#shabbier

[archduke-enver-gortash]

i firmly believe that gort still dresses like/has the concept art outfits/designs… they’re just so good. controls and twists everything to the tiniest detail to manipulate and that includes the way he dresses & styles himself, so lots of variation i assume.

especially these!!!!!!!!!!

[unbossed]

Whenever my partner and I notice that something we are routinely forced to buy is significantly declining in quality and/or shrinking in product size, even as the price continues to go up, we say, "Shabbier and shabbier." It started from the longer phrase "shabbier and shabbier as the empire crumbles" and we say it more and more every day.

[smallboyonherbike]

one like equals one kiss on her little head

[furywriter]

Watched Furiosa last night and Fury Road again tonight and really impressed by the finer points of the world-building. The details just look shabbier in Fury Road, the rig and all the cool gadgets they had on it in Furiosa (side wing things, the ball thing, mini-cranes). The war rig in Fury Road honestly just looks cobbled together, nothing matches. It’s functional but the rig in Furiosa had the little artwork of Immortan Joe? And the signals and horn. There was like a little pipe communication device for the person under the rig?

I think this was deliberate, after the Wasteland War resources are short, they had to rebuild so much. It’s just a little detail that you wouldn’t notice the first time you watch Fury Road, but really stood out to me after watching Furiosa and then Fury Road.

[shikai-the-storyteller]

Is that really JuanaFlippa?

Based on everything we know right now, the answer is "no"

What's more likely is that this is a Binary Monster pretending to be JuanaFlippa.

On a meta level, we know the admins of dead QSMP Eggs said they won't reprise their roles, but it's no fun to base lore analysis on meta alone, so here's a lore explanation for my reasoning:

First, and perhaps the most obvious explaination: JuanaFlippa never had cracks in her shell. She died long before the event where all the Eggs got kidnapped and were returned with cracked shells, yet this "JuanaFlippa" had cracks. What's interesting to note here is that during the Election Dinner when the fake Chayanne and Tallulah tried to trick Phil, he immediately pointed out that they didn't have cracks in their shell while the real Chayanne and Tallulah did. Perhaps the imposter was trying to overcompensate for their previous mistake by adding cracks to JuanaFlippa's shell not realizing that she never had them in the first place.

The reason why I specifically say this is a Binary Monster is because of the signs she left:

We've already seen the Binary Monster(s) try to replicate regular non-binary writing before when Etoiles encountered the fake Dapper and fake Tallulah (the book he showed Forever pictured below):

"My Dapper me na name" —> "My name is Dapper"

We know the Codes are constantly evolving and learning, so naturally their writing is getting better too (though we can clearly see 1s and 0s and other errors in "Flippa's" signs despite this).

But what's the Code's motivation in doing this?

In the past, we saw the Code(s) mimic Eggs because they wanted to attack and kill Presidential candidates— but that's a pretty recent development. Remember: before the elections, they were attacking the Eggs (though they also attacked Maximus and Cellbit at one point). The motivations of the Binary Monster(s) has always been unclear, and there's a lot of potential roads we could go down while theorizing, but in the interest of keeping this as relevant to the current discussion as possible, I'll focus on just one:

We have strong evidence to believe that the Binary Monster didn't want Islanders to stay on the island. It kept attacking the Eggs and leaving behind signs that said "Last Warning," strongly implying that it was trying to chase them away.

HOWEVER: shortly before the elections, QSMPGlobal tweeted an image of the Binary Monster above the Federation building.

[ Note: I thought I had this photo saved, but I didn't. I've been scrolling through their media tab for 5 minutes and Twitter crashed, so I'll have to add this photo later. It’s very late and I am so so tired. ]

This is the first time the Federation acknowledged the existence of the Binary Monster, and afterward, it said Islanders wouldn't need to worry about it attacking them. Why would the Federation suddenly acknowledge this physical embodiment of a mistake, an error, on their (supposedly) perfect Island?

The answer? The Federation took control of the Binary Monster. Why else would they suddenly deem it "not a threat"?

We could clearly see the Binary Monster deteriorating over time during the election arc. It looked shabbier and shabbier as time went on during the election arc. Something was clearly wrong with it (perhaps whatever the Federation was doing to control it hurt the Code in some way? Maybe the Federation experimented on it and made their own Binary Monsters?) But I digress-

The next time we see the Binary Monster after the Election ends is on Tazercraft's recent stream this week. Not only does it have a new upgrade (the strange OP sword Cellbit + Etoiles saw records of), it also ignores Richarlyson and opts to take a swing at Pac and Mike instead.

Now here's where things get really weird.

Earlier this week, we also saw the Binary Monster on Etoiles' stream. It didn't attack him, and instead leads him to a sharestone, which teleported him to a portal. He's given this image, then is kicked from the QSMP with the message: "The Nether Awaits."

So what does this have to do with JuanaFlippa?

...Well, that's the question, isn't it?

This is where things start getting murkier. I want to draw our attention to two specific things Flippa said before she left:

"It's not safe out there for me."

"Please keep this a secret."

The Binary Monster has already proven time and time again it's a force to be reckoned with. Why would it need to hide? Is it so that it can get closer to Charlie? (And if so, why? To mimic him? To get information?) I think a likelier answer is that the Binary Monster is trying to hide from the Federation itself.

Perhaps whatever the Federation did to shackle it— whether they experimented on it or copied it or whatever— left it damaged and weak. Or perhaps it isn't damaged at all; it just needs to lay low and needs someone else to do its dirty work for it (like sending Etoiles on a quest to find that strange shield in the Nether).

Unfortunately, a lot of this amounts to speculation because we simply don't have enough information yet. (It's also very very very late for me, so this analysis is purely driven by sleep-deprived madness and love for QSMP lore and JuanaFlippa).

Whatever's going on, we need to be very careful and think carefully about this being's motivations. Like Cellbit said: "Eyes always open."

Anyways, feel free to share your thoughts in the tags or comments or whatever, it's always fun hearing what people think of my analysis posts. You can find other analysis posts in my QSMP Info and QSMP talk tag.

[aheathen-conceivably]

Violette, Josephine, and Giorgio spent the rest of the afternoon surveying the meager commercial offerings of Strangerville. They looked into every shop window and meandered down each street, showing their new home to Violette and enjoying one another’s company.

As the sun began to tilt ever closer to the tops of the red rocks, Violette started to grow visibly tired, so Giorgio led them to his farmhouse at the edge of town. As they drew closer, Violette’s steps continued to slow, so Gio picked her up to carry her the rest of the way as she dozed off on his shoulder.

As they approached the house, they spotted Antoine on the porch, smoking a cigarette and surveying the surrounding desert. Violette seemed to sense his presence and her eyes sprung open, insisting on being put down so she could sprint toward him. He immediately kneeled down into the sand to pull her into a hug, “Well now Miss Violette, I do believe I’ve found your room. Would you like to go and see if it’s up to your standards?”

She shook her head in giddy agreement and Antoine threw Gio one last thankful look before he picked up Violette to carry her inside.

Now alone with Giorgio for the first time since she arrived, Jo’s eyes began to linger on the peeling sideboards and sheet metal roofs shivering in the hot sun. Giorgio looked down at her hopefully, and she returned his gaze with a lifted eyebrow, no need to convey her trepidations with much else. Gio offered her his hand and led her across the porch, through the yard, and to the smaller home where he had been living. 

They stopped at the front door, and Gio turned back to her, “Listen, Jo, I hold no illusions that this is the home you want, but ever since I received Antoine’s letter I’ve done nothing but try and make it comfortable for you.”

She knew that now wasn’t the time for judgment, for fear or regret. So she gave him a small nod and he opened the door to the cabin, which smelled of strong alcohol and sunbaked wood.

They entered straight into the living room, where she tried not to notice the cracks on the walls or the thinning lace curtains. Gio kept her hand firmly in his as he led her to the bedroom door. As he opened it, Josephine realized with a jolt that it even shabbier than the previous room; one whole wall was covered in nothing but newspaper, and the patches elsewhere told her that one day the rest would be as well.

To the right was a corner already set with some of her belongings and the drawing of her mother that she had mailed in a carefully wrapped package weeks before. She let go of his hand and walked toward it, running her hand along the nearby vanity, which had already been lovingly arranged with her jewelry, new magazines, and a fresh flower.

He watched her hand move along the weathered wood, but stayed distant as he spoke, giving her space to take in the room on her own, “I restored it for you, Jo. I never thought I could, honestly, but there isn’t shit to do here but drink or work. So I found it, torn to shreds and thrown on the side of the road, and restored it for you, just hoping that you’d write, that you’d be here one day to use it.”

His expression was so earnest that it almost pained her to look at, even in the reflection of the mirror. He made no effort to hide his worry and pain or the flashes of desperate happiness that she was standing there at all, bedecked in pearls and makeup amidst the crumbling walls and stained carpets. It was impossible not to see the best of him in that moment, to remember all of the kindness and love that he had shown her while she withheld so much from him.

She let her hand linger on the dresser for a moment more before she went to him. He immediately threw his arms around her and she felt his entire body relax in relief. As he brought his lips to her neck and hands to the buttons of her shirt, she closed her eyes; still through shut lids she could see the room around them.

No regrets, Jo. You told yourself no regrets. Just don’t look back. Never look back.

[maddithefangirl]

Tears (Azriel x Reader)

Warnings: I was sad while writing this so...

Prompt: “You’re the reason why I believe in love, you know?”

a/n: This is therapeutic for me to write so I don't really care how bad it is lol. I wasn't able to write any of the sequels I've been working on but I was able to write this so here you go!!

｡☆✼★━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━★✼☆｡

The tears would not stop flowing. Today was the anniversary of the day that you left the Hewn City and fled to Velaris as a refugee. Also, the last time you would ever see your mother. You loved your mother more than anything in the entire world, but she hadn’t shown you that same love back. She was a kind female, but she expected the world out of you. That wasn’t always possible, so when she took out that anger on you, you fled. 

It was a spring day with a light breeze seeping through the windows. You lay on the lounge chair with a book opened in your hand, but you couldn’t bring yourself to read it. Your mind had left you long ago and then the tears started to fall. You didn’t even know why you were crying. Was it because you missed her? Maybe, but she wasn’t good to you so why should you miss her? What really was happening was you were grieving that old life you used to have. 

Hours passed and yet you remained, frozen. 

As you sat in your chair staring out the nearest window, the door opened and closed. Unbeknownst to you, your love was searching for you throughout the townhouse you shared. He had been one of the first people you met when you finally made it to Velaris. He had held you for questioning for days before deciding you were not a threat to then give you living quarters in the shabbier places in the city. 

He couldn’t stop thinking about you after that, so he came to check up on you monthly always with a bouquet of flowers in his hands. Usually yellow tulips until one day he showed up with red roses and asked you on a date. 

Since then, the mating bond had snapped into place and you accepted it with no hesitation. It was like he was the one who personally saved you from the Hewn City. 

Now, he stood in front of the doorway staring at you trying to access the scene before him. He saw you on the lounge chair with the book in your hand long forgotten. He could have sworn you were a statue with how still you were until he heard a sniffle. That got his senses on alert. 

“My love,” he spoke softly as he rushed to your side. 

You were unchanged as you continued to stare out the window. All that could be heard was a choked sob that wracked your system. The dam had broken with his presence. He grabbed your jaw and brought his eyes to yours. 

He sighed, “my love… what is it?”

You did nothing but cry and hugged him. Tears found home in his tunic as you rested your head on his shoulder. He was everything to you. That ache in your heart that your mother had left you was perfectly filled with him, your love, Azriel. His wings encapsulated the both of you together in time. This is what you needed in this moment. A hug from the person who loves you the most in the world and accepted you for who you were. Someone who wanted to be there for you. He was so incredibly special to you, and nobody could take that away from you. 

After a while, the tears stopped and you were finally able to look up into his eyes. You felt all of his love seep into you all at once. All you managed to say was, “You’re the reason why I believe in love, you know?” 

He smiled. There was nothing stopping the unconditional love that he felt for you. He knew your past and knew what wounds your mother left on your heart, but he was going to be there for you. Always.

[cupids-scream-queen]

'*•.¸♡ Daughter of Mercy ♡¸.•*'

₊˚ପ⊹ Warnings:

Lots of angst, murder, detailed and graphic descriptions of violence including, but not limited to rape, murder, sex, mugging. Dub con/Non con.

₊˚ପ⊹ Summary:

Swift. Deadly. Profoundly disturbing by the press. A serial killer is making rounds in the areas surrounding Woodsboro, but never attacking the town. Described as one of the worst killers California has seen in years, the killer stops at nothing to accomplish their crimes. The people they take out, though, seem to have more criminal history than the killer themself...

She was the one behind it all, cleaning the world one death at a time. Until somebody starts committing atrocities in Woodsboro, the one place she hadn't touched. The papers began to credit her with crimes she'd never done, and she had to do something about it.

Taking it into her own hands, the killer decided she'd find those responsible for the Woodsboro crimes, and make them pay...with their life.

P R O L O G U E : D E A T H S E N T E N C E

✧. ┊     Stu & Billy x f!reader ┊┊┊✧ ⁺ ⁺ 　°

Cold nights and even colder blades. That was your life, and that was how you were intending on keeping it. The rush of adrenaline, the pain you caused onto those who caused pain, and the quick, quiet way you slipped into the houses to attack--it was all special. It was something you needed, much more than drugs, much more than water, much more than the world.

It was gruesome work, yet you admired the way you performed. Every day was different, every night was, too. There was no telling how a cleansing would go before it was performed, and that kind of variable was interesting enough to keep you going.

