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inthedayswhenlandswerefew · 2 years

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Have You No Idea That You’re In Deep? [Chapter 8: Starfall] [Series Finale]

Aemond is a fearless, enigmatic prince and the most renowned dragonrider of the Greens. You are a daughter of House Mormont and a lady-in-waiting to Princess Helaena. You can’t ignore each other, even though you probably should. In fact, you might have found a love worth killing for.

A/N: Hello all! At long last, here is the conclusion of this series. Thank you for all the love that this fic has received; I am truly thrilled beyond words to read each and every one of your thoughts, rants, outbursts, compliments, complaints, and analyses. My first idea for a story is always the ending, so I’ve had parts of this finale written in my Word Doc since before I published the first chapter. Still, it feels very surreal to have finally finished it. I hope it is worth the wait. 💜

Song inspiration: “Do I Wanna Know?” by Arctic Monkeys.

Chapter warnings: Language, violence, death and destruction, ANGST, dad!Aemond, Aegon-related chaos, prophesies for days, a tiny bit of sexual content, dragons, drama, lots of shouting, if you have not read Fire & Blood then you should know that there are SOME spoilers/allusions involving certain characters (but not that many).

Word count: 10.5k.

Link to chapter list (and all my writing): HERE.

Taglist: @crispmarshmallow @tclegane @daddysfavoritesexkitten @poohxlove @imagine-all-the-imagines @nsainmoonchild @skythighs @bratfleck @thesadvampire @yor72 @xcharlottemikaelsonx @loverandqueenofdragons @omgsuperstarg @endless-ineffabilities @devynsshitposts @vencuyot @ladylannisterxo @cranberryjulce @abcdefghi-lmnopqrstuvwxyz @liathelioness @mirandastuckinthe80s @haezen @fairaardirascenarios @darkened-writer @weepingfashionwritingplaid @signyvenetia @crossingallmine @burningcoffeetimetravel @yummycastiel @lol-im-done @lovemissyhoneybee @nomugglesallowed @witchmoon @yoshiplushie @torchbearerkyle @sweetashoneyhoney @quartzs-posts @lauraneedstochill @nctma15 @queenofshinigamis @rapoficeandfire @hinata7346 @curiouser-an-curiouser @meadowofsinfulthoughts @imjustboredso @unabashedlyswimmingtimemachine @myspotofcraziness @bregarc @mikariell95 @doingfondue @justconfusedperiod @mommyslittlewarcriminal @graykageyama @elsolario

“Goodbye, Papa,” you whisper for your daughter who cannot yet speak, your cheek pressed to Laurel’s. You wave her tiny hand as Aemond and Vhagar vanish into a horizon that’s darkening like a bruise: gold, blue, violet, black, punctuated by rising stars. Encroaching thunder growls like a dragon. Lightning flashes as raindrops begin to fall from the sky. “Goodbye. Good luck. We’ll see you again soon.”

You retreat back inside the Red Keep and accompany Helaena and the children to Alicent’s rooms. As Jaehaera and Maelor play agreeably on the floor with woodcarvings of animals—and Jaehaerys mutilates a horse figurine with a toy mallet, targeting one leg at a time—you trade with the old queen: you give her a very drowsy Laurel, and she hands you her embroidery. The pattern is a simple white watchtower, but you’re so distracted thinking about Aemond and Storm’s End that you promptly botch it and tangle the threads beyond repair.

“I’m so sorry,” you tell Alicent, mortified, showing her the rubble. “I should have known better than to try…I’m afraid I lack Helaena’s talents…”

“Don’t worry about it, dear,” Alicent says. She beams down at Laurel as she rocks her. Helaena is absorbed with embroidering a strikingly lifelike water strider. Sir Criston is ostensibly polishing his sword at the table, but in truth listening to Alicent; he studies her words and moods and gestures the same way maesters study poisons and cures. “You must be terribly preoccupied this evening.”

“I am,” you admit. There’s no point in trying to hide it. Your hands are trembling and useless.

Still gazing at Laurel—her dreamy half-closed eyes, her silver lashes, her vulnerable smallness—Alicent speaks to you in a voice that is wistful and far away. “There was once a time when Rhaenyra suggested a match to resolve the question of succession. Jace would marry Helaena, and thus our bloodlines would be knitted back together and both branches of the family spared. I refused her. I’m not even entirely sure why I did. Now I wonder if I was wrong to reject her offer. Perhaps I could have stopped this.”

“You must not blame yourself. The realm has always balked at Rhaenyra’s claim to the Iron Throne. I don’t believe anything short of her surrender could prevent war.”

“You have no idea what it was like,” Alicent says. Now she looks at you with dark eyes that glint with deep, wounded bitterness. “Watching Rhaenyra indulge every whim, flout every tradition, taste every desire, while I…while I…” She pinches her eyes shut, trying to forget. “I have been standing on this precipice since I was eighteen years old, yet I have discovered that it is something else entirely to plunge headfirst into it.”

You place your hand lightly on her forearm. From across the room, Sir Criston lays down his sword and considers approaching. “You will not face this alone.”

“Aemond says you are a woman who admires ferocity. You must think that we can win if you’ve thrown your lot in with us. Perhaps that is why you support the Greens, why you came to King’s Landing to serve us to begin with. Because you have judged us to be the victors.”

That would be perfectly logical, but it’s wrong. “I support the Greens because I love you. All of you.”

Alicent’s face breaks into a sad smile. “I’m very glad that you are Aemond’s wife. Even though I was rather horrified at first.”

“I have been known to have that effect on people.”

“You don’t know what he was like before,” Alicent says. “The only way he knew to redeem himself was through violence. I think you saved him from becoming a monster.” She returns Laurel to you. The baby is sound asleep. “You both saved him.”

Sir Criston, having sheathed his sword, wanders over to invent some pretext to converse with Alicent: something about Aegon’s new council, something about the terms sent to Rhaenyra. She is still mulling it over, this last chance at peace; yet even if she is inclined to accept the concessions—an unconditional pardon, Dragonstone for Rhaenyra and Jace, Driftmark for Luke, recognized legitimacy for Harwin Strong’s sons, places at court for Daemon’s—her husband will advise her against it. Aemond was right when he said that Rhaenyra isn’t suicidal. You aren’t so sure about Daemon.

As you depart to put Laurel to bed, you pause by Helaena and praise her embroidery. It is exactly what you have come to expect from her: intricate, gorgeous, and yet unnerving somehow. Her water strider is made of gold-and-ruby flames, and the wave it dances on is adorned with the reflection of a crescent moon. You recall what she said at King Viserys’ last dinner, so softly that hardly anyone noticed: Beware the beast beneath the boards. “Meleys in the Dragonpit,” you say. “You knew it was going to happen.”

Helaena’s reply is halting and dazed. “I can sometimes see what—pieces of it, anyway, fragments of it, like shards of glass left in the frame of a broken window—but not when or how.”

“That must be maddening.”

“Oh, it is,” she agrees, and resumes her stitching. On the floor, Jaehaerys starts dragging a screeching Maelor around by his white hair. Sir Criston separates them, then lectures Jaehaerys about the importance of princely behavior. Jaehaerys kicks him in the steel-plated shin.

“I suppose we could share grandchildren one day,” you tell Helaena. “Laurel might marry Maelor.” Otto Hightower has already suggested it, and you aren’t necessarily opposed, assuming the two grow up to be genuinely fond of each other. Maelor is a shy, benevolent sort of child, just like his mother; he’s no Jaehaerys, that’s for certain. Aemond always says the same thing about Laurel, without further explanation, without hesitation: She will be whatever she wants to be. This seems to be in blatant conflict with his self-sacrificial sense of duty, of advancement. Then again, so is his love for you.

But Helaena shakes her head, very slowly, her gaze still tangled in the threads of her embroidery. “No, she won’t,” the new queen murmurs.

You take Laurel back to her bedroom and lay her in the cradle, and you stand there for a long time with your hands on the railing. A mobile of cloth insects—a gift from Helaena—twirls lazily above your head. The room is hushed. The window looks out on Blackwater Bay, where rain falls and lightning splits the indigo sky like fractured bones; the island you and Aemond call Bearstone is visible only as an outline on the horizon that blacks out some of the stars. The only way he knew to redeem himself was through violence, Alicent had said, and that’s true, isn’t it? You wonder what Borros Baratheon’s answer will be. You wonder what kind of man will return to you if Aemond spends weeks, months, years away at war.

Beside your sleeping daughter is the dragon egg Aemond chose for her: white, silver-flecked, as large and armored as Laurel is fragile and diminutive. She often reaches for it, marvels at it, beats her little fist against it as if trying to crack the shell. The egg came from Dreamfyre’s clutch, and the Greens have already begun referring to the one-day dragon by a name that honors both its Targaryen and Mormont affiliations: Frostfyre.

You leave Laurel in the care of her wetnurses and handmaidens and sit by the fireplace in the chambers you share with Aemond, trying to lose yourself in a book about the geography of Westeros. Flamelight dances across the pages as you turn them. Your mind keeps wandering: south to Storm’s End, north to Bear Island, into the future, into the past.

There is a knock against your doorframe. Aegon leans there in gold and green, smirking, pleasantly tipsy but far from drunk. “Hi,” he says.

“Hi.”

He waltzes inside, flourishing the wine cup in his hand. “Are you utterly tormented? Are you inconsolable? Have you chewed your fingers down to the bone?”

“Not yet. But this book isn’t helping as much as I’d hoped.”

“That’s because it’s a book.”

“Perhaps I should try whores.”

Aegon cackles and throws himself down into the plush reading chair across from you. He props his boots on the footstool and crosses them one over the other. “Can you believe that this is my fourth cup of wine today? Not fourteenth. Fourth.”

“I’m very proud of you,” you say, and you mean it.

“It’s the strangest thing. I train with Sir Criston and I attend council meetings and I make my public appearances…and before I know it each day is gone. I set my cup down on tables or bannisters and then I forget all about it.” He glances to the bed, noting the dusty pale-pink remnants of the protection spells you’ve cast there. “What happens when all the bears relocate from the kingswood? What happens when Balerion runs out of teeth?”

“I’ll start pulling yours.”

He is amused, but there is something dismal about his expression as well. His face is less puffy, more serious. The reflections of flares and embers glow in his eyes. “I don’t know why you would want to protect me,” he says, remembering the night before his coronation. “If I die, Jaehaerys is next in line to the throne, but he’ll be a child for the next decade. Aemond could be regent. The task would suit him. It would please him, I believe. It is a role he was built for. The gods used entirely different bricks when they made me. Your life would be simpler without me in it.”

“Simpler, perhaps. But not better.”

He smiles; and this time it is shadowless and pure. “Where the fuck did you come from?”

“Bear Island,” you reply; and you both burst into laughter as you sit together in the crackling firelight. Outside, rain drums against the windows and the wind howls as the storm intensifies. “Also, I think Jaehaerys might be deranged.”

“Yes, well you have to watch out for firstborns, you know. They are often incorrigible.”

“Personally, I have a weakness for second sons.”

“I’ve noticed.”

“What happens if Rhaenyra won’t accept the terms?” you ask quietly, looking at Aegon. “What happens if there is war?”

“There won’t be.”

“But if there is?”

Aegon shrugs, unconcerned. “Then we’ll win. We have the support of the Westerlands and the Reach, and probably Storm’s End too. We have Sir Criston, the best swordsman in Westeros. We have Sunfyre, Dreamfyre, Tessarion, and Vhagar, who easily counts as two or three ordinary dragons put together. We have my supernaturally manipulative grandsire. We have you. And, of course, we have Aemond.”

“I fear losing him,” you confess. “I hate how much I fear it. It makes me feel pathetic. I didn’t used to be like this. But now I’m filled to the brim with dread.”

“Are you worried that he’ll march off to battle and fall into the soothing arms of some other enchanting, adulterous Northerner? That’s quite impossible, I assure you. He’s never been one inclined towards romance. What liaisons transpired before you—and there weren’t many, believe me, I judged him plenty for that—were…” He ponders how to phrase it. “More educational than impassioned.”

“No,” you say, smiling wanly. “I’m worried that he’ll come home a different man than he left. I’m worried that he’ll succumb to his blind hatred for the Blacks and be poisoned by it.”

“I don’t think that will happen. He won’t allow himself to lose his way. His love for you and the baby is too great.”

“Will you show me?” you ask, holding up your book. There is a map of Westeros on the page, mountains and rivers and borderlines carved like knife wounds in flesh. “If there is fighting, where it will happen?”

“Sure,” Aegon replies. He has attended enough council meetings to know their schemes by now. He gets up and rests his elbows on the back of your chair, hovering over you to point out the pertinent locations. He is very close; you can smell wine on him, and perfume scented like pomegranates, and soap and sun. There are ink stains on his hands. His silvery hair brushes against your cheek. “Control of the Riverlands would be essential. It is the closest thing Westeros has to a center point, and we would need it to have ready access to the surrounding regions. Its rivers carry trade goods. Its lords have many men and horses at their disposal. Its flat, fertile soil is good for feeding soldiers. And killing them.” He grins. “We would need a foothold there. Maidenpool or High Heart, perhaps. More likely Harrenhal. That’s Lord Larys Strong’s castle, conveniently.”

“It would be an uncommon sensation for him. Being useful, I mean.”

Aegon’s index finger travels around the map. “Battles would pepper the Riverlands and the parts of the Crownlands likely to support Rhaenyra. Duskendale, Rosby, Rook’s Rest. We’d stay out of the Vale. Men can’t fight on the sides of mountains. We aren’t goats.”

But your gaze has snagged somewhere else. In the belly of the Riverlands, there lies the largest lake in Westeros: vast and crystalline blue and with an island at the center known as the Isle of Faces, a legendary and unconquerable mystery that turns all sailors away with fierce winds and flocks of squawking ravens. “I’ve been there,” you say. “The God’s Eye. We stopped to swim and picnic on its shores when my family brought me south to marry Axel Hightower. It is a place of magic, of deep, ageless power. I’d like to go back someday. I’d like to try to visit the Isle of Faces.”

“Aemond can take you, when all this is over. He can land Vhagar right in the middle of that fabled, forbidden little island. And then burn it to ash if you’re unimpressed.” He plucks the book out of your hands and snaps it shut. “Now let’s desist with the geography lesson and do some gambling instead.”

You play cards for several hours—thunder booming, lightning striking ever-closer, Aegon unashamedly robbing you of your coins as you fumble along without much strategy, distracted and nervy—until you tell the king that you’re going to bed. You’re a liar. You bathe and slip into your nightgown and then sit and stare at the dying cinders in the hearth, pulsing like fireflies: garnet, jasper, carnelian, tiger’s eye. When you begin to nod off at last, your vision blurs and the pinprick infernos become distant and indistinct, like stars. They form constellations you can only decipher pieces of: a claw here, a wing there, eyes and blades and teeth. You jolt awake when you hear the bedroom door creak open. The fire rekindles with the gust of cool new air. You know exactly who it is. You recognize his footsteps.

“You’re back already—?”

His face stops you. Everything about him stops you. He’s drenched to the skin and shivering, staring at the wall. His hair is in disarray. Wet, silver twists hang loose and wild; his tie has come undone and he hasn’t even noticed. Water drips from his coat and forms reflective pools around his boots. You can see firelight dancing there. Helaena’s words whisper through your skull like cold wind: He comes home late, covered in rain.

“What?” you say, standing. “What happened?”

Aemond is silent. Lightning illuminates the room in stark, white-blue rage.

You take his hands, and he allows this but won’t look at you. Every angle of his body is wrong: his shoulders, his spine, his jaw. You’ve never seen him like this before. Perhaps nobody has. What could it be? What could it POSSIBLY be? “Did the Baratheons deny you?”

“No, they are with us. Daeron will marry Floris.”

“Then what…?”

At last, his gaze meets yours. His words are slow and heavy, so heavy. His eye—blue like clear skies, like the ocean, like veins beneath paper-thin skin—is more than just stunned. It is afraid. “Luke was there too.”

You don’t understand. “…At Storm’s End?”

“Yes.”

There’s blood on him, you realize now; not much, but enough. There’s a smudge on his right temple, a stain on his throat, flecks in his hair. “Alone?”

“Yes,” Aemond says again.

