(if a link leads to no post, please message me/comment! They seem to have some sort of expiration, i can’t figure out how to fix it. lmk which one and i’ll relink!)
ASOIAF
Aemond Targaryen
a winter’s dragon: flying - [princess Auriela hasn’t known a day of happiness since she was arranged to marry Aemond Targaryen. In her pursuits to take control of her life so far from her home in the North, Auriela only stirs the pot of the already war stricken kingdom, pointing knives in her direction. Accompanied by her common folk, Auriela intends to dig herself out of her green hole. (9.9k)]
a winter’s dragon: burning - [after escaping a life of sorrow in King’s Landing, Auriela is settled with the task of finding her place on Dragonstone in the midst of the Dance of Dragons. From unhappy nobles to loss of friends to rocky relationships, she begins to wonder if she has a place in this world at all. (8k)]
red sorrow - [Viserys and Aemma’s second daughter, Aerea Targaryen, must choose between what she’s always known and the possibility of democracy as the Dance of Dragons turns for the worse. (7.3k)]
Aerion Targeryen
dame of the seven kingdoms - [Aevya Velaryon was married off to Aerion Targaryen long before anyone cared to tell her of his cruelty. So, naturally, she took comfort in her drunken new good brother. When Aerion wrongfully gives Ser Duncan the Tall the challenge of assembling seven knights in one moon, she knows she has to act quickly. (3.1k)]
Outer Banks
truth or dare - [a high school game of truth or dare with kooks and pogues is bound to turn dirty, but you didn’t know just how far it’d go]
Rafe Cameron
open the door - [Rafe was never the most loyal to you. But when he finds out you too have been unfaithful, especially with his best friend, he flips his shit.]
officially over - [you’ve accidentally gotten attached to your summer fling. With all of the pent up feelings, it all comes to a boiling point one night.]
keep your mouth shut - [Rafe finds out that you told his very illegal secret to your friends, and he’s prepared to show you why he wouldn’t recommend doing it again.]
fugitive - [You’ve agreed to home your fugitive boyfriend, Rafe Cameron, until the search for him is over. But when you find evidence of him being unfaithful in your house, all bets are off.]
the ones who stayed - [After Nate Jacobs’s abandoned you at the early stages of your pregnancy, Fezco stepped up to take his place. But you’re at a loss for words when Nate shows up at your doorstep a year later.]
poison love (wicked: for good) - [Galinda Upland's older sister, Rhoswen, was always the black sheep of the family. She's only respected for her name and her unique powerful abilities—a trait that very few have in Oz. When she finds herself growing further and further from her partner, Elphaba, she must make hard decisions to either get her back, or bring her ruin. (5.6k)]
anastasia antoinette (sinners) - [Anastasia Riley has cut out a life for herself in Mississippi in the few years since her move. She works as a dancer and escort at the Johnnie Ram Club almost every night under the jurisdiction of her boss, Francis. When she learns that one of her wealthier clients has the same face as his brother, their entanglements lead to the pathway to her dreams. (7.7k)]
love bites (sinners) - [Josephine's brother, Wells, was a sharecropper with the Smoke-Stack twins. After they left him without a word, she never forgave them. When they come back seven years later causing trouble, she has no idea what to do - Especially when unexpected feelings arise. (5.5k)]
wait for me (sinners) - [Rue has worked for years to forget Elijah Moore and what he left her with before he ran to Chicago. But when she sees his ambitious twin in the square, all of their history comes rushing back. (3.1k)]
when we were teenagers (challengers) - [Tashi Duncan's younger sister, Ava Duncan, never gets a chance to be seen past her sister's shadow. When Ava gets injured and Tashi starts gaining fame, the two become more and more at odds with each other. Tashi juggles Art and Patrick while Ava struggles to keep up. When over a decade passes and a peace isn't reached, either the Donaldsons or Zweigs, either Tashi or Ava, has to come out on top. (7.2k)]
the rage of a harkonnen (dune: part two) - [The Emperor’s second born daughter, Harauna, has never been truly seen by her father; Her light always being dimmed by the shine of her older sister, Irulan. As Maud’Dib continues fighting on Arrakis and her father’s spot falls farther into jeopardy, Princess Harauna sees an opportunity to finally find her place in the Imperium…Wife of the possible Emperor, ruling alongside Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen. (3.9k)]
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!s: ilya rozanov x female!oc, russian!oc, iceskater!oc
summary: In between the sport-against-sport rivalry and the behind-the-scenes bedding, Ilya’s second situationship starts to catch feelings. Once she confronts him about it, Ilya must decide exactly what he feels for her. (3.6k)
a/n: this is a little (a lot) shite and rushed (with no accurate character arcs) but i don’t want anything with ilya in it to go to waste. anyway, as always, ur interaction is greatly appreciated, ily <3
warnings: sex, shitty google translate russian,
character name: Noa Volkova
At home, in Russia, I can’t say that I knew a single man who I’d chase. Not Vanya, the boy who worked on a neighboring farm. Not Nikita, who was shirtless for more of his life than he was clothed. And certainly not Misha, the hockey captain who always hogged the ice. Very soon after he interrupted our skating practice with no apology because “хоккей имеет приоритет (hockey has priority),” I vowed to never chase any hockey players. Ever.
And yet, here I am.
Ilya Rozanov broke my self-made truce. Whether it’s because he’s the only other Russian within a five state radius or because his mystery felt like a challenge—Once my skates hit American soil, I was quick to put myself on his radar. Anyone with half a brain cell knows that that ice skating is the superior ice sport, but Ilya would never agree. In fact, he makes it his mission, every time we’re together, to remind me that no matter how good I am at skating—he has the control. I heard the message loud and clear, especially when his hand was wrapped around my throat and he was grinding his tired hips into mine—bottoming out for the millionth time that night.
It was a night like that when he told me Hollander was nothing serious. We moved in sync, Ilya holding my knees to my chest and slurring Russian nothings. We were tired and sweaty. Our respective practices had worn us both out—mentally and physically—and we were running on fumes, fucking like animals. But all I could think of was the look on his face when the Shane Hollander commercials came on the TV. His laser gaze, lips pursed together like he didn’t know if he wanted to hurt him or ravage him—or both.
I knew they were fucking. If Ilya and I can do anything, it’s exchange secrets. But this night, this particular night, I didn’t want heartless sex anymore. I found myself lost in Ilya’s gaze, appreciating every flex of his bicep and thrust of his hips. As my racing thoughts began to block my pleasure, it just spilled out.
“Вы любите Hollander (Do you love Hollander)?” I pant, pulling him closer.
He says nothing, simply brushing me off. However, the increase in the pressure of his thrusts doesn’t go unnoticed.
I push harder, gripping the hair at his nape. “ты (Do you)?”
Ilya roughly grunts, frustrated. In one swift motion, he forces my arms above my head, pinning my wrist with one hand. The other forces three fingers in my mouth. He continues at an impossible pace.
“он ничего (He is nothing),” Ilya rasps in my ear, eyes treading on mine like he’s convincing himself as much as me. “черт возьми, ничего (Fucking nothing).”
He finished shortly after that, and I told myself it was at the thought of Shane being gone, and me being here. I told myself he meant it when he said Shane was nothing. Because that meant we were something, or we could be…I wanted to be.
That’s likely why I’m at his condo door with a basket full of roses and chocolate, a miniature “Happy Valentine’s Day,” bear in the front. I’m already regretting my life decisions as my heart pounds in my chest. The longer he makes me wait, the more I feel I should forget the whole thing. A year of hookups is long enough to count as a valentine, right?
I hope so…I don’t know American rules.
My thoughts are cut short when my knocks are finally answered. I plaster on a smile as the door swings just wide enough for me to see him. Ilya’s disheveled, his loose sweats hanging low on his waist and his torso completely bare.
“Happy Valentine’s Day!” I exclaim, trying to rid myself of the natural Russian sneer and pitch my voice higher.
He scans me up and down, a signature Slavic pout on his lips. He stammers, scratching the back of head and looking back into his apartment like he’s waiting on someone else to receive me.
I just stand, my smile slightly dropping.
“Ilya,” I call his attention back to me. I wave the basket in my hand. “I got you gifts!”
He looks back to me, a mix of pity and confusion on his face as a mumbled stutter slips from his lips. I wait for it to morph into joy, but it never does. Instead, I see a figure round the corner and stare at me over Ilya’s shoulder.
Shane Hollander.
“V— Volkova,” Shane murmurs, lying an arm over his body like his endeavors are a secret to me.
My cheeks heat up and my eyes widen. I feel myself wanting to freeze. Dropping the basket, I robotically turn and rush away—wanting nothing more than for the building to collapse and end this for the three of us. Beelining for my rental car, I curse myself down the long hallway. Ilya runs out behind me, shouting.
He’s halfway clothed now, following me while stretching his shirt over his head. “Noa—“
“Оставь меня в покое (Leave me be).” I wave him off, pushing the complex doors open.
The Vegas sun is usually the best part of competing here. But with Ilya’s treasonous yells over my shoulder, all I want is for it to burst and rain fire.
“Noa, do not be mad,” he whines, trailing me to my car. “I did not know you were coming!”
“I can’t believe I’m missing practice time for this,” I scoff, rolling my eyes and fumbling with my keys. “идиот (idiot).”
Just as I get the door open, Ilya catches up to me, pushing it shut again. I huff, wanting nothing more than for this nightmare to be over.
“Let me go, Ilya,” I insist, looking at my feet.
“Mm-mmm,” he shakes his head. “Look at me.”
“No.”
“Look at me, Noa.” He tilts my chin up, searching my eyes for a moment. “…You knew we were fucking, no?”
My hands meet his chest, shoving him hard. “Fuck away.” I reopen my car door.
“It’s fuck off,” he arrogantly corrects, placing his hands on his hips. He raises them in the air in a what did you expect motion. “I did not ask you to be my valentine!”
I slam the door, holding back tears. He just watches with that sly look as if he couldn’t care less. As if how I feel affects him none. I throw my middle finger up, tires screeching as I make my getaway.
✦ . ⁺ . ✦ . ⁺ . ✦
Leia, my skating partner, was the most excited of the entire team to come to Vegas. “They know how to party,” she said—which is surprising, because if anyone can party, it’s Russians. I can have all the fun I need without a fat man wearing a cowboy hat hovering outside of my club.
Even so, I have to admit that this club is not the worst I’ve been to. My whole team is in here somewhere. Some hockey athletes had a game tonight, and by the stench they brought in here, I’m assuming they too decided to come in a flock. Team bonding, I guess. I wave my head side to side, rocking my body against Leia’s to the beat of the music.
“Here!” She presents a shot from behind me, her other hand firm on my waist, grinding my hips into hers.
“What is it?” I shout over the music.
“водка (vodka).” Her hand travels from my hips to my jaw, tilting my head back ever so slightly. It rests on her shoulder as she feeds me the liquid. “Drink.”
It slithers down my throat like fire, making me shiver. I throw my arm up, whooping and laughing as Leia takes one for herself. We continue dancing, no space left between our bodies. Leia turns me around, holding me close as our lips hover over each others. I hesitate, uncertainty in my eyes.
Leia notices, bringing her lips to my ear. “Forget him, he missed out.”
I shake my head, acutely embarrassed that I’m allowing Ilya seep into my everyday life.
“I know!” I agree.
Leia turns my head, directing it toward the bar.
“You see him?”
A tall blonde man in all black nurses a glass, his elbow resting on the counter. He just observes, scanning the club.
I turn back to her, my brows furrowed. “How do you know?”
“He’s been checking you out since we showed up,” she chuckles. “I might’ve snuck in a few questions to know who you were dealing with.”
My jaw drops, a sense of shame firing in me. Beside it, however, is excitement. Maybe he can be mine…just for tonight.
“Should I?”
Leia rolls her eyes like it’s not even a question. She pushes me toward him, slapping my butt and continuing to dance on her own.
…
Wyatt fucks like a Canadian. His thrusts are sloppy and uncalculated, rutting behind me like a frantic animal. I’m sure his fingers have bruised my hips in the short time he’s been inside me, his grip rougher than Ilya’s ever was. His groans get louder and I decide that, if I’m going to fuck Rozanov’s teammate, I’m going to get Rozanov treatment. I reach back, pulling one of his hands up to me and placing three of his fingers in my mouth. It’s difficult, possibly the most pathetic thing I’ve ever had to do, but I pretend he’s Ilya. I pretend he’s tired, maybe worn out from practice or the gym, and that’s why his thrusts feel like that of a blind goat. Nevertheless, it pushes both Hazy and I over the edge.
✦ . ⁺ . ✦ . ⁺ . ✦
“After careful consideration, coaching staff and management have decided to restructure their roster for the upcoming season. As part of these changes, we will not be offering Noa Volkova a spot on the team for this next season. Therefore, this letter serves as formal notification that Volkova is released from the Legacy Blades roster, effective immediately.”
The kitchen floor is cold beneath me as I stare at the laptop screen with glossy eyes, sitting stiffly. To be traded is one thing—even to be put out of a game for my attendance. But to be cut from the whole team? The girls Leia and I have been skating with for a year now?
With trembling hands, I shakily unlock my phone. Opening the call app, my hands move independently from my mind, automatically traveling to the red “Rozanov.”
“Что (What)?” His uninterested tone punches through the phone.
“I—uh…” I wipe my tears as sufficiently as I can muster, clearing my throat. “Ilya, they dropped me. The Blades. They, uh—no explanation. Just sent an email.”
There’s a pause.
“So you are done? No more skating?”
“Yes,” I assure him, my voice falling to a broken whisper.
A stone cold voice jabs down the line. “…Good.”
My heart skips a beat. I sit straight up, looking at the screen to ensure I’ve gotten the right number.
“What did you say?”
“I said good,” he repeats, slower and clearer this time. “No more skating, no more harassment for me, no more nothing. It’s good, Noa.”
My sadness dissipates much quicker than it came, forming into a deep anger.
“No. It’s not good, Ilya,” I sneer. “It’s really fucking bad. Why would you say that to me?”
I hear him heavily exhale and I can imagine the stream of smoke exiting with his breath.
“You would say it to me. Better they cut Noa than Ilya, yes? Better player and all—“
“Почему вы так жестоки (Why are you being so cruel)?”
He laughs.
“Я не знаю. Почему бы тебе не спросить Уайатта (I don’t know. Why don’t you ask Wyatt)? See if he will dry your tears.”
My brows crinkle, disbelief riddling my face.
“Wh— How do you know about that?”
It’s like I can see him shrug, taking another draw of his cigarette.
“I just know things,” he conceals. “So go cry to him. Or your other friend you fuck. What is her name…Lena?”
I huff, tired of his constant allegation and attack on my best friend. “For the last time, Leia is just my friend.”
“Sure she is.”
“What does it matter to you anyway?
“It doesn’t matter to me,” he urges, his voice steady. “None of it matters to me, Noa. That’s what I’m trying to tell you. So do not call my phone crying and wah-wah wanting me to be nice—“
My thumb repeatedly taps the hang up button, stopping him before he can hurt my feelings any further. Though, the dull ache of misery in my stomach quickly cyclones into a pit of rage as I think back to Ilya’s words—Ilya’s treatment.
“он ничего (He is nothing),” Ilya rasps in my ear, eyes treading on mine. “черт возьми, ничего (Fucking nothing).”
All that I’ve ever felt for Ilya has been crushed under his plaything’s pretty foot once again. Anything him and I can have funnels down into the hopeless pit that is Shane Hollander. And deep in the throes of my sorrow, I see a grueling sight from the corner of my eye. Across the room, the Canadian’s commercial flashes across my screen. He grins like he’s never done wrong in his life, holding up a soda can. I use it as my target, swinging my arm and sending my phone flying into the screen. It shatters, purple and green glitches replacing Shane’s face. My breathing has grown heavier, the commercial replaying in my head. Soon enough, the image of the ad morphs into something worse—Shane gripping a hotel pillow as his rival slams their hips together.
A flip switches in me. As if I’m on autopilot, I stand, throw on a zip-up, grab my keys, and rush out of the high-rise.
✦ . ⁺ . ✦ . ⁺ . ✦
He has yet to look back, headphones covering his ears the whole route to his hotel. I didn’t dress adequately, even with my hood flipped up. But the cold seems to only fuel me more as I trail behind him. I’m so caught up in the images of him and Ilya that, before I know it, we’ve walked into his building. Snapped back to reality, my voice echos down the hallway full of doors.
“Hey,” I call. “Why do you fuck him?”
Shane stops in his tracks, pushing his headphone off of his ear and slowly turning to face me. He says nothing, only looking at me with wide eyes. His mouth hangs agape like he has words to say, but they just won’t come out.
“Ilya,” I specify. “Why do you fuck him? Do you love him?
He stays frozen in shock for a moment before turning on his heels and speed walking down the corridor. I follow behind him, though he’s unlocked his door and sped into his room before I could reach him. When I push on the handle, however, the door swings open all the same.
“Why—“
I’m pulled inside, the door slamming behind me. Looking back, I see Shane gaze at me with fire in his eyes.
“What the fuck is wrong with you?”
“I asked you a question,” I urge.
“You can’t do stuff like that.” He clicks the lock and faces me. “Anyone could’ve heard you.”
“I want to talk about Ilya.”
I watch as he rubs the bridge of his nose, walking past me and toward his living area.
“Yeah, I got that.”
“Do you love him? Do you think he loves you?”
“I’m not discussing this with you.” Shane pours a drink for himself.
“Why not?” I near him, offended at his dismissal. “I fuck him too, Shane. It’s not only you. I mean, are you even gay?”
“What the fuck does any of it matter to you!?” He raises his voice, scrunching his face up at me. “Why are you so obsessed with him, Volkova?”
A pinch of hurt hits my heart.
“I’m not.”
“Yeah, I think you are,” he sighs. “And I think you should talk to him about it, not me.”
I frown, wondering if Ilya’s split attention ever pains him as much as it does me. “…Did you ever think how it would affect me? It’s not fair, Shane.”
His stare intensifies, a hint of pity in it.
“I think you need to leave, Volkova.”
Tears threaten to fill my eyes.
“He told me you were nothing, you know,” I say shakily. “That he didn’t love you.”
I see a tiny downturn in his lips as he tilts his head.
“He— He said that?”
“Mhm.” I nod, a slight pout on my face.
Shane just looks at me, his gaze eventually drifting as water now fills his eyes. He’s aimless, emitting a small gasp.
“I—um,” he sniffles. “You should leave.”
“Hollander, we still need to—“
“Get the fuck out, Volkova,” he says lowly, walking toward the door and holding it open for me.
A sad and silent exchange between the two of us lets me know I will get nothing more out of this night. I hang my head low, walking past him and out of the hotel room.
On my way back home, I don’t feel fulfilled—nowhere near. Perhaps I just needed to see him—hurt him, the way his presence has hurt me. But even with plans to drown my sorrows in vodka tonight, deep down I long for the touch of the one man I can’t have. The one I’ll never have.
✦ . ⁺ . ✦ . ⁺ . ✦
3 Weeks Later
The sun has nearly fallen as I unload groceries into the trunk of my rental. I’ve been doing better for myself. No thoughts of any hockey player have entered my mind in these past few weeks. My parents and I have arranged my final flight back home, no longer having the team to keep me here. In the short time I’ve had away from the world of my sport, I’ve finally started seeing past it—thinking of a life without skating, and certainly without the Russian player.
I close the trunk, slipping my bag off of my shoulder and putting it in the backseat.
“это было неправильно (That wasn’t right),” a thickly accented deep voice says behind me.
Recognizing it immediately, I don’t turn around, simply zipping my bag.
“Я могу вам помочь (Can I help you)?”
“Going to Shane. You know he is ashamed. It wasn’t right to say anything to him,” he says, his tone as serious as I’ve ever heard it. “Look at me.”
Oddly, all of my feelings for Ilya don’t rush back in like open floodgates. Instead, I remain in a level-headed demander, turning to face him.
“I did not tell anybody.” I shrug.
“You know what I mean,” he grunts.
I tilt my head. “Is that all you came to say? To defend your boyfriend?”
“No.” Ilya shakes his head. He takes a deep breath. “I also came to apologize for what I said when you called me. That was wrong.”
I’m not the only one who has changed in our time apart. I softly shut the car door, giving him all of my attention.
“…Thank you,” I say tenderly, the first time I’ve ever said such a thing to him. I squint my eyes. “Who taught you to apologize?”
His chest rumbles with a soft chuckle. “He did. He said in order to get an apology I needed to make one first.”
Against all odds, I can’t help but begin to see Shane Hollander as something other than my arch nemesis— the overbearing enemy in my life. And against my bleeding heart, I can’t help but think that he has been a better influence than I ever was.
“You know, I was never ashamed of what we had,” I add. “I was quite proud.”
“I know you were.” He closes the space between us, looking down at me. “I should’ve been better.”
Butterflies lightly flutter in my stomach as I stand so close to this new version of him. One that sympathizes with me.
I sigh an empty sigh, reaching the dreaded conclusion.
“We are bad for each other.” I bow my head, staring at my feet.
Ilya’s breath dances across my cheek as he heavily exhales, resting his hands in his pockets.
“Yes. Это не значит, что я не могу тебя любить (That doesn’t mean I can’t love you).”
My emotions don’t spike the way they would if he had said this a month ago. Instead, the energy circulating between the two of us speaks to me what he doesn’t. This is what I wanted, all I’ve ever wanted. Ilya Rozanov’s love. Though, I’m no longer so blind to think that this love is the kind I want. That’s been reserved already. Instead, I think back to his friend back home, Svetlana. Perhaps that’s the love he speaks of. No matter, I’m coming to a point where Ilya’s love is no longer my currency of life.
“I am going back home.” I look up at him. “Probably for good.”
“Mmm,” he hums, nodding. “That’s good. See your family, your friends.”
“Yeah.” I frown—I won’t be returning as the champion I wanted to be. “Maybe I will see some of yours.”
“Mmm, no,” he scoffs. “My people are here now.”
I hum in agreement, taking in the setting sun beams that shine past Ilya—tracing him like an angel.
“I will miss you, Ilya,” I sigh.
He pauses for a moment, bringing his hand to my jaw and caressing my cheek with his thumb. I lean in to it, grieving what I believed we could’ve had. Slowly, he brings his lips to mine, pressing a soft and tender kiss into them. Pulling back, our eyes tread on each other.
the loveless chronicles of annabelle earnshaw (wuthering heights)
!s: heathcliff x female!oc
summary: Catherine’s unfavored sister, Annabelle, finds herself willing to endure anything just to feel loved by Heathcliff. (4.1k)
a/n: heathcliff if u can hear me ily. anyway, as always, ur interaction is greatly appreciated, ily <3
warnings: mentions of sex, abuse (mr. earnshaw)
character name: annabelle earnshaw
1771
Raindrops hit the soggy house with dull tinkles, filling the silence of the lonely attic. Heathcliff is hardly visible, only his chin resting on his hands beneath the bed looking back at me. I mirror him on the opposite side, the rough wooden floors giving my hands tiny splinters and making small cuts in my dress.
“Are you just going to stare at me?” Young Heathcliff huffs, a thick accent on his tongue.
“Just want to be here for you,” I say softly. “My father hurts me sometimes as well. More than he does my sister. He’s always liked Catherine more, I think. I suppose that’s why Nelly is often assigned to her as opposed to me, or why he worries when Catherine isn’t home during the storm whilst overlooking my absence…He hasn’t even seen my face today. I’ve been up here, awaiting your return. He notices not, though.”
Heathcliff’s brows thread together, a small frown forming on his lips. Silence once again, a quiet comfort laced within it.
“…Thank you for waiting for me,” he mumbles.
I nod, searching his expression for any signs of hesitation. “Do you want me to leave?”
His eyes dart to meet mine, though he tries to hide it quickly thereafter. Heathcliff looks to the floor like he’s thinking on it. I nearly miss it, but he shakes his head ever so slightly. I understand, lying my head on my hands and letting my eyes close. We sit like this, beaten and bruised, but together.
Nelly looks down at the two of us with a tired expression, no longer having the capacity to listen to Catherine whine about how she accepted Edgar, whilst wanting Heathcliff. Catherine throws herself on the floor, weeping.
I watch with a straight face, my hands in my lap. “Catherine, if you truly loved Heathcliff then you never would’ve accepted Mr. Linton.”
She looks over at me with teary eyes and an angry tone. “It is not that easy, Anna.”
“Oh, yes. How difficult to choose between a man who loves you and a man who loves you even more.” I roll my eyes. “One you love more than anything and one you love more than everything.”
“Stop it, Anna!” Catherine wails, sitting up. “I love Heathcliff, you know it! Even more than Mr. Linton!”
“Precisely! That is my point, Catherine. Follow your heart. You must!”
“Now, you stop it with that talk, Annabelle.” Nelly shakes her head, crossing her arms. “It would be foolish of her to marry that penniless man.”
Catherine sulks, burying her face in her hands.
“Never mind Nelly,” I tell her. “She’s always hated Heathcliff. She knows nothing of true love.”
My sister continues to cry into her palms, her small sobs soon turning into choking and snotty wails. She tips over, spilling onto the floor once again.
“Heavens,” Nelly grunts.
My father’s hand swinging at me flashes in my mind, as well as his hand swinging at Heathcliff. I think back to all the times he sacrificed himself for us and can’t help but look at Catherine with disgust. Oh, if only he loved me as much as he loved her. I scoot closer, placing my hand on Catherine’s leg.
“Catherine, if you don’t marry Heathcliff when he so clearly is in love with you, he will never forgive you,” I admit. “…I will never forgive you.”
She swiftly raises herself, slapping my hand away from her. “Oh, then you go marry the poor man if you want to so badly! See how you enjoy a lonely life with only your love to fill your empty stomach!”
Nelly comes to grab her hands. “Oh, Catherine—“
“No!” She pushes them away, falling to the ground once again. “Oh, I will die! I will die!”
Her flood of tears continues, Nelly steadfast in trying to tame them. I scan the room, no longer wanting to take part in this theatre. Under the door, the moving of a shadow catches my gaze. Without pondering on it, I rise to my feet.
“Annabelle, sit down.”
Nelly’s voice is lost on me as I burst out of the room. Down the dim hallway I see an unmistakeable silhouette. It rushes down the corridor and out to the stables. I follow, hurrying outside and being met with a blood red sky.
“Heathcliff!” I shout as he frees a horse from the stable.
“Leave me be,” he says roughly.
“Heathcliff, wait!” I beg. “It isn’t right for you to leave. It isn’t fair to Catherine!”
He ignores me, securing a saddle to the back of the mare and pulling to ensure its integrity.
“It isn’t fair to me!”
Heathcliff pauses, letting go of the horse and turning to face me.
“Has any of my life ever been fair, Anna?” he asks steadily. “Do you reckon the way I was beaten was fair? Or the way the world looks at me?”
Water threatens to fill my eyes, the ends of my lips turning downward. I shake my head.
He does the same. “There’s nothing left for me here, Anna.” He continues preparing his horse.
Joseph emerges from the dark of the stables, planting himself where the horse once was and watching quietly.
“I am here, Heathcliff,” my voice wobbles. “I’m here, with only my love for you warming my chambers every night. Nothing more.”
Heathcliff hardly looks back, peering over his shoulder. “You’ll manage,” he grunts, placing his foot on the saddle.
I jump into action, running toward the brute and wrapping my arms tightly around his torso. My head hits his chest hard, and for a moment, our heartbeats sync.
Heathcliff takes his foot down, pushing at me and imploring me to release him.
“I will not!” I yell, my tears now flowing freely. “I love you, Heathcliff! I will not let you leave!”
“You must,” he says, struggling to peel me off.
“Do not leave me, I love you! I love you, Heathcliff! I love you!”
My confessions must fall upon deaf ears as Heathcliff continues to deny me. I can’t help but wonder if he would do the same should Catherine be the one pleading for him. Joseph’s hands wrap around my shoulders, firmly pulling me from Heathcliff. Their efforts together finally defeat me as Joseph holds me back, Heathcliff mounting his horse. I cry out for him some more, fighting my hardest to free myself from Joseph’s grasp. Heathcliff towers over us on the saddle, taking one last look at me.
“It is true that you are my heart, Anna,” he says lowly. “But Catherine is my soul. I have no use for one without the other.”
The pounding of my heart in my ears nearly drowns out his words, and I’m not fit to receive them. I only cry, murmuring his name once more as though it’s a prayer. And I beg, just this once, for it to come true. But as Heathcliff turns and rides away, all of my faith is lost. I’m left with the dull and bitter emptiness of only seeing my one true love in my mind, forevermore.
I live an okay life, I’d say. I never left Wuthering Heights. Not for long, at least. Over the years, I’ve found ways to keep myself busy. Runs into town have become my version of holidays. And since we’ve nearly no servants left, the upkeep of our estate has become my version of work. Joseph keeps me company, sometimes more than that. Him, my father, and I have become…comfortable. Perhaps it’s shameful to say, in such a bad way. But we have each other, and that’s more than some.
On occasion, I visit Catherine and Edgar at Thrushcross Grange. We’re close, her family and I—as close as someone of their status can be with someone of mine. However, when I watch Catherine blow out birthday candles or open Christmas presents in her estate with sad and sorrowful eyes, I can’t help but feel a pang of anger. Hate, sometimes. She knows how wonderful her life is compared to mine, yet still finds a way to make herself miserable due to her own choices. I keep it to myself, though. Only Joseph knowing the true nature of my dislike.
Save staying at home and watching my father drink himself into oblivion, I am somewhat content with my life. It’s largely because I can’t imagine it’d be much different if I had married Heathcliff like I’d wanted to, I think. And in that situation, I’d have chosen it. So every time rain drips through our leaky roofs, I pretend I’m Heathcliff’s wife, and this is the best we could manage to keep a shelter for our children. It is what we must do. Wherever he is in the world, I sometimes pretend he’s imagining the same thing.
My father’s rotting teeth grin at me as I feed him his last spoonful of porridge. He hardly gets it down, coughing up green mucus with every swallow.
“You’re a good girl, taking care of me,” he croaks, placing a hand on my cheek. “Just wish you had more to offer than a pretty face and a bit of kindness. That don’t pay for nothing, do it?” he chuckles, snorting then coughing.
“Yes, father.”
I place the bowl down, taking a cloth from my lap and handing it to him. In the midst of his attack, I hear a small knock on the door. A little note flutters into the mail slot and onto the floor. I place a hand on my father’s shoulder and depart to collect the letter.
“Sister, I’ve had my servant personally rush you this letter due to its urgent nature. I’ve got good news. You wouldn’t believe who I found in the storm today…take a guess. HE’S RETURNED!”
Routinely, I look past the unpolished essence of the note. Instead, my eyes are wide as I stare at the last two words, written over to embolden them and underlined dozens of times.
He’s returned.
Not a second goes by before the letter has dropped to the floor. So have I, lacing my boots and smoothening my dress before bursting through the door, never minding my father’s calls after me. My joy turns into a sprint toward Thrushcross, Joseph watching me as he tends to the yard.
Edgar seems to speak exceptionally slowly as he walks me through the estate. He explains how they’ve just finished dinner and how Heathcliff was just leaving. My attempts at maintaining my composure nearly fail, my hands jittering at the idea of seeing him again. We begin down the corridor when we run into none other than my sister. But as Edgar greets her with a kiss, her expression tells me she knows that I’m not here for her. Over her shoulder, standing at the end of the hallway, is what I’ve longed to see for three years. What I’ve willed myself to believe I’d see again, no matter how many times the idea of his death has crept into my mind. It is him, truly. Standing just across the hall from me.
“Heathcliff,” I say breathlessly.
He begins toward me. My name spills quietly from his lips and I fear my legs may give out. Catherine looks between the two of us like she’s afraid to leave us alone, but I pay it no mind.
“Come, darling. Let us prepare for bed.” Edgar pulls Catherine away.
The closer Heathcliff draws, the more of him I can make out. My eyes are glued to him when he finally reaches me, softly taking my hand and leading me out of Thrushcross with him. As we walk toward the yard, I nearly stumble from how much attention I pay to him. Each of his features look like they did years ago, but vastly different. He wears jewels now, gold. His lost tooth has been replaced with metal. He smells like the flowers I pass in town sometimes.
Thrushcross Grange’s wind is much kinder to me than the Heights’. Hitting the cool of the night, I finally draw in a breath. Heathcliff turns me toward him, his face only illuminated my moonlight and the lamp glow from the faraway window.
“I waited for you,” I marvel at him, stammering over my words. “Every morning I’d climb the ladder to see if you’d returned. Joseph thought I was mad.”
His gaze into my eyes is nothing like it was before he left. It’s focused, intense, and speaking a thousand words in silence.
“Where did you go, Heathcliff?” I whisper, like I haven’t asked myself that each day he’s been gone. But he says nothing, only speaks to me with those eyes. I sigh, desperate. “Say something, please. Anything.”
Heathcliff cups my face, stroking his thumb over my cheek. “…I bought Wuthering Heights.”
We’re barely able to open the door before our hands are roaming each other’s bodies again. He kisses me hungrily, like my lips are the only thing he’s anticipated all this time. We stumble through the entrance, Heathcliff kicking the door shut and slamming me against it. He frantically kisses down my neck, his hands wandering lower.
“Wait, wait,” I gasp, bringing his head to my level. “My father’s here.”
Heathcliff hikes my skirt up, hooking my leg underneath his arm and lowering to his knees. “Best we give the old bastard a show then.”
These last few weeks have been a blur, a frivolous one. In the day, I tend to my duties: aiding Joseph and cooking for the few people who still live here. At night, Heathcliff returns and defies my wishes to keep quiet so as to not upset Joseph.
I never ask what he does when he is away. Perhaps I’m too afraid to—I can think of many things that would break me, should he be doing them in his absence. So I leave it be, blissful unawareness.
I love Heathcliff. I always have. Now I’m sure it wasn’t just a childish dream. Even after my father passed not so long ago, all I yearned for was Heathcliff’s embrace, not my sister’s. In fact, Catherine and I haven’t spoken in some time. Certainly not about Heathcliff. I’ve become so accustomed to this new life that I no longer need her spoiled complaints to dramatize it.
Today, I’d consider myself lucky. Heathcliff didn’t leave this morning.
My head rests on his chest, sun rays penetrating the small attic. I draw small shapes into his skin and for a moment, this feels right. We feel domestic, like he’s truly my husband. I feed off of it.
“Where do you go in the day?” I ask against my better judgment.
He adjusts, staring up at the wooden roof. “To town, sometimes. To Thrushcross, other times.”
I perk up, quickly trying to recover and act as if my heart didn’t just skip a beat. I lie back down.
“Thrushcross?” My voice increases in pitch, failing at maintaining a calm demeanor. “Do you see Catherine?”
He hums. “Sometimes.”
Slightly annoyed, I sit up fully now, looking down at Heathcliff with a worried expression.
“So, every morning you’ve left me, you’ve been seeing my sister?” I interrogate.
“I did not say every day, Annabelle. I said sometimes.”
A frown threatens to draw across my lips at the name. He no longer calls me Anna as he used to, and I can’t help but feel a bit sorrowful. I sigh, lying back on his chest.
“I wish you didn’t.”
“Why not?”
I roll my eyes. “You know how she feels about you, Heathcliff. Do not play the fool.”
He shrugs. “She is wed.”
“That matters not, and you know it.” I pout. My manner softens, suddenly feeling like the rejected girl who broke down in my servant’s arms long ago. “I just ask that you always come back to me, Heathcliff. It may be degrading, I know. But I love you, and I only ask for your word that you will always love me more than my sister.”
There is a pause. For a moment, I wonder if I said the whole thing in my head. But his next few words tell me not.
“I will swear no such thing.”
My brows thread together. “Why?”
“Annabelle, you seem to remember much about how Cathy felt for me, but nothing of how I felt for her,” he says unsympathetically. “She is my soul.”
I sit up once more, searching his face for any sign of…anything. Humanity, perhaps. But he just looks back at me as if my hurt means nothing to him.
“How dare you say that to me? After what I’ve done for you.”
Heathcliff chuckles, sitting up himself and gathering his clothes from the previous night.
“What have you done for me, Annabelle?”
My mind short circuits as I watch him dress himself without a care in the world. I sit there, nearly naked, feeling noticeably vulnerable now. I pull my knees to my chest, watching him with sad eyes.
“This means nothing to you then, you and I?”
“I didn’t say that.” He laces his trousers, nearing the ladder. “But it’s Catherine, love. It’s always been Catherine. And deep down, you’ve always known it.”
I don’t even notice the tears until they drip from my face onto my chest. I can barely manage to call him a fiend with the shakiness of my voice. Heathcliff only smirks, almost taking pleasure in my pain. He begins down the ladder, telling me to not expect him back tonight.
“Where will you be?”
I feel ashamed to still grasp for his attention after what he’s said to me. Even so, I want not to lie alone tonight. He only smiles at me, telling me all I need to know without saying a word. His head disappears beneath the floorboards and I’m left alone with my thoughts. They race faster than I can manage them. Soon enough, I find myself a wailing mess in Heathcliff’s absence.
Furious heat runs over my body, tears filling my eyes and disbelief swirling in my stomach. On my kitchen floor, Isabella Linton sits chained to the furnace like dog. The whole room is in disarray, as I’ve refused to clean it in protest of Heathcliff’s decision to marry Isabella. Even here, now, he cares not—just sitting on the table with a knife and an apple, carving away at it.
I pick up the nearest thing to me—a rotted grape cluster—and chuck it at him. He barely dodges it.
“You are monstrous!” I yell. “What is this abhorrent spectacle?”
Heathcliff looks at me indifferently, continuing to eat his fruit. “I don’t think it concerns you, Annabelle.”
My jaw twitches as I struggle to contain the anger heating up in my body. “This is my home. My father brought you here, and I will not have this disgrace, this indignity, in my house. I will not allow it.”
He chuckles, looking down at Isabella then back to me. “I’m glad I’ve made you so comfortable as to think you have any authority in a home that I own.”
I look down at the poor thing. She cowers near her chain like an abused dog. It’s a wretched sight, and a fate I wouldn’t wish on anyone. Not even Isabella.
I sigh, tired of Heathcliff and I’s endless quarrels. “Heathcliff, end this,” I beg. “This is wrong.”
“Not until Catherine returns to me.”
Through gritted teeth, I let out a stifled shout, burying my head in my hands. My tears fall, exerted from this life.
“Heathcliff, how can you be angry that she chose her own family over you? You, who left even after I begged you to stay. Even though Catherine was hurting, you ran all the same. Now, you are vexed that the world continued on in your absence?”
He has no answer for me, simply shaking his head and luring Isabella closer with an offering of his apple. She crawls toward him, eating from his hand. All I can do is cry as my pleas fail to reach him. Again, I am back to begging for what I will never receive.
“Heathcliff, why am I not enough?” I sigh. “Why were my tears not enough to make you stay? Why was my love and company not enough? Why marry Isabella when I’ve been here all along?”
Heathcliff stares at me, his eyes exhausted and surely tired of my tongue. I care not—the least he can do is grant me the dignity of an explanation, for once.
“Because you’re a fool, Annabelle.”
The warmth of anger seems to freeze over, a stark chill running up my spine and branching throughout each and every nerve.
“…What?”
“I pledged my love to Cathy long ago. Until the day I die and forever after that, I said. In the face of your screams and wails, I turned and left. And yet, when I came back, you still had been waiting. Waiting for…what? An unrequited love?” He begins to grin, chuckling at his thoughts. “I started to think you liked the degradation, honestly. So, perhaps, I wanted to see how far I could go…See how long I could disregard you until you finally up and left. But here we are. Here you are, Annabelle. Begging for my love after my cock’s belonged to your sister for weeks, and my hand to my new pet. I may be a fiend, but you’re worse. You’re a helpless, loveless, feckless harlot who’s wasted her years awaiting a love that will never come.”
My tears have stopped. My sobs and whimpers have fallen silent, and I just look at Heathcliff. In my heart, I no longer feel sorrow. In its place, I feel such a dull and aching sense of disgust that it frightens me a bit. I mentally scan through my life like it’s a photo book. On every page, laced within the bindings, is Heathcliff. My lifelong love for him infects each memory like a plague and it crumples inside me. In every era, the hope that he would one day love me as much as I loved him outshines whatever I felt for anyone else. My father, Joseph, Catherine…none of them mattered in the midst of Heathcliff. Soon enough, as I watch Heathcliff cut off more apple slices and pop them into his mouth, each clench of his jaw tightens the knot in my stomach. A piece of my heart has fallen and boiled into a hatred like none other.
It’s like the two of them no longer exist as I stiffly turn and walk away, calmly entering my chambers. There, I pack the little I have—dresses, embroidery, and food I’ve stashed away. My cheeks are still stained with tears as I walk out to the horse stables, my bag hung over my shoulder. Joseph watches me, but all the words coming out of his mouth seem muffled and I can’t make any of it out. I continue on, taking the horse I’m most familiar with and saddling it. Joseph taps me, but it’s like he’s not even there. Nothing he can say to me would matter. Soon, I’m kicking the horse on the arse and we’re off.
The sky is red, same as it was when Heathcliff first left. I refuse to look back. And as I dart through the wind, I find my care for my sister and her lover dissipating and blowing away. I ride far and long. Far away from Thrushcross Grange and Wuthering Heights. I feel free—as free as I’ve felt in my short life. Any concern I’ve ever had for anyone left back there has gone. No longer would I bend myself backwards to please Catherine or Heathcliff. No longer would they have a power over me.
Now, nearly in the prime years of my life, I’ve just begun finding who I am outside of that. As the cool wind whips across my cheeks, drying my tears, the thought excites me.
!s: Aerion Targaryen x female!oc, Daeron Targaryen x female!oc
summary: Aevya Velaryon was married off to Aerion Targaryen long before anyone cared to tell her of his cruelty. So, naturally, she took comfort in her drunken new good brother. When Aerion wrongfully gives Ser Duncan the Tall the challenge of assembling seven knights in one moon, she knows she has to act quickly. (3.1k)
a/n: currently on aerion targaryen like white on rice. red sorrow pt.2 coming soon, btw!! anyway, as always, ur interaction is greatly appreciated, ily<3
The Ashford cool can’t reach us here; Aerion’s tent being the most comfortable of them all, next to only his father’s. If no one told me better, I’d have thought this was just another bedchamber in the keep. Lined with candles dimly lighting the place, the tent grows warmer and moodier. Though, nothing can drown out the sound of the occasional yelping whore in a tent across from ours, nor the clanking of blacksmiths and armorers working throughout the night. Aerion seems to mind not. He’s completely bare, only a red velvet throw covering his bottom half. Nothing covers my bare body, but Aerion is uninterested, simply staring at the canopy above us, enthralled with his own thoughts.
“She was my friend, the girl,” I mumble, my face resting on his naked chest.
“Even this far from home you find ways to muddy your honor with the likes of whores,” he says, flatly. “In four days, at that.”
“Tanselle wasn’t a whore, she was a puppeteer.”
“All lowborn girls are whores, Aevya.”
I slightly frown, never much liking when he called me by my name. Our marriage is loveless, everyone knew it from his father to mine. Nevertheless, I at least attempt to keep up the farce. Aerion discards it with a wipe of his hands.
I place a tender kiss on his neck, another on his jaw.
“Well, she was nice.” I sit on my knees, dipping my head to place kisses all along his chest, speaking softly in between. “As was her protector.”
“He was no protector, he was a fool. Same as my uncle who dared to defend him.”
“He was honorable, though.” I continue loving him, avoiding his gaze. It’s rare that I can speak plainly, certainly not while looking at him. Sometimes I wonder if he’s my husband or a wild animal — Perhaps the dragon he thinks himself to be. “He seemed quite knightly. I reckon he’d have had a fine chance at winning his trial by combat.”
There’s a stillness in his chest, the rise and fall coming to a halt as if his heart skipped a beat at such a suggestion. I can envision his sharp jaw twitching above me.
“Do you see me craven for calling a trial by seven?”
“I’d never heard of it before today, husband.” I kiss lower, nearing the hem of the bloody velvet draped across his hips.
“It is my right,” he insists through gritted teeth, once again failing to conquer his anger.
