He tucks Evie into his arms and bends without stooping over to grab her little blanket. It’s patterned with strawberries, vestiges of things from when she was a baby, a consolation prize to him that you’d traded for just days before Evie would be born. 

It’s pink, the strawberries a bright, smiling red, pockets of green leaves and tiny, carefully stitched seeds. He had wanted to paint his spare bedroom pink when you were still pregnant, but you’d settled on sunshine yellow instead. 

The pink, the strawberries, had reminded him of another little girl, another little pink blanket. It had been more than a gift for compromising on the color of the walls. 

He hears you pad through the house to the entryway, soft footed and quiet as a mouse. “Hey, kiddo,” your voice drifts up the staircase, airy light and golden hued. “I’m really glad you decided to come.” After a moment you add, “Joel is, too.”  

Joel buries his nose in Evie’s hair and she rewards him with a giggle at the scrape of his beard against her cheek. She sounds like sunshine, like a little trickster god that doesn’t ever feel the cold. He smiles and a tiny hand splays across his jaw. 

Nerves beat anxiously against his lungs, leaving little plum colored bruises strung across his chest, his heart. 

“Yeah,” Ellie answers from below, and her tone is uncomfortable but not hostile, not yet, not with you. The front door squeaks as it swings shut. “I almost brought Dina with me,” she admits with a slightly awkward laugh. 

There’s a short silence, the shuffle of fabric. You’re hugging her, he knows you are, cheek pressed to her hair, arm around her shoulders.

“Next time,” you say, voice muffled and laughing bright, “bring Dina. We wouldn’t mind.” 

“Ellie,” Evie says, her voice a little gasp. The tiny star of her hand disappears from Joel’s cheek. It leaves a cold spot on his skin. “Daddy,” She cranes in his arms, looking toward her bedroom door like she might catch a glimpse of Ellie if she looked hard enough. Joel presses a hand to her back to keep her in his arms when she tilts a little too far. “Ellie!” 

The blanket slips down her shoulders when she bounces in excitement. 

“Yep,” he says, readjusting the strawberries over her back. “Ellie’s here. Let’s go see her, baby.” 

He carries Evie in his arms down the steps, and they creak the whole way. He keeps his hand protectively against her back and she leans her head against his shoulder, warm and heavy, thumb in her mouth. 

The front door is shut but the entryway still feels cold. You and Ellie have relocated to the kitchen, puddles in the shapes of clouds crowded around the mat in front of the door, slush like mountainsides sliding glacially slow away from Ellie’s abandoned boots. 

Light, bright and warm, floods the kitchen, spills through the archway he’s almost afraid to step through. 

Your favorite album is playing over the stereo. The sound of your voice is low and peppered with love. “I miss having all of you together.” The low pulse of music is undercut by the sound of your knife rising and falling against a cutting board. 

Ellie makes a discontent noise. 

“I know. Trust me, I do,” you answer her, even though she didn’t say anything. “But that doesn’t mean I don’t miss it. That I don’t miss you.”

There’s a long silence. The song spins on, one of the slower tracks on the album. “I know,” she sighs eventually. “I know.” 

Evie points one hand toward the kitchen but doesn’t lift her head from his shoulder. “Mama?” She murmurs against the collar of his shirt, around the thumb in her mouth.  

“Mm. Mama’s waitin’ on us,” he steps into the light, crosses through the dining room, and into the bright x-ray of the kitchen light. 

Eva squirms in his arms, wriggly and so strong, when she sees Ellie. Joel goes to one knee to set her feet firmly on the floor. The little pink blanket is left in his hand when she darts out of his grip. 

She’s dexterous and wiley, and goddamn fast, for a three year old. 

Sarah had been the same. 

Ellie catches her on the other side of the kitchen and swings her up into her arms, smiling, poking her in the sides until she laughs and then shrieks. 

It’s a violent reminder of the familiarity that his daughters have with each other, without him. There are things he’s not privy to anymore, not even in his own house, with his own family. Eva’s laughs fade into giggles and Ellie sways with her. 

Ellie doesn’t look at him, doesn’t say anything at all. 

Her face is sharper, the last of childhood roundness lost. She’s taller, thinner. She should eat more, and he’s glad she’s there for dinner. He’s glad she’s there at all. But he doesn't know how to say any of that. 

“Howdy,” he settles for, hooking one thumb into his belt. 

She looks slowly up, and nods. Her face goes tense as soon as she meets his eyes. 

It’s better than looking like she might flee. 

Neither of them say anything else and the air goes stiff with unspoken words, with the unresolved, unsaid past. 

“Joel,” you touch his arm and smile softly at him when he looks at you. “Would you set the table, please?” 

“Sure,” he agrees, swallowing past the lump in his throat. 

You lean in and kiss his jaw. “Thank you.” 

Setting the table gives him something to do. He goes back into the dining room with a stack of plates and cutlery, placemats rolled neatly on top of the pile. He drapes the strawberries over the back of one of the chairs. 

When he unrolls the placemats, he huffs under his breath. 

They’re fashioned from spare bolts of cloth, the stitching neat and even. Embroidered around the edges are little bats. Bats with cartoonish looking twin white fangs. You can’t stitch to save your life, so he knows you must have traded for them. 

Or, more likely, someone gifted them to you, to Evie. Jackson as a whole adored Evie, adored her odd little quirks. 

It grates on him sometimes, because it feels like a claim over his kid; and she’s not theirs, she’s his, she’s yours and Ellie’s. 

But it must be some kind of miracle that Evie would grow up with such love from so many people, so he lets it go and lets it be. 

Someone had once said to him, of her monster obsession, wait ‘til she sees one of the infected. She’ll probably fall in love. 

It had been a joke, one he did not laugh at, one that made you tighten your hand on his forearm. But your teeth had been gritted too, your anger shimmering hot.

If Joel had it his way, Evie would never see one of those damn things. She’d never even need to know they existed. 

Teaching Ellie how to navigate the world had been hard enough, had taken a toll he hadn’t expected. Teaching Eva one day would probably be the final nail in his coffin, the thing that made his heart squeeze just a little too tight. 

A tiny body collides with his leg as he finishes setting out the bat laden placemats. “C’mere, you,” he lifts his baby into his arms and settles into one of the chairs. 

She’s getting too big for him to carry, but he’ll do it as long as he can. The soft smell of her floats up, unlocks memories that still smart. “Look a’ that,” he points to the bats and gets a laugh in return, a little hand squishing the fabric up so she can drag it towards herself. 

“Bats,” she says and tips her head back against his shoulder, the crown of her head nestled just below his chin. 

The music spins on in the kitchen, accompanied now by the hiss of cooking, the light sound of chatter. You must say something funny, because Ellie suddenly bursts out in a laugh he hasn’t heard in so long it makes his chest clench. 

“Mm,” Joel hums and straightens out the mat again. “Just for you, probably. Everybody in town knows how much you like bats.” 

Eva just watches him, warm, soft hand landing on his cheek again, as it so often does. 

Those big, knowing eyes are watching him. He cups one hand against the side of her head and leans down to kiss her forehead. “You gonna help?” 

