pools in one corner of each cell, guided by stone gutters that run along the outside of the castle. The tea is cloudy with cream and laced with sugar; still, her nose wrinkles a bit when she swallows it down.

“Bitter,” she notes distractedly.

“It’s made from leaves grown here on Dragonstone. Formidable, but not very sweet.”

Baela cackles; it echoes through the dungeon. This is the same voice that commanded Moondancer to brutalize Sunfyre, to send Aegon plummeting to the sand. Are her eyes already losing their viperish sharpness, is her heartbeat slowing? “Just like me!” She finishes her cup of tea and eagerly holds it out to you through the bars. You pour it full of the earth-colored brew once again.

You ask her as she licks apple cake crumbs from her fingers: “Why is Cregan Stark so determined to wed me?”

“He wants you. He considers you worthy of him.”

“But he doesn’t understand me. He doesn’t really know who I am.”

Baela shrugs indifferently. “None of us love anyone because of who they are. We love them because of who they make us believe we are.” She sips her tea and blinks groggily. “In any case, he will be your honorable savior, and you will be his illustrious damsel, and when the traitor dragons are dead he will spirit you away to Winterfell to bear his wolf pups. It’s not so bad a fate, I think. Not for someone like you. You aren’t ill-suited to matrimony. You are docile enough. A caretaker, a healer. You seem like the sort of woman who would be content with just one man.”

Yes. If he was Aegon. As you watch her kneeling on the stone floor of her cell, Baela sways and almost nods off, seemingly unaware that she is doing it.

“Burning might be too swift a death for the Usurper,” Baela says, smiling dazedly. “Cregan should have some of the Boltons flay him. They can all take turns wearing his hideous scars.”

“Yes. Skins shed, skins regrown, some of us change them over and over again.”

Baela stares at you inanely. She is beyond comprehension. Then she collapses to the stone floor, the porcelain tea cup spilling from her grasp and breaking into jagged white shards.

You take the key to the cell off the hook out in the corridor and unlock the door of iron bars. You step inside, still holding the tea kettle in one hand. You set the kettle down and drag Baela until she is propped upright against a wall. Her pulse is slow, but still present; she moans feebly as you position her. But it is all for a good cause; you must ensure she drinks the rest of the tea, the witches’ brew of leaves and cream and sugar and a fatal dose of milk of the poppy. Outside you hear a deep, prehistoric rumble as Vhagar flies over Dragonstone and scouts for a landing spot large enough to host her. Aemond is back again.

You angle the spout of the tea kettle between Baela’s paling lips and ply her with a small amount, less than a mouthful, then you rub her throat in just the right place to trigger her reflex to swallow. You know this trick well; you have used it on grievously wounded soldiers. You used it on Aegon after he was burned. You repeat the steps until the kettle is empty. Then you lay Baela flat again and watch her chest rise and fall slower, slower, slower until it stops. But still, you leave nothing to chance. You nick Baela’s wrist with a paring knife from the castle kitchens, until now tucked away in a pocket of your gown, emerald green silk to match the side of this war that you are pledged to. Her blood, unpropelled by the rhythm of a heart, dribbles sluggishly rather than spurts. She’s gone; she’s with her mother and Luke and Jace and the young sickly Viserys and Rhaenys, Otto and Helaena and Jaehaerys and Maelor and Autumn’s silver-haired son that she never had the chance to name. You wonder if the struggle goes on in the afterlife. Perhaps presently Otto and Baela are scratching and yowling at each other in a castle made of clouds.

Upstairs, Aemond is already in Aegon’s bedchamber. They are speaking in whispers when you enter, and you catch only pieces of the exchange: capital, Cregan, marriage, Daemon, crown. Larys stands in the corner of the room, his hands laced atop the handle of his cane. He gives you a reverent bow in greeting. He might not be so pleased to see you once he learns what you’ve done.

Aegon stops talking abruptly when he spots you and gestures for Aemond to go quiet as well, a commanding sweep of his hand. Aemond follows his brother’s gaze to the doorway. His lone blue eye climbs up and down you like a man on the rungs of a ladder. His hair is in one thick braid from his flight; stray white-blond strands that have been ripped free hang in disarray around his stoic, unreadable face. Aemond does not bow to you and never will. He only leers, a silver-haired wolf, a hawk with unhollow bones.

“Hello, Angel,” Aegon says, beaming or at least attempting to. He is frail and pallid and too thin and dripping sweat. There are indigo rings around his eyes like bruises. His legs are swollen, grotesque mountain ranges beneath the blankets. You rush to him and sit on the edge of the bed, feeling his forehead for fever and combing your fingers fondly through his hair.

Aemond sighs irritably. “Anyway, I’d like to torture her.”

“My prince…” Larys urges.

Aegon holds up a palm. “Now now, Lord Larys, let’s hear his proposal. Exactly how much do you intend to torture Baela?”

“Quite a bit,” Aemond says.

“To death?” Aegon asks hopefully.

“I don’t see why not.”

“My prince!” Larys says again. “Please, consider the possible ramifications, she is a prisoner of substantial strategic value, if your mother was here she would caution—”

“I’m afraid that Baela can no longer be interrogated,” you confess, and they all turn to you. There is a long, laden pause.

“And why is that?” Aemond says.

“Because she is dead of poisoning.”

“What?!”

“In her cell. Her body is there now. Feed her to Vhagar or Sunfyre, throw her in the sea, do whatever you wish with her. But she has paid her debt for the harm she inflicted upon us.”

Slowly, a grin splits across Aemond’s face. Larys shakes off his shock and resigns himself to it. But Aegon is neither proud nor reconciled. “You did that?” he says softly.

“You wanted Baela dead.”

“Yes, I did. But you don’t take life,” Aegon says, remembering what you once told him in King’s Landing. His oceanic eyes are stunned and fearful; not because Baela is was murdered, but because you were the one to end her. Because until now he was still able to tell himself that you could somehow escape this war unscarred, unruined. “You preserve it.”

“I preserve yours,” you reply. And when you offer him milk of the poppy—with no fear, for you know precisely how much it takes to kill a man—Aegon refuses it again, taking his suffering pure and sharp like the glass of a mirror.

~~~~~~~~~~

“What will happen to him?” Aemond asks you. You’re sitting on the stone staircase together under overcast midday skies, sipping wine and watching Sunfyre amble lethargically up and down the beach. You aren’t sure what’s made him so restless: his own dire injuries, Aegon in torment within the castle walls, something else entirely, some premonition that only beasts of ancient magic know. At last, Sunfyre seems to have exhausted himself and crumples onto the sand.

“I think Aegon will walk again. Eventually.”

“But he won’t be able to fight.”

You shake your head. “No.”

“Fuck,” Aemond hisses caustically, glowering out over the ocean.

You look at Aemond, needing to ask but terrified of the answer. “Can you win without him?”

“Can we win, you mean?” He smiles faintly, then sobers again. “I think so. Just before I left the Riverlands to come here, I received reports that Daemon had sent his lowborn little child bride away with Sheepstealer. He is trying to protect her from Rhaenyra’s assassins. My bitch of a half-sister has thus done us a remarkable favor. If Daemon is alone, I have no doubt that Vhagar can slay Caraxes. They say Daemon has fled Harrenhal. He’s hiding from me. I will find him, and I will burn him. I will end this war.”

“You need to be with Criston when his army faces the Northmen.”

“Of course,” Aemond says; but something in his face worries you.

There is a high-pitched shriek overhead, a glimmering flash of vivid gemstone blue. You startle and Aemond’s hand juts out, grabs you by the forearm, yanks you closer to him; then he relaxes when he recognizes who it is.

Aemond sighs loudly. “Why the fuck can’t he stay where he’s supposed to be?!” Then he stands, helps you to your feet while he’s at it, and heads down to the shoreline to meet Daeron and Tessarion.

The Blue Queen circles the beach several times, Daeron peering down as if struggling to understand something, his long white-blond hair whipping in the wind. At last Tessarion lands, her claws sinking into the wet sand, ocean froth bubbling around legs. Her long, swanlike neck stretches out towards Sunfyre, soft inquisitive squeals emanating from her jaws. Daeron leaps down from the saddle and strides to where Sunfyre is sprawled helplessly on the beach.

Alicent’s youngest child is clad in mint green—including a cape that billows out behind him in the seaside breeze—and glinting gold accents everywhere, buckles on his boots and the clasp of his cape and even a freckling of studs in his ears. He props both hands on his waist as he scrutinizes the crippled dragon. “Well, you’re not Moondancer.”

“He ripped Moondancer’s throat out,” Aemond says. “And then he ate her.”

Daeron whistles and gazes at Sunfyre admiringly. “I heard that Baela and Moondancer had taken possession of Dragonstone. I came to murder them. But now I see my services are unnecessary.”

“Baela is dead.” Then Aemond adds, nodding to you: “Here is the executioner.”

Daeron considers you, then laughs and assails you with a spirited embrace that nearly knocks you off your feet. “Welcome to the family, Lady Celtigar.”

“She’s the queen now.”

“Is she?” Daeron asks, eyebrows raised. “I was not under the impression that our brother was in any particular hurry to marry again.”

“His priorities seem to have shifted,” Aemond says.

“Can I see him?” Daeron looks around the beach and then up at the castle, shielding his eyes from the greyscale daylight. “Is he not outside with you? What is he doing in there? Not reciting prayers and composing poetry, I’d imagine.”

In Aegon’s bedchamber, Daeron cannot conceal his shock, his dismay; he gawks at the king like he is a three-legged dog, a blinded orphan. He stands thunderstruck at the end of the bed, taking in the vague yet horrifying outlines of Aegon’s shattered legs, the gauntness of his face, the fact that he is incapable of playing any meaningful role in the war for the foreseeable future. You sit on the bed beside Aegon, Aemond lurks by a window, Larys observes intently from a respectful distance, his eyes following every word as they flit through the air.

When Daeron recovers somewhat, he says: “I need to know what to do about Hammer and Ulf.”

“Why?” Aegon replies wearily. “What’s wrong with them?”

“Apparently, Mother once offered them the seats of House Costayne and House Merryweather as compensation for their efforts on behalf of the Greens, and they accepted. But now that’s suddenly not good enough. They’re asking me for the Riverlands and the Vale.”

Aegon turns to Aemond. “Is there anything left of the Riverlands these days? Should we find a new name for them? The Smolderlands, perhaps? The Everything-Is-Dead-Here-Now-Lands?”

“This is serious,” Aemond says flatly.

“I’m entirely serious.”

“Should I just tell them they can have whatever they want?” Daeron asks. “And then when the war is over and we’ve won…you know…pretend not to remember that conversation?”

“They can’t be given territory of any importance,” Aemond says. “They aren’t nobility.”

Daeron amends: “More relevantly, they are devoid of accountability and self-discipline. They drink all day and whore all night, and…oh, I mean no offense, Your Grace.”

“Fine,” Aegon says, preoccupied. There are fat beads of sweat on his bloodless face, glistening misery in his eyes. He gazes sorrowfully down at his left hand where he once wore his golden dragon ring before he lost it the same day he destroyed his legs. You pour him a cup of red wine and he drains it in seconds. You fill another.

“My point is that Hammer and Ulf are increasingly unreliable. I am only halfway convinced they could even show up for a battle before it was over. And yet we need them. Especially if Sunfyre cannot fight.”

“Agree to their requests,” Aemond says. “And if they survive the war, we will deal with them then. Rhaenyra’s faction is the greater enemy. We cannot risk the Dragonseeds racing back into her arms.”

“Lord Larys?” Aegon prompts dimly

“I could not agree more, Your Grace.”

“And on the subject of Rhaenyra,” Daeron continues. “Tessarion and I can take King’s Landing. Syrax is the only dragon in the city now, and Rhaenyra has never ridden her into combat.”

“No,” Aegon says. “We cannot risk setting the capital ablaze and turning the people against us. And Mother is there. Everett is there.”

“Everett?” Daeron looks around, baffled. “Who the fuck is Everett?”

“Angel’s brother. Not the firstborn son. The other one.” And as Aegon explains this, his chest is heaving and his eyes are glazed over. He tries to reposition himself in bed and has to bite down on his lower lip to keep from crying out, hard enough to draw blood.

“Is there anything else?” you ask Daeron and Aemond, a warning in your face. He needs rest. He needs to sleep, to heal.

“No,” Aemond says. He paces towards the door and snatches Daeron’s cape as he passes by him, hauling him out into the hallway. You follow after them.

As soon as he is out of earshot of Aegon’s room, Daeron tells Aemond: “He doesn’t look good.”

“He’ll be fine.”

“Aemond, I think you should prepare to—”

“He’ll be fine!” Aemond snaps.

“You don’t think I’m losing something too?” Daeron demands furiously. “You don’t think I want him to be well again? Of course I want that. But if wishing people to live made it possible, the world would be a very different place.”

“You are needed in the Reach,” Aemond says, and that’s all.

Daeron glares up at him, incredulous, defiant. “This will be over soon. I hope you’re ready for what comes next.”

Then he storms out of the castle, soars down the long stone staircase, meets Tessarion on the windswept beach and takes flight into the southwest where the earth is green but the nights are an inescapable, dreamless black.

~~~~~~~~~~

Aegon is weeping again; you hear him from the hallway. It is after nightfall, and the castle is illuminated only by firelight. Candles flicker; the hearth crackles and pops. In the shadows, Aegon lies with his dragonfire scars and his fractured legs and his useless hereditary magic, tears streaming down his face. You have a vision of what he will look like when he’s dead; you imagine the Stranger reaching up from underneath the bed to seize him with claws like a raven’s talons and drag him out of existence.

“I need it,” Aegon sobs when he sees you, grasping for the glass bottle of milk of the poppy. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I didn’t want to need it, but I do.”

“I’m here, Aegon. It’s alright. Let me help.” You pour him a cup of the bitter remedy, a strange gleaming white like pearl, opal, moonstone. Then you tilt the cup against his lips. Aegon gulps down the milk of the poppy and then falls back into his sea of pillows.

He murmurs, eyes closed as you graze the backs of your fingers feather-lightly over his unmarred cheek: “I wanted to start over with you.”

“You’ll still get the chance.”

“No,” he whimpers miserably. “I ruin everyone. Everyone I’m given, everyone I touch. Helaena, Jaehaerys, Maelor. We don’t even know where Jaehaera is, in Storm’s End, lost on the road, taken captive, dead. Otto, Autumn, Aemond, Mother, Sunfyre. And now I’m ruining you too.”

“You’re not,” you plead with him in a whisper. And not for the first time, you think: What do you require from me, Aegon? Wrath, compassion, healing, children? What can I do to give you hope again? Tell me and it’s yours. I’d do anything. I’d become anyone. “Aegon?” you begin, trying to ask him; but he is already unconscious. He’ll likely be out until sunrise.

You drink cup after cup of red wine and sit in the flame-lit shadows with him, in the quiet, in the liminal space between decisions, envisioned sins and prospective virtues. Then you leave the bedchamber like a ghost, a creak here and a tap there and no other trace. You wander down long, twisting corridors framed by dragons of iron and stone. And at the other end of the castle beyond a door you’ve never opened before is the lair of a very different breed of dragon: tall and lean and ambitious, his eyepatch removed and stowed away for the evening, his long silver hair hanging freely to his waist.

He is wearing cotton sleeping trousers but nothing else. He is seated at his writing desk and scrawling something onto parchment in black ink, a list or a diagram or a design for a new crown upon his ascension to the throne, you don’t know and you have no intention of asking. You have far too many things on your mind already. You feel nauseous and unsteady, you feel like you can’t possibly go through with this. You can’t imagine it. You can’t fathom what he would feel like, taste like.

Aemond steals a nonchalant glimpse of you, having no sense of your inner turmoil. “Can I assist you with something?”