“I’m sure it is, my love,” I smirk, a twang of sarcasm in my tone. “You know better than I.”
Aerion’s palm reaches the back of my head and my smile grows, anticipating a push to his manhood. But my smirk drops as quickly as it came as his light holds turns into a tight and squeezing grip, tilting my head backward and pulling me toward his own. I groan helplessly as he forces me to face him, his grip strengthening as my strands start to give way.
“Are you trying to anger me?” he spits with fire in his eyes.
“No,” I try to shake my head, regretting my slyness. “Never.”
He licks his lips, hungrily running his eyes up and down my body. Aerion has always strained against his laces when he inflicts pain, no matter who it is.
Mine and Aerion’s first pleasure after I left Driftmark was a short retreat to Summerhall. There, my husband accused a daughter of house Swann, Sava, of striking him. In reparation, he had her whipped on her palm until her cheeks were stained with tears. It was in that moment when I realized why Aerion had been shifting in his seat so much. He got more pleasure from seeing a girl cry than a thousand Lyseni whores could ever offer him. More than I could ever offer him.
I take it as an opportunity, wanting nothing more than to still have hair on my head once he’s finished his tantrum. I slide my hand down his abdomen, maintaining our stare. He adjusts his hips, softly humming as he begins to lose himself in the pleasure. He pulls a little harder, making me wince.
“Never, what?” he whispers.
I plaster on a grin, my hand meeting something hard and long. “Never, my dragon.”
He looks at me with the eyes of an animal for a moment before pulling me impossibly close, our lips crashing together in a rough and primal kiss.
✦ . ⁺ . ✦ . ⁺ . ✦
Aerion’s light snores ensure me that he won’t notice my absence as I cautiously close the tent behind me. Stepping out into the cold and dark night, I wipe my hands down my dress, desperate to rid myself of what my husband spurted on me just moments ago. The tourney living grounds look more like a small city as lit-up tents and stray laughing ladies litter the area. I head toward the tent full of naked girls to see another one of my “lowborn whore” friends. Metal banging against wood stops me. I nosily peer into the tent to my left, squinting to get a better view through the tiny split in the cloth. Once I get a clearer picture of what’s in the tent, my mouth hangs agape.
‿̩͙⊱༒︎༻♱༺༒︎⊰‿̩͙
I feel like a fake, lying next to him. My parents and sister lie in their guest beds tonight, alone and warm after our long and rowdy wedding, and I can only wonder if they feel as unsettled as me. Aerion’s sleeping breaths are ambient to what I can’t take my eyes away from. Mounted upon his walls are skulls: human, animal, and dragon alike. Tiny ones, surely some of the last before they all died. I feel like the sockets where the eyes once were are looking at me, watching me, perhaps waiting for me to break under the pressure of joining house Targaryen.
Around my now husband’s neck is a black necklace, the charm being replaced by two sharp dragon teeth. If he tilts his head the wrong way, even slightly, the point will rip through his skin. I noticed when we kissed before the eyes of gods and men that he kept this posture about him, sure to not let the teeth stab him. Even in his sleep, he keeps this tense reminder of who he came from: Dragon-worshipping dragon lords.
I, however, find it quite frightening to be forever worried if the teeth of the deadly beasts that we once called friends were going to kill my husband or not.
I tip-toe out of bed, sighing a breath of relief that the knight is no longer standing aside our door the way he was when we were consummating. “Confirming the fulfillment,” he said it was. I softly step down the stairs, shrinking below the grandiose decor as I walk toward the great hall. I itch for home—the waves below High Tide have put me to sleep since I was a babe. And the closest thing to it is the rapid swimming of the Blackwater Rush, whose roaring can best be heard through the windows of the biggest hall in the country.
My footsteps ring out through the empty hall, tables and chairs lined up across the room. They’ve all been cleared, a stark contrast to how the drunk Baratheons and Lannisters left it earlier in the night. In the silence of the night, a sony clank comes from my right. Across the way, sitting in the middle of the last table, a blonde-haired man hangs his head, slumped over a goblet. I tilt mine, walking toward the odd company and sitting across from him.
The man mumbles to himself, his words incoherent but frantic. Occasionally, he jerks his head, as if to shake the thoughts out of his mind. I recognize him from my wedding, he sat between Maekar and his younger brother, Aegon.
He barely raises his head, gazing at me with tired and disheveled eyes through his shield of stringy locks.
“My new sister,” he half smiles, his lids drooping lowly. “You’ve caught me just in time.”
I look down at his cup, then back at him. “In time?”
“I’m on the verge of not remembering a thing tonight, so talk quickly before it’s all lost on me,” he slurs.
“Mm,” I scoff. “I can’t sleep.”
He chuckles. “Is my big bad brother not protecting his wife?”
“It’s not that,” I shrug. “I’m just unfamiliar, that’s all. The castle is large, a bit unsettling.” I lie, poorly.
“You can speak plainly, sister,” Daeron insists. “The son of a bitch’s room may as well be a crypt, the amount of dead shit in there. That’s as unsettling as anywhere. It’d frighten anyone.”
“I’m not frightened,” I lie again, shifting in my seat.
He says nothing, only giving me a knowing look and sliding his cup toward me. I don’t hesitate for nearly long enough before taking it in my hands.
“This helps you sleep?” I take a swig.
“The sleeping isn’t the issue, darling. The dreams are.”
“What dreams?” I ask, resisting the urge to drink again and have my sorrows submerged.
“The awful type.”
“I quite like dreaming.”
“You wouldn’t,” he shakes his head, looking off as if he’s recalling something terrible. “Not if they were like mine. They’re dark and true, sister.”
I watch him with wide eyes, juggling between hanging onto his words with truth, or dismissing them as a drunken man’s fantasies.
He continues, sitting up and displaying his full face, an image of the most tired man in the seven kingdoms, surely. “When I was a boy, I had a particularly terrifying one. I saw a man losing his eyes. Pop, just like that. Never seen the guy before, I. But that terror stuck with me longer than the others, as if I wasn’t fearing the dream itself, but awaiting its arrival like a doom only I could see. A week later, my father took all of us to get armor for our growing bodies. We all got something, my brothers and I. But the next morning, it was only Aerion who woke up shouting in anger. He said the welder took his money but never gave him the right helm. Instead, he got one that was already made, a much cheaper one. The whole thing was spun so greatly that the welder ended up choosing a trial by combat for his justice. My father made Aerion choose a knight, as he wasn’t nearly old enough to fight the man alone. His champion was three times the size of the old welder. And in the end, he sat on the frail thing and dug his fingers into his face until his eyes only hung on by strings. Just as I’d seen it a week before. That night, the helm was found under your husband’s bed, made just as he’d asked.” He shivers at the thought of it, replaying the moment in his mind. “They’re never happy dreams, Aevya. Only doomed and sorrowful.”
Daeron leaves his trance, looking back at my worried expression. He makes himself small, scoffing and taking his cup back and downing the rest. I watch it go with a frown.
“I know you think I’ve lost it. You’re right to not believe me.”
“No,” I shake my head, focusing more on what this says about my husband than Daeron. “I believe you. I just think it’s awful to not find peace, even in your sleep.”
“Aye, don’t I know it?” He raises a brow, as if he’s had the same thought his whole life. “But who needs a woman by my side when I’ve got all the ale in the world to take this curse from me? A drunken sleep blurs all the dreams together until it’s spun into complete nothingness by morning. Like magic.”
For many a nights after this one, I found myself leaving Aerion’s chambers and slipping into Daeron’s. For hours, sometimes until dawn, we’d talk about anything. Everything. We talked about the dragons, and the great houses, and his dreams, and Driftmark, and whatever else we could think of until we were worn out—at which point we’d lay close to each other in complete silence. Sometimes, I’d try to sync my breathing with the rising and falling of his chest.
Soon, our talking turned to drinking, and our drinking turned to kissing, and our kisses turned into more. We went on like this for years, a tiny escape from my cruel and loveless marriage.
‿̩͙⊱༒︎༻♱༺༒︎⊰‿̩͙
And now, I see my blonde and disheveled escape for the first time since we arrived. Abandoning my initial destination, I rush toward the tent, bursting in with only Daeron’s face in focus. I clutch his collar, pulling him from his knees. My eyes are wide and frantic, as I half believed that he drank himself to death in the days he’d gone missing.
Daeron’s eyes match mine, but quickly soften when he gets a good look at me. He inhales like my scent is his weakness.
“My love,” he sighs.
My lips are on his in an instant, wanting nothing more than to ravage him where he stands. He turns us around, cupping my face in a hungry manner.
Interrupting our passion, I hear an obnoxious clearing of the throat. Reluctantly, I pull away, even if Daeron does chase my lips as they depart. Looking at the disruption, my eyes go wide again. There, my good brother—or what looks like my good brother—ogles up at the two of us. I know not why he stares as if we have three heads when his own has been shaved bald. If it weren’t for his garments, I’d mistake him for a common-born squire.
“Aegon,” I crinkle my brows. “Where have you been?”
He only tilts his head. I look to his brother.
“Where have you been?” I shove at Daeron’s chest. “What is going on?”
“You tell me…” Aegon crosses his arms and looks wildly between me and his brother, as if he has any more a right to be upset than I.
Cutting our staring contest short, the towering brute of a man who stands behind Aegon takes a knee, cutting his eyes up at me.
“My lady.”
“Rise,” I squint at him. “I know you…You were Tanselle’s, yes?”
“Yes, well,” he stumbles to his feet, stammering. “I wasn’t Tanselle’s, per se. Well—Yes, I did…But we weren’t—“
“Yes and yes, sister,” Aegon rolls his eyes. “He was Tanselle’s.”
“Mm,” I nod. “‘Twas a brave thing you did today. Shame it had to go the way it did.”
“Yes, well your husband is not a forgiving man,” he softly chuckles as if I may snap and breathe fire on him at any wrong word.
“That, he isn’t. The gods didn’t bless him with a forgiving heart, did they?”
“Yes, the gods. I mean, no—No they didn’t.”
The image of the knight standing afront the council of dragons as my husband laid his sentencing on him flashes in my mind.
“Have you found your seven yet, Ser Duncan?”
“That’s actually why we’re gathered, my lady.”
I scan the largely empty tent, confusion bright on my face. Though, a small flicker of pride lights deep inside me. Surely it’s sinful to feel this much bliss at a tent full of knights who want nothing but doom and misfortune for Aerion. The thought of the dragon lord washes a mad idea over me.
“You know, my family too were once dragon riders,” I begin, attempting to soften the suggestion. “We’ve got as much Valyrian blood as any. We fought, all of the sons and daughters. Whether that was in the sky as riders or the field as knights, it mattered not. All could be knights atop the backs of dragons, and all could fight—lady or lord…”
The men gaze at me with puzzled faces, looking to each other for answers. The dark-haired Fossoway, Raymun, steps forward.
“You saying you wish to be knighted?”
I shrug. “Any knight can make a knight.”
The boy’s arrogant brother stifles a laugh. Though, Ser Duncan keeps a stone straight face.
“Do you even know how to ride, my lady?” he asks. “How to hold a sword? How to do anything but raise sails?”
“You talk like a man with a full host.” I sneer. “Remind me how many of the seven you’ve gathered?”
Silence. My demeanor softens at Ser Duncan’s defeated expression. His little counterpart doesn’t seem too keen on the idea though.
“I likely won’t even have to fight, Aegon,” I assure him. “But if it comes to it, at least Ser Duncan won’t be helpless.”
A hand lightly pulls my shoulder, Daeron looking at me with sad and tired eyes.
“Aevya, this doesn’t sound like a good idea. Let it be any other knight, myself even—“
“My love,” I take his hands in mine, lowering my voice. “Have you dreamt of me recently?”
He sighs a knowing sigh. “You know—“
“Have you foreseen my death?” I urge, following his eyes when he tries to look down. “Have you?”
“I have not,” he mumbles, softly shaking his head. “But you know that isn’t how it works—“
“See? I live!” I clap my hands, returning my attention to the knights. “Are there any more objections to this free and willing help to your cause?”
The men stare at each other as if their cocks were in their hands, waiting for anyone to do something about it. But no one dares speak up. They just throw each other cock-holding stares.
“Then it is settled!” I say with a smile. “I will fight if I have to…for Tanselle.”
I kiss Daeron once more before placing a soft kiss on my good brother’s bald head. He huffs, looking to Duncan with an “aren’t you going to do something?” look. I exit the tent, leaving the men in wide-eyed silence.
That moment of confidence when I had all of the men captivated felt good—powerful. Much more powerful than I ever feel with Aerion. Though, the further I get from Ser Duncan’s tent, the less I understand of what I’ve just signed up for. Am I going to be a knight? Can I be a knight? What will my family back on Driftmark think? What will my husband think? What will the kingdom…
I push the thoughts from my mind, deciding on allowing to spare myself the problems until the sun rises. That is when I will address my everlasting lack of impulse control. Until then, I will slip into bed with Aerion and play the role of helpless wife. But on the morrow, I will be prepared to best my husband. Kill him, if I must.
Aerion has told me many times: I am a dragon. Be a dragon.
summary: Viserys and Aemma’s second daughter, Aerea Targaryen, must choose between what she’s always known and the possibility of democracy as the Dance of Dragons turns for the worse. [7.3k]
a/n: I’ve been working on a multitude of hotd and got fics for the past few years and this is only the second to make it out of the drafts. part two coming soon. (also, you can pronounce aerea however you want, this is just how i’ve always said it :) anyway, as always, ur interaction is greatly appreciated, ily<3
warnings: targaryen queer customs, child loss
Character name: Aerea Targaryen || (Uh-Ray-Uh)
psst, click here for part two! -> (pending…)
I never left the Red Keep. My only full sibling, Rhaenyra, married young and moved fast, flying away to Dragonstone the moment she could. As for me, my father saw it fit to keep me home and marry me off to my half brother, Aegon, two years my junior. Though, even in the sickly state that was Viserys’ last years, he could see as clear as anyone that Aegon was no fit husband. So instead, I married the young and fickle Prince of Highgarden, Boral Tyrell. I haven’t seen my husband since our wedding day, and don’t plan to. In his absence, I spend most of my days in the Keep, falling asleep in lessons and longing for my dragon, Solaeras.
Today is one of those days.
“That fool then stood up big and tall and from his tongue he spat a drawl that kings from near and far could hear so clearrr,” the court singer hums by my bedroom door, strumming his high harp.
Septa Danya places a hand over the history book, looking up to me with those pleading eyes for the hundredth time today.
“Must the singer sit in on each lesson, princess?”
“Callum’s not just a singer, Septa.” I grin. “He’s my friend. Even the lowborn need whatever education they can scavenge, hm?”
“Princess, you listen to his ballads instead of your texts.”
“If the texts were as interesting as the songs, maybe I’d be more—“
Three knocks ring out from the door. I jump at the opportunity to escape Danya and her textbooks, swinging the door open to see my least favorite White Cloak.
“You’ve been called to the Small Council chamber, princess,” Ser Criston announces.
✦ . ⁺ . ✦ . ⁺ . ✦
I prance alongside the stretched table, Callum cowering behind me.
Aemond groans. “Again, sister? With the court jester.”
“Aegon’s appointed us a seat at the table and I’ve appointed Callum one.”
The chair shrieks as I take a seat beside him.
“And he’s a court singer, brother.”
“The difference between a cunt and a whore.”
“Enough, both of you.” Alicent rolls her eyes. She nods to my friend. “You’ve been relieved, Callum. Thank you.”
He bows, scurrying off and leaving me to the wolves.
“I call you all here today to discuss how we shall go about the allegiance of houses and the breaking of Corlys’ blockade,” the Dowager continues. “My father’s ravens have gone unanswered and our ports still clogged.”
“Is my brother not joining us?” Aemond asks the obvious.
Alicent cuts her eyes at him, aware that all of us well know about Aegon’s attendance. In between his absences, he’s appointed me, Aemond, and Helaena seats at the table, much to his mother’s dismay. Even now, Helaena sits beside Alicent with Jaehaerys on her lap, the two in a different world than the rest of us.
“He’s off to other commitments. I’ll lead the meeting for now, Aemond.”
“Hm.” He simply nods, that ceaseless smirk still plastered on his face. “Well, Aegon’s already voiced his say. Burn the blockade down. I’ll even take Vhagar myself.”
“Um, Your Grace,” Lord Wylde speaks up. “May I advise patience?
“Of course you may, Lord Wylde,” she assures him. “Aemond, we are not burning a blockade in which our own ships are harbored.”
“More than that,” Otto chimes in. “Corlys is in possession of the largest fleet in Westeros. To burn his ships is to make an enemy out of the ruler of the seas.”
“It is not my suggestion, grandfather, but that of my brother,” Aemond reminds him. “Even so, all of the ships in the world can’t outfight dragon fire now, can they?”
Alicent buries her head in her hands. “We won’t win this battle with your dragons alone, must I keep reminding you?”
“I have yet to hear a reason why, mother. Until Corlys sends a dragon of his own, I see no reason not to burn his treacherous blockade.”
“Dragons are not invincible, Aemond,” Otto says. “And should he decide to send Baela and Moondancer—“
“Then the two of them will burn and fall into the sea as well.”
Alicent sighs. “Hasn’t Vhagar killed enough children for her lifetime?”
There’s a long pause, a silence falling over the room. I clear my throat.
“Brother,” I interrupt. “As king, it would be a disservice to his people to let any of our dragons fly off into the sea and leave the city undefended.”
“Only me then,” he goes on. “The Keep will still have Sunfyre, Dreamfyre, and Solaeras.”
“One of which is never ridden and the other with a rider who will not burn a soul,” Alicent argues. “Aerea cannot defend our castle all alone.”
The table continues bickering, Aemond being a voice for our brother and Alicent being the voice of reason. Helaena stands with Jaehaerys on her hip and heads for the door, going unnoticed by the arguing crowd. Seeing no progress in the quarrel, I decide to join her, wishing to be anywhere but in this chamber.
── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──
The smells of ale and sex fill my senses as I enter the dim pillow house, one I’ve explored many times before. Knowing exactly where to go, I squeeze myself between naked bodies to see just what I expected: Slumped in a corner with a goblet in his hand, Aegon is barely visible and even less conscious in the sea of people. His bottom half is completely bare and glistening with the beer spilled from his cup. I roll my eyes, walking over and kneeling to Aegon’s level.
“Get up, Aegon.” I shake him.
He only gives me a drunken smirk, his eyes shut.
Without a second thought, I slap him across the face.
“Ow!” He grabs his cheek. “What are you doing!?”
“You’re the fucking king and you carry yourself this way,” I whisper, struggling to pull his pants up. “Must you shame us everyday of your life?”
He grins, gesturing to the whorehouse. “We’re all equal here, sister. I’m no more of a king than the next man, as you are no less of a whore.”
“Perhaps we shall be equal when we’re cold in our graves. But until then, you have duties, Aegon. You cannot remain ever absent from your own council.”
“The council doesn’t want me there.”
“Don’t you see? It’s not about what they want, brother. You are the king, so you show up for your people, whether they want it or not.”
He sighs, letting his body go limp. “Let them govern themselves. My place is here.”
“Seven hells,” I mumble under my breath, lacing his trousers. “Gather yourself and return home before you damage our image more than you already have.”
I leave him, rushing out of the whorehouse and onto the Street of Silk. Only, I’ve barely escaped the street when I hear a voice behind me.
“Princess,” someone calls from an alleyway, the voice frail and quiet.
In the darkness of the damp passageway, a short and blanketed man looks toward me. His skin is dark like the Dothraki but his eyes are as yellow as the cats Helaena hides beneath her bed. He has a terrible hunch in his back, covered by a quilt that he holds around his body.
“Do I know you, sir?” I stay in the light of the street, cautious of my surroundings. But I’m not quite frightened…Something about this man, perhaps solely his appearance, intrigues me.
“Maris, my princess.” He bows. “I am no familiar to you, only a servant to the crown.”
“Hm.” I examine his flimsy frame. “Where are you from, Maris?”
“The Flatlands.”
“Essos?”
“Correct, Princess.”
I near him. “And what say you, Maris of Essos?”
“Well, I suppose I come to you in a moment of desperation.” He looks toward his feet. “I must tell you that the people are starving, princess. I am starving. We get sicker by the hour and the hungrier we are, the worse the violence gets. I must ask, have you ever been beyond the walls of King’s Landing, princess? Say, to Duskendale or Rook’s Rest, in these troubled times?”
“…I have not,” I admit.
“They are derelict, I must tell you. The war has left your people devastated and our towns destroyed.”
“I—“ I struggle for the words to say as I realize how avoidant I’ve been of the consequences of the progressing war. “It’s not for lack of trying, Maris. My brothers, they refuse to work as a unit and continue to cut the legs from beneath the Dowager Queen.”
“Therein lies the trouble, princess. A king, most importantly in a time of war, must be present not only for his banners but for his people. Through the Crown is the only route to prosperity.”
I furrow my brows. “What do you suggest I do?”
“Princess, my time in Essos was not a short one. In my days of learning histories and watching men rise and fall, there was a detail of my homeland that Westeros lacks,” he says. “Long ago in the East, the people chose their leaders.”
My eyes are wide at his vivid telling. “The people chose?”
“Indeed. My mother told me ancient stories of votes. Anyone and everyone from all walks could petition themselves to be king. If the people saw them fit, so it was.”
“You mean a poor man could be king? Just because he wanted to?”
He nods. “As could a whore and a child and a merchant. The democracy made it so that whoever was most fit for the people would be chosen in a vote by the people…”
── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──
I burst into the Maidenvault, rushing to Septa Danya’s quarters.
“Princess!” She covers her head, squirming to find her bonnet.
“Please, Septa. The God’s won’t damn you for showing what we all show.” I press my back to her wall.
She quickly wraps and ties her humble cover over her head. “What do you need, princess?”
“Septa, tell me about democracy.”
“Democracy?” she chuckles. “Where did you hear such a word?”
“I’ve been…” An image of Maris flashes in my head. “Reading.”
“Have you now? Are dragon’s also breathing ice?”
I huff. “I’m serious. Could we ever have a democracy?”
“Oh no, princess. It shall never be so here in Westeros.”
“How can you be sure?”
“We’ve discussed this. The Crown and the Faith are the pillars of this world. In turn, so is inheritance.”
“But what if inheritance leads to a lazy and incompetent king?”
Danya shakes her head. “You shan’t reduce your own brother, princess.”
“It’s only that brother, though. It’s only Aegon,” I rant. “When I look at it honestly, Rhaenyra is the only person showing true care and passion for her people, even when she’s an ocean away.”
“Princess, you’re beginning to sound treasonous and I won’t tolerate it in this devout place.” She places a hand on my back, leading me toward the door.
“No, but—“
“Out. Go bicker with another.”
✦ . ⁺ . ✦ . ⁺ . ✦
I find Aemond in the throne room, sitting upon the sword-lined steps sharpening his blade. The sun has fallen but the torches along the wall illuminate his face just enough.
“Have you found our brother yet?” he asks as I near him.
“Where do you presume he was?” I sit alongside him, leaning back on my elbows. “He makes an art of drinking his life away.”
“Hm.”
I stare down at his dagger, comparing it to the rest among the stairs. Though, the only thing I can truly focus on is the emptiness in the King’s seat, and how that emptiness has been there even before Aegon’s reign. True, Viserys was my father; but even so, he was as spineless and passive a king as any. And as my eyes travel back to Aemond, a thought strikes me.
“I’ve been reading.”
He comically raises his brow. “You shock me.”
“I have. I’ve read stories of kingdoms in the East being led by smallfolk. They were elected in a vote by their people—“
“I know my histories as well as any, Aerea.”
“So, it’s true?” My eyes light up. “They had a democracy?”
“They did. Though you must remember that these are the same lands that are now Slaver’s Bay and the Red Waste. Taken over by tyrants and by sand.”
“You are not wrong,” I assure him, sitting up straight. “But what if it worked? If the smallfolk really could vote for who ruled them?”
“And if the smallfolk voted for a raper? Or a Crow?” He continues to chip away at his knife. “What say you then?”
“I’d say…” I think for a moment, not having considered another unfit ruler being voted in. “So be it. If it’s who they want then it’s who they shall have, I think.”
Aemond scoffs. “Why, exactly, do you think Targaryens rule now, sister? Because of our silver hair?”
My cheeks grow hot when he finally looks at me.
“Because of our survival of the Doom,” I mumble.
“Is that what your Septa taught you?” he chuckles. “Aerea, we owe our royalty to our dragons. They make us superior. And without dragons, one cannot rule. How can a dragonless king, a raper or a Crow, defend the Keep against their dragon-riding enemies?”
“But brother,” I scoot near him, placing a hand on his. “If the people had a choice, who do you think they'd appoint as their king?”
Aemond’s eyes search mine, a falter in his fixed and confident façade.
I continue. “You hold strength and honor above all, the people have seen you oppose Rhaenyra. Not only would the elected king ride a dragon…he’d ride the biggest one alive.”
He’s considering it. I can see it in the way he’s looking at me, even with one eye covered. But it only lasts a moment before he pulls his hand from mine, standing up.
“I must admit, sister, ‘tis not the worst suggestion in our troubled times.” He grins. “Though, no man with eyes and a brain would accept it, certainly not on our council.”
I ramble, igniting at the idea of him being amenable. “But our brother has neither. If you can simply convince Alicent and Helaena we may—“
"I've never once seen you at ease, Aerea,” he interrupts, grinning at my frantic attempts. “Perhaps drowning in ale with our brother will take away these treacherous thoughts."
── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──
The smell of smoke and the sounds of screams awake me. Opening my eyes, I find myself lying upon a set of familiar ivory stairs. The golden gates of the Keep are locked just over my shoulder, golder cloaks standing in front of me. Down the stairs, hundreds of smallfolk are pushing against the City Watch, reaching for the gates of the Red Keep. Behind them, a city on fire. Thick black smoke roars throughout the burning town as the city erupts in shouts and flames.
I jump up, pressing my back to the gates as the horrors of the turmoiled city bring tears to my eyes. As I stare at the faltering line of gold and white cloaks, I get a good look at the smallfolk opposite them. As they scream and shout for their king, I notice the state that they’re in. They’re completely emaciated, sunken cheeks and frail bodies littering the streets. Recognizing one of the White Cloaks, I grab his shoulder.
“Ser Criston!”
I’ve barely finished my plea before I’m jumping back in terror at the man looking back at me. Cole’s eyes are deep in his skull and his cheeks as sunken in as the rest of the smallfolk. I stumble back, slipping through the gates of the Keep and running inside.
People race throughout the castle, bumping into each other as they all flee. I’m nearly knocked over countless times before I finally reach the doors of the throne room, pulling them open and locking myself inside.
Though, the room is silent, the only sounds being the muffled screams and the roaring of fire disintegrating buildings. Upon the throne lies Aegon, his mother and grandfather to either side of him. His legs are thrown over the side of the iron throne and a gullet of wine is in his hand, continuously being refilled by his mother.
Still in shock and with tears running down my face, I near him.
“What are you doing?” I ask at the foot of the stairs, barely above a whisper.
“Drinking,” Aegon smiles. “Would you like some—“
“Have you seen the madness outside of this room?” My voice raises. “King’s Landing is aflame and you sit on your throne, safe. Whilst your people burn and your knights melt. Have you no shame? No sympathy for your kingdom?"
Alicent wears a soft smile, looking down at me. “Had Rhaenyra never brought her dragons upon us, the people would not be burning.”
Eyes wide, I fight back the urge to spit on the lot of them.
“People are starving…” I remind them.
“Let them eat war,” Aegon laughs, shrugging as he drinks from his cup. “If the people want Rhaenyra, they shall have Rhaenyra.”
“They are still your people, Aegon!” My voice echoes.
His smile drops. Putting his cup in his mother’s hands, he swings his feet around and stands from his throne, walking toward me until we’re nose to nose.
“Those fools wished and willed for the bitch queen. Now they shall beg her for mercy.”
I shake my head, my fists clenched tightly. “Where is Aemond?” I demand lowly.
Otto chimes in. “He’s made his choice, princess.”
There isn’t a way, I think to myself. The gods wouldn’t allow it.
Seeing my terror, Aegon smiles. “He wanted dragon fire, so he got dragon fire.”
They let him burn. His own brother, her own son. To what end? I think. How far will they go to keep Aegon on the throne. Even with fire and bodies at their gates, they hide away in their castle of delusion.
My head begins to heat up and my stomach drops. Stumbling back, I can’t seem to form words. Dots enter my vision until there’s nothing left.
Suddenly, I’m back in my chambers. Waking up in a cold sweat.
── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──
The king is absent once again. Shaken, I blankly stare at my hands as Otto makes excuses for him. And for another morning, Aegon’s whereabouts are "undisclosed, but secure."
“I know where he is,” I speak up, no longer caring enough to hold my tongue. “We all do.”
Alicent stops me, shaking her head. “Not this, Aerea. Not now.”
I look up to her. “Why should he get to sleep over at ale houses whilst we negotiate his banners and fight his battles?"
“Your brother has just been crowned, give him grace and time to adjust."
"We've all adjusted, have we not?” I shoot back. “Aemond?"
He smirks. "I've adjusted quite well.”
"Even Helaena shows up whenever she is called, but somehow Aegon continually evades us?”
“It is not your place—“
“It’s fucking ridiculous!” I stand, raising my voice as Alicent stares daggers through me. “He’s an unfit king and we shan’t sit here day after day pretending otherwise. Aegon doesn’t ride nor does he govern. If only we could choose our kings — even the smallfolk — if we could choose. We wouldn’t have these gaps in history where we regress as we are now and as we did with my father—“
"That is enough, Aerea.”
“I agree with you, sister,” Helaena speaks out for the first time, evoking a deep chuckle out of Aemond.
“No, Helaena.” Alicent places a hand on hers, staring at me. “Sit. You’ve said enough.”
“I must advise caution, Your Grace.” Grand Maester Orwyle avoids me, only speaking to Alicent. “Requesting to democratize, and in turn outvote the king in his absence, is treasonous.”
“I’m well aware, Grand Maester. Thank you,” Alicent sighs. “The princess will be done with these outrageous claims and sit silently until our meeting has concluded, at which point she will stay in her seat as the room is dismissed.”
I back down, my blind frenzy subsiding and turning into humiliation as Aemond conceals his amusement.
✦ . ⁺ . ✦ . ⁺ . ✦
There’s a thick silence as Alicent and I sit across from each other in the empty council chamber. Ever since my sister left and my father died, there has been a strange shift in my relationship with Alicent. My mother died before I could truly know her, but her role was never quite replaced. If I had to choose a maternal figure it would be Rhaenyra, or perhaps my handmaiden. But never Alicent. Her closeness to my sister makes her seem too much of my equal to ever call her my mother.
“…You are to never say such things, Aerea.”
“But I’ve been reading—“
“It matters not. The mere idea of such deconstructions is enough to shake the foundation of the Seven Kingdoms.”
“Yes, I know,” I urge. “But neither of us are blind to the reality of Aegon’s leadership.”
She sighs. “He will rise to the occasion, I’m sure of it. Even if he never does, we must never ever attack each other. Behind the doors of your chambers you may bicker as you wish, but in the world, we are a unit. We defend each other when no one else will because we are a family.”
Conflicted, tears fill my eyes and the memories of the burning city creep into my mind.
“Oh, sweet girl.” She takes my hands in hers.
“I have wicked dreams in the night…” my voice shakes. “I see the kingdom falling at the hands of my brother. The people are burning and Ser Criston and Aemond they…It’s all Aegon’s fault, he—“
“Shh.” Alicent wipes my tears. “You must let go of your resentment, Aerea. This hate will only lead to more hate.”
── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──
3 Days Later
I watch with a blank expression as two nugatory knights rush their horses at each other, lances aimed ahead. Helaena and Aemond seem as uninterested as I am as they sit on either side of me, my sister’s eyes glued to everything but the bloodshed in the pit.
Officially, Aegon is holding a tourney to celebrate his “ascension.” But I know what this truly is, nothing more than a test for the houses to prove their loyalty. To Alicent and Otto’s satisfaction, the majority of houses who swore to Rhaenyra are loyal to the crown, regardless of who wears it. As a blue armored knight forces his lance through another, I hear my sister speak under her breath.
“Burnèd be the kingdom on the hill,” she mumbles, picking at the hem of her sleeve.
I head snaps to her, a burning city and thinning people flashing across my mind. “What did you say?”
“Hm?”
Helaena has no chance to answer before Ser Criston has knocked yet another soldier off of his horse. The crowd erupts in applause, both me and my sister following suit as the arena stands for an ovation. Looking to Aemond, he’s suddenly far too enamored with the bleeding and fighting to care for my disquiethood. Unamused, I step into the aisle and place a hand on Otto’s shoulder. I excuse myself to the privy before heading away from and out of the arena.
But rather than going to the privy, I went to the same passageway in which I met Maris. There, I spoke for hours upon hours about the possibilities for the future of Westeros. It wasn’t only him, though. As days turned into weeks, many and more smallfolk who seemed to have an abundance of knowledge on such topics began to join these secret conversations. And before long, my new friend and I had created a group of sorts. A community for those dissatisfied with the endless battles between houses. Tradesmen, townsmen, and even a select few low-ranking knights decided to join our cause, having faith in a new form of governance.
── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──
The clicks of my shoes echo throughout the Royal Sept, making my way toward a peaceful and praying Alicent. Always so pious, she is. Although I do wonder what The Father’s work of judgement would say to her complete disregard for Aegon’s lack of competence. Nevertheless, I kneel beside my late father’s wife, my hands clasped like hers.
“Why didn’t my father prepare us to be kings and queens?”
Alicent stops and eyes me, sighing before shutting them both again. “He tried his best.”
“Hm,” I nod, unsatisfied. “Even so, our family fails to rise to the occasion. Rhaenyra’s across the bay, yet still respects her kingdom and strengthens the realm whilst Aegon neglects his skills and drinks in the face of public struggle.”
"Your brother’s experience is his own,” she reiterates. “‘Tis not in your best interest to blame Rhaenyra for Viserys’ shortcomings.”
I unlace my fingers, turning to look at her. “But I don’t blame Rhaenyra, Queen Mother…I blame you,” I admit. “I'm no more of your child than my sister is. And in that, I favor the fact that I didn’t inherit the Hightower indolence."
Alicent deeply groans, throwing her head back and blowing out her candles. “Why must you ceaselessly abhor me, Aerea? What have I been to you if not good and fair?”
"Still, for that I have little gratitude to show you. Because with the same tongue, what have you been to Aegon but enabling? Granting him leave as we sit like ducks at that table? He should not be king."
“And who should?” She raises her voice. “Since you’re so insightful.”
"Someone that is chosen by and will do right by our people—“
She angrily stands up, banging her hands on the altar. "It's absurd, Aerea, truly. Shall you ever let it rest?"
I meet her stance, refusing to be a passive body in this downward spiraling war. "You know as well as I that he'll ruin the kingdom with fire and with blood. He already has."
"The gods appointed him.” She nears me. “Your father appointed him."
A small scoff escapes me, stunned that she continues to spew such a lie. "Whatever you must tell yourself, I let it be. But until I am stiff in the ground, I shall fight for the rights of the people as I’d want them to fight for me.”
Alicent stays silent, her eyes searching mine. Her gaze shifts from angry, to confused, to accepting.
As calmly as she can muster, she steps even closer, her frame almost towering over mine. “To disregard inheritance and the rightful place of the Targaryens—the dragon lords—for a common elected man is a shame to the Seven and a shame to your family. You will not speak of it again.”
✦ . ⁺ . ✦ . ⁺ . ✦
Both mine and Aemond’s bare chests rise and fall as we stare at the ceiling, lying flat on our backs on his duvet, my hand resting in his. It was not my intent to seduce my half brother when I first entered his chambers, only to convince him to join my cause and back me in my push for a democracy. Though, as my lips neared his and our fingers intertwined, much more seemed to be on Aemond’s mind.
“Aegon can’t run half the kingdom that you could, brother,” I tell him in between breaths.
“Hm,” he hums. But not in the way he has plenty of times before, but in a way that I’ve hoped to hear for weeks now.
Ever since I entered his chambers I’ve seen a change in him. He no longer listened to my pleas with deaf ears, but instead, he stared into my eyes and nodded at my words, finally coming around. Now, he believed in me, but more importantly, in himself — And with the mission that I intend to accomplish, a Targaryen with a lot of faith and an even bigger perception of himself is essential to dismantling the ancient ways of the dragon.
“We must go, Aemond.”
“Go where?” he asks, still in a daze.
“I want to run.” I prop myself up on my elbow and face him. “Truly run. Far from the Red Keep, far from where anyone can stop us.”
“But I have no reason to run from my home.”
“Do you truly believe that Aegon will have us? That your mother will have us — After we’ve schemed and plotted to thrust them off of their throne for the good of the kingdom? They will never bend, Aemond. It’s in our best interest to leave whilst we still have the chance.”
He shifts his head to face me. “Where will we go?”
I smile at his compliance. “I was thinking north…maybe the Antlers.”
“Why there? All they have is abandoned castles headed by fat rotting lords.”
I scoff. “Yes, but they are all mine. If they’re under Targaryen rule perhaps we can buy ourselves time. Your mother will not think us in danger.”
Aemond looks back at his painted ceiling, readjusting his head on his pillow before closing his eyes. “Then we shall go to the Antlers.”
── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──
My lips purse tightly together as I squeeze Helaena’s hand, both of our tears falling onto her floor as I kneel. Jaehaera seems not to have yet registered what happened on the previous night, the blackest of any. Helaena numbly plays dolls with her daughter, neither of the two being readable enough for my grieving mind to decipher. Even in this fog, I know much better than to believe that Rhaenyra would ever commit such a treacherous crime, certainly not in the wake of her own son’s murder. It’s now more than ever that I wish I were sat by her side at Dragonstone.
“Burnèd be the city on the hill,” Helaena mumbles under her breath.
It’s only now that I realize just how unfit both the king and queen are for the throne, and how unfit they will be for months to come in the loss of their son. I know what I must do, what the gods are calling me to do. Without a single fit ruler in the Keep, not even my brother turned lover, only an outside ruler can unite the kingdoms in their time of need as is necessary.
I press a kiss into Helaena’s white hair and another onto her knuckle. “I must go, sister.”
I nod at a teary eyed Callum, asking him to stay with her in my absence.
✦ . ⁺ . ✦ . ⁺ . ✦
I don’t dare show up to the Small Council meeting, and I hope my siblings don’t either. Early this morrow, Ser Criston didn’t give us the courtesy of knocking before shoving Aemond’s doors open, catching the both of us bare and together. The humiliation of such an event atop of the deep anger at the Kingsguard for not protecting the household as they should have gives me all the more reason to not show my face at the council.
Instead, I make my way down to Flea Bottom and enter a tiny little abandoned temple. Inside, all of my supporters, smallfolk and knights alike, wait for me. The temple ceiling leaks and all of us are packed like sardines, the smell of sewage causing gags throughout the crowd. Even so, I mount my small pedestal and address them.
“As many of you may know, the king’s son, my own nephew, is dead.”
Murmurs litter themselves among the people.
“He was murdered. Beheaded in the black of night by those that I can only call cowards and devils. And though I do not believe my sister, Rhaenyra, could ever be capable of such crimes, this vileness came to me as no surprise. We have seen what terror the victims of unfit rulers cause, this is what they cause. And until someone who is truly for the people sits upon the throne, this disrespect to the Seven, this vicious violence and bloodshed is what we will continue to endure.”
I fight back tears as they all look up to me with wide eyes. Out of the front row, my familiar hunchback friend joins my side.
“We must take action, princess. Make a true plan,” Maris croaks.
“Yes,” I nod. “‘Twas was exactly my thoughts.”
“Perhaps what we spoke about…A retreat from all things dark and evil. A migration of you and your people to somewhere far, where we can truly form a plan.”
I stare at him, his words aligning with what I told Aemond last night. But now that I’m announcing it to all of these people, a pit forms in my stomach.
“How do you propose we follow this through, Maris?,” I say lowly. “These people, their jobs and families will be abandoned. Their lives as they know it will be lost in my name.”
“But it shall be in pursuit of a better life. Not only for us, but for all.”
I look down for a moment, all of the worst possibilities shooting through my head. But at the very end, the best outcome shines in gold and white rays. What if we win? I think. What if a few months away from my family and a few demonstrations of what could be is enough to turn the kingdom on its head, and stop the starving and the killing and the wickedness for good?
“…My father granted me the Antlers on my wedding day,” I tell the crowd. “It’s small but it is a castle, big enough for us all to fit for a short while.”
Maris grins, his brown and rotting teeth on display. “Then it is settled.” He turns to the crowd. “Pack your things, friends. Tell your close ones not where you’re going nor what you intend to do, only a single farewell. Be prepared to leave suddenly, but not all at once. Stay focused, and see your future in all of your actions. We do this for the Seven and for the kingdom!”
The supporters erupt in an explosive roar, fists, rags, and drinks alike being pumped in the air, hopeful smiles on their faces. I look down at the smiling Maris, I myself praying that all will end well.
“What exactly is our plan, Maris?” I whisper below the shouts.
“You shall see soon, princess. But what you don’t know, you cannot tell.”
✦ . ⁺ . ✦ . ⁺ . ✦
“I ask nothing of you in this black time Aemond,” I murmur as he sits on the sill of his window, my hands fiddling with each other. "I only tell you so that when the time comes that they notice my absence not long from now, you don't worry. I mean to take Solaeras with me.”
“Sister, when you said you wish to leave, this is not what I envisioned. Abandoning the family we’ve always known in pursuit of an impossible dream,” he scoffs dryly.
“Perhaps,” I shrug. “But in the wake of Jaehaerys'… misfortune, the council and our brother is sure to be angry. Impulsive. And I do not wish to be here once it begins."
“You are taking a risk, Aerea!” He stands, rushing toward me and cupping my face. “If you do this, there is no coming back. You’re declaring war on your own family.”
“Aemond, my dear.” I place a hand on his, pulling them down. “This is not a request. Babes are dying and dragons are fighting—a bloody battle is brewing and it is far from my character to sit in my chambers and enable it.”
“No, not to enable it, Aerea — To fight it, as our grandfathers did and theirs before them.”
“I will not fight, Aemond. Not with my own flesh and blood. If I must choose between killing my sister or killing my brother, there soon will be no victor in this war.”
He only ogles me with his one eye, scanning my face for any sign of hesitation. He quickly fails to find it, and instead of persuading me out of it, Aemond gently palms the back of my head and presses a kiss into my hair.
“…Promise to never lose sight of this peace you wish to bring, Aerea. If I don’t receive a raven each moon, even more frequently, I’ll ride to the Antlers upon Vhagar myself.”
I smile, nodding in agreement before softly pulling his body to mine in a quiet embrace.
✦ . ⁺ . ✦ . ⁺ . ✦
I’m up later than usual this night, reading and re-reading the ancient map and tracing the shortest route to the castle, avoiding the lands that are prone to shouting “dragon!” at any sighting in the sky. The torch above my study leaks wax onto the wood and my eyes periodically flutter shut, but I continue to fight the sleep, nerves filling my belly. Just as I decide to surrender to the sleep only for a moment, I hear my name uttered. My eyes widen as I recognize the conniving voice. Tiptoeing across the room and pressing my ear to the door, Lord Larys’ hushed words travel through the wood like a strum through a harp.
“…conspiracy to leave the Keep — Possibly to rebel, gods forbid.” The bass of his voice emphasizes his words. “I only tell you out of worry for the little princess.”
There’s a pause.
“I’ll alert the king.”
My blood shifts into a freeze as Otto Hightower’s solemn tone reaches my ears. I’m not sure what I assumed, perhaps I foolishly dreamed that Larys was reporting to a fickle knight or a simple peasant girl. But I should’ve known better.
“Actually, my Lord, may I suggest you inform the Dowager Queen? In such a time of urgency, I fear she is the one and only person who can stop the princess’ childish schemes before their happening.”
