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threeacttragedy · 2 months ago

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Entry 13: The One Where the Ashes Blew Towards Us with the Salt Wind from the Sea

“Last night I dreamt I went to Manderley again.”

Ah, yes, that ominous opening line from Daphne du Maurier’s novel, “Rebecca.” Have you ever read it? It’s an old book – from 1938, in fact! – but it’s truly a remarkable story, especially for its time. It’s not often you find yourself rooting for the murderer.

Lately, I have found myself becoming more and more frustrated with the fandom. And, no, my annoyance is not from the Sincerely Ignorant teetering on and off the boat every time someone takes a dump on the deck of the USS Lukola – I’m pretty fucking used to that shit – and, honestly, many of our dear Sincerely Ignorant seem to be gaining their sea legs. It’s the Conscientiously Stupid that have struck a chord with me – a disturbing, dissonant chord that leaves me questioning the average level of human intelligence.

My issue with the Conscientiously Stupid is that they push narratives that, when taken collectively, make no goddamn sense. Thanks to The-One-That-Lurks-in-a-Play-Misty-For-Me-Heaping-Pile-of-Discordant-Garbage, I have had the [dis]pleasure of learning about Nicola- and Luke-Adjacent theories. Did you know that the small scrap of green blanket Nicola was sitting on in her August 11 “Drink Your Milk” picture proved that the picture was meant for Jake? You know the guy that, at that point in Fandom History, most people had no clue even existed? I mean, that makes a lot more sense than linking the “Drink Your Milk” shirt Nicola was showcasing to the one Luke was seen wearing on June 22. Now, I’m not saying the shirt belonged to Luke, but if we’re comparing apples to apples, which one of these theories seems more plausible to you?

At this point, you have probably started to realize I enjoy weaving in and out of storytelling mode, mixing fact with theory and speculation. Today, I decided to take a classic novel – surely you didn’t think I made that reference to “Rebecca” for nothing – and loosely intertwine it with some Conscientiously Stupid adjacent theories. This is all in good fun and, like usual, mostly for my own dark humor.

I should probably begin by introducing our book characters. Honestly, you can probably guess which of our shipmates I have assigned to each role fairly quickly.

First, we have our Unnamed Narrator. Seriously, her first name is never revealed.

Second, we have Mrs. Danvers, the obsessive, borderline psychotic housekeeper.

Third, we have Maxim de Winter, our Narrator’s husband.

Fourth, we have Jack Favell, the dodgy and unlikeable cousin.

Lastly, we have our titular character, that darling creature Rebecca.

Now, let’s see who is on the playbill.

ANTONIA AS MRS. DANVERS

It pained me just a little to give the role of Mrs. Danvers to Antonia, primarily because Mrs. Danvers is such a complex character and I’ve always found Antonia to be rather simple. And, no, I’m not insinuating Antonia is simple-minded; I am saying it was never difficult to see through her bullshit (i.e., the phrase, “patterns are patterning,” didn’t come out of thin air). It helped that Mrs. Danvers is one of the main antagonists in the book and almost certainly the GOAT at trolling the heroine of “Rebecca.” I mean, the second Mrs. de Winter didn’t stand a chance with Danny lurking in the background.

The general narrative in Lukola Lore is that Antonia is an online troll. I’ve never been sure as to who her primary target was – Nicola or the Lukola fandom. I tend to believe it originated as Nicola and the Lukola fandom was simply collateral damage. I also cannot say for fact that Antonia was trolling anyone, but I can confirm that the general belief within the fandom that Antonia was trolling is well-documented on social media. For today’s story, we are going to assume the narrative that Antonia was trolling both Nicola and the Lukola fandom. We are also going to assume the USS Lutonia (because I have no fucking clue what the Luke-Antonia ship is called!) was real. Don’t get your feathers fluffed over this. This belief does exist – and it’s why Antonia has been able to fuck with the Lukolas as long as she has – but I promise I have every intention of peppering the side of this ship with holes.

Okay, let’s tow the USS Lutonia out to sea. Don’t forget your Dramamine!

We are living under the umbrella that Luke and Antonia were dating during the World Tour. Poor Antonia was forced into hiding by – who the fuck knows but let’s keep rolling with this narrative – and she wasn’t allowed to be openly seen with Luke or post anything on her social media with Luke. And, Luke mirrored this behavior and made an effort to keep Antonia out of the spotlight (in fact, at the New York City premiere, the average viewer wouldn’t have known Antonia was anything more than Luke’s “friend of a friend”). Antonia, annoyed with this lack of engagement (and, almost certainly fed up with, at a minimum, fans shipping Luke with Nicola), started the pattern of posting pictures of herself and tagging her location as places the fandom knew Luke had recently been. Luke, for his part, made no effort to acknowledge his relationship with Antonia. Instead, he continued his flirtatious relationship with Nicola. After the London premiere, the Lukolas put a target smack dab in the middle of Antonia’s back and blamed her for setting up Papsmear for her own benefit. Luke still made no effort to acknowledge his relationship with Antonia or protect her from the abundance of online hate she received. In fact, he posted his “I will not let [Cressida] ruin our night” story to Instagram instead (see my “Entry 1 – The One About That Weird Ass Cressida Post” if you’re confused by this comment). During post-Papsmear events, Luke did not list her as a plus one and he didn’t like any pictures of Antonia that were not on her grid. In fact, the only evidence directly linking Luke to Antonia were leaked and/or since-deleted pictures and videos not released by Luke. Throughout the summer, Antonia continued her efforts to place herself in proximity to Luke via tagged or easily recognizable locations. Oddly, many of Antonia’s posts seemed to occur shortly after Nicola posted or before/after DeuxMoi posted pap pictures, which gave birth to the “Antonia is trolling” subplot. Still, Luke made no effort to acknowledge his relationship with Antonia. On July 30, Luke was papped with Antonia and his friend group in Sorrento (see my “Entry 11 – The One About the Heart of the Ocean” if you want my opinion about that excursion). This was the last time Luke and Antonia were publicly photographed together. Once Luke returned to London on August 2, Antonia continued her campaign of insinuating she was in the same location as Luke, with the most recent being the Italian restaurant in Rome (which the restauranteur debunked, in my opinion). Again, Luke and Antonia have not been photographed together since July 30. To date, Luke has made no effort to acknowledge his relationship with Antonia, and the only visible interaction by Luke are his likes on Antonia’s semi-monthly Instagram grid posts, which seem obligatory at this point. For the month of November, there was no interaction between Luke and Antonia because Antonia did not post to her grid (gasp!).

Now, for all the Lutonia’s out there, explain to me why this kind of relationship is acceptable to you. Seriously, explain it to me.

Convince me that Luke didn’t shutter Antonia from the moment the USS Lukola schematics were presented to the engineers.

Convince me that Antonia is the kind of woman who would happily accept Luke’s blatant dismissal of her existence while he globe-trotted around the world with a woman he was being openly shipped with by fans, the press, and Bridgerton mates.

Convince me that Luke’s behavior towards Antonia doesn’t make him the worst boyfriend on the planet.

Convince me that Antonia’s online behavior towards Nicola and the Lukola fandom during and after the World Tour doesn’t make her a troll.

Convince me that Luke and Antonia are the definition of “true love.” Actually, before you do that, convince me that Luke and Antonia are currently dating.

Or, maybe you’ve realized that any effort to try to convince me would be a waste of your time because you, too, are starting to find this entire narrative unacceptable. It equates Antonia to someone who doesn’t mind being boxed into a corner and forced to claw her way out, and it likens Luke to an overbearing womanizer who doesn’t give two flips about how online hate may be affecting his partner. I mean, we may as well dump these two into an entirely different book called “The Handmaid’s Tale.”

I didn’t assign the role of Mrs. Danvers to Antonia because I thought Antonia was a feeble coward without her own voice. And, no, I didn’t give her the role because Mrs. Danvers is an obsessive psychopath. I gave Antonia the role of Mrs. Danvers because the fandom handed her the power to influence this narrative on a silver platter, just like the Narrator in “Rebecca” allowed herself to be manipulated by Mrs. Danvers. Moving forward, when you see Antonia with a lit match, all you need to do is lean over and blow it out. Poof! And, she’s gone. Seriously, if you see our version of Mrs. Danvers with anything that might light a fire, take it away from her!

Surely someone out there gets my joke…

LUKE AS MAXIM DE WINTER

Of course, Luke is Maxim de Winter, the outwardly charismatic, but recently widowed anti-hero who caught the affection of our Unnamed Narrator. I mean, he’s a good guy, right? Uhh, yeah, sure… Who doesn’t want to be married to a brooding chauvinist who is outwardly obsessed with the titular character? Wait a minute, that doesn’t sound like Luke at all! Oh, no, actually it does – if you believe the USS Lutonia is real!

For Luke, we are going to assume the same narrative as above – that the USS Lutonia is real, that Antonia trolled Nicola and the Lukola fandom, and that Luke refused to acknowledge his relationship with Antonia. Besides the obvious “Luke is the shittiest fucking boyfriend in the universe,” I have a few other gripes with the USS Lutonia.

Initially, I understood the concept of “keeping Antonia in the dark,” after all I try to be logical when I process information. It was always possible Luke and Nicola were rocking some great PR in the beginning of the World Tour, and that was the only thing they were rocking. In fact, that’s what I initially believed Nicola was doing – being cute but also professional in her interactions with Luke during those early press junkets. Luke, on the other hand, always seemed to wear his heart on his sleeve. Once they hit Australia, it seemed obvious to me that something had changed (go back and read my “Entry 12 – The One Where We Start Laying the Yellow Brick Road to Italy” for a briefing on this). The more I watched Luke and Nicola interact on the World Tour, the more I became convinced Antonia must have been a thing of the past (or possibly nothing) for Luke – until Antonia showed up at Papsmear. At that point, I fully expected Luke to just own up to her. Like, give up on trying to hide Antonia from public view. But, then he pulled that goddamn “Cressida” post (seriously, if you have not read my first entry to this blog, go back and read it!). When you look at the World Tour and subsequent Hot Boy Summer, and the behaviors that were – and were not – on display during that timeframe, you start to develop a completely different view of the USS Lutonia. I mean, I’m not even sure that ship ever left the planning room!

One of the most glaring cosmetic flaws with the USS Lutonia is why “nice guy” Luke would treat Antonia with such indifference if he loved her. When asked who was most like their Bridgerton character, everyone always answered Luke. That he was the kindest, most genuine person. If that’s true, then why did Luke treat his “girlfriend,” Antonia, like she didn’t exist? Again, convince me that Luke’s Public Display of Apathy towards Antonia made him a great boyfriend. Even if Luke was a private person, one would think that after someone he cared about received as much hate as Antonia did after Papsmear, he would have stepped up and taken control of the narrative. He didn’t hesitate to clear up the “cake eating” picture from his September 7 Instagram post (about Nicola), and that “Cressida” post will live rent-free in my mind forever. The only “logical” explanation I can come up with for “nice guy” Luke to shutter Antonia right from the jump is that Antonia is not, and was not, a significant person in his life. That, or he really is a shithead, and he has a team of people lying about what a great guy he is.

We also need to consider Nicola’s interactions with Antonia. First, Nicola has never followed Antonia and Antonia has never followed Nicola, at least not on her public account. But, Nicola followed – and still follows – Luke’s ex, Jade. Now, typically, I’d just be like, “Meh,” on something like this. But, after Papsmear, Nicola could have very easily played the “Diplomat Barbie” and given Antonia a follow on Instagram. But, she didn’t, which signals to me that Nicola wasn’t touching Antonia with an invisible 10-foot pole. Second, if you watch the back-and-forth between Nicola and Antonia on social media – in black and white, pen on paper – you’ll see Nicola playing the cat-and-mouse game right along with Antonia (Nicola just played it a helluva lot better). It even appears Nicola sicced her – what my father calls JVN – “assassin” on Antonia starting around July 20 or, at the very least, she condoned JVN teasing Antonia. If everything was great between Luke and Antonia – and Luke was genuinely happy with Antonia – why would Luke put up with the back-and-forth on social media between Antonia, Nicola, and JVN? Oh, that’s right, because Luke is the corrupt captain of the USS Lutonia. Seriously, if all was well between Luke and Antonia at this point in the timeline, then you’d have to surmise that all was not well between Luke and Nicola. We will get to that in a moment. Right now, aboard the USS Lutonia, Luke is just a lousy boyfriend.

Lastly – and what has always left me scratching my head – why would Luke allow Antonia to troll his fandom? Why allow Antonia to make insinuations online that they’re together but never come to her rescue when the fandom starts flinging shit at her? In my opinion, the InStyle copycat pictures (go read my last blog entry…) were just Antonia getting her feet wet. Why continue to put up with Antonia after allegations began flying that she arranged Papsmear and the Italy pap pictures? I suppose the answer most Lutonias would give is, “Because they’re in love.” With everything I have outlined in this entry, do you honestly get the “in love” vibe from those two? Because I don’t.

Now, why did I draw parallels between Luke and the book character, Maxim? It’s not because I believe Luke to be a male chauvinist so wrapped up in his own drama that he ignores those around him. The USS Lutonia will definitely paint that impression, though! It’s because Maxim’s demeanor was superficial. What the Unnamed Narrator believed was true about her husband was not actually true. And, that’s how I view the USS Lutonia – Luke’s behavior and the narrative surrounding this ship does not match the logic.

JAKE AS JACK FAVELL

Sorry, Jake, you get to be the icky Jack Favell. Yeah, that manipulative, blackmailing creep sleeping with his own cousin! But, hey, that subplot isn’t any more disturbing than Jake being shipped with Nicola, is it?

Alright, let’s jump on board the USS Jakola but not before I preface this section with my father’s flabbergasted words: “This ship is on the bottom of the ocean. These people must have oxygen masks. They’re down there with Jules Verne. This just doesn’t make sense.” No, it really doesn’t make sense but, because I’m here to tell a story, I will begrudgingly dive into the USS Jakola narrative. And, by “dive,” I mean plunge to the bottom of the ocean because that’s where this ship rests.

Just like we did with the USS Lutonia, we are going to assume the USS Jakola is real. The Jakolas believe that Nicola has been seeing Jake since, I guess, the Renegade Nell premiere on or about March 26, 2024. Although, the last I checked Eamon Farren was also at that premiere holding an umbrella for Nicola. I am not confirming Nicola was ever dating Eamon; I am simply saying he was present at the event and holding a fucking umbrella for her. You can make up your own mind about Eamon’s role in Nicola’s life. Regardless, it must have been an instant connection between Nicola and Jake because, if the Jakola narrative is to be believed, they began secretly dating after that. The Jakolas will argue that all the songs Nicola posted to her Instagram stories were for Jake. The Claddagh ring has no traditional meaning when Nicola wears it, and Chaos Week was also for Jake (and a “fuck you” to Luke). The Lukola-coded fan fiction was a “fuck you” to the Lukola fandom (see my “Entry 10 – The One About the Audibly Loud Lukola FanFic”). And, Jake and Nicola are in love and have hard launched their relationship because (a) Jake has been seen wearing Nicola’s bucket hat, (b) they have been seen in public together, and (c) they occasionally hold hands.

I’m not going to lie – for the longest time I didn’t pay any attention to the USS Jakola because it was such an incredibly absurd concept to me. A few weeks back, I posted to my Tumblr account a music video that Jake had done in early 2023. The song is called “Mixed Emotions” by You Me at Six, and the article that came out with the video on February 7th, 2023 stated, “With Jake Dunn who played the protagonist in the video who is actually a friend of mine, we actually spoke a lot about toxic masculinity and his experiences within his sexuality and the impacts it has had on his relationship with his dad.” It honestly never occurred to me the USS Jakola actually had passengers on board until October when the Jakholes went bananas over Nicola holding Jake’s hand. In my opinion – and you do not have to agree with me – the music video speaks for itself as does Jake’s social media presence, whether it be on his own pages or on those of his friend group. I’m sure I’ll get some Jakholes in here crying that we shouldn’t speculate on Jake’s sexuality, but the reality is the only people speculating on Jake’s sexuality are the Jakolas trying to discern whether he’s heterosexual. But, why doesn’t he just come out and say it? I get this question all the time. The answer is quite simple – he doesn’t need to. Jake never buried this part of his life; it’s other people burying it for him. Do you need to blast your sexual preferences out into the universe? I didn’t think so.

For shits and giggles – because that’s what I’m here for – let’s keep going with the story that Nicola and Jake are hot and heavy with each other. I’ll play center field and say Jake is a switch hitter. Happy now? If Jakola is real, then why would Nicola lay all those Lukola-coded breadcrumbs? And, NO, I am not explaining every crumb she’s dumped online. This post is already too damn long. But, Dear Jakolas, don’t tell me those coordinated airplane pictures didn’t have you crying into your pillows. Seriously, though, why would Nicola fuck with the Lukola fandom? I’ve mentioned in previous posts that Polin and Lukola have even been blurred by Netflix & Co. at this point. What would be the point of dragging the Lukolas along only to find out it was Nicola just fucking around? That makes about as much sense as “nice guy” Luke being the shittiest boyfriend on the planet. Again, the narrative does not fit the logic – although you’re welcome to try to convince me that Jakola is real.

For starters, convince me as to why Nicola is Jake’s “type” and not Luke’s. I am not being factitious. I seriously want to know why she’s acceptable for Jake but not Luke. And, if you’re going to tell me it’s because Luke likes brunettes, you better bring me some evidence that Jake likes blonde women.

Convince me that the Claddagh ring has no traditional significance to Nicola and that Jake would be okay with Nicola wearing that Claddagh ring – the one she had made in honor of Bridgerton Season 3, the season she shared with the man that fills her Instagram grid and tags and is the other half of Lukola. If you’re stuck on the significance of this ring, go read “Entry 6 – The One Where I Explained the Claddagh Ring to My Dad.”

Convince me that Nicola and Jake are a couple. And, if you’re going to mention handholding, then convince me that Nicola is not in a relationship with Mark, JVN, Jack R., Golda, Hannah D., Dylan L., or Luke. Oh, and is it true Jake is now dating Ellie Bamber? Convince me he’s not…

Any ways, good luck, babe, trying to sway me into believing Jakola is the real deal because I have a feeling your efforts are going to make your face become as flushed as Jack Favell’s when he was caught with his hand in the till.

NICOLA AS REBECCA

Surely you didn’t think Nicola was going to be the heroine of this story! If you believe the USS Lutonia and USS Jakola are smoothly sailing across the ocean blue, then the only role Nicola could reasonably play is that of the story’s villain – Rebecca. Yes, Rebecca was a bad, bad girl. She was manipulative and intentionally cruel; a Bitch with a capital “B.” She haunted poor Maxim and controlled Mrs. Danvers and Jack like a master puppeteer. She also tortured the Unnamed Narrator from her watery grave.

Seriously, though, let’s turn the tables. Let’s pretend Lutonia and Jakola are real. Starting, say, April 29, Nicola started trolling Antonia by dropping Luke-coded material online and really started ramping up those doe-eyed looks in Luke’s direction. Remember all that cute BTS? Perfectly timed to make it look like Antonia was trolling her when in reality Nicola was trolling Antonia! Unbeknownst to Luke, Nicola commissioned that Claddagh ring and started wearing it to make it look like she was in a relationship with Luke. She even organized a side jaunt over to Galway to introduce Luke to – surprise! – her mother! But, after being rejected by Luke – because he really is in love with Antonia (the USS Lutonia is blasting its horn right about now) – Nicola – YES, Nicola! – set up Papsmear to ruin Luke. I mean, if he wasn’t going to be her boyfriend, he sure as shit wasn’t going to be anyone else’s! All summer Nicola waited for Luke, but he’d gone into hiding, scared to surface because Nicola might find him! After growing tired of waiting for Luke, Nicola got her assassin, JVN, to start trolling Antonia online, that way Nicola could put all her efforts into finding and trolling Luke. She set up Chaos Week. She trolled him on the airplane. But, she needed help (after all she had so many other events and awards shows this summer) so she enlisted her unwitting accomplice, Jake! Jake helped her set up that Lukola FanFic to remind Luke of what could have been. But, nothing was working so Nicola upped the ante and volunteered Jake to be her confused boyfriend. “Luke…Luke…” I can still hear her desperate cries being carried like ashes in the wind…

SEE! I can do it, too – make up total bullshit to fit whatever narrative I please!!!

Yeah, yeah, maybe I went a bit too far (I warned you I had a dark sense of humor) but, honestly, I believe the only way the USS Lutonia and USS Jakola could stay afloat is if Nicola is the villain. She doesn’t even have to be a super villain. She just needs to be disingenuous enough to alienate Luke, terrorize Antonia, manipulate Jake, and mislead an entire fandom. Lucky for her, I don’t believe Nicola to be a real-life Rebecca. If you need an explanation as to why, then you didn't watch the same World Tour as me and you’re clearly on the wrong side of the fandom.

In truth, I believe the real villain to be…

YOU AS THE UNNAMED NARRATOR

Now, now, calm down. I’m not calling you out – at least not individually. I’m calling all of us out.

We as a fandom are the Unnamed Narrators of Lukola, Jakola, and Lutonia. We built these ships, and we control whether they stay afloat.

We took the narrative out of Luke and Nicola’s hands the moment we launched the USS Lutonia. Then we had to go and build the USS Jakola – I guess, because we were bored. No matter how hard Luke and Nicola try to pull the narrative back under their control, we allow side characters to feed us their side of the story! We fill our bellies with their nonsense and then vomit it all over the deck of the USS Lukola.

Seriously, we are the villains in this story. And, collectively, we are one bloody powerful super villain, aren’t we?

We control the narrative. So, if there’s a narrative you don’t agree with – for example, one that doesn’t make sense to you – stop being Conscientiously Stupid and feeding into it.

Remember what I said earlier? If you see Mrs. Danvers with a lit match, blow that fucker out! Otherwise, you’re going to let that bitch burn down the whole goddamn house.

#lukola #luke newton #nicola coughlan #my thoughts #my opinion #speculation only #my mood

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illyrianbrat · 7 months ago

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Queen's Envoy

Pairing: (fancast) Benjicot Blackwood & Velaryon female!reader

Plot: The Princess is sent as an envoy to get more allies. She is tasked with treating lords in the Riverlands. As she finds herself far from home, she discovers a certain Blackwood boy, who isn't as scary as she thought.

Warnings: typical westeros stuff, badly written panic attack, losing consciousness, being carried (no weight mention tho)

N/A: thanks to my friend and grammarly cause i had such a huge mess

“Prince Jacaerys will fly north. First to the Eyrie to see my mother's cousin, the Lady Jeyne Arryn, and then to Winterfell to treat with Lord Cregan Stark for the support of the North. Prince Lucerys will fly south to Storm's End and treat with Lord Borros Baratheon. And Princess Name will fly west to Raventree Hall and treat with Lord Blackwood. We must remind these lords of the oaths they swore.”

Rhaenyra saw how her children talked in the distance, as they were getting ready to depart. Name held Luke's hand and chuckled softly at something he said. The Queen’s heart ached as they embraced, expressing good wishes and mentioning how they would eat by the beach when they all returned.

Flying to the Riverlands was not an issue. As they flew over forests, [Name] rehearsed what she would say out loud. She would speak of uniting the realm, strength, and the promise of a good queen. During his reign, Viserys Targaryen named Rhaenyra as his heir, but the Hightowers were now threatening her claim. The support of the Riverlords was crucial for the cause and [Name] knew this.

Goldwing descended on a small clearing of flowers, allowing [Name] to slide down his wing. She caressed the dragon's face, glad that they arrived safely.

She glanced around, seeing how a group of men were pointing at them in the distance. [Name] heart began to race as she clutched the dagger Daemon insisted she had to take. Goldwing stood tall, protecting his rider.

“We mean no harm,” one of the men said, now at a talking distance. They were all staring at Goldwing in awe, they had never seen a dragon.

“What do you want, girl?” The other asked with curiosity.

“I am here to see Lord Blackwood.”

Their expressions turned from amazement to worry as a guy walked towards her with a crazed, yet amused look. “And who is looking for him?” He eyed her shamelessly, not missing the intricate details in the riding leathers she wore.

“Princess [Name] Velaryon,” she revealed proudly, not allowing herself to feel intimidated.

The boys fell silent, shock evident on their faces. They never expected to see a princess in the Riverlands. The boy cleared his throat and lightly scratched his brow, uncomfortable with his crude behavior. "My name is Benjicot Blackwood," he said. "But I can guide you to Raventree Hall if you'd like to speak with my father."

“Thank you,” [Name] smiled kindly.

They walked quietly, [Name] was enjoying the smell of nature and the breeze. The air was crisp, as the sun had just risen not long ago. [Name] glanced at Ben from the corner of her eye, expecting him to speak about something, since he seemed like the type that would talk for hours. Ben, on the other hand, was very aware of [Name’s] presence beside him. She moved with grace and her eyes filled with wonder at her surroundings. He had never seen anyone like her, and her sudden appearance had sparked different emotions in him.

They eventually reached Raventree Hall. Everyone inside the walls stopped and stared, even murmured, about the unexpected visitor. As they approached the main hall, Ben finally broke the silence. "My father is a good man," he promised. "He will listen to you. No matter what you need, he can help you."

[Name] nodded, grateful for his reassurance. "Thank you, Ben," she replied softly. "I hope he listens. It's... it's important."

Ben gave a small, encouraging smile and pushed the door open, gesturing for [Name] to enter first. Perhaps this meeting would get a strong army to support her mother’s claim to the Iron Throne.

Raventree Hall was filled with laughter, clinking goblets, and loud chatter. Samwell Blackwood had reaffirmed his claim to support Rhaenyra Targaryen, the rightful heir.

Samwell sat on the high table, alongside his sister Alyssane and his son Benjicot. The boy, however, could not take his eyes off her. His admiration grew into a silent yearning.

As the evening grew late, Ben found himself drawn into conversations with the Princess. At first, he stumbled over his words, his cheeks flushing. But [Name], sensing his nerves, engaged him in discussions about anything that crossed her mind.

Encouraged by her words, Ben found himself talking more freely. He recounted tales of his training, his support for her mother’s claim and of course, about fights he had with Bracken boys. Throughout the night, they shared stories and laughter. Others at the feast noted their conversation and exchanged glances, some smiling at the young boy’s naiveness.

As [Name] stood up to leave for the night, Ben grabbed her hand and spoke without thinking, “Princess, would you like a tour through the Riverlands?”

[Name’s] heart was pounding in her chest. “Of course, I would love that.”

Ben woke with the sun, excitement coursing through him.

After getting dressed, he hurried through the castle to the guest chambers. As he knocked on the door, he cleared his throat, suddenly feeling shy.

There was no response from inside. Did she leave without me? He wondered as he knocked again, but still no answer. Glancing down the hallway, he slowly opened the door.

[Name] was there, lying on the bed. "Princess?" Ben called out softly. She turned toward his voice, struggling to open her eyes. "Oh... I apologize for waking you," Ben said, now feeling like he had ruined everything. "We can speak later."

"No," [Name] protested, her voice groggy. Ben's heart fluttered, he thought that was adorable. "Let me get dressed. I will meet you by the gates."

Ben was talking a stroll through the gardens, waiting on [Name]. He was debating if he should give her a bouquet of wildflowers when the maester hurried towards him, a letter clutched in his hand. The urgency in his eyes made Ben’s heart drop. Accepting the letter, he noticed the seal of Dragonstone and felt a sinking feeling in his stomach.

He read the brief message: Prince Lucerys was dead.

He found her not far away, possibly on her way to meet him, lost in thought. Ben approached her slowly, the letter gripped tightly in his hand.

“[Name],” he called softly, trying to keep his voice calm.

She looked up, her face brightening before she saw his expression. “Ben, is something wrong?"

He stood in front of her, taking a deep breath. “I received a letter from Dragonstone,” he began, his voice heavy with pity. “It’s about your brother, Lucerys.”

[Name’s] eyes widened, a mix of fear and dread washing over her face. “What happened to Luke?” she asked, her voice trembling.