“Yes,” you say simply, sipping your wine under the stone arch of the doorway.

He looks up at you again, his quill suddenly still in his hand. His two eyes are on you, one wide and river-blue, the other a soulless glittering sapphire in a tangle of ruined flesh. And now he understands. There are other Targaryens, he had said. “Take off your clothes. Sit down on the bed.”

You step inside his bedchamber and close the door behind you, setting your empty cup on the edge of his writing desk. You walk to his bed—dark green blankets, gold thread—and shed each piece of clothing you have on, a black gown and everything under it, not looking to see if Aemond is watching you, too anxious, trembling wildly. But you know his gaze is on you when you—standing naked and shivering in the firelight—begin to pull back the blankets and hear the sharp reprove in his voice.

“I did not tell you to hide yourself from me,” Aemond says. “Sit at the edge. Yes, there. Good.”

You perch on the bed and wait for him, your ankles linked, legs swinging restlessly, arms crossed over your chest. Aemond is staring at you from the opposite end of the room. You can’t look at him; you look elsewhere, at the tapestries of dragons hanging from the drafty stone walls, at the thick candles that drip white wax. And this won’t be like lying with a stranger, but it won’t be like lying with someone you want either, because you are profoundly uneasy and monstrously ashamed and perhaps even afraid.

Aemond is approaching now, firelight skating over his smooth, unsinged skin. He is undoing the tie at the waist of his trousers. He yanks them off, revealing himself to you. He is already hard, and he is massive, vast in length and width. The panic hits you like a breaking wave.

“Oh,” you gasp in alarm, unable to stop yourself. Then you explain so he won’t be offended: “I’m not going to be able to take you if I’m not ready.” You rest a hand on your bare thigh, slip it between your legs, begin to stroke yourself the way Aegon does, trying to relax, trying to think of him…

“No,” Aemond says, moving your hand aside. “Let me.”

Obediently, you rest your palms just behind you on the mattress, open your thighs for him, inhale sharpy as Aemond’s long, artful fingers touch you somewhere only one other man ever has. And you’re a traitor, the worst kind of traitor, because it’s working: you can feel yourself opening for him, hungering for him, coating his hand in slick warm wetness.

Aemond isn’t looking at your face. His eye is fixed on the place where his fingers are circling, where he is now pushing two inside of you, and while it happens abruptly and roughly enough to startle you it is not quite painful, or maybe it is, just the tiniest bit, but the pleasure eclipses the pain, the pleasure is a current you are powerless to swim against.

“You can tell me to stop,” Aemond says as he strokes you from the inside with his fingers buried to the knuckles, his breathing labored. “I don’t want you to. But if you tell me to stop, I’ll listen. Okay?”

You nod, and instead of an answer you give him a moan, stifled but unmistakable, dark treasonous forbidden ecstasy. And this snaps something in Aemond, it unleashes a part of him he’d been keeping tied up like an untrustworthy animal, one that could maul or maim or kill. He drops to his knees, hooks his arms beneath your thighs, drags you to him until his lips and tongue are on you with dizzyingly blissful pressure. You fall back onto the bed, one hand twisting into the blankets, the other in his waterfall of unruly silver hair, pushing him even harder against you as he licks ravenously. Aemond doesn’t seem to mind; with each roll of your hips and bitten-back plea his enthusiasm blooms, hums and triumphant chuckles spilling from his mouth as he swallows down the proof of your desire. It’s starting, that swift climb towards a high like nothing else on earth, something Aegon once taught you was possible. You are a betrayer, but with the very best of intentions; you are making a sacrifice, but it feels so much like a gift.

“Aemond, I’m ready,” you pant, your fingers hopelessly knotted in his hair. “You can do it now, you can…” And then you lose your words because instead of rising to his feet, Aemond stays right where he is, his tongue insatiable, his face drenched in your wetness.

He’s going to make me…I’m so close…

“Aemond, what are you waiting for…?”

His lips close around the spot where you are most sensitive and he sucks forcefully, and that feeling like a shuddering, irresistible unravelling strikes you harder and faster than it ever has before, so intense it is almost painful, sharp and commanding, not something he is doing with you but to you, and you know even in the golden haze of the climax that this is not about love but about power, pride, control, worthiness.

He doesn’t stop. He is licking you again, opening your folds with one hand, thrusting two fingers inside of you with the other. You are still feeling the pulsing, involuntary aftershocks of one high when the next begins building, building, building, and when you close your eyes all you can see are waves on the ocean in a storm, swelling to impossible heights and ungoverned by anything except the dubious mercy of nature.

“Aemond please,” you beg in a frayed whisper, bathed in sweat and guilt and frenzied lust. “I’m ready. Just do it, please…”

And then he wrenches you into another vortex and it takes everything in you not to scream, not to jolt awake the skeleton crew that tends to Dragonstone and its surreptitious guests. You are beyond complete thoughts, beyond sentences. You are boneless, your muscles have turned to mist and air, you are entirely under Aemond’s control and that’s where he has wanted you all along.

“Aemond, please, please, please…”

Unable to resist any longer, he stands—wiping the glistening, dripping sheen from his face with the back of one hand—and forces his cock inside you to the hilt. He does not slow down when he meets resistance, and you don’t tell him to. You moan in shock at the disorienting fullness, you cannot help it; it is a feeling on the knife’s edge between ripping agony and euphoric pleasure. It is something you would gratefully die of. He moves within you, deep and quick, his hands clasping your hips. Emotionally, you feel nothing but a razored, perilous, impersonal intensity; in your body, it is paradise.

Again? Again…?!

“Are you going to come for me one more time, Angel?” Aemond taunts you as he thrusts; and that’s Aegon’s name for you that he’s using, and it’s wrong, and Aemond knows that, and there is absolutely nothing you can do to break the spell he’s got you under, you can’t tell him to stop, you don’t have the will to, and if this is about power then you know who’s won out of the three of you, you know who has steel in his bones and lightning cracking in his veins.

It’s different this time, pleasure rising like the tide in your whole body, a peak that is not concentrated so clearly between your legs but everywhere: fingertips, spine, belly, heart.

“Come for me, Angel. I know you can do it.” And then for the first time Aemond leans in close to you, his pristine scarless chest pressed to yours, his lips traveling from your throat to the curve of your jaw, his tongue darting into your mouth before you can turn away, and he tastes like pure, mineral lust, and maybe that’s not just because of what he’s done to you, maybe that’s all he is all the way down, hunger that is never satisfied, a need to consume like fire burns flesh.

You whimper, a desperate vulnerable sound, a pleading for him to finish what he’s started and give you this one last high, just one more, just one, please, please, you’ll do anything.

“I’m better than him, aren’t I?” Aemond demands as he fucks you, and there’s no other word for it. This isn’t making love, this isn’t a meeting of souls, it is using someone else’s body to patch up all your hollows, all the pinprick voids you’ve been walking around with for years, losing yourself one blooddrop at a time until you pass by a mirror one day and think who the hell is that? “I know how to take care of you. I know what you want. I can do things Aegon never could. I’ll make you come again. I’ll give you a prince.”

And he coaxes it out of you like the memory of a dream, more like an ether than something you could name: a shimmering elation all over, a cry you can only muffle by biting down on Aemond’s neck as he pounds into you, and then he at last he surrenders what you came here for, but only after all the rest of it. He fills you with himself, so much of it that you can feel it pouring out onto the blankets, immense flooding wet warmth that gives you no satisfaction whatsoever.

I’m a traitor, you think, and for all the times you’ve changed your skin this is the very worst of them. I shouldn’t have done this. I wish I hadn’t done this.

Aemond lifts himself off of you and rolls onto his back, panting alongside you as you both stare up at the ceiling, drenched in each other’s salt and knowing things that were once so unthinkable. Aemond is gazing over at you. His clear blue eye is tracing your lips, your breasts, your hips, your folds that are soaked with his sweat and seed. You don’t want him watching you. You feel sick knowing he’s watching you. You get up from the bed and begin putting on your gown.

Aemond says: “We should probably try again tomorrow.”

You shake your head. “I can’t,” you reply quietly.

He sits up on the bed, his lone eye narrowed and suspicious. His hair is damp and now flows over his shoulders in disheveled silvery waves. “What?”

“I can’t do this again. I’m sorry, I just can’t.”

“Are you serious?”

“Yes.”

“So that’s it,” Aemond flings. “Just this once and never again. Never again in our whole goddamn lives.”

“It feels like betraying him. It is betraying him.”

“And what if he can’t father any more children?!”

“Then I’ll be barren.”

Aemond glares, petulant, affronted. “I thought you wanted to help this family.”

“You didn’t do this for your family. You did it for you.”

“Yeah, you’re right. I’m a fucking monster.” He tears off the bed, tugs on his trousers, ties the knot with swift furious hands.

“Aemond, I didn’t say that, I don’t think—”

“You’ve done enough,” he seethes, pawing through a chest of clothing. He finds a shirt and pulls it on, gathers up his things, rages to the bedchamber door. He whips it open and disappears into the nightscape corridor.

“Aemond!” you call after him in a fierce whisper, as loudly as you dare to. “Aemond, where are you going?!”

“To take Harrenhal,” he pitches over his shoulder. And then he’s gone, and maybe it’s your fault, and maybe it isn’t, but either way you are wholly convinced that it is.

You bathe in one of the massive tubs heated by the lava that runs deep beneath the rocky earth of the island, scouring away every trace of Aemond, lathering yourself with soap scented with pine, rinsing, lathering again. Still, you can feel the way he moved inside you with such battering, rapturous force. Still, you miss him, you miss being able to talk to him and look to him and trust that he will protect Aegon in every way he can, for no matter how much envy Aemond is built of you believe his love for his king is stronger.

You return to Aegon’s bed, always so careful now not to jostle his legs, his shattered bones that are only just beginning to mend. You are petrified that he will know somehow—that he will see it on your face, smell it sweating from your pores—but Aegon has nothing for you but seeking hands and contented, drowsy sighs.

“Where’d you go?” he mumbles, still half-asleep, drawing you in closer. “I missed you. I keep dreaming that everyone’s gone. I watch you walk through the doorway and I’m left here in bed all alone.”

“Aegon?”

“Yes, wife.”

“Do you need children with me to be happy?”

He waits a long time before he answers. When at last he does, he chooses each word carefully. “I have never felt a calling to be a father. I’ve never been any good at it. Jaehaerys, Jaehaera, Maelor…they were mine, but they also weren’t, and I can’t explain it. I felt nothing for them except a vague sort of sympathy that they had the misfortune of being born to me. Now, did a lot of that have to do with my relationship with Helaena? Probably. And do I think things would be different if I had children with you? Yes, I believe they would be, to some extent at least. But I don’t need children to be happy. I just need you.”

You say with tears in your eyes and your voice splintering: “I’m so sorry, Aegon.”

He is mystified. “For what?”

“For not being a better person for you. For not being able to cure or protect you. For not being able to end the war.”

