#he wants the Princess close to his heart but can’t acknowledge their past pain

[swanpyart]

Absolutely devastating realizations about Happy Ever After

PRISTINE CUT SPOILERS:

I was wondering why in Happy Ever After the table was so long and kept us so far from the Princess, and I realized that Smitten was probably terrified that we would try to hurt her, cus even if we didn’t want to, the thought of the Narrator taking control and forcing us to attack her OR force her to kill us in self defense would compromise both of our “happiness”.

But it’s only when the facade ends and we let her out of the cabin that we’re able to actually share a dance with her. A real connection.

It’s so twisted and sad that Smitten, in his desire to keep the Princess safe and happy, actually prevents us from connecting with her in the way actual couples do. He’s afraid of himself, of failing her, and of hurting her, but in trying to protect her he pushes her away from him emotionally. The cabin isn’t just to protect her, it’s to protect himself.

[tommyspeakycap]

HF for how Tommy feels on his daughters wedding day please

first half is headcanons and the second half is a lil blurb!

tommy is quite literally distraught

like that’s no exaggeration he is literally heart broken

his baby, his whole world was getting married

for the past 20 years, you had been tommy shelby’s whole world

you were born when tommy was only 17

not even an adult yet himself

so it felt as though you had been with him most of his life

it had kind of just been you and him, in a sense

of course there was the rest of the clan too, and you were incredibly close to them as well

but your mother died in childbirth, so tommy was both mum and dad

he had to do it all alone in that sense

everyone tells him he should be so proud of how he raised you

because you’re sweet and kind

and you have that humour that the war took from tommy

you made people laugh like he had

and you were really the only person that could make him laugh

you were strong, like your mother tommy had always said

but you credit everything you are to him

he was the first man to love you, and teach you how you should be loved

he also taught you how you should be treated, generally a lot better than the average father would

tommy made sure that his daughter would be treated like a queen

you were his princess

so whomever you were to marry, you would be treated as their queen

he made absolutely sure of that

and that marrying was your choice

not something you were coerced into for money or business, but something you wanted

and it was

with a man who you had loved since 16

tommy liked him as much as he could like the man that was going to be taking his baby girls hand and changing her name

the thought of you not being (y/n) shelby, tommy shelby’s little princess, was earth shattering to him

although you had insisted you were keeping it in the middle

alas, tommy knew you were so loved by that man

be that as it may, all parties knew if he stepped a foot out of line or raised a finger in anything but gentility and love

then he would be struck down in a timely and violent fashion by tommy himself

tommy definitely cries that day too

“Tommy?” Grace’s voice immediately draws his attention towards her and away from his thoughts about the impending fact his little girl was getting married in half an hour. His eyes are that kind of wet that shows he’s fighting tears, that he won’t dare let them fall. Grace can see the lump he tries to swallow in his throat and a piece of her heart breaks for him as she sits down on the bench next to him outside the hall where the ceremony would take place. You were inside getting the dress on and getting your hair done with Polly and Ada and previously Grace before she had come out to see if her husband was okay.

He was not.

“Oh Tommy,” Her voice is so soft and caring as she wraps her arm around him and rubs his shoulder, hugging him to her slightly. “She looks so beautiful Tom, and god she’s so happy; can’t stop smiling at all. She still has that smile you talk about, the innocent one and it looks just like yours does sometimes.” Tommy clenches his jaw tightly, still refusing to let those tears go. She sees him clamp down his teeth over his bottom lip to stop it trembling. “It’s alright Tommy, this is good. She’s in love with a man who loves her so much. Almost as much as you do.”

Tommy shakes his head at that, one hand on his knee to brace himself as he tries to speak. “Not possible.” He snips, “And i loved her first.”

His voice breaks on that. The lip finally trembles and he hangs his head with a sharp inhale to let free that shoulder shaking sob. “She was my little baby. How is that my little girl in there? She used to-” Tommy had to pause again, roughly wiping his hand over his face to clear away the tears as he looks up at Grace, “She used to be this big,” he gestures with his hands in a way that she imagined was meant to be him cradling a baby. His voice sounds drastically different than she’s used to because it’s clouded by his tears and his agony.

“She used to ask me to brush her teeth and comb her hair and lift her up to wash her hands,” he bleats, images flashing through his mind of that short little girl who couldn’t reach the bathroom sink. He sees the little girl who stood on top of the toilet so he could brush those teeth and he can see the smile that little girl gave him all those nights when he asked to see to make sure he had brushed them right. “She used to climb into my bed every morning and she used to save up her tooth fairy money to buy us all gifts. She’d save food from her dinner for the dogs on the street and i swear on my life i don’t know how to live without her being my baby girl, Grace.” Tears continue to stream down his cheeks as Grace notices the black and white photograph that looked truly as though it had been through the war; as it had. it was stained and slightly run and it was crumpled. A little girl with a toothless grin and Tommy Shelby’s eyes, even with the lack of colour to the old photograph.

“It’s alright Tommy,” Grace hums, rubbing her husbands back soothingly, “She’s your little girl, she always will be.” She knew there was really nothing else she could say that would ease his pain. There was nothing anyone could do or say that would send you back to the little girl he would could throw over his shoulder and run around the house with. There was nothing that could ease the pain of a fathers aching heart when his baby girl becomes a woman who doesn’t need him like she used to.

“Thomas?”

He and Grace look up at Polly. The look in her eyes speaks for her . “She’s ready?” Tommy asks, prompting his aunt to nod her head with a smile. “Come on then, Tom!” Arthur calls from the grand doorway at the top of the steps to the hall. When Tommy and Grace reach him, Arthur wraps his arm roughly around his brothers shoulder and pulls Tommy into him. “Baby (y/n) getting fuckin’ married eh? Can’t fuckin’ believes she’s this fuckin grown up.” He shakes his head, taking his arm away from his brother when they reach the door of the dressing room where you were waiting. “Beautiful she is, Tom.” Arthur says, “Looks just like mum. In you go.” He ushers his younger brother in that door.

Nobody sees Tommy Shelby quite like you do, and he’s happy for it to stay that way. He’s known it since you were a tiny little girl wrapped up in his arms. He doesn't love anyone like he loves you, so it makes full sense that you are the only person in the world who he allows his vulnerability to fully leak through with. Although, he probably couldn't prevent it even if he tried.

Maybe that’s why he doesn't fight so hard to keep his eyes from welling up when he sees you standing there looking in the mirror, donned in the most beautiful white wedding gown that he’s ever seen. Placed in his hand is the stunning light veil that he had picked out for you. The headband was something like a tiara, because you were his princess and he truly believed that everything you had should be the best the world could offer. The dress too had been extortionate and you would never have gotten it had you known the price it had come to, but Tommy had never allowed you to know. He simply had the designers bring an array of dresses to his estate where you tried them all on with Polly, Ada, Lizzie, Grace, Linda and Esme to comment and complement each dress, as well ad aide you on picking the one that suited you the most with cost never a mention. Tommy had preached he ‘no expense spared’ approach the whole way through the planning of the wedding and any timenhe caught you trying to cut or manage costs, he simply shut you down and enforced the rule that the wedding planner was no longer allowed to discuss prices with you. 

He had truly created the most fantastical day for you, and he would have spent every single penny that he had if it meant giving you the most beautiful start to a new life that he could give. 

You had wanted him to be the one to place that veil on your head with the guidance of your hair dresser to ensure he didn't mess up the design of your hair. He had been the one to place little plastic tiaras on your head when you were merely a little girl who wanted to play princess dress up. He used to be the one to comb back your hair and twirl you around that Watery Lane kitchen with Arthur did the same with Ada and Polly laughed heartily from her seat at the table. 

It felt right to have him put a tiara on you one last time as baby Shelby. 

“You’re beautiful.” He breathes, his lips stretching into a wide and incredibly proud smile. “So, so very beautiful my darling.” Your cheeks blush ever so slightly and you lean over to kiss his cheek. “Thank you, dad.” 

He wants to hug you tightly and never let you go. He wants to will and wish you back to the little girl that he used to twirl around all afternoon. He missed that little girl so much. He had so much love in his heart for you, so much that it overwhelmed him every time he had tried to acknowledge it over the course of your life. 

“I love you.” he says, his shaky voice conveying how much he actually means those words. “So much more than you can ever know. I’m going to miss you so much.” 

You breathe a short laugh, shaking your head at him. “I’m not going anywhere, dad. I’ll still be seeing you all the time. I’ll just have a different name.” You hold his hand tightly in yours as he leads you out of the dressing room and into the hall towards the large double doors that would take you to the isle. 

“Mhm,” he hums, “I suppose. You’ll understand what I mean someday. I just love you so much.” 

“I love you too.” 

“You two ready to go?” The wedding planner asks, watching as you turn to Tommy somewhat excitedly and nod. “You ready dad?” You ask, giving his had a reassuring squeeze. He sighs heavily, but nods his head too, removing his hand from yours and moving his arm so that you can link yours through his. His play on his mind before he says them, a small smile too playing on his lips as the nickname that he used to call you runs through his memory.

“Ready as I’ll ever be, my little love.” 

[ushidoux]

Kiss Me More - Doja Cat ft. Sza, Ushijima x Reader

Warnings: alcohol and tobacco use, creepy dudes in the club, car sex, nsfw

A/N: I cannot stop thinking about this song smh

---

It’s several minutes past midnight… your mind is hazy, it swims in the scent of the strawberry-flavored shisha that bubbles on the table before you, in the second mixed drink that’s doing a little more damage to your consciousness than it should. You are a well known lightweight, but maybe you willed yourself to be a little more drunk than you should be tonight.

Your hands drape lazily around your friend, and you laugh a little too hard, burying your face in her bare shoulder courtesy of her strapless dress, as you hold onto her for support. Her scent is comforting, not in the same way that Ushijima’s is, of course, but it’s what you need right now. Her hands play with your hair as you move in tune with the music; she wants to beat your situationship into the ground because she knows where your mind is is very precarious right now.

But for now you’re having fun.

Your dress is short and both form-fitting and flattering, and your heels are high. You look absolutely drop-dead gorgeous, and to the dismay of many, you’ve rebuffed every man who’s approached you for a dance thus far. 

In this crowded club, with bodies pressed together, heat, sweat and lust abundant in the air, you’ve stayed close to your friends, as though you were trying to stay ‘faithful’... to what exactly?

He was just so… dense. You’d never been so needy before until you’d met him. The feeling of powerlessness to decide the course of things was overwhelming; you always seemed to be waiting for him. Waiting for him to text you, touch you, acknowledge your presence.

Maybe the game you were playing was immature, but it didn’t matter how many times your phone vibrated in your bra, you were not picking up. Not tonight.

Your friend pulled back from your embrace to check a text message and glanced at you for a moment, but you were already off in a spin to the bar just paces away for drinks. 

“I’ll be right back~” you murmured, an inebriated grin on your face.

You stumbled shakily past a moving mass of bodies before reaching your destination. Leaning over the bar trying to catch the bartender’s attention, it wasn’t long before you felt a stranger’s arm snaking around your waist.

“What the-”

A quick turn had you facing a sleazy grinned man.

“What are you drinking, princess?”

He was still disgustingly close, enough that you could smell the alcohol on his tongue, but regardless, you smiled sickeningly sweetly, shaking your head before breaking free of his hold.

“I don’t drink actually,” you lied unconvincingly as if you weren’t wobbling on your feet, but you needed something to reply before you marched back over to your friends, sobering up ever so slightly. 

Once you’d rejoined your friends, you glanced over your shoulder to see him still watching you, and a shudder ran down your spine.

But you weren’t going to let yet another man ruin your fun.

“Did you call him?” Your friend asked once you’d replaced your arms around her shoulders.

Your eyebrows furrowed angrily.

“No, why would I?” 

She sighed, tired of being on her feet, and pulled you down with her to sit before taking a long draw of shisha. Your eyes focused on your other friend who’d come with her boyfriend and might as well have been dry-humping in public, she was that close to him physically.

Lack of ambiguity in a relationship was nice.

Your phone vibrated again, and you pulled it out of your bra in annoyance, setting it on the table face down without checking. 

Alcohol was waning in your system and you were starting to feel sad again, but you had been spooked enough by the creepy dude at the bar that you wouldn’t venture for a drink for a while.

Except when you looked up, you realized that that same stranger had now made his way over to you, his smile now replaced with a twisted snarl from rejection.

“Don’t be a bitch, I can see you’re just slightly off from piss drunk,” he hissed, before yanking at your arm roughly, forcing you to let out a yelp.

“What the fuck is your problem?!” Your friend shrieked, her hand raised for a firm slap only for her hand to be blocked by the man who was getting more belligerent by the second.

The pain of the grip he had on your arm was barely dulled by alcohol as you tried to wrench it away from him, wondering how the fuck someone ends up so bold as to harass women in a full club. Your friend and her boyfriend disentangled themselves quickly enough to make their way over to help you, but were beaten to it by the sound of your not-exactly boyfriend’s deep voice.

“If you’d like to keep that arm, I suggest you fuck off immediately.”

Ushijima’s large hand wrapped around the arm that was restricting yours and he wasn’t looking at you, but at the man who was harassing you, his eagle-like eyes narrowed further. Your eyes widened - he hated places like these, when did he get here? How long had he been here? Who was he with?

There was a brief moment where the two stared each other down, but your creep wasn’t able to hide the wince forming on his features as Ushijima’s hand tightened, and his fingers unfurled around yours quickly.

He stormed off, tail between his legs, through the small crowd that had now gathered to observe the scene. Now that the spotlight seemed to be on you, Ushijima interrupted his own glare at the fleeing man to give you a once over to see if you were okay, fists unclenching.

“This is certainly one way to get my attention,” he mused, and your blood boiling immediately, you considered punching him in the face, but your friend hushed you, rubbing the tender part of your forearm.

But you were still angry.

“Don’t you have practice in a couple hours? Why would you waste your time here?”

He pursed his lips somewhat, but giving a clear glance to your friend who shook her head and backed off, he reached for your hand gently.

“Next time, pick up your phone. Let’s talk somewhere privately.”

---

“I wish you would just,” your tirade was interrupted by a single hiccup, “be clear about,” you paused as though winded, but continued, “... whatever the fuck this is!”

You stopped and your words hung in the small space between you. Seated in the passenger seat of his car, you felt like the space was closing in. You hadn’t had tons of dating experience, but you’d had enough to know that it was never a good sign when someone seemed to care less than you did. You’d been dumped before and once was enough. 

The way Ushijima had you orbiting around him was embarrassing. Even when you were trying not to need him, you still ended up needing him. Sure, things would have turned out fine most likely even if he hadn’t been there, but still.

Ushijima was quiet, but his eyes remained on you. You hated how comfortable he could feel just staring, relaxed and unmoving like some kind of unnecessarily detailed sculpture.

“What do you think this is?” You finally asked. Your voice was smaller than it needed to be and again, you were embarrassed, but if he meant to break your heart, it would be better to do this when your friends were still around, waiting, and could support you.

Maybe then you could cry for real rather than grieve aimlessly while still locked in some kind of formless relationship.

“I think we’re dating, and I like you and you like me,” he finally replied. “Of course, I can’t speak for you. I hope that you feel the same way I do.”

Your heart stirred ever so slightly, and your fingers found a job adjusting the hem of your dress. Your eyes focused on the curve of your knees. He says the right things, but does he mean them?

“You’re distant. Like you can’t be bothered that I’m around.”

His hand reached out for you, his fingers resting on the nape of your neck.

“I’m here now, aren’t I?” He whispered, leaning in. His other hand closed around your chin, turning you so that you could look at him. 

In the moonlight, the hazel of his eyes was especially bright, making your heart pound. His gaze focused on the lower lip that was starting to quiver.

“I want to kiss you, but you’re still upset,” he said suddenly, directly, as though it were the most simple yet frustrating dilemma. “I don’t want you to feel like I’m not paying attention to your concerns.”

“Toshi…,” you were at a loss for words, especially with his lips so close. Your hand rested on his chest.

“Can I show you how I feel?”

You nodded, and his lips found their way onto yours.

His tongue slipped into your mouth like it was home and you accepted him in similar fashion. Your hands made their way around his neck and he hastily pulled you over the car console onto his lap, deepening the kiss as he leaned you against the steering wheel of the car. 

It wasn’t long before your body-conforming dress now covered nothing, your breasts exposed for kisses between and around them, for the gentle massage of his large hands. Your back arched as kisses littered your neck, collarbones, arms and the soft part of your belly. 

You moaned as he lowered you onto his cock that always craved the pressure of your walls around him, leaning forward and biting the flesh of his shoulder as you endured the stretch. He lay the car seat down flat, engulfing your lips with his before rolling his cock into you slowly, sensually, taking every moment for you to mewl into his open mouth. His fingers dug into the flesh of your hips, keeping you steady as he slammed you down against him, leaving marks that he would kiss away later.

He’d kiss you so many ways for so many days, months, years to come.

[thinkingisadangerouspastime]

warmth

Then her shoulders fell, the inky shadows deepening across her face as Katara sighed and pulled her knees into her chest. “I just—I have to know you’re okay, Aang. That’s all. It’s not a big deal.”

Aang blinked, her words sinking into his heart like a stone into quicksand. “Know I’m okay,” he repeated, “or know I’m alive?”

When Aang falls, Katara is always there to catch him. But maybe that’s part of the problem.

(Written for Day 5 of Kataang Week 2021: Healing, hosted by @kataang-week. Read here on AO3 or continue reading below.)

Aang loved Katara. Plain and simple. Under only the watchful eye of the moon—hope all is well with you, Princess Yue, Sokka is doing just fine—Aang might even be willing to admit he was in love with her. It wasn’t a secret, per se, but to love was to be vulnerable and despite the infinite lives he contained as the Avatar, Aang was still only human.

All the same, Aang had no shame in acknowledging that he liked having Katara’s attention on him, and moreover that he liked reciprocating her attention with his own on her. He liked how they were touchy-feely with each other in a way they were with no one else, liked how they would stay up together to count the stars and talk about anything and nothing, liked how they could make each other smile at even their lowest points.

But ever since Ba Sing Se…

Something had changed.

For better or for worse, Aang wasn’t quite sure. Because now, now it seemed more of Katara’s attention was on him than before. And at first, Aang thought he’d understood why. He’d died, he’d been in a coma for weeks, he’d flirted with death while Katara had been the one keeping constant vigil at his bedside. Though his outward wounds had long since healed into scars, there were lingering aches and pains below the surface that still could make him stumble.

Katara was always there to catch him when he fell.

But that was the—that was the problem, for lack of a better word on Aang’s part. Katara was healing him all but constantly, never letting him out of her sight for more than a few minutes at a time. The only exceptions had been his time at the Fire Nation school and her secret trips to Jang Hui as the Painted Lady. She’d almost burst into tears when he’d gotten the smallest of scratches across his thumb the other day, and that? That was not normal.

Whatever was going on, Aang knew he couldn’t let her face it alone any longer.

One night during their usual stargazing, lying down with their backs against the grass on the flattest ledge in their camp, Aang seized the moment.

“Is there a reason you’ve been so… protective of me lately?” he asked, trying to keep his tone as even as possible. It was like trying to approach a baby deer-cat—he didn’t want to spook her by storming into the subject.

Katara stiffened, and though she didn’t flee, Aang idly wondered if he’d underestimated how painful this conversation might be. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“I don’t mean it in a bad way,” Aang tried to reassure her, turning in the grass onto his side so he could face her properly. “You’ve just seemed a little on edge the past few weeks. Talking about whatever’s on your mind might—might help.”

“Doubt that,” Katara muttered bitterly, keeping her eyes averted from Aang’s own as she picked at a blade of grass. The moonlight breaking through the tree branches to their right cast dark shadows across her face, like rivers of ink winding down her cheeks. “I prefer not thinking about it, much less talking.”

Well, at least she’d admitted something was bothering her. Aang counted that as a small victory. But her aggressive resistance did mean he would have to prod a little more to get her to open up.

“I know you’re worried about me,” Aang said after a pause. He sat up, bracing himself with his hands behind him. “I don’t know why, but I know you are.”

Katara sat up and opened her mouth, probably to argue, but Aang pushed forward, not giving her the chance to disagree. To lie, really.

“I can tell because you’ve… you’ve been healing every little scratch I get. Which is kind, but”—he pursed his lips, shaking his head—“I can’t be your priority, Katara. Not all the time. Not over healing Sokka or Toph or yourself, when someone else’s injuries are worse. Okay?”

Katara’s jaw was tight, a clear sign Aang had struck a nerve. Hopefully not one that stung too sharply, bit too deeply, because hurting Katara was the last thing he wanted to do. What he feared more than anything.

Then her shoulders fell, the inky shadows deepening across her face as she sighed and pulled her knees into her chest. “I just—I have to know you’re okay, Aang. That’s all. It’s not a big deal.”

Aang blinked, her words sinking into his heart like a stone into quicksand. “Know I’m okay,” he repeated, “or know I’m alive?”

Aang had only the faintest memories of Ba Sing Se, of waking up for but a few seconds in Katara’s arms as the most radiant, most relieved smile he’d ever seen had graced her lips. The relief hadn’t matched the exhaustion—the terror—in her eyes, though. After that, he’d… disappeared, vanished somewhere into the depths of his own mind for more days than he could count.

Katara chuckled, the sound tinged with a deep-seated weariness. “Maybe a bit of both?”

“Katara—”

She silenced him with an icy look. “Don’t. Don’t use that pitying tone with me, Aang. I know it’s an irrational fear, I don’t need you to tell me that.” Katara huffed, throwing her hands up and shaking her head. “See? This is why. This is why I don’t like thinking about it.”

Aang bit his lip. Tempted as he was to swear up and down that no, he hadn’t meant to strike such a tone, he hadn’t meant to invalidate her concerns, there was a far more important direction their conversation needed to be taken in.

“It’s clearly not irrational if you can’t shake it off,” Aang said after a pause. He hesitated, then placed a careful hand on top of hers, which had returned to resting on the grass. When she made no move to pull away, he continued. “But if you’re really worried… why don’t you explain it to me?”

That offer caught Katara’s attention, and she stared at him with a mixture of shock and confusion permeating her features. Furrowed brow, head tilted at a slight angle. “What?”

Aang shrugged. “Tell me what’s making you so anxious, and then I can confirm whether or not your fear is rational.” He suspected it would be somewhere on the perpetually sliding scale between rational and irrational, as most fears born of traumatic experiences were. He had a few of his own. No shame in admitting that.

Katara hesitated, her gaze flickering over his face from top to bottom, as if searching for any hint of doubt or suspicion or—spirits forbid—pity. But Aang knew she wouldn’t find any, and he was right.

“Okay,” she murmured, averting her eyes from his own to stare at the grass they still sat upon. “Maybe I do need to”—she shook her head—“maybe that would help. A little.”

Katara’s current discomfort was clear to Aang, and he hated seeing her like this. Shaken, weary, broken in more ways than one. But what he hated even more was to see Katara terrified, and terror was the only expression written in her eyes each time she watched him get hurt, no matter how minor the injury. So if she would talk, Aang would listen, and he would do whatever he could to reassure her.

“This war has been going on my entire life,” Katara said after a pause. “So I’m not—I’m not unfamiliar with death”—a low chuckle escaped her lips—“although not for a lack of trying on Sokka’s part.” She heaved a shuddering sigh, picking at a blade of grass with her hand that wasn’t beneath Aang’s. “But warriors died in battle. Babies didn’t always survive birth. I—I saw my own mother’s corpse when I was only eight years old, Aang, so burned up you could barely recognize her—”

Katara snapped her jaw shut as her voice neared a fatal crack, and she blinked back tears.

Before he could lose his nerve, Aang turned Katara’s hand over, the one still beneath his own, and carefully laced their fingers together. I’m here, he tried to say, not knowing how to say it. His touch seemed to do the trick, though, as Katara exhaled a shuddering breath and moved to rest against his side, their shoulders pressed firmly together.

“I was never… never close, though,” she murmured, her voice having regained stability. “Never touched the bodies. Not even my mom’s.”

The note of grief in Katara’s voice rang sharper than a wind chime, and Aang had to fight down the urge to pull her into his arms then and there. He couldn’t. Not yet. Not until she was finished, not until she was ready. So though Aang’s heart ached with an identical loss—You turned your back on the world!—he said nothing, and he let her continue.

“But I… I caught you, Aang.” Katara’s grip tightened around his hand, but Aang didn’t pull away, not even when her nails began digging into the skin just below his knuckles. “When you fell, in Ba Sing Se. After Azula. I caught you, I held you when you were—”

“Gone?” Aang supplied when her voice vanished, and Katara nodded, rubbing her eyes with the back of her free hand.

“Yeah.” She took another slow breath, clearing her throat. “And, you know, people always say that death is—that death is cold. It’s life, energy, stolen from the body. But Aang, you were”—Katara shook her head, eyes brimming with tears that glowed like droplets of liquid silver in the moonlight—“you were so warm, I could almost believe you were sleeping and would wake up in my arms any minute.”

Aang swallowed a lump rising in his own throat. “And I did wake up,” he said gently, once a beat had passed. “Because you saved me, Katara. You brought me back.”

Katara gave him a sorrowful smile. “Don’t you get it, Aang? That’s the problem.” Her free hand clenched into a fist, and she slammed it a single time against her chest—right over her heart. “I had the water from the Spirit Oasis. I had control, that was why I was able to heal you then, that was how I was able to make everything okay. But now?”

Katara’s hand uncurled, falling weakly to her side as she shook her head. Another silver tear traced the edge of a shadow that still haunted her cheek, the drop trickling downward. “Now, I don’t have miracles to rely on for help anymore. The only control I have is me, my own abilities, and Tui and La, Aang, I can’t—I can’t lose you again!”

Her voice broke, and Aang threw all forethought to the wind, releasing Katara’s hand to pull her into a hug fiercer than any they’d ever shared before. He didn’t care how her tears wet his shoulder, he didn’t care how desperately her arms locked around his body, no, all he needed was for Katara to know that he was there.

“I’m so sorry,” Aang finally whispered, pathetic and useless as the three words were.

Katara shook her head, face still buried into his shoulder. “Not your fault.”

For the first time since they’d met in the South Pole, Aang had no idea how to comfort her. It won’t happen again, I’ll always be there for you, you’ll always be there for me, we’ll both make it through this—they were empty promises, cheap vows he had no way to guarantee.

“We’re here now,” Aang murmured, pressing the lightest of kisses to the top of her hair. A new three words, a different but still simple action—something about the combination of gestures must have soothed Katara, as Aang could feel her exhale and her body relax against his own. “We’re here now.”

The present was all they could count on.

[iamafictionfreak]

Listen...

