#and i have so many more of them to go next chapter

[m1ckeyb3rry]

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

[last-words-ofashootingstar]

hihiii sooo 'should i?' is my favourite of your au's can i please request for hongjoong with 219, 203, 207, and please please 214!!!! maybe filming a cnc video.... god i'm drooling just thinking about it

➯a/n: i'm gonna faint 🫠 hongjoong is my bias and "Should I?" hongjoong is like hdvsjejabdeo anywho- ENJOY, I WENT OVERBOARD ! WHOS SURPRISED ? NO ONE LMAOOO

Cash, Grass, or Ass? (Nobody Rides For Free)

Should I?: Part Four

❥Kim Hongjoong x fem reader

❥K.H. x J.Y. x S.M. x fem reader

207 + 214: bondage/restraint + cnc

✈︎queued for: tues 3rd

(>ᴗ•)genre: smut, amateur p0rn⭐️ au

ಠ_ಠwarning/content: not proof read ( sorry, i'm impatient ), 219 dacryphilia, filming, roleplaying as strangers, reader wears "girly-girl" clothes, 207 bondage/restraint: with rope, mean rough nasty dom joong, 203 praise + degradation double whhhhammy !!, finger sucking, safe word in place but not used, getting into subspace, dumbification, a few hair pulls, stocking / sock kink, squirting, choking ( with hands + cock ), knife play ( omg i never wrote for this before but 🫣 ), road head + rough blow job: face fucking / head pushing / gagging / messy, spit, cock warming via mouth (?), a few slaps, messy cunnilingus, 'forced' orgasms, creampie, aftercare, 214 cnc: reader cries, struggles, begs, 'stop' & joong forces, mocks, threatens but everything is previously agreed upon !! this is depicting roleplay ! name calling including: stupid, girl, slut, brat / sicko, pervert. pet names including: little siren ( still have not moved on tbh ), princess, sweetheart / sir, captain

➯cnc disclaimer: CONSENT IS SEXY. all parties are and always will be consenting in my stories. cnc is a way to explore power dynamics and it's attractive to many people, it does not "promote s/a", the first c is CONSENSUAL. you should only ever do it with someone who you trust. be safe and stay freaky !!

♡masterlist + tag form !♡

₊‧⁺stardust˖⋆ @everyonewooeverywhere @willowwyy @sousydive @sunnysidesins @onyxmango @devilzliaison @ateezswonderland @queenofdumbfuckery @emilysecresy

➯a/n2: little treat for an idea i have for another chapter at the end kkkkk

18+.MINORS GET LOST.

━༻❁༺━

"Need a ride?"

Hongjoong's voice makes your heart flutter.

Six and a half months after you first met in person; you find yourself in the middle of nowhere on a seemingly never ending desolate road in the countryside, his car pulling up next to you.

It's far from the first time you've ever been alone with him. But something feels different. Knowing what's in store is making you flustered — more so than usual.

Hongjoong was so excited that he fell out of his seat when you said you wanted to role-play a non-con scene with him; crawling on his knees to you and putting his hands in a prayer stance as he eagerly accepted.

You, Mingi, and Yunho had made a few videos like that before you even met. And all of them are still, to this very day, in his liked videos. His favorite has to be the one where Yunho was 'teaching' Mingi how to fuck — using you, all tied up and crying, as a demonstration doll. He fantasized about tying you up himself, probably one too many times to be sane, as he recorded his own videos.

In your liked videos, along with the one where he fucks a fleshlight so hard that he breaks it, is one of him talking about how he wants to tie up a pretty girl and make her choke on his cock. Not knowing that he was talking about you until he admitted it a few months ago. He wanted to do the same to Mingi, to 'see his little puppy dog eyes while he tries to get away'.

But — you were first. You knew, generally, what to expect. All of you are very open about what is and isn't on the table, and you all respect each other's boundaries. What you didn't know, is just how much it would make your heart thud while pretending that Hongjoong is a stranger.

In your mini-skirt, you saunter over to his car. Folding your arms on the lowered window, you lean down; giving him a good look down your loose tank top. Showing off your lacy bra.

He's already hard. The idea of what's about to happen had him hard the second he woke up — knowing that today's the day. Yunho had given him a blowjob to take some of the edge off, but it's already back. And the cute little outfit he had yet to see was making his hands twitch. Wanting to grab at you and get the show on the road.

"Yeah, my boyfriend dumped me on the side of the road." Which, technically, isn't a lie. Mingi had drove you out and gave you a kiss and a smirk, telling you to 'have fun'.

"Sounds like he's an idiot." He reaches over and pops the door open for you, "leaving such a pretty girl."

When you open up the door, his member twitches in his pants. He had seen it from afar, but up close was always something different. Your long socks. White and lacy, just like your bra.

The camera on the dash catches his smirk as he eyes you while you settle yourself in the passenger seat.

Oh. You think as you look over at him, he's going to fuck me up so good.

"So," he leans forward a bit, and you have to remind yourself to lean back.

"Cash, grass, or ass?"

"...what?"

"Which one are you going to pay me with?" He reaches over and touches your hair, in a way that could be described as affectionately — if not for the burning lust in his eyes. "Don't you know? Nobody rides for free."

"I don't have anything- I- I left my purse in the car."

"Ass it is."

He had locked the doors before you even had a chance to try and grab the handle.

"What the fuck, dude?" You pause as you turn back to face him, coming face to face with the pocket knife that he brandishes at you nonchalantly. He raises his eyebrow, smirk planted firmly on his lips.

"Ass it is?" He asks, tracing the flat of the blade on your jaw. "I'd hate to ruin such a pretty face."

God, he should be an actor. You think, gulping as he trails the knife down slowly. He would never hurt you. But the fact that he could...

You know he's going to mock you for how wet your panties are becoming.

"Ass it is."

"Smart choice, sweetheart," he places the knife on his thigh, holding it there as a 'reminder' as he starts driving. "Come suck my cock."

You almost choke on your saliva. He's always blunt and direct with his orders, but the edge in his voice is extra sultry today. "If you make me cum before we stop, I'll let ya' go. Deal?" You have to hold yourself back from jumping his bones.

"You will?"

"You have my word." Both of you know that even if he cums, you aren't going anywhere.

You take a steadying breath, sliding into the middle seat. "You're a damn sicko." You mumble with a small smile, trying to hide it as you unbutton his pants.

"And you're a stupid little girl." He catches the way your thighs press together in his peripheral vision, his tongue instinctively wetting his lips — wanting to have a taste. "Didn't your Daddy ever tell you not to trust strangers?"

"Fuck you-"

"Mh~ Feisty," he grabs you by the back of your head and shoves your face into his lap, "I like that. Let's see what else that mouth can do."

With a small groan, you unzip his jeans. "C'mon, princess~ Hurry up, before I pull over and fuck you in the middle of the road." While you would love that, you'll save it for another day. You pull down the elastic band on his boxers, his girth all but springing out; slapping you on the cheek and making you both moan.

You feign a gasp, trying to pull away and getting shoved right back. His knife is in the same hand that holds your head, the other on the wheel. "Get to work."

The overhead camera watches as you lean down, giving a kitten lick to his head and making him hiss. He grips your head tighter, "you think you're gonna make me cum like that? It's like you want to be fucked."

He almost lets his eyes roll back as you sink down on his pulsing length, bobbing your head quickly over the first inches of it. He pushes you down further, laughing airily when you gag as he keeps you held there.

Your scalp stings as he yanks you back up, letting you gasp for breath for only a few seconds before leading you back down. "Mhm~ Not so mouthy now, huh, brat?" You grab at his jeans, digging your nails in as you breathe through your nose. "Suck."

You muffle a disagreement, making him shiver as the vibrations run through him. "Have it your way, then."

He keeps you there, gagging on his cock for a good few minutes. Spit is soaking his boxers and your jaw is starting to ache by the time he finally stops the car and yanks the keys from the ignition. "Get up," he doesn't give you a chance to act for yourself; pulling you up by the hair and allowing you to suck in some good, deep breaths as you massage your jaw.

"Pretty little brat~" He slaps you, pretty gently based on what you know he's capable of. "I'm gonna have a lot of fun with you..." His eyes scan you for a moment before quickly leaning in and licking up your messy chin.

You turn your moan into a whine, pushing at his chest. "You're so nasty!"

"You don't know the half of it, sweetheart~"

━༻❁༺━

You had paused your scene as he carried you inside the rented cabin, letting him tie up your ankles and wrist without a fight as he asked how you were feeling so far.

And the answer was 'unbelievably horny, hurry up, please'.

He gives you a tender kiss before rubbing his hand down your side while sitting up on the bed next to you. "Give 'em a try, baby." You tug at the rope on your wrist — nothing. "And those?" He looks over his shoulder as you try to pull your ankles apart — again, nothing. "Good."

"Ready?" You ask with a sparkle in your eyes, leaning into his touch as he pets your head.

The camera is already set up next to the bed, recording the soft moment before you get nasty.

"Oh, yeah~" He chuckles, leaning to land another peck to your lips, "you trust me, right?" You nod against his forehead as he places his against yours. "I'm going to be rough- gonna be mean. That doesn't mean I care about you any less. We're just pretending. If at any point you forget that, do you remember your safe word?"

"Pause."

"And if you can't speak?"

"Two hits."

"That's a good girl~" His hand slides down from your jaw, giving your binds a tug before continuing downward. "Action."

At his word, you snap back into your role; fidgeting below him while he shoves his hand between your thighs and cups your heat through your panties. Like a flipped switch, you're both back into the scene in a millisecond flat.

He all but jumps on top of you, crushing your legs to the bed with his own as he squeezes your heat. "Damn, you've got a hot little cunt," he groans, free hand slipping between your bound arms as you push at him; landing it at your throat and squeezing that as well. It's his favorite things to do, in any scene — even outside of filming.

Even when it's just you and him, neither of your boyfriends and no cameras, he can't help but put his hands around your neck. To remind you of your place, to remind you that he's got the control. Make you remember that he cares enough about you to cradle your jugular and squeeze it only hard enough so that you see stars in the edges of your vision.

"I can't wait to fuck it raw."

You start fighting harder, twisting and turning your hips, "no, p-please!" You should be an actor, he thinks; smirk wide on his lips as he looks down at you wildly.

"Yes~" He squeezes your neck tighter for a moment before slapping you suddenly, making your head turn to face the camera. "I'm gonna fill up this bratty pussy and teach you a lesson."

You gasp, genuinely, as he grabs the pocket knife from the bedside table and flips up your skirt. He cuts through your panties with zero hesitation, ripping them the rest of the way off. He can see the wet patch on them as he tosses them to the side to be forgotten.

His tongue darts over his lips again. Really, he shouldn't — not for this scene — but he wants to eat you out so badly that his cock is twitching. He tosses the knife onto the floor as he stares down at you.

"I wonder how hard you'll fight me after I make you cum on my tongue."

"Wait, wait, waiiiit~" Your pleads fall off into a breathy moan as his slides down and hugs your thighs, stuffing his tongue into your pressed together pussy lips. "Fuck! You pervert! Stop- please stop!"

His chuckle tickles your wetness, and he shakes his head with his tongue on your clit; giving it a lick as he pulls back. "Nah~"

You bring your wrists to your face, hiding your face as you tear up. It feels so good as he laps at your needy slit. You're so worked up from the role-playing that you fear you'll cum in mere minutes.

He slides his hands up and grips your ass, grinding against your legs as he licks and sucks your cunt like a man starved. Drooling and slobbering all over you. He pulls back and adds to the mess — a fat wad of spit hitting you and making you jolt.

"Get this cunt nice and sloppy so I can slide right in~"

"Sir, please-" He pulls out his cock quickly, stuffing it between your socked calves and moaning. Loud.

"Keep begging, princess," he spits again, reveling in the way your hips jerk, "makes me want to fuck you more."

You sob into your hands — not from his words. To bite back your pleads for him to do it. It's hard to remember the scene when he's making you gush on his pointed tongue.

"Fuck- fuck!" You can't help the string of moans that tumble off your lips as he makes you cum all over his mouth; using his grip on your ass to make you grind into him as you slump and tremble.

He doesn't give you any time to recoup. He drops your hips to the mattress; making them bounce a bit, and climbs over you, manic grin on his slick lips. "You slut~" Using the rope in your wrists, he pulls your arms down so he can see your heated, teary face.

His hand finds its way back to its rightful place on your throat. Just resting there, maybe to ground you in your post orgasmic bliss. Maybe to keep you in place as he shoves his tip into your fluttering hole.

"Ah!" You gasp, eyes squeezing shut and jaw tense. He's definitely the thickest man you've ever been with. And this position — having your legs and subsequently, your heat, stuck together adds to it. A lot. You can't spread your legs, can't try to accommodate for his goliath girth. All you can do is take it. Every single inch as he pushes into you, nice and slow so he can watch all the cute twitches in your face and beautiful tears that slide down your temples.

"Fuck-" He nearly collapses on top of you as he bottoms out in your pulsing walls. "Such a tight fit, you're begging for my cum..." His blue hair tickles your neck as he nuzzles into it, kissing your collar bone. "Your warm little hole is perfect, sweetheart."

You lean into his delicate touch as his hand moves up to cup your jaw, the other holding onto the rope on your wrist tightly. "I might just have to keep you." He moans deeply as he gives a sudden thrust, making you yelp.

"Gentle! Please, gentle... Y-you're gonna split me in ha- in half," you cry into his hand, nuzzling into it as he does to your neck.

"Oh, s-shut up," he stutters as he starts sliding in and out of you; slow and deep. "You love it. You love my fat cock breaking you. You know how I know?"

"No..?"

"Cause your cunt is drooling all over me, little siren~"

His special nickname for you makes your eyes roll into your skull and stay there as you convulse under him — slammed with an orgasm so rough that it makes you wail brokenly.

You're so far gone in your pleasure that you don't realize he's slipped his thumb into your mouth and you're now sucking at it to ground yourself as he slams his hips into you mercilessly. Don't recognize that he's staring down at you with fully dilated eyes and heavy breaths. You have to blink a few times — and the sight makes his stomach flutter with butterflies.

"Fucking told you," he coos the mean words as he tries to fuck his way up to your guts, "you were made to be my personal cock sleeve, huh?"

"Mhmm~" You moan around his thumb, your brain so pleasantly numb with tingling ecstasy that you've forgotten about the role-play completely. Your subconscious is taken over, making you soft and pliable beneath his rough pounding; teary eyes so sweet that he can't help but smile. Trusting him completely and taking whatever he gives because you know you can.

"Such a sweet, obedient, little slut," he snakes his fingers between yours and holds one of your hands tightly. "You dumb on my cock, sweetheart? I fuck your brains out?"

"Mhm~" You hum, head bobbing lightly as you suck on his thumb, hand squeezing his as tightly as possible while he presses against your g-spot repeatedly with his bulbous tip.

"You want my cum?" He knows the response he's going to get when you're so deep in sub-space. Smile spreading even further on his lips as he's proven right.

"Please, Captain," you slur out quickly before your lips are back around his thumb, melting into his soft cupping of your jaw.

"Fuck-" He grits his teeth, fingers twitching as his peak rapidly grows closer, "yeah, you do~ Of course you do, my dirty little siren~"

You didn't even feel it coming until a sharp peak slaps you cunt first, making you gasp and arch below him. Each of his frenzied thrusts send a spurt of your release splashing; soaking your skirt on your waist and his shirt, dripping off you and wetting the bed.

He crushes you below him, kissing all over your face as he fucks his load into you as deep as possible, moaning soft praises as you shake with sobs.

You start breathing fast, eyes dizzy and heart pounding so fast it makes you sweat as he stills deep inside of you.

"Shhh~" He shushes you with a smile, bringing both of his hands to wipe your tears with an easy touch. It feels like you've had your entire world rocked, and seeing him so calm and collected makes you relax. "I've got you, Hongjoong's got you, sweetheart."

"H-" You huff in a shaking breath, "hold me?"

"C'mere," he hums, wrapping his arms around your shoulders and blanketing you with his body. His cock still heavy inside of you, his weight on your chest, his lips planting kisses on your teary cheek. "You did so wonderfully, princess. Did you enjoy yourself?"

"Yes," you moan softly as you close your eyes blissfully, fingers playing with his shirt from their place stuck between you. "Thank you, Captain~"

"Thank you, little siren~"

━༻❁༺━

━༻❁༺━

"Check this out," Mingi flops into bed next to you a few weeks later. He slides an arm under your neck and snuggles to your back as he shows you his phone.

"What am I looking at?" You hum tiredly, rubbing your eyes before looking at the screen again.

"We have a fan-boy~" He chuckles, scrolling on the page slowly. "Been re-posting our stuff for like two months, he's really into you- oh, look at this one."

It's a screenshot from the beginning of you and Hongjoongs role-playing video. Both of you laid in the bed and recording a disclaimer to stay safe and consensual. As you were saying that you had given him clear permission to do the things he did, he was looking down at you with a fond smile; petting your head softly as you laid on his chest.

'Why did the way Captain looks at Princess make me hard before they even started? I don't know who I want to be more. I would let him ruin me and I would absolutely wreck her >:( She's so adorable, I would love to rearrange her guts while her boyfriends film us. I want her to scream my name. The dream.'

You take the device from him with a small giggle, "for real? I knew we had our regulars but I didn't know we had fans."

A clip of you fingering yourself is his pinned post. The caption:

'Poor Princess can hardly make herself squirt... I can do it, don't worry<3'

The attached picture of the man's slender hand makes you gulp. "Wow," you scroll more. Every few days, a slew of posts of the four of you are made. Something catches your eye. "Mingi-" You reach back and slap his side lightly, "why do you follow him?"

"He's got pretty hands-"

"Yo! That's what's I was thinking!"

You click back to the top and scan his profile, "Hwa? That's a pretty name."

"Mhm," he slides his hand down your waist slowly, "maybe we should make a video, you can moan his name~ I bet he'd cream in his pants."

"You perv... Let's do it~"

━༻❁༺━

[lupinqs]

CHAPTER NINETEEN ━━ Girls Talk

❀ ━ pairing: paige bueckers x oc (jo jacobson)

❀ ━ word count: 8.9K

❀ ━ warnings: tiny makeout nothing else i dont think

❀ ━ links: my masterlist, nobody gets me masterlist

❀ ━ author’s note: only a few more chapters left thank god. also i promise celeste actually is going to serve a purpose lol

JO FEELS THE WEIGHT of everything ahead more in her chest than anywhere else.

It’s not nerves. Not exactly. She’s not nervous heading into the Big East Tournament, not in the way people probably expect her to be. UConn’s handled conference play like a machine, and even when games have been scrappy—when shots haven’t fallen or players have gone down, when the rotation’s been thin and legs have been heavy—there’s never been real doubt. Not about their record, not about their identity. They’ve come out of it undefeated. And even if it’s just the Big East, they’ve done it by work, by belief, by toughness.

Still, Jo doesn’t let herself take anything for granted. It’s not really in her nature to. And it’s definitely not in Geno’s.

He drills it into them constantly—treat every game like it’s the national championship. Doesn’t matter if it’s Xavier on a Wednesday or South Carolina in the tournament. Doesn’t matter if they’re up thirty or down two. They play like it’s for a title. They prepare like it’s for a title. They think like champions. And Jo’s bought into it completely. Maybe even more than she realizes sometimes. But, here’s the thing: she’s doing all this to become a champion. She wants it more than anything.

So today—last practice at Werth before they leave for the tournament—it’s not just another walkthrough. Not to Jo. The gym smells like sweat and floor polish and memory, and everything feels a little more important. She’s locked in from the moment it starts. Not because she’s worried about their chances. Not because this is where it all begins. The push, the run, the stakes.

She loves practice. Loves the rhythm of it, the detail, the way film sessions bleed into reps and everything is purposeful. She loves Geno’s voice barking at them, loves when CD yells to calm down, loves the exhaustion that builds behind her knees after three hours of movement. She loves feeling the shape of her own improvement.

She loves this team.

It’s not just a line, not just some press conference thing to say. It’s real and rooted. She loves these people. The way Nika talks shit and throws no-look passes. The way Aaliyah’s always catches Jo’s dimes, her post work smooth as butter. The way Lou and Dorka have formed this weird, wordless connection like they’ve been playing together their whole lives. The way Aubrey quite literally defies gravity and nobody can box her out no matter how many times opponents try.

And Paige. Of course Paige. Always Paige.

She hasn’t played a second this year and somehow she still feels like the center of everything. That voice. That presence. The way she pulls Jo aside mid or post practice and says something small that can change her perspective on everything. Paige could be the best coach in the country if she wanted to be (well, maybe after Geno), and she’s only twenty-one. Of course, Jo misses the on-court Paige, the one she watched drain dagger threes in clutch time and argue with the refs like no one’s business. But there’s something even scarier—something even more Paige—about the way she’s taken this season and owned it anyway. No self-pity. Just effort. Energy. Leadership.

Her rehab’s going well, too. Jo knows it; she’s with her for a lot of it, actually. Paige moves different now. The bounce is back. The ease. And even if Paige downplays it, Jo watches. She’s always watching. Because she knows next season, Paige is gonna be back out there. And them with that Paige? It’ll be a whole different monster.

But for now, the Big East Tournament is up next, and they’re getting healthy just in time.

Caroline’s back. Everyone’s relieved about it. What she’s been through—the concussion stuff, the weird limbo of recovery, the way she’s had to just sit and wait and not know—it’s brutal. Jo saw it wear on her. The silence in the locker room, the way her laugh dulled, how she’d have to hole herself up in a dark and quiet room because of the pain. But she’s smiling again. Shooting again. And her release looks like it always has—clean and confident.

Azzi’s close, too. Her knee’s held her out for a while now, but the team’s been careful. Not rushing. Playing the long game. Jo’s missed playing with her, missed the gravity she brings, the way defenses panic when Azzi even glances at the arc. Having her back is huge.

And the timing couldn’t be better.

Because after this weekend, the NCAA Tournament is right there. And at UConn, under Geno Auriemma, it’s not about getting there. It’s not even about Final Fours. It’s not about anything less than winning the whole damn thing. Natty or bust. Always. Jo grew up watching that standard. She’s living it now.

They announced the Big East awards this morning. Jo’s still sort of processing it. Not because she doesn’t think she’s earned them. She knows what she’s done. She knows what she’s poured into this season. But to win both Big East Player and Freshman of the Year is rare. Paige was the last to do it.

And she beat out Maddy Siegrist for conference Player of the Year, too, which is slightly insane when she really thinks about it. Siegrist’s been crazy all year. If Jo’s not mistaken she’s actually led the nation in scoring this season. Jo guesses the committee must’ve seen something else in her—something broader. Leadership, maybe. Defense. Playmaking. The little things. The winning. Because UConn’s record is better. The numbers back it up.

First-team All-Big East. That’s her, Aaliyah, and Lou. Dorka and Nika made Second-team, and Nika got Defensive Player of the Year. Aaliyah is Most Improved.

Even with the team being so injured, it’s a sweep. And Jo’s proud of all of it. She really is. But she’s not floating. Not celebrating. Not letting it really settle in her head at all.

Because the job’s not done.

None of the awards matter if they lose in the Big East championship (they won’t). None of it means anything if they flame out in the Sweet Sixteen. No one remembers the accolades of you don’t back them up when it counts. Jo knows that.

Which is why she went so hard in practice today. And then, afterwards, when she stayed with Paige in the gym for extra work like they’ve done for months now. Shooting, handles, that kinda thing.