Just Luke. Not Jace, not Rhaenyra, not Rhaenys, not Daemon…just timid little Luke Strong. You take a step back, dropping his hands. Your stomach plummets; cold sweat slicks across your pores. You are suddenly terrified to know more. You don’t want to ask, but you have to. “What happened, Aemond?”

You call him by his name, and you never call him by his name. Your husband does not seem to have caught this. His fingers go unconsciously to the bear-hilt dagger he still wears at his belt. “Luke was sent to compel Lord Borros to honor his father’s long-past commitment to Rhaenyra. He was so pitiful, so weak, he brought nothing but his mother’s admonishment. Borros turned him away. And then, I…I…” Now his fingertips ghost over his scar. “I stopped him. I threw him your dagger. And I told him to put out his eye.”

Timid little Luke Strong, alone in Storm’s End…small and afraid and outmatched just like Aemond had been all those years ago on Driftmark when he was maimed. “You…?”

“As payment for mine.” He smirks, a ghoulish little half-smile with no humor at all. “I told him that I planned to make a gift of it to you.”

And there is something gut-wrenching about this, it hits you harder than you could have anticipated: that the same man who gave you tenderness and devotion and whispers and faith and a child was going to give you another child’s eye. A debt is still owed. A debt will always be owed. “But he didn’t do it.” If he had, Aemond would now be radiant, victorious. Instead, he is horrified.

“No,” Aemond says. “He refused. And when he left on Arrax…I followed him.”

Your voice is hoarse, brittle. “You killed that boy?”

“I did not give the order,” he insists fiercely. “I meant only to frighten him, to shame him, but Vhagar…she…she…” He shakes his head, like casting out bad dreams. “I tried to stop her.”

Surely there can be no greater betrayal than this: his dragon, his first conquest, his path to redemption. And he will never be able to admit it to anyone but you. Helaena’s warning is a specter hissing through fanged teeth from the shadows of this room: Be cautious with her. She will not always listen. “Vhagar against Arrax, that is no battle, that is murder. The realm will see this as murder.”

“I know.” His reply is helpless.

You reach for him. “Aemond…”

“Do not comfort me,” he flares. “I am not worthy of it. It is you and our daughter who I have endangered.”

“We can win,” you say quickly, desperately. “There will be war now but we can win it, the Greens have the Reach and the Westerlands and Storm’s End, and half of the Crownlands too, we have wealth and armies and dragons and magic, and we already hold the capital, we need only to defend it—”

“I have to send you away.”

Every frenzied thought in your mind falls silent. “What? Where?”

“Starfall.”

Dorne? Some remote, desert castle in a land I’ve never known? You watch each other in the firelight. “No,” you reply simply.

“This will destroy Rhaenyra. She will want me destroyed in return. And Daemon knows exactly how to do it.”

“No,” you repeat, furious. “I’m not going anywhere, we don’t run from battles, I don’t run from battles—!”

Aemond grabs your wrists and holds them against his chest, gently but stubbornly. “Listen,” he says. “I will have to leave King’s Landing to fight this war. And Daemon will come for you. He knows what you mean to me, what you are to me, he knows. He will do it himself, or he will send someone to do it for him, or he will do it if the Blacks sack the city, but no matter how it happens he will not stop until your blood is spilled. He will not honor your status as a noncombatant. And he won’t just kill you. He will do excruciating, unforgivable things to you, because that is how he can hurt me best. The way he looked at you…here, in the Red Keep, as Viserys lay dying…that was the first time I ever saw you as what you truly are.”

“A burden?” you fling at him like a blade.

“No, Moonstone.” He releases your wrists and clasps your face with his hands. “A weakness.”

The fight bleeds out of you. Not so long ago, it was not believed that Aemond One-Eye had any fears, any weaknesses at all. “I don’t want to leave you. Any of you.”

“It won’t be for long.”

“I can’t go to Dorne. They don’t have any heart trees there. The Old Gods won’t be able to hear me.”

“You cannot stay here,” he swears. “I cannot leave you in plain sight and undefended.”

“Then send me back to Bear Island instead,” you plead frantically.

“No. The North is likely to side with Rhaenyra, and Daemon would know to look for you there.” He strokes your hair, your cheek, the pendant that swings from your neck. “Dorne will remain neutral, and Starfall is on the Summer Sea. You can get there by ship, easily and inconspicuously. I cannot fly you. Vhagar could be sighted, and everyone knows who she belongs to. And I…I…” His eye goes vacant, haunted. “I don’t know if I can trust her.”

A shudder claws down your spine. I’ve ridden that dragon. My daughter has touched that dragon. “So you’ll ride off to battle against Syrax and Meleys and Caraxes and I’ll…just…what, stare out a window and wait for you to show up and rescue me? Wake up every day wondering if you’re still alive? If Aegon and Sir Criston and Otto are still alive? I’ll read books and play cards and embroider pillowcases and go on meaningless fucking strolls through the gardens? I’ll be useless, I’ll be worse than useless because I could have helped you if I had stayed, I will—”

“You will survive.” He smiles faintly. “The maesters of Starfall will offer you and Laurel shelter. They will keep you secret. They will keep you informed of how the war progresses. And if…somehow…the Greens are on the losing side…then they will help you start over someplace where you will never be found.”

You think of all the letters he’s exchanged with Dornish maesters over the past ten months, letters you’ve never pried much into, ravens loosed and received. “How long have you been considering this?”

“Since I met you. Just in case.”

You try to imagine it—hot blaring sun, bobbing ships, the ocean, castle walls—and perhaps Starfall won’t feel so very far from King’s Landing after all. Perhaps it will be a respite, not an exile. Perhaps you will be back in the Red Keep with every living soul you’ve ever loved before the year is finished. Even if I can’t bear to do it for me, I can do it for Laurel. I will have her. I can protect her.

Aemond touches his forehead to yours, and only now are you aware of the tears streaking down his flawless right cheek. “I am so fucking sorry,” he says, his voice breaking.

“I’ll go to Starfall. If that’s what you need, if that’s what’s best for our daughter, I’ll do it.”

“There’s one last thing.” He takes your dagger from his belt and lays it in your outstretched palm. You think, without wanting to: If Luke had mutilated himself with this blade, he’d still be alive. Aemond lifts your chin to kiss you, an act so delicate and insurmountably heavy it could shatter. “Keep this with you.”

~~~~~~~~~

He introduces her to each type of blossom, skimming a kaleidoscope of petals across her miniature fingers: roses, wisteria, jasmine, calla lilies, orchids, chrysanthemums, red poppies. He is cautious not to let her get too firm a grip, lest she decides to eat one. He insists on doing everything. He never wants a break from her. Soon you’ll both be gone, sailing into the horizon on some nondescript ship bound for Dorne. He knows his time is running out. Laurel devours him with those enormous, knowing eyes. She clutches clumsily at the petals with great interest, perhaps in part because he’s the one offering them. She gets upset when he tries to carry her through the cool, dark trellis archway grown thick with greenery; she wonders where the sun has gone.

At last he returns to sit beside you on the edge of the fountain. A pair of white stone dragons exhale gushes of clear water like flames. The gardens are quiet and still. It is late-afternoon on a magnificently warm and golden day, but the Red Keep feels abandoned. Bees and butterflies and beetles wheel in the air. You can hear waves crashing against jagged black rocks, windchimes jangling in the breeze, the distant snarls of dragons.

“She might be walking by the time we see you again,” you tell Aemond. You smile, hoping to lift his spirits; but he doesn’t smile back.

He presses his lips to Laurel’s silver hair. Someday soon, it will be long enough to braid. “She might have a dragon waiting for her.” Frostfyre’s egg will remain in King’s Landing, of course; it will be left in the care of the Dragonkeepers in case the beast hatches during the war.

“You will get to teach her how to ride. How to speak High Valyrian.”

Now he does smile, with hope and optimism and pride. “And you will teach her magic.”

There is the sound of dainty heels clicking against the cobblestones. Helaena appears, carrying a praying mantis in her palm like a beacon. “You are required in the Great Hall,” she says.

You and Aemond look at each other, mystified. “Why?” he asks Helaena.

“Everyone is waiting.” And then she turns and leaves.

You and Aemond follow after Helaena, struggling to keep up. You lift the hem of your dress—black with accents of silver, your dagger secured by a belt patterned with silver bears—to avoid puddles and ascend steps; Aemond carries Laurel against his chest. She peers over his shoulder, eyes alert, cheeks chubby and with dimples like her father’s. You will have to be mindful in Dorne to ensure her skin isn’t burned by the sun. As you near the Great Hall, you can hear muffled music and voices and clanks of cups and silverware.

“Oh, gods,” Aemond groans, realizing too late.

You begin: “What—?”

The guards open the doors. Inside the Great Hall, there is a raucous feast in progress: dancing, drinking, gorging, whoring, wolfing down enough pleasures to last until the war is done. Everyone knows that time is disappearing like a starving crescent moon. Everyone knows the blood will soon begin flowing. The royal family has a table above all the chaos: Otto, Alicent, and Sir Criston are seated there with grim faces. Aegon is laughing hysterically about something that no one else seems to appreciate. Helaena scurries across the room to take her rightful place in the empty chair beside him.

“Ah, the guest of honor!” Aegon booms when he sees you and your husband, tottering to his feet and raising his cup of wine. He is grinning hugely beneath glazed, groggy eyes. He’s not just drunk. He’s ruined. “A toast to my brother, Aemond, the champion in the very first engagement of the war. To the prince, to Vhagar, and to a hasty victory!”

There are dutiful cheers, but when the nobles of Westeros turn to Aemond their faces are not congratulatory; they are wary, mistrustful, repulsed. Even the most fervent supporters of the Greens have trouble stomaching the murder of a child. Aemond’s own face is stone; he is seething, of course, but he hides it well. You take Laurel from him so he can meander through the hall accepting obligatory compliments from the guests: sword-wielding men, blanching women, reticent daughters who are for the first time relieved that it was not one of them he chose to wed. As you make your way to the royal family’s table, you swim in a sea of noxious whispers.

“…Nothing left, I heard…not a single piece…just a head of the other dragon…the boy must have been swallowed…”

“You saw Rhaenyra’s son when he was here, didn’t you? Nothing but a scared little runt…”

“…More like an execution than a battle…”

“Look, not even Aemond’s Mormont wife can summon up enthusiasm for this travesty. When was the last time she wore black to a feast? She’s always in that strange pearlescent color…”

“…Vhagar is five times the dragon Arrax was…”

“I have it on good authority that Rhaenyra was considering terms before what happened at Storm’s End, and now it will be a bloodbath…now all our sons will be expected to bleed…”

“…There is no decency in this…”

“Aemond One-Eye, they call him. Maybe they ought to change it to Aemond the Kinslayer.”

There was a moment—at Aegon’s coronation, at the beginning of the end—when there was a chance for the people to meet Aemond, to witness his gifts, to learn to love him. Now that chance is as dead as Lucerys Velaryon.

You greet Alicent and Otto, then tell them that you’ll return after you’ve put Laurel to bed. It is not customary for young children to attend feasts, nor do you wish to frighten her with all of the unfamiliar sights and scents and sounds…although, and perhaps you should have anticipated this, Laurel doesn’t seem frightened at all.

“Nonsense!” Alicent says, rather ferociously, and gleefully lifts the baby out of your arms. She and Otto pass Laurel back and forth: snuggling her, tickling her, showing her off to mostly-indifferent courtiers. Your adopted family knows that this is one of their last chances to see her before your departure to Dorne. They have been informed of Aemond’s plan—Alicent, Otto, and Sir Criston—and contrary to being outraged (as you had been) they are in agreement that it is a wise course of action. Helaena was not explicitly told, but seems aware of it nonetheless; this morning she was offering you advice about packing lots of light, breathable fabrics. No one has told Aegon yet. Aemond doesn’t want to be the one to do it. You aren’t sure how.

You pick at your food and sip your wine and try to keep your expression as neutral as possible. There is no winning here. If you appear joyful, you are celebrating the murder of a child; if you are morose, you are betraying your husband. In truth, you are neither, and you are both, and you are everything in between. As Aemond traverses the Great Hall, he keeps you on his good side as much as he can. He glances at you—over and over again like the cyclical phases of the moon— storing up visions to be conjured when he is on the field of battle and you are in Starfall, not even a whisper, not even words on a page. He will not be able to visit you until the war is over. He will not be able to send you letters that could be intercepted.

“Should we go see the Iron Throne?” Otto asks in a high, squeaky voice as he struts around with Laurel. “Yes, let’s go see the Iron Throne. Once upon a time, there was a man called Aegon the Conqueror, and you happen to have some of his blood in you. You have his hair too, but that’s a separate story. We can talk about the trials and tribulations of hair later. Now, Aegon was born in…”

A very different Aegon saunters over to you, wine cup in hand. You ignore him.

“You look tense,” he says, swaying. He begins ineptly massaging your shoulders.

“You look wasted.” You swat him away.

“Dance with me, Moonstone,” he begs, plopping down in Aemond’s chair, swigging the last of his wine and then refilling it. “I am soon to be sent off to war. I could be killed, or worse, mortally wounded and rendered incapable of debauchery at the level which I aspire to.”

“No thanks.”

“Why, do you have other plans? Will you be sneaking off to any dusty stairwells? Do you need someone to guard the doorway for you and protect what scraps remain of your honor?”

“I don’t think I’m in the mood tonight.”

“I’m always in the mood,” he says, grinning. “What do you think, did little Luke Strong go down smooth, or are there still bits of him caught in Vhagar’s teeth?”

You see it in a nauseating flash like lightning: that same boy who cowered beside his mother and attempted to defend Jace and loved Rhaena Targaryen reduced to a jumble of blood and bones. That’s really all we are. Beneath the names and the banners and the faiths and the magic, that’s all any of us are. “You’re being cruel.”

“I’m being supportive,” Aegon counters.

You glower at him, half-angry, half-disappointed. The disappointment feels worse. “Why did you have to do this?”

He is genuinely confused. “Do what?”

“This.” You gesture to the feast, the crowds, the tentative praises offered to Aemond like girls climbing—numbly and obediently—into the beds of old men.

Aegon slurs as he speaks. “Look, whether it was the honorable thing to do or not, whether it was the wise thing to do, the Strong boy is dead and nothing can change that. We cannot apologize for it, we cannot disregard it. All that’s left to do is celebrate it.” He clangs his cup against yours. Wine splatters on the tablecloth. “There is one less Black. There is one less dragon for them to burn us alive with. And I have made Aemond a war hero.”

“You have made all of us profoundly uncomfortable.”

Pain rushes into his face like blood to flushed cheeks: true, repentant, defenseless pain. “That was not my intention,” he says softly.

“No, I see that now.” I don’t have much time left with Aegon. I don’t have much time left with any of them. “I’m sorry. And as my act of contrition I will dance with you.”

Aegon smiles again and leads you down into the crowd. You and the king are an island in a sea of depravity. To your right, some Lannister is practically undressing a more-than-enthusiastic Swyft girl. To your left, a Costayne lord has passed out on the floor; people step around him as they twirl and stumble. Aegon grasps your waist—chastely, careful not to offend—with his right hand and weaves his fingers through yours with his left. The music is quick and plucky, almost restless, almost perilous.

“I know I’ve been excessive tonight,” he admits, meaning the wine. “I hope you are not too angry with me. It’s just that I am acutely aware it will be my last chance for a while.”

This is true: there are armies massing, plans being drawn up, new weapons and armor being hammered into existence. Your ship leaves tomorrow. “I forgive you. Your brother will too, although it will take him longer.”

Aemond has at last arrived at the royal family’s table. He has somehow wrestled Laurel away from Otto and has her clutched to his chest as he confers with Sir Criston. Still, he is watching you. “So you remain opposed to the prospect of my untimely demise,” Aegon teases.

“Quite vehemently.”

“And I will continue to have the benefit of your gruesome, illicit spells until all the Blacks’ heads are secured on spikes outside the Red Keep.”

You hesitate. Aegon’s ungainly steps slow. The crowd around you is rowdy and oblivious.

“What’s the matter, witch? Have you embraced a non-heathen religion? Have you renounced the ways of your hairy, half-human, cave-dwelling forefathers?”

“It’s not that,” you say. “I would want nothing more than to help you…if I was able to. If I was staying in King’s Landing.”

He stops completely: a sudden lurch, an inebriated wobble. “What are you talking about?”

“I’ll be going tomorrow.”

He rips his hands away from you. “Going where?” he demands. His eyes are sharp with betrayal.

“Aegon…”

“Going where?”

You answer in a whisper, pained and sorry. “Starfall.”

He whirls and storms out of the Great Hall, tripping occasionally, pushing himself off walls when he careens into them. In the chaos of lust and gluttony, few guests even notice. You chase Aegon out into the hallway. He is moving with truly impressive speed for a man in his condition.

“Aegon, wait!” you call after him.

“Whose idea was this?” he hurls back, still racing through empty corridors. “Aemond’s, right? It couldn’t have been yours. I can’t believe that. You wouldn’t run.”

“Please, just let me explain—”

“Explain what, that you’re abandoning me—?!”

Aemond comes soaring out of a hallway, grabs Aegon, pins him roughly to the wall.

“You can’t send her away!” Aegon pleads, struggling. There are tears spilling down his cheeks. He slaps clumsily at his brother’s face, inflicting no damage whatsoever.

“And who will protect her if she stays?” Aemond says, his voice low and serrated and dark like volcanic glass. “I will be needed in battle, you will be needed in battle, Sir Criston will be leading the infantry, so tell me, who will be here to stand between her and Daemon when he comes to King’s Landing with fire and blood?”

Aegon stops fighting. His white-blond hair shags over his eyes. He is savagely bitter, glaring, hateful. “This is all your fault.”

“You think I don’t know that?”

“Why did you do it then?!” Aegon shouts. “Nobody told you to kill the Strong boy, nobody told you to make this war inevitable and incur the eternal wrath of the Blacks, so why the fuck did you do it?!”

Aemond doesn’t reply, but the truth speaks through the collapsing lines of his face, his shoulders, his spirit. His hands fall away from the king. His rain-blue gaze drops to the floor.

“It wasn’t on purpose,” Aegon realizes with hushed shock, with horror. And then, much louder: “It wasn’t on purpose?!”

“No one can know,” Aemond says.

“Oh gods, oh gods…” Aegon rubs his wet, ruddy face with both hands. “Seven hells, how does that happen?!”

“It doesn’t matter. It’s done.”

“You’re telling me that you possess the largest, most lethal dragon on the planet and you can’t control her?! Someone explain to me how I’m still the family disappointment when I ride Sunfyre around the Crownlands all the time and I’ve never accidentally killed someone!”

Aemond says nothing, but he looks miserable, he looks broken.

“And now you send her away,” Aegon pitches at him. “You take her away from us, from me, not because of anything I did but because you made a mistake, because you fucked up—!”

“It’s not your decision to make.”

“I am the king, every decision is my decision to make—!”

You flee from them as they slice at each other with venomous accusations, blades aimed at hearts and jugulars. You run beneath the torchlight, beneath the fading sounds of music and shouts and the crumbling realities of the world. Nothing will ever be the same again. That thread of fate disappeared down Vhagar’s void-black, scorching throat. We’re not supposed to be attacking each other. We’re supposed to be winning the war.

You know that Laurel’s bedroom will be deserted. You take shelter there, supporting yourself with the railing of her crib, empty except for Frostfyre’s egg. Through forge-hot tears, you stare out the window at the starless blur where Bearstone must be. You have not been there in the three days since Aemond returned from Storm’s End. He doesn’t want you to ride Vhagar. He doesn’t want you anywhere near her. Everything’s falling apart. How can I stop this? How can I stitch us all back together?

You wish there was a way to turn back time. You wish you had known to cast a protection spell for Lucerys Velaryon.

In the window’s glass, you catch a reflection of movement behind you in the dimly-lit bedroom. You catch the flicker of moonlight on metal.

Someone is in here with me. Someone with a blade.

You spin. A man is stepping out of the shadows, broad and black-haired and bearded. For a second, you can only gape at him with slow, stupid bewilderment. This doesn’t feel possible. This doesn’t feel real.

How…?

And then you know. Aegon uses the hidden passageways that crisscross the Red Keep like arteries; and, once upon a time, so had Daemon Targaryen. And this is the man he’s sent to kill you.

Aemond was right, you think, and realize that until now you had never truly believed him.

“Where’s the baby?” the man rasps, only half-illuminated. His dagger glints in the moonshine. “You’re supposed to have a baby with you.”

You reach for your bear-hilt dagger. He lunges for you. The second intruder, the one you still hadn’t known was there, crawls out from under Laurel’s crib and grabs your ankles. You scream like clashing swords, like a gutted animal as they grapple with you and slam you to the floor. You pull your dagger free and stab half-blindly at the larger man’s face as hands clamp over your eyes, your lips. He shrieks when your blade pierces his cheek, nicks his tongue, fills his mouth with blood. He pins your wrist to the floor and coughs up scarlet globs, spits them on you, calls you a bitch and a whore. You bite the hands that cover your face. You try to scream through their murderous fingers and palms. One of them rips your moonstone pendant off your neck, snapping the chain. The men are tearing pieces of your dress away. They are cutting the laces with their daggers. They are talking about what they plan to do to you.

Daemon wants this. Daemon told them to do this.

In his distraction, the larger man’s grip around your wrist loosens: only for a second, but that’s enough. You wrench your hand free and bury your dagger in his eye, all the way to the hilt. He howls and rocks backward, blood and remnants of his eye gushing down his face.

“Just kill the bitch!” he roars at his companion. “Just fucking kill her—!”

The bedroom door bangs open, and through the smaller man’s fingers you can see Aemond and Aegon burst inside. You hear Aemond drawing his sword. You hear the men Daemon sent struggling with him. Aegon drags you to the other side of the room and crouches over you, steadying himself by pressing a hand to the wall, wine and sweat oozing from his pores.

“No no no no!” the smaller man screeches as Aemond’s sword comes whistling down. The man’s skull is suddenly no longer attached to spine; his head rolls away with thick, sickening thuds. His blade still dripping with blood, Aemond turns to the larger man and slits his throat before he can beg for mercy. The bedroom falls into an abrupt silence.

“That is why she has to leave King’s Landing,” Aemond says, pointing to the would-be assassins’ corpses, still breathing heavily. Aegon just gawks in blank, speechless horror. Then Aemond sheaths his sword and gathers you into his arms. You dissolve into tears of fear, exhaustion, pain, shock.

“They were asking about Laurel,” you sob. “They, they, they were sent to kill her too—”

“Shh, she is safe, my love, she is safe. She is with Mother and Otto.”

“I didn’t believe it,” Aegon exhales, sinking to the floor. “I really didn’t…I didn’t think…”

“Double the guard on Mother and Helaena. They go nowhere alone.”

“Yes,” Aegon agrees immediately.

“And my wife sets sail for Starfall tomorrow.”

“Yes,” Aegon says again. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said those things. I’m so sorry.”

“Aegon.” You reach for him, and he comes to you and Aemond on his hands and knees. The three of you sit on the floor together in the bloodied, moonlit quiet. You tuck the king’s hair behind his ear, whisk a tear from his cheek with your thumb, smile with soft, kind sorrow. “I’ll miss you too.”