“Angel, nobody can,” Aegon says, fingers snarled in your hair, lips to your forehead. Then he smiles; you can feel the warm, playful curl of it against your skin. “Well, except Aemond, of course.”

~~~~~~~~~~

She is there to greet him when he arrives. She creeps out of the shadows like a spider, long limbs and volcanic-glass eyes, whispers like wind in brittle fall leaves and flesh that will never refuse him. She wears black, not for one night like you did but always; she has long dark hair that she never cuts or braids or ties back. Sometimes there are raven feathers in it, sometimes herbs or powders from spells, sometimes twigs and petals, sometimes blood. It all washes out in the cold cryptic currents of the Gods Eye. Once Daemon Targaryen was here, but he did not have a wound in the shape that she could fill, could walk into like a doorway and stitch herself into the velvet-gore lining of his lungs, his liver, his heart. But now Daemon is gone. And Harrenhal has a new king to reign over the city of bones and ashes.

She meets him under the starlight that trickles in through the ruins of Harrenhal, less a castle than an architectural graveyard, less a place of beginnings than of calamitous ends. Her fingernails trace his scar and she tells him it is the mark of a hero. She touches her lips to his sapphire eye and tells him it reminds her of a god. And thus the doorway opens, and Alys drifts through it, silent and resistless like smoke, like a plague.

Perpetual Resurrection, Aemond thinks. He knows they are the words of House Celtigar. He has studied the mottos of every noble house in Westeros; but none speak to him more than these.

She touches him and he sees everything he could be. He tastes her lips and drinks down the smooth intoxicating fire that burns the boy he once was away.

[missbubblesoda]

early in the morning, especially when it rains, and a little before noon. (28)

erwin x fem!reader

chapters: (1) | (2) | (3) | (4) | (5) | (6) | (7) | (8) | (9) | (10) | (11) | (12) | (13) | (14) | (15) | (16) | (17) | (18) | (19) | (20) | (21) | (22) | (23) | (24) | (25) | (26) | (27) | (29) | (30)

summary: I basically took Isayama’s work, forced it into a romance story, and made Erwin the love interest. Commander meets cadet and they fall in love (not instantly though)

notes: very berry canonverse (but some events were modified to fit my narrative), wasn’t intended to be this long, but it all is in the details right?

content warnings: smut where it fits (or where I make it fit. Also, reader is NOT underage, so likewise, MINORS DO NOT INTERACT, please.) slow burn (I really mean it. I’m not olympic diving into any form of smut for the first chapters.) no angst. I dislike angst. I would never. I could never. (Although angst can be somewhat subjective so take it with a grain of salt?)

wc: 4.7k

Romance authors often portray dancing with one’s beloved as an endless joy, something that could easily last well beyond nightfall. Yet your throbbing feet, bound and constrained by the white straps of your low-heeled shoes, silently resented them for such a lie. That’s why, when lunch was served, you eagerly welcomed the opportunity to sit down for a moment or two and catch your breath before inevitably dragging him back to the dance floor. After all, when else would you have the chance to slow dance against his chest, your chin resting cozily on his shoulder, and his arm wrapped protectively around your waist?

When you savored the first mouthful of peppercorn stuffing you realized that the Koch’s definition of good food was remarkably similar to yours. Everything, from the velvety gravy soup, the endless procession of assorted biscuits, the indulgent servings of steamed pudding, and the generous dollops of raspberry jam you coronated each of them with, prompted contented hums from your lips whenever you took a bite.

“I don’t recall ever seeing you this happy during a meal, not back at the base at least,” he noted from the seat next to yours, a playful smile on his lips and a forkful of roast venison in his hand.

“Well, that’s because you’ve never actually seen me during a meal. Have you, Commander Smith?” you responded casually, eyes completely focused on the extra dollop of jam you were serving, while your mind wandered to all the times you urged him to put his pen down and join you and the others in the dinner hall, even if just for a piece of bread. “Maybe if you graced us with your presence at dinner from time to time, you would see that I enjoy the Survey Corps’ food just as much. But you insist on eating alone in your office so...” you shrugged nonchalantly before bringing a spoon loaded with pudding to your lips.

“Have I upset you, my lady?” he asked with a smile that denoted he wasn’t the least bit concerned, and then, lifting a napkin, proceeded to wipe red jam off the corner of your lips.

And what an absurd question it was. No one with that shade of blue in their eyes and that disarming smile on their lips could ever upset anyone. There was no possible way, especially not when his face was this close to yours; his caring gesture, as sweet as it was unexpected, completely dazzling you, disorienting your senses until you found yourself nodding dazedly, your own eyes hopelessly lost in his.

“How very rude of me then,” he concluded, softly brushing the cloth against your skin, and you honestly couldn’t tell which was softer: the silk or the back of his fingers.

“Mother!” you exclaimed abruptly, springing up from your chair the moment you discovered her poised frame standing beside you. “We w- I mean I was- how do you do, Mother?”

“Darling,” she sent an acknowledging nod your way. Her usual composure, evident in both her assured demeanor and controlled voice, masked any hint of what she thought or felt, and at the same time, sent your heart into a flurry. Her gaze flickered to the Commander, who rose with practiced ease, a stark contrast to your own fumbling attempt from a few seconds ago.

“Madam,” the Commander offered your mother a warm smile along with a welcoming hand, a silent invitation you desperately hoped she wouldn’t refuse.

“Commander Smith,” she replied after a stretch of silence, which you wished had been shorter, placing her hand in his with ladylike charm.

Although your heart still pounded and raced inside, a flicker of relief found its way within when you saw the genuine smile blooming on your mother’s face as the Commander helped her into the vacant seat beside him.

“Pleasure to finally meet you,” she declared in that regal tone she reserved for social occasions, and it dawned on you: how long it had been since you last heard her speak that way. At home, her voice was always so mellow, less measured, especially around you and your father. And a sting of longing shot through you, a sudden wish for more of those casual evenings shared around the dinner table. “I’ve heard a lot about you, Commander Smith,” she added.

“Not from the press, I expect,” he said, earning a hearty chuckle from your mother. And you lowered your head, trying to resist the childlike smile shyly tugging at your lips as you watched the scene unfold.

“Rest assured, Commander Smith. Despite the occasional critique about the Survey Corp’s overbaked tomato pie, my daughter’s letters are otherwise filled with glowing reports about her days under your leadership.”

“So, Mother! Where’s Father?” you blurted out abruptly as soon as the Commander turned to look at you, a questioning eyebrow raised above a widely amused smirk that spelled ‘I knew you didn’t like our food!’ on his lips. “I was hoping he could meet Commander Smith today.”

“Your father? I was under the impression that he was right behind me,” she sighed in disappointment, glancing around in an attempt to find him among the partygoers. “Guess I shouldn’t have assumed. Maybe one of his… secret society buddies snatched him, or maybe the government finally got him,” she spoke with a touch of nonchalance that made you huff, shaking your head in playful disapproval of your parents’ bickering as you exchanged a smile with the Commander, who seemed downright entertained by your mother’s presence.

“If those bureaucratic buffoons you call ‘our government’ were to find us, color me surprised,” a masculine voice emerged from behind, and you didn’t need to turn in order to know who it belonged to. “Let's just say, Hansel's neck would be on the chopping block way before mine. We can worry about this head above my shoulders after they scrape his off the floor,” with that, your father materialized beside you, snatching a piece of bread from your plate and biting the best part off.

“Father,” you rose to your feet in greeting, gesturing towards the Commander with your hand, “This is Commander Erwin Smith.”

“You bet he is!” he yelled enthusiastically, the bread he had previously shoved into his mouth now getting in the way of his words, so he tried to wash it all down with an indulgent sip of his apple toddy. “What a momentous occasion! Today will go down in history as the day we finally crossed paths, my Commander,” he declared, a wide grin splitting his face.

My Commander? Since when? You thought, a silent snort almost escaping your lips. You wouldn't dare say it aloud though, not wanting to disrupt the moment or make the Commander uncomfortable. You knew time had softened your father's stance on the Survey Corps, especially towards their leader, but it was just too comical: to think this was the same man who, not too many seasons back, used to rant every week about the government wasting their funds on the Scouts.

Regardless, you were glad he had come to see him in a new light. Because Erwin Smith, his people, and the sacrifices they constantly made deserved nothing less than the utmost respect.

“Well met, my lord,” the Commander replied with a cordial smile. Standing right by his side, you blushed at the height difference between you two. There were moments when you felt genuinely small next to him, and this was one of them, but it always brought you a strange sense of security. And suddenly, you found yourself longing to experience that comforting feeling again, to be held in his strong embrace once again today, like the first time, that late summer afternoon in the forest of Giants Trees… To feel even smaller and overpowered by him, his solid muscles, his manly scent... Yes, that would be the perfect ending to a truly fantastic day.

“I have heard a great deal about you from your lady daughter,” he added, his eyes crinkling at the corners with genuine warmth. “She even mentioned your... unique ability to interpret nature's signs.”

“Is that right?” your father turned to you, pride shining in his round eyes. “Do you know what wisdom Augusta’s azaleas are revealing today?”

“Unfortunately, my lord, I wouldn’t be able to interpret such… botanical pronouncements,” the Commander replied with a hint of amusement in his voice. You weren’t surprised by his skepticism. By now, you had made peace with the fact that a man of science like him would, most likely, always remain in disbelief, no matter how many times nature proved you or your father’s predictions right.

A hearty laugh erupted from your father. "Ah, but perhaps they whisper of blossoming relationships today! Maybe even lifelong bonds taking root, huh? Wouldn’t you want to know, my Commander?" he winked at you, causing you to immediately duck your head in an attempt to hide the kaleidoscope of reds your face had become.

The things he says! Since when did he even-

You took a deep breath, exasperation and affection wrestling within your chest. Classic Father, you thought, always saying what’s on his mind, even if his comments leave everyone a little flustered. You mentally made a note to apologize to the Commander for not warning him about this side of your fa-

“Lifelong bonds. An interesting interpretation, sir,” you looked up, his blue eyes choosing to share a moment with yours even though his words were aimed at your father. “They are a treasure worth cherishing, indeed,” he said, warmth blooming in your chest the longer his gaze lingered on you. And… was that longing in his eyes?

Was he thinking about those days too?

We used to spend hours collecting wildflowers by the stream near our cabin, drinking fresh lemonade in the summer, making love with the bedroom door ajar and the rainiest of mornings ahead of us…You reminded him in silence, surprised by the sudden urge to share with him the memories of your future together. And you swore you saw a ghost of a smile touch his lips before he chose to replace it with words.

“Perhaps some things are best discovered through experience, rather than foretold.”

His words hung in the air, heavy with unspoken meaning, tightening your throat with bittersweet nostalgia, and blurring your vision with vivid pictures of memories you were yet to create. Blinking back potential tears, you looked away, a blush creeping up your neck as you realized it was probably your turn to respond. So, taking a deep breath, you hid your longing with a smile.

"Perhaps they are, Commander Smith," you whispered, your voice barely audible amidst the backdrop of laughter surrounding you.

“Are you enjoying the reception, sir?” The Commander asked, and you knew him well enough to recognize this as his way of diverting attention from you, giving you space to steady yourself.

“Greatly,” your father replied, taking a hearty gulp of his drink to freshen up his throat. “And now that they've started serving apple toddies, this whole thing’s gotten a lot better! Ha ha! Although, to tell you the truth, the food can’t hold a candle to my wife’s cooking,” he added, trying to appear unassuming as he swirled the amber liquid thoughtfully, and you could vividly picture the discreet eye-roll your mother had answered him with. “Her green tomato pie is absolutely heavenly… Tell you what, Commander?!” he suddenly looked up, a mischievous glint appearing in his face, and while you didn’t know exactly what idea had crossed his mind, you certainly recognized the sparkle it had ignited in his eyes. “How about I show you my sincere appreciation with a proper dinner? Consider it a thank you for looking after our precious daughter.”

Your heart skipped a beat, hammering completely off rhythm against your ribs, the butterflies in your stomach swirling uncontrollably, creating a wave of nervous excitement that destructively washed over you. Surely, he couldn't be suggesting...

“I’m sure you’re a busy man, but I also know you are a highly intelligent one, which makes me think you have already assessed the situation, and identified this as probably the only opportunity you’ll have to enjoy my wife’s phenomenal cooking. In the nearby future, at least,” your father declared, leaning forward, his proposal making your stomach clench tighter.

Your gaze flickered to the Commander. He was about to respond to your father, but paused to steal a glance at you, a silent question exchanged between your eyes, unspoken… yes, but you believed you understood.

"Father, that's not necessary! Commander Smith is much too busy—" you blurted out, the memory of the Commander’s dismissal of Angelika Wald’s invitation still fresh in your mind. And you weren’t brave enough to risk facing the same rejection. “He has a long journey back to the base and… needs to leave shortly after the reception.”

“Is that so?” your father asked crestfallen, his shoulders slumping slightly as he turned to the Commander, and you had to admit he wasn’t the only one feeling dejected over the situation. Even though it may seem you were a little too eager to discourage the dinner, in truth, you were just doing your job, making it easier for the Commander to decline unnecessary appointments.

“My duties require a swift return to the base indeed,” he interjected, his words awakening a dormant discomfort in your chest, a faint ache you felt guilty for even having. Of course, he had responsibilities waiting, a mountain of paperwork and a whole base relying on him, to be more precise. Not only that, but he had already generously given you Sunday free, insisting you spent the entire weekend with your family. What else could you ask of him? Nothing. Doing so would be selfish, an indulgence you couldn’t justify.

“But perhaps…” he added unexpectedly, leaving you momentarily breathless, “Perhaps I could manage to find a way to fulfill both my obligations and experience your wife’s legendary cooking?”

Your chest rose and fell in rapid motions, trying to keep up with the beating of your heart, which had been hammering a frantic rhythm against your ribs just moments ago, and now soared with a lightness you had only felt when you were together with him… secluded in your imaginary cabin in the woods.

“Only if it wouldn’t be an inconvenience for her, of course,” the Commander clarified, gesturing towards your mother. “I wouldn't want to impose on your hospitality, sir, madam."

A radiant smile bloomed on your face, threatening to split your cheeks in two, as the weight of your earlier anxieties now seemed to melt away slowly, getting gradually replaced by a giddy anticipation that bubbled up exactly like the fizzy contents of the bottle you knew your father would pop open for dinner tonight. And you couldn't help but steal a glance back at the Commander, the warm smile he gave you in return held a knowing glint, a silent confirmation of your suspicions: He knew exactly how happy he was making you. And suddenly, although still a little guilty, you felt the uncontrollable need to hold his face in both hands and kiss him. Yet the image of what your mother would do following such events, quickly destroyed that notion.

“Nonsense. Allow us to treat you to the relaxed evening a hardworking gentleman like you deserves every now and then. Right, pumpkin?” your father said, turning to your mother for confirmation.

“Consider yourself most welcome this evening, Commander Smith,” she replied promptly, a subtle smile gracing her lips, and an inviting warmth unfolding in her voice, both very reminiscent of home. And you hoped the Commander could feel it too, you hoped he could understand: Just how welcome he was.

“Lovely! We shall expect you at the entrance within the hour, my Commander,” your father concluded, his voice filled with genuine enthusiasm. “Until then, please enjoy the remainder of the festivities.”

With that, he walked away with your mother for a final indulgence in refined mingling. As you watched their backs blend into the crowd, a soft smile played on your lips, cherishing the heartfelt kindness they had enveloped the Commander with. Maybe he needed it, maybe not, but you definitely wanted him to have it.

“So…” he leaned in to whisper in your ear once your parents were out of sight, a playful smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “We overbake our pies…”

