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neoplatinum · 1 month ago

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save a horse, ride a cowgirl | sophia laforteza

synopsis: the wife you never wanted to see again has re-appeared like a phantom, with nothing else but "let's get a divorce". you have more than a couple words to say to that effect.

pairing: (ex-ish) wife!sophia x cowgirl!reader

tags: angst, slow-burn, fluff, smut, g!p reader (don't like, don't read), tension, marriage troubles, guns (no one dies!), cheating but also not really cheating, slight religious themes, cowboys/cowgirls, a-list-celebrity!sophia, more...

wc: 14.5k

"you'll probably leave later, anyway it's love made in the usa"

(part 2)

it was on a tuesday.

up by 5am, ready to get the daily chores moving. bold strides across your bedroom, feeling the hardwood creak under your feet as you cross into the bathroom. you give yourself a once over as you brush your teeth. the soreness from your daily activities wears into your body.

loose hair falling over your brows as you wash your face. the water trickling through your hands, and a little wax to keep your hair back.

afterwards, you’re whistling to yourself, light tunes that keep you in motion as you slide on the long thick denim pants, holster on the right side, and boots that have worn in over the years.

your favorite black leather pair.

there’s nothing more serene than being in the quiet, the soft sounds of animals, and the wind blowing at the windchimes.

and soon you’re out the door, chewing on a stick. taking a long view of the most gorgeous yellows and oranges peering just over the horizon, lifting slowly into the sky.

signaling yet another day on this planet.

and with the click of the heel you’re headed down to the barn. stride in pace with the snapping of your fingers.

you can already see charlie in the distance, curled up next to the barn. soft breathing as his ears twitch.

you let out a whistle as you approach. and charlie has shot up like a lightning bolt. eyes alert and ears forward. the cattle dog making a mad dash for you when he spots you in the distance.

he halts to a quick stop and sits in front of you, panting loudly.

“good boy, let’s get our day started.” you give him some pets as you continue to travel down the graveled path. he lets out a loud bark and runs for the chicken coop.

the chickens are clucking loudly, already rounding towards the fence.

they know the drill, the sight of you in the early morning means feeding, and they’re happily clucking.

you unlatch the small door to the coop, reaching inside for a couple of eggs, and dropping them into a basket. you quietly fill the buckets of chicken feed, checking the troughs thoroughly and then closing the gate behind you, the basket full of eggs bouncing against your leg as you leave it on a crate.

you’re rounding the back to fill their pots with fresh water when you hear charlie.

your head perks up and you stride towards the sound. it's the loud kind of bark that hits you in the chest. sound rattling your body as he growls at something in the distance.

your eyes following a dust trail that reveals a big car. one that’s unfamiliar, and one that definitely does not belong on these paths.

the dust from the ground is forming a cloud. shielding it until it comes to a stop by the entrance of your ranch.

a big shiny grey suburban parks right out front.

“this can’t be any good, charlie.” you’re walking towards the car, listening to the heels click as you try and look into the car.

it’s tinted and the dust cloud is settling.

you get close enough before you shout.

“good morning, anything i can help you with?” there’s no movement. and you’re tempted to kick one of the headlights out.

“this is private property, if you have no business here, then leave.” you shout again, hand clutching your belt buckle.

charlie’s eyes are wide and he’s drooling, ready to attack at a moment’s call. he continues to bark until you pet him, and he stills. unlike him, you continue to tap your feet until you notice a movement.

one of the side doors opens, a tall man fitted in a black suit starts to approach you. sunglasses pressed up the bridge of his nose and without a smile to match.

“hello sir, are you lost?” you ask, and he’s got something in his hand. a manila folder that he hands to you, no further words.

you look at him a little puzzled, grabbing the folder and opening to the sight of:

STATE OF NEW MEXICO

DISSOLUTION OF MARRIAGE WITHOUT CHILDREN.

and right there at the bottom of the page is that signature, the same one that you were smiling at years ago when you were getting married.

sophia laforteza wants a divorce.

you continue to stare at the papers, eyes already a bit blurry, the resounding thumping of your heart hitting your ears and all you can hear is the panic that ensues in your own body. it’s getting harder to breathe calmly.

you’re feeling the pressure hit your head, until you let out a shaky breath.

then you rip it to shreds, all of it. all the mentions of a divorce, you tear it right in his face. pieces of paper flying all over the ground. either for him or for yourself: the reminder that sophia signed this doesn’t exist anymore.

he doesn’t make any movements, face as stoic as he came.

“don’t ever come by here again.” you say slowly at him. he doesn’t move or respond.

“did you hear me? or are you deaf?”

he’s quick to draw a gun, but not as quick as you, the barrel already aimed at him, trigger cocked back. and he’s aiming you down with his handgun.

“i’ll slam this bullet right in your family jewels if you don’t leave right now.”

you poke it at his liver, and lower it slowly at his groin. he doesn’t flinch. and now you’re staring into sunglasses that stare back into you. the sun’s shining into your eye, but you keep your hand steady. not missing the way a bead of sweat drips down his forehead.

you’re both standing off from each other, and a door opens from behind him. you peek over his shoulder and wait for someone to show themself. he barely moves an inch and you’re already ready to blow him away.

he tucks his gun away.

returning to the side of the car and lending a hand as someone gets out of the car.

your gun is still aimed at him.

and out she steps.

you swear to yourself that you must be sick, some parasite must have infected your brain functionality, infected your vision, infected the way your eyes are seeing the world.

you blink a couple times, swear that the sun is hitting the figure and refracting the light in such a way that what you see before you cannot be true.

because in the flesh, your not-so-dead-ex-wife sophia is looking at you.

“can you put the gun down? we need to talk.” she sighs.

you let out an long breath, lowering the gun back into your holster.

so much for a relaxing tuesday.

in front of you is a woman you’re too familiar but not familiar enough with. she’s sitting in the home you two built but she doesn’t belong.

she looks even more gorgeous than you remembered. well tamed hair, heavy makeup and a bold lipstick to match. her red bottom heels sticking into the floorboards and earrings that dance in the sunlight.

she doesn’t fit here, at least not anymore. her clothes are too clean, her posture is too straight and you reckon she feels the same way.

“i’m sorry for showing up randomly, but i want a divorce.” she speaks to you gently.

and it’s like listening to a ghost.

one that you’ve already mourned, but here she is in all her glory. bone, flesh and talking to you.

you think about how there’s an empty casket right behind the laforteza’s backyard. how you had to comfort mrs. laforteza for months, her weeping into your arms. the tears are still staining your shirt and your heart.

you remember the long nights with mr. laforteza. working with the county police and even going to the state to locate the very woman in front of you. you remembered the way his eyes went hollow after days of no updates. the way he begged you to bring his daughter back home.

you felt like you failed. you were supposed to protect her, keep her safe. you swore at their feet that the only priority in your life was her, that you married her to help her blossom.

and then she disappeared. like an echo into the night, she disappeared into nothingness. you searched for her day and night. you practically galloped the whole city, searching high and low for her. no one else knew anything either. you talked to every town person, telling them to notify you if there was any news.

you lost sleep, weight, and hope in the process. everyday that she didn’t return, you could feel yourself getting restless. the bags under your eyes grew bigger, your shirts draped over you, you barely could stomach a meal. townspeople would give you pats on the shoulder with that look in their eyes.

so before you is the very woman that you had long held in your heart, not one you were ready to see again, live in the flesh.

you especially remember how you laid down her favorite boots in the casket. headstone in big bold letters “SOPHIA LAFORTEZA”.

“fia, i thought you were dead.” you don’t even lift your head up as you utter the words. your finger fidgeting with others, picking at the nails.

the slow drip of the faucet is the loudest sound in the house. you’re left speechless again.

how is she so pretty?

why does she want a divorce?

why does she not look like fia?

where does she live now?

how is she?

“i’m sorry.” she can’t meet your eyes now, hands clasped together.

she looks harder around the edges.

“i wanted to tell you, but i needed to do this for myself.”

she brushes her hair back, revealing dazzling earrings that are worth more than your ranch.

you’re just begging to reach out, to touch her. to feel her, you can’t even be sure that she exists. your hand nearly reaches out before you grab it with your other hand. you still yourself once more.

“do what?” you ask softly, you’re scared that if you even speak too loud that she’ll vanish, just like she did that night.

“i needed to leave, i needed to chase after my dreams.” she speaks just as gently as you, worried that you’ll be set off. she knows how vulnerable she left you, she might have been better off dead considering how you’re reacting.

“i found hollywood.”

hollywood?

you remember those nights, where sophia would explain to you how she wanted to be an actress, to be under those bright lights, and shine brighter than the stars in the sky.

you recount how she’d often re-enact lines from the movies that you two watched, how she sang to the cows as she worked, and how her eyes sparkled whenever you allowed her one-woman dialogues at the dinner table.

“so what now? you’re a big star actress?” the heat’s starting to build up, the more you listen to this story, the rage is slowly building.

“you could say that, yes i am.” she watches the way you’re rapidly tapping your foot, tucking hairs under your hat like a childish habit.

she’s half tempted to reach out as well, to flip down the collar of your shirt.

the faucet continues to drip.

“why didn’t you tell me?” you were scared of asking this the most, to know that she might not trust you enough to tell you how she wanted to explore her dreams.

in the dead of the night, when you had too much whiskey to remember your name, you would sit on your porch, eyes wandering the moon as you asked into the air all the questions that lived within your head. brimming over with anger or sadness. the biggest question you had was “why?”

“this ranch, the lifestyle that we grew up with, i wanted more. you were always so happy about growing this ranch, and i couldn’t take you away from this life. but i also had to chase my dreams.” she explains slowly.

and you always suspected that she was still alive.

maybe it was a coping mechanism, but you once knew sophia laforteza inside and out.

but it hurts.

it hurts to hear that she considered your side and still left without another word. it hurts in a way that destroys the core of who you are as a person.

“fia, you could’ve talked to me, we’re married for God’s sake!” your eyes are darting around, and you’re out of your seat. it’s not typical of you, but you can’t make sense of anything anymore.

she stares at you with all the sadness that she’s pushed down. the idea that she left behind her spouse. who she swore to their family and under God that she would be there until her last breath.

she can feel the tears starting to well up, it’s all too much, to return to this place that she’s unsure of. unsure where her place is anymore, and it hurts more knowing she’s the reason.

“i thought you were dead!” you seethe. your eyes are angry, eyebrows dropped low, and an accusatory finger aimed straight at her. “we all thought you were dead!”

she’s trying not to let the tears come out, her lips are trembling and so are her hands.

“i fucking mourned you. laforteza.” your tears are still flowing down your face, but you’ve hardly blinked at all. eyes like glacier: chilly and icy.

“do you know that? do you know how hard it was holding your mom in my arms? she was begging me to bring her daughter back. do you fucking know that?”

she stands up suddenly, chair hitting the floor.

the words continue rolling out of your mouth without missing a beat.

“i had to lower an empty casket. in your name, fia! and you come back from the dead. asking me for a damn divorce.” you stride close to her, with every punctuation of word, she steps backwards. until her back hits the kitchen counters.

“forgive me, God. but you. can. go. to. hell.” you push your finger into her chest.

and with that you leave. quick steps bounding for the door, slamming the door wide open.

and running towards the stable. charlie’s quick on your tail. he looks back at sophia once, then turns to chase after you. the tears are sliding off your cheeks, angry tears that stain your skin, reminding you just how much she can still affect you.

in five breaths, you’re riding your house out the ranch, disappearing into nowhere.

you don’t even know how long you’ve been riding buckeye. just the feeling of hoofs clacking against the road, and charlie panting beside you.

you remember crying into your shirt, all but a snotty mess. you’ve barely processed sophia’s death, and now she’s come back to life. treating you like you’re a pair of car keys that she left behind, not worthy enough to peer into her soul.

you remember screaming into the night, screaming how much you hated her. hated the way your heart still beat for her. as if she didn’t crush yours, as if you meant anything to her.

you remember the way she still gently walked over that part of the floorboards, the soft spot in the corner of the floor. the way she sat in her seat, the very same one you made for her as a gift.

you’re slow to return to the ranch, buckeye’s slow clopping on the ground still present.

knowing sophia, she probably left. she knows better to try and talk to you now. even after you’ve cooled off, you’ve always taken longer to come to terms of talking through things.

so you slide off buckeye’s saddle and give him some extra carrots for the sudden ride. he’s nudging into you, as if he senses the sadness that emanates from your body.

“i’m okay buckeye, thank you for today.” you give him some more scratches and lock him in his stable.

returning to the house with charlie at your side, he’s whining a bit as he walks against your leg. you give him some scratches too, leaning into your hand with quick tail swishes.

he’s sniffing around the house, nose leading him into the house, and he waits patiently at the door. it’s closed. you slowly turn the doorknob, hoping that sophia’s gone.

you don’t know what you would say to her now. the last thing you need after the exhaustion is to try and bring up discussing the divorce again.

and she’s gone, almost like she never even showed up.

except she leaves a note, a short message.

i’ll be back tomorrow. please, let’s talk this out.

