#sequel of a previous chapter

[tassodelmiele]

Noisy little mess

Hi cutie!

I've, incredibly, keep on writing the same fic for one time in my life, so i'm posting the second part of the first part (obviously) of the whatever i've wrote.

I like writing. It's a little difficult switch from my italian kinda writing skill to the english language.

I feel less poetic in english. More...meh. Dunno.

Anyway, we do not have that much of a smut content in here, just...talking. A lot of talking. I like dialogues.

Sorry for every incorrect grammatical things, i hope i haven't made a complete mess.

DISCLAIMERS: not that much of a smut thing, anyway is GhostxReader, arguing, terrible nicknames, gym, blame shifting, not having breakfast, recalling of behaviours that shouldn't belong to a military base but oh well.

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First part is here:

https://www.tumblr.com/tassodelmiele/746173281244151808/noisy-little-mess?source=share

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Next day, you skip breakfast.

Your ass hurts like hell, you've got bruises on your neck and it seems like you've gone through a fight with the full cast of a Jason Statam's kinda film.

You rush through all the damn base like crazy, avoiding smiles and greetings, in search for that goddamn man who has to give you explanations.

'Cause that sort of thing doesn't happen between two who barely speak at breakfast. 

'Cause you may find muscles attractive, but you've never told him you like him in particular.

'Cause he almost ravaged you, without even saying "goodnight".

And 'cause you've liked it. But that's not necessarily to be known.

You're about to go straight to the training camp (you've seen Soap nearby, and he's Ghost's shadow), when the wanted finds the detective: a door suddenly opens, and you bump into his goddamn big chest, almost drowning your nose in that rock solid-muscle softness pile.

Ghost looks at you like he's just stepped on a candy wrapper. You open your mouth, ready to yell:

«ok, now you're going to tell me, sir, what in the actual fu-»

Then, Price gets out of the office too. And your face blushes with the brightest red.

«…sorry»

«'s nothing. We've finished»

It seems like Ghost's trying to make you comfortable, and that just gets on your nerves. You look at the captain walking away, and before having the opportunity to speak again, the lieutenant has grabbed you by the shoulder and pushed you in his office.

You do your best not to trip over your feet, almost making a pirouette to face him as he closes the door. You open your mouth, prepare your lungs to yell like a fucking eagle…and he stops you, cupping your face with all of the grace he's capable of, looking at you through his goddamn scary skull mask and spells:

«I'm sorry»

And your brain goes blank. 

You squeeze your eyes; you weren't ready for this. For a scold; for a joke, for him to make fun of you, for you to break his terrible per holder on his face…but not for this.

«…what?»

«I'm sorry. Fucking sorry, ok?»

«Yeah, yeah» you scroll his hands away from your face. «I'm sorry too for having my ass burnt and my fucking neck disassembled, that's not the point»

«I was just saying-»

«You were saying nothing»

«If you-»

«Sorry for what? For your kinks, or your lack of asking consent? Go on, i'm listen-»

And he ends up squeezing your face in his hand, glaring at you while you just stay still with your cheeks pressed together and your arms crossed, raising an eyebrow.

He sigh.

«You've caught me off guard»

You muffle, widening your eyes, about to try to say something but his grips tighten a little.

«Let me fucking finish! Bloody hell, you weren't so noisy yesterday! My god…look, 's not a great time to restrain instinct, ok? I'm not saying that you've…awakened something. You're not my type, anyway»

You start to move again in his grip, trying to punch him, but it's so easy for him to stop you.

«I just want to apologize 'cause i've acted by instinct, and is no good. And 'cause I've hurt you, of course»

He stares at you for five seconds before releasing his grip, and the first thing you say is:

«…not your type? Seriously?»

His eyes widen under the mask.

«You…is this really what you're interested in? Out of everything I've told you?»

«You haven't told me that much»

«What the hell-»

«And you're lucky i've liked it, otherwise i would have smash the whole set of weight on your face»

«Yeah, Yeah, sure, a gnome like you»

«I'm a gnome in berserk armor»

«Still a gnome»

«Fight me»

«I'm not wasting my time in a prison for your dead body»

«...weak»

«…don't you dare, rookie»

«Rookie a pair of nuts»

«Watch you fucking mouth»

«I can't do it, there's no mirror in here»

«…ok, maybe your murder is worth a life in prison»

«You're eating away your guts just 'cause i'm having the final say»

«No, but i'm going to eat your guts anytime soon» 

«Try me! Fight that fucking gnome! Then, you're gonna make better apologies»

«My apologies were flawless»

«You said i'm not your type! After…after making a mess out of me!»

«I've said, if you would have listen, that I was lead by my goddamn instinct»

«Yeah, and since when instinct tells you to ravage alone girls in the gym?»

«Since when i've heard you-»

He suddenly stops. Your mouth is still open, ready to talk back, when he starts to push you by the shoulder in order to get you out of his office immediately.

«Time is finished» he says as he tries to get rid of your presence.

But you're not ok with him.

«Nonononono, don't you even-»

«I've told you everything i had to»

«Fuck your excuses! You didn't even make me come!»

That wasn't a challenge. But somehow Ghost's brain classified it as such.

And the same night, in the gym, different machines…you spot him looking at you.

And your panties get instantly wet.

«No» you suddenly say. He gets closer.

«"No" what?»

«No. I won't»

«What?»

«Don't tease, you know "what"»

He doesn't listen to you, and starts a whole different topic: 

«Wanna know something fun, kitty?»

«Can you find another nickname, please?»

Ghost's eyes make a turn under the eyelids, as he repeats: «Wanna know something fun, gnome?»

You make a pout, and he goes on:

«you've been the only one with enough guts to yell at me since fucking forever»

«Well, you've been the only one to touch my panties since…fucking forever. We're fair»

«…you mean it?»

«What?»

«No boyfriend? No sex? Never?»

«Never. Don't make fun of me»

«Why should i?»

«Dunno. An almost thirty years old is suppose to have made something in her life»

«You're working. And living. That's enough»

You're about to grab a weight, but you leave it there, looking at Ghost through the mirror.

«…oh»

He raises an eyebrow.

«…oh? That's the most sensible thought you've got?»

«It's just…i've thought…well…»

«What? What was that little brain of your thinking?»

Your face blush like hell as he comes closer, every step of him is a skipped heartbeat for you.

«I-i've just…i've thought that someone like you may be more…demanding?»

«You don't know me» he towers you in all of his highs «little gnome. 'S dangerous making assumptions on your enemy without collecting intel, don't ya know?»

«You're not an enemy». You swallow, finding yourself hesitate. «…i believe»

«You don't seem so sure about it»

And then he gives you the most threatening, close up encounter with his mask, leaning on you like an eagle on a mouse.

«How come, little gnome?»

You swallow. Than you remember he's your fucking lieutenant, and you're in the base gym, and there shouldn't be nothing to worry about, really. And you feel like an idiot, blushing and lowering your eyes. You decide to use his weapons against him:

«…it's dangerous making assumptions on your allies without collecting intel»

And he stares at you, seeming happy with your answer.

«You do are a brat, don't you?»

«I'm the cutest rookie in the entire base»

«Someone's going to make ya eat that goddamn tongue of you»

«They're just jealous»

«'s not like that»

«…No? Than w-»

«You can't talk back to your superior. You'll end up getting in trouble»

You instantly blush, blowing your cheeks.

«I've never-»

«You're doing it right now»

You blush more, become as red as the goddamn Snow White's apple. Your mouth is finally shutted, and he seems proud of his work. You try to make a step back, gaining some distance between you and his massive body…but he follows you. He follows you and he gets closer, trapping you between him and the weights rack.

«I…don't think i like brats that much» 

Ghost is not touching you, but somehow you shiver under his voice as he's drilling your ears.  

«I like you more with your little mouth shut»

The last word is perfectly underlined by his voice; another shiver down your spine, and you try to fill the silence to not explode under his presence:

«I'm afraid i'm not that good at staying silent, sir»

And he grabs you by the cheeks, squeezing them in one hand without effort, leaning on you as his gaze catches your red face:

«You did a great job yesterday, kitty»

And you melt in your panties. You do it with a little bit of regret just 'cause you'd rather endure a little bit more. You're about to say something, even if you know that as soon as you open your mouth the only thing that'll come out is a moan, and…

He releases you, so suddenly you've to concentrate not to lose balance, stumbling on your feet. He grabs a weight, announcing dramatically:

«But i've seen you've got your mouth fucking open the 90% of the time. That's why you're not my type, little gnome»

«But…you've searched for me»

He stops, holding the weights silently; he's not looking at you, but you know he's waiting for you to keep on with the speech. You swallow again, your throat is almost dry now.

«I know you've heard me. That night. You've heard me���touching. And-»

«So what? You were loud»

«Not that much- anyway, you've come in the gym just for me, i know it»

«No way»

«None come to the gym that late»

«But you were there»

«I'd a busy day- but that's not the point! I wasn't even watching you!»

He hiss a: «liar» in the middle of a curl. You cross your arms.

«…ok. Ok, MAYBE i was, but just for one goddamn sec-»

«So you do like me»

«FOR GODDAMN-»

You shut your mouth, biting your lips before saying something that could cost you way worse than a scolding by your superior. Your feet stomp till the biggest weights you can lift, and you start your rdl sets, knowing you're gonna hurt your back.

But he's looking. He's looking through the mirrors (too many goddamn mirrors in this gym) and it hurts your pride how he's acting like he doesn't care that much. So you take a deep breath, and while resting after the first set you spit it out:

«So you've touched me just 'cause you've felt like discharging some frustration?»

His arms suddenly stop moving. He turns his gaze at you, watching you directly this time, as you keep on:

«'cause, you know, since i'm not your type i can't find other reasons why you should've come to do those things. My appearance doesn't turn you on, so you've just found the first random person to use»

You lift the weights again, ready to release your bomb:

«So childish. It's not that mature for someone in your position»

You have no time to get aware of him who's just thrown his weights on the floor, reached you in two big steps, and now he's taking your weights from your hands like they're light butterflies, also throwing them on the floor.

He's towering you again, fists clench and hazel eyes on you.

«…it's your fault»

Your eyes widen. You've expected something different.

«Uhm…what?»

«That's why my apologies were good enough for you. 'S just your fault»

«What the hell of a fault did i-»

«You did it on purpose. Those…those fucking sounds of yours, your bloody behave, everything. Goddamn. Everything»

«How?? How could-»

«I don't know, you bloody witch!»

«So learn to know yourself better!»

«Maybe you could behave like a normal human being!»

«I was!»

«Liar. Bloody liar, you've spent the most of the time jerking on every fucking chair you were touching»

«You're hallucinating»

«And you've walked with closed eyes if ya didn't even notice what the hell you were doing»

«I'm not some animal in heat!»

«You looked so!»

«You could've just asked me to stop instead of wetting your hands in my panties!»

«I-»

This is his time to bite his lips, choking words behind the mask. He stares at you, and you return the glare, arms crossed and ice cold eyes on him, pretending not to feel the wetness in your underwear.

He sighs.

«I could crush you with my bare hands»

You stay still, eyes wide open, hands buried in your sweatshirt, asking yourself why the hell does he seem so embarrassed out of nowhere. Ghost sighs again, louder, blowing hot air away as if he's trying to discharge his lungs from something heavy. 

«It's been days you walk everywhere with those goddamn swallowed eyes of yours, adjusting your panties under the uniform, trembling at the tiniest touch…what the hell did you expect? To not be noticed? You, a little whimpering knot tied on itself?»

Your mind gets blind for a second.

You listen with your eyelid twitching. It is…unreal. He's not describing you, that's what you try to get in your brain, convincing yourself that you've not behaved as he's saying. 

You start to mutter through your teeth: «…but…no, no way, i'm not that-»

«Shameless? Dunno, have you ever tried looking at your fucking face in a mirror?»

«I-»

«Look little one, if you don't believe me, just ask someone else. Everyone have noticed»

«But-»

«'s not that i'm scolding you 'cause of your hormones. I'm just explaining myself»

«You…you're not explaining shit!»

«I am»

And he leaves you like this, curled on yourself, insecure and embarrassed. He turn on his heels, sending you a few last words:

«Ask the others 'bout it. The answer will surprise you»

......................................

[thesconesyard]

Where the West Begins

23. Mirage

Scotty sighed as he worked in the garden. Leonard had been acting strange the past week and no matter how Scotty watched he couldn’t tell what was wrong. Not quite a month ago Leonard had gotten another strange letter from Gaila and had disappeared for an afternoon.

It made Scotty’s stomach twist with worry even as he reminded himself that Leonard was allowed to have his secrets. Everyone on the ranch had their pasts, but it was their futures they all worked towards together. Scotty knew about Leonard’s previous life and Scotty had told him about his own.

He just hoped nothing was wrong.

Around him Keenser’s birds chirped and chased each other and Scotty tried to just enjoy the warm sun above him and the cool earth below.

In the evening he walked with Leonard to their favorite spot by the creek. The doctor’s mind seemed elsewhere as Scotty bumped his hand against his. With a sigh he brought his fingers back to his own side.

“Have I done something wrong, Len?”

For a moment he wondered if Leonard had heard him, but then the other man slowly looked at him in surprise.

“Of course not!” he said with feeling. “You could never do anything wrong!”

“Oh.”

Leonard sat down beside the tree and pulled Scotty down with him.

“I’m sorry Monty,” Leonard said, looking down at his lap. “I’ve been thinking about something and I just…” He shook his head. “I’m sorry.” He looked up then and caught Scotty’s eye. “I’ll do better, I promise.”

“Oh Len,” Scotty said quickly. “I just worried, that’s all.”

“I’ll make it up to you,” Leonard said, still looking at Scotty. He smiled slowly and moved in close. Scotty let out a brief chuckle and met him halfway.

Leonard had left early. Scotty sighed as he worked in the garden again. The greenery was soothing, but he still was worried. The doctor had promised the night before to do better, but then he’d left again without saying why. He and Honey had been gone as soon as breakfast was finished. Scotty had helped the ladies with the washing up and when he had gotten outside, Leonard was just passing the gate.

“Am I missing something?” he had asked Christine as she came out on the porch.

She shook her head, and touched his arm. “I’m sure it's fine. He takes spells from time to time. Just be there for him.”

Another sigh. If Leonard was having a hard time, then Scotty would do his damndest to support him. After all they’d all had their hardships. Scotty knew he had his own moments of grief for the life and brother he had left behind. He kept those moments mostly tucked away and carried on as normally as he could when they hit.

Leonard needed his space. He took care of his memories differently. Scotty couldn’t imagine what it must have been like to not have been able to save his father.

Eventually Scotty’s thoughts moved on. The sun was warm and the plants were growing. And wasn’t that what he should focus on; life moving on and growing?

Keenser had come to join him and Jaylah after that. Scotty smiled and laughed with his friends. Keenser whistled them a song that sounded like his birds. When he finished Scotty began to sing an old song he knew from when he was a boy. The old Gaelic words fell from his lips. Keenser closed his eyes and nodded along.

To Scotty’s surprise a voice joined him in singing the song. No one spoke Gaelic on the ranch. He turned around so fast his hat nearly fell off.

Leonard was standing at the garden gate. Scotty’s voice faltered as he saw the man standing with him, who was finishing Scotty’s song.

“No…” Scotty whispered, his legs nearly giving out underneath him. “It cannae be!”

“Halo a bhràthair.”

“Robbie?” Scotty whispered. He looked at Leonard who was smiling with his whole being. “Robbie!” Scotty yelled. Somehow he made it across the garden and threw himself at his brother.

“Monty!” said an old familiar voice as arms Scotty never thought he’d feel again surrounded him.

“How!?” Scotty pulled back to look at his brother, then closed the gap and hugged him again. “How?”

Robbie laughed, but Scotty could hear the tears as well. His own face was wet.

“I cannae believe it!” Scotty said again, moving back to look his brother up and down and take him in. “This is real?”

“It’s real darlin’,” said Leonard, still beaming.

“I’ve missed ye so much Monty,” said Robbie, wiping a hand across his face.

Scotty wiped his own eyes. “I never thought…”

“Ye’d see me again?” Robbie laughed. “I thought the same until about a year ago when I received a letter from a Dr. McCoy.”

“But the MacLeods—”

“Dead,” said Robbie. “About a year after ye left. A deal with the Gordon’s gone wrong.”

“All this time—”

“Ye could have come back and ye didn’t know,” Robbie said with a sad smile.

Scotty didn’t know what to say. He stared at his long lost brother and couldn’t help but hug him tight again just to make sure it was really real.

[soyoursoulisgreen]

15 and 32

15. Do you prefer writing one-shots or multi-chapter fics?

I tend to prefer writing one-shots! I love to read multi-chapter fics, but I always get so worried that I'll lose motivation and just, never come back to it :') My first fic on AO3 is loosely a multi-chapter, in the sense that I've left it open to return to someday, but haven't had any interest to pick it back up in years lol. There's something very punchy about one-shots as well - I have a pretty solid split between short and long one-shots, but it's so satisfying when I Finally have a long one finished!

I also like making connected one-shots, or sequential one-shots, but letting them stand on their own so?

32. What’s a fic you’d love to write, but probably never will?

I think I had a Vargas fic idea at one point that I so badly wanted to read but didn't want to write, and made some concept sketches and an outline for and everything lol - something with the Jake/Edgar/Scriabin dynamic ♥ I do know that someone made a missing scene-fic about Scriabin and Jake's first interaction that I've been quietly making eyes at - next time I'm into Vargas for sure 👀

As for love to write, hm... Probably this overly-convoluted Osmosis Jones NTR fic that I've had in my back pocket for way too long honestly lol - ever since I learned about netorare they were my first and only choice but it's so all-hurt-no-comfort and kinda dark and sad and while it sounds really fun, the self-consciousness monster in the back of my head is like "Really? The White Blood Cell Movie? For that?" lol

[phoenixiancrystallist]

You know, I should probably have written the Susurrus/First Tanta AU before I wrote the epilogue, but I did not. Gonna share that epilogue, though, because I enjoy what I've done and I want to share :)

Cuff murmured in his sleep, a sleep that was apparently fitful and riddled with nightmares. Frey debated waking him up, but before she could get far in that thought, he gasped a name and she felt his consciousness return with a start.

"Astra!"

"Hey," Frey said to catch his attention and help pull him out of that nightmare. "It's just us here. You good?"

"Good...? I... Was I asleep?" Cuff asked. Frey guessed she hadn't given him enough time to come back to Athia. There was a lingering feeling of panic in his voice, probably the last shreds of whatever dream he'd been having.

"You had a nightmare."

"Did I? I wasn't even aware that I could dream."

"Really? Huh. Learn something new every day." Frey considered waiting for him to finish coming out of that nightmare, but she knew if she waited too long he'd clam up and she'd never get an answer. So: "Who's Astra?"

"I, I don't... I don't know. I don't remember. She was... important to me, once. My whole world, it... revolved around her, I think." He hissed, a pain in his voice that Frey couldn't figure out. There wasn't anything around to hurt him. "Ah, what is this emptiness...?"

Oh. That kind of pain. Was Cuff in love once? Man, that must have been a long time ago, if he'd forgotten who she was. And, somehow, just knowing he had loved someone made Frey regret asking. Like she'd pried into something private she had no business sticking her nose in.

"Never mind," Cuff said before Frey could figure out if she wanted to say anything. He sounded back to his usual sharp attitude, and made a sound like he was clearing a throat he didn't even have. "How close are we to Rheddah?"

"See for yourself," Frey offered, her eyes fixed on the horizon where she could see the leading edge of land. It looked nothing like the Visorian coast they'd set out from. Nothing like Praenost, Avoalet, or Junoon, either. Athia was bordered by jagged and rocky cliffs, and beaches of black sand that Cuff said were the result of the land Breaking.

Rheddah looked a thousand times worse. Even from here, miles from shore, Frey could see Break glowing against the setting sun. Black, twisted strands and spires rose into the air, clawed at the sky and shredded the clouds passing overhead to ribbons.

She counted at least three structures that looked horribly like the Tree of Offering.

"Are those what I think they are?" Cuff asked, something caught between awe and horror in his voice.

"I really, really hope not," Frey admitted. "I don't think I can handle three more of you."

"There's only one me, Frey," Cuff scoffed. But he hesitated, and his next words wavered with doubt. "I think."

[alienssstufff]

This Should've Been an Email

His mouth moved without it telling it to, then closed like whoever was possessing him didn’t know what to say either. There was something going on, something Etho could feel but didn’t understand. They were standing on the edge of the world, and Etho didn’t know how to tell Bdubs he was out of time. Was he out of time? Maybe he was just going insane again. Maybe-

“Etho, there’s a lot of void energy going on right now, can you focus-”

You can’t outsmart a god. You can only run.

-

[ READ HERE ] Latest addition to the Should've Could've Would've series and sequel to the YCAOverse byyyy incredible great @goingdownorup cinemaaaa is HERE and we are BACK IN THE BUILDING!!!

[rambling undercut]

you've fallen for my trap card, ramblings not about the actual fic yet sorry - I'm going to talk about art technicalities at you now :]

Ver without the text:

I drew this up on a whim immediately after finishing the first chapter. Other than it being fanart, this year I want to think smarter when making elaborate pieces - this being the one of the first experiments on it.

sketches have always been my starting foundation I usually go through a few iterations gradually building off the rough thumbnail all the way to lineart. Here I'm establishing perspective and rhythm (movement), using background and props to better frame the emphasis (focal) rather than overwhelm the eye with unnecessary detail.

Shirahama's Witch Hat Atelier manga panels were an inspiration for the lineart (reoccuring character. WHA changed my life)

I even started actually putting base colours instead of skipping to shading... BASE COLOURS. BASE COLOURS WITHOUT SHADING? Crazy world we live in. Above were me testing which colours worked best for the background and purpose. Ethubs look a little out of place atm - this changes in solid filters

Shading itself was a lot of back and forth in constant fumbles to maintain the rhythm instructed in the lineart, adding emphasis how values needed to carry the visual communication of this piece especially with a line heavy background because of the wheatfields. Everything uses either cel shading, filters, or gradients - I wanted to find a way to add complexity to my regular rendering style without needing to manually blend/paint (takes too long)

During this stage, Heikala's watercolour art was the study in crowd control (backgrounds with organic repetition)

Smaller misc details that couldn't fit anywhere in the previous pages. Overall while there are some things I still would change/redo, overall very pleased as a first (second) attempt ^_^

[stylesispunk]

"The days of you and I" - part 2

Jackson! Joel Miller x fem!reader

series masterlist | previous chapter | next chapter

Summary: Joel’s growing pain and survivor's guilt create a widening rift between you, as harsh words leave wounds deeper than any physical injury.

w.c: 7,9k

warnings: angst, mentions of murder and revenge, emotional trauma, grief trauma, survivor's guilt, discussion of death and loss. mentions of miscarriage. It contains spoilers from season 2 of the last of us. No proofreading because, you know. No proofreading because I'm a lazy sloth.

Note: Remember this story is a sequel of this one shot "What remains of us" or you can ignore it and keep reading this one haha.

A/N: Thank you so much for all your love on this fic. As I said, this fic will touch on some heavy topics related to the aftermath of events we are already familiar with. This one is not the best, I know. But it is building the tension I talked about before. I hope you like it, and I really expect to see your reactions and comments on it. Remember I created an AO3 account where these pieces of reading are being published too. Sending hugs and love.

One, two, three, four, five. Breathe.

Six, seven, eight, nine, ten. Breathe.

He’s okay. He’s okay.

He is fine. He is fine.

You saved him.

Every time you closed your eyes, you still saw it. You still heart it. You still feel it.

You could sense the inevitable outcome of a nightmare with no end. Perceive the crackling of your heart, shattering, being ripped out from you.   

There was Joel lying, blood slicked across his face, his chest barely rising, his name caught somewhere between your throat and the crushing weight in your chest. The field of dreams built after these years of a quiet life, tearing apart.

Because inside, right at the back of your mind, there was still a reality from which Joel wouldn't make it out alive. That reality was still your trembling knees, touching the floor and caressing a face whose eyes couldn't meet yours.

But in those dreams, you also saw the bodies of Fireflies scattered around him, the smell of gunpowder and copper heavy in the air. His eyes flickering open, then closing again, and you knew, you knew you were too late.

You jolted awake with a gasp, your hand gripping his tighter than you’d realized, your head heavy against the sheets at the edge of his hospital bed. The room was dim, Joel’s chest rising and falling in slow. You turned your head, your cheek brushing against the rough calluses of his hand still in yours. It was warm. Real. Alive.

A broken sound slipped from your throat before you could stop it. Your lips pressed to his knuckles, over and over again, relieved washing all your body.

“You’re okay,” you whispered, voice shaking, salt from your tears mixing with the warmth of his skin. “You’re okay.”

But it wasn’t enough to calm the storm inside you. The room felt too small. The grief, the relief, the terror, too loud, crowding your lungs.

You carefully set his hand down, brushing your fingers through his hair one last time before quietly standing, the floor creaked under your boots. You slipped out the door just as Tommy was coming down the hallway.

He nearly bumped into you; his brow furrowed the moment he saw your face. “Hey—hey, what’s wrong?” he asked, voice low, cautious, like one wrong word might send you shattering.

You tried to speak, but your throat closed. The only thing you managed was a rough, strangled, “I—I Tommy.”

And then your hands were fisting in his jacket and you were burying your face against his chest before you could stop yourself.

“I’m so scared,” you choked out, the words spilling like blood from a wound. “I’m still so scared.”

Tommy’s arms came around you, strong and steady. He let you shake; let you break against him for a minute. “Hey now,” he murmured, “I know, I know. But listen to me — Joel’s fine. He made it. He’s in there, he is breathing thanks to you. You don’t have to keep carrying this like you been.”

You pulled back enough to look at him, your face crumpled. “I can’t,” you rasped, shaking your head. “I can’t, Tommy. If I close my eyes, I lose him. Every time. I’m terrified that I’m gonna wake up and he is going to be dead.” You looked at  him, “I cannot get back from it.”

He gave a weary, sad sort of smile. “Yeah… you can. And you need to.” He let out a breath, his thumb brushing a tear from your cheek. “You haven’t slept, not really, in near a month. You been sitting in that chair every night like a ghost. I see you. Maria sees you. Ellie does. You need to come up for air, darling. You need to grieve what you lost, too.”

You stiffened, your stomach twisting. “I can’t… we agreed,” you whispered, your voice shaking. “We weren’t gonna—”

“I know what we agreed,” Tommy said quietly, eyes steady. “But just because you made me and Maria swear not to tell anyone, doesn’t mean it didn’t happen. Don’t mean it doesn’t hurt. You lost something, too.”

And for a moment you hated him for saying it out loud, for naming the grief you’d tried to bury beneath blood and terror and a flicker of hope.

But mostly you felt yourself breaking, splintering apart, because you’d been holding it together with spit and wire and now there was nowhere left to hide.

“I’m not ready to talk about it.” You replied, “My only priority is Joel’s well-being.”

Tommy nodded, a quiet, sad understanding in his eyes. He didn’t push or didn’t offer some empty platitude or tell you it was okay, because you both knew it wasn’t.

“Alright,” he said softly. “I get it. Just… don’t forget you’re still here too, alright? You can’t bleed out until there’s nothing left of you to give.”

You swallowed hard; throat thick. “I’m fine.”

It was a lie. You both knew it. But Tommy let it be, because sometimes kindness was letting someone cling to the lie a little longer.

For the sake of it.

He gave your arm a squeeze and gestured back toward the room. “I’ll sit with him for a while. Go walk it off. Get some air. Go get to change clothes. You don’t have to be strong every second, you hear me?”

You didn’t answer, just gave a small, jerky nod before moving past him down the hall, your chest tight, legs unsteady. The grief was a storm inside you, still too raw, too sharp, but for the first time in weeks, you weren’t carrying it alone.

The door creaked softly as you stepped into the house, the familiar scent of old wood, leather, and that trace of Joel that clung to everything hitting you like a blow to the chest. It was like walking into a memory you weren’t ready for; one you hadn’t realized you’d been avoiding.

The one where things had remained still, and your quiet little life hadn’t been tainted by ghost of the past he wasn’t ready to face.

You left the door half-open behind you, the quiet hum of the wind outside the only sound filling the empty space. Your boots felt too loud against the floorboards as you made your way upstairs, each step heavier than the last.

In the bedroom, it was like time had stopped.

Joel’s glasses still rested on the nightstand; one arm crooked like he’d taken them off in a hurry. An empty glass of water sat abandoned on your side of the bed. The blankets were half-pulled down, the imprint of both your bodies faint in the mattress as if neither of you had truly left.

Almost a month had passed.

You stood there, rooted to the spot, staring at the bed like it was some kind of relic. Your chest ached at the sudden, vivid memory of that night.

Joel’s rough laugh echoed across the room when Ellie had made some comment on her willing to try and forgive him for what he had done. the way his eyes had shone just a little when he said, “Maybe she’ll come around more often again.”

How you’d nearly told him.

You remembered sitting on the edge of the bed, hand brushing his, your heart hammering as you tried to work up the nerve to say the words that had been eating you alive for days. You hadn’t gotten the chance. The attack came that morning. And everything after that was blood, screams, and a world you didn’t recognize anymore.

Your hand came up to your face, covering your mouth, as if you could press the grief back in.

Not now.

You turned away from the bed, your throat tight, and made your way into the bathroom. The light buzzed softly when you flicked it on. You gripped the edge of the sink, staring at your reflection. You looked wrecked. Hollow-eyed, pale, a shadow of the person you’d been a month ago.

A quiet, bitter laugh slipped from your lips. “Get it together,” you muttered to yourself.

But it wasn’t that easy. It never had been.

You splashed cold water on your face, trying to chase away the ghosts. The house felt too quiet without Joel in it. Too big. Too wrong.

You dried your face, took a steadying breath, and for the first time in weeks, allowed yourself to murmur the thing you’d almost said that night, so soft, even the walls couldn’t hear.

“I was pregnant.” You murmured; your voice broke on the process.

You made your way to the dresser with, every step heavier each time, like your bones knew what was coming before your heart did. The top drawer still held your clothes, neatly folded the way Joel always teased you about.

Your fingers brushed over a worn t-shirt before you pushed it aside, pulling out a clean pair of jeans, tugging them on with monotonous movements. Your hands shook as you reached for a simple tank top. It felt too thin, too unfamiliar against your skin.

Without even thinking, you crossed the room to Joel’s side of the closet, the side you hadn’t touched since that night.

His scent hit you again, sharp and familiar: cedar, soap, something distinctly him. Your chest tightened, throat burning as you reached out and pulled one of his old flannels from the hanger. The one he wore when it got cold around the house, sleeves rolled up, collar a little frayed.

You shrugged it on over your tank top, the fabric heavy and too big around your frame. The sleeves hung past your hands, the scent of him wrapping around you like a hug you weren’t sure you would even feel again.

Your fingers gripped the lapels of the shirt, holding it closed like armor.

You caught sight of yourself in the mirror then, wearing his clothes, eyes rimmed red, hair messy, face drawn.

You pressed a hand to your chest, feeling the steady beat of your heart under your palm.

He’s alive.

He’s breathing.

And you’re still here.

A tear slipped down your cheek, but this time, you let it fall.

You grabbed your jacket from the hook by the door, not bothering to wipe your face. The cold evening air would take care of that. 

And then you walked out, because you couldn’t stay in that house one more goddamn minute.

You headed back to the hospital.

Because wherever Joel Miller was, that’s where you belonged.

You didn’t bother taking the main path. Your feet knew the way, cutting through the back alleys and between old buildings like muscle memory. Every step closer to that hospital felt like pulling yourself out of a grave, but you kept going.