Which is why Jo is now dying.

Like—not metaphorically, not in the dramatic, attention-seeking way she sometimes jokingly pulls after sprints when Nika’s yelling at her to stop flopping around. No, this feels different. This is the kind of dying where her legs are jelly, her lungs are still catching up from the extra shooting drills, and there’s an honest, sincere moment where she thinks, Okay, maybe I should’ve stopped twenty minutes ago before Paige made me do that third round of one-dribble pull-ups.

But it’s not like she could’ve said no. She never says no. Not when it’s Paige asking. Not when it’s just the two of them, the gum quiet except for sneakers squeaking, rebounding for each other the way they’ve done all season. It doesn’t even feel like extra work anymore. It feels like something else. Just something they do.

But now Jo is laid flat across the locker room bench like a corpse, one arm flopped dramatically over her stomach, the other curled at her side. She’s still sweating through her practice tee, her face damp, chest rising and falling with shallow, almost theatrical breaths. Paige sits next to her, with Jo’s head is pillowed in her lap. Her fingers are dragging gently through Jo’s hair, smoothing it back behind her ears. The locker room is empty but for the two of them.

Jo doesn’t open her eyes, but she knows Paige is staring down at her. She feels it. The weighted, blue gaze that makes the air buzz against her cheekbones. Her whole body feels heavy and sort of floaty at the same time, like her bones are dissolving right into Paige’s lap.

“You did good today,” Paige murmurs, voice quiet and warm and a little scratchy. “Real proud.”

Jo groans immediately, a low, pained sound that comes straight from her gut. “No. It killed me. I’m dying.”

She doesn’t even try to sound tough. What’s the point? Paige saw her gasping for air after the last few shooting sets. Saw her grimacing through the last of the sprints, hands on her knees, dripping sweat. Jo’s not entirely above playing it up a little with Paige, either—just for sympathy, a little attention. It earns her more of Paige’s hand in her hair, fingers dragging down to scratch lightly at her scalp. It feels good.

Paige laughs softly. It’s more of a huff through her nose, but it’s affectionate and Jo hears the smile in it.

“Well,” Paige replies, clearly amused, “at least you look good dying.”

That gets Jo to crack one eye open. Just barely. The locker room is blurry at first, but Paige’s face is sharp and glowing in the center of it. That stupid little grin on her lips. The teasing glint in her eyes. And she’s looking at Jo like she always does—like Jo is hers and Paige is still not sure how it happened but she’s not complaining about it.

Jo swallows and reaches up without thinking, hand curling around the back of Paige’s neck. Her palm is clammy, but Paige doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t pull away.

“C’mere,” Jo mutters, voice hoarse and low, tugging gently.

She means it. She’s trying to pull Paige down for a kiss, make some kind of reward out of this moment, because she’s certainly earned it after all the buckets and the defense and the sprinting and the dying.

Paige leans forward with it but doesn’t get close enough at all. She laughs again. “Baby,” she says, “my back doesn’t bend that way.”

Baby.

It’s such a small word. Barely there. Tossed out like nothing. But it explodes in Jo’s chest like a firework. She doesn’t show it, but she feels it.

Paige doesn’t call her that often. Usually it’s Joey in that fond voice, or the God-awful JoJo nickname in a teasing way. But when she does call her that—when she says it in that low, almost lazy voice, like Jo is some kind of secret she’s been keeping close—it makes Jo feel warm. Claimed. Like they’re more than something without a name.

They haven’t talked about it. Not officially. Not really. They act like a couple. They kiss and fuck like one, too. But they don’t say what it all means. Jo’s been too scared to ask. Paige has never been in an actual relationship and Jo’s last one ended in the worst way they can. So, she’s got no spine about it, and she knows it.

She keeps telling herself she’s fine with it. That it doesn’t matter. That it feels real, and that’s enough.

Instead of thinking anymore about it, Jo just groans again and shifts, using what little strength she has left to sit up slightly, just enough to reach Paige properly this time. Her face is close now. Close enough to kiss.

And so she doesn’t show.

No words, just action. Just Jo leaning in and pressing her mouth against Paige’s like it’s the most obvious next step. Because it is. Because Paige called her baby, and Jo’s brain short-circuited, and now she’s just following instinct.

The kiss deepens, and Jo chases it—leans into it like she’s leaning into a cut to the rim, like there’s no stopping, no pivoting away. Paige opens her mouth a little and Jo takes full advantage, tongue slipping in. There’s this noise that Paige makes then—tiny, caught in the back of her throat—that makes Jo’s stomach flip violently.

Jo’s still sort of half on the bench, half off it, one knee digging into the vinyl cushion. But then Paige shifts, her hands sliding down Jo’s ribs. Jo moves with them, body rearranging in the space. She ends up straddling Paige’s lap, her arms around her neck, their chests pressed together. The sweat cooling on her skin makes her shirt cling awkwardly in places, but she doesn’t care. Doesn’t even notice.

All she notices is Paige’s hands splayed on her back, fingers warm and patient, one curling into the hem of Jo’s shirt, brushing soft over bare skin. She notices the way Paige kisses her like she means it, tongue licking into Jo’s mouth.

Jo tilts her head, parting her lips wider, pushing deeper. Paige tastes like minty gum and the Gatorade she had at the end of practice and something that’s just Paige. It’s addicting. She doesn’t even care if her legs are still trembling or if her heart’s beating like it’s trying to hammer through her ribs.

She lets out a breath against Paige’s cheek, nuzzling into the edge of her jaw for just a second. “Jesus,” she whispers.

“Mm?” Paige murmurs, eyes fluttering half open.

“You trying to kill me?” Paige asks, voice teasing, but not entirely joking.

Paige smirks, pulling her even closer. “Thought you were already dying.”

Jo huffs a breath that turns into a laugh and kisses her again, harder now, hand tangling in Paige’s hoodie collar as if she could disappear into her if she just pulled hard enough.

She settles her weight fully in Paige’s lap, thighs bracketing her hips, breath catching a little when Paige’s hands shift lower, palming at her ass through her basketball shorts.

It’s perfect. It’s theirs. Other than right before bed, they hardly ever get this—not really. Not with time and space and no one around to ruin it. It’s rare, this kind of peace and quiet.

Which is, of course, when the door swings open.

They jump apart like they’ve been tasered.

Jo’s whole body jolts, heart plummeting as her eyes fly to the door. Paige curses under her breath, her hands leaving Jo’s ass like it burned her. Jo scrambles to move, to shift off Paige’s lap and find something approaching decency, even though it’s so fucking obvious what was happening.

And standing in the doorway is Celeste Sinclair. Red hair tied into a low ponytail, camera bag slung over one shoulder, UConn hoodie riding up a little on one side like she’s been rushing. She freezes when she sees them. Her eyebrows lift. Her eyes do this weird, flicking double-take that makes Jo want to crawl out of her skin.

It’s only a second. Maybe two.

But Jo can feel it—feel the calculus happening behind Celeste’s eyes. The math of it. Jo sitting in Paige’s lap. Lips probably still pink and swollen. Paige’s hands still halfway in the air.

“Sorry,” Celeste says, voice clipped and a little too sharp. Then, slower, eyes lingering—just for a second too long—on Paige, “Um. Sorry. I’ll just… go.”

She doesn’t look at Jo again. Just turns and walks back out the door, the sound of it clicking shut behind her deafening.

Jo exhales, breath rattling in her chest. She’s still kneeling on the bench, one foot on the floor, legs shaking a little from effort and adrenaline. Her hands are braces on her thighs like she needs to steady herself.

“Shit,” she mumbles.

There goes that secret.

She shifts off Paige’s lap entirely now, settling next to her on the bench. Not touching. Her skin suddenly feels too warm, like her body hasn’t caught up to the fact that they’re not making out anymore. Her heart won’t slow down.

Paige groans beside her, dragging a hand down her face. “God,” she mutters. “Of all people.”

Jo glances sideways. “You think she’ll say anything?”

Paige’s jaw tenses. She shakes her head like she’s not sure. “I should go—talk to her. Make sure she doesn’t.”

Jo just nods. Because, yeah, that needs to happen. No one knows about them. Not Azzi. Not Ice. Not Aubrey. Not Caroline. Not Geno. Not CD. Not anyone. And they’ve liked it that way. It’s been theirs, in the quiet between games and the sweat between practices. It hasn’t gotten messy because it’s been private.

She’s about to say something when Paige leans in, gentle again, a hand lifting to Jo’s cheek. She kisses her once, quick, a quiet reassurance.

“Be right back,” she murmurs, then stands and walks out, hoodie sleeves pushed up, bun slightly messed up because of Jo’s hands.

Jo stays there, alone on the bench.

And all she can think is: Well, shit. Cover’s blown.

PAIGE WALKS FAST.

Not running, but almost. Her sneakers are too loud against the hallway tile, the slap of rubber echoing in the quiet post-practice stillness of the facility. It’s always like this when they’re the last ones in the gym—quiet in a way that feels peaceful. But not now. Now, her stomach is doing somersaults and her chest is tight like she just did suicides.

She doesn’t even fully know what she’s about to say. She just knows she has to catch Celeste before she leaves, has to do something to shut it down before it becomes a thing. Before anyone else finds out. Because as much as she doesn’t want to hide Jo, it’s not like they’ve really had a conversation about any of this. What they are, what they’re doing. It’s just been… them. In pieces. In stolen time. Quiet. Private. Safe.

So, when she sees that familiar red ponytail swaying down the hallway ahead of her, her voice cuts through before she even decides what to say.

“Celeste.”

The girl stops—slowly. Turns around even slower. There’s something in her eyes, sharp and tired at the same time.

“What?” she asks flatly. Like she’s bored. Like Paige has already wasted her time.

Paige blanches. Her body keeps moving, but her brain just stalls out. She wasn’t expecting that tone. That edge. Celeste has always been a little cocky, yeah, a little smug, but never cold. Never even really annoyed.

Paige stops a few feet away, mouth opening and closing once, then again. Her hands twitch awkwardly at her sides. She doesn’t know if she should smile, be casual, be direct, be defensive. All of it feels wrong.

“Um,” she starts. “I—about what you saw…”

Celeste tilts her head, lips pressing into a thin line. “What, you and Jo Jacobson—your puppy-eyed freshman teammate—about to fuck in the locker room?”

Paige’s brows lift like she’s been physically smacked. “Jesus, bro,” she says automatically, startled and stumbling. “We were not about to fuck in there.”

And that part is true. They weren’t. That wasn’t the point of it. They were just—well, okay, they were definitely making out, but it wasn’t like that. But Celeste is staring her down with something curled and bitter in her bright green eyes, like she doesn’t believe a single word coming out of Paige’s mouth.

“Sure looked like it,” Celeste mutters.

Paige sighs hard and runs a hand down her face, dragging it along her jaw. There’s sweat still crusted under her nails from the extra reps with Jo. Despite hardly practicing, just doing the little things she can, her body is tired. Her heart is loud. Her patience is frayed.

“Okay,” she says, “I just—can you please keep whatever you thought you saw to yourself? Please?”

Celeste stares at her for a beat. Then she laughs—but it’s not a real laugh. It’s short and humorless, more of a bark than anything else. Her eyes flick to the floor, then back up, and she nods slowly. Mockingly.

“Oh, you wanna keep her a secret?” she concludes, mouth twitching at the corners. “Like you kept me a secret?”

Paige’s stomach lurches, because—what?

She blinks, feels her throat close up. That doesn’t even make sense. That’s not even close to how it went. But Celeste’s expression doesn’t shift—she’s still got that sharpness to her face, like she’s trying to see how deep she can twist the knife. Like she means to get under Paige’s skin.

“Bro,” Paige says again, brows pulling together. Her voice is still calm, but there’s disbelief under it now. “It wasn’t even like that with us.”

Because it wasn’t. They were never anything even remotely close to real. They hooked up a good amount, yes. There were a couple times when they were so drunk it would result in a sleepover. And, over the summer, sometimes Paige would flirt with her during her media duties. But they never even went on a date. Never saw each other outside of necessity with basketball or in bed. Celeste flirted all the time, yeah, still sort of does, but Paige never encouraged anything beyond physical. She made that line clear.

Celeste scoffs—loud, exaggerated—and looks away like she’s trying not to roll her eyes straight into the back of her skull. “Right.”

Paige takes a breath. It’s one of those sharp, tight ones that hits her ribs in the way down and doesn’t quite go all the way. Like her body won’t let her breathe easy until she figures out how the fuck this whole thing went from “whoops, we got caught kissing” to blackmail threat from a bitter ex situationship. Which is just great. Wonderful. Just what she needed on top of an aching knee, exhausting rehab, and a tournament she’s not even playing in yet beyond anxious for.

Tentatively, she tries, “Are you mad because I told you to stop texting me?”

It’s not accusatory, just curious. It makes sense—this being less about what Celeste saw and more about how she felt when Paige fully pulled the plug on them (which, for the record, they never even were a them). Last month, the texts had started up again—some related to media shit, yeah( but some that were just… kinda obvious. “What’re you up to tonight?” “Want to come over?” “Miss your face.” Stuff that had I’m still thinking about you naked as the entrée but also with a side order of maybe I want to hang out and talk, too.

And Paige had shut it down. Nicely. But firmly. Because even if she and Jo aren’t official, even if they haven’t labeled anything or had the talk—Paige knows exactly where her head’s at. She doesn’t want anyone else. Not even a little bit. Not ever.

Celeste narrows her eyes. “You are so smart, Paige,” she says sarcastically, before sighing. “I thought we were friends outside of the fucking. You made it seem like you liked me. Like you saw more than just one of the team’s Instagram admins.”

That hits Paige in a way she wasn’t exactly prepared for. Because Celeste sounds genuinely hurt now, not just defensive. It’s different. Real. And, yeah, okay—maybe there was a time where she leaned in too much. Maybe her being nice looks a lot like flirting if you don’t know her well enough. Paige has always been told she gives confusing signals. Too much eye contact. Too much laughing. Too much attention.

But it was never intentional. And it definitely wasn’t a promise.

Still, she softens, just a little. “I’m sorry ’bout that,” Paige says, and she means it.

Celeste scoffs again and repeats, “Right.”

And then she adds, tossing it out like a rock through a window, “I wonder what the coaching staff would think about two of their players fucking around this late in the season. Hm.”

Paige’s stomach drops. She hears her own heartbeat in her ears and her mind immediately starts running worse-case scenarios.

What would Geno say? Or CD? Or Jamelle?

Would they be pissed? Would they make them stop? Would it be a whole thing? Would the narrative become that they’re distractions to each other? Would Jo get blamed for it, even though Jo has literally never done a selfish thing in her life? Would there be whispers about the team dynamic being thrown off, even if it’s not true? Would the postseason get tainted by this?

She doesn’t know the answer to any of those questions. And she doesn’t want to.

“Celeste, c’mon,” Paige says, and there’s an edge of urgency to her voice now. She drops the posture, the tension in her jaw. Just puts it out there, raw and real. “Don’t say anything. Please.”

Celeste takes a step forward. “Why should I do anything for you?” she asks, voice cold. “Or, for that matter,” she adds, gesturing toward the locker room with a flick of her fingers, “your little bitch in there? I don’t owe either of you anything.”

There it is. The moment something shifts in Paige, a snap.

Because Jo is not a bitch.

Jo is all soft t-shirts and messy buns and shy smiles. Jo is late-night ice cream runs and twirling her pen in her mouth while she takes film notes. Jo is bright pink lip gloss and knee pads and unrelenting kindness, even when she’s bone-tired. Jo is the person Paige reaches for without even realizing it. The person who laughs at all her jokes and hums when she’s thinking and flushes when Paige calls her baby.

Jo is everything. Jo is hers. Not exactly in a claiming, possessive way. More in a I’ll protect this girl with my entire fucking chest If I have to way.

And Celeste Sinclair doesn’t get to talk about her like that.

Paige steps forward, looks down at the redhead steadily, showers set. “Don’t,” she says, low and controlled.

The word hangs there between them. It’s not loud, not even really forceful. Just steady. It lands like a stone dropped into water—clean, deep, no ripple.

For a second, something in Celeste’s expression flickers. Her mouth parts just slightly, like maybe she’s going to double down, say something cruel again, make this even messier. Paige holds her ground, doesn’t move a muscle. Her jaw is tight and she kisses her teeth.

Celeste shifts a little on her feet. Her shoulders relax just slightly, eyes sliding down Paige’s frame slowly. Almost like she’s assessing. There’s more behind it than just annoyance. Her lips curve—not all the way into a smile, but something close.

“You know,” she says, voice low now. Different tone entirely, like she flipped a switch. She leans closer. “I gotta say… you’re kinda hot when you’re pissed, Paige.”

Paige blinks. She genuinely almost laughs in the girl’s face at how utterly ridiculous it is. Are they not adults now? Sure, Paige can be childish sometimes but this is insane. There’s no way—no way—Celeste is actually doing this right now. Not after threatening to rat her out. Not after calling Jo a bitch. Not when Paige is standing here one wrong move away from a full-blown crash-out.

“Are you serious?” Paige asks in disbelief. “You just went from threatening me to—what? Hitting on me again?” 

Celeste shrugs, all fake nonchalance. “I mean… I can still want you and be mad at you. Those things aren’t mutually exclusive.”

Paige makes a face—is this girl bipolar or something? Sure seems like it.

The blonde shakes her head slowly. “You don’t get to flirt your way outta this.”

“I’m not trying to flirt my way out of anything,” Celeste replies, stepping back half a foot, but her tone still has that same slanted heat to it. “Just saying… maybe if you’d handled things differently, we wouldn’t be out here right now.”

That pisses Paige off in a different way. The insinuation that Celeste is the victim here just because Paige didn’t fall into some situationship she never wanted in the first place.

“I handled it the way I had to,” Paige says, firm. “I wasn’t tryna be a dick, ‘kay? I thought I was clear. I didn’t want more with you. That’s not personal. But I’m not gonna apologize for not wantin’ something I didn’t want.”

Celeste watches her for a long second, fiery green eyes flicking across Paige’s face. Then, her arms drop to her sides, some of the tension leaving her. Like the mask has been peeled off, or at least tilted.

“You really like her, huh?” she asks, quieter now.

“Yeah,” Paige says immediately, simply. Because there’s no question to it. “I do.”

Celeste nods once. Looks away, then back. Her mouth is a tight line now.

“I’m not gonna say anything,” she mutters. “Alright?”

Paige exhales. It’s not fully relief, but it’s close. “Thank you,” she says, cautious but real.

“Don’t thank me,” Celeste mutters, already turning. “I’m not doing it for you.”

She walks away without another word.

Paige watches her go, heart still beating a little too fast. She doesn’t move for a moment. Just stands there, staring at the spot where Celeste disappears around the corner. She doesn’t trust her. Not all the way. Not even mostly. There’s a chance this could still blow up later, or get messy, or turn into a headache down the line. But for now, it’s done. It has to be.

She scrubs a hand down her face. Turns on her heel.

And heads back toward the locker room.

THE ROOM SMELLS like garlic bread and takeout containers and the lingering sharpness of victory, all tangled into one heady mix that buzzes around Paige’s ears. The TV’s on low—some men’s game they’re hardly even watching—and everyone’s talking over each other anyway. The hotel room’s packed, the way it always gets when they congregate after a win, girls half-sitting, half-sprawled across mismatched furniture and the carpet, containers of different pastas balanced on paper plates and knees.

It’s warm. Not from the heat, but from the closeness, the full-body kind that comes after a weekend of playing your heart out and winning, again, like they always do. Big East Tournament champs. Shocker.

Still. It’s step toward the real goal, and Paige is proud of her girls.

Paige sits on the bed she’s claimed as hers (her and Aubrey are sharing a room in Uncasville this weekend), her back against the headboard, legs stretched out in front of her. Jo’s right beside her, cross-legged, the hem of her shorts brushing Paige’s thigh when she shifts to dig around in her pasta container. Paige can feel the heat of her through the thin cotton of her sweats. She fights the urge to just look over at the brunette and stare.

Their teammates still don’t know. Celeste has been quiet since that day outside the locker room. No threats, no passive-aggressive commentary tossed into conversation. Paige is grateful for it, but the anxiety hasn’t completely dulled. She’s still not convinced the redhead won’t change her mind, especially if something rubs her the wrong way. So for now, Paige is doing her best to act normal. No brushing hands under tables, no lingering glances across shootaround, no reasons for anyone to ask questions.

But then she glances at Jo, and there’s a tiny bit of gold confetti tangled in her hair—caught behind her ear, near the roots. Leftover from the trophy ceremony earlier, when they were throwing confetti all over each other. Paige blinks at it. Doesn’t even think, really. She just reaches.

Her fingers brush against Jo’s hair, slow, tugging the shiny piece free. Jo doesn’t move. Doesn’t flinch or ask what she’s doing or turn her head. She just keeps twirling her plastic fork around a bite of pasta, like Paige’s hand in her hair is the most natural thing in the world. She tucks the confetti between her fingers and lets her hand fall back into her lap.

“Try this,” Jo says, out of nowhere, holding her fork up with a twist of unfamiliar pasta on the end “You’re gonna like it.”

Paige raises an eyebrow. “That’s what you said about the gnocchi balls last week.”

Jo says, “Those were good.”

“No, they weren’t,” Paige argues, grinning a little.

Jo gives her a look. “C’mon, just take the bite.” She leans over, offers her the fork. Paige’s brain doesn’t even think about—oh, maybe it’s a little incriminating for a teammate to be feeding another teammate food if you’re trying to lay low about said teammate and yours relationship—instead, she just opens her mouth, lets Jo feed her the pasta. Clearly, she’s not very good at acting normal with Jo.

“Oh,” Paige says, chewing. It’s good, like really fucking good. “Yeah, okay.”

Jo grins and goes back to her container, satisfied.

Paige glances at her again—at her cheeks a little flushed from the heat of the crowded room, at the soft curve of her mouth when she bites into her next forkful. Jo’s in her warm-up jacket, sleeves pushed up to her elbows, hair in a messy bun that’s mostly falling out. She smells faintly like hotel soap and that strawberry body spray she keeps in her locker.

Paige swallows hard, looking back down at her own food.

And misses the way Nika and Azzi are both watching her.

Or, well, watching them.

Across the room, Nika leans in close to Azzi and whispers something behind her hand. Azzi raises her eyebrows, very slightly, and then presses her lips together in the world’s most obvious attempt at acting normal. Paige doesn’t notice it. She’s too busy stabbing a piece of chicken parm and pretending her mouth isn’t still warm from the fork Jo fed her with.

Her head buzzes a little. From the food, maybe. From the win. From the feeling of Jo’s knee against her thigh again. From how careful she’s trying to be, and how hard it is to not look at Jo the way she wants to, the way that comes natural to her. It’s always easier when it’s just the two of them. But out here, with the whole team packed into the room, she has to be a little more careful—she’s determined to be.

(She’s not very good at it.)

She bites into a cold breadstick. Forces herself to pay attention to Lili’s rant about the lack of sleep she got last night due to Yanna snoring like a man in their room.

Eventually, Paige finishes the last bite of her chicken parmesan, plastic fork scraping softly against the bottom of the takeout container. She lets out a sigh as she leans over and sets the empty box on the hotel nightstand. She glances to her right, where Jo’s listening to Ines yap about God knows what, her accent sharper than usual. Jo’s not eating anymore, her container of pasta sitting untouched in her lap, her fork abandoned to the side, fully focused on Ines, mouth curled up slightly in the corners in that soft way she gets when she’s genuinely amused.