~~~~~~~~~~

In Blackwater Bay, there is a ship with no destination.

It is small, inconspicuous, loaded with enough supplies for a handful of passengers and a skeleton crew. It is decorated with no banners. It carries no nets for fishing, no treasures for selling, no soldiers for transporting. In times of conflict, it is rare for such a seemingly available vessel to not be requisitioned for the war effort. Not even its captain knows where it is headed. When people—fisherman, traders, passersby—inquire about his purpose, he smirks slyly and replies: “I’m going wherever the wind blows me.”

Most accept this unfulfilling explanation with some mild bafflement, continue on with their business, and promptly let the exchange slip out of their mind like sand through the gaps between fingers. Some pester the captain with further questions until he waves them off. Some chatter innocuously with him about the weather or the sea or who he believes will triumph in the impending war for the Iron Throne. But when several Gold Cloaks from the City Watch happen by, something about this captain and his enigmatic ship catches in their minds like a thorn in flesh. Something about him reminds them of signs they’ve been told to look for.

And just as nearly a year before when Aemond Targaryen publicly announced his scandalous marriage to a willful, insignificant, already-wed daughter of House Mormont, a raven carrying this news finds its way from King’s Landing to the rocky, salt-lashed shores of Dragonstone.

~~~~~~~~~~

Laurel is asleep in a crib in the corner of the bedroom you share with Aemond. Neither of you will allow her out of your sight. The feast has ended, the guests have been sent home to prepare for combat, the castle has been searched from top to bottom, from the godswood to the Great Hall to the weblike design of secret passageways. There are no other intruders. You are safe. There are guards stationed outside the bedroom door, guards beneath the windows, guards pacing the gardens. Aemond is sitting up in bed and mending your pendant with a pair of pliers and spare links of silver obtained from the maesters. His long hair falls over his bare shoulders and chest. His eyepatch hangs from a knob on the dresser. His forehead is wrinkled and determined.

You climb into bed beside him, candlelight painting you both with a brush made of heat, rage, lust, devastation, rebirth. “Can I ask you something, Silver?”

“Anything.”

You graze his face—you’re so fucking beautiful—with the backs of your fingers, first his good side, and then his ragged scar. “Why a sapphire?”

“Because of Symeon Star-Eyes.”

“I regret to remind you that you have married an uncultured Northerner.”

He smiles, still working on the damaged chain. “He was a knight during the Age of Heroes. He was blinded when he lost both of his eyes, so he replaced them with sapphires. That’s how the singers tell the story, anyway.”

You can picture it with aching clarity: Aemond as a small, lonely, tormented boy consuming book after book about ancient warriors and legendary beasts. He kept every piece of lore he learned about them like secrets, like jewels, like bricks to build himself with. “And he never stopped fighting.”

“And he never stopped fighting.” Aemond finishes the chain and lifts it over your head. The moonstone pendant returns to rest exactly where it belongs. Then your husband tilts your chin, turns your face one way and then the other, his gaze wandering over the bruises and crimson scrapes left by Daemon’s would-be assassins, troubled and pensive. And then he kisses you, his lips gentle.

“I don’t blame you,” you say, resting your forehead against his. “I want to make sure you know that. I don’t blame you for what happened to Luke, or what happened today, or what will happen tomorrow.”

“I just can’t believe I did it. I can’t believe I was that stupid.”

“You weren’t stupid. You were hurt, you were angry.”

“When I was chasing him through the storm…when he was so weak and helpless and I was so powerful…” His eye goes vague and far away. About six years away, you believe. “It was like I was carving out every part of myself that had ever been afraid, ever been harmed: by Luke and Jace, by Rhaenyra, by the world, by my father. It was like I was destroying that child who was once so friendless and overlooked and unchosen.”

“You can’t destroy him, Aemond. He’s you.”

He stares into nothingness. “You would have been safer as Axel Hightower’s wife.”

“I would choose you again. And again, and again.”

“Would you?”

“Always.”

Your lips meet his, delectably slow at first and then faster, bolder, more hungry. He matches your fire with his own. His hands steal beneath your nightgown. Your fingers knot in his hair. His mouth smiles into yours as you straddle him, nip playfully at his lips and tongue, reach down to feel how hard he is.

“Now,” you murmur. “Give me one last good memory to take with me to Starfall.”

~~~~~~~~~~

In the garden, Helaena braids daisies into your hair and introduces you to a walking stick that you pretend not to be repulsed by; you even let it creep up the downy-soft underside of your forearm. In her chambers, Alicent gives you a warm, rather desperate embrace that feels like it goes on forever…and then she offers you a package wrapped in green silk. It is a book she requested from the Citadel about the history of Bear Island. “I thought it might keep you occupied on the journey,” she explains, almost self-consciously. “Perhaps you could even read it to the baby if she is restless.” And in the shadow of the heart tree in the godswood, King Aegon—dreadfully hungover, more racoon-eyed than ever—lounges with you sipping wine and talking about anything except the fact that you’re leaving. At last, it can’t be avoided.

“I don’t feel bad for you, just so you know,” he quips.

You grin. “No?”

“No. You’re going to be sunning yourself on a beach in beautiful, debaucherous Dorne. What’s there to pity? You’ll probably have a dozen paramours by the time Aemond returns for you. You’ll have forgotten all about us. You’ll be clinging to the castle walls begging Aemond to leave you there. He’ll have to pry your fingers free one by one. Now Daeron, that’s someone deserving of sympathy. He’s being dragged out of Oldtown to help us burn cities and butcher men and his great reward, if he survives, will be marrying Floris Baratheon, the realm’s most eligible donkey. His children won’t get dragon eggs. They’ll get bits and bridles.”

You laugh, then peer up at the clouds. “Daeron. I can’t wait to finally meet him one day.”

“You’ll like him. He’s the best of us, clever and kind and unruined. He’s the good one.”

Now you look at Aegon. Both he and Aemond slept with the protection spells you cast for them under their beds last night. It is the last magic you will perform until the war is over. It is the last advantage you can give them. “You’re all the good one.”

It is not until after nightfall when Aemond walks you out to the waiting ship. He wants no witnesses, no rumors. He carries Laurel all the way there; he has to blink the tears from his eye when he surrenders her to the wetnurse. You will take two wetnurses and three handmaidens to Starfall. The ship is stocked with provisions for a trip of several weeks. The captain, an ardent Green, has not been told the destination in advance, nor of your identity; he has been told only that he will be abundantly rewarded, that he will never need to work a day in his life again, that his five children won’t either. Everyone else goes aboard. You and Aemond linger together on the dock under more stars than could ever be named. He is solemn; he is intensely quiet.

“Fear not, husband,” you say. “You cannot rid yourself of me. I am yours for life.”

“For life,” he echoes, kissing you, filling himself with you like you’re the air in his lungs, the marrow in his bones.

Your fingers brush the bear-hilt dagger at your belt, which you will take to Starfall at his insistence. “I wish I had something more to give you, a piece of me to carry through the war.”

“You have given me enough, Moonstone. You have given me everything.”

“Wait.” You lift off your pendant and stand on your tiptoes to hang it around his neck; you watch the gemstone, gleaming in the moonlight, settle on his chest by his heart. “I’m coming back,” you tell him, smiling, tears like constellations in your eyes.

Aemond admires the pendant with reverent incredulity, and then he kisses you again: one last time, his hands on your face, you tugging him closer by the collar of his coat, the wind whipping through you both. “Not soon enough. Tomorrow wouldn’t be soon enough.”

You board the ship. He returns alone to the Red Keep, his head down, his arms crossed, his mind presumably lost in the nebulous future.

The captain greets you warmly, and you give him the name of the location you are to be taken too. He nods and confers with the navigator before guiding the ship out into Blackwater Bay. You venture below deck to check on Laurel. She is sleeping peacefully in her cabin, loyally attended by her wetnurses and handmaidens. You study her for a long time—your skin, Aemond’s hair, one tiny balled fist propped against her cheek—before ascending the stairs to watch the firelight of King’s Landing fade into the past.

Sails crack in the wind above you, waves break against the hull below. The moon is obscured by indigo clouds; the night is dark and cool and placid. As you pass Bearstone—rendered nothing more than a murky, inconsequential pool of earth in an endless sea—you think of all the moments you shared there with Aemond, all those sun-drenched afternoons and whispered promises and swims in the sea, all those letters he scrawled to Dornish maesters as you laid dozing beside him, still naked, blissfully content, trusting and oblivious. You will have each other like that again, certainly. You and Laurel will survive the war, and Aemond will win it, and a night will come when the stars shine down on your reunion, flesh and words and soul.

Like knuckles, like a stone, Helaena’s words hit you. If they were solid, they could crack ribs. They are so loud you can hear them, her voice as clear as the lines on your own palms.

Because there is a great deal of fire in your future.

The wind tears viciously at your hair, your eyes, your cheeks. The flames of the ship’s lanterns bend and flicker, never extinguished but always imperiled.

The sea is calling for you.

You lean over the railing at the stern of the ship, contemplating the ocean: the eternal secrets below, the voyages above. This is the same sea that touches the Vale and Dragonstone and Storm’s End. This is the same water that Lucerys Velaryon was killed over.

Stay away from the fire.

You look at the lanterns again. No, that’s not what she meant. You pace frantically around the deck as the Red Keep becomes just a haze in the distance, searching for the source of Helaena’s prophesies. You pry open barrels and crates with your dagger, upturn buckets, study the weblike rigging. You hunt like a wolf, like a killer.