Because he was still there and walking to the hospital felt relieving. Jackson was still recovering from the attack, but nothing mattered to you.

It was like if you had become selfish.

You reached his room and hesitated at the door, hand on the knob, heart pounding like it wanted to crawl out of your chest.

One, two, three, four, five. Breathe.

The memory of your nightmare flickered in the back of your mind. Joel, bloody. The Fireflies on the floor. The way your hands shook as you fired again and again, the sound of someone begging.

You swallowed hard and pushed the door open.

Tommy was sitting in the chair by the bed, elbow propped on his knee, head bowed like he’d been carrying a weight too heavy for one man alone. The soft light entering from the window, accentuated some of the lines in his face, made him look older than you remembered. He lifted his head when he heard the door, and his eyes softened when he saw you standing there, Joel’s flannel drowning your frame.

He didn’t say anything right away. Just gave you that sad, understanding look that made your throat tighten all over again.

“He’s been sleeping,” Tommy murmured, his voice rough, like gravel. “He woke up before, but it seems like he is tired.”

You nodded, your eyes sliding past him to Joel. His face had recovered the same color it had before, but the wounds and scars would settle past him. Your eyes settled on his lips parted as he breathed deep and even.

You crossed the room quietly, your hand brushing over the edge of the bed as you made your way to Joel’s side, needing to see him up close, to confirm with your own eyes what Tommy had said. His chest rose and fell, slow but steady. The faint furrow between his brow had eased in sleep.

It loosened something in your chest, if only a little.

“How’s the fixing going?” you asked softly, not taking your eyes off Joel. “With Jackson, I mean.”

Tommy let out a slow breath, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck. “It’s… going good. Roof repairs, patching the wall on the south side. Got a couple of new folks stepping up too. But it’s not the same without you both around.”

You finally looked at him, brow drawn.

“You know,” he went on, his voice gentler now, “your help would be useful. It might even help you, being out there. With your hands busy. With people. Jackson still needs you. And so does he.”

His eyes flickered to Joel, then back to you.

And you felt it, that ache in your bones, that pull between needing to be right here and knowing the world kept moving outside these four walls, that grief didn’t wait for anyone to be ready.

“I don’t know if I can yet,” you admitted, voice small. “I feel like… if I leave this room, even for a minute, something might happen. I can’t— I don’t wanna miss it.”

Tommy gave you a soft, sad smile. “I get it. I do. But you aren’t going to disappear into this room to prove you love him. You already did the hard thing. You kept him here.”

You swallowed, blinking fast. You hated how constantly you were reminded of what you had done to kept him here.

He stood up then, resting a hand on your shoulder as he passed. “When you’re ready,” he murmured. “We’ll be waiting, alright?”

And then he slipped out, leaving you alone in the soft light and steady rhythm of Joel’s breathing.

You let out a trembling breath, pulling Joel’s hand into yours, and leaned down, pressing your forehead to the back of his knuckles.

“I’ll come back to the world soon,” you whispered. “Just not without you.”

The days bled together after that. Sleep came in snatches, food tasted like nothing, and the house still smelled like Joel. You’d started to force yourself to step outside, help with repairs, take walks around the perimeter of Jackson. Tommy was right. It didn’t fix anything, but it dulled the sharp edges of grief for a little while.

And Ellie… Ellie had finally come around.

It wasn’t easy for her either, carrying her own ghosts and regrets, the heaviness between them too tangled and fraught to name. But she’d shown up, a little bruised, one arm hugged around her middle where cracked ribs still ached.

You came back to the hospital late that afternoon, sun just beginning to dip, the sky streaked with orange and pale pink. The moment you stepped through the door; you could hear voices. Joel’s still hoarse, Ellie’s quieter than you remembered, both of them cautious but trying.

You made your way there, pausing by the door before they noticed you.

“—still think you should read that stupid comic,” Joel rasped, a ghost of a smile in his voice. “It isn’t as half as bad as you make it out to be.”

“I don’t know man,” Ellie shot back. “You say that now, but last time you fell asleep halfway through.”

“I was resting my eyes.”

“Yeah, sure.”

You felt your throat tighten, an ache blooming in your chest. It was such a small, ordinary thing, a normal conversation in a world that had been anything but. And it hit you how long it’d been since you’d heard them like this.

Joel caught sight of you then, his gaze softening. “Hey,” he murmured, reaching his hand out weakly toward you like instinct.

Ellie twisted in her chair, a sheepish look on her face like she’d been caught somewhere she shouldn’t be. “Hey… sorry, I didn’t mean to—”

“No,” you shook your head quickly, offering them both a smile that barely held. “No, I’m glad you’re here.”

Ellie’s lips twitched, and she gave Joel a small nudge. “Told you she wouldn’t be mad.”

Joel’s fingers brushed yours when you reached for his hand. “We were talking abou that comic we found back in those old days of us on the road.” he murmured; his voice still rough but warmer than it’d been in weeks. “It’s good, her being here.”

“I know,” you said, voice soft, squeezing his hand.

Ellie stood then, stretching with a grimace. “I should… get back. I promised Dina I wouldn’t be out too long. She says I need to take it slow.”

Joel’s expression flickered, something close to reluctant, but he just nodded. “Will you come back again?”

“Yeah,” she said, looking between the two of you. “I will.”

And with a last glance, she ducked out the door, leaving you in the quiet again, but this time, it didn’t feel quite so heavy.

That’s what you wanted to believe.

You pulled Joel’s hand to your chest, resting it over your heart. “She loves you; you know?”

Joel’s eyes closed, a tear slipping from the corner. “I’m not sure how I deserve it.”

You kissed the back of his hand. “None of us deserve half the things we get, Joel Miller.”

His brow furrowed faintly at your words, his rough thumb instinctively brushing over your skin, like he could soothe whatever storm had just crossed your mind.

“What do you mean?” he asked, his voice soft, fragile in a way you didn’t often hear from him.

But your gaze had already drifted, landing somewhere past him, past the room, past yourself. You smiled then, small, sad, a little tired, the kind of smile that felt like old wounds and memories too sharp to hold for long.

“Nothing,” you whispered, shaking your head like it could scatter the ache away. You squeezed his hand, brought it to your lips one more time, and didn’t let him ask again. Because you knew if you said it out loud, if you told him what you lost, what you gave up, what you carried so he wouldn’t have to, you might break apart in a way you couldn’t put back together.

And right now, he needed you whole. Or at least, what was left of you.

So, you just kept his hand pressed to your heart and murmured, “You just rest, Joel. I get you.”

Three days later, the room smelled clean, and old wood, the soft hum of life returning to a place that had been far too quiet for too long. Joel sat propped up in a chair by the window, the pale light of morning painting his face in soft golds and silvers. He still looked worn, the bruises faded to ugly yellows and greens, but his eyes were clearer now.

The exercises had started that morning.

Mara, a woman in her middle thirties just as you, one who’d lost her sister in the attack, had volunteered to help with Joel’s physical therapy. It wasn’t easy for her, you could see it in the tightness of her jaw and the flicker of grief in her gaze when their hands met, but she did it. Carefully, gently, guiding Joel’s arm through its slow range of motion, mindful of the broken ribs, the healing bullet wound in his leg.

Joel winced but didn’t complain, his jaw set, sweat beading at his hairline. Ellie sat on the floor nearby, legs crossed, making sarcastic remarks when she thought he needed distraction and staying silent when she could tell he didn’t.

Tommy leaned against the doorway, arms crossed, his face unreadable but his presence steady as ever. Watching, like he always did. Taking care of his big brother, switching places this time. 

And you, you’d given Gail another chance.

It hadn’t been easy, but you’d found her by the gates a couple days before, asking for a way to help. The bitterness between you hung in the air like smoke, but you let her through it. Because grief made ghosts out of people, and neither of you needed another enemy.

You were at her house. The air between you still felt heavy, like a storm waiting to break, but you’d come anyway. Because maybe you didn’t know how to tend some wounds you had on your soul.

Gail handed you a cup of coffee, her hands trembling just enough for you to notice. You took it in silence, standing by the window that looked out toward the mountains.

“How’s he doing?” she asked after a while, her voice rough, like it hurt to say the words.

You didn’t look at her, kept your eyes on the way the snow clung to the branches outside. “He is trying. Still hurts like hell. Can’t move much on his own yet. But he is fighting.” You took a slow sip of the bitter coffee. “Ellie had come. They talked. First real conversation since it happened.”

“And you?” She asked, “How are you feeling?”

“I’m glad he is fine.” You replied, no meeting her eyes.

Gail was quiet for a moment, the silence between you thick and aching. The wind outside rattled against the windowpane, a ghost of a sound in the quiet room.

“I don’t think he could,” she said softly, like she was testing the words, seeing if they sounded true spoken out loud. “A man doesn’t fight his way back from the death like that for someone he hates.”

You swallowed hard, your throat tight, your eyes still locked on the white-dusted branches swaying in the wind. “He didn’t. I was the one who…” you murmured. “What I did. What I… what I gave up.”

At that, you finally turned your head, your gaze meeting hers. There was no malice there now, just an old, worn kind of sadness you both carried like extra weight. She gave you a small, sad smile, and you felt something loosen in your chest — not forgiveness, not yet, but something close to it.

“I was afraid, you know,” you admitted quietly, voice trembling. “Still am. That when he looks at me, he’ll see what I cost him.”

“Maybe,” Gail said, taking a sip from her cup, her eyes never leaving yours. “Or maybe he’ll just see the woman who sat at his bedside every night. The one who wouldn’t let go.”

“Do you think he could come to resent me?” you asked her, meeting her gaze.

Gail let out a long breath, setting her cup down with a soft clink on the table. She rubbed her hands together like she was trying to find the right words, or maybe the courage to say them.

“I have no answer for that.” she admitted, honest in a way that stung. “People carry and react to things in different ways. Joel…He might be angry he doesn’t have the control on his hands. He might be hurt. He might not even know how to feel about it yet.”

You felt your stomach twist, a sick kind of dread curling low in your gut.

“But,” she continued, leaning forward a little, her voice softer, steadier, “I don’t think he’ll resent you for saving his life. For loving him enough to do whatever it took. I think… deep down, he’ll understand. You burn for them. You bleed for them. And I don’t think he is stranger to that kind of love.”

You bit your lip, your eyes stinging as you looked down at your cup. “I just… I don’t wanna be another scar on him.”

Gail gave a small, sad smile. “But you already are. But that’s no the same as a wound”

You sat there a moment, her words settling in your chest like a stone and a balm all at once.

“Do you still resent him for what he did to Eugene?”

“I will always despise him for it,” Gail said again, her voice steady, like she’d made peace with her anger. “But I’ll accept that you don’t deserve to lose him because of what I feel. I loved Eugene. You love Joel too. And that kind of love, well. Loving is tragic sometimes.”

Your throat felt tight. You swallowed hard, not trusting your voice right away.

“I didn’t ask for any of this,” you whispered.

Gail gave a sad little smile. “None of us did. We just get what’s left after the world takes what it wants.”

For a long moment, you both just sat there, two women bound by grief and blood and the ache of what couldn’t be undone.

“I had a miscarriage,” you confessed, like if you didn’t say it out loud it might not be entirely real. “The night we brought Joel back. Only Tommy and Maria know.”

Gail set her cup down with a shaking hand, leaning her elbows onto her knees, staring at the floor. “Jesus,” she whispered. “Why didn’t you—?”

“Because I couldn’t,” you breathed, blinking hard against the sting in your eyes. “I couldn’t deal with losing him and… and that baby. I didn’t even tell Joel. I just… shoved it down. Buried it under everything else. Because he needed me. Ellie needed me. There wasn’t room for me to fall apart.”

The room was silent, save for the ticking of the old clock on the wall. Then, softly, Gail spoke, voice rough as gravel. “I’m sorry.”

You shrugged, wiping a tear off your cheek. “It’s just one more thing, right? One more grave I’ll carry around in my chest.”

“No,” she said, and this time there was steel under it. “It’s not just one more thing. It matters.”

You looked at her, and for the first time in what felt like forever, there was no anger in her gaze. Just a tired, broken woman who understood what it meant to lose pieces of yourself you’d never get back.

“Don’t tell this to anyone,” you said, standing up, your voice steady even though your chest felt like it might cave in.

Gail didn’t argue. Didn’t make promises she couldn’t keep. She just nodded, solemn, the lines around her eyes deepening as she looked up at you.

“I won’t,” she murmured. “It’s not my place.”

You gave a tight nod, setting the empty cup down on the table. The room suddenly felt too small, the walls too close, so you crossed to the door, your hand hovering on the knob for a second.

“You ever need to… you know where to find me,” Gail said, her voice softer now, almost gentle.

You didn’t answer. Just gave a faint, weary smile over your shoulder and left, stepping out into the cold evening air. The chill hit you like a wall, but it was easier to breathe out here. Easier to feel like the world was still turning.

When you made it back to the infirmary, the late afternoon light was slipping through the blinds in thin, tired lines. The room smelled faintly of antiseptic and old paper, and there was the soft shuffle of movement, the faint sound of labored breathing.

Joel was gripping Mara’s hand, his knuckles pale as she helped him ease through another stretch, working his upper body with a focus that made your throat tighten. His face was drawn tight with effort, sweat beading along his temple, but his jaw was set, and his eyes, those goddamn eyes, burned with stubborn, quiet determination.

“You’re doing good,” Mara was murmuring, steady and calm. “One more. You got it, Joel.”

He let out a ragged breath, brow furrowed, and pushed through it. And you felt something twist in your chest. Because even after everything, even when his body betrayed him, Joel Miller still didn’t know how to quit.

You stepped inside quietly, but his gaze found you anyway. Those storm-grey eyes flickered to you, and for a moment, his hand almost faltered.

You forced a smile, crossing the room and settling on the other side of the bed. You reached out, your fingers brushing over the back of his wrist where his pulse thudded wildly.

“Look at you,” you said softly, voice thick. “You’re doing good.”

And it hit you like a blow to the ribs, not the pain of a wound, but something heavier, deeper. The kind of ache that settled behind your sternum and made your hands feel too empty, your throat too tight.

Because in that flicker of a look, no warmth, no smile, no spark of that easy, familiar ache you knew so well, you saw it. The doubt. The distance. The quiet, gnawing thing you’d been terrified of since the night you dragged him back, half-dead, bleeding out in the snow.

And maybe it wasn’t resentment. Maybe it wasn’t hate. But it was something. Something colder.

You forced your smile to stay, even though it felt brittle as glass. Let your thumb drag along his wrist, feeling his pulse there like a frantic little drum, as if it mattered. As if you could hold him to this world by sheer will alone.

“You’re almost through it,” you whispered, and your voice cracked on the last word. “I told you I wasn’t gonna let you go.”

He didn’t answer. Just looked at you a moment longer, something unreadable passing through those tired, storm-dark eyes before he dropped his gaze back to his lap, letting Mara guide his arm down carefully.

You swallowed hard and stood, backing toward the door.

“I’ll… I’ll come back later,” you managed, already hating yourself for the way your voice shook.

And before either of them could say anything else, you slipped out into the hallway. Pressed your back to the cold wall and closed your eyes, because you didn’t want to cry here. Not where someone might see.

But Tommy noticed.

Ellie too.

Perhaps this was the beginning of the aftermath you didn’t want to face.

Tommy’s footsteps were quiet but deliberate as he came to stand beside you. Without a word, he leaned his shoulder against the wall, close enough that you could feel the steady weight of his presence.

“He is…It has been a difficult day for him” he said.

You nodded slowly; your breath still uneven. “I see it in his eyes. Like he’s somewhere far away, and maybe… maybe resenting being here.”

Tommy’s gaze was steady, his voice low and rough. “He’s scared. Not just about his body. About what’s left of him, who he is now. It’s a hell of a thing, knowing you survived but feel like a ghost.”

“You had tried to keep it hidden, the blood seeping through your shirt from a wound you got during a scuffle with some smugglers. You thought you were careful, but Joel had that sixth sense, the one that made it impossible to hide anything from him.

That evening, you’d been sitting on the edge of the bed, trying to clean the cut with water, heart pounding from the pain and the fear of being discovered. You heard footsteps before you saw him.

Joel crouched down beside you, eyes narrowing as he took in the dark stain spreading across your shirt. “Are you trying to hide that from me?” His voice was quiet, but it carried the weight of concern and frustration all at once.

You shook your head, forcing a weak smile. “Didn’t want to worry you.”

He grabbed your hand gently, pulling you up. “You don’t have to do that.”

You looked away, feeling the sting of tears, not just from the wound, but from the raw truth in his words. That night, he stayed with you, helping patch up the wound, silently promising to watch over you no matter what.

That was the moment you knew Joel was never going to let you face the world alone.

That was the moment you realized you loved him.”

The next morning, sunlight filtered softly through the hospital room blinds, casting pale stripes across the worn floor. You stirred awake, your body aching from hours spent curled up in the hard chair beside Joel’s bed. Your eyes fluttered open, and for a moment, everything felt still, until you caught his gaze.

Joel was watching you, eyes sharp and clear, a faint crease of both worry and irritation etched across his brow.

“You should stop sleeping on that chair,” he said, voice low but edged with annoyance. “I’m alive. Just like you wanted.”

There was a pause, a soft breath between you. His words were blunt, but beneath them, you heard something softer, relief, and maybe even a hint of gratitude.

You managed a tired smile, reaching out to squeeze his hand. “I just want to make sure you’re still here.”

Joel’s eyes softened for a fleeting second, the weight of his pain briefly giving way to something gentler. He squeezed your hand back, his grip still weak but steady.

“You worry too much,” he muttered, a half-smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “I’m not going anywhere.”

You shifted in the chair, trying to find a more comfortable position but mostly just staring at him. “I can’t help it,” you admitted, voice barely above a whisper. “Every time I close my eyes, I’m afraid I’ll wake up and you won’t be here.”

He looked away, jaw tightening. “I’m stubborn. You should’ve known that by now.”

You were about to say something when Mara appeared quietly in the doorway, clipboard in hand and a reassuring smile on her face.

“Good morning, Joel. Ready to get started?” she asked gently.

Joel glanced at you, then back at Mara, a mix of relief and determination flickering in his eyes. You squeezed his hand once more before standing up.

“I’ll be just outside if you need me,” you said softly, stepping back to give them space.

Joel nodded, his gaze lingering on you a moment longer.

“You can stay.”

“I... okay,” you said quietly, moving to pull up a chair beside the bed.

Joel shifted slightly, the effort causing a faint wince, but his eyes held steady on you.

“Don’t make it a habit,” he warned, voice rough but teasing.

You smiled softly, squeezing his hand.

The days blurred together after that. Snowfall, dim afternoons, the creak of old wood floors, the sharp scent of antiseptic in every room. Joel was healing, slowly, stubbornly, as everyone expected he would.

He was soft with Ellie. She came by every other day now, bringing comics or talking about new skills she was learning with Dina. Joel would ruffle her hair, tease her about how much taller she’d gotten. There was a warmth in his voice when he spoke to her, something aching and tender you remembered so clearly from before.

He was patient with Tommy too, with his brother’s worry, with the way Tommy hovered and cracked bad jokes to fill the silence. And with Mara, the doctor helping on his rehab, Joel offered polite thank-yous and that old, quiet grit of his, never complaining even when the pain was plain in his face.

But with you… now it was different.

It was in the way his eyes slid past yours when you walked into the room. The way his voice turned clipped and careful when you spoke. The way his hands, once so instinctively reaching for you in sleep or conversation, now stayed neatly folded in his lap.

He wasn’t cruel. Joel Miller never was. But there was a distance. A wall he had lifted. And it hurt worse than anything you could’ve braced for.

It was in the little things too, like when Ellie asked about that old guitar Joel kept at your house, and he just said, "I’ll get it sometime," like it wasn’t something that had once lived between your lives like a promise.

Or when Tommy cracked a joke about you two being thick as thieves again once Joel was back on his feet, and Joel’s answering smile didn’t quite reach his eyes.

You kept showing up. Because you had to. Because you loved him.

But every day it got harder. And it felt like you were both pretending not to feel it.

It started with Joel’s nightmares and how he neglected the comfort you offered.

The first time, you woke to the sound of his ragged breathing, a low, broken sound like a wounded animal caught in its last fight. His hand clutched the blanket, face contorted in some terrible, unseen memory.

You reached for him without thinking, murmuring his name, fingers brushing his damp hair from his brow.

But he jerked away. With force enough to freeze your hand mid-air, enough to make the ache bloom in your chest like something sour.

“I’m fine,” he’d muttered, eyes still glassy, staring anywhere but at you. And when you tried again, when you offered a whispered "Hey, it’s just me," Joel had turned his face to the wall.

Night after night it was the same.

You’d stay when Tommy or Ellie left. You’d sit in that chair by his bed, or sometimes at the window, and when his sleep turned restless, you’d rise and cross the room.

And every time — every goddamn time — he brushed you off.

"Go home."

 "Don’t need you watching me."

A warning flicker in those tired eyes that begged you not to push.

But you did. Because you couldn’t not.

And that was when it started to fray, that quiet war between wanting to be what he needed and realizing he wouldn’t let you anymore.

Ellie could hold his hand. Tommy could steady him through the worst of the spasms when the pain gripped his leg. Even Mara could coax a ragged laugh from him when he managed to hold something strongly.

But you…You were the one thing he refused.

And it broke something in you. Little by little, day after day.

Because you knew the ache in his eyes wasn’t anger.

It wasn’t even disappointment.

It was grief and resentment.

And every time you looked at him, you were a reminder of all the ways he’d nearly slipped away.

Of all the things unsaid.

And that maybe… just maybe… you saving him had cost you both more than you realized.

You were kneeling beside him, one hand steadying his wrist while the other guided the small rubber ball he was supposed to squeeze, a simple exercise, but every movement made his jaw clench, sweat prick at his hairline.

The ball slipped from his fingers, hitting the floor with a soft thud and rolling toward the edge of the room.

“Shit,” he muttered under his breath, voice low, tight with frustration.

“I got it,” you said quickly, already moving, reaching for it before it could roll too far.

But something in the way you said it, too fast, too practiced, like you’d spent weeks catching the things he dropped, making it easier for him to avoid asking, made him still.

When you straightened, ball in hand, you caught the flicker in his eyes. There was irritation.

“You don’t have to… you know,” Joel rasped, his voice rough around the edges, “keep picking up after me like I’m… like I can’t do it.”

Your breath caught.

“I’m not,” you said, even though you both knew you were.

He let out a slow breath, his hand flexing open and closed like the weight of it was more than just his busted bones. “Stop pitying me.”

Your hand tightened around the ball, heart stumbling in your chest at the edge in his voice.

“I’m not pitying you, Joel,” you said quietly, the words rough like gravel. “I’m here because I love you. Because you matter to me, not because I feel sorry for you.”

His jaw worked, a muscle ticking there. He looked away, and for a second you thought maybe it would stop there, like all the other half-finished conversations the two of you had let die in the quiet. But it didn’t.

“Bullshit,” Joel muttered, shaking his head, his fingers flexing uselessly. “You don’t understand what it’s like.”

“Then help me understand,” you bit back, voice trembling. “Stop shutting me out.”

His eyes snapped up to yours, and there was something raw in them, grief, anger, shame, it bled out in every word.

“I can’t even… I can’t manage to make love to you anymore,” he ground out, like it physically hurt to admit it. “I can’t touch you without feeling like a goddamn shell of who I was. And you sitting there, looking at me like I’m still him… it’s killing me.”

The words knocked the air out of your lungs. For a long moment, neither of you spoke. The room felt too small, too bright, too heavy with things that’d been left unsaid for too long.

“I never asked you to be who you were,” you managed, your voice breaking. “I just wanted you. All of you.”

Joel’s face crumpled, his hands gripping the edge of the chair like he might tear the damn thing apart.

“You deserve better than this,” he whispered.

“I don’t want better,” you shot back, voice sharp, trembling. “I want you.”

For a long second, all you could hear was the ragged rise and fall of his breathing, the distance between you still there, but cracked now, fissured with something desperate and bleeding and real.

“I should have died.” He said, “And you brought me back because you’re selfish.”

The words hit like a fist to the chest.

Your breath stuttered, eyes burning as they locked on his. There was no venom in his voice,  just raw, bone-deep hurt, the kind of grief that twisted a man up from the inside out.

And still, it felt like a knife.

“I brought you back because I love you,” you whispered, voice cracking. “Because losing you would’ve killed me too. And I didn’t—I couldn’t let that happen.”

Joel shook his head, his jaw tight, eyes glassy but refusing to fall. “You should’ve. You should’ve let me go.”

“No,” you said, the word sharp and final, your throat tight and aching. “I will never be sorry for saving you. Never. You can hate me for it, Joel, you can push me away, but I’ll carry that. Because I still wake up every day and thank whoever’s out there that you’re still breathing.”

His face twisted, pain and anger and love and loss all tangled in a single shattered look. “You don’t know what it feels like,” he rasped. “To be stuck in this… this broken thing that ain’t even a man anymore. To see you looking for a man who is not here.”

Your heart felt like it was splintering clean in half. You crossed the room slowly, not touching him yet, not forcing it, but close enough that he couldn’t avoid your voice.

“I’m not looking for the man you used to be, Joel,” you said, quietly, steadily. “I’m in love with the man right in front of me.”

For a moment, he looked like he might come apart entirely, like those words knocked something loose inside him he didn’t know how to hold anymore.

“I’m so goddamn tired,” he whispered, a crack in his voice you hadn’t heard since the outbreak years. “What you did to keep me here… you shouldn’t have done it.”

Your throat tightened, but you didn’t look away. Couldn’t. “You would have done the same for me, Joel,” you said, steady, though your voice wavered on the edges. “As you did for Ellie. At Salt Lake. When you lost it because you thought we were losing her.”

You watched something shutter behind his eyes. A flicker of the man you knew, of the truth that hung thick and sharp between you , and then he killed it. Buried it like he’d buried so many other parts of himself.

“No,” Joel said, low and cold and cruel in a way that wasn’t real, in a way he needed to be. “I wouldn’t have done that for you.”

It was a lie. A brutal, deliberate lie.

And you felt it, the way it landed like a blow to the gut, the way it cracked something open in your chest.

But you also saw it. The flicker of guilt in his eyes, the strain in his jaw, the way his hand trembled against the sheets.

You knew him like the palm of your hand.

He was trying to hurt you. Trying to drive you away.

Because Joel Miller knew one way to survive grief, and it was to cut the people you loved out before you lost them.

He didn’t say it, but you knew. He’d seen how tired you looked every day. How you barely slept, barely ate, how the light in your eyes had started to dim.

He saw you breaking under the weight of loving a man who wouldn’t let himself be loved.

So, he tried to kill it. Tried to make you hate him enough to leave. Because maybe if you hated him, you wouldn’t hurt so goddamn much when the world took him from you for good.

You swallowed, throat raw, the ache in your chest a steady, dull throb. But you didn’t move.

Didn’t flinch.

Instead, you leaned in just enough for him to hear you, your voice rough, scraped clean down to the bone.

“Don’t lie to me, Joel.”

He looked away then, eyes shining with something he’d never let fall. His jaw clenched so tight you thought it might break, then his voice came, low, rough, without looking at you.

“I don’t even know if I still love you.”

It landed like a punch. Like a knife between the ribs.

Your breath caught, the room tilting for a second under the weight of it. Your fingers clenched around your own skin, nails biting into the flesh as the words echoed through you.

You didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Couldn’t.

And then Tommy’s voice broke the quiet, stepping into the doorway behind you.

“Hey— What’s going on in here?”

You didn’t turn around. But Joel did. And when his eyes lifted, he saw it.

The tears. Silent and steady, tracing down your cheeks like they’d been waiting for an excuse.

For a final cut.

And for the first time in days, something cracked in him. Something he couldn’t lie to anymore.

But it was too late.

You didn’t give Tommy an answer. Didn’t spare Joel another word.

You just turned, walked out, your shoulders squared, your face wet, leaving both of them in that heavy, suffocating room.

Joel’s eyes stayed locked on the empty space you’d just left; regret was written all over his face.

Tommy watched him for a long moment, then spoke quietly, “You can’t let it end like this.” He pleaded his brother.

But Joel only shook his head, the weight of his own bitterness crushing him. “It’s already broken.”

Outside, the night pressed against the windows like a warning, and somewhere beyond, a threat was waiting, ready to drag them all deeper into the darkness.

tags 💌: If you want to be removed or you're not interested in the story anymore, please tell me so I can remove you. :)

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[venusbyline]

Lying between them (2/2)

previous chapter

— summary: It was no news to the brothers how many times they woke up from wet dreams, their white linen pants stained with the consequences of their desires. And yet... Neither Jacaerys nor Lucerys ever imagined that they would really be in that situation, with you actually considering starting to take off the nightgown, fingers playing with its ties as the seconds passed.

— pairing: Jacaerys Velaryon x sister!reader x Lucerys Velaryon

— type: smut, dark

— word count: 8.4k

— tags/warnings: DEAD DOVE: DO NOT EAT, female!reader, dark!Jacaerys, dark!Lucerys, Targcest (older brother/younger sister & twin brother/twin sister), threesome FMM (female/male/male), dubcon, loss of virginity, rough vaginal sex, virginity kink, underage sex (no specific mention of reader, Jacaerys or Lucerys' ages tho), past non-con somnophilia, dry humping, threats of rape, missionary position, vaginal fingering, oral sex (female receiving), squirting, overstimulation, handjob (male receiving/male giving), nipple playing, gaslighting, dacryphilia, creampie, degradation, light subspace, aftercare, sadism, minor Jacaerys Velaryon/Lucerys Velaryon BUT NOT SO MUCH, minor older brother/younger brother incest BUT NOT SO MUCH, fluffy ending, dom!Jacaerys, sub!reader, switch!Lucerys, canon divergence (No Dance of the Dragons). no use of y/n, english is not my first language.

— author's notes¹: I'M FINALLY POSTING THAT 2ND PART 🔥🔥 I was sooo busy with my final exams, but I think I'll have a little more free time now (even though my college semester only ends at the beginning of July). Tysm to those who asked for a sequel, because I wasn't planning on actually writing it before, but I loved it. Btw, yeah I officially turned it into a twoshot with a title, and I'mma post a masterlist later. ♥️♥️

— author's notes²: This is just my second work about dark!Lucerys (I wrote a scenario based of my horny thoughts stuffs a few months ago). I love write for dark!Jacaerys, but until now I never had really focused on a darker version of Luke. But I was sooo good, I'll probably write more about that, cuz I really like OOC and dark versions of HOTD characters.

— high valyrian words used: Idaña (twin), Kostilus (please).

— crossposting: AO3

❥ Jacaerys masterlist • Lucerys masterlist • HOTD masterlist

❥ Lying Between Them masterlist

❥ about me • main masterlist

"You were taking advantage of me!"

Lucerys flinched as your angry scream reverberated through the suddenly silent chambers — neither of the two brothers had the courage to say anything during those previous minutes, both of them with the colors draining from their faces, both of them worried about what would happen next.

The younger boy's mind was a mess, not knowing what to say or do. The realization of how serious that situation was only hit him when you tried to sit up on the bed, preparing to get out of it — letting out a weak little cry when Jacaerys needed to grab your waist and stop you from moving away.

"It is not exactly that." Your older brother started to explain, but you pushed his hand away, making him mumble something and grab you again, his grip kind of tighter this time. "Hey, hey now. You are overreacting."

Lucerys narrowed his eyes at his brother's indifferent words. Even if he had agreed to participate in that problematic act, at least he knew what they were doing was wrong, and he would never blame you for being scared and wanting to stay physically distant at that moment.