-love, sophia

underneath there’s a bowl of your favorite meal, saran wrapped and steam hitting the surface. the same one she would make for you. and you sink into the chair. eyes are getting blurry again as you nearly crumple the sticky note.

so you didn’t imagine her. she was here.

the conversation was real, and she wants a divorce.

you slowly dig into the bowl of food in front of you, and it’s like you’re twenty again. coming back from a long day of work, exhaustion set into your bones. but enough to crack a smile for sophia. as she would hand you a bowl of your favorite meal. dropping into the chair as you two recounted your day, happily scraping the bowl until mere lines of gravy were left. you remember the way her hair would be tied back, strands falling to frame her gorgeous face. kissing her in between bites when she was rambling.

do you even remember the taste of her lips?

you cry into your bowl, tears streaming into your food as you ate it, a reminder of who she once was for you. you smile as the tears fall, savoring the way it still lit up your tastebuds.

you would destroy your body for years if it meant being able to eat this dish until your last breath.

you set the bowl into the sink, letting the faucet slowly drip into the bowl. washing away the reminder of her presence. letting only the soft glow of the moonlight illuminate the kitchen, as every second goes by and more droplets fill the bowl, you let out a final breath and trudge upstairs to fall into your bed.

tomorrow you would take care of everything, but tonight you let yourself be haunted by shiny brown eyes that have kept your soul captive for as long as you lived.

on the other side of town, sophia’s finally calmed herself from the explosive interaction that was meeting you after years of disappearing.

she knew what she did was wrong, but her fuel to become a star was greater.

she remembers that night like a haunting dream. she left with kisses to your face, to remember them in her heart. the way you held onto her like she was home.

and she swore her heart cracked a little more with every kiss, the way your face looked so calm in your sleep. she brushed your hair for hours, admiring every little feature of yours. and then she left in the middle of the night, hoping to make a name for herself, leaving behind her old life.

leaving you behind.

she also regretted how she left her parents, she knew it would break their hearts. so not only did she tear yours to shreds, now she needed to mend their hearts.

approaching the steps to their house was just as tough as she thought, each step weighing on her feet. the porch light was on, and she could see figures within the house. she hadn’t even prepared what to say to them, her family that she left behind.

and then she knocked on the door. the seconds felt like forever, but she heard the footsteps. the way the floorboards creaked behind the door. then it opened, and she was flooded with the smell of her mom’s cooking. of soup and the smell of wood, the same warm glow from the kitchen light. and the sight of her dad behind the door.

“sophie, is that you?”

her dad’s gotten older, more white hairs in his hair. his skin looks rougher but his voice still has that gruff low timbre. he has on his light brown cowboy hat, and then sophia’s mom steps into frame.

“hi dad, it’s me.” and then sophia’s pulled into a bone-crushing hug, her dad hugging the air out of her.

“sophie? jesus come here.” and her mom’s pulling her out of his embrace. hands trembling as she holds her daughter’s own face. her mom’s crying, the vision breaking her heart instantly.

she has never seen her mom cry before, not even when she had lost her own parents. her mother holds her head softly before pulling her into a hug. and her mom still smells the same, of lavender and herbs.

it’s like she’s six years old, coming back with scrapes on her knees and loud wails.

her dad encloses all of them as he hugs them as well, thankful to have his very alive daughter in his arms once more. his prayers have been heard.

“sophia, where have you been?” her dad’s voice comes out soft and confused. sophia wipes her tears away and pulls away from them. the sadness from their faces seared into her mind.

“let’s sit down, i have a lot of explaining to do.” sophia explains, and her parents share a look.

sophia stares at the headstone, a little worn down but the flowers are fresh. she has yet to figure out how she feels about her name being splayed across the top.

in memory of a loving daughter, sister, and wife.

the light blows of the wind pushes hair into her face.

she doesn’t know what’s worse: being known as dead but being alive, or being truly dead?

she could feel her heart breaking at the idea of you burying an empty casket of hers. she notices the empty headstone right next to hers. it’s a chilling reminder that you would’ve been buried next to her. until death were you meant to part. she can’t bear the idea and turns away, walking back towards her parent’s ranch.

the conversation between her and her dad had gone sour. he grew angry with her, not understanding why she left.

after he went quiet and left for his room, her mother stayed behind and they talked for hours. about sophia’s current life: all the red carpet events, the glamor, the paparazzi and how she felt coming back.

then she asked sophia how she felt about coming back to you.

and then sophia broke down all over again, she regretted leaving you the most. you were happy with sophia, you loved life on the ranch and you loved her.

sophia loved you but she didn’t love life on the ranch. she enjoyed the tranquility that came with this life, enjoyed nights alone with you under the dark skies and how you were so charming.

she kept breaking her own heart by chasing her own dreams, she could smile at all the accolades on the walls, the way people swarmed her for autographs. all the brand promotions and award shows.

but when she went home, she felt the loneliness of living by herself, a huge mansion to herself and the recognition of the masses, but when the night gets too loud, she wishes she were in your arms. in your a-bit-too small bed and the sounds of the wind hitting the house.

she wished for you with her.

and she searched for you in places that were safe: her co-stars, random athletes, and singers.

all of which couldn’t make her feel the same way at night, she doesn’t want to trace their skin. she didn’t want to embed herself into their souls. she doesn’t stay for long in relationships, something miniscule always sets her off, and then she pulls away. she knows who still has her heart all these years, and she’s lost herself in a facade of quick intimacy.

she long gave up on trying to rekindle your relationship. she didn’t know where she stood anymore with you, whether you would throw her out the second she arrived. or would you welcome her with open arms. which was definitely wishful thinking on her part.

but she needs this divorce, she needs to set you free. and set her own heart free. to be free from the haunting reminder that she once had you in her arms. had you so close and tossed it for her dreams. a sacrifice that she’s still not sure if she regrets to this day.

all she regrets is how she left.

her mom gives her a look when sophia mentioned getting a divorce from you, it’s the same look she gave sophia when she came back drunk in the dead of the night when she was a teen. the same look of worry when she disappeared for three days after a long argument with her dad.

it’s the very same look that speaks,

i don’t agree with what you’re doing, but this is your life.

she pokes and prods into sophia’s mind, wondering why she would come back for a divorce. when she replies, sophia’s mom gives her a quiet nod, not one laced with approval but one that shows understanding, and maybe one of pity.

maybe sophia’s lost sight of her dream, and who she wants it with.

she doesn’t want to confront the ugly truth, one that would leave her vulnerable, and maybe without you in the end.

she makes her way over to your ranch with conflicting thoughts in her mind.

you’re busy cleaning the stables when she arrives. the first thing you notice is that she’s wearing her old clothes, the same red flannel you bought her when you were 18. your eyes see the poor patch job you did to the right sleeve.

the second thing you notice is that she’s forgone wearing her tall heels. wearing old boots, making her shorter like you remember. it pulls you back to fond memories, taking on the daily tasks and laughing at charlie trying to round up all the chickens.

you put the brush away, and stare at her. she hasn’t said a word since she stepped in. and you’re already feeling ready to leave.

you take a couple steps out the stable, when sophia catches hold of your arm.

“please, can we talk this out?” she’s pleading with you, and you’re already ready to let your guard down, but the hurt rises in your chest.

“i don’t want a divorce, fia.” you say.

she makes the mistake of looking at you and it’s like she’s 19 again, staring into gorgeous eyes that made her swoon. and she doesn’t know why she’s asking for a divorce anymore.

she’s always liked you with your cowboy hat on.

“i understand, but it’s either you sign this now, or we wait for the divorce to default.” she explains, and you’re already grabbing a saddle, sliding it onto buckeye.

you turn around, facing her with anger in your eyes.

“fia, you won’t even tell me why, and you come here after years of disappearing and expect me to click my feet together and sign divorce papers. you must be out of your damn mind.”

you’re prepping buckeye to go out for a ride, when you notice her slide a saddle onto honey.

great, she’s not letting up.

“i’m headed to the general store.” you say reluctantly.

and she nods.

you head out, buckeye trotting and whining as he walks out the ranch. you don’t have to look over to know sophia’s following behind you, honey happy to have her favorite rider back.

charlie’s also warmed up to sophia too, once he smelled her enough and recognized her. he walks beside honey, tail swishing lowly, watching sophia every so often. maybe you aren’t the only one that’s missed her.

it feels like everyone’s rushing to welcome her with open arms, but you’re off-kilter.

you let out a breath when she’s picked up the pace. both of you are riding towards the town. you still needed to tend to the ranch, despite sophia’s insistence on begging for a divorce.

she lets the topic of the divorce go, as you make it into town together.

it hasn’t been like this in years. watching your back as you ride, the familiar swish of the tail from buckeye. or charlie sniffing happily along the trail. reminding herself of her discarded life.

her heart is cracking at how disjointed this all feels. stuck between a path of two lives that she’s tried so hard to separate. she’s not too sure if she wants to sacrifice you anymore.

maybe she’s selfish, maybe she wants everything and more. she wants to be greedy.

you hook your horse onto a fence, instinctively you hook sophia’s horse to the fence too.

she doesn’t point it out, but a small smile stretches her face.

and soon you’re entering the general store.

“sophia? is that you, honey?” mrs. teller races around the desk. pulling sophia into a tight hug and shaking her a bit.

you wander off the aisles of the store, knowing mrs. teller would talk sophia’s ears off. picking up some rope along the way, taking your time. you can still hear the two catching up, and in between rows you watch them.

sophia’s smiles are still warm.

you grab some nails and head to the counter.

“are you back, dear? for good?” in the hopeful tone that you’d expect from your grandma. sophia breaks her heart again, shaking her head no.

mrs. teller pats sophia’s hand and all she can feel is guilt. she left behind a community that watched her grow up. townsfolk that looked after her at almost every stage of her life.

she gets lost in her thoughts, until the sight of you buying rope and nails moves into her field of view.

“mrs. teller, did you get those shipments of horse feed? i placed an order with mr. teller last week.” you’re fishing out money from your wallet when sophia steps in. placing bills in mrs. teller’s hand before you could take it back.

“yes dear, it’ll be in tomorrow!” she shuts the register. “bring charlie around the house, the grandkids love playing fetch.” mrs.teller giggles to herself watching how you two are arguing over sophia’s gesture.

“sure can, thanks again mrs. teller. have a lovely day ma’am.” you lift your head to bow at her. you’re grabbing the merchandise and heading out with sophia hot on your tail. “fia, i could pay for that myself.”

you both don’t see it, but mrs. teller is smiling at the sight.

“i know you can pay for it, i simply wanted to.” she explains, grabbing onto honey and mounting onto the horse.

maybe you woke up on the wrong side of the bed. maybe it’s the way you hate her paying for you, but it’s upsetting. it erupts in annoyance.

“fia, go back to hollywood, i won’t sign those divorce papers.” you say to her, and her smile from that interaction in the shop has dropped.

you’re no fool and frankly it’s insulting for her to think a small gesture would change your mind on something as big as divorce.

“i can’t. i need that divorce.” she stares at you with desperation in her eyes, there’s something hidden, she’s not telling you everything.

“why?” you ask.

“i can’t tell you.” she offers, and it’s honest. she can’t explain the deals she’s made, how she’s under the strings of a puppeteer.

and she wants to save you, save the last bit of happiness she can give you, setting you free from her.

you swallow the heaviness that sets in your chest.

“you want to get rid of me that bad?” you ask. she doesn’t say anything, but her eyes are getting watery.

she thinks about the vows she wrote and said to you, to her parents, to everyone here. she’s betraying everyone and her own desires.

you take the silence as a sign.

“30 days. give me 30 days of your time, fia. then we’ll go our separate ways.”

she has nothing to say to you.

wasn’t this what she wanted?

you don’t know it but you break two hearts.

you turn around, not wanting to look at her. you tuck your hat a little lower, just enough to shield your eyes. shielding them from welling up, you’re signing away a life that you promised under God that you would protect.

you give a tap to buckeye and you’re riding out of town.

sophia taps honey and follows you.

the silence consumes you both on the ride back. and you’re both thankful for that.

in a week’s time, sophia’s back at the ranch. gone is the heavy makeup and opulence from when she first showed up. she looks younger like this, softer eyes and you’re reminded just how beautiful your wife is.

over the past week you’ve been preparing for sophia to be back. you thought about why you even offered that deal, maybe a part of you likes the pain, or is trying to prolong what’s inevitable. or maybe you’re too much of a coward to let things go.

whatever the reason may be, you had your wife back. and for the solace of a month, she was yours as well.

sophia’s out in the front, playing with charlie who hasn’t left her side since she’s arrived. the first thing you told her when she returned was how charlie kept whining and pawing at the door when sophia left.

you want to welcome her like charlie can, but touching her feels like ripping your heart further. opening the old wounds you tried so hard to mend close.

you walk towards her, basket in hand and pass it to her.