Paige nudges her with her elbow. “You done?” she asks, nodding toward the food.

Jo doesn’t say anything. She doesn’t need to. She just hands the container over wordlessly, knowing Paige well enough by now to read the question for what it really is: Can I finish it?

Paige grins. This pasta is good—creamy and buttery and wildly overpriced, but still.

At the end of the bed, Ice notices the hand-off and snorts. “Fatass.”

Paige doesn’t even look up. She just stretches her leg out, kicking Ice square in the shin, still grinning as she shovels another bite into her mouth. “Shut up,” she says around a mouthful of pasta, completely unbothered.

Paige keeps eating wordlessly, occasionally listening to the several different conversations around her and thinking about the weekend. Three games in three days. Lili was incredible in the post, Nika her normal defensive menace. Jo, per usual, balled out, dropping three twenty-plus point games easy. She was named MVP.

Paige played her role, too—Coach P, hyping the girls up, arguing with the refs for them, the usual agenda for her bench role.

She’s really proud of the whole team. Back in August, when she tore her ACL, so many people doubted them, thought they wouldn’t be able to get by without her. But they’ve done it, and they’ve done it well. It’s all building toward the real thing they all want. And, tonight, they get to feel it a little. The calm before the madness of March truly hits.

She takes another bite of pasta, leaning back into the headboard, letting herself enjoy it. This is one of those rare little pockets of peace. Warm, crowded hotel room. Her people. Good food. And Jo right beside her.

As Ines tells her story, half the room engaged, half the room sprawled and tired, Paige notices Jo moving. She scoots just a bit closer, like gravity’s pulling her in, her head tilting before dropping right into Paige’s shoulder.

Paige tenses a little, even though it could be passed off as an entirely friendly gesture. Best friends do stuff like this.

She glances down, eyes flicking toward Jo’s face. Jo’s not looking back. She’s just resting there, body soft and still, eyes focused on Ines. But the closer Paige looks, the more she sees the little tells—how her eyelids are lower than usual, her whole body loose in that way that only happens when she’s too tired to keep herself upright. Her hand rests lightly on her stomach, and her breathing’s already slowing. She’s exhausted.

Which makes sense. Paige saw the numbers after the game—Jo led the team in minutes, barely came off the floor all weekend. She was everywhere, doing everything. And Paige is proud. She wants to wrap her arms around her and say it straight into her neck. Wants to say, you were the best player in the building all weekend and I’m sort-of in love with you for it. But, obviously, she can’t here and now.

Quickly, though, the room starts to thin out. Everyone’s full, sleepy, the kind of tired that settles into your bones after a weekend of adrenaline and back-to-back games and nonstop noise. Caroline stands first, stretching with a groan.

“Okay, time for bed,” she says, rubbing at her face and grabbing her phone off the edge of Aubrey’s bed.

“Yup,” Aaliyah immediately says from her spot on the couch, already halfway out of the blanket cocoon she made. “I need my eight hours tonight.”

“Bro, you never get eight hours,” Yanna mumbles as she pulls herself off the floor, and Ines nods in solidarity, reaching for her shoes.

“Facts,” Ice adds, unplugging her phone charger from the wall.

It’s a chorus of tired bodies and half-laughs and sleepy groans as everyone starts collecting their things. Paige’s eyes flick over them out of habit, but mostly they stay locked on Jo. Not even on purpose, really. It’s just automatic at this point, how her gaze always finds her. Like her body notices the space Jo takes up in a room before her brain does.

Jo sits up with a quiet sigh, and Paige watches her rub her eyes with the heel of her palm like a little kid. Her voice comes out low, a little croaky with fatigue. “Yeah, I need sleep.”

Paige doesn’t say anything, just watches her move. Watches the way Jo pulls her sweatshirt over her head, stretching just enough to make her shirt lift up a little. The movement is barely anything, completely unremarkable, but Paige still tracks it—eyes dragging slowly, lazily, like she doesn’t even mean to.

Jo turns toward her. She gives her a smile—tiny, barely-there, soft—and pinches her right on the underside of her arm. Not hard, but not gentle either. Just enough to make her flinch.

“Ow,” Paige says, squinting and rubbing the spot.

Jo grins, standing and reaching down to grab her phone and its charger where they’re laying on the floor. “Night,” she says, before leaning into Azzi’s side hug, wrapping an arm briefly around her shoulders.

And then she’s walking out with the rest of the girls, slipping into the hallway with a quiet goodnight.

And Paige is a little bothered about it. She wants to sleep next to Jo tonight. She’s used to it by now, the nights at home default because they live together, and the schemes for away games when they switch with Dorka and Ice.

But they have new hotel roommates for the post season, random room assignments they didn’t even get to rig. And they’re supposed to be acting lowkey right now, so they didn’t try to switch.

They’re doing a terrible job at it apparently.

Because the door clicks shut behind Ice, and now it’s just Paige and Aubrey—since it’s their room—and Azzi and Nika, who haven’t moved. Paige glances over, confused when she catches the way they’re both looking at her: expectant, suspicious. Like they know something.

“What?” she asks, standing up, stretching slightly before she bends to gather her and Jo’s takeout containers into one stack.

She walks over, tosses them into the little trash can. They watch her the whole time. And then Nika snorts. Paige hears it before she sees the grin. That little smirk of hers always gives her away.

“Bro,” the Croatian girl says, “how long have you and Jo been a thing?”

Paige chokes. Literally. On nothing. Just inhales wrong on pure panic and starts coughing like she swallowed her own tongue.

Aubrey bursts out laughing immediately, leaning over from her bed to smack Paige on the back. “You got it,” she says between giggles, like this is the funniest thing she’s ever seen.

Paige pulls away from her, still coughing, face warm now for a completely different reason. “I—what—what’re you even talking about?” she asks, voice rough.

Nika raises both her eyebrows, unimpressed. Azzi leans forward now, too, arms crossed, expression unreadable in that calm way she gets when she’s not buying your shit.

“Jo and I aren’t a thing,” Paige says, more weakly this time, and she hears it in her own voice—how flimsy it sounds. How not believable. She wants to crawl inside herself and disappear.

Azzi doesn’t blink. “Paige, please. We’re not stupid.”

“We’re your best friends,” Nika adds, like it’s the simplest fact in the world. “We know you.”

“Mhm,” Aubrey hums from her bed, not even looking up from the text she’s typing.

Paige stands there, trying to figure out how the hell she’s supposed to lie her way out of this right now. Because the three of them are looking at her like they already know—not like they’re guessing. Like they’re just waiting for her to stop denying.

She opens her mouth again. “We’re not—” she says. And then stops.

Because, with the way they’re staring at her, she already knows this will be a losing battle. So, what’s the point?

She sinks into the bed like her bones have been replaced with sandbags, back hitting the headboard. Her stomach’s full, but her chest feels like it’s slowly caving in. Like someone cracked it open and left the door swinging.

She’s never been good at hiding things from her friends—or anyone, really—but she thought she was doing better than this. Apparently not.

She stares at the wall across the room for a second, then drops her eyes to her lap, the edge of the blanket twisted in her fingers.

“How’d you know?” she asks finally. “Did Celeste tell you?”

Nika makes a face, wrinkling her nose. “Why would Celeste Sinclair tell us?”

There’s a pause, and then Azzi, always fast, always surgical with her intuition, cuts in, “Does Celeste know?”

Paige’s head snaps up. “I—no,” she denies fast, shaking her head before Azzi can press it. “She doesn’t. Just—just tell me. How’d you figure it out?”

Azzi gives her this look, like she’s almost insulted it wasn’t obvious to Paige herself. Then she says, flatly, “Well, for starters, you literally told Aubrey and I that you liked her in October.”

That makes Paige groan, head titling back against the headboard, eyes closed.

“Can’t believe you didn’t tell me,” Nika mutters.

“You weren’t there that night for the crash out,” Paige says, waving a hand at her, like that explains everything—which, to her, it definitely does.

That night is seared into her brain like a tattoo. She remembers everything—the quiet guilt, the post-sex clarity, how fast her chest filled with panic. Celeste’s skin still warm under her hands when she realized she didn’t want this, didn’t want her. That she’d been trying to outrun a feeling that had already caught her. Jo. She’d left quickly, rushing to Aubrey’s apartment at two in the fucking morning, still smelling like Celeste and half-hating herself. Azzi had been there, too. She’d confessed like she was throwing up.

It was a mess. She was a mess.

(She’s better now. Mostly. Not spiraling as much. Not fucking people just to forget she wants someone else.)

“You were so miserable after you realized and told us,” Azzi says now, her tone gentler, doe eyes soft. “Especially when her ex was in town. And then, once they broke up, you, like… stopped being your miserable mopey self you’d been.”

“Exactly,” Nika says, nodding. “So, how long’s it been goin’ on?”

Paige hesitates. She glances between the three of them. Azzi’s sitting across from Paige’s bed on one of the chairs, fingers curls around one of her socks like she’s waiting to pull it off but got distracted by drama. Aubrey’s stretched out on her bed, knees bent, brows raised, very much amused. Nika’s on the floor, leant back against the dresser, legs sprawled out like she’s ready to stay as long as it takes.

They’re her people. They always have been. Even if she wanted to lie, she wouldn’t be able to. They already know.

So, Paige caves.

She exhales hard through her nose, mouth twitching, and says, “Okay, uh—we kissed for the first time when I went on that ski trip with her family for Christmas—”

“Bro, that was, like, right after her and that guy broke up!” Nika exclaims, sitting up straighter like she’s caught a scandal.

“Stop,” Paige says quickly, not even looking at her. “Don’t—don’t bring him up.”

Because it stings. Still. Not in the way it used to, not in that sharp, jealous way that kept her up at night—but in a deeper, quieter way now. Because it makes her wonder sometimes if she was just the warm body next to Asher. If Jo kisses her because she was close and safe and already there. But Jo never made her feel like that. Not once. And that was months ago now.

Paige shakes her head a little and keeps going. “Anyways. We kissed there. And then we talked ’bout it. And then it kinda became a ‘best friends who make out and cuddle but aren’t dating’ typa situation.”

Aubrey’s expression says obviously.

Paige scratches the back of her neck. “And then we fucked for the first time after the Tennessee game.”

Azzi blinks. “Wait—after she hurt her ankle?”

Aubrey makes a noise of disbelief, eyebrows shooting up.

“Her ankle was fine!” Paige defends. “She said it was fine, I didn’t—like—I didn’t pressure her or anything. It was a mutual, fully healed-up, consensual ankle situation.”

The other three start laughing. Paige lets them. Because whatever. It was fine. She’s not explaining the post-game hotel room events. No one needs to know Jo had ice on her ankle while they were fucking. Not relevant.

Azzi recovers first, her tone shifting a little, more curious than teasing now. “So… what are you guys now?”

That stops Paige. She looks down at her hands, fingers curling over the blanket again. It’s the question she’s been dodging in her own head.

“Nothing official,” she finally answers. “But we’re not seein’ anyone else. And it—it feels real.”

The word hangs there. Real.

Because it does. It’s not some high school fling or college situationship. It’s not an impulsive rebound or a secret thing they pretend doesn’t matter. It’s brushing teeth next to each other. It’s cooking together (or, well, usually DoorDashing, actually). It’s wearing each other’s clothes. It’s looking at each other like they’re already theirs.

“And we’re always together,” Paige says, softer now. “And I—I’ve never been in an actual relationship, but it… seems to be goin’ in that direction. If we ever actually talk about it.”

She lets that hang in the air, watching how the three of them take it in.

Azzi nods thoughtfully before locking eyes with Paige. “D’you want her to be your girlfriend?” she asks, voice soft like she’s being careful not to spook her.

With this answer, Paige doesn’t hesitate. “Yes.”

The word is out of her mouth before she has a chance to second guess it, and the moment it’s hanging in the room, she kind of wants to pull it back, like she’s said too much, like it cracked something open inside her she wasn’t ready for.

Because of course she wants that. Of course she wants Jo. Wants to walk into practice without pretending that she didn’t fall asleep the night before with Jo’s hand under her shirt and her leg slung across Paige’s thigh. Wants to kiss her in public. Wants to hold her hand when she’s anxious. Wants to introduce her to people as her girlfriend and not have to glance at her first, like is that okay? are we okay?

But even saying it—yes—feels like walking a tightrope. Like admitting too much too soon. Like if she gets too close to the truth of how much she feels, it’ll all unravel.

Azzi tilts her head, studying her. “Are you gonna ask her?”

Paige blows out a breath and scrubs a palm down her face. “I—I’mma figure it out, okay?” she says, voice quieter now. “After the tournament.”

And that’s the truth. That’s the only way she can even frame it in her mind without worrying. There’s a wall around this time of year—March is sacred, locked in—and they all know it. It’s tunnel vision now. There’s no space for messiness or what-ifs or fragile beginnings that might fall apart if they get poked too hard.

This is what they’ve worked all season for. This is what everything’s about. And as much as Jo matters—more than anything—Paige can’t risk letting her head drift too far from the game.

Azzi, Nika, and Aubrey all nod at that, agreeing. It’s better to leave the big emotional swings for later. Win first. Figure it out after. Priorities.

But then Nika turns her head, eyes narrowing a little, not harsh—just quiet. Just a little hurt. “Why didn’t you tell us?”

Paige’s stomach twists. That question hits lower than the others. It’s not accusing, exactly, but it lands heavily. Because these are her best friends, and she kept it from them.

She sighs again, her body sagging forward slightly as she leans her forearms on her knees, staring at the comforter. She doesn’t know how to make them understand without sounding like she’s trying to justify hiding it. That was never the point.

“It wasn’t about not telling you,” Paige says finally. “It was about us figurin’ things out first—which, we haven’t. Not really.”

She looks up at them, trying to keep her voice even, steady, like she means it all and wants them to believe her.

“We’re in the most important part of the season,” she says. “And we were scared that if something happened, it might mess with the team. Like, the vibe, the chemistry—all of it. And I don’t even wanna know what Coach or CD or the rest of the staff would say or think. We just wanted everyone to focus on March. Focus on what we’re all here for. And figure everything else out after.”

The last word ends with a kind of finality. After. Like there’s a promised world waiting for them just past the edge of April. Where they can breathe. Where they don’t have to hide.

Azzi nods slowly. Aubrey crosses her arms over her stomach and leans her head back against the wall. Nika drops her gaze to the carpet, thoughtful, chewing at the inside of her cheek.

They get it. They don’t have to say they do—Paige can tell. They’re not pushing her anymore. Because, at the end of the way, they’re ball players before anything else. They know what the stakes are.

Paige shifts a little on the bed and looks at them again, voice softer. “Can you guys not tell Jo that you know?” she asks.

Azzi furrows her brows. “Why? Why more secrets?”

Paige shakes her head, quick, already hearing how it sounds—paranoid, dramatic, unnecessary. But it’s not. Not to her.

“Because I think she’ll freak out if she knows,” she says honestly. “At least, right now. You know how anxious she gets. And it’s not like—she’s not ashamed or anything. It’s just… it’s already been hard enough figuring this out, the two of us. She didn’t even know she liked girls before this. I just wanna figure things out forreal between the two of us before she really has to worry. Y’know?”

She pauses, fingers messing with the blanket again. “I don’t want her overthinking it. Or shutting down. I just… I want to keep this safe. Just for us. Until we’re ready.”

There’s silence for a second. And then Nika, in a voice a whole lot gentler than usual, says, “Okay, P. We won’t tell.”

Relief floods her body faster than she expected. Her shoulders drop. Her hands unclench. She nods once, a quiet thank you, and lets her head fall back again.

She’s not used to sharing stuff like this. Because she’s never really had this to share. But, for Jo, she’s gonna try.

[florencebirdsong]

Water For A Word

Dark Agatha Harkness x Reader

Basement Bunny - Chapter 1/10

Summary: obedience is the first step to teaching a bunny.

18+ Minors DNI

Tags: dark fic, conditioning, training, kidnapping, coercion, manipulation, no actual smut (yet), food used as a method of control (descriptions of being hungry and feeling over-full), future stockholm syndrome

Words: 4,270

Authors note: Here we go!!! I am both nervous and excited to post this. I really hope you enjoy it! The rest of the chapters will be posted for kinktober so that will be 8-9 chapters spread out over the month :)

ao3 | masterlist

You’ve walked home alone so many times it barely worries you. It’s dark when you start so you finish when it’s still light. There’s plenty of people around and you try your best to stay aware of your surroundings. You thought you were safe. You were wrong.

There’s a tiny shortcut between two streets. The streets curve towards each other so it’s only a few hundred metres/nine-hundred feet or so. You’ve walked through there a thousand times. It’s rare to cross paths with someone let alone have someone walk behind you. 

You don’t know she’s behind you and you don’t get halfway down the lane. One moment you’re walking peacefully thinking about what you’ll have for dinner, the next there’s a sharp sting in your neck and you’re collapsing to the ground. Someone catches you. Darkness fills your vision before you see who.

You come-to in a concrete room, barely. Your head aches, your tongue feels thick and you can’t push yourself up. Your everything is too heavy to look around but the section of the room you can see holds nothing but the bare mattress you’re on. Your eyes slip shut again against your will.

The next time you wake up is much nicer. Physically. You’re still in an empty concrete room. A basement, maybe. With no windows. You still feel a little drowsy but otherwise nothing hurts. Your mouth is dry. You look around the room. There’s nothing else on the other side. All you have is a bare mattress and a door to keep you company. At least the mattress isn’t a single.

Wait. A door. You scramble towards it. You almost fall but you catch yourself before you land. You stumble the last two steps. The handle rattles but doesn’t move. You yank on it and when that doesn’t work you lever yourself up on it to try and force it down with your body weight. Still no more movement than before.

You rest your head against the door with a sigh. It would’ve been more unsettling if the door had been unlocked but the idea of being trapped in a windowless room isn’t much fun either. You move back to the mattress and sit slumped on the edge. You look around again to see if you’ve missed anything. You don’t think you have until you remember to look up. 

The lights are a soft yellow instead of the harsh white of LEDs which is nice. The roof is too high for you to be able to reach them, even if you jumped from the mattress. Your eyes trail along the roof, just as bland as every other side of the room, and snag in the corner. A red blinking light greets you. A camera. 

You startle to your feet, twisting to check the other corners. There’s one in all four. Whoever took you is watching you. You want to take them down. To rip them out and use them against your captor but there’s no way to reach them. You slowly sit back down again. There isn’t anything else you can do but wait.

———

Time feels endless when there’s no natural light to tell you it’s passing. You try counting the seconds but it got hard to keep track once every finger counted as ten minutes. Being able to count to six hundred without zoning out is a skill you don’t have and no one is here to tell you where you left off.

You’ve sunk into a mindless, quiet nothing when the door finally opens. The sound of a lock clicking has you straightening. Then another lock clicks. Then another. It keeps going until you’ve counted six. There’s no way you’re strong enough to break six, no matter how many times you slam your body weight against the door. The steel door won’t smash like a wooden one would.

The door gives a low groan as it opens. A woman steps through, which is a subconscious surprise. She’s…pretty. Not the first thought you should have upon meeting the person who kidnapped you but she is. Maybe even beautiful but that’s a step too far for your frazzled mind. 

You don’t stand. Being eye to eye would feel better but you’re wary of upsetting the person between you and the door. If you startle her she might leave, if you scare her she might hurt you. So you stare quietly up at the woman and wait for her to move first. She’s holding a cold glass of water. The dripping condensation draws the eye of your parched throat.

“What’s my name?” she asks calmly.

You frown. She snatched you off the street and she hasn’t bothered to introduce herself. How could you possibly know?

Would it be more insulting to guess a middle-aged white woman name or would it be better to ask? 

“I don’t know,” you settle on. 

“Mistress,” she says in the same calm tone. 

That’s not a name, it’s a title. Which is not the thing to focus on. She wants you to call her that? Is she crazy?

Of course she is, she kidnapped you.

“What’s my name?” she asks again. 

You hesitate. Calling her that isn’t even on the list of horrible things you thought she would do to you but it still feels like a slippery slope.

But she hasn’t done anything to you yet, apart from the whole locking you in a windowless room thing. Maybe testing the waters is better than starting to think of her like that. She cocks a brow at your silence. You look at the ground instead of at her. She doesn’t say anything else. The door closes with a dull thud and you listen with dread as a half-dozen locks click into place.

———

Time passes slowly with no way to track it. Your normal methods of daydreaming don’t help when all you want is to be home. Your cracked lips aren’t helping either. Anytime you start to sink into a daydream the sting of your lips pulls you back.

Locks click and you scramble to your feet. She walks in wearing the same thing as before, a sweating glass of water in her hand. You think that fits. That it hasn’t been a full day since she took you, but you’re already so thirsty. Is it the pointed lack of water that’s making the feeling worse or is this some sort of mind game?

She gives you an appraising look before asking again, “What is my name?”

“I don’t know,” you say much quieter this time. 

She stares at you for a long moment, probably giving you a chance to reconsider, and you watch a drop of condensation slip onto her hand. Your lips burn and you lick them to try and bring some relief. It only makes it worse. You only get a quirk of her lips before she leaves again.

The first drop of regret slips into your chest.

———

You don’t get up the next time she enters. Hunger wars with thirst within you and it’s easier to stay curled over your knees. She’s still wearing the same outfit, which doesn’t make any sense,but the word is out of your mouth before she can ask.

“Mistress.”

A small, pleased smile graces her lips. She steps towards you and you shrink in on yourself. She doesn’t come any closer. Instead, she crouches down without taking her eyes off you and places the tall glass of water on the ground. Your eyes flick between hers and the glass. You lock onto her when she rises again. Meeting her eyes for so long is unnerving but the risk that she reaches for you is too great. 

She steps back but doesn’t leave, her eyes still fixed firmly on your face. You look down at the glass again. It’s awfully close to her and much further away from you. Of course it was too much to hope she’d just leave it.

“Mistress,” you try again. 

This time she doesn’t smile. She doesn’t move at all. Your dry tongue is too great to ignore and you cautiously uncurl. When she still doesn’t move you reach forward. The glass is too far but a part of you fears she’ll lunge for you.

You shift to your knees and then your feet, staying crouched low. Still she doesn’t move. You take two big, quick steps and snatch the glass up before scuttling back. Water sloshes over the side but you’re too panicked to care. It feels like your heart is going to launch out of your throat.

 She doesn’t move. You gulp down the water. When it’s gone you barely resist the urge to lick it off your shaking hand. You hold the empty glass close to your chest and watch her warily. Anything could happen now that her game is over.

She points to the floor and you follow her finger, half expecting to see something. There’s only the ring of water left by your glass. You look back up at her for a clue but her face doesn’t give any. Your hand tightens around the glass and you realise it is, in fact, made of glass. Sharp, breakable glass. 

The impulse to smash it against the ground is strong. The look on her face hardens and you freeze. There’s a challenge to her gaze. You want to meet it, she kidnapped you, but some common sense remains in your hazy mind. If your shaky hands fail you there’s a good chance she’ll leave you down here to rot. And the little water she’s given you has only made your thirst worse. What if she makes you wait until you’re on the brink of dying? What if she makes you do something worse than call her mistress? You’re already dreading what she’ll ask you to do for food.

You’re much slower moving forward this time and your retreat is the same careful pace. Your eyes stay glued to her and her hands. There’s something sharper to her smile this time but you can’t tell what it means.

