#time to go down down down by that river again
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FARMER'S DAUGHTER; TAKE ONE
pairing: bucky barnes x fem!reader
words: 4.1k
summary: a reckless farmer’s daughter gets sent to spend the summer with her father’s oldest friend, bucky barnes — a gruff, solitary man running a quiet farm on the edge of town. what starts as punishment slowly unravels into something heavier, tense, and dangerously complicated.
cws: eventual smut (not in this chapter), implied past minor violence (broken window, glass in foot), tense father-daughter dynamic, age gap / older man-younger woman dynamic, suggestive conversation, smoking, emotional tension, shame, and suchh
reader mood board ! | next part !
a/n: im so excited to finally post the first part to my series, in truth its been sitting in the drafts for a while now but she's finallyyyy out. all likes, comments, and reblogs are so heavily cherished and appreciated. send in an ask, message me, or comment asking to join the taglist for the series. please enjoy !!


riverbend was colder in the nighttime, the kind of cold that settled into your bones and made the thin, worn fabric of your curtains dance against the draft. it wasn’t the type of place that held onto heat once the sun tucked itself down behind the hills. not in fall, not ever. you could still hear the crickets, though — stubborn little things, chirping like they didn’t know better.
there was a hole in your window now.
not from a storm, or some storybook prince with his hair falling into his eyes. no, this wasn’t a fairytale. you weren’t rapunzel, and the boy who’d thrown that rock — hefty, jagged, left a webbed crack like a spider’s nest in the glass — well, you couldn’t even remember his name now. jake? john? didn’t matter. he wasn’t the kind you kept around. hell, you hadn’t even woken up when it happened, only stirred hours later to the sharp, needling sting of glass in your foot when you’d rolled out of bed.
you’d cursed loud enough to rattle the rest of the house, though nobody came knocking. you figured maybe they were done with you too.
you weren’t in the mood for much, not after yesterday. not after your dad’s words, the way his jaw had been tight, voice gone low in that way it always did when he was just about at the end of his rope.
“i’m done, pack your things. i called bucky.”
bucky.
that name you knew like you knew the shape of your hometown, the tilt of the orchard trees in late july when the fruit came in heavy and sweet. bucky was the man you heard about over dinner tables and in passing. “make sure to tie that bag tight, i don’t want bucky having a hard time.” “hey! don’t waste the milk, you know bucky’s cows work hard for that shit.” "maybe we should go visit bucky next summer, been a damn long time since i saw him." a man spoken of like he was part of the land itself, like the river or the rusted water tower that leaned just a little too far east. a name stitched into the town without ever really being seen.
and now you were supposed to live with him.
or maybe you weren’t.
there was still a tiny, stupid, hopeful flame somewhere inside you that thought maybe your old man had been bluffing. that maybe, come morning, he’d soften up, call you kid again, tell you to fix the damn window and help out at the bakery for the fall rush. maybe.
but you knew better.
the room was still dark when you sat up, the sheets clinging to your legs. you could smell the orchard through the broken window, that sharp, wet dirt scent tangled with the sweetness of fallen apples. it’d be a good season this year, you could tell. you always could.
the bag sat in the corner like a threat. half-packed, zipper half open, one boot sticking out like it wanted to make a break for it. you rubbed a hand down your face, felt the sting of sleep crusted in the corner of your eye. you didn’t wanna think about it — what you’d done, what they’d said, what you’d left behind in the back of that rusted-out truck last night.
just the road ahead. just bucky. whoever the hell he was.
the sky outside was just starting to go soft with dawn. that heavy, blueberry haze before the sun cracked open over the hills. you figured it was now or never. grab the bag, keep your head down, maybe sneak one of the last pastries cooling by the window before your old man came to drive you outta town.
riverbend was always colder in the nighttime.
but you had a feeling it’d be a whole different kind of cold where you were headed next.
male. late 50’s — no, 20’s! all the cute guys drive old polished cars, blonde ?
your eyes narrowed, shoulders leaning into the creaky frame of the porch railing as another car passed by on that dusty stretch of road. a chevy bel air, maybe. the kind of car that caught the light just right when it turned the corner, all polished chrome and candy-apple red paint that didn’t belong in a town like riverbend. not anymore. it hummed low as it went by, slow enough for you to catch the silhouette of the driver through the glare of the windshield.
your heart ticked up for half a second.
some boy with a crooked grin who might stop and ask for directions, lean an elbow out the window and tell you you looked like you could use a ride. or a drink. or trouble.
except no.
gray hair. receding, even. a face like old riverbed stone, lined from too many summers in the sun. you swore under your breath, lips twitching in frustration as you sank back against the post.
course it wasn’t. never is.
the small, annoyed sound you made must’ve caught your dad’s attention from where he sat out front, boot scuffing against the step as he nursed a cup of black coffee gone cold.
“y'know,” he started, voice that same worn-out gravel it always was after too many long mornings down at the orchard. “if you sit there moping all day, it ain't gonna make it any better.”
he didn’t look at you when he said it, just stared out at the road like he expected another car to come rumbling along any minute. another someone to pass you by.
you let out a dry, humorless laugh. “oh yes, because i just can’t wait to spend my summer at a conversion camp.”
the words came sharp, bitter at the edges, still tasting like the fight you’d had last night. or the one before. or the one before that. your dad muttered something under his breath — low enough you couldn’t catch it, but you knew the tone. same one he’d used every time you pushed too far, said too much, when you came home smelling like bonfire smoke and cheap beer, orchard leaves tangled in your hair, someone else’s jacket slung over your shoulder.
he sighed through his nose before speaking, his voice firm in that final way fathers had when they were tired of chasing after you. “you’re spending your summer with a family friend,” he said. “practically your uncle.”
you felt your stomach knot up, a cold, sour little twist of dread you weren’t quite ready to swallow down yet.
“i’ve never met him, dad,” you snapped, words a little sharper than you meant them, but it was too late to take them back.
his gaze finally flicked toward you, and you hated how much older he looked in that moment. like the years of keeping you in line had finally worn him down.
“doesn’t matter,” he muttered. “man’s good to us. helped this family when nobody else would. gave us a line of credit when the bank wouldn’t. he’s got land out past red pine. cows, chickens. keeps to himself. you’ll be fine.”
but you weren’t so sure.
and now you were supposed to live with him.
the thought made your throat tighten, made the air around you feel heavier somehow, thick with heat and the sharp scent of apples rotting in the grass. the orchard was always like that in early summer — a sweet, sour perfume that clung to your skin and hair no matter how many times you washed it out.
the road stayed empty after that, no more polished cars, no blonde boys. just the stretch of gravel and the faint haze of dust still hanging in the air from where the bel air had disappeared around the bend.
you stared down at your hands in your lap.
“i don’t wanna go, dad.”
you didn’t mean for it to come out so quiet. didn’t mean to sound like you were ten years old again, hiding behind the porch swing when the older kids from down the road dared you to climb the water tower. but your dad just sighed again, rubbing a hand over his jaw. “sometimes you don’t get what you want, kid.” and despite the phrase being endearing you fight back to urge to remind him you're an adult.
and that was that.
another car would come soon, and this one you wouldn’t be able to hope about. it’d be your ride outta town, your ride to him. to bucky. and whether you liked it or not, riverbend wasn’t keeping you any longer.
the sky was starting to turn, clouds going that milky kind of pink they only did in early morning. the bakery would be opening soon, you knew it by the way the air smelled sweeter, warm yeasty sugar on the wind. folks would be driving in for apple fritters and coffee, waving as they passed by like nothing had happened. like you weren’t about to disappear.
you pulled your knees up to your chest, resting your chin there, and tried not to look too long at the road. at least not long enough to hope.
it wasn’t the kind of town where you could miss a car coming down the road. roads out here only curved once, twice if you were lucky, and you could hear the crunch of gravel under tires long before the dust even started to kick up.
you didn’t look up right away when you heard it — that low, heavy hum of something old, something built back when cars still had metal guts and trucks were made to pull weight, not just look good parked outside the feed store. this wasn’t the sweet purr of some restored muscle car. no, this was a workhorse.
you let your eyes flick up from where you’d been tracing a splinter in the porch rail with your thumb, stomach tight, heart thudding against your ribs in that anxious, twitchy way you always got before a storm broke or a fight started.
the truck came into view slow and steady, like it wasn’t in any particular hurry. a 1965 ford f 100, faded navy blue with spots of rust blooming around the wheel wells and along the tailgate. the kind of truck that’d been fixed up more times than it probably should’ve, still carried the ghosts of old farm dogs in the back bed, the paint rubbed clean in spots from bales of hay and milk crates.
your dad stood up, stretching his back with a grunt like he already regretted the conversation you were about to have. the truck pulled up alongside the house, engine settling into a low, rough idle. you could hear the hiss of gravel under the tires as it rolled to a stop.
the driver’s side door opened with a long, creaking groan of old hinges, and then you saw him.
he was… well, not what you’d imagined.
not some grizzled old man with a gut and a chew-stained ball cap like you half-expected. no, this man — probably late 30's, early 40's — wore the years like a well-used leather jacket. rough around the edges, sun-worn and sharp-eyed. his hair was long enough to tuck behind his ears, streaked silver in places but mostly still dark, and his face carried the kind of lines that didn’t come from smiling much.
plain t-shirt, scuffed jeans, boots that had seen more dirt than most people walked in a lifetime. there was a quiet about him, something measured in the way he stepped down from the truck, like he didn’t waste movement unless it was necessary.
you swallow at the sight of his prosthetic, you knew it was there after all your father spoke of him as if he had hung the sun, maybe he had.
he gave your dad a nod, one of those wordless greetings men like them traded. you half expected them to spit in their palms and shake on it.
“buck,” your dad called you could hear the smile in his voice,
bucky reached into the cab, pulled out a cigarette from a crumpled pack, before glancing toward you. his eyes were sharp, impossibly blue, like the kind of river water that stayed cold year-round no matter how hot the day got. they flicked over you once — head to toe — then settled somewhere just past your shoulder like he wasn’t sure if he wanted to deal with you yet.
“this her?” he asked, voice rough and deep, like it had been sanded down over the years, left to dry out in the sun.
your dad jerked his chin toward you. “this’s my girl,” he said. “won’t give me a lick of peace. figure it’s your turn.”
your stomach twisted. nothing like being passed off like old livestock.
bucky didn’t say anything right away. just looked at you for a long, quiet moment. not sizing you up, exactly — not in the way boys did back home. this was different. a kind of assessing look, like he was figuring how much work it’d take to break you in, or whether you were worth the trouble.
“bag packed?” he asked finally.
you almost laughed, sharp and bitter. “wouldn’t wanna keep the cows waiting,” you muttered under your breath.
bucky’s mouth twitched — not quite a smirk, not quite a scowl — like he wasn’t sure if he was annoyed or impressed. “grab it,” he said simply, jerking a thumb toward the truck bed.
your dad clapped him on the shoulder, muttered something low you didn’t catch. they exchanged a look, one of those old man looks that spoke in years instead of words, and you hated how it made you feel like a child again, like something small and helpless and left behind.
you stood, legs stiff, grabbing the half-zipped duffel from where it sat slumped by the porch post. the thing felt heavier than it should’ve, filled with clothes you barely wanted and a handful of things you couldn’t bring yourself to leave behind — an old cassette tape, a silver ring that didn’t fit anymore, a bundle of letters you never mailed.
your dad didn’t say much else. just reached out, cuffed you lightly on the back of the head in that too-rough way he thought passed for affection.
“try not to burn his place down,” he grumbled. "i love you."
you didn’t look back when you climbed into the passenger seat of bucky’s truck, the leather warm and cracked under your thighs. the cab smelled like sun-bleached denim, old tobacco, and motor oil. a pair of work gloves sat on the dash. a handful of cassette tapes rattled around in the glove box when he pulled it open to toss the cigarette pack inside.
the door shut with a heavy, final kind of thud. bucky shifted into gear without another word.
as the truck rolled forward, you saw your dad in the rearview, getting smaller and smaller, until he was just a figure on a porch in a town you’d never see the same again.
bucky didn’t say much for the first few miles. just let the hum of the engine fill the silence, one hand draped loosely over the wheel, the other fiddling with the radio knob until a half-decent country station crackled to life.
you kept your eyes on the road ahead. riverbend shrinking in the rearview, the trees growing taller and thicker as you left the edge of town, the land flattening out into stretches of field and orchard, the sky wide and endless.
and for the first time in days, maybe weeks, you let yourself breathe.
because whatever waited for you at bucky’s place — cows, chores, silence, maybe the ghosts of his past and yours — it wasn’t riverbend.
the road stretched out like a long, pale scar through the hills, and the hum of the truck’s engine settled into something steady, something almost calming if you didn’t think too hard about it. the sky was bruising up good now, that kind of late-evening blue that made the trees look like they were cut from black paper. crickets already starting up somewhere in the tall grass.
you picked at a thread unraveling from your jean shorts, the denim gone soft with too many summers and bad decisions, and tried to ignore how the cab smelled — like dust, motor oil, and whatever aftershave men like him always seemed to carry around.
bucky didn’t talk much. you weren’t surprised.
he drove with one arm slung careless over the wheel, the other propped against the open window, long fingers tapping out a rhythm on the doorframe to whatever sad old country song warbled low on the radio. his jaw was sharp under the scruff peppered gray, his profile catching what little light was left in the day.
and then — without looking over, without changing tone, he spoke.
“heard you got in trouble for entertainin’ little boys.”
your stomach dropped straight into your boots.your head snaped toward him, mouth parting in a sharp, breathless little sound you didn’t quite catch in time.
he didn’t smirk, didn’t grin, didn’t tease it out the way the town boys would’ve. it was said plain, like asking about the weather, like it was just a fact of life. like he already knew.
“that what happened?” he asked, voice thick with that gravel-worn edge, cutting through the humid hush of the truck cab like a goddamn switchblade.
you felt heat crawl up the back of your neck, not embarrassment exactly — you were long past giving a shit what folks thought — but it was something. the old kind of shame. the kind you carried with you like a nail in the heel of your boot.
“depends who you ask,” you muttered, eyes dropping to your lap, thumb still worrying at the frayed seam.
bucky huffed out something that might’ve been a laugh, though it didn’t sound particularly kind. “sure as hell ain’t your daddy askin’.”
you didn’t answer. just let the hum of the road and the dry rustle of wind through cracked windows fill the space.
a crow crossed overhead, black wings dragging against the sky.
after a beat, bucky spoke again, voice a little quieter, like maybe he wasn’t tryin’ to be cruel after all. “you get mixed up out there, that’s your business. but you pull any of that shit on my land, you’re gonna wish it was your daddy dealin’ with you.”
it wasn’t a threat. it wasn’t even angry.
it was a line drawn in the dirt — clear as day.
you swallowed, the knot in your throat thick and tight, and nodded once. because what the hell else were you gonna do.
the orchard fences started showing up after that. old wood bleached bone-white from sun, sagging in places, the fields beyond dotted with cows like fat lumps of coal.
fireflies lit up in the distance, tiny flickers against the dusk.
you stole a glance at him then. the sharp line of his nose, the scar near his brow you hadn’t noticed before, the way his knuckles looked busted up, half-healed and calloused.
handsome, not like those dumb summer boys in their cut-off shirts and borrowed trucks. but something else. something steady. something mean in a way you recognized.
and god help you — you didn’t hate it.
“how long’s the drive?” you asked finally, voice scratchy, a little raw.
bucky lit a cigarette one-handed, cracked a window, and let the smoke drift out.
“‘bout twenty minutes,” he said.
you shouldn’t have said it. shouldn’t even have thought it.
the question crept up outta nowhere, slinking through the thick heat of the cab, right past the tangled knot in your throat, and out your mouth before you could snatch it back.
"you married?"
it landed heavy in the quiet. not sharp, not loud — but thick. like molasses in a glass of cold milk. nd as soon as the words left your lips, you felt the regret settle right under your skin, a slow, prickling warmth that made the back of your neck itch.
you didn’t even know why you asked. wasn’t your business. wasn’t your concern.
but maybe it was the stretch of road ahead, long and cracked and endless, the kind of road that made you feel like you could confess anything, just to break the spell of it. or maybe it was the way his jaw looked in the dying light, the flicker of the cigarette hanging off the edge of his mouth, that curl of smoke catching the last of the orange-pink sunset and making him look like something half-carved out of stone.
whatever it was — you wished like hell you’d swallowed it down.
bucky didn’t answer right away. just let the smoke linger between his teeth before huffing it out the cracked window, his hand steady on the wheel.
you could hear the worn tires crunching against the road’s shoulder as the truck hummed along, see the outline of a barn off in the distance — paint stripped down to bare wood, sagging a little like everything else out here.
he finally spoke, voice low, rough, worn down to bone.
“no”
one word. nothing else.
but it was thick with something — not regret, not bitterness either. more like a what’s it to you, kid? like he was waiting for you to dig yourself a little deeper.
you should’ve shut your mouth right there. should’ve let the silence settle again, let the wheels turn and the crickets hum and the sky get darker.
but you didn’t.
“figure a guy like you would’ve had somebody waitin’ on him,” you said, trying to sound careless, like it wasn’t a thought that kept snagging at the back of your mind. “some wife bakin’ pies, leavin’ the porch light on.”
bucky’s mouth twitched around the cigarette, a sound half-huff, half-laugh rattling out of him.
you shrugged, pulling your knees up onto the cracked leather seat, arms wrapping around them as you watched the dusk roll by. the fields were getting darker now, the fireflies bolder, the world stretching out wide and empty.
“just trying to lighten the mood,” you mumbled, eyes flicking to him. the corner of his mouth curled, not a smile, not really, but something close enough to make your stomach dip.
“that what you’re lookin’ for?” he asked, voice rough and dry like gravel over an old country road.
you didn’t answer, just let your gaze drop back to the window, heart thudding heavy against your ribs. you hadn’t meant to turn this into somethin’. hadn’t meant for your voice to sound like that, all soft and low and hopeful in a way you didn’t even recognize.
bucky took another slow drag of his cigarette, fingers tapping against the wheel, and for a long moment neither of you said a word, only fixed your eyes on the dogtag hanging from his rearview mirrorr. eyes squinting as you attempted to read the ungodly worn words.
jemes buchanan barnes?
no, that was an a.
james, his name is james. assuming the tag is his of course.
the orchard came into view a minute later. you saw the edge of it first — rows of trees gone dark in the fading light, heavy with green fruit not ready to drop just yet. then the house, small and square with a porch light buzzing faintly, paint peeling from the siding.
the truck slowed, tires crunching over the gravel drive.
bucky killed the engine, the sudden silence pressing in like a weight. he turned, eyes catching yours through the mirror, quiet but sharp.
“we’re here.”
the porch light flickered, casting long shadows that stretched across the cracked wooden steps. you exhaled, a breath you didn’t realize you’d been holding, and slid the door open, the cool night air rushing in.
the scent of earth and apples and old wood filled your lungs — home, but not yours. not yet. bucky reached over and grabbed your bag from the seat, hoisting it easily onto his shoulder.
“come on,” he said, voice softer now, something like invitation.
you stepped down onto the gravel, the crunch loud in the stillness. the porch creaked beneath yourshoes as you climbed the steps, eyes lingering on the dark windows, wondering what you were walking into.
bucky was already at the door, keys jangling in his hand.he opened it with a slow creak, the faint smell of cinnamon and something baking drifting out to meet you.
the kitchen light spilled warm and golden into the night, and for the first time since you’d left home, something inside you softened.
“welcome,” he said, stepping aside. “try not to break anything.”
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a balm for the heart | azriel x reader
Summary: When you're sent to the House of Wind to help baby Nyx recover from a cold, you don’t expect to catch the attention of the brooding spymaster himself. Azriel is quiet, careful, and utterly unprepared for how much he likes Madja’s new assistant healer. As your visits continue, so do the lingering glances, clumsy conversations, and quiet moments that grow into something deeper. In the warmth of tea, laughter, and soft shadows, something tender begins to bloom.
A/N: sorry y'all, i'm in my yearning era. just broke up with my boyfriend of three years so... here we are :)
It was just a cold.
