#this gave me such SARAH VIBES | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

uncuredturkeybacon · 5 days ago

Text

𝚜𝚠𝚎𝚎𝚝 𝚘𝚗 𝚢𝚘𝚞 || 𝚊𝚣𝚣𝚒 𝚏𝚞𝚍𝚍 𝚡 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚛

in which azzi falls for that southern charm

uconn’s campus was buzzing with it’s usual energy. students hurled across the quad, professors paced with purpose, and athletes—well, they were their own kind of busy. but in the middle of all the noise and motion, there was you—a tall, gentle soul with broad shoulders, soft eyes, and a southern drawl so smooth it could butter toast.

you were new to storrs, having transferred in from a smaller school down in georgia. you’d joined the kinesiology program, figuring you’d stick close to the athletic world even if you weren’t playing anymore. you were polite, always holding doors open and tipping your hat (or beanie) to folks you passed. a gentlewoman in every sense—yes ma’am, no sir, let me get that for ya. that kind of vibe.

and it didn’t take a certain princess to notice.

the first time you met, it was purely by chance. azzi had been coming out of the training facility, earbuds in, hoodie up, when she bumped into a firm chest and nearly dropped her phone.

“whoa, i’m—”

“beg your pardon ma’am,” you said immediately, steadying her by the elbow, your drawl as smooth as tennessee whiskey. “didn’t mean to get in your way.”

azzi blinked up at you, a little startled. you had the kindest eyes she’d ever seen. and that accent?

“n-no worries,” she said, managing a half-smile.

you tipped your head, a soft chuckle under your breath. “y’all alright, miss?”

“yeah,” she replied, and then…stood there a second longer than she meant to. realizing, almost annoyingly, that her heartbeat was a little faster than usual.

after that, it was like fate had its own agenda.

the next week, you were in the rec center at the same time as the women’s basketball team. paige, kk, sarah and ice were on the treadmill, doing what they called “light cardio,” which really meant gossiping and people-watching.

“hey azzi,” paige whispered, nudging her. “tall drink of water at 2 o’clock.”

azzi followed her gaze—and there you were, spotting someone on the bench press, your sleeves rolled up to your elbows, drawl audible even across the gym.

“that’s southern hospitality,” sarah quipped, grinning.

kk smirked. “someone’s got a crush.”

azzi groaned, but couldn’t stop herself from glancing again. and then—of course—you caught her looking.

you smiled.

she looked away so fast she almost fell off the treadmill.

it started simple.

a door held open at the rec center.

a soft, “after you ma’am,” that made azzi’s steps falter.

at first, it was coincidence. the kind of passing moment that could’ve meant nothing—but didn’t.

the next time, it was the dining hall. you spotted her scanning for a seat and gave her a nod to the one across from you. “ain’t much open, but this here’s got a view,” you joked, gesturing to the sunlit window behind you.

azzi blinked, surprised. then smiled, just a little. “thanks.”

you didn’t crowd her. just went back to your sandwich and left space for her to settle. she sat across from you, quietly curious, not quite sure what to make of the tall southerner with the soft drawl and easy charm.

after that?

it just kept happening.

in a lecture, she dropped her pen. you picked it up without a second thought.

“don’t reckon that’s yours?” you asked, holding it out between two fingers.

azzi smiled—blushed, really—and murmured a soft, “thanks.”

she didn’t even hear the next ten minutes of class.

then came the library.

you spotted her at a table, looking frustrated. phone blacked out, charger nowhere in sight.

you strolled over with a slow, “need a lil’ juice, sugar?”

azzi looked up like you’d just offered her a miracle. “you’re a lifesaver,” she said, accepting the chord.

“happy to oblige.”

you walked away before she could say more. not because you weren’t interested—but because you knew timing mattered. and you weren’t in a rush.

you wanted her to choose to come closer.

her teammates noticed before she did.

“why don’t you just ask them out?” paige asked during practice, stretching with one eyebrow raised. “you practically melt every time they call you ma’am.”

azzi rolled her eys. “i do not melt.”

“you totally do,” kk chimed in, grinning.

“they’re like—southern royalty or something,” sarah added, tossing her a towel. "you better make a move before southern belle over there rides off into the sunset.”

azzi grumbled, but she couldn’t help smiling.

because the truth was—the little moments meant something.

eventually, it stopped being a coincidence.

you started showing up at her games—not the front row, but close enough to be seen. after one win, you were waiting outside the tunnel, hands tucked in your back pockets, leaning against the wall.

“you looked good out there,” you said, voice low. “sharp. smart. smooth.”

azzi felt her ears burn. “thanks. i’ve been working on—”

“i know. i see you.”

that pause?

from then on, you started hanging out in the quiet ways people who feel something do—without naming it yet.

you brought her a gatorade after practices.

she found herself sending you playlists late at night—“thought you might like this one.”

you left little notes in a phone app specifically made for passing notes:

“eat somthin’. practice don’t run on fumes, sugar.” “proud of you. just so you know.”

and still… neither of you said what was really on your mind.

then came the moment everything shifted.

it was raining after a late practice. azzi was walking back to her dorm alone, hood up, when headlights hit the puddles near her feet. a slow truck pulled up beside her. and then she heard it:

“need a ride, ma’am?”

she grinned even before turning. it was you, baseball cap low, window rolled down, the inside of your truck glowing warm.

“i don’t usually get in trucks with strangers,” she teased.

“then i guess we oughta stop bein’ strangers.”

azzi climbed in.

and neither of your stopped smiling the entire ride.

that weekend, you saw her again—this time on purpose. the two of you were walking back from the dining hall, laughing about something silly, when you stopped in your tracks.

“miss fudd,” you said, our voce a little lower, a little softer. “i gotta admit… i’ve been wantin’ to ask you somethin’.”

azzi raised a brow. “oh, yeah?”

you rubbed the back of your neck. “i was wonderin’ if you’d wanna go out with me sometime? nothin’ too fancy. you and me gettin’ to know each other better.”

she bit her lip to keep from grinning too hard. “you asking me out on a date?”

“yes ma’am,” you said wholeheartedly. “well more like courtin’ you, date comes later. that alright with you?”

she nodded, heart fluttering. “that’s more than alright.”

from then on, it was official. you were her gentlewoman.

you walked her to class with an umbrella when it rained, opened doors without thinking, and bought her homemade sweet tea during film review sessions. she brought you to team events where the girls immediately started calling you ‘cowboy’ and made fun of how flustered azzi got the you so much called her ‘darlin’.’

but no matter how much they teased, nothing could take away the way azzi looked at you—with that mix of affection, admiration, and a low-key awe.

because yeah, you were soft-spoken, a bit old-fashioned, and as sweet as pie.

but when it came to her? you were all in.

as it came close to the time you’d actually get to take her on a date, you’d already memorized her laugh.

it had a kind of quiet joy to it—not loud, but real. like she didn’t give it away to just anyone. so every time she let one slip because of something you said, it stuck with you. the kind of sound a person remembers.

you weren’t the type to rush things. growing up in a small georgia town taught you patience—hot to wait on good things and treat people right when they came along. and azzi fudd? she was a real good thing.

she was smart, focused, and a little shy—but sharp-witted when she got comfortable. she was quick on the court, but off it? soft eyes, slow smiles, and the kind of presence that made you wanna step up your own game just to be worthy of her time.

you’d kept it respectful, always polite. a hand offered here, a door held there, soft compliments that came wrapped in southern sweetness.

but after that night in the truck—when she climbed in out of the rain and you talked for nearly an hour with the engine idling and the window fogged—it felt like something had shifted.

you just had to take the next step.

it was after one of her morning practices. you were leaning against the wall outside the gym, a to-go cup in your hand.

she looked a little surprised when she saw you. “hey,” she said, pushing her braids back and smiling—a smile that makes your heart do that little jump. “what’re you doing here?”

you held out the cup. “sweet tea,” you said. “figured you might need a lil’ sugar after all that runnin’.”

she took it, eyes wide. “you really brought me tea?”

“would’ve brought you the moon if i thought you’d like it more.”

azzi laughed softly, shaking her head, trying to hide the way her cheeks flushed.

you took a breath. “listen, i was thinkin’… if you’re free this friday, maybe you’d let me take you out.”

azzi looked up at you, blinking once.

“i got a place outside of town. real barbecue—none of that city stuff. my buddy’s got a smoker and i got a hammock with your name on it. you won’t have to dress up, just bring your appetite and that pretty smile.”

she smiled, holding your gaze.

“you’re finally asking me out on a southern date,” she teased.

“yes ma’am,” you said, hand over your heart. “with all the fixin’s.”

azzi took a sip of the tea, then nodded. “okay, i’m in.”

you picked her up right on time in your old but polished-up chevy pickup with a blanket in the back and a cooler full of peach tea.

azzi wore jeans and a soft uconn hoodie, her hair tied back in a low bun. she looked comfortable, relaxed, and beautiful. you opened the door for her, naturally.

“hope you like brisket and ribs,” you said with a grin as she climbed in.

“hope you’re ready to back up all that talk,” she replied, already teasing.

the drive was short, about twenty minutes out of town, past green hills and quiet farms. you had music playing low—chris stapleton and some old-school country soul—and you caught azzi tapping her fingers to the beat more than once.

when you pulled up to your buddy’s place, the smell hit her first—wood smoke, tangy sauce, grilled corn, baked beans. your friend waved from the smoker and gave azzi a respectful nod before ducking back to work.

you set up a lists spot under a tree with a quilt, plates, and a mason jar of flowers you’d picked that morning. azzi blinked when she saw it.

“you really went all out,” she said, sitting down beside you.

“i don’t halfway anything when it comes to you,” you replied simply, handing her a plate.

you two ate slow, talked even slower. she told you about her family, her journey to uconn, how sometimes the pressure felt heavy but she carried it anyway. you listened close, nodding, never interrupting.

when she leaned back on the blanket and looked up at the sky, you did too.

“y’all get stars like this in d.c.?” you asked.

“not like this,” she whispered.

you turned your head to look at her. she was staring up, lashes catching the gold of the setting sun, her lips parted just slightly.

you couldn’t help yourself. “you’re somethin’ else, azzi.”

she glanced over, lips curving into a slow, warm smile. “you’re not so bad yourself, cowboy.”

after dinner, you walked her over to the hammock, gently swaying it with your hand.

“i ever tell you how good you look in the golden hour?” you asked.

she gave you a look—playful, skeptical, and slightly flustered. “you practice those lines?”

“no ma’am. they just fall outta me when you’re around.”

you climbed into the hammock beside her, the two of you rocking gently as the sky turned lavender.

she rested her head on your shoulder.

“you really mean all this?” she asked softly.

“i wouldn’t have asked you out if i didn’t. i don’t play with hearts, sugar.”

azzi nodded slowly. “good. ‘cause neither do i.”

that night, when you dropped her off at her dorm, she lingered by your truck a second longer than usual.

you stepped out, walked around to open her door, and tipped your hat a little. “can i walk you up?”

she smiled. “you sure know how to treat a girl.”

“that’s how i was raised.”

and as she slipped her hand into yours, you knew this was only the beginning.

the first date lit a little fire between the two of you—slow, warm, steady. nothing rushed, nothing forced. but it burned bright all the same.

after that, azzi started texting you more. sometimes early, sometimes late—little messages that made your heart jump even though they were simple.

azzi: still thinking about that brisket. you sure you ain’t a chef?

you: only cook for the folks i’m sweet on.

azzi: lucky me, huh?

you saw her more often. sometimes you’d bring her a drink after class, or wait by the gym to walk her to lunch. other times, she’d sneak away with you on a quiet evening just to sit in the bed of your truck and talk under the stars.

she liked your steadiness. the way you didn’t ask for much, but gave everything. the way you’d tip your head and say “yes ma’am” even when she was teasing you—and the way you looked at her like she was your whole world.

it was a sunday afternoon when azzi tugged you into her dorm’s common area, grinning like she had a secret.

“my mom wants to meet you,” she said, already pulling up her phone.

you blinked. “already? i ain’t even—should i change shirts?”

azzi laughed. “you’re perfect. just be you.”

a moment later, her mom’s face filled the screen. elegant, warm-eyed, and clearly curious.

“this them?” she asked with a teasing smile.

“yes ma’am,” you said before azzi could speak, standing up a little straighter. “pleasure to meet you, ma’am. heard a lot of good things.”

azzi’s mom raised a brow, clearly charmed. “well, aren’t you polite. you treat my daughter right?”

“with all the respect and sweetness she deserves.”

azzi covered her face, already blushing.

her mom laughed. “alright. you get my approval—so far. but keep that southern charm coming.”

you tipped your invisible hat with a smile. “i’ll do my best, ma’am.”

you’d been waitin’ on this one. uconn vs. south carolina. big game. sold-out crowd. and azzi had personally invited you to come.

“front row,” she’d said. “right behind the bench. i want to see you.”

you’d never missed a chance to support someone you cared about, and you sure as hell weren’t starting now.

only this time… you left the cowboy hat at home.

you showed up in a uconn hoodie and—at azzi’s request—her jersey, the one she’d handed you a couple nights before with a smirk and a soft: “looks better on you than it does on me.”

it was just big enough to fit over your frame, and it smelled like her—lavender body wash and hard work.

when she spotted you court side, leaning on the railing in her number, she stopped mid-dribble during warmups and just smiled.

a soft, quiet smile.

she balled out.

dropped 23 points, 4 threes, 6 assists. she was locked in—quick on her feet, sharp with her passes—but every now and then, when she hit a shot, her eyes flicked to the stands.

to you.

you were loud, no doubt about that. you clapped, whistled, even shouted, “that’s my girl!” once or twice. paige heard and nudged Azzi on the bench, whispering something that made her roll her eyes but blush anyway.

after the win, she jogged over to the stands, reaching up for your hand. her teammates hooted from behind her.

“awww,” kk called. “is that southern hospitality wearin’ your jersey?”

paige smirked. “y’all gonna kiss in the tunnel or keep pretending it’s casual?”

azzi just ignored them and looked up at you.

“you looked good in it,” she murmured, tugging lightly on the hem of the jersey you wore.

“you looked better playin’ in it.”

you held her hand a little longer than necessary, thumb brushing her knuckles. “you free tonight?”

“i will be.”

“good,” you said, voice low and sweet. “got some peach cobbler with your name on it.”

she bit back a grin. “you’re unbelievable.”

“nah,” you said, brushing her hair back gently with your knuckles. “i’m just fallin’ for you. that all.”

after the game, she climbed into the passenger seat like it was already her spot. she curled up in your hoodie, bare legs from her shorts.

you drove in silence for a bit. not awkward—just soft.

then she looked over at you.

“you always this gentle with people?”

“only the ones i care about,” you said, eyes still on the road.

azzi leaned over and kissed your cheek, lips soft and warm against your skin.

“you’re makin’ it really hard not to fall for you too.”

you just smiled, hand resting between you two, palm up.

she laced her fingers through yours.

your palm was warm in her hands.

she didn’t say much on the drive back—didn’t need to. her fingers never left yours, her body leaned a little closer with every turn. she didn’t let go even as you parked outside her dorm.

you turned off the truck and let the engine settle into quiet. the only light came from the dashboard glow and the faint silver of the moon pouring through the windshield.

she looked over at you, still holding your hand.

“so,” she said softly, “you said earlier you were fallin’ for me.”

you glanced over, watching the way her eyes glinted in the dark. “yes ma’am.”

“why?”

you thought for a second. then gave her the truth.

“‘cause you’re all heart,” you said. “you work hard. you look out for your teammates. you treat people with kindness. and when you smile? makes me feel like i’m doin’ somethin’ right.”

azzi bit her lip, her thumb brushing yours. “you always this sweet?”

you chuckled. “only when i mean it.”

she leaned in—slowly, like she wanted to be sure. but you didn’t move, just looked at her like she hung the stars yourself.

and when her lips met yours, soft and warm and just a little shy?

you kissed her like it was the most natural thing in the world.

because it was.

you texted her late thursday night.

you: pack a bag. no need for anything fancy. just trust me. azzi: …what are you up to? you: gonna show you a little piece of my world.

she showed up at your truck in a hoodie and jeans, duffel in hand, curious but smiling. you kissed her cheek and opened the door like always, then hit the road with nothing but good music and better company.

