#when will my copy paste come back from the war

[iappearmissing]

post inbox memes i can send in 🫵 so i don't have to use my brain 🫵

[kaiser1ns]

"Baby, move!" it was a fierce battle, no it was a cold-blooded war in which the winner was only one. Neither you nor Itoshi Sae moved from the position you were in, and it was for the last popsicle in the shop. No matter that you call him baby, mi amor, boyfie, husband, hot tamale, grumpy little kitten, darling, dumpling, the light of my life... You could continue, but none of those sweet nicknames worked. Suddenly he was not as lovely as he was texting you some hours ago when he returned from Spain but you didn't expect any less.

"I saw it first," he said flatly, reaching for the popsicle but you closed the freezer before he could take away your treasure.

"You touched it first, but I spotted it from across the aisle," you shot back, your hands gripping the freezer lid as if that would solidify your claim.

The old lady at the cashier chuckled softly, observing the two of you bicker over a single popsicle as though the fate of the world rested on it. Her warm gaze softened as she spoke, "Why don’t you two share, dear? You seem like such a lovely couple."  

Both you and Sae whipped your heads toward her, synchronized in your rejection. "We’re not a couple!"  

The old lady just laughed, shaking her head knowingly. "Oh, sure you’re not," she said with a teasing smile, returning to her task of organizing the counter.  

You turned back to Sae, who raised his eyebrow at you, slightly judging you for denying that you are not a couple, yet.

“Alright, fine, mi amor,” you drawled, leaning into the pet names just to get under his skin. “Let’s flip a coin. The winner takes the popsicle.”  

“Not a chance,”  Before you could reply, the patter of tiny footsteps interrupted your standoff. A little kid skipped to the freezer and snatched the popsicle you and Sae had been fighting for the past five minutes.  

Both of you froze, staring as the child walked away, turning back and poking his tongue at the two of you. Just like Sae did as a kid...

You broke the silence first with a groan, letting your head fall against Sae’s chest. He stood there before his hand wrapped around your waist pulling you closer.

“Guess we both lost,” he murmured, without that teasing and nagging tone that made you want to provoke him further.  

“Thanks, genius. It was more than obvious,” you muttered, glaring at the child’s retreating figure before looking up at Sae. “This is your fault, you know. If you’d just shared—”  

“If you’d just let me have it—”  

The bickering started again, but this time, the old lady’s laughter grew louder as she listened to you two quarrel. “Such a cute young couple,” she murmured again, shaking her head as you and Sae continued to argue like an old married pair, still standing in front of the now-empty freezer. As you both turned to leave, the old lady called out after you. "Come back soon, lovebirds!"

This time, neither of you corrected her.

©2024 kaiser1ns do not copy, repost or modify my work

[mostlysignssomeportents]

How lock-in hurts design

Berliners: Otherland has added a second date (Jan 28) for my book-talk after the first one sold out - book now!

If you've ever read about design, you've probably encountered the idea of "paving the desire path." A "desire path" is an erosion path created by people departing from the official walkway and taking their own route. The story goes that smart campus planners don't fight the desire paths laid down by students; they pave them, formalizing the route that their constituents have voted for with their feet.

Desire paths aren't always great (Wikipedia notes that "desire paths sometimes cut through sensitive habitats and exclusion zones, threatening wildlife and park security"), but in the context of design, a desire path is a way that users communicate with designers, creating a feedback loop between those two groups. The designers make a product, the users use it in ways that surprise the designer, and the designer integrates all that into a new revision of the product.

This method is widely heralded as a means of "co-innovating" between users and companies. Designers who practice the method are lauded for their humility, their willingness to learn from their users. Tech history is strewn with examples of successful paved desire-paths.

Take John Deere. While today the company is notorious for its war on its customers (via its opposition to right to repair), Deere was once a leader in co-innovation, dispatching roving field engineers to visit farms and learn how farmers had modified their tractors. The best of these modifications would then be worked into the next round of tractor designs, in a virtuous cycle:

https://securityledger.com/2019/03/opinion-my-grandfathers-john-deere-would-support-our-right-to-repair/

But this pattern is even more pronounced in the digital world, because it's much easier to update a digital service than it is to update all the tractors in the field, especially if that service is cloud-based, meaning you can modify the back-end everyone is instantly updated. The most celebrated example of this co-creation is Twitter, whose users created a host of its core features.

Retweets, for example, were a user creation. Users who saw something they liked on the service would type "RT" and paste the text and the link into a new tweet composition window. Same for quote-tweets: users copied the URL for a tweet and pasted it in below their own commentary. Twitter designers observed this user innovation and formalized it, turning it into part of Twitter's core feature-set.

Companies are obsessed with discovering digital desire paths. They pay fortunes for analytics software to produce maps of how their users interact with their services, run focus groups, even embed sneaky screen-recording software into their web-pages:

https://www.wired.com/story/the-dark-side-of-replay-sessions-that-record-your-every-move-online/

This relentless surveillance of users is pursued in the name of making things better for them: let us spy on you and we'll figure out where your pain-points and friction are coming from, and remove those. We all win!

But this impulse is a world apart from the humility and respect implied by co-innovation. The constant, nonconsensual observation of users has more to do with controlling users than learning from them.

That is, after all, the ethos of modern technology: the more control a company can exert over its users ,the more value it can transfer from those users to its shareholders. That's the key to enshittification, the ubiquitous platform decay that has degraded virtually all the technology we use, making it worse every day:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/02/19/twiddler/

When you are seeking to control users, the desire paths they create are all too frequently a means to wrestling control back from you. Take advertising: every time a service makes its ads more obnoxious and invasive, it creates an incentive for its users to search for "how do I install an ad-blocker":

https://www.eff.org/deeplinks/2019/07/adblocking-how-about-nah

More than half of all web-users have installed ad-blockers. It's the largest consumer boycott in human history:

https://doc.searls.com/2023/11/11/how-is-the-worlds-biggest-boycott-doing/

But zero app users have installed ad-blockers, because reverse-engineering an app requires that you bypass its encryption, triggering liability under Section 1201 of the Digital Millennium Copyright Act. This law provides for a $500,000 fine and a 5-year prison sentence for "circumvention" of access controls:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/01/12/youre-holding-it-wrong/#if-dishwashers-were-iphones

Beyond that, modifying an app creates liability under copyright, trademark, patent, trade secrets, noncompete, nondisclosure and so on. It's what Jay Freeman calls "felony contempt of business model":

https://locusmag.com/2020/09/cory-doctorow-ip/

This is why services are so horny to drive you to install their app rather using their websites: they are trying to get you to do something that, given your druthers, you would prefer not to do. They want to force you to exit through the gift shop, you want to carve a desire path straight to the parking lot. Apps let them mobilize the law to literally criminalize those desire paths.

An app is just a web-page wrapped in enough IP to make it a felony to block ads in it (or do anything else that wrestles value back from a company). Apps are web-pages where everything not forbidden is mandatory.

Seen in this light, an app is a way to wage war on desire paths, to abandon the cooperative model for co-innovation in favor of the adversarial model of user control and extraction.

Corporate apologists like to claim that the proliferation of apps proves that users like them. Neoliberal economists love the idea that business as usual represents a "revealed preference." This is an intellectually unserious tautology: "you do this, so you must like it":

https://boingboing.net/2024/01/22/hp-ceo-says-customers-are-a-bad-investment-unless-they-can-be-made-to-buy-companys-drm-ink-cartridges.html

Calling an action where no alternatives are permissible a "preference" or a "choice" is a cheap trick – especially when considered against the "preferences" that reveal themselves when a real choice is possible. Take commercial surveillance: when Apple gave Ios users a choice about being spied on – a one-click opt of of app-based surveillance – 96% of users choice no spying:

https://arstechnica.com/gadgets/2021/05/96-of-us-users-opt-out-of-app-tracking-in-ios-14-5-analytics-find/

But then Apple started spying on those very same users that had opted out of spying by Facebook and other Apple competitors:

https://pluralistic.net/2022/11/14/luxury-surveillance/#liar-liar

Neoclassical economists aren't just obsessed with revealed preferences – they also love to bandy about the idea of "moral hazard": economic arrangements that tempt people to be dishonest. This is typically applied to the public ("consumers" in the contemptuous parlance of econospeak). But apps are pure moral hazard – for corporations. The ability to prohibit desire paths – and literally imprison rivals who help your users thwart those prohibitions – is too tempting for companies to resist.

The fact that the majority of web users block ads reveals a strong preference for not being spied on ("users just want relevant ads" is such an obvious lie that doesn't merit any serious discussion):

https://www.iccl.ie/news/82-of-the-irish-public-wants-big-techs-toxic-algorithms-switched-off/

Giant companies attained their scale by learning from their users, not by thwarting them. The person using technology always knows something about what they need to do and how they want to do it that the designers can never anticipate. This is especially true of people who are unlike those designers – people who live on the other side of the world, or the other side of the economic divide, or whose bodies don't work the way that the designers' bodies do:

https://pluralistic.net/2022/10/20/benevolent-dictators/#felony-contempt-of-business-model

Apps – and other technologies that are locked down so their users can be locked in – are the height of technological arrogance. They embody a belief that users are to be told, not heard. If a user wants to do something that the designer didn't anticipate, that's the user's fault:

https://www.wired.com/2010/06/iphone-4-holding-it-wrong/

Corporate enthusiasm for prohibiting you from reconfiguring the tools you use to suit your needs is a declaration of the end of history. "Sure," John Deere execs say, "we once learned from farmers by observing how they modified their tractors. But today's farmers are so much stupider and we are so much smarter that we have nothing to learn from them anymore."

Spying on your users to control them is a poor substitute asking your users their permission to learn from them. Without technological self-determination, preferences can't be revealed. Without the right to seize the means of computation, the desire paths never emerge, leaving designers in the dark about what users really want.

Our policymakers swear loyalty to "innovation" but when corporations ask for the right to decide who can innovate and how, they fall all over themselves to create laws that let companies punish users for the crime of contempt of business-model.

I'm Kickstarting the audiobook for The Bezzle, the sequel to Red Team Blues, narrated by @wilwheaton! You can pre-order the audiobook and ebook, DRM free, as well as the hardcover, signed or unsigned. There's also bundles with Red Team Blues in ebook, audio or paperback.

If you'd like an essay-formatted version of this post to read or share, here's a link to it on pluralistic.net, my surveillance-free, ad-free, tracker-free blog:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/01/24/everything-not-mandatory/#is-prohibited

Image: Belem (modified) https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Desire_path_%2819811581366%29.jpg

CC BY 2.0 https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/2.0/deed.en

[petrichoravis]

But you peeked right over somehow | s.r

summery: your disbelief in love has always held you back from a relationship with Spencer, but you think it's time to be brave now.

word count: 2k

warnings: reader is avoidant and makes some weird decisions, but, like, be nice to her please, she's scared; mentions of avoidant attachment style, toxic relationships (someone having made r feel stupid and worthless in the past) and of parents fighting, but nothing detailed; reader is also mentioned to be drunk once, but it’s in past tense and it’s really just the word mentioned. English is not my first language.

a/n: the pictures are obviously no indication of how reader looks, they are just there to make this all look pretty and aesthetically pleasing. I've tried my best not to describe any physical appearance of reader. reader means a lot to me, I hope you’ll like her. Also, the gorgeous!! dividers are not mine, all credits to @/enchanthings-a on tumblr. The title is from 'circling' by tiny habits

You didn't believe in love—not the one in the movies, anyway. Your sad attempts at it have always ended with you feeling lonelier than before and your parents… well, let's just say they're not the best example either. So you built the walls higher and higher, placing brick upon brick, so no one would be able to look over them.

Until you met Spencer.

He has nested himself between the bricks like wisteria and has been so impossibly stubborn, but so kind about it, too. Never asking for more than the few fleeting moments you had. To the point were you weren't even sure if you wanted to rid yourself of him anymore.

You had met him at a reading of your favourite book a few years ago. You had forgotten your book on your seat and he had ran out and handed it back to you, a white piece of paper with messy handwriting in black ink slipped in between the pages. I like your taste in books, maybe you could recommend me some:). it had said, with his number on the bottom.

You had been friends for a while after that, because you always blocked his attempts of turning what you had into more.

Until one drunken mistake on your side turned into two and the two of you decided that: friends kiss, right? (Well, you decided it, Spencer was just happy to go along with whatever you were most comfortable with.)

For a while you convinced yourself that whatever you were feeling—the butterflies in your stomach, the way your heart was racing every time he touched you—was just lust. It was easier than admitting that you were falling hopelessly in love with him.

So when you woke up this morning, in your bed with him sleeping next to you, you couldn't help but watch him. The way the soft morning light, shining through the silk curtains, drew shapes onto his skin, the way his brown curls framed his face. You just hardly resisted the urge to reach out and touch him, your hand curling into a fist so hard that your nails dug half-moon shapes into your palm.

You got up after a few moments. Quietly, so you wouldn’t wake him. He landed in Virginia late after a case, but still decided to come over to your apartment, because he had forgotten something there. You ended up, self-sabotagingly, inviting him to stay the night and now you were here; with an angel in your bed and a devil on your shoulder.

You tip-toed into your kitchen, finally being able to breathe a little louder. Leaning onto the counter, hanging your head, you felt pathetic. This wasn't how things go for you, normally. You didn't pine and, even worse, yearn (you gagged at just the thought) for men like you were right now.

Then again, Spencer was far from normal.

And because of that, your heart was racing and you caught yourself, more often than not, at the bookstore in the classic section, asking yourself if Spencer had that copy of war and peace already. He probably did.

You scoff at yourself. Maybe you just needed to go to the club again. Cleanse yourself of this feeling. Forget about him and his stupid brown eyes, the way his hands feel when they— Stop.

"Are you okay?" A sleepy voice asks from the doorway.

You turn slowly. Spencer was still in his oversized gray sleep shirt, the fabric worn-out and thin. His hair a mess of brown, soft curls. God, get it together.

"Yeah," you mumble, "just…headaches."

He steps closer, careful, as if not to startle you. "Do you need anything? Ibuprofen?"

"No, I'm okay. Thank you."

He nods, but his eyes search your face. It’s clear that he knows something is off—he's a profiler, after all. He smoothes his hand over your wooden counter top and you wish so badly that those calloused hands were running over your skin instead.

"Breakfast?" You croak, already turning around and rummaging the cabinets for two mugs.

A hand finds your wrist, turning you around with a gentleness you're not sure you deserve. You pull away quickly, as if his touch burned you.

He frowns a little, but doesn't comment on it. "I'd love breakfast," he pauses, "Can you talk to me? Please?"

His idiotically big puppy-dog eyes and the way his hand feels on your skin makes you want to kiss him stupid.

So you do, impulsively. Kissing him was so much better than answering his questions and he might forget, as a good side affect—

Spencer pushed against your shoulders gently, untangling your lips from another after indulging for a short second—he was just a man, after all.

He knew that you were only kissing him to distract from the topic at hand and he also knew, that he would forget about this conversation too quickly if he let you.

"Not that I don't love kissing you, but something is bothering you and I want to understand what it is. So can you please talk to me?"

"About what?" You try and he looks at you, disbelieving.

"Come on—" he says your name, and it's so soft, "You've always been careful with the idea of an relationship with me, but it's been getting worse. You tense up every time I touch you and tip-toe around me. I just want to know if I did something to upset you. I want to fix it."

Your skin is crawling with his rejection of the kiss and you can't help the words of defensiveness bursting out of you. "You can't always fix everything, Spencer. I'm not just another case to solve."

Spencer doesn’t even flinch. "I know you're not. I'm sorry, my wording was off. I know something happened to you in the past and you need it slow and that's okay. I never pushed and I'm not pushing right now, but I want to understand what it is, what's going on in your head."

He was being so, so kind. You felt like crying. "Nothing! Nothing is going on in my head, just—" You feel like an animal in a cage, ready to chew off your foot to get out of the trap.

Spencer lets his hands drop from your shoulder to his side again, knowing you well enough to know that touch may not be comforting to you right now.

The gesture grounds you, reminds you that you are talking to kind, gentle Spencer, that he is only worried about you. So you try to reel back, trying your best to be just as kind, to be deserving of him. But you're a viper full of venom and you're sure you might never be able to purge it from your body enough to ever deserve him.

"I'm sorry." You whisper, looking down at your miss-matched socks.

"It's okay. I understand." He's not sure what to do. An aggressive UnSub was nothing in comparison to you being uncomfortable and him being unable to help. "We don't have to talk about it. We can eat breakfast and I'll tell you about the stars again."

His lips quirk a little as you laugh, even if it was just the smallest sound, it was something.

"No, it's okay. I—" You have been knocking on Spencer's door and running away before he could welcome you in for too long. You have decided that you're ready to pass the doorstep now.

Your therapist has advised you to get out of comfort zone more, anyway, and if Spencer leaves after this conversation, at least you can go back to not believing in love. "I figured I had to tell you at some point. If I really wanted this to be a thing."

You gesture between the two of you at the last part, voice dropping to a quieter tone and you look up at him though your lashes without lifting your head.

He looks surprised. That's okay. You'll just laugh and pretend it was a joke—

"Yeah," he steps closer, brushing hair out of your face, "if that's what you want. I’m not forcing you to."

"I know you're not." You sigh, closing your eyes as his fingertips brush against your jaw. "Truth is, nothing really happened. I guess I've just had rotten luck in love."

The hair tie you're wearing on your wrist is suddenly so interesting and you chew on your lip to have something to do with your mouth, otherwise you'd just blurt out everything he wants to know.

"My parents have been fighting more than they haven't since I've been really young. Nothing too bad, but it was obvious that they weren't in love. I doubt they ever were."

Spencer doesn't say anything, choosing to let you finish without comment. He knows what's coming, he's been through it, too. Parents who fight, relationships that fail, never feeling loved in the way the movies show you. It can make you feel hopeless.

"I was a late bloomer, I guess. I've had my first relationship at twenty-two. Not that I cared, I had convinced myself that I didn't want love at that point, anyway. So when I did find it… I was elated. I thought, yes! finally it's my turn. Well, they hurt me quite badly, made me feel bad for everything that I didn't know, like—like they were better than me. Maybe they were, I don't know, it doesn't matter."

Ouch. Spencer thought. No one deserves that. Much less you. His hands find your wrist again and his thumb slides over your pulse point.

"They're not." He says with so much conviction that you have no choice but to believe him. "Someone who makes people feel bad for trying to learn things is not, in any way, better than the person who is trying."

You shake your head. "No, it's okay. I— yeah. It's whatever. It just hurt in that moment."

You do that a lot, Spencer notes, pushing your feelings onto your past-self like they don't affect you now, when he knows they do. Or else you wouldn't be here.

"I did go on a few date after that," you continue after a short pause, "but I kept myself locked away pretty tightly. Never let it go further than the third date. A few years later, when I let someone else in, it got quite toxic, quite quickly. From both sides. We were dependent and avoidant at the same time. They were just…they showed me off a lot and were so gentle and kind, but I realised after a while that it was just their way of making sure I stayed. And I…I started feeling trapped and accused them of some pretty messed up stuff. We didn't make it really far after that."

Tears start building on your lash line and you look at the ceiling, begging them to stay buried. That was your tell, Spencer knew it too well. He brushed his thumb under your eyes.

"You don't have to." He murmurs.

"I'm almost done." You promise and look at him for the first time since you started the story. "I didn't have any serious relationships after that, just…harmless flirting, but I was too scared to let myself fall again. I never felt loved enough, I guess…or I was just selfish and greedy."

Spencer shakes his head. "You deserve the love you want." Ducking his head, he makes sure you're looking at him. "That's not selfish."

"I think I did." You whisper with the shyness of a high-school kid, eyes searching between his. "Find it, I mean."

The corners of Spencer's mouth lift into his wonderful smile and for once in your life you know you've said the right thing.

"Lucky me." He answers, wrapping an arm around your shoulder, pulling you against him gently.

"Yeah. Lucky." You breathe out, wrapping your arms around his waist. It was clear that you don't quite know just how lucky someone must be to have you in their life and Spencer was going to work hard to make sure you will.

You bury your face into his shoulder, breathing in his scent. "Thank you." You whisper.

"Don't thank me yet." He chuckles softly, his warm breath tickling the top of your head. You melt into him at his words, as if his stupid joke had a magical soothing effect. Of course you'd thank him. You won't stop thanking him for being him until you were six feet under.

"I'm sorry for snapping. I just—"

"Don't. It's okay. You don't need to explain yourself to me." He says, earnestly, into your hair.

"I know I don't. It wasn't fair of me, though."

"Maybe. But better unfair and raw, than fair and polished. I want you, un-performing."

You sigh into his shoulder. Being open was hard when you've been burnt for it before and you knew there was much to overcome, but you didn't doubt one bit, that you could overcome every hurdle with the help of Spencer. Step by step growing on your walls together. Wisteria and ivy.

a/n: please don't hesitate to send me your thoughts and show support by re-blogging, commenting and liking if you liked the fic!!

[triptuckers]

lighthouse - cassian andor

Request: nope Pairing: cassian andor x reader Summary: after an undercover mission nearly ends very badly, you and cassian finally come to terms with what you are to each other Warnings: fighting, blaster shots, injuries, bruises, angst Word count: 3,2K A/N: listen. we need more cassian fics that aren't smut so rejoice !! my andor obsession is back in full force and I also read a book that shook me to my core so this is inspired by my love for cassian and a line I read. enjoy!

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you and cassian have been... something for a while. you don't know exactly what, but you're sure you're not just fellow rebels. it's in the lingering glances, the brushing of his fingers against yours, how he sometimes looks at you so intensely but never ends up saying anything. you'd learnt he wasn't a man of many words, but the ones he did speak always rang true.

you keep telling yourself you'll talk to him. after the next mission. then you'll pull him to the side and speak with him about whatever you were to each other.

but there's always another one. always a next mission. the rebellion is fast paced. people are sent off to the very ends of the outer rim, you learn to sleep when you can, and you're always looking over your shoulder.

but you know what you're fighting for, and you want to do your part.

luthen, who recruited you a while back, has noticed how well you and cassian work together, so you're often sent on missions together.

even though you know you shouldn't want this many missions, you'd rather see this war come to an end, you couldn't help but be at least a little pleased you could do them with cassian.

today isn't any different.

once again you tell yourself after this mission, you'll talk to cassian. about what's going on in his head when he can't tear his eyes off of you during a briefing.

your mission is simple. you and cassian are to infiltrate some fancy invitation only event, make your way one of the countless offices in the building, find a string of passcodes, and get the hell out without getting yourself shot at.

you'd done it a thousand times before. this wouldn't be any different or any harder.

how wrong you were.

it started well, despite your uncomfortable shoes. you hated dress codes but you had no choice this time. you would stand out in your comfortable clothes - very recognisable as a rebel or at the very least, someone who did not belong at such an event.

you only got distracted by the art hung on the walls for a short while.

when you were younger, you were very fond of your uncle. he'd travel the galaxy and come back with stories. as a child, you'd promised him that one day you'd collect stories of your own.

for a while, you did. you'd hear stories from people you'd meet, they'd tell you about their cultures, their art, their traditions, their history. you loved hearing those stories and passing them along.

cassian often listened to them when the two of you were traveling to the next mission.

when you slowed your pace walking past an interesting looking sculpture, it was cassian who nudged you to keep on walking. your time window was short, and there was little room for stalling.

once you find the right office, cassian keeps an eye out while you sit at the imperial's desk to find the passcodes. thanks to some good intel, it doesn't take you long to find them.

you quickly copy them, then join cassian at the door. the corridor appears to be empty when cassian looks around the corner. nevertheless, you bend down to get your blaster out of your leg holster.

'put it away.' says cassian.

'you've got your blaster out.' you observe.

'yes because I can tuck it back in my pants.'

'and?'

'and you can't very well subtly bend down to put yours back, can you?'

'I could if-'

'no time. put it away.'

other people would get offended by his sharp tone, but you know cassian. he's focused on the mission now. on getting out quickly and efficiently.

you make a show of putting your blaster back in your holster. telling him if you get shot because you can't return fire, it would be his fault. cassian merely rolls his eyes at you as he exits the office.

you follow him out, forcing yourself not to run. if anything would be suspicious it's two people suddenly breaking in full sprint.

cassian walks ahead of you towards the hangar where you'd stashed your ship. as he rounds a corner, you nearly bump into him as he suddenly stops walking.

you're confused for a moment when you catch him hiding his blaster, then see the imperial officer in front of him.

'you two are far from the party.' the man says.

you're quick to walk up to cassian's side and wrap a hand around his bicep.

'is there a problem, sir?' you say, choosing to play the part of confused partyguest.

'this corridor is off limits to guests.' says the imperial officer.

you give cassian's arm a quick squeeze, letting him know not to interfere with your plan.

'we're so sorry, officer, my husband and I were looking for the washroom.' you say, smiling at the man.

but instead of waving you off, he narrows his eyes at your hand on cassian's arm.

'I don't see a ring.'

'it's not part of our culture.'

'and there are clear signs pointing to the washroom.'

'there are? we must have missed them.'

'I'll ask again, what are you two doing this far from the party?'

you notice cassian tensing up beside you. it wouldn't be easy to convince this man you're supposed to be here.

the imperial officer takes out his comm device to alert someone else but cassian acts quickly, swiftly punching the man in the nose.

'there goes our last chance at this being a stealth mission.' you sigh, following cassian as he takes off.

you watch as cassian pulls out his blaster again. you quickly bend down to retrieve yours as well, stopping for a few seconds, then run to catch up with him.

while rounding a corner, you nearly twist your ankle. you loudly curse your forced choice of footwear. meanwhile, cassian is ahead of you.

'hurry up!' he yells over his shoulder.

'you try running in four inch heels!' you snap back at him.

as you're barrelling your way through countless corridors, forgoing all attempts at stealth, you nearly fall again.

you groan in frustration, shoot a look over your shoulder and deem it safe enough. you could take off your shoes quickly. it'll only be a second.

'are you fucking serious?' cassian shouts as he sees you yanking off your shoes.

'would you rather I break my legs?' you yell.

cassian reaches out and pulls you up as you duck to avoid blaster fire. the imperials had caught up with you.

you're so close to the ship, you push yourself a little faster. you're on cassian's heels as he enters the ship.

right as you enter the ship, a pair of blaster shots hit their mark. you feel a searing hot pain across your ribs as you hit the button to close the door to the ship.

cassian, who heard you yell out in pain, worriedly looks at you but you wave him off.

'fly the ship!' you yell.

your priority right now was to get the codes to the rebels. it wasn't your life. it was the brutal reality of the rebellion.

cassian seems to realise this as well. he takes one last look at you, before taking off towards the cockpit.

you press a hand to your side as you lay on your back, focusing on your breathing.

you close your eyes. you know that's not a smart thing to do, so you permit yourself three deep breaths. then you'd open your eyes again. you feel the humming of the ship beneath you as cassian flies away from imperial territory. you breathe through the pain, not daring to move, in fear of making your injury worse.

suddenly you feel a hard shove and open your eyes. cassian's worried eyes look into yours.

'I thought you died.' he says.

'good morning to you, too.' you grumble. 'I closed my eyes for a second. why aren't you flying the ship?'

'we're in hyperspace.' cassian says. 'that wasn't a second.'

you frown, then try to sit up to look at your ribs. immediately, a sharp pain shoots through your body and you fall back again.

cassian goes quiet as he runs off to get a medkit.

unceremoniously, he uses a knife to rip a part of your dress off. in any other circumstance you'd be appalled. but this was war. everyone needed to act quickly all the time, there was no time for modesty.

your eyes focus on the ceiling of the ship as cassian works on bandaging your ribs. you feel him poking around, checking your injury. you wince when it hurts too much and cassian mumbles an apology.

you close your eyes, but cassian pokes your cheek with his finger. you make an annoyed sound.