Akatsuki no Yona/Yona of the Dawn’s 201st’s chapter is especially brilliant. Why? Well, we have the ever faithful bodyguard archetype and the former princess of the kingdom turned vigilantes... leaving their set paradigms behind and evolving into what promises to be well rounded characters that we’ll be jumping for joy about at the end.

This has nothing to do with whether you love Hak or Su Won.

It’s about a young girl becoming a woman by accepting her role to play in politics, by protecting those she loves through her position (dead father or no), by choosing to forsake revenge - because despite how much it hurt to loose her father, she’s seen that the devastation left behind in a kingdom ruled in the past by a family that let their fears and their rage govern their actions - and by falling in love.

Hak says to her, ‘so I heard that you no longer need a bodyguard’ before kissing her senseless. He isn’t reprimanding her, isn’t forcing her into a corner by confronting her with a painful lie, isn’t making fun of her.

‘You don’t need to protect me’

He’s simultaneously acknowledging that he knows she no longer needs him as a bodyguard (not in the truest sense) and that his purpose has changed - he no longer fits that role. She’s grown enough - has faced her demons - that he’s forced to see how little he’s managed to confront his own.

The author can’t place every character front and centre: it was made clear that Yona was the main character from the start, with Su Won and Hak being a close second. We needed to see the past in prior chapters before the present could pave way to the future: Yona now understands what Su Won is doing. Does it mean she forgives him? Psh, NO. It just means that she’s reached a level of enlightenment that I for one am in awe over.

Since moving back into the palace, she’s been threatened, locked up, blackmailed and has been forced to play the royal game to GREAT aplomb. She chose not to include her dragons, to keep them safe and cut Hak off from his primary duty in life because she was genuinely scared, with good reason, that he’d be killed off for knowing that the king is dying. EVERYONE knows that his loyalty is to her and only her and that he’s the most terrifying man in the palace.

Now, I bet most of you were thinking, ‘but Hak’s a beast. he can’t be beat’.

True. BUT. The way to rule a kingdom CANNOT be founded upon bloodshed and ashes. If Hak starts a fight in the middle of the palace, the dragon’s will get involved and everyone opposing them will likely perish. Maybe the dragons would take a loss too. Are there any good guys or bad guys here? It’s not the best way to start the rule of Yona, who doesn’t even want to rule. But that’s her choice: either tell him the truth or keep him safe. Start a battle that will end more lives for a thrown she doesn’t care for or play the game.

And Hak...

He’s playing a game of his own, and it was a smart one, save for how most know he’s lying through his teeth. But he's likeable and charismatic and the soldiers love him, so he has a form of leverage there.

Long story short, he wanted IN. He doesn’t want protection, he wants to be with her on the front lines of every battle, be he a slave, a solider, a commander... a prince? Who knows. But it’s not just about being with Yona; it’s about coming to terms with what happened to the country and loves and reconciling his rage with his need to keep it safe. 

He’s finally choosing a path of his own and it’s no surprise that it still leads down the same path as her, with one fundamental difference.

He’ll be her partner this time, in all the ways she needs him to be and vice versa. It’s not bodyguard and ex-princess anymore. It’s captive princess and solider. Soon it’ll be something else once more. He’s finding his place in her world, in THEIR world. 

He does this by fighting for a country he believes in and cares for - volunteering to fight on the front lines AGAIN - how he faces his own rage, a rage he can’t let go of, how he’ll confront Su Won and how he’ll, one day, feel worthy of standing by the side of Yona.

That’s a powerful presence. Whether he’ll succeed is a different kettle of fish. But he’s in it now, happily. Do I think he TRULY lost that fight?

No. No I think he was taken by surprise by a supreme fighter and rolled with it, recognising that the fight confirmed his suspicions.

So what happens now?

Not sure: Su Won still hasn't revealed how he truly feels about all of this, save the indication that he expects to die and soon, serving the country. His life isn’t his own, which is incredibly sad really. The biggest criticism for the character isn’t that he killed the king, it’s that he befriended two people he knew he’d betray and threw them to the wolves. 

He should never have had them care for him, should never have spent so much time cultivating a friendship he knew he’d destroy, hearts he’d step on. 

But what’s done is done and Yona is greatly changed.

It’s growing ever more fascinating.

[cherubchoirs]

What do you think if the Phantom Thieves (except Futaba) all had Shadows they had to confront and fight (like in p4), and what would they be?

OK this one is super interesting and it’s taken me MONTHS to get to, so let’s gooooooooo (will include p5r spoilers!)

i think all of their contracts sort of give us an idea of what their shadow selves may be (meaning goro is more up in the air), and i like to go with the idea that in p5, their shadows are how society has forced them to act. they have incorporated that into the self and conformed to it, but they don’t wish to acknowledge that they do so, instead making themselves believe they have no choice. futaba’s shadow, as the example, wishes for her own death as she was a burden and a curse to her mother...but she also made futaba aware this was a lie concocted by adults that took away her agency and her anger. SO with that in mind, here are the takes!!

akira - the bystander, the boy told to keep out of the way and to keep his head down. he’s determined to live a quiet and peaceful life, to get through his probation and swear to turn the other way when evil happens in front of him. akira is ashamed of the impulse because he knows what’s right, he knows he needs to help, but his shadow is all about self-preservation and avoiding further punishment. so he protects himself and only himself by feigning ignorance and closing his eyes, his ears, and his mouth. his shadow says “i already got mine, they’re on their own”

ryuji - the traitor, the boy who ruined the dreams of the track team and wears it with pride. he destroyed their hopes of the future and now has become a delinquent, free of the responsibilities he once had to himself, to his mom, and to his school. he can be rude, crass, and vulgar (lol) to his heart’s content because no one expects any more of him after enacting such violence. his anger runs deep and he doesn’t care about how he hurt his old team, they deserved it for never standing up for themselves.

ann - the sweetheart, the girl always there with a kind but seemingly empty word for her friend, supportive but distant. however, she instead tries to work within the confines of the world, trying to save the ones she cares about by using her looks and the reputation everyone puts on her because of them, pretending to be a flirtatious airhead to please those that may hurt the only person she cares for. she hurts herself over and over again, breaks down her own sense of self worth to sacrifice endlessly in ways others never see. she takes the pain forever with a smile.

yusuke - the student, the boy who knows the lies his teacher tells to him, but he is forever devoted to preserving the image his superior has both to the world and to himself. he believes his debt extends to worship, faith in the teacher who is a genius, who knows best, who is so much older and so much wiser and so must be doing right. in fact, he should be so lucky to have his work considered good enough to carry his teacher’s name instead of his own, he should happily produce for him because his teacher’s reputation has no price too high. surely he at least must return the cost of caring for him when no one would.

makoto - the role model, the girl who is quick-witted and resourceful, she can juggle every task the incompetent, lazy, or uncaring adults entrust to her. after all, their responsibilities are so much greater than even hers, just a silly high school student with all the time in the world to perform their lowlier tasks for them. she accepts every ask with grace and tact, she turns down no request and will work herself past the point of burn out for praise, for recognition, for the promise of her future. this is just the way the world is, she must get used to it now if she wants to survive.

haru - the princess, the girl who’s always charming and polite, perfectly prim and never a bore but her words are always shallow. she seems to only exist at gatherings and galas, always smiling, introduced by a beaming father and complimented on how beautiful she is, how she will make a most wonderful wife now that she’s blossoming into a young woman. she worships her fiance, she has captivated his whole family and, most importantly, his father with how delicate and vapid she is. a wonderful spouse up for trade, the loveliest business venture her father ever pursued.

goro - the orphan, the boy who is helpless and was left abandoned by his family and by society. he has no will of his own that he can inflict on the world, instead he is battered by fate and by an actively cruel reality, a curse, unwanted and unneeded by anyone. he elicits disgust in whoever he meets, yet he yearns deeply to be loved and to be accepted, he begs for it and everyone he meets that will give him any time of day are his “friends”. he believes there is no such thing as unconditional love and no matter what he tries, his struggle will be rendered futile.

sumire - the doppelganger, the girl that believes she is only a shadow of a sister far more talented and determined than she could ever be. she only had worth defined by another, one she followed around like a weight, dragging her down with her incompetence. a burden for her sister, pitied awkwardly by parents, an inconvenience that grew increasingly irrelevant and irritating with every passing day until she botched her own death. now she is a shadow without a body, the wrong girl taken in her attempt on her own life, the ultimate blunder ever committed by another human being. she pantomimes her sister more and more poorly, although she’s tricked herself into believing she really is her in her house of ashes.

morgana - the monster, the boy that can’t face who he really is for he fears what he will see in the mirror. he lives happily in ignorance, never wanting to remember his origins or his duties and he indulges in his freedom without worry of where he comes from. after all, if he has no idea of his past, he can imagine himself as anything he wants - a dashing rogue, a swashbuckling hero, a gallant thief, he is whatever he makes himself to be without the burden of his history. he never turns around too quickly, never wanting to catch a look at himself because every now and then he sees jail cells, black ooze, darkness. but that’s not him.

[ladyanput]

It’s All In The Eyes - Prologue

It’s finally here. Keep in mind, I don’t really have an editor for my stories, so... Yeah. Any problems will not be immediately  spotted.

The morning’s first rays barely peeked through the curtains of the tiny university dorm room when the phone on the nightstand began to ring. 

The young man in the bed groaned slightly as he sat up, taking a moment to allow his brain to clear before he answered it.

The woman next to him sat up, stretching her body with a soft groan. She opened her eyes and smiled at the sight of him, her perfect lover. His tall, lean body that she knew every inch of, though she did wince at the sight of the scratch marks on his back, at the sight of broken skin from when she had gotten a bit too enthusiastic. Perhaps it was time that she trimmed her nails, maybe try out the new nail polish she had bought. With a small, happy sigh, she crawled across the small bed and hugged him from behind, her warm, naked body pressing against his back.

“Of course, I will be there tonight.” The man paid the woman no heed as he spoke on the phone, writing a number down on the small pad of paper on the nightstand, keeping his voice curt, his responses short. The woman laid her cheek on his shoulder, a grin so wide on her face her cheeks hurt. She closed her eyes and listened to the rumbling in his chest as he spoke to whoever it was on the phone, to the beating of his heart that seemed so calming. She planted a kiss on his cheek, not noticing how he barely acknowledged her. “I look forward to seeing you and mother there.”

“Who was that, Gabriel?” The woman hugged him a bit tighter, snuggling into him a bit more as she began to plant her kisses down along his neck. He hung up, the phone giving a loud click that seemed to echo through the room.

“My father, confirming a dinner I am to attend tonight.” Gabriel pulled himself from her grasp and kept his back to her as he began to pick up his scattered clothes on the floor. He began getting dressed,letting out a soft hiss as the silk of his shirt settled on the scratches on his back, then smoothed back his pale hair and slid on his glasses. “I am having dinner with my parents and my fiancée.”

“Wait, Gabriel… Does this mean that you know about-” The woman slid from the bed, a smile crossing her face as she reached out for him, but his next words made her stop in her tracks. 

“She is a Graham de Vanily, a very exceptional lady from what my father has told me, the eldest daughter of twins.” Gabriel put in as he picked his wallet off of the side table, tucking it into his pocket. “I believe she will make an exceptional wife, and an even better mother to any of my heirs.”

“Wh-hat? Wait, Gabriel, what about us?” She abruptly grabbed his arm and tugged it so that he turned towards her. At the sight of his flat, cold blue eyes, she felt her blood begin to roar through her veins. Her hands trembled and she dug her nails into his arm, though unintentionally. “What about me?”

“Benigna, you were lovely to have as a good place to take care of each other’s bodily needs.” He grabbed her wrist, squeezed it so hard that the pain caused her to release her grasp on his shirt. When she opened her mouth to speak, he gave her wrist another squeeze, a warning. A whimper left her lips. “But I am an Agreste, I need a woman from a prestigious family, a woman with as fine of a pedigree as my own.  Émilie Graham de Vanily is the perfect woman for me, a woman whose family is perfect for my own. She is utterly beautiful, in perfect shape. She has the proper education, the proper skills to be a proper wife to give me my heir.” 

Beninga felt her throat tightened and she began to tremble. No, this all had to be a mistake, some sort of sick joke.

“B-But Gabriel, I-I’m..”

“A decent woman, yes, but nowhere near worthy enough of being my wife. You should have known going into this partnership of ours, that it would eventually end.” Gabriel gave her a disappointed look, then stepped away as he gestured towards her, the entirety of her body, still wrapped up in a bedsheet. “Your family is mediocre. You have no status, no influence, barely anything of worth for an Agreste.” 

Benigna fought back the tears, her hands curled into fists. No, this couldn’t be real, none of this could be real. This all couldn’t have been some sort of simple arrangement, a ‘partnership’. The word sounded so cold, almost sterile. It sounded so wrong to refer to those nights of passion, those nights she had thought were full of love as a mere ‘arrangement’. To think that it all meant nothing to him.

“So it was all nothing? Those nice dinners, that night of dancing?” She blurted out as she hugged herself, glared at his retreating back.  "That night you took me to the opera?"

“Merely something nice, due to your companionship. I will send you money, if you wish, but this relationship is ending. I do hope, Benigna, that you find yourself a suitable partner for one of your station. Farewell.” Gabriel didn’t once look back as he left the small dorm room. Benigna dropped to her knees, buried her face into her hands, and began to sob.

…

A few weeks later, Benigna found herself in front of Gabriel’s home. She pressed a shaky finger to the doorbell of the gate, heard the faint buzzing. In the past few weeks, Gabriel Agreste had announced his engagement to one miss Émilie Graham de Vanily. Benigna had seen the pictures in the paper, on the TV, on the large screens in the city squares, that thousands would watch in passing. The woman was very beautiful, with her golden blonde hair and vibrant green eyes, she reminded Benigna of a princess, a perfect woman. Gabriel’s perfect woman. 

“What do you think you are doing here?” Gabriel stepped through the gate as soon as it opened, in such a furious fashion that it made Benigna take a step back. His pale eyes slid over her body before they settled on her pale face. “If you are here to cause trouble, I will call security this second.”

“N-no, Gabriel, I just.. I have something for you.” Benigna reached into her purse, though she flinched when she heard him scoff, as if this was suddenly the biggest chore in the world. She glanced up at him as he slowly shook his head and made his way to her. 

“I do not want anything from you. I do not want to see your face again. Honestly, here I thought you were an actual adult, not some child chasing after the foolish fairytales of a prince and marriage.” He set a hand on her shoulder, gripped it fiercely and gave her a shove. The abrupt motion caused her to stumble back a few steps. “Get it in your head, before I have to take legal action against you.”

“Gabriel, please, I-I don’t want to marry you, I just want to tell you about-” She tried again, once again reaching into her purse. 

“Leave now before I have you tossed off of the property, and I’ll file for a restraining order against you. Maybe get you deported back to Italy!” Gabriel snapped, his fierce blue eyes making her shiver and tear up. “I never want to see you again. Come anywhere near me, my wife, or my parents and I will make you pay, I will destroy your future. I refuse to be seen with someone as low class as you. And if you do anything to try and ruin my wedding, I will do everything in my power to make sure you have no career.” 

Benigna watched helplessly as Gabriel headed back inside, the tall iron gates slammed loudly back into place. She nearly doubled over, hot tears streaming down her cheeks as she clutched the small envelope in her hands, the one containing the ultrasound of their little baby, that was now growing in her belly.

“Gabriel, please.. I can’t do this all alone..”

She returned to her dorm and curled up, her hands pressed to her slightly round belly. How had Gabriel not noticed it, not felt her belly, their child, when she had embraced him, or even now, he had not noticed it, such a change? He couldn’t have not noticed, he just couldn’t. He was a man that noticed everything, he had noticed her the first time they had had that political sciences class together. He had said that she carried herself with such confidence and grace, he couldn’t help but go and talk to her. It was a week after that, when he had taken her out to dinner, that she had begun falling for him. 

She wiped furiously at her tears, realizing that she was sobbing. He had been so kind, so good to her, he had to love her back, he just had to.. She clenched her eyes shut, her hands clutched her belly. She was only two months along. Her baby was so tiny, so new, they were growing inside of her, a part of her, a part of Gabriel.. And he hadn’t even listened to her long enough to learn about her. Or if he knew, he probably wanted nothing to do with the baby. Her baby.

Fine. He wanted to be an asshole about this? He could go ahead and marry that ‘perfect bride’ of his. Have his ‘perfect’ heir, like in a perfect house, and live a perfect wife. Let his father and mother tell him what they wanted from him, and he’d leap and do whatever they wished. 

She made herself relax, and spent a few hours collecting herself, rubbing her belly and taking the time to look at the wrinkled ultrasound picture. The picture of her little baby. Her eyes teared up as she thought of the tiny life growing inside of her, the small life she would have to protect. If Gabriel didn’t want to be a part of his child’s life, she wasn’t going to force him. No, she wasn’t sad anymore, after much thought, she was downright furious. 

She had wasted almost a year with Gabriel Agreste, a year of her life that she could never get back, and he had carelessly tossed her aside. She had known he had been from a wealthy family, old money, from what she’s heard, but that hadn't mattered to her. She hadn’t asked him for money, he’d never gotten her jewelry or any kind of gifts, she still lived in her small, cramped dorm room. 

She had thought about marriage once or twice, yes, but what kind of woman in love hadn’t? She had thought about getting a home with Gabriel, of both of them living their lives, him with his designing and her diplomatic work. She already had a job set up being a foreign service worker here in Paris. They’d work, yes, but they’d both dedicate their lives to raising their children. She saw now that those dreams were nothing but ash.

She’d wanted a marriage full of love, full of trust and devotion. Gabriel wouldn’t have given her that, she had been blind to that. It had just been sex, just things that he needed, his base urges. He had only cared about things being.. Perfect. He had even gone as far as to insult her parents, whose marriage was one Benigna admired and aimed for. One where they were married now going on forty years. They had married young, and they had had their spats, yes, but they still loved each other, they were a unit that stood firm and took care of the family, the life that they had built together.

Oh God, her parents.. What would she tell her parents? She had been hoping she and Gabriel would tell them together… 

That caused Benigna to burst into tears once again. By the end of it, when she had calmed down, she finally called that long distance call back to Italy. Upon hearing her mother’s warm voice when she picked up, she began to cry once again.

“Oh, mi Benigna, what is wrong? I am here sweetheart, whatever you need.” Her mother spoke, only concern for her distressed daughter on her mind. And her daughter told her everything, down to the very last detail.

When Beninga was met with silence after telling her tale, she had been fearful that her mother had hung up on her. But soon her mother spoke again.

“My sweet, if you want to come home, you can. You come home right away, and we’ll help you take care of your baby. Your father and I will pay for your ticket and you can come right home. We will help you with everything.” She soothed, and Benigna wished she had her mother right in front of her, to hug her tight. “We will get you the next plane ticket back here, right this second.” 

Benigna gave herself to calm down, to wipe away those tears and collect herself. She felt such warmth and love radiating from this one phone call, those simple words her mother spoke that meant so much to her. She closed her eyes and let out a long sigh.

“Mama.. I only have a few months left before I graduate. Let me finish this up first, it would be a waste to drop out with such a small stretch left to complete. Then I will fly right home to you and Papa, and I’ll have my baby. Is.. Is Papa upset?” She whispered that last question softly, her hands trembled around the phone she gripped tighter.

“Not at you, mia bella, he is more so upset at that horrible man and what he has done with you. Claiming he has no honour, among other things.” Her mother mused, and the two women shared a soft chuckle.

“I was a fool, Mama, a fool to believe in him..” She sighed as her hand once again returned to her belly, already daydreaming of holding them in her arms. “I am so foolish, to believe the words of a man who has nothing to lose and everything to gain.”

…

The months went by in a blur for Benigna. She avoided Gabriel, avoided the friends that they shared, but if she encountered them and they commented on her rounding belly, she’d merely say that she was coping with a bad breakup with a large amount of ice cream. She wasn’t going to let Gabriel anywhere near her baby. 

She would lay in bed, late at night, near tears as she tried to swallow down the hurt and the heartbreak, but those feelings still clung to her like leeches, trying their best to drain her of any happiness, to go down the path of misery. 

But she wouldn’t let it, she wouldn’t let him. Gabriel and his need to please, his need to fit in the box his parents forced him into, the box that his perfect bride was forced into. She was determined to never do that to her own child. She would give so much love to this child, more love than two parents could ever give. She would be a dedicated mother to this life that was so small, so new. She would give this child freedom to be whoever they wanted to be, to love whoever they wanted to love, though she’d step in if she knew that that person was dangerous for them. Her life would be dedicated to herself and her child, she wouldn’t give into fancy, into foolish dreams of romance without facing reality ever again. 

On the day of her graduation, she didn’t even stay after the ceremony. She flew straight home, and to her small town. The cab pulled up in front of her parent’s small home, a place of warmth and so many memories for Benigna. Her mother was out of the front door and making her way down the walkway as her daughter was getting out of the cab, a hand on her five month pregnant belly. 

When her mother embraced her, Benigna was overwhelmed by the smell of sugar and cinnamon. Her mother must have been baking before she had arrived, the realization caused warmth to spread through her.

“I have some cinnamon rolls waiting inside for you, sweetheart, and we have your room ready. Freshly cleaned bedding and fresh flowers in your room. We even cleaned out our spare room for the baby, we’re looking for a crib now.” Her mother took to the house once they had gathered up her bags, and she stepped into home and all of her worries at that moment melted away. 

“Wait, mama, hold on! I can find a crib myself, don’t worry about such things. I will get everything I need for the baby, please.” Benigna rushed over to her mother, but her mouth snapped shut when her mother held up a hand.

“Now that is enough. I am already talking with Paulo, you know, the carpenter? Well, he and his wife have a crib they are no longer using, so they said that they would give it to us. And one of our neighbours has agreed to give us her high chair, as well as..” 

Benigna listened in stunned silence as her mother went on and one about all of the things she and her father had already gotten ready for the baby. 

“What colour would you like the baby’s room to be?” Her father stepped into the front hall with them, still as tall and imposing as ever. He was a man who had worked hard all of his life for himself and his family, and he still worked hard today to keep in firm shape, despite his age. 

“Y-you two..” Benigna whispered, but felt her throat tighten as she was practically swamped by the love they were giving so unconditionally. No anger, no blame, no resentment from either. She fell into pieces as her father embraced her as she began to cry.

After she arrived home, she felt.. Better, as if a huge weight had been lifted off of her shoulders. Perhaps it was due to being in a completely different country than Gabriel, of being surrounded by love once again. 

She managed to get a part time office job. She didn’t want to start her career and have to leave right away due to her pregnancy, then motherhood. Baby steps, she needed to take baby steps with all of this.

Everyone in the town was welcoming, at least, to her face. There were a few that she had heard about, disapproving about how she was a single mother having a baby out of wedlock, though she ignored it. She wouldn’t trade this baby for all of the money in the world, wouldn’t give this baby up for a future with Gabriel, at the smallest chance of him leaving his fiancée and choosing to be with her. Which would happen when pigs flew. 

Benigna continued to stroll down the sidewalk in the center of town,  her hands full of bags of baby clothes and toys. So lost in her thoughts, Benigna didn’t even notice the man running towards her, as she began to descend some stairs, heading towards a small shop her mother had recommended for her. She swore, her mother almost more excited about the baby than herself, but only almost. The man shoved past her, shouting something in a phone he was holding to his ear. He didn’t even glance back when she cried out and fell down the steps, soon finding herself sprawled on her ground. 

“Miss! Are you okay?!” A young teen ran up to her, looking rather panicked as he knelt next to the woman. He noticed her round belly and turned abruptly to his friend. “Livia, call an ambulance!”

Benigna felt panic the entire way to her hospital, continuing to scream and cry, begging them to save her baby. The fall had only been a small tumble, but she felt pain in her stomach and had feared the worst.

It all went by in a blur, being rushed into the ER, the nurses asking her questions, the doctors, as she kept begging and begging for them to check on her baby. Before eventually, she was left to sit in a room, on a hospital bed as her hand trailed over her round belly. 

“Hello, Miss Leone.” A tall man stepped into the room then, dressed in the spotless white doctor’s coat and a clipboard in his hand. Benigna had to judge that he was a few years, a mess of dark brown hair, a handsome face and strong jaw. But what caught her attention the most was his eyes, such a fierce and soul piercing kind of green. “I am Dr. Rossi. It seems you had a bit of a spill.”

“Please, Dr. Rossi, my baby, are they safe?!” She leaned forward a bit more. The doctor saw how her hands grasped her shirt over her round belly, how they trembled as if holding on for dear life. He set a gentle hand over hers.

“You baby is fine, perfectly healthy. The worst thing you will need are the stitches they gave your forehead, and some minor scrapes and bruises. You are quite healthy as well, your scans and blood tests came back just fine. You’re fine.” He gave her hand a gentle little squeeze, as their eyes met. “Would you like me to call your husband for you, get him to pick you up?”

“O-oh, well, I’m not… Not married..” She found that her cheeks heated up, practically burned when she met the handsome doctor’s gaze, before her gaze flickered away. “I am living with my parents now. I’m.. I’m, well, alone, I guess.”

“Oh. Please forgive me for assuming, I should have asked.” He cleared his throat and took a step back, focusing his gaze on the clipboard. Wait, was he blushing? “Well, I’m going to have the nurses double check the stitches and the cuts, just to be safe, and you will be free to go.”

“Thank you, Dr. Rossi. I really appreciate it.” She pressed a hand to her belly once more, watching as he left. He paused in the doorway, looking as if he were about to say something, but chose instead to merely smile and leave her be, with a nurse coming in a few minutes later to check her over.

…

Benigna found herself bumping into Dr. Rossi on occasion during her outings in town. When they did, they’d walk and talk if they had a chance, Benigna about her goals to becoming an ambassador, and Marcello, she soon found his name was, had always dreamed of being a doctor, of helping those in need.

She found he was kind and gentle, as well as an astoundingly hilarious sense of humour. No one had made her laugh so much as he did, making her laugh to the point of tears and she was gasping for breath. She felt as if she were walking on the cloud. With the two months she spent with Marcello, Gabriel hadn’t even crossed her mind. 

All of that bliss slid away as soon as one day she arrived at the hospital, carrying a small box of pastries. The receptionist at the counter gave her a sad smile. 

“I’m guessing that he never told you. Dr. Rossi had to return to Rome, his mother’s health took a sudden turn.” She shook her head in obvious pity, before reaching out the deflating woman’s hand a gentle pat. “I’m sure he’ll be back once she is all better.”

But he didn’t come back .His time at the hospital was up, and he had taken a job at a hospital in Rome, she bet. Always choose the better option than the one from a small town. Benigna scolded herself for getting her hopes up again.

… 

Four months later, her daughter was born. Benigna held the squabbling little baby in her arms, her body drenched with sweat, in absolute agony from her labour. But seeing the tiny little girl in her arms, it was well worth it. 