“chicken duty, let’s go.” you start walking down the path to the chicken coop and sophia’s still playing with charlie.

she watches you as she plays with charlie.

she hates that you’re so distant but so close. each time you pull away, she wishes it was just all a terrible nightmare she could wake up from. hates that she has to ask for this divorce and is devastated that you agreed.

inside her there’s a war of want and need for safety. some days she thinks about running away from all her responsibilities, and just drift into a fantasy land with you. but she knows this mess was one that she created, and you didn’t ask for this.

she watches the way you move through farmwork like you could do it blind. she’s a bit rusty and as she grabs one of the chickens, she nearly falls over when it escapes from her grasp.

“easy, laforteza.” you’re holding her steady, strong arms that keep her from falling over.

you give her a smirk and let her go.

“i’m fine.” she brushes herself off.

“a thanks would be nice.” you scoff and sophia’s ready to argue with you.

“thanks? you act like you saved the world.” sophia’s trying to get a rise out of you.

“saved your pretty ass from falling into chicken shit.” you reply. watching the way sophia’s face heats up.

“whatever.” sophia storms off, chasing after the chicken that’s escaped her grasp.

the smile on your face doesn’t leave your face the whole day.

not even when you’re having the worst time rounding up the cows. and charlie’s chewed up another sock of yours. you don’t even complain when sophia’s eaten the strawberries that you were saving up for dinner.

you have half the mind to feed one to her.

one night curiosity bites you in the ass. you’re too curious for your own good.

spending years asking God to bring you the answers you were longing for. you ask her about it during dinner, when you two have already grown a little more comfortable with each other.

“so, did you make it?” you ask her, chewing a piece of beef slowly. “did you make your dreams come true?”

she slows her fork, setting it down on the plate with a clank. she smiles wider, and your heart warms.

“i made it, someday i’ll fly you out to one of my premieres.” sophia starts, a sparkle in her eyes that glow brighter than the night stars.

“i’m being called left and right for roles, and they want me to be apart of this major franchise soon.”

as she talks about the accolades, the way her eyes brighten and shine, you realize you couldn’t take this from her even if you wanted to. she shined so bright, and who were you to hold her back.

you continue to bite into your food, letting her take over the conversation.

it seems you no longer know sophia, you don’t know her friends, her interests, her sense of style.

all you have are old fragments of what once was.

“i’m glad you achieved your dreams, fia. genuinely.” it pained you, but it was true. you were genuinely happy for her.

“what about you?” she’s curious.

“what about me?” you questioned back.

“did you achieve your dreams?”

“no.”

you shift your feet a bit, the floor boards creaking. sophia is understanding, but you’re not painting the full picture for her.

“it’s okay, you can keep trying.” she offers, there’s kindness in her voice.

you don’t have the heart to tell her that this divorce will crush your dreams.

“thanks, fia.” you stare out, she’s chipping at the walls that you’ve concealed.

there’s something to it, the sadness that hangs in the air. how you never fully say what you want.

it makes her skin crawl, no longer does she bear the secrets to your heart. you’ve long thrown the key away when you lowered the casket in her name.

she doesn’t mistake how you’re unable to look at her. she wants the obsessed version of you back. how devoted and caring you once were.

she figures she lost that privilege when she disappeared from you. she grabs both her and your plate and begins washing the dishes. you get up with a sigh.

“need a hand with that?” you grab a dishtowel. holding a hand out as she passes cleaned utensils for you to wipe off. she feels more at home than she’s felt in months. nights of partying and meetings with co-stars and agents has left her soul feeling more than isolated.

but in this small house, with a few too many creaky floorboards, and a leaky faucet, she misses how simple this life is.

of course her passion still lies in acting, but she’s not sure how much she wants that without you.

the next afternoon, the laforteza’s visit came unexpectedly. you spot mr and mrs. laforteza with wide smiles and a truck filled with gifts as they roll into the ranch. mr. laforteza gives you a hug that makes you want to cry.

sophia’s parents know this divorce is not what you wanted.

but they also know that you would prioritize sophia’s happiness over anything. it’s why they were so accepting of you marrying their only daughter.

“mr. laforteza, it’s great to see you too.” you pull away from him, and he gives you a shoulder pat before walking towards sophia. he doesn’t have to say much to convey how he feels about you.

both her parents seem so happy to have her daughter back. you want to feel the same, but the history between you two is entangled like vines. to unravel each branch might just tear you two apart.

so instead, you help unload the truck filled with gifts of horse feed when sophia comes up to you.

“hey, did you know they were visiting today?” she asks, grabbing a bag of horse feed off the truck bed. you stack another bag onto the pile.

shaking your head, “no, i figured you asked them to visit.”

she shakes her head too. “i didn’t.”

mrs. laforteza is happily walking into your house, charlie wagging his tail happily as he follows her. clearly he has a favorite human.

you walk in after her, looking at her taking groceries out of a bag.

there’s a silence that envelops you both.

“you look too skinny.” mrs. laforteza says as she takes out a pot, filling it with water. “and you look sad…are you sad?”

she has a knowing smile on her face as she watches you. you lean against the fridge, and contemplate the question.

are you sad?

this past week with sophia has been revealing how much you missed your wife. the instinctual habits that you forgot you had are coming back to light. when you always scoop her helping of food first. how you always leave the left side of the couch for her to sit on. how you always tuck your boots next to hers. it’s a familiarity that you want to relish in. but in less than a month’s time she’ll never be yours again.

so maybe you are sad, maybe you’re devastated that you’ve betrayed your wants in favor of giving sophia what she wants. maybe you’re losing yourself by giving it all to sophia.

“i’m not sure what i am anymore.” you reply.

she can feel how lost you are. from having sophia come back after years of mourning her disappearance. she feels for you. as if you were her own. and her daughter wants a divorce. she still doesn’t understand why and it’s the elephant in the room.

“honey, you don’t want this divorce. what made you agree?” she turns off the faucet. you reach over to place the pot onto the stove.

she smiles at the gesture.

“i don’t want sophia to feel trapped with me, and it’s clear she left without telling me for a reason.” you explain even though it’s cracking your heart. her mom gives you a light pat on the cheek and shakes her head.

“that girl has never stopped from loving you. i know her. this is killing her as much as it’s killing you.”

you want to believe that, truly you do. but you have a heart to protect too. are you going to be a fool and let it be torn all apart again?

“then why is she doing this?” you’re tired of hearing how sophia still wants you from other people. it hurts more.

“i don’t know why either, dear.” she speaks gently to you.

you stare out the kitchen window, watching sophia’s dad talk to sophia. you can’t hear what he’s saying to her, but she’s listening intently, and at one point she turns to look at you.

feeling caught, you avert your gaze.

but she watches you, eyes trying to commit you to memory.

it’s later at dinner, when you and the laforteza’s are eating together. laughter loudly echoing around the house that you forget that you’re about to be divorced.

you bathe in the happiness that emanates throughout the night. mr. laforteza retelling stories of how he courted mrs. laforteza. with eyerolls from his wife and sophia hanging on his every word.

charlie’s seated right by sophia, curled into himself as his tail wags slowly.

this is what you envisioned your home to be. to be warm and filled with life, and eventually down the line you wanted kids. wanted to create your own family with sophia. to have her parents come down to babysit the grandkids and play with them.

for charlie to have another person to play catch with.

you don’t even notice the tear that rolls down your face. it stains your jeans as it free falls. you continue to laugh along with a funny joke that mrs. laforteza has said.

sophia’s eyes notice it immediately, reaching out to cup your face.

the laforteza’s share a look with each other.

“are you okay?” sophia’s using her sleeve to wipe it off.

“oh, yeah, yeah i’m good.” you snap out of your daze, feeling the way sophia’s eyes are filled with worry. the way she lightly dabs at your cheeks. and it feels too much like home.

“well, we ought to get out of your hair, it’s getting late.” mr. laforteza stands up, brushing off his pants and sliding on his cowboy hat. ms. laforteza stands up as well, a warm smile adorning her face as she follows him out.

you and sophia stand up, wishing them on their safe travels. you watch them as they go out the ranch, until you can’t see their tail lights anymore. maybe in a distant world, you get to have everything. the big family dinners filled with laughter and excited screams from kids. but reality is always more grim than fantasy.

you let out a sigh and turn around, sophia is silently waiting for you.

“come on, let’s go to bed.” she says, hand open for you to take.

your finger twitches. you nearly step forward.

“i was going to take the couch.” you say a bit too quietly. this whole time that sophia’s been here, you’ve been sleeping on the couch, offering the bed to her. she doesn’t tell you how it breaks her heart that you don’t follow her every night.

“let’s go to bed.”

she shakes her hand a bit. in turn, you scratch your neck a bit, and take a step towards her. hand slipping right into hers like a glove.

she smiles at it. lifting your intertwined hands as she places a gentle kiss on your hand.

you don’t know it, but when you’re long asleep. the sensation of sophia tracing every ridge and dip of your face, your nose bridge, your cheekbones, your jaw. she’s found an angel on earth and you’re laying next to her. she slides closer to you, giving you gentle kisses on your face.

she wants to cry all over again, how cruel it is to leave you again. she closes her eyes once she feels that she’s left parts of her soul on you, covering your skin with her love.

it’s unspoken but you don’t take the couch ever again.

the next week you’re arriving at the rodeo in one of your cleaner shirts, a darker cowboy hat that you saved for special occasions. sophia’s by your side.

you initially were planning on going by yourself, but when sophia heard you mention it in passing, she invited herself.

so she’s wearing her best denim jacket with her hair styled up in a ponytail. makeup enhancing her gorgeous eyes and glossy lips to pair. she caught you staring at her getting ready, held under her trance. maybe she wanted to give you a show, maybe she took extra long getting ready, knowing your attention was stuck on her.

you enter the large barn, seeing crowds of people surrounding the fenced in rodeo. there’s an experienced rider on top of a wild bull. shouts and whistles being thrown around, and the sounds of bells clinking all around. this was going to be a good night, you could feel it in your bones.

you begin walking towards the fences, when sophia pulls you back.

“can you get us some drinks?” she asks sweetly, using that smile that makes you weak in the knees.

“of course, fia, two beers?” she gives you a nod and you’re bound for the bar. it’s filled with older cowboys and cowgirls. one of them tips their hat to you, in which you do the same. he helps signal over a bartender for you.

you’re walking back to sophia with two drinks in hand, excited to watch some real bull riding and wanting to enjoy a night with sophia. when you notice the crowd surrounding her. there’s cameras in her face, and people shoving papers into her hand.

you push past some people, trying your best to reach your wife, when you hear the shouts from the crowd.

“sophia! i love you!” a man shouts.

“you’re sophia laforteza!” a woman shouts.

“can i get your autograph? please, it’s for my daughter!” another woman shouts at your wife.

you finally push through the bodies and find your wife looking cornered, the encroaching crowd pushing her into the fence. within a couple steps you wrap your arm around her. pulling her out of the crowd.

“please, give her some space!” you shout at everyone. a couple of the cowboys recognizing you and pushing the crowd away. giving you a tip of their hats when the majority of the crowd disperses.

you’re thankful for the help, but you hadn’t anticipated sophia to be recognized here.

“i got your beer.” you slide the cold bottle into her hand and she nods. she’s tapping her feet rhythmically. grabbing a hold of your arm and sliding her arm through.

“thanks, for back there.” she says, placing a kiss on your cheek.

your face heating up at the affection.

“you’re welcome, fia.” you say. “does that happen often?”

you signal your hand. gesturing at the commotion that was. the only celebrity that you’ve come close to is the town mayor and his family, but even then it’s mostly to badger him for public works.

you’ve never seen a real-life swarm of people asking for autographs.

“hm? oh, all the time. i mean i can’t even walk down the street without bodyguards sometimes.” sophia’s speaks about it casually. to be known and approached by the masses for the recognition of your talent. you don’t know if you could stomach that life.

“do you miss it?” you ask into the air, but there’s more to it. you want to know if she misses her life in hollywood, the one she chose over you.

she shakes the beer bottle a bit. you don’t even realize you are holding your breath. waiting for the second shoe to drop.

“i miss the human interactions, when people would tell me how inspired they are by my acting. how it made them want to go into acting themselves. i don’t miss having camera flashes in my face when i’m trying to go buy groceries or enjoy a lunch outdoors.” she speaks

you listen earnestly. her life feels so foreign to the one you both grew up in.

“sometimes, when life gets too much out there, i rub this necklace and wish i was still back at the ranch. i wish i could have both.” she shows off the necklace that you’ve seen her wear for years, a family heirloom that you’ve never seen her take off.

and with the sound of a bell there’s a new bull rider entering the arena.

loud hollers around the barn echoing as the rider hangs onto the bull firmly. the bull is running around with kicks and swishes of the head to knock him off. but he’s holding firm.

sophia pulls you closer to the other side of the fence. getting a better vantage point of the scene. she makes some comments about how the rider’s pretty good. letting his body move enough to bend to the bull’s movement, but doesn’t let himself tip too far.

maybe you’re fishing for compliments, or maybe you want her attention on you. either way you spout it before you can stop yourself.

“i can do better than that.” you scoff, taking a swig of beer. she raises an eyebrow, taking a sip as well. she hasn’t seen you ride a bull in years, but she remembers how good you once were.