'don't sleep.' he says firmly.

if you were anyone else you would have found his harsh tone rude. but you've known cassian for a while now. you detect the undertone of worry.

'i'm okay.' you say, but you feel yourself slipping. a nap did sound very good.

cassian pokes you again.

'cassian.' you grumble.

'stay awake. I mean it.' he says. 'I'm nearly done.'

you're desperately trying to stay awake, when cassian speaks again.

'count down from three.' he instructs.

'why?'

'do it.'

you sigh, then count down.

when you're at two, cassian firmly secures the bandage around your rips, making you cry out in pain. you'd been shot before, but this was much more painful than any other time.

you let out a string of curses as cassian checks the bandages.

the sharp pain had weakened to a dull, throbbing pain. it was annoying and consistent, but hurt less than before.

'you need rest.' says cassian.

'i'm fine here.'

'you're not sleeping not on the ground.'

'i've had worse.'

'no.'

cassian leaves little room for argument.

you feel how he carefully slips one arm behind your back and the other under your knees. he may not have a very muscular build at first glance, but he lifts you without much visible struggle. the movement intensifies your pain and you try to blink the feeling away.

you desperately try to stay awake, to commit this feeling of being in cassian's arms to memory. but your eyelids are just so heavy.

cassian carefully sets you down on one of the cots on the ship.

'now you can rest.' you hear him say.

you want to thank him for taking care of you, but you're already asleep seconds later.

the journey back to base takes a couple of days. cassian has to take a creative route to make sure you're not leading imperials to the rebels. occasionally, you wake when cassian comes to check on you. he helps you drink water and you try to eat something, but most of the time you just sleep.

cassian is being even more silent than he usually is. you can tell his mind is racing. you want to ease his thoughts, but there never seems to be the right time to talk.

when cassian wakes you a couple of days later, you've made it back to base.

he helps you sit up. you insist on being able to walk on your own. but one attempt at pushing yourself up from your sitting position shows you can't.

cassian supports the biggest part of your weight as he slowly takes you from the hangar to your room.

you had a private room, which was a luxury. people you pass in the hallways send you worried looks, but they know cassian would explain it all in the debriefing.

with a series of practiced taps, cassian unlocks the door to your room and helps you inside. he carefully puts you down on your own cot and turns around to leave so he can give his debriefing of the mission as quickly as possible.

'cass.' you say, nearly asleep already.

his ears perk up. you've rarely called him that. the first time you did, it caught him off guard and you interpreted his surprised look as a sign he didn't want you calling him that. quite the opposite. he loved it.

'what's up?' he says softly.

'thank you.' you say.

'of course.'

'did I ever tell you you're my lighthouse, cass?'

he frowns at your words. what is a lighthouse? but before he can as you about it, you've fallen asleep. he decides to let you. he knows there's people waiting on him, and you need your rest.

cassian walks back to the room he's expected to give his debriefing of the mission. he thinks about your words on his way, but forces himself to think of the mission when he enters the room.

the debrief itself is short. he passes the copied codes along to someone else, so they can work with them. cassian updates everyone on your condition, and has a medical droid sent to your room to check on you.

then he sets off to find brasso. he's convinced he would know what a lighthouse is. but brasso can't give him an explanation, only his best guess. bix also doesn't know.

just as cassian is searching for will to ask him about the term, he runs into luthen, who has a new mission for him already.

cassian knows you'd be irritated with him if he'd stay back for your sake. you both know the importance of the rebellion. he doesn't want to leave you behind, but he does as he's asked.

the mission doesn't take him very far. he's joined by a handful of others. though he's only gone for a couple of days, he worries about you.

so when he returns, he immediately goes to your room, letting someone else handle the debriefing this time.

but when he opens the door, something's off. your room is empty and it smells of cleaning supplies. the bed is made way too neatly for you to have done it.

panic seizes him as he quickly makes his way to the small medbay.

one of the medical droids says you haven't been in since cassian left for his mission. they don't know where you are.

it's one of the new recruits that tells cassian you're probably outside.

their current base is located on a forest planet. the trees provide cover for your ships and base. cassian knew it was similar to your home planet, and you missed it dearly. you often spoke about your childhood home, and the big garden you loved when you were a child.

the feeling of panic slowly disappears as cassian makes his way to the back of the base, where the forest was blooming and green.

sure enough, he finds you sitting in a patch of grass rather than one of the benches. steam rises from a cup of tea in your hand. your head is tilted upwards, catching rays of sunshine on your face.

he closes his eyes and sighs softly. you were alright. just reconnecting with nature.

cassian walks up to you. you've got more color on your face than the last time he saw you, a good sign.

he wants to tell you he's so glad you're okay. he also wants to scold you for not being in your room when he got back, scaring him like crazy. but instead, a questions comes out when he speaks.

'what's a lighthouse?'

'you're back!' you say, turning around and then wincing, pressing a hand to your side. it seems you hadn't completely healed just yet.

cassian walks up to you and sits down beside you, accepting your hug. he looks at you with another one of his piercing gazes.

as you look at his face - searching for any injuries - it takes you a while to register his question from before. you'd been sleeping the pain off a lot, and sometimes your mind was a little foggy.

'I never told you?' you say.

cassian shakes his head.

'well. I was going to tell you all of this eventually. after the next mission, I kept telling myself.' you say, glancing at the trees ahead of you. 'but I thought that blaster shot would be my last.'

'it takes more than a few blaster shots to take us down.' says cassian.

you smile at his words.

'a lighthouse is a tall building on the edge of an ocean.' you explain. 'I saw the ruins of one once.'

'so I'm a tall building?' says cassian, not understanding.

'it was meant for sailors. if a boat would be out on sea and it was dark, the lighthouse would guide them back to dry land. keep them save, bring them home.' you say.

you sip your tea as cassian lets your words sink in.

'this war is intense. the rebellion is intense. it's hard to find your footing when you're never in one place for long and you don't know when you have to pack up and leave again. but I know, no matter where I go, you'll be there. you'll guide me home. so, in a way, you're my lighthouse.' you say.

'your lighthouse.' cassian echoes your words. 'I like that.'

you turn your head to look at him, not surprised to find him looking at you already.

'I had a feeling you would. how did your mission go?'

'alright. got what we came for. got back home.'

'you've never been a man of many words, have you?' you say, smiling.

he shrugs. 'sometimes you don't need many. how are you feeling? how are your ribs?'

'better.' you say. 'the medical droid said you did a good job at bandaging me up. though it still hurts. I sleep a lot. I was just going to take another nap.'

cassian frowns. 'why didn't you? if it helps with the pain?'

'I was waiting for you to come back.'

'you were?'

'I never really sleep well when you're out there and I'm here.'

cassian stands up and offers you his hand.

'where are we going?' you ask, allowing him to gently help you stand.

'to take a nap.' he says.

you smile and allow cassian to lead you back to your room, never letting go of his hand. he helps you when you lay down on your cot. you surprise him by gently tugging him down with you.

'you look like the mission was intense. you need your rest as well.' you say.

cassian nods, then takes off his boots and jacket. he lays down next to you, careful not to touch your ribs in fear of hurting you. you move closer, only wincing a little at the movement.

'do you have to go soon?' you ask him, feeling tired already.

'no.' says cassian, wrapping an arm around you. 'not for a few days.'

'good.' you mumble, burying your head in the space between his jaw and his shoulder.

you're nearly asleep when cassian whispers your name.

'yeah?' you say softly.

'you're my lighthouse, too.' he says.

you smile at his words. 'I know, cass.'

A/N: thanks for reading! everything that I have written can be found on my masterlist. please do not copy, translate, plagiarise or repost my work! some of these are requested by other people and I spend a lot of time and effort on my works <3 much love, marit

[namelessgakusei]

And you are...?

Mark Grayson x Reader

Warnings: Idiots who swapped their bodies, mentions of Invincible War, gender neutral use of "guy"

Notes: Gaku's been busy from uni in the past few days, but the itch to write kept me distracted lmao. Brought to you by Gaku who's having an indigestion and procrastinating an assignment.

Synopsis: You've always wanted to be a superhero.

"Some mornings, I wake up crying without knowing why. That sort of thing happens now and again."

You've always admired heroes.

Flying up in the sky, saving innocents, basking in the praise and glory, overall being a good person, it's something a powerless nobody like you can't have. Still, it's nice to dream. Who knows, maybe one day you'll wake up with powers, right?

In your half-delusional mind, you tried every wishing tactics to get you out of your mundane life: wishing on a wishing fountain, a well, 11:11, shooting stars, manifesting with the Shrek meme, praying for 100 days straight, folding a thousand paper cranes—

You can't help but yearn for a change, an excitement, adrenaline of high pressure situations where people depend on you.

—Obviously, it did not work, but you still kept your wish in the back of your mind. The daydreams about being the one seen on tv, a superhero that everyone can rely onto, kept you entertained during boring college classes. You're not fully romanticizing it, as you have an inkling about what heroes go through. If celebrities, who are powerless like you, get harassed 24/7, what's to say about the superpowered individuals?

A glance from the window of your classroom granted you the sight of Invincible. Damn, if you have flight, you won't have to commute all the way to your uni. In a way, he's like Seance Dog. The resemblance reminded you to buy the upcoming edition tomorrow.

...Ugh, will this day get any worse? First, the train back home was too cramped that you're forced to go on your tiptoes, barely balancing yourself whenever it comes to a stop. Then, you missed the bus after running out of the station. You nearly missed the last copy of Seance Dog if not for that one guy who pitied your despaired expression. Thanks, cute guy.

But, your bad luck hadn't stopped when you nearly got caught in the crossfire between a group of armed robbers and some superheroes. Seriously, why rob a rural bank?! You made a run for it, clutching the latest edition of Seance Dog like a lifeline as you rushed out of the fight.

"I HATE THIS LIFE!" You screamed as you stopped about a good distance away from the chaos. "I hate how mundane everything is! How weak I am! Please! Let me be born as a superhero in my next life!" You cried to the air as you heaved for breath, uncaring if anyone looked at you strangely. It was cathartic for a moment, until thunder boomed and you got soaked on your way back home.

At least you managed to get the comic safe and dry.

You took a short shower and changed to comfortable clothes before plopping to bed, too tired to even read Seance Dog. With how bad your day is, you don't want to risk doing anything more today. You just want to rest.

Yes... You'll reward yourself tomorrow by reading the comic first thing in the morning.

An alarm rang obnoxiously, with a tune of distant show theme. Mark woke up with a groan, body aching for some reason. Did he slept wrong? It's been so long since he woke up with body pains that he instinctively thought that he was attacked. No, he really slept in a wrong angle— has his bed always been this soft? There's more pillows that usual—

Wait. This is not his room.

Did he got kidnapped? No, this is too sloppy. Where is he? How did he got here? This looks like someone's bedroom...? Upon sitting up, he got a better look at his surroundings. There's a cluttered desk full of papers and notes, with a school bag by the floor. The window's nearby! Maybe he can slip out and go home—

Mark fell unceremoniously on the floor. ??? What? He... can't fly? Wait, what?! His arms look different! His clothes are too...! This isn't what he slept on yesterday! He wasn't drunk and clearly remembers retreating to his room after another day of helping out with the city clean up. Scrambling to his feet, towards the full body mirror by the wall, Mark's eyes widened at he saw.

Who is this?!??!

Who—

"Morning!" You waved at your friends just after you opened the door, with them greeting back. Ah, it was a shame that your alarm didn't ring this morning, you didn't got to have a grace period to read the comic you bought! Surprisingly, the plastic was removed and it was placed on your shelf? Did you tossed and turned on your sleep so much that you started sleepwalking? You don't remember cleaning up your desk though...

Huh? Today's Wednesday? But yesterday was just Monday, right?? Why can't you remember anything that happened yesterday?? Oh no, did they gave out homework? Did you do it? You still have time to cram, you can bullshit it out—

Oh, you did. But... this isn't your handwriting...? You write neater than this, the equations are right but there are too many erasures, and the order of writing is different from how you usually do it... You don't even remember this lesson! There are earlier notes, hastily scribbled unlike how you usually do it. The assignment for yesterday was also done and graded, though with the way it's barely recognizable made you raise your brow.

You were met with your peers chuckling about you returning to normal. What? Did something happened yesterday? They said that you were too awkward and jittery whenever someone talks to you. What??

It was when lunch came around that you noticed something in your phone. A note, pinned on top of your notes app.

"Who are you?"

Suddenly, yesterday's events seem to came back to you in a hazy recollection.

You woke up from falling to the ground, it's been a long time since you fell out of your bed, you were confident about your learned ability to sleep like a log after all. Did you really got stressed out from the events last night? Hopefully you didn't crease the Seance Dog comic, you didn't put it on your table and slept beside it after all.

Wait, why do you smell everything at once? Blanching at the mix of scents, you sit up and rubbed the back of your head. Your alarm might've not woken you up, but this sure did. Hopefully you weren't late, ugh, where's your phone...?

With groggy eyes, you squinted when you can't find it by blindly patting the bed, and well, you weren't sure why the sheets feel different too.

"Huh? Huh?!" You visibly flinched at the sound of your voice, instinctively clutching your throat. What? "What?" Huh? "Huh?!"

"Hello...?"

It wasn't just your voice. Your hands, your arms, your body, your skin! It's not yours! This isn't your room! Is this a dream? Wow, did your wish manifested to your dreams too. What the hell, sure.

Standing up, you slowly adjusted at the feeling of this foreign body, snooping around the room to find out more about your dream's direction. This room's bland. Like someone just sleep here and doesn't live. There are ghosts of posters and other memorabilia but it has faded over time. Yikes, this really is your dream if Seance Dog is the first poster you see lol.

"Mark?" A woman looking in her late thirties opened the door and peeked inside, looking confused as to why you're gawking to nothing. "Yes—?!"

"I heard a thump earlier, are you alright...?"

"Yes! Yeah, yeah, sorry 'bout that." Okay, so your name is Mark. Who's this diva? Gotta placate her to not rouse any suspicion. Smile, (Y/N). "I'm fine, just woke up on the wrong side of the bed." It's not entirely a lie, but apparently it's enough for her to retreat out, albeit with a worried and reluctant expression, before closing the door.

Mark? That's your name in this dream? You can name a number of Marks you know. Wait, what does this Mark look like?

Wow. Pretty privilege will surely work if you have this kind of face in real life. You look a bit like the lady from earlier, are you her son? Should you call her Mom, now? Mother? Surely there must be clues here and there.

You're a bit too excited and treated this more like a game than a dream. A mystery game where you have to navigate through clues to figure things out. You don't know the plot of this dream, but it's been so long that you had something so realistic that it had you giddy as you swung the door open, smiling from ear to ear.

You nearly screeched when you saw a purple boy floating, with an equally shocked expression as he stares at you.

You snapped back to reality when your friend called your name, completely forgetting about the events of yesterday.

Mark was panicking. Who is this?! Okay, don't panic. This is clearly a civilian. A civilian who's supposed to be going to school based on the readied uniform and how much the alarm has been blaring for the past few minutes. Okay. This could be a dream, or not. Regardless, he won't risk it, he'd done— he... had done so much damage in the past, he won't let this add up to the pile.

He considered calling Cecil for help, but quickly revoked the idea. Mark still has his aversions to the man, and he won't let an innocent person get involved into his mess. For now, he'll try to go through the day and try to contact his allies later.

An unopened Seance Dog volume caught his eye from the mirror. Is this guy also a fan? Upon closed inspection, this issue is months old! Are they a collector? If they're a student, then they should have an ID, right? Oh, there it is.

(L/N), (Y/N).

What a busy student they are. Why does their phone keep on ringing, damn it. Mark sighs and picks it up before tripping over his own feet to prepare for school. The alarm was for them to do their assignment and Mark just spent it having a crisis. What do they do first? Breakfast? Bath? He's so slow in this body, do you even exercise? Where even is your school?!

He would've laughed at the situation, saying that he's like an cliche anime school girl if he's not scurrying around your home like a headless chicken, trying desperately to keep your schedule on track. Your notes are neatly (shoved) inside your bag, as well as other essentials that he's gambling on being needed later. He'll do your assignment on the bus or something. Sorry (Y/N), it's been so long since he had to go to school without being interrupted by his duties.

Barely making it on time, and sweating buckets, Mark heaved for breath inside the bus, looking like a dying fawn as he practically begged for the driver to bring him to your school. He wonders about your social life, is it like his? Or are you on the popular side? God, are you a bully?! He hoped not.

What the, what's this homework?? He doesn't know this! He's sure he missed this part in class (if he even has this subject), due to how many times he has to ditch school to fight villains. Do you have notes? Did he even pick the right ones???

Mark spent the next 30 minutes cramming it, using your notes as a reference. It was messy, but he thinks it makes sense. He... actually had fun with those questions. It made him feel normal, even for a bit.

The final boss battle is how to act like you in your uni. He won't ditch class, the last thing he wants is to ruin your life, but he needs to find a way to get back to his own body. Is this... Upstate University? But, wasn't it burned down? So this is a dream, then?

Why would he dream of his university when he dropped out??

Was it guilt for what happened? For the lives lost during the war? Maybe. But this dream doesn't look like the usual nightmares. No, it's mundane. Like the everyday life of a student.

Your classes are different from his, and he had to adjust with how fast paced your lectures are. By the end of the day, his hand is numb from keeping up with note taking.

If this is a dream, why is he working so hard? Your friends kept looking at him weird, that's why. Subtle questions about your well-being are constantly asked of him almost every period; you are pretty well liked, (Y/N). Mark can't keep up with the social pressure, leading him to keep up the farce.

Mark plopped to your bed with a tired sigh. This dream is too stressful for him and he just wants to rest! Why does he have to relive being a college student in his sleep?? A crinkle of plastic made him open an eye as he noticed the brand new comic from earlier. At least he could read Seance Dog in peace.

The issue is nostalgic, he remembers looking at this particular one online due to the relinquishing the last physical copy over someone who looked too haggard upon arriving at the store. Mark smiles at the memory, though he can't remember their face anymore, their meeting left a funny feeling inside him.

While this dream is strange, it made Mark a bit happy to see everything like it was before. Back when things were still manageable despite being fucked up. Before people started dying left and right. Before being a hero is more of a burden than a mantle.

Mark sighs and closes his eyes, but not before reaching out for your phone and opening it with your fingerprint. He's thankful he figured it out before locking you out the device. Typing something in the notes app, Mark figured out that it won't hurt to leave something for you. Dream or not, he's a bit curious over this school mate he didn't knew, who shared the same interests as him and was too busy for their own good.

This time, he woke up in his bedroom. So, it was a dream after all. Not that it matters, the memories are slowly slipping out of him. Mark was about to get up when his fingers bumped with his phone, an unsent message to an unknown number flashing in the screen.

"Holy shit, I'm Invincible."

[mercurial-chuckles]

Permanence

Part 02: Distressing Transience

Pairing: Steve Rogers x F!Reader x Bucky Barnes | Stucky x F!Reader Warnings: Fluff | Angst | Angry & Grumpy Bucky | Mutual Pining | Eventual Poly Relationship | Eventual Smut Galore | Eventual Fluff Galore | ~3k | Canon Divergent | Nightmare | Bucky's Hydra-Related Trauma | Happy Ending (it's me!) Kept the warnings basic 'coz I don't wanna reveal too much. If angsty or mature content affects you, please refrain from reading | Unbeta'd | Lemme know if I'm missing anything! A/N: I'm excited for the great reveal in this. 🥰 This is based on a request. The OC version of this story will run in parallel, but since I got quite a few requests for a reader version, here it goes! Hope you enjoy! ✨ Take a moment to reblog or share your thoughts--it makes all the difference in the world. Note: Do not Steal, Copy, or Plagiarize any part of my work! Banner and Divider made by me in Canva. Picture credits to the internet! Thank you :) Check out my other works: Masterlist

Series Masterlist

Indulge Away!

Skovheim, Norway, 2011

It was bitterly cold. You draped the throw blanket from the couch, hoping to keep yourself warm.

You hated the cold. It reminded you of terrible times. Times of loss.

You'd pushed those thoughts away and went to check on the cake. Plum. Bucky's absolute favorite. You set the cake on the tray to let it cool.

Outside, the birch tree branches rattled on the kitchen window. The wind seemed to picked up. It had been raining since morning, which was rare for this time of year.

The tiny clock over the small island in the kitchen ticked past seven.

Bucky was never late.

Fear mounted you by the second. You turned off the light in kitchen to get a glimpse down the winding road. It was too hard to get a view through the fogged up window. The heavy rain blurred everything outside, but that was your only view. The sensors had stopped working and needed to be replaced. Bucky had installed several of them, starting from the point where the hidden road to your isolated home began, down at the base of the hill.

The cottage was located up the steep hill, hidden by luscious trees, with a patch of birch trees between the thick coverage. It was beautiful, to say the least, but most importantly, it was strategic. One side was shielded by the edge of the cliff, which overlooked the sea, and there was only one way of entry and no residences nearby.

You told yourself the roads were probably flooded--or maybe there were fallen trees. Bucky was a supersoldier; moving a tree or two would be nothing for him. Still, unease coiled tight in your chest. You could sense him, just like you had always known he was alive--even back when the world grieved Sgt. Barnes' heroic death in World War II. You knew Bucky was alive.

But you worried.

You were, after all, more human. Moments like this made you wish you had the power to teleport.

You didn't want him to go in the first place, but you were running low on groceries, and Bucky was fretting about replacing the sensors in the security system. Usually, night was a safer time to avoid interaction with the townsfolk. Also, Arne, your trusted contact, was to meet with Bucky in the town to deliver the equipment, monitors, transponders, sensors, and a few others. You hated that you couldn't convince Bucky to let you join. James Buchanan Barnes was a stubborn man, alright.

When you heard a distant rumble, you were unsure if it was just the whether; you could barely make the lights--one brighter than the other--of the pickup truck in the foggy downpour.

You ran and waited by the door. Your nerves wouldn't settle until you saw him. Standing by the door, you chanted, 'Come on. Come on.'

After a few minutes, you heard the shuffling behind the door. Then came the muffled creak of the floor. A groan behind the door frame made you freeze.

Silence.

You waited.

Then, two knocks. Two seconds apart.

Your body moved before you could breathe in relief, hand on the knob, waiting. He'd drilled it into your head: Never open unless you hear the knock.

You unlatched the door and let it swing open against the push of the wind.

Bucky stepped inside, closing the door behind him, with more force than necessary. Water dripped from the hem of his jacket, pooling on the wooden floor. The cap was soaked, plastered to his head, shadowing his eyes.

He didn't greet you with the usual, 'I'm here, I'm okay.' in that gentle tone like he usually assured you every time he returned.

You searched his eyes, worry wrecking your gut.

"I'm fine," Bucky muttered after a few seconds, eyes flicking to your face.

You let out a sigh of relief. He seemed off but you didn't think much about it, more worried that he was soaked to the bones.

"You're drenched," you said.

"It's pouring," he offered with a faint, bitter chuckle, trying to toe off his boots, but they were sloppy wet, squelching with the slightest movement.

"You don't say," you chuckled, crouching down to help him tug the boot off.

"I got it," he hissed sharply.

You stilled immediately, retrieving your hand and standing up. Bucky rarely got this way. After escaping from the clutches of Hydra, touch bothered him, but that was years ago. He never shied away from your touch. However, it seemed like he was past that. Now, your mind was back to worrying.

"Are you okay?" You asked softly. Bucky visibly stiffened. Your focus shifted to his right palm, fisted tightly around the box in his hand. Bucky seemed to notice you glance because he loosened his grip.

He carefully placed the plastic wrapped carton beside the door, along with two other bags, wordlessly.

You dragged the old chair from the dining table, the legs scraping softly across the wood. He lowered himself into the chair, broad shoulders hunched, clothes clinging to his body and accentuating his form. Bucky didn't meet your eyes, removing his shoes, almost tearing them off his feet.

Reaching for his cap, you gently tugged it off his head. He finally looked at you, and you were pretty sure he looked miffed.

"You'll get sick," you mumbled. You just needed to hug him.

"I don't get sick," he quipped.

You tutted, his mood firing up your frustration further, but you knew nothing would yield when he was in a mood.

You'd have to wait to ask questions later, once he showered and ate.

You'd have to wait for that hug.

"Hang up your things. I'll make you some tea. Don't take long in the shower," you said.

The stiffness in his shoulder became evident when he walked to the bathroom at the far end of the living room. That shoulder must be acting up again. You wondered if he'd let you ease the pain in peace or if you'd have to coax him into it. The cold always made it worse.

Gosh! You hated the cold!

~

By the time Bucky returned from the shower and changed into his joggers and Henley, you had mopped the floor and unpacked the groceries from the waterproof bags.

His hair was still wet, droplets falling. It was fricking cold, and this man didn't flinch. It bothered you how blatantly reckless he was with his health.

It bothered you how much he affected you, all while looking infuriatingly gorgeous. You'd rather not delve into those waters. It was a dangerous realm.

So, you ignored the trickling water droplets down the expanse of his neck and internally berated yourself. You handed him the cup of tea and turned to fetch a dry towel.

Bucky's gaze followed you when you walked to get another dry towel. You noticed him eyeing the cake when you returned.

"You're not getting a single piece unless you dry your hair right now," you said pointedly, pushing the towel toward him.

"Is that so," he sniggered, looking down at you. You caught the sly twitch of his pink lips before he turned to sit on the couch.

Bucky wasn't the man you remembered from the 40s--the playful, flirty, sassy, nerdy boy from Brooklyn. Hydra had changed him immensely so. It had been almost a decade since he escaped their clutches, a decade since you found him. He was healing slowly but surely. You'd like to believe that. You'd been through a lot, collectively as well as individually. So, the little glimpses of the lost man always rejoiced you. Eventually, he'd get there. He had to.

"Stop it, you'll hurt your neck," you chastised when you noticed him vigorously moving his head against the towel. You pulled the towel from his grasp, at least tried. Initially, Bucky didn't budge but he reluctantly let go. You smiled, victorious, as he slumped into the couch and sighed, letting you gently towel off his hair.

You knew he hadn't slept well last night. He'd nearly finished reading the book he had started--you'd noticed the bookmark in the morning.

Every time he had to go into the town, he got tense. Bucky wouldn't tell you, but you knew it. You'd been living and navigating through this life for a few years now. Though you were grateful he'd come a long way, Bucky still had a long winding road ahead to fully heal.

"That's how you do it, Sergeant Barnes," you jested, pulling his hair back into a small bun. He let out a satisfied hum, which made your stomach flip.

"Hand me that scrunchie."

He leaned over, tugging you gently along the couch as you held his hair together. That's when you noticed him flinching.

"Bucky?" You quickly tied his hair and moved around to sit beside him on the couch. You tried to reach for his hand, but he pulled away.

"Bucky," you prompted, this time pleading.

He sighed, pulling the sleeve of his right arm up over his veiny forearm, revealing a long gash of red and blue bruising that marred his skin. If his serum didn't already heal, it only meant the bruise was worse, to begin with.

"What happened?" You asked, worried and angry that he hadn't told you about it.

"It's nothing," he dismissed, "Got a flat, had to change the tire in the nasty weather. Hurt myself," he finished, already pulling away, but you held onto it with all your strength, fighting him. He didn't look guilty, unlike the other times when he hid his injuries or sufferings. He looked unapologetic.

"Bucky."

"I'm fine," he murmured.