I want to help you.

Help why, Helaena? Help how?

He waits in the lagoon, coiled, red.

Your steps die. There is only one lagoon you know of in King’s Landing. You turn towards Bearstone. There is movement there, but indistinct in the darkness. There is a flapping, a shrill clicking. It grows louder. It approaches, it retreats, it vanishes. And suddenly, randomly, it occurs to you that despite all those protection spells you breathed to life under the heart tree, you never thought to cast one for yourself.

Moon on the water, fire in the sky, moon on the water…

The clouds are heaved away from the moon. Silvery light cascades down, dances on the waves, brightens the night. A shape passes high over the ship, blindingly swift and unreadable. Somewhere, there is a sound that could be laughter.

It comes from the sky.

You stare fixedly up into the night. It is a bottomless inky sea, one on top of the other. Your heartbeat is thunder in your ears. Your fingernails bite wounds into your palms. You hear it again: wings, distant cackling, clicking shrieks. And—too late for it to matter—you understand.

~~~~~~~~~~

Aemond’s hand closes around your moonstone pendant as he watches from the window in Laurel’s bedroom. On the dresser hangs his eyepatch. On his face is a smile, just a hint of one. He has ensured your safety, your survival; he has secured his peace offering from the gods. He can envision himself arriving in Starfall in six months or nine months or a year, you barreling out of the castle to meet him, Laurel no longer an infant but a little girl; perhaps she will be walking, babbling, grinning with tiny white teeth. Perhaps she will recognize him.

The ship, its lanterns dots of captive light, is barely visible by the time it sails past the island he now calls Bearstone. It will soon drop over the horizon like a falling star. Aemond half-turns from the window when something wrenches him back: a flicker of motion, an interruption in the moonlight. He leans closer to the glass. Dimly, he can glimpse his own reflection in it.

It is only when Caraxes unleashes his flames that Aemond can see him in the night sky, wings outstretched, blood-red contorted body hovering above the ship. The vessel does not merely burn. It explodes, it is eviscerated, it ceases to exist entirely.

“No!” It is not a scream but a rupturing, a splitting open and hollowing out of the man he could have been in a different world. It is the end. It is the beginning. It is a fire that burns his humanity to ash.

Vhagar, he thinks, the first word he can discern from the clamoring inferno of wrath, grief, madness. Fire and blood. He is faintly aware of gasps and screams spreading like a plague through the Red Keep. Someone is wailing like they are being slaughtered, their organs dismantled piece by piece; his mother, he believes.

He bolts from the room. He is halfway down the hall when Aegon crashes into him, catches him around the waist, knocks him with great difficulty to the floor and fights to keep him there.

“No!” Aemond screams, pulling away. “Let me go, let me go—!”

“Stop it, Aemond, stop!”

And then Sir Criston appears, and Otto, and Alicent; they join the king in restraining Aemond. It takes all four of them to hold him down.

“Let me go!” His voice is raw and mindless, more animal than man. He struggles so forcefully they fear his bones will snap. Aegon grabs his face with both hands.

“Look at me, look, Aemond, look at me!” Aegon pleads. The king is sobbing, panting, frantic. Aemond’s right eye lands on him. His sapphire gleams with cold, soulless fire. “You cannot catch Daemon, he is already headed back to Dragonstone, he—”

Aemond screams again and tries to free himself. They manage to hold on to him. Helaena has materialized in the hallway like a ghost; she is shellshocked, almost catatonic. She says nothing. Her eyes leak constant, soundless tears.

“You cannot catch him,” Aegon repeats patiently, like he’s speaking to a child. “Vhagar cannot catch him, even if you had left the second it happened. Not even Sunfyre can catch him. If we go after him now, he will lead us into a trap on Dragonstone. He has surely planned for that. He is hoping for that. He—”

Aemond claws at the floor, trying to drag himself out of his family’s arms, but a part of him knows it is hopeless. His fingernails leave white lines on the wood, and then ruby ones when his nails tear out. Aemond is not aware of this. He howls and roars and finally collapses. Alicent, weeping freely, strokes his hair. Sir Criston watches her, longing with everything he’s made of to fix this. It cannot be fixed; it is not just shattered pieces, it is ash, it is dust. Otto’s face is a wasteland: desolate, brutal, a million years old.

“Look at me!” Aegon demands, still gripping Aemond’s face, still sobbing. “Aemond, you cannot kill him if you’re already dead. That’s what you want, isn’t it? You want vengeance. You want fire and blood. You want to kill them.”

“Yes,” Aemond chokes out. That’s all he wants. Nothing else exists.

“And I will help you do it,” Aegon vows. “But we cannot do it now. We have to prepare. We have to do this right, or we will not live to see vengeance. Wait for me, Aemond, and I will help you. You can have Daemon, but I want Rhaenyra. And I swear to you in front of all the gods that we will burn them alive.”

Aemond is beyond words, but Aegon can read them in his eye: Yes, I understand, I yield. The last of Aemond’s ferocity vanishes. Sobs pour from his throat. Aegon embraces him. So do Alicent and Sir Criston and Otto and finally Helaena. They cling to each other, bound to the world by a multitude of glimmering strings like a spider’s thread and yet alone. The moonlight floods in. The future, dark, merciless, bathed in dragonfire, dawns like a sun.

And every second of every minute of every day for the next year—as Aemond wages war at Rook’s Rest and Harrenhal, as he burns the Riverlands, as he inspires immeasurable horror and agony and hatred, as he abandons strategy for blind revenge, as he flies to meet Daemon and Caraxes in battle above the God’s Eye—it is still there around his neck: the moonstone pendant, the silver chain.

#aemond targaryen #aemond targaryen x reader #aemond x y/n #aemond x you #aemond fic #aemond one eye #aemond x oc

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untoldreader · 7 months

Text

Masterlist Of Masterlists⚜️

Welcome to my Masterlist of Masterlists

Please give feedback

Marvel Universe

Kate Bishop

Falling For The Archer

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Wanda Maximoff

The Witch & Her Possession

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Natasha Romanoff

Shadows of Love: Natasha Romanoff and Y/N'S Destiny

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Yelena Belova

A Dark Love

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Maria Hill

Relentless Devotion

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Peggy Carter

The Forgotten Past

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Carol Danvers

Cosmic Connections: Carol Danvers Finds Love

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WandaNat

Threads Of Fate: Wanda, Natasha, and Y/N

The Miraculous Trio: A Journey of Love, Power, and Parenthood

≈========================≈

Bishova

Beneath the Veil: Love and Loyalty in the Underworld

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Blackhill

Agents Of S.H.I.E.L.D.

Eternal Flame: A Maria Hill, Natasha Romanoff, and Y/N Love Saga

Temporal Veil: Unmasking Hydra's Schemes

Daisy Johnson

^-updated Apr/?/24

Jemma Simmons

updated Apr/?/24

Melinda May

updated Apr/8/24

Bobbi Morse

updated Apr/?/24

DC Universe

Supergirl-

Kara Danvers

Lena Luther

Alex Danvers

Maggie sawyer

Arrow-

Sara Lance

Thea Queen

Laurel Lance

Felicity Smoak

Nyssa AL Ghul

The Flash-

Iris West

Caitlin Snow

Wonder Woman-

Diana Prince

Vampires Diaries Universe-

The Originals-

Rebekah Mikaelson

^- updated Mar/27/24

Hayley Marshall

Davina Claire

Freya Mikaelson

The Vampire Diaries-

Elena Gilbert

Caroline Forbes

Bonnie Bennett

Katherine Pierce

Legacies-

Hope Mikaelson

Josie Saltzman

Lizzie Saltzman

Penelope Park

Jade

Crime Shows-

Criminal minds-

Emily Prentiss

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khaire-traveler · 25 days

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do you have a thread you can link to about herbs, crystals, animals, tarot cards and possibly myths about Apollo. im pretty new to deity work and as of yesterday i started trying to get in contact w him

Hey there!

You can find general myths about Apollo on Theoi.com.

Crystals are more of a modern association, so he doesn't have historical links to specific ones, as far as I'm aware. Most crystal associations are UPG (Unverified Personal Gnosis), which essentially just means it's based on an individual's personal associations. We can confidently say that silver had an association with Apollo, though, as he carried his sister's (Artemis) silver bow. My best advice is to give crystals that you associate with him, not that someone else does. It'll feel much more personal.

As for herbs, you'll find more luck looking up "plants associated with Apollo" or "Apollo's sacred plants". Laurel, hyacinth (some believe larkspur; complicated issue regarding the Hyacinthus myth lol), date palm tree, and cypress. I wouldn't be surprised if there are other plants I'm missing. Specific herb lists aren't really a historical connection; you're more likely to find a list of general plants, fruits, and flowers. Anything else you come across, in the form of a modern herb list, is likely UPG.

Tarot card associations will always be UPG based. There are no historical connections to any Greek deities, that I'm aware of. If you want my personal opinion, I associate Apollo with The Sun and The Hanged Man. That's just based on personal experience, however, and he may choose to present himself differently to you. I'd honestly just ask him which cards he'd like to identify himself with in a reading. That's your best bet to get a result that is personal to you rather than to some rando on the internet.

Hope this helps in some way! My advice is always to form your own associations and connections rather than following a simple list online. It'll make your practice feel more personal and organic. There are no right answers when it comes to these deities, and even in ancient times, worship varied from city to city. I say make of it what you will. Take care, and have a good day/night. 🧡

#apollo deity #apollon deity #asks #answered asks

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blorbologist · 1 year

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I AM HERE WITH A 🌟🌟 TO HEAR ABOUT SOMETHING YOU'VE BEEN DYING TO GUSH ABOUT IN YOUR WRITINGS.

EXANDRIAN 👏 WEDDING 👏 CELEBRATION👏 WORLDBUILDING👏

- Wedding rings convergently evolved in a lot of contexts due to some divine events/recurrences (ex: halos of some aasimar and divine casters). Though how they're used varies (some cultures have many, with rings being added as the couple has children or for other life events; some wear them in their hair or as body piercings; some insist the couple or someone close to them make the rings themselves; sometimes they're made as a chain that's ceremonially broken during the wedding and reforged).

- I love the common HC that elven weddings involve ceremonial knots and rope/string tying the couple together! Drow use white-silver threads (heated debate rage as to if this is nods to Loloth or the Luxon in the Dynasty), wood elves will use plant-based fibers grown from each family's land/plants that grow near their home, and all elves will use fancier material to indicate wealth. A common practice for half-elves, especially from societies where they’re more common and can share this knowledge, is to intersperse the weaving and knots with rings, or save the threads to make into necklaces or armbands.

- many Ashari wedding practices (a little different for each tribe) have their roots in Drashari & Age of Arcanum customs that survived. For Zephrah in particular, I like the idea of the couple writing their vows, folding the paper into a bird or flower or something specific to Them (Vaxleth would 100% do a raven) and sending it flying from the cliffs. I'm undecided if they're supposed to use wind spells/cantrips to keep them aloft or trust in the air to carry them and their hopes for the relationship. (The people living downwind think it's good luck to catch Ashari wedding vows, and sometimes make the trek up to return them to the happy couple.) They don't know this is adapted from the spell kites of Cathmoíra.

- Several parts of Wildemount include planting something Important as part of the ceremony. Either something that will grow (a tree, a vital crop, a favorite flower) or not (a memory capsule, an offering, or something meant to decay). If the planting doesn't go well, or if the plant/burried thing gets damaged down the line, it's seen as a terrible omen. Couples living in cities will keep theirs on windowsills or roofs to ensure they get enough light, and it’s a common source of gossip if a neighbor's plant is unwell or if the pot of soil tips during a storm, spilling out the gifts within.

- I've thought. So much. About Whitestone weddings. The city-state was very isolated for years, so their practices are very tailored to their home. Laurels are made out of the Sun Tree's shed leaves, which are also scattered around their feet. Weddings are usually held at dawn or midday for Pelor reasons, and the rings are weighed in scales blessed by Erathis to ensure the partnership is equal. The ceremony is usually held in front of the Sun Tree, and if the couple is very lucky or of high status a fallen bough will be brought with them into their marital home to keep them safe and blessed by its shade (and it's meant to be burnt as firewood should they face a challenge they feel they can't surmount, be it a terrible winter or awful fight). Most couples only get a twig or small branch though. Actually, you'll see soon ;3

- Vex's wedding ring is 100% forged from melted down gold pieces from her own person. Because there's a chance, however small, that one or two pieces used were among those Percy gave her when they first met. Percy includes some residuum in his, partially because he wanted to make sure their rings could both be used as Resurrection components should anything happen... and partially because he still remembers the Sunken Tomb and how his offering of residuum then was not accepted. He doesn’t want to forget what his mistake cost them, a reminder to be careful (what if he had succeeded? would Vax not have - then he might - fuck.).

#critical role #perc'ahlia #percahlia #vaxleth #campaign 1 #campaign 2 #cr headcanons

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froottalks · 10 months

Text

Masterlist

Started: 18/08/2023

[Requests are OPEN, you may suggest people that are not on this list.]

Fandoms I write for:

Arrowverse

The Flash

Caitlin Snow

Fractured Promises {Alternate version}

Iris West

Jessie Wells

Supergirl

Kara Danvers

Guiding Stars

Unreachable Skies

Healing Hearts

Unveiling Hearts {part 2 to Healing Hearts}

Twisted Desires

Alex Danvers

Lena Luthor

Tangled Deceptions

Elegance Unveiled

Shadows of Redemption {part 2 to Tangled Deceptions}

Samantha Arias

Maggie Sawyer

Arrow

Felicity Smoak

Mia Smoak

Thea Queen

Laurel Lance

Melodies of the heart

Dinah Drake

Legends of Tomorrow

Sara Lance

Zari Tomaz

Ava Sharpe

Amaya Jiwe

TVDU

The Vampire Diaries

Elena Gilbert

Unexpected Connection

Caroline Forbes

Veiled Secrets

Bonnie Bennett

Katherine Pierce

The Originals

Hayley Marshall

Moonlit Bonds

Rebekah Mikaelson

Freya Mikaelson

Davina Clair

Legacies

Hope Mikaelson

Josie Salzman

Lizzie Saltzman

Penelope Park

Teen Wolf

Allison Argent

Lidiya Martin

Malia Tate

Marvel

MCU

Natasha Romanoff

Sparks in the Ring

Igniting Desires {part 2 to Sparks in the Ring}

A Flame Ignited {part 3 to Sparks in the Ring}

Enigmatic Desires

Countryside Love

Countryside Affection {part 2 to Countryside Love}

Forever Love {part 3 to Countryside Love}

Wanda Maximoff

Serendipitous Hearts

Echoes of Affection

Threads of Fate

Shadows of desire Part 1 - Enchanted obsession Part 2 - Desires Unleashed Part 3 - Veil of Shadows

Whispers of Fate {part 2 to Threads of Fate}

Shattered Bonds

Carol Danvers

Watching Your Back

Kate Bishop

Hello, You

Scream Franchise

Scream VI

Sam Carpenter

Tara Carpenter

Riverdale

Betty Cooper

Veronica Lodge

Whispers of Lost Love

Cheryl Blossom

Harry Potter

Hermione Granger

Ginny Weasley

Fleur Delacour

The Witcher

Yennefer of Vengerberg

The Mortal Instruments

Shadowhunters

Clary Fray

Isabelle Lightwood

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k-evans-reads · 1 year

Text

In Living Color

Chapter 5 - Part One

Summary: When Natalie Marton, lead character designer for Buzz Lightyear, meets the voice of Buzz, Chris Evans, the sparks are undeniable. But when their work pushes them away from each other, both physically and emotionally, will the sheer differences between their worlds be enough to force them apart?

Pairing: Chris Evans x Pixar Animator OFC Natalie Marton

Word Count: 4,182

By: @k-evans-writes and @ourfinest-hour

We do NOT give permission for our works to be reuploaded, translated, or reposted on any other site. Our work is our own.

Warnings: None.

Previous | Main Masterlist | In Living Color Masterlist

May 2021

The furious scratching sound of Nat’s graphite pencil was the only thing that could be heard in her office as the California sunshine poured through the big windows. She could see by the dent in the fibers of her paper that she was pushing down too hard as she worked on some of the character sketches on her to-do list, but when she glanced over at her phone, she knew exactly why she was holding the pencil with such force.

Nat knew that she should just close her phone, after all it wasn’t as if she’d missed a text from Chris with as many times as she’d checked their text thread over the weekend. But it still was just as quiet as it had been since Saturday when Chris had texted her to tell her something came up and he couldn’t meet her after all. At first Nat hadn’t given it much thought, knowing with the way they had kissed and flirted that Friday night that his longing to see her the next day had been authentic. But when the calendar had flipped from Saturday to Sunday, and now to Monday and still no word from Chris, she realized she’d officially been given the brush off.

It wasn’t a new feeling for her, and she knew it deep deep down that the fleeting chance they’d held together was gone. He’d come to his senses and realized Nat was, as many had before, not good enough for even the guy in the apartment down the street, nevertheless the man in the sprawling home perched on the edge of Laurel Canyon, who made more money from a single movie than Nat could ever hope to make in her career. She was used to getting close to someone, only to have them realize that she was just too much to handle, not ever being able to fully understand her and looking for a way out and it seemed that Chris was no different.

But that didn’t mean that it still didn’t hurt.