Otto’s footsteps retreat and I’ve already envisioned the slight nod that he gave Lord Larys. I curse under my breath, feeling that I’ve been backed into a corner. Should I stay, I’m left a prisoner in my own home, forced to be complacent in the bloody battles soon to come. But I’m not quite prepared to depart yet. I wanted to say goodbye, not only to Aemond but to my sister, to my handmaidens, to Callum. I wanted to inform Maris beforehand, I wanted to fill Solaeras’ stomach for the flight.
But as I stand alone in my chambers, I remember something that Daemon told me in my child years.
“Our mothers push us into this world alone,” he told me. “We shit alone, we cry alone, we fight alone, and in the end, we shall die alone.”
Lord Larys has left me no choice. It’s only now that I realize the small hope that I’d been holding onto. The little flame of a prayer in my heart wanting and willing for my sister and brother to send ravens to each other to call for an end to this deadly mess. But alas, this is not one of my fictions.
My body moves independently from my mind as I pick up the half filled sack of fruits and bread on my study. I stuff as many dresses and other fabrics into my riding bag as I can fit, rolling up my map and shoving it into the side. Retrieving the little dagger that Rhaenyra left me with on her last egress from underneath my bed, my mind has been made up.
Without thinking about what’s next, I creak open my heavy door. Softly creeping outside of it, I quickly run into my night guard.
“Where are you headed, princess?” He asks so noble-like, his eyes straight ahead.
“Only for a late night ride with Craven, I shall be back within the hour.”
As I walk off, hiding the stuffed bag underneath my nightgown, the knight’s clad armor clinks as he follows behind me. I stop.
“Alone, Ser Godfrey.”
A furrow forms in his brow and he hesitates, as if to contemplate following my order or not. Ultimately, he nods with a soft “princess,” and returns to his post.
I nod back, scurrying away from Ser Godfrey and toward the stairs of the Keep.
Frankly, I did not lie to Ser Godfrey. I am taking a ride on my she-horse, Craven. Only, I have no intent to be back within the hour, or anytime soon, at that. Should the gods favor me in this season, these walls may hope to see me within a few moons.
Panic builds in my chest as I increase my speed, heading toward the side doors leading directly outside — One of the few doors to do so. Just as I reach the heavy doors, I hear my name ring out behind me.
“Aerea?” Alicent’s worried voice echoes.
I turn to see her standing at the top of the stairs, her fiery hair cascading down her back and her sad brown eyes staring down at me. Taking my final look for a long time, I don’t allow myself to think before turning and bursting through the doors.
“Aerea!”
The wind whips across my face, lashing my cheeks with ice as my jog turns into a sprint. The clanking metal of a team of White Cloaks gets lost in the sound of my heartbeat thumping in my ears. Even so, my eyes stay on the prize: Craven, a dark beauty, tied up outside of her stable. Just like my dragon, my horse has always enjoyed watching the night sky, and I couldn’t be more grateful for the girl to be so accessible.
I finally reach her, my thighs on fire and curious tears running down my cheeks. Alicent’s voice no longer stands out as it’s now intertwined with that of Otto and the Kingsguard.
“Hyah!” I kick Craven’s glute and she’s off.
She’s always been a dart through the air in her full gallop. The two of us seem to be leagues away from the catchers after us as we make for the dragonpit. As we near it, the air around us heats up and a stench fills my senses…The smell of dragons.
Alicent and Otto only shout my name over and over, the queen’s demands turning into pleas.
“I don’t wish to hurt you,” I want to tell them. “I do this for the kingdom.”
Craven has barely come to a halt before I slide off of her back, throwing myself at the gates of the dragonpit and swinging them open. Solaeras, the marvelous girl that she is, nears the gates with heavy steps as I enter, careful not to touch a dragon that isn’t mine. But when the cave suddenly lights up with fire, the green eyes and black scales of my girl are made starkly clear.
Running up to her, I begin tying my bag to the straps of her saddle.
“We must go,” I whisper.
She moves slowly and without purpose, her belly nowhere near as full as it usually is before a ride. She lets out a hoary moan.
I roll my eyes. “Please, Solaeras.”
She complains, but the moment I hoist myself onto her, she begins making her way out of the dragonpit. I can hear the Kingsguard shouting from outside, but they don’t dare venture into the home of these beasts. Solaeras quickly picks up speed, shooting out of the dragonpit like a needle and drawing a straight line with her body, aimed directly toward the sky.
I shout in disbelief, holding on tight as I look back to those on the ground as they get smaller and smaller. Alicent, Otto, and the Kingsguard look up at me with wide eyes, as I expected. But to the right of them, I see a head of long white hair. Aegon is surely on the Street of Silk as he always is, and besides, I could never confuse such a face.
Looking up at me with a sly smirk is my other, better, brother. I give him a small smile back before they’re all reduced to grain and Solaeras takes us above the clouds.
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!s: elphaba x female!oc, asshole!elphaba, sister!galinda
summary: Galinda Upland’s older sister, Rhoswen, was always the black sheep of the family. She’s only respected for her name and her unique powerful abilities—a trait that very few have in Oz. When she finds herself growing further and further from her partner, Elphaba, she must make hard decisions to either get her back, or bring her ruin. [5.6k]
a/n: LONG TIME NO SEE! i have been a very busy woman, and there are dozens of unfinished stories sitting in my drafts. i really want to focus on finishing these and getting them posted so i won’t just be working behind the scenes forever :// i began this when wicked: for good was released, my apologies for the lateness. pls excuse my typos :/ anyway, as always, ur interaction is greatly appreciated, ily<3
warnings: cheating
Character name: Rhoswen Upland || (Rauz-win)
“Oz Dies” has barely begun to fade away when I smell the piney scent of her broom, followed by hurried footsteps. The crowd below scurries, animals and officers alike attempting to restore order in a frenzy. Yellow bricks are kicked up as the animas flee down the paved dirt, knocking a thick fog into the air.
“That was quite the spectacle.” I stare out at the disarray.
Elphaba stays quiet, continuing to fumble with her table.
I face her. “They could’ve gotten you.”
“They couldn’t have,” she mumbles.
“You don’t know, Elphaba.” I walk closer, but her gaze averts mine. “You don’t know what tricks they have to catch you. Each time you stay longer, and each time it’s a bigger risk. It’s only a matter of time before they come up with something you can’t fly away from, and what then? Who’s supposed to save the animals when you’re captured? I can’t do what you do, Galinda won’t be able to save you, and Oz will rejoice in your capture and eventual execution!”
She slams her hands down. “What do you suggest I do, Rhos? Watch them chain up animals while we sit here forever coming up with a plan?” She shakes her head, beginning to pace the room. “I won’t do it. I will continue to ruin their plans because that’s what I believe in.”
“Elf, I’m worried for them too. You know I am. But like I have said, there is a way to go about these things. A compromise with the Wizard would be much more effective than this madness.”
“And like I have said, you sound like your sister.”
“I actually have power,” I assert. “Together, we go to Morrible and the Wizard and negotiate a freer future for the animals. We all have laws, Elf, theirs are just stricter. We can loosen those laws the same way we’ll loosen the laws for the Munchkins.” She’s so busy pacing that when I walk forward to stop her, we nearly topple over. I grab her hands, taking a deep breath. She mirrors me. “…The same way we’ll loosen yours.”
Her eyes meet mine. Though, I don’t find the glisten of hope that I expect. Instead, her gaze bores into mine like stones.
“There’s no room for compromise, Rhoswen,” she states, no room for dispute in her tone. “He must face what he did. Admit he’s a powerless liar to all of Oz, and step down as Wizard. Perhaps give the position to someone less horrendible.”
I sigh, shaking my head in defeat and dropping her hands. “You’re blinded, Elphaba. By anger.” I walk away from her, returning to the outlook. “You speak of him like he was born wicked, but what if this was thrust upon him? Did you even think of that? You’ve never tried to put yourself in his shoes—“
“How dare you still make excuses for him!” Elphaba shouts, startling me. Objects around the hideout begin to rumble. “If you’re so keen on showing him the empathy that he’s never shown me, then you can go die in the desert with the rest of the animals! See how easy it is to wait for a compromise then!” she explodes. Items fly off her desk and into the air, her magic throwing them into an unorganized orbit around her head.
It only takes my knowing look for her to realize that, once again, her power has spiraled out of control. As much as she despiseifies Madame Morrible, our time at Shiz was the closest she’d ever been to having jurisdiction over her power. We just look at each other, a look of shame quickly replacing the anger in her eyes. I say nothing, simply turning back to the wind. I hear the things drop to the floor, Elphaba taking a moment to compose her thoughts before taking slow steps toward me. I feel her arms wrap around my shoulders, her nails tracing small shapes on my skin. She places her head on my shoulder. We sit like this for a moment, looking out at the officers restoring the yellow road. I sigh discontentedly, not having anything to say that wouldn’t dig us into a deeper hole of disagreement.
I can assume Elphaba feels the same, as she abandons any attempt at a discussion. She’s always said she isn’t good with words. Instead, she places a tender kiss on my neck. I can barely feel it as she litters them up and down, from my collar bone to my jaw.
“I’m sorry, baby,” she mumbles in between kisses. “I shouldn’t have shouted.”
She continues to kiss me, knowing better than to expect a reply from me. I spin around, our eyes meeting in an exchange that seems to slow time. My hand traces her face, gently moving her hair back. Her head mirrors mine, tilting the opposite way. I can’t resist a tiny grin from sprawling across my face as I pull her in, kissing her much hungrier than she did me.
It’s not long before we’ve left the outlook completely, stumbling inside and finding ourselves on the floor — entangling ourselves in each other’s lips. Underneath me, Elphaba pulls my body impossibly close, her other hand gripping my waist. A chuckle escapes me as I pull back, taking a clock tick to enjoy my view. My eyes roam her body top to bottom, lingering on the fabric covering her chest. She smirks, sinking her teeth into her lip as she runs her fingers up and down her strap. I’ve never had a taste for being teased, and she knows it. My lips are back on hers in an instant, pinning her hands above her head, prepared to rip her top down with my teeth if I have to.
I’ve never been good with words either.
———
The Hall of Grandiosity is nothing but a ruined zoo by the time I find my sister. She sits on the stairs of the hall, her head in her hands as tiny sobs echo throughout the room.
“Galinda,” I say, hushed. Though it reverbs all the same.
Her head pops up. “Rhossy.”
Each of my steps rings out as I walk down her aisle. She watches me the whole way down, her lip quivering as she struggles to repress her tears. I take a seat beside her. Galinda looks at me with the saddest expression a girl can muster, almost as sad as the day momsie told her that wands do indeed need points.
“Come here,” I hold my arms out.
“Oh, Rhossy,” she breaks down, throwing herself into an embrace.
I squeeze her tight, stroking her hair the way I have so many times before.
“She’s ruined it,” Galinda cries.
“I know.”
“My one day,” she pulls away, wiping her tears. “My day with Fiyero that was meant to be perfect. She couldn’t put aside her worries for one day.”
“I know, Galinda,” I nod. “And I know this is hard, but I need something from you right now.”
Her head tilts, the frown on her face growing deeper.
“In the name of the land of Oz itself, what could you possibly need from me in this hour?”
I look down, taking her hands in mine. “Galinda, you know, better than anyone, how…intense Elphaba’s feelings are for the animals.”
“I do,” she agrees. “Now we all do. I mean, just look at my venue. The Grand Royal Palace, of all places, should be animal-free. Oz, it shouldn’t have even been possible, what occurred at my ceremony today—“
“Okay— Galinda.”
“Hm?”
“Focus.”
“Okay.” She lets go of my hands, dramatically gesturing as she takes three deep breaths, humming in between, before returning them to me. “Yes?”
“Elphaba won’t listen to reason when I suggest compromising with the Wizard,” I spell it out for her, speaking slowly in hopes that, in her frazzled state, she’ll retain my words. “So, I’m wondering if you’ll help me make the compromise for her.”
Galinda stares at me. She looks down, as if deeply in thought, and then back to me, concluding.
“Oh, but she’ll never agree. Rhossy, that’s exactly what I tried to do before the ceremonious junction. I guess the Wizard broke his word or something of the sort, because I got the impression that they were on the bestest of terms upon my departure.”
“You’re right. But that’s why we aren’t going to tell her,” I reveal. “If we come to a settlement, a fair one, for both the animals and the Munchkins and Elphaba herself, she’ll have no choice but to accept it. We have yet to see progress because she sees nothing but anger.”
“Yes, Rhossy, I agree. But in what world will the Wizard be willing to compromise now? After all of this disturberence? He’ll never want to help her in any capacity.”
“Well, you have no power…”
Galinda whips her head to look around, as if someone else made the comment. She looks back to me, a confusified, disgruntled look on her face.
“I’m sorry,” I clear my throat. “That came out terribly.”
“Absolutely terribly.”
“Terribly, forgive me,” I shake my head. “What I mean to say is, the Wizard has no power either. He works in cahoots with Morrible for her powers and he only wants to use Elphaba for hers. If that’s all he responds to, then…”
It takes Galinda a moment before the furrow in her brow smooths out.
She gasps. “You have power!”
“There it is.”
“If he won’t listen to reason, we’ll make him…”
“If that’s what it takes to free the animals and get Elphaba back,” I shrug. “Peace is peace.”
Galinda nods. Though, her smile slowly fades and her eyes grow sad again.
“What is it?”
“What about Fiyero?”
Now my brows furrow. “What about him?”
“He left with her,” her voice shakes as she combats tears. “Even if the Wizard spares Elphie, they’ll never forgive him—“
“Wait, wait,” I let go of her hands, never minding what we’re discussing. “He left with her?”
“Well— Yes!” Galinda urges, like I was already meant to know this. “Where have you been? Why else would I be on these steps in this horrendible state?”
“I don’t know, maybe because your wedding was trampled?”
“Yes, and after the travel zoo hitched a ride through my ceremony, Fiyero held a musket to the Wizard and me and left with Elphie! How do you not know this?”
My stomach drops, and my hands begin to tingle as I stand to my feet. I look around at the disaster of a hall before returning to my sister.
“I’ll be back, Galinda.”
“What?” She stands as well. “What about the plan? You were so focused.”
“Yeah, that was before I heard that Elphaba took someone back to the retreat.”
“The retreat?” Her eyebrows raise. “What, are you staying with her now?”
Her words muffle, as does the rest of the world. I walk toward the grand doors.
“Is that where you’ve been hiding this whole time? Rhossy! Do you know where it is?”
Nothing registers as I tunnel vision on the retreat, a thousand possibilities running through my head—none of them working in my favor. My sister continues to shout my name as I rush out of the hall. I wave my hand, and the doors shut with a slam.
————
I’ve nearly reached the hideout when the storm reaches its peak. Across the dark sky, a cyclone has spiraled from the clouds and struck earth, ripping through the unfinished yellow road and kicking up soil and debris alike. I pay it no mind, partly considering the possibility that my anxiety has created the storm in my mission to find my lover.
What the average Ozian is unaware of, with so little magic to go around, is the fact that a broom is indeed not necessary to fly. I prove such a point once again as I reach the retreat, landing in the walkway. There’s no time to register what I see, nor assess it with a clear mind.
The retreat is dim, even worse with the storm. But what I make out is impossible to miss. My love—my girl—she’s lying next to him. Fiyero’s arm is around her as if this is his home, as if he deserves her or this place that we’ve built. They don’t even see me as Elphaba rises, grabbing her broom and her hat. She leaves Fiyero with a quick goodbye and a kiss before walking toward the exit—toward me. It isn’t until she’s mere feet away that she finally comes to.
Tears swell in my eyes as hers glisten in the moonlight. Even with the dagger twisting in my gut I cannot deny her beauty. I tilt my head, taking my lip between my teeth in preparation to exercise as much restraint as I can assemble.
I take them in with a dull aching in my chest, looking to Fiyero, then back at Elphaba.
“So this is where you went on Galinda’s wedding night.” I curse myself for showing such ill restraint as my voice shakes and trembles, barely audible. “You brought him here.”
Fiyero keeps his focus on us as he clothes himself. Our eyes are on each other for a moment.
“Are you not ashamed?”
Elphaba takes a step toward me. “Rhos, there’s so much I haven’t told you—”
I take a step back, holding a defensive hand up. If I didn’t know better, I’d say she felt a little remorse in this moment. A fragment of the disgustifisation I’m feeling, surely.
“Rhos…”
“Why do this to me? To us?” I ask. Though it comes out as more of a plea. “Why not just end it?”
Fiyero comes forward. “Rhoswen, I have to say—“
“Do you love her?”
Elphaba’s head lowers, a thick silence overtaking the hideout as we eagerly await Fiyero’s next words.
“I do,” he admits.
I nod. He must know that I am all too familiar with that feeling, even if the recipient has lost sight of it. I look back at Elphaba.
“Do you love him?”
Her chest rises and falls like it’s the kindest version of an answer she’s willing to give. My heart seems to be punctured and disfigured with each word she refuses to say. I fight my deepening frown.
“Do you—“ I sharply inhale, devestration getting the best of me. “Do you love me?”
Finally, her eyes meet mine. There’s a toughness in them now, one that prepares me for the most horrendible of outcomes.
“Rhos, I wish I could explain this to you,” she gestures to herself and Fiyero. “But my sister’s in trouble, and I have to get to her now.”
My brows thread closer to each other. My lips part to say words, but none of them come out as I want them to.
“What— How can you be thinking about Nessa right now?”
“You won’t understand,” she shakes her head, moving her broom from one hand to the other. “But I have to go.”
I don’t allow her to walk past me, placing a hand on her shoulder. “Elf, wait—“
“I have no time, Rhoswen!” she shoves my hand off of her and backs away toward the sky. “She’s in trouble…”
Elphaba takes one last look at the both of us before swinging her cape and descending into the fog. I watch her go, my eyes shutting tight, halfway hoping that I’ll open them and the day will have restarted.
“It’s not what you think,” Fiyero’s voice pierces my trance.
Still here.
I make the decision to go about this in a restrained manner before I turn to look at him. However, the glint of fear in his eyes when we meet proves that my face says otherwise.
“I do love her, Rhoswen. I do,” he walks toward me. “More than I’ve ever loved anyone.”
“You hunted her,” I scowl.
“I protected her. Every time we got too close I’d lead them away.”
“And that makes you a hero? Deserving?”
“No, no. I don’t think I’ll ever deserve her, truthfully. But I’m willing to give up my life to try.”
“Always so noble,” I sigh. “Where was this when you held a musket to my sister?”
“Rhoswen, that was different,” he walks even closer. “I had to leave to come help Elphaba.”
“Help her? Look at this, Fiyero,” I walk past him and toward the outlook. “Look!”
His manner is cautious as he joins my side, as if he thinks I’ll push him off the edge and save myself the suffering.
“This is…” I continue. “She is so much greater than you. So much greater than you’ll ever be, really.” I face him. “But you think you can help her.”
His eyes stay in the ground, a moodified look on his face. “I’m willing to try,” he shrugs.
A cord that’s been stretched since the moment I saw them lying together seems to snap in me. I grab his face, bringing it to mine.
“You are nothing! No one!” I sneer, a hate swimming through my body stronger than any I’ve ever felt before. “You’re a prince and a chieftain, but deep down it’s apparent that you’re completely brainless. Useless to people like Elphaba and I. And soon she will figure that out, and you will be left to pick up the pieces of my sister’s heart that you’ve shattered like glass.”
Initially, his look of shock morphed into one of fear. I hadn’t noticed that the objects in the retreat were rumbling, my rage powering through my body and into the earth. But soon, his gaze softens. He examines my face, a pitiful manner overtaking him. His next words are said tenderly.
“She loves you too, I think.”
I wonder if he can feel it as my heart is penetrated once again. My grip loosens until he can finally be free from me, my hand falling to my side. Everything I’ve felt in these last moments mixes into a cauldron of surreality that brews nothing but pain. The objects settle along with my body as I walk away from Fiyero. I turn to the storm, resigning my mind and taking a seat on the lumpy ground. I pull my knees close to me, lying my chin on them. Finally, I rest, allowing my tears to flow under the cover of the thundering clouds.
—————
The cyclone had barely subsided when Fiyero went after Elphaba. It wasn’t long after that when I went after him. Keeping a far distance, it took more will than it should’ve to make me interfere with the sight in front of me. Fiyero has been brought to his knees, Emerald City guards pinning his arms behind him. My sister trembles as she picks up Elphaba’s hat, holding it out for her. A horrible enmity flickers in my stomach.
I walk forward, saying a silent goodbye when I catch sight of Nessa’s striped socks. They’re alerted by my steps, and when they turn, Elphaba’s look is not one of relief. Instead, she looks at me with acceptance, her betrayal being far too great for me to ever forgive.
“Rhoswen,” one of the guards says, bowing his head.
I was never granted a title like my sister was. Never given a celebration or lands to rule. Nevertheless, the name Rhoswen Upland holds some power in the land of Oz, as magic doesn’t come upon us often. For that, even if it’s because of my power alone, I’m grateful for the courtesies I’m shown.
“What’s happened?” I look to the guards.
Fiyero’s eyes are glossy and he pants, ogling up at me. There’s a traceless string that attaches my consciousness to Fiyero and Elphaba’s. An odorless gas that silently buries us while we fight a battle above ground. The guards relay their account, taking the chieftain for a traitor and turncoat.
I’m unsure if Galinda’s pleading gaze is in favor of Elphaba’s release or capture—I never mind it one way or the other, a hardness spreading in my heart and turning it to stone.
“Take him,” I command. “Capture her.”
I turn my back to them. Though I’m unsure of my destination. Elphaba and I have hidden in the retreat since Galinda chose “goodness” over standing by her side. I refused to return to Shiz after that, even if my sister insisted upon it. I let her prioritize her image; that was her choice. I, on the other hand, chose my friend of a friend. Elphaba and I became more connected than I ever would’ve imagined between then and now. She didn’t know about my magic when we were in school together; Morrible wanted little and less to do with my sister and I. But Elf and I understood each other; we were one. And as I turn from her now, I feel a part of my heart raggedly being torn off and thrown to the ground.
————
“They all want you dead,” I say coldly, standing at the window across from the cells.
Elphaba sits with her knees to her chest on the concrete floors of her chamber. The metal bars spiral up and out like a fountain, allowing me to see the prisoner but not touch her. The Wizard has always had a touch for the dramatics, and I must admit a bit of admiration for his grandiodious visions, even in the detention centers of the Emerald City. What used to be my lover just looks at me with disgust, no hint of love in her eyes.
“No surprise there.”
“Hm,” I hum, sitting in the chair parallel to her bars. “We could’ve avoided this. You could’ve avoided this.”
Elphaba sighs. “Rhoswen, I will willingly go with you. Wherever you want.”
“Go with me? Go where—“
“After my business with the Wizard is done.”
Now I’m the one looking with disgust. I shake my head slightly, lowering it with a scoff.
“That’s still all you care about,” my voice shakes just a little. “You wreck my sister’s wedding, you take Fiyero to bed, you’re sitting in a cell, and you can’t muster any thoughts that aren’t senselessly attacking the Wizard—“
“What do you want me to do, Rhoswen? Do you want an apology?”
“That’d be nice, actually. Yes,” I shrug, masking my deep sadness each time she refuses to call me by my short name.
“Well, I can’t give that to you. Not a real one,” she sneers as if it’s the most known thing in the world.
“…What?”
“About Fiyero,” she continues, a slight softness now in her voice. She looks at me with great sorrow, like I’m a fragile lamb who she can’t lie to anymore to protect. “I love him, Rhoswen.”
My chest rises and falls heavily as my brain begins to power up and fire off any weapon I can use to hurt her. It’s the same feeling I had with Fiyero at the outlook, or Elphaba at the road.
“You love him…” I nod, my hurt sharpening to shards. “But you loved your sister too, right?”
“Don’t talk about Nessa,” she stares. “Please.”
“Look where she ended up. Look where your love got her—“
“Stop.”
“Oz, look where it got me!” I stand up, looking down at her. Elphaba mirrors me, watching me as if any of my moves may set off an explosive. “That love, Elphaba…It’s fake. If it’s not, and this is your true definition of love, it is poison.”
“Rhoswen—“
“You’ve poisoned us all, Elf. But at least I’m here to know it, and for that, I’m grateful,” our eyes bore into each other, and it’s as if I release my canons on her. “…A pity Fiyero never saw—“
“I said stop!” Elphaba shouts, throwing her hands in front of her. The fountain bars begin to bend out of shape with a terrible creak. They contort until an opening is made.
Elphaba puts her hat back on, retrieving her broom from the corner of the cell. She looks at me. If I felt like I knew her at all anymore, I’d say with the tiniest hint of remorse. Not for her actions, but for where I’ve ended up. She steps through the opening and we finally stand face to face.
“He’s gone by now.”
“I can save him,” she says, assured.
“Maybe,” I suggest. “Or you can save Nessa’s slippers before the girl leaves Oz. Your choice.”
“…I can do both.”
“You can’t.”
“I can. And I will.”
Before all of this, I’d tell her we’re more powerful together, and ask which task she’d like me to take on. I’d tell her she’s the most powerful being in Oz and that if she believes, she’ll be able to do anything. But that’s all buried deep now, a raw truth sitting in its place. She can, and I resent her for it. She’ll win. She’ll find a way, as she always does. And I’ll be left here, reduced to Glinda the Good’s conspiring sister.
Elphaba walks toward the window, shattering it with the back of her broom. She looks back at me one last time.
“Goodbye, Rhoswen.”
—————
The riots on the streets outside the Royal Palace of Oz pulled me out of my sleep. When I looked over the balcony, hundreds of Ozians marched through the city with fire, signs, and buckets of water.
“Kill the Witch!” they chant.
Just barely, I could see the girl who wears Nessa’s shoes. Beside her, a straw man and a metal one. The lion accompanying them stood out, his tail between his legs. He’s less fearsome than the girl herself. No matter, I had no time to pay it any mind.
Covered in a dark cloak, I flew behind the buildings of the Emerald City, concealed by the black of night. I searched every place my sister or Elphaba could be, hoping to find her before they do. Finally, after hearing repeated thumping and shouting nearby, I landed upon a rooftop. There, my sister had already arrived, along with one of the monkeys and a screaming little girl beneath our feet. The two look to me as if I’m a rival team. I reminisce on the days when it’d be the green girl and I versus the world.
“The straw man,” I start. “Is that him?”
Galinda looks to Elphaba. She keeps her eyes on me.
“It is.”
“So you did it,” I scoff, nodding. “You know her friends are en route to save her from you, right? All of Oz is. I just wonder why you haven’t asked my sister, the leader of them all, to throw them off your trail.”
“No,” Elphaba says sternly. “Galinda can’t be seen with me.”
“Oh, of course,” I whisper, tears filling my eyes. “But I can?”
Galinda tilts her head at me, her eyes as glossy as mine.
“Yes,” she says, nearly inaudible. “They— They trust you, Rhossy. And you have real power. You can try and stop this.”
My mouth tics. I can’t help but be in disbelief that they’d ask anything from me right now after what they’ve done. Elphaba dryly scoffs.
“She won’t,” she says to Galinda, looking to me. “She’s one of them now.”
“How dare you?” I near her. “I have done nothing but stand by your side whilst you’ve made a show of yourself. You’ve helped no animals, not really. All you’ve done is dug yourself and them into a deeper hole.”
“How dare you, Rhoswen?” she retorts. “You said we were connected, you said we changed one another. Yet, in the face of trials and imperfection, instead of being the partner that you promised to be, you trample all that I’ve worked for like a child. You lock me away, you weaponize my dead sister, you execute the man I love—“
“I’m the one you’re supposed to love, Elphaba! Me!” I snap. “Even after all of this, you still fail to see me. I wonder now if you ever truly did. But if this poisonous love is all you’re willing to give me, then you’re a foolish activist and a worse friend. I just wish my sister could see that.”
“Rhossy,” Galinda shakes her head. “You don’t know what she’s been through—“
“No, you don’t know what she’s been through. It wasn’t you with her after Morrible sent those guards, it was me! You decided to finish out your year like nothing ever happened. You’ve never seen anything but what Elphaba tells you, nothing but her side of the story!”
“Rhoswen, if you’re here to expose my whereabouts, I’d rather you get on with it.” Elphaba’s indifferent tone slices through mine like a knife. “But don’t waste your time trying to get me to love you.”
My lip curls in a terrible way, the weapons in my brain directing themselves toward her once again. Words fail as I walk impossibly close to her, harshly striking her across the cheek. Galinda yelps, holding her.
“They were right about you,” I choke out, tears plummeting down my face. “You’re the wickedest of them all.”
Elphaba looks at me, no hint of warmth in her expression. I don’t recognize the cold person she’s turned into.
“Maybe I am,” she says. “Maybe that was the point all along. I can’t be good.”
I fail to hide my sobs. “That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you, Elf. You can’t do this alone, you never could. But you never needed Galinda, or Fiyero, or Chistery by your side. You needed another witch…But now it’s too late.”
“Now it’s too late,” she softly nods.
I step away from the two, feeling like I’m suffocating under the weight of their treachery. I walk toward the overlook, enamored with the witch hunters fiercely trudging along. The wind gives me breath as I gain my composure.
“What would you do?” I ask, still looking away from Elphaba. “Once the animals were free and your work here was done?”
There’s a pause before she speaks up.
“I’d leave the retreat. Live a life outside of this. Find community with the animals and humans alike, open institutions, ensure something like this could never happen again.”
“Where would you live?”
“If I stayed in Oz I’d live in the Emerald City, if they could ever find it in them to have me.”
Galinda chimes in, a sadness in her chipper tone. “We could have conjoining suites,” she giggles.
“…Would Fiyero be there?”
Another pause.
“Possibly…” she states. “If he wanted to, I’d welcome him.”
An empty chuckle escapes me before getting whisked away by the wind. A tear takes its place. Elphaba never mentioned me, never even alluded to my role or my being at all. A sense of calmness like I’ve never felt before washes over me. Gradually, all of the weapons in my mind disassemble themselves, standing down. Somehow, I feel a fresh growth in my heart. One that begins to thaw it. Forgiveness, it may be. Acceptance, I’m sure it is. Elphaba and I were never meant to be, I can see that now. We weren’t written in the stars as her and my sister were. And as much as it wounds me, paralyzes me with grief, I know what I must do.
I walk away from the overlook, standing over the wooden door and unlatching it. Elphaba and Galinda watch me closely. The girl in gingham spouts endless pleas at me, none of them registering. This peace throughout me blurs everything around. I hold my hands out, concentrating my energy on the silver slippers on her feet. They begin to glint, then sparkle, then glow. Soon enough, the girl reaches down and she’s able to slide one off. Then the other. Elphaba walks over behind me, staring in awe of what she couldn’t do. The girl thanks me, placing the shoes in my hands.
I turn and place them in Elphaba’s. “You don’t have to hide anymore.”
She shows me the first true emotion that I’ve seen from her in days. I say nothing, simply walking away and back toward the edge of the rooftop.
“What will you tell people?” Elphaba calls from behind me.
I take a breath, grief narrowly creeping back in. I tun to face her.
“Elphaba, I’ve made a lot of mistakes in my life. So many mistakes. We both have, I think,” I bite my lip, struggling to admit what I must. “But meeting you…loving you,” I sigh. “That has to be the worst one.”
Elphaba’s lips part like she has a confession on the tip of her tongue, maybe that’s what I hope for. But she relents, locking her words far away, where I’ll never be able to hear it.
“I’ll miss what I believed we had, Elf,” I utter. I hear my sister’s tiny gasps. She covers her mouth, poorly attempting to hold back her tears. I smile at her. “I will always love you, sister.”
I take them in one last time, unaware of when I’ll see them next. I turn away, and when the next breeze passes us by, I fly away with it. I fly freely now, no longer fighting between what my heart wants and what my mind knows. My body feels whole again, like I’ve ridden myself of the stones. I don’t know where I plan to go or when I plan to return. But the further I fly, the less I miss the land of Oz. I won’t miss being under appreciated, or overlooked, or cast aside in the shadow of my powerless sister. I’ll go far from where blue birds fly, far away from where they whisper rumors about the good witch’s sister conspiring with the bad witch, far away from where good hearts turn to dark and evil. I’ll go somewhere far, somewhere clean. And only in this paradise will I find what waits for me—What waits for those who gain enough courage to leave. What waits for those who fly far away from poison love.
summary: Rue has worked for years to forget Elijah Moore and what he left her with before he ran to Chicago. But when she sees his ambitious twin in the square, all of their history comes rushing back. (3.1k)
a/n: it has been so long, but Sinners is truly a movie in its own category. i also need to preface that i am black for this story. anyway, as always, ur interaction is greatly appreciated, ily<3
warnings: swearing, n word use (by smoke and stack), mentions of child loss, abortion, sex, racism
in this story, our characters name is: Rue
Elijah Moore and I never had a complicated relationship. Hell, Smoke might even say we had none at all. But for years after he ravaged me in that car outside of the bar, I thought about him every night. We were together, I’d say — Boyfriend and girlfriend for as long as his grief consumed him. But the moment Annie found out, Smoke disappeared from my arms and was at her feet, begging for forgiveness. I don’t blame her, not in the slightest — I can only imagine that those were some of their darkest times.
Elias, on the other hand, him and I had a complicated relationship. When I found out that Smoke left a piece of himself in me, there was no way I could tell him, not after what he’d just been through. So I went to the closest thing to him, Stack. And although what we had is never to be considered romantic, there was something there — Familial, even. He knew it, Mary knew it, and for that very reason I was never allowed within an 100 foot radius of the twins until the day they left, not if I wanted to feel welcome.
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📍 Train Station || 12:00pm
The feelings from all those years ago bubble up inside me and form a twist in my gut when I see that all-too-recognizable burgundy top hat. My feet move before my mind can stop them, and in no time I’m approaching my old friend.
Stack flashes a gold toothed smile. “I’ll be damned.”
I return the nicety, pulling him in for a warm hug.
“Word spreads fast,” I nod. “Y’all still got the same appeal you had all them years ago.”
“You don’t have to tell me that, darling. I know it.” His cocky smile takes me back, the only thing differentiating him from his brother being his energy.
“Do I even want to know why you came back?”
“You heard it as good as I did,” he gestures toward little Preacher Boy and the old man. “We’re opening a Juke Joint tonight, right there down at the old mill.”
“Y’all never could stay still. Chicago wasn’t change enough for you?”
He shrugs. “Figured we should deal with a devil we know. Besides, we miss the tricking.”
“Mmm,” I hum. “Well if Miss Pearline back there is singing, I might just pay this Joint a visit.”
Stack looks past me and at the polka dottted woman walking away from Preacher Boy.
“Shit, if that’s what it takes for you to come, it’s done.”
Always so charming.
He ogles me, his eyes scanning up and down my exposed arms.
“What’s this?” Stack rubs his fingers over the dark ink lining my skin — Art ranging from numbers to symbols to simple symmetric images.
“You know I’m an artist, boy,” I pull my arm back, scoffing. “Figured I’d get a few permanent ones to remember a few things.”
“And you talking about we couldn’t stay still. I’ll be visiting to get a look at those paintings of yours one of these days.” Stack’s grin begins to fade as he looks over my shoulder.
Preacher Boy walks up and nears his cousin. “This white woman’s been staring at you-“
“Yea, I see her…”
He shoos Sammie away and tries to walk me off, but I’m already well aware of what shark is in the water — I can hear her heels clicking behind me.
“Now is this Smoke? Or is that Stack?”
I turn my head. “Hi, Mary.”
No response. Only a rough shoulder check as she stands in front of me and nears Stack.
He looks over her head and at me. “I’ll holler at you, Rue-“
Mary interrupts. “No, you’re not talking to fucking Rue right now. You’re talking to me.”
Stack huffs, looking back down at the woman dressed in pink. I give him a ‘have fun dealing with that’look before turning and catching my train.
Of all the women wrapped around the twins’ fingers, Mary has got to be the most spiteful of them all. For no good reason, though. Contrary to her belief, I never once slept with Stack, never even thought of it. But as far as she knows, I kissed him all the way to where the sun don’t shine, and then some.
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📍 Juke Joint || 10:00pm
This old mill has lit up under the construction of the twins. People hoot and holler as Pearline ignites the stage, turning into the musical beast I knew she would the minute she started singing. Having no dance partner, I simply clap along, moving my body to the beat alone. Out of the corner of my eye, I see the same damn burgundy hat that I saw only hours ago.
I can feel Annie’s eyes burning holes into my skull as I sit at the bar, Stack walking up to me.
“Now who the hell did y’all rob to afford this place? Ain’t this being sold from the Klan?” I shout across the bar, my voice being drowned out by Pearline’s Pale, Pale Moon.
Stack shakes his head. “Not klan, just crackers. You know we got money, girl. Don’t do that.”
“Yea, well blood money don’t count. So how much you got now?”
He pulls his pockets inside out, amusing me.
I chuckle, placing my money on the bar. “Y’all have blackberry bourbon smash?”
“I don’t know if I can do that for you…”
His fake frown quickly turns into a grin as he takes the money, relaying my order to Grace.
“Fancy motherfuckers,” I mumble.
“What was that?” Stack eggs me on.
My eyes scan the bar, but all I can focus on is that hateful scowl on Annie’s face.
“I said all these women hate me.”
Stack scoffs. “Only those particular women.”
‘That’s more than enough for me’ I think.
He leans in, his lips grazing my ear.
“You know none of these girls got shit on you, Rue. They ain’t half as strong either.”
A small smile grows on my face, matching Stacks. He goes to hand me back my cash, but I slide it back to him.
“I don’t need it,” I front.
“Yea, well me neither. So you gon’ fucking take it.”
I roll my eyes, pocketing the change and standing with my drink. I’ve barely made it away from the bar when cigarette smoke cascades from over my head. Instinctively looking up, I finally see him.
Smoke stares down at me from the balcony with that hard expression he always wears. It’s so strange, seeing that rock solid glare. When we first met in a dingy bar on the side of a dirt Mississippi road, he hung his head low and seemed to always have glossy eyes. I didn’t believe him when he told me he was Smoke. When he fucked me that night, and many a nights after that, it was slowly — With passion, and often tears followed the act. But now his eyes are as dry as a dessert and they pierce a hole through mine.
He takes another blow of his cigarette before turning his back to me, retreating into a room. I have no choice but to follow him, even if it’s just to get yelled at to go away as he did the last time we met. I take my time, downing my glass of bourbon as I walk up the stairs. I can’t pinpoint exactly why, but my heart thumps in my chest just before I open the door, all of the thoughts of what we could’ve had rushing back to my mind like they did eight years ago.
I enter the dimly lit room, closing the door behind me and leaning on it.
“Hello, Smoke,” I say lowly, unable to read his face.
“Why you here, Rue?” he grumbles, a roughness to his voice. “I’m already stressed the fuck out with this opening shit. Stack ain’t helping.”
“I don’t want no trouble. Just came for the music.”
“You being here is plenty trouble enough.” He scans my body the same as his brother, blowing his cigarette again. “You can’t find music no place else?”
“You want me to leave?” I ask honestly.
“Yea, I want you to leave. You think those women down there want you to leave too or are we acting stupid tonight?”
“They never even tried to like me, Smoke,” I sigh, my legs bringing me closer to him. I place my hand on his bicep, like I did all those years ago. “They got no idea what we had.”
He puts his hand on mine, pulling it off. “That was a moment of weakness, Rue. Whatever you think we had is gone now."
I blink to avoid tears from forming. My first ever love, my first ever relationship being chalked up to a moment of weakness chips away at my heart. If it’s what he has to tell himself to dig out of the deep guilt he feels, so be it. But he won’t sit in front of me and act like what we had wasn’t real — Like it isn’t still there.
“So you're saying if the Juke was going good and Annie wasn't watching you like a hawk that you wouldn't entertain me? Wouldn’t consider us?"
Smoke shakes his head. “No, I really wouldn’t.” His brows furrow as he looks at me, seeming to remember a detail that he had previously forgotten. “And your cheating ass can take your business elsewhere.”
I can’t act surprised, not anymore. We allowed him to believe my infidelity as truth, Stack and I. Letting him think I went after his brother was easier than letting him know what Stack was really helping me do…At least it was in the moment. But as he stands in front of me now, I want nothing more than to ease his pain, calm his anger, and tell him the truth — Even if solely to stop him from loathing me so greatly.
“I didn’t cheat on you, Smoke.”
“Bullshit,” he stops me.
“No, listen,” I step toward him. “I respected what you and Annie had, Smoke. I really did. And I understood that the loss of your baby caused you to make decisions that you might regret, even if that decision was being with me. So when you told me to leave you alone, I did. But I didn’t know if that still stood when I found out that we had a baby…”
The words feel odd coming out of my mouth. I tried so hard at the time to disconnect myself from it, calling the baby a thing inside my stomach rather than what it was: Mine and Smoke’s child.
His brows have smoothened out now and he’s actively listening, his eyes flashing from my face to my stomach and back to my face.
I continue. “I didn’t visit Stack all those nights to get at him. Smoke, I never wanted anybody but you. But God put it on my heart to give you and Annie peace, so we went at it alone. No one knew. He paid a few women to make the drink without telling them who it was for. It only took a few hours for the bleeding to start…”
My voice trails out. I’m unable to finish as flashbacks to that night replay in my head. My mama held me tighter that night than she ever had before…I hated Smoke that night more than I ever had before.
Tears line his eyes now.
He chokes on his words, his voice now much lower. “Don’t you lie to me, Rue…”
“I wouldn’t lie, baby,” I assure him.
I hold my arm out for him, revealing the tiny footprint tattooed on my wrist, a small E underneath it.
“We couldn’t be sure, but I had a feeling it was a boy. Ezra, I was thinking. Stack hated the name but…” I shrug.
Smoke runs his thumb over the tattoo, holding my hand in his. He attempts to discreetly wipe his tears, but I see them all the same. Looking up at him, his face can only be compared to the face he made when we spoke about his late baby, which wasn’t often at all. A mix of anger, sorrow, and fear.
Perhaps he’s considering what could have been, just like I used to — Just like I still do. I used to curse God for putting me in such a position. A second chance for Smoke to be a father, but at the worst of times. I’d have dreams of talking to a clone of myself, telling her that she owed it to Smoke to tell him about the baby. It’s only now that I really see the consequences of my decision.
Smoke looks at me, and then at the door. It’s as if a switch has flipped and he’s forced all of those emotions to turn into one…anger. He reaches for the door, but I lean against it.
“Smoke, it’s already done,” I tell him, holding my hand against his chest. “I just couldn’t take you hating me no more.”
“Move out the way, Rue,” he says, not hearing a word I say.
“I don’t want to cause a scene, Smoke. Please.”
“You think I give a fuck about causing a scene? Move out of the fucking way.”
“Smoke, it hurts enough as it is-“
“You’ve got one more time, woman.”
“There’s nothing we can do now!”
He wraps a hand around my arm, yanking me just enough to pull me away from the door and swinging it open. I run out behind him, but he’s already looking down the overlook.
“STACK!” he shouts down, the name echoing through the building.
Everybody looks up, including Mary and Annie. Stack stares up at us, blowing smoke through his nose, before turning back to the crowd. He tells them to resume, nudging Sammie to keep playing. After a moment of silence and a few stray whispers, the music begins again and Pearline starts her singing. Mary holds Stack close, asking him not to go — But as always, the twins do what they want when they want. As Stack rounds the corner, I retreat back into the room, unprepared for what reaction he might have.
He’s barely entered before Smoke pins him against the wall, his forearm over Stack’s chest.
“The fuck?”
“Is it true?” Smoke demands, maintaning his cig in his pinning hand.
I close the door, shouting over the music. “Smoke, stop!”
He ignores me, continuing to press his brother. “Un uh, I asked you a question, nigga. Did you know she had my baby?”
Stack’s eyes shoot from Smoke to me. I can only nod, giving him permission to tell the full truth as I just did. Stack relaxes, putting his hands up.
“I only did it to protect you, mane.”
“The fuck does that mean?”
“You gon’ let me go so I can explain?”
Smoke lingers before reluctantly letting his brother go with a shove. He puts a hand in his pocket, staring Stack down.
He gestures his cig at his brother. “Talk.”
Stack smoothens his suit, lighting one of his own. “You know I don’t like that shit, Smoke-”
“Talk.”