“you still got it, cowgirl?” sophia tempts you.

“damn right, i still got it.” you say, drinking the rest of your beer and walking over to sign yourself up for the competition. sophia watches you. noticing you take a piece of gum out and chewing it.

the same ritual you always had whenever you rode. she stares at your hair under the hat. your eyes surveying the bull that’s trying to buck another rider off. she stares at how you look so damn good under the light.

and then you’re up, loading into the bay with the bull standing by. a couple of people are prepping the bull, sliding on the rope tightly. and you hop onto the bull. gloved hand gripping onto the rope wrapping around the bull. you adjust your hat a bit, and look out for sophia.

she spots you from across the fence, holding herself on one of the bars. waving to you, and you tip your hat to her. signaling this ride is for her.

“you know the rules, cowgirl, stay on for at least 8 seconds,” one of the guys fixing the rope asks you. “you got it?”

you give him a nod and tap the gate. nodding forward and lifting up, the gates open automatically. your bull immediately sending you forward, he bucks and twists his hind legs. trying his best to shake you off. he’s got you spinning like a spin top, using the momentum to throw you off.

you grit yourself. you keep your bottom half of your bottom as close to the bull as possibly. your leg slapping against the side of the bull. the bulls spinning around trying to get you dizzy. you nearly fall off at one point, gripping onto the rope with all your might.

and then you hear the roars, eight seconds are up, and you feel the bull trying to kick you off, his horns getting a bit too close to your head, so you roll off the bull, just narrowly missing it. you roll onto the ground, the dirt covering you entirely.

as you run away from the bull. screams of the crowd cheer you on.

you run right up to sophia, sliding your hat right onto her head, hugging her over the fence. and everyone’s cheering your name. loud chants echoing the arena. more than just qualifying, you’ve put on a performance. everyone is cheering for you but you have your eyes set on sophia.

maybe it’s the beers, maybe it’s the feelings that are swarming in her chest, but she grabs you.

then she’s kissing you and everyone roars.

whistles and hollering in the air as sophia continues kissing you.

the screams drone out and you kiss her back. and for the first time you’ve seen her eyes shine so bright for you.

“you saw me out there, fia?” you shout at her, the loud chants droning out your voice.

“of course i did, you did amazing baby.” she smiles and pulls you into another kiss. and you leap over the fence.

pulling sophia into a hug. still breathing hard from the run. she leans close to you, tucking your hat tighter on her head.

“how do you feel, cowgirl?” sophia asks you. you both walking towards the bar again, needing a refill.

“indescribable.” you say, kissing her temple.

and you reach the bar. several cowboys already offering to buy you drinks. you try waving them off, but then the bartender slides over the drinks to you.

“on the house, courtesy of your bull riding return!” he shouts. “and for sophia’s big return too!”

the cowboys cheered for you too, and you gave them a clink of beer. sophia grabbing a beer and cheering to some of the guys too. the bar continues to be lively into the night, some retired bull riders telling you about their heydays. sophia was welcomed back happily by a couple of cowboys.

your hand doesn’t leave sophia’s the whole night. a gentle rubbing across your knuckles even when she’s talking to someone else. you don’t want the night to end, and neither does she.

you and sophia ride back home, she’s still wearing your hat and holding onto you as buckeye continues clopping on the road.

“and then charlie nearly bites him in the ass!” you shout, the laugh nearly making you double over as you recount the event. sophia’s listening intently, giving you nods of her attention, with her head pressed into your back. relishing in the feeling of your body’s movement.

“we’re home.” you say gently. dismounting buckeye and pulling him into the stable. she watches you, and she has been the whole night, sometimes you caught her too.

“you okay?” you say, letting go of the rope, staring up at her. she looks at you for a moment, memorizing how you look in the moonlight, gorgeous and warm.

“great. help me off?” she says. and you grab onto her, pulling her off the horse and setting her down.

she slides her hand into yours again, and you feel your skin heating up again at the feeling.

she pulls you towards the house, urging you into a run and opening the door eagerly. you’re confused but you don’t question it when she’s sliding off her boots and running up the stairs. you follow quickly after her, opening the door and seeing her in the corner.

she’s fallen into your bed, beckoning you forward, and you obey. reaching close to her when she places the cowboy hat back onto your head. tilting it low enough to her liking. her hands reach for your shirt, sliding up and down the front. it stills at the top button.

“can i?” she asks. and you nod.

she’s unbuttoning your shirt quickly. and she lets her eyes drift up, catching you staring at her with the same want.

she loves how you look on top of her, hat still covering your head, the hottest goddamn cowgirl she’s ever seen.

“hat stays on.” sophia says firmly, removing your shirt. your eyebrow perks up at the admission.

“you have a thing for my hat?”

“i have a thing for you wearing that hat.” she rushes to take off her own shirt, revealing all too gorgeous skin. you reach out, feeling the heat from her skin against yours.

“noted.” you smirk at the way she’s embarrassed.

you slide her shirt off her back, bunching it up and throwing it across the room. you slowly move up the bed, enclosing the space that feels oh so far. she’s moving up too, liking this view of you looking to claim.

“is this new?” you spot a tattoo under her breast, a small butterfly. the wings spread on her ribs. tracing it with your thumb, maybe you need to be re-acquainted with her.

“yeah, like it?” she says, liking the sensation of you tracing over the tattoo. you nod, a bit too entranced by the linework.

and then she grabs your hand, lifting it up gently. you snap your eyes onto hers. she smiles as she moves it upwards. dropping it right on top of her bra. and she stares at you, begging you to make a move.

she pulls you down for a kiss, you want to pull away, but she keeps you close. hand wrapped around your neck, she pulls you close enough to get her mouth next to your ear.

“you still remember how to fuck me?” sophia challenges you, lightly tugging at your lobe. “or do i need to teach you again?”

she pulls away.

she’s smirking at you, wanting you to snap.

“i still know how to fuck the senses out of you, fia.” you confidently claim, and you’re back. the same confident girl that makes her head spin.

“prove it.” she whispers.

you grab her face, kissing her with the hunger that’s been building up this whole time. you still wanted her as much as you used to. distance and time hasn’t changed how much you yearned to make her yours.

she’s pushing up into you, wanting you just as much, having a little taste wouldn’t satiate this desire. so you grab onto her torso, pulling her up. enough to unhook her bra and slide it off. another discarded piece of clothing landing across the room.

“God, you are perfect.” you say, dipping down to kiss her jaw. moving your hands again, pushing lightly into her hip. you continue to kiss down her sternum, reaching a hand to rub against her boob. lightly grabbing and pulling it towards you.

she gasps.

“you’re so sensitive, fia.” you joke. continuing your journey south. gliding your hands to unhook her pants, sliding them off her legs.

and it’s like christmas came early.

“can’t help it.” she whines a bit. anticipating your touch. “it’s you.”

you stutter a bit. the emotions in her voice are overwhelming. maybe she wanted you in the same way.

so you go silent, wanting to express how much you yearned for her. wanting to re-learn everything that makes her tick.

you slide your hands under the waistband. her panties still sticking a bit as you took them off.

she smells divine, a mixture of sweat and desire. and you’re ready for worship.

you roll into her with your pants, hips tilting upwards. letting your hardness rub against her, and she drops her mouth. pretty sounds falling from her lips.

she reaches down, grabbing a hold of you. feeling around and reaching for the belt. pulling at the buckle until it pops.

she pushes you back, frustrated she can’t get closer to you. and you land back, propping your arms just enough to let her reach for you.

she climbs on top, pulling her hair all to one side. pulling your belt off the loops. you watch her throw it off the bed, and she’s grabbing onto your pants. unbuttoning them in urgency.

“desperate?” you gaze into her.

she gives you a look that says a thousand words. the darkness in her gaze, and the kind of sterness that makes you excited.

then your pants are unbuckled. you let out a breath, relaxing as the pressure from the pants has been lifted. you’re standing at full attention, begging to be touched.

begging to be touched by her.

she puts her hands inside, not bothering to slide your pants completely off.

you let your head fall, she gets closer.

“i missed this…missed you.” she tugs a bit, and you twitch.

you nod, pulling her in for a kiss. “i missed you too fia.”

you close your hand into a fist, gripping onto her hair and letting open mouth kisses fill the air. she looks so beautiful like this, putty in your hands and plump lips that make you nearly cave in.

you reach down, a single finger that draws a line. finishing right where she wants you. you give her a tap, and she lets out a hiss.

she wants to swat your hand away, instead she gives you a look.

“stop playing.” she scolds.

“yes, ma’am.” you chuckle a bit, liking the demanding side of her. she continues to lightly play with you over your boxer briefs.

letting her nails slide up and push into your briefs. you can feel yourself getting lost in the sensation, the way she starts tugging again, rubbing the tip and spreading out your juices.

“you’re leaking baby.” she says, continuing to pump you, hands gripping enough to give you that head-spinning pleasure.

you reach down again, looking for her wetness, smiling to yourself at the feeling.

“same to you, baby.” you smirk. letting your fingers gather that wetness and spread it up.

playing with her clit until it’s begging.

you hear the hard pants and watch how she goes rigid, unable to look you in the eye. eyes closed shut with a hand on your forearm.

she looks so gorgeous, and you want more. want to mess her up so she’ll never want to leave.

you pull her hand out your briefs and she almost looks hurt. wanting to reach out again, and you stop her. you simply shake your head, kissing her enough to distract her. pushing her back, pleasing her is your only motive right now.

“baby, let me make you feel good.” she blushes at the words. she remembers how good you were with your mouth.

sometimes she’d touch herself at night just remembering the touch of you.

“please, hurry.” and you do, setting her head on a pillow. dropping yourself onto the floor.

kissing her and parting her legs. sliding your hands over her thighs. you get close enough, but not enough to touch her. and when she doesn’t expect it, you kiss her clit.

she moans at the contact, and then you latch onto it. softly sucking it, just the way she likes. when her legs twist and turn, hands reaching to grab the sheets.

you got her right where you want her. gorgeous and laid out.

you slide a hand up, running your palms through her torso, far enough to grab onto a nipple, and flick it. she grips onto your arm. the slight pain making you grin.

it’s cute how worked up she gets with you.

every little touch like a flame that dances upon her skin.

you continue to suck around her bud. giving it a slow lick and she’s gripping your arm more. you lick it with fervor, liking the way she’s begging for you, name rolling off her tongue that strokes your ego.

you stand at full attention, light twitches at her beautiful moans. you get lost in your own world, licking slowly and with a flat tongue. enjoying how her legs shake when you suck.

her body is hot to the touch, a slight sheen of sweat coating her body. casted with moonlight making her skin glow. she’s gorgeous and the only one you want in your bed.

“baby, please, i need you inside.” she begs. trying to pull you up, so you let her. let her drag your body closer, until you’re touching her with your clothed cock.

you slide your pants down, pulling them off and flinging them away, the restrictive material off your body.

and sophia watches you, likes the sight of you bare. body toned with years of farmwork and bull riding building you up.

you slide up to her, using the wetness that’s been leaking from her cunt and coating it all over your cock. enough to get you inside. she’s more desperate than you, reaching for you, and pulling it towards her.

“come on baby, it’s all yours.” you say to her. letting her dictate when she wanted you. and then she pushes you inside, instantly her head drops back onto the bed. the feeling of you inside again after so long has her starting to tear up.

“you okay baby?” you ask, a little startled from the tears.

you stop to wipe them off, ready to pull out at a second’s notice.

“so good, please move.” she begs of you, and you’re more than willing to comply. pushing in slowly and watching her face contorted in pleasure.

pretty pink lips that are begging to be kissed, so you dip down and kiss her. soft kisses that have her gripping onto your hair, pulling the hat off your head and tossing it aside.

you slowly tilt your hips to sink into her. the vibrations from her throat buzzing against your mouth. moans that are begging to be heard echoing inside. she grips harder into your hair, loving the way you stretch her.

“please move baby, i need more of you.” she detaches from your mouth, waiting for you to rock into her. and you do, in that slow pace that lets you feel every ridge of her insides. warm enveloping heat that’s making your heart hammer.

your pretty wife below you, such a vulnerable and intimate sight. you kiss her nipples, lightly massaging one with your hand and playing with the bud.

she puts a hand on your stomach, feeling your tensed abs against her nails. you continue to push in and out of her. moans in time with your movements. you want her to always feel this good, to want you forever.

you lick her nipples, then blow on them, cold air hitting her and she hisses.

“you are so gorgeous baby.” you dip down to whisper to her, and she feels herself getting wetter. the movement of you inside her has her mewling. her nails lightly scratching your abs, you continue to roll into her.

using your hips to angle upwards, pressing your tip in that soft spot. tingling immediately hitting her body from all over.

“found it.” you smirk at her. and with what strength she has she rolls her eyes. wanting to tell you off, but you hit that spot again, and she’s back to being a mess.

“fuck…” she moans out.