She hated to admit just how much it was bothering her, wishing she had just stuck with her more recent realization that she’d be better off alone for the rest of her life and not given a second thought to Chris. If she had, it’d be saving her the pain she was feeling. Nat reached over and quickly exited out of the text conversation, hating how it felt as if it was taunting her and shoved her phone in her purse, realizing it was about time to leave.

Even with the disappointment she felt in her heart at the moment, she knew that there was a man in her life that had never disappointed her and she was on her way to pick him up right now. She’d spent the entire morning watching her notifications not only for a text from Chris, but also for the flight updates from her dad’s airline, and just as she’d gotten up, her phone buzzed with the final update that his flight was about to land.

Making her way out of her office and down the hall, she poked her head into Jamie’s office, just as some of the other department head’s left the manager’s meeting in his office. “Hey Jamie, I’m headed out to pick up my dad,” she reminded him, shifting the bag on her shoulder as his head popped up from where he’d been typing an email.

His brows were furrowed for a split second until he nodded, reminding himself, “Oh that’s right, he’s coming today.”

“Yep and he’s staying until Saturday morning so I get almost a week with him,” she grinned, unable to suppress the happiness she felt at that. It’d been a long and lonely few months in Los Angeles, going from working in-office and living with Shane prior to lockdown, to moving home and surrounding herself with her family during quarantine, until she finally moved back to California in the late fall. And while it certainly had been an adjustment now, she had begun to realize what life would be like in her new reality only once she’d returned to working on campus in the early spring.

“That’s so great Nat, I’m excited for you,” he smiled at her, and Nat knew just how truly happy he was for her. Both Jamie and Mark were the people she was closest to outside of her family and had been for years, so they knew just how much it meant to her to have this time with her dad. Nat stayed leaning against the doorframe when Jamie asked, “Are you taking the day off or are you coming back?”

“No, I’ll be back today. Dad is going to just hang out in my office and read his book so I’ll see you in a little while,” she explained, and as her phone chimed with a text from her dad – presumably telling her they landed. With a rushed smile, hurried goodbye and a repeated promise to come back to finish out the day, she headed out to her car and headed out of the campus.

Nat dumped her bag into the passenger seat before starting the car and heading toward the exit of the parking garage, but she hadn’t even been able to pull out onto the road when the phone ringing chimed loudly through the speakers in her car. She smiled as she saw Heather’s name on the call, knowing it was time for the traditional Marton sisters Monday lunch break phone call.

She barely began to say hello to her oldest sister when Heather interrupted her, asking, “Is dad there yet?”

“No, I’m on my way to the airport to get him now,” she replied as she slowed to a stop at a red light.

The phone beeped momentarily before Alex’s voice filled the car’s speakers as she said, “Hey, I’m here! What did I miss?”

“Nothing, we just started,” Heather informed her. “I’m pretty surprised Nat doesn’t sound more excited about dad almost being there. I figured you’d be bouncing off the walls, Nattie.”

“I know, there hasn’t been a day in the past month that you haven’t mentioned it in the group text,” she could hear Alex laughing from the other end of the call.

Nat slid her black sunglasses on her face before pulling onto the freeway, running a hand through her thick curls before being unable to hold her feelings in and told them, “I am excited, I’m just having an emotional crisis.”

“A real one or a Nat version?”

She tilted her head at the comment, laughing at her eldest sister’s comment before wondering, “What’s a Nat version?”

Heather scoffed, supplying, “When you get in your artist mood and feel all nostalgic or cry over a pretty tree or some shit.”

“No this is real,” Nat shook her head even though she knew that neither of her sisters could see her.

Her sisters were silent for a moment until Alex quietly asked her, “Is it a guy?”

Nat sighed, tapping her fingers against the steering wheel as she slowed to a stop as she waited to get off the freeway. “Well-“

“Oh my god it is! Who is it? What’s going on?” She immediately recognized Alex’s voice as she rapidly fired her questions, interrupting Nat without a care in the world.

Nat hesitated, unsure how much to open up to her sisters. While she feared sharing her thoughts would speak her worries into existence, she needed some advice. Finally, she began, “Do you remember my friend Chris I mentioned?”

“No, who is that?” Heather wondered, not being able to keep it all straight between her hectic job, kids, and keeping up with Nat and Alex’s lives.

“He’s the co-worker,” Alex piped in before Nat could even answer and then quickly demanded, “Okay hurry up and spill, I need to know.”

“I just don’t know what’s going on,” she confessed with a huff, frowning as she drove through an intersection. “We’ve been friends for a little while now and a few times it’s felt flirty but I wasn’t sure.”

“Flirty as in what he’s said or how he acted?” Heather tried to clarify.

“Both,” Nat answered, quiet as she tried to gauge their reactions. “But then on Friday we kissed.”

Alex let out a low whistle, causing Nat to purse her lips as her sister murmured, “You could have led with that.”

Nat couldn’t repress the smile and her fond eye roll at Alex’s statement. “But here’s the weird thing. So we were flirting a lot at Mark’s birthday party on Friday and then we just were like touching and well just flirting I guess. Then he walked me to my Uber and we kissed,” she explained quietly.

“Have you seen him since?” Alex asked, her voice curious.

“That’s the weird thing,” she told them while finally turning off at the right exit. Nat still couldn't figure all of this out in her brain and hope that her elder sisters could tell her something she missed and explained, “He seemed so into it and brought up us getting together the next day but then he texted me Saturday and said something came up with work and I haven’t heard from him since.”

The line was quiet for a moment before Heather muttered, “Yikes.”

“See? I knew it was bad!” Nat’s left hand flew off the steering wheel as she tossed it in the air, deflating into her seat with a sigh as she asked them, “He’s giving me the brush off isn’t he?”

“I won’t lie, Nattie, it kind of sounds like it,” Alex hated to admit it.

Although it wasn’t surprising to her, Nat still was hopeful that maybe their answer would somehow be something different. A long sigh escaped her before she muttered, “I’m not really surprised. He’s out of my league anyway,”

“Maybe it was something with work though, I mean, it is only Monday afternoon,” Heather pointed out, but she knew her eldest sister well enough to know that she was trying to cheer her up and soften the blow.

“It’s just so unlike him to just not say anything though,” she conveyed, knowing that it was true. In the few months they’d known each other, she had come to learn just how vocal Chris was, their text chain rarely lying silent for more than a few hours. “I just don’t know how to read this whole situation.”

“Don’t text him, let him be the one to pursue you or not, that way you’ll know,” Alex tried to guide her younger sister, speaking from her own experience.

Nat hated how much this hurt. She didn’t want to be attached to someone like this again and hated that she’d let herself fall for someone so unattainable so easily, telling her sisters in a defeated tone, “After Shane I didn’t even want another relationship and this is partly why.”

“Honestly I was a little surprised when you called and said it was about a guy. I just didn’t think you wanted to be involved with someone yet,” Heather admitted, knowing that the facts didn’t all line up.

“I didn’t… but things with Chris just sort of… happened, I guess. Or I thought they did,” Nat furiously blinked her eyes as she kept driving toward the airport, hating that she could feel tears trying to sting at her eyes.

The line was quiet for a long moment before Heather wondered, “… You really like him, don’t you Nattie?”

“I wish I could say no, but I can’t,” Nat knew it was the truth. She wanted nothing more than to say it didn’t bother her but she knew that’d be a lie. She didn’t know how she’d ended up in this position, hating how easily Chris had become a fixture in her life, which only made it hurt that much more when she was met with his sudden rejection. “I don’t know, it doesn’t really matter anymore obviously but thanks for listening.”

“Of course, we love you Nattie,” Heather told her, the sympathy in her voice hurting Nat’s heart even more. “And who knows, maybe things will work out.”

With a small roll of her eyes, Nat muttered, “I doubt that.”

Nat was thankful when the conversation shifted to Alex filling them both in on the latest funny things her son had said and Heather adding in her own anecdotes about her children, only making Nat longing to just be with all of them right now. But the melancholy feeling that had plagued her the past few days and hidden her normal sunny demeanor was quickly gone when she saw her dad walking toward her car with a suitcase in hand. It took Nat no more than two seconds to get out of the car and nearly tackle her father in a hug, needing his love and presence so dearly.

The drive back to the Disney Campus felt as though it flew by as she and her dad caught up on what little time had passed since they’d spoken in detail with each other. As they pulled into the employee lot next to her building, Nat told him about what was going on at work, about her meetings earlier in the morning, and what the rest of her day looked like.

“I’m so glad you’re here,” she admitted as she put her car into park, turning the key and pulling it out of the ignition with a sigh, feeling every last bit of tension from the situation with Chris leave her body as she looked at her smiling dad.

Eric looked at her with a grin that became a smirk as he joked, “Me too, you’ve escaped my dad jokes long enough.”

“Oh you mean the ones you text me almost every day?”

“Yeah but now you get them in person,” he shrugged, following Nat’s lead as they got out of the car. With a quick stop at her trunk to grab his suitcase, they headed into Nat’s building to drop their things before going to grab lunch at the commissary.

As they made their way down the sidewalk into the building, Nat bumped her shoulder against his as she honestly said, “I’ll take it if that means I get to have you here.”

Eric was quiet as they made their way into the elevator and Nat felt thankful the doors slipped close without anyone else joining him when he asked, “...You okay Nattie?”

“Yeah,” she shrugged, unable to make herself seem more convincing than that. “I’m just being me, I guess. I’m just feeling emotional.”

“About what?” He asked her quietly as the beeping of the elevator passing floors echoed in the small space.

“Just… a lot of things,” she sighed with a shrug, shifting uncomfortably as the anxieties flooded her again. “Coming back here after the pandemic was just a lot harder than I expected.”

“Just adjusting again? Or what do you mean, Nattie?”

“I don’t know,” she admitted. She’d been struggling and all but spiraling since Chris flaked out on her last minute on Saturday, but it hadn’t been helped by the already-present thoughts in her mind. She missed home, she missed being around her family, and she missed getting to share her days with someone that wasn’t Mark or Jamie. Heather had Ryan and Alex had Zach, and for five years she had Shane, but even a year later she was struggling to reconcile with what her new reality looked like, especially in this new world. “I guess that ever since I came to California I’ve been just so involved in my job. You know that I love what I do, it’s truly my dream, but I guess with everything happening with Shane and then spending so much time back at home, now coming back here and getting back to my normal life, it’s just made me kind of wonder if this is really what I want the rest of my life to be?”

They were quiet as they made their way out of the elevator and a short distance down the hallway before they stopped at Nat’s office. Once the door shut behind them, she avoided his eyes, knowing he was worried as he quietly asked her, “Are you thinking of quitting?”

“No, it’s not that. I think just coming back here has made me realize that I’m… lonely,” she shrugged, dropping her stuff quickly before she grabbed her wallet and work badge out of her bag as she hung it over her chair. “I just see Heather and Alex with their families and I just want what they have. I want my life to be more than just my job.”

Eric nodded, following Nat once he’d rolled his suitcase next to her couch. “That’s normal to feel, Nattie. Most people do want a family of some sort, I think you’ve just been too busy for so many years that you haven’t noticed,” he explained, falling into step with her again as they popped back out of her office and into the hallway, retracing their steps back outside.

She was silent on the elevator as some interns joined them on the ride down to the lobby, not wanting many people to overhear it. “You’re probably right,” she finally told him as they stepped back out into the California sunshine, her arms wrapping around herself as she led her dad to the commissary.

He huffed out a laugh and a grin had settled on his lips when Nat turned his head to look at him. “I usually am,” he reminded her.

“I would argue with that but sadly it’s true,” she laughed in agreement, pulling open the doors to the commissary and leading him inside.“I think for now I just want to try to take a little more time off work and come home more often. I’m planning on coming home for Ella’s 9th birthday since Heather said she was going to do a family party. Maybe if I spend more time at home then I won’t feel this way as much.”

Eric laughed again as he reached for a tray and followed Nat through the crowded employee hall, his eyes taking in the different offerings. “I don’t know, with the way Alex’s pregnancy hormones have been lately, I think the more time you spend around us, the more you’ll be happy to come back to California,” he joked as he reached for a turkey sandwich.

Once they’d each picked out their lunches and he’d insisted on buying her lunch, they found a table tucked in a back corner, sitting down across from each other. He’d begun catching her up on the latest things going on back at home, the funny stories he’d heard at work and the newest gossip from the neighborhood but halfway through one of his stories, Nat’s eyes drifted from looking at her father across the table and landed on a tall frame that was walking toward their table.

“Chris?” She asked, her brows furrowing as she quickly wiped her face with a napkin. “Um hi, I didn’t uh, expect to see you here today. Is there something for Lightyear going on today?”

“No, I have a late shoot tonight and so I just wanted to stop by to see you. I went to your office but Mark told me you were here,” he explained, an awkward look on his face as he met her eyes before gesturing between her and her dad. “Am I interrupting?”

“No, no, sorry, this is my dad, Eric. And dad, this is my friend Chris,” she introduced them, watching as Chris easily charmed the man.

“It’s so nice to meet you Eric, I’ve heard so much about you from Nat that I feel like I know you.”

“Well I always love to get to meet Nattie’s friends,” Eric joked before gesturing to the empty chair next to Nat. “You should join us for lunch.”

“Oh I don’t want to interrupt and I really don’t have too long anyway,” he politely declined “Nat, can I steal you for just a minute?”

She was quiet, looking to her dad for a second, but he gave her a reassuring smile and waved his hand, “Go ahead, Nattie. I’ll be here.”

“Okay,” she murmured, taking a drink of her water before she followed Chris through the busy commissary. Luckily, everyone else in there was too preoccupied to notice the brunette in front of her and they slipped out the doors without a second glance, but Nat paid it no mind as she fiddled anxiously until they stopped walking once they made it away from the busy entrance of the building.

He turned to her, frustratingly silent. Nat watched as his eyes moved from her to his feet, then finally she told him, “I didn’t expect to see you today.”

“Well I wanted to come by and apologize for not being able to get together this weekend because-”

She held up a hand and shook her head, her voice quiet as she – despite how she truly felt – said, “Chris, it’s really fine, you don’t have to explain. It’s not a big deal.”

“It is to me because I really wanted to see you. There was an issue with lighting in a scene but they only had the location until Monday so we had to do a reshoot this weekend which nobody was expecting and that’s why I wasn’t available. We were so slammed I didn’t even get a chance to call you,” he explained, pausing as he met her eyes and shrugged, a deep frown on his face. “I’m really really sorry, Nat.”

“It’s okay, I understand,” she assured him, feeling the last bit of tension she’d been holding deep in her body leave at his explanation – it’d been nothing more than a shitty last minute reshoot, it wasn’t him changing his mind. With a smirk and a slight shrug of her shoulders, she added, “Although I was starting to think that maybe everything on Friday was just because you can’t hold your liquor.”

Chris raised a single brow as a smirk appeared on his face as well, reminding her, “I believe we had this conversation before and I think we both know a Bostonian can handle plenty…”

“I’m not so sure about that anymore,” she shot back, relieved at the way they effortlessly slipped back into their banter.

“Guess I’ll just have to prove it to you then,” he told her with a jut of his chin. “How long is your dad here for?”

“I’m dropping him at the airport on Saturday morning.”

“Oh,” he paused, nodding before he shrugged and – all too casually – added, “I’m leavin’ on Sunday for Europe to do some filming… I’m having a party on Saturday night though for a few friends so if you’re free, I’d love it if you came.”

Nat took a second to school her expression, feeling those flutters from Friday night again at his offer. “Well I feel it’s my duty to come and see you proven wrong,” she sarcastically replied.

“It really is,” he chuckled before nodding to himself. “So I’ll see you Saturday, then.”

She nodded as she watched a few squirrels on the large green space across from them, but then turned her head and told him, “I’m not sure you should keep going around saying things like that. Last time you did, you blew me off.”

“Very funny,” he rolled his eyes with a smirk that told her everything she needed to know. He shoved his hands in his pockets for a moment as he looked around, then sighed and said, “I hope you have a good time with your dad this week, Nat.”

“Thanks, I will,” she told him, touching his arm for a moment and getting his attention. “And thanks again for coming by today.”

He nodded with a tiny shrug, then said, “Of course… bye Nat.”