Ben handed her the letter, not trusting himself to tell her.

Her hands shook as she read it. She stared at him, her face draining of color. “No,” she whispered, shaking her head. “No, it can’t be true.” Her breathing grew rapid and shallow, her eyes wide with panic. “Luke...no...” she gasped, struggling to catch her breath. She stumbled, her movements frantic. “I need to get to him,” she cried, looking around desperately. “I need to go home.”

Ben reached out to steady her. “[Name], please,” he pleaded, but she was not hearing him. She broke free from his grasp, running towards Goldwing.

“No!” she shouted, her voice breaking. “I have to go to him!”

Goldwing lifted its head, sensing her distress. [Name] reached for the reins, her hands shaking uncontrollably. “We have to go,” she repeated, her voice frantic.

Before Ben could intervene, her legs gave out, and she collapsed to the ground. “[Name]!” he shouted, rushing to her side. Goldwing roared, eyes glowing with worry.

Ben cradled her in his arms, his heart pounding. Servants and guards came running after hearing the dragon, their faces filled with concern as Ben lifted her body and ran inside to the guest chambers.

Ben stayed by her bed after she was examined by the maester, holding her hand and watching over her. As he sat there, his heart ached, knowing that the pain of losing her brother was something no words could heal.

Hours later, a soft groan had alerted Ben that she had woken up. [Name] stared at the room, confused by her surroundings, before trying to stand up. “Easy,” he begged, pushing her back onto her pillow. “Please don’t stand up.

After some minutes of silence, [Name] rubbed her hands on her face. “I remember... my brother..."

“I know. I'm so sorry,” Ben grabbed her hand and squeezed it gently..

“I… what now?” She asked herself, starting to tear up.

“The maester said you can return to Dragonstone when you feel better,” Ben informed her.

[Name] nodded. “I do not think I can travel back alone,” she whispered to him, causing Ben to give her a reassuring smile.

“Then I can go with you,” Ben softly wiped the tears from her cheeks.

#benjicot blackwood imagine #benjicot blackwood x reader #fancast benjicot blackwood x reader #hotd imagine #hotd fanfic #davos blackwood imagine #davos blackwood x reader

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featherandferns · 5 months ago

Text

god's test (fic)

jj maybank x fem!reader | inspired by this song amongst others

content warning: abusive parents; allusions to s3xual abuse; drug use/misuse; sexual content (female and male receiving; p in v); unhealthy relationships; brief mentions/discussions of fertility | Some heavy themes in this so please feel free to message if you're unsure.

word count: 18k.

blurb: what if the Pogues never found El Dorado? Life in survival mode at the age of twenty-two sure had lost its shine. In that tarnish, JJ wonders if your relationship has too.

“To have and to hold from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, til' death do us part.”

JJ sits crossed legged on the floor of his living room. To his right is a half empty can of Coke and to his left is the plastic case for the VHS tape which is currently whirring in the player, displayed on the TV through grainy, wibbly lines. His bright blonde hair sticks every which way. The Goodwill sourced t-shirt is too big on his frame but his dad insisted he’d grow into it, and to stop his moaning and bitching. Be grateful, was his last warning. The shorts on his skinny legs seem to be getting smaller everyday, perhaps because JJ only seems to get taller. That slight discomfort is a lost thought right now. Instead, JJ is glued to the wedding video on the screen. Glued to the image of his mother, smiling up at his father, the two of them unaged and undamaged. The two of them are in love.

“I do,” JJ’s dad, Luke, says in an almost unrecognisable tone. Then, he leans forward at the officiant’s approval and kisses JJ’s mother. JJ misses her deeply. His heart squeezes at the sight of her smile, turning to the camera with a beam. He finds his own lips twitching up too as if her happiness is contagious. Then the tape cuts suddenly to the reception. It seems a small affair with only a handful of friends and family. JJ can place his uncle and aunt, who cradles his cousin Ricky in her arms, and a few more of his dad’s crowd of so-called friends. His mother can be seen in the background talking to her parents - JJ’s grandparents. They’d made themselves scarce after she walked out on JJ and his dad. Never once did JJ think he’d lose not only his mother but his grandparents too. Loneliness likes company, it seems.

Another sudden cut and it’s his parents dancing. Their first dance. The dark lighting of the hall messes with the low-quality cam-corder's exposure. They’re painted in rays of shadows and glow almost ethereal-like as they sway to the music. Luke whispers something in his new wife’s ear and she giggles, soundless as the crooning voice of Rod Stewart sings their wedding song: ‘Have I Told You Lately’. JJ grins. He decides then and there, at the big age of eight, that that’s what he wants. That sort of happiness. As if blinded by the cinema of it all, he forgets the reality. The mess that surrounds him in the neglected house; the absence of his mother and the recklessness of his father; the strange definition of love that’s been tied to the Maybank name.

So distracted by the tape, JJ doesn’t hear his dad rouse in the other room. He doesn’t hear the sound of the creaking door or the aching floorboards, and when he finally catches sight of Luke staggering down the hallway, it’s too late. His dad has caught sound of the song and it’s as if he’s intoxicated again, only now with rage. He glares at JJ and makes a b-line to the television screen, coming face to face with his hidden wedding tape. He had no idea JJ had found it and stashed it for his own safe keeping.

“What the damn hell do you think you’re doing?” he barks, turning to JJ. He grabs him by the shoulder with one hand and hoists him onto his feet. JJ’s tiny body floods with terror. His feet go numb and cold and his face burning hot. “What the hell do you think you’re doing, huh boy!?”

JJ flinches at his father’s tone. His lip quivers. “I…I only wanted–”

“You only wanted to what, huh? Stealing things like the no-good son-of-a-bitch you are, eh?” Luke hollers, spit flying from his mouth and onto JJ’s rosy skin.

“I just wanted to see mama,” JJ blubbers.

“You ain’t ever seein’ her again, you hear me?” Luke shouts. He tosses JJ back onto the floor. He lands on his backside with a smack, flinching at the feeling, and looks up to see his dad aggressively messing with the player. A new wave of panic comes over JJ as he jumps to his feet, darting forward for the tape before his dad can snap it in two. To JJ, it isn’t just a stupid VHS. It’s his mother.

“No! Gimme it!” JJ screeches, scratching and clawing at his father’s arms as he attempts to wrestle the tape from his hold. His small hand latches around it moments before Luke’s own smacks him clean across the cheek. The force sends him flying onto his side, reuniting with the floor. Sobbing, JJ clutches the tape close to his chest. His dad yells abuse at JJ, tumbling cuss words in casually amongst his berates. Keeping the tape close and safe to his stomach, JJ manages to his feet and faces up to his father. An anger that he’s never known before takes control. “I hate you!”

Before his dad can lunge for him again, JJ darts for the front door. He almost trips down the stairs in his hurry. The sound of his dad’s footsteps behind him sound like a giant’s, pounding against the floorboards. He chokes on his sobs as he sprints away from the house. I’m never coming back, he thinks to himself. That’ll show him. He doesn’t dare check to see if his dad is following. Not until he’s well away from the house, almost completely shot of breath, panting and heaving, no tears left to cry. Finally, he stops. He looks down at the tape with shaking hands to find it safe and intact. Luke and Marie’s Wedding Tape, it says in black sharpie across the front. He hugs it against him as if hugging his mother.

The moment of tranquillity is broken by a loud whoop and holler. His head flashes to the side to find a girl climbing on the old pier. It’s nearly completely decayed, broken down by a hurricane a few years back. Now it’s just pillars of wood, splintering and misaligned.

Some adult on the new pier is yelling at you. “I’ll tell your father, missy! You listenin’? You get down from there now!” Beside them are some friends, blissfully ignoring the warnings, cheering you on. You turn to them and JJ catches sight of your smile. It reminds him of his mother’s and a warm feeling sparks somewhere in his chest, as if lighting a match in a damp cave. The sun twinkles above your head and that’s when JJ notices the streak of hot pink in your hair. Woah - Cool. And then you’re falling - hurling yourself into the air and flying down into the water - out of sight. He takes a step forward, as if to do something, and waits anxiously with the others for you to re-emerge. You break to the surface with a cackle. Your friends erupt in cheers and you giggle, splashing water as if aiming for them despite being metres down below the pier. And then you look straight at JJ. It's just for a second, only a second, but a second was enough. Eight-year-old JJ Maybank was in love.

6 Years Later

Confidence is a powerful armour. It makes you almost untouchable. Nobody messes with the mouthy kid. The kid who gets in fights; the kid who makes the room laugh. JJ knew what it was like to be on the bottom of the food chain and he was never going to willingly put himself there. At school, he made himself a staple. A delinquent, known for his short fuse and reckless choices. It kept the bully’s off his scent and gave him a good outlet for the repressed anger and hatred he held towards his father. Though, the older he got (now fourteen), the more JJ fought back. His dad could no longer throw him to the ground as easily. Not now that JJ had taken up working out and picking fights in the school yard. Luke wasn’t the only one who knew how to throw a right-hook now. And the most important lesson JJ had learnt? Never let them see you cry.

The downsides? Cut lips, lingering bruises, and detention. So much detention.

“Nice of you to join us, Maybank,” the teacher mutters, not bothering to look up from his newspaper as JJ loiters into the classroom after school on Thursday.

“Happy to be back, sir,” JJ casually returns. He scribbles his name down on the sign up sheet, confirming his attendance, then scans the room.

There’s the regulars: Tommy Peach, who’s always doing time for selling whatever pills he can get his hands on in the parking lot; Ashley, who has a habit of smoking in the girl’s bathrooms; Colin, who got spotted with a gun in his backpack just the other day, supposedly just to ‘show it off’; and Pearl, who skipped three classes in one day (her record being four and a half). He catches her eye and winks - they’d made out behind the bike shed last week. You can spot the one-time offenders easily. They’re usually hanging their head at the very back, biting back tears, full of shame for letting down mommy and daddy. JJ had a certain distaste for them. He supposed it was because he knew his father could give less of a crap if JJ wound up in detention. If anything, JJ preferred it. Less time for him to be in his house and less risk of getting a beating for some slip-up. This time, the new offender is Patty Grayson - a goody-two-shoes smarty pants who had forgotten her homework. JJ’s surprised they didn’t let it slide given her track record. Finally, his eyes land on another new timer.

You’re not hanging your head as if praying for forgiveness, nor are you sobbing your apologies into the abyss. No: you look rather comfortable and - if anything - bored, as you lounge in your seat. A bottle of silver nail polish sits on the desk as you paint your nails. As if feeling his stare, you glance up and meet his gaze. You frown. Right, yeah, I’m being weird. JJ decides to take a seat next to you. He watches you in his peripheral vision for a while as you paint and paint. At one point, the teacher heads to the staff kitchen for dinner, giving a half-arsed warning about sneaking out. Pearl is happy to skip detention, probably addicted to the thrill, but everyone else stays sat. Suddenly, you look at JJ.

“Can I help you?”

“Huh?”

“You keep looking at me,” you say, irritated.

“I do?”

“Uh huh.”

“Well, y’know…” You quirk a brow, waiting for his reply, and JJ scrambles for one. “Your hair.”

You frown. “What?”

“Your hair,” JJ uselessly repeats.

“What about it?”

“It’s purple.”

“Yeah. I dye it. It’s not my natural colour, idiot,” you reply.

“It looks nice,” JJ tells you. You’re visibly taken back, blinking at him for a second.

“Oh,” you mumble, lifting a hand to pet it, “thanks.”

“You ain’t ever been to detention before, right?” JJ checks, finding it easier to converse now that you’ve calmed down.

You laugh. It sounds just the same as when you were little, from the first time JJ saw you, but only deeper. More mature. “Cause I’m good at not gettin’ caught, unlike you.”

“Oh, you been keepin’ tabs on me or somethin’?” JJ grins.

“You hold the record for the most detentions, Maybank. Sorta puts you on the map," you say with a roll of your eyes.

Holy shit, she knows my name.

“Maybe you’ll have to teach me your ways some time,” JJ smoothly quips.

Shaking your head, you turn your focus back to painting your nails. “I work alone.”

Like some dork, JJ watches you for a while. Something tells him you know he is as there’s this little smile on your lips. His eyes trail down from your face to your arms and soon to your hands. Your knuckles are bruised and scabbed over and JJ frowns, curious and concerned despite having only just officially met you. Ever since the day at the pier back when he was eight, JJ had been vaguely aware of your existence. You were in the year above at school and undeniably cool. He’d seen you skating in the parking lot, caught you getting lectured for shoplifting at the local grocery shop for a candy bar, noticed you helping (who he assumed was) your dad fish, and seen you from time to time in the halls. The only person who was aware of his infatuation was John B, who tortured JJ relentlessly for it. Over the years, your hair has undergone many changes. At one point it was buzzed completely off. He didn’t see you much that year, come to think. Now it hangs just past your shoulders, a deep, enticing purple. It caught him off guard because only last week it was royal blue. Not that he was keeping track or anything…

“Here.”

JJ snaps out of his daydream to find you holding out something to him. A thin, white stick, rolled rather wonky.

“You want some?”

“Won’t we get caught?” JJ reflexively asks.

“Boo. Pussy,” you teasingly return, retracting the offer. You briefly glance to the doorway before retrieving a lighter: bright, shiny silver and square. You light the end and take a drag. There’s a sweet, sickly smell that comes from it.

“I ain’t a pussy,” JJ counters. There’s a smirk on your face as he takes the joint from you, guiding it to his lips to inhale. It catches uncomfortably in his throat and chest, making him cough. Laughing, you consolingly pat his back. He clenches his eyes shut: so embarrassing.

“You good?” you giggle.

“Never better,” JJ manages out through his chokes, giving you a shaky thumbs up.

“First time?”

He shakes his head but you’re unconvinced. Smiling, you dig about in your pocket to retrieve a set of house keys. JJ watches as you scratch something into the metal of your lighter. He takes another hit of the joint as you do so, managing better this second time around. As he goes to hand it back, you trade him for your lighter.

“Here,” you say, passing it to him. He takes it and looks at your inscription. JJ. His lips twitch in a smile. Glancing to you, you light-heartedly explain, “your first stoner lighter.”

As you finish taking another drag, the teacher’s footsteps sound from down the hall. Cool as a cat, you put the joint out on the underside of your chair and slip it back into a little metal box decorated with Powerpuff Girls stickers. It slips safely into your bag just as the teacher rounds into the room. At first, JJ worries you’re caught, as the teacher’s finger singles you out. But then he tosses his thumb over his shoulder.

“Your dad’s here early to pick you up,” he tells you.

If you’re happy to be leaving early, you don’t show it. If JJ didn’t know better, he’d even say you’re reluctant as you pack up your stuff. Shucking your backpack over your shoulder, you flash JJ a smile, rising to your feet.

“Well, hopefully I’ll see you around, Maybank.”

“Yeah, same here,” JJ says, smiling.

You walk past the desk and head out the door. JJ’s sure it’s the effect of you rather than the weed that leaves him feeling more dazed than ever before in his life.

Two Years Later

What better way to lay-low than by throwing a kegger? JJ’s logic was undisputed. Not only had he encouraged the Pogues to hang onto the money and the gun that they'd found in the motel room, but he also got them to throw a last-minute gathering at the Boneyard. Honestly, his genius should be rewarded.

As he mingles through the ever growing crowd, the sun growing darker by the minutes, JJ peruses the options. Some tourons had shown up: clueless but eager as they got roped into drinking games and conversations, and hit on constantly by locals. The kooks were mostly keeping to themselves, happy to drink the beers and cans brought by the people on the cut. Typical. Pearl catches JJ’s eye and she tips her cup at him in greeting from across the way, a seductive glint in her eyes and a telling message in her smile. JJ lazily tosses a hand up in return. They’d hooked up a few times now but he wasn’t feeling it tonight.

As if guided by fate, you come perfectly into JJ’s line of sight. You’re drinking from a red solo cup, chatting with some of your friends, pretty in an oversized tee and shorts. Again, just as you had in detention two years prior, your eyes catch onto his. This time, you smile. Saying something to your friend before heading over to JJ (who’s half certain he hit his head earlier and might be hallucinating).

“Enjoying yourself?” JJ asks the minute you’re in front of him. He’s taller now. Ever growing in his confidence; sex does that to a guy. It makes them feel invincible.

“I’m guessing your group is the one to thank for this kegger then?”

JJ grins. “We know how to throw a good party.”

“I’ll say,” you smile. “I wish there was more music though.”

“You dance?”

“Sometimes. If I’m with the right person,” comes your sly response, smiling up at him. “You look different since detention.”

JJ would like to think so: that was two years ago. “Really? Different how?”

“Taller. Fitter.”

“Hotter?”

You laugh as you say, “you’re pretty sure of yourself, huh?”

“I was told confidence is sexy,” JJ returns. “What’d you think?”

You don’t say anything but JJ knows he isn’t crazy when you take a sip of your drink, your eyes scanning over his body leisurely as you do. You give a small hum.

“So, got tired of the purple?” JJ asks, gesturing to your hair. It’s long now and seemingly your natural hue again, like it was that day at the pier all those years ago. There’s now little strands of tinsel in it that reflect different colours in a silverish shine depending on how the light hits it. Your nose ring is new too, though JJ noticed that the minute you had that done. He noticed you a lot, even if he never spoke to you. You never did to him so he just assumed to stay clear. Besides, there was a rumour that you went out with Tommy Peach a few months back and JJ didn’t feel like getting his ass handed to him. JJ was good at fighting now, as unfortunate as that was to admit, and he was aware he was in good shape, but Tommy was feral and tall. God knows why you wanted to go out with a scumbag like that, but JJ supposed he wasn’t much of a step up either.

“My dad hated it,” you say. “And I wanted a change.”

“Shame. I liked the purple.”

“So you don’t like it like this?” you wonder. “Bummer. I was gonna try and shoot my shot with you but guess I’ve lost my chance…”

JJ’s eyes somehow don’t fall out of his head. He chuckles, almost nervously, and clears his throat. “Say what?”

You roll your eyes . “When a girl gives you her lighter and says she hopes she sees you around, JJ, it’s her way of saying ‘you’re cute, we should hang’.”

Oh.

Laughing, as if hearing his inner monologue, you shrug. “Guess I got tired of waiting for you to make the first move. Lucky for you, I’m two beers in and that seems like enough confidence to come over”

“Two beers? I don’t wanna be taking advantage of you,” JJ teases, making you laugh.

“Can’t believe you’re accusing me of being a lightweight when you nearly died after smoking your first joint.”

“Woah! Low blow!”

“I thought I’d murdered you! I was scared you were allergic or some shit,” you giggle.

JJ grins down at you and tries to retrace his steps to how he got here, stood on the beach, talking to you and having you actively hit on him. It feels like a wet dream he’d concoct on lonely nights. He stays in that borderline stupor as the two of you talk and talk. You’re funny, but JJ already knew that, and you’re an adrenaline junky too, but JJ knew that as well. The two of you like the same kind of music so that leads to a huge discussion which almost becomes an argument of who was better: Kid Cudi or J. Cole? The more the drinks flow, the more your hand finds solace on his thigh, and the more his on yours. Soon enough JJ's foot’s rubbing leisurely at your ankle, personal space a long disputed myth, and he’s fighting the urge to kiss you. He’s not sure why he’s dragging it out when you’re obviously into him. Maybe he just wants to keep the anticipation alive for a little bit longer. After all, he’s wanted this since he was eight years old.

The moment is interrupted by someone hollering your name. As you look up, JJ realises how dark it is. It’s officially night now with the moon high in the sky. A few people have pulled on sweaters as the evening has cooled, especially with the seafront breeze, but JJ feels burning hot. He spots someone waving at you and beside them is a girl crouched in the sand. You cuss and get up.

“That’s my friend. I better go help,” you hurriedly explain. You pass JJ your empty cup and give an apologetic smile. Then, you press a brief kiss to his lips. It's so brief that it barely feels real, and JJ doesn’t register it until you’re already walking away. “I’ll be back soon! Sorry!”

JJ watches as you hurry over and help out your vomiting buddy. Sighing, bummed, he looks around and tries to track down his friends. The alcohol hits him when he stands, flooding from his brain, down to his body like ice cold water. He staggers for only a moment in the direction of John B, filling up the cups in his hands on the way as if willingly ignoring his body’s messages. He whistles out to catch his best friend’s attention, offering him one of the cup’s of beer. But Sarah Cameron and her douchebag boyfriend Topper make their way past, and something inside of JJ seeks mayhem. He offers it out to her instead but Topper tries to lay claim.

“That’s nice of you man, but I didn’t ask you,” JJ returns. “If you said ‘pretty please’, maybe. But you didn’t.”

“Oh! Pretty please!” a squiffy Topper checks.

“Yeah,” JJ replies. “So, Sarah, I promise–”

The beer hits JJ’s face in a non-refreshing wake-up. His anger tips quick like a nuclear bomb. His hands come up to Topper’s shirt, grabbing him before shoving him back. John B’s hand comes up to JJ’s chest, firmly trying to hold him back.

“You’re so funny man!” JJ sarcastically urges. Before he can push it further, Topper says something that has John B lurching at him and soon enough, a full on fist fight begins. Pope is quick to intervene with JJ, holding him back, and no matter how much the latter struggles, he can’t seem to get to his best friend. Concerning seeps into the anger as he watches Topper lay into John B, kicking him into the water. And then pride when John B starts to fight back. “Give it to him, man!”

The night feels as though it’s split into two as JJ loses himself in watching the fight. His conversation with you might have happened years ago as his attention homes in on the flying fists and chants of the watchers. And then it all turns sour. Topper holds John B down into the water, face smushed into the sand, and all he can hear is Sarah begging for him to stop. JJ fidgets nervously, eager to do something, unsure of what. Then, another genius idea.

It feels out of body as he retrieves the gun and checks the safety. As he makes his way over to the water and presses it against Topper’s head. It doesn’t feel like he’s in control of his body when JJ clicks the safety off. Topper stills beneath him.

“Yeah, you know what that is,” he warns through clenched teeth. “Your move, broski.”

Nothing but the waves. Nothing but his heartbeat. Nothing but John B’s choked breathes in the water.

“Put the gun down!”

“Did you say something, princess?” JJ asks Sarah, focus on Topper’s hands. Eventually, they lift off John B’s weak body. The rich asshole repeats that they’re good and JJ shoves him down. But he’s still so angry. He’s always so angry. The mentality comes back from when he first started school. Never be the weak one. Never let them get the upper hand. Assert your dominance. He raises the gun into the air and turns to the dying crowd. “Okay, everyone, listen up! Get the hell off our side of the island!”

The gun fires twice, the recoil minimal. It cracks in the silence of the night. A few people scream, alarmed, and then they start to run.

JJ comes back to his body when Kiara shoves him. An argument breaks out between himself, Pope and Kie, and as the two others rush to help John B (who collapses back into the waves), JJ finally remembers the night. The whole night. He remembers you. As he looks out into the mass of bodies rushing away from the scene of the almost crime, he spots you. You look conflicted, for only a second, and then you leave too.

Shit.

The next day, JJ kills the time in the mid-morning with target practice in the back yard. The cops had swung by earlier and he thought it right to celebrate keeping the gun. Your whistle sounds like a birdcall. JJ’s head whips around at the sound, startled, and it seems to amuse you. He lowers his gun and frowns, confused at the sight of you.

“How d’you know I live here?”

“I have my sources,” you smile, tapping the side of your nose. You wander leisurely into his back yard toward him as if you’ve been there thousands of times before. Nodding to the gun in his hand, you quirk a brow. “So, they didn’t take it off you?”

“Let me off with a warning,” JJ shrugs. “They couldn’t find the gun and have no proof that I kept it…”

“Ah. Loopholes,” you hum.

When you come to a pause beside him, JJ awkwardly scratches the back of his neck. “Look, I’m real sorry about last night. I didn’t mean to freak you out.”

“Freak me out how?” you frown.

“With the whole…gun…thing.”

Laughing, you shake your head. “That ain’t why I left JJ.”

“It ain’t?”

“No! I mean, Topper looked as though he wasn’t gonna let up, so,” you say, shrugging in agreement with JJ’s previous actions. “I just can’t go back to prison anytime soon. My dad’ll kill me.”

“Back to prison?” JJ says. He shouldn’t be as impressed (or turned on) by that as he is.

“Ooo, the big scary place, I know,” you grin, teasing, before randomly making a grab for the gun. JJ barks out a laugh, holding it up and out of reach. “Come on! Lemme have a go!”

“You ever shoot before?” JJ asks, eyeing you up.

Rolling your eyes, you nod. “We have a BB in our house that I fire around all the time. I wanna see how this one feels.”

“I don’t know. I shouldn’t give a weapon to a known criminal, right?” JJ says, tone almost flirtatious.

“Come on. You can do the whole ‘let me show you’ thing.”

Lowering the gun, JJ chuckles, befuddled. “The what?”

“You know! When guys wanna feel a girl up they pretend to teach them how to do stuff. Like a tennis instructor or something. They’re all like ‘let me show you’.”

“You tellin’ me you got a tennis instructor?”

“Yeah, and a mansion with three yachts - now come on!”

Shaking his head, laughing, JJ relents. He hands you the gun, safety on, and partly to follow along with your joke, but mostly to feel your body close to his, JJ stands almost fully behind you. He checks which is your dominant hand and guides your arms up into position. He shifts the position of your fingers. Your hair catches slightly in the wind and the smell of fruit and herbs dulls his senses. When he speaks again, you giggle.

“Your breath tickles,” you mutter.

“It does?” JJ checks, purposefully speaking even closer against the skin of your neck. You squirm and laugh and JJ has no idea how any of this happened, but he sure as hell isn’t complaining. “You gotta keep still.”

As if to coax you to do so, JJ plants one of his hands on the side of your waist. Your breathing seems to catch with that, all giggles dead on your tongue, and JJ struggles to bite back his smirk. His chin rests comfortably on your shoulder as he follows your line of vision. You click the safety off under his instruction and then fire. He feels the power of the gun run down your arms, the recoil making your body jilt only slightly. Clicking the safety on again, you lower the gun and turn your head. Eyes half-hooded, you look up from his lips into his eyes. JJ notices a small, relatively fresh cut under your eye. Was that there last night? That train of thought derails when your tongue peaks out, dampening your lips. JJ loses all patience. His lips are on yours, kissing you, hand tightening just so on your side. You carelessly drop the gun to the floor and turn in his hold. Hands on his face, on his shoulders, around his neck, in his hair…JJ kisses you until he’s not sure what his name is anymore. Even then, he kisses you still.

From there, the two of you were intertwined in one another’s lives. There was no other way to put it: JJ adored you. It was as if you constantly shared a common thought: JJ had never met someone so like himself. Two sides of the same stone. The Pogues noticed it easily. You didn’t exactly have to ask to join the gang. The fact that JJ trusted you enough to bring you around spoke volumes to his friends. They’d never met one of his previous situationships or flings before, and from that they could recognise this was something different. Seeing the two of you together just drove that point home faster. Birds of a feather. When the wild goose chase surrounding the Royal Merchant cropped up, you joined that too. Pope joked that there was something wrong with your amygdala, which upon explanation meant that you seemed to have a pretty low fear factor. It came after you literally wrestled Barry for the gun when they got held at gunpoint. All you’d done was shrug and said that you’d known “true fear” and that wasn’t it. Nobody knew what that meant, including JJ, but he had a feeling that he might after he dropped you home one time.

The Chateau had become almost as familiar to you as it was to JJ. The pair of you had claimed the porch as your go-to smoking spot. One Tuesday afternoon, you sit sprawled in the armchair: head on one armrest and legs swung over the other. Your now lilac highlighted hair dangles in two braids. JJ is keeping himself entertained by tracing his eyes up and down your legs, over your stomach and chest, up to your dozed out face, and back again. The two of you were smoking hash, passing it back and forth leisurely, sharing mindless musings about life and the world and what things might be like if you actually found the gold.

“I’d buy a house,” you say.

“Lame.”