That’s what Madja had said when Feyre had sent for her—Nyx had the sniffles, a little fever, and had refused to eat anything but honey-drizzled bread for two days straight. And since Madja was neck-deep in whatever plague was tearing through the artisan quarter, you were the one sent instead.
Which is why you now stood in the sunlit foyer of the River House, boots dripping melted snow onto the floor, holding a satchel of herbs and an unreasonably tiny jar of eucalyptus balm.
“Upstairs,” Feyre said with a grateful smile, rubbing at her temples like she’d been chasing her son in circles. “Azriel is with him. Good luck.”
You laughed softly and stepped past her, the warmth of the house curling around your frozen fingers like a sigh. You’d only been working under Madja for a few months, but you’d already become her go-to for the littlest patients. Something about your energy, she said. Calm. Gentle. Good with chaos.
You reached the stairs and, at the end of the hallway, there he was.
Tall. Shadows curling lazily over his shoulders like they lived there. Hair mussed from baby fingers, wings half-furled, and eyes—Mother above—those eyes. Gold on brown, fixed on you like you were an echo he wasn’t expecting.
You blinked up at him. “Um. Hello.”
“…Hi,” he said, as if the word was foreign on his tongue. His voice was low and rough and far too intimate for a stranger in a hallway.
“Is it Azriel?” you asked, vaguely remembering Feyre mentioning him.
He nodded once. Still staring.
“I’m here for Nyx,” you added, holding up your satchel like a peace offering.
Azriel looked down at it, then back at you, mouth parting slightly. “Right. The… the healer.”
“Assistant healer,” you said with a grin. “Madja’s too busy saving the rest of the city.”
He nodded again. You stepped past him into the nursery—felt his gaze follow like the sweep of a warm hand—and were immediately accosted by a sticky, pouting, sniffly baby lordling.
He followed you in as silent as a ghost.
You were halfway through wiping Nyx’s nose and humming a lullaby you barely remembered learning when Azriel cleared his throat from the doorway.
“He’s usually not this calm,” he murmured.
You glanced over your shoulder. “Are you saying I have a gift?”
His lips twitched. Almost a smile. “Maybe.”
You lingered with Nyx a little longer, soothing the stubborn flush from his cheeks with a bit of balm and pressing a kiss to his curls when he yawned into your neck. When she entered, Feyre gave you a grateful smile as you passed him off, whispering, “You’re a miracle.” You slipped through the nursery door again.
Azriel was still in the doorway. Waiting. Shadows curling lazily near his boots.
“I can see myself out,” you said gently, but he shook his head once.
“It’s snowing. I’ll walk you.”
The words were simple. Practiced, maybe. But his voice was soft. Like a page being turned.
The walk ended quietly, a silent exchange of thanks, but it didn’t end there.
You returned two days later with a tincture for sleep, tucked into your satchel next to a few drops of lavender oil and a fresh-knit scarf you’d meant to gift to Feyre. She thanked you profusely, though Nyx was already much improved. Still—she asked you to come again.
And you saw him again—this time through a crack in the door, lingering in Rhys’ personal library. Their voices were hushed, strained, but his eyes flicked to yours as you passed, shadows swirling.
The third time, it was a faint rash on Nyx’s cheek. A harmless thing, more skin sensitivity than illness. You soothed it with salve and coaxed a smile out of the boy by letting him tug on your braids.
Azriel passed through the hall as you were packing up. Said nothing, but left a steaming cup of peppermint tea near your satchel. Somehow he knew it was your favorite, yet you had never said a thing.
You didn’t see him go.
The fourth time, you came without Feyre sending for you at all.
Over your weekly lunch, she had mentioned Nyx wasn’t sleeping well, and you, of course, had suggestions. Warm milk. Chamomile. A storybook laced with faint, calming spells. You hadn’t meant to stay long.
But Azriel was already in the hall when you arrived, leaning against the wall like he’d been waiting.
He didn’t offer tea this time. Instead, he offered a quiet, “You came back.”
You looked up at him, surprised. “Of course I did.”
His shadows curled at your wrist as you passed.
Like they knew your name.
And when you had soothed Nyx to sleep once more with the gentle cadence of your voice, the little lordling finally snoring, the shadow that had curled around your wrist tugged you toward the kitchen.
With Nyx asleep, the River House was finally quiet. You knew Feyre was getting the rest she needed—her exhaustion prevalent the moment you took over and she gave you that small, relieved smile.
You weren’t needed anymore. At least, not by the babe or the new mother. So you let the shadow lead you through the archway, the soft lighting of the kitchen eliciting a yawn from your throat.
You weren’t sure what surprised you more: how awkward he was sitting there, wings tense and back rigid, or how charming he became when he relaxed at the sight of you.
His lips twitched again—not quite a smile, but close enough. A steaming cup of tea kept his hands busy, and one already sat across from him, warm and waiting. You sat, curling up on the kitchen bench, fingers wrapping around the blue mug.
He watched as you took a sip, shadows blanketing his shoulders. They only relaxed when your lips met the rim of the mug for a second taste.
Azriel didn’t say a word. Just sat across from you. Not brooding, but observing, as though taking in the moment. You did the same, a small, amused smirk lighting up your lips.
“I see you made Nyx his honeyed bread today.” You murmured, eyes flicking over his tan cheeks.
He blinked. Brows furrowed. Those pretty hazel eyes of his seemed to darken just slightly.
“You’ve got honey on your cheek,” you said suddenly.
“What?”
“Here,” you leaned across the table, wiped a thumb gently across his cheek, and showed him the smear. “See?”
Azriel stared at you like you’d reached inside his chest and given it a twist.
“You’re blushing,” you added, teasing.
“I’m not.”
“You are.”
“…It’s warm in here.” His shadows swirled.
You smiled, sipping your tea. “You really don’t have to keep pretending to run into me, you know.”
Azriel stilled.
“I mean, unless you enjoy watching me wrangle a toddler and rub balm on his nose.”
A pause.
Then: “I do.”
Your heart stuttered.
“I do enjoy it,” he said again, voice softer now. “And I like the way you talk to Feyre. And Rhys. Like you’re not afraid of them. I like how you laugh when Nyx sneezes on you. I like… how you feel.”
You swallowed thickly. “How I feel?”
His shadows shifted behind him, curling close.
Azriel leaned forward, resting his arms on the table. Quietly, earnestly, he spoke. “You make the world feel quieter. Not empty. Just… right.”
You didn’t say anything right away. You just looked at him, really looked.
This man who’d guarded a thousand secrets, who wore silence like a cloak and carried the weight of a thousand watchful nights. Who blushed like a boy when you touched his face. Who smelled faintly of cedar and sky.
You reached across the table and took his hand.
It was scarred and strong and trembling slightly in yours.
“Well,” you whispered, threading your fingers through his with a gentleness that stole his breath.
“I might have a balm for that.”
Azriel’s smile was slow. Small. Unbearably beautiful.
“Thank you,” he murmured.
You let go of his hand. His shadows seemed to reach for you. But you stood and rounded the table—leaned against the polished wood right by his side.
He didn’t even have to look up to meet your gaze.
“I think you’ve had enough honey for one night,” you murmured, eyes flicking to his lips.
His throat bobbed.
You reached for the edge of his mug and pulled it from his hands—deliberate, teasing. His fingers brushed yours, and the contact lingered, neither of you letting go right away.
“You don’t have to be so careful with me, you know,” you said, tone light, but your eyes searched his. “I’m not going to shatter.”
Azriel’s voice was rough, unsteady. “I’m not worried about breaking you.”
“Oh?” You tilted your head. “Then what?”
He didn’t answer—not right away. Just stared at you, as if the truth was caught somewhere behind his teeth, held back by old habits and older fears.
But his hand rose, slow and reverent, and brushed a piece of hair from your cheek. It was almost shy, almost questioning.
You caught his fingers in yours.
“Spymaster of the Night Court,” you whispered with a playful smile. “Speechless over a female with peppermint tea and a bit of salve?”
Azriel huffed something between a laugh and a sigh. “Completely ruined.”
“I was hoping so.”
And then, before he could retreat behind those shadows again, you leaned in.
The kiss was soft—barely a press at first, more breath than contact. His lips were warm and hesitant, like he couldn’t quite believe this was real. But when you stayed close, when you didn’t pull away, Azriel tilted his head and deepened it just slightly, as if learning the shape of you by feel alone.
His hand slid to your waist. Yours curled behind his neck. And for a long, quiet moment, there was no River House, no baby lordling asleep upstairs, no world beyond the hush between two hearts finally touching.
You pulled back first, just slightly, your noses brushing.
“Still warm in here?” you whispered, lips ghosting over his.
Azriel’s smile was dizzyingly soft. “Scorching.”
You laughed under your breath, the sound barely more than a flutter between you. Azriel didn’t let go—not of your waist, not of the moment. His shadows twined lazily around your ankles, brushing like silk, as if even they sighed in contentment.
“I should go,” you murmured, though you didn’t move.
“I know,” he said, voice low. “But not yet.”
And when he kissed you again, it was slower this time—deeper, with the confidence of someone who’d been holding that longing in for far too long. You melted into it, into him, your fingers threading into the dark lush of his hair, your smile catching against his mouth.
He pulled back just enough to breathe, his forehead resting against yours.
“You’re dangerous,” he whispered, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. “Madja should’ve warned me.”
You grinned, breathless. “Consider this your final symptom, Shadowsinger.”
He laughed, really laughed, and you decided then that you'd come back tomorrow. And the day after that. As long as he kept smiling like that, you’d never run out of reasons to stay.
#azriel x reader#azriel x you#acotar#writer#azriel shadowsinger#fanfiction#acotar fanfic#acotar fanfiction#azriel acomaf#azriel acotar#acotar azriel#azriel#pro azriel#fanfic#a court of thorns and roses fanfic#a court of thorns and roses#azriel fluff#acotar fluff
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"Okay." The king turned back to his desk and resumed writing.
The priest was baffled. "But- Your Majesty-"
"It's gonna happen anyways." The king dipped the feathered pen in the inkwell. "There ain't no use wasting energy fighting it. The real questions were never if it was gonna happen, but when and how."
The priest blinked and bit back a frown. Ever since His Majesty King Gillian the Third had ascended to the throne, he had ran his kingdom with a surprisingly lax fist compared to his predecessors. His council constantly made fun of him for it, but King Gillian (nicknamed Lord Nil by his opponents and most of his advisors) did not flinch. Many muttered that his madness had no method. Gillian himself did not comment on his actions.
As one of the King's most trusted advisors, the Priest tried his best to stay on his good side, accepting most of his eccentric decisions without question or complaint, but this... this made no sense.
"My lord," he said carefully, "do you not worry for the security of your office?"
The King did not look up. "No."
"With all due respect, sire, I beseech you to remember that your reputation amongst your council is..." he chose his words carefully "...debatable, at best." He bit back the incredulity creeping into his voice. "If they hear of this, I cannot promise that their reactions will be favorable." He let the sentence hang in the air for a moment before continuing. "They may move to depose you."
The King finally looked up at that. "Come here," he said, standing up from his desk.
The Priest advanced hesitantly, sure that he was about to be reprimanded or fired or executed or at the very least backhanded, but the King simply gestured out of the window that sat in front of his desk. "Tell me, dear Priest, what those sharp eyes of yours see."
The Priest wasn't sure how he was supposed to respond, or if this was a trap. He squinted at the window and eventually decided to go with the most obvious answer. "...Your kingdom, sir?"
"Correct. And in this kingdom, all living things die and nourish others in death and are replaced by other living things of their kind as part of the court of the kingdom of Nature, do they not?"
"They do, sir."
The King turned to him. "Now tell me, Priest, are we humans, as simple animals in the Kingdom of Nature, excluded from death in any form, fashion, or manner?"
The priest swallowed and did not turn his gaze from the window. "Not except in memory, sire."
Gillian nodded. "In this way, it is wiser to let the river of Fate take its course and shift it in little ways here and there than attempt to block it off entirely." He sat back down. "When the child comes, we will know. I will raise it as my own and teach it the ways of grace and strength the best that I can. In this way, when the time comes for it to take my place, it will not do so in anger, but remember my grace and give it back to me."
The Priest sincerely doubted this, but he said nothing.
The king waved a hand. "You are dismissed."
---
The next spring, during an assembly, the Priest walked into the throne room and knelt. "My lord."
Gillian waved him up. "You may speak."
The priest looked him in the eye. "We have found the child."
A murmur rose throughout the courtesans assembled in the room. The King glowered at them and slammed his fist three times on the arm of his throne for quiet. "Where?"
"In a small hovel on the edge of the village."
The room was silent. Gillian nodded. "And how fares the mother?"
The priest cleared his throat. "Dead in childbirth, m'lord."
A shocked murmur rose through the room again, louder this time. The King frowned to himself, but made no move to quiet them.
"If this is the child fated to dethrone you, my lord, then we should kill it," said a noble loudly.
The King's eyebrows furrowed in disgust. "No."
"But Sire-"
"I said no!" the King snapped, and the room went silent. Gillian was a man of lax and easy temper, reasonable even in the most inane situations, and he almost never raised his voice. "I will not condone the murder of an innocent child, prophecy or no. We shall bring it here and raise it."
The Queen Marie, who up until this point had sat quietly in her own throne with the merest raising of eyebrows in sympathy at the news of the mother's death, flicked her eyes towards her husband in question. It had long been rumored that she was infertile, and many had sneered at the King for keeping her despite this, but he held fast.
He noticed her gaze and turned towards her. "Unless, that is," he said quietly but clearly, "my Lady protests."
One or two people mumbled in shock. The Priest had to stop his own mouth from dropping open. A king asking his wife's permission for anything was unheard of, especially for something like this.
The Queen froze for a half second, then sat up a little straighter in her throne. "If you are sure," she replied.
Gillian nodded. "I am."
"Then it shall be."
The king nodded decisively and turned back to the room again. "It has been decided! The child will be brought here and raised as our own."
An explosion of enraged voices echoed throughout the room. The priest bowed, although he had not been addressed, and the King's eyes landed on him. "Fetch the child and bring it here so that I may see it," he said, and the priest nodded and scuttled out of the room, grateful to let the heavy doors shut on the now chaotic room behind him.
The king, after hearing the prophecy about a child fated to depose them, decided to just let the events play out without interfering.
#writing#keys' writing#this is part 1 i'll write the second half later i just really wanna play minecraft rn
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Only Mercy I Could Give
King Maximilian Verstappen x Assassin!Reader
part of the TRONAB series
First Read All You Need To Know Here
SULI: HEY BESTIES! I cannot tell you how in love I am with this world I've created and the little personalities the reader will have in every chapter— after the series is over PLEASE FEEL FREE (like please) to request anything from this world again I am in love — I hope you'll love this as much as I do, thank you for your support and for being here with me🫶
THE PART TWO OF THIS STORY HERE
Warnings: wars, murder... (Not proofread... Hehe I'm lazy)
Smoke has a sound.
Max knows that now.
It crackles, yes—but it also sighs. It whispers through the bones of the ruined city like a lullaby for the dead.
He stands at the highest tower of the fallen capital, boots blackened by ash, blood drying on his fingers like rust. Below, the city burns.
It should feel like triumph.
Instead, it feels like silence.
A general approaches behind him—someone with polished armor and too many words. Max doesn’t turn. Doesn’t blink.
“They’re calling it a final victory,” the man says carefully. “Valtarys is unified. The other crowns are gone. The boy king of Solmara is confirmed dead. Castelana’s been scattered. Liora—”
“Bent the knee,” Max finishes, low. “I know."
The wind shifts. He closes his eyes. The crown is being polished behind him. He can hear the servants murmuring in the chamber below. The torchlight flickers. The people chant his name in the square, over and over again like they’re begging for something.
“Your Majesty,” the general dares say—for the first time.
Max doesn’t respond.
The general shifts again.
“They’ll want you to speak, sire. At the coronation.”
Max opens his eyes.
And they are empty.
Like the war carved out whatever was human and left only the shape of him behind.
“No,” he says.
The general hesitates. “No… speech, Your Majesty?”
Max finally turns, eyes sharp like broken glass.
“No. I’ve already spoken. In everything they’ve buried to get me here.”
He steps down from the tower, the crown waiting in the shadows.
“They wanted a king,” he murmurs. “Let them choke on him.”
He descends the tower like a man walking to his own funeral.
The ruined stone stairs wind through the keep, lit by half-dead torches that flicker against the soot-black walls. Every step echoes like a bell toll. And still—the chants rise outside like a storm tide: “Valtarys! Valtarys! Valtarys!”
Max doesn’t flinch.
Two guards bow at the doors to the grand chamber, hands resting on their swords as though they expect something to go wrong.
He pushes open the doors himself.
Inside, the chamber is gold.
Gold ceilings. Gold columns. Gold trim on blood-red silk.
As if covering the bones of this war-stained palace in shine will make people forget it once burned.
There are nobles gathered, cloaked in submission.
A bishop. A bladebearer. The steward of crowns.
And the throne—massive, obsidian black, carved from stone dragged from the mountains after the first conquest.
It is not a beautiful thing.
It was not meant to be.
The bishop raises a scroll, ready to begin the coronation rite.
Max walks straight past him.
He doesn't kneel. Doesn’t wait. Doesn’t speak.
He grips the crown in both hands.
It’s heavy.
Not with weight—but with memory.
This was the crown of the kings he killed.
The crown of the boy he crushed at the River Arlin.
The crown that watched five cities burn.
He places it on his own head.
No fanfare.
No ceremony.
The bishop hesitates.
“…By the gods and the will of the realm,” he begins cautiously, “I declare—”
Max lifts a single hand.
The room goes silent.
“I don’t want your blessings,” he says, voice low and carved from iron. “I don’t want your rites.”
He turns, facing the room—then the open windows beyond, where the whole of Valtarys waits.
“I took this crown,” he says simply. “With blood. With steel. With fire.”
And he sits.
Not like a ruler.
Like a man anchoring himself to what’s left of the world.
The room exhales. Then bows.
Outside, bells toll.
Inside, no one breathes.
The king has been crowned.
And no one dares say what they truly think.
...
Valtarys, one month after the Crown War
The war had ended a month ago, but the halls of Valtarys had not yet learned what peace was supposed to sound like. The silence here wasn’t gentle. It was cold. Suspicious. Still armed. Dust hovered in the air like smoke that forgot to leave, and the courtiers walked like they were waiting for a blade to fall—not from above, but from behind.
The king did not speak often. He didn’t need to.
When he entered the war chamber that night—long after the bells had quieted, after the wine had gone stale—there were only three people in the room: the steward, a guard, and the general who had survived the longest. Max walked to the head of the war table without a word.
The maps were still there. Every city. Every fallen kingdom. Markers made of iron—sharp at the bottom, so they pierced the wood when pushed into place. He stared at them like he was staring at ghosts. His crown was somewhere on the floor behind him. He’d thrown it earlier.
The general cleared his throat gently.
“Sire. The last stronghold has sworn fealty. The rebellion’s quiet. The—”
“Do you think it’s over?” Max asked softly.
The man blinked.
Max didn’t look up.
“I asked you a question.”
The general straightened. “I… no, Your Majesty.”
“Correct,” Max murmured.
He lifted one of the markers—House Castelana. Red enamel chipped, burned on one side. He turned it over in his fingers, slow.
“They kneel,” he said, “but their hands are still wrapped around knives.” He set it back down. “They send coin, but not soldiers. They smile at feasts, but their scribes send messages in ciphered ink.” His voice never rose. “They think peace means I’ll stop watching.”
He looked up now. Cold. Still.
“But I see them.”
The steward shifted nervously. “What would you have us do, sire?”
Max was quiet a moment longer. Then—he turned fully to the fire, as if watching something dance inside it that no one else could see.
“Call the court.”
The general frowned. “Your—your court, Majesty?”
Max shook his head once. Slow.
“No. The court.”
He turned, eyes flickering like steel.
“Every house I spared. Every kingdom that still breathes. Every bastard heir, second daughter, backwater lord who dares to think they were left untouched. Summon them. To Valtarys. All of them.”
He stepped closer. His voice dropped low, but heavy.
“They will come. Not because they want to. But because they fear what happens if they don’t.”
“They will smile in my throne room, while I watch how they blink when they lie.”
“Let them believe this is unity. Let them dress it in lace and song.”