Nat stood there as she just watched the look on his handsome face, seeing that beautiful soft smile on his face before he reached out and rested a hand on her arm, spreading warmth throughout Nat’s body before he leaned in and pressed a gentle kiss to her cheek. She could smell that musky cologne of his so well with his body being this close and it didn’t go unnoticed by her the way that he lingered his face next to her, waiting for a moment to read her body language but Nat didn’t want to wait any longer and turned her head to look up at him and lean in to kiss his lips in such a different way than the few days before. This wasn’t passionate and full of need like it was on Friday. This kiss was different. It was soft and gentle but somehow felt… intimate. As if they finally were being completely transparent about how they felt about one another, even if they didn’t need words to do it and suddenly Saturday couldn’t come soon enough.

A/N: We can't wait for Thursday's chapter!!! As a reminder, next week we will NOT be posting In Living Color due to the holidays, but we do have something planned, so keep an eye out!

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creature-wizard · 1 year

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Lauren Stratford claims modern witches are satanic abusers. (If you're part of Witchblr, she means you.)

(A heads up, this post is talking about exposed fraud Lauren Stratford/Laurel Rose Willson, who claimed to have been an SRA and CSE victim, and played a large role in perpetuating the Satanic Panic. There will be disturbing topics discussed in this post/thread.)

We're now reaching the point in this book where Stratford is getting her Harold Hill on and telling us what sorts of things in our society are tools of Satan.

She claims that if you have participated in any of the following, then you, YES YOU, are a victim of satanic ritual abuse or are at risk of becoming one:

Playing Dungeons & Dragons

Wearing pentacle jewelry

Making the sign of the horns

Experimenting with ESP, astral projection, guided imagery, or meditation.

Using a ouija board or tarot cards.

Healing via pyramid power, crystals, or colors

Participating in polytheistic spiritual rituals

New Agey/New Age adjacent self-improvement/empowerment

UFOlogy

OBEs

Channeling

I think most of us would agree that some of these things have... issues (EG, crystal healing) and do in fact connect to some very unsavory politics (EG, New Age), but they are very much not satanic, much less do they have anything to do with some grand satanic conspiracy that can only be defeated through the power of Jesus.

As for the rest, it's very clear that Stratford is lumping all modern witchcraft, all modern paganism and polytheism, and all unconventional spiritual practices together as satanic, and therefore, tools of satanic ritual abuse. Oh, and do you enjoy modern fantasy games? Yeah, no, that's satanic, according to Stratford.

(Satanic Panic peddlers really hate fantasy media.)

But if you disagree with Stratford at all:

Of course you didn't think of yourself as a victim. That's where the deception begins. In each of these areas, you are being directed toward the power of self, the power of nature, the power of another god or other gods, or the power of Satan, and you are being pulled away from the power of God. You are becoming a victim of Satan's deceptions.

And she claims that:

Your only answer, your only hope, your only real freedom is in Jesus Christ. I've shared with you how I found Him to be my answer. Now I long to share with you in a simple and practical way how you can find Him to be your answer.

If you're reading this post, odds are good that you're among the people Stratford claimed was a victim in need of saving from Satan. The Satanic Panic was never about saving people from any sort of abuse; it was always a hate movement targeting anyone who wasn't a conservative Christian. There was never a single shred of evidence found for the grand Satanic conspiracy people claimed existed, but there were lots and lots of frauds like Stratford who were relied upon as authorities on the existence of this conspiracy.

The tropes of the Satanic Panic itself were rooted in witch hysteria and antisemitism. It's the same old violent conspiracy theories repackaged for a new generation, for the same purpose of asserting conservative Christian dominion.

Among many other allegations of SRA that may or may not be rooted in something that actually happened, that were likely as not embellished by law enforcement officials desperately looking for satanic crimes, Stratford claims that:

In 1981 the Witches International Coven Council (WICCA) listed several goals at their convention in Mexico. This list was intercepted and confiscated by law-enforcement officials. Among their objectives are:

To bring about personal debts, causing discord and disharmony within families

To remove or educate the "new-age youth" by: a) infiltrating boys'/girls' clubs and big sister/ brother programs b) infiltrating schools, having prayers removed, having teachers teach about drugs, sex, freedoms c) instigating and promoting rebellion against parents and all authority

To have laws changed to benefit our ways, such as: a) removing children from the home environment and placing them in our foster homes b) mandatory placement of children in our daycare centers c) open drug and pornography market to everyone

Yeah, so, if you're a modern witch, Stratford says that you're involved in a conspiracy to destroy society. She claims that people like you are targeting children in preschool for horrific abuses:

These goals are being systematically pursued, and one of the primary avenues is through preschools. Apparently satanists are actively training and seeking employment in preschools throughout the country, and using this as a base for recruiting and programming children for satanism. What these children see, hear, and endure is practically beyond belief: people in robes; sexual abuse; drugged lemonade; animal sacrifices; human sacrifices.

Anyway, it's a good time to mention that no evidence whatsoever was found for any of the allegations of satanic abuse made during the McMartin preschool trials, adults coached children on what to say, and some children made things up because they were put under pressure.

#lauren stratford #laurel rose willson #satan's underground #sra #satanic ritual abuse #witchcraft #conspiracy theories #conspiracism #conspiracy theory

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frznkingdom · 2 months

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@strykingback continued

"It... it's okay, Zek..." Laurel kept her voice soft as she spoke, not intending to pull away from the hug anytime soon. She hated seeing him so distressed, but... she understood what it was like having such horrible nightmares.

Her heart ached, but she fought back tears, wanting to stay strong for Zek.

"You're safe now."

#[thread of hope: laurel]

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boasource · 18 days

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BoA recently hinted at retirement...

I made a thread on Twitter explaining the context behind BoA's recent IG stories, where she hinted at retirement, and I figured that I'd write up a post on it here too, to keep fans here informed and for archival purposes as well.

TL;DR: This announcement was a big shock - BoA has consistently said, up until the week before she posted those IG stories, that she wanted to continue singing and performing. Fans believe that BoA likely hinted at retirement because of the relentless harassment she's faced online.

On April 6th (240406), BoA hinted that she was planning to retire from being a singer entirely. The following day, she stated the exact date her contract was expiring. A few days later, she took down all of her IG posts.

What people seem to miss is that leading up to this, BoA has also been at the receiving end of constant online harassment for months.

(More under the cut)

Since at least February, BoA has been directly addressing and speaking out against the constant harassment she's faced, in interviews and her social media. This is something she has almost never done before, in the 24 years she's been active.

This obviously came as a huge shock to fans because BoA has consistently said that she has no plans of retiring.

August 25, 2020 [her 20th debut anniversary]: "There'll be a 30th anniversary after my 20th. I'll do my best to make good music ofr a long time, so please always give me your love and support!"

April 23, 2023 [Interview with Uhm Junghwa for W Korea]: "Actually, I'm the type who doesn't look back. After I've accomplished something, I don't have time to think, 'well done' or 'good job' because I'm already thinking of the next step. With that, there's no time for me to rest on my laurels, but this drive allows me to last a long time. It might be the most difficult thing, but my one hope is that i never tire of this job [being a performer], which I love so much."

December 21, 2023 [On her IG post, about wanting to film a performance video]: "I miss it. I really want to perform again 🙏"

February 23, 2024 [BoA for Marie Claire Korea]: "Right now, I enjoy my job, and I want to keep doing what I can, given my age."

March 29, 2024 [One week before she announced retirement; BoA for Esquire Korea]: Q: Is there something you still want to achieve? BoA: I want to do a lot of interesting performances. I want to break away from preconceived notions/conventions, sing songs I haven't done before, and create opportunities to communicate more with my audience. Q: What don't you want to change? BoA: My passion for music. Music is where I started. It's my life.

It's obviously well within BoA's right to change her mind about her own career, but it's quite telling that the news came a week after she met huge flak online for defending herself.

There was even one particular tweet that earned millions of views online; it was of a "fan" saying they were unstanning BoA because she was a 'completely different person' now.

What particularly angered fans is the fact that this harassment has been going on for months — years even, if we're being accurate (e.g. for GOT the Beat in 2021 where fans of RV and aespa accused her of 'using' her juniors, BoA getting slut-shamed and harassment all over her IG in 2021 and 2022 - during Street Man Fighter and Street Woman Fighter) and SM has done nothing despite their repeated promises to do so (BoA herself even reposted these warnings). In fact, legal action has only been taken in defense of BoA once, in 2020 — 20 years into her career, despite the fact that she's been going through much worse harassment, especially in the early 2000s when she was barely a teenager.

Because of all this, BoA fans organized truck protests and a few cheering ads, objecting to SM's lack of support. SM responded a few days later, stating that they were taking legal action on BoA's behalf. Unlike their previous statements, SM mentioned specific platforms and forums they were planning to sue; it's certainly a step up, but it obviously means nothing until there's concrete results.

As of this writing (May 26, 2024), there's been no formal, official announcement on whether or not BoA really is going to follow through with retiring after her active contract expires. But BoA has been inactive on social media, except for that one time when she went on IG live (which lasted 4 minutes), to reassure fans that she's been resting and that she plans to hold a concert in Korea this October.

Still, it's been really disheartening to watch, especially as someone who's been following her closely. BoA going into retirement certainly wasn't in my 2024 bingo card, or my bingo card for any year for that matter. When discussing her longevity as an artist, BoA always talked about how she compares her own career to other older artists, how she thinks she's still a 'baby' compared to them. While I'll respect whatever decision she ends up making (and I’m sure, so will all her other fans), the news has just been hard to take because it feels like she's not retiring because she wants to, because she doesn’t want to be a singer anymore; it feels like she's being forced, by an entertainment industry and even a general public that doesn't know what to do with K-pop idols past 35 and who have consistently made music, with barely a hiatus, for two decades.

#boa #boa kwon #long post #retirement #explainer

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justamessedupdisneyprincess · 12 days

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SHORT ONWARD FANFIC

Lost in the Labyrinth Mall (an Izzyley story)

This is a fluffy slice of life sort of short fic with bits of comedy here and there and perhaps a bit of an adventure as well.

Part 1

Barley had always been wild and reckless. Because of this it wasn’t terribly uncommon for him to ruin his clothes during his little adventures. He may have some keen sense of style but overall he did not care much for fashion. If he felt comfortable and looked cool it was enough. It wouldn’t worry him if he wore the same outfit when going out or if there was a little hole here and there. Although those holes can grow…and the already torn thread can tear further apart. He had quite a few shirts that had very obviously seen better days.

One morning he walked out wearing a simple black shirt with a battle axe on it…or what was left of it. There was a rip so large that the bottom of his right pec could be seen! The remains of the fabric blanked around his body but there were very huge holes scattered across. He wore this during one of his “testimonies” against old facilities being torn down and ancient treasures being mistreated.

Laurel’s eyes shot wide when she saw what her oldest son was wearing. It definitely wasn’t that bad last time he wore it, each wash seems to make it worse. “Barley what in the world are you wearing?!” She cried out.

Barley looked a bit confused at first before looking down at himself. “My awesome old battle axe shirt and some jeans?” He says, sounding confused.

Laurel sighs. “Barley, that shirt is unwearable now. You’ll have to throw it out.”

“Throw it out? But I like this shirt!” Barley whined as he lightly pulled at it.

Despite how he made it clear he still saw some value to it, Laurel remained stern. “Barley. It is covered in holes and is all torn up! It makes you look like a homeless person. Worse than that it makes it look like I never take care of you.”

Barley chuckled a bit as he examined the wounds in his wear. “Oh but this adds to the style, mother! A few tears here and there make it look all the more metal. You wouldn’t understand. It’s a whole other level of fashion.” Barley says this jokingly but immediately regretted it after seeing his mother’s horrifying glare. He swallowed a bit as he prepared for the scolding. To his surprise though she managed to calm herself before the storm had hit him. It seemed like an idea popped into her head.

“Well then if you care about fashion so much you should go shopping for some new clothes.” Laurel says. This may seem like an exciting proposal to some but to him it sounded like a chore. He would rather go on another adventure! Not to wonder around looking at clothes all day. He seemed quite taken aback by that response.

“Wha? But I don’t need any.” He says after a pause.

“Yes you do.” Laurel replied with a stern look.

Barley groaned, he loathed the idea of having to go shopping with his mother. He had feared that if he doesn’t go himself then she will watch him like a hawk the entire time they are there. That will take the fun out of everything. “Alright, alright. Fine I will venture into the labyrinth mall and pick up some new clothes.” He had hoped that this would be the end of the conversation. At least if he manages to go himself he can indulge himself in other activities.

“And NO trying to look for ancient treasure.” Laurel added. Barley looked absolutely baffled.

“But MOM! It’s THE labyrinth! Not just A labyrinth but THE labyrinth of ALL labyrinths! Who knows what other secrets could still be buried-“ as passionate as he was, he noticed the look in his mother’s eye. Grown up or not she was still NOT afraid to ground him if need be. “Alright, fine. I will go shopping for some clothes and only some clothes.” He says with a defeated groans. A mischievous thought in the back of his mind. What she doesn’t know won’t hurt her.

Laurel however was on to him. “Then we will go together tomorrow morning.”

Barley felt his heart sink. It would just be hours of agony for him! Clothing store after clothing store for hours on end?! “Uh- that won’t be necessary mother! You can totally trust me, y’know!” Barley cried out. “Don’t ya wanna…y’know…take it easy?”

Laurel once again knew exactly what was going through Barley’s head. “Really? To me it just sounds like you’re trying to get me out of the picture so you can sneak off and get into more trouble.”

Barley pouts a bit, he tried so hard to think of some other excuse. Then finally he thought of something. Or rather…someone. She wouldn’t even trust Ian to monitor him due to his timid nature. She wouldn’t let Barley wonder with a friend who has a knack for getting into trouble. But there was a part of Laurel that was a hopeless romantic…maybe…he can convince her to bring his girlfriend along instead. “Actually- I was kinda thinking…it MIGHT actually NOT be so boring if I go shopping with Izzy.” Barley says.

Barley can tell that she was already considering on allowing it. Her expression did not change much but he noticed the subtle signs in her body language. Izzy had also been able to get Barley out of trouble a few times. She was a loving girlfriend but she is the type to tie Barley to a chair and lock him in a cellar if it meant it would keep him from doing something so reckless that it may hurt himself. Although she didn’t mind a bit of mischief here and there but that was something Laurel did not know about at the time. For Izzy it all came down to morals and the well being of her loved ones. Chaotic and curious yet cautious and anxious she was like an odd combination between the two brothers themselves. “Well…I suppose when your father and I were still young we did go shopping together before… I trust she will make sure you won’t get into any trouble.” Laurel says.

Barley looked shocked as she mentioned the word trouble. She always assumed he was in it before he even started to do anything…which was not entirely incorrect as he does tend to be rash. “Hey! You’re supposed to say “It would be such an awesome date” or “You two have fun”!” Barley says, sounding the tiniest bit offended.

Laurel knew her son well though. She knew he was desperate to try and do things other than simply pick up clothes, things that were dangerous and reckless. She knew he was merely trying to find a way to escape her watchful eye. Although she knew all this she did remain calm, calm yet firm. “And I’m sure it would be an awesome date and that she would love to tell me all about it after. But Barley… if I hear any word of you weaselling your way out of this or getting into any trouble you’ll be doing every single chore around the house for a month.”

Barley groaned a bit as he crossed his arms. Frustrated to begin with before he began to think of ways to work around this. ‘No matter…I will just simply tell Izzy not to share any details with her.’