“yes baby, feeling good?” you smirk. she nods with whines coming out, unable to answer you. you continue tapping it, enjoying the way she seems in heaven.

you grip harder into her hips and move to tilt your hips back down, long strokes that knocks at her womb.

you want to fuck her so she forgets everything but you. want her to remember only you, it's selfish and possessive. but you need her to want to be yours.

“kiss me please.” she begs and you dive down, kissing her intensely. still giving her long strokes that have her fingers shaking.

“you’re doing so good for me, fia.” you speak in between kisses.

“my gorgeous girl.” you speak to her soul. begging her to hear your calls.

“your gorgeous girl.” she says, tears springing into her eyes again, overwhelmed by the claim. “yours. yours. yours.”

you fuck into her, hips gradually snapping. hitting against her insides and she reaches out, hands open for you to intertwine. you take it and give her hand a kiss.

she cries at the sight, all the feelings spiraling out of her.

she lets you continue to fuck her, intensity sharpening as you keep pulling in and out. her nails dig into your hands, she looks like a mess, the most gorgeous mess.

you want to keep her here forever. she knows it. knows how you’re concentrating so hard on pleasing her. she wants to as well, wants to make a mess of you.

and then she pushes you.

“baby, want to ride you.” she whimpers out, and you nod. slowly sliding out of her, ending with a light gasp from her.

“come ride your cowgirl then.” you settle yourself on the bed, laying down and watching her shake as she tries getting up, legs a little wobbly.

“don't. say. anything.”

your mouth is already half open, ready to make a joke.

but she shuts you up. instead you watch her gorgeous body climb on top of you. hands that cross around your neck.

“you look so pretty, fia.” you say, placing a kiss on her arms. rubbing them up and down as she gets situated.

“not as much as you.” she says through heavy breaths, trying to kiss you on shaky knees.

you use your legs to keep her in place, meeting her halfway. kissing her fervently and passionately.

she has you hooked, cock begging for attention.

then she slides onto you. sinking enough to let your cock rest inside her. and it feels like heaven, how you missed this.

“fuck, fia, you feel so good.” you moan out, head dropping onto the pillow.

“you feel even better.” she smiles at you. sinking down until you’re fully sheathed. she keeps her hands on your abs. settling for a rocking motion as she moves herself on top of you.

“mm, i could ride you for days.” she whispers.

“you’d ride me until i’m dry.” you scoff. hissing when she drags her nails down your body.

“you can’t go dry.” she scolds you.

she wants to milk you for all your worth and more.

“this is mine.” she clenches, enough pressure to make your cock jump.

“yeah?” you let out playfully, “did you decide that?”

“of course i did. this is mine.” she clenches again and you twitch. and she gives you no time to recover.

going right back to riding you. pulling herself up just enough to rock back down. you relish in the sight, the moonlight shining in and illuminating her body. you watch her in a haze, the pleasure spreading inside of you, but the sight of her is more than everything.

you are still so in love with her.

she continues to ride you, hand on your thigh as she leans back. rolling herself on top of you.

you feel like you could cum any second now. and you grip onto her thighs, to which she grabs a hold of you.

staring at you with desire and pleasure in her eyes.

she closes her eyes, letting the feeling of riding you consume her. she can feel the familiar feeling at the pit of her stomach.

“fuck, i’m going to cum.” she keeps repeating it to herself in the moment.

you grab a hold of her. rushing to push her back. wanting to fuck into her until she cums. in a second her back hits the bed again, and she looks at you a little dazed.

“need to fuck you.” you say just loud enough for her to hear. and push into her. going for a more relentless speed.

she keeps moaning in your ear, chanting your name lowly. it drives her crazy to have you so close.

“i’m cumming baby, inside or out?” you pant in her ear.

all you want is to cum inside, begging to pour yourself into her.

“please, inside. only inside please.” she begs for you. hooking her legs around you, holding you close. “want your kids, please.”

there’s tears in the corners of her eyes and she’s raking her nail down your back.

“yeah?” you whisper to her, feeling your stomach coiling into itself. “you’d be the best mom.”

the rush nearly hitting you when she clenches.

“fuck!” she cries desperately, pulling you into a kiss that expresses her deepest desires.

she wants this, wants to be the mother of your kids. the idea of anyone else as a replacement sends her in a tailspin.

all she wants is you.

wants to keep a part of you with her forever.

she needs you. and she needs you to want her. wants you to fill her up. she’s gasping and holding your head. staring into you, in each part that she’s loved and admired.

“baby, fill me up.” she whines, continuing to clench every so often. you gasp each time, open mouthed and head falling back.

“fuck, i’ll fill you up baby, be patient.” you hiss when she pushes back, using her hips to meet you halfway.

she feels the way you twitch inside of her, the signifier that you’re close.

you reach your climax, the white hot sensation hitting you in the body, letting out ropes of cum inside of her. grunting and moaning as you keep pushing into her, wanting to be as close as possible.

she can feel her walls getting painted with you, and it triggers her own climax.

the intimacy, the desire, the urgency makes her continue to sob as she cums.

you continue to slowly pump in her, the orgasm coming to a slow descent. trying your best not to collapse on top of her with your arms shaking. you try to push yourself up, just to get yourself in a better position so as to not crush her.

when she suddenly pulls you down, chest to chest and you can hear her sobs.

“no! stay inside.” she cries out. and maybe time has changed you but you don’t remember ever hearing her so desperate.

“fia? what’s wrong?” you’re concerned.

“no, just want you. stay inside please?” you stare at her, the desperation in her voice is echoing in your heart.

so you stay, gently wiping tears off her cheeks and comforting her as she cries. giving her kisses on her shoulder and lips.

you continue to shower her in gentle affection. letting her enjoy the feeling of you and trying your best not to move around. she feels herself relax eventually, enough to make her sleepy.

she closes her eyes, trying to drift asleep. before she does though, she whispers to you.

“stay?”

“of course, fia.”

–

the morning has dawned and you let yourself sleep in. with sophia next to you and the memories of last night, you feel on top of the world.

it feels like the old you is back. there’s still the ever-looming divorce over your head but maybe last night changed things.

maybe you can allow yourself to believe she wants to stay. maybe she doesn’t want this divorce.

maybe you can allow yourself happiness again.

it’s a slow morning. you’re trying your best to clean up last night’s mess. dirty clothes tossed into a hamper, trying your best not to wake sophia up as you clean her.

giving her kisses that nearly wake her up. hand reaching out to find you.

it’s domestic, and an old familiarity you missed.

you give her another kiss just before you leave.

it’s a good morning to enjoy yourself on the porch. rubbing behind charlie’s ears and sitting in your rocking chair.

letting the thoughts of sophia consume you as always. maybe you’ll buy her flowers today, wrap it in a bouquet for her. or cook her breakfast so she can have it in bed. the thought keeps you happy.

then charlie barks, standing at attention. that’s when you spot someone in the distance.

“can i help you, sir?” you continue to chew on your stick, lightly rocking back and forth.

he’s too well dressed, a three piece grey suit that’s already gathering dirt and dust under his feet.

he’s fidget-y, device in hand as he frantically searches for a signal.

“i’m looking for sophia. sophia laforteza?” he’s continuing to twirl in circles, hands up in the air as he walks in different directions, trying to look for a signal.

he looks like a damn fool.

“sir, i don’t know of a sophia.” you continue to chew at your stick. hand firmly held on your buckle.

“well either you’re lying or this gps is.” he says, continuing to fiddle with his device and he starts walking towards the house. “and i spent a couple thousand on it.”

“i don’t know a sophia. you must have the wrong place.” you shout back.

charlie’s tail stills when he doesn’t move. instead he approaches you. a charming smile on his face.

he gets close enough for you to escalate.

you lift your gun out, pointing it at his forehead.

“i don’t take too kindly to strangers trespassing.” you let out. “please leave.”

“sophia! i know you’re in there.” the stranger shouts.

“you have some goddamn nerve.” you shout, stepping up face to face.

charlie rushes forward, loud barking shaking him up. you keep him still, not letting him lunge forward to bite.

he smirks seeing the door open and sophia running down the steps.

she’s by your side in an instant. and then she sees him, and her blood runs cold.

he wasn’t supposed to find her, or you.

he wasn’t supposed to have leverage.

“sophia! where the hell have you been? i’ve been calling your cell, your manager, lara, everyone!”

his voice cracks at the end and he looks like he’s about to pop a blood vessel. his forehead vein sticking out and blood rushing to his cheeks.

“i couldn’t contact anyone! but i had this tracker and it led me here. in new mexico.”

he explains rapidly and at this point you’ve pushed sophia behind you. putting some distance between this strange man and your wife.

“what are you doing here in new mexico?” he finally stops.

“i-...go home thomas. we’ll talk later.” sophia says.

“no, i’m not leaving without you, laforteza.” he says with an awful smirk. one that starts making you nervous.

you didn’t know anything about thomas.

“who are you?” you ask, and sophia wishes she could rewind time. rewind to a time where she never left, kept you close and didn’t break your heart, because she feels like she’ll break it all over again.

“i’m thomas moore, nice to meet you.” he offers his hand, you don’t shake it. “i take it, sophia hasn’t introduced me?” he says, taking his hand back.

“i’m sophia’s fiancé.”

he says with a smile that’s slow, ending a grin that makes you want to rip it off of him.

fiancé?

it hits you in your chest, the shock making your ears ring. ringing and all you can see is sophia arguing with him. shouts like a silent film in your head. you’ve been duped again.

you let your heart get trampled over again. ruined by this woman. she’s crying and trying to shake you out of your haze. you don’t see the tears that trickle out your eyes. hand open faced and gun to the ground.

she tries shaking you again. and you take a step back. a tense step, muscle at full flex. you need to get out, you need to get away.

she’s done it again, she’s let you believe in her love. after everything you tried spelling out to her last night, you want to forget her. you want to forget how you gave the deepest part of you to her.

you leave, feet turning into the house. quick steps turning into a mad dash. you’re opening kitchen drawers, running through the house, trying to look for a pen. anything that can write. you don’t even know if anything else is real.

pen. pen. pen.

and then you find one, it’s an old pen. ink nearly dried up, and you’re scribbling on scrap paper. heart thumping loudly, with adrenaline coursing through you.

sophia runs after you, trying to get you to stop. she watches you try to write with a pen. her mind going haywire. she has no idea what you’re trying to do. she’s trying to anticipate it and then it hits her.

her heart drops.

“no! baby please, look at me.” she begs you, grabbing a hold of your face. trying to break you from your dazed self. angry tears staining the paper.

you grab the papers from the cabinet. an extra copy of the divorce papers that sophia handed you. the lines are tagged with blue tabs. every line you need to sign is there.

and you see the ink flowing again.

sophia’s crying, trying to get you to stop.

you lift your pen in the air, placing it onto the divorce forms. signing the line. flipping through the pages with anger, signing the other lines.

“please, let me explain.” she’s sobbing and begging you to look at her. it’s no use, you should’ve never trusted her again. of course she would leave again.

what were you expecting?

you finally sign it all and sophia’s sunken to the floor, tears wracking her body and she stares at the floor.

“this is what you wanted, right?” you bite out.

she looks up at you, shaking her head vehemently.

“no, no, i don’t want this. no!” she nearly screams. she gets up, trying to hug you.

“get off of me, sophia.” you cry out. arms at your side as she keeps her arms around you. it’s suffocating, you never thought you’d say it, but her touch is suffocating.

“my name is fia! it’s fia! you don’t call me sophia!” she cries out, her heart is breaking.

everything is in ruin again. you’re in ruin too. this wasn’t how it was supposed to go.

you wanted to ask her to reconsider, thought of getting her flowers and dressing up all nice to ask her on a date.

this solidified everything you thought was wrong.

“you have a fiancé?” you ask, with betrayal laced in your tone, backing up from her. it hurts to look at her.

she doesn’t know what to say, so she says nothing. bloodshot eyes that are begging for you to hear her out.

“and you didn’t tell me?” you continue to be impressed, at how little you know sophia.

she shakes her head, trying so hard not to have heave.

“please, let me explain.” she begs and you shake your head. it hurts so bad, it’s sucking your energy to be in this room with her.

“and last night…did you even mean it?” you ask, hand over your heart as you feel the anger boiling. you gave her everything, your heart and soul, and she has a fiancé. one that she conveniently forgot to tell you about.

“of course i meant it! i always mean it.” she shouts back, disgusted by the accusation.

you stare at her, begging for the truth, for this all to be one sick play, where all the curtains rise and a camera crew filming the whole thing. a punk’d kind of sick trick.

“you must be one hell of an actress out there, laforteza.” you say out of spite. “you had me fooled with your act.”

“don’t you dare. i never, i never—it was never an act with you.” she nearly screams.

but the curtains don’t rise, and reality sticks.

“get out sophia. i don’t want to see you ever again.” you say. you stare at the divorce papers that you haphazardly signed.

signatures flying across the page, and tears wrinkling it. it’s a poor sight, and one that you want out of your home.

“get the fuck out.”

she feels her heart crack, truly crack. there’s so much hatred in your voice. pain ladened anger that screams for retreat.

she cries out, hands reaching out for you. you turn away from her. tears streaming down your face.