He leaned against the edge of the table.
“But what we are building… is control.”
The steward nodded, pale as snow.
“I’ll draft the summons at once, Your Majesty.”
Max nodded once. Then he picked up the crown. Turned it in his hands. There was blood dried in the creases. He hadn’t noticed it before.
“Make sure they bring their heirs,” he said absently. “And their clever ones.”
The steward hesitated. “…Your Majesty?”
He looked up. Eyes darker than coal.
“Because clever people betray faster. But they also bleed slower.”
By the next sunrise, the messengers rode out. Sealed letters on black vellum. Bound with Valtarys wax.
By the next sunrise, the messengers rode out. Sealed letters on black vellum. Bound with Valtarys wax.
And as they reached the corners of the realm—so too did the whispers.
In Liora, Prince Charles broke the seal with elegant hands, and stared too long at the words. In the southern wilds, Carlos read his by torchlight, silent. Calculating. Already planning what mask he’d wear.
And somewhere deep in the forest pass between Meravin and Valtarys, a carriage never reached its destination.
She’d been waiting all night. Cloak soaked. Blade hidden beneath her hem. When the wheels creaked into earshot, she stepped into the road like a ghost.
The guards didn’t even draw their swords—just barked at her to move.
She didn’t.
The first two were easy. Fast. No screams. She slipped into the carriage before the others even noticed something was wrong.
The girl was exactly as the rumors said. Fragile, ivory-pale, swathed in traveling silks. She hadn’t even seen the world yet.
She looked up in surprise, confusion—no fear.
"Are you lost?" she asked softly.
She almost didn’t do it.
Almost.
But orders don’t care about softness.
The dagger slid in fast. Under the ribs. No blood on the dress. Just a slow breath that never finished.
When it was done, she dragged the body into the river and let the current take her name away.
She stripped off her cloak, stepped into the carriage, and took the sealed letter from the floor where it had rolled.
Her hand trembled only once—when she pressed the signet ring into warm wax and sealed the lie shut.
She was a Meravin now.
And she was going to Valtarys.
The king had summoned the court.
The game had begun.
...
Valtarys, the Iron Capital
The gates of Valtarys opened like the maw of something ancient.
Two wolves carved from obsidian stone towered above the archway, their jaws meeting in the middle, fangs outstretched as if they could bite down on the sky. Their eyes were inlaid with red crystal—old magic, some said. Cursed, others whispered. Watching. Always watching.
As the massive gates creaked open on rust-forged hinges, a single carriage rolled forward.
Its wheels cracked against the cobbled stone, slick with rain from the night before. Each echo seemed to carry too far, as if the capital itself had fallen silent to listen. The procession that followed was subdued—only a handful of guards, all on edge, too tense for a formal arrival. Their blades were drawn, but sheathed. Their expressions unreadable. The flag of Meravin fluttered from the side of the carriage, soaked and torn at the edge.
The rumors had arrived long before the girl inside did.
A princess. Hidden for most of her life. Brilliant, some said. Others claimed she was ill, or cursed, or born under a blood moon. No one knew what she looked like. Not even those who had bowed to her house. All they knew was that Meravin was quiet, neutral, and clever—and that its court had finally answered the king’s summons.
Up on the marble terraces above the courtyard, courtiers gathered in the shadows. Ladies in deep-colored silks, scribes with ink-stained fingers, lesser lords wearing stiff collars and practiced sneers. They whispered behind lace fans, tilted their heads to see through the mist.
The carriage door opened.
And she stepped out.
At first, all they saw was black. Deep, layered mourning silk. A full-length veil drawn low over her face, almost to her waist, obscuring every detail. Her gloves matched her gown, and her hair—what little peeked through beneath the veil—was bound tightly, braided with dark ribbon. No jewels. No crest. Not even a visible dagger. Her presence was her weapon.
She moved slowly. Precisely. Like someone whose grief had taught her how to walk without trembling.
It was a performance.
And a perfect one.
Each step she took down from the carriage was deliberate, soft. The guards—those who had survived the fabricated “attack”—kept their heads low. Not one dared look her in the eye. Whether from guilt, shame, or fear, she didn’t know. Didn’t care.
She reached the base of the marble stairs leading into the keep.
A thin breeze swept through the courtyard, and for a moment, it lifted the edge of her veil—just enough for those closest to see the suggestion of her face. Pale. Composed. Her lips unmoving. Her eyes unreadable.
And from the highest balcony above, overlooking it all—
King Maximilian watched.
He stood without guards. Alone. A tall figure in black armor, scarred at the edges and traced with silver. His hands rested on the marble railing. His crown—a circlet of blackened iron—sat heavy on his brow. His gaze never left her.
Not when she paused.
Not when she lifted her chin.
Their eyes met through layers of gauze, stone, and something colder than either.
He didn’t blink.
She bowed, slow and deep, her form folding like silk under snow.
She stayed bowed for a beat too long.
When she rose, she let her gaze flick up—just once. Just enough.
She met the king’s eyes again.
Still, he didn’t move.
The entire courtyard held its breath.
Then the steward stepped forward from the base of the stairs. He unrolled the scroll in his hands, voice echoing across the stillness like the toll of a bell.
“Princess of Meravin,” he called. “You are received by His Majesty, King Maximilian of House Verstappen. Sovereign of Valtarys. Keeper of the Iron Crown. Lord of the Nine Realms.”
The formal words landed with the weight of iron.
Still, the king said nothing.
Still, she did not flinch.
She dipped her head once more, graceful, measured. Then straightened, her hands clasped in front of her, fingers still stained beneath the gloves.
Max’s gaze hadn’t shifted. Not once.
Then—he turned.
He spoke over his shoulder, voice calm, cold, final.
“Let her in.”
The steward bowed so quickly it nearly became a fall.
Guards moved aside. Doors groaned open. Light spilled from within the great keep like something golden—and she stepped into it like a shadow slipping beneath a door.
Inside, the castle was too warm. The air held the scent of polished steel, burnt oil, and roses from a garden no one could see. Tapestries hung from the walls—scenes of old Valtarys, of wolves and flames and crowned warriors who looked more like ghosts than kings.
She walked without hesitation.
Her footsteps barely echoed.
Far behind her, a scribe crossed out a name in the royal guest ledger.
The court had arrived.
And so had the first lie.
...
The First Gathering of the Crowned Court
The throne room of Valtarys had once belonged to another king.
Now, it belonged to war.
Black banners hung between the towering columns, stitched with the sigil of House Verstappen—two wolves, one with its mouth open, the other closed. The room smelled of ash and iron, not incense. The stained-glass windows remained covered. Max had ordered it on the first night of his reign.
The court had gathered in full.
House leaders. War generals. Diplomats dressed in sharp colors and sharper smiles. Some leaned forward, curious. Others sat still, wary. A few glanced at each other—subtle nods, whispered alliances. The seats reserved for Meravin had been empty when the doors opened.
Now they weren’t.
She walked in precisely on time. The princess of Meravin—cloaked in black, still veiled, still silent. A shadow among a room of glass blades.
Max sat at the head of the long stone table, wearing no crown today, only his armor and a look carved from stone.
His eyes locked onto her the moment she stepped in.
“Princess,” he said, his voice low, clear, echoing.
Every head turned toward her. The tension snapped tight, like a pulled bowstring.
“We’ve begun.”
She offered a slow bow. “Forgive me, Your Majesty. I wished to pay my respects to the Iron Garden before stepping into this room.”
The voice was steady. Elegant. Just touched with grief.
The performance was flawless.
Max didn’t blink. “We’ll see if they were well received.”
She moved toward her seat.
Across from her sat a man from the Eastern Realm—calm, ageless, watching her with polite disinterest. Duke Lewis. He gave a slight nod as she passed, unreadable.
Beside him, Prince Charles of Liora leaned back slightly, one finger resting against his lips. He looked at her the way one might look at a riddle carved into marble—admiring, intrigued, trying not to care too much.
Farther down, one of the generals shifted, his jaw tight. Someone else coughed. The silence before a storm.
Max’s voice cut through it.
“Before we begin, one thing must be addressed.”
He did not look at her. But she knew the words were meant for her alone.
“All houses who enter this court do so in full transparency.”
There it was.
She paused beside her chair. Hands still at her sides. Her veil untouched.
And then—without flinching—she reached up.
The room didn’t breathe.
Her fingers found the edge of the silk, and slowly—slowly—she lifted the veil over her head, revealing the face the realm had never seen.
She didn’t smile.
She didn’t need to.
She was younger than some expected. Sharper than others feared. Her features held no softness. They were made of focus, shadow, silence. A curve of mouth that did not often laugh. Eyes too watchful for a court girl. Too calm for someone surrounded by enemies.
But beautiful. Unforgettably so.
The kind of beauty that didn't beg to be liked.
Max stared.
So did Lewis. Charles blinked once, as if surprised that she was real. Having met the princess a few times, but never seeing her without a veil, Charles was exited to go back and tell his douchess what she really looked like.
Only one voice broke the silence.
A merchant lord leaned forward slightly and whispered across to the scribe next to him, “She doesn’t look like a Meravin. They're supposed to be—?"
The other whispered back, "Maybe that's why they hid her away —?"
Max spoke before anyone else could follow.
“She looks exactly how she needs to.”
And with that, he gestured for her to sit.
The session began.
They discussed trade first—boring, sharp-edged numbers and threats behind every offer. Then regional patrols. Rebellions flaring in the western woods. One lord accused another of withholding grain. Voices rose. Apologies were offered like poison in gold cups.
The session trudged on, as council meetings always did—layered in politics, patience, and veiled insults.
She sat without fidgeting, hands folded in her lap, veil tucked behind her now. The silence around her had a shape. The others stole glances when they thought she wouldn't notice. Charles stared too long. A general furrowed his brow every time she so much as shifted.
Max didn’t look at her.
Not directly.
But his voice dropped every time he asked for a report. His thumb tapped once against the arm of his chair when she tilted her head at a particular map. And when she leaned forward slightly—ever so slightly—during a disagreement over borderlines, he spoke up again before anyone else could.
He felt her watching.
She felt him not looking.
That was the game now.
Then, halfway through a debate over grain storage and whether the southern roads should be opened for more frequent trade, one of the lesser lords turned to her directly.
“Perhaps the princess of Meravin would like to offer her thoughts?” he said, his voice soaked in sugar and doubt. “Your house has long been praised for… strategy.”
The pause hung there like a blade.
She lifted her chin.
“Yes,” she said simply. “We have.”
The room stilled.
Her voice was calm, smooth. Not haughty. Not meek. Not at all the voice of someone who had just entered the capital for the first time. Her accent was a whisper of something southern, polished and deliberate. Controlled.
She stood, as was custom when addressing the crown, and turned to face Max. Not the lords. Not the court.
Only him.
“Your Majesty,” she said, bowing her head with the precision of a blade unsheathed. “Meravin’s silence during the Crown War was not indifference, but survival. What we lack in military strength, we maintain in roads, in land, and in knowledge. The grain stored in the Meravin valleys could feed this kingdom through two winters. But those roads must be secured—otherwise they’ll bleed us dry before they ever reach Valtarys.”
She didn’t blink.
“Open the southern roads. But station your soldiers there, not ours. Let the kingdom see it is your crown feeding them, not the lords who let them starve.”
She turned to the rest of the table—slowly, gaze steady, measured.
“Let them love you for it.”
A silence followed that felt too big for a simple trade suggestion.
One of the generals coughed quietly. Another scribbled something into his parchment. The merchant lords were already calculating how much profit they’d gain. Charles leaned forward again, his mouth parted slightly. Impressed.
And Max?
He finally looked at her.
Fully. Clearly. Eyes like polished steel under stormclouds.
And for a long, long moment, he said nothing.
Then—
“Sound strategy,” he said.
Nothing more.
But he held her gaze for three heartbeats longer than necessary.
When he finally turned back to the room, his voice returned to that same, low, steady hum.
“Then we station troops in the south. Effective immediately.”
No one dared question it.
The court moved on.
But the room had already shifted.
She had entered with a borrowed name.
Now, she had spoken with her own voice.
And Valtarys was listening.
...
One day before the death of the Real Princess Meravin
The room was cold. Not the kind of cold that came from stone or wind—but the kind that lived in the bones of old places. She stood in the middle of it, arms crossed beneath her cloak, damp boots still caked with mud. The fire crackled low. Shadows danced against the cracked walls. She didn’t look at the man sitting at the edge of the hearth. She knew his voice before he spoke.
“You came.”
“I always do,” she answered. “What’s the job?”
He didn’t look at her right away. Just stared at the fire, jaw clenched like he’d already been arguing with himself for hours. “This one’s different.”
“They all are,” she said, shrugging off her cloak. “But the coin spends the same.”
“This isn’t about coin.”
She turned, finally meeting his eyes. Familiar. Tired. Eyes that once made her believe in things like home. Eyes she hadn’t seen in nearly a year.
“Then what’s it about?” she asked, carefully. “Why me?”
He stood. Took a slow breath. Walked to the table in the corner and laid out a folded parchment. The seal was broken. The edges torn. She didn’t move toward it.
“He’s summoned the court,” the man said. “He wants every surviving kingdom, every noble house, every voice left in the realm at his table.”
She stared at the paper.
He didn’t say the name.
He didn’t have to.
Valtarys.
The King.
Maximilian.
Her jaw tensed. “You want me to go to him?”
“No,” he said quietly. “I want you to end him.”
Silence.
She didn’t laugh. Didn’t curse. Just stood still, every part of her trained body frozen for half a breath.
“The envoy from Meravin—” he continued, “—they’ve kept her hidden her whole life. Only a few know her face. No one’s seen her since the war. She’s being sent to Valtarys tomorrow.”
“And?”
“You intercept her. Take her place. Slip into the court before anyone learns her name. You earn his trust. You wait.”
“And then?”
His voice dropped, low and final. “You kill the king.”
She didn’t move. Not yet. Just stared at him.
“You told me you were done with vengeance,” she said. “You told me—”
“I told you he burned my brother alive,” he snapped. “I told you he razed our cities and left the children buried in ash. I told you what his peace really means. And I told you, one day, we’d take it back.”
She swallowed. Her voice was quieter when she said, “So this is how it ends. Not on a battlefield. Not with a crown lost in war. But a knife in the dark.”
His expression didn’t change.
“He has to die,” he said. “He’s too powerful now. No army can reach him. No rebellion can touch him. But you—you’re the only one who could ever get close enough.”
“And when I do?” she asked. “What happens after?”
“You disappear,” he said. “You vanish. We’ll never speak again.”
She nodded once.
Then again.
But she didn’t look at him.
He crossed the room and placed a dagger on the table. Not ornate. Not ceremonial. Just clean, black steel.
“I didn’t want to ask you,” he said. “But I trust no one else.”
She didn’t pick up the blade. Just said, without looking at him, “You still dream of justice.”
“I dream of an end.”
She stepped forward slowly. Wrapped her fingers around the hilt.
“I’ll do it,” she said. “For you.”
“No,” he said. “Do it for all of us.”
...
The war room of Valtarys was nothing like the throne room.
No stained glass. No gold trim. Just bare stone walls, dim torchlight, and a long table carved from an ancient tree felled in the Crown War. Scratches still marred the surface from old blades and spilled ink. A massive map of the realm lay unfurled across it—edges curling, corners pinned with iron daggers.
The fire crackled in the hearth. One candle burned at the center of the table.
Max stood at its head.
His armor was gone. He wore only a black linen tunic and a leather belt, sword still sheathed at his hip. His hair was damp, like he hadn’t bothered to dry it after washing away the weight of the day.
Lewis leaned against the far column, arms crossed, robes as crisp as they’d been that morning. His silence was heavy.
Charles had stayed. Not officially summoned, but Max hadn’t sent him away either. He sat near the corner, one boot tapping slowly against the stone floor, eyes on the map.
Lando was late.
Oscar, already standing in the shadown of the corner.
“Reports from the west,” Max said, his voice low. “Two villages burned. One banner raised.”
He tossed a rolled parchment onto the table.
“Carlos?” Lewis asked without looking up.
Max gave a short nod.
“No sign of him, but the men who led it spoke his name. Loudly. Publicly.”
Charles leaned forward, brow furrowed. “The rebellion was supposed to be scattered. That’s what you told the court.”
Max looked at him. “It was. Now it’s not.”
Oscar stepped forward from the corner. Quiet as breath.
“They’re gathering in the pines,” he said. “Moving between the old trade routes. The ones the kingdom stopped using after the war.”
“They know the blind spots,” Lewis murmured.
“They were ours once,” Max replied.
He didn’t need to say more.
Silence settled. Thick.
Then Charles spoke again. “You think Carlos wants the crown?”
“No,” Max said. “He wants to take it from me. That’s different.”
There was no anger in his voice. Only truth.
Lando finally arrived—messy, slightly out of breath, a faint cut on his jaw.
“Riders were spotted near the southern watchtower,” he said as he dropped a blood-marked rag on the table. “No sigils. No survivors.”
He nodded toward the map. “That’s Meravin’s border.”
The room paused.
Max didn’t look up. Just smoothed a crease in the map with one finger. “Then we’ll tighten the gates.”
“They’ll notice,” Lewis said.
“I want them to.”
Charles looked across the table. “And the princess?”
Max’s hand stopped moving.
“She’s not the threat,” he said.
“Yet,” Lewis added.
Oscar said nothing. But his eyes never left Max’s face.
The fire cracked. Somewhere outside, the wind howled through the Iron Garden.
Max stood at the table, shoulders tense, staring down at the map—not at the borders, but at the supply lines.
He placed a finger at the edge of the southern trade route, where Castelana once thrived. Then slowly traced north, toward the capital.
“They’re testing us,” he said.
Oscar looked up. “Who?”
“That’s the question.”
He glanced at a sealed scroll beside him—wax slightly broken, the insignia of House Valcorre still visible.
“This letter was meant to confirm grain convoys from Meravin. Sent a week ago, addressed to me personally. Except…” He held up a second scroll, identical.
“This one arrived three days earlier. Also from Meravin. Same message. Same seal. Slight variation in phrasing.”
Lewis narrowed his eyes. “Forgeries?”
“No. That’s what’s unsettling. Both are legitimate. Both came through official channels. But one of them was hand-delivered to a steward who no longer works in this castle.”
He let that sink in.
“Disappeared a month ago. Quietly. No official leave. His name was never cleared from the castle roster.”
Charles leaned forward. “You think he was used?”
“I think he was planted. And whoever did it had access to the court’s rotating service logs.”
Oscar stepped beside the map. “We’ve been assuming the disruption is external. But this—this feels internal.”
Max nodded. “Not a coup. Not yet. Something slower. A reshaping.”
He picked up another paper. This one, a detailed ledger.
“This report claims southern arms were delivered to the eastern gate of Valtarys ten days ago. But that gate’s been under reconstruction for two months.”
Lando cursed softly. “So they’re using dead gates. Routes no one checks.”
“They know how we file,” Max said. “How we overlook things under our own roof.”
Lewis folded his arms. “You think they’ve already infiltrated?”
“No,” Max said. “They’ve been here. For a while.”
He stepped back from the table, gaze distant.
“We keep looking for a rebellion with banners and blades. But someone’s already drawing new maps beneath us. Quiet ones. With ink, not blood.”
Charles exhaled, slow. “You don’t suspect any council member yet?”
Max’s voice dropped.
“Not yet. But the timing of Meravin’s arrival is… convenient.”
Oscar glanced up. Just slightly.
Max didn’t follow the look. Didn’t name names. Just folded his hands behind his back.
“I want the next three caravans rerouted without notice. New guards, new gates. Don’t announce them.”
Max turned to Oscar, precise as ever.
“I want you on the paper trail. Start at the western quarter—Valewatch, the ravine scribes, then push outward to the border files—”
Oscar flinched.
It was quick. Controlled. But not well enough.
“That far west?” Oscar asked, quieter than usual.
Lando looked up from where he was fidgeting with a ring. Lewis paused mid-fold of his arms.
“I… can’t go that far,” he said.
His voice didn’t waver. But something behind it pulled, like taut string just shy of snapping.
Max’s gaze lingered on him a beat too long.
Then his gaze relaxed again.