“I never said that,” you countered with a hint of innocence, meeting his gaze with the unwavering confidence typical of someone who has no secrets to hide. Although a mischievous grin betrayed your amusement. “I called it ‘enthusiastic baking.’ Mother may have taken some creative liberties with her interpretation,” you added, wrapping several biscuits in a cloth napkin for the carriage ride home.

-

“Surely, my Commander, the situation is as clear as day," your father's booming voice resonated from the tearoom at the other end of the hallway. Even if by the time it reached the kitchen, it had softened to a murmur, neither you nor your mother needed to understand the exact words in order to know what he was talking about. The sheer excitement in his tone was a dead giveaway. "The true power lies with a hidden hand, content to manipulate a puppet king while they themselves remain hidden in the shadows. Their motives you ask? One can only speculate.”

The conversation, which at this point risked becoming your father’s monologue, sharpened as you neared the end of the hallway, the crinkling of porcelain against your fingertips accompanying the sound of your heels against the floorboards.

“However, unlike that old gossip Hansel," your father chuckled, a hint of disagreement lacing his tone, "I believe the answer lies in preservation."

“If the public, or some foreign power were to set their sights on this so-called king…” your father continued, his voice dropping to a dramatic whisper.

“The true royal family, whoever they may be, could remain untouched, veiled in secrecy and free to continue their reign… from the shadows,” the Commander interjected, and you arrived just in time to see a flicker of genuine curiosity cross his face. “I see your point, sir, a most intriguing notion indeed. This 'so-called king' would serve as a convenient buffer, deflecting any public discontent or potential threats aimed at the true power behind the throne.”

The Commander, you knew, had a liking for devouring dusty tomes on royal history. Did he, perhaps, find amusement in the conspiratorial air of the conversation? Or was there a spark of something deeper behind his words, a thirst for uncovering the truth about the hidden hand your father, and his own late father perhaps, believed controlled the Walls?

“Precisely, Erwin. I may call you by your given name, right?” Your father checked again, his question painting your cheeks warm shades of red. At some point between Lord Koch’s front door and your own, the Commander had been promoted from ‘my Commander’ to just ‘Erwin’, as if sharing a carriage ride automatically granted your father the right to address him by his first name.

As you placed the silver tray on the small table in front of them, you stole a glance at the Commander, curious to see his reaction, which came in the form of a smile, quietly playing at the corner of his lips as he inclined his head slightly, a silent acknowledgment of your father's request.

“It’s a solid theory, wouldn’t you say?” the mischievous glint in your father's eyes hinted at a newfound understanding between them, perhaps forged over their shared interest in royal intrigue rather than whatever gratitude your father claimed he held towards the Commander for saving your life in the Forest of Giant Trees. “Now, here’s where Hansel and I disagree,” he continued, leaning forward in his chair with a conspiratorial air. “He thinks it's all about keeping information locked away, some dark secret they desperately want hidden,” he paused, clearly for effect, his gaze flickering around the room as if checking for eavesdroppers.

“A dark secret, sir?”

Your father nodded, leaning in even closer, his voice now a low rumble. “Hansel believes it’s about manipulating the very fabric of history itself. Imagine," he said, his eyes widening with a dark intensity, "rewriting the past to suit their needs, erasing any trace of their true origins or some terrible deed they committed."

He leaned back again, a satisfied grin spreading across his face. “Think about it. Controlling the past is the ultimate power, wouldn't you agree, Erwin? By messing with the records, they control what everyone knows, they keep people blind to the truth, forever dancing to their tune. Thank you, buttercup,” your father said when you added two cubes of sugar to his tea. You mockingly mouthed a silent ‘buttercup’ at the Commander across the table, who tried to hide an amused chuckle behind a raised teacup.

Despite his apparent amusement, however, you recognized the struggle flickering behind his eyes. Concern, perhaps. After all, royal calumny was supposed to have claimed the lives of many, including his own father. Or was it an even heavier burden? A reminder of all the unanswered questions he had voluntarily inherited from him, those haunting mysteries he had vowed to unravel on his behalf.

“Aren’t my daughter’s pastries fantastic?” your father boomed, switching the mood with a hearty laugh. “I think the Survey Corps kitchen could’ve used her talents more than your squad, wouldn't you agree, my Commander?” he joked, a proud smile splitting his face as he dunked the corner of a freshly-baked biscuit in his tea, “no dangerous expeditions for her, just pastries and biscuits for everyone at the headquarters. A win-win situation for each one of your soldiers, wouldn’t you say?”

The Commander dipped his head slightly, a barely perceptible smile gracing his lips for a fleeting moment before it vanished. He took a measured sip of his tea, his eyes locking with yours across the table before he murmured, in a voice so low it brushed only your ears, “Everyone except for one.”

A faint smile, almost imperceptible, tugged at the corner of your lips. Two. You answered in your head, a conversation flickering between the two of you without a single word spoken.

It was a secret message only he could decipher, similarly to how the hint of affection now hidden in his gaze was something only you could see. This was your secret language, born from shared peril on the field, one you had perfected through stolen glances, clandestine touches, and secretive moments like this.

“Goodness! I should invite Erwin more often!” your father jumped excitedly, his eyes widening at the sight of the overflowing platter your mother brought in. “I'd ask what the occasion is for all this hospitality, but it’s not every Saturday we have the Survey Corps commander over for dinner, is it?”

You chuckled as you carefully arranged the small pies your mother had brought on individual saucers, each one holding their very own miniature piece of sunshine: the vibrant yellow slice of tomato you had placed on top.

"Don't forget your vegetables, everyone," you teased, placing a dainty silver fork beside each pie.

Though they weren't exactly an everyday treat, tomato pies were a familiar comfort you enjoyed quite often. They were simple, nourishing, not particularly difficult to make, and your mother could practically whip them up in her sleep. Today, however, you understood your father’s surprise. His favorite treat was still familiar in taste, yet transformed in appearance, which you had taken special care with this afternoon, an unusual twist meant to be a delightful surprise for the Commander.

"These look fantastic, Madam," he remarked, taking the plate your mother was offering.

"All credit goes to her," she replied, her hand gesturing your way.

You met his gaze in the middle of the tearoom, another silent exchange passing between you as your lips offered him a small, furtive smile in return.

"A delectable surprise, indeed," the Commander said, a smile crinkling the corners of his eyes before they returned to the pastry, his gaze leaving a lingering warmth on your skin as some sort of ‘thank you’ note, perhaps. And then, when he took a bite of the buttery, brandy-infused crust, and the taste made those same lines beside his eyes deepen, a quiet yearning started to bloom within your chest.

Here, in your parent’s tearoom, bathed in the gentle afternoon sunlight and the comforting scent of baking, he seemed a world away from the horrors he faced daily. This was the kind of life he deserved, wasn't it? Quiet, comfortable, a far cry from battles with flesh-eating giants and the mangled pile of bodies they left behind. An afternoon tea with a nice conversation, and a plate of perfectly golden, tomato-topped pies – these were the simple pleasures he rarely, if ever, experienced.

As you watched him savor the pie in quiet appreciation, a sting of possessiveness, sharp and unexpected, twisted in your gut, as you found yourself desperately wishing that you could be the one to create these peaceful moments for him, not just this once, but for a lifetime.

"Sir, Madam," he began suddenly, bringing you back from the sea of thought you drifted to ever so often, "your daughter has a real talent for making the simple appear..." He paused, letting his deep, husky voice please not only your ears, but a secret, sensitive path down your body—a path that, though hidden beneath your dress at the moment, he happened to know very well "...utterly delightful."

The steam escaping from the teapot wasn’t a match for the eager summer now burning between your legs; his lips, as well as the smirk tugging at them, acting as a delicious reminder, both tempting and frustrating, of a desire you couldn't indulge, not while your parents were present at least.

"Thank you, Commander," You answered, your eyes still indulging in the sweet curve of his bottom lip, “but it's truly not difficult when the produce is this beautiful," you said, gesturing towards the vibrant yellow decoration atop the pie. And it was true. The Lemon Blush were a gentle variety. Sweet, sunshine-colored things, their bottoms blushed in lovely sunset pink. “Truly a pleasure to work with," you finished, your smiling lips tainted with a bit of mischief that betrayed you weren’t referring to the fruit exclusively.

A soft chuckle escaped his in response. Like honey on a summer afternoon, you loved the way it lingered in the air: the sound of his laughter, a sweet reminder that beautiful things still existed, a melody you always replayed in your head, long after it was gone.

Still wearing the same smile on your lips, you settled beside your mother, whose vigilant eyes you suddenly became very aware of, and when you turned to face her, you were not met with her characteristic warmth, but with the unreadable mask she now wore over her features. Your entire face started to mirror the blush of the tomatoes themselves upon realizing she had been watching you intently, it was unclear how long, but it was certainly long enough to make your joyful demeanor falter, your smile vanishing as quickly as it had appeared.

Luckily for you though, your father, always blissfully immune to any type of awkward tension, unknowingly came to your aid with a hearty chuckle. "Don't let her fool you, Erwin. Most nights, it's a way simpler fare in this household."

You flashed him a playful glare, his intervention momentarily making you forget about the weight settling within you.

“Seems ages since my darling daughter graced us with her culinary flair. Last winter, wasn’t it? Can you believe it? Ha! How long must a poor old man wait for his sweet buttercup to spoil him again!” your father continued, a touch of mock-hurt in his voice, and your eyes involuntarily rolled at his words.

“Admittedly, it was a special occasion back then too,” he conceded, his voice adopting that pretentious tone he reserved for embellishing stories, for making them grander than reality. The playful glint in his eyes gave away the exaggerated version of whatever tale he was about to tell, even though his lips were yet to utter a single word. “Hansel’s nephew, a fine young lord, came to formally request my daughter’s hand in marriage,” he finished with a conceited smile, his mouth blissfully stuffed with cake and a large crumb clinging to his beard, sweetly oblivious to the way his words had dragged your heart to the very pits of your stomach.

-

next chapter

Hope you enjoyed this chapter! 😊 If you’d like to support my writing, you can do so at ko-fi/missbubblesoda 🫧

taglist: @mysticalnightbeliever @aliasrising @elnyrae @mchlist @apts2000 @angelaevangelion @depitaangeline @ynackerman9499 @afatalheat @pumpkin-toffee @velouria17 @gassytritis @goddessinsweats @nube55 @jeanboyjean @crazychaoticizzy @braunsbabe @erwinawesomeness @lucifers-nipple-piercing @karmabyfernando @thicc101q @shittyprofilebutfuckit @dilfenthusiast-union

[ilikereadingthisiswhatilike]

Original Characters

(X) = smut

INVASION @running-with-kn1ves (X) Summary: You just HAD to meet the prince of an alien race on your shift at 7-eleven that night, huh? Warnings: Kidnapping, Murder, Rape Special Tag: Alien AU, Muitly Chapter

Saito the Orc @momolady Summary: An arranged marriage has taken the reader to a new land, a new home, and traditions that they must get used to. Saito is a hero to the people, and is looked up to by all those around him. Will the reader be good enough for such a man? Warnings: None Special Tag: Orc AU

Marked One @hypnoswrites (X) Summary: You where a simple medic on the battlefield. Warnings: Kidnapping, Murder, Rape, Violence Special Tag: Orc AU

Android’s wired love @mayullla Summary: You were trapped in your own home by the android that took care of your needs. Warnings: Toxic Relationship Special Tag: Android AU

T O G E T H E R @your-yandere-kiss Summary: You can not hide forever. Warnings: Toxic Relationship Special Tag: Android AU

Insatiable @yandere-writer-momo (X) Summary: When one relationship ends another can form. Warnings: Toxic Relationship Special Tag: Monster AU

Should’ve read the fine print... @bugsandjesters (X) Summary: You really should have read the fine print when moving into your new apartment. Warnings: Dub-con Special Tag: Monster AU

The Demon Childhood Friend @creampie-capital (X) Summary: Friendship is complicated. Warnings: Toxic Relationship Special Tag: Muitly Chapter

Caught In His Web @obsessivevoidkitten (X) Summary: While a on a hike you catch somebody eyes. Warnings: Venom, Drugging, Biting, Light Bondage Special Tag: Monster Au

NIGHTFALL @2kmps Summary: You're a ranger always volunteering to take on the nightshift and no one wants to know why Warnings: None Special Tag: Monster Au

Alien inspection @monstersflashlight (X) Summary: Alien who accidentally fingers you during one of his examinations of the human body and is intrigued by your reaction Warnings: Dub-con Special Tag: Alien Au, Doctor Au

The Invasion. @obsessivevoidkitten (X) Summary: Cat Man Alien Yandere x Gender Neutral Reader Warnings: Painful noncon, reader gets smacked, biting, collaring, owner/pet, pet reader, reader tied up Special Tag: OC, Alien, Yandere

Orc x reader. @ozzgin (X) Summary: "What are you doing, step bro?" Warnings: None Special Tag: Monster fucking.

Light Underwater. @spoonguy (X) Summary: Shipwrecked on an alien planet, miles underwater, you are rescued by a lonely alien. Warnings: Claustrophobia, emetophobia, thalassophobia Special Tag: Alien

Domming the alien. @monstersflashlight (X) Summary: Alien has a mate for life/soulmate situation and can be pretty pathetic Warnings: None Special Tag: Alien, Dom Reader.

Yandere Socialite. @iwriteyanderes2023 (X) Summary: You regretted agreeing to this. Warnings: Violence, drama between friends, profanity usage, yandere themes, name-calling, sexual harassment, power abuse Special Tag: Sapphic

Twisted Affections @st4rg8te (X) Summary: The lessons that had been instilled in you since birth resurfaced in your mind: ‘The Mother of the Nation should be dignified, elegant, and composed. She should never show any sign of weakness in front of her subjects.’ But you couldn’t help but break in her embrace. Warnings: Cheating Special Tag: Sapphic

Feminine Reader x Mermaid @agirlandhersweetdelusions (X) Summary: Mermaid who is infatuated with your legs and wants to be in between them. The encounter is by chance, but it ends in something deeper than friendship. Warnings: None Special Tag: Sapphic

A Dragon’s Treasure @yandere-writer-momo (X) Summary: Yandere Lesbian Dragon x Shy Princess Reader Warnings: None Special Tag: Sapphic

[susililys]

MY SHIKATEMA FANFIC RECS MASTERLIST PART 3

Continuation of my ShikaTema Fanfic Masterlist, click here for Part 1 or Part 2 :

New Parents / Post Chapter 700 / BORUTO / Nara Family CONT.

Leave The World Behind by: SpicedGold ONESHOT Temari runs into Shikamaru while at the marketplace with baby Shikadai.

Home At Last by: orphan_account M | ONESHOT Married smut, Temari comes back home from Suna.

Newborn by: SpookyMoth ONESHOT Domestic, pregnancy fluff.

He's Only Ten But She Was Only Three by: drowninglinguists ONESHOT Shikamaru is on a mission and Shikadai helps Temari deal with PTSD.

Love and Pride by: silverkunai ONESHOT Father and son sweetness, Shikamaru talks with Shikadai after the Chuunin exam loss.

Father's Brains and Mother's Attitude by: Kimiz ONESHOT Give me Temari and Shikadai, mother son bonding fics anytime!

Raindrops by: SpicedGold ONESHOT Temari goes on her first mission now that Shikadai is old enough, but the Nara boys are taking it hard.

48 hours to live by: Majsasaurus COMPLETE Includes Temari's reaction to the Shikadai bomb situation.

History Lesson by: SpicedGold ONESHOT Mostly Shikadai and Temari talking about the past, Rasa and the Konoha Invasion.

Snapshots by: lisa29 ONESHOT Snapshots of Temari's pregnancy.

How Did We Get Here by: SpicedGold ONESHOT Temari muses on how she came to have a life that includes a loving husband and son.

Shikadai by: SuperAwesomePandaKitty ONESHOT Temari gets abducted while 8 months pregnant, sweet fic.

Tell Me It'll All Be Alright by: SpicedGold COMPLETE Shikamaru spirals as he deals with Temari getting severely injured on a mission.

Favourite Things by: Dunesya ONESHOT Temari gets asked what her favorite thing about Shikamaru is.

Wave of Affection by: Dunesya ONESHOT Temari reflects on life with her family.

The Night Off by: SpicedGold ONESHOT ShikaTema need a break, cue in babysitting uncles.

Waking Up To You by: SpicedGold ONESHOT

A New Perspective by: SpicedGold ONESHOT Shikadai gets to see Temari in action.

Rest, Relax, and Revolt by: SpicedGold COMPLETE One of the best fics I've ever read, where the Sand/Nara family go through a revolt in Suna.

Hachidaime by: ShrimpArmy M | ONESHOT Yessss, was waiting for ShikaTema fics with Hokage Shikamaru

New routines by: clumsydragon28 ONESHOT Mostly Temari and Shikadai mother son bonding, loved it!

First Steps by: KiaraShell ONESHOT Ok, but how cute is this?

Family Life by: Aspire2B ONESHOTS Cute family moments!

Life of the Naras by: shikamarubase ONESHOTS Awww I’ve gone through these so many times.