"Jace..." Your twin brother began to say when Jacaerys turned you into the previous position, pressing his own bulge against your ass.

The older prince glared at Lucerys, not wanting the boy to intervene in the plan — even more so when Lucerys had already participated with him so willingly. "Do not interrupt me."

You were incredulous at the rude way Jacaerys was talking to him, and that incredulity increased when you felt Jacaerys grinding against your bare ass. Even with his underwear right there, it was impossible not to feel it with every movement... how hard it was.

Sexual experiences had never been something that happened to you, at least not consensually. Any touching that was more daring had only been caused by your own fingers a few times — although you tried to feel pleasure during a random morning, using one of your brothers' pillows because they left your chambers and one of them forgot to take it back to their own bed.

Yet, you did not expected them to have such audacity to do something like that, so unexpectedly.

"You took off your nightgown of your own free will. You consented to it."

Well... Perhaps not so unexpectedly.

"W-What? I... I did not imagine you would abuse me." Not even you seemed to believe the defense you said against Jacaerys' words.

Unlike his brother, who kept his sly smile after the sentences he heard, Lucerys' guilt grew. He could hear the uncertainty in his twin sister's voice, as if your were going over all the last events.

He knew what Jacaerys was doing, wanting to mess with your mind to put the whole blame on you. So that you would start to feel responsible for what had happened. As if you had really made it seem like it was all consensual.

Lucerys moved an arm forward, lowering it when he saw his twin sister flinching away from his touch and being accidentally pressed against Jace. "F-Fuck... That is it." The firstborn groaned close to your ear, his heavy breathing giving you involuntary goosebumps.

One of Jacaerys' hands moved down to your ass, squeezing the soft flesh there hard and ignoring the whimper of pain he received in return. You felt so warm against him, so fucking gorgeous... Perky nipples begging to be touched.

Before you could even say anything to deny it, Jacaerys had already run the other palm over your breasts, alternating between grabbing each one of them as he increased the way he rolled his hips.

"This is what you always wanted. Is not it, little sister? Your two brothers taking you, taking your maidenhead like you were just our personal whore..." Those crude words were painful to hear, vanishing any defense you could claim.

You were the one who had taken off the nightgown, you were the one who had allowed your brothers to see you like that, to stay there on the bed...

You had allowed Jacaerys and Lucerys to touch you. Allowed them to do whatever they wanted.

"That is not true..." Whimpering, the resistance starting to wane and the shame aching inside your heart. Lucerys noticed how you seemed to writhe against Jace's grip, how your eyes filled with unshed tears. Tears that showed how those words were really having an effect.

Jacaerys brought his palm to your breasts to pinch one of your nipples. "Oh, both of us know it is true. Did you think I would never find out about the morning you rubbed yourself on my pillow like a bitch in heat?"

Both your and your twin brother's eyes widened — your shock was due to the fact that Jacaerys had found out about that some time ago and had never told you until now. Lucerys' shock was because he was in disbelief at what Jacaerys just confessed, a wave of jealousy burning in his veins, not understanding why the hells you would do something so perverted on the other brother's pillow instead of his.

"Why did you do that on his pillow?"

Lucerys' irritation caught you off guard, your face paling with sudden fear when you saw his expression. An expression never seen before, showing the mix of feelings inside him.

"I did not know it was his!"

Nothing changed about Lucerys' look, the anger simply intensified. How dare you grind on Jace's pillow? Even if you did not even know it was your older brother's... It should have been his. He should have been the one to smell your cunt on the fabric during the night. He should have been the one to jerk off thinking about how you had cum there...

Lucerys' gaze at his older brother was enough for Jacaerys to realize his jealousy and that there would be no more moral resistance to whatever happened from then on.

"Let us make a fair deal, little sister..." Jacaerys began to speak, his voice husky and mocking, one hand going down and down... Until it found what he wanted most. "You let us fuck that pretty cunt, and in return we will nof say anything to Mother about how you have been letting us sleep in your bed for months..."

To your disbelief, Lucerys added, "Or about how you stood naked between us, rubbing yourself and begging for dirty things."

That was the cruelest sentence Lucerys had ever said in all his years of existence. As his twin sister, it never crossed your mind that Lucerys would not only agree with that type of situation, but also actively participate in it and make threats.

Gods, he was your twin brother. Jace doing all that was absurd in itself... And now Luke? This was a nightmare.

"Wow, it seems my little brother is finally getting more into this."

With a frown of disgust, you tried to pull away from Jacaerys' touch once more and his grip tightened, a strangled whimper escaping at the pain of having his fingers digging into your soft breast, nail marks appearing on the skin almost immediately.

Without warning, Jace lifted you by the arm, forcing you to sit on the mattress, his hands firmly around the bone, not caring about the possibility of hurting his own younger sister, not caring about the fear he was causing.

As soon as the three siblings were seated, Lucerys moved a little closer, breathing deeply as he smelled you. He had rubbed his hand on your breast while you slept and had even ground himself a few minutes before — however, it was such a huge satisfaction to know that he was about to finally get what he wanted for years.

The pang of guilt that burned against his will began to increase, and he quickly put it aside when he remembered the jealousy he felt when he found out about the pillow incident — it was something silly. Something silly that left him mad.

"And if I say no, regardless of what you are going to tell Mother?"

Jacaerys and Lucerys narrowed their eyes at your question, noticing the hint of defiance. The two brothers stared at each other, as if they were sharing their thoughts, understanding what they should do next, how to deal with the possibility that their sister was actually considering getting rid of this unfair situation with them.

Jace's hand touched your dark hair, the inevitable goosebumps across your naked body while he tucked a few strands behind your ear.

His smile was so sweet, sweet to the point of being kind of creepy, something that could make anyone feel sick. "I do not think you really want to know, darling."

His soft threat made your stomach churn with despair and agony, a few tears spilling out as the last bit of defiance dissipated. Lucerys knew the statement was not true, just a way to lessen any potential denial. None of them would have the nerve to actually abuse you like they were saying, but you had to believe they would.

This might be their only chance.

To the princes’ relief, there were no more grumbles. The silent nod you gave was enough for them to sigh and start doing what needed to be done. “Good girl.”

You did not respond directly to Lucerys’s sudden praise, or empathize with the fact that his voice sounded shaky. All you did was let Jacaerys gently cup your chin, turning you closer to him. Sharing a brief stare, the eldest prince placed his lips against yours, letting out a low sigh when he felt your tension at the new contact.

His lips were full and smooth, with a slight taste of the lemon cake he had eaten before coming to the chambers. Despite the few kisses you had already exchanged with one or two guards, nothing compared to the one you were sharing with your brother. It was not gentle, his tongue invaded your mouth without permission, a soft moan sounding muffled when he squeezed one of your breasts.

As soon as he released your chin and moved his face away a little, Lucerys' finger touched it, a softer touch. Already knowing what was going to happen, you kept your eyes closed, afraid of what it would be like to kiss your own twin, that kind and sweet boy who had disappeared since that night began.

However, the fear in your heart lightened when Lucerys brought the caress to your cheek. Your eyes opened and filled with tears again, looking at those dilated pupils. "Stop crying..."

His request was no longer spoken with a harsh tone. It sounded almost pleading, trembling... Begging you to stop staring at him in fear, staring at him as if you would never forgive him for this.

Kissing Lucerys was sweet, your stomach churning with a delight you should not feel. You had thought about what it would be like, thought about what it would be like to kiss him if Rhaenyra decided to betroth the two of you. Kissing him was like making you feel complete again.

And he felt that way too, you could tell. His hands continued to caress your cheek, enjoying the taste of your mouth, enjoying how you were starting to get used to it and melt with the kiss they exchanged. He never experienced kissing a girl, he saved his first kiss for you, hoping that an opportunity would come one day. Lucerys never considered wanting anyone else — something Jace had done before, even though you were his muse, the only one he truly loved and yearned to possess. The other ladies were a temporary distraction.

But for Lucerys? You were the only one in the entire world. Born together with him. Made for him. He would rather quit the title of the heir of Corlys Velaryon and then become an Archmaester — just as Vaegon Targaryen, King Jaehaerys’ son and great-uncle of your grandfather Viserys, had become on his fifth name day—. He would rather do anything but marry a woman other than you.

The kiss was broken when Jacaerys tugged at your nipple, smirking when you whined at the sharp pain. “That is enough, little brother.” He scolded Lucerys for lasting too long on a simple kiss, unable to help but feel too jealous.

He sighed frustrated, nodding with a frown. The next few minutes were based on having to be shared between the boys. Every time one of them could have your lips, the other one would move his mouth down your neck, licking and sucking the skin there, leaving love bites that would certainly be impossible to hide in the morning.

Both of them kept on lick your neck and you moaned, feeling each one on one side. Your hands went to each other's hair, stroking them out of reflex.

You should not like that. It was dirty, they were forcing you...

"Fuck, you like that." Jacaerys chuckled amused against the back of your neck, watching you shivering. "I bet your pretty cunt is all wet right now..."

To prove his point, Jacaerys pushed you back down on the mattress, spreading your legs abruptly, a smug smile at the sight of your glistening folds, the arousal wetting the insides of your thighs.

With flushed cheeks, you tried to close the legs, pouting when he stopped you. Jacaerys was burning with so much lust, that sight adding more fuel to the fire.

"Pretty wet." Running his index finger through your folds and bringing it to his mouth. The taste made him roll his eyes in pleasure, swiping it through there once more to bring it to Lucerys.

The younger one let the older one put his finger inside his mouth, licking it with a look of surprise. It was a divine taste, something he never imagined before. A thousand times better than how it was in his dirty dreams.

Jacaerys stared at Lucerys afterwards, not exactly asking if he liked it, since the answer would be obvious to everyone. Instead, Jacaerys smirked. "Do you want me to teach you how to lick a cunt?"

Lucerys' cheeks turned red and he stuttered several times, alternating between "yeah" and "of course". He knew about the existence of oral sex, for sure, he had seen things like it embroidered on random tapestries of the Dragonstone or of the Red Keep. He knew that a woman could put a man's member inside her mouth just as a man could lick a woman's core — Lucerys was also well aware that men could stick their fingers inside cunts and women could massage men's cocks.

His confused stammers amused Jacaerys, who patted his little brother on the back to encourage him. "Come here..."

Extremely excited about what he was about to do, Lucerys knelt closer to your spread legs. The sight was better than anything that had ever crossed his mind, no imagination could compare to what was in front of him. You were soaking wet, the moisture glistening and looking extremely sticky.

"Shit..." He whispered more to himself than to anyone else in the chambers, the bulge becoming more evident through the linen pants he was wearing.

"It is so fucking beautiful, is not it? Pretty and plump..." Jace grinned at his brother, ignoring your presence and talking about that as if you were not even there. "I admit it is the most beautiful cunny I have ever seen." Since your older brother never told you about sexual experiences with girls, you glared angry at him. "Oh, darling... Do not be like that. You know no other woman in the world could compare to you." He teased, playing with your cheek.

When you turned your face away, clearly hurt by his confession about not being a virgin, Jace clenched his jaw. He hated feeling guilty and at the same time he hated that you were denying his touches.

There was not much he could do for now. He had already told Luke that he would teach him how eat a girl out, and he should keep his promise. He wanted his brother to really learn what should be done to please his future wife or sister-in-law.

Wasting no time, your twin lay down between your legs, moaning while he smelled the scent that emanated from there. "I assume you have seen an illustration of cunt in some book." The other prince's words made his cheeks heated. He spent enough time in the library to know about the "flowers" that girls had — not enough time to know how to pleasure them, though.

Wanting to avoid you misunderstanding him and thinking he was already experienced just like Jace, Luke added: "Well... Actually I have only seen it in books." Sighing in relief, one less weight off your shoulders. Your older brother having fucked other girls before you was already disappointing... You would hate it if your own twin had also succumbed to random lust with some lady.

"Right. So this bud—"

"Clit." Lucerys regretted explaining in a more theoretical way when you chuckled and Jace rolled his eyes, quite annoyed. "I just tried to say—"

"I know what you meant. Now focus, brother." The other scolded him, pointing again at the little bud. "This part of her is what will give her the main pleasure. If you want her to make your face all wet and moan like a whore, that is where you need to focus the tongue."

Heart racing, the younger boy lifted his head to look at his brother. Damn, that was much harder than he had thought. "And what do I do with my tongue?"

"Lick it. Not too hard, but not too gentle, so you do not look like a stupid puppy."

Lucerys nodded hesitantly and turned his attention back to you — to your face, more specifically. The way you refused to look back at him broke his heart. The jealousy was still there, for sure; he still thought you had rubbed yourself against Jace's pillow for a purpose. However, seeing you so embarrassed by the act he was about to start worried and saddened him. It did not have to be like this. "Look at me..."

When there was no verbal response or obedience, only your legs trembling with hesitation, Lucerys pleaded before Jace intervened with that typical lack of patience. "Idaña..." The way he called you in High Valyrian caught you and Jace off guard, because he did not do it often. "Kostilus, idaña..."

Feeling your heart tighten a little, you finally gave in and returned the eye contact. Despite your embarrassment about being so open and vulnerable to your brothers, the sight of Lucerys with blushing cheeks and waiting for your consent to start was... intriguing, to say the least. Because it did not need to look for confirmations anymore, you had already agreed to all of that against your will after Jace's threats.

And yet your brother seemed hesitant to do you any harm. He could not bear to live with the possibility of you hating him when it was over.

Your silent nod was all Lucerys needed, letting out a relieved sigh and then lowering his face. The smell of your cunt was intoxicating... During his entire life, he had never felt anything so good. His fingers wandered through your wetness, smiling and watching you take a deep breath and try to close your legs out of reflex.

Jacaerys raised an eyebrow and you mentally counted until ten.

Did you want that? Were you craving more touches? Did you expect him to be rougher? There were so many questions running through your mind.

Questions that were not answered when Lucerys rubbed your clit with his thumb.

"L-Luke..." It was so much better than humping a fucking pillow. He also could tell that by the way your eyes widened, looking down at him.

Jacaerys chuckled, witnessing how you seemed to want to say something, how your mouth parted and your moans got louder as Lucerys rubbed that same spot.

He moved closer to your face, letting Luke caress your clit on his own. The boy seemed to understand that the same movement he would do with his tongue could be done with his finger too. "Is our brother doing a good job, little sister?"

Affirming, you closed the eyelids due to the change in Lucerys' movements, stopping rubbing his thumb up and down and now moving it in circles. "Keep it up, she liked it more now." Jacaerys warned the younger as soon as he noticed how you squirmed and the way you threw your head back.

"She is so fucking wet, brother..."

Jacaerys laughed at the younger Velaryon's words. "I bet she is. I can hear the sounds from here." He scoffed, then cupped your cheeks so he could get a better look at your face. "Beg Luke to give you what you want, little sister."

You shook the head, feeling shy and imagining how humiliating it would be to ask for something like that. Before, you had denied doing this to your brothers over and over again, you had cried and felt angry when they threatened you. So why did not you act so scared anymore? Why did not you feel your heart broken anymore, but instead a desperation to give yourself to them? "I... I cannot. P-Please, brother... Please, do not make me say that."

There was no sincere empathy in any of their faces. In fact, Jacaerys had a dark smile, thinking of all the possible degradations he could say to you. Meanwhile, Lucerys seemed a little frustrated at having to stop what he was doing. He wanted to simply dive himself into your center again, lick it until there was no drop left.

However, instead of cursing you, Jacaerys shrugged and turned to his brother. "Luke, get up."

The confusion was clear on Lucerys' face, raising an eyebrow and lifting his upper body until he was close to Jace. The eldest prince's dark smile widened, looking at his brother's thumb, all glistened with your juices. Without warning, he grabbed Luke's hand, running his tongue over his finger.

Lucerys' eyes darkened as he felt his older brother's mouth begin to suck on his skin, eyelids closed while he savored your taste as if he were eating the most delicious candy of the Seven Kingdoms.

Unable to even hold himself back, Luke whimpered at the sensation of Jacaerys licking his thumb. "O-Oh, shit..." He whined as he let go of his hand. He did not want to admit that his cock had gotten harder from the simple act of his older brother's tongue on him —although the other boy noticed anyway.

There was a moment of awkward silence between the three of you, feeling horny at the scene in front of you. There was something erotic there, it was not difficult to notice. Luke's whimper, Jace's mocking gaze... Gods, your core was definitely wetter than before, probably already dripping onto the sheets.

Turning his attention back to you, Jacaerys was entertained by the tension building in the room. "You taste divine, sister. Luke will love eating you out." Tracing your leg with his fingertips and watching you shiver, he added, "Just ask. Beg him and let him taste a cunny for the first time."

Breathing fast and chest heaving, you bit your lower lip to focus on thinking about the pros and cons of both choices.

On one hand, if you asked so easily for this, you would be going against your hurt for what they were doing. That would be like agreeing to let them continue, being hypocrite and acting according to what they wanted. Like agreeing with their actions.

But on the other hand, you could not wait any longer. You could not deny how much you desired this... How much you needed your twin's tongue to pleasure you. How much you needed your older brother to guide the two of you to an incredible first time.

“Please, Luke…” You begged in a low, soft mewl, full of uncertainty.

“Please what?” There was a teasing tone to his voice, and you flinched. “Tell me, idaña.”

Knowing it would be stupid to keep pretending, you sighed. “Please eat me out.”

Lucerys did not wait a second longer than Jace’s quick nod. He crouched between your thighs again, burying his face there like a starving man. His instincts spoke louder than his lack of experience, understanding your surprised cry with encouragement. Perhaps he was about to do this right…

He groaned against your cunt, sending a tingle through your clit that made you arch your neck back again. Jacaerys watched in silence for a few seconds, and then moved closer, sitting next to you and laying your head on his thigh. The change of the position forced Lucerys to be pulled back a few inches. He whimpered, so frustrated, shifting forward in a good position and wrapping his arms under your thighs, reconnecting his mouth to your center.

His saliva was slightly cold, that soft tongue passing through every part of your folds and licking the juices that ran down his chin. His lack of practical knowledge — and not so much theoretical knowledge too — made him look like a desperate little boy, performing sloppy oral sex that would be a joke if it were done on an experienced woman — fortunately for him, you were not one of them. You were his twin sister. A maiden. Your body would soon belong to him and Jacaerys.

"G-Gods... It feels so good..." Your moans echoed through the chambers, and Jacaerys had to turn his head to look at the door, having to make sure no guards were passing by in the hallway. He would hate to have to stop what the three of you were doing and have to put up with his mother's disappointment and lectures.

He would hate to have to stop such an obscene act; you with your legs spread like a whore, cheeks flushed and nipples perked from the new and intense pleasure; his little brother with that damn pretty, inexperienced mouth, all eager to make his twin feel good, to make his big brother proud.

Luke wanted Jace to see him as a big boy. He wanted to be seen as a real grown-up man, regardless of his young age. It was not hard to see that when he alternated between looking at your face and then looking at Jace, eyes wide and brow furrowed in an expression of happiness too cute for the older man to handle. “Tongue up to her bud.”

The order was well received, and Lucerys finally focused his efforts on your clit. His tongue moved up and down with a pace that felt painfully good. You bit the lip, giving a small, confused giggle at the intense pleasure you felt. Your folds were soaked, obscene wet noises echoing through the room as if it were some private part of a brothel.

With each moan you let out, Jacaerys stroked your dark hair, almost too tender for someone who had been basically threatening to rape you just moments ago. You did not care anymore, though. All you wanted was more and more. More pleasure, more pain... anything the two Velaryon boys could give you.

In all those years, you never imagined that you would enjoy your brothers treating you so much like a goddess to be worshipped and at the same time like a whore to be dominated.

"I could eat your little cunt out all day..."

You breathing quickened, listening to those explicit word said by your twin. The one who was a sweet and innocent person most of the time — until that night —. However, you did not have time to react properly, because Jacaerys reached out an arm and grabbed his brother's hair, pressing him against your core with rough.

A strangled sound came from Lucerys' lips, who stared at his brother with confusion and a slight fright. "Shsh, do not stop licking. She is going to cum in your mouth soon." Jace reassured him and he slowly calmed down, nodding weakly and resuming the sloppy licks.

Eyes rolled back, a completely unfamiliar sensation taking over your body. Fingers or pillows... No masturbation could compare to what you were feeling there, head resting on Jacaerys' leg while you rolled your hips against your twin brother's face, his delicate, small nose brushing your swollen clit accidentally as he moved his head up and down to follow the movements of your hips with his cute, pink tongue sticking out, so beautiful like a confused kitten.

"S-So good, Luke... So f-fucking good." You whined, squirming and turning the gaze at Jacaerys. Your older brother's smile contained a mix of perversion and affection, placing his thumb on your lower lip and encouraging you to lick it as if it were a cock — which you had never done and did not know how to do, so you kept sucking with a way that made him chuckle.

Lucerys was already humping on the bedsheets, his bulge aching inside his linen pants, begging for some real touch. He moved against the sheets as if he were fucking a cunt — even though he had never seen a naked woman before — the white fabric of his nightwear becoming stained with the pre-cum that slowly dripped out in the time that he was enjoying those sweet juices.

"Jace... Please."

There was no need to beg Jacaerys about it, but you did. Wide eyes, full of tears that streamed down your flushed cheeks. Tears showing the need to cum as soon as possible, your high becoming impossible to deny.

Jacaerys' expression darkened, not hesitating another minute before purring, "Cum for us, little sister. Cum for your brothers like the little slut we know you are."

Those dirty words coupled with the feeling of Lucerys' lips closing around your swollen clit and sucking it slowly was everything you needed to fall over the edge, your older brother's palm covering your mouth, realizing you were going to cry out in pleasure.

All you could see was white, your body seemed to be practically convulsing every second. Nothing had ever felt this good, nothing had ever made you feel in the Heavens and in the Hells at the same time.

Your eyes were still closed when Luke started to rub his fingers on your clit after a silent command from Jace. The post-orgasm stimulation hurt, your bud throbbing with each movement of your twin's two fingers rubbing it until more tears ran down the face.

Panic began to consume your mind, feeling something strange in your stomach. You immediately kept your eyes wide open, arching the head back like a silent plea to Jace. That sensation felt familiar, but also it was completely different from anything you had experienced before.

Yet, they ignored your struggle to distance yourself from them. Jace pressed your mouth tighter, whispering words that you could no longer understand. All you could do was cry and writhe, Lucerys' fingers keeping moving...

Keeping moving, without any implied mention of stopping.

Until a clear liquid squirted from your cunt, making your twin's face soaked and in pure shock.

Jacaerys laughed in disbelief, admiring that incredible scene and softening the grip of his hand on your mouth as he noticed how your tremors diminished, turning you into a whiny mess.

"She... She pissed on me?"

"What? No, you idiot!" Jace laughed more at his brother's question, realizing that he would not be disgusted if that was what had happened. Despite the urge to tease him about a possible unusual kink, Jace focused on his sister's tears. "It is okay... Shsh, you have been so good to us. Has not she, Luke?

Lucerys nodded readily, climbing on top of you to kiss your lips. You grimaced in disgust at the bittersweet taste of your own arousal. Allowing your brother to delve his tongue into your mouth as he squeezed one of your soft breasts, you placed a hand on his waist, your body yearning for more touch despite the exhaustion.

Your clit was still throbbing a little, and as soon as Luke got off of you, Jacaerys took the opportunity to position you better on the bed, the head resting on the pillow and the cheeks flushed while you watched your brothers finish undressing.

The shyness was clear on your flushed cheeks, chest heaving due to the intense recent climax and also due to the view in front of you. There was no denying the arousal you were experiencing anymore. You never imagined that you would see your brothers naked, at least not before your probable future marriage with one of them — which would mean that you would only see one of them naked, not both at the same time.

Without even realizing, you rubbed your thighs together, your gaze alternating between your two brothers. Jacaerys was a little stronger than Luke, with a more defined chest, more muscular thighs... And a big cock, you could swear it measured at least 16,5 centimeters, slightly arched upwards, the color of the shaft similar to his skin's, just a little darker, besides the pink tip. It was not thick, but it made up for its size.

Unlike Jace, your twin brother did not have a big cock, perhaps 13,5 centimeters, you assumed. He made up for it in thickness, though. It was so much thicker than his older brother’s, the pinkish color of the shaft perfectly matching the tip.

Plus, Jacaerys had a bit more pubic hair on his groin and they were a lighter shade of brown than Lucerys’.

Both of them looked fucking hot. You could not deny how wet you were getting again, your sensitive core not even caring how sore it was. You needed them, needed to feel some of them inside you. Fuck, you did not even care about how dangerous it would be if the Realm found out about your loss of maidenhead before the wedding, you did not even care about the rumors that might arise or about the possibility of the Moon Tea not having the necessary effect.

“Do you like what you see, little sister?” The older Velaryon's voice caught you off guard, face heating up and realizing you had been staring at their naked bodies for longer than you should have. With a low chuckle, Jace teased, "Now it is time for me to deflower you..."

Lucerys' eyes darted to the other prince "What? Why are you going to be the one to take her maidenhead?"

Jacaerys shrugged, not at all alarmed by his brother's sudden anger. "I am the firstborn, Luke, so it is only fair that I am the one who makes her a woman."

"Yeah, and I am her twin!"

You almost felt bad for his frustration, watching them with caution and hesitation. "She will be exhausted during my turn..."

Noticing the younger prince's disappointing, Jacaerys snorted and turned his gaze back to you. However, his thoughts went further. He loved you so much and longed to be the one to fuck you for the first time, to feel you bleeding around his cock as he stretched you...

But at the same time, Jacaerys could not stand Lucerys' expression. The poor boy looked like a kicked puppy, that damned frown and those damned hands clenched into fists, too childish for his age.

"Fine..." Jacaerys muttered, not at all pleased by that decision. He hated being so weak when it came to Lucerys' dramatic personality.

Lucerys could barely be sure he was hearing correctly, his heart skipping a beat. He wanted to ask if his brother was being serious or if it was some kind of mean joke, then Jace made a brief gesture for him to come closer to their sister.

Now kneeling between your spread legs, Luke panicked. He was really about to take your maidenhead. He was about to fuck you like he had always dreamed. And this was starting to turn him insecure, stuttering a few meaningless words to his brother, too nervous to be able to utter a normal sentence.

It did not take much effort for Jace to know what he wanted help with. Spitting on his own palm, he brought it to the boy's thick cock, smirking and admiring him whimpering and writhing due to the cold saliva. As much as he wanted to keep teasing him, Jacaerys just placed it in front of your entrance, bending down a little so he could spit on your clit too — even though he did not need to, you were soaked from the climax and squirt anyway.

"You are going to push inside her. It might be uncomfortable at first, because her maidenhead is intact, so you might feel overstimulated by her cunt walls." He kept his hand on Lucerys' shaft, who was now with a panting breath, trying not to moan like a pathetic little boy at his brother's touch. "Do not go all in at once, but do not be too gentle either. She will take the pain like the good girl she is for us."

After receiving the instructions and absorbing them into his brain, Lucerys agreed. It was enough for Jacaerys to pull away, the tip pressed against your entrance.

"You are so gorgeous, sister..."

He did not wait for a response to the compliment. He took a deep breath and thrust hard, your cry of pain muffled by your own palm. "O-Oh, holy shit!" He whimpered, squeezing his eyes shut and feeling your virgin cunt crushing his cock. A sensation so warm and tight that he considered pulling it out to control himself.

Which he did not, thank the Gods. Lucerys ignored your tears, ignored Jace’s previous advice and also ignored the voice in his head that told him to be gentler. Everything he did was thrust even harder this time, his fat cock practically tearing you apart and deflowering you too rough. “F-Fuck, I am so sorry, sister… I just… Fuck, it feels so f-fucking g-good!” His trembling curses did little to comfort you, his hands gripping your waist when he stood there for a while, but not long enough for you to get used to it.

“L-Luke, it hurts…”

“Tsk, tsk. Do not you dare.” Jacaerys’ hands grabbed yours, holding them behind your head before you could try to push them against Lucerys’ chest. You had not noticed when he sat on your side of the bed, his cock so close you could even see the pre-cum dripping from it.

He silenced your pleas with an intense kiss, not wanting Lucerys to realize that you were really in pain. Well, he had told him to go slow at first... But that scene increased his arousal.

With his hips starting to slam harder, Lucerys held one of your legs and pulled it up, needing to spread them to get deeper into you, needing to fuck you to the hilt. "I am not going to last... O-Oh, fuck..." He whimpered, his cute face and his moans not doing justice to the rough movements inside you.

He had been craving this for so many years. It was a desire he had been feeding in his needy and greedy mind. So much time picturing, wanting, needing... And now you were finally his. He was your first man. The first to stick his cock inside you. The first to cum inside you...

"Cum out."

Lucerys almost recoiled at the sentence his brother had uttered. He could not be serious, could he? He could not really be wanting him to have the self-control to pull out before he came.

The severity of Jacaerys' stare unfortunately was living proof that it was not a playful request. It was an order — despite the fact that he was actually loving seeing his little brother turn into a pathetic mess as he fucked a cunt for the first time. It was delightful to watch you cry with each deep thrust, barely able to handle something so thick inside you.

Reluctantly, Lucerys whispered an irritated "okay," and then went back to fucking you. His pace turned more intense, the sound of his cock moving in and out was like music to Jacaerys' ears.

"O-Oh, Seven Hells! I am cumming..." Lucerys cried suddenly, hot tears streaming down the pretty face while he arched the head back with the terrifying intensity of the high. With his eyes rolling back, he just remembered to pull his cock out of cunt after he had already cum a large amount inside your hole, his hands shaking and spilling the rest at your belly.

Lucerys' body practically collapsed on top of yours, sobbing softly into your neck and grabbing your waist. "T-That was so good, so fucking good, sister..." His lips left several wet kisses on your collarbone.

The boy moved his kisses up to his sister's throat, receiving a strong slap on the shoulder right after. "You idiot, you came inside her!"

Lucerys could not say anything to defend himself about Jace's complaint, he just gave an embarrassed smile and kept his eyes closed.

"Damn it, now I am going to have to feel your cum while I fuck her..." His older brother grumbled, standing up to take Lucerys' place when he threw himself to the side, one arm remaining on your waist.

Running his fingers through your cum-and-blood-soaked entrance, Jace grumbled something else and taking some of those warm fluids, shoving his fingers inside Lucerys' mouth without asking for permission.

Perhaps it was because post-orgasm fatigue, or perhaps it was because another implicit kink... He sucked his brother's fingers, not even complaining, enjoying his own salty taste along with your sweet juices and the metallic blood. It was a mess of different flavors and Lucerys did not mind, licking it all clean again.

"Hmm, such a good boy."

You shook your head at Jacaerys, so tired and silently begging for some rest. The overstimulation felt like it was going to make you explode at any moment, your bones ached and your vision blurred due to the headache and the tears that insisted on flowing.

You had consented to that by threat and then genuinely consented when things flowed... And regret was slowly making itself present.

All you wanted was just a brief peace.

"Do not worry, darling... I will be as gentle as possible." There was a clear mockery in Jacaerys' tone, also that smirk and the way he pulled both of your legs up.

Unlike Luke, he did not fuck you with your legs spread. Jacaerys wanted to fuck you rougher, he wanted to make up for the fact that he had not been the one to deflower you. So he thrust in all at once, your mouth opening in a silent scream as you felt another cock inside you in such a short period of time.

Your cunt clenched around him, although he was not as thick as Luke, Jace was bigger and he hit you deep without any care or mercy. The other Velaryon boy's seed served as a lubricant for the new thrusts, making it easier for him to put it in and pull it out quickly but violently.