“She’s so tiny, just like you were..” Her mother crooned softly, her large smile hidden behind the surgical mask she had been told to wear, rubbing her hand from when her daughter had squeezed it while giving birth. “Did you think of a name for her?”

“I was thinking.. Noemi. My little Noemi.” Benigna let out a soft sob at the sight of her little daughter, before she glanced up at her mother. “My gift, and I’ll be a better parent without him. He will never know her.”

…

“Mama, can we go to the park?” Noemi tugged on her mother’s hand, the two of them walking along the sidewalk, while the little three year old pointed frantically at the entrance to the park that they were passing. “Please, please Mama!”

“Well…” Beninga glanced down at her watch with a small frown, before she chuckled. “I suppose we can, I don’t have to be at my appointment for another few hours.” 

“Yay!” Noemi hopped alongside her mother as they made their way towards the park, the warm sun beating down on them. Benigna took a seat on a bench under the shade of a large tree, while Noemi took off, running around the playground and laughing with pure delight as she joined the other children.

“I must say, she has grown quite well. She’ll no doubt grow to be a real beauty.” 

The sudden voice behind her had the young woman jolting on the bench, before she turned and stared at the person behind her.

Dr. Rossi gave her a wry smile as he leaned against the back of the bench. His thick hair was windswept, his tall, broad figure clad in a pair of faded jeans and an old t shirt. To Benigna, he looked like the most handsome man on earth.

"Marcello.."  His name left her lips in a soft whisper as she got to her feet. Her heart began to pound wildly in her chest as her gaze met his amazingly green eyes. "I thought you were going to be staying in Rome.."

"I would have, but let's just say, a few things brought me back." He smiled and held out his hand, taking hers and kissing her knuckles. "I missed you, Benigna."

It only took a few months before the two were engaged. 

Noemi adored her father. Marcello loved his new daughter. Many in the village would see the two going to get ice cream whenever Mrs. Rossi wanted an evening to herself, or the family of three going to the park or the movies together, whenever Marcello or Benigna had time off of work. 

And two years after their wedding day, a fourth member was added to the family.

"Mimi.. Come and meet your little sister." Marcello scooped seven year old Noemi into his arms, smiling to himself as he felt her small, thin arms wrap around his neck, holding on for dear life. The two of them made their way over to the hospital bed, where a weary Benigna lay, holding a bundle in her arms.

"This is Lila, Noemi. Want to say hello?" She murmured, her lashes fluttering slightly as she felt both in extreme pain, and exhausted.

Noemi stared down at the chubby, scrunched up face of her new baby sister, her little rosebud mouth pursed, as if in deep thought, before it spilt into a wide grin.

"Hello Lila! Don't you worry, I'll be the best big sister ever!"

Taglist:  @vixen-uchiha @ravennightingaleandavatempus @2sunchild2 @crazylittlemunchkin @bee-wrecker @souleateralicestein @loysydark @kceedraws @realrandomposts @alienjoyful

[blossom-hwa]

To Bloom in the Night - JOOCHAN

I accept half the blame for this fic but the other half has to go to one casey @thepixelelf​​ both for coming up with the title and for convincing me to make this angst instead of the original pure fluff it was meant to be.... anyway casey this fic and the universe as a whole is dedicated to you because without your big brain I would not have been able to figure out all the storylines

(This is set in the same universe as weaver!Bomin, whose masterlist is linked below!! Also if you want a visual for Joochan think wannabe era like in the gif) 

Pairing: Joochan x gender neutral!reader

Genre: fluff, angst, fantasy, royalty!au

Triggers: cursing, brief mentions of death and blood (nothing graphic), one implication of abuse, asshole parents

Word Count: 24.4k

Death cannot exist without life, which is why Joochan can’t exist without you.

To Spin a Yarn | Golden Child Masterlist

Once upon a time, in a kingdom far, far away, there lived two princes bestowed with magic. They were beautiful, kind – even their parents’ hardened hearts could not break the bond between them. This was fortunate, for in one prince lay a secret that would set a rift in the family for years to come.

The second prince was blessed, a golden child. His charming face and smiling lips drew attention the second he walked into a room, and the mere sound of his voice made all those present swoon. His song was rapturous, magical – his music possessed the ability to heal the deepest wounds and soothe the coldest hearts. He was useful to his parents, the perfect heir, especially when they decided to pass over his brother, the first prince, for claim to the throne.

For this brother was said to be cursed, cursed with the magic of death rather than the blessing of life. His beauty was darker, eyes piercing where his brother’s were soft, and his song, though achingly beautiful, cleft the very wounds his brother healed and wrought pain on the soul. Despite being first born, despite having a kind heart that never wished a single person harm, the king and queen looked upon him with fear and disgust, lavishing their favor on his brother instead.

Yet despite their differences, the brothers loved each other to the fullest. The elder did not resent the younger for his freedom to sing and only encouraged his art, while the younger saw beyond the sorrow woven in his brother’s voice and into the goodness of his soul. All those who saw the pair marveled at their friendship, in the way their eyes shone whenever the other was near, and many whispered that the royal family was blessed, even if the king and queen themselves refused to see it – these two young princes, blessed with handsome looks and gentle hearts, were more than the cold-hearted rulers truly deserved.

But love, the brothers would learn, meant more than simply staying together. Sometimes a love born of shared blood was not enough to keep one by the other’s side. In time, the first prince would wither under his curse of death, unable to smile even with his brother’s golden light glowing upon his face, for not being free to use the voice he was gifted by the gods cut gashes in his heart deeper than even his brother’s song could heal. Music lived in his soul, song shimmering in his blood, but so long as he was a pariah in his own home, he could not exercise his gift for fear of bringing death upon an innocent.

(It had happened once already.)

So he sang at night, music confined to the corners of his room. His voice echoed between the thick stone walls, lachrymose, sorrowful even with the happiest of songs. He sang for only himself to hear, never daring even to open the windows unless he knew no one stood below on the blank patch of stubborn grass that somehow still managed to grow, even under the curse of his song.

Then the gardener came with their night-blooming roses, petals of the darkest midnight blue blossoming under shimmering stars. And when the first prince stepped onto the balcony to perform for a crowd of what he thought was no one, he heard, for the first time in his life, someone wholly, fully alive, singing words of healing back.

From then, night by night, the prince began to unfurl his withered leaves, darkened flowers reaching for the moon as starlight glinted on his petals. For in this duet with his night-blooming rose, the first prince learned the lesson of the gods, imparted to mortals in centuries past but lost to fear of the unknown, of the darkness beyond the sun.

Death cannot exist without life, as life cannot exist without death. They are opposite and the same, two sides of a single coin. And in this gardener of the night-blooming roses, the first prince had found the life to his death, a second half in ways even his brother, loving though he was, could not yet hope to contest.

This is the story of the first prince, marked as a curse from the age of five, who grew to learn the gift behind his melody of death when it first twined with the harmony of life.

. . . . .

Joochan’s stomach roils as he stands in front of the mirror, silently waiting for the half dozen servants scuttling around his feet to finish the last adjustments to his suit. It fits him perfectly already – he doesn’t understand what they’re still doing to the hemline of his pants or the shoulders of his shirt – but Joochan doesn’t have much knowledge about clothes. Only music.

And curses and death.

His stomach doesn’t flip this time, only sinks as he closes his eyes briefly against reminders of the magic that flows unused through his veins. They don’t fade, though, only come to the forefront of his mind even as he tries to beat them back. His magic is the reason he’s wearing this suit, after all.

“Please turn left, Your Highness,” a soft voice says. Joochan doesn’t argue, just shifts in front of the mirror, and someone goes to work on his left pant leg.

Can’t show up looking sloppy today, not when he’s about to meet the princess his parents have promised him to for the rest of his life.

Joochan bites his lip hard, probably ruining the delicate lip stain applied to make his mouth appear softer, pinker, sweeter. Already he can see one servant frowning in disapproval as she dips a brush into the pink color before swiping it lightly back over his lips. She doesn’t say anything, but Joochan bows his head in apology regardless. It softens the tightness in her lips.

It seems Joochan can’t do anything without apologizing, really. Walking too loudly, biting his lip, breathing, living, being born…

He’ll probably do something and have to apologize to the princess today, too. Trip over her skirts, maybe, or spill his drink. He’s known to be clumsy, much more so than his brother Bomin (though in his defense, he never had the same lessons in posture and deportment that Bomin did, not after they erased his claim to the throne). At least this kind of thing is easier to apologize for than the reason they’re being married.

If Joochan wasn’t so cursed, after all, his parents wouldn’t be this eager to have him shipped off so early.

And he wouldn’t be stuck in this stupid suit.

A careless needle pricks the back of his shin. He flinches. Someone murmurs an apology and he ducks his head briefly in acknowledgement. A needle in his skin is less of an issue than his tiny breakfast threatening to make an appearance on the floor –

With effort, Joochan reins himself in. Just in time, too – the servants have finally stopped crouching around his feet and begun filtering out the door, leaving only Jaehyun behind to help him into the matching coat. “Ready?” he asks, settling the fabric over Joochan’s shoulders.

Joochan relaxes a little with the warmth in Jaehyun’s voice. He only ever speaks when they’re alone for fear of someone seeing him overstep his station (which would not end happily, especially if word reached his parents), but he’s still one of Joochan’s oldest friends in the palace and Joochan knows Jaehyun cares for him, feels it in the light touches, the subtle looks, the brief nods and smiles that the servant passes him when the time is right.

With only a handful of people whom Joochan can say truly know and care for him, he treasures every spot of comfort any of them can give.

“No,” Joochan replies honestly, shrugging his shoulders under the coat. He’ll have to take it off once he reaches the tearoom, what’s the point of putting it on in the first place? “You know I don’t want this. But…”

But a lot of things, all of which Jaehyun already knows.

Jaehyun’s lips turn in sympathy. “She’ll probably be nice,” he says, dreamy voice reassuring. “I mean, she’s Donghyun’s sister. Even if you haven’t met her yet, you know he wouldn’t speak so highly of someone he didn’t care for.”

Joochan swallows. Jaehyun has a point, the same point Joochan has made to calm himself many times over the past few weeks. “Yeah,” he breathes. “I hope so.”

Before Jaehyun can say any more, a knock sounds at the door, heavy and light all at once with an energy only Joochan’s personal guard can muster. “Time to go!” Jangjun calls through the stone.

Deep breaths. Joochan clenches his fist once. Lets go. Tries to relax himself as he stares at the door.

“Joochan?”

He blinks, registering Jaehyun’s concerned face. His lips tilt into a brief smile. As bad as this might be, at least he’ll have Bomin and Jangjun there, even if Jaehyun has to stay behind. Donghyun, too. Three friends out of four will have to be enough for today.

“Sorry,” he apologizes. “I’m fine.” Reaching forward, Joochan opens the door to Jangjun’s carefully stoic face.

Jangjun raises an eyebrow at Joochan’s countenance but says nothing about it. “Ready, Your Highness?”

No.

“Yes.” Joochan bites the inside of his lip so as not to ruin the makeup again. “Let’s go.”

. . . . .

Joochan’s hands ache by the time his parents have had enough of his playing and Bomin’s voice, motioning for them to sit down and take some of the refreshment they’ve been nibbling at during the hour of music. He gladly does, settling himself on the soft chair as he nurses the tension in his forearm. His fingertips have hardened after years of playing the violin, but even after nearly two decades of playing the piano, his muscles still tense after he plays too long.

He looks to the side and his stomach flips unpleasantly, remembering why he’s here.

Donghyun’s sister sits next to him, eyes carefully fixed on the small plate placed in front of her. There isn’t much there – similar to Donghyun, then, in his bird-like appetite, unless it’s just nerves – and she doesn’t look up to face him, even when he almost meets her eyes.

Something curdles in Joochan’s stomach. She’s Donghyun’s sister and Donghyun is one of his good friends. If it were anyone else he’d been promised to, Joochan might be inclined to raise a bigger fuss, but the fact that she’s a member of Donghyun’s family keeps his lips tightly shut.

Bomin wordlessly passes him a plate of cookies. At a warning glance from his brother, Joochan takes one, breaking off a piece and putting it in his mouth. Sweet frosting crumbles between his teeth but all he tastes is sawdust.

At the other end of the table, Donghyun’s mother begins lavishing praise on Joochan’s and Bomin’s talents. She’s a sweet woman, to be sure – if Joochan were normal, he wouldn’t be so opposed to being her son-in-law – but all Joochan can think of as he gives thanks for her kind words is that his parents are forcing him to inflict his cursed little self onto Donghyun’s happy family just so they can be rid of him once and for all.

Well, it’s not as if they’re completely blameless either. The princess isn’t actually royal, just the orphaned daughter of high nobility whom the palace took in when she was young. A match like this is advantageous for them, too – the first prince of a powerful kingdom, even one passed over for the throne, is a good match indeed for one who doesn’t even have royal blood. Even the insult of marrying someone barren of magic can be overlooked.

Children are only pawns for their parents, pawns on a little chessboard where their parents play. They’ll forever be pawns until their parents die, and then they’ll become the players, using their own children as pawns in the new generation’s game of royal chess…

Joochan moodily stirs sugar into his tea. The silver spoon scrapes lightly at the bottom of the cup and he flinches slightly at the grating sound. If Donghyun’s parents knew the truth – hell, if Donghyun himself knew the truth – they probably wouldn’t be pushing this marriage so hard. They probably wouldn’t be pushing it at all.

Not for the first time, Joochan ponders the consequences of telling Donghyun or his sister the real story, the one where he isn’t devoid of magic. The one where he can sing, beautifully, even – it’s just that anything alive will drop dead after the first few bars of his song.

Well, except the grass beneath his balcony window. Joochan doesn’t know how it keeps growing, but he appreciates the effort.

Bomin pokes his side. Someone said his name.

Joochan looks up, almost spilling his tea. The cup rattles in the saucer and he winces, already feeling his mother’s subtle glare out of the corner of her carefully blank eye. “Yes?”

“Why don’t you take your fiancée for a walk in the gardens?” she asks. “Our gardens are always lovely on such a clear day.”

It’s a demand shaped as a question and Joochan doesn’t bother to dispute, only nodding briefly before taking his fiancée’s arm as they stand. “Of course.”

On his other side, Bomin makes a small fist in encouragement. Donghyun smiles from across the table. Joochan does his best to return the gestures before walking out of the tearoom with his fiancée – gods, he hates that title – on his arm, Jangjun following silently behind.

“Do you actually want a tour of the gardens?” Joochan asks when he’s sure they’re out of sight. Jangjun won’t say anything, and his parents probably don’t actually care where he really goes – they just want him away for a little, presumably to get to know his future wife. Bitterness fills his mouth – future wife – but he swallows it down. “We could go somewhere else, if you want. Anywhere, really.”

She only raises a curious eyebrow, jerking her head slightly towards Jangjun where he stands, a silent presence. Joochan understands her unspoken question and smiles, this time genuinely. “Jangjun won’t tell,” he says, glancing back at his guard. He receives a wink in response.

Something in the princess’s expression cracks with relief. Her lips curve, gaze turning brighter with careful amusement. “I almost thought you were going to be one of those suck-up princes,” she says, eyes cautiously teasing. “Thank you for proving me slightly wrong.”

Joochan raises an eyebrow. “Slightly?”

“Only time will tell the full truth.” She shrugs. Joochan appreciates her honesty. “And I wouldn’t mind seeing the gardens, actually, Your Highness. Your gardeners sing to the flowers, don’t they?” Her gaze turns curious.

“Please just call me Joochan, we’re of the same rank.” We’re going to be married soon, anyway. “And yes, they do,” Joochan confirms. It’s wondrous to watch them coax withered leaves into brightness, wilting petals into bloom, even if he himself will never be able to create such beauty. “The gardeners might be on their break right now, but if they are, I’ll see if you can listen to them sing before you leave next week.”

“Thank you.” She smiles, and in another body, in another universe, Joochan thinks he could have fallen in love with her. Donghyun’s sister seems bright for the most part – intelligent, kind, curious, with a pinch of much-appreciated mischief. Her dance was captivating earlier, and she certainly has the same appreciation for music that Joochan and Bomin do.

But Joochan would always have to hide around her, hide his song and his curse. For that reason, he can’t bring himself to contemplate even the notion of truly falling for someone around whom he’d always have to pretend to be a different person.

They walk quietly for a while, stopping under larger trees every so often to admire the flowers from the shade. She compliments his skill at violin and piano, and he admires her dance. Neither of them speaks of his supposed inability to sing. Joochan dutifully picks a small bouquet and presents it to her – all different types of tulips, her favorite (his are roses, but he doesn’t mention that) – and they keep making small conversation, all the while keeping an eye out for any gardeners tending to the blossoms.

It’s a good thing Joochan knows how to talk, because as the half hour mark ticks past, there hasn’t been a single gardener in sight. The grounds are large, of course, and many are probably still on their afternoon break, but words become harder and harder to find and Joochan is almost ready to suggest turning back when they round a corner to see a solitary figure bent over a bush of roses, softly singing to the blooms.

No matter how many times Joochan has listened to those with healing music breathe their magic into plants, the scene never grows old in his mind. Listening to your song, watching the pink roses unfurl their petals under the sunlight, Joochan almost forgets the lady on his arm. It doesn’t matter, anyway – Donghyun’s sister stands just as still as he, gaze fixed on the sight.

If only he could inspire such life.

Too soon, the song ends. Joochan blinks, clearing himself of the daze of your music, and Donghyun’s sister sighs softly at his side, eyes sparkling with rapture. He’s about to suggest quietly that they move on so as not to disturb you from your work, but you turn around first.

Joochan balks as your eyes widen, taking in his dyed pink hair just before you sink to one knee, respectfully bowing your head. “Your Highnesses,” you murmur softly.

Your spoken voice is as beautiful as your song.

“Please rise,” he replies, smiling. The ever-present ache in his heart seems to have relaxed slightly with the sound of your music. “We were only listening to your song. You sing beautifully.”

“You really do,” his fiancée echoes. “Wondrous.”

A flustered smile lifts the corners of your lips and you duck your head, bowing once more. “Thank you, Your Highnesses. I am honored at your praise.”

“Are you new?” Joochan asks on impulse. “I apologize, I just haven’t seen you around before. What is your name?”

You nod. “Yes, Your Highness. I only began work a few days ago. My name is Y/N.”

“Well, Y/N, I hope you have been properly welcomed into your employment.” Joochan smiles. “My fiancée and I should be going so we won’t disturb you further, but thank you for gracing us with your voice.”

The smile on your face grows wider. “The pleasure was all mine. Thank you for gracing me with your presence.”

Joochan turns away, Donghyun’s sister following on his arm. Grass rustles behind them as you presumably get back to work. “That was amazing,” she whispers, eyes still rapturous.

“I know.” Joochan shakes his head. “Every time I see it, I still can’t believe my eyes.”

They lapse into compatible silence once more, quietly admiring the flowers on all of their sides. Joochan peers at a new bush of roses, studying the white petals, when Donghyun’s sister stops beside him. He looks up. “Is something the matter?”

“Oh, no.” She smiles, pointing ahead at an empty patch of grass underneath a tall balcony.

Joochan’s heart freezes. How did he not realize they were coming through this way, under his own rooms?

Too late, he realizes Donghyun’s sister is waiting for a response. “I’m sorry, what did you say?”

“I was just noticing that the garden was slightly empty up there.” She points again briefly. “Is there a reason for it?”

The lie, though bitter, falls quickly from his lips. “Oh, for some reason, things don’t seem to grow well over there other than the grass.” He shrugs, hoping his words don’t tremble. “The gardeners can’t figure out why. They’ve tried everything.”

His fiancée looks mystified, but she accepts the explanation without further questions. Silence falls again and stretches until they return to the tearoom, ready to face cautious siblings and eager parents once more.

. . . . .

“So?” Bomin raises an eyebrow as he and Joochan enter their shared hallway, pausing in front of his room. He looks around, but no one’s there. Jangjun got held up a couple minutes ago, and Bomin has carefully placed himself where no other guards will hear him if he speaks quietly. “What did you think of her?”

Joochan studies a crack in the stone wall. “She was nice. I liked her.”

Even without looking, Joochan can tell Bomin’s second eyebrow has risen. Why they don’t look strange against his brother’s ashy dyed hair, Joochan doesn’t know, but Bomin somehow looks good in everything. Even dark eyebrows against grey-white hair.

“Not in that way, though.”

Joochan doesn’t refute Bomin’s statement. His brother is even more perceptive than he despite his younger age – after so many years growing up alongside each other, Bomin picks up on Joochan’s nuances of language and action more easily than Joochan himself realizes. He just shrugs.

Bomin sighs. He doesn’t say anything, but one look at his carefully schooled expression reveals the apology coating his tongue. It doesn’t fall, of course, because Joochan told Bomin to stop apologizing years ago, but the impulse is still there.

Joochan almost smiles. At times like this, even Bomin isn’t so difficult to read. “It’s not your fault,” he says, words slipping off his tongue with deceptive ease.

“Still.” Bomin bites his lip, smudging the thin sheen of lip stain that’s somehow still there after the entire day. “I just…” He sighs. “I don’t know. I just want you to be happy.”

“I am happy.” As if to prove it, Joochan widens his lips into a smile and forces his eyes to crinkle in a way that sometimes (rarely) manages to fool his brother. “At least, I might be. In the future. You know.” His lips curl in mischief. “Might fall madly in love with Donghyun’s sister after she saves me from an assassin’s knife, like those –”

A hand covers Joochan’s mouth before he can go on. He smiles behind Bomin’s fingers anyway, a real smile, because Bomin’s ears are red and nothing delights Joochan more than flustering his younger brother.

“We don’t mention those books,” Bomin hisses, face flushed. “Right?”

Joochan licks his hand and laughs at his brother’s cry of disgust. “I didn’t mention them,” he teases, mouth free. “I only hinted.”

“I hate you.” The way Bomin’s hiding a smile, though, confirms that his words are just a lie. “You absolute insufferable menace. I’m going to suffocate you with a pillow.”

“That is, unless a brave princess saves me from my evil brother –”

Joochan dodges Bomin’s swipe, cackling, before skipping over to his door and darting inside. After a second, he pops his head back out. “Goodnight!”

A grumbled “goodnight” follows with the sound of a second closing door, and then Joochan is left to feel the smile slide off his lips as he faces the stone walls of his room.

Alone.

Joochan swallows, staring at the darkened night outside his windows. The stars glitter, moonlight just beginning to seep onto the cold floor.

Already he knows it will be a sleepless night.

He goes through the motions, answers the door to Jaehyun’s light knock and allows his servant to help him undress. Jaehyun doesn’t ask much – maybe Joochan’s expression isn’t as neutral as he thought – but squeezes his arm slightly before he heads back out, closing the door behind him with a low thud. Joochan blows out the lantern on his desk with a practiced puff of breath, crawls into bed, and closes his eyes even though he knows it won’t do anything.

Sure enough, when the palace clocks strike midnight, Joochan is still wide awake. He heaves a sigh, rolling over one more time in a last ditch effort to fall asleep.

No use.

Joochan swings his legs out of bed. Using the moonlight as a beacon, he feels his way over to his desk and picks up the violin and bow sitting on top of all of his books and music. He plays a few quick scales before settling the instrument more firmly beneath his chin and turning to the window.

He wants to sing. Aches to. The longer he stands by his desk, staring out the balcony, the more he feels the urge as though the moonlight itself tugs at his heart, the way it does to the tides.

So he does. The walls of his room are thick for a reason – if no one can hear him playing his violin so late at night, no one will hear his voice, either. He draws the bow over the strings, fingers plucking in practiced motions as he raises his voice with the highs and lows in a wordless melody, achingly beautiful even to his own ears, a song of sorrow and pain under the darkness of night.

When he finishes, he’s somehow migrated to the balcony window, staring out at the barren garden below. The hand holding his bow reaches out, touches the cool glass.

No one will be out so late, not tonight. In just four days, there will be a grand ball celebrating his engagement – everyone will be catching up on sleep tonight before three days of rapid preparation. Guards have never been posted under his balcony for safety reasons (their safety, not his – Joochan honestly thinks his parents would be fine if he dropped dead), and gardeners don’t work at night until they’re tending the night-blooming flowers, none of which are in this stretch of garden. So Joochan shifts the glass aside, letting in a cool breeze that rustles his abandoned blankets and ripples through his nightshirt, and steps into the night air.

Joochan raises the bow once more, bringing it to the strings as he lets his voice loose, singing to silent audience as he leans into the violin like a lifeline. His song carries in the soft breeze, fading beyond the trees, but Joochan doesn’t care if his song merely disappears into the air instead of echoing in a tearoom, in a shrine, in a concert hall. So long as he can convince himself there is an audience listening that isn’t just him, convince himself that people can hear and love his voice as he draws his bow over the violin strings, he will be content, at least in this moment.

His song begins a crescendo and he closes his eyes, sparkling stars and the waxing moon splashed like a mural across his eyelids. His throat strains to keep the melody and he reaches the highest note, slowly, slowly climbing back down as a smile spreads across his face –

The violin almost falls from his hands when a voice begins singing back.

Someone is singing back. Meaning – someone heard his song – and they are not dead and somehow singing back –

Joochan stumbles backward, almost falling into his room. He catches himself on the side of the balcony window, shoulder throbbing where he hit it against the stone, but he can’t even register the pain because someone is down there and heard him singing and gods, maybe they’re about to die and Joochan will have killed a second person in his short life, two people, two people too many –

The song continues. Softer, yes, but deliberately so, not weakened by a failing heart or incoming death. It continues, smooth like starshine, coaxing, beautiful…

It doesn’t stop.

Step by step, Joochan walks forward and peers over the balcony edge. In the moonlight, he catches a glimpse of roses beneath the stone platform – yes, roses, midnight blue roses of Joochan’s favorite variety that only blooms at night – blossoming under his balcony which means they somehow survived the curse of his voice.

And not just them.

Someone steps out from directly under the balcony into Joochan’s line of vision. A vaguely familiar figure with a vaguely familiar voice – no, not vaguely, an entirely memorable voice from just hours before –

Y/N.

Wide, shocked eyes meet Joochan’s directly in the moonlight, confirming his suspicions. His heart leaps into his throat and stays there as you stare at each other, a prince and a gardener, one with a cursed voice and the other seemingly unaffected by it – unaffected by it, which should be impossible –

Too late, Joochan remembers that his face is memorable if not for the fact that he is a member of royalty, then by his head of dyed pink hair. Which means you can recognize him. His feet stumble back into the room and he all but crashes into the side of the balcony before managing to shove the window in place. He nearly crushes his hand and violin between glass and stone before he slides to the floor, head thudding painfully against the stone wall.

You know.

You know.