Yet again, it was as if his mother can read his mind. “Oh, and don’t think that Izzy won’t tell me if you’ve misbehaved. She wants you to stay safe and to learn to take better care of yourself just like the rest of us.”

Barley sighs, he was more than just a little annoyed by now. “Yeah, yeah.” He says.

“I think you’ll find you will enjoy it more than you think though, dear. You have fun.” Laurel says as she walks off. Her smile was sweet and friendly in spite of how agitated Barley felt. She gave him a little pat on the shoulder as she wondered past him.

#making these parts short so it doesn’t take 4ever to scroll #onward #disney #pixar #barley lightfoot #onward barley #izzy sparklberry #izzy the imp #izzyley #onward fanfic

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thisgirlnamedblusy · 1 year

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Hello, favorite writer. There is no rush for you to write it, take your time. Could you write about laurel and reader that reader is her co-worker at never again but as laurel and reader are falling in love but laurel refuses to accept it at all costs why are you young, outcast and etc. One day the reader dares to confess to laurel that he has feelings for her and laurel as a method of defense, makes fun of her and rejects her. And he says they'll just be friends.

After that rejection, you are totally destroyed and Tyler who was nearby (after transforming from his Hyde state) sees you and as he is your friend he comforts you. you spend time with him , you help him with Wednesday, it helps you cope with the rejection of laurel and it improves your mood a lot. And Laurel notices, she thinks you have a thing for Tyler (which you don't) and she gets pretty mad. He orders him to never come near you again, after doing a lot of damage to him. The next day the reader visits Tyler like every day, he acts strange and very cold. Don't give up reader And he asks her what she has, he doesn't answer and tells her that he doesn't want to know anything about her. Reader goes back to nevermore after that, and sees Marylin (laurel), breaks down, and is comforted by laurel. Reader tells her that her best friend (Tyler) doesn't listen to her anymore and doesn't understand what she's going through. Laurel he gets confused because he thought reader had a relationship with Tyler and confesses to reader that he was jealous or afraid of losing her Reader tells her that he will never lose her. Lots of fluff at the end.

That's all, the request is very long, an apology for that.

Yesss, here it is!!!! I hope you like it, and sorry about the language mistakes, cuídate mucho ;)

He's just my friend

Pairing: Marilyn Thornhill/ Laurel Gates x Fem, Teacher! Reader

Warnings: Angst, fluff

Word count: 2,842

Summary: You confessed your love for her, and she rejected you. Now you have to talk to your friend, Tyler, he always understands you…

N/A: Requests are open!!! Sorry about the delays, I’m working hard on your requests. I love you all!!!

“Have you seen that? Every time the CGI is worse...” You commented, while you were watching the movie.

Marilyn nodded in amusement.

She had been your co-worker for less than a year, when the principal called you to take the position of literature teacher. Nevermore was a strange place, but it was still a good place, and there were some not so strange things.

Marilyn Thornhill taught botany. That was not the strangest thing. She was normie. Something exceptional in that place. The town normies always pretended the school didn't exist. Larissa Weems, the principal, didn't seem to care too much.

You were used to normies. You had spent your whole life surrounded by them and you never had any problems. However, strange as it seemed, she did seem to have them. She didn't have many friends at school. You didn't know why. She was kind, nice, smart. She certainly was the only one of the staff with whom you could have a real conversation.

Her normie condition plunged her into an existential void. You weren't like them, you didn't care and little by little you started a friendship. You would be fooling yourself if you thought it was just that, a friendship.

You were not a girl who only paid attention to appearances, but that woman caught your attention from the first moment. You never had much success with normie girls, but there was something different with her, something that gave you some hope.

Maybe it was just that you listened to her, that you spent time with her. Perhaps you mistook smiles and subtle caresses for gratitude. You wished she wasn't like that. The tension between you was evident even though you didn't think it was reciprocated.

That night, like every night, you were watching a movie in your room. It was the best time of day.

“I think that with some threads and some models it would have been better,” she told you, amused. You nodded and laughed together.

You were close, closer than usual, and as you reached for your drink, you felt how your legs brushed against each other. Before you could enjoy that moment, a brief vibration sounded.

“Hey, phones turned off,” you joked, when the redhead took the phone from her pocket. She winked at you and looked at the screen, instantly re-blocking.

“Advertising,” she said sighing. You believed her, although spam messages at that hour wasn't a very good excuse.

With the movement, she sat closer to you and rested her head on your shoulder, yawning.

You were having a hard time paying attention to the movie, especially when her hand gently caressed yours. You swallowed and a gust of bravery ran through your body. You didn't know if it was the best time, or the best place, but you should start talking about serious things, things that really worried you.

“Marilyn…” You whispered, instantly regretting it. She looked at you from your shoulder. She was very close, too close. “I… I… I wanted to ask you if… Well actually I was wondering if…”

“Yes…” She said, visibly impatient.

“If you wanted to… I don't know…” You stammered. Words were worthless. You didn't know how to talk in those situations, it would be better to act, even if it was really crazy. Without thinking twice, you approached and kissed her. She didn't reject you, at least not at that very moment. She did shortly after, placing a hand on your chest.

“(Y/N) what are you doing?” She asked, shaking her head.

You had made a big mistake, now you were sure. You wished you could fly to get out the window.

“I… I thought that…” You said how could you desperately trying to travel to the past and never having done that.

“What?”

Her voice was calm, but clearly that tone didn't make you think anything good.

“We, we get along so well that… Well I thought that you and me…” You whispered, feeling how tears formed in your eyes.

“(Y/N), I… No, I can't,” she said, sighing. It wasn't a "get away from me", it was a "I can't." You felt better, although it didn't help much.

“Why?” You asked, pulling away. You were uneasy about that statement. She couldn't and you didn't know why. Not being able to didn't exactly mean not wanting to.

“Look at you, (Y/N), you're a kid,” she told you, she was serious. Those words made you boil with rage.

“I'm not a kid,” you hissed. “I'm 24 years old.”

“I don't care, for me you are just a child, don't you realize that it can't be possible? What would someone like me do with someone like you? We are from different worlds, you have to understand.”

“Well no, I don't understand it,” you said, navigating between grief and anger.

“You are very young, you will understand. But we can be friends, (Y/N). I think it's the best,” she told you, making an attempt to hold your hand. You jerked her away.

You didn't understand anything. If she had told you something like "I don't like women", "I don't feel anything for you" at least you would be safe, hurt, but safe. You would have no reason to remain in love with her.

“You'd better go,” you said, pointing to the door. She nodded, head down. You were the one who had to be like this, but you became arrogant, believing that you were right for everything. It was yet another failure, and you wanted to be alone.

After that hard blow to your heart, you couldn't stay in your room. Your head was spinning around everything, your eyes shed desperate tears. You needed to get some fresh air, and urgently.

Night wasn't the best time to walk through Nevermore, but you didn't care. All your thoughts were centered on Marilyn, and on her words. When you wanted to realize it, you were far from the academy, near a small pier. The moon was reflected in the water of the lake. It seemed like a good place to cry without being seen.

You sat on the wood and quietly shed your tears. Everything had gone wrong in a moment. Friends, that was the best you could be. It was absurd. You weren't sure that she had feelings for you, but you just knew that you were right. Age, that absurd concept seemed to be a barrier that she refused to cross, as well as the fact that she was normie, and you were an outcast. You didn't see the problem anywhere. You had always been good to her, even though she was normie, and she was good to you, even though you were an outcast.

A sound of footsteps brought you out of your regrets. You quickly put yourself on your guard, you were no stranger to rumors of monsters around. They weren't the steps of a monster, they were the steps of someone you didn't expect to see there at that hour.

“Tyler?” You asked surprised, wiping your tears.

That boy, the waiter from the Jericho cafeteria was there. He seemed agitated, nervous, but as soon as he saw you, he smiled.

“(Y/N), what are you doing here?” He asked approaching you. It was obvious that the marks of your crying were visible on your face. “Are you okay?”

He was a nice boy. Attentive and friendly. Many of your students told you about the horrible things he did against the outcasts, but he himself recognized that he had changed, that he was another person. You believed him. It could be said that he was something of a friend.

You shook your head. Thinking of a lie to tell, the recent memories of that conversation with the redhead struck again.

“It's nothing, just that she has broken my heart,” You confessed. The boy looked at you with pity and sat next to you.

“What happened?” He asked, putting an arm around your shoulders.

“Well, I've told Marilyn,” you said. Of course, he was aware of your feelings. You used to talk a lot in the cafeteria. He always supported you, he said that everything would be fine. He was wrong, no matter how encouraging his words sounded.

“Oh, and she said...”

“She said no, damn it!” You yelled furiously. He backed away scared. “Well, actually she hasn't told me no… I don't know. She has told me that I am very young and that a normie like her should not be with an outcast like me. Something like that, I don't understand anything, Tyler…”

You leaned down to rest on his shoulder again. He wasn't a guy with many words, but he knew how to cheer people up. It seemed as if within that hideous bully your students were telling you about, there was some kind of guardian angel hiding.

“What a nonsense,” he told you. You agreed.

“Yes, it is nonsense. I really don't get it. I'm trying hard, but I can't understand what's going through her head,” you said, finding relief in the mere fact of talking about your feelings, of letting off steam.

“There are two of us, (Y/N)…” The boy sighed. “I can't understand Wednesday. She's always so cold, it's like she has no heart.”

You knew his feelings for your gothic student. You were sure there was chemistry between them, though you never intervened, just trying to gather the information he requested. Her tastes, her fears... (If she had any, of course)

“We are two idiots…” You whispered, looking at the moon reflected in the water. Looking at Tyler, you noticed a small detail. “Hey, where have you been? You are full of mud.”

“Oh, well, I like to walk through the woods,” he told you, a little surprised by the question. “It is inevitable to step on a puddle.”

“It hasn't rained for two weeks…” You commented, beginning to think that he was lying. Tyler just shrugged and just laughed. Actually that little conversation cheered you up a lot. You felt a little better. It's always nice to have someone to talk to.

“Well, it's late. I'll drop by Weathervane tomorrow and we can continue talking about our problems, okay?” The boy nodded, getting up.

“Sure, I'll be there, (Y/N).”

“Tyler,” you said, stopping him. “Thank you.”

He nodded and you hugged him tight. He was a true friend, one of the few you had. He never judged you, he always supported you.

You walked back to Nevermore, a little calmer. You continued with the discomfort and disgust, but you began to see it in a different way. If she felt something for you, it would be a matter of time. You looked up, right at the redhead's window. There was no light, but you stopped walking when you saw how the curtains moved. She was there, for sure.

Classes the next day passed as usual. Pure routine, but with a change. You haven't seen Marilyn all day. You didn't want to see her. You needed to give yourself some time and above all, give her time to reconsider her ridiculous opinion.

You entered the nice cafeteria looking for your friend. He was not at the counter. That was a bit strange. He was always there, fighting with the coffee machine.

You sat for a few minutes, but he didn't show up. You decided to ask another waitress.

“Hey, where is Tyler?” You asked the young woman.

“I think he's in the back room, talking on the phone. Do you want to drink something?”

“Um, yeah, latte with a splash of vanilla,” you said, getting up. The girl agreed.

You were quite impatient by nature. You could only play with electricity, but you had the terrible gift of not knowing how to wait.

You peeked into the small back room. The door was closed, but you could hear Tyler talking.

“But why? I don't... I know, but... Yes, yes, I understood, I won't go back to... No, please! I already understood, not again, please... Yes, Laurel, I, I will always obey you...”

You listened with a frown. The boy seemed terribly scared. You almost hit the door when it opened.

“Tyler, I was looking for you,” you said nervously, praying that he wouldn't notice that you were spying on him. He didn't answer you, he ignored you and went back to the counter. You stayed there, with a silly face. “Tyler?”

There was no answer. If you didn't know him, you would think he was completely ignoring you.

His expression was serious, as if he was mesmerized. A wound that came from his neck powerfully caught your attention.

“My God, what happened to you?”

“Nothing, nothing happened to me. If you don't mind, I have clients to attend to,” he told you coldly.

You were speechless at that sudden change in attitude.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” You asked annoyed. He closed his eyes and took a breath.

“Leave me alone, (Y/N), I don't want to know anything about you.”

You decided not to answer. You stayed there planted, on the ground. It was as if someone had cursed you. The day before the woman you loved rejected you, now it was your best friend who did it. You decided to go back to the academy to take refuge in your pillow.

Tears blurred your vision. You had lost everything, for nothing. You didn't know what had happened. It seemed like you pushed away everyone you cared about. It was desolate, terribly sad. The sun was beginning to set, and after its last rays, a figure appeared coming out of the building. The last person you wanted to see. Marilyn.

“(Y/N)…” She told you, stopping you.

“Leave me alone, I don't feel like talking to anyone,” you said sobbing, Of course you felt like it, you always felt like it for her. But that day you had suffered too much, and worst of all, you didn't know why.

“What’s wrong?” She asked, insisting that you not continue on your way.

“Nothing, nothing is wrong. I don't know how you have the shame to ask me,” you said annoyed, wiping your tears. It was a useless gesture. At that very moment you collapsed, crying uncontrollably and throwing yourself into her arms.

“It’s okay, honey, it’s okay. Don't cry anymore and tell me what happened,” she told you, whispering. You didn't understand why she kept treating you that way after what had happened.

“I don't know what I did wrong. Everything is a mess. You reject me with bullshit excuses. My best friend stops talking to me without knowing why…” You sobbed into her shoulder. She pushed you away, her eyes wide.

“Your best friend? Who?” She asked sharply.

“Tyler, the sheriff's son, we've been friends since I came here, and now he doesn't talk to me,” you explained. It seemed to you that she suddenly turned pale.

“You’re friends?”

“Apparently not anymore,” you said, sitting next to the redhead on a nearby bench.

“I mean, nothing but friends?” She insisted. She seemed nervous. You were surprised by that insinuation.

“Of course we're just friends. I don't like boys, you know perfectly well that I like you,” you said with some anger in your words.

“I saw you last night, (Y/N). In the lake.”

“Yes, we were at the lake, talking. About you precisely, about how you broke my heart…”

You couldn't finish the sentence. Marilyn kissed you unexpectedly. Now you didn't understand anything.

“Oh God…” You sighed, feeling how it seemed that even your head was beginning to ache. “Didn't you say that you couldn't have anything with me? You're going to drive me crazy,” you protested, kissing her again.

“I'm sorry, (Y/N), I was wrong…” She whispered to you, resting her forehead against yours. “When I saw you last night with Tyler I… I was jealous, enraged at the thought of losing you. I know what I said but you mustn't believe me, it's just that… I didn't think it was right.”

“Oh…” You sighed, feeling how the sadness faded from your heart. You were right, she felt something and her jealousy brought it out. “So you… Do you want to try it? Do you feel something about me?”

The redhead nodded smiling, as if a great weight had been lifted from her shoulders as well. You hugged each other intensely and things began to improve.

“I hope you can forgive me, (Y/N),” she told you, with tears in her eyes.

“Well, give me a couple more kisses and I'll think about it,” you said, cupping her face with your hands.

It was one hour of hugs and kisses. As you relaxed, the Tyler issue came to your mind.

“I think there's something wrong with Tyler…” You sighed, feeling like you were on a cloud.

“Why do you think so?”

“This afternoon he was very strange, I think someone tortured him, he had neck injuries, and he was talking on the phone with someone... Laurel?”

“Oh, really? How curious…”

#marilyn thornhill #marilyn thornhill x reader #wednesday #ms thornhill #laurel gates #oneshot

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snailsandpuppy-dogtails · 4 days

Text

I Do, Do You? chapter 2

WC: ~3,500 of fluff and small angst. Gratuitous use of figurative language It's probably a better read over on AO3

~After one short week, the wedding day has arrived! Our hopeful couples will finally come face to face with their betrotheds.~

Voiceover: “First impressions are everything, they are the standard by which we tell people to hold us. Whether they choose to believe it or not, how this first meeting goes will set the tone for their future interactions. How they present themselves and how they handle themselves today will create the foundation of the schema by which their partners view them and their relationships.”