“Good pet,” she says before picking up the glass. You watch her leave in silence.

That…isn’t a good sign.

———

Twice more she comes in with a glass of water, gives it to you when you utter her favourite word and leaves without saying anything. The third time something changes. She’s in a different outfit. You blink at her. She seems more…intent this time. It’s unnerving.

“Do you want some water?” she asks. That’s also new.

You hesitantly nod. When that doesn’t work you say, “Yes.”

“Yes what?”

“Yes, please?” you guess. The person who kidnapped you wants you to use manners. Sure, why not. But that doesn’t work either. You try to think. It’s a new question so you doubt mistress would wor— oh.

“Yes, mistress.”

This time she lets out a pleased hum and places the glass down. You’re a bit more cautious when going for the glass this time with so many things different but you don’t repeat the mad scramble of the first time.

It’s the same routine. You drink, she points, you place, she picks up and leaves.

———

You lose track of how many times this repeats but the words feel natural by the time hunger pains start to really hit you. She hasn’t mentioned food. She hasn’t mentioned much of anything. You’ve been too scared of what she’ll want to bring it up yourself before now. Now you’re desperate.

The next time she enters you stay pressed against the wall. She hasn’t done anything to you, except for the few bruises during the kidnapping, but it’s still better to be cautious when breaking the safe pattern you have going on. Who knows what she’s like angry? Your distance doesn’t seem to phase her.

“Do you want some water?” she asks like always.

“No,” you say. You think it’s surprise that crosses her face. Or maybe curiosity? “Um,” it feels wrong to be going off book but you’ve rehearsed this line a hundred times in your head, “I would like some food, mistress. Please.” you still stumble and mentally chide yourself for fucking it up. Now the please will sound like an afterthought!

She gives you a considering look. Your blood rushes in your ears. Is she mad? Did you make a mistake? You’re starving, what else could she want you to do?

She leaves. You try not to focus on the fact that she took the water with her.

———

Relief floods you when she returns. This time with a bowl. Your mouth waters at the smell. It has you moving to your usual spot without thinking. It’s only when you’ve stopped that your nerves hit you again. What will she want this time? 

You eye her nervously. She remained still and quiet while you got into position. She doesn’t move again until you meet her eyes. She points at her feet. You look down but there’s nothing there. You look up at her again but she doesn’t move. You swallow nervously. 

The only times she’s pointed before was as a direction to put the glass back but you don’t have anything. Your eyes dance around the room but no new objects appear. You can feel your stomach growl and your eyes return to the bowl.

She wants something for it. Frustration claws at you. She’s normally so clear and the one time you’re desperate she goes mute? You meet her gaze again but the only thing showing is some mild curiosity. Another point in this being a behaviour science experiment, you think bitterly as you look at her shoes again. Nothing comes to you.

“Mistress,” you try. It doesn’t work. Of course it doesn’t. That hasn’t worked for— for however long it’s been since she wanted you to say ‘yes, mistress’. It doesn’t make sense since she hasn’t asked a question but you’re desperate enough to try. “Yes, mistress.” Still nothing. A quick look at her face shows it hasn’t changed. At least she’s not mad. “Please, mistress?” desperation begins to seep into your voice. Three heartbeats of you holding eye contact has her pointing down again. 

This time, mercifully, she says, “Come, pet.”

You scramble over immediately, kneeling at her feet like an obedient dog. You don’t care how you look when she holds the bowl out to you. You reach for the food eagerly.

“Ah,” she tuts just before you touch it. So close, it’s so close. It’s a struggle not to crumble. Or steal it out of her hands. “Manners.”

But you already said please! Your fingers shake and your mind scrambles. Your arms ache from being raised for so long. Manners manners manners. Use your manners. It’s always been said to you when being made to say please. What else is there? Excusing yourself, introducing yourself, than—

“Thank you, mistress,” you burst out. A brilliant smile greets you and warmth flushes through you.

She moves the bowl a little closer to you. You very carefully take it, avoiding her fingers. Your hands stay where they are just in case. She nods and you lower the bowl to your lap. You stare at the food for a long moment. It’s the most amazing thing you’ve ever smelt and your hand shakes as it slowly picks up the wooden fork. You look up at her one more time, just in case. You have to look away again. It’s unsettling to have someone so solely focused on you.

You should be more careful but you can’t resist the need of your body. You shove a forkful into your mouth and moan. All thoughts of poison or sedatives fly out of your head. There’s many times where food has tasted better because you were hungry but it wasn’t like this. Flavour explodes on your tongue and you shovel more food into your mouth before you’ve finished chewing. You eat it fast enough to almost choke, the bowl emptying in seconds. The woman’s gaze on you the entire time.  

You don’t think to savour it until it’s gone. You look mournfully down at the empty bowl. You don’t feel even close to full. There’s probably some science there about how fast you ate but you don’t care. You crave the feeling of being full until you’re bursting.

A hand appears and you flinch. It doesn’t come towards you. You stare uncomprehendingly before remembering the bowl in your hands. You raise it to her, careful not to touch her. You half expect her to make you thank her again. You’re half-tempted to anyway. You’re even more tempted to beg for more right now. 

“Maybe a bit slower next time, pet. I’d hate for you to choke,” she says with a lazy smirk. 

Did she just? You stare up at her with wide eyes. She’s so…expressive in that moment. You don’t know what to do. Her grin widens before she turns to leave. You blink as you watch her walk straight out. You hadn’t noticed that she’d left the door open. It closes behind her with a loud click.

The food sits uncomfortably in your stomach. It feels like it’s pressing against your skin, yet your body is still sending hunger signals every second. You probably just ate too quickly. You’ve been without food for a while and stomachs can shrink so quickly. You press on your stomach to try and focus on the tight feeling instead of the hungry one. It sort of works. 

You’d distract yourself if you had found a good method. The little you’ve been able to has barely helped with the fear and boredom. Adding hungry and full to that list isn’t going to help. Still, you settle onto your mattress…after giving up hope of her immediately returning again with seconds.

Trying to imagine your favourite show hasn’t worked. It only makes the want to not be here worse. Something it did sometimes in your before-life too. Thinking of what you’d be doing if you were free just hurts, and the thought of friends makes you sad. Your next plan is a show you’re mildly curious about and have a general idea of the plot. No strong attachments, no strong feelings and hopefully enough curiosity to make up possible story points.

You curl up then stretch out when it reminds you of your stomach. You’re out of ideas. If this doesn’t work you’re screwed.

———

Her next visit is a water one and you try not to let your disappointment show. Her amusement tells you you’ve failed. She makes you come to her again, which you don’t think is fair since food and water are two very different things. You aren’t able to take it without grazing her fingers. Electricity shoots up your arm and you almost drop the glass in surprise. 

You knew, logically, that human contact is a need but to actually feel the effects of going without it is jarring. There’s a small smile playing around her lips. The scarier one that shows when you give in. Not the pleased one that makes you feel warm. You can’t bring yourself to be slow under a look like that and gulp the water down. It removes what little taste of flavour was left in your mouth. You miss it despite it being a constant reminder.

You hold the glass at its base when you raise it up to her. She purposely runs her fingers over yours before taking it. You shiver.

“Food next,” she says and leaves with little ceremony.

It’s hell to count the passing minutes but at least it gives you something to look forward to.

———

The next time she enters, with her promised bowl of food, you kneel at her feet the second she points. It was hard not to scramble over immediately but you stopped at your usual spot just in case. The food is different but just as good. You’re half-way through it when something touches your head. You flinch so hard you almost lose your fork.

Looking up, you stare with wide eyes at the hand inches from your head. Had she…touched you? Was that something you should allow? Probably not, but the bowl is still in your hand and you aren’t full. You slowly lower the fork back and your captor’s hand does the same. You can’t bring yourself to lift the fork again as her fingers settle on your head. You were planning on trying to savour this one, with only minor success so far, but now you’re debating downing it like you did the last one.

You could try and get her to stop but you have a feeling the bowl will be taken from you if you do. Hesitantly, you slowly raise the full fork to your mouth. Her hand doesn’t move. You weren’t sure what you were expecting her to do but whatever it was she doesn’t do it. She doesn’t do anything. She just stands there as you slowly take three bites. 

Her hand isn’t heavy or anything. She isn’t leaning on you. It’s just there. Still and unsettling. You eat the rest of the food as fast as you can without choking. You hold the bowl out before you’ve swallowed the last bite. The hand disappears to take it. You risk a glance up. She doesn’t say anything and you can’t read the expression on her face. She stares at you for a long moment before leaving once again.

You pretend you aren’t disappointed at the lack of a parting remark as you focus on the unsettled feeling in your gut. What had she meant by touching your head? She didn’t do anything so what was the point? Just to touch you? To show that she can? To convince herself you’re here?

The last thought is unsettling enough that you shove it aside. She’s the only connection you have to the outside world, the only one who knows where you are. If she loses it, you’re lost. 

You can’t know what she’s thinking or what she really wants, even if patterns are emerging, so there’s no use dwelling on it. Instead, you curl up against the wall and picture your favourite food. Maybe the lady will read your mind and bring it down next time.

———

She doesn’t touch you during the next water visit which is a relief. Being so close to her doesn’t feel so overwhelming now, although you’re careful to keep track of her every movement, and you allow yourself the risk of sipping the water instead of inhaling it.

She doesn’t say anything. She merely stands there and stares. Her eyes never leave you. They rarely do. The realisation should be unsettling but it’s nice to know you’re real to someone. You exist, even if it’s only in the presence of your kidnapper. 

You raise the glass to her when you’re done. Her fingers trail over yours before she takes it. She lingers a moment, still staring, before leaving without a word. You don’t understand why she isn’t talking.

———

She enters with water a second time and is as silent as the last. It’s unsettling. She wasn’t chatty before but this dead silence is starting to get to you. You’ve started tapping the walls just to hear something new. 

You’re almost hopeful the next time she brings food but she’s as quiet as before. Her hand rests on your head again and you barely even startle. Maybe she’ll talk if you’re more compliant.

The next food visit is the same thing. And the next one. And the next one. The sixth food visit after she started touching your hair the light pressure is hardly a blip in your routine. It’s still a little weird but everything about your situation is more than a little weird and she doesn’t do anything. What’s the point in denying yourself food when her fingers don’t so much as twitch?

You jinxed yourself with that thought. The seventh time the woman brings you food, her fingers move. You freeze, the fork still in your mouth. They start with small gentle circles that slowly grow until she starts carding her fingers through your hair. You slowly lower your fork back into the bowl.

This is…this is bad, right? You should take a stand. Put the bowl down or maybe even throw it at her. But it doesn’t feel bad. It feels almost…nice. Her fingers running through your hair. Every now and then she lightly scrapes her nails over your scalp. 

Still, you shouldn’t allow it so you think about discarding the food and moving away. You almost do, you tell yourself, except you don’t. The memory of that gnawing hunger still hits you like a brick. The painful cramping and the way it felt like your stomach was disappearing as it ate itself. You feel phantom pains at just the thought and quickly shove another mouthful in. 

A hum has you looking up. A pleased smile greets you and she slightly scrapes her nails over your scalp again. You shiver, even if you pretend you don’t. 

“Good bunny,” she says, her voice low. 

The relief of hearing another voice again has you slowly taking another bite. Her smile grows. You look down again and finish your food. You don’t look up when she takes the bowl or when she leaves.

You tell yourself you’re fine. That everything is fine and normal and you’re just making sure you survive. That’s all. That’s all it is and all it will be. You’re fine.

[swightops]

still holding the silence (2) - thunderbolts* (b. reynolds)

summary - you deal with the aftermath of the gala and find an old friend asking for your help. warning(s) - typical thunderbolts warnings (depression, cannon violence, blood, etc.), language a/n - CA 4, thunderbolts, heavy angst as you delve into old avengers stuff, mc is kinda mean at time but hey she's hurting, i promise we'll see our man next chapter LMAO, the plot thickens oooooo

"Sunwraith Salutes New Generation?"

Famously retired Avenger known as Sunwraith made a surprise appearance at the "Meet the Future" gala, and an even more surprising gesture of support. Appearing alongside Valentina Allegra de Fontaine, the ex-hero smiled for photos and stood arm-in-arm with the New Avengers leader, prompting speculation that Sunwraith might be quietly endorsing the controversial new team.

Comments:

"Wow, I never thought I'd see Sunwraith at a gala again! This could mean big changes for the New Avengers!" "lol no way Sunwraith actually likes this new team" "The New Avenger literally don't compare to the old ones" "I'm skeptical. Sunwraith was a pure Avenger and she's not a part of this new team?" "I think Sunwraith just wants to support the new heroes. Change is always scary but we need to give them a chance!" "I'm so excited for this new team omgggg"

You groan as you toss the tablet to the side, not wanting to remember anything about last night. Your PR team had already given you an earful about the event earlier today, since your name started trending on social media, and the world wondered whether you truly supported the New Avengers. A buzz distracts your attention from the internet storm as you look down at your phone.

Sam Wilson

[Really?] [Attached: 1 link]

[She set me up] [Bitch]

[You okay?]

[Thinking about it]

Your fingers hover over the keyboard momentarily, deciding if you should send your next text. Fuck it.

[Saw Bucky]

The following minutes drag on as the typing bubbles appear and disappear on the screen.

[Have a mission. Got to go. We'll talk later.]

"Ughhh," you groan, throwing your phone away and dragging your hands down your face. The headline still burns in your head like an unwanted tattoo.

"Sunwraith Salutes New Generation?"

Your head falls back against the couch as you glance around the big, sterile, expensive apartment. It's not home, never quite home. You try to make it feel like home by hanging up pictures of your family, adding little knick-knacks around the place, and adding pops of color to bring life to the apartment, but it doesn't help.

The silence returns, settling over your shoulders like fog.

There never used to be silence, not after the Avengers.

You get up, not because you have anywhere to go, but because sitting still feels like drowning. You wander to your office, where work waits. Stark Relief documents. New Light proposals. A sticky note from Pepper in her neat, decisive handwriting:

"Board meeting resched. Monday. Don't forget to breathe."

You laugh, humorless and low. Breathing feels like the hardest part lately. You sink into your chair and stare at the spreadsheet open on the monitor. Profit margins. Logistics. Some initiative sent over by the GRC.

No one trained you for this. You were trained to throw punches, to induce fear in those whom Hydra told you to, to let the shadows consume all. You weren't trained to run a company. And no matter how many zeroes are in your bank account or how many buildings bear your name (or Tony's), it still doesn't fill the space they left behind.

You push back from the desk, suddenly too restless, too full. You walk to the window and press your hand against the glass. The city blurs beneath you, all movement and meaning, and none of it belonging to you.

You're a statue in a world that keeps moving.

You flex your fingers. That soft golden glow flickers to life—your power, your legacy, but it flickers.

Dims.

And then fades.

Your stomach growls. Glancing at the desk, you know you won't get any work done. Might as well make dinner.

It’s almost muscle memory now—this recipe, this dish. The kitchen smells before you even start chopping. You pull out different ingredients: chicken thighs, onions, paprika (the Hungarian kind Wanda used to swear by), chicken stock, and sour cream. You line them up like puzzle pieces and smile faintly when you catch yourself muttering the steps under your breath.

You chop slower than usual tonight. There's no rush. No alarms. No missions. You sauté the onions in oil until they're golden, then add the chicken and let the kitchen fill with sizzle and scent. The paprika goes in next, painting the pan in warm red, and something in your chest settles.

You aren’t making this for anyone.

You let the dish simmer before setting a plate. Just one. But beside it, without thinking, you place a second and third. You don’t sit right away. You stare at the plates and wonder if you're crazy.

Then again, crazy might be the only thing keeping you human.

You finish the dish with a spoonful of sour cream, stirring gently until the sauce is velvety-soft. You taste it. It's still good, still rich, still theirs.

“Ms. L/N,” a voice says from above you. FRIDAY. “You have a guest.”

You blink. “I wasn’t expecting anyone.”

“It's,” FRIDAY pauses. Although she's AI, a program designed by code, her voice has always been very human and compassionate. "Mr. Barnes is here."

You sigh, dusting imaginary dust from your hands. “Send him up.”

As you stand, you stare at the empty plates, hoping that magically it eases your racing heart. It doesn't.

A soft ding sounds throughout the apartment as the elevator doors open. Footsteps follow—slow, steady, too familiar. Your breath catches in your chest as you turn to look at Bucky. He stands in all black, his coat damp from the drizzle outside. Hair tied back. Eyes unreadable.

“Hey.”

You don’t respond. You can’t. There’s a buzzing in your head.

He shifts, hands still buried deep in his pockets. His eyes shift to the plates on the table. “Were you expecting people?”

You don’t say yes. Just shake your head no. “Why did you come, Bucky?” you ask, folding your arms. “You were perfectly fine with ignoring me before.”

“I didn’t know what to say.”

“That’s funny,” you snap. 

“I wasn’t ready to talk.”

“Well, I’m not ready either,” you say, stepping back. “So maybe you can go.”

“Wait-” He takes a step forward, and the tension snaps, pulling tight around your chest.

“You don’t get to wait, Bucky,” you say, voice trembling. “You completely ghosted. You let me think that you were done with me. That we don't mean anything to each other anymore."

His mouth opens. Nothing comes out.

You scoff bitterly. “No clever line? No excuse? What, no backup from your flashy new team?”

“It's not what you think,” Bucky mutters.

You roll your eyes. "Spare me, Buck."

He sighs, his tongue darting out quickly to wet his lower lip before biting it. “I didn't come here to fight,” Bucky says quietly. “I came because I need your help.”

That makes you laugh, bitter and small. His words sting. It's not about you, it's about what you can do. “Of course you do.”

“I know you met Bob.”

You blink. “What does he have to do with this?”

Bucky steps closer, his hand pulling out a small flash drive from his coat pocket. He places it on the kitchen island before slowly sliding it to you, almost scared that you might run off. "Short story, he can't control his abilities. Powers, memories, it’s all bleeding together. He’s afraid he’s going to hurt someone. And honestly…so am I.”

You close your eyes for a moment. The buzzing intensifies. 

“I don’t know how to help him, and truthfully, there aren't many people I can trust to help him,” he says, and your heart aches. Trust. "He needs someone who understands him in the way the rest of us can't," he pauses. "And...I think you do too...Please, Sunny-"

“Don't,” you say sharply.

He flinches. “I didn’t mean-”

“No,” you say again, pointing a finger at him now. “Don’t say it like I’m still her. Like I’m still that version of me. I don’t even know what I’m doing most days, Bucky. I wake up, I read headlines that praise me or, worse, pity me. I go to meetings for a company I don't think I can run. I sit in boardrooms with people who talk about Tony like he was a brand. And then I come home. And I sit. And I wonder if any of it mattered. And then I wonder if I did."

He swallows hard. “You did. You do."

"And then sometimes I wonder...I wonder if we did the right thing...bringing everyone back. That if maybe we didn't, then they would be here. Misreable, but here!" you admit, and it feels good. To finally say the salty thought out loud.

Silence.

Your watery eyes meet with Bucky's, and you then turn away. "Sorry, that was a lot. Um, if you wanna leav-"

“I didn’t mean to hurt you,” he cuts in. “y/n, believe me. The last thing I want to do is hurt you. Just...help Bob. Please. If you want me gone after that, I’ll go. I'll make sure none of this "New Avenger" stuff gets near you again."

You don’t say anything for a long moment. Then, finally, you speak, barely audible.

“He’s staying at the Tower?”

“Yeah.”

You nod slowly. “I’ll come tomorrow.”

Bucky exhales through his nose, maybe the closest thing he’s come to relief since he arrived. He moves to leave, and you're letting out a breath that you didn't know you were holding.

"I know you think you're not who you used to be. But to me, you're still Sunny. You're still you, y/n."

You don’t respond.

The elevator dings and the doors open before they close again, and you’re alone again.

You stand motionless. The air feels different now—thinner, lighter. Bucky took something with him when he left. You're not sure how long you stand there, hands curled into fists at your sides.

You're still Sunny. You're still you, Y/N.

You exhale sharply. A broken sound.

“Don’t call me that,” you whisper to the empty room. Your eyes fall to the flash drive, and your fingers grab hold of it before you can really think. They dig into the sides of it as if it’s the only thing keeping you connected to Bucky. Maybe it is. 

The smell of the paprikash hits you, and you’re reminded of your dinner. Almost robotically, you’re serving yourself, and you sit at your dinner table. Just sit and look at the empty table before you. And then, your fingers dig into the flash drive, and with a flick of your wrist, shadows move from the corners of the room, and your laptop is placed in front of you. 

The blob of shadows straightens out before you, and it just stares at you like it’s trying to get deep into your mind and roll your eyes. Deciding it’s better to ignore “it”, you plug the drive in and immediately files pop up. 

SUBJECT: REYNOLDS, ROBERT. aka “The Sentry”

You scroll. Your eyes flick over O.X.E. logs, therapist reports, and medical scans. O.X.E. It rang a bell in your head. Shit, where did you hear about it?

“Extreme power mismatch. Emotional destabilization suspected. Cognitive dissonance under pressure catalyzes the emergence of what is to be described as “The Void.”

There’s a photo of a lab room. There’s a table in the middle of it, but what draws your attention are the two human-shaped shadows imprinted into the wall. Both with their hands up, almost like they were running from something or someone. Another report catches your eye.

“Patient describes the entity as a shadow of the self. A voice. A second presence. Distinct yet intimately fused. The more power he uses, the more it surfaces.”

You swallow.

Your chest tightens. Not because of what’s on the screen. But because of how familiar it feels. You open a video file.

Bob’s there. He’s in big, oversized scrubs, sitting in a doctor's room on some sort of bed. He’s curled up into him just like that night you two met. “It isn’t always cruel,” Bob says. “Sometimes it sounds like the only one who understands me. Sometimes it sounds like…me.”

A long, thin silence follows.

“He came to you because he sees it in you too.”

You jerk your head up. The voice isn’t real. You know that. But you haven’t heard it in a long time. 

“He sees that brokenness in you. Everyone can.”

“Shut up,” you whisper. Your palms burn faintly, powers curling at the edge of your control. The lights in the apartment flicker for a moment. Just a heartbeat.

You clench your fists tighter. “Shut. Up.”

But the voice only sighs—fond, tired. “Don’t you miss how good it feels?”

You slam your laptop shut. Panic clings to your skin, cold and slippery. You rise too quickly and pace around the kitchen, hands trembling. There’s nothing to fight, but your muscles are coiled like you're bracing for impact.

You grip the edge of the sink.

Breathe in.

Out.

The shadows on the floor move with you. They always do. You’ve tried to pretend you’re in control of them. But some nights, you’re not sure who’s following who.

When you catch your reflection in the microwave door, your eyes glow faintly golden, not bright, but unmistakable. A quiet reminder of what lives under your skin. What lives deep down in your core. What calls to you when no one’s around. 

You avert your gaze. You’ve spent so long keeping it in and keeping in control, and yet, it’s slipping out so easily right now. How could you possibly help Bob when you can’t even help yourself?

Another tired breath escapes you before you sit back down at the table and open your laptop. You read more files, watch more videos, and skim over medical reports before a more recent report catches your eye. 