“where are we going?” she asked somewhere past the state line.

“georgia,” you said with a grin. “gonna meet my folks, get some real cookin’, and show you where this accent comes from.”

azzi blinked. “you’re bringing me home?”

“don’t gotta be serious if you don’t want it to be,” you said gently. “but i’d like to show you the kind of love that raised me. and maybe… what i wanna give back to you.”

she was quiet a long time after that.

then she laced her fingers through yours again and leaned her head on your shoulder.

“i’d like that.”

your mama adored her immediately.

“this one’s sharp,” she whispered to you in the kitchen. “pretty, too. don’t let her go.”

“i’m tryin’, mama.”

azzi helped your aunt shuck corn on the porch, played spades with your cousins, and kicked off her shoes to run barefoot through the backyard with your little niece after dinner.

you watched her from the porch, leaning against the rail, heart full to the brim. she was light, she was laughter, she was home.

that night, you took her out to the old field behind your family’s land. fireflies blinked in the tall grass, and the stars above were brighter than she’d ever seen.

you laid out a blanket and sat down beside her, shoulder to shoulder.

“i ever tell you how beautiful you look in moonlight?” you asked, voice barely above a whisper.

azzi smiled and looked up. “you always say that.”

“that’s ’cause it’s always true.”

she turned to you then, eyes soft.

“i’ve never felt this… seen,” she murmured. “i’m always the player. the brand. the athlete. but with you? i’m just me. and you still look at me like i’m magic.”

you reached out, brushed her cheek with the back of your hand.

“that’s ’cause you are.”

back in your childhood room, you slept on the floor, giving her the bed without question. she argued at first, of course.

“you can’t seriously sleep on the floor—”

“ma’am,” you said, giving her a mock-serious drawl, “i’ll be just fine down here. southern gentlemen don’t steal beds from ladies.”

she laughed. “you’re ridiculous.”

“only for you.”

azzi leaned over the side of the bed, kissed your forehead, and whispered, “sweet dreams, cowboy.”

coming back to campus after that weekend in georgia felt different.

you weren’t just the southern gentlewoman anymore. you were her southern gentlewoman. and though azzi didn’t go around announcing it, everyone could tell something had changed.

she smiled easier. stayed closer. even when y’all were apart, you caught her looking for you in a room, like she couldn’t quite settle unless you were nearby.

but azzi fudd wasn’t the only one who noticed you.

it was a sunny afternoon. you’d parked your truck outside the rec center and were helping the volleyball team load coolers for their weekend trip—just lending a hand like you always did. nothing to it.

that is, until one of the girls—lexi, tall, blonde, a little too flirty for her own good—leaned in a little close.

“you’re not from around here, huh?” she said, brushing her hand against yours as you passed her a bag.

“no, ma’am,” you said politely, backing up a step. “from georgia.”

“figures,” she smiled. “that accent’s dangerous. you single?”

you paused, glanced over your shoulder—and sure enough, azzi was standing a few feet away, arms crossed, expression unreadable.

“no ma’am,” you said firmly. “got someone real special.”

lexi raised an eyebrow. “shame.”

you didn’t respond. just nodded and walked away.

when you made your way to azzi, she didn’t say anything at first.

but you caught the flicker in her eyes.

“you alright?” you asked.

azzi looked at you for a moment, jaw tight. then, “do people flirt with you like that all the time?”

you blinked. “i don’t entertain any of it, az. you’re the only one i see.”

she nodded, chewing on her bottom lip.

you gently grabbed her chin, turning her head to face yours. “you wanna claim me, sugar? go on and do it.”

azzi rolled her eyes—but her cheeks flushed, and her fingers squeezed yours just a little tighter.

that weekend, you found a note stuck to your truck’s steering wheel.

it was written on a napkin, her handwriting small and neat.

"meet me in the gym tonight. 9 o’clock. bring your boots, not your hat."

you showed up like she asked, boots tapping softly against the hardwood. the lights were low, just the court lights above glowing faintly.

azzi stood at mid-court, her hoodie zipped up and her curls loose. she had a speaker set up next to her.

“you trust me?” she asked.

“always.”

she clicked her phone and music filled the space—soft, low country blues. you raised an eyebrow.

“you learnin’ my music now?” you teased.

“trying to,” she said, holding out her hand. “dance with me?”

you walked over slow, slipped your hand into hers, and pulled her in close.

azzi didn’t really know the steps, but she let you lead. you swayed together, slow and close, boots scuffing against the wood.

“thought i should do somethin’ your way for once,” she whispered.

“you didn’t have to.”

“i wanted to.”

she rested her head against your chest, and for a long time, neither of you said anything. the music, the moment, the feel of each other’s heartbeats—it was all enough.

then she looked up at you, brown eyes shining.

“i’m fallin’ for you too, you know.”

you smiled, leaned in, and kissed her slow.

“i know,” you whispered. “and i got you. always.”

the gym date stuck with you both.

after that night, azzi didn’t just smile more—she started letting you in more. into her routine, her late-night thoughts, even her insecurities.

and you were always there—solid, gentle, never pushing too hard.

which is why it surprised you both the first time you had a real disagreement.

it started simple: you’d made plans to spend the weekend together. just you and her, curled up with takeout and old westerns. but then she texted last-minute friday night.

azzi: sorry. film session ran late. then dinner with the team. rain check?

you weren’t upset at first. you knew how much her game meant to her. you always respected her grind. but by the third weekend in a row that got canceled, it stung.

when she came by after practice the next day, soaking wet from the rain, you let her in and handed her a towel—quietly. She stood in the doorway of your dorm room, eyes scanning your face.

“you mad at me?”

you shrugged, pulling the blanket off the back of your chair and folding it neatly.

“i ain’t mad,” you said. “just disappointed, i guess.”

azzi sighed. “you know how much i’ve got on my plate—”

“i do, az. that’s why i don’t ask for much. just a little time when you can spare it.”

she looked at you then, guilt flickering in her eyes. “i didn’t mean to make you feel like you weren’t important.”

you met her gaze, soft but honest. “i know you didn’t. but feelin’ forgotten and knowin’ better don’t always line up.”

the room was quiet after that. just the soft sound of rain against the windows.

then azzi crossed the room and wrapped her arms around your waist, resting her head against your chest.

“i’m sorry,” she whispered. “i never want you to feel like you’re an afterthought. you’re not. not even close.”

you wrapped your arms around her, gentle and strong. “just wanna be someone you choose. not someone who waits in the background.”

she pulled back just enough to look at you.

“you are someone i choose. every day.”

later that night, she stayed curled up in your bed while you made popcorn on your hot plate. she was wearing your flannel shirt, legs bare, hair damp from a shower. she looked so natural there—like she belonged.

“you ever think about the future?” she asked suddenly, voice low.

you turned from the counter. “what kinda future?”

she shrugged. “i don’t know. just… one that isn’t all basketball and pressure and media. one that’s quiet. like this.”

you walked over, set the popcorn down, and climbed into bed beside her, pulling the blanket up over both your legs.

“i think about it all the time,” you said. “think about us, sittin’ on a porch swing somewhere warm, dog sleepin’ on the floor, music playin’ low. you curled up with me after a game, talkin’ ‘bout nothin’. that sound right to you?”

azzi smiled, leaning into you. “yeah. that sounds real good.”

you kissed the top of her head and pulled her in close. outside, the rain kept falling—but inside? everything felt calm.

like home.

you didn’t mean to meet coach auriemma so soon—it just kind of happened.

you were helping azzi carry her gym bag out after practice one day when he caught sight of you and raised an eyebrow.

“this the southern charmer?” he asked, looking you up and down.

azzi turned red immediately. “coach.”

you tipped your hat instinctively—even though you weren’t wearing one.

“yes sir. nice to meet you.”

he smirked. “i’ve heard you’re a good influence. keep her grounded. that true?”

you smiled and looked at azzi, who looked both proud and mortified.

“try to be. she makes it easy.”

coach nodded, clearly amused. “alright. i’ll allow it.”

azzi groaned as he walked away. “he’s never gonna let that go.”

you bumped her shoulder playfully. “don’t worry. he’ll come around. just like you did.”

she rolled her eyes, but you caught the little grin she tried to hide.

there was something different about sundays with azzi.

she wasn’t the high-caliber athlete on court. she wasn’t the face of a brand or the sharp shooter the whole world knew.

she was just your girl.

messy curls spilling over your pillow. oversized hoodie—yours, of course—hanging off her shoulder. bare feet tucked under your legs while you sat on the floor of your dorm room, strumming an old guitar and humming something soft and southern.

you didn’t sing for many people, but she asked one morning with sleepy eyes and a whispered: “play something for me?”

so you did.

now it had become a thing. sundays were for homemade breakfast sandwiches, no alarms, and quiet love songs that only she got to hear.

one morning, halfway through a cover of chris stapleton’s “more of you,” azzi reached out, fingers lacing through yours mid-verse.

you didn’t stop playing, but your eyes met hers.

and in that look?

she said a thousand things she didn’t have words for yet.

there was a buzz around campus all week—uconn vs. ucla, a top-three matchup, and azzi was headlining the charge.

you could feel the electricity in the air as you stepped into the arena, dressed head to toe in her colors. this time, you didn’t wear the jersey she gave you.

you wore a hoodie she left in your truck a few weeks back—the one that smelled like her shampoo and still had her name stitched inside the collar. she never asked for it back.

you figured that was her way of letting you keep a piece of her.

she saw you the second she ran onto the court. didn’t wave. didn’t smile. but her eyes lit up—and that was enough.

azzi was locked in. dropped 28 points. hit a game-winner with three seconds on the clock.

the crowd exploded. her teammates mobbed her. but even in all that chaos, her eyes found you.

she didn’t run into the tunnel. didn’t head to the locker room right away.

she walked straight toward you.

you were leaning against the railing, hands in your pockets, smiling like she just lit up your whole damn world.

“come here,” she said.

you leaned in, resting your forearms on the rail, and she grabbed your hoodie with both hands, tugging you down slightly.

“you proud of me?” she asked.

you tilted your head. “i’m proud of you every damn day, az. tonight was just extra.”

she bit her lip—then leaned in and kissed you, right there in front of the whole student section.

“y’all seeing this?” paige shouted from the bench, laughing.

kk wolf-whistled. sarah pretended to fan herself.

azzi ignored them.

she was too busy smiling against your lips.

later that night, after the adrenaline wore off and the locker room emptied, she showed up at your dorm—hair still damp from the shower, her game jersey in one hand, a to-go container in the other.

you were sitting on your bed in a muscle tee, scrolling your phone.

she didn’t say anything. just dropped her stuff and crawled into your lap, curling against you like she belonged there.

you wrapped your arms around her waist automatically. “hey, sugar.”

she tucked her head under your chin. “i’ve been thinking,” she murmured. “about what you said. about choosing someone.”

you waited.

“i choose you too. every day. even on the hard ones.”

you kissed the top of her head, voice soft. “that right?”

she pulled back just enough to look at you. eyes serious. voice even quieter.

“i love you.”

you blinked, heart thudding slow and heavy like the strum of a bass guitar.

then you smiled—big, warm, full of that georgia sun.

“took you long enough,” you whispered. “i love you too, az.”

you kissed her then—not rushed. not frantic. just real.

and when she sighed against your mouth like she could finally breathe?

you held her even closer and whispered,

“got you now. ain’t lettin’ go.”

#paige bueckers #uconn women’s basketball #uconn wbb #azzi fudd #azzi fudd x reader #azzi35 #lesbian #wlw #ucon wbb #paige bueckers x reader #uconn #uconn huskies

268 notes · View notes

knizuu · 2 months ago

Text

I WATCHED DOG MAN !!! +Luxury AU art whoa!!💘

uhh spoilers for the movie if you haven’t watched it :]

☔️☔️☔️

AEUHGHGHGHGHGGHHGHG LIL PETEY AAAA that little f*ck gave me sm paternal emotions why is Lil Petey so cute☹️<3 his little kitten gimmicks AEIHGHGH

Alice is SUCH a good add-on, to see more of Knight and Greg’s life…but omg what do you MEAN she left Knight and Greg for a new bf and dog?? In fairness, it DOES seem like she would have time to mourn? Maybe?? BUT THE TIME SKIPS IN THE MOVIE SEEM LIKE SHE REBOUNDED SO fAST OMG/silly-oh also, is she the girl working on Mayor’s nails in the salon?? Um, SLAY

Chief is actually so funny WTH, Howrey did a FABULOUS performance voicing him!! He’s so dopey heheh he can relate to Dog Man but also is so far from him it’s perfect

TBH I think Sarah and Chief being into each other for a bit was really cute :] …and I also think it wasn’t needed one bit-I’m just really glad for the shippers because they would love to see the relationship on the big screen >U<

Yea the movie is FAST but I move faster🤠the timing was great for me!

Petey and Knight both saying “if something happens to me, _ for me-” gave me sm Deja Vu :O is it a time to say that Knight and Petey are similar to Greg in my Luxury AU too or-

Can i kiss the Mayor-

SARAH HATOFF AND ZUZU!! Never knew Zuzu had indigo/blue eyes :] it fits for my AU at least [I’m so normal about my Luxury AU]

THE. MUSIC. OH. MY-same dude for the Knuckles show and it shows/VPOS!! I barely hear spy vibes in a movie and be good so it’s refreshing for a colorful movie to implement those elements :D …also, the little Reporting for Dog Man/Doghouse Memories reminders [I think it’s those ones] throughout the movie EEEE i love when music tells a story TwT

80HD couldn’t be anymore cooler!! 🌊 I love how text appears on him >:D

…I really don’t know what to add for Dog Man because in honesty, everything about him has been said or mentioned before XD he’s still the best part of the movie hands down🤗✨

☔️☔️☔️

#Dog Man #Dog Man Luxury AU #Dogman #Dog Man AU #Dogman AU #art #my art #my art <3 #Petey the Cat #Sarah Hatoff #Chief #Lil Petey #80HD #Zuzu #AU

293 notes · View notes

whocaresstillthelouvre · 4 months ago

Text

The Gingerbread Matchmaker

Rating: Teen? If even, but I still appreciate MDNI. Pairing: No Outbreak Joel Miller x Female Reader Words Count: 4,500 Summary: You're the owner of the struggling bakery Sweet Nothing, and you're quickly running out of money—and patience. Your town's annual gingerbread house competition is your last ditch effort to save everything you've worked so hard on. Too bad you quickly discover that you're a baker—and not a contractor. Enter, Sarah Miller, offering her dad's building skills. Warnings: fluff, Hallmark Christmas movie vibes, Sarah Miller the matchmaker, I believe in a world where Joel Miller is happy, Christmas vibes, a lot of baking, not beta read

A/N: Happy holidays everybody! This idea planted in my head a few nights ago and I just had to get this out to y'all. Thank you to @saradika for the gingerbread dividers!

Masterlist

You're a whirlwind of aprons and flour-dusted hands as you flit around Sweet Nothing Bakery, your labor of love. The display before you blooms into a colorful bouquet of cupcakes, each one baked then frosted with meticulous care.

Only you, the hopeless dreamer who has always believed that one good chocolate chip cookie can instantly improve a bad day, would decide to pack up your whole life, purchase a long-closed-down bakery sight unseen, and move to a cozy suburb outside of Austin that you’ve never even visited before.

And here you are now, your eyes flickering toward the door every few minutes. You've poured everything into this place – your savings and your dreams. The bell above the door remains silent, though.