“Right,” Max murmured. His voice was cool, casual, but the room shifted with it. “Your… situation.”
Charles looked up. Lewis froze just slightly beside the flame.
But Max moved on before questions could root.
“Begin in the east. The inner court scribes. That will do for now. Follow the paperwork. The forges, the scribes, the runners. Quietly. If someone’s rearranging our court from within... I want to see the shape of it.”
Oscar gave a sharp nod. His hand had curled—just once—at his side, like he was grounding himself.
Max didn’t look again. But he made a mental note of the border Oscar would not cross.
And the storm he might be tethered to.
Then to Lewis and Charles:
“Delay your responses to any outer kingdom for two days. See who asks why.”
And finally:
“Do not speak of this beyond this room. Whoever they are, they’re listening. I can feel it.”
The fire crackled low. The walls held their silence.
And somewhere far below, the kingdom kept moving—just slightly off-rhythm.
Finally, Max spoke again—quiet, firm, absolute.
“Carlos is moving. The court is watching. And someone’s lying in this castle.”
He looked up.
“Find out who.”
...
The walls were too clean.
That was the first thing she noticed—not the guards in ceremonial armor, not the velvet runners down the hall, not even the absence of sound that fell over everything like snow. The stone was polished. Too polished. And the torches along the corridors burned too steadily for a castle this large. The scent of burning oils and citrus soaked the air, but underneath it, faint as breath on glass, she smelled smoke.
Old smoke.
From wars that had ended too quickly.
She walked in silence, steps slow but certain, her veil falling like a silk shadow over her shoulders, obscuring the sharpness of her jaw and the edge in her eyes. She held herself like nobility—neck long, back straight, hands folded at her waist. Just enough softness. Just enough lie. But everything in her was on edge. Every footstep calculated. Every corner mentally mapped.
This wasn’t a palace. It was a trap built like a throne room.
And someone had made sure it was beautiful enough to make you forget that.
She passed by two guards stationed at an archway leading toward the banquet wing. Their eyes lingered on her—not rudely, not lecherously, but with the kind of caution that came from serving a king who did not tolerate mistakes.
She lowered her eyes. Bowed her head.
Walked on.
Her pulse didn’t shift.
They told her Valtarys Castle had been reforged from the bones of the conquered. That its stones had been quarried from razed capitals, its foundation paved with the marble tiles of three fallen thrones. She saw it rully as she turned a corner.
The stained glass window.
High, elaborate, nearly the full height of the wall. Crafted with precise, reverent hands and lit from behind by the western sun.
It showed the siege of Solmara.
She recognized it instantly. The spires, once gold, depicted now as blackened, crumbling. The queen on her knees. The fires behind her. And a figure standing above it all—shrouded in shadow, crown held in blood-stained hands.
She stared longer than she meant to. Not out of reverence. Not even hatred. But to examine the light. To study the distortions in the glass—where reflections overlapped, where angles split the corridor behind her. She counted the exits. Clocked the blind spots. Calculated the distance to the nearest tapestry that could hide a blade.
Behind her, a child’s laughter broke the silence.
She turned.
A boy no older than six darted past her, giggling. Behind him, a nursemaid followed, apologizing as she passed with a hurried bow. The boy waved at her.
She smiled.
Practiced. Sweet. Hollow.
Then she kept walking.
By midday, she had already mapped three wings of the castle. She had counted the shifts of two separate guard patrols, learned where the castle dogs were walked and at what hour, and discovered that the war room’s balcony faced an inner courtyard with a broken drain gate just large enough to slip through.
She had also discovered something far more valuable: silence.
Not the silence of peace. Not the hush of reverence.
But the silence of unspoken things.
She was seated during a midday council session—present, but not important. Her presence was treated as ceremonial. The envoy from Meravin. A noble daughter raised behind veils and books, here to fulfill diplomatic appearances and flatter a king’s pride.
They didn’t expect her to listen.
She did anyway.
Trade routes were discussed. Grain stores. Tax levies from the west. Boring details.
But then…
Border tensions.
She felt it then.
The shift.
And still… she waited.
Waited for him.
Not out of nervousness.
Out of necessity.
She needed to study him. She needed to understand the man she had to kill. And yet… when he entered that chamber, when he finally stood at the head of the war table and swept a single look across the room—
Her blood cooled.
Not from fear.
From instinct.
He was not what they told her.
He was worse.
He did not speak often. But when he did, the room fell still. He did not move like a man ruling by force. He moved like a man who had ruled without question. His eyes were unreadable. Cold. Distant. But not detached. She felt them on her once. Just once. A flick of recognition, too brief to call awareness.
But she felt it.
She felt heat bloom beneath her skin.
Danger.
That night, in the guest chambers she’d been given—draped in silver curtains and cold marble—she unfastened the pearls from her neck. They clinked softly against the lacquered tray.
She poured herself wine from a decanter left on the table.
It tasted like fruit and velvet. Too rich.
She drank it anyway.
Then she stepped in front of the mirror. Pale candlelight licked at the edges of her face. Her reflection looked like someone else.
That was the point.
She whispered the name they gave her. The name that wasn’t hers.
Once.
Then again.
Then a third time.
Not because she needed to remember.
But because one day, someone might call it out in warning—or rage—and she’d need to answer like it had always belonged to her.
...
The council chamber was a cathedral of tension.
Old stone walls caught every word like secrets. Torches guttered along columns carved with the names of dead kings, casting flickers of gold across a war table stained with history.
Max stood at the head of that table, arms folded, ringless fingers curled loosely beneath his jaw. His silence held more weight than anyone else’s voice.
The nobles didn’t notice. Most never did. They thought the Crown War had made him brutal, made him cold.
They forgot it had made him observant.
General Alonso leaned forward, pointing at a cluster of tiny markers on the western ridges. “Skirmishes along the Valewatch lines have intensified. Scouting parties are returning with bruised ankles, cracked ribs, and claims of shadows too fast to name. Three riders disappeared this week. One returned without a tongue.”
Murmurs spread.
Max’s gaze didn’t shift from the map.
But something else did.
Her.
The envoy from Meravin — the princess in name, the stranger in silk.
She had not spoken for some time. Had merely sat, hands folded in her lap, eyes placid. Watching.
But now…
Max saw it.
Her eyes moved.
Not toward Alonso.
But to the exact ridge on the map before he spoke.
She didn’t trace. She didn’t blink. Her gaze simply settled — as if it knew where the pain already was.
A subtle flick. The kind of detail no court would catch. But Max did.
She looked at Valewatch two seconds before the general’s hand even touched it.
The room kept speaking. Alonso continued.
Max said nothing.
But a thread pulled, quiet and sharp, in the back of his mind.
He shifted slightly, enough to glance down the table. Lando Norris sat three seats to the left — posture half-lazy, one boot tapping under the bench, fingers turning the edge of a wine cup.
But his eyes?
They were on her.
Not long. Just a glance. A little too steady. A little too knowing.
Lando didn’t speak. He never did in these meetings unless asked. But his brow furrowed, and he tilted his head as if trying to place something he’d seen before.
Max caught that, too.
The council pressed on, debating grain shortages and steel from the East, but Max’s attention splintered into parts.
One part stayed sharp on the map.
Another on Lando’s glance.
And the third stayed locked on her.
She had resumed her diplomatic posture — quiet, polite, untouched.
But that moment…
That moment didn’t belong to a diplomat.
That moment belonged to someone who had seen the battlefield before the reports arrived.
When the meeting finally ended, the nobles filtered out in pairs and trios, voices fading into marble corridors. Lando was one of the last to rise, stretching his arms dramatically like a man who didn’t just notice a stranger make a war table twitch.
Max didn’t say anything.
But Lando caught his look.
And for once, Lando didn’t smile.
He just nodded once, slow.
Max turned back to the table and stared at the ridge where her eyes had landed before the war was even spoken aloud.
And for the first time since the Crown War ended…
He felt uneasy in his own castle.
...
She had just begun to believe he wouldn’t summon her.
Three days since the council meeting, two since the banquet, one since the quiet glance across the great hall that lingered too long. She had traced the shape of that moment again and again in her thoughts, unsure whether she’d imagined it — or if he’d truly looked at her like that.
Like he knew something.
Like he wanted her to know he knew.
So when the quiet knock came at her door near moonrise, she wasn’t surprised.
She followed the guard through the castle’s western corridors, not asking where they were going. She had already memorized the paths. She knew which ones led to the war rooms and which led to the crypts. She recognized this one — the turn near the carved pillar, the scent of damp stone and rose oil.
The garden.
Of course.
A king never confronts. Not directly.
He walks among flowers and lets the silence do the rest.
The door opened onto a courtyard lit only by moonlight and flame. Braziers burned low. The night air was cool, brushing against her skin like breath. She stepped out carefully, veil still in place. Her slippered steps made no sound on the marble floor.
He was already there.
Standing beside a tall rose tree, dark cloak drawn over his shoulders like a second crown. He turned when she approached — not sharply, not with surprise. As if he’d known the exact moment she would arrive.
“Lady Meravin,” he said. His voice was quiet. Unhurried.
She dipped her head. “Your Majesty.”
He gestured to the path beside him. “Walk with me.”
It was not a request.
She took her place beside him. Not too close. Not too distant.
They walked in silence at first. Past trimmed hedges and quiet fountains. Past old statues weathered by wars he had survived.
He didn’t look at her. Not yet.
“When I summoned the court,” he said at last, “I wasn’t sure Meravin would respond.”
She answered lightly, “My kingdom honors its oaths. Even in uneasy times.”
“And yet, it has been… quiet. For years.”
She smiled behind her veil. “There is wisdom in silence.”
He paused beside a bench of black stone. “Or secrecy.”
Her breath held. A half-beat. Just enough.
“Some would say the two are the same,” she replied.
Now he looked at her.
The first true look. No council chamber. No audience. Just moonlight and scrutiny. His eyes weren’t as cold as she expected.
But they were worse.
Sharp. Alive. Calculating.
She felt the weight of that gaze settle over her like chainmail.
“You’ve adapted quickly to court,” he said. “You seem to understand things most newcomers don’t.”
She tilted her head. “I was raised to observe.”
“Observation,” he murmured. “A dying skill.”
Another step.
Another silence.
He glanced toward a rose in bloom — sharp-petaled and dark. “Tell me, Lady Meravin. If you were in my place… would you trust a court built by the kingdoms I destroyed?”
The question hung in the air like smoke.
And she, the snake beneath the silk, answered without blinking.
“No,” she said. “But I would watch. And wait. And see who flinches first.”
A pause.
And then — something unexpected.
He smiled.
Not warmth.
Not charm.
But something close to recognition.
“You’ll do well here,” he said.
Then turned, and walked ahead, the dark of his cloak trailing behind him like a storm that had yet to fall.
She remained there, under the moonlight, for a breath longer than she should have.
Because he hadn’t tried to corner her.
He hadn’t questioned her like a man hunting truth.
He’d just spoken.
Like a man already planning what to do once it was revealed.
...
He didn’t summon her this time.
She came anyway.
The doors to the high council chamber groaned open just as the king raised his hand to begin. Heads turned—some with interest, some with open disdain—but none dared speak.
Not when she entered like that.
Lady Meravin moved as if nothing could touch her. As if the air itself parted in deference. Her veil was sheer today, brushed back just enough to reveal the line of her jaw, the dark arc of her lashes. Storm-colored silk clung to her frame without ornament. No jewels. No crest. No colors.
She wore neutrality like armor.
Max didn’t speak. Didn’t gesture. Didn’t acknowledge her at all.
He simply let her sit—in the same place as before, at the edge of the table, where the flickering chandelier light couldn’t quite reach her eyes.
The council began.
Reports of uprisings. Negotiations. Shipments of iron going missing on the northern border.
She said nothing.
But Max could feel her attention like a blade against his throat. She didn’t look around, didn’t fidget, didn’t even blink more than necessary. She listened—actively, precisely. Her eyes moved not with the flow of the conversation, but with the currents beneath it.
When General Alonso grunted about sending troops east, she tilted her head slightly. When the chancellor boasted of a surplus that didn’t exist, her fingers tapped once against her knee, then stilled. And when Lord Taren—fat, smug, always eager to please—suggested raising grain taxes on the border provinces, she didn’t move at all.
She simply exhaled.
Barely audible. Barely real.
But Max caught it.
That subtle release of breath—disbelief, irritation, warning?
He turned his head minutely.
She wasn’t looking at him.
She didn’t need to.
He leaned forward.
“Lord Taren,” he said, voice smooth, “we will not further punish regions already on the brink of revolt. Let’s revisit the trade routes instead.”
Confusion flickered across Lord Taren’s face.
Meravin didn’t even blink.
...
The fire crackled low in his chambers as Max peeled the wax seal from the parchment.
He scanned the first few lines with the kind of stillness that unsettled lesser men.
' Lady Meravin keeps to her quarters. Declines all invitations. Eats sparingly. Dines alone. Attends archery practice at dawn, in the western garden. Her only companion appears to be a personal maid—mute, possibly deaf. She has yet to visit the chapel, the gallery, or the west tower. No unauthorized movements observed.'
Max frowned slightly.
Too silent. Too perfect. Too prepared.
Silence, in his experience, wasn’t the absence of noise.
It was the presence of control.
He read the report twice, fingers drumming once against the edge of his wine glass. Then, wordlessly, he fed the parchment into the flame.
It curled like a dying snake and turned to ash.
“She’s not hiding,” he muttered. “She’s waiting.”
...
The council was in disarray. Tempers had flared. The southern treaty negotiations were hanging by a thread, and the king’s advisors were too busy shouting over one another to see the trap unfolding.
She did.
She saw it, and she acted.
Her voice, when it came, was not loud. Not commanding.
It didn’t need to be.
“If Lord Halric is named envoy,” she said coolly, “the southern lords will walk out. No treaty. No trade. Possibly no peace.”
Silence slammed through the chamber like a blade striking marble.
Dozens of eyes turned to her.
Even Max looked up.
Lord Halric flushed crimson. “How dare you—”
“Your father,” she continued, without blinking, “ordered the hanging of two sons of House Derelan. Their blood still stains the southern stones. You think they’ll forget that because you bring honeyed wine?”
“Those executions were lawful—”
“So is vengeance,” she said.
Her eyes never left his.
The room was frozen.
Max leaned back in his seat, expression unreadable. “You speak with remarkable confidence, Lady Meravin. Do you speak on behalf of your kingdom?”
“Yes. Yes, I do.” she replied calmly. “I speak on behalf of memory.”
She stood. Smoothed her gown with one graceful sweep.
“Forgive me, Your Majesty. I overstepped.”
And without waiting to be dismissed—without even glancing back—she left.
“She should be corrected,” one advisor said, scowling. “Publicly.”
Max didn’t look up from the map he was marking.
“She spoke out of turn,” the man continued. “No woman at court has dared—”
Max’s quill paused mid-stroke.
“I wonder,” he said softly, “how many men at court would’ve dared say what she did. And been correct.”
The advisor cleared his throat. “Still—if you’d like me to speak with her…”
Max set the quill down.
“Tell the kitchens to send hot tea to her chambers. The blend from Tethir. No honey.”
The man hesitated. “Why—”
“Because,” Max said, already turning away, “that’s what she drinks.”
...
The castle slept like it was holding its breath.
Wind clawed at the high towers. Somewhere beyond the gates, the forest moaned. But inside the ancient heart of the keep, all was still—heavy stone and colder silence. No footsteps. No flicker of life.
Except one.
Max descended the narrow stairwell to the royal archives without escort. No guards. No fanfare. The halls had long since been cleared by the steward’s orders, his instructions vague: Do not follow. Do not wait.
It wasn’t insomnia that led him here.
It was her.
Or rather—the absence of her.
Lady Meravin had not appeared at court that day. Not for the diplomatic reception. Not even for the ceremonial procession that was supposedly her reason for being in the kingdom. It was unusual.
And Max did not trust the unusual.
The torches lining the archive corridor had all gone out save one. And beneath that lone, flickering flame, the door stood ajar.
He stepped inside without sound.
She was there.
Bent slightly over a long, cracked table of carved oak, her fingers ghosting across a page the way one might trace a scar. One candle burned beside her, casting a dull glow across the map-strewn surface. Her veil was gone. Her hair—normally braided, perfect—was pulled loose, the strands clinging damp to the back of her neck.
She hadn’t noticed him yet.
Her lips moved. A whisper. Half a prayer, half a thought.
Then, the words:
“Delen ar vassin… valtere en ar kai.”
Old Vessic. Rare. Dead.
Max stopped in the doorway.
He hadn't heard those words spoken aloud since he was a boy, sitting at his grandfather’s feet while the old man sharpened blades and muttered prophecy like poetry.
Her tone was exact. No stammer. No hesitation. Fluent.
And still—she hadn't seen him.
She turned the page slowly, pulling it back with her left hand. The sleeve of her gown shifted, just slightly, revealing a mark.
A bruise.
High up, above the elbow. Faded. Ugly. The color of ruined plum.
Old, but not ancient.
Max's jaw tightened.
It wasn’t the bruise itself that caught him. Warriors bore marks. So did spies. But it was the placement. The shape. The distinct spread of fingers.
It was the kind of bruise left by someone who grabbed.
Hard.
Someone who didn’t care if it hurt.
She straightened—finally sensing him. She didn’t flinch. She didn’t reach for a weapon. She simply froze. As if she’d known this moment would come, and all that remained was the timing.
“Majesty,” she said, her voice low, smooth as silk drawn across steel.
Not startled. Not ashamed.
Max stepped forward. The door whispered shut behind him.
“You speak Old Vessic,” he said quietly.
She turned her head to face him. No veil now. Just eyes that shimmered in the candlelight like tempered gold, trained and unreadable.
“I listen to dead things,” she replied. “You learn a lot.”
Max approached the table, slow, measured. The room felt smaller now. Tighter. Like even the air leaned in to hear.
“You study war records?”
“Patterns,” she said, tapping one page lightly. “Losses disguised as victories. Retreats sold as strategy. Whole kingdoms rewritten with a few clean lines.”
He glanced at the book. Dated three decades past. Southern front.
“You think we lied,” he said.
She looked up at him, gaze steady. “I think someone always does.”
They stood in silence.
The candle flickered. The shadows danced.
Then, very deliberately, she closed the book and laid her palm flat over the cover. Her sleeves fell back into place.
But Max had already seen it.
He studied her face now—not just for deceit, but for something far more dangerous.
Humanity.
The flaw that made killers hesitate.
He stepped closer. Only slightly.
“You didn’t come to the banquet,” he said.
“I wasn’t hungry.”
His brow lifted. “And yet here you are, devouring ghosts.”
A pause. Her expression didn’t shift, but something in her gaze changed—just a flicker, just enough.
“They speak more clearly than the living,” she said softly. “They don’t bother pretending.”
Max watched her.
Longer than he meant to.
And when he turned to leave, he didn’t dismiss her. Didn’t warn her. Didn’t threaten her.
He simply said:
“You should be careful. The dead have sharp tongues.”
Her reply followed him out the door, quiet and almost gentle.
“Only if you fear what they remember.”
...
The wind was sharp at this height. Cold enough to slice. It tugged at the hem of his cloak and whispered through the stone arches like an old friend bearing secrets.
Max stood alone.
The court had long since gone to sleep. Only a few lights still flickered in the lower halls.
He didn’t feel tired.
He felt haunted.
That voice.
Those words.
That bruise.
He should have pressed her. Should have demanded to know who laid hands on her. Should have asked why a woman raised in courtly safety spoke the language of a burned-out empire.
Instead, he’d listened.
He let her speak.
And something in that stillness had unnerved him more than any blade ever could.
“A weapon is forged,” he murmured to the night, “not born.”
He didn’t know yet whether she’d been tempered.
Or if she was still burning.
But he’d seen something tonight.
And now that he had…
He couldn’t unsee it.
...
The storm hit harder than expected.
Snow slammed into the fortress walls with such force the stone moaned under it. The wind howled through the arrow slits like something alive. Everyone—soldiers, servants, horses—had burrowed deep into whatever warmth they could find.The wind howled like it was grieving.
They hadn’t meant to stay the night.
It was meant to be an inspection—symbolic. The northern fortress had sent worrying messages about troop loyalty, and Max wanted to see it for himself. Publicly. Visibly. And she was part of the performance.