Subject: “Nightfall” Location: New York Casualties: Proximately 4000 people affected, minor injuries reported, no deaths reported Symptoms: Rapid psychological collapse, extreme hallucination, physical shadow assimilation Origin: Unknown energy pulse originating from R. Reynolds, later confirmed to be "The Void" entity. Field Notes: Victims reported being trapped inside 'memories,' often their worst or most shameful. Reports of time dilation, possession, and an unidentifiable psychic broadcast frequency mimicking grief cycles.

You stop there.

You remember that day. You and Pepper had watched from your tablet screen in France, arguing about whether you should take off for New York to stop the madness. At the time, you didn’t know what had caused it, over just as soon as it began, only that it reminded you too much of your own power when it slips, when it pulls too hard.

You keep reading. 

Post-Incident Recovery: Public story reframed as a biological weapon scare. Following the successful suppression of the Void, Director de Fontaine initiated Phase 2 of the Avenger Initiative Reformation. Results: "The New Avengers."

Your jaw clenches.

That’s what this was. Not a victory. Not some earned rebranding. Just a cover-up. A PR move. They turned a tragedy into a stage.

You exhale sharply and look back at your screen. Unable to stop, you keep reading before another file catches your eye. It’s encrypted. “FRIDAY, unlock this one.”

“Right away, boss.”

PROJECT: SENTRY / Source Documentation Archive Authorization: LEVEL BLACK Link Chain: O.X.E. // Archive Root: (REDACTED) Initiative

You freeze.

There’s no explanation. No subject name. No reference. Just:

—secondary prototype derived from archived data. Subject parallels stable. Cognitive divergence unstable. Full severance from original subject history approved. PROJECT CONTINUED UNDER CODE: SENTRY.

You sit back slowly, like any movement might disturb what you’ve just read. O.X.E., no Valentia Allerga de Fontaine, gave Bob his powers.

They built The Sentry. Created The Void. 

You stare blankly at your reflection in the dark screen. Your golden eyes catch faintly again, just for a second, before fading. Deep inside you, the pit stirs again, quiet and knowing, feeding off your unease. 

Bob Reynolds had a darkness within him. Something that matched the one deep within you. And tomorrow, you were going to see it up close.

[meanderingwistera]

The Empress

< Previous chapter - Masterlist - Next Chapter >

Summary - You have prepared for years to take over your Father’s kingdom. You have studied everything from politics to mathematics to philosophy for your future role as Queen.

But when a proposal too good to pass up crosses your Father’s desk your wishes are pushed aside. You are sent off to marry a King from a larger neighbouring kingdom, despite your protests.

Now you have to navigate a new land, people and a Husband who keeps his secrets far from your reach.

Pairing - King!Satoru Gojo x Queen!Reader

Content - Fluff, afab!reader, arranged marriage, court politics, historical setting, Gojo is down bad, reader is oblivious to Gojo’s feelings, Shoko being a wonderful friend (as per usual), more lore about Gojo’s parents because I can, Reader makes allies with more people

Word Count - 3.9k

A/N - Don’t mind me also setting up lore for my next x reader connected to this one lol

Chapter 3 - Tea

You meet your new personal guards first thing the next morning after your short conversation with Gojo. You step out of your rooms to be met with two men. They wear much lighter armor than you expected.

The first guard has blonde hair and a stern look on his face. The other has brown hair but his demour seems to be the exact opposite, he has a grin on his face and is rocking back and forth on his feet.

“Your Majesty,” The blond man says and bows to you, “I am honored to serve you.”

The brown haired man bows deeply as well, “There is no higher honour!”

“What are your names?” You ask and beckon them to stand so you can get a better look at them.

“I am Nanami Kento.” The blond man, Nanami, introduces himself.

“And I am Haibara Yu, your Majesty.” The brown haired man, Haibara, says excitedly.

“I am happy to have you have your protection.” You tell them with a soft smile.

The walk to your office is short, it is close to your wing of the castle. 

You sit down at your desk and look over the stack of papers you have to look over today. The financial report for this last looks good. Still for your peace of mind you like to add everything up yourself so you know for sure that everything is in order.

Haibara and Nanami are stationed at either side of the door, silent but observing. It doesn’t feel like Pierre, calm and stern, no this feels like another test. Haibara doesn’t seem to be scrutinizing you but Nanami is looking you over. He tries to not make it obvious but you can feel his gaze on you.

You can’t blame them for scrutinising you, you are a foreigner with no ties here other than your husband who you never see. But you can push back.

Looking up abruptly you look at Haibara, “What do you know about tea parties?”

The man blinks in surprise before considering the question.

“Not much-” He admits, “my sister liked going to them. There is a lot of socialising?”

“That is true, but it is more than that. It is much like a battlefield. You have allies and those who are enemies. Sure from the outside it seems like a fun party but there are many layers to it.” You explain and sit back to look at them. “So if a new Queen needs to make a good first impression when should she throw a tea party?”

“You should strike first.” Nanami says matter of factly. 

“Exactly!” You say and finish the letter you were writing, “Please let Duchess Ieri know that I request her presence as soon as possible.”

Haibara walks up and takes the letter of summons you give him, “I will see to it Your Majesty.”

Duchess Ieri carries herself with the same grace as she did when you first met her. You can see why she was a candidate for your current position. She would be more suited if you were being honest but now is not the time to ponder on what ifs.

“Your Majesty,” She bows low to you but you can see the sly smile she has on her lips, “to what do I owe this pleasure?”

You smile back at her pleasantly, “I am planning a tea party and would like your advice.”

The Duchess looks happy and walks up to your desk, her brown eyes sparkling with amusement.

“How may I be of service?”

“Tell me about the women of the court. What are they like and the current trends among them?” You ask and she obliges you.

“Currently I have the most influence, since I am the only current Duchess that was in talks for being Satoru’s Queen.” She starts.

“After that I believe that Lady Itadori and former Marchioness Itadori have a significant amount of sway with the court. Duchess Tsukumo is rarely seen at public events but not sending an invitation would be ill advised.”

“Then you have Viscountess Nobara who is in her older years but wise, she is also raising a granddaughter. Marchioness Mei is cunning and will do just about anything for money so be careful around her.” Duchess Ieri explains to you.

“So when making the guest list these people are a good place to start?” You question her and she nods.

“Despite Kaori being a former Marchioness, not inviting her would be a wrong move, there is no current Marchioness so you would slight the whole family. And her daughter is currently overseas. I am rather biased with myself but who isn’t. Mei would not care if you invite her or not but she is a good friend to have when you need something.”

You nod and write down the names on the paper you started to put down the things you would need for the tea party. Kaori seems to be the one to impress since you want to be on good terms with the noble families that have a good amount of sway on the court.

You write all of that down and look back up.

“The trends will be set by you soon but for now, brighter colors are in because of summer.” She tells you and you scribble that down too.

“Where would be the best place here to hold it?” 

She seems to think hard about this. 

After a minute’s pause she speaks, “If you want to make an impression there is a green house full of roses that bloom year round, but that was the previous Queen’s gift from the previous King.”

You will have to tread carefully then. 

Though it may be good to ease the nobles into your reign by bringing up the past. You of course will have to get Gojo’s permission first so that people don’t think you are doing whatever you want. 

“Would that seem too much to the other nobles?” You ask her.

“Not if done correctly,” She says, her brown eyes alight with mischief, “we can frame it as Gojo showing how much he adores his new queen by letting her use the greenhouse so adored by his mother.”

You grin wide, you like her.

“That is perfect, thank you Duchess.” 

“Call me Shoko, Your Majesty.” She says with a deep bow.

You laugh at her forwardness, “Thank you Shoko.

Satoru groans and leans back in his chair. The mounting paperwork stares at him as he shuts his eyes for a moment. 

When he was young he was told that he could do anything when he became king. He now knows that they were lying to him because all he really does these days is paperwork and avoid you. 

Even if he doesn’t want to avoid you, he will make you as comfortable as he can while you are here. He is sure that you hate him so maybe he is also a bit of a coward who doesn’t want to face that head on. 

“Your Majesty?” Haibara calls out to him from behind the door to his office.

“Come in Haibara!” He says and sits up in his chair.

The door opens and Haibara steps in, his face has his familiar smile.

“How is she?” Satoru asks him.

“Well! She is excelling in her role so we have heard and she is planning a tea party.” Haibara reports. “She also wanted me to ask you if she could use the greenhouse for the party when I gave you my report.”

Satoru startles a bit because he had never told you about your guards reporting back to him. You must have figured it out. He smiles fondly at your intelligence, you probably could beat him in that regard.

“Let her know that she is free to use anything at her disposal, and may I ask when the party is?” Satoru says and leans forward, intrigued. 

“A week from now.” Haibara answers him.

In the back of his mind Satoru knows that he shouldn’t drop in but his heart rails in his chest. He wants to see you among the various roses that he had run through when he was younger under his mother’s careful watch. 

Satoru wants to watch your eyes trace the delicate petals in hopes that your eyes may do the same to him someday. 

Maybe stopping by, for just a moment, would be okay.

You had forgotten how fun event planning was. Most of the time back home the Queen, your stepmother, took care of it but when her illness flared up you would take over the process. It was fulfilling to see it all come together the day the event was to be held.

The greenhouse is beautiful all on its own. 

From the intricate golden designs on the walls to the stunning types of roses it houses, the building needs no additions. You had made the decision to move some of the pots in the center to make way for more room but the pots are to be put back right after the party ends. The previous queen’s influence is so evident in every part of this place and you want it to stay that way. 

“Your Majesty!” Haibara calls out and you turn to face him. “Where do you want this to be placed?”

He holds up a chair that was dragged in here earlier.

“Put it near the head of the table.” You gesture to the right side near the end of the table. Haibara sets the chair next to yours and walks back over to you as you look at the long table to check it. 

Once you deem your work done and to your standards Riko practically drags you to your room to get ready. The maids help you into the dress you chose and then are shooed out as Riko takes over. She fusses over you for nearly an hour before she deems her work done. Your makeup and dress match the shade of the roses in the greenhouse. 

“It’s perfect!” Riko exclaims with pride, “My best work yet.”

You giggle at her words and look in the mirror. Humming in satisfaction you look over the dress with a keen eye. The delicately stitched roses on the hem are your favorite part of the dress and will be at home in the greenhouse. 

The guests arrive soon after you make your way down to the greenhouse. Duchess Tsukumo had sent a letter back two days after the invitations went out letting you know that she would not be attending because of her work schedule and thanked you for the invite.

Shoko and Utahime are the first to arrive. 

“We are honoured to receive your invitation, Your Majesty.” Utahime says, bowing to you.

“I am thankful for your attendance and your help with putting this in motion.” You say as they rise back up.

“It is truly no problem.” Shoko says with a smile. Smiling back, you beckon them in.

Kaori Itadori arrives next in a soft green gown that reminds you of an emerald. It is definitely her color. She is graceful and has a smile that could melt glaciers. Her gentle expression almost disarms you from your carefully crafted image.

“Your Majesty.” She says and bows to you. “I am happy to still be in your vision despite my elder son having taken over from my late husband.”

“I believe it is best to be on good terms with all the people who will be in my care.” You admit to her with a grin.

She stands tall and returns your smile by widening hers, “The Itadori family is honoured.”

The guest trickle in after that. 

Viscountess Nobara watches you with a critical eye but her gaze softens when you bring up her young granddaughter. 

Marchioness Mei hides behind a bright blue fan and sultry smiles. You don’t crack her facade but you do see some respect forming in her eyes.

Hitomi Geto, Duke Geto’s mother, is one of the last to arrive. It is clear that he takes after her. The soft crescents of her eyes and their lavender color are identical. She mirrors his manners and his diplomacy. You smile warmly at her deciphering gaze.

Once every seat is filled with women from all the noble families you sit down. The air is still tense, most people don’t know you. Their first impression was of your disastrous wedding night and you need to course correct. 

“Thank you all for being here,” Your voice carries over the table, “I am still new to this country so I am thankful for the warm welcome.” 

There are a few whispers across the table but Shoko speaks up.

“We are happy to have you here with us, Your Majesty.” She reassures you calmly but her eyes wander to the rest of the table. 

A chorus of affirmation follows her words.

The women of the court see Shoko deferring to you and seem to accept it. They are more lively after that, asking questions and sharing the latest gossip. You learn who controls most of the conversations and who are quiet.

You also learn the name of the woman who tried to present her daughter to Gojo. Baroness Zenin keeps her glare subtle but you can feel her simmering rage from the head of the table. It is off putting at first but you soon learn to ignore it. 

With Shoko, Utahime and now Kaori you feel like you have formed a good relationship with two noble families. But you are not one to leave things half done.

“Lady Geto, I would like to thank you for raising your son so well.” You start and she looks over at you in interest, “He has helped me with the transition from my homeland.”

Hitomi Geto smiles genuinely for the first time. Her eyes hold a light not previously in them at the mention of Suguru. She also has the same crows feet at her eyes as her son. 

“I thank you for your compliments, Your Majesty, he has grown up well.” She says to you and you see the frigid facade crack just for a moment.

Kaori speaks up as well, “He is the most respectful of our sons, Choso is a shut in most of the time.”

Hitomi laughs at her remark and you join in.

“I will have to meet him at some point.” You say and Kaori nods.

“We would be honoured to have you come to our estate sometime, Your Majesty.” She smiles at you.

“I think I will take you up on the offer.” 

An hour passes in a flash. You feel yourself relax into the role of Queen you are playing. Eventually a question is asked that gives you pause.

“How did you end up marrying the King?” A girl around Riko’s age asks.

You try to come up with a good answer, because you can’t tell her the truth. You can’t tell her that you don’t really want to be here or have this role. 

So you craft a beautiful lie for her.

“It was love at first sight actually,” You say and look down bashfully. “We met at his coronation and everything happened from there. He courted me in private for a year before our wedding was announced.”

It wasn’t fully false, you had met him briefly at his coronation but nothing happened.

The girl gasps in delight, “What was your first impression of him?”

You hum in thought, “Bright, he seems to light up the room when he enters.”

Soft ‘aww’s erupt from the table at your remark. 

You just wish that you were telling the truth about this. They all seem to have a fondness for their King, and he doesn’t seem like a bad guy, but you don’t feel like you belong here.

“Am I interrupting?” 

The sound of Gojo’s voice startles the whole table. He saunters into the greenhouse with an easy going smile. One hand is in his pocket as he takes long languid strides to the end of the long table where you are seated. You almost gawk at him because he wasn’t supposed to be here. 

“My King,” You say, trying to keep it together, “What brings you here?”

Gojo stops next to you and takes your hand, raising it to his lips.

“Is it a crime for a man to see his wife?” He says slyly as he kisses your hand.

He is still as avoidant as ever. 

You feel heat creep up your neck. No one would deny Gojo’s attractiveness and you are no exception. In fact you are sure that this is the first time you have seen him this close to you. At the ball all those years ago you had never gotten close enough to see his eyes so vividly or the exact shape of his grin.

“You must have many things to do.” You say with a nervous laugh.

“The Duke found a spot in my schedule to see how you are doing for a second,” He stands tall but still has a hold of you hand in his, “but I must be off.” 

“We are honoured to have your presence for even just a few moments, Your Majesty.” You say and he lights up like a firework.

“I will see you later, My Queen.” He says and walks out of the room as if he didn’t just give you a heart attack.

The second he is a speck on the horizon all the women whisper to each other. Some look pleased, others are surprised. You smile in realization that your husband has given you a gift. For the past few weeks you have been weaving this lie yourself but it looks like Gojo will help you continue to weave it.

“The King must love you very much to let you not only use the greenhouse but check up on you regularly.” Hitomi comments with a smile.

“He has been most welcoming and supportive throughout the first month of this marriage.” You admit with a bashful smile.

Under the layers of your carefully created mask you feel your mind whirl with some confusion. You had only asked him for help with public appearances that the both of you were present at. So why did he show up when he didn’t need to?

You feel exhausted as the last few guests leave. Playing the role of host is fun but draining. Your knowledge and control of the court doesn’t stop you getting fatigued by the whole of it.

“I hope your visit to the Itadori estate still stands, we will be happy to have you, Your Majesty.” Kaori Itadori says and takes both of your hands in hers.

You want to melt into her warmth. She reminds you a little of your Mother. Both of their demeanors are pure spring and sunlight. And you could use a lot of that right now.

“I will find time in my schedule to visit. I still need to meet your son after all.” You squeeze her hands and she grins.

“Good! Hopefully it may habituate Choso enough to get him out of the house to find a wife!” Kaori exclaims and you can’t tell if she is joking or not.

“You must have a hard time trying to get him out of the house if you need to enlist Her Majesty’s help.” Hitomi jokes and sashays over.

“We are much in the same boat Hitomi, your son doesn’t seem to want to marry either.” Kaori says and lets go of your hands to cross her arms.

“Suguru is married to his work at the moment but I hope in time he will settle down.” Hitomi explains, her expression is the picture of innocence. 

After Hitomi says goodbye the two of them leave bickering back and forth. You huff in pure amusement at their retreating remarks. 

Shoko and Utahime are the last to leave.

“They grew up together, practically sisters in anything but name.” Shoko explains with an amused laugh, “We never really got to see this side of them until we were older.”

“You grew up with the Duke, Lady Itadori and Satoru right?” You ask curiously, Gojo’s first name slips from your lips easier than before.

“The four of us are almost the same, except for the Duke and Lady Itadori. They hate each other with a fire equal to fifteen suns. It is rather entertaining to see them go back and forth.” Shoko muses.

“I will be very happy to meet her when she gets back from abroad.” You say with a soft smile.

“She will like you,” Utahime says with a bow, “you have already won us over.”

You can’t help but smile at her words. When you first came here a month ago you thought that you would hate it here. You thought of it as a prison sentence to marry Gojo but the people around you are changing that idea. 

And you don’t mind it.

That night you lay down in your bed with the closest thing to a genuine grin since coming here. It feels good to be making progress on your plan to win over the court. 

You already have Shoko and Utahime on your side. The former Marchioness Itadori seems to be on your side but you are still a bit cautious around this new alliance. Then the former Duchess Geto is holding back and watching you. You just hope you will pass whatever test she is giving you.

The one family you will be avoiding is the Zenins. You will at least wait for Baroness Zenin’s anger to pass before trying to mend the broken relationship between them and you. 

You roll over on your side and see the book you picked up in the library the day after the wedding. It sits with a pile of history books on your nightstand. You pick it up to have a closer look at it.

The lavender book isn’t as thick as the history books but it has a good number of pages. You flip the cover open and trace the initials on the inside. Who could they have belonged to before being put in that library?

The first page is filled with the same handwriting and your eyes trace down the page. It doesn’t read like a book at all, it sounds like a diary. You read the first few lines to get a better understanding.

The woman writing this diary writes about her life helping in her father’s sword shop. She helps him keep the books and sharpen the blades that come to them. Her account of her life is detailed and straightforward.

Flipping through the pages your eyes catch on a diary entry from the middle of the diary.

‘We had a rather peculiar visitor. He was quite tall with eyes like the blue core of a flame or frigid ice. His demeanor made him almost unapproachable but we need the money. 

He looked startled when he saw me take his sword from his hands. It was a beautiful blade, the steel was well made and maintained. I helped Father sharpen it before giving it back to the man. 

The man paid before storming off…’

The eyes described make you think of Gojo’s, but you wouldn’t describe his eyes as cold.

They are warm, like the ocean on a hot summer day. Or sunlight on the small creak behind the castle back home that you and your siblings would play in the water on hot days. Gojo’s eyes are deep, vast and shine a shade of blue that is unforgettable.

Not many people have blue eyes like that so you wonder if they are related somehow. You will have to ask Gojo about it eventually.

Taglist- @hyori2 @tenaciousavenueavenue @joyfulweaselbananapanda @miakxn @lovystar @moonz33 @linny-bloggs @straykeeks @vi0let-writes @procastinatingbitch @ughhmenna @sassylav

[dilanisfruity]

after hours 🪩🌃🥂

chapter 1 of 6? not 100% sure how many chapters I'll do so tbd

summary: reader is going about their usual night of work, performing half naked for a crowd of drunk men, but there's a new face in the audience tonight, and it's who they least expect. one of the most popular singers of their time, billie eilish, is sitting directly in front of the stage, eyes glued to the reader as they perform, and the connection between the two continues to grow as the night goes on.

warnings: lowkey none? all I can think of is swearing bc there's no smut in this chapter it's just building up to the next chapter where there will be smut, so kinda alludes to sex. mentions of strippers (y/n is a stripper) and all the shit that comes with that so if you don't like sex workers don't read this (also hello what's wrong with you, sex workers deserve equal respect but whatever)

word count: 2.5k

a/n: this isn't fully like proofread but i checked for spelling errors and stuff so it should be okay. this is chapter 1 of my new series so yeah hopefully ygs like it!

bright stage lights shined as the dj started his next set, the music blaring from the speakers all around the club. if you weren't here all the time it would probably be beyond overwhelming but you're used to it, having worked at the club for almost 6 months now. you were side stage looking through the crowd so you could try to find the "big spenders", aka the middle aged men who had nothing better or more meaningful to spend their ridiculous amounts of wealth on. those were the guys you wanted to target- making eye contact with them while dancing, making sure they get to see all your best moves nice and clearly, and of course throwing in a wink here and there. this was your usual routine to try to get these wealthier men to buy private dances, which was what made you the most money. but this time as you scanned the room expecting to see your usual suspects, you instead found a woman your age sitting right in the front. you could almost make out her face and she seemed vaguely familiar but it didn't really matter. what mattered more was the huge stack of cash she had on her. you knew it was time to lay it on real thick with her and do what you do best so you could take a good bit of that cash home with you. walking back to the dressing room for a quick moment, you do all your final touch-ups with your makeup, throwing on a little extra glitter, then you make sure that your heels are strapped on tight and that you have as much skin showing as possible. after taking one last sip of water, you're ready to go.

as soon as you get to the stage you start with your opening routine, throwing extra looks to the mystery woman in the front row. as you perform your other routines and do a little bit of improv on the pole, you find yourself feeling weirdly drawn to the woman. at first it was all just performative in hopes of making more money but as the night went on you couldn't seem to get her out of your head. it came as no surprise that she was quite generous with her cash tips, tucking hundred dollar bills in your bra like it was nothing. your dancing continued on until you stole a glance at the clock and realized you were supposed to have gone on your break nearly 15 minutes ago. after exiting the stage you gathered all the cash tips you got, pulling them out from underneath your skimpy outfit, most of them having been placed by the mysterious woman. even as you sat in the dressing room and drank your water, your mind still wandered to her and to who she could be. you knew all the regulars, recognized all the faces of the desperate men who clearly spent all their free time at the club, and she wasn't one of them. and that's not to say you hadn't seen women in the club before, there was always at least one or two women carefully watching the dancers' every move on the tiny stage. but she was different. not only was she the most breathtaking woman you'd literally ever seen, she also was only watching you. as each dancer had taken their turn in the front and center her eyes had stayed locked on you, following you everywhere you went, and you could feel it. and the strangest thing of all was the fact that you swore you had seen her face somewhere before, recognized her from something, but you couldn't put your finger on what.

grabbing your phone out of your bag you tried to bring your focus to something besides this mystery woman, starting to mindlessly scroll through your instagram feed. you opened one of your friends' close stories to see they had reposted something about the one year anniversary of some album being released. as you watched the video, you nearly started to zone out until you saw it. saw her. confusion spread over your face as you tried to get a closer look, but just as you nearly focused your eyes on her, the story was finished and it went to the next one. frozen for a second, you thought maybe you were imagining things or maybe you were just confused, and you should just move on and keep scrolling through stories. but you couldn't help yourself, you had to go back, had to go click on the post and look closer. after just a few seconds of the video playing you knew you were right. it was unmistakably the woman who had been wordlessly captivating your every thought. the woman who, moments ago, was slipping hundred dollar bills into your bra like they were nothing. looking up to see the user who had made the post, the realization finally hitting you. it was billie eilish.

not knowing what to do with this information you sat and stared at your phone, your eyebrows furrowed in confusion and shock. you could've easily sat there for hours, completely unaware of the rest of the world, only focused on the fact that billie eilish herself had been sitting right in front of the stage as you performed your routines, her eyes fixated on you and you alone. but your moment of awe was quickly cut short by the sound of the dressing room door flying open, the loud mixture of music and cheering becoming clear for just a second as your friend walked into the room, letting the door slam behind her. 

you snapped out of your thoughts as she called out your name, nearly shouting at you. "y/n? you were supposed to be back on 5 minutes ago, i stayed onstage an extra few minutes to give you some extra time but i need to get home so you've gotta get back out there. like now!" shit. you hadn't been watching the clock to know when your break was over. "oh fuck i'm sorry girl, i lost track of time." you said, nearly letting your mind wander back to what had kept you from looking at the time, but you couldn't do this now. you needed to get back out there. hurriedly putting on some lip gloss and adjusting your outfit and heels, you speedily walked out of the dressing room and back out to the main room.

once you were onstage and you heard the music playing you were able to focus on what you needed to do, getting back to executing your routines with practiced precision. a few songs passed as you did your usual rounds of choreography both on the pole and just on the stage. after the first few dances, you started to look in the audience, hoping to find some men you could solo out and focus on, you needed at least one lap dance by the end of the night if you wanted to walk out of there with enough money to put food on the table. but instead you found her. your eyes immediately fell on the dark haired mystery woman, whose identity wasn't actually a mystery anymore. but there were still so many unanswered questions, leaving that mysterious feeling lingering. you smiled at her, batting your eyes before going into your floorwork, moving slowly and sensually, grinding on the floor and casually showing off your flexibility. as soon as you were facing the front again, your eyes immediately fell back on her, finding a subtle smirk on her face as she leaned back in her chair. you kept your eyes trained on hers for the rest of your performance, leaning closer to her in between dances to allow her to slip more cash into your lacy bra. it felt euphoric and beautiful to be performing with her in mind, knowing her eyes were on you the whole time. but soon enough your shift was over, and you finished up your last routine, taking a moment to look at the audience one last time, allowing your eyes to linger on her just a bit longer, before leaving the stage and heading back to the dressing room. 

as you came down from your high and the rush of adrenaline that you got from performing faded, you sat down, finally allowing your body to rest. after taking a moment to just breathe and recover from your long night of dancing, you started getting unready, taking all the tips out from where they were tucked in your bra and tiny shorts and tossing them into your bag. the best part of your night was taking off your heels and changing out of your skin-tight lacy outfit and into some comfy shorts and an oversized tee. the relief you felt slipping on your comfy socks and worn-in doc martens was unmatched. you moved quickly as you packed up your stuff, more than ready to get home and get some food in your stomach, but just as you were about to head out the back door your boss came into the dressing room looking for you. 