He sets her back down onto the floor, doles out the forks one at a time so she can bop around the table to each chair and lie it next to the plate. She doesn’t run, holds it just the way he’d told her to as he follows dutifully behind her. Just in case. “My smart girl,” he says when she’s finished with the last one and he’s set out the knives himself. “Gettin’ so big.” 

Sometimes, when he looks at her, he sees vestiges of Sarah in her features. He blinks and it's gone and he tries to tell himself that there are no similarities between this girl and that one. 

But there are. Of course, there are. They’re sisters, even if they’ll never meet. There are parts of Sarah in Eva, because there are parts of him in each of them, even if he doesn’t like to admit that. 

“Daddy?” 

“Evie?” 

She giggles when he says her name. She’s in his arms again, warm and heavy. He can feel the hummingbird beat of her heart against his. 

“Why don’t you like Ellie?” Each word is carefully said, the syllables wobbling around on her tongue. His smart girl, he thinks again. Too smart, too perceptive. Just like Ellie; no secrets, no lies. 

She would be four in just a few short months. 

Four. It’s not a big enough number; it’s too big of a number. He blinked and his baby was gone. 

It’s how it always happens. Blink and they’re gone. 

Something heavy drops into Joel’s chest. “I do,” he answers gruffly. Big eyes meet his, patiently waiting for more. The tilt of her brows, the pull of her little mouth, is all you. “I do,” he repeats. He wants to say he loves her, but he doesn’t. 

She nods, so serious. “Me too,” she agrees, like she’s glad the matter has been cleared up.

When you all sit down to eat, Evie insists on sitting with Ellie. Joel tells her she doesn’t have to let her, and Ellie sharply says that it’s okay, it’s fine, they do it all the time. 

He didn’t know that, so he just nods and says, “Okay.” 

Mostly he listens to you and Ellie talk. You volley questions and chatter back and forth so naturally. He keeps quiet, because there’s something thick lodged in the back of his throat, because Ellie probably doesn’t want to hear anything he has to say anyhow, because she won’t want to answer any questions he might have. 

Because he feels like he’s already too late. 

But you ask a lot of the questions he would have, and Ellie pretends like she doesn’t know what you’re doing and answers them always, and that’s something at least. She talks a lot about patrol and a little about Dina, cheeks going pink when she does. She seems like she’s doing good, without him, and that’s all he can really ask for. 

Ellie clears the plates away and laughs, just like he did, at the bats embroidered beneath. You produce something that passes for dessert, preserved strawberries from a jar in the cabinet, cream poured over top. 

Evie falls asleep against Ellie and you take her gently into your arms. 

And then it’s over, and it feels like no time has passed. 

“Joel?” you say when Ellie is pulling on her coat. He looks at you and Ellie does too. “Why don’t you walk Ellie out?” You nod down at the sleeping toddler against your chest. “Please?” 

“I don’t need - he doesn’t have to—” 

“Joel?” You say over Ellie’s protest. 

“‘Course.” 

He walks Ellie to the front door, watches her pull on her shoes in record time, and then steps out onto the frostbitten porch with her. “Thanks for coming,” he says softly. “I appreciate it.” 

She looks uncomfortable, hands balled inside her jacket. “I didn’t come for you.” 

“I know you didn’t.” The yard glows in the dark, bright and spidery white. His breath clouds the air. “And I know you don’t wanna hear it. But I’m, uh, proud of you. Everyone says you’re doin’ real good.” 

She looks like she might say something, mouth twisted down, brows pinched together. But she doesn’t. She keeps it inside and only nods. 

“It was good,” he says after a moment when she doesn’t immediately bolt down the front steps, watching her from the corner of his eyes.

The tension between them eases just a little. “It was okay, old man,” she says and then seems to realize she slipped just a little. “See you around.” 

“Yep,” he answers, but she’s already gone, down the steps, leaving footprints behind in his glittering front yard. 

They haven’t talked about anything. But it’s something. It’s a little start. 

You’re just leaving Eva’s room when he comes up the stairs. You carefully leave the door cracked, fingers of her night light reaching out into the dark hall. 

He doesn’t realize he might be crying until you’re tucking your arms around him and making a gentle shushing sound. “It’s all right,” you whisper, arms curling around his shoulders. “C’mon. She’s still here. She wants to try.” 

“I know.” His voice cracks right down the middle and he clears his throat before attempting the words again. “I know.”

“Okay,” you tug at his hair and pull back to look at him. “Let’s go to bed.” 

But he's failing again. He's reaching for something he can't quite grasp, can't quite get to stick and stay and keep safe.

His heart beats hard, squeezes tight, like a cold fist has curled sharp nails into each pulse.

Too late, too late, too late, it says.

No, the King's Landing winter is a gentle breeze compared to the winter in the North.

Your beautiful, intricate wedding attire barely sways in the wind and you barely feel any cold, even though everyone is bundled up and clearly longing to return to the warm safety of the Red Keep as the ceremony was being held outdoors.

Lady Y/N, of House Stark - or at least, you were -, one of the most powerful and respected houses to ever exist. But the right to choose your love, your body, your heart and your bed belonged, not to yourself, but to someone else.

When the snows fall and the white winds blow, the lone wolf dies but the pack survives.

There is no pack for you anymore.

You are the lone wolf.

There's an almost physical pain as the cloak you're wearing is ripped from your shoulders - your old Stark cloak. You barely have time to mourn the loss, however, as soon your husband covers you with a new cloak. The Targaryen cloak is heavy, black and red and you taste your own blood as you bite the inside of your cheek.

During the entire ceremony you barely look at him, only briefly during the vows. The rest of the time you literally look everywhere; your hands, to the Septon, to his hands...anywhere, except to your princely husband. You don't want to see his pale skin and cheeks flushed from the cold, his light silver hair, his eye patch and his purple eye.

You miss Winterfell and everything the North represents so much, and you know that if you ever return, it won't be like Y/N of Winterfell anymore. You would be the wife of a Targaryen Prince from today onwards, and that was all that would matter to anyone.

Looking at him would only make that even clearer.

Aemond's kiss is light on your lips, with a hint of mint on his breath, as the crowd applauds and the two of you seal the union.

This man is your husband now.

The celebration lasts until night. An opulent and grand party for an opulent and grand family.

You smile at the court as you comment on the decor, the music, small talk about nothing to everyone who approaches.

You were good at that; cover up your own feelings.

Even when the music gets louder and you can hear your heart beating inside your chest and your blood pulsing, vibrating, a chorus of heavy drums and the deafening sound of the door slamming, locking away your past and history and happiness. Princesses weren't made for happiness, you reflect as blood drips from your face and black spots threaten to flood your vision.

But the gentle smile is still stamped on your features.

You're good at covering up.

You cover it up and pretend for a while longer, but the inevitable comes and after a while you are taken away from the others by several maids to prepare you for the first night with your husband. Think about it makes your thighs clench in nervous anticipation and your heart threaten to escape your throat.

You have heard many things about the Prince's personality.

Nothing that would leave you at ease for what was to come.

The maids gently brush your hair, letting the strands flow in a long cascade down your back, undress you and hang your wedding dress near a closet - your closet now - then dress you in a light nightgown of a stupidly virginal white and they cover it with an opaque cloak of the same color.

