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1800titz · 9 months ago

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The vacay piece I teased ages ago. One night stand :D

CONTENT/WARNINGS: p-in-v, oral, brief size kink (if you squint), praise kink, this one’s p vanilla.

WC: 2.5K

It starts like this:

A bohemian beach with a high riding tide, where ripples surge and flood the shore. Sand tears from its home, coasting the verge in the breeze like a fog under the overcast, and when the clouds split open, the rays hug her skin.

She’s sprawled over a chaise lounge in a little red thing that’s all skimp and no cover besides the intimates. When she rolls onto her side and tips to her tummy, he eyes the flash of skin behind dark tint. His arms brace over the porcelain border of the pool that overlooks the beach up ahead — he’s watchful from a distance. Someone swims up to the bar behind him. Chlorine laps at his back, teeming over the grout between the tiles as he wraps his lips over a straw and nurses something cobalt and strong.

By the time he culls a second one, she’s up, all glistening skin in the sunshine, hips swaying as her toes make doughy prints in the sand. She trails to the sea, and the ocean eats her until she’s just a little silhouette in front of his sunglasses with water-slicked hair and lines that cinch and swell in all the right places.

He sees her like that, outlying his bubble, in brief pieces like the flashes of skin. Fragments in the horizon, like the border of a stranger’s leg in the background of a photograph. He sees her in slivers where eyes interlock from across the room and linger. This bohemian summer is painted in teal, and it’s waves swathing the coast, warm skin coated in cocoa butter.

It ends on a night where the teal metamorphose indigo, and then nearly denim, with orange on cords, glinting like miniaturized, splintered orbs of the sun have been caught to glare forever on strings in the night. Harry sees her through that indigo, this stranger’s bare leg waltzing in the depths of his touristy snapshot, mingling in the dancing horde. He trails closer, shouldering through the throng and squeezing through in polite gaps, and she twists like it’s fate — just enough to smuggle a glimpse in her peripherals.

Eventually, Harry leans in to murmur, “What are you drinking?”

The plush of his mouth ghosts over the cartilage there, and his cadence smooths over like honey, low and deep over the pounding bass of the music. Waned tobacco and spice; a warm, pleasant musk in the flurry of scents.

She doesn’t immediately respond, observant like she’s weighing whether the invitation is worth entertaining. It only takes a second. Then, there’s a hand over his pec, like she’s already made friends with the filth of his intentions. His red-lycra-skimp mystique rolls up on her toes.

Harry twists his head just enough for her to respond, “It’s a Blue Lagoon.”

Saccharine — rich and lux and smooth, something that has her skin glowy and sweeps up her throat, tucks behind her ear, enough so that the scent billows off with the motion of her hair as she flips it over her shoulder.

Harry casts his gaze to the drink. A red straw is tucked into the ice, and the only remnants of the beverage mingle at the bottom. The ice shimmers in faded teal, much like water sloshing over the flat tides. Her fingers cradle over the cup, and that’s where soft, thin lines of gold coil. Despite the broad array, there’s no wedding band.

“Can I grab you another?”

That’s when she does the thing; this patently flirtatious, brazenly get-under-my-crocheted-midi-skirt sort of thing, lashes coy in their sweep and eyes innocuous as the tips of her manicured fingers pinch at the straw and siphon it to her mouth. There’s an elegant presentation to the polish — neat, short lines with a nude base and a white tip.

The remnants of the beverage vanish until all that’s left is crushed ice painted with blue curaçao. Harry watches the straw. He watches her lips, the way they unlatch and the way the pink tip of her tongue offers a glimpse before it hides away behind her front teeth.

When she pulls the drink away, she tips her head — an inclination for his ear again — and when he ducks his chin for her answer, she tells him, “Can you make it worth my time?”

A tongue swipes — his — like it’s already hungry and yearning. Dimples form beside the curling edges of a mouth after the pink muscle retreats. Home in its hungry cavern; limitlessly craving. He doesn’t bother going for her ear again, instead opting to fix eyes that have wandered, all week, onto her face. Definitive, close. Mesh of saccharine and spice.

“I’ll make it worth your time,” Harry assures.

His eyes are virid, even in the indigo, under all the miniature suns as the lanterns throw them back into a roll of blue — it climbs over the crowd and seeps with the music. They’re virid and intent. They’re virid, and there’s something lewd that dances in the mottled talc.

She watches him. A set of eyes flits to his mouth and stays, brief like a fragment. She nudges the cup — the fragment splinters and fades — extending it against his chest until he raises his hand and his ring clad digits curl over it slowly, wet with condensation.

“Blue Lagoon,” sweet mystique reminds him, a little curl to her mouth.

Harry heads to the bar. He orders a Blue Lagoon and refreshes his tequila. Double. He winds through the half-clad crowd, prodding and slipping through sweat-slicked bodies until he finds her again.

He makes it worth her while when they’re dancing, when her arms are slung over his shoulders and the tips of her fingers graze at the little curls at his nape, like an intimacy beyond a summer fling, or maybe like a restless hunger — its touches only test the waters with dips of toes under lapping ripples. He makes it worth her while when his hand cups the meat of her hip, and she tips her head up for their mouths to meet, when their dancing slows and the kiss turns feverish, cushiony mouths teasing at the seams until they split.

He makes it worth her time when they make the stroll back to his room, heels clicking over tile and bouncing off from lofty wall to lofty wall, a good bit of distance between them strictly for the sake of avoiding shagging in the middle of a hallway. He makes it worth her while when he braces his wrist band to the lock over the door, when she’s leant against the wall with her irises lingering on him and her lashes batting coyly. She’s well-behaved, hands tucked behind her back like a combat to handsy temptation.

It’s a different story behind the door.

He makes it worth her while when her fingers toy at her crocheted halter, index perusing at the fabric below cleavage and brushing over chalky yarn. He makes it worth her time when he steps into her space all slow-like, face tipped down and the pink below his cupid’s bow worked into a soft curve, lengthy, deft digits working over the buttons of his shirt. An untamed tendril teases over one of his brows. Her hands meander from fondling at her own tits, at rogue pieces of yarn in the stitches, to straying up his ink-etched forearms. That’s when he lets her take over the work, when his arms snake over the vale of her waist. When his colossal hands cup lower, when he nudges forward and their mouths brush again. He licks into her mouth and rolls into the gap between her teeth.

Filthy kisses are shrouded behind closed doors, even in the easy ambience of a resort. Furlough on the greedy pursuit of pleasure, on some secluded island with crystalline waters, plus tequila — that’s practically a petri dish for hook up culture. But filthy kisses are saved for the bedroom, and there it’s taste buds doused in citrus limon and gray goose, a tip of a tongue swiping along a row of teeth, basking in the ridges.

“What do you like, little minx?” Harry murmurs. He climbs the column of her throat with the ruddy border of a hungry cavern, and her pulse murmurs back under his mouth. “Hm?”

The blunt tip of his forefinger traces her collarbone, follows a line of cleavage, toys at the cinch in her top; unravels her. It splits down the center, and the straps follow limply down her shoulders. Harry pinches a nipple and scrapes his teeth over her neck, humming again.

Behind closed doors, his red-lycra-mystique (bare, her tits are bare now, in the backdrop of his picture) gets denuded to flesh when she shimmies the dress down her hips. He helps her and then tears his own shirt over his head. It’s hasty, like disrobing takes too much time from a place where time moves slower, riding the water in leisure. Harry still doesn’t know her name, and she slips to her knees, batting her lashes, and takes his buckle apart like unslotting puts the last of the puzzle pieces together.

When her tongue rides under the ridge of his tip, delving and dragging over the prominent vein jutting on the underside of his shaft, he cranes his neck back and makes a sound like she’s torn into his chest with the tips of her french-polished manicure. He punctuates every pornographic, wet sound with dialogue.

“Christ, you’re a dream.”

“Fuck, you’re pretty with cock in your mouth.”

“Yeah, that’s it, just like that, sweetheart.”

“—Y/N,” red-lycra-mystique supplies, gaze bouncing from the twist of her wrists at his base to his face, and then sweeps his bubbling head over her bottom lip and swallows him down halfway.

“Y/N,” Harry mirrors, tone bathed in the same sweetness she radiates at his feet.

And then she trails the very tips of her blunt nails up his sac, and the shiver that rolls up his spine short-circuits every feasible attempt of formulating something in english. Just… gone. Something splinters.

Harry doesn’t cum all over her tongue, despite the pretty mental image he’d cherish of Y/N on her knees with ribbons of silky white coating the insides of her mouth. He thinks about the way he’d dip the pad of his thumb against her tongue, the way he’d stir and scrub it in. He thinks about her lips latching and her cheeks hollowing.

He’s got immense willpower, particularly when she takes him all the way down until her nose nearly brushes the neatly-trimmed tuft of hair the tributary of his happy trail pools into. Because then, she pulls off, chin sloppy with saliva, mouth wide, and stares up at him with this wickedly indelicate curl to the corners of her mouth as she gasps in breaths. Like she wants him to.

Instead, they make it to the bed. He splits her thighs with his palms and spits where she’s puffy and warm, leaky with longing, toying at the seam of her hole with his digits. Smooths the wetness with his thumb when he tucks two fingers in and laves his tongue at the crease between her inner thigh and her cunt. He bumps her clit with the tip and rolls, and her spine arches like the highest point of her torso peaks at the clouds of nirvana.

“You’re a good girl,” Harry tells her, and his voice is so soft, like he’s reassuring an animal that’s backed itself into a corner, “Want you to drench my face.”

And she does, because when he holds a placid, unwavering hand out and talks her so sweetly, lips suckling in a vacuumed ‘o’ between her thighs, what can she do besides roll her hips against his mouth in little, desperate juts, face creased before bliss spumes through every major artery.

When Harry sits back, his chin is sticky, glinting in the buttery cast of the lanterns drilled into the ceiling. He kisses her again until her jaw is stained with her own slick, and despite the entire basis of a one night stand, his tongue meddles into her mouth with the same passion of a man carving a piece of her open. A cozy lacuna just for him in the depths of her chest, something that’ll linger and yearn. A hungry chasm that’ll grumble when her cunt pulses — when he’s not there to fill it. She’ll think of him; a stranger’s leg flitting like a passing speck in the background of her photograph.

Y/N’s cunt hugs him like it can’t get enough.

Eventually.

Because at first, it’s: too big, won’t fit, pleated brows when he’d split her spongy walls apart on the latex-coated tip, stretching to tuck in and hovering to imbibe in miniature ticks of her expression. A twitch in her lashes, a shift in the line of her mouth, a little swallow bobbing down the column of her throat.

“You’re a good girl,” he’d crooned, smoothing a thumb over a rib and then her clit, just to see her squirm more over his cock.

Eventually, she clambers over his lap, planting her palms back over inky, firm muscle. It’s leverage as she bounces to fill that starving cavity — the one he’d drilled with his tongue, like the shape of him can fill every square inch of space before they never see each other again. Hungry, hungry, hungry.

“Come on, baby, come on,” Harry coaxes, a low groan mottled with breathy pants, “—Shit.”

Momentarily, he pauses the guiding grasp he’s got over her hips to drag the pad of his thumb over his tongue lewdly, smearing spit over the digit and swiping circles over her clit, instead. In response, the rolling pace Y/N has set stutters, knees jolting, and her mussed hair spills off her shoulder as she cranes her neck back.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

“Yes, yes, yes—“

His eyes flit from her cunt to the ethereal line of her neck, the borders of her shoulders, the shape of her tits bouncing.

Ultimately, of course, his gaze winds back down to ogle where they connect, because that’s the view — that’s where she swallows his cock, thighs splayed and trembling, gliding from the tip until about midway before rising and repeating the cycle. Rinse and repeat, rinse and repeat. He draws his thumb lower, lets it meddle where they merge, where her hole flutters and rolls over him, gleaning the sticky arousal that coats his shaft and bringing the pad of it back to her clit. His eyes linger. Flicker up. Return to watch her ride and nearly roll back into his head.

He’s carved the void, and later, when she tips forward and her nails scrape over his pecs, feral, she whittles her own. Later, the space between his thighs aches and heats. Something pulses on the underside of his balls. It yearns for blue curaçao, pellucid, crashing waters, and a skimpy red bikini.

#harry smut #harry styles smut #harry styles dirty one shot #harry styles writing #harry styles one shots #harry styles one shot #harry styles fic #harry styles fanfic #harry styles fanfiction #harry x reader #harry styles x y/n #harry styles x you #harry styles x reader

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inthedayswhenlandswerefew · 7 months ago

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Where Will All The Martyrs Go [Chapter 2: I’m The Son Of Rage And Love]

Series summary: In the midst of the zombie apocalypse, both you and Aemond (and your respective travel companions) find yourselves headed for the West Coast. It’s the 2024 version of the Oregon Trail, but with less dysentery and more undead antagonists. Watch out for snakes! 😉🐍

Series warnings: Language, sexual content (18+ readers only), violence, bodily injury, med school Aemond, character deaths, nature, drinking, smoking, drugs, Adventures With Aegon, pregnancy and childbirth, the U.S. Navy, road trip vibes, Jace is here unfortunately.

Series title is a lyric from: “Letterbomb” by Green Day.

Chapter title is a lyric from: “Jesus Of Suburbia” by Green Day.

Word count: 6.2k

💜 All my writing can be found HERE! 💜

Let me know if you’d like to be added to the taglist 🥰

On the shores of the Susquehanna River, just north of Harrisburg, you find a Wawa with no gas: bags on all the pumps, cars with their fuel caps unscrewed and dangling. This is a common courtesy adopted en masse, like rationing during the World Wars or flying American flags after 9/11. It signals that a car has already been siphoned, no gasoline to be found here, no transparent flammable gold made of eons-past decomposition. You wonder if in a few million years, some unfathomable new apex species will be drilling your liquefied remains from the lightless layers of the earth to power their spaceships.

“Then we got sent to Joint Base Anacostia-Bolling,” Rio continues, gnawing on a piece of beef jerky, Jack Link’s in a red bag, teriyaki. Mercifully, whoever took the gas left some of the food. You are sitting in the parking lot, a quaint zombie apocalypse picnic, trail mix and Rice Krispies Treats, Herr’s potato chips and Tastykakes, warm soda sipped from plastic bottles. Luke and Rhaena are on the roof of the Tahoe. Jace is tearing the convenience store apart; he is convinced the employees must have kept a gun somewhere in case of robberies. You know he’s fine. You can hear him banging around and swearing in there.