You – a simple gardener, wholly new to the palace – know now from his stupid face and pink hair that he has a curse that wilts flowers and kills people and yet somehow – somehow your voice is strong enough to make withered roses bloom once more and even more importantly, somehow you didn’t die upon hearing his song.  

Joochan doesn’t get a wink of sleep that night.

. . . . .

Jaehyun walks into Joochan’s room the next morning and upon seeing his face asks, “What happened to you?”

Joochan just groans and covers his face with a pillow. It’s day two of Donghyun’s family’s visit and he has to be up for meetings and showing his fiancée around and whatnot, but he knows he has to look like death after an entire night of racing thoughts and zero sleep. “Do I look that bad?”

In reply, Jaehyun goes and finds a small army of servants skilled in the underappreciated art of makeup who spend over an hour dispelling the gray from his skin and bringing back the slightest shade of color to his face.

It probably helps, at least somewhat. But even Jangjun, who normally can keep a neutral expression during the worst situations, makes a face when Joochan walks out the door. “Did you sleep at all last night?” he asks quietly as they set off down the hall.

“Some,” Joochan says truthfully. He did drift off sometime toward dawn. But there was less than an hour between then and Jaehyun waking him up again, so it doesn’t count for much.

Jangjun raises a disbelieving eyebrow but only follows Joochan down the hall to breakfast.

All day long, Joochan itches to run away. Not from the palace, not exactly (he’s been wanting to do that since he was a teenager, that’s nothing special), but to the garden grounds where he knows he has the best chance of finding you.

But of course there’s no time, no time at all. Immediately after breakfast he’s whisked off to Sungyoon for the morning lessons Joochan can barely pay attention to. Lunch is barely a moment in passing before Soojung takes him for his afternoon classes, then Jangjun is depositing him in front of the grand ballroom for a special partner dancing lesson with Donghyun’s sister because of course, at their engagement ball, they will be expected to dance. Together.

Joochan tries, he really does. He keeps his hands in place on his fiancée’s waist, doesn’t twitch when she puts her hand on his shoulder. He’s a fair dancer – of course Youngtaek will find areas to critique, but he’s literally a court musician and the dance instructor – but today he trips over skirts and feet and who can blame him when every unexplained sound is a knock at the door summoning him to his parents, who will then ask how he was so careless as to let a simple gardener learn his secret?

And then what would they do to you?

“I’m sorry,” he apologizes over and over to his fiancée as he finally walks out of the ballroom, Youngtaek sick of dealing with him for the day. “I’m sorry, I’m really so sorry about everything –”

“Relax, Your – Joochan. It’s fine,” she says, smiling lightly. He feels even worse – somehow, she can still muster the strength to give him a smile while he can’t even focus on an hour or two of dance. Dance is her magic, her calling, just as Joochan’s is his voice, and she’s already toning down her skill for him – why can’t he concentrate enough to respect that?

“Hey, I’m serious.” Her voice pulls Joochan out of his thoughts again. “Did you sleep at all last night? From what Donghyun said, it isn’t like you to act this way.”

A bitter laugh almost leaves Joochan’s lips but he swallows it away, opting to just sigh instead. “I sometimes have trouble sleeping.” It isn’t a lie. “Last night… was just a little worse than usual.”

She falls silent, then, lips turning down as she undoubtedly tries to process the meaning behind Joochan’s words. He panics. “It’s not – not anything to do with you!” Stupid, stupid, stupid! “I just – sometimes I start thinking and I can’t stop –”

“Joochan!” Two hands fall on his shoulders and Joochan shuts up as Donghyun’s sister stares him dead in the eyes. “Joochan, really. Calm down. It’s fine. You’re fine. I’m fine. Okay?” She smiles again. “One bad day doesn’t mean anything.”

He swallows. “Sorry.”

She waves his words away. “Stop apologizing, I already said it’s fine.” Her gaze is full of concern. “Maybe take some time to rest and relax this evening? I think you need it.”

This evening. Joochan blinks. There’s nothing planned for this evening, at least as far as he knows. Just dinner with Donghyun’s family, then nothing…

This might be the only time he can go to see you.

“Rest,” Joochan echoes. “Yeah.” He swallows, knowing full well he’ll be doing anything but that. “Thank you.”

. . . . .

The minute the excruciatingly long dinner is over and he’s excused himself to rest (even his parents don’t argue, which says a lot about his appearance), Joochan takes off down the halls, walking fast, fast, faster until he’s running –

“Your Highness!”

Why did he ever think he could outrun Jangjun?

Joochan stops because there’s no point in trying to leave his guard in the dust. Jangjun catches up quickly, barely panting, and fixes him with a stare. “Asshole,” he hisses, eyes crinkling with slight amusement. Then they turn serious. “Where are you going?”

Jangjun knows. When he was given the position of Joochan’s personal bodyguard, he was fully briefed on everything about Joochan, including his curse. Joochan trusts Bomin above all, but Jangjun is a close second. For this reason, he considers telling Jangjun the truth.

No. Joochan clenches his fist, nails biting into his palm. Not now, at least. He needs to clear this up first – it’s his fault, after all. He’ll only consider bringing Jangjun into this if things grow exponentially worse.

Hopefully, they won’t.

“The gardens,” Joochan says shortly. “Don’t follow me. Please.”

Jangjun’s eyes narrow. “You’re not being blackmailed, are you?”

“No!” Joochan shakes his head quickly. “No, not at all.”

“No secret meetings, no rendezvous with anyone other than the princess?”

Joochan groans, face turning pink. “No, Jangjun.”

“I’m following,” Jangjun decides. Joochan opens his mouth to argue, but his guard cuts him off. “I’ll stay far enough that I won’t hear what you say, if you end up saying anything. You won’t see me either. But if you think I’m going to leave you alone when you’re acting like this, you’re crazy.”

Well, it’s better than it could’ve been. Joochan nods tightly. “Fine.”

They exit the palace and Jangjun slips into the shadows, unseen even though Joochan knows he’s there. He tries not to sprint into the gardeners’ sheds, but he still gets there too fast.

One of his hands rises to knock on the door of the largest shed. He prays you’re inside.

A gardener – Joochan thinks his name is Seungmin – opens the door. Immediately his eyes widen and he swings the shed fully open, sinking down to one knee. “Your Highness.”

Joochan tries to peer around Seungmin into the shed, but a few large tables piled high with plants and tools block his vision. “Please rise,” he says quickly. “I’m sorry to interrupt you as you all are leaving for the night, but I just wanted to speak to one gardener. Privately. Um, their… their name is Y/N?”

Seungmin blinks. “Of course,” he says quickly, though his eyes burn with suppressed curiosity. He ducks back into the shed. “Y/N!”

“Just a moment!” you call back from further inside.

Panic rises in Joochan’s throat at the sound of your voice, so sweet and smooth and healing, everything his isn’t. What if you’ve already told someone? What if you run away just on seeing his face?

What if you’re afraid of him?

Footsteps pad on the floor of the shed and then you push past Seungmin, looking around in apprehension. Your eyes meet.

And you freeze.

Seungmin dithers by the door, looking unsure what to do. Joochan does his best to give him a smile. “Please leave us.”

He disappears into the shed. The door shuts.

Alone with you, Joochan is struck with two realizations.

One: you look about as haggard as he does. Which means you know or at least suspect something is up with him.

Two: he has no idea what he wants to say.

Oh, gods. Joochan fights the urge to bury his face in his hands. Why did he ever think this was a good idea? Why did he even think to try and find you? If he’d just left you alone, would you have just lost your suspicion naturally? Why did he confirm things by coming here? What does he do and what does he say?

You cut his thoughts off by dropping to your knees. Joochan steps back in shock.

“Please, Your Highness.” Your voice, previously so sweet and clear, now trembles with anxiety and fear. Joochan swallows, shame and repulsion building in his heart.

Since when did he learn to inspire such terror?

“I apologize.” Your words shake as you prostrate yourself on the ground. “I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have been there, I shouldn’t have been trying to plant the flowers at night – I didn’t know, I won’t tell, I swear by all the gods –”

Joochan falls to his knees on impulse, reaching out towards you. You flinch away. Hurt blooms in Joochan’s chest but he lowers his hand – he is repulsive, after all, a prince marked by death itself. He shouldn’t be surprised you feel the same way as he thinks.

Even if it hurts.

“I’m not here to punish you,” Joochan says, voice surprisingly steady. “Not at all, I swear. I just –” he swallows – “I just need to know how much you know…?” He winces at the uncertainty in his tone. Even now, he still doesn’t know what to say. “Actually, is there a more private place where we can speak?”

Your eyes widen. Joochan balks. “No – I – I’m not trying to take you somewhere else where I can hurt you,” he frantically explains. “It’s just – I just –”

You cut him off by pointing to a small copse of trees. “There,” you suggest, still looking like your heart wants to beat out of your chest. “We can speak… there? Your Highness.”

Joochan almost holds out a hand for you to take before he remembers that would probably make you feel even more uncomfortable. Instead, he lowers his half-raised arm before standing and following you to the trees. “Thank you,” he mumbles.

Hidden in the foliage, you look a little more relaxed, as though in your natural element. Joochan envies how easily you shift between the trees. “Is there… something more you wanted to say to me, Your Highness?”

Your voice still shakes. Joochan tries not to cry. How can he convince you that he really has no intention to do you any harm, that he just needed to come and see for himself how much you knew?

He takes a deep breath. “Did you tell anyone?”

You shake your head vehemently. “Not a soul. And I was alone that night.”

Relief replaces a touch of the anxiety welling in his heart. “May I ask why you were there?”

“I just saw that that part of the garden was more or less empty,” you say. “I thought it would be nice to plant something there, and night-blooming roses are my favorite, so I…” You trail off. “I didn’t realize there was a reason for that. No one – no one told me I wasn’t supposed to be there –”

“It’s not your fault,” Joochan says automatically. “If no one told you, then you can’t be blamed. I’m at fault, mostly.” He looks down. “I shouldn’t have opened my window, I just didn’t think anyone would be outside that night.” A lump rises in his throat. “I can’t sing around most people, you know.”

Silence falls. Joochan starts to panic again. He said too much, definitely said too much – why did he even say that last bit, what was the point –

“Most?”

He lifts his head. “I’m sorry?”

“You said most people.” Your eyes brighten slightly with curiosity. “Are there any who can…?”

Joochan swallows as his earliest memory surfaces. His breath catches and he shoves the recollection away. “No, just you,” he whispers.

“Are you sure? It could just be that your magic only withers plants, I might not be –”

“It’s just you,” Joochan snaps.

Silence falls. Joochan takes a deep breath. He tries not to think of his disastrous first and only singing lesson but that just makes the image more vivid – his instructor’s smile freezing, legs buckling, hand coming up to clutch his heart as blood trickles from his lips –

“Your Highness?”

With effort, Joochan jerks himself out of his daze. He looks at his hands, almost expecting to see his instructor’s blood dripping rivulets down his palms, but there’s nothing. “I’m sorry,” he chokes hoarsely. “Please don’t press it. It’s just you.”

You bow your head. “I apologize.”

Quiet fills the air once more. Joochan is pretty sure the conversation is over. “I’m sorry for taking up your time when you were probably getting ready to go home.” He tries to smile. “I’ll leave you now, I know you must be tired after a long day. I apologize for any anxiety I have caused you. Just please, don’t tell anyone, because then I don’t know…” Panic crawls up his throat. “I don’t know what would happen to me or you.”

“Never.” You shake your head. “I’ll keep my silence. And I apologize for any anxiety I have caused you, Your Highness.” You look down. “I should have asked before deciding to do what I did. Speaking of… would you like the roses to be taken away? I could –”

“No!” Joochan flushes with his sudden outburst. Check yourself, Joochan. “No, please don’t,” he continues more softly. “I like them there, if you have the time to keep tending them.”

The small, genuine smile that creeps up your face nearly makes Joochan take a step back. Even as the sky grows darker, moonlight replacing the last rays of the sun, your eyes seem to glow in the deepening night, sparkling softly almost like the night-blooming roses you’ve planted beneath his balcony. “It’s my job, Your Highness.” You bow slightly. “I am honored to serve.”

Joochan feels a smile widen his lips slightly, glowing in the light of your own. “Thank you.”

. . . . .

The rest of the week comes and goes. Joochan puts on a blithe smile, escorts his fiancée anywhere they need to go, dances with her at the ball like a dutiful future husband. He tries to enjoy his time with Donghyun, who’s the only person from the delegation that he’s really happy to see, and when his family eventually leaves at the end of the week, there’s a little bit of genuine sadness at their departure.

It doesn’t match up to the utter relief at not having to pretend anymore, though.

So Joochan settles back into his normal life, deciding to make the most of the next few months alone without fiancées or future in laws, just his blood brother and two friends. His parents seem satisfied with how he conducted himself during his engagement bar the first couple of days, and Joochan slowly slips out of notice as their attention returns to Bomin’s upcoming kingship.

That’s one side effect of Joochan’s semi-exile from royal life that he doesn’t mind. The pressure of being the crown prince, having to act the perfect child even when he wants to do nothing but scream… sure, Joochan doesn’t actually scream when that happens (not until he can bury his face in his pillow, at least), but he has a little more freedom to act out than Bomin does.

Good thing Bomin has always been a good actor.  

But with Bomin’s busy schedule, Joochan has less time to talk to him. And he has so much he wants to talk about – mostly about the marriage, yes, which still turns his stomach every time it’s mentioned, but also other things. Inane things. Stuff like how Soojung could be a little less sarcastic when he’s forgotten a math concept or how the flowers in the garden have begun to fully bloom.

More specifically, the flowers just under Joochan’s own balcony.

They’re growing well. Joochan doesn’t know how many nights you’ve spent tending to them over the past couple of weeks, but the bushes of midnight blue seem to be growing even faster than they usually do. The last time he took a walk through, the buds were just appearing. That was a week ago. He didn’t see you then. In fact, he hasn’t actually seen you since the night you two spoke.

Which is normal. Gardeners don’t usually interact with princes, and Joochan himself doesn’t spend as much time as he’d like walking through the grounds. Besides, not all gardeners have shifts at the same time. But Joochan kind of wishes he could hear your voice again, if only for your song to soothe his mind.

He doesn’t dare go out onto the balcony anymore, though. If you’re working on the roses, it’s entirely possible that someone else might be with you on any given night, singing to the blooms. The flowers would die. And just because you’re somehow immune to his song doesn’t mean anyone else will be.

Joochan does not want to test that out.

So he keeps singing to himself within the thick walls of his stony room to an audience of his furniture and books. He sings more often these nights – life feels a little more barren with a lack of Bomin’s presence and the knowledge of his marriage hanging over his head – but he won’t go out onto the balcony. Not again.

Until a bouquet of roses is delivered to his room.

Once every week or two, gardeners and servants switch out the flowers around the palace. Joochan likes to keep a vase on his desk, usually some variety of roses, and it’s always nice to see a new bouquet replacing the wilted flowers of the past week, their faint scent perfuming the air.

When he walks into his quarters after a long day to see a bunch of midnight blue roses streaked with white sitting on his desk, clustered in a delicate vase, Joochan doesn’t think much of it. He smiles a little – of all roses, the night-blooming ones are his favorite type – but they don’t seem to signify anything deeper until he sees a tiny piece of something white poking out from behind the petals.

It’s a bit of ripped paper. Eyebrows furrowed, Joochan unfolds it.

You are still welcome to sing, you know. No one comes with me - they all seem to think I have some magic touch.

Then, almost as an afterthought:

You have a beautiful voice.

The note isn’t signed, but only one person could have sent it.

Joochan’s chest tightens the longer he clutches the note. You sent him roses, roses from the bushes underneath his balcony – maybe you were even the one who placed the vase on his desk – and left a note, too, a note that welcomes him to sing during the night when you are there.

You have a beautiful voice.

His stomach flips when he reads the line again, but not in the same way it always flips at the mention of his engagement. It feels lighter, sweeter, nervous but almost playful.

It feels nice.

But he still doesn’t dare go onto the balcony and start singing unannounced, so that night, he heads to the garden instead of standing above. Jangjun doesn’t stand guard at night, and it’s much easier to get past the night guard than to get past him. He waits by the rose bushes nervously, knowing there will be many questions if someone somehow catches him.

You appear after the moon has risen. From the way you start, Joochan gathers you didn’t expect him to actually be here on the grass, waiting for you on land instead of on his balcony above. Still, you take it in stride, bowing low as you approach. “Your Highness.”

“Y/N.” He nods slightly. “Thank you for the flowers.”

At that, you smile. “I thought you might like them.”

“I did, very much.” Joochan looks away, fiddling with his shirt sleeves. “I… saw your note. I appreciated that too.”

Your smile grows more hesitant, but it doesn’t disappear. “I apologize if I was too forward, Your Highness.” You swallow visibly. “It’s just that… forgive me for my presumption. I couldn’t live without my song. I can’t imagine how it feels for you.”

Pain, a pain that cuts even deeper than Bomin’s ability to heal. It can be soothed by another’s song, but only singing himself can truly heal it. Joochan barely knows how to describe the feeling – it’s been present ever since he can remember. But he doesn’t say any of that. “Thank you for your sympathy,” he says, trying to smile. “And for trying to understand.”

“Of course, Your Highness.” Your smile heals Joochan almost as much as your song.

The conversation lapses into silence, then. You turn to the flowering bushes, pruning some of the longer tendrils and singing softly to the growing buds that have begun to open slightly under the influence of your magic. Joochan sits down against the palace wall and closes his eyes, listening to your soft melodies fill the air –

“I gave you the note with the intention of you singing, Your Highness.”

Joochan’s eyes fly open to see you looking at him, a teasing smile lifting the corners of your mouth. “You came here to sing, didn’t you?”

“But the roses,” he protests. “They’ll die.”

“And I can bring them back,” you counter. “Sing, Your Highness.” Your gaze softens. “It will help.”

Joochan doesn’t know how you know his pain, or even a semblance of it. Your magic heals, doesn’t kill – that means something else must have happened for you to understand a fraction of what he feels. Somehow you do know, though, and Joochan feels more compelled to listen to you than his own doubts when you say that it will help.

He leans back again and hums a brief melody, warming up his throat. Immediately the leaves closest to him begin to shrivel at the edges and he almost stops, but you hum a bar of your own, perfectly mixing your voice with Joochan’s song. You nod, still clipping leaves, and Joochan continues with your encouragement.

The song starts and finishes quietly, Joochan not wanting to disrupt your work too much, but his heart feels lighter by the time he closes his mouth around the last bars. The roses look no worse for wear – your soft humming, barely audible beneath Joochan’s quiet song, seems to have sustained them – and you wear a soft smile on your face that fairly glows under the moonlight. “That was beautiful,” you praise.

Joochan feels blood rush up to his ears. “Thank you, but I never had any formal training,” he says, dipping his head. “I’m nowhere near your level.”

“I know.” Your eyes twinkle when he looks over at you in surprised confusion. “I can tell you haven’t had lessons. It’s something in…” You pause, contemplating a rose. “Something in your technique. It’s a little lacking.” You look up from the bloom. “But regardless, your voice has a very raw power. That can’t be learned. If you had any training at all, I think you might sing as well as your brother, Your Highness.”

“You’ve heard him sing?” Joochan tries not to feel jealous.

You hum a short melody to a bud, which eagerly responds to your song. “Once or twice, at festivals.” Your gaze turns to him, still teasing. “I watched you play your instruments at those same festivals too, you know.”

Joochan flushes again. Was he that obvious?

From the glint in your eye and the restrained smile on your lips, the answer is yes. Thankfully, you don’t push it. “Would you sing again?” you ask instead. “Your voice truly is wonderful, Your Highness.”

Courage bursts in Joochan’s chest and he opens his mouth. “Will you teach me to sing?”

You blink. “You already know how to sing? Your Highness.”

“You said my technique was lacking.” Joochan plays with several blades of grass nervously. “Could you give me pointers? Or at least tell me what you think is the problem?”

“I – Your Highness, I’m not a professional.” Moonlight shines on your face, uncertainty now painted across your lips. “I mean – I just – I don’t want to say anything wrong –”

“If you really don’t want to, you don’t have to,” Joochan cuts in, already feeling regret for asking. His fingers wrap around a blade of grass. It comes away in his hand. “But…”

You cock your head, listening cautiously.

His voice grows small. “You’re the only one who can listen to me without dying.”

Silence falls after his admission. Joochan doesn’t dare look at you for fear of pity or rejection in your eyes.

“I… will try.” You meet Joochan’s wide eyes, uncertainty still present in your own. “I mean, I’ll do it, Your Highness.”

Joochan almost reaches out to touch your arm, touch your hand, anything in thanks, but he restrains himself. You’re already probably uncomfortable enough. “If you really don’t want to, I won’t force you,” he repeats, despite the hope filling his chest.

“No, I want to.” Uncertainty fades in favor of a gentle smile. “I’ll do it, Your Highness.”

“Thank you,” Joochan breathes. “Thank you so much.”

“It is my honor,” you reply, dipping your head. When you raise it, there’s a twinkle in your eye. “Now sing, yes? I can’t critique you without a song.”

Joochan has never opened his mouth faster.

. . . . .

With you so uncertain, Joochan wasn’t honestly expecting too much from you as a vocal instructor. You seemed so hesitant about the whole affair – he only really hoped for a few basic tips every now and then. Maybe, as he just got more used to singing, he would get better naturally.

But that first night, you give him a lesson, a whole lesson like the ones his paid instructors give. Open your mouth a little more, Your Highness, close it here. Hey, try a falsetto – see, it sounds much better like that, right? Don’t strain your throat too much, Your Highness. Your voice doesn’t only come from the throat, it comes from the body. Use your chest – yes, that’s it. You’ll have to practice this more on your own, but don’t be discouraged if you don’t get it in one night. It took me weeks to master it.

You’re a good teacher. Really good. Joochan would even hazard to say you’re better than some of the royal tutors and instructors he’s had over the years, and by the time the moon has fully risen and you decide it’s been long enough, Joochan feels like he’s soaring among the stars.

“Remember to practice,” you remind him before you part that night. “I may be the instructor, but it’s your voice.”

He does. Night after night, on those evenings he doesn’t steal away to the gardens to meet with you, Joochan runs through his scales and the vocal exercises you gave him the last time. He scribbles notes, questions, reminders on scraps of paper that he hides in his drawers but shows you on those lovely nights under the moon and stars, singing for you and the roses to hear.

“You’re dedicated,” you say one evening, smiling. “If I were a full-time instructor, I think I’d be blessed to have you as a student, Your Highness.”

Joochan colors at your praise. It makes him feel like one of the roses you tend, blossoming under the sound of your warm voice. “I have a good teacher,” he replies, focusing hard on one of the blooms to avoid your eyes. It’s fully open, silky petals spread wide under the moon. Little stripes of white sparkle like stars on the midnight blue. “How are you so good at this? Who taught you?”

For several seconds, you don’t reply. It’s long enough that Joochan looks up, heart beating uncertainly in his chest. Did he say something wrong? “I’m sorry, you don’t have to answer if it’s not something –”

“No, it’s okay.” You swallow, not even noticing you interrupted him (the first time you did, Joochan had to reassure you over and over that it was completely fine). Joochan stays still as your lips thin, eyes trained on the bud you’ve been coaxing open. “My father taught me.”

Your father. From the forced flatness in your tone, Joochan gathers there’s something more behind your words. He stays silent, waiting to see if you’ll continue.

You do. “My mother died giving birth to me, so it was just me and my father for as long as I can remember.” Your smile doesn’t look like a smile, more of a pained gash across your face. Involuntarily, Joochan shudders. “He was a real vocal instructor. Taught me most of what I know of healing, and all that I know of singing.”

Snip. Joochan flinches as a leaf goes fluttering to the ground, cut off by your shears.

“He died when I was eighteen,” you say bluntly, shears held in a vice grip. “Without him, I came to the capital to… you know. Try my luck. I was always a better gardener than a physical healer, so I worked at some of the noble estates before someone recommended me here.”

So that’s the pain. Joochan clenches his fist. That’s the pain that helped you understand even vaguely how he feels, unable to release his song. Different types of pain, yes, but similar in intensity.

He tries to imagine what it would be like to lose Bomin, Jangjun, Jaehyun. Knives seem to dig into his chest.

Your pain is probably even more intense.

“And, well.” Your voice interrupts Joochan’s thoughts. He looks up as you shrug, smile sardonic. “Here I am.”

Joochan swallows, picking at the grass. He knows how empty his words will sound before he even says them. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologize, it wasn’t your fault.” Your smile is understanding, though, even in its sadness. A bit of a teasing tone finds its way into your voice. “You sure apologize a lot, don’t you, Your Highness?”

Hearing the mischief in your words, Joochan would normally feel a smile beginning to creep up his own face. This time, though, a little needle wedges itself into his ribs, deep enough to wound even if not enough to kill.

You’re right. He does apologize a lot. It’s kind of hard to stop when he’s been made to apologize for his entire existence.

“I apologize.”

Joochan looks up at your words. You hold his gaze, unflinching. “I apologize,” you repeat again. “I assumed a level of familiarity that we haven’t reached yet.” This time, you look away. “I shouldn’t have said that.”

“It’s not –” Joochan swallows. “It’s not about familiarity. It’s… other things.”

He catches the exact moment your eyes widen, the exact moment you understand. Your mouth twists and you look away again, though Joochan sees shame in the thin press of your lips. “I understand,” you reply softly. “I’m sorry, Your Highness.”

“It isn’t your fault,” he says automatically, the same way he does to Bomin. The words leave a bitter aftertaste – it never gets easier, absolving people of blame they never even incurred. His mind searches for a way to change the topic. He’s good at that. “As for familiarity…”

You raise an eyebrow. “Hm?”

An idea pops into his thoughts, an idea he’s been toying with for a while but that he was too shy to suggest. “Don’t call me Your Highness anymore,” he says boldly. “Just call me Joochan.”

It takes a moment for you to process, but then you scoff. “You’re funny, Your Highness.”

“Joochan.”

“Your Highness.”

Unconsciously, he pouts. “You were the one who brought up the topic of familiarity,” he points out. “Shouldn’t you be happy about this?”

“Ever heard of too much of a good thing?” you retort, putting down your shears. “Too much familiarity won’t mean good things for either me or you, Your Highness.”

“Joochan,” he corrects. “And does that mean you think us being familiar is a good thing?”

You groan. “Walked right into that one,” you mutter. Joochan grins, but you’re not done. “Your Highness, there’s a level of respect I have to maintain for you and your position. I’m sorry, but me calling you by your given name is not something I see myself doing in the foreseeable future.”

Joochan’s pout deepens. “We’ll see about that.”

“Is that a challenge, Your Highness?”

“And if it is?”