There are no conversations or gentle words to calm your racing heart, it is clear to you that they are just there to prepare you. But you're okay, you're a wild wolf, you can handle anything, is what you repeat over and over to yourself, praying that at some point the words will have some real effect on your nerves.

When they finish preparing you, they lead you through the halls to what you know to be Aemond's private chambers. They wait beside you until you raise your fist and knock three times on the door, waiting for permission to enter.

"Come in." Aemond responds from the other side and you sigh, fingers shaking as you grip the doorknob. The maids say goodbye with a graceful bow of their heads and leave you alone with your husband.

You are a wild wolf, you can do this.

You lift your head and enter.

The first thing you notice is the lighting. The flames in the fireplace are not strong enough to light the room properly, just enough to be able to see. A soft shade of orange illuminating some corners while darkness covers others. The long veil of the curtain swayed gently with the chilly night breeze coming in through a crack in the window.

It's almost romantic.

The decor is minimalist but strangely pleasant, the color scheme of the furniture and the many books on the shelves leave you feeling comfortable - even if nothing about the situation is actually comfortable.

Silently, you once again curse your fate as you take in the splendor of your husband's chambers. He was your husband.

And speaking of your husband, it takes a few seconds for you to notice his presence.

But when you see it, you can't look past it.

His tall figure is staring into the flames near the fireplace, a glass of wine between his long fingers. He wears dark pants and a light white cotton shirt, the orange of the flames creating a beautiful contrast in his silver strands running down his shoulders and back. He didn't take off his eye patch.

You don't know if he will at some point.

You don't know if you want him to do it.

He doesn't turn to you, not yet. From where you stand you can barely see his profile hidden behind that silky curtain of hair...but it's clear from his entire posture that he looks thoughtful.

So you wait, because, how could you not? What else should you do besides that?

You look at him harder from beneath your lashes, trying to gauge his emotions, but you can't see much of Aemond's face other than a blur of pale skin.

You feel...something. You're not sure what.

And then he turns and looks at you. And, in the dim light of his chamber, with nothing and no one but the two of you and no more reason to delay the inevitable, you allow yourself to really look at him.

Oh.

One time your brother took a quantity of snow in his hand and placed it inside your warm clothes, for no specific reason other than the simple pleasure of watching you squirm and scream at the cold sensation on your heated skin. The way the ice quickly melted and raised the small hairs along your body and how you screamed bloody murder at the sensation.

You think you're feeling it now.

The icy feeling running through your veins when you see him in the subtle lighting of the flames stirs something you didn't even know existed within you until that moment.

You have heard many things about your future husband; that he was a Prince, rider of the greatest dragon alive, a talented swordsman, who had the fiery and merciless personality common to the Targaryens, who had a dark and vengeful heart...

But somehow the fact that he was completely ravishing was never communicated to you.

The men of the North were hardened by climate and way of life; some admittedly beautiful, of course, but always in a rustic, truly brutal way.

But Aemond Targaryen, your husband, he had a kind of beauty that you had never seen in person - only in short stories and romance books. His features bathed in the light of the flames seemed to have been sculpted by the most sensitive and detailed of all artists. From his tall, slender physique, to the sharp lines of his jaw and nose. He looked like the epitome of masculine perfection and even you, with your experience largely limited to northern men, could see that.

You can hear him inhaling. There is a pause. It's so quiet. Then he murmurs, soft and low:

"You look unhappy."

It's an almost casual, evaluative comment, as if he's talking about the weather outside, testing to see how receptive you would be to him. There's no pity or concern in his expression, it eases you a little. There's just a sincerely questioning look and something akin to curiosity and you remember someone saying something like that about the Prince - he's always reading books, he's almost like a maester at this point. He is a listener, a learner.

“Just thinking about how much I will miss Winterfell and my siblings, my Lord,” you say, actually looking directly into his one eye, perhaps for the first time in your life. You were born a Stark. The wild blood of wolves runs through your veins. You are not weak.

"Are you unhappy with our arrangement?" He presses, apparently not satisfied with your answer. The curious look is still there and you find it ironic that this question is being asked now and precisely by him, when the marriage was already sealed, just waiting for consummation. No, this question should have been asked much earlier.

You smile, a slow stretch of your lips that is subtle, but clearly conveys your thoughts.

"Indeed, I already had an arrangement, my Lord. I was betrothed to Lord Umber of Last Hearth before the Royal decree changed the plans." You know you shouldn't say that, especially in that resentful, haughty tone. But the wine was taking effect and the words were escaping you.

You weren't sad about losing the marriage settlement with Lord Umber. You didn't harbor any romantic feelings for the man, you barely knew him in fact. But Lord Umber was a northerner. He wouldn't take you away from your customs and your home, you wouldn't have to give up literally everything in your life to be his wife.

But with Aemond...with Aemond you would basically have to learn to be someone completely new.

“So you consider me unworthy, My Lady?" He allowed the word to slide off his tongue with enough emphasis to disturb you. Even with one eye covered, the shadow of his gaze chilled your bones for just a moment. "Do you think you would be better off married to someone like Lord Umber?”

“I-I haven’t made up my mind about you yet, my Prince.” You blushed at your initial stutter, but didn't back down. If he wanted to play, you could too. "But I have to admit that the things I've heard about you, my husband, make me worry."

Aemond hums thoughtfully, walking around your body as if he's sizing you up, studying you and trying to find a weak spot to attack. He's like a predator, dangerous and calculating, and you find yourself sighing pathetically before he even touches you.

You are a wolf, you are a wolf...

You try to breathe evenly, even when he's standing behind your body, even when you can feel his breath on your hair.

"I've heard rumors about you too..." He whispered close to your ear, twirling a strand of your hair around his finger slowly. "Y/N of Winterfell...The Wild Wolf of the North. So young, but so spirited. Many Lords of the Seven Kingdoms covet you, little wolf. Excellent with a bow and arrow, intelligent, a little irreverent...beautiful..."

He kind of smiles at the side of your face, looking almost proud of himself.

"But - but the Royal decree? I thought...I thought it was just to unite and guarantee the support of the North..."

"The decree was only carried out because I requested it from the King."

He circles your body once more, stopping in front of you.

"W-why? I don't understand-"

He leaned into you, his scent invading your senses with the intimate approach, the silky strands of his hair tickling your face as he whispers:

"You are of ice; I am of fire. We are part of the same prophecy."

He offered no further explanation, as if that was absolutely everything you needed to know.

"And after all my effort, you insinuate that you would prefer to continue with the arrangement of marrying Lord Umber?"

The words seemed to die in your throat. Confusion spinning like a pinwheel in your mind...

What did this man feel about you, anyway?

Possession?

Desire?

Obsession?

"Are you afraid?" He asks calmly, assessing. He threads his fingers into the knot that keeps your cloak tied to your body, undoing the tie with purposeful slowness as he continues to look at you.

You were afraid?

"No." You responded confidently, without even blinking, lightly shaking your shoulders until the soft fabric fell to the floor, leaving you in just your small nightgown. His smirk neither confirms nor denies his confidence in your hasty statement.

"Good."

You took a deep breath when his hand wrapped around your throat, pulling your face closer to his. He remained impassive, as if he were silently judging you. You looked at him, truly unafraid.