"Maybe it's just another off day," you mumble to yourself. Your wrist twists, bringing the face of your watch into view for the third time in ten minutes.

As if on cue, the door creaks open, and your heart leaps. But it's only Mr. Bowe from the music shop next door, his gaze sweeping over the cupcakes before he offers a sympathetic smile. "Just looking at all of the pretty pastries, my dear," he says.

You nod with a practiced grin that doesn't quite reach your eyes.

"Let me know if anything tempts you," you reply, already turning back to rearrange a tray of lemon cupcakes.

"Will do," Mr. Bowe assures you, though you both know he won't. He never does. With a smile and a nod, he's gone, leaving you alone again.

Damnit. This bakery was supposed to be a beginning, not an end. You can't let it crumble in your hands.

The sun begins to set as you tally the day's earnings—or lack thereof. Your palms press against your eyes when you realize the sum total barely covers the cost of ingredients. Your shoulders slump as you count and recount, you lose every time.

With a deep sigh, you flick off the lights one by one and climb the narrow staircase to your apartment.

You’ll try again tomorrow.

The morning sun pours through the bakery's front windows. You're lining up croissants in the display case when Mr. Bowe’s kind voice catches your attention.

"Have you heard about the Gingerbread House Contest?"

Your ears perk up, and you lean closer. "No, I haven't. Tell me more."

"Well, every year, Cedar Park holds the contest right in the town square. It's quite the spectacle," he explains. “It draws quite the crowd."

"Sounds fun," you muse.

"Indeed. Last year, the winner's gingerbread house was featured in the newspaper. Gave their little shop a real boost."

You straighten up.

"Maybe I should give it a shot," you say, more to yourself than Mr. Bowe.

“I’d love to see what you come up with.”

You don your apron, your sleeves rolled up to your elbows. The familiar sound of the mixer whirring calms your nervous heart. The bakery smells of ginger, cinnamon, and allspice. For the first time in weeks, you actually feel a glimmer of hope that maybe—just maybe—you’re going to be okay.

Rolling out the first batch of gingerbread, you press shapes into the dough—walls, roofs, and tiny doors.

You've got this. Or so you tell yourself, leaning against the counter with a mug of tea while you watch the oven bake your hopes and dreams.

Your hands are steady as you lay out your tools—offset spatula, rolling pin, and piping bags. You prepare yourself to transform from a baker into an architect.

Or—so you thought—your gingerbread homes begin to resemble earthquake victims, walls crumble and roofs slide. All you can do is laugh in disbelief. You mastered croissants at the age of twelve, you knew how to make macarons before you knew how to drive. How in the hell are you failing at gingerbread houses of all things?

Determined, you eye the next batch in the oven. This time, you’ll double the icing, maybe whisper sweet nothings to the dough, and cross your fingers for good luck.

You barely notice the jingle of the front door bell over the crash of another wall meeting its demise.

"Wow, looks like a gingerbread massacre in here," a sweet voice cuts through your frustration. You glance up from your baked goods ruins and spy Sarah Miller smiling at you, curiosity lighting up her face as she surveys the scene. You straighten up, self-conscious under the gaze of your guest.

"Ah, well, it's not usually this… chaotic," you offer with a sheepish grin, trying to brush off the mess littering your workspace and apron.

Your eyes meet Joel, Sarah’s handsome dad standing just behind her. Your breath catches in your throat, a common occurrence whenever you see him in your shop, standing tall and broad-shouldered, rugged with bronzed skin. His strong jawline is dusted with stubble, his full lips sit under a well-trimmed mustache, and his eyes—a warm dark brown—crinkle at the corners as he takes in the chaos of your kitchen with a slight grin.

He runs a hand through his short, dark hair. You try not to stare at his arms, muscular and tanned. You’re left speechless again by him, your eyes roaming from his work-worn hands to the easy smile playing at the corners of his mouth. He exudes strength and capability—you feel ridiculous in your current predicament—covered in flour and crumbled gingerbread buildings.

"Looks like you could use a hand," he says, his voice is a low rumble that sends a shiver through your body.

"Or maybe a bulldozer," Sarah adds.

"Maybe so," you respond, feeling the tension ease out of your body at their lighthearted banter. “What brings you in today?"

Sarah bounces on her toes, her curls bobbing. "We’re early for my piano lesson next door and I wanted to ask you about helping with my bake sale—" She glances around at your gingerbread graveyard. "Maybe we came to the wrong place?"

You laugh, running your hand across your forehead and wincing when you realize you've just dusted it with flour. "Oh no, I promise I'm usually much more competent. It's just this gingerbread house contest has me all flustered."

Joel's eyebrows raise. "The gingerbread contest? The one being held this weekend? That's a big deal around here."

"Yep. So I've heard," you sigh. "I thought it would be a great way to get some publicity for the bakery, but…" You point helplessly at the crumbled remains of your attempts.

Sarah's eyes light up. "Dad! You could help!" She turns to you, grinning. "My dad's a contractor. He builds real houses. I bet he could help you make an awesome gingerbread house!”

You blink, surprised by Sarah's suggestion. Joel rubs the back of his neck, looking a bit sheepish. "I don't know about that, baby girl. Building gingerbread houses isn't exactly building a home."

But Sarah doesn’t back down. She turns to you, her eyes sparkling with excitement. "Dad's being modest. He's amazing at building things! You should see him build LEGO!”

You look around at your kitchen, littered with the remains of your failed attempts.

“I—guess I could use the help,” you shrug, glancing over at Joel.

He hesitates, his eyes darting between you and Sarah, the internal debate playing out on his face. “I suppose I could take a look,” he sighs, a hint of a smile appearing.

“Yes!” Sarah cheers, clapping her hands together.

Relief and excitement rush through you. “Thank you,” you earnestly say. “I promise I’ll repay. Free cupcakes for life?”

He laughs a deep, warm sound. “Let’s see if I can actually help…”

Joel moves closer to inspect your gingerbread casualties, you catch the smell of his cologne—woodsy, like pine and campfires. You try to focus as he examines the graveyard of broken cookie pieces, his brow furrowing in concentration. God, he’s handsome.

"You need to think about load-bearing walls, proper supports—”

“It’s cookie dough, not concrete,” you retort with a smile.

“What if we change the shape?” Joel suggests. “Maybe something less—grand than a gigantic gingerbread mansion.”

You nod, your mind racing with possibilities of gingerbread construction.

“Ooh! I have an idea!” Sarah pipes up with excitement. “What if we made the clock tower in the town square?”

“It’s smaller, we’d need less actual structure pieces, maybe we could rely more on your decorating than building skills then?” Joel says thoughtfully.

“That’s actually… not a bad idea,” you admit, your eyes lighting up as you consider the possibilities. "I could use royal icing to make the details on the clock face," you muse.

Joel nods. "And I can help with trying to make sure it stays upright."

"Team Gingerbread!" Sarah cheers, pumping her fist in the air.

You laugh, feeling warmth spread through your chest for the first time in a quite awhile.

“So, when do we start?” Sarah asks excitedly. “Now?”

“No, baby girl,” Joel says with a chuckle. “We can’t start right now. You have your piano lesson.”

"But Dad," she whines, "this is way more important than piano!"

"How about we start tomorrow?" you suggest, glancing at Joel. "After the bakery closes? That way, I can prepare some fresh gingerbread and we can really get started."

"Sounds like a plan. What time do you close up shop?"

"Seven," you reply, trying to ignore the flutter in your chest at the thought of spending more time with him.

"Perfect," Joel says. "We'll be here."

Sarah bounces on her toes, her eyes sparkling with excitement. "Can we bring anything to help?”

“Patience,” you wink.

Joel chuckles, a sound you could get used to hearing.

“Please, pick something out to take with you,” you say gesturing to the display case.

While Joel and Sarah peruse your variety of baked goods, you take the opportunity to steal glances at him. His strong profile, the gentle way he interacts with his daughter, his broad shoulders. You shake your head, trying to escape your reverie over the handsome contractor as you bag up the treats they’ve chosen.

“A chocolate chip cookie for the little lady, and a cinnamon roll for dad,” you say, handing the bag to Sarah.

"See you tomorrow! We're gonna make the best gingerbread tower ever!" Sarah says, as they turn for the door.

“I sure hope so,” you giggle at her enthusiasm.

Joel lingers for a moment at the door, his eyes meeting yours. “See you tomorrow,” his deep voice rumbles through you as he leaves.

The next day, you're up before dawn, determined to perfect your gingerbread recipe. That, and you couldn’t stop thinking about seeing Joel again.

By mid-afternoon, you've settled on the perfect blend - a dough that's sturdy enough for construction.

As closing time nears, your stomach flutters with nerves over seeing Joel again. You're just finishing up filling the piping bags with royal icing when the bell above the door chimes.

"We're here!" Sarah's voice rings out, her curls bouncing as she practically skips into the bakery. Joel follows behind, with a soft smile as he takes in the scene.

"Wow, it smells amazing in here," he says.

You lead them to the workspace. "I've got everything laid out. Shall we get started?"

Sarah claps her hands excitedly. "Let's do this!"

Joel listens intently as you explain the pieces you’ve baked for the clock tower.

"Okay, I think I see how we can make this work," Joel says, reaching for a piece of gingerbread. "We'll start with a solid base, then build up the walls using these larger pieces as supports."

You find yourself mesmerized by Joel’s hands as he begins; strong, capable, yet incredibly gentle as he handles the gingerbread.

You blink out of your focus, remembering you have a job to do—and Joel’s daughter is right next to him.

"I'll start on the decorations," you say, reaching for a piping bag filled with white royal icing.

"What can I do?" Sarah asks looking around at all of the accoutrements needed to build the tower.

You smile at her enthusiasm. "How about you sort these candies by color? We'll need them for the details later."

And just like that, the bakery feels a little less quiet, a little less empty.

As the clock ticks later, the outline of the clock tower begins to take shape.

You catch yourself staring at Joel's strong hands as he carefully places the final support beam for the clock tower. Your eyes trail up his arms, past his broad shoulders to his handsome face—where you’re startled to find him looking right back at you, his brown eyes wide as he stares into yours.

"Earth to bakers!" Sarah's voice cuts through the moment. "Are we done for tonight?"

You shake your head, clearing your thoughts. "Yes, I think that's enough for today. Tomorrow, we finish decorating," you reply, wiping your hands on your apron.

“It looks like it’s going to hold,” Joel nods, stepping back to admire your mutual handiwork before gathering his and Sarah’s things.

“Let’s hope!” Sarah says, carefully leaning in to assess a wall.

"Same time tomorrow?" Joel asks, his hand on the door.

"Wouldn't miss it," you reply, a bit too eagerly.

With one more day to go, you lean over the bakery counter, watching as Joel meticulously positions a candy cane-striped piece atop the gingerbread clock tower, using extra tenderness as he handles the delicate candy.

“Geez Dad, I haven’t seen you handle something so gently since you built that little green alien from that show you like,” Sarah quips, perched on a stool, legs swinging, her curly hair bouncing with energy. “It’s candy, not a thousand piece LEGO set.”

You stifle a laugh as you watch Joel's serious face crack into a reluctant smile.

"If only your smart mouth could decorate," he retorts, his voice low and warm.

Sarah's eyes light up mischievously, a grin spreading across her face. "Oh! I just remembered," she exclaims, hopping down from her stool. "I promised Mr. Bowe I'd help him set up his Christmas window display today. I can't believe I almost forgot!"

You and Joel exchange skeptical glances. "Since when do you help Mr. Bowe with his window?" Joel asks, raising a suspicious eyebrow.

"Since… now?" Sarah replies, already backing towards the door. "It's important to help others, right Dad? You always say that. I'm sure you two can handle the rest of the decorating without me. I think you two make a great team! If you need me, I'll be next door!"

Before either of you can protest, Sarah darts out the door, the bell jingling in her wake.

All of a sudden, the bakery feels much smaller, much more intimate, the air sits thicker between you and Joel.

You clear your throat, reaching for a piping bag filled with white icing. "Well, I guess we should keep going," you say, your voice sounding unnaturally high.

Joel nods, his fingers skimming yours as he takes the piping bag from your hand. A jolt of electricity passes between you at the contact, and you quickly pull away, knocking over a container of sprinkles in your haste.

"Oh, shoot," you mutter, dropping to your knees to clean up the mess. Joel kneels beside you, helping to gather the scattered sprinkles.

You both reach for the same pile, your fingers brushing against each other. This time though, neither of you pulls away.

You look up, meeting Joel's, brown eyes, his intense stare searching your eyes as if he’s trying to read your thoughts.

Time stands still, the smell of cinnamon, ginger, and your bakery dissipates, now all you smell is Joel’s woodsy cologne. Finally, after watching him from afar for months, separated by the bakery display case, always getting to see the small glimpses of him with his daughter and the sensitive heart he keeps buttoned up beneath his flannel shirt, he’s so close. He takes a deep breath, leaning in, closing the distance between you. Joel’s lips meet yours, gentle and tentative at first, until he cups your cheek, and you melt into him, quietly moaning at the first taste of the cinnamon and coffee on his tongue.

Your hands find their way to his broad shoulders, sinking into his warmth, steadying yourself as he wraps his strong arms around your waist and pulls you closer.

When you finally break apart, you’re both breathless. Joel rests his forehead against yours. “I’ve wanted to do that for a long time,” he whispers.

“Me too,” you admit, feeling heat creep into your cheeks.

“I think my daughter may have had an ulterior motive in leaving us alone,” he chuckles.

You laugh softly. "She's a smart kid."

"Too smart for her own good sometimes," Joel agrees.

"We should probably get back to decorating," you say reluctantly.

Joel nods, standing and offering you his hand and pulling you up.

You stand shoulder to shoulder with Joel at the counter, Joel’s presence now a comforting warmth beside you, as you both reach for a frosted windowpane.

"Here, let me," he says, taking the delicate piece from you. He gently handles the sugar glass with a gentleness you’re now well aware of, and glues it to the clocktower.

“It looks great,” you say, closing the distance between Joel.

Joel’s eyes lock with yours, leaning in, his breath ghosting over your lips. Your chin tilts up, wanting to taste the sweetness of his lips again…

Suddenly, the bell above the door chimes loudly, shattering the moment. The two of you spring apart, both breathing heavily.

"I'm back!" Sarah's cheerful voice rings out. "Mr. Bowe says hi and—" She stops short, her eyes darting between you and her father, a knowing smirk spreading across her face.

Flustered, you take a step back, your elbow accidentally knocking against the edge of the table. The gingerbread clock tower wobbles precariously, and time seems to slow as you watch in horror.

But Joel is already in motion, lunging forward and reaching out to steady the creation. A collective sigh of relief fills the room as the gingerbread clock tower stands unscathed.

"Nice catch," you breathe out.

He offers a humble shrug, but the slight twinkle in his eye tells you he's pleased.

"Oh my god Dad! That was awesome!" Sarah chimes, rushing over to inspect the nearly-catastrophe. “Is it done? It looks amazing!”

“I think it is, except for one more piece,” you say, pulling out two surprise gingerbread cookies.

The first cookie is unmistakably Sarah. Her curly hair is captured by swirls of chocolate icing. Her bright brown eyes are recreated with the help of tiny candy pearl dots. Her wide smile is a perfect arc of white royal icing. You made sure to include her favorite part of green Chuck Taylors and stack of beaded bracelets.

Joel’s cookie is a little simpler, his stubble is recreated with finely crushed Oreos, his short, dark hair made with chocolate icing. He’s even complete with a tiny flannel shirt constructed with red and brown icing.

Two sets of brown eyes widen as they take in the miniature versions of themselves.

“These are incredible,” Joel says softly. “Really.”

“Well, you two are my most frequent customers, and I couldn’t have done all of this without your help,” you admit, smiling at Sarah.

Sarah beams, carefully picking up her cookie-self. "Can we put them on the tower? Like we're looking out the window or something?"

"That's a great idea," you nod, reaching for icing to secure the cookies in place.