"Shut up and stay put," You hissed, livid. This wasn't the first time, and you knew it wasn't going to be the last. Bucky loved to suffer, and he thought he was reaping all the consequences of his actions. You'd fight this war with him until you won despite losing the battles every now and then.

You cupped your palm over his bruise and closed your eyes, feeling the warmth emanate. You felt the faint, dizzying sensation. When you opened your eyes, the bruise faded, and the skin on his warm forearm looked normal, with no sign of the gash anymore.

Bucky's silence was telling, the sharp tick of the jaw and the crease between his brows, and you waited for a long moment, but he said nothing.

"What?" You asked, not being able to bear his silence anymore.

"Nothing." He bit out rather harshly.

"I can't see you hurt," those words hurtled before you could stop. In an attempt to belie your vulnerability--your love, you got up from there, hoping to fade your emotional turmoil. You blinked back the tears threatening to spill and made your way to the kitchen, willing your thoughts to quiet as you focused on heating up dinner.

"Bucky, dinner's ready," you called out, surprised to see him already near his bedroom door.

He paused, hand resting on the doorknob. "I'm not hungry," he remarked.

"I made your favorite cake," you added gently, trying to coax him. You hated it when he went without eating. He hadn't skipped a meal in a long time, not since the early days after escaping Hydra, when nausea haunted him daily. You knew too well that when the mind is in chaos, the appetite is usually the first thing to go.

"Not hungry," he repeated, more bitterly this time, before disappearing into his room and closing the door behind him.

~

You couldn't sleep--not until you knew he was. You'd gotten used to sleeping next to him. Just knowing he was there settled your nerves. You waited for hours, hoping to hear the gentle knock, the soft padding of footsteps, and the familiar 'Can I?'--a question that had become rhetorical over time. But he hadn't come.

You tried to read, but your focus kept slipping away. Feeling thirsty, you reached for your bottle, only to realize it was empty as you gave it a shake.

Ugh! You'd forgotten you'd downed the whole thing when you got hungry earlier in the night.

As you hopped off the bed, you talked yourself out of knocking on his door. But the moment you stepped into the living room, you heard him cry out.

With a sigh, you slid off the bed, quietly debating whether or not to knock on his door. You told yourself not to, and to wait for him to come to you when he was ready, even though you were sure something was wrong.

But the moment you stepped into the living room, a sound stopped you cold.

"NO. PLEASE. NO." Bucky was sobbing, groaning.

The bottle slipped from your hand as your heart leapt into your throat. You bolted for his room. The door was unlocked, thankfully. But he wasn't in bed.

You flicked on the table lamp. The soft light fell over his figure, curled on the floor, trembling.

"Buck. Hey, hey…it's okay," you said quickly, crouching beside him and reaching for his face.

"NO. Not you," he cried, grabbing your wrist in a panic.

"It was just a dream," you said, wiping his tear-streaked face.

He caught your hands and pressed your palms against his cheeks. Then he pulled you into his lap, arms tight around you.

"You're hurt," he gasped, frantic, inspecting your neck and arms, turning your hands over, searching.

"Bucky," you said gently, blinking your tears away.

"I'm alright. It was just a nightmare." You reminded.

His chest heaved, "I… I thought…" But the words broke off as he crushed you to him, sobbing into your shoulder. You held him just as tightly.

After a while, you whispered, "I'll get you some water." But he wouldn't let go.

"Okay. Okay… just lie down with me," you murmured. "I'm not going anywhere."

With you in his arms, he rose from the floor without so much as a flinch. You clung to him instinctively, your fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt as he carried you to the bed. You held on as he gently laid you down, then climbed in beside you, immediately curling himself around you. His fingers found yours, intertwining them softly.

"I got you, Bucky. Always," you whispered, feeling his tear-streaked face pressed against your temple. Your right palm settled over his heart, feeling it slowly begin to calm beneath your touch.

~

In an attempt to calm him, you talked about random things--from constellations to the book you'd been reading, which you thought was horrible, and why. He let out a throaty chuckle when you told him you should seriously reconsider the situation with Gollum, the alpine hare you both named, who visited your humble garden now and then and caused a ruckus.

Eventually, you convinced him to let you make some tea, and he followed you to the kitchen without a word.

"Buck…" you started, unsure.

You slid the mug toward him. He leaned onto the counter and slowly sipped. You studied him for a long moment and then asked softly, "What happened out there?" You were pretty sure something was bothering him.

He didn't answer immediately. Bucky took a few slow sips.

"I saw Hagen," Bucky said finally, eyes fully focused on you.

You stilled, staring at him wide-eyed as things clicked into place. The subtle hostility when he'd returned home that evening. The nightmare that followed. It all made sense now. You had chalked it all up to the rain--he was soaked through when he walked in. You should've guessed that his silence was more telling than his words. You didn't expect this though.

The odds of that encounter were next to none tonight. That was what you'd counted on.

Exactly five days ago, when Bucky made the trip to the city to place an order with Arne, the electronics guy, you'd ventured alone into town, breaking his most sacred rule--never go anywhere without me.

But you lived in a far corner of nowhere, surrounded by mountains and mist, and the town was safe even if Bucky thought otherwise.

Mr. and Mrs. Hagen, who owned the small bookstore you frequented, were kind people. That day, you'd noticed how worn Mr. Hagen looked. When you gently asked if he was okay, he told you Mrs. Hagen's health was failing. And when he asked if you wanted to see Mrs. Hagen, you agreed. Mrs. Hagen was a lovely lady. You and Bucky visited the store every now and then, hoarding books as you both enjoyed reading, and Mrs. Hagen often added a couple of books onto the pile for free. 'You can never have enough books.'

"He thinks it was a miracle," Bucky said flatly. "Said you visited," He bit out loud.

But you said nothing.

Bucky stared at you. His jaw tightened. "It fucking makes sense why you looked off that day. You know the price of using your gift."

"She was dying, Buck," you said quietly, looking away. "I couldn't walk away."

"And what about...you?" His voice dropped lower. "What happens when someone gets a whiff?" He gritted out.

You chanced a look at him. The shadow above him from the kitchen light cut sharp lines across his face, making him look like a sculpted god. Albeit an angry-looking god.

"She was suffering," you repeated, moving your gaze onto the foggy kitchen window, rain still pelting.

"That doesn't matter," he snapped. Bucky stepped forward, his right hand finding your elbow as he tugged you toward him. You didn't resist.

"Look at me." Bucky gritted out, frustration marring his features.

Your gaze rose slowly to meet his, guilty.

"What were you thinking?" he asked sharply. You could sense his pain.

"I was thinking she would've died."

"And I'm thinking I can't lose you too," he thundered, like the sky outside. His arm slipped around your back, his grip tightening as he pulled you closer.

You wanted to argue. You wanted to remind him that you were strong, more than human. That you'd lived in the harsh world alone for decades, that you went into the clutches of Hydra's lair to find him, that you weren't the one people should be afraid of. But your mother's words rang loudly in your head, 'Sweetheart, sometimes what makes you powerful is exactly what makes you vulnerable…hunted.'

Feeling utterly helpless, your shoulders dropped. You couldn't see people suffer. You carried a lot of regrets yourself. The fact that you didn't find Bucky soon enough after he fell off the train, the fact that you should've stopped Steve from getting the serum. If Steve hadn't, he would not have sacrificed his life. Those haunted you every damn day. So, what if you alleviated Mr. and Mrs. Hagen's suffering. It brought you peace.

"I'm sorry," you whispered, burying your face into his chest.

He sighed into your hair, kissing you tenderly.

"I need you to resist helping people," he pleaded.

"I don't know how Buck," you whispered, holding him tightly.

~

Bucky dreaded love more than he ever feared Hydra. While he mourned the love he had lost--Steve--he also mourned not being the kind of man you deserved.  

The way you saved him persistently, and resurrected him after Hydra, with years and years of patience. It was beyond his understanding. Gosh! You could totally beat Steve when it came to being stubborn.

He watched you, relaxed in his arms, deep in sleep.

His Angel!

Sometimes, it was hard to believe that you were by his side. His fingers traced your cheek, and you leaned into his touch.

Bucky knew he was a selfish man because he'd never said he loved you out loud, afraid he'd cause an imbalance in the perfect ecosystem. Because he knew you loved him. And even if you never explicitly worded your love, you defined it in every little action. It pained him how deeply you loved him despite what he'd done.

In the late hours of the night, when he curled up beside you--nightmares as an excuse--he'd usually think of a better tomorrow. One where he'd repented the doings of a man in his mind who he'd been unwillingly sharing space with. Where he could love you the way you deserved. Where Steve was still alive, and you all lived in a world where freedom wouldn't be weighed by norms. But fate couldn't be that forgiving, right?

Bucky still hoped and prayed for forgiveness--for the actions he had unwittingly committed. He tried to be a better man every day.

Bucky was protective of you--territorial might befit. But the fact was, you protected him every day. From himself. From his nightmares. You were his salvation.

You shifted, turning more into his side, still deep asleep, slipping your hand around his waist. Bucky chuckled softly, clutching the oversized T-shirt on the little of your back, and pulled you closer.

God! You were divine. So far out of his league. Did you even know that?

He could literally kill for you. And he was close to committing that heinous act that very evening.

He'd gone to the bookstore to buy the book you'd been waiting for, only to overhear Hagen talking about you and 'miracle' in the same breath. The fear hit him instantly. For a moment, he stood frozen, staring at the wrinkled man. A sinister thought crawled into his mind: kill Hagen and his wife. Make it look like a robbery.

Then, Bucky thought of you and felt utterly disgusted with himself for even thinking of it. He wasn't that person, and he'd never be him again. He fled from there as fast as he could, terrified of himself.

He wondered if he could ever truly be the man you deserved. He highly doubted it. But the fact was, he couldn't let you go. He'd already lost Steve. He couldn't fathom losing you, too.

Bucky loved you. With every tiny, broken piece of himself--he loved you.

He moved closer, admiring your peaceful face and enveloping himself in your intoxicating scent.

You were so goddamn delicate. So mesmerizingly pretty. It was up to him to safeguard you.

You'd wake up in a few hours. You hadn't eaten because he hadn't. And he'd been a fucking prick all evening. You'd even baked him his favorite cake, but he'd been too cooped up in his head, too angry at you for being so reckless. Didn't you understand he couldn't live without you?

He'd make your favorite breakfast and apologize. Maybe you'd kiss him on the cheek like you had yesterday. That little kiss where you'd rise on your toes and tug him down gently always made him feel alive.

Bucky leaned in, and placed a small kiss on your forehead. Your scent enveloping him, a medicine to his wounded thoughts and shattered soul. In the confines of his mind, he whispered, 'I love you,' perhaps too loudly for your heart not to hear.

Fic-a-boo Part 03: Perennial Embers The phone rang three times before it was picked up. "Pepper Potts speaking." "Hi...Umm. Hi, Pepper," you said, your voice a little shaky, "I need to cash in that favor."

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[fallenbratfiction]

Stillness ~ steve rogers x f!reader

chapter one

series masterlist

A/N: It’s been a hectic weekend but I’ve finally got this wrapped up by 1am.

warnings: none necessary for this chapter other than nostalgia, parent loss due to the blip.

minors dni. i am not responsible for what you choose to consume.

do not copy, translate or claim any of my work as your own.

He doesn’t go back in time after Endgame. What would he even look for? Peggy’s gone. The world he knew is gone. What’s left is noise—war, medals, headlines, speeches that mean nothing. Steve’s tired of it. Tired of saving the world.

“I’m not going back in time,” he says. “There’s nothing there for me. I’m not meant to live in the past. But I can’t keep showing up for the future, either—not like this.”

“You earned peace, man,” Sam says, his voice steady. “You don’t owe the world any more.”

“I know,” Steve replies, quietly. “I just need to find something that’s mine. A place that’s quiet. A place that doesn’t need Captain America.”

He pulls Sam into a hug. Strong, warm, like a thank-you without the words. Sam claps his back, holding on a little longer than expected.

Bucky looks at him for a long moment. “You’ll come back?”

Steve nods.

“Yeah. I’ll come back.”

Steve squeezes Bucky’s shoulder. No shield, no speeches—just a man choosing peace for once.

Steve says his quiet goodbye, trying to leave with grace. But Bucky’s jaw is tight, his fists clenched, and when Steve turns to go, he can’t help himself. His voice cracks just a little.

“Don’t be stupid.”

Steve pauses, looks back.

“How can I?” Bucky mutters. “You’ll take the stupid with you.”

“You know where to find me.”

Bucky, scoffing bitterly: “Actually, I don’t.”

Steve’s face softens. “I’ll send you something once I’m settled. I promise.”

Sam just nods in the back, arms crossed—he gets it, even if it stings.

Then silence. The kind that weighs a ton.

It’s the quietest goodbye he’s ever given, and somehow the loudest in their hearts.

————

Steve packed a suitcase—just the essentials—and rides out on his bike. The open road is a blur of trees and hills and silence, and somewhere along the way, he finds it. Your place.

A big, old bed and breakfast nestled between the forest and the mountains, close enough to a lake you can smell the water when the wind shifts. You’d called it “The Pines” over the phone. Your voice was quiet. Kind. You didn’t ask questions. You just took the reservation.

He pulls up late in the afternoon. The sky’s beginning to shift—soft pinks and silver clouds—and the whole house glows like it belongs to another century.

Steve parks the bike, shuts off the engine. Everything is still.

The porch steps creak under his weight as he climbs. He’s not sure what he’s doing here anymore. Only that something inside him aches less the closer he gets to the front door.

The bell above the door rings, sharp against the hum of the old radiator. You glance up from your book, already expecting another lost trucker or maybe the couple that called and never showed.

But it’s not that.

He’s tall. Broad. Covered in road dust and tired silence. For a second, you don’t even register who he is—just the weight of him standing there, the way the room seems smaller now. He’s not in uniform, but there’s something unmistakable about him. That face. That history.

Steve Rogers.

You offer a polite, practiced smile anyway. “Hi. Welcome to The Pines.”

He nods once, quiet, a little stiff. “I called about a room.”

“Right,” you say, flipping open the reservation ledger. “One guest. No check-out date.”

There’s a brief pause. He shifts slightly on his feet. “Not sure how long I’ll be staying.”

“That’s fine,” you say, scribbling something down. “This time of year, you’ve got your pick of the rooms. Most people don’t think to come out this way in the off-season.”

You slide the key across the counter. “Room 4. Up the stairs, end of the hall on the left. Sheets are clean. Water pressure’s a little temperamental. House is old, like most things around here.”

He reaches for the key, his fingers brushing the counter. “Thanks.”

You nod again, and he turns toward the stairs. The floor creaks as he moves. You glance down at your book, pretending to keep reading, but your eyes don’t follow the words.

There’s a quiet in the air that wasn’t there before.

A few hours pass. The house hums with its usual quiet. You move through the familiar motions—tidying up the diner-style kitchen, prepping dough for tomorrow’s breakfast, wiping down the tables even though no one’s sat there all day.

This place has been yours for as long as you can remember. You grew up between these walls, watching your dad flip pancakes and charm guests, always with your mom’s music humming low in the background. They built it together. You kept it alive.

Since the Blip, it’s just been you.

You never considered leaving. Not really. There’s something comforting in routine, in knowing each creaky floorboard, each loose hinge. You like being your own boss. You like hearing the stories of the people who pass through, even if most of them are just trying to get somewhere else.

The stairs creak—soft, deliberate.

You glance up, wiping your hands on a towel. It’s him.

Steve Rogers.

You recognize him, of course. Everyone does. But you don’t look twice. Not in the way most would. You nod, a simple, silent acknowledgment as he walks past toward the common area, or maybe the porch. You're not sure. You don’t ask.

Because here’s the thing—he’s done great things. World-changing things. And yet... he's here. In your small corner of nowhere. Just a man now, not a symbol. And something tells you that’s exactly what he wants.

You don’t ask for stories. You don’t pry.

You figure he came here looking for peace. And peace, you can give him.

____

The kitchen is still. The clink of your spoon against the mug echoes faintly as you stir your tea, letting the warmth bloom in your chest. You’re halfway through the first sip when you hear it—three light knocks on the kitchen doorframe.

You glance up.

Steve stands there, hands in his pockets, gaze calm but intent.

“Yeah?” you ask, setting the mug down. “What can I help you with?”

“Do you have a toolbox?” he asks. “Something needs fixing.”

His voice is low, steady. That kind of voice people listen to without meaning to.

You blink, taken off guard. “Uh… yeah. I think.”

You lead him out toward the front. You disappear into the back storage room behind the desk, rummaging past boxes of supplies and seasonal decorations until—finally—you find it. Heavy, metal, probably untouched in a while.

You hand it over with a skeptical glance. “I don’t usually give guests access to these kinds of things. Liability and all. But you don’t strike me as the type to start a fire.”

He lets out a soft laugh—barely there—but enough to tug the corners of his mouth into a real smile.

“If anything’s missing, check the drawer in that room,” you nod toward the office.

Steve gives a grateful dip of his head, toolbox in hand, and heads outside.

You don’t ask what needs fixing. You assume it’s his bike.

But later—tea refilled, curiosity winning just a little—you find yourself near the window.

You glance outside, and there he is.

Not at the bike.

On the porch. Toolbox open, sleeves rolled up, working on the loose stair that’s been creaking for months.

You watch for a moment longer than you mean to.

Then, quietly, you look away.

You don’t want to seem like you’re staring.

Even if you are.

He finishes with the porch and puts the toolbox back exactly where he found it. No noise, no fuss. Just steady footsteps up the stairs again.

You go about your evening like always—dinner for one. Leftovers from lunch warmed in a pan. You carry your plate to the dining room and sit at the far end of the long wooden table, your usual spot.

You’re halfway through your meal when you hear the creak of the stairs again.

Steve appears in the doorway, sleeves rolled up, hands still a little dusty. He looks around like he’s touring a museum, eyes moving from the paintings on the wall to the old grandfather clock in the corner.

“Bon appétit,” he says with a small smile and a dip of his head.

You smile back, caught a little off guard.

“If you’re hungry, there’s some grilled chicken and potatoes over on the counter. I always make a little extra, just in case. Or I can point you to a place down by the pier—open late if you feel like going out.”

He glances at the plate—crispy roasted potatoes, a piece of grilled chicken still steaming, the kind of salad that says you didn’t just throw it together. He lingers like he might change his mind, but then shakes his head. “Thanks. I’m good.”

Still, he doesn’t leave. Keeps drifting around the room, like he’s taking stock. Or maybe... just looking for peace in the details.

It’s hard to eat with Captain America examining your crown molding.

But you keep your eyes on your plate, pretend not to notice when he runs his hand over a crooked picture frame. Pretend not to care that he’s clearly noticing the loose panel in the corner of the room, or the dining chair with a wobble.

He doesn’t say anything about them. But you can see it in his face. He’s already planning what to fix next.

So there goes the first chapter of this new series. I hope you enjoyed reading it! I love feedback, so feel free to comment.

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[david-talks-sw]

Woah there. Coming in a little hot. Take a step back, take stock, and chill. Even when we're discussing (read: "arguing") about stuff, it's Star Wars. It's a fictional universe. We're talking about movies and TV shows and comics aka... having fun.

(Which is advice that applies to me too, for the record)

That said, you trimmed out what I said, so I'll copy-paste it below (blue text) before expanding.

For context, someone said that (paraphrasing) the clones are referred to as “property of the Republic” by Shaak Ti in an argument with Nala Se regarding Fives and there is no rejoinder, so this acknowledgment of the clones being property of the Republic makes the Jedi complicit in their enslavement, as they partake in a flagrantly immoral command structure that sent slave soldiers to their deaths.

My response:

Tone and context are everything. There's an intonation on the word "property" when Shaak Ti says it. She isn't saying:

"Fives is property of the Republic."

She's saying:

"Correction! Technically, Fives is 'property' of the Republic."

She's taking Nala Se's cold, callous term and turning it around on Se with a technicality to score a point and pull rank, in order to save Fives' life. The subtext isn't "Fives is my slave," it's "you don't get to take this living being's life without my say-so."

Ti is regurgitating Nala Se's lingo to tell her to shut the fuck up.

In-universe, "there is no rejoinder" because Fives is aware of this subtext and knows Shaak Ti's in his corner. His life was on the line and Shaak Ti saved him.

Out-of-universe, "there is no rejoinder" because it's the ending of a 22-minute episode from a children's TV show 😃 and the point of the scene isn't to argue semantics about the ownership of the clones it's to save Fives' life. The beats of the scene can be boiled down to:

Nala Se argues fervently for Fives to die.

Shaak Ti is like "stfu no, I'm taking him to Coruscant"

Fives is grateful that Shaak Ti saved his life.

If the argument Nala Se used was, I dunno... "he must be terminated because the virus is contagious" then the beats of the scene would play out the same. Because again: the narrative, the story being told in this episode, ends with Shaak Ti coming in with the clutch and saving Fives.

The lore/sci-fi-ness of it all are mere details to move this children's story along.

You can read the rest of my response here, but since then, the user expanded on their point, explaining that while they acknowledge that Fives knows Shaak Ti's in his corner, what they meant is that there is no rejoinder from Nala Se. If it wasn't true that Fives was "property of the Republic", Nala Se would have said so in her cold and clinical terms.

Thus, for them, the point still stands.

And, uh, I'm not sure it does. Because the episode right before, Nala Se does counter Shaak Ti's argument by saying "nu-uh, the clones are property of the Kaminoans and we're leasing them to you."

So at some point, we either:

Point and go "IT'S A PLOT HOLE, BAD WRITING!" and acknowledge the point is thus moot.

Headcanon our way through this, theorizing that this point of semantics was argued by Shaak Ti and Nala Se and subsequently solved off-screen, in-between the two episodes. In which case, Shaak Ti's word on the subject is indeed final.

Acknowledge that this is a 22-minute story for kids, it was the end of the episode, and they needed Shaak Ti to come up with a technicality so as to save Fives without seeming unreasonable, and this is the best the writers could come up with.

I'm gonna go ahead and take option #3.

But, anon, this reaction of yours does open the door on a bigger point I've argued before.

All I did was bring proper context back to Shaak Ti's words, when they had been taken out of it.

And in discussion about the Jedi, this gets done very often. A sentence - or even words within one - will get plucked out of context and lore or fanon will form around it.

Here's some examples.

"Obi-Wan said that Anakin is pathetic!"

Context:

A pathetic life form.

He's comparing Anakin to Jar Jar, y'all.

AKA someone who had been exiled and was later about to be executed when they found him. AKA someone who has pathos, who inspires pity. Aka someone PATHETIC.

George himself describes Vader as pathetic.

That's because "pathetic" isn't just a judgmental term.

Resulting interpretation: Obi-Wan isn't saying Anakin is "ew, pathetic!" he's disagreeing with Qui-Gon's tendency to pick up strays and fails to see the point of them tagging along on the mission. He is proved wrong later and this ties in to his character arc about learning to see the value in listening to Guide archetype characters like Jar Jar or Ep. 1 Anakin.

"Yoda said the Jedi are arrogant."

Context:

Obi-Wan is bitching about Anakin being arrogant due to being so skillful, and Yoda tells Obi-Wan:

Resulting interpretation: Yoda is speaking in riddles, as per usual. He's being cheeky and implicitly telling Obi-Wan that he can be arrogant too sometimes, in his own Yoda-esque way.

Yoda is not "lamenting how far the Jedi have fallen". It's just another way of saying "we're all human, nobody's perfect."

"Mace said he doesn't trust Anakin."

Context:

Obi-Wan: “Anakin did not take to his assignment with much enthusiasm.” Mace: “It’s very dangerous putting them [Anakin & Palpatine] together. I don’t think the boy can handle it.”

Resulting interpretation: Anakin - not, by his own admission, the most subtle Jedi - is being asked to secretly spy on someone he considers a close friend, a mentor, a father even... aka someone who'll read Anakin like an open book (which is exactly what ends up happening).

Would you trust Anakin with that mission?

Because I sure as hell wouldn't. And that's what Mace is saying.

If it's "fucking disgusting" to point out the context in each of the above situations, during a Star Wars analysis or discussion, I fail to see why.

[godricgryffinsnore]

A Constellation For You ♡ : A Sirius Black Fan Fiction.

pairing : Sirius Black x female!reader

summary : You have always loved Sirius Black, the boy who burned like a falling star—brilliant, reckless, and always just out of reach. But war is cruel, and love is not always enough to shield the heart from the sharp edges of betrayal and grief. When Sirius is imprisoned in Azkaban for a crime he didn’t commit, you are left with nothing but memories and an ache that refuses to fade. Years later, when he returns, broken but alive, you must navigate the ruins of what once was—mending wounds, facing ghosts, and daring to hope that love, despite everything, can survive.

warnings : mentions of war and its aftermath, emotional distress, grief, trauma, slightly self-destructive behavior (coping mechanisms), angst with a happy ending, canon-divergent timeline, death. Please let me know if I missed any.

author's note : English is not my first language, so please forgive me for any grammatical errors or spelling errors. Re-blogging is completely fine with me, but please don't copy my work. I love you all. Enjoy <3. This entire work is broken into timelines.

Word Count : 1k

main master list <3

︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵

I. A Love Like Fire.

There was a time when Sirius Black was everything.

He was the boy who never fit into the mold his family had carved for him, the firework that refused to burn quietly. You met him at Hogwarts, in the shadow of ancient stone corridors and within the golden glow of Gryffindor’s common room. He was reckless and charming, a tempest wrapped in leather and cigarette smoke. He would grin at you with that wicked, knowing smile—the kind that made your stomach swoop like the drop of a roller coaster.

And you, foolish as you were, loved him for it.

Sirius loved like he did everything else—recklessly, with a kind of fervor that felt like standing too close to the sun. He was poetry and destruction in equal measure, hands ink-stained from writing letters he never sent, lips brushing against yours between hurried whispers of love and war.

But war.

War does not care for love, and it certainly did not care for you or Sirius.

When James and Lily died, something inside Sirius shattered. You remember the last night before it all went wrong—before Peter’s betrayal, before the arrest, before Azkaban. He had held you like he was drowning, his breath ragged against your collarbone. "Stay with me," he had whispered, fingers tangled in your hair. "Always," you had promised.

You did not know that “always” could be stolen so easily.

══════════════════════════════════════════

II. Years Without You.

The world without Sirius was quieter, colder. You carried grief like an iron weight, the absence of him a wound that never quite healed. The newspapers declared him a murderer, a traitor, and yet—your heart refused to believe it.

You searched for him in the stars. You whispered his name into the night air, wondering if, wherever he was, he could hear you.

But love is cruel. Love is not enough to break through the walls of Azkaban.

You tried to move on. You tried to let time soften the edges of your pain. But every time you closed your eyes, you saw him—his laughter in the halls of Hogwarts, the way he used to press his lips against your temple as if to say, I will always come back to you.

But he didn’t.

Or so you thought.

══════════════════════════════════════════

III. Ghosts of the Past.

When Sirius Black returned, it was not the boy you had loved who stood before you.

It was a man who had suffered, whose bones carried the weight of twelve years behind bars, whose laughter had been stolen by Dementors. His hair, once silk-black, hung in tangled waves past his shoulders. His eyes—those sharp silver eyes—were hollowed, dark circles smudged beneath them like bruises.

And yet, when he looked at you, something flickered. A shadow of something familiar.

You didn’t know what to say. How do you speak to someone who has been a ghost for over a decade?

"It’s you," he breathed, voice hoarse. "Merlin, it’s really you."

You swallowed the lump in your throat. "You came back."

A pause.

"I promised, didn’t I?" His lips twitched, as if attempting a smile that had long since been forgotten.