“Then we built some schools and a hospital in Djibouti,” you say.

Aegon is baffled yet intrigued. “Djibouti…?”

“It’s on the Horn of Africa, near Ethiopia and Somalia.”

Luke snorts. “It’s nice of you to assume he knows where Africa is.”

“Huh.” Aegon tosses a green M&M into his mouth. “Djibouti is horny.”

Rio says: “And after that we spent like six months in Key West, and then we got shipped to Corpus Christi, where Chips very narrowly avoided getting impregnated by, marrying, and inevitably acrimoniously divorcing a Marine.”

Everyone laughs except Aemond, who gives you a teasing smirk. “Did you really?”

“Uh, no. He asked me out, I ghosted him, that’s as far as it went.”

“Why’d you ghost him?” Baela says, crunching on Utz Cheese Balls.

Aegon turns to Rio. “You want a Honey Bun?”

“You’re my Honey Bun,” Rio replies. Aegon smiles, his sunburn flushing darker.

You shrug, eat a handful of candied almonds, tell a half-truth. “I just didn’t like him enough.”

Rhaena yelps and points: a snake, black and maybe five feet long, is slithering across the parking lot. It passes beneath the shade of the Tahoe and then continues towards the bushes. A moderate amount of panic erupts.

Helaena glances up from her notebook. “Rat snake. Not venomous.”

Rhaena shudders. “Well, I still don’t like it.”

“Where were you stationed next?” Daeron asks Rio.

“Chinhae, South Korea. Wicked cool place. The people love Americans, the food is incredible. We were there to rebuild a pier that got wrecked in a typhoon. They have these cute dolphin-looking things, they’d swim right up to the edge of the water with fish in their mouths to try to give to us. Like cats bringing home mice for their owners.”

“Finless porpoises,” you say.

“Yeah, those. And after Korea, it was Diego Garcia.”

“Diego…what?” Rhaena says.

Aegon turns to Luke. “Try to act like I’m stupid for not knowing where that is.”

“Diego Garcia is a tiny little island in the middle of the Indian Ocean,” you say, a bit wistfully. “It’s technically owned by the British, but we share a base there, we use it for airfields and to refuel submarines, things like that. We were renovating the housing facilities for Camp Thunder Cove. At night we’d go to the beach, have a few beers, look out into the ocean and it was just…nothing. Wide open dark nothingness for as far as you could imagine.”

“That’s what we need now,” Helaena murmurs as she makes elegant cursive annotations in her notebook, the cover picturing different species of spiders, a pinktoe tarantula, a green lynx spider, a black widow. “Someplace to go where no one will find us.”

“So you’ve known each other since basic training.” Aemond’s remaining blue eye shifts between you and Rio, like he’s still trying to puzzle it out. There’s really no mystery. You’re friends, and you’ve always been friends, and you’ve never been more than friends, despite many of your fellow seamen’s jokes to the contrary.

You tear open a Slim Jim. Aemond rebandaged your hands this morning, though they barely hurt anymore; he touches you with a clinical, focused restraint. “Not quite that long. Rio enlisted a few months before I did, so we weren’t at Great Lakes together, and then carpenters do technical school in Gulfport, Mississippi near Biloxi, and electricians train at Sheppard Air Force Base in Texas. We met after we were both assigned to Naval Mobile Construction Battalion 1.”

“The First and The Finest,” Rio quotes the motto, grinning. “The original Seabees, founded during World War II. People called our battalion the Pioneers, which…is kind of ironic now.”

Aegon says, munching noisily on trail mix: “It’ll be so appropriate when you end up dying of a broken leg or the flu or in some other totally preventable way.”

“It’s so crazy, people died of anything back then,” Luke marvels gravely. “Tuberculosis, pneumonia, infections, starving, freezing, poisoning, getting kicked by a horse, giving birth…”

Rhaena shoots him a fearsome look and Luke shuts up, but of course he can’t take it back. There is a long uncomfortable silence punctuated only by birdsong and Jace’s muffled outbursts from inside the Wawa. Everyone looks at Baela, concerned, pitying, entirely unable to do anything to improve her situation. She is still eating Cheese Balls with one orange-stained hand, but the other rests on her belly.

“Clearly, the timing is less than ideal,” Baela says after a while, and if she’s terrified she doesn’t sound like it. “It wasn’t planned to begin with, but I was determined to make the best of things. I figured that I could still finish up my master’s degree with a baby, and Rhaena and our parents could help, and Jace would be done with law school soon, and it might be stressful for a while but we’d all get through it. And now…” She shrugs wryly. “Now all those plans are gone. Just gone.”

“You’re going to be okay,” Aemond says; a fierce low determination, a promise, a vow.

Baela smiles at Rio. “How old is your baby?”

He is caught off-guard, clears his throat, averts his gaze. Aegon looks over at him, alarmed. “Oh, he, uh…he’s little. Really little. He…” And Rio, so rarely at a loss for words, can’t continue. He eats his beef jerky instead.

You explain for him. “Sophie’s due date was right around the time the phones and internet went down. The last we heard, she was headed to Odessa to stay with Rio’s parents.” Aemond and his companions nod and don’t say what they’re thinking, but it’s swimming in their eyes: Sophie could have died, the baby could have died, they both could have died, you and Rio might be risking your lives to cross the continental United States for nothing. “Rio’s parents live in this…well, I joke around and call it a doomsday prepper cult, but that’s not really what it is, it’s just a farming community out in the middle of nowhere. People who have their own chickens and gardens, churn their own butter, don’t wear deodorant, make medicine out of tree bark…and a lot of them have kind of a survivalist mentality, they stock pantries and collect guns. So we figure we can reunite Rio with his family and then carve out lives for ourselves in relative peace.”

Rio reaches over to bump his fist against your shoulder. He is grateful. You punch him back, fairly forcefully; it’s like hitting a brick wall. Rio is as tall as Aemond but probably outweighs him by a hundred pounds.

You ask Aemond: “What’s in the Bay Area?”

“Our parents have a beach house. It’s up on a cliff by itself, pretty isolated, and surrounded by state parks. That’s where they were when everything shut down. I assume they’re still there.”

“Beach house?” Rio raises his eyebrows. “On a cliff?”

Rich kids. REALLY rich kids. “Your parents couldn’t just fly you to California in a private jet or something?” you say.

“Our pilots stole the jets,” Aemond replies, not realizing you were joking.

“Oh.”

“Jace and Luke’s parents were home in London, so getting there isn’t really an option, and then Baela and Rhaena…”

“Mum and Dad were on a business trip to Moscow,” Baela says. “I’d like to think they weren’t eaten, but…they were probably eaten.”

“I am so sorry,” you manage awkwardly.

A single zombie goes shuffling past the Wawa on the main street, a woman in a floral church dress, hair falling out of its curls, one pink high heel that clicks on the pavement, blood all over her mouth and chin. She notices the nine of you and begins to hiss, lurching closer. Daeron shoots her down and then trots over to retrieve his arrows, yanking them out of her cheek and eye socket. Rhaena winces. Aemond, distracted, bites into a Nature Valley granola bar. Aegon opens a can of Pringles, pizza-flavored.

Luke is peering through his binoculars, looking south towards Harrisburg. Faintly, you can see sunlight glinting off the gilded statue of a woman—the Spirit of the Commonwealth—that tops the green clay tile dome of the state capitol building. “What is that?”

“The sculpture?” you say.

“No. Farther away. Those big concrete towers, right on the water.”

Now you know exactly what he means…and you’d forgotten all about it. It’s an oversight you hope doesn’t cost too much. “That’s Three Mile Island. And we should leave so we can put more space between it and us.”

“Oh, fuck me…” Rio mutters.

Now everyone else is squinting to see the facility, barely visible from the Wawa. “Why?” Aemond asks you.

“Because it’s a nuclear power plant. And since the electricity is out everywhere, as soon as its backup generators fail, it will melt down and the whole area around it will become radioactive.”

Aegon puts two Pringles into his mouth so they look like a duck bill. “How do you know?”

“Did no one else go through a Chernobyl obsession phase in high school?”

“The professor mentioned it in one of my chemistry classes,” Aemond says, but he sounds doubtful; this must have been years ago, when he was consumed by med school prerequisites and had no space left in his brain for mere curiosity.

“Okay, listen up.” Rio knows the key points; he’s had to study different sources of electrical power. He demonstrates with dramatic hand gestures. “You have super radioactive reactor fuel, usually uranium or plutonium. You have a pool of water around it that circulates continuously. The heat of the fuel evaporates the water, which makes steam, which spins turbines, thus creating power. But if the external electricity fails, the water stops circulating, and the heat vaporizes all of it, and when there’s no more water the reactor fuel overheats and melts through the floor and poisons the earth, air, and groundwater. Any questions?”

There is a chorus of distressed chattering as people swiftly rise to their feet, clutching armfuls of snacks for the road. Jace comes trudging out of the Wawa, conspicuously not in possession of a firearm.

“No luck?” Daeron asks.

“Obviously not.” Then Jace snaps at Aemond: “Why were you stomping around all pissed off in the medicine aisle earlier? What were you looking for?”

“Nothing,” Aemond says quickly.

“Seriously, dude, what was it?”

“Nothing!”

“Damn, Plankton, calm down.” Jace shields his face from the sun, following Luke’s nervous eyeline towards the concrete cooling towers to the south. “What’s that?”

“Three Mile Island,” you say. “And we’re leaving now.”

Aegon yawns loudly. “I’m so full! Rio, can you carry me to the car?” And before anyone can tell Aegon to shut up, Rio has crouched down to let him scramble onto his back. Aegon cackles and waves his can of Pringles around as Rio sprints to the Tahoe. Now there are a few more zombies stumbling up the street, but you don’t waste arrows or bullets on them. Baela runs them down as she swerves out of the parking lot and drives northwest, heading towards Clarks Ferry Bridge where you will cross the Susquehanna River in a less populated area and commence the long slog to the Ohio border. She turns up the volume on the CD player: London Bridge by Fergie. Immediately, Rio, Aegon, Daeron, Rhaena, and Luke are singing along.

Baela checks the fuel gauge and looks at Aemond in the rearview mirror. “We have half a tank left.”

“We’ll find gas somewhere.”

“Aemond, it’ll be alright. Don’t worry about me.”

“You’re not going to be able to walk to California.”