Not that you shouldn't be. It was clear that, despite barely knowing each other and having no romantic feelings - at least not on your part yet - this man; One-Eyed Aemond, dangerous swordsman, The Kinslayer, Rider of Vhagar...this man, was talking about you as if he had known you for a long time.

Stark or not, you should be scared.

But there was something else about you...something that was the complete opposite of fear.

Expectation, curiosity. The addictive feeling of adrenaline bubbling in your stomach for the first time in a very very long time.

Your breaths mixed, hot and cold, in a perfect balance between you, between the roles you both assumed.

"Say my name."

The words rattled through the air like currents of vibration and sent a shiver of anticipation down your spine, making you gasp in surprise.

“My Prince, I-,” you respond softly after a few seconds.

"My name, now."

He repeats, pressing his fingers a fraction tighter to your throat.

Your thighs tighten.

You blink. "Aemond."

"Again."

"Aemond."

And then he closes the distance between you and kisses you, crushing you against his chest. And to your utter disbelief, you're kissing him back almost immediately. Your hands in his hair.

It's humid.

Oh Gods, those lips. Even though your kissing experience isn't extensive, you doubt there are lips like his.

His kiss is rough, sweet and decadent, one large hand tangling in the hair at the back of your neck, the other wrapping around your waist. You moan wantonly, letting him conquer and take you however he wanted. His tongue sweeps across yours greedily, pushing the air from your lungs. You sink completely against him, the area between your legs becoming wet as he continues to grip your waist with enough force to hurt, crushing you against his hard cock.

It was nothing like your Septa had said it would be; chaste, quick and unfortunately painful the first few times.

This is possessive and jealous. It's screams about an intimacy that you two don't yet have - but when he kisses you like that, heavens, you start to doubt it.

Maybe you knew each other from another life?

You feel yourself melting and try desperately to pull yourself together again. You fight the pure, silly romance of it all, but you can't deny the way you both fit together, the heat blooming between the bones of your hips, the strange swirl of goosebumps sending warmth to your chest. It's so right. So familiar.

He smells of leather, forest floor and mint, his saliva tastes like the red wine he drank during the celebration. You try to escape for air, but he pulls you closer and growls a single word against your mouth: “Mine." The word shoots straight to your core in an electric shock.

You resent the emotion that runs up your spine, you pull back to take a deep breath, dig your nails into his shoulders. You fight with yourself - you want this, oh Gods, you want this, but you can't let him win. You can not. You are a wolf, not a rabbit.

But he is so big, so overwhelming, so masculine, and your body betrays you with every step. He pulls you back, painfully gripping your neck with his teeth like a predator (just like a wolf would do to a rabbit, you want to cry at the irony) and you're putty in his hands, molding yourself against the warm cotton of his nightshirt, sliding your hands under the soft fabric, your fingertips brushing his warm skin, feeling the hard planes of his muscles.

He bends down and grabs your thighs, lifting you and turning you to pin you against the large bed, the soft fur embracing your body like you belong there. Your legs encircle him of their own accord, even as your mind distantly screams at you - Control yourself, Stark, you can't do this, you can't do this.

But why not? He's your husband, isn't he?

Aemond presses himself against you, his hardness and heat already overwhelming. He pulls away only to pull his shirt down his arms. You can feel yourself gushing between your legs, heat rising in your cheeks at the sight of the porcelain perfection that is Aemond, firm muscles and scruffy hair around his face.

When he bends down to kiss your neck, your hands are in his hair, pulling, nails digging into his scalp. He lets go of your neck and runs his tongue along your jaw, up to your ear. “Mine,” he seethes against your fragile earlobe, hot breath escaping between clenched teeth. He thrusts his hips roughly into yours, pinning you even tighter to the bed. Your folds swell in anticipation and you want the blood to flow normally through your body again.

Traitor body, you think, as you feel him hook his fingers into the thin straps of your nightgown, pulling it down until he exposes your soft breasts.

You blush and he smiles wildly, the eye patch making him look as lethal as the stories paint him to be.

He grunts something you don't understand in his mother language, and then, without warning, he plunges his mouth to your breast, the silver tips of his hair brushing your body as he pulls your nipple between his teeth, lightly, biting when he feels you take a deep breath. You cry out with a start, and it gives you the gentle warmth of his tongue lapping at your flesh, not so much to ease the pain but to stimulate it further. Your fingers curl into the back of his skull and he hums softly at the contact, rocking into you hard and almost reveling in the feeling of your body tensing beneath him.

Everything about Aemond exudes possessiveness. You don't think this is making love, like romance stories say the wedding night is. This is sex; intense and alive, something tangible that will leave marks tomorrow. And you wouldn't dream of asking for anything different.

You are a child of the North, not born for delicate things.

You are the heat in his chest, pulsing, dripping, slowly seeping into your skin, and oh, you think, has your soul ever burned like this before? Was this what he meant by ice and fire, parts of the same prophecy?

Your nightgown slides down your legs and you're naked to him. Not that you have time to embarrass yourself, not while his hot tongue is still slowly flicking your nipples until you're writhing from the overwhelming sensation of almost pain between the intense waves of pleasure.

You whimper like a wounded wolf cub when he lowers one of his hands and opens you with two fingers, his index finger putting light pressure under your virgin entrance while his thumb traces your clit. There's no distinct pattern, no sway or rhythm, just the gentle glide of his digits, but you still convulse against him.

"So sensitive," he laughs. "It feels good, wife?"

Your eyes are tightly closed and you mumble your response. Yes, it's so good. Aemond smirks. He leaves your breasts for a moment, reluctant to leave them completely unprotected so he can play with your pussy as he pleases. "Mine." He sounds grave, looking jealously at the fingers violating your innocence. You squirm against him, almost kicking him back, but Aemond catches your leg and holds it wide open as he rubs insistent circles on your clit, your own arousal causing him to slide with an embarrassingly loud sound.

"Don't run away from me, wife," he murmurs. You would scoff if you could. Run away? Where would you run from him? How would you escape a man who had the King himself issue a decree that would cancel your last relationship to validate his with you? You had no allusions about escaping now. But the words die in your throat. You whimper and become increasingly tense, but Aemond is generous enough to purr a ‘good girl’ in return.

His nails dig deep into the soft curve of your thigh and you gasp, the finger in your pussy willingly playing with your innocence as your voice breaks into a moan, and you feel something truly carnal creeping into your core, rising deep inside your throat as you tighten and shudder around his finger when he finally pushes inside. His lips curve into a satisfied smile and your vision becomes a little blurry as the shadows in your mind begin to swallow you, goading you, taunting you, stealing your breath before stealing your soul.

“You look so beautiful like this…” he reflects, his hand leaving your thigh to gently, teasingly run the center of your chest, circling your sensitive, wet nipples with his saliva, then slowing down to remain at the base of your neck. His thumb strokes your jaw with feigned concern but clear intent, and you bite your lip, certain that you should be scared, possibly even terrified by his blatantly possessive gaze - but you're actually discovering that it's just fills you with heat, lust and boldness.

The moment he removes his finger and pushes in once more, you open your lips to moan or speak, or whatever, and he takes the opportunity to slide his thumb across your tongue. You're not experienced by any means, but you don't need any additional information to close your lips around the digit and suck, moaning in the back of your throat at the gentle strokes of his finger into your pussy.