He sighs, putting on a smile once more as he tries to explain calmly.
“When y’all two broke shit off, we had no idea we were even going to Chicago, Smoke. Shit, I still thought you and Annie were gonna get married and buy you a house. Rue said you told her to stay away to make that happen, so I helped her stay away. Now we both know she’d never forgive you if you had a baby with another woman.”
“But my baby is none of your fucking business, Stack.”
“I was trying to give you a life, nigga,” Stack urges. “Annie is where that life was at. Fuck I look like throwing Rue back at you when you didn’t want her?”
“My baby, Stack.”
Guilt boils inside of me. I never allowed myself to entertain the idea of keeping the baby. There was no way I’d bring him into this world without a father, and Smoke had Annie, so I thought I had no choice. But seeing him blink back his tears now makes me second guess every moment that the baby was inside of me.
Stack thinks carefully about his next words, his smile having faded as he sees how serious his brother is taking this.
“I’m sorry, man,” he shrugs, his tone softer now. “I did what I thought was safest for all parties involved, you hear me?”
Smoke is about to speak when a hard knock pounds the door.
“Stack?” Mary’s familiar voice rings out from the other side.
“Now I gotta get back to the Joint.”
I hold my head low. “Bye, Stack.”
He heads toward the door, but not before turning to his brother one more time.
“We good?”
Smoke looks from me to Stack, giving him a small nod.
“Get out of here ‘fore I say no.”
Stack only smiles, swinging the door open. I stand beside him, greeting Mary.
“Oh my- Not this trifling bitch again, Stack.” She rolls her eyes.
“Come on, lay off, Mary.”
“I think you owe her a goddamn apology,” Smoke intervenes, standing behind me.
I mumble, “it’s fine, Smoke.”
Mary scoffs. “For the fuck what?”
“For how you been treating her all these years.”
“How I’ve been treating her? You’re the one who fucked her for a month before running back to Annie.”
“You best watch your mouth woman,” he blows smoke toward her. “It’s not too late to pay one of them bitches downstairs to drag your ass out.”
“I’d like to see you try, Smoke-“
“Alright,” Stack interrupts. “Let’s go.”
He pushes Mary away before closing the door behind him. I assume my previous position, leaning against the door — a much thicker tension in the air now.
“If you hate me even more after this, I understand.” I break the silence. “I don’t blame you, I just couldn’t let the truth belong to me and him alone anymore.”
Smoke stares at his feet, deep in thought. It’s become increasingly harder to tell what this man is thinking. He drops his cigarette, stepping on it.
“Now why would you do that on these new floors-“
His lips are on mine before I can finish, his hungry hands pulling up my dress. It’s automatic, the way my arm wraps around his neck, my hand nearing his crotch. He begins kissing down my neck, but I pull away. He stares at me, eyes wide.
“This isn’t a moment of weakness, is it?” I ask.
He shakes his head. “I don’t need a moment of weakness to do what I’m about to do to you.”
I smile, bringing his lips to mine once more.
Annie will hate me if she finds out, she might hate Smoke even more. But like I told him before, she has no idea what we have. And if I want to fuck my sinner one last time in this Juke Joint, that’s exactly what I’ll do.
Can’t I just say…your writing style is PHENOMENAL. I don’t know if you are an author offline but if not, I hope a lucrative publishing deal is in your future!
summary: Anastasia Riley has cut out a life for herself in Mississippi in the few years since her move. She works as a dancer and escort at the Johnnie Ram Club almost every night under the jurisdiction of her boss, Francis. When she learns that one of her wealthier clients has the same face as his brother, their entanglements lead to the pathway to her dreams. (7.7k)
a/n: hello again and thank you for the love on these sinners stories! this one is a lot thicker in plot (what’s new) and i’ve recently learned what self indulgent stories are and realized that that’s what i do 100% of the time. also, again, im going to preface this with the fact that i am black. anyway, as always, ur interaction is greatly appreciated, ily<3
warnings: sexual harassment and assault, prostitution, misogyny, swearing, n word use (by smoke and stack), guns, smutish
in this story, our characters name is: Anastasia Riley || (Ann-uh-stage-uh)
📍 The Johnnie Ram Club - Jackson, Mississippi || 10:00pm
I dab away at the red lipstick that’s smeared onto my chin, staring intensely at the lightbulb-lined mirror. Behind me, I hear a group of girls rush into the dressing room.
“He said he wants a girl who knows how to make drinks,” Cleo remarks.
“You saw how he was dressed?” Etta scoffs. “He got money. I’ll do anything he asked me to do.”
I look back. “Girl, you couldn’t make a whiskey neat even if he promised you a belt of hundreds.”
“Man, shut up, Ana,” She rolls her eyes. “If you’d have seen him—“
Francis shoves the door open, barely fitting in the doorway with his pot belly. The hair on the top of his head is rapidly thinning, his age getting the best of him as his pale skin gains another ten creases by the day. He points at me.
“Stasia, you’re up.”
“Oh no, Francis." I shake my head. “I’m off in 30.”
“Then you best make this one quick,” he snaps back. “I don’t want him waiting. Now come on.”
I roughly set my lipstick down, reluctantly standing from my bedazzled seat and rolling on my black gloves as I make my way to Francis and into the main section of the tiny nightclub.
He leads us, briefing me on this “high paying client” who requests a girl who can mix drinks, the client that the girls were talking about. It only goes in one ear and out the other as the intense irritation at my dragged out work night takes up all of the space in my head.
However, this all changes when I see him standing there. Etta didn’t tell a lie, he’s dressed nicer than most of the men who frequent this club, a fitted wool suit with a top hat to match. I quickly flip into work mode, plastering on a smile as Francis introduces me.
“This is one of my best girls, Stasia,” he says. The man only stares stiffly, smoking a pipe out of the corner of his mouth. “She’ll make whatever drink you want.”
Francis retreats, but not before tapping me on the butt, nearly making my smile drop. Nevertheless, I place my hand on the man’s chest.
“Hi, mister fancy." I seductively smile, rubbing my hand up and down his shoulder. “Want to play a game?”
He doesn’t loosen up, only gives me a cold nod as his eyes scan my body.
“If I can guess one thing right about you, we go into that private room over there.” I point to a magenta curtain across the floor. “Alright?”
“Alright,” he speaks for the first time, his voice low and gravely with a Delta accent.
“Hmm,” I place my gloved finger on my chin. “You look like a man with a story…I bet you got a million of ‘em up here.” I tap on his temple. “…But none you’re willing to tell me the truth about.”
The client pauses, his eyes boring into mine as he softly nods again, blowing his pipe smoke the other way.
“Well, how about you take me in that room and tell me some lies?”
I grab his hand, leading him behind the velvet magenta curtain and into one of our biggest private rooms, latching the metal clips closed on either side to ensure our privacy. Across the room from us is a matching velvet sofa, a full bar on the wall to the right of it. I’m usually the only one using this private room, as I’m the only girl who knows how to mix drinks — Such talents come in handy in a profession like this.
He’s awfully quiet and timid, not doing anything without my instruction. I don’t mind it, much better than the overly pushy and slightly drunk clients I’ve dealt with before. I push him toward the couch, pulling his thick coat off. When he falls onto the sofa, I follow him, straddling his lap.
“You’re so tense.” I take his hat off and place it on the couch, beginning to massage his biceps. “Relax a little.”
I see him struggle with it, taking a deep breath and holding his eyes closed for a moment as I continue working on his arms.
“What do you want me to make you?”
He shrugs. “Whatever you wanna make me.”
“Come on,” I chuckle. “You’re dressed this nice and don’t got a drink of choice?”
He shrugs again, eyes more focused on my body rather than the question at hand.
“Alright…” I swing my leg over his, standing up and heading to the bar.
I first pour a shot of bourbon, my heels thudding against the old carpet.
“Here, to loosen you up.” I hand it to him.
Once I return behind the bar counter, my quiet client downs his shot, finally speaking to me first.
“What’s your name?”
“You don’t remember?” I smile, setting up my drink supplies. “‘Stasia, he called me. Short for Anastasia. But I got ten different short names besides that.”
“You like ‘em?”
“As much as the next person.”
“But what you want me to call you?” he interrogates.
“No one’s bothered to ask me before," I say honestly. “I think I prefer Anastasia. That’s what I was given so that’s what I’ll take.”
“Anastasia.” He nods, testing how the name sounds on his tongue. “Where you from, Anastasia?”
I answer in between shaking his iced drink. “Alabama, originally. But my family moved us down here a few years ago.”
“Mmm. Why’d y’all move?”
I laugh, pouring his drink in a glass. “You sure asking a lot of questions.” He doesn’t laugh, only stares at me as he leans back on the sofa. “We left for my daddy’s work. You know it’s a depression these days, gotta adjust to what you can make work.”
“I know it." He nods.
I’ve slipped out of my heels by the time I’m walking back around to him, chilled drink in hand. I straddle him once again, placing it in his.
“Every sip you take is an item of clothing gone.”
He immediately takes a swig. I giggle, that one shot of bourbon has turned him completely loose. As promised, I take both of my glittery gloves off, resting my arms on his shoulders.
“So tell me about yourself, mister fancy.”
“Smoke.” He corrects me.
“Smoke,” I repeat. “You tell me some truths now. Or lies, I’m free to listening to either.”
“Well, we just came back.” He looks up at me, eyes glued to mine. “Throwing a party for some of my people in the Delta.”
“We?”
“Me and my brother." He takes another sip.
“Where’d y’all come back from?” I ask whilst removing my dress. This game never lasts long, and it was never intended to. But the more he talks, the more I wish I had on more so he could keep going.
“Chicago. We stayed up there seven years.” All of his answers are just discreet enough to keep me in the dark. Even after we’ve spoken, I feel like I have no idea who this Smoke is.
“Y’all military?”
“We was.”
“There are some stories you can tell me,” I grin.
Smoke doesn’t. Instead, I hear the ice in his glass begin to shake as his hands subtly quiver. He looks down at them, a look of grief and frustration on his face as he internally asks them to stop.
I’ve seen PTSD before, plenty of soldiers come in with the wish to forget what they saw in those trenches. I should’ve known better than to ask. Smoke’s demeanor has changed and he fights back tears.
“Shh, shh.” I place my hand over his, stroking it with my thumb. “We ain’t gotta talk about it.”
He shakes his head as if to shake the memories out of his brain, taking one last long sip of his drink.
Not much more talking happens before I’ve pulled his lips to mine — Smoke kisses me hungrily, like he’s trying to get so caught up in our kiss that he can’t think about anything else, anywhere else. It’s when he’s finally on top of me that he pulls my hand around his neck, placing pressure as to ask me to squeeze. I comply, keeping my hand there as passion flows through his lips. He removes my last article of clothing, a flimsy pair of fishnet stockings. They’re thrown to the floor as he pushes my legs apart, undoing his belt.
He loves me slowly, emotion filling each one of his thrusts as he grunts and groans in my ear, keeping his head buried in my neck. I cradle his head as he holds my legs open, power in his thrusts.
The club has nearly emptied out except for a few girls gathering the last of their things by the time Smoke and I are done. Before he leaves, he thanks me, something no one’s ever done before. He leaves me with $50, a $35 tip — A bigger sum than I’ve ever received in one go. I catch myself wanting to see Smoke again that night…
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📍 The Johnnie Ram Club || 9:00pm
Francis has already spoiled my mood by the beginning of my shift, demanding I pay him some random amount of money that I earned — A percentage that seems to ebb and flow as he pleases.
“Half, Stasia. We ain’t going through this again.”
“That’s five times my highest rate. You didn’t even find this client for me, Francis,” I argue back. “He walked into this club on his own free will, the hell I’m paying you for?”
“For bringing you to him, damnit. I give you a lot in this world, girl,” he points in my face, “and you ain’t been nothing but ungrateful. Now you give me my money or you go home for the night, your choice.”
I stare at him for a moment, not bothering to hide the hate in my eyes. They stay on him as I pull out some of Smoke’s money from my bra, counting off $25 and throwing it at his feet.
“You lucky I’m doing this today,” I spit, turning my back to him.
“You always do, honey!”
As I walk into the main room full of couches, poles, and stages, I see one very familiar face. I try to speed past him, not in the mood to be harassed and groped by this returning client — Why Francis hasn’t yet to bar him from entering? His money. Give that man a dollar and he’ll do anything.
I’m not quick enough. The client has already spotted me and jumped off of the couch by the time I’m halfway across the room.
Eddie isn’t a good looking man, not by an any means. He’s whiter than Francis, a phenomenon that I didn’t think possible until I saw it with my own eyes. His straggly brunette hair rains dandruff on me whenever he’s near and his smell ain’t so hot either. Nevertheless, Francis continues to let him in, as long as his dollars are right.
“I was looking for you last night, angel,” Eddie smiles, displaying his brown teeth. “Just the thought of you gave me blue balls. I just wanted to jump on you.”
“I’m off tonight, Eddie,” I lie, averting my head in order to avoid his breath. “I only came in to cash out. Another girl will have to take you tonight.”
“Oh, but you’ll stay for me won’t you? I got cash.” He gets closer than I’m comfortable with, his small frame making him look up at me.
I look away, ignoring Eddie and his typical pushiness. It’s not until I feel his bony hand on my breast that I turn back to him. His arm is wrapped around my waist and his hand rests on my boob — He just stares at me, not speaking or anything, just wears a stupid smile as he holds me.
Trying not to cause a scene, I push on his chest, afraid I might break a bone with how thin he is. Even so, he’s got the grip of ten men, not letting go even when I push him with all of my force.
“Let me the hell go, Eddie,” I say, stumbling backward over my own heel. “Let me—“
“He bothering you?” I hear from behind me.
Eddie finally releases me from his clutch, looking at the client behind me. It’s none other than Smoke. Usually I can’t remember a face, especially from a one-time client — But I’m sure this is Smoke, his face looks the exact same as last night. Only…Today he wears a natural smile, showing off a gold grill that I must’ve missed last night.
“No it’s—“ I wipe my hands on my dress, ridding myself of Eddie’s germs. “I’m okay.”
“Oh.” He tilts his head, stepping in front of me and toward Eddie. “‘Cause it looked like this nigga was harassing you. Is that what it looked like to you, ma’am?” he looks back at me.
“I don’t want no trouble.” Eddie rapidly licks his red and cracking lips, putting his hands up. “I’ll see you later, angel.” He makes a pathetic attempt at winking at me.
I shiver at the memory of his cold hands on my body before turning to Smoke.
“Sorry you had to see that,” I say.
“Nah, I’m glad I did.” He smokes a cigarette. “Who let him in here?”
I simply shake my head, not wanting to talk about Eddie any longer than I have to. Looking around the club, I see almost no one here. Sure, a few regulars with their regular girls. But Smoke is the only newcomer around.
I might as well earn my $25 back, I think to myself.
“You care for a room and a drink? I’ll make it for you myself.”
His smile grows wider, nodding before taking my hand. “Lead the way.”
We head for the magenta room, same as we did last night. But this time, when we walk in, all of that tense and timid energy has dissipated. Smoke takes his own jacket off, walking over to the couch and spreading his legs, completely relaxed. In the process, he’s taken his suit off as well, only being left in a white t-shirt, accentuating his muscles.
“You have a drink of choice tonight?” I tease. “Or you want me to pick for you?”
“How ‘bout a Sazerac?” His eyes scan my body as I slip out of my heels, heading to the bar.
“A Sazerac." My eyes widen. "And how the hell do I make that?”
He laughs. “It’s an Old Fashioned, but meaner. You gotta add absinthe and sugar cubes straight outta New Orleans.”
I didn’t think he was able to talk so much after our last encounter. But now he walks with a chillness to him, in great contrast to the cold and serious demeanor he held yesterday.
“I’m sorry, baby. We’re fresh out of sugar cubes tonight.”
“Don’t e’en worry about it,” he assures me. “You’re enough sugar for me.”
Giggling, I beginning to make an Old Fashioned with added absinthe and lemon. Just like yesterday, Smoke begins asking questions.
“Remind me your name, mama.”
“Anastasia,” I remind him, feeling slightly offended that after everything, he doesn’t even remember my preferred name.
“Anastasia what? You gotta introduce yourself with your full name to gain respect around here, baby.”
I eye him. “…Anastasia Riley."
“Where’d you learn to make drinks, Anastasia Riley?”
“Before he was a miner my daddy worked at a bar, damn near ran the place.” I find myself quickening my pace, longing for Smoke’s touch again. “Taught me how to mix from an early age.”
“These folks paying you real dollars around here?”
“Some of ‘em,” I shrug. “Others pay in credits, ain’t no difference to me”
He eyes me, shaking his head. “Don’t tell me you working in the fields too.”
“No,” I assure him. “But some of my kin do, so I give it to them. It don’t bother me none.”
Walking over to him, I place the drink in his hand, but he sets it on the side table. Once I straddle him, he crosses his watch-lined wrists across each other on my ass, locking me in place.
“What’s got you so bold tonight?” I ask, scooting closer to him.
“That’s how I am, baby.”
“Mm,” I hum. “Not how I remember it.”
He brushes off my comment, simply pulling my head in for a kiss. Smoke is faster today…rougher. I have no issue with more demanding clients, but his quick turn around caught me off guard tonight. He lightly spanks me, his other hand holding my head tightly as our kisses intensify. Smoke pulls my dress up from the bottom, exposing my fishnets.
“You want it?” he asks in between hisses, palming my ass harder now.
“Mm-hmm.”
“Hard or soft?”
My laughter escapes me, forcing me to break our kiss. “You a whole different man tonight.”
He scrunches his face up, finally acknowledging my remarks. “What you talking about, baby?”
“Wasn’t you here last night, mister fancy?” I joke.
“No,” his brows furrow.
Mine do the same as I tilt my head, not seeing where he’s going with this.
“No, I’m sure you were. Navy hat, a little scared? — Much more than you are tonight.”
He stares at me, his expression changing from confused, to deep in thought, to realization all within a few seconds.
“…You a fuckin’ lie,” he mumbles.
“Excuse me?”
He breaks out into a laugh. “You mean to tell me my twin brother walked his scary ass in here and got some pussy?”
Twin brother?
My hand flies to cover my mouth, pulling myself off of him and sitting on the couch.
“I could get in trouble for telling my other clients to you,” I gasp, completely breezing over the fact that this ultra-relaxed Smoke isn’t a Smoke at all. “S— So who the hell are you?”
“Stack.” He smiles wide, holding his hand out to shake. I do so, feeling more awkward than if I had left him hanging. “Confidentiality ain’t a problem, ma’am. I won’t tell.” He gets up, beginning to put his suit back on. “But I’m afraid I can’t fuck you if Smoke already did.” He sucks his teeth. “It’s a damn shame.”
Once he puts his hat back on, he pulls cash from his pocket, the same way his brother did. I shrink in humiliation. I should’ve known this wasn’t the client from yesterday. No one is a reserved mess one day and a boasting spirit the next.
As if they planned it, Stack hands me $50, far surpassing what I planned to make back tonight.
“For your troubles,” he cheeses, his grills now being a telling difference between him and Smoke. “You have a nice night, Anastasia Riley.”
I stay put on the couch as he unhooks the latches, running into Francis on his way out. When I listen closely enough, I can lowly hear their conversation over the club music.
“Gone so soon?” Francis asks. “She’ll let you do anything you want to her, trust me. Did you see her tits?”
Motherfucker.
My hands go clammy with embarrassment as Stack politely declines, mentioning something about other commitments.
“Did you pay her?”
Please say no, please say no, please say no—
“Nah, not tonight,” Stack fibs. “Maybe I’ll pay Miss Riley a visit another time.”
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Buzz of the Smoke-Stack twins has finally reached me. Not only from girls at Johnnie’s, but through literal word on the street too. I passed plenty of folks on my commute home through the Delta last night who had the names Smoke or Stack in their passing conversations. I had no way of knowing, but these people spoke about them like legends, myths from years ago that they never thought would return. I only moved here a few years ago, nowhere near eight.
Regardless of the rumors surrounding them, I’m enjoying getting to know Smoke myself. He seems to be doing the same — So much so that he invited me out. It was a fancy restaurant, fancier than I’ve ever been in at least. Smoke turned out to be more of a gentleman than I expected, holding doors open and ordering my meal for me. Our small talk was short lived, quickly turning into a conversation like none I’ve had before. He acted interested, really interested, in what I had to say. He wasn’t too keen on sharing details of his own life, but it bothered me less and less the more he showed interest in mine.
Eventually, I shared with him my dream of moving to Hollywood and becoming a film actress — Something I’ve been too embarrassed to tell any of the girls in the club. But Smoke doesn’t laugh at me how I expect they would. Instead, he invites me to that party that he told me about. A Juke Joint down at the old sawmill, telling me it ain’t much, but if I want creativity and some good blues, it’s the place to be.
“I don’t know.” I shrug. “I work tonight.”
“Alright.” He nods, respecting it. “What if we pay you for the night?”
There’s no time to answer his question before something catches my eye. Behind Smoke, right over his shoulder, I see a small short frame, scraggly hair in patches lining his head.
“I— I gotta go, Smoke,” I say, grabbing my bag and hat.
He frowns, following my gaze and seeing Eddie staring intently at me as I walk away.
“Wait, wait.” He follows after me, leaving bills on the table. “Who is that?”
“No one.” I roll my eyes, walking out of the door with Smoke hot on my trail. “A client. One that I don’t want to see in the club, ‘specially not outside of it.”
“He do something to you?” he asks with the same tone his brother had when he saw Eddie yesterday.
“It’s fine.”
“That ain’t a no.” He eyes Eddie through the window. “Well if you leaving, at least let me drive you home first.”
A smile grows on my lips, trying my best to forget about Eddie staring at me from his seat. “I couldn’t—“
“Don’t do that, Anastasia,” he sighs. “I want to.”
“I ain’t even going home, Smoke,” I laugh.
“Where you going?”
“You remember the audition I told you about? The one for the film in California?”
He nods. I feel silly for ever believing that he’d forget my name, not when he hangs on to every one of my words like this.
“I been looking for a dress for it. I want to make a good impression when I fly out there.”
“I’ll pay,” he says without hesitation.
I laugh again, shaking my head. “I’ll take the ride, Smoke. Keep the money.”
“I got it to spend.”
“Oh, I know you do. I’ll let you know when I need it. Today ain’t that day, though.”
Smoke silently obliges, placing his hand on the small of my back and leading me to his car. Eddie stares at us until we pull off, and Smoke’s grip on the wheel tightens — But he makes the decision to obey my wishes, and ignore it. It only makes me like him more.
————
📍Dress Shop || 11:00am
I use some of the cash I earned from Johnnie’s to buy a simple white dress, nice enough to make a good impression, but modest enough to conceal my profession. As I exit the store, a satisfied smile on my face, I spot an all-too-familiar man across the dirt road. He crosses, sporting a sly grin as he walks through his own cigarette smoke.
“Y’all are just everywhere, huh?”
“You got a face I wouldn’t mind seeing everyday,” Stack shrugs. He looks down to my bag. “What’s that?”
“Just a dress. Bought it for my audition in California next month.”
“Mm,” he hums, raising his brows. “You an actress?”
My cheeks go warm, feeling a little embarrassed telling a client what I really want to do. “Hopefully one day.”
“I got a few connection out there, you know. A few no-good niggas who may know a guy. I could hook you up if you want,” he says, pleased to have something to contribute.
“Y’all and your handouts.” I shake my head.
“Not a handout, an offer.” He points at me. “Smart businessmen take offers, Miss Riley.”
“Well, I ain’t a businessman and I never claimed to be smart, Stack. So now what?”
He nears me, my head tilting up as his frame towers over mine. “So now you tell me why I smell my brother’s cologne on your person.”
I scoff, hiding how caught off guard I am at his comments. I’ve grown so blind to its potency I completely forgot to keep it in mind when hugging Smoke this morning.
“That’s none of your concern now, is it?”
“Maybe.” He shrugs. “Or maybe I want to know how serious y’all are before I do anything else.”
“He’s a client, Stack. Just like you are. That’s all I’ll say,” I bluff, attempting to walk past him.
He places a hand on my waist, stopping me.
“That’s all I am to you, Anastasia?” he asks, oddly close to my ear. “A client?”
“You can be whatever you want to be, Stack.” I roll my eyes, pushing his hand off and continuing my trek home.
As long as you pay, I think.
But then I think of Smoke — I wouldn’t make him pay. Hell, I find myself wanting to pay him to spend time with me more often than not. It’s an odd feeling in my stomach, to fall for a client like this. If he wasn’t so good to me, I’d call it scary.
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📍 The Johnnie Ram Club || 8:00pm
I barely get through the door before that fat old white man stops me for the second night in a row, pulling me into the dingy and barely lit “office” in the back of the club.
“What now, Francis?” I huff.
“I give you chance after chance, Stasia. I’m a very forgiving man when it comes to you in this club, and that’s out of the kindness of my heart.”
Bullshit, that’s ‘cause of the money I put in his pockets.
“Did you know that a high — Very high paying client saw you out today with another client. Just out in the daylight like it was your husband or something.” He stresses. “How does that make you look, Stasia? Parading around like a taken woman when you got men waiting for you here?”
“The twins are the highest paying clients I got, Francis — The highest paying clients you prob’bly ever gon’ see,” I snap back, in disbelief that he continues to bring up Eddie like I give a damn. “So if keeping them close is a problem for you, find me a man who’s gon’ pay me more.”
“Oh I did, sweetheart.” He smiles, his missing teeth drawing more attention than his present ones. “He might’ve cussed me out all kinds of ways, throwing a tantrum like I never seen — But he’s willing to pay. A lot more than what them twins paying.”
“No.” I shake my head. “Hell no, Francis. I am not servicing that fucking freak.”
“But you are, darlin’. For three times what he pays normally? — You can do anything for an hour, baby.”
Rage boils inside me, in utter disbelief that he continues to pimp me out to weirder and weirder men for a cut of money that he doesn’t even deserve. I decide I’m not doing it, turning my back to Francis and walking toward the biggest private room we have, itching to make a drink for myself before Eddie even shows up.
That doesn’t happen. I should’ve known from the lack of pushback from Francis when I left the room. Once I latch the curtain closed and turn around, my eyes adjust…And I’m face to face with Eddie. He’s shirtless, coils of hair littering his chest as he leans back on the sofa, his legs spread. Grinning, he licks his browning teeth, patting his lap.
It angers me for him to sit where the twins sat — They’re ten times the man he is. Either way, the twins ain’t paying for my flight to California, nor my room and board. At least that’s what I tell myself, maybe I’m too full of humility to allow myself to take what they offer.
I can do anything for an hour.
I inch myself forward, trying my best to disassociate from my own body and imagine myself anywhere else. It doesn’t work. I hesitantly take a seat on one of his bony knees, afraid I might break it. Instinctively, I pull up my strapless dress.
“No, no. Leave it.” He pulls it back down, his fingers caressing my breast. “I’ve always wanted a private room with you, angel.”
“Is that right?” I choke out, not daring to look at him.
“Mm-hmm. Just had to get a piece of this.” He runs his hands up and down my sides.
Eddie goes on this way, asking me the strangest questions as his requests get weirder and weirder. I nearly gag when he asks me to stroke his chest throughout our conversation, his shedding chest hair getting caught in my nails. He inquires about my shower routine, how I choose my underwear, and my best description of what my body odor smells like. Glancing at the clock on the wall, I notice that only fifteen minutes have gone by. I blink back tears, preparing myself to tell Eddie how I can’t do this, and leave empty handed. But just as I’m about to wrap up our conversation on how I remove my body hair, he grabs my hand, pulling it toward his crotch. He just holds it there over his jeans, his breath getting heavier. In the span of a few seconds, he’s grunting repeatedly, his stomach tightening and convulsing. It’s not until he brings his mouth to my neck in his arousal that I abruptly stand up, chills running down my body.
Eddie only throws his head back, coming down from his climax with a smile as I stare down at him, adjusting my dress. He pants, looking at me as if we’ve just had the best night of our lives.
“You did so good for me, angel,” he says. “Lay with me for a minute?”
“I— I wish I could,” I stammer, shaken up. “But I really gotta go, Eddie.”
A breath of relief escapes me when he accepts it as truth, pulling cash out of his back pocket and handing me more money than I’ve ever seen in a night.
…
My face has gone red with the amount of scrubbing I’ve done in this girls bathroom. I ignore the banging on the door as I leave the water running, doing my best to convince myself that the water trailing down my face is from the faucet. My outfit lays on the floor, leaving me in my underwear as I stare at my reddened body in the mirror, smeared lipstick staining my face. I don’t allow myself to think about it too much, afraid that I’ll quit my job where I stand if I do.
Instead, I reapply my makeup as best I can with my tears ever flowing. I look nowhere near as glamorous as I did walking in tonight, but that’s become the least of my worries. As I step into a spare l dress that I keep in my locker — Orange and long, much more modest and comfortable than I’d ever wear in this club — I take one final deep breath, wanting nothing more than to smell that lasting cologne right now.
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📍 Juke Joint || 10:00pm
Walking past the kind doorman, the scene in front of me is electrifying. Joints in Alabama were never my speed, too much klan and too little music. But this — This was like a dream for anyone who called themselves creative. Women and men alike dance together, allowing themselves to freely enjoy the music without the confines of society. Outside of these walls is none of their business, in here, they are free. In here, I’m not a service provider and my body isn’t a product — I’m a consumer, and it feels damn good to be on this side of the bargain. It isn’t long before Stack and his golden grin approach me, drink in hand.
“You lookin’ fine as Delta wine, Miss Riley,” he laughs. “Everybody treating you good in here?”
I smile, aware of how terrible I look, and aware of how much Stack doesn’t care.
“This is amazing, Stack.” I look around. “All these people enjoying themselves...never seen nothing like it.”
“We all ‘sposed to enjoy ourselves here.” He hangs his arms around my waist, placing mine around his neck. “Just listen to the music…”
Our bodies press against each other, his lips staying near my ear as our pace fluctuates with the speed of the music. He periodically sips his drink, whispering compliments in my ear each time he does, as if he knows I need them. Just as his hands roam lower, I see his clone walk past us. Smoke and I meet eyes for a moment, my body unable to react before he turns away, walking into a room near the stairs.
“Excuse me.” I break our rhythm, pulling away from Stack and following Smoke into the room.
He’s facing the wall when I enter, spinning around once I close the door behind us. Pipe smoke surrounds him as his eyes roam my body, keeping one hand in his pocket as he always so mysteriously does.
“So how you know him?” he asks, trying his best to act unbothered.
“…He came to the club once. He’s just a client…” I shrink under his gaze.
Smoke shakes his head, a light scoff escaping him as he struggles to keep his composure.
“I spent money on you, Anastasia.” He nods scornfully. “Spent time on you. And you go and lay with my brother—“
“No.” I near him, but he turns away, sucking his teeth. “I never did, Smoke. I didn’t even know you had a twin. But when I realized he wasn’t you, we stopped.”
He pouts his lips, pure disgust on his face as he looks everywhere but at me. Tears threaten to fall as my lip slightly frowns…He looks as if he regrets ever meeting me.
“I swear ‘fore god, I never slept with him,” I begin, timid. “But Smoke, you know this is my job…”
“But I don’t give a damn.” His voice raises. “It ain’t your job to almost sleep with my brother after you slept with me. It ain’t your job to keep it from me, and it damn sure ain’t your job to meet him again tonight, Anastasia. It’s fucked up.” He points his pipe at me.
I fail at containing my tears, quickly wiping them away in hopes that he won’t see. “Smoke…” I whisper. “I didn’t know.“
Suddenly, he steps toward me, examining my face. He bends to my level, lightly tilting my head to the side.
“What the hell is this?” he asks, pressing his fingers on my neck.
The spot is tender, feeling like a bruise when pressed. The crinkle in my brow quickly smoothens out as I remember the night I had before I showed up at the Juke. Smoke steps back, wiping a frustrated hand over his face.
“Stack do that?”
“No.” My head falls, not having planned on revealing my endeavors with Eddie to him tonight.
“Don’t lie to me, Anastasia. Who did that to you?”
“Please. Let’s just let it—“
He ignores my excuses, walking past me and reaching for the door. I place a hand on his chest, surrendering.
“Okay, okay,” I sigh. “You remember Francis from the club?”
He stares intensely, a skepticism on his face as he waits for the story. “Mm-hmm.”
“After Eddie saw us out today he blew up on me, saying how it’s bad for business because he’s a high paying client. He took a payout. Gave Eddie a room with me before I could stop him. Eddie um,” I gesture to my neck. “I stopped him right after.”
Smoke’s face has turned from confused to blindly furious in a matter of a few seconds, no longer bothering to smoke his pipe. He reaches past me and for the door again, pulling it open and shouting for his brother. He pulls me by my hand nearer to him, giving Stack space. When he enters, Smoke relays the entire story to him, being sure to leave out Eddie’s name.
“You ain’t gon’ believe who did that.” Smoke points to my neck.
“Who?” He looks between us, not putting two and two together yet.
My eyes stay glued to the floor. “Eddie.”
“That dude from the club?” Stacks eyebrows raise. “He set you up with that nigga?”
“That’s what the fuck I said.” Smoke shakes his head.
“Oh, we can handle that,” Stack assures me, his finger on my chin lifting my head. “We can handle that tonight.”
“And you ain’t going nowhere alone ‘til we sure it ain’t a problem no more.” Smoke chimes in.
I nod, not feeling an ounce of worry for Eddie or what will happen to him. Whatever they have planned, I want them to do him worse.
There’s commotion outside coming from the gambling room. Stack excuses himself, rushing past me and toward the arguing voices across the Juke.
Smoke’s eyes stay on my neck, a scowl on his face. “I don’t like seeing that on you.”
He pulls a few bills from his suit pocket, counting them before deciding to just give the whole thing, holding it out for me.
“Leave that place,” he suggests, sounding less like a plead and more like a demand. “And all those sons of bitches. Leave ‘em all behind.”
I stare down at the money, $200. A thousand different outcomes rush through my head. But at the forefront of my mind is, possibly, the worst one. An image of myself returning to Johnnie’s with a begging bowl flashes in my mind. There are too many undecideds to make such a choice. Whether it be in a week or in a year, these twins will lose interest in me, and I’ll be without a job. I think back to when I first took the job, broke and desperate. I know what it is to not have money, the way people look at you, how they treat you — I won’t ever put myself in that position again. The fear alone makes me shake my head.
“I can’t…” I whisper.
“Don’t be stupid.”
“I’m ain’t,” I say, convincing myself more than I’m convincing him. “But I’m scared, Smoke. I been broke before—“
“I been broke before, Anastasia,” he assures me. “That ain’t gon’ be us no more. I’ll put you in the square, get you a job with Grace and Bo if I have to.”
‘Us,’ he said. We’re a team.
“I can’t be someone else’s charity case, Smoke. You know this.” My lip quivers, not knowing why I’m saying what I’m saying. “I gotta get myself out of the mud.”
“You think Eddie's the only one like that?” he asks, frustrated. “You want to stay holed up in there getting touched on by niggas like that?"
I look down, not letting myself consider the life he’s offering. I’m so used to this, so good at this, the thought of leaving it for men I met only a couple of days ago is too much change for me at once.
“I have no choice.”
He gets closer, forcing me to look up at him. “You don’t see this money right here?”
“Two hundred ain’t gon’ get me by for as long as I need to get by, Smoke. I just can’t.”
Smoke just stares at me, making me more self concious each second he does. Eventually, he just nods, leaving me with a simple “Alright,” before squeezing past me and slipping out the door. But not before leaving the money on the table, as if he’s giving me one last chance.
As the door slams shut, I collapse onto the floor. Why I’m so dead set on being independent, I don’t know. Maybe it’s my daddy’s dying and mama’s leaving that made me this way. The thought of relying on Smoke’s connections, kindness, and abilities shakes me to my core. More than that, the fear of the unknown may be scarier than the fear of Francis demanding money from me every night.
But the moment Francis crosses my mind, Eddie crosses my mind. I can feel his hands on me still, his knee digging into my skin as his breath infects my neck. I think about what Smoke told me: Will there be more Eddies? Could I handle more Eddies? That thought shakes me, even more than the thought of relying on Smoke. It isn’t until now that I remember all of the groping and the comments and the tears that prickled my eyes after each encounter. I can’t do that for the rest of my life, I won’t. I’m smart enough to know that I deserve more than a life of Eddies and Francis’ — And as I stare at the money on the the table, I finally start to see a new path waiting for me.
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📍 The Johnnie Ram Club || 1:00 am
My leg shaking makes a repeated tapping noise, drowned out my the rain coming down on my cab — The only one I’ve had since my first year in the city, paid for with a portion of Smoke’s $200. I just stare at the building, all of the memories I’ve made racing through my head.
“Ma’am, you either have to get out or pay for the wait,” my driver tells me, staring back.
I take off my black gloves, folding them neatly in my lap before paying my driver. After one last deep breath, I open the car door, running toward the club to escape the rain.
My resignation is a blur. I feel like I’m walking in slow motion the whole time, only hearing my own heartbeat thump in my chest. Francis is where he always is, sitting in his office, the squeaky fan running on its last leg as smoke fills the room.
“Stasia.” He looks at me. “You ain't scheduled tonight, are you?”
I don’t respond, only handing him my gloves, a $50 bill sitting on top of them.
“This is more money than I owe you, but I don’t feel like hearing that mouth of yours no more,” I spit.
He stares at the money and then back up at me, getting out of his chair and putting his hands on his hips.
“This about them damn twins?” he asks. “If so, you owe me a lot more than that, darlin’.”
I scoff. “I’m worth a lot fuckin’ more than you’ll ever be able to give me, old man,” I assure him turning my back to him and throwing up a sly middle finger.
“You turn around right now, Stasia! You can’t leave like this, they ain’t gon’ pay your bills forever. Not like I have!” Francis word vomits, not having the physical ability to run after me.
“Tell Eddie he can go fuck himself, Frannie!” I shout back, walking away. “Join him while you’re at it!”
I leave Johnnie Ram with a smile on my face, never minding the rain. As dignified as I feel, a small and dull fear lights in my chest. Fear of the unknown.
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📍 Film Set Trailer || 3 YEARS LATER
This is one of my biggest films yet. They’ve given me my own makeup and hair artists, my own dialect coaches to push the southern out of me, even my own trailer for my off hours. As I sit down at my vanity, exhausted and ready to end the night, a picture on the side sends memories flooding back. Smoke, Stack, and I on the night of their Juke Joint sits pretty under one of my lightbulbs, hearts surrounding Smoke.
Before I returned to that Joint, rained on and jobless, that was one of the best and worst days of my life. But once I returned, something else was lurking outside of that blues joint, someone else. I barely made in inside in time before Pick-Poor-Robin-Clean and his buddies showed up.
We know the terrors of the night now, the twins an I. They took hold of my Smoke and never let go that night, even if he was never bit. The moment he shot those few standing klansmen outside of the sawmill, the old Smoke was gone — Perhaps he was already gone the minute we found his brother bleeding out on the floor, or maybe when Stack started talking through the door like he was never down. I’ll never be sure which exact moment my Smoke was gone, but something did change in him that night. Something I’ve yet to get back.
Smoke and I had plans, at least ideas of one. We threw out concepts of what we’d do after I left Johnnie’s. Maybe live together, start a family, move to the fancier parts of Mississippi. I was foolish enough to still dream so big after the devil visited us that night. But I never saw Smoke’s face after that, our only contact being yearly notes in the mail and weekly checks. Stack visits me more than Smoke does these days, but under a strict oath to leave Sammie and I alive and well.
I don’t think I’ll ever stop missing Elijah Moore. He showed me the finer things in life in the short time I had him — When to take what I was given and when to demand more. When to pull out a gun or when to light a cigarette instead. Smoke showed me blues like I had never heard blues, safety like I had never felt safety, and love like I had never felt love.
I don’t let myself linger too much in the past. Sometimes when I cry out at night, I don’t know if I’m talking to God or Smoke, but they both comfort me all the same. I’ll always wonder what could’ve been, what life we could’ve had. But Smoke told me I’d never be without money again, and that’s stay true. It’s more than a sinner like me could ask for.
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Whew lemme say every time I see your notifications on my phone I just know its going to be something good. Like oh my gosh that man said can I bite you 😃😃 ahhhhhhh (personally I would have said yes but 🤷🏾♀️ 🤭)
-😫
LMAOO Y’ALL CRACK ME UP (i’d say yes too ;) I’m so happy u guys like my stories!!
summary: Josephine’s brother, Wells, was a sharecropper with the Smoke-Stack twins. After they left him without a word, she never forgave them. When they come back seven years later causing trouble, she has no idea what to do — Especially when unexpected feelings arise. [5.5k]
a/n: thank you all for loving the last sinners story and welcome to my new followers! here’s another! also, again, im going to preface this with the fact that i am black. lastly, ! all of my ocs are ethnically ambiguous unless stated otherwise in the !s, free to read for all ! anyway, as always, ur interaction is greatly appreciated, ily<3
warnings: swearing, n word use (by smoke and stack), abuse, alcoholism, blood, fighting, guns
in this story, our characters name is: Josephine
📍 Fields Shoe Shining and Tailor || 2:00pm
Dry air blows in as I suck on my bleeding thumb, having stuck the sewing needle right into it again. Wells has left me in the store alone, as he’s so keen on doing, but as he enters again, he’s got dumb and dumber on his trail.
“Ain’t no goddamn way,” I say in awe, watching the Smoke-Stack twins walk into our shop.
“That’s what I said, Jo.” My brother smiles. I don’t. “The devil done brought their asses all the way back from Chicago.”
“They say he works in evil ways,” I state, flat faced.
Wells is beaming, smiling cheek to cheek and staring at the twins like they gave him something. I seem to be the only one remembering how they left him seven years ago.
“Say man, there any colored folk down in Chicago?” he asks.
“There's colored folk everywhere.” Stack grins, walking up to my counter.
“Why are y’all back, Stack?”
Wells chimes in. “They throwing a party, the fancy type. Down at the old sawmill.”
“The old sawmill?” I scrunch my face up. “And who bought that for y’all?”
Smoke huffs. “We grown now, Josephine. We buy shit for ourselves.”
“I’m sorry, I meant whose money did y’all steal to pay for it.”
“Woo.” Stack smiles wickedly, looking back at Wells. “This sister of yours always did have a mouth on her. Feisty lil thing.”
“Boy, if you don’t get the fuck on.” I roll my eyes, rounding the counter and heading toward the back.
“Wait.” Wells stands in front of me. “They bringing business.”
My ears perk up and I look back to the twins — Although, ain’t no business worth the mischief they bring with them.
“What business?”
“This suit jacket right here.” Smoke traces his finger along the button holes of his jacket. “I want you to embroider it, something classy for the party. I’ll give you twenty for it.”
I scoff. “Yea, hell no.” I begin walking off.
My brother stops me again, evoking a rough sigh out of me.
“What, Wells?”
“Come on now, Jo. We family. You gotta do this for ‘em. I’d do it myself if I knew how.”
“Family?” I furrow my brows, crossing my arms and turning my body toward the three men. “If we was family they would’ve never left you on that damn plantation when they fled.”
“It’s best you don’t speak on business you don’t know, Josephine,” Smoke warns.
Every time, he think he gets me with that damn Josephine. If only he knew that I preferred that name over any of my short ones, especially from the mouths of those I hold no relation or respect to.
“You think I don’t know, Smoke?” I near him. “Who do you think was there when he cried the nights after y’all left him?”
Wells shrinks in his spot, embarrassed. Hell, I don’t know why — If anything these motherfuckers should be ashamed for leaving their “family” to do the picking while they took their blood money and ran uptown without giving a shit about the rest of us.
“Twenty-five,” Smoke suggests.
“Forty,” I throw back.
“Thirty.”
“Forty.”
“Thirty-two. It’s the best I can do.” He holds out five clean bills, cleaner money than I’ve ever seen.
I sneer at him, rolling my eyes as I grab the bills and stuff the money in my apron pocket.
“Atta girl.” He takes his jacket off, placing it neatly in my hand. “And make the thread match will you?”