Baela can’t think of a response. He’s right. Outside, the miles roll by in a blur of radiant, reptilian, early-summer green.

~~~~~~~~~~

Each time the interstate is blocked by a snarl of crashed vehicles or a backup too thick to navigate through—both common occurrences—Aegon digs the folded map out of his shorts and charts a new course for Baela to follow. This particular divergence might prove fortunate. The Tahoe has rolled into Distant, Pennsylvania, an Appalachian speck of a town, churches, coal mines, dilapidated old sheds. On the outskirts, perched on a hill and surrounded by oak trees, you find a small single-story brick house with a myriad of banners on the flagpole: an American flag, a Confederate flag, a black POW/MIA flag, Don’t Tread On Me, Trump 2024.

“Yeah,” Aegon says, scratching his scruffy chin as he peers up through the windshield. “I feel like they probably owned guns.”

“How do we know they’re not still home?” Baela asks warily.

“No car in the driveway,” Aemond observes. “No windows boarded up. They probably ran into trouble while they were out somewhere and never made it back.” Then he waits, the question upspoken. Are we going to risk it?

“We’re down,” Rio says after exchanging a glance with you.

Aemond turns to Jace. Jace—curly dark hair down to his shoulders, eyes on the house, chewing his full bottom lip apprehensively—doesn’t reply at first.

“You said you wanted a gun, Jace. All the Walmarts are cleaned out. This is what shopping looks like now.”

“Fine. Okay. Let’s go.”

Baela parks the Tahoe in the gravel driveway and tells Rhaena and Luke to stay inside with Helaena until the property has been cleared. The rest of you climb out, afternoon sun and mountain wind, dandelions crushed under your shoes. There’s a barn behind the house, you see now, gaps between the wooden boards and flaking red paint.

Luke is standing up through the open sunroof, inspecting the scene with his binoculars. “No movement.”

“We’ll take the house, if you want,” Rio tells Aemond. You’re clutching your borrowed baseball bat with bandaged hands, though it still feels unnatural; your M9 is in its holster in case of emergencies. Jace, Baela, and Daeron start plodding across the yard towards the barn. The grass is tall and mostly shaded, the oak trees decades old, massive, weaving a patchwork canopy of leaves.

Aegon trots over and slaps Aemond on his left shoulder, his blind side. Aemond says without looking at him: “I’ll go with them. You wait out here.”

Aegon drives an imaginary ball with his golf club. “I’m very sensitive to rejection, you know.”

“You’ll survive.” Then Aemond follows you and Rio to the house.

Rio tries the knob, locked. He doesn’t waste a bullet by trying to shoot the lock off the door, something that is far less reliable than movies would have you believe. He kicks it open instead, three tries and then the screws that secure the latch give way and the door swings ajar. You wait, counting seconds in your head, listening for growls or footsteps. There are no sounds except the breeze sighing through the trees, the warbles and wing flaps of birds. You steal a glimpse of the barn. Jace, Baela, and Daeron have unhooked the rusted iron latch and are venturing inside, Daeron last and glancing around watchfully, his compound bow already drawn. Rio steps into the house.

It’s hot, stifling, all the windows shut. But this has its advantages. You inhale deeply: no trace of decomposition, no black swampy nauseating rot, just dust and lemon Pledge and old-people staleness.

“Smells fine,” Rio says. And then, loudly: “Anyone home? We’re just looking for supplies. We don’t want to hurt you. If anybody is here, just let us know and we’d be happy to leave. And, uh, sorry about the door.”

You stay close to Rio as he sweeps through the living room—floral couch, television turned off, crosses on the walls—and then the kitchen, where bananas are turning black on the counter. Aemond is to your right; he’s placed you on his blind side. He trusts me, you think. When did that happen? You haven’t heard anything from Aegon or the barn. That must be going well.

In the bedroom, Aemond pulls the curtains open to let some light in. You search the drawers, the closet, under the bed. No weapons. The bathroom has 1950s-style pink porcelain, the dining room table is set for a meal that never happened. There is a deer head mounted on the wall, ten points, not bad.

“I can’t believe these fuckers didn’t have guns,” Rio says. “But where the hell are they?!”

You have always watched more than you’ve spoken. That’s why you’re good at shooting things, and why you’re still alive. Rio talks and you listen; Rio acts and you reflect. “Wait.” You turn to Aemond. “Did you see a cellar outside?”

“A what?” He is perplexed. “Like…a wine cellar…?”

“No. A regular cellar.” You walk back into the midday heat and circle the house, Aemond and Rio hurrying to keep up. Over by the barn, everyone else is stretched out across the grass, joking, relaxing, Baela with her hammer on the ground and her hands laced over her belly, Helaena cradling a praying mantis in her palms and showing it to Rhaena. Aegon is teaching Luke how to smoke with a pack of Marlboro Golds he found at the Wawa. Luke, game yet somewhat anxious, takes a puff and then immediately coughs until he starts retching.

“I want to try too,” Daeron says.

Aegon shakes his head, taking a nonchalant drag off his own cigarette. “Nope. Not for you. Illegal. You’re under eighteen.”

“I want to try!”

“Shut up, you can’t even vote.”

“Nobody can vote, the government has collapsed!”

You find it at the back of the house: a pair of large metal doors leading down into the underground cellar. The weeds have begun to encroach on them, wild violets and black nightshade.

“Awesome!” Rio says, lifting the doors open one at a time, the hinges shrieking. They’re heavy, but they cause him no trouble. Underneath is a staircase and a room dark with shadows; you can see a light switch that won’t work, the electricity long gone. Rio unclips the flashlight from his belt—taken from Saratoga Springs, waterproof with a 90-degree head so it doesn’t roll, known as a Moonbeam—and ducks down into the cellar. It’s a small room, easy to clear, and then you can start inventorying your findings. Rio is laughing, ecstatic. There is a workbench, a coil of thick rope, an array of tools—screwdrivers, wrenches, hammers, saws—some homemade leather wallets and holsters, cans of Brillo color spray…and then a treasure trove of weapons mounted on the walls.

You scan the collection. “We got Marlin .22s, we got Ruger Magnums, we got Remington 12 gauges, we got hunting knives…and one Glock 20.”

“A lot of ammo under here, Chips,” Rio says, yanking boxes out from beneath the workbench and stacking them on the floor, organized by caliber.

“No scopes?”

“Not that I’ve seen yet.”

You lift one of the Remingtons off its hooks and examine it: dusty, unloaded, vines of rust on the receiver. “We’ll have to go through and sight all of them. I don’t think they’ve been used in a while.”

“That’ll be a lot of noise. But here’s the place to do it, I guess. Low population, and we’re not staying.”

“Exactly.”

“Sight them for close range, like ten yards?”

“Yeah, that should work.”

Aemond says, eyebrow raised: “I didn’t know the Navy used shotguns.”

“Everyone hunts where I’m from.” You put the Remington down on the workbench then pick up the Glock, a box of 10mm ammo, and a can of Brillo. “Come on. Grab one of those hammers. I’ll show you how to shoot.”

You bound up the cellar steps and out into the shade of the oak trees, not stopping until you are at the edge of the property. Across the backyard where he lounges on the grass, Aegon gestures to the barn and asks Luke: “What’s in there anyway?”

“Nothing. Saddles and a few dead horses.”

“Oh, dynamite, I gotta see the dead horses.”

Jace says: “Aegon, man, what is your diagnosis?”

You use the can of Brillo to spray a large chocolate-colored circle onto a tree trunk, then make another two feet above that. You count your steps as you walk back towards Aemond: approximately ten yards. You load a single bullet in the Glock, aim for the bottom circle, and fire. A hole appears at the very edge of the circle. You take the hammer from Aemond and give the rear sight a few knocks. “This isn’t recommended, but it usually works.”

Aemond is smiling. “Okay.”

You load the full magazine and try again. The bullet hits closer to the middle this time. “Here. Both hands.”

Aemond takes the Glock but hesitates. “Is…my eye…?”

“It shouldn’t be a problem. A lot of people close one eye anyway when they’re aiming. I always do.”

He is relieved. “Oh. Good.”

You tap the underside of the Glock. Aemond obediently lifts it. “The line of sight is slightly higher than the barrel, so you have to account for that. And then gravity will pull the bullet lower, and the longer the range of the shot, the more it will drop. So when you fire, the barrel should be angled upwards just the tiniest bit, not horizontal.”

“Like throwing a football.”

“Yeah, exactly. It’s an arc, not a straight line. At first it’ll feel like you’re trying to do all these calculations in your head, and it will be overwhelming, but then it becomes muscle memory and you don’t even have to think about it.” Jace, Baela, and Daeron are now eagerly crossing the yard to help Rio carry the guns out of the cellar and receive their own lessons. “Alright, we’re going to start with a really terrifying enemy. I want you to shoot that tree.”

“What a formidable tree.”

“Aim for the top circle. And if you hit it, then you can practice on Jace.”

Aemond laughs, butter-yellow sunlight filtering down through the trees, the shadows of leaves flickering over his skin, a mosaic of flesh and earth. You ghost your open hand down the length of his arm as if adjusting the angle. Really, you just want to touch him, to feel his warmth and his stillness, the tension of his muscles, the rhythm of his pulse. He’s watching you, lips parted, goosebumps rising beneath your fingertips. Birds are chirping, sparrows and blue jays. High above, squirrels leap and scrabble through the branches. You pull your hand away.

“Look through the sights. The rear sight at the back of the barrel is shaped like a U, and the one at the front is an I. Is the I in the middle of the U?”

“I have no idea.” A pause as he reconsiders. “Yes.”

“Right, it is, and the bullet should go exactly where you want it to because I already sighted that Glock. I’ll show you how to do it later. Now shoot the tree.”

Aemond aims but doesn’t pull the trigger. He’s nervous; he doesn’t want to seem incompetent, pathetic. You imagine it is rare that he isn’t the one with the solutions.

“Hey,” you say softly, and he looks over at you. “You don’t judge me for not knowing how to cure people. I won’t judge you for not knowing how to kill them. Deal?”

Now he’s smiling again. “Deal.” He returns his attention to the tree, lets a few more seconds tick by, and fires. He hits one of the branches. “Oh, that is…embarrassing.”

“It’s not that bad. You hit something. Try again.”

More seconds, more birdsong, more wind through the grass and the leaves. Aemond’s second bullet pierces the trunk about six inches above the top circle. “Yes!” he cheers, boyish triumph on his scarred face.

You resist touching him. It is startlingly difficult. “That was really good.”

He lowers the Glock, and you click the safety on for him. “Can I ask you something?”

“Sure,” you say.

“Why’d you ghost that Marine at Corpus Christi?”

“I told you. I didn’t like him enough.”

“Okay, sure, but actually. What was wrong with him?”

“I’ve known you for like twenty-four hours. You think you’ve earned all my secrets?”

“Well, not all of them,” Aemond says, grinning. Rio is showing Jace, Baela, and Daeron how to load the .22s. Aegon is swinging his golf club in circles as he follows Luke into the barn. Helaena and Rhaena are giggling as butterflies land on their outstretched fingers. “But our time together could be very finite. It seems unwise to waste it by trying to preserve some amount of mystery.”

“You’ve convinced me.” You want to be known by him, you want to be understood. That is a frightening thing to realize. It’s like handing a stranger the keys to your home. Will they visit graciously, or will they rob you, ruin you, burn you down? “I haven’t seen many examples of love working out for people. I’ve seen couples who hated each other, and couples who split up, and a lot of women having to raise kids all on their own and turning into these…bitter, exhausted, hollowed-out versions of themselves. I never wanted that to be me. And for as long as I can remember, I’ve felt like that was just one wrong choice away from becoming my life. I don’t want men to disappoint me. So I don’t give them the chance.”

You think Aemond is going to say something cheap, flirtatious, awful: Give me a chance, baby. I won’t disappoint you. Instead he says: “I haven’t known many happy couples either. I mean…Luke and Rhaena would be the closest, I guess. But they’re so young. I’m not sure if they count.”

“Rio and Sophie seem happy. But they’ve also barely seen each other in five years.”

“It does things to you, when you start to believe love might be doomed to end or tear you apart or turn to hatred. If it’s just an evolutionary mirage to trick us into reproducing, what’s the point of giving someone that power over you?”

“Exactly.”

“I feel like one of us should be trying to talk the other out of being so fatalistically cynical.”

“Yeah, totally. Okay. You talk me out of it.”

He chuckles. “No, I don’t think I can. You talk me out of it.”

You’re watching Aemond, realizing you like everything about him—his smirk, his height, his hands, the clear direct blue of his eye—and wondering what the hell you’re going to do about it. Then there is a scream from the barn.

What?? Who??

“Luke!” Aemond shouts, and takes off across the yard. Now you’re all running, even Rhaena and Helaena who don’t have anything to fight with. Everyone is yelling, their lungs heaving in wild June air, their shoes pounding against the earth.

Inside the barn, on a wooden floor strewn with hay, Luke is shrieking as he tries to push a zombie off of him with his bare hands. She’s an older woman, grey hair in rollers, yellow nightgown stained with gore. Something has happened to her feet. Both of her legs end in exposed tibias and flapping strips of purplish, rotting skin. Aegon is beating her with his golf club, but he can’t get a good shot at her head. If he accidentally hits Luke, he could make it worse, he could stun him or even knock him out, and he’ll be bitten in the few seconds it takes anyone to remove his undead assailant. Rio lunges to grab the zombie. She snaps at him with bared teeth and he retreats, drawing his M9.

“Don’t shoot!” Jace is saying. The air is putrid: dead horses, dead people. “You’ll hit Luke!”

Your own M9 is suddenly in your hands, the safety clicked off, one eye closed. “Luke, don’t move.”

“Kill it, kill it!” he pleads hysterically, pushing the zombie as far from him as he can, his palms sinking into the decomposing bruise-colored tissue of her chest and throat.

“Don’t shoot!” Jace orders, but you ignore him. He fades into the background with all the other frenzied voices. Your finger on the trigger, a boom like thunder, bits of bone and brains against the wall. Luke shoves the corpse away, trembling, sobbing. Rhaena flies to him.

Aegon spots the fresh blood on Luke’s right hand and panics. “Is that a bite?!”

Luke notices the wound for the first time. “I don’t know!”

“What do you mean you don’t know?!”

“I don’t know!” Luke wails, tears flooding down his pink face.

“I thought you cleared the barn!” Aemond roars at Aegon.

“It fell out of the loft, we didn’t think anything was up there!”

Luke is blubbering: “I hit my hand against one of the stalls, I think that’s how I cut myself, I was just…I was pushing it away…I didn’t think it bit me…oh my God, I don’t know, I don’t know, I don’t want to die…”

“It only takes once, kid,” Rio says grimly, fidgeting with his M9, looking at Aemond as if for permission.

“Don’t touch him!” Jace hisses, stepping in front of his brother and clutching his bat. “No one is going to hurt him, it’s not a bite, you can’t prove it’s a bite!”

You reach for Luke’s bleeding hand. “Can I see—?”

“Get away from him!” Jace swings his bat. The tip of it connects with your skull, just a graze fortunately, but still enough to rattle you. Rio charges Jace, tackles him to the floor, starts throwing punches. Baela has apparently forgotten she’s heavily pregnant and is trying to pull them apart. You join her.

He’s going to demolish Jace. He’s going to break his nose or jaw or something. “Rio stop, I’m fine, stop!”

There is another gunshot, a cataclysmic earth-shaking explosion that makes the pain in your head surge from a ripple to a wave. Aemond is aiming his Glock skywards; a hole has appeared in the roof of the barn. “Stand up!” he commands. Rio and Jace reluctantly comply. You help Baela to her feet.

“Aemond,” Jace says. “You have to stop them, they’re going to kill Luke—”

“No one is killing anybody.” Aemond lowers his Glock. “Maybe he’s been bitten. Maybe he hasn’t been. And even if we knew for sure that he was going to turn, we don’t just execute people like this, threatening them when they’re terrified. We have humanity. We have compassion.”

There is a silence that strikes you as heavy, laden, holding meaning that escapes you. Aegon points at Luke. “So what the fuck are we going to do about him?”

“We’ll tie him up,” Aemond decides.

“What?!” Luke exclaims.

“There’s rope in the cellar. We’ll tie his arms and legs so he can’t do anything and keep him like that for a few days until either his hand heals up or he turns into a zombie. Someone will always have to be with him to help him eat and take a piss and also…you know. Deal with it if he turns.”

“I’ll stay with him,” Rhaena says immediately.

Aemond’s voice is now gentle, sympathetic. “I don’t think you want this.”

“If Luke has to die, I should be the person with him.”

“You’ve never had to put someone down before.” And in this statement lives another: Aemond knows what that feels like. Aemond has had to kill someone when they turned.

“I’ll stay with him,” Rhaena says again, this frail harmless doe-eyed girl, and you see a steeliness in her that you hadn’t thought existed.

“Okay,” Aemond relents. “When you’re asleep, Jace or I will take over.”

“It’s not a bite,” Jace murmurs, like he’s trying to convince himself.

“We’ll all find out soon enough,” Rio says, casting him a glare, then goes to fetch the coil of rope from the cellar.

Aemond cleans and bandages the wound on Luke’s hand. Then the weapons, ammo, and newly immobilized Luke are loaded into the Tahoe. Aemond asks you once everyone else is inside: “How’s your head?”

“Fine, I think.”

“Hurts?”

“Just a little.”

“Dizzy? Double vision?”

“No, nothing like that.”

He takes a quick look, parting your hair with his fingertips, feeling gingerly for blood and swelling. And this is becoming a serious problem: every time he touches you, you want more.

“Aemond…who did you have to kill?”

He doesn’t answer. For another moment his hand lingers by your temple, then Aemond turns away and climbs into the Tahoe. This time, no one sings along to the next song on the mixtape. Heads rest on windows, eyes are vacant and misty. Baela steers the Tahoe westbound on Route 1004, the Chainsmokers drifting through the speakers: All We Know.

~~~~~~~~~~

“Pick a card, any card,” Aegon says when he’s done shuffling. He fans out the entire Uno deck face-down and offers it to Rio, Aemond, and Jace. They each select a card, then Aegon picks one for himself. Finally, he holds out the deck to Luke, who stares up incredulously from where he’s still bound with rope and sitting on a curb in the parking lot of a Burger King just outside of Yarnell, Pennsylvania.

“Are you serious?”