You pinch a bud between your fingers, scrutinizing it under the moonlight. Your head turns just slightly so Joochan can see the twinkle in your eye. “Then, Your Highness, I’m afraid you’ll be fighting a losing battle.”

. . . . .

Joochan thinks you might have underestimated his stubbornness.

“Your Highness, don’t you have better things to be doing than bothering me all night?” you ask, pausing in your humming to face him. “Royal duties and whatnot? Or, I don’t know – sleeping?”

“I feel like we’re becoming more familiar even if you refuse to call me by my name,” Joochan says obnoxiously. “What happened to propriety? Speaking respectfully to a prince?”

You pat some soil into place. A few nearby blades of grass seem to perk up when you hum briefly. “Calling you by your title is about the last mark of respect I’m still giving you,” you point out. “Do you really want that taken away, too?”

“Why not just let it go, if we’re already that far?” he counters. “Jaehyun calls me by my name when we’re alone. So does Jangjun.”

“Jaehyun…” You frown, then snap your fingers. “Is he that servant? You know, the puppy-eyed one?”

Joochan blinks. Jaehyun does have large eyes like those of a puppy. “… Yes? I think so.”

You look sidelong at Joochan. “If it helps, I like your eyes too, Your Highness.” Your gaze narrows teasingly. “They’re sharper. Like a fox.”

Joochan’s cheeks burn. “What –”

You burst into a peal of laughter. “Work on not pouting when you want attention,” you say, grinning.

Too late, Joochan realizes his lips have unconsciously turned downwards into a pout. He lifts them immediately, cursing internally – no wonder he’s so easy to read. “Don’t change the subject,” he says, catching himself again before the corners of his lips fall. “Why can’t you just call me by my name like Jangjun and Jaehyun?”

“You’ve likely known them far longer than I’ve known you and you’ve known me, Your Highness.” You put down your small shovel. “It makes perfect sense that you could convince them to bow to your whims, if you’ve been friends for as long as you say.”

Joochan gives up on suppressing his pout. “It’s not a whim,” he says. “I really do want you to call me Joochan.”

“Be that as it may, it isn’t proper, Your Highness, and I’d rather not get scolded for accidentally calling you by something above my station on accident.” Your eyes narrow. “Actually, is something wrong, Your Highness?” you ask, the teasing bite fading out of your voice. “You aren’t usually this forward about just your name.”

Something tightens in Joochan’s chest. He knows you’re perceptive, has known it ever since you rooted out that little bit of jealousy at the mention of Bomin’s singing, but as admirable as it is, he sometimes wishes you couldn’t read him so easily. “What, you don’t like it?”

“You’re deflecting.” Leaning forward, you fix him with your gaze. “What’s bothering you, Your Highness?”

Lots of things. There are only a few months until Donghyun’s family comes back for the second round of forced courtship. His parents are giving him more unwanted attention – asking about his studies in their cold, uninterested voices, reminding him of his duties every time his lip so much as twitches in rebellion.

And earlier in the day, he had the first fitting for his wedding clothes.

Joochan shudders, remembering white silk sliding over his arms, pins poking all over his body as the fabric tightened against his skin, smooth, cold, cloying around his throat and shoulders and torso. It was only the shirt for today – there are still the pants and coat and jewelry, not to mention different hairstyles and makeup combinations to try, all so his parents can get him out of the palace once and for all – and just thinking of how much there is left to do makes Joochan want to throw up.

“Your Highness?”

Your voice, full of concern, brings Joochan back to earth. “Sorry.” He blinks the memories out of his eyes. Gods, he has another fitting in a week, even though the wedding is still months away. “I – yes. Some things are bothering me.” He curves his lips into the imitation of a smile. “I’ll be fine, though, if you would just stop being stubborn and call me by my name.”

By the look in your eyes, you don’t believe him, but thankfully you don’t push it any further. “I’m the stubborn one?” You scoff lightly. “Who’s the one who’s been pressuring me to stop using your title this whole time? I didn’t bring it up.”

“Please?” Joochan asks, making sure to pout as fully as he can. “Please?”

Something breaks in your expression and you shake your head, suppressing a smile. Joochan’s heart lifts in victory –

“No.”

His jaw drops. “You –”

“I’m kidding.” You turn back to him, eyes sparkling. “If it really will make you happier, I’ll stop calling you by your title, Your –” You catch yourself. “Joochan.”

Something bursts in Joochan’s heart when he hears his name from your voice, sweet, clear, songlike in the melody of your tones. A rose in bloom, perhaps, petals unfurling from the bud at his name on your lips…

“See? That wasn’t so hard, was it?” His words tremble slightly despite his attempted bravado.

You smirk. “Almost sounds like it was harder for you, Joochan.”

Damn your perception. “Am I going to regret this?”

Your smirk deepens. “Whatever happens, just know you brought it on yourself.”

. . . . .

“You look happier,” Bomin remarks one afternoon.

Joochan looks over. “Do I?”

“Yeah.” His brother nods. “There’s more… something.” Bomin waves his hands around aimlessly. “Something in your face. And in the way you walk.”

“Something.” Joochan snorts. “Is that what all of those literature and speech lessons are teaching you to say?”

“Shut up,” Bomin snips, pushing him away. His gaze turns more serious. “I’m glad.”

Joochan blinks. “Glad about what?”

“You being happy.” Bomin smiles. “Did Donghyun’s sister finally win you over?” He shoves his face into Joochan’s. “Exchanging romantic letters?”

The grin freezes on Joochan’s face as visions of you flash through his mind. Dark nights, pale moonlight, stars shimmering on your eyes and hands as you hum a melody that twines with his, keeping the roses in a delicate balance between alive and withering away…

He could tell Bomin. His brother is a secret-keeper to the last and knows how to act. But something tells Joochan that he would disapprove is he said anything, and even if that wasn’t the case, there’s a selfish desire to keep you to himself.

Joochan doesn’t want to share this… whatever it is, between you and him.

“Something like that,” he lies.

And for some reason, Bomin looks like he believes it.

. . . . .

Except, apparently, he doesn’t.

. . . . .

There is no moon when Joochan steps onto the balcony, peering over the edge to see whether or not you’re there, pruning the bushes. You don’t often come out during new moons – something about the absence of light not inspiring your song – but Joochan checks anyway.

To his surprise, he sees a sliver of movement, a flash of metal just beyond the balcony that looks like your shovel or your shears. It doesn’t take long for Joochan to sneak out of his room and into the garden grounds, a smile on his face as he rounds a corner to see –

“Joochan.”

Jangjun?

His guard steps forward, arms crossed and eyes visibly narrowed even in the darkness. Starlight shines coldly on his face. “Who are you meeting out here every other night?”

Stall? Lie? Joochan keeps his mouth resolutely shut as his mind races for something to say. He can’t mention you, can’t bring you into this mess that you never asked for, but Jangjun has known him for so long and might even be more perceptive than you so what kind of lie will even sound believable when Joochan is right here in the garden like he was expecting someone –

Jangjun’s eyes widen with realization and Joochan’s stomach plummets. “You’re meeting that gardener. The one you were talking with when Donghyun’s sister was here.”

Joochan just stares. How did he figure it out so fast?

“Tell me it isn’t true, Joochan.” Jangjun steps forward, lips pursed. Any sign of his usual mischief has fled from his eyes. “Joochan.”

He stays silent.

“Gods.” Jangjun rubs his temples, the metal of his arm guards catching the faint starlight. Damn, that was what fooled him. “Joochan, seriously? What are you doing with them? You weren’t lying before, right – they’re not blackmailing you or anything?”

Joochan ignores all of his guard’s questions in favor of his own. “How did you know I was sneaking out?”

Jangjun sighs. “I don’t know why you still sometimes think you can lie to Bomin.”

Bomin?

A conversation from two weeks before flutters into Joochan’s mind.

“Did Donghyun’s sister finally win you over? Exchanging romantic letters?”

“Something like that.”

Bomin. Joochan shuts his eyes tight and takes a deep breath, trying to dissipate the flames of anger beginning to lick in his chest. Of course it was Bomin. Bomin sees through everything.

And right now, Joochan hates that.

“So Bomin sent you to figure out what was going on with me.” He laughs, short, bitter. “Even though he said I was happier, he still –”

“You lied to him, Joochan,” Jangjun cuts in. “You never lie to him and he never lies to you.”

“So maybe I lied for a reason!” Joochan snaps. “Seriously – why is it that you can’t just leave me alone like my parents –”

“Because we care about you!”

“Then why are you trying to cut off the reason I’ve been happy?”

Silence follows his outburst. Jangjun actually takes a small step back. Joochan clenches his fist and takes a deep breath. Calm down.

He closes his eyes. Breathes. Opens them again. “So what are you going to do now?” he snaps. “Report to Bomin about my actions? Report to my parents?”

“Joochan –”

“Actually, don’t.” He scoffs. “I’ll go talk to Bomin myself. And Jangjun, even if you won’t leave me alone about this, listen to me on one thing.” Joochan steps forward. “Do not bring Y/N into this.”

With that, he turns on his heel and storms back into the palace.

. . . . .

Bomin’s attendant, Sanha, opens the door with a confused expression. “Your Highness?”

“Where’s Bomin?” Joochan demands, brushing past.

His brother pops out from behind one of the doors, eyebrows furrowed. “Joochan?”

Joochan bites his tongue to keep from shouting right then and there. “Dismissed,” he says bluntly, barely returning Sanha’s low bow. The door shuts.

And Joochan snaps.

“You sent my own guard to spy on me?” he yells. “With all the spies our parents have in the palace, you seriously sent Jangjun after me – my literal guard and one of the few people I trust – because you thought I told one lie?”

“I was worried!” Bomin says, eyes wide. “Joochan, you never lie to me –”

“Don’t tell me that’s it,” Joochan snarls. “There’s no way this is the only time you’ve ever thought I lied – if you sent Jangjun after me every time –” his eyes narrow – “unless you did –”

Bomin shakes his head wildly. “No! It’s just – I’m worried about with you and Donghyun’s sister!” He steps forward, eyes pleading. “Joochan, if your marriage doesn’t go through –”

Joochan laughs into his hand. “You too?”

“… What?”

“It’s always my marriage, my stupid marriage,” he rants, voice rising. Thank the gods for thick stone walls. “Has anyone ever considered that I don’t want it, I don’t fucking want it –”

“It’s your escape, Joochan!” Bomin snaps. “It’s your ticket out of this palace, so you can be free from –”

“From what?” Joochan laughs, high and mirthless. “From what?”

“From us!”

“And you’d have me gain my freedom by forcing me from one prison to another?”

Bomin’s mouth snaps shut.

“I can’t do anything because I have this stupid curse,” Joochan snarls. “I’m the unwanted son – don’t argue with me, you know it’s true – it doesn’t matter that I’m the oldest, I’ve literally been passed over for the crown because of it! And I don’t even care about that – all I fucking care about is being able to sing and of course I can’t do that either because people will drop dead half a second after I open my mouth – remember my first voice instructor? You think that’ll change once I get married? You think that’ll change?” He scoffs. “Donghyun and his family don’t know for a reason! And even if they did, it wouldn’t matter because singing around them would make them drop dead too!”

Tears have begun to burn in Joochan’s eyes. He blinks furiously, trying to keep them at bay, but months of pent-up rage and anger only make them push harder. Bomin’s eyes shine – they look watery, too – but Joochan turns away with thinned lips. He doesn’t have the energy to apologize to his brother, much less comfort him. It isn’t even his turn to be comforted.

“You don’t understand,” Joochan manages when the silence has grown too thick. “I love you, Bomin, and I know you love me too, but just like I’ll never understand the pressures of being the crown prince, you won’t understand what it’s like not to be able to sing.” He swallows. “You couldn’t even heal that sort of pain. And just when I’ve found someone who can listen…”

When Bomin sucks in a breath, Joochan realizes what he’s said. He panics, mind scrambling for a way to cover up his slip of the tongue – Joochan, you absolute idiot –

But it’s already too late to take anything back.

“You – someone can listen to your song?” Bomin whispers, almost as though he can’t believe it. “How…?”

Joochan groans, putting his head against the wall. Why can’t he do anything right? “It was an accident,” he says shortly, brushing away the stray tears that have fallen.

“But how –”

“Don’t ask me about it,” Joochan snaps, whirling around. His previous anger comes back in full force – not anger at Bomin, at least not as much, more anger at himself for not controlling his mouth, but it’s easier to direct it at his brother. “And don’t send my own guard after me for any more answers. If you think I’m lying, say it to my face, Bomin.”

Before his brother can say another word, Joochan throws open the door and stalks out.

. . . . .

Joochan doesn’t know what to do about you.

Well, there isn’t anything to do about you, per se. He just doesn’t know how to convey that he let things slip and now both Jangjun and his brother have more knowledge than they need, and maybe you two should hold off meeting for a little while.

You aren’t supposed to come around for a few days or so – you and Joochan have worked out a rough sort of schedule based on when the roses need tending and how often he wants a singing lesson – which should give him a few days to work something out. Instead, all he uses the time for is to sulk.

He’s still annoyed at both Jangjun and Bomin. More so at his brother because Jangjun has less leeway when given orders (which were given by Bomin in the first place), but still both of them. Bomin stays quiet when Joochan is near and Jangjun doesn’t even attempt conversation, though Joochan catches him staring over sometimes with a strange look on his face. He doesn’t bother to question it.

By the time night has begun to fall on day three, Joochan still has nothing. He debated going to the sheds and trying to find you there, but that would draw attention from anyone else who happened to be present, and also Jangjun never leaves his side. He tried to catch you in the gardens on the off chance that Jangjun isn’t looking, but you seem to disappear when he’s there – it’s like you magically end up on the opposite side of the palace grounds when he’s looking for you on the other.

In the end, all Joochan has is a rolled up piece of paper and a long piece of string that he hopes will reach the garden from his balcony. He hopes you can read. It’s not that uncommon anymore for commoners anymore, but there are still some. You were the one who wrote him that first note, though, so he isn’t too worried about that.

He’s more worried you’ll be angry with him.

Night comes. You appear at the end of the garden. Joochan waits on the balcony, heart ready to beat out of his chest, and sings a brief note when you get closer.

You look up. The waxing moon glows on your face.

Swallowing, Joochan waves a hand in the air, the hand holding the rolled up note attached to the string. He walks to the edge of the balcony and lets it drop.

The string tenses slightly, then goes lax. You’ve pulled it off and are hopefully reading it. His explanation, his apologies, his understanding if you don’t want anything to do with him anymore out of fear of your own safety…

Nothing happens. Joochan’s heart keeps pounding. You make no sound, no indication that you read anything he wrote –

Then the first bars of a song wisp through the air. Your voice flutters up to the balcony, soft and warm and inviting, singing words of forgiveness, melody soothing to his ears. It’s a little thin, laid slightly bare from the distance separating you, but Joochan latches onto the notes, sitting against the balcony rail and closing his eyes to the sound of your voice.

Your song tapers away eventually. Joochan swallows around a lump in his throat when it ends, fully expecting you to pack up your things and go once you’ve finished tending to the roses (it shouldn’t take as long as usual today since he’s not singing), but the ensuing silence almost has an expectant quality to it.

Like you’re waiting for something in reply.

Joochan clears the lump from his throat. Opens his mouth. Begins to hum softly to wake up his voice, then starts singing back.

It’s strange, not hearing your voice meld with his. You must be humming a little to keep the roses alive, but from his balcony, Joochan can’t hear it. After so many nights of singing duets with you, changing your melodies to fit the other’s, it feels a little strange to listen to himself sing like this in the open air. But he continues until the end of what he has, voice fading into the night.

A beat of silence follows. Then you begin singing again, but it’s a familiar melody this time – one of those that you like to use as a starting point for Joochan to follow, letting your voices twist and harmonize until you’ve created something new together, something fleeting but beautiful in its improvisation.

“You won’t remember the melody afterwards,” you say, cutting off a branch. “But you’ll remember the feeling, and sometimes that’s more important. Music is about making people feel, after all.”

Feeling. Joochan feels a lot, day by day. It’s part of being human. Tonight, singing an ephemeral melody with you…

He feels at peace.

. . . . .

Weeks pass. Joochan tries to live on his biweekly duets on the balcony with you. It won’t fill the void of not being able to talk to you – it’s just more natural to moderate the volume of his song, whereas calling down from a balcony would be more of a hassle – but it’s enough to hear your voice. Or so Joochan tries to tell himself.

(You sometimes leave him notes with the new flower replacements, white paper nestled between dark green thorns and midnight blue petals. Joochan puts them in the box under his mattress where he keeps his most treasured belongings and threads a hair between the lock to make sure no one gets in.)

Jangjun apologizes. So does Bomin. Joochan accepts it – he can’t stay too upset at them for long – and they go back to normal, Jangjun snickering whenever Joochan trips over a rock, Bomin suffering through Joochan pinching his cheeks whenever he so pleases.

Yeah. Normal.

Until weeks have somehow flown by and Donghyun’s family is arriving at the palace gates once more for the second stage of courtship.

They arrive late in the night, so Joochan thankfully isn’t required to be awake to receive them. Their meeting will be at dinner the next day, giving the entourage more than enough time to freshen up, which just means Joochan has more hours to sit on the floor of his rooms after lessons and stare at nothing while he waits for his impending doom.

He knows he’s being dramatic. But he also knows that he really, really, really doesn’t want to go through with this marriage, even more so than before.

His gaze lights on the latest bouquet of flowers sitting on his desk. The roses are white this time, interspersed with light pink blooms. You probably didn’t choose them – there was no note – but they’re pretty, anyway, even if they aren’t the night-blooming roses growing under Joochan’s balcony.

Joochan walks over to the flowers. Contemplates them for a moment. Picks up one of the white roses, imagines it in his fiancée’s hands as she walks down the aisle…

Thankfully, a knock sounds on his door before he has enough time to imagine more. Getting overly dressed for dinner is preferable to locking himself within his mind.

But then dinner actually comes.

And Joochan literally does not know what to do with himself.

His parents keep up chatter at the other end of the table, of course, all polite greetings and inquiries about the trip and we hope your quarters have been to your liking despite the fact that Donghyun’s family stayed in the exact same set of rooms last time they came and liked them just as much back then. Not to mention that said rooms are the fanciest guest rooms in the entire palace. If they weren’t satisfied, Joochan doesn’t know what would work for them.

Meanwhile, at his end of the table, Joochan is trying very hard not to make so much as a single noise against his plate or cup because if he does, everyone will look at him and he’ll be forced to break the awkward silence.

It’s even worse than the first time. At least then, Donghyun was still smiling, and his sister attempted conversation with Joochan. Bomin was fairly able to put people at ease when even Joochan’s social tendencies failed. But now there’s a tense set to Donghyun’s jaw, a burning anger in his sister’s eyes, and Joochan can’t think of anything he might’ve done wrong considering he hasn’t seen them in months. He’s sent letters to both and acted (at least outwardly) like he was fine with this arrangement. He hasn’t done anything to his parents’ knowledge that would indicate he’s opposed to it – he knows that because if he had, he would’ve gotten a scolding and maybe something worse –

Joochan winces as an old scar on his back suddenly twitches with pain. Bomin looks over, concerned, but Joochan quickly schools his face back to neutrality. Damn the memories.

“Is anything not to your liking?” Bomin asks quietly, bravely breaking the silence. His gaze flits uncertainly between Donghyun and his sister.

Both of them blink in tandem. Donghyun’s face relaxes a little and some of the anger fades from his sister’s eyes, their lips upturning slightly in sheepish surprise. “No, not at all,” his sister replies. “I apologize. The trip was long, and some of our nerves are… frayed.”

Judging from the shadow that passes through Donghyun’s eyes, “frayed” is a weak way to put it.

The silence, lifts though, and they converse more normally after that. Joochan catches a flicker of relief in his father’s eyes when they meet for the briefest moment, and even his mother gives a tiny nod of approval when the excruciating meal is finally over.

Everyone splits off, then, to do whatever they have in their plans for the night. Joochan and Bomin take a walk in the garden. Donghyun and his sister disappear to who-knows-where. It’s peaceful. More or less.

Until Joochan and Bomin are returning (they didn’t see you) to their quarters for bed and they happen to pass by the guest rooms, where shouts echo faintly behind closed doors. With unspoken agreement, the brothers start walking quickly down the hall, trying not to listen to what the other pair of siblings is saying.

Then a door flies open and catches Joochan in the face as his fiancée storms out in a swirl of skirts and fury.

For a moment, there is only dead silence as everyone tries to comprehend what just happened. Joochan brings a hand to his nose. It comes away bloody.

Great.

“Gods above,” his fiancée whispers. “Your Highness – Joochan – I’m so sorry –” She turns to Bomin, who still looks like he’s trying to figure out what’s going on. “Where’s the infirmary?”

So Joochan ends up sitting on the edge of a white infirmary bed, pinching his nose between large bundles of gauze. Bomin has gone off, presumably to tell Donghyun what happened, and Joochan’s fiancée sits next to him, wringing her hands in apology even as he tells her over and over again that it’s fine – actually, it’s even a little funny.

Bomin will definitely be teasing Joochan about this by tomorrow.

“I’m so sorry,” she says again, staring into her lap. “I was just so angry – I didn’t see you –”

“I’m fine,” Joochan repeats, voice still slightly distorted by the residual pain in his nose. “If you were as upset as you sounded, I completely understand.”

She stiffens. “I – you heard us?”

“Not much.” Joochan winces in embarrassment. “I could only hear that you were yelling, neither I nor Bomin could actually make out anything. The walls here are thick.” For a reason.

Relief floods her face. Joochan looks at her for a moment, trying to see if it’s anything he should be worried about, but he turns away. He’d be alarmed if anyone heard any of his arguments with Bomin, after all, even if they were light.

One of the physicians comes in soon after. His nose doesn’t look to be majorly injured, so he sings Joochan a brief, warm melody that stops the bleeding (his voice isn’t as pretty as yours, though) and sends him on his way. Donghyun’s sister helps him wipe away the last of the dried blood, and then they walk back down to the guest rooms, where Joochan bids her goodnight.

She pauses before entering her quarters, though. “I just remembered – could we take a walk in the gardens tomorrow, Joochan?” Her eyes sparkle strangle, a mix of eagerness and muted anxiety. “I couldn’t forget watching the flowers bloom over these past few months.”

Joochan blinks. “Of course,” he says, even though his mind whirls with possible reasons behind the sudden request. The flowers are beautiful, of course, and there are new varieties blossoming with the change of seasons, but the anxiousness etched into the set of your lips speaks of something more than wishing to listen to some song. “In the afternoon? We can take a walk after lunch.”

“That sounds perfect.” She smiles. “Thank you, Joochan.”

He returns the smile. “It’s no problem.”

. . . . .

Everyone seems surprised when Joochan leaves together with his fiancée after lunch, citing a stroll in the garden, but it isn’t bad surprise. Bomin looks interested, Donghyun less annoyed, and Joochan even catches something like satisfaction in his parents’ eyes as they sweep out of the room.

It makes his stomach curdle a little inside.

Joochan starts the conversation, idly talking about the new season and which flowers the gardeners have begun putting into the ground. The air is crisper, cooler, and Joochan takes comfort in the breeze against his cheeks as he walks her around the grass, pausing every so often to listen to one of the gardeners sing. She doesn’t speak much, but at least the singing seems to make her look a little happier.

They pass by the stretch where Joochan’s balcony is, providing a spot of shade under the afternoon sun. Joochan tries to hurry past – he doesn’t want questions about the roses now stretching across the walls, blooming beautifully from your song – but then his fiancée gasps in surprise. “The roses!”

Something tightens in Joochan’s chest. He doesn’t know what it is – it doesn’t feel good, like a cross between fear and anxiety and… he can’t figure it out. None of it. But his fiancée is looking at him and he has to put on a smile so he curves his lips and nods, trying to ignore the feeling. “Yes, one of the newer gardeners managed to make them grow. You met them last time.” He tries to ignore the feeling in his heart, even as it tightens its hold. “Y/N.”

Y/N. You. You made them grow with your gentle hands and lovely voice. You made them grow despite Joochan’s cursed song, molded your melodies with his so they wouldn’t kill so easily, wouldn’t act so much the curse they were always meant to be…

He swallows, trying to banish all thoughts of you from his mind. For the first time on one of his walks in the garden, Joochan feels guiltily glad that he hasn’t seen you.

You and his fiancée don’t exactly coexist well in his thoughts, for reasons Joochan doesn’t have the time or energy to pick apart.

“They’re beautiful,” she whispers, clearly oblivious to Joochan’s internal conflict. She steps forward until they’re both under the shade of the balcony, marveling at the midnight blue roses streaked with white, galaxies in the night sky. “Do they bloom year round?”

“Yes, this variety does.” Joochan rubs a soft petal between his fingers, trying to recall just how many nights have passed since he last saw you face to face instead of just hearing your voice from up above. Too many, probably. “They wilt a little more easily in winter, but they can still grow if the snow isn’t too heavy.”

She hums in acknowledgement, still staring at the flowers. Her fingers twitch near a couple of the blooms, but she doesn’t do anything more than touch their petals.

Oh. She wants to pick one, maybe. Take it back to her rooms. Admire it.

For some reason, the thought of your flowers in his fiancée’s hands and in her rooms makes the feeling in Joochan’s chest intensify.

His lips fight hard to stay in a neutral smile as he reaches out, fingers trembling, to snap off one of the flowers just above the crown of five leaves at the base of the stem, the way you showed him how to so many weeks ago when he still met you under the moon and the stars, listened to your voice wash over the plants and his ears next to you, not from far away. Carefully, as his fiancée watches, Joochan pulls off the thorns, all the while trying not to feel like he’s betraying your song, your art, then nestles the bloom gently behind her ear. “For you,” he chokes, forcibly ignoring the tightness in his chest.

She touches the rose gently, fingers brushing against the petals. She looks beautiful in that moment, eyes shining, figure lovely against the green garden and sunlight, and not for the first time, Joochan wishes he could have just fallen in love with her. It would make things so much easier.

But the knowledge that he’d have no freedom in this marriage even if he was able to love, keeps his heart from racing too fast in her presence. He couldn’t fall in love with Donghyun’s sister, never – there are too many secrets and hidden agendas behind their match.

“Thank you,” she says, voice soft. For a moment, her eyes sparkle with true peace, true happiness, and Joochan feels a little happier for her. But then a shadow falls over her gaze and she looks away, hand falling limply from the rose to her side. Silence stretches.

“Shall we keep going?” Joochan finally says once he feels uncomfortable enough that he needs to speak. Thankfully, she nods, the smile reappearing on her face as he takes her arm once more, leading her out of the shade and into the sun.

He tries not to look at the midnight blue rose he tucked behind her ear as he forces conversation. “Do you truly like the flowers here?”