"y/n? are you still here?" you heard the familiar, gravelly voice of your boss calling out. you contemplated just slipping out the back door before he noticed you but you knew you shouldn't so you sucked it up and walked over to him. "hey matt what's up?" you asked, praying it wasn't about anything you were getting in trouble for. "ahh y/n! there you are pretty girl. someone is asking for you out in the main room, said they wanted to just speak to you but they would pay whatever your rate was for a private dance for your time. seems a bit odd to me but sounds like a good way to make your tips for the night. they're waiting outside the dressing room for you but if you need to leave i'll just go tell them you already left for the night." he told you, your intrigue nearly outweighing your confusion. why would someone pay to just talk to you? that certainly wasn't anything like the services you usually provided but money is money so you grabbed your stuff and set it by the back door before heading over to the stage door. 

as you walked out of the stage door and into the main area you certainly weren't expecting to see billie. confusion flooded your thoughts, and you thought she must just be coincidentally by the door and the man who wanted to talk to you was somewhere behind her. but as soon as you walked out the door she stood up from where she was leaning against the wall and walked right to you. "hi angel. having a good night?" she asked. "hi yeah um my night's been good. how has yours been?" you stumbled through your words, not usually the type to get nervous and stutter like that but something about her presence just left you feeling flustered. she took a step closer bringing her hand up to brush your shoulder, letting it drift down your arm. "my night has been amazing, thanks for asking sweetheart. but anyways, i'm sure you've figured out by now why i've asked to meet with you, haven't you angel?" you timidly shook your head, feeling like there was some obvious answer that you should know but you didn't. she smiled, letting out a soft laugh, "oh baby your innocence is cute. i'm surprised you could do something like this for a job and still not realize that i'm here because i want you." your eyes grew wide as the implications of her statement dawned on you, opening your mouth to try to respond, but you couldn't seem to find the words, simply exhaling and letting your lips close in silence. your failed attempt to speak hadn't gone unnoticed by the woman, and you could see it in her face. "oh honey, it's okay. i can tell you're not used to this so it's not surprising you don't know how to respond." her eyes continued to stare into yours as she brought her hand back up and under your chin, gently lifting your face to look up at her as she leaned into your ear, her warm breath giving you chills as she continued. "the things i want to do to your precious little body, god, you don't even know what you do to me angel. i need to have you all to myself, don't want anyone else's hands on you, do you understand?" you tried to keep a calm look on your face as you nodded a little bit too eagerly. "words baby." she said softly but sternly, slowly bringing her face back to meet your eyes. you put all your energy and thought into letting out a calm, confident response, "yes i understand" you breathed out, mostly clear but it still came out shakier than you had hoped. a smile spread across billie's face as she moved her hand from under your chin to hold your face tenderly, "good girl. i'll be back tomorrow and we can talk more, yeah?" she asked, already knowing your answer as you quickly nodded your head. she took another moment to admire you and the look in your eyes before pulling away, letting her hand linger for just a moment on your cheek. "alright baby i'll see you tomorrow then." she spoke one last time, allowing her hand to drop back to her side, pulling a few hundred dollar bills out of her pocket and placing them in the pocket of your shorts before slowly turning on her heels and walking away. 

you stood there in silence, your mind consumed by a strange mixture of confusion and excitement and awe and a bit of desperation. had that really just happened? billie eilish was a worldwide sensation, one of the most famous singers of your time, and she wanted you? none of it made sense but it really didn't have to, because you were quickly whisked away to thoughts of how you needed to prepare for tomorrow. you slowly felt yourself return to the present moment and to your body, taking a deep breath and turning to go back to the dressing room. hurriedly grabbing your bag and heading out to your car, taking just a small moment to really take in everything that had happened before starting your drive home. going home was always one of the best parts of your day because it meant you got to rest, but right now you were excited to go home so you could have more than just a moment alone to think about your interaction with billie. after arriving at your apartment, she clouded your thoughts as you ate a late dinner and got ready for bed, anxiously anticipating the countless possibilities of what could happen when you saw her again the next day. you had only shared a short moment of time with billie and already you were hooked. this not-so mysterious girl was certainly going to be your undoing, and you were more than okay with that.

[todomochi-uwu]

not him. (2/?) R. Z & P. D. A

Pairing(s): Roronoa Zoro x reader; Portgas D. Ace x reader Genre: Smut, Angst Warnings: This content is for a mature audience Synopsis: "It was Ace. It was always Ace." Author's notes: I got my shit together and continued this series. Two chapters already done besides this one. Thank you for the support you've given me.

Masterlist 

If you enjoy my work, please consider buying me a coffee ☕

Zoro knew he liked you from an early age. The fierceness in your attitude since you were young, your unwavering loyalty,  

“Don't worry about it, Zoro. Girls like someone who can protect them. That is why she likes Ace now.” 

“It's normal; they like more mature men; Ace is that now, but she'll move on later.” 

“Ace is just a crush, Zoro. She might be into him now, but I know you'll end up together.” 

Yeah? Well, in almost fourteen years, nothing has changed. Absolutely nothing. The hearts in your eyes just seemed to get bigger and brighter every time you saw him. And Zoro knew that between him and Luffy's older brother, there were more differences than similarities. Ace was everything he was not: outgoing, extroverted, a natural leader; he always knew what to say and do; meanwhile, he would struggle to come up with anything that wouldn't sound rude or dismissive. 

 You were crying at the bottom of your grandma's stairs, dressed all in black. She had passed away the night before. And you felt like dying. Nothing and no one seemed to be able to console you. No matter how tightly Luffy held you in his arms, how many snacks and words Sanji and Usopp offered you or how many tears Nami whipped along with you, nothing would ease your broken heart. Zoro had tried for hours, from just sitting right next to you, caressing your back to whispering, "It's gonna be okay", repeatedly. Not knowing what else to say, he looked around, silently asking for help, but no one knew what else to do.  

It wasn't until a dishevelled Ace showed up in a poorly buttoned-up shirt and tie and a bouquet of peachy pink roses. First, he went up to your grandma's coffin, where he spent a few moments, saying goodbye and whispering something that would stay just between her and him. Then laid the flowers on the glass that covered her. Immediately after, he made his way to you, kneeling in front of you, he took your hands and placed small kisses on the back, "I'm so sorry, love. I really am, I will miss her too. I promised her that I would take care of you." You launched yourself into his arms; a loud sob escaped your lips. Zoro watched the scene happen, he knew better than to get jealous over something like this, but he couldn't help it. How had he done that so easily? How was it so simple for Ace to say things like that? And why couldn't he do the same? After that, Ace spent the entire night next to you, not leaving you alone for a second, even making you laugh at some point. And Zoro envied him. He knew how to take care of you, mend your poor heart. He knew what you needed without you having to say anything, and he hated that the most. 

But there were other moments when he could almost feel what it is like to have you. 

A couple of weeks after your grandma’s passing. The monthly sleepover was being held at Usopp’s house. You had been playing video games, screaming at the top of your lungs and singing lyrics you could barely pronounce between laughs. It was past midnight, and sleep couldn’t seem to come soon enough for you. 

Not wanting to wake anyone up (though, Luffy and his monstrous snores might take care of that), you decided to go downstairs and keep yourself busy with a glass of water and a bad phone game Usopp had downloaded. 

You didn’t notice the presence that sat next to you on the couch, but you didn’t have to look to know who it was.  

"Can't sleep?" You whispered while losing for what felt like the millionth time. 

He groaned in response. 

The next moments were spent in complete silence, just enjoying each other’s presence and the calmness of the night. 

“How are you doing?” 

You shrugged, "I don't know. I am in this weird place where it still hurts to think about her, but at peace knowing she's probably doing better now.” 

"Take your time, you don’t have to rush your grieving.” 

“I know, Z. Thank you.” You gave him a small smile, and he just nodded back. 

Zoro closed his eyes, not having anything else to say. The idea of falling asleep right next to you, just the two of you, was too good to pass on. 

“Hey, Zo?” 

“Mm?” 

“I’m really thankful you were there with me.” You whispered 

“I didn’t do shit, Y/n, I couldn’t even get you to stop crying.” 

“I don’t think anyone could have done that, Z. I lost a part of my heart that day.” 

Yeah, well, he was able to. 

You leaned into his shoulder, resting your head and snuggling in, "I'm glad I have someone like you in my life, Zoro.” 

You couldn’t see it between your drowsiness and the darkness, but the green-haired man’s cheeks were bright red. He looked away for a second, not wanting you to notice his reaction. He spent the next couple of seconds debating whether he should or should not. Was it the right time for this? But the second he turned to look at you, you had finally fallen asleep. Your cheeks squished against his tanned skin, arms wrapped around him, fingers intertwined. His heart stopped right then and there, begging him to run away somewhere he could calm down, but he decided against it, snuggling into you and the couch, resting his head on top of yours. 

In the morning, Nami took a photo of you, trying to conceal her excited squeaks and giggles behind her hand. The image had been the group chat icon for a few months (and Zoro's wallpaper since then). 

"Good thing that Luffy's older brother lives in the same building, it's so convenient," his mom said. 

... Yeah, it's so convenient..., right?   

Living with three other roommates wasn’t a walk in the park. Living with Luffy, Sanji, and Usopp was like walking shoeless on burning coal... but they were fun. The first week they spent trying to get used to living with each other (and not choke one another for every little inconvenience); once the ground rules and basic agreements were established everything seemed to be sailing smoother. 

“Oh, guys! My brother is dropping by", he said he’s bringing pizza and beers!”  

“I still can’t believe you guys are related." Sanji said, as he finished cleaning up the kitchen after Luffy's “little" morning hunger outburst, “Ace is so nice and considerate, and you are a black hole I have to feed and clean up after every day.” 

Ah yes, Ace is so nice... he’s a fucking saint, isn’t he?  

“Hey, Zo!”  

You were wearing sleep shorts and what he assumed was one of Ace’s sweatshirts, and while the idea of another man’s —more specifically his, clothes made his blood boil; his eyes couldn’t help but drift lower than they should. Have your legs always looked so good? 

Oh, yeah, you had started sleeping around with Ace, hadn’t he mentioned? Such a fun thing, right? Such a fucking fun fucked up thing. Even more considering, his room was directly opposing Ace's, in the apartment next door. Yay.  

“Fuck, Ace!” You screamed in pleasure. 

Zoro could hear your screams along with the banging of the bed frame. It was hell and heaven all in one, and it only made him want to grab one of his shinai. Though it doesn’t have much sharpness, he could try and beat himself in the stomach to death, but he might get lucky.  

"Ey, Zoro, how are you doing? You guys done getting used to this place?” Ace came behind you, pizza boxes in one hand and the other resting on your hip. 

“Pizza!” A very excited Luffy came running to the door, not even acknowledging you or his brother, just grabbing the food. 

“Beer!” An equally excited Usopp came running behind him, snatching the drinks out of your hands. 

Sitting around boxes of pizza and bottles of beer while hanging out and playing video games should be a nice day for everyone, but Zoro felt as if he was in his own personal hell. He couldn’t concentrate on anything else. Not on the TV in front of him, not on Luffy's and Sanji's laughs or Usopp’s screams as he lost once again, not even on the alcohol that was sitting on his hand.  

No. The only thing his eyes and mind could focus on was the scene in front of him. You, sitting on the couch, legs draped along Ace's, his hands rubbing your thighs while smiling against your lips. Zoro saw how he looked at you and knew how it felt because it was the same way he did. Like you made stars, the moon, and the entire universe. He felt like gouging his eyes out. 

“Zoro, it’s your turn!” Luffy said, passing him the controller. 

Grouching, he grabbed, choosing a character randomly. He needed this day to be over. 

“I’ll play.” He heard Ace say. 

Look. He'll admit it, this isn’t his proudest moment, and yes, it felt like a dick-measuring contest, but fuck anyone who’d judge. If Ace got the girl, then he would get the cup... the Mario Kart mushroom cup. 

By the end, his fingers hurt from how hard he was pushing them, and his wrist was locked, but he didn’t care. A win is a win, even if it was so unbelievably stupid. He looked at Ace, who was frowning; you were laughing at him and, for once in this godforsaken evening, looking at him. 

“Wow, Ace, you suck at this. How do you lose every single race?” 

“Whatever.” 

“No, really, is it that you are that bad? Or is it that Zoro is just that good?” You continue poking fun at him. 

"He sucks," Zoro said, wanting to fuel the flames. 

Ace gave him a brief look. Yeah, he knew what he was doing, so to balance the scales, he brought your ear to his mouth, whispering something that instantly made you turn red and get up on your feet. “We’ll be back in a second!" And like that, you left, the raven-haired trailing behind you. 

The look he gave him on his way out put him back in his place. Yeah, the loser wasn’t Ace, it was Zoro. 

Three months into college proved to be stressful enough. Essays on top of essays, quizzes and thousand-page book reports and not enough sleep were piling up on you. So, when Sanji suggested going out, you jumped right into the idea. You aren’t usually a party girl, but the idea of drinking and dancing with your boyfriend and friends was too good to pass.  

Your back was pressed against his chest, his hips bumping into each other, his hand on your throat, and his mouth on your neck. You can feel the stress and worries melting off your body. The alcohol numbs your inhibitions, allowing you to enjoy yourself in the middle of a crowd of strangers. The only thing on your mind was how good Ace’s body felt against you, how you wanted another drink and that your feet hurt in these heels. 

“You look so good, baby.” He mumbled against your skin. 

“You don’t look half bad yourself, Portgas.” You turned around, placing your arms around his neck, bringing his mouth into yours. Life is good right now. 

“I love you, Y/n.” He said, no hesitation. 

“I love you too.” You smiled against his lips before diving in again. 

“Having a good time, Zoro?” Said Nami, leaning against the bar. Zoro had the same bothered expression as always, but she knew better. He wanted to leave. 

He groaned, taking another sip from his drink. 

“Want to know a little secret?” She was also tipsy.  

He looked at her. 

“I don’t think they’ll last.” 

He frowned, “why do you say that?” 

She shrugged, "It’s just a feeling I have. Something doesn’t feel right between them." She downed the rest of her drink, "Hey, can I get another one?" 

Nami’s words stayed with him. Easing him up, even if it was false hope. 

The night went on, between drunken laughs and shameful dances. Sanji had been rejected at least a hundred times, but he had also managed to pocket at least twenty phone numbers, and only five were out of pity. Usopp had lost count of the number of shots and the people he had done them with. While Luffy devoured every snack and drink that crossed his way. You pulled Zoro onto the dance floor after begging for almost thirty minutes. One song, it was over, but it felt like an achievement for you. 

“How are you doing, Zo?” The movement of your feet was so uncoordinated, but he wouldn’t judge you for that.  

"Okay." Good with words, isn't he? 

You drunkenly giggled, "Have you had any luck tonight?" 

“I’m not looking for anything.” 

“Oh, come on, Z. You are stupidly hot! You could have anyone you want; there’s like a thousand girls here.” 

Yeah, you would think. 

“No one’s managed to catch your eye?” 

She was standing right in front of him. But he would never tell you that. 

“Like I said, I’m not looking for anything.” 

You put your hands around his waist, pulling him into you, “is everything okay, Zo?” You looked him in the eye. 

You looked gorgeous, drunk, blushed, and sweaty. Zoro could almost glimpse what it would be like to have you, but luck wasn’t in his favour. 

“Y/n.” He heard him call you. 

Of course. 

"Ace!" You went to his arms, kissing his chest, "can we get another drink?" 

“I think you’ve had enough, love.” He wasn’t looking at you but at Zoro. But he didn’t say anything else, only took you away. Leaving your best friend standing in the middle of the dance floor. Alone. Making him feel even more pathetic than he already felt.  

You found your way to Nami. You hugged her, and she did it right back. She asked you something, but you couldn’t quite hear her with all the noise. She took you two into another room where Luffy and Sanji were having a staring contest. Yeah, they were drunk. Both were blinking but didn’t seem to notice. It was fun to watch. 

"Ace!" Luffy was the first to notice you two, running straight into his brother, disregarding the challenge. 

“Ha! I won!” He said, falling backwards off his seat. Laughing on the floor, proud of himself. 

"I miss you, Y/n." He hugged you two. His head kept going back and forth. 

“Luff, I saw you ten minutes ago. 

“Still.” He pushed his cheek against yours. Drunk Luffy got so touchy, "So, you are officially dating?" And so honest. He asked the question that no one else dared to.  

Nami and a bunch of strangers, Luffy's friends, you assume, waited for an answer. Expectantly. 

And as you were about to give it to them, confident in your answer, Ace was quicker. 

“We don’t need a label; it’s just her and me,” he said, sipping his beer. The tone in his voice made it clear. No. More. Questions. 

As if you had been thrown a bucket of ice water, it sobered you up. Your heart died down in your chest, and with it, your illusions. You felt everything at once. Humiliation, shame, anger, sadness, and anguish. Is that what you were doing? Being casual? 

Nami could see the look on your face. Her suspicions were confirmed; you two were not on the same page, and now it was evident to everyone. She searched for your eyes, wanting to get you out of there. She knew exactly how you felt. She just needed a signal, and you two would be on your way out. But you only gave her a small smile and mouthed, "It's okay." Except it was not. 

“Do you want to go back to my place? I think we can get some food on the way. Is Chinese okay?" He said like it was anything. Like he hadn't thrown down your entire world a couple minutes ago. 

“Ace.” 

“Mm?” 

“What are we?” You were on the brink of crying. 

He groaned, “Y/n, don’t do this. Not you too.” 

“Do what? I’m only asking you a question.” 

“Baby, I love what we have. We are having fun. Why do we have to ruin it with labels?" He tried grabbing you, but you dodged him. 

“No, Ace. I’m not okay with this. I need to know you are serious about me.” You stomped your feet. You felt like a little girl all over again. 

“I love you, isn’t that enough?” He pulled on his hair. Exasperated. 

"Do you? Because, ten minutes ago, I was sure we were dating, I thought you were my boyfriend, but now you are telling me this.” 

“I'm just not ready for that kind of commitment.” He scratched the back of his head. He looked everywhere but your eyes. He knew he would break if he saw you cry. So, like a coward, he ran away, "I don’t want to disappoint you in the long run, Y/n." 

"Yeah, well, how's that working out for you?" You needed to get away from him, from his love and empty promises. You searched for your bag and jacket. 

“Don’t do this, Y/n.” He begged. 

"Don't contact me again, Ace." With that, you left. No idea how to move on from this. 

Zoro needed to clear his head, and the music, chatter and smoke wouldn’t let him. He pushed his way out until he reached the fire escape stairs, the cold air instantly hitting him and putting out the flames of his thoughts. Part of him wanted to scream, and another one wanted to go back inside and drink until numb, but the sound of sobs and cries made the decision. 

“Y/n? What are you...? I thought you were with Ace.” 

"Yeah, but he says he doesn't want to get my hopes up since he's not ready for a committed relationship." You slurped your nose, not giving a damn if it was gross. Your heart had just been carved out of your chest. You took another drag of the cigarette you stole from Sanji’s coat.  

Zoro was speechless, his ears ringing, the blood in his veins boiling. “What?” 

“I, I thought, he, umm, he”, you couldn’t finish your thoughts, the memory replaying in your head. 

Zoro sat down next to you, pulling you into his chest. “Shh, it’s okay, don’t force yourself.” 

"He said he loves me, but that he also doesn't want to disappoint me in the long run." You sobbed clutching your chest, "He’s acting like I didn’t give him everything. My heart, my love, my body. Everything.” 

You buried yourself deeper into his chest, trying to find comfort for the ache in your soul, but nothing came out of it, "He said he loved me, Zo." You whimpered. 

“He did, didn’t he?” He stroked your back with the tips of his fingers not only to calm you but himself. You needed him here, with you, not back inside, beating the shit out of the man who yesterday promised you the world. 

He’d take care of you, huh? What a bunch of bullshit. 

Taglist: @starchild-unnamed

[torusadore]

satoru helping you study <3

w/c: 690

---

You slump down next to your boyfriend, groaning quietly and dropping your head on his shoulder, “‘Toru. I don’t wanna study,” you began, ignoring his curious look, “let’s ditch this and go get kikufuku!” Playing at his weakness had to work, right?

“Baby.. we need to study..” this was definitely not the Satoru you knew.