You wanted to scream. You wanted to tell him how much you hated him for leaving, how much you missed him, how unfair it was that life had stolen so much from the both of you. But instead, you reached out, trembling fingers brushing against his.

He flinched.

It broke your heart.

"Sirius…" you whispered.

His name tasted like something sacred on your tongue.

══════════════════════════════════════════

IV. Learning to Breathe Again.

Healing was not easy. Sirius did not know how to be soft anymore.

There were nights when he could not sleep, when nightmares dragged him back into the darkness of Azkaban. He would wake up breathless, drenched in sweat, hands trembling. And you would be there, tracing the scars on his arms, pressing kisses into his knuckles as if to remind him that he was here, he was real, he was not alone.

"I don’t know how to be the man you loved," he admitted one night, voice raw.

You cupped his face, thumbs brushing over the sharp edges of his cheekbones. "Then we’ll learn together."

He exhaled shakily. "You shouldn’t have waited for me."

"I never stopped loving you."

The silence between you was heavy. Then, slowly, as if afraid you might disappear, Sirius leaned in, his lips ghosting over yours. It was hesitant, uncertain, nothing like the way he used to kiss you.

But it was real.

And that was enough.

══════════════════════════════════════════

V. The Universe Owes Us This.

Time stitched Sirius back together in fragments. He still had bad days, moments where the past clung to him like a second skin. But he also had you.

You reminded him of what it meant to live.

You laughed with him again, filling the empty spaces with warmth. You traced constellations on his back, whispering stories of the stars as he fell asleep beside you. You held his hand without fear, kissed him like you had all the time in the world.

One evening, as you lay tangled in bed, Sirius pressed a kiss to your forehead. "You were always my brightest star," he murmured.

You smiled against his skin. "And you are my favorite constellation."

For the first time in years, Sirius Black allowed himself to believe in love again.

For the first time in years, he was home.

︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵

[yoursinisforgiven]

CALL ME BY YOUR NAME, AND I’LL CALL YOU BY MINE ──

pairing: zaros x reader (earis)

cw: implications of having sex, death, reader struggles with mental issues, mentions and thoughts of death, guilt, violence, mentions of war, war, blood, reader is quite arrogant at the start of the story, reader doesn't eat for a while (nothing regarding weight), funerals, reader is referred to as ‘queen’ and ‘lady’ , unhealthy copy mechanism, mentions of pregnancy, mentions of weight (not in a negative sense), medication abuse, the reader is heavily implied to not be able to cook well, slow burn–ish, potentially ooc (i haven't listened to most of his audios, sorrryyy).

you are responsible for your own media consumption.

Serulla.

Honor.

Independence.

Yearning.

Loss.

Crown.

S — E — R — U — L — L —

Your hand falters, fingers trembling in the dim glow of a half-burned candle, the last letter hanging unfinished in the space between your thumb and forefinger. The silk pillow beneath your hand was comforting. It was the good silk too—the one with the embroidery of coiling lilies and curling antlers, your mother’s crest, the Queen’s crest. The scent of lavender still clung faintly to the fibers, but it was buried beneath the sickly sweetness of grief, a scent you had come to know intimately these past weeks.

Your eyelids felt impossibly heavy, weighted down as though your very soul had gathered behind them, thick and clotted and aching. Or perhaps it wasn’t your eyes at all. Perhaps it was your heart, that sallow, heavy thing in your chest that no longer beat quite right. Blurred memories rose up like a tide, pressing against the walls of your mind. Odd, you thought, how they came so hazy when the funeral had been only a month past. The faces around the black-draped room. The scent of earth when the grave was opened. The way her skin had turned the color of porcelain left too long in shadow, lips pale as chalk. You tried to picture her eyes but could only remember them closed. Closed. Forever.

“It’s like a haunted house,” you had murmured once to a woman with soft hands and eyes far too kind to understand anything at all. She had claimed to be a doctor in such matters—grief, loss, the phantom ache of those taken too soon. But you had watched her gaze slip from you, again and again, to the tall, freestanding clock in the corner of her sterile chamber. It had been old, that clock, its pendulum swinging like a noose made of time, and you wondered whether it measured the hours or merely counted the moments until your grief became palatable to polite society.

You never went back. The palace sent word, of course, reminders and polite notes penned in another woman’s hand, offering their services for your ‘condition.’ You left them unanswered, piling them atop a desk you no longer touched.

And so, alone, you returned to your childhood refuge—the act of spelling the word, letter by letter, the word that meant everything and nothing at all. A name. A place. A kingdom. A grave.

You began again. S—E—R—

The last letter hovered on your lips, your hand poised in the pale sign for ‘A’, when a knock split the air, stark and sharp against the heavy oak of your chamber door. It was not loud, but in the suffocating hush of the room, it felt like the crack of a whip. You flinched.

A servant’s voice followed, cautious and low, as though afraid to disturb the air that hung thick with mourning. “Dinner is ready, my Earis.”

You swallowed hard, the name like ash on your tongue. It used to mean ‘beloved heir’ once. Now it sounded like a sentence. A reminder. You didn’t turn to face her, though you could picture her plainly—the young girl with the wide-set eyes and the thick braid hanging over one shoulder. You could not remember her name, though you were certain you’d asked for it half a dozen times. It slipped through your mind like water through a sieve. Lately, so many things did.

“I’m not hungry,” you said, your voice flat, brittle, a refrain you had spoken too many times to count. You imagined yourself a broken music box, wound down to a single, pitiful phrase.

A long pause followed, the kind where one could almost hear the weight of unspoken words. Perhaps pity. Perhaps irritation. You wondered if she hated you for the wasted food, the untouched plates, the kitchen staff toiling for a ghost. You wondered if she pitied you, in her plain wool dress with its frayed cuffs. The peasants starved in the streets, you knew. Grain riots had broken out in the South Quarter just two nights ago, the scent of ash and burning grain choking the wind. And here you were, wrapped in silk, refusing soup.

But everyone would feel this pain, in one way or another.

The Queen was dead.

And so was your mother.

And so was your childhood.

And so, you suspected, was your future.

──

You hadn’t been avoiding Zaros.

Not him in particular, not in any deliberate, premeditated sense. The truth was far simpler and far uglier — you had been avoiding everyone. Everything. The world had grown too wide, too loud, too alive in the wake of your mother’s absence. Every room in the palace seemed to hum with echoes of her. The sound of silk against marble, the faint scent of her favored oils lingering in the stone corridors, the ghost of her voice in the turning of pages and the shuffle of courtiers. You’d quickly come to a terrible realization in those first empty days: she could be everywhere.

Including yourself.

And so you hid. Not with the calculated poise of royalty, but with the desperate, unthinking instinct of something wounded. The thick velvet of your bedchamber curtains drawn tight. Your reflection left untouched in the mirror. The medicine — a curious, bitter thing in a small glass vial, no wider than your thumb — had been a parting gift from a physician too old to be of any real use, but clever enough to know when a patient wasn’t seeking a cure. One drop upon the tongue, and it was enough to swallow you whole, to drag you under the fathomless dark for a night’s sleep uninterrupted by grief. That had been a month ago, when you first procured it, when you still believed yourself capable of moderation.

Now it took three drops to steal five hours of sleep. Still you caved. It was a tender kind of death, and you craved it. You welcomed the darkness because, in it, no one asked anything of you.

Not until now.

“What are you doing?”

The voice cut through the quiet like a knife, low and sharp, and though it was not loud, it startled you so thoroughly you nearly knocked the book from your lap. It wasn’t that Zaros spoke in a frightening tone, or with any particular menace. It was simply that you hadn’t heard the voice of anyone in days — no priest, no meek servant announcing meals you’d left untouched, not even the pitiful doctor with his clock-watching habits and rehearsed platitudes. The world had existed in muffled silence, and now here it was, unraveling in a single, uninvited breath.

You forced yourself still, though your pulse had already begun its mad, frantic clamor against your ribs. The book in your lap felt suddenly heavy, the narrow spine cutting into the flesh of your palm. Do not turn to him.

“Reading,” you answered, voice flat, brittle as dried leaves. You did not look up. The words sounded small, pathetic even to your own ears.

You heard his footsteps then, that measured tread you recognized far too well — not the pompous stomp of courtiers nor the skittish patter of servants, but something assured, quiet, purposeful. It grated against your nerves to have your back to him. The library, once a sanctuary, now felt like a trap, the walls pressing in too tightly, the air tasting of dust and old ink.

“Had they not informed you?” Zaros spoke again, closer now, voice smooth, touched with something you couldn’t name. “The trials are to be put on hold.”

He let the words hang between you like a blade suspended mid-swing.

“Nonetheless, it shouldn’t be your center of concern—”

“I don’t only read for the trials, Zaros.” The words burst from you sharper than intended, your tongue lashing before your mind caught up. The name alone was a snarl. “I’m not an illiterate.”

The venom in your voice surprised you, but not as much as the flicker of silence that followed. You imagined him raising a brow, that infuriatingly unreadable expression he wore when you allowed your temper to slip through the cracks. You prayed, silently and with fervor, that he wouldn’t glance at the book in your lap, for though you had claimed otherwise, it was one of the trial assessments — old accounts of the Northern Accord, required reading for heirs to the crown of Serulla. Not that it mattered now. The trials were postponed. Everything was postponed.

You waited for the inevitable jab, the curt reminder of duty, some elegantly cruel remark to follow your outburst.

It never came.

Instead, you felt the weight of his gaze settle on you, heavier than any crown.

A long moment passed.

“You haven’t been seen,” he said quietly, and there was something in his voice that wasn’t rebuke. Not pity either. Something worse. Something like understanding. “I thought perhaps you’d gone and drowned yourself in the river.”

You let out a humorless breath, not quite a laugh. “Would you have been so lucky.”

“No,” Zaros said, and the word hung strangely in the air, stark and certain. “No, I wouldn’t.”

You did not know why that struck you. Perhaps it was the steady way he spoke it, without his usual coiled sarcasm, without the practiced cruelty you’d come to expect from court rivals dressed in borrowed grief. Your throat tightened against your will.

For the first time since he entered, you dared to turn your head. Just enough to see him. His face was unreadable in the firelight, all sharp lines and dark eyes, but there was a weariness there too, something brittle at the edges.

And gods help you, it undid you.

It wasn’t the grand declarations of grief, or the endless condolences penned by trembling hands on thick parchment. It wasn’t the muffled weeping of servants, or the empty, echoing hush of the throne room. It was this. The simple fact that even he looked tired.

Your vision blurred before you felt the tears. Hot, sudden, uninvited. A sob tore its way from your throat, raw and unfamiliar, as though your body had forgotten the shape of it.

You dropped the book. It thudded against the floor, forgotten.

“Damn you,” you whispered, though it lacked any venom.

In a moment that felt both foreign and inevitable, Zaros crossed the remaining distance and knelt beside you, his hands unsure for the first time you could remember. One settled at the back of your neck, the other at your waist, and when you did not push him away — could not — he pulled you into him. The sobs came harder then, breaking through the dam you’d so carefully constructed, burying your face against the fabric of his coat.

He said nothing. No clever remark, no cold comfort. He simply held you, his grip firm as though he understood what it meant for someone to finally fall apart.

And in that terrible, blessed silence, for the first time since the funeral, you let yourself cry.

Pathetic.

──

That had been a week ago.

A week since your breath had hitched in your throat, ragged and uneven, and you’d buried your face against the silk of Zaros’s coat in the library, your tears soaking into the fine fabric you hadn’t even realized you’d grabbed hold of. A week since your sobs—those terrible, wrung-dry sounds you hadn’t let loose since the funeral pyre’s flames licked at the dark sky—had rattled free of you like loose stones down a well. A week since he’d held you, quiet, saying nothing, neither feigning sympathy nor recoiling. He didn’t stroke your hair or whisper soothing nonsense the way those painted doctors did. He simply stayed. And that had been more merciful than all their carefully worded condolences combined.

And you had to live with the fact that Zaros, of all people, had managed to pry his way into the marrow of your grief.

You told yourself you were still careful. Still sharp. You never let yourself forget what kind of game this court was, how every sigh, every tear, every faltering breath could be used as a weapon, should it land in the wrong hands. You told yourself you didn’t trust him. Not entirely. Not without something given in return. And for every tear you shed, Zaros bared his own wounds — not grand speeches, not the sort of performative misery the High Council favored when they wanted to appear loyal to the old Queen’s memory. No. His confessions were quieter things. Fears slipped out like smoke in the dead of night. Wounds that had scabbed over but never quite healed. His concerns about the Trials, about the Council’s treachery, about the suffocating expectation of the bloodlines.

And it had begun to feel… intimate. Too intimate.

You ignored the servants’ mutterings when you passed. The lingering glances, the hushed giggles behind curtains. You pretended you didn’t notice the way his mother would seize his wrist in passing, hissing reminders of duty, of the crown, her sharp nails digging crescents into his skin. You ignored it because you had to. Because if you let yourself think about it too long, you might start to wonder if you liked the quiet in his presence too much.

You might admit you’d begun to need it.

The Trials had been “delayed” — a ridiculous, hollow excuse for the High Council’s own disarray. Zaros had pulled you aside two nights after the announcement, his lips brushing your ear as he whispered, “It’s all bullshit. They’re scrambling without your mother. She planned half the proceedings herself. Without her, they’re children trying to play at war.”

It should’ve made you sick with anger. Should’ve made you demand the Council gather that night and proceed with the crowning, grief or no grief. But you didn’t. You couldn’t. The truth was you were tired. Hollowed out. And a secret part of you, the part that hadn’t yet hardened to stone, was afraid.

Which was why, when he appeared outside your chamber door before dawn that morning, something about the look in his eyes—quiet, dark, unreadable—made you hesitate.

“My Earis,” he murmured, soft as wind through long grass, careful not to startle you.

It was ridiculous, of course. You were no simpering maiden, no wilting damsel. Despite how much of your undoing he had witnessed, you would not let yourself become some fragile thing in his eyes.

“What do you want?” you’d snapped, though the sharpness in your voice rang hollow even to your own ears.

“Come with me.”

You’d frowned. “Where?”

He didn’t answer. Only turned and started down the corridor. And gods help you, you followed.

You’d assumed there would be a carriage waiting, something discreet but tasteful. A covered wagon with silk cushions, perhaps, or at the very least one of the lesser court carriages. Instead, you found yourself standing in the cold predawn mist, face sour, arms crossed as you stared at the great black horse tethered outside the stables.

You recoiled.

“No,” you said at once. “Absolutely not. It’s—” you gestured vaguely at the animal, wrinkling your nose, “dirty.”

Zaros laughed then, really laughed, a rare and rich sound that seemed to make the mist part around him. “It’s a horse, Earis. It’s supposed to be dirty.”

“I haven’t ridden since I was eight,” you muttered. “And that was on a pony. In the palace gardens. Supervised.”

His grin widened. “All the more reason, then.”

He swung himself easily onto the saddle and extended a hand to you. You glared at it like it was some offensive thing.

“I’m not wearing riding clothes.”

“You’re wearing a cloak. It’ll do.”

You hesitated. Pride warred with disdain and a reluctant, half-formed curiosity. And then there was that ache inside your chest, the thing you hadn’t named, the thing that gnawed at you in the endless hours between dusk and dawn. Maybe it would quiet, out there in the open air.

So, against your better judgment, you reached for his hand.

The horse was huge. Too huge. You mounted stiffly, awkward, a little too aware of the grit beneath your palms and the way the wool of your cloak snagged on the saddle’s worn leather. Zaros said nothing, but you could feel the smugness radiating off him like warmth from a fire.

He clicked his tongue, and the horse started forward.

And just like that, you were moving.

The city changed as you left the manicured perfection of the palace grounds behind. The wide, clean avenues narrowed into cobbled streets, the air growing thick with woodsmoke and salt. You clung a little tighter to the reins, muscles stiff and unfamiliar with the motion, as Zaros led you through the tangle of alleys and overgrown paths. The mist clung to everything, giving the world a dreamlike haze, making it difficult to tell where stone ended and sky began.

You passed weathered market stalls, already beginning to open despite the early hour. Rough-spun cloth draped over crates of bruised fruit. Blackened fish strung up to dry. A woman with sea-salt hair ladled some thick, fragrant stew into a cracked bowl for a hungry child, and for a moment the sight of it—the simplicity of the act—made something in your throat tighten.

You’d never been here before. Not properly. Not beyond what could be seen from the palace balcony or behind a gilded carriage window. You’d always been told it was dangerous, unclean, beneath you.

And yet it felt more alive than the hollowed-out halls you’d left behind.

When you finally reached the cliffs, the city spread out in miniature behind you, its spires softened by distance. The sea was a slate-colored expanse, endless and unyielding. The air tasted sharp and wild, carrying the tang of salt and something old. Something ancient.

Zaros dismounted first, his boots crunching against the gravel. He turned, offering a hand again. You took it this time without complaint.

For a long moment, neither of you spoke.

Then he said, voice low, “I thought you should see it. The world without them. Without the Council. Without the Court. Just this.”

You swallowed hard, throat aching. “It’s… less awful than I thought it would be.”

A corner of Zaros’s mouth lifted, not quite a smile, something quieter. “You mean it’s less awful than they told you it would be.”

You frowned, defensive on instinct, but he only looked at you, patient in a way you hadn’t expected. His voice was careful when he spoke again. “You’ve never seen them, Not really. The streets. The people. The markets that feed them, the hands that build the walls you sleep behind. You’ve been watching through palace glass and expecting to understand the shape of the world.”

His words stung, though not with cruelty — more like the sharp press of something meant to wake you.

“I thought you should know it exists. Whether you look or not.”

You said nothing for a while, staring out at the endless, storm-colored sea, feeling smaller than you had in years.

And when you finally spoke, your voice was quieter than you meant it to be. “Thank you for showing me.”

Zaros only gave a small nod, his gaze fixed on the horizon.

──

“Take me here.”

The words left your mouth before you could weigh them, a sharp demand punctuating the quiet hum of the library. You pushed the slim, worn book across the polished table toward Zaros, the soft scrape of its leather-bound cover against the wood far louder in the hush of the chamber than you intended. It had become something of a habit now — these stolen afternoons, or evenings, or those restless hours before dawn when sleep refused you — spent tucked away in the library’s high-walled refuge. You’d devour any book that caught your eye and occasionally force one into Zaros's hands, issuing offhand remarks like, “You’ll like this,” without actually waiting to hear if he did.

He had been sitting across from you then, bent over the very book you’d last tossed at him — Wuthering Heights, one of your mother’s old favorites, its pages smelling faintly of lavender and dust. His thumb idly brushed the edge of a page as his gaze flicked up at your voice, dark brows knitting together in momentary confusion before reaching for the book you’d slid toward him.

Zaros lifted it, glancing first at the faded illustration, a watercolor rendering of a vast, wild field ablaze with crooked, sun-drenched flowers, and then down to the inscription below. The small, hand-drawn map beneath it.

And then — he laughed. Not a cruel sound, nor mocking, but light and honest, as though you’d caught him genuinely off guard. It made your spine stiffen, your lips curling in defense before you even registered what you were about to say.

“What’s so amusing?” you snapped, sharp as glass.

He lifted a hand, palm-out, as if to ward off a blow. “Peace, my Earis, I meant no insult.”

“Then stop laughing at me.”

“I’m not,” he said, and though the corner of his mouth twitched like he was restraining another grin, his voice was careful, almost fond. “I’m only surprised. I didn’t think you even knew this place existed.”

You scowled, jabbing a finger at the little map stamped on the page. “Do you take me for a fool?”

“Never.”

“Then you should know that Kingdom Velstera owns this territory,” you declared, your nail tapping insistently at the tiny borderlines. “Not here.” You pointed again, this time to the place you’d asked about — the flower fields of Ithren Vale, according to the caption beneath the image.

You could feel the heat rising to your cheeks, embarrassed to be questioned, irritated that your word wasn’t simply taken as fact. The flower fields, as you understood them, had once been cultivated by a people known as the Ithrenari, freed centuries ago after the War of the Eastern Reaches when Velstera’s tyrant king was dethroned. Or so every book you’d ever read claimed.

Zaros studied the page a moment longer, the barest trace of a sigh leaving him before he gently closed the book and placed it back on the table between you.

“They don’t own the land by parchment or page, no,” he murmured, his gaze steady on yours. “But it’s no secret the people who live there are still loyal to Velstera’s line. Their allegiance never truly shifted. The crown changes, the colors of the banners fade, but blood stays. They’d sooner pledge themselves to a dead king than bow to Serulla’s rule.”

His voice wasn’t scolding, nor patronizing. If anything, it was carefully instructive, as though he knew you’d never had anyone tell you this before.

“If they recognize you, it could be dangerous,” Zaros added, more softly this time. “Even for you.”

And perhaps it was foolish — perhaps it was arrogant — but that only made your resolve harden.

“Take me,” you said again, chin lifting, refusing to let your voice waver.

Zaros stared at you for a long moment, the flicker of some old emotion passing across his face. Not amusement this time. Not pity. Something quieter. He rubbed a thumb along the edge of the book’s cover, as though considering the weight of it.

“You don’t even know what you’re asking for, Earis,” he murmured, not unkindly. “You see a painted field in a book and think you’ve understood it. You’ve read a hundred histories and think you know how the world works because of what ink on a page told you. But you’ve never stood in those fields. Never felt what it means to walk among people who will hate you on sight for the crest sewn on your collar.”

Your throat tightened, stubbornness battling the sting of being spoken to like a child.

“I don’t care.”

“I know,” he sighed, and for a brief second you thought he might refuse, might leave you there seething in the library’s too-quiet gloom. But then he gave a slow, resigned tilt of his head.

“Very well,” Zaros said at last, rising to his feet, the old wood of his chair creaking. He plucked your book off the table and handed it back to you, his fingers brushing yours in a fleeting, deliberate touch. “But if you get us killed, I’ll haunt you.”

A small, unwilling flicker of a grin tugged at the corner of your mouth, and though you rolled your eyes, you didn’t pull your hand away.

“Good,” you said. “I wouldn’t want to be lonely.”

. . . 

The land was wilder here. 

The trees were different — taller, more gnarled, the bones of them twisted by salt and wind. The grass grew in uneven waves along the cliffs, pale and stubborn, bending in unison as the sea’s breath reached inland. In the distance, far ahead and down a steep slope, you could see it: a glimmering stretch of silver-blue, the edge of the world. The coast of Ithren Vale.

The fields began there, a jagged border of wildflowers blooming in stubborn defiance along the craggy cliffs. They weren’t neat or delicate like the garden blooms in Serulla’s palace courtyard. These were rough, sun-bleached things — streaks of sharp gold, violet, deep indigo and blood-rich crimson, tangled with the tall, unkempt grass.

And yet, in their chaos, they were beautiful.

You clutched tighter to the saddle’s worn leather, a small jolt running through you as the horse dipped slightly along a narrow path. You hadn’t wanted to ride it, not at first — had balked at the idea, wrinkling your nose at the dust on its coat, muttering something about it being dirty under your breath. Zaros had laughed at you then, a low, warm sound, and not in cruelty, though you’d bristled at it anyway.

“My Earis,” he’d said, taking the reins with one hand and offering you the other. “The earth’s not clean. Not like your polished floors and glass halls. You should get used to it.”

You’d grumbled but taken his hand. Now, hours later, you were silently grateful you had.

Zaros rode ahead of you now, his figure steady and unhurried, his cloak trailing behind him like the tail of a dark bird in flight. He turned back occasionally to check on you, though you pretended not to notice. You were painfully aware of your own inexperience — the awkward way you clung to the saddle, the stiffness in your spine. But you wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of complaining.

The air smelled different here too. Fresher, touched with salt and something sharp and sweet you couldn’t name. You breathed it in greedily, the medicine you’d grown so dependent on in the palace still lingering dull at the back of your throat, but it felt distant now, as though the wind might finally pull it from you.

“How much further?” you called out, louder than you meant to, half from the wind and half from that restless ache in your chest you couldn’t quite name.

Zaros reined in his horse and turned, his face shadowed by the lowering sun.

“Another half-mile,” he replied. His voice was steady, but you thought you caught a flicker of something in his expression — caution, maybe, or the weight of memory. “We’ll reach the fields by nightfall.”

You let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding, adjusting your grip on the reins.

“I want to see it before the sun’s gone,” you said, because it felt important. Because it had to mean something — this place, this day, this reckless, fragile thing you’d done by leaving the safety of your walls.

Zaros gave a small, knowing nod, and for a moment the tension between you faded into something unspoken, understood.

“You will,” he promised, and with a flick of his wrist, spurred his horse forward again.

You followed.

The path narrowed as you drew closer to the coast, the sound of the waves growing louder, thunderous and ancient. The last of the sun’s light broke in shards against the water, scattering the sea in pink and silver.

And then you saw them — the fields.

They sprawled out before you, unclaimed and wild, a living thing stretching to the cliffs’ edge. Flowers knotted in thick, uneven clusters, their colors fierce against the fading sky. You felt your breath catch, your throat tightening in a way you hadn’t expected.

It wasn’t like the picture in the book.

It was rougher. Stranger.

Better.

Without thinking, you pulled your horse to a halt beside Zaros’s, dismounting with an awkward, graceless drop to the earth. Your boots sank into soft, uneven soil, and for a moment you simply stood there, staring.

Zaros was watching you again, one brow arched.

“Well, my Earis,” he murmured, his tone gentle, teasing, the way one might speak to a child seeing snow for the first time. “Not quite as tidy as your books promised, is it?”

You shot him a glare, though it lacked its usual bite.

The wind off the sea curled around you, thick with brine and wildflower pollen, carrying scents so sharp and foreign it made your head swim. You had never known a world that smelled like this — untamed, salt-heavy, earth-soaked. Nothing perfumed, no incense cloying in the air. It felt alive in a way that startled you.

The grass here was uneven, prickling your skin where it brushed against your legs, and as you moved farther from the jagged edge of the cliff, your gaze swept over the riot of color splayed before you. Crimson blossoms like spilled blood, violet petals soft as silk, stubborn white star-shaped blooms peeking through thick grass. And then — a flicker of green.

Not the green of leaves or stems, but a flower, delicate and narrow-petaled, its color so vivid it caught the dying light like a gemstone.

Without thinking, your hand reached for it. You plucked it free with the care one might handle a thing both precious and forbidden, a soft, unbidden smirk ghosting across your lips.

You turned toward Zaros, whose silhouette cut sharp against the twilight, and with a kind of quiet mischief you hadn’t felt in what felt like lifetimes, you raised the green bloom to him. The wind caught at your hair, twisting it across your face in ghostlike strands as you stepped closer.

“Your eyes,” you whispered, the words falling unguarded into the night air. A half-tease, half-confession, barely a breath of sound meant only for him.

It wasn’t until his hand caught your wrist that you realized the intimacy you’d conjured. His grip wasn’t rough, wasn’t hurried — it was certain. A stillness in motion. The pad of his thumb pressed against the hollow of your wrist where your pulse beat like a trapped bird.

And in that moment, beneath a sky blooming with stars and the scent of salt and earth all around you, you swore by the old gods he began to lean in. Not like a man courting a queen. Not like a courtier desperate for favor. No. Like a person. A boy you’d grown up despising. A man you’d come to need.

His eyes — those eyes — flickered to your lips. And for one impossible heartbeat, you weren’t your mother’s child,  weren’t the future ruler of Serulla, weren’t the lone survivor of a grief-stricken palace.

You were just you.

And then—

“Travelers?”