"F-Fuck, little sister..." Jace growled,, placing your feet against his chest so he could lower himself until he was closer to your face. "Even full of cum, your cunny still feels so fucking tight."

The new position was much more intimate than the previous one... You could see his facial expressions, his mouth half open and his brow furrowed, the force of pleasure consuming every inch of him. The sound of his balls slapping against your ass was humiliating, causing loud, wet noises you could all hear when he moved his hips back and thrust forward, pushing himself back into you.

Luke did not mind being so physically close to Jacaerys during that intimate moment. He watched the two of you with a tired smile, wondrously not feeling as jealous as he thought he would. His hands stroked your hair, giving his brother a mocking smirk for the first time that night. "How does my seed feel inside her, wetting your cock?"

Luke's unexpected tease surprised both of you and making you turn to him. Meanwhile you widened the eyes in shock at him, Jacaerys growled again, starting to fuck you so hard that it made your tits bounce like a cheap whore.

He had hated being teased by his younger brother, although he admitted to himself that there was a hot and different atmosphere about it. "It is sticky, warm..." His hips were now moving in an uncoordinated rhythm, rough thrusts that indicated that his orgasm would not be long in coming. "Fuck, I could fuck that cunny until you pass out. Feeling you milking my cock. You like that, do not you, little sister? Do you like your big brother's fat cock stretching that tight little cunt of yours?"

You whimpered a low agreement, Lucerys' lips suddenly sucking on one of your tits, getting aroused by the way they bounced during the fuck.

It was not a good enough answer yet, and Jacaerys slapped your clit with one hand, the other arm taking charge of supporting your legs on one side of his neck, a position that made you tighter. "Say it right!" He ordered, hitting the same spot, not giving you a chance to breathe with each slap.

When the fifth slap hit you and your bud began to throb with pain instead of pleasure, you cried out: "I-I like it! I like it! I love your... Y-Your big cock inside my cunt!"

Jacaerys could not help but smile at your words, looking like a child receiving the best gift on his name day. The serious and sadistic look returned soon after, his fingers now rubbing your cunt and tearing sobs of pain and pleasure from you. "I-I can't..." You whimpered, your hand gripping Luke's hair to keep him there, sucking on your breast like a baby.

You wanted to stop. You wanted to keep going. You wanted nothing. You wanted everything.

You needed to cum.

"Cum for me, little sister." Jace demanded, his balls already heavy and his pace becoming confusing even to him, showing the strong desperate desire. "Cum on your big brother's cock."

The sound of your trembling moans and the way your walls clenched around him pushed him over the edge. He thrust himself deep inside you, his eyes rolling back and groaning your name hoarsely.

His seed filled you completely, dripping down your ass before he pulled out and laid on the other side, his chest flushing and panting.

Your cunt clenched around the void and a few drops of clear liquid squirted out — just a small amount this time, nothing like the absurd amount that had splashed onto Lucerys.

"Wow... I think you have a natural gift." You grimaced at Jace's provocative whisper and he chuckled then, hugging your waist.

The three of you were sweaty, panting so bad. One brother was hugging your waist while the other rested his chin on your shoulder, smelling your hair. Silence reigned in the chambers for long minutes, everyone needing to recover from that act. An act so... Hot.

There was no other word to better describe what had happened on that bed. Everything there was hot, a desire that burned in your souls, a darkness that burned the veins. You never imagined that you would deal with something like that, so raw, so... Sick. It was scary. It was hot.

Neither of the Velaryon princes really thought about it when they lay down on your bed and encouraged you to take off your nightgown. Neither of them really thought they would need to manipulate you in order to fuck you.

"You know... You know we love you so much, right?" Lucerys asked with that typical worried look, his innocence returning as always. "I know we were cruel and rough tonight, but... We did it because we love you, sister."

Jacaerys, however, was not so sentimental, stopping his caressing of your waist to be able to hold your chin, a firm but not painful grip. "You took us so well, little sister. We are proud of you."

You said nothing, the tiredness too strong to resist anymore. In addition to your body, your mind also needed a rest, a time for you to assimilate the changes of your lives after that.

Jacaerys noticed this right away, kissing your lips slowly and enjoying the little whimper you let out. Lucerys followed, turning your face to his side and moaning softly with a more demanding and needy kiss. He deserved this, since he had always been so patient.

"Do not go away..."

The two boys were shocked by the vulnerable plea. They thought you would ask them to leave, to go back to their own beds like they always did when mornings approached. It was already the hour of the nightingale, the sun's rays would start to rise very soon, everyone in the castle would wake up and do their duties.

Deep down, Jacaerys suspected that Rhaenyra would be informed about all of that. Those moans and cries had been impossible not to be heard by the guards and servants. The guards would tell her about it, perhaps they had even called her to make sure that those sounds inside the princess's chambers were not caused by some male traitor.

The servants would start rumors very soon. So Rhaenyra would have to force one of her sons to marry her daughter in a hurry to try to quell the rumors, which certainly would not do much good. You could only marry one of them, and the future rumors would be that you might be pregnant with the other brother. Or perhaps both, if you had twins that were not physically identical.

Either way, there was no point in sneaking away.

They did not want to sneak away.

They needed you and you needed them too.

"We are not going anywhere. Not tonight and not ever." You sighed with relief at Luke's words, waiting for the two of them to snuggle up against you again, each of them breathing on either side of your neck.

More words were not necessary. They did not need to say anything to prove the love and desire they felt for you, they had proven that. You did not need to say anything to prove the love and submission you were capable of showing them, you had proven that.

[untoldsoup]

(This is a sequel, start from first comic here!)

This is chapter 6! Please read chapter 5 first, or start from the beginning here!

trigger warnings: blood, violence, nudity (censored), uncomfortable themes

managed to get this out just in time for march tenth (MAR10), mario day (well a day early but still lol)

This might be the last update for a bit since I have a upcoming surgery in a few months and have a lot to do for that. i will try and get a few redraws from the 'change' comic done if I can though. I Hope I censored everything to tumblr's guidelines so this doesn't get taken down or my account marked mature lol. Really enjoyed drawing the interactions between these two in this chapter.

Put a lot of time and effort into drawing these pages so comments and reblogs welcome!

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previous chapter: chapter 5

next chapter: TBD

[velaenam]

𝐝𝐨𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐚 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐞𝐚𝐬𝐭

                                                                         ◦ ♡

𝐞𝐦𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐨𝐫!𝐜𝐚𝐥𝐞𝐛 𝐱 𝐩𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐜𝐞𝐬𝐬!𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫 𝐱 𝐞𝐦𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐨𝐫!𝐬𝐲𝐥𝐮𝐬 — non!mc. a princess from a powerful merchant kingdom is thrust into a political marriage with rome’s most feared military emperor—only to catch the eye of a rival sovereign who believes her freedom is worth starting a war. 𝐬𝐞𝐭𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 — set during the early imperial period of rome, the story unfolds at the height of political intrigue and military dominance, where empires clash, alliances shift. story will take place between 1st century bce – 2nd century ce, give or take. 𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐬 / 𝐭𝐰 — swearing, nsfw language, political manipulation, power imbalance, emotional manipulation, toxic relationships, war and violence, sexual themes, misogyny/patriarchal culture, classism and elitism, culture tensions, xenophobia, racism, non consensual stuff at times.. uhh.. romantic love triangle, slow burn, angst, fluff, smut 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞 — hey sexies hope ur well. lets get this bread. 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 — 1 of ? | previous chapter / next chapter / playlist — reblogs comments & likes are appreciated. let me know if you'd like to be added to the taglist! if you'd like to read the xavier x reader sequel my good friend @rcvcgers has a story! it's amazing, please check it out!

the northern frontier, outskirts of vindobona, the hills burned with the color of dying fire—deep orange bleeding into bruised purple. smoke still rose in fine trails from blackened trees, and the scent of damp earth, blood, and charred wood hung thick over the landscape. what remained of the last germanic stronghold lay behind them in silence, smoldering into surrender.

the roman banners stirred in the wind—red and gold frayed at the edges, streaked with ash. marching in clean formation behind them, the legions trudged through the cold mud, their armor dulled by days of combat and frost. horses snorted, restless but obedient, hooves sinking with every step.

at the head of the column rode caesar caleb and behind him was the praetoria xiv, his elite guards, headed by prefect praetorio gideon, his close friend and right hand man (but was in rome currently)

caleb looked like a war god carved into motion—his lorica musculata dulled by soot, etched with old dents and new blood, the bronze eagle on his chest tarnished but still proud. his imperial cloak, if it had once been worn, was long since discarded. he bore no laurels. no polished ornament. only steel and weight and silence.

the reins in his gloved hands were wrapped twice around his fingers. he rode without fanfare, but no soldier dared ride ahead of him.

to his left, general septus adjusted in his saddle, old joints aching beneath his plated armor. he had fought in a dozen campaigns, but something about this one had settled deeper in his bones. he glanced toward the emperor, the man who had not stood behind lines—but at the front, through every freezing skirmish, every blood-drenched push.

caleb’s eyes were fixed forward.

“how many?” he asked.

septus cleared his throat. “ninety-three dead. fifteen more expected to fall by nightfall. one hundred and two wounded.” a pause, “and the tribe?”

“their chieftain surrendered when we reached the inner ring. before we even breached the palisade.” a beat. “laid down his own sword. didn’t beg.”

caleb didn’t speak. his jaw flexed once. the leather of his gloves creaked softly. “he was smart,” he said at last. they continued in silence for several strides, the cadence of hooves and boots filling the space between words. crows flapped overhead, circling what little remained of the fires.

“most emperors,” septus said after a moment, “don’t lead charges anymore.” caleb’s gaze didn’t waver. “most emperors,” he said quietly, “have someone left to bury them.” it wasn’t said with bitterness. just truth. cold and clean. septus tilted his head in faint amusement, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes.

behind them, the legion shifted formation as they approached the stone bridge that would carry them south. the wind picked up—sharp, dry, biting through the fabric of exposed cloaks.

“rumor says you’ll be married by spring,” septus said, half-casual, eyes fixed ahead. caleb didn’t answer right away. then, “the senate confirmed it during the campaign,” he replied. “the offer was made. nabira accepted.”

“a trade agreement with silk and rings.” septus snorted. “practical.”

“they’re always practical until someone bleeds.” septus looked over at him, arching a brow. “is she that sharp?” caleb’s jaw tensed, but his voice remained steady. “so are most blades.”

“you don’t seem thrilled.” – “do i ever?”

“no,” the general said, smiling faintly. “that’s how we know it’s real.” 

they rode on, past the tree line, where the grass grew yellow and sparse. the scent of pine gave way to dust.

“will you rule her?” septus asked, his tone quieter now. caleb didn’t answer immediately. his eyes scanned the road, the horizon beyond—miles of land still marked with war. “i don’t know if she can be ruled,” he said finally. “and i haven’t decided if that’s a strength or a threat.”

septus nodded, like a man who understood more than he was willing to say aloud. “you’ll decide,” he murmured. “you always do.”

caleb didn’t reply. he simply kept riding, the fading sun casting long shadows across the earth. soldiers behind him followed in silence—battle-weary, blood-worn, but whole. they did not cheer. they did not call his name. but when he passed, they bowed their heads. not because of the laurels, the throne, but because he bled beside them. because he walked through fire and never once looked back.

the wind is dry but sweet, drifting through the lattice work with the scent of myrrh and honeyed citrus. you sit beneath the acacia tree in the inner garden, tracing idle shapes into the rim of your tea dish. the petals of fallen blossoms scatter across the stone floor like gold dust.   

you hear the soft jingle of his jewelry before you see him. “you’re late,” you say without looking up. “you’re sulking,” your brother replies, stepping into the light with his usual casual grace. “so we’re both playing to form.”

you glance up, and despite yourself, despite everything, you feel the tightness in your chest ease. he looks the same: sun-touched skin, robes the color of pomegranate wine, a merchant’s calm in his eyes and a diplomat’s weight on his shoulders. you could only hope you become something of sophistication. 

“i brought you saffron,” he says, sitting beside you. “the good kind. and pistachios roasted in salt, not spice annnnd—i remembered this time.” he holds up a bag of the finest pomegranates.

“trying to bribe me with food?” you murmur, taking the pouch from his hand. “always,” he grins. for a while, there’s only the soft hum of bees in the flowering trees. a drowsy peace. a stillness before something inevitable. he exhales. “they told me you’ve been quiet,” he says. “that you’re not sleeping.”

you shrug. “you shouldn’t listen to the staff.” – “i listen to everyone. it’s part of my curse.”

you don’t answer. your hands are still. your heart is not. he watches you for a moment longer, then says, gently, “you’ll be leaving soon.”

the words hang in the air like smoke. you nod “and you’ve met him?” – “briefly,” he says then he goes quiet, leaning forward, bracing his elbows on his knees. his rings catch the sun.

“rome is not nabira,” he says quietly. “you know this. but i’ll say it again. you cannot speak as freely there. you cannot carry yourself like you do here. their walls listen. their women are watched.”

you lift your chin slightly. “i know how to move in a cage.” he sighs. “i don’t want you in a cage at all.” you look at him. the man who taught you how to negotiate in three languages before you could hold a blade. the boy who once stole oranges for you from the temple courtyard just to make you laugh.

“what do you know of him?” you ask.

“emperor caleb?” he says, straightening. “he’s cold. brilliant. a man who wears restraint like a second skin. and a man the world would rather kneel for than fight.” you nod, absorbing it all. you’re quiet for a long moment, then: “do you trust him?” his eyes flicker.

“no,” he says. “but that doesn’t mean you’re not strong enough to handle him.”

you glance at the garden walls, at the vines curling along the marble. at the city you are about to leave behind. “i hate this,” you say. “so do i,” he replies. “but sometimes hate is the price of survival.”

he reaches over and presses a small bundle into your hand—another charm, another promise. something sweet to keep close when the walls in rome close too tightly. “i’ll write,” he says.

“you always do,” you murmur. he smiles. and you smile too but only a little. because this is still nabira. and for one more day, you’re still hers.

..

..

domina (latin for mistress/lady)

you wake up crying.

not loudly. just tears slipping out before your thoughts can catch up—before the weight of where you are reminds your body to stay still. the silks beneath you are stiff, foreign. the light is wrong. it cuts through thick roman drapery, sharp and pale, not golden and soft like home.

your throat is tight. everything smells like stone. rosewater and crushed fig drift up faintly, and you realize you’re not alone. gentle fingers brush your cheek. a quiet voice follows.

“you’re awake, domina.”

your maids stand nearby. one holds the silver basin. the other holds your favorite gold comb from nabira. both keep their eyes respectfully lowered. you don’t answer. you just sit up, slowly, letting the veil slip from your shoulder. your heart still feels too full. like it doesn’t know where to put all the grief. you were torn away from home—maybe not forever, but long enough for it to feel like exile. rome is not your kingdom. it never will be. and yet here you are.

“would you like your usual perfume, my lady?” the younger maid asks, lifting a small crystal vial.

you pause. then nod once. “yes,” you whisper. “that one.” 

the scent is warm. spiced with saffron, cardamom, and something citrus. your mother once said it made you smell like the sun itself. today, it just smells like longing.you close your eyes as they begin the ritual. hair unbound and rebraided. you let them dress you like a statue—silent, polished, distant. “domina you are beautiful.” one of your servants tug your dress down to flatten it, careful not to ruin the intricacies that lie beneath. 

“the depart begins soon” the elder maid says quietly. 

you say nothing for a moment. then you open your eyes. the silence that follows is thick with understanding.

the gates of rome stood open like the jaws of some ancient, sleeping god—tall and unyielding, carved in triumph and shadow. the sun beat down on white stone and bronze shields, catching every surface until the whole city shimmered with light.

they had been waiting for hours.

crowds pressed in from every street, shoulder to shoulder along the main thoroughfare, stretching all the way to the forum. flower petals littered the cobblestones. laurel branches were tied to banners. children perched on their fathers’ shoulders. even the priests had left their temples to watch.

and when they saw him, the roar started. from the people they hail their great caesar. the victorious one.

“imperator!”

“hail caesar!”

“roma invicta!”

they shouted his name until the air shook with it.

emperor caleb rode beneath the arch on horseback, draped now in imperial blue and orange, the sun catching the gold trim along his shoulders. a newly polished cuirass gleamed across his chest, but it did not hide the scuffs along his arms or the fresh scar at his jawline.

he wore his crown of laurel with the stillness of a statue and the exhaustion of a soldier. and he did not smile. he didn’t need to.

the people loved him not for pageantry, but for presence. for being the emperor who led from the front. who bled in foreign snow and came back standing.

behind him, the standard bearers marched, holding the flags of conquered provinces. his legions followed in perfect formation, but it was him the crowd watched. him they reached for. they called blessings, threw olive branches, wept at the sight of him.

he gave a single nod as he passed through the gates.

inside the city, nobles and senators waited on the steps of the curia, clothed in silk and gold, faces carefully arranged into admiration. among them stood his right hand– gideon, watching from beneath his helmet, saying nothing, but seeing everything.

a voice somewhere near the front cried, “ave, caesar! glory to the great emperor of rome!”

another shouted, “the gods walk with you, imperator!”

and still caleb did not wave. still he did not raise his hand. he looked at his city like a man returning to something heavier than war.

because war was simple. victory was clean. politics was neither.

he dismounted only at the foot of the steps, boots hitting stone with a deep, deliberate sound, and as he ascended toward the curia, flanked by marble and thunder, the crowd quieted just enough to let the weight of him pass.

rome welcomed its son with firelight and silence. and the city remembered why it bowed.

the cheering had faded. the petals were swept. the gates had closed.

now, the marble halls of the imperial residence were quiet—cool with shadow, heavy with gold-trimmed silence. caleb moved without guards. he didn’t need them here. every corridor, every arch, bent to him.

gideon was already waiting in the side chamber when he arrived—standing by the window, arms folded behind his back, his armor still dusted from parade formation. he didn’t bow. he never did.

“you look like hell,” gideon said without turning.

“i just conquered a northern rebellion,” caleb replied, voice full of amusement. “being handsome, is far from my mind right now.”

gideon glanced over his shoulder. “should i tell the sculptors to capture the scar or smooth it over for the statues?”

“leave it,” caleb said. “let them remember i was there.”

he stepped inside, rolling his shoulder until the muscles cracked. his body was beginning to feel the weight of the war—too many nights in tents, too many winters on horseback. the fire pit had been lit. a basin of wine waited.

gideon handed him a scroll. caleb grabs and opens it, before 

“senate tried to vote on a grain tariff while you were gone,” he said. “i buried it.” – “good.”

“they also tried to promote senator lucan to ‘imperial advisor on foreign affairs.’ i buried that too.” caleb raised a brow. “how?”

gideon smirked. “i mentioned his taste for married noblewomen and his personal debt to nabiran gold merchants.” a pause. caleb let out a soft exhale—half tired, half impressed.

“i missed you,” he muttered. gideon stifled a laugh as he nods, “i know.”

there was a comfortable silence. one only earned after years of shared blood and silence in the dirt. gideon pulled off his gloves and leaned against the far table, crossing one boot over the other.

“they’re whispering about the marriage,” he said, “i assumed.”

“the princess hasn’t arrived yet, but the court’s already full of opinions. they say she’s clever. stubborn. nabira wrapped in veils and steel.”

caleb nodded once. “sounds accurate.” – “you planning to fall in love with this one?” gideon asked, dry.

caleb gave him a look, “you know i don’t have the luxury of love.”

“no,” gideon said. “but you’ve been known to do stupid things for women before.” caleb didn’t answer. gideon’s expression softened just slightly. “she’s not the same as the last one, is she?”

“no,” caleb said after a long pause. “she’s not.”

they didn’t speak for a while. the fire cracked. outside, the city still rustled—the buzz of rome never truly stopped.

“get some rest,” gideon said eventually, pushing off the table. “tomorrow they’ll be lining up with scrolls and tribute. senators love to circle after blood’s been spilled.”

caleb gave a faint nod. gideon started to walk off, then paused at the door. he glanced over his shoulder.

“for what it’s worth,” he said, quieter now. “i’m glad you came back.” caleb looked at him. 

“don’t i always?”

gideon shrugged. “one day you won’t. and we both know it.” and then he was gone. the door closed, and caleb stood alone. just for a moment. just long enough to feel it.

.

the doors close behind gideon, and caleb stands alone with the quiet. he doesn’t move for a while. the fire crackles. outside, the sky is softening into blue-grey. he loosens the ties of his cloak with one hand, shrugs it from his shoulders, and lets it fall where it lands. the basin of water nearby has gone tepid but he doesn’t care.

he’s halfway through pulling off his gloves when he hears her, his mistress.

the door doesn’t creak. it never does when she enters. he doesn’t look at her—not at first. but he feels it, that shift in the air. her presence presses differently than anyone else’s. not heavy, but familiar. like a hand at his back.

“you came back,” she says softly.

he finally turns.

she looks the same, but a bit more refined. more shadow around the eyes. her gown clings like memory. deep plum silk, loose at the shoulders, gold at the throat. her hair pinned high, but barely. like it didn’t want to stay up.

“barely,” he says, voice low.

she crosses the room in three slow steps and stops just in front of him. doesn’t touch him. not yet.

“i missed you,” she says.

he looks at her for a long moment. then reaches up and brushes his fingers along the side of her face. her cheek is warm. always is.

“did you,” he murmurs. she nods. “enough to hate you for it.” he huffs a breath. something like a laugh. and then he kisses her– not gently.

his hand slips into her hair, fingers tangling in the pins. her mouth meets his with something between hunger and heat—neither of them soft, not anymore. the weeks apart burned too long. they kiss like punishment. like prayer. like people who’ve had to go too long pretending they’re just flesh and not history.

she pulls him by the front of his armor, and he lets her. he always lets her. they move through the room in slow collisions. wine spills. a shoulder hits the edge of the marble table. her bracelets scatter across the floor like coins.

he presses her back against the column. breathes her in. her hands slip under the edge of his cuirass, find the skin just above his waist. he lets out a sound low in his throat.

“caleb,” she whispers.

his name sounds different when she says it. like it belongs to someone before the crown.

he kisses her again. slower this time. more ache than heat. he hasn’t touched anyone since he left.  

.

the room is warm now. not with fire, but with breath. with the kind of quiet that only comes after.

his armor lies discarded beside the bed. her dress is somewhere near the foot of it, silk pooled like spilled wine across the stone. the curtains shift gently in the wind.

he lies on his back, one arm tucked behind his head, eyes fixed on the ceiling like he’s trying to remember where he is. his hair is still damp at the temples. his jawline shadowed with exhaustion.

she’s curled beside him, thigh draped over his, her fingers tracing the scar at his rib—one she hadn’t seen before.

“this one’s new,” she murmurs. “a spear,” he says quietly. “got too close.”

she doesn’t ask why. she knows he never tells the story unless someone dies from it. instead, she presses a soft kiss over the scar and rests her head against his chest.

“they cheered for you today,” she says after a while, her voice barely above a whisper. “like you were a god.”

he doesn’t respond. “you hate it,” she adds. he nods once. “they forget i bleed,” he says. she traces a slow line along his collarbone. “i don’t.” he turns to look at her then. just for a moment. the candlelight flickers across her bare shoulder, across the curve of her spine. there is a quiet in her gaze that unnerves him more than war ever could.

“you’re tired,” she whispers – “always.” she shifts closer. kisses his throat. not for want, not for hunger—just to remind him he’s still a man beneath the weight.

“rest,” she tells him. “rome will still be here when you wake.” he doesn’t answer. but his hand finds hers under the linen. and he doesn’t let go.

the sun hasn’t risen yet. but the city is already awake.

servants move like ghosts through the palace halls. trunks are being tied to camels. farewell gifts packed into velvet-lined chests. figs, saffron, carved bone combs. nothing too heavy. nothing too sentimental.

your handmaid wraps your wrists in gold thread while another pins your veil into place. everything smells like home and yet nothing feels like it.

your brother stands outside the gate, arms folded. he won’t follow you past this point.

“i had another horse chosen for you,” he says. “the black one you like.”

you nod. “thank you.” he hesitates as his jaw tightens. “rome isn’t kind,” he says. “you don’t have to be either.”

you look at him then, and your eyes say everything your mouth cannot. you are his sister.. you were not meant for cages, but you’ve learned how to walk in them anyway.

when you ride through the gates of nabira, the streets are lined with quiet. there are no crowds. no petals. just silence. your veil catches in the wind. your fingers curl slightly around the edge of your seat.

you do not look back. not even once.

the journey to rome was slow and less than ideal, even in a raeda as lavish as the one they had prepared for you. the spacious wagon was draped with silk sheets and embroidered cushions, the faint scent of rose oil clinging to the fabric, but no amount of finery could soften the ache of so many endless miles. you were not afforded the luxury of true rest; the caravan moved almost without stopping, escorts trading shifts like clockwork, their faces changing each time you pulled the curtain aside. most nights you stayed awake, stretched out among the silks with a shuttered lantern beside you, ink staining your fingers as you wrote in your diary. you watched the world crawl by—crumbling villas swallowed by fields, the broken ribs of aqueducts against the horizon, olive trees twisting like old bones along the ridges. every turn of the wheels carried you further from home and deeper into the mouth of a city you had only ever heard whispered about. and somewhere deep in your chest, you could already feel rome reaching for you.

..

..

..

“domina, we are here.” 

one of your guards mutters through silken drapes. your eyes snap open as you shuffle upwards. the city rose before you like a dream drawn in marble and gold. even through the thick curtains of your raeda, you could see it—white stone blazing under the sun, banners rippling in every color you had ever known and a few you hadn't. the gates yawned open, wide enough to swallow a kingdom whole, and your caravan slipped through them like a bead through a thread. for a long moment, you forgot to breathe. fountains danced at every square, spilling crystal water into shallow basins where children and merchants crowded alike. villas clung to the hills in proud terraces, draped in flowers and silk awnings that snapped in the high breeze. the streets shimmered with dust and rose petals crushed into the cobblestones, filling the air with the scent of life—ripe figs, burning incense, spiced wine. laughter and music rose and fell in waves between the towering columns. you had imagined rome as cold, carved, ruthless. and it was. but it was also alive—so terribly, vividly alive it ached to look at. you pressed your hand against the silk at your side, steadying yourself against the rush of color and sound. you had arrived. and the empire was already pulling you into its pulse.

marble pillars soar around the central forum like white sentinels, casting long shadows across the gathered assembly. sounds of glorious trumpet plays as a line of men and women drape the building like a red carpet. rome has spared no expense to welcome you– the princess of nabira, the city crowned in sun, veined with gold.

the raeda slowed as it pulled into the inner courtyard, wheels grinding softly against smooth stone. sunlight spilled over everything—blinding on the white marble, gilding the steps where rows of senators and noblewomen waited, clothed in silks so fine they seemed to shimmer like water. a fountain splashed somewhere close by. you could hear the murmurs already—the shift of sandals, the rustle of robes—as your arrival rippled through the crowd like a dropped stone in a still pool.

a handmaiden unlatched the door and stepped back, bowing low.

you step beneath a silver archway carved with laurels and depictions of battles in their full and autonomous glory. your blue-ivory stola flows like river silk, the color catching sunlight in watery ripples. your veil is thin, pinned with mother-of-pearl. but it's the jewelry– dozens of rings on your slim fingers, bracelets stacked in glimmering rows, gold and lapis earrings dancing at your ears that announces your arrival before your name is ever spoken.

you lifted your chin. you were not here to be appraised.  you were here to be remembered.

at the foot of the steps, a man in deep purple robes approached—his face lined with power and the dust of too many years in senate halls.

“princess of nabira,” he said, bowing low with a flourish that was almost mocking in its grandeur. “on behalf of the senate and the people of rome, welcome to the eternal city.”

you inclined your head just slightly. gracious, but unbending.

other nobles followed—introductions you barely heard, names flowing over you like a river you had no wish to swim. you answered when required, smiled when demanded, but your eyes kept lifting past the crush of gold and laurel—

searching. because you could feel it. the space he left open at the top of the stairs.  the place where he would stand.

and then—

you saw him.

emperor caleb.

he stood beneath the great arch of the curia, draped in a deep imperial blue that caught the sunlight and set him ablaze with a kind of terrible beauty. his breastplate gleamed, etched with the eagle of rome, but it was his purple gaze that arrested you—sharp, calculating, unreadable even across the span of the courtyard.

he didn’t move he just watched you cross the distance between what you were  and what you would now become. your breath caught once—only once. then you began to walk: toward the man who would shape your fate, whether by his hand—or your own.

the courtyard fell into a hush as you crossed the flagstones. the senators parted like cloth before you, the rustle of their robes barely a whisper against the stone. every step you took echoed faintly in the high, golden air.

he waited at the top of the shallow stairs, the imperial standard behind him, rippling bright as fire. caleb did not step forward to meet you. he let you come to him.

you stopped a measured distance away—close enough to show respect, far enough to show pride—and bowed your head, slow, deliberate, letting the sun catch on the jewelry threaded through your hair. when you lifted your gaze again, his eyes were already on you, unblinking.

you opened your mouth to speak first.

"hail, emperor caleb." your voice was calm, low, steady. "i come on behalf of nabira, with respect in my step and iron in my spine."

a murmur rippled through the gathered nobles at your boldness. caleb’s expression did not change. but something in the line of his mouth seemed to tighten, almost imperceptibly.

he answered without hesitation, voice rich and carrying easily across the courtyard.

"hail, princess of nabira," he said, the words formal, but weighted. "daughter of golden kings. steel of the east. rome welcomes you."

you felt the weight of it—not a greeting. a claim.

the senators bowed at his cue. a wave of movement around you, but you stayed still, feeling his gaze pin you in place. he descended the last step toward you, his caligae striking the stone with slow deliberation. when he towered before you, only a breath away, he extended his hand—palm up, not to command, but to offer.

the air between you was thick with expectation. you placed your hand lightly into his. a pulse passed between your skin and his. his fingers closed around yours, firm, but not bruising.

for a heartbeat, the entire city seemed to still.

then he turned, still holding your hand, presenting you to the forum, to the senate, to rome itself.

the crowd roared.

he led you through the arched colonnade, the murmur of the crowd fading behind you like the tide pulling away from shore. the stone beneath your sandals was warm from the afternoon sun, each step echoing softly between the towering marble pillars. servants bowed low as you passed, pressing themselves against the walls to make way, but caleb walked as if he didn’t notice. 

you stole a glance at him as you matched your pace to his.

he was taller up close than you remembered from the courtyard, broad through the shoulders, the imperial cloak falling heavy against the sculpted lines of his armor. the crown of laurel sat low against his brow, casting shadows across his sharp features. even in the heat, even after what must have been a grueling march home, he looked composed—untouchable. dangerous. the kind of man carved not by soft court life, but by fire and long winters and the weight of command.

it was unfair, you thought absently, how a man could look like that and still walk as if he carried no burden heavier than a sword. it made your mouth a little too dry. made your heart beat just a little too fast under the thin silk draped against your ribs.

“was the journey long?” his voice broke the quiet, low and rich, filling the space between you with almost casual gravity.

you blinked once, pulling your mind back from the way the sunlight caught against the gold trim of his cuirass.

“longer than it needed to be,” you answered, keeping your tone light, diplomatic. “your roads are fine enough..”

for the first time, you saw it—the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth. not a full smile. but something close. something real.

“rome’s roads outlast kings and conquerors ” he said. 

you let out a soft, genuine laugh before you could stop yourself. he glanced sideways at you, as if memorizing the sound.

“we’ll see to it that you are afforded more comfort now that you are here,” he added, voice smoothing back into something more formal, but not unkind.

you nodded, lifting your chin just slightly, fighting the ridiculous urge to trip over your own sandals under the weight of his attention.

