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sunnami · 8 months ago

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the 5 times you did (not) love each other and the 1 time you did.

summary. as the title suggests. this one was a request! i hope you enjoyed my version of this anon.

pairing/s. poly!marauders + lily / reader.

wc. 4.1k

tags. hurt/comfort, angst, peter pettigrew mention, not proofread, like seriously, fluff, happy ending.

cws: brief mention of violence and blood.

note: i am alive?? crazy. i began this fic, whilst sick, around august, nursing the worst headache ever. i wrote the middle of this fic, sick. and i think it's only fitting that i finished this fic. sick... honestly, i did not proofread any of this, i just know i lowkey love it. after the first one-thousand words, i just spiral and become delirious, so i don't even know what happened here. my first request finished! yippee! and thank you all for 2k :< i love you all so much.

SIRIUS BLACK did not love you—not even close, not even a little bit. Not even at all.

After Peter Pettigrew’s slight against his family, Sirius would never hold warmth or pity for the skittish mouse ever again. He was played for a fool. And, he did not know which betrayal had hurt more. Peter’s—or yours. (Had you known all along of your adoptive brother’s plans? Did you not think for one second that Sirius would, without a sliver of hesitation, put himself in the way of a killing curse to keep you safe? He’d have died before ever letting the fire in your eyes wither to ashes. Clearly, you did not share the same sentiment.)

He wanted nothing to do with you. Ever. And if the rat-bastard dared to show his face, not even Death would know where to put Peter’s body to rest. Sirius would keep him alive until he begged for death—until the idea of living frightened him more than dying. And for you—beholder of his heart, captor of his soul, and co-possessor of his mind—he could only hope that you stayed far away. You had wrecked him—all of them.

He wanted—

He did not know what he wanted.

For when it came to you, Sirius Black was reduced to a man wandering the deserts—mistaking clouds for water, and the sands for grass blades. You had ravaged every fiber of his being; consumed his every thought and word. The most ironic part of all was that if you had been the one standing there—Sirius would have let you Avada him. Dumbledore could scold him in the afterlife—Sirius could care less. He’d have snapped his wand in half and asked someone else to fight you because Sirius had vowed from the moment he met you that he would never harm a hair on your head. He would never be the reason that tears stained your pretty cheeks.

Well, apparently, trust and promises were not worth a damn thing nowadays.

No, he did not love you—even as you stood on the steps of Grimmauld, your hair ruined by the downpour of rain. Your lips bruised and bitten from a nervous habit Sirius had yet to break out of you.

“I didn’t know, Sirius,” you whispered—your voice the only sound falling on his ears amidst all the thunder and lightning. He only saw you. “Y-You have to believe me. If I knew—Gods, I would have told Dumbledore in a heartbeat. Fuck. I thought you knew me better than that.”

He thought so, too.

“Did you know?” Sirius began, taking a step forward and into the storm, a demeaning sneer on his lips. “That when Voldemort stood in our home, your portrait was right behind him? That was all I could look at. If I had died—you would have been the last thing I saw.”

You had not replied.

Sirius grit his teeth. “Go,” he said, voice hoarse.

“Go!” he yelled, grateful for the rain as it masked his own tears as you flinched from the sound of his voice. Not the thunderclap, the lightning strike—but it was him who scared you.

(But you had done so first.)

When you apparated away, Sirius crumbled to the ground and pounded his fists against the asphalts where you were moments ago, screaming and cursing until he saw blood flowing with the rainwater.

It was laughable, really. The way he did not love you.

It was not love that drove him to madness, pummeling Gideon Prewett into a bloody pulp for mentioning your name during a meeting with the Order. He had presumed you to be a Death Eater alongside your brother—Sirius instantly saw nothing but red. (He condemned Bellatrix, his own cousin, for becoming a madwoman. Yet, here he was, unraveled by the very thought of you. The very whisper of your name.)

But whatever it was that had turned him into a fool and a hypocrite all at once, it was not love.

ii.

JAMES POTTER had no love for you—make no mistake about that. He loved love, and he did so fiercely and truthfully. But you and Peter had broken his trust—defiled his loyalty from the moment your brother had brought Voldemort to his doorstep. (Did you know that as he begged and screamed for Lily to hide with their son, Harry—he thought of you? For a fleeting moment, he saw your face, marked by fear and tear-rimmed eyes. And James knew straight away that he would spit on Tom Riddle’s bare feet if only to keep his family safe. If only to see you once more. Alive and well. But, you must not have thought the same—if you had conspired with Peter to sell him and Lily out to the Devil reborn.)

The thought of you breathing was enough to keep James alive.

But, that was not love. It was a mockery of it.

No, he did not feel so much as a twinge of emotion for you. Not even as Mad-Eye Moody brought your limp body back to Grimmauld. It was not love that threatened the magic in his being—that simmered in his blood until the painted walls saw an indent of his fist. (“Poor thing,” McGonagall cooed as she pressed her palm over your forehead. Despite some of the members’ growing distrust for you, you still took an Unforgivable in their stead. “We can only wait. . . Four Cruciatus curses. . .”)

What more did James need to want to rip Peter apart limb by limb?

It was not love that rooted his feet by your side. Sitting hunched on a chair too small for his height, bags beneath his eyes, and the pale of his lips becoming noticeable to everyone who spoke to him.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered to you lovelessly—hands desperately clutching your own. Sirius stood across the room, arms crossed over his chest, dagger-like eyes waiting for so much as a twitch of your finger. “I’m sorry.”

It was a plea this time.

He only hoped you did not ask him to love you. For James could give you the world, hand-pick the stars, and burrow his body deep beneath the ground if you had asked for it—but he could not love you.

Everyone had told him not to hope that you would wake up. That your pretty eyes would not flutter open, and you would no longer look at him as you had before. But James was stubborn. He was selfish as he was stubborn. He did not love you—but he needed to hear the sound of your voice. And James would take it any way that he could. The soft cadence of a whisper, or a rough utterance of a single word. Molly Weasley told him to accept reality for what it was. (“You need sleep, dear,” the matriarch fussed. “There’s nothing we can do. Look at the Longbottoms. . . We can do no more for this one as we had done for them.”)

In the still of the night, he left his reveries on the cold of your skin. “Wake up,” he demanded.

“Wake up or else you’re the traitor everyone thinks you are,” James hissed.

But his words held no heat—and his heart held no love for you.

Make no mistake about that.

Then, when you finally woke up, disoriented and throat parched—a hazy recollection of the weeks before��James made sure that no more than four people could enter the room. He did not care if a hurricane, or if Voldemort himself—James had faced him once already, after all—threatened to break the door down. You were theirs to protect.

(But not to love.)

“We need to begin the questioning, James, you know that,” said Kingsley Shacklebolt, almost exasperatedly; weary lines written across his face. James would not allow even a toe beyond the doorway. An interrogation meant you had something to do with the attempted murder of James and his family. Whether or not you were innocent, James did not care—he just wanted you safe.

(And a small part of him already knew that you were not your brother’s keeper. Just as they had absolved Sirius of his family’s sins. It would be unfair to not show you the same grace. But before his mind knew that, James’s heart and soul had known the truth all along.)

He found Sirius gently tending to your every need, and already James knew that was Padfoot’s way of begging for forgiveness. The ebony-haired man hung onto your every word. He winced when you flinched, and pressed his apologies to your forehead, rasping for a kindness he did not deserve. Not after what he did. How he turned you away and cursed your name. How they betrayed you.

James did not love you.

But what else could he call the manacles that bound his hands and forced him to his knees when it came to you?

Not. Love.

iii.

REMUS LUPIN could not bring himself to love you. But, he could not love Sirius, Lily, and James either. He was undeserving of such a privilege. But he was not allowed to love you; Remus could only hope that you saw even a shred of worth in him—to wrest each word from his lips and every breath from his lungs. But, he did not love you. No.

Because loving you meant he was to tell you of your brother’s crimes. And Remus could not hurt you like that.

“P-Peter?” you had asked, wearing the eyes of a fretful sibling. Remus lifted his hand to tuck a strand of hair gone astray behind your ear. Bellatrix had done a number on you—just as she had done to Alice and Frank. Remus was fairly certain that Sirius was off on a hunt for his cousin, his mind toyed with by the barbarity of war. What they could not do for the Longbottoms, they’d wring themselves dry to do for you. After the Lestranges’ attack, you suffered damage to your throat and memories. Remus could not bear to see you in such pain.

He could not give you love, but Remus would offer up to you his every limb, and the weary skin upon his bones.

“They. . .” Remus grimaced. How could he act as the bearer of bad news? He’d rather dive headfirst into shark-infested waters. Be anywhere else but here. In fact, Remus would rather snatch you away from the funereal walls, and hold you in his arms in the quietude of dawn, than be the one to bring anguish to your eyes. “They’re looking for him at the moment, love.”

One question lingered in your eyes: Why?

Luckily, Sirius was always the better one at sharpening a blunt knife. “He was a traitor,” he spat like acid. “A traitor to the Order. A traitor to us. He’s no friend of ours. Not anymore.”

But Sirius knew—better than anyone else—how difficult it can be to truly hate little brothers, especially once they’ve gone.

“No. . .” You trembled, almost retching as you sobbed into your palms.

Remus held you then, the front of his shirt soaked in your tears, eyes firmly shut as you trembled and heaved in his arms. The sound of your guttural screams bounced off the four walls, and Remus had to bury his nose in your hair. You were alive. Safe. Breathing. But you felt cold as ice; an empty husk stripped bare for grief to take over. And Remus could do nothing but hold you. (He just hoped that wherever Peter Pettigrew was, Remus would not be the first one to find him. Otherwise, they would not be able to recover even a fingernail from his remains.)

“Hush, love,” Remus whispered into your ear as you cried yourself sick. Mourning the loss of your brother, reeling from the betrayal of a bond that was supposed to be stronger than blood. Remus would make him pay, he vowed as much to you. No, Remus and the wolf in him did not know how to love. But he knew how to hurt. And, that, he’d gladly do for you. His body was for you to use as a shield, his soul for you to strip bare, and his heart for you to thieve and never return.

“Don’t cry,” said James, a shadow cast over his frames. “Not for Peter. Never. Fucking bastard will get what’s coming to him.” He laid on the vacant space of the bed, gently untangling your hands that were pressed over your heart. “I’ll make sure of it.”

They all would.

But not because they loved you.

It was not out of love, Remus had to remind himself in the coming days, when he stayed diligently by your side as you recovered. Daily sessions with the best healer St. Mungo’s could offer—as if James would allow anything else. There were days your eyes would glaze over, your words rough and sluggish, and Remus would try his damndest to make you smile.

It was the least he could do.

For failing to protect you.

But that was not love.

(It was hope. Wretched, disastrous hope as he fell to his knees, and your name in between his teeth.)

iv.

LILY EVANS was a fighter in all the ways that mattered.

And from the very first moment she held Harry in her arms, eyes raking over his wrinkly, bloodied skin; all ten fingers and toes, her soft cries over his loud screaming—Lily knew she would trade her life for his in a heartbeat. Little, lovely eyes that would soon see the world in his own time. Lily adored him. Cherished every tear, snore, and giggle. She knew then, that a mother’s love was entirely different from any emotion she’d ever felt before.

This was proven the first time Harry had gotten seriously ill. A few weeks after the attempted murder on the Potters, Harry was ceaselessly crying—screaming, even, every night—red-faced as he fussed every breakfast and dinner. Lily found herself at wit’s end. Her protectiveness had gone up a hundred measures; wouldn’t let anyone besides family or Madam Pomfrey see Harry. Yet, even with all the draughts and silly-flavoured syrups, Harry wasn’t getting better.

“Lily dear, you cannot actually be thinking about this,” worried Molly Weasley as Lily stood in front of your door, holed away in the room where you had been recovering for the last few days. It would be the first time she saw you since the incident. More than anything she was afraid. Frightened that you would look at her differently. Whether or not that fear stemmed from love, Lily was not concerned. “We can call for another Healer from Mungo’s to have a look at Harry. . . Who knows what might. . .”

Lily held Harry closer to her, lips firmly pressed, attempting to ignore the way his temperature was unnaturally high. “Might what, Mrs. Weasley?” She knew Molly was only talking out of concern, from a mother’s perspective at least. But she knew you better than anyone else. You would never hurt her, or Harry, that much she was certain of. And if you were the traitor everyone else was afraid of accusing you of, a sentence delivered by association to Peter—then let the guillotine fall, Lily would carry your crimes for you.

She remembered ever-so clearly in her sixth-year, you with dreams glistening in your eyes. (“I’m going to be a Healer, Lils! Minnie said I’d be a great one. . . I want to protect those I love. . . I know I can do it. . . Oh, I can’t wait to tell Peter that I’ve gotten recommendations already to work at Mungo’s after graduation.”)

And Lily recalled at that moment, she had felt a different kind of emotion that she had never experienced before. It was not love, of course. Tuney said she was too young and too stupid to know what real love was. But, at sixteen, what else could describe the way her heart fluttered and the way her lips threatened to break out into a smile whenever you lit up talking about your future? (It was just a crush, young Lily told herself.)

Only to be crushed and cast aside in the face of the war, where fighters took their place at the forefront of the lines, mothers and children hid; healers stretching themselves thin to be here, there, everywhere; where traitors walked in plain sight.

“There is no one else I trust more with my life,” replied Lily.

And that was that.

Lily skirted around Molly and opened the door to your room, where Sirius, James, and Remus all stood at attention at the sight of her and Harry. She ignored them, and headed straight to your side.

“Hello, love,” she greeted with all the gentleness she was made of, a smile creeping up to her eyes as Lily watched you turn your head at the sound of her voice. Truth be told, she did not know what her end-goal was in coming here. But being by your side had always made life a little more bearable, like all the illnesses in the world could not bring her down. And so, her magic had instinctively summoned her person to you. She, at least, was relieved to see colour returning to your cheeks, though the red in your eyes had dulled the hues she adored so much.

“Is that. . .?” you croaked.

Lily nodded. “Harry, meet—”

One of the loves of my life, the most loyal and pure witch anyone ever has the privilege of meeting, someone I want to stay in my life forever.

Lily’s smile wilted. “A friend.”

Later, she would place Harry in your arms—her little hope embraced by her dream—and Lily would wonder if it was by pure magic that Harry calmed in your presence.

For if love could hurt and destroy, could it mend and heal the broken as well?

But what a shame, for not one in that room carried an ounce of love for you.

(She would die for Harry, yes—but she would live for you.)

YOU did not love them, either.

The very idea, thought—insinuation—was absurd. (Why, they deserved much better than you, after all.) With hands that failed to protect them, were you even allowed to hold them anymore? Did your heart have the right to breathe for them? You had failed as a sister and a friend—how much more would you have failed as their lover? Well, you’d never know.

Because you did not love them.

Merely wished them happiness and for the world to extend them kindness. For the sun to look brightly down on them, and for time to heal their scars and wounds. For if they were in pain, the earth would stop spinning. But such a request was not borne from love.

Surely not.

Because, then, that would have meant that it was love that teared you apart when Sirius cursed your name, when James turned you away, when Remus could not look you in the eyes, or when Lily—for all your history together—called you a friend.

The whole of you was made by the parts of them. Each memory welded into the crevices of your soul. From the moment you had all found each other in the same train compartment, same common room—there was a shift in the fates that bound all five of you together. (The ties were red, but the thread was not of love.) You did not believe in Professor Trelawney’s talks of providence and destiny.

Because if you did, then why was the universe so cruel?

Falling—not in love—for four people who could very much do without you in their lives. Lacking severely as a sister to the point you had not noticed your brother fading and fading away into the shadows.

Was love that unkind? That merciless?

Then, you did not want to love at all.

Oh, but magic or not, every creature on this earth selfish.

You were no different.

You wanted.

Oh, how you yearned.

“I LOVE YOU.”

You barely had enough time to react before Sirius pressed his lips to the side of your head, arm covertly sneaking around your waist. The sound of the train whistling as parents yelled their goodbyes filled the station. You stood in the midst of the crowd, eyes never leaving one window in particular as you waved at Harry, now eleven-years-old and now off to Hogwarts.

“Quite a random thing to say, husband,” you murmured, leaning into his warmth. “What for?”

“Just because,” he replied in turn with a fiendish grin. “Well, perhaps for choosing us, for choosing me despite all my fuck-ups. For existing. For being the beautiful, wonderful, kind, precious you. I could keep on going, my darling. Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?”

You wrinkled your nose, eyes rolling from fondness. “I love you too, quite unfortunately.”

He only laughed and pulled you closer to him. “Let’s go home.”

–

“I love you.”

In the house built by new memories, warded by stronger protection charms, and filled with warmth and love—James said this to you each morning before he left for the Ministry, promoted after the war as Head of Magical Law Enforcement. Not one foot out of the door until he had showered you in kisses and the symphonies of his heart. James had always been loud, even in his time at Hogwarts. The war had not taken this part of him, and you figured James was too loud to let it be taken from him. He was unapologetically and unabashedly him.

And you had loved him fiercely for that.

“I’ll be home early tonight,” he said, a quiet intimacy washing over the both of you. The early birds of the cottage. “Wait for me?”

“Of course,” you answered without an ounce of hesitation, delicately chasing after his lips. “I love you. Be safe.”

“I love you.”

“Are you saying that to me or are you reading from the book?” you teased from where you laid on Remus’s chest, hours after James left for work, the afternoon bringing you two together in the living room. Lily was in the gardens, and Sirius was in the shed working on his motorbike. It was perfect. You felt the rise and fall of Remus’s chest beneath you, his heartbeat close to your ear. He was perfect. It was a miracle you had not fallen asleep to the tender lull of his voice.

“Both,” he responded, hand coming up to trace the bare of your skin—a miracle you did not crumble or burn instantly from his touch.

You hummed. “Then, I love you, too.” Then, you grinned, lifting your head to stare up at him. “You have bewitched me, body and soul, and I love, I love, I love you.”

And, oh, how photographs could not capture the beauty in Remus’s smile as his eyes regarded you with such fire.

“My heart, my light, my desire,” Remus began, one finger ever-so softly tracing the curve of your cheek. “In vain I have struggled, it will not do. My feelings will not be repressed. You must allow me to tell you how ardently I admire and love you.”

–

“I love you.”

Said Lily as she lied in your shared bed, red-nosed and her cheeks pale, sluggish. The Christmas holiday was generous enough to gift her with an unfortunate cold that had been going around the wizarding world. “But, please, go,” she commanded weakly, gesturing for you to join Harry who was stood by the door. “It’s a lovely day outside for making snowmen with carrots as noses and snow angels. Not for taking care of poor old me.”

You rolled your eyes as you sat by her side, swiftly pressing a kiss to her forehead. “And I love you, which is why I would rather much be here, taking care of the prettiest snow angel to ever exist,” you countered, bringing a spoonful of broth to her lips. “Besides, Harry here has something to tell you. He’s made friends at school. One of them is Molly’s little one.”

“Oh, you did?” Lily cooed, before sniffling weakly. “That’s lovely, darling. Tell me all about them.”

“That’s not all, Lily mine,” you began mischievously as Harry’s eyes narrowed at you through his glasses. “This friendship apparently formed after fighting a troll.”

“You what?” Lily croaked, emerald eyes shimmering with concern and near-dread.

“Did you really, Harry?” James popped his head in the doorway, clapping his son on the shoulder before ushering him inside the room. A spitting image side-by-side as they took the empty space by the foot of the bed. “Good boy. Father approves.”

“Of course you would,” Lily shot at him weakly, melting when Sirius then entered the room and greeted her with a kiss to her cheek. “And where are you all coming from?”

“Outside,” announced Remus, tugging his tie from his neck. “Sirius and I took a quick trip to Diagon Alley to get some things that’ll make you feel better, Lily love.”

And as the snow fell outside, lazy winds against the window, your little family gathered in one room, there was one thing you knew for certain.

You loved them.

And they loved you.

a/n: i wrote all 4k words while sick. crazy. but anyway, i wanted to believe in love again so here i am. thank you all so much for being patient with me. i promise to do even better in the next fics!

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someoneelse0109 · 1 month ago

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⋆･.˳.⋆JUNGKOOK FANFIC RECOMMENDATIONS ⊹ ᨘ📘˚｡The third part of my fanfic recommendations featuring Golden Makne 💙 Thank you talented writers for your hard work, I really enjoyed each of these works💙 Part 1 and Part 2 of my recommendations which you can also check out 💙 Thank you to the beautiful @saradika-graphics for the delicious divider 🫐

Almost all fanfiction contains explicit adult content, so read at your own risk.

🫐 RISK TASTES LIKE STRAWBERRIES AND THUNDER by @dailynnt

⤷ Jungkook!biker, friend's best brother x f!reader | forbidden feeling | one shot

🫐 “NOT THEIR WEDDING CAR” by @dailynnt

⤷ Jungkook!former classmate x f!reader | from enemies to lovers | one shot

🫐“DIRTY BIKE REPAIR” by @dailynnt

⤷ Jungkook!biker x f!reader | established relationships | one shot

🫐 Soft launch | jk by @keen-li

⤷ jungkook x fem reader | Friends to FWB | mdni

🫐 Every inch of you — Jungkook by @jjeongkii

⤷ dom!jk x reader | one shot

🫐 ִֶָ love wins all ࣪ ִֶָ . by @kooffeecup

⤷ ex boyfriends father ! Jungkook x you | one shot

🫐 somehow, you. | jungkook au by @timelessjk

⤷ jungkook x fem reader | college AU | one shot

🫐 the next step by @tranquilreign

⤷ jungkook/reader | established relationship au! | one shot

🫐 higher power by @jiminrings

⤷ jungkook x reader | one shot

🫐 paint me, play me || jjk by @letsbangts

⤷ jungkook x fem reader | college AU | mdni

🫐 reckless | jjk by @sparklingchim

⤷ idol!jungkook x producer!reader | one shot

🫐 VELVET WAVES — jjk (m.) by @gukcnt

⤷ husband dom!jungkook x wife sub!femreader | one shot

🫐 the mask of purity by @lostinbangtan7

⤷ Jeon Jungkook idol/Y/N famous/artist/singer | series (ongoing)

🫐 ⋆.˚✮𝗕𝗮𝗰𝗸 𝗧𝗮𝘁𝘁𝗼𝗼✮˚.⋆ by @skzstarl0ver

⤷ Jungkook x reader / tattoo artist x client | one shot

🫐 Vestiges | jjk (m) by @youthguk

⤷ jungkook x reader | exes to lovers | one shot

🫐 i'm outside, let's talk. (m) by @rjkooks

⤷ exbf!jungkook x afab!reader | one shot

🫐 BLOODY CRAWLING BACK TO YOU by @acheronsociety

⤷ jungkook x f!reader | secret agents au | mdni

#jungkook #bts jungkook #jeon jungkook x reader #jungkook fanfic #jungkook fanfic recommendations #jungkook fic #jungkook x reader #jungkook x you #jungkook fic recs #jungkook smut #jungkook fluff #jungkook x y/n #jungkook x oc #jungkook x original character #jeon jungkook

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m1ckeyb3rry · 6 days ago

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Series Synopsis: You are meant to be a sacrifice to Nikador, but when you gain the attention of the wrong god, you learn firsthand why mortals are not meant to trifle in the affairs of the divine.