"Mine." He repeats...

He's staring at your lips around his thumb as he adds another finger to your heat, and there's so much pressure, pressure from all sides, his fingers twisting inside you, the thumb of one hand swirling around your clit, the thumb of his another hand on your mouth, his warm lips breathing on your face.

It's finally, mercifully, too much for your body to handle.

You scream, his thumb falling from your mouth, your hips twitching and legs shaking. Tears welling up in your eyes as you continue to moan breathily as he fucks you.

"Come on, cry for me, give me what's mine," he said, his face grim. It was everything you needed. You sob and let the tears fall down the sides of your face, finally allowing yourself the emotional catharsis that threatened to drown you.

Your climax hits you hard: a small burst of too much and too fast, peaking and crashing in seconds, your overworked nerves gushing out whatever outlet they can control. You cry and beg, and Aemond moans in response, almost as if he was the one cumming. Your pussy sucks him in, squeezing his fingers tight, and Aemond comes back to you, kissing your jaw and murmuring how good you're being to him, how good little wolf you are.

You don't think much, and you can't with the drunken haze over your thoughts, before you grab the leather of his eye patch and pull. There's not enough intimacy between the two of you for that, you know. But it's not like there was enough intimacy for you to convulse around his fingers, or for you to have sex, and yet you were doing it. So, fuck everything.

Aemond is caught off guard, you know by the way he tenses on top of you, the murmured praises against your skin ceasing and the fingers wet with your juices gripping your waist with punishing force.

But you don't regret it. You want to see what kind of monster he is underneath that and you deserve to know, for everything you've been through so far, you deserve to know.

He looks at you with something unsettling, like hurt and nervous expectation, even though it doesn't make sense, but he doesn't look away. He lets you see him.

There's a stone where his eyeball should be, a shiny blue gem. You don't know what exactly you were expecting to find there, but it certainly wasn't that.

He is broken, your husband, maimed forever. The jewel in his eye is just an illusion of something that was once part of his anatomy and that he would never get back.

He's just as lonely and damaged as you are.

There is a sacred purity to this knowledge, it makes you sigh and reach your fingers towards the stone, smoothing the jagged edges and long scars around it.

You don't feel sorry for him.

But you admire his strength.

Maybe he saw it in your expression because the next thing you know, he's kissing your mouth; slowly, hard, saliva coating your lips with every movement of his tongue - on your teeth, on your own tongue, on the roof of your mouth, in the seam of your lips...it's everywhere.

The sound of him pulling down his pants leaves you breathless, and you can feel his smile on your lips. You pull away, wanting to watch this part, and he pushes the fabric off on the floor.

Your mouth goes dry when you see him completely naked.

Despite your wild nature and almost ungraceful manner compared to other ladies, this was the first penis you had ever seen in your life. And you weren't ashamed to admit that you were completely intimidating.

Long, wide and hard. Pale along the length like the rest of his body, but the head was an almost purplish tone, precum leaking and running down to the base. A small, trimmed amount of silver hair around.

His fists clenched on the sheets beside your head as your hand, so small against your cock, wrapped around it. He was heavy and hot, bouncing sporadically in your palm. He almost immediately wrapped his large hand around yours and stopped you from continuing any possible exploration. You tried to force, but he got closer to your face and growled, pinning your to the bed beneath him with your hands at his sides. His cock burned with need, resting heavy against your stomach.

“Another time, little wolf,” he grunts, guiding the head of his cock to your pussy, sliding in easily thanks to how wet you were, thrusting into your clit in gentle strokes. You moan and spread your legs wider, letting him get comfortable. "I've already waited long enough, I'm not going to cum anywhere else but in your pretty pussy tonight."

You bite your lip and nod shakily, earning a mischievous smile from him, even though he's just as lost as you are.

He slides into you in a slow, smooth motion, his cock stretching you almost beyond your limits, and you're gasping at the sensation, pleasure and pain, all mixed into one heady, deadly cocktail. He buries himself in you all the way, then pauses, panting, forcing your half-lidded gaze back to him, always back to him.

Your face is flushed, tense, and you're biting your lip as if what he's doing is causing you pain. And, gods, it is.

But you want this. Want everything.

Aemond is covered in a thin layer of sweat, his pupil dilated with desire, and you can see his pulse racing against his neck. By gods old and new, he is so beautiful, you think.

He brings his thumb to part your swollen, red lips, stroking the plump plush hungrily, balancing on one forearm above you, gaze shining, and lets out a low, triumphant “mine.”

He needs to stop saying that because you are starting to believe what he says.

You blink slowly at him, and he's throbbing inside you, jumping with each pulse. You're already drunk, but he starts to move and you're practically catatonic at the feel of him, the hot, hard, heavy fullness of him in your tight walls. His thrusts are controlled at first, long and hot as he pulls and pushes you. “Mine,” he murmurs with intensity, “mine,” placing kisses in trails along your collarbones, neck, jaw, forehead, lips…

You reflexively squeeze him as he rocks against you, and he groans, nuzzling into your neck. Your legs wrap around him, and he finds your hands and threads his fingers through yours, bringing them above your head, pressing your forearms into the mattress with his. He kisses you hungrily, and you realize you've never felt this before - this heat, this need, this. Yes, you get it, you want it. You want him, oh gods, you want him, and suddenly nothing exists but the dark cocoon of his embrace. Another tear escapes and he kisses you, whispering a slow, sweet “mine” against your temple.

"Yes, just mine," he continues. Changing the angle of his thrusts just enough to make your eyes roll back. He lets go of your hand to run his fingers through your hair, playing with the sweaty strands, and then he takes your chin between his thumb and forefinger, leaning in for a kiss as he grinds his hips against yours in short, tight strokes in a way that shakes your clit incessantly.

He runs his tongue up to the roof of your mouth and hisses when you moan and suck on his tongue, nibbling his bottom lip. Your legs tighten around his hips and you wrap your arms around his shoulders and back, fingers and nails digging into his skin and muscles.

“Fuck,” he grunts. "What are you doing to me, baby?"

“I just want to get closer, I just need more,” you whimper.

“Oh gods yeah...me too,” he pants, returning to keeping your hands pinned above your head, lowering his body until both chests are pressed together...entering you faster and faster, pushing you up onto the bed with each thrust, the headboard hitting the wall loudly.

You're almost there again, almost there...

And then he's - oh, please God, no - cruelly withholding your orgasm. You open your eyes and give a silent cry of protest. “Mine,” he demands, shushing you, his voice intense and steaming with passion. “Say it, Y/N.”

"Aemond- "

He presses your hands tightly into the bed. "Say. It."

You examine his sweaty face, the white strands clinging to sweaty skin, the redness on his high cheeks, the blue stone, his purple eye, his beautiful lips...and you know it. You are his. It is the simplest truth in this vast and wild universe. Even when you were still of the North, even when you were - theoretically - Lord Umber's...even then, even then, you were truly Aemond's.

“I'm yours,” you finally sigh, a dark mantra, a prayer, a vow. “Yours, yours, yours.”

Aemond growls.