“You’re an adult male, aren’t you? You think being in the middle of transforming into an undead murder machine exempts you from gasoline siphoning duty?”

“I’m fine!” Luke insists.

“Great. Then pick a card.”

“I can’t move my hands, you idiot.”

“Pick it with your mouth.”

“I hate you.” Luke bites his card of choice and waits with it clasped between his teeth, glowering.

“I want to pick a card,” Daeron says cheerfully.

Aegon refuses. “No. Too young. A baby.”

“Aegon, I’m seventeen!”

“Can’t enlist, can’t do jury duty, can’t buy lottery tickets, can’t sign up to drink gasoline. Okay, everybody show their cards.”

“I got a three,” Jace says, then yanks Luke’s card out of his mouth and reads it. “He got a skip.”

Aemond’s card is a nine, Rio’s a five, Aegon’s a reverse. “That means you lose, Jace,” Aegon announces, admittedly rather gleeful. “You had the lowest number.”

“This is bullshit, I had to siphon last time!”

“Then stop picking bad cards.”

“Jace, I can do it,” Aemond says.

“And get to be the martyr, as usual? No thanks. Give me the damn hose.”

Aegon roots around under the Tahoe seats and produces a long, semitransparent siphoning hose. “All the ones with the little pump attachments were sold out everywhere by the time we thought that might be useful,” he explains to you and Rio.

“That sucks, Jace,” Rio says. “I mean, literally, it sucks.”

“Next time we cross a bridge, I’m pushing you off it.” Jace takes the hose from Aegon, pops open the gas cap of the Dodge Ram 3500 you’ve found, and threads the hose down into the tank. He sucks on the other end and then shoves it into the Tahoe once the gasoline starts flowing. The fuel gauge was hovering just above E. Hopefully you can get at least a few gallons out of the Ram, another fifty or a hundred miles, maybe even two hundred, enough to get you across the Ohio border.

Jace is bent over and vomiting gasoline onto the pavement. Rhaena and Baela sit with Luke as Aemond feels his forehead and peers into his eyes. Daeron accompanies Helaena as she goes to scavenge inside the Burger King, her burlap messenger bag slung over one shoulder. Rio is now holding the siphoning hose and watching the liquid gold pour into the Tahoe, his smile growing with each passing second. Your eyes fall on Aemond and stay there, his careful hands, his brow knitted with concentration.

A whisper from behind you: “We could fake date to make him jealous.”

You whirl to see Aegon, mischievous smirk, neon green plastic sunglasses. “That is a super generous offer and I appreciate the thought you put into it, but no.”

“Why not?”

“It’s dishonest. It’s manipulative. If something is going to happen with Aemond, I want it to be real.”

Aegon sighs. “No, you’re right, it was a dumb idea. I just figured I have a lot of experience.”

“Experience with what?”

“People pretending to love me.” He flashes a strange, sad smile, then follows Daeron and Helaena into the Burger King.

#aemond targaryen x reader #aemond targaryen #aemond x reader #aemond x y/n #aemond x you #aemond targaryen x you #aemond targaryen x y/n

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senditcolton · 12 days ago

Text

It Would've Been Sweet...

...if it could've been me.

summary: there was no good reason for you to be in TD Garden during a Game 7 Stanley Cup Final Game. especially when the only connection you had to the sport was your ex-boyfriend Joel Edmundson, who you had left in St. Louis six months ago. but here you were. what were you doing here? a/n: hello friends! if you've been here since the inception of this blog, you might recognize this story. however, I no longer write for the original player that starred in this fic. but I am very proud of this fic plus, I think this was the start of my trademark bittersweet endings, so i couldn't just let it disappear. so, here is another rewrite now starring my favorite crop top king who i miss terribly. song inspo: The 1 by Taylor Swift word count: 8.8k warnings: time jumps [past is in italics], argument scene, language, angst with a bittersweet ending

What were you doing here?

That was the question running on loop through your mind as your eyes stay glued to the ice a few dozen feet below. There was absolutely no reason for you to step foot in this arena. There was no good reason why you shouldn’t be in your studio apartment on Newbury Street right now, curled up under your blankets, watching re-runs of bad reality TV.

When you received a text earlier that day from an old friend, asking if you had any plans, you knew what she was going to propose. You had seen the news. You had felt the energy go up in this east coast sports city. And you knew why your friend – a friend who you hadn’t seen since you moved 1,200 miles across the country – was in the city you now called home and had asked you to join her at this place on this night of all nights.

You knew all of this and could list all the reasons why you shouldn’t have responded; why you should’ve ghosted her like you had everyone else you left in St. Louis. But despite all that, you texted her back.

That was how you found yourself sitting in a clubhouse suite in TD Garden, trying desperately to only focus on the black and yellow jerseys of the Boston Bruins zipping around the ice.

Trying not to look over at the other end of the rink. Trying not to look at the white jerseys with blue and gold detailing. Trying not to scan the sea of players for the one person you should’ve forgotten by now.

Trying not to have your eyes land on the number six emblazoned on your ex-boyfriend’s back.

What were you doing here? You shouldn’t be here.

But we were something, don’t you think so?

“You shouldn’t be here.”

The unfamiliar voice sounding from behind you tears you out of the peace you were taking in the quiet kitchen, causing you to spin around. You were ready to tell whoever it was off, ready to confront the person who was so bold as to say where you did and did not belong. However, the face that greets you, the owner of the voice, is not what you expected.

His head of chestnut brown curls was messy, his stunning hazel eyes sparkling as they rake up and down your body and his lips, surrounded by a light scruff, were twisted up into a small smirk. He was cute. Like, really cute. It also didn’t hurt that he was clad in swim trunks and a t-shirt that was cut short, exposing his muscular midriff.

You tighten your hand around the beer bottle you were holding as you lean back against counter, your face shifting from annoyance to mirror his casual bright expression.

“And why is that?” you ask, taking a small sip.

“Because,” this stranger starts, “this is Dunner’s party. And the Dunner I know would have never invited someone so gorgeous to his house and without hanging over her shoulder the entire time.”

You let out a light laugh, the compliment not escaping your notice.

“Oh really? How do you even know I was invited by Vince? Maybe I snuck into my neighbor’s house in the hopes of meeting a hot single man. Maybe this is the first step in my evil plan to make a professional hockey player to fall madly in love with me.”

“And how is that working out for you?”

“You tell me.”

The man in front of you lets out a big laugh, causing a genuine smile to grace your face. You liked the sound of it, the sight of his head being thrown back, his smile so bright it almost blinded you. He looked back at you, the grin still on his lips.

You hold out your hand to him, giving this stranger your name as an introduction and hoping he sees your somewhat formal greeting as an awkward indication of your interest. He gladly takes your hand in his, shaking it gently as he gives you his name in return.

“Joel.”

You two stand there for a moment longer, simply looking at each other and you are trying not to focus on the warmth of his palm and the energy that seems to be flowing between you.

“So, why are you here?” he asks, dropping his hand from yours and you try not to let your face fall in disappointment at the loss of his touch.

“My friend invited me,” you say, gesturing towards the crowd of people in backyard. “What you said earlier – that Vince would be draped over some gorgeous girl – you are right about that. It’s just that my friend Daphne is who Vince is attached to.”

Joel hums and softly nods hid head in understanding. He walks a few steps until he is resting his body against the counter right next to you, his arm slightly brushing the bare skin of your own.

“Okay, so that’s the reason why you’re at this party. But, why are you here?” he asks, lightly gesturing around the empty room before glancing over to you. You sigh, looking out the large glass windows facing the backyard, watching the rest of the party mingle on the grass or splash in the pool, their laughter dancing on the late summer breeze. And here you were, hiding in the kitchen.

“I thought it would be fun. Not sure if I was right,” you explain, your hands going to fiddle with the loose corner of the beer label. “But Daphne is always trying to get me to go out with her.”

“Why don’t you?”

“It just really isn’t my scene. I did the whole party life thing in college and now, it’s just kind of lost its appeal.”

Joel lets out another hum, his eyes focused on you. He glances back at his teammates, acting loud and rambunctious as always. It was a lot to take in, he realized, especially if you weren’t exposed to it for over half the year like he was. He looks back at you, your fingers still fidgeting with the damp paper, your eyes far away.

You were beautiful. The thought was in Joel’s head before he could even process what it meant. And he knew instantly that he didn’t want to see you worried, that he wanted to see you smile again.

“So, you aren’t trying to get an attractive, wealthy hockey player to fall in love with you?”

You let out a laugh, your eyes connecting with his once again. The sparkle in his irises tells you he is joking with you, trying to make you feel comfortable. But there is also another emotion behind it. You can see it trying to swim to the surface, a desire that hadn’t been directed your way in a long time.

“Well, never say never,” you quip back. “Do you happen to know someone who would be willing to be infatuated with me?”

Joel tilts his head back, his hand going to stroke the facial hair on his chin, pretending to be deep in thought.

“There is this one guy…” he starts, trailing off to catch your reaction. You turn towards him, the playful smile still on your face.

“He plays on the same team as Dunner. He’s also defenseman as well, number 6. A decent hockey player. Funny, chill, and pretty good-looking, if I do say so myself.”

You hum in thought, your fingers tapping a small rhythm against the top of the marble island before nonchalantly shrugging your shoulders.

“He seems promising. Do you think he would like me?”

“Oh yeah, definitely,” Joel replies almost instantaneously, causing a small giggle to fall from your lips.

“Well then, point me in his direction!” you declare, catching Joel smiling at you out of the corner of your eye. “The next step would be to trip dramatically and fall into the pool, which will cause him to dive in after me to save my life. That is where our romance will begin!” you continue, throwing out your hands for additional affect.

“Or…” he says, gently grabbing your hand out of the air, his thumb brushing against the soft skin. “I could just give you his phone number. It might save you some time. And bodily harm.”

You smile, jolts of electricity racing through you from his touch.

“I suppose that works too.”

In my defense, I have none for digging up the grave another time.

“Hey, are you alright?”

You hear Daphne’s voice next to you and you finally tear your gaze away from the ice. She is staring at you, a hint of genuine concern in her eyes. The light-washed blue denim of her jacket stands out in the sea of black and gold and you spy the number 29 proudly displayed on her shoulder. Somehow, the sight of it makes you feel self-conscious that you’re only wearing an oversized grey sweater with a small Blues logo over the left breast. But then again, what else should you be wearing?

“Yeah, I’m fine,” you say, shaking your head, trying to erase the fantasy of you wearing a customized jacket out of your brain. “It just feels a little weird to be here, that’s all.”

Daphne turns to look around the box, all the other Better Halves excitedly talking and mingling. A few had come over to greet you, almost to welcome you back into the chosen sisterhood that developed between you all. But they knew it was only for one night.

Anyone could see how messed up this situation was; you coming to the biggest game of your ex-boyfriends’ career, hanging out with the ladies that you had grown close to in those six months you and Joel were together. Willingly placing yourself into this moment, as if nothing happened.

As if there was no break-up, as if you didn’t move halfway across the country and ghost all of them just to avoid anything that would remind you of his smile, his hazel eyes, his contagious laughter.

Daphne sighs as she returns her gaze to you, your chin resting in your upturned palm, your eyes now focused on the giant screen hanging above the ice.

“You didn’t have to come, you know. Not that I don’t want you here,” she quickly backtracks. “I’m so happy you’re here. I missed you. We all missed you, trust me. But, you know, if it gets to be too much, you don’t have to stay. Everyone would understand.”

“Why would I turn down the opportunity to see a Stanley Cup Final game? Especially a Game 7.”

Daphne looks at you, a disapproving glint in her eyes. She knows that you’re trying to make light of the situation, make it a joke, and ignore the real reason you said yes. She knows exactly what made you agree to come meet her after months, even if you weren’t ready to admit it to yourself. And it sure as hell wasn’t a free ticket.

She turns away from you, her eyes following your gaze to the now pristine and empty rink. The lights dim and the roar from the hometown crowd goes up. But the sound and the energy buzzing through the stadium wasn’t enough to stop you from hearing Daphne’s last spoken words.

“He would be happy to know you’re here.”

You look down at the ice as the players step out, now allowing yourself to find the one person that you refused to acknowledge since you stepped foot in the arena.

“I’m not so sure about that.”

And if you wanted me, you really should’ve shown.

He was late. Again.

You sigh, as you continue to pace around your kitchen, your heels clicking gently on the tile floor. It had been almost two hours since Joel was supposed to pick you up for a date. But instead of sitting in an upscale restaurant, drinking good wine and eating decadent meals, you were left waiting in your best dress, watching the hands on the clock circle.

Although, you weren’t sure why you were still waiting.

The reservations you two had were definitely cancelled by now and at this point in the night, it was too late to even think about doing anything other than lying in your bed, watching whatever was airing on The Game Show Network until you fell asleep.

But you stayed, hoping that your boyfriend would walk through the door. Because you were pissed. You wanted to make him feel guilty for leaving you stranded like this. It wasn’t healthy – you knew that – but you weren’t sure what else to do. Lately, it seemed like Joel was more interested in… well, anything that wasn’t you.

When you two first started dating, it was like something out of a cheesy rom-com. He was attentive and caring and you had honestly never felt more loved. But before you knew it, the fire between you two started to dwindle.

In the back of your mind, you knew it was coming. Everyone talked about the honeymoon phase and its inevitable end. You just weren’t prepared for it to end when it did.

It also didn’t help that that conclusion of that lavender haze just happened to coincide with the St. Louis Blues’ worst losing streak, landing them in last place, not just in the division or the conference, but within the entire league. And the playoffs were just over the horizon.

Glancing back at the clock, you sigh. You are ready to give up, call it quits and change back into your comfy old sweatpants when you hear the doorknob turn. Your boyfriend’s laughter echoes around your apartment, the voices of Colton and Robert also filling the quiet evening.

You exit the kitchen and walk into the living room, your eyes landing on Joel, his arms slung over Colton and Robert Bortuzzo’s shoulders respectively. He doesn’t notice you at first, his eyes focused down as he attempts to kick off his shoes. You cross your arms and clear your throat and it is that noise that brings his attention up to you.

“Babe!” he shouts, his face flushed and eyes hazy.

“Hey,” Colton greets you as he supports his teammate’s weight. “Sorry, he got drunk tonight. We tried to take him home but he insisted we bring him here.”