Max had expected her to vanish after supper. She hadn't spoken much, just sat at the lower end of the great hall, eating like someone trained not to enjoy food.
When he realized she wasn’t in the wing she’d been offered—bare, cold, barely fit for use—he sent his guards away with a lie about fresh air and quiet.
And he found her.
In a forgotten library tucked under the northern battlements. There were no guards here. No advisors. No watching eyes.
Just her.
She was sitting on the stone floor with her back against the hearth, firelight dancing over the worn hem of her dress. She had stripped off the tight outer layers of court wear, down to a dark linen shift and thick stockings. One boot was off. The other rested beside her, as if she'd gotten halfway through untying it and lost interest.
A blanket—thin, clearly taken from somewhere less-than-royal—was draped around her shoulders. A book lay open in her lap. Her hair was loose, tied only at the nape of her neck. Shadows caught the curve of her cheekbone, the faint, tired set of her mouth.
She didn’t look at him.
Not at first.
“You walk quietly for a king,” she said softly.
Her voice was low. Warmer than usual. Frayed at the edges.
He stepped inside, letting the heavy door close behind him. The fire cast the room in uneven gold, every wall moving with flickering shadows. She didn’t rise. She didn’t cover herself further. She just turned a page and waited.
“You disappeared after dinner,” he said.
“I was told the wing they assigned me doesn’t keep heat.”
“It doesn’t.”
“Then I didn’t disappear. I adapted.”
He moved closer to the fire. Not too close. Just close enough to feel the warmth reach under his cloak. For a long moment, neither of them spoke.
Then he noticed the book in her lap.
“Poetry,” he said, almost surprised. “I didn’t take you for the sentimental type.”
She didn’t smile. But something in her mouth tilted.
“It’s not sentimental.” She touched the page with two fingers. “It’s about soldiers starving to death in a siege. Their last words were written as rhymes.”
He lowered himself slowly to sit across from her, on the other side of the hearth.
Not a threat. Not an ally.
Just there.
“And you read that for comfort?”
“I read it to remember what men do when they’re afraid.”
He looked at her for a long time. The flames moved between them, twisting upward. Her face was unreadable—but not impenetrable.
There were cracks. Quiet ones.
Her shoulders were tight from exhaustion. Her hair was damp from melted snow. Her hand was still resting on the page even though she’d stopped reading.
She was holding herself together by routine.
By force of habit.
“Why did you come with me on this inspection?” he asked.
“You told me to.”
“I could’ve left you behind. You didn’t object.”
“I wanted to see how your kingdom treats its edges.”
“And?”
She looked up.
For the first time that night, really looked at him.
“It keeps them cold. Like people it’s not sure it wants.”
That shouldn’t have hit. Not the way it did.
But it did.
And he couldn’t help it—the way his voice softened, just slightly.
“Is that what you are? Something the world isn’t sure it wants?”
A pause.
She didn’t look away.
“No,” she said. “I know what I am. The problem is when others start thinking I’m something else.”
Max felt something shift. Not in her. In him.
Not pity. Not admiration.
Recognition.
She was a creature of function, just like he was. A sword, sharpened. A mind built to observe and outlast. He understood what it meant to be used, and then feared, and then discarded.
She pulled the blanket closer. Her fingers were trembling now—just slightly, from cold or fatigue or neither.
He leaned forward. Reached out.
Paused.
“May I?”
She looked at his hand. Then at him.
Nodded.
He took the edge of the blanket and adjusted it higher over her shoulder—slow, careful. His hand brushed hers in the process.
She didn’t pull away.
“You never flinch,” he said, almost absently. “Not even when I touch you.”
“You’re not the one I’m afraid of.”
“Who are you afraid of?”
Her silence was not a refusal.
It was a wall.
“It doesn’t matter,” she said, voice quieter now. “They’re not here. You are.”
A simple truth.
And somehow—it wrecked him.
Because he’d spent weeks preparing for her betrayal.
And now, she was here in firelight. Human. Cold. Still dangerous. But real.
He wanted to ask more. Wanted to push.
Instead—
“I can stay,” he said quietly. “Just until the fire dies.”
“You don’t have to.”
“I know.”
And he did.
He stayed.
They said nothing for a long time.
She leaned her head back against the stone. He watched the fire. Her breathing slowed. The snow beat against the window. And for one stolen night in a crumbling fortress at the edge of the world—
Neither of them played a role.
He watched her mount her horse the next morning.
Veiled again. Guarded. Composed.
But her hair was still slightly damp from where it hadn’t fully dried. Her voice, when she gave orders to her attendant, was a shade gentler than usual.
And when their eyes met across the courtyard, something passed between them.
A flicker.
A memory of warmth.
No words. No nod.
Just knowing.
...
He didn’t sleep.
He sat at the edge of his desk, staring down at a blank letter he’d been meaning to write.
He couldn’t stop seeing her.
Barefoot by the fire.
Eyes half-lowered.
A poetry book about dying soldiers resting in her lap.
“She’s dangerous,” he told himself. “Trained. Manipulative.”
“She wants something.”
“She’s lying.”
But another voice—quieter—said:
“So are you.”
He clenched the edge of the desk, jaw tight.
“It was nothing,” he whispered.
But he didn’t believe himself.
...
CASTLE KAVENHOLD
Late Autumn, A Royal Banquet, Four nights before the Winter War Council.
The scent of burning myrrh and roasted pheasant clung to the hall like silk draped too heavily over stone. Courtiers lounged in their finery beneath high-gabled ceilings, murmuring over gold-trimmed goblets and political gossip.
The air buzzed. Not with celebration. But calculation.
Max watched from the high table. One hand on the carved wolf’s-head armrest of his throne, the other loosely curled around a cup of wine he hadn’t touched.
The banquet was a necessity. A performance of power before the war council. Meant to remind the realm — and its watching enemies — that he ruled with unity at his back.
But not all unity is loyal.
And tonight, he could feel the cracks widening.
At the edge of the hall sat Lord Vellen, draped in eastern silk and quiet smugness. A vulture of a man with fingers in too many purses. He had been stirring rumors for weeks — of weakness, of doubt in Max’s legitimacy. Whispers of shifting alliances.
Max had planned to trap him. Not tonight. But soon.
But then—
She stood.
Lady Meravin.
Without warning. Without ceremony.
In her dark veil and silver-trimmed gown, she stepped down from her seat — not rushing, not stalling. Just walking with quiet, precise purpose.
Every head turned.
Max straightened. His council stiffened.
She passed the court musicians, the servants, the scribe table. All the way to Lord Vellen’s side.
Vellen looked up, amused. A slow grin spreading.
“My lady,” he drawled, loud enough for all to hear. “I didn’t think the King let his newest ornaments walk unattended.”
“No, my lord,” she replied. “It’s striking.”
A few polite, nervous laughs. Vellen tilted his head.
“Striking what, exactly?”
“An accord,” she said.
And then she produced it.
A scroll.
Sealed in black wax. With the royal crest.
Max’s crest.
A stunned silence fell over the room.
Even he didn’t move.
“A royal decree,” she said coolly. “Recognizing Lord Vellen’s historic grievances at the border, and offering restitution in the form of trade and protection—should he pledge full, public loyalty to the crown before the Winter Council.”
Vellen blinked.
The scroll trembled slightly in his hand. He knew what this was.
“This is… a forgery,” he said, carefully.
“Is it?” Meravin’s voice remained smooth. “Then why did your men begin troop recalls last week? Why was your steward overheard quoting the exact tax exemption clauses in this document? Why have the merchants in Skir’s Bay already begun renegotiating your salt exports as if this were already law?”
Now Max’s heart was pounding.
He hadn’t written this decree. He hadn’t even seen it.
But she was right.
Those things had happened.
How—
“You knew I would grant it,” Max whispered, half to himself.
Vellen was already pale.
She stepped closer, just a breath away from the noble, her voice quiet enough now that only Max, and a few terrified lords nearby, could hear:
“You wanted to blackmail the crown with half-promises and quiet treason. I simply made your story louder. And now, if you don’t accept this deal, you look like the traitor you almost became.”
“If you do accept, you swear loyalty on paper forged in your name.”
She took one step back.
Curtsied.
“The crown thanks you for your cooperation.”
...
The war room was silent but for the slow hiss of logs burning in the hearth.
She stood near the map table, alone but unbothered. Still composed. Like she hadn’t just outmaneuvered one of the most dangerous men in court.
Max entered slowly, closing the door behind him.
He said nothing at first. Just watched her.
She didn’t look up.
“You went off-script,” he said.
“There wasn’t a script to follow.”
“You made promises I didn’t approve.”
“It won't be a big deal if you do, it was necessary."
Finally, she lifted her gaze.
Her eyes gleamed.
Max stepped closer. His voice dropped.
“You put yourself in front of him. You gambled with power that wasn’t yours.”
“Yes, your magesty...” she said quietly.
He stared at her.
And slowly, the anger drained away.
Because he wasn’t furious. Not really.
He was in awe.
“You saved the crown tonight.”
She looked up at him and down again.
A long silence.
He looked at her then — truly looked.
The way the fire caught in the silk at her throat. The steadiness in her hands. The terrifying stillness in her voice.
She hadn’t done it for applause.
She’d done it because she could.
And maybe — just maybe — because she wanted him to see her.
“I trust you,” he said, before he could stop himself.
And for the first time, her mask cracked.
She smiled.
Not cold. Not mocking.
Sweet. Quiet. Beautiful.
A softness he had never seen in her.
It knocked the breath from his chest.
“Thank you,” she said gently.
And just like that, she sealed it.
A moment he would never forget.
"Have a good night, Princess Meravin."
Later, in bed, Max lies awake staring at the carved ceiling beams.
His chest tight.
He should feel victorious. Empowered.
Instead, all he can feel is her smile burned into his memory.
"She smiled at me like I gave her something precious.
But all I did was tell her I trust her.
Gods help me.
Why do I want to see that smile again?"
TRONAB taglist, comment to be added; @trashmouthsahra @lalala-by-bbnos @fergalaxy
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Hi! Can I ask for a Reader x Rumi where here Reader is a Solo Artist like IU and have known the girls way before the movie started.
The reader and Rumi have been rivals since their Trainee days (but what it really is, is Rumi and Reader having a crush on each other and not knowing how to deal with it and being in denial when Zoey and Mira point it out) so when the rivalry with the saja boys happens the reader is jealous and goes to the signing event to sort of kinda but not really ask Rumi if she's replacing her with the pretty boy which sort of develops into her confessing to Rumi indirectly when Rumi asks if she's jealous or something. (Inspired by ruruumin's mira x reader true rivals)
Denial is a river in Egypt
I didn't read the fic because I am scared that if I do I'll doubt my writing ability and then I'll never get it done because it might not be up to your standards. I hope you liked this

Another one of your performances was ruined due to demons. the concert didn't go too smoothly causing it to end early so you could probably despos of them.
it's going to cause major backlash but you'd rather that then ask huntrix for help. Rumi would never let you hear the end of it despite being trainees together in the past, your relationship with her was never good.
She was too bossy and held you back from what felt like your true potential. The freedom you got from singing on stage like a bird in the endless sky was everything.
Leaving was still hard moving away from your teacher and friends no matter how much you hated a person those memories still stung and hurt your wings on stage never fully lifting off the ground.
You often visited, arrange meetings, and etc. each time you did though the mood would get a bit weird with you and rumi face heating up from the close proximity in the car ride bickering like a married couple all the time.
But sometimes you wonderd what it would be like to stand next to her for old times sake flying together instead of being apart. was the voice in your head really telling you that Rumi was really as bad as you thought she was or is something in your heart preventing you from thinking it.
Phone buzzing for the third time in a row not needing to know who it is answering the call heart beating at the sound of Celine's voice on the other line "reader you let another demon attack happen during a concert. I've tried to be patient with you but this solo rebellion of yours needs to end sooner or later" she hissed voice cutting your chest like a knife but she was right you couldn't do this on your own as much as you hated to admit you needed them... Needed rumi.
"Am sorry celine it won't happen again."
"It better not... Reader I know I might sound harsh but please come to me if something is wrong" her voice sounded worried but it quickly cut off by the harsh deep from your phone ending the call looking out at the Honmoon. Even apart the your joint efforts made it glow brighter than ever you were so close to making it gold so close to proving to yourself that you don't really need them as much as you think you do, but you knew that was a lie to.
The next day your made a decision you're going to check up on huntrix just out of curiosity heading towards there agency and up the elevator to their room with determination maybe they were also somewhat struggling.
To your embarrassment they seemed fine.. A little to fine the kind of fine that makes you suspicious, then just to be proven wrong, but you're actually right kind of fine! And you're gonna figure out what's going on. The whole time you and Rumi were down each other's necks trying to push out answers.
"They are totally trying to flirt" Zoey chuckled in the background of your bickering making Mira snort out laughing. "Zoey!" Your heads snapped in sync to where they were laughing right when booby entered with some bad news not even minding that you're here. "Aha! There is something" you grinned to yourself as bobby showed the saja boys new hit single wiping them off the charts you could laugh if it wasn't so pathetic.
"Zoey control those shoulders" the two girls yelled in frustration but in her defense it was kinda catchy. You took your leave but made sure rumi saw the massive smirk on your face as you did at the arrival of saja boys.
Looking back on that moment you never wanted to slap yourself in the face more at the arrogance. you didn't think the saja boys would have been such a threat to you and your pride but rumi does is go after them. Why? I mean where they close? A ex lover in the group maybe? And why would you care out of all people what rumi does with her time.
If there was something going on she would have told you not because of your closeness or anything but just to rub the fact she's in a relationship before you. And the signing event was the perfect way to make sure she couldn't avoid you.
5:pm was the time you woke up none of your staff was here so you could slip away undetected and wait till they open. 12:30 am the doors started to open seeing rumi made your heart skip a beat your view of her face was thankfully blocked so she couldn't see your face or the hint of blush. "Bring a chair for the saja boys" you heard bobby's voice head slowly looking up in front of you to see them.
Blood boiling with anger caused careless action to reveal yourself to the crowd causing some of your fans at the signing to cheer "quick bring a chair" booby instructed smirking as you took your seat next to rumi satisfied that she wouldn't be alone with that jerk.
"What are you doing here" she gritted her teeth trying to look happy for the fans you couldn't help but keep your sly smile "just wanted to check up on my favorite singer. It's such a coincidence I was just walking by and here you were" fluttering your eyes at her. she just muttered liar before turning her face away to you and towards the dark haired Sana boy counseling the blush that was over powering her makeup.
Just the thought of her facing him was irritating "Rumi look at me" pulling her hand away from her face tangling it into your's locking eyes "why do you care about him so much" voice laced with jealousy "that's none of your business" returning your eye contact the look of irritation plastered on her face. "What do you mean its none of my business were supposed to be friends rumi"
"Don't say that. Were not and will never be" tone harsh but fair you've never put in an effort to be friends "Rumi... Please just tell me that you aren't replacing me with them. That's all I want to know then I'll get out of your enormous hair" your was heart shattered you just needed that reinsurance to leave. Breaking eye contact at her silence then the following chuckles using her hand to lift your chin up "don't tell me your jealous" her teasing tone made you blush "am not!" Sound much louder than the whisper talk you were using "no one could replace you" hand leaving your chin wrapping itself into yours so you couldn't leave her side.
The whole time you were there she had a tight grip on your arm and the biggest smile any of her fans have ever seen it made you completely forget about the same boys because you were just so irreplaceable to her.
#k pop demon hunters rumi#rumi kdh#rumi x reader#rumi#rumi kpdh#rumi kpop demon hunters#kpop demon hunters#kpop#k pop demon hunters zoey#k pop demon hunters mira#k pop demon hunters#zoey kpdh#mira#mira kpdh#zoey
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STRAWBERRY CRUSHIN' ON YOU 𝜗𝜚 ࣪˖ sounds so sweet
(𝓐UTREMENT) — over the summer, you meet jungwon and his friends at the ice cream parlor you work at. recurring visits to the ice cream parlor and a performance at the summer festival bring you closer and eventually sparks are bound to fly.
天使ℳade :: summer!yang jungwon x fem!reader ⋆˚✿˖° 𝒆𝒔𝒕. (4.9k) (ℒ)lust. not proofread, reader has stage fright, kissing, skinship, slight angst, briar sucks at warnings so if u find anything else lmk in the comments
ᥫ᭡⊹ ࣪ ˖ (1) notification! i think i have burnout. anyways. outfit desc one and two. for k-films' 'k.i.s.s. soundtrack' summer event! go check out 'strawberry crush' by supast4r!! happy summer lovelies <3
💋 #reblog for kisses ☆゙ catalogue ˖°— 𝐕𝐎𝐋.𝐗𝐕
The gentle chime of the bells by the door fills the air as the door opens, signalling that a customer has entered.
You look up to see a group of boys around your age walk into the pretty, cheery, vibrant ice cream parlor.
"Welcome to Sundae Waves!" You chirp with a smile, a habit drilled into you from having worked at the parlor for almost a year. "What would you like today?"
One of the boys smiles back, and you swear your stomach does a backflip. "We'll let you know after looking over the options first," he says politely.
You nod and watch as the boys crowd over the display freezers, eyeing the assortment of ice cream, gelato, sorbet, and frozen yogurt.
Even though you swear your attention is divided between all of them equally, you can't deny that your eye is drawn specifically to a certain long-haired brunette in the group. The way he jokes, his mischievous comments, and the way his smile reaches his eyes, making them sparkle, all send you into awe, and you can't take your eyes off him.
Even as the seven boys all line up around the counter together and say their orders, your brain is only half-attentive: listen to the order, prepare it, give it, forget it.
However, time seems to slow down when the brunette that caught your eye tells you his order.
"I'd like a strawberry cone with chocolate sauce, please," he says coolly, flashing his dimples, although you can hear the subtle excitement laced in his words.
You nod, continuing like clockwork: grab the cone, scoop the ice cream, put it in the cone, grab the sauce bottle, drizzle it over the ice cream, wrap a paper towel around the cone, hold it out for the customer to take, and beam a smile. "Enjoy!"
"Thank you," the boy beams back (his happiness more evident this time) while one of his friends pays for all of their treats.
“Welcome to Sundae Waves!”
You look up with a smile to see the same boy you’ve been seeing every day for the past week.
“Hello,” he greets politely as he takes a seat on a bar chair near the counter.
“Strawberry cone with chocolate sauce, again?” You ask.
“Hmm, no. I think maybe two scoops of strawberry gelato, please.”
“Of course.” You nod. “I’m guessing strawberry is your favorite?” You add with a teasing edge.
“It’s just amazing,” he says, chuckling. You catch a hint of light red on the tips of his ears.
“I’m Jungwon,” he offers as you hand him his cup of gelato after gently stabbing a spoon into it. “What’s your name, ice cream girl?” He hands you a few bills that you put into the register after counting.
“It’s Y/n,” you reply, chuckling at the nickname he’s been using throughout the week. “I’m only telling you that so that you’ll stop calling me ‘ice cream girl’.”
“Nice to meet you, ice cream girl—I mean, Y/n,” he quickly corrects after seeing you narrow your eyes playfully at him. “I think I’ll have trouble dropping the nickname for you, though.”
He does drop it, contrary to his words.
Jungwon hums a tune as he sucks on a popsicle.
“You have a great voice,” you tell him.
You’re not wrong; you're not just saying it to flatter him. His voice sounds like a river of pure honey sliding down a cool mountain. He had the kind of vocal tone and control that could have landed him a job as a Grammy-winning singer.
“Thank you,” he murmurs. “I’m practicing for the musical showcase they’re holding at the beach for the summer festival.”
“Well, I’m sure you’ll do great with that voice.”
“Are you participating in the showcase?” Jungwon asks.
“No,” you say truthfully.
“Aw. It’s alright. Everyone has some kind of talent; it’s okay if yours isn’t music. I’m sure it’s something else amazing.”
“I don’t think so,” you scoff.
“I do,” he beams, shrugging.
Jungwon ransacks his duffel bag, his friends observing.
“Hey, do any of you guys have 5 bucks?” He asks, looking up at them before letting his eyes fall back down as he hunted for his wallet. “I think I left it at home.”