“Ah, yes fuck, you're all mine,” he’s panting, as close to you as humanly possible. "And I'm going to keep you so full of my cock even outside this room. I'm going to sit you on my lap when I'm busy late at council meetings...my sweet little wolf...my little cock warmer...so tight and perfect for me. Lay you down on my desk and eat your perfect pussy until you're so sensitive you're crying. Would you like that? Do you want to feel my mouth on that pussy?"

You'd like to think that his words aren't what push you over the edge, that it's just the pressure of his cock against your sweet spot, which is the way your walls remain sensitive since your last orgasm. But when you bite your bottom lip to fight the climax that's washing over you, you know that your imminent orgasm is, in fact, because of his words and the way they echo with possessiveness and ownership.

"That's it baby, cum on my cock again, come on...give it to me."

You come undone in an instant, overwhelming pleasure crashing through you, rushing through every crevice of your body. He crushes your mouth with his, thrusts violently into you once, twice, again, again - and you finally come undone wonderfully, dragging him over the edge with you, into the oceanic depths of your ecstasy.

He moans hoarsely with his forehead resting on yours, but he doesn't look away from you as his hips continue to thrust deep, spilling his semen inside you. You sigh and smooth down his shoulders, your fingertips gently pressing into the tense muscles of his back, feeling how his body is sweaty and trembling slightly above you.

It's all so absurdly intimate that you find yourself blushing all over again.

There's no rush to detach your limbs from each other, but eventually you separate. Slow and gentle, as if you are slowly remembering that you are actually separate people.

But maybe — you think as he reaches out to tangle his fingers in your hair, feeling all the places he's left his mark on your body, the void he's created for himself in your mind — maybe you're not anymore.

In the last moments between wakefulness and sleep, your body too exhausted for you to do anything other than give in to tiredness, you feel him position you better on the bed, covering your body with the furs and placing you as far away as possible from door, his broad back serving as a barrier between you and potential threats.

You sleepily mumble a thank you, something almost incoherent, and soon after: “I'm going to stay here just for a little while and then I'm going to my chamber...not going to spend the night here.”

He hugs you and kisses your hair, waiting until you close your eyes before whispering a wry, "Everything you say, little wolf."

--------

After a few hours of sleep, you didn't return to your chambers.

You are, in fact, kneeling between your husband's legs in a hot bathtub, slipping your little hand around his slick, pulsing cock and murmuring a chorus into the skin of his neck, kissing the goosebumps that rise to the sound of your voice, closing your teeth tightly in his jaw until you heard a hot gasp.

“Mine...mine,” you order, and Aemond tilts his chin towards you as he gently pushes his cock against the palm of your hand.

“Yours,” he promises. “Yours.”

--------

“I see your little wolf likes to bite, brother.” Aegon watches mischievously during dinner, stretching his lips with that sadistic smile of his.

You feel your cheeks turn red, and you almost choke on the wine, but Aemond makes no move to entertain the King's comment, other than a warning look - showing his displeasure at someone other than him calling you such a thing.

The mark, now a bluish hue on his pale neck, is just below his ear, very close to his jaw, high enough to be seen even through the lapels of his leather clothes.

The two of you arrived late at the great hall, after the first course had already been finished, and judging by the expression of malicious mockery on Aegon's face – and Alicent's embarrassed and horrified look – everyone knew exactly the reason for the delay.

Aemond meets your gaze from across the table. His smile is weak and soft, almost imperceptible, perfectly covering up his dominant personality behind closed doors.

“You know how I am,” Aemond says after a pause of silence, gaze never leaving you, the words meant only for you. “I have a thing for wildness.”

You cover your own mischievous smile with another sip of wine, even as Alicent begins to rebuke, always with grace and decorum, her children's openly scandalous behavior at the table.

As you adjust your position in the chair (body aching in the best way possible, thanks to your husband's stamina and unstoppable skills) you think that maybe, and just maybe, being away from the North isn't the worst thing that has happened to you.

Tagging: @croatianprincess @delilah1990 @fan-goddess @hanihoney88 @supmymainhuman @navyblue-eternity @gothicxs @toodlesxcuddles @loving-enemy @ostricx @azperja @echos-muses @thedamewithabook @schniiipsel @snowprincesa1 @nezzlysixx @maximizedrhythms @maviee @ammo23 @dark-night-sky-99 @deeeeexx @hotdsworld @darylandbethfanforever9 @malfoytargaryen @qyoquixote @pick95 @moonxhunt @tired-ninfa @fcbformulaeri @daydreamy-me @vyctorya @lovelymoonkiid @babyblue711 @zondereleutheromania @greenowlfactif @spookymicrowave @wintrr13 @namelesslosers @chainsawangel @beautbuck @arcielee @ratfromdeepspace @brianochka

The question is loud, posed in the middle of the lunch rush in the canteen. Joel’s heart nearly leaps out of his chest. “Would you — Jesus fuckin’ Christ, Ellie. Keep it down.”

Luckily the chatter drowned out her voice, and only Joel seems to have heard her. You laugh and put a hand on the forearm of your friend, clutching at her, your other hand clenched on the brim of your stetson. 

“So,” Ellie prompts. “Does she?” 

“No,” he grumbles, drawing his eyes away from you. He glances at Ellie briefly who is smiling at him, before he refocuses on the bowl in front of him. “I ain’t lookin’ either. Don’t know what you’re talking about.” 

Ellie just laughs and shovels another bite of food into her mouth. “You so are, man. Tommy’s right, you’ve got it bad.” She drags out the word bad, stretching it until Joel tells her to shut up. 

He manages to keep his gaze off you for all of six seconds before furtively searching for you again as Ellie chatters on about something else. 

You aren’t in line anymore but sitting at a table. You’re listening to someone talk, a pencil tucked behind your ear. There’s a smile playing around your lips, your eyes crinkle at the corners. 

Joel’s never seen anyone look so effortlessly beautiful, just sitting still—

“Dude!” 

“What?” He snaps, head whipping back to Ellie. 

She rolls her eyes, “You’re just proving my point. Have you even fuckin’ talked to her?” 

“Of course I have.” 

And he had.

Exactly once. 

Tommy had fallen ill and you’d volunteered for the patrol shift he would be missing. 

Something about you left him a little tongue tied, though he isn’t sure you’d noticed. He has a reputation for being quiet anyhow, and you’d filled the silence with so many words he hadn’t needed to say anything. 

The tight shape of your ass in your jeans as you rode ahead of him only distracted him a little. Sure, you had a voice he could listen to forever, and yeah, maybe you looked like some kind of goddess riding through the autumn light, red and yellow leaves swirling down around you—but that didn’t mean a damn thing about what he was feeling. That choking, stuttering, warm feeling fluttering around inside him. 

“When?” Ellie demands. “I’ve only ever seen you look at her.” 

Joel rolls his eyes, and scrapes the remaining bit of chili from his bowl. “Patrol.” 

“That was weeks ago!” 

And ever since then, he can’t seem to stop seeing you, he can’t seem to stop looking at you and for you, listening for you, the sweet lilt of your voice. But he hasn’t approached you. 

But that's a fuckin’ pipe dream.

He’s sure you have a bad impression of him after your one and only patrol together. 

Joel stands, “I ain’t had much cause to cross paths with her again. Now finish eatin’ and leave it alone. I don’t got a crush.” 