Obvious Reasons by: LettieB ONESHOT Shikadai asking the real questions.

A Warning by: Awnyaa ONESHOT Fluff, Temari equals deforestation.

Nothing by: thegizka ONESHOT Temari wants to do something for Shikamaru’s birthday, domestic fluff.

Nightfall by: SeaTempest M | ONESHOT Fluffy married smut.

RELATIONSHIP DRABBLES / DEVELOPMENT / ONESHOT COLLECTIONS

Falling Through the Clouds by: spiritedarray

Moments by: tiashew14

4,572 days later by: therewithasmile

Antics by: eternallove5225 Second chapter in this collection is definitely my favorite. .

Lazy Love by: existence555 Favorite chapters, 5, 7, 13, 24, 25, 28, 57, 68, 76

On… by: ArmchairAnthropologist

Days Gone By by: Adulson

A Troublesome Love by: spiritedarray

Not So Troublesome After All by: BrokenDreamz95

Everyone's Eyes by: TaintedMoonlight

Approximation by: lollipop-mania

They Are Good at Many Things by: lollipop-mania M

Troublesome Crybabies by: ichilover3

AU / CANON DIVERGENT

Shadows of a Nightmare Future by: Mr Gr33d COMPLETE This was such an interesting and good read. Time Travel AU where Shikamaru goes back in time to save Temari and Shikadai.

unattainable, irreplaceable, you by: teatin COMPLETE This is so insanely good, ShikaTema on opposite sides of a war, unresolved feelings.

The Day Bleeds by: pieceofmind22 COMPLETE I usually don't read fics with character death, but this one was really well done.

Salt by: Comatosejoy INCOMPLETE Temari has to go in hiding due to Rasa giving her hand away in marriage, just one chapter shy of being completed.

The Rules by: lafolleconnasse M l COMPLETE This one gives me some intense feels, so well written!

The Desert and the Deer by: nahra M l COMPLETE Death God Shikamaru, someone commented that this could be an award winning movie and honestly…facts!

Trial of the Heart by: Majsasaurus M l COMPLETE Really intense, dark, and well written. Took me some time to finish reading it cause our beloved family goes through some extremely rough times. Jinchuuriki Shikadai. Happy Ending.

Grandmaster by: notquitejiraiya (lethargicshadowlover) INCOMPLETE I usually don't like to read alternate universe fics for ShikaTema, but I’ve been enjoying this one.

Warriors Heart (A Prequel to Fated) by: CeeCeeK COMPLETE ShikaTema as samurais.

What it Takes to Make her Smile by: TaintedMoonlight COMPLETE This used to be one of my favorite fics growing up. Fairy AU.

Of Sand and Shadow by: CinderRoses M | COMPLETE Shikamaru and Temari meet in completely different circumstances when he's abducted by Suna Anbu. Really enjoyed this!

Book One- The Enemy by: SillySnowden11 M | COMPLETE This is such a good read! The villages are at war with one another and commanders ST end up having a tentative alliance. Slow burn romance.

New Blood by: JFalcon COMPLETE Very long multi-chapter fic that includes many other characters, but it has ShikaTema as the main relationship throughout and is very well written.

This took me so long to make, but honestly I've always wanted to have a list of all my favorite ShikaTema fics all in one place. Hope this makes it easier to enjoy all of these amazing works! Thank you to all the writers who have made my days better throughout the years!

[pro-logue-epi-logue]

"THE IDEA OF WILL BEING HERE THAT LONG HURT"

The idea that will is in pain, pained her.

She cares for WILL. thank god someone does.

Emoryyyyyy you just keep getting better and better.

I have a felling no one cares for will more than emory than damon then others, i mean its soooooo obvious from these chapters.

Also this guy tells her he has been here more than 2 yrs and her first thought is will? Nice.

[valleyof-goldenlilies]

Se Zaldrizoti' Prumia - Chapter 9: The Ticking of Time

Chapter 9: The Ticking of Time

The primal urge to survive oft drives decisions made in haste.

Se Zaldrīzoti' Prūmia Masterlist | Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5 | Chapter 6 | Chapter 7 | Chapter 8 | Chapter 9 |

HOTD Masterlist | Main Masterlist | 

Warnings: Slight angst, Otto Hightower, flashbacksssss

Word Count: 8k words

Disclaimer: I do not own any of the House of The Dragon/Fire and Blood characters, save for Y/N Tyrell, although I did expand on their characterisation, which might deviate from canon. All credit for the characters goes to George RR Martin and the showrunners of HOTD. The GIF above is also not mine, original credit to the creator is stated above. Go check them out! 

A/N: Happy Christmas Eve to all who celebrate! Finally, the long awaited chapter 9. I hope you enjoy! (and psst, a small Christmas surprise coming soon! Unfortunately, it's not chapter 10, but hopefully you'll be as happy ;)

lovely dividers by @firefly-graphics !

The smell of rose oil permeated the air of Queen Alicent’s chambers, and the sounds of Aegon smashing his wooden dragon toy against his wooden tower toy could be heard, as the boy made roaring noises. Alicent watched the scene with slight amusement, as Helaena sat on her lap, docile, a rare moment of serenity. It was much needed, especially after the recent scandal that rocked the Red Keep and her contentious conversation with Rhaenyra a week prior.

Speaking of serenity…

Alicent trailed her gaze to a forlorn looking figure, sitting next to Aegon on the lushly woven Myrish carpet, her skirts splayed as she absentmindedly fiddled with a wooden dragon toy. 

“You’ve been quiet,” Alicent noted, trying to breach your diminished figure. She hesitated on whether to verbalise what she knew your mind was occupied with, “Are…are you still angry at Prince Daemon’s latest transgressions?” 

Once again, the tranquillity of nightfall had descended upon the Red Keep. The King’s solar was empty after the boisterous dinner that Viserys was lording over, elated to have his brother by his side again. Viserys and Rhaenyra had long since retired to bed, and now, there was only you and Daemon. 

Daemon lay sprawled on the large settee, looking bored as he twirled a newly forged dagger in his hands, gifted by his ever generous brother to celebrate his return. The firelight glinted off the large ruby set in the pommel, and he weighed it between his hands. Not Valyrian steel, like Dark Sister was, but he tended to cherish any gifts his brother gave that were not disappointment or frustration. Which was a rarity. 

Daemon’s bored gaze trailed to your figure, looking far too relaxed as you sat on the other end of the settee, face burrowed in a heavy tome. Daemon groaned, trying to get your attention and stop reading that godsforsaken book, but you only hummed, nonchalant, flipping to the next page. Daemon narrowed his eyes. 

Your attention was fully invested in a chapter about the medicinal properties of hemlock in the newest tome you had successfully bribed the maesters for, when a sudden poke at your cheek caused an indignant noise to be elicited from your throat. “What in the Seven Hells,” you snapped your tome shut to glare at Daemon’s smug face, resting so close to your lap it made your heart thud in your chest. “Are you doing?” 

“Trying to get your attention,” he said simply, putting his dagger down onto the tea table. 

You levelled an unimpressed look at him. “And that required you to poke me in the cheek? What are you, five?” 

“Perhaps.” 

You huffed, vexed, picking up your tome again. “Byka zaldrizes, I gave up precious time that could be spent doing something else just to spend it with you. Surely, you can spare this forlorn prince of yours some of your attention.” 

“Well, no one asked you to,” you said drily, your eyes flickering as they darted between the lines. “And we all know that your time will be spent mucking about in the Street of Silk, in some unlucky whore’s bed or getting drunk in your cups like some undignified ruffian.” 

“Anyone who has the good fortune of bedding me is touched by the gods themselves,” Daemon’s snarky tone made you roll your eyes. Him and his overinflated ego. “And your assumptions wound me, byka zaldrizes. Do you not trust that my time in the Stepstones have made me more mature?” 

Daemon was delighted by you putting your book down again, only to be greeted by your deadpan stare. “...are you still in possess of a cock?” 

Daemon cocked a brow, eyes shifting down as if pretending to check. “I do believe so, yes. It would be a tragedy if I wasn’t.” You flashed him a sweetly sardonic smile, “Then I do believe no more needs to be said.” 

Daemon groaned when you returned to reading your book, debating on the merits of just slapping it out of your hand. It would result in some very colourful language bursting from your lips, but it would be fun. 

“Truly, your faith in me is awe-inspiring,” Daemon remarked sarcastically. “And what if I said that this time I promise to stay for the foreseeable future?” 

You tilted your head to the side, detracted from your book once more. “Somehow I do not believe that. Trouble always seems to find you one way or another.” 

Daemon rolled his eyes, flashing you a devastatingly handsome grin that you had to fight a strange squirming sensation in your stomach. “Then I swear to the Seven Gods that I will stay out of trouble. I won’t curb my excursions to Flea Bottom of course,” Daemon added, seeing your incredulous look. “A man does have his urges. And you know of my nature.” Daemon smirked. “But I think I’m capable enough not to commit another act that would warrant exile. Don’t you think?” 

Your answering laugh echoed throughout the solar. But for a brief moment, you had believed him. After all, what more trouble could Daemon possibly incur? 

You finally broke out of your empty daze, letting out a low, slightly hoarse laugh. “I am. But he is not the only object of my ire,” you admitted, sighing as you lowered your eyes to where Aegon was banging his wooden dragon against the carpet. Thank the Seven it was soft or he would’ve dented the dragon by now. 

Confusion wrinkled Alicent’s features, but then her eyes shone with comprehension. “...are you perhaps feeling some anger towards Rhaenyra?” 

Your head snapped up, a slightly horrified look painted on your face. “No, of course not. Daemon is fully to blame for this situation.” 

You took a deep breath, feeling shame course through you like boiling water through your veins. You had known, that in some awful way, your conversation with Rhaenyra had indirectly led to the explosion of this scandal. Now, Daemon was exiled again - though you couldn't care less about that - Rhaenyra’s virtue had been called into question, and she was forced to hastily wed Ser Laenor. And the guilt had been eating you alive ever since. But you had not known your harmless words would lead to such a catastrophic end. ‘I am not cut out for this,’ you thought glumly to yourself. ‘That wise paragon of advice I was trying to emulate. I never was any of that.’ 

‘How foolish of me to play at a role I lack the foresight for.’ 

Nonetheless, your thoughts returned to the person who is mainly to blame for this situation.  

‘Stupid, stupid Daemon,’ you cursed in your head, fingers tightening around the wooden dragon toy. ‘How stupid of me to believe that he could’ve changed, that he couldn’t sink any lower. Stupid, stupid, stupid.’ 

At least one somewhat good thing had arisen out of this mess. The ‘resignation’ of Otto Hightower. 

Though many knew it was just a term meant to preserve the dignity of the former Lord Hand. 

You were not sorry to see the man go - you had disliked him ever since his orchestration of the debacle with Alicent and Viserys years ago. However, you were sorry to see Alicent’s distraught state for the past few days. You understood her - she was all alone now, this was almost as great of a loss to her as Aemma’s loss to you was. Being bereft of a figure of comfort and support. 

You studied Alicent, noting the slight eye bags under her eyes. You made a mental note to brew her a stronger chamomile tea - both to alleviate her stresses after pregnancy and to improve her quality of sleep. 

A sudden knock sounded at the door, and Alicent’s older cousin and one of her ladies-in-waiting, Malena Hightower, entered the room, curtsying. “Your Grace,” you were surprised when Malena turned to you instead. 

“Lady Y/N…a messenger came by earlier. He wished for me to convey the Hand…I mean, Ser Otto’s,” Malena recovered from her bluster with a slight flush, but you noticed Alicent’s face briefly crumple when she heard her father’s title reversion back to Ser. You felt a twinge of sympathy. “He wished for me to convey that Ser Otto wishes to have a discussion with you.” 

The clattering of a teacup on the floor startled the both of us. Alicent looked embarrassed at her clumsiness, as a servant rushed in upon hearing the noise. “Pardon me. Malena, did my father disclose the reason why he wishes for an audience with my chief lady-in-waiting?” You were unnerved by Alicent’s uncharacteristic sharp tone. It was like…she was angry at her father. 

Malena looked similarly unnerved. “Your Grace, I apologise. I do not know. The messenger just said that Ser Otto requested for Lady Y/N’s presence in his study whenever she was available.” 

Alicent kept a calm facade, but inside, her heart was thumping like a surge of wild animals. ‘Is what I have been fearing about to come true? Y/N-’ Alicent swung her gaze to yours, where you were conversing discreetly with Malena. 

“Thank you, Malena. If the messenger is still there, tell him I will be with him momentarily.” Alarm surged through Alicent’s body. She quickly handed Helaena over to the startled servant who had just finished picking up the shattered cup and disposed of it, stepping towards you. 

“Y/N, I do not think you should go.” The words were out of her mouth before she could suppress them. Perplexed, you stared at the younger girl, noticing her panic. It unsettled you. 

You tried to shoot her a reassuring smile. “Alicent, Your Grace-” Alicent immediately motioned for Malena and the servant holding Helaena to retreat out of the room when she noticed you addressing her by her title. They evacuated the room with haste. 

Alicent seized both of your hands in hers, a gesture that startled you with its intensity and urgency. “No, do not go. Please,” she begged, her eyes flickering with a violent storm of conflicting emotions. She knew she should be obedient to her father, and that the meeting could be harmless, but a wrenching gut feeling told her it was not so. 

You looked worried: what exactly had gotten into Alicent? It was unlike her to break her composure, and by such a simple request. Alarm bells began tolling in your head, and just as you were about to tell her that you wouldn’t go, a knock sounded at the door, and you and Alicent promptly broke apart from your intimate stance. 

Malena re-entered the room, along with a man you recognised as one of Otto’s household knights, Ser Garrick Pommingham. This was bad. Alicent made a strangled noise in her throat as she beheld Ser Garrick. It was serious enough that her father had sent a household knight to deliver the message, but Ser Garrick? He was one of her father’s oldest household knights, and fiercely loyal and trusted by Otto. It was clear that the invitation was not one that both you nor Alicent had any say in. 

“My Queen.” Ser Garrick bowed reverently to Alicent, before turning to you and giving you a smaller bow. “Lady Y/N. Shall I escort you to my liege?” 

Any of Alicent’s protests were immediately silenced, as she wrung her hands helplessly. There was no fighting against Ser Garrick, who was an extension of her father, and a bull-headed man at that - always priding himself on completing all his tasks to perfection. 

You knew as well, so you could only give Alicent a small, reassuring smile, trying to comfort her. Steeling yourself, you turned to Ser Garrick with a composed smile.

“Lead the way, Ser.” 

The Tower of the Hand had been the site of a flurry of activity over the past few days, as various servants and household knights bustled in and out of the rooms, carrying and loading up boxes of belongings into carriages to be transported back to Oldtown. 

Otto watched his servants move his things out of his nearly vacant study with an oddly impassive look, as he stewed in his own thoughts at his dismissal. He never thought that he would take up residence in Oldtown ever again, but how quickly the tide could be changed here in King’s Landing. 

The sound of a knock at the door roused him from his thoughts, and soon enough, his loyal household knight, Ser Garrick, showed in the guest he had been expecting. 

“Ah, Lady Y/N. I thank you for coming on such short notice.” 

You entered the room, the skirts of your rose pink gown swishing as you moved into the study. Wariness was woven in every bone of your body, your muscles taut with tension. “Ser Otto,” you nodded at him, not missing how the former Hand’s frame turned stiff at the reversion of his title back to Ser. 

“What matter has caused you to ask me to your study at such a busy time?” 

Otto took a seat at the lavishly appointed chair at his desk. The same desk where he had spent so many nights toiling for King Viserys. Though the chair could no longer be called rightfully his, he leaned into it, gesturing for you to take a seat. Which you did so, though not without reluctance.

"I do not wish to take up too much of your time, as my own time is precious too," Otto stated, his voice blunt as he leaned forward and drummed his fingers on the oak of the desk.

"I have a proposal for you." 

A frown furrowed your eyebrows, but you tried not to show it, smoothing out your skirts instead. “And what is that proposal? I am most interested to hear it.” 

Otto smirked slightly at the small note of sarcasm he detected in your voice. Normally, he would be irked at such disrespect, but it was evident from this that you wished not to play any games. ‘A woman who cuts straight to the chase,’ he thought to himself. ‘No wonder Prince Daemon was drawn to her.’ 

It made things much simpler anyway. 

“I’d like to ask for your hand in marriage,” Otto stated bluntly as he waited for your reaction. 

Meanwhile, you were frozen, as if roots had suddenly sprung from the ground and trapped you in the chair. ‘My hand in marriage?’ The words echoed through your brain. You suddenly recalled Alicent’s guilt stricken expression as she watched you leave her apartments. 

“Ser Otto,” you said quietly. “Surely you are jesting.” 

Otto looked unruffled at that. “I do not jest about such matters, Lady Y/N.” You let some of the incredulity you were feeling slip into your expression. “Allow me to explain the merits of our match,” Otto said calmly, leaning back into his chair. 

“Though I am ashamed of having done so, I had overheard your shouting match with your father at the Kingswood many moons ago.” This made you wince. You did not blame the man, the both of you probably shouted loud enough that those at the Wall could hear you. 