“Whattt?! What happened to the Satoru who distracted me 24/7 and literally dragged me away from the library a few weeks ago?” 

“Well, my dear Y/n,” Satoru mused, putting on a holier than thou act, “I have realised that it is my duty, as your loving, amazing, perfect, handsome - did I mention perfect? - boyfriend, to make sure you do not fail your finals!” he declared, grinning at you.

“You’re joking.” In reality, you were relieved. You had been feeling like your grades were dropping recently, and it devastated you. You? Y/n? It was horrible, so yeah, thank god Satoru was there to help you.

“Oh, on the contrary, baby, I am being 100% serious! How about this, for every page of notes you complete, I give you a kiss,” Satoru grinned at your tired look before continuing, “and with every chapter you finish, we can take a small break and I’ll buy you stuff from the bakery?” It sounded tempting, you will admit. 

“Okay. Fine..” 

—

It had been a good hour, and you were about to finish your chapter. Satoru, true to his word, kissed you - multiple times - every time you completed a page. As you wrapped up, you looked up to see him staring at you, a dopey lovesick look on his face.  

“Satoru?” 

“Mhm.. What's up, baby?” fuck, his voice was like honey. He was definitely trying to drive you crazy on purpose. 

“I finished the chapter. Let’s go to the bakery!” you beamed at him, praying for the sweet release of getting away from the law.. It wasn’t that you didn’t like your degree.. It’s just that lawmaking was a really dull topic.

“Hmmm…” Satoru peeked over at your notes, before mirroring the huge smile on your face and quietly cheering as he wrapped his arms around you, “Yay!!! My baby is the smartest ever!” That certainly motivated you, hearing Satoru praise you like that and look so proud.. Yeah, you could get used to that. 

–

As you and Satoru enter the bakery, you spot many of your favourite desserts and link your arm with his, giving him puppy dog eyes, “‘Toruuuuu~?” he chuckled, used to your antics,

“Yes, Y/n, I will buy you anything you want, you know that.” 

Satoru pays for all the pastries you picked out for you both, leading you over to a comfy booth in the back corner of the cafe. “Since my girl has worked so diligently,” he murmured in your ear, “I think she deserves some extra kisses,” Now, Satoru was definitely not being subtle, he was the clingiest man to walk the planet. But who were you to judge? You loved his affections and loved reciprocating them even more. 

“Oh, really? Extra kisses all for me?” you giggled, going along with the light atmosphere. 

“Of course.. I can’t go too long without feeling you, baby, or I might die,” he sighed dramatically, sitting next to you. He held your hand, bringing it to his mouth and kissing it gently. He moved on to kissing your face, smirking at the giggles that spilled from your lips before landing a big exaggerated smooch! on your lips. 

“You know, if I knew I would get this kind of treatment when we went on study dates, I’d be way more motivated.” 

“Well then, I better treat you to these study dates more often, huh?”

– 

He stayed true to his word, Satoru helped you study diligently through the entire finals season, resulting in you getting As all across the board! 

“Now that I helped you study.. Don’t you think I deserve a little reward too?” Satoru wiggled his brows at you suggestively, a cheeky smirk on his face.

 It was safe to say that Satoru was more than satisfied with this reward for helping you.

--

a/n: i lowkey hated this one but anyways..! for @cc1306 <3 i hope you like babes :3

also can you tell this is really self indulgent..

[academicfever]

Study tips from a mid student;

This is geared towards research students mainly… but feel free to try out if u want regardless!

Make a gantt chart beginning of ur research semester. This is absolutely lifesaver… for sure there will be like a 1000 versions of ur thesis but having a rough timeline gives u the push and when u r down in the dumps u can actually visualise ur progress so far… which motivates me.

There will be like a lot of versions and corrections and drafts of everything u do. Starting with lit review . I’d highly suggest using one note and keeping track of every piece of article u r studying… u can arrange them according to themes when u r still looking for a topic… this way after 3 months of reading lit u wont feel like u r losing ur mind … because on paper u have nothing to show…

On a similar note , I’d suggest use mendeley to organise papers. U can annotate them there and login from multiple places like lab computer or ur pc etc. this way u know which ones u have marked and read and where to find what.

Don’t use ai for lit review … it’s a massive waste of time and gets u confused. Instead just start reading and u will get there … u don’t have to read every paper but skim through abstract and findings and u will know what to do next

Don’t delete any work ever… like from the first draft of ur lit review to the last draft of ur thesis … keep them all neatly in a folder… make sure to copy it in multiple places so u won’t lose it in case of emergency

Print out key papers u r using to build ur research around … like maybe 10 or 15 of them … this will give u a boost cuz for once u don’t have to sit in front of a screen…

Actually have a conversation with ur sv… talk to him like u r a newborn because we all r… in research world. Also make sure u communicate ur timeline with him very clearly… like when u want to complete what … because they r busy people and u don’t want to be stuck and frustrated waiting for their feedback… so at least make some key milestones clear to him and keep it in written document so u can refer back if he forgets.

Now when it comes to ur actual research and experiment or simulation, always start early… these things take forever and u will eventually have unexpected problems… so always start early … play around and see what happens …

Have some hobbies outside of ur research… it gets more difficult as time goes on… but plz escape once in a while to refresh ur brain

Academia doesn’t pay nearly enough to survive but I don’t care if u have to ask for help never compromise on nutrition…

I’ve seen so many people living in lab and surviving on ramen … ur body will eventually fail u… so don’t be frugal about nutrition… brain doesn’t work if it’s not healthy… and empty stomach puts u in a funk

When the inevitable doom hits about where this is all going or if ur research is worth the time and effort … talk to ur peers … always or ur sv even… they r there on the same boat and they will help…

Also don’t work 24/7 in ur lab… move around… it’s a massive boost for motivation…

work at most 7 -8 hrs a day … then take rest … because after that I feel like I don’t function well and it’s just dragging my brain …

Treat urself after a milestone like publishing a paper or completing a chapter… u totally deserve it .. and it is positive reinforcement!

I won’t pretend I’m a 4.0 gpa student cuz I’m not … but these things I wish someone told me when I was starting grad school and I hope it can help u… so all the best 💜

[mirandasidefics]

But Home is Nowhere-Chapter 15

Pairing(s): Lucien x Plus Size Reader, Azriel x Plus Size Reader, and Ruhn Dannan x Plus Size Reader.

Summary: You and Lucien visit the Day Court for the seventh time. Helion brings the two of you to the oldest library known to Prythian where you discover something that had been left lost to time.

Word Count: 7.8 K

Warnings: Mentions of self harm and poor body image.

Author's Note: I'm so sorry that this chapter took so long. There has been so much going on in my personal life that has made it a bit difficult to find the motivation to write. I am working through it though as I am determined to finish this story. I have about half of the next chapter written and it will be a long one. I really appreciate everyone sticking with this story.

As always, a HUGE thank you to my beta reader @ronibartender for all her help!

Series Masterlist Divider by @/tsunami-of-tears

Previous: Bonus Chapter 2-Bryce POV Next: Chapter 16

A month passed by quickly and you were again without the Starborn heir. You tried to keep yourself distracted from the sinking feeling the empty bed brought upon you. Luckily, you had an amazing friend capable of relieving any negative and oppressive feelings. Within minutes of Ruhn leaving for Midgard, Lucien swept you away to what you were certain had to be your favorite place in Prythian. The Day Court was so vastly different from the Night Court. The shining warmth was so comforting and in many ways seemed to remind you of home.  

You had especially grown to love the summers in the Day Court. The gentle breezes that built up into large thunderstorms. The scent of the large citrus groves filled your and Lucien’s room. Which is where you currently found yourself; lounging on the bed, head tilted and resting on your folded hands. The white linens clung to your sweat soaked skin. The approaching storm had only accomplished raising the humidity of the open air room.  You laid there, eyes closed, listening to Lucien’s soft baritone as he read to you. You would never grow tired of his voice, and had it not been for the rising humidity you could listen to him read for hours. 

Groaning, you turned on to your back,  the cotton sheet rippling off you as a gust of wind blew in from the balcony. “It’s too humid!” Turning your head, you looked up at him from your position on the bed. The warm breeze continued its soft assault as your hair and large loose t-shirt, a gift from Hunt, smacked you relentlessly in the face. The chuckle coming from the male sitting next to you made your stomach flip, as did the soft feel of his fingertips on your forehead as he brushed stray strands of hair from your eyes.   

“It’s not that humid. At least no more so than any of the summer’s we’ve spent here before,” Lucien remarked, folding a corner of the page down to hold his place in the book. A mocking gasp left you as you pointed at the dog-eared page for all the times he gave you grief for not using a bookmark. Raising the corner of his lip, Lucian ignored you and continued, “I thought you said you loved thunderstorms.” 

“I do,” You sat up, moving to take the book from his grasp. “But that doesn’t mean I can’t complain about them.” Lucien held the book high above his head out of your reach causing you to whine. “Lu…I can practically swim through the air. How can you stand this fucking weather?”

“Simple, Fae are better at regulating body temperature.” His matter of fact tone irked you. A detail he likely caught onto and quickly followed up with, “At least in mild scenarios like this. I’d die of hypothermia just like any human would if stuck in a blizzard in the Winter Court unprepared.” 

“Bullshit. You have fire magic,” You sat back onto your shins, thighs exposed as the small sleep shorts rode further up towards the crevice where your legs met your hips. The two of you sat there on the bed for a long moment. Looking over his face, you couldn’t find a single drop of sweat. Another highlight into the vast differences between Fae and human physiology and how you just didn’t belong here. 

You on the other hand were completely drenched. Beads of the slightly salty and tangy liquid slowly dripped down the back of your neck, slipping under your collar to make their way down the center of your spine. You had to look like a disgusting mess compared to the many Fae females living in Prythian. Certainly neither Elaine nor…clearing your throat you stood up from the bed. 

“I need to cool off before I get heat stroke,” Masking the rising hurt within your voice you made your way to the bathing chamber. The chamber reminded you of the one at the Moonstone palace, only the bath was raised above the floor instead of set inside. Looking over the array of bottles and glass canisters filled with oils and salts you heard the male approach. You were grateful that Lucien had taken to making his steps heavier in order for you to hear him approach. Something that only he and Hunt seemed to have picked up on even needing to be a necessity. 

“Want some company?” Lucien’s voice drifted into the bathroom as he leaned against the doorframe. His playful smirk didn’t falter an inch as you huffed in annoyance. You knew his teasing was just that and nothing more. He may have been a sly fox to others, but you knew that he was also loyal to any potential relationship he may have with Elain. Loyal to a fault almost. Not that she had yet taken the chance to get to know him well enough for her to deserve his loyalty. 

“No,” Your eyes focused on the cool water as it poured out of the tap into the ivory lined stone basin of the tub. “Now get out before you cause a scandal.” The male held his hands up in surrender as he turned and left the chamber, closing the door behind him. 

The brisk water immediately soothed your overheated body. You almost swore that steam rose up from your once sweat soaked skin.  Despite the goosebumps that erupted over your flesh, you weren’t ready to escape the chilled depths of the bath. After a few moments your muscles finally relaxed. As your body relaxed, so did your mind and you began to hum softly. Seamlessly moving from one tune to another, your fingers lightly kept time against the rim of the tub. You were so caught up in the calm moment you almost didn’t hear Luicen’s soft knock on the bathroom door. 

“Come in,” Your voice called as you lowered yourself and turned your body to hide your more feminine aspects from his view. The first thing you saw was Lucien’s brightened auburn hair poke around the solid oak door. The Day Court always seemed to bring out the lighter highlights whereas the color appeared more drab whenever he was in the Night Court. Before he could notice you staring you forced your eyes away from the strands as a few fell away from his shoulder. 

“Are you seriously not done yet?” He took a step into the room, that sly half cocked smile still on the corner of his lips. “If you stay in there any longer you’ll shrivel up like a dried prune, my darling.” Your face scrunched up in an expression of disgust at the nickname before sticking your tongue out at him. Of course, this only caused him to laugh heartily at your expense. 

“Do you need something?” You scowled at him, lifting your lip in a way to resemble the stupid snarls you saw between other males while walking around Velaris from time to time. 

“Wow,” His voice was deadpan, “You’re about as terrifying as a chipmunk.” 

“Fuck you!” You pouted, turning away from him. 

“Not today, love, we don’t have the time.” Whipping your head back around you gaped at him. His saccharine smile fully reminding you why he was once called the ‘Lord of Foxes’. With a growl you raised your hand back to collect as much water as you could before smacking it out of the tub in his direction. Being Fae, he easily dodged the wave as it spilled onto the stone floor. 

“You have five minutes to finish up before I drag you out myself,” His amber eyes sparkled with mischief, “Though that could be fun. It’s not like I haven’t seen all you have to offer before.” Your eyes went wide and you guffawed at him. 

“You. Dick!” This time you took a bar of soap and launched it at his head, which he easily caught with one hand. “Damn you!” You had to purse your lips to stop the smile that desperately wanted to join his. 

“Hurry up now, we have a long trip to that ancient tomb of a Library after lunch.” He retreated back to the door frame, “And I was really hoping we could walk through the garden before we leave.” His smile was so inviting that you found yourself almost instantly giving in. 

“What about the storm?” 

“It’s still a couple of hours away,” He turned to leave, “The breeze will make the walk much more pleasant than just lounging in the room like we’ve done half the day.” The end of his statement caused you to pause as you processed the words. 

“Wait, what time is it?” You sat up a little straighter, still ensuring to cover your breasts from his view. Not that he would be looking anyway…

“Almost two in the afternoon,” Lucien rolled his eyes. “Thanks to the Day Court and their late start to the day everything gets pushed back by hours.” 

“I’m perfectly fine with the late mornings,” You smiled at him and his lips mirrored yours. 

“Oh I know, love. You wouldn’t survive in the Autumn or Spring Courts,” Lucien walked out of the bathing chamber and towards the light oak wardrobe next to the entrance. You could vaguely make out his frame as he allowed you to slip out of the tub and wrap yourself in your fuzzy bathrobe. “Beron was very rigid with all of our schedules. My brothers and I would be woken up between 7 or 8 in the morning, a reasonable time mind you. After dressing we had a small breakfast, followed by morning sparring lessons while the weather was still cool. Lunch was at exactly midday and if you were late…well you didn’t eat. My brothers would have lessons in regards to ruling over the territories they would be assigned once they grew into maturity. Which if you ask me never actually occurred. Thus, I was left to my own devices. Which would have been fantastic had Mother not insisted on my being in the library to study whatever I desired.” The sound of hangers scraped against the wooden rod holding up the vast array of fashionable Day Court styles filling the wardrobe. You watched as Lucien examined each outfit before looking up at you and back to the wardrobe, seemingly unsatisfied with anything inside. “Supper was at 5 in the evening, and the largest meal of the day. It was only during the festivals we were allowed to let loose and raise hell until about 3 in the morning.” He chuckled as his eyes flashed up and down your body. With his gaze returning to the selection of clothes he shook his head in dissatisfaction before he continued. “The Spring Court under Tamlin’s rule was more relaxed, except for the wake up call. I personally believe that waking up at the ass crack of dawn should be a crime.” You snorted at his use of your slang. How many times did you make that same remark when having to wake up at 4 in the morning for training with Azriel? It must have been in the thousands. 

“Let me guess, you need your beauty sleep? Or is it to nurse the endless hangovers from the wine you needed in order to deal with the asinine bullshit that is required of an emissary?” You batted your lashes at him innocently as you leaned against the doorframe. 

He smiled and chuckled, “Something like that.” Finally he decided on a selection and pulled a dress out of the wardrobe. The breezy organza and linen fabric blew in the wind winding its way through your shared bedroom. A part of you felt the material would be too light and would just end up giving everyone a free show of what would be underneath, but perhaps its lightness was best for the humidity. Lucien held the light moss green dress in front of you. You were grateful that the length barely brushed your toes, and not so long that it would cause you to trip. Two wide straps of linen allowed you to configure the top half of the garment in any way that you felt was most flattering. Smiling, you nodded in approval and took the dress from his hands. Setting the dress on a hanger near the vanity, you saw Lucien digging through the drawers in search of under garments. The rest of the exchange was done in comfortable silence before you once again retreated to the bathroom to get dressed for the afternoon’s excursion. 

Once the door was shut and your privacy resumed, you stared at your reflection in the mirror. Looking back at the dress hanging nearby you debated on wearing any cosmetics and if they would be of any benefit. With the humidity it wouldn’t make sense to do a full face of makeup, but the redness and shadows gracing your cheeks made you cringe. If you went for a walk that same redness would just get worse. Powder wouldn’t cover that on its own, and any liquid or cream foundation would just melt and wash away from the sweat. Sighing you sat down at the vanity and perused over the various cosmetic items you had accumulated over the years. 

Eventually your eyes settled on a small tin filled with a baked square of kohl, Prythian’s version of cake mascara and eyeliner. Outlining your eyes would be too dramatic with your outfit, but you could still easily apply the substance to your eye lashes with the miniature toothbrush-like applicator. When you first purchased the tin you had been skeptical on how well it would apply to your lashes. However, it quickly became one of your new favorites as you’d never seen your eyelashes look so good. Pulling the tin towards you and pulling out the brush you leaned over to the sink to wet it. It took you a while to learn the best application method, something you and Bryce had a three hour long conversation over. The makeup in your two respective worlds were very similar but neither of you had used this particular medium. Thus, both of you sat in front of a mirror applying, removing, and reapplying until you both got it just right. 

You loosened a soft chuckle at the memory, gently swirling the brush on one side of the square chunk of kohl until you were satisfied with its saturation. Carefully you brought the brush to your lashes, raking them through the bristles and coating them. You could practically hear Ruhn’s light-hearted teasing in your mind even though he was entirely incapable of mind-speaking with you. Pausing your hand, you sigh and stare at your reflection. The memory of your birthday never dulled and the hollow feeling in your chest never went away. It didn’t matter how many times you rationalized the events in your mind. It didn’t matter how many times he had apologized for his thoughtless words. 

“Lidia,” His voice that night still rang clear as the bell in the ancient clock tower leagues away from Helion’s palace. “It’s ok Lidia, I’ve got you.” The simple fact remained; Ruhn wanted Lidia. Not you. Why would he want a human like you? Why, when he could have someone that was more beautiful, more of what he needed. You didn’t even know what she looked like, but you knew deep down that she was what he needed. Just from the little bit you had gathered you had the suspicion this Lidia was his mate.  You blinked away the tears, using the sleeve of your bathrobe to touch up the bits of mascara that started to run down your cheeks. 

In an effort to clear your mind you continued to get ready and removed your bathrobe to get dressed, but all your movements ceased as soon as you caught a glimpse of your plump form in the mirror. Your eyes scanned over your stomach and the sagging skin of your lower belly before moving on to the extra dips on your obliques between your waist and underbust. It took all your inner strength to keep a new wave of tears at bay. Yes, you engaged in physical activity daily and were eating probably the healthiest you had ever eaten. Yet you still felt like a stranger in your own skin. The image projected back at you didn’t match the one in your mind. 

Disgusted, your eyes left the mirror and strayed over to the cosmetic bag. Specifically landing on a small cut out section of the silk lining where you’d hidden a small single sided razor blade. Your mind emptied while your hand was guided by an autopilot mode not used in years. The razor was meant to be a spare within shave kit you had gotten for Ruhn, but you had kept it for your own use. You weren’t entirely sure you had ever really intended on ever using it, its presence alone providing you with a warped sense of security. However, the blade had been dragged across your skin once or twice since your arrival. The sleek metal gleamed in the low light of the bathroom from the sunlight above as you pulled it out of the bag. 

Deep down you knew this was an unhealthy way to deal with your self doubts. It didn’t truly relieve any of the pain and it didn’t make you love yourself in any form. Besides, who could love someone still so broken? Not allowing yourself to answer that question, you sat down on the edge of the tub and examined the old scars on your legs. Would the dress cover any new wounds? Could you get to one of the many servants to ask for a healing salve before either Lucien or Helion noticed? And were you seriously considering self-harm over a guy? A guy not being interested in you wasn’t a new concept. In fact it was the status quo in your life before you were dropped in front of the River House. 

So, why? Why was your mind even making this an issue? You knew why. Deep down you knew that your old wounds never healed and being in this new world just highlighted the lonely hopeless romantic inside you. Finding and accepting love was hard in your world. It should be easier here, right? This world had mates. It shouldn’t matter that you were a different species from literally everyone else you knew. Nor should it matter that there was no record of human’s having mates. There was still some type of pull. Both Nesta and Cassian had said as much at one point. Feyre too stated that there had been some type of pull towards Rhysand when she first laid eyes on him while she was still human. You…You could still have a mate, couldn’t you? It would make things so much easier. So much less lonely. The concept of soul mates in your world gave no absolute certainty that the relationship would work out. Here…in Prythian, on Midgard and probably any where else in this fucking version of the universe there was that certainty. A real and true mate; your person. Someone who was undoubtedly yours, and you were undoubtedly theirs. 

But that was all wishful thinking. Dating was honestly out of the question with the confinements surrounding your existence. It probably didn’t matter really anyways, males here were just as superficial as men in your world. That much was obvious with the way you saw the other males in your life look at…well, not look at you. You eyed the razor again as it hovered above your upper thigh. Sighing, you paused and lowered the razor at your side. With a single tear running down your cheek you stood and placed the small blade back into its secured spot in the makeup bag. 

With another deep breath you looked through the bag’s contents to see if there was anything else you wanted to apply, but paused as you questioned why you should even bother. You knew that you weren’t ugly, but compared to all the other females…makeup on a pig doesn’t make the pig beautiful. Another sigh escaped alongside a tear, taking a lump of the mascara with it. Exasperated, you grab a cloth and decide to forgo the cosmetics altogether and wipe away the kohl entirely. It was still too humid anyway. 

Closing your eyes you begin to breathe deeply. Counting up to ten sets of slow inhales and exhales. Each breath acknowledging the various feelings of self-loathing and letting each of them go. Once complete, you move your eyes away from the mirror and quickly dress in the undergarments and dress that Lucien picked out for you. After securing the dress’ ties around your body in the form of a halter top, you allowed yourself to look up into the mirror once more. Taking another deep breath you begin to brush your hair and clip half of it up and out of your eyes. One more deep breath and you apply a small amount of lotion to your face, soothing the irritation around your eyes from rubbing off the kohl mascara. The final touch consisted of a sheer nude-pink lip butter. Forcing a half-hearted smile you looked at your reflection for a final time that afternoon. While you may never feel wanted, never feel accepted, never feel desired, you couldn’t let it drag you down. You were human and humans aren’t perfect. 

The journey to the ancient library was unlike any of your other trips within the Day Court borders. So far, you had been to at least six libraries. When Helion mentioned a trip to the oldest library within all of Prythian, deep within the desert lands of the Day Court you had expected yet another multi-day carriage ride. Suffice to say you had not expected to be taken down to the docks of the winding river near Helion’s palace. Upon seeing the boat, or rather what appeared more like an oversized canoo, you felt as if you stepped back in time. 

The vessel was long, nearly half the length of a football field, and curved upwards on each end. It almost reminded you of old viking type ships, but it was also different. The ship had two masts, a large one near the stern and the shorter one near the bow. In between the two was a large open air canopy. Sheer drapes of jewel toned purples and reds billowed in sync with the stormy breeze. 