Series Masterlist

Pairing: Phainon x F!Reader

Chapter Word Count: 12.7k

Content Warnings: mentions of human sacrifice, mentions of abuse, it’s going to get violent and whatnot i am sure, blood and whatnot to be expected, obviously an alternate universe, an ending i would say is bittersweet??, not really 1:1 with the myth of bellerophon however if you know the myth you will definitely see a lot of similarities in the general progression of the story, phainon is a god, like fr, so ig you could consider it a problematic age gap SKHJF but more so power imbalances in general, phainon is a catfisher for a bit lowkey, vaguely ancient greek/rome inspired but in the way canon is (so loosely + i make most of it up), i have played maybe HALF of amphoreus !! so characterization may be spotty (#powerofau), uhh idk what else i will try to add it in here if/when it comes up ig

A/N: hey guys, it's me again, international best-selling author mira m1ckeyb3rry, with a special announcement!! (/ref) hehe i don't know what sort of writing fever possessed me but i truly wrote this entire thing in a matter of days (which may account for how messy it is but wtvr) anyways you all read the warnings i am sure but here are some additional notes for those who are interested (mostly regarding the background of the fic)!! with that said, i will keep my angsting to a minimum here because you all know the deal atp T_T no i haven't played amphoreus, yes he's probably ooc, i do indeed think this sucks, i am posting anyways. whatever

It was your brother who tied the bells around your wrists, the trembling melody of his hesitance echoing in their silvery clanging as he fumbled with the red silk of the ribbons. The knots he made were clumsy but firm, as artless as was to be expected of one of Nikador’s devotees, and as thunder shrieked outside, you wished most of all for your mother and her careful fingers. Yet she was forbidden from seeing you, not by any divine decree but because she would not stop wailing and the priests found it grating to listen to her repetitive cries. How can they do this? How can they ask for the life of my daughter?

Your brother, the pale-robed prince, would be the one to dedicate your heart to Nikador. Of course he would be — who else could? Not your father, that feeble, fading king who had long ago relinquished the throne to the lord of strife; not your mother, who came from a distant land where a gentle goddess was venerated, an endless forest where they praised reason instead of the steadfast violence that those of the mountain danced for. No, it had to be your brother, the next king, who had yet to prove his faith in the priests, who had yet to appease the thunderstorms which would not vanish from the horizon until that great titan was given the utmost of sacrifices.

“You mustn’t be frightened, sister,” he whispered fervently, winding cloth around your eyes and taking your hands to lead you forward. “This is what you were meant for. The priests said as much, and when have they ever been wrong? Nikador awaits you most eagerly. It will be quick, and then you will be with them. You mustn’t be frightened.”

The stone of the sanctuary scraped your bare feet as you were brought to the center of it and told to stand very still, your brother’s footfalls growing fainter and fainter as he took one step and then another away from you, leaving you alone upon the altar. You stood in exactly the place that countless oxen and sheep had, and although the scent of the many-flowered wreaths resting atop your crown was dizzying and heady, you were sure that it was nothing but the stench of stale cattle-blood which stung at the back of your throat, those dried, acrid remnants serving as cruel reminders of the ritual you had watched countless times yet never dreamt of participating in.

“Hear me, savage king who bears the lance of fury; you who vanquish all enemies and who are with me in all my battles; befriend me in this mine hour,” your brother began, his voice cracking as his hands, still wet with ceremonial water, seized your forearm and drew a shallow gash in it. You bit back a whine, for you would not give the priests the satisfaction of seeing you cower, and you waited until you heard the trickle of blood into flame before you allowed yourself one whimper of dismay, when you could be sure no one was listening.

“Now,” came the soft croon of the High Priest when your brother choked on his prayer, tears thickening his practiced incantation, “do not falter, young prince — call upon Nikador to free us from this storm. What is one life compared to thousands? Every man and woman on this mountain will suffer if this typhoon continues to rage, but until our great lord is duly satisfied, they will not lift the curse on our kingdom. I have seen it myself; the princess is who they demand. Who are you to deny they who have done so much for us? Who are you to deny your own deity?”

“Yes,” your brother whispered. “Yes, yes, my vigorous and horrid-tempered god, please, I pray, I beg you, deliver us from this torment, bring about a new dawn for our home, and — and in return — in return, accept our offering.”

You waited for him to plunge the sacred dagger into your heart, which was no longer your heart at all but rather Nikador’s, yet there was nothing of the sort, only an awed silence and a blistering, immeasurable heat, oppressive in its sudden strength. You turned your head this way and that, though of course with your blindfold it did nothing but frustrate you, the bells around your throat singing mockingly, teasing you with their knowledge of the unfathomable.

“So,” a stern voice said, and although it was softly done, it echoed in your ears such that you had to clamp your hands over them for fear that they would bleed. “This is what has become of the great cult of Nikador. A boy-prince pointing a blade at a sister who will not fight back. They would be ashamed to hear of it.”

“Why have you come?” the High Priest said, and although he was clearly attempting to maintain his dignity, his valor, he could not stop his words from breaking. “He did not summon you! What business do you have with us, who have always scorned you?”

“You called for dawn,” the voice said, nearly laughing, albeit humorlessly. “You called for deliverance. Who else but me did you expect?”

“Please,” the High Priest said, and you heard a thud as he ostensibly prostrated himself before the mysterious presence. “Do not punish us, revered one, sun-bringer, bearer of the world; spare us, and everything on this altar is yours. We shall hail your name for generations to come, shall honor you as surely as we honor Nikador—”

“It doesn’t seem to me that you honor Nikador very well,” the voice observed. “Why should I accept such an exchange? You have drawn the attention of divinity; perhaps I am not the god you wished to see, but I am a god nonetheless, and yet you are receiving me with such an unpleasant welcome. Well, I’ll overlook it this once. Tell me, why do you pray?”

“The storm,” you said when neither the High Priest nor your brother responded to the nameless god. “They say it is borne of Nikador’s wrath, and so we must pray for its end before we are swept away.”

“Ah,” said the god. “You speak. For how silent you were, I thought they must have cut your tongue out.”

“They did no such thing,” you said. The god hummed, and then a blade, sharp as sunrays, traced up the bridge of your nose, slicing away the linen covering your eyes without so much as nicking your skin. You blinked, your vision adjusting to the blinding light filling the temple, and when you realized who you stood before, you immediately fell to your knees and pressed your forehead to the floor.

“Do you recognize me?” he said.

“Phainon,” you said, your heart pounding when he did not correct you. It was him, the young general of the gods, the one who had supplanted Nikador in the pantheon, the bringer of the dawn and the deliverer of the departed — here he was, the deity that those of the mountain despised most, who they had unwittingly summoned to earth from his throne in the heavens. If your brother did not look so aghast, you would’ve sworn at him, for in truth you would rather die in Nikador’s service than live for even a moment longer under Phainon’s gaze, but you could tell even without him saying it aloud that he knew these things already, and furthermore echoed your thoughts entirely.

“Yes,” he said. “Then, knowing this, will you ask for my blessing?”

“No,” you said, surprising even yourself with how resolutely you said it.

“No?” he repeated.

“What will you do to them if I do? This storm is no natural disaster, and for you to free us from it, you will have to venture forth and do battle with Nikador until their fury abates. Isn’t it so?” you said.

“It is,” he agreed.

“Then I will not ask it of you,” you said. “Since the birth of our people, Nikador has been our guardian. Perhaps a tempestuous one; perhaps a contemptible one, at times; but we will not abandon them. We will not turn our back on fury for a god without so much as a city to his name.”

“Girl!” the High Priest hissed. “What are you doing? Esteemed one, she meant no disrespect, you must ignore her, fright has twisted her mind…”

“Silence,” Phainon said. “I have met many men like you, old priest, and I have no desire in meeting another. Rise, o sacrifice, and enough with the bowing. What is it that will make your loyalties sway?”

“Nothing,” you said, scrambling to your feet and raising your chin, although you did not brave staring directly at him for too long, knowing that the truth of his being would sear away your vision forevermore.

“What if I threaten to turn you into an ewe or mare?” he said.

“Aren’t I already as much?” you said, lifting your hands and showing him your adornments, which mimicked those seen on the livestock slain for the fifth day of Nikador’s Feast. He chuckled.

“How self-aware,” he said. “Well, what is it you want? Surely there is something. I can halt this storm and make you queen of this mountain in a moment if you say the words. I can afford you endless wealth and eternal peace. I can ensure you never go hungry and that your children are always healthy. Love, riches, power…pray to me and I will give you them all.”

“Do not squander this,” the High Priest hissed at you. “I am not sure how, but you have gained his interest. You must not let pride stop you from this opportunity.”

Yet you had read the stories; you knew what became of those who received the so-called favor of the gods. It was only Nikador who you could trust, only Nikador who disdained all mortals equally. The rest were as generous with their fits of rage as they were their boons and gifts — even your mother’s kind goddess had once caused the forest to wither for five years, after they had been given a bull instead of a sow as they preferred.

“Nikador,” you said. “That is what I ask for. Convince them to take me as their bride, and then, on the day of my wedding, I will swear allegiance to you as well.”

“Nikador has never taken a bride. Even in the heavens, not a single goddess has turned their head, so how would a mere mortal accomplish it?” Phainon said, sounding genuinely puzzled. “And they would not make a good lover, anyways. Are you certain that is your greatest desire?”

“That is all I want from you, sun-bringer,” you said. “If you cannot accomplish it, I will not blame you, but there is nothing more you can give or take from me.”

“You are bold,” he said. “But I will reward you for it. Very well; until the next time we meet, then.”

As quickly as he had come, he was gone, leaving spots in your vision and a curious darkness in the sanctuary, the very walls crying out for what they had held and then lost. You gasped for the breath you had been unable to fully draw in his presence, dabbing away the sweat which had collected on your brow and not daring to look at your brother or the High Priest.

“What have you done?” your brother whispered finally.

“What have I done?” you parroted with a scowl. “You incompetent fool, what choice did I have? You made me bargain with a god — and not just any god but Phainon!”

“Do not raise your voice against the prince!” the High Priest said. “We were — we were so close, we even had a god in our hands, and you wasted his goodwill with such a thoughtless wish. Nikador’s bride! Who do you think you are?”

“Have you forgotten those stories you taught us when we were children? What if we ended up in the way of my uncle? He, too, thought he could parley with gods, and how has it left him? Bereft of an eye! Whatever Phainon may have given us, we would come to regret it, I know it to be so,” you said. “I have asked him for an impossible gift in the hopes that something else will strike his fancy in the meantime and he will not return to toy with me further. Everyone knows Nikador does not love, and furthermore they detest Phainon, so they will be doubly sure to say no to any requests coming from him. It was the best I could think of in such a fraught situation!”

“You’re right,” the High Priest said. “The gods are unpredictable at best.”

“Thank you,” you said warily, for he was not the sort of man that would concede so easily, and especially not with the sort of absurd smile he was, for some reason, donning.

“Thus, we cannot let you stay here. You have gained the attention of Phainon, who is staunchly opposed to Nikador. Who knows what will become of us if we continue to harbor you with that knowledge? Nikador may not strike us down, they are far too judicious for it, but there is no telling what curses Phainon will rain upon us if we mistakenly anger him when his eyes are turned toward our kingdom,” he continued.

“What did you just say?” you said.

“He is headstrong and young as far as gods go, and you are his latest amusement. We are already suffering from Nikador’s wrath. We cannot handle another disaster, especially of such magnitude,” the High Priest said.

“You’re banishing me,” you said, and now you were incredulous. “I who was meant to be your great sacrifice, I who am your princess…you’re banishing me?”

“Perhaps we ought to think it through,” your brother said uneasily, shifting from foot to foot. “My sister is sage and learned; her presence at my side will make my reign only that much stronger. Besides, who’s to say that Phainon will do anything? As she said, likely he will grow bored of Nikador’s obstinance and move on.”

“Are you willing to risk it?” the High Priest said, and if you were not old enough to know better than to raise your hand at anyone, you would’ve struck him on the mouth for his daring. “Your reign will have all the strength you require if you continue to follow Nikador’s teachings. The words of a careless princess tainted with Phainon’s favor will only bring about our end.”

“Your mind is made,” you said. “And if you say it, then it will be done, High Priest.”

“Surely you understand,” he said.

“All too well,” you said, and then you looked at your brother, who avoided your eyes. You waited for him to say something, anything, but he was motionless, as deferent in the end to the High Priest as the rest of the kingdom, despite his many-times-higher status. So it was all you could do to dip your head in feigned respect before spinning on your heel, leaving a path of red footprints in your wake as you left the temple unimpeded.

They gave you until the next dawn to leave — after all, dawn was Phainon’s domain, and so they could pretend like it was mercy or caring that drove them to this. He will guide you, the High Priest assured you as his servants stripped your chambers of their finery, carrying the velvets and silks to the temple where they would be burnt in search of Nikador’s forgiveness. Wherever your path leads you, he will light your way.

You saw him at the kingdom gates in the blue hour, when the sun was beginning to creep over the horizon and your pony was impatiently pawing at the dirt of the road. He wore new robes, the collar trimmed with velvet, his face lined with satisfaction, and when he saw you he had the nerve to bow, although you were a princess no longer and he had not shown you that respect even when you had been.

At his side, her elbow secured with his fist, was your mother, and although her countenance was wan with despair, her very expression begging you not to leave her alone, she did not move. You could not bear to look at her, not without your throat threatening to close, so you pulled your cloak over your shoulders and knotted your fingers in your pony’s flaxen mane, as if through his unwavering strength you could find your own. Then, without looking back, you kicked him forward before you could falter, knowing that every moment you hesitated would only cause you and your mother both to suffer all the more.

“Go to your uncle!” she shouted after you as your pony spooked at shadows, bolting out of the kingdom with ears pinned. “Go to your uncle, he will—!”

She was cut off by the High Priest’s rebuke, and you squeezed your eyes shut, leaning forward and urging your pony faster, faster, wishing, not for the first time, to be somewhere far, somewhere that the High Priest and his ilk could not reach you ever again. If you had wings, you might’ve flown, and in the back of your mind you laughed at the thought that you could’ve, had you been naive enough to ask Phainon for that kind of a blessing. Yet as it was, your only recourse was galloping away on the mountain road, leaving your temple and your family and your title far behind, where you could never again reach them.

You wandered for some time — how long you could not say, but it was certainly many hours before you came across another person, the first sign of life you had encountered since leaving the kingdom. He was an old man, his eyes a bright shade of ochre set deep in his wrinkled, sun-worn face, his hair thin and white, his limbs spindly and bent. His clothes were torn and looked to be only hastily mended, and he walked with a warped branch serving as a cane, limping along the path without care for the day beating down on his caving back.

“Sir, are you alright?” you said, reining your pony to a stop beside him, ensuring your shadows fell over the man in some semblance of protection. “Why do you travel by yourself, in such a state?”

He beamed up at you, gummy and pink, and then he coughed. Before you could stop yourself, you were dismounting and patting him on the back, offering him your arm to steady himself with as he heaved and hacked.

“Ah, you are such a kind girl,” he said, his voice hoarse, his gnarled fingers digging into your bicep. “Not many would stop to help a stranger. Your family has raised you well.”

“My mother always told me that it is better to be scorned in the pursuit of kindness than to ignore someone who may be in need,” you said.

“She must be very proud of you,” he said. You frowned slightly before schooling your expression back into a pleasant, if not plain, one.

“Perhaps,” you said. “But what of your family? Why have they let you travel this road on your own? It is dangerous, you know.”

“My family and I are ever-quarreling,” he said, shaking his head with such affected despondence that it was nearly comedic. “My latest actions have drawn their ire, so I have excused myself from my home for a time. They will forgive me sooner or later, and then I will return to pester them as always, but at the moment, it is best that I am on my own.”

“I see,” you said. “In truth, I am in a similar situation, although I do not think I will be forgiven. I go now to my uncle, who does not know, yet, that I am to be spurned, and I hope that he understands my plight a little better than my brother and father did. Do you have a destination, sir? If our paths are similar, then I can accompany you for a time. I do not like the idea of you traveling alone, especially not at night. The wolves are so daring this time of year…”

“I have no path in mind,” he said. “I was set to walk this road until I thought their rage might have cooled, whereupon I would perhaps return home — or perhaps not.”

“Then you must come with me!” you said in alarm, for he was such a frail wisp of a person that even a particularly strong breeze might be enough to knock him over, let alone an actual threat. Though you were sure he was safe from the many thieves that liked to accost wayward travelers, having nothing worth stealing in the first place, that did not mean he would escape the notice of any beasts that might be hungry enough to grow indiscriminate in what they saw as prey.

“Oh, I would not want to be a bother,” he said. You shook your head.

“I insist. It would bother me far more to leave you behind; I would think of you with every step, wondering if something had happened,” you said. “Come, let me help you onto my pony. He is gentle, and anyways I will lead him, so you needn’t worry about falling.”

“You will walk!” the old man said, stepping into your cupped palms nonetheless and allowing you to boost him into the saddle. You shrugged, for although you were unused to such laborious work, you were determined to bear it without complaint.

“My uncle does not live very far,” you said. “And between the two of us, I am the better suited to it. Do not fret — if I thought I could not manage, I would not have offered!”

“You are generous to such a fault. One day, someone may take advantage of it,” the old man said, cracking his back as you began to walk forward.

“It is a habit for me,” you said. “Since childhood, I have been tasked with helping others. Nikador’s teachings call for it, if they are followed in their purest form. There can only be strength if it is in contrast to weakness, and it is the duty of those with to help those without.”

“I have not heard of such a creed,” he said.

“Many accept the words of the priests as those of Nikador themselves, but then, how easy it is to twist ideals if none are willing to seek the truth on their own! I have read the myths and the stories in their most ancient versions, so I have drawn my own conclusions, but I know they are in opposition to most,” you said.

“Then isn’t it vanity for you to assume that yours are the correct ones and theirs are not?” he said. You whirled to look at him with your jaw dropped, and when you saw he was serene as before, his eyes now closed, his lips still half-curled, you let out a surprised bark of laughter.

“I suppose so!” you said. “Though it’s not the priests’ interpretations I am opposed to, it is how — never mind. I should not burden you with my anger, fresh as it is.”

“After helping me, you worry about burdening me?” he said. You waved your hand dismissively.

“It’s beyond explaining, anyways,” you said. “And far from prudent. I have said too much already.”

“I won’t tell anyone,” he said. “The ramblings of an old man are hardly widely believed, anyways. You can speak freely before me.”

“I appreciate your offer,” you said. “But it is alright. You have your troubles, and I have mine; I won’t inquire into yours if you offer me the same courtesy. We may reach my uncle with our sanities intact in that way.”

“If it is what you prefer,” he said, and then neither of you spoke further, leaving nothing but the afternoon birdsong to fill the empty silence.

He was a good companion, the old man, and as the day bled into night and then back to morning again in a perpetual loop, you found you were grateful for him. Your feet may have ached terribly, but it was better than being alone, even if the two of you never conversed much beyond the basic formalities. You were fond of him in your own way, and with every hour that passed, you thought to yourself how wonderful it would have been if you both had met under better circumstances. Had he been younger, a citizen of your kingdom…had you still been a princess instead of an exile…you might’ve been friends in earnest instead of weary travelers merely following a road without end.

“We are nearing my uncle’s home,” you said when the firs began to mingle with poplars, the sunlight gold and dappled on the path instead of thin and harsh as it was in the alpine territories. “He can be frightening to those who do not know him, but I give you my word that he is a kind man, and I will do what I can to soften his heart to you.”

“You mean to bring me into his city?” the old man said.

“Do you have anywhere else to go? If you are even half as exhausted as I, then you should be thanking me. My uncle is well-regarded, and I will ensure your accommodations are comfortable,” you said.

“I thank you kindly for thinking of me, but it is long past time that we parted ways. I will not be welcome in the forest, and I do not want you to face any more troubles because of me,” he said.

“You haven’t brought trouble,” you protested. “And why wouldn’t the forest welcome you? You are so kind!”

“Ah, you wouldn’t say that if you knew more about me,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly. “Well, you see, my…aunt, who would be furious to know I just called them that, lives in the forest, and they will do anything to chase me away if they learn of my presence.”

“How cruel,” you said when he motioned for you to halt and then slid to the ground. “They really cannot tolerate you to that extent?”

“It would be best not to push it,” he affirmed. “Thank you for coming with me this far, but I will be alright from here. You were nothing like what I expected, but I am happier for it.”

“What do you mean by that?” you said, bending to embrace him in farewell even as you did. He inhaled sharply, and for a moment you thought you had overstepped, but then he was holding you to him with a strength that belied his delicate stature and advanced age. It took you aback, but it was somehow so tender that you made no move to escape, burying your face in his shoulder, which smelled of thyme and mountain-tea.

“Nothing,” he said. “Go on and do not hesitate. We will meet again, I am sure of it.”