“if you won’t leave, i will.” you bite out. moving past her, and out the house. and once again you’re running off on buckeye.

charlie following you closely. whimpers coming from him when he doesn’t see sophia follow. he gives one final look before running to catch up to you.

sophia’s sobbing into herself, curled herself into a ball. staring at the home you both once built. maybe this was how it was always supposed to be. maybe she should’ve just stayed away the first time.

maybe she doesn’t deserve this happy ending either.

thomas steps into the house, the cunning smile rubbed off his face, a colder exterior forming.

“sophia, let’s go.” he says, offering his hand. “enough playing house, you have responsibilities.”

sophia looks at him through her tears, anger directed towards him. steel eyes forged with anger and resentment.

“thomas. fuck. off.” sophia stands up, grabbing the papers off the desk. leaving the house with him behind her.

she gives one more look at the house. trying to commit it to memory, trying to commit you to memory. hand on the door handle, opening the car door and stepping inside.

maybe she needs to put this all behind.

she cries to herself as the car pulls out the ranch, hand crumpling the paper in her hand.

just like a phantom, she disappears again.

this time you want her to stay away.

a/n: how did we like the ending!!! :) i apologize if this isn't true to the american cowgirl/ranch owner/bull rider experience, i tried my best! and honestly this was a whole beast to write so i hope you enjoyed it! stay safe and stay healthy everyone!

#neoplatinum #katseye #sophia laforteza #sophia katseye #katseye x reader #katseye sophia #sophia x reader #sophia #katseye sophia x reader #sophia laforteza x reader #g!p reader

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artbyblastweave · 1 year ago

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So I don't really think that it's a secret that Boston has a significant Minotaur problem. It's a pretty common situation for older American cities on the East Coast- centuries of poorly-documented cowpath-style urban growth providing an ideal nesting ground, widespread electrification and plentiful steam tunnels that compensate for the loss of the temperate Mediterranean climate that they're used to. And all this on top of limited institutional knowledge of proper containment tactics at least up until the Greek diaspora started to really blow up in the 20th century. You only have to fuck up the safety checks on one cargo steamer coming in from the broad area of old Minoa and then basically any import controls you put in after that point are closing the barn door after the bulls are loose. So yeah, no secret, it's an issue.

I do think, though, that we've kind of let the specific narrative surrounding the issue get away from us in the usual fashion, the problem people picture when they hear "Minotaur" isn't anywhere close the to the problem as it exists on the ground. I mean people's minds immediately jump to the 1949 Boylston massacre, but let's be real, even though that was really politically useful for finally getting the exit fares on the T removed, that was still a black-swan event, right? Basically every mayor since, like, Hynes has lived in mortal terror of having to manage a repeat of something like that during the mass media era, let alone the smartphone era. So we've got these Theseus kill-teams with their titanium-composite ropes and souped-up cattle prods and bolt guns, we have these constant "track replacement" stoppages on the orange line, and it's fine. It's fine! There hasn't been a serious Minotaur thing within walking distance of a T stop since, like, 2006, which again you can mostly chalk up to the chaos surrounding the dig.

No, the actual danger zones, the silent killers are the exurbs, like West Roxbury, Roslindale, parts of Hyde Park. Relatively dense foliage, bad sightlines, far enough from the urban center that the response times are bad, foot traffic that's basically nonexistent for big parts of the workweek because everyone's either commuting or hunkered down working from home. And, of course, a steady stream of delivery drivers with no political ties to the area. Which is an important element, right? I mean it's kind of baked into the Minotaur's nature, that they have a very finely tuned instinctual awareness of the politics of their situation. Start snagging homeowners, there might be a ruckus. But Amazon does steady business everywhere, and Minotaurs are smart enough to cover their bases, to wait until after the drivers have dropped off your package or delivered your food. So yeah, watch yourself out there. One eye on the treeline at all times. And if you see an Amazon van left idling, get ready to run faster than the driver could.

#shitpost #my writing #thoughts #meta #minotaurs #bostonposting

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cinephilechronicals · 2 years ago

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august playlist recap

so, here’s what i’ve been listening to during august!

werewolf — motionless in white

i’ve been listening to way more miw than usual. like, i really love miw, but this month will destroy my spotify recap. listening to this song isn’t enough. i need this song injected into my blood, i want it tattooed on my forehead. like i cannot get over this god damn song. it’s just so good.

slaughterhouse — motionless in white ft. bryan garris

this is another one that’s just on repeat. it’s pretty heavy, and both artist’s vocals are just so good. like, chris can hit such a mean blegh and bryan’s screams are just amazing. top tier song of the month.

cyberhex — motionless in white

okay i promise that this is the last miw song on the list. but man, this and scoring the end of the world are really good cyber-metal songs. like cyberhex just screams mick gordon. i love chris’ pronounciation in this, like i love the way that chris sings things.

viking — slaughter to prevail

dude alex terrible never misses. that bear growl,,, man. this song is so good, like the instrumentals, the vocals, slaughter to prevail just never disappoints. i’m so hyped to hear it live in december.

holy roller — spiritbox

honestly i could put the entire eternal blue album. spiritbox is such a beast of a band, they always hit. this song is so god damn good. i couldn’t even tell you exactly what it is about this song that it so good, it just is. i love courtney’s vocals here oh my god.

bring back the plague — cattle decapitation

i don’t think i’ll ever move on from this song. cattle decap is such a monsterous band, i’m so mad i can’t see them this year. this song just hits, always has, always will.

#motionless in white #chris motionless #knocked loose #slaughter to prevail #spiritbox #courtney laplante #cattle decapitation #deathcore #metalcore #music

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m1ckeyb3rry · 28 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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americanahighways · 8 months ago

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Interview: Kimberly Kaye of Loose Cattle on The New Orleans Community Behind Someone’s Monster

Interview: Kimberly Kaye of Loose Cattle on The New Orleans Community Behind "Someone’s Monster" @loosecattleband @americanahighways @Hannah_meansshannon #someonesmonster #musicianinterviews #americanamusic #americanahighways #writtenbyahuman

Loose Cattle photo by King Edward Photography Kimberly Kaye of Loose Cattle on The New Orleans Community Behind Someone’s Monster New Orleans-based band Loose Cattle will be releasing their third full-length album, Someone’s Monster, on November 1st, 2024, via their new label home of Muscle Shoals-based Single Lock. The album is notable for several reasons, including Loose Cattle moving into…

#Loose Cattle

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jerryandersonsdaughterinlaw · 16 days ago

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cowgirl!abby | farmer!abby | rodeo!abby headcanons ❀

she works on a sprawling cattle ranch where the air is dry, the sun is relentless, and the work starts before sunrise. she’s up at 4:30am daily, pulling on worn-in jeans, a flannel, and her old cowboy hat that’s a little too big but never leaves her head. she walks the pastures with coffee in hand, black and scalding.

she’s all calloused hands and quiet grit, doesn’t talk much but gets more done in a day than most do in three. always smells faintly like saddle leather, hay, and cedarwood. spits sunflower seeds when she’s thinking, leaning against a fence post with one foot propped up.

she’s a natural with horses, she can break in a stubborn colt with a quiet steadiness that earns the animal’s respect more than force ever could. abby always keeps a few sticks of licorice in the front pocket of her jeans, breaking off small pieces with her tired fingers and slipping them to the horses when no one’s looking. doesn’t matter how stubborn or flighty a horse is, if abby’s around, they calm right down. she whispers to them like they’re people— gentle, steady, the way her father used to. every single one follows her like a puppy, tugging on her braid with their lips.

she handles most of the heavy lifting on the ranch— hauling hay bales, fixing fences, wrangling cattle. she’s the one people call when the generator goes out or a storm knocks down a power line. she’s good with her hands (wink), knows how to build, fix, and repair anything from a broken tractor engine to a splint for an injured animal. she has a soft spot for the barn cat who sleeps in her hat.

she has her own battered pickup truck, and the passenger seat is always covered in dust and loose tools. keeps a sketchbook in her glovebox. sometimes draws the animals, wildflowers, or the view from the pasture at dusk.

she can lasso with deadly precision. the only time she shows off is when someone new visits and thinks they can out rope her. they never can. she didn’t grow up with much, but she learned early how to make do with what she had. always fixes her clothes instead of buying new. her cowboy boots are held together by sheer willpower.

abby’s at the saturday farmers market every week, manning her modest booth with jars of homemade jam, fresh eggs, and neatly packaged baked goods. her table’s also got hand carved wooden spoons, beeswax candles, and maybe some hand stitched potholders if she’s feeling generous that week.

she’s not flashy. doesn’t call out to people or chat much. just leans back in her folding chair, boot propped up, quiet and observant beneath the brim of her old hat. you’re drawn in by the smell of something warm and spiced— turns out abby bakes cinnamon peach bread and it’s still faintly warm in the wax paper.

you asked abby four separate times for a tour of the farm before she finally gave in. “didn’t think you were serious,” she muttered, ears turning pink. it started out practical— showing you the fields, the coop, the main barn. but you kept asking questions, smiling wide at everything, stopping every few feet to admire something. flowers, a wind vane, an old horseshoe nailed into a fence post. abby watched you more than the road ahead, arms crossed but gaze soft.

she does ends up helping you climb over a fence when you get stuck in the back pasture— and holds you by the waist just a little longer than necessary. when you reached the pasture fence, you reached for abby’s hand and said quietly, “thank you for showing me.” abby squeezed back, clearing her throat before replying, “wasn’t much.”

you sit on the porch swing while abby works nearby, sometimes reading aloud to her while she shells beans or mends tack. bringing her a lemonade when there’s sweat dripping from her brow. abby never asks for affection, but starts leaning into it—letting you braid her hair on hot days, or rest a hand on your knee while you ride in her truck. she shows affection through small acts; packing you lunch, teaching you how to ride bareback. blushes like hell if she gets complimented, just tips her hat low and mumbles, “ain’t nothin’.”

abby converted the old feed room in the barn into a makeshift workshop. the space smells like sawdust and oil, and it’s lit by a single hanging bulb and slats of sun that spill through the cracks in the wood. the walls have pegboards lined with tools, labeled by hand. a small, painted sign reads: “ain’t perfect, but it’ll hold.” she’s claimed one of the old horse stalls in the barn. it’s got a rubber floor mat, a heavy bench, a rusted squat rack, and a set of free weights she picked up secondhand. she welded the pull-up bar herself. she lifts in the early morning or late at night, usually shirtless in the summer, music low, sweat dripping down her back while the barn creaks and settles around her. you once peeked in and just… stared. speechless. abby noticed and tossed a towel at your face. “you gonna spot me, or gawk?” you did both.

there’s a creek that winds past the far edge of the property. narrow, cold, lined with smooth stones and wild mint. abby’s gone there since she was a kid. it’s where she thinks. on hot evenings, she rides out there bareback, ties her horse to a tree, and strips off everything. leaves her clothes in a pile and wades in slow, savoring the shock of cool water. she floats on her back, eyes closed, arms spread wide. it’s the only place she ever lets herself feel completely weightless.

one summer evening, you drove up to surprise her, bringing dinner in a basket and wearing one of her old shirts. abby wasn’t home. you followed the hoof prints to the creek, and spotted her from a distance— half submerged, eyes closed, water trailing down her collarbone and arms. you froze, stunned by the sight of her so unguarded, so natural, so beautiful. abby noticed you and didn’t panic, just smirked. lazy and warm. “you gonna join me, or stand there like a damn scarecrow?” you did, slowly and shyly, undressing in pieces. you didn’t touch at first, just drifted side by side, hands grazing beneath the surface, lips meeting only once, soft and unhurried.

abby’s been riding since she could walk, but started barrel racing in her late teens— drawn to the adrenaline, the control, the rhythm of it. she competes in local rodeos on the weekends, sometimes weeknight events during the summer season. the circuit is small but loyal. everybody knows abby.

her horse, a sleek black mare named storm, is just as competitive and stubborn as abby is. they’ve been a team for years and trust each other like sisters. she wears a dark button up with the sleeves rolled, jeans that hug her hips just right, a thick leather belt, and her signature hat. her braid falls over one shoulder when she rides. she’s got rough hands and bruises on her knees, but she shrugs them off like it’s nothing. “just dirt. it’ll brush off.”

abby is fast. she cuts close to the barrels, almost recklessly so, but never knocks one. her timing is surgical. her control is terrifying. before a run, she always takes a deep breath and whispers something into storm’s ear. no one knows what she says. maybe even storm doesn’t.

she’s quiet and focused before the race, usually pacing with her hat low over her brow and her thumb hooked into her belt loop. but the second she’s out of the gate, she transforms— tight posture, hard focus, her jaw clenched, dust kicking up behind her like a desert cloud. she rarely celebrates after. just pats storm’s neck and gives a small nod. unless you’re there. competing in the evenings under floodlights, dirt flying, muscles coiled, then looking up and seeing you in the crowd? she’s flustered.