I give him a do-you-think-I’m-an-idiot? look. Why the hell would I put orange thread on a navy lined jacket. It only aggravates me more.
“Are y’all done here?”
“Throw mine in too, Josie.” Stack coyly grins, taking his jacket off too.
“No, Stack.”
“Come on, Jose. I got money—“
“Hell no, Stack,” I interrupt him, walking toward the back room. “You’re lucky I’m taking your damn brother's.”
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📍 Josephine and James’ house || 10:00am
Thimble covers my fingers now as I carefully thread flowers and flames into the bottom of Smokes suit. The thick smell of his cigarettes are embedded into every inch of the fabric, making me even less inclined to take my time.
Smoke is the lesser of two evils, if I had to choose. I can’t prove it, but I like to think that he at least felt a bit of hesitation before leaving Wells behind like that. Before they did what they did, when their daddy was alive, he wouldn’t only beat on them — He’d beat on Wells. I worked in a factory with my mama, so I was never subject to working in any kind of field, but Wells’ work got harder and harder the more he grew up. The only comfort he had was that he was doing it with the twins, our only friends. Ever since that day they left without a word and we heard about their destination through the grapevine, I never forgave them. The plantation got sold but each owner was as bad as the next, hitting Wells with his fist just because he could.
So no, I won’t forgive them — Not after that tricking shit they pulled on my brother, even if Wells is too forgiving to see it. God didn’t bless me with a forgiving heart.
James comes into the living room with his work overalls on, pulling the strap up over his shoulder.
“I’m heading out, baby,” he tells me.
“Oh, okay.”
I continue rocking in my rocking chair as he presses a kiss into my forehead. His retreating footsteps are tuned out by my singing, a gentle hum that gets me through the more tedious seam work. Just as I begin to get lost in my tunes, I hear footsteps nearing the family room.
I stop.
“…James?”
No answer, only more heavy footsteps.
My heart skips a beat and I reach into the wooden table that holds our plants. I feel like a child navigating a new toy for the first time as I retrieve James’ small revolver, holding it in my free hand and pointing it at the hallway.
Heartbeats turn into internal pounding in my ears as the steps take an eternity to reach me. When they finally do, I’m prepared to fire missing shots before meeting my grizzly demise.
As my sure murderer rounds the corner, I open my eyes to see…Stack.
“Jesus.” I hold my chest, letting out a relived breath. “Now why the fuck would that man let you in here?”
“I’m not allowed to visit my old friends?” he asks with a smile, leaning in the doorway.
“We ain’t nothing near friends, Stack.”
He sucks his teeth. “That’s just how you choose to see it, Josie.” He walks closer, sitting in the couch across from my rocking chair.
“That’s how it is,” I assure him. “What do you want?”
“To check in on you, damnit. We just got back, I’m owed a few updates, hm?”
“You’re not owed shit, Stack. And right now you’re wasting my time. What do you want?”
He stares at me for a moment, tilting his head and biting his lip in the slightest. “I wanted to know if you still dance.”
“Tuh,” I scoff. “Wouldn’t you like to know.”
“No, for real,” his tone quiets. “Do you?”
“Maybe I do, Stack. But not for you.”
“…I want you to show me.”
I continue embroidering Smokes jacket. “And why would I do that?”
“‘Cause I ain’t leaving until you do.”
“I guess we’ll just sit here then...”
And we do. What feels like half and hour goes by, the silence being filled with Stack’s constant nagging. He asks me any question he can think of, my life, my brother, my husband, my sewing, none of which I want to disclose to him. Nevertheless, I do, hoping and praying that he forgets his condition and gets up to leave.
Of course, he never does — They always were stubborn.
“Alright,” I huff, setting my embroidery needle down. “You really not gonna leave?”
“Sure ain’t,” he leers. “I’m starting to think you want me to stay.”
Accepting defeat, I set the jacket down on the rocking chair, grabbing a record from our side table and heading toward the player.
“Let me get that for you.” Stack grabs it from my hands, gently placing it on the record player and lowering the stylus.
He returns to his seat, crossing his leg and biting his lip, a hungry look of satisfaction on his face. “Go on.”
The record crackles to life, one of my favorite jazz songs blaring through the loudspeaker. As it always does, my body moves automatically, no thought needed.
“Woo,” he pull his cigarette out of his mouth, clapping. “There you go,”
“Shut up, Stack,” I groan, turning my back to him and swaying my hips.
It doesn’t take long for me to get lost in the music, throwing my hands in the air and running them down my body, my legs, arms, and hips rocking in symphony. I’ve forgotten Stack was sitting there by the time the music comes to a close — And my eyes haven’t reopened yet when I feel his frame against my back.
His hands hold my waist, pulling me close.
“That dance ain’t nothing like it was last time,” he says, his lips far too close to my ear.
My hands firmly rest on his. “Yea, well I wasn’t grown last time.”
“I know that’s right…” his breath grazes my neck. “You gon’ do that at the Joint for me?”
For the first time…I consider it. If it was anybody else’s Joint I’d jump at the idea, longing to feel the freedom of dancing to my hearts content once again. One thing James hates more than anything was my dancing — Any work of mine, he’d rather me not do. Even so, I can’t give the twins this satisfaction.
“You wish.”
Stack stays silent for a moment, simply pushing his chest against my back. I’m about to tell him to get the hell on when I feel his tongue on my ear…then his teeth, nipping my lobe.
Why I don’t immediately pull away is beyond me. If Smoke saw me right now…If James saw me right now…If Wells saw me — Wells.
I roughly push against his chest, turning toward him.
Stack adjusts his pants. “Come on, baby.”
“You best leave,” I suggest — I don’t know if I’m panting from my dancing or the close proximity.
He steps closer. “We got time—“
“I have a husband, Stack.”
“Mane, fuck your husband,” he urges. “He ain’t gon’ be home for another few hours, ain’t it?”
“And I need to have this suit done by then,” I reiterate, convincing myself more than I’m convincing him. “Go home, Stack.”
He searches my face for any signs of hesitation, and for a moment I think he sees it. But he backs down, putting his hands up and turning toward the door.
“Alright,” he surrenders. “But I best see you at that Joint tomorrow night, Josie.”
Hell the fuck no.
I stay in the living room until I hear him swing the door closed behind him — I’ve never trusted myself so little until now. I’m afraid of what I’ll do if I follow him out.
I’m not supposed to tolerate these men, let alone dance for one of them. This is what I’ve heard of the Smoke-Stack twins doing to women. Serenading them, fucking them, and leaving them to the dogs. It won’t be me.
Once I’m sure he’s gone, I finally walk to the door, reaching for the lock. But as I go to walk back down the hallway and finish the jacket, really this time, something on the coat rack catches my eye.
“Motherfucker,” I mumble under my breath.
Hanging there next to James and I’s winter coats, a grey suit jacket with a red pocket square sits pretty. In the pockets, Stack has left me five clean bills…$32.
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📍 Fields Shoe Shining and Tailor || 10:00am
Business is slower than usual on this fine Friday morning. Wells finishes up some shoes that were brought in yesterday, and Smoke’s mostly finished suit jacket lays in the back room. It was being used as my personalized pillow before. My chin nearly falls off of my fist and my eyes flutter closed as a gust of warm wind passes over me.
All of the fatigue in my body is stripped away the next moment as two gunshots ring out from outside. Wells and I immediately pop our heads up and run toward the door.
“What the—“
My face drops when I see the scene outside. None other than Elijah Moore stands across from two men with bullets in their legs as he tucks his gun back into his jacket.
“The fuck are you doing, Smoke!?” I shout, running up to him.
“They tried to rob my truck.”
“So you shot ‘em?”
“I sure the hell did.” He looks at me crazy.
“Are you fucking serious? Y’all can’t go one day without bringing trouble can you?”
All of the store owners in the square have come outside, standing in front of their businesses and watching the scene play out.
“Will you, Wells? Or you gon’ let them get away with it again?” I yell in his face, adrenaline rushing through me.
“I got it, Jo. Just please go inside,” he begs.
I spin on my heels, rushing away from the bloody scene and back into the store on a mission. I rip a paper from under the counter and bite the pen cap off, spitting it onto the floor.
You and your crazy ass brother need to stay away from the Delta — Maybe back up to Chicago where they’ll deal with your asses right. Whatever happened yesterday was a mistake, I don’t want it, I’ll never want it. And come pick up this jacket of yours.
Grammatical errors litter the page, but I fold up the letter all the same, pressing it tight and leaving it on the counter as I go to retrieve Smokes suit from the back. When I return, Wells is entering with him.
“You just gotta chill is all I’m saying. People don’t do shit like that around here no more.”
I push the suit against Smokes chest, stepping back.
“Fuck is—“ He looks down at the jacket. “It’s done?”
“I’m not finishing your jacket,” I tell him, plain and simple.
He eyes me as I return behind the counter, stone faced and completely avoiding his gaze.
“You been showing me a lot of disrespect, Josephine, and I’ve been nothing but good to you.” He lays his jacket across his arm. “So I’ll ask you one good time what your problem is with me.”
“You are my problem, Smoke. Both of you.”
Wells walks over to me. “Don’t start this again, Jo—“
“I’m not starting nothing, Wells. It’s called having a backbone. Keep the coat, Smoke. Your brother can have his back too.”
I can see him make the conscious decision to retain his calmness as he adjusts his position.
“Alright,” he nods. “If you ain’t gon’ finish it, Imma need my money back. Eighteen flat, and that’s being generous.”
“You not gonna play me in my own store, boy.” I pay him no mind, rearranging my counter. “That coat is more than half done. With all that money y’all got in Chicago you oughta not need any back.”
“See, what you not gon’ do is steal from me, Josephine. I don’t give a damn how mad you are.”
“Or what, Smoke?” I challenge. “You gonna shoot me too?”
He pauses, then pulls that same pistol on me. “Think I won’t.”
“Woah, woah.” Wells holds his hands up. “Is it worth all this, y’all? Really?”
Smoke and I stare each other down, neither of us budging as the barrel of his gun aligns with my nose.
“I ain’t leaving without my money, woman.”
“Well then you ain’t leaving.”
“I’ll get you your money, Smoke,” my brother mediates. “Just put the gun down.”
I shake my head. “Nah, he ain’t gotta put it down. It’s not like he’s gon’ shoot it—“
My words can barely get out when a bullet is fired into the wall behind me, causing a sharp ringing in my ear.
“Smoke!” Wells yells, running over to me.
I hold my hands tight over my ear, moving from behind the counter and over to Smoke.
“Are you fucking crazy!?” I shove him. “You gonna do that bullshit in my damn store?”
“Give me my money.”
Grace and Bo from across the street run in, examining the sight in front of them — Smoke tucking his gun back in his suit, my hands over my ears, Wells pushing me back.
“What the hell is going on?” Bo asks.
“He’s fucking crazy, that’s what.”
Smoke turns to Wells. “You best tell her to give me my money, nigga. Else the next one going into a body.”
“I’m gon’ get the money, goddamnit!” Wells exclaims.
I get in Smokes face, rage overriding my common sense. Without thinking about it, I spit — A ball of saliva lining his right cheek.
“Fuck you,” I growl.
Smoke short circuits, looking at me with ten different men in his eyes. But the good ones don’t get the best of him today; he wastes no time pulling the gun out again, aiming it right at my chest. Grace swoops in, pulling me away before he can do something he might regret.
“Let’s go, we are going,” she tells me.
“He won’t do nothing!” I yell as Grace drags me to the car. “You ain’t shit, Smoke! Your ass should’ve stayed gone!”
Bo and Wells run out behind Smoke as Grace backs us out. Smoke has completely lost his composure now, shouting all of the fuck-you-bitch’s that he can muster. I’m just glad he has sense enough not to shoot my ass where I sit.
It’s only when driving away that I finally calm down, realizing just how huge of a mess I made of something that may not be worth it. As Grace speeds us away, I sink lower in the passengers seat, wanting nothing more than one of those cigarettes in Stack’s jacket pocket.
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📍 Juke Joint || 10:00pm
I wrap my feather shrug tighter as the cool air of the Mississippi night breeze past me. I drove here in silence and in secret without asking myself questions. Why the hell I’m here, I don’t know.
Cornbread stands up the minute he sees me walking up.
“I don’t think you should be here, ma’am.”
“Cornbread, please get the fuck out of my face,” I smile, not in the mood to stay in this cold ass weather.
“Un-uh,” he shakes his head. “Smoke gave strict orders not to let your ass in.”
I sigh, rolling my eyes as I reveal the burgundy embroidered suit jacket from behind my back.
“Stack told me to bring it for tonight, I’m already late.”
Cornbread is conflicted, looking behind him in search of the twins.
“Man, where your brother at?”
“My brother ain’t my keeper — Now seriously, Cornbread. We wasting time and it’s cold out here.”
A sultry voice calls out from behind the doorman. “Let her in, Cornbread. She’s with me.”
He reluctantly obliges, stepping aside.
“Thank you,” I curtsy.
Behind him, I see my one and only friend around here — Pearline. She wears a big smile, hooking her arm in mine as we walk deeper into the dancing crowd.
“I hear you been stirring up trouble,” she taunts.
I scoff. “And you been eyeing Preacher Boy since I saw y’all at the train station yesterday.”
She giggles, looking back at Sammie who happens to have his eyes on her right this moment.
“Just a little fun,” she shrugs. “So, which one is yours?”
“Girl, what?”
“Smoke…or Stack?” she urges, a mischievous smile on her lips. “I’m thinking Stack.”
“Well, I’m thinking neither!” My eyes widen. “I am married!”
She coyly shrugs. “I am too…”
My mouth hangs agape, in disbelief at this side of Pearline — No one’s been able to pull this out of her before. Hell, it ain’t my place to be mad at it.
We don’t fit another word in before Preacher Boy comes to retrieve his little princess, excusing himself and softly pulling Pearline to the stage. She waves goodbye, but I can only give her a look. An I-know-what-y’all-did look.
Pearline’s song pulls that dance out of me that the jazz did yesterday. I have to stop myself from rocking my body to the blues so early into the night. As if I conjured this devil, my eye is caught by none other than Elias Moore himself — leaving the bar to talk to old Delta Slim. I make my way over.
“Stack,” I nod, placing the coat in his hands.
He grins, passing his drink to Slim who quickly makes himself scarce after downing the whole cup.
“I knew you could play nice.” He slips it on over his vest.
“When I want to,” I tilt my head, the hate that I usually feel for this face completely dissolving. “Where’s Smoke?”
“Man, fuck that." He nears me. “Where’s James?”
I roll my eyes. I’ve tried my best to forget about my husband since the second I left home.
“Oh?” Stack raises a brow, intrigued.
“We argued.” I summarize, my voice low. “He didn’t want me working no more, said it made him look like an unfit husband.”
He sucks his teeth. “Shit, you like to work. And I like that.”
I grin, praying that James never finds out where I came tonight.
“Honestly, I came here half just to spite him.”
Stack’s own smile grows wider, his golden grills showing as he wraps an arm around me, his hand sliding down to palm my ass.
“Let’s spite him even more.” He pulls my body close against his.
But this time…I allow myself to smile. Whether I like it because I know I shouldn’t be doing it, or because I’m growing soft spot for this twin, I don’t have time to figure out.
“Mm-mmm,” I decline, lightly pressing him back. “I gotta find Smoke— Pay him back.”
He backs off, crossing his arms. “I wouldn’t, Jose. He still hot from this morning.”
“I gotta. I did some disrespectful ass shit today.”
“Oh, I know.” He winces, looking up.
I do the same. Standing over the balcony staring at us is his brother, a cloud of cigarette smoke surrounding him.
Stack places his hand on the small of my back, leading me upstairs. He’s hot on my trail as a knot ties itself in my stomach. Had it not been for Stack pushing me, I might’ve turned around and forgotten about the whole ordeal. But nonetheless, as Smoke slips into a room, I follow after him,
Annie stands beside Smoke as we enter, we’ve clearly interrupted something. Smoke just stares holes through my head, his jaw clenched so hard I think it might pop.
“You got my money?” His ice cold tone makes it sound much more like a demand.
I reach into my bra, straightening out a few bills before handing to him. His hand is hard and firm as he pull the dollars from me, counting them up.
Stack scrunches his face up. “Nigga, you was tripping over $18?”
“It’s the principle, mane.” Smoke nods at me. “She know that. Now let’s go make some money.”
And with that, Smoke and Annie exit the room. I’m not enough of a fool to think that Smoke forgives me or will ever forget what I did — But he’s fair enough to take only what he’s owed and go on about his life, and I can respect that.
Now alone, Stack sits in a creaky wooden chair, relaxing and spreading his feet apart. I just stare at him, feeling the slightest bit insecure under his gaze.
“You hear that music, don’t you?” his grills gleam at me. “Show me a little some’.”
A small laugh escapes my lips. But before I can say no, Pearline begins to sing a smoother song downstairs, something much more my speed.
“Go on,” Stack urges me.
I oblige, now thinking less of how mad James would be and more how pleased I can make the man in front of me. My back is turned to him and I begin running my hands up and down my sides, accentuating the curves that I’ve yet to let Stack see. The song gains momentum, speeding much more than I thought it would. Lovely singing turns into wild hooting as the stomps of the crowd thump in my ears. Still, I sway to the music, just with more intention, seduction even. I don’t even notice that Stack has gotten up until his hands are following mine, running over the most intimate parts of my body.
“You gon’ finally let me have you, Josie?” he rasps in my ear, his voice nearly blending in with the music.
“Maybe if you work for it…”
The two of us move in harmony, his hands following mine, my hips following his. It’s not until the tempo slows that I realize the position we’re in. My hands sit on the table as Stack stands behind me, his clothed waist grinding against mine as he leaves rough kisses on my neck. I don’t resist it this time, I don’t want to. In fact, I want to do the exact opposite. His hand rests across my throat, turning my head so that I can properly kiss him. It feels amazing, finally letting all of the tension out in this way. I feel possessed by the music as our hands grow nearer and nearer to crossing a line. But suddenly the stomps ain’t so far, and Stacks lips ain’t so close.
I open my eyes to a gruesome scene. It takes me a moment to be sure, but once I’m sure, I’m sure. James has burst through the door and ripped Stack off of me, landing blows the minute he entered. Only seconds have passed and blood has already begun covering his fist. Stack wastes no time, retrieving his brass knuckles and aiming for James’ face. Blood splatters across the room and the two men fight like dogs in front of me.
“Stop—“ I can barely choke the words out when I realize that this is going to end up in a death.
I don’t bother wasting time thinking before I run downstairs. The time between my leaving the room and returning with Smoke and Annie behind me must be about fifteen seconds, but it feels like three.
“The fuck!?” Smoke pushes past me.
He pulls his gun, aiming it at the incoherent mess that is Stack, James, and a lot of blood. I don’t speak, only run to the two men and try my best to save my James, pulling back on his shoulder. He swings his blood-soaked arm back, elbowing me in the face with a crack before continuing to tussle with Stack. I fall to the floor, cradling my cheek as I scoot away from the two men.
Two shots ring out, and the sound of thrashing finally ceases.
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📍Josephine and James’ house || 12:00pm
I made out that he found the note when he begged me not to leave him. Even bloody, shot, and thrown on the Mississippi road, James still gained the power to speak those words to me. He threw me his accusations that he had against Stack, saying he did something against my will. James did it to save me, according to him. I blamed myself all night long for forgetting to put that note away — Maybe it was that that allowed him to survive the night. Perhaps my praying and apologizing to God was enough to make him save James from those two bullets in his side.
It don’t matter now. I’m back home alone just like I would be if he wasn’t in the hospital, feeling the same too — Despite my stitched up cheek and the never ending thoughts of what Stack and I could’ve done last night. It’s wrong, I know it is, but no matter how hard I fight it, all I can imagine is what we would’ve done had James not barged in.
It’s stormy this evening, the clouds covering the sun make me feel like the lord might’ve darkened the sky just to make me feel worse. I flip through my old photo album, photos of young me, Wells, and our parents in that small house in South Carolina. Sometimes I miss those days — Most times, actually. Before I had a hard head and a harder ass, ready to take on anyone who wanted to whoop me at anytime. Back when I could be a soft Josephine who wouldn’t provoke men to shoot her or spend my nights with drunkards at an old mill.
A knock at the door pulls me from my miserable reminiscing. I close the album and set it aside, opening up the door for what I assume to be a patched up James…But it’s not. It’s a much more warming face.
“Stack,” I half smile, having no idea how he feels about last night…How he feels about me.
“Can I come in, Josie?” he asks.
"'Course." I nod, stepping aside and letting him walk past me. As we make our way to the couch, I’m marveled at how little lasting damage James did to him. Sure he had a few stitches beneath his t-shirt and a cut and a bruise on his face, but nothing like James — His face was swollen, still black and blue when I visited him this morning.
We sit next to each other, Stack taking his time not to hurt himself. The tension eats me alive as we just stare at each other, soft jazz music playing.
“I’m sorry…” I begin. “I wrote a note—“
“Shh.” He places a hand on my criss-crossed thigh. “It wasn’t never your fault, baby.”
I can’t find it in me to smile today, although baby makes me want to oh so bad.
“Doctors said he should be okay this morning. But he was damn near dead by the time I drove him there last night,” I tell him. Stack gives me no answer. “If he recovers…I don’t know if I ever want him back in my house.”
I never allowed myself to consider the possibility of leaving James. My mama taught me that in order for anyone to see my value, I’m gon’ need some sort of man behind me, whether that be Wells, my daddy, or another man. But daddy died and I protected Wells more than he ever could protect me, so I did what I was told — Found a husband.
I don’t know that I ever loved him. I said I did, but I didn’t know what love was when we got married. It didn’t matter anyway, he had money and he was good enough to me in the beginning, so I couldn’t ask for more. It was three good years before he showed me the real him. The him that got home from work and started drinking, and more than that, started hitting. Only holes in our walls at first, then more. Sometimes I wonder if that’s what makes me so violent. I never had it in me to stand up to him so I stood up to everyone else.
Stack brings his hand to my stitched cheek, stroking it with his thumb.
“If he ever comes near you again — Ever does this again,” his voice is the most tender I’ve ever heard it. “Smoke and I will shoot him dead this time.”
I shake my head, the tiniest hint of a smile on the corner of my lip. “No need.”
“You don’t believe me?” he asks, offended.
“Oh no, I do,” I assure him. “That’s why I’m not scared of what he’ll do no more. I think you and your brass taught him enough of a lesson.”
His eyes scan my body, his hand returning to my thigh.
“Something like this happen before?”
“Only when he’s drunk and jealous.” I don’t include the part where that is every night. “That’s why I’m at the shop so much. I sometimes think that if I’m there long enough he’ll forget he was ever gonna touch me.”
Stack's face has dropped.
“Your brother know this?” he asks, a fiery glimmer in his eyes.
“He got no clue,” I scoff. “He’s dumb that way.”
He stares at me for a moment, a hunger in his eye behind the immediate anger. He raises a hand to my cheek again.
“I can show you real love, baby. Even if it’s just for today...”
Gently, Stack pulls my face to his. We’re careful not to touch each others’ wounds as he kisses me harder, laying back and pulling me on top of him. He pushes his hips up and I grind mine back and forth, groans escaping the both of us.
I feel free when I’m with Stack, like I can be powerful in who I am — I don’t worry about the store or James when I’m on him.
“You’re so beautiful,” he whispers, a deeper more guttural rasp in his voice now. I ignore it, enjoying his kisses that he litters across my chest. I feel like I’m flying, he can do anything to me.
“Josie,” he whispers.
“Hm?” I hum, not bothering to look down as I pull my dress up.
summary: Rue has worked for years to forget Elijah Moore and what he left her with before he ran to Chicago. But when she sees his ambitious twin in the square, all of their history comes rushing back. (3.1k)
a/n: it has been so long, but Sinners is truly a movie in its own category. i also need to preface that i am black for this story. anyway, as always, ur interaction is greatly appreciated, ily<3
warnings: swearing, n word use (by smoke and stack), mentions of child loss, abortion, sex, racism
in this story, our characters name is: Rue
Elijah Moore and I never had a complicated relationship. Hell, Smoke might even say we had none at all. But for years after he ravaged me in that car outside of the bar, I thought about him every night. We were together, I’d say — Boyfriend and girlfriend for as long as his grief consumed him. But the moment Annie found out, Smoke disappeared from my arms and was at her feet, begging for forgiveness. I don’t blame her, not in the slightest — I can only imagine that those were some of their darkest times.
Elias, on the other hand, him and I had a complicated relationship. When I found out that Smoke left a piece of himself in me, there was no way I could tell him, not after what he’d just been through. So I went to the closest thing to him, Stack. And although what we had is never to be considered romantic, there was something there — Familial, even. He knew it, Mary knew it, and for that very reason I was never allowed within an 100 foot radius of the twins until the day they left, not if I wanted to feel welcome.
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📍 Train Station || 12:00pm
The feelings from all those years ago bubble up inside me and form a twist in my gut when I see that all-too-recognizable burgundy top hat. My feet move before my mind can stop them, and in no time I’m approaching my old friend.
Stack flashes a gold toothed smile. “I’ll be damned.”
I return the nicety, pulling him in for a warm hug.
“Word spreads fast,” I nod. “Y’all still got the same appeal you had all them years ago.”
“You don’t have to tell me that, darling. I know it.” His cocky smile takes me back, the only thing differentiating him from his brother being his energy.
“Do I even want to know why you came back?”
“You heard it as good as I did,” he gestures toward little Preacher Boy and the old man. “We’re opening a Juke Joint tonight, right there down at the old mill.”
“Y’all never could stay still. Chicago wasn’t change enough for you?”
He shrugs. “Figured we should deal with a devil we know. Besides, we miss the tricking.”
“Mmm,” I hum. “Well if Miss Pearline back there is singing, I might just pay this Joint a visit.”
Stack looks past me and at the polka dottted woman walking away from Preacher Boy.
“Shit, if that’s what it takes for you to come, it’s done.”
Always so charming.
He ogles me, his eyes scanning up and down my exposed arms.
“What’s this?” Stack rubs his fingers over the dark ink lining my skin — Art ranging from numbers to symbols to simple symmetric images.
“You know I’m an artist, boy,” I pull my arm back, scoffing. “Figured I’d get a few permanent ones to remember a few things.”
“And you talking about we couldn’t stay still. I’ll be visiting to get a look at those paintings of yours one of these days.” Stack’s grin begins to fade as he looks over my shoulder.
Preacher Boy walks up and nears his cousin. “This white woman’s been staring at you-“
“Yea, I see her…”
He shoos Sammie away and tries to walk me off, but I’m already well aware of what shark is in the water — I can hear her heels clicking behind me.
“Now is this Smoke? Or is that Stack?”
I turn my head. “Hi, Mary.”
No response. Only a rough shoulder check as she stands in front of me and nears Stack.
He looks over her head and at me. “I’ll holler at you, Rue-“
Mary interrupts. “No, you’re not talking to fucking Rue right now. You’re talking to me.”
Stack huffs, looking back down at the woman dressed in pink. I give him a ‘have fun dealing with that’look before turning and catching my train.
Of all the women wrapped around the twins’ fingers, Mary has got to be the most spiteful of them all. For no good reason, though. Contrary to her belief, I never once slept with Stack, never even thought of it. But as far as she knows, I kissed him all the way to where the sun don’t shine, and then some.
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📍 Juke Joint || 10:00pm
This old mill has lit up under the construction of the twins. People hoot and holler as Pearline ignites the stage, turning into the musical beast I knew she would the minute she started singing. Having no dance partner, I simply clap along, moving my body to the beat alone. Out of the corner of my eye, I see the same damn burgundy hat that I saw only hours ago.
I can feel Annie’s eyes burning holes into my skull as I sit at the bar, Stack walking up to me.
“Now who the hell did y’all rob to afford this place? Ain’t this being sold from the Klan?” I shout across the bar, my voice being drowned out by Pearline’s Pale, Pale Moon.
Stack shakes his head. “Not klan, just crackers. You know we got money, girl. Don’t do that.”
“Yea, well blood money don’t count. So how much you got now?”
He pulls his pockets inside out, amusing me.
I chuckle, placing my money on the bar. “Y’all have blackberry bourbon smash?”
“I don’t know if I can do that for you…”
His fake frown quickly turns into a grin as he takes the money, relaying my order to Grace.
“Fancy motherfuckers,” I mumble.
“What was that?” Stack eggs me on.
My eyes scan the bar, but all I can focus on is that hateful scowl on Annie’s face.
“I said all these women hate me.”
Stack scoffs. “Only those particular women.”
‘That’s more than enough for me’ I think.
He leans in, his lips grazing my ear.
“You know none of these girls got shit on you, Rue. They ain’t half as strong either.”
A small smile grows on my face, matching Stacks. He goes to hand me back my cash, but I slide it back to him.
“I don’t need it,” I front.
“Yea, well me neither. So you gon’ fucking take it.”
I roll my eyes, pocketing the change and standing with my drink. I’ve barely made it away from the bar when cigarette smoke cascades from over my head. Instinctively looking up, I finally see him.
Smoke stares down at me from the balcony with that hard expression he always wears. It’s so strange, seeing that rock solid glare. When we first met in a dingy bar on the side of a dirt Mississippi road, he hung his head low and seemed to always have glossy eyes. I didn’t believe him when he told me he was Smoke. When he fucked me that night, and many a nights after that, it was slowly — With passion, and often tears followed the act. But now his eyes are as dry as a dessert and they pierce a hole through mine.
He takes another blow of his cigarette before turning his back to me, retreating into a room. I have no choice but to follow him, even if it’s just to get yelled at to go away as he did the last time we met. I take my time, downing my glass of bourbon as I walk up the stairs. I can’t pinpoint exactly why, but my heart thumps in my chest just before I open the door, all of the thoughts of what we could’ve had rushing back to my mind like they did eight years ago.
I enter the dimly lit room, closing the door behind me and leaning on it.
“Hello, Smoke,” I say lowly, unable to read his face.
“Why you here, Rue?” he grumbles, a roughness to his voice. “I’m already stressed the fuck out with this opening shit. Stack ain’t helping.”
“I don’t want no trouble. Just came for the music.”
“You being here is plenty trouble enough.” He scans my body the same as his brother, blowing his cigarette again. “You can’t find music no place else?”
“You want me to leave?” I ask honestly.
“Yea, I want you to leave. You think those women down there want you to leave too or are we acting stupid tonight?”
“They never even tried to like me, Smoke,” I sigh, my legs bringing me closer to him. I place my hand on his bicep, like I did all those years ago. “They got no idea what we had.”
He puts his hand on mine, pulling it off. “That was a moment of weakness, Rue. Whatever you think we had is gone now."
I blink to avoid tears from forming. My first ever love, my first ever relationship being chalked up to a moment of weakness chips away at my heart. If it’s what he has to tell himself to dig out of the deep guilt he feels, so be it. But he won’t sit in front of me and act like what we had wasn’t real — Like it isn’t still there.
“So you're saying if the Juke was going good and Annie wasn't watching you like a hawk that you wouldn't entertain me? Wouldn’t consider us?"
Smoke shakes his head. “No, I really wouldn’t.” His brows furrow as he looks at me, seeming to remember a detail that he had previously forgotten. “And your cheating ass can take your business elsewhere.”
I can’t act surprised, not anymore. We allowed him to believe my infidelity as truth, Stack and I. Letting him think I went after his brother was easier than letting him know what Stack was really helping me do…At least it was in the moment. But as he stands in front of me now, I want nothing more than to ease his pain, calm his anger, and tell him the truth — Even if solely to stop him from loathing me so greatly.
“I didn’t cheat on you, Smoke.”
“Bullshit,” he stops me.
“No, listen,” I step toward him. “I respected what you and Annie had, Smoke. I really did. And I understood that the loss of your baby caused you to make decisions that you might regret, even if that decision was being with me. So when you told me to leave you alone, I did. But I didn’t know if that still stood when I found out that we had a baby…”
The words feel odd coming out of my mouth. I tried so hard at the time to disconnect myself from it, calling the baby a thing inside my stomach rather than what it was: Mine and Smoke’s child.
His brows have smoothened out now and he’s actively listening, his eyes flashing from my face to my stomach and back to my face.
I continue. “I didn’t visit Stack all those nights to get at him. Smoke, I never wanted anybody but you. But God put it on my heart to give you and Annie peace, so we went at it alone. No one knew. He paid a few women to make the drink without telling them who it was for. It only took a few hours for the bleeding to start…”
My voice trails out. I’m unable to finish as flashbacks to that night replay in my head. My mama held me tighter that night than she ever had before…I hated Smoke that night more than I ever had before.
Tears line his eyes now.
He chokes on his words, his voice now much lower. “Don’t you lie to me, Rue…”
“I wouldn’t lie, baby,” I assure him.
I hold my arm out for him, revealing the tiny footprint tattooed on my wrist, a small E underneath it.
“We couldn’t be sure, but I had a feeling it was a boy. Ezra, I was thinking. Stack hated the name but…” I shrug.
Smoke runs his thumb over the tattoo, holding my hand in his. He attempts to discreetly wipe his tears, but I see them all the same. Looking up at him, his face can only be compared to the face he made when we spoke about his late baby, which wasn’t often at all. A mix of anger, sorrow, and fear.
Perhaps he’s considering what could have been, just like I used to — Just like I still do. I used to curse God for putting me in such a position. A second chance for Smoke to be a father, but at the worst of times. I’d have dreams of talking to a clone of myself, telling her that she owed it to Smoke to tell him about the baby. It’s only now that I really see the consequences of my decision.
Smoke looks at me, and then at the door. It’s as if a switch has flipped and he’s forced all of those emotions to turn into one…anger. He reaches for the door, but I lean against it.
“Smoke, it’s already done,” I tell him, holding my hand against his chest. “I just couldn’t take you hating me no more.”
“Move out the way, Rue,” he says, not hearing a word I say.
“I don’t want to cause a scene, Smoke. Please.”
“You think I give a fuck about causing a scene? Move out of the fucking way.”
“Smoke, it hurts enough as it is-“
“You’ve got one more time, woman.”
“There’s nothing we can do now!”
He wraps a hand around my arm, yanking me just enough to pull me away from the door and swinging it open. I run out behind him, but he’s already looking down the overlook.
“STACK!” he shouts down, the name echoing through the building.
Everybody looks up, including Mary and Annie. Stack stares up at us, blowing smoke through his nose, before turning back to the crowd. He tells them to resume, nudging Sammie to keep playing. After a moment of silence and a few stray whispers, the music begins again and Pearline starts her singing. Mary holds Stack close, asking him not to go — But as always, the twins do what they want when they want. As Stack rounds the corner, I retreat back into the room, unprepared for what reaction he might have.
He’s barely entered before Smoke pins him against the wall, his forearm over Stack’s chest.
“The fuck?”
“Is it true?” Smoke demands, maintaning his cig in his pinning hand.
I close the door, shouting over the music. “Smoke, stop!”
He ignores me, continuing to press his brother. “Un uh, I asked you a question, nigga. Did you know she had my baby?”
Stack’s eyes shoot from Smoke to me. I can only nod, giving him permission to tell the full truth as I just did. Stack relaxes, putting his hands up.
“I only did it to protect you, mane.”
“The fuck does that mean?”
“You gon’ let me go so I can explain?”
Smoke lingers before reluctantly letting his brother go with a shove. He puts a hand in his pocket, staring Stack down.
He gestures his cig at his brother. “Talk.”
Stack smoothens his suit, lighting one of his own. “You know I don’t like that shit, Smoke-”
“Talk.”
He sighs, putting on a smile once more as he tries to explain calmly.
“When y’all two broke shit off, we had no idea we were even going to Chicago, Smoke. Shit, I still thought you and Annie were gonna get married and buy you a house. Rue said you told her to stay away to make that happen, so I helped her stay away. Now we both know she’d never forgive you if you had a baby with another woman.”
“But my baby is none of your fucking business, Stack.”
“I was trying to give you a life, nigga,” Stack urges. “Annie is where that life was at. Fuck I look like throwing Rue back at you when you didn’t want her?”
“My baby, Stack.”
Guilt boils inside of me. I never allowed myself to entertain the idea of keeping the baby. There was no way I’d bring him into this world without a father, and Smoke had Annie, so I thought I had no choice. But seeing him blink back his tears now makes me second guess every moment that the baby was inside of me.
Stack thinks carefully about his next words, his smile having faded as he sees how serious his brother is taking this.
“I’m sorry, man,” he shrugs, his tone softer now. “I did what I thought was safest for all parties involved, you hear me?”
Smoke is about to speak when a hard knock pounds the door.
“Stack?” Mary’s familiar voice rings out from the other side.
“Now I gotta get back to the Joint.”
I hold my head low. “Bye, Stack.”
He heads toward the door, but not before turning to his brother one more time.
“We good?”
Smoke looks from me to Stack, giving him a small nod.
“Get out of here ‘fore I say no.”
Stack only smiles, swinging the door open. I stand beside him, greeting Mary.
“Oh my- Not this trifling bitch again, Stack.” She rolls her eyes.
“Come on, lay off, Mary.”
“I think you owe her a goddamn apology,” Smoke intervenes, standing behind me.
I mumble, “it’s fine, Smoke.”
Mary scoffs. “For the fuck what?”
“For how you been treating her all these years.”
“How I’ve been treating her? You’re the one who fucked her for a month before running back to Annie.”
“You best watch your mouth woman,” he blows smoke toward her. “It’s not too late to pay one of them bitches downstairs to drag your ass out.”
“I’d like to see you try, Smoke-“
“Alright,” Stack interrupts. “Let’s go.”
He pushes Mary away before closing the door behind him. I assume my previous position, leaning against the door — a much thicker tension in the air now.
“If you hate me even more after this, I understand.” I break the silence. “I don’t blame you, I just couldn’t let the truth belong to me and him alone anymore.”
Smoke stares at his feet, deep in thought. It’s become increasingly harder to tell what this man is thinking. He drops his cigarette, stepping on it.
“Now why would you do that on these new floors-“
His lips are on mine before I can finish, his hungry hands pulling up my dress. It’s automatic, the way my arm wraps around his neck, my hand nearing his crotch. He begins kissing down my neck, but I pull away. He stares at me, eyes wide.
“This isn’t a moment of weakness, is it?” I ask.
He shakes his head. “I don’t need a moment of weakness to do what I’m about to do to you.”
I smile, bringing his lips to mine once more.
Annie will hate me if she finds out, she might hate Smoke even more. But like I told him before, she has no idea what we have. And if I want to fuck my sinner one last time in this Juke Joint, that’s exactly what I’ll do.
summary: Rue has worked for years to forget Elijah Moore and what he left her with before he ran to Chicago. But when she sees his ambitious twin in the square, all of their history comes rushing back. (3.1k)
a/n: it has been so long, but Sinners is truly a movie in its own category. i also need to preface that i am black for this story. anyway, as always, ur interaction is greatly appreciated, ily<3
warnings: swearing, n word use (by smoke and stack), mentions of child loss, abortion, sex, racism
in this story, our characters name is: Rue
Elijah Moore and I never had a complicated relationship. Hell, Smoke might even say we had none at all. But for years after he ravaged me in that car outside of the bar, I thought about him every night. We were together, I’d say — Boyfriend and girlfriend for as long as his grief consumed him. But the moment Annie found out, Smoke disappeared from my arms and was at her feet, begging for forgiveness. I don’t blame her, not in the slightest — I can only imagine that those were some of their darkest times.
Elias, on the other hand, him and I had a complicated relationship. When I found out that Smoke left a piece of himself in me, there was no way I could tell him, not after what he’d just been through. So I went to the closest thing to him, Stack. And although what we had is never to be considered romantic, there was something there — Familial, even. He knew it, Mary knew it, and for that very reason I was never allowed within an 100 foot radius of the twins until the day they left, not if I wanted to feel welcome.
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📍 Train Station || 12:00pm
The feelings from all those years ago bubble up inside me and form a twist in my gut when I see that all-too-recognizable burgundy top hat. My feet move before my mind can stop them, and in no time I’m approaching my old friend.
Stack flashes a gold toothed smile. “I’ll be damned.”
I return the nicety, pulling him in for a warm hug.
“Word spreads fast,” I nod. “Y’all still got the same appeal you had all them years ago.”
“You don’t have to tell me that, darling. I know it.” His cocky smile takes me back, the only thing differentiating him from his brother being his energy.
“Do I even want to know why you came back?”
“You heard it as good as I did." He gestures toward little Preacher Boy and the old man. “We’re opening a Juke Joint tonight, right there down at the old mill.”
“Y’all never could stay still. Chicago wasn’t change enough for you?”
He shrugs. “Figured we should deal with a devil we know. Besides, we miss the tricking.”
“Mmm,” I hum. “Well if Miss Pearline back there is singing, I might just pay this Joint a visit.”
Stack looks past me and at the polka dottted woman walking away from Preacher Boy.
“Shit, if that’s what it takes for you to come, it’s done.”
Always so charming.
He ogles me, his eyes scanning up and down my exposed arms.
“What’s this?” Stack rubs his fingers over the dark ink lining my skin — Art ranging from numbers to symbols to simple symmetric images.
“You know I’m an artist, boy.” I pull my arm back, scoffing. “Figured I’d get a few permanent ones to remember a few things.”
“And you talking about we couldn’t stay still. I’ll be visiting to get a look at those paintings of yours one of these days.” Stack’s grin begins to fade as he looks over my shoulder.
Preacher Boy walks up and nears his cousin. “This white woman’s been staring at you—“
“Yea, I see her…”
He shoos Sammie away and tries to walk me off, but I’m already well aware of what shark is in the water — I can hear her heels clicking behind me.
“Now is this Smoke? Or is that Stack?”
I turn my head. “Hi, Mary.”
No response. Only a rough shoulder check as she stands in front of me and nears Stack.
He looks over her head and at me. “I’ll holler at you, Rue—“
Mary interrupts. “No, you’re not talking to fucking Rue right now. You’re talking to me.”
Stack huffs, looking back down at the woman dressed in pink. I give him a ‘have fun dealing with that’ look before turning and catching my train.
Of all the women wrapped around the twins’ fingers, Mary has got to be the most spiteful of them all. For no good reason, though. Contrary to her belief, I never once slept with Stack, never even thought of it. But as far as she knows, I kissed him all the way to where the sun don’t shine, and then some.
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📍 Juke Joint || 10:00pm
This old mill has lit up under the construction of the twins. People hoot and holler as Pearline ignites the stage, turning into the musical beast I knew she would the minute she started singing. Having no dance partner, I simply clap along, moving my body to the beat alone. Out of the corner of my eye, I see the same damn burgundy hat that I saw only hours ago.
I can feel Annie’s eyes burning holes into my skull as I sit at the bar, Stack walking up to me.
“Now who the hell did y’all rob to afford this place? Ain’t this being sold from the Klan?” I shout across the bar, my voice being drowned out by Pearline’s Pale, Pale Moon.
Stack shakes his head. “Not Klan, just crackers. You know we got money, girl. Don’t do that.”
“Yea, well blood money don’t count. So how much you got now?”
He pulls his pockets inside out, amusing me.
I chuckle, placing my money on the bar. “Y’all have blackberry bourbon smash?”
“I don’t know if I can do that for you…”
His fake frown quickly turns into a grin as he takes the money, relaying my order to Grace.
“Fancy motherfuckers,” I mumble.
“What was that?” Stack eggs me on.
My eyes scan the bar, but all I can focus on is that hateful scowl on Annie’s face.
“I said all these women hate me.”
Stack scoffs. “Only those particular women.”
That’s more than enough for me I think.
He leans in, his lips grazing my ear.
“You know none of these girls got shit on you, Rue. They ain’t half as strong either.”
A small smile grows on my face, matching Stacks. He goes to hand me back my cash, but I slide it back to him.
“I don’t need it,” I front.
“Yea? Well me neither. So you gon’ fucking take it.”
I roll my eyes, pocketing the change and standing with my drink. I’ve barely made it away from the bar when cigarette smoke cascades from over my head. Instinctively looking up, I finally see him.