“How can you be?” you said, more bewildered now than you had been in the entire time you had known him. He only hummed, mysterious and sly, and then turned to walk back the way you had come. You glanced at your pony, although of course he would be no help, and then back at the man, who continued to hobble along.

“Our business remains unfinished,” he called over his shoulder. “And I do not like to leave things open-ended.”

“...our business?” you repeated under your breath, trying to think of what he could possibly mean by that and coming up blank. Mounting your pony, you cued him forward, and then you shifted in your saddle for one final look at the strange man, who had never confounded you so greatly as in that moment — yet in one final twist, he had vanished, as surely as if he had never been there in the first place. You blinked a few times, attempting to clear your vision, but he did not reappear, and you were left with nothing but the ache in your legs from walking and the lingering warmth of his arms to know that he had been there at all.

The great city of the Grove was sheltered deep in the forest, caught in a sort of perpetual twilight from the lacy shade of the many boughs that criss-crossed over the sky and flourished eternally, blessed by Cerces as they were. Your uncle had told you, once, with mocking in his voice and a pinch to his brow, that the Grove itself was Cerces’s sanctuary, and so the entire place bloomed as a temple might, every blade of grass as sacred as any altar’s offerings.

He was waiting for you by the gates, and you did not ask him how he had known you would come, for of course he had — he knew everything, he was that sort of man, who could see farther and further than hawks and prophets alike. You only handed your pony to a waiting stableboy and then collapsed against him, your arms winding around his neck, clenching the fabric of his long coat and allowing a single sob to escape you.

“Uncle,” you said. “Oh, uncle, uncle, they’ve cast me from the mountain—”

“I know,” he said, and somehow you found his typical perfunctoriness to be a comfort instead of abrasive, as it often was. “I will come to your chambers tonight; there will be time to weep then, but not now. Now you must appear brave, or else I will not be able to convince the others to accept you. They are already wary of taking in one who reeks of Phainon’s meddling, and their reluctance will only double if you appear to be a frightened coward crawling to us and expecting our protection from the gods.”

“Who told you?” you said.

“Your mother sent a messenger bird,” he said. “Even in ink and parchment, her fear was evident. Is it true?”

“I don’t know what she wrote to you, or what the High Priest has poisoned her mind with, so I cannot say for certain, but given that I am here instead of home, you must know the situation is less than ideal,” you said.

“Later,” he said, pinching the bridge of his nose and then adjusting the filigreed eyepatch covering the left half of his face. “For now, have something to eat and take a bath. You look horrible, and you will have to face the rest of the Sages tomorrow.”

“I walked all this way,” you said. “I look better than you’d expect.”

“And still worse than one who must argue with the supreme authorities of the Grove ought to,” he shot back immediately. “Go, and gather your thoughts while you’re at it. They will not let you off without sharp questioning.”

The baths in the Grove were modeled in the way of the seaside capital, Okhema, although according to your father, who had been even so far in his youth, the marble buildings of Okhema had no equal, and certainly not here, where fashion was sacrificed for function. But you were in no position to be selective, and anyways, after traveling for so long, you would’ve been thrilled even by a particularly clear pond, so the steaming waters and stone benches of the bath seemed all but paradisiacal as you approached them tentatively.

Right as you dipped your toe in to check the temperature, you heard a small splashing sound, and then you were gasping, for there in the middle of the bath was a small bird, flapping its wings most desperately as it struggled to stay above the surface. Wading through the water as fast as you could, ignoring how the sudden heat of it nearly burnt you, you scooped the bird into your palms, cradling it carefully to your chest. It fluffed out its feathers indignantly, and you were careful to walk slowly back to the edge, so that you did not splash it by mistake, for it was already so damp and sorry-looking you could not bear the thought of worsening its plight.

“Oh, my dear friend, how did you end up here?” you said gently, mindlessly, looking over at the open window and wrinkling your nose, scratching under its beak in an attempt to soothe the tiny heart that you could feel hammering away in the glass cage of its chest. “Such a pretty creature you are. I’ve never seen anything like you before, but then again, I am so far from home that that shouldn’t come as a shock.”

Sitting on one of the steps carved into the side of the bath, you swished your legs about in the water idly, raising your hands into the air and smiling at the bird, who did not attempt to fly away, only cooing at you sweetly, prompting a giggle from you. It was a little songbird of a variety you did not recognize, small and white, with gold feathers ringing its neck and its beetle-dark eyes, which sparkled as it looked down on you like it was entirely pleased with its situation, despite still being soaked.

“I must continue to bathe, but the window is open, so you may fly away whenever you would like,” you said, setting it down on the lip of the bath before beginning to rub oil into your skin. “Or you may stay! I do not mind the company.”

The bird chirped at you, cocking its head, and although you knew it was ridiculous to believe you could genuinely converse with it, you could not help yourself from shaking your head with the utmost of solemnity, taking your strigil and scraping the oil off alongside the dirt of your ordeals, exhaling in relief as you did so, for it had been far too long since you had been properly clean — and longer since you had bathed of your own volition, not by one of the priests tasked with readying you for the ritual of sacrifice.

“I am glad I came as well,” you said. “You might’ve spent hours on your own if I had not. Well, at any rate, you would’ve been the cleanest songbird the Grove has ever seen, so there is that consolation.”

It pecked your hand as you set the strigil down, as if it were chastising you for making light of its troubles. You let your thumb run along its back in apology, and then you returned to immersing yourself in the bath, allowing the hot water to soothe away the tension in your muscles, which were still taut from how long you had spent walking. The steam turned the world hazy, and you stretched languidly, one arm and then the other, finding yourself in such a dreamlike state it was a wonder you did not fall asleep entirely.

“Do wake me up if I should drift off,” you told the bird through a yawn. “Since leaving home, I have not been sleeping well, if at all. It is difficult to go from a palace to a field in a span of hours, you must understand.”

“Excuse me? This bath is meant only for the Seven Sages. Who are you?”

The voice was masculine and unfamiliar, and immediately you sat up, your earlier playfulness replaced with a sense of dread, though the man had given you no reason yet to fear him.

“My uncle told me it was alright for me to come here,” you said. “He said no one else would be using it at this hour.”

“Your uncle?” the man said. “Ah, Anaxagoras. He always has been one to bend the rules. You are the infamous niece, then? But you look nothing like him.”

“He was taken in by my mother’s family when he was young. We share no blood,” you said. “Who are you?”

“I am Socrippe,” he said. “Another of the Seven Sages of the Grove. Ordinarily, your uncle would have been right to say the baths would be deserted at this hour, but I was tired of our latest debate and asked to be excused early.”

“I see,” you said. “It is an honor to meet you, great Sage.”

“So you are the girl that has piqued Phainon’s interest,” Socrippe said, and then he was crossing the bath so that the two of you were side by side, mere paces apart. You shrank away, but he followed you, and the bird trilled as you edged closer and closer to where it had thus far sat undisturbed. “I can see why. With how beautiful you are, I am surprised you have not won Mnestia’s heart as well.”

“Thank you for your kind words, but I must be going now,” you said. “My uncle awaits me.”

“Your uncle is still busy in that debate, arguing that we must hear your case and give you the chance to stay with us. The rest of the Sages are stubborn, but I am sure they will at least listen to you tomorrow. Have you prepared a proper defense? If not, I can assist you. You will not have to try very hard to convince me, at least,” he said.

“I appreciate your concern, but I really am alright. My uncle’s counsel shall be more than sufficient,” you said.

“What is the hurry? Stay, do not let me be the reason you leave earlier than you would’ve liked,” he said when you made to stand, catching your wrist and tugging at it. You felt it, then, the phantom hands of those priests as they scrubbed your back with pumice, how unsympathetic they had been, how harsh, like they were goading you into a yelp you refused to give them, reluctantly permitting them only the satisfaction of seeing your shivers, which you could not help yourself from. Yanking your arm back, you hastened your pace, although it did not matter when he, too, stood and mirrored your every step.

“Thank you for your generosity, but it is unnecessary,” you repeated, though it was in vain.

“You mistake me,” he said, and although he was not so close, it suddenly seemed as though he were looming over you, as if here were a great tree and you were merely the size of the bird at your feet. “It isn’t generosity. I am not offering.”

You took a deep breath, trying to think of a prayer to Nikador. They would not come to your aid, not so deep in the Grove, which was Cerces’s domain and thus forbidden for all other gods to approach, but the words alone would bring you solace as the Sage came nearer and nearer. Yet for some reason, every ode to war was gone from your mind, and all you could think of was a hymn for the sun-bringer, which you did not even remember ever learning.

How, then, shall I sing of you? For everywhere, Phainon, is beholden to you, over the mountains and across the isles, from high-sloping foothills to beaches canting seaward. Do I sing of how you were born a man amidst golden furrows, and how you then rose to become the joy of mankind itself? Hear this, Earth and wide Heaven, surely he will have his fragrant altar and precinct, and he shall be honored above all; as for me, I will carry his name close to my heart, and I will never cease to praise that white calamity, o shining Phainon, god of every dawn.

In his single-mindedness, Socrippe stumbled on the bird, which set it to shrieking. You covered your mouth as the Sage yelled and the bird flew at his face with a fury you had not expected such a small thing could contain, and then you pulled a towel around your waist, fleeing the bath while he was distracted, thanking Nikador for the intervention under your breath. For surely it had been them, you thought as you touched your forehead in reverence, who else could drive a bird to such madness? And one who had been so cheerful only moments before! You had thought they had abandoned you, but all along they were there, your defender to the last.

You had had some plans of great productivity after returning to your temporary chambers, of eating a full meal and preparing your defense for the Seven Sages, but the bed proved irresistible, and before you knew it you were curling on your side, pulling your blanket up to your chin and closing your eyes, although you promised yourself you would not sleep. It would be unwise — you still had much to do — the day was young, the sun had not even reached its zenith —

A paw batted at your forehead, and at first all you could do was groan, pushing it aside, but to your consternation, the animal remained undeterred, tapping you again and again. You squeezed your eyes shut, doing your best to ignore its demands, but it seemed to disagree with this, for then there was a pressure on your chest, the unexpected weight of the creature all but suffocating, causing you to cough as your lungs constricted in alarm. Against your will, your eyes opened, and you were met with a pink nose and a stare like finchfeathers, glowing even in the dark of the evening.

“I fell asleep!” you said, sitting up abruptly, earning your a plaintive mewl from the cat as it tumbled onto the blanket and looked up at you dolefully, its ears low and its fur standing on end. “Yes, yes, thank you for waking me. It would’ve been embarrassing if my uncle came to visit while I was still slumbering away like a child sent to nap.”

Evidently, the cat forgave you for your transgressions, for it rolled over on its back and peered at you invitingly, beginning to purr as you stroked behind its ears, rubbing its cheek against your wrist in content. A lump swelled in your throat the longer you pet it, and with your free arm you hugged your knees to your chest, trying to stifle your tears but finding yourself unsuccessful.

“How many wonderful things this Grove has,” you said. “First that bird blessed by Nikador, and now—hey!”

The cat’s claws had caught against your palm, leaving behind an angry scratch, not deep enough to bleed, but enough to smart adamantly. When you pretended to scowl at it, it blinked at you, slow and innocent, and then it flicked its tail in an obvious solicitation for you to continue. You did not, crossing your arms and thinking yourself quite stern for it, but instead of being cowed as you thought it would be, the cat only stood and shook itself, prancing about atop the blanket with no small amount of self-approbation.

“Now, don’t be like that,” you said, giving in and extending your arms. “You took me by surprise, that’s all. Come back.”

The show was over in an instant; it leapt at you, a flying mass of fur and outstretched legs toppling into your lap and tucking its tail over its paws, glaring at you until you continued your earlier ministrations, albeit more pensive now, lost in reminiscing.

“I had a kitten just like you when I was younger,” you said. “Though she was a tortoiseshell, not all white as you are, and she had the prettiest green eyes. Like the emeralds in my father’s Okheman ring. I would tie ribbons around her neck and bring her everywhere with me; in that time, they called her the second princess and claimed I would’ve given her my wreaths if they would’ve fit her.”

You lifted the cat, paying no mind to its disgruntled huff in the moment but patting it in apology after you had returned it to the dip in the cushion where you had formerly sat. Going to the mirror, you began to fiddle with your hair, attempting to make yourself presentable enough that your uncle would not ridicule you for your sloppiness.

“I would’ve, maybe,” you said to the cat, who was also grooming itself, perhaps in an imitation of you. “But the High Priest took her from me before her first year. He said that it was better I grieved her now, when I loved her less, than to save it for later, when my sensitive mind would not be able to bear it with the unflinching nature Nikador required. I’m not sure what he did with her; he never told me, I think because he knew I would seek her out. In the end, the truth of her fate was less important than what it meant to me — she had gone somewhere I could not reach, as all things I would love eventually would.

“Nikador tells us that we do not weep, we stand true in the face of adversity and turn our sorrow into strength, but I could not help how I cried that night. The priests chastised me for it, but I was a child and did not understand what meaning they were trying to impart. All I knew was that there was a bleak void in my chest, for my heart had gone with her, wherever she might have been, and I did not know if I would ever be whole again.”

Giving up on your appearance and deciding you would just have to take your uncle’s comments in stride, you reclined next to the cat again, permitting it to clamber onto your chest and ruffling its fur idly as your mind wandered, thinking of everything you had left behind without even a farewell. You hadn’t been given the time, not when the dawn encroached so rapidly on the night, not when the High Priest and all who followed him were watching your every move, waiting to find a moment of weakness that they could prey upon — because it was not enough to exile you, of course it was not. They wanted to destroy you, and they would not settle for anything less.

You did not doubt that even now, they were poisoning the hearts of your former subjects, telling them how the princess had been so consumed with thoughts of godhood that she had even abandoned her people, that she had fled from her duties out of some dream of worshipping Phainon and marrying Nikador. Or maybe they would not even say that much; maybe they would omit the last part entirely, simply announcing that you had grown enamored with Phainon’s promises, had not been strong enough to resist his ethereal temptation, and so had gone somewhere where you could pray to him until he blessed you wholly, in flesh and spirit alike.

“As if I would ever pray to that conceited, arrogant deity,” you muttered to yourself, emboldened by Cerces’s omnipotence in the Grove to speak the truth, for they would defend you if it came to it. “Appearing when he wasn’t even wanted, forcing me to ask him for a boon in exchange for my unwilling worship…what sort of a god! Would that Nikador had come, as they had been bid to. My death might’ve meant something then, for it would’ve been the death of a princess, a sacrifice — I might have become a sort of martyr for my brother to learn spine and soundness from, though that could be asking too much. But we’ll never know, will we? Because thanks to Phainon, I am here, a common outcast begging for shelter and talking to a cat like it can understand me.”

The cat meowed. You gave it a look. It meowed again. You snorted.

“My apologies. Talking to a cat because it most certainly can understand me,” you said. “Do all creatures of the Grove have such intelligence and charm? You must teach my uncle your ways, for he is possessed with twice the intelligence but not nearly half the charm.”

Like you had summoned a visitor by taking one’s name, there was a knock on your door, and before he opened it you knew it was your uncle, because he was a Sage, and so the world of the Grove always bent a little differently where he was concerned. Winking at the cat and raising your finger to your lips like you were swearing it to secrecy, you called for your uncle to enter as he’d like, shifting so that your posture was correct, without flaw, for of the many things you knew he might pick at, you did not want that to be one.

“Good evening,” he said as entered, holding a plate in one hand, resting the other on his hip. “I was told you did not ever call for your meal. I can only assume it was because you were preoccupied with more important matters.”

“Entirely,” you said, taking the food without even thanking him, for you were so famished and he had, you noticed, ensured that what was prepared was a dish you had loved in your youth.

“You are a horrible liar,” he said.

“Only to you, who knows me so well,” you said, permitting yourself the bit of cheek — you had always been his favorite, for the very reasons you were so reviled by the leaders of the cult of Nikador. To the priests, your inquisition was a thing to be feared, but to Anaxagoras, the Fourth Sage of the Grove, it was a cherishable quality that he cupped his hands around and protected, as surely as one might guard the wavering flame of a lantern in the wind. That was why your mother had told you to go to him, and why you had planned on it before she had even made the suggestion: not out of any sort of familial duty, but his keen recognition, his acceptance of the state of things how they were and not how they ought.

“But the time for lies and jest is past,” he said. “Now you must tell me what happened and why you are here.”

“Perhaps we should begin with you telling me what you heard from my mother,” you said. “I do not wish to bore you with redundancies.”

“She did not write much. I doubt that she could,” he said. “All she said was that you had somehow attracted the gaze of Phainon, and so the priests had banished you from the mountains for fear of what Nikador might think should they continue to harbor the devotee of one that is so loathed by that war-mongerer.”

“Then the High Priest has done exactly as I thought he might,” you said. “Of course. Even though I am in exile, my very name cannot be allowed to linger on people’s lips as anything more than a reference to a weak-willed joke of a girl.”

“I surmised as much,” your uncle said, furrowing his brow at the cat, offering it his closed fist. The cat hissed, slinking back to hide behind you, nudging you in displeasure, like it was urging you to reprimand him for even the approach. “But Phainon’s mark does linger upon you, and that can only mean you have asked him for something. I thought you were sharper than that.”

“Do you think I wanted to?” you snapped. “It was Nikador they were meant to summon, my brother and that accursed High Priest. I am sure you are aware of the storms that have torn at the mountain for weeks now?”

“Of course I am,” he said. “Though I was under the impression they paused for a time, and only resumed recently.”

“Yes, I was fortunate that they ceased while I was traveling; perhaps it is that Nikador took pity on me and allowed me safe passage, or perhaps it was Phainon, though I doubt the latter is the case,” you said. “Anyways, during the worst of it, there was a great convocation in the throne room. Every priest in the kingdom was called to attend, and my entire family, too, as we made our plans for how we might appease the great lord. My brother suggested hosting games in Nikador’s name, for they are fond of sporting events, of the competitive verve to it all, but the people were too storm-weary to consider participating in such a ceremony. One of the younger priests thought that we might build a grander temple for them, as ours is old and, some may say, falling into disrepair. Then there was me, who said that maybe Nikador was expressing their displeasure at the order of the priests, who had not served their name in as many years as I had lived.”

“They did not take kindly to it,” your uncle said rhetorically. “You should’ve known better than to say anything.”

“I was tired of them,” you said. “They spoke of games and buildings and slaughterings, but who would do these things? Not them, comfortable as they are, twisting Nikador’s laws to serve their own purposes and make themselves all the wealthier, all the more powerful. The High Priest has already deposed my father in all but name, and he will soon do the same to my brother, who is ten times as irresolute and quivering as his sire, malleable to suggestion in a way you taught me not to be.”

“It is as innate as it is taught,” your uncle said, and although he was brusque, his words were tinged with mourning, for you could tell by the expression he wore that he had already understood where the story was going and now only waited for you to confirm it. “Your brother has long since been past saving. I could not manage it, so how could you?”

“I wanted to, though,” you said. “I wanted to take his hand and bring him into understanding, to lead him from the mania of the priests and into Nikador’s heart, where we might have resided together. I argued with him so desperately that day, him and my father alike, begging them to hear me this once, and for a moment I swear I saw him falter. He would have joined me, uncle, I know it, but then the High Priest had a vision.”

How perfectly it had coincided, a stroke of lightning as the High Priest raised his hand, the room falling silent, your father’s vapidness dissipating in an instant, replaced with a sheen of rapture as he leaned towards the High Priest and away from his straight-backed throne. Nikador had spoken to the High Priest, who was the only one they ever communed with, or so he said, and now he would turn prophecy into decree, vision into direction, storm into sunshine.

“‘They demand the grandest sacrifice,’” you repeated miserably, the words etched into your memory as clearly as if they had just been spoken for the first time. “‘The princess. Only by giving herself can she satisfy them; anything less will be seen as an offense of the highest order.’”

“What a fraud,” your uncle said, pacing the breadth of the room, and while his voice remained level, his every bootstep was livid, incensed. “To claim divine intervention—”

“But who would say as much? In face of Nikador’s so-called will, we are all powerless,” you said. “How easy it was for him to sentence me to death. My brother did not argue; my mother could not; my father would not. I did not fight it, either, for I knew it would come to nothing, and I refused to let them know that they had — that they had — that they had been successful. I would die as Nikador’s sacrifice, and in the runes written with my blood, my brother, who was tasked with the butchering, would finally come to see the truth.”

“Go on,” your uncle said when you paused. “Finish the story.”

“That idiotic boy,” you said. “He is still a child. Not a prince, and far from a priest, who would be trained in such arts. He was chosen only to prove his mettle, his loyalty to the High Priest, and I suppose he did as much, even going so far as to raise his dagger against me — though in the end, it came to nothing. In his nerves, he floundered his invocation, and so instead of Nikador, he inadvertently called upon Phainon. And unlike Nikador, who is silent even when they do grant our wishes, Phainon answered.

“He turned away the High Priest and my brother alike, finding intrigue only in me. I wonder if he thought I was a sacrifice meant for him, or if he understood that I was Nikador’s and simply did not care, or even delighted in it, thinking that by stealing my loyalty, he would have won yet another victory in that eternal rivalry of theirs. He offered me many things, uncle, in the pursuit of taking me for his own, but I refused them all, for I knew that his blessings would not come without a price. Yet I worried, too; those who reject the gods fare no better than those who embrace them.”

Your uncle’s fingers touched the hollow where his eye had once rested, and, pursing your lips, you let yours follow, lacing through his and squeezing. He had never told you what it was he had bargained his eye away for, had never told anyone, but it did not take a Sage or Cerces to know that whatever it was hadn’t been enough. That was how it was with gods, really; always unequal. Always tilted in their favor. Always lacking.

“I asked him to convince Nikador to take me as their bride. If he was unsuccessful, then my life would not change, or so I thought; if, by some miracle, he was triumphant, then I would be safe at their side, out of the reach of his eventual retribution. For a moment I thought he would refuse, but then he agreed, vanishing with a promise that we would meet again, and that was that,” you said.