As the three of you work together to position the two cookies just right, you feel contentment wash over you.

Just a few days ago, the bakery felt so empty and daunting. But now, as you watch Joel help Sarah put on her jacket before they both take one last look at the completed gingerbread tower, you feel hopeful for the future of the bakery—and the gingerbread competition tomorrow.

You’re tired—you barely slept last night, you yawn as you carefully load the gingerbread tower into your car, praying it survives the short drive to the town square.

The morning air is crisp as you step out of your car, waving at Joel and Sarah as they make their way towards you. Joel has a shy smile, his deep brown eyes lit with something akin to fondness as he approaches you.

“Ready?” he asks with a nod.

“As ready as I can be,” you sigh.

You and Joel carry your collective pride and joy across the town square with the help of Sarah leading the way to the competition area.

"This is it!" she exclaims, waggling her fingers in front of the table like a magician. You swallow nervously when you see the talent of your competitors.

"Wow, look at that castle," Sarah gasps. Joel doesn’t even look over, his focus remaining fixed on your shared creation, his brow furrowed in concentration.

"Ours is better," he states matter-of-factly.

“You’re right,” you agree with a smile.

As the judges make their rounds, you try to calm your nerves as your foot nervously taps against the pavement and you try to catch your breath. Joel seems to sense your anxiety, taking your hand in his and giving it a gentle squeeze. The warmth of his touch steadying you, silencing your self-doubt.

"Hey," he says quietly, giving your hand another reassuring squeeze. "Whatever happens, we did good."

"Thank you," you breathe out.

And then they're before you—the judges—with their scrutinizing eyes and nods of approval. You and Joel still hold hands, both of you not making an attempt to pull away. One of them leans in close, inspecting the intricate icing lattice-work that had taken you hours of painstaking focus.

"Exceptional detail," one judge comments, pointing to the two gingerbread figures of Joel and Sarah at the base of the tower.

"And the structural integrity is impressive," another judge remarks. Now, you squeeze Joel’s hand.

"Thank you," Joel says.

The judges move on. The three of you look at each other, with unspoken hopes of victory. Joel still doesn’t drop your hand.

"And now," the announcer's voice catches the crowd’s attention, "for the winners of this year's Cedar Park Gingerbread House Contest!"

A rush of adrenaline flows through your body as your heart beats against your chest. Sarah grabs your other hand, forming a chain of nervous anticipation.

"Third place goes to The Gingerbread Castle by the Carpenter family!"

You breathe out the breath you’ve been holding. Sarah bounces next to you, Joel stands still and calm next to you.

"Second place is awarded to…" the announcer pauses. "The Gingerbread Ski Lodge by the Padillas!"

Your heart pounds so hard you feel like you’re going to pass out. You try to focus on the soothing feel of Joel’s thumb stroking the back of your hand.

"And now for the grand prize winner of this year's Cedar Park Gingerbread House Contest is… The Gingerbread Clock Tower by Sweet Nothing Bakery!"

Time seems to slow down. The judge's lips move, but you can’t hear them over your heart beating. You only realize what’s happening when Sarah lets out an ear-piercing squeal and Joel's arm wraps around your waist.

Sarah jumps up and down and Joel pulls you close, planting a kiss on your cheek.

You feel like you’re floating as you walk to the stage and accept the grand prize ribbon. The crowd stares at you, cameras taking your victory photos, but all you can do is stare at Joel, a wide smile of support making his eyes disappear behind the crinkles at the sides.

As you step off the stage, you spot Mr. Bowe, who rushes over to you, his eyes twinkling with pride. “I knew you had it in you, my dear,” he says, patting your arm. “This will do wonders for you and your bakery.”

The realization hits you like a wave - you've won. Your bakery is going to be okay. More than okay, even. Tears of relief and joy prick at your eyes.

Joel notices the tears in your eyes as you rejoin him and Sarah at the table. He pulls you in for a hug. “Hey,” he says softly. "You did it. I knew you could."

You bury your face in his chest. "No, we did it," you respond, your voice muffled against the soft flannel of his shirt. "I couldn't have done this without you and Sarah."

When you pull back, you see Sarah beaming at you both, her eyes twinkling with mischief. "Does this mean we get free cupcakes for life now?" she asks cheekily.

You laugh, wiping away a stray tear. "Absolutely.”

You weave through the throng of customers, carrying a tray laden with pastries. Gone are the quiet days of just you and your empty bakery. Sweet Nothing Bakery is now the bustling heart of Cedar Park’s downtown business district. Now, instead of quiet contemplation about your’s and your bakery’s future, your business is home to a line stretching out the door and a phone ringing off the hook.

You turn the OPEN sign to CLOSED, now exhausted from being busy all day, no longer overwhelmed from the worries of a failing business.

The jingle of the bell above the door interrupts your focus on counting the profits of the day, you look up and spot a familiar face.

“Long time no see,” you smile.

“It’s been a busy week for me with the holidays coming up,” he says, looking around at the empty display cases. ”Seems like your week was busier.”

He approaches the counter, it’s only been a week since you last saw him, seeing his dark brown eyes again makes you realize how much you’ve really missed him.

"I've been baking non-stop since we won the contest. I can barely keep up with demand."

Joel's lips quirk up in a half-smile. "I noticed the line when I drove by earlier.”

“I can’t thank you enough for all of your help, I couldn’t have done it without you… or Sarah.”

He smiles before cleaning his throat.

"So," he says, a hint of nervousness sounds in his voice. "I was thinking… maybe we could celebrate our victory properly? Maybe you’d like to grab dinner sometime?”

Your heart skips a beat and you can’t stop the wide grin that spreads across your face.

“I’d love that,” you reply. "But what about Sarah?"

Joel chuckles, running a hand through his hair. "Already taken care of. My brother was quite excited to learn that I finally got the nerve up to ask the cute girl from the bakery out. I think Sarah has been filling him in about everything. I think she might have been plotting this.”

You laugh, shaking your head. “She’s tenacious.”

“Tell me about it,” he nods with a grin. “So, that’s a yes?”

“Absolutely,” you respond, hope filling your heart.

#joel miller #joel miller x reader #joel miller fic #joel miller x you #pedro pascal #pedro pascal fanfiction #joel miller tlou #tlou joel #the last of us hbo #joel the last of us #joel and sarah #joel miller christmas #joel miller x f!reader #joel miller x female reader #joel tlou

173 notes · View notes

acourtofquestions · 6 months ago

Text

Kingdom of Ash Chapter 59

Chapter; Highlights

His ears still rang with the din of battle, his breath a rasping beat echoed by Aelin.

Atop the blood-slick battlements, their allies and companions around them, Rowan wordlessly passed Aelin the waterskin. She drank deeply, then handed it to Fenrys.

An unleashing and release. That's what the battle had been for his mate.

Hasar at last looked Aelin over. "I heard you put on a show today."

Rowan braced himself.

Aelin turned from the battlefield and inclined her head. "You look as if you did, too." Indeed, Hasar's ornate armor was splattered with black blood. She'd been in the thick of it, atop her Muniqi horse, and had ridden right up to the gates. But the princess made no further comment.

Irritation, deep and nearly hidden, flashed in Aelin's eyes. Yet she didn't speak again-didn't push the princess about their next steps. She just watched the battlefield once more, chewing on her lip.

She'd barely stopped during the battle, halting only when there had been no more Valg left to kill. And in the minutes since the walls had been cleared, she'd remained quiet— distant. As if she was still climbing out of that calm, calculating place she'd descended into while fighting. She hadn't bothered to remove any of her armor. The bronze battle-crown was caked with blood, her hair matted with it.

Chaol's father had taken one look at her armor, at Rowan's, and gone white with rage.

For now. They had bigger things to consider. Things that drove his mate to gnaw on her lip. When Prince Kashin's army might arrive, if they would indeed head northward to Terrasen. If today had been enough to win them over.

"Any nearby are to run here. Those farthest out will have to flee for the forest." Rowan met Aelin's stare. Her hands began shaking.

This cannot end here, she seemed to say.

Panic—panic indeed flared in her eyes. Rowan gripped her trembling hand and squeezed.

But there was no truth or lie that might soothe her. No truth or lie to save the army on the plain.

Something had gone wrong. Something was wrong.

The battlefield stretched into the distance, healers darting amongst the felled bodies with white banners high to indicate their locations. So many. So many dead and wounded. A sea of them.

Elide reached Chaol's side just as Nesryn Faliq leaped atop her beautiful ruk, launching into a dive for the army below. No-the other ruks.

Elide laid a hand on Lord Chaol's shoulder, drawing his attention from where he watched Nesryn fly off. Blood-splattered, but his bronze eyes were clear. And full of terror.

Any message that Yrene had given Elide faded from her memory. "What's wrong?"

It was Aelin who answered, her bloodied armor strange and ancient. A vision of old. "The dam is going to break," the queen said hoarsely. "And wipe away anyone on the plain."

Oh gods. Oh gods.

Elide glanced between them, and knew the answer to her next question: What can be done?

Nothing.

Ruks took to the skies, flapping toward them, soldiers in their talons and clinging to their backs.

"Has anyone warned the healers?" Elide pointed to the white banners waving so far out into the plain. "The Healer on High?" Hafiza was down there, Yrene had said.

Silence. Then Prince Sartaq swore in his own tongue, and sprinted for his golden ruk. He was spearing for the battlefield within seconds, his shouts ringing out. Kadara dipped every few moments, and when she rose again, another small figure was in her talons. Healers. Grabbing as many of them as he could.

Elide whirled to her companions as soldiers began running for the keep, trampling corpse and injured alike. Orders went out in the language of the southern continent, and more soldiers on the battlefield leaped into action.

"What elsewhat else can we do?" Elide demanded. Aelin and Rowan only stared toward the battlefield, watching with Fenrys and Gavriel as the ruks raced to save as many as they could. Behind them, Princess Hasar paced, and Chaol and his father murmured about where they might fit everyone in the keep. Those who survived.

Elide looked at them again. Looked at all of them.

And then asked quietly, "Where is Lorcan?" None of them turned. Elide asked, louder, "Where is Lorcan?" Gavriel's tawny eyes scanned hers, confusion dancing there. "He ... he went out onto the battlefield during the fighting. I saw him just before the khagan's troops reached him."

"Where is he?" Elide's voice broke. Fenrys faced her now. Then Rowan and Aelin. Elide begged, voice breaking, "Where is Lorcan?" From their stunned silence, she knew they hadn't so much as wondered.

Elide whirled to the battlefield. To that endless stretch of fallen bodies. Soldiers fleeing. Many of the wounded being abandoned where they lay. So many bodies. So, so many soldiers down there.

"Where." No one answered. Elide pointed toward the battlefield and snarled at Gavriel, "Where did you see him join with the khagan's forces?"

"Nearly on the other side of the field," Gavriel answered, voice strained, and pointed across the plain. "I—I didn't see him after that."

"Shit," Fenrys breathed.

Rowan said to him, "Use your magic. Jump to the field, find him, and bring him back."

Relief crumpled Elide's chest.

Until Fenrys said, "I can't."

"You didn't use it once during the battle," Rowan challenged. "You should be fully primed to do it."

Fenrys blanched beneath the blood on his face, and cast pleading eyes to Elide. "I can't."

Silence fell on the battlements.

Then Rowan growled, "You won't." He pointed with a bloody finger to the battlefield.

"You'd let him die, and for what? Aelin forgave him." His tattoo scrunched as he snarled again.

"Save him."

Fenrys swallowed. But Aelin said, "Leave it, Rowan." Rowan snarled at her too. She snarled right back. "Leave it."

Some unspoken conversation passed between them, and the hope flaring in Elide's chest went out as Rowan backed down. Gave Fenrys an apologetic nod. Fenrys, looking like he was going to be sick, just faced the battlefield again.

Elide backed away a step. Then another.

Lorcan couldn't be dead.

She would know if he were dead. She would know it, in her heart, her soul, if he were gone.

He was down there. He was down there, in that army, perhaps injured and bleeding out — No one stopped her as Elide raced inside the keep. Each step limped, pain cracking through her leg, but she didn't falter as she hit the interior stairwell and plunged into the chaos.

She had made him a promise.

She had sworn him an oath, all those months ago.

I will always find you.

Soldiers and healers fled up the stairs, shoving past Elide. The shouting was near-deafening, bouncing off the ancient stones. She battled her way down, sobbing through her teeth.

I will always find you.

Pushing, elbowing, bellowing at the frantic people who ran past her, Elide fought for each step downward. Toward the gates.

People screamed, a never-ending flood surging up the stairs. Still Elide pushed her way down, losing a step here, another there. They did not even look at her, even try to clear a way as they flowed upward. It was only when Elide lost another step that she roared into the stairwell, "Clear a path for the queen!"

No one listened, so she did it again. She filled her voice with command, with every ounce of power that she'd seen the Fae males use to intimidate their opponents. "Clear a path for the queen!"

This time, people pressed against the walls.

Elide took the small opening, and screamed her order again and again, ankle barking with every step down.

But she made it. Made it to the chaotic lower level, to the open gates teeming with soldiers. Beyond them, bodies stretched into the horizon. Warriors and healers and those bearing the wounded rushed toward any stairwell they could find.

Elide managed all of five limping steps toward the open gate before she knew it would be impossible. To cross the field, to find him on the endless plain, before that dam burst and he was swept away. Before he was gone forever.

He was not dead.

I will always find you.

Elide scanned the gates, the skies for any sign of a ruk that might carry her. But they soared to the upper levels, crawling with soldiers and healers, some even depositing their charges onto the mountain face itself. And at ground level, none would hear her cries for help.

No soldiers would stop, either.

Elide scanned the other end of the gates' entryway.

Beheld the horses being led out from their stables by frantic handlers, the beasts bucking at the panic around them as they were hauled toward the teeming ramps.

A black mare reared, her cry a sharp warning before she slashed her hooves at the handler. Lord Chaol's horse. The handler shrieked and fell back, barely grasping the reins as the horse stomped, her ears flat to her head.

Elide did not think. Did not reconsider. She limped for the horses and the stables.

She said to the frantic handler, still backing away from the half-wild horse, "I'll get her." The man, white-faced, threw her the reins.

"Good luck." Then he, too, ran.

The mare Farasha-yanked so hard on the reins that Elide was nearly hurled across the stones. But she planted her feet, leg screaming, and said to the horse, "I have need of you, fierce-heart." She met Farasha's dark, raging eyes. "I have need of you." Her voice broke.

"Please."

And gods above, that horse stilled. Blinked.

Horses and handlers streamed past them, but Elide held firm. Waited until Farasha lowered her head, as if in permission.

The stirrups were low enough thanks to Lord Chaol's long legs that Elide could reach them. She still bit down on her shout as her weight settled on her bad ankle, as she pushed, and heaved herself into Farasha's fine saddle. A small mercy, that they had not even had time to unsaddle the horses after battle. A set of what seemed to be braces hung from its sides, surely to keep Lord Chaol stabilized, and Elide unhooked them. Any weight, anything to slow her, had to be discarded.

Elide gathered the reins. "To the battlefield, Farasha."

With a whinnying cry, Farasha plunged into the fray.

Soldiers leaped from their path, and Elide did not stop to apologize, did not stop for anyone, as she and the black mare charged toward the gates. Then through them.

And onto the plain.