“Sure,” Jay offers, as if it’s no big deal. “Why, though?” He questions, giving Jungwon the 5 dollar bill.
“I just wanted to get some ice cream.”
“Oh, I’ll come with you,” Sunoo pipes up.
“No! You can’t!”
The six boys look at Jungwon in confusion over his sudden outburst.
“It’s just ice cream, dude,” Heeseung says carefully.
“I-I’ll get you guys some if you want,” Jungwon says quickly, trying to cover up for his mistake. “I just…want to go alone.”
“You���re going to see that girl who works there, aren’t you?” Jake chuckles.
“No,” Jungwon said sharply. But he couldn’t hide the way his entire face flushed red.
“Oh, look at that,” Sunghoon teases. “He is going to see her.”
“Okay, fine. I am,” Jungwon confesses with a huff. “I’m gonna head down, now.”
He turns around and stalks down the beach, sulking melodramatically
“Don’t take too long, hyung!” Riki calls out from behind.
“I’m so excited for the showcase.”
You chuckle. “I know, Jungwon,” you laugh. “You’ve been telling me every day.”
“Sorry,” he apologizes, shyly grinning. “My friends and I have been practicing every day. We’re just really pumped up.”
“Are you and your friends here on vacation over the summer?” You ask, stacking the dessert cups?” You ask.
“Uh…sorry, come again?”
You look over your shoulder to see Jungwon busy scraping every last bit of his ice cream from his cup.
“You and your friends? Are you guys just staying here over the summer?”
“No,” Jungwon says, straightening up to look at you. “We all moved here permanently. We’ll be going to Decelis High after summer, well, except for Heeseung hyung, he’ll be going to Decelis Uni.”
You nod in approval. “Decelis Uni is prestigious, it’s also only a 10-minute ride from here. I’m happy for him.”
“We all are,” Jungwon states proudly. “You go to Decelis High as well, right?”
“I do.” You nod in response. “I’m a sophomore. What about you?”
“I’m also a sophomore,” Jungwon replies, tossing the empty cup in the garbage can. “I bet we’ll have a bunch of classes together. What are the teachers like?”
“Depends on what classes you have.”
“Hmm, how about the math teacher? Them math teachers always the worst.”
“Oh, they are,” you agree. “But, we’re lucky. Mr. Kim is hilarious when it comes to his outbursts of anger; no one takes them seriously.”
“Alright then.” Jungwon nods. “Doesn’t sound that bad, I guess.”
“Don’t worry, Mr. Kim is an amazing math teacher.”
“I’m sure. Besides, I’m even more sure it won't be that mad if I have you with me in my classes.”
“Yeah,” you mumble, taken aback as your cheeks flushed red. You turned away, resigning to restacking the already neatly stacked ice cream cups so that Jungwon wouldn’t be able to see your flustered face.
You picked up the large tub of vanilla ice cream, kicking the door open as you sang one of your favorite songs loudly.
“Wow,” a familiar voice echoes through the parlor, a voice filled with awe.
You were entirely sure that the parlor was deserted. If you had known Jungwon was there, you wouldn’t have been doing it.
“Your talent is singing,” he gushes.
“It’s no big deal,” you try to laugh it off.
“No, really,” he insists. “You’re amazing.”
“How’s your performance coming along?” you ask, vainly attempting to divert the conversation onto him.
“It’s great. Seriously, did you take lessons as a child?”
You sigh, giving up. “No, I didn’t.”
“You should sign up for the showcase,” Jungwon urges, settling on his regular bar chair in front of you. “You’d probably win.”
“Then I probably shouldn’t. That would mean you guys wouldn’t win.”
“That doesn’t matter,” Jungwon states elatedly, his eyes practically sparkling. “We’d still have fun performing. That’s the whole point! You should sign up too, it’ll be fun watching each other perform.”
“Listen.” You spin towards Jungwon, letting out a heavy sigh. “I get you’re thrilled about the showcase, and I’m happy for you. But, I’m not joining the showcase, and that’s final.”
Jungwon looks away, disheartened. “I’m extremely sorry.”
“Thank you,” you say solemnly. “What do you want today?” you ask, turning towards the display freezers.
“Uhm, it’s alright,” Jungwon mutters. “I have to get going now. The others will probably be waiting for me.”
“Oh.” Your voice is filled with disappointment. Why? You didn’t understand. “Um, okay. Have a good day then.”
You watched as Jungwon got up and walked out, flashing you a somber smile, and leaving your heart to sink to the pit of your stomach.
You hadn’t seen Jungwon for a few days at the shop.
You look up from your cleaning.
The sun was bright outside, shining like it had never seen a tragedy before, and all it had was ecstasy in its life. The trees down the lane to the beach danced along to the wind’s melody.
You couldn’t say you felt the same, however. Ever since Jungwon walked out on you, it felt like a storm convulsed inside you, and you were drowning in it.
The bells by the door rang, and your head whipped up, eyes widening in the hope that it was Jungwon.
But it wasn’t Jungwon.
The shimmer of hope in your eyes died out.
“Welcome to Sundae Waves,” you recite, forcing a smile for the lady who stepped up to the counter. “What can I get you today?”
“Frozen yogurt,” she says, smiling. “Cookies ‘n’ cream, please. The medium cup.”
You nod, preparing the order purely from muscle memory as your mind drifts off to other thoughts, like it does regularly nowadays.
“Here’s your order,” you say monotonously, setting the bagged cup of ice cream on the counter for the woman to take. “Have a good day.”
You shambled down the beach, forgetting your thoughts as you solely focused on the cool feeling of the sand between your toes and the echoes of the waves crashing onto land.
Staring at the night sky, you didn’t realize there was something in front of you, causing you to trip and plummet towards the ground, landing face-first into the sand.
“I’m so sorry!” Someone cries as they help you sit up.
“It’s alright,” you mumble, attempting to dust off the sand from your face frantically.
Your brain slowly catches up. You process it was Jungwon’s leg that you tripped over, and Jungwon helped you up.
“What are you doing here?” you ask. “It’s late.”
“Back at you,” he retorts. “Or is it still noon from your perspective?”
You let out a half-hearted chuckle, shuffling to sit next to him.
For a while, neither of you speaks, simply letting the sound of the waves crashing wash over you two.
Finally, you decide to slice through the silence. “I’m sorry.”
A feeling of confusion emanates from Jungwon. “For what?” he questions.
“For snapping at you a few days ago.”
“It’s okay. You don’t have to apologize.”
“I do. It wasn’t okay for me to—”
“Stop.”
You pause instantly. Jungwon’s voice isn’t filled with the usual playful warmth it holds. Instead, it’s stern and serious.
“You don’t have to apologize,” Jungwon repeats. “It was my fault. Whether you want to participate in the musical showcase or not is your decision and not mine. You said you weren’t interested in participating, and it was wrong for me to try to coax you into joining when you made it clear you didn’t want to participate.”
He looks at you and then away. “You didn’t yell at me when I tried to force you to join. You told me calmly that you weren’t going to join, and that made me like you as a person a lot more. That was respectable.”
You look at your feet, tracing swirls in the sand with your fingers. Guilt overtakes you, and suddenly you feel awful for still having snapped at him a few days ago.
“How’s your performance coming along?” you ask, trying to change the subject and lighten the mood.
Your heart drops when you see Jungwon’s face fall. You had tried to improve the situation, but it seemed that you had worsened it.
“We hit a dead end,” Jungwon states curtly.
“What…What do you mean?” you urge.
“Heeseung lost his voice,” Jungwon explains. “The doctors said it’ll take around a week or two for him to get his voice back.
“Oh. So you won’t be able to perform?”
“No. Not unless we find a good enough replacement for him. But so far, that isn’t going well. We haven’t been able to find someone even though a whole bunch of people auditioned.”
You hesitate, carefully considering your next words.
“What about me?” you blurt.
“Huh?” Jungwon seems taken aback by the sudden offer.
“I don’t know if I’ll be a good fit for your harmonies,” you drabble. “But, I could try and audition? If it works, I’ll fill in for Heeseung at your performance.”
“But, you said that you weren’t going to perform.”
“I’ll do it,” you cut him off.
“No. I don’t want you to do something you made clear you didn’t want to do.”
You let out a heavy exhale. “I didn’t want to perform in the musical showcase because I have stage fright. But if I were to perform with other people, it’d be easier on me. Because it feels like less of the attention is on me and is more spread out.”
You laugh. “Besides, you guys are handsome. So I’m sure I won’t have a lot of attention on me.”
Jungwon shares a laugh with you, red dusting his cheeks at your compliment. “What about your job?”
“Today was my last day for the summer. I was covering for a fellow employee who was on holiday for a month. I only have to work again when school reopens and I have my part-time shifts once again.”
You look at him. “So I’ll be there tomorrow to audition at the beach.”
Jungwon gets caught off guard as Riki barrels into him.
“Riki!” he yelps, the two of them tumbling into the sand.
“Your girlfriend’s here!” Riki declares, panting.
“My girlfriend?” Jungwon echoes, confusion lining his furrowed eyebrows. “I don’t have one.”
“The girl from the ice cream shop!” Riki clarifies. “I just saw her ask someone where the auditions for Heeseung’s replacement were happening, and then she started heading down towards our way.”
Jungwon quickly scrambles up, Riki following in pursuit as he quickly tries to dust himself off and make himself presentable.
“Jake!” Jungwon grabs Jake’s arm, spinning the latter to face him. “How do I look? Do I look good?”
Jake eyes him up and down, the corners of his mouth lifting into a teasing smile. “You look great. Why? Is the girl from the ice cream shop here?”
“No,” Jungwon quickly lies, his red cheeks, however, gave it all away.
“She’s here to audition for Heeseung’s replacement!” Riki pipes up, completely blowing Jungwon’s cover.
“Riki!” Jungwon hisses.
“What?” Riki shrugs.
“You weren’t supposed to say that!”
“Oh, c’mon,” Sunghoon intercepts, breaking the two up before either of them could get another word in. “She’s coming to audition. We were all going to see her anyway. There’s no point in lying.”
You stand in the corner, having auditioned for Heeseung’s parts, glancing at the group of huddled boys far away from you. You ran a finger through the water, feeling the cool water calm you down.
You hoped it would be good news, after all, a few of the boys did seem to be in awe of your singing.
After a while, the huddle broke, and Jungwon and one of the other boys came up to you.
“Congrats!” The boy flashes you a confident grin as he shakes your hand. “You’re officially our new Heeseung!”
A confused look crosses your features before happiness highlights them as realization dawns upon you.
“Oh,” you breathe out. “I got in?”
“Yep,” Jungwon confirms. “Congrats, again.”
“I’m Jake,” the other boy introduces himself, continuing to flash you his charming grin. “Jungwon talks a lot about you.”
“Ah, he’s joking,” Jungwon quickly covers up. “Jake’s quite the tease.”
Jake just snickers at which Jungwon shoots him a whole-hearted glare that you miss.
“Come on, let’s go meet the others,” Jungwon guides, his hand instinctively taking yours as he leads you down. A tingle runs down your body, setting every nerve on fire as it passes. The fire reaches your cheeks, staining them red.
Jake is, however, oblivious to this exchange between you two and continues excitedly sauntering across the waves of sand towards the other boys.
“Meet ENHYPEN!” Jake announces as you two catch up.
“So,” Sunghoon cuts in with a casual tone laced with subtle seriousness. “I guess we should start practicing now,” he suggests.
You had now gotten acquainted with the boys, who were quite a friendly bunch.
You nod. “That’s a good idea, we should continue perfecting the performance. Jungwon has told me how much this performance means to all of you. It’d be awful if I messed it up for you,” you laugh.
“I’m sure you won’t,” Jay offers kindly. You can tell by his tone that he isn’t just saying to be kind, but is genuinely sincere about it, and it makes you feel more optimistic and less nervous about this whole venture.
“Thanks,” you reply. “But we should still practice so that I can get a better hang of everything.
Laughter fills the air as you and Jungwon walk down the dark street, cracking jokes at each other.
“Thank you,” you tell him. “For offering to walk me home.”
“Don’t say thank you,” Jungwon tells you. “It’s late out, I just wanted to make sure you get home safe. It’s the right thing to do.”
“Aww,” you croon, pouting. “You love me.”
Jungwon can’t hide the blood that rushes to his face. “No, I don’t,” he stammers.
“You love me,” you repeat singsongly, teasingly. “You wanna hug me, you wanna kiss me.”
Jungwon is quick to shut you up, your eyes widening as his lips press against yours. His plush lips moved across yours in devotion, each stroke painting unspoken words of endearment on your mouth, telling you how much he loves you, how much he wishes you were his.
His arm snakes around your waist, holding you close like he never wants to let you go, never say goodbye. It’s like he believes the second you pull away, you’ll vanish into thin air.
The kiss doesn’t last long; something snaps inside Jungwon, and he abruptly pulls away. It feels like you’ve lost something monumental when his arm unwraps from around your waist.
His eyes are filled with remorse when they meet your perplexed gaze.
“I’m sorry,” he whispers, averting his gaze and continuing up the path.
Those two words established an invisible metre-thick brick wall between you two. And it’s one you don’t know how to pass.
You adjust your pink and orange halter top, leaning into the mirror to double-check if your makeup is alright. Your denim shorts, slides, and the sunglasses perched on your carefully curled hair complete the look.
“Hey.” You spin around to see Sunoo standing by the edge of the backstage area, smiling infectiously. “It’s almost time to go out there. We’re next!”
“Coming,” you assure him.
“Alright! I’ll tell the others.”
You chuckle, watching him disappear into the small huddle of boys. Taking one last look at yourself in the mirror, you head towards the others.
You peek out onto the stage, watching the band before you perform. The crowd is as enthusiastic as ever, and their energy doesn’t seem to diminish despite the hot sun beating down on them.
You snap out of your trance as Jay pats your shoulder.
“The stage is ours, now,” he informs, smiling, before heading up the stage.
You inhale deeply, trying to push away any negative thoughts your brain tries to implant in you.
“You can do it.”
“Huh?” You look over your shoulder, startled.
“You can do it,” Jungwon repeats. “Don’t be scared. We’re in this together. Just think of the crowd as a large cluster of potatoes.”
You let out a chortle. “Potatoes?” you echo.
“Yeah.” He mirrors your smile, knowing how absurd it sounds. “I know it sounds stupid, but it works. If it doesn’t work, just pretend all the attention is on us.”
You nod. “Thanks,” you pause for a second. “Really.”
He just gives you a monotonous nod in response, heading up on stage as Jay finishes tuning his guitar. You follow suit, taking your place behind one of the mics.
Think of them as potatoes.
The boys rush off the stage, cheering.
You follow behind, happiness bubbling inside you.
The performance had gone well. You had felt nervous at first, almost freezing up. But you ended up forgetting yourself to the music as Jay started strumming. Once you started singing, you felt yourself flow along with the notes of the music and the words of the lyrics.
“You were great, Y/n!” Sunoo squeals, hugging you.
“Thank you!” you beam back. “You guys were all amazing as well! And that song was as well! You guys are amazing at this!”
“Aww, you’re too sweet!” Sunoo replies, grinning so widely you thought he was going to burst into rays of sunshine.
The other boys crowd around, and eventually, you forget the invisible tick-tock of time as you converse with them.
Eventually, the judges announced the winner of the summer musical showcase: ENHYPEN!
All of you rushed back onto the stage, hollering in ecstasy as you received the award.
Afterwards, you disperse to pack your bags, deciding to head down to a restaurant for lunch to celebrate.
Packing doesn’t take you long. You don’t like lugging around a lot of stuff, so your bag is quite small. Besides, you had barely taken anything out of it, so it didn’t need repacking.
Slinging your bag over your shoulder, you hesitantly head toward Jungwon, making up your mind to talk about the kiss you shared a week ago.
“Hey, Jungwon.”
Jungwon twirls around to see you standing behind him.
“I wanted to talk about—”
“There’s nothing to talk about,” Jungwon cuts you off bluntly, returning to packing his bag. “What happened between us last week at night. It…” Jungwon trails off, like saying the next words were equivalent to prying his heart out of his ribcage with no anesthesia. “...it was nothing.”
Jungwon shoulders past you, leaving you astounded and hurt.
Jake watched Jungwon stare into the never-ending expanse of the ice cream parlor’s walls, repeatedly stabbing his melted ice cream with his spoon absent-mindedly.
“Y’know what? That’s enough,” Jake cuts through the silence, which causes Jungwon to jostle back into reality.
“What’s enough?” Jungwon asks tentatively.
“This.” Jake simply points at Jungwon, briefly at a loss for words to explain Jungwon’s recent demeanor. “You’re about as exciting as watching wet paint dry. What’s wrong?”
“Nothing’s wrong,” Jungwon lies.
“No,” Jake drawls in his famous Australian accent. “Time to spill what’s wrong.”
“It’s noth—”
“What’s wrong?”
“No, really, it’s no—”
“What’s wrong?”
“You’re not going to let me be until I tell you what’s wrong, are you?”
“No.”
“Fine, I’ll tell you.”
Jake brightens up at Jungwon’s words, straightening up and adjusting himself on the bar chair as Jungwon sighs in exasperation.
“It’s about Y/n,” Jungwon states simply.
“Okay, and,” Jake coaxes. “Normalize context, please.”
“The night after our first practice together, I walked her home because it was late, and then we…kissed.”
“I knew it!” Jake exclaims, almost toppling over in excitement. “I knew something went on between you two.”
“Yeah, but…” Jungwon pauses, a perplexed look closing his eyes as he looks down at the melted strawberry slush of strawberry ice cream in his cup. “...I don’t know what we are. I don’t know if she likes me back. She asked to talk when our performance finished, and I just walked away from her after telling her there was nothing between us. I don’t even know if she’d want to give me a chance after I did that.”
“Then, the sooner you talk to her, the better. Don’t let it fester and give it a chance to go rotten. Go and fix things before her mind gets a chance to decide she doesn’t want you. Trust me when I tell you that she likes you back. We’ve all seen the way you two look at each other. So go before she gets a chance to change her mind.”
Jungwon ponders over the idea for a split second before grabbing his jacket and running out of the store. “Thanks, Jake,” he yells over his shoulder, running off in high spirits.
“Hey! Wait!” Jake looks frantic. “You were gonna pay for the ice cream?”
You yelp in surprise as someone almost barrels into you, the saltwater of the sea splashing all over you as they crash into the water instead.
“What the hell?” You quip.
“Y/n!”
“Jungwon?” You look at Jungwon, dripping wet and out of breath.“What happened?”
“Y/n, I’m sorry. We need to talk, please.”
You reluctantly nod, seeing the desperation in his eyes. “What’s up?”
“The kiss,” he says bluntly. “I’m sorry. I know I said there was nothing between us. But I was scared of you rejecting me. I decided it was better for me to push you away than face you saying ‘no’ to me. The truth is that I really like you, Y/n L/n. I kissed you because I liked you. And I still like you. I’m sorry for pushing you away when you asked to talk. Really sorry. And I want to show you how much I care about you. So, please, will you go out with me?”
You recoil, taken aback by the sudden confession. “Jungwon, I—”
“Please, give me a chance! I’ll fix it. I promise I will. Just…one chance. Please, don’t say no.”
“Jungwon, wait!” you say, grabbing his shoulder to help steady him. “I was hurt when you pushed me away. But I get where you come from. I’m scared of rejection as well. Therefore, I’ll give you a chance to redeem yourself.”
“Thank you,” Jungwon gasps, a smile blooming on his face. “I’ll text you the details?’
“Sure.”
You finish fixing your gray chunky knit cardigan over the white crop top you donned. It's paired with light blue, wide-leg jeans, a cream-colored baguette-style shoulder bag, and white and beige sneakers. A delicate necklace with small star-shaped pendants from your grandma completes the look.
As you pick up your phone to text Jungwon about where he is, your mom knocks on your bedroom door.
“Y/n, your date is here.”
“Thank you, Mom,” you tell her, practically flying down the stairs as you rush to greet Jungwon.
When you reach the door, you’re greeted with the sight of Jungwon in an oversized chunky knit sweater in a navy blue shade, paired with matching beige cargo-style pants with practical pockets, and black Converse on his feet. On his face is the most dazzling smile he has given you to this day, and in his hands are a bouquet of your favorite flowers and a basket of strawberries.