“The priests were unhappy that their plan to be rid of you had failed,” your uncle completed. “But they could not kill you without risking Phainon’s wrath, so they came up with some excuse about his enmity with Nikador to banish you from the mountain forever.”

“Yes,” you said. “And so I came here, the only place that I have left. Do you think the Sages will accept me? I don’t demand to be treated like royalty; I know I am not that any longer. But I can read and write, and my mother tells me I am good with the young ones, so I could be a teacher, if there is need…or a recordkeeper, or anything, really, though if it is a more laborious task, I may need instruction, I am still not so good with my hands…”

“Listen to me,” your uncle said, placing his hands on your shoulders firmly. “I cannot promise anything, and neither can I lie to you. The other Sages are disconcerted by your presence, and I cannot blame them. Ever since you came here, it’s as if Phainon himself is with us, and divinity of such magnitude is enough to make even the greatest of men shudder. But you know I am always on your side, and as it happens, I am looking for a teaching assistant, so perhaps — if all goes well — something can be arranged.”

“Thank you,” you said, and if he were one for it, you would’ve embraced him again, as you had upon your arrival. Yet he would not appreciate it, you were sure, so all you did was gather his hands together and press your forehead to his knuckles, holding it there until you could be certain he understood what you meant by it.

Although you had fallen asleep with the white cat tucked under your chin, when you awoke the next morning, it was nowhere to be found. You should not have been surprised, as it was so well-kept and friendly that it surely must’ve belonged to someone, but you could not help the disappointment that crept into your throat. At your loneliest, it had come and, for a time, raised your spirits, so could you be blamed for your longing? Especially now, as you donned the austere garb of one of the Grove’s scholars, pulling the hood over your hair in keeping with their modest tradition. It was foreign, the stiff fabric, the dull coloring, and you longed for something familiar — the rumble of a purr, or the curve of your uncle’s smile, both which you would be denied until after you had passed the Sages’ trial.

Dawn in the Grove was the brightest time of day, and as you swept down the hall towards where the Sages awaited you, you paused by the largest window, narrowing your eyes at the sun peeking above the treetops. The sky wasn’t as vibrant here as it was in the mountains, every shade muted, everything soft around the edges as the morning climbed over the horizon, tinged with the fading lavender of the night. Perhaps it was because Cerces had secluded themselves from the rest of the gods, and so Phainon did not brand their dawns with the same violence as he did Nikador’s, in concession to their enduring neutrality, or maybe in fear of their rare condemnation.

“How, then, shall I sing of you?” you said, reciting the same hymn as had come to mind the day before, the one you must have learnt at some point, though you still could not recall exactly when. “For everywhere, Phainon, is beholden to you, over the mountains and across the isles, from high-sloping foothills to beaches canting seaward. Do I sing of how you were born a man amidst golden furrows, and how you then rose to become the joy of mankind itself? Hear this, Earth and wide Heaven, surely he will have his fragrant altar and precinct, and he shall be honored above all; as for me, I will carry his name close to my heart, and I will never cease to praise that white calamity, o shining Phainon, god of every dawn.”

You did not mean it as a prayer, only a way to taste the words, to roll them in your mouth, to chew on their softness, so unlike the hard, unyielding edges of Nikador’s many odes. They were beautiful, you had to admit as much, coalescing quietly in the corners of your ribcage and flickering like embers, warming you from within like a sunrise captured in miniature.

A soft rustling drew your attention from the clouds to the sill of the window, where a bird had just landed. It was the same kind as the one you had saved in the bath, and when it did not shy away from your proffered index finger, you rubbed along the honeyed feathers underneath its eye. For a moment, it allowed you the indulgence, and then it hopped away, warbling out a song before taking off and flying back to, you supposed, wherever it had come from. You watched it go, your heart a little lighter for its visit, your shoulders a little less burdened, your mind a little more prepared for your meeting with the Sages.

It began, as many such meetings did, with the most important member speaking first. Although in theory all of the Sages were equal, they tended to hold the eldest of their ranks in the highest esteem, for in the Grove, an accumulation of years also meant one’s wisdom would have increased to match. In the present time, said eldest Sage was Medea, the Sixth Sage, a haughty woman with angular features and irises like frostbitten earth.

“Niece of Anaxagoras, the Fourth Sage,” she began. “You are here to seek asylum in the Grove. If you pass the examination of the Sages, you will become the Fourth Sage’s teaching assistant, and he will aid you in acclimatizing to life in the Grove, which is surely nothing like the one you have led thus far.”

“Yes, great Sage,” you said, bowing as your uncle had instructed you to, demure and nigh-bashful. “I submit to your inquiries, and whatever it is that you may ask, I swear to answer with only the truth.”

“Only three Sages wish to question you today,” Medea said. “Stagira, the Third Sage, what do you ask of the girl?”

“Will you renounce your ties to Phainon and Nikador alike? If you stay in the Grove, then you will be a child of Cerces, and although Cerces is an affable goddess, they are also a jealous one. You must forget that you were born of the cult of the Nikador, and that you have been chosen by Phainon. Do you have it in you to cleanse yourself of your heritage and your claims, becoming a student anew?” Stagira said. He was a man, older than your uncle but a mere child beside Medea, and his expression was so lively you did not think that he was attempting to trick you, leading you to nod earnestly.

“Yes, great Sage. I will forget that either existed; the cult of Nikador has already expelled me, and Phainon…” you trailed off and shook your head. “I was never his devotee in the first place.”

“That is all,” he said. You glanced at your uncle, who inclined his chin the slightest angle, imperceptible to anyone who was not looking for it, prompting you to sigh. The first test was passed; two more and you were free.

“Apuleius, the Fifth Sage, what do you ask of the girl?” Medea said. He was nearer to her in age, and there was a scar running down his misshapen nose, ending right above the faint line of his mouth. You could tell from even the way he walked that he was less affable than Stagira, but you were used to prickly, thorny men, for they were a common breed whence you hailed, and so you did not shy back as he must’ve liked you to.

“This scar on my face,” Apuleius said, pointing at it for emphasis. “What does your first instinct blame it on?”

War, you thought to yourself. Violence. An altercation. Someone who tried to hurt you, who tried to kill you, who tried to tear your face apart, so that you resembled the two-faced Janus for their efforts.

“An experiment with unforeseen results,” you said. Apuleius regarded you carefully, and then he laughed, clapping your uncle on the shoulder.

“She is quick to learn. Your influence, no doubt, Anaxagoras,” he said. “If a daughter of strife can think through her words so carefully, then all hope may yet not be lost.”

“You know better than to give another credit for one’s victory, Apuleius,” your uncle said.

“You’re right,” he said. “Well done, girl. And no, although I wish the scar’s origin was so mysterious, the real story is far more embarrassing. I simply fell from my horse and landed face-first onto a particularly sharp stone.”

You winced. “I am glad you suffered no worse injuries, great Sage.”

“It may have left me a little frenzied in the years to follow, but then, those of the Grove always are of such a temperament, so what difference does it make?” he said. “Alright then, boy. Ask her your questions and let us be done with this affair.”

“The Seventh Sage,” Medea said, the corners of her mouth tugging downwards. “Socrippe. What do you ask of the girl?”

The man you had met yesterday in the baths was unrecognizable, his face covered with bandages, a formidable gleam in eyes, the whites of which were shot through with enraged crimson. The other Sages murmured to themselves, and you, too, swallowed nervously, for you had not expected him to be in such a state, not when he had been perfectly fine at your last meeting.

“How was I injured?” he said.

“I am not sure, great Sage,” you said.

“You lie,” he said, and then he was jabbing his index finger at you. “This wicked woman attacked me in our own bath yesterday! I had gone to wash after excusing myself from the debate, and she was so infuriated by my company that clawed at me with her fingernails until she drew blood. She is no dove that we can tame, she is a beast that will hunt all in this Grove down if we let her stay!”

“Is this true?” Medea said sharply. You shook your head.

“No, there must be some mistake, that’s not — that’s not what happened, I didn’t — he approached me, and I did not attack him, I only ran—” you stammered, your composure crumbling at their stony glares.

“You’re accusing a Sage of lying?” Medea said, her every word a self-contained avalanche. “He has taken an oath in the name of Cerces, and he will not break it! Need I remind you who is the guest here?”

“I should’ve known,” Apuleius said, clicking his tongue. “You can dress a wolf in the skin of a lamb, but you can’t make it merciful for long. I am ashamed that I was fooled for even a moment.”

“You may renounce Nikador, but it seems he will never renounce you,” Stagira said.

“I didn’t attack him!” you said.

“I know my niece, and she would never do such a thing,” your uncle said. “There must be some alternate explanation or confusion.”

“So you are calling me confused, Anaxagoras?” Socrippe said. “Careful, or you will be replaced. There are plenty who can do your job just as well as you.”

“Now, Socrippe, you don’t have the authority to declare that,” Medea warned. “It would come to a vote, and do not think that you have the power to sway us all against him.”

“But as for the matter of the girl…” Apuleius prompted.

You thought there would be hatred in Medea’s mien, but to your shock, she seemed a little sad, clasping her hands together and closing her eyes. Maybe it was that she knew Socrippe had broken his oath and mourned her helplessness in proving the truth, or maybe it was that she only regretted having to give such horrible news when she had surely prepared for a happier occasion. Although the latter was far more probable, the thought of the former comforted you as she clapped once, so you chose to believe in it.

“All those in favor of sending her to Okhema, raise your hands,” she said.

One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. The rest of the Sages looked at your uncle, at dear Anaxagoras, who clenched his jaw and stared straight ahead with his arms pinned to his sides. They already had a clear majority, so it wasn’t as if they needed his vote, yet you sensed they would not move forth until he made a decision one way or another.

You turned around so that you did not have to witness it, and a minute later, Medea clapped again. You did not know how your uncle had voted; it was like that cat, really, the one you had had in your childhood, the one that the High Priest had taken from you. It didn’t matter whether he said yes or no — what mattered was that it was done, concluded, and irreversibly so.

“The motion is passed. Girl, leave the Grove at once; if you are prudent, you will go to Okhema and tell the Council of Elders that Medea sent you, but never again shall you return here. You are not welcome any longer.”

They were kind enough to return your pony, along with some food and a letter to one of the Elders of Okhema, Caenis, written by Medea herself. You did not wait for your uncle to come and wish you farewell; you did not think he would, anyways. The two of you were not so dissimilar, after all.

Your pony did not complain about being told to trot down the road, going merrily, even flicking his toes as he went along. You were glad that he was happy, for then at least one of you was, and you allowed him the length of the rein to do with as he pleased, eventually urging him to canter, then gallop, until the trees thinned and you had left the forest behind for good.

“Miss! Miss, wait!”

You were ambling through a field of barley when you heard a boy shouting after you. You swiveled in your seat, at first presuming your mind to be playing tricks on you, but then you saw him, sprinting through the resplendent sea of crops with a ball in his hand. His hair was a pale shock on his head, and when he caught up to you, his amber eyes crinkled at the corners in greeting. You halted but did not dismount, for there was foreboding in the air, and although you were loath to leave the child behind, you could not help but think that there was some merit to the notion that he was the very source of your apprehension.

“There you are,” he said, his hands on his thighs as he huffed for breath. “I’ve been looking for you. You disappeared for a little while — it worried me!”

“Do I know you?” you said, as politely as you could. “Perhaps you think I am someone else.”

The boy’s smile did not drop. “I would not mistake you for anyone. We’ve met a few times."

“I’m sure we haven’t,” you said, subtly pressing your heels into your pony’s sides, telling him to walk on, albeit without any speed.

“Oh! That’s my mistake,” he said. “Wait, wait, do you recognize me now?”

Right before you, he aged decades in only a second, leaving him a hunched old man leaning on a branch, his face split with a broad smile, pink and gummy. Your eyes widened, and although everything in you demanded you flee, you were paralyzed as your old companion waved a wrinkled hand at you.

“Or maybe this is better?” he said, and then he was melting into the form of a white cat, chasing his tail playfully before, in a burst of feathers, turning into a songbird with gold around his neck and eyes.

“No,” you said, shaking your head furiously, clenching your fists so hard you were surprised your palms did not bleed from the force with which your nails dug into them. “No, it can’t be. Say it isn’t so. Please, say it isn’t so. You can’t be—”

“It is so, o sacrifice!” he said, springing into the air fully formed, a tall man in handsome armor, his eyes still that same burning shade of dawn, his hair still as white as jasmine.

“Phainon,” you said. He beamed at you.

“Well done,” he said. “Yes, it is me. I have been keeping careful watch over you, you know. Why do you think you were never confronted by bandits or bad weather? Ah, but attacking that Sage put me in a lot of trouble with Cerces, so maybe you ought to forget about asking for any blessings and begin to consider how you might repay me.”

“Why would you do such a thing?” you said. “You aren’t Nikador, I haven’t asked for your protection, so there’s — there’s no need for you to give it! Leave at once, I beg of you!”

“Actually,” Phainon said, although he visibly deflated at your repudiation, his shoulders sagging and his eyes growing large, nearly watery with defeat, which was a ridiculous expression on anyone, let alone a fully-fledged god, “I have something to tell you. I think that I can grant your wish, if it is still what you want.”

“What?” you said, your panic replaced with a momentary inquisitiveness.

“Nikador,” he said. “Do you still…desire them? Because if it is so, then listen to me carefully — I have discovered that the stories of their battle-hardened heart are not entirely complete. The truth is as follows: once before, many ages ago, they, too, knew what it was to love.”

taglist (comment/send an ask to be added): @urrluverrr @itseightamineedsleep

#phainon x reader #phainon x y/n #phainon x you #phainon #honkai star rail #hsr #hsr x reader #reader insert #ancient greek au #m1ckeyb3rry writes #bellerophon

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messymoonmad · 23 days ago

Note

What would it be like if the three brothers would exchange domains for a while or simply 24 hours?

Click for better quality

This is THE BEST ask I've ever gotten cause I just LOVE redesigning with new conditions. Also there's just TOO MUCH joke potential here so this is gonna be a mini series with 2 rounds cause they also have to try the second combination (zeus as king of tides, hades king of thunder and poseidon king of the dead)

(Lil addition)

@jjpsc

Part 1 - part 2

Bonus

#power swap #comic #mini series #modern greek mythology #greek mythology #greek myth #hades #zeus #poseidon #the big three #notice how both will still remain shirtless while hades is always dressed respectably #my art #messymoonmess #this is also a very old ask...

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curse-of-art · 26 days ago

Text

JUNGKOOK FANFIC RECOMMENDATIONS Pt.2

🔞 All of these fics contain smut, so please take your own risk 🔞

-BEWARE OF THEIR WARNINGS-

୨ৎ─ Jungkook Part 1 ─୨ৎ─ Taehyung ─୨ৎ

❥ Risk Tastes Like Strawberries and Thunder (oneshot, brother's bestfriend au) by @dailynnt

❥ No Mercy (series/ongoing, mafia au, enemies to lovers) by @dailynnt

❥ The Mask of Purity (series/ongoing, idol au, yandere) by @lostinbangtan7

❥ Pearl Series (series/completed, yandere, sugardaddy au) by @lovelyspring7

❥ Mutt (series/ongoing, friends with benefits au) by @letsbangts

❥ The Oh! Chronicles (series/ongoing, brother's bestfriend au) by @shadowkoo

❥ Just This Once (twoshots?/ongoing, friends to lovers au) by @ggukivrse

❥ Taking Over You (series/completed, yandere) by @go1denjeon

❥ Toxic (smau/ongoing) by @girlygguk

❥ Crazy (series/ongoing, coworkers to lovers au) by @girlygguk

❥ Cruel Secrets (oneshot, yandere) by @kookiesncreamri

❥ Mirrors (series/completed, friends with benefits au) by @yoonia

❥ Scattered Stars (oneshot, soulmate au, enemies to lovers au) by @taegularities

❥ Starstruck (twoshots, yandere, actor au) by @trivia-yandere

❥ Off-Limits (series/completed, brother's bestfriend au) @trivia-yandere

❥ Like We Were + Bonus (oneshot, forgotten love) by @armpirate

❥ Devil's Law (oneshot, criminal jk x lawyer oc) by @armpirate

❥ How Many Drinks ? (oneshot, bestfriends with benefits au, friends to lovers au) by @xpeachesncream

❥ Pick & Roll | LA Lakers (oneshot, friends with benefits au, brother's bestfriend au) by @xpeachesncream

❥ Bloodlines Entwined (series/completed, werewolf au, strangers to lovers au, soulmate au) by @spideyjimin

❥ Love in the Dark (oneshot, ceo au, forbidden romance au) by @spideyjimin

❥ Shameless (series/ongoing, bestfriend's boyfriend au) by @redcherrykook

❥ Midnight Snack (oneshot, somnophilia) by @redcherrykook

❥ Bloody Crawling Back to You + Sequel (secret agent au, coworkers au) by @acheronsociety

❥ Perfect Partner + Sequel + Prequel (yandere, dark romance) by @peoniesnro

❥ Cold Nights & Blurred Lines (oneshot, college au, friends with benefits au) by @awrkive

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livinghalfway · 2 months ago

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Bury Him with the Roses Pt. 1

Masterlist

Summary: Damian learns that his twin is alive only to learn that he was dead and buried a few hours before his impromptu arrival to the Fenton household. When he goes to visit Danyal's final resting place he finds two individuals digging up his brother's grave. Word Count: 1302

Damian will say time and time again that school is a waste of his time. Which is why he'll never admit that he enjoys projects that allow him to truly deep dive on subjects he wouldn't normally have any reason to.

This specific school project has him doing research about animals that were once thought to be doomed for extinction only for their numbers to rise once more. Which is how Damian found himself looking at the face of a familiar looking boy that disappeared so many years ago; his twin.

Apparently, his brother saved the purple-back gorillas from going extinct a year after his disappearance from the League. Instead of reading further into the article, and wondering how so many professionals were able to miss something so critical to an animal's survival, he's stuck on the photo of Danyal smiling at the camera.

It feels as if he was staring at that face for hours when a knock on his bedroom door breaks his concentration.

"Master Damian, dinner will be served in a few moments if you wish to join us downstairs." Alfred calls out from behind the door.

"Thank you Pennyworth, I'll be down soon." He replies as calmly as he can, and it isn't until he hears footsteps heading away from his door does he feel like he can breathe again.

Before this Damian was fine with keeping the secret of Danyal close to his chest. He knows how this family deals with death, and he didn't want to put them through any more grief for a child they would never meet.

So how is he meant to reveal something so frightening. How are they going to react to this kind of betrayal; keeping a brother and son from them all because he didn't think they could handle it.

These thoughts are like a whirlwind as Damian slowly makes his way to the dining room. Upon entering he finds that everyone else is already seated. Which is when he remembers that this is one of those rare dinners where even Jason has agreed to attend.

Silently, he takes a seat with Bruce on his right, and Dick on his left. Damian would have been glad to just sail through the meal without saying anything, but of course Dick had to notice his voice missing from the choir.

"Baby bat, is everything all good? I don't think I've heard a single quip out of you tonight." Damian can tell he's trying to be casual with his question, but his concern is not hard to miss.

This was his moment to just confess everything wasn't it? He takes a calming breath and clears his throat before speaking. "Actually Richard, there is an announcement I must make. Something that I have kept to myself for far too long."

It's clear that everyone heard him as the table goes quiet, and all eyes look toward him. "I have a- a twin brother."

There. There it is. Finally out in the open.

That doesn't calm his heart thundering in his chest though as voices explode all around him with questions and demands. His father's though is the one that he pays any attention to.

"What is his name?" With the look on Bruce's face Damian wonders if stabbing him would have been kinder than doing this.

"His name is Danyal al Ghul, though I've recently discovered that he goes by the name Daniel Fenton now."

With the mention of a name Damian sees both Tim and Babs pulling out their phones to seemingly try, and find any information that can on his brother.

"Wait! A twin? Why didn't he come to Gotham with you then?" Duke, who is sitting across from him, questions.

"As of an hour or so ago I believed him to be dead." He feels Dick put a comforting hand on his shoulder, "He- he went on a mission with Mother, and never returned. I was told to forget all about him; that he was nothing but a weakness that would hold me back."

"Dami, I'm-" Dink starts to say something, but is interrupted by Bruce speaking up.

"You said you found out he was alive today, how? Are you sure it is him." Damian recognizes that tone, it's not his Father speaking anymore, it's Batman.

"Bruce." Dink's voice has a warning tone to it as he clearly doesn't like the way he's speaking to him. If anything though Damian prefers it right now. It allows him to think of this conversation more as a mission report than a personal one.

"I was doing research for school, and I came across an article about purple-back gorillas. It featured his name as well as a photo of Danyal due to his impact on the species."

"And you're positive it is not someone who just looks like him?"

"I gave Danyal a scar on his jaw before he left with Mother. The same scar can be seen in the photo."

"Found it." Tim announces, "And a scar is on the kid's jaw."

Jason, who is now leaning halfway out of his seat to look at Tim's phone, gives a whistle as he gets a look at the photo. "Yup, that is definitely your kid B. Looks just like the demon brat too minus the eyes of course.”

Without a word Bruce holds out a hand for the phone, and silently Tim passes it down to him. Everyone can tell he’s trying to keep his emotions to himself, but when he takes a look at the photo it’s clear something inside him is breaking. Knowing that he didn’t just miss the youth of not just one son, but two.

Slowly he slides the phone back to Tim before focusing on Babs, "Have you found any other information about him?"

"I'll have to do a more in depth search once I get my hands on an actual computer. The article is so far the only thing I've been able to find so far." Her face in a frown as she continues to search for more.

"Could the kid just not have any socials, and that's why nothing is popping up?" Stephanie questions.

"I would normally assume so if it weren't for the fact that I can barely find anything about his hometown that was listed in the article."

"Hm." Bruce's face is set in a deep frown as he stands up, "Let's continue this in the cave. I want a full report on every single thing found about Danyal, and who he's currently living with."

Practically everyone at those words rushed down to the cave, Damian on the other hand stayed seated. His eyes closed, and head slightly bowed. He couldn't help but wonder if he had done the right thing revealing Danyal's existence to everyone.