#Chapter 59 #Kingdom of Ash #Sarah J. Maas #Rowan Whitethorn #Aelin Galathynius #Nesryn Faliq #Chaol Westfall #Yrene Towers #Gavriel #Princess Hasar #Lorcan Salvaterre #Elide Lochan #Fenrys Moonbeam #First Read along with me NO SPOILERS PLEASE though warning for post & tags up to KoA 59 & more reacts/notes/quotes in tags below #Aelin won’t take itUnleashing&releaseI KNEW SHE HAD A PLANdeeply waitingHis mate-Their world-Wild-Irritation-She didn’t get impressed #Out of calm-Too soft-NowNOW-Pick anywhere and go-the magic-address later-she gave an option: panic.-Her water magic daughter of Mab #can she control it?-She knows he’s alive because she still is but Valg the fear is real-Ruken yes-Refused to go-Lorcan NO DYING #the audiobook of this will destroy me-THANK YOU ELIDE GOOD QUESTION-Strange ancient-how had no one wondered #I cant/uwont-he didn’t mean it like that-leave it-why?-I will always find u-THATconversation!what was the conversation-floods-shared power #Had he not been swept into the dance of battle he might have stopped to marvel at them. — The Darghan #And those that don't make it to the ruks? the princess pressed something like panic cracking through her fierce face.#Rowan's own heart thundered. They had won the battle only for the enemy to get the final say in their victory. Morath.#It would destroy this army this shred of hope in a simple brutal blow Was it a trap all along?-It’s a trap! Did he pick Anielle for this?DA #NoNot like thisTheres nowhere for them to goThink laterRunNowPut them on the rocks anywhere.magic what if-open the gates-Oakwald #Sent by Yrene to see how Chaol fared a panting fearful question from a wife who had not heard anything of him since the battle #ELIDE KNEW #where is Lorcan going on the list of things that broke me cause Elide knew but also her heart knew cause it wouldve stopped without him #the protective LAY OFF Fenrys and then snarl and Rowan’s snarl back for Lorcan but then explanation & almost pack like mentality #I WILL FIND YOU I WILL ALWAYS FIND YOU #DO THEY HAVE MACELENA VIBES

5 notes · View notes

littlelamy · 5 months ago

Note

Let’s see Rafe x Kook!Reader – A bit of a girl next door vibe. Very kind and gentle. Maybe she sometimes hangs out with his friend group. Kelce, Topper, Sarah, throw in some random girls. But she and Rafe have never really spoken aside from just little small moments like ‘’Could you pass me the beer’’, shit like that. She keeps away from him most of the time in the group because she’s a bit intimidated by his reputation, not to mention she get’s a bit nervous because he’s attractive (and the feeling is mutual)………So a sleepover happens and everyone is paired of with who they want to sleep next too, which leaves her and Rafe being forced to share a bed. Cute little moments because they are both so awkward, maybe he suprises her with what a gentlemen he is etc – maybe reader wakes up to Rafe spooning her?? AHHHH

i hope you like it! ⭐️ you weren’t entirely sure how you ended up sharing a bed with rafe cameron, of all people.

it was supposed to be a low-key night with the group—a bonfire, some beers, and the usual laughs with kelce, topper, sarah and others. you’d always felt comfortable with them, floating on the outskirts of the friend group, friendly but never really diving too deep into their world. you were the one they’d joke around with, the one they’d ask to “pass the beer” or lend a hand when they wanted someone to talk to.

but rafe? he was different. you’d catch glimpses of him at the bonfires, maybe say a quick “hey” when you crossed paths, and that was it. you kept your distance. it wasn’t that you didn’t want to know him—he was gorgeous, after all, and part of you was more than a little curious—but there was just something intense about him. the wild reputation he had was no secret, and you’d heard enough stories to know he wasn’t exactly the “boy next door.”

still, it was hard not to notice him. rafe had this effortless charm, the kind that drew everyone’s attention, and it didn’t help that he was just… attractive. the kind of attractive that had you glancing away the moment his eyes met yours, feeling your cheeks heat up. you didn’t let yourself get too close—intimidated by that bad-boy edge, but also a bit too flustered by the way he could make your heart race with a single look.

so when the idea of crashing at kelce’s beach house came up and everyone started claiming spots for the night, you thought you’d be able to blend into the group as usual. but as it turned out, everyone paired off naturally. sarah grabbed her friend’s hand and headed off to one room, topper and kelce took the couches, and before you knew it, there was only one spot left: the bed in the guest room. and only one person left to share it with.

rafe.

he leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed as he watched you with a slow, lazy grin. “well, looks like it’s you and me,” he said, looking almost amused. “unless you’d rather take the floor.”

you swallowed, glancing around as if another option would suddenly appear. “i, uh, guess we’re sharing.”

rafe’s grin widened, and he straightened, holding the door open for you with a slight nod. “ladies first.”

you walked in, feeling the warmth of his presence behind you, and settled on one side of the bed. the room was quiet, the kind of quiet that felt almost too loud, and you tried to ignore the flutter in your stomach as he climbed into bed beside you. he stretched out, turning his head toward you with a smirk.

“you don’t have to keep to the edge, you know,” he said, a teasing edge in his voice. “i don’t bite. not unless you’re into that, anyway.”

you laughed softly, hugging your blanket a little tighter. “i’m fine. just… not used to this.”

his gaze softened slightly, and he gave a small nod, a hint of something almost gentle flashing across his face. “yeah? what, you think i’m gonna pull some crazy shit in my sleep or something?”

you shook your head, feeling your cheeks warm under his intense gaze. “no. just… you’re a little intimidating, that’s all.”

he raised an eyebrow, his smirk shifting into something a little more curious. “me? intimidating?” he chuckled, shaking his head as he looked away. “nah. but i get it. guess i’ve got a bit of a reputation, huh?”

you let out a nervous laugh, nodding slightly. “something like that…”

the bed dipped as he shifted closer, his face just inches from yours now. “if i’m so intimidating, why’d you come around tonight?”

“i—I just wanted to hang out,” you stammered, feeling his eyes on you.

“uh-huh,” he murmured, smirking as he leaned in slightly. “i’ve seen you around, you know. thought you were just the shy one, keepin’ your distance.”

you hesitated, suddenly feeling like he was reading right through you. “it’s not that. i just… didn’t think you’d notice.”

he let out a low laugh, shaking his head. “sweetheart, i notice a lot more than you think.” there was a mischievous spark in his eyes as he settled back, watching you with an intensity that made your pulse race. “guess tonight’s as good a time as any to get to know each other.”

the tension between you was thick enough to cut, and as he shifted back to his side of the bed, your heart was still pounding. you lay there, wide awake and hyper-aware of his presence beside you, wondering how you’d ever get to sleep.

somehow, eventually, you drifted off.

in the middle of the night, you stirred, feeling a warmth wrapped around you. groggy and half-asleep, it took you a moment to realize rafe’s arm was snug around your waist, his body curled around yours, his chest pressed against your back.

your heart skipped as you took in the feeling of his strong, steady grip, his hand resting on your hip as if he’d done it a thousand times before. he was warm, his breath slow and soft against the back of your neck, and you felt your cheeks heat up, too stunned to move.

just as you were trying to process this, he murmured in his sleep, tightening his hold on you slightly. you felt his lips brush against your shoulder, his voice barely audible. “you okay?”

you could hardly believe he was awake, but you whispered back, “yeah… you?”

a low hum escaped him as he shifted closer, pulling you in with a lazy, sleepy strength. “pretty damn good,” he mumbled, his lips curving into a smile against your skin.

you bit your lip, trying to ignore the way your pulse quickened. his hand was warm and steady on your waist, his thumb lazily tracing circles that sent a shiver down your spine.

“didn’t know you could be such a gentleman, rafe,” you whispered, half-teasing, half-breathless.

he chuckled, his voice low and rough, thick with sleep. “i’ve got my moments.” his thumb traced another slow circle on your hip, pulling you even closer. “you’d know that if you stopped keepin’ away from me all the time.”

the words sent a thrill through you, and you felt him adjust slightly, settling into you as if he couldn’t imagine being anywhere else. you closed your eyes, letting yourself relax into his embrace, his heartbeat steady against your back.

for the first time all night, lying here in rafe’s arms, you didn’t feel a single bit of nerves.

taglist: @namelesslosers @princessslutt @averyoceanblvd @iknowdatsrightbih @starkeysprincess @sixrosberg @anamiad00msday @ivysprophecy @wearemadeofstardust0 @kissrotten @rafecameroninterlude @sstargirln

#rafe obx #rafe cameron #outerbanks rafe #rafe x you #rafe outer banks #rafe fic #rafe #rafe x reader #rafe imagine #rafe cameron x reader #rafe x kook!reader #rafe cameron x kook!reader #kook!reader

289 notes · View notes

tightjeansjavi · 1 year ago

Text

⋆｡˚❆˚ ｡⋆ Tinsel ⋆｡˚❆˚ ｡⋆

A/N: all I gotta say is..WHEN IS IT MY TURN DAMMIT 🥲

joel deserves nice things™ ⸜(｡˃ ᵕ ˂ )⸝♡

~word count: 4.9k~

pairing | boyfriend! Joel Miller x f! reader

Summary: it’s Christmas and we’re all in misery, but your Texas hunk of a boyfriend makes sure that this holiday season you feel loved.

Warnings: fluff, smut, angst, mommy issues for the reader, typical holiday angst, readers mother is a bitch, mentions of smoking and consuming alcohol, unprotected piv, dom/sub vibes, fingering, daddy kink, praise kink, orgasm denial, cock warming, light ass slapping, unconditional love, Sarah and Ellie exist in this universe (Ellie is adopted) best friend! Tommy, close family vibes, soft! Joel, protective! Joel, Tommy is like a big brother to the reader, reader has no physical descriptions, there is one scene where Joel picks the reader up, no age gap, Christmas traditions, +18, minors dni! Please let me know if I missed anything!

“Hey, babe?” You chimed from the living room. Both hands on your hips as you peered up at your beautifully decorated Christmas tree. “Do you think the tree could use some more tinsel?”

Your boyfriend, Joel Miller was in the kitchen with Sarah and Tommy who were on cookie duty, while Joel was crafting together the best goddamn gingerbread house your mother would ever see in her lifetime. (You hoped)

“Here she goes again with the tinsel.” Sarah giggled, gently nudging her uncle with her elbow.

Joel gave his daughter a playful warning glare before picking up a dusting of flour between his fingers and threw it at her with a grin. “Be nice, baby girl. Y’know how her mom is with this stuff. Everythin’ has gotta be perfect.”

“I’ll be there in just a sec, honey!” He called back, brushing his flour coated hands on his apron and retreated from the kitchen while Tommy and Sarah snickered.

“I still think we should add more tinsel, Joel. Maybe more ornaments? If she sees a single bald spot on the tree—” you’re caught off guard from bare, broad arms wrapping around your waist from behind. His aquiline nose brushes the exposed bit of skin along your neckline. He inhales deeply, smelling of cinnamon, clove, and ginger with a hint of Joel.

“Baby,” he rasps warm and deep, lips pressing to your warmed skin with affectionate sweetness. “The tree is gorgeous. I don’t see any bald spots.” A gentle squeeze to your hips, followed by another peck.

“But—” your voice falls short.

You melt back into his arms the way that marshmallows do in steaming hot chocolate. Pliant in his hold, suppressing a giggle when the scratchy bits of his patchy beard gently scrape your skin.

“But nothin’, baby. How about you help frost the cookies, hm? Get your mind off this damn tinsel.” You feel his lips curve into a smile along your skin. His chuckle vibrates up his chest and through your sweater covered spine. His hands drop from your hips, settling against the curve of your back, fingertips slipping into the denim pockets.

Cheeky.

A grumbled sigh from your lips, agreement, for the time being. The topic of tinsel would be brought up again. Your hand floated upwards towards his face, fingertips ghosting the patchy spots that you loved to press hidden kisses to. A finger hooks around his jaw, pulling him downwards to meet you in a kiss.

He obliges to your silent request. His nose brushes yours eliciting a sweet giggle to pass through your parted lips. The sounds of Santa Baby drowns out in the background. White noise compared to the steady thumping of yours and Joel’s synchronized hearts.

“I’ll be bringing up the tinsel again, Joel.” You murmur through the palpable warm tension.

“I know you will, darlin’” he tuts playfully, “But shh. Less talkin’, baby. Kiss me, doll.” He all but demands. The gap between you is closed. He kisses you sweetly, squeezing your flesh below the denim fabric. You swat playfully, melting once more when his tongue swipes your lower lip, testing—

“Ain’t hearin’ much talkin’ goin’ on in there!” Tommy remarks from the opening of the kitchen. Smirk plastered.

It’s Joel’s turn to grumble. A hint of annoyance on his breath. He breaks away from the kiss begrudgingly, but not before he can whisper just for your ears to hear, “we’ll finish this later.” Shortly followed by an encouraging pat to your jean clad ass, and a nudge towards the kitchen.

“These cookies ain’t gonna frost themselves!”

“Relax, brother. We’re coming!” Joel shoots you a wink with a suggestive tilt of his chin in your direction. The simple action alone sends a wave of arousal gushing through the thin fabric of your panties. A jolt, like a bolt of lighting.

4 years of dating your Texas hunk, and the sparks were still flying.

Sarah and Tommy both give you and Joel a cheeky little grin once you appear in the kitchen. An apron is tossed in your direction. Your eyes roll playfully with a shake of your head.

Joel returns to his gingerbread house making when you realizing that there’s one more member missing. “Is Ellie still asleep?” You ask while glancing at the clock along the wall.

“Must be. I’ll go and drag her out of bed.” Joel announced. He untied his apron and laid it flat across the table. He brushed past you on his way out of the kitchen.

Ellie Miller was in fact still dead asleep when he quietly pushed open her bedroom door. “Ohh Jelly Bean.” He cooed, using her least favorite nickname purposely.

A pillow was tossed carelessly in his direction with the intent to hit him, but Joel was ready for it and ducked out of the way. “C’mon, baby girl. It’s half past 10 and we could really use your help downstairs.” Joel said while reaching for the comforter to yank back.

“Can’t the cookies frost themselves? Y’know how I feel about the holidays, Dad.” She grumbled with her face squished into her pillow.

“Mhm. I sure do. Just a buncha commercialized crap around a jolly big ole’ fat man that breaks into people's houses, steals their cookies, and leaves crap under the tree. The only cool part of Santa Claus is his reindeer.” Joel said monotonically.

“You’re forgetting the bit where Rudolph is the coolest because of—”

“His bright shinin’ red nose. See, I remember these things, kiddo. Now, please get on up and help us out. If you don’t wanna frost the cookies, then you can help me finish with the gingerbread houses. Fair deal?” Joel crossed his arms against his chest while he awaited her response.

Ellie let out a long, dramatic sigh before she slowly pulled herself up into a sitting position. “Yeah, yeah. Okay. I’ll come down and help out.” She grumbled.

“Thank you, grinchy.” He said teasingly while she shot him a playful glare. “There’s coffee downstairs too, if ya want any.”

Her nose turned upwards as she let out a disgusted sound. “Gross. Y’know how I feel about that stuff. It’s nasty. Smells like burnt shit. Don’t know how you drink that crap.” She grimaced.

“Hot chocolate?” He suggested with a warm grin.

“Now we’re talkin.’” She grinned.

Once the cookies were properly frosted, and the two gingerbread houses were fashioned, it was time for a well deserved break. Tommy volunteered to take Sarah and Ellie out sledding and then lunch while Joel stayed back to help you clean the kitchen.

Your boyfriend had his own idea of ‘cleaning’ and taking a break. You had just started the dishes when you felt his warm presence envelop and invade your senses. His strong arms were wrapped around you once more, and the tip of his broad nose was pressed into your neck, curls tickling your cheekbones.

“Have you come to help me with washing duty, baby?” You asked softly when his lips pressed an opened mouth kiss to your exposed skin. You learned very quickly early on in your relationship that Joel Miller was a lover, and a giver. He always needed to be close to you in some way.

“Mhm. I have, honey. But, I was hopin’ I could make you feel good first. I think the dishes can wait. Don’t you?” He nuzzled against you, thumbs slipping through the front pockets of your jeans.

“Joel..” you warned.

“Please, baby. I know the holiday season gets you all wound up. Let me help you relax, and then I will do the dishes and finish cleaning up here. Afterwards, you and I can settle in for a well deserved nap. How’s that sound?”