The voice cleaved through the quiet, and though you didn’t mean to, you startled — a sharp breath caught in your throat, your fingers slackening, the flower slipping soundlessly into the grass below. The dusk had masked their approach, and now two figures stood a short distance off, half-veiled by the tall, wind-stirred stalks.

The elder of the two was gaunt, weathered by years of salt air and hard sun, with skin like creased parchment and long grey hair tied loosely at the nape of his neck. A well-worn spear rested against one shoulder, though his grip on it was idle, not threatening. Beside him stood a younger man, sharp-featured and narrow-eyed, a dagger half-hidden in the folds of his roughspun cloak.

Neither wore the crimson of Serulla’s court, nor the polished steel of its guard. Instead, rough linen, stained leather, and small pins bearing a sigil you recognized — a jagged, broken crown over a darkened sea.

Ithrenari.

The knowledge chilled you. All those long, dull lessons in court history, every forgotten war and banished people, rising now like some old ghost at your back. These were not Serullans. And this was not a place for Serullans to be.

Zaros was quick — a step forward, his stance casual but unmistakably protective, his fingers tightening where they still circled your wrist.

“Evening,” Zaros called, his voice light, easy, carrying none of the tension that hummed beneath his skin. “Didn’t mean to trespass. We’re passing through.”

The old man’s gaze moved over you both, lingering longer on you — your cloak, your too-fine boots, the ring on your hand, the sheen of your hair in the dying light. His lips thinned, but when he spoke again, his tone was not cruel, merely tired.

“Serullans,” he said, like naming a storm on the horizon. “Not wise, out this way. Night draws fast, and the cliffs aren’t kind after dark.”

The younger one shifted, looking you over with thinly veiled curiosity, though there was no mockery in it. “You’ll not make it back to your keep tonight,” he said. “Predators come down from the highlands after sunset. Wolves, worse things too.”

Your stomach knotted at the quiet certainty in his voice.

The old man nodded toward a faint shape in the distance — a squat cottage, its windows catching the last grey light, a thin column of smoke curling from its stone chimney. “An old keeper’s house,” he said. “Long empty, but it’ll stand against the wind and what roams the grass.”

Zaros’s brow furrowed slightly, as though weighing the offer. “And you’ll let us?”

The old man met his gaze, something unreadable passing between them. “I’ve no fondness for your blood,” he admitted. “But the wolves don’t care for banners, either.”

With that, the two of them turned, moving back through the tall grass, vanishing into the deepening twilight.

You let out a breath you hadn’t known you were holding. Zaros’s grip on your wrist softened, then fell away altogether.

For a long, silent moment you stood there, watching the last of the sun bleed out across the horizon, feeling smaller than you could remember. The hum of crickets rose in the grass.

Zaros tilted his head toward the cottage. “Come on,” he said quietly, no edge in it, only a weary sort of care. “It isn’t what you’re used to, but it’ll keep you warm.”

You glanced up at him, at the faint curve of a knowing, rueful smile at the corner of his mouth.

. . . 

“Heavens,” you breathed, voice barely more than a thread of sound, the word slipping out before you could stop it.

The place — if you could even grant it the dignity of place — was a crooked, slouching thing. The cottage sagged beneath its own weight, stones weathered by salt wind and rain, the wood of the beams bleached bone-white where the roof dipped dangerously low. The chimney coughed out a thin, uncertain trickle of smoke, and from the open door a draft like a wet breath rolled out, carrying with it the scent of damp earth, old ash, and something else — something green and ancient.

Your stomach turned. You took a hesitant step inside, your boots scuffing against the uneven floorboards. The room was one large chamber, with no more than a hearth, a rickety table, a battered chair with one leg mended by rope, and a narrow bed, its thin mattress sagging in the middle like a grave half-collapsed. Dust clung to the corners like cobwebbed lace, and the single, warped window distorted the dying daylight into sickly shapes on the far wall.

And you, crown-born, silk-swaddled, used to perfumed air and cushions softer than down, felt your mouth twist. The cloak you wore — already damp from mist — dragged at your shoulders, and for the first time, you wondered if your little rebellion, this reckless run to the edge of the known world, had been a mistake.

That was, until you heard it.

A low, rich laugh.

You turned, glaring, but Zaros was already grinning at you — broad and unguarded in a way you rarely saw. He crouched by the hearth, coaxing a spark from an old flint, his hair mussed by the wind, cheeks pinked by the cold, and something bright, almost boyish, in his face.

“Gods,” he chuckled, shaking his head. “I’ve never seen someone so personally offended by a cottage.”

“It’s filthy,” you snapped, but even you could hear how thin the protest was.

He threw a glance over his shoulder, smirking. “Well, it’s not one of your silk-draped parlors. But it’ll keep the wind out and the wolves off our throats. You might even survive the night.”

You wanted to scowl, to throw back some sharp-tongued remark, but the warmth of the fire — small though it was — was already licking at your damp hands, and your body ached from the ride. The wind outside had picked up, howling through the grass like a living thing, and you had no wish to test Zaros’s warning about what roamed after dark.

Wordlessly, you moved toward the hearth and dropped onto the floor beside him. It wasn’t graceful, and the floor was harder than it had any right to be, but the heat from the new flame was welcome, flickering gold and orange in the half-lit room.

The cottage seemed smaller with you both in it. The night pressed against the walls, the sounds of the coast — the distant crash of waves, the whimper of wind through the eaves — crowding in. Zaros leaned back against the rough stone wall, his cloak pooling around him, eyes gleaming in the low light.

You hesitated only a moment before tugging the scratchy, moth-bitten blanket from the bed and wrapping it around your shoulders, the frayed edges brushing your fingers.

“Don’t get any ideas,” you muttered as you settled beside him, making a show of keeping a respectable hand’s breadth of space between you. “No trying anything. I’m no fragile thing to be seduced on some gods-forsaken floor.”

He breathed out a laugh, a crooked smile curving his mouth. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

“Good,” you said, narrowing your eyes.

A beat passed, the fire crackling softly between you, then his voice, low and oddly solemn, murmured, “If anything were to happen, Earis — anything at all — it would be because you wanted it. Said so yourself. No games, no court whispers. You have my word.”

It was strange, the way those words made something in you flicker — as though a string drawn too tight in your chest loosened, if only slightly.

But you couldn’t help yourself.

“If?” you repeated, arching a brow, the word coming out sharper than intended, yet somehow uncertain beneath its edges.

Zaros chuckled quietly, and the sound was too soft, too fond, in the hush of the little room. He didn’t answer, only tilted his head back against the stones, closing his eyes as though the fire alone could chase away every dark thing in the world.

The night outside roared on. But in here, in this half-rotted, gods-cursed cottage at the edge of the world, you let yourself rest.

Just for a little while.

──

You’d been roused by the dull, stubborn ache of hunger gnawing at the hollow of your belly, then by the faint, unfamiliar scent of food — charred herbs, seared fish, and something faintly sweet lingering at the edges of the air. It took you a moment to shake the sleep from your eyes and remember where you were. The coarse sheet tangled at your feet, the crude riding cloak you’d used as a makeshift blanket, the rough-hewn walls and the persistent hush of wind from the cliffs beyond — it was a far cry from your rooms in the palace. A far cry from the silken pillows your head had once rested on and the velvet curtains that had muted dawn’s approach.

A mistake, you thought. A foolish, sentimental mistake.

You sat up, wincing at the sharp protest of muscles sore from the previous day’s ride. Your joints cracked as you stood, brushing stray strands of sleep-mussed hair from your face, then made your way toward the source of that low hiss and pop of flame.

Zaros.

He was crouched by the small, soot-dark hearth, sleeves pushed up to his forearms, long, tousled blonde hair drawn back into a haphazard bun that looked like it had been knotted in haste, strands falling loose to frame his face. Morning light slipped through the gaps in the cottage shutters, catching in his hair like threads of pale gold. There was a steady, unhurried confidence in the way he worked, turning a battered pan over the fire, its contents releasing a surprisingly pleasant aroma.

You watched him for a moment, disoriented still by the sight of Zaros like this. No polished words, no ceremonial black and gold, no courtly smirks thrown like daggers across a council chamber. Just a man. Pale in the morning light, long hair a careless mess, and tending to a small fire as though this place — this dirt and wood and sea air — belonged to him.

The unsettling thing was how easily it suited him.

You cleared your throat, your voice rough and faintly indignant.

“What time is it?” you asked, rubbing the sleep from your eyes as you yawned.

He didn’t turn, only gestured vaguely toward the window with the back of his hand. “Half past sunrise. Your food’s on the table.”

You arched a brow, glancing toward the scarred old table where a chipped plate waited, burdened with a modest meal — flatbread, pan-seared fish, and what appeared to be roasted roots, likely foraged from whatever garden patch the abandoned cottage still managed to birth.

It was a far cry from the breakfast spreads you were accustomed to: cream-soaked fruits, sugared pastries, fresh cheeses, honeycomb swimming in golden syrup. Yet your stomach gave a low, traitorous grumble.

Still, you made a point to wrinkle your nose as you pulled out a chair, its uneven legs scraping against the stone floor. The table was stained with years of wear, one corner blackened by old scorch marks, a single wildflower — drooping and half-wilted — placed in a cracked cup at the center.

You sat down, smoothing the wrinkles from your tunic, though the attempt at decorum felt laughable in a place like this.

“What a lovely servant you make,” you drawled, not quite able to keep the dry amusement from your tone.

That made him laugh — a quiet, genuine sound, far from the sharp-edged ones you were accustomed to hearing from him in court. He finally turned then, and gods, that expression — crooked grin, morning light in his eyes — was an unguarded thing you didn’t quite know how to handle.

“You’d be surprised, Earis,” he replied, arching a brow as he brought his own plate to the table. “Some of us knew how to fend for ourselves long before palace walls and silk-lined beds.”

You swallowed down the strange fondness the words stirred and forced your gaze down to your food. “I suppose that’s a useful skill when your profession involves plotting to steal crowns,” you muttered, half-biting the words, but he only chuckled.

“I could say the same of you.”

You went silent after that, the only sounds between you the crackle of the fire and the occasional soft clink of metal against plate. The meal was plain, but warm — better than you’d expected, which only made you more irritated. You’d come here certain you would hate every moment. Certain you’d miss your chamber, your bed, the scent of the perfumed courtyards. And you did. But a small, unwelcome part of you also felt… something else.

A thing you didn’t have a name for.

After a long, tense stretch of quiet, you spoke.

“I… shouldn’t be here.”

Zaros didn’t answer immediately. His gaze lifted, watching you with an unreadable expression. The fire threw a soft orange light against his skin.

“I mean it,” you continued, voice quieter now, your fork paused midair. “It’s not treason to speak to you, but to be here… in this land… among their people… If word reached Serulla’s court, they’d use it. Say I plotted with you, that I abandoned my post, that I betrayed her memory. That I—”

Your voice faltered.

“That you faltered,” he finished for you. He didn’t say it cruelly.

You hated that he understood. Hated that you were letting him see it.

Before you could gather your words again, you glanced up and asked, a little too sharply, “Where did you even get this food?”

Zaros opened his mouth to answer — and then, a knock at the door.

Sharp, three precise taps.

Both of you froze.

The tension was an old, trained thing. Both of you reached instinctively for the hilt of a blade neither of you wore, breath halting in your lungs. Zaros moved first, rising from his chair in one fluid movement, the light catching in his loose hair as he crossed to the door.

He cracked it open, and voices came at once — high, breathless, unmistakably young.

“Sir, are you travelers?” A girl’s voice, lilting, curious.

You rose to your feet, moving to stand beside him as he opened the door wider.

Three girls stood there — the eldest perhaps no more than fifteen, the youngest barely seven, each dressed in simple linen dresses, the hems damp and muddied from morning dew. Their hair was woven with flowers, crowns of wild blooms nestled against their heads. The eldest held another in her hands, a pale yellow garland of soft, curling petals.

“We saw your horse at the old road,” one of them said brightly, offering a small, shy smile. “You should come. It’s the Feast of Sun’s Turning. We’re making the flower poles today, and there’ll be dancing at dusk.”

The younger one held out the flower crown, eyes bright as she added, “We made these for you.”

You stared at them, the garland of flowers in their small, weather-roughened hands. Something strange and sharp twisted in your chest — a memory of sun-drenched courtyards and your mother’s voice calling your name as you wove blooms into her hair. The ache rose fast and sudden.

Zaros’ eyes flicked to yours, gauging the shift in your face.

“It’s a festival,” he murmured, his voice soft, an explanation. “Like Midsommar in the northern lands. They celebrate the long days, thank the old gods.”

You forced yourself to steady your breath, lifting your chin though it trembled beneath the weight of the moment. Zaros, still half-dressed with the sleeves of his shirt rolled carelessly to his elbows and his long, pale hair tied in a disheveled bun at the nape of his neck, stepped forward without saying a word. He took the flower crowns from the young girls’ outstretched hands with a small, genuine nod, the ghost of a smile flickering at the corner of his mouth.

“Please join us, if you can,” the eldest girl said brightly, her soft accent lilting around the syllables in a way unfamiliar to your ears. Then, with the effortless lightness of children, she took the hands of her younger companions and led them back down the winding path toward the village square, their laughter trailing like ribbons on the wind.

And then — silence.

A different sort of quiet than the one you’d known in the dead hush of the palace halls. There was life here, not heavy and solemn, but gentle and unassuming. Morning had broken cleanly over the hills, revealing a world bathed in soft light and pale gold mist. You could see the town now — no grand marble structures, no proud towers or gleaming gates — only timber homes, slanted rooftops cluttered with wildflowers and moss, narrow stone paths winding like veins through the earth. Smoke curled lazily from the chimneys, carrying the faint smell of bread and wet earth.

Somewhere down the slope, children’s laughter rang out. The murmur of townsfolk rose and fell, a language of warmth and familiarity you did not understand, but envied.

And somehow — standing on the threshold of this small cottage on what felt like the edge of the world — it reminded you all too much of your balcony back at the palace. But better. Because here, no courtiers whispered your name in venomous tones, no councilmen plotted to bend your will, no portraits of your mother glared down at you with expectation. Here, you were nameless. And gods, it was terrifying how much you wanted to remain nameless.

You felt something light settle against your head.

You turned, startled out of thought, only to find Zaros standing too close — close enough for his scent, woodsmoke and wild thyme, to settle in your lungs. He was carefully placing one of the flower crowns atop your hair, fingers brushing the hollow behind your ear with such thoughtless tenderness it sent a shiver crawling down your spine.

“It suits you,” he murmured, the usual sharpness in his voice softened like dusk light on old stone. “You look… beautiful.”

The word hung between you. Not like a compliment, but like a confession. And it unsettled you more than any well-strategized slight or silver-tongued remark he’d ever thrown your way.

You swallowed, forcing a scoff past the sudden tightness in your throat. “If this is some ploy to make me lower my guard, you’ll have to do better than flower crowns and pretty words, Zaros. I’ve bested men with grander schemes.”

He gave a soft, breathless laugh, his gaze flicking briefly to the faint tremble in your fingertips as you reached to adjust the crown. “It’s not a ploy,” he said, voice low, sincere. “And… as I told you before — if anything ever happened, it’d be because you wanted it.”

You shot him a look, arching a brow, a sharp grin tugging at the corner of your mouth despite the knot still lodged in your chest. “If?” you repeated similarly to the very night before, tone light, though your pulse quickened.

The smirk he gave was crooked, boyish — far too real for a man you were meant to outwit in a game of thrones and bloodlines. “If,” he echoed, the word thick with something unnamed.

For a moment, neither of you spoke. The air between you humming with the unspoken. Then your gaze drifted, pulled toward the town where the festival had begun in earnest — colored banners strung between cottages, bursts of laughter, the steady beat of drums carried by the wind. The scent of wild herbs, fire-roasted bread, and earth filled the air.

But with it came the gnawing ache of sense. Of duty.

Your throat tightened, something thick and unspoken caught behind your teeth. The ache in your chest twisted because you hated how much you wanted to believe him.

You turned your gaze back to the town, to the careless warmth you’d never been allowed. And despite everything your name, your title, your blood demanded — gods help you — you longed to step into it. Even for a few hours.

“You’ll answer for this if we’re caught,” you muttered, feigning annoyance though your heart pounded traitorously against your ribs.

His smirk returned, soft and bright as dawn. “Gladly.”

A beat passed.

Then, with a sigh you half-disguised as a groan, you nudged him with your shoulder. “Well? Lead the way, would you? Before I regain my senses.”

Zaros chuckled, the sound warm and honest, and offered his arm. You hesitated, every instinct you’d ever been taught screaming at you to turn back, to remember your mother’s voice, your birthright, your claim to the throne.

But the morning air was clean. The world was alive.

. . .

“I feel out of place,” you murmured — though to call it speech felt generous, the words barely slipping past your lips like a secret meant only for yourself. Yet they drifted far too near to Zaros’s ear, carried on a thread of breath close enough to stir the stray, sunlit hairs fallen from his hastily gathered bun.

He turned, and though you expected some glib remark, some amused arch of a brow or mocking smirk, there was only the barest twitch of his mouth — a half-smile, wry and unkindly honest in a way that did not wound. “You are,” he said, voice pitched low enough that it belonged to no one else. “But then… when has that ever stopped you?”

You meant to answer. Meant to fire back something sharp or self-effacing, to pretend at ease in the way you’d been trained, but the words caught in the narrow place of your throat. The sound of your own heart seemed louder than the festival’s gathering din, and your gaze — unbidden, unwilling — drifted to the assembled bodies around you.

It was a strange kind of revel, rough-hewn and earnest in its simplicity. The clearing itself, ringed by the tall, knot-limbed trees of the borderwood, seemed to hum beneath the weight of its own history, grass long and bending with the press of countless feet. There were no silk banners here, no liveried guards or jewel-strung courtiers. Only crude tents patched with odd scraps of cloth, their colors sun-bleached and frayed at the edges, canopies sagging where their cords had loosened over time. Strung overhead, faded streamers — some no more than old linen strips — twisted lazily in the evening wind, catching on branches with the softest of sighs. The air tasted of woodsmoke, sweat, and crushed wildflowers, a heady, honest thing that made your blood feel heavy in your veins.

The villagers moved in clusters, gathering like small herds of birds or deer, unselfconscious in their ease with one another. Children darted through the gaps between legs and tables, barefoot, hair tangled, faces stained with berry juice and ash. Women carried platters of fire-blackened bread and bowls of glistening honeycomb, their arms strong and sun-darkened. Men hauled barrels of cider, rough laughter shaking their shoulders. 

The wariness was in their eyes. In the stiff line of an elder’s back as you passed, in the way conversations dimmed to a hush and then resumed too quickly, in the particular kind of glance a man gave to his child when your shadow fell too near. You were a story here, a name spoken to frighten children into obedience. The ghost of a crown that had burned their fields and taxed their winter stores into ash and hunger. A relic of bloodier days. An heir made flesh.

And yet none of them spat. None of them reached for a stone.

It was the children who came first.

A knot of girls, none older than nine summers, crept close in the tentative way of half-wild things. They were thin, hair varying shades of pale — flaxen, honey, light as aspen wood — with sun-pinked cheeks and bits of grass caught in their braids. You saw the way their eyes flickered between you and Zaros, wide and unguarded, the barest sheen of wonder and fear mingling in their depths.

One, braver than the rest, with a sharp chin and scraped knees, stepped forward. She tugged — gently, as though testing the very nature of your substance — at the hem of your cloak, her small fingers stained by crushed dandelions.

“Will you sit with us, Lady?” she asked, the title falling from her tongue like something both holy and profane.

For a moment, your chest tightened, a strange and almost painful constriction. The instinct, honed sharp from years at court, was to step back, to keep the proper distance. You were not meant for softness. Not meant to kneel before the small, the simple, the untouched. But there was something in her offering — a crumpled handful of yellow blooms, gathered in a dirt-smudged palm — that undid you utterly.

You knelt.

Your knees met the earth with a muted sigh of crushed grass. The scent rose up — green and wet and alive — and before you could speak, the girls descended, giggling, hands light and quick in your hair. They wove awkward braids, thick and uneven, threading in petals of bluebells and wood anemones, their fingers cool against your scalp. One smeared a thumbful of berry pulp across your cheek, a careless mark, and you let them. The world narrowed to the warmth of small bodies pressed against your sides, the flutter of girlish laughter, the sudden strangeness of dirt under your nails.

Across the green, Zaros had gathered a loose knot of boys around a battered old bow. His hair had half-escaped its binding, a mess of pale gold catching the dusk light like a net of spun metal. He spoke low, demonstrating the way to notch an arrow, to draw the string without slicing tender fingers. The boys watched him in a way no boy had ever looked at you — with a rough, uncomplicated awe.

You let your gaze linger too long. Let the shape of him etch itself into the quiet ache of your chest. There, amidst the wild things and crooked teeth of old superstition, he moved like someone born of the earth itself. No title. No rank. Just a man, and the trust of small, fierce-eyed boys at his heels.

A sharp tug on your sleeve wrenched you back.

“Come, Lady,” a girl urged, her voice a breathless, urgent thing. “Come dance.”

Before you could think, before you could remind yourself of the steps drilled into you in marble courtyards under the critical gaze of instructors — every gesture measured, every turn a calculation — they seized your hands, dragging you toward the ring of dancers already forming on the trampled green.

The music swelled. Rough flutes, their pitch uneven, the steady beat of hand-drums that sounded like a heart grown too large, and the occasional jangle of brass bells stitched into skirts. The first steps were strange, your limbs stiff, your mind rebelling against the disorder. The court dances you knew were tools — weapons, even. Here, the rhythm was wild, untamed, a thing born of the wind in the trees and the way firelight flickered across faces.

And then — you laughed.

An unguarded, breathless sound that startled even you.

It came from the center of your chest, raw and unfamiliar, a thing long buried beneath silk and steel. It felt like being a child again, or a version of one you’d never been allowed to be.

You thought, fleetingly, of your mother. Of harvest rites she’d spoken of with sneering disdain, of ancient customs belonging to old, weak gods. Relics, she’d called them. But as the girls spun you in circles, hair and flowers and dusk blurring into one unbroken smear of color and light, you wondered — wondered if perhaps weakness wasn’t the absence of power at all, but the absence of joy.

Later still, as the fire burned low and the music softened to a murmur, you found yourself tending to a little boy’s scraped knees. His face was streaked with dirt and dried tears, one grubby fist still clutching a broken reed flute. He watched you with the solemnity only small children possess, sniffling as you pressed a cool cloth to the graze.

It was nothing. A small, stupid thing. But your throat ached with it.

And then — a voice.

“That one’s trouble,” it rasped, dry as old parchment.

You looked up, startled. An elder woman, her hair a cloud of silver gone almost white, skin dark and lined by sun and years, stood nearby. A basket of herbs hung from one elbow, the sharp scent of lavender and crushed sage clinging to her like a cloak.

“I’m called Ilyra,” she said. “You’ve careful hands for a queen’s whelp.”

You bristled, but her tone held no venom — only a weary kind of honesty.

“I’m not queen yet,” you muttered.

Ilyra snorted, settling herself beside you with a sigh of old bones. “And may the gods see to it you never wear the crown if it’ll crush the rest of your kindness out of you.”

You didn’t answer. Couldn’t. She only reached out, adjusting a crooked braid in your hair with a tenderness that made your eyes sting.

“Stay long enough,” she murmured, “and you might remember what it means to be human, child.”

And you — you believed her.

When dusk deepened into indigo and the sky began to bruise at its edges, a hush rippled through the clearing. Someone, a thin boy with a voice still raw and cracking from the onset of manhood, climbed onto a half-toppled barrel and shouted the old call, words slurred with cider but still bright with tradition. The villagers turned their faces toward him, toward the wide green ring of earth at the center of the clearing, and a chorus of names began to rise — shouted, sung, some half-laughed.

It was foolishness, of course. The crowning of the May King and Queen, a rite as old as the first stones laid in these woods, meant to honor the turning of the season, the soft return of green things, the promise of fat harvests and kinder days. In another life — in another version of yourself — you might have sneered at it, called it childish superstition. But here, with the scent of woodsmoke in your hair and berry juice dried against your skin, it felt like something else. Like a thread tying you, however briefly, to a world unruled by courts and crowns.

And then, impossibly, it was your name they called.

You felt it before you heard it — a ripple in the crowd, heads turning, the sudden burst of applause and laughter. Zaros’s name was shouted next, from a cluster of boys near the fire, and you turned in time to see him drag a hand through his hair, shaking it loose, a grin already pulling wide across his face.

He wove through the gathering toward you, his gait lazy, the long lines of him softened by dusk and warmth. There was a faint smudge of dirt along his jaw and a welt rising on one knuckle from some earlier game of sport, and the sight of it — of him unmade, unguarded — struck you in a place too tender to name.

“Shall we, my Queen?” he asked, mock-formal, but his voice caught just slightly on the title, as if some part of him, too, remembered the weight of it.

You took his hand.

The villagers cheered, a ragged, joyful thing, and old Ilyra pressed a garland of white-petaled field flowers and sprigs of early gold blooms into your hair. The stems scratched a little against your scalp, the petals brushing your brow. Zaros bowed low as his own was set crookedly atop his head, his long hair spilling forward like a curtain of pale silk. He winked at you when he straightened.

And then came the feast.

You were led to a long, rough-hewn table, its surface scarred by years of use, strewn with cloth runners dyed in sun-faded reds and greens. Clay bowls and woven baskets crowded every spare inch — heavy with things you’d never tasted, things your mother would have called peasant fare with a curl of her lip.

A woman with thick braids and forearms like tree branches placed a platter before you, its contents unfamiliar and aromatic. Fat parcels of roasted root vegetables wrapped in leaves, steaming flatbreads brushed with a herbed oil, and small, dark fruits preserved in honey. The air was thick with the mingled scents of meat cooked slow over embers, of sage and sweetgrass, of fermenting cider gone sharp at the back of the throat.

Zaros took one of the roasted parcels without hesitation, tore it open with callused fingers. Inside, the flesh of the roots was soft and yielding, stained orange and gold, steam rising in curls. He took a bite, hissed through his teeth when it burned his tongue, and grinned at you around it.

“Gods, that’s good,” he said, eyes crinkling.

You followed suit, more cautious, fingers unfamiliar with the texture of the leaf wrappings. The taste was strange — earthy and sweet, faintly bitter at the edges, and you realized you’d never tasted anything like it because no one had ever thought to serve it to a future queen. It left a smear of oil on your thumb, which you caught with your tongue before you could think better of it.

There were berries, dark and bursting, so ripe their skins split at a touch, staining your lips a shade deeper than court paint ever managed. A girl pushed a cup of cider into your hand, the liquid cloudy and sharp-sweet, fizzing lightly against your tongue. Zaros tried a small cake spiced with something unfamiliar, grimaced, then laughed when a boy next to him offered him another, promising it would taste better with the honey.

You ate. Not because of hunger, but because it felt like something holy — a small, defiant act to fill your mouth with the food of those you were meant to rule. It settled in your belly like a promise.

The drums began again, slower this time, a heartbeat pace, and the dancers gathered once more. Lanterns hung from branches overhead, their flames flickering in the wind like caught stars, and the clearing hummed with warmth and light.

It was time for the final dance.

Zaros leaned close, his breath tinged with cider and fire-smoke. “Last chance to run, May Queen,” he murmured, voice all teasing.

You didn’t run.

And when he drew you into the circle of dancers, when his hand found the small of your back and the villagers cheered and clapped and the night reeled drunkenly around you, you let yourself believe — for the length of one more dance — that you were nothing more than human.