His twin must know that he is in Gotham after all. Why hasn't he reached out?

Despite the table now being empty Damian knows that he is not alone; behind him is a looming presence.

“Damian, sweetheart.” Bruce lays a gentle hand on his shoulder, his mask now completely gone as every emotion runs through his voice. “I wish you would have told me about your brother sooner. I’m sure you have your reasons though, and will want to hear them later. For now though I’m just going to ask if you’re alright.”

He didn’t know how to answer that question so instead he just stands up, and says, “I’ll be better once I see Danyal again. I assume you’ll be going to him once we have his location.”

“... Yes, I will be.”

“Then I will be joining you, and you can not stop me from doing so.” With that said Damian turns and strides towards the cave. A new goal now set in his mind.

Bring Danyal home.

#dc x dp #dc x dp crossover #danny phantom #batfam #damian and danny are twins #dc x dp au #danyal al ghul #angst

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just-some-random-blogger · 7 months ago

Text

Tormented Spirit | 6

Part 1 2 3 4 5 6 7

"Is it such a sin to stand up for yourself?" you mutter as tears blur your vision. The way he reacted was visceral, instinctive even. "You never have to stand up for yourself ever again," says Daemon, reaching a hand to you, "come."

Daemon Targaryen x Hightower!Reader | 5k+ | cw: fem!reader, reader has brown hair, wife!reader, twin!Gwayne, arranged/forced marriage, canon divergence, alternate universe, slow burn, smut (piv, biting, marking, mild choking) DD:DNE, violence/death, panic/anxiety attacks, mentions of pregnancy/labor, daddy issues/child abuse/family problems, mentions/depictions of mental/physical/psychosomatic illness, ye old misogyny, angst, typos, etc.

A/N: ayo my high valyrian is probably wrong so if you know it is just roll with it. girl this fic doesnt want to end wtf i- if you like my work, please consider leaving a comment or reblog as I really look forward to them | cross posted on ao3

@arabellasleopardcoat

You fall asleep in Daemon's arms as he walks back to the Keep. He cannot help himself. His lilac eyes go back and forth between your face and where he was going. There seemed to be nothing else. It was just him, the moon, and your breathing against his neck.

When he reached the door to his marriage chambers, he was taken aback by the sudden galloping of a Cargyll twin. The knight opens the door then makes way. Daemon turns over his shoulder and realizes both brothers had been following him.

There is an angry annoyance that forces up his throat, but when you release an audible sigh, and he remembers it was he who had instructed them to retrieve you. He says two words before entering the room and kicking the door closed, "thank you."

Daemon lays you down and gulps at the sight of your body. Your brown hair falls over your face as you shuffle and reach out for nothing. He realizes then, as the urge to push your tresses away intensifies, that he's never witnessed you sleep before.

He removes your shoes, placing them at the foot of your bed.

And he never will.

Daemon walks off. He's five steps from making an exit when he hears the noise you make. He stills and waits a few seconds. You make the noise again.

With a line between his brows, he returns to you, peering over your body. Indeed, you were still asleep, but from the way your lips and forehead curled, you were dreaming of something unpleasant. He sighs, clasping his hands, "amīvindigon sesīr isse ēdrugon." Tormented even in sleep.

There is a discomfort that spreads in his ribs as tears leave your closed eyes. He shakes his head "mundagon riña." Miserable girl.

He sits beside you, staring for a moment before finally brushing your hair back, doing the same with your tears. While caressing your soft skin, he finds his thumb itching to smoothen out the creases on your face that seem to only deepen. Under his breath, he speaks to you the way he would Caraxes when he's overcome with emotion. He forfeits the commanding tone however and whispers each word.

At some point, both his hands find your cheeks. He is so caught up in tracing your lips, he doesn't even realize you were no longer in distress, nor does he know of your consciousness until you lean into his touch.

He is frozen when his eyes meet yours. He starts slightly when you sit up, heart racing when you embrace him. His pulse thunders so loud that you pull away and examine his face in worry. Daemon's breath hitches when your hands clutch his cheeks. Your eyes rove across his face and again, your forehead curls. You speak in the softest of voices, "what's wrong?"

He thinks for a moment. He stares at you. You just had a nightmare, yet you ask him what is wrong? He shifts and rests his hand at the small of your back. He shakes his head as his expression falls. He whispers, "mirre iksis sȳrī, jorrāeliarza." All is well, beloved.

You do not understand him.

He repeats, "all is well."

Your features slowly relax.

His face hardens as he tests the word he omitted in translation, "beloved."

His belly flutters at the faint chuckle you release. His eyes begin to widen when you slowly lean closer.

Daemon pulls his head back, intent on watching you, but he freezes when you kiss his cheek, again and again. You kiss his jaw, his jowl, his lips. Suddenly, he can smell you so clearly. Suddenly, he pulls you in.

You gather your skirts as you climb onto his lap. You sigh as you deepen your kiss. He makes a strangled sound against your mouth when you grind on his crotch. He digs his fingers into your hips before pushing your dress out of the way to claw at your thighs.

He sighs when your hands brush his chest. His breathing grows heavy at your attempt to free him of his top. He helps you get him out of his garbs, and soon he is getting you out of yours. Once you're both naked, he pulls you in, pressing his skin against yours, unwilling to part from your body. Simultaneously, he has a strong urge to examine you, to commit to memory the hue of your skin and the curves of your flesh. Daemon, in all his greed, tries to do both at once.

With you still sitting on him, he squeezes your bum, securing you on his lap as he drinks in your visage. He shamelessly moans and pants as you continue to grind on him, and now he can feel your wetness on his hardening member. As you undo the tie of his hair and comb the silver strands back, he remembers the first time you'd ever fucked.

He is hypnotized by your confidence, by how unbridled and overt your desire for him is. Nothing remains of the timid little girl he claimed on the beach. You were lust incarnate, the goddess of sex. You scratch your nails up his nape and besiege him with open mouthed kiss. He returns your fervor, scratching his nails down back, garnering out a shaky moan from your lips

He breaks away only to ogle at your breasts and he kneads them. His breath grows heavier at your continued grinding and hitches upon catching your dazed reaction. He spews out a string of High Valyrian curses before capturing your ribcage. He sinks his face into your chest and you mewl at the feel of his hot mouth on your breast, feeling restless and needy.

"Daemon," you tug at the roots of his hair, "I need you."

You are uninclined to wait for him as you lean into his shoulder while your other hand grabs his cock. Your breast in his mouth muffles the noise that leaves him as you sink down on him. You yelp when he nips your sternum, but it does not deter you from beginning to maneuver your hips up and down.

"Fuck, fuck," Daemon huffs against your chest. He looks up at you, going mad at the sight of your closed-eyed concentration. He licks a stripe of sweat building on the side of your neck and thrusts up in sync to your movements.

"N-ñuha dārilaros," my prince falls from your lips.

He moans at that. He straightens and traps you tightly in both his arms, "where did you fucking learn that?"

You squeak as his thrusts grow more vigorous, "I- mmm- in- uh- book."

Daemon licks your lower lip before biting it, "desperate hussy," he moans against your mouth, "iksan jāre naejot pryjagon ao." I am going to destroy you.

You gasp as he pushes you back like you were nothing. Your legs immediately lock around his hips as he comes atop you and your voice trembles when his hips thrust slower but deeper as he adjusts you to the center of the bed. He nuzzles into your neck, licking your jaw. He then pushes himself up and rubs your the curve of your ass.

You yield to him as he pushes your thighs back, bringing your legs over his shoulders. Using his weight to keep you down, he takes your wrists and pins them above you while the other tightens around your throat.

He fucks you thoroughly in this position and you can do nothing but whimper, arch your back, and feel your arousal drip onto the bed.

His hand brushes up your neck and soon he's tracing your parted lips with his thumb. You take him in and bite his finger. It stokes a flame in his belly, thus why he pulls away to push a hand on the back of your knees.

You are helpless as he plows into you. Daemon, in his delirium, reverts back into his mother tongue. He sings your body praises in High Valyrian. He calls you dirty names as he slaps his hips into yours with a wet squelch. Your fucked-out expression pulls out an honest confession of how pretty he think you'd look stuffed with his seed.

Of course, you cannot understand a word he's saying, nor do you know how much calling him name is egging him on.

He watches you, his darling doe. The dragon in him relishes your screwed eyes and opened mouth. You throw your head back as you chase your building pleasure, meanwhile Daemon feels his stomach tighten as his own nears.

Fuck, you were beautiful. It would be a shame to waste his seed.

A deep line forms between his brows as he imagines the child you would bear him. Fuck. He does not want it.

He grabs your jaw and pushes your head to the side. It's enough to push you over the edge. He curses as he feels you tighten around him. You're so hot and wet and divine, he grits his teeth to build his resolve. Quickly, he quickly pulls out, gliding his cock back and forth your slick folds, sequentially finishing on your pulsing cunt and belly, just as he always does.

The image is nothing new, but it drives him no less wild. Behold, the Lord Hand's dearest daughter, all dirty with his molten come. It's a wicked, wet dream made reality. It was all his.

But there was something different. Daemon doesn't just pull away and roll over. He stares at you for a while, watching you catch your breath as he does the same. He stares at the mess he's made of you, and yes, you were filthy but you were also glimmering. He gulps, before grabbing his discarded clothes to clean you up.

He wets his dress shirt with water then wipes you down. He does the same to himself and catches you staring.

His instinct is to ruin the moment, to berate you for looking so dumbstruck and to praise the prowess of his cock, but he cannot find it in him to do so with how utterly enchanting you look in the afterglow of your love m— fucking.

You reach out to him.

His heart races.

"Stay," you whisper.

If there's one thing he hates, it's people telling him what to do.

... why then was such a simple word so compelling?

You fix the pillows on the bed as your husband crawls beside you. Daemon feels his throat constrict as you throw yourself on him. He is unable to move as you press your chests together and snake your leg over his hips. He does not know why he's become petrified by your touch. You trace your thumb across his face, "you're so beautiful."

Daemon does not reply. He cannot.

His brows furrow when he thinks he notices your eyes water. They furrow deeper when you smile and laugh out, "I wish you were real."

You feel sick after saying that.

He feels sick after hearing that.

Your prince shakes his hand and takes the hand you had on his face, "I am real."

You nod and laugh again. "I believe you."

Why then do your tears fall?

Daemon lets you curl into him. You latch onto him so tightly, he feels you would not be able to push you away even if he wanted. He doesn't want to though.

You fall asleep in his arms.

You wake up all alone.

You groan at the sound your servants telling you to rise. You brush your brown hair off your shoulder and knit your brows at the feel of your night gown. A pit instantly forms in your belly. Of course it had been a dream.

Hot tears that instantly rush down your cheeks. You hide underneath your blankets and manage to croak, "leave me alone."

You weep into your pillows for you did not know any better. You did not know Daemon had slept with you. You did not know when he awoke, he watched you sleep until the last minute. You did not know he put you into the clothes you wore because you shivered without his heat.

You hear your servants fuss over you. They ask if you're ill and in need of a maester. The only response you give are sniffles and groans. They ask if you will be able to attend today's tourney.

You moan, "what?"

"It will be starting soon, milady," one of the servants say, "do you not want to see your husband joust? He is quite good."

You know she says it to entice you, but it only makes you feel sick. After all, you did not know Daemon roused early, only because he needed to prepare for the tourney. You never will.

The same servant says, "and your brother? Isn't it his last day in King's Landing?"

You push your blankets down and stare at your two servants.

"Milady," the other says softly, "it would be good to attend."

"I do not want to behold my brother in such violence," you snuggle into bed.

The servants turn to each other, and one offers, "you can close your eyes upon collision, princess."

You sigh and shake your head. You think of Daemon. You think of how he'll surely hurt Gwayne if they face each other. Your think of how he'd done so in a tourney once before. You shake your head, "I do not want to go."

So you do not.

When the tourney commences, Daemon is most eager to make his entrance. One by one, the players are called, and upon his turn, he trots on his horse with a look of pride. He basks in the cheers as his eyes fall to the main balcony, where he quickly spots the king. His expression further brightens at the sight of his brother's smile and his niece's grin. When he spots your sister and your ugly father, he looks the crowd once over, looking for you. His lips flatten when he realizes you're not there. He awaits your arrival, forfeiting the first pick to witness your entrance, then he realizes, you wouldn't be coming. Suddenly, it was as though he never woke up in a good mood.

Meanwhile, you were aimlessly roaming the castle with one Cargyll twin trailing behind you. You do not know who it is, as you cannot find it in you to speak to him. You knew if you did, you'd end up asking him what happened after him and his brother found you in the temple. You did not want to be disappointed by the reality you'd dreamed up Daemon, so you hold your tongue.

You are torn from your lonesome trance when you hear wailing across the hall. You find yourself drawing near to the source, and you realize it was coming from Queen's chambers. Your feet falter when it dawns on you she was now in labor.

One of the servants spots you and curtsies, "princess. Have you come to visit the queen?"

You release a shaky breath, "I-"

"Who is it?!" Aemma snaps loudly then sighs.

You step back, heart racing. You gasp when you knock into Cargyll's chest plate. Another gasp comes when you turn forward and find the face of the queen. She looks distraught and yet she laughs, "your husband visited me just this morning."

You watch as she groans and rubs her belly, "he requires your attention more th-" she winces, "than I."

You cannot help but take her arm, "s-should you not be in bed, my queen?"

Aemma sighs, squeezing your arm in return, "walking can help speed-" she does not continue as her face curls in discomfort.

You feel your breath hitch as she squeezes you tighter, "sh-shall we walk to-together?"

She looks at you, a deep line between her brows, "Daemon was very excited for today's tourney. You should be there cheering for him."

"But-"

Aemma lurches forward as a particularly painful contraction hits her.

She is taken by the midwives and lead back into her chambers. You are so stunned by the encounter, your ward has to reel you back and shake you.

"My princess," he takes your shoulders.

You look at him, unable to speak. Your eyes become glassy but you manage to take deep breaths to calm yourself.

"Do not distress," he says, rubbing your arms, "the queen has everyone she needs at her disposal."

Your lips wobble, "her p-pain must be unbearable."

He cannot help the twist of his face nor how his face reaches out for your cheek, "you need not think about anyone else's pain. You have far too much of your own."

You do not respond to him until you find yourself in the gardens. You are grateful he did not think to lead you into the maester's ward, and guilty that you still do not know who it was accompanying you.

"Erryk?"

"Yes, my princess?"

You turn from the flower bushes to him, "did I get it right?"

He knits his brows and nods, "yes, my princess."

"Apologies for not speaking to you earlier. I... was not in good spirits."

"You needn't apologize for doing what is best for you."

You lower your head, "you are too kind to me."

"I really ought to be kinder," he says, taking your hand in both of his.

You look at him as he rubs your knuckles. You smile and cover his hands with yours.

"I would tell you to watch the tourney if I were kinder," Erryk says.

You laugh, "it is precisely because you are kind that you do not tell me to do such things."

Erryk thinks how inappropriate it was of him to act this way, to hold your hand, to impose his opinions upon you. If he was kinder, he would not be so apparent with his fondness. He mutters, "I am dutiful, my princess, but I am not kind."

You knit your brows at that.

He does not clarify and pulls away, "perhaps you would like to go out and pick flowers again?"

You smile at the thought, but remember your brother, "I do not want to miss my brother. He will leave today before sunset no matter what."

He nods. If he were kinder, he'd offer to take you to the tourney to see your brother while he is still here, but he also does not want to bring you to your husband.

You think of the tourney nonetheless, as well as the queen's words. You sigh and shake your head, "would it be inappropriate to watch the games at this hour?"

Erryk is surprised by your question.

"I do not want to appear as though I meant to make an entrance."

"I assure you," he shakes his head, "no one would think it. It is not your nature."

You chuckle to yourself, turning to your feet, "you're right. They'd probably assume I was subject to the horrors. As it is my nature."

"That is not what I mean-"

"A jest," you smile, "a mere jest."

When you arrive at the tourney, your father immediately assumes exactly what you said, and looks you over in concern. You simply agree with what he assumes to save yourself the trouble but reassure him you were better. You then assume the seat beside Alicent.

It's harder to reassure her, as her worry is more frantic than your father's. She secures her hand in yours throughout the event, and tells you which players she thinks will do poorly so you are not so shocked if they end up on the ground.

You are glad of it, but in truth you pay little attention to the violence. You let your mind wander, counting how many birds fly overhead. You daydream about flying on Caraxes. You daydream about embracing Daemon from behind.

You are only pulled back into reality when you hear your brother's name announced.

Alternatively, Daemon rolls his eyes as he dawdles around his tent, waiting for his turn to bash someone in with his lance.

You perk from your seat, watching the man with the Hightower sigil gallop across the stadium, all the way to you. Gwayne removes his helmet and smiles. He calls out, "I am glad to see you, sister. I was concerned you would not come."

Daemon stills when he hears this and looks out his tent.

"Cast away your concerns. Focus on staying on your horse," you call back.

Gwayne offers his lance, "perhaps your favor will keep me upright, princess."

You roll your eyes at your brother's teasing regard. Still, you stand and throw him a wreath, "do not dare fall off your horse, ser."

"Wouldn't dream of it," he puts his helmet back on.

As the Hightower twins were speaking, Daemon exited his tent and mounted his horse. Without even looking at the man who meant to go against Gwayne, the prince announces he will have his turn and gallops off, leaving everyone nothing else to do but follow.

Daemon replaces your brother, huffing as he halts before you. He looks up at you and your parted lips, your braided brown hair, your terribly modest dress. Suddenly, his chipper mood returns to him. He licks his lips and grins, calling out your name.

Alicent turns to you, gripping your hand. Rhaenyra turns to you, chuckling under her breath. Otto turns to you, clenching his jaw. Viserys turns to you, smiling softly. You turn to Daemon, voice breaking, "husb-and."

Your husband releases a breathy laugh. His stomach feels fuzzy, "I am gladdened by your appearance."

Your throat tightens yet your jaw slacks. He is?

Daemon watches you. He waits for your response but receives none. It makes his brows furrow, but his smile remains. He points his lance, "give me your favor."

"I-"

"He's already given her favor, uncle," Rhaenyra says, leaning forward.

Daemon's eyes remain on you, "then she'll give another."

The princess laughs, "she cannot favor two knights. Especially not two knights jousting against each other."

Daemon finally turns to his niece. She smiles at him as he huffs, "fine," but the prince turns to Alicent, "if I cannot have my wife's favor, her sister's suffice."

Rhaenyra turns to Alicent. Alicent turns to you. Your eyes do not leave Daemon. Your sister pulls away and takes the wreath, dropping it on his lance, "I do hope fortune finds you, my prince."

Daemon nods at her.

Alicent sits back down, turning between her friend and her sister. The former looks sulky while the latter looks agitated. Your heart pounds as Daemon smiles at you once he is positioned opposite Gwayne. You misinterpret his expression. Alicent takes your hand, and this time you squeeze her tightly as you turn to your twin, "he will hurt Gwayne."

Your sister watches you gulp and rubs your hand, "it's a tourney."

You turn to Alicent with wide eyes, "precisely," you rapidly shake your head, "I should not have come."

Alicent lowers her head to offer you a solemn expression, "our brother is not made of glass. He is knight and a formidable player in his own regard."

You smile at your sister and nod, trying to find comfort in her words. You look back at Daemon, finding him already looking at you. His grin is renewed and you feel your stomach churn. You shift on your chair and avert your gaze to your brother. Gwayne is already faced forward with his helmet on. You mutter a prayer of protection under your breath.

Daemon's brows knit when you do not turn back to him. He tries to will you to look with his mind, but you do not, not even when the horses begin to run.

Gwayne manages to hit him, the cunt's lance colliding with his chest where his own misses. A point is called and the crowds cheer. Daemon turns to you and finds a look of relief on your face. It causes his lips to tighten. He barks as he charges the second time.

Gwayne hits him again, this time, nearly dismounting him. Daemon skids on the railing but manages to get himself upright.

The prince huffs, eyeing his opponent darkly. His eyes trail back to you, finding you looking out to him in concern. Part of his anger dissipates, but then you turn to your brother, gesturing vaguely. Your twin gestures back and you roll your eyes at him. Daemon doesn't understand what it means, but it irritates him all the same.

He huffs and decides to be done with this bother. The prince is silent until the horses start running again. His lance expertly makes the hit, causing the horse to topple forward, effectively sending the ginger cunt flying off. The heavy crashing and loud gasps are music to his ears. Daemon looks back at his opponent and laughs. He chucks his splintered weapon to the side and entices cheers with his victory scream.

The only reason his celebration stops is because he hears shrill scream from the balcony. He turns and finds you standing by the railing, calling out to your brother. Your father and sister are stood behind you, trying to calm you down. You thrash against them and manage to slip away. Daemon watches you leave the balcony and the Cunt Hand gives an apologetic look to the king.

Erryk follows you as you make your way down the arena to Gwayne's tent. He is uneasy by how distressed you were, and though he knew your distress would not wane until you see the condition of your twin, he did not like the idea of you coming to him, lest it inspire the rage of your husband, who was rather happy to watch your brother crumple to the ground.

You find Gwayne laid on a cot, attended by some squires. His helmet is removed and his pained expression makes you run to him.

"Brother," you come to his side, finding relief in the maester that enters his tent.

You tense when your brother calls your name and you worriedly wipe the blood that trickled down his philtrum with a towel.

He groans and you pull away, allowing the maester to inspect him. His bent breastplate is removed and you see bruises on his pale chest. The measter presses his ear against his chest and turns to you, "Lord Gwayne is strong. He will be fine."

You breathe a sigh of relief and nod, "thank you. Thank the gods."

"You should not be here," Gwayne groans as he sits up.

You glare at him, gripping your skirt.

"Get her out of here, Carygll," he motions vaguely. Erryk comes to your side on cue.

You scoff, "hypocrite. If you were in my place, would you leave if I asked you?"

"Please," he looks up at you with tired blue eyes, "I do not wish to quarrel."