Your life was difficult, to say the least. Broken. You thought of yourself as an incomplete puzzle, and every cleansing you performed, you were adding yet another piece. Finishing yourself, slowly. You had no idea what you'd do when you completed the puzzle--or if you'd ever complete it.

You were a high school student--a junior. Seventeen years old, and you had nothing to show for it save for a few lockets and birthday cards from relatives you were pretty sure you hadn't seen since you were six. You had a job--a shitty job, but a job, and a hobby that you could argue was helping people. You helped pay the bills. You helped buy groceries. You helped take care of your younger siblings.

Yet, the only thing you'd actually impacted was through violence.

It made you feel empty, in a way. That wasn't to say that you weren't, but it made you realize that you'd never get famous for anything you could actually, legally, take credit for. You were forever to be the mysterious force weeding out the worst kinds of people from society, your presences always on the outskirts, your name mentioned in hushed whispers across worried parents and your title slathered onto the front page of newspapers. The Killer's Killer--that was your name. As lazy as it was, it was a title. Nobody gave titles to worthless killers.

You felt yourself breathe more deeply as you continued your walk home. California was a hotspot for serial killers--it was no surprise that there was another one in its midst, but the only thing the press couldn't figure out was why. It annoyed you, to a certain extent--could they not see the pieces of shit you were eliminating from society?

You were almost home--a shabby house that contained a much shabbier interior. Your mother had gotten the house from her mother's will--and as shitty as it was, it allowed for her children to go to a decent public school, which was why you were there.

You considered yourself lucky. You had the smallest room, but it was yours. Your two sisters shared the larger room, and your parents had the finished attic as theirs. It was a tight fit for a family of five, but you made it work. You had to.

You unlocked the front door with your key, slipping quietly inside. Your parents didn't really care about your nightly activities--not since you'd gotten your license. Besides, you were partly the reason why they still had a roof over their heads--they had nothing to hold over you without losing something much more valuable.

You had a small amount of blood on your pants, and you discarded them into your hamper with little thought. Your room was plain, save for a few walls of various weapons, and a giant poster with a picture of a cat with three eyes.

No knock at your door. A quiet house. You considered yourself lucky. You had everything you could've asked for. Life was better now that you were out of the shithole you were raised in. The scars of that could be worn on your mind, but you were safe with the knowledge it would never happen again.

If it happened again, it was certain to be a death sentence.

[smolvenger]

The Twelfth Night Ball, A Cinderella Story (Henry V x fem! Reader one-shot)

Summary: As a lady turned servant, every day you survive under immense cruelty. Then one day, it is declared the King of England, Henry V, is throwing a ball, looking for a potential bride...

Word Count: 7535 (have snackies)

Warnings: Physical and verbal abuse from the "stepfamily" (this is a Cinderella story after all). Some curse words here and there. Grammar and spelling mistakes that slip past my radar. LOTS of angst, but it becomes tooth-rotting fluff.

A/N: Happy Holiday Season! This was gonna be a Christmas ball but things got busy, so it's Twelfth Night (that was a bigger deal back then, anyway, ehehhe) but I hope you enjoy this any time of the year! Comments, dms, reblogs, and comments about my work are always appreciated!

A03//My Ko-Fi//My Etsy Shop//Masterlist//Wattpad

Taglist: @asgards-princess-of-mischief @jennyggggrrr @five-miles-over @fictive-sl0th @ladycamillewrites @villainousshakespeare @holdmytesseract @eleniblue @twhxhck @lokisgoodgirl @lovelysizzlingbluebird @raqnarokr @holymultiplefandomsbatman @michelleleewise @wolfsmom1 @cheekyscamp @mochie85 @fandxmslxt69 @skittslackoffilter @mischief2sarawr @loz-3 @muddyorbsblr

Once upon a time, you were a little child delivered to a house of strangers. Your dear parents, an established lord and lady, both died of a deadly illness that spread. You were separated from them- sparing your life. But without even a final goodbye. 

It the Lord and Lady Brentford who took you in, for they were distant relatives. You could still feel the guard's hand, much bigger than your own, support you when the carriage door opened before the Brentford Manor. You stepped out of the carriage and onto their grounds. They looked at you with polite smiles…but nothing warm behind their eyes as they led you in.

It began small. At first, they were merely strict in their lessons with you. As any daughter of a lord. You tried to adapt, to please them. As much as your little eight-year-old self could allow. Even at your best behavior, they always reminded you of one thing: you were mere charity. Their one daughter you had never met. She was sent off to stay in a convent for her education.

It was when you were thirteen that one day, they requested you to move into a shabbier room. The one you slept in had to be used for guests.

Then they kept insisting the servants needed help with things. Mending, cracking eggs, a stone on the floor that needed scrubbing. You wanted to help, to please them. So you said yes.

Then, you realized one day your pretty dresses were gone. They said that what was left of your family's fortune had been spent already. You had to make ends meet, they said, by selling what nice ones you had. Leaving you with only servants' clothes.

Then, finally, when you were fourteen, you went down after helping cook breakfast. To eat with them…and there were only two chairs at the table.

“Where may I…I sit?” you asked.

The Lord glared up at you.

“You do not eat with us.”

“But…you are my guardians,” you replied.

He snorted. “You. Family?”

His eyes were cold.

“You were never our family, girl,” Lady Brentford agreed.

The stomach within you dropped. Hot tears welled up.

“Bring us our bread, girl.” she ordered.

“If…If my father was alive, he-”

Lord Brentford stood up.

“He is dead. Are you going to keep talking or should I get the horsewhip to get you to shut up? Bring. Us. Our. Meal.”

You went back, sobbing hot tears. Then delivered their meal to them. Banished. No longer as a member of the family. Or of any family that wanted you, loved you. You were unloved. Unwanted.

The Lord and Lady threatened to throw you out if you ran away resisted, or fought back. To beg on the streets. Or whore to survive. So you were stuck as a servant.

And so your life as a servant began for years here. Some of them gaped at first- the Lady Y/L/N turned into a drudgery maid.  They pitied you. They did not laugh at you for not knowing initially how to cook an egg but would show you how. They let you hug them and cry and rage. Only in private. For all knew how the Lord and Lady reacted to defiance. You got to know them and talk to them, It was Miss Anne who would give you oranges when they were in season to bite into. It was Mr. Page who would show you the secret bird's nest when you had to gather the apples in the orchard. Their kindness was appreciated. 

There was one other consolation in your life- the Brentford’s only daughter, Jane. The time arrived when her long stay at the convent for her education was done. She was considered of age to be married and she moved back. A woman of your age, your very height and size but with pale skin, long chestnut hair, and bright green eyes.

After Jane got home, you brought her some food to her room but found she wasn’t there. You saw her outside in the garden climbing an apple tree in bloom to gather the fruit and flowers. As she stepped on one branch, it broke beneath her weight. With a scream she fell a great distance, breaking her leg. At once, you alerted the servants and helped her in. It was you who stayed by her side, nursing her until she healed. 

Since then, a friendship began between you both. 

Lady Jane was the sort who became a very different person than her parents. She was kind.  If you brought something a little late, she gave you no chiding. Jane was always getting into some sort of mischief, for sometimes she would scrape her hand or burn something, and you would patch her up.

 You became each other’s confidantes…and then she considered you not as a servant, but an equal. You were sometimes tasked to be with her, and those were the easiest- delivering her correspondence two and fro, brushing her hair, and dressing her. Even picking flowers for her room to cheer her. Jane loved animals and her pride and joy was her mare, Psyche, who you would be tasked to feed and brush. 

It was only a shame she had no interest in marriage or even romance. If only she got married so you could become her chambermaid and live far away from this place! But no. She refused to be forced into a marriage. You were amazed at her bravery to refuse her parents boldly. However, she was their natural daughter and a Lady. She had the privilege to rebel. You did not.

Sometimes you wished you were her, you had to admit. Jane was something of a recluse, not wanting to go to balls and parties and be out in society. Her beautiful dresses only caught her mild interest, preferring riding her mare, her books, climbing trees, and talking with the servants despite her parent's protests. 

You wished she’d say yes to one ball- how beautiful it must be to wear a gown and dance the dances you were taught when your parents lived! And to maybe have men show interest in you and show up to see you- to be considered and wanted for marriage by some good-looking, nice lord!

But…what money your family left for your dowry was left to the Brentfords….who naturally spent it for their desires until you had none left. Without even a dowry, you would be considered useless for any Lord’s bride. 

Maybe not marriage…but perhaps, as you looked at the married couple kept as servants here- Mr. and Mrs. Kent. Saw them hold hands and exchange small kisses in hallways and smile…love. To be loved. To fall in love. To find romance. Somehow. Something you had never heard, experienced, and could only yearn for in your deepest heart…perhaps there was someone out there who could love you…

But perhaps that was only for daydreams and for sad romances with Knights pining for already married ladies. Much less a scullery maid. 

❛ ━━━━━━･❪ ❁ ❫ ･━━━━━━ ❜

One December morning, you spent one of the few hours you had alone walking in the woods. You reached the clearing of a field not far away. The Natural spot was so peaceful. No Lord or Lady Brentford. No threats. No names. Just the early winter morning. 

You shivered in your dress. It was all you had on you.

That morning, you awoke to see the Lady Brentford. You did not mend her skirts to her liking. So she went to your room and in revenge, ripped apart your only cloak. She tossed it at you.

“There. Until you learn how to mend clothes the right way, stupid girl.”

You only held the torn cloak, tears pouring down over it. 

The sun was bright, and the grass frosted. The world was brisk and cold, but it got warm after exercise. The sun was bright. Your breath comes out in puffs of smoke.

Suddenly, you heard horse hooves. Turning your head, you jumped to see a great white stallion galloping and on top of it was a man in a red cloak. You took a few steps in retreat.

Before you could have a good look at the rider, the horse suddenly stopped and bucked, his front hooves in the air with a whinny. It was so sudden, that with a masculine shout, his rider fell off of his horse onto the grass.

You let out a gasp-was he injured? Yes, this was a stranger. And a man. And you were alone. But he could use the help! And if he was injured, he couldn’t hurt you!

“Sir, sir, are you hurt?” you cried, picking up your skirt to go there to see him.

Up got the man with a small grunt. 

You finally saw his face and you felt yourself stiffen. 

He was incredibly handsome. Young with high cheekbones and a high forehead. Auburn curls and trim facial hair with soft blue eyes and ivory skin. Tall and lean yet muscular and broad. Virile and powerful, but an air of charm, and elegance to him, though you could not name why you could tell.

 He managed to get up and wipe off his dirt on him, looking at you. He smiled, hands up in pace.

“I am alright! I’ve suffered worse!” he assured you. 

“Are you sure?” you asked.

“Of course, my lady!” he replied, bowing his head.

You felt yourself go warm. You had not been called “my lady” in years. Much less by a handsome man!

You then saw the horse a small distance away. Trotting off. The man whistled, but the horse did not respond.

You knew you had to feed Psyche later today. Her carrots were in your pocket. You pulled one out and lured it over. Surely, the white stallion walked over. Once you fed him the carrot, you pulled him by the reigns over to the man.

“Thank you- he’s not used to me. A rather naughty fellow, but he shall be my good friend long enough,” the man laughed.

“If you give him enough treats, I’m sure he will be your friend quickly.”

 “Thank you, my lady, you’re very kind. Do you need assistance getting home?” he asked.

For you to go home with a man?! They would think something less than chaste was happening out there. Especially since you were both a woman and a servant. Whores and thieves, that was what all thought maids to be.

“No thank you, I do not live too far,” you explained.

The sun went behind a cloud, giving it a slight chill. Though there was concern on his handsome face. 

“But without a cloak?” he asked, tilting his head.

“I…I have no cloak I may use and I wanted to walk. I could brave the cold. Once one moves about, it does get warm,” you told him. 

“Here, my lady…”

He took off his red cloak and put it over you You let out a small gasp. Feeling his hands brush past your shoulders as he sealed the clasp. It was so large it felt warm on you- the heat of his body and his scent still on it.

“Sir- this is too much!” you gasped.

“No, you may have it. I have a dozen others and you have none,” he refused, a kind smile on his face.

It was like an embrace. You touched the material, feeling it in your hands. It was high-quality cloth, likely expensive from the bright red. He must be some great lord who happened to ride by.

In his nice red leather jacket (it hugged his lean but broad form very nicely, you noted, feeling a sudden heat in you) he swung himself back up on the white stallion.

“Thank you, dear lady. For your concern to me.”

“And thank you, my lord, for your generous gift,” you replied. 

“Farewell for now.”

He smiled at you, nodding his head, and then he rode off. You couldn’t help but watch him as he left.

You burst into giggles as you walked through the forest, feeling as if you could float from such an encounter with such a handsome man. For one brief moment, the love story you craved had happened. You drew the cloak around you. Your mind racing with fantasies of an actual embrace from him. Or even more- if he kissed you!

You returned very warm. You folded the cloak and set it down among your things, even the torn-up cloak. You smiled- always keeping that memory in your heart. You would make sure to guard it carefully. But even if the Brentfords tore it up, they could never tear up your memory, your moment, your encounter with this dream of a man. Or your hope that you would someday see him again. 

❛ ━━━━━━･❪ ❁ ❫ ･━━━━━━ ❜

The next day, amidst the fasting and preparations for the Christmastide season, there was a messenger who arrived at the door. He was dressed in fine reds and handed one male servant the letter. Up the servant came as you attended to the Brentfords. Eating their breakfast of simpler fare than they would like.

The servant looked flushed and wide-eyed. He held up the letter, declaring “My lord- it is an invitation from the king!” 

There were gasps around the table. From none other than the king! The newly crowned Henry the Fifth. Lady Brentford grabbed it and opened it, reading it aloud.