Penelope looks around at the venue. The outdoor ceremony and reception are in a few hours; sunset, taking advantage of that very desired “golden hour” for filming and photos and then dining and dancing under the stars.

Production has chosen a neatly manicured grassy lawn bordered by maple and beech trees, the finely kept backyard to some historic Virginia property. Fairy lights crisscross and swoop above, and a rectangular marble dance floor is set into the middle of the area, later to be surrounded by long picnic tables lined with tealights and eucalyptus wreaths, but now holds rows of dark wood bench seating for wedding guests.

She likes the romantic details, clearly imagining the warm amber glow of the orbs above mixing with the soft twinkle of stars and lightning bugs, the sweet smell the humid night air will pull from the trees. The only disappointment is the shadowy figure her mind keeps drawing in place of a groom. Will he like her? Will she like him?

Workers and crew are buzzing around constructing the rose and laurel arch, arranging the petal carpet they’ll walk down, and setting up camera and microphone equipment. Penelope watches, staving off the same nerves she’s been mostly successful at ignoring all week preparing with dress, shoe, and accessory shopping, trying to write vows for someone she doesn't know, and deciding on the finer details of nails, makeup, and hair. This first impression could be the most important of her life, and while she wants to knock everyone’s socks off, she also wants to be as true to herself as possible. But with the day finally here and everything finally decided on, there’s nothing left to take her mind off what she’s about to do.

—-

Violins strike in the distance, Penelope squeezes her eyes shut swallowing down the acid rising in her throat, A hand tightens around her shoulder. “Pen? It’s time…”

Inhaling deeply, she opens her eyes, taking one last look in the mirror, checking her dress.

It’s a unique trumpet style gown made of a substantial, buttery, white matte silk satin, woven throughout with silvery blue threads that cast a glow. The plunging sweetheart neckline sweeps up into delicate off-the-shoulder illusion straps. The fine, white organic pattern seemingly floating across her décolletage isn’t so much what she’d call lace, but rather piped icing. The bodice fits like a dream, cupping her breast, and further down, clings to her hips, then flares out in a wide trumpet mid-thigh with five corners around the hem that kick up in swift peaks, every step making it look like the daturas her mom kept paintings of all over the house.

She knew the moment she tried it on it was meant for her, the top half a delicious, cakey confection, the bottom half an intoxicating and deadly flower.

“To hell with the show,” a deep cool voice calls from the door, “say the word and I’ll have us down the road in five seconds. Savannah took a separate car just in case…but you are a Goddess, any man would be lucky to find you walking up that aisle to him”

Penelope smirks, eyes still trained on her own figure, “Are you finally suggesting we run away together?”

“Penelope Garcia, it is your wedding day, behave.” he chides.

Her eyes connect with Derek’s, mischievous and smoldering, then JJ’s over her shoulder, she smiles, taking the bouquet of tall sunflowers from the dresser next to her, linking an arm with JJ’s. Something about this feels right. Something she can’t put her finger on. Or at least that’s what she’s telling herself. “Lead the way, my lady love.”

—--

There’s a light knock, fine knuckles rapping on wood. Luke, Matt, and Phil turn as Tara answers the door.

Emily’s standing in the doorway meeting them all with an apologetic look, her eyes cutting to Luke. They know what it means– new case. Killers don’t stop just because it’s inconvenient timing for agents.

“Look, you still have some vacation accrued…” she starts, “I’d approve the time off.” But he hears the ‘but’ in her voice, he knows the pressure they’re under, and with Reid away on family business, they’re already a man down.

He looks around the room at his friends and sighs, “No. I couldn’t leave all the fun to Matt and Tara. Do I at least get to see my bride walk down the aisle before informing her I’m ditching her?”

Coming from anyone else it would sound snide, but she knows he means it. She feels guilty that he means it.

“I’ll give you 24 hours to work some of that charm, you can meet us in Flagstaff tomorrow, my gift. I wouldn’t want her to dislike me immediately, but you know how time sensitive these things are.” She’s grinning, he can see the relief on her face, how the corners of her eyes loosen.

He wants to be mad. She of all people knows why he’s doing this, they’ve had this discussion specifically, but he can’t be mad, ultimately it’s his decision. He’s already retreating into the comfortable, he’s already going for the known unknown and making excuses for his choices. He wants to be mad, but he can only be mad at himself.

Phil pours another shot of amber liquid into a small glass and holds it out, “Come on, Emily, we were just about to toast the happy groom.”

—

He’s anxious, nervous, excited…and happy… If he doesn’t think about what he has to do tomorrow. He doesn’t know half the people here, and he won’t know the person standing up next to him, but he finds none of that really matters. What he knows is she’s adventurous, willing to take a risk, and hopefully, wants love, too.

Luke looks at the crowd of people that have gathered, his family and friends on one side, hers on the other.

His mom and sister, Isabella, and her two boys and husband are in the front row, Tara, Emily, Matt, Kiristy, and all their kids right behind them. He catches Matt’s small smile, a small comfort, before he quickly flickers back to her side, not wanting to be caught staring, but unable to resist the work part of him kicking in.

The people in her front row are three men and a woman. A petite blonde in a short flowing blue dress, her sister? is sitting next to a stern-faced black man in a charcoal suit husband? They’re both wearing rings, but… no. Next to him is an older man in a gray button down and black slacks, and next to him on the end closest to the aisle is a younger hispanic guy. An odd collection of family. The younger man doesn’t appear to share many facial features with the older man next to him or the blonde, in fact none of them look related at all, but they all sit like family, they all act like family. Behind them a woman in a dusty pink dress sits with a small boy playing with two blonde boys next to him, and beside them is a tired looking white man. Again, they don’t look like a family, but are acting like one. Her family and friends seemingly intertwined, the line indiscernible.

He’s about to say something, introduce himself, ease the building tension he can feel between the guests and the situation, her front row and himself, when a ladybug lands on the back of his clasped hands.

The tickle distracts him, and instantly, looking down, good luck springs in his mind. Looking up, he makes eye contact with his sister and holds out his left hand with the scarlet beetle vibrating its wings on his ring finger for her to see. He stays silent not wanting to startle it and send it off. As he does, the violins strike and procession music begins, the beetle, as if on cue, flys away.

Luke follows it’s ascent briefly down the aisle, and then his eyes land on a figure silhouetted behind doors in the distance, and as they do, a placid calmness takes over. There was nothing to worry about, his bride, his wife, his person, was waiting. Long ago he’d made his peace with fate, as a soldier you have to, things would work out the way they were meant to…some days it just took a small reminder.

—

The distance isn’t long, but she feels miles away, this striking woman walking towards him. There’s gasps and howls, applause and awes from in front of him as guests catch his expression and follow his line of sight.

Flowing blonde hair billows in gentle waves with her veil, her dress dances at her feet. His eyes drink her up and take in every detail, every curve, every angle and every texture. She’s wearing the most radiant shade of white, it’s beautiful and unusual, and all he can think is that she looks like the moonflowers he’d spend hours watching twirl, hidden under the shade of their branches as a kid in his grandmother’s backyard. She looks like memories long forgotten and mysteries veiled in night’s shadow and he’s more than intrigued and more than drawn and he’s more than wanting to take her in his arms and spin her until they’re both dizzy, like the flowers used to make him feel. And he feels, again, more than he’s ever felt, that this must be fate.

His gaze is intense, she’s been trying to hold it the whole way, caught in how the setting sun reflects off his bright eyes making them seem as crystal as fresh cracked rootbeer candy. He’s absolutely gorgeous, stunning, the living embodiment of “tall, dark, and handsome,” but there’s not a streak of darkness she can detect in his eyes shining back at her or his dimpled crooked smile bright like a lighthouse. She kicks up rose petals floating down the aisle, and as dumb as it sounds, in that moment she feels she like a ship lost at sea, and he, this stranger, is the beacon of light leading her to safe harbor…or a siren threatening to send her crashing into the sharp rocks under.

His smile starts off small, but the closer she gets the bigger it becomes, toothy and consuming, and she can feel hers by contrast shrinking smaller and smaller, the pit in her stomach, dormant, suddenly swelling larger and larger.

Now in front of him, so close, all these eyes, attention on them, on her, his attention on her- she breaks away looking down as discomfort shyness? takes over.

Too handsome, don’t stare. Looking at someone this close this long is wrong, like staring at the sun. Too much, try to focus.

But this is him! The man you’re marrying. You’re not reserved! You, Penelope Garcia, are confident and secure and you're every bit as shine worthy. Look. At. Him.

It’s dead quiet, awkward, she’s looking away, looking down, she won’t look at him. He wants to pull her back to where they were a moment ago, to alleviate whatever distress she’s feeling, to let her know they’re in this together. That she can trust him. “Hey,” he reigns in his stupidly large smile, heavily forcing it into a more acceptable, smaller thing and gently takes hold of her bent elbows, thumbs stroking her soft arms in a way he hopes she finds soothing, because he certainly does.

His palms are warm and the pads of his thumbs are rough, the touch sending sparks flying up her arms and through her chest, a sensation like thrusting on the light, but she still can’t will herself to look from the flowers in her hands.

Dipping a little, determined to draw her back, Luke introduces himself quietly, “I’m Luke.”

“HE SAID HIS NAME IS LUKE” is yelled to the guests by the man closest to the bride, some laugh. Penelope straightens up instantly, whipping around, “Carlos!” is hissed in warning, and the older man next to ‘Carlos’ smacks his bicep. Carlos only smiles, “Look at Luke, sis, he’s the one you’re marrying” then winks.

Penelope glares, but turns back, apricot lips spreading, tension eased, “I’m Penelope, nice to meet you, Luke.”

And just like that his megawatt smile is once again firmly in place, grinning at her like she’d just unveiled the secrets of the universe. “Nice to meet you, Penelope,” he nods, then looking over her shoulder, adds, “And you, Carlos.”

Penelope’s vows had been funny and charming, she was effortlessly engaging and endearing. Luke felt his own paled in comparison, but there wasn’t much he could do about it now. This next part was where he laid his cards, this part had been a point of contention in the family, his mother nixing it, Isabella taking Luke’s side, her husband taking their mother’s…

He shifts his weight as he makes eye contact over the paper, tucking it away, he takes Penelope’s hands. Looking into a stranger’s eyes shouldn’t be this comforting, but what he finds when he looks at her feels like the safest parts of himself. He isn’t sure just how long he’s been standing there getting lost in thought, or what his face is doing, but he notices a fresh blush on her cheeks and feels her give his fingers a squeeze prompting him to go on.

Playing it cool was apparently completely off the table.

Luke clears his throat and smirks, continuing, “Before we uh…before we go on, I want to be upfront and say, someone very important to me was left out of today’s ceremony, Roxy. I wanted her here, but some people weren’t sure how you’d react…I was going to have her stay home so you, my bride,” and he can’t help but smile when he says it, noticing how she smiles too, “didn’t get scared off, but she’s a big part of my life, I’d do anything for her, she’s my girl, my everything…I’m hoping you can make room for her in a similar way, eventually.”

As the words come out he sees the shift in her expression, eyes widening, jaw slightly dropping before resuming the indulgent smile, her hands becoming clammy and her body pulling away. The tell tale signs of panic and fear. It isn’t what she thinks-

Or at least he hopes it isn’t what she thinks. “Leaving her out feels like lying, so my friend Phil did me a favor and picked her up about an hour ago…Sorry, ma.” he says as he turns, then calls down the aisle in a deep commanding voice, “Roxy, com’on”

Penelope blinks and rocks back, jerking to face the same direction he is.

There’s no way he calls his kid like that, right?

Out from behind the left row comes a wolfish looking happy hound now prancing down the aisle, a dark green bow tied around her neck.

Trotting up to Luke, she stops short sitting on her haunches.

“This is Roxy,” Luke says before kneeling and fiddling with the bow.

Following suit instantly, Penelope kneels too, hands petting and face nuzzling her head. “She’s your dog? Roxy’s a dog Oh hello, you sweet girl.” she coos.

Rings free from the knot on her bow, Luke takes Penelope in at a much closer range, nose nearly brushing her cheek, her eyes scrunched up with the biggest smile he’s seen on her yet and it’s for his girl, it’s for Roxy. His lungs seize, momentarily unable to breathe, his heart clenching and his stomach flipping. He couldn’t have dreamed a better reaction, or a more beautiful sight.

Pocketing the rings, Luke stands, offering his hands to help his new bride back up, “We’ve got one last part to this, if you still want to…”

Slipping her hands into his, letting him right her, she agrees, “I do, do you?”

“-Aht.” the officiant cuts them off, “That’s my job.”

He notices her hand is trembling, or maybe it’s his holding hers unsteady, he’s so focused on not letting the emerald ring slip from his fingers he’s not sure what the rest of him is doing. Luke looks down, and it’s both, both of them shaking and he lets out a little breath. She’s just as nervous as he is. He notices her nails then, not an inch of her left unadorned, had been painted with white flowers.

Women appreciate it when you notice the details, mijo, calls in his head, his grandfather’s voice, compliment your bride.

“Perfection down to the tips of your fingers…I like your nails.” He says it quietly, something just for them, something the mic doesn’t even pic up on.

“Oh, thanks,” Penelope’s hand, instinctively jerking away, is held fast by Luke’s, “just don’t look too closely, I was up pretty late practicing my fingering techniques-” She says it loud and clear, a dismissive thought explaining away the chips at the edges. Loud gasps from who she assumes are his guests, and a deep “Oh shit” followed by giggles can be heard from hers. Luke chokes and blushes, letting go of her hands to cover his face, a weakly chuckled “oh my god” slipping between his fingers.

“-no! No.” Penelope corrects sternly to Luke and then the guests, praying the entendre not stick, urging they know it’s a misunderstanding. She grabs his wrist pulling down an arm covering his face, “-for my clarinet!” she explains, “Which I play!” then to the crowd, begging they understand, “My clarinet. I play the clarinet.” Her cheeks burn. She can’t believe she just did that in front of this beautiful man, in front of his family, in front of cameras.

Luke, eyes still shimmering with amusement, body shaking with laughter, nods, not trusting himself to look up. “Whatever you say,” he hums.

She shakes his wrists, pleading, “No- I’m serious,”

He does his best to straighten out his face, to let her know he’s taking her seriously, swallows and looks her in the eye, “I believe you.”

“Okay.”

“Okay,” he agrees.

The commotion dies down, guests ready for things to move on.

Everything else goes smoothly, the rings slide on (though she’s sure her fingers have swollen from stress), and they’re beautiful, and they fit.

They each breathe a sighing smile when they look between their newly adorned hands, but this is it, their first kiss, she and her new stranger. Butterflies suddenly blossom and take flight, Penelope watches as he moves in, wondering how this fine, adorable and impossibly perfect man will kiss her, if she’ll have to cover their faces with her veil, a kiss just as electric as she’s feeling from his fingers. Her eyes catch his, dipping briefly, and jump back up, he’s so close, her mouth parts…

And then he misses.

No.

Doesn’t miss.

He didn’t kiss her.

He kisses her cheek, and a terrible little thought flickers through her mind:

He doesn’t like you.

Delusional girl, you’re not his type.

Already this man, her husband, is rejecting her.

But despite the disappointment, she can’t help instinctively leaning in, eyes closing, gently rising on her toes and pressing her cheek to his lips and damn does she want that feeling just a little more south. He smells like heaven and feels divine, her fingers curl on his biceps and she thinks she feels his tighten on her waist. His lips are full and soft and firm. The musculature there in that brief contact enough to make her fantasize, even here in front of all these people, and for the first time she’s suddenly overwhelmed with the possibility that she’s made a massive mistake.

Fudge, Penelope, what did you get yourself into?!

When it’s time to ‘kiss the bride’, his anxiety comes back. He wants to kiss her, wants to feel the rush and pull of those playful, funny, pink lips, but he isn’t sure she wants that, if she’s ready for that, isn’t sure what’s right to do… kiss a stranger in front of her family? Kiss his wife in front of her family? Asking would ruin the moment, so instead, he makes a split second decision, ducking for her cheek.

The chaste option.

He tried to read her body language but couldn’t make up his mind, feeling hope, personal desires, might be playing a part, it just disappoints himself. He feels her pressing into his lips and gripping his arms, but everything about this has him mixed up, he can’t read if it was a welcome invitation or a move to control the distance.

At least it wasn’t a hug.

#Garvez #luke alvez #Penelope Garcia #criminal minds #au fic #fan fiction #snails tales #ao3 #emily prentiss #derek morgan #jason gideon #carlos garcia #phil brooks #fluff #angst

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