"Then do not wish me away!" you shake your head, "I-"

Your attention is stolen when your name is called again. You, as does everyone else, turn to the man who walks into the tent. Daemon knits his brows, gaze lingering on your twin before turning to you. He brings his hands behind him and sighs, "See. I did not kill him. You needn't be so worried, darling."

The pet name makes you feel sick. Erryk clenches his jaw.

"Come," he reaches a hand out to you, "your heart will only heavy with worry if you stay here. There's plenty of space in my tent."

Anger builds in you at his callousness. Gwayne recognizes it and curses under his breath. He watches you intently, noticing the twitch of your face twitches and the very moment you resign yourself to your husband's whim. He stares at his lap, unwilling to witness the bitter tears he knew would come after you take his hand.

Daemon shoots Gwayne a shit-eating grin as he walks out of the tent, but the cunt does not even see it. Still, he is pleased as he brings you to his tent and immediately pours you a cup of wine. The prince freezes when he realizes you had been silently sobbing. You stand there aloof as tears wet your face.

The prince drops the cup he meant to offer you and captures your cheeks. He gazes at you in concern and repeats what he had already said, "I did not kill him."

Your eyes focus as he swipes your cheeks. The coldness in your gaze unnerves him, "you did not have to be so cruel."

He pulls his head back, "cruel?"

You say nothing.

Daemon chuckles dryly, releasing you, "we were both in a tourney," he chuckles again, "girl."

You flinch when he calls you that. Your father's face appears in your head.

The prince is riled up by your silence. His stomach is uneasy by the steady flow of your tears. He scoffs, "your brother lost, but your husband-" he enunciates, "won."

You sniffle and wipe your cheeks, "yes," you offer him a smile, "apologies. Congratulations, my prince."

He stills at your words. He finds no satisfaction in it. His jaw feathers and he scoffs again, "do not congratulate me. I've still others to defeat."

You nod and step forward, "yes," you place your hand on his shoulders, "you are not injured at all, are you?"

It's as though your hands were heating his armour. He flinches when you touch his face. You pull your hands away ready to apologize for the intrusion but then he barks, "I am not feeble like you and your twin."

His anger is familiar. It is no worse than that of your father's, thus how you sustain your stillness.

Somehow it is worse that you do not react.

Daemon clenches his fists at your blankness, "say something, damn it."

You are taken off-guard by the desperation you discern, "w-what do you want me to say?"

"..."

"Do you have nothing more to tell me than I am cruel?"

The softness of his voice strikes a fear in you that you have not yet known. Your hands begin to tremble.

In a second, his softness is gone, and he snaps, "if you love that cunt so dearly, you should have married him instead."

You are stoic as Daemon storms off. The prince glares at Erryk, who had been waiting outside his tent the whole time, "get that bitch out of here."

Your ward's face contorts in contempt as your husband walks away. When Erryk makes his way towards you, he is unnerved by your stillness. He reaches for your arm, "princess?"

You turn to him and suddenly, you're laughing.

Goosebumps form underneath Erryk's armor.

"He said I should have married Gwayne instead," you turn to him.

He is tense at your eerily jovial expression. He mutters, "I heard."

"I do not ascribe to the unorthodox ways of his house," you shake your head. You laugh again but tears begin to flow after, "he thinks I'm stupid, doesn't he?"

The man gulps at your words and frowns, "even if he thought your skin was green, it would not make it so."

You laugh, but it is not so unsettling this time.

Erryk leads you out of the tent, "where to, my princess?"

"I... would like to go for a swim."

He takes a moment to think but then nods, "there is a stream that not many know of. We could go there. It is no very far."

As the tourney progresses, Daemon takes out his anger on his opponents. The is no satisfaction in any of his wins however, as each time, the looks over his shoulder to search for your face, and each time he is reminded you are not there.

At some point, he's so distracted that one vermin opponent manages to dismount him. He rages and screams for his sword. His foe grabs a flail. In the end, the prince is overpowered and forced to yield. It takes everything in him not to lunge at the stupid fuck as he walks towards the princess and her friend.

He storms to his tent, unwilling to be attended by anyone. He barks as a trembling squire, "I want my wife."

"S-she left with ser Car-"

Daemon kicks his table down.

"I-I— I will go call for her-"

He groans in pure vexation as he removes his armor. He looks down at himself, finding dirt, bruises, and small cuts on his body. His eyes water, but not in pain. You would clearly spare him no sympathy for his injuries. He did not even win. His breathing grows heavy in anger. It doesn't take long until he is overcome with emotion. Instead of drinking the cup of wine he poured himself, he slams it to the ground then proceeds to raze the other furniture in his tent.

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thekinslayed · 1 year ago

Text

You Adored Me Before

summary | Aemond comes to claim what has always been his.

warning | 18+, minors dni

tags | oral sex (f), mentions of war, death, and injury, infidelity, aemond is the king of consent and pussy eating champ

wordcount | 4.9k

note | this is my first fic in almost 4 yrs, so i'm still a little rusty! i had tried to make aemond a little dark but i am a hopeless romantic at heart and this is super self indulgent oopsie :D part 2 is in the works, but i am debating whether i should write more parts bc i do have some ideas! i would love to know what you think <3

song rec | Good Looking - Suki Waterhouse

(dividers by @targaryen-dynasty)

1/2

She had been on her knees for hours when she had heard it. Thunderous flapping, the wind picking up speed as a shadow covered the light streaming into the small window of the dark castle’s own sept.

It couldn’t be.

She had heard of her old friend’s infamy as he spread havoc throughout the realm. Kinslayer. Terror of the Trident. Every time she heard word of a new catastrophe the young prince had brought upon innocents, she thought back to the day she had left him. Biting back tears, he held her hands in a vice-like grip. Promises of their reunion fell from their lips before she was pulled away by her then future husband into a carriage, snatching her away to a new life without him.

From her place in front of the altar, she looked upon the face of the Seven. She could hear the panicked pattering of feet in the halls. He has come for us! One had said, as though he were the Stranger himself come down on to soil. Her knees bid her to get up. Her eyes begged to turn to the window to catch a glimpse of a head of silver hair. Her ears strained to hear any sign that his monstrous mount had landed, and he had crossed their gates. Though, she moved not an inch, and merely closed her eyes once more in prayer.

He could feel the fear upon the eyes that stared at him as he made his way through the fortress. A low chuckle escaped his lips at the pitiful sight. As war waged on, Aemond had learned how much he liked instilling this fear into people. It made claiming what he desired all the more easier.

The Prince Regent was led to the vast hall, where lords of the smaller houses in the region had gathered to welcome him, and to discuss the matter which required his attention. A young man was sat upon the high table in the hall, one reserved for the members of the great house Aemond was called to. It was an old house, closely connected to the crown and loyal for many years, up until the war. Their Lord Paramount had bent the knee to Rhaenyra and had been part of the thousands that marched for her cause. Now, the highly respectable lord laid injured in a tent, hanging onto a thin line between life and death. As his health dwindled, the matter of his succession came to question.

The Lord Paramount had left behind a daughter, merely a child of five namedays. It wasn’t hers, no, but from his first wife that died bringing the babe in the birthing bed. His brother, the young man stood beside Aemond before the men, had contested on the child’s claim to power for the reasons of her age and sex, arguing that their house would not survive with a babe as its head during a time of war. This had brought about much discourse among the men, those fiercely loyal to their previous lord pushing for the fact that the child had every right to become lady of the House, others agreed with the second son.

As a form of good governance, the Prince Regent took it upon himself to solve this matter. The lord’s brother had promised Aemond that he shall bend the knee to Aegon should he become lord of the house, and she shall free to be his once more. And so, as Aemond sat in front of the old, dull faces of the lords that had argued and argued upon the matter, he had turned his head to the man beside him ever so slightly. He was beginning to grow impatient.

“Where is she?” Aemond demanded. His lone eye scanned through the room for any glimpse of her, but to no avail.

“I was told she is in prayer, your grace. It is how she spends her days as of late, ever since she had heard of my brother’s condition.” The young man explained, uneasy eyes studying the prince’s reaction. The last thing he wanted was a knife through his skull before he could become Lord Paramount, all because his good sister would not stop praying for the life of a dead man.

Aemond pretended to attentively listen to whatever the lords had droned about for what felt like hours more. A finger tapped against the armrest of his chair, his patience dwindling the longer this farce continued, when a movement in the corner of his eye caught his attention.

She had slipped into the hall quietly, discreet, like a mouse. The lady stood behind some of the men that had crowded along the sides of the hall. Aemond’s eye widened as he caught sight of her, having to move his head to get a proper glimpse of her in between the bodies that covered her. His throat had suddenly felt so dry, prompting him to take a sip of the wine that had sat there, previously untouched, before turning his attention back to her once more. Their eyes had met, and she had given him a meek smile.

“Your grace, if I may…” said another, standing up to say his piece of the matter still at hand. Aemond was snapped out of his reverie, turning back to the center of the room once more. Having ran out of what little patience he had in the first place, the Prince Regent stood from his seat, silencing the last lord that had spoken.

“I appreciate hearing all of your thoughts on this matter, but as your Prince Regent, I believe it in your best interests to have a figure of leadership that shall serve you during these precarious times. There are no exemptions in war, and your lands, your people, shall benefit with having a capable Lord Paramount to protect you all.” Aemond said, an air of finality in his words. The young lord beside him smirked in victory, before bowing to the prince. Before the new Lord Paramount could express his words of gratitude, the prince turned to him once more, speaking low enough only for them to hear, “And might I suggest sending the girl to a sept as soon as possible, my lord, to prevent further… disagreements.”

All the while, a pair of curious eyes had stayed on Aemond. Her eyes scanned down his form as he spoke to the people. It seemed not much has changed about him; it had only been less than 3 years since she had last seen him after all. However, the more she studied him the subtle changes upon his form became apparent to her. His form, lithe and slender, had become quite hardened as his body became exposed to battle. His face had lost most of the plumpness from his youth, shedding away to reveal the sculptured structure of his handsome face. Her Aemond, who had always carried himself with pride, had taken on a different aura to him. A sense of authority now surrounded him, one that came with taking on the weight of the crown, she figured. Like a true Targaryen prince, Aemond was the image of regality, and of power that can only come from dragon blood.

As the crowd dispersed and the matter had been settled, Aemond’s eye searched for her once more. Though as the hall emptied, she was not to be found. She had slipped through the figures that crowded her, leaving behind a dumbfounded prince still standing in the great hall.

Her handmaidens had only left merely a few moments before the door to her chambers opened, startling her.

“Gods.” She said, turning to the figure standing in the doorway. “I am aware you have just become Lord Paramount, dear brother, but you are still required to knock upon entering my chambers.” The lady chastised him, pulling her robe tighter around her figure to protect her modesty.

“Do not start with me tonight.” Her brother-in-law warned her, coming to stand before her seated figure on her chaise. “You have embarrassed me with your shamelessness. Your husband may have allowed for this kind of behavior, but I shall not allow you to continue with this insolence.” He chastised, angrily pointing a finger at her. The lady watched as he paced in front of her. Her eyes caught the way a vein pulsed upon his temple as he clenched his jaw.

“What have I done to anger you so?” She asked, confused as to why he has come to her with such vexation. Her husband’s brother stopped pacing in front of her, pinching the bridge of his nose in exasperation.

“You are no fool, girl. Do not start acting like one now!” He berated her. The lady only furrowed her brows at him further. “Do you know why he has come here? Did you really think the Prince Regent would take the time in the middle of this hellish war to settle an affair between mere lords?” He sneered at her. In his indignation, spit flew from his lips as he spoke, some landing on her which made her frown in disgust.

“He has come for you. He has asked for you, yet you act like a child and ran away hiding doing gods know what!” He exclaimed, wild hands moving around in the air. She only looked at him, not uttering a word as he continued to pace once more.

The lady knew. Of course, she knew. Before she had left King’s Landing, before she left Aemond, she had promised him she shall return to him once more. A married woman she shall be, but they shall see each other again. And now, she found herself almost a widow, and her prince had come to fulfill his end of their promises. He had come for her.

The lady was snapped out of her reverie when the Lord Paramount ordered her to visit him in his chambers. “W-what? My lord, as much as my husband’s conditions worsen, I am still a married woman!” She rebutted, standing up from the chaise to face him. “Do you consider me for a whore?”

“My brother is almost as good as dead, dear sister, and the Prince Regent has requested for you, in return for making me Lord Paramount. I shall not have you denying him.” The young lord declared, leaving no room for the lady to argue. “You know what he has done to the Riverlands, my lady. There is not much preventing him from burning my house once we displease him, and you will not be the cause of my demise.” He warned, pointing his finger at his face once more. She resisted slapping his hand away from her face, her blood starting to boil as he looked at her with such disdain. The lady had never gotten along well with her brother-in-law, only tolerating each other in her husband’s presence. With him gone, there was no point in pretending to be in good spirits with each other.

“That hardly seems to be my problem when I am soon to be widowed, my lord.” She countered defiantly, though she had been taken aback when he had laughed darkly in her face.

“Deny the dragon and my house will burn, yes, but so shall yours, good sister. I am aware you have been looking forward to reuniting with family once your husband has passed, but believe me, you and I will not be saved once dragonfire starts to rain from the sky.” He spoke. The young lord approached her, watching as uncertainty began to cloud her eyes. “Your home shall perish in flames, taking with it your father, your brother, sister, and everyone you have ever cared about.” Her eyes turned away from him at his words, looking towards the ground as her confidence dwindled.

“You are all he wants. Do not deny him, and you may just be the person to save us all.”

Aemond had been staring at the flames upon the hearth, lost in thought, when a knock sounded from the door to his guest chambers. “Come in.” He had muttered, and the door open to reveal the very person he had come for. His dear lady.

His heart swelled at the sight of her, though his face concealed his feelings well as he stayed seated on the settee. “My lady.” He said, watching as she entered the room and closed the door behind her.

“Prince Aemond.” She curtsied to him. It was then Aemond noticed she only donned a nightgown, covered by a robe that was tied around her waist. The gown did little to hide her figure, her curves accentuated by the tightness of the rope. He could see the swells of her breasts that dared to peeked through, the sight making his cock stir as a warmth grew in his belly. For three years, he had dreamed of this very moment, of her standing in front of him once more, for him to take as he pleased. He had imagined all the ways he would take her, how he would show her his affection which he never had the chance to make her feel. He would show her what she had missed out on all these years. She would be his, and his only. No husband to stand in between them.

“You have called for me, my prince.” She said softly. The air in his chambers carried a tranquil feeling, and she dared not to disrupt it. Aemond merely nodded at her words, before getting up from his seat to walk to the serving table where a pitcher of wine and some glasses sat. "I have, my lady." He affirmed, pouring two glasses of wine before turning back to approach her. She fiddled with the hem of her robe, her eyes trained on her slippers as she felt him stand before her.

"I had been hoping to have a moment alone with you, but I have been told you are quite preoccupied during the day." Aemond said, voice as gentle as always with her. A cup of wine came into her view, making her let go of the fabric her fingers toyed with to accept the drink he held out to her. He led her to sit on the settee, before settling down on the chaise opposite her where he could take a good look at her. Anxiously, she took a sip of the red liquid in her cup, hoping it would help her feel more at ease.

"My apologies, my prince. I have been spending most of my hours in prayer as of late. With my husband's condition turning for the worse, I can only pray to the Seven to help him when I cannot." The lady explained, a rueful smile on her lips as she met his eye. Aemond sucked in a deep breath at the mention of her husband and nodded in understanding.

"It is a shame what has befallen a respectable lord like him, my lady. You have my sympathy." The prince sympathized, silently observing as her eyes left his gaze and focused on the cup in her lap instead. A silence passed through the two, the only sound being the crackling of the burning wood in the hearth. It wasn't as unpleasant as she had expected, rather it was almost comfortable, familiar. Aemond's eye stayed on her figure, taking in as much of her as he could lest she slipped away from him again. He wanted to hear her speak more, to hear the voice he had started to forget as time kept them further apart.

"Was he good to you?" Aemond asked, breaking the silence. His lady looked up from her lap and met his gaze. Her eyes shone as the fire danced in the reflection of her irises.

"Yes, he was." She responded, a sad smile on her wine-stained lips. "He never lifted his hand to hurt me. He was never cruel."

The one-eyed prince couldn't deny the relief he felt upon hearing her words. Aemond had worried for her well-being ever since she had been whisked away to be married off and had only hoped she was being treated decently. “Good.” He nodded.

"I never... It was not love, but we had respect for each other. That is much more than a woman could ever ask for in her marriage and he was gracious enough to grant me this kindness." She spoke. The lady’s lord husband was a good man, that she could not deny. He had been distraught over the loss of his first wife on the birthing bed and was merely pressured by his men to take another wife in hopes of birthing a son. She was almost twenty years younger than him. He thought her kind, sweet, and well-mannered, hence the reason he had made the marriage proposal to her father. Though the young lady’s womb never bore fruit, her lord husband had treated her well, making sure she was well taken care of before he left to fight for his queen. The lady felt indebted to him, for he might have just saved her from a life of misery and heartache, bound to a lord who treated her as a mere broodmare.

Aemond swallowed down the envy that bubbled in his chest as his lady smiled fondly as she remembered her husband. Perhaps he should feel at least a sliver of shame course through him, but none ever came. Here he was, in another man's house, coveting his wife as the lord laid wounded in a tent somewhere. However, he had stopped feeling shame for his actions a long time ago, right when Vhagar had swallowed Lucerys and his minuscule dragon whole and he had accepted the person the realm would come to know him as.

I have only come to claim what has always been mine. He thought.

“And you, my prince? I hear you are betrothed to a Baratheon girl.” The lady mentioned. It was her turn to ask the questions that plagued her mind about him, the wine and the growing warmth in the room making her feel more at ease in his presence. Though I had heard more talks of a bastard witch, she wanted to say.

Aemond hummed at her words, a slender finger tracing the rim of his cup as he listened to her. “I was. Though there has been a change of plans.” He admitted. It was technically the truth. Borros Baratheon did not appreciate having been the host to the two princes when Aemond had killed Lucerys in the sky. The lord of Storm’s End most certainly did not appreciate when Aemond offered one of the Four Storms his nephew’s eyes when he returned, drenched from the rain and a bloodlust in his amethyst eye. “If the time came for me to marry, it would be after the war, but there is someone in my mind I plan to ask.” He stated, looking at her in the eye as he spoke. Aemond wasn’t one to play games, he wanted to get straight to the point. There was a reason for his being here, and they both knew the reason why.

“Aemond…” She trailed, understanding what he was hinting to. Her prince stood from his seat, walking over to stand before her seated form. A hand cupped her jaw, making her look up at him with big, shining eyes. His thumb caressed her skin, gooseflesh rising everywhere as he did so.

“Do you have any idea how much I have longed for you, hm? How much agony your absence has brought upon me?” The prince queried. His hand upon her jaw trailed down her neck, pushing past the hair that covered her skin. Fingertips traced her collarbones, before toying with the hem of her robe. Her hand covered his, stopping its ministrations.

“My prince, please, I am a married woman.” There was a slight crack in her voice as she spoke. Aemond could see the inner struggle in her eyes. Honor begged her to remember her vows, but the aching desire her heart only felt for the man before her threatened to spill through and overtake any sense of integrity she had.

“What use is a husband if he lay on a cot in a tent somewhere, rotting away? He has one hand in the Stranger’s grasp now, my lady. Let us not keep up this folly any further.” Her prince refuted, his eye darkening.

“That is not fair.” She argued, yet her tone was as weak as her resolve. It was not fair to her, not when the reason her husband is dying because of him, of a war he started.

“You must know by now little is fair in these games we play, my lady. If one wishes to survive, he must have the wit and the will to take what is his, lest he allows it to be taken away from him. I had been a fool to let him take you from me, now I shall take back what is rightfully mine.” His hand returned to her face, grasping it to prevent her from looking away. She could see how his pupil dilated as he emphasized his words, instilling a strange feeling in her belly. It was in this moment she saw a glimpse of the man he has become. The Kinslayer. Terror of the Trident. This was a man she did not know, yet was familiar. The prince studied her face as she starts to frown, feeling her start to pull away from him. His hand softened its grip on her face, thumb caressing the soft plump of her cheek.

Her heart thumped in her chest as Aemond lowered to kneel before her. A breath hitched in her throat as his hands gripped the fabric covering her. His face lowers to kiss her thighs, almost in reverence, before nuzzling his face into her lap. Tears started to well up in her eyes, though she did not know why. To feel his touch upon her flesh once more tugged on her heartstrings, the benevolent devotion she held for him buried deep now threatened to make itself known.

“Aemond.” The lady had whispered; he whispered her name in return. Rough, calloused hands found her waist, squeezing her gently as his lips continued to pepper ardent kisses on her thighs. A shaking hand came to caress his head, feeling the soft silver tresses she had longed to feel under her fingertips once more. She cupped his jaw, urging him to lift his head so she may gaze upon his face.

In the privacy of the walls that enclosed the pair, it was then she was able to see her old friend, the prince that she knew. As he looked at her with adoration and a glimmer of sadness for what should have been, she is reminded of the young princeling that followed her and Helaena around the gardens in their foolish youth, hoping to spend any waking moment with her as much as he could.

Keeping his lone eye on hers, his hands left her waist to caress her ankles, dipping past the fabric of her nightgown to trail his touch up her legs. His lady let him lift the fabric to her knees, revealing her flesh to his eye. Their eyes stay locked on each other, Aemond’s silently asking. When no rejection came from her, the prince’s lips return to her thighs, now on her exposed flesh. Kisses course upwards, but a hand comes to his shoulder, halting his trail as she stops him. With his eye trained on her, his warm, larger hand covers hers, lifting it to breathe in the scent of her flesh before planting a soft kiss on the inside of her wrist.

“Will you let me?” He asked, his words a soft whisper. She was barely able to squeak “yes” as a shudder passed through her spine, her resolve long crumbled into pieces since he kneeled before her. She allowed him, of course, she allowed him. The young woman would let him devour her entire being, soul and flesh, if he asked to. She knew in her heart she had no will to deny him, as weak for him as he is to her.