“i ask for little,” you said.

he paused at the base of a marble staircase, turning fully toward you. the sunlight caught against the polished planes of his armor, blinding for a moment, and for a heartbeat you thought—no, knew—that whatever promises this man made, he would keep. even if it burned the world to do so.

his gaze held yours.

“princess of nabira,” he said quietly, almost like a vow. “you will not have to ask.”

and then he turned, leading you upward into the palace, leaving you to follow with your heart pounding traitorously against your ribs. 

he led you through a narrower corridor now, quieter than the grand halls, the servants peeling away with each turn until it was only the two of you and the soft echo of your steps against polished stone. torchlight flickered against the gold-inlaid mosaics on the walls—scenes of heroes, gods, and conquests, all watching silently as you passed.

the doors he stopped before were carved from dark cedar, bound in bronze. two guards posted at either side bowed low as he approached, then turned their faces away, giving you privacy without needing a word.

he pushed the doors open himself.

you stepped inside—and for a moment, you forgot how to breathe.

the suite was vast, more a wing than a chamber. vaulted ceilings painted in deep lapis and gold arched overhead. silk-draped couches lined the walls, and in the center, a massive bed waited—its frame carved from dark wood, draped in layers of ivory and deep blue, matching the colors of rome and the desert both. thick rugs cushioned the marble beneath your sandals. a fountain flowed softly from a corner alcove, sweetening the air with the scent of roses and crushed mint.

it was a room fit for a queen. a room meant to impress you. to claim you. your fingers brushed the edge of one of the silken couches without thinking, grounding yourself against the overwhelming opulence.

behind you, you felt him move.

caleb walked past you, slow, deliberate, as if he owned not just the palace, but the air you breathed. he approached the bed, the heavy folds of his imperial cloak trailing behind him and he sat. the casual confidence of someone who knew exactly what power looked like when it chose to relax.

his arms rested loosely on his thighs, his head tilting slightly as he looked at you and he looked.

he let his gaze trace the length of you—lingering where the silk of your stola clung against the curve of your waist, where the fall of your veil left the slope of your neck bare. there was nothing hurried or shy in the way he took you in. just slow, heavy acknowledgment, like he was memorizing you before a battle he already knew he meant to win.

your throat tightened. the air between you grew heavier, woven with something thicker than perfume and sweeter than roses.

he sat there, unmoving, one hand resting loosely over his knee, his thumb absently brushing the fabric of his cloak. the silence stretched between you—long, velvet-thick, like the moments before a storm breaks.

**non-consensual scene**

then, his voice, low and unhurried:

"take off your stola."

the words landed like a stone dropped into still water. your breath caught in your throat. you stared at him, half expecting him to smirk, to let it hang there as a jest. but his face was unflinching—serious, intent, his gaze never wavering from yours.

you shifted slightly, the silk whispering against your skin as you crossed your arms tightly over your chest. confusion flickered across your features before you found your voice.

"i... i don’t understand," you said, trying for strength, but it wavered in the air between you. "why would you—" he leaned forward slightly, the chain at his throat catching the firelight, throwing a golden gleam  across his breastplate.

"again," he said, softer this time, but no less commanding. "take it off."

your heart hammered against your ribs. you felt rooted to the spot—burning with shame, fear, something else you dared not name. every instinct screamed at you to run, to argue, to defy.

and yet…. your hands moved.

slow, trembling, you reached for the pin at your shoulder. the mother-of-pearl catch slipped free beneath your fingers, and the stola loosened, sliding down your arms in a whisper of silk. it pooled at your feet, leaving you bare, a shift barely meant for public eyes. the cool air kissed your bare skin, and you shivered—not from the chill, but from the unbearable weight of his gaze.

he simply looked. as if you were some sacred thing laid bare at an altar he had no intention of desecrating.

"beautiful," he murmured, almost to himself. "so beautiful."

you stood there, cheeks burning, arms crossed tightly over your chest, unable to meet his eyes.

he rose from the bed and walked. when he reached you, he didn't touch. he only tilted your chin up with two fingers, so you had no choice but to meet his gaze. his other hand gripping your crossed arms, gently— but with the same commanding tone— pulls your arm to your side, so your chest reveals itself to him.

"do not be shy of your body," he said, voice low and devastatingly tender. "the gods made you from fire and light. there is no shame in being seen."

your breath trembled in your throat. you didn't know if you wanted to cry or kiss him. maybe both. 

he released your chin gently, his hand falling back to his side.

for a moment, neither of you moved.

the fire crackled low in the hearth, the silk of your discarded stola puddled at your feet like the shed skin of some softer, braver creature. his words still hung in the air—beautiful, worthy, seen—and you could feel them sinking into your skin, deeper than any wound.

you swallowed hard.

your hands moved instinctively, reaching down to gather the loose folds of your stola back into your arms. the silk felt different now—heavier, almost unfamiliar against your fingers, like a second skin you weren’t sure you wanted to wear again.

you kept your eyes lowered as you wrapped the fabric around your shoulders, hiding your bare arms, your trembling hands. pretending you could still be the girl who first stepped into this palace without knowing how quickly it would strip you bare.

he said nothing and he didn’t try to stop you. he only watched, silent as a blade sheathed just before the killing blow, the heat of his gaze never wavering even as you covered yourself again. you adjusted the drape of the stola with trembling fingers, willing your heart to slow, willing your knees not to give out under the sheer weight of what had just passed between you.

you felt his gaze slide over you once more—slow, reverent—and for a moment you hated how much you wanted him to look at you that way again.

how much you wanted to believe the things he said.

"rest," he said at last, his voice lower now, like the dying embers of a fire. "you’ll need it for what’s to come."

then, without another word, he turned and left, the heavy door closing behind him with a soft, decisive thud.

**end of scene**

.

the fire had burned low by the time you found yourself seated at the small writing table near the window, a wick dipped in tallow situated in the bronze base. the stola hung loose around your shoulders now, your hair undone, your skin still prickling from the memory of him standing so close. you grip the calamus as you take a deep breath, a hand that barely steadied itself, the familiar weight of the diary settling before you like an old, secret friend.

you stared at the blank page for a long time.

the sounds of the city floated faintly from beyond the balcony—distant laughter, the clatter of hooves against stone, the ever-present hum of life that never seemed to sleep here. you closed your eyes for a moment, breathing it in, grounding yourself in the strangeness of it all.

then, slowly, you began to write.

he looked at me like i was made of something holy. not silk. not gold. not treaties or thrones. just… me. i have never been seen like that before. and gods help me, it terrified me more than war ever could.

you paused, ink dripping once onto the corner of the page. you wiped it absently with your thumb, smearing it into a blackened bruise.

he asked me to bare myself. not just my body. my pride. my fear. my armor. and i did. and he did not strike.

you set the quill down gently, folding your hands in your lap as you stared at the words, as if they belonged to someone else.

you weren’t sure if it was love blooming beneath your ribs  or the slow, soft beginning of your own undoing.

maybe both.

.

after you put your diary away you clear your throat, and stand up, adjusting any misplaced pins, and disheveledness, before you set out of your room— to tour yourself.

the morning light flooded the palace halls with a soft, golden haze, catching against the mosaics beneath your sandals and painting the marble columns in pale fire. caleb had left early for the senate, his cloak snapping behind him like a banner as he disappeared down the long corridor lined with statues of forgotten gods. you had been left to your own devices—an invisible suggestion from the chamberlain, a bow too deep to be anything but a dismissal—and so you wandered.

the corridors of the imperial residence stretched endlessly, grander than anything you had seen even in the temples of nabira. domed ceilings soared above you, frescoed with scenes of rome’s triumphs: legions crossing frozen rivers, emperors crowned by winged victories, prisoners kneeling in chains of gold. the walls themselves were art—veined marble from every corner of the empire, gilded friezes depicting battles you had only ever read of in dusty scrolls.

you drifted through them like a shadow.

past courtyards spilling over with citrus trees, the scent of lemon blossoms carried on every breeze. past open galleries where senators and noblemen clustered in whispered knots, robes brushing the floor like the tails of lazy hunting cats. the air smelled of oil and parchment and sun-warmed stone. every surface seemed alive—etched, woven, painted, built not just for function but for legacy, for memory, for fear.

in one chamber, you paused to admire a towering statue of mars—the god of war—his stone eyes forever locked in silent challenge. wreaths of laurel crowned his brow, and offerings of coin and wine pooled at his feet. you wondered briefly if caleb had knelt there once, as a boy, swearing himself to victories not yet earned.

the sound of fountains followed you from hall to hall, low and steady, a heartbeat threaded through the bones of the palace itself. servants moved quietly around you, their eyes averted, their faces carefully blank. even here, in the belly of power, no one spoke freely. you could feel it—the tension humming in the marble, the weight of unseen wars fought in glances and sealed letters.

you crossed a high balcony overlooking the forum and stopped, breath catching.

below, rome unfurled like a living tapestry: streets teeming with merchants shouting their wares, couriers dashing between columns, temples gleaming like crowns on the hillsides. everything moved. everything shone. it was too much, and yet not enough to fill the hollowness blooming quietly inside your chest.

you rested your hands lightly on the railing, feeling the sun warm your skin, watching the empire breathe beneath your fingertips.

you turned a corner near the peristyle garden, the scent of rosemary and crushed thyme thick in the air, when you nearly collided with her.

she was draped in scarlet silk, scandalously cut for the propriety of the palace—shoulders bare, golden chains glinting across her collarbone. dark hair coiled perfectly atop her head, earrings swinging as she tilted her face toward you with a slow, measuring look.

you knew who she was before she spoke.

the mistress.

the one they didn’t dare name at court, but whose presence clung to the halls like expensive perfume.

"princess," she said, voice curling around the title like a snake around a branch. she offered a slow, mocking curtsy—too low to be proper, too languid to be respectful. "i hope rome hasn’t proven too overwhelming for you. it can be… intense for those unaccustomed to civilization."

you lifted your chin, letting your gaze sweep over her—necklace, rings, the cut of her robe. beautiful, yes. polished. but everything about her was just a little too sharpened, too desperate to be seen… like a blade dulled from overuse.

"on the contrary," you said, voice soft but slicing clean as glass, "rome feels very much like the desert. beautiful from a distance. filled with things that bite when you walk too close."

her smile tightened, a flicker of irritation passing through her eyes. she stepped closer, the garden breeze catching the hem of her robe. "careful," she murmured. "the wind carries words here. even queens are not above the weight of a whisper."

you tilted your head slightly, studying her. poor thing. she thought herself  as a queen.

"whispers–" you said, folding your hands neatly at your waist, " – do not dethrone those born to rule. they only gnaw at the feet of thrones, until they wear themselves to dust."

you watched the meaning sink into her—the slow, heavy realization that no matter how many nights she spent curled in the emperor’s bed, no matter how many secret smiles she stole, she would always be a shadow. a kept woman in a golden cage.

nothing more.

you inclined your head, gracious in a way that was somehow more cutting than any insult.

"good day," you said, voice like silk dipped in steel, then you turned, your sandals silent against the polished stone, leaving her standing alone among the rosemary, her hands curling into fists at her sides.

you walked away from the garden without looking back, the sting of lavender and crushed rosemary trailing behind you like the ghost of a battle you hadn't needed to draw blood to win. the stone corridor opened into a shaded courtyard, the breeze cooler here, the noise of the palace softened into distant murmurs.

and there, leaning casually against one of the marble columns, arms folded, watching with the faintest glint of amusement in his sharp eyes—

you hadn’t heard him approach. you hadn't seen him among the senators or the guards.

but he had seen you. he straightened slightly as you passed, falling into step beside you without being invited.

"that," he said under his breath, tone dry as the desert winds back home, "was brutal."

you glanced sideways at him, refusing to show the flicker of satisfaction warming your chest.

"i was polite," you said, prim as a temple maiden.

gideon’s mouth twitched.

"polite," he repeated, "if that was polite, i should pray never to see you lose your temper."

you said nothing. 

“apologies, your highness, i am gideon. the praetorian prefect of emperor caleb.” his right hand.

you nod, introducing yourself and he gave a low chuckle—brief, rare—and for a moment, you realized something startling: maybe if you play your cards right, the right people will come to you.

he nods towards the front of you, and you follow quietly.

gideon led you through a quieter wing of the palace, the wide halls soft with filtered light where the scent of lemon oil and old stone clung to the air. the noise of the central courts faded behind you, replaced by the low murmur of fountains hidden somewhere beyond the walls. it was almost peaceful here—almost.

you walked a few steps apart, not quite companions yet, but not strangers either.

"it’s quieter here," he said after a long moment, his voice low, almost casual. "the senators don’t bother to climb the north wing unless there’s an audience to impress."

you glanced up at the high vaulted ceiling, frescoed with curling vines and myths you only half-recognized—gods chasing lovers across painted skies, heroes frozen in endless, reaching battles.

"it's beautiful," you said, softer than you meant.

gideon gave a small grunt— a thoughtful one at that.

"beautiful," he echoed. "annnd full of ghosts."

you looked over at him, curious despite yourself. he caught the glance and shrugged lightly, arms loose at his sides.

"this palace," he said, nodding toward the golden-lit walls, "was built on the backs of men who thought they would be remembered. most of them aren't. only the stones remember. only the stones ever last."

there was something in the way he said it—no bitterness. just the resigned wisdom of someone who had seen too much to bother with illusions.

you slowed your steps a little, letting the hush between you stretch comfortably. after a moment, you asked, "how long have you served him?" gideon glanced sideways at you, the corners of his mouth tilting up just slightly—more a twitch than a smile.

"since before he knew how to carry a sword properly," he said. "before he was emperor. before he was anything but a boy with fire in his eyes and too much weight on his back."

you let that sink in. there was no embellishment in his words. no polished court flattery. just simple, quiet loyalty etched into every syllable.

"he must trust you greatly," you said. gideon let out a low sound, somewhere between a breath and a laugh. "he doesn't trust easily," he said. "and he shouldn't. not here."

you turned your gaze back toward the mosaics as you walked, the images blurring softly at the edges of your vision.

"and do you trust him?" you asked, not expecting an answer, not really. 

gideon was silent for a long moment.

then— "i trust him more than i trust this city," he said. "more than i trust the men who call themselves his friends."

you glanced at him again and he didn’t look at you. but there was something solid in his voice, something that settled in your chest like a stone dropped into a clear pool. trust wasn’t given lightly here.  not by men like him  and not to men like caleb.

you walked on together in the golden quiet, the first threads of an unlikely understanding weaving themselves between you—stronger than politics, quieter than loyalty.

something closer to respect.

you walked a few more steps in easy silence, the golden mosaics blurring past, the sounds of the city fading behind thick walls. it felt strangely like breathing freely for the first time since you arrived—no court games, no prying eyes. just the low hum of fountains and the quiet company of a man who owed you nothing, and yet did not seem to despise you for existing.

gideon slowed slightly, glancing toward a smaller archway where a column of ivy had begun to overtake the stone. the palace was ancient, after all. even marble bowed to time eventually.

"you should be careful," he said. you arched a brow, the edges of your veil catching the light.

"careful of what?" you asked. he gave a low grunt, folding his arms again loosely across his chest, gaze flickering over the courtyard as if taking its measure, and yours.

"the palace has teeth," he said "and some of them smile when they bite.." you considered him for a moment—the blunt honesty, the way he spoke not to frighten you, but to prepare you. he owed you no loyalty. not yet. and still…

you offered a small smile, the first genuine one you had worn since crossing the gates of rome. "i know how to deal with beasts." you said. gideon’s mouth twitched, that almost-smile ghosting back across his face, "good," he said. "but even wolves have to sleep sometime." he let the warning hang there a moment longer, then pushed lightly off the column, his armor creaking faintly.

"if you need a guide," he looked over his shoulder as he began to walk away, "find me. not all of us here are waiting to see you fall."

you watched him disappear down the corridor, the heavy hush closing around you again.

the last light of day bled across the marble floor of the curia, the senators’ shadows stretching long and thin against the columns as they murmured and bowed their way out. caleb sat still a moment longer after the hall emptied, the weight of the empire heavy across his shoulders, heavier than the gold stitched into his cloak. the business of governance was never clean; even victory tasted like ash when it was bartered over with words instead of swords.

he rose finally, the sound of his sandals sharp against the stone as he made his way back through the palace corridors, the halls quieter now, dipped in the thick velvet of approaching night. torchlight flickered low in the sconces, casting long ribbons of shadow across the walls. the guards posted along the path bowed but did not speak; they knew better.

his hand pressed to the heavy bronze door of his private quarters, pushing it open with a slow, familiar creak.

she was already there.

his mistress lounged across the low couch near the fire, clad in deep red silk, a cup of wine resting loosely in her hand. she didn’t rise at his entrance—only tilted her head to watch him, a small, knowing smile playing at her painted mouth. the firelight caught against the gold threaded into her hair, the rings heavy on her fingers, the faint scent of spiced oil clinging to the warm air.

waiting..expecting.

he closed the door behind him without a word, the tiredness sinking deeper into his bones with every step across the cool stone floor. 

she swirled the wine lazily in her cup, the firelight catching the deep crimson liquid as she watched him shed the weight of his cloak, tossing it across the marble bench with a careless flick of his hand. he was massive, to say the least. like a sculpture from the gods. rippling pectorals, abs that could make mars jealous. he didn’t look at her. not yet. but that never stopped her from talking.

"your desert flower has thorns," she said lightly, voice threading through the room like smoke. "i met her today."

he said nothing, only unbuckled the straps of his armor with slow, methodical precision, the soft scrape of leather filling the heavy silence.

"very proud," she continued, smiling over the rim of her cup. "very sharp-tongued. you would think she already ruled this palace, the way she carries herself."

caleb set the breastplate aside with a soft thud, the muscles of his back rippling as he moved. still silent.

"pretty, i suppose," she added, voice dipping into something sweeter, stickier. "if you like a girl who glares at the world as if daring it to disappoint her."

he turned then, slow and deliberate, leveling her with a look that made the words wither on her tongue.

"i do," he said.

just two words, but they landed heavy between them, cracking the careful artifice she wore like a second skin. she shifted slightly on the couch, the smile tightening, the cup lowering.

"you can dress a merchant’s daughter in silk and jewels," she said, voice tilting harder now, "but it won't make her an empress."

he moved closer, each step measured, like he was deciding if he wanted to waste breath at all.

"she was born to rule long before she crossed my gates," caleb said quietly, the edge of command slipping back into his voice, colder than the marble underfoot. "nabira shaped her. blood shaped her. not rome. not me."

he stopped a few paces away, arms folding loosely across his chest, gaze cutting through the firelight.

"remember your place," he added, voice low, unflinching. "i will not hear another word against her."

for a moment, the only sound was the crackle of the fire, the distant murmur of rome breathing beyond the palace walls. she looked away first, fingers tightening slightly around the stem of the cup.

he didn’t smile— he didn’t gloat. he simply turned from her, dismissing the conversation as easily as a general dismissing a soldier unfit for the next battle. 

the knock was barely more than a brush of knuckles against wood—soft enough you almost thought you imagined it. you were seated near the low table by the window, playing your fingers into your hair.

before you could answer, the door eased open.

caleb stepped inside, the torchlight catching across bare skin, and for a moment you forgot how to breathe.

he wore only his dark linen trousers, the fabric hanging low across the sharp lines of his hips, secured by a simple leather girdle. his feet were still sandaled, dust from the courtyard clinging faintly to the worn straps. the bronze glint of his signet ring caught the light as he closed the door behind him with a soft click, sealing the two of you into a silence too thick to be casual.

he was stripped of the crown, the cloak, the trappings of empire. no armor now. no laurel leaves. just a man built from war and sun and the slow brutality of expectation.

his skin was tanned gold from years spent under open skies, marred here and there by scars—some pale with age, others still red at the edges. across his chest, the muscles flexed easily with every breath he took, the remnants of long campaigns and harder victories written into the planes of his body. his personal favorite— the scar running down his abs. (kinda proud of this paragraph.. WOOF WOOF)

he didn’t speak at first.

he only looked at you, standing just inside the door, the firelight throwing long shadows across his jaw, his throat, the taut line of his abdomen. his hair was mussed, still damp from a rushed wash, the scent of cedar and smoke clinging faintly to him.

"am i interrupting?" he asked, voice low, rough at the edges like he hadn’t spoken in hours.

you shook your head before you could think better of it. then he crossed the room slowly. he stopped a few feet away, close enough that the heat of him brushed against your skin, prickling up your arms.

he stayed close, but not so close you felt cornered. he simply shifted his weight, sandals whispering against the cool stone as he settled his arms loosely at his sides, the last of the firelight gilding the sharp lines of his collarbone.

for a moment, neither of you spoke, then, almost tentatively, he broke the silence.

"tell me about nabira," he said, voice low, but earnest in a way that didn’t quite fit the armor he usually wore around himself. "i’ve read the reports. the scrolls. heard the merchants brag about your jewels, your caravans."

his gaze lifted, catching yours, and without missing a beat,"but i want to hear it from you." you blinked, startled not by the question, but by the softness of it. by the way he asked—not as an emperor gathering intelligence, but as a man reaching for something real.

you eased down onto the cushioned bench by the window, gathering your stola tighter around your shoulders, grounding yourself against the rush of memory.

"nabira," you said slowly, as if tasting the word anew, "is a grand kingdom.."

he tilted his head slightly, curiosity flickering across his face, "the desert gives nothing freely," you continued. "every orchard, every fountain, every drop of water….it’s fought for. coaxed from the bones of the earth with patience and prayer. we build with what will not break. we worship the sun because we have learned not to fear it."

you paused, fingers brushing lightly across the embroidery at your sleeve before continuing,"it is a hard place," you said softly, "but it is a beautiful one. the kind of beauty you have to bleed for."

he listened without interrupting, without looking away, as if each word you offered was something rare, something to be stored and guarded.

"i would like to see it," he said finally, voice roughened at the edges by something you couldn’t name. "someday." you smiled small, but real.

"nabira does not bend easily to outsiders," you said, "even emperors." he gave a low, genuine laugh, the sound rumbling in his chest, softening something sharp inside you.

"good," he murmured. "neither do you." the compliment hung between you, heavier than any jewel he could have draped across your throat.

you looked away first, not because you were afraid—but because you could feel yourself beginning to slip, beginning to soften under the weight of something far more dangerous than politics.

he lingered near the window now, resting one hand lightly on the carved frame, his body half-turned toward you. outside, the last colors of sunset had faded into deep blue, the first stars pricking the sky like cautious promises.

for a few heartbeats, he said nothing, only traced the line of a distant constellation with his eyes.

then, quieter: "what was it like… before all this?" you looked up from the slow knot you were twisting into the edge of your sleeve, caught slightly off guard by the question.

"before treaties. before politics. before you had to sit in rooms full of old men weighing your worth in silk and alliances."

you blinked, unsure for a moment what to even say. it felt like another life already.

but something in the way he asked—low, not demanding, not prying—made you answer.

"it was simpler," you said carefully. "i rode across the desert at sunrise. i learned the trade routes by the time i could walk without falling. my brother taught me how to haggle with caravans and how to spot a liar in a court full of gold-tongued men."

you let the smallest smile ghost across your mouth. "i wasn’t always tucked behind veils."

he watched you with an intensity that might have unnerved you if it came from anyone else. but with him, it just pressed heavier against your ribs, making your next breath slower to take.

he opened his mouth again, as if to ask something deeper. but you leaned forward slightly, tilting your head, your voice soft but sharp enough to cut silk.

"why do you want to know these things, caleb?" the way you said his name—without titles, without fanfare—made something flicker across his face. not anger. something closer to being caught off-guard. for a long moment, he said nothing.

then he pushed off the window frame and crossed to you, the space between you narrowing until you could smell the faint traces of cedar and smoke lingering on his skin.

he stopped just short of touching you. his voice was low when he answered, rough with something too raw to be polished into courtier’s words.

"because i need to know," he said. "not just who i’m marrying. but who stands beside me. who might one day stand against me."

you held his gaze, steady as a blade between ribs. you tilted your head just slightly, letting the dim firelight catch against the gold threads embroidered along your stola. you didn’t retreat from him. didn’t stiffen like a frightened court girl desperate to please.

instead, you smiled your face just barely colliding.

"so you wish to map me like a new province," you said, voice soft and amused, like you were indulging the curiosity of a child. "draw my rivers, measure my walls, learn where the ground turns soft beneath your boots."

he didn’t move. he only watched you, every muscle in his body wound tight beneath the surface, as if unsure whether to laugh—or to lunge.

you rose from the bench slowly, the silk of your stola sliding down your frame like water over stone, and stepped closer until you could feel the warmth of him bleeding into your skin.

your fingers lifted—not to touch him, but to hover just over the line of his jaw, tracing the air between you with a feather-light flirtation that never quite made contact.

"you would find me difficult to conquer, emperor," you murmured. "i do not yield to swords."

the ghost of a smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth, the first true crack in that perfect imperial mask, "no," he said, voice low, roughened. "you wouldn’t." your smile deepened, sharp as the glint of a knife beneath a silk veil.

"and would it not be sweeter," you said, tilting your face up so that your breath stirred the space between you, "to have something that chose to stand beside you, rather than something beaten into submission?"

his breath hitched—so subtle most men would have missed it, but you saw, and for a moment, standing there between the dying fire and the cold pull of duty.

you let the space hum between you a moment longer, savoring the tension that coiled in the air like a drawn bow.

then, before he could answer, you dropped a graceful curtsy—a bow both elegant and mocking—and turned from him, a satisfaction placed on your facade as you walked out of the room.

when you were out of sight your eyes widen. staring at your palms you noticed how sweaty it was. you were gasped for air, as you swallowed hard. it took some gracious strength not to cave in front of him, but you sighed— thanking the gods for being able to survive that.

you beelined it outside.

the air outside was sharper, cooler. the courtyard stretched wide beneath the bruised sky, the last hues of twilight sinking into the marble. a low hum of voices floated up from the gates—noblemen, senators, dignitaries stepping down from their raedas, their servants scattering like flies to carry trunks and herald banners.

you lingered in the shadow of a colonnade, drawing a steadying breath, letting the hush of the evening slip against your skin.

and then—you saw him.

tall. robed in deep black that swallowed the light, the embroidery at the edges catching only the faintest glint of silver. a diadem rested low across his forehead, a thin, elegant circlet that gleamed like a sliver of moon. his hair was white, disheveled carelessness that no roman noble would dare wear in public. he moved through the gathered men like a blade slipping between.

your eyes caught his, just for a moment and you froze.

his gaze was a shock—red as coals banked under ash, gleaming with something sharp and knowing. he smirked when he saw you—amused— intrigued?

your heart gave a single hard beat against your ribs. you looked away first, heat prickling up the back of your neck, and turned, gathering your stola tighter around your shoulders as you slipped back into the palace’s shadowed halls.

you did not glance back.

but you felt his gaze linger long after you disappeared.

𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 ! - @rcvcgers, @collarteraldamage, @wind-canoe, @unstablemiss, @zaynesdesimc, @r0ckb1n, @pirana10, @miuangel, @cherrywinetuscany, @yourhornysister,

[wbbfannnnnn13]

Almost, Always // Chapter 14

paige x azzi

Previous Chapters: Chapter 1 - Chapter 2 - Chapter 3 - Chapter 4 - Chapter 5 - Chapter 6 - Chapter 7 - Chapter 8 - Chapter 9 - Chapter 10 - Chapter 11 - Chapter 12 - Chapter 13

A/N: I know it's been a long minute... things just got super busy and I haven't had time to really sit down and write much, but finally got around to it... I'm going to try and write another chapter this weekend since this is another filler chapter. I promise I'm setting things up!! I was feeling a little stuck on where to take things, but had a creative breakthrough. I have no clue how long this series will be, but I'm actually thinking about making a sequel to it... let me know if you'd be interested in a longer story line for this.

Hopefully you like this chapter :)

WC: 4k+

CHAPTER 14: AWKWARD (BUT NOT REALLY) 

Paige POV

She liked being the first one in the gym. Not because it made her look good or gave her some imaginary edge, but because of the quiet. The kind that hummed through the rafters before the machines started clanking before feet started squeaking against the floor. The kind that reminded her of early mornings in high school, of unlocked doors and a ball that didn’t judge.

This morning, the quiet felt earned. Like breathing after a held breath.

She’d slept weird—Azzi’s laugh had drifted into her dreams, tangled with the smell of vanilla and sweat, her hoodie sleeves brushing Paige’s skin like they did when she wore it to bed. She woke up early, restless, chest full of static and something soft that wouldn’t go away.

Instead of fighting it, Paige got up. Quiet. Bare feet on cold floor. She crossed the room and opened the top drawer of her dresser.

The ring box was right where she left it—tucked beneath a folded pair of socks she never wore. She hadn’t opened it in weeks. Not since before the tension.

But this morning? She didn’t hesitate.

She cracked it open.

There it was—still gleaming in the half-light, still hers. Still waiting.

She stared at it for a while, thumb brushing the edge of the velvet like it might answer something. It was simple. Elegant. Chosen for Azzi. She hadn’t bought it on a whim. It had been months in the making. A million texts to her group chat. 

Her mind went back to all that had changed over the past month. She shook her head thinking about the mess. The woman from the restaurant—the one the tabloids had wrongly pegged as her latest fling—had actually been her proposal planner. Someone she’d met with three times to figure out how to ask Azzi in the offseason. Quietly. Intimately. In a way that felt right.

If she’d known the media would turn it into a whole thing, she might’ve been more strategic. Kept it quieter. Waited to meet in a hotel lobby instead of a place with windows. But back then, she hadn’t been thinking about the cameras. Or the commentary. She’d been thinking about her.

She’d been so sure.

Until everything got loud.

The photo. The video clip from college. The whisper campaigns. The silence. Azzi pulling back. The way it all confirmed what Paige had always lowkey feared—that stepping out, even just a little, might blow the whole thing up.

She’d thought it would be her who panicked. Her who couldn’t breathe under the weight of being known. But it had been Azzi who disappeared first.

And for a second—maybe longer—Paige thought that was it. That the thing they’d carefully, slowly built had finally cracked. So she tucked the ring away. Waited. Let things settle.

But now?

Seeing her in D.C. had shifted something. Not with a big talk or some neatly packaged resolution, but in how Azzi opened the door. In the way she didn’t flinch when Paige stepped inside. In the way she let Paige stay, let her close the distance—not just physically, but in every quiet, intentional way that mattered.

The next morning, Azzi had sent her a Snapchat—messy bun, eggs on the stove, Paige’s hoodie hanging off her frame like it belonged there. No caption. She didn’t need one. The note Paige had tucked into the collar was still sitting beside her coffee in the shot.

It hadn’t solved everything, but it had said enough.

She still wanted the playoff run. Still wanted the wins, the highlight reels, the pressure-cooker moments that made her feel alive. But the offseason wasn’t just a break anymore. It was a horizon. A maybe. A real, tangible soon. 

She closed the box slowly and set it back in its spot, safe under the socks, but not forgotten. Not buried.

Then she grabbed her bag and headed out, her steps lighter than they’d been in weeks.

The gym always made sense. But this morning, so did everything else.

She laced her shoes slowly, tightening the loops until they felt like armor. Then she hit play on her playlist—not the hype one, not yet. Something mellow. Just enough noise to fill the space while she found her rhythm at the line.

The ball rolled off her fingertips like muscle memory. One shot. Then another. Then five more in a row. Each swish landed with quiet certainty, like her body had remembered something her mind was still catching up to.

She was okay.

Not faking it. Not bracing. Not running a loop of what-ifs in the back of her skull.

Actually okay.

For the first time in weeks, she didn’t feel like she was holding her breath.