How did you get so lucky?

“You’re so good to me, baby. I suppose we can—” your words become lodged in your throat when his teeth graze your delicate skin. He nibbles playfully, knowing just how to get his girl going. His fingers toy with the button on your jeans before he pops it open.

“You’re my girl, ain’t ya? I live for makin’ you happy and feelin’ good. I love you very much, darlin.’ And I’ll be damned if this time of the year beats you down again.” He whispers while pulling down the zipper swiftly. His unoccupied hand slips under your sweater where he can feel your stomach clench inwards, the quickness of your breath while he splays his long, rugged fingers across your skin.

(If you ain’t dating a proper cowboy yet, then what the hell are you doin?’)

You allow yourself to indulge and melt into his grasp when his hand slips beneath the confines of your jeans, and below your panties. His broad fingers stroke gently between your folds, gathering up the slickness that has pooled there from this morning’s earlier interaction.

“Talkin’ of tinsel really gotcha goin,’ huh baby? Or was it the way that your handsome boyfriend was talkin’ to ya? Is that what got your pretty little pussy drippin?’” He purrs and your knees nearly buckle. Your Joel has never been shied away from dirty talk, and he knows how much you love it when filth drips from between his perfect lips.

You laugh, and it’s music to his ears whenever you let your guard down around him. Your head falls back ceremoniously against his shoulder, admiring his side profile through fluttered lashes. “It definitely wasn’t the damn tinsel, that’s for sure.”

“Thought so.” He mused with a rumbling deep chuckle. He’s acutely aware of your budding desperation taking the front and center stage when your hips buck upwards into his palm. “Someone’s a bit eager, hm? Want me to stretch this pretty pussy apart with my fingers, baby? S’that what my sweet girl wants?”

“Mhmm.” Is really all you’re able to get out because your mind is swirling, intoxicated with your boyfriend, and his goddamn hands that know how to play you to ruin. A flush rises to your cheeks, skin burning red hot like embers in a fire when his lips ghost the shell of your ear, sending a warm chill down every vertebrae in your spine.

“Can’t hear ya, honeybun. Gonna need ya to speak up for me.” His fingers dip down lower, teasing your tight wet hole that pulses around nothing, feeling empty and neglected thus far. His teeth bite down on your lobe, tugging it down playfully and elicit a desperate little mewl to slip past your lips.

“Fingers, daddy. Now. Please.” Your requests come out scrambled, misconstrued, but audible nonetheless. He seems pleased enough with your response and slowly sinks in two of his thick digits; ring and middle knuckle deep inside of your pulsing cunt. His hand encasing your entire mound while his thumb finds your clit with ease, curling his fingers inwards in a ‘come hither’ motion.

“Fuuck.” You moaned, wanton, depraved, love drunk on your Texas hunk.

His non-dominant hand that was presently resting along your stomach drops down. It takes him all of 5 seconds to tug your jeans down over your ass and thighs, exposing your bare skin to the room temperature air. His hand massages your supple flesh, curving against your spine before pulling back and returning with one firm smack to your left cheek that echoes through the expanse of the kitchen. “‘Atta girl.” He praises you lovingly, massaging the irritated skin before he delivers another smack, harder this time. It’s just enough to send you jolting forward into his hand, crying out his name.

The muscles in his bicep flex under the natural light flooding in through the kitchen windows. His fingers pump in and out, in and out. The mixed sounds of your pleasure, and your cunt squelching around his fingers sends blood flowing southwards to his hardening cock. You feel the press of him against your lower back when you reach around, fingers blindly searching till they find their home against the bulge in his jeans.

He grunts, lower lip taken harshly between his teeth, the speed of his wrist movements increase when you stroke him through the tight confines. You can feel all of him through the fabric, and you’re prideful that his desperately hard cock is just for you.

“Gonna fuck yourself against my fingers, baby? Gonna use me to get yourself off?” He questions hastily, breath shuddering when he finds himself grinding his hips in your hand with a need to satiate the building friction.

“Yes, daddy.” You whimper, mouth falling open in an ‘o’ shape when his fingers kiss that spongy spot that has you seeing stars. You’re so close, nearly at the edge when his fingers slip out, leaving you abandoned before his bending down and hoisting you over his shoulder like a rag doll.

His steps are calculated and precise carrying you up the stairs to your shared bedroom. He tosses you on the bed in a playful manner, lips finding yours in a chaste kiss while his hands tug your jeans down completely, followed by your panties. “Couldn’t wait any longer to be inside ya, baby” his words fall like whispers against your lips. You reach for his belt, undoing it with that sweet giggle that he loves so much.

He licks into your mouth like a man starved when you finally release him from his confines. His cock springs free, slapping against his stomach. His lips detach, a string of saliva connecting you to him before he plops down beside you on his back.

“We don’t even need to fuck, honey. Jus’ wanna be inside ya. Take a nap with my cock keepin’ you stuffed full.” He’s vulgar, greedy when he reaches for you. You melt like putty, sticky and sweet, and dripping.

“I love keeping your cock warm, daddy. Almost as much as I love it when you send me to a new dimension.” You murmur, settling against his chest. Your hand reaches down between your bodies, grasping his length and guiding it to your opening. A combined sweet sigh when he eases himself inside of you.

“So fuckin’ perfect for me. Warm, wet, huggin’ me s’tight.” He sounds drunk now too. His grin is lazily, placid when your eyes meet in a loving gaze. His hips shift beneath you, bottoming out, filling, stretching, while you pull him in.

His chin dips down, capturing your lips once more. It’s probably one of his favorite things to do, kissing you. Lips that he believes were made for him. A peck to your nose follows, teeth nibbling, giggles, sweet sounds.

“Joel?” You ask through the domestic calmness that shelters you both.

“Mhmm?” He rumbles, words rolling slowly against his tongue.

“I love you.”

His arms shift to wrap around you, holding you close. Heartbeats entwined. “I love you too, baby doll. And no matter what happens this Christmas, you’re perfect to me. No matter what your mother thinks, or says, you’re perfect.”

“Did you knit these ghastly things yourself?” Your mother criticizes the sweaters you knitted for yourself, Joel, Tommy, Ellie, and Sarah. It was your first big knitting project. A daunting task at first, but the old ladies at the senior center you volunteered at were both charming, and helpful.

“Yes, mother. I knitted them myself.” Her words hurt, but that’s what champagne spritzers are for. You take a hefty sip from your champagne flute.

“Well, the pattern is all wrong, dear.” She drops the sleeve of your sweater with a sigh. “Your home looks lovely, by the way, but your tree could use more tinsel. I noticed five bald spots when I first walked in.” She has no idea how many hours you spent decorating the tree in the living room, the mantles, outside in the front yard. You worked tirelessly with your family, and she still had the audacity to say something negative about it.

You fake a smile, catching a glance from your Texas hunk who is preoccupied in the kitchen with making sure that dinner is absolutely perfect.

“Thank you for the compliment, mother. Can I get you more champagne?” You ask, hoping that you can just take a breather finally.

“Oh, thank you dear, that would be lovely. Where’s that boyfriend of yours, Joe?” She waved her wrist carelessly, bracelets chiming in your ears. Even after four years, your mother still didn’t call your boyfriend by his real name.

“His name is Joel, mother. And he’s in the kitchen with his brother who is helping him with dinner.” You respond flatly.

“Joe. Joel, what’s the difference?” She doesn’t get it. She never does, and never will.

“Mother, it’s rude. He’s my boyfriend of almost five years, and you can’t even bother to remember his name?” You’re on the edge of snapping. It's not fair that your mother thinks that just because her husband divorced her that she gets to make everyone close to her miserable too.

“He’s still your boyfriend? Well, by now I surely would think that you’d be engaged and married. Who in their right mind plays house with a man for almost five years? Dear, have I taught you nothing?”

Tears prick the corner of your eyes from the blow of her words. You and Joel never felt like you needed to get married. It was just a piece of paper, shared finances, social status that neither of you cared for. You loved each other, you loved Sarah and Ellie, and viewed Tommy like a brother. Wasn’t that enough?

“Excuse me, mother, while I go top off your glass.”

She doesn’t see the glassy look in your eyes when you snatch the flute from her. Your footsteps carry you directly to the kitchen. For a brief moment you think about tossing the glass into the sink and letting the crystal shatter, but you opt to set it down on the counter.

Joel and Tommy are watching you closely from a distance. You’re visibly upset, and no fake smile can hide that.

I just need a breather.

The air is chilly, and the sky is clear with twinkling stars. Your tears glisten under the Christmas lights hanging above the front step when you hear the front door open and close. You move quickly to douse out the lit cigarette that is pursed between your painted lips, feeling a twinge of shame from a habit you couldn’t quite break.

“You don’t gotta hide that on my account, sweetheart.” Tommy said softly with his hands shoved in his jean pockets.

“I just..needed something to take the edge off.” You know that there’s no reason to explain yourself to him, or anyone for that matter. Tommy’s been your best friend for years, and he was the one that introduced you to Joel in the first place.

“I get it. Family can be real assholes sometimes, huh? It’s like that one scene in National Lampoon’s where the wife says, “it’s Christmas and we’re all in misery.” He chuckles.

“Yeah, and the misery is my mother.” You scoff and offer him your cigarette.

“Ah. What did she have to say this time around?” He asks while taking the cigarette between your fingers and bringing it against his lips.

“What didn’t she have to say?” You stifled a bitter laugh. “Five bald spots on the tree. The sweaters I knitted are ghastly, and she refuses to call Joel by his real name. Oh, and the cherry on top? She thinks I’m naive for ‘playing house with a man who isn’t even my husband.’”

“Bald spots? Where? The sweaters you made us are adorable, and what a bitch. I swear, that woman grows more callous every year. Who cares if you and Joel aren’t married? What’s it any of her business to do in your private life? You’re happy, aren’t you? She’s jus’ bein’ bitter cus’ you got a man that loves you unconditionally, and her husband left her.” Tommy finishes off what is left of the cigarette before he douses it out with the toe of his boot.

More tears begin to freely fall when you begin to fold in on yourself. “I love that man so fucking much, Tommy. He makes me so unbelievably happy and I just wish she could support me. To be my mother for once in her goddamn life and not this jealous..entity.” You sniffled.

“Oh, honey, it’s Christmas time and tears are not allowed!” Tommy attempted to joke, but when he saw just how upset you were, he switched gears and wrapped you up in his arms. “She’ll never understand, unfortunately. But that’s her loss. She could be real happy for you, and Joel, if she wanted to. But jealous people miss out on those happy moments I’m afraid. She refuses to be happy, and that ain’t have anythin’ to do with you, sweet pea.” He reassured you.

What Tommy really wanted to tell you, but couldn’t say, was that soon enough he’d be your brother in law, and your Texas hunk was going to ask you to marry him, to be his wife, at the stroke of midnight tonight when all the guests would retire home.

“You’re right, Tommy. You’re absolutely right. She’s choosing to be unhappy for me. That’s her choice, not mine. And you know what? Fuck her. She doesn’t get to hold this over me. I’m happy, and I refuse to let her ruin that for me.” You hug him back tightly.

“‘Atta girl. Now, let’s get back inside before my brother starts worryin’ more than he already has. I’ll entertain your mother so that you can have a break. How’s that sound?”

“Really? You’ll do that for me? Thank you, Tommy. I appreciate it.”

“Anytime, sweetheart. I’ll get her all liquored up.” He jokes with a playful wink.

Your lips peck his cheek in a non-romantic gesture. Tommy has always been your rock.

Dinner surprisingly runs smoothly, and you no longer have to deal with your mother because Tommy is talking up a storm with her, and she actually..smiles? Maybe it was just the champs.

Your Texas hunk is seated beside you with his hand resting along your thigh underneath the table. His thumb is rubbing reassuring circles against the silky fabric of your tights. He checks in with you between bites, silent glances, softened eyes. God, you loved this man.

Ellie, Sarah, and Joel helped you with the dishes while Tommy drove your cousin home. He had a crush on her for years, and finally grew a pair to make it known. Your mom, thankfully, went home with your aunts.

It was nearing midnight when Joel returned from upstairs after saying goodnight to the girls and wishing them sweet dreams. He found you curled up in the loveseat next to the fireplace, deep in thought with a half drunk glass of wine resting alongside the table. The rim of the glass was coated in a residue of your lipstick that had long since rubbed off.

“Is there room for me there?” He gestured to the loveseat with a small grin.

Your eyes met his in a soft gaze, and a subtle nod. And when you start to rise from the cushion, he stops you and instead lifts your thighs up gently before scooting in behind you so you’re draped across his lap comfortably.

“Are the girls asleep?” You ask as his hand rests around your hip.

“Mhm. Jus’ you and me, baby.” He replies with a swipe of his lips against your forehead. “Is everythin’ okay? You looked upset earlier..”

“Oh.” You sigh. “Yeah, everything is okay, Joel. It's just the holidays, and my mother, but I’m okay.” You reassure him while your hand drifts up towards the back of his head, threading your fingers through his hair with your nails gently scratching his scalp.

“Yeah, I reckon she had some shit to say? I’m sorry, baby doll. But remember what I said earlier? You’re perfect to me no matter what your mother thinks or says.” He murmured. His hand that wasn’t resting along your hip reaches up, his thumb brushes across your chin, eyes boring into yours with sincerity and pure love.

“I just..I hate her sometimes, and I know I shouldn’t because she’s my mother, but she’s a bitter woman, and I don’t want her in my life anymore, Joel. Not when she’s like this.” You nearly croak, and his face falls. His lips curved downwards into a deep set frown. He senses your tears before they even begin to fall.

“Hey, just because she’s your mother, doesn’t mean that she has a right to be in your life, baby. It’s your life, and you get to decide who you want to be a part of it.” He can feel the weight of the small box growing heavy in his pocket. “Darlin’, I love you, and I just want my girl to be happy.” He confessed.

“You’re right. It's my life and I get to make those choices, not her. I’m sorry, baby. I don’t mean to—”

He shushes you softly. His thumb gently presses down against your lower lip before he steals a quick kiss to reassure you, and himself. “Hey, you ain’t got nothin’ to be sorry for. You’re perfect. You’re amazing. Could give less of a fuck what your bitter mother has to say about it. I love you for you, and ain’t nothin’ gonna change that.”

He pauses, swallowing the lump that is growing in his throat. He releases your hip gently before reaching into his pocket. “I know I shoulda asked you this question a long time ago, but I had to be sure that..it was perfect. All my life I’ve found myself bein’ a hopeless romantic. Always giving, never receivin’ the same kinda love I put out there. Never thought that one person could make a man’s heart feel so full, so complete till I met you. Now, you know I ain’t one for cliches, but I love you with everything my heart has to offer, and I want nothin’ more than to spend the rest of my life with you, my beautiful, sweet, unconditionally lovin’, girl.”

“Joel..are you—oh my god.” You’re in disbelief, heart thumping rapidly out of your chest when he pulls out a small, forest green velvet encased box.

“I ain’t finished yet, darlin.’” He tuts playfully. “So, will you do me the honors of becoming my wife? And as your husband, I promise to never stop lovin’ you, t’never stop supportin’ you, no matter what life throws our way?” His eyes are glassy with freshly brewed tears. He doesn’t even have the chance to open the box and reveal the ring to you before you’re throwing your arms around his neck, nearly knocking the wind from his lungs from how tightly you’re hugging him.

“Yes! Yes, I’ll marry you! Oh my god, a million times, yes!” You’re so happy you can barely contain it.

“Dontcha wanna see the ring?” He laughed warmly, wrapping his arms around you. “Ellie and Sarah helped me pick it out.”

“Aren’t you supposed to get down on one knee and all that?” You ask teasingly while you pull back from the hug and hold out your left hand.

“Oh, shit! You’re right! I’m doin’ this all wrong.” He chuckled with a shake of his head.