“I understand you are seeking a match, by the end of this year in fact. Which is less than two moons away,” Otto observed you as you tried not to squirm under his intense gaze. “Quite a pressing predicament.” 

Otto sighed. “I know, my dismissal has not made me the most…appealing of matches. What with my status as a second son, standing to inherit nothing short of some wealth and meagre land holdings. However, as you well know, you are not the most appealing of matches as well.” 

When you looked offended, Otto only went on blandly, “Please, do not take offence, Lady Y/N. My words do not come from a place of malice. It is true though, is it not? While you are lovely, your age is not one to be overlooked. You are turning- twenty six? Twenty seven this year? Many lords in Westeros consider this to be well past your prime.” Otto’s eyes glinted. “And the reputation of your…ah, headstrongness, is well known across the Seven Kingdom. As well as your long string of marriage rejections.” 

Otto shrugged, “That aside, think pragmatically. I am moving back to take up residence in Oldtown once more. Should you go with me, you would be much closer to home than here in King’s Landing.” Otto could still see the dubiousness in your eyes, and he knew he had to sweeten the deal up a little more. “And besides, I would not require any children of you.” He knew he had you again when your gaze shot up from looking down fixedly at the wood of his desk. “I am already a widower, with a daughter as Queen and four other strong sons. You would be under no pressure to produce heirs for me. And as a second son, my children stand to inherit next to nothing anyway. Moreover, if you are worried of any mistreatment, fret not. You are my daughter’s dearest companion, and a mother figure to her too. I will treat you with utmost respect” 

You eyed him warily, finally speaking up. “You’ve stated many demerits of this match as well, Ser Otto. Do you truly think it worth it for the both of us to pursue such a match?” 

Otto’s eyes glinted. She was more crafty than he thought. He would have to hammer down the point a little. “Though my inheritance is not rich in titles, I can assure you, it is not something to be overlooked. You would live comfortably, and be free to pursue any of your interests. I heard from the Maesters that you have an interest in healing and scholarly affairs. What better place to expand your knowledge than in Oldtown, home of the Citadel and some of the finest minds in Westeros?” 

Your gaze sharpened at that, he clearly had been keeping tabs on you for a while now. Though his offer was not without temptation of its own. “But why me?” you pressed. “As you have said, I am past my prime and have a wild temper at that. The only merits I possess are my lineage and heirship to Highgarden, and my father has already taken a new wife, so that hangs in the balance as well.” 

Otto smiled, “And that alone is enough.” Otto stood up, slowly walking over to your chair. He took your hand gently, and kissed the back of your hand softly. A frown was etched on your lips, and Otto knew it was best to let the matter go. For now. 

“I shall give you some time to consider it,” Otto rumbled softly, helping you out of your chair. “But the clock is ticking, Lady Y/N. Both for you and I. Once I depart for Oldtown in a few days, the offer shall be rescinded.” His expression was one of faux concern. “And do you truly believe that you would be able to find any other man of suitable standing to court you before your father’s deadline?” 

‘Even now he was not telling the truth, and trying to use wily means to stoke your deepest insecurities to his own gain,’ you thought, regarding the man before you in disdain. The both of you knew the truth of why he sought your hand, not out of compassion or sympathy, but to climb his way back up the political ranks. All of court knew how close you were with the members of House Targaryen, and that you were an ear of the King. otto was clearly trying to use you for his own designs, the same way he had used Alicent, and foist Aegon up onto the Iron Throne, whilst gaining more influence over Viserys - as if he hadn’t have enough already. Disgust pulsed through you. 

You shot Otto a haughty look, brushing off his hand. “This is still a personal matter, Ser Otto, and I mislike the tone of your voice. As a stranger, you would do well to refrain from making comments on my personal life.” 

Otto nodded stiffly. “Of course. I apologise. I overstepped. Shall I escort you back to my daughter’s chambers then?” 

“No need, thank you.” You were eager to put as much distance between you and Otto as soon as possible. And you couldn’t possibly see Alicent with your mind in such a jumbled state. You bowed your head stiffly, “I bid you farewell, Ser. I will…consider your proposal.” He nodded, but you could see his gaze was filled with calculation as you turned your back on him and walked away. 

“Lady Y/N.” Otto’s voice halted you just as your hand was on the door handle. “Just a question.” 

“Do you really think that staking your bets on Prince Daemon would result in a good end?” You stilled, turning around to face him yet again. Your eyes met his cool green ones. “I do not understand what you mean, Ser Otto.” 

“What I meant was,” Otto’s voice was blunt. “I do not think marrying Prince Daemon would bode well for you, if you wish to be closer to the centre of power.” 

You stared incredulously at him, swivelling around to face him fully once again. “I’m afraid you have it all wrong, Ser. I never had that sort of intention.” 

“Ask yourself, do you really believe that?” Otto’s voice was challenging. “Because I do not think you know your heart well enough..”

Astonished and angered by his boldness, you took a step back closer to the door. “Forgive me, Ser Otto, but I do not think you would know my heart better than I do.” You turned to leave, pulling open the door. 

“Search your heart deeply, Lady Y/N,” Otto called out. “You will find my words will ring true.” You didn’t respond, instead choosing to shut the door firmly behind you, leaving Otto Hightower and his delusions of grandeur behind. 

The Red Keep was blessed with a particularly pleasant chill this day, in the midst of a harsh autumn and an impending harsher winter. But you couldn’t bring yourself to admire the red and russet leaves as you normally did, instead wandering aimlessly around the Red Keep like a wraith. 

It was completely absurd for Otto Hightower to think that you got close to Daemon for ulterior motives. Marriage? With that insufferable punk? You snorted. You could barely stand his presence most of the time, let alone marriage. 

It was strange, however. Daemon had always been handsome, dangerously so, and charming, and that had never had an effect on you in the least. But ever since Aemma’s death…ever since his return from the Stepstones. You couldn’t lie, there was something there. The first stirrings of a fire. 

Well, that fire would never burn on damp logs anyway, and that was all thanks to Daemon’s stupidity. You grumbled to yourself, shuddering that you might have carried a torch for Daemon fucking Targaryen. 

You decided to venture into one of the courtyards found in the Red Keep. Perhaps some greenery would restore your senses, and provide a balm for your dilemma. Whatever were you supposed to do? There was no escaping the fact that it was nigh impossible to find a good match within two moons, one that would satisfy both you and your father’s expectations. But was marrying Otto Hightower really your only option? In all your worst nightmares, you never imagined that it could get so bad. While you did not share Daemon’s intense hatred for the man, the man made your skin crawl, with his pleasantries disguising a shrewd mind of warped traditional beliefs. 

‘Could I really be happy with a man like that?’ 

Lost in thought, you didn’t realise you had company until you caught sight of a tall figure with blonde hair, sitting under the shade of a huge willow tree, an intent expression on his face as he sketched away on a piece of parchment. Curious, you approached the lone figure to get a closer look. As you stepped closer however, your heel crunched on a branch, causing the mysterious stranger’s head to snap up. Your eyes snagged onto the sigil pinned to his tunic. 

A Beesbury. 

You inclined your head apologetically, “Beg your pardon, I did not mean to disturb you.” The young man from House Beesbury laughed, scooping up his parchment before walking towards you and bowing. “Lady Y/N. Do not apologise, my day has been made infinitely better by your presence.” 

You let out a small chuckle at his flattering, giving him a discrete once over. Exactly who was this man? Clearly you were not subtle enough, given the fact that he bowed once more, placing a hand to his chest as he did. “You must forgive my rudeness, my lady. My name is Alan Beesbury. My father, Lord Lyman Beesbury, serves on the Small Council as Master of Coin.” You let out a surprise “Oh!” before dipping your head politely. “Ser Alan. You must forgive me, I did not recognise you.” 

Ser Alan smiled brightly, unbothered. “Tis alright, my lady. Granted, I have never been introduced to you in a formal setting, so it is understandable you do not know me.” “How did you recognise me then, ser?” you inquired. “I visited Highgarden with my father a few years ago, and caught sight of you with your lord father. I deeply regret that I was not able to make your acquaintance then. Although it seems,” Alan grinned, his eyes dancing with mischief, “That I am lucky enough to behold your beautiful visage once more, my lady. You have only grown lovelier throughout the years.” You couldn’t refrain from snorting lightly, “You have quite the honeyed tongue, ser.” “Well, it is a useful skill at court. And to charm the ladies I have taken a fancy to.” he winked. “Would you grant me the honour of your company, my lady? It has been naught but two days since my arrival, and I find that I am in need of a guide to this vast keep.” An amused smile graced your lips, as you thought about his offer. He might be a flirt, and awfully forward, but he seemed a jolly enough fellow, and it would be rude to reject his company. And…it would be a good distraction. 

“I am at your disposal, ser.” He gallantly offered you his arm, and you took it. As you strolled through the hallways of the Red Keep, passing servants shot you strange looks, but you ignored them. “So, what brings you to the Red Keep, ser?” “Ah, my lord father summoned me to court to attend the upcoming nuptials for Princess Rhaenyra and Ser Laenor Velaryon.” Alan made a face that was so offended you couldn’t help but let out a laugh. “He also thought it a good window of opportunity for me to find a lady wife.” 

“Oh,” was all you could say, your mind going back to your unpleasant conversation with Otto Hightower. Not wanting to seem impolite, you quickly added, “I wish you luck in your search, ser.” He smiled, although the joy did not reach his eyes. “Thank you, my lady. You are too kind.” 

 Ser Alan halted abruptly, startling you when you noticed you had stopped next to a flowering bush. Carefully, he plucked a gorgeous, striking yellow rose, moving to tuck it behind your ear. “A magnificent rose, befitting a charming lady as yourself, my lady.” You couldn’t help but laugh a little at his spontaneous show of chivalry. “I have to admit, ser, that you are the first man who has shown me this courtesy. I thank you most humbly.” 

“My father has always educated me about the importance of courtesy, especially to a lady.” Ser Alan shrugged, a sheepish grin painted on his features. “So long as it makes you happy, milady.” You strolled through the garden, chatting as he inquired about your life at court, which you happily indulged. Gradually, you forgot about Otto Hightower and Rhaenyra and Alicent as you conversed with him, too lost in trading anecdotes and playful jabs with each other about some rather insufferable personalities at court. You realised you found his company rather pleasing: he was attentive, and clearly a gentleman, but not to the extent where it was ridiculously cheesy. He wasn’t dreadful company either, he seemed sincere to get to know his talking companion, instead of endlessly bragging about himself or his long list of achievements. And behind his sweet words, he also hid a sharp sense of wit and humour. He was an ideal husband, the thought struck you like lightning. You could feel the cogs in your head begin to turn. You might have just found a way to escape Otto Hightower’s offer after all. 

“May I confess something, my lady?” Ser Alan’s voice interrupted your thoughts. “You may speak freely with me, ser.” you hesitated, before asking him, “Is it alright if I call you Alan, instead?” 

Ser Alan’s eyes widened, and you were a little afraid you had pushed your boundaries a little too far, but he soon broke out in a genuine smile. “If only I can call you Y/N in return, my lady.” You found yourself returning his smile with one of your own. “Then it is settled then. What were you going to say, Alan?” “To be honest, Y/N, I was extremely elated to run into you today.” Catching sight of your puzzled face, he hurriedly rushed to explain, “You see, I had sent a few marriage proposals to you before. Well at least my father has. I thought you quite brilliant despite my brief encounter with you at Highgarden. You radiate warmth, even at first glance, and I was rather drawn to you. Which was why I was so happy to have been able to have the fortune to bump into you here today. The Seven have truly blessed me.” 

“I see…” you murmured. “You are rather forward, aren’t you, Alan?” Alan looked unashamed of that. “I am a firm believer that being coy often robs us of opportunities in life, Y/N.” An amused smile twitched at your lips, “A bold philosophy, though certainly a wise one.” You took some deep breaths, debating on the gamble you were about to take. It was risky as hell. You barely knew anything about the man. It could end in disaster. But then again, your recent track record of decisions had led to bigger disasters than this. 

‘And do you truly believe that you would be able to find any other man of suitable standing to court you before your father’s deadline?‘

How life could change with just one decision. 

“Alan.” you began slowly, swallowing as you braced myself. 

“Yes, Y/N?”

“...does your marriage proposal still stand, by any chance?” 

Throughout your time at court, you had not been well acquainted with Lord Lyman Beesbury. A jolly enough man, and sharp of wit and tongue despite his old age was all that you knew of him. 

What you did not expect was how excited the man could be. 

“Oh, this is fantastic, wonderful news,” Lord Lyman exclaimed, grabbing your hands and shaking them vigorously. You looked over to Alan with a bewildered expression, and he simply smiled and mouthed, ‘He’s always like this. Don’t mind it.’ 

“To think my son would finally settle down, and to Lady Tyrell at that,” Lyman continued to ramble on, and you were a little worried that the old man might collapse from the joy. “A fine, fine choice you’ve made, son. A fine choice. I couldn’t be prouder…” 

You were mortified at how eager Lord Lyman seemed to be at the prospect of your marriage, but inside, you were secretly relieved. Otto Hightower had not sent word after news of your engagement with Ser Alan had disseminated through the castle, in no part thanks to the gossips who sniped at how the two of you barely had a courtship before your engagement. You had heard many whispers and murmurings of how desperate you must be to be driven to this point, but you didn’t care. You would take marrying Ser Alan any day over Otto Hightower.

No one was, of course, happier than Lord Matthos Tyrell at the word of his daughter’s engagement. From the way the reply to your letter had a few suspicious stains here and there, it seems a few tears had been shed. You could only muster a small smile at that, however. 

Alan had been the perfect gentleman over the past two weeks, showering you with gifts such as flowers or jewels - as fitting a suitor does to a lady - spending time with you, taking strolls with you, oftentimes visiting you while you were carrying out your duties as lady-in-waiting to Alicent and the like. Time after time, you would find Alicent’s gaze trailing across Alan doubtfully, like she was trying to scrutinise him for any signs of ill will, but you had reassured her in private that he was wonderful. But all she had to say was: 

“It is in human nature not to show who they truly are until later on, Y/N. I am just concerned.” 

Alicent’s words made you a little ill at ease, as you knew as much. You’ve heard so many horror stories over the years from ladies whose husband’s affections for them evaporated like morning dew upon their marriage after all, and seen enough examples. 

But you had made your gamble, and you must live with the consequences. No matter how dire they may be. 

The candles in the King’s private bed chambers and living space flickered as the doors opened with a loud creak, and you stepped in quietly. The room looked empty, and so you decided to walk around for a bit. 

And that’s when your heart nearly stopped. 

There she was. 

Rendered in vivid oils, the likeness of Aemma stared out at you with that gentle, comforting smile. Her visage encased within an intricately carved gold frame with dragons, and a makeshift shrine with candles decorated her portrait. Your heart was suddenly gripped with unbearable pain. 

“Beautiful, isn’t she?” Viserys’ voice rang out from behind you, as he walked slowly to stand next to you, staring almost reverently up at her portrait. You couldn’t speak, your throat was closing up at the threat of tears that threatened to overwhelm and spill out from your eyes. You tilted your head down, unable to look anymore at that familiar, haunting smile. 

The press of a small white candle into your hand startled you. Viserys regarded you with a knowing sadness. “I thought you might like to honour her. We haven’t…done so in a while. Together as a family.” 

You nodded, not trusting your voice right now. Gingerly, you reached over and lit the candle, placing it on the shrine. You bowed your head, thinking of how much things have changed ever since her passing. How much you have had to change. 

“She would be so pleased to know that you were getting married,” Viserys lamented, gently touching oil-painting-Aemma’s hand. “From what I can recall, it had always been one of her greatest wishes to see you happily married.” 

You offered him a hollow smile at that. The joys of marriage had not yet made itself known to you, if you were even capable of it. And now, your head was too occupied with memories. 