“I love them,” she says earnestly. Joochan can tells she’s speaking the truth. “My kingdom has flowers too, but for some reason, the ones here just… they’re so much brighter. Livelier.” She smiles briefly. “Maybe it’s the song.”

Joochan knows what he should say next. He should say something like, “when we’re married, we’ll have a garden of our own,” something that a fiancé in love with his future wife would say.

He’s not in love, but he says it anyway. Because he should. And he thinks maybe the thought of a garden for herself will make her smile a little more, even if the marriage he mentions isn’t anything she wants.

At least, he thinks it isn’t what she wants. She’s polite enough and hasn’t said anything to indicate it, but body language and silence sometimes speak more than words.

Her smile turns smaller, lips pressing together as she shifts away from him, ever so slightly. Joochan confirms his suspicions. “That would be lovely.”

The expression on her face indicates anything but. And even though she was the one who initiated the walk, was the one who seemed to want to talk, she doesn’t speak for the rest of the afternoon. 

Neither does Joochan. 

. . . . .

Several days fly by in a blur. There’s another ball next week, even bigger than the last – Joochan will present the second courting gift to his fiancée, as per his kingdom’s tradition (the first was sent on a long time ago), and she will engage him for the first dance, as per hers. On the one night you two are scheduled to meet, Joochan lowers down a note saying I’m sorry, Y/N, but I’m exhausted tonight – I can barely stay awake long enough to write this.

You’ve taken to bringing a stub of a pencil with you on these nights so that your communication isn’t only by song. This time is no exception, and Joochan quickly lifts up the string at your subtle tug.

Need a lullaby?

Your voice almost soothes him to sleep on the balcony.

He gets through the next couple of days, gets through the last minute fittings for new clothes (as if he needs more), opinions on the appetizer menu (shouldn’t they be asking the cooks?), what flowers would fit best the theme best (they bring in a vase of night-blooming roses and all Joochan can think of is you). Joochan tries to go through it with a smile on his face – he doesn’t trip over his fiancée’s feet or skirts when they have their lessons, which makes Youngtaek seem a little more satisfied – but when the night of the ball actually arrives, Joochan almost fights Jaehyun when his servant comes to drag him out of bed.

The flowers in his room were replaced about a week ago, yellow and red tulips forming a bright sunburst on his desk. Perhaps someone was just trying to cheer him up. Or maybe they somehow knew his fiancée’s favorite flowers were tulips and decided to make a little joke.

Joochan tries not to look at their slightly wilted stems. They only remind him of a certain night-blooming rose whose face he hasn’t seen in weeks.

He wears a dark suit, deep blue trimmed with silver embroidery around the shoulders and cuffs. Jaehyun puts a few last touches on his makeup and hands Joochan an earring, telling him to put it in – “You’re the servant, shouldn’t you be dressing me?” “Are your fingers that inept, Your Royal Highness?” – before taking the prince’s crown off the pillow it was delivered on, silver and jewels glinting in the evening light filtering through the window. The cold weight settles on Joochan’s head.

“There,” Jaehyun says softly. “You’re ready.”

Joochan lifts his gaze to the mirror. A young man stares back, faded pink hair swept elegantly off his forehead, an earring glinting just above his shoulder. Makeup around his eyes makes them darker, more piercing, and he wears a fine blue suit, slim silver chains draping over the shoulders and around the neck. The jewels in the crown sparkle brilliantly, even in the fading light.

He swallows hard. The young man copies the movement. He averts his eyes, clenching his fist.

This man in the mirror, the man Joochan knows is himself, looks fine and elegant and handsome, almost exactly what a prince should be. If he didn’t know he was cursed, Joochan might even dare to say he was the perfect model of royalty, second only to maybe his brother.

He’s never hated it more.

Jangjun’s characteristic knock sounds at the door before Joochan can take more time to hate himself. Jaehyun helps him out of the chair and squeezes his shoulder slightly, their previous teasing mood forgotten in the wake of what they both know Joochan has to do next. With a brief “good luck” and “thanks,” Joochan opens the door.

Both of Jangjun’s eyes rise the second he sees Joochan. “Looking good, Your Highness.”

Joochan scoffs lightly. “You just want me to say you look good too, right?”

He does look good. Few people are blind to the fact that Jangjun is actually very handsome, and Joochan has caught more than a few servants staring sometimes when he walks down a hall, his guard stepping along right beside him. With him dressed as a partygoer instead of in his usual uniform, Joochan thinks his guard will attract even more stares than usual tonight, but Jangjun doesn’t need the ego boost. He can live without it.

“Caught.” Jangjun’s eyes crinkle into a smirk. “But I know I look good, so I don’t need you to say it.” The smile fades, replaced with determination and concern. “Ready to go?”

No.

“Yes.” Joochan steps further into the hallway. Briefly, he wonders how people would react if he tripped while presenting the gift to Donghyun’s sister. “Come on.”

. . . . .

He doesn’t trip. The princess gets her gift without anything more than the usual fanfare, a circlet of gold with a moonstone set into the front that Joochan places on her head with hands shaking both from nervousness and just in general not wanting to be there. Whoever did her dressing left her hair devoid of accessories, thankfully, just some clips holding a few strands back, so Joochan doesn’t need to awkwardly remove things or try to fit the circlet around preexistent ornaments. One less thing to worry about.

He accepts his dances, too, sailing about the ballroom on feet much heavier than hers that seem to be made of air. No mistakes on his end, though – he notices Youngtaek nodding in approval somewhere in the watching crowd – and when they separate at the end of the ball with the last traditional song, Joochan feels satisfied, even if not happy, that he’s at least played his part well.

(It doesn’t matter that when he walks his fiancée back to her rooms and bids her goodnight, he sees the rose he picked for her standing upright in a vase, taunting him with memories of you.)

(It also doesn’t matter that when he returns to his own quarters, the wilting tulips that were on his desk have been replaced by a bouquet of midnight blue with a tiny note sticking out from behind the petals, almost blending in with a streak of starry white.

Sleep well.

Joochan lies awake for at least another hour.)

. . . . .

Because the gods have somehow managed to keep him from seeing you on his walks in the gardens, Joochan doesn’t feel too worried that you’ll meet when he wanders down to the flowers after another wedding suit fitting. He needs to feel sunshine on his skin, not cold silk and satin.

To his surprise, he meets Donghyun’s sister by a patch of roses, and at her suggestion, they continue on together, mostly keeping a comfortable silence. It chafes at Joochan a little – was there something she wanted to say last time, something that she can still say now? – but she doesn’t say anything about it, only admires the flowers. He follows suit.

Then Joochan rounds a corner, trailing his fingers along a vine that creeps up the stone palace walls, and sees a familiar figure kneeling over a small patch of tulips.

He freezes. No, there’s no way that can be you –

The figure’s head lifts, and Joochan catches their eye almost accidentally.

He’d know that face anywhere.

“Your Highnesses.” You bow low, stiff, formal. Joochan aches for even a bit of familiarity to bleed into your voice, your actions, but you keep your face neutral as he bids you to stand. He searches your eyes, your lips, for something, anything –

But there’s nothing. And Joochan understands. It isn’t just you and him, this time – his future wife stands at his arm, and you must maintain your composure.

His fiancée’s voice jerks Juyeon out of his thoughts. “I believe we’ve met before, haven’t we?” she smiles. “You sang beautifully the last time I was here.”

Your head dips in respect. “Thank you, Your Highness. Your words honor me.”

“Joochan told me you were the one who managed to make the roses bloom under the balcony where no other gardener succeeded,” she continues. Joochan hides a flinch when his name falls from her lips, startlingly casual and almost a slap in the face to you, who can’t use his name as you always do for fear of punishment. Something in your eyes flickers, too, but Joochan can’t do anything more than hope his silent apology reads clear in his gaze as his fiancée keep speaking. “Your gift is great.”

Again, you bow in thanks. Your eyes remain downcast, demure and humble, as you speak. The lightest hint of detached teasing colors your tone. “Perhaps the roses were only waiting for the right person’s song, Your Highness.”

Donghyun’s sister clearly thinks you meant to teasingly brag about your own ability and she responds accordingly, laughing with a brightness he rarely sees on her face. But as she laughs, you lift your head slightly, fixing his gaze with yours.

Perhaps the roses were only waiting for the right person’s song.

The right person’s song.

The right person…

Joochan stares into your eyes, watching them soften. You meant him, he’s certain, as self-centered as it sounds. By the right person, you meant him.

Oh. Oh, gods…

“I agree,” he replies softly. 

Only he thinks that the right person was you.

Your eyes widen for a split second as you take in Joochan’s meaning. Something cracks in your expression, something raw and beautiful and so, so sad, and Joochan tries to memorize it so he can pick it apart later on – why do you look so radiant and so defeated all at once as your eyes flicker to the laughing fiancée at his side –

The right person.

The right person…

No. No. Joochan swallows hard, breaking his gaze from yours as his mind races. Nights spent under the moon, talking, singing, laughing as you clipped roses and leaves and soothed him with your voice…

Joochan is not in love with you. He isn’t, he can’t be, not when his fiancée is literally standing on his arm –

Your gaze catches his once more, and Joochan barely manages not to lose himself in your eyes.

He’s in love with you. Completely, wholly in love with you –

In his mind’s eye, Joochan sees your gaze flicker over to his future wife, turning dark upon contact.

Oh.

Joochan is in love with you.

And you might be in love with him.

He almost falls with the realization. Only his fiancée’s grip on his arm keeps him from swaying forward. Joochan looks at you, drinking in the sight of your eyes and you let him, staring back with a fervor as great as his –

But Joochan’s fiancée has finished her peal of laughter and you both have to look away, your eyes clouding into something darker while Joochan fights the ache in his chest. “Well, we won’t disturb you further,” she says, seemingly oblivious to his pain. “Thank you for your time.”

You bow, and when you straighten, your eyes linger on Joochan for a second longer than it should. “The pleasure was all mine.”

. . . . .

Joochan lies awake that night and several more, still reeling with the sudden realization that he is in love not with the person that people would like him to love, but with a gardener whose voice makes him feel like a night-blooming rose, petals opening in the night, free to blossom and free to grow, free to sing without causing pain.

And this gardener is in love with him too.

He tries to hide it. No one really notices – he keeps up a joking banter with his brother and Donghyun, fights playfully with Jangjun, and performs his duties as a future husband without fail. But several times, he catches Bomin looking at him with a weird expression or Jangjun staring over out of the corner of his eye.

It might be easier if he could tell them what he’s done, how he feels. But both would probably disapprove – Jangjun already suspects something about you, and Bomin, though he now understands Joochan’s revulsion to the marriage, wouldn’t be happy about him having fallen in love with someone else. It will only hurt Donghyun’s sister, too, and she doesn’t deserve that.

When Joochan makes his way back to his rooms several nights later, debating whether or not to even go out onto the balcony because he still can’t think properly, he doesn’t expect Jangjun to stop him just outside the door, a strange expression on his face.

“Joochan.”

He blinks. “Jangjun?”

The guard’s eyes flicker. “Go see them.”

“I –” Joochan frowns. “What?”

“Go see them,” Jangjun repeats in a hushed whisper. “They make you happy, don’t they?” A faraway look comes into his eyes for the briefest second before it disappears. “And you can sing in front of them.”

Joochan’s eyes widen. “How did you –”

“Don’t get mad,” Jangjun says, holding up his hands. “Bomin told me what you let slip to him. I didn’t tell him anything about Y/N, I swear – I just put two and two together, and, well. It’s the only thing that makes sense.” He holds Joochan’s gaze. “Don’t get mad at him. He’s just trying to understand. He hasn’t said a word to anyone else, not even Sanha.”

Joochan leans against the wall, trying to process all of the information. “I – Jangjun, what in the world –”

“Listen, Joochan.” Jangjun steps forward. “I know what it’s like to suppress a part of you for so long it feels like you’re dying.” His lips twist in a grimace of pain that Joochan barely has time to decipher. “If you’ve found someone who is able and willing to listen to your song, I’m not going to stop you.”

I know what it’s like to suppress a part of you for so long it feels like you’re dying.

Joochan frowns. As far as Joochan knows, Jangjun is ungifted – he just doesn’t have magic. What part of himself would he have suppressed, and for what reason?

The look on his guard’s face convinces him not to ask.

Swallowing, Joochan takes a deep breath and tries to focus on the meaning behind Jangjun’s words. He wants him to go, to meet you in person under the moon and stars and sing to the roses until midnight. A sick feeling rises in Joochan’s stomach. If Jangjun had said this months earlier, maybe even weeks, he would’ve run out right then and there. But now that he knows what he feels for you, not just for your song but you as a person…

Joochan swallows. He does need to speak to you, though, even briefly. And if Jangjun is willing to cover for him in case something goes wrong, then he should take this opportunity, shouldn’t he?

He nods. “Okay.”

Jangjun gestures to the end of the hall, down the secret passageway Joochan always took to find you. He doesn’t bother to question why Jangjun knows about it. “Then go.”

. . . . .

When Joochan arrives, you’re already under the balcony, humming to some of the rosebuds. You look up at his approach, eyes wide with first fear and then surprise. No wonder – you probably expected him on the balcony again, not right in front of you on the grass.

Joochan’s heart thumps. Gazing at you now, ethereal under the pale moonlight, he has to wonder how he didn’t realize he was in love with you until just a few days ago. Every piece of him aches to reach out, to hold your hands in his, to walk with you around the garden like he does with his fiancée…

His stomach twists at the thought of Donghyun’s sister. Why did their parents have to arrange this marriage?

“Joochan,” you breathe, standing up from where you were kneeling by the bushes. “I –”

“I love you.”

You freeze. Joochan freezes. For a moment, all that hangs in the air is silence and the echoes of Joochan’s words in the wind.

He doesn’t know what made him say it now, so suddenly like this. All he knows is that when you turned around and he heard you say his name, the only thing he could think was I love you, I love you so much I can’t even say and then it all came spilling out.

Finally, you swallow. For the first time since he spoke with you that day in the shed, you look rattled, discomposed, hands shaking as you fight to keep your voice steady. “You – you love me?”

Joochan swallows. Dips his head. “Yes,” he whispers. “I love you.”

Your expression cracks the same way it did when you met in the garden under the light of day, speaking of the roses right by you with his fiancée at his side. Splinters appear in your eyes, a rose’s petals withered past the point of growth even with the help of song, and Joochan can’t help but step forward, try to take your hands in his –

You jerk away and Joochan falters, suddenly unable to meet your eyes. Did he read you wrong? Do you not care for him the same way he cares for you? Because if you don’t, hell, Joochan doesn’t know what he’ll do –

“Joochan.” You swallow. “I mean, Your Highness.”

Pieces splinter off his heart, ice shards shattering on the floor with the sound of his title and not his name from your voice.

“You can’t – you can’t love me,” you whisper, pointedly looking away. “You have a title, you have a fiancée, you have everything –”

“I don’t have freedom,” Joochan interrupts. “No one can hear my song without dying and for that I don’t live, breathe the same way other people do – do you know how much everything hurt before I met you?” His eyes search yours for understanding, but you blink them closed. “Y/N, please.”

“Is that all you love me for, then?” you ask, features twisted in pain. “Just that I can listen to you sing, despite your curse?”

“No!” Joochan shakes his head wildly. “No – I love you for everything you are, beyond your voice and song –”

You remain silent as he speaks, words stumbling over more words as he tries to articulate everything he feels for you, his night-blooming rose under the moon and stars, one of the few people he trusts, one of the few around whom he feels like home. He loves your wisdom, your gentle teasing and sweet song, he loves the way you care so deeply for every living thing around you bar the pests you see sometimes eating the plants, he loves you for you, everything that makes up you –

“I love all of you,” he finishes, tears pulsing behind his eyes. “Not a part of you. All of you.”

Your gaze glitters with unshed tears. You don’t say anything.

Joochan panics. “Please, say something,” he pleads. “Just – anything. If you don’t feel the same, I’ll go away and I won’t come back, I promise, just please say something – tell me if you feel the same –”

One hand drags across your eyes. You swallow hard, finally meeting his gaze. “I do,” you say roughly. “I do love you, but we can’t – I can’t –” An angry sigh bursts from your lips and you wipe your eyes again. “Joochan, this could never end well.”

The relief at you using his name and not his title softens Joochan’s sadness, but only barely. “Run away with me,” he says desperately. “Just give me the word, Y/N, and I’ll run away with you. I won’t look back.”

“No.” You shake your head. “Neither of us is going to run away, Joochan. You have your life and I have mine. What we feel…” Your lips curve into the barest smile, lovely, haunting in the moonlight, before it disappears. “It doesn’t matter. None of it matters.”

“It matters to me,” Joochan protests.

“And it matters to me, too.” You attempt a smile and more pieces shatter from Joochan’s heart at the sight of you trying your hardest to remain strong when he’s already such a wreck. “But it won’t matter to others. You have a fiancée and a whole life ahead of you. My life will stay here, with the flowers.” Your smile grows briefly. “It’s okay. Just knowing that I will see you in the gardens is enough for me.”

“What if it isn’t enough for me?” Joochan asks. “What if I want to marry you, not my fiancée? What if I want us to have a garden together, not just one where we’ll see each other periodically –”

“That life isn’t for us,” you say softly, voice cutting clearly through his desperation. “It isn’t for us, Joochan.”

And with that, the last of Joochan’s heart falls away, cracks to pieces on the cold ground. For a moment, you only stare at each other, a million silent words filling the still air.

“Can we just have tonight, then?” Joochan whispers. “Just tonight.”

You chew on your lip. Joochan’s heart pounds.

Then you nod, and within seconds, he’s folded you into his arms, memorizing the warm weight of your body pressed against his. You shudder into his shoulder – you’re crying, he realizes, just as tears begin to fall from his own eyes – and then wrap your arms around him too, pulling him even closer than before. “Sing for me?” you whisper, voice cracking with tears.

He opens his mouth, begins to hum a song he learned years ago from sitting in on one of Bomin’s lessons. It speaks of hope, a new day, love blossoming as flowers do in a garden, as a night-blooming rose does under the moon. It’s strange, singing alone without your faint humming in the background as you keep the roses alive, but even as the flowers wither, Joochan steadies his voice enough to sing softly, smoothly, knowing that this will be the only night he can hold you like this.

You pull back after his song and for one brief, terrified moment, Joochan thinks you’re going to leave. But you only stare at him, stars sparkling in your eyes, and brush a strand of faded pink hair out of his forehead before your gaze lowers, settling on his lips. “May I?” you whisper, sounding almost frightened that he will say no.

Joochan doesn’t deign you with a verbal reply, only closes the distance and kisses you.

Bitterness on his tongue, sugar on your lips, Joochan pulls you close, close, closer, tasting the bittersweet from your mouth as you kiss under the moon. You separate for air and Joochan gasps a little, dizzy from the taste of your lips, and then you kiss him again, deeper, sweeter, again and again until it finally feels okay to stop for a little longer and you end it with a last brief peck on his lips.

“I love you, Y/N,” Joochan whispers as you bury yourself against him once more. “I love you.”

Your voice shakes as you reply. “I love you too, Joochan.”

(Neither of you notices a shadow at the edge of the wall, disappearing into the night.)

. . . . .

By some unspoken agreement, you and Joochan don’t meet under the stars anymore, not even with him on the balcony. That last night was an ending to something bittersweet and beautiful, but you made it clear that that was where things had to stop. Joochan is just grateful you let him have those last hours with you.

At least, that’s what he tells himself, even as he stops singing to himself in his empty room.

It isn’t the same. Joochan can’t sing, doesn’t want to sing if there isn’t someone to listen, to smile, to sing back a melody of their own. It doesn’t feel right. It feels like a betrayal.

You still come under his balcony sometimes to check on the roses. Joochan sometimes sits under the railing so you won’t see him (at least not as clearly), straining his ears to listen to you hum your song to the buds. The seasons are going to change soon, spring turning to summer, and you’ve talked about the changes you need to make when tending to the blooms with the shift in weather. He listens to the faint sounds of your movements and your voice, and he thinks you know he’s there, too, even if he doesn’t join in on your song.

Jangjun begins to look more and more confused as the days pass and Joochan just looks worse. He knows his guard meant well and expected him to be happier after that meeting he encouraged, so Joochan doesn’t have the heart to reveal what actually happened. Jangjun doesn’t ask, but he knows something went wrong.

You disappear from the gardens again. Joochan doesn’t see you when he takes his walks, and even his fiancée remarks on how they never encounter you after a few weeks pass with no sign. For you, Joochan is grateful – it clearly only hurt you to see the two of them together, and he doesn’t want you to hurt at all – but selfishly, he wishes he could see your face just one more time.

“It’s okay. Just knowing that I will see you in the gardens is enough for me.”

What’s the use of that when you never let yourself see him in the first place?

But Joochan respects your wishes, and even when people start remarking on his pale face and the dark circles under his eyes, he doesn’t say anything. He just smiles, nods, says I’ve just been busy lately, don’t worry about me, and carries on. No sense in telling anyone about his broken heart.

He takes a walk in the gardens one afternoon, alone. Bomin offered to come, but Joochan wanted to be by himself (well, by himself with Jangjun, of course). Almost unconsciously, his feet take him under his balcony, where the night-blooming roses grow.

Joochan sits on the grass in the shade looking at the roses. Most of the buds have blossomed with the warmer summer weather, and he fingers a few of the midnight blue blooms, runs a hand over the soft white streaks on their petals.

Then he blinks. Scoots back. Takes in the scene from a farther distance, eyes narrowing in confusion, then widening in surprise.

They’re overgrown. Not by a lot, but still a noticeable amount. The branches that you kept so carefully trimmed now crawl up the wall, creeping past the shade and just barely into the sun.

Joochan frowns. There’s no way you would be this careless normally, but maybe you’ve been busy over the past week or so and haven’t had time to tend them. After all, the rest of the gardens are your main focus – this bush was something extra, since nothing is ever really planted here out of fear of his voice. Come to think of it, Joochan hasn’t heard your voice from the balcony in a few days – he thought it might’ve just been you singing too quietly, but maybe you weren’t there at all.

Busy. You must be busy. Joochan stands, casting one last uncertain glance at the overgrown rose bush before walking off, ignoring Jangjun’s look of concern. He’ll come back and check in a few days to see if they’ve been trimmed.

A few days pass. Then a week. Joochan waits on the balcony every night, straining for a single note that sounds like your voice. Nothing.

And the rose bush is out of control.

. . . . .

On the fifth visit, Jangjun finally says something.

“Your Highness –” he looks around before deciding they’re alone, then drops the formalities. “Joochan, seriously, is something wrong?”

Yes. Something is very wrong. Joochan has come to look at the roses five times and each time they’ve just grown even more out of control. No one is taking care of them.

Which means you haven’t been here. In weeks.

Joochan swallows, debating whether or not to tell Jangjun everything. He could help – Jangjun knows the palace almost better than Joochan himself does, and he has a way with words that lets him seek out the information he needs without giving away what he wants. Joochan might talk to Bomin, but his brother is both busy and in closer proximity to his parents. Plus, he doesn’t have as much freedom to maneuver as Jangjun.

He swallows. “Jangjun, can you find out if something has happened to Y/N?”

Jangjun frowns. “The gardener? Why?”

“They haven’t been here to tend the roses in weeks,” Joochan says helplessly. “Please don’t ask me how I know, but…” He gestures at the overgrown bush. “I think something’s happened to them.”

For a moment, there’s silence. Then Jangjun sets his jaw. “You’re not going to tell me anything, are you.” It isn’t a question.

“Not… not now,” Joochan allows. “If something happens, though…” He takes a deep breath. “I’ll tell you what you need to know. All of it.”

Jangjun nods. “Fine. Give me a few days, I’ll see what I can find.”

Joochan only hopes he isn’t too late.

. . . . .

Two days later, Jangjun grabs Joochan out of nowhere and shoves him into an empty room.

Joochan coughs on dust particles flying in the air. “Jangjun, what the –”

“Joochan, you need to tell me everything.” Jangjun’s eyes hold no mischief whatsoever. “Y/N is sitting in prison underneath us this very minute and I need to know how it could have slipped that they know of your curse.”

How it could have slipped.

Slipped.

How –

“What?” Joochan sputters, heartbeat rising. “I couldn’t – I don’t know how anyone would have – we haven’t spoken in a month –”

“Seungmin told me they haven’t been at work for at least two weeks and that they just disappeared. It matches up with the time a new prisoner was brought in,” Jangjun snaps. “Try to remember. Something, anything.”

Joochan closes his eyes. Tries to think. You’re in prison, in prison, because someone somehow found out that you know of Joochan’s curse even though no one has been around when you two sang together – that has to be true or else they would’ve died at the sound of his song, and no one died –

Was there a time when he wasn’t singing?

Oh.

There was – that last time –

His eyes fly open. “That time you told me to go –” he chokes, does his best to continue – “we met, and I told them that I loved them but –”

“But what?”

Joochan puts his head in his hands. “We agreed that it couldn’t work out so we just spent that one night in the garden – nothing happened, don’t look at me like that – but neither of us sang much and someone could’ve heard something and – they could have pieced it together?”

“Okay.” Joochan hears Jangjun take a deep breath. “Okay. That would… that would explain it.” Hands place themselves on Joochan’s shoulders and he opens his eyes to Jangjun’s serious expression. “What do you want to do about this?”

Joochan blinks. What does he want to do about this? What kind of question – “I need to get them out, obviously!”

“Then they’ll be on the run for the rest of their life,” Jangjun counters. “Granted, they’re just a gardener and they might be able to blend in somewhere on the outskirts.” He squeezes Joochan’s shoulders so hard it almost hurts. “Would you go with them?”

In a heartbeat. In a heartbeat.

“Even if it meant giving up living in the palace, bringing a lot of trouble on Bomin and possibly breaking your fiancée’s heart?”

Selfish, selfish, selfish.

“Bomin – Bomin will understand,” Joochan says, desperately trying to convince himself. “And Donghyun’s sister doesn’t love me. She doesn’t want this marriage any more than I do.”

“There will be political ramifications,” Jangjun warns. “I know you weren’t raised as the crown prince, but you have to know this much.”

Joochan scoffs. “My parents will try to pull it off as a kidnapping or something,” he says. “No way would they let it slip that I dared to run away.”

“Then they could send an assassin or a mercenary after you. Kill Y/N, bring you back. Force you to return to everything you tried to run away from.”

Fear bubbles in Joochan’s stomach, but he swallows it down. “If Y/N is willing to deal with it, so am I.”

Jangjun searches his expression for several excruciating seconds. When Joochan doesn’t flinch from his gaze, he finally pulls back and nods. “Prison break is the last resort,” Jangjun says. “Right now, you need to go to your parents and see if you can convince them to let Y/N go. Swear them to secrecy, keep them under watch in the palace or something – it doesn’t matter. Getting them out of here will be much easier if they’re not imprisoned in the first place. Tell Bomin, ask him to help you convince them if you think that’ll help.”