“A big house,” you continue, ignoring him and gesturing in front of you as if visualising it. “It’d be pastel blue with big white shutter-style windows and a wrap-around porch. There’d be one of those porch swings sat out front. Oh! And flowers. A shit ton of flowers.”

“You can’t even keep a cactus alive,” JJ snorts.

“I’d hire a gardener. Duh,” you say, rolling your eyes.

“Anything else?” JJ wonders. He keeps a mental checklist: blue house; white shutters…

“A dog,” you smile. “And a cat.”

“Alright then.” Maybe it’s the manner that he says it that has you looking at him, amused. “I’ll do it.”

“You’ll ‘do it’?” you chuckle, raising your brows.

“Yeah. When we find the gold–”

“If we find the gold–”

“When,” JJ insists, making you laugh, “I’ll get you your house and your dog.”

“Don’t forget the cat,” you warn, pointing at him.

“Christ, lady! And your cat.”

“Good,” you smile.

You look back to the ceiling and slip your eyes shut, sighing contentedly. JJ chuckles, shaking his head, gazing at you as if you sculpted the planets and personally hung them in the solar system. It’s short lived bliss, however, because your phone pings. Then again, and again, until it’s nothing but an ongoing buzz of noise. JJ frowns at it and you quickly reach over to the window ledge where it’s precariously sat. The moment your eyes scan the screen, you sit up. Everything about your demeanour shifts. JJ sees the second you switch to panic.

“I gotta go,” you mumble. You swing your legs off the sofa and stand. JJ’s quick to follow.

“Everything okay?”

“I just gotta go home right now,” you reply, already making your way down the porch steps. JJ ditches the spoon pipe on the coffee table and catches up.

“I’ll take you on my bike,” he says, grabbing your hand and guiding you to it. You don’t argue and he doesn’t ask for an explanation for the urgency. Wordlessly, the two of you climb on - your arms tethering around his middle - and JJ starts the engine. Speed limits become a pleasantry rather than a courtesy as JJ speeds to your house. Your phone doesn’t let up the whole journey and with every ping, JJ bumps it up by another mile per hour. It’s a skidding halt when he stops outside your house. He’d only been there a handful of times before, usually to pick you up. Similarly to JJ, you didn’t like going home all that much. You’re climbing off the bike before JJ shuts the engine off. Seemingly at the sound of the engine, your dad emerges in the front door. You turn to JJ. He doesn’t recognise the look on your face.

It terrifies him.

“JJ, you have to leave - now,” you tell him.

He frowns, brows tugging together. “What’re you–”

“Just leave. Go. Please, JJ,” you push, glancing between him and your approaching father. Something softens in your tone, akin to desperation. “Please.”

JJ looks to your dad just as he passes the threshold of the porch, then looks to you once more as if needing approval. You nod as if understanding. The same thought, always shared. Then JJ’s turning tightly in the makeshift drive of your house and starting off down the road before your dad reaches you. He acutely registers the funny feeling, tight in his chest as if something was squeezing his heart and lungs in a vice. It was the same feeling JJ got whenever he went home.

The same feeling JJ got whenever he saw his own father.

As the months went on, the relationship you and JJ shared was soaked in marjuana and sweat. Smoking in the morning and fucking through the night. Not only did you encourage JJ’s idiocy, but you joined it. It was as if you were there to enable the other. Shoplifting beers, pier jumping in the thick of night, skinny dipping before dusk, pulling crazy stunts with the others that nearly wound up getting you killed more times to count. But just like JJ, you were loyal. It was as if the minute you became a Pogue, you wore it like a military title, nothing short of honoured. You’d lay your life down for the group and for the hunt for gold.

JJ wasn’t sure who said I love you first. He’s not even sure if either of you ever said it. You don’t have to say I love you to say I love you. Besides, two avoidant, daddy issue riddled teenagers didn’t make for the most textbook healthy relationship. The two of you would fight and it was bad when you did. But it was a rarity. There was little time for blow-out arguments when you were running from one place to another, chasing lead after lead. Hell, even when you seemed to have time to breathe, something else always came up.

“I never make good grades in school. When I get out, I act like a fool. I come in the party and cause a commotion. Yeah, I’m smooth they call me lotion.”

JJ cracks up with the others, breaking his beatboxing rhythm, as Pope loses his verse. He has a more than comfortable buzz going: energised by the beer and mellowed out by the weed. JJ thought he could handle his stuff well until he met you. This was the first time in a long time the two of you had properly partied together, outside of sharing a joint or doing edibles on an evening. You were about seven cans deep, one joint smoked and two lines of coke snorted. Your hair, now red, was damp from the hot tub; your nose ring sparkling in the disco ball’s reflecting light. JJ tried to keep his attention on the gang but no matter what, his eyes kept running back to you. The bikini top you’re wearing is truly a cruel design. Whoever invented it hated anybody who admired the female figure: they designed it to torture them. The liquor certainly didn’t help the situation, nor did your knowing glances and sly smiles.

"Think Kanye might have some serious competition there," you sardonically quip.

“Alright, alright, let’s hear it then,” Pope challenges, turning the focus to you. Everyone ooo’s dramatically as you laugh. You take a hit of your freshly rolled joint and shrug. As you rise out of the water, moving to sit on the outer edge of the hot tub, the gang erupts into cheers. JJ's mesmerised by the way the droplets of water race down over your tits, trickling down your chest.

“Okay, alright, well someone gimme a beat, at least,” you say.

JJ’s happy to indulge. Laughing, you bop your head along and try to follow.

“I failed the first grade in school, but my teacher told me I’m a cool dude. The kids in the playground scattered, cause my bars would leave them battered–”

The gang whoops and you crack up, trying desperately to stay on track. JJ’s trying desperately not to stare at your chest and lose track of his makeshift beat.

“When I fuck they call me lewd, cause I get freaky when I’m in the wrong mood. My boy never seems to complain, but his dick might be in some pain.”

JJ practically chokes on his laughter. There’s a symphony of cheers and jests and (in Pope’s case) groans from the others, and you throw your hands up in surrender.

“Y’all asked for it! I’m jus’ saying!” you giggle, sinking back into the water. You take another hit of your joint and wink across to JJ. His dick twitches uselessly in his swim shorts as you do so. Such a fucking tease.

“You two were made for each other, Goddamn,” Kiara chuckles.

The pair of you laugh it off but JJ feels his heart stir at the notion. Maybe it’s the weed talking or the alcohol intoxicating his thoughts, but the more time JJ spends with you, the more he’s certain that you two were meant to find each other. There’s no other explanation for it. You were an entire world in one small human being, filled with stories and secrets, some of which he might never know, but most he’d spend his life wanting to.

As the night stretches on and the drinks continue to flow, the mood simmers down from a bubbly celebration to an almost sentimental reunion. The hot tub has been abandoned as the mosquitos began to gather and the air began to cool, and JJ was sick of hearing you and Sarah drop hints about how you were “turning pruney.” So now you sit in the deck chairs with Kiara and Sarah and John B, watching JJ and Pope wrestle. Grappling on Pope’s upper arms, JJ tries to get the upper leg.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah, go for the leg,” he lightly encourages his lesser violent friend. With that, Pope tackles JJ onto the floor. He hits the ground with a gentle smack. “You got a new technique now, huh?”

Pope rises in victory, pretty drunk, arms in the air. JJ laughs, sitting up to notice a beer extended out to him in offer from you. He takes it with a grin, having two large swigs.

“I’m done. I’m out of here,” Pope announces to nobody in particular, walking away from the campfire.

“You want a round two?”

“Yeah, I think I’ll take my losses,” Pope replies. JJ begins wandering back over to you with a shrug just as Kiara suddenly gets up from her seat. She flashes Sarah some kind of look that girls must track better than boys, as Sarah and yourself gape at her.

“Really?”

“Oh yeah. Way to be discreet!” JJ hollers after them. When he steals Kiara’s chair, sitting beside you, you’re still giggling.

“Okay, am I just oblivious or did nobody else notice them vibing on each other?” you wonder, looking to the others.

“Dude. Seriously?” JJ sniggers.

“I didn’t notice!”

“How could you not– You know what? It’s okay, baby. It’s okay. Only one of us needs to be the love expert here,” JJ reassures, stretching his arm out over the back of your chair in what he thinks is a rather suave manner. You snort, gently brushing it off.

“Love expert? Uh-huh. Sure, kiddo.”

“Kiddo,” John B mutters, amused.

JJ scoffs, grinning at you. “Oh really?”

“Yep,” you return, not quite sure what you’re arguing over now. JJ decides to put an end to it by squeezing the sides of your exposed stomach, tickling your skin and causing you to squirm. As he does so, John B mumbles something about being out of beer. Sarah follows him and leaves you and JJ in the company of the music, the cicadas and chickens.

“Thought you danced,” JJ says, referring to the music, thinking back to the night at the kegger.

“I might do later.”

JJ just nods and the two of you smile at one another, the playfulness of the moment easing away the same way the arousal had earlier in the hottub.

“You’re so handsome,” you quietly tell him. "My good looking boy, huh?"

JJ chuckles, looking down, bashful whenever you threw compliments like that at him. He could handle ‘sexy’ or ‘hot’ rather well, took them in stride, but words like handsome were like flakes of gold being sprinkled in his hair. They felt valuable, especially when they came from your mouth. Not always the best with words, JJ thanks the self-medication for what falls out of his mouth next.

“You’re the prettiest Goddamn thing on this planet.”

You’re visibly stunned and JJ wants to high-five himself. Giving him a coy smile, you lean your head back against your seat, staring into the star scattered sky.

“God, I could just stay here forever,” you sigh.

JJ mimics your actions. He traces the stars and tries to see if he can make constellations of your face. He glances at you and notices how they reflect on your eyes, as if scattering diamonds into your irises to make them shimmer. Your skin is kissed amber by the fairy lights strung in the branches above. Everything just makes you glow: ethereal. A foot kicking his own snaps JJ out of his lovesick stupor. A rather amused John B smirks knowingly down at him.

“It’s creepy to stare, man,” John B joshingly berates.

“He does it all the time,” you mumble. “That’s why I asked him out.”

Sarah laughs at that and you crack up too, but before another conversation can begin, your laughter dies down and your brows furrow.

“What was that?” John B asks, as if reading your mind.

“Your chickens?” JJ wonders, having heard nothing but the incessant clucking of the birds.

“It sounded like a car door,” you mumble. JJ, distracted, begins to cluck like a chicken, hoping to lighten the mood, more drunk than he thought he was, but your hand presses over his mouth to silence him. You rise to your feet slowly and JJ decides to follow. He squints into the distance.

“I think someone’s here,” John B mutters.

“Up the trees. Quickly” you instruct, fast to take action.

You shut off the music as Sarah hurries to put out the fire. JJ decides to help her, tossing handfuls of sand atop of the flames. He looks to the tree to find you already a decent way up. He stands by the bottom of the other tree with John B to help give Sarah a boost, aware of the fragility of her stitches, and then lets John B go up before himself. He settles on the same branch as you, a hand protectively settling on your waist. You’d already taken a rather reckless course of action in Charleston with Renfield, trying to tackle the taser from his hands to buy all of you more time to run. In case you felt the urge to drop from the trees in some surprise attack, JJ could now hold you back.

Sure enough, only a couple of minutes later, Rafe and Barry creep into the backyard. JJ feels you stiffen and he tightens his grip just slightly in reassurance. They didn’t know you were in the trees. God bless your quick thinking. Barry makes his way into the house, gun raised and ready, whilst Rafe studies the spots you’d all been relaxing in only moments prior.

“Where the hell are you?” he mumbles to himself.

None of you speak. None of you dare breathe let alone move. JJ looks to John B and Sarah, who look just as troubled as he feels. Rafe was unpredictable. Unstrung. And it was easy to assume that JJ was not on Barry’s nice list, that was for sure. As they sit and lie in wait, praying not to be spotted, Barry and Rafe seem to decide that nobody’s home. As he’s about to take a sigh of relief, Rafe fires the gun up into the trees. His heart jumps and his chest heaves. The bullet ricochets off the trunk of the tree near his back. You flinch in JJ’s hold at the gunshots and the shock nearly has you losing your balance. JJ quickly shifts his hand higher up your side, leaning as close to you as physically possible to whisper in your ear.

“I got you,” he reassures.

Barry thankfully ushers Rafe away at that point but none of you dare move until you the car is long out of sight. Sighing, you relax against JJ and him against you. It was ironic how the two of you were no strangers to violence and yet, the same spark of fear was alight anytime either of you were faced with it.

You see, the same way ‘I love you’ didn’t need an explanation, neither did yours and JJ’s homelives. JJ never intended to introduce you to his father and he never met yours. More times than not, you’d meet and hang and sleep at the Chateau. If you spent time at one of your two house’s, it was when it was empty. The cuts and bruises that would appear on either of your bodies never came with questioning. Somehow, someway, the two of you knew how and where. You’d soundlessly clean them and console the other and the whole thing would be as forgotten as a terrorist attack: over, in the back of the mind, but never fully erased. The anger JJ felt whenever he saw you after you’d had a run-in with your father was different to that which he felt when he had a run-in with his own. Deeper, darker, more vengeful. One night, it reached its crux.

JJ wakes up with a start. At first he isn’t sure what snapped him out of sleep. Then, he hears it again. A faint creaking in the floorboards from the main body of his house. His house that he now lives in alone. What if his dad came back? JJ gets out of bed dressed in nothing but a pair of sweatpant shorts. He slowly picks up a spanner that’s laying on his bedroom floor, ditched after a day trying to switch out the deck of his skateboard, and pushes his door open carefully. He slowly inches down the almost pitch-black hallway. The only light is that from the window: moonbeams that shine through the glass.

At the sight of your silhouette, JJ lets out a heavy sigh. The spanner falls to the ground with an echoing thud.

“Jesus Christ, you scared the crap outta me,” JJ says with a relieved laugh. He makes his way across the room to you but his smile fades when he notices how stiff you are. “You a’right?”

This close, he can begin to make out your face through the dark. It’s haunting.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” JJ breathes, horrified.

Dark bags sit under your eyes which are hollowed out as if you’d been lost at sea, a vacant stare that almost looks past him. Your lip is quivering. Small, shaky, shallow breaths come in and out of your mouth. The worst part? The blood.

His hands fly up toward your face and your eyes clamp shut quickly as preparing for a hit. JJ freezes before he touches your skin, slowing his movements, trying to ease his own panic. His eyes scan your features, counting the injuries, trying to see the damage beneath the gore.

“What the fuck happened?”

You don’t talk. Nothing but that same ominous silence. You’re in shock. JJ’s seen it before from when he pulled over at a motorcycle crash. It’s as if the mind retreats in on itself and guards from the unpredictable. JJ swallows and clenches his jaw, trying to steal himself.

“A’right, we, uh, we gotta clean you up,” he manages. He carefully links his fingers through yours and feels your barely tangible grip. Then he guides you into the bathroom. Lowers you gently onto the toilet seat. In his peripheral vision, he sees no sign of movement or acknowledgement as he retrieves the beloved first aid kit from the bathroom cupboard. It balances precariously on the edge of the sink as he digs about for cleaning supplies.

JJ starts with your face. Your upper lip is busted at the edge, coated in dry blood but already beginning to scab. When you get in as many bruise ups as JJ, you learn to have a strange appreciation and fascination with the human body in how it heals. The antiseptic must sting but you don’t even blink. You just stare past him. Even before, you’d never been this detached. You might be angry or frustrated or even upset, but never absent. Never this. The blood around your eye comes from a gash just across your right brow. There’s an impressive bruise on the apple of your left cheek and a telling pink handprint that refuses to fade on your right. The fury begins to chip at JJ’s resolve.

Following your bizarre routine, JJ moves to unbutton your shirt, to check for any signs of internal bleeding, broken ribs, open cuts or ugly bruises across your upper body. The minute his fingers brush your sternum, your hands fly up. He’s not even sure how he winds up on the floor and it takes a moment to piece together the seconds and register that it was you. Frowning, thoroughly alarmed, JJ’s head shoots up to find your chest heaving. You make a noise as if you’re crying but no tears fall. His lips part in horror and his mind scrambles for any explanation other than the obvious.

“Woah, woah, woah, hey,” JJ hurries, rocking onto his knees and planting his hands reassuringly on yours. Your whole body is shaking. “It’s a’right, yeah? Jus’ me. I ain’t gonna hurt ya.”

Your eyes clamp shut and the tears begin to fall.

"You're safe now."

After a trembling inhale, you begin to sob. Heartbroken, hideous, harrowing sobs. JJ feels tears swirl in his waterline at the sight and sound. He knew you better than anyone - better than the Lord himself - and to see you so far from who you are was like seeing someone’s body turn inside out. Unsure of what to do, he wraps his arms around you in a tight embrace and lets you fall into him.

You just cry.

Later, JJ sits outside the bathroom. His back is pressed against the door. Inside, he can hear the slosh of the bath water from time to time when you shift. He meddles with the rings on his fingers. His teeth gnaw on his lower lip. JJ assesses his options. He knows the “right” thing to do and he knows the “wrong” thing to do, and he knows the one he prefers out of the two, even if he shouldn't. His eyes flit over to the pile of your clothes that he’d taken out the room with him, back turned to give you privacy when you changed (as if you hadn’t given your body to him countless times before). The blood stained shirt. The shorts that had a telling rip at the crotch, the zip practically shattered. The missing panties. His throat turns thick and his eyes clench shut, forehead falling down against his clenched fists. He tries desperately to breathe through the anger. Before he can reach any sort of conclusion, he hears you get out of the bathtub. A few minutes later, the twisting doorknob prompts him to stand. You stand dressed in his clothes and offer him a small smile, and JJ feels his whole body sigh with relief.

“How you feelin’?” JJ asks.

You shrug, wrapping your arms around yourself. “Exhausted.”

“Anything hurting still?”

“No,” you say. You walk past him and into his bedroom and he follows. Climbing onto his bed, you wrap yourself up on his side in the blankets. JJ heads to the kitchen to grab some water and pain meds before coming back and joining you, sitting against the headrest, unsure whether to touch you or not. You seem to answer the question for him. You cuddle into his side and nestle your head against his upper chest. His hands coil safely around your body, holding you close, and he plants a kiss on top of your head. Then he finally speaks.

“We need to go to the cops.”

You sigh and close your eyes. “JJ, no–”

“You don’t even gotta press charges but they have to know.”

“I don’t want to do that.”

“Why the hell not?”

“Because you know how it is, JJ,” you argue, sitting up to face him. “It’s my word against his and he never technically did anything. They’ll take one look at him and listen to my story, and then probably get me to recount it a million times over to a million other strangers. To a million other men. It’s humiliating and it’s pointless and I don’t want to do it.”

“It ain’t pointless and there’s nothing humiliating about it,” JJ insists. “You’re the victim here–”

“Don’t call me that,” you snap, glaring at him.

Sighing, JJ closes his eyes and clenches the bridge of his nose, trying to keep his cool. The last thing you need tonight is another fight. Besides, it’s not as if you’re wrong. JJ trusted the police as far as he could throw them; he didn’t doubt that they’d be useless. But the thought of you going back to your dad and for him to get away with what he did…JJ didn’t know what other option you really had. Your fingers gently wrap around JJ’s hand, easing it away from his face, coaxing his eyes to meet yours.

“Two more months, JJ.”

He sighs again but you’re quick to continue.

“Two more months and I’m eighteen and he isn’t my legal guardian anymore! I don’t have to deal with the whole rigged court system or with a foster home - I can just be rid of him for good.”

“Two more months? You think I’m gonna let you go back there for two more months after this?” JJ scoffs, eyeing up your injuries. His stomach churns and jaw ticks at the thought of what could’ve happened if you hadn’t managed to get the upper hand. You sigh and look away.

“I don’t know…Maybe he won’t do it again.”

“If he does it once, he’ll do it again,” JJ mutters. He remembers having the same thought the first time his dad hit him. It was an accident. He apologised. He didn’t mean it. By the end, JJ was on cloud nine if he went a week without a smack. But your situation was somehow even heavier than that. His stomach churns again.

“I don’t know,” you repeat, sounding nothing short of defeated.

JJ just tugs you back against his chest. You trace a finger over his chest in swirling patterns as if personifying the state of his mind. Maybe you could live with JJ. I mean, you practically already did. The two of you were rarely away from the Chateau these days, and once you were eighteen - just as you said - your dad had no hold on you. Maybe if the Pogues could get the cross then JJ could finally afford that big pastel blue house for you, with the wrap around porch, and guard dogs to sick ‘em anytime your dad came within a fifty mile radius of you. Maybe–

JJ’s eyes widen. It hits him. His best idea to date.

“Marry me.”

JJ isn’t sure he actually said it for a while because you don’t speak. You don’t even move.

“What did you just say?”

“Marry me.”

You immediately start to laugh. You shake your head against his chest. “Jesus Christ. Did you slip and hit your bed whilst I was in the bathtub?”

“I’m serious. Marry me,” JJ says. Maybe it’s his tone that cuts off your hysterics. You quickly break out of his hold again and look at him, studying his expression. Your eyes widen.

“Holy shit, you really are serious,” you mumble.

“Marry me,” JJ repeats as if those are the only words he knows how to say.

You laugh, bewildered, “JJ, we’re seventeen.”

“So.”

“So? So…We’re seventeen!” you cackle. “We can’t get married JJ.”

“Who says?” JJ shrugs, beginning to smile. You haven’t said no.

“Um let’s see,” you mumble, lifting your fingers to count. “The court…The law…Our parents.”

“We don’t have parents.”

“Maybe not good or present ones, but we still have legal guardians, JJ.”

“Those are all technicals–”

“-Technicalities-”

“-Whatever. Point is, those are irrelevant,” JJ says, wafting it away. His hands grab yourself in a tight clutch. Your mouth remains perfectly parted, slightly upturned at the corners. It only pushes his smile. “I know you’re it for me. I ain’t good at all the sappy-dappy-love-crap, but I’ve been in love with you since I was a kid–”

“--JJ–”

“--And I don’t want anybody else! Ever. We’re a team, ain’t we? Hunt for gold together, spend our life together.” When you study him in silence for a while, JJ tags on, “I mean, I’m gonna do it eventually so I might as well do it now.”

“That is insane reasoning to propose, JJ,” you laugh, shaking your head at him. Even if your face is half beaten beyond recognition, JJ knows you’re the most beautiful girl on the planet. The moment he knew he shared the same earth as you, JJ wanted you to be in his life. And you still haven’t said no.

“I love you,” JJ says, plain and simple. Shaking his head slightly, he grins. “P4L, right? I mean, we really got nothing to lose here.”

You stare at him and scoff, quiet and underbreath, almost fascinated. Your eyes slip shut and JJ begins to grin because he knows. A deep, heavy sigh, and you laugh again.

“God help me, I must have gone crazy,” you mutter. Your eyes open into his. Then you smile the prettiest smile the world has ever seen. “Yes. I’ll marry you, JJ Maybank.”

JJ wastes no time in connecting his lips with yours. You giggle against them, wrapping your arms around his shoulders, holding him closer and closer. When you break apart, barely a hair’s width between your damp lips, you smile as you speak.

“My good looking boy.”

Five Years Later

Whiskey isn’t quite caramel. No, it’s more tawny. More gingerbread coloured, especially in this hue, illuminated by the crappy bar lighting hanging above JJ’s head. His knuckles knock against the side of the cool glass, mesmerised by the sound of his metal rings clinking, distracted in his drunken haze by the bobbing of the three ice cubes in the liquor.

“JJ.”

His head sluggishly lifts at the sound of his name. He comes face to face with the long-time bartender, Corbin.

“It’s last orders, man. You wanting a refill?” Corbin asks.

JJ sighs and shakes his head. “Nah, I better not. What time is it?”

“It’s nearly one,” Corbin replies.

JJ nods then repeats, “nah, I better not.”

“You wanting to settle up for that now?” he wonders, glancing down at JJ’s half full drink.

JJ swallows and rubs tiredly at his eyes. “I, uh…Just put it on my tab for now, a’right?”

Corbin sighs. “Look, JJ. I’ve known you a long time so I’ve been letting it slide but this tab’s starting to stack up. You gotta pay it sometime.”

JJ shoots him a glare; his emotions twisted by the alcohol. “And I’m gonna. I just…Things are a lil’ tight right now so I can’t settle it just yet.”

Corbin decides not to push the topic. He does as he’s asked and adds JJ’s three whiskey on ice beverages to his resume-like tab. When he leaves to square things away at some other end of the bar, JJ glances around the room.

Corbin’s bar, Grub Bucket, hadn’t changed in anybody’s lifetime. JJ could recall coming out here as a kid on the hunt for his dad and sneaking past the intimidating bikers out front, weaving through the drunken fools of Kildare to find his dad almost paralytic near the pool tables. The smell was the same too: musty and beer drenched and tired. JJ wonders if he finds the smell comforting - nostalgic maybe. At the sight of several patrons leaving through the door into the pitch-black night, JJ remembers himself and the time, and he downs the last of his drink. The bitter sting is soothing on his tongue and eases the ache, and it goes down easy like a crisp, cool apple juice back in grade school.

He staggers out the bar and stumbles the familiar route home. It’s as engraved in his mind as the journey to the shops or the docks. Home appears through thick overgrowth. It’s a piece of shit trailer, obvious even in this lighting, that’s discoloured and dirty on the exterior. There are weeds that protrude from below the body of the home and gas canisters lined beside overflowing trash cans and countless fishing, surf and mechanic crap. The recycling bin is always full of empty wine bottles and cans of beer.

The stairs creak in concern as he makes his way up them. The third is broken in the middle and even intoxicated, he has the sense to avoid it. A squeaky door that needs the entirety of his body weight to open, his shoulder slamming into the upper left, and the instant smell of damp desperately trying to be combated with some cheap candle from Goodwill.

There’s few rooms in the trailer. A kitchen with about one empty counter to cook, that shares the same area as a living space. A couch that JJ found abandoned on a roadside sits before a crackly television, divided by a thrifted coffee table. The World Atlas was proving useful keeping the latter piece of furniture upheld on the far right leg. The area is littered with belongings, tight on space and storage. Trash takes up a lot of space too, as much as he hates to admit it. A strategically placed poster-print conceals a concerning dent in the wall that may signify rats at one time had made this trailer their home. That could explain the steal that JJ got it for.

The bathroom is where JJ’s legs take him next. Here, with the door closed, he can turn on the light. It takes three flicks of the switch and the buzz that it generates might remind a war veteran of a looming grenade. The shower is permanently discoloured and runs warm perhaps once a year, so JJ skips that stage. Instead he looks into the dirty mirror. His exhausted face greets him through blurry vision and speckles of toothpaste. A well-used toothbrush is rushed around his mouth and he spits into a dusty sink that drains frustratingly slowly. A quick piss and JJ is all washed up.

He’s careful not to turn on the light when he makes his way into the bedroom. By now, it must nearly be two in the morning. The boots come off first, followed by his shorts, socks and shirt. Clad in only boxers, JJ can make out the bed through the dark and slides under the covers. His eyes slip shut and his body tries to relax.

“It’s late.”

His eyes clench shut. Shit.

“I, uh, didn’t know you’d still be awake.”

“I was waiting up for you to come home,” comes your mumbled response. JJ looks over to you: your back facing him as he lies on his.

“You didn’t have to do that.”

“Hard not to when your husband’s out until two in the morning without texting or calling.”

JJ’s brows knit together. “My phone died,” he mutters.

“Convenient.”

Sighing, JJ runs a hand along his forehead and rubs tiredly at his eyes. “Look, I’m really fuckin’ tired, a’right? It’s been a long day and I just wanna–”

“You’re tired?” you hiss, turning over and sitting up. Fuck. “You’re fucking tired, JJ? Where the hell where you!?”

“Out!”

"Oh! Out! God, I don't know why I didn't think to check there!" you tunefully say.

JJ grits his teeth. The exhaustion and booze make a sticky concoction, flammable to the smallest fuse. “I don’t have to fucking give you a play by play of what I’m doing. I’m my own fucking person.”