“You’re in a terribly grumpy mood,” Aemma commented, as she reached for a roll of warm buttered bread to go with her third cup of tea. Her light blue eyes were filled with amusement as she watched you prop your head up from where you had lain it on the table, a disgruntled expression on your features. “Dare I inquire for the reason?” 

“Father has sent me another list of eligible bachelors,” you grumbled, helping Aemma refill her teacup, which she sighed exasperatedly at that. When it was just the two of you alone, she preferred for you not to serve her as lady-in-waiting, instead being more at ease and natural with her as her friend. But despite your attempts at overturning this habit, you found yourself unable to. Touch and small gestures were how you expressed your feelings after all. 

“From which kingdom is it for this time?” Aemma asked in a joking tone, putting a strawberry tart in her mouth as she stroked her small baby bump that had begun to show after four moons. 

“The Stormlands this time,” you sighed, dispiritedly popping a tart with an unknown yellow fruit in your mouth. The tangy sweetness, yet slight sourness of the fruit made you cheer up a little. 

“That’s a mango tart. Some merchants from the Summer Isles exported it to us,” Aemma explained, carefully noting your expression. 

“I wish I could live in the Summer Isles,” you sighed, popping another one of those tarts into your mouth. “And be done with all this bother. For Seven’s sake, I’m only twenty one. There’s still plenty of time.” 

“Yes, for you to develop wrinkles,” Aemma jested, letting out a laugh at your mortally offended face. “My queen, is it customary for you to insult your subjects in their time of distress?” You asked with faux hurt in your voice. 

“Perhaps I am a secret tyrant,” Aemma smirked slightly, lifting her teacup to her lips. “I am serious though, Y/N. You've been by my side as my lady-in-waiting for nearly two years, and we have known each other since we were children. You watched me get married to Viserys, be crowned as Queen, and giving birth to Rhaenyra. When will I get to witness some of your happy moments?” 

You gave her a deadpan look. “Aemma. I truly see no joy in getting married now. I’m still too young.” Aemma tried to hold in a sigh. “”And when will that be? Moons later? Years? A decade? When you’re old and grey?” 

“When I am ready, Aemma.” You stated, voice tinged with determination. “But when?” Aemma pressed. “Not to fear, I will definitely get married sometime during your lifetime,” you reassured her in a joking tone. “Perhaps when you’ve lived to seventy years…” 

Aemma threw the throw cushion she was holding in her lap at you, and you caught it, laughing, as Aemma shook her head in fond exasperation. “You’re insufferable.” 

Aemma looked at you, laughter dancing in your eyes as you changed the topic back to how you were going to answer your father’s newest letter. A wistful smile tugged at the corner of her lips. 

Do whatever you want, Y/N. I just hope that you will never sacrifice your happiness for the sake of something else. 

A small tear plopped to the weathered ground of the King’s chambers as you managed to choke out, “She would be. I just wish…she could be here to see it.” 

Viserys had a slightly guilty look on his face as you turned your gaze back to the portrait, confronting all the painful, bittersweet memories in all their blazing intensity. 

It was time to stop running. 

“When did you get this portrait commissioned?” The small semblance of a smile appeared on Viserys’ face again. “It is a story in itself, actually. Back when Aemma was…” Viserys’ voice hitched. “Pregnant…with Baelon, I had commissioned an artist from Volantis to paint it, as a gift to Aemma. Honouring her for giving us our-” Viserys choked up, his voice cracking. “For giving us our son.” 

Your fists clenched slightly. “And then when Aemma…I was so lost. I couldn’t bring myself to look at any portraits of her, so I stopped work on the painting.” Viserys looked like he wanted to pull portrait Aemma out of the frame she was trapped in, by sheer will of anguish. 

“But I had a change of heart. Three months after I named Rhaenyra as heir, I had moved on. I finally felt…peace. Like I have taken a step to atonement. So I gave word for the artist to continue, wanting to place it in the Gallery of Dragons after it was done.” The Gallery of Dragons was an art gallery in the Red Keep which honoured previous Targaryen rulers and royals who had passed. “But then he died when Alicent and I married.” 

“Oh dear,” you murmured softly under your breath, and Viserys let out a ragged laugh, before bursting into a fit of coughing. You moved to help him to a chair, but he held out a hand, his focus on Aemma. 

“I thought it a sign from the ancestors, from the Gods, that I should let go,” Viserys voiced out tiredly. “And so the painting remained untouched, and I thought I’d never see it to its finish. That the chapter would remain closed forever.” 

“Then when Helaena was born, the head royal artist decided to take on the job.” “Why?” You asked. You knew that the head royal artist, an old kindly man, had deeply revered Queen Aemma, for he was of the Vale and Aemma had brought him to court as part of her entourage, where he quickly rose up in the ranks. His previous occupation as a woodworker apparently served his artistic abilities well. 

“He was in his final days, and he wished for that to be the last painting he ever did.” Viserys smiled, his head drooping. “And I am glad he did.” 

Silence fell over the room as you two continued admiring the painting of your beloved Aemma. “Her eyes seem imbued with life, don’t you think?” You mentioned in a soft voice. “It’s like she is about to start talking any second now.” Viserys let out a hoarse sounding laugh, coughing again. This time it sounded more serious, but he waved away your concern all the same. “They are. The artists did a good job.” 

You were surprised when Viserys shuffled away to a chest on a table, rummaging through it before taking something out. It turned out to be some strange looking thin red sticks. 

“In Old Valyria, while there were many gods that people worshipped, the way they honoured their dead were the same,” Viserys explained quietly, handing you a stick, which you took, bewildered. “They would light it, then bow three times before the deceased’s portrait. It was said that a soul connection would then be forged between you and the person you were mourning, and you could convey a message to them.” 

“It sounds…” you tried to find the words to describe it. “...poetic.” 

“I thought so too. Shall we?” 

The two of you lit up the sticks, and a sweetly smoky smell emitted from them as they were lit. you followed Viserys’ lead, bowing your head three times, before closing your eyes. 

You hesitated on what to say, but eventually settled on, ‘I’m getting married, Aemma. I wish you were alive to witness it…but I know you would be delighted in the afterlife. I hope you are doing well.’ 

‘I hope you’ve seen how much I’ve grown. I hope you’re proud of me.’ 

“Are you happy, Y/N?” Viserys’ voice broke you out of your thoughts. For a moment, you look lost at what to respond. Were you happy? Though you didn’t feel the typical, dizzy excitement that the poets talked about when getting married, you felt something steady, something reassuring. Contentment. 

“I am.” 

“Truly?” Viserys’ pressing made you hesitate a little, but you pulled a smile on your face and answered. “I am. Really. Alan is a good man, and I am ready to begin a new chapter in my life.” 

Viserys finally began to relax, the tension visibly seeping out of his muscles. “Then I am most pleased for you. Though I never envisioned you to marry, and a selfish part of me wishes you would not have to leave this court, I am happy for you.” 

You bowed, a gesture of gratitude. “Thank you, Viserys. It means a lot to me.” 

His next words made you temporarily stunned into silence however. “Of course, I have also prepared your dowry. I have made sure that while it is lacking compared to Rhaenyra’s, that it is not to be underestimated. A ransom of jewels and gold as well as some antiques - Lord Beesbury does love his antiques. Some of those diamonds and sapphires are the finest I have ever seen.” 

Your mouth was agape. “Viserys, there is no need for you to-” Viserys talked over you, taking your hand. “But there is.” He looked at you with heartfelt gratitude and affection. “You are family to me, Y/N. It is the least I can do for you, for such a momentous occasion.” 

Your gaze softened as you began tearing up. “I cannot accept this. My father is already-” “I know, Y/N,” Viserys silenced you again. “But it’s not just for your dowry. Majority of the jewels and gold are for you.” 

You were now even more horrified and confused than before. “For me?” Viserys regarded you with a fond exasperation that almost made you weep at his similarity to Aemma’s. “For you, you silly goose. In the event…you are unhappy with your match, those jewels and gold should be sufficient for you to start a sizeable fund of your own. And of course, I will welcome you back to court with open arms at any time.” 

You couldn’t see past the blurry haze of tears and the painful throbbing of your heart, but the next thing you knew, Viserys was hugging you tightly back as you embraced him, choking with quiet sobs. He was crying himself a little too. “I only hope that you will be happy for the rest of your days, Y/N,” Viserys murmured, gently patting your back. Your body shook with violent sobs. “I…will. I promise. I thank you most gratefully for your generosity.” 

The two of you stayed like this for a while, before you awkwardly broke apart when the tears had stopped flowing. “The hour is quite late,” Viserys noted, feeling a little fatigued. You smiled weakly, still reeling from the shock. “That it is. I should be returning to my chambers then.” 

Viserys nodded, looking at you with fondness in his gaze. “Of course. You must still help me plan for Rhaenyra’s upcoming nuptials. And for your own. I would not want to impose on you any further.” 

You curtsied slightly, “Then I shall retire for the night then.” You hesitated, looking at Aemma’s portrait one last time, many thoughts running through your head. A final goodbye. “Good night, Viserys.” 

Viserys watched her leave, and the world suddenly seemed darker, much heavier. Like it had been since Aemma died. Coughs shook Viserys’ body, and he wearily took out a handkerchief to cover his mouth, careful not to let his spittle fly. A crimson stain slowly pooling at the white cloth was all he saw when he removed the handkerchief from his mouth. 

‘And now, I am alone once more.’ Viserys thought grimly, looking back at Aemma. ‘My last reminder of you is gone, and only Rhaenyra remains now. My strength, and my consolation. And my regret.’ 

Somewhere far away in Pentos, the squawks of a raven could be heard as first light broke across the city. Daemon Targaryen awoke, hair tousled and a disgruntled expression on his face, despite last night’s pleasures. He had dreamed of her. Again. It seemed she was a wraith plaguing his mind ever since that fateful day in Flea Bottom. 

His annoyance rose tenfold when he stalked up from his bed to receive the messenger raven. Unfolding the parchment, he took note of the familiar, rather wonky scrawl of someone who had only learnt to write recently. His eyes trailed over the words ‘the Hand has fallen from his high horse’, and he scoffed, smugness lining his features. The next two lines gave him pause, however.

‘The Princess has been betrothed to Ser Laenor.’ 

‘Lady Y/N Tyrell has been betrothed to Ser Alan Beesbury.’ 

‘From your loyal companion, Mysaria.’ 

Se Zaldrizoti' Prumia Taglist: @drwho-ess @graniairish @urmomsgirlfriend1 @thelittleswanao3 @animelover18 @llovinjoonie @gracielikegrapes @salembridger @itszzmoon @kmmg98 @travelingmypassion @zae5 @norestfortheshelbywicked @soleilgrec @anehkael @midnightprincess18 @lilith--666 @saay-karani @dumbhxeredrose @syviiss @nyenye @ahristata​ @hiraethrhapsody @babypink224221 @mckenziewhite2005 @justrybca @omgsuperstarg

Daemon General Taglist: @aiyaiy @kmmg98 @norestfortheshelbywicked @hb8301 @hc-geralt-23 @babypink224221​ @mckenziewhite2005 

those who are bolded are those who couldn’t be tagged! let me know if you wish to be added to the taglist in the comments or through this form! 

A/N: One more chapter until the end of Act I!!! AAAHHHHHH. I deeply apologise for my repeated promises to publish only to chicken out at the end, so I shall now refrain from making promises that I cannot make 😭 I hope to get Chapter 10 out before 2024 officially hits (new year new me lol), but no promises there. I'll do my best, however!

As always, thank you for reading this far! Let me know what you thought about this chapter in the comments 💕

[moonlightazriel]

⋆⁺₊⋆Son of The Darkness Masterlist ⋆⁺₊⋆

Summary: Hidden for so long The court of shadows thrived, and things were great until the high lord's death, now the next in line should assume the crown of high lord of shadows, will he accept his duties?

Pairing: Azriel X Female OC Reader

Warnings: Smut, war, blood, death, use of alcohol and mature language.

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾⋆⁺₊⋆ Chapters ⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾⋆⁺₊⋆

☾₊ ⊹ Chapter 1 ☾₊ ⊹ Chapter 2 ☾₊ ⊹ Chapter 3 ☾₊ ⊹ Chapter 4 ☾₊ ⊹ Chapter 5 ☾₊ ⊹ Chapter 6 ☾₊ ⊹ Chapter 7 ☾₊ ⊹ Chapter 8 ☾₊ ⊹ Chapter 9 ☾₊ ⊹ Chapter 10 ☾₊ ⊹ Chapter 11 ☾₊ ⊹ Chapter 12 ☾₊ ⊹ Chapter 13 ☾₊ ⊹ Chapter 14 ☾₊ ⊹ Chapter 15 ☾₊ ⊹ Chapter 16 ☾₊ ⊹ Chapter 17 ☾₊ ⊹ Chapter 18 ☾₊ ⊹ Chapter 19 ☾₊ ⊹ Chapter 20 ☾₊ ⊹ Chapter 21 ☾₊ ⊹ Chapter 22 ☾₊ ⊹ Epilogue

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾⋆⁺₊⋆ Characters aesthetic ⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾⋆⁺₊ ⋆

☾₊ ⊹ Evanore Sephiran: The Good Witch

☾₊ ⊹ Y/N Daera: General of the Nightfall Army

☾₊ ⊹ Azriel Malthalion: The High Lord of Shadows

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾⋆⁺₊⋆ Locations ⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾⋆⁺₊⋆

☾₊ ⊹ Thera

☾₊ ⊹ Tornan Manor

☾₊ ⊹ Kincardine Club

☾₊ ⊹ Yrila Forest

☾₊ ⊹ How I picture Y/N and Evanore!

[lightspringrain]

Chapter 6 "NightFall" is here. Lots of set up in this chapter. I hope you like. This cover by the way... gave me such a hard time. After chapter 7, I am taking a a small break. Until then, please enjoy!

[tadpolesonalgae]

Demon!Azriel x reader: Teeth and Talons - Part 7

A/N: might be sprinkling in a little foreshadowing for what the next chapter will be about :)

Warnings: biting?

-Part 6- -Part 8-

As usual, you’re left to yourself throughout the day.

As usual, you pillage the bookcase for something new—anything new to read.

It’s been fifty-fifty with the books so far, some have been written in your tongue, while others are indecipherable—scribbles and runes and strange illustrations of caves and creatures and blood. Well, it’s ink on parchment, so you don’t know it’s blood. All you can really tell is that it’s a dark liquid, but knowing Azriel, it’s probably blood.

A couple have proven interesting, in the sense they make you question your faith toward the gods—in a careful toeing-the-line-between-gentle-prying-and-outright-treason sort of way.

Others have contained less heathen-esque content: tales of worlds without deities (how you lament!), stories of chivalry and justice (how romantic!), erotica—you don’t care to comment on some of the passages you’ve unfortunately read.

But it’s been a while since more have oh-so-mysteriously appeared, so you’re left to flip through the illustrations of the books you’re unable to read. You’re more than content to lay on your stomach, but something shifts in the air. It’s difficult to put your finger on the exact change—similar to when Azriel returns near nightfall. That ripple of power that rushes through the room. Like some sort of pulse. Boots scuff on the floor—you’ve never seen another soul in the castle, but have also rarely ventured beyond the confines of your room. Mostly from a mix of fear, and contentedness in the room.

Blood rushes round your ears as you slip out of bed, padding quietly to the door. Pressing your ear against the wood, you listen, holding your breath incase you miss something. It’s completely silent.

You swallow, taking a step back. The door suddenly seems much larger, as if it’s looming over you. Your eyes drop to the small keyhole beneath the handle…

Not allowing any doubts, you quietly step back, crouching down as you peer through the tiny hole…only to be confronted with those familiar hazel eyes.

You exhale heavily, heart pounding with relief as you raise to your feet, turning the handle to greet him, half wondering why he’s back so early—and why he was peeping through your bedroom keyhole. Your shared bedroom keyhole.

“Azriel,” you begin, opening the door, “please don’t do—”

You freeze.

Terror strangles your throat as you stare into two sets of blacked-out eyes, each at least a head taller than you. A female on the left, a male on the right. You scream, scrambling back, slamming the door shut on them.

Hands fly across your mouth as you attempt to regulate your breathing, sight blurring. Boots scuff on the floor, and the handle dips, as if they’re trying to get in. Your stomach lurches as you spin on your heel, nearly flipping over the rug on the smooth stone floor in your haste. You dart to the bed, slipping beneath its large wooden frame, and hold your breath.

Hot water drips down your cheeks as you keep your hands over your mouth, shifting to make sure you’re as concealed as possible, shifting further and further beneath the bed until your feet brush something…granulated. Like sand.

Salt, you realise, but why is there a circle of salt beneath your shared bed? And why is there something drawn across its centre? What looks to be a—

Mother fucking boil and burn.

Thoughts eddy from your head as you realise your lower half is across a pentagram. A pentagram formed with black salts.

A deep snarl sounds from outside the door—raw and beastly, laced with fury. Two sets of feet scramble away, fading into the distance. You don’t dare release a single breath, not as you hear the door snick shut, and something enters. Something scary enough to send those two running.

Your teeth find your lip, and you bite down to keep from whimpering with fear. Four paws stop beside the bed, and you nearly vomit with terror. You squeeze your eyes shut, tears rolling down, splashing on the floor. It’s enough noise to be picked up. The beast stalks closer, until it’s at the edge of the bed—it’ll be able to see you.

“Get out from there.”

You stiffen at that cold command. Voice razor-sharp, merciless. You nearly weep with relief as you recognise him, opening your eyes to take him in.