Ellie grumbles under her breath as Joel returns his dishes and leaves the canteen. Outside the autumn sunshine is warm. The sky is clear and perfectly blue. He breathes out and shakes himself. 

His brother and his kid might be right. 

He might have a damn crush. 

If only you weren’t so goddamned pretty. When Tommy told him he was changing shifts with someone, he’d expected someone like himself, like Tommy. Someone who would just get the job done, quiet and gruff. 

Most are. 

But you’re sunny as sunny can be. Cheerful. 

He’d assumed you’d lived most of your life in Jackson, coddled and protected from the harsher realities of the world. But you were new to Jackson, had only been there a couple of years. 

When he asked Tommy about it, he’d just shrugged. Always been like that, ever since she got here. She’s been through shit, but she’s just like that. 

“Hey,” a voice calls from behind him now as he crosses through the center of Jackson. It’s your pretty voice. Christ, he could listen to you read a phonebook. Footsteps pound along the pavement. “Joel.” 

The sound of his name in your mouth sends something rolling up from his gut to nest down in his lungs, a burning kind of pain that’s half pleasurable. 

Jesus, your voice. He wants to hear you sing, he bets you sound so good. He wants to hear your voice in other ways too, panting, with his name on your lips.

He turns to find you, in all your shimmering, pretty glory, catching up to him. Something seizes him by the throat. His tongue is too big for his mouth, his breath caught in his throat. When was the last time he felt like this? 

Years. Decades. Maybe when he first met Sarah’s mother, before things got complicated and everything fell apart between them. 

You come to a stop in front of him and smile. 

It’s a beaming, radiant smile. 

It makes him feel like he’s having a heart attack. 

Jesus. He needs to get a grip. 

“Hey, darlin’,” he manages, clearing his throat. “You need somethin’?” 

You blow out a breath, your cheeks puffing out. You rock back on your heels and stuff your hands in your pockets. “Well, maybe it's a bit forward of me,” you start, making Joel’s heart lurch in a way that he swears physically hurts him. He’s too old for this. Too old for crushes, too damn old for heart palpitations. 

“My usual patrol partner isn’t gonna be able to make my next rotation,” you continue. “And I thought we got on pretty well that time I filled in for Tommy. You think you’d wanna come along with me this time?”

The corner of your mouth lifts in a little smile. 

He swallows, tracing the bottom curve of your lip with his eyes. You have your stetson on now, and even though the brim of the hat shields your eyes from the sun, you still squint at him, those little crinkles appearing by your eyes. 

“You can say no,” you say when he just looks and doesn’t say a damn thing, laughter in your voice. “I won’t hold it against you.” 

Joel shakes himself. “No—I, of course. ‘Course I will.” 

“Really?” You sound surprised.

He lifts a brow, “Is that surprising?” 

You smile again. “Despite what I said before it did seem like I was a little much for your taste last time.” The twist of your lips turns self deprecating. 

Joel doesn’t mean to ask why you’d think that, but the words fall out anyhow. “How do you mean?” 

“Ah, c’mon, now,” you roll your eyes. “I know how I come across, and I know what it makes people think of me.” Before he can get a chance to respond to that, you’re continuing on. “So you’ll really be my partner?” 

“Sure,” he agrees again, like it doesn’t make him sick with nerves. Being alone with you for hours on end. “Just lemme know when.” 

You beam and flick your hat back with your forefinger to get a better look at him. “Great, thanks!” You give him the day and time of your rotation, but all he can focus on is how you still have that pencil tucked behind your ear, the curve of your cheek, the column of your throat. 

Seemingly without warning, or maybe he just hadn’t heard you, you spin away and make your way back to the canteen. 

“So you’ll actually have a conversation with her this time?” 

“Ellie—” 

“I’m just sayin’, man. You gotta snap that one up. You see how everyone looks at her.” 

Embarrassment like he’s never known it blooms in his chest. “Ellie,” he sighs again. “Go back to the damn house.” 

She relaxes further into the pile of hay she’s lying on, a comic book Joel had found for her held up in front of her nose. “No way, I gotta see this.” 

“Good morning!” Your sunny, sugared voice echoes from the entrance to the stables.

Ellie peeks at him over the edge of the comic book, clearly waiting for him to make a fool of himself. He tightens his grip on the reins of the horse he’d been saddling and glances around the edge of the stall. “Hey, sweetheart, good mornin’.” 

“Ready to go—Oh, Ellie, good morning, honey, what are you doing out here?” 

Ellie gets slowly to her feet, making a show of dusting her jeans off, hay feathering down as she does. “Just seeing the old man off,” she quips. “Didn’t want him to get lost on the way over.” 

You smile and laugh. “Hey if you meet us when we come back, I’ll get you those colored pencils like I promised.” 

Joel nearly strains his neck when his head snaps to look at Ellie. She’s just smiling, the little shit. “Oh, yeah, I’ll definitely meet you when you come back.”

You tilt your head at her tone, still grinning. 

Ellie wacks Joel on the arm with the comic as she walks by. “Don’t be weird,” she hisses under her breath.

You don’t seem to have heard, busy saddling your horse. “How are we on time?” You ask. 

“We got plenty. You and Ellie—”

He’s cut off by the laugh that slips past your lips. 

Joel watches the lift of your shirt, the thin line of exposed flesh between the edge of your t-shirt and your jeans. “Ellie is really good at attaching herself like a burr to certain people,” you confide. “She saw me drawing once in the market. Hasn’t left me alone since.” 

Ellie’s room flashes through his mind. The pad of paper she’d started carrying around, drawn pictures of people around Jackson, wildlife, the town, improving with each crack she took at it. She’s been drawing for months. 

She’s known you for months. 

That little shit. 

“She get that sketchbook from you?” He asks, just to confirm as he swings up into the saddle. 

“Yep,” you smile over your shoulder and then hook your foot into the stirrup. “Ready to go?” 

He nods, the knot in his chest a little looser at the ease between you. He can do this. He can converse with you, get to know you. 

Joel feels like he’s never had to talk to anyone in his life when he’s around you. He can’t remember what it's like to have a conversation. 

But you more than make up for it.

The way you chatter, he knows you’ve never met a stranger. He does his best to respond in kind, but his mouth and brain don’t seem to be on the same frequency. You don’t seem to mind his short answers, not bothered by his reluctance to say much of anything. 

Patrol is quiet aside from a few infected that you both quickly dispatch. You have a wicked aim, more than competent with the rifle you carry. 

He had tried not to doubt that you could handle yourself. He doesn’t think you would have been put on patrol had you not been able to. But seeing the determination settle into your features, the stern cut of your jaw as the smile disappeared from your lips, had reminded him that you weren’t the sheltered thing you seemed to be. 

You’d known something hard, before. You’d clearly known loss, with the hollowness that pulled at your eyes after the encounter. 

By the time you get back to Jackson, you’re smiling again, and Ellie is waiting as promised. You barely have your back turned before Ellie is nudging at Joel’s ribs with her elbow and lifting her brows. 

He shakes her off with a grunt, only for Ellie to offer you a place with them for dinner. “Tommy and Maria usually sit with us too,” she informs and you smile.