“Okay, sure, JJ. You can finish work at five in the Goddamn afternoon and not reappear until two in the Goddamn morning without a text or call. I mean, what a fucking evil wife I am for worrying about you being - oh, I don’t know - dead in a ditch somewhere or sat in a fucking cell. I mean, I’m just bitter to the bone.”

At your spiel, JJ sits up in bed, propping himself up with his elbows. “Yeah, it’s such a fucking Goddamn surprise that I’m in no rush to come home when this is the fucking greeting I get!”

“Don’t come home at two in the morning and you won’t get this type of greeting!” you screech back.

The two of you meet eyes through the dark. Your faces are contorted in anger: brows tugged close together, lips downturned in ugly frowns, tired eyes narrowed at one another.

“Jesus Christ - what? You need me to give you a text every two minutes or some shit? Tell you where I am every two seconds?”

“Right, yeah, that’s what I said, JJ,” you argue, gesturing violently with your words. “I said, ‘send me a text every time you take a breath of air’. No, no, you’re right: I said, ‘put a tracker in your fucking penis and then maybe I know where it’s going’.”

He studies your face a moment and scoffs, shaking his head. “I don’t know what you’re try’na incinerate there but–”

“It’s insinuate - you fucking idiot - and I think you know damn well what I’m referring to,” you spit. Your voice sounds almost as bitter as the liquor JJ was drinking peacefully only an hour ago. Maybe he should have just stayed at the bar.

“Go on, then. Say it with your fucking chest, then,” JJ urges, sitting up in bed too.

You glower at him. “Pearl.”

“Oh my fuckin’...” JJ can’t help but laugh right in your face. It’s ludicrous! It only seems to worsen your rage, not that JJ could care at this moment. “You really think I’m out hooking up with someone? Is that seriously what you’re accusing me of?”

“Wouldn’t be surprised,” is your all-to-quick reply. “You spend all night in a bar and come home smelling like booze. Wouldn’t be surprised if you were hooking up with her, or some other whore. I mean, who else would want you?”

JJ can’t think clearly through the blinding rage. His vision goes blurry and this time, it isn’t from the alcohol. There’s the distant fear that he might crack a tooth from how tightly he’s clenching his jaw. He feels his fist close up around the sheets.

“You better think really fucking hard about what you just said to me,” he lowly says.

Your brows raise. “Is that a threat?”

JJ doesn’t reply. Decides it might be best not to. It’s hard to side with that thought process though because a smirk slowly but surely begins to sneak onto your face. There’s this viciousness in your eyes that JJ used to be unable to recognise, before El Dorado. Before life got somehow all the more real.

“Starting to sound like your dad now, huh, Maybank?”

Don’t say anything. Don’t say anything. Don’t say–

JJ leans in close to your face. Can feel your heavy breath on his cheeks. See the emotions swirling like a thunderstorm in your eyes. The thin veil of tears in your waterline. He hardly recognises his own voice.

“I wish I was fucking some whore. Anything’s better than being in this bed with you.”

Your whole demeanour shifts. It’s palpable. The room is hot and suffocating. The words hang in the air and JJ hates himself for not being sure if he even wants to take them back, even if he doesn’t mean it. He just wanted you to hurt. And what an awful thing to want.

JJ hates this. He hates how the two of you know just the right buttons to press and just the right things to say to make the other furious. To break one another down. When two people fall in love, you learn everything about the other. It’s not just the intimate details - how somebody looks naked, the way they react to every touch, every kiss, their favourite song, the way they talk when they’re drunk - but also the sensitive stuff. The traumas and the skeletons and the insecurities.

“Get out,” you spit.

“Get out?” JJ laughs incredulously.

“Get out! Get the fuck out of this bed now,” you seeth. JJ doesn’t move. As if possessed, you grab at your pillow and toss it at him. “Get out!” Toss your book too.

JJ dodges them, bats them away. “You’re fucking psycho! Do you fucking see yourself!” he shouts.

“Get out! Get out, get out, get out!” you scream.

But JJ doesn’t. He should. In fact, he should go for a walk and let the two of you calm down, and then discuss it in the morning with a civilised conversation, just as you would do when you were both younger. But JJ was never the one to make the right decision. Instead, he feels himself smile. Then, he settles leisurely on his back, snuggling into the sheets like a child returning home after a long day out. His body aches from a hard day’s labour at the docks, stomach empty save for the booze. Even with his eyes closed, JJ can see your glare. It’s ice cold and sends shivers along his spine.

“Fuck you, JJ,” you mutter.

Another rustle of the sheets, the mattress dips, heavy footsteps, a slamming door, and you’re out of the room. The door shivers in the rickety frame and the noise seems to echo around the room. JJ slowly opens his eyes and stares at the ceiling. He runs a hand along his jawline as he sighs, feeling the ever growing stubble that he can’t find the motivation to shave. He used to, wanting to keep up appearances for the job market, but it seemed futile now. Pointless. The feeling of satisfaction that came from winning the fight was fleeting, passing as quick as a poppers-buzz. Now, the ugly emotions seep in as JJ wallows in the lonely silence. The emotions JJ usually wards off with whiskey and beer and weed and cocaine. The guilt and the shame and the self-loathing. The sympathy and the heartache. The awful things he said to you bounce around in his head like a ping pong ball. The awful things you said to him bury deep in his heart. When he closes his eyes again, trying to mellow out his breathing and drift off, he can hear your sniffles through the door.

You never used to hide your tears from him.

Sighing, JJ clamps his hands over his face and fights the urge to scream. Why does he do this? Why does it keep happening? Why can’t you both just stop?

After thirty minutes, sleep is nowhere to be seen. The sniffling has stopped in the other room but JJ doubts you’re asleep either. Soon enough, he can’t stand the internal struggle anymore. He gets to his feet and makes his way into the living room before he can lose his nerve.

You’re lying on your side on the sofa, bundled up with a moth-nibbled blanket. JJ can’t see your face from here but he knows you’re awake. Dating you for five years meant he learnt to pick up on things like that. Walking over, he comes to the back of the sofa and reaches over to gently place his hand on your shoulder.

“You awake?” he rasps.

A pause, and then, “yes.”

“Come to bed.”

“Why?”

“Because you’ve got that stupid interview tomorrow and you’re going to hate yourself for sleeping on this fucking thing in the morning.”

And I can’t fall asleep unless you’re next to me.

“You remembered I have an interview?” you mumble.

“Course,” JJ mumbles back, as if embarrassed that he remembers something his wife told him. “So come to bed.”

You don’t say anything else. JJ has a million things he could say. They’re things that he should say and that he wants to but it’s like his mouth is soldered shut. He can’t let them pass as if they might incriminate him. Oh no! She’ll know I care about her! Instead, he swallows and removes his hand, sighing as he turns to return to the bedroom.

“Well, I’m going to bed,” he says. Again, there’s no response.

Only after JJ has closed the bedroom door does he hear movement from the sofa. By the time you reappear, he’s already in bed, curled up on his side, facing the wall. You make your way to the right of the bed. There’s the thud of the blanket joining the floor before you sneak under the sheets and shuffle about until you’re settled.

The two of you don’t cuddle that night just like you don’t most nights. Neither of you apologise. Neither of you say a word. But just as JJ’s about to drift off, he feels the faintest press of your lips to the back of his bare shoulder.

When JJ wakes up in the morning, you’ve already left. His head hurts the moment he opens his eyes. Groaning, he tosses the sheets off and sits up on the edge of his bed. JJ’s aching back was a common companion to his life since El Dorado. He’d fallen funny on the adventure and seemingly fucked it up for life. Lifting heavy cargo at the docks probably didn’t help much but what choice did he have? You both needed the money desperately.

The hunt for the gold went sour. Not only did Ward Cameron steal it and use it, but Rafe stole the cross and melted the timeless relic down into chunks. At first they thought El Dorado - the timeless mystery - was a possibility. JJ believed it too. In trying to get himself and John B there, he’d got himself in pretty hot water back in Kildare. That and the eviction notice plastered to his dad’s house meant that coming back home, empty handed, meant tough living. At first, the two of you persevered. You took the loss as best you could and started out on your life together. A courthouse wedding marked the beginning of your new life, gold-less but not loveless. The Pogues threw a party at the Chateau afterwards. JJ sent out an invitation to his dad at his last known address but he never showed. You never invited yours and thankfully he stayed away. Not long after was he arrested. That was a good day. You’d sold your father’s house and used that money to buy the trailer you and JJ now resided in. It was supposed to be a temporary spot but you fell on rough times. That was almost four years ago.

The day at work dragged on like any other. After missing one shift at the local grocers, JJ was fired and had to take the next available job to let the two of you meet rent. Now he spends his hours (nearly seven days a week) fixing up old fishing rigs. It was gruelling work: lifting and slamming and hammering and loading. Even in the September air, the summer less stifling than before, JJ works up a sweat. He doesn’t have enough food to spare for things like pack dinners so he goes off an apple during his breaks. Sometimes Pope would offer JJ some food if they crossed paths but JJ didn’t want to be a charity case. He was aware how frail the two of you looked though: having about one semi-decent meal a day. Just as the day begins to wrap to a close - the amber sun low in the sky - does Billy, his employer, come over to JJ as he’s scrubbing his hands.

“Goddamn oil, swear to God,” he mutters under breath, scratching tirelessly at the skin.

“Hey, JJ, we gotta talk,” Billy sighs.

JJ looks up and wipes his hands dry on his shirt. “What’s up?”

“Look, uh…” The moment Billy clears his throat, JJ knows what’s coming. “I hate to do this, man, but I gotta let you go.”

“Dude, seriously?” JJ sighs.

“Look, it ain’t your fault, Jay. I just…The business is going under and I can’t keep all you guys on anymore. I hate to do this to you, I really do, man. I've got your last paycheck here but you, uh, don’t gotta come in on Monday,” Billy not-so-delicately tells him, digging in his pocket and retrieving a white envelope. As he hands it over, he adds, “sorry.”

“Yeah, well,” JJ sighs, taking the money, “sorry don’t pay the bills, does it?”

Before Billy can reply, JJ pockets the paycheck and sets off from the docks towards his truck. He had to trade in his bike a few years back when the two of you married: a truck seemed more practical, especially for the plans you had. The anxiety seeps in as he starts his engine and only rises the closer he gets to home like a flood caused by a running tap in a home. Rubbing at his heart, trying to alleviate the nerves, JJ takes a breath and turns up the drive. He never used to feel this way when coming home to you. In fact, it used to be the highlight of his day. Now he just prays that he can get through the door without the two of you falling into an argument.

You’re standing at the stove, steam billowing up from the pan that you’re stirring, and at the sound of JJ shoving his way through the entrance, you turn and offer a small smile. It seems like an olive branch for last night.

“Hey,” you say.

“Yo,” JJ hums, closing the door. He heads for the pile of envelopes on the cluttered breakfast bar and flicks through them. Every FINAL NOTICE makes him cringe. One is already open and he slips the letter out, but you speak before he has a chance to read a word.

“We got a week until they shut the gas off,” you tell him.

“Well, I got the solution to that.”

JJ tries his best to smile as he holds the envelope up. Gasping, you abandon the stove and grin, taking it from him and scanning over the amount. He’s ashamed by his surprise when you wrap your arms around his neck, hugging him. He doesn’t have a chance to respond; you’re back at the stove, stirring dinner, within seconds.

“Yeah, well, that’s the good news,” JJ says.

Frowning, concerned, you look over your shoulder to him. “There’s bad news?”

JJ can’t meet your gaze as he tells you, “I got let go.”

“What? But I thought–”

“Yeah, me too,” JJ sighs, shaking his head. He leans against the fridge and feels it shudder at his weight. The bottles of cheap wine clink together tellingly and JJ tries not to cringe. “Anyway, how’d your interview go?”

You shake your head, looking back to the pan. “They said they’d let me know in three or so days but I don’t know…They were hard to read.”

He watches you in the artificial light, your now naturally coloured hair looking almost unrecognisable in the glow. You’d stopped dying it a couple years ago because you thought it might make finding work easier. It didn’t. Two ex-convicts, one of which had arguably the worst reputation in Kildare, who disappeared for several months at a time as teenagers. No high school degree, no college degree, no qualifications or former training, and no reputable name to fall back on. JJ contemplates coming over to you and wrapping his arms around your middle, pulling you against him. He wants to dance with you in the kitchen to non-existent music and then cuddle up on the couch, sharing a joint and putting the world to right. But he doesn’t. Instead, JJ stays by the fridge.

“I’m sure you’ll get it.”

“Maybe. You going back to the job centre tomorrow?”

“Maybe,” JJ echos. He should. It’s hard though. It feels as though every time one of you picks yourself up and dusts yourself off, you get kicked to the dirt again. Jobs felt as unstable and unpromising as a rebound relationship. If either of you can hold down a job in the shaky economy that was the Cut on Kildare, then something in the house needs replacing, and you’re somehow still as broke as you were to start.

Neither of you bring up the argument from last night even though you should. Instead, you eat your dinner in mostly silence as the radio drones on in the background about the weather and the news. JJ’s apology lingers on his tongue but with every mouthful of his grits, it gets brushed away. It stays that way as the evening drags on. One glass of cheap red wine turns into two and three. Somewhere in the tipsy haze, the two of you find one another, naked under the sheets. His bare chest brushes against yours as he kisses desperately at your neck, thrusting into you. As his hands caress along your familiar figure, it feels as though you’re miles away. Or maybe it’s him. Maybe he isn’t the one that’s present, as if standing across the room, watching it all unfold. Your heavy breaths in his ear don’t excite him as they did before. The feeling of your walls squeezing around him doesn’t send him spiralling the same way it used to. It feels as if he’s just going through the motions. Chasing the brief wave of euphoria and distracting himself from the maelstrom of anxiety that is his mind lately. No job, no family, no future.

“Harder, JJ,” you sigh against his shoulder, your breath warm on his damp skin.

He hardly registers your words and only responds when one of your hands coaxes his hips deeper. Something about the new angle hits JJ just right. His eyes slip shut, a groan falling past his lips as he shudders against your body. He comes rather quickly: the white hot pleasure fast as it passes through him. He lingers inside of you a moment. You lay stone still underneath him.

“Did you just come?” you ask.

“Yeah, I just came,” JJ sighs, pulling out of you. Sighing, chest heaving, he flops onto his back beside you. He can feel your stare the same way he did last night. As if trying to escape it, his eyes slip shut.

“Are you fucking serious, JJ?”

“You know your body better anyway. Go to town,” JJ mumbles. He’s aware of how douchey he sounds but he feels a thousand miles away. He’d only disappoint you anyway. It feels like all he does is disappoint you.

“Fuck you,” you mutter, climbing out of bed and heading presumably to the bathroom to piss. The door slams the same as it did last night. More arguments and JJ will have to replace the hinges. Just another thing in the house that’ll be added to the list of repairs, with the thing at the top being your relationship. As JJ works through the list in his mind, he drifts off to sleep. He isn’t sure if you ever came back to bed. You’re gone when he wakes up in the morning.

“I don’t understand man,” John B says. “Why don’t you two just get a divorce?”

JJ’s head snaps to face his best friend. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“I’m just saying–”

“--John B–”

“--You guys are miserable,” he finishes, not letting JJ cut him off. Groaning, JJ shakes his head and paces away. “It’s not like divorce is frowned upon in your family! Your parents did it, hers did it - hell, mine did it too!”

“I don’t wanna divorce her,” JJ says, turning around. He takes his cap from his head and runs his fingers through his hair. It’s damp with sweat from the humid heat of the day. He’d been at his lifelong best friend’s house since eight in the morning, helping to clear up the yard and fix the jetty. Whilst unemployed, JJ may as well keep himself busy. As always, the conversation had veered into relationship territory: John B and Sarah, and JJ and you. The fight was two weeks in the past. You hadn’t let JJ have sex with you since. JJ wasn’t sure if he even wanted to. It just made him feel more confused and disconnected. He didn’t like being the reason you were upset.

“There’s no shame in it,” John B assures. “You guys were a good fit when we were teenagers but now you’ve grown up and life’s gotten hard. That’s okay.”

“She’s it for me, JB,” JJ states. He wanders over and lovingly pats him on the back, making his way to the cooler for another beer. “I ain’t giving up on us.”

“Cool. So, you’ll just stay stuck in a loveless marriage for the rest of your life then. Awesome,” comes John B’s sardonic response.

“It’s not loveless. It’s just…going through a rough patch.”

“A two year long rough patch?”

“It’s not as simple as ‘divorce her’,” JJ sighs. The crisp crack of the beer sounds like heaven’s gates opening. “She’s the girl of my literal childhood dreams. And things have been hard for her too. We don’t mean to fight, we just…do.”

“Denial is a six-letter word my friend. You know what else is?”

“Don’t say it–”

“Trauma.”

“JB–”

“I get it! Your dad was shitty and you’re trying to break the cycle! But maybe you can’t! Maybe there isn’t a cycle! Maybe that’s just life!”

“Look, I don’t therapise you so how about you don’t therapise me,” JJ suggests. He tosses a beer to the brown haired man. His face isn’t all that different from when they were young. The crows feet around his eyes are deeper set, as are the laughter and frown lines along his forehead. The stubble on his beard challenges JJ’s. “I’m not gonna give up on us. We just need to reconnect. I feel like we’re always at odds.”

Sighing, John B relents. He clinks his can against JJ’s in an informal cheers. “Well, I hope you’re right and you guys can figure it out. I just want you happy, man.”

Happy. JJ hardly knew the meaning of the word these days.

He lingers at John B’s house until sunset, when Sarah returns from the hospital. She’d managed to get a spot on a nursing course and was blazing through it. She’d tried to get both you and JJ employed there too but the criminal check killed any chance. She offers for JJ to stay for dinner but he declines, saying that he should head home. The walk back is filled with unnecessary diversions. He goes to the pier where he saw you jump as a kid. He goes by the grocery store that the two of you used to shoplift beers from. He wanders along the coastline where you used to skinny dip in the dead of night. Somehow, JJ ends up outside what used to be his home. Nobody had bought it after the bank repossessed it. Sitting in dilapidation, nature reclaims the isolated structure. It’s barely recognisable to JJ. Seeing it in such a way makes JJ question if his childhood was even real. The traumatic memories feel as though they don’t fit well on this canvas: it’s too peaceful and serene. He leans down and grabs a large rock from the floor and hurls it towards one of the windows. It shatters through the glass and thuds as it lands on the floorboards inside. A small smile pushes onto JJ’s ageing face. That’s better. He continues to walk home.

It’s pitch black outside by the time JJ makes it back. He wonders if you might have gone to bed as he walks up the porch steps, dodging the broken one, reminding himself to fix it. The house is cast in a warm glow from the living room floor lamp when JJ walks in. The kitchen has been cleaned up and for once seems almost homely. His eyes are immediately drawn to your frame, sat crossed legged on the sofa. A large shoebox sits on the coffee table, the lid off, and a stack of old VHS tapes sit in a pile to its right. There’s a bottle of open red wine and a half filled glass too. You’re looking down at something.

“Hey,” he says, closing the door behind him.

“Hey.”

“What’re you doing?”

You finally look up. You’d put your nose ring back in and it shines under the gentle glare of the lamp. A smile blesses your features. “I was going through the closet to see if I could sell some old clothes and found the picture box. Remember how we were gonna hang some up when we first moved here? I think we still should.”

JJ grabs a glass for himself and joins you on the sofa. You smell like soap and shea butter. He pours himself a glass of wine.

“Look,” you say, holding the picture out for him to see. He places down in his glass on the table and takes the photo from you. JJ chuckles quietly under breath. It’s of John B and JJ when they were younger; they sit on their surfboards, legs submerged in the water, hair damp, smiles brimming and big. “Cute, huh?”

“Very cute,” JJ agrees. He places it amongst the pile of scattered pictures strewn across the table and picks another out. It’s of Kiara, pulling a stupid face as she lounges outside the Chateau. Sarah throwing up peace signs. A candid of Pope and John B playing cards one afternoon. You, dangling upside down from the slats of the jetty, lilac hair barely scraping the surface of the water.

“I like this one.”

JJ leans into you to see the picture in your hands. He smiles at the sight. One of the Pogues must have taken it. You both look about eighteen. You’re sat on one of the deckchairs that resided outside of the Chateau, talking vivaciously, hands gesturing wildly and smiling wide. JJ’s just staring at you, a lovesick smile on his young face, chin resting on his fist. For a while, the two of you sit in the drip-drip-drip of the kitchen sink, staring at the picture as if in a trance.

“You used to adore me,” you whisper.

JJ’s brows knit together. He looks down at you. “I still do.”

Your laugh is sad. Your eyes remained trained on the moment frozen in time. “Not like you used to. Not like before.”

“Before what?” JJ mumbles, heart suddenly heavy.

You look up and meet his gaze. Whatever emotion is on your face makes JJ want to cry. “You know what.”

He shakes his head, his lips quivering. “That’s not true.”

“Everything changed after that.”

“It’s not true,” he says again. His hand slips up, cupping your cheek, and his body sings when you lean into his hold. “That weren’t your fault. It never was and never will be.”

“But would you still have married me,” you begin to ask, voice turning thick as the tears start to build, “if you knew? If I knew before.”

“Yes,” JJ swiftly answers.

“JJ–”

“--You’re it for me,” he says. His forehead gently falls forward, resting against yours, needing to be closer. “Girl of my dreams.”

“Even if…” You take in a shaky breath, trying desperately not to cry. “Even if I can’t give you a family.”

“You are my family. I got everything I need right here.”

Something between a sob and laugh shakes your body. You sniff and nod fervently against him. JJ sweeps his calloused finger across your cheek. He feels the warmth that radiates from your skin. Inhales the soothing smell that is you. Counts the smattering of blemishes and freckles and scars that decorate your skin like cracks in an antique painting. They don’t take from your beauty - they just speak to the value.

“I’m sorry,” he hears himself say.

It’s your turn to frown now. Opening your eyes, they shimmer with unshed tears. “What’d you mean?”

“I’m so sorry I let you marry me,” he says in brutal honesty. “This ain’t the life you deserve.”

“JJ–”

“You deserve so much more than this. More than all this scrimping and saving. You deserve your house. Your pastel blue house, with those white shutters and the porch - that damn wrap around porch - and your cats and dogs.”

You chuckle, shaking your head. Your own hands come up, cradling his face just as he has your own, and you smile dotingly up at him. For the first time in months, JJ feels as though he recognises you. JJ feels as though he recognises himself.

“I don’t need all that, JJ,” you tell him. “That’s just stuff. Things. You said it best: I have everything I’ve ever needed right here.”

“You don’t gotta say that,” JJ gently argues. “This trailer isn’t a house, baby.”

“No, it ain’t,” you agree. “It’s a home. It’s our home.”

“Baby,” JJ sighs. His eyes slip shut, unable to look at you, feeling nothing less than a failure.

“You remember our wedding day?” you ask him. JJ can’t help but snort.

“Course I do.”

“Remember our vows?”

His lips can’t help but upturn as he follows your train of thought. He was always good at following your mind.

“For richer–”

“--for poor,” JJ finishes.

The caress of your finger along his jawline has JJ close to tears.

“We’re gonna be okay,” you tell him softly. “We're gonna get through all this. It’s just God’s test, that's all, and we’re gonna pass it, and it’ll be okay again. I promise.”

JJ manages to open his eyes and face you. You’re smiling up at him, gazing as if he was the entire solar system laid before you, and the anxiety slips away as suddenly as winter changes to spring.

“My good looking boy,” you whisper.

JJ’s never been good with his words. But sometimes words aren’t needed.

His lips find yours like a bird migrating home. You immediately hold him close to you, tilting his face with yours to deepen the kiss. His tongue brushes against yours. The taste of red wine is strangely erotic and it spurs JJ on. He sighs against you, pushing deeper as if to consume you. Your fingers slip into his hair; nails teasing at his scalp, combing through the sea salt treated strands. JJ’s hands sink away from your face, tracing along your arms, down to your waist. You sink into the cushions of the sofa on your back as JJ climbs atop. His lips map across your cheeks, along your jaw, find home on your neck and collarbones.

“I missed you so much,” he confesses in a breath against your sensitive skin.

The removal of clothes is like a ritual: each piece commemorated with kisses and love bites and praises. Your hands explore one another’s naked bodies as if it were your first time. Like a blind man regaining sight, JJ is in awe of your effortless beauty. The way your back arches at the trace of his finger along your sternum, down to your weeping cunt. You clench helplessly around his digits as he fingers you, slow and sensual, savouring every moan and whine.

“Missed you so fucking much, baby,” JJ sighs against your thigh. Presses kisses against the stretch mark decorated skin, like watering tree roots. “So fucking pretty.”

“JayJ,” you croon, eyes clenched shut, a balled up fist rubbing helplessly at your forehead.

His tongue laps at your clit, suckles at the wet, driven by the feel of your fingers knotting in his hair. You climax with a gasp, soaking his fingers and lips, overstimulated until you’re gently pushing him away and pulling him up to you. He’s painfully hard as he kisses you. When your hand softly takes hold of him, he sighs against your mouth.

“I missed you,” you tell him between kisses. Your hand rubs at him in long, meaningful strokes, thumb occasionally teasing over the tip. JJ groans against your chest, eyes pressed shut, trying to revel in the feeling of having you so close, having you jacking him off, whilst trying desperately not to come. But you know him better than anybody else. You know when to guide him to your entrance, coating him in your slick. JJ kisses at your nipple as he sinks into you. He doesn’t feel miles away this time as he fucks you into the sofa. Doesn’t feel like he’s stranded across the room as he makes love to you for the first time in months, maybe even years.

Your begs and pleas and praises are like words from the lord being spoken into JJ’s ears in your breathy whimpers. Harder, deeper, feels so fuckin’ good, faster. JJ’s no better, slurring anything that slips into his mind as he sinks in and out of you. So fuckin’ wet, prettiest fuckin’ pussy in the world, tell me how bad you need it. His hand holds an almost mean grip on your hip whilst his other finds your left. JJ intertwines your fingers as the two of you chase your highs, the digits slick with sweat, slipping in the hold but never letting go.

"I'm s'close," you whine, hooking your legs over his hips, driving him deeper.

"Fuck, feels so fuckin' good," JJ grunts, ploughing into you. "So fuckin' good for me."

"Please, JJ," you gasp. You're so close. JJ fucks you hard and fast. "Please, please, please..."

You come first, gasping and panting against JJ’s ear, and he follows, moaning desperately against your clammy skin. His eyes slip shut as he rests atop of you.

JJ blinks awake, somewhat disorientated. For the first time in forever, his aching back isn’t the first thing he registers. Instead, it’s the steady rise and fall of the warm body underneath him. He slowly lifts his head to find you, sleeping soundly, still naked. He’s soft inside of you and gently slips out with a small shudder. You stir only slightly but soon drift back off to sleep. JJ gets up carefully so as to not disturb your slumber. The bathroom doesn’t feel as grimy when he goes inside to pee, and his face looks younger, lighter, refreshed, when he checks the mirror as he washes his hands. After tugging on a pair of boxers and an old t-shirt, he returns to the living room. You’ve curled up on your side, snoring quietly, and JJ smiles. How could he forget how beautiful you are? He lays a blanket over your body and plants a kiss to your hair. Then, he begins to tidy away some of the pictures. As you requested, he leaves out some that he thinks you might like to be framed, one of which is from your wedding day: the two of you laughing as you smush cake against one another’s mouths. His eyes fall on the tapes and he picks them up, flicking through them. He takes pause at one. Luke and Marie’s Wedding Tape. He stares at it like the box of Jumangi, both terrified and enticed.

JJ powers up the TV, ensuring it’s on silent, and turns on the old tape player. By some miracle, it still works. He slips the tape in and swallows the lump in his throat, and sits on the sofa beside where your head rests. You’re still dead to the world, snuggled up cosy in your blanket cocoon, and JJ’s weirdly grateful for your company as the tape kicks to life. It’s grainy at first, the picture wobbly, but soon enough the image comes to life. His dad who JJ hasn’t seen in years stands young and stupid at the altar. His mother who JJ wouldn’t know if she passed him in the street stands young and forgiving opposite. They’re speaking soundless words, smiling. JJ isn’t aware that he’s started crying until a teardrop lands on his hand. He wipes his cheek absently, eyes fixated on the screen. He watches as they dance: giggling, graceful, giddy. Just as you were the day JJ laid his eyes on you.