“We do cordially invite all eligible, unmarried ladies of this household to attend the ball hosted by the king on Twelfth Night. Each lady shall be introduced to his majesty the king in addition to a night of dancing, feasting, and frivolity.” 

Eyes went wide. You felt your heart begin to pound in your chest. 

“Oh! A ball! How wonderful!” cried the Lady Brentford.

“To have him write us alone is an honor!” agreed the Lord. Though their eyes turned greedily to their daughter. Lady Jane stopped eating her bread, it nearly dropped on her plate. 

You looked up from where you poured more drink into Jane’s cup.

“If he is asking to be introduced to eligible maidens...it means only one thing…” Jane began. Her face turned white, her appetite gone. 

“He is looking for a bride! Oh, could you imagine? Our Jane- Wife to the King and Queen of England?”

Jane gripped the edges of the table.

“Mother, father, please- I don’t want to go. Please. There are plenty of other women who would be more happy to be there than me!  I don’t want to be sold like cattle to a man I don’t know, please! And I hear he was a drunkard and a thief- I don’t want to marry a man like that, please!” Jane pleaded.

“And risk losing the chance to become queen? Besides, we hear he’s a young, comely man, it could be worse! There are lots of old men we could consider marrying you off to! You must go!” argued Lord Brentford

You stepped forward.

“What if…I went instead of Jane?” you asked meekly.

Eyes turned to you, but you stood your ground. 

“It said all eligible, unmarried ladies. I shall go in Jane’s place, so she doesn’t have to,” you said, a sudden rush of boldness in you. Perhaps it was the incident with the man the other day. You always wanted to go to a ball. And to go to a royal one was an honor.

Their heads turned.

“It shall break sumptuary laws for a maid to dress in finery. They could fine you. Or worse.” sneered Lord Brentworth.

“But I am Lady Y/L/N, like my mother was before me,” you blurted.

The Lord Brentford got up and slapped you hard across the face. 

Your eyes brimmed with tears, feeling the sting of the impact. 

“You are our servant and you will remember your place! And will hold your tongue and stay where you are, impertinent, foolish girl!”

You held your cheek, keeping your eyes down. The Lord continued.

“To think. You. A king’s bride- a queen? Yes, women like you were offered to him as whores, but I doubt he’d even want your filth in his bed, much less as his wife. You’d be lucky to polish his boots.”

They sat down, glaring at you.

“Now, there is laundry to be finished. And we have a ball to prepare Jane for- you must do it.”

You turned away, so they wouldn’t see you. You reached the smaller room for laundry. Where you could finally crumple to the ground and sob. 

❛ ━━━━━━･❪ ❁ ❫ ･━━━━━━ ❜

Jane’s dress purchased for the ball was the most beautiful thing you had ever seen. 

It was a creamy white with pearl embellishments. Richly made, beautiful. It shimmered in the light and seemed to glow when it became dark. Everyone smiled big at it as it was brought up. But the envy and greed in your heart stirred, making you feel heavy and bitter. Sometimes, You forced your eyes away from it. 

Christmastide arrived. With it numerous feasts. Some drinking and exchanging of gifts. The Lord and Lady were in sour moods but only softened when discussing their ambitions for their reluctant daughter. 

Before you knew it, the new year arrived and the fifth of January. The day before the ball. 

Jane looked at the dress laid out on her bed. You had merely sat on a chair behind her, mending her stockings. Everything in you not to cry.

“It is beautiful, I will admit. But…I have met cats more pleasant to talk to than some of the lords that will be there,” she sighed. “I love gossip and a nice meal as much as anyone else, but…how horrid I am at dancing! I know I will step on all of my poor partner's toes tomorrow night!”

Finally overcome, you set the stockings down.

“Jane, how can you say such things? Don’t you realize how fortunate you are?! Just merely go and enjoy yourself and think of your blessings!” you blurted out. 

She turned to you. You were tearing up.

“I’m so sorry, I’ll be quiet now-” you apologized.

“Y/N, you know I’m not my parents. I won’t punish you for being honest. What is it? You’re crying, tell me!” she asked. She walked away from you and knelt as you sat.

She gave you a handkerchief and you began to wipe away your tears. Her eyes looked concerned. 

“You’ll laugh at me,” you mused.

“I will not. Tell me what troubles you,” she offered. 

You gripped the handkerchief in your hands, squeezing it for support as you began to confess.

“I wish I could be you. To go to a ball and to meet a king and dance. To feel equal to the other ladies who get to be introduced to him. Yes, becoming queen does sound like a nice dream. But, it’s not just that…I just…always wanted to try a pretty dress and not have to spend my nights working. If my parents lived, I would have experienced one. If the Lord and Lady weren’t who they are, I would have, but now……”

She hugged you in comfort.

“Oh, I’m a selfish being, I am! I am so sorry, poor Y/N! I’ll be more careful, I swear it!”

You hugged her back. Then she looked at the dress, then you. There was a look in her face- a light in her eyes. One that could only be when she had an idea.

“Jane…what are you thinking of?” you asked.

“What if…you were the one to go? Wear the dress and attend the party? ” she asked.

“What! What if- what if they catch us? We’ll get in trouble! There will be other balls!" you cried.

“There won’t be other royal balls. And I know how every servant hates my parent and they love you! Please, we can trust them!”

“But…will they watch?”

“My mother and father are rather fond of strong wine on Twelfth Night….”

You felt your heart race.

“You said you always wanted to. And you should go. We’ll switch clothes in case they wake up! They’ll be too drunk anyway. And you know it is a royal carriage they are lending us with a royal driver and footman- they won’t know you! Would you like that?” she continued.

You paused, your heart racing. 

“You are a lady- you must accept it. Here- we shall keep it between us. We shall ask only a few servants…you will go to accompany me and wait- then we shall switch clothes. I shall be the maid to attend on you and you the lady! That way, if Mother and Father arrive in my room, they’ll see me gone and won’t suspect a thing!”

She was getting more excited, pacing about and talking. But then she turned to you.

“But…that is only if you want. It’s just an idea," Jane offered.

Your heart beat hard. A chance. It made you scared. You could get in trouble…but you never wanted to so badly to do it. You would go. Or die trying. At least once, you would fight for something you wanted.

“Jane, I accept your plan. Let’s make it happen.”

❛ ━━━━━━･❪ ❁ ❫ ･━━━━━━ ❜

At last, it was Twelfth Night finally arrived. You and the other servants managed to get the Lord and Lady Brentford so drunk, they were laughing and red-faced. Jane was presented in her pretty dress and curtsied for their applause. Then they had to go to bed to sleep it off. It would be minutes until the carriage arrived.

Jane grabbed your hand. 

“Now, haste!” she hissed.

You raced to her room. She took off the dress, the servants all helping. She got into your plain dress and apron easily. You were given her fine necklace and her rings. Her little silvery slippers fit your feet perfectly. Then, at last, the dress was slipped over your head and sealed. It adjusts perfectly to your body. There was a soft gasp from one servant as they looked at you. Their eyes were made big and there were smiles.

“Is it…bad?” you asked.

“No…look,” Jabe offered, gesturing to the mirror in her room.

You hardly recognized the reflection. 

You were radiant- the way its color complimented you. It brought out your eyes and your skin seemed to glow almost. The gems sparkled as if they were stars adorned on your chest and fingers. 

“I…I look…” you muttered.

“I’ll say it- you look beautiful,” Jane said.

“Fie, Lady Y/L/N looks quite like a princess! They’ll think she’s sailed from France and my, won’t that be something!” agreed one servant. 

The carriage arrived. You both stepped forward. A footman in his finest gave came forth and helped you both into the carriage- the Lady and her maid. Then off it went. There was snow on the ground that shone in the darkness as it went forth. 

The stone castle arrived. You both were helped off. You could hardly believe it. It was at least three times the size of the Brentford Manor! Picking up your skirt, you went with Jane behind you.

There was already laughter and music. You could smell spices that made your mouth water.

You entered forth, seeing the torches lit around. There was a warm orange light. Part of the hall was cleared so couples could dance. Chatter erupted and wine flowed. You even felt eyes on you, admiring you in your dress. Though, you saw a line of women before one end of the room. The women to be introduced to the king.

“Lie to him, tell him you’re Lady Brentford!” advised Jane.

“I cannot lie to the king. Not without getting into trouble. I’ll only tell him my family name.” you said.

“S’blood, you are right there…best of luck!” she wished as she headed to help herself to the feast.

So all came forward to be introduced. Each lady. You all were smiling. You managed to chat with several by you. All excited and trying to suppress giggling. But it was brief, as there were many women. Apparently, according to them, you just told him your name, curtsied, and perhaps exchanged a sentence or two. Then you were dismissed for the next woman. Nothing more, nothing less.  The line went lower- you were happy to chat with them all. But all stilled as they got closer to the curtsy.

Then, before you knew it, it was down to the last three ladies before you. Then two. Then the last one turned and you faced the King of England, Scotland, Ireland, and Wales. 

There, on the throne, sat the man who fell from his horse.

The king?! The king!? The entire time it was the king! Oh God’s blood! He was the king! Harry of England! I have a cloak from none other than the king!  You panicked internally. Though your body tightened.

 Your skin tingled and a coldness hit your stomach when you saw him. Your hands were suddenly clammy. The wind was out of you.

Henry the Fifth of England sat rigid. You saw his jaw drop a little and his face go pale. He too was in surprise. 

Then he let out a small half laugh, a shaky smile growing on his face.

You gathered yourself together. Then, taking in a breath to ground yourself, you announced.

“I am Lady Y/F/N Y/L/N, your highness,” you introduced. Dipping into a curtsy.

He gestured his hand up to stop you from leaving. Your eyes fluttered down, folding your hands properly. Your heart hammered as he walked up, taking your chin and tilting it up. Your heart beat even harder. It was a miracle you were still standing.

He smiled, almost ironically. 

“How are you, Lady Y/L/N?” he asked. 

“Well, your grace.” you replied.

“Do you have a partner for the next dance?” he asked.

“No, your grace.”

“I believe I have sat long enough. I would like a dance with you, my lady, if you will have me, ” he offered. He extended his hand to you.

“You may, my lord,” you replied. Despite the slight trepidation, you accepted it.

He smiled at you, leading you down to the floor. You heard gasps, whispers, and saw many eyes staring. Some of the women from the line turning red as strawberries, fumes practically blaring out at them. You kept your eyes away from it all. Only at the floor, then up to him.

“I must warn you, I have no strength in dancing,” he warned you.

“Then perhaps this is only a practice dance, your grace,” you replied.

The couples went into lines. You curtsied and bowed. Took hands, walking back and forth. You realized Henry sometimes mixed up counts, but he was definitely not the worst. You smiled at him.

“How is your stallion, my lord?” you asked.

“He listens to me more. Would you like to know why?” he asked.

“Why?” 

He turned to you in the dance.

“He cannot resist being given food. And that I learned from a certain lady I met,” he answered.

You grinned up at him. The dance continued. You found your eyes could not lower from his. Yet you knew the steps, knew every one. You were almost floating. As he touched your hand and would lead you, it seemed he was getting better with each other count of the music. You could feel how soft his hands were, how warm. Sense his presence, his steps. Feel the tingles from his touch, from when he looked at you. For a while, it was as if you were the only ones dancing. 

Before you knew it, your dance with the king ended. He bowed and you curtsied. He then turned to line of women.

“I shall meet all of you, and shall spare a few dances, sweet, fair ladies,” he promised.

That seemed to appease them- you couldn’t blame them in the slightest.

Jane was already there to fetch you food and drinks now that she was satiated. To make sure all in your attire was well and good, ever the one to accompany a lady to make sure nothing less than chaste was occurring.

As the line shortened, you did notice Henry dancing with a few other ladies. Though there was a slight pang of jealousy, you did your best to ignore it for the other delights of the party- the rich decorations, the sumptuous food, the sweet sips of wine.  Besides, as you got to know plenty of people here, men and women, young and old, married or unmarried, you found them all kind and friendly to you. Your fellow eligible ladies befriended you as one among them, not as a rival to be torn apart. None even suspecting you were a servant- only a fellow and equal guest of this ball. Even seeing if you could come to this dinner or this ball in the future or visit. You were making friends outside of your small circle. Friends who wanted you to be with them. 

Though you found that since the king had danced with you, you got attention from several other men. And there were more dances you had with them. They were handsome and some were lovely dancers in all. Though one gentleman with scruffy red hair and boyish freckles seemed stiff as a board as you danced with him.

“What is it, my lord?” you asked.

“His grace, the king, is staring-” he whispered.

“He watches everything that goes on,” you dismissed as you took and retook hands in the dance.

“Not at me. He’s stared at you the entire night,” he grumbled.

As your eyes flashed, you saw it was true. Henry’s eyes were on you. Floating up to meet yours again. Recatching your breath, you made yourself focus again on the dance until it ended.

As soon it ended, the king approached you.

“May I have another dance, my lady?” he asked.

After you accepted, he did not hesitate to lead you on the floor. This time, not a single word passed. You felt his eyes, and noticed his touch more. You felt very warm all over all of a sudden.  His dancing was better, no counts or steps missed at all. You had to catch your breath from his quiet intensity. Before you knew it, it ended.

The king allowed the party to go on, but asked to speak to you in private. Jane was there to chaperone in the back. Her eyes big as you knew it was everything in her not to say or react to something. She merely folded her hands and watched in awe and suppressed laughter. 

“I know you…we met before, Lady Y/L/N” he said.

“We have, my lord.”

“And you truly did not have a cloak at all, my lady?” he asked, noticing your fine gown.

“If I may be honest…it was destroyed by someone in an act of cruelty,” you replied.