Her shot was clean—part repetition, part release. And threaded through it all, like light slipping in under a closed door, was something she hadn’t let herself feel in a long time.

Joy. Real joy.

Not the performance kind. Not the distracted, this-will-do kind. The kind that settled in her chest and stayed.

The gym doors creaked open. Arike stepped in, her braids pulled low beneath a hoodie, walking like she owned the floor before anyone else even got to use it.

She paused at the edge of the court, arms crossed, watching Paige sink another shot.

“Well, look at you,” she said, grinning. “I’m sensing a whole vibe shift.”

Then, with a smirk that said she already knew: “That ‘someone just got their girl back’ energy is loud this morning.”

Paige caught the rebound and raised an eyebrow. “Relax….”

Arike let out a low laugh. “Whatever love spell you’re under, keep it. Your jumper hasn’t looked this nice in months.” 

Paige chuckled, jogging toward her water bottle. She grabbed it in stride, raised it to her lips, took a slow sip—then froze mid-swallow as the next song came on.

SZA’s “Awkward.”

It wasn’t loud. Just enough to land.

Her fingers tightened around the bottle. Her breath caught in her throat.

And just like that, her whole body remembered.

God. That song.

A memory crashed through her like a skip on vinyl, and suddenly, she wasn’t in Dallas anymore. She was back in Storrs. In a tiny dorm room that had gone too quiet.

It was late. The kind of late that made everything feel suspended—snow tapping against the dorm window in slow rhythm, the rest of campus long asleep or wrapped in something quieter. Inside Paige’s room, the air was warm. Dim. Charged.

Her lamp cast a soft amber glow across the gray walls, throwing shadows over the mess of clothes and textbooks and the bed that looked less like a place to sleep and more like a memory in motion. The sheets were twisted. Still warm. Still lived-in.

The room smelled like cocoa butter. Like dryer sheets clinging to cotton. Like something deeper now—something unmistakably Azzi.

Azzi lay on her stomach, stretched halfway across Paige’s bed in one of her oversized gray UConn tees. It slipped down her shoulder, baring smooth skin and the slope of her back, the line of muscle Paige hadn’t let herself stare at for too long before. Until last night.

Her cheek pressed into the pillow, lashes fluttering. Not quite asleep. Not quite anything.

Paige sat beside her, cross-legged, heart still trying to settle. Her fingers moved slowly through Azzi’s curls like they’d been doing it for years. Like her hands already knew the shape of her.

They hadn’t talked much since it happened.

Since the line.

The line they’d blurred for months and finally, finally crossed last night—no, sprinted across, barefoot and breathless. Wrapped in nervous laughter and stuttered breaths and whispered oh my gods against skin. A night that had gone from tentative to hungry, from soft to frantic to soft again.

It had been hands that hovered—then claimed. Mouths that hesitated—then explored. A map they made up as they went, breath hitching and eyes holding too much.

And then, after?

Stillness.

Not cold. Not awkward. Just... full.

Like the aftermath of something seismic.

Because it had always been building toward this. Every long hug, every brush of a knee under a blanket, every late-night FaceTime that lingered too long on silent smiles. And now here they were. Blinking in the soft aftermath like they’d woken up in a version of their world that had been waiting for them to catch up.

The speaker, still connected to Paige’s phone, crackled softly—and then shuffled into a new song.

“Awkward,” by SZA.

Azzi shifted, the shirt sliding further down her back. She lifted her head just enough to look at Paige, her lips parted, her voice still heavy with sleep and sex.

“Seriously?” she murmured, the rasp in her tone shooting straight down Paige’s spine.

Azzi rolled onto her side, letting the shirt slide off one bare shoulder, revealing freckles Paige hadn’t realized she knew by heart. Her eyes stayed locked on Paige’s, dark and unblinking, like she was reading something there.

The lyrics rolled through the room like smoke. You look at me different, so I let you see my body...

Paige’s breath caught. Her hand was still in Azzi’s hair, but now it was still. Like the rest of her.

“It’s a little too on the nose, don’t you think?” she whispered, a dry laugh catching in her throat.

Azzi didn’t smile, but her lips quirked, slow and private.

“You asking if I regret it?”

Paige shook her head, slow and certain. “No. I already know you don’t.”

Because she did know. Not just from last night, but from the way Azzi had kissed her on that summer night before Paige left for college. Hesitant at first, then like she couldn’t hold it back. The kiss they never talked about after. The one that split something wide open between them. The one Paige had carried with her into every locker room, every away game, every stretch of silence where she didn’t know how to ask if it still meant something.

This moment—this version of them tangled in dorm sheets, speaking in glances and touches and unspoken knowing—it was the answer to all of that.

Azzi’s hand reached out, fingers brushing the hem of Paige’s shorts, then slipping underneath—just barely—drawing slow, lazy patterns into the skin of her thigh.

“I don’t,” she said. “Not even a little.”

Her voice was low. Steady. But Paige could hear the unspoken question tucked inside it—do you?

Paige blinked once. Her heart thudded, slow and heavy, like her body was catching up to what had already happened. She reached for Azzi’s hand, covering it gently, not to stop her—just to hold.

Her voice came out quietly. Barely a breath.

“Me neither.”

She hesitated, then leaned in just enough to rest her forehead against Azzi’s. Let their skin meet before their mouths did. Let her exhale right into the space between them.

“I’ve wanted this for so long,” she whispered. “I didn’t know if I was making it up.”

Azzi’s hand tightened against her thigh, just slightly.

“You weren’t.”

Paige pulled back just far enough to meet her eyes again. There was something in Azzi’s gaze that steadied her—unflinching, warm, all in.

So Paige kissed her. Slow. Certain. Not to restart something, but to stay in it.

Like she didn’t want to be anywhere else.

Back in the gym, Paige smiled to herself.

Arike looked over. “You good?”

Paige nodded slowly. “Yeah. Just remembering something nice.”

She pulled her phone from her pocket. No hesitation.

Text to Azzi: Guess what just played in the gym.

______________________________________________________________

Azzi POV

She’d felt different ever since Paige left D.C.

Not like everything had magically fallen into place. Not like the universe had handed them some tidy, well-lit answer. But something inside her had stopped bracing. Like her chest had finally unclenched. Like she'd stepped out of a holding pattern and remembered what it meant to move forward without flinching.

The air between them had cleared—not with some sweeping confession or dramatic monologue, but in smaller ways. In the way Paige stood in the doorway like she wasn’t sure if she’d be let in, and how Azzi didn’t hesitate to pull her across the threshold. In the way their bodies fit like they always had. In the way silence didn’t feel like avoidance, but understanding.

No perfect timing. No expectations.

Just warmth. Just touch. Just Paige, showing up and saying without saying, I still want this.

Text from Paige: Guess what just played in the gym

Azzi glanced at the screen, already smirking as she took another sip of water.

Azzi: You’re gonna have to help me out

Paige: SZA. “Awkward.”

Azzi’s grin deepened.

Azzi: Wow. Did it bring you back to the best night of your life or?

Paige: Bold of you to assume I ever left.

Azzi: Fair.

Azzi: Still can’t believe it started playing right after… you know.

Paige: Oh, I know. The universe dropped it like a mic.

Azzi: You were lucky I was too wrecked to bully you about your playlist.

Paige: You were too wrecked to form full sentences. All I got was “oh my God.”

Azzi: Wrong. I also said “don’t stop.” Repeatedly.

Paige: Okay, now you’re just trying to kill me.

Azzi: You started it.

She hit send before she could overthink it. The smile tugging at her mouth was smug, but her pulse was ticking up. Because now she was thinking about it—really thinking about it.

Azzi: With your hands.

Her fingers hovered over the keyboard. The second she typed it, heat bloomed in her chest. She remembered the pressure, the grip, the way Paige had touched her like she was allowed to. Like she'd always been allowed to.

Azzi: And your mouth.

She paused again. Swallowed. Her breath hitched just slightly. That memory lived in her spine now. Low and full and addictive. Her thumbs hesitated over the next line, then typed anyway.

Azzi: And that thing you did…

She stopped typing. Hitting send before finishing the sentence. Knowing exactly what it would do to Paige. She stared at the screen, teeth sinking into her bottom lip.

God, Paige.

Her phone buzzed before she could send another text to finish the sentence. 

Paige: Don’t even finish that sentence.

Azzi laughed, cheeks warm now, heart thudding steady.

Azzi: Make me.

Paige: Say less. See you in Dallas.

Azzi stared at the screen, teeth digging into the inside of her cheek as a slow, involuntary smile crept across her face. Her heart gave one sharp thump.

Oh. So that’s how they were playing this.

She exhaled through her nose, trying to settle the heat that had officially spread beneath her skin.

Azzi locked her phone, still holding it in her hand like it might say something else.

Then she pressed it to her chest and let herself sit in it for a second—just the quiet, the tension, the yes of it all.

Her flight to Dallas was in less than 24 hours. And for the first time in a long time, she wasn’t overthinking it.

She was just excited to see her.

Azzi had started packing for Dallas the next morning, her suitcase half-zipped on the edge of her bed. Practice gear, slides, recovery tools—all the usual stuff. But her movements had been slower, more deliberate. Like each item she folded was helping her mentally shift from everything that had happened back into what was still coming.

Her hand hovered over Paige’s hoodie for a second before she tucked it in beside her compression sleeves. It didn’t smell like her anymore, not really—just detergent and the faint trace of last night’s sweat. But it still felt like something. Like comfort. Like a piece of this quiet new thing they were building.

But even as she tucked it in, something twisted low in her chest.

Paige’s hoodie felt like safety. But the suitcase—it felt like expectation.

The lights, the interviews, the camera shots that always seemed to find her when she wasn’t ready—Azzi was starting to realize that being part of “them” came with a cost she hadn’t fully counted on. Especially when the headlines blurred their names together, or left hers out completely.

And maybe it wasn’t supposed to matter. Maybe it shouldn’t have mattered. But it did.

Not because she needed the attention. But because she was tired of only being seen in Paige’s orbit.

She sat back on her heels, glancing at the open suitcase.

Her phone buzzed—this time, with a FaceTime call.

KK.

Azzi grinned before answering.

“Yo,” KK grinned from her dorm room, sprawled across her bed in team sweats. “Game Two Azzi was a problem. I’m still watching that dagger three on a loop.”

Azzi laughed. “I needed that one.”

KK grinned wider. “You needed all of ‘em. That whole game was a masterclass.”

Azzi shook her head, still smiling. “You’re just saying that because of the and-one in the third.”

“I mean, I am,” KK said, not even pretending to deny it. “You hit that spin move into the lane and had their whole backcourt praying.”

Azzi mock-bowed. “Took a little divine intervention.”

“Please. You cooked, Azzi. That pull-up off the screen in the fourth? Filthy.”

Azzi leaned back into her pillows, feeling the warmth settle in her chest. “Yeah… that one felt good.”

KK pointed a finger at the screen. “That’s the look. That’s the you I’ve been waiting to see again.”

Azzi let out a quiet breath. “It’s been a minute.”

KK nodded. “But you’re back now. Not just the stats. You.”

Azzi bit her bottom lip, gaze dropping for a second. “Trying to be.”

KK’s voice softened, her smile fading into something more sincere. “You good?” she asked again, this time with more weight behind it. “Like—not just on the court.”

Azzi hesitated.

Then nodded slowly. “Getting there.”

KK tilted her head. “You guys get a chance to talk about things?”

Azzi made a face, pressing her water bottle to her cheek. “Define talk.”

KK groaned immediately. “Ew. Never mind. I take it back. I don’t want to know.”

Azzi laughed, but only for a second. Then her smile softened, thinned out around the edges.

“We didn’t talk much. Not with words, anyway.”

KK rolled her eyes. “That’s gross, and also not shocking.”

Azzi didn’t fire back. She sat with it for a second, then added quietly, “But it was good. Really good.”

KK leaned back into her pillows, eyes narrowing just a bit. “So then… what aren’t you saying?”

Azzi hesitated. The humor faded from her expression as she stared past the screen for a second.

“I don’t know,” she admitted. “I think… I think I’m still trying to figure out if it’s okay to want something for myself in all of this.”

KK didn’t move.

Azzi kept going. “It’s not just the noise. It’s everything. Sometimes I feel like no matter what I do—how well I play, what I come back from—it’s still always about her.”

KK’s teasing faded instantly. “You mean the spotlight?”

Azzi exhaled slowly, letting her gaze drift toward the ceiling. “Not always. But yeah… sometimes.”

Azzi nodded, slowly. “Back when we won the natty together…. I was MOP. I had the comeback I worked so hard for. And I was so proud of that. But it was still Paige’s moment. And I didn’t mind at the time. I really didn’t.”

She looked down, voice quieter.

“But now? I wonder if I’ll ever have something that’s just mine. Where I’m not Paige’s girlfriend or Paige’s teammate or the girl standing next to her in the photo.”

She rubbed her fingers across the bridge of her nose. “And I feel like an awful person for even saying that. Because I love her. I do. And I want her to shine. I just… I want to know that I can, too.”

KK let the silence hang for a beat.

Then she leaned forward, elbows on her knees. “You’re not awful. You’re human. And you’re not the only person who’s ever loved someone with gravity.”

Azzi looked back at the screen.

“And yeah, Paige draws attention. But that doesn’t cancel out what you are. You’ve got a different kind of gravity, Azzi. One that doesn’t have to compete.”

Azzi’s eyes stung in that annoying way she always hated.

KK smiled. “You don’t have to dim to stand beside her. And trust me, you are already a name. You just haven’t fully stepped into it yet.”

Azzi exhaled slowly. “Yeah,” she said. “I think I needed to hear that.”

KK grinned, letting the moment sit for a beat before leaning back into her pillows again. “Anytime. That’s what I’m here for—emotional wisdom and unsolicited trash talk.”

Azzi laughed, tension finally loosening in her chest.

KK raised an eyebrow. “Just… maybe next time, talk with your words first. Then do the other stuff.”

Azzi rolled her eyes. “We’ll try to be more verbally productive next time.”

KK smirked. “Please do. I’m too invested in this storyline to have it derailed by your inability to use full sentences post-makeout.”

Azzi shook her head, smiling for real now.

“Shut up,” she muttered, still laughing.

“Never,” KK shot back, already blowing her a kiss before hanging up. “Good luck in Dallas, superstar.”

Azzi set her phone down on the nightstand, the ghost of KK’s voice still lingering in the quiet.

She sat there for a moment, just breathing. Letting the silence settle, not as something empty—but as something earned.

Tomorrow was Game Three. The kind of game that demanded everything. That rewrote storylines, shifted narratives, and exposed legacies. She wanted to win—of course she wanted to win. That would never change.

But for the first time, it wasn’t just about the scoreboard.

And that’s where the knot sat in her chest—tight and quiet and pulsing beneath the surface.

Because even now, even after everything with Paige felt steadier, everything else still felt loud.

The restaurant rumor. The assumptions. The headlines that made Paige and their relationship look bad. Some of the headlines didn’t even use her name. Just ‘girlfriend of star guard.’ Like she was a tag, not a player. She hated how invasive it had all felt. How easily they became content instead of people.

She’d always loved being part of Paige and Azzi. The rhythm of it. The safety. There was comfort in standing next to someone the world already adored. Paige could take the spotlight, the scrutiny, the pressure. And Azzi? She could just play. Just be.

She’d liked it that way.

Until recently.

Until she realized she wanted something more.

Not more than Paige. Not instead of her.

Just more for herself.

She wanted a career that wasn’t measured in Paige comparisons. She wanted postgame interviews that didn’t pivot to questions about their relationship. She wanted her name to be the one in bold sometimes, not just mentioned in passing as a girlfriend, or a return-from-injury storyline, or a quiet second.

And that realization came with guilt.

Because she loved Paige. Loved her with her whole chest, with a history that stretched across dorm rooms and playoff tunnels and late-night calls when her knees ached and her hope did too.

But still—she couldn’t pretend she didn’t want her own thing.

Her own legacy. Her own moment. Her own light.

Paige had both. The platform and the partner. The headline and the hand to hold.

Azzi wanted that too.

And she was tired of feeling like she didn’t have permission to say it.

KK had been right. She didn’t have to dim just because Paige already shined. They could shine differently. Side by side.

She wasn’t sure what tomorrow would bring. Who would win. What the world would say about them next.

But she was sure of this: she wasn’t going to wait around for clarity.

She was going to speak it.

She pulled Paige’s hoodie from the top of her suitcase and slipped it over her head. The sleeves still stretched past her fingers. The fabric smelled more like detergent than vanilla now—but the weight of it? That still felt like home.

She pressed her palms to her knees and whispered to the room:

“I’m ready.”

[chaoticdreamersthings]

Glimpse of us - Part 4

No tears left to cry

!!!WARNING! RPF BELOW!!!

Pairing: Joost x Fem Reader

Description: Months after the party, you and Joost meet again, and he asks for one last chance.

Please read the previous chapters for context

Warnings: angst, that’s a heartbreaking chapter, I am so bad at labeling my own stuff I’m so sorry

Author’s note: the last part!! Thank u to everyone who read it, I hope you liked it! Please reblog my work if you like it!!

Also maybeeeee…. MAYBE I have an idea for a sequel

Word count: 5.5 k

Part: 4/4

PART 1 || PART 2 || PART 3

You watch the red leaves falling slowly from the trees as you sit at your desk, trying to write something for work. Instead of being productive, you have a whole breakdown in your head, thinking about how fast time goes — how it was just summer, and now you’re here, wrapped in the coziest sweater you own, wondering how many Mondays are left until Christmas. The last few months have been anything but calm, yet you still feel a little disappointed, as you thought you would have more going on in your life by now. The thought of going back to your home country has crossed your mind more than once, but you’ve gotten so used to living here, that you couldn’t bring yourself to move. The lack of love life was one of the reasons you feel like there’s nothing more for you in Amsterdam, but the great friendships are definitely something keeping you here.

It’s been four months since the day Joost walked out of your apartment, and in all those months there hasn’t been a single word from him. Not even a single message, not even a drunk call. You knew this would happen, but it still didn’t stop you from spending the next day crying on the floor with a bottle of wine, still hoping for at least a glimpse of him: a drunk late-night message or a surprise appearance at one of the places you usually go. But nothing came. Just the quiet ache of waiting for someone who had already left.

He had never gone this long without talking to you, so you finally came to terms with the fact that maybe this was actually the end. This time, however, you didn’t reach out. You didn’t send the first message, didn’t break the silence with hope. You just accepted that even after the intimate weekend you shared, he still couldn’t bring himself to show up in the way you needed. And if that wasn’t enough to make him change, then you doubt anything ever will.

Clara opens the door - you hadn’t bothered locking in, knowing she was on her way. She takes one look at you, you and shakes your head. She’s seen you in situations like that so many times. And though a part of you feels pathetic, you know there’s no one else you would ever let see you in this state.

“Come on, baby” she says softly, sits next to you “You can’t let him do this to you every time, Y/N. He was nice that night, he took care of us, stepped in before we talked to that fucking creep — but that doesn’t mean you can invite him over and play house, like you’re some perfect little couple.” she looks at you with sadness in her eyes. “You’ve got to hold on to your decisions. I know it’s hard, but you can’t keep tossing them aside the moment he shows up.” 

You can hear the guilt in her voice — she knows she shouldn’t have let herself get that drunk, not with him around - shouldn’t have left you so vulnerable, going back to his arms. She liked Joost — everyone did — but the intense emotional crashes he left you with were something she couldn’t accept. And she just couldn’t keep watching you suffer because of him.

“I know” you say, your voice weak. Every word she says — you know it. You’ve heard it a hundred times, from her, from others, from that quiet voice inside your own head. But it still doesn’t change the fact that in that moment nothing could have stopped you. Because when those light blue eyes were piercing through you, nothing else existed. It was just you and him. You always let the hope that this time it would be different win over your rational side. You were always ready to let go off your boundaries if it meant holding on to even the smallest chance with him. 

God, that sounds pathetic. You’re pathetic. You look at Clara, trying to read her face, wondering if that’s what she thinks too, if deep down, she’s tired of seeing you like this. But if she is, she hides it well — her eyes hold no judgement. 

“Fuck, why does he have to be such a dick? You two were perfect together, but every time it gets too good, he just shits all over it. I don’t get it.” She shakes her head and takes the wine bottle from your hand, taking a long sip before continuing.

“I was really rooting for you two. From the very beginning — since the day you met him at that club.” She sighs. “But you deserve better. I don’t think he’s a bad guy, but he’s just not good enough. Not for you. He’s not bad but you… you’re AMAZING. You deserve someone who worships the ground you walk on. Someone who treats you like a princess, like a treasure he’s afraid of losing. And he doesn’t.” She shakes her head “And he should! You know what I mean?”

You didn’t know why he acted that way either, but you’d stopped trying to understand him. In the beginning, when problems between you first started, you tried to talk about it — tried to suggest reasons for his behavior — but each attempt only seemed to push him further away. So you stopped. Stopped bringing it up, and eventually, even stopped thinking about it. You accepted things the way they were: him, unable to change the parts of himself that were slowly destroying your relationship - until it all fell apart. 

None of it had to happen. If he’d addressed the issue from the beginning — his fear of commitment, his tendency to disappear whenever the conversation turned to the future or anything remotely serious — it might have been different. But instead, he’d vanish for days after every difficult conversation, then return like nothing had happened. And every time, you forgave him. That cycle went on for months.

“I’m just… so disappointed, you know?” You whisper, resting your head on her shoulder. At least she is able to offer you the kind of quiet comfort that asks for nothing in return. It’s not the same as him — but it’s something. You have no idea what you’d do without this girl.

“I know” she says, gently wrapping her arm around your shoulders. „But we’ll get through it together, okay? I hate seeing you cry over him, but if that’s what it takes, I’ll wipe your tears a thousand times.” She gives you a pale smile, and you return it. “You did the same for me.” She says quietly.  “I remember.” 

Before, every memory of him made your heart race, and tears would sting your eyes. But this time, something was different. That afternoon you and Clara chugged two bottles of wine and fell asleep on the floor watching Sex and the city and ranted about how much you hate men — that was the only time you cried about it. 

The next day, you felt completely dry, like there was nothing left to cry with. Maybe, as Miss Ariana Grande once said, you really had no tears left to cry. Maybe there’s a limit to how much disappointment one person could cause, and he had finally reached it. Whatever the reason, you left it behind that day. And for the first time, you didn’t look back.

You didn’t even think about him that much anymore. Now and then something small would spark a memory — his laugh, a place you used to go, a song — and a soft wave of sadness would pass through you. But it was a different kind of sadness. You didn’t cling to the idea of him being the love of your life. You didn’t lie awake hoping he’d call, not even in the middle of the night. You didn’t wish for an accidental meeting on a street corner or in your favorite cafe. 

You didn’t think about the sex, or the romantic things he used to do. When a memory flickered, you slowly redirected your thoughts. You missed him the way you miss an old friend who was close for a while —  before she drifted away, or turned out to be not quite the person you thought she was.

You could see it now for what it was: something that felt good for a time, but could never be what you once believed. And maybe that clarity was the key. You couldn’t even imagine him back in your life anymore. The damage was too great, the wounds too deep, and your resentment was too strong. It was over — not in the dramatic, romantic sense — but in a final, irreversible way. And as painful as that truth was, you knew now that you could survive without him. More than that — you knew you’d be better off.

The workday finally comes to an end. You close your laptop, stretch your arms toward the ceiling and decide to get some air. A walk, a coffee, and a donut from your favorite bakery — small things, but they always made you feel better. The weekend is approaching and you have some plans with your friends — maybe you’ll even agree to that date that the Tinder guy suggested. 

You’ve already been on two dates. They didn’t lead anywhere, but they gave you a sense of moving on — something you desperately needed. And more than anything, they confirmed that this time, it really is different.

The sky is already getting darker — you hate how in fall the sunlight fades so early. It always makes you feel a bit more nostalgic and down, giving you too much time alone with your thoughts. And lately, that’s exactly what you’ve been trying to avoid - especially after that party few months ago.

The walk to the bakery isn’t long, but it starts to rain on the way back. Of course it does, you think. It’s Amsterdam. You really should have seen it coming. You take off your jacket and throw it over your head, regretting not bringing an umbrella. You focus on getting home as dry as possible, though you already know that’s a lost cause. Thank God you didn’t have any other plans tonight. Just a quiet evening ahead, a blanket, some trashy reality TV, and the sweet reward of a donut that somehow survived the rain.

You reach your building and are just about to take the stairs when you a familiar voice pulls you out of your thoughts.

“Y/N” 

You look up, frozen in place. You hadn’t been paying attention to anything around you — you just wanted to get home and out of your wet clothes. But here you are, face to face with those blue eyes again. He’s completely soaked, his blonde hair dripping, droplets hanging from the tip of his nose. Being from here, he should’ve known to bring an umbrella — but maybe the dramatic effect was part of his plan to make you forgive him.

“No” you say, loud and firm, before he even has the chance to say anything more than your name. You shake your head in disapproval. You didn’t spend all these months without him for nothing. You won’t let him get into your head again, won’t let him disappoint you again, or make you do things you’ll regret again all over again.

“Y/N…” he repeats, trying to reach for your hand, but you take it away, like it’s been burned. Damn him! Who does he think he is — showing up like this without a warning? Not a message, not a call. What did he expect? That you’d fall into his arms again? That you’ll forget the months of silence, of absence, of everything he broke and never cared to fix? 

Whatever he’s here for — sex, some half-hearted apology, or a delusional idea of picking up where you left off — it doesn’t matter. It’s too late. Way too late. You feel the anger rising in your chest and for the first time, you realize — it really is different now. You don’t want his attention. You just feel pure, burning resentment.

“No. We are not doing this. Go away. And don’t come here again” you say, your voice filled with hurt, disappointment and anger. You’re furious, but you won’t give him the satisfaction of seeing you scream or cry, Not this time. You’re done being the girl who breaks apart in front of him. Today, you keep it cold. This time, you’re walking away, and you’re doing it dry-eyed, and absolutely sure. 

“Come on… i know you want to…” you stare at him as those words leave his mouth. And he has the audacity to say he knows you want to? That’s how low he thinks of you. That he can show up out of nowhere and tell you what you want — like you’re some stupid girl he can manipulate with a few words. That motherfucker. 

“I don’t want shit from you. Not anymore. Please, move off the stairs and let me go home.” The words come out colder than you expected, and you’re sure he notices it — as he should. You’re not having any of his bullshit today. You won’t give him an inch of room to talk you into anything. You’re standing your ground, showing him that things are not how they used to be.

“Listen to me… i came to…” his voice is shaking, losing all his confidence. 

He didn’t expect that reaction, you can see it in his eyes. He thought a little sweet talk, maybe some gentleness and vulnerability, would be enough to pull you back in. But it’s not working. 

It’s not that you’re angrier than ever. There were so many times you cried and yelled, when your fights escalated to ridiculous proportions. But this time? This time, there’s only cold detachment. You’re over it. And he's never seen you like this. And that scares him more than anything else. For the first time, he gets the feeling that he might have lost you for good. 

“I don’t give a fuck what you came here for! Leave me alone” you try to pass, but he doesn’t let you. For a brief moment, you consider hitting him in the face — he deserves it for all the hurt he’s put you through, and you know deep down, he’d probably agree. But you don’t believe in violence. You don’t want to give him any sign of losing control. 

You look at him instead, his hands raised, his eyes wide, begging for something — for your attention, your forgiveness, anything. Oh, how the tables have turned. It used to be you, trying to manipulate him into staying, desperate to hold onto whatever scraps of him you could. And now it’s him, begging for something he’ll never get from you again.

And then you laugh. But it’s not just a laugh. It’s a dark, bitter sound — filled with all he resentment you’ve been carrying for so long. You can’t help it. It’s the one response to how ridiculous this entire situation is. You’ve spent all this time in the same endless cycle — crying, trying to heal your broken heart, only for him to show up, promising you the world, and then disappearing without a trace. 

It’s a joke. He leaves, comes back, leaves again, and you’re stuck in this never-ending story. How funny, how ironic is that you got everything you thought you wanted, but now you don’t want it anymore.

“You scare me.” He says, his voice barely a whisper.

“Yeah? Good. I should scare you.” You’ve never been this bold with him before. But something inside of you has snapped, and now there’s nothing left for him. No more chances. 

You stand there, looking at him, watching as his beautiful blue eyes lose their power over you. That hold he once had on you? It’s gone. Completely. And for the first time in a long time, you realize that it’s something you never thought could happen. But here you are.

You’re soaked through, your clothes sticking to your skin, but you don’t care. The rain doesn’t matter anymore. All that matters now is getting to your apartment and forgetting this ever happened.

“Y/N, just listen to me, please, then you can hate me and never speak to me again, but…” he says, his voice desperate, but you don’t let him get any closer.

You step back, your hands raised, a clear boundary between you.

“No, Joost.” You say firmly “There’s nothing more to say. I’ve heard it all before. You don’t get to make your excuses, and you don’t get to have another chance.” There’s not even a sign of hesitation in your words. 

“Please, just let me…” he says, reaching for your hand, but you pull it away again. “I love you, please…” his voice is shaky, filled with desperation. You see him panic — his usual charm and control are going away, realizing nothing he says is working on you anymore. He never thought he’d see you like this.

You look at him, and you can’t believe it — but he looks pathetic to you. Tears in his eyes, a desperate grip on your hand. You were not the only pathetic one in the relationship between you two, though you always saw yourself as the one desperately clinging on. You feel a little sorry for him, but he brought it on himself. 

That night — that last night you spent together — you begged him to stay. You opened up, let your bare emotions speak, showed him how much he meant to you and how badly you wanted things to work. For months after the breakup you hoped he would come back, apologize, beg. That he would stand exactly like this in front of you. 

But now it’s too late, it’s not romantic or heartwarming. It’s a pathetic attempt to crawl back to hurt you again. There’s nothing left. You don’t believe him anymore, and nothing he could say would change that.

“Who do you think you are?” You say — not loud, not trembling, just calm and controlled “How many more times are you going to do this? I don’t want to be on this rollercoaster forever. I don’t want to keep waiting for you to come back, or constantly live in fear that you’ll disappear without a word, or tell me out of nowhere that you can’t do this, or you don’t want it, or whatever else it is this time. I’m sorry. I know you have unresolved issues, I know you’re struggling with things you don’t even say out loud — but I can’t keep hurting myself because of that.” 

People passing by glance at the two of you, some look concern, others just curious. You wonder what it must look like from the outside. Dramatic? Messy? Pathetic?

“I’m not doing that. I won’t let you do the same thing to me again. Because I know it won’t stop. I asked too many times. You never listened.”  

A sudden sadness creeps into your voice as you remember how much you actually wanted him to be the one, and how many things you let slide before - things you shouldn’t have. You really loved him - and in a way, you still do. But a real partner, someone who truly loves you, should give more than just hot and cold behavior. 

“It’s different now, I started working on it and…” you cut him off before he can go further — you already know what comes after that. 

“You think a few months of self-work can undo years of damage? That in four months, you’ve somehow become the man I spent all that time waiting for? I doubt that.” You shrug. “It doesn’t matter anyway. I’m not able to forgive you for what you’ve done. That last time I really hoped… I really hoped you’d stay.” Your voice softens, almost breaking under the weight of that memory. It weighs on you — not just because he left, but because you let yourself believe he wouldn’t. Every time he killed your hope, it hurt more than the one before.

“No, I’m trying., for you I…” he sounds so desperate you feel a mix of embarrassment and sadness for him.

“I don’t want you to do that for me. Do it for yourself. But this” you point your finger at him, and then at yourself “this is over. I’m done.” You sigh. “I'm really sorry.” 