You giggle seeing the strawberries. “What are the strawberries for?”
“It’s to symbolize how our love started, by me buying strawberry desserts at Sundae Waves every day. Also, it symbolizes my love for you because it’s as sweet as these strawberries are.”
You burst into a fit of laughter at that. “Jungwon, that’s so stupid. But you’re lucky it makes me fall harder for you. I love your stupid thoughts, they’re so sweet.”
You let Jungwon pull you towards him as your mom takes the flowers and basket of strawberries inside, leaving you two alone.
“Can I kiss you?” he asks, rubbing circles over your knuckles.
You respond. But instead of using words, you use your actions to respond. Leaning up, you press your lips together, letting out a hum to appreciate the way his breath hitches at the feeling of your plush lips against his.
Jungwon’s hand slides to your hip, rubbing deep circles, easing you into his touch as he tilts his head to deepen the kiss. You pull away when he tugs at your lower lip with his teeth, afraid of things getting more serious right now while you were out in the open. You were going to save those moments for when you two were alone.
“Your lips taste like strawberries,” Jungwon remarks, still dazed by the kiss, cheeks flushed and eyes cloudy with adoration.
“I know how much you like strawberries,” you hum, pecking his cheek. “So, I thought I’d use that to my advantage to woo you.”
“Sneaky,” he chuckles, licking his lips. “But I think I like it.”
“So, where are we going on our date?”
“It’s a surprise,” Jungwon says, leading you down the street, fingers entwined in your own.
------ᝰ‧₊ taglist open — nets! @k-films — ©amatariki 2k25
@chrrific @lezleeferguson-120 @koiiqqqq @ikeu05 @maewphoria
#ᝰ‧₊ 𝓐𝘮𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘥𝘦 𝘮𝘢 𝘷𝘪𝘦#k films#🐚 k.i.s.s. soundtrack#enhypen#enhypen fics#enhypen x reader#kpop fanfic#enha imagines#enha x reader#enha scenarios#enhypen scenarios#enha#enha soft thoughts#enha soft hours#enhypen fanfiction#enhypen imagines#enha fics#enhypen drabbles#enhypen jungwon#jungwon enha#yang jungwon#jungwon x reader#jungwon yang#jungwon enhypen#enha jungwon#jungwon fluff#jungwon fanfic#yang jungwon x reader#jungwon soft thoughts#jungwon soft hours
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River of Sorrows
wc: 1.4k | cw: talk of child neglect/abandonment | pre- steddie
Also on Ao3
The first time it happened, Eddie wasn't paying attention to much aside form his own thoughts. He was walking down to the drama club for Hellfire, making his way through the mostly empty halls of Hawkins High.
The laughter didn't break through his thoughts quick enough to have him prepared. Before he knew it, there was weight against his chest that nearly had him falling on his ass. His eyes, widened in confusion and shock, cleared until he could see a group of jocks looking smug.
Just as the bruising pain on his sternum reared up, there was a flash of honey brown hair. Eddie realized that, for a few seconds, he had an armful of something. Steve Harrington was now in his sight, holding his nose tenderly. A look of pain was visible on the other male, and a streak of deep red could be seen when Harrington pulled his hand away from his face.
From what Eddie could tell, his nose wasn't broken, but it was absolutely throwing a tantrum from coming in contact with the center of Eddie's chest. The metalhead rubbed at the sore spot that ranged from between his pectorals up to his clavicle, trying to ease the ache.
"Oh, great. Gonna run off to Higgins and blame me for the bloody nose now, Harrington?"
When the younger male looked up at Eddie, hand still cupped in the air, a different type of hurt washed over his eyes.
"No.."
The way Harrington had said that two-lettered word just didn't sit right with Eddie. Maybe he was imagining things, but it almost sounded defeated. Definitely nasally, though, due to the fact that there was blood clogging the passages. Eddie rolled his eyes at the entire situation.
"Whatever, man. Just watch where you're going."
Eddie sidestepped the group of jocks, not giving them active attention. He kept his guard up as they passed by in his periphery though. Before he could even make it a full step past the group, their laughter started up again, this time louder than before.
"Damn, Harrington. Not even King Freak wants you and he's known for taking in little outcasts like you."
Eddie slowed down, blinking in quick succession as he processed the words. Of course Eddie had known about the downfall of Steve, everyone did. Even with that knowledge tucked away, Eddie hadn't thought of the possibility that the jocks were harassing Harrington.
The older male looked over his shoulder to see Harrington shrug, and reach down to scoop up his bag. He flashed the group a cocky smirk, but it looked wrong to Eddie. It looked nothing like the one King Steve used to wear.
"That's alright. I'm better off alone anyways."
The jocks all looked at each other as Harrington walked off towards the exit, and Eddie ducked into the bathroom. He'd rather not get caught eavesdropping, because he was certain that the assholes wouldn't let him off now that their other target had left. Still, Eddie left a small slit between the door and the frame, peeking out to watch the coast clear.
Once the group had rounded the corner to head towards the gym, Eddie rushed out of the bathroom and back to where the incident had happened. He was ready to barge through the school doors to catch up to Harrington, but he found him talking to the nurse instead.
"Really, I'm fine, Mrs. Tanner. I just tripped walking up to my locker."
"Well, at least come with me to get cleaned up. I don't want your parents to worry."
"It'll be alright. I'll just tell them what happened and we'll laugh about it. No big deal."
Eddie considered those words, letting them convince him as they seemed to be convincing the nurse. Mrs. Tanner let the younger male go, and Eddie decided he should really get to Hellfire before the others riot.
The second time it happened, Eddie wasn't in the line of fire. But he was close enough to help out. It was the same group as last time, Eddie could tell that just by the laughter. He just wasn't conscious of the fact that their target was the same. All Eddie saw was someone getting shoved in the space next to him. Instinctually, Eddie reached out and caught them from face planting on the hard floor.
"Woah there."
"M'fine," was muttered as Steve pushed away gently, "I don't need help.."
This time, Harrington sounded like he had a bit of fire in him. Eddie watched, bewildered as the younger male merely strode off. He was ready to leave it at that, but of course the asshole jocks had to tack on something harmful.
"Aww, look. Harrington's going to cry to his mommy."
Steve had turned around and gave the leader of the group a confused look. He opened his mouth to say something, but was never given the chance.
"Oh, right. She's never home is she, Harrington."
"Yeah, just like everyone else around, she doesn't want you."
The group walked off after that, laughing and high-fiving like they'd just won the lottery or something. He looked back to where Steve was standing, only to find that the male had already made it to the doors. Eddie watched as a hand lifted up to Harrington's face and wiped harshly just before he slammed the push bar of the door.
He was running before he even thought about it. Panting a little, Eddie called out to the ex-jock.
"Harrington, wait."
Honestly, Eddie was a little surprised that the other male had listened. He didn't turn to face Eddie, but he did stop.
"Come hang out with Hellfire."
He watched as Steve tensed up and wondered how he managed to fuck up a simple invitation.
"I don't want or need your pity, Munson."
The words were spit out like venom, landing between them and causing Eddie to shake his head. He hadn't even thought about pitying Steve, and he absolutely hadn't meant for it to come off that way.
"It's not out of pity, it's out of worry. I know for a fact that you could stand up to them if you really wanted. I'm worried about why you haven't."
"Thanks for the offer, but I'm fine."
Eddie made his way to standing in front of Steve, and was able to catch sight of the glimmering tears welled up, threatening to become a waterfall. Again without thinking, Eddie reacted. He pulled Steve into his arms and wrapped him in a hug.
The moment they connected and Steve's face was in the crook of his neck, Eddie heard the younger’s breath hitch. His body tensed again and for a moment, Steve tried to push away. It wasn't enough of a struggle for Eddie to let go, because quickly after he had felt Steve melt into the embrace and wrap his own arms around Eddie.
A broken sob had both of them tightening their hold on each other. Soon enough, Eddie could feel wetness against his skin and he had a shaking boy in his arms. Not wanting anyone to ruin this moment that Steve clearly needed, Eddie brought him to the back of his van. Once they were hidden safely behind the doors of it, he opened his arms up for Steve again.
That's how he ended up with a lapful of Harrington, clinging to him and crying into his neck. Eddie didn't make any sounds, but he rocked them from side to side softly and rubbed at Steve's back. However, when the doors to the back of his van opened up and caused Steve to tense and try to flee, Eddie held him close and shushed him softly.
"Give us a minute, boys. We'll be in the drama room in a bit."
All three of his friends nodded, but Jeff was the only one to find his voice.
"Yeah, okay. Hope everything's alright."
Jeff closed the doors back and Eddie turned his attention back to Steve. He went quiet, but Eddie could tell that he was still crying. He was still shaking a little, and overall seemed to be calming down quite a bit.
"Whenever you're ready, Steve-o."
It only took another minute or two before Steve was fully calm. There were still a few sniffles leaving the other, but he had gone still and a bit more lax. When he moved from Eddie's lap, he rubbed at his face then picked at the hem of his shirt.
"Ready to meet Hellfire?"
Steve met his eyes, studied him for a moment, then Eddie saw the beautiful little tick of his lips. It wasn't a full smile, but it was enough to have Eddie grinning back. The two made their way back through the halls of the school, and settled in for a few hours of D&D.
I needed this, so I wrote. I cried with Steve fr, trying to figure this out scene by scene.
Taglist (Open):
@wheneverfeasible
#eddie munson#steve harrington#steddie#steve really needed that#eddie was a little slow on the uptake but we still love him#he does his best#fics
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hi hi can u write about y/n and gi hun going to a pool or maybe a waterpark!!💕
(I miss my Pookie Gi hun)
Splish Splash

Character: Seong Gi Hun x Fem!reader
Summary: Waterpark with Gi hun!
Warnings: None that I can think of
You could hear the excited screams of children and the rush of water before you even stepped inside the gates. The waterpark smelled like sunscreen and fried food, and the sunlight shimmered off every surface. Gi-hun was beside you, his grin stretching almost too wide, like a kid about to win the lottery.
"Last time I was at a place like this, I got kicked out for cutting in line for the lazy river," he said proudly, adjusting the comically large beach bag he'd insisted on carrying.
You gave him a look. "How old were you?"
"...Thirty-two."
You both burst into laughter as you made your way to the lockers, already dripping from the mist sprays lining the entrance.
---He was in bright red swim trunks with a matching towel slung over his shoulder, hair still damp from the rinse station. You wore your favorite swimsuit—one that Gi-hun hadn’t stopped complimenting since he laid eyes on it.
“You're gonna break hearts today,” he teased, nudging your side with his elbow. “Good thing you’re already taken.”
“Oh, am I?” you said, raising a brow.
Gi-hun leaned in close, his voice dropping as he murmured against your cheek, “You better be.” Then he kissed you. Sweet, slow, like you had all day. Which, thankfully, you did.
---You dragged him to every water slide, even the ones that made his legs wobble at the top.
“I’m not afraid,” he insisted. “I just respect gravity. And... mortality.”
But he still held your hand down every drop, screaming like a banshee and laughing hysterically at the bottom. You ended up clinging to each other in the splash pool, faces close, soaking wet and breathless.
“Still alive,” you whispered smugly.
Gi-hun grinned, cupping your face and kissing you again. This time, longer. Deeper. He didn't even care about the lifeguard awkwardly clearing his throat nearby.
---Later, he bought you ice cream that immediately started melting down your wrist, and you tried not to laugh as he scrambled to lick it off before it could drip onto the concrete.
“What?” he said, mid-lick. “I’m helping!”
“Gi-hun, that’s my arm!”
“And I am your boyfriend. It’s in the job description.”
---You ended up sprawled on a double float in the lazy river, drifting slowly, your legs tangled with his and your head on his chest. His fingers traced idle shapes on your thigh, lips brushing your temple every few minutes like he just couldn’t help himself.
“We should do this every summer,” he murmured.
“You planning to stick around that long?”
He tilted his head down to look at you. “Y/N. I’m planning to stick around forever.l”
You smiled, and he kissed you again—soft, sun-warm, and so full of love it made your chest ache...Then he pushed you off the float and you got soaked.
#squid game season 2#squid game imagines#squid game#player 120#hyun ju squid game#cho hyun ju#squid game netflix#squid game x y/n#squid game headcanons#squid game 2#squid game fanart#squid game spoilers#squid game 3#the frontman#squid game art#hwang in ho#gi hun squid game#gi hun x in ho#gi hun#gi hun x reader#player 456#front man#gi hun x frontman#in ho
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"Is that not his choice though?" Uriel replied, tilting his head at Lucid. It was a fair thing to point out, he honestly thought that it was up to Michael if he wanted to do that or not. If their elder brother had truly been against the idea of teaching Lucid the power of creation, he would have just said so. And unfortunately, aside from Lucifer himself? Michael was the only other Archangel with the power of creation. He was Lucid's only option, since they certainly weren't going to allow him down into Hell to take lessons from the literal devil.
"Besides, according to Michael himself? The only way for you to get home is to be able to control your own magic. On top of that, the next time this happens? If you don't have control? You could put yourself in a much more dangerous situation." For example, he could have dropped himself in Hell, in the middle of the River of Lava, with no way of getting himself out. He would have, worst case scenario, simply perished.
Which isn't what any of them wanted and was part of Michael's argument for Lucid needing to learn control over himself.
"Also, and I don't mean for this to upset you." Uriel leaned back in his chair and lowered his hands into his lap. He held Lucid's gaze when he spoke this time, ensuring that his point was gotten across. "There is the very real reality that an uncontrolled angel, no matter the kind, is an incredibly dangerous angel. Not having control over yourself makes you practically a ticking time bomb. The one moment you screw up to bad? You could become a danger to yourself and everyone around you. You could have hurt many people with that little display in the middle of Heaven. Do you actually understand that? You could have destroyed all of our Heaven if it simply didn't just pop you out."
Which was why Michael had been so upset. While it was good that nothing actually happened? There was the reality that something could have. And that was what had worried their brother so much. To Michael, Lucid was a reckless untrained angel who needed to learn both control and discipline before they allowed him to attempt to go home. It wasn't unreasonable for Michael to want that either. Just as Lucid should want to learn that control so that he doesn't hurt other people. It was in an angels base nature to be protective, Uriel knows he doesn't want to be an uncontrolled wild ticking bomb just waiting for the wrong moment to go off.
Uriel leaned forward again and lowered his voice a bit, attempting to seem as comforting as possible. The last thing he wanted was to make Lucid uncomfortable or feel like he was attacking him. He knows that's not fair to him.
"The only thing you should truly want in your current state? Is to learn control. If someone is willing to teach you? You should jump at the opportunity to. Michael is hard to work with, he's a very difficult person to understand and he won't hold your hand or baby you." A light shrug, they've all dealt with this throughout their entire lives. Their brother was the hardest teacher when it came to training them. He had high expectations and he held them accountable for every single mistake they made. But he was even harder on himself. Michael never expected anything from them that he wouldn't expect from himself. And he would teach Lucid the same exact way.
"But I am telling you, that by the time you do leave here? You will know every single inch of your magic and how to control it. Because Michael won't let you fail, and he won't let you out of here until your not a danger to yourself and everyone around you. And that's either a positive or a negative, depending on how you look at it."
Uriel leaned back and pushed his chair away from the table, standing up and collecting the box of cookies from the desk. "Until then, you at least have a home here. Even if it is partly a prison too I suppose." It wasn't as if Michael was going to let Lucid leave here. But he had a roof over his house and people who would treat him kindly.
Uriel’s first question about his world made the angel sit up a little straighter, his laid back nature subtly becoming more tense. It was not that Lucid was surprised or not expecting such a question to arise eventually, oh nonono. In any Heavenly world, surely the topic of Lucifer would be brought up. His blue hues focused on the broken cookie in Uriel’s hand, understanding the representation and how Michael, Lucifer’s twin, was now no longer truly whole. Who would not be damaged with permanent scars upon their soul from such a traumatic loss?
It was the part that he would frighten Michael like Zadkiel that took him aback. His gaze flicked between the two archangels, listening attentively as to how one’s view of their eldest brother was interpreted as spite towards himself, and the other explaining that it was because the younger was just like Lucifer.” Lucid felt an ache in his heart for Zadkiel. He too could relate to believing his own Michael despised him. Oh it was no question with his own twin however. There was a level of malice in that angel, an ancient rage that recognized the source that sparked it now residing within Lucid.
“…So I am not just a danger physically to your Heaven with my unchecked powers…but…potentially a threat to Michael’s mental state.” Musing aloud, just above a whisper, Lucid cast his gaze downward at his mug of half drunken cocoa. Somehow it felt cold now to him, the warmth sapped away as his own temperature rose with stress. After a several tense seconds, he replied. “Yes. The Lucifer and Michael of my world are also twins. Crafted from the same stardust and star. And like this world, Lucifer was cast from Heaven for his actions and Pride by my Michael. And for a very long time, it remained as Michael the soul half of that star.”
Now Lucid had reached an impasse, a fork in the metaphorical road. All that was asked was if his Michael and Lucifer were twins. He owned no other answers, nothing about what happened after or how he himself came to possess the ability to create. It was then that the borage of haunting warnings flooded back to him. How he was never to interact with the Winner’s, for if they saw his face they may see the Devil. That he was limited to what abilities he was deemed allowed to use and the ones he was forbidden from. How he was reminded time and again that he was created to fill the empty seat left by the fallen traitor, but was equally at risk of meeting the same fate. The warnings to never become like Lucifer and keep the dreams to remain only dreams and illusions. Anything more, he risked serious discipline or even punishment depending on the severity of his disobedience.
Frozen in place, staring blankly into the cup he’s begun to clutch tighter to where his knuckles turned white, the sound of ceramic clinking the countertop as his hands began to shake drawing him out of the state at last. He released his hold on the mug, drawing his hands back into his lap and fidgeting. “…Michael should not teach me Creation Magic. Just because I have the gift, it doesn’t mean I should use it. Ever. I mustn’t. I’m not…I’m not supposed to use it beyond illusions and dreams. And coming here from m-my own world has clearly demonstrated that it is too dangerous for me to ever dabble with again and I promise I won’t use it.” Tension weighted itself upon his chest, like his soul was returning to the gilded cage that he’d forced his way out of. No, he had to subdue these curiosities, these dangerous yearnings. Eyes closed shut, all Lucid could see and hear was his own twin. His Brother’s Keeper. The half that existed not to compliment their opposites, but instead suppress it.
Outwardly, the seraphim trembled lightly in his seat, the halo above his head humming with an anxious pitch. Like the dream realm where he conducts and creates to whisk the subconsciousness away, the angel began to disappear within himself and clam up. The less he said and did, the less trouble we would bring to any and all around him. He’d do what Lucifer couldn’t: accept the limits and obey what was commanded of him.
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can you please do, mute reader get upset with matt over something and she runs back to her horrible dad? and take your time please.



── GRUMPY MATT X MUTE READER ⋆˚࿔
WARNINGS: yelling, her dad is really really mean, insults, aggressive behaviour, alcoholic parent.
wc: 500
Omg this is evil but this is based after THIS fic where she saw another girl in matts bed, this is what happened when she came home..
She slammed open the front door to meet her father’s accusatory stare.
Dotty gently closed it behind her, turning back around and making a mental note of the lack of sympathy from him despite the free flowing tears running down her face. She wiped them away and closed in on herself, refusing to show weakness as much as she could.
“The fucks wrong with you?” he spat out before taking a sip off his drink.
She sped over to the fridge’s whiteboard, knowing she couldnt escape the question and simultaneously her fathers attention span didnt last long before he just got purely angry.
He rolled his eyes and muttered something calling her a baby for not simply speaking, snatching the board away the second she was finished. He let out a cold and heartless laugh, looking to watch as the life completely drained from her face.
“Well why wouldnt he sleep with someone?” he scoffed.
Dotty shrugged, eyes wide but staring off into space - anywhere but her fathers face.
“She wasnt ugly was she?”
She shook her head, beginning to fiddle with her hands.
He laughed yet again, halting only to step closer to dotty. Each step sent a horrified rush up her spine, praying for the conversation to be over, knowing it was reaching a place she couldnt go back on. He got close enough that she couldnt escape the smell of alcohol on his breath.