His brow furrowed a little in response.

“But I am grateful his majesty was generous to give me his, I am,” you assured him.

“You are…and you live with this cruel person?”

You let out a slight sigh.

“I only wish I could…I could be like you in your wars and fight as you do with France. I’m not a brave person, your grace.” you replied.

His blue eyes softened.

“I wish it hadn’t happened to you. You do not deserve it."

“She would disagree,” you mused.

“No! You are a good lady-you have been nothing but the sweetest maid I have met, even that morning!” he cried.

You felt yourself get a little dizzy at his words. He even blushed, then he looked at you.

“ Perhaps, like my dancing, you may practice being brave.”

“I…I believe I could, my lord,” you replied.

He offered his hand again. How lovely the garden looked with the snow, cooling you from all the exercise with dancing. Already it was late-the ball was winding down.

 “I enjoyed my time with you, my lady Y/L/N.”

“As have I, my lord…”

There was the pealing of a bell. The time was winding down. A servant went up and whispered to Jane. She hurried up.

“Our carriage is about to leave, my lady,” she said.

She turned back to the corner, watching the party guests begin to leave. But…Henry’s hand in yours…nothing ever felt so…so right. You hadn’t the heart to flee him. Not with the sad look on his face.

“The Y/L/N family…that is a house that is of good repute, but small. Where is your father, my lady? Is he here tonight?” he asked.

You only eyed back at the vanishing crowd. “He…he is not here,” you finally answered.

You felt emotions bubbling in you. He let go and you began to increase your steps from him. But then he grabbed your hand and you turned.

“My lord!” you cried. 

“Please, tell me one thing- where can I call on you? Invite you? Find you? See you again?” he asked, almost pleading.

The look in his eyes was almost heartbreaking. Though Jane was getting huffy and impatient, you went up to him, your voice a whisper.

“I live in the Brentford Manor, with the Lord and Lady there.” you replied.

His jaw hung a little loose. Then his hand let you go. They both hung in the air until they fell.

“I shall see you anon then, my lady.”

“I shall see you anon then, my lord.”

With that, you left, picking up your skirts to hurry to the carriage.

 As soon as  you got into the carriage with Jane and closed the door, she laughed  and applauded.

“Not one but two dances with the king?! Oh fie! How incredible! And you met him already?!”

The carriage jerked into motion as it headed back to the manor. Breathlessly, you explained everything to her.

“Am I in danger?” you asked.

“In danger of making him fall for you! But at least one day you’ll have the most incredible story to tell your children! How glad I am it all worked!” she laughed.

When you returned at the ungodly hour, you hurried to her room and switched clothes. Yet your head was still ringing and your heart beating fast, your mind and body still reeling until it could shut down for a little sleep. You wished you could write it all down- of your one night where you danced with the king.

❛ ━━━━━━･❪ ❁ ❫ ･━━━━━━ ❜

It was four days since Twelfth Night and the Tenth day of the new year.  You had to content yourself with your life as a servant. The Lord and Lady were of a milder temper. As far as they knew, Jane introduced herself and curtsied before the king and that was it.  

That morning, you were serving their breakfast. You cut the bread into slices and brought it up to the table to the family. They placed it down, the knife still on there with the other cutlery.

There was a knock. Heads turned. A servant ran over in.. Red cheeked and breathless, his voice a high cry.

“His Majesty, the king, is here!” he yelled.

There was half a scream and Lady Jane nearly dropped her plate out of her hands. There was a flutter like no other, making sure all was clean and presentable. 

“He’s here for you- I know it! He’s here for you!” cried the Lady Brentford. 

She began  pinching her daughters cheeks to make them redder and prettier in her eyes and fussing and whispering. One heard the marching of boots. Your own heart beat harder than it ever had and you shook as you tried with the other servants to dress the place up.

Finally, a servant announced his presence and all stood up. In, sure enough, walked King Henry in his beautiful red leathers and his crown. Your breath stopped as you noticed a little bouquet of flowers in his hands.

 All bowed and curtsied respectfully, then returned to await what he would say.

Henry took off his crown and handed it to a servant. Then he looked around the crowd. You didn’t know if you wanted to shrink or run or both.

“I am here for the Lady Y/L/N. Does she reside here?” he asked.

Their lips curled. They gasped.

“Her-her??” Lady Brentford cried.

The Lord Brentford turned her head to you, his nose flaring. His hands reaching forward, ready to grab you, drag you by the ear to be beaten, box an answer out of you.

“What have you done with the king, you little slut?!”

There was a shift in that second, some of Henry’s guards, even Henry himself was ready to intervene.

Acting quickly, quicker than you ever had, You reached for the table and got the knife, pointing it to Lord Brentford. 

“Do not lay a hand on me or you won’t have one!” you rebuked.

Henry stepped forward, his voice angry.

“Lord Brentford, Are you going to deny the King an answer to his question?” he asked.

Heads turned over to you. Jane was smiling seeing the knife still in your hand. Then the Lord Brentford relented and gestured to you.

“She lives here, your majesty.”

Setting the knife back down on the table, you were gestured to step forward and curtsy. He looked at you in your servant's clothes which made your stomach twist in shame. But you held your own ground, poised with folded hands and kept your eyes up at him.

“May I have a word with her in private, Lord Brentford?” he asked.

They all bowed and relented- his servants to accompany you.

He stepped forth and seemed to blush as he handed you the flowers.

“These are for you, my lady” he said.

“They’re beautiful, thank you,” you replied. You took the bouquet in your hands, feeling it’s sweet scent.

His hands free, you saw him clench and unclench his fists nervously.

“Fair lady-I do not know how to say this. I’m not good with words, or speaking with women…” he began.

That itself made you smile.

“Lady Y/L/N, I am a king…and I am a man too. And I speak to you as one now. Should you refuse, I shall never bother you again. But if you shall, would you allow a hardened soldier to speak of tenderness and affection? To spend time to know this lady and plead his cause to her heart? I offer my friendship at least. At most, as your suitor. Only if you shall have me, Harry of England, as yours. To pursue you, ask for you, care for you. To court you, not as king and subject, but as a man and a woman, only if you accept me. What say you, dearest, fairest lady?”

You brimmed with joy. You felt a free hand clutch your chest, wondering if this was even real. But you knew who was the one in fine leather and who was the one in simple cloth. 

“My lord, I must tell you something…”

He nodded, listening. You took in a breath and began.

“I am the Lady Y/L/N. My parents died and their fortune dwindled. Leaving me with nothing but the title and what dignity we had left. As you can see, the house of Brentford took me in. But other than the kindness shown by their daughter, the Lord and Lady…do not consider me family. They have made me a servant here and I have worked as one since I was very young. If you are willing to court a lady with nothing but an empty title and a heart full of affection for you, you may. If not, I shall let you go. I shall not begrudge or ask you to change your ways. I understand them. I have nothing to offer to you that you may benefit- no lands, no armies, no alliances, and most of all, no dowry.” 

“My lady, you yourself are a dowry,” Henry replied.

A gasp escaped you and you felt everything inside you become warm.

He offered your hand. And you placed yours in it.

“Then…I Accept you as my suitor, my lord.” you said.

He smiled even wider, putting his other hand over yours.

“We have a special dinner prepared in the palace. Would you dine with me?” he asked.

“I shall be glad to…I only ask one thing and one thing in turn in our courtship. This and nothing else…I only ask for shelter. For an escape from this place. To stay in a different home far from Lord and Lady Brentford. You saw what happened-this has been my life for many long years. I want to leave this place, to no longer be under their power. But give only the dearest blessing to their daughter, the lady Jane, and their servants, for without their help the years would have been unbearable…and we would not have crossed paths again. If you cannot grant me shelter from the Lord and Lady, then protection from them,” you requested.

He clutched your hands a little tighter, almost shaking them.

“I shall my lady, you need not be afraid of the Lord and Lady anymore. I will fulfill your wish…and you shall be safe. I shall do everything in my power…may I kiss your hand?”

“Yes.”

He took your hand and kissed it gently, and sweetly. His goatee tickling a little of your skin and his lips soft.

He asked his servants to gather your things, quickly. Much to the astonishment of the whole house. But none dare resist the orders of the king.

 “You shall stay as a guest of the palace until a family, a new one, may take you in. I promise, there are plenty who shall not treat you as they have,” he vowed.

He looked at you with a smile. You then went to your room and wrapped the warm red cloak over you. Then, right before the door, stood the family. You embraced each servant as they congratulated you. Then you went to you hugged Jane with a smile.

“Oh, I feel like I am abandoning you!” you sighed.

“Oh no! Do not fret! I can handle my parents, I will not let my them break me. I will fight them every step of the way. Just write to me often, promise.”

“This wouldn’t have happened without you, I am forever in your debt, Jane.” you replied.

“You already helped heal my leg back then. Then your friendship is the only credit I shall ask for.” she replied.

You hugged again as a goodbye.

You then turned to the Lord and Lady Brentford. They did not speak, but you did.

“I shall never forget your cruelty. Your harshness. I held my tongue to survive-but now I can speak. I do not love either of you. I dislike you both more than any person in the world. If anyone asks me of you, I shall tell them everything you said and did to me, for it is the truth. Of the names you called me, the things of mine you destroyed, and of the times you beat me and broke me. And do not think, should the day ever come that God makes me queen, that you shall receive any help from me. I shall never step foot in this place again or call on you.From this day on, I do not know who either of you are. You are both cruel, heartless, selfish miscreants. May you answer to God and only He may show you any mercy He deigns you both to deserve. You shall have none from me.” 

King Henry offered you his arm and you took it. How warm it felt-you could feel his muscles beneath his leathers, but how smooth it was and how pleasant he even smelled!

“Now…are you ready my lady?” he asked.

You only looked back at the place, and the people standing there. Then back at the handsome, kind face of your regal suitor.

“I am, my most gracious Lord.”

He walked you to outside the door where the carriage awaited. The snow falling gently, blanketing the world in soft, white blankets.

“When we are alone…would you call me Harry? Henry perhaps, too,” he replied.

“Yes, Henry,” you replied.

He blushed a little to hear his name. He were helped into the carriage next to him.

Henry smiled at you kindly as he sat next to you.

“Thank you. For everything” you wished him.

 “Of course, Y/F/N.”

You could have melted how he said your first name. He then held up your hand again and gave it another peck from his lips.

“My, you like to hold and kiss my hand, Henry!” you teased.

“If only it wasn’t so easy to hold and dear to kiss!” he replied with a smile.

 Your eyes forward, not daring to look back. Only forward as the carriage moved away. One part of your life ending and another beginning. To live a new life from now on.

A life where you were finally loved.

[conundrumoftime]

One of the smartest things I’ve ever heard about Babylon 5 and Londo’s arc is that Morden chooses Londo to work with because what Londo wants is inherently unachievable. He wants the Centauri Empire reformed and he wants it “all back the way it was.” But the nature of empire is that it was never the way its nostalgia merchants think it was; it was always a little shabbier, a little weaker, a little worse.

The glorious empire Londo pictures never existed and can never exist, and so he will always want more and more and more, always believing that his goal is just one more deal with the devil away.

[simtleman]

Well, here I come with the second apartment for this 1920's building! I have to say this Vintage Save File of mine is coming along quiet great in my opinion, I'm happy with how it's turning out tbh. It's taking way longer than what I would've anticipated, but hey lol

This one is slightly smaller, even shabbier and in worse condition than the previous one. I mean, none of the apartments in this building are that great to begin with, they have clearly seen better times... but you can tell this one's way messier!

I imagined it perhaps belongs to a young fella, an aspiring writer who's too keen on "making it" to waste his time entertaining... much less receiving the visit of any lady friends. Hence the chaos.

What do you think? Who should be the next tenant?

[witchthewriter]

𝐄𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐨𝐫 𝐂𝐨𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐲𝐧𝐞 𝟺𝑡𝘩 𝑜𝑓 𝑀𝑎𝑒𝑔𝑜𝑟'𝑠 𝑤𝑖𝑣𝑒𝑠

ISFJ

Ravenclaw

Lawful Good

Cancer Sun, Virgo Moon, Leo Rising

"But his third wife couldn't give him a child either. Desperate to cement his stolen throne with an heir, Maegor took three wives at once, known as the Black Brides because each were women he'd widowed in his wars. All three women grew full with child in time, but each gave birth to the same twisted monstrosities as his second wife. One need not be a maester, much less a Grand Maester, to deduce the common thread here."―Varys

A noblewoman from House Costayne, Elinor was one of the three 'Black Brides,' along with Lady Jeyne Westerling and Princess Rhaena Targaryen.

Elinor had three children with her first husband, Ser Theo Bolling. He was arrested by Maegor's Kingsguard and executed as he was accused of conspiring with Queen Alyssa to put Jaehaerys on the throne.

After seven days of mourning, Elinor was summoned to wed Maegor. The king forced Elinor's sons' at the wedding so she would play her part in the ceremony. According to one tale, Elinor scratched Maegor's back to bloody ribbons as they coupled.

Elinor's sons were sent away after she wed Maegor. Her eldest was fostered at the Eyrie, her second son to Highgarden, and her youngest was given to a wet nurse.

When Tyanna admitted to poisoning Alys Harroway during her pregnancy, Tyanna promised the same would happen to Elinor.

Tyanna had been telling the truth. Elinor had given birth to an eyeless stillborn with small wings.

Elinor was one of only two wives who survived the king. The other was Rhaena Targaryen.

After the death of Maegor, Lord Daemon Velaryon proposed that King Jaehaerys marry Queen Elinor to reconcile with Maegor's supporters, but nothing came of that proposal.