Smoke stares down at me from the balcony with that hard expression he always wears. It’s so strange, seeing that rock solid glare. When we first met in a dingy bar on the side of a dirt Mississippi road, he hung his head low and seemed to always have glossy eyes. I didn’t believe him when he told me he was Smoke. When he fucked me that night, and many a nights after that, it was slowly — With passion, and often tears followed the act. But now his eyes are as dry as a dessert and they pierce a hole through mine.
He takes another blow of his cigarette before turning his back to me, retreating into a room. I have no choice but to follow him, even if it’s just to get yelled at to go away as he did the last time we met. I take my time, downing my glass of bourbon as I walk up the stairs. I can’t pinpoint exactly why, but my heart thumps in my chest just before I open the door, all of the thoughts of what we could’ve had rushing back to my mind like they did eight years ago.
I enter the dimly lit room, closing the door behind me and leaning on it.
“Hi, Smoke,” I say lowly, unable to read his face.
“Why you here, Rue?” he grumbles, a roughness to his voice. “I’m already stressed the fuck out with this opening shit. Stack ain’t helping.”
“I don’t want no trouble. Just came for the music.”
“You being here is plenty trouble enough.” He scans my body the same as his brother, blowing his cigarette again. “You can’t find music no place else?”
“You want me to leave?” I ask honestly.
“Yea, I want you to leave. You think those women down there want you to leave too or are we acting stupid tonight?”
“They never even tried to like me, Smoke,” I sigh, my legs bringing me closer to him. I place my hand on his bicep, like I did all those years ago. “They got no idea what we had.”
He puts his hand on mine, pulling it off. “That was a moment of weakness, Rue. Whatever you think we had is gone now."
I blink to avoid tears from forming. My first ever love, my first ever relationship being chalked up to a moment of weakness chips away at my heart. If it’s what he has to tell himself to dig out of the deep guilt he feels, so be it. But he won’t sit in front of me and act like what we had wasn’t real — Like it isn’t still there.
“So you're saying if the Juke was going good and Annie wasn't watching you like a hawk that you wouldn't entertain me? Wouldn’t consider us?"
Smoke shakes his head. “No, I really wouldn’t.” His brows furrow as he looks at me, seeming to remember a detail that he had previously forgotten. “And your cheating ass can take your business elsewhere.”
I can’t act surprised, not anymore. We allowed him to believe my infidelity as truth, Stack and I. Letting him think I went after his brother was easier than letting him know what Stack was really helping me do…At least it was in the moment. But as he stands in front of me now, I want nothing more than to ease his pain, calm his anger, and tell him the truth — Even if solely to stop him from loathing me so greatly.
“I didn’t cheat on you, Smoke.”
“Bullshit,” he stops me.
“No, listen.” I step toward him. “I respected what you and Annie had, Smoke. I really did. And I understood that the loss of your baby caused you to make decisions that you might regret, even if that decision was being with me. So when you told me to leave you alone, I did. But I didn’t know if that still stood when I found out that we had a baby…”
The words feel odd coming out of my mouth. I tried so hard at the time to disconnect myself from it, calling the baby a thing inside my stomach rather than what it was: Mine and Smoke’s child.
His brows have smoothened out now and he’s actively listening, his eyes flashing from my face to my stomach and back to my face.
I continue. “I didn’t visit Stack all those nights to get at him. Smoke, I never wanted anybody but you. But God put it on my heart to give you and Annie peace, so we went at it alone. No one knew. He paid a few women to make the drink without telling them who it was for. It only took a few hours for the bleeding to start…”
My voice trails out. I’m unable to finish as flashbacks to that night replay in my head. My mama held me tighter that night than she ever had before…I hated Smoke that night more than I ever had before.
Tears line his eyes now.
He chokes on his words, his voice now much lower. “Don’t you lie to me, Rue…”
“I wouldn’t lie, baby,” I assure him.
I hold my arm out for him, revealing the tiny footprint tattooed on my wrist, a small E underneath it.
“We couldn’t be sure, but I had a feeling it was a boy. Ezra, I was thinking. Stack hated the name but…” I shrug.
Smoke runs his thumb over the tattoo, holding my hand in his. He attempts to discreetly wipe his tears, but I see them all the same. Looking up at him, his face can only be compared to the face he made when we spoke about his late baby, which wasn’t often at all. A mix of anger, sorrow, and fear.
Perhaps he’s considering what could have been, just like I used to — Just like I still do. I used to curse God for putting me in such a position. A second chance for Smoke to be a father, but at the worst of times. I’d have dreams of talking to a clone of myself, telling her that she owed it to Smoke to tell him about the baby. It’s only now that I really see the consequences of my decision.
Smoke looks at me, and then at the door. It’s as if a switch has flipped and he’s forced all of those emotions to turn into one…anger. He reaches for the door, but I lean against it.
“Smoke, it’s already done,” I tell him, holding my hand against his chest. “I just couldn’t take you hating me no more.”
“Move out the way, Rue,” he says, not hearing a word I say.
“I don’t want to cause a scene. Please.”
“You think I give a fuck about causing a scene? Move out of the fucking way.”
“Smoke, it hurts enough as it is—“
“You’ve got one more time, woman.”
“There’s nothing we can do now!”
He wraps a hand around my arm, yanking me just enough to pull me away from the door and swinging it open. I run out behind him, but he’s already looking down the overlook.
“STACK!” he shouts down, the name echoing through the building.
Everybody looks up, including Mary and Annie. Stack stares up at us, blowing smoke through his nose, before turning back to the crowd. He tells them to resume, nudging Sammie to keep playing. After a moment of silence and a few stray whispers, the music begins again and Pearline starts her singing. Mary holds Stack close, asking him not to go — But as always, the twins do what they want when they want. As Stack rounds the corner, I retreat back into the room, unprepared for what reaction he might have.
He’s barely entered before Smoke pins him against the wall, his forearm over Stack’s chest.
“The fuck?”
“Is it true?” Smoke demands, maintaning his cig in his pinning hand.
I close the door, shouting over the music. “Smoke, stop!”
He ignores me, continuing to press his brother. “Un-uh, I asked you a question, nigga. Did you know she had my baby?”
Stack’s eyes shoot from Smoke to me. I can only nod, giving him permission to tell the full truth as I just did. Stack relaxes, putting his hands up.
“I only did it to protect you, mane.”
“The fuck does that mean?”
“You gon’ let me go so I can explain?”
Smoke lingers before reluctantly letting his brother go with a shove. He puts a hand in his pocket, staring Stack down.
He gestures his cig at his brother. “Talk.”
Stack smoothens his suit, lighting one of his own. “You know I don’t like that shit, Smoke—”
“Talk.”
He sighs, putting on a smile once more as he tries to explain calmly.
“When y’all two broke shit off we didn't know we were even going to Chicago, Smoke. Shit, I still thought you and Annie were gonna get married and buy you a house. Rue said you told her to stay away to make that happen, so I helped her stay away. Now we both know she’d never forgive you if you had a baby with another woman.”
“But my baby is none of your fucking business.”
“I was trying to give you a life, nigga,” Stack urges. “Annie is where that life was at. Fuck I look like throwing Rue back at you when you didn’t want her?”
“My baby, Stack.”
Guilt boils inside of me. I never allowed myself to entertain the idea of keeping the baby. There was no way I’d bring him into this world without a father, and Smoke had Annie, so I thought I had no choice. But seeing him blink back his tears now makes me second guess every moment that the baby was inside of me.
Stack thinks carefully about his next words, his smile having faded as he sees how serious his brother is taking this.
“I’m sorry, man,” he shrugs, his tone softer now. “I did what I thought was safest for all y'all, you hear me?”
Smoke is about to speak when a hard knock pounds the door.
“Stack?” Mary’s familiar voice rings out from the other side.
“Now I gotta get back to the Joint.”
I hold my head low. “Bye, Stack.”
He heads toward the door, but not before turning to his brother one more time.
“We good?”
Smoke looks from me to Stack, giving him a small nod.
“Get out of here ‘fore I say no.”
Stack only smiles, swinging the door open. I stand beside him, greeting Mary.
“Oh my— Not this trifling bitch again, Stack.” She rolls her eyes.
“Come on. Lay off, Mary.”
“I think you owe her a goddamn apology,” Smoke intervenes, standing behind me.
I mumble, “it’s fine, Smoke.”
Mary scoffs. “For the fuck what?”
“For how you been treating her all these years.”
“How I’ve been treating her? You’re the one who fucked her for a month before running back to Annie.”
“You best watch your mouth, Mary.” He blows smoke toward her. “It’s not too late to pay one of them bitches downstairs to drag your ass out.”
“I’d like to see you try, Smoke—“
“Alright,” Stack interrupts. “Let’s go.”
He pushes Mary away before closing the door behind him. I assume my previous position, leaning against the door — a much thicker tension in the air now.
“If you hate me even more after this, I understand.” I break the silence. “I don’t blame you. I just couldn’t let the truth belong to me and him alone anymore.”
Smoke stares at his feet, deep in thought. It’s become increasingly harder to tell what this man is thinking. He drops his cigarette, stepping on it.
“Now why would you do that on these new floors-“
His lips are on mine before I can finish, his hungry hands pulling up my dress. It’s automatic, the way my arm wraps around his neck, my hand nearing his crotch. He begins kissing down my neck, but I pull away. He stares at me, eyes wide.
“This isn’t a moment of weakness, is it?” I ask.
He shakes his head. “I don’t need a moment of weakness to do what I’m about to do to you.”
I smile, bringing his lips to mine once more.
Annie will hate me if she finds out, she might hate Smoke even more. But like I told him before, she has no idea what we have. And if I want to fuck my sinner one last time in this Juke Joint, that’s exactly what I’ll do.
!s: aemond targ x northern!(oc)reader, jacaerys velaryon x (oc)reader
summary: After escaping a life of sorrow in King’s Landing, Auriela is settled with the task of finding her place on Dragonstone in the midst of the Dance of Dragons. From unhappy nobles to loss of friends to rocky relationships, she begins to wonder if she has a place in this world at all. [8k]
a/n: no way i actually posted a pt. 2 everybody clap! i definitely strayed from the show plot b/c that’s not my style anyway, but some things i decided to keep. anyway, as always, ur interaction is greatly appreciated, ily<3
warnings: swearing, mentions of sex, death, violence, mentions of torture, nothing you haven’t watched in the show
in this story, yn is: Auriela Dustin
hey! read part 1 -> a winter's dragon: flying
‘I write to you with a hardened heart, wife. You’ve betrayed not only the trust of my good family but mine own. It is my fault that you’ve forgotten to fear me, it shall be your undoing. You’re commanded by my brother the King to return yourself and my child to your rightful place here in King’s Landing at once. Once you’ve proven becoming of these terms, your horrendous and treasonous crimes shall be pardoned. The realm is watching.
- Aemond.’
“Write back,” Vialy says, sitting on the other side of the desk. “Tell him you’ll return.”
You shake your head. “I would never return.”
“We know that but he does not,” she continues. “It would give the Queen time to plot.”
“Or it would give him time to get on his dragon and seize both me and Dragonstone.”
“Alicent would never let him leave with Vhagar, Princess. Your husband has love for you, he’ll want to believe you. The small connection the two of you built will warrant his waiting. As he awaits you in his castle, Rhaenyra is free of the threat. She’ll be able to strike.”
You hide the small smirk growing on your lips, never taking Vialy for much of a warhead. You look to Rhaena, her fingers interlinked with Vialy’s.
“…Any distraction is a good distraction, I think.” She shrugs. “The Queen surely won’t be the poorer for it.”
And so it is settled. Though, you cannot expect your response to be dispatched without the leave of the Queen herself.
…
“Come.” You hear her call.
Rhaenyra stands as you enter her chambers. You stop a few feet away, bowing your head.
“Your Grace.”
“Auriela.” She smiles. “You requested a word with me?”
“Yes.” You deeply inhale, Aegon and Aemond not having half of the Targaryen presence that their sister possesses. “This morning I received a letter from my husband in King’s Landing. He demands that I return to my seat and my crimes will be pardoned. You stare at the floor. “We— I thought that I might write back, if it pleases you. I’d apprise him of my return, I believe he’d take it as the truth and wait for my arrival. In that period, I thought it may be a wise time for us— or you rather— Forgive me, for you and your king to plot and execute your next move, should you see it wise.”
A pit forms in your stomach when Rhaenyra stays silent, looking from you to the scroll in your hands. She holds hers out and you place the letter in her palm. She quickly scans it before returning her gaze to you.
“I think it is an excellent plan,” she says.
You release a breath you didn’t know you were holding. “You do?”
A small chuckle escapes her lips as she nears you.
“Auriela, you needn’t be so frightened. You are safe here.”
“No, I—” you scoff. “I know I am, my Queen…But I am not so arrogant to assume you’ve forgotten my former place in King’s Landing.”
“I have not.” She shakes her head. “But I do not fault you for your past, nor do I mistrust you for it. You returned to what you believe is right. That is honorable, Princess.”
You hide a smile, bowing your head once again. “Thank you, my Queen.”
She places a hand on your arm. “You know, we may have more in common than we see.”
“Do we?”
“I too carried my first child in the Keep,” she says.
Your shield falters as you remove your hand from your stomach and bring it to your side. She only gives you a reassuring smile.
You never told Rhaenyra of your babe. All you’ve thought about since you arrived is how much stress your presence could bring upon her, so you never found the right time. But she knows, you think to yourself.
——
1 Moon Later
You try your hardest to regulate your breathing, your hand hovering over your growing belly as the council speaks of the unspeakable. The green Queen’s son has been struck down, his head somewhere in a sack in King’s Landing. You didn’t believe it when the message was brought, never having imagined anyone could hate Helaena as much as they hated her husband. It is only now in this moment of sorrow that you wish you could be at the Red Keep for just five more minutes, just to give Helaena the embrace that she’s deserved all her life.
“This will only enrage them. Give them a reason to strike hard and fast. Completely reducing the time that we’ve bought for ourselves,” Rhaenyra rages at the head of the table. “They will not leave this unanswered.”
“There has been no word from King’s Landing, Your Grace. Neither from the Prince nor the usurper himself,” Maester Gerardys tells.
“I am not surprised,” Rhaenyra huffs. “I have no doubt that Aemond has convinced his brother to send a host here as we speak. Maybe even with Vhagar herself.”
Daemon speaks up. “Which would not be so, had we not welcomed a traitor to the crown into our quarters.”
You slightly roll your eyes. Daemon has been cold and distant to you since the day you stepped foot on his lands. He’s not short of reasons to dislike you, though you regret being so conceited as to believe he’d be as forgiving as his wife.
“By that same way of thinking, we are all traitors to the crown, Daemon,” Rhaenyra snaps back at him. “What was I meant to do? Turn the girl away whilst she bears a child?”
"That of the very man who killed Luke? Yes, turn her away! That's exactly what you do, Rhaenyra!” He raises his voice, your face growing hot with embarrassment as you feel all eyes on you. “Look at her now, she sympathizes with the usurpers—"
Rhaenyra stands, banging the table as she leans toward him. "Sympathy for the cold murder of a child is not a weakness.”
The room remains silent, Daemon reluctantly backing down before Rhaenyra returns to her seat. Although you’d rather melt into yours at the moment, you decide to break the thick tension.
“My cousin…Cregan Stark,” you begin, your voice no higher than a whisper. “He sent a raven, Your Grace. He promises a thousand men to decend upon the Red Keep, should the greens send their army here.”
Rhaenyra has no chance to answer before Daemon scoffs.
"A thousand untrained Northerners would march for King's Landing for a battle being fought here, how perfect,” he jests.
Rhaenyra ignores him. "That is a most generous gesture of Lord Stark, Auriela.” You cannot tell if she means her words or if she only says them to spite her husband. “Thank him for me."
Daemon frustratingly grunts. "We need to send dragons."
"And which dragons would that be?"
"Caraxes, Meleys, anything other than sitting on our arses whilst they slay our people and send their traitors! War is here!"
“I think you’ve forgotten yourself, cousin…” Princess Rhaenys sneers, her gaze shooting daggers through Daemon’s skull. “Rhaenyra keeps war at bay as every man at this table seems to hunger for it. Speak to your queen accordingly."
Daemon only rolls his eyes, a snide remark on the tip of his tongue. Nevertheless, he spares Rhaenys, shooting a death glare at you.
“…We must proceed under the assumption that Aegon’s army is coming,” Rhaenyra moves on. “Whether it be for his goodsister or for the unlawful killing of his son. Rather than this ceaseless bickering, let us retreat to the ways of the dragon."
“Fire and blood,” Daemon mumbles.
“Patience and wit,” she corrects him.
…
You feel the heat of the dragon’s fire long before you’re near it, the dark caves doing well in retaining their warmth.
“Daemon is…vexed, more often than not. Don’t let his words get to you,” Jacaerys assures you, leading you to his own dragon. “I knew Helaena for a short time, her children for even shorter. But I do know that Jaehaerys’ loss was a grave one. Daemon shouldn’t have made you out as craven for feeling so.”
“Maybe not craven, but I am at fault,” you admit. “Had I not left and made them seem vulnerable, perhaps the stranger wouldn’t have thought to strike that night.”
Jace looks to you as you walk out onto the rocky platform. “That’s not true.”
“We’re alone, you mustn’t hold formalities. It is my fault.”
“It’s not,” he corrects you, firmer this time. “Nothing we do can prevent the minds of the evil and tormented. We leave that to the Gods.”
Your eyes meet his. You’re prepared to get lost in them, though, they greatly remind you of Lucan’s. But before you can allow your mind to wonder, a loud grumble shakes the ground. Fear grows in your eyes as excitement grows in Jace’s. He grabs your hand, pulling you to the edge.
You hold onto his arm, terrified of falling into the dragon infested pit as a green mass rises. Suddenly, taller than a hundred men, an olive dragon towers over you, a tangy smell emitting from him. You try to step back but Jace holds you steady.
“Lykirī.” He holds his hand out, the stirring dragon bowing to him. “Lykirī.”
Your breath almost leaves you. You’ve ridden a dragon before, joining Aemond on Vhagar only once. But never were you face to face with her, nowhere near. Vhagar was much bigger, her head seeming leagues away from her back. But now, in front of you, the eyes of a dragon were treading on yours.
“Jace…” your voice shakes.
“Feel.” He holds your hand in his, pressing your palm to the dragon’s snout.
“Gods be good…” You smile as well, almost talking to yourself rather than him. “What a great power they are.”
“Indeed.”
——
Three dragon eggs steam in their chamber as a servant walks them down to the ship. You hold Vialy’s hands tightly, no longer trying to hide your sobs.
“Maybe you’ll be able to visit me,” you say. “Or write me letters of what you see in Pentos.”
“Of course I’ll write to you, Princess.” She wipes your tears, smiling. “You needn’t cry.”
“You’re the closest friend I’ve ever had.” You cry harder. “I don’t know what I’m meant to do without you, sister.”
“You shall thrive, as you always do. Being in your service has given me more than a lifetime’s worth of satisfaction, Princess. I can only thank the Gods that they continue to lead me down a path of joy with the girl I care for.”
“I shall curse the Gods nightly for taking you away from me,” you pout. “We planned our whole future together.”
“Can’t you see? We are the future, Ella. The children and their dragons shall grow with us in the East, the boy will grow a Northern heart in Winterfell, and you and Lucan will put our Queen on the throne here. All corners of the world will have your love.”
You plaster on a saddened smile, pulling Vialy into a tight and lingering hug. Behind her, Rhaena and the children head toward the ship.
“I love you, Vialy,” you whisper.
“I love you, Auriela.”
You let her go, not before seeing water line her eyes as well. Allowing Lucan to say his goodbyes, you take your spot beside Baela to watch them depart.
“I am no stranger to losing parts of myself,” you tell her. “I only wish it was not this part.”
“But the Gods are merciful.” She looks toward the sea. “Their love shall live in our hearts. And for some, through what we've made."
Baela looks toward your stomach, a small bump in your dress. It is only now, as Lucan returns to your side and grabs your hand, that you understand their words. You entertain the idea that the lives of the ones you love are reflected in all that you do; and in time, in all that you birth.
…
As the sun goes down, so does most of the castle. But you can’t seem to find sleep, thoughts of Vialy across the Narrow Sea haunting you. You roam the castle, landing in the Chamber of the Painted Table. With each echo of your step, you fall deeper into your doubt; whether that be about your place in the world or your next steps moving forward.
“They’ve sent Rhaena away.”
You jump, turning on your heels toward the painted table. On the other side of it, the moon barely lights the silhouette of a man; his frame tall and leaning back in his chair.
Daemon’s voice is unmistakable.
“To the same place her mother died.”
You stumble for the right thing to say, startled. “I regret that her father was not there to see her off.” You walk toward him, standing at the head of the table.
“Do you think less of me for it?”
“…It matters little what I think,” you say, wary.
“It’s good that you know as much.” He stands to face you. “But that’s not what I asked.”
“I’m…I’m sure the King had other matters demanding his attention.”
“Hm.” He examines you in the light. The longer he looks, the closer he shifts to you, taking a deep breath in. “Have you been on a dragon?”
Your breath shakes. “Vermax, my King.”
“And why is that?”
“The Prince Jacaerys says it’ll do me good…”
Daemon huffs, settling into his spot. “What is your true business here, Auriela?”
“I only seek to appease my Queen—“
He cuts your words off with a loud and reverberating laugh. “You always know the right thing to say, hm? The usurpers have trained you well…”
You stay quiet, his looming presence and jabbing words leaving you at a loss.
He continues. “Had it not been for that babe in you, which is to be born a betrayer, I’d burn you with my own dragon.”
Your brows thread together. “May I ask what I’ve done so wrong, Your Grace? What but what was expected of me—”
Daemon grabs your wrist, pulling you to him. “May I ask who the fuck taught you to question your King?” he spits. “I will not allow you to do what you attempt. To estrange me from my family, to ally with the children, to make me a bad guy. You will fail.”
Eyes wide, you shake your head. Though, as his words stir, his shield lowers for a moment; his fragile and paranoid state apparent. “…It seems you’ve risen to such accusations very well on your own…my King.”
You swear the eyes of the dragon itself stare back at you as he sneers. But he quickly regains his composure, releasing his grip and resting his hand on his sword.
“Tread carefully…Traitor of House Dustin.”
He walks away, a click ringing out with each step. You’re left speechless, not being able to make out what just happened in the slightest.
The King has threatened you…accused you. And you accused him back.
Perhaps you were right, perhaps Dragonstone truly isn’t the seat meant for you. If it is, the Gods have a strange way of showing it. They send Aegon’s army, they take Vialy away, and now they turn the King against you…The only resolution is for you to remove yourself. For even if the King resents you, you’d be a sinner to stand in the Queen’s way as she battles for the throne.
——
“Why shouldn’t I!?” Lucan raises his voice, his face gone red.
“It would do no good, Lucan.”
“She needs to know, Princess. You’re a noble, you are royalty, how dare he speak to you that way.”
“It was only words.”
“It was not only words, he laid his hands on you!” his voice breaks. “She needs to know.”
“I’m sure she already knows who she married,” you argue. “Rhaenyra has challenges enough.”
Lucan paces your chamber, running his hands through his dark hair. You nervously fiddle with your rings, having an idea of how he’ll take your next words.
“…If we were to leave Dragonstone…where do you suppose we’d go?” you ask timidly.
Lucan stops, staring at you. His head shakes as he walks nearer, his voice low and steady.
“You don’t mean to let that spineless King run you away from your seat.”
You shrug. "This is the seat of fire and blood, my love. We are of other lineage."
“We fought to get here, Princess. I’ve given up all I had. You and your child are all I’ve got to my name…Should you command us to leave, I will go. But I ask you, as your servant, to not let malignancy win. You deserve to be here just as much as her half blooded sons.”
“Listen to my words.” You grab his hands. “Vialy and Rhaena were successful in their leave. They are safe now. We could be safe, Lucan. We could get properly married and raise children; maybe even Maeserys.”
He thinks, taking deep breaths as his hands tremble. You place a knuckle on his chin, lifting his teary eyes to meet yours.
“…Dorne would allow it,” he admits, barely audible.
“Yes, Dorne.” You smile widely.
“The children would have to be a mystery. Their hair dyed and names changed.”
“All achievable,” you reason. Though, it’s obvious how against leaving he is. “My love, we could flee to Dorne.”
“I wish not to flee, Princess…”
You tilt your head, empathetic of his view. A kiss placed on his forehead, you make up your mind. He will forgive you once you leave; once you’re on a Dornish beach with your family, away from the hassles and battles of the Crownlands.
You do not mean to let Daemon run you away, as he said. It’s much less Daemon forcing you to flee as opposed to sacrificing your spot for the better of the realm. The less problems your true Queen must deal with, the more focus she can put into her war. It’s a good thing you plan to do.
——
He’s left. Fled before you were able to. To Harrenhal Daemon is said to have gone, leaving this table of nobles looking to you for information on the recent movings of the Red Keep.
“The people are starving…” you reveal. “But their fleet is strong.”
“So is ours,” Corlys speaks up.
“My husband spoke to me little of battle, but I estimate they can call no short of three thousand men within a fortnight.”
Rhaenyra stares intently at you. “And what of their dragons?”
“The same as you left them, all strong and growing, Your Grace. Though, Queen Helaena still has yet to ride Dreamfyre in many moons.”
“So that’s two dragons against our four.”
“Unwilling does not mean unable, Lord Broome,” Rhaenyra reminds him. “Alas, Vhagar is larger than half of our dragons combined and I do not mean to send my son to fight against such forces.”
“Mother, I can—”
“You cannot,” she insists.
You feel a comforting hand on your shoulder, Lucan’s thumb rubbing lightly against you as he fills your cup. You smile, finally not feeling alone in court any longer.
“If I may remind you, my Queen, with the promise of men in the North, a siege of the Red Keep is not impossible. Certainly not if the King Consort returns with an army of his own.”
She bites her thumb, her eyes searching the table as she thinks. You wonder if you’ve said something wrong before she dismisses her council, thanking you for your words. The men look at her like a sheep with the skin of a wolf, doubt and dismissal lensing their gazes. They think her weak, dumb witted just because she decides to make tactical moves. You regret that a tiny sense of doubt rises in yourself, knowing how urgent the matters of war are.
Lucan nods at you, staying back and holding your hand. Nerves tingling in your fingers, you pull away, standing and walking toward a pacing Rhaenyra.
“May I have a quick word, my Queen?” you ask, your voice low with Lucan by your side.
“Go on.” She plasters on an unconvincing smile.
“I wish to ask for leave.”
“Leave? Where for?”
“Starfall, Your Grace.” Lucan speaks directly to Rhaenyra for the first time. “My home seat.”
“Dorne? Why would I send you to Dorne?”
“…I find myself being of little use yet great concern these days,” you admit. “I only wish to free you of the burden. We ask to continue our lives in Starfall and leave you to it for the betterment of the realm.”
Rhaenyra tilts her head, your view being new news to her. “Princess, you’re nearly bursting at the belly and a journey to Dorne is hard and long.”
“I shall endure it if it means to not disrupt the happenings on Dragonstone. As I see it, it would be an act for your ascension.”
“An act from the threat of others…” Lucan mumbles.
Rhaenyra’s head snaps to him, then back at you. Your lips press together as you curse Lucan in your head.
“Threat?” she asks. “Who’s threatened you?”
“No one, Your Grace. This is of my own accord—”
“It is treasonous to tell anything but the truth to me, Auriela.”
You sigh, your face dropping as you give up your act.
“The King helped me see that it would be a wise choice for me to leave you and your family as you are.”
Her eyes soften, chewing in her bottom lip as she looks away from you. If only she knew this is exactly what you meant to avoid, more stress is the last thing you want for Rhaenyra.
“Daemon is no longer here.” She shrugs.
“My Queen—”
“It would not benefit me to grant you leave, Princess. You are needed and wanted here.”
You quietly huff, bowing your head. “Your Grace.”
Walking away, you shove Lucan as he follows you toward the door. “Was your comment necessary?”
“I only meant to tell the Queen the truth. I am not a traitor.”
“You solve nothing!” you whisper shout, opening the grand doors. “We’re now stuck in the crossfire of a doomed battle of which we have no significance.”
The bickering ceases as Jace turns the corner, walking opposite of you and Lucan. The two of you bow. “My Prince,” you say in unison. He enters the same room you’ve just left.
Lucan scrunches up his nose.
“Dragon,” you tell him.
“Hm.” He nods. “Smells similar to Vhagar, I presume.”
“Sort of.” You shrug, entering your bed chamber. “Vhagar has a more earthy smell. Vermax is younger, almost a fruity stench comes from him.”
He laughs. “Did you read up on that?”
“I smelt it myself, thank you,” you jest.
Lucan’s smile slightly drops as you throw yourself onto the bed, sprawled into a star.
“Did you really?” he asks from across the room.
“Jace showed me.” You stare at the ceiling. “Vermax was so close I could smell his breath.”
“Jace…You’re good friends with him then?”
You chuckle. “I wouldn’t say good friends.”
“Yet you call him by a short name.”
You prop yourself up on your elbows, Lucan’s face now stone cold.
“Luke, everyone calls him Jace.”
“His mother and his betrothed do, of which you are neither.”
“Speak plainly then,” you challenge, standing up. “What are you saying?”
He sighs. “I’m just noticing, is all. You’ve gotten rather close to him…”
“I only seek to feel at home.”
“And how I feel? Have you thought about that?”
“What? Lucan, what is this about?”
He runs a hand through his hair. “Princess, you’ve been everywhere but by my side since the moment we arrived.”
“I made you cupbearer,” you remind him.
“The Queen made me cupbearer. Not at your request, might I add.”
“So you’re angry because my attention is split?”
“I’m discontented because you’ve taken more of a liking to a Targaryen bastard than you have to me. I wish not to be a beggar but I feel it’s the least I deserve for my troubles.”
“Your troubles?” You near him. “And what would those be?”
“I shan’t speak it—”
“Well you’ve already begun, so go on.”
He stares at you through his dark locks, cornered.
“…The troubles of abandoning the life I knew, Princess,” he admits under his breath. “To join you on your travels.”
Your eyes are fixed on his, spite in your gaze.
“You did not have to come with me, Lucan.”
“You’re my superior—“
“I was nothing to you!” you spit, not believing he’d blame his regrets on you. “I was a girl in a brothel. You chose to care for me!”
“If only love was a choice, my love. I would follow you anywhere, as death follows life. But as I stand, I feel I’ve been bested. I feel that you don’t…” he trails off.
You tilt your head. “…Have I ever commanded you, Lucan? Ever?”
“You have not.”
“Have I ever sworn myself to you?”
He shakes his head.
“And we are yet to be married, yes?”
“Princess, you bedded me—”
“And I am the poorer for it. Evidently, I’ve made a mistake. I thought you to be loyal. I thought you to be on my side by choice. But you see our journeys as…What?…A duty?”
“My love, you made the choice to stay with me for those three days. You made the choice to fuck me after your King forbade you from seeing me again. You came to me with the news of your child, you mourned over our Alice beside me…Was I mistaken to think it only right to commit treason with you as well?”
Treason, he calls it. Before now, he’d refuse to even call it wrong. You could’ve sworn that it was his idea that brought you to Dragonstone to begin with. So for him to blame it on you…
“How dare you?” You stare at your palms as they grow sweatier. “We were meant to be one.”
“And we can remain one,” he insists. “But in the fleeting moments of our passing one another, you stand beside Jacaerys. Or you speak to Baela. I feel wronged—”
“You see me a traitor…”
“No.” He grabs your hands, forcing you to look at him. “I see you as so beyond myself, my girl. But with one tongue you claim to be my equal and with the other you leave my debt unpaid.”
Debt. Fleeing the home that was one day away from tipping over and burning you alive is a debt. Just another order that he felt he had to see through. You feel like you don’t know him at all; like his tongue is being controlled by something from the hells rather than his own heart.
You snatch your hands away, backing yourself from him.
“No, Auriela.” He walks toward you. “We must discuss—”
“I have nothing more to say to you,” you snap, exiting the chamber.
You slam the door shut, leaning against it as you lay your hands over your chest. Though, they quickly cover your mouth as you fight the weeps from escaping. In the span of a few short days your whole world has been flipped. The King wished you gone, then he fled; the Prince has taken an interest in you, the Queen denied your leave, and now…the boy you love seems to see you as more of a highborn superior than his own.
You never should’ve come. Were it inevitable, you should’ve taken the ship with Vialy to finally be free of the burdens of royalty. But as you cry, your chest burning with sorrow, there’s only one person whose arms you’d rather be in.
Though not only is he across the bay, but his brother’s army may be on their way to hunt you down presently.
——
1 Moon Later
“The maesters say the babe is healthy,” you tell Lucan, his hand stroking your stomach.
“I am glad to hear it.”
You’re still short with each other, only having real conversations when it regards your child. He’s busied himself with the servants and smallfolk of the island, putting his head down when you pass. Although you cannot say he is only to blame, as you give him the same treatment, busying yourself with the higher born.
He puts his hands down, looking at you. “Has the Prince said anything of importance as of late?”
“Nothing that we don’t already know,” you huff. “That war is upon us.”
“Clever man, he is.”
You roll your eyes. “At the least, he can see that we have greater troubles on the horizon. Much bigger than small disagreements such as our own.”
“That may be so. But I have always considered your feelings and the state of the realm of equal merit.”
Your shoulders drop as he finds yet another way to make you out as a villain. You simply smile, pressing a cold kiss onto his cheek before leaving his, now separate, bedchamber.
…
“Princess.” You bow as Rhaenys dismounts her dragon, Baela dismounting Moondancer behind her.
“Nothing, again.” Baela walks up to you. “There’s never anything.”
“Be glad that the Gods still favor us.”
“If I’m to be a patroller, I wish to have something to patrol. At least a small ship to detour, even Moondancer is restless,” she sighs, looking to your stomach. “Has he felt the kicking?”
“He barely cares to touch my stomach,” you scoff. “He seems to grow angrier with me daily for the simple fact that I’ve adjusted to Dragonstone; even though that’s all he pushed me to do upon our arrival.”
“Hypocrisy is a part of being human, I suppose. Many throughout the realm will raise the Queen’s banner, yet leave her to fight alone when the time comes. Men often shrivel in the shadow of a power that they engendered.”
“Perhaps I was foolish to believe he wasn’t like other men,” you laugh at yourself. “I never thought him to be so spiteful. Certainly not of my friendships with other men. Gods, I was married when we first lay together. But now he has a problem; with Jace of all people.”
She grabs both of your hands, Moondancer’s low rumble being felt from beneath the stony platform. “You know, when my mother died, I was not even three and ten. Neither was Jace. We had not known each other for the better part of two days when he began to stand by my side. Him and Luke were there for us like no one else was, not even our father. Sure, it may have been under the order of their mother, but it matters not…What I mean to say is that there are good men in this world. Ones who are simply good because their hearts allow it, they were born so. So if the Gods do not intend this man for you, your true match is somewhere, and he will find you. The Gods do favor good women.”
You smile, staring at the ground. “I am not sure I’d consider myself a good woman.”
“Of course you are.” She makes you look at her. “I’m sure of it.”
“How can you know?” you ask, almost desperately. For the question has been weighing on you for the past fortnite.
“Auriela, you’re married to the Prince of Westeros. You were royalty, living a life that other girls dream of. And yet you turned it all away in the name of good and right. You remained steadfast in your verity even when it was life threatening.”
“…I suppose you are not wrong.”
She laughs. “Of course I am not wrong.”
Your conversation is cut short by the sound of footsteps nearing you, Jace emerging from the castle.
“Rhaenys said you’d be here,” he calls, a wide smile on his face.
He slides his arm around Baela’s waist, pressing a kiss onto her forehead.
“What are we on about?” he asks.
“Auriela was just telling me—”
The ringing of approaching bells interrupt Baela. Jace’s face lights up before he bolts for the doors. You and Baela follow him, finally catching up when you emerge from the front of the castle. Jace doesn’t stop, continuing to lead you down the path and toward the sea. There, a great ship prepares to anchor on the shore.
“I believe that is our livestock shipment.” Jace grins, eager to feed his dragon.
As the three of you walk closer and closer to the beach, you notice something familiar about the ship. The banners are Rhaenyra’s, black and red. But the sails have a slight plum tint to them. As you think back to where you could’ve seen them before, Lucan’s words ring out in your head.
“Well that one there is from Braavos. The plum tint of their sails is from the old practice of dyeing their stolen ships,” he said.
The dock. The one in King’s Landing. Your eyes go wide.
“That’s not livestock.”
“It is,” Jace assures you. “They come every week, mostly aurochs and ox from the Riverlands.”
“No, Jace.” You point. “That ship…I’ve seen it.”
He turns to look at you, Baela staring as well.
“…It’s from King’s Landing.”
Baela furrows her brows. “King’s Landing? Why would…” She looks over your head and toward the boat, her face dropping.
You and Jace follow her gaze. The ship is much closer now. And from the ramp, soldiers with gold cloaks trot through the sand, headed directly for you.
“Go alert my mother…” Jace says lowly, unsheathing his sword as the men grow nearer.
Baela grabs his shoulder. “Jace, we can’t—”
“Mount Moondancer. Please do as I say, we have no choice.”
“Jace—”
“Go, go.” You push Baela toward the castle, running behind her.
You hear Jace exchange some shouts with the City Watch as you trail behind Baela, her riding shoes being much more fit for the sand than your heeled boots are. She turns a corner, disappearing behind the stone walls leading to the front doors. As you turn behind her, you feel a body wrap around yours.
A small squeal escapes you as you fight armored hands off of your body. It isn’t until you face the knight that you sigh a breath of relief.
“Ser Erryk!” you heave, his grip still tight around you. “The greens are here, they’re on our shore.”
He says nothing, only staring at you past his hefty helmet. Still in silence, he scoops you up, marching you back the way you came.
“No…Ser Erryk, listen to my words,” you beg him. “That ship is from King’s Landing, the usurpers sent for us. The City Watch, they’re—”
Erryk only quickens his pace as a league of gold cloaks pass you, headed for the castle. It’s not until one of them gives Ser Erryk a nod that you realize. Looking back up at the knight, your face drains of color.
“Arryk…” you mumble.
“You’ve been called upon by his Grace, the King, and your Lord husband to return to your seat at once—”
You spit in his face, pushing and shoving to get away from him.
“Jace!” you frantically shout as Arryk brings you closer and closer to the ship.
As you reach the beach, you see why your calls have gone unanswered. Ser Arnol Roxton has Prince Jacaerys in his grasp, his forearm tightening around the boy’s neck.
“Jace!” you cry.
“I should strangle you for what your bitch mother did to Jaehaerys, boy.”
Jace thrashes, forcing the knight to turn every which way to keep ahold of him.
“Stick to your orders, Ser Arnol,” Arryk reminds him.
“When you run back home,” Arnol continues, “tell Rhaenyra that you only live by the mercy of the King, you hear?”
Arryk leaves them, forcefully dragging you to the ramp of the ship.
“No, no, no,” you beg. “Ser Arryk, please. I remain your Princess, you answer to me!”
“I only answer to my King.”
He places a hand over your mouth, your air being sucked away. Your fight becomes lighter and lighter as your brain continues to fog, your last sight being the hull of the vessel.
…
Criston Cole’s words flow from his tongue like shit from a raven. You’re sat in a creaky chair, your limbs bound. Ser Criston stands opposite you, continuing his ramblings as if anyone wishes to hear them.
“You know, you put me to shame when the Watch failed to find you on the Street of Silk,” he admits. “And again when you escaped King’s Landing with your whore.”
You keep your eyes down, trying your hardest to pry your wrists from the ropes.
“It’s a shame how like your cunt Queen you are. Just because you’re girls and you’re confused you think you can act however you wish; treat others however you wish.”
“Are you truly still hurt over that?” you scoff. “Is her rejection what fuels your mindless compliance to the usurpers?”
His jaw ticks. “Not hurt, Princess. But I will bring women like you to justice—”
You can’t help but laugh, knowing your tongue will be lost regardless of if you stay silent or bicker back.
“Justice? Ser Criston, you’ve not been wronged. It’s the putting of fragile men like you in positions of power that placed us here.”
“Do you mean to insult your King? And his father before him?”
“I mean to insult you,” you assure him, the guarantee of sure punishment freeing you to say what you wish. “And the chip you’ve held upon your shoulder ever since you were foolish enough to think that Rhaenyra would ever lower herself—”
Criston slams his hand against a wall, making you flinch. He walks over and kneels until his nose is level with yours. In contrast to all you’ve said, his presence being this close makes your breath tremble.
“I shall worry not.” He shrugs. “For your husband will not be as kind to you as I have been…”
——
6 Days Later
The dripping water of the cells of the Red Keep have become your only friend in the two days you’ve been trapped. You’ve convinced yourself that this may be what you deserve; people have lived right beneath your feet for so long, maybe the Gods think it wise for you to live below as well. You can bear most of it, the hunger, the nakedness, the constant worry, the smell of mold and rotting rodent corpses. What you could do without, though, is the talking. The constant visits from none other than Lord Larys Strong, the man who ran you away in the first place, has nearly driven you mad.
For hours upon hours he will speak in circles. From how he became a cripple to what he believes the King should do with you, he will visit and revisit each topic thrice over until he’s hungry; at which point he will leave and return with food for you both, only so that he can continue talking.
The not knowing is eating you alive more than the rats ever could.
What is Lucan thinking?
Is Dragonstone safe?
Will Rhaenyra come to free you?
Does Aemond plan to let you rot?
Will your child live?
All questions you keep to yourself, for the last thing you wish to do is give in to Larys’ efforts and indulge in his senseless conversation.
“Through your eyes, I’m sure it is hard to see. But I am sorry for what is to come, Princess,” he says. “All I did, I did for the good of the realm. At a time, I hoped us to be friends.”
You only stare at the corner, the wet decaying bars being a prettier sight that Lord Larys. Although you do not wish to hear them, you do not dare miss a single one of his words. What is to come, you do not know. But you can only pray that the Gods have mercy and goodness stored on the other side of the threat.
Larys stands, wobbling as he pours his weight upon his old cane. You anticipate the slam of the heavy door, but it never comes. Instead, Larys’ set of footsteps are replaced with another. Shutting the door behind him, your snow haired husband strides in, looming over you. He’s stoic, his hands behind his back and his chin lowered.
“H— Husband…” you tremble, the cold seeming to rush in all at once.
“You have wounded me, wife, I must admit.” He stares.
“Aemond…” You slowly shake your head, tears filling your eyes. “I only did what I believed was right.”
“Belief takes many men’s heads these days. You shall thank the Gods you’re not a man, I think.”
You pull your knees to your chest as Aemond’s lips struggles against a frown.
“I’m no stranger to betrayal, but I hadn’t thought you to be so craven as to turn against your true family.”
“I have not turned against my family,” you argue, the skin on your knees peeling from the constant dampness. “I have only turned against evil.”
“Granting you a seat at the Red Keep, a husband, a handmaiden, a say, that is evil? I myself am not a pious man, but I do think that we’ve done you great reverence with our terms.”
“I never asked for this…” you weakly admit. “I’ve only ever wanted to find my way…To hurt you was far from my intent—”
“But you did!” Aemond shouts, briefly losing his composure as he strikes your bars, a loud cling ringing out.
He breathes deeply as you shield your head for the anticipated impact. Though, it never comes. Instead, he returns to his previous position, resting his hands on the handle of his sword.
“You did, Auriela. More than I thought possible…When Lucerys Velaryon stole my eye, a part of my very being, I vowed to never be found so vulnerable again. So easily exploited. And to that I stayed true, until I met the woman in the brothel. And again when I met you…or what I believed to be you. The few nights we spent together were long and loving, I thought we were one, wife.” He inhales, his voice trembling a bit as he caresses his handle. “When you left, you hurt me more than Luke’s blade ever could…Would you call it wrong for me to want you to hurt like I hurt?”
Tears stream from your eyes but your face stays flat. “Torture me as you must, Aemond. My tongue will be cut before I speak the answers you seek.”
“You call me by name now…moments ago it was husband,” he notices. You miss the point he intends to make. “An unnecessary measure regardless. As punishment for your feeble loyalty, I asked my brother to send you to exile. Old Valyria, I suggested. So your body would turn to hardened stone as my heart has. So you could experience the cold and slow decay that I felt each day you refused to return to me. Alas, I mustn’t speak for the King.”