The light and short gusts of air were the only indication of the ship’s movement down the wide and steady river.  You were grateful the storm withheld the release of the torrential down pour locked inside the deep gray clouds looming over the horizon. Every now and again the familiar scent of rain would be carried on the wind as it brushed past. You couldn’t help thinking that the trip would have been brutal if the sun was out in full force. 

Helion and Lucien were deep in conversation, most of which you tuned out as you enjoyed watching the scenery change as the barge floated down the river. Lounging in one of the plush crimson cushions under the wooden canopy you began to hum. The melody started off as a random tune but gradually changed to one of the few songs that were able to be transferred to the new cell phone Ruhn gave you for your birthday. 

You weren’t entirely sure why this particular song entered your mind. It wasn’t as if the topic had been on your mind or even recently discussed. Yet here you were, softly humming three short notes of the opening line. 

Blackbird singing in the dead of night

Take these broken wings and learn to fly

You kept your voice soft and low. Tall verdant stalks with grassy tufts lined the banks of the river. Every so often the stalks would be interrupted by dark colored reeds and white flowers.   

All your life

You were only waiting for this moment to arise

You hummed a few more notes from the instrumentation, closing your eyes as the warm rain scented breeze rustled your hair. 

Blackbird singing in the dead of night

Take these sunken eyes and learn to see

All your life

You were only waiting for this moment to be free

An image of a dark cloaked figure flashed within your mind. The same figure you had seen so often in your dreams. Your eyes snapped open, but the banks of the river remained unfocused as your voice softened further. 

Blackbird, fly

Blackbird, fly

Your heart rate picked up, the figure looming on the edge of bank just out of the corner of your vision.

Into the light of the dark black night 

“You have a lovely voice, my dear,” Helion’s voice was soft as he kneeled next to where you laid. “Though I would much prefer to hear something less…melancholic.” The large male chuckled, his smile shining brightly against his golden brown skin. The High Lord of Day held his hand out for you to take, which you did without hesitation. The dynamic with Helion was much more natural and free than what was between you and Rhysand. Here you didn’t have the constant feeling of walking on eggshells. You didn’t have to watch your words. Your muscles weren’t in a state of constant tension, poised to either run or brace yourself at a moment's notice. No, Helion genuinely cared for you and your well-being. His care towards you made it that much more difficult to keep the truth from him each and every visit. 

“Join us for supper, love.” Lucien called. Taking Helion’s hand, he helped you sit up. A quick glance at the the other male and you noticed how he looked like he was made for the comfortable luxury of the Day Court. You mentally shook the image of the cloaked figure from your mind and slowly stood up from the oversized cushion. Helion held out his arm, which you happily took as you walked together the short distance over to where he and Lucien had been sitting. 

“This looks amazing,” You practically licked your lips as you looked over the spread. The small table held common dishes within the Day Court. Thick stews with various cuts of meats or root vegetables, olives and other fresh veggies, and bits of pliable bread. The scent of the herbs and spices washed away the damp scent of rain. 

“It tastes just as good as it looks,” Helion chuckled, guiding you to a spot in between the two males. You didn’t hesitate in leaning over to grab a piece of the bread and dip it into the flavorful deep red stew. Lucien chucked and followed your lead, also scooping up a hearty amount of the dish into his mouth. A quick flick of your eyes up to his lips caused your own cheeks to blush a soft pink. The desire to hide the blush caused you to angle yourself towards the High Lord, only to see the broad knowing smile shining on his face. 

“What?” You eyed him, reaching for a slice of mango. 

“I’ve been meaning to ask this for a while, but your scent,” Helion paused, taking a small sip of his wine. On your other side you could feel Lucien go completely still. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say that you found yourself a lover in the Night Court.” The High Lord’s grin grew as he watched you freeze, the mango stopping just before it reached your lips. 

“Lover?” You didn’t intend for your voice to sound as high pitched as it came out. “What makes you think I-”

“No need to defend yourself, my dear,” His smile remained soft, reassuring, “I am not judging. It’s in the Autumn and Winter Courts where they frown upon ones right to freely experience the physical pleasures.” He winked, taking another sip from the deep blue glass. “I’ve just simply noticed that there is a slight… lingering citrus aspect. It fades over the course of your stay here, so I know that it isn’t part of your natural scent. So, what’s his name?” 

“The name is of no concern,” You could hear Lucien try to keep his voice as nonchalant as possible. Prior to either of you coming to the Day Court you had agreed to not reveal the existence of those from Midgard. However, it seems that the omission finally caught up with you. You hadn’t even considered that Ruhn's scent would somehow mingle with your own. You supposed it would if you had been physically intimate with each other, but simply sharing a space…

“Is that a hint of jealousy,” Helion’s lips broadened further. “I knew you two were close, but-”

“I’m not jealous.” Your eyes traveled back to Lucien as he bit back. Helion simply continued to smile. 

“Ruhn is a friend,” Your voice was soft, hoping that Helion would be satisfied with that information and allow for the topic to move on to another subject. 

“A friend,” Helion set the heavy glass down on the wooden table in the center of the cushions. “He must be a very good friend for his scent to be so strongly mixed in with yours. It is curious though, the citrus is almost familiar…” His deep golden brown eyes bored into you, almost as if he already knew the truth. “I thought I knew all of Rhysand’s relatives.” 

You looked over at Lucien, silently seeking for the best way to respond. You were utterly lost as to how Fae scents worked, but Helion could tell that Ruhn was somehow related to Rhysand solely based on the lingering scent. Lucien placed his own wine glass down on the table. 

“Ruhn is a distant relative,” He admitted. You may have been clueless about scents, but you knew Lucien well enough to hear the tone of an emissary take hold of his voice. 

“Interesting,” Helion continued to study the two of you. You kept your gaze lowered, knowing full well that if you met Helion’s eyes you’d cave at any direct question about Ruhn. “I take it that he is not from the Illyrian side, but the High Fae side.” The Lord of Day leaned in closer to you. “I’m curious what he may have told you about his homeland. It is lovely this time of year after all.” Your head whipped to look at him. A knowing smile spread over his warm features. 

“You…you know about Midgard?” You stared as Helion started to chuckle. Lucien’s groan in perfect sync with the low creaking of the fabric seat below him. “Ah… fuck…I can’t believe I fell for that.” 

“Don’t worry about it, my dear,” He winked. “There are very few that are fully able to resist my charms.” Helion looked over to Lucien, the red head downing the rest of his wine before reaching for another bottle.

“Congratulations,” Lucien’s words were dry, “But for the record, we don’t know much of anything ourselves.” 

“I figured as much,” Helion picked up his own glass. “Rhysand does like to keep his cards close to his chest. Just as he has done ever since…well, that story is not one for me to discuss. Nevertheless, I would very much like to meet Ruhn. Someone has to look out for this beautiful woman’s best interests.” Helion smiled, leaning towards you to pick up a grape from the spread of food. 

The barge continued to float down the river as you all ate. The conversation flowed just as freely. Soon the river reeds gave way and on the horizon was a large old stone structure. Surrounding it was a small village with only a few buildings. The scene struck you as if this place had been forgotten to time. 

“Ah!” Helion stood, an arm outstretched towards the starboard side of the ship. “Welcome to Átoum.”

You had been in the library since the first golden rays of dawn. Thunder from the prior night’s monsoon kept you just on the edge of sleep most of the night. The small mansion you slept in was old stone and none of the same openness of Helion’s palace. The High Lord showed you around the property and through the old library. The library itself reminded you more of a museum and an adjoining archive. The front rooms were spacious and lined with various artifacts such as pottery, old weapons, clothing, and other art pieces. The rooms near the back of the complex held rows upon rows of scrolls and books. This was where you had found yourself for the past day and a half. Hunched over, eyes blurred and tired from reading dust covered pages. 

At one point you stood, just to stretch your legs, allowing your body to just carry you as it saw fit. The shelves of written documents towered high above your head nearly scraping the ceiling. As you walked mindlessly the documents changed from bound books to tightly wrapped up scrolls. Your steps slowed, fingers and eyes trailing along the edges. 

The papyrus was brittle, flakes falling off the edges as you unfurled the scroll. There was no clear organizational system amongst the shelves where you found this particular item. You hadn’t even realized that you had picked it up until it was in your hands and you stood in front of the seat you’d been in for the past day and a half. A quick glance showed a majority of the writing was illegible, the ink faded, cracked, or even missing altogether. 

You unfurled the parchment as carefully as possible, weighing the corners down with one of the previously discarded books nearby. Your eyes scanned over the page immediately catching on the grouped lines that went in various directions. Nearly all of them crossed over or were connected to a single horizontal line spanning the width of the entire page. The section expanded down multiple lines, taking up nearly the first half of the document. Chunks of this section had sadly chipped away over the centuries, possibly millenia, the scroll had sat upon that dusty shelf.

Your eyes continued to scan over the page, carefully unrolling the scroll further. The writing slowly gave way to what you recognized as Norse runes. Your eyes snapped back to the strange rows of mismatched lines above. Upon the second look you realized that you had seen this before, just not in a context that actually conveyed any true meaning. What was it called again? Was it celtic? 

“What the fuck…” You couldn’t stop the hushed question. You continued to review the lettering on the scroll. Each section must have been a testament to the dominant language of wherever this scroll originated. The unknown celtic, Norse, and…Latin. How did this even end up here? Tucked away in an ancient practically forgotten library. To have three different languages written…How old was this fucking scroll? Nothing about this made sense. Was this even from Prythian? 

You knew a small amount of latin, really just enough to make out a few words here and there from when you sang sacred texts in your high school and university choirs. However, the real question was if it would be enough to gain any worthwhile information. Quickly you rushed to grab a blank sheet of paper and quill and searched for the well of ink. 

“Fucking piece of shit…” lifting paper and books you continued your search. “Some goddamn Harry Potter fuckery, writing with a quill…” Finally you found the small bottle of dark ink and returned to your seat, carefully arranging your space to ensure that no ink would spill over the ancient scroll. Meticulously you looked over, analyzing each Latin phrase, rewriting the sentences. Below each word you recognized you added your native language’s translation. You quickly realized that you recognized a lot more than you originally thought. 

From the sparse words you could pick out, your best guess for the contents appeared to be of a story. Given the grandiose and slightly cryptic word choice it made the most sense for it to be a creation myth of some type. You had found many variations of Prythian’s creation myth during your hours upon hours of researching in both the Day Court and the Night Court. You easily recognized the list of elements the Mother placed into her Cauldron to create existence: the Sun, the Moon, Earth, Sky, Water, Darkness, and Fate. However, there was something different. The wording made it seem as if these elements had a certain…sentience, as if the elements were actual deities and not simply aspects of reality. Additionally, there was no explicit mention of “The Mother” or her cauldron. 

“Wait…what is cauldron in latin? Is there a latin word for cauldron…” Setting the quill down, you ran your fingers through your hair. “This is tedious.” As the text continued some of the more faded latin sections were replaced with the norse runes. Groaning, you practically slammed your forehead on the table, the ink in the jar splashing on the wooden table top. “Fuck me…” 

“If you absolutely insist,” Lucien’s voice, while soft, jarred you causing you to jump up from your seat and hit your knees on the edge of the table. 

“Damn you,” A string of curses flew past your lips. Lucien clicked his tongue, shaking his head in mock disapproval. 

“Find anything yet? Or just another dead end?” Lucien placed his hands on your shoulders, his fingers warming up as he kneaded the stiff muscles. You closed your eyes, humming softly in pleasure as he continued. The massage was just what you needed after sitting hunched over in a chair for so long. 

“I might have finally found something. I guess the seventh trip was the charm,” You chuckle, leaning your head to the side to allow him more space to work. “Though it is too early to tell. I can’t read more than half of what’s on here.” You vaguely gesture to the scroll which had unfurled itself from the table, down to the archaic stone slab floor. Lucien leaned down, placing his chin on your shoulder and looked over the papyrus. His slim fingers delicately running along the lines of text. 

“The fact that you can read any of this is a feat,” His breath sent a shiver down your spine.

“Stop that,” You warned. You felt his grin against the side or your neck. 

“Stop what, exactly,” Again his breath caused your muscles to tense briefly. 

“Breathing down my neck,” You attempted to shake him off, but he didn’t move. “Seriously! It tickles!” You shook your shoulders again, giggling like a damn child.   

“Alright, alright,” Lucien stood back up to his full height before walking to the opposite side of where you sat and pulling a wooden chair to sit beside you. “What does this say?” Sighing, you placed your head in your hands. 

“All I can make out so far is that it's another story about how Prythian was created.” Titling your head you looked over at him. “At least I think it is.” 

“We’ve read dozens of those,” he pointed out, gently bringing the scroll closer for him to observe again despite his inability to read the text. “Anything special about this story in particular?”  You brought the bottom parts of the scroll back up to the table where you sat before grabbing the parchment you used to write down the words you recognized. 

“While I had to study languages as part of my music studies. My Latin outside of the standard sacred texts is extremely lacking. I’m guessing on a lot of this from other languages in my world that are based on this one.” You pointed to the flourished lettering. “There’s mentions of portals, Death Gods and Star Gods, the Earth and other elements. I just don’t see anything about the Mother, which is what makes this different. Of course, I need more time to look it over.” 

“I remember reading that there had been portals several millennia ago. This could be a reference to those.” Lucien paused. “I’ve just never heard of any Star Gods…” He continued to look over the scroll. You followed his gaze, eyes trailing down the papyrus. The scroll gave way to an image of a map, your eyes landing on an eerily familiar word written underneath. Álfheim.  Your breath caught in your throat. There was no way. Absolutely no way. Surely your eyes were playing tricks on you, or this was simply a coincidence. However, something deep within your being told you that this wasn’t a simple coincidence, but something that was completely brought on by fate. 

“Álfheim…” Your fingers traced over the name; eyes glued to the map laying out the various lands including and outside of Prythian. 

Lucien looked up at you with concern on his face. “You’ve… heard that before haven’t you?”

“Yes,” Your voice softened. “Alfheim and Midgard…are names of realms that are mentioned in MY WORLD.”  You continued to scan over the rest of the scroll. Below the map the story appeared to continue. The same repetition of text starting from the configuration of lines transitioning to the runes then transitioning to the Latin. If it weren’t for the spinning thoughts in your mind you would have looked over the text more carefully. You made a mental note to keep this scroll in a safe location and return to it tomorrow. 

“(Y/N),” Lucien’s soft voice brought your attention back. “What was the name of your world again? Earth?” You nodded, silently praying that he would not ask for any clarification as to how your world could be connected. You hadn’t yet told him about the trip to the Prison and what you had discovered there. You shoved those thoughts as far from your memory as you possibly could, only letting your subconscious process the information until you had more evidence. Clearly, something in the universe was screaming at you and you were not to get the luxury of forgetting so easily. Out of the corner of your eyes you saw Lucien open his mouth, but before any words were uttered your eyes landed on another image on the scroll. 

“Wait…” You pointed to the image that took up the entire width of scroll. “I know I’ve seen this before.” Tapping on the scroll, you wracked your mind for where you could have possibly seen the image. It wasn’t from the Prison, or anywhere in the Night Court. You thought about the museums that you had been to in your world, but even those memories came up blank. The details were minimal, likely a simplified version of the original piece. It reminded you of a scene on a tableau or medieval tapestry. Three scenes that flowed seamlessly together to create a visual story. Multiple figures frolicing in a field, another group surrounded by an eight pointed star, and yet another set of three. As your eyes scanned over the illustration the scene changed to include multiple figures standing in a circle. The size of the illustration made it difficult to determine, but it almost looked like the figures were standing around a large object. You groaned slightly as the rest of the illustration had eroded away, leaving a hole that extended towards the edge of the scroll.  

Lucien carefully shifted the papyrus to get a better look at the image, “There seems to be some type of inscription.” He pointed at the small lettering immediately underneath the image that reminded you of a caption in a text book. Your eyes followed the length of his long elegant fingers. 

“Cum magicae redit ad terram,” The latin flowed surprisingly easily off your tongue, “Cum mortis umbra non alligatur corpora caelestia coniungunt ad novos imbres.” 

“Care to translate?” Lucien asked. With a sigh, you leaned back against the wooden chair. It was true you understood a few words immediately, but it would take a bit more time to decipher the full meaning. 

“A little bit,” You looked over the words again. “The first part says something about magic and the earth, then…” Your voice trails off.  “Mortis umbra…” Death shadow. Wasn’t Hunt’s nickname the Umbra Mortis? Could this have something to do with those from Midgard? You had heard of the prophecy regarding the Starsword and Truth Teller. Was this another? It certainly seemed to read that way from what little you could tell. 

“(Y/N)?” Lucien’s soft voice and warm hand on your shoulder calmed your mind. 

“Something about a death shadow, or shadow of death and then celestial bodies and new…rain, I think.” With a slight shake of your head you rubbed at your tired eyes. “Lu, I think…I think this is something big.”

“Big?” He chuckled. You could tell that he was equally as nervous about what threat this forgotten scroll could pose. “This is likely another retelling of the creation of Prythian.” You took hold of his hand, squeezing it slightly. 

“No,” You looked him directly in his eyes. The golden one whirring as the gears made the pupil contract. “This is an earlier story. This predates the Mother, Lu. This, this entire scroll, provides an unknown account of how this world, as a whole, came to be. And with it…another prophecy. We need to show this to the others. Bryce, Ruhn, and Hunt can look to see if they have anything like it in Midgard. Just like the prophecy about the blades reuniting the Fae of this world and those that had traveled to Midgard so long ago.”

“I don’t think that will be a good idea,” His voice was hesitant, eyes searching your face. “We don’t-” The sound of someone clearing their throat cut off whatever objection he likely planned to make. Turning slowly towards the sound your eyes went wide, a wave of cold washing over your face. Helion stood just beyond a row of long untouched tombs, arms crossed over his broad chest. He somehow appeared larger than normal. More dominant and…formidable. The most basic human parts of you threw up alarm bells that this was a creature that would kill at the slightest provocation. 

“Call these ‘Midgarians’ here now.” Helion’s voice was low and demanding. Lucien angled his body to create a barrier between you and the powerful High Lord. “Get them, Lucien, and bring them to me.” The male paused for the briefest of moments before he suddenly disappeared. Your throat went dry. He left you…left you entirely alone. “You, my dear, will tell me everything you know and what your real goal has been in exploiting my generosity.”

General tag list: @loving-and-dreaming

Series tag list: @jenniferpendragon @impossibelle @sweet-chai-amore @myheartfollower @iimichie

@fightmedraco @nikkitch0703 @eerievixen @ang-taylorsversion

@randomness-it-is @thehighlordishere @rachelnicolee @hardcoremarvelfan @awkardnerd @sundayysunshine

@jpgtae @cheneyq @morganwdarius @latinxbipride @catharticlovewriter

@mis-lil-red @rcarbo1 @celmentine111002 @abacteriamicroorganismsalmonella @julesvanslutta

[myokk]

Sebastian Sallow's List of Priorities (in no particular order):

Figure out what the hell I'm going to do when I graduate;

Figure out how the hell I'm going to finish this bloody Charms essay before tomorrow; and

Figure out what the hell is going on between us

Sebastian sits in an undisturbed corner of the library - nobody ever comes to this table because it's tucked away between shelves of incredibly dense magical theory books - and is twirling his quill in his fingers, watching the ink splatter on the list he spent his precious time writing instead of the Charms essay he should be working on. He's far away from the first-years who like to congregate by the windows and watch the leaves fall softly to the ground rather than study for their classes. He's made especially sure that he is far, far away from her.

It's not his choice, mind you, but he needs to be a gentleman about these things. If she needs some time and space to figure out that she's as crazy for him as he is her, fine. But even Sebastian Sallow's patience runs thin, and he's not sure how much longer he can give her to come to her senses before he snaps and takes matters into his own hands. If things were up to him, the two of them would be sitting far too close together now in this secluded corner, and maybe he would need to put a hand over her mouth to ensure her complete silence as he runs a hand up her thigh.

Now that he knows what delicious sounds can come out of her mouth - sounds that he caused - he's been having a hard time concentrating on, well, anything. Sebastian surreptitiously glances across the library to where she's sitting and studying with his sister and Imelda. Ever since the events after their Divination class, Sir Cadogan has taken it upon himself to follow Sebastian around the halls of the castle, tripping through frames and disrupting their inhabitants as he lectures Sebastian on love. The tea party women had managed to convince the knight that he had disrupted an amorous exchange, and Sebastian fervently wishes they hadn't.

The whole school is abuzz with rumors about who it could be. Nobody has even come close so far with their guesses, but Anne and Imelda are having too much fun teasing him about it. Somehow, she has managed to avoid suspicion - he wonders how this is even possible, since she's never been able to hide what she's thinking. He makes eye contact with her - has she been staring at him this whole time? - and she flushes before looking over to Imelda, who's laughing too loudly at something Anne's just said. Sebastian can't tear his eyes away from her profile, his eyes following the curve of her eyebrow, the slight upturn of her lips as she smiles at her friends, her eyes as they dart back to him, her cheeks as she turns an even darker shade of red as she realizes he's still watching her. She tucks a lock of hair behind her ear, and rests her chin on her hand as she tries to look absorbed in what Anne is saying to her.

Sebastian wonders if she's thought about him as much as he's thought about her. Judging by how she had snogged him back, he's positive that she feels the same way, but then he remembers how she had looked at him before she fled, and he's not so sure. He sighs as he looks back to his list, bringing his quill back to the third item and ripping the paper as he crosses it out again. His mind has been going in circles since that moment and he doesn't know what to think. He slowly puts everything into his schoolbag before heading out of the library for yet another freezing cold shower that hopefully tempers his now-permanent state of arousal whenever she's around.

He doesn't notice her eyes following him as he walks out of the library.

He doesn't hear her hurried excuse to Anne and Imelda as she shoves her things into her bag and rushes to follow him.

He doesn't hear her light footsteps as she gets closer to him.

When she puts a hand out to touch his arm as he waits for the moving staircase to stop, with a soft, "Sebastian" accompanying it, he nearly jumps out of his skin. He was so absorbed with thoughts of her, that to see her standing at his side, closer than she had been since they kissed was almost his snapping point.

"Can we talk?" she asks, looking almost embarrassed as she avoids his eyes. She instead looks determinedly at his collar. He thinks she probably notices that he swallows nervously before acquiescing, but she says nothing as she turns and starts hurrying away from him without waiting to see if he follows her.

She must know that he would follow her anywhere at this point.

from my oneshot🫶🫶🫶

I just really wanted to draw these two idiots😭💘

[amtrak12]

Wait, hold on you guys... I'm actually obsessed with this first chapter???? The character introductions, the Crane family observations, the way the conversations sound like they could be in the show despite the AU setting -- like DAMN! I wrote this!! In a new fandom after taking 7 weeks off and being absolutely certain the entire time I was drafting it that it was coming out as complete garbage!

There's a lesson in that. I won't learn it 😜 But there's a lesson there.

[kenzan-kiwami]

to be completely frank i think most of the people i've seen with major complaints regarding RGG 8's story are forgetting that 99% of what they're saying can be applied across the whole series

[bastardofharrenhal]

my mildly hot take is that i dont like dany's chapters that much. i like dany i like jorah i like the dragons but theyre so far away from westeros that i cant be assed to care

[baeshijima]

honestly one of my favourite things is drawing fanart for my own stories bc 1) i am my own stories biggest fan 2) seeing all the impactful scenes i have in mind in some sort of physical representation is just so nice and lk helps me write some scenes and 3) i can make my ocs look as silly and tragic as i want