After Jaehaery's ascent, Elinor left King's Landing dressed in the robes of a penitent. She visited her two elder sons at the Eyrie and Highgarden before retiring to her father's seat at the Three Towers with her youngest son.

Later, King Jaehaerys commanded Elinor to go forth and spread his Doctrine of Exceptionalism to the peoples of the Seven Kingdoms, as well as the goodness of Jaehaerys and Alysanne, becoming one of the Seven Speakers.

Her queenly clothes became shabbier and more threadbare each day, and she eventually gave up all claims to nobility, becoming Mother Elinor at the great motherhouse in Lannisport

[t8oo]

I have come to tell you one thing : you need to watch Columbo S02 EP6 : A Stitch In Crime. Not only is Nimoy the charming cold blooded killer but the writing is STELLAR and keeps you on the edge of your seat until the VERY END. AND ☝️ Columbo has never been more babygirl in yhe whole show. like hes unshaven hes got a headache hes sick he sneezes he talks abt his wife he asks for coffee he has NEVER looked shabbier. and this is the shabby detective lover zone

[tropes-and-tales]

Nothing is Certain

CW:  Heavy angst (character death); unrequited love; idiots in love; drunken confessions

Word Count:  3664

Other Pieces:  The final installment.  The first part is here, the second part is here.

A year passes.  Marcus doesn’t see you, doesn’t hear from you, and he tries to be okay with that.  He tries to accept that he was never a real friend to you and that you’ve made your choice to move forward in your life without him.

He tries to be okay with it.  He often fails, and he is tempted all the time to reach out, to find where you live, to accidentally run into you.  He knows that’s stalking territory, creepy behavior territory, so he doesn’t.  When the FBI needs an art expert and when they reach out to you, he always passes the communication off to another agent.  He refuses to cross that boundary.

He goes to therapy.  He gets a rescue dog he names Rothko.  He dates casually, but he finds the desperate drive to not be alone has died down a little.  He can be alone and be okay.  He doesn’t need to fall into one bad relationship after another.

He hopes you’re not alone.  He hopes you’ve found someone who recognized your worth the minute they saw you, and he hopes they cherish you every single day.

He considers that growth:  to pray fervently every night for your happiness instead of his own.  For the first time in his life, he’s considering someone other than himself.

-----

A year passes, and Marcus calls home every Sunday night to talk to his parents, but mostly his mother.

When his mother calls in the middle of the day on a random Tuesday, he knows it can’t be good news.  He answers, hears his mother say your name.

“Her dad died,” she says, and Marcus can hear the tears in her voice over the line.  “Just this morning.”

He sits down at his desk, hard.  He listens to the rest of it—how it was sudden, unexpected, a likely heart attack.  How there’s no arrangements yet, obviously, but how you’re already on your way home to Texas to be with your family.

“Mom, what should I do?” he asks, bereft.  He has no idea what to do.  Should he go home to Texas too?  Or should he leave you alone as he has been?

“Oh, honey,” she says.  “You know her best, but I can tell you:  moments like these make all the petty stuff fall away.”

Breaking your heart and mistreating your love for him hardly seems petty, but Marcus books the ticket home the moment he hangs up with his mother.  

-----

He knows he’s made the right decision the minute he finally sees you.

He goes with his mom over to your childhood home, his mom bearing a tray of tamales and him carrying a small flower arrangement.  Despite being friends as kids, Marcus rarely ever went to your house—you always went to his.  Your family was a step lower on the socio-economic ladder, and you had seemed embarrassed as a kid by how much smaller your home was, how much shabbier.  How your mom worked while his was able to stay home and keep their house clean and make homemade meals each night.

Your older sister answers the door, hugs his mom.  Takes the tray and the flowers with a murmured thanks, then calls your name.

He knows he’s made the right decision to come to Texas to be with you:  the moment you catch sight of him, you run straight to him.  Straight to his arms.

And for the first time in his life, he’s there to catch you.

-----

Marcus doesn’t have much experience with funerals.  Two of his grandparents are still alive; the other two died before he was born.  His parents are still alive.  He’s never lost a coworker in the field.

The closest he has is the death of his childhood dog, and that hardly qualifies.

When he sees you that moment at your house, he only holds you.  He murmurs against you that it’s okay, but then he stops because of course it’s not okay.

He says he’s there, that he’s got you, that whatever you need he’s there for you, and that seems better.

He leads you through the house and takes you outside into the backyard, and he urges you to sit on the steps of the back porch beside him.  He puts a tentative arm around your shoulders and you sag against him, grateful.

“No one saw this coming,” you tell him, your voice hoarse with tears.  “He just had a checkup.  Clean bill of health.”  You pause.  “They think it was a heart attack.”

“I’m so sorry.”

You start to cry again, quiet, as though you are exhausted.  You must be, Marcus figures.  Your world’s been upended, you probably threw together hasty travel plans, and now you’re in your childhood home, surrounded by your siblings and their young, noisy children.  Now you have to say goodbye and bury your father.

He sits with you like that for a long while.  He keeps his arm around you, takes your hand in his.  He keeps you tucked against him, safe, and he lets you cry until you can’t anymore.

-----

If Marcus has learned anything in therapy, it’s this:  he’s not always the main character of a moment.  Sometimes he has to step back, content himself with the role of a supporting character.

Which is what he does now.

Old Marcus would have forced himself into your family’s inner circle, pushed his well-intentioned kindness onto you and everyone else.  Which is why it was a tough thing to learn in therapy—because his intentions are always so well-meaning.  

New and Improved Marcus thinks of himself as being on standby.  Of waiting in the wings for his cue.

At the wake, for example:  he stays off to the side with his parents, but he keeps an eye on you.  When you seem to reach a point of…something, he pulls you out of the receiving line, takes you to the private room for family, and presses a glass of water onto you.

“You doing okay?” he asks, and you nod.  You drink your water and hand him the empty cup, then fix him with a grateful look.

“Thank you, Marcus.”

At the luncheon, for example:  he doesn’t get in the middle of it when you and your sister start to bicker.  There’s old resentments there; she stayed in your hometown while you went away for college.  There’s accusations of snobbery, of thinking you’re better than your family from her.  From you, there’s accusations of martyrdom, of thinking your sister is the heir to the family matriarchy.

Old Marcus would have stepped in.  New Marcus only goes to you when you and your sister part, exasperated with each other.  He only waits for you to make the first move, and when you turn to him with a look of despair on your face, he hugs you, tells you that everyone is just spread thin and grieving, emotions roiling near the surface.

And at the graveside service:  Marcus notices that your family is paired off.  Your mother sits with your older brother, your sister is with her husband.  Your other sister is paired off with her fiancée.  Only you sit alone, your hands clasped in your lap, your head bowed.

Marcus doesn’t sit beside you.  He hasn’t earned that right, but his heart breaks to see you alone, sealed off from any comfort.  

He sits behind you, his chair right behind yours.  He leans forward, puts his hand on your shoulder, and you startle, turn and see him.

“I’m here,” he says, his voice low, and you nod.  

Then you unclasp your hands and reach one out to him.  You reach back and he reaches forward, and he holds your hand tight while your father is laid to rest.

-----

Afterwards, the two of you go for a walk.  You’re restless—relieved for the ceremony of burying someone to be over, but exhausted from the grieving…and dreading the grief to come.

“What can I do to help?” Marcus asks, and you shake your head.

“Just being here…it means more than you know.”

“It was the least I could do.”

You start to say something, then shake your head.  You walk another few blocks in silence before you finally offer, “I’m sorry about how I left it with you.  At the coffee shop.  After the Jerzy painting.”

“Hey, no, don’t even—”

“I was mean about it,” you interrupt.  “You were trying to tell me about Theresa—”

“And you didn’t need to hear it,” he cuts in.  “You weren’t mean at all.  You were standing up for yourself.”

“No, I—”

“Stop.”  Marcus stills, and when you do too, he puts his hands on your shoulders and turns you to face him.  “You gave me the kick in the ass that I needed.  I stopped feeling sorry for myself.  I started therapy.”  He pauses, then adds, “I finally realized how badly I’ve treated you.”

“Marcus—”

“No.”  He shakes his head, squeezes your upper arms.  “You did a good thing that day.”

You look skeptical.  “It doesn’t feel like it was good.”

He smooths his hands down your arms, then takes your hands in his.  It makes his stomach flip:  all the times he touched you in the past—the hugs and incidental touches—and it was never like this.

“I needed to hear it.  I took you for granted for so long.  You are…were my best friend, and I treated you terribly.”  He pauses, sighs.  “I’m sorry for never being there for you.  For all the things you’ve done, amazing things, and I wasn’t there to celebrate you.”

You squeeze his hands and offer him a soft smile.  “You’re here now.  That counts for something.”

-----

Your father’s death and its aftermath…it’s the beginning of your reconciliation.  

You return to your friendship, each of you different than you were before.  You’re sadder, still grieving—but more willing to speak up, to not blindly follow him.  He’s more self-aware, more deferential to your needs.

Back in D.C., you rekindle your friendship.  You text each other; you get lunch together.  You ease into it, but before long, the two of you are going to galleries together.  Going for walks with his dog.  Exploring the touristy stuff in D.C. that you both had missed before.

It’s the most miserable Marcus has ever been.

You loved him as a teenager and carried that love well into adulthood.  It had been a precious gift he squandered as he chose women like Chloe, like Theresa.  You had loved him, then mourned him, then moved onto a true friendship with him.

It’s a tragedy, then, to Marcus—how he falls in love with you far too late.  How he only falls for you long after that bright light you carried for him has been extinguished and replaced by a chaste camaraderie.

And worse than being miserable, he’s trapped—because now that you’re friends again, he can’t go anywhere.  He can’t ghost you, he can’t fade away.  Every lunch, every text is the same:  the same fluttery feeling in his stomach, his chest…then the sinking feeling, the sick-to-his-stomach feeling.

Now he finally knows what you had gone through, all those years before.  Karma can be cruel in her neat simplicity, Marcus finds.

-----

Six months pass.  A year.  You return to Texas for the one year anniversary of your father’s death, and Marcus stays in D.C.  He stops by your townhouse every day to feed your cat, bring in your mail.

Alone in your space, he allows himself to wallow a bit.  Your home is so perfectly you:  warm and cozy, neat.  You have, unsurprisingly, an excellent eye for color, for lines, for the art you hang on your wall.

Marcus goes from room to room, checks the place out.  The bedroom smells like you, the light coconut scent of the lotion you wear.  The giant, ragged sweatshirt you wear around the house hangs over a chair, and he scoops it up, takes in the cozy scent of you.

It’s easy to pretend that this is his home too, that you’re only at work and will walk through the door at any moment.  That you’ll make dinner together, eat together, swap stories about work.  That maybe you’ll crash on the couch, put the T.V. on and he will rub your feet or you’ll pull his head into your lap, finger-comb through his curls.

He doesn’t even allow the fantasy to extend to the bedroom.  He never lets it get that far.  It’s difficult enough to even imagine the mundane, day-to-day intimacies.  To imagine loving you like that, taking you to bed and being joined to you…then surfacing to his sad reality…it’d be too much.  It’d break his heart entirely.

-----

Marcus knows you go on dates.  You mention them obliquely sometimes; you pass on plans with him because you have “a thing” or are “meeting up” with someone.  You never say the word “date,” and he wonders if you can guess his feelings for you and are trying to spare him the pain of knowing you’re going out with other men.

He goes a single date.  It’s a friend of a coworker, and she’s lovely and funny…but the date goes miserably.  Marcus can’t summon up his usual charm.  He can’t stop thinking of you, in your townhouse with your cat, curled up on your couch.  Probably reading, in your pajamas and your ragged, oversized sweatshirt, bare feet tucked underneath you—

Marcus is as miserable as he’s ever been.

-----

He’s trapped.  He has no idea what to do other than suffer as he has been.

It’s a sweetly torturous suffering, because he has you back in his life.  His oldest, dearest, best friend.  The girl who sat beside him in art class, who grew up to be a woman who makes him laugh, who bolsters his flagging spirits.  Who gives him a soft place to rest when he’s tired or heart-sore.  Who cooks her signature buffalo chicken mac and cheese when he needs a comfort meal.  Who sketches ridiculous little caricatures of him and tucks them into his coat pockets, the glove compartment of his car to find days or weeks later.

-----

He resigns himself to a lifetime of this:  of being your friend, of never having you completely.

Isn’t friendship better than nothing?  Isn’t a half-life better than none?  Aren’t washed-out watercolors better than no color at all?

He settles into the sweet pain of this life, and he succeeds for months.  The pain becomes familiar and loses its sting.  He learns to live with it.

But ultimately, he fails.  Of course he does.  The heart wants what it wants, and Marcus wants nothing so much as he wants you.

-----

It happens that you both spend the holidays in D.C.  It is unplanned, but his unit is shorthanded and he can’t spare the time to go home to Texas.  You have a project you’re working on and can’t leave either and besides—the coolness between your sister and you remains, and you don’t feel especially welcome in her home for the holidays.

“We should do our own thing,” you suggest, and of course he agrees.  There’s no plausible reason why you shouldn’t—hell, even his dog and your cat get along, curling up together after chasing each other when he brings Rothko over.

You plan a sleepover on Christmas Eve.  Marcus packs an overnight bag, brings Rothko.  It’s so similar to those nights when he was getting over his divorce and you were working through your thesis.  He slept over a lot back then, slept on your couch and woke up to you making him breakfast.

For Christmas Eve, the two of you keep it simple, homey.  You make a big pot of spaghetti, split a bottle of red wine for dinner.  After dinner, Marcus does the dishes and you mix a pitcher of tequila sunrises.  Then the two of you retire to the living room to watch old movies together by the light of your Christmas tree.