You let out a small hum, the anger boiling in your stomach as you take in Joel’s inebriated state. Instead of moving toward him, fawning over him or laughing at him like you normally would, your feet stay glued to the floor. Out of the corner of your eye, you see both Colton and Robert look you up and down, taking in your dress and heels. The tense atmosphere is palpable and not even Joel’s incoherent babbling can stop them from realizing that the drunken man between them had royally fucked up.

You let out a heavy sigh, gritting your teeth, your body sinking in defeat. This was not the situation that you had planned for the night and you had half a mind to throw him out. However, you were never the one to cause a scene and you weren’t about to get into it with Joel when he probably couldn’t even walk straight, let alone think straight.

“You can take him to the guest bedroom,” you say. “Down the hall to the left.”

You can almost feel the relief that came off in waves from Robert and Colton as they started to half walk, half drag Joel down the hall, you following close behind. Joel didn’t seem to understand anything happening around him until they guided him towards the guest bedroom and away from yours.

“Wait, where are we going?” he mumbled, trying to move his body back in the direction of your bedroom. “This isn’t the way to bed, guys. And I should know. I’ve been there a bunch of times.”

You fight back the urge to scream at Joel’s not-so-subtle innuendo, already feeling embarrassed about the situation he had put you in. Instead, you help shove him onto the mattress of the guest bed, watching as your boyfriend flounders against the covers. Joel tries to lift himself up but both Robert and Colton push him back. His eyes dart from his friends over to you, those hazel irises wide as he looks up at you like a neglected puppy dog. It takes all your effort to keep your icy demeanor.

“Babe, why can’t I sleep in your bed?”

“I don’t want you puking all over my sheets,” you say cooly, even though everyone else in the room knew the real reason why he was being banished to the guest bedroom. Joel doesn’t notice your coldness and instead shoots a goofy grin in your direction, his head hitting the pillow, curls flying wildly as he mumbles that he promises not to. You roll your eyes, having heard enough of his so-called promises in the past few weeks.

Robert clears his throat and you turn to him and Colton, awkwardly standing in the room next to you. You sigh, walking away from Joel and leading them out into the hallway and back to your front door.

“Thanks for getting him here safe boys,” you say, holding the door open for them as they walk over the threshold and out into the hallway.

“Of course,” Colton says, shooting you a sympathetic smile. You start to close the door but just before it shuts completely, you hear the small chirp that leaves Robert’s lips.

“Not sure how safe he’s going to be in there.”

You fasten the lock on your front door before you let your head fall forward, gently hitting your forehead against the wood, the anger still radiating from your tense body. Bortz doesn’t know how right he is. To say you are livid is the understatement of the year. You want nothing more than to tear Joel a new one but you know that doing that now would be pointless.

So instead, you take a few deep breaths in through your nose and out your mouth. Then you turn back into the kitchen and grab a glass, filling it with cold water from the Brita filter in your fridge. After grabbing the small case of Tylenol from your purse, you wander back to the guest bedroom.

Joel is curled up on the bed, still completely dressed except for the shoes that he managed to remove at your front door. You hate the way your heart softens as you take in his sleeping face, his lips slightly parted and his curls wild against the pillowcase. Moving over to the nightstand, you place the glass of water and aspirin down and move to leave when Joel reaches out and manages to grab your hand. You look down at him, his eyes now half opened and his thumb gently caressing the skin on your wrist.

“Come to bed,” he mumbles, slightly tugging you towards him. You gently remove your hand from his grasp and take a few steps back from him.

“Not tonight.”

You reach the threshold of the room, ready to leave when you hear Joel’s voice call your name and you turn your body, your eyes connecting with his.

“You look really pretty,” he murmurs.

Normally, a smile would tug at the corner of your lips in response to his compliment. But your face stays frozen in its apathy as you watch Joel’s eyes close once more. You are silent as you push yourself out the door and walk into the peace of your own bedroom. It isn’t until you are curled under the covers, your dress exchanged for pajamas and your face scrubbed free of makeup, do the tears finally start to fall.

In my defense, I have none for never leaving well enough alone.

Everything about this situation was stressing you out.

The hockey fan in you was stressed because you had just sat through 20 excruciating minutes of the Blues getting almost no time in the offensive zone and you practically screamed every time Jordan was forced to make a save.

The other part of you was stressed because you weren’t sure if you were allowed to be this worried about the boys.

It was still true that you cared about the team and wanted nothing more than for them to win this. You wanted to hug Devon and Dayna when Jay scored a goal that deflected off Ryan’s stick, getting the Blues on the board first. You wanted to scream and jump with Jayne when Alex scored in the last 10 seconds of the first period. And you definitely felt the thrum of pride run through you when Joel laid down in front of a shot by Sean Kuraly, potentially preventing a Bruins goal.

But it felt almost wrong to care this much.

The only reason you got into hockey was because of Joel. You learned the game for him, cheered for him, celebrated every win and mourned every loss. With him. And now, you were no longer his.

It wasn’t right for you to act like you were still a member of this group. Because you would just be lying to yourself. And it would just make it that much harder to leave.

You couldn’t let yourself fall into that comfortable complacency, pretending that everything was alright. That everything was different.

You know the greatest loves of all time are over now.

You woke up, your heart heavy and your eyes puffy. It took a moment to shake off the groggy haze that hung over you, to remember the reason why your heart felt like it had gone five rounds in a boxing ring, but eventually, the events of last night came flooding back to you.

The sound of the clock ticking on the wall. Your feet aching in your heels. Joel’s slurred words. The way his hand felt intwined in yours. Your tears falling onto the pillowcase.

You didn’t want to face him but he was in your apartment, sleeping a few doors down from you. There wasn’t no way to avoid the inevitable confrontation. With a huff of breath, you raise yourself from your bed, the sheets falling from your body, your bare feet connect with the cold hardwood floor.

You quietly open the door and walk down the hall, ignoring the urge to walk into the guest bedroom and check on Joel. Instead, you pad into your kitchen and start to make your morning cup of coffee. It is when you are standing in front of the machine watching your mug fill, do you feel a pair of arms wrap around your waist.

“Mornin’” you hear Joel mumble into your shoulder as his lips press against your bare skin. Every fiber of your body wants to melt into his embrace but you resist, choosing instead to shrug yourself out of his grasp. You take your mug from the machine and walk over to one of the stools at the end of your island, sitting down so your body faces him. You take a small sip, still not acknowledging Joel standing stunned in the place you left him.

“Babe?” His questioning voice causes you to look up and you can feel a flare of anger appear at the sight of his confused expression painted on his face. “Did I do something wrong?”

His ignorant question is the breaking point and you practically slam your mug onto the cold marble in front of you, some of the hot liquid sloshing over the side. Your eyes connect with his as the vindictive rage you had been holding in for almost twelve hours finally starts to pour out of you.

“Do you really have to ask that Joel?” you spit out, not even attempting to hide the pure venom in your voice. “Let’s start with the fact that last night, I spent almost two hours waiting for you in this goddamn kitchen. Do you remember why? It was because we had a date. You were supposed to pick me up and we were supposed to go out to that cute little bistro by the river.”

You see his eyes widen as he takes in the information, remembering the plans that the two of you had. His reaction makes your wrath feel righteous. Joel’s mouth opens as if to say something, perhaps an apology, but you cut him off before he can even utter a sound.

“And then, the moment I was about to call it quits, to give up and go to bed and call you in the morning, after trying to call you multiple times that night, what happens? You come stumbling into my house, practically being carried by Parayko and Bortuzzo. So, instead of spending a beautiful night with your girlfriend, you decided to what? Get drunk with your friends? And then insist that they bring you here so I can take care of you?”

“Babe I’m so sorry, I –” Joel starts to say but you stop him.

“I’m not your maid, or you mother, or your fucking side-chick, Joel. I’m your girlfriend. I am not some shiny thing that you can play with when you get bored and then toss to the side when something new catches your interest.”

You see his eyes darken at your words and Joel takes two long strides over to where you were sitting.

“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?” he grits out, now towering over you. In any other situation, you might shrink and back down, always the mediator. But this time, you are just too livid to care.

“What it means is if you want me, you need to start giving a shit about me. That means keeping your promises and showing up when I fucking ask you to.”

“I’m sorry, alright. Is that what you want to hear?” he says, his voice raising in frustration.

“I want to hear why you chose getting shit-faced with your friends over picking me up for the date we had planned for weeks.”

“Jesus, it slipped my mind. We were just hanging out and Bortz suggested we drink and it just got out of hand. We were all stressed about the team and it just seemed like the best thing to do. You understand that we are in last place!? If we don’t start winning games, we can kiss any chance of the playoffs goodbye. Part of my fucking job is to try and fix that, but I can’t do that when you are demanding all of my attention.”

Your mouth drops open, a scoff leaving your lips as your brain registers Joel’s accusation.

“Excuse me? I’m demanding all of your attention? I’m not the one who showed up drunk on the doorstep, begging to be coddled like a child.”

“Oh, get over it. I showed up, didn’t I? I remembered you. You know how many girls I could get, how many are lurking in my DM’s waiting for their chance. You’re lucky that even though I was drunk, I didn’t run to one of them. Although, maybe I should’ve. They would’ve taken care of me and they definitely wouldn’t be busting my balls right now.”

His words take you aback, cutting through you down to your core and you can feel the sting of tears in the corner of your eyes. Joel knew all your insecurities and here he was, using that knowledge to hurt you deeper than anyone else could.

“Get. The fuck. Out of my house,” you grit out, your chest heaving as you try to control your breathing. Your voice is quiet but hard as you stare down the man in front of you. Although you will for it not to happen, a tear escapes you, rolling down your cheek and you see Joel’s eye dart to it, the color draining from his face as he realizes what he’s said.

“Fuck, baby, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that. I didn’t mean it, I swear,” he babbles, dropping to his knees in front of you, reaching for your hands. You rip them away from his grasp and let the floodgates open. The tears flow freely now and the hurt that had settled in your sternum tickles up your throat.

“Don’t,” you whisper. “Don’t you dare imply that the girls in your DM’s care more about you than I do. They’re not the ones who make your pre-game meals and drive you to practice and let you rant about anything: trade rumors or ice times or bullshit calls. They don’t give a fuck about you, Joel. All they care about is your looks and the price tag attached to your name. But fine. If you want someone who’s only good for a night, someone who’s not going to tie you down and hold you accountable and challenge you while still caring about you and loving you… then we’re done. Now there’s nothing stopping you from getting what you want.”

You lift yourself off the stool and walk back towards your bedroom, leaving Joel kneeling on the floor. The door latches behind you and you wait. For what, you aren’t entirely sure. It’s only after you hear the echoing of the front door shutting, do your knees give out and you drop to the ground, your sobs racking through your now empty apartment.

That is where you stay until you have no tears left, your energy completely drained. You are sure your heart has broken into a million little pieces and if someone were to cut you open, the crimson flood would pulse out, staining everything around you. But the worst part would be that it would beat out to the rhythm of one phrase, the one phrase that you had never said to anyone else;

I love you. I love you. I love you.

And if my wishes came true, it would’ve been you.

You couldn’t do this.

Somehow you managed to sit through another period and every time Joel stepped out onto the ice, your eyes were glued to him. You watched as he continued to play his game, dumping pucks into the offensive zone, blocking shots, helping puck movement, setting up multiple opportunities for his teammates to score.

When you watched him on the ice, you understood why you fell for him. He was kind and unselfish. He wanted to help the team even if it didn’t mean any glory for him. That was the type of person he was.

And when the buzzer sounded signaling the end of the second period, you felt your heart reaching out to him as he exited down the tunnel towards the locker room.

You couldn’t do this.

You jump from your seat and push your way past the other Better Halves, out of the suite. It takes a while for you to find a semi-secluded staircase in the winding corridors of the club level but when you do, you sink onto the carpeted stairs, ready to hide for the rest of the game in your makeshift oasis. Your head falls into your upturned palms as you try to calm your breathing. You are so caught up your emotions that you don’t notice a body crouch down in front of you.

The soft call of your name bounces off the walls and you look up to lock eyes with Jayne Pietrangelo, a sympathetic expression painted on her face.

“I’m fine,” you say, trying to keep the tremble from your voice.

“Bullshit.”

The quiet conviction in her voice startles you at first but her steady gaze causes your walls to crumble. Before you can even blink, she has you wrapped in a hug, squeezing you tight as if she could make everything better by just holding you. You aren’t ashamed to say that is almost worked.

Jayne was one of the first people to welcome you into the group and you were pretty sure she thought that you and Joel were end game before that idea even crossed your mind. She became like a big sister to you and when you ended things with Joel, she was one of the few calls you picked up in the days after.

She lets you push your face into the denim jacket she was wearing as she gently strokes your hair. After you manage to compose yourself, she pulls back from you, forcing you to lock eyes with her.

“Tell me what’s wrong,” she softly demands and you almost let out a laugh at her demeanor. Alex’s captain tendencies must have rubbed off on her because here she was, ready to coach you through anything.

“I just can’t do this,” you sigh out, your head shaking as your eyes dart to the ceiling.

“Can’t do what?”

“Be here. Watch him. I don’t belong here anymore.”

“Do you want to leave?”

“Yes. No. I don’t know.”

All Jayne does is let out a small hum as she comes to sit next to you. You two stay there in quiet contemplation, your mind racing a mile a minute as you wait for her to say something, anything that will make you feel better.

“I’m not going to stop you from leaving, if that’s what you want to do,” Jayne says, her eyes sliding over to connect with yours. “But I think you are ignoring the real question. Instead of asking yourself if you’re allowed to be here or if you even want to be here, you need to understand why you’re here. Why did you decide to come to a place where you knew you were going to re-live some painful memories? You knew what you were walking into and yet you still came.”

She turns to you, her hands reaching out to grip yours as she stares at you, her eyes cutting you open and laying out your soul like the pages of an old book.

“So, tell me. Why are you here?”

Her question rattles around your brain as you search for the answer. The lies are easy to think of, ready to fall from your lips: it’s a Stanley Cup Final game, you didn’t have anything else to do, Daphne asked you to come, you wanted to see all the girls again.

But you knew the real reason you said yes; the real reason you found an old oversized Blues sweatshirt in the back of your closet that still smelled faintly of cologne, the real reason you walked to TD Garden after spending months trying to forget about anything that reminded you of St. Louis. And he was sitting in a locker room a few dozen feet below you, with only 20 minutes left in a game that most players dreamed about, hoping that he would be able to hoist the greatest trophy in sports.