The drums slowed, falling into a pulse more felt than heard, and the circle of dancers loosened, scattering into smaller clusters of swaying bodies and breathless laughter. The air had cooled, the last of the firelight crackling low, but your skin still burned from the press of too many hands, from the wine, from the way Zaros’s palm had lingered a second too long against the curve of your waist.

Someone shoved a half-empty clay cup into your hand. You drank without thinking — sharp, sweet, a little bitter at the end — and wiped your mouth with the back of your wrist. Zaros found you a moment later, his hair fully loose now, tangled and shining pale in the lantern-light. The garland hung crooked over one brow, a crushed sprig of white bloom clinging stubbornly to a lock of hair.

He was grinning like a boy. Like a man who had no crown to chase and no wars waiting to be fought.

“Come on,” he said, his voice low, still rough with laughter. “Before someone else tries to crown you again.”

You let him tug you away from the clearing — the heat of his fingers around yours a quiet, steady tether. Past the sleeping dogs curled beneath tables, past the last stragglers slumped against one another, the hum of music and voices thinning to nothing but crickets and the distant, rhythmic creak of tree branches in the wind.

The path to the field was uneven, thick with clumps of clover and tall grass that snagged at your skirts. Fireflies hung in the air, pale gold pinpricks shifting and blinking in the dark. You stumbled once, half from the cider, half from the softness of your own limbs, and Zaros’s hand caught your elbow, steadying you without comment.

When you crested the last rise, the cabin’s shape appeared ahead — a shadow more than a thing, edges softened by moonlight. The field stretched around it, vast and silvered, the long grass swaying in soft, restless waves.

You stood there for a moment, side by side, breathing hard though neither of you had run. The wind tugged at the tatters of your flower crown. You reached up and pulled it free, fingers brushing petals gone limp with sweat and night air.

“I don’t want to go back yet,” you murmured.

Zaros hummed in agreement, dropping down into the grass without ceremony, his limbs sprawling, one arm bent beneath his head. His garland lay discarded nearby, half-crushed and forgotten. He stared up at the sky, where a handful of stubborn stars clung against the dark.

“Then don’t,” he said simply, as if it were that easy.

You hesitated, then sank down beside him. The earth was cool beneath your palm, smelling of damp roots and old leaves. The grass tickled against your cheek where you lay, the scent of it sharp and alive. Somewhere nearby, an owl called — a low, mournful sound.

For a long while, neither of you spoke. The quiet wasn’t uncomfortable. It was a kind of hush you hadn’t known you’d been chasing — the kind that made you ache because it asked for nothing in return.

You turned your head, watching the profile of Zaros’s face, the way his lashes cast pale shadows against his skin. He looked younger like this. Or maybe not younger — but stripped of all the sharpness the world made men wear. The boy beneath the courtier.

“I don’t remember the last time I laughed like that,” you confessed, your voice so soft it felt like it might dissolve before it reached him.

He didn’t look at you, but a crooked smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

“Felt good,” he said.

It did. And you hated how much.

You let your eyes drift closed, the thrum of the distant drums finally gone, the last taste of berries and smoke and honey still on your tongue. A breath of wind passed over the field, carrying the scent of river water and something sweet blooming unseen.

And for the first time in what felt like years, you let yourself think of nothing at all.

Not the crown.

Not the court.

Not the past.

Just this.

Two bodies in a field, the night stretching endlessly overhead, and the knowledge that morning would come — but not yet.

The night had settled thick and cool around you, the fireflies flickering out one by one, leaving only the distant hush of water and the restless breath of the grass. You’d both gone quiet, not because there was nothing left to say, but because some things were better left suspended in the dark — half-formed, unspoken.

Then, after a long while, Zaros shifted beside you. You felt it before you saw it — the dip of the earth beneath his weight, the faint scrape of his palm against grass. His voice came low, thick with something heavier than the wine, something that made your ribs ache with the shape of it.

“My Earis,” he began.

You flinched, not from the words, but from the way they landed, too near, too familiar in a way that was both cruel and beautiful.

“Call me by my name, Zaros.” you breathed, the words leaving your lips before you could swallow them down. You turned toward him then, the closeness of him nearly dizzying, his pale hair a tangle of moon-pale threads against the darker curve of the earth.

For a moment, he only looked at you — and then he said it.

Your name. Not May Queen, not Highness, not the sharp, wary titles exchanged in torchlit corridors. Just your name, simple and soft, as if he was relearning the shape of it in his mouth, tasting the syllables like a secret.

Something inside you cracked.

Zaros sat up, leaning his weight on one arm, the other reaching to brush a loose blade of grass from your cheek, the touch thoughtless, unhurried.

“We could stay here,” he murmured, almost to himself. “Forget it. All of it. The court. The crown. The blood. Just… stay.” His gaze lifted toward the cabin — a half-ruined thing, but it might as well have been a castle for the way he spoke of it. “There’s land enough. A field to grow things in. That stream you like. You’d laugh here. You’d laugh every day.”

You swallowed hard, your throat tight and dry as old parchment. The sweetness of the night turned sharp around the edges.

“I can’t,” you said, though you hated how small your voice sounded against the enormity of what he was offering. “It’s my duty. I have to win. I have to take it, Zaros. That’s a childish dream, you out of everyone should know better than that”

He was quiet for a beat. You thought he might argue — rail against it, against you, against the whole blood-soaked machine you both were caught inside. But when he spoke again, his voice was softer. Sadder.

“The crown won’t bring her back, you know.”

It was not a cruelty. There was no venom in it. Just a simple, terrible truth, left hanging between you like a blade.

You felt something hot and stinging gather behind your eyes, but you wouldn’t let it fall. Wouldn’t give it the weight of a tear.

“And what would your mother think,” you whispered, not out of pettiness, but because it mattered. Because you weren’t the only one shackled to ghosts.

At that, Zaros gave a small, crooked smile. It wasn’t bitter. It was something far worse — the resigned sort of smile a boy gives when he’s long since made peace with a wound that still refuses to close.

“She’ll be okay,” he said quietly, and you believed him. Or rather, you believed that he believed it, which wasn’t the same thing at all.

The night pressed close around you then, thick with old grief and things unsaid. The grass rustled, the air cooled, and still neither of you moved to leave.

Your hand found his without meaning to — fingers tangling in the roughness of his palm, in the memory of berry juice and earth-smudged skin. His breath caught, or maybe yours did.

When the kiss came, it wasn’t hurried. It wasn’t born of lust or heat or even rebellion. It was something gentler. A question, an apology, a promise neither of you had words for.

Zaros leaned in, and your mouths met in the hush of the field, the world narrowing to the press of his lips against yours. The taste of cider lingered, the faint salt of sweat, the sweetness of whatever tender thing lived between you that neither crown nor war had managed to kill.

It was soft. And it hurt.

And you let it.

The kiss lingered, not desperate but slow, a tentative thing in the hush of the dark. The air between you hummed, thick with everything left unsaid. His hand cupped your jaw, calloused thumb brushing the dampness at your temple you hadn’t realized was there.

When he pulled back — just enough to breathe, to look at you — his brow knit, pale lashes catching the faint light.

He murmured your name again, spoken like something sacred. Or like a plea.

And that was what did it.

The breath in your chest hitched, and before you could steel yourself, before you could summon the sharp edges of duty and blood and title to armor yourself, the first tear slipped free. Hot, sudden, furious.

You turned your face away, pressing the heel of your palm to your eye as though you could push it back inside, pretend it hadn’t happened.

But Zaros caught your wrist, not roughly, not to stop you — just to hold it. His fingers curled around yours, grounding.

“I don’t…” you started, voice a brittle thing, splintering under its own weight. Your throat closed around the words. You didn’t finish them. Couldn’t. Not while you were sitting in a field at the edge of nowhere, tasting cider and earth and his mouth, knowing there was a war waiting for you both beyond the line of those trees.

Another tear slid free. And then another.

It wasn’t a storm. It wasn’t a wailing thing. It was quieter. A silent unraveling, like threads worked loose from a tapestry, one after another, until you were nothing but raw, breathless ache. The grief of a daughter. The fury of a would-be queen. The terror of a girl who did not know who she was when there was no crown to chase.

Zaros said nothing. He didn’t ask you to stop. Didn’t offer platitudes.

He only pulled you forward, drawing your head to his shoulder, his hand at the back of your neck, his thumb stroking small, absent circles into your hair. His own breath was unsteady against your temple.

“You don’t have to be brave here,” he said, barely above a whisper.

And that — gods, that — made you cry harder.

Because no one had said that to you in years. Because you didn’t know how to stop. Because you didn’t know how to be anything else.

So you wept, quietly, into the curve of his shoulder, the world narrowing to the smell of grass and woodsmoke in his hair, the warmth of him against you, steady and silent.

When the tears finally slowed, leaving your face damp and your throat raw, neither of you moved to speak. The kiss hadn’t been a mistake. The tears hadn’t been weakness. It was just what happened when two people stopped pretending for long enough to touch the places that hurt.

The night stretched wide and endless around you, the sky thick with stars, the grass still swaying, and you let yourself be held.

1 year later ──

You placed the delicate porcelain plate before him, careful as though it were fine china, though the glaze was chipped at the edges and the pattern faded from years of misuse. In the center of the plate sat a single cookie — the best-looking one of the batch, though admittedly, that wasn’t saying much. It was lopsided, a bit too dark at the edges, but you’d dusted it with a hopeful sprinkle of sugar and placed it on the table like it was a feast.

“Go on,” you grumbled, crossing your arms as Zaros stared at it like it might lunge for his throat. “Try it, Zaros.”

He didn’t reach for it. Just regarded it, head tilted, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. Deep down, you didn’t blame him. You were many things — a decent forager, a quick shot with a bow, a passable seamstress in a pinch — but a cook you were not.

At last, with a long-suffering sigh, he picked it up and took a bite.

There was a long moment of silence as he chewed, his expression unreadable. You held your breath.

He swallowed.

“My love,” he began solemnly, eyes gleaming with mischief you recognized too late, “can I see the sugar you used?”

You blinked. “The sugar? Why?”

Wordlessly, he gestured toward the cupboard.

Still frowning, you fetched the glass jar and set it in front of him. He took one look at it and immediately barked out a laugh, head thrown back in a way that made his loose hair catch the light.

“That,” he wheezed between fits of laughter, “that is salt.”

For a moment you only stared at the jar, then back at him — and then despite yourself, the sound of your own laughter broke loose. Full, unrestrained, to the point you had to grip your stomach as the ache of it built. It wasn’t new, these fits of laughter between you two, ridiculous and breathless. You’d found yourself like this more and more — cheeks flushed, belly full, body softened in ways the village women teasingly called happy weight.

And you were happy. Happy in a way you hadn’t known you could be. Happy with the Ithrenari, with the woods and fields and the ache in your muscles at the end of a long day, with Zaros and his impossible grin and his habit of building things you didn’t ask for. Happy even with the price on your head.

Treason, they called it.

A bounty of six hundred thousand gold. 

But no one would think to look here.

Not in a half-forgotten corner of the world, where the river bent just so and the meadow was thick with wildflowers. Where Zaros spent his days fixing up the old, crumbling cottage in sleeveless shirts, hair tied back in a messy knot, his arms slick with sweat as he worked. You’d lie out in the flower field, chewing idly on the strange, tart berries the village girls brought you in little woven baskets, watching him with a sort of private hunger you didn’t even bother denying anymore.

And then, quite suddenly, your stomach lurched.

The laughter turned too sharp in your throat. A sour twist hit the back of your tongue.

You stood so quickly your chair scraped against the floorboards, one hand pressed to your mouth as you hurried toward the open door. The nausea was fierce, all at once, no warning.

Behind you, Zaros called your name in alarm, the plate clattering as he pushed it aside.

You barely made it to the edge of the herb patch before you retched, stomach emptying in sharp, miserable waves. The scent of lavender and damp earth made it worse. When it passed, you spat into the grass, trembling.

Bootsteps crunched behind you.

A warm, calloused hand touched your back, smoothing in slow, steady circles. Another ghosted along your arm.

“This has been happening often,” Zaros murmured, voice gentle and too knowing. “You need to see Ilyra.”

“I’m fine,” you managed, still tasting bitterness in your throat.

He crouched beside you, one hand braced on his knee, the other at your cheek. His palm was warm. You hated how good it felt.

“You’ve said that every time,” he said softly. “Three times this week.” He adds your name at the end of the sentence, somehow making the entirety of the situation more serious.

“I’m not going to the old crone, Zaros,” you grumbled. “She’ll stick me with needles or feed me boiled roots or—or spirits’ bones, something foul.”

His laugh was quieter this time, but there was a tenderness in it.

“She might,” he allowed. “But right now, you’re going to bed.”

“I don’t need—”

Without warning, he hooked an arm behind your knees and another behind your back, lifting you easily off the ground. You gave a startled yelp, swatting at his shoulder.

“Zaros, put me down—”

“No,” he said, grinning as he carried you back toward the cottage. “You’re mine now. A wanted traitor, a terrible baker, and a woman who clearly can’t be trusted not to poison herself with salt biscuits.”

You let your head fall against his shoulder, the steady beat of his heart beneath your ear. It felt too good. Too safe.

“I’ll make a better batch tomorrow,” you murmured.

He pressed a kiss to your temple. “Gods, I hope not.”

And in the quiet dark of your little home, with the scent of woodsmoke clinging to the beams and the warmth of his arms around you, you let him tuck you into bed, feeling for the first time in years like you might actually be allowed to stay.

──

“I want to marry you.”

The words came low, rough, broken by the ragged edge of his breath — so quiet you might have thought you imagined them, if not for the way his hands trembled where they framed your hips, the way his lips brushed the hollow of your throat as he said it, like a prayer he hadn’t meant to speak aloud.

Your eyes snapped open.

The world around you was still a blur of half-light and shadow, the room thick with the scent of sweat and woodsmoke, the faint cool of evening air threading through the open window. Your chest rose and fell in frantic shudders, every inch of your skin flushed and aching, your pulse still thunderous in your ears. A sheen of sweat clung to your brow, to your collarbone, to the curve of your thighs.

And him — Zaros.

His golden hair clung to his forehead, damp with effort, stray strands plastered to the curve of his cheek. You reached for him with a hand that trembled faintly, brushing the sweat-slicked locks from his face, tracing the high cut of his cheekbone, the arch of his brow, the warm, human mess of him. The light from the dying fire caught in the strands of his hair, turning them the color of spilt honey.

For a long, suspended moment, neither of you spoke.

His essence still lingered within you, the slow, inevitable warmth of it a tether between your bodies. It made your stomach flutter strangely — some emotion you hadn’t a name for, hadn’t the courage to name.

You let your thumb skim along his lower lip, and then, wordlessly, leaned up to kiss him.

Not desperate, this time. Not born of hunger or fury or the unbearable ache of exile and grief.

Soft. Slow. A quiet claiming.

His breath caught against your mouth.

“I mean it,” he murmured when you parted, his voice rough, as though the words hurt to say aloud. “I’ll build you a better house. Fix the fence. Grow those strawberries you keep asking for. Whatever you want, Just stay.”

Your throat tightened.

Stay.

As though it could be that simple. As though the crown wouldn’t come hunting for your head. As though the weight of dead mothers and burning cities and old gods forgotten by time would vanish with a promise made in the dark.

And yet — there was something in you that wanted to believe it. That wanted to believe in the ghost of a future that smelled of earth and rain and strawberry fields, of hearth smoke and salted bread, of children with blue flowers braided into their hair.

You kissed him again.

And this time, when your lips brushed his, you tasted salt — not from your earlier mistake in the kitchen, but from the tears that slipped free, hot and unbidden, down your cheek.

Zaros made a sound, a kind of wordless, aching noise, and drew you tight against him, as though he could keep the world at bay by sheer force of will.

──

The retching came again at dawn.

You clung to the crooked post outside the cottage, nails scraping the weatherworn wood, your breath catching in short, shallow gasps as your body folded in on itself. Another violent heave tore through you, a seizing, relentless thing that left your muscles trembling and your stomach hollow. The sharp, cold air bit at your sweat-slick skin, each breath stinging, sharp as glass in your lungs. Mist crawled in slow, restless coils around your ankles, thick and pale as milk, curling like fingers, like the breath of some unseen, watching thing.

You could taste the bile, acrid and sour, the burn of it clinging at the back of your throat. It left your chest aching, your ribs sore from days — no, weeks — of this relentless sickness that gnawed at you like a starving hound. Each morning it came worse than the last, leaving you wrung out and gasping, a trembling wreck in its wake.

Somewhere, far off, a lone bird dared to sing. A single, fragile thread of sound, a thin warble that wavered in the frigid air like a flame fighting against the wind. It felt obscene. Blasphemous, against the thick, gnawing dread that had taken root in your chest. A world that still spun, a dawn that still rose, while you stood there unraveling.

Your palm, slick with sweat, slid down the rough wood of the post as you tried to steady yourself. Your head swam. The world bled together — the gray sky and the pale mist and the frost-kissed earth a smear of cold colors. The horizon was a soft, unfocused blur, as though your eyes could no longer trust the shape of the world.

And then.

A sound.

Soft at first, but certain. A steady, deliberate rhythm of footsteps. No hesitation, no uncertainty — each step familiar in its weight, in the subtle shift of earth beneath it. You didn’t need to lift your head to know who it was. The earth itself knew him, bore him as it did no other.

“I’ve had enough of this,” Zaros murmured, his voice thick with sleep, but laced with something heavier now. It wasn’t anger. Not even frustration. There was worry there, heavy and bruised, and beneath it — grief. The kind that didn’t yet know its name.

You turned toward him, the movement slow and heavy, as though you moved through water. You meant to say something. Some hollow, stubborn protest, the same you’d offered every morning this cursed fortnight — I’m fine, it’s nothing, it’ll pass. But when your eyes met his, the words withered to ash.

The storm-gray depths of his gaze pinned you in place. There was something in them you couldn’t bear. A weight, an unspoken knowing. A terrible tenderness.

And then you were in his arms.

“I can walk,” you managed, though it was a breath, a ghost of a protest.

“I know,” he said, his lips brushing your temple as he gathered you close. “But you don’t need to.”

There was such unbearable gentleness in the way he held you, as though you were something fragile, some glass-thin thing that might splinter in his grasp. His warmth bled into your cold skin, steady and grounding. He smelled of earth and wild sage, woodsmoke and sweat, and beneath it, always, the faint metallic tang of steel. The soldier. The lover. The one thing that tethered you to the world’s edge.

The mare waited nearby, her dark flank shimmering like wet stone in the gray light. Zaros lifted you onto the saddle, his hands careful, steady as though afraid you might vanish the moment he let go. And then he swung up behind you, his arm settling firm around your waist, an anchor in the shifting, uncertain dawn.

The land stretched out ahead, an endless sprawl of frost-damp earth and curling mist. The sky bled lavender and bruised gold, the colors soft and sickly. The trees stood bare and still, skeletal fingers against the pale sky. Somewhere in the distance, smoke rose — thin, lazy tendrils that felt too quiet to notice.

You let your eyes fall shut as Zaros leaned in, his lips a whisper against your ear.

“Ilyra will know,” he murmured. “And you’ll let her help.”

You rode in silence, the steady rhythm of the mare’s hooves a dull, ceaseless drum. Each jolt sent a sick ripple through your gut, but you welcomed it. Welcomed the ache, the cold, the too-sharp edges of the world. His hand never left your side. His fingers splayed against your waist, a quiet, wordless promise.

Ilyra’s cottage rose from the mist like a memory you weren’t sure was ever real. Crooked and half-swallowed by an ancient willow, its roof sagged beneath the weight of a thousand seasons. Smoke coiled from the chimney, and there, in the doorway, she stood.

As though she’d known you were coming before you ever left.

“Looks like death warmed over,” she muttered, sharp eyes sweeping over you. No pity in them. No surprise.

Zaros dismounted, sliding down with ease, and caught you before you could even think to protest. His hand brushed your wrist — callused, careful, trembling.

“I’ll be back soon,” he murmured, his lips pressing against your brow like a benediction. “I promise.”

And then he was gone, swallowed by the mist.

The cottage swallowed you next. A small, crooked thing thick with the scents of old smoke, dried herbs, and time. Bundles of lavender and thyme hung from the rafters, and the hearth spat soft, irregular sparks into the gloom.

Ilyra wasted no time with words.

“How long?” she asked, guiding you down onto a low stool.

“Two weeks,” you rasped.

She muttered something in a language you didn’t know. Her gnarled hands pressed firm against your stomach — a touch that was neither cruel nor kind, but certain. Her brow furrowed as she worked, and then — the pause.

A pause that stretched long and thick as tar.

“I thought so,” she murmured at last.

Your heart stuttered, your breath snagging like a snared bird.

“Thought what?” Your voice was a brittle thing.

She met your gaze then — those ancient, storm-hardened eyes seeing straight through to the marrow of you. Not pity. Not softness. But sorrow. The kind that had lived in her long enough to turn to bone.

“You’re with child.”

The words struck like a blow to the chest.

Your vision blurred. The cup in your hands slipped, clattering to the floor, tea spilling in a widening, forgotten stain. It felt as though the earth tilted beneath you, the air too thick, too thin.

A child.

Yours.

And Zaros’s.

A sob tore itself from your throat, raw and unbidden. Your hand flew to your mouth. A thousand emotions warring like storm clouds in your chest — joy so fierce it hurt, terror so sharp it flayed you raw, and beneath it all, a dread ancient and suffocating.

In your mind’s eye: Zaros in the orchard, his mouth stained red with stolen berries, laughing as he promised you forever. A child cradled in your lap, with hair dark as storm clouds or pale as wheat. Stories told by firelight. Nights heavy with rain and earth.

“I—” you tried, but the word splintered in your throat.

And then the world broke.

A scream.

High, sharp, distant. Then another. And another.

The unmistakable crash of steel, the crack of wood, the wild, wordless sounds of men dying.

Your blood went to ice.

“No,” you breathed.

Ilyra’s hand clamped around your wrist. “Stay here—”

But you were already moving. Out the door. Into a world unraveling.

The meadow was chaos.

The Ithrenari scattered — some with children in their arms, others clutching rusted blades. Faces contorted in terror. Smoke curled in thick tendrils from a burning outpost, black against the pale dawn.

And then you saw them.

Serullan banners. Purple cloaks like bruises. Gleaming helms catching the sickly light.

Your family’s colors.

Your stomach lurched, twisting sharp as a knife.

You ran, skirts catching on thorns, your heart a wild, frantic hammer in your chest. The world blurred past you. Screams rose, fell. The earth turned slick beneath your feet.

You reached the clearing.

The cottage loomed ahead — small, familiar, absurdly peaceful beneath the smothering gray sky. Smoke still curled lazily from the crooked chimney. The door hung open, swaying gently in the wind, as though nothing in the world had happened at all.

A lie.

Your feet moved without thought, the earth a blur beneath you, your breath ragged, chest raw. Each step felt like dragging yourself through water, through syrup, through something too thick to fight against.

The air stank of blood. Of burning wood. Of dying things.

You crossed the threshold.

And the world stopped.

It didn’t shatter.

It didn’t crack.

It simply… ceased.

The air in your lungs turned to ice. Sound fled the room. Light bent strangely. It felt like falling, like being wrenched backward out of your own body, some part of you recoiling before your mind could catch up.

Zaros.

He was there.

Slumped against the far wall like a discarded doll, limbs limp, head bowed unnaturally. His chest, where it had once risen steady and sure against your cheek, was still. His hands, those steady, clever, callused hands — the same ones that had brushed your hair from your face that morning — were streaked with blood. His linen shirt was soaked through, the stain spreading like a black sun.

And then, your gaze dropped.

You saw it.

His head.

Laid upon the hearthstone.

Like some monstrous offering.

His hair — gods, his beautiful hair, long and golden, a careless, defiant thing he’d always worn too loose, too wild — was dark with blood, matted and clinging in damp strands. It fanned out around his face like a halo, mockery of a saint. His eyes were mercifully closed, long lashes dusting pale cheeks, his expression unnervingly serene. As though he were sleeping.

As though he’d simply grown tired.

You moved, though you had no memory of willing your body forward. Your knees buckled and hit the blood-slick floor, the cold seeping instantly into your bones. Your fingers shook as you reached for him, as though afraid to touch. As though the act itself would undo what little remained.

His skin was still warm.

Still Zaros.

You gathered him to you, cradling what you could, your hands tangling in blood-drenched hair. His face, slack and pale, rested against your chest. The coppery scent of blood mingled with the faint, lingering traces of crushed herbs and leather.

Your white clothing, simple and unstained only moments ago, was ruined. The blood bled into it, blotting it out — as though the purity of your life before this moment had been a mistake the world was now correcting.

A sound wrenched itself from your throat.

It wasn’t a scream. It wasn’t a cry.

It was a thing born from the deepest marrow of your bones. A raw, guttural sob that shook the very walls. A sound of grief so pure, so unfathomable, it made the earth itself seem to stutter.

You rocked him, though he was beyond it. Rocked him like you might a child, like some desperate instinct had seized you — as if the world could be stitched back together if you just held him tightly enough.

Your tears came fast and hot, falling onto his cheeks, onto his hair. You pressed your lips to his blood-matted temple, to the place you’d kissed him that morning. Your breath came in ragged gasps. Your body ached, your heart a void.

“I’m sorry—” you whispered, voice shattered and small. “Please—I’m sorry—”

The words made no sense.

And yet they were all you had left.

Memories rushed in, cruel and unbidden — the way he’d scowled when you teased him, the way his laughter burst out sharp and boyish when you caught him off-guard, the weight of his arm around your waist as you fell asleep on nights too cold for a single blanket. The taste of wild strawberries on his lips, the way he had said your name like a vow.

The room spun.

Your chest hollowed.

The child inside you fluttered.

And the world, you realized, had ended.

 ──

author's note: hi, watch cmbyn

ps: this has been sitting in my drafts for too long

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[madame-fear]

𐙚 𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐏𝐔𝐍𝐂𝐇.

─── .✦ 𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐥𝐨𝐠𝐮𝐞.

counterpunch · a punch thrown in return for one received.

ೀ amira speaks.ᐟ : for some reason I felt extremely nervous while writing this,, I hope this is what you guys expected for the prologue of Counterpunch??? 🥺🤲 I thought starting it this way would be the best, to, you know, show how they met from moment zero. Already writing chapter one, by the way— I swear I am doing my very best for all of you, my loves. 🫡 ˗ˏˋ ꒰ summary : ravens come and go, threatens between the blacks and greens come and go, deaths come and go… war comes, and it never goes. you had seen everything; past, present, future. your dreams had shown you almost all about the rise & fall of House Targaryen— which gained you the title of “(y/n) the dreamer”. however, the only one who would attentively listen to your visions was Prince Jacaerys, your childhood best friend. and when war arrives, the only solace you both can find amidst all the conflicts, is in your continously blooming relationship. ˗ˏˋ ꒰ word count : 1.0k

˗ˏˋ ꒰ genre : chaptered series. some angst & fluff in the future, maybe. ˗ˏˋ ꒰ pairing : Jacaerys Velaryon x Dreamer!Best Friend!Reader.

COUNTERPUNCH MASTERLIST.

The nearly overhwelming silence had been interrupted, as loud baby wails overtook the private chambers; bringing a sigh of relief to anyone who had been witnessing and assisting to your birth.

With a soft cotton muslin, ivory coloured blanket, a maid had gently wrapped your fragile body as you wailed. “It’s a girl, my Lady.” the maid muttered, delicately rocking you on her arms, with the ghost of a wide grin forming at the corner of her lips as she approached your mother to pass you to her. Your mother lovingly took you in her arms, relief washing over her as your wail echoed through the chambers; drops of sweat running across her features after an ardous birthing.