Marcus can blame any number of things.  There’s the atmosphere—dark except for the colorful lights of your tree and the light of the television.  The room is warm, and he’s in comfortable clothes.  You’re in your pajamas (and old sweatshirt), curled up on the opposite end of the couch from him.

There’s the movies themselves.  You both love old movies, the old black and white screwball comedies and romances and thrillers.  Hitchcock mysteries.  Cary Grant, Katherine Hepburn, Bette Davis, Jimmy Stewart.

There’s also your pitcher of drinks.  You always pour with a heavy hand, and when added to the wine from dinner, Marcus finds himself well on his way to being drunk without even meaning to.

But the evening is a perfect representation of his deal with you now:  close, but so far.  You’re within arm’s reach, and yet you may as well be miles away.

He gets through most of “Sabrina.”  He watches Audrey Hepburn fall for William Holden, then Humphrey Bogart, watches Bogart fall for Hepburn and think himself too old, unworthy.  Getting more and more drunk, Marcus makes it all the way to near the end, when Bogart tells Hepburn to suppose he was younger, suppose he was his brother, suppose he had the courage to ask her to join him in Paris—

He doesn’t even realize he’s crying until you look over at him in alarm.

“Marcus, what—”  You untuck your legs from under you and shift to kneel by him, your hand on his shoulder.  “What’s wrong?”

He can’t look at you.  He’s ashamed and depressed, and a year’s worth of misery and desire come spilling out in equal measure.

“I can’t do this anymore,” he says, and he tries to keep his voice level but he knows he sounds hysterical, a man standing at the edge.  He knows he sounds drunk too, slurring his words just enough to be noticeable.

“Can’t do what?”

“This.  Us.  I l-love you, and I fucked it all up, and I thought…thought I could just go back to being friends again, but I f-fucked it up so bad and if I hadn’t been so fucking s-stupid, we’d already be m-married.  I would have married you, not Chloe, not wasted time with Theresa, and now I’m miserable all the fucking time—”

“Jesus,” you breathe out, but you put your hands on his face, cup his cheeks and steer his face to look at you.

“Marcus, you’ve been miserable?” you ask, and your voice sounds so sorrowful, your eyes look so sad that his own eyes fill with tears again.

“You’re my dearest friend,” he tells you.  He hooks his hands on your wrists, and he can just feel your pulse under his thumb, fast and solid.  “You…you mean more to me than anyone.  I’m just…I’m just sad.  That I messed it up and can’t f-fix it.”

“Oh.”  You gaze at him; you brush your thumbs softly against his cheekbones.  “Marcus, I never went anywhere.”

“Huh?”

“I’m right here.”  You sigh, then shift one hand to stroke through his hair, finger combing through his curls just as he imagined.  “You’re pretty drunk, aren’t you?”

He grumbles, “you use too much tequila.”

He’s too drunk to understand the look on your face.  He’s too deep in his feelings, too far gone in his fear of losing you.  You sigh again, then take your hands from him.

“How about I get you a glass of water, and then we can start a new movie, okay?  And maybe we can pick up this conversation once you’re feeling more like yourself.”

-----

You switch off “Sabrina” and put on “Blazing Saddles,” and as Marcus rapidly sobers up, he works out how he’s going to escape this horrifying, mortifying evening.

He’s FBI.  He could, say, throw himself out of your living room window to escape.  Do a neat roll on your front lawn, then spring to his feet, take off running for shelter.  He’d have to leave Rothko behind but after his humiliating admission, it’s every man and dog for themselves.  

The reality is more mundane.  He sits forward on the couch, his hands on his knees, and he mutters that he should get going.

“You aren’t staying?”  You sound surprised, and a little hurt too.

He can’t even look you in the eye.  He stares forward, off to the side, at your tree.  “I don’t think I can stay.”

“If you…if you only said those things because you were drunk, we can just forget it, okay?  Nothing has to change.”  Your voice wobbles on the last word, and he glances back at you to see your eyes wide, shiny with tears.

Well, shit.  Now he’s made you cry.  Again.  Who knows how many times you’ve cried over him in the course of your life, and here he is again…making you cry on Christmas Eve.

“I meant those things,” he say solemnly.  “Of course I meant them.”

“And you think I don’t feel the same way?”

He raises his hand, drops it in a gesture of helplessness.  “Why would you?”

“Oh, Marcus.”  You reach out, take his hand in yours.  “Do you really think I just stopped loving you after that day in the coffee shop?  Really?”

He snorts, shakes his head.  Bitter.  “I would have.”  

“Well, I’m not you, then.”  A long pause, and he chances to look at you—you’re gazing back at him with the same big doe eyes, shiny with tears.

“I never stopped, Marcus Pike.  I don’t think I could if I wanted to.  Even when I hated you, even when I very much disliked you, I still loved you.  Still love you.”

What other choice does he have?  He leans forward and kisses you:  the girl who sat beside him in art class who became his dearest, oldest friend who became the love of his life.

[kaigarax]

Exactly As You Saw

Sero Hanta x Reader

Quote: "Fall in love with someone gentle." & "Fall in love with someone you can love."

Someone You Loved Featuring: The Hero

Sero Hanta wasn’t quite sure how he got here.

Well, that wasn’t entirely correct.

He remembers receiving your text. Asking him if he was free and if he was in town; and Sero, of course, could never turn you down. All you ever had to do was call his name and he’d come running.

But how he ended up at the wedding of perhaps one of the wealthiest men on earth Sero wasn’t too sure. Well, it was like he always said - best to live life as it comes to you instead of questioning why things aren’t the way you want.

Sero had thrown on whatever suit he’d found, though if he’d known just exactly who’s wedding he’d attend he likely would have dressed better. Or at least attempted to get his suit cleaned a week prior. But too little too late. Sure he may have looked a little on the shabbier side but he had what many other people didn’t.

He had you.

You chose a pretty outfit. Something light both in colour and style - likely both in an attempt to keep cool and blend into the background as you take photos. You said something, practically gushing, about how you thought the bride was just the most absolutely beautiful girl here earlier but Sero disagreed. Personally, he thought it had to have been you.

On another personal matter, Sero also thought that it was a little weird that he’d been invited to a wedding as plus one where you were working but he supposed you could always count on rich people to be abnormal.

You spent most of the wedding reception taking photos but Sero was sure you would eventually find your way back to the small table Sero and you shared in the back of the room. Unlike the other tables there were no nametags but there still were several chairs if people wanted to join them. So far, Sero had spent most of the night alone.

At least the music was good.

And the staff were nice.

Eventually, a short dirty blonde haired male ended up taking a seat next to Sero. They talked briefly before Sero finally realised that the man standing in front of him was The Chef. He looked different from the photos but Sero supposed that was normal. Without the lens of a camera most people looked different. Overall Sero thought he seemed like a good person. Soft spoken, thoughtful and polite. Not much more one could really ask for when speaking to strangers.

Finally, when you made your way back to your small corner of the room, a tall purple haired man trailing you like a puppy with a pout on his face. He acted as though you were the one dragging him alone despite the fact that he was the one clinging onto your sleeve. It was almost cute. Sero would’ve laughed if hadn’t recognized the man as the Pilot. Your most recent must and apparently admirer.

People like you always had admirers.

Sero would know.

“Ah, unrequited love,” you smiled wistfully, as you took a seat down at the table.

Sero’s heart did a little flutter. The same kind of flutter it always did when he was with you. The same kind of flutter he hated the most. Not because it was a bad thing, no something like this could never be bad, but because it was exactly as you said. Unrequited.

He wonders if you can hear his heart beating through his chest.

If your eyes are resting on him as the tips of his ears are tinted red.

The Pilot takes a seat beside you, frowning slightly, “who?”

You pointed over to the far side of the room where a group of young folk sat. All three men follow your gaze. Sero’s pretty sure they’re mostly teenagers; not just from the youthful look on their faces but the playful expressions as they throw teases and insults at one another. It’s enough to make his own heart ache for his days of youth.

Specifically, Sero notes, you point out a pink haired boy

“Who’s he in love with?” The Chef asks.

You smile playfully, “guess.”

Sero’s the first to ask, his voice coming out both smooth and curious, “the brown haired girl?”

Your eyes flash from Sero’s face to the group on the other side of the room before shaking your head. Sero finds he’s more disappointed than he thought he’d be. At first he thinks it might be because he got something wrong but that can’t be right. He used to answer questions wrong at school all the time.

Then maybe it has something to do with the fact of his pride. He has always considered himself a people person. Someone that notices the little things. He supposes that’s not so much the case now.

“The blonde girl?” The Chef suggested.

The Chef, like Sero, is met with a disappointing shake of the head.

“The girl,” the Pilot pauses for a brief moment, “with the golden eyes?”

Your own eyes seem to light up, “what makes you say that?”

The Pilot shrugs, “a gut feeling, I guess.”

You shake your head like a parent scolding a child, “I expected better of you, Mr. Airplane.”

Sero notes how you smile fondly when you say it. As if it’s an inside joke between the two of you. Makes him feel worlds away despite sitting beside you. He supposes you always did have a knack for being so… far away. If not the distance of a country away then at least a breadth. Forever so close yet so far.

The Chef clears his throat, “Mr. Airplane?”

The Pilot, unamused, rolls his eyes in response, “just a silly nickname.”

“It suits you~” Sero teases, “being the Pilot and all.”

“Ah yes,” you smile as if hearing it for the first time despite coming up with the nickname yourself, “the Pilot.”

“You’re such a brat, (Y/n).” The Pilot mumbles, hiding his face in his hands.

“At least I don’t rely on gut feelings to know when someone’s in love.” You tease back.

The Chef, sitting every so politely, swallows quietly, seeming to take your words deeply into consideration, “how do you know when someone’s in love, (Y/n)?”

“Well,” you begin, “I would recommend years of observation - as experience is the most sure way of figuring this kind of thing out - but I’ll give you guys the sparknotes.” Your calm expression turns into something more befitting to amusement, “to know if someone’s in love you just have to follow their gaze.”

“Why?” Sero asks.

“Because the gaze never lies.” You finished.

The gaze never lies?

Sero supposes he’s never thought about that much before - but it makes sense. People, when they’re in love (at least from Sero’s experience) like being around the person they love. Care about the opinions, wants and needs of that person they happen to be in love with so it only makes sense that that’s where their gaze would fall.

Sero’s eyes make their way over to you.

You’re fiddling around with the glass of water that had been set out for you earlier in the day looking almost like a petulant child. Sero has half a mind to poke your side playfully but refrains as you suddenly perk up, “do any of you plan on getting married?”

The Pilot is the first one to speak up, muttering a simple, “eventually.”

“Eventually?” You ask.

“Well, obviously whoever I get married to is going to have to be okay with being in the public light. Constantly being harassed by the paparazzi whether they’re famous or not just because they’re associated with me. I don’t plan on getting married until I’m ready to settle down in my acting career.” The Pilot declared.

Your eyes sparkle in amusement, “very mature of you.”

“Besides,” the Pilot continues, “actors and models are more popular when they’re single anyways.”

You laugh playfully, “and he drops the ball.”

Sero would’ve laughed alongside you if he either weren’t so polite or better acquainted with the Pilot. The Pilot’s expression is a funny one with his lips pursed and his eyes narrowed in on you. What really finishes the look though is the softness behind his glare. It’s a kind of look that you don’t often see in other individuals. Well, at least it’s the kind of look that Sero doesn't see very often.

“What about you, Viking Boy?” You ask, “you are the oldest of us four. You plan on getting hitched anytime soon?”

The Chef scratches the back of his neck sheepishly as his eyes linger on you, “I guess I never thought much about it.”

Sero wonders if that’s a lie though he isn’t quite too sure why. Perhaps it has something to do with that brief pause before answering? Or maybe it’s a gut feeling in his chest? Who knows? All that Sero can really think about at the moment is how pretty you look right now as you smile at the Chef. It’s a pretty kinda smile that Sero hasn’t seen on your face before. It sends his own heart throb pathetically.

“Any girl would be lucky to have you,” you smirk, “or guy, if that’s what you’re into.”

The chef blushes, “well I-”

Sero abruptly cuts the Chef off with a gentle pat on the back, “come on, Sweets, don’t tease him.”

Your playful gaze falls to him next, “and what about you, Cellophane?”

Cellophane. It’s been ages since you’ve last called him that. Ages since anyone’s called him that. His nickname back when he thought he was too cool for school. Well he was already out of school at that point but the statement still stands.

He swallows, attempting to play coy, despite already knowing the meaning behind your words, “what about me?”

“Any special someone in your life?”

“Na,” Sero smiles, “it’s a bachelor’s life for me.” The smile doesn't reach his eyes and Sero finds himself wondering if anyone notices. Finds himself wondering if you notice.

No.

You definitely notice if that sappy look you have on your face means anything. Which it usually does. It’s that look where your eyes narrow in on something and the corners of your lips tilt downwards. It’s something so subtle that most people wouldn’t notice it. Something so simple that most people disregard it.

“Well no shame,” you clear your throat, “not everyone in this world gets married.”

“What about you, Sweets?” Sero asks.

“Marriage,” you say the word as if tentatively tasting it for the first time, “what do you think?”

Yes, Sero thinks, you most definitely will get married. You’re too bright, too brilliant, too sweet to not get married. In fact, he’s surprised you haven’t already been swept off your feet by now but he supposes you have always prioritized your career over love. He feels as though he’s done the same. Sero thinks you’d probably be good at being married. That you’d be the kind of person to indulge in your spouse’s wants and needs. Bets you’d be such a pretty bride; sees you taking photos of you wedding guests rather than stopping to take photos of yourself. The idea would’ve been funny if it wasn’t so you.