She held her breath as her nightgown is further lifted, baring her core. The air feels cold on her center, despite the fire that continued to rage on the hearth. Aemond’s lips descended down once more, kissing, and sucking on the meaty flesh of her thighs. Small marks started to litter her skin, marking her as his. Warm breath blows on her center, making her clench involuntarily. She gripped onto the fabric pooled on her sides as two fingers spread her folds, exposing her arousal.

“Fuck…” She heard him murmur, a gasp left her lips as his tongue licks a stripe up her slit, catching her off-guard.

“You taste divine.” He marveled, leaving her no opportunity to respond as he tastes her once more, relishing in the small whimpers that started to leave her lips. His tongue continued to lick her folds, giving an occasional deeper dip into her core. Aemond pulled his face away from in between her thighs momentarily to look at her. Her cheeks were flushed as her chest started to heave. Before he could admire her flustered state any further, her hand came up to the back of his head, urging him back down to her center. He smirked against her skin, before continuing his ministrations against her folds. A thumb gathered some of her essence before spreading it on her pearl, rubbing it in circles. It was then she began to moan in earnest, the grip on his hair tightening as her hips started to cant against his face.

His finger prodded against her slit, switching out his tongue to breech her entrance. Aemond almost moaned as his middle finger was enveloped by warm, wet, muscle that clenched as he curved it upwards. His name left her pretty lips, whining as he found a rough patch, sparking a sure of pleasure in her belly as he continued to massage it. Another finger soon joined, and Aemond’s lips sucked on her pearl. Pulling away, he watched as her face contorted in pleasure, eyes rolled back and brows furrowed as moans openly fell from her lips. A flush had spread on her cheeks, down her neck, and some of her chest that was exposed from where her robe didn’t cover her. Aemond committed the sight to memory, wishing he could paint this moment on a canvas to immortalize it.

“Do you like this?” He cooed, though he needed no answer. Her grip on his tightened, making him groan as she lost herself to utter bliss.

“I—Oh, Aemond…” She moaned out, making Aemond’s cock strain against his breeches at the sweet sound. Selfish as he may be, the focus would solely be on her tonight. There would be more opportunities for them to explore each other’s flesh, this he was sure of. For now, he needed her to give in to the desire that threatened to overwhelm them both, so she may be free from the restraints impeded on her by her marriage.

His mouth and fingers alternated in pleasuring her core, though Aemond had found that she seemed to enjoy his tongue on her more, the tighter grip on his hair and the louder moans echoing through his guest chambers were enough proof. With his finger circling her pearl, he led her to the precipice of her release. Her thighs quivered as her peak overcame her. A warmth spread through her whole body as she spilled on his tongue, her core pulsing as he continued to catch every drop of her essence until she was oversensitive. She had never been so overcome with such fire, had never found herself so lost in the throes of pleasure. Her husband had touched her before, but not like this. Regaining her senses, she looked down at the one-eyed prince who was already looking at her with a look filled with ardor. His chin still had trails of her essence which she wiped with her thumb. Her hand stayed on his face as their eyes met, communicating with their gazes, before pulling him in to seal her lips against his. He kissed her back hungrily, teeth clashing as their tongues danced. Her hand pulled on his doublet, urging him from his knees. A hand leaned on the back of the seat, the other on the back of her neck.

She had trailed her hands down his chest to cup his cock that bulged from his trousers, but he had stopped her, his hand gripping her wrist before she could do so. Their lips pulled away, his lady looking at him in confusion. “What is it? Is something wrong?” She had asked, a worried look on her sweet face. Aemond caressed the side of her head comfortingly, his nose breathing in the scent of her hair.

“Not tonight.” The prince said, planting a soft kiss on her forehead. If he were to take her now, while she remained someone’s wife, Aemond knew this would weigh heavily on her conscience. He dared not to push her to do anything that she would regret and made her pull away from him. Aemond would have to be patient, though he knew he would not have to wait long. He had ideas on how to free her from the vows that prevented her from fully being his, but for now, he would have to wait.

His lady would be all his for the taking soon enough.

#bella writes ✍️#aemond targaryen x reader #aemond targaryen smut #aemond targaryen imagine #aemond targaryen x you #aemond x reader #aemond targaryen x fem!reader #aemond smut #ewan mitchell #aemond targaryen #house of the dragon x reader #hotd fic #aemond fic recs

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endofthelinegang · 27 days ago

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thunder rolls (pt. 1)

𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠ˏˋ°•*⁀➷ john walker x fem!reader

𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲ˏˋ°•*⁀➷ this is part one of a series where you are bucky barnes little sister who has managed to make it this far with him, one little snafu has happened, you happen to have feelings for another super soldier one that your brother does not particularly like.

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬ˏˋ°•*⁀➷ cursing.

The rain was the only constant lately. It had fallen in fits all day, soaking the moss-laced walls of the compound, slicking the outer courtyard in a quiet sheen. Now it dripped from the rafters like a metronome—slow and deliberate, echoing down the old ventilation shafts and across the steel-lined halls. The kitchen was dim, the overhead light flickering in that annoying way that meant no one had gotten around to fixing it. You didn’t care. You liked it this way. Quiet. Muted. Just you, the hum of old appliances, and the soft rattle of a cracked window frame near the back wall. You sat curled up on the kitchen counter, hoodie sleeves dragged past your knuckles, knees drawn up to your chest. A mug of green tea that was practically hummingbird water from all the sugar sat cooling beside you, forgotten—its scent barely rising now, the heat long surrendered to the chill that crept into every corner of this place. You didn’t even remember how long you’d been sitting there. The storm outside blurred time, and your mind… Well, your mind wasn’t anywhere near the kitchen.

It was with him. John Walker. And it pissed you off. It had started small—his glances during team debriefs, the way he always managed to end up walking beside you during recon, the casual jokes he threw your way that always made you press your lips together just to hide the smile. The way he had gradually started becoming physically closer to you whenever he could. The way he made sure that if he was up first your water jug was cleaned out and ready to go for the day and the way he didn't deny a damn thing he was doing. But it wasn’t just a charm. It was focused. Respect. Interest—real and raw and hard to ignore.

And Bucky saw every second of it. He hadn’t said anything at first. Just watched. Stared, actually—like he could will it out of existence. He had taken to standing close to you in silence and even not letting you separate off from him in missions or game night. But when that hadn’t worked, the warnings came.

“He’s not like us.”“He makes fast choices. Big ones. Loud ones. That kind of instinct—it gets people hurt.”“He’s not gonna look out for you like I do.”

You’d listened. You always did when Bucky dropped his voice like that—the gravelly edge that only came out when he was really scared. It wasn’t controlling. It was protective. Fierce. Wounded. Because Bucky knew loss like no one else. And you were the one thing he still had that felt safe. You always had each other, and your relationship was finally back where it started what felt like a million years ago. The two of you were like teens the way you fought, talked, and spent time doing stupid shit together. Bucky gave you what you missed out on with him all those years ago, and you gave that right back to him. But John Walker made you feel seen. And maybe that was just as dangerous. The memory of last night crept in uninvited.

John had offered to walk you back to your quarters—nothing loaded, nothing flirty. He’d just lingered a little longer in the common room after training, towel slung over one shoulder, damp hair curling at the ends, that stupidly earnest expression on his face when he said your name. And you had hesitated. Just long enough for Bucky to step into the hallway behind you and watch it happen. He hadn’t said anything then. But later, in the shadows outside your room—arms folded, expression carved from granite—he’d looked at you like you’d already done something wrong.

“I’m not saying don’t talk to him. I’m saying don’t trust him with your heart.”

And damn it, he meant it. You scrubbed a hand over your face and sighed, breathing deep. You told yourself this would pass. That the tension, the flutters, the heat in your stomach when John. looked at you would fade if you just ignored it long enough. But then you heard him.

Boots. Familiar. Unhurried. You didn’t even look up at first. You just let yourself feel it—the way the air shifted when he was close. The heat he carried, the quiet weight of his gaze. He stood proud, not because he really was but because that was one of his many learned behaviors over the years. Same thing with the arms crossed at his chest looking at you confused.

“Didn’t peg you for the insomniac type,” John said softly. His voice was low, smoother than usual, like he hadn’t spoken in hours. It scraped down your spine in the most inconvenient way.

You turned slightly, eyes catching his silhouette in the doorway. Dark sweats. Fitted black tee. Hair still damp from a shower, pushed back haphazardly. He looked like the kind of tired that still buzzed with energy—body restless, mind quieter.

“You’re not sleeping either,” you replied, your voice a notch rougher than you intended. You looked back to your tea, the sugar was floating around making little swirly spots but it was definitely freezing cold by now. You couldn’t believe how he was making you feel, you really felt bad about sounding a bit rough towards him, you were judging everything you were doing in his direction like you were in high school and it was embarrassing.

John stepped into the kitchen walking right behind where you sat on the counter, opened the fridge, and grabbed a water bottle. The soft crack of the cap breaking the silence made you flinch inside, the quick little breath you took in went unnoticed as he cracked open the bottle and took a sip.

“Nope,” he said, leaning against the counter, watching you from the side, “Too much in my head.”

You hummed in agreement, sipping from your now-cold mug. It was so gross but there was no way you were going to spit it back in your cup, you had not even thought about what you had done until the sugar particles were curling around your tongue, “Seems to be going around.”

He didn’t speak for a few seconds. The pause was heavy, weighted with something unsaid. You could feel it on your skin. Truly John would like to have just straight up lied to you to get you off his trail. Maybe even make some comments he could never take back so that he would never have to be in this situation again, luckily you couldn’t read minds. But he had promised to himself before this that he was not going to try and use his usual ways as a means to escape this.

“He’s got his eye on me,” John said, finally setting his water bottle down between the two of you. “Your brother.”

You blinked, unsure of what to say, you couldn’t deny the obvious but you also really didn’t wanna talk about what your brother had said about him either, “He always has his eye on people he doesn’t know that well.”

John tilted his head, while he did not wanna fight with you he knew this was one of the only moments he would get to discuss anything like this with you where the space would not be overly intimate and immediately change the discourse, “That’s the thing though. I think he knows I’m not trying to screw with you. I think that’s what makes it worse.”

Your chest tightened and your brain became completely fogged. “Because he knows what it looks like when people get close to me.”

“Or what happens when someone like me does.” John really didn’t think before saying that, out of everyone he was the worst sharer, not only that but he was not that seemed to be overly introspective.

The rain ticked louder. You stared down and to the right where he was not standing, you studied the spots that formed to make the marble pattern on the counter, “So… are you?”

“Getting close?” His voice was quiet. Honest. In fact he pivoted slightly towards you but not enough for you to sense it, “I’m trying not to.”

Your heart skipped and your stomach felt sick, there was nowhere for this conversation to go but down the rabbit hole that would change a lot at once. “Why?”

John met your eyes, and there was no joke there now, you spun around almost kicking the mug off the counter to do so as he turned and leaned against the opposing counter now directly facing you. “Because I don’t want to hurt you. And I don’t want to be the reason your brother looks at you like he doesn’t recognize you anymore.”

You swallowed hard, this was exactly what you didn’t want to happen. He was being a human, not a soldier, just a human. Walker was looking at you like you were two friends, not two Avengers, not two Thunderbolts* in a kitchen about to admit feelings or do something even dumber. The part of you that wanted to protect Bucky ached. But the part of you that had felt lonely for too long—the part that wanted to be wanted for yourself, not your bloodline, not your past—leaned forward.

“John…” You breathed out, it was the final breath you would take, the one that was supposed to be deep and unforgiving. You slid down from the counter, bare feet touching cold concrete. He stepped forward, slow. One hand found your jaw, fingers brushing your cheek—so careful, like he expected you to break. You stayed like that for just a second. Now both of your heads were in a fog, there were no more words to be said, anything else would just cause tears. You knew you didn’t have time for that in fact you barely had time for this knowing how everyone in this house was an insomniac.

“I’ve wanted to kiss you since day two,” he said, barely more than a breath. “Day one I figured you’d punch me.”

You didn’t flinch. You leaned in and covered his hand with yours making sure he was not going to take it away from you.

“Still might,” you whispered.

And then you kissed him. It was everything you’d held back for weeks. His mouth on yours, urgent but reverent, like he couldn’t believe he was allowed to touch you. His hands kept hold of your face, little pieces of your hair were so soft against his hands. Your fingers twisted in the hem of his shirt, tugging him closer until your back bumped the counter and you didn’t care anymore. His breath hitched when your lips parted for him. Yours did the same when his fingers suddenly ran through your hair, holding you like you might disappear.

You didn’t know how long it lasted. When you pulled away, your forehead rested against his, both of you breathing hard. Your stomach was no longer in knots and for just a second you didn’t think about where you were or why you were awake. In fact you were sleepy, you had just all of a sudden felt calm.

“That,” he whispered, your lips still practically touching, “was probably the stupidest thing I’ve ever done.”

You smiled, shaky and just closed your eyes to feel the heat of his hands, the softness of his shirt, and the smell of dryer sheets that radiated off of his clean pajamas. “Then we’re both idiots.”

He brushed his thumb across your cheek, gently. “Still worth it.”

You could’ve stayed like that for a while, in fact you were about to offer to take him to your room and lock the door so that this moment could be better cherished. Then—footsteps. Down the hall. Boots. Heavier. Getting faster. Familiar in a very different way. You both froze. Your heart jumped into your throat and you held onto John just a little tighter. John’s eyes flicked toward the hallway, jaw clenching. You didn’t turn. You didn’t have to. You knew it was Bucky. And you knew that everything had just changed and that you would have to let go for now. That your brother was going to need to have some sense of leadership over the situation.

A low voice detonated from the shadows behind you:

“Am I interrupting your mid-level decision-making, or is this some kind of science experiment?”

You jumped like you'd been caught stealing national secrets and let go of John’s shirt, my god you did not want to. John took one slow step back, his hands dropped to his sides as he now looked to see him. There, leaning against the doorframe with murder in his eyes and disappointment in his soul, was James Buchanan Barnes.

“You’ve gotta be kidding me,” he muttered, arms crossed, eyes fixed on Walker like he was deciding whether to kill him with a punch or a piece of furniture. His jaw was so tightly clenched he looked like he had a sour candy in the side of his mouth.

“Bucky—” you started, you couldn’t let John talk to him first, in fact it probably was not a good idea to have them talk at all knowing that only one fighter would make it out of that ring.

He raised a finger without breaking eye contact with John. “Not now.”

“Look, man—” John tried, he really did see your attempt the way you intended and did not wanna fight with him for once. Well he did. He just knew you wouldn’t want them to.

“Oh, we’re on nickname basis now?” Bucky snapped, sneering as hard and as menacingly as he could manage. “Man? Are we sharing hoodies too? Braiding friendship bracelets in our downtime?”

John blinked, you were two consenting adults and after all. “It was just a kiss.”

“Cool. Do you want a medal, or should I just go find a shovel now?” Bucky was now quickly advancing towards the two of you.

“I’ll go,” John muttered, giving your forearm a squeeze and walking away not wanting to cause a scene that would hurt you.

“You better go,” Bucky said. “Because I’m at about seven right now, and ten is when I start throwing people.” The second Walker was out of sight, Bucky turned on you with the speed and energy of a very tired dad who just found weed in your sock drawer.

“Outside. Now.” You followed slowly behind him, he yanked the car keys off the ring so harsh that the entire contraption almost came off the wall. The two of you made your way into the garage and sat in his SUV. Bucky drove like the steering wheel had offended him personally—knuckles white, jaw clenched, the occasional mutter under his breath that sounded suspiciously like,

“John Walker… lip-having… Peacemaker body double…”

You were trying so hard not to laugh, you wanted to give your brother some cool off time away from John, but you also knew that he needed to get his feelings out now while they were fresh or he was going to be hell to deal with over the course of the next few days.

“I’m just saying,” you offered, voice innocent and quiet, “you could’ve knocked.”

“It’s the kitchen,” Bucky snapped, his voice booming in the small space. “Not a motel room. Why would I knock?”

You had to fuck with him, you could not resist, if he was going to yell and have a fit you were going to give him something to do it for, “Why would you barge in at the exact moment I was about to climb him like—”

“NOPE.” He slapped the steering wheel, when his metal hand hit it cracked the plastic cover, “Stop. Talking. Now.”

You leaned your head back against the seat and reached your hand down to pull the lever that reclined it slightly, grinning. “What? You don’t think I have needs, James?”

He groaned and side eyed you with his mouth twisted in disgust. “Don’t say my name like that while we’re talking about your… whatever that was.”

“Kissing. That was kissing.” You looked over and gave him a quick little smile.

“You had your hands wrapped in the bottom of his shirt. That’s not kissing. That’s… premeditated.” He honestly wished at that moment he had just dragged John with him, at least he could dump that body and not feel bad but he could barely even get after you.

You shrugged, letting the silence stretch. Then, a beat later:

“I mean, to be fair, it wasn’t like I was about to drop to my knees or anythi—”

“JESUS CHRIST!” Bucky slammed the brakes, just enough to jolt the car, his hands came up off the steering wheel and over his face not paying any mind to the fact that he had just slammed himself with vibranium.

You burst out laughing and facing the window. “Bucky! Chill!”

He looked at you like you’d just confessed to a murder, “Don’t say things like that. Don’t think things like that. You are not allowed to say things like that.”

“What, you think I’m still a virgin or something?” You poked his arm and he did not smile, nor did he say a damn word.

Bucky blinked.

You stared.

His silence was louder than words.

“…You do, don’t you.” You smiled huge and started laughing hysterically.

“I—I didn’t say that—” Bucky was not happy that you were slowly gaining the upper hand in this conversation that was supposed to be a confrontation.

“You think I’m still a virgin.” You now had your hands over your stomach gently placed as you settled down your laughter.

“I didn’t say it!” He scooted his seat back just a bit to stare at your completely, this was a serious conversation to him and he couldn’t believe what he was hearing.

“But you were thinking it.” You grinned.

“I was hoping it.” He scowled.

You blinked. “Oh my God.”

He rubbed his temples like he was trying to massage the truth out of his brain. “What do you want from me?! You were just a kid like five minutes ago.”

“I’m literally older than Peter Parker.” You referenced the young man who ran around with the group and who had trapped your brother in a web when he was still in high school.

“Yeah, but Peter still makes Lego sets and watches cartoons. You’re not supposed to be…” He made a vague, distressed hand gesture. “Dropping. On. Your. Knees.”

You blinked innocently. “So you do think I’m not a virgin.”

He froze, betrayed by his own logic he was now looking you up and down searching for any signs of a lie.

“…Wait. You are, right?”

You hesitated for a single millisecond. It was all he needed.His mouth dropped open like you’d just announced your new career in adult film.

“YOU AREN’T?”

Your eyes went wide. “NO—I MEAN YES—I MEAN—I AM!”

He recoiled, clutching the wheel like it could save him, he was hurled over like he was going to start gagging at any second. “Oh my God.”

“I’m totally a virgin! Super virgin! Never even thought about sex, honestly.” You were talking as fast as you could trying to keep him from thinking about all of the lies you had told him over the years that he obviously believed.

“You’re lying.” He didn’t move, he couldn’t.

“I’m not. I’m, like, the Virgin Mary if she also had a security clearance.” You tried to joke but he was not finding it funny, his head slowly rose up.

He squinted. “You are lying so hard right now. Your voice goes up an octave when you lie. I used to babysit you. You told me you didn’t break the glass door with a tennis racket while actively holding a tennis racket.”

“I WAS NINE.”

He pointed dramatically. “And you’re still lying!”

You threw your hands up. “What do you want me to say?!”

He jabbed a finger toward the windshield. “You are a virgin until I die. That’s the new rule. Write it down. Tattoo it on your forehead. Until I take my final breath, you are a sweet, innocent, book-reading virgin.”

You nodded, very solemn. “Of course. I’ve never even said the word ‘moan.’ In fact, I’m not sure what it means.” You picked the cleanest word out of all the sex vocabulary you knew.

He narrowed his eyes. “Don’t push it.”

“I don’t know anything. I’m basically a nun. But hotter.” You grabbed onto his arm and shook him a little.

He groaned. “I need therapy.”

“You tried that, remember the notebook.” You jested letting go of him and looking at your phone as he started the vehicle up again.

“I’m gonna call Sam. I need backup.” He hadn’t spoken to his friends since the Avengers fiasco but this took precedent.

“He’ll laugh at you.” You scoffed thinking about how badly Sam wanted to kill Bucky for being such a flirt all the time.

“He’ll kill Walker.” Meanwhile Buck was thinking about all of the conversations where he had to talk Sam down from losing his entire shit on Walker.

You rolled your eyes, still smiling. “Bucky. Relax. It’s just one kiss.”

His mouth pressed into a line so thin it almost disappeared. “One kiss,” he repeated flatly.

“One.” You held up a single finger and waved it at him.

He stared out the windshield, grim. “I should’ve jumped in front of that train instead of falling off of it.”

You let him have his moment as you played on your phone, at some point the radio had even gotten turned on. The car had almost settled into a fragile peace.

Bucky was still brooding, knuckles tight on the steering wheel, muttering the occasional "Disrespectful jawline-having—,” but he hadn’t threatened to kill anyone in at least five minutes.

That was progress. The tension was still thick, though, buzzing just beneath the surface like a live wire. And then—your phone buzzed. Bucky didn’t look. But you did. And the moment a banner fell from the top of your screen, a grin pulled across your lips like the sun rising on pure chaos.

J. Walker:miss you already, sweetheart.next time I’m pulling you into my lap.let your brother walk in on that.

You snorted—snorted. You couldn’t help it. Bucky’s head snapped toward you so fast it was a miracle his neck didn’t crack.

“...What.”

You bit your lip, trying to hold it in. You failed. “Nothing.”

“Don’t say ‘nothing’ like that.” He was offended all over again.

“Like what?” You groaned there was no way he could sense what had just happened, he learned how to use a phone correctly like a year ago.