“I wanted to be here for him. Win or lose,” you say, the words still a little unsteady after being locked in your heart for six months. You take a deep breath and let yourself continue, allowing the confession you had been denying every time it appeared in your head fall from your lips.

“Because I love him. I still love him.”

Jayne says nothing for a few moments, letting your words hang in the air before she shoots you a gentle smile.

“That’s enough of a reason for you to stay.”

She gets up, holding out her hand to you. Looking up at her, you allow yourself to smile, the first genuine grin flooding your face. You take her hand and let her lift you off the staircase and lead you back to the suite where the rest of your friends were waiting.

And if you never bleed, you’re never gonna grow.

You were a wreck since your fight with Joel. He had tried to call you multiple times but you let it go to voicemail every time. And as the days passed, the calls became less and less frequent until they stopped altogether.

A week later, you came home to find a small box sitting on your doorstep. Inside was all the things you had left at Joel’s place with a small note sitting on the top.

“I’m sorry.”

You had never cried more in your life than you did that evening.

After laying in your bed for hours on end, binge eating chocolate, and binge watching the same three TV shows, you finally decided it was time to stop wallowing in your sadness and try to move on. The next day, you cleared out everything in your house that reminded you of Joel and let yourself get lost in the effort of forgetting him.

It wasn’t easy.

You still sometimes woke up before the sun, your body telling you it was time to get Joel to practice. When you had a bad day, you found yourself making his favorite meal, as if his sadness had melded with yours. Whenever you turned on the news, you always managed to catch it in time to hear the sports section. You found yourself listening to how the Blues were winning again, pulling themselves out of last place and continually pushing themselves towards the playoffs. You resisted the urge to dial Joel’s number, still stored in your phone, and congratulate him after every win or console him after a loss.

As a distraction, you threw yourself into your work, getting tasks done at a breakneck speed and being more productive than you had ever been. You managed to have the best work quarter of your life and your reviews were through the roof. Although, you didn’t really take note of it because you weren’t trying to impress your boss or the company. You were simply trying to stop your mind from focusing on something else, like the feeling of freshly washed curls between your fingers and a smile that outshined the stars.

So, the day your boss called you into her office, the last thing you were expecting her was a promotion. And you certainly weren’t expecting to pack your things and move to Boston after accepting said promotion.

But part of you was relieved to be leaving. It would be much easier to forget about Joel in a city where most people didn’t even know his name. When you landed in Boston, you thought that this would be the place where everything you left behind would fade away.

And you were right. At least, for a few months.

You made new friends and went out to bars and brunches. You continued to work your ass off at your job, now working to prove yourself instead of just working to forget. You didn’t realize that Joel hadn’t even crossed your mind for a long time.

Then one night, when you were out dancing with friends, a handsome stranger pulled you into his lips. And it felt good. You felt free for the first time in a while, believing that your heart was finally mending after everything it had been through.

But that night, after you went home alone and crashed into your bed with your head pounding from the alcohol in your veins, you dreamt of Joel. Of him holding you tight and hearing his heartbeat pound in his chest.

You woke up the next day with the most exquisite ache in your chest and a desperate desire to be wrapped up in his arms once more. Then, when you were walking home from the grocery store that same day, you thought you saw him standing on the corner.

It wasn’t him, of course. But just the mere possibility of seeing him again had you almost dropping your bags onto the sidewalk and rushing into the arms of a complete stranger who just so happened to look like your ex-boyfriend.

That was the moment you knew you were fucked.

Soon, you found yourself turning on the TV, watching hockey games for the first time in months. And when the Bruins won the East and the Blues won the West, you realized that your two worlds were colliding. The world with Joel and the world after him were crashing together and you would be caught up in the carnage. But you were ready for it.

So, when you received a text message from Daphne, who you hadn’t spoken to since you left St. Louis, you answered it. And when she mentioned that Yana couldn’t make the games as she had just given birth to Vladi and hers second son, your heart waited for her to ask the question you hoped to hear. And when she asked if you wanted to come to Game 7 with her, the tug in your heart had made the decision long before you got the words out.

If one thing had been different, would everything be different today?

That was how you found yourself standing in the suite with all the other St. Louis Better Halves, watching as the final minutes of the final period counted down.

After Jayne pulled you back to the seats, you decided to let yourself go. No more holding back your emotions, no more resisting the feelings that had been churning inside you since you stepped foot in the arena. Instead, you screamed with the rest of the girls when Brayden scored another goal to put the Blues up three to nothing. You held breath, squeezing Daphne’s hand as you all watched Vince lead a three-man breakaway, silently praying for something good to come from that opportunity. And you jumped and hugged the girls when Zach scored a fourth goal with less than five minutes left.

And now, you were on your feet, one hand clasped in Daphne’s and the other clasped in Jayne’s, your heart pounding as you watched the clock on the scoreboard in front of you drop to seconds as the final minute of play began.

You could see the bench, the boys on their feet and as every second ticked by, they grew closer and closer to victory. Your eyes looked for Joel, wanting to memorize every minute of his reaction when the final buzzer sounded. It took you a little while to locate him in the crowd but once you did, your eyes never strayed from his body.

He was bouncing with excitement, the anticipation buzzing through him. You could see him slowly realize that this was going to happen, that he was going to be a Stanley Cup champion and when Jaden shoots the puck towards the blue line and it sails past Krejci, onto the other side of the rink, you watched him leap over the bench, throwing his gloves and stick into the air as he rushed to the goal, slamming into the pile of his teammates, all cheering because they finally, finally achieved what they had been working their whole life towards.

You almost collapse under the pure excitement rushing though you, the screams of the other girls echoing around the box and they celebrated. They were hugging and cheering but you kept your eyes on the ice, watching as the boys embraced each other. You felt tears welling in your eyes and it wasn’t until Jayne pulled you into a hug did you tear your focus away from the sweaty mop of curls.

“They did it!” she screamed and pulled you into a bone-crushing hug. You hugged her back and found yourself going around to the other girls, who celebrated with you like nothing had changed. Because nothing had changed. Just because you weren’t with Joel didn’t mean that these girls weren’t your friends. You had become a part of their lives and you were ready to celebrate with them for as long as they would have you. You hoped that would be a long time.

Daphne held you tight as the two of you jumped up and down, screaming incoherently at the fact that this did indeed happen. That Vince was a Stanley Cup Champion. That Joel was a Stanley Cup Champion. That the St. Louis Blues were Stanley Cup Champions.

All the girls turned their attention to the ice as the Conn Smythe trophy was presented and you swore that almost everyone jumped into Dayna’s arms when Ryan’s name was announced over the loudspeaker. It was a few moments until finally, the Stanley Cup was carried out onto the ice. You watched the boys, lined up, arms wrapped around each other as they took in the trophy that was finally theirs.

And when Alex skated forward and hoisted the Cup over his head, you cheered louder than you had in your entire life.

You watched as the Cup made its way down the lineup, passing between players, each one of them unable to contain their excitement and joy. Daphne pulled you close when Vince had his turn, lifting it above him and you could see the tears in her eyes as she watched the man she loved celebrate. And she held you next to her when Joel finally got his hands on the Cup.

The joy in your heart was indescribable as you watched him carry the 35-pound trophy, cheering and pressing kisses to the silver metal. It was exactly the moment you had wanted for him since you first started dating. It was what you dreamed about at every home game, his name and number proudly displayed on your back. It was what you had hoped for when you watched him on your television for the previous six games of the finals. And it was everything you had wished for ever since you walked into TD Garden almost two hours ago.

The girls were moving, picking up their things and heading out of the box, presumably to go down to the ice to congratulate their men on a hard-fought victory. A wave of doubt settled over you and you shifted your weight between your feet, unsure if you should, or were even allowed, to go down with them. It wasn’t until Daphne grabbed one hand and Jayne grabbed the other did you start to move.

You all make your way down the corridors, pushing past people and flashing your security passes. Your heart rate increases once you reach the end of the tunnel. The lights were still shining bright, causing the ice to blind you as you step onto the rink. The three of you carefully shuffle across the ice, the atmosphere still electric with the energy buzzing off the players and staff.

Jayne was the first to break away from your group, running towards Alex who was currently being interviewed. You see the reporter notice Jayne hurrying over and give Alex a nudge in her direction. His face instantly brightens the moment he sees her and he skates over, embracing her.

It wasn’t long before Vince spotted Daphne. As soon as his eyes land on her, he was rushing towards her and she dropped your hand to meet him halfway. You watch as he pulls her close to kiss her deeply, her hands tangling in his hair.

As happy as you were for all of them, both the players and your friends, their joy and intimacy left you feeling awkward as you stand alone in center ice. You weren’t exactly sure what you were supposed to be doing, if anything. While the girls welcomed you with open arms, you weren’t that close to the other players or staff. Most of them hadn’t seen you since you ended things with Joel.

It was when you caught the eye of Colton Parayko did you really feel like a deer in headlights.

Colton’s eyes flicker behind you, looking for Joel, wondering if he had seen you. Glancing back at you, he stood there a moment longer, taking you in. Then, that familiar crooked smile broke out on his face and the breath you didn’t know you had been holding rushed out of you. You mirrored his grin, your body relaxing as he gave you a small wave. You laughed and returned his gesture before he skated away, going to celebrate with his family.

His quiet reassurance was all you needed to feel certain that you were meant to be here.

You slowly spin, finally taking in the joy surrounding you, letting it soak into your skin. You watch Vladi sit on the edge of the rink as he calls Yana, see Laila walking over to Colton and see him wrap her into a giant hug, look over towards Patty lifting his son Anthony onto his shoulders, still shouting and pumping his fists in the air.

You were so caught up in enjoying the moment that you didn’t notice a pair of eyes attach to your frame. It wasn’t until you completed your circle did your gaze fall on Joel, his gaze already locked on you.

A towel was slung around his neck, the Stanley Cup Championship hat perched on his head. And he was staring at you as if he had seen a ghost. You were sure you looked the same way.

You both stand there, a few feet away, simply drinking in the sight of seeing one another in person for the first time in months.

You feel your heart swell as you take him in, the joy still emulating from his body. Words couldn’t describe how happy you were for him. Even if he was no longer a part of your life, you were happy to see him succeed. You wanted him to know that.

Part of you would always love him, that much you were certain of. But part of you knew that maybe you two just weren’t meant to be. And for the first time, that thought didn’t send a jolt of pain straight to your chest. Instead, you felt the warm wave of acceptance wash over you.

You let a small smile dance onto your face, connecting your eyes with his and silently sending all the care and admiration you had for him across the ice. And when you looked into his hazel eyes, the ones that you missed waking up to every morning, you let only one thought reverberate within your mind:

I love you.

And when he smiled back, his eyes sparkling like they always did, you knew that he was thinking the same thing.

But it would’ve been fun, if you would’ve been the one.

You had never felt happier than you did in this moment. The sky was a perfect blue above you, the sun shining on your bare skin, its light refracting off the soft waves on the lake.

You lean back, your feet gently kick in the water off the end of the boat and your eyes close as you let the peaceful contentment soak into your bones. You feel a form settle behind you, a pair of arms coming to wrap around your waist and pull you close. Eyes opening, you glance back to see Joel, a light sun-kissed hue now dusting his nose and cheekbones. A soft smile makes its way onto your lips, causing him to grin back at you.

“Hey pretty lady.”

“Hi,” you softly whisper out.

“What are you doing back here?” he asks, pulling you even closer, his chin coming to rest on your shoulder. You lean your head against him, taking a deep breath.

“Nothing. Just relaxing.”

Joel just hums in reply, letting the silence return as your bodies press against each other, simply supporting the other’s weight and taking in the moment.

When Joel mentioned his captain’s idea of taking a couple of boats out to Lincoln Lake with the team and their better halves for some bonding and relaxing before the season started and the hectic schedule pushed everyone in different directions, you had to admit you were unsure whether you should go. You had only just started dating Joel. But as soon as you made it out onto the water, you found yourself laughing with the other girls, as if you had known each other forever.

“I’m happy you decided to come,” you hear Joel mumble. And when you glance back, you can see the pure love pouring from his hazel irises. You let yourself lift your head up towards him, connecting your lips to his. You can smell the sunscreen on his skin, taste the rosé on his lips. Your fingers tangle into his sun-bleached curls, and in that moment, you realized that you never wanted to let him go. You pull away from him, your lips still gently upturned as you bring your eyes back to his.

“Of course I came. Where else would I be?”

taglist: @laurenairay @fallinallincurls @ sorlos-world @svexhenthusiast

join my taglist here!

#nicole writes #joel edmundson fic #joel edmundson imagine #joel edmundson angst #la kings fic #la kings imagine #nhl fic #nhl imagine #hockey fic #hockey imagine

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corviiids · 3 months ago

Note

ive never watched h2o just add water but im australian so close enough and i desperately want to know more about death note h2o au. how does light becoming a mermaid make him able to kill people does he just like start grabbing people and drowning them. does L keep coming up with convoluted ways to reveal that light is a mermaid (i would like to know if someone attempts to push him into a pool at some point because i think thats how h2o mermaids work like you. just add water™ and they turn into a mermaid right)

(this ask is referring to my tags on this post)

#i just looked in my notes and found a death note au of that australian mermaid show h2o just add water#in this au light becomes a mermaid and immediately uses his mermaid powers to fucking kill people#and also hes australian#and becuase he's australian hes not called kira#his murders were first noticed on nobby beach (queensland) (australia)#so hes called the ghost of nobby beach#or nobbo for short#because hes australian#does anyone want or need australian mermaid murder death note au called nobbo? why did i write this#when will i finish it

thank you for your interest and everyone else who has shown interest in death nobbo. this is a post about death nobbo, my death note h2o just add water au which takes place in queensland australia

they are Australian and live on the gold coast and light is a uni student who becomes a mermaid. because he is a normal person he realises this is his opportunity to kill people. he also has a pretty, shiny tail.

L is a detective whose attention is drawn to this weird string of drownings in Queensland, Australia. he comes down to investigate.

to answer your actual question:

light drowns people by waiting for them to go surfing or swimming or whatever and then flipping their boards etc and dragging them at top speed into a rip. he holds them down or tangles them up so they can't stick their arms up for lifeguards

L thinks it's sus that all these experienced beachgoers are making mistakes like this and that nobody's managed to call a lifeguard in time. a couple of lifeguards have reported seeing a bit of a commotion where victims are drowning, but get out there too late, and it seems like all of them are physically not able to hold their arms up

here are the rest of my notes in the planning doc and some excerpts:

L doesn't enrol in UQ (is light more of a QUT bitch) but does just like, show up? maybe he gives a talk? i think light is studying law because i want to be self fucking indulgent. so maybe L (via screen) gives a lecture for criminal justice students and starts asking people what they think about the nobbo murders. someone's like so you think it's definitely murder and not just people drowning? L is like you're a beach city. drownings aren't uncommon, but this many drownings from people who are all familiar with the ocean terrain and beach safety makes it very unlikely.