Joochan swallows, still feeling the burn of Jangjun’s hands on his shoulders. The residual pain clears his mind, helps him think. “Okay,” he whispers. “Okay.”

. . . . .

Bomin takes it about as well as Joochan thought he would, which is not as well as he would’ve liked but better than it could have been. After seemingly endless explanation, he agrees to back Joochan – you’re only a gardener, after all, this is kind of overkill, and Bomin is just a good brother like that. It almost makes Joochan cry again.

As the doors to the throne room open, Joochan’s heart feels like it’s going to beat out of his chest. He hates facing his parents, hates looking at them and speaking to them more than most things in the world, but for you?

He’ll do it.

Joochan walks into a silent room, boots thumping on the cold stone floor. Bomin’s footsteps just behind him give him strength as he looks up to his mother and father, sitting with blank expressions on their thrones. “I request that the room be cleared.”

His father searches his gaze. “Request granted.”

It takes a minute for all the guards and officials to filter through the doors, during which Joochan tries to calm his beating heart. Finally, the room is empty save for his immediate family.

Joochan swallows. “I ask that you take Y/N out of prison.”

Eyebrows raise. Joochan hates that they don’t even seem to recognize your name. “The gardener,” he almost snaps, reigning himself in only just in time when he catches Bomin’s warning look.

Faces clear. Eyes become stone. “They know the secret of your curse,” his father says, voice flat and cold. Joochan can hardly believe he has healing power – his voice sucks all the heat out of the room. Your voice always made him feel warm. “They cannot be left to wander the kingdom and spread the word.”

“So bind them to secrecy. Keep them under watch in the palace,” Joochan counters. “They shouldn’t have to be stuck in prison – there are already people outside our immediate family who know, and they’ve kept their mouths shut!”

“They have not been vetted by the palace,” his mother snaps. “They are liable to speak, and as such, they must be kept away.”

Kept away. Like an inanimate object, a toy from ages past, to be locked in a cupboard and never shown the light of day…

Bomin shoots him a sharp glance, but Joochan is sick of this.

“Are you serious?” he yells. “You – have one single ounce of sympathy, will you? Or is that impossible with the way you’ve been running your kingdom – your household – for so long?”

“You are marked by death,” his mother snarls. “It is imperative that no one know this beyond all those necessary.”

“Father, they’re just one person,” Bomin breaks in before Joochan can explode again. “It’s entirely possible to not keep them in the prison and just keep watch over them –”

“You clearly have much to learn before you become king.” Their father shakes his head, as though disappointed. “Just one person? One sick person can spread an illness to a city within days, and illness travels even slower than words. How fast do you think news of this would spread if your gardener decided to speak?”

Joochan scoffs. “You never have any problem paying people off to be quiet or do things you want them to do. What’s so different this time?”

“I? Pay off a gardener?” His father laughs. “Who do you think I am?”

Joochan explodes.

“You think so highly of yourself, don’t you?” he yells. “You think so highly of yourself just because you wear a crown made of some shiny metal and jewels – you think you have the right to rule because of your supposed royal blood even though there’s nothing but cold evil under the surface? We are the descendants of killers – your father wiped out the weavers and you have no sympathy, so how can you think you have the right – why do you think you can just play people as pawns and have them do whatever you want – even your children – do you ever think about what we want?” Angry tears brim in his eyes but Joochan keeps them back. “I never wanted any of this! I never asked for my gift, I never asked to be born, I never asked to be the evil, death-marked child you always made me out to be, I never asked for the arranged marriage, all I ever wanted was to be happy and to use my gift but I couldn’t even do that – and now you’re taking away half the reason I still want to live by shutting them in a prison because of something they found out by accident –”

“You have no gift,” his mother intones, voice icing Joochan’s veins. “You are cursed.” Her lip curls. “Your song is no gift to us.”

Bomin makes an outraged sound in his throat, but Joochan barely hears it. All he can register is the blood roaring in his ears, the cold look on his mother’s face, the abhorrence and disgust on his father’s –

And he knows it isn’t true. You’ve taught him otherwise. Death is a part of a cycle – some flowers you can’t even bring back from their withering, it is just their time – and life needs it just as much as death needs life. Just as much as he needs you.

But hearing the words come directly from his mother’s lips, the woman who bore him, hurts almost more than your words can heal.

Joochan swallows. He could end it all right now. Tell Bomin to get out, sing, watch his song wither his parents away like the petals of an old rose – no, not a rose, even a withered rose is a sight better than the two monarchs sitting in front of him –

But he isn’t a killer. Not by far. He can’t do it.

Joochan steps back once. Twice. His voice, though small, carries in the silence.

“You know,” he chokes, “for people who pride yourselves on your ability to heal, all you really do is cause pain.”

He doesn’t wait for Bomin to follow before he runs out of the room.

. . . . .

Jangjun finds him in his quarters with Bomin half an hour later, sitting on the floor and staring at the wall. “It didn’t work out.”

Joochan doesn’t need to say anything to confirm it.

“So what happens next?” Bomin asks, still rhythmically patting Joochan’s back. It helps a little.

“We break Y/N out,” Jangjun says. “And they run away with Joochan.”

Bomin doesn’t look surprised, but Joochan’s heart still twists. He doesn’t want to leave Bomin or Jaehyun or Jangjun behind – they’re some of the only people who’ve kept him sane since he was old enough to think – but at the same time, he’s been itching to just leave the scrutiny of his parents for years.

After so much pain, even brotherly ties won’t keep him here for much longer.

“I’m going with you.”

Joochan’s head snaps up. Bomin furrows his eyebrows. “What – Jangjun?”

“They might send assassins after you and Y/N.” Jangjun crosses his arms. “I know you’re good in a fight, but Y/N doesn’t know anything about that sort of life. I do. You need me there to lead people off track, plant evidence –”

“That’s not the only reason,” Joochan interrupts. His eyes narrow. “You’re hiding something.”

Jangjun’s jaw works. He doesn’t look angry, exactly, maybe worried –

No.

For the first time Joochan has ever seen, his guard looks scared.

Bomin casts Joochan a concerned look. “Jangjun, it’s fine –”

“I’m a weaver.”

Joochan’s jaw drops. So does Bomin’s. Jangjun just stares back, defiant, arms crossed to hide the shaking in his hands.

A weaver. Joochan’s guard is a weaver. His loyal guard is one of those his forebears tried to wipe out generations ago – so why is he here, protecting the descendant of those who probably killed his family, his ancestors –

All of a sudden, Jangjun’s words from so many weeks ago make sense.

I know what it’s like to suppress a part of you for so long it feels like you’re dying.

He’s a weaver. One of those who wove stories into clothes, one of those his grandfather tried to massacre.

“Why?” Joochan manages.

“I was decent at fighting and needed a stable roof over my head that wasn’t the orphanage,” Jangjun explains. An unreadable look flashes through his eyes. “Took the first opportunity I could get and thought I would hate it. But then I realized… neither of you are your parents. Not even close.” He swallows. “So I stayed. Longer than I expected to.”

“So why leave now?” Bomin asks. “You could still stay – I mean, if we’re the only people who know –”

“Daeyeol knows too,” Jangjun says. Bomin starts at the name of his personal guard. “He knows, and he told me that some of the higher ups have been getting suspicious of… things. My unknown parentage. Why I’m so good at sewing.” He scoffs. “Like only commoners can be good at sewing. But yeah. No one will care how loyal I am if they find out I’m a weaver, so I’m going to have to run off at some point.” His jaw sets. “I might as well go along with you.”

Joochan has to try hard not to cry. “Thank you.”

“Don’t be a sap.” A sliver of the old Jangjun comes back in the scowl that paints itself across his face. “Bomin, you could come with us, you know that right?”

He shakes his head. “No, I need to stay back. If both of the princes disappeared, there’s no telling what our parents would do.” Bomin swallows. “Who knows. Maybe one day, when they’re gone, you might be able to come back.”

That would be a dream.

“Thank you, Bomin,” Joochan whispers.

His brother squeezes his hand in response.

“Well, that settles it.” Jangjun snaps his fingers before Joochan can do something stupid like cry. “Get moving. We need to get out of here as soon as possible.”

. . . . .

Joochan does not like the prisons. He’s been there before, but every time, the mildew smell and darkness make him want to hurl.

The fact that you’re in here, though, spurs him on.

Jangjun makes quick work of the last guard, slamming the handle of his sword into his head. The man crumples to the ground. Joochan stands over another unconscious man, peering forward into the darkness. “Down the hall?”

“Yeah.” Jangjun looks down at his arm. “Oh, come on.”

“What happened?”

“Just a scratch.” Jangjun waves him off. “Go and find them. I’ll stand guard here. There should be one more left, two at most. You can handle it.”

Heart in his throat, Joochan turns towards the dark. Several torches flicker light onto the stone walls and he takes care to remain in their shadows as he creeps down the line of cells, eyeing the guard standing at the end.

One shot. One chance. Joochan takes another step. Another –

The guard turns around.

For a moment, they only stare at each other, eyes wide. Then Joochan leaps forward.

Metal clangs. Armor crashes. Joochan whirls, dodging a metal-covered fist before slamming his sword against the side of the man’s helmet. He crumples to the floor.

Joochan experimentally prods the body with his foot. Breathing, but unconscious. Good. He plucks off the ring of keys –

“Joochan?”

He spins around at the sound of your voice and meets your gaze, face thinner, eyes wider, but still you. Still you.

“Y/N,” he breathes, rushing forward. His fingers tremble as he tries one key after another, all the while trying not to cry. What did they do to you? “Give me a second, we’re getting you out.”

A key finally clicks and Joochan drops the ring, pulling open the cell door and letting you fall into his arms. He holds you close as you shake against his shoulders, chest heaving, not crying yet but the small sounds in your throat make it seem like you’re close –

“We need to go,” Joochan whispers, squeezing you one more time. “Come on, Y/N.”

You lift your head. “Where are we going?”

Good question. Joochan doesn’t even know. Just away, away from the palace, away from everything…

“We’re running away,” he says. “Both of us. And Jangjun.”

To your credit, you take it without question, only nodding and pulling back. Joochan wants to hug you again, but there’s not time. “I guess we should go, then.”

. . . . .

Bomin meets them as they emerge from a dark passageway, immediately pressing a bag into Joochan’s hands. Something rattles inside. “Money,” he says. “And hair dye. You need to get rid of that pink.”

He wraps Bomin in a hug. “Thank you.”

“Live a good life, yeah?” Bomin pats his back, hand steady even as his voice trembles. “I’ll see you again.”

Joochan blinks back a tear. “Definitely. Tell Jaehyun, okay?”

“Of course.” And with that, they separate.

Joochan only hopes that another meeting will come to pass.

Jangjun leads them down endless halls and passageways, some even Joochan doesn’t know. All the while he holds your hand, pulling you forward anytime it feels like you’re faltering, and in the end, Jangjun pushes open a last door and you burst into the early evening, a floral scent in the air. The gardens. 

He looks around. 

Meets a familiar face.

Shit.

“Joochan?” His fiancée takes a hesitant step forward, eyes flickering between the three. Your grip tightens on his hand. “What – where are you going?”

Jangjun looks at him. So do you.

He says nothing.

Her eyes widen. “You’re running away.”

No one needs to confirm it. Their clothes, the bag on his shoulder, the weapons strapped to his and Jangjun’s waists say everything.

“Yes,” Joochan finally says, lifting his chin. “I’m sorry.”

Her expression sinks, though she puts a smile on her face. “I understand.” Her gaze shifts to you. “You were never in love with me. It was obvious.”

The ache in Joochan’s heart grows even stronger. “I –”

“It’s fine.” Her smile takes on a semblance of mischief. “If it doesn’t hurt your ego too much, I was never in love with you.”

Joochan almost laughs. “I figured.”

“Glad we’re on the same page.” Her lips turn down slightly, a little wistful. “Shame, though. I think we could’ve been friends.”

“I think so, too.” And it’s true. If they hadn’t been forced into all of this…

“Well, I never saw you. Not even a glimpse.” His former fiancée begins to turn around. “Don’t mind me, just walking in the gardens.”

He calls her name, just before she fully turns. She looks back. “Hm?”

For a moment, Joochan falters. This could go very wrong.

But he decides to take a chance.

“Find Bomin,” he says. “Tell him I said he could tell you everything. Donghyun, too. And for what it’s worth…” He swallows. “I really am sorry.”

“Things rarely go according to plan.” She smirks. “Our parents should’ve thought of that first.”

They really might have been friends. Joochan tries not to think of what could have been as he follows Jangjun between bushes, helping you through trees, crawling under fences until they reach the edge of the forest that borders the palace.

Jangjun plunges in, but Joochan pauses. Looks at you. Even gaunt, thinner from weeks of prison, you are radiant under the rising moonlight that filters between the trees.

You smile at him, squeezing his hand. “Ready?”

So many times, he’s been asked that question before balls, before events, before arranged marriage meetings, and every time, though he said yes, his real answer was no.

This time, however…

“Are you two done being saps?” Jangjun hisses from further into the forest. “Hurry up!”

Nothing is certain anymore. He might now technically be a fugitive. But tomorrow is a new day, and though Joochan is on the run, he’s with you. 

And he’s free.

Joochan smiles at you, ignoring his guard. “Ready.”

Together, you slip into the night.

. . . . .

The palace called it kidnapping. There was a manhunt for months, search parties looking for a gardener and a royal guard, the prince’s alleged kidnappers. Many thought it ludicrous, however, that a mere gardener and a guard who had been known to be loyal to the prince for years would attempt something as ridiculous as this, and simply left the palace to fumble through its affairs in the wake of the disappearance.

The former prince himself dealt with assassins sent after his partner, bounty hunters charged to bring him back (dead or alive, he learned, it didn’t matter – if he were dead, at least no one would have to deal with him anymore). The guard lured them all away. Together, the three plunged further into the country outskirts until there was no trace left, not even of the last assassin who had been sent to take care of them all.

This is where the story should end, with two black-haired brothers and a gardener settling quietly at the edge of a forest. Yet though the words now come to close, the world still remains.

The end of one story, after all, is only the beginning of another.

If you enjoyed, please don’t forget to reblog and leave a comment to tell me what you thought! Thank you for reading and have a lovely day <3

(1 reblog = 1 prayer for a certain trio + a prince back at the palace)

[tomthesoftie]

the right decision

❧ prompt: you and tom grew up together but always as enemies — nothing more, nothing less. as you grow older, you must realize it’s time to be mature. you either must throw tom out of your life or take him in as an ally. which will you choose?

❧ pairing: prince!tom holland x princess!reader

❧ genre: angst, e2l

❧ warnings: light swearing, hints of infidelity, hints of a toxic relationship

❧ a/n: this was half-assed because i didn’t have the will to write this lmao but i feel bad for not posting anything over my break, so... there’s gonna be a second part to this because, like i said, i had no will to write these past few days. happy new years, merry belated christmas/happy belated hanukkah 

chap. 2 →

masterlist                     prompt list

Stepping into the ballroom, you are met with hundreds of pairs of eyes staring at you.

You are clad in an elegant gown of ivory fabrics and sewn-on golden delicacies. Your feet are already stinging in pain from the uncomfortable stilettos you wore. Your hair is pulled back into a braided half-up styles, gentle waves accenting your beautiful face. 

The music abruptly begins, and everybody’s eyes have avert back to converse with the others in the room. Only does one pair of eyes not leave your figure as you glide down the grand staircase.

You can hear your heart pounding loudly in your chest, a bundle of nerves stir in your stomach.

Usually, you avoided attending these crowded occasions because whenever you did, you’d get weird stares from the other princesses.

As you curtsey politely to passing royals, a familiar figure catches your gaze. Closing your eyes into an elongated blink, you open your eyes once again to ensure that your eyes aren’t playing tricks on you. When the image stays the same, it’s all the confirmation you need.

Your longtime arch-nemesis was standing beside a large, marble pillar, smirking at you. 

For a moment, you feel a sudden rush of relief at the familiar face, but dread overtakes you, once again, as you realize that you have to spend the night with the infuriating man. 

From behind you, a hand rests on the small of your back, and a voice fills your ear, “Good evening, darling.”

You stiffen at the familiar voice. Forcing yourself to face the man beside you, you plaster a fake smile on your face. 

“Vincent,” you inwardly cringe at the taste of his name coming off your lips, “I didn’t know you’d be attending tonight.’

“I could say the same for you. You never were one to attend these events,” he eyes you strangely, “Unless you were lying to me?”

Your eyes widen at the accusation, and you scoff, “I don’t lie about foolish verity, unlike some.” Your voice comes out bitter, features mirroring your tone.

“I don’t understand what you're trying to imply, my darling,” a wicked grin grows on Vincent’s face.

You roll your eyes, fists clenching at your sides. You laugh spitefully, desperately trying to prevent yourself from knocking that grin off his face.

“You-” you are cut off by an accented voice.

“Excuse me, who are you?” The voice says.

“Vincent Callon, Prince of Averna,” Vincent bows before raising a suspicious brow at the man, “You are?”

“Tom. Tom Holland of,” the brunette pauses for a moment, “it doesn’t concern you.”

“How disrespectful,” Vincent snarls at Tom’s remark.

“I could say the same about you. What kind of man promises a woman all of his love and loyalty to crush it within less than 24 hours?” Tom snaps, slyly.

“You have no idea what you’re talking about,” Vincent growls through clenched teeth.

“Do I? Or is it you?”

The tension was uncanny to any other being in the room. You, being the reason of which, decide to speak up and end their quarrel.

“Well, it was,” you gulp, “nice to see you again, Vincent, but we must be going. There is much to do, tonight, especially since I don’t often appear at such events.”

Not letting him reply, you grab Tom by the hand and drag him along with you, ignoring the burning sensation of his hand in your small, in comparison, hand. You pull him through the crowd of people, barely acknowledging the glares you received from envious princesses. 

When the pair of you are in an isolated space, you snarl, “What was that?”

“What was what?” He asks, blatantly.

“Don’t do this with me right now. I’m already as mad as it is,” you sigh, hand reaching to massage your temples.

“You seemed uncomfortable,” he shrugged, uselessly.

Scoffing, you reply, “As if you care.” Looking him right in the eyes, albeit making your fierceness falter, you ask him with entirely seriousness in your voice, “Why’d you help me? What do you think you’ll achieve from it?”

Furious, he snaps, “I don’t think I’ll achieve shit from helping you! Why are you assuming the worst of me? I don’t want to keep this petty relationship between us! I’ve known you since you were just a newborn. How long are you going to hate me?”

Shocked at his sudden outburst, you stutter, “T-Tom, I... I don’t know what to say,” he throws you an unimpressed look, “I’m sorry. I didn’t know my behavior offended you. I just thought-”

“Thought that I hated you?”

You shamefully nodded.

“Great to know you think highly of me,” he rolls his eyes, walking past you in fury, hurt, and humiliation.

“Tom,” you call out, turning to face the direction he walked away in.

You thought that if Tom ignored you and let you be, you would be happier and complete, but now that he’s walked out of your life, you can’t help but feel guilty and ashamed of yourself.

Did you make the right decision?

[fictionalabyss]

Hopelessly devoted to you.

Pairing : Dean x Reader, Sam, Dean x Various (mentioned)

Word count :   1,559

Written for : @spnfluffbingo​​

Square : Singing in the shower.

Warnings : AU - Any song your soulmate sings you hear in your head. Angst ahead, fluff. Dean is a dingus who doesn't believe he could have a soulmate. Alcohol consumption, nudity.

A/N : Biggest thank you to @iflostreturntosteverogers​ as her tiktok obssession  gave me this idea. Sadly the specific tiktok that inspired this is no longer available so I can’t link it as a source. 

Masterlist • Patreon • Ko-fi.

SPN Fluff bingo 2020 Masterlist.

You sighed, head hanging down and eyes closed, letting the heat of the water run down over you. The pain of everything was still fresh despite the weeks of separation. He’d denied you, ignored what you really were to him, what you knew to be true, he’d denied it all and shut you out. You felt like a part of you was missing but there was nothing more you could do, you couldn’t make him change his mind.

One night of fiery passion and you lost it all. Your best friend. Your soulmate.

He didn’t believe it, didn’t believe you were meant for him and him alone and everything changed. He barely looked at you, avoided you like you had the plague. He basically sidelined you despite being a competent hunter in your own right before ever even meeting him, then vanished for weeks with his brother. Ignored your calls the whole time he was gone, and when he returned and you pleaded with him, begged him to let you back in, he’d simply walked away.

So you opted to walk away too. Leaving the brothers and everything you’d found with them behind for one crappy motel after another like before. For cheesy old movies, breakup junk food and showers that lasted until you were done crying or the hot water ran out.

You sighed once more, the water running off your forehead as you stood there desperate to feel something other than pain. Desperate to think of anything other than Dean Winchester. So you thought back to the movie you’d just finished maybe 15 minutes ago, and a song stood out. It hit real close to home.

“Guess mine is not the first heart broken, My eyes are not the first to cry” you began singing quietly. “I'm not the first to know there's, Just no getting over you. You know I'm just a fool who's willing, To sit around and wait for you, But baby can't you see there's nothing else for me to do, I'm hopelessly devoted to you.”

Dean sat on the edge of his bed, the decanter from the library in his hand because beer wasn’t doing it for him anymore. He could feel the ache in his chest since he came back from a run into town the day after a hunt and found you gone. No goodbye, no note, just an empty room and an ache in his chest at the loss.

“It’s for the best.” he muttered to himself, lifting up the decanter to his lips but before he could get it there, before he could fill his mouth to numb the pain, he could hear it. It was the first time he’d heard it in his head like this, but there was no mistaking that pained voice. He shut his eyes, listening to the quiet singing in his head, the words sung with so much pain.

‘But now there's no way to hide Since you pushed my love aside I'm outta my head hopelessly devoted to you Hopelessly devoted to you’

Dean had winced when your voice picked up with the chorus. It got louder, the pain hitting him harder at the words. Was this what it’s been like for you this whole time? Hearing him in your head after he’d pushed you away? Was it all real?

‘My head is saying fool forget him My heart is saying don't let go Hold on to the end, that's what I intend to do I'm hopelessly devoted to you’

“Dean?” Sam knocked on the door frame, but Dean didn’t acknowledge him. “Hey, Dean, you okay? I think I got something-”

“I need to go.” Dean never once looked at his brother as he unceremoniously dropped the decanter on the closest surface and hurried past Sam.

“Dean?”

“Need to do this, Sammy.” he called back as he hurried for the garage.

The pounding on your door made you jolt up in bed. You didn’t remember falling asleep but you must have, right? Rooting under your pillow, your fingers met the cold handle of your gun. Slipping from bed, you made your way towards the door with it tucked to your side. Looking through the peephole in the door, you froze. It couldn’t be, could it? You hesitated before opening the door. “De-”

You were cut off by his lips pressing to yours, one hand coming up to cup the back of your head and hold you to him while he other ran gently down your arm. When the kiss broke, Dean didn’t let you pull away, letting his forehead rest against yours as he took in a deep breath and blew it out.

“Why are you here, Dean?”

“I heard you.” he whispered. “I heard you singing earlier, it hurt so fucking bad.”  You felt his forehead scrunch against yours as he furrowed his brow. “Was this what it was like for you?” his eyes opened and he met your gaze. “Hearing me in there after I pushed you away?” You gave him a sad nod in response. “Why am I only hearing you now? Why have I never heard you before?”

“You probably have and just didn’t notice it was me. When I first heard you, the very first time,” you licked your lips, “I didn’t know it was you. I had just met you, it wasn’t strong, it sounded like someone's car radio too loud around the corner, or a song just stuck in my head. But the closer we got, the stronger it got. And then when we-” you cut yourself off, closing your eyes. “It was the strongest it ever was. I could hear you crystal clear. It was so beautiful, Dean. It warmed my heart and made me feel like I had finally found my home.”

“Why didn’t I experience that?”

“Because you shot me down and pushed me out. I had no reason to sing anymore. You broke my heart, Dean. My spirit. I felt like there was nothing worth being happy for anymore. And then I heard it, the tune you whistle after you-” You couldn’t say the words, couldn’t say that you heard that happy little tune he whistled or hummed after he got laid, but with someone else.

“Shit..”

“I couldn’t stay. I couldn’t watch you come and go, and the string of women following you around, knowing what we were, I couldn’t do it. I had to leave.”

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry I didn’t believe you, I’m sorry I pushed you away.” When you pulled away from him, Dean got scared. Was it too little too late?

“You should probably come inside.” you stepped back and motioned for him to enter.

Dean nodded and he moved in, glancing around awkwardly as you shut the door behind him. It was quiet for a moment, Dean in the middle of your room while you stayed closer to the door unsure of what to do with yourself.

“Come home.” Dean broke the silence, making you look up at him. “Please. Come back home.”

When Dean woke up, he stretched with a groan. The bunker was quiet around him as he lay alone in his bed and sighed. He laid there for a minute before he sat up, swung his legs over the side of the bed and ran his hands over his face. He needed coffee and fast.

“Do you really wanna know, what I want in a guy.”

Dean smiled as your voice filled his head. Coffee could wait.

“Well, I’m looking for a dream on a mean machine with hell in his eyes.”

As he moved up the bunker hall, he pulled off his shirt.

“I want a devil in skin tight leather.”

He tossed the shirt aside as he entered the showers.

“He’s gonna be wild as the wind.”

His boxer briefs joined his shirt on the floor without a care as he started for the shower he could hear occupied.

“And one fine night, I’ll be holding on tight, to a cool-”

“Hey, baby.”

You jumped with a scream, spinning around to find Dean stepping in behind you with a grin. “You asshole!” you started smacking him playfully against his chest which only made him laugh. “You scared the shit outta me.”

“That’s what you get for making me wake up alone.”

“That’s what you get for sleeping in past 10.” you teased him right back.

“Oh yeah?” he stepped in closer, getting right up against you.

“Yeah.”

Dean bit his bottom lip and gave you a small nod before he looked you over, watching the steaming water flow down over your curves. “If he’s cool enough?” Dean asked, eyes meeting yours and you smiled brightly at him.

“Then he can burn me through and through.” you continued the lyric.

“And if it takes forever?” he whispered, ducking to place a kiss along your neck.

“Then I’ll wait forever.” you breathed out, letting your eyes close as you tilted your head back.

“Why?”

“No ordinary boy is gonna do. I want a rider that’s cool.” With that, Dean captured your lips.

“I got to say, I don’t hate you singing Grease songs in my head.”

“And I don’t hate that you know them by heart, too.” you teased him.

“You better not tell anyone.” he growled, nipping at your jaw.