Maybe John B was right. Maybe JJ did want to break the pattern. It wasn't either of your faults that you both reacted to adversity the way you did. Years of built-up anger and rage and pain with nowhere to go but within was like a boiling over crockpot of disaster. Two borderline-abandoned, abused teenagers married at eighteen? Of course you didn't have the blueprint for how to be a functional couple. Neither of you knew the definition of compromise, or backing down, or making peace. All you knew was pain and betrayal and self-defence. But that could change. It would take time and patience, but it could. JJ wanted it to. He was sick of working against you. You were a team before and you would be a team again. JJ never wanted to go to war against you, not when you were the best soldier on his team. JJ had always feared love because he feared what it would make him. Would he be like his father or his mother: resent or retreat?

As JJ's eyes sweep down to your sleeping self, he decides what he'll be. He'll be neither. He'll be himself. He'll be resilient.

One of JJ's hands raises and his fingers lovingly stroke at your hair. You don’t wake, just shift a little, and a barely there smile slinks onto your face.

“Don’t give up on me, baby,” JJ mumbles, petting the strands of your ever changing hair. His good looking girl. “These times are hard and they’re makin’ us go crazy, but don’t give up on me. Cause I meant every word.”

For better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish…

"Til' death do us part."

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bumblesimagines · 5 months ago

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Bundles of Joy, Bundles of Anger

Request: Yes or No

Summary: Upon becoming man-grown, Jace was wed to his mother's cousin, the daughter of Daemon Targaryen. Months later, the war breaks out and surprising news of his child being born reaches him soon after returning to Dragonstone to say his final goodbyes to Luke.

Pronouns: She/Her/Hers

CW/TW: Typical GoT/HOTD warnings, mentions of pregnancy and childbirth, arranged marriage trope, Targcest (Cousins)