“You listen to me, okay? Hed never fucking pick you.”
He let out a few drops of spit as he spoke with aggression, dotty scrunched her eyes from anxiety and fear, body shaking in the overwhelming urge to run but a lack of ability to actually to do so.
“You think youre better than her?”
She rapidly shook her head in disagreement.
“Thats because youre fucking not. Youre fucking nothing. And he sees that too.”
“Dad.” a voice warned from the hallway, dotty couldnt strain herself to look over but she knew it was bonnie.
“What are you? Her fucking mother?” he shifted his head towards her, maintaining eye contact as he took large gulps from his drink.
He finally stepped away, walking stiffly towards the lounge.
Bonnie practically sprinted over to dotty, hand on her shoulder as she let out a multitude of comforting phrases from the guilt of not being there in time. Dotty could barely break out of her frozen state, knees quivering as she fell to the floor and let out a broken sob. She clamped her hand over her mouth, her brain flooding with thoughts that maybe her dad was right.
Her sister cradled her in her arms, stroking her cheek as dotty let out rivers of tears.
a/n DOTTY GET BEHIND ME ILL KILL HIM
#micouk#sturniolo triplets#the sturniolo triplets#writers on tumblr#matt sturniolo#mute reader multiverse#mute reader special#mute reader#grumpy x sunshine#grumpy matt#matt sturniolo fanfic#sturniolo angst#matt sturniolo angst#angst#matt sturniolo x reader#matt x reader#matt sturniolo blurb#matt sturniolo fanfiction#writing marathon#matt sturniolo fluff#matt sturniolo imagine#matt sturniolo x you#matthew bernard sturniolo#matthew sturniolo#matthew sturniolo x reader#matthew sturniolo x you#mattsturniolo#sturniolo triplets fanfic#fanfic#fanfiction
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Here‘s your prompt: fireflies 😏
keeping things going in this little fantasy au. apologies for 2k ramblings of Buck + fireflies + a smidge of worldbuilding + familiar faces.. ✨👀✨
It had been early eve in somer back a few months.
Buck had wandered out to the wood's edge at the time the trees themselves faded into shadow.
Fireflies, the locals called them.
Buck had seen them before in his travels. He knew them by many names: candleflies, lanternflies, flamebeetles, flying glowworms.
The villagefolk variably described them as tiny floating balls of flame and fallen stars on wings. But they are learned folk and know them to be insects that glow with the seeming brightness of stars or flecks of flame, though their color more closely resembles the new growth of spring, but much like the shrooms that hold light in the dark of night.
Bobby, the village sage who had once been a traveller himself, had led Buck on a late eve walk along the wood’s outermost riverbank many moons ago when the moon itself was not bright enough to show the trail. The shrooms glowed like the moon but tinctured green like the vials of poison Buck remembers from his parents’ cellar.
When consumed they can be poison, Bobby told him. But when left to grow they can light the way for us, and for others, on nights when the moon is dark.
Buck hadn't asked who those others were, but as time went on and he settled in the village, he learned most of them believed in creatures other than humans and known animals. They believed in magicfolk, and there were many tales shared but none had proof of their encounters beyond words and song.
Buck didn't need proof. He'd seen enough on his winding journey from his birthtown to here.
But he'd never seen fireflies like this.
In his memory, their glow was golden. And they bumbled through the air like night bees. They would blink into his vision and dance around each other and then blink out again.
These fireflies were different.
As he neared the riverbank, glowing flecks of blue faded into being, floating and seeming to meld into each other before pulling away. They moved fast but their light moved slow, leaving streaks of blue trailing behind and between as they flitted idly in and out of the undergrowth on the other side of the river.
To Buck's eyes, the patterns they made in the air looked as lightning in the sky.
From her studies, May had mentioned a magicfolk counterpart of fireflies called lightning bugs: their light was said to be blue not green, their movements fast as lightning, while their light lingered slower in streaks through the air - as lightning does split the sky - though without the presence of thunder.
When Buck told his friends he was venturing out to see the fireflies for the first time they tried to dissuade him with assurances it was still too early in the season for them, that he needed to wait for the first dark moon. Maybe they were right, because he didn’t find their green fireflies. But in their place, on a clouded night, he found lightning bugs with their blue-magic glow and surreal flight abilities. The blue specks descended down from the treetops to linger below the branches before blurring and streaking their light through the cloud-dark night.
It’s hard to describe, but they felt magic as he watched the blue streaks grow and multiple as more blue dots joined the patterning. He watched and wondered about all May had told him: they were akin to fireflies from another realm breaking through the veil between worlds. They were thought to be harbingers of luck, though it could not be said whether it was good luck or bad.
Buck felt.. seen. Inspected, and not found lacking. He felt like a curious creature was surveying him and he didn’t know whether he wanted to lay himself bare or sink beneath the surface of the river so it could hide all his flaws and ugliness. Either way, he wanted more time with the lightning bugs..
..but he had not glimpsed them long before he seemed to fall into slumber and awake on the riverbank empty of blue light. Perhaps he dreamed it. He had been working hard in the fields and in the kitchens, wherever he was needed. There had been something oddly familiar in their presence, as though they knew him and he felt safe with them.
May and Karen had asked him many questions, and his friends listened as he spoke, but there was nothing to say it was not merely a dream. So Buck returned to the woods the next night, only to find it bare. And bare for near another two weeks before he glimpsed his first green fireflies. No luck, good or bad, had found him in those weeks.
This night, Buck stands on the riverbank alongside Chris and Eddie, May but not Harry, and Karen with her two young children. They watch the fireflies blink in and out of the underbrush, pretty as they amble a dancing bumbling trail around each other.
“Why do they glow?” Mara asks, ever curious.
“They may be speaking with each other,” Karen tells her. “As birds who sing to each other.” She opens up her satchel and passes around some small jars to each of the children. “The whole truth may only ever be known to them.”
“Why are we putting them in jars?” asks Denny, his hesitation evident in his voice.
“For the season ahead,” Karen says calmly. “On this last eve of somer, we invite the fireflies to help light our way for the harvest season.”
Buck watches on as the bumbling green dots carry on unbothered by their presence, casting a soft verdant glow over the riparian around them. He had once asked how the fireflies gained their name if their light was green. Hen and Chim had chosen that moment to throw a large log on the open fire they were gathered around causing the yellow-orange flames to spark and flare– and shift hue into a luminous green.
Bobby had explained it was tradition to burn greenwood on the first eve of lent once it had grown enough mos that it would burn from dusk to dawn. The burning helped encourage good ploughing and sewing of the fields that followed, and mos was sprinkled into every fire for all of lent to aid in the growth of their crops. Buck didn’t know quite what that had to do with the fireflies appearing in somer after the greenwood had stopped growing and thus being burned, but his face must have shown confusion because Hen added that their full name was mos fireflies but everyone around here shortened it.
Karen ushers the children down to the river’s edge, May helping Chris since adults are not allowed to partake beyond the crest of the bank. Even Karen, as the village biomancer and inventor and wife of a healer, could not interfere in the inviting of the fireflies. She said only youngfolk could invite them in, and only if they believed it good.
Buck didn’t believe it good, he believed it cruel - even when Karen informed him that the fireflies were kept only for one eve before being released back into the woods, where they retreat for the cool seasons ahead.
“Is Chris okay?” Buck asks Eddie once Karen and the children are far enough away. “He’s been talking about this for weeks but he’s been quiet since we left the village.”
“Yeah. I think he misses his mother. She left around this time a few years ago.”
“Oh. I’m sorry.”
“Me too. Kids don’t deserve to be weighed down by sadness.”
Buck nods, remembering his own sadness as a child and glad this village encourages the children learn together rather than pit them against each other.
Karen instructs the children and Buck and Eddie watch as they lift their open jars out in front of themselves over the water. For a moment, nothing happens. Then Karen begins to hum a melodic tune, something that floated in echoes across the water and sank gently deep into the earth below their feet. When the melody ceases, Buck’s eyes grow wide as the little floating green dots begin ambling across the expanse of the river. They bob and weave in a slow dance around the children, their soft green glow lighting their faces from the darkening eve as their numbers grow until a swarm of fireflies flit slowly around them.
Buck glances at Eddie to find a small smile curving his features, and figures if it doesn’t cause worry over his son then Buck shouldn’t either. And then, dot by dot, some of the little green fireflies descend into the jars, their blinking for each other seeming almost happy despite their captured state. But there are no lids keeping them in there, if they want to fly away they can.
Once each jar has five or six fireflies, the remainder of them begin ambling back over the river as calmly as they came, until the children are left with their jars aglow of new guests.
As Karen oversees May instructing the children on how to gently affix the lids to their jars - with holes in, Buck was relieved to learn - Buck takes in the area one last time before they begin the walk back to the village. The last eve before the fireflies disappear for a year and his blue lightning bugs are nowhere to be found.
“Buck? You okay?” Eddie asks.
“Yeah, I just..” It sounds foolish in his head, that he was hoping the magic blue fireflies would appear to him again when, as the days and weeks went on, he became less and less sure what he had seen was real. It was probably just a dream.
A touch to his shoulder directs his attention to Karen at his side. He does not see pity in her eyes, which is something to hold onto. “There’s always next year,” she tells him, as though she holds hope for it as much as Buck should.
“We don’t know much about lightning bug lore,” May adds, as they turn towards the path. “They may appear in other seasons.”
“Yeah, who is to say they are not watching you right now?” Eddie’s words earn him a light wack on the arm from Karen.
It’s Chris who takes his own hand and lifts it up, places his jar in Buck’s palm and says the first words Buck has heard him speak in hours. “They will find you, Buck, don’t worry. If they want to, they will.”
Buck kneels before Chris, holding his jar as a precious thing, one hand on Chris’ shoulder to steady him, and surveys the small creatures before him: the verdant fireflies float sleepily around the jar, their motions almost like a wave in greeting. Buck smiles at the sight of their glowing bodies and visible antennae and flitting wings.
“I hope so, buddy,” and he really does, “But for now, let’s take good care of these little guys.” Tears gather in his eyes as he grins wide and happy - at his friends, at the sweet gesture of this child Buck has come to care so much for, at the painful thought of never seeing his blue lightning bug friends again.
Chris nods and takes his hand when he rises, and together they all journey the short way back to the village.
“That’s a good sign,” Karen murmurs beside him, gesturing at the glowing jar tucked into Buck’s side. “Adults can handle the jars after the fireflies choose to dwell in them, but they prefer some people more than others. They are at peace in your care.”
Buck blinks, and smiles down at the jar.
* * *
As the group retreats from view of the riverbank, blue dots blink into being high in the canopy, darting and streaking through the foliage unseen by the humans.
#bucktommy#fanfiction#the axe and the shield au#fic meme#my fics#tevan kinley kinkley firepilot#evantommy#.txt#fantasy au#i started writing a very small thing this morning but kept getting interrupted then had a big day out#now it's late and i've been expanding on that little thing for hours ha! sorry for the rambling ig#anywayyy.... the blue fireflies are magic!! and they have something to do wtih tommy. and they are not bugs
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Not sure if anyone did this, but I didn't see, and wiki angered me, so I decided to write down all references to Korean mythology in Bari.
The first and the most known thing about her is that her name belongs to a very important character from Korean mythology - Princess Bari or in translation Cast-away princess.
https://www.aks.ac.kr/cefia/webzine/2207/focus_eng.html - this is a good translation of the myth even if it does not provide with only one version of it despite there will be many variations. But I understand why they did it because the number of variations is big, and I only will give you one version too.
Bari is the seventh princess, who was thrown out by her father-king because he was angry that they had seven daughters in a row. Because of this, her parents were punished by heaven, and they fell ill and after many years, they repented and found their daughter to apologize. Bari not only accepted their apology but also agreed to go look for a cure in the world of the dead. (On the way there in some versiona, she received a magic FLOWER.) When she finds the world of the dead it's also separated from the world of the living by the River, which many dead people cannot cross, but Bari was able to with the help of a magic flower(or magical bells depends on version). There was a guy there, Mujan, who agreed to give her the medicine in exchange for marrying him and living there for nine years. She agreed, and they lived, but during such a long time, her parents died. However, then Mujan, in addition to giving her life-saving water, showed her a field of flowers (FLOWERS AGAIN) that heal bones and flesh. Thanks to this, Bari revived and cured her parents and they asked what she wanted for this and Bari said that she wanted to help people move from the world of the living to the world of the dead and became the first shaman in Korea. And in some versions, even the ruler of the afterlife(just like another important character from Korean mythology - Daebyeol-wang, about whom I will talk later)
But I think you already knew about it so let's talk about her attacks and her weapons.

Let's start with the weakest link
1)샘용 - Dragon of the Foutain or you could translate it like Dragon of the Well - It could be a reference to a popular Korean folk song called 쌍화점 about woman who suffers from advancement of merchant, priest and than Dragon from the well(scholars guess that it's a metaphor about people suffering from actions of bad merchants, corrupted Buddhist priests and cruel Emperor)
쌍화곡 - is a really cool modern interpretation of this song that I advice to listen.
2)가을 연꽃 - Lotus in Autumn - with the form of the blade and information from files in game is a reference to real sword 추련도(검) that belonged to a Genaral Im Gyeong-eop how defended Korea from China in 17 century.
추련도(검) is Korean transcription of Chinese idiom 秋蓮刀 which translates as Autumn Lotus Sword, which refers to the autumn lotus as a symbol of a noble person who blooms when other lotuses cannot.
It also has a poem in Chinese engraved on it
7
時呼 時來 否在來 一生一死 都在筵
平生 丈夫 報國心 三尺 秋蓮 磨十年
(Korean translation)
시절이여 때는 다시 오지 않나니
한번 태어나고 한번 죽는 것이 모두 여기 있도다.
대장부 한평생 조국을 위한 마음뿐이니
석자 추련검을 십년동안 갈고 갈았도다.
(English translation)
The times, the times will never come again
Born once and dying once, all are here.
A great man's whole life is only for his country,
I sharpened the Sword of Autumn Lotus for ten years
In real life, this Sword was a part of the pair, but the second one (용천검) was last, BUT Bari has both of them. In a legend, General got this Sword from the serpent.

3) Bari's Bow - 천근활(Bow That Weight Thousand Geun) refers to the Korean myth of the creation of the world in which the ruler of the underworld, Daebyeol-wang, uses a bow to shoot down the extra sun and moon so that the world is not too hot or too cold.
4) 월검환도 - Moon Hwando, just a Korean sword and NOT A KATANA. NONE OF HER WEAPON JAPANESE

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Breaking a bargain for...?
As always, click for better quality.
More Bluejay origins!
(Context: He gave up his ability to sing as payment to a powerful crone who promised him protection and a new life. Bluejay casts spells using "Subtle Spell," a D&D 5e sorcery ability, which means you don't have perform somatic or verbal components of a spell. But without sorcery points, he had to make a decision to watch Gale die, or use his voice to save him).
This is super scrappy and I'm sorry. Almost scrapped this whole comic, but with some gentle encouragement from my wife and brother, I decided to just finish it the best I could and get my claws off of it.
As always, thanks for reading.
#comics#bg3#baldur's gate 3#bg3 tav#bg3 fanart#bg3 comic#gale of waterdeep#gale dekarios#bg3 gale#galemance#really fell hard for this librarian cook#sheesh#artists on tumblr#goblin doodles#comics on tumblr#time to go down down down by that river again
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Come back home when you have some sense
You can throw your life away just not at my expense
You’re not the son I raised

#jhariah#this one just rawrrfrrr#and then uh another line thats like ‘tell me did you raise a man?’#nice#im just listening to the new album to cope with nasty sickness and feeling out of it#god this album is really good it has every emotion in there like this song for example just the part where they scream the chorus its like#hnnnghhh#hm some other moments from the album im liking a lot uhhh i love re: concerns a lot#the part where hes like reading off the complaints and then the part where hes just screaming and its like BAM BAM BAM BAAAM#sasuke is so good and the bit at the end where its like ‘i just want you to know im so so...’#like hes gonna say sorry but cant seem to say the word for whatever reason and i know nothing about sasuke#but i has to imagine the fan girlies are eating gravel over that one lol it gets me#and theres just that like spooky echoing afterwards#the intro to fire4fun goes SOOOOOOOO hard i was losing my shit its awesome#the entirety of trust ceremony is giving me big feelings but specifically that part towards the end where its all quiet and you hear#its like whistling i think? like a marching band is coming in maybe#but it also kinda sounds like nature too and idk i like got a little bit um magical at that part cuz i was driving down a big hill#and it had been raining but there was a clearing in the clouds and the sun was bright and like at this particular hill#you can just see everything like the land stretches for miles theres trees hills the river farms all that shit#and idk with the extreme stress and depression ive been feeling its hard to have these moments where life seems worth it#and its hard to really feel anything anymore or to feel in the moment but idk i was just going down that hill seeing everything and it was#very majestic so yeah that song is definitely gonna have the same effect as pin eye for me#which i must mention pin eye again its still OOOOGHH very good it came at a pretty good time for me#yeah basically this album is uhhhh whats keeping me somewhat grounded rn i recommend 👍
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jeanne de new hampshire
#yes this is a blatant reference to joan of arc#anyway. TIME TO SHARE MY DETAILS#if you couldn't tell everything except the last panel is a dream#that's why the background is changing so often and why things don't quite make sense#basic plot - my girlie jean is having a dream in the early war days and in it her dead twin brother john comes to talk to her#okay . panel by panel time#panel one - i really like drawing clouds. i decided to forgo the coats bc i wanted a more casual and relaxed feel#her hair is down bc she's in a dream and it's more comfortable (and a little more feminine)#panel two - did you notice john's foot. it was supposed to be pretty obvious but my parents didn't see it when i showed them so#panel three - john's design. he does not look sick and he's put together besides his hair - which is braided like how louise braided it#when he was dying. the flowers in his hair are vibrant. and i just really like delphine + flowers so.#john's part of the grass is darker than louise's and it has more flowers#panel four - louise is apologizing for not being able to heal john but mainly for taking his name and tainting it with war#john does not forgive - bc louise hasn't forgiven herself. his flowers are starting to wilt in his hair#the scene changes to no flowers and two twin rivers - change. the twins switch positions#panel five - john leaves bc louise hasn't really forgiven herself or let herself really grieve or anything yet. they change positions again#panel six - johns flowers are fully withered now. there's no more ground for him to walk on - he's going to be walking off into the sky#he's warning her but not fully facing her - there's still a lot of forgiveness to be done#panel seven - jeanne as in jeanne d'arc. bc. parallels. anyway jean has eyebags and is clutching a cross which idk if people wore back then#but idgaf it's my comic i can do what i want#oc#oc comic#original character#original character comic#oc art#ocs#original character art#historical oc#historical oc art#digital art
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check out my new and incredibly cool subnautica challenge!! i call it: Go More Than Ten Meters In Your Seamoth Without Hitting 17 Entire Fucking Fish. so far proving to be impossible.
#ive been replaying the game this past week and. either im the worst pilot ever (possible)#or every fish on this planet is just dyinggg to get hit by my car#those schools of fish. STOP swimming DIRECTLY into my path. my seamoth has nearly been destoyed like 3 times bc of small fish 😭#dont even get me STARTED on the mushroom forests. my god i cannot navigate the forests#it gets worse when im freaking out. which is 100% of the time im not in the safe shallows or grassy plats#i was doing real good this playthrough too!! swam in the sparse reef at night! swam straight down beneath the floating island for fun!#collected the dunes cuddlefish egg and swam there with just my seaglide!#and then i went to the lost river (a part of the game that im usually VERY comfortable with beyond the inital Locate Entrance)#and ive completely fallen apart again!! got actually nauseous with fear which has not happened since the first 5ish playthroughs#and thats only happened in the sparse reef before. this was like an entire hour of almost quitting or teleporting out of the river#seamoth almost got destroyed like 7 times bc i was panicking and running into Everything. every animal and wall got smacked into#which was NOT helping my anxiety ill tell u that much 🥺#ok wow im yapping. SORRY!! ok i need to go like calm down im like actually stressed rn i feel like im being hunted by tigers for Real#spadefish and boomerang ur population is steadily decreasing with each and every trip for titanium and quartz 🫡
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