“No promises.”

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[obx-adventures]

The Introverted Twin

Summary - Being John B’s bookish twin isn’t easy. Especially with my best friend, Pope, being weird about me getting closer with JJ.

Warning: Medical conditions and procedures described (as accurately as I could)

A/N - Flashbacks are in italics. This chapter may have been my favorite to write.

Catch up here: Ch 1, Ch 2, Ch 3, Ch 4, Ch 5, Ch 6, Ch 7, Ch 8

——

Chapter 9

I regain consciousness in the ambulance but am very disoriented. The first thing I notice is the neck brace keeping my head still, followed shortly by wet drops hitting my face. I try to determine the source of the wetness and realize that Kie is leaning over me and sobbing.

“Kie…” Her eyes shoot open as a new round of sobs overtake her diminutive frame.

“Y/N? Oh my God! Are you… how are… I’m so glad your awake!”  

“JJ?” My voice is barely a whisper but the concern in my eyes tells Kie exactly what information I’m searching for.

“He’s in the other ambulance. He woke up as they were loading him in and was screaming for you.”

“He… is he…”

“I don’t know if he’s ok. Only that he woke up before we left. I called JB but I think his phone is dead. I was able to get ahold of Sarah and she was going to pick him up.” I’ve exhausted all of my energy and my eyes flutter closed. I hear Kie’s worried gasp and squeeze her hand to let her know I’m still awake.

When we get to the hospital, I struggle to open my eyes but fail. As soon as the doors open, I hear JJ screaming my name. The effect of his voice is like a shot of adrenaline to the heart. I try to sit up to look for him but am pushed back down by the paramedic. Kie jumps out and I hear her telling JJ that I woke up.

As I’m being rolled into the emergency room, Kie screams JJ’s name loudly. From the rush of doctors and nurses that run to him, I know it’s bad.

“Kie! Kiara!” I yell as loud as I can and am frustrated when it comes out as barely more than a whisper. I try to sit up again to see what happened and feel a stabbing pain in my ribs. This doesn’t stop me from continuing to push myself up, but I’m overcome with a sudden difficulty to breath. Before I understand what’s happening, my vision goes black and I slip back into the abyss.

----

There is a soft knock on my door, and I tell the person to come in without looking up from my SAT prep book. Even though I’m not starting my prep class until school starts back up in a couple months, I want to get a head start on the most important test of my life.

“Y/N, can I talk to you for a few minutes?” Hearing Kie’s voice shocks me into looking up. Without thinking, I lunge forward to hug her.

“Kie! I haven’t seen you since September! How are you?”

While all the Pogues have been hesitant about her return from her year at the Kook Academy, I’m just glad to see Kiara Carrera again. Being surrounded by boys all the time for the past 9 months has been exhausting.

“I’m ok. I came to apologize.” Kie’s face is full of pain and I realize just how difficult this past school year has been for her.

“You don’t need to apologize to me.” I pull her back to sit down next to me on the bed.

“Yes, I do. I’m so sorry that I haven’t been around. I’ve missed you. There were so many times during this past year when I wished I could call you.”

“Why didn’t you?”

“I knew the guys were pissed at me and I guess I just assumed you would be too.”

“I wasn’t pissed at you. I just missed you.” I wrap my arm around her shoulders and give her a reassuring squeeze. Kie starts to cry as she leans into me.

“The Kooks were awful, and I thought that if I leaned into Kook life, it would get better. I stopped hanging out with you guys and became friends with the Kook Princess. But it all fell apart and I was so lonely. I wanted to talk to my best friend.”

“You could have called John B! He was hurt but he would have understood.” At this, Kie lifts her head off my shoulder and leans away to look at me.

“I meant you.”

“I’m your best friend?”

“Why is that a surprise?”

“I just thought that I was John B’s sister to you, like I am with everybody else.” I shrug and look down at my hands in my lap. JJ and Pope are the only friends I’ve ever had. Most girls either ignore me or treat me like I have the plague, but Kie has always been kind and excited to see me. I thought she was just placating me so I wouldn’t feel weird when she was here with John B.

“I guess I have to apologize again then. We may have met because I became friends with the guys but then we started spending almost every day together and you started to relax around me. I got to see how funny and sweet you are. Even though you seem so shy, you have no problem putting the boys in their place. We both know that your dad and JB have no idea what their doing so you’ve had to run this place. Most teenage girls think about clothes and makeup and boys. But you worry about the electrical bill, cooking dinner, and making doctors appointments for all of you. It’s amazing. You’re amazing, Y/N.”

----

When I open my eyes this time, I hear my brother yelling at someone.

“That is my sister! I need to see her! Move!”

“JB…”

“No, Y/N, don’t try to talk.” The nurse currently taking my vitals tries to soothe me.

“Tell him… ok…” I plead with my eyes and the nurse turns to my brother who is still trying to push past someone to get into the room.

“Mr Routledge, your sister’s eyes are open and she’s asked me to tell you she’s ok. But I need you to wait outside because you’re upsetting her. I promise you can talk to her in a couple minutes.” He falls silent and I can practically hear the wheels turning in his head. I raise my hand a few inches to signal him that I really am awake.

“Ok, Y/N, I’ll be right back.”

A few minutes later, true to her word, the nurse ushers my brother into my room. He grabs my hand like it’s a life line and I open my eyes to try to meet his. I get ready to talk but my brother shushes me.

“No, no. Don’t talk. You have a severely bruised… ummm, the voice box thing and a few of your ribs broke off and put a hole in your lung. The doctor put a tube in to help you breath but they are getting you ready for surgery to fix the ribs so there isn’t more damage.” I whine a little and try to convey the urgent question I can’t ask. “JJ has a few broken ribs and a really bad concussion but he’ll be ok.”

I sigh in relief and immediately wince in pain. John B worries over me as the nurse comes back in to tell him they need to take me for a CT scan before my surgery. I fall back under as they transfer me over to the CT table.

----

“John B, I need you to eat. Please.” My brother doesn’t even acknowledge that I’ve walked into the room. His sandwich is still untouched in front of him, exactly how it was when I checked on him 15 minutes ago. “It’s been a week. I’m worried you’re going to pass out.”

“I’m not hungry.” I sit next to him and turn his face to look at me. “Just leave me alone.”

“No, Bird. I won’t –”

“Don’t call me that!” I jump back at his outburst. The anger falls from his face when he sees the look on mine. “Sorry… I didn’t… Sorry… it’s just… Dad calls me that.”

“So do I, JB. I always have.” My voice is full of all the pain that I’ve been carrying this week.

“It hurts too much…”My twin has been like this since our father disappeared a week ago. He is not only dealing with losing our dad but also his guilt over the terrible fight they had before he left. He won’t eat, barely sleeps, and hasn’t showered since we filed the missing persons report. I finally got him to drink water a couple days ago by threatening to call ‪911‬ if he didn’t. At least now I don’t need to keep checking him for signs of dehydration.

“Ok, JB... I’ll make you a deal. You start eating and I won’t call you that.” He scoffs at me and looks away. “I’m serious. I need you. I can’t lose you and that’s what will happen if you don’t take care of yourself.”

“Don’t be dramatic, Y/N.”

“I’m not being dramatic. Pope looked it up for me. You haven’t eaten anything in a week. That’s dangerous.”

“I’m fine. I’m not even hungry.”

“You’re in the first stages of grief. The stress throws off your appetite. But it doesn’t mean you don’t need to eat. Please, JB… Please…”I feel the panic attack building and start to stand up to go to my room. I’ve spent the past week consoling my twin and trying to hide the impact our dad’s disappearance has had on me. John B catches my hand before I can get too far away.

“I’m sorry… I’m sorry, Y/N. I know this has been hard on you, too.” He pulls me back down to the couch and throws his arms around me. “I’ll try to do better.”

“What if we split the sandwich?”

“Deal,” he says as he kisses me on the cheek. “I love you, Y/N.”

“I love you too, JB.”

----

“When are they taking her into surgery?” I’m not fully awake yet but I can hear how scared JJ sounds.

“A few minutes. None of us are supposed to be in here but John B sweet talked the nurse.” I feel a bit better hearing Kie comforting him but I still fight to open my eyes, desperate to see that he’s ok. My eyes flutter open and JJ moves closer to me.

“Sunshine? Are you awake?” I squeeze the hand that’s holding mine, unsure if it’s his or Kie’s. “I’m right here. I got you.”

“Kie! Is she ok?” The new voice surprises me, giving me the jolt I need to fully open my eyes.

“Pope, she’s… she needs surgery…” Kie’s worry shines through her voice.

“Y/N! I’m right here! I’m so sorry…” He breaks during his apology and I try to comfort him through my eyes.

“See, Sunshine. We’re all here for you.” I look over at him and my eyes fill with tears when I see the bruises forming. “No, don’t cry… I’m ok. Don’t worry about me.”

“JJ, what happened?!” My eyebrows knit in confusion. I try to look back at him but he moves out of my field of vision. My eyes snap back to JJ to watch his reaction.

“Pope! Calm down. This isn’t JJ’s fault and you know it.” Kie’s admonishment is firm but JJ’s expression is full of guilt. “I was next to John B when he was telling you what happened. Don’t pick a fight.”

“No J…” All three of them turn at my voice. “Not… your… fault…”

“Shhh, don’t talk,” Kie tells me. “We all know this isn’t JJ’s fault. I’ll keep reminding him while you’re in surgery.”

“Pope…” My best friend cuts me off by putting a finger over my mouth.

“Kie’s right, Y/N. I know it’s not his fault. I’m just… I’m scared is all. I’ll be better. Just don’t talk. Please.” He wipes tears off my cheeks and smiles weakly at me. “It’s my fault, not his.”

“Pope, dude, this was my dad. Not me, not you.” I try to nod at JJ’s words but discover I’m in a new neck brace that I didn’t pay attention to until now.

“If I wasn’t such an ass when she told me about you guys, she wouldn’t have needed to go find you at your house.”

“Pope, I convinced her to go find JJ. I should have seen his dad’s truck when we got there and stopped her from going inside.” I whine after Kie’s done and have never been more frustrated that I can’t talk.

“Guys, stop. The nurses are coming so we need to clear out. None of you are to blame. And if Y/N could talk more than a couple words right now, she’d tell all of you the same thing. Luke Maybank did this to her and to JJ. And the cops have him so stop blaming yourselves.” My eyes shoot over to JJ to see how he’s handling all of this. We’ve all tried to talk him into reporting the abuse to the police but he’s always been adamant that he won’t. Now that choice has been taken from him.  

“JJ, the cops are ready to talk to you,” my brother continues. “Kie, they may have some follow up questions so they asked that you stay. Y/N, the doctors told them that they couldn’t talk to you yet but I’m sure they’ll be here when you wake up.”

“Ms Routledge, it’s time to go. Mr Maybank, you should be in your room. The rest of you can wait down the hall.” The nurses start unhooking my IV and monitor wires, giving me a moment with each of the Pogues. I brush my fingers over JJ’s cheek, squeeze Kie’s and Pope’s hands, and whisper that I love my brother. One of the nurses inject a sedative into my IV line and then wheel me out of my room.

----

“Hey, Y/N! What are you doing out here?” I actively avoid looking at my best friend as he sits next to me on the end of the pier. I hide my hands under my legs so he can’t see that my fingernails are bit down to nubs, a sure sign of my current mental state.

“Hi Pope. I’m just hiding from John B…”He places his hand on my knee to comfort me and traces light circles on my exposed skin.

“Why?” His voice is so gentle and I’m afraid that if he offers me more comfort, I’ll completely fall apart.

“The police were here a little bit ago… they’ve officially stopped the search for my dad…” Pope knows that no words will be enough right now so he opts to wrap his arms around me and pulls my head to his shoulder. “I don’t know how to tell him, Pope. I just got him to start eating more a couple days ago. What if he… what if I lose him too?”

“You won’t lose him. All of us will be here to help both of you.” I start sobbing into Pope’s chest, finally letting myself feel every ounce of pain that’s been building up over these past 2 weeks. I’ve tried so hard to just focus on being there for John B that I haven’t done anything to take care of myself. I sit in Pope’s arms for a while and let someone take care of me for once.

After my mom left when we were kids, my dad tried his best to take care of us. But it was a mess. I finally took over when we were 11 after my dad sent John B and I with moldy sandwiches. It was right around the same time that Pope and I were partnered up for a project for the first time in gifted science. We were eating lunch together and he shared everything he had with me after I spit out the first bite of my sandwich. I confessed how chaotic my home life has been and Pope decided to help me set up some systems for tracking and paying bills, meal planning, and every other aspect of running a home. With his support, I whipped us all into shape. He was so excited about all the organization and planning that I’m not sure if he fully understands that I wouldn’t have been able to keep my family together without him.

“Do you want me to be there when you tell him? I can call JJ and Kie too so he sees that he still has a family.” I turn to look at my best friend and thank the universe for sending me someone to help bear my burdens.

“Yes, please. Thank you, Pope.” I kiss his cheek and pull him into a fierce hug. I feel like I can finally breath now.

“I’m always here for you, Y/N. Always.”

----

“There you are, Sunshine.” My head jerks up in surprise. I didn’t expect anyone to find me in my closet.

“Why aren’t you at the party, JJ?” Today is mine and JB’s 10th birthday party. Of course, since I don’t have any friends, everyone is here for my brother.

“You ran away before I could give you your gift.” Instead of waiting for me to climb out of the closet, he sits down with me. He hands me a small package, wrapped in purple tissue paper.

“You got me a present?” My shock is evident in my voice. In all the years of birthday parties for the Routledge twins, no one has ever given me a gift.

“Of course! It’s your birthday, too.” JJ gently nudges me to open my gift. When I unwrap it, I discover a handmade bracelet, just like the ones JJ wears, in all my favorite colors. I look up at him and he gently takes it out of my hands to put it on my wrist.

“JJ… this is… thank you!” I can’t put into words how much this means to me so I try to convey it with a hug.

“I know you think that you don’t have any friends… but you have me…” JJ’s voice wobbles a little and I pull away to see how nervous he is. He kisses my forehead, stands up, and offers me his hand. Without hesitating, I take his hand and return to the party with him. In this moment, I realize I would go anywhere with and do anything for JJ Maybank.

----

“Y/N, I need you to open your eyes for me.” I fight against the remaining effects from the sedative to try to comply with the man’s request. When I finally get my eyes open, it takes every ounce of energy in me to keep them that way. “Good job. I’m Dr Row, we met in the emergency room but I’m not sure if you remember that. I did the surgery to repair your ribs and lung. Everything went well but we need to keep you in the surgical ICU at least for tonight.”

I try to nod at him but realize my neck brace is still on. My throat hurts much too badly now to try to speak so I offer a weak thumbs up.

“I know you’re in a lot of pain right now. You kept passing out because your body was overwhelmed with how much it hurts and your brain was trying to protect you. Your throat is very swollen and we’re worried about some of the cartilage there so we’re keeping you in the neck brace for now so you don’t accidently injure it more. I had to put in some hardware to put your ribs back together and you still have the tube in your side so pressure doesn’t build up in your chest cavity. You’ll stay in recovery a little longer and then your brother can see you in your room.”

After another 30 minutes or so, I’m taken to the ICU room. The doctor was right about the severity of my pain and I’m doing everything I can to stay awake so I can see John B. Finally, he’s ushered into the room and grips my hand gently, fear etched into every inch of his face.

“Y/N, I’m here. I’m right here.”

“J…” I eek out and my brother shushes me before I try again.

“JJ is with DCS right now…” A sob escapes my tender throat. “No, no, shhh. Kie, Pope, and their parents are with him. We won’t let him get taken away. Y/N! Y/N!”

I hear my brother yelling my name as the monitors start going wild but I can’t respond or open my eyes again. The darkness engulfs me once again despite my desperate efforts to stay with my brother.

One chapter left...

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[silverwhiteraven]

Wings of Broken White - Ch.7

Tag List: @marichatmay

[ Posted on Ao3 ] [ Chapter 1 ] [ Chapter 6 ] [ Chapter 8 ]

[ Summary Author forgot to post this chapter, oops. Marinette reveals her secret to Blanc. ]

Marinette hesitated for a moment, before standing.

“I can’t tell you here. It feels awkward. I’m going to grab some more hot chocolate, for you of course, and then… Would you mind taking me with you, to Notre-Dame? If you don’t mind, that is, I don’t want to get in the way of your practice or distract you in a way that will make you fall, or-”

He cut her off with a hand to her shoulder as he joined her in standing, an amused and appreciative smile joining his soft gaze. “It would be my honor, Princess, to have your presence and your delicious hot chocolate with me tonight,” he winked, and they both laughed together.

With a nod, she hopped back down into her room with both thermos containers. She snuck down into the kitchen to refill both, adding in tiny marshmallows as a final touch before closing them tight. Back in her room, she slipped on some socks and shoes. After a second, she also put on a dress over her nightgown. It was one of the few dresses with an open back meant for her wings. She covered them back up with the blanket and climbed back out onto the balcony.

Chat was waiting right where he had been, fiddling with his tail-belt idly. He perked up again as she came back. “Ready, Princess?”

“Ready,” she nodded, holding her cargo of two hot chocolate thermoses securely along with the edge of her blanket.

“Permission to carry Her Royal Highness to the Cathedral?” She snorted, hiding her face, and her blush, behind an edge of the blanket like it was some kind of coy fan.

“Permission granted, Sir Gryphlet. But drop me and my parent’s might just have your head.”

They both giggled at their conversation as he picked her up. It was the same as before, a secure but gentle princess-carry. She trusted his hold. She felt comfort in it, leaning into it to combat her anxiety and nerves.

With an effortless hop, Chat Blanc was standing on the balcony railing, and then a powerful leap had them both soaring from building to building. The trip to Notre-Dame was noticeably short, even with Chat taking a curved route and skirting around the building to prolong their arrival.

He glided the rest of the distance after his final leap, landing with a slight stumble but not falling or losing his grip. There were now between the two towers of the western facade. She expected Chat to set her down now, but he surprised a squeak out of her when he adjusted his hold and took out his baton. An unexpected lift later, and they were atop the northern tower, much higher than before, but more hidden from any eyes below.

“You alright there, Marinette?” He asked, voice gentle with concern as he actually set her down this time.

She laughed a bit airly, looking around in awe. “I’m great, gryphlet, thank you. Wow...No matter where I go or how many times, there’s always a new way to see it. The Cathedral is beautiful from up here.”

“Want to go inside?” He wiggled his eyebrows in jest.

Marinette laughed, both surprised and not by his suggestion. “We aren't going to break into a church, Chat, that would be horrible!”

“Why not?” He returned her laugh, “It’s not like they keep the doors locked all the time. Churches are supposed to be safe places for anyone to go to, right? At any time.”

She chuckled, but thoughtfully considered him for a moment, smiling more. “Is that why you come here to practice flying, then? It feels...”

“Comfortable, and free,” he nodded, finishing and confirming her thoughts. His wings shuffled a bit, tucked against his back awkwardly. Marinette hummed in acceptance and walked toward the edge of the tower’s roof, looking outward to see the lawn and gardens, a place that made her heroic partner willing to try flying on his own.

A breeze fluttered the blanket around her and she shivered. A heartbeat later, Chat Blanc was at her side, a wing unfurled around her to block the wind. She blushed, appreciating the gesture, and handed him one of the thermoses. She uncapped her own and sipped at the hot chocolate to calm herself from the unnecessary flustering. She looked at Chat when his wing shuddered and she heard him humm in delight.

Marinette covered her mouth to hold in a laugh as she saw his own thermos getting tipped steadily until it was practically upside down. “Ah~!” came his utterly satisfied sigh alongside a big puff of visible breath, the thermos dropping back down infront of him, the contents having been completely consumed. He capped it, then looked at her like a cat who had just eaten a whole turkey all on his own, and enjoyed every bite. This time, she couldn't hold in the laugh.

He joined her, perfectly realizing how ridiculous what he just did must have been. He was silenced though as her laughter turned to small giggles and she reached a hand out to him, gently touching his chin. With a swipe of her thumb, the small drip of hot chocolate at the corner of his lip was whipped away. He stared at her, blinking slowly.

She took his empty thermos and looked away once again, realizing her own attempt to not get flustered had failed horribly. Why did I do that! I could have just pointed it out and he could have gotten it himself! Marinette, whhyyy?! She chugged down some more of her own hot chocolate in hopes the additional heat would actually be successful this time in keeping her in check.

“So, Princess,” he cleared his throat, and Marinette hummed in acknowledgment. “You asked me to bring you with me, because you wanted to tell me something? What is it?”

She stayed quiet for a moment, hesitating, before stooping and setting the thermoses aside on the rooftop, out of the way, and preventing her from stalling any further by trying to drink more. Instead, she gripped the blanket closer and turned to Chat Blanc, Looking at him carefully. Another ghost of wind had his feathers fluttering, catching her eyes.

Such a beautiful iridescent white...The ice blue tips and the moonlight really make them look like ice crystals. She couldn't help but smile wistfully. I’d trust these wings to carry me and the world if mine ever got too tired. And I am tired. Tired of hiding so much.

With a sigh, she took a small step forward, keeping herself within his encompassing wings that radiated comfort. He watched, patient as ever with bated breath to listen to her.

“The thing is, Chat, I’ve been hiding something from a lot of my friends for a while now. A few of them know, and my family knows, but outside of them, I keep it hidden. It hurts a lot, actually, but to stop hiding now, after so long, it scares me.” She sighed and looked down.

“Do you remember Chloé Bourgeois?” She heard him give the softest hum of affirmation before continuing. “I’ve known her for a little under four years now. She had a bad habit of looking down on almost everyone, being a bully to anyone, no matter their age or supposed authority. She just sees herself at the top of the world and only cares about who can serve her those she thinks would look nice at her side. I mean- I know she actually cares about some of those people, but, if you aren’t one of them?” Marinette shivered again, from more than just cold this time. Chat Blanc stepped closer and his wings closed around further.

“If you aren’t worthy in her eyes,” Marinette continued, sucking in a breath to steady herself, “then she has nothing to lose by making sure you know how she sees you. How she sees your friends. How she sees your family.” Once more her eyes turned to his wings. “My parents don’t have wings. Only my Nonna has wings in my immediate family, and further than that would be my great-great-Grandparents on my mother’s father’s side, but they’re gone. So it’s just Nonna and- Well, anyways,” she shook her head, looking back down.

“The first day of school, when I first met Chloé, our class spent all day getting to know each other. We talked about our hobbies and our families. I was proud to talk about my parents who work and live just down the street in the best bakery in Paris. I remember Chloé had scoffed at me, and told me that their pastries and baking couldn't be that good, because ‘no one without wings could even possibly compare anything they make to that of a normal toddlers’.” Marinette sniffed, rubbing at her eyes that had begun to blur. “She said it like wings are the only thing that make people good, or special, or worthy. Like she didn’t also go around telling people with wings that they were a waste of feathers and would be better off wingless.”

Her voice caught in her throat and she had to stop, hugging the blanket tighter than ever. Chat Blanc took the final step closer, engulfing her in an embrace of gentle arms and warm wings. She opened her arms, the blanket loosening around her as she held him around the chest tightly, hiding her face against his shoulder. Her hands brushed against his feathers, their soft touch all around her feeling light and comforting. She could even hear the smallest of purrs reverberating in his chest, and she knew it was meant to comfort her, too. And it did. It was also incredibly endearing, making her smile past the pains of the old hurt.

“You don’t have to keep explaining if you don’t want to,” his quiet voice spoke past the rumble in his chest. She shook her head, wanting to press on.

“She makes people feel bad for the things they have and the things they don’t. The things that make people happy she can turn against them,” Marinette sniffed and pressed into him, the blanket loosening from her grip. “She- I-I just- I don’t feel worthy of what I have...”

Chat Blanc’s arms slipped down to pull her closer onto his hug. The blanket slipped down from her shoulders to drape around her waist. She felt his breath hitch, freezing stil inside his chest as his heart pounded audible in her ear.

“Marinette…”

She nodded weakly, answering him quietly. “Yeah, they’re real, you’re not seeing things.”

There was quiet for a minute as they stayed silent where they were in each other's arms. Then Chat sucked in a breath, speaking gently, “You asked me if I used wing-binders. This is why?” Marinette nodded. “You wanted to know if I could relate…” She didn’t need to nod that time, she could hear it in his voice that he already knew it was true. “I can understand it, a bit. Not the same way, And I can’t really say how without risking my identity, but...I do get it,” he reassured her with a tightening of his hug.

She sighed gratefully and relaxed into him. He adjusted his arms when she shuffled her wings, freeing them fully from the blanket.

This time, both of them stopped breathing for a moment as their wings brushed against each other, making the two hyper continuous of just how close they were. The sheer amount of trust and affection they had to have to allow such an intimate interaction made them blush.

Marinette burst out laughing from the silliness of their position, contrasting the tears she hadn't noticed leaving her eyes from the heavy discussion only minutes before. Chat Blanc joined her outburst, and they surrounded themselves in their own bubble of laughter and feathers.

Too soon, they pulled away from each other. But it wasn’t awkward,and it didn’t leave them uncomfortable to know that such a heavy conversation and a huge secret had just been laid out between them. They smiled, looking at each other with softness and appreciation.

With another giggle, Marinette teased, “Didn’t you come here to fly, pretty-gryphlet? Don’t let a few tears and a sob story stop you from having fun.”

“You think you could stop me?” Chat picked up the teasing to use himself, “If anything, my Princess has emboldened me to be more fierce in my training and become the worthiest Knight amongst all her subjects!” He took a bow and they both giggled when he straightened again.

It felt good to interact with her partner so easily, even outside the mask. She wondered if he ever felt the same with her. Maybe she had interacted with him outside his mask as Ladybug before, too. It made her wonder, what would things be like for us if we knew each other completely? Maybe, someday soon, we can find out.

Saving that thought for later, Marinette dropped her blanket on top of the abandoned thermoses and turned back to Chat Blanc with a glint in her eye. “Then I best make sure my Knight is up to my standards before I have him return me to my chambers for the night. Come on, Chat, let’s go for a flight.” She stepped backwards towards the edge of the tower, watching her partner, her friend.

“Are you sure about this? I’m still not very good.” Despite his words, though, he followed.

Marinette nodded confidently, endeared by his hesitance and emboldened by his trust. “I’m out of practice, too, it’s okay. At the very least, we can glide for a while, and maybe I can teach you how to crash-land properly.” He sputtered, looking taken aback by the thought of them falling, let alone doing it on purpose, and she laughed, taking his hand and pulling him even closer to the edge. “We have all night to learn, gryphlet. I know we can do it together. Trust in us. I know I do.”

Once more he stared at her, making her blush under his gaze as he blinked ever so slowly, and nodded gently.

Marinette’