Your eyes frantically follow your husband as he walks toward and opens the door, two men following behind him; with them, a putrid stench. The metal clanging emerges in front you to be none other than Criston Cole, behind him, the King himself. You feel yourself shrinking underneath their gaze, Aegon’s smirk making you want to vomit. Ser Criston walks around Aemond, a sack in his hand.
“Tell this traitorous twat what you told me, Ser Criston,” Aegon says, staring at you.
“Your lover is said to have fought until the last hack, you should be proud,” Cole sighs. “He was determined to save you, even as he watched your ship sail away.” He sets the contents of the bag on the wooden table beside him with a thunk. “I am told that the last words to slip from his mouth was your name. Before he met the chopping block, that is.”
Your heartbeat seems to slow so drastically that you’re afraid it may stop…you hope it will stop. You aren’t aware of how rapidly the tears are flowing down your cheeks until they pool on your arms. The men seem to be looking through you as you sit with your mouth agape, so many thoughts going through your head, yet not one intelligible enough to make sense of.
Why? You ask the Gods. Why this? Why now? You’ve prayed to the Mother your whole life, and yet she allows the Father to mutilate your love’s soul before handing it to the Stranger. Do they make a sport of torturing you? Do they laugh from their high seats as you struggle to grasp what’s in front of you? What have you done but what was expected of you? Why?
Lucan’s severed head and hands are battered. Black, blue, red, and swollen, the flies have their fix with his rotting skin. One of his eye sockets is less swollen than the other, sunken in. You reckon that was at Aemond’s request, now his everlasting battle to take the eye of another to compensate for his own can finally be put to rest. But why this, Mother? Lucan is good, he is just. He is good simply because his heart allows it, he was born so. Suddenly you regret the words you last spoke to him. You regret not listening, you regret not coming to him with empathy and understanding rather than spite and anger, you regret not kissing him once more, you regret not loving him harder, you regret what fate you’ve brought him to…Perhaps you regret ever meeting him. For Lucan’s life as a whore on the Street of Silk would’ve given him satisfaction until he was too old to withstand it, at which point he’d turn to Dorne, perhaps. Maybe he’d take up a position at the Tavern with Pate, maybe travel the world with the wealth he’s accumulated.
But now, as his mangled and rotten remains stare back at you, you know that he’ll never have a chance to see any of it out. This is the end of his story. You wonder if he knew that his love for you would come at such a great price, if he’d still love you. You would hope not, but you know he would.
It all matters not, for this is where we are. Now, as the three boys wickedly smirk at your naked and weakened body, you make your final decision. As you told Aemond, you will not speak. You will not give them the satisfaction of telling them of your time at Dragonstone nor the plans of Rhaenyra. They will gain nothing from you, as they cannot take what you refuse to give. Your death now surely imminent, you find peace in the knowing that no one will miss you. You find peace in knowing that your child will never have to live in this cruel and unforgiving world. Vialy will forget you once your letters fail to arrive, your memory will fade from Rhaenyra and her family as their heads are caught in war. You can only hope that Cregan helps young Maeserys find his place in this life. As you look to Aemond, you also wish for Cregan to hold his head, flies nipping at his severed neck as they do now to Lucan. But as you are presently, your hopes and dreams do not matter, nor does your short life. The only vengeance that you can truly expect is the fall of the greens and rise of the blacks. That shall be enough for you, the peril of this nefarious family and the rise of the true rightful heir.
Aegon unsheathes his blade as Criston begins to unlock your cell. You know not exactly what the men’s plan is. But you’re sure that your death shall come after. You only can stare at what was once your lively and witty lover as all fear departs your body. The Stranger is in this room, you’re sure of it. And as you shut your eyes one final time, you accept his presence with welcoming arms.
“The Queen, long may she reign,” you mutter just before Aegon’s rough hands rip you from your spot.
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summary: Princess Auriela hasn’t known a day of happiness since she was arranged to marry Aemond Targaryen. In her pursuits to take control of her life so far from her home in the North, Auriela only stirs the pot of the already war stricken kingdom, pointing knives in her direction. Accompanied by her common folk, Auriela intends to dig herself out of her green hole. [9.9k]
a/n: i’ve been writing a game of thrones fic for a year and a half now (i can’t seem to finish). in the meantime, my most recent hyper fix has been aemond so i hope this story does him justice. part two may come in three days or three years depending on my mood. anyway, as always, ur interaction is greatly appreciated, ily<3
warnings: swearing, allusions to sex/almost a smut scene, death, violence, nothing you haven’t watched in the show
in this story, yn is: auriela dustin
hey! read part 2! -> a winter’s dragon: burning
The Red Keep has been a cold place, the walls going bare and air flowing frigid since the departure of Rhaenyra. In the two short years since the Grand Maester wed you to the queen’s second born son, you’ve quickly come to realize why your neighboring Northern house, Stark, happily bent the knee to Rhaenyra when she was named.
Much has changed since then, your already feeble relationship with your husband has grown ever weaker. You’ve become a solemn woman since your last days in your home of the North, your only friends in the Keep being your handmaiden, Vialy, and your goodsister, Helaena. Sinless, virtuous women in the crossfire of the vicious infighting that has fallen upon the kingdom as of late. You spend your days with them, caring for Jaehaera and Jaehaerys, and strolling with Vialy as the royal family immerses themselves in their own politicking.
Your husband, Aemond, seems just as apathetic to you as you are him. The only conversations you have consist of him relaying cold messages from his mother, the majority urging you to produce her son heirs in order to strengthen their line. Save those, you and your husband have virtually no interaction at all. Even the consummation of your marriage has been put off, neither of you wanting to face the reality of your relationship.
Now, in your bedchambers, you wince, blood drawing from where you’ve pricked your finger with the embroidery needle. Just as you go to soothe it with your mouth, a knock comes through the door.
“Come.” You call, sucking your thumb.
“Lord Larys Strong, my Lady.” Vialy’s voice softly whispers as she opens the door, the clubfoot coming into view. She closes it behind him.
You set aside your hoop and fabric, smoothing your robe as you swing your legs over the side of the bed.
“Please, Princess,” he holds a hand up. “No need.”
You nod, putting your legs back under the covers. “What is it, Lord Strong?”
He stalks closer, his eyes switching from the silhouette of your legs and back to you.
“Women,” he begins, “are the most overlooked assets in the kingdom, my Lady. Good queen Alysanne’s Women’s Courts brought to light many of the injustices our mothers, sisters, and wives stumble upon in their ranks.”
“I know my histories well, my Lord,” you assure him. “Is that of relevance?”
He glares at you, that sorrowful look forver behind his eyes.
“May I speak plainly?”
“Please.”
“…I understand that you’ve taken notice of your Lord husband’s absences at night. One seldom may find him abed, where he’s expected, in the hour of the wolf.”
Your brows thread together as the Lord teeters on overstepping. Though you’ve wisened to the fact that the clubfoot has a gift for speaking ugly truths with no consequence falling upon him.
He continues. “I can’t help but wonder if the Princess ever longs to know where he spends his nights.”
You sigh. “I have no doubt that you possess such knowledge.”
“I do…but I shall hold my tongue, should it displease you to know,” he remarks, cornering you into the allusion of choice, wanting you to beg at his feet for the miraculous information that he seems to have an endless supply of.
“No, pray tell me where Aemond goes in the dead of night,” you relent.
Lord Larys goes on to tell you nothing short of a tale. He speaks of a pleasure house that your husband frequents, along with a madam. Thrice his age she’s said to be, the first and only woman he’s laid with. That is where he chooses to spend his time, throwing dirt on the name of his wife in exchange for a whore in a pleasure house.
You dismiss the Lord, but can’t help the spark of fury rising in your stomach. Aemond is the son of the Dowager, he’s brother of the King, he’s a Targaryen, and he chooses to fill his time shaming his name and house in such a place. The issue hardly lies with his choice of establishment and more with his status. He’s promised to you, wed to you. Even if the two of you have no love for the arrangement, at least you honor it. But because he is a man he can conduct himself as he pleases?
You quickly change out of your robes and into a plain featured gown, making sure that a hood is on the collar. Swinging your door open, you grab Vialy’s hand and pull her down the corridor.
“Where are we headed?” she asks, struggling to keep up with your pace.
“We’re going out,” you whisper.
“What for?”
“If my husband can spend his nights on the Street of Silk, so can I.”
“The Street of Silk?” she raises her voice as the two of you rush down the stairs. “What business could you possible have there?”
“Shh-“
“Auriela.” you hear a familiar voice at the top of the stairs.
The two of you freeze, slowly turning to face your goodbrother, dimly lit by the moonlight.
“Aegon.”
“Where are you off to?” he asks, a cup of wine in his hand and a tipsy droop to his eyelids.
“To the city, my King,” you say truthfully, assuming he won’t remember the conversation come dusk. “We won’t be long.”
“Well…Wait there, I’ll get someone to escort you.”
“Oh, there’s no need for hassle, brother. I’ve got Vialy-“
“Your handmaiden is not a knight,” he rolls his eyes, ever vigilant of how attached at the hip the two of you are. “You need a swordsman, stay there.”
Aegon stumbles as he walks toward his chambers in search of a guard. You look at a wide eyed and terrified Vialy. You briefly ponder on your next actions, though not long enough before you pull your friend with you, sprinting down the stairs and toward the side doors.
“Ella!” she whisper shouts as you run away from the castle.
“I’m not being chaperoned on a visit to my own city. Especially not by some stuck up white cloak.”
“The King commanded you, I- We’ll get in trouble!”
“The King’s drunk, he probably never made it ten steps before collapsing.”
…
You finally slow down, looking in upon the vibrant Street of Silk, colorful creatives and laborers alike lining the street with their gifts. A great smile grows on your face, never having seen such savage freedom in your life. Nothing of the sort could possibly take place in the snowy streets of Barrowtown, nor the guarded streets of the Keep. But the smallfolk, the lucky majority, see such liberty all their lives.
You and Vialy stop at the tallest and most decorated brothel on the street, men and women pouring in and out.
“Are you sure about this, Princess?”
“No more of that, Via,” you tuck your hair before pulling your hood up. “We no longer have status. Not here,” you grin before pulling her in.
What you can only imagine is the smell of ravaging sex fills the air, the temperature rising as the two of you cowardly enter the pillow house.
“This is not a place becoming of a royal, Auriela,” Vialy whispers.
“The King and his brother attend such places all the time,” you mindlessly remark, looking around at all of the frivolous and free fucking in every direction.
It’s only when your eyes scan a private room at the back of the house when you see a sight you don’t expect.
Green eyed, olive, and tall, a roughly dressed boy sits alone on a floor mattress, looking out at the pursuits around him.
“Via…” you keep your eyes on him.
“If any of them were at the wedding they’ll know who you-“
“Vialy, look.” you point.
The two of you stare on as he obliviously looks past you, his carefully molded face glistening with a sheet of sweat in the humid atmosphere.
“I’ll see you…” you walk toward the boy.
“What- Don’t leave me, Ella!”
“He isn’t your taste anyhow, find a maiden to entertain.”
Vialy turns red at your observations, never secure in who the gods made her attracted to. You never minded though, the realm knows the same of Rhaenyra’s late husband, Laenor. It never cast as dark of shadow on house Velaryon as Vialy believes it shall cast on her.
“Princess.” she nods, leaving you to it as you approach the boy.
You draw closer. His emerald eyes look up at you as you close the curtain behind you, sitting criss cross in front of him.
“How much for your favors?”
He remains relaxed, slyly leaning back on his hands. “How much do you have?”
You smile. “I just want your time.”
“I have little and less of it as of late, Princess.”
You catch a frog in your throat as your smile drops, sitting up straight.
“…You know me?”
He leans forward, stroking the arm of your gown. “Nobles frequent here…No common woman has frocks of such tulle.”
Your face goes a little hot as you examine his…examining yours. The man is young enough, though older than Aemond, only by a few years. His loose blouse nearly slips off of his thin frame as a mischievous smirk grows on his lips.
“I’ve never served a highborn woman before,” he mimics your position, his hands in his lap.
“And that way you shall remain,” you assure him. “Who have you served?”
“Many out of the Red Keep. Beneath their cloaks of righteousness all men wish for the same thing.”
“Is it only highborn men that you’ve served?”
“Highborn…lowborn…any willing to pay their dues.”
“Hm,” you hum, wondering if he knows how much you envy his autonomy of his own endeavors.
“And what of you? What business does a Princess have in a place like this?”
“I heard I’m free to be who I wish as long as I’m here,” you say truthfully. “Free to do as I wish.”
“That is true…Though I’d imagine you’d much better enjoy the freedoms of the safe castle.”
You scoff. “I know none of the freedoms you speak of. I’m just as chained as the prisoners I walk above every day.”
“You resent what most girls would kill for.”
“Let them,” you shrug. “I’d give my station to the lowest of women if it meant I could go back home.”
“And where is that?”
You pause, wondering if such information can be trusted with this man. But as he so prettily awaits an answer, you can only think of the web of truths your husband has likely spun to his paramour.
“Barrowtown.”
“A Northerner,” he smiles, “I should’ve known.”
“And where is your home?”
“Is it not clear?”
You furrow your brows.
“Gods, the sun really has been seized from my skin,” he chuckles. “Dorne, Princess. Starfall.”
“Starfall…” you recall your lessons with the Septa. “Are you a Dayne?”
He hums. “You know your histories, Princess.”
“Call me Auriela, Lord Dayne.”
“Lord,” his body shakes with an erupting laugh, his smile brightening your mood even more. “I’m no Lord, Princess Auriela. I’m called Lucan, or Deephide.”
“Deephide?”
“They say I’m too dark to be a hart but too light to be a crow. The company I keep isn’t too creative when it comes to names.”
You laugh. “I think Lucan is a fine name alone.”
You and the boy talk well into the night, your sitting positions morphing into lying side by side on the mattress. Groups of buyers trot in and out of the pleasure house, though all of Lucan’s are rejected in your presence.
In one of the long hours of the night, or perhaps an early hour of the morning, Vialy emerged from behind the curtain. A girl was treading on her heels, her hair darker than yours and skin paler than salt. Your heart warms as Vialy’s rare smile grows upon her face, locking hands with the girl. Alice, she’s called. “I never want to leave, Ella.” she remarks before giddily running back off with her doxy.
It’s only hours later, when the patrons thin and the sounds of pleasure cease, that you and Lucan finally egress from the small back room. There, you see slithers of sunlight peeking through the cracks in the door.
Vialy rushes up to you, her eyes wide.
“Princess,” she urges. “Princess, we must go.”
On the other side of the door, you hear an array of hoof beats against the cobblestone street.
“They’re looking for you, Princess,” she frantically pulls you toward the door.
“Wh- Who?”
“The City Watch.” vialy heaves, her panic only growing. “We’ve overstayed, it’s well past the hour of the Nightingale. We must return.”
“Wait, wait,” you pull your arm from her. “Why must we go? Aemond doesn’t return for days at a time.”
Vialy stares at you. “We are not men, Princess.”
“Why rush?” you giggle, Lucan joining your side. “You were just having so much fun.”
“That was before I knew that Gold Cloaks were searching for a Princess that I’m meant to tend to. Please,” she pulls you once again, “please, let’s return to the Keep.”
“No,” you turn her to you. “The Gold Cloaks will cast around for a while before they return to the Keep empty handed, as they do with my husband.”
She frowns. “Ella…”
“We will return,” you assure her. “Only a little longer, okay? We as women don’t experience this freedom often in our lives, allow me this one day.”
Vialy’s expression says all you need to know. Nevertheless, she bows her head as she does in the Red Keep.
“Princess,” she mumbles before weakly returning to the dark haired girl.
Lucan turns to you. “Do you often evade the law enforcement of your castle?”
“Not nearly as much as I wish to,” you smile.
“I have yet to meet a noble woman who’d rather spend her days in a pillow house than in her palace.”
“Spend your time locked in the Keep and see how long before you run back to freedom.”
He examines the near empty premises before pulling you toward the door.
“Once the Watch leaves our street I’ll be happy to show you the finer things in your city,” he suggests. “Much prettier than here…”
…
Your hood stays up as Lucan pulls you by the hand, holding tight so as not to lose you in the sea of smallfolk at the Blackwater docs. Your mouth hangs agape as ships sit idle in the port, hundreds of men laboring on and around them. Grand green and gold flags hang from many of them as cargo is loaded.
“Are these all from Essos?” you ask Lucan.
“I thought you knew your histories.”
“Lands and lords, I know well. Maritime traffic was never a subject my septas lingered on.”
“Hm,” Lucan nods, watching as you admire the great ships. “Well that one there is from Braavos. The plum tint of their sails is from the old practice of dying their stolen ships.”
“And those?” you point to the green bannered vessels. “Are they our royal fleet?”
“Some are,” he shrugs. “Others come from lands across the Narrow Sea or the Sea of Dorne.”
The two of you finally depart the docs in pursuit of your next expedition. Lucan plays the jester, forcing so many laughs from you that your stomach burns as the two of you explore your sacred town for hours. Plays in Flea Bottom amuse you more than any fool in the Keep has, beautiful musicians bring you to tears, and incredible tailor-ship lines the streets as the sun begins to fall. The two of you see flashes of gold throughout the city, signaling the second round of searches. Lucan leads you back to the whore house that is once again bursting at the seams. You head to the familiar and quiet room, though you pause when you see Alice, alone.
“Where’s Via gone?” you ask, Lucan’s hand still in yours.
“Forgive me, she’s left.”
A small beat skips in your heart as you examine the room.
“Has she?”
“Early this evening, says she was too afraid of the Gold Cloaks to deliberately elude their efforts.”
“Hm,” you nervously bite your lip. “Well I shall await her return, even if she may bear the company of those I avoid. When they come, I shall be ready.”
Alice stops you when you attempt to pass her, holding something out.
“For when you see her next,” she places a fine necklet in your hand, a handmade red pendant in the center.
You nod, noticing the matching one she wears around her neck. With that, you and Lucan leave Alice and enter your room.
“Do you imagine your husband worries for you?” Lucan asks as you both sit.
“He’s never done so before, it’d be a shock if he began now.”
“He surely has some love for you, Princess. It must not be that he’s a cold as you say.”
“Colder,” you assure him, your knees touching his as you lean toward him. “We hold the titles man and wife but we couldn’t be further from it.”
“…Does he please you?”
You scoff. “Not in the way you’re asking.”
“Why do you think that is?”
“I like how you speak plainly,” you smile. “Aemond seems to prefer a more…seasoned woman.”
Lucan laughs. “Really?”
“Thrice his age his lover is said to be,” you reveal before you can stop yourself.
“May I say it as I see it, Princess?”
You nod, paying more attention to his lips than you are his words.
“I think the Prince knows not of what he fails to seek out. I have no doubt that he’d find satisfaction in pleasuring you. His wife is a maiden yet he fucks a crone…a fools choice he makes.”
“Precisely, Lucan,” you argue. “It matters not whether I’m a maiden if at the time of the deed, I have no knowledge of what I’m to do. By all accounts I’m meant to lay there as he impales me until I bear his plain featured sons, I want no part in it.”
“I can show you, Princess. When done the way whores are taught, coupling isn’t an act of duty but a mutual act of pleasure. For both lady and lord.”
You think on his words, your attention now on those rather than his mouth. You ultimately agree, some hidden and repulsive side deep in you wanting to be desired. Wanting to be able to please Aemond.
Lucan smiles, lying on the mattress. He pulls you onto him, a flash of hot warming your face.
“He’ll never allow me atop him like this.”
“Perhaps no. But minds will change once he feels what happens when you are.”
He places his hands on your hips, rocking them back and forth as he instructs you as to where to put your hands. His chest, his neck, your hair, your palms roam every inch of your bodies as he instructs you further. Even when he flips the two of you, hovering above, he tells you how to stay in control. His bottoms stroke against your dress as your hands travel once more to Lucan’s orders.
The two of you continue until you’re sweaty and worn out, falling asleep with many and more ideas on how to touch your husband, should the time when you wish to ever come.
✺ ✺ ✺
“Are you sure about this, Princess?” Lucan looks around the crowded fighting pits. “He’s not ours to take.”
“Would you rather him in there?” you ask as you pick up the tiny, hooded, silver haired boy, looking down at the feral children.
Lucan stays quiet, following after you as the boy keeps a hold around your neck. You make it all the way back to your room in the whore house before being stopped.
“You can’t bring a child in. Leave him outside,” a brothel madam commands at the door.
“They’re with me,” Lucan insists.
“Outside,” she commands.
You sigh heavy, reluctantly lowering the boy’s hood to reveal his indisputable Targaryen hair. The madam’s eyes widen as she more likely than not imagines how much a Targaryen would sell for, even if he’s only young. She lets you in, smirking at Lucan as if he’s brought her a gift.
You arrive back to the room. “He’s not Aemond’s,” you tell Lucan. “My husband’s a fool but he’d never do this.”
“Aegon’s then,” he watches as you sit the child in front of you two.
“One of many I’d think.”
The boy is slow to speak, making you wonder if he knows how. You can make out that he’s about Jaehaerys’ age, no older than seven.
It’s only after much unanswered questions and empty silence that the boy finally speaks. Maeserys, he’s called.
“Whoever his mother is,” you whisper to Lucan, “she knew what he was.”
A name fit for a decendant of Old Valyria. He uncovers the little of his past that he remembers. No brothers, no mother, only fighting pits and scavenging. He speaks with a lisp and knows few words, only enough to keep him alive in a city such as this one. You can’t help but feel sad for Maeserys, he’s your kin by law yet has been living as a commoner since he can remember.
Lucan relieves the boy of the heavy interrogation, delivering him to his close friend working a nearby tavern, Pate. As difficult as it is to separate from the neglected boy, a tavern is a much more fitting environment for someone like him.
Alone again, you and Lucan sit knee to knee, your hand in his. He traces the lines of your palm, a trick he says he learned in Dorne. “Each trunk is how many sons you’ll have, each branch is how many daughters.” According to this, you’re meant to have three of each.
Simultaneously, you trace his palms back. You sit in silence, the ambience of constant foot traffic outside humming lowly. Lucan lifts your hand, pressing a kiss into it. You’re entranced, sensuality sparking through you as you look over to him.
“Every woman is an image of the mother,” his face nears yours, “to be treated with reverence.”
It’s not a thought out action when your lips meet. It’s slow, it’s passion filled. A small smile grows on your lips as you truly taste your newfound freedom, finally being liberated of the dread that comes with your husband in the Red Keep. Lucan’s lips travel downward to your jaw, then to your neck. You stroke hair, small breaths escaping you. His hand is making its way up your thighs and to your waist when the curtain cover of the room is ripped open.
There, standing taller than you remember him, your husband stares down at you. His old ladylove of which you’ve heard so much about stands behind him, both of them stripped and bare. Aemond’s face twists in a mix of anger and humiliation, staring at both you and Lucan before rushing away.
You’re left frozen, silent as Lucan stumbles over his words.
“I-“ he stammers, “I’m sorry, Princess. I knew not that he’d be-“
Your eyes stay wide, tears beginning to line them as you think of all of the grave consequences that you’ve invited upon yourself. You never had a plan, at least not one that you’ve thought through. Sure, you were awaiting the Gold Cloaks. But the idea of your own husband catching you in such a compromised state sends shivers down your spine.
Though, there was no time for shock. Aemond comes barreling back in, now fully clothed and alone. He says nothing, only tightly grabs your arm and drags you to your feet, away from Lucan.
✺ ✺ ✺
Water fills your eyes as they stay glued to the floor. You stand in the center of a secluded room, the furnace behind you heating up your body. In front of you, a council of those you wished to never lay eyes on again stare at you. The Dowager Queen, the Hand, the Maester, your husband, and the King all sit behind a long table, interrogating.
“What for?” the Queen Mother asks, stern and angry.
“I- I don’t know, Your Grace,” you mumble, hiccuping between your tears. “I wanted to see beyond the walls of the keep.”
“Three days, Auriela,” she reminds you. “You ‘saw the city’ for three days whilst the Watch was searching endlessly?”
You’ve concluded that she’s the most fearsome woman the Gods have yet to make as you fiddle with the hem of your sleeve, barely able to croak out words.
“…I was exploring.”
“Exploring, you say,” she nods. “In a brothel?”
You shake your head, assembling a feeble lie in the seconds you have. “I was only chasing hound, my Queen.”
“And the boy?”
Suddenly, the air escapes your body as you look up for the first time, your eyes shooting to Aemond. He was angry with you, rightfully so. But you hadn’t expected him to tell his mother the true details of how he found you. For some foolish reason you thought the two of you had that understanding.
“I- He means nothing we…we did nothing. I swear it.”
Your husband for some odd reason feels the need to speak up.
“That’s not what the madam told me.”
An anger rises in you that you weren’t sure was accessible to you at such a time as this. Only in the face of directly speaking to Aemond did all of your fear cease.
“And what were you yourself doing in a brothel, Lord husband?”
He smirks, recognizing this side of you. “Searching for my Lady wife, of course.”
“Searching,” you scoff. “Is that why every whore on the Street of Silk knows you by name and face? Because you go searching so often?”
“Hm, watch your words, wife,” he bickers back, his smirk turning into more of a sneer.
"Your words are wind, for I am innocent of any crimes,” you speak up, face hot with fury. “Why am I standing trial when the Prince runs to the same place every night? Fucking old rotting whores instead of tending to his wife-“
“That is enough, Auriela!” Alicent demands, pounding her hands on the table.
Aegon finally acts, placing a hand on Alicent’s. “Mother…”
Remembering he is here, you bow your head. “My apologies, my King. That was beneath me.”
Otto Hightower sighs, breaking the silence as the table ogles his daughter. "It brings shame to your house, Princess; to your family, when a Lady such as yourself is seen in such an...implicative position. We only ask that you not be seen conducting yourself in such a manner again.”
You nod at the Hands request, slight shame warming your face.
“Command, he means to say,” Aegon corrects. "It is a command by word of your King that you never leave this keep again if not attended."
"I was attended-"
"By a member of my Kingsguard."
Once again, you nod, though you’d much rather roll your eyes in the face of this shameless usurper.
"A clement constraint, wife,” Aemond adds. “It wouldn't be so were I King."
If only you were King.
✺ ✺ ✺
“One day I’d like to see the city,” Helaena remarks as you sit beside her, playing dolls with little Jaehaera.
“One day you shall, my Queen,” you assure her.
Behind you, the door opens. Vialy enters, her presence suddenly reminding you of the new life that you lived for a short three days.
Only, Vialy looks grievous. A black and purple ring forms around her eye, bruises and scars littering her neck and chest. You drop the dolls, running up to her. You frantically turn her jaw, examining.
“What’s happened!?”
“I’m alright, Princess-“
“That’s not what I’ve asked you.”
She sighs, knowing well that you won’t let this go. “The King’s Justice didn’t like my arrival unaccompanied by my Lady.”
Your lips part, regret washing over you. “Wh-“ you stare at her. “Did he take you to the dungeons?”
“Only a few short hours,” she shrugs, “and a few short beatings.”
“Vialy,” you shake your head. “Why would he torture you after you’ve said all you know? It’s not sensible…”
She chuckles. “My Princess, I said nothing.”
Your face drops, staring at hers. A small and proud smirk rests on her lips as a frown forms on yours.
“You fool!” you reprimand. “You should’ve told him all you knew of me, down to the room I resided in!”
“I am loyal to you-“
“I would never ask this of you, Via!” you stress. Her beaten down, yet gratified expression evokes a crossness in you…along with a hint of reassurance. Nevertheless, you sigh. “I’ll take it up with Aemond. The king as well.”
“It’s truly not needed. For my devotion to the Princess shan’t be swayed by a few hits.”
You sheepishly smile, giving her this small victory. Though, you have no intent of letting this happening go unspoken of. But as of now, you drop it, bringing Vialy to where you and Helaena sat with the children. There, you hand her the wooden spun necklace that Alice gave you, a warm smile growing on her lips as she thanks you.
…
“Clement,” you burst into your husband’s bed chambers, slamming the heavy door behind you. “A clement King you called him.”
Aemond can barely turn around before you shove him, forcing him to catch himself on his table.
“I know not what you speak of,” he looks at you wildly before regaining his composure, “but I suggest you keep your head about you.”
“Did you see what they had done to my Handmaiden? A woman, an innocent!”
He scoffs. “She was the last to see the missing Princess, it is the Justice’s work to see to any leads.”
"To what end, Aemond? The girl said she didn't know, what more must she say?"
"And that was a lie,” he corrects you. “Lying to an extension of the crown is treasonous, Auriela. Punishable by death."
"Death…” you stare, eyes burning with fury, “all for not revealing my whereabouts?"
"If only you had come home."
You roll your eyes, sighing as you debate saying what the both of you already know. The image of a weakened Vialy smiling through her pain encourages you to express on the whole of you and your husband.
"...Why this farce, Aemond? Why must we continue this? We fail at up-keeping the appearances of our marriage…why not just end it?"
"End it...” he furrows his brow, “you have yet to mention this before."
You do the same, silently begging for him to just admit it. "Need I? You know as well as I that we shall never learn to work as one."
"Actually I ever learn that I know little and less about my Lady wife."
You shrug, knowing he’ll never cease to dance around the cold truth of what the two of you have been and will always remain…strangers. You accept defeat and land on compromise.
"Just have Aegon allow me leave. I will arrive back as needed,” you truly ask. He looks at you so intently, the last time he’s done so being on your wedding day. “I will do my duty and produce you heirs, and we shall live our separate days."
“Hm,” he thinks, scanning you up and down in that cold stare before nodding. "And would you be asking leave if I were that brothel boy?"
You scrunch your face, the conversation seemingly taking a turn in a different direction.
"What?"
"The boy, Deephide."
Regrettably, you almost scowl, feeling strange toward your husband’s mention of Lucan. Your days on the Street of Silk seemed like a separate reality completely, one that Aemond has no knowledge of. Now, you feel a small sense of territoriality of those few days, and all personnel that they entail.
"Aemond I'm married to you, what- How can that not be enough?"
"But you chose him,” he continues. “Is it because he's older? Or lowborn?"
"Husband, leave this.”
“Do you like Dornish men?”
Perhaps I do, you think.
"You've always seemed most uninterested in what l like.”
He continues to pry. "Why do you want him?"
"Why do you want women older than your mother?” you snap, his perseverance on the matter seeming all too personal. "We all want things in our lives, Aemond. There's no reason, we just do."
“Those are wise words,” he remarks, still staring as if he wants to see through you. "…Did you bed him?"
“What do you take me for?” you deride. “I am wed, that may mean little to you but it's an ever growing shadow upon my name. I am not like you, I am not a man, I cannot give my maidenhead away freely as you can."
A small grin sneaks on his lips. "I am glad."
"Excuse me?"
"That you've remained a maiden,” he departs from leaning on the table and pursues you, his tall frame towering over yours. “Despite your...excursions.”
The closer he gets the smaller you feel, his eye still treading on yours.
His voice lowers. “Our marriage must be consummated one day, Auriela. Some don’t consider us legitimate at all so long as you remain unsullied.”
Aemond’s breath heats your skin, the two of you closer than you’ve been in years. Your eyes flicker from his own to his lips, refusing to believe what he’s asking of you.
Your breath shakes slightly. “That I know…”
He bites the bullet, moving before he can think. His hand rests between your collar and jaw, keeping a firm grip on you. You shudder as he pulls your mouth to his, a hunger in his kisses. The rough and sudden clash has your mind racing a million leagues a minute. The two of you have had your fair share of kisses, all of which being to please the eyes of his mother and council. Aemond has never desired you, never looked in your direction, never spoke of or to you unless forced to. Where this abrupt change in passion comes from, no man can say.
You don’t realize the way your hands seem to pull him closer until you’re interrupted, a knock at his door. Aemond pays it no mind, continuing to overwhelm you until three knocks ring out again.
He lets out a frustrated growl, keeping you in his hands as he looks over your head. He gives you one more glance before releasing, walking over and opening the door.
“The King requires an audience, my Prince,” the unmistakable voice of Criston Cole says.
“Tell my brother I’m occupied, Ser Criston,” Aemond brushes him off, shutting the door.
Cole holds it open. “Forgive me but it’s a command. He asks for your wife.”
Your husband grunts, slamming the door and turning back to you.
“He truly always finds a way to steal my joy.”
Standing opposite a mirror, you smooth your dress down. “Ser Criston?”
“Aegon.”
“Hm,” you hum. Aemond stands behind you, wrapping an arm around your waist as you ready yourself for the King you so despise.
Neither of you dare speak a word of what may have happened had Ser Criston not intervened. You just stare into the mirror, a rare sight, the two of you looking like a proper pair.
You snap out of it, heading toward the door as Aemond holds onto your waist for as long as he can. When he finally lets go, you scurry out of his chambers, a breath finally escaping that you were unaware you were holding. Ser Criston leads you to the chamber of the Small Council.
…
“No, my King,” you plainly state, wanting nothing more than to leave his presence, “I have yet to bear a Princeling.”
Aegon sits at the head of the empty table, sitting you at the corner as he asks perpetual and aimless questions.
“My brother is a cunt but I always thought he’d know his way around one,” he smirks, staring at you with an all too fake quizzical look. “May that be yours or an old hags.”
You stay silent, imagining you were anywhere but in this chamber with this boy.
“Have you at the least lost your maidenhead? I’ve heard whispers of you and the Dornish boy-“
"Is the King this engrossed with his own wife's affairs? He seems to be most interested in my fucking and fooling."
“Ha,” Aegon tsks, "you may soon find that Northern mouth getting you into trouble, goodsister.”
You eye him impassively with a demeaning tilt of your head before making the mature decision to back down.
"Right, Your Grace,” you adjust. “I forget myself, I shall hold my tongue before my King. I only wish to ask what this meeting may be about."
“Much better,” he smiles before standing up, heading toward the board marked with houses, pins, and landmarks. “You know as well as anyone that the North is a hard cart to heave. They swore fealty to the pretendor of Dragonstone years ago, I need you to ensure that they now know who their trueborn King is.”
You stifle a laugh, the sight of Aegon trying to rule being nothing short of a jest. In this prospect especially, where he’s sure to fail before he’s even begun.
“And how would you have me do that, Your Grace?”
“By traveling to Winterfell and promising your firstborn daughter to second of Cregan Stark’s sons,” he blurts out, a proud smile on his face telling you that he’s come up with this plan all on his own…evidently.
“My King,” you begin, not sure which of the hundreds of flaws you should bring attention to first, “I suggest we send a raven to scope how far Winterfell is willing to stray from their oaths foremost. As you said, we aren’t easy to sway, the North does remember, Your Grace.”
“They may not be easy to sway,” he emphasizes the detachment of the North and yourself, “but I send you because you know the North. It was your home, you’re more familiar than any of us.”
“Yes, and because of that I know that Cregan is slow to waiver and quick to call his banners.”
“Shall he support the cunt of Dragonstone, let them come.”
You scoff. “You don’t want war with the North, Your Grace. Cregan will never bend even with Sunfyre himself at his gates. Lucerys wasn’t far from Lord Stark’s own dead brother’s age, all the more reason to sympathize with the Velaryons. And who’s to say he hasn’t already been preyed upon by the blacks?”
“The North is closer to us than to Dragonstone.”
“They’re ahead of us in that sense,” you remind him. “While our King thrust us into war and bloodshed, Rhaenyra took a steady route; collecting her allies and seeking her foes.”
Aegon wears a frustrated scowl at your reprimands, coming back to the table and standing over you, his hands resting just in front of yours.
“Do you mean to doubt the King’s ways?” he asks, his voice low and warning.
“I mean to do no such thing,” you assure him. You look toward to door. “May I ask why my husband isn’t privy to this discussion?”
He looks you up and down, minorly offended before he retakes his seat. “I heard that you disagree with some of my methods of questioning.”
Vialy. Your heart skips a beat, knowing that the only people who knew about your feelings on the matter were Helaena, Vialy, and Aemond; all of which were consulted within the hour. Was he eavesdropping on your conversations?
You stay fairly quiet on the matter. “I just wanted my handmaiden to feel safe and at home in the Keep.”
“Mm,” he nods, placing his chin on his fist, “and do you feel safe and at home, sister?”
A small wrinkle forms above your brow as you fail to decipher what he could possibly be getting at. You smooth it out, knowing better than to hurt a powerful man’s confidence beyond the grounds of small jabs.
“…Am I free to go, Your Grace?”
He lingers on you, close to how his brother does, before waving his hand. You stand, walking toward the door not knowing whether you’re still expected to go North. If the King says it, so it shall be. Though, you’re not sure how welcome you’d be back home after your time here. As you exit the room, a pit forms in your stomach at the thought of it…
✺ ✺ ✺
Later
The night replays itself in your head relentlessly. Aemond seemed like a new man. He was careful, gentle even as he undressed you, cradling your head as he laid you upon the bed. The consummation wasn’t witnessed, though you’re sure Ser Criston could assume the activities at hand from what he heard at the door. Many of the things Lucan taught you worked ably, one of them sending your husband over the edge.
You shan’t complain about the experience, for you expected much worse and are painfully aware of how much worse women before you have had it. However, as you laid in Aemond’s bed, his arms wrapped around you as he softly snored, you couldn’t find sleep. You contrite the thoughts that kept creeping into your head. Alice, Maeserys…Lucan. Your mind refused to rest even as the night grew late.
You cannot deny that Aemond was good to you tonight…which makes the fact that you’re presently lying naked next to Lucan even more regrettable. You didn’t mean it to happen, but as your feet continued tip toeing away from the Keep and toward the whore house, you found yourself justifying what you intended to do. My maidenhead is gone you thought, bedding two men within the hour only counts as one.
“I have to return…” you sit up, Lucan’s fingertips tracing your spine.
“Must you?”
“Mhm,” you nod, standing and stepping into your dress. “I was only meant to visit you.”
He grins. “It gladdens me that you did, Princess.”
You say your goodbyes, deciding to leave the act as it lay and not speak of it again. Lucan seems to understand the arrangement you’ve made, just for the night.
The cool of the night stings your eyes as you exit the buzzing pleasure house. You nearly trip when your foot is caught at the door. Snapping your head down, your gaze quickly softens as you see what’s grabbed you. Maeserys’ sad violet eyes stare up at you, his hood draping over his brows as his tiny fingers hold onto your dress. You contemplate rushing back inside and cursing whoever left him out here in the cold, then you contemplate doing the same to Pate for not keeping an eye on him. Ultimately, after a brief brainstorm and scan for witnesses, you pick him up and whisk him away.
You don’t consider what you’ll do with him until you’ve snuck back into the Keep, his arms latched around your neck. Small pattering footsteps ring out as you hurry to your chambers. Though, you find you’re not quick enough as a you hear a familiar clanking round the corner…A knight. You freeze in your spot as Ser Criston Cole nearly walks into you.
…
“You’re exactly what I thought you to be,” Aemond stands across the room, his volume rising, “heinous…whorish,” he shakes his head.
Your eyes turn a watery red as you silently hex the Lord Commander for delivering you to your downfall.
“Aemond I…” you shake your head, “it was below me, I admit. I-“
“You shall address me as your Lord,” he points a finger in your face. “After all we built, Auriela…Just to throw it away on the morrow, I-“ he scoffs, pacing the room.
“I was thinking of the boy…” you admit truthfully. Of the few victories you’ve won, sneaking Maeserys out of Ser Criston’s sight before he could be he seized was certainly one of them.
“Who is none of our fucking concern!” Aemond hurls a goblet at you, it clattering onto the floor. “I put my trust in you…I put my my cock in you. Just for you to…” he struggles to normalize his breathing, “just to dispose of me as if it meant nothing.”
Sorrow fills your heart as you see water lining his eye as well, suddenly regretting ever leaving the Keep.
“Husband…” a tear falls down your cheek as you walk toward him.
You reach for his face, he hesitates before dropping to his knees. His arms wrap around your waist, burying his head as small sobs escape him. It breaks you, feeling only remorse and shame as you cradle his head, softly weeping with him.
You and your husband stay this way until you have no more tears to cry. No words are spoken as you leave his bed chambers, retrieving little Mase and returning to your own.
✺ ✺ ✺
2 moons later
The unfamiliar smell of dragon breath seeps into the cool air of the North as you stand atop the wall, Cregan looking over the snowy forests with you.
“If you’ve only come to make me bend the knee to the Usurper then you’ve wasted your travels, cousin.”
“I figured as much,” you admit, “I only ask that you consider it before you open yourself to a war that the North can avoid.”
“You may be committed to the tyrants by oath and for that I don’t fault you, but the North still remembers their own oaths. If that sends us to war then we welcome it.” Cregan shrugs, his thick accent feeling like home.
“I’ve heard that,” Aemond’s voice emerges from behind you. The two of your turn. “That the North remembers.”
He steps out of the lift, animal skin draped over his frame. “It’s funny though, as no Northerner seems to remember that your ancestor, Torrhen Stark, bent the knee to mine own, Aegon the Conquerer.”
Cregan glances over to you, then back to Aemond before letting out a laugh. The Prince uncomfortably shifts his position.
“That’s right,” he nods, challengingly getting closer to Aemond. “But you’re no conquerer…you’re just a boy. A craven kinslayer at that.”
“Hm,” Aemond looks down at him, “watch your tongue, Northman.”
“I suggest you do the same…your royal status doesn’t protect you this close to death,” he gestures beyond the wall.
“My position may be weak here, but my dragon is not.”
“When that fat old lizard is brazen enough to fly over this wall maybe she’ll finally instill some fear in my heart.”
The boys face off, both of their hands resting on their daggers. You step in, placing a hand on Cregan’s chest.
“I’ve got something to show you.”
Aemond returns to his place beside Vhagar and his knights, staying there as you return to Cregan, Mase in your arms.
“…And you’re sure he’s Aegon’s?” Cregan examines the boy, stroking his hair.
“Can’t you tell? I only ask you watch over him until the war subsides, cousin. He’s an innocent.”
He nods, the memory of his small brother pushing his yes.
“I shall protect him like he were my own,” he agrees.
You thank him. “Next time I see you I hope it to be on kinder business.”
“As do I.”
…
Your husband, at the cost of your dignity and stiff lip, allowed the Starks a time free of war and calls of banners for now, even if they didn’t particularly bend the knee. You and Aemond are leagues ahead of his royal host as you fly on Vhagar. Reluctantly, you make a stop to your home of Barrowtown, seeing your father and sisters for the first time since your father promised you to Aemond. That, you haven’t yet put past him. But the Seven ask you to be forgiving, so forgiveness you shall seek.
✺ ✺ ✺
1 moon later
You feel like a rat beneath the feet of the royals as you peek into the Small Council chamber, silently watching. A hand hovers over your belly as a table full of men discuss the matter.
“I am confident that the child is mine.”
“How can you be so sure, Aemond?” Alicent ridicules him. “The girl has no respect for you or our house, who’s to say she hasn’t fallen pregnant at the hands of a whore in the city?”
“She spends more nights with me than she does in the city, mother. Certainly after Aegon tried shipping her North in the dead of Winter, she wouldn’t be so reckless.”
“But she is reckless,” Aegon speaks up. “I commanded her to stay in the castle, she leaves again that same night. I command her to get Lord Stark to bend the knee, she convinces you to join her on some holiday to the North, accomplishing nothing. Your wife is disobedient, she recognizes no authority.”
“And if the child is not mine?” your husband asks. “If he comes out with dark hair and olive skin, what then? Will you have my child murdered for her crimes.”
You furrow your brows, never considering Aemond to be one of your allies in the castle. After the insults you’ve heard him hurl toward Rhaenyra’s children, you were certain that any child that was not true born was, in his eyes, undeserving.
Lord Wylde eyes him. “You certainly aren’t suggesting we house a bastard in the Keep, my Prince.”
Aemond shrugs. “I only mean to raise the question.”
“There should be no question,” Alicent rubs her temples. “Your shameless wife parades around the castle, bowing to none and seeing no consequence.”