so short I do not know why my F!Reader stuff ends up being short

~~~

A million thoughts raced through Jace's head as Vermax descended through the clouds and the ancient castle of Runestone came into view, nestled by the water and essentially isolated by the rural landscape expanding in nearly all directions. His heart raced faster than his mind and his orders for Vermax twisted on his tongue but his dragon nonetheless understood the urgency in his tone and tucked his wings closer toward his body, plunging the both of them toward the ground at a higher speed before expanding them once more and gliding closely over the vibrant grass.

It'd only been two days since Jace received the shocking news flown in by raven revealing his lady-wife, Princess (Y/N), had given birth to his child a month prior. The surprise on his face had no doubt been comical when Maester Gerardys awkwardly read the contents of the letter at the meeting and remained standing in silence as Rhaenyra and everyone else took in the startling news.

There'd been no word from Runestone, not since (Y/N) had sent a letter detailing an illness to explain her absence from attending alongside them while the claim to Driftmark was disputed. At the time, Jace had shrugged it off and dismissed Baela's insistence that he tend to his wife. They hardly enjoyed each other's company so he saw no use in visiting her and causing her further strife, but now as he watched Runestone grow closer and closer, he kicked himself for not heeding Baela's words.

Their presence roused the dragon sleeping near the castle and the shriek from her forced Vermax to slow down. His dragon responded to the call and diverted course toward her, flapping his wings until his speed slowed further. He landed near the she-dragon and lowered himself onto the ground with a quiet chirp. Jace carefully climbed down and landed firmly on his feet, instinctively tugging off his riding gloves and eyeing the bemused she-dragon who seemed half-tempted to burn them both.

"Sagon gīda, Starlight," Jace called, swallowing down the fear that bubbled in him as he began walking toward the path she conveniently rested beside. Starlight huffed a cloud of smoke at him and squinted her emerald eyes at him, her head following him until he reached the gates of Runestone.

"Prince Jacaerys," An older man he recognized as Gerold Royce greeted him when the gates opened, bending at the waist. "Our Princess of Runestone has been expecting your arrival, My Prince. She awaits you in the nursery. Come this way, if you please."

The nursery.

Jace nearly stumbled over his feet at those mere words, luckily catching himself before he made a fool of himself before men who eyed him with disdain. He knew of the Royce's dislike for Daemon Targaryen (especially after the supposed murder of Rhea Royce) but he never expected it to extend to his family and himself. Still, he kept his head held eye and one hand on the hilt of his sword as he followed Gerold into the castle.

"I was not aware of Princess (Y/N)'s... condition."

Gerold glanced back at him. "We know."

A familiar rush of anger spread through him like spilled water. He gritted his teeth and inhaled sharply, his nostrils flaring. "Why was I not informed sooner? I may be young but I am no fool; I know pregnancies may last up to eight or nine moons." He tried restraining his simmering anger. He knew very well how loyal the man was to his blood.

"Our Lady desired a peaceful pregnancy, My Prince. She did not wish to be disturbed or bothered during such delicate times." Gerold explained simply and Jace allowed himself a brief scowl before he wiped it off his face once they came upon a guarded door.

Stepping inside, Jace's eyes were instantly drawn to the crib in the center of the room and then to his wife seated near it. She looked away from the crib at their presence and sighed quietly, sipping the last of her tea before she set it aside and rose. (Y/N) exhaled deeply, her nose crinkling and her hand pressing near her back to massage the flesh. Jace spared Gerold a glance and walked forward toward her, extending an arm to offer his support but she stopped him and waved him off.

"You may leave us, Cousin. Thank you." She told the older man, offering him a brief genuine smile that promptly disappeared when he left.

Jace finally noted her appearance up close. She looked exhausted, as was usual of mothers after labor. The bags under her (E/C) eyes were noticeable through her powdered skin and she'd discarded her usual dresses for a simple thing gown that showed her belly still full from the pregnancy. He knew from his time in the Keep that most women differentiated from each other; some, like Dowager Queen Alicent, were able to lose the weight gained during pregnancy fairly quickly whilst others, like his mother, retained it for some time.

A gurgled coo brought his attention down toward the crib and he finally looked upon the baby. "Oh.." He shakily whispered when he noticed the head full of brown hair with silver streaks through it, strands that curled subtly at the ends just as his once did before he got older. Small, frail, and so beautiful. His child. His. He hummed forcibly when tears abruptly sprang to his eyes. "What- What is their name?"

"His name is Valerion."

"A boy?" Jace breathlessly questioned, his head snapping back toward her with widened eyes. "A- A son?" An heir.

He looked back at the little being happily dozing and his heart twisted into itself, cautious steps bringing him closer to the crib. He reached out tentatively and carefully took him into his arms. Valerion stirred in the golden bundle he'd been wrapped into and parted his eyes to peer up at him, blinking sleepily and sighing before his eyes closed again to doze off. Jace chuckled and leaned down, nuzzling his nose against Valerion's forehead.

"Your grandmother will be pleased." He whispered and drew back, carefully bouncing his arms as he'd once seen his mother do with Joffery. "A perfect little dragon. You shall be given an egg soon enough. Silverwing has recently laid a clutch and one shall be yours, little one. Once we return to Dragonstone-"

"Valerion and I will remain here in Runestone until further notice." (Y/N) cut in swiftly and his brows knitted together. "Runestone is a safe castle, Jacaerys. If the enemy comes, they will be seen before they can come close and dealt with. I am in no state to travel and neither is he at such a young age. He will see Dragonstone and the Keep after the war."

"I cannot stay here, (Y/N). I am needed in Dragonstone to serve alongside my mother, you know this. You will heal in time, and it will be much better if you do so under the care of Maester Gerardys. He will be safe-"

(Y/N) scoffed. "Your mother was nearly slain in her own bedchambers and the Greens are merely a short flight away from the island. I will not risk my child's life, Jacaerys. It is your duty to serve on Dragonstone, it is mine to serve here. Runestone is my castle and my responsibility to protect it, just as it is my responsibility to protect my son." She spoke, tone full-on authoritative and eyes challenging.

Jace stared at her in disbelief and grounded himself enough to delicately place Valerion back in his crib before he faced her. "Was this all part of your plan to alienate me as much as possible from my child? We have not spoken since our wedding night nearly a year ago and you remained silent on your pregnancy. I could have been here to see him enter this world. I should have been here- No, you should have been in Dragonstone."

"You are a fool if you believe you would have been any help. You would have hovered like a bothersome fly and questioned every single thing as if you had any idea what a pregnancy is like. I remained here in Runestone with my family and I delivered a healthy boy with the help of Maester Corrad and the midwife. This child is Royce as much as he is Targaryen. If you were to pass in battle-"

"Is that what you hope?" Jace bristled as he spat words laced with accusation. "Do you wish for me to pass in battle so that you may rid yourself of this marriage? We made vows, oaths, in the name of the Seven or have you forgotten? We have duties to one another, regardless of our desires, and we are bound to each other. This child is mine as much as he is yours. He needs his father. We do not know how long this war will rage on and I will not allow him to see me as a stranger."

(Y/N) released a sigh and lowered herself down onto the cushioned seat, resting her arms over her belly and watching him. "Then, you may visit as you have done today." She said simply and he scoffed again. "You believe because you are Crown Prince that your duties are more important than mine but if I recall only one of us currently rules and it is not you, Jacaerys. I have ruled Runestone since my flowering at the age of eleven whilst you spent your days tormenting Aemond One-Eye, being spoilt and coddled endlessly by your mother, and trailing after the Velaryon girl like a fool."

His face flushed with embarrassment and anger and he took a glance at his son to ease the bubbling emotions threatening to spill over. Jace inhaled deeply and squeezed his eyes, releasing the air and forcing his tense body to relax. He stepped forward and unclasped his sword's holster before bending his knee in front of her. He set the sword aside and reached forward to take her hands into his.

"I understand." He murmured. "I do, I truly do. I understand your concerns and- and I will try to find a compromise that will please us both. I do not wish to fight before our son but I ask of you, as your lord-husband and father of your child, to consider my side of things. I know we have been far from a happy couple and I will admit my feelings for Baela have not left entirely.. but I am willing to change. For you. For him."

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iamrizaka · 4 months ago

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I need to make Lee a dilf

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kamaluhkhan · 6 months ago

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LONG HOT SUMMER NIGHT

pairing: luke castellan x fem!poseidon!reader word count: 8.4k chapter summary: it's the summer solstice and olympus is throwing a party! thalia notices the tension between you and luke, poseidon gives you some relationship advice and you punch the god of desire in the face. warnings: angst! jealous reader. lots of drinking. complicated relationships. reader dealing with ptsd + survivor's guilt (post-titan war). mention of injuries + blood. creepy guy pushing reader to hook up. ending is a bit steamy but no actual smut. spoilers for the entire pjo (book) series. no betrayal (au where chris was the one who sided w kronos and led the titan army) so slightly ooc luke <3 also reader is in a band called the midnight sirens and is born on the summer solstice! author's note: thank you so much for all the love for part 1!! summer is almost over and this is very much a summer series BUT summer's not over yet !!! hope y'all enjoy this one too and thanks 4 reading 💙

part 1 | series masterlist

♪: long hot summer night by jimi hendrix

mail to:

Luke Castellan Camp Half-Blood, Half-Blood Hill 3.141 Farm Road Long Island, New York 11954

LUKE!

I’m sitting in my kitchen right now, watching Percy make us blue blueberry pancakes and hoping he doesn’t burn down my kitchen while doing so. I caved and agreed to take him to Disneyland while he’s here and breakfast was part of the deal, but I think I might regret it later.

We went surfing yesterday. It was Percy’s first time, but he was (unsurprisingly) amazing at it. I still can’t get over how beautiful the beaches are and the waves — gods, the waves are unreal. You’d seriously love it here. It’s like every day is summer. You have to come visit. PLEASE come visit!!!!

- [your initial]

P.S. The band and I are working on some new music, which means I won’t make it to camp again this summer. I’m sorry ;( Fingers crossed I’ll make it next year.

P.P.S. hi luke! happy to report that i did not burn down my sister’s kitchen. anyways, can’t wait to kick your ass in sword-fighting this summer. xoxo, percy

THREE YEARS LATER

the first time you visited olympus, you had been sent on a quest to retrieve zeus’ stolen lightning bolt, bringing luke and charles beckendorf along with you. you had missed the summer solstice deadline, but still tried to reason with the king of the gods when presenting the symbol of power, maybe calling him out once or twice along the way. before zeus could strike you down for your boldness, poseidon stepped in. the war between them was averted in fear of a much larger, looming threat; an ominous introduction for what was to come in the next chapter of your life.

another time, the gods debated whether or not they should kill you, some seeing you as a threat to their future. that was the day you accepted your destiny, not wanting your brother percy or your cousin nico to deal with the weight of the great prophecy.

your last visit to olympus was on your 18th birthday, after helping to defeat kronos and his army. you made the gods swear to stop neglecting their kids and to allow all demigods, regardless of whether their parent was an olympian or not, to have a home at camp half-blood; to treat their children as children rather than heroes as pawns in their twisted games.

needless to say, it’s quite strange, being back here under very, very different circumstances, where the gods invited camp half-blood’s senior counsellors and staff to join in their summer solstice festivities.

it’s not every day you’ll be invited to a party on olympus; you’re determined to have a good time, to have fun. there’s already an abundance of music, dancing, food, or alcohol, and the night is just getting started.

you’re happy to be there with new and old friends, but you’re ecstatic when you see that thalia grace is there, too.

“immortality looks good on you, t!” you compliment, raising your voice slightly over the music.

thalia preens, and you bask in her silver glow.

“bet you wish you took the gods up on their offer, huh,” she teases. then, her eyes widen. “oh - shit! it’s your birthday! happy birthday!”

thalia tackles you with another hug; even after all these years, she still smells like pine trees. she grabs two goblets of honeyed wine and hands one to you as you catch up. you eagerly gulp the sweet drink, until you’re reaching for another while listening to her stories about adventures she’d been on with the hunters of artemis.

about halfway through her story about fighting off a manticore during a snow storm, a nymph appears with a platter of the ripest of fruit – sweet plums and fresh figs, tantalising pomegranates, succulent grapes and crisp apples.

“oh my gods, this is the best apple i’ve had in my entire life!” thalia exclaims after indulging in a taste, herself giddy from a few goblets of wine. “where’s luke? he’s gotta try this — he’s always reminding us to eat more fruit. luke!”

you hadn’t kept track of luke, at least not on purpose. you assumed he’d been off partying with van or his siblings, and, probably, avoiding you. wherever he was, thalia calls his name twice more and, like a ghost, luke appears.

“i’m here, t.” luke’s voice is a deep, steady rumble floating above the music. his cheeks are slightly flushed, either from the heat or the drinks. likely both. “what’s up?”

“you need to try this.” thalia shoves the apple in his mouth before luke can respond.

luke takes a bite, and some juice drips down his chin. you, in a honey-soaked haze, think about running your tongue over to catch it, but he beats you to it, wiping it away with the back of his hand.

probably for the best.

“holy shit. yeah, it’s good.”

thalia, a sparkle in her eyes, urges you to try it as well. from across the makeshift triangle the three of you had formed, luke tosses the apple your way. you catch it effortlessly, and sink your teeth into it.

you’ve almost overwhelmed by the burst of flavor. the fruit is just the right amount of tart to balance out the sweetness, and it’s damn near the best crunch you’ve ever experienced.

“good is an understatement,” you say after another bite. a distant memory crosses your mind. “i wonder if these are the same ones we almost got killed by a hellhound for.”

thalia shakes her head, laughing in disbelief. “all because luke said we needed more vitamin c.”

“i was just looking out for us!” luke guffaws. “how was i supposed to know that persephone owned an apple orchard in connecticut?”

you pat his shoulder, the three of you smiling at the memory. “let’s call it an honest mistake.”

“well if annabeth had been with us by then, i’m sure that she wouldn’t have made that same honest mistake.”

“okay, but she’s the daughter of athena —”

you let luke and thalia slip back into their playful bickering as if no time has passed. you listen and continue eating that glorious apple, enjoying how the golden glow of your shared past fills whatever distance might have grown between the three of you.

somewhere down memory lane, luke’s amber eyes flick towards you.

“hey, you’ve got some….” without another word, luke suddenly reaches over to brush away a trail of juice with his thumb before sticking the finger in his mouth to savour the taste. he holds your gaze as he does so, and you feel a familiar kind of heat rush through your body — not from alcohol or summer sun, but from luke.

it’s such an intimate gesture that you almost forget that you’re at some extravagant party on mount olympus, where gods and half-bloods and a whole bunch of other mythological creatures are celebrating the start of summer by essentially getting drunk together, until thalia clears her throat.

“okay, well, seems like the two of you might want some alone time.”

luke’s cheeks grow more flushed than before, and his eyes widen as if realizing what he’d done.

“oh, we don’t need —”

“we’re not —”

you and luke both stumble over your words; thalia just smiles knowingly.

“i’m gonna go flirt with that nymph,” she announces, pointing across the grand marble pavilion.

“i thought — doesn’t artemis sort of frown upon that sort of thing?” you ask.

“she makes exceptions on holidays. besides, i’m her favourite. you guys have fun.” thalia winks at you and walks away.

you glance at luke and, gods, there’s so much history between you.

the time you jumped into an ocean full of sirens to save luke from drowning? you have a scar running down your forearm where one of them scratched you as you struggled to get luke towards the surface.

or when you took turns holding up the sky while on a quest to save lady artemis and defeat the titan atlas? it’s evident in the matching streaks of grey that you each have running through your hair. whenever you see your reflection in the mirror, you remember how you couldn’t save your cousin bianca di angelo earlier that day, and how nico has had to grow up without a sister because of a promise you broke.

how about when you, luke, and one of your best friends were sent on a mission to destroy the princess andromeda, the headquarters of kronos’ army? only the two of you survived, and sometimes you can still feel luke squeezing your hand pike he did during charles beckendorf’s burial shroud ceremony while you both cried.

or when luke took a sword between the ribs for you because he, somehow, knew the one spot the curse of achilles left you vulnerable? he can only slouch for so long before the bones there start to ache.

so, yeah. there’s way too much history, and so many tangled threads, and now really isn’t an ideal time to unravel it all.

“i’m gonna go find my dad,” you blurt out and disappear into the crowd with no real intention of finding your father.

the once sweet apple now tastes rotten on your tongue; you rid yourself of it in exchange for some more wine. you’re determined to have fun — no pain or heartache or grief.

you’ve all had enough of that for three lifetimes.

summer — age 14

“sorry your birthday was ruined.”

luke exhaled sharply when you pressed a disinfectant-soaked cloth to the wound on his leg.

“hold still,” was all you mumbled in response, brows knitted together as you wrapped the cut in gauze.

once you were done with his leg, you moved on to luke’s hands, burned by poisonous acid. the four of you had run into a hydra earlier that night. you managed to wound it enough so you could all get away, but not before a few injuries were sustained.

you were uncharacteristically quiet as you worked. you only met luke’s gaze to warn him before pouring some nectar on his wounds. you let luke hold your hand, tightly, as the liquid dripped through his fingers and down to yours, first right, then left. the pain was instant, seering almost as much as the hydra acid, but it was over quickly. the last thing you did was bandage each hand before getting up.

“i’m…i’m gonna check on thalia and annabeth. i’ll take first watch.”

luke caught your hand before you got away.

“wait. you’re bleeding.” he pointed to the cut on your brow. you had been so preoccupied in making sure everyone else was safe that you let crimson liquid drip down your face. it probably stung, too, based on your grimace.

luke wiped away the blood with his sleeve, used nectar to disinfect the wound, and dressed it with a fresh bandage, working silently as you did.

“it’s still your birthday,” luke finally said once he was done. “you get some rest; i’ll take first watch.”

you gave him a small, strained smile before checking on the others.

later that night, you stayed up with luke anyways.

seemingly out of nowhere, you handed him your portable cassette player. luke stared at it for a moment, unwilling to comprehend just what you were offering and, more importantly, why.

you and luke had grown accustomed to sharing things: flannels, socks, makeshift beds and scavenged food. but this —

it was your aunt’s.

you never met your mother, who’d left you as a baby, and of course, poseidon was too busy tending to his underwater kingdom to step in as a parent. your aunt raised you as her own. and then you lost her, too.

you kept her cassette player buried deep in your bag with some mixtapes she had made and ones you’d stolen throughout the years. when it wasn’t your turn to keep watch, luke would sometimes catch you with headphones on, looking up at the stars.

luke liked to think he knew you well; all those subtle elements that made you — the crack of your knuckles, the cadence of your voice, the slope of your nose, the dreams of your childhood. engraved in his own personhood. bones and all.

and, still: he didn’t know you, not entirely.

you’d only allowed luke to listen with you once, maybe twice. he’d never forget what it was like: knees pressed together and heads just as close to keep the wires from stretching too far; you gushing about the magic of jimi hendrix, recounting memories that echoed through gentle guitar riffs; luke yearning for one more song to play, for another a wistful smile of yours to appear. luke, wishing to linger in your private oasis a beat longer before you pushed him out again and closed the door behind him.

the one lock luke couldn’t crack: your grief, and how you carried on so buoyantly despite its weight.

well, there you were, presenting the key to luke as an offering. a sacrifice for something luke would never ask of you.

“this….” luke swallowed the lump in his throat, refusing to look at you. he turned the device over in his bandaged hands, the metal smooth, though well-worn. “you can’t just —”

leave. you can’t just leave. you can’t just —

“hey.”

your hand over his, forcing him to stop spiralling and look at you.

right away, luke regretted it. a small sliver of him, however delusional, had hoped that you were joking.

you weren’t. behind you, there was an empty space where you had previously wedged your sleeping bag. your backpack was already strapped around your shoulders, fully packed.

“i need to leave, luke. we can’t stay together. it’s too dangerous.”

“you don’t need to —”

“there’s more of us, now,” you interrupted, pulling your hand away to rest on your thigh. “four demigods together isn’t ideal. we’ve been attracting more monsters. more deadly monsters.”

“that would happen, anyways. it always has whether it’s the four of us, the two of us, or….”

luke stopped his sentence short, not even wanting to give you the idea to go out on your own, even though you’d probably been thinking about leaving for some time.

you made reckless decisions sometimes, but this didn’t seem to be one of them.

“well, it’s happening more.” your voice was steady, too steady. luke imagined you rehearsing just what to say to counter the inevitable backlash.

luke shook his head. “i’d be dead if it weren’t for you.”

“you almost died because of me,” you clipped. you lifted a hand to touch the bruise on luke’s jaw, but let it drop just as quickly. “you know that children of the big three cause more trouble. maybe we managed it when it was the two of us, but now, there’s more to consider. a child of poseidon and a child of zeus, travelling together. it’s like we’re asking to be killed. it’s too dangerous.”

“that’s our life,” luke snapped. “you can’t just run from it.” from us.

you faltered, looking back to where annabeth and thalia were sleeping peacefully.

oh. he must have said that last part out loud, too.

“you know i’m right,” is all you said.

luke could only shake his head again. because, fine, you weren’t entirely wrong. it was more dangerous — but it was danger luke hoped you’d all face, together.

“i’ve made up my mind,” you added, an anchor in the sand.

“don’t leave.” luke’s words came out as a prayer. if he offered something, maybe you’d stay.

you paused to take a shaky breath. “this isn’t goodbye, luke. i swear to poseidon…fuck, i swear to all the gods that this isn’t goodbye.”

luke couldn’t speak. there were tears bubbling in his throat, threatening to spill.

“so, keep this for me,” you whispered, once again placing your hand on top of luke’s. his fingers gripped your cassette player tightly, like it was the only piece of driftwood leftover from a shipwreck, keeping him from sinking into the cold, dark nothing. “you’ll give it back when we see each other again.”

a promise.

“fine,” luke conceded, though he wanted to scream at you. he wanted to argue like little kids — petty, loud, meaningless, back and forth until tears streamed down cheeks and throats were raw.

but, you were leaving, one way or another. luke didn’t want this shared memory to be tainted if it might be your last.

“you have to take this, then. give it back when we see each other again.”

luke removed the chain from around his neck, the one that held the key to his childhood home. he placed it around yours, instead.

he didn’t need the key now, but his mother had given it to him when he was six. before he knew what it meant to be the son of hermes, god of thieves.

call him sentimental, but luke had kept it. just in case he ever got lost.

“if you’re ever back in connecticut, you have a home.”

“yeah, okay.” you smiled softly.

it fell just as quickly.

“take care of them,” you told him. “of yourself, too. i’ll see you again when it’s safe.”

luke didn’t ask when it would be safe, because the truth is that it might never be.

“because you want your cassette player back?” luke joked, instead trying to lighten the mood, to capture one last moment of brightness.

you laughed softly to not wake the others.

“yeah. that too.”

you pressed your forehead to his, something you hadn’t done since you were kids.

“i’ll see you again,” you repeated.

without another word, you got up and jogged away. luke shut his eyes, refusing to see you become nothing but a shadow.

(you looked back several times, but he couldn’t see through the darkness.)

now

call the gods out on their bullshit (you encourage it), but if they have one thing going for them, it’s that the olympians know how to throw a party.

the night grows darker, yet somehow becomes more lively. demeter and persephone had supplied a generous amount of fresh, decadent fruit, and dionysus an even more generous amount of wine. apollo starts a karaoke corner and you’re just tipsy enough to agree to sing a duet with him in order to break the ice. apparently, he’s a big midnight sirens fan and had seen your band when you headlined at glastonbury festival. you smile to yourself, imagining your bandmates’ faces if you told them that the god of music had watched you perform.

as you hand the microphone to a giggling dryad, the sound of your name washes over like gentle waves on a shore.

“if it isn’t my sweet, summer child!” your father brings you in for a hug and an ocean breeze engulfs you — salt and sand and sun.

“hi dad,” you exhale as you pull away.

you hadn’t seen each other in a while, but poseidon looks the same. he’s dressed in a turquoise hawaiian shirt and birkenstocks with a crown of seashells on his head. there’s a cocktail umbrella in his glass, a slice of pineapple wedged onto the rim. you’re about to ask him how he managed to secure a pina colada and where you might find one, too.

“that was quite the performance!” poseidon takes an eager sip of his drink, green eyes sparkling like sea glass in the sun. “i must tell you: your newest album is all the rage in atlantis. the nereids and merpeople can’t seem to get enough of it and, truthfully, i find myself playing it on repeat as well. you’re quite talented.”

you try not to let your shock slip through, instead smiling and asking how things are in his underwater kingdom, but you’re….touched at your father’s unexpected praise.

the gods aren’t perfect, and your father is no exception. they’re divine beings who have time to conceive children, but not to raise them. there’s a long history of them abandoning, mistreating, and manipulating their own offspring. of course, being the prophecy child, it became practically impossible for your father to ignore you; you’re sure that being dubbed the saviour of olympus gives him bragging rights with his immortal family. even with their sworn promise to change, it’s impossible not to resent the gods in some ways.

still, you feel comforted by your father's presence at times — when you catch the perfect wave on your surfboard, for example, or when you sit on your fire escape during a storm after a bad day. it’s been like that pretty much all your life: poseidon there in spirit, not in practice. despite everything, he’s watched over you, and percy, throughout the years.

and here poseidon is now, grinning at you like you’re his pride and joy.

“enough about aquatic politics.” he pats your shoulder enthusiastically after telling you about the struggles of keeping humans from overfishing. “i came over to wish you a happy birthday. and to give you this.”

poseidon reaches into the pocket of his shirt and hands you something you’d long thought gone: a leather cord with several clay beads and a silver key.

“i found it off the california coast,” he explains. “i kept meaning to get it to you, but i suppose time has a way of getting away from us, immortal or not.”

a warmth grows in your chest as you run your thumb over your old camp necklace, bright and full. it had fallen off one day when you’d gone surfing, and you assumed it was lost to the ocean. you'd been given a fresh leather cord when you arrived at camp earlier this summer, but it felt empty. hollow.

“thanks, dad.”

you smile at him as you put on the necklace; it feels like coming home. your father then asks you about your summer so far.

you tell him all about your life as of late, until you catch a glimpse of luke with van on a marble bench at the other end of the pavilion. van is sitting in luke’s lap, and they lean over to whisper something in his ear before kissing his cheek.

you freeze mid-way through your sentence.

sensing the shift in mood, poseidon frowns. he turns his head to follow your gaze.

“ah.” poseidon turns back to you and clears his throat. “now, i don’t mean to pry, but i saw you earlier with the castellan boy.”

you flush at the fact that your moment with luke was witnessed by your own father. “dad —”

“did you know in ancient greece, throwing someone an apple and having them catch it is considered a marriage proposal?”

“i’m pretty sure that was disproven,” you scoff.

poseidon raises an eyebrow at you, clearly amused. “which one of us was actually there, hm?” and though you roll your eyes, you can’t argue with that. “i just wanted to know if there was a wedding happening in the near future.”

you almost choke on the last remnants of your wine. “dad.”

“i’m kidding. i’m kidding! mr. castellan seems otherwise occupied.”

“yeah, it does seem that way,” you grumble.

poseidon puts a hand on your shoulder, firm but reassuring. “regardless: if you find someone who would go to tartarus and back with you, someone who would fight alongside you every step of the way, you hold on to them. there’s only so much time you mortals have on this earth.”

you sigh — easier said than done — but your father is trying, so you manage a nod.

“i’ll keep that in mind.”

“now, i better go — ” poseidon looks over your shoulder, where the air behind you starts to feel staticky. “it seems a disagreement is brewing between zeus and hades. they always get into it whenever dionysus makes the wine a bit too strong. brother, put away the lightning bolt —” and he rushes away to prevent another divine conflict from arising.

left to your own devices, you venture over to the food table, finding an array of fresh and dried fruit, breads, cured meat, fresh oysters and, of course, more wine. you grab a goblet and a few dried figs.

“careful, i heard dionysus made the wine extra strong tonight,” someone warns, creeping up beside you. the voice is soft and alluring, and you feel something tug at your heart.

you do a double take when you turn to them; the person is devilishly handsome, a golden aura paired with a golden smile.

(you will soon find out that the god flirting with you is the son of ares and aphrodite, the latter of which takes the appearance of whoever the onlooker loves. as it turns out, her son appears in the same way.

all this to say: it doesn’t mean anything that this god looks like luke castellan to you.

it doesn’t mean anything at all.)

“i’m eros.”

“hey. i’m —”

“i know who you are, savior of olympus.” eros winks at you. “i just never realized you were so beautiful.”

your cheeks heat up as you take a sip of your drink.

oh, shit.

okay. the literal god of desire and pleasure is flirting with you.

you’re flattered, really, and maybe the wine has gotten to your head, but you’re not eager to turn him away.

“well, i’ve definitely heard about you, and the rumors do not do you justice,” you quip, painting on a flirtatious smile.

eros puffs out his chest, clearly pleased.

over the next few minutes, you decide that eros can hold a decent conversation, asking you the classic first date questions about your likes and dislikes, and he’s cute enough that you wouldn’t mind things going further.

(he might be a god, but he’s no luke. you push that thought away, and force yourself to flirt with helios. eros. right, eros.)

eros leans in close, pretends to listen to you, lets his gaze drop every so often to the deep v-neck of your shirt.

“no way! 13 going on 30 is a classic,” you argue. you nudge your shoulder into eros’s playfully, and let the contact between you linger. eros, the inspiration for cupid himself, has angel wings, and you feel them brush softly against your burning skin.

“it’s totally overrated!” eros exclaims. “also, the childhood friends to lovers trope gives people false hope.”

“it’s not false hope. it’s about the buildup to their happily ever after,” you reason, swallowing some wine to dislodge the lump in your throat.

eros shakes his head. “trust me, baby, it’s all about the instant attraction. that’s where the excitement is.”

he’s so close now, you can smell the sharp alcohol on his breath. not wine, but something stronger.

“oh? what do you mean by that?” you lean impossibly closer, trailing a finger down his chest.

eros smirks, placing a hand on your thigh. “want me to demonstrate?”

not even a second after you whisper a yes, eros crashes his lips onto yours, and you will yourself to kiss back. he slides his tongue in your mouth, runs his hands over your body.

you’re making out with the god of desire and passion, so, objectively, it’s a good first kiss: soft around the edges and firm where it needs to be.

sure — you feel nothing, no real spark, but it’s almost enough to fill the hole in your heart in the shape of a certain son of hermes.

the son of hermes who has moved on and is in a loving relationship with a perfect emotionally available partner.

so, it’s fine.

this, this thing with eros, is fine.

you’re fine.

eros pulls away first, but keeps a hand on your cheek.

“let's get out of here.”

he grabs your wrist before you have a chance to answer. you stand up, let him weave you through the crowd towards the stairs of the pavilion. apparently, his room is just through the garden.

as he tugs you along, he looks back at you, smiling. under the glow of the stars, eros looks just like luke, except it’s becoming harder to ignore that he isn’t luke and that makes you feel all sorts of nauseous. your camp necklace weighs on your chest and, in particular, the silver key that you’d kept for all those years burns through your skin.

lightheaded, you pull away from eros’ grip just as you reach the top of the stairs and place a hand on the column next to you to steady yourself.

eros turns around sharply. “what is it?”

“i changed my mind, actually. let’s just…keep talking here.”

eros grabs your wrist again, his grip tighter than before. “don’t be a tease.” his tone is ever-so-gentle, but there’s an edge behind his words.

this time, your voice comes out more assertive. “i just changed my mind. that doesn’t make me a tease.”

“come on, baby, don’t you wanna experience what real passion is? this is a once in a lifetime opportunity that a million girls would kill for. you’d be an idiot to pass it up.” he brags, and you’re this close to breaking this guy’s nose, god or not.

“i don’t care,” you snap, struggling to break free from his grip. “and i’m not your baby.”

“okay, whatever,” eros rolls his eyes, but quickly plasters on an arrogant grin. “we’ll go somewhere private and i’ll call you whatever you want.”

he manages to drag you down two steps as you strain against his iron grip, now almost cutting off your circulation. your heartbeat quickens and you feel dizzy. finally, you grab onto the railing for leverage and use your strength to rip out of his grip, forcing eros to stop in his tracks.

“what is it now?” he snaps, whipping his head around once more.

he looks nothing like luke, now.

“just stop, eros.”

“listen,” he starts, speaking to you almost mockingly, like you’re a naive little kid. so much for being the savior of olympus. “trust me, i know what people want, so you don’t have to be shy. i promise to be the best you’ve ever had —”

“eros, is it?” the rest of the party is in full motion, but here’s percy, giving eros one of the most intense death stares you’ve ever seen. percy, your little brother who talks to lonely fish at the aquarium; who, if you cut open, would bleed blue m&m’s; who would never let anyone, god or otherwise, hurt someone he loves. “i’m gonna have to ask you to let go of my sister.”

“mind your own business, kid,” eros hisses. “we’re kinda in the middle of something.” he tries to move you down another step, but you stand your ground.

annabeth, no longer the scared little seven year old you, luke, and thalia found behind a dumpster, is also glaring at liam from the top of the stairs. one of her hands rests firmly on her belt, where she keeps her dagger.

“i’d back off, if i were you,” she warns. “wouldn’t want to cause a scene.”

“just mind your own business,” eros snarls.

“they said leave her alone,” thalia asserts, walking over once she sees what’s happening. “and you don’t wanna mess with us, trust me.” she clenches her hand into a fist.

“who the fuck are you? her bodyguards?”

“just let her go,” percy orders. “my sister can do a lot better than a minor god with a major god complex.”

eros growls, baring his teeth at percy. “you impertinent little shit.”

as soon as eros lunges for your brother, you tug one of his wings towards you, hard. he whips around and you take the opportunity to punch him in the face. he doubles over, golden ichor gushing from his nose.

“i’d be careful if i were you, baby,” you seethe. “you wouldn’t want to go up against the demigods who led an army against kronos and won. unless, of course, humiliation is a kink of yours.” you laugh humorlessly at the way eros scowls at your words. “to each their own,” you continue. “but i’m not in the mood to fuck an entitled creep with angel wings to compensate for his tiny dick. you better fucking respect that, and leave us alone while you’re at it.”

eros’ flirtatious smile is long gone, replaced with the kind of anger only entitled, self-important jerks have when they don’t get what they want and they’ve taken a few blows to their ego.

call it stupidity or arrogance, but his only response is a punch delivered right back to your face.

you hear a crack upon impact, and pain radiates from your nose. you stumble, but percy manages to reach out and catch you before you fall down the stairs. he holds you as thalia and annabeth create a barrier between you and eros. you hear them shouting at eros over the music, but their exact words don’t register.

you lick your lips, tasting blood. your ears are ringing, and everything is suddenly all fuzzy. percy tries his best, but you slump your body weight into his and he almost topples over.

“i’ve got her.” luke’s calm and measured voice cuts through the chaos. you feel a strong, familiar arm wrap around your waist to steady you. “from what i remember, you were too much of a coward to even step foot on the battlefield, so i’d listen to her if you know what’s good for you.” in a haze, you guess that luke is directing his sharp words towards eros, before turning to the others and instructing: “you guys take care of this — find clarisse if you need back up.”

somehow, you find yourself over in a small secluded temple, sitting on a window bench overlooking the clouds as luke sits next to you.

like most of olympus, the building is made of marble with gold accents; this one has roses engraved on the walls, and the space smells like flowery perfume. it’s much quieter than the pavilion, though you can hear laughter and music in the distance. it’s cooler, too, but not by much; even without all the body heat, you're left with sticky summer air, and luke’s breath on yours, sweet with wine and ripe fruit, as he carefully examines your injury.

you feel your head spinning all over again. maybe it’s the alcohol, or the adrenaline, or the fact that the two of you haven’t been this close in a while — probably a dangerous mix of all three.

you know (from trying not to but ultimately not being able to pull your attention away from him after all) that he’s had a few drinks as well; it seems like the two of you ignore each other best when you’re sober.

“thought the curse of achilles would protect you from nosebleeds.”

“guess it doesn’t protect against —” what did percy call eros? “ — minor gods who have major god complexes,” you recite.

luke looks slightly amused. “that’s a shame,” he hums. “would have been nice to get one birthday without being injured.”

a smile creeps onto your face, despite the dull ache from your nose.

“you remembered.”

“of course i remember,” luke almost scoffs like the mere suggestion of forgetting what day you were born is an insult to his very character. he meets your gaze, and you could melt when he offers you that lopsided smile of his, painfully familiar. “happy birthday, aquagirl,” and it’s the softest he’s spoken to you in a while. just like old times.