Sero follows your gaze back to the group sequestered at the other side of the room. They’re laughing about one thing or another. Sero finds himself wondering if you’re thinking about asking one of them to be your next muse. Sero can’t really find anything in common between the different muses - he supposes that none of them are from the same industry? Oh, but didn’t you take photos of two different athletes?

He doesn't ponder on it for too long as the pink haired boy catches his attention.

There’s a soft look in the eyes of the pink haired boy. That despite him being the one telling a story to the rest of the group (evident through the way he moves his hands dramatically) he keeps his gaze pointed directly on the girl with the golden eyes.

The golden eyed girl sits politely and smiles softly, leaning back in her chair. She kind of reminds Sero of a girl he knew back when he was young.

Out of everyone else at the table the only other person that manages to catch Sero’s attention is an orange haired boy. He reminds Sero of himself with an aloof and playful personality. Has that playful look in his eyes.

“What makes you think he has an unrequited love, (Y/n)?” The Pilot asks.

“Don’t think, Mr. Airplane.” You say, “I know.”

Sero raises a brow, “oh, do you now?”

“Of course. I know people’s hearts.” You smile in a way that makes people’s hearts flutter, “why else would my works be so popular?”

Sero has to look away from you in an attempt to calm the erratic fluttering of his heart. To think, after all these years, you still manage to get his heart to act in such a dramatic way.

“Because you’re good at taking photos?” Suggest the Chef.

Anyone else would have said the suggestion teasingly - because of course it was the obvious answer. The candidness in the Chef’s voice though would suggest otherwise which is probably what prompts Sero to laugh, patting the Chef on the back, “I like you! You’re so straightforward! Not like this little missy here!”

The Chef blushes, “thanks I guess.”

“Hey!” You exclaimed.

Sero notes that the Pilot smiles softly at your reaction but his voice is teasing, “people like your photos because you pick such good looking muses.”

You take the tease in stride, smiling fondly with your eyes closed, “very true! The muses I pick have excellent hearts.”

Sero ignores the loud beating of his heart as he pulls your attention back to himself, “hey, you never answered the question, Sweets.”

“I haven’t, have I?”

“This is what you mean, ain’t it?” The Pilot says, nudging Sero playfully, “she hates answering questions directly.”

“Hey, you’re ganging up on me!”

Sero chuckles, “that’s because you make it too easy.”

“It’s okay, (Y/n),” the Chef says softly, “you don’t have to tell us anything you don’t want to,” effectively directing the playful teasing towards himself.

Sero sighs playfully and dramatically, “you’re too easy on her.”

“A total simp.” The Pilot adds.

You roll your eyes in an attempt of feigning annoyance but Sero’s notices the hint of a smile, “the two of you could learn a thing or two from him.”

Sero laughs, patting your head, “doubt it, Sweets.”

You grab his hand, bringing it down into your own as you smile, “love is such a mysterious thing.”

Sero feels his face heat up dramatically.

Your hands are softer than he remembers.

Warm.

He clears his throat slightly, seeing that your gaze has moved from the group across the room to the centerpiece of the reception; the bride and groom.

They’re a handsome couple, the groom's eyes never wavering from his wife’s form as he drags her over to the centre of the room for their first dance of the night. Well it wasn’t their first dance but it’s the first dance they’re going to take now that everyone has finished their meals. Sero wonders if he’ll ever love someone as much as the groom seems to love his wife.

No, that’s a lie.

He doesn’t wonder.

The Chef pokes your side gently, “I thought you said that love was a well understood thing?”

Your frown ever so slightly, “I did?”

The Pilot nods, “yes.”

“You sure?”

Sero hums playfully, “very~”

“When?”

“During my exhibit.” Explained the Pilot.

“Oh, I guess I have.”

The Pilot leans in towards you, giving you a gentle flick on the head. Something reminiscent a parent would do when gently scolding their child. It’s an action as intimate as it is surprising. No, what's really surprising is the sappy look that the Pilot gets as he watches you reel back, feigning annoyance. Sero personally finds your reaction rather cute - though he supposes he finds most of the things you do cute.

“Perhaps,” you begin, “I should say fate is such a mysterious thing.”

Fate.

Sero doesn’t believe in Fate. Doesn’t believe in most things that he couldn’t see, touch or feel. It was the, for lack of better words, pragmatic way of living. And that in itself is usually surprising for strangers. It’s almost contradictory for Sero to be such a carefree person yet look at things in the most pragmatic way possible.

“Do you think they’re each other’s first love?” Sero asks, watching as the groom spins the bride around.

He’s met with both a “yes” and “no” from the Chef and Pilot respectively.

Sero isn’t all too sure, more distracted with the fact that you’re still holding onto his hand instead of the dancing couple on their floor. Sero wonders if you want to dance. If you’d dance with him or one of your other muses.

“She’s his first love.” You say.

Sero raises an eyebrow, “hm?”

“It’s the way he looks at her,” you smile, “you always look at your first love differently from everyone else. There’s a certain kind of softness in his eyes.”

“It’s too bad his best man doesn’t seem to like her very much.” Adds the Chef.

“What makes you say that?” You asked.

The Chef points to the best man who is sitting alone at the table, his gaze stuck on the dancing newly weds, “because he’s sitting so stiffly.”

Sero nods, “he does seem rather annoyed.”

“I get that impression too.” The Pilot said.

Your eyes get this curious look in them, “elaborate.”

“I guess it has something to do with the way he acts around her,” the Pilot pauses for a brief moment but continues quickly after, “it’s like he’s stepping on eggshells.”

“He could just be shy.” The Chef suggests, despite being the one to bring up dislike of the best man in the first place. Ever the optimist, Sero thinks.

Sero chuckles, playfully suggesting, “or maybe doesn’t like her and is upset the groom is marrying someone he doesn’t like?”

“He’s in love with her.” You say it as if it’s the most obvious thing.

“And what makes you think that?” The Pilot asks, his voice shaking ever so slightly.

“Follow his gaze.”

Fall in love with someone gentle.

---

Exactly As You Saw

My Dearest,

I think I dream of you, sometimes. And sure, maybe now I can barely recall your face or the sound of your voice but I know for certain it’s you. I know it’s you because I love you.

Yours Truly

---

Sero Hanta was, in the words of everyone else, a good person. A friendly dude. A talkative and charismatic fellow. He wasn’t ever much of a thinker. Didn’t ponder very long when it came to the harder hitting topics of life - but he did, as Sero likes to point out, think about you.

Thought about you when he was alone in his room, staring up at the ceiling in the middle of the night.

Thought about you as he looked over at the photos you sent him.

And, he thought about you as you walked beside him. The back of your hand brushing up against his own every so often. You’re smiling warmly at him as he rambles off about one thing or another. Finds his heart warming as you listen so intently to his words. Most girls usually tune him out after an hour or two of his rambling but he can’t fault them too much. He’s not even listening to his own words, much too distracted by you.

You look so pretty today. Your hair pushed back in a baseball cap that Sero managed to win for you earlier today. He had been pretty disappointed that he hadn’t been able to win you a stuffed bear but thought that this, if anything, was a good consolation prize. Seeing you wear something that he had managed to get for you.

It makes his heart skip a beat in that dramatic way it does when he’s with a girl he likes.

The baseball cap looks good on you despite it not going very well with your outfit. You had decided to wear a yukata so the entire look is thrown off but you manage to pull it off. Moderately. Sero himself had been torn between the new yukata his mother had gotten him for his birthday and the hoodie you’d bought for him during one of his photo shoots with you. He’s happy though that he ultimately decided to wear his yukata because he thinks he matches pretty nicely with you. That the two of you almost look like a-

He can’t bring himself to finish that thought aloud. So instead he’ll leave it there. Unfinished. Waiting for his subconscious to scoop it up instead and convert it into a dream of the prettiest of sorts. But Sero thinks that that is where you always manage to look your best. Captured within the loving memory of another.

You’re the kind of girl that he used to think wasn’t real. The kind of girl that people wrote sonnets for and sang ballads of. The kind of girl that never noticed guys like him. Or at least not the kind of girl that would settle for a guy like him - as pathetic as that sounds.

“Are you okay?” You ask, your shoulder nudging against his gently.

Sero smiles fondly as he looks at you, “mhm.”

If you don’t believe him you do a good job of hiding it as you lead him further through the festival grounds.

        I know a girl         Who likes to drink her coffee black         ‘Cause sugar, no, she don’t got time for that         Leaves her desires at the welcome mat         When she walks in

The festival is beautiful. The warm light from the sunset quickly being replaced by the orange lighting of candles and lanterns set up over the festival grounds.

Sero had always been a big fan of lanterns. He loves all the different designs and colours that they came in. Mostly though he loved that they all came together for a singular purpose. To light up the world for the people that had so lovingly created them.

Sakura trees hang over the festival grounds, their bright pink flowers tinted purple and blue in the quickly fading light of day. Sero notes that the trees are placed meticulously apart from one another. So even and orderly - reminding him of the military. Personally, Sero has always been more fond of a more chaotic look to things but can appreciate all the love and effort that must have gone into cultivating and upkeep this forest of Sakura trees in the first place.

Bright red tables are set up beneath most of the Sakura trees, either selling products or conducting games for people to play. Children run between the stalls with bright smiles on their faces, pushing past the crowds with reckless abandon because they can.

He wonders if he was just as rambunctious as a kid.

No, he must have been just as rambunctious if all the white hair on his mother’s head said anything. Oh, his poor mother.

But Sero likes to think he turned out well.

That his parents are proud of the person he’s become.

‘SNAP’

Sero’s head jerks over to you, smiling slightly when he sees you holding a camera up to your face.

“What ya got there, Sweets?” Sero asks, a mischievous smile playing on the edge of his lips.

You smile playfully in response, “wouldn’t you like to know.”

“I, in fact, would.”

“Well, I don’t want to show you.”

Sero pouts, “why not?”

“Hm,” you let your camera fall from your hands and hang loosely around your neck as you hold the picture in your hands, inspecting it as the photo seemingly begins to slowly appear. Most of the time, if Sero’s recalling is correct, you prefer to use a digital camera or your phone.

He’s pretty sure it has something to do with the fact that you lost a bunch of the photos you took last year in a tragic accident when your briefcase filled with photos was misplaced causing you to have to call a bunch of your muses together for an impromptu photoshoot. It had been your most successful year yet despite the mishap but your manager was quick to make sure something like that would never happen again.

It seemed that you weren’t as nervous.

“Well?” Sero asks expectantly.

“Some things are better left as a secret, don’t you think?” You asked.

Sero swallowed, “I guess so.”

His response makes you smile as you pull out a silver compact from your pocket. Most girls carry compacts in their pockets right? To touch up their makeup or something? Truthfully, Sero isn’t too sure. He’s never paid all that much attention.

Instead of looking at yourself in the mirror of the compact you put the photo inside before closing it. It looks like there were quite a few photos inside the compact but Sero can’t find it in himself to ask. Either choosing to agree with your earlier statement or too nervous to hear what your answer would be. Likely a little bit of both.

        And I know a boy         Who likes to keep his burner on         He’s always running with no one to keep warm         It’s like he’s flirting with the smoke alarm         His fire’s fading

“So, where are you from again, Sweets?” Sero asks, as he takes a seat on the bench beside you.

You smile, in that way that usually do, and it sends Sero’s heart into a tizzy of a flutter, “guess.”

He imagines you’re originally from a coastal town. Somewhere where you’re familiar with the foreign and exotic. Somewhere romantic. Something so different from where he had gone when he was young. Somewhere that authors write stories and explorers seek to find. Somewhere it’s so distinctly you that Sero would know the moment he first landed.

But then again, you do seem rather at home in the city.

And you wouldn’t be very familiar with city life if you lived in a coastal town now would you.

He can see that. You, having a fast and bright childhood. Born in a place where everything is always moving and the people never stop. And that’s romantic in its own sense. A brilliant place where brilliant people gather together to live. Something where people like you come together to meet and compare notes. A kind of city that could cultivate someone as brilliant and amazing as you.

Yeah, that sounds realistic.

Sounds like you.

But, ultimately, Sero says, “a coastal town near the edge of the city?”

The answer feels more of a cop out than something substantial but it’s the only thing that Sero can think of to explain someone as amazing as you existing at all. The only place he can see someone like you being able to grow up in.

Ah, but that’s where he messes up.

“Na,” you smile softly, “I grew up in the suburbs. Nothing too small or anything too big either.”

“Oh.”

“Pretty regular, huh?”

“I…” Sero smiles apologetically, “I guess so.”

“I don’t think I’d ever be able to leave if I grew up somewhere like what you said,” you begin, “honestly I had a pretty hard time leaving my home town at all.”

“Really?”

“I would’ve been happy to have lived a boring and mundane life. To never be someone special.”

You, living a mundane life? It feels almost blasphemous to imagine such a thing. To live in a world where you aren’t someone that draws in the attention of everyone else. That there might be a timeline or universe out there where people all around don’t know your name or are familiar with the works you’ve given to this world.

Would you have been a mom?

A housewife?

Or would you have worked. Maybe you could have been a nurse or doctor. Someone that’s so attuned to the needs of others. Or maybe you would have been another office worker. Someone working a 9 to 5 to support their family.

It feels almost like Sero’s thinking of a different person.

No, that’s not exactly right. It does feel like something you could’ve done. Something you could’ve been if you had gone down a different path in life. He’s been thinking about this all the wrong way. Just because you live a mundane life doesn't mean you would be a mundane person.

Finally, Sero smiles fondly at you, “you could never not be someone special.”