“If she is to be executed for the crime of not living in fear then let you pike my head beside hers-“
“The history of questioned legitimacies is a long and bloody one, my Lords,” Otto breaks the bicker. “Let us not plan for such wickedness and instead bend our knees and bow our heads to the Seven and pray that the Princess bears a true born son of her husband.”
With that, the council moves on to other matters. Though, the sneers on Alicent and her oldest son’s faces don’t cease so quickly, their abhor for you only growing stronger.
…
“Watchers always find a way to seek each other out,” Lord Larys creeps on you from the corner of your bedchamber. “I saw you watching, Princess.”
You sigh, shrugging. “Is it wrong to wish to know the rulings of my own family?”
“Oh, far from it,” he assures you. “But when the queen speaks the bees listen…They question your morale.”
“They question my very being, Lord Larys,” you admit, not in the mood for his riddles. “Speak what you mean.”
“…I fear that the water is rising, my Lady. Tensions run high and blood runs deep in the Red Keep, I can see as well as any that your welcome here is nearing an end. What they plan to do with you when the grim day comes, I cannot say I know. Though, I do not wish to see you perish, Princess.”
You tilt your head. Larys has a way of rising perspectives that you otherwise would’ve never imagined. He means to say you’re in trouble, you’re in danger in the Keep. The harder you stare the more it all falls into place. They forbid your leaving, they torture your handmaiden, they question your spirits…You begin to feel their ropes of fire tightening around your cold and snowy neck.
“…What do you suggest I do?” you ask, doubtless that he’s thought of an array of plans.
“If all were to come to turmoil here,” he begins, “the Princess is not without a place to turn.”
You shake your head. “My father wouldn’t take me back, he only wishes to keep his ties to the Targaryens.”
“Not the North…I propose you look across the bay.”
“…Dragonstone?” you ask.
Larys nods. “The black Princess has no reason to turn you away.”
“None save the fact that I’ve sworn myself to her enemies and sleep in her stolen castle.”
“A commitment not made by your hand,” he argues.
You think back to the few interactions that you have had with Rhaenyra, all of which taking place when she returned for the brief period following your wedding. You recall her and her children showing you nothing but kindness, a warm feeling in contrast to the everlasting silence you experience here. Rhaenyra spoke to you as if you were a person, an equal; she talked about histories, asked about your life in the North, introduced you to Jace and Luke.
“So I flee my husband and my duties?” you query, contemplating both sides of the coin. “Leave the land I’ve always known to seek refuge with Rhaenyra?”
“A cautious, yet judicious arrangement,” Larys remarks. “If my Princess wishes…it shall be done.”
Rhaenyra’s an acquaintance, a relative at the greatest; but as you weigh the odds, warily looking at your lawful family, the ancestral seat of the Targaryens begins to look like the more favorable position.
A knock rings at your door. Both you and the Clubfoot look at each other, then toward the knocks.
You clear your throat. “Come.”
Vialy opens the door, behind her, a serpent.
“The Dowager Queen, Princess.” your handmaiden announces, giving you a worrisome look before shutting the door behind Alicent.
“Queen mother,” both you and Larys bow as Alicent eyes you.
“I wish to speak to the Princess alone, Lord Larys.”
He nods before tottering his way out.
“How can I serve you?” you ask.
Alicent huffs, sitting at your study and looking out of the window.
“You’re with child,” she states.
“Yes, my queen,” you smile. “I ask the Seven for a healthy boy.”
“As do I,” she looks back at you. “Did you want for children before this, in the North?”
“Um,” you stammer, “I want whatever makes you and your- or- my house happy.”
“We’re alone here, you may speak truly.”
The Dowager’s words slide off your back, knowing better than to ever speak plainly to her.
“I was never good with children. I had only my sisters at home whom were one and two years my junior,” you shrug. “But the time I spend with the Queen’s children gives me hope that I may be a sufficient mother.”
“Mm, and do you fear for your child? For what people will think of them?”
A frown forms on your lips. “I do not,” you lie. “Have I reason to?”
She scoffs, standing. “You have all the reason to, Auriela.”
Alicent nears you, inspecting your face. Her breath tickles your skin as she strokes your braid.
“We birth children knowing the horrors they’ll face and the suffering they’ll endure,” she says. “I only hope that a mother’s shameful acts don’t add to the weight upon their tiny shoulders…”
She looks you up and down, your mouth slightly agape. No more words are spoken as she releases your hair and heads to the door, leaving you dangling.
You cannot say if she meant to scare you or threaten you, perhaps both. But the overpowering spark in your stomach is what you can only recognize anger. Angry that she feels she can scare you in a castle that she ordered you to, that she could frighten you when she arranged your marriage…Alicent is the shameless one, stalking and harassing you as she soils the Lord Commander’s white cloak nightly.
You sit in the chair that she did moments ago. You retrieve a quill, ink, and scroll, addressing your letter:
‘Dear sister…’
✺ ✺ ✺
1 Moon Later
“It was the Strong,” Lucan says, tears streaming down his cheeks, “I know it.”
You hold Vialy tight in your arms as she weeps, Alice’s cold slain body lying in the middle of you, a sheet draped over her. Lucan’s words are senseless, blaming Lord Larys, one of the few you consider your ally, of ordering their deaths.
“Not Larys,” you shake your head, “he’s a friend.”
“He’s a snake who weasels his way into all things,” Lucan grits his teeth, staring at Alice. “The people talk, Auriela...His servants say he did it for you.”
Your head snaps to him. “What?”
Lucan stares back, his eyes numb and voice low. “You think he’s a friend but so does the Queen, and the King, and your husband, and the Dowager. He cannot be trusted, he ordered me dead, Princess.”
“Why would he do such a thing, Lucan?”
He sighs. “I adore you, Princess, I do…But you’ve been blinded. The Lord speaks with two tongues. He tells you to estrange yourself from the crown, on the morrow he tells the crown that you’ve become reckless…treasonous.”
Vialy buries her head in your dress, still sobbing.
“…Have I no one in the whole of King’s Landing on my side?”
Lucan grabs your hand. “The smallfolk are a greater force than you take us for. Your handmaiden is loyal to you, you say your husband is loyal to you, even the Queen across the bay.”
You groan, tears collecting between the four of you as your escort, a Knight, stands over you out of earshot. Suddenly, it becomes very clear what you must do. Though, you no longer intend to take up the mission with Lord Larys.
✺ ✺ ✺
2 Weeks Later
You seize the first opportunity get. After a week of pent up emotions and grim planning, you and your allies in the City are prepared to make the escape that Lord Larys spoke of.
The Dowager and guards believe you’re meeting with the King tonight, the King believes you’re with Aemond, Aemond believes you’re with Helaena, and Helaena cares not. When you begged her to stay tight lipped as you escape the castle for a brief night of living before your return, she gave you no more of a sweet nod before returning to her twins.
Now, in the hour of the wolf, the blackest hour of the night, you board a ship; one that is said to fly a false green banner, as the crew are all holding steadfastly to their true Queen. It’s meant to be bound for Dragonstone if the whisperers of the city speak true..and there’s a spot waiting for you.
“Ticket,” the inspector stops you.
You look at him through your lashes, retrieving seven coins from your bag. Holding his hand in yours, you set all seven golden dragons in his palm, closing his fingers around them.
“Seven blessings,” you nod.
He looks at the money and then to you, realization hitting him. He nods as well, almost a bow, as he registers who you are. The doors are opened and you enter the boat, followed by two of your favorites.
“Honor means little to him,” Lucan says, “obviously.”
Vialy clings to your arm as the three of you thread through the crowds, searching for a compartment to sleep you on the journey to Dragonstone.
You correct him, your brows low and head lower as the cogs turn in your mind. “These men have got more honor in their cock alone than any in the Red Keep.”
You wonder how the Queen will accept you after your history, if she’ll see that you’re just as spiteful of the greens as she is. Though it matters not, for as the ship departs, the three of you are seated, prepared to do what it takes to never return to King’s Landing so long as a green sits on the throne.
pairings/relationships: tashi duncan x sister!(oc)reader, patrick zweig x fem!(oc)reader, art donaldson x fem!(oc)reader
summary: Tashi Duncan’s younger sister, Ava Duncan, never gets a chance to be seen past her sister’s shadow. When Ava gets injured and Tashi starts gaining fame, the two become more and more at odds with each other. Tashi juggles Art and Patrick while Ava struggles to keep up. When over a decade passes and a peace isn’t reached, either the Donaldsons or Zweigs, either Tashi or Ava, has to come out on top. (7.2k)
a/n: you know the movie was good when you have to rewatch so you have all the info for the fic🥴 with that being said, the dates and stuff may be a little off but i did my best with what wikipedia had to offer. regardless, im a patrick zweig stan 4L. anyway, as always, ur interaction is greatly appreciated, ily<3
warnings: description of injury, allusions to sex/almost a smut scene, swearing
in this story, yn is: Ava Duncan
March 16, 2006 //📍home, 9:35pm
The goofy grin on the brunette’s face and the blond’s childish giggle replays over and over in your head. Your mother’s muffled snores mix with Art’s laughs as a smile grows on your face, your eyes closed.
You’ve found yourself in this position too many times, imagining what could’ve been if the cute guys were eyeing you rather than your sister. But you’ve experienced it enough times to not even be hurt by it anymore. No guys approach you at volleyball events, especially not hot ones. So if anything, you find some comfort in lying upside down on the corduroy couch making up scenarios in your head.
The click of the front door forces your eyes open, sitting upright and perking up like a dog as your sister tip toes through the door.
“So…” You rest your chin on your fist, “Which one was it?”
“Shh.” Tashi smiles, pointing to your mom’s closed door. “Which one was what?”
“Come on,” you continue as she stands in front of you. “Which one did you…Y’know.”
“Oh my— Neither of them, Ava.”
“What!?”
“Shh!”
You lower your tone. “Seriously? You were alone with them both and didn’t make a move?”
“It wasn’t like that.” She laughs. “They’re like…I dunno, they’re weird.”
You scrunch your face up. “What, are they gay?”
She pauses, cocking her head.
“They’re actually gay?”
“No, no they’re not,” she giggles. “I just didn’t do anything with them. I mean we kissed but that’s it.”
“Did you kiss the blond?” you interrogate. “I really like the blond…”
“His name is Art and I kissed them both.” She smirks.
You roll your eyes. “Whatever.”
Tashi laughs at you, plopping next to you on the couch and resting her legs across yours.
“They did ask for my number again.”
“What’d you tell them?” You stroke her leg.
“I said whoever wins the match tomorrow gets it.”
“God, I wish,” you sigh, throwing your head back. “I’d kill to see Art just one more time…”
———
May 15th, 2006 //📍home, 6:00pm
You wince as your mom tightens the leg brace, covering your face in frustration.
“It’s okay, baby.” She kisses your head. “You tell me if you need anything, okay?”
You nod as she presses one more kiss onto your hair before walking out, leaving you alone with your thoughts.
Almost every athlete you know has been injured before, half of the girls on your volleyball team are covered in braces and tape all season. A torn ACL seems more like a right of passage than a serious and life changing injury. But when you heard the pop and felt the ligament rip, it was almost immediate; The realization that you very well may never play again. You’re not sure if yours was worse than others or if you’re just weaker, but the trauma of the blistering pain has turned you away from getting back on the court for the last month.
You already can tell who’s on the other side of the door from the lack of a knock. You internally sigh, wanting to be left alone, as Tashi sits at the foot of your bed.
“Hey, I was thinking we could go to the volleyball court today. I could practice with you.”
“Tashi…”
“I know you haven’t been wanting to go. But since you just hit a month I was thinking, you know, maybe you’d want to start working again.”
You shake your head. “Tashi, I don’t think I’m ready.”
“When will you be?” she asks, her voice stern.
You stare at her.”I don’t know. Why?”
“I’m just saying Ava, it’s not good to stop for this long. Some people never get back out there and you have to at least try.”
“I am trying,” you raise your voice. “My insides tore apart. Sorry if I’m not eager to put pressure on myself again.”
“There’s no pressure, I’m just asking you to get up and at least walk on a court again.”
“What if I don’t want to?”
“Why the fuck not?”
“Because I’m fucking scared, Tashi!” you shout, tears falling from your eyes. “I’m fucking scared of it happening again! I am not ready!”
She stares at you, a look that you can only describe as disgust on her face.
“…You don’t even want to drive out there just to see—”
“Get out.” You cover your eyes, a headache creeping up on you.
“Ava, I’m not going to let you waste away in here—”
“Get out of my room or I’m calling mom.” You stare back at her. “Go.”
She stands, giving you one last look of disapproval before leaving, slighting slamming your door behind her.
———
September 18th, 2006 //📍Stanford Tennis Courts, 5:00pm
“Passing…Down the line…Cross…”
Tashi’s grunts echo throughout the court as you throw shots at her, a pile of green tennis balls forming behind you. It took a few weeks but she got you back on the court, just not the volleyball courts. You’ve watched Tashi’s practices long enough to know the game, so when you reluctantly offered to help her train, she jumped at the opportunity.
You zone out, robotically tossing the balls as Tashi dashes across the court. You silently hope for a specific someone show up. Patrick Zweig had your sister in his phone and occasionally in his bed, but Art Donaldson was a free man. The only Duncan in his phone was Ava, an achievement that you pride yourself on even weeks later.
Sure, the two of you aren’t a thing, not the way Tashi and Patrick are. But you’re happy to be anything with Art, so the talking stage that you seem to be stuck in doesn’t bother you at all. You can only pray that it’ll blossom into something. Something meaning you being Ava Donaldson in the near future.
As if you summoned him, a very familiar blond boy opens the wire door, locking eyes with you. Your heart skips a beat when he waves at you, your hand immediately dropping the ball and waving back.
Your sister turns around to see Art, a smile growing on her face as she walks over to him. She wraps her arms around him, pulling him in for a hug as you watch. They barely pull away before Tashi begins chatting, her face too close to his for your liking.
Across the court, they’re too far for you to hear their conversation. But judging from Art’s hand draped over her waist and her arm resting on his shoulder, you see enough to be angry. You can only look down, waiting for the conversation, along with your humiliation, to end.
After an abundance of giggles, Art turns and walks away, giving you another wave.
“I’ll see you.” He smiles.
You purse your lips, terribly embarrassed as you nod. “Yeah. Good seeing you, Art.”
The door shuts and with it, your smile drops. Tashi gets back into position like nothing happened, waiting with her racquet. Playing along, you throw her the ball. Only, you don’t call the drill. You throw with a little more force and much more unpredictability as the anger in you rises.
“Ava…” Tashi calls, frantically chasing the ball.
It’s only when the ball flies past her head, barely missing her, that she stops.
“Ava, what the fuck!?”
She walks toward you, meeting you at the net.
“What was that?” She shrugs. “What’s going on?”
“Are you serious?”
She only looks at you, confused.
“Tashi, come on. You were literally all over him.”
“Wh— Art?” she deciphers. “Shit, my bad I didn’t mean— I really didn’t mean to.”
“Yeah, sure you didn’t.”
“Seriously, I didn’t. He’s my friend, I was just saying hey.”
“Saying hey with your arms around each other? That’s bullshit, just say you still like him.” You look down, mumbling. “It’s fine, it’s just annoying that you go after every guy I like knowing they’ll choose you.”
“Hey…” Tashi softens her tone, stepping over the net and nearing you. “Ava.”
“What?” You look at the ground.
“I didn’t mean it like that…” she insists. “I’m just stressed with school and stuff, he’s the only one who gets it.”
“Right.” You roll your eyes, not in the mood for ‘I’m stressed’ to be the excuse for going after your guy. “It’s not like I go to school too or anything.”
“No, I know you do. It’s just…Stanford’s different, you know?”
“Whatever.”
“Ava.” She lifts your chin to look at her. “I’m sorry, okay?”
The two of you ogle at each other as she waits for an answer. She always does this, almost forces you into accepting her apology which you do not.
“We good?” she asks.
“…Yeah, sure.” You shrug, pulling away from her. “It’s whatever.”
Tashi just looks at you once more, seemingly satisfied as she steps back over the net. She gets back into position as you pick up another ball, a look still on your face.
“Down the line.”
———
December 21st, 2006 //📍Stanford Dining Hall, 12:00pm
“How many?” the employee asks.
“Umm, can I have three?” You lean on the counter. “Or four, actually.”
She reaches under the counter before handing you four mayo packets.
“Thanks.”
You start the walk back to the dreadful double date table, Patrick having picked the booth in the far back. He clearly hasn’t returned from the bathroom as you see Art and Tashi still sitting alone. As you near them, you catch a glimpse of their conversation.
“Don’t you think you deserve it?” Art asks, his eyes so focused on your sister that he doesn’t see you walking up. “I mean, who wouldn’t be in love with you?”
Tashi doesn’t respond, only angrily stands and walks away, nearly knocking you over. She passes you, smoke practically coming out of her ears. You watch her go before sitting where she was, handing Art the packets.
“Thanks.” He smiles. “Patrick still in there?”
“I guess so.” you laugh, insecurity lacing your voice as you simultaneously try to decode the conversation they were having.
“I’m so not surprised.” He takes the bun off of his burger and tears open the white packet with his teeth.
You watch him, hesitant to speak. Though, your words spill out before you can stop them.
“Do you ever wish Patrick let you win the match?” you ask.
Art looks up at you, mid squeeze. He cracks an unsure smile.
“What kind of question is that?” he laughs.
“I don’t know,” you do the same, tragically self conscious. “Maybe you wonder what it’d be like to date my sister or something. I don’t know, it’s stupid.” You look down, fiddling with your fingers.
Art pauses, putting his burger down and placing his hands on yours.
“Hey,” he grabs your attention. “I’m here with you today.
You smile. “No, I know. It’s just…She’s like better than me in every way so I wouldn’t blame you,” you chuckle.
“What? I don’t think so, I think you’re great.”
“Yeah, but I didn’t get in to Stanford. Nor do I win all of the tennis tournaments or—”
“Ava,” Art stops you, shaking your head. “You’re just as good as Tashi.”
Your eyes tread on each other as you try your hardest to believe him. But you do realize that this is the exact same way he looked at Tashi on the courts.
The two of you are snapped out of it as Patrick returns, taking his seat next to Art.
“Sorry, they had like no toilet paper.”
“Oh good. Thanks for letting us know you took a shit, bud.”
“Whatever. Ava doesn’t care, right?”
“No,” you laugh. “You’re all good, Pat.”
———
📍Tashi’s dorm, 2:00pm
“So if he’s seeing other girls I won’t even fucking know now,” Tashi vents, stretching for her match.
You scroll on your phone, sitting at her desk. “It sounds like he was just trying to be nice, Tash. He was trying to help you out—”
“No, he’s not nice. Nothing about them is nice, Ava. They’re fucking weirdos, both of them. Art just hides behind this persona that he’s so caring and team Duncan when really he wants the same thing from me as Patrick.”
‘He wants the same thing from me.’
You sigh, tired of hearing the same things and watching her run back to them minutes later.
“Then stop complaining and fucking leave him already.”
Tashi stops in her lunge. “What?”
“You keep complaining about them.” You grunt, “If you really didn’t want the attention you’d just drop them both.”
“If I didn’t want the attention?”
“Yes.”
“The fuck does that mean?”
“Exactly what I said,” you say, irritated.
“Ava…” She stands up, looking down at you. You continue scrolling until your phone is snatched from you. “Hey.”
“What the—”
“Do you have something to say to me?”
“Give me my phone back.” You stand up, reaching for it.
“No, say what you mean.”
“Really?” You grab for your phone once more but she pulls it away from you like a child, “Fuck— Okay, Tashi, all you talk about is how hard your life is. How hard training is for a tournament that you know you're going to win. How hard it is dating a famous and touring athlete. How hard it is being friends with the nicest guy who only wants to help you. How fucking hard it is to have two guys fighting over you. How hard it is to go to an ivy league. How hard it is to live the fucking dream. How about you actually do something about it instead of rubbing it in our faces that you're above us and can play with two guys at once because you're so fucking amazing?"
The two of you stand nose to nose, a stance Tashi used to always initiate in order to intimidate you.
“How long have you felt this way?” she asks, her breath shaking.
“Ever since you became the Tashi Duncan and I was left in the dust. Now give me my phone.”
“Are you fucking serious, Ava? You think I asked for this?”
“Asked for what? A great life where you succeed in fucking everything? No, Tashi, you didn't have to ask for it. We worked so fucking hard and only you survived it. I succumbed to my fate, I quit my dream, I went to a shitty college, had shitty friends, watched shitty games, and watched the boys I liked fight for my sister. But no; Please, continue bitching about your hard situation."
You snatch your phone from her hands, walking toward the door. "Good luck at your fucking match."
———
2:45pm
You barely look up as you exit the library, occupied with connecting your earbuds to your phone. It’s only when you see a familiar black head of hair sitting in the common area that you stop.
“Patrick?”
He looks back, taking his feet off of the Stanford branded coffee table.
“Oh, hey Ava.” He makes space for you to sit beside him on the small loveseat. “How’s it goin’?”
“Good, um…” You put your stuff on the floor and sit next to him, “Why aren’t you at the tournament?”
“I could ask you the same thing.” He smiles that same crooked smile from the night you met him.
You curl your legs up, leaving your arm on the back of the seat. “Did you two fight too?”
Patrick leans back, looking over at you. “Yeah. Yeah, we did,” he laughs.
“What was yours about?” you pry, smiling.
“Uh.” He rubs his eye. “Just…not letting her control me. I’m my own boss kind of shit.”
“Seriously?”
“…Yeah, why?”
“That’s what our fight was about too!” You burst into giggles, “Well, not her controlling me but her controlling you. And Art, him too.”
“Shit. Art too?”
“Yeah, I mean, especially Art. You’re the only one who stands up to her bullshit.”
“Oh yeah?” he asks. “I don’t know, you seem to put up a good fight.”
“Yeah, but I’m her sister. It’s takes a brave man to break free of Tashi Duncan.”
“Oh God, did I break free?”
“You definitely broke free.” The two of you laugh.
“No but I see what you’re saying, she definitely had me whipped.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. Like I remember one time…” He turns toward you, getting comfy. “The first time her and I, um…”
“Oh, Jesus.” You cover your face.
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry!” he laughs. “But the first time we did, I remember she said she’d leave me if I told anyone. And I was head over heels, so of course I didn’t want to tell, right?”
“Right.”
“But Art’s my guy, y’know? So instead of being straight up and jeopardizing Tashi’s love, we made this stupid ass signal,” he tells in between laughs. “The way that Art serves— Like, you know how he puts the ball at the neck of his racquet?”
“Yeah, yeah.” You listen intently.
“Well, if I served that way, that meant yes, we did sleep together. And if I served my way, it meant we didn’t.”
“…And?”
“Well, I put that motherfucker right in the middle.”
“Oh my—”
You and Patrick erupt into laughs, covering your mouths as the librarian eyes the two of you. Your stomach starts to ache, not being able to remember the last time you had this kind of belly laugh.
“Well, cheers to breaking free of her.” You put your fist up.
“Oh hell yeah, cheers to that.” He bumps it.
———
3:05pm
The crowd outside thins out as you and Patrick head down the back halls and toward the parking lot. In true honor of breaking free, the two of you decided to not say goodbye. Instead, you’d go home without saying a word to your sister.
You’re a few doors down from the exit when Patrick stops in his tracks, looking into the nurses office.
“Tashi…” He walks in.
You enter the doorway, peeking in behind him. Inside, you see Tashi sitting on the table, Art by her side.
“No, out,” your sister points.
“I’m sorry—”
“Get out!”
“Tashi, listen to me—”
“No, get out!”
“Please—”
“Patrick, get the fuck out!” Art shouts, standing.
Patrick stays for a moment, taken aback as he looks from Tashi to Art. If he has the same vision as you, it’s clear that it’s them against him. It’s no longer Patrick and Tashi, but Art and Tashi.
He looks back at you before obeying, walking down the hallway.
Now alone, you come into full view, nearing your sister.
“Tash, what happened—”
“You too.”
You stop, tilting your head. “What?”
“I don’t want you here, leave.”
“Wh— Are you serious?”
“Ava, I think you should just go,” Art says lowly, wary to step in between you too.
You ignore him. “Tashi, I’m your sister.”
You get no answer, she only looks forward. You look at Art as he stands over her like some bodyguard.
Just as Patrick did, you back away, realizing what this is. You frantically look between the two as you wait for Tashi to change her mind, to see that regardless of what fight you had you’re still sisters. Though, it’s clear that doesn’t mean anything to her, it’s been clear for a while now.
Now, it’s only Art and Tashi.
———
10:03pm
“Coming in from Stanford; Student and highly lauded tennis player, Tashi Duncan, took a hard hit at her match against Pepperdine this afternoon. Sources say a hard fracture to the knee has Tashi in the care of medical professionals. It is unknown if she’ll ever be able to play again.”
The blinding fluorescent lights of the cheap fast food place burn your eyes as you and Patrick look up at the TV.
You bury your head in your hands, groaning. “Fuck.”
“She probably thinks she’ll never be able to play again.”
“Please, please don’t say that, Patrick. I’ll feel so guilty.”
“Ava, there’s nothing we could’ve done.”
“We could’ve at least showed up.” You rub a hand over your head.
“Hey.” He forces you to look at him, “None of this is our fault, okay? Injured or not, she still treated us like shit. Art only gets to stay by her side because he’s whipped.”
“I just…” you sigh. “I just wish I had been there.”
The two of you stand up, leaving the restaurant. Outside, a huge Adidas billboard with your sister’s face on it dominates the sky.
The two of you get into Patrick’s car, him cranking it up and turning down the radio.
“Let’s talk about something else.”
“Okay.” He nods, looking at you.
“Like…” you think. “Your tour.”
“Oh, god.”
You laugh. “When are you set to go back?”
“Uh, next week I’m pretty sure. But if I’m being honest, I don’t even want to go. I’ve been getting my ass kicked out there.”
“Patrick, Tashi would lose it if she heard you say that.”
He leans in, resting his arms on the center console as he examines your face. “Let’s not talk about Tashi…”
“Okay.” You hold the intense eye contact that he began. “What do you want to talk about?”
His nose is almost touching yours as you subconsciously near him, eyes flickering from his eyes to his lips.
“Let’s talk about you.” He grins, rubbing your waist.
“What do you want to know?”
“Tell me what you like,” he says, lowering his lips to your neck and softly pressing.
“I, um—” You tilt, holding the back of his head as he gets sloppier. “I loved volleyball. My team was from California but we travelled for tournaments. We ranked…fuck…we ranked second in the country—”
Patrick cuts you off, his lips ravaging yours as he runs his hands over you. You can’t stop yourself from leaning into him, crawling over to sit on his lap. Both of your hands get more and more heavy as he pulls your shirt over your head, tossing it in the backseat.
“Fuck,” you say in between kisses. “Fuck, wait.”
“What?” He looks up at you. “What, is something wrong?”
“Is this wrong to do?” you ask, out of breath. “Should we stop? What about Tashi and Art?”
“They yelled at us to leave when we tried to help,” he reminds you. “Why should we stop when they treated us like that?”
You look at him, convincing yourself that you’re considering it when all you want to feel is your mouth on his.
And you do, pushing the thoughts of Tashi and Art far from your mind.
———
February 15th, 2011 // 📍Zweig condo, 9:30am
5 years later
At one point in your life, it would take you multiple seconds to figure out how to say the dollar amount that you and your husband had in your bank account. Now, as the number almost falls short of five figures, you feel ashamed just looking at it.
You switch tabs on the laptop, the light from the ceiling to floor window behind it hurting your eyes. Scrolling through tournament options, the distances only get further and the prize money higher. Years ago, you and Patrick wouldn’t even consider the amount, as Patrick just wanted to play tennis; And that still holds true, only you’ve been stuck in your ways for so long that he’s forgotten how to play to win.
Nails scratch the hardwood behind you as your golden doodle, Bear, comes barreling down the hall. Right behind him is your husband, chasing the dog around the living room.
“I’m gonna getcha, I’m gonna getcha!” he taunts, the dog running desperately from him.
You chuckle. “Good morning.”
You hear Patrick give Bear a smooch before walking over to you, wrapping his arms around your neck.
“Good morning, baby.” He kisses your neck, looking at the screen. “Found anything good?”
“Not really,” you groan, frustrated. “I don’t know when these matches got so fucking far.”
“It’s okay.” He strokes your head. “I’m sure there’s one we can make it to.”
You continue scrolling, the qualifier maximum getting smaller and smaller.
“What about this one?” He points.
“Atlanta? Patrick, that’s on the other side of the country.”
“I know, I know. But we can make the trip, no? I hear some of our friends may be there.”
You turn your head, furrowing your brows at him. A sly smile plasters over his face, one that makes you realize all too quickly.
“They’re gonna be there?”
He nods.
“God, why would you want to be anywhere near them?”
“We probably won’t even see them, baby. But if they’re there we’ll have a big crowd.”
You think on it, the thought of seeing Tashi making your stomach turn in knots.
“…And look at that winner’s reward money,” he says convincingly.
A sigh escapes you before clicking submit, Patrick’s entry automatically being sent.
“Mm.” He kisses your wedding ring finger. “Thank you, baby.”
“Yeah, yeah.” You jokingly roll your eyes, pecking him on the cheek.
——
February 24th, 2011 //📍Atlanta, 7:40pm
Nausea consumes you as Patrick’s smell fills your senses. The aroma of the city is one thing, the aroma of your husband another, but the scent of your sister’s old perfume radiates off of him like a cancer.
You watch as he sets his coat down, coming behind the couch to kiss you.
“Did you—” You pull your face away, not able to let him touch you. “Did you see anyone we know?”
Patrick is taken aback, looking at you with a confused smile.
“No…Why?”
His eyes bore into yours as you search for any answer than the one you’re imagining. Though, as he hands you the chinese takeout bag and takes a seat next to you, you find yourself voiding the conclusion entirely; Your mind not willing to believe the man you love would be meeting her.
He wraps his arms around you, watching the TV. As the smell seems to corrupt every sense you have, a tear sneaks into your cheek, the possibility still piercing your gut. Even so, you wrap your arms back around him.
As of this moment, the comfort of hiding in his arms trumps the possibilities of the truth.
——
June 3rd, 2013 // 📍Zweig Condo, 3:00pm
2 Years Later
‘Hey, I know it’s been a while. But if you’re willing, I’d love to come out and see you and the baby. - A ♡’
The ‘Read’ under your message seems to taunt you the longer you stare. Your phone screen is interrupted by a call, ‘Mom’ at the top of the screen. You answer.
A small gasp escapes you as you’re immediately met with the smallest human you’ve ever seen. You’d know she was Tashi’s in a sea of babies. You wave your husband over, eyes staying on the baby.
“Oh my goodness,” you whisper. “Hi, baby.”
Her eyes stay closed, her hands in small fists.
“Oh, Ava, she’s so beautiful,” your mom lowly says down the phone.
“Is…” You wipe away a stray tear. “Is Tashi okay?”
The camera flips from the baby to your mother.
“You know you could always ask her yourself, honey.”
“No, I know. But— Just tell them we said congratulations. She’s precious.”
Your mom lets out a sigh as she looks from you to behind the camera.
“Mom, who is that?” You hear your sister’s voice in the background.
Your hands turn clammy, your heart beating faster and faster as she begins to turn the phone to Tashi.
“Um, Mom we gotta go, we’re breaking up. I love you.”
“Wait, Ava—”
“Love you, mom,” you spit out, hanging up and turning your phone face down.
You stare out for a minute, shocked at your body’s response to your sister’s voice. Sobs escape your mouth before you can stop them. You shove your face in your hands.
“Oh, baby.” Patrick holds you, rubbing your back.
“It’s been too long,” you cry. “She fucking hates me.”
“You don’t know that,” he reassures you. “She may come around. You did good.”
———
May 1st, 2019 // 📍New Rochelle, 10:00am
6 Years later
Making it to New York from home took up the rest of Patrick’s savings. The house that you downsized to is completely funded by you and your remote sales salary. Patrick continues to fight a losing battle with tennis, barely able to pay for food for himself every week. Straining your marriage was the last consequence of his money struggles. Though, it has the biggest impact on your day to day. Nonetheless, you remain by his side. In all honesty, you’re not completely sure how to continue anywhere else.
“I’m going to see Art today.” Patrick tells you, downing a handful of trail mix.
“Art?” you ask, holding Bear’s paws on your thighs. “Why would you do that? It’s been years.”
“I think it’s been long enough, we’re already here.” He shrugs. “I think it might be good for me.”
You focus on Bear, still not seeing a clear reason as to why he’d want to speak to Art after a decade.
“Maybe you should go see Tashi.”
Your eyes snap to him, her name barely being spoken in your house for the last six years.
“…And do what?”
He shrugs. “Might be good for you…”
…
1:00pm
Your stomach seems to twist in a thousand ways as you continuously fix your hair and outfit on the way into the far too fancy hotel. As you pass the lobby, you almost turn around and throw up. But as your sister heads for the elevator, you know this is your one chance to speak to her.
Your shoes thump against the marble floor as you jog after her.
“Tashi!” you whisper shout, reaching her just in time.
She turns around. Taking one look at you, she looks to your left and right, utterly confused.
“What are you doing here?” she asks, tone laced with disgust.
It’s been so long. She looks so different, her voice has such a maturity to it. But that dominating energy that she brings everywhere hasn’t changed a bit.
“Well I…” you fumble, all of your practice going out the window. “ I heard you were here, I wanted to say hello.”
“Say hello?” She looks you up and down, turning her full attention to you as she steps forward. “Honestly, I don’t want your fucking hello, Ava. Really, I don’t.”
You shake your head, “Tashi—”
"I can't believe you have the balls to be here. After what you fucking did to me."
"What I—” You compose yourself, remembering exactly how arguments with your sister always go. “Tashi, what the fuck did I do to you?"
"Are you serious?" she asks. "You're joking, yes?"
"No, I'm really not."
"You left me for 13 years by my fucking self." She raises her voice. "I had a wedding, I had a baby, and where were you? My sister was too stuck on a grudge to ever come back into my life, you're a waste of my fucking time." She begins to walk away.
“Hey.” You follow her, grabbing her arm and spinning her back around.
“Get off.”
"Not one of those events was I invited to, Tash. Not one.” Your grip tightens. “If you wanted me back, if you gave a shit, you would've acted like it. But you're not going to sit here and act like I was in the wrong and I should've reached out to you. Hell, I did fucking reach out to you.”
“In the wrong?” She snatches her arm from you. “Ava, are you clinically fucking stupid? You're hung up on a situation from 13 years ago—"
"No, but it's not from 13 years ago, Tashi,” you interrupt, getting in her face. “Because you're doing the same thing right now that you did when you were 18. You're sitting here blaming the world for your life decisions. You're blaming me for being angry that you were and are a narcissist who wants someone else to be the athlete that you never were. Every time I thought of coming back l'd imagine what my sister would say and I couldn't do it. But guess what Tashi, now I see through you. I fucking see it, Patrick sees it, and when Art finally opens his eyes you'll finally see yourself for what you are."
She stares at you, a chuckle escaping her. "Ava, this is pathetic. Truly. Because at the end of the day, it's not my fucking fault that you gave up. Now l'm in a position where I don't have to be here. I have a life, a pretty fucking good one, outside of this. Outside of you. This Final, it's practice. It's fucking child's play for us, whereas for the Zweigs...This is it for you. Your last fucking loss.”
“Yeah. Okay Tash.” You roll your eyes. "Keep throwing insults at me to distract from the fact that you're a shitty person."
"I'm a shitty pers— You fucking abandoned your family for 13 fucking years!"
"Because my sister is an insufferable egomaniac who can't accept the fact that her husband doesn't want to do this shit anymore and her tennis life is over!” you shout back, your voices echoing throughout the hotel. “It's fucking over Tashi, give it up. That's why I left you, because you're fucking dreadful! You're dreadful and everyone knows it."
Tashi slowly nods, the hotel staff looking at the two of you.
"...Ava, do you know what your husband does late at night?"
Your eyes widen, your heart skipping a beat as she addresses the unspoken.
"Fuck you,” you spit.
"I'm really asking, because from what I experienced...You're a lucky woman."
Now you’re the one with disgust in your eyes, the urge to spit in her face stronger than ever before.
“…Say hi to mom for me, Tashi,” you say, your hands balling into fists.
“Happy to,” she utters, walking toward the elevator. “Tell Patrick I’m wishing him good luck.”
…
3:00pm
You only tell your husband bits a pieces of your encounter, not daring to remind him of the man he was in Atlanta.
“I don’t even know why I tried.”
“Both of them are assholes,” he agrees. “At least now we’re sure of it.”
“I guess.” You bite your nails, stroking Bear’s ears. “Patrick you have to beat him in the Final. We can’t let them win.”
“I know, baby.” He nods, on your wavelength. “I know.”
——
May 4th, 2019 // Night Before the Final, 11:25pm
“Pat, it’s really coming down out there.” You look out of the hotel window, tarps flying into the street. “What if they cancel the match?”
“They’d never do that.” He watches the TV. “It should lighten up by morning.”
You hum, snuggling next to him as the bright screen flashes through an action sequence. Patrick’s phone vibrates, his phone brightness lighting the rest of the room.
“Oh, baby.” He shifts his body, making you sit up. “I gotta go.”
“Now? Why?” You try to look on his phone but he pulls it away, scrolling.
“I have to, um.” He rubs his head, looking stressed. “My racquet, I have to pick it up.”
“What does that mean?”
“They just messaged reminding me that we have to have this certain racquet to compete tomorrow.” He stands up, rushing toward the door.
“What— Patrick.” You follow him. “It’s like a fucking flash flood out there, can you not do this tomorrow?”
“Baby, they close at midnight, I gotta go.” He kisses you. “I love you.”
“Patrick, wait—”
“I love you, I have to go!” He shuts the door behind him.
…
12:30am
You have a strange urge to cry as you scroll through Art Donaldson’s instagram. Photos of him and his seemingly perfect family are plastered all over, an ‘@Tashidonaldson ♡’ at the top of his bio.
Patrick never wanted kids, said they’d cost too much and you couldn’t care for them. He was correct about the former, but care for children, you are willing and able to do. But when you married him, he did a lot of the decision making for you.
Now, as he’s blown all of your savings, lost his tennis touch, and been out of the damn hotel room for an hour doing god knows what , you wish you could shout at past you to get a grip.
Though, looking at these picture now, you wish you could do the same to past Art Donaldson too.
———
May 5th, 2019 // 📍New Rochelle Courts, 1:00pm
Final Day
The crowd’s heads robotically turned side to side as Art and Patrick dog it out in a vicious match. You sit in your assigned seat next to your sister, the endless stream of slander not ceasing, not even today.
“Is he retiring after this?” you ask, your head still going between the men.
Tashi shrugs, her expression hidden behind her sunglasses. “Maybe.”
"...I don't think Patrick will ever retire. I think tennis is all he has."
She hums. "If only he'd start winning his matches."
"He doesn't always play for the wins, Tashi."
"Yeah, he plays for the participation money."
"Maybe he does." You shrug. "At least he does it by choice."
She looks to you, her attention no longer on her husband’s tie breaker. "Art does it by choice."
“Like hell he does,” you scoff. “He wouldn't be retiring after becoming a Career Grand Slam if he wanted to be doing this.”
“Art is an adult, he does what he wants.” She looks back to the court.
“Art is your slave, he does what you want.”
Tashi continues trying to get to you. As Patrick sets for his next serve, he looks in your direction. Only, he isn’t looking at you, he’s looking at your sister. He returns his gaze to Art, placing his ball in the neck of his racquet.
Both you and Art freeze, staring at your husband. The men seem to be in their own world, but Patrick must’ve forgotten that you know too. The word seems to muffle around you as you stare at your husband’s evil grin at Art.
You stand on shaky legs, grasping your stomach as bile threatens to come up.
“Hey…” Tashi calls after you. “Ava, what the fuck are you doing?”
You run to the nearest exit, Patrick’s blatant disrespect and repulsiveness making you want to genuinely die where you stand.
It’s only as you stumble to your car that it truly hits you who the man you married really is, and how he really sees you.
Like everyone else, he thinks you’re a pawn in Tashi’s game. A piece that can be battered and bruised but will never go away, as it’s crucial to the game of Tashi. You want to vomit as you sit in your car, Patrick’s scent sending you into a violent sick.
———
May 14th, 2019 // 📍Zweig home, 12:00pm
9 Days Later
Three knocks at the door echo through your almost empty house. You pause your show, unlatching the chain and opening it.
Patrick stands in front of you, a hysterical attempt of a sad expression on his face.
“Everything’s here.” You walk him in, pointing to the boxes full of his stuff in the kitchen. “The only things that aren’t are your racquets, trophies, cups, stuff like that. Those are in the closet so they wouldn’t get mixed up.”
“Thanks,” he says, feeling like an alien in this house.
“Yeah.” You give him a small nod, returning to the couch next to Bear.
He spends an hour loudly moving his things from the kitchen to his car, the sound almost drowning out your show. Regardless, you stay put, wanting him to be done as fast as he can.
“Ava…” he calls over the reality TV. You ignore him, popping another veggie straw into your mouth.
Suddenly, his arm comes from behind you, grabbing the remote and muting it.
“Hey.” You turn around.
“I’m talking to you.”
“Okay, well I don’t want to talk to you.”
“Ava, I’m sorry—”
“Pat,” you chuckle, not being able to keep it in. “Don’t even.”
“Baby, listen to me, okay? I fucked up—”
“Patrick, Patrick!” You stand up. “Just stop, okay? Leave me be, finish getting your shit, and I’ll have the papers served to you by the end of the week.”
“Baby, no. Please.”
“Honey, there’s nothing you can say.” You shake your head, having prepared for his begging days ago. “Go beg to your mistress, yeah?”
He continues rambling, stumbling over his words. “Ava, it was such a bad mistake. I told myself it was strategy and— And because me and her have a complicated past I couldn’t see straight—”
“But nothing about us is complicated, right? We are married, we’re supposed to be a team. But you betrayed me, plain and simple,” you lay it out for him. “You’re a cheater and we’re done, now go.”
“It was a mistake—”
“Patrick…” You inhale. “I’m trying not to lose it, you need to get the fuck out.”
“Just hear me out—”
“Get out of the house, Patrick.”
“We can come back from this, Ava. We can.”
Your jaw hangs agape in genuine disbelief. He seems to notice he fucked up again as he stops speaking. You walk around the couch, getting in his face the same way Tashi used to get in yours.
“Patrick,” you begin. “I gave up everything for you. I gave up my life, I gave up my family, I gave up Art, I left it all for you. I abandoned so much to be in your corner because I was in love with you, I really was. Whether you felt the same about me, I’ll never actually know—”
“I loved you, baby. I still love you—”
“But I thought you were the one who understood me, Patrick. But somehow every time I gave you a chance to correct yourself you threw it away to be with Tashi. Over and over. She’s constantly being picked over me, her feelings over mine, her body over mine, her opinion over mine…You’re just another one of her fans. You’re just like Art— Honestly, you’re fucking worse. At least he pretended to like me all those years ago. Now, as my husband, you just don’t give a shit. Just publicly showing that you slept with my sister.”
“…Why do you keep bringing up Art?” He looks down at you. “Do you— Do you feel something for him still?”
“Oh my fucking—” You cover your face, composing yourself once again before continuing. “Pat, it’s been a long, long time since this all started. And if I could go back I’d change many things. But at the end of it all, I’m here because I worked for it and I endured it. You and Art can stay stuck under Tashi’s finger, that’s fine. But I know that life is bigger than that. Bigger than this weird threesome love triangle shit that you circle back to every few years. I am a grown woman who is in control of her own life so if you don’t have anymore comments, you need to get out and sign the papers when they’re served to you, Patrick.”
“…Baby, please,” he cries, his lip quivering. “You love me, we love each other. Please just think about it.”
You tilt your head. “Do you want me to be honest?”
Patrick nods, hiccuping on his tears.
“…All of this is really really beneath me,” you quietly tell him.
He lowers his head, his hands covering his eyes.
“When I was 18 I might have been broken over stuff like this but…” You shrug. “Things are very very different from when we were teenagers.”