he remembers.

somewhere within him, luke holds on to fragments of you.

he wipes the blood off your face, the sleeve of his silk white button-down now stained crimson. “how’s your hand?” he asks.

you flex your fingers. “it’s been better,” you answer, your knuckles slightly aching. “totally worth it.”

“i guess all those years away didn’t change anything. still willing to put a god in their place, huh?”

all those years away.

the reminder feels like a stab to the heart, and you’re worried that it might burst the comfortable bubble you and luke had drunkenly stumbled into.

thankfully, luke continues:

“the kids really take after you.”

he says as a joke, mostly, but there’s a sincerity in those deep brown eyes of his, too. something you also hadn’t seen from him in a while.

the kids, who you’d in some ways raised together when monsters were trying to kill you and the gods didn’t care enough to stop it.

the family you and luke had built together despite being born into the world of greek tragedies.

“as if annabeth wasn’t threatening to pull the dagger you gave her, skywalker,” the nickname rolling off your tongue with ease. “besides, they’re not kids anymore.”

“yeah.” he pauses. “neither are we.”

luke’s fingers trace your camp necklace, brush against your collarbone. the breath hitches in your throat.

here you are again, at the edge of something real and very scary, and you fear luke is going to push the two of you over.

but he doesn’t. instead, luke suggests, jokingly: “maybe we should start a fight club at camp.”

you take that as a good sign: like you, he’s hoping to preserve the playfulness between you before everything else seeps in and ruins it. before you’re brought back to the present, where you’re practically ignoring each other.

where you’re fine, but really.

you snort. “chiron and mr. d would love that.”

“like they’d ever find out!” luke explains. “you know the first rule of fight club —”

“don’t talk about fight club,” you finish together.

luke laughs, even though it’s not that funny. you laugh, too.

and that’s the thing that really, truly gets you.

try as you might to ignore it, some days it’s hard to forget the pain and heartache and grief.

you still feel like your life is a battlefield; you still see the ghosts of everyone you couldn’t save even though people call you a savior; you still have those scars, inside and out, that seemed healed but ache every once and a while.

but that isn’t all.

sometimes it hurts more thinking back to the good times and knowing, deep down, you can never go back.

summer — age 13

“ugh — you think with all their power, the gods could help stop global warming,” you groaned, swatting away a mosquito that tried to land on you. “do you think they have air conditioning on olympus?”

“oh, for sure,” luke quipped. he gave you a lopsided smile, his curls sticking to his forehead, drenched in sweat.

it was the summer solstice, the longest and the hottest day of the year so far. the two of you had found a perfectly good hideout, but luke insisted that this place would be worth the move.

he’d been leading you down side streets for what felt like forever. the sun had already set, and you were very close to passing out from the heat, until luke finally stopped at a door behind an alley, with a sign reading CLOSED FOR RENOVATIONS.

luke knelt down to do whatever son-of-hermes lock magic he had to do to get the door open. he flipped a switch, and you winced at the sudden overwhelming brightness.

the destination was different than the hideouts you usually sprung for: those small, hole-in-the-wall type places. instead, this space was big and bright, filled with arcade games and fun posters and neon colours. the type of place a kid might have a party or where a group of normal teenagers might spend their friday night.

“what…what is this?”

“you thought i forgot, didn’t you?” luke smirked at you. he sat down on the colourful carpet, taking out some snacks, a small plastic bag with coins, a wrapped box, and a plastic blue crown, and gestured for you to join.

you did, in fact, think that luke had forgotten your birthday.

birthdays were bittersweet for children of gods, who were constantly reminded that any year could be their last, their youth cut short by monsters or prophecies or a fatal flaw. all the two of you usually did on either birthday was split any sweet treat you could get your hands on.

it wasn’t a big deal, really, to skip that tradition of yours. there were much more urgent things to worry about, like finding food and water and shelter, and not being devoured by monsters.

you did think it was strange that luke hadn’t so much as said happy birthday to you all day, but you knew that he loved you.

(like a friend loves a friend. nothing else, no matter how much your stomach fluttered at the thought of him.)

“i wanted to surprise you,” luke explained once you claimed your spot next to him. he reached over to place the crown on your head. “i found this place a few days ago during a food run. it reminds me of where we had your —”

“eighth birthday party, yeah.” you smiled at the memory of running around and feeding quarters to every machine and trying every game, of your classmates singing happy birthday to you off-key before you all stuffed your faces with sickly sweet confetti cake.

truthfully, you never thought about having another celebration like that again.

but, it was five years from that faded childhood memory, and luke was presenting you with something you didn’t even realize you had needed: the chance to be a kid again.

“so,” luke got up, a wide smile on his face. he held the plastic bag in one hand, extending the other to you. “which do you wanna play first?”

you started with space invaders, then moved on to dragon’s lair and pac-man. you took a break before street fighter ii so that luke could ceremoniously light a candle and present a cupcake that had been tossed around in his bag (but you were still very, very grateful for), along with fresh batteries for your portable cassette player. he had made you a mixtape too, though you couldn’t figure out how.

your last stop was a photobooth. you vowed to keep those pictures — a collection of you and luke together, smiling bright and colourful, goofing off and laughing — for the rest of your life.

now

those moments from past summers are like popsicles melting in the sun: tangible for a limited time before leaving you with a sickly sweet mess of what once was.

you think about what happened earlier, how percy, annabeth, and thalia stepped in to protect you, still the brave kids you had once known so well. how luke is here with you now, taking care of you so tenderly even after you’ve silently agreed to give each other the cold shoulder.

maybe luke is right. maybe all those years away didn’t change anything.

except — once you leave this temple and the alcohol leaves your system, it won’t be the same.

none of you are kids anymore, if you ever even were.

“why’d you go for eros, anyway?” luke asks, breaking you away from your thoughts. he removes his sleeve from your nose since the bleeding seems to have finally stopped.

“you really wanna know?”

“yeah. most gods are assholes. and you’re…” luke places a hand close to your leg, pinky finger brushing your thigh. “you.”

“i went for eros because….well, honestly, i don’t think i cared who it was, as long as they made me forget you,” you admit, because what did you have to lose. you probably have a broken nose, you definitely have blood on your shirt, and your time with luke is running out.

luke’s eyes darken. his fingers start to play with the hem of your shorts.

“did it work?” his voice is a whisper, but he’s close enough that he’s crystal clear.

“no.”

it’s hard to determine who leans in first, but soon enough your lips are on luke’s — messy and urgent. noses bumping together, teeth clacking against each other. he cradles your face in his hands, and you move to straddle his waist. you taste wine on his tongue, and maybe a hint of sweet pears, but it’s overwhelmed by the salty, metallic taste of blood stained on your lips. when you run out of air, you pull away. it’s clearer now: you’re not dizzy from the alcohol or adrenaline, but dizzy from him. luke’s gaze is heavy on yours as he traces your top lip with his thumb.

“luke,” you whimper, itching to kiss him again.

“you’re still bleeding.”

luke wipes away the blood with his thumb. before either of you can do or say anything more, there’s an echo of footsteps on the marble floor. a flower nymph, there to leave an offering and let you know that, while aphrodite encourages acts of love, she prefers it doesn’t happen in her place of worship.

you realize that aphrodite also might not look so fondly at you kissing someone else in her place of worship after publicly rebuking her own son.

luke untangles himself from you, and you know that he’s been jolted back to reality, too.

and, just like that, another moment has melted away.

your father was right. time has a way of slipping away for us, immortal or not.

summer — age 18

“hey, you awake?”

“yeah,” you replied softly. sleep hadn’t been easy, in the days and weeks and months leading up to that final battle with kronos and his army.

and once it was all over?

you rested your head on luke’s shoulder, sword discarded at your feet and armour half-removed, as argus, the hundred-eyed security guard of olympus, drove a school bus with a dozen or so demigods back to camp.

“why’d you turn down their offer?” luke whispered.

oh.

"why...why do you ask?"

"i don't know." luke paused. "just curious, i guess."

you closed your eyes and replayed that moment on olympus when you refused the gift of immortality. the look of shock written on the gods’ faces. and on luke’s.

“i don’t care about living forever,” you told him bluntly.

forever seemed too long, especially for someone who was prophesied to die at 18.

you tilted your head up to meet luke’s gaze, and his messy curls brushed against your forehead. evidence of the battle was clear on his face: caked-on dirt and blossoming bruises and dried blood.

behind him, outside the bus window, the world was flying by. a child who had fallen off their bike being comforted by a friend. two people sharing an mp3 player and a pair of earbuds. an elderly couple walking their dog.

“you once told me that this was our life,” you continued, gesturing towards the weapons and battle-worn kids, some quiet, others crying, many injured. “what if it didn’t have to be?”

luke furrowed his brow. “do you mean….are you talking about leaving?”

you shrugged. running from monsters for your entire childhood then being the child of the great prophecy was a lot.

a break might be nice.

there was so much about the world, the one you’d fought and bled to protect, that you wanted to experience.

maybe something closer to a normal life.

“would you ever leave camp?” you wondered, not really answering luke's question.

“no,” luke replied instantly. his fingers started fiddling with the beads on his necklace. “i can’t just walk away, not after everything.”

“yeah, i get that.” and you did; you really, truly, did. the guilt of wanting to leave camp curled in your stomach like a venomous snake. you took a shaky breath. “let’s talk about this later, yeah? i’m tired, and we have the rest of — ”

the rest of the summer slipped away in the blink of an eye. gone, before you even had a real chance to say goodbye.

you closed your eyes and held on to luke, as if gripping his arm would anchor you to something you weren't ready to let go of, but in some ways needed to move on from.

it was no use, though.

by the end of august, you’d be gone too.

now

you learned early on that the curse of achilles doesn’t protect you from hangovers.

you wake up the morning after the celebration on olympus with a deep, throbbing pain lodged in your temple and an uncomfortable swirling in your gut. parties and late nights at bars are common on tour, which means migraines are, too, so you have a routine to make sure you’re not out of commission for too long.

except this time, the aspirin and blue gatorade and dry toast don’t work. the sting in your brain and uneasiness in your stomach doesn’t go away, even after a few days. you haven’t been able to sleep, either.

desperate for a cure, you consult lou ellen, head counsellor of the hecate cabin, who you’d unexpectedly grown close to in the past few weeks. she mixes something for you, while asking if there’s something that’s been weighing on you.

you couldn't keep it in anymore; you tell her about the summer solstice and luke.

later, with nothing but your thoughts and percy’s snoring occupying your time post-curfew, you grab your phone and flip it open, deciding to finally reach out to luke, when you get a text from him.

luke is already on the beach when you arrive, looking out onto the water.

“hey,” you greet as you sit next to him on the sand, but not too close. “i was actually about to text you —”

“did you tell anyone that we kissed?” he interrupts. you can’t quite read his expression as he waits for you to answer.

“no, i didn’t,” you lie. “would it matter if i did?”

“well, i mean, word travels fast around camp, and i don’t want van finding out. it’s not like it meant anything.”

the throbbing in your brain becomes a sharper sting, the uneasiness in your stomach a tidal wave of nausea.

“it didn’t?” you hate how fragile your voice sounds, compared to luke’s stoic demeanor.

luke shrugs. “i mean, we were both drunk and the thing with eros happened…we just got caught up in the heat of the moment.”

“you’re saying there’s nothing between us, then? nothing?” the word tastes bitter in your mouth.

luke turns away before he answers. “no. nothing.”

“then what about last summer?” you demand. you force yourself to keep it together, your tone firmer than before. “i guess that didn’t mean anything, either.”

“y/n…” he sighs. “i don’t know what you want me to say. we’re barely even friends anymore. you come back here, after all this time, after so much shit happened, and expect us all to drop everything to fit you back into our lives. but, you don't. whatever you came here for, it's not here for you. there's nothing to go back to. we moved on. i moved on, and i can’t deal with you —"

“got it,” you snap, already turning to walk away. “loud and fucking clear, luke.”

it’s not like it meant anything. we’re barely even friends anymore.

you replay luke’s words as you crawl into bed, holding back tears so as to not disturb percy. finally, you swallow a generous amount of whatever concoction lou ellen had brewed up for you.

drifting off into your own sleep, you decide that you don’t love luke anymore. not as a friend, not as a.....

nope.

according to luke, there's not even anything to go back to.

nothing.

#feel free to comment + reblog <3 #saf writes #luke castellan x reader #luke castellan imagine #luke castellan pjo #luke castellan fanfic #luke castellan #percy jackson #pjo fanfic #pjo series #pjo x reader #luke castellan angst

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starry-hughes · 6 months ago

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façade

jack hughes x reader (ex)

summary: jack hughes can’t admit he lost you.

warnings: ANGST ANGST ANGST, jack hughes is a LIAR

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Everything was muffled as Jack Hughes stared at his cup. A clear cup full of bubbly champagne. Guests around him, mostly family, all laughing and talking. Jack didn’t like champagne. You didn’t like champagne. It was never kept in the apartment because of the shared dislike for it. It tasted sour in Jack’s mouth.

He broke from his trance as Quinn slapped a hand on his shoulder. “Stop pouting,” his older brother joked. “Your girlfriend had a work trip, you can survive a wedding without her.”

It stung. It really did. You weren’t his girlfriend. You hadn’t been since April. But he hadn’t gotten the courage to tell anyone that the two of you had broken up. And here Jack was, at a cousin’s wedding, lying to every family member who asked him where you were. “Oh she has a work trip, couldn’t make it unfortunately.” The lie came out easier than ever. He had been lying to everyone so it was easy to continue doing so.

His parents. God he felt guilty for lying to them. It was like he was eight years old again, lying that he did his homework already. Except now, the lie was bigger than undone homework. The lie was that every time he looked at his phone, he was texting you. Every time his parents asked about you, he would just say you were busy with work, or make up some story about how you had called earlier and told him about your day. How he made sure he sent flowers or dinner to you since he was away and you weren’t with him. The lie just got bigger and bigger when his dad sat down and gave him the talk about proposing, making sure he asked for permission before proposing, the offer of the family heirloom ring.

His family loved you. Everyone loved you. He barely held himself together when his uncle joked that the next wedding would be Jack’s and yours. Oh if only they knew.

Jack didn’t know where it all went wrong. Everything had seemed perfectly fine. Everything was fine in Jack’s eyes. Then he watched as your stuff had slowly began disappearing from the apartment. You weren’t around as much. When the team had finally allowed Jack to get his surgery, when it was confirmed that the team wouldn’t make playoffs, he was home more.

It seemed fine. And then he finally asked what was wrong.

Luke was on a roadtrip. Jack was recovering from surgery but he asked what was wrong. “What is happening to us?”

The words hit you like a truck. You weren’t ready to have this conversation. It was going to hurt. But you knew you were in the wrong. You had decided to slowly leave without even talking to Jack. And now he knew. “We both know we aren’t happy.”

Your words broke his heart. He swore he felt his heart stop working. He was happy. “I’m happy,” he stuttered. His arm was in a sling but all he wanted to do was hug you. “I’m not, Jack.”

Tears stung his eyes. You were going to break his heart. “I can fix this. Let me fix this!” His voice was breaking. Everything was unraveling before him. He couldn’t play hockey. He was about to lose the one person in the world he was sure he couldn’t live without. This wasn’t fair. “It can’t be fixed!” you snapped back, “I’m not happy here. I’m not happy with you. Or this relationship anymore.”

There it was. His heart shattering. His eyes hurt and hot tears rolled down his cheeks. “What did I do wrong?” his voice cracked. “We are just in different parts of our lives.” How could he not see this coming? How was it such a shock to him? How had he been so stupid to let himself lose you?

“I can fix it, I promise.”

He was pleading, begging. Anything to make you reconsider. He thought about his summers with you and his family, the way you joked around with his brothers, the way you loved talking to his parents, the way you would run around with his youngest cousins. The boat days when you looked pretty his eyes couldn’t be on anything or anyone else. The family reunions where you sat with his grandparents and listened to their stories.

He thought about the winters with you. The winters where you curled around him in bed because you were cold. The game days where you showed up in his jersey. The way you stood in the stands and cheered him on. The time it snowed when you went home with him on Christmas break and watching you stare at the snowflakes in awe. He thought about the autumns with you. The way you loved walks in the city, watching the leaves change colors. The way the air turned cool and you would steal his jackets. The way you and him would curl up, undressed in bed, windows open and the cool autumn air would blow in and give you the need to be closer to him.

The springs with you. The season he bought you flowers every week. The air warming up and watching your wardrobe change back to spring colors and how pretty you looked. The way you would pick a flower from the grass and put it in his hair. How you stared at how the sun reflected his eyes. How he fell in love with you over and over again with the seasons.

And all of it was slipping away in moments.

It was like he was watching three years circle the drain. The love you had for him had drained out of the sink and his was overflowing. Love, like water, spilled on the ground, over the lip of this metaphorical sink, it was filling, it was always full, always overflowing. And he hadn’t even realized that you had pulled the drain on your sink.

“Please.” It was one word. It came out strained. His mouth was dry. Was he about to throw up? How would he have to tell his family? His friends? How would he have to admit he lost the best damn thing that walked into his life? How would he admit that he let it just walk out?

For a second, you stared at him. Memories flashed through your brain. How Jack looked on your first date. How he looked lying next to you in bed at night, sleeping peacefully. Were you really about to give this all up? Yes.

“I’m sorry.”

When Luke returned from his roadtrip, he noticed the apartment was colder. Jack’s bedroom door shut and your stuff was missing. He assumed he would tell him eventually but it never came. Luke watched Jack bite his tongue days later when Nico asked about you, he watched the lie fall out of Jack’s mouth. Something about you having to relocate for your job but you were still dating. Luke knew it was a lie.

Now, Jack stood in the middle of the reception at his cousin’s wedding. At least he wasn’t still at the ceremony, watching two people in love seal their relationship with rings, watching the event that he was sure that you and him would eventually reach. The reception was lovely. And there he was with his glass of champagne that was getting warmer by the second.

Quinn stood on one side of Jack, Luke on the other. “When you and (Y/N) get married do I get to be the best man or does Lukey get to?” Quinn asked. He didn’t mean it to remind Jack that he was a liar. He genuinely had no idea Jack and you weren’t together. Luke stared at Jack, watching his eyes glaze over with tears for a brief second. Luke was hoping, praying, silently begging that Jack would end his own self-inflicted pain.

Jack forced a smile and a laugh, “You two can fight for that position. (Y/N) doesn’t care either way.”

#jack hughes #jack hughes imagine #jack hughes one shot #jack hughes x reader #jack hughes fic #nj devils imagine #hockey imagine #nhl imagine #nhl fic #hockey fic #jack hughes angst

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eggtargaryenii · 3 months ago

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EAST OF THE SUN | PART II

You were a disgrace to House Targaryen, the product of an impulsive wedding between a lost prince and some Essosi whore. You had little social capital within the Red Keep and few prospects for marriage, but that was alright. You were perfectly happy to stay out of the game of thrones, wed some politically relevant lord of Alicent Hightower’s choosing, and die in peaceful obscurity. Unfortunately for you, Prince Aemond had other designs for your future.

11.1k words, aemond x fem!reader x jacaerys. childhood friends to lovers (except it's cousins), political drama. chapter warnings for targaryen incest and themes of xenophobia/racism and misogyny. see part I for full story details. dividers from @/cafekitsune.

V. STRENGTH

Jacaerys was a child when he found out that he was a bastard and his mother was a whore.

Bastard. Whore. Even before he understood those words, he knew that he was different, somehow. That he was not enough. The lords and the ladies in the Red Keep always stared at him and Luke when they walked by, clinging to their mother’s skirts. They whispered whenever Ser Harwin Strong spent his afternoons with them in the training yard, putting wooden swords into their tiny little hands and teaching them how to swing. They covered their mouths to hide their laughter whenever his father, Ser Laenor Velaryon, took Jace out riding, steadying him on his pony. Pay them no mind, Jace, his father always said. They're only staring at you because you will someday be king.

So Jace closed his ears and focused only on Mother, Father, Ser Harwin, and Luke.

But the older he got, the harder it was to ignore the whispers. Bastard. Mongrel. Son of a whore. A wonder that his dragon egg even hatched. I've never seen any Velaryon who looked like that. He don't look like no Targaryen prince, methinks. Look at that hair. Look at those eyes. He can only be a bastard.

He can only be a Strong.

It wasn't all bad in his family, at least. Queen Alicent always looked at him with contempt, but his grandsire kept her from saying anything. Sometimes his uncle Aegon would bully him about it, but then he would leave Jace alone whenever he was teasing Aemond instead, so all Jace had to do was join him in making fun of the scrawny boy. And whenever Aegon and Aemond teamed up to point out Jace’s bastardy, you would stop both of them. You would gently scold Aemond and that would make him quiet, but with Aegon you would throw things instead. (Oops, you said once, after dropping the Seven-Pointed Star on Aegon’s foot. Sorry, my hand slipped. I'm afraid that book burns my heathen fingers.)

You always defended Jace like that.

Jace’s mother was a whore, and he later learned that yours was too. Maybe that's why you were so nice to Jace, even though the lords and ladies of the Red Keep scorned you worse than they ever did him. To Jace’s wonder though, you never seemed bothered by it.

It doesn't matter who our parents are, Jacaerys, you told him once. We’ve got dragons. We’re Targaryens. So long as we play our cards right, no one can ever touch us.

But what if my blood isn't enough? he would mumble. What if Vermax doesn't let me claim him? What if I cannot fly? He did not have silver hair and pale eyes, the features of a Valyrian king. Perhaps his bastardy and Andal blood made him less of a Targaryen. Could a mongrel tame a dragon? Could a bastard sit the throne?

Could a Strong ever take to the skies?

You smiled at him whenever he asked. You can do all of those things, Jace. I promise. I can't help you with most of them—but at the very least, I can help you learn to fly.

So he found himself on your dragon, seated behind you, his hands tight around your waist. I've never seen Wildfyre so happy to have someone ride him, you laughed. Not even me!

The dragon clicked and grumbled and turned his head to look at Jace, golden eyes approving. Then Wildfyre’s great wings started flapping, his roar thundering through the skies, and suddenly Jace found himself rising higher and higher, the muscles of the great creature rippling beneath him. King’s Landing was getting further away, shrinking; the clouds were getting closer, and Jace felt a chill as the cold damp of them soaked into his clothes. A freezing wind whipped through his hair, felt like ice to his bones, but he screamed and screamed with laughter, heart dancing as he clung to you.

Once you'd steered Wildfyre through the clouds, drifting into the warm twilight, you turned back and threw him a smile.

See? you yelled. Only a Targaryen could be so fearless on dragonback!

Fearless, you called him. He clung to this word: Fearless. I must be fearless. I must not fear my duty. I must not fear the succession. I must not fear the court.

In truth, though, Jace was afraid. He was afraid of being a bastard and he was afraid of losing the Throne, of ruining his mother’s claim. But you were so good at dispelling it all. You were so good at making him brave.

So when his family was sent to Dragonstone indefinitely, he nearly wanted to throw up—because it meant he could no longer see you. He sought you out soon after the decision was made, nearly running through all of Driftmark’s grounds before going to the Queen’s rooms, where he knew you would be.

He found you by Aemond’s bedside, talking to the injured child as he slept. Your fingers threaded through his silver hair; you whispered Valyrian into his ears, soothing and pretty and soft. Jace wished he could understand it, but his mother never spoke it around them. Ser Harwin, being an Andal, only knew the Common Tongue, and so that was the language that Jacaerys had inherited instead the language spoken by kings.

Jace begged to you in his lowly, mongrel tongue, ugly and stiff unlike the melody of Valyrian: “Come with us, please. I know you'll like Dragonstone. No one will stare at us there, no one will whisper. You'll be happier for it.”

He was not surprised when you said no. There was no way you would ever leave Aemond, but he asked anyway, again and again.

“I can't do this alone,” he kept saying. “I need your help. I don't know how to be strong like you. How to be fire and blood.”

You smiled at him. Stepped away from Aemond’s bedside, then took his hands in yours.

“You need not worry, Jace. Your mother will guide you.” Your fingers were so gentle on his. “You will grow into a fine prince, an heir befitting the Iron Throne. And when you do, you can come back to the Red Keep—and you can take me to Dragonstone then.”

Jace tried very hard not to cry. Ser Harwin had made a promise like this before he left his mother—that he would reunite with Jace someday, that he would stay by his side then. But he had never come back, had been taken by the fire at Harrenhal, and then Jace found himself mourning a man whom he was not allowed to grieve—because Jace was not allowed to be a bastard, and so Ser Harwin was not allowed to be his true father.

But he did grieve. He hated losing Ser Harwin, and he could not bear the thought of losing you too.

“You’re not lying?” Jace asked. “You're telling truth?”

He knew it was a childish thing to ask, but you seemed not to mind. You only threw your head back, laughed. “Yes, I'm telling truth! It is my dream to get away from the Red Keep someday, Jace.” You looked at him, almost amused. “I’m counting on you to save me from the Hightowers, my prince.”

And Jace could not help but think, as you departed for King’s Landing and he for Dragonstone, how much he longed to do that. How badly he wanted to take you away from the place that called you both the children of sin, from the people that called him a bastard and you a whore. He wished he could have sworn it as an oath, for then you would know how seriously he would take it.

I will become a fine prince someday, he vowed privately, watching your ship grow smaller and smaller, then finally as it was swallowed by the mist. I will become an heir befitting the throne. I am a Targaryen, made of fire and blood. I am a Targaryen, no matter who my father was.

He woke up everyday and repeated those words like a mantra. Tried not to think about the possibility of failure—tried not to wonder if the lords and ladies of the Realm would revolt should he ever sit upon the throne. If the throne itself would reject a bastard, its edges cutting into his mongrel flesh. It was a solace that he heard you every time he questioned himself: It doesn't matter who our parents are, Jace. Only a Targaryen could be so fearless in the sky. You have a dragon. You have a dragon. You have a dragon.

He had a dragon.

“I have you, Vermax,” he would murmur to the creature in his clumsy Valyrian, and Vermax would rumble at him, reassuring.

The years passed. You exchanged letters with Jace, kept in touch, but the distance felt like a yawning cavern between you still. The older he got, the less certain he became that you ever thought about him the way he thought about you. After all, he was a child when you left; you were nearly a woman grown. Thinking back on it, you had obviously treated him like a child too, holding his hands and trying to soothe his fears with empty words.

Grow up, Jace, he told himself, every time he received a raven and found your letter shorter than the last. Forget about it.

And he did, for a while. He focused on his studies, his swordplay, his duty to the Realm. Several name days passed, and suddenly he was a man grown. His mother was speaking to him of potential betrothals, of Starks and Tyrells and the noble daughters of other great houses. His stepfather was telling him to see the whores in Spicetown since he refused to disgrace any of the servants, and their silks and perfumes were dizzyingly fragrant as he bedded them. The serving maids of Dragonstone and all the distinguished ladies who visited laughed and smiled pretty around him, fawning over his status—for even if he was a mongrel bastard, he was still a Crown Prince.

Jace found himself utterly disinterested in all of it.

Curiously, in some of those moments, he would suddenly think about your letters—shorter and shorter, fewer and far between, but coming still. Hello, cousin. How fare your studies? I find myself the object of whispers once more; what an exciting life people think I must lead. Last month I was leading Ser Criston astray and making him break his oath of celibacy; this month I am carrying Prince Aemond’s child. I wonder whom I will seduce with my temptress ways next month. Perhaps it will be Septa Falyse, or the High Septon himself!

Jace could hear your laughter in your words: carefree, lighthearted, just as you always were when it came to your reputation. But it left a bitter taste in his mouth, thinking of all those rumours, of all those people speaking ill of you. Of knowing he could not return the favour of defending you as you once did him, now that the sea separated the two of you.

The whispers, though, were not something a Crown Prince should be worrying about, and you were not someone an Heir should be thinking about.

Grow up, Jace, he kept telling himself. Forget about it. Forget about it. Forget about it.

But when the day came that he finally had to return to the Red Keep—he could no longer forget.

As he boarded a ship to King’s Landing for the first time in years, he found himself remembering the words you once spoke to him when he was a child—the ones he clung to for years. They felt so fitting now that he’d learned of the Hightowers’ designs for you, of what the Hand intended to do.

You will be a fine prince someday, you'd said. Take me to Dragonstone then. Save me from the Hightowers, my prince.

He would see you again, Jace thought. And if you so much as breathed the word, he would do everything that you asked of him all those years ago: steal you away from the Red Keep, protect you from the petty court that so often mistreated you, give you immunity from the family that spurned you both. Because now that he was a proper prince—a Targaryen, black hair be damned—that was something he could do.

He could save you from the Hightowers.

VI. JUDGEMENT, REVERSED

The coming of Princess Rhaenyra and her party was met without announcement, nor fanfare.

Were it not for Jacaerys’ letter to you, you would not have even known that they were going to be in King’s Landing. The tourney was coming up soon—less than a fortnight now—but their presence had nothing to do with it. Supposedly, Prince Daemon had some urgent business to discuss with the King and the rest of House Targaryen. Even Princess Rhaenys had joined them. What would be important enough for the Lady of Driftmark to leave her home was a mystery to you.

Until such matters made themselves clear, however, you would not worry over them. You were only thinking of meeting Jacaerys again. Although you'd received many messages from your first cousin over the years (his preferred raven now knew you well enough to squawk your name), letters were simply not the same as seeing one in person.

And of course it was impossible to see Jace in person. Queen Alicent became oddly bitter every time you requested leave to visit Dragonstone, and Wildfyre was always mysteriously chained up after such conversations. Aemond, as well, despised his half-siblings too much to meet with them during any of your visits to Spicetown, and he never let you go there yourself either.

You are a young woman, and it would be unsafe for you to venture out alone, Aemond always said. If you must go to Spicetown, I will accompany you and guard you from any… unsavoury characters that you may meet.

You had the sense that he was referring more to his nephews than any bandits or rapers, for it seemed not enough to him for guards from Dragonstone to be sent to accompany you.

You looked forward to seeing Jace again, unfettered by neither Aemond nor the Queen. You wondered what the awkward and insecure little prince was like nowadays, what sort of person he'd become. But as you had not heard any word of Rhaenyra’s arrival, you did not go to receive him at the gates—so you spent the day like you would any other. You broke your fast alone, neglected your needlework, neglected your prayers, and resentfully studied household stewardship. You loitered in the throne room, watching the Hand and the Queen settle various petitions. Today, it was mostly smallfolk worried about the price of food, a couple of petty land disputes between minor houses, and an interesting request from House Tyrell to legitimise a bastard—some knight who had served in the Dornish Marches. For some reason, Ser Criston kept looking at him with disdain.

Then, as a reward to yourself for your hard labour, you went down to the training yard in the late afternoon.

Your favourite pastime was watching Aemond practise his swordplay in the afternoons. You used to go for moral support, to encourage him whenever he was beaten—which he always was, because of his previously short and scrawny stature—but now it was always to encourage him whenever he clobbered his opponents, for he always did.

Ser Criston used to scold you for your attendance, saying that a young lady should busy herself with other activities. “You should be studying the Seven-Pointed Star right now, my lady,” he once said, probably at the behest of the Queen. “The violence of the training ground is not something that a woman should be witnessing so often in any case. Bloodshed is usually upsetting for the fairer sex.”

“I know not what you are talking about, Ser Criston,” you replied. You clapped Aemond’s shoulder then—drawing murmurs from onlookers, because hand-to-shoulder contact between cousins was scandalous if you were the one initiating it—and added, “there is nothing more important to me than witnessing Prince Aemond’s improvement on the battleground.”

Ser Criston gave you both questioning looks. “And why would it be so important to you, my lady?”

“Well,” you replied cheerfully, “Aemond and I have an agreement that if ever I am charged with murder, I will prove my innocence via trial by combat and he would be my champion.”

Ser Cole gave you an incredulous look. “Do you plan to commit murder, my lady?”

“No, Ser. It is merely a contingency in case someone should frame me for it. You never know what might happen with all the plotting and scheming in this Realm.”

You were actually speaking truth here: you and Aemond did come to this agreement soon after Prince Daemon Targaryen was taken to trial for the murder of his first wife, which he won by combat. You then went into an anxious spiral about what you should do if you hated your future husband and he was stupid enough to fall off a horse and die like Rhea Royce. Who would save you from a similar accusation?

Aemond immediately volunteered himself, perhaps too eagerly.

“You need not worry about me, Ser Cole,” you said upon seeing his perturbed face. “I wouldn't actually ever commit murder myself. You would know, since Aemond would prove my innocence.”

Aemond’s lip curled. “She would never be found guilty of any crime in the Realm with me as her champion,” he affirmed. “I think it is fair that the lady should be allowed to watch the sword representing her, is it not?”

Ser Criston could hardly deny a royal prince, so he merely sighed and picked up his morning star. “Whatever my prince wishes,” he relented. “Come—let’s give your lady a show.”

The knight had not since protested your presence on the training grounds. Ser Criston hardly even glanced at you today as you approached, weaving through the sparse crowd of knights, squires, and spectators while he and Aemond began their warmups. You were searching for a spot that would serve as the best view of their match, and it was pure accident that your gaze happened to land on an unfamiliar form among the hustle and bustle.

It was not the clothes that struck you—for they were plain, a nondescript black cloak over an equally dark tunic—but his face. Dark curls framing finely carved, fair features. An aquiline nose, a pair of delicate lips curled into an interested smile as he spoke to some companion you could not see. He looked like a Northman, possibly a Stark or an exceptionally beautiful Blackwood. You wondered if he was one of your potential suitors.

Naturally, you had to go introduce yourself. Purely to show your hospitality as a lady of House Targaryen, of course.

“Excuse me,” you said, in the clearest and prettiest voice you could manage. “Pardon me for the interruption, Ser, but I don't believe we’ve ever met.”

The stranger turned to you, his expression quizzical, but reflecting pleasant surprise. As soon as he laid eyes on you, his brows lifted—and a brief silence passed as you took in each other’s appearances.

You were only certain once you saw the three-headed dragon brooch on his cloak.

“Cousin?” the two of you asked simultaneously.

“Seven hells, Jace, I didn't recognise you at all!” you blurted out. You then glanced at his companion for the first time. Sure enough, it was his little brother—still young, but certainly not the small child you remember. “Luke! Gods, you've grown up too! I had no idea you’d arrived!”

Jacaerys made an irritated expression that was comically familiar despite his comically unfamiliar face. “The reception to our arrival was… subdued. Not etiquette to the standard that I would have expected of the Red Keep.”

“Ah. A folly of the Queen, I'm sure.” You smiled at them both. “Forget about her. I'll give you a proper welcome after this match—take you around the old haunts and whatnot. Wildfyre will want to say hi, too.”

“Match?” Jacaerys asked, but he was quickly answered by the violent clang of steel against steel.

Jace’s noble countenance dissipated as he moved into the crowd, beckoning Luke to follow. An excited grin spread across his face as he watched the two figures sparring furiously—as if he were again a child, spectating as Ser Harwin or the other knights of the Kingsguard fought with one another. Ser Criston and Prince Aemond were in another league altogether, of course—perhaps not in skill, but in savagery. They moved viciously and lethally, not bothering to hold back. The swing of Criston's morning star carried brutal weight, but Aemond was himself a lithe weapon, his body honed for the sole purpose of killing. You were unsurprised when his blade ended up pressed against Ser Criston’s throat.

“You'll be sure to win the tourney next week, my Prince,” said Ser Criston, but Aemond did not smile.

“I don't give a shit about tourneys,” he said, and you had to hold back a snort. Perhaps not when he was younger, but he absolutely did give a shit about tourneys nowadays. Not the pageantry or the petty social trappings, of course—but the reputation. Prince Aemond would be loath to seem craven or weak before the knights of the realm, and so he had no choice but to sign up for every tourney in King's Landing and crush every opponent he met.