the first time you come to a rodeo, you’re a little overwhelmed by the dust, the smell, and the energy. but the moment you see abby ride, you’re hooked. you stand on the bottom rung of the fence, hands clenched with excitement, heart in your throat as abby comes flying around the final barrel.

after abby wins, you run to the stables with a water bottle and a wide grin, acting like you just watched her win the olympics. you start wearing one of abby’s old rodeo hats, slightly too big, tipped back on your head. you make a little sign for one of the bigger events. it’s hand painted and says: “run fast, cowboy. i love you.” abby sees it and nearly rides right into a fence. afterwards, you’re tugging at abby’s shirt, flushed and breathless. “you were incredible. you always are.” abby smiles slow, tucking hair behind you ear. “only ‘cause you were watchin’.”

before every event, abby finds you in the stands, and if no one’s looking, she’ll tip her hat down over your face and kiss you hidden behind it. you start bringing little good luck charms— pressed flowers, tiny stones, even just folded notes, and tuck them into abby’s tack bag before a race.

after a particularly muddy ride, you help hose down storm while abby changes. you tease her about the dirt in her teeth and abby flicks water back at you. after nighttime events, you ride home in the truck with the windows down, dust on your boots, country music playing low on the radio, your head on abby’s shoulder.

at the season finals, you wear one of abby’s button ups tied at the waist, boots, and lipstick that makes abby lose her words for a second. the crowd’s loud, but all abby hears is your voice as she lines up at the gate.

when she wins, she doesn’t go to the announcers or the barn first— she goes to you, scooping you up off the ground in both arms, and kisses you full on in front of the whole damn town. someone whistles. someone shouts, “get a room!” you just grin against her lips and say, “no need. we’ve got a barn.” abby just chuckles, “you’re trouble,” and kisses you again.

you love pulling abby in by her belt loops. it started as a playful move— done once with a wink and a cheeky smile, but it quickly became a thing between you. it’s your own way of “reining her in,” especially when she’s trying to dodge affection in public or is busy pretending she’s too focused for softness. you’ll hook two fingers in the loops, tug her close, and murmur something like, “c’mere, cowboy.” and abby will sigh like she’s being put out, but the corners of her mouth betray her every time. she lives for you being bold like that. even if it makes her blush all the way up to her ears, she never pulls away. in fact, she starts wearing pants with sturdier belt loops. just in case.

you’re not quite tall enough to meet her lips, especially when abby’s in her cowboy boots— so you step up onto them without asking. the first time, abby froze like a spooked horse. “you’re gonna scuff ‘em.” you grinned and kissed her anyway. she didn’t bring it up again. it’s become a quiet routine, stepping up onto the toes of her boots, hands curled around her collar or neck, pressing your foreheads together before a goodbye or a soft “i missed you.”

later that week, you slipped away to the barn after dinner. the loft was warm with summer heat, dust catching the golden light through the slats. abby laid out a wool blanket over the hay, rough but clean. you stretched out together, close but not rushed, the distant hum of cicadas and swaying trees outside the only sound.

you whispered stories, fingers in abby’s hair. she listened with her head on you chest, calloused hand rubbing slow circles on your hip. when you kissed, it was gentle and familiar, like something you’d already done a hundred times in dreams. your touches were slow, filled with quiet laughter and stolen breath— abby cradling you close, murmuring things she couldn’t say in daylight.

you stayed tangled up in each other, sweat damp and smiling, straw clinging to your hair. abby plucked it out gently and kissed your temple.

“you drive me crazy, you know that?” you whisper.

abby shrugs. “could say the same.”

“you wouldn’t trade me though.”

abby turns, mouth twitching as she leans into your neck. “not for a whole pasture of peach trees.”

i wrote a smut for this ;) linked here

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iamyourdailydoseofbi · 1 year ago

Text

THE HISTORY BOOK ON THE SHELF. ( HOTD x Reader )

AUTHOR NOTE! Thanks for all the love. <3 pairing: King Aegon ii Targaryen x Targaryen! Little Sister! Reader prompt: When the small council plans to marry off once again, you turn to your older brother for help. word count: 1, 000+ words

You were the youngest and third daughter of Alicent and Viserys. A few months younger than Helaena and Aegon's little shadow in your childhood. Your older brother at first hated it, the way you cling onto him and gawk at him with an innocent awe.

It was your ninth name day, your Father had not paid much attention to it, but your Mother had ordered a celebration for it. You had trailed after him, babbling about nonsense as he tried to lose you. It was at dinner that night that everything had boiled over. Instead of receiving gifts, you had taken to giving everyone a gift.

He had not expected anything. He hadn't been the most kind to you. But was surprised when you had gifted him an embroidered cloth with Sunfyre on it. It was not the best and some threads were loose, but you proudly had told him you learned embroidery for him. Seeing those big doe eyes of yours his opinion changed. He adored you. You were the only one in the family that did not care about his worsening reputation. You just...adored your big brother, flaws and all.

It was why it killed him on your eleventh name day you were shipped off to the Reach, married off to a Lord as old as your Grandsire. He was haunted by your wails, of the way you clung onto Helaena and Aemond, the two of them wailing as Ser Cole carried you off to the carriage.

His young sister, the only one in the family who truly cared, was sold off like a piece of cattle. Not even your cold Grandsire was able to protest the marriage as politically it was a good match and good enough reasoning for the small council to approve it.

As years ticked by, you gave birth to two children, a stillborn daughter and a healthy son. Your husband kept you away in the Reach, so no one in your family had seen you since you were twelve and given birth to your only surviving son.

He remembered the look in your eyes, so void and almost dead. Of how you tried to stay positive. Saying, "Tis' not so bad. He mostly ignores me, except when he wishes to bed me. But even then tis' not so bad, he finishes quickly."

When he became King, he swiftly ordered you to return home, regardless of your husband's wishes. No one would take his baby sister away from him. Not whilst he was still alive and had the crown placed upon his head.

Watching you bounce your son on your lap, he attempts to pay some attention to the small council, but his eyes keep straying back to you. It was odd to think that you were now a Mother and all grown up. Snapping out of his little daze, he glances back at the small council, each member arguing intently. Furrowing his brows in confusion, Ser Criston slides a piece of parchment in front of him, an uncomfortable look on his face. Raising a brow at what he had just returned to, he glances at the parchment, reading the words quickly.

Your cunt of a husband was dead, finally croaked in his sleep. There was no reason for you to go back to the Reach. You could stay here in King’s Landing once more. Softly smiling at the good news, he goes to speak up when Lord Lannister stands up from his chair, slamming his hands down on the table. His face red from anger, his eyes wild like an untamable beast, and voice booming loud enough that it would make a dragon’s roar put to shame.

“To speak of the Princess in such a manner is dishonorable, I will see to it personally that your tongue is removed, Lord Wydle.”

“The girl is of age, she has proven she can bear heirs, healthy heirs. To not give her hand to another Lord would be foolish.”

“We need allies, the common folk are starving and soon the coin will run out. Surely as Master of Coin you can see reason, Lord Lannister.”

“Your grace, please, listen to reason we should⎯”

It takes a moment to realize what they had been discussing so intently. Then it clicks, they were speaking of having you remarry.

"What?" He whispers, his voice shaky and full of disbelief.

"No, Aegon, please don't make me do this again. Please." You whisper, tears building up in your eyes.

"It would be best to have your sister marry someone⎯"

"Think of the war, your grace⎯"

Seeing the tears building up in your eyes, it reminded him of all those years ago when you were whisked away to the Reach. Struggling to speak up and dismiss their suggestions, you kneel in front of his chair, gripping onto breeches as you beg and plead for clemency to their plans. Your son starts to wail on the other side of his chair, making motions with his hands to be picked up.

Feeling his heart break a little at the sight, he shifts his gaze from you then your wailing son then back to the small council. Everything is hectic and he doesn’t know who or what to focus his attention on. Does he console you? Does he tend to your wailing son? Does he handle the small council? Struggling to find his voice, he just stays frozen in his chair.

“Please, please, do not make me do this again, Aegon.” You beg, “I did what was asked of me before. Please do not ask this of me again.”

“We need allies, your grace. The Princess is still desired by many men, men who will look past her past marriage and son. Think of the kingdom⎯”

“Send treaties, then!”

“Please, Aegon. I ask as your sister, not a member of the Court. Please do not make me do this again. I do not wish to marry again. Please do not send me away again.” You beg, your voice cracking.

Watching as the tears begin to fall from your eyes, he clenches his jaw tightly, anger boiling up at the sight of you. His precious little sister, the one person in all of the Realm that he truly cared for, was crying by his small council's hand. Slamming his hands down hard on the table, the room goes deadly silent, minus the soft sniffles of you and your son.

“There will be no marrying off my sister! If you wish for such alliances as much as you claim, do offer your daughters instead, for I will not be doing the same to my sister nor my daughter.”

“Your grace, if you would just⎯”

“I am King, no?” He snaps back, “There will be no questioning of my decision. The matter is settled.”

----

@fragileheartbeats

@danytar

@nightvers

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weirdgenetic-fuckup · 7 months ago

Text

Second Chances

A/n: first time writing for Rip Wheeler, hope to write more for him

I started this months ago and just finished but I hope it’s good :)

Warnings: implied smut, religious trauma, Beth and Rip aren’t together anymore(love Beth but it couldn’t work for the idea 😔), abuse, if you think I missed anything let me know otherwise enjoy!

Masterlist

He looks so pouty and cute I can’t 🥺

~October 15th, 6:37 pm~

"You got a spare room, don't ya, Rip?" John's gruff voice came over the phone, voice wavering through heavy breaths.

"Yeah, why?" Rip asked, he'd just been making himself a quick dinner, body already aching for the sanctity of bed and rest.

"I'll explain later, just get it ready." John hung up before Rip could say anything more.

~7:05 am~

There was an old abandoned shed farther away from the main house, way over a few fields. It once served a purpose but now just lay, holding a few tools that no one had ever bothered to retrieve, there wasn't enough reason behind it anyway.

However, John had been passing by it the past few months with loose cattle around and kept hearing noise coming from it. At first he didn't pay much attention to it, it was most likely just some animals that had taken it over to hide away from the cooling weather, but he wanted to check it out when the sounds started getting stranger.

"Kayce," he called to his youngest son, "I want to take you with me to check out the shed up North of here." He said.

Kayce was with his wife, Monica, and son, Tate. They were having breakfast together, Tate was going off about something and Monica was listening closely, Kayce had been as well until his father came over to him.

"Up North?" He repeated. "Why? That thing’s been here longer than me, never needed to check on it before."

John sucked his teeth and shrugged. "Just come with me later, alright?" Kayce agreed, he had nothing else to do. Nothing to do with the ranch, anyway.

They couldn't head off right away, things needed to get done with the horses and such, everyone had chores.

~4:45 pm~

The two hadn't been able to leave much earlier, just getting on their horses to head out. Kayce didn't mind leaving earlier, he'd thought they'd leave later but this way he figured he'd still be able to tuck Tate in with Monica.

They arrived at the shed and sure enough those noises were back, only this time there was a light seeping through the cracks of the old wood.

Not wanting to risk getting caught they tied their horses up further away to trees, walking through the overgrown grass lit up by the setting sun, it cast a golden glow over the already yellowing field.

There was definitely someone inside, someone doing something and clinking shit together. They drew their guns as they neared the door facing into the trees.

John kicked it open, whoever was in there jumped and dropped something. "Hey-hey! Who the hell're you?!" It was a man yelling from inside. "Show yourselves to me, you crazy fucks!" Kayce gave John a worried look.

John peered in and saw the guy, scrawny fellow, shaved head, it didn't seem to be by his own fruition with how choppy it was. His clothes were tattered and stained, eyes bugging, he was clearly on something; what, they weren't sure, but they couldn't risk anything.

Kayce took the first step in, gun aimed at the man just in case. John followed shortly after and looked around while Kayce kept the man against a wall, hands in the air defensively.

"Cooking meth, you're cooking meth on my land?!" John yelled, making his way over to the man in a few short strides, raising his fist and punching him square in the face and knocking him on his ass.

There was a second thud, it didn't come from Kayce or John, not even the addict. No, this one came a second later from somewhere else.

In the corner of the shed was a smaller closet, it had been used to keep shovels and such. It wasn't small but big wasn't a good word for it, not by a longshot.

"I'll deal with this, you check on that." John said to Kayce, taking the rope from his side and kneeling next to the man, getting him over to the broken down and chipped table in the middle of the room and tying him to it as tight as he could.

"Don't, it's nothing, nothing!" The man yelled, struggling against John's hold on him.

The door creaked open and Kayce froze at the sight. "You, uh, you're gonna wanna see this, dad."

John looked up at his son, trying to get a look from where he was but needing to stand up anyway. The tied man kept yelling and squirming, shaking the table as he did.

Kayce moved to the side to let John look. The room was small, still, it held a poorly made bed, really it was just the frame with a shitty pillow and ratty old blanket thrown over it; there wasn't even a window to cover up.

In the darkness he made out a figure, a small one. A person chained to the bed. They were on their knees, elbows resting on the wood and hands clasped in one another, lips moving subtly in a silent prayer.