And you are. Sorry that something so full of potential, something that once felt destined, was ruined not by lack of love, but by his inability to nurture it. Sorry for how this story ended — because it had everything it needed to become a beautiful love story with a happy ending. But he was the one who wrote a different, disappointing and sad one.

“Y/N, please…” you see the desperation in his eyes, and you can’t help but feel bad for him. You know the feelings he has are real. But it doesn’t matter. Not anymore. You felt that way a thousand times, just like that last night you spent together. He still left, even seeing how vulnerable you were, how you showed your feelings without any hesitation. You can’t keep putting him first - his needs can’t always come before yours, no matter how much you love him and want it to work.

“No” you hear your voice crack, the weight of letting him go finally sinking in. It was inevitable, but letting go meant releasing so many other emotions that were tied to him, the first person you truly loved. And even though you knew it had to happen, it still hurt more than anything that had ever happened to you.

You thought you were over this. You thought you were ready to leave him and never look back, but as sure as you were of your decision, you realized it wasn’t as easy as you imagined. His vulnerability, the way he confessed his feelings without you asking for it, was unexpected. It’s something he didn’t usually do. As much as it made you want to cry, you remained certain that letting him go was the only way forward. Even if it felt like your heart was breaking into a thousand pieces, you knew it was the right thing to do.

“Is that your final word?” He asks, still a hint of hope in his voice. You can barely stand it. You wish you could disappear, wrap yourself in the comfort of your bed, bury your face in a blanket, and never speak to anyone again. But you know this needed to be done. You owe it to yourself to get that closure, even if it means you‘ll be drowning in sadness for the next few days — or weeks.

“Yes” you say quietly, all your confidence slipping away. The thought of him actually leaving, not begging for another chance, and never coming back terrifies you. You didn’t want to do it — but there’s no turning back now. You made your decision and now you have to face everything that comes with it.

“So look in my eyes and tell me you don’t love me” he says, his voice trembling with desperation. You recognize it for what it is - last one, toxic attempt to hold on. And yet you can’t deny that you’ve done the same before. You’ve stood in his place, begging for words, begging for a sign, while he looked away, unable to meet your eyes. Now, it’s you who looks to the side, avoiding his gaze. You can’t answer that question — not honestly. Not because you don’t feel anything, but because you do. But the feelings can’t erase the damage or make staying any healthier.

“I’m not doing that.” You say quietly. It wouldn’t be fair — to him, to you. And deep down, you know he understands that too. 

“You see? You do love me. Why won’t you just… give me a chance?” His voice trembles, and he looks like he’s on the verge of crying. You’re not sure how much more of this you can take. If he cries, really cries, you’re not sure you’ll be able to keep pretending you’re untouched by this. 

“Because I already did. You had endless chances, Joost. Every time you came back, I gave you another chance. And each time I was disappointed. I love you so much it’s destroying me. But I don’t want that anymore. I don’t want to be destroyed. I want peace. I want stability. I want to be with someone who doesn’t make me question their love every day — who doesn’t pull me close only to push me away the next morning. I’m done. I’m sorry.” You try to stay calm, but all the emotions from the past are boiling inside you. You’re close to crying too, but you focus on your breath, holding the tears back.

“I won’t…” he starts, but you cut him off.

“You will.” You interrupt him gently. “I know you think you won’t now, I think you mean it. But it ’s happened too many times for me to trust that. Even if this time was different — even if you never left again — I’d still wake up every day scared that you might leave, or decide — again — that we shouldn’t be together.  You’ve done it so many times, Joost, I can’t even remember what it felt like to be with you without the fear hanging over me.”

You take his hand — not because you’re second guessing, but because If this is goodbye, you don’t want it to end in anger or be filled with words you’ll regret tomorrow. You owe him at least that — a proper goodbye. Your love story deserves a gentle ending. 

“I love you” you say softly “but this… this will be the best for both of us.” 

You try to smile, but it looks more like a grimace. No one warned you it would be this hard. No one told you that you would have to be the strong one — the one who walks away.

“I’m sorry.” He finally says quietly, and pulls you in for a hug. 

You resist at first, but when you see the tears shinning in his eyes, you let yourself give in. You step closer and let him hold you tightly. It feels just like It always did — safe, familiar. You rest your forehead against his chest, close your eyes and take a deep breath. That same vanilla cologne mixed with cigarette smoke fills your lungs, a scent so distinctly him you’d recognize it anywhere in the world. It’s a scent of a thousand memories, of nights you thought would last forever, of heartbreak and comfort tangled together. His arms still give you that sense of belonging, but this time you know — it’s the last. Your heart doesn’t scream take him back. This is closure — not reconciliation. Even as the warmth of him fills you, even as his hand gently presses to your soaked back, you don’t feel the urge to stay. There’s no spark of hope, no craving for one more chance. Just a quiet certainty that it’s over.

“I’m sorry.” He whispers, his voice trembling “For all the times that I hurt you, all the times that I disappointed you, all the times you cried because of me… it was never my intention, I’m just fucked up like that, you know?” 

He doesn’t meet your eyes, and you don’t force him to. You still press your head to his chest, taking in the familiar scent of him, listening to the rhythm of his heartbeat — it somehow grounds you, offering a moment of calm in the chaos. His words sting, but you know you need to hear them. He needs to say them. 

“I know it’s too late, and I can’t do anything to fix it, but believe me — I would. I’d do anything to go back in time and fix it” his voice cracks, and your eyes start to fill with tears again. You blink fast, trying to stop them from falling. “I was scared” he admits, and this time, he almost chokes on it. “Terrified, actually. Of how deep my feelings for you were. I was scared of how close we got. I was scared of how much you loved me. Every time you looked at me like I was your whole world, or told me you wanted to be with me forever… I just froze. I didn’t feel worthy of that love. I didn’t know what to do with it.” He pauses.

“I’m so sorry, I fucked that up.” You feel the pain in his words — real, raw — but you also know: no matter how much you understand him, this time, you have to choose yourself.

You waited a long time for this apology — but now that it finally came, it didn’t bring any relief. In fact, you didn’t feel much at all. You were at peace with your decision, and taking him back wouldn’t make things right. As much as you still wished the best for him, you knew you couldn’t lose yourself in that relationship again.

“Well… it’s done now.” You say, your voice barely above whisper. You want to hold him and tell him that everything will be alright — but it won’t be, and you both know it. “I’m sorry too. Maybe I pushed you too hard. I just… I really wanted us to work.” 

You close your eyes, and lean into his tall body, letting yourself sink into the comfort of his arms one last time.

“We still can…” he whispers. You feel his arms tighten around you, just slightly, as if he’s trying to hold on to the possibility of keeping you. 

“No.” 

You pull away, just enough to look at him. His light blue eyes shimmer with tears, his soaked hair clinging to his forehead — somehow you hadn’t even noticed the rain has stopped. He’s still holding your hand tightly, not ready to let go, even though he knows he must. You’re not going to look back, and he can’t make you stay. 

Why was it so hard? You know what you have to do, but each glance at him, every memory that flashes through your mind, cuts open a new wound in your heart.

You move in slightly, just enough to softly press your lips to his. It’s a gently kiss, barely there. For a moment, you feel the pull — the temptation to deepen it, to lose yourself in him again with a long, passionate kiss. But you stop yourself. You know exactly where that would lead, and you can’t afford to go there. Clara was right — what you need now is willpower.

“Goodbye, Joost” you whisper, gently pulling your hand from his as you turn and walk toward the entrance of your building. Every step feels like you’re cutting your heart open, like you’re the one holding the knife and twisting it deeper. This wound won’t heal quickly. 

The way up to your apartment is a blur — your emotions are boiling over, leaving you numb to everything around you. You finally reach your door, grip the handle, step inside, and shut it behind you. The moment it closes, the tears come. You weren’t ready for this wave of emotion, for seeing him again. You’ve made so much progress, but nothing could’ve prepared you for facing the person you once called the love of your life. It was a final goodbye — one you never truly believed would come. And now, your tears carry all that weight. You don’t expect them to stop anytime soon. 

As much as you loved him, as much as you wanted to do what he asked — try again, be together, happy and in love — you knew it will not happen. You didn’t believe he could keep his promise. 

Maybe someday, somewhere down the line, your paths will cross again, and you’ll find each other changed but still in love. Maybe… just maybe… this isn’t the final chapter. 

This wasn’t the right mindset to have. The next step toward being okay was letting yourself believe that love still existed — just not with him. And if the two of you were truly meant to be, life would find a way to bring him back.

You hated to admit it, but no matter how hard you tried to push it aside, a small part of you still secretly hoped it might happen.

[just-aake]

Everlasting Devotion - Part I

Pairing: princess!Natasha Romanoff x fem!reader

Summary: Sequel of Boundless Devotion Series. MedievalAU. With her coronation over, Natasha is now the queen of the Romanov Kingdom. However, the position comes with challenges from both old and new enemies as Natasha tries to maintain the peace while also navigating her relationship with you.

a/n : This is the sequel series of Boundless Devotion. If you have not read the first series yet, please read that first since there are spoilers in this first chapter.

Masterlist Part 1 | Part 2

Warnings: light angst, mentions of past abuse, fluff, hints of sexual tension

Words: 3257

Leaning against the doorway of the royal library in the castle, the newly crowned queen of the Romanov kingdom gazes quietly at the scene before her, a soft and fond expression on her face.

After months spent rekindling friendships, pretending to be a couple, foiling attempted coups, and uncovering hidden identities, such peaceful moments are a rare and cherished occurrence for the red-haired royal.

“I can feel you watching me,” you state plainly to your guest, your eyes never leaving the book in your hand as you casually flip the page.

Natasha Romanov’s lips curl up fondly at your words, pushing herself off from her position against the door frame and making her way over to you. 

She had decided to drop by briefly before her first meeting with the council of high-ranking nobles began, but seeing you standing and reading by the window, your form bathed in sunlight and an ethereal glow, she couldn’t help but be distracted. 

“Can you blame me?” Natasha asks as she stops in front of you.

Her finger gently hooks under your chin in a silent request, and you lift your head from your book to meet her eyes, tilting your head curiously.

Natasha leans in slowly until her face is a short distance from yours.

She whispers in a low, intimate tone, "You're breathtakingly beautiful when you read."

A tiny, amused smile forms on your face, unable to hide your reaction to her words as a familiar warmth spreads across your cheeks. 

Natasha’s grin widens at the sight of your blush, causing you to roll your eyes slightly with an exasperated huff and playfully push her away with your book.

“Calling me beautiful anytime I do anything is going to lose its charm one day,” you warn teasingly.

"If that ever happens, I'm sure I could think of other ways to make you blush," Natasha teases back with a smirk.

You shake your head fondly at her usual confidence and teasing, a smile remaining on your face.

“Shouldn’t you be heading to the council meeting soon?” you chastise, moving to take a seat on a nearby cushioned settee.

Natasha follows closely, settling beside you and resting her head against her hand on the back of the seat in a relaxed position. Her eyes soften into a fond and adoring look as she gazes at you, her other hand falling atop yours and caressing it gently.

“I wanted to see you,” she answers, her voice soft and earnest.

The intensity of her gaze makes you duck your head slightly, choosing instead to focus on your connected hands between your bodies.

“You see me every day now,” you point out, your tone light and teasing. 

“And yet it never seems to be enough,” Natasha quips back smoothly.

You let out a small laugh at her charming words, not disagreeing with her statement. 

While your manor undergoes repairs from the damage caused by Dreykov’s explosive powders, and as your previous staff members gradually return and reacquaint themselves with their roles, you’ve been staying in one of the castle’s guest rooms at Natasha and her family’s insistence.

Despite her new responsibilities as queen, the constant time at the castle has given you and Natasha plenty of opportunities to be together, allowing you two to explore and enjoy this new level of intimacy in your relationship.

And even though you know Natasha honestly meant what she just said, you have a guess as to the other underlying reason she decided to check on you.

It’s been a couple of weeks since you recovered from your life-threatening injury from the fight with Dreykov, and although she tries to hide it, you sometimes catch Natasha giving you subtle looks of concern, likely haunted by the memory of how close you came to dying in her arms. 

Looking back up at her, you easily recognize the slight pinch of worry in her expression.

You readjust your hand in hers, interlocking your fingers and giving it a gentle tug.

“What’s wrong?” you inquire.

Natasha shakes her head slightly, offering a reassuring smile, “It’s nothing.”

You give her a doubtful look, raising your brow expectantly.

She chuckles lightly at your stubborn expression before relenting with a slight shake of her head. 

“I just wanted to see you…” Natasha admits, placing her other hand atop your clasp one and giving you a tiny smile. “…to remind myself that, if anything, I still have you by my side. Seeing you makes me feel stronger — like I can actually do this.”

"You can do this, Natasha," you reassure her. "Everyone knows it. Why else would your mother step down and let you reign if she didn't believe you would succeed?"

Natasha rolls her eyes exasperatedly at the mention of her mother. 

"Maybe because she just wants to spend more time in that new, fancy lab of hers," she remarks, pointing a finger in suspicion. "I still believe she blew up the previous one on purpose during the ambush so that she could build this new one."

“It is a really nice lab,” you admit, recalling the countless hours spent assisting the previous Queen in setting up her new research and experiments wing in the castle.

Natasha chuckles knowingly at your comment in support of her mother, but then she releases a heavy sigh, her expression falling slightly.

“Is it wrong that sometimes…I wish we could go back to the simpler times when all I had to worry about was completing my studies so that I could spend more time with you?” she wonders wistfully.

“When we were just friends?” you ask teasingly with a raise of your brow.

“With the addition of our current relationship, of course,” Natasha corrects with an amused smile.

You give her a similar smile in return as you ponder her words and reminisce about your shared past and years of friendship.

A sudden idea comes to mind, prompting you to release Natasha's hand and gesture for her to turn around in her seat.

Curious, Natasha raises a brow but fulfills your request, moving around so that her back now faces you.

She realizes your intention when your hands begin to run through her red hair, untangling it gently with your fingers.

It’s been a long time since you’ve braided her hair.

This simple yet cherished action has always brought her calm and comfort. After you had avoided her for the past year, she had forgotten how much she loved this sensation whenever you did it.

Instinctively, her body leans back, seeking your reassuring touch. Closing her eyes, she relaxes and releases the tension weighing on her.

After a moment, you finally break the silence, wondering the reason for Natasha’s previous wistful question.

“What are you worried about?” you question softly, your fingers deftly moving through her hair.

Natasha frowns lightly, her thoughts reemerging about her main concern over the past weeks.

Dreykov’s words to her during their last conversation in his jail cell still linger in the back of her mind, hinting at the possibility of an impending threat or trouble that she isn’t yet aware of.

Your touch brings her back from her thoughts, reminding her of what she nearly lost.

“I just need to be prepared for anything and not be blindsided like before,” she confesses vaguely, her voice barely above a whisper. “I need to be able to protect everyone I care about.”

Her words cause you to furrow your brows, sensing there’s something more she’s not sharing with you but you’re more concerned about the weight she’s placing on herself.

“You shouldn’t feel like you have to handle everything alone,” you tell her. “Whatever you need, I’ll always be here for you, Natasha.”

Briefly, Natasha’s mind flashes to the memory of your pale and almost lifeless body lying in her bed as she anxiously waited helplessly to see if you would survive and wake up.

She was unprepared and failed to protect you last time. She won’t make the same mistakes again.

“Natasha?” you call, snapping her out of her thoughts. 

"I'm finished," you declare, lightly pressing her back to request her to turn around.

Turning back in the seat, she touches her newly braided hair in appreciation.

Focused on admiring your work, Natasha is surprised when your lips press against her cheek in a chaste kiss.

You linger for a moment before pulling away.

Natasha turns to you, slightly stunned. Her hand raises to her cheek where you kissed her, touching the area delicately.

“You’re going to be an amazing queen, Natasha,” you say confidently, echoing the same firm conviction and trust you've expressed every time before. 

Natasha feels the pressure and worries momentarily dissipate at your words. Because, in that moment, nothing else matters.

As long as you believe in her, that’s all she truly needs.

With a soft smile, Natasha’s hand tenderly cups your face, and she leans forward to press a gentle kiss against your lips.

Instinctively, your hands find her shoulders as she leans in further, guiding you to recline on the cushioned arm of the seat, deepening the kiss. 

Lost in the sensation of her passionate lips meeting yours, you moved your hands to the back of her neck, drawing her closer, feeling the heat emanating from her body, mirroring your own. 

When Natasha pulls back slightly, her eyes are darkened with desire, and you're left flushed and breathless at the familiar, intense sight.

You become distinctly aware of her position above you: her chest hovering just above yours, her hand beside your head on the arm of the seat, and the other against the back frame, supporting herself up, with her leg between yours, not quite touching. 

The two of you have shared many close moments over the past week, but nothing more than passionate kisses and innocent touches.

Right now, there’s an unspoken question in her longing gaze, and you find yourself nodding in silent agreement, your pulse quickening with anticipation.

At your permission, her hands instantly move to your waist, bringing your bodies together, her lips seeking yours again in a hungry kiss.

Once again, you feel yourself slowly getting lost in the dizzying whirl of her touch.

But then you remember the time.

“Natasha…”

She hums against you distractedly, trailing kisses down the column of your throat, lightly sucking at a sensitive spot on your collarbone, causing you to gasp in surprise.

“…y-your meeting,” you remind her, biting your lip to stifle the sounds she was coaxing from you.

Natasha pauses, her lips hovering over your skin, her warm breath teasing you, her hand lightly brushing against the exposed skin where your dress had ridden up.

For a fleeting moment, you wonder if she might disregard her responsibilities and continue. And if she did, you’re not sure if you could muster the willpower to remind her again.

Finally, after a silent deliberation, Natasha pulls back with reluctance, meeting your gaze with a mixture of disappointment and frustration, her fingers tracing lightly along your waist.

“If only we had gotten together when I was still just the princess,” she sighs wistfully. “Then I wouldn’t have to trade your presence for a bunch of pretentious, power-hungry nobles.”

Your expression softens with a sympathetic smile.

"Would you like to meet up by the lake after your meeting then?" you ask, trying to console her.

Natasha’s face brightens at the suggestion, a wide smile spreading across her lips as she nods eagerly.

“I’d love that.”

You gently brush a stray lock of hair behind her ear, your fingertips lingering on her cheek as you tease her gently.

“For the record, even if you are the queen now, I can still call you my princess,” you remark playfully.

Natasha chuckles softly, leaning into your touch with a contented sigh. Her eyes close briefly as she savors the tender moment.

“Yours,” she murmurs affectionately. “In everything.”

After a lingering moment, you both stand up, composing yourselves. You watch as Natasha smooths out her clothes and takes a deep breath, a determined expression settling on her face as she turns to you.

"Thank you," she says sincerely before a slight smirk graces her lips. "I told you seeing you makes me feel stronger."

You roll your eyes in disbelief, chuckling as you gather the scattered books.

"I should head back to your mom’s lab. She’s probably waiting for me to return with these books," you say.

Natasha’s hands are already reaching for some of the books from the table before you finish speaking. 

“I can help you carry them,” she offers.

You place a hand on her shoulder, stopping her, and give her a pointed look.

“No, you need to go to your meeting,” you insist firmly.

Natasha considers the time she has remaining before reluctantly relenting with a sigh.

"At least don’t let her work you too hard," she adds protectively.

“I’ll be fine, Natasha,” you reassure her, shooing her away with your hands. “Now, go before you’re late.”

Natasha catches one of your hands in hers, and with a graceful bow, she brings it to her lips, pressing a tender kiss on your knuckles. Remaining in her bowed position, her eyes lock onto yours with a deep intensity that makes your breath catch.

“I love you,” she murmurs softly, her voice filled with adoration.

The sincerity of her tone wraps around your heart, and a fond smile grows on your face as you respond just as softly, “I love you too.”

Your voice had a slight tremor, echoing the depth of your feelings for her.

Natasha straightens, her gaze unwavering as she presses one last fleeting kiss to your lips before turning to leave.

You watch her go with a mixture of disappointment and longing, wishing for just a few more moments with her.

Shaking off your reverie, you refocus on your original task. Gathering the books in your arms, you make your way through the halls to return to the lab.

Just as you turn the corner, another figure emerges from that direction, startling you.

You step back abruptly, causing one of the books to tumble from your arms and hit the ground with a soft thud.

The older lord bends down, retrieving the fallen book before handing it back to you with a slight nod of acknowledgment.

“Here you go, Lady Y/n,” he greets you formally.

You nod appreciatively, accepting the book from him.

“Thank you, Chancellor Ross.”

The man standing before you is Chancellor Thaddeus Ross, one of the kingdom’s highest-ranking nobles. His prominence rivals that of Dreykov, and his position as Queen Melina’s advisor grants him considerable influence over matters affecting the kingdom and the royal family. 

Despite his absence for treatment overseas, he returned just in time for Natasha's coronation.

So far, your encounters with him have been polite but brief, lacking any substantial conversation.

"I'm glad to hear that your recovery is progressing well," you say warmly, genuinely concerned for his well-being.

"Thank you," he replies formally, his gaze steady. He assesses you critically, slightly unsettling you.

Glancing in the direction he had come from, you assume, "Are you heading to the council meeting?"

"Indeed, I am," he confirms curtly, his demeanor remaining impassive.

An awkward silence follows as you fail to come up with anything further to say. You offer him a polite smile and nod, moving to step to the side. 

“Well, I should let you continue on your way,” you say. “It was nice speaking with you, Chancellor.”

As you walk past him, his following words stop you in your tracks.

“How long do you anticipate your relationship with the young queen will last?”

Turning back to face him, you furrow your brows in confusion at the unexpected question. The silence hangs heavy in the air, leaving you momentarily stunned as you struggle to comprehend his meaning.

"I'm sorry, I don't understand," you finally respond, your voice betraying your bewilderment.

He inclines his head slightly, fixing you with a scrutinizing gaze.

"My apologies for the directness, Lady Y/n. I'm merely trying to understand why such a match was approved during my absence."

His tone was measured, almost clinical, as if he was analyzing a political strategy rather than discussing personal relationships. 

"I care deeply for Queen Natasha," you defend firmly, conviction lacing your voice despite the discomfort of the conversation.

"I have no doubt of that," he acknowledges. "You've always been a steadfast friend to Her Majesty, and it's clear to everyone just how much she adores you..."

Usually, comments of Natasha's affection towards you fill you with warmth and joy whenever mentioned by others, but for some reason, the chancellor's words now cast an unexpected shadow of shame and unease around you at the thought.

“...my question is — what more do you have to offer?” he concludes pointedly.

His words cut deep, challenging your value to Natasha beyond companionship.

“I…” you falter, searching for a response. 

Involuntarily, his words trigger memories of Dreykov’s reprimands throughout your childhood in your mind, his voice echoing painfully in your ears.

“Pathetic…Disappointing…Worthless…”

Though you know now that Dreykov is not your real father, his cutting remarks to a young child have already left lasting scars on your self-worth and confidence.

Despite your efforts to move past them, the memories of his harsh and relentless belittling resurfaces, causing you to question yourself anew.

What more could you possibly offer Natasha?

Pressing on at your hesitation, Ross adds with a grave tone, "Are you confident that your love alone is sufficient to navigate the challenges and responsibilities she will face as queen?"

You clutch the books tighter against your chest, struggling to reply.

The warmth you felt from Natasha earlier has long vanished since the conversation began, leaving you reeling with doubt and hesitation.

You had always assured Natasha of your unwavering support, but had you ever considered whether your actions ever genuinely helped her? 

Maybe that’s why she chose not to share everything that was troubling her earlier. 

Because she doesn’t believe you can.

He’s right. You realize. 

Loving her might not be enough.

Your silence prompts him to continue, his questioning relentless.

"Can you honestly say you are the right person to stand beside her?"

Still shaken from his intense scrutiny, your honest answer unconsciously escapes you in a soft whisper.

“I don’t know.”

Stepping back, Chancellor Ross regards you with a somber and grim expression, nodding curtly as he bids you farewell.

“Then I suggest you find out soon, Lady Y/n,” he advises with a sigh, turning to depart. His parting words echo faintly in the corridor, "For the sake of the kingdom's future. And the queen's."

You stand there, rooted to the spot, his words repeating in your mind.

Doubts swirl within you, intertwining with your love for Natasha and creating a storm of uncertainty.

Taking a deep, steadying breath, you return to your previous path, one step at a time, gathering your resolve until you are able to walk with some semblance of confidence again. 

Though his words were harsh, they serve as a stark reminder of lessons ingrained in you during your upbringing in the home of Lord Dreykov. Lessons that had helped you endure and survive his torment and abuse through the years.

Lessons you had perhaps forgotten in the comfort and love you found by Natasha's side.

To strive harder. To be better. No matter the cost.