“I’d like that.” Your eyes briefly flick to Joel and then away. He can’t read the twitch of your lips, the way you duck your head. “Wanna come along for the colored pencils?” 

“Yep, c’mon Joel.”

He doesn’t protest, knows it's no use.

The warm, rocky feeling in his gut swims into his lungs when your fingers brush his as you walk along together. Ellie on one side, you on the other. Electric shoots through his veins. 

It’s only a matter of damn time before you really do give him a heart attack.

At your place, he sees your drawings. There are portraits of Ellie, Tommy, Maria, other folks around town. A couple of girls on horseback. All of your art is of Jackson, capturing life there. There’s no way you know every single one of those people personally.  

And yet, not a single one is of him.

“She’s lookin’ at you.” 

Joel huffs and lifts his beer to his mouth. The community hall smells like popcorn, like butter and salt. “She ain’t,” Joel says, keeps his eyes focused on film being projected onto the wall. 

“She is,” Tommy insists. “Just look over there.” 

Ever since you had dinner with him and his, Tommy and Ellie had decided to appoint themselves matchmakers. Maria rolled her eyes, but let it happen because it so clearly annoyed Joel. 

It reminds him of how Tommy and Sarah used to rib him, so he can’t be too irritated with them. 

He’s spent most of any of his free time with you over the last few months. He’s better at talking to you now, finds ease in your presence even when he feels warmth settling between his bones like something cancerous. You’re growing inside him, slow moving, choking off all other thoughts. 

Joel spends a lot of his time watching you draw anyone but him as you talk his ear off. It’s pleasant. He’ll never get tired of it.

Despite Joel’s words, he can’t keep his eyes from wandering, from seeking you out.

You’re sitting alone at the back of the room and you definitely aren’t looking at him, as he’d suspected. He rolls his eyes at Tommy’s dramatics but doesn’t look away from you. You set aside the glass in your hand and then begin to fidget with your fingers when your eyes suddenly flick up. 

You smile as soon as your gaze meets his, your whole face brightening. He swallows, and returns your wave when you raise a hand to him. 

“You always were bad with girls.” 

He groans. “Tommy would you jus’ let it go?”

“No,” he answers. “Just go on over and sit next to her. What’s the harm in that?” 

Joel grits his teeth. “Ain’t no harm unless she don’t want anythin’ to do with me.” 

Tommy whistles lowly. “Ain’t never seen confidence so low before—” 

“Jesus, alright, fine,” he slams the bottle down on the bar and works his towards you, going the long way around so he doesn’t block anyone’s view of the movie as Tommy’s laugh follows him. 

You glance up when he stops by your side. “Evenin’,” he greets, his voice waspish to his own ears. 

Great.

“Why hello, Joel Miller,” you respond with mirth in your voice, the melody of it melting into his skin. 

“Seat taken, sweetheart?” He asks gruffly. 

When you shake your head, he settles himself in the seat next to you stiffly. You stare at him and then glance around. The motion of it is so dramatic and put on that he has to ask—“What?” 

“Oh, nothing, I’m just looking for the snipers that must be trained on you,” you joke. “To make you so clearly sit next to me against your will.” 

He’s not sure what makes him do it, but he reaches over and cups your chin in his hand to direct your gaze to Tommy. “Right there he is,” he says, releasing your face. “My idiot brother.” 

“Ah, so you don’t wanna be sitting next to me.” 

“Never said that.” 

You grin. “Well I was hoping you’d come over, so color me flattered you aren’t being held at gunpoint.” 

He chuckles, his irritation easing. “It’s an honor, darlin’. My brother was just testin’ my patience.” 

“Siblings will do that,” you say with a nod. “I think he means well though. Him and Ellie both actually.” 

He frowns. “What do you mean?” 

“Oh, c’mon, Joel, neither of them are very subtle are they?” You nudge your knee into his. “Ellie asked me if I thought you were handsome just a few days ago. She looked kind of disgusted about it.” 

Joel swipes a hand down his face, sweat beading on his forehead. His stomach tightens with nerves. Leave it to those two to ruin something without even trying. He knew they were playing matchmaker, but he didn’t think you knew it too.  

“Jesus. I—I’m sorry if either of ‘em has made you uncomfortable.” 

You blink at him. “Well, Joel, don’t you wanna know my answer?” 

He winces. This is it, you’re putting him, all three of them, in their place. “Not so sure I do.”

You tilt your head and lie one hand against his forearm. “Well, okay. I won’t tell you how I said I think you’re the prettiest person I’ve ever laid eyes on. And I won’t tell you how that made Ellie gag and say she doesn’t need those kinds of details.”  

A laugh startles out of him, heat blooming in his neck and cheeks. He’s blushing like a damn teenager. 

He doesn’t dare to hope. 

Not yet. 

“Look,” you continue. “I knew what they were trying to do these last few months. And I think, maybe, neither of us are very good at this. I’m—I’m certainly not good at this kinda thing. I’ve never needed to be but,” you pull away from him and shuffle through your pockets. “This is what I was drawing that first time I met Ellie. She’s got a keen eye, noticed right away.” 

He takes the paper you pull from your pocket, folded into a creased, neat square. When he unfolds it, he finds he’s staring at himself rendered in pencil and charcoal. “Here’s where I embarrass myself and admit that I’ve had a—well, I guess it's a crush. For a while.” 

In the drawing, he’s standing with Tommy outside the stables. It’s clearly spring time, flowers budding on the nearby trees. “Was this last spring?” 

“Yep. So I jumped when Tommy needed someone to fill in.” You squirm, your hand hovering over the paper like you’re stopping yourself from snatching the drawing away from his fingers. “And then I didn’t shut up that whole time on patrol and you were so annoyed. I thought I messed it up.” 

Joel finally glances away from the paper and into your eyes. “Messed it up? Darlin’ I was—Jesus, I still am—struck by you. My tongue was twisted.” 

You blink. “Really? So I’m not making a fool of myself?” 

It's only then that he realizes how embarrassed you look, that you’re waiting for him to shoot you down, and that he hasn’t said anything to you, not really. “No, no, I’m—” 

Joel catches Tommy smirking from across the room in the corner of his vision, and when he looks around Ellie is laughing too, from where she sits with a group of her friends. No one else is paying you any mind, turned toward the flicker of the movie. “So damn obvious about it too,” he rolls his eyes. “Ain’t very good, are they?”

You laugh. “They seemed to be having fun. Bonding over it, really. And there was no harm in it, anyway, so I left them to it. Besides, y’know, maybe getting my feelings hurt a little.” You duck your head, a smile playing around your lips. 

“Well, I guess there wasn’t any harm,” he acknowledges. “Sorry, sweetheart but they, uh, they were right. I’m just about as stubborn as a bull.” 

You nod. “Got that impression of you.” 

Joel swallows, all the words tied up inside his mouth finally coming together, “I might be stubborn. But I ain’t above seeing when I’m wrong.” 

“And what are you wrong in?” 

“Waitin’ so damn long,” he says. 

The room is dark and no one is paying you any mind. When Joel cups your face in his hands, you lean into his touch and the tight fist around his lungs loosens. 

You taste like the sparkle of the drink you had been sipping on before he came over. Your mouth is as soft as your laugh, as smooth as the flutter of your voice.