“No, fuck the tradition. Let’s do it our way.” You suggest and he smiles brightly, dimples peeking through. You open the box together revealing the dainty ring that had you written all over the design. An oval shaped diamond in the center, a shiny gold band, and two smaller diamonds on either side.

“It’s beautiful, Joel. You and the girls have impeccable taste.” Your heart swells when his lips press to your ring finger before he carefully slips the ring into place.

“It’s beautiful, but it doesn’t compare to the woman who’s wearing it.” He comments thoughtfully while your hands come to rest along his cheeks. His face is held tenderly while I love you’s are whispered only for yours and his ears. It’s not long before you're chasing one another’s lips. He kisses you with the same amount of passion every single time.

“Keep the sweater on, baby.” You request between kisses while his hands make quick work of tearing your thin tights open for easy access.

“I’ll buy ya a million pairs. Jus’ wanna make love to my future wife fireside without any obstructions.” His hands rest upon either side of your hips when you straddle his lap.

“And I want my future husband to sit back and watch his future wife ride his cock.” You finalize your words with a searing kiss while your fingers work open the button on his jeans. You push the material down just enough that you can pull his cock free.

“M’so fuckin’ lucky. God, I am so lucky. All my life I’ve been waitin’ for someone like you, baby.” He grunts lovingly, unconditionally when you finally sink down around him. “I can’t fuckin’ wait to grow old with you.”

Your hips roll slowly against his while he pulls you in with gentle hands. There’s no teeth clashing, or skin slapping. It’s just good ole fashioned love making by the fire. Just you and your Texas hunk.

Merry Christmas, Mr. Miller. You’re the only man in this world that deserves my heart.

banners made by the lovely @saradika 🤍

follow @tightjeansjaviupdates for fic updates and notifications!

976 notes · View notes

inthedayswhenlandswerefew · 8 months ago

Text

Where Will All The Martyrs Go [Chapter 12: Please Call Me Only If You Are Coming Home]

A/N: Only 1 chapter left!!! 🥳 Be sure to vote in our final poll, which will be pinned at the top of my blog per usual 🥰

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.

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

Chapter title is a lyric from: “Homecoming” by Green Day.

Word count: 5.8k

💜 All my writing can be found HERE! 💜

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

“What the hell do you need that for?” Cregan says to Helaena in the next aisle over, sounding alarmed. You are raiding a Kwik Stop just outside Colusa, California, following Route 20 west towards the Pacific Ocean. But when Helaena replies, her voice is perfectly soothing, lyrical, too serene for the way the world is now.

“It’s not for me. It’s just in case anyone ever finds themselves in need of one.” And this makes sense, even though you can’t see what it is she’s taken off the disorderly, ransacked shelves; Helaena is always picking up trinkets to keep stowed away in her burlap messenger bag until their utility becomes essential.

Cregan is relieved. “Oh, okay, gotcha. Whew, you almost gave me a heart attack there, Miss LaeLae…”

Ice is stretched out and dozing on the cool tile floor. Luke and Rhaena are keeping watch by the front of the store. Aegon is standing by the decommissioned Icee machine and showing Daeron which route he’s marked on his map and why.

“Why do I need to know this?” Daeron is asking.

Aegon snorts. “In case I get killed, dumbass…”

Fluttering pieces of paper hang taped to the glass doors of the empty refrigerators: Don’t go towards Sacramento; People in Santa Rosa killed my brother for his car; Andrew Lounsbury, if you see this we are headed to Aunt Sarah’s house, meet us there! Meanwhile, in your own aisle, Aemond is watching you as your fingers flit through packages of Starbursts and Jolly Ranchers and Life Savers Gummies, separating the trash from the ones that haven’t been opened yet. His expression is wary, uncertain. “What?” you ask him.

“Are you…okay?” Aemond says, low enough that no one else will hear.

Of course you aren’t; you keep walking into rooms and looking for Rio, and he’s not there. But you know what Aemond means. “Yeah. I’m okay.”

“Did I hurt you? Are you…” He steps closer, the blue of his eye gleaming with attentive, penitent concern, sins he is certain he must have committed. “Are you sore, are you bleeding at all?”

You smile, just the ghost of a curve at the edge of your lips. “No, really, I feel fine.” And in your body, this is true. There is a tension that has vanished from your muscles, a softness in your bones, not shards of glass shifting beneath skin but living things like the branches of trees, flexible, green, damp life awash within.

“I was trying to…you know…take it slow and be super gentle, but then…by the end…”

“Aemond, you did everything right.”

And he exhales all the iron-heavy dread he’s been carrying around since he woke up this morning to find you already gone—showing Aegon how to flip Bisquick pancakes as Cregan browned them in a skillet in the woodstove downstairs—and you realize how much you’ve scared him. “I’m really sorry about…” He touches his chin restlessly. “I should have asked you if you wanted me to pull out, I just got, uh…kind of…distracted.”

Your smile grows; now you can feel it in your eyes, warm and luminous. “It’s alright. I did too.”

He is hopeful. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. I wouldn’t have told you to stop. And anyway, I think we’re safe.” But of course you’ve lost track of the days, and in your dark trance of grief and Tramadol you were entirely unaware of the rhythms of your body, pangs of desire or clear ample wetness, biological cues, primal timekeeping.

“Cool,” Aemond says, now trying to sound casual. “And next time…are you thinking that I should try to…maybe…just to be sure…?”

You shrug, then tell him the first thing that comes into your mind, that flashes in your skull like lightning bugs at dusk. “I’m thinking that life is too short and too rare to put effort into preventing it.”

Aemond’s eyebrows go up, but he doesn’t seem disappointed. “So we’ll see what happens.”

“If you’re onboard.”

“I’m totally onboard. I just want to take care of you. I…” He glances down at his palms—open, clean—and then looks back up at you. “I’ve never had anything that felt right before. Not my family, not myself, nothing. But this feels right. And it’s where I want to be forever.”

“I’m not going anywhere.” And this is what everyone thought: Jace, Baela, Rio. But you make the oath anyway, a hollow promise that echoes like a windchime.

“Me either,” Aemond vows.

You turn to leave the aisle and your backpack hits the shelf, knocking something off the top and onto the tile floor, where it lands with a thump. You gasp, and people come running; but it’s only a box of Honey Buns that was stashed somewhere too high for you to see. “It’s nothing,” you assure them. “We’re all okay, no need to get excited.”

“Death by Little Debbie,” Aegon says, chuckling nervously, his heart still racing.

You pick up the box and think of Rio with abrupt, violent clarity: he’s playing with French-speaking kids on the beach outside Djibouti City, he’s drinking cans of Guinness with you under a full moon on Diego Garcia, he’s reaching out from the pier to pet finless porpoises in Chinhae, he’s bleeding to death on a floor in Winnemucca, Nevada. Your vision is blurring with tears; your throat is knotted and scalding.

“I want him back,” Aegon says softly.

“I know. I do too.” You open the box of Honey Buns and pass one to Aegon first, then distribute the rest. There are only six total. Helaena tries to give hers to Cregan, but he rips it in half so they can share; Aemond insists you take the last one. You eat it wordlessly, sugar melting into your bloodstream.

“I think I saw a minivan down the side street,” Luke says as he chews his Honey Bun, waving his binoculars with his free hand. “It’s probably out of gas like all the others, but…”

“We’ll check it out,” Aemond replies, and everyone follows him as he departs from the Kwik Stop.

It’s a green Kia Carnival with a zombie trapped inside: once a young man in a Nirvana t-shirt, now a ghoul that paws at the glass with its oozing hands and licks the windows, long animal drags of a decomposing tongue. But the fuel cap is still closed, and while the van is turned off you can see the keys dangling from the ignition.

“Think there’s any gas left in the tank?” Daeron says brightly. The Targaryen beach house, following the indirect route you must take to avoid the cities, is about 250 miles from where you are now in Colusa. That’s two weeks on foot, or as few as five hours by car.

Rhaena goes for the driver’s side door. “Let’s find out.” She yanks on the handle to discover it’s locked. Cregan uses his axe to shatter the window, and the zombie tumbles gracelessly out onto the pavement, rancid skin and necrotic muscle ripping from its bones. As it crawls towards the siren call of fresh meat, Ice barks viciously and Cregan swings his axe. The blade slices easily through the monster’s skull, and its flailing, murderous limbs go still.

Rhaena reaches through the broken window to unlock the doors, climbs into the driver’s seat, and turns the key in the ignition. There is a blessed sound: the thunder of a living engine. “Half a tank!” Rhaena cheers.

Aegon gags as he opens the passenger’s side door. “Oh, it reeks so bad…”

“We’ll roll down all the windows,” Aemond says curtly.

“There are organs on the floor! What the fuck is that, a liver?!”

Aemond gives it a cursory glance. “Looks like a spleen.”

“I don’t want to sit near a spleen! I don’t even know what a spleen does!”

“Then throw it outside somewhere!” Aemond snaps. “You’re thirty years old, you can’t clean a minivan?!”

Aegon grumbles as he uses sheets of Burger King coupons from the glovebox to toss zombie guts into the grass. Aemond wipes down the hard surfaces with antiseptic. Luke keeps watch and Daeron shoots down several zombies as they lurch out of nearby houses and towards the Kia Carnival. You ask Helaena for the box of 9mm bullets in her messenger bag and she gives it to you. You load your Beretta M9, stow the remaining bullets in your backpack, and take aim at the approaching zombies to make sure you still know how to get into the rhythm, that you can still be a killer when the circumstances require it. You are out of practice, but you’re beginning to feel more like yourself again. Aemond brought you back. They all did.

When the minivan is as clean as possible, everyone hurries inside and Rhaena drives west on Route 20 under the afternoon sun. At the intersection with Route 53, Aegon directs Rhaena to follow it south around Clear Lake, then to take Route 29 west through rolling hills that were once filled with vineyards, wineries, music, weddings, horse farms. Now the land is hushed, and wild, and dotted with silhouettes that sway drunkenly and swipe at vultures when they try to gobble tattered strips of putrid flesh that unravel from bones like the bandages of a mummy.

The Kia Carnival rides Route 175 west and then Route 101 south, where the earth turns dry and rocky and barren, reminding you of northern Nevada and piling stones of heartache in your belly. In a place called Pieta—an old 1800s railroad depot, according to a plaque mounted just off the road—Rhaena slows down to get a better look at something that doesn’t make any sense. There is a souvenir shop of rocks and gems, now long out of business, and in a shed beside the main building hangs a gruesome specimen that you can see through the open doors. It has two arms and two legs, but it’s not a zombie. Its flayed flesh is a vibrant, healthy red; parts of the thighs and chest have been carefully carved away like cuts of meat are sliced from beef cattle. It is suspended on meat hooks. It is being butchered.

Cregan notes uneasily: “That ain’t an opossum or a bison.”

“I think it’s human,” Aemond says, horrified.

“Guess we’re not stopping for the night anytime soon,” Rhaena quips, then floors the gas pedal.

One of Aegon’s mixtapes spins in the CD player. From the speakers flows Somebody To You by The Vamps.

~~~~~~~~~~

“Do you see anyone now?” Aemond asks.

Luke speaks without looking away from his binoculars. “And for the fourth time, my answer remains no.”

After a night’s rest in a cabin at Camp Liahona Redwoods in Sonoma County, you followed California State Route 1 down the coast of the Pacific Ocean until the Kia Carnival finally ran out of gas just south of Olema, a small town founded in the 1850s. A ten-mile hike has brought you to the cliff where the fabled Targaryen beach house is perched with a few hours left before sunset. The ailing daylight is golden, the wave crests glittering, gulls cawing as they swoop through the salt-lashed air. From the road that twists like a snake through the slopes of Bolinas—thick with redwoods, Douglas firs, oaks, cypresses, tall grass that whips in the wind and tufts of eucalyptus—Luke is searching the property. It is less a house than a mansion, a museum, a monument, a work of art: sharp rectangular lines and glass walls, balconies, fountains, a pool, a garden.

Cregan whistles. “A place like that has to cost a million dollars.”

“Try fifteen million,” Aemond says distractedly, and Cregan gawks at him.

“Well, from what I can see it looks safe,” Luke declares, lowering his binoculars. “No zombies.”

“You really think they’re in there?” Daeron asks eagerly. “Mom and Criston?”

“Yeah, kid,” Aegon says, squeezing Daeron’s shoulder; but his voice is morose, like he knows he has surrendered to something, a path of least resistance, a hostile planet’s gravity. “Of course they are. Let’s go say hi.”

At the end of the driveway, the five-car garage is open. There is an Alfa Romeo, a Porsche, a Ferrari, a Ducati motorcycle, and a white Chevy Tahoe, which Aemond says belongs to Criston. And there are other items of interest mounted on the walls.

“Yes!” Daeron says as he runs to a quiver full of arrows for his compound bow. Aegon lifts a golf club out of its bag and makes an imaginary putt, getting reacquainted with the feeling of his hands on the grip.

“This is an iron,” Aegon says when he catches you watching him. In the shade of the garage, he pushes his neon green plastic sunglasses up into his windswept hair. “It’s metal all the way through and gives you good control over the shot. Drivers are for long-distance, and wedges and putters don’t have enough power. But an iron is just right.”

“Are you going to teach me how to golf?”

Aegon grins, his first real smile all day. “You think you can handle it, SunChips?”

“I don’t,” you answer honestly, and he laughs.

“If you teach me how to shoot, I’ll teach you how to golf.”

“An unfair trade! My skill is useful.”

Aemond knocks on the door that connects the garage to the main house. “Mom? Criston?” There is no response; all of you wait for one, listening intently through the crashes of waves and reverberating gull shrieks. Ice begins to pace agitatedly and nudges Cregan’s hands. He looks at Aemond, half-fear and half-sympathy.

“No,” Aemond says. “No, she’s wrong.”

“She might be,” Cregan replies, steady and ever-agreeable. Helaena is wringing her small, gentle hands. Everyone is watching Aemond to see what they should do next.

He pounds on the door again, this time with a closed fist. “Mom, we’re home! Mom? Criston? It’s me! It’s Aemond!”

Still, there is no answer. Aemond tries the doorknob, and it turns unimpeded. It is unlocked. He opens the door, peeks inside, and then crosses through the threshold. The rest of you trail him like he has eight shadows, the last in the shape of a wolf.

You step into the living room: wide open windows, the ocean breeze breathing through the house. The air tastes like sand and saltwater, sun and blue skies. There are three-story glass walls that overlook the water, a staircase leading up to the next floor, pristine white couches, black end tables topped with vases full of dead flowers, grey marble floors, bejeweled golden crosses that glint cruelly in the bloody late-afternoon light, family photographs on the mantle of the fireplace. There are many pictures of Aemond, and some of Helaena and Daeron as well. You don’t see a single photo of Aegon. He notices you scanning the snapshots in the frames and looks away, ashamed.

“Mom?” Aemond calls, his voice ricocheting through the vast, open space, clinical like a hospital or a morgue. “Criston?”

“Grandpa?” Helaena says meekly. Cregan is clutching his axe and peering around vigilantly. Ice whines and paces, her strange yellow eyes glowing like flecks of gold in a stream. Rhaena tries to soothe her with ear scratches; Ice begins to howl, low long mournful sounds.

You catch Aegon’s attention when he glances at you again. “This isn’t right,” you whisper. “If they were here, they would have heard us by now.”

Aegon turns to his brother. “Hey, Aemond…”

And then there are footsteps from upstairs, slow and shambling. Everyone looks, and it appears at the top of the steps like a mirage or a night terror, like a wrathful god glaring down from Mount Olympus. Long, filthy strands of white hair hang from what is left of its scalp. Its gore-stained teeth are bared. Its eyes are cloudy like the poisoned atmosphere of another planet, one gasp enough to singe your lungs and infect your bloodstream. The snarls pour out ragged and rasping from its disintegrating vocal chords. The man was wearing a suit when he died, and the pale blue shirt is now splattered with crimson and bits of rotting flesh. The black leather shoes on its feet clop as the zombie descends the staircase with staggering, unnatural steps, its decaying arms grasping for the mortals who wait below.

Daeron says numbly: “Dad?”

Aemond’s eye is wide and dazed. Ice is growling. Helaena is screaming and fleeing towards the wall; Cregan embraces her and she clings to him. “Aemond? Buddy?” Cregan shouts. “How do you want to handle this?” And what he means is: Do you want to kill it, or should someone else? Do you need time to process what’s happened? How can we help you?

“Aemond?” you say. You touch his arm; he doesn’t react. Rhaena draws her Ruger but doesn’t shoot yet. She is looking to Aemond for permission. Luke is standing in front of Rhaena and forcing her backwards as the zombie nears the bottom of the staircase. Now you can smell it: dark wet rot, spoiled meat, blood and oily fat and organs putrefying in a threadbare patchwork of flesh.

“Dad!” Daeron wails, and he’s covering his face with his hands because he knows what this must mean for the rest of his family too.

“Aemond?!” Rhaena yells. “Aemond, what do you want us to do?!”

You reach for your M9 as the zombie’s leather shoes settle on the marble floor. This seems to shake Aemond from his paralysis.

“No,” he says. “I’ll do it.” He grabs his Glock and aims, but his finger hesitates on the trigger. And you can see the ghosts of the people who have died by his hands lurking in the crystalline blue of his remaining eye: Alys, Jace, Baela and her baby…and now Viserys Targaryen too.

In the lull, in the indecision, Aegon roars and swings his golf club. The metal head collides with the zombie’s skull. Weak corroded bone collapses; blood and brains the color of black mold leak out onto the polished marble.

“It wasn’t enough, huh?!” Aegon screams, then hits the zombie again. The corpse crumples to the floor, but Aegon isn’t done yet. “You couldn’t just fuck everything up when you were alive, you had to keep torturing us from beyond the grave, you sick bastard, you selfish prick, what is wrong with you?!” He whacks the carcass with his golf club again and again. “I hate you! I hate you! You deserved so much worse than this! We crossed an entire goddamn country, and Jace died, and Baela died, and Rio died, all so we could get back here, and now it’s all for nothing because you’ve destroyed everyone you’ve ever touched! I fucking hate you!”

Aegon strikes the zombie one last time—the skull is a pulverized soup of gore and bone fragments—and before anyone can reach for him, he has bolted up the steps to search the rest of the house. You find them in their final resting places: bones in the hallway interspersed with gold rings and a medallion of Saint Irene of Thessaloniki, bones in the shower pierced with stainless steel surgical screws from hip and knee replacements, bones in the master bedroom entangled with shreds of a bloodstained silk nightgown and long locks of auburn hair. Daeron is sobbing, and Cregan takes Helaena outside to the garden to calm down, and Aemond wanders through the rooms in shock. You don’t know what to say to him; you remember how nothing anyone said made a difference when Rio died. But Aegon is furious. He tears away from everyone and goes to his bedroom: racks full of CDs, neon green blankets, an acoustic guitar propped in one corner. Then he ravages his hiding places—inside drawers, under his mattress, on tiny shelves he carved into the walls behind golf and Green Day posters—and collects mint tins. Then he pours out the white powder inside onto his desk and arranges it into lines like contrails behind airplanes, like wagon trails across the earth.

You try to stop him. “Aegon, wait, please don’t—”

“Get the fuck out,” he hisses, and for the first time you see the cold reptilian sheen of something like hate in his eyes. “You don’t have to pretend to love me. I can be alone. I’m used to it.”

“Aegon, I’m not—”

“They’re gone. You can leave too.” Then he slams the door and locks it.