After all, that is the only way you could truly be of any worth to anyone.

~~~~~~~ ⧗ ~~~~~~~

Part 1 | Part 2

a/n: Thank you for reading and for choosing to continue with this series. It’s exciting to be able to write in this universe once more. Again, updates may not be a frequent as before but I’ll try my best to not let the period in between chapters be too long. I did decide to split the first chapter into 2 parts, so luckily the next part will come out sooner than later.

Also, if I missed your request to be tagged in this series, please let me know.

Taglist: @midastouch013, @2silverchain, @dvrkhcld, @observeowl, @x-drowned-x, @fireandblood-3, @natsxwife, @leequifey, @blacklightsposts, @srt-sah, @scar-letwidow, @likefirenrain, @autorasexy, @natsbiggestfan1, @lex13cm, @iheartjohansson, @tofu9162, @nothanksbye07, @unexpected-character, @natashasilverfox, @acciowriting, @qtreesfanstuff 

[thesconesyard]

Where the West Begins

6. Our Gang Means Death

“Well,” said Scotty as he looked around the room he and Leonard were sharing. Leonard looked up and laughed.

“Bored already?” Leonard asked.

“I suppose yes,” Scotty said with a smile. “When was the last time ye came here love?”

McCoy settled back in the chair he was sitting in and looked towards the ceiling in thought.

“Suppose it was when Chris and I came west,” he said finally. “We stayed on here for a bit to see if we liked it.” He paused and dropped his chin to look at Scotty again. “We didn’t.”

Scotty chuckled.

“What about you?” Leonard asked.

“Same. Came through on my way west. Stayed a few months though, but it was just too overwhelming. I wanted to be somewhere wee again.”

“Glad we both made that decision then,” Leonard said with just a hint of coloring tinging his face.

“The saloon next door looked promising,” Scotty said. “What d’ye say?”

Leonard got to his feet. “I say let’s go.”

It was early when Scotty woke the next morning. For a moment he was confused, Leonard’s warmth was not next to him. He opened his eyes and looked around, remembering then their travel and the two small beds in the room. He looked across towards the other bed and smiled at Leonard’s still sleeping form. His love had half his pillow curled under an arm, pulled close to his face. It wasn’t often Scotty woke first and he enjoyed the quiet moment.

Breakfast was had at the hotel and then Captain Pike led the whole crew over to the courthouse. Between Leonard and Keenser, Scotty looked around the room. Every seat was filled and the room was beginning to warm. Quiet chatter died away as a side door opened and a deputy led in Khan. He was followed by Marcus, who had been his second in command, and then other members of the gang.

Scotty took a deep breath before he looked across and met the eyes of the man who had called himself John Harrison. He seemed to be staring right back at Scotty, and a chill went down the Scotsman’s spine. He had lied to them, but Scotty felt the betrayal extra strong. He had thought John Harrison a bright, helpful man who would stay at the ranch and become a good friend. They had worked together and laughed and discussed different ways to make the ranch more efficient.

Then John Harrison stole from them and quietly left. And worse, he had come back with his gang, tried to take the ranch, and had shot Jim.

Scotty took a quick glance at Leonard as Khan’s gaze left him. Leonard was scowling in Khan’s direction. The doctor had never liked Khan from the moment he had set foot on the ranch. Leonard had saved Jim after the gunshot.

The judge came in and silence spread in the room. Lawyers made statements and then Jim was called to the stand. A few faint whispers went through the room and the gallery above. Scotty realized if they were all called up how many times the same story would be told. His and Leonard’s might be the ones to deviate as Khan had caught them and tied them up when he snuck back to the ranch.

He let out a soft sigh, not wanting to have to face the full courtroom but knowing it would help put these dangerous men away. On either side of him he felt soft bumpings from elbows as Leonard and Keenser sent support.

Jim was questioned thoroughly and dismissed.

“Dr. Leonard McCoy please.”

Leonard stood, looked down at Scotty with a reassuring smile and made his way to the stand.

“When did you meet the accused?”

“The morning he walked onto our ranch looking for work,” Leonard began. He continued.

Scotty nervously wondered what Leonard would say when they questioned him about the night of the attempted takeover. What reason would he give for why he and Scotty weren’t at the house with the others? Scotty of course loved the doctor and wouldn’t hesitate to say so, but Leonard was much more private, preferring to be low-key anywhere that wasn’t the ranch.

“I was with Mr. Scott when Khan caught us,” Leonard began. “Khan appeared from the shadows by our cabins and said we were surrounded.”

Ok, Leonard was keeping it casual; Scotty could do the same.

“Why were you at the cabins?” the lawyer representing Khan asked. “We’ve heard that everyone else was at the house.”

Leonard nodded. “Yes, and normally we would be too, but it had been a long day and I preferred to have a drink in private. Mr. Scott appreciates a fine whisky as I do, so I asked him to join me.”

When Leonard was finally dismissed it was Scotty’s turn. Nervously he stood, then found his courage and walked to the stand. He had known the courthouse was full behind them, but to see everyone’s eyes on him… he swallowed hard.

“Mr. Montgomery Scott?”

“Aye sir.”

He felt a piercing gaze on himself and briefly spared a glance at Khan. The man had pretended to be his friend and then betrayed them. Scotty turned away.

Concisely he told his story, only a hint of his rebellious youth coming through as annoyance with the defense lawyer.

Scotty was glad when he finished and held his head high as he returned to his seat, passing by Khan and his cronies.

[pretzel-box]

Hi! Hello! How are you doing? I hope you're having a great day. This is the first time I requested something so pls bare with me. So I really like the swap!Sebastian and swap!/payment received reader, so can I request a second part where Sebastian bought readers file and maybe some fluff and comfort, that'd be soooo cute and what comes next is up to you.

Anyways thanks for taking your time in reading this and it's also okay if you ignore this😊😊😊

Tags: Comfort, Fluff, Reverse AU, gn! experiment reader & human sebastian, sequel to previous chapter

Words: 1,1k

Authors Note: Since the story progresses differently, I tried to at least write the fluff and comfort part after Seb saw the tapes!

Sebastian’s breath hitched as he tried to steady himself, his heart racing and his mind a chaotic mess of thoughts. He hadn’t expected to break down like this, not here, not in front of you. He had always prided himself on being composed, on having a plan. But those tapes… the sight of what you had gone through—the screams, the agony, the helplessness—it had torn through him like a knife. He didn’t know how to cope with the knowledge of your suffering, and now, here you were, laughing so freely, so blissfully unaware of the turmoil in his heart.

“Ah, there you are!” Your cheerful voice had greeted him when he walked into the shop, his eyes still red and puffy from the tears he had tried to hold back. Your smile was so genuine, so full of light, and it only made the ache in his chest worse. He wanted to protect that light, to shield you from any more pain, but he didn’t know how.

“Look!” You said, holding up the recorder with a playful grin. “I recorded a wall dweller getting hit by Pandemonium. It got squished like a fly.” You played the clip for him like it was some kind of small victory, a moment of dark humor to lighten the mood. But Sebastian couldn’t focus on the video. He could only see you—the real you—behind the cheerful facade.

He felt a lump form in his throat, his eyes welling up with tears again. You noticed the shift in his expression, the way his face crumpled with a pain you couldn’t quite understand. “God, Sebastian,” you teased gently, though your voice was tinged with concern. “Don’t tell me you’re getting emotional over a wall dweller.”

Sebastian didn’t respond. He just stood there, tears streaming down his cheeks in silent waves. The shame of his breakdown mixed with the overwhelming sadness he felt for you, for everything you’d endured, for every piece of you that had been broken and put back together. He hated that he couldn’t control this, that he couldn’t stop crying in front of you. He felt so raw, so exposed.

You blinked, your teasing smile fading as you realized this wasn’t just some passing moment of sentiment. You stepped closer, your expression softening as you took in the sight of him—Sebastian, your normally composed and snarky companion, now reduced to tears.

Without a word, you wrapped your arms around him, pulling him into a comforting embrace. His body stiffened at first, but then he melted into your touch, his head resting against your shoulder as he let out a shaky breath. You held him close, your hand stroking the back of his head, fingers tangling gently in his hair. The other hand moved up and down his back, soothing him with gentle, rhythmic movements.

“It’s okay, Solace,” you whispered softly, your voice a calming melody against the storm raging in his mind. “The wall dweller is at a better place.”

Sebastian let out a choked laugh, a mix of a sob and a chuckle, shaking his head against your shoulder. “It’s… it’s not about the damn wall dweller,” he muttered, his voice thick with emotion. “It’s… it’s you.”

Your brows furrowed in confusion, pulling back slightly to look at him. “Me?” you asked, searching his tear-filled eyes for answers. “What about me?”

He took a deep, shaky breath, trying to steady himself enough to speak. “I saw the tapes,” he admitted quietly, his voice breaking on the last word. “I saw… what they did to you. What you went through.”

Your eyes widened in surprise, your grip on him tightening instinctively. “Sebastian…” you whispered, your voice softening with understanding. “You… you saw those?”

He nodded, tears spilling down his cheeks again. “I’m so sorry,” he choked out. “I’m so sorry for everything they did to you. I just… I don’t know how you’re still standing here, smiling like that.”

You felt a pang in your chest, a mix of sorrow and affection for the man in front of you. You knew the tapes were horrifying—brutal, even—but you had long since come to terms with your past. It was a part of you, yes, but it didn’t define you. Not anymore.

You cupped his face gently, wiping away his tears with your thumbs. “Hey,” you said softly, your voice a soothing balm to his frayed nerves. “I’m okay, Sebastian. I’m still here. I’m still… me.”

He looked at you with such a mix of awe and disbelief, his heart aching with every beat. “But how?” he whispered. “How can you just… move on from something like that?”

You gave him a small, knowing smile. “Because I have to,” you replied simply. “Because if I let it define me, if I let it break me, then they win. And I refuse to let them have that power over me.”

Sebastian stared at you, his heart swelling with a mixture of admiration and love. He had always been drawn to you, always found himself captivated by your spirit, your strength. But now, more than ever, he realized just how much you meant to him—how much he needed you in his life.

He pulled you closer, burying his face in the crook of your neck as he let out a shuddering breath. “I’m so sorry,” he repeated, his voice muffled against your skin. “I’m sorry I couldn’t protect you from that.”

You smiled softly, your hand continuing to stroke his hair. “You’re protecting me now,” you whispered. “That’s what matters.”

You felt him nod against your shoulder, his arms wrapping around you tighter as if afraid to let go. And in that moment, you knew that no matter what had happened in the past, no matter what horrors you’d both faced, you would face them together. And together, you would heal.

As the two of you stood there, wrapped in each other’s arms, a small, playful smile tugged at your lips. “Besides,” you added, your tone teasing, “I bet that wall dweller’s in wall heaven now, with all his little wall dweller friends. Don’t you think?”

Sebastian let out a watery laugh, pulling back to look at you with a mix of exasperation and affection. “You’re impossible,” he muttered, a small smile breaking through his tears.

“And yet,” you said, grinning up at him, “you’re still here.”

He couldn’t help but chuckle, his heart feeling a little lighter, a little more whole. “Yeah,” he admitted softly. “I am.”

And as you stood there together, holding each other close, you knew that even after Sebastian saw the tapes, he would be alright. Just like you are.

[angstama]

06: traitor | l.jn

pairing: lee jeno x f!reader (ft. mark lee)

genre: angst, pure heartache, slight fluff!

synopsis — when jeno asked you to make his bride’s dress, it was more than fabric and lace—it was a reckoning. you never thought you'd be asked to create the wedding dress for the man you once loved, not after everything that had happened between the two of you. five years have passed since jeno walked out of your life, and now, he stands before you again—asking for a favour that stirs old memories and emotions you've tried to bury.

a/n: i can't believe we're finally ending the series for traitor!!!!! i have so much love for this story and i have even more love for the characters in this story. thank you so much for tuning in to traitor and loving my little story <3 traitor will have a sequel :") because our y/n deserves one. please look forward to it, and once again, thank you so much my loves!

chapter music: the winner takes it all

(p.s i had this song on replay because of how well it sits with this entire situation that y/n follows so feel free to give it a listen while reading this chapter! additionally, i made a traitor playlist if you guys are interested~)

traitor m.list | traitor's playlist | previous | sequel (coming soon!)

morning arrived like a held breath — soft light pooling through the studio windows, brushing over unfinished sketches and the glimmer of sequins that had caught the sun. the gown stood in the centre of the fitting room, a monument to everything you had stitched through: grief, grace, and a love that no longer belonged to you.

you hadn’t slept — not truly. not with the weight of today sitting squarely on your chest. today, they will come. she would wear the dress. he would be near.

your palms were clammy despite the coolness of the morning. you straightened the train for the hundredth time, brushing imaginary dust from the hem, adjusting the bodice even though it was already perfect. you were searching for something to steady you — and yet, nothing could.

from the corner, mark watched you.

he didn’t speak. he just stood for a moment, absorbing the quiet strength in your posture. the gentle rise and fall of your chest. the stillness in your gaze. you looked like someone at the edge of something — like a woman ready to let go, but not without first seeing it through.

you didn’t know he was watching, not until he took a step closer, offering the smallest smile. “breathe,” he said.

and so you did. not deep. but enough.

and then — a knock. light, then firmer.

the studio door creaked open.

jeno entered first. tall, clean-cut, the picture of composure — yet his eyes scanned the room like he was holding something back. behind him, wheein appeared, radiant and a little breathless, fingers still clasped tightly around her phone before she tucked it away.

you swallowed. the sight of them together still landed like a soft bruise — not sharp, not fresh anymore, but still tender when touched.

“good morning,” you said. your voice was steady. you were proud of that.

“morning,” wheein replied first. her smile was kind — careful, but not performative.

jeno gave a quiet nod, his gaze not lingering long on you, but long enough. “hi,” he said softly.

"wheein," your voice was soft but steady, a gentle invitation. "come on in. i hope you're as excited as i am to finally see your dress." your words carried a quiet warmth, but there was something deeper beneath, a steady pulse of nerves you couldn't quite shake.

wheein smiled, her eyes sparkling with anticipation as walked towards you with jeno following quick behind.

mark quickly stopped jeno, a subtle but firm motion guiding him to another room. "if you'll follow me, jeno, we'll have wheein try on the dress first, and then it's your turn for the tuxedo. let's save that surprise for your wedding day yeah?" his tone was light, but there was an unspoken understanding between them that the moment was delicate.

jeno gave a slow nod, a quiet look passing between him and you. there was so much unsaid in that glance, and yet, somehow, it felt like the weight of everything you had shared was just... there. hanging in the air.

"i’ll be right here," mark said, leading jeno into the adjoining room, leaving you and wheein alone.

as they walked away, your hands trembled for a brief moment, before you steadied yourself. "ready?" you asked, your voice steady despite the rapid beat of your heart. 

with a deep breath, you curl your fingers around the edge of a heavy linen curtain, drawing it open to reveal the fitting area — a space washed in warm light, the gown already waiting on its mannequin like a sculpture come to life — already unveiled, already glowing.

no zippers, no covers, no bags to peel away. it stood in its full grace, as if waiting for wheein. the morning light kissed the beads that you had sewn one by one, tracing the curves of lace that wrapped around the bodice like vines. it was breathtaking — not just for its beauty, but for the weight it carried.

wheein took a step closer. the silence between you was no longer awkward — it was reverent. sacred, even. as if words would wrinkle the moment.

she lifted a hand, slow and unsure, and touched the sleeve — a sheer off-shoulder cascade that dripped with hand-beaded florals.

"i don't..." her voice faltered. "i don't know how to... deserve this."

you didn’t answer, not right away. you were watching her. not in resentment — not anymore. just with a quiet detachment, the kind that comes when you’ve already cried everything there is to cry.

her fingers moved lower, to the waistline, where a soft ribbon was stitched in with subtle embroidery — embroidery that she now noticed spelled something.

wheein squinted, reading the tiniest cursive threadwork. “‘to begin again...’” she read aloud, almost to herself. “you stitched that in?”

you nodded gently. “it’s yours to begin.”

wheein blinked quickly, overwhelmed. “this is…” her voice falters, too small to carry the weight of her awe. she tries again. “this is the most beautiful thing i’ve ever seen.”

“are you ready to try it on?” you ask gently, your voice soft as gauze.

wheein blinks, as if pulled from a trance. she turns to you, her eyes still wide, still drinking in every seam and silhouette. “i don’t know if i’ll ever be ready,” she says, half-laughing, half-reeling. “but yes.”

there’s a hush that follows — not silence, but reverence. and you gesture toward the fitting space, where the light falls warmer, like late afternoon sun through an old chapel window.

as she steps behind the screen, you follow with the gown draped carefully over your arms. it’s heavier than it looks, holding a history you’ve chosen to release.

wheein is quiet as you help her out of her clothes, leaving behind the world outside — the noise, the guilt, the complexity. what’s left is just her and you. no ghosts. no sharp edges. just fabric, skin, and breath.

your hands move with practiced ease. you guided the gown over her shoulders, careful with the lace, the buttons, the way the bodice hugs her ribcage. wheein doesn’t speak, but you feel the tremor in her breath as the dress settles into place.

“okay,” you whisper. “let’s see.”

she steps out, and for a moment, even she doesn’t recognise herself. the mirror catches her full reflection — not just in fabric, but in something newly awakened. the dress wraps around her like it was always meant to — not to erase the past, but to honour it. to rise from it.

your mouth went dry, feeling the ghost of a tremble in your fingers, but you press it down. this is your creation — this dress, this moment, this woman — and you will carry it with the dignity it deserves.

wheein touches her chest, just above the heart. “this… feels sacred.”

you meet her gaze in the mirror, and this time, she doesn’t look away.

you gestured for wheein to step up onto the small platform, the one framed by the tall mirrors and a soft spill of light. she hesitates for just a second, then lifts her gown and steps up, her reflection blooming all around her — a kaleidoscope of satin and lace and something else more fragile: remorse.

you began to smooth the fabric around her waist, adjusting the skirt so it falls just right. and that’s when she speaks — not looking at you, but at the woman in the mirror she’s still getting used to seeing.

“i’ve never thought i’d be the kind of woman who could take something that wasn’t mine.” her voice is small, like it’s been buried for a long time. but in this room, it echoes all the same.

you pause, your hands still against the folds of the dress. the moment holds — stretched thin and tender.

wheein swallows. “i didn’t plan on any of it. and maybe that makes me cowardly — not wanting to own the hurt i caused. but standing here, in this… it made me realise how much beauty i’m wearing that i didn’t earn.”

wheein watches you through the mirror — her gaze no longer filled with awe, but something heavier. a kind of reckoning.

“you don’t have to say anything,” you mumbled, not looking up. the silence was already loud enough.

but wheein shakes her head, her voice quiet and steady. “i do.”

you pause, and the room feels like it held its breath.

“you were always real to me,” she says, eyes fixed on her own reflection — but her words, they’re for you. “even when i was pretending you weren’t.”

you look at her now, slowly straightening.

“when we got together,” she continues, “jeno didn’t talk about you. he didn’t need to. you were everywhere. in the way he hesitated before speaking. in the way he smiled at certain things like they carried another memory. in the way he never said goodbye properly.”

a flicker of breath catches in your chest. the words settle like ash, soft and aching.

wheein turns slightly, her hand brushing against the edge of the gown.

“i don’t know how we ended up here,” she says. “but i do know this… i was the one who walked in between you and a life you were still holding onto. and i never said it before because i was afraid it would make everything feel less real. but it was real — for you. and now i see that.”

you swallow, something fragile building in your throat. not tears, not anger. just the sharp, quiet ache of being seen — fully, finally.

and then, after a long pause — you finally spoke, “so why are you here?”

her lips part, and for a second, she hesitates. then, quietly — “because i’m marrying him.”

your hands still against the fabric. wheein’s voice softens into something more raw. “and i guess... some part of me thought that maybe if you dressed me, it would make me feel less like a thief.”

you stand there, still, as the weight of that confession settles in the room like dust caught in morning light.

you finally look her in the eyes through the mirror. “no dress i make will erase what you took from me.”

the words are not cruel. they are just true.

but then your voice softens, not with forgiveness, but with clarity. “but it doesn’t mean you don’t deserve one.”

you look at her, and for the first time, you don’t see the woman who stood in the way of your happy ending.

you see a woman who, like you, is simply trying to love — and live with the consequences of it.

in the adjoining room, time trickles in uneven drips — the kind that feels like they echo too loudly. jeno paces back and forth, unable to still his nerves. he’s restless, caught between anticipation and uncertainty, each step seeming heavier than the last. mark leans against the doorframe, arms crossed, observing silently. he’s seen this before — the unease jeno carries, like an unspoken weight he can’t shake off.

it’s not the tuxedo he’s worried about.

it’s you.

the thought of seeing you again — not just in passing, not in a conversation heavy with unresolved years — but here, now, as the designer of the very thing he’d wear on his wedding day... it gnaws at him.

and then he sees it.

he pauses mid-step, eyes narrowing toward the corner of the room. something there catches his attention — soft white, tangled, almost like a ghost. torn fabric spilling out from the top of the bin. crushed silk and lace, uneven edges, pieces that once belonged to something whole.

mark’s eyes follow jeno’s gaze, landing on the rubbish bin where your old wedding dress has been discarded, torn apart, the fabric now a tangle of delicate remnants. the dress no longer looks like the beautiful creation it once was. it’s just fragments now, pieces waiting to be stitched into something else. mark doesn’t comment on it, knowing that jeno hasn’t fully realized what it is — not yet.

instead, mark stays quiet, waiting.

and then, jeno speaks. his voice is hesitant, almost disbelieving. "is that...?" he doesn’t say it loud. it’s barely more than a whisper, like he’s asking himself. like he doesn’t want it to be true.

but he knows. god, he knows that dress. he remembers it vividly like the first time he saw it.

the words hang in the air as his gaze continues to linger on the torn fabric. mark watches jeno’s reaction closely — he can see the recognition dawning slowly, the pieces of the past coming together in jeno’s mind. the weight of it hits him.

mark doesn’t confirm or deny it. he lets the silence stretch between them, knowing jeno has already pieced it together.

jeno wants to ask, to know, but he can’t find the right words. part of him doesn’t want to hear the answer.

finally, after a long moment, mark speaks, his voice quiet but firm. “she’s put her whole heart into this,” he says, his words slow and measured. “y/n... she’s not just making a dress. she’s pouring herself into it. into you, into this moment, into everything.”

jeno doesn’t look away from the corner immediately, but his brow furrows slightly, as if he’s sensing the shift in the room. mark steps forward, continuing, his voice softening. “every stitch, every detail — it’s her way of letting go, of making peace with what’s been. it’s everything she’s felt. every ounce of love, every moment of hurt, it’s all woven in there.”

mark doesn’t look at jeno for a response. instead, he lets his words settle, giving jeno space to process.

jeno’s eyes remain fixed on the remnants of the dress, and for a long time, neither of them speaks. the reality of the situation slowly unfurls in jeno’s mind. he doesn’t look at the fabric the same way anymore. it's not just torn pieces. it's a memory. it's everything that’s led up to this moment.

finally, jeno turns to mark, his voice quiet, almost too soft to be heard. “i didn’t mean for any of this...”

mark doesn't immediately reply. there’s a brief silence before he speaks, his voice steady and calm. “i truly hope you're happy, jeno. whatever happens next, i hope you understand that what y/n's doing here isn’t just about the dress. it’s about her. her healing. her strength. and that’s something you can't take away from her, not anymore.”

jeno absorbs the words, his gaze falling to the floor as if in search of an answer he might never find.

mark steps back a little, his tone softer now. “i’m just saying... don't forget to thank her. it'll mean the world to her.”

wheein steps down from the platform slowly, her hands brushing the fabric at her sides like she still couldn't quite believe it was real. the dress moved like a whisper around her ankles — a thing reborn, made from threads of grief and grace.

you helped her out of it with gentle, steady hands, the silence between the two of you no longer heavy but reverent, filled with something understood.

when wheein finally leaves the fitting area, offering you a small, quiet thank you — nothing more, nothing less — you're left alone again. just for a breath.

then mark enters.

he doesn't say anything at first. just notices the way your fingers are trembling slightly as you reach for the tuxedo box. he moves to your side like gravity and begins helping you to lay it out — the jacket, the shirt, the carefully folded pants.

you bit your lip, feeling the nerves clawing up your spine, feeling your heartbeat stuttering. this wasn’t just a tuxedo. this wasn’t just another fitting.

this was him.

he was coming in now.

“you okay?” mark asks quietly, hands smoothing over the lapel of the jacket.

“no,” you admit, your voice a brittle hush. “but… it’s okay.”

you step back as he finishes setting the final touches. the space is ready. but you aren’t.

you almost want to back out. you almost wish you could disappear into the folds of the velvet curtain. but you don’t.

instead, you take one small step forward — and that’s when mark nods, slipping out of the room to get jeno.

you don’t hear their footsteps at first, only your own breath. and then —

the curtain draws back — softly, carefully — and you already know it’s him.

you don’t look up right away. instead, you focused on adjusting the sleeve of the tuxedo that hangs on the mannequin, its silhouette glowing under the amber studio lights. it stands tall, composed, dignified. everything you hoped it would be.

the air shifts. heavier somehow. like memory has entered the room before the man himself.

jeno steps in beside mark.

your eyes lift. his do too.

a silent acknowledgement passes between you — not a greeting, not quite. more like a shared breath across time. five years folded into a single look.

then he finally sees it.

for a second, he just stares.

there’s something almost reverent about the way he looks at it. not like it’s clothing — but like it’s something holy. a relic of something he once lost, now reshaped into something new. his gaze traces the details: the sharp peak lapels, the hand-sewn buttons, the delicate topstitching only someone with an eye for love could’ve placed so precisely.

he knows this wasn’t just made.

it was cared into existence.

“is this it?” he finally asks, voice low, almost breathless.

you nod. “this is it. mark did it.”

he steps closer, slowly, like he’s afraid he might disturb it. and you watch him — how his expression shifts the nearer he gets. it’s the same look he wore the first time he saw you bent over your sketchbook, lost in a world he couldn’t enter but wanted so badly to understand.

a soft shuffle behind you breaks the silence — mark steps in from the side room, his voice light, but steady.

“so,” he says, clapping his hands once gently, “you ready to try it on?”

jeno tears his eyes away from the tuxedo, straightening slightly, though some part of him still seems tethered to it. he nods slowly, as if waking from a reverie. “yeah. i’m ready.”

you take a small step back, the movement instinctive — giving him space, giving yourself room to breathe. “i’ll let mark help you change,” you say, your voice polite, “i’ll be outside if—”

“wait.”

jeno’s voice isn’t sharp, but it halts you mid-step. you glanced at him, brows raised.

he looks at you — not pleading, not demanding — just… hoping.

“could you do the fitting?” he asks quietly. “please.”

the room stills. your hands curl slightly at your sides.

you hesitate. not because you’re unwilling — but because you’re not sure if you’re strong enough. to stand that close. to adjust fabric on the body you once held. to witness the man who once belonged in your future, stepping into a suit not made for you.

but you meet his gaze.

and for once, it doesn’t ache the way it used to. not entirely.

“…okay,” you breathe. “i’ll stay.”

jeno nods, a flicker of relief passing over his features. mark glances between the two of you, then gives a small smile — understanding blooming quietly behind his eyes.

“alright,” mark says, gently touching jeno’s shoulder. “this way.”

jeno follows him to the back, where a private fitting space waits behind another curtain. the soft rustle of fabric fades, leaving you alone with the tuxedo and the ghost of everything it carries.

you take a breath.

then another.

and you wait — steadying your hands, your heart — preparing yourself to fit him one last time.

it felt like hours — though only a few moments. you stand by the mannequin, hands clasped in front of you, your pulse racing. the quiet in the room presses against you, thick and tangible.

then, the sound of footsteps. soft, measured, as if to make the moment linger just a bit longer.

the curtain rustles, and you look up.

jeno steps out, and for the briefest second, you almost don’t recognize him. it’s not just the tuxedo, though it fits him like it was made to hold his form, to echo the way he once was — strong, confident, yet still a little unsure of himself. it’s the way he carries himself now. there’s something quieter, something deeper in his gaze. the weight of everything, perhaps.

you swallow, the words caught in your throat for a moment.

“it’s perfect,” you say quietly, your hands trembling slightly as you walk closer. it’s not just the tuxedo that’s perfect — it’s him, in a way. like he’s finally grown into the person he’s meant to be, even if that person isn’t standing next to you.

"come up here." you gestured towards the platform in front of you. jeno doesn’t hesitate. his movements are graceful, but you can sense the weight of the moment, the unspoken history between the two of you hanging in the air.

he steps onto the platform, his hands instinctively smoothing down the sides of the tuxedo, as if testing the fit. the room feels smaller now, the air heavier. mark watches quietly from the corner, sensing the tension but saying nothing. it’s just the two of you now, and for a moment, the world outside the studio doesn’t exist.

you stepped closer, fingers grazing along the edges of the tuxedo. the fabric feels familiar under your fingertips, and for a brief moment, you’re lost in the work, focusing on the smallest details — adjusting the hem here, a tuck of fabric there. you’re trying to bury the thoughts swirling in your mind, trying to ignore the weight of the words that linger between you and jeno.

“how does it feel?” you ask, keeping your voice even, not wanting to show just how much his presence is affecting you. you meet his gaze in the mirror, your reflection meeting his. he looks different somehow, wearing this tuxedo, like he’s stepped into something more than just a suit. there’s a quiet strength about him now, as if the tuxedo is a part of him.

“perfect,” jeno replies, his voice low, almost inaudible. “it feels... like it was made just for me.” he pauses, looking at his reflection with a bittersweet expression. “it fits me in a way i never thought a tuxedo could.”

you don’t answer him immediately. instead, you focus on the adjustments, it's hard to ignore the way he stands there, looking so different, so perfect, in something you made. made for him.

as you work, you can feel his gaze on you, but you avoid looking up. it’s easier that way. the silence stretches between you both, thick with the weight of what you once shared and what can never be again.

mark steps forward quietly, glancing at the pair of you before speaking. “it looks great, jeno. really. the fit is perfect.” he pats jeno on the shoulder, a gesture of support, before stepping back again, leaving you alone to it.

jeno shifts slightly, and you can feel the change in his energy. “you really made this, didn’t you?” he says, his voice still quiet, but now filled with a hint of understanding.

you bit your lip, trying to keep your emotions in check. your hands move to adjust the collar, but your fingers hesitate as the words catch in your throat.

“mark designed it,” you say, your voice flat, trying to deflect, trying to act as though you aren’t the one behind this — behind him standing there, looking so good in something you made. “he’s the one who oversaw everything.” you forced the words out, keeping your tone neutral, but inside, you feel like you’re breaking a little more with each passing second.

jeno looks at you in the mirror, his eyes softening as if he’s piecing it together. “no,” he says softly. “this was you. i can tell.” his gaze lingers on you for a moment longer before he looks back at his reflection. “it fits me perfectly. better than anything i’ve ever worn.”

you swallow hard, your heart thudding in your chest, but you say nothing, pretending not to hear the unspoken weight in his words. instead, you focus on the task at hand, adjusting the cufflinks, straightening the fabric, and pretending like everything is okay when it isn’t.

“y/n... is it okay if i apologised again?” jeno’s voice was softer now, his usual confidence replaced by a quiet vulnerability.

there was something raw in his tone, as if the apology had been brewing for years, waiting for the right moment. he stepped a little closer, the space between you narrowing, but not enough to make either of you uncomfortable.

you paused, fingers still lightly brushing the fabric of the tuxedo as you processed his words. it wasn’t anger that welled up inside you, but something deeper—something akin to the years of heartache, the wounds that once hurt you as if physically.

you took a breath, exhaling slowly before responding.

“i’m not sure there’s anything left for you to apologise for.” you said quietly, your eyes meeting his in the mirror. "but... i suppose if you need to, i’ll listen."

the space between you both seemed to stretch, filled with the weight of everything that had happened and everything that still hung in the air. jeno’s eyes softened, and for a moment, you saw the man you used to know—before the silence, before the distance.

he took a step closer, as if uncertain whether to reach out, but not quite daring to. his words were quieter now, almost hesitant.

“i think i owe you more than that. i owe you so much more than what i gave you. i never meant for it to end like this.”

you didn’t answer immediately, your mind swirling with the years of unspoken pain, of lost time. the dress—the tuxedo, all of it—was merely a thread, tying everything together. it had been a way to heal, to make peace with the past. but hearing him speak to you about it, it all came rushing back.

you wanted to respond, but the words felt tangled up, stuck somewhere deep in your chest.

“jeno,” you began, your tone soft but steady, “you don’t need to apologise again. i think... i think we’ve both carried enough of that for too long. what matters now is that we’re here. that we're standing in front of each other.”

your eyes met his in the mirror, and there was something almost peaceful in the way you looked at him now, despite everything. “i’ve learned to forgive, not for you, but for me. to let go of the things that held me down. that’s how i’ve been able to keep going.”

you paused, feeling the weight of your own words settle between you. “so, no. you don’t need to apologise. what’s important is that you’re here, and you’re moving forward. we both are.”

there was a quiet finality in your voice, not a dismissal, but an acknowledgment that the past, however painful, no longer had to dictate your future. jeno seemed to absorb your words, a soft sigh escaping him as he took a moment to reflect.

jeno hesitated for a moment, his eyes flickering down to the tuxedo, then back to you. the words seemed to hold him back, unsure whether or not they had a place in this moment between you both.

“y/n,” he began softly, his voice tentative. “i know this might sound... strange, given everything that’s happened, but i want to ask you something.”

you stayed quiet, your hands pausing just for a second as you looked up at him, sensing the gravity of what he was about to say.

“would you... would you come to the wedding?” jeno asked, the question lingering in the air like a fragile thread. “i know it’s a lot to ask, but i thought... maybe you could be there. you’ve done so much, you’ve poured so much of yourself into this. i don’t want you to feel like you’re left out of this chapter.”

it was a simple invitation, but it carried so much weight, and the way he said it, as if hoping for something more than just your presence but a recognition of how far you both had come — it made your chest tighten.

you paused, contemplating the offer, the past and present swirling in your mind. you had already let go of so much of the hurt, but this was still jeno. still the man who had once been your world.

with a quiet breath, you finally replied, your voice gentle but firm. “thank you for asking. but... i think i’ll pass. it’s not about not wanting to see you happy. it’s just that i need to keep moving forward, in my own way. i’ll always be grateful, jeno, for everything — the good and the bad. but i think it’s time for me to step away from this chapter completely.”

there was no bitterness in your words, no anger. just acceptance, a calm realization that your role in his story had already changed.

“besides,” you added, a slight smile tugging at your lips, “i think i’ve done enough with this whole wedding thing no?”

jeno didn’t respond immediately, but the way he looked at you spoke volumes. a soft, grateful look — but there was an underlying sadness in it, something that would linger long after the fitting was over. he nodded slowly, understanding the unspoken decision between you.

“you’re right,” he said finally, voice low. “thank you, y/n. for everything. truly."

once, the thought of what you lost would've consumed you. you would have wondered what went wrong, where the love had faded, why the promises fell apart. but now, standing in this studio, surrounded by the tangible creation of your own hands — the dress, the tuxedo — you understood. you understood that in love, sometimes the one who seems to lose is the one who actually gains.

you had gained yourself.

the hurt, the longing, the desire to have what was once yours — they no longer held the same power over you. you were standing at the other side of it now, looking at the pieces you had rebuilt and the person you had become. you had taken the broken fragments of your heart and woven them into something new, something beautiful.

"thank you for choosing wildflower, i wish you both all the happiness and love in this world."

the winner takes it all. but in this room, on this day, you had already won.

// the end

taglist: @starryeyesspice @bluedbliss @undomielsql @nshitae @starryeyesspice @spicyryujin@m8rkers @haechskiss

[biconickyoshi]

Been wanting to do some updated character model sheet thingies for my ongoing longfic The Avatar and the Fire Prince, so here they are! :) Up until now I'd only drawn Zuko and Aang, but I thought it was about time I added Iroh and the Water Tribe siblings to the lineup as well. Right now all I've done this for is Books 1 & 2, but I really want to get started on the Books 3 & 4 versions so I can add Toph and Suki (and possibly Azula, Mai, and Ty Lee) to the lineup!

As usual, for anyone who has not read my fic but is curious about the premise: this is an AU in which Zuko and Iroh discover Aang in the iceberg just 3 months after Zuko is burned and banished at age 13 in 96 AG, 4 years prior to the return of Sozin's Comet. It is also an enemies to best friends to lovers slowburn in which Zukaang is endgame (since Aang was released from the iceberg 3 years early in this AU, he is only one year younger than Zuko). This fic is heavily based in canon, so I try my hardest to ensure that everything is canon-compliant at least when it comes to lore and character behavior despite the different circumstances.

Book 1: Air's premise: after finding and capturing Aang, Zuko and Iroh are forced to escape with him on Appa when Zhao interferes with their plans to return to the Fire Nation. This Book focuses on Aang desperately searching the Air Temples for any remnants of his people he can find, dragging Zuko and Iroh along in the process. Eventually, Zuko starts to question everything he was raised to believe, while Iroh is forced to face the mistakes of his past.

Book 2: Water begins with Aang, Zuko, and Iroh traveling to the South Pole after Aang starts to have recurring nightmares about an impending attack on Wolf Cove (Sokka and Katara's village), and eventually follows my adaptations of several storylines from canon Book 1 before ending with the Siege of the North in Agna Qel'a. During this Book, Zuko begins to realize his feelings for Aang are more than friendship, while Aang remains oblivious (lol).

Book 3: Earth is the Book I am currently working on (the most recent chapter was my adaptation of "Avatar Day") and so far follows Aang, Zuko, Iroh, Katara, and Sokka as they search for an earthbending teacher for Aang - so far, it has followed the general canon plot of Book 2, though of course, as always, there are differences due to this being an AU. No spoilers, but I have some really interesting things planned for this Book, particularly as we get closer to the Ba Sing Se arc. I also have a lot of fun stuff planned for the Zukaang romance in this Book.

Book 4: Fire will be the last Book of the fic, and will of course revolve around the Gaang in the Fire Nation. This is all I will say for now since I don't want to spoil the plans I have for the previous Book (which will heavily influence what happens in Book 4, obv).

When I finally finish this fic (I'm about halfway through at 33/65 chapters), I plan to start writing a direct sequel that adapts the events of the comics, as well as a Korrasami-focused Legend of Korra rewrite fic that is set in the same AU as TAatFP.