It had been quite a special birth. One that brought several wide smiles to members of your own House, and everyone who had alliances with your House by simply taking a glimpse of your sleeping face, or a brief glimpse into your bright innocent eyes. A birth that, as soon as it was announced, Princess Rhaenyra rushed to visit both you, and your mother— and her arms didn’t go empty, as she took baby Jace, her heir, with her to meet you.

House Targaryen’s close bond and alliance to your House was one that rooted back many, many years ago. The realm’s delight and your mother got along together exceptionally well— with your House vehemently supporting her birthright as the true heir to the Iron Throne, and having known each other as young girls. There was no doubt that the Targaryen princess would be swift in paying your mother — and you, a sweet little babe — a visit, as your own mother had done with the birth of her firstborn son.

Resting on a large, velvet lounge sofa, a tranquil expression was spread all across your mother’s features, with a toothy grin beginning to form on her lips as Rhaenyra returned back the gesture— holding a young Jacaerys in her arms, while your own small body was wrapped in a soft blanket, being held by your mother. “She’s very beautiful, congratulations.” the platinum haired woman spoke, tilting her head slightly as her gaze fixed on your features. Her grin could only increase as you would coo to her, offering a toothless baby smile.

The young Velaryon boy, who was only several moons older than you — almost a year —, innocently copied his mother’s actions; his coffee eyes staring at you with curiousity, as your coos were faintly heard in the background. A chuckle spurred from your mother’s lips, moving down her stare to admire you, using her index finger to delicately caress your cheek. “She is, isn’t she? We have decided to name her (y/n).” in her tone, vibrated a notorious pride. One that could only be understood— you were quite a little gift. A joy.

“Thank you very much, Princess. Especially for taking the time to visit us.” the Targaryen princess softly sat by your mother’s side, allowing a huff to escape from her, as she tried to keep Jace properly in her arms— the boy continuing to curiously look at you. “I could never not visit you... And your little girl now, of course.” she said. A lighthearted mood loomed in the atmosphere almost endearingly, which, felt refreshing for her.

Rhaenyra turned around briefly, directing her stare at the young heir in her arms, “Jace, why don’t you greet (y/n)?” she muttered gently, inciting her son to approach you in any possible way. The firstborn Velaryon could notice your big baby eyes attentively, and curiously, observing him as you kept cooing quietly, enveloped in the warmth of the blankets— his hand immediately waved at you in a kind manner, doing as his mother insisted, kindly smiling at the sight of you. Another faint baby grin appeared on your lips as he waved, while both your mothers observed the interactions you shared together.

“I’m certain they’ll both grow to be close friends. I can tell, already.” your mother remarked to Rhaenyra, gleefully, causing the platinum-haired woman to chuckle in response.

Both of you were practically babies, with mere several moons of difference— and despite having exchanged a simple childish interaction for now, considering how much of a close, strengthened bond your Houses had, it was most likely that you both would almost grow together and meet each other frequently.

Your mother wasn’t wrong at all, when she mentioned that you both would grow to become each other’s close friends— you had grown to be best friends, accompanying one another for every single little thing. Playing together, having the privilege of meeting his younger siblings the moment they were born, being the only ones who would really know your thoughts and feelings, and even rooting for him eagerly whenever you travelled to King’s Landing and watched him swordtrain with Ser Strong.

And the older you grew, the more accompanied you were by each other’s presence constantly. Particularly, during the moments where confusion overwhelmed you at the things you began frequently dreaming of and envisioned as you matured— almost hauntingly, as every experience you lived and went through, everywhere you went to, it seemed as if you had already been there, being left to expect the worst outcome. You had nowhere to run to.

Some referred to you as a dreamer, and others, as a madwoman. The only one who would be there by your side when you felt asphyxiated by visions and dreams, and when blood was shed amidst the growing war for his mother’s usurped Throne, would be the eldest son of Rhaenyra Targaryen.

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[writerslittlelibrary]

"What, are you?"

masterlist ao3 version

summary: when your abilities show themselves during a viscous Drüskelle attack, General Kirigan has you immediately transferred to the Little Palace for protection

pairing: Aleksander Kirigan x sun summoner reader

warnings: canon level violence, mention of blood

genre: angst, fluff

words: 2683

a/n: I watched the show Shadow & Bone a few years age, and I was absolutely obsessed. recently I picked up the books, and I cannot express how upset I am that they’ve cancelled the series. It literally had so much potential :(

also, I apologise for literally falling off of the face of the earth these past two months. I was depressed at first, and when I felt a little better me and my mom went on a two week vacation to Ireland, and this week I was at a figure skating camp, so I didn’t really get to writing lol. anyhow, I’m feeling better, and I am planning on writing more fics and hopefully do a flufftober week or something :)

You do not have my permission to repost, copy or translate my work

 |—————————— ✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧ ——————————|

The war in Ravka had been raging on for as long as you could remember. It had taken your parent’s lives, and very likely their parent’s lives as well. Now it was your turn to take your place in the army and fight in the war. 

You had never possessed much physical strength. Ever since you were a child, you were weak and fragile. It had pushed the caretakers at the orphanage to give you other tasks. 

They wanted you to posses as many skills as possible, to ensure you would have a future, even if you wouldn’t be able to fight in the war. As you got older, you seemed to develop a true talent in drawing. Your drawings were detailed and realistic, and so the caretakers pressed to ensure you would continue developing that talent. 

When you became of age, you were send to join the first army as a mapmaker. 

Currently you were stationed at a camp just next to the fold. There were several skiffs being readied to enter the fold, but after running a little detour, you found out you were not scheduled to go on any of them. 

At the moment, you were sitting with a Squaller. You had met her years ago, when both of you were just little girls. A boy had been bullying you, and she had thrown him across the field. Ever since, you had been friends. When she would return to the Little Palace, you would write to her, and when you were stationed at an encampment, she would request to be sent to the same place.

As you were laughing at something Zoya had said, you heard yelling coming from a few tents away from you. You figured it was just another soldier fight, but Zoya knew better as she stood, pulling you up with her when she seemingly spotted something that frightened her.

She pushed you behind her, grabbing your hand and she made a run to the edge of the encampment, towards the forest.

You could hear shouting behind you, and the noises of a fight reached your ears. This was not a friendly soldier fight. Too many people had been involved for that. Before you could reach the forest, you could feel two arms wrapping around you from behind, pulling you away from Zoya. 

She screamed, reaching out for you before someone took her out from behind. 

The language the man spoke was foreign, and it didn’t take you long to realise they were Fjerdans. They must’ve dressed up as soldiers so they could infiltrate the tents and eliminate the Grisha. 

You fought against the man holding you down, kicking him in the stomach and managing to punch him in the face. 

He struggled, falling backwards. You didn’t hesitate to run away from him, spotting Zoya on the ground, the Drüskelle on top of her. He had a knife in his hand, undoubtedly planning on slicing Zoya’s throat. 

You ran over quickly, jumping on the man’s back in order to get him off of her. Zoya struggled for a bit, surprised by your return before regaining her composure, raising her arms to blast the man backwards. She made her way over to you, grabbing you hand once more before she was pierced by an arrow. A Drüskelle stood behind her, a few feet away, holding a bow. 

Zoya fell to the ground, and the Fjerdan you had managed to push to the ground was now behind you again, restraining you as the other one walked over to Zoya.

He grabbed her hair, pulling her to her knees, with her head pulled backwards. He mumbled a few words in Fjerdan, something about salvation of the witches before he pressed his knife to her throat. 

You screamed, fighting against the Drüskelle holding you as they prepared to slit Zoya’s throat. 

The moment the Drüskelle drew blood, you screamed. An anger releasing inside you that you didn’t know you were holding. Your view went black, a bright light shining through the blackness before you felt your body giving out. You could faintly hear screaming, and you could make out Zoya’s voice as she held you head in her lap. 

After that, everything went black. 

-------------------------------------------------------------

When your vision returned, you could make out you were in a tent. You saw Zoya’s face first, looking concerned as she wiped a wet cloth over your forehead. It appeared you were burning up, yet the cool cloth felt as though it had burned you.

You groaned, moving away from her touch and shielding your eyes. The light was too bright, even though the tent was fairly dark. 

“She’s awake,” you heard Zoya say to another person in the room, who hummed thoughtfully before dismissing her.

“Thank you, Zoya. You may leave,” you heard a male voice command. 

You saw Zoya shaking her head, holding one hand on your arm as her head was turned to the other presence. 

“Please, General. She’s confused and scared as is. Allow me stay, please,” Zoya said, and you don’t think you’ve ever heard her use the word ‘please’, let alone use it multiple times in the same sentence.

“Very well,” the male voice commanded, and you could hear large footsteps cross the tent towards where you were lying down.

You groaned, grabbing onto Zoya as you pulled yourself into a sitting position, noticing you were indeed in the tent of the Black General. You breath caught in your throat at the sight of him, and your eyes fell to two Heartrenders standing guard at the entrance of the tent.

“You’ve made quite the show, miss…?” the General trailed off, looking at you expectedly. 

“y/l/n, y/n y/l/n,” you said quietly, turning your gaze to fall on Zoya, who had moved to sit next to you on the cot you were previously laying on. 

Your head felt heavy, and your hands felt clammy. 

“Miss y/l/n, tell me, what are you?” the General asked, leaning against a desk placed in the tent. 

You looked at him confused, thinking about what he could possibly mean. 

“A mapmaker, sir,” you told him, turning to look at Zoya. You couldn’t read her expression, so you turned back to the General, who looked slightly offended. 

“Don’t fool me,” he started. “What are you,” he stated firmly.

“I don’t know what you mean,” you admitted honestly, not wanting to upset him.

He looked at you for a moment, determining whether you were lying before speaking again.

“Were you tested as a child?” he asked, to which you nodded. 

“What was the result?” 

“I wasn’t Grisha,” you said, a hint of pain in your voice. You had always wanted to be Grisha. To be in a place where you belong, amongst people who were like you. Instead, you were just normal, with no place where you belonged.

“Your little display of power this morning suggests otherwise, miss y/l/n,” the General spoke.

You looked at him confused. 

“I don’t understand what you mean,” you told him honestly.

“You singhandly managed to scare all of the Drüskelle away, yet you claim to have no knowledge of what you were doing?” 

“I’m sorry, sir, I truly don’t,” you replied, flinching slightly when the General pushed himself off the desk, closing the distance between you. 

“Hold out your arm,” he stated. 

You did as he said, extending your arm towards him while pulling up your sleeve, knowing what he wanted. 

“You say you were tested as a child?” the General asked in confirmation, noting the way you nodded, almost disappointed. “Were you injured during the testing?” he asked you, seeing your face contort in confusion. 

“I don’t recall… does that matter?” you asked, looking up at him as he stood before you. 

“It is the whole point of the test,” he said, taking ahold of your arm and bringing his sharp ring towards it. Gently, he pressed the talon in your arm, and you gasped at the slight sting before a warm beam of light shot from your arm.

You eyes widened, and the moment he let your arm fall back you grasped it, looking at the cut in disbelief. 

“You are very much Grisha, miss y/l/n,” the General said, motioning towards the Heartrenders at the entrance of the tent. 

You couldn’t find any words, turning to Zoya who just looked as bewildered as you. 

“I’m Grisha…” you whispered quietly, looking at Zoya. 

Before she could say anything, the General had returned to your side, gently grasping your upper arm and pulling you up. 

“We’ll have to work quickly. The Drüskelle are already on alert after the attack, and word of your discovery will spread fast,” the General said, handing you a red Kefta, urging you to put it on. “You’ll travel in my coach,” he spoke, before handing you to the two Heartrenders. 

You looked towards Zoya, who stood and asked the General if she could accompany you. 

He shook his head, insisting that she was still needed at the camp. 

Before you knew it, you were being dragged outside and towards the Darkling’s coach. Two Oprichniki stand at the doors, opening them upon seeing your arrival. You didn’t resist, taking the hand one of the Oprichniki offered to help you step inside. 

Once you settled into the coach, the two Heartrenders followed, sitting across from you. The doors were closed, and the two Oprichniki moved to the front, no doubt riding on horses beside the coach. 

You were silent for the first part of the journey, admiring the detailed embroidery on the red Kefta adorning your body. 

“It’s bulletproof,” said the man across from you suddenly. You looked up, meeting his kind smile and realising they had been watching you. “It is why the General wanted you to wear it,” he finished.

You nodded, allowing your hand to fall to your lap. 

“I’m Feydor, and this is Ivan,” the Heartrender introduced himself, motioning towards his partner beside him. He carried a stern look on his face, turning to look outside instead. 

You nodded in reply, turning to look outside in thought. 

“Where are we going?” you asked, turning back to Feydor. He smiled.

“The Little Palace, of course,” he said. 

You nodded once more, settling your gaze outside again. “Why the hurry?” 

“By now, every Drüskelle and Shu assassin will have heard what happened at the camp. What you did. We need to make sure you are behind safe walls when they come for you,” Feydor explained, and you nodded once more.

“I don’t even know what I did,” you then said, earning the look of both Feydor and Ivan. 

“You saved us,” Feydor started. “Your light killed two Drüskelle, and scared the rest away. The disguised themselves as First army to kill Grisha. Without you, they would have succeeded.” 

You looked at him surprised, not expecting that reply to come from his mouth. You could not remember a single thing that happened at the camp, let alone the Drüskelle attack. 

After the conversation died down, you turned to look outside once more. You felt your eyes drooping, exhausting settling into your bones as the world outside passed you in a blur.

Suddenly, the carriage stopped, and an Oprichniki opened the coach door. 

“There’s a fallen tree on the road, we’re moving it now,” he stated, closing the door again. Ivan looked uneasy, glancing out the little window. Feydor did the same, studying the other window until there was shouting. 

Immediately, Ivan and Feydor got up, both heading out the doors.

“Stay here, get down, and don’t move,” Feydor said, pushing a blade of Grisha steel into your hands before abandoning the coach. 

You did as he said, crouching down onto the floor of the coach, pressing your knees against your chest. You could hear screaming outside and multiple guns firing. When it stilled for a moment, you thought it was over, until the glass of the coach broke and a smoke bomb was thrown inside.

You coughed, pushing the door of the coach open and stumbling outside, falling to your knees as you tried to catch your breath. 

You heaved, clutching the Girsha steel knife in your hand when you looked up, barely registering the boots of a figure marching towards you, grabbing your hair and dragging you away. 

You fought, struggling against his hold as he pressed his knife to your throat, pressing harshly. You felt a trickle of blood stream down you neck, and you grabbed the knife in you hand as tightly as you could before stabbing it backwards, hitting the person in the stomach. 

His hold on you faltered enough for you to push him away, running away from him, into the forest. 

You ran for as long as your feet could take you, registering the fighting still happening behind you. When you stopped for only a second to catch your breath, you were tackled to the ground, a figure laying on top of you.

His held his knife high above his head, muttering a prayer of kinds before preparing to bring it down.

You could faintly hear a horse in the background, and you closed your eyes tightly, figuring this was it. You heard a yell, but you didn’t feel the sharp pain of a knife digging into your skin. Instead, when you opened your eyes. You could see the man on top of you, slowly falling in two. 

You turn your head, seeing the Darkling standing there beside a group of other Oprichniki. You realised he had cut the man on top of you in half. 

When he fell, you pushed him off of you, moving away from the body, and catching your breath. 

The General walked over to you, extending his arm, which you gratefully took as he helped you up. He studied the cut on your throat.

“Are you alright?” he questioned. 

You nodded, moving your hand to rub the sore spot on your throat. 

“You’ll ride with me,” he stated, walking over to his horse, leaving no room for argument. 

You followed him, standing beside him as he mounted his horse, extending his hand to help pull you up. You allowed him, settling in the saddle as he took off in a gallop. 

He held onto you firmly, ensuring you wouldn’t fall at the movement of the horse. 

With you were riding multiple Oprichniki guards, and you spotted Ivan and Feydor both riding on a horse themselves. They must’ve won the fight in the woods. 

After riding for nearly half a day, the group stopped at an abandoned barn. The Oprichniki secured it, while the General dismounted the horse, extending his arm to help you off as well. When the Oprichniki secured the barn, the group moved inside. 

The horses were giving water and something to eat, while a small group of Oprichniki went outside to hunt for dinner. 

You settled on the ground, close by the fire that Ivan had made. Once the sun had set, the temperature had dropped significantly, and you could say with certainty you were freezing.

You pulled the dirty Kefta around you a little tighter, hoping to conserve some warmth. The General seated himself beside you, reaching out a gentle hand to touch the cut on your neck. You winced slightly at the sting, and General Kirigan retreated his hand to retrieve a small, black cloth from his pocket. 

Gently, he wiped the blood away from you neck and face, making sure to avoid pressing to harshly. 

Once he retreated his hand, you gave him a small smile. 

“Thank you,” you said in a quiet voice, and he nodded. 

“Once you’re in the palace you’ll be able to clean up properly. The cut isn’t too deep, but in your weakened state it is enough to stir some worry,” he explained, tucking the small cloth back into his pocket. 

You nodded once again, moving to lay down, using you arm to support your head. The palace. That is where you were headed, after all…

this fic has been continued on ao3, link

Permanent tags: @marvelnatasha12346 @lesbionion @daddipantherr @darkstar225 @saraaahsstuff @marvelwomenarehot0 @screechcat @iheartjohansson @tia-thesimp @swaqcenix @karmasgxrl @marvel-lous3000 @hor1zond1ar1es @lorsstar1st @superlegend216 @ravensinthedaylight

[theladybrownstarot]

SPIRITUAL-WISDOM

A WAY TO SELF & IMPROVEMENT

Introduction: Namaste People! I'm brown , this post is quite different from others because this post is about spiritual wisdom which is needed a lot in life and without it we are always steps behind achieving what we need . I'm making this post In order to help out and share my wisdom with others to help them improve in their life !

Topic : The state of non-thinking

Overview : The majority of our problems arises due to thinking - a cause of suffering. We have forgotten and undervalued the core importance of quitetiude that's intrisic to our nature and life which has now caused serious problems around and in world and us - disappointment, regret , fight , war, hate , and more. We make the world so let's silence ourself first so we can create a difference altogether with the state of non thinking .

✧ What is it ?

The state of non-thinking refers to where are living in the present without worrying and thinking about the future and past rather in content with what is in front of us totally. It's like an acceptance and way ahead to understand yourself deeply and so your life and take actions accordingly. It's not totally about to stop thinking but rather thinking less.

✧ Why do we need it ?

The majority of the problem arises from our thinking, we can feel negativity only when we think , so wouldn't it be better of without thinking ? For example - You are going to have an exam tomorrow and you haven't prepared yet left with time if used could help out only if you stop thinking about the time and exam continously. Well there it is that positive state which will come out from you and intutive whispers helping you out to do what needs to be done . Hence when you follow that state of non-thinking you allow intuition to work in and connect with your innate natural state . When you practicse the non-thinking consistently you will see connecting with the truth and find answers to all your questions and so you find peace in your life too .

✧ Do we need to completely stop thinking ?

Well , it depends on what kind of life you want to live or what purpose you hold and how you want to change your life accordingly. In terms of survival we do need negative thinking to make us aware and alert . Therefore we may go to less thinking than to non-thinking and with consistent practisce you shall be able to maintain lesser thinking and non thinking for same .

✧ Is thought and thinking the same ?

No , they are completely different . The thought is divine and thinking is the cause of suffering from your head .

✧ How do I come to the state of non-thinking ?

You can do certain things :

1. Realise that thinking is the cause of suffering.

2. Eliminate that makes you prone to think like actions and things which do not inspire and excite you at all .

3. Create an environment and in your day that would help you come back in the state again. So when you wake up early in the morning keep your device aside and mediate .

©️ @theladybrownstarot 2023 all rights reserved. Any stealing or copying of work will be a punishable offence.

[lemoncrushh]

Mistletoe & Holly

Summary: Harry finally reveals to his friend Holly how he feels about her on her birthday...which just happens to be Christmas.

Warnings: None

Word Count: 4833

A/N: As promised, this is one of my two holiday fics from the past. Originally written and posted in 2021. In Harry's POV.

Holly’s birthday was the 25th of December. “Freaking Christmas Day”, as she'd put it when we'd become friends years ago.

"I was born on freaking Christmas Day, Harry! Like baby Jesus. Can you believe it?"

Her mum had been told she couldn't have children, but 'lo and behold one day after having a horrible upset stomach and a case of indigestion, she went to the doctor only to find out she was pregnant. Holly'd laughed about it then when she told me, making light of the fact that she'd been a miracle baby. I couldn't help but think she was indeed a miracle.

To say I'd had a crush on her would be an understatement. I reckon in those early days it was just a crush, as I followed her around like a dumb lovestruck puppy. But I didn’t really know what love was yet; I just thought she was pretty, and she was cool because she had the entire second floor of her parents’ house to herself. She sat behind me in class, and I’d let her copy off my papers, or she’d let me do the same, even though neither of us got the best marks.

It wasn’t until the second year that I realised my feelings for her were more than mere infatuation. She started dating…other guys…and I didn’t like it. Especially when she would tell me about them. I found myself jealous, and I didn’t like that either. I would sulk, wishing I could turn back the clock to when it was just her and me. But the truth was, there never had been a her and me. We were never a thing and were never gonna be. I’d missed my chance. I was in the friend zone.

Still, every year I would celebrate her birthday with her. I thought it was a shame that she had to share her birthday with the biggest holiday of the year, so we’d do it a week before, a tradition I came up with myself.

“You need to have your day, Holly,” I insisted. “A day that’s just for you.”

“Okay,” she agreed, giving me that grin she’d use when she was humouring me. “What do you suggest we do to celebrate?”

I shrugged. “I’ll think of something. Just leave it to me.”

That first year I’ll admit was a little lame. It was too late to plan a party, not that I would have known whom to invite anyway. I baked her a cake (okay, my mum helped me a little), and I brought it to her house. The look on her face when she’d opened the door was totally worth it. She beamed at me with her big eyes and lovely crooked-tooth smile, and I could have kissed her had I not been holding that massive cake in my hands. Okay, maybe not.

We sat on the floor with our backs against the sofa whilst we ate cake and watched Star Wars - her choice. Somewhere around the middle of the movie, I gave her my other gift, a stuffed bear wearing a beanie. Yes, I know, cheesy. But I was a kid. She kept it on her bed for a long time, so I guess she didn’t hate it.

The next year I was able to plan a party, and a lot of kids came. But the downside was that Holly had a semi-boyfriend, a prat named Duncan who kept trying to get her alone. I came close to getting him to eat one of the cookies I'd brought, knowing he was allergic to nuts, but Holly quickly slapped it out of his hand, giving me a look. I lied and told her I hadn’t known of his allergy, and spent the rest of the party in the kitchen with her mum and dad, claiming I had a headache.

That wasn't the last time I had to walk around with my tail between my legs. After the X-Factor and becoming part of One Direction, we continued to stay in touch. But I'd forgotten about my pact with Holly until it was almost too late, and the guys and I were making plans for Louis's birthday.

"You should come," I told Holly on the phone. "We'll make it a joint thing. A massive celebration."

“Are you sure?” she asked, and I could detect the tone of hesitation.

“Of course. It’ll be fun.”

The party itself had been fun, but what I had neglected to do was try to make it extra special for Holly, seeing as most everyone else was there for Louis. After my bandmate had blown out his candles, and we roasted him for a bit, I brought out the cake for Holly, a round one with white icing and holly and berries on the top. While she put on her best smile, I could tell she was disappointed that no one made a big deal, barely singing an encore of “Happy Birthday” as they stood digging their forks into Louis’s cake.

Each year, I tried to one-up myself, hoping I’d make her birthday more enjoyable than the last - or at least better than that one. I made it a point never to combine her day with Louis’s again as the entire idea was based on her having her own day.

A few years later, however, I did the worst thing I possibly could. Niall and I had gotten into the liquor before the festivities had started, long before Holly even arrived. To this day I don’t really know why I did it, but I blame it on the nerves. I’d had it in the back of my mind that I was finally going to tell Holly how I felt about her. She’d had another boyfriend earlier that year, Eric, and I’d hated him. I mean, gritting-my-teeth-every-time-he-appeared and keeping-my-hands-in-fists-in-case-he-breathed-wrong hated him. He was a dickhead and just...completely wrong for Holly. She deserved much better. She deserved to be with someone who treated her like a queen. She deserved to be with me.

So when she and Eric had broken up before Halloween, I was so relieved and elated, I wanted to throw her the best birthday party ever. I was going to tell her everything in my heart. And up to then, I hadn’t told a soul. 

That is, until Niall handed me a drink. I wasn’t sure what was in it, but it tasted amazing. The more I drank, the more I liked it. I was feeling pretty good, making jokes and having fun until I found myself telling Niall my plan. 

“Shit, good luck, mate,” he said, slapping me on the back. “Just...what if she turns you down?”

Before that moment, I hadn’t even considered that Holly wouldn’t love me back. I mean, certainly there was no guarantee that she would fall into my arms as soon as I confessed. She might have some reservations, even, what with us being such good friends and all. But what if she actually said she had no feelings for me at all and told me to get lost? Suddenly, I felt a sourness in my stomach, and not from the liquor.

To make matters worse, as if on cue, the door opened and in stepped Holly. For a second my face lit up, all doubts I’d just had a second earlier now dissolving at the sight of her in her black dress and red lipstick. Straightening my shirt, I stood back, waiting until her other friends gave her welcoming hugs to make my move.

And that’s when I saw him.

Fucking Eric was stood right behind her.

In less than two seconds, I strode across the room, my eyes shooting daggers at the wanker.

“Hey, Harry!” Holly beamed at me, but I barely noticed. “Looks like a great party.”

“What’s he doing here?” I growled, my hands in fists ready to take a punch if needed. Eric merely raised his eyebrows, as though he already knew he was unwelcome.

“Oh, I hope you don’t mind,” Holly said meekly. “I invited him.”

“You’re back together?”

Holly shrugged, a pink blush to her cheeks as she looked over her shoulder at him. “Maybe. We’ve been talking…”

Eric gave a grin so smug that I felt my arm swing back, but someone grabbed it. Turning my head, I saw Niall who shook his at me. Just then I heard a squeal to my left as another one of Holly’s friends ran up to greet the birthday girl. As they embraced, I suddenly felt the room close in on me, so I pushed through the crowd back to wherever Niall was keeping that good tasting concoction.

I don’t remember much else about that night except some girl whose name I’ve forgotten. Niall tells me I “played disciple”, following her wherever she went until she agreed to join me in a spare room. I’m not sure what I was doing, or how far I actually got with her, but apparently Holly walked in on us. She’s never told me what she saw, and I’m not sure if that’s more for her benefit or mine.

But yeah. Not my finest hour.

As the years went by, Holly and I remained friends, keeping in touch mostly through her private social media accounts, occasionally reaching out or getting together when our paths crossed. I heard of her new boyfriends, one I even met in person whom I considered to be a proper lad. Holly asked about my relationships as well, never sounding jealous or snarky, only supportive. I reckoned we’d both matured, particularly from my end. Eventually my romantic feelings for her evaporated to more of a warm, mutual understanding. Or at least that’s what I told myself.

This year, Holly decided to have her party at her place. She’d recently purchased her own place, her first “big girl flat” she called it, and was excited to show it off. She let me know that I needn’t plan anything, that she had it all under control.

Slamming the car door behind me, I looked up at her building, the windows and balcony trimmed in clear lights, a wreath decorating the center of the railing. I thought of all the previous Decembers I’d spent with Holly, celebrating her birthday, and suddenly felt a sense of loneliness. I hadn’t been dating anyone in what seemed like a long time as I tried to recall if she currently had a boyfriend.