~~~~~~~~~~

While Aegon is upstairs getting high and Helaena is downstairs inventorying supplies in the massive walk-in pantry, the rest of you use shovels from the garage to bury what is left of the bodies in the backyard, unceremonious shallow graves, the soil too rocky for anything more elaborate. Rhaena uses her jagged sliver of slate to mark stones with their names and a few kind words about each of them; but Viserys’ stone is left blank. Then Rhaena returns inside to help Helaena prepare for dinner, while Daeron inspects the perimeter of the house with Cregan and Ice. Luke uses a telescope near the pool not to gaze up at the rising stars but to study the neighboring properties.

Aemond murmurs as he stands in front of the four graves: “I should have gotten here sooner. Maybe I could have saved them.”

“You still have a family,” you say, begging him to believe that there are things worth living for. “You have Aegon and Daeron and Helaena, Rhaena, Luke, Cregan. And you have me.”

Aemond stares out over the Pacific Ocean. The sky above is red and lavender, fire and dreams. “How do we get to Diego Garcia?” He is only half-joking.

“Well you just find a boat and row about 10,000 miles that way.”

He sighs and drags his trembling fingers through his hair. It has always been his job to know what happens next, and now he doesn’t. Gulls squawk and wheel in the air. His right cheek glistens with tears.

“I never saw the ocean until I joined the Navy,” you say, and Aemond looks over at you, curious but not wanting to react in the wrong way and scare you into going quiet again. He’s always mining for details of your past, and you’re endlessly evading him. But perhaps you have been too secretive. He wants to know these things because he wants to know you, and you have no idea how long you’ll be here to shed your mysteries. If a story dies with you, it dies forever.

“Really?”

“Yeah. My mother…Mama, I always called her Mama…she went to Virginia Beach a few times while I was growing up, and that was her favorite place in the world. But she never took me with her. She’d go with my aunt or my oldest brothers. So when I got to basic training on the shore of Lake Michigan, that was the closest thing to an ocean I’d ever seen, and it absolutely amazed me.”

“Lake Michigan,” Aemond repeats, trying not to sound like he’s mocking you.

You smile. “And then of course I ended up in some more impressive places. But compared to Soft Shell, Lake Michigan was a whole different planet.”

“Soft Shell?”

“Like softshell turtles. They’re one of those animals that are so ugly they’re almost cute. We have a lot of them in Kentucky. Well, we used to. Maybe people ate them all when the food ran out.”

“Soft Shell, Kentucky,” Aemond says. “What was it like? I mean…I know you left, and I know you had good reasons…but I’ve never been to Kentucky. I’ve never really been to Appalachia period.”

“It’s beautiful. You get all four seasons, and you’re out in nature all the time, and it feels old, like hardly anything has changed there in thousands of years. You feel connected to the earth. I loved the forests and the mountains. I don’t think I realized how much I loved certain things about where I’m from until I’d been gone for years. I didn’t leave because I had to get away from Kentucky. I left because I had to get away from who I was when I was there, you know? Someone lonely and helpless. But how my family was isn’t Kentucky’s fault.”

“No,” Aemond muses. “I suppose not.” You begin walking together back towards the house.

“Ready for more bad news?” Luke asks, and gestures for you and Aemond to peer through the telescope. Aemond lets you go first, and immediately you see what Luke means. There are zombies in the surrounding hills, and not just a few. There are hundreds, stumbling around aimlessly and posing no current threat; but you are not safe here.

“We don’t have enough people to defend ourselves,” Aemond says once he’s taken a look, tapping his chin in that way that he does when he’s fearful but trying to hide it.

“No, we don’t,” Luke agrees.

“And there aren’t many natural resources here to subsist on. Even the fishing prospects aren’t great without a boat or a pier.”

“Right,” Luke says.

You wonder if Aemond is thinking the same thing you are. He might not know what has to happen next, but you do.

~~~~~~~~~~

The dining room table—large enough to seat twenty—is illuminated with candles, meticulously arranged with china and silverware, and cluttered with canned soups from brands you’ve never seen before: Amy’s, Pacific Foods, Health Valley. There are cases of Perrier and San Pellegrino to drink, and bottles of Chateau Lafite Rothschild red wine. Everyone else is here except Aegon. You are just about to go find him when he comes rushing down the staircase and into the dining room. He is wearing clothes from his closet here: a salmon pink polo that emphasizes his sunburn, khaki shorts, a white puka shell necklace, Sperry Bahama sneakers. The left shoe just barely fits over the bandages still protecting his healing left leg. There are fingerprints of white powder on the front of his shirt.

“Oh, look!” he announces. “Isn’t this precious? A family dinner?”

“Aegon, please sit down,” Aemond says briskly.

“Come on, it’ll be just like old times. We have all four of us kids, and then…Rhaena, you can be my dear departed Grandpa Otto, you just have to scowl at everyone…and Luke can be Criston.”

Luke is confused. “What—?”

“No no no! Don’t worry. It’s a very easy part. All you have to do is gaze worshipfully at Aemond and talk about how brilliant he is. There’s really not much to it, and honestly you do a lot of that already. And then…” Aegon floats by you, skimming his palm down the length of your hair. Something about the weight of his hand gives you goosebumps: careless, careful, fleeting, intimate. He sighs: “My beautiful, tortured mother.”

“Aegon, sit down,” Aemond orders.

“Father!” Aegon cries out suddenly, spotting Cregan at the head of the table. Cregan looks around the dining room, baffled. “You’ve joined us! How unusual! Did your Titanic replicas spontaneously combust? Did the world end? Well, actually, it sort of did…”

“Buddy, I have no earthly clue what you’re trying to—”

“Now this is a tough part,” Aegon says forcefully. “Patriarch of the Targaryen dynasty, big shoes to fill! But don’t worry, I’m here to help. I’ll give you your lines. All you have to do is repeat after me, okay?”

Cregan studies him and does not assent.

Aegon slams both palms down onto the table. “You’re so fucking stupid, Aegon. You’re a humiliation, Aegon. Why can’t you be smart like Aemond, or sweet like Helaena, or obedient like Daeron? Why did my firstborn child turn out to be such a fucking waste?”

“I’m not going to say that,” Cregan replies quietly.

“Say it,” Aegon seethes.

Now Daeron is weeping between spoonfuls of Amy’s tortilla soup straight from the can. “I want to go home.”

“We are home,” Aemond says.

“This isn’t home anymore, Aemond,” Daeron sniffles.

Aegon is still trying to feed Cregan lines. “Have you found a wife yet, Aegon? No, of course you haven’t. You’ve got hands like a rat and a disposition to match. You’re an overgrown vermin, you’re a plague to every house you enter. Who would fuck you out of anything but greed or pity?”

“Aegon, please stop,” Aemond pleads, wincing and rubbing his forehead.

Helaena folds her arms atop the table and rests her head on them, hiding her face. Luke and Rhaena keep their eyes downcast. Daeron reaches for a bottle of red wine, but Aegon swats his hand away.

“Nope. Illegal. You’re not 21.”

“Aegon, seriously, I’m so over that joke—”

“Shut up. You can’t even get a tattoo without parental consent.”

“Our parents are dead!” Daeron shouts. “They died terrible deaths and they’re never coming back and you’re making everything worse!”

“Then get rid of me! Put me out on the street and I won’t be anyone’s problem anymore! I’ll get murdered or eaten and it’ll be the best thing that ever happened to you!”

Helaena breaks down sobbing, and before Aegon can register what’s happening Cregan scoops him up off the floor and throws him over one broad shoulder. Then Cregan lugs him upstairs as Aegon struggles and yowls and punches at Cregan’s back, all in vain. You can hear a lot of commotion and then finally Cregan reappears, sweat beading on his brow but otherwise composed.

“I tied him to his bedframe with an extension cord,” Cregan says. “I don’t think he’ll be making any more trouble this evening.”

“Thank you,” Aemond replies, defeated.

“If he’s going to be up there all night, he’ll need water and food,” you say. “And enough blankets to make sure he’s warm.” It gets chilly when the sun goes down here, as low as the 50s. You grab two bottles of Perrier off the table and stand to bring them upstairs to Aegon, but Cregan gently takes them out of your hands.

“I’ll make sure he’s well supplied, Miss Chips,” Cregan insists, and you are convinced he thinks he’s doing you a favor. He doesn’t want Aegon to have the opportunity to upset anybody further. And yet a part of you is undeniably disappointed.

Aegon has been gone for ten minutes, and you miss him already.

~~~~~~~~~~

In Aemond’s childhood bedroom, a huge, impersonal, spartan space, the very few pieces of furniture all in the same color scheme of white and navy blue, you cannot say anything to bring his family back to life, or his friends, or the possibilities of what his life might have been before the dead began to walk. But you remember what he did for you when Rio died and you were sinking in dark, numb despair, and so you take Aemond’s hands and place them on your body—skimming under your t-shirt, circling around your waist—offering yourself like a sacrifice that you both desperately need, like a shot of antivenom that will only buy you hours. He draws you into his lap, and beneath your palms and your lips and your thighs, you can feel him coming back to you, filling up with light like a horizon at dawn.

“I’m still here,” you whisper as he throws you down onto the bed, eases himself into you, carries you away like a ship coasting out into open water. I don’t ever want to be anywhere but here.

Aemond holds you after, ensnared in sweat-damp sheets and entwined fingers, and he confesses: “I knew it was possible that they might not still be alive. Logically, I knew that. But it was like I never allowed myself to feel it. And now it’s…it’s…it’s all at once and it’s too much. I can’t fathom that I’ll never see them again. But I don’t even have time to mourn. I need to figure out where we’re going next.”

“Aemond?”

His lips to your forehead, his voice a drowsy murmur: “Hm?”

“I have to tell Rio’s family what happened to him.”

He pulls back to look at you. “You want to go to Oregon?”

“What if Odessa really is safe?”

At first he is bewildered; then he begins to consider it. “Criston’s Tahoe is in the garage. If we siphon the gas left in all the vehicles, we might have enough to get us halfway there.”

“That’s a lot better than none of the way there.”

“We’ll all have to vote on it. The trip will be dangerous.”

“Everything is now.”

“Almost everything,” he teases, his hand sliding down between your legs, taking you far away again.

~~~~~~~~~~

In the morning, you find Aegon at the cliffside smoking one of his Marlboro Golds, slow meditative drags, eyes bloodshot with lack of sleep. That’s alright. He can nap in the Tahoe. Rhaena won’t need his directions for a while; you’ll stay northbound on Route 1 for 200 miles before cutting inland as you near the Oregon border.

You sit down on the sandy, shrub-strewn ground beside Aegon and wait for him to speak. It takes a while, but you don’t mind. You’ve always had patience; you’ve always been a better listener than someone who fills silences.

At last Aegon says: “I don’t want to be like this anymore.”

“Then stop.”

He smirks bitterly, glaring out into the sunrise, orange light like fire on his sunburned face. “You make reinvention sound so easy.”

“It’s not easy. But it is simple. You decide to get out, and then you do it. You don’t let anything convince you to give up or change course. The only way out is through.”

“I have a proposition.”

“I’m still not interested in fake dating you.”

He cackles. “No, it’s something else.”

“Okay. Let’s hear it.”

Now Aegon is serious. “I don’t ever want to split up again. Not in a year, not in ten years, not in twenty. Never.”

You smile as you watch the reflection of the dawn in his eyes, murky faraway blue like oceans all across the globe. “I didn’t know you thought so highly of commitment.”

“I want to take care of you until you die. I want you to take care of me until I die. And that’s as far as commitment goes with me.”

“Deal.” You offer Aegon your hand.

He shakes it. “Deal.”

Two hours later, Criston Cole’s white Chevy Tahoe is loaded high with supplies—including several of Aegon’s golf clubs and his acoustic guitar—and heading north on Route 1, a Fall Out Boy song from one of Aegon’s mixtapes blaring through the speakers:

“When Rome’s in ruins

We are the lions, free of the Colosseums

In poison places, we are antivenom

We’re the beginning of the end…”

You rest your head on Aemond’s shoulder and wait for the sapphire-and-gold Bay Area to become the misty, primordial emerald green of the Pacific Northwest.

#aemond targaryen x reader #aemond targaryen #aemond x you #aemond x y/n #aemond x reader #aemond targaryen x you #hotd fanfic #hotd fic

212 notes · View notes