        But still we laugh, we cry         We fall, we get high         Just like we were kids, just like we were kids         And when I am feeling small, you get me through it all         Just like we were kids, just like we were kids again

“Sweets,” Sero props his head on your shoulder as he watches you type a message into your phone to your manager. He feels a smile pull at the corner of your lips as he reads the message ‘K’. Nothing more or less than a simple letter in response to the long paragraph that your manager must have taken the time to painstakingly write. It’s something so very you that it can’t help but bring a smile to Sero’s face.

You tilt your head towards Sero, “hm?”

“What do you have my name saved on your phone?”

You hold your phone out to him, “Cellophane.”

“Why?” Sero asks.

“Why Cellophane?”

Sero nods.

“Because it’s your hero name.”

Sero’s cheeks flush at that. Of course that’s what you saved his name as. The two of you had been indulging in drinks at the bar the other day when Sero had gotten off work when the topic of Hero names had come up. Specifically, what his hero name would’ve been if there ever was a world with superpowers and hero names. You’d said something along the lines of ‘Fifteen’ (or maybe it was ‘Sixteen’) for one reason or another that Sero can’t remember off the top of his head. Sero was kind of bad for that - not remembering the reasoning behind things.

He, on the other hand, had been too embarrassed to say his own at first. It was a name he had thought about since he was young. Something so near and dear to his heart. Something he wasn’t so keen on sharing with the pretty girl he met at the bar, no matter how pretty you were. You had, of course, managed to wrangle the name from him by the end of the night but the two of you were wasted by then. Needing to be brought home by your friends.

It warms his heart to think that you not only remembered but that you had kept it like that all this time. There were many things you could have changed his contact name to and the fact that you kept it as something so near and dear to his heart was enough to make his heart flutter. Well, you always did things to make his heart flutter but this was different. This was you.

“And that’s what you are to me,” You say, “a hero. So of course I’d have you saved as your hero name.”

“Sweets!” Sero nuzzles his face into your neck, his cheeks flushed a bright shade of red.

He’d always known you were a sweetheart but he hadn’t realised that you were such a sentimentalist.

“Oh,” you stand up abruptly, “it’s almost time!”

“Almost time for what?”

Your eyes sparkle, “the firework show.”

Sero smiles. Quite the sentimentalist.

“Come on,” you say, as you begin making your way towards an empty part of the field. Let’s go watch the fireworks out in the open grass.

And what can he say but, “okay” in response.

There’s no way that Sero could ever say no to something when you look at him like that. Sero has always had a weakness for pretty girls but you seem to take the take. It probably has something to do with the way that you manage to make his heart skip a beat and the butterflies in his stomach flutter.

“So,” Sero hums, “you look pretty excited.”

“Yeah, I love fireworks,” you say softly, “they remind me of my youth.”

“And who doesn’t love getting a glimpse back into their youth?”

“Exactly.”

You don’t talk much about your past unless Sero brings it up first so he always finds himself indulging in moments like this. Wants to know as much as he can about you but can never seem to find the right words.

So he stands silently, the back of his hand brushing against your own.

“Have you ever been in love before?” You asked.

Sero nods, “just once.”

        I know a girl         Who’s never tried to settle down         She wears her loneliness just like a crown         But when she smiles, all the kinds will bow down, down, down

Fireworks.

Sero had never considered himself the biggest fan of fireworks but he wouldn’t go as far as to say that he disliked them either.

He liked fireworks as much as the next person.

He’d gone to see a few firework shows when he was young. There were firework festivals held in the summer of every year near where he lived but they never seemed to spark the same wonder in him as it did the people around him. Sure, they were pretty but there was nothing about them that inspired brilliance. Or at least nothing of the level of brilliance that other people seemed to give it.

He remembers the day when he first came to this realization like how one might remember the back of their hand.

Around the age of eight, when Sero’s parents had finally decided he was old enough to attend the summer festival himself, he and a few of his friends had decided to meet up and hang out. Play a couple of the festival games (and lose miserably because they’re all rigged), catch some goldfish (because he absolutely wanted a pet) and eat some sweet treats with the pocket money his parents had given him. And it was at the height of the festival when the fireworks had first begun that Sero had turned and looked at the faces of his friends instead of up at the sky. It was here that he realized that he didn’t look at the fireworks the same way.

In retrospect, Sero supposes that maybe he didn’t like fireworks because they didn’t hold the same level of importance in his life as it did for others. Didn’t have a nostalgic bond that other people seemed to have.

“Are you still in there?” You ask, waving a hand in front of Sero’s face playfully.

“Hm,” Sero perks his head up, his eyes meeting your own.

You always did have such pretty eyes. They have that sparkle in them that makes someone’s heart skip a beat. A certain brilliance that encourages even the most hesitant of people to charge forward in just the hopes of being noticed by someone as brilliant as you. Sero certainly knows. Better than most.

“Sorry,” you say softly, “you looked pretty deep in thought. I know I hate it when people interrupt me while I’m in the middle of thinking.”

Sero laughs, “then why’d you disturb me?”

“Because I wanted your attention.”

Sero’s cheeks flush red in embarrassment and the candidness of your words. Or maybe it was because of the brazenness of your words.

“What’re you thinking about?” You ask.

“One thing or another,” Sero hums, trying his best to feign indifference, “you know. Things that I want to do but don’t have the courage to.”

“You should do it if it’ll make you happy.”

“Hm?”

“Good times come and go so take advantage of the things that make you happy while you still can.”

        And I know a boy         Who’s broken every vow he’s made         Who’s spoken every cowards phrase         But he can listen like a rainy day         And drown it out

“If you could be anything, what would you be?” Sero asked.

“Everything.” You said, your answer coming out quick and easy - as if you’ve thought about something like this hundreds of times before. And because you’re you, and not anyone else, Sero thinks that maybe that might just be the case.

“Everything?” Sero raises an eyebrow, “isn’t that kind of an intense answer?”

“Well,” you hum, “it’s not a usual answer.”

“You never did like usual things, though.”

“Exactly! Who wants to live life being ‘usual?’ It’s boring and mundane.” You leaned back, looking up at the sky, “there’s so much I wish I could’ve done and so much more that I would change. There’s still so much that I want to do. I mean, I like where I am at this point in my life but I can’t help but constantly be caught between wanting everything else that I chose to not take. I sound like a total glutton, huh?”

“You do.”

You pout.

“But I don’t mind.”

“I imagine everyone has something in life they regret, either doing or not doing,” you begin, “a moment where they wish that they’d chosen to take a different path in life.”

“I don’t,” Sero smiles, “I’m quite happy with the way my life turned out.”

“Boring~”

Sero pouts, “well excuse me for being someone that doesn’t regret the way their life ended up.”

“Well you’re not boring but it seems like a pretty cliche answer.”

“You just said that most people have at least one in their life that they’d like to change. So how can my answer be cliche if it’s not something that everyone answers?” Sero challenges, “can’t be cliche unless it’s overused, Sweets.”

You frown, “then I guess I just don’t like your answer.”

Sero nods approvingly, “see, doesn’t it feel nice to just admit your feelings?”

“Don’t be a jerk about it.”

Sero laughs heartily in response, affectionately rubbing the top of your head, “don’t like it so much now that the shoe’s on the other foot, huh?”

You huff in response.

Sero’s heart flutters dramatically as he rests his head atop your shoulder, “come on, Sweets. It’s not that serious.”

“Brat.”

“I’m pretty sure you’re the one being a brat right now, Sweets.” Sero moves his head so that his chin is propped up on your shoulder as he gets a side view of your face. You really are such a pretty girl. Even when you’re upset and pouting. It’s nice. Refreshing almost when you’re usually the one doing all the teasing.

Sero supposes that even you can have trouble admitting your feelings.

Eventually, when the muscles in your face relax, Sero gives your cheek a playful poke, “so, Sweets, why don’t you like my answer?”

“I guess it makes me feel inadequate. Makes me feel a little greedy for wanting so much and life and feel stupid for not being able to make the choices that I wanted. Though,” you smile softly, “I suppose you can never make the choice in life that you really want to make when you want to make both choices in the first place.”

“Mhm,” Sero nods, “quite the predicament.”

“Does it make me a bad person?”

“It might.”

“I figured as much.”

“But it’s okay.”

“And why is it okay?”

“Because I’ll still like you, whether you’re a bad person or not.”

Before you can give Sero a response you're cut off by a loud blast sounding off from the field in front of the two of you.

        But still we laugh, we cry         We fall, we get high         Just like we were kids, just like we were kids         And when I am feeling small, you get me through it all         Just like we were kids, just like we were kids again

The fireworks, like they always do (and always will), begin dramatically. Dashing up to the sky like mad men.

Rising up passionately.

Loudly.

Dramatically.

Soaring to heights that seemingly no one else ever has before. So bright and brilliant as they reach their peak. They are hopes, dreams and wishes turned into passions, ambitions and desires. Everything that someone hopes to be when they look up to the sky. Everything they will ever be.

And then they slowly fall.

Ever so gently and softly.

Down.

Down.

And down.

Until they’re gone.

And the moment when everything is done and gone Sero feels both a moment of reprieve and disappointment. Relief that such a passionate moment is only but a moment. Disappointment that such a passionate moment is only but a moment.

But that moment of reprieve and disappointment is only but a moment as the next firework makes its way up in the sky hoping to be just as brilliant and bright as the last. Wishing to burn for just as long and dreaming to be what it was made to be.

“Have you ever been in love before?” Sero asks, finally mustering up the courage to take your hand in his own.

Your hand feels so nice in comparison to his own. Not as rough as his own are from years of working as a firefighter. He supposes he shouldn’t be so surprised. Your hands are, afterall, ones of a photographer. Ones that recently so lovingly maneuvered his own into the right position for the perfect picture. Ones that slowly traced over the edges of the camera, gently pressing over the different buttons as you adjust for the lighting and placement. And currently the ones he happened to be holding on his own.

You smile, “of course.”

Your answer makes Sero happy yet sad at the same time.

In all honesty, Sero isn’t certain what he was expecting. He imagines someone like you would have fallen in love before. Knows for certain that there must be tons of people that have already fallen in love with you. You’re the kind of person that is meant to be loved by others. But, just maybe, a small part of him wanted to be the first person to be loved by you. And it’s a selfish thought. The both of you are adults but he allows himself to indulge in his selfish thoughts for just a moment longer. Afterall, while the two of you are adults you also happen to be adults attending a children’s festival.

He wonders if he should lean over and plant a kiss on your lips.

Wonders if you’d smile in response and kiss him back.

Confess your love to him in the midst of the fireworks. Love him because he’s the one here right now standing beside you.

He doesn’t.

Can’t bring himself to. Not while his heart is beating erratically like he’s once again a green kid out with a girl for the first time.

You’re not even his first love.

But you are presently the girl he loves.

Maybe you won’t always be the one he loves. Won’t always be the one who makes his heart skip a beat and the butterflies in his stomach flutter but you are that girl now. And that’s all that matters. Right now, it feels as if that’s all that will ever matter.

It’s enough.

You’re enough.

This is enough.

        Just like we were kids         Just like we were kids again         Just like we were kids         Just like we were kids         Just like we were kids again

“What’re you thinking about, Sweets?” Sero asks, his hand still holding your own.

You smile in that way that always makes his heart race, “you.”

Sero blushes, “Sweets!”

“Is that what you have me saved as in your phone?” You asked.

“No.”

“Oh.”

You watch him curiously, as if you’re waiting for him to say something more. He doesn’t. Not that he doesn’t want to, Sero loves talking, but he’s finding the current topic increasingly harder and harder to avoid.

“So are you going to tell me?” You ask.

It’s not that he doesn’t want to tell you.

Sero feigns indifference “tell you what?”

It’s just that he hadn’t had a chance to change it. Or maybe he hadn’t wanted to change it. Honestly it was more embarrassing for him that it was you.

“What you have me saved as in your phone.” You explain, “you already know I have you saved as Cellophane.”

It’s not his fault that he misheard what you said back when the two of you first met. Well maybe it was a little bit of his fault but it was loud in the bar where the two of you first met and he was distracted by your pretty face.

Sero blushes, “Cam - Era - Girl.”

“Cam - Era - Girl?” You repeated, “camera girl.”

Sero nods slowly.

Then you. Brilliant and amazing you, laugh. As if it’s the funniest joke he’s heard in a long while. Sero’s cheeks are flushed red hot again - but he’s gotten rather used to that sensation. At least while he’s around you.

“That’s funny!’ You smile, “way more creative than some of the names that other people have me saved as.”

“I suppose so.”

“You think I could be a cam girl?” You do a dramatic pose of some sort and give a playful wink, “think my reputation could uphold going into a business like this?”

“Oh, (Y/n)! I didn’t mean it that way!”

You turn to him and smile fondly, “you used my name.”

“I suppose I did.”

“I like how it sounds when you say it.”

“You do?”

“I also like it when you call me ‘Sweets’ but the way you say my name makes it sound prettier.” You tilt your head to the side cutely, “do you know what I mean?”

Sero nods.

He doesn’t but you don’t need to know that.

“(Y/n) is the precious name that someone who loved me dearly gifted to me. It seems only fitting that someone I love would use it as well.”

You love him.

That very idea itself makes his heart soar.

Sero knows for certain that he loves you.

Fall in love with someone you can love.

---

Song: Kids Again Artist: Artist vs Poet

---

Her: Do you love me?

[innerchorus]

Hilmes will probably have my head for saying this, but—

I actually prefer the design of the “shabbier” crown in this chapter than the one many kings before him have worn. I don't know, it doesn't look half as stupid as the older one.

Zandeh, you did a good job.

There's something to be said for simplicity! Shame we didn't actually get to see it on his head. He didn't even get to be Shah for a few seconds, poor guy.