(translator's note: UQ is university of queensland, QUT is queensland university of technology)

He picks light out from the audience because he's already profiled him and they have a discussion

later on L shows up physically at the cafe where light works and asks if he'd like to go swimming. while light is working on how to get out of that one, L goes, oh no, I've forgotten my beach wear. let's go play tennis instead.

lights like internal monologue there's a surf shop next door. light yagami would probably just offer to lend L a rashie or say they can go next door to pick one up. if I take this out, will he thinks I'm suspicious? does he think I'm nobbo? but I can't go swimming or he'll realise the truth.

(translator's note: 'rashie' is aussie slang for 'rash guard' or 'rash shirt' and it's swimwear that is a shirt)

while light is freaking out, L is like, actually there's a mini golf place near mermaid beach I really want to try, so let's go swimming another time. light's like well okay

so they go have a gay game of mini golf. l asks light how mermaid beach got its name and if he thinks mermaids are real. they discuss nobbo.

why did i name him nobbo

misa is light's coworker btw. at some point she also becomes a mermaid and light has to stop her rom exposing them both because she is not very careful

light entered the pool alone so got all three powers - hydrokinesis, cryohydrokinesis and thermocryokinesis

and here's. fuckin, whatever

also the only important line in this au

#death note #asks #death nobbo #thanks for asking about death nobbo my death note australian mermaid au where they are australian #did you guys know before they settled on tennis some of the early ideas for gay contest were golf and fencing #we could have had fencing!#but we also could have had golf. that's why i made them do mini golf #you ever accuse someone of murder while playing mini golf with them? in queensland australia #rookfic #i guess. it's not a fic. i am not finishing this

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mercurysmaelstrom · 4 months ago

Text

Bite the Hand

pairing: Gwayne Hightower x Knight!Reader

summary: Labelled as a kinslayer, you flee from your city, finding solace in a seaside town. Years later, Gwayne Hightower, an old friend whose house is allied with your own, comes in search for you now that your house is in need of a new head.

Gwayne looks for you in hopes of rekindling the relationship you ran away from.

contains: angst, smut (18+), no use of y/n.

word count: 3.1k

notes: this is for my service tops. reader is gender neutral. also reader is more of an ex-knight. happy reading!

You poured a tankard of ale into your cup as your crew conversed.

Your table sat all the way in a far corner of the wharf-side tavern, a booth you swiftly suggested when you and your fellow dock workers first arrived. With the full room in view, your eyes glided along the area, observing the several port laborers and merchants—most of them rowdy men, as to be expected.

You took notice of the tavern waitress and the blank expression on her face as the very same men harassed her, indicating that she was used to it. Thus, the next time she approached your booth, you flipped a gold coin in her direction, following it with a small nod as her eyes briefly widened at you.

She smiled tightly, grateful, yet confused, then walked away when she realized you had no intention of asking for anything.

“How gracious of you,” you heard a voice in the booth behind you, the one spot out of your line of sight.

The soft look you’d presented to the waitress hardened once you recognized who the voice belonged to.

You continued to look forward as you spoke. “What are you doing here?”

Gwayne Hightower slurped the rest of his wine before returning his cup to the table. “I could ask the same of you. Your house is missing an heir.”

The redhead wasn’t worried about being heard. The myriad of voices in the room easily flushed out his own, including yours.

You snorted. “If that were true, I would have claimed it long ago.” You took another swig of your ale. “My father was not particularly keen on passing it on to me.”

“Perhaps I need to speak more bluntly.” He leaned closer to you. “I would not be here if your father were not desperate for his heir. Age has caught up to him.”

Finally, you turned toward him with a furrow in your brows, seeing the face of a childhood companion. No cloak hid his armor, not that anyone paid him any mind. Many knights came and went in this town.

“The Stranger has taken him?” Was it relief or grief you were feeling? You weren’t sure.

“Not yet,” Gwayne answered. “But he is weak.”

You turned away, wretched memories furiously swimming their way to the surface. Even after all these years, the truth of your doing was not any easier to accept. It mattered not if what you did was right or wrong. Guilt had a way of latching onto you and never letting go.

You stood up, your crewmates much too distracted with their beer-medicated laughter to notice you. You momentarily scanned the room before looking down at Gwayne you peered up at you expectantly.

“Let’s speak elsewhere.”

The two of you pushed past the cramped room, exiting the tavern and its slippery concrete floors. When you decided speaking outside a lively business would be reckless, Gwayne followed on foot with his horse by his side as you reluctantly led him to the small cottage you owned not far from the wharf.

“Have a seat,” you told him once the two of you escaped the cold wind of the coast, entering your home.

While you decloaked, Gwayne unsheathed his sword, laying it on the gray wooden table you had handcrafted yourself.

The moon beamed through the kitchen window, enough to help you see where you were going as you headed for the makeshift altar you had set above the fireplace, lighting a few of the candles you used more for reading than praying, although your first year in this town mustered more prayers from you than your life in Ecraen altogether.

You occupied your focus on the hearth below as Gwayne removed his pauldron and arm braces, the metal clanking against the table until he was left clad in a dark green gambeson and leg armor. He did not sit after, but instead roamed curiously around the small kitchen dining room, examining nothing of importance.

“This place—no one’s suspicious of your ownership?”

You stoked the now-crackling fire. “No one’s been here. Except you.”

Gwayne cleared his throat, remembering why he was here in the first place. “As I said, your father needs an heir.”

Your brow twitched. “What of my cousin?”

“You truly believe your father would rather his brother’s son become head of your family house? Regardless of your…” he paused for a moment, treading lightly as he looked out the window, “familial matters and, of course, his pride, he would rather foresee his own.”

“My cousin should be of age in a year,” you disregarded his answer.

“I do not trust that your father has a year.”

“Hm.”

Gwayne turned to face you, your back still in his direction. “Are you not even the least bit eager to claim your position?”

You sighed, setting down the stoker and facing the Hightower. “I am not fond of the reasoning, no. And even in Ecraen, I failed to see my father glance at me for consideration. And now he’s old. And gray. And desperate for the spare he cared not for all those years ago.” Now that Gwayne was in front of you, your mouth regrettably couldn’t stop running. “And you: why even send you? Of all people in my family- oh, unless the dishonor of the kinslayer was all too much, they had to send a Hightower instead.”

“You know I am much more than that,” Gwayne gruffly retaliated, taking a step forward. You could see he had lost his patience. “I was your companion, was I not?”

You swallowed.

“Before you left. Without a word. Not a whisper, nor a note.” He took another step forward. “We were close, you and I.”

Recollections of breathless sparring lessons between you and Gwayne when you were only squires ran through your mind—wooden swords clacking roughly against each other before you graduated to the sharp clangs of iron. You remembered joining your cups together, laughing with fellow young knights. And you remembered the redhead taking your lips with his own behind a tavern in Oldtown after more than enough drinks, drunk yet chaste.

Then you remembered his lack of remembrance for that kiss.

You never blamed him for it, though you certainly never reminded him either, even as you endured the heartache before disappearing.

You tore your eyes away from him, anxious to face the flame again. “I fear you may have wasted your journey here.”

Before you knew it, the knight had made his way closer, only an arm’s reach away.

“If you think I’ve traveled all this way simply on your father’s volition, you are mistaken,” replied Gwayne.

His gaze flustered you just as he did in your youth. And you loathed it; honeyed words that never meant what you shamefully hoped they meant.

With that, you sidestepped from him and the hearth, positioning your body to catch sight of him through the edge of your eye as you busied yourself with needlessly adjusting the tapestry of the seven-pointed star.

You were never heavily spiritual, not really. Neither was your father. Your mother was a different story. But time alone in this coastal town eventually pushed you toward the Faith.

You spoke again, your voice weaker than intended: “What other reason would you have for being here?”

“I came to see an old friend,” he answered earnestly.

An old friend.

You continued to fidget with the wool. “Alright then. You’ve seen me. You’ve spoken about my father; my house needs a new head? They can find that in cousin Alren. You’ve done what you needed, you may leave now.”

The knight’s lips parted at the haste of your words, his head tilting before his mouth closed. He moved close to the furnace, staring into the swirling fire.

Gwayne chuckled humorlessly. “Is that all?”

You could no longer see him, your back once again faced to him. You didn’t know how to feel. In this moment, you weren’t certain if you truly wanted him far away from you. Not when a part of you itched for the opposite.

“I have a life here, Gwayne,” you said, your focus still on the dimly lit tapestry.

He scoffed, his focus still on the flame. “And what life is that? Port labor? Drinks with a crew whom you hardly acknowledge? Days with no one but yourself?”

Gwayne lifted his head to see the seven candles above the hearth.

He knew your relationship with the Faith lacked stability. Frankly, he could not recall your faith being firm enough to see you in a sept, much less creating an altar for yourself, an attempt at one that is. Seeing one here made him wonder how desperate you were for the company of another that you seemed to have finally leaned on the presence of the incorporeal.

You sniffed. “‘Tis better than a life of shame.”

He spun his incredulous gaze to the back of your head. “Shame was your punishment in Ecraed. Yet you’ve told me no one has been in this sullen home of yours before me. Do you not see how you’ve isolated yourself? You traveled far to distance yourself from shame only to carry the damned thing with you all the way here!”

Frustrated, he furthered himself from you, drawing closer to the dining table with a hand on his hip and the other wiping down his mouth.

He tittered, eyeing the floor. “Better than a life of shame.”

“Do not mock me,” you spoke gutturally over your shoulder, dropping your hand from the tapestry.

“‘Tis but a repetition of your own words.”

The fire sputtered, its sizzling hum filling the room when you had nothing else to say, because as much as you hated to admit it, Gwayne was right, and all you could do was sit with the hard truth.

You glanced up at the seven-pointed star, embarrassed. Ashamed. Always ashamed.

Fuck, it was exhausting. Most of all, it was distracting.

You heaved out a sigh and looked to see the side of Gwayne’s face. The flame warmly flickered on his skin. You hadn’t taken the time to process how much older he had become since you last saw him.

Your stare broke when Gwayne turned suddenly, his face out of view as he went to retrieve his armor.

In fact, he wasn’t sure why he removed it in the first place.

“Mayhaps…you were right. I’ve done what was needed.” He lifted the pauldron over his head, proceeding with the rest of his protective plates. “Now I shall take my leave. Send a raven if you’ve changed your mind.”

“Gwayne.” You took a step toward him. Regret quickly seeped into you like venom from a snake.

“You live your shameless life hiding in this town.” He worked on his arm braces, moving much too fast to buckle smoothly. “And I will journey back to Ecraen.”

Your feet moved faster than you could think—you grasped his forearm. “Don’t.”

He tried to pull out of your hold, but you remained firm, pulling him toward you. Again, he tried to pull away until you confessed, “You’re right!” putting his movement to a halt. “You’re right. I know not how to live without shame.”

Gwayne’s body stilled. He only looked at you with sternness on his face.

Your eyes flickered between each of his, seizing his braced arm in anticipation that he would leave at any moment.

“Even before my brother fell from my sword,” you carried on almost hurriedly, “I knew shame all too well. But that is no excuse for how I’ve…for how I’ve treated you, I-I see that now. But you must understand, I was young; tunnel-visioned. I could only see so much, and all I could truly see…” you peered at your hand on his relenting arm, “was my own guilt—the disappointment I brought to my house.” Then you peered back up into his eyes, blue with tinges of orange that gleamed from the hearth. “I am truly sorry I did not see you.”

Gwayne didn’t move as he took in your confession; your realization.

In retrospect, he understood why you left. He understood the weight of your crime, and he understood why you did what you did. He recognized why you left your house and Ecraen; he recognized why you broke your knightly vows.

Nevertheless, he couldn’t understand how you left him, as selfish as it sounded. At least not at the time. But seeing crinkle in your brows and hearing the desperation in your voice, he realized that mayhaps he had been thinking too much of himself as well.

Gwayne looked down at the small space shared between the two of you.

“I’m sorry,” you said.

“You’re sorry,” he murmured.

You angled your head to see Gwayne’s face and moved your hand from his forearm to his elbow. “I am.”

His eyes glided to your hand. This close, the redhead could smell saltwater off of you, a scent you lacked in Ecraen. He did not mind it.

He swallowed. “I suppose…I did not see you either.” He raised his head and your own followed as he returned his gaze on you. “And it seems I am not the only one in need of an apology.”

You scoffed softly. “I don't believe I want an apology.”

“What is it that you want then?” Gwayne whispered.

With no words left to say, you took hold of the back of his neck and pulled him in, pressing your lips onto his. Despite the small pause of shock, Gwayne didn’t fail to reciprocate. Both of his hands shot for the sides of your face as he inhaled, breathing you in.

Gwayne consumed you, chasing for a flavor he hadn’t remembered lingered on his tongue. The taste of your lips rang bells of familiarity, and even lost in your touch, he hazily wondered why that was.

Ignorant of what occurred in Gwayne’s mind, you took in the feel of him, remembering what you thought you had long forgotten.

You tilted your head, deepening the kiss, and he parted his lips, allowing your tongue to enter. His allowance didn’t end there. It didn’t end when you guided him to the table and it didn’t end when you started to remove his armor all over again, sneaking in kiss after kiss as you pulled the pauldron over his head. You lowered it to the ground as Gwayne unbuckled his gambeson, revealing a beige tunic beneath.

You returned to kiss him again, laying a hand on his hip before hesitantly sliding it toward his groin.

You pulled away again. “Can I…?”

“Yes,” Gwayne answered breathlessly, chasing for your lips again.

A muffled moan escaped his mouth when you cupped him, trailing your lips to his jaw and down his neck, snaking a hand under his pants. Gwayne murmured your name groggily as you grabbed hold of his stiff cock, rubbing up and down, feeling him out. Then you pulled your lips away from his neck and lowered his pants, the knight intently watching you. He continued to watch when you spat in your hand and grabbed him once again, and in response, a whimper released from the back of his throat.