"Oh, Jesus Christ..." John muttered. He knelt down, placing a hand on your shoulder and giving it a gentle squeeze. "Hey, are you alright?" He asked, keeping his voice gentle as it could be.

Your clothes, a shirt and cotton shorts, were browning with age, holes dug into them, blood littered over them, crusted into your shorts especially.

You finished your prayer and looked to him, keeping your gaze below his head and refusing to look any higher. You gave a small nod.

Kayce had gone back to the horses and returned with bolt cutters and handed them to his father. "We're gonna get you out of here, ok?" John said, rubbing your back. He reached for the chain wrapped around your ankle, hooking the cutters into one of the loops.

The feeling of him trying to get the chain off was more than you could bear, this room had been all you'd known for years, that chain had been around your ankle for years, rubbing on it and making your skin raw.

You swatted at John's hand, pushing him away and backing yourself into the corner across from the bed. Your breathing was heavy and you shook your head, this chain was keeping you here and still, you couldn't lose it.

John looked to Kayce who was chewing his cheek, thinking of ways to help.

The son took the cutters from his dad and moved to kneel in front of you. "I'm not gonna hurt you, alright? I just want to help, I can't do that with this thing." He said. Kayce was much gentler than John, his voice not as gruff and warmer. He looked you up and down, taking in your disheveled state and seeing how panicked you were. "Can you tell me your name?" He asked, not bothering to make you look at him, it was the least of his concerns right now.

You fidgeted with your hands in your lap. You thought for a moment before shaking your head.

Kayce sighed. "Well, I'm Kayce Dutton, I live on this farm land with my family... we- my dad and I” he said, gesturing back to John, “want to take you there, we can get you food and a change of clothes... a proper bed to sleep in."

"They're lying! They're liars, don't listen to them!" The addict yelled. John groaned and went to him, tying the rope tighter around him. You couldn't hear what John was saying and you were too panicked to care.

"I am not lying, I can't promise you much more than my word, do you trust my word?" Kayce asked, taking your hand in his, smoothing his thumb over the back of your palm in a soothing moment. You gave a small nod. "Alright now, I won't cut it all off, does that sound better?" You much preferred that compromise.

He didn't leave much, just keeping it around your ankle and then a few chains to keep a bit of extra weight, what you were used to, at least similar to it.

"Kayce, we gotta go." John said, peaking back into the room. "Now. Come on, let's go!" John hurried out, leaving you and Kayce alone.

"Can you walk?" You shook your head, Kayce exhaled with a nod. "I'm gonna pick you up and carry you out to the horses, alright?" You paused a moment but there wasn't much time for him to wait for you, quickly wrapping his arms around you and carrying you out of the shed and to the horses where John was already waiting, horses untied and ready to go.

The sky above you, the trees and the grass, all of it was so familiar and new all at the same time. The cool chill of the night hitting your face and body, your skin so pale in comparison to everything else. For just a moment you were struck with this envious look, all of this had been waiting for you? Just a few feet away? But then it all came crashing down as it settled in you that you were outside, alone and vulnerable.

As soon as you reached the horses you started panicking again, yelling and screaming and reaching out for the shed again as the man called out for you as well. Kayce laid you on the horse and gave it a smack to get it going, John was on the other horse, holding the reins to Kayce's horse and moving while Kayce started running just behind you both.

He didn't get far before the shed caught far, exploding. Kayce was already far enough away and wasn't injured, no one was but the man holding you captive was definitely gone, a foot landing not far from you.

You screamed until your throat hurt, until nothing came out. Your eyes red and stinging from tears as you cried out, body shaking over the horse.

John slowed down and Kayce caught up with you, taking the reins of his horse back and leading it back to the farm. "Kayce, call 911, we need to stop the fire." John spoke, taking out his own phone.

The land was damp and frosted, chances are the fire wouldn't make it very far, besides, the houses were much too far for it to cause any real damage. Still, the fire was right on the tree's edge and they couldn't risk too much.

The phone rang in John's hand, all while you wailed in the background. "You got a spare room, don't ya, Rip?"

~7:16 pm~

Rip had set up the spare room, there really wasn't much to set, the bed was made and it wasn't a particularly messy room, dusty, sure, but not messy.

There was a knock on his door and he went to answer it, opening it to find John with a more than distraught you under his arm. "I'll go get some of Beth's old clothes, get her in the shower, clean her up.” The older man ordered, gently pushing you towards Rip.

Rip was caught so off guard and just held you close to him for several minutes while John walked away, back down the hill to the main house. He looked down to you as you stared at the ground. Your hair was matted, face a mess, clothes… he didn’t even want to think about it so he just guided you to the bathroom and set you down on the floor while he ran the water in the tub, making sure it was nice and warm since you were shivering.

He glanced back at you, huddled in the corner, knees to your chest, tears rolling down your cheeks. “What’s yer name, kid?” He asked, keeping his voice gentle. You shivered and shook your head, you didn’t know him, you didn’t know what was going on, where you were. You were more than scared of this big, strange man, no matter how kind he seemed off the bat.

Rip sucked his teeth and nodded, understanding that this was something new for you. “I’m Rip… I’m a cowboy, you know what a cowboy is?” You shook your head again. “A cowboy is someone who protects the people around them… people like you, you understand?” You didn’t but you nodded anyway. “So, I’m not gonna hurt you, I’d never do that… and if anyone hurts you, you tell me, alright?” You nodded again.

Rip looked back to the water as the tub filled up. “What are you doing?” You asked, also looking to the tub as water poured out the faucet.

“I-I’m getting a bath ready for you.” He answered simply, raising a brow at your question. “You’ve had a bath before, right?” He looked you over, you didn’t look like you had.

“When-when I was younger…” You answered softly. “To wash away the day's filth is to wash away God’s path for you, your history.” You explained. Rip sighed, he wasn’t a very religious man but that sounded cultish to him, seeing your disheveled state…

“That’s not what God said, you know…” He said, hoping you’d look up at him but you didn’t. “If that’s what he really wanted he wouldn’t have made lakes and rivers for us to clean in… he would’ve made it harder to do that, would’ve put up a sign or something.” You thought about what he said. Nothing was changing overnight but after everything today you were at a loss, you couldn’t go back to the room you knew, all you had was Rip right now.

“Do you need help out of your clothes?” He asked, gesturing to you with a nod. You’ve heard those words before, not in that order, not in that tone, but you understood that much and shook your head.

You stood and pulled your shirt up over your head, Rip looked away to give you some privacy, as if he wasn’t about to wash you himself. You pulled your shorts off and tossed them aside to the corner before going to the sink, now Rip looked at you, confusion swirling in his eyes as you placed your hands on the edge of the sink, parting your legs and looking down into the sink.

Rip stared at you dumbfounded. Your clothes covered in blood and basically standing alone in the corner, it made sense now and he jumped to his feet, gathering you in his arms and bringing you over to the tub, carefully setting you down in the warm water. “You don’t ever have to do that again, you hear me?” He said, holding your mucky hair out of your face, turning your head to look at him. You closed your eyes, refusing to look at his face. “Can you look at me?” You shook your head. “What’s stopping you?” He let go of your face, letting you look back to the water turning brown around you.

You swirled your hand in the water, amused by its ripples. “He said you may not look man in the eyes for it disrespects him and taints your soul.” Rip exhaled sharply, staring at you a moment longer before reaching back to get a washcloth from the cabinet under the sink.

He rubbed soap into the cloth, letting it bubble in his hands before running it over your bruised and battered skin, listening to every hiss you let out from the scars it passed over and caught on. Your ribs and inner thighs were the worst of it, all it did was anger Rip more and more by the second.

“I’ve got no respect to lose, you can look at me.” He muttered, running the cloth down your arm. “Your soul… that’s something you can’t touch with your eyes.” You didn’t respond.

He continued to bathe you as you rested your chin on your knees, eyes slowly closing until you couldn’t keep them open any longer, you were used to sleeping in this position, your body accepting it as normal while Rip fought the urge to pull you closer to him.

He’d never felt this with someone before, other than Beth. He wasn’t speaking to Beth anymore, she left and made sure he knew she was done with him, tore his heart out and made him eat it.

He didn’t want to think of that right now, he wanted to help you, that was his focus, his only priority.

~7:45 pm~

Rip had been struggling with your hair for too long, he’d finally managed to get your body clean but your hair was beyond repair. A knotted, matted mess that just needed to be shaved off.

A knock came to the bathroom door and it creaked open and John stepped in, keeping his back to the bath as he held out a pile of clothes. "I got you somethin' to wear, just, uh, put these on when you're done" He said, looking down the hallway with a nervous look etched on his face. "I gotta go find Rip." He said lower.

Rip stopped trying to untangle your hair, it was only harder because you were asleep and he didn't want to wake you. He cleared his throat. "I'm right here, sir" He said softly. "She needed help."

John's head snapped to him before he quickly looked away again to avoid looking at you naked. "What the hell are you doing?! She's been locked up and used like a fucking doll, you don't know what she'll think of this!" Rip hung his head, he knew what John was talking about, seen it in the way you reacted sometimes, your clothes. "You're supposed to be keeping her safe, Rip."

Even with his harsh words and the deeper meaning behind them, it was hard to take him so seriously when he was scared to look into the bathroom. "I-I know, Sir, I was just helping... she needed it..."

John let out a heavy sigh. He set the clothes on the counter beside the sink. "Just finish up and get her into bed, not your bed. I wanna talk to you for a minute." He said, closing the door behind him and heading down the hall to the living room.

Rip let out a heavy sigh, very few times had he disappointed John, he hated it every time. However, he couldn't just get this done quick.

He looked to the counter and pulled out a drawer, looking into it and seeing his razor. It was the best thing for you.

He dried you off and got you dressed, doing his best not to wake up, which turned out to be easier than he’d thought it would be, you were just out and he kept checking your pulse.

He shaved your head, it was better than leaving that mess on your head, then he washed your scalp, being careful around the sores. He carried you to the guest room and tucked you in, running a hand over the fuzz that covered your head now.

John was waiting for him out in the living room, resting his head in his hands, elbows on his knees. He stared at Rip as he came down the hall. “What the hell were you thinking?”

Rip inhaled deeply as he took a seat on the other side of the couch. “I was thinking she needed help and I helped… I didn’t do anything wrong.”

“Yeah, that’s what you think.” John grumbled. “Look, she seems content with you if she was able to sleep, you keep an eye on her.” He stood up and went to the door, stopping just short of it. “That’s all you keep on her, ya hear?” He stated, shooting him a look. Rip nodded and John left.

Rip stayed there a moment, thinking about… everything before eventually getting up and walking back to the guest room where you slept peacefully under the sheets.

He sat on the edge of the bed, running a hand down the side of your face. “You’re too young for this.” He muttered to himself.

You began to stir, eyes slowly blinking open and you looked up at him. He stared back at you, your eyes were the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen, tortured and innocent, there was a purity in them he’d never seen in anything.

“You’re looking at me.” He said, cupping your cheek in his rough, clean hand. His hand had probably never been this clean before in his life.

You brought your hand up to hold his against your face. “You’re pretty.” You mumbled, drawing a chuckle from him.

“Am I?” You nodded with a smile. He sighed and looked over you once more. “What’s your name?”

You hesitated a moment. “Three.” Rip paused.

He shook his head. “No, that’s not your name, that’s a number, I asked for your name.”

You stared up at him with a blank stare, blinking tiredly. “Three.” You repeated.

Rip stared, eyes flickering over your face, taking in your doe like features. “Is that the name he gave you?” You nodded, sitting up with a grunt, body aching. “I’m not calling you that.”

“That’s my name.” You stated firmly, Rip was surprised that you’d use a tone with him but he didn’t care, he wasn’t calling you a number.

For several moments you sat there, staring at each other. Rip brought his hand back to your cheek, rubbing it with his thumb. He leaned in and closed the distance between you both, his lips on yours.

It was gentle and warm, passionate but not heated. Love was a complicated concept but you’d never felt it before, he hadn’t gotten ahold of it himself, still, he was determined to show you there were brighter sides to this world than what you’d seen.

A knock on the door reminded him of where he was, who was with, what was happening. He pulled away, seeing the way you were now looking at him; eyes wide, full of something new, something eager and curious.

The knock came again and he got up. “I’ll be back in a minute.” He said, giving you a last kiss. “Just lay down, darlin’.” You nodded with a smile as you moved down the bed.

He went to answer the door quickly, rushing to get it open so he could get back to you.

On the other side was Beth. He hadn’t seen her, nor wanted to see her, in so long, what felt like forever.

She was on him in an instant, arms around his neck, his own lifting her up as he carried her to his room. He knew he shouldn’t, that you were waiting for him.

It kept him up late after Beth was done with him, when she was sleeping next to him, using him for warmth, what else it was she’d use him for he couldn’t guess, there were too many options.

#Yellowstone #yellowstone x reader #Yellowstone smut #Yellowstone x you #rip wheeler smut #rip wheeler x reader #rip wheeler imagines #rip wheeler

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