“Like you just read a text that ruined my life.” That son of a bitch knew how notifications worked and that was enough to make you wanna roll the window down and launch it out.

You stayed silent, shoulders already shaking.

Bucky narrowed his eyes. “Who texted you?”

You didn’t answer.

His voice dropped an octave. “Was it him?”

You looked out the window, still grinning. “Who?”

He slammed the heel of his palm against the horn—just a quick angry blare. “DO NOT ‘WHO’ ME. I SWEAR TO GOD—”

You turned the screen toward him, just enough for him to see the contact name.

He read it.

Then blinked.

Then turned toward you like the world had betrayed him.

“NO. FUCKING. WAY. IS THAT JOHN WALKER. RIGHT NOW.”

You burst out laughing.

“Oh my God,” he muttered. “He’s texting you while you’re in the car with me. While I’m still actively furious. He has a death wish.”

You opened the message again, reading it aloud with flair. If he was going to be a giant baby some more about this he was going to need a reason.

“‘Next time I’m pulling you into my lap.’” “Let your brother walk in on that,” you added for dramatic effect.

Bucky let out a sound like a dying lawn mower. “WHAT DID I DO TO DESERVE THIS.”

“Probably something in 1943,” you said cheerfully thinking about all the girls he ran around with and all the times you had caught him on top of one or kissing it.

“THIS IS KARMA. THIS IS COSMIC PUNISHMENT. THIS IS—”

“He called me sweetheart,” you said quietly, meaningfully, it really was sweet, “I will throw up in this car and make you clean it.” You giggled and leaned into the window clicking your phone shut, this was going to be too much fun.

#john walker positive post #john walker imagine #john walker x reader #john walker #us agent x reader #us agent fanfic #thunderbolts #thunderbolts x reader

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lycanspirited · 1 year ago

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"The human race is not ready for the war, the fighting WILL spill over into the mortal world."

"You can stop that!" Jacob and Seth yelled as they sat at a large table. They both looked at each other and agreed not to question the fact they agreed on something.

Seth stood up slamming his pawhand onto the table. "You speak as if your soon to be wife isn't human, or the fact your own son is part human! Hell even Robin was human just a little under a year ago!"

"Colette is barely human, she is a ball of chaos energy and magic. Cobalt...calling him a human would make him want to hurt you, Brother."

"Then what about the Ashwolf family!" Jacob stood now. "We see ourselves as humans too you know, even Jasper, hell ask Jackson!" Anubis sat back, interlacing his fingers as he just stared at the two of them.

They don't understand

They are blinded by love. Family. Morals.

#The weights tell all [Anubis; God of the Underworld]#Thunder and Chaos [Seth; the forgotten brother]#The First and the Loyal [Jacob Ashwolf]#Book 1 [Wrath of Ra]

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zepskies · 4 months ago

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BETWEEN THE CITY & THE STARS - Part 1

Pairing: Dean Winchester x Reader

Summary: In the fall of 1945, Dean is having a difficult time assimilating back into civilian life after the War. He’s visiting his brother Sam in New York City, where he’s beginning to build up his law firm. At two minutes to closing time, you interrupt their evening to solicit a solicitor. Your request? You need help in order to divorce your husband.

AN: My day tomorrow is going to be a bit packed, so I decided to release this a bit early for you guys! So here we go! The first chapter of yet another new series, my first ever 1940s AU. 🥰 I hope you have fun on this one, because I sure did. Again, very much inspired by The Clock (1945), starring Judy Garland and Robert Walker. 💜

Prompt for @jacklesversebingo: Historical Epic

Song Inspo: For this chapter it’s “Cry Me a River” by Ella Fitzgerald

Word Count: 3.9K

Tags/Warnings: Angst, mentions of cheating, PTSD, historical tidbits

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Part 1: Legal Grounds

November 2, 1945

Dean idly read the pamphlet stacked with others on his brother’s desk, which advertised his new and successful enterprise.

Law Offices of Winchester, Bialystock & Bloom

What do you know? His brother had his own office, his own business, and his name on a pamphlet.

Dean couldn’t help but curl a finger around a steel ball on the abacus sitting at the head of the mahogany desk, right next to Sam’s nameplate.

He let it fly. The abacus began to clack as one ball hit the other.

Sam looked up from the deposition he was writing to give his brother a wry brow raise.

“So this is what you do, huh?” Dean remarked, crossing his arms.

Without his jacket, his suspenders were on display over his shoulders. His red pinstripe tie was still in place, but his white dress shirt was rolled up to the elbows. Meanwhile, his brother preferred to keep himself more presentable with his sleeves down to his wrists. Jacket on.

Dean glanced around the office, nodding at the line of bookshelves behind Sam, framing him as the bookish academic he’d always been. There was limited seating in here though, just a spare chair in front of the desk, and another to the right of it. Dean stood on the opposite side.

“If you’re bored, all you have to do is say so,” Sam said. “Which is strange, considering we’re smack dab in the middle of a city that never sleeps.”

He was right, Dean could concede. His little brother had given him a veritable list of things to do in New York City: visit the park, go to the zoo, see a picture show, visit a nightclub, or sample a host of restaurants that Sam knew Dean would probably enjoy.

He’d seen a lot of this place in the week that he’d been here visiting Sam, but a good deal of it he’d either spent alone, or with any willing young lady Dean came across, thanks to the demands of this office. If he was honest, entertaining young ladies was eating into the wallet in his trouser pocket, and the hustle and bustle was starting to be a little much for him.

“You don’t get tired of it?” Dean asked, gesturing to the out there beyond them. “The, uh…the lights, the noise, all the people?”

Sam picked his head up from his paperwork to consider the question. “No, I like it. Keeps my mind busy, and…I guess it makes me feel alive, you know?”

Dean supposed he could understand that, so he nodded.

Sam wasn’t fooled though. He thought he could tell what was running through his brother’s head, watching him fidget, and turn his head a bit sharply when a bus honked loudly outside the office’s glass doors as it thundered past.

It had only been two months since the end of the war. Two months since he and Dean met back in their family home in Lawrence, Kansas after three years fighting on two different fronts, in two different countries.

Both of them had enlisted, but Sam had spent most of his time in London while he was deployed, helping British Intelligence. Dean had clawed his way out of Normandy, and later, out of the Ardennes—the last offensive before the end.

Their experiences might as well have been worlds apart, but one thing remained the same: it had been three years in which neither brother knew if they’d see each other again.

Now, Sam saw the signs. Dean seemed a bit jumpy, overstimulated, but willing to be here to spend a little more time with Sam before he went back home. Guilt prickled in Sam’s gut.

“I’ve got some work here to finish up, but afterwards let’s go to dinner,” he suggested. “Maybe see a show?”

Dean’s lips flickered at a smile. “You’re burning both ends of the candle. You know that, right?”

Sam opened his mouth to reply, when there was a knock on one of the glass doors—at the entrance to the small building. Their heads turned, and through the open door of his office, they spotted you standing there in the evening light. You wore a wide-brimmed hat on your head and a scarf underneath, wrapped over your hair and under your chin to shield your face. You knocked again with a hand covered by a leather glove, more persistently.

Cocking his head in confusion, Sam stood from his desk and left the room to let you in. Dean hung back and sat on the corner of the desk to wait. He withdrew a cigarette from the pack and a lighter from his pocket as he did so, but he heard you talking with his brother by the door.

“I’m sorry. We’re closed, miss,” Sam informed you.

“It’s still two minutes until closing. At least, according to my watch.”

“…Well, I suppose you’ve got me there.”

“So can I come in? I need to speak to a lawyer.”

“You sure it can’t wait until tomorrow?”

“I’m afraid it can’t, sir.” Your tone was firm, and it more than implied that you wouldn’t be moved. Sam paused then, perhaps to take a steeling breath.

“All right. Come with me, please.”

You later followed behind him through the hallway and into the office. With a lit cigarette between his fingers, his arms crossed, Dean took note of you. He subtly glanced down at your crème-colored blouse, neatly tucked into the long, burgundy skirt (with lipstick to match), your modest, classy heels, and the way you wore your hair. His brows subtly raised. He’d met quite a few girls this week, but he hadn’t seen a lady like you in quite some time.

Should’ve shaved this morning. The thought was accompanied by the way he swiped a subtle hand over his prickly chin.

You gave him a cursory glance in turn, and offered a polite, “Hello.”

He stood from the desk and switched his cigarette to his other hand, so he could shake yours.

“Hey there. Dean Winchester,” he said. He offered a smile with no small amount of charm. “Pleased to meet you…”

You dutifully gave him your first name only. He found that a little strange, but you soon slipped your hand out of his and focused on the nameplate on the desk, followed by Sam himself.

“So you’re brothers,” you realized. “Do you work together?”

Dean scoffed. “Nope, I’m just here to distract him.”

Sam tossed him a sidelong glance. There was a subtle edge of bitter truth in there somewhere, and you didn’t seem to miss it. You looked between the two men, a hint wary.

“Well, as I said, I’m here to speak to the solicitor,” you said.

“That would be me,” Sam nodded. He went to his desk and sat down behind it, gesturing for you to do the same in front of him. You obliged him, smoothing your hands down your skirt once you were seated. “How can I help you?”

You met his eyes with a directness that surprised him a little.

“I want to divorce my husband,” you said.

To say it shocked the room would be an understatement. Behind you, Dean gave his brother a pair of raised brows. Sam didn’t allow himself to react too much in order to remain professional, but he still tilted his head, blinking, before he focused on you again.

“What’s your husband’s name?” he asked.

“Michael. Michael Milligan.”

“Why do you want a divorce, Mrs. Milligan?”

Here, your gaze fell to the folded hands in your lap.

“I have reason to believe he’s been unfaithful,” you quietly replied.

Once again, there was a pregnant pause.

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Sam said. His sympathy was genuine, because he could see the way you’d hesitated to say the words, like they embarrassed you, shamed you, and saddened you all at once.

“But I have to ask,” he added, “do you have proof?”

Dean glanced his way, his brow raising once again. Sam knew what he was thinking, just as he saw how you frowned as well. But there was a reason why he asked, and it wasn’t to be unkind.

You sighed. “What kind of proof?”

“Pictures. Letters. A witness. Something of legal standing that we can use as leverage and as grounds to grant you a divorce, whether he wants it or not,” Sam said.

You let out another heavy breath through your nose. “No, I don’t have anything like that.”

“Then what makes you so sure he’s steppin’ out?” Dean chimed in. By now he was leaning against the wall, off to the side where he could smoke with the window cracked open. It let in the sounds of cars and distant honking, people traversing the sidewalks.

You turned in your seat to give him a tight look. “If you must know, there’ve been…signs. I won’t trouble you with the details, but I’m sure.”

You met Dean’s gaze, and then Sam’s firmly.

“So will you help me?” you asked him. Sam nodded.

“Yes, I’ll look into your husband and try to find some evidence of his…extracurricular affairs.”

Your lips pursed. “And how long will it take?”

Since you were being so direct, Sam levelled you with honesty.

“It may take time,” he said. “Realistically, we’re looking at months, even after I find what we need… It would be easier to legally separate.”

You had been slowly deflating the more he spoke, but now your expression became stony.

“Mr. Winchester,” you began. “I don’t want to just be separated. I don’t want to live in our apartment, let alone share his bed or wear his last name.”

Despite your best efforts, your voice began to shake. Tears welled up and stung in your eyes.

“I don’t want anything from him, other than his signature on the damn papers,” you said. “The case is that I can no longer tolerate that man in my sight, much less in my life. Will you help me? Or should I look for another lawyer who will actually do his job.”

Sam and Dean shared a glance. For his part, Dean couldn’t remember the last time he heard a woman curse. Despite your outburst, the tears clinging to your lashes stirred both men.

“I understand, Mrs. Milligan,” Sam said. “I’ll help you. Don’t worry.”

He began to look for his handkerchief, but you retrieved one of your own from your purse and quickly dabbed at your eyes, sniffling. You were embarrassed.

“What about your fee?” you said, withdrawing your checkbook. “I, um…I have a little money stashed away. I’ve always worked, you see.”

Sam nodded and went over what his rate would be going forward. Once the two of you came to an agreement, you signed the first check right then and there, even though he felt bad for even taking it from you.

You were still sniffling, and twice you dabbed under your eyes to make sure your face was dry. When you handed over the check, your hands shook, just a little. Sam wouldn’t tell you that he discounted his usual rate.

Again, he mentioned that he would need some time first to investigate your husband and begin collecting evidence for your case. He asked you for any documents you could safely bring him of your finances, for example. You agreed to do an investigation of your own.

“Just be careful,” Dean cautioned. He was getting an idea of what kind of man your husband was, but Dean couldn’t be too sure of what the man was capable of. He’d hate to hear of a girl like you getting hurt over a few papers.

Dean put out the bud of his cigarette on the ashtray lying on the windowsill. He pushed off the wall to approach where you and Sam were getting to your feet. You gave Dean a nod of acknowledgement.

“I will,” you agreed. “Thank you both. I’m sorry I’ve taken up so much of your time, but I’ll be heading home now.”

“Did you take a bus or a taxi?” Sam asked.

“Oh, I walked,” you replied, and you checked your watch as you gathered up your purse. You headed for the coatrack, but Dean got there first, helping you into your beige wool coat. It went nicely with the burgundy you had on, namely on your painted lips.

“Thank you,” you said to him, but you still didn’t smile. You were a hint demurer now. It seemed with Sam’s promised help, the fire had dimmed behind your eyes and your tongue.

“How about I give you an escort, make sure you get home okay?” Dean found himself offering. “It’s getting pretty late on a Friday.”

Sam shot him a knowing look, but Dean ignored him, instead focusing on your face.

You hesitated. “It’s a bit far though. Out of your way, I’m sure.”

“All the more reason that you shouldn’t go it alone at this time of night,” he argued.

You considered his offer, and him, with a quick perusal. You seemed to be judging for yourself if he was trustworthy. Dean kept his posture straight, yet relaxed. Maybe he’d liked what he saw the moment he took you in, but after hearing your situation, he felt for you. It really was just an honest offer to walk you home.

“Where did you serve?” you asked. “The Army, the Navy, or the Air Forces?”

The question took him off guard for a beat, but he answered you.

“The Army,” he replied.

“Your rank?”

“I was a sergeant, ma’am.”

You looked at him a little more shrewdly, then you relaxed.

“I might’ve guessed,” you said. “All right, Sergeant. Let’s go then.”

You buttoned up your coat and turned to leave the office. Dean shot his little brother a raise of his brows and a what do ya know? kind of smile. He grabbed his dark brown jacket and hat and followed you out.

Sam’s smile was more reserved, with a shake of his head. He closed the door behind you and Dean and locked it. He still had some work he wanted to finish before tomorrow, and Dean’s little show of chivalry would give him time to do it.

Dean had his hands in his coat pockets as he walked with you down the long city sidewalk. Night had drawn into the November sky, but with all these lights, he couldn’t see many stars. It was also cold as all hell. The frigid wind slapped at him every time they turned the corner of a building, snapping right into his bones.

Still, he supposed there was a kind of attractiveness to the city at night. The stores and their signs were all lit up gold and other neon colors. Couples and families walked together, all done up nice for wherever dinner reservation or movie they were trying to get to. It begged the question of what your husband was doing right now if he didn’t notice his wife out at this time of night.

“Where’s your husband tonight, if I might ask?” said Dean.

You shot him a look, reading between his lines.

“He claims to be working late virtually every night of the weekdays,” you said, “but he usually comes home stinking of alcohol.” Your eyes dimmed, even with the pretty lights shining in them. “He was in the Army as well. A corporal. He’s had a hard time adjusting to being back home, and I know that… He doesn’t sleep very well. And do you know, he had a hard time finding work for a while too. Luckily, he has his father’s business to fall back on.”

Dean tried not to show how much your words resonated with him. He didn’t think it a good thing to have common ground with your husband, if he was the kind of man you said he was.

“Yeah? What’s his business?” he asked.

“He manages a meat production plant, of all things,” you said.

“Ah, located in the Meat Packing District, I presume?”

“You’d presume right.”

Dean nodded. “I get it. I inherited the family home back in Lawrence. I just need to figure out what’s next.”

“Lawrence?”

“Kansas.”

“Oh, the Midwest,” you inclined your head. “What’s it like there?”

Dean scoffed. “Dusty.”

You almost laughed at that. At least it earned him your first smile of the night.

“Do you have an idea of what you’ll do for work?” you asked.

Dean chuckled. “Not just yet. Didn’t plan that far, you know?”

“Why not?” you asked.

“Hmm. Guess I didn’t see the point,” he replied with a mild shrug. It hid a deeper, darker well inside him. The part of him that hadn’t thought he’d make it back home after the war.

You turned to him then, and you saw it behind his eyes. The two of you walked in silence for a little while as the neighborhood blocks began to shift and change, becoming somewhat quieter, more residential. Dean put himself between you and the sidewalk when a taxi zoomed by too close to the curb, resting a hand on the small of your back for protection.

Part of you trilled inside at the small touch, but you immediately beat that reaction down. Dean Winchester was an attractive man, to be sure. His hair was a lighter brown than his brother’s, and shorter too. He had an air of roguishness about him, even though he’d been perfectly pleasant so far.

But by the way he eyed you when you came into the law office, you had a strong feeling he was a flirt. You had no room for that in your life, and not only because you were still a married woman.

Yet, there was something about him that…well, made you curious.

“I was a nurse,” you said eventually, earning his attention. “I was there when they liberated Paris.”

Dean turned to you with newfound interest lighting his green eyes. “You were at Normandy.”

You nodded. “For a while. Almost a year before D-Day.”

Dean let out a short, if humorless chuckle, running a hand through his hair.

“Well, that’s where I was. At that time, at least,” he said. "By the end, D-Day was just one of a lot of days."

You gave him a similar look; respect, and perhaps finding a kindred spirit.

“I did what I could do before, during, and afterwards,” you said. “I think that’s all we can do now, Mr. Winchester.”

“Call me Dean,” he said. “If you like.”

A second smile almost tugged at your lips. You nodded in agreement.

“Dean,” you said.

In another ten minutes, he was walking you up to your porch at your apartment building. You travelled up the four small steps, while Dean stopped at the second one. For the first time, you had the vantage point above him as you turned on your heel to face him. You were about to thank him when he shook his head, scoffing.

“This guy must be dumb, deaf, and blind, sweetheart,” he said.

Your face warmed in a blush, and you gave a rueful smile when you realized what he meant. He was looking up at you like someone who couldn’t understand your plight. You knew the feeling.

“That’s kind of you, but you don’t have to do that,” you said.

His brows furrowed. “Do what?”

“Try to make me feel better,” you said, scuffing the toe of your sensible heels against the brick platform. Dean crossed his arms.

“Why not?” he asked.

“Because the fact of the matter is, Sergeant, words don’t move me anymore.” You picked up your gaze from the ground, and you met his. “Flattery is just a pretty way of lying, and I’ve grown to really, truly hate lying.”

It took him a moment, but Dean nodded.

“I guess that’s fair,” he said. He had to stop himself before he proved your point with a smart word on your pretty smile. Although, it wouldn’t have been a lie. He tipped his hat up. “Goodnight then, Mrs. Milligan.”

You stopped him from leaving with just your voice.

“Please,” you said, your eyes briefly closing. “Just…call me by my name. My first name.”

Dean slowly smiled. “Perfect. I like your name better anyway.”

This time, your smile in return was genuine, if tinged with amusement.

“Goodnight, Dean,” you replied.

He gave you a charming grin and a more casual soldier’s salute. Then he stuck his hands back in his pockets, turned on his heel, and began to walk back the way he came. You couldn’t help but watch him go for a second or two. His legs were slightly bowed under his slacks, you noticed.

With a blush, you shook your head to rid yourself of those silly thoughts. You closed the door.

That night, Michael came home late, as usual—this time at two in the morning. He reeked of alcohol, also per usual, but this time when he rolled over towards you in bed to say goodnight, you stiffened. He also smelled like a woman’s perfume. Expensive stuff.

This was one of those signs you hadn’t wanted to tell Sam Winchester. Frankly, it was crude and embarrassing.

“Sorry it’s so late, darling. Got held up,” he said, kissing your shoulder through your nightgown. His fingers played with the ends of your hair while you laid facing away from him.

You squeezed your eyes shut. You were fighting every instinct you had inside you that wanted to recoil from his touch and bolt out of the bed. When just a few months ago, his touch was all you craved, almost desperately so.

“Where were you?” you asked. Somehow, you kept your voice steady and calm. “You weren’t at the office all this time.”

“Had a couple of drinks with the guys after,” he said with a shrug. “Sorry. The night got away from us, but, uh…I’ll be home on time for dinner tomorrow.”

With your back turned to him, you were able to roll your eyes.

“What’d you make tonight, outta curiosity?” he asked.

“Egg salad sandwiches,” you replied flatly.

“Hmm. No real loss there then.”

Your teeth clenched. “If I thought you were actually going to be home when you said you would, maybe I would make a rump roast with all the fixings.”

Michael paused, but then, he grasped your shoulder, slowly turned you around in the bed until you were facing him. His face was sterner.

“Excuse me?”

You remained quiet. Your gaze travelled downwards, avoiding his.

Michael huffed, shaking his head. “Sometimes you got a real mouth on you. One of these days, you just might regret it.”

He turned his back on you, laying on his side. You did the same while trying to stem your tears.

When did this become your life?

AN: Oof, sorry for all that angst at the end there, but I hope you liked the first chapter! Did you enjoy soldier!Dean and soldier/lawyer!Sam? Do you want to find a dark alley for Michael yet? 😅

And are you ready for what's coming up next? 😘

Next Time:

Dean both could and couldn’t believe it. He might not have been a saint himself when it came to the fairer sex, but if he went through the whole ordeal of marrying one, let alone a straight-shooting woman like you, beautiful, clever…

“Geez,” he muttered. “He could’ve at least waited until the ink dried on the certificate.”

Sam nodded in agreement. He picked up the receipt to the Cotton Club, and he shot his brother a grin.

“Wanna go to the club tonight?”

▶️ Keep Reading: PART 2

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