You stared back at him, reveling at the sight of his mouth parting wordlessly as you rubbed your thumb over his leaking tip. You enjoyed having him here, eager for your touch; his member in your hand as he gazed at you with so much anticipation. Equally as eager to please him, you moved your fist up and down his length, slowly first, just to witness him writhe.

You didn’t fail to notice his hand tightly holding on to the edge of the table, his body more sensitive than you expected, presumably from his days on the road.

He dropped his head between your neck and shoulder. “Please.”

You couldn’t help but place your hand on the back of his head, lightly tugging at his red hair while you quickened the pace. You hadn’t expected to hear the vulnerable whimpers from a man you’d seen in battle, killing men left and right, especially when you twisted your hand near the tip of his cock.

“Fuck,” he muttered.

“Don’t tell me you're nearly there already?” You teased him, smearing pre-cum along his length to help lubricate him even more, earning more profanities from his tongue.

A subtle smile appeared on his lips, though you couldn’t see it. “No time for sex.”

Your pace began to slow, hoping to prolong this moment with him. “I don’t recall you taking a vow of chastity in Oldtown.”

“Don’t…”

“Mm?”

“Don’t…don’t slow down.”

You tilted your head. “Look at me and I’ll do as you say.”

Gwayne obeyed, lifting his head with no reluctance.

Your hand snaked around to his face, and you patted his flushed cheek. “There we go,” you told him, keeping your hand on his jaw as your other hand jerked him faster. “There we go, Gwayne.”

Soon after you spoke, he grunted.

You licked your lips as you watched him squeeze his eyes shut, his mouth wide open as he came. Simply listening to him—gods, the sound of him, you never wanted it to stop. And so you kept rubbing, milking him of all his worth.

“Shit.” Gwayne’s body squirmed, but you continued, dropping your other hand on the table beside him.

As smooth as your hand moved, from your spit or his own bodily fluids, there was something about the calluses on your palm that added to the sensation; calluses that stemmed from the hilt of your sword. Feeling that you still had them, somewhere in Gwayne’s disheveled mind, he put together that you hadn’t put down the sword completely.

Memories of you swinging your sword almost sent him over the edge again right then and there.

“Want me to stop?” You leaned in. “I can stop.”

There was a smugness in your tone that took him back to your sparring lessons; you used to ask him the same thing when he seemed too tired to fight back.

“No, don’t.” He lifted his head to the ceiling. “Keep going,” he requested and you listened.

You could feel your hand start to cramp, but you ignored it, too enthralled by Gwayne moaning your name. You kissed his neck initially, then sucked, smoothing over newfound bruises on his skin with your tongue before he lowered his head, impatient to claim your lips right as he came again, light splatters of additional cum inevitably landing on your fingers and pants.

You pulled your lips away, your body still pressed against his as you snickered. Gwayne’s forehead landed on your shoulder again as he came back down to earth.

You caressed the back of his neck. “Feeling alright?”

Gwayne hummed, lifting his head back up, still somewhat high from your cramped hand.

“Interested in me returning the favor?” He tugged at the hem of your trousers.

“Very.”

#gwayne hightower x reader #gwayne hightower #gwayne hightower fanfic #house of the dragon #ser gwayne hightower #gwayne hightower fanfiction #hotd #house of the dragon fanfiction #house of the dragon season 2 #freddie fox

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scuttlingcrab · 10 months ago

Note

Raphael going to a noble party of some kind, disguised as a human, in order to find and schmooze with current and potential clients. While engaging with one such individual who seems particularly taken with him, from across the room he spots Tav, for once not dressed in adventurer's gear but decorated with finery. The Hero of Baldur's Gate is so radiant that, at a glance, one could be forgiven for mistaking the mortal as an angel in disguise. However, like the cambion, Tav also has noble-born partygoers vying for their attention, asking (and more often than not being granted) a dance with the hero, and perhaps gossip of nobles approaching the hero with dowry proposals and attempts at wooing this illustrious guest begin to reach the fiend's ears.

You're the best, thank you so much for sending me this prompt! x

Summary: Raphael attends the annual Baldur's Gate Masquerade Ball and accidentally runs into his little mouse.

Dance with the Devil

(Image via venenum-cadaverinus)

All the world's a stage, and all the men and women and devils merely players.

It was a warm summer’s evening. A gentle breeze came from the sea, as frequent as the lapping waves, temporarily relieving the heavy layer of humidity that hovered in the air. The full moon blazed, illuminating all below it like a spotlight.

The annual masquerade ball had begun, attracting not only the richest, noblest citizens within Baldur’s Gate, but of the entire Sword Coast. They all flocked to Wyrm's Rock Fortress, togged up clad in glittering gowns, spectacular silk suits, and meticulous masks that expertly hid the true identity of every guest.

Per annum, the masquerade highlighted the achievements of Baldur’s Gate, from elections won to cities conquered, and what a year it had been for all mankind. With the narrow defeat of the Elder Brain the city undoubtedly had something magnificent to celebrate. Despite more than half of the city still in ruin, Wyrm's Rock itself littered with holes, and the political climate in bedlam; there was hope. And with hope, lies potential.

Raphael arrived at the ball not in his usual show of sparks and embers, but by modest carriage. He smiled to himself, finding amusement in this mortal way of traversing the planes. These simple minded creatures always had such an imaginative way of thinking. He exited the coach and took a deep breath, absorbing the salty sea air and the multifarious scents of the mortals swimming past him. He had come concealed as a human, but his clothing was nothing but lavish. He couldn’t resort to anything less than that.

He wore a red velvet three-piece tuxedo with a form fitting tailcoat. The colour was bold, yet the details simplistic, he wouldn’t dare distract from the show-stopping piece of his costume: the mask.

Raphael was hidden behind a horned gold leaf mask, the horns replicating the very ones from the Crown of Karsus. He made the mask himself, the artistry immaculate, showcasing Raphael’s pristine attention to detail. The intricate floral designs carved into the mask not only added panache but amplified the aesthetic beauty of the disguise.

A gaggle of women stopped to take in Raphael’s outfit, nodding to him in admiration. He returned their stares with a polite bow, before they moved along, giggling. Raphael’s body increased in warmth, his cheeks flushed with pride.

This was a night of celebration not only for Baldur’s Gate, but for Raphael. Since acquiring the Crown of Karsus, he barely had a moment to himself. There had been no celebrations awaiting him in the House of Hope, no companions to congratulate him on his arduous labour. The very nature of his ambitions subjected Raphael to secrecy and solitude, he was forced only to rely on himself. Naturally, as soon as his hands cradled the Crown, he went straight to work, preparing for the next course of action in his ongoing plans to conquer the Hells. The Crown was just the beginning.

Symphonious music, exuberant laughter, and the electrifying hum of excitement could be heard even from the outskirts of the Fortress. The entire fortification was vibrating, brought to life by the very nature of the ball.

As Raphael showed his invitation to the guards, and passed successfully through the security checks, he bit his tongue to stop himself from prematurely combusting into flames. His chest rattled, as if it might burst open at any second from the thrill of the evening to come.

Raphael made his way through the interior of the fortress, completely anonymous, blending smoothly into the crowd. No room was off limits, he was free to roam where he pleased; to indulge in the festivities, and even prey on guests without suspicion if he felt so inclined.

He soon found himself on the upper floors, walking into the Audience Hall. It had been turned into a ballroom, the hive of the masquerade. A band was comfortably sitting where the throne would’ve been. The walls behind them had yet to be repaired from the blasts that sieged the fortress when the Elder Brain attacked. It quite suited the occasion, bringing in the cool evening air and offering a dramatic view of the oceanfront.

Raphael leaned against a stone wall towards the edge of the room, observing the mortals mingling and twirling. Everyone’s movements were synchronised effortlessly, there wasn’t one person who didn’t belong. He must throw a ball like this in Avernus once Zariel is defeated. Yes, it would be most joyous indeed.

His toes tingled as he watched the gowns swirling, his body attracted to the movements like a moth to a light. As he took a step forward, he was suddenly blocked by a mysterious woman. She wore a tall lace headdress that made it appear as if she was looming over Raphael. Her blue gown hugged her bosom, revealing a little too much to those who happened to sneak a peek or two. Her face was completely obscured by a white porcelain mask, the lips painted red. She bowed to Raphael and he returned the motion.

“I was quite taken by your ensemble.” The woman began, her voice deep and rusty.

“I am most honoured, my lady. “

“It smells of money.” The woman’s eye’s twinkled behind her mask.

Raphael raised an eyebrow, amused at the bluntness of this woman. He couldn’t help but respect the efforts, despite her obstructing his path to the dance floor.

“My accounts are indeed… healthy.” Raphael responded.

“Mmm. And what of your relationship status?

“I am unfortunately married to my work.”

“As they all say...”

The woman began to say something else, but her voice faded as Raphael caught wind of something stirring at the far end of the hall. His ears twitched as the murmurs rose, the distant rumbling growing like a massive wave, enveloping the entire ballroom.

Raphael turned to find the source of the commotion, his eyes immediately falling on heaven incarnate. His mouth fell open as he took in this new creature. He delicately placed his hand on his heart, to make sure it was still beating.

She was stunning, the most beautiful thing he had laid eyes on in this mortal plane; every movement she made was graceful, dignified, and had purpose. Her black strapless gown glittered under the candlelight, showcasing her broad shoulders and pale skin. The train on her gown seemed to levitate as she moved across the room. The mask she donned was made of silver feathers that fanned out towards her forehead. Truly, a celestial in disguise.

“If you will excuse me. It has been most illuminating. May your future be… opulent.”

Raphael dismissed himself with a bow. He was certain he heard the woman tut in disapproval, but he was already in pursuit; halfway across the hall to his new target.

A crowd was forming around the mysterious creature, growing with more eager souls as every second passed. Raphael lingered around the throng, trying to find an opportunity to strike. He edged his way in, closer and closer, his chest expanding, eyes glowing, as he focused his listening. Raphael needed to hear the creature’s voice, which was no doubt as angelic as her appearance.

As he approached the centre, he was bombarded by mundane talk from the vultures circling the creature; dowry proposals and failed attempts at wooing her with what sounded like children’s rhymes. Cheap tricks!

Raphael instead titled his head towards the creature in another attempt to identify her. His nose picked up the delicate scent of cloves and roses. Cloves and roses… he gasped. He searched the creature’s face again and instantly recognised the pale scar on her chin. It was minuscule, but Raphael never missed a detail. Could it be… Tav? The little mouse?

It felt like a lifetime ago since their last encounter when she so valiantly delivered the Crown of Karsus to him. Raphael’s pride and glory, his ascension. Their exchange had been brief, but Raphael would always be eternally grateful.

He often had Tav in his thoughts long after they parted, wondering how she coped; but she soon occupied less of his mind the more fires he had to put out, the more he had to focus on preparations against Zariel’s forces. This evening he would rectify his error.

Raphael beamed as he watched Tav deny one vulture after another. Such confidence, my how she’s grown. His little mouse, so furious, so brave.

Without hesitation, Raphael swept in, lightly tapping Tav on the back. Her skin felt cool against his touch, and he fought against his temptations to leave his hand resting on her shoulder.

“May I have this dance?” Raphael asked.

Tav froze at Raphael's touch, stopping her dialogue with the random mortal. She bowed in an apology to them before turning around to face Raphael. Tav’s nose twitched as she took him in, her eyes slowly lighting up in recognition. Raphael gave Tav a cheeky smile, extending a hand towards her.

There was a pause before Tav nodded, placing her hand upon his. The whispers hushed and silence filled the hall as Raphael guided her to the centre of the ballroom just in time for a new song.

Raphael whirled Tav into his arms as soon as the music began. She fit perfectly against him, like a missing puzzle piece. Tav squeezed his hand as Raphael led and she followed, never missing a beat.

“I almost didn’t recognise you without those tattered blood stained clothes, little mouse. You clean up well.”

“It’s been a long time since anyone called me that, ” Tav said, smiling fondly. “You are a sight for sore eyes. Thank you for rescuing me from those creeps.”

Raphael chuckled.

“And you are a most welcoming sight indeed. Positively ravishing. I never thought I’d see you attending an event such as this.”

“I could say the same of you. Don’t you have more important things to be doing than playing dress up?”

“Ever so perceptive. This evening I am merely here for entertainment, taking note of my stock. It pleases me to see some of my most prestigious, favoured clients doing so well for themselves.”

“Our deal is done.”

“Yes, in truth, but you are an alumni, so to speak. It’s only natural for me to check-in from time to time.”

The dance grew more intimate as they continued. The world around Raphael vanished as he stared into Tav’s eyes. It was just the two of them, how it was always meant to be. Raphael was connected to Tav, their movements fluid as they circled the dance floor. He could feel Tav’s breath on his neck, her breasts pushing against his chest, as he let the rhythms direct their next steps.

“You are a natural.” Raphael said, breaking the stillness.

“Don’t act so surprised.”

“Here I was thinking I knew everything about my favourite client.”

“Surely I won’t be your favourite forever?"

“Some have come close since we last spoke, but you still have top billing.”

Tav's cheeks unexpectedly blushed as she stared at Raphael through the mask, her eyes softening. Raphael stared back at the creature, bemused. He attempted to open his mouth in response, but found he was at a loss for words.

Instead his stomach fluttered, his own skin burned hotter than Avernus, nearly causing him to miss a step. He had to focus, now was not the time to get lost in these emotions, to think about romancing a mortal. It was a sign of weakness.

The music ended and the ballroom erupted into applause. Raphael bowed deeply and upon looking up at Tav, noticed tears in her eyes. Without warning, Tav hugged Raphael, pulling him in close.

“Now, now... this evening is not for tears but for celebration,” Raphael whispered into her ear.

She laughed before releasing Raphael from her embrace. Raphael quickly snapped his fingers, a fresh rose appearing in his hands. He bowed a final time, presenting it to Tav.

“To the hero of Baldur’s Gate!” Raphael roared.

The applause continued, getting louder and louder.

“And to the bearer of my future.” Raphael continued, in another whisper. “I must bid you adieu. Please don’t let me keep you any longer.”

“Thank you again, Raphael. I’ll make sure to pay you a visit.”

“And I’ll always be waiting, little mouse.”

Raphael promptly took his leave, vanishing into the crowd. He paused before exiting the Audience Hall, watching Tav from the shadows. She continued to hold herself high as she welcomed another dance.

Perhaps he would invite her to dinner. After all, it was long overdue.

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