Your amusement wore off when you noticed Jace and Luke beside you—how tense they'd gotten, how Luke was inching behind Jace. You could not blame them. Aemond had never forgiven Luke for taking his eye, no matter how many times you counselled him to lay it aside lest his rage drive him to madness. It chilled you how he spoke of Lucerys when reminded of it.

Even now, you discerned a subtle anger in Aemond’s body—tightly controlled, but there nevertheless—as he approached.

“Nephews,” he said, “have you come to train?”

Not even a greeting, you thought. Well, he does take after his mother in some ways.

“I'm afraid we’re only here to visit today,” Jace said, and you were surprised at the clean but sharp edge to his words. You did not know he could sound so much like a prince. “We must first attend to urgent matters before we’ll have any time for leisure.”

“I wasn't aware that the Crown Prince would consider swordplay a leisurely activity,” Aemond remarked. “Those princes who are truly of fire and blood, at the very least, do not.”

Fucking hell. Not even two minutes and the bastardy talk had already started. There was fury in Jacaerys’ eyes, and you stepped in before Aemond could fuel it.

“Jacaerys must be one of the few men of fire and blood who are also capable of diplomacy,” you said dryly, “as I know you are, Aemond, when you wish it.”

Aemond gave you a careful look, seeming more amused than anything else. “I wish it when my lady does.”

You smiled, placated. “I always like diplomacy. Hospitality, too. I'll be showing Jacaerys and Lucerys around before our family meets tonight—you are free to join if you wish.”

From the way the two brothers tensed, it was obvious that Aemond was absolutely not free to join. Your cousin had the grace to decline: “Thank you for the invitation, my lady, but I will give you the space to host them. You are better suited for it than me.” He glanced at Jacaerys, and said, “Do make sure you return her to me before it gets too late. I would worry about my cousin if she were out after curfew.”

Jace gave him a look that was as curious as yours.

“You need not worry. You know I would not let any harm come to our cousin.”

Aemond hummed, giving you a meaningful glance that you completely did not understand. “I’ll look for you at dinner.”

“I’ll be… sure to find you?” you replied with uncertainty, still reeling from his words. Return her to me. Aemond left before you could ask him his intent behind the phrase—because he always spoke with intent.

Jacaerys, himself, also seemed confused. “I didn't know my uncle was courting you,” he said, and you gave him a startled, bug-eyed look.

“He isn't,” you said quickly. “Queen Alicent would sooner die than let me besmirch the reputation and honour of her son.”

The elder prince frowned. “He was certainly acting like it, getting all possessive.”

“I suppose Aemond never liked it whenever we spent time with you,” Lucerys observed, looking somewhat anxious.

“He didn’t,” you now remembered. “Don't feel too bad, Luke. He was always like that even before he lost his eye to you.” Aemond loved to monopolise your time as a child and grew sullen whenever someone else had your attention—as if you were being wrongfully taken away from him and would never be returned. Sometimes you felt like a toy being fought over, tearing at the seams. “I guess he never grew out of it.”

“Childish of him,” Jace observed, watching his uncle’s back as he readied himself for another match. “Makes me inclined to take up all of your time tonight.”

You snorted. “That’s childish of you, too. Come on, let's go—at least catch up with me before you and your uncle maim each other.”

“I wouldn't do that to him,” Jace protested.

“I know. It was only a jest,” you reassured him. But an uneasy pit grew in your stomach as you thought of the way Aemond carried himself just now—how none of that lethal violence left his body as he approached his nephews.

It struck you then that you weren't so sure if the reverse was true.

VI. THE SUN

When you were alone with Jacaerys, his presence felt oddly familiar.

It was unusual, given that the prince was so different now. He had grown, and you had expected things to be strange and stiff between the two of you, but the conversation came easily once Luke departed. Jace’s laugh was the same as you remembered. His smile was the same. He rode on dragonback with you, his arms firm around your waist and his front pressed tightly against your back, and—

—that didn't feel the same, actually. You tried not to think about how he felt against you, how he had obviously grown lean and hard with muscle. It made your stomach flutter in a way that felt suspiciously similar to your reaction to first seeing Cregan Stark at court. You concentrated on the memory of the awkward, insecure boy with whom you had grown up, whom you could have never fathomed attraction to. Jace was the heir to the throne—you absolutely could not consider him desirable.

Also, if your stomach kept twisting like that, you would surely steer your dragon wrong and make all three of you crash.

Wildfyre, at least, did not see him any differently; he allowed Jace to ride him without complaint, and once you all landed outside the Kingswood, he kept clicking and prodding at your cousin with his massive snout, making the prince chuckle.

“I think he missed me,” he said.

“I’m not surprised. You were his favourite.” You glared at your dragon. “Traitor,” you groused in Valyrian, and Wildfyre snorted in response. You sighed. “Look at that attitude!”

“I think he's quite lovely,” Jacaerys said, voice smug. Wildfire crooned, as if in agreement, and snaked his long neck around Jace’s back, rubbing against him like a cat. You gave them both a dirty look.

“Sometimes I think you claimed him behind my back,” you complained, even though you could feel the bond between yourself and Wildfyre, warm and alive like a shared heartbeat. It had been present since the day you were born, as if it had formed while you were still in the womb. Still, there was a period of time before your official claim where Wildfyre adored Jace so much that you were convinced he would abandon you.

“You know that's not true. He's like a puppy around you.” Jace patted Wildfyre’s snout fondly, and the great old lizard chuffed like a dog. You saw the resemblance. “Vermax hatched in my cradle and he’s not nearly so affectionate with me.”

“Vermax is a sweetheart.”

“To you.” The corner of Jacaerys’ mouth lifted. “Remember how he nearly roasted Aegon the one time? And he never let Aemond near him, either.”

“Dragons are influenced by the feelings of their riders,” you pointed out dryly. “Vermax only detested them because you did.”

“Perhaps.” Jace scratched Wildfyre, fingers scraping against glimmering, emerald scales. The spoiled creature rumbled in a way that nearly sounded like a purr. “Are you saying that you’re as fond of me as Wildfyre is, then?”

Your mouth opened, then closed. You were glad that the two of you were alone and outside of the city. If anyone overheard you, or glimpsed your reaction, your reputation would have just been shattered forever. Worse yet, Jacaerys’ amused smile looked terribly handsome to you at that moment. You could not help but think, Well, I wouldn’t mind being pet by you either.

“I suppose your company is tolerable,” you said lamely.

Jace, of course, was not at all fooled. He turned to Wildfyre and said, in what you guessed was meant to be the Valyrian language, “We both know better, don't we?”

Wildfyre clicked in agreement, but your own reaction was not nearly so kind.

“My god, Jace,” you said, wincing. “Was that supposed to be Valyrian?”

He grimaced. “Was it that bad?”

“Terrible. What on earth is your mother teaching you? She's so fluent.”

“She never spoke Valyrian around us when we were children,” he explained, “so I never picked it up. Mostly, I learn from the maesters.”

“The maesters?” you repeated, appalled. You slipped into your native tongue, the timbre indignant: “No wonder you speak so poorly. You can't learn properly from maesters. You need to learn from someone who lives and breathes in the language!”

“There aren't many people in Westeros who do,” Jace replied in the Common Tongue. The two of you began to volley: Jacaerys in the language of Westeros, and you in the language of the old Freehold.

“Move back to the Red Keep. I'll teach you.”

“You’ve tried already. You were a poor tutor, remember?”

“You were a poor student.”

“That doesn’t change your own abilities. Could you even explain any basic grammar to me right now?”

“...you don't need to know grammar to talk.”

“No, but you need it to learn.”

“If I talk at you enough, you’ll pick it up eventually.” You gave him a mournful look, then tested his ear for your mother tongue: “However you do it, you should make more of an effort, Jace. You are a Targaryen, and a dragonlord besides. Valyrian is the language of your forefathers. How can you not know it?”

Jacaerys went quiet. “You know I have always tried,” he said, “to live up to my heritage as best as I can. I have neither Targaryen nor Velaryon features. People look at me and they see an Andal…”—he hesitated—“that is, they see a Strong. I have to show them I am more than that.”

Guilt gnawed at you. “Then I'll help you,” you said gently, in the Common Tongue this time. “Though truthfully, neither the language you speak nor the colour of your hair changes your blood.”

“Only you and Mother have ever thought so.” He looked away. “Apparently people used to think that my dragon egg wouldn't even hatch.”

You put a hand on his shoulder. “Yet it did, and every unbonded dragon responds to you. Vermax and Wildfyre can both attest to your claim and heritage.” You gave him a reassuring look. “Anyway, cheer up. You have more talent at the language than Aegon, silver hair be damned. His Valyrian is shit awful.”

Jace laughed. “Is it really so bad?”

“You’ll see during the meeting tonight. Aemond and I will force some Valyrian out of him—look forward to it.”

His smile faded. “I need to talk to you about that. The meeting, I mean.”

You made a face. “You know I don't want to speak of politics right now, Jacaerys. I'd rather talk about literally anything else, in fact.”

“It would be unwise to do so.”

“I live every day trying to be wise in matters of the court. Please let me be unrepentantly a fool for once.”

Jace gave you a sorry look. “Could I spend the rest of the day in leisure with you, I would. But it would be a disservice to you not to tell you, cousin. It is why I asked for time alone with you in the first place.”

“You wound me, Jace. I thought you asked it for you missed me.”

“Cousin.”

“Alright, alright. Let’s hear it.”

He breathed deeply. “There will be an announcement, one that involves you. In truth, the Hand said to keep the matter quiet until we could meet as a group, but I didn't think it was right, and neither did my mother. The Hightowers are trying to hide from you what Prince Daemon discovered.”

You gave him a curious look.

“What did he discover, then?”

VII. DEATH

The world felt so distant.

The Targaryens were seated around the Small Council table. King Viserys was absent, his mind addled with milk of poppy, so the Hand sat in his seat while his daughter stood at his side. As if in interrogation, you were at the other end of the table—the object of everyone’s scrutiny—clad in a neutral blue.

It was a powerplay. Jacaerys had predicted that the Hightowers would do it, and he tried to help you prepare. You had planned together what you should say, but the Stranger had stolen your words, your focus, your wits. Otto Hightower spoke and his voice sounded far away, as if your ears were stuffed with cotton. Your heavy breath and pounding heartbeat drowned out all other noise, thrumming alongside your bond with Wildfyre. It was singing with a pain to match your own, for the feelings of a dragon are always influenced by their rider—and he, too, had loved your father.

Otto kept speaking. You did not know why he was even here, really, nor Queen Alicent. Princess Rhaenys sat to your left without Lord Corlys, because this was a Targaryen matter—a grief shared only by those of fire and blood. The Hightowers were outsiders.

“...we must allow ourselves time to grieve your father,” the Hand said, “but the matter of his inheritance should be quickly settled.”

“What?” you asked, voice faint. This is what Jace said would happen, you thought. I should not be surprised.

But here you were—speechless, stupid.

The Princesses Rhaenys and Rhaenyra bristled. Prince Daemon, who sat on your right, openly scoffed. Helaena looked down, and even Aegon had the grace to keep his eyes on the table. He was feckless, a lecher, and he always quarrelled with you—but he was not cruel. He was not cut from the same cloth as his grandsire.

Even he disapproved.

Jacaerys was next to you, standing tall like a sentinel. Aemond watched from across the room, near his mother, in a shade of green so dull that it was nearly black—but green nevertheless.

Why was he not beside you instead?

“Please,” you managed to say, voice quiet. “I would like to hear the news from Prince Daemon himself.”

“As you should. This was not news that should have been delivered by a Hightower.” The Rogue Prince did not bother to hide his derision. “I was treating with the lords in Pentos, and they brought to my attention news of your father’s ship—the one that disappeared when he sailed for Lys. It came to light recently that pirates and sellswords accosted it. They sacked the ship, sank it. Then they took your father for ransom, but apparently he died not too long after from his wounds. Here is the proof.”

And sure enough, he laid before you what was unmistakably your father’s sword. It had been presented to him by the Lyseni while he was being hosted by the First Magister: a weapon from the former Valyrian colonies of Essos. Your mother had been by his side when he received it. In Westeros, she had been considered a common whore, but in Lys, she had been his beloved concubine—yes, a former bed slave, but respected nevertheless. She had thrived in the Lysene court.

You took the blade into your hands, unsheathed it halfway. It was pure Valyrian steel: ancient ore folded many times over, otherworldly hues rippling in daylight. Unlike the Valyrian swords kept by the Westerosi houses, this one had a name carved into it by a Qohori smith: Siglitanor. A word borrowed from Lysene Valyrian, a name chosen by your mother. The letters were as red as the Qartheen jewels encrusted into the guard, which was fashioned with Volantene elegance.

It was, through and through, a sword of Essosi antiquity.

For nearly ten years, you imagined that your father was somewhere in Lys, carrying this sword and speaking its language every morning, every night. Avy jorrāelan. Avy raqan. Ñuha ābrazȳrys. He would whisper these words into your mother’s ear in a courtyard somewhere, their plates filled with persimmons and mangoes and peace. He went to Lys and loved her too much to return. Yes, he abandoned you, but it was to take care of your mother, who deserved nothing less.

And now—now, this sunlit vision was turning to dust before you.

“Your Pentoshi friends—who told them this news?”

“Myrish sellswords who drank too much and bragged of their exploits. The Pentoshi thought I would like to know of their crimes against the Iron Throne and brought them before me. They're being held on Dragonstone now.” Daemon, for a moment, seemed reflective, and the sharp edge of his words softened slightly. “Your father was a skilled diplomat. It was his work that kept the Triarchy in line for so long. He died, and they soon after turned on us—and everyone else in the Narrow Sea. Pentos felt the loss of him as much as we did.”

“Yes, your father was quite the man,” the Hand agreed. “He was also skilled with his coin. He amassed great wealth in the Iron Bank, all profit from the Narrow Sea and the Free Cities. The Iron Bank was never forthcoming with information until now—they thought him alive and kept this from us—”

The coin is mine, Jacaerys coached you to say. It is my inheritance. I will go to Braavos myself and oversee the wealth. By the laws of the Realm, a daughter should inherit her father’s lands and wealth in the absence of a son.

“What happened to my mother?” you whispered instead, still staring at the sword. It shared its name with the mythical blade forged by Azor Ahai, tempered by the blood of his lover. Your mother had been a fervent follower of the Red Temple; when your father asked her to name the sword, she chose to honour her faith.

Would R’hllor really have let her die?

“Yes, your mother,” Lord Hightower said. “Your mother is gone, of course—the Iron Bank was willing to make the assumption after seeing the sword and the prisoners. And as such, yours is the only name that they have listed in ownership of your father’s coin—”

“We may speak of the Iron Bank in a moment,” you said bluntly, interrupting him. “What happened to my mother?”

Queen Alicent breathed in deeply. She clearly meant to chide you for your tone, but Prince Daemon answered before she could, himself unbothered.

“The sellswords mentioned that a woman was present,” Prince Daemon relayed. “She was saved by one of the guards, and the two of them were never caught. The sellswords did not chase them for ransom—they thought her a common whore.”

Then a whore is not such a bad thing to be, you wanted to laugh. Though you had never thought so anyway, because if your mother was a whore, then surely a whore was something to be cherished and pampered. You had always imagined her in a beautiful manse across the sea, hanging on your father’s arm. The two of them were supposed to be laughing in the sun as they drank Myrish wine and wondered how you were doing. They were supposed to be making plans to return to King’s Landing someday, to see you when they received news of your betrothal. You wrote to them everyday when you were a child, asking them what sort of man who they'd like to see you marry. You sealed the letters and asked the sailors passing through Blackwater Bay to take them to your parents in Lys. I don’t know where they are, you admitted to the seamen, but it can't be hard to find a Targaryen prince. The sailors would agree, pat your head, and give you a persimmon or a mango or an orange. You did this day after day after day—because surely your mother would reply to your letters eventually.

Surely, your mother would never forget you.

“Is she alive?” you asked.

“Perhaps. Likely not. The Narrow Sea was a brutal place before I conquered it.”

“But if she survived, where would she have gone?”

“The ship was overtaken at Bloodstone, so likely Tyrosh.”

“Not King’s Landing?”

Daemon gave you a long look. “I will warn you against any wishful thinking, girl.”

It wasn't a wish, you wanted to say. It was a promise. Your mother loved you. She wept when she was forced to leave. Someday I'll come back, she said in Lysene Valyrian, kissing you on the brow. When your grandsire is long dead, I will return and see you again—R’hllor will assure it. And until then, He will protect you.

Your father was supposed to love your mother enough to stay with her. Your mother was supposed to love you enough to someday return. But now your father was a skeleton on Bloodstone, and your mother was lost at sea.

And you—you were all alone.

“I grieve for your loss, my lady,” the Hand said. “But we must turn to the matter of the Iron Bank. That coin was grown from the wealth of the Crown, and as such, it belongs to the Crown.”

“You really have no shame,” Daemon sneered, but the Hand did not flinch.

“The animals of the Reach are plagued with sickness this year. Food has risen in price, and the smallfolk are suffering. Time is of the essence. If the Crown could find the coin to alleviate their burden…”

“The Crown has its own coffers,” you said quietly. The Hand paused, as if surprised by your resistance.

“The coffers are not limitless.”

“The coffers should be managed well enough for hard years.” Your eyes burned hot, but they still met Otto Hightower with hard steel. “If the Master of Coin has misstepped in his stewardship of the Crown’s wealth, I see no reason why I should pay for it.”

“It would not be your wealth being paid. It is wealth belonging to the Iron Throne. Everything from the coin in Braavos to the sword in your hands—”

You could not help it: a laugh escaped you. “You mean to take even my father’s sword from me?”

“It is an heirloom belonging to House Targaryen, so it should be inherited by a man of House Targaryen. Dark Sister was passed to Prince Daemon and not to Princess Rhaenys, was it not? A lady has no use for a sword.”

“An heirloom?” You could not help it—you rose to your feet and held up the blade, and it shone true in the light of the sun. Helaena and Luke visibly recoiled at the bare steel, while Jace watched you carefully. “You think this is one of the swords brought over before the Doom? You think a Mormont or a Stokeworth would have a sword like this? Tell me, Lord Hand—can you read the name engraved here?”

“There is no need, my lady, for you to lose your temper—”

“It says Siglitanor. Do you know what it means? Can you even pronounce it?”

“The name has no bearing on its owner. You are fixating on irrelevant matters, my lady. I caution you not to be so irrational. The issue at hand is the inheritance of the sword, not its name.”

“The name bears relevance to the inheritance, Lord Hand,” you ground out. “It means Lightbringer, named after the sword wielded by the Lord of Light, R’hllor.” Alicent shifted visibly at the mention of your heathen god, her brow knotting, and pressure mounted in your throat, your heart. “No Westerosi heirloom bears the name of this sword, nor its craftsmanship—you may check with the maesters yourself. The sword was a gift bestowed upon my father by the Gonfalioniere of Lys. In his absence, it belongs to my mother, and in her absence, it belongs to me.” You laughed. “You wish to gut me of everything my father left to us, with no respect to our history or our rights.”

“Your father misunderstood your rights, as do you. He represented the Iron Throne in every excursion to the Free Cities, so all wealth and treasures he acquired should be returned to the Iron Throne. And let me remind you, young lady—when the law is misunderstood or transgressed, there are consequences for the criminal.”

You stared at him, incredulous—for while the Hightowers have never loved you, they have never openly threatened you.

The words hung heavy in the air, oppressive to all. Aegon was practically withering; Jace, tenser than you'd ever seen. Aemond appeared unbothered, his expression precise in its neutrality, and this cut deeper than any words from Otto Hightower ever could.

No one dared speak until the Queen cleared her throat.

“Father,” Alicent interjected, watching you carefully. “I do not think it wise to act rashly. The lady is our kin, and we should allow her some grace. Perhaps this is best solved through a formal petition. Let us give the girl a chance to grieve, then present her case to the Throne—if she will even want to make one afterward.”

“And who will oversee the petition?” you asked carefully, trying to control your voice.

Alicent delicately replied, “I will see to it that you are given a fair trial.”

“A difficult task,” you parried, “given that the Hand has overseen most petitions in the past half year while the King has been abed with illness.”

The Hand finally showed his displeasure, his tone severe when he said, “The Queen, in her grace, is offering you a means to avoid punishment for the theft of Crown wealth. It would do you well to show some gratitude.”

You tried desperately to suppress the strangled noise in your throat. Someone touched your shoulder. You glanced to your side; Jacaerys was looking at you, his dark eyes as calm as stone and earth, and you breathed deeply, the knot in your chest untangling some.

“Of course,” you finally replied. “Thank you, my Queen, for giving me the chance to defend myself from these accusations. I shall accept your proposal.”

Alicent nodded. “We find ourselves right now in grief and high passions as we mourn the loss of your father, but we will need time and prudence as we settle this dilemma he left.”

You nearly laughed. Grief is your excuse? you wanted to spit, for it was clear to you—and likely most people in the room—what was going on.

Only Prince Daemon had the nerve to voice it.

“Do you need time to settle this dilemma,” he asked, “or time to regroup? Clearly, you thought the girl would yield to your demands today while you blindsided her with grief. It appears you now need a new strategy.”

The Queen’s jaw ticked. “Good-brother, you misunderstand me. Inheritance law is complex and often at odds with compassion. It would be cruel to wrest away her father’s belongings from her”—Alicent glanced at your sword—“but at the same time, the laws of the Realm must be respected.”

“Fuck the law,” Prince Daemon snapped. “My idiot cousin got himself killed at sea and his sword was acquired by force. It belonged to the sellswords for years before I acquired it by way of gift. It now belongs to me”—you gave him a watery, furious look, but it soon dissipated, replaced by surprise—“and it is now my decision that it should belong to my cousin’s daughter.”

You stared at him, uncomprehending. Mollified. Daemon spoke then in Pentoshi Valyrian—not so different from Lysene Valyrian, but inscrutable to speakers of the Dead Valyrian taught in Westeros: “Viserys and I grew up alongside your father. We knew him well. He would have wanted Lightbringer to go to you—not these vultures.”

Daemon switched back into the Common Tongue as he took his leave, pale eyes cold on Otto Hightower.

“I will see you again during my niece’s petition, Lord Hand.”

VIII. KING OF CUPS, REVERSED

You did not go to dinner that night.

After the meeting in the Small Council room, you could not wait to get away from your family—Targaryens, Velaryons, Hightowers, and all. You kept yourself poised as you excused yourself, but you broke into a run as soon as you were out of sight, your father’s sword grasped tightly in your hand.

You knew it was a childish thing to do, to run away to Blackwater Bay and cry your eyes out. It was nearly as childish as the way you had just spiralled and crashed and burned in front of the Hightowers in that room, living up to every judgement placed upon you. A heathen who worshipped the wrong kind of god. A perpetual foreigner. The pathetic daughter of a lost whore and a dead prince—someone of such little social consequence that the Hand saw you as easy prey for your coin.

In the back of your mind, there was a growing list of things you meant to do to fix it all. You needed to ask Prince Daemon what rhetoric Otto Hightower was likely to bring up during the petition, for no one had politically jousted with that man more than he. You needed to steal all the ledgers of your father’s ventures in the Free Cities before Tyland Lannister could think of having them confiscated. Perhaps you should even appeal to Princess Rhaenyra for her aid, since her husband was going to be supporting your petition.

Most importantly, you had to think of how to maintain your standing with Queen Alicent while fighting for your inheritance. It would not do to win your petition now only to be met later with harm.

It was a long, intimidating list. You knew you should go back to the Red Keep and attend to it. But now the sun was getting low, a violent blood orange in a dimming sky, and you were still weeping bitterly on the rocky shore. You thought of all the passing ships you'd watched from this spot, all the persimmons and mangoes you cradled in your hands as you hoped your letters would reach your parents. Telling yourself that one day your father would return, and your mother not too long after.

You didn't even know why you were still in this fucking castle if your parents would never come back.

Prince Aegon found you like this: wailing into your arms, cussing out the Seven, cussing out the Iron Throne, cussing out Otto Hightower, shivering because the light was low and now you were getting cold.

“Hello, dear cousin,” he greeted, slurring. He made his way toward you, stumbling through the rising tide before stepping onto the rock you were seated upon. He reeked so badly of Arbor wine that you stopped crying just to wrinkle your nose.

“Gods,” you said, revolted, as he sat down beside you and threw an arm around your shoulders. The last thing you needed was his grimy hands on your ass, which seemed to be their favourite spot to rest. “Get away from me, Aegon. I'm in no mood to humour you today.”

Aegon was so drunk that he yielded instantly when you pushed him: he yelped and tumbled onto his side, landing in a puddle of seawater and weeds. You would feel bad for him if you, too, weren't covered in the stuff—the tide had grown high and now your feet were soaked in it.

“I came to comfort you, and this is how you thank me?” Aegon whined.

“Since when have I ever wanted your comfort?”

“Since you are now in need of it,” Aegon said. He pointed at you. “You are in a miserable state.”

“Thank you for your astute observation, my prince.”

“Don't be so cold. Let me console you. Or if you won't let me console you, at least join me in my cups”—he held out a wineskin, which you suspected was nearly empty anyway—“and we can toast your father.”

“Keep my father’s name out of your fucking mouth,” you spat. “Is this your way of taunting me, Aegon? Rubbing salt in the wound that your grandsire and mother just left?”

“Gods, no. You think I wanted any of that to happen? You were not the only person who ran away as soon as that meeting ended, cousin.” Aegon uprighted himself, his knees knocking against yours. You did not push him away this time. “My grandsire—he’s not a very kind man, is he? And as for Mother… well, you know how she is. You are not the first person to be on the receiving end of either of their… machinations.”

“Are you trying to console me? Because it feels more like I’m meant to be consoling you.”

“I would not be opposed if you did,” he wheedled.

“Well, I'm not going to. Go away, Aegon.” You squinted at him. “How did you even know where to find me?”

“My dear brother was worried about your absence at dinner, and only grew more fretful when the Strong bastards said they had not seen you either. He was nearly in tears, sniffling pretty like the Maiden, when he begged me to help him find you.”

Despite yourself, you guffawed at the image that Aegon had just conjured up.

“He said you'd either be feeling sorry for yourself in the dragonpit or you'd be feeling sorry for yourself by Blackwater Bay. I did not feel like wading through dragon dung, so I chose to look here while Aemond combs the tunnels.”

“Well, you've found me. Now you may go.”

“How am I to leave such a sorrowful, beautiful maiden alone?”

“Quite easily, actually. I may throw you into the sea if you don't.”

“No matter—I will swim back to you.”

“With the state you're in? Ser, you will drown, and I will be accused of murder.”

Aegon shrugged, opening his wineskin and taking a deep draught. “That's all well and fine. I'll be free then of the Red Keep, and you would walk away scot-free. You would not be found guilty—simply request a trial by combat, and my brother would be your champion. He will surely slay any foe who challenges you.”

You gave him a curious look. “Aemond told you of our private joke?”

“Err, no? I just think it’s quite obvious the man would kill for you.” Aegon gave you a confused look. “My brother makes jokes?”

“Yes,” you replied, but then you thought more about it. “No. It’s more like I make japes, and he smiles stiffly, and at times he humours me.”

“Ah, that sounds more like him.” Aegon took another swig of wine. “He’s always been a mirthless lad. I've no doubt you will be solely responsible for any joy in your union when it is formalised. Speaking of which, why has my mother not yet announced a wedding feast for the two of you? Surely she cannot mean to let you give birth to a bastard. She may not love you, but she would not disgrace you either.”

You put your face into your hands. “I cannot do this today, Aegon. Leave me. You may report back to your brother and let him know that I'm feeling sorry for myself out here.”

“No, my lady, I told you—I cannot simply leave.”

You gritted your teeth. “Why not?”

Aegon flailed wildly, wine swishing in his hand. “What if you walk into the sea while I'm gone? I would never recover from it. No, cousin, I will keep you safe until my brother emerges from the dung pit.”

“How chivalrous of you. I will not be drowning myself any time soon, though—I must first face your grandsire in that petition.” You quieted at the thought. Aegon’s buffoonery had distracted you for a fleeting moment, but now you were thinking once more of all the dread and the grief and the fury. “Seven hells. Give me that.”

Aegon smiled at you as you snatched the wineskin from him.

“See, my lady? There is nothing that a drink cannot fix.”

You snorted. “Will it fix this inheritance business for me?”

“I mean for it to fix mine.” Aegon began to pick the seaweed out from his breeches. “Perhaps if I drink myself blind often enough, my mother will disinherit me. Then Rhaenyra and her bastards can sit themselves on that blasted chair and I'll be able to live in peace.”

You were so wrung out that, for once, you could not find it in yourself to dance around the topic of high treason. “The Hightowers will never let you get away from the Iron Throne,” you said plainly. “They’ll never be secure unless you are suffering in that chair. Or your brother, if I should first drown you.”

“Please, cousin. Don't make me beg.”

A laugh escaped you despite yourself. Aegon did not bother to hold back his own amusement, giggling openly.

“You know,” Aegon said, after his chuckles died down, “it may not be an option for me, but you could do it.”

You raised a brow. “What? Throw myself into the sea?”

“No, no! No drowning on my watch!” Aegon threw a piece of seaweed at you in reprimand, which you dodged. “I mean to say—you can run. Fly away on dragonback. Go to Braavos and get all your coin. Exile yourself in Lys and spend the rest of your life in decadence. God knows”—he groaned, sounding wistful—“it is what I would do.”

You considered his words. You had always stayed here for your father, and for your lack of coin and supporters. But your father was now dead, and you had so much coin that you had no need for supporters. “I suppose I could.”

“You'd need to go now,” Aegon said. “I would not tell a soul. Not even my brother.”

“Why help me?” you asked him, suspicious. The two of you had never been all that friendly. Close, perhaps, in the way that non-stop quarrelling would make two siblings close—but not friendly.

Aegon shrugged, as if unsure himself.

“Perhaps the day will come when I will wish to go to Lys and enjoy all the beautiful women there, far from the throne,” he slurred, “and when I do, I shall call on my dearest cousin to host me.”

“Surely, brother, you would not disgrace your sister-wife like that,” a third voice interjected. You and Aegon nearly jumped, seawater splashing around your feet. When you turned around, you saw Aemond—smelling strongly of brimstone and smoke, but not dung, you were glad to notice. He did not seem nearly so happy, giving you a long, severe look. “You were not at dinner.”

It all came back, then—the green tunic, the place next to his mother, his unreadable expression as he watched your humiliation in that council room. The memory robbed you of all your mirth.

“My apologies, Prince Aemond,” you said bitterly. “I lost my appetite when I learned of my father’s death and your grandsire’s machinations to steal his wealth.”

Aemond did not reply immediately. Aegon loudly cleared his throat, then somehow got onto his feet. He swayed from the wine and stumbled in the darkness of nightfall, but managed to walk away nevertheless.

“Well, now that you have each other’s company,” he announced, “I shall take my leave. Take care not to let our cousin walk into the sea, brother. It would break my heart.”

“You tried to walk into the sea?” Aemond asked sharply, and you sighed, tired.

“No, Aemond. It was only a jape. A bad one.”

“Hm. My brother does have a poor sense of humour.”

Aemond offered you a hand, and you studied it warily. When you did not take it, he finally said, “I did not know what my mother and grandsire planned to do in that meeting. The news of your father’s death was as much of a surprise to me as it was to you.” A pause. “Though I would wager you had warning and counsel from the blacks.”

“Jace warned me because he cares about me. I did not receive help from Rhaenyra's faction—do you really think I would care to involve myself in petty spats over the throne?”

Aemond hummed. “I know my nephew has great love for you, but it was not him to whom I was referring.”

A blinding, hot flash of anger rendered you speechless for a moment—how dare Aemond drag succession politics into this? But the rage quickly passed, giving way to clarity. For it must have been a great sum that your father had in the Iron Bank, if Otto Hightower desired it. And if it was great enough for him to seek, then it was also great enough for Princess Rhaenyra to do the same.

Aemond watched as you pondered this, your eyes dropping to your soaking, seaweed-ridden feet.

“Fine. You're right. But why didn't you come to my side once you realised what was happening?” you asked quietly. “During that meeting, I mean.”

“It would not have helped you.”

Yes, it would have, you wanted to cry, I'd have felt better for it. But Aemond was too smart and too serious to entertain such childish notions: you knew he was speaking in purely strategic terms.

“No,” you admitted, “but it would not have hurt, either.”

“Alicent cares greatly about the appearance of unity among our family. Were I to break it, she would cease to trust me, and it would be that much harder for me to help you.”

“And how would you help me?”

“What would you want to be helped with?”

You looked up at him balefully. The money, the inheritance laws, the petition—there was no way that Aemond could do anything about any of it, not without alienating his mother. You had half a mind to ask him to throw you into the sea after all, but based on his earlier reaction, he would likely lock you up in your room if you made such a jape.

With nothing else in mind, you simply said, “I don't want to give up this sword.”

He arched his brow. “Is that all?”

“Yes. Well—no.” You brought a hand to your temple. “It’s more complicated than that. I do want to give up this sword, eventually. But to someone worthy of it.”

You stared at Lightbringer, trying to imagine it in someone else’s hands. Hands that did not belong to your father, but someone who loved you as much as he.

Laughable, as the Hightowers would never let you marry for love.

“Here is what I think, Aemond,” you started. “If this petition works out in my favour, all of my suitors will suddenly be from houses allied with your mother’s faction. I will be made to marry a lord who is in Otto Hightower’s pocket, and he will inherit my father’s sword—and all of that coin in Braavos, too.”

Aemond considered it. “It is fair speculation. You do know how my grandsire thinks.”

“Well, I was raised by his daughter.” When Aemond did not argue with you, you bleakly asked him, “What should I do, then? When I am married to a man who intends only to steal from me, on behalf of the Hand?”

“You could always pray for your lord husband to fall off his horse. I would make sure to prove your innocence after the tragedy.”

You stared at him, as gobsmacked as Aegon was earlier. “Aemond, did you just tell a joke?”

“Would it bring you any comfort if I said no?”

You made a noise that was something between a laugh and a sob. When Aemond offered you his hand again, you took it—standing with his help, shivering as your body was exposed to the night wind. A cloak smelling of smoke and ash was placed on your shoulders, and you gratefully accepted it.

“You no longer wish to marry,” he guessed, watching you fumble with his mantle.

“I wish to marry someone of my choosing.” You found that no words in the Common Tongue could quite capture your anguish, so you relied on your Valyrian: “I did not mind the idea of being used by your family, so long as I could live safely. But I cannot bear the thought of anyone using what once belonged to my father. It is”—your voice broke, but you did not cry—“all I have left of him and my mother.”

“I understand,” Aemond replied, his Valyrian soft, lacking its usual cunning edge. “Focus on your petition for now. Worry not about your betrothal. I will handle it.”

You closed your eyes. You had no idea what he could do, but you trusted him. Aemond was brutally efficient in matters of court and power; you could rely on him.

“Alright,” you said. “I shall count on you.”

The nighttime breeze swept your body again; you shivered, still wrestling with the cloak. Aemond evidently tired of watching you struggle; he brought up his hands and straightened the mantle out for you.

“Are you really thinking of leaving?” he murmured. You blinked, not understanding. “You and my brother—you spoke of leaving for the Free Cities.”

You gave Aemond a long look. His expression was inscrutable, but certainly not happy. There are few people in this world who would worry about me, he had said not long ago. And you had told him, not long after: Just know that you can always write to me, no matter how far away I am.

If you left for Lys, that would no longer be true. You imagined Aemond alone at court, dealing with whatever designs his mother and grandsire had, with only his drunk brother and strange sister for allies—and you, an entire sea away, missing every letter the sailors were meant to give you.

“I could not,” you confessed. “Even if I tried, I think I would eventually have no choice but to return to you.”

He hummed. “Good. I fear I would not have been as kind as my brother in conspiring for your escape. You might have found yourself in trouble with me.”

“Another jest from you?” you remarked. “What a strange day this has been.”

Aemond’s mouth curled, but he did not reply. He merely fastened his cloak of ash around you until it was tight around your neck. And for a moment, in the strange and unreliable light of the moon, his smile looked almost unsettling.

END PART II

notes: oh god this chapter was so long now that I'm looking at it posted as one piece (versus ao3 where I split it up). you are truly my ride or die if you read all that. but anyway, below are some notes to help clarify parts of this chapter in case you are confused-

clarifying ages:

There's 2-3 year gap between the reader and Aemond/Jace

Jace in the first scene is initially 10, and you are 13 (text refers to you as “nearly a woman” since it was ye olde times, but you were really both kids)

In the present day, the characters are all in their late teens/early 20s.

timeline and other notes:

This chapter (and story overall) diverged slightly from show canon; Corlys Velaryon has not yet gotten injured so the Driftmark succession petition has not happened. This is still the blacks’ return to court for the first time in years though, hence why some of the events played out similarly to that episode.

Jace feels a little more mature in this chapter than he did in the end of S1 (he is closer to how he behaves in S2), and that is because of two things: (1) he is aged up slightly so he is naturally more mature; (2) I thought he was hotter in S2 and wanted to write about that version of him instead lol

#jacaerys velaryon x reader #aemond targaryen x reader #hotd x reader #house of the dragon x reader #jacaerys x reader #aemond x reader #i really need to make a masterlist rip #edit: i cannot BELIEVE this chapter is 11.1k words when posted as one piece JESUS 😭

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