The large, red, square box under my arm, I wiped my brow with the back of my other gloved hand, feeling the first fall of snow. Trudging up the steps, I rang the buzzer for Holly’s flat, an unmistakable smile twitching my lips when I heard her voice welcoming me in.

“Oh, I’ve missed you, my love,” she cooed softly into my ear as she wrapped her arms around my neck. I tried my best to keep my adolescent desires at bay as I innocently inhaled the scent of her perfume. “You need to come around more often.”

“And when’s the last time you came to see me, hmm?” I teased.

Her mouth in a straight line, Holly considered my comment. “You know, we can’t all afford to follow you around on tour for a year.”

“Have I been gone that long?”

“Longer,” Holly chided, taking my coat and setting my present on the credenza behind her, next to the other shiny wrapped gifts.

I chuckled. “Impossible. I saw you last birthday.”

“Fair enough. Just don’t make it a habit.”

“Too late, darling.”

I caught the gleam in Holly’s eye just before I felt a hand slap my shoulder, making me turn.

“Harry, lad! Wonderful to see you!”

“You as well, Richard, how are you?” I greeted Holly’s dad who guided me into the next room. My gaze searching for Holly, I caught her hanging my coat just before the doorbell rang again and Richard poured me a bourbon.

I sat in Holly’s living room, chatting with Richard and Megan, Holly’s mum, and few of Holly’s friends - some I’d known for years and some I’d just met. Holly, being the gracious hostess, greeted each person to arrive, so it was a while before she finally joined us. I noticed how she pushed her hair behind her right ear; I noticed how she sipped her cocktail; I noticed how she threw her head back laughing at something funny that was said. I noticed everything.

But more importantly, I noticed how no one had claimed the spot next to her, taking her hand or sliding their arm around her shoulder, chatting like she was their better half.

Holly was single. Just like me.

“Harry,” she suddenly addressed me as she rose from her chair with a smile, “let me show you the rest of the flat.”

Setting my glass on the table, I eagerly stood up. Then Holly surprised me by turning toward the other guests.

“You lot can sit tight and talk amongst yourselves for a bit, can’t you? I need some alone time with my old friend.”

“Of course, love!” Megan cheered, waving us away. “Take your time.”

With a smirk on my face and a thump in my chest, I began to follow Holly out of the room just in time to hear Richard’s remark that I was sure was not meant for me to hear.

“Old friend, my arse!” he quipped. “Girl’s been mad about him since-”

“Shhh!” Megan interrupted. “Quiet, Richard, they’ll hear you!”

“Harry, are you coming?” Holly’s voice called, making me realise I’d stopped just outside the doorway.

“Yeah. Sorry.”

“I’ll show you the kitchen last because it’s closest to the den,” she explained. “And that way we can circle back around.”

“Alright,” I nodded sheepishly as she stopped at the end of the hall with a smile. However, instead of gesturing toward the room ahead of her, she pointed at the lovely french doors beside where we stood.

“This is probably my favourite part of this flat,” she said wistfully. “It was the selling point for me.”

I knew the doors must open to the balcony I’d seen outside when I’d arrived before she grabbed the handles and pushed them open. A gust of wind blew in, causing her hair to lift and flow behind her, like she was Elsa in Frozen.

“Sorry,” she muttered, “I know it’s horribly frigid out there. I just wanted you to see.”

“It’s very lovely,” I grinned, stepping up next to her.

“I can’t wait to have morning tea out here,” she added, grabbing my arm. “But I’m afraid that will have to wait until spring.”

In what felt like slow motion, Holly squeezed my arm against her chest, and I felt the warmth of her even through my jumper. I couldn’t help but smile as she pressed her nose to my shoulder before releasing her hold and pulling the doors shut.

“Brrrr,” she shook. “Perhaps that was a bad idea.”

I chuckled as I followed her to the open doorway to our left.

“Toilet,” she confirmed with a shrug. “Nothing fancy. And this is my bedroom.”

The room at the end of the hall was open to reveal a large bed, decorated in loads of blankets and massive amounts of pillows, all in shades of blue and grey. As I stepped into the room, the familiar scent that I only associated with Holly filled my nostrils. Everything felt very serene, as though I’d been there before, and I never wanted to leave.

“I tried to make it as calming as possible,” I heard her speak behind me. “Like my own personal sanctuary.”

“I reckon you succeeded,” I nodded. “It’s beautiful, Holly.”

“Thanks,” she beamed. “Okay, now for the kitchen.”

Holly surprised me again by holding out her hand, which I took gratefully. Passing by the french doors again, I noticed something I hadn’t before - a small sprig of a plant hanging just above the doors.

“Hey, is that…” I pointed.

I caught the pink in Holly’s cheeks before she giggled and nodded. “Mistletoe. I just thought it was cute, and kinda funny.”

“Alright then,” I smirked, recalling Richard’s previous hushed words.

“Mum and Dad may want to use it later,” she shrugged before turning the corner where I swore I heard her murmur, “or someone else.”

Pulling me into the kitchen, she stopped only to emphatically announce her pleasure in having more counter space than she’d ever had in her life. I smiled at her animated enthusiasm, happy for her that she finally owned her own place.

As she gestured to the exit to the left, I followed her back into the living room where a resounding game of charades was being played. I laughed as I watched Holly’s friend Gina try her best to mime the clue whilst Richard called out absurd answers.

“It might be time for Dad to put down the bourbon,” I heard Holly chuckle to my left just before Megan called out the correct answer and the room cheered.

“Ah, the birthday girl’s returned!” announced another of Holly’s friends. “I say it’s time to open the gifts!”

I felt Holly’s hand push the back of my arm, guiding me to the party. I took the chair I’d sat in earlier, across from Holly’s as I awaited the presents ritual. I was suddenly reminded of what I’d gotten her when Richard and Megan brought in the gifts collected on the credenza, setting them at Holly’s feet. My ridiculous red box sat in the back of the pile, like a caboose of confession.

I considered that she might take it lightly and even joke about it, the way she probably would have had she had a significant other. I supposed that was my own initial idea when I’d made the purchases and put it together. But now...after seeing her again, and all the feelings flooding back...I knew I’d been kidding myself.

Now everyone was going to watch her open it and see the awkward reaction she was bound to have. Good one, Styles.

One by one, I sat in silence and watched Holly open each gift, all earning oohs and ahs. When she finally reached for mine, I knew I was doomed.

“I hope you don’t mind,” she said to the entire room, though her eyes were focused on me. “I saved this one for last.”

I could feel the stares without shifting my eyes. Licking my lips, I awaited the inevitable. When she tore off the wrapping and lifted the lid to the box, however, I got a different reaction from what I’d expected. Instead of looking confused and awkward, Holly laughed gleefully, throwing a hand over her mouth just as she snorted. Though I tried my best to laugh along with her, I was extremely perplexed.

“Oh my God,” she shrieked, lifting the bouquet of mistletoe. “That’s so funny, Harry! How did you know?”

Giving a light-hearted shrug, I muttered, “Just thought it was cute and funny.”

Gina, sat to Holly’s left, took the mistletoe from her hands and lifted it above Holly’s head. “Alright, who’s ready to kiss the birthday girl?”

Feeling a sudden wave of embarrassment, I was glad when Gina took it upon herself to give Holly a kiss on the check. And even more relieved when Marcus, her friend sat to her right pointed at the box.

“Looks like there’s more, Hol,” he said.

As Gina claimed the mistletoe, Holly reached inside the box for the second item - a monogrammed photo album I’d had made especially for her.

“Oh this is lovely!” she breathed, setting the box on the floor to balance the album in her lap. “Oh and look! There’s mistletoe and holly on it. How clever, H!”

When she opened it, I saw how wide her eyes got, realising what was inside.

“This...this is all you and me.”

“All of your birthdays,” I confirmed, “at least since I’ve known you. Except for the one that I ruined. And few other...fun moments.”

I heard a few awws and a “that’s so lovely, Harry” from Megan, but all I could focus on was Holly as she scanned each and every photo.

“How did you...find all these?” she asked. As she lifted her head, I noticed the wetness in her eyes.

I shrugged. “Most of them I already had. I’ve just been...collecting them.”

“I had no idea we’d taken so many pictures,” she sniffed. “Thank you, Harry, this is really special.”

“You’re welcome,” I nodded, relieved that she hadn’t thought more of it than a mere gesture of friendship.

Shutting the book, Holly reached forward for the box, noticing one more thing was inside.

“Oh, there’s more?” she asked with raised brows.

At the bottom of the box was another smaller box. When Holly lifted the lid, she gasped.

When Holly and I were fourteen, I’d given her a friendship bracelet. She’d worn it every single day for two years until one day she’d gotten it soiled. That birthday, I’d given her a new one. Though she’d argued with me that she didn’t want to replace the original, she was ultimately happy that I had.

That birthday that I’d ruined - the one where I nearly punched Eric and fooled around with some girl I don’t remember - my gift had been a silver charm bracelet. My idea had been to tell her that it was to officially replace that friendship bracelet, which I knew was long gone. But I hadn’t gotten the chance to see her open it because I’d been drunk and preoccupied.

I’d never seen Holly wearing that bracelet, either.

This year…

“Wow, Harry, I…” she began, more tears forming in her eyes as she lifted the gold braided bracelet in her hand, “I dunno what to say. This is...way more than you’ve ever given me.”

“That’s so gorgeous,” oohed Gina as she leant over to see Holly slip it onto her wrist.

“It’s to...replace that old one,” I explained.

“Which one?” Holly asked.

“The one that I never got to give you,” I admitted. “The one that is probably tainted because I was such an asshole that night and got wasted at your party.”

“Oh,” Holly mouthed. I could see the recognition in her face. She knew exactly what I was referring to.

“I regret that night, terribly, love,” I added, pressing a hand to my chest.

“Oh my God, what happened?” inquired Gina.

���I’d rather not talk about it,” muttered Holly, closing the box and returning it to the floor.

“I ruined her birthday,” I said before I even realised what I was doing. “Because I couldn’t just admit to her how I felt about her.”

Jaws dropped all around the room as Holly stared at me.

“Good on ya, mate!” I heard Richard say. “I always suspected!”

“Richard!” Megan scoffed in a loud whisper.

“Well, I did!”

The room seemed to fall away as I saw Holly rise from her chair and sprint down the hall. It wasn’t the reaction I’d expected, but it wasn’t a surprising one. Hastily, I followed her, wondering what the bloody hell I was going to say next. Hopefully I hadn’t just ruined a second birthday.

I found her stood next to the balcony doors, her hands on the knobs like she was debating whether or not to open them. I cleared my throat to let her know I was there, as I heard her whimper.

“Holly,” I managed to say, my mouth as dry as a desert. “Are you...okay?”

I saw her shoulders drop before she nodded. “I’m fine.”

Stepping closer, I could tell she was wiping her eyes.

“You don’t seem fine. I made a fool of myself and humiliated you in the process. I’m so sorry, Holly.”

“No, Harry,” she said. “I’m the fool.”

Turning to face me, she threw up her hands. “I had no idea.”

“That’s my fault,” I admitted. “I’m shit at communication. And I was afraid of rejection.”

“Since when?”

“Since...forever.”

With a tiny, quiet laugh, Holly shook her head. “Me too.”

“What?”

“Not only am I shit at communication, Harry,” she confessed, “but I suck at giving hints apparently.”

“No, I suck at taking them,” I giggled. “‘Cause I don’t recall any hints that you felt...any way about me.”

“See?” she threw up her hands again. “God, Harry, can you even imagine the feeling of being gutted when you’re crushing on your best friend and you walk in on him getting head from some other girl?”

Her words were like a knife right through my heart as I slowly closed my eyes and sighed. “I’m so very sorry, Hol.”

“The worst of it was that I had only invited Eric to the party to make you jealous.”

“What?” I asked again, my eyes popping open in disbelief.

“I was convinced you would never like me back the way I wanted you to. So because I knew you hated Eric, I reckoned you might take more notice if I got back together with him.”

“Holly, what the fuck?” I ran my hand down my face.

“I know,” she muttered. “Not my proudest moment.”

“Can we just erase that night out of our lives?” I suggested.

With a tight smile, Holly looked down at her new bracelet, tracing the plaits. “Maybe.”

“So, what do we do now?” I inquired.

“I don’t know that either,” she admitted. “This was rather sudden. To be honest, Harry, I’d thought I’d gotten over you. And then you-”

Her words were interrupted by my sudden kiss. Soft and tender, it was a quick kiss, though I could feel her sigh against me.

“What was that for?” she breathed.

With a smirk, I raised my brows and pointed at the ceiling. “Mistletoe.”

“Oh.”

“You were saying?”

“I…” she began, a dreamy look in her eyes, “don’t remember.”

I pulled her into my arms then and kissed her with purpose, doing my best to replace all the time that we’d lost. I knew it would take years to even get close, but I was willing to try.

I felt Holly’s hand slide down my arm and grab my hand before she pulled back. With swollen lips and a look in her eyes I’d ever seen before, she led me toward her bedroom, closing the door behind us.

With only a lamp lighting the room, I joined her on the bed, kicking off my shoes. We made out like teenagers - as though the years had not made any difference in how we felt or what we wanted. The only real difference was that I was no longer afraid to let it be known.

My head spinning and my heart pounding, I suddenly felt Holly press a hand against my chest.

“Harry? Let’s not make this a bad fanfiction, okay?”

I chuckled in disbelief. “What?”

“You know, the friends-to-lovers trope, where we finally have sex and at the end, we just assume everything ended splendidly like a fairy tale.”

“Well, love, I was kinda hoping it will,” I stated honestly.

Holly tilted her head, her soft hair falling against the pillow and her shoulder, her expression both innocent and seductive. I had to bite my lip.

“I think you know what I mean.”

“Okay,” I grinned. “So how should it end, then?”

“Well…,” she sighed, the vibration against my chest causing me to take a breath. “It seems rather silly to say we should take it slow given that…”

I nodded. “Yeah.”

“But how about we ease into it? See what happens.” She ran her delicate hands up my biceps, her suggestion nearly being blanketed by her touch.

“That seems like a good idea,” I agreed as I leant forward and kissed her inviting lips again. She hummed low as I separated our kiss, taking a moment before opening her eyes. Then grasping at a curl near my ear, her eyes danced as she wrapped it around her finger.

“How does one tell her best friend that she loves him?” she suddenly asked.

A wide grin spreading across my face, I let my fingers trace the side of her beautiful face.

“I reckon you just did, my love.”

I kissed her deeply then, her fingers tangling tighter in my hair. Mistletoe or not, I knew in that moment that I could continue to kiss her forever, if she let me. When I felt her leg slide against my hip, however, and she gasped against my mouth, I knew we should return to our original vow.

“We should probably get back to the party,” I admitted.

“Hmm, yeah,” Holly nodded with a sigh. “Let’s do that before my dad calls out a search crew.”

I laughed against her neck, feeling her giggle rise from her throat. Giving it a few more pecks, I finally lifted my head to look at her pretty, glowing face.

“Happy Birthday, Holly.”

“Happy Christmas, Harry.”

MASTERLIST | KO-FI | FEEDBACK

[midnight1nk]

If you all were familiar with my analysis of the flareglow mystery, then you would also know how batshit crazy I was over the username changing on the steam page when it happened a few weeks ago. That's right, we're at it AGAIN! Ink Chasing Wild Goosechases 2: Electric Boogaloo ᕕ( ᐛ )ᕗ

Am I serious about this? Yes.

Would this be just as pointless as flareglow? Oh yeah, for sure—

Mystery of the SMG43 Steam Username

⚠️ DISCLAIMER IN INTRO POST ⚠️

CONTEXT

For the new year 2025, I had to start with a theory, obviously. The only unfortunate part was that it had to be flareglow *war flashbacks ensue* but it can't be posted without its twinning mystery of the SMG4 Steam page. Well actually, it's the "Not SMG3. Stop looking deep" Steam page as it currently says, quite a mouthful.

If you somehow didn't know about what's going on with steam, I might as well copy+paste from the quick overview I did (og link):

⭐️ the steam account the Team had (y'know with the GMod models), the username originally was "Glitch Productions" since the SMG4 show is under their company ⭐️ then that username was suddenly changed to "SMG3" with no explanation and no new thing added to the workshop

⭐️ now naturally, the fans were like "was it a hack?" or "was it a glitch from Steam itself?" or "is this a troll?" Basically no one knew, merely speculated (and certainly no one gave us any answers) ⭐️ As for what I thought, it seemed really weird to just change the username. Much more could've been done to the account and yet nothing else happened, which is why I thought the username change must've been done intentionally by the Team (especially bc of the flareglow mystery happening right around the same time as this). ⭐️ THAT is when Cube finally came out with that tweet saying that the Steam thing "didn't mean anything significant" and around the same time, the Steam username changed again to "Not SMG3. Stop looking too deep"

⭐️ Again, nothing new was added to the workshop or profile. The only thing that changed was the username. ⭐️UPDATES⭐️ as of today, there haven't been any changes to the username (I was really hoping that they did, we'll talk about it soon)

Very curious, indeed. ...we DON'T talk about Ben trolling. let's not.

"But what does that mean for us?"

As much as flareglow is a hit-and-miss, there is a big chance that the Team has made these changes intentionally.

REASONING (+ REBUTTAL)

Before we can go over the theories (patience friends), we have to knock out the logical explanations for this:

Nothing Significant

That's it. What Cube said, it didn't mean anything significant. It can be so stupid that it could literally just be the Team wanting to see the fandom notice. For the sillies. Which is basically...

Just a Troll

Whoever changed the username, whether it was the Team or a hacker, they just wanted to make a harmless joke. It's pretty well known that the Team likes to troll with us every now and then.

Looking directly at Ben rn

I mean, we did get word from the Team addressing it, right? Case closed, pack it up. Right?

...And here's where it all comes crashing down:

Out of all the platforms, Steam was chosen. We are all familiar with how the Team likes to tease us for future arcs, one way or another. The most well-known is the banner changing in YT and other socials, but not Steam. The only other time Steam was involved that I could think of was during the Western Spaghetti arc, the train ARG map.

This is CUBE we're talking about. This is the same guy who likes to troll us, aside from Ben. Remember back when the PV website had the "That's all folks!" gif before changing it for WOTFI '24 with Ringmaster 4? Cube tweeted "I used the same website host don’t read into it too much". And THEN when it changed again with "4" being unmasked as Mr Puzzles, all Cube responded was "🥰". Cube, Ben, the whole Team is aware that we pay attention to these kinds of things. The PV website brought attention to WOTFI, it's only natural that the Team wanted us to pay attention to Steam for a reason. Not to bring flareglow into this HOWEVER, don't you find it curious that Cube questioned flareglow before the official comment but didn't do it for Steam? Not to mention the wording being completely off in the official. "doesn't mean anything significant" sounds very much like "don't worry about it :)", even if it turns out to be something dumb. It would've been so easy to say "it's just a troll".

The fact that the username chosen isn't the issue, it's why it was chosen to begin with. Even if you don't consider SMG3's internal fear of never being remembered or loved (4's "pathetic copy"), their names are almost identical from one number away. It seems pretty harmless. But how the hell did the jump go from "Glitch Productions" to "SMG3"? It could've been "SMG4" and have the fans second-guessing. OR use any of the other character names like SMG1 and 2. Now, the counter-rebuttal could be that "it fits 3's character", some fans have commented that "it's Youtube Arc all over again". Fair enough, I thought it could be a sweet callback. BUT (countercounter-rebuttal) it still didn't make sense. If 3 wanted to be discreet about it with a smoother transition from "Glitch Productions", he could've changed it to "Snitch Productions" (also a good callback). And if you think they don't remember that, the Team placed a poster of the logo in 3's room.

There's no clear motive. Like I said in number 3, there's no motive as to why 3 would change it. Well, if it was him. Bringing back to the PV website example, there was a conundrum on why Ringmaster 4 would be asking fans for WOTFI challenges when the Crew and 4 himself had no idea about Puzzle Park. I've predicted before that someone (in this case Mr Puzzles) was impersonating as Ringmaster 4 to confuse the fans and reusing his website for a new purpose while the real 4 wouldn't have any idea. Steam would be the same way; someone with access could easily change the username at will and decide to impersonate 3. And who else had access in the past? *cough cough* ARG map *cough cough*

The timing of these changes. Besides the "SMG3" username change, there's the second username change, claiming that it's "Not SMG3". In hindsight, that doesn't seem like a big deal but the whole thing has been going on for over 2 WEEKS. In their universe, if 3 was joking around and assuming that 4 regained control of the page, the question is why didn't 4 change it back to the OG username? In ours, the Team already knows that the fans noticed the change so why don't THEY change it back?

(BONUS: if I wasn't clear before, it can't be a hacker) If their Steam account was hacked, the first thing they wouldn't think to do would be to change the username. You would have to think like a criminal to understand what I mean. Strike big and fast, leave nothing to chance. Even if this "hacker" wanted to troll around, there would be no reason to change it to "SMG3". I would've expected a keymash or something inappropriate. And again, the Team could've addressed this in a more serious tone and brought the OG username back.

Logic Chess babyyyyy (and I'm eating the pieces)

THEORY TIME

This is it! Before I go on though, I want to state that we're gonna treat flareglow and steam as TWO separate mysteries due to the uncertainty that still lingers with the Spotify situation. Spotify simply sucks. (also let's not bring the nightmare of a song in here.)

Now, the moment you're all waiting for, cue the intro:

Each one will be based on a single element I nitpicked from the whole mystery. It'll be up to you whether or not a few relate to each other, and ofc if you believe any of it. They're simply my "interpretations". At the end would give my overall theory (but I don't think I need to).

"Nothing Significant"

Let's go in the opposite direction Cube has told us. The Team planned to bring attention (and it worked) for a reason, likely for a future arc. Though the username was the only thing that changed on the page, a new item/addon can drop in the workshop as the Team did for the ARG Map. As of the time I'm writing this, nothing has... yet.

It doesn't matter who was responsible for this in the SMG4 universe, SMG3 is involved in the situation voluntarily or by force.

Who's Really Behind the Screen?

First off, we would need to know who had access to the Steam page, and the channel in general if needed. By the roster we got, it would be 4, 3, and Mr Puzzles.

4 wouldn't make sense right away due to lack of current motive, so he's off the murder board... for now

3 might be taking care 4's account while our blue meme lord isn't around, similar to how 3 has during the IGBP arc (most notably the "Announcement..." video). As to why 4 isn't around, it's still too early to call. Either (1) 4's taking a vacation or (2) 4's in danger.

Then if it's not 3, that leaves Mr Puzzles. "But Mr Puzzles is in solitary confinement" Then answer me how Mr Puzzles was able to upload the ARG map without having to access it through 4's PC for Western Spaghetti. Or setting up the live stream for IGBP. Oh, he'll find a way. Besides, we thought Marty would be in jail forever and yet here we are.

Let's talk about motive: out of all three, Puzzles is the only one who currently has a motive. And I mean CURRENTLY. The year just started after all. If any of them get pushed over the edge, pressing the right buttons, 4 and 3 can get one too.

Aside from this, I see the two strange usernames as a sort of conversation:

These were made by two different characters in a dire hostage situation. Person 1, the victim, made the "SMG3" username to call for help to 3 or the victim being 3 himself through Steam to not bring TOO much attention but enough to get someone to notice. Person 2, noticing this later, quickly deflected and changed it to "Not SMG3" and told anyone who saw it to "Stop looking too deep". Almost like a warning.

These are two characters controlling one body AKA possession. Just like number one, Person 1 is calling out for help and Person 2 is trying to damage control and deny it. Except the host character is denying that anything's wrong with them and excuses it like they're sick or something.

Again, these two are how I interpreted but they're not the only ones.

Timing

So... about that hunch. Yeah, it was entirely based on the timing of these changes happened. I found it strange that just as the Team was coming from their break and getting back to work, both flareglow and steam mysteries occurred. And after the comment they left on the New Year's special, something was up according to past Ink.

So, thinking back to how the second username said "stop looking too deep", I kept track of the days the usernames stayed up online. I thought that the answer didn't have to be complicated at all. No ARG, no secret decoding. Basic math. If including the end date in the calculation:

"SMG3" = 3 days

"Not SMG3. Stop looking too deep" = 19 days (as of today)

And this could lead to two things:

(to get this out of the way) it could be a series of numbers we could use for a future password. Similarly how typing "carnival" from the associated episode at the time unlocked the PV website with Ringmaster 4. And the WOTFI website is still up soooooo.....

and now my hunch *sigh* the numbers could be a date for a future arc/event. It was already strange that it dropped days before the first episode of 2025, it then became stranger when the second username is still up to this day. Using the first username, the 3 days would translate to the 3rd month (March) and naturally, the second username, it would translate to the day. If you had known me, then you would've known how I exploded when I realized what big event also happened in March. When the world was never the same again. That's right: It's Gotta Be Perfect (18th of March). Yes, my hunch was goop!4 all along and the date would've been solid evidence that it was gonna come true. Big surprise coming from me. And I said, WOULD'VE because as you can see, we passed those 18 days. Yep, my hunch was just as it was, a load of shit 😔 Still, not all is lost, it could still lead to a date. March has 31 days so if the username changes anytime between now and Day 31, then this would still make it entirely possible.

The Final Theory

Here we are: what I believe what's going to happen in the future of the show. Having all the speculations in one pile made me realize that Cube may be right all along.

Why would it be anything significant when we already knew the answer?

If any of you were veteran followers of mine, first off thanks for sticking with me and my insane ramblings, and two, you might recall one of my first theories. The true first, in fact.

Made before WOTFI 2024, I theorized that the Puzzlevision Arc would come full circle, based on past arcs and hidden details, and it'll all end with an IGBP sequel (link to OG). Though it's dated, a lot of it still stands and in fact, there's even more evidence to support it. WOTFI 2025 arc, The Mario PC Virus, Mario reacts to the Best 2024 Memes. It all keeps coming back.

In the PV arc, Mr Puzzles did indeed launch his streaming service Puzzlevision. And ever wondered what happened to it? 🤔

"Take it from us! The food here is a must, In addition with your ticket, you get PuzzleVision+"

[Mind-controlled Crew // WOTFI 2024]

I suppose it's time for a name change:

PUZZLEVISION+ : NOW AIRING

And that means, goop!4 is still real 🎉 Only this time, Mr Puzzles would destroy the Crew without hesitation. Death, torture, and trauma? It's good entertainment after all. And for that, he would have to be calculated in his plans.

For PV+, he would have to get rid of Mario somehow for always ruining his plans

Western Spaghetti would also get a sequel, but he would have to get rid of Tari to drive Meggy fully insane (the betrayal from WOTFI).

and last but not least, IGBP. Mr Puzzles and 4: narrative foils, two sides of the same coin. Where it all started, it ends here. But if he wants to ensure his chances, Puzzles would have to get rid of 3, the one who saved 4 the first time. (See where I'm going with this?)

We already knew goop!4 and Mr Puzzles' return will eventually happen, the hints are all there, so there shouldn't be any surprise when it does. Nothing significant. But of course, our Crew would get through this, to quote Boopkins from IGBP:

“Love wins! Love always wins!”

[’It’s Gotta Be Perfect’ // timestamp 28:56]

Indeed, love has unironically the power the Crew needed to beat the countless battles they've encountered. Even if it comes with a price, love always remains.

And this also means we might get WOTFI Heist 2 WOOHOO

But hey, that’s just a theory…

AN SMG4 MINI-THEORY

🎶Thanks for dropping by🎶

Now if you excuse me, I'm gonna strangle the Team rn /silly