Sheer horror greets you, mouth dropping as the whites of your eyes bulge at the sight of him. Three-pronged paws, quadrupedal, hind joints—where his knees should be—inverted. Like some hell-beast. You scream, his milky eyes snapping closed, then opening to reveal total black. Snapping bone sounds, and then he’s right again, hand gripping your forearm as he forcefully drags you out, across the smooth stone. You kick and thrash against the brutal grip, salt spraying at your feet, then reforming back into that neat, satanic symbol.

He grips your shoulders with both hands, fingers biting into your trembling muscle as you stare at him with wide, shining eyes, flicking between him and his knees, checking they’re back to normal. “What—?” You stammer, peering at him, hands lowering from your mouth, shaking.

He growls low in his throat, gripping you tighter with displeasure. As if he’s silently reprimanding you for taking too long, for appearing such a state before him. “Spit it out.”

You stare at him, utterly bewildered. “What were—who were those…?” You don’t know what to call them. “Were they more of your ilk?” You manage, focusing on the bite of his nails in your shoulders, the unforgiving glint his hazel eyes.

But he doesn’t answer you. Instead, his brow narrows with what you could swear is anger—rage. “Why did you open the door?”

You stiffen beneath his bruising touch.

His grip tightens and you whimper, instantly covering your mouth. Something dark and evil glints in response to the small noise. Something ancient and predatory—instinctual.

He leans closer, hot breath curling with his lip. “Why did you open the door?”

“I thought it was you,” you stammer softly, peering at him beseechingly. He snarls at that, as if insulted. “How stupid can you be?” You reel back at the harsh words, staring.

“It had your eyes,” you mumble, blinking back tears as you attempt to steady your breathing, “I thought it was you. Don’t call me stupid.”

Just like that, he surges forward, tipping you backward onto the stone floor, pinning you down. His lip curls back from his teeth, then they’re sinking into your neck.

Words and sound are ripped from your conscious as pain lashes through you. It’s not like before, not when it sent aching pleasure singing in your blood. This is punishing—agonising stinging. Muscles seize, fingers tremble, eyes wide. Your back arches into him at the onslaught of blazing brutality he’s stamping into your skin.

Surely its no more than a few seconds. No more than mere moments, but it blares through your mind, hammering your bones, crushing your skin as he retracts his teeth. He pulls back, wound already sealed as he grabs you by the hair, yanking you up so your throat is again exposed.

“Never,” he snarls, so gutturally you can barely understand him. “Never do that again.”

Tears spill as more fractures appear. Splintering deeper, cracking open something so raw you don’t know what to do. He’s panting, fury blazing in his pitch black eyes, razor-like talons slicing at your back as they slide from his knuckles, cutting through your clothes.

“You…” You hiccup, hand raising to your neck, feeling the two small indents of scars. “Why…?” He snarls again, and you flinch, eyes squeezing shut, bracing for another wave of that soul-splitting pain. The snarl cuts off, hands stiffening over you.

A beat passes.

Then another.

No pain.

Then he’s pulling away, and you fall back against the stone floor, watching as he stands, looming over you. He stares down at you, distaste shining in his eyes as he looks at your crumpled form. You hate that look. Hate it for everything it stands for, hate it for everything it’s done to you. Hate it on him.

“If I disgust you so much, you know you can just return me to my home,” you cry weakly, “nothing’s keeping you from doing so, so just put me back. Find someone else. We clearly aren’t suited for one another.”

Pain blazes through his chest, contracting, tightening, suffocating the air from his lungs. He can hear your hummingbird heart, can scent the fear drumming through your blood, can see your arms are on the verge of giving out from their trembling. Why are you so weak? Why don’t you fight back? Why are you giving up on him?

“You want to see your home?” He snarls, fury lighting his skin on fire, rage riding his mind, “fine.” He grabs you, hauling you against him roughly, talons slicing at your arms in neat little cuts. Then darkness swirls around the two of you and that weightless feeling overtakes his body, as if he’s plummeting deeper and deeper into that unfillable void.

You hate how you cling on to him despite the small lacerations he’s gifted you, pain stinging your skin as you squeeze your eyes shut in attempts to keep your tears inside. Then the dark clears, and you feel sand beneath your feet—bare feet. And it burns like it’s been heated by the scorching midday sun.

Granules bite at your skin as the wind picks up and Azriel steps away. And vanishes.

You barely had time to raise your hands to reach for him, but now he’s gone. And you’re stranded in the middle of the citadel in nothing but your night clothes. Mortification burns your insides—already people are staring: at your bare ankles, naked collar bones, unclothed arms.

You duck your head and scuttle beneath the overhang of a building, the scalding sand cooling beneath your soles as you try to figure out where he’s dumped you. All it takes is for you to spot the well in the square, and you know. You spin on your heel, and run.

————

Cinders and ash mix with the sand. Fragments of bespoke vases spike the wreckage. The smell of smoke still clings to the desolated site.

Aside from the crushed wall that stands no higher than your calves, nothing remains of your home.

You look around, but everything is in correct relation to your house as you remember it. You’re in the right place, but there’s nothing left. It’s been torched, ruined, and wrecked. At the entrance, the sand is still stained dark from where a cleansing sacrifice would have been made.

How long has it been like this? Left in pieces?

The winds die out, and the world goes silent.

Your feet make no sounds as they crunch over the sharp fragments. The sand doesn’t hiss as you step within the site, neither do you make any noise at all as the granules burn your soles. One step after another you track the obliterated halls and rooms of your home, burned to the ground.

Anything of value has been taken—the coloured stones, the small pieces of softened stained glass you’d found in the river beds. Either the dried plants and herbs were set ablaze with the rest of your home, or they were taken and relocated.

Stolen, a small, wicked voice whispers. Stolen, desecrated, destroyed.

You walk to the tiny room you’d slept in, the heart of your home. Charcoal is all that’s left of the small cot, the sheets and covers long incinerated. You don’t allow the tears to drop, don’t emit anything. The faintest breath dies on your lips, cracked and filmy.

A hand grips your upper arm, sharp nails grazing the small cuts as they turn you. He’s not wearing boots—his feet have shifted to paws, the skin thick enough to brave the scorching sands. Yours must be covered in welts by now, but—nothing.

He shakes you roughly, your teeth clacking together, making your head ring. Then he’s gripping your chin, raising you to look at him. Still, everything’s quiet. His eyes are blazing, not longer that cold, merciless hazel, but burning with something. Something you’ll never let yourself match.

His lip pulls back from his teeth in a flash of white, and it occurs to you his mouth is moving. He’s saying something, but the edges of your vision are blurry, as if muffled by something. In the back of your mind, in the depth of your repressed feeling, something twinges, reaching up a small hand from the crushing pile of guilt and raw emotion. Barely alive.

You shove it down.

You step back, and he releases you, watching.

You don’t look at him, lowering your gaze as you step around him, not even acknowledging him. What is there to acknowledge, anyway? The ruin he’s brought upon you?

You once swore you would survive him, that you would weather him. Well, that’s all you can do. You don’t have a choice but to take everything he gives. It’s not like you have darkness glittering at your fingertips. It’s not like you can shift into a monstrous form, or have skin tougher than leather to protect yourself with. It’s not like you have great, powerful wings, or razor-sharp teeth and talons.

You’re human, and he’s painfully other.

Skin crumbles like sand, bones snap like twigs.

One step at a time, you trace the familiar steps. In desperate need of refuge.

One step at a time, away from him.

————

Enough sound has returned to the world that you can hear the scuff of his paws behind you. Looming at your back like a cursed wraith, set on haunting you until your last breath rasps from wet lungs.

You reach the steps leading to the temple, and the footfalls stop; you do not. One step at a time, you ascend the marble stairs, and it’s only when you reach their peak that you’re approached by one of the acolytes. The devout worshipers who dedicate their lives to the temples and the gods. You’d often found yourself considering giving yourself over to them, too.

“What troubles have you come by, sister?” The acolyte does not touch you, but offers a patient smile, reeking of warmth and soft femininity. Gentle, and welcoming. The tears are falling before you can stop them, but the young woman does nothing to clear them. Merely watches and waits.

“I would like refuge for a few days,” you murmur through quiet sobs, “I have been favoured by malignant misfortune, and she has not treated me well. I would request a cleanse.” The woman’s eyes soften almost imperceptibly, “follow, child.”

Relief sweeps in so heavily you almost crumple then and there, but then he’s manifested before you, wreathed in thin shadows that make him appear as a reflection in water. He’s displeased; angry. “You think an exorcism will take you from me? You torture yourself needlessly.” You stare at him silently, watching warily. “I’ve been through enough at your hand,” you mumble. “You brought me here, and I will gladly rid myself of your presence in any way I can. Let me go.”

Beside you, the young woman stiffens, observing silently. You miss the way she catches another’s gaze, gesturing subtly toward your one-sided conversation.

“So affixed with your religion. Has it ever occurred to you to question it?” You narrow your eyes at him, considering the merit of engaging in this conversation. “What would I need to question?” You ask, “the gods had been merciful toward me until you entered my life.”

“Blind faith counts for nothing,” he counters, “you are good in exchange for exemption from the silver fires of hell. Your insides rot like mine beneath your pristine skin, bride.” You recoil at the title—he hasn’t used it in such a while it had managed to slip your mind.

“I am not your bride. No longer,” you manage, taking a step away from him toward the acolyte��who’s been joined by a similarly robed young woman. Both of them watch on warily. “Let me go—we are not suited for one another.”

“We are,” he insists, “if you would let go of yourself for one damned minute, you would see.”

“I. Can’t. Trust you. Azriel,” you grit out, finding it hard to look into those cold eyes of his. “You belittle, hurt, and taunt me every chance you get. Why would I ever let myself be when you’re around. It’s not like you make it easy for me.”

“You were fine in the air,” he snarls, stepping forward, “and you were fine on top of me, too.”

You’re lucky that someone interrupts, because you have nothing to say to him. No barbs to reach for, no verbal weapons to hurl at him. He’s right. You did enjoy the flight.

A woman—cloaked in the robes of a priestess—steps forward, the two acolytes now dismissed. “I have been told you seek refuge here. Come inside.” You turn to the voice, only to be met with a woman who can’t possibly be older than you. She appears to be slim, and tall, with cascading silky hair that curls lightly in spirals. Her deep cocoa eyes are warm, and open.

Beside you, Azriel has gone rigid.

“Elain.”

Taglist: @myheartfollower @tcris2020

[mikhailwrites]

Soaring Ever Higher 2 - Ghoap/Ace Combat 7 crossover

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Ghost met John "Trigger" MacTavish and after the pilot saved his life - at cost of disobeying a direct order - asked him out for a drink. However, Trigger stood him up...

John is on his way to change from his flight suit to something considerably nicer. Well, maybe not all that much nicer since he wasn’t exactly planning on going out during this deployment, let alone going out with someone. Still, a tan tee and black cargo trousers could be considered an improvement.

Just as he’s nearing the door to his room, someone is standing in front of them, hand raised to knock. Trigger makes another two steps before he pauses. He’d recognise the unruly mop of dirty-blonde hair anywhere. “Count?” he calls out his wingman, who turns around quickly.

“Ah, there you are! Come on, the boss needs you,” Count gestures. Trigger stops. No way. Do they really have to do this right now?

“Can’t he wait at least till tomorrow? He can chew me out then,” John shrugs, resuming his walk towards his room.

However, Count shakes his head. “It’s not about your stunt today, I think. There’s another mission, an urgent one,” he explains. “So, come on. It’s not like you have somewhere better to be.”

He does, actually, but doesn’t say it out loud. If Count knew about his plans, Trigger wouldn’t hear the end of it. “Aye, okay, lead the way.”

True to Count’s words, Long Caster is already in the briefing room, going over maps and documents. The moment Trigger and his wingman come through the door, their commanding officer looks up, eyes locking on John.

“Good thing you haven’t changed yet. You’re about to go out again. The station personnel is refuelling your aircraft as we speak.”

“What’s so damn urgent then?” Trigger barely hides his displeasure as he walks around to the table and looks at the mission intel.

Long Caster also turns to the table and pulls out a topographic map of the nearby mountain range. “We need you to do a recon sweep.”

John gives him a long, hard look as if to ascertain if he’s serious or not. “Excuse me? A recon sweep? Don’t we have drones for that?”

“We do. That, and insubordinate, obstinate SoBs that treat commands as if they were mere suggestions. Get ready. You leave in ten,” Long Caster nods at the fellow pilot. When Trigger doesn’t move an inch, he adds: “Dismissed, Lieutenant.”

“Yes, sir,” Trigger grunts and leaves.

Count looks at the back of his friend and wingman before he turns to Long Caster. “With all due respect, sir, was that really necessary?”

“I don’t need you questioning my orders, Count. However, if you insist, I’m sure we can arrange some rewarding mission for you as well,” his superior cocks an eyebrow in obvious challenge.

“I think I’ll pass. Permission to leave?”

“As far as I’m concerned, you were never here,” Long Caster nods to the still-open door and Count excuses himself.

The flight path is long and utterly boring. Trigger has to fly low and slow for the radar and lidar to catch everything he needs. He’s bored. His jet is bored, too. It’s just a sea of green, stretching in all directions, and, even worse, the sky is still overcast, so it’s just the green below and dull grey above.

He returns after the nightfall. Taking off the helmet, the sweat-drenched mohawk sticks to his head. Trigger only exchanges a few pleasantries with the staff and engineers before retreating to his quarters to shower.

Only then, under the spray of lukewarm water to cool himself down, does he remember he was supposed to meet with Ghost and practically stood the man up. Great way to fuck up a promising start they had. John shortly debates if he should go to Ghost’s quarters and explain to him what happened.

No. It sounds like bullshit, and he’s way too beat to go anywhere, anyway. Even more so since the Strider squadron’s mission has been completed, and they will be returning to their home base tomorrow. Another long, boring flight. At least he will have his mates to chat with.

#

Ghost finds Laswell first thing in the morning. He’s not angry, and he’s willing to give Trigger the benefit of the doubt. Ghost knows better than most how quickly downtime can turn into active duty, especially for top operatives such as himself or Trigger.

Laswell is fully immersed in the display of her laptop. Ghost knocks on the open door and is given a lifted index finger – a universal symbol to wait, and that’s what he does. Full five minutes, actually. Only then does Laswell click a few times and finally nods at Ghost to come in. “What can I do for you, Lieutenant?”

“Do you know where Trigger is?” Ghost’s voice is steady, as is the rest of him. To anyone else, it wouldn’t sound any different than asking what’s for lunch, but not to Laswell since it’s her job to notice even the most subtle changes and details. She’s also damn good at her job.

“Yesterday, Flight Lieutenant was needed elsewhere, in a rather urgent manner, I’m afraid,” she confirms Ghost’s unvoiced theory, “as of this morning, Strider squadron’s mission has concluded, and they returned to their home base”. By mentioning Trigger’s rank, she also lets Ghost know that MacTavish actually outranks him. Interesting, if not exactly surprising. It’s good that John didn’t intend to leave him hanging. However, Trigger is now, quite literally, in the wind. Who knows how long before they run into each other again? Ghost tries to convince himself that he mostly minds the debt; he’s promised John a drink. “I could get you his phone number if you want.”

“No need,” Ghost declines her offer and pointedly ignores the knowing look on her face. Laswell doesn’t need to know everything, let alone the degree of interest Ghost has in MacTavish.

Ghost walks out, stopping on the tarmac and looking up. There’s the vast expanse of clear blue sky. If he’s honest, he never paid too much attention to it. His fight is and has always been on the ground. Now, he can’t help but wonder: how does being up there feel? There is no ground to support you, no cover to help you, no nothing, just you, the mission, and almost endless space. There’s something freeing in the thought but, at the same time, anxiety-inducing. No, Ghost is very much ground-animal, thank you very much.

If he gets to talk to MacTavish again, he will ask him what he sees in the blue. What does he feel when the jet leaves the ground? What is he thinking about, up there, among birds and clouds? And what’s with those three strikes on the tail? With a newfound resolve, he changes the initial if to when. When he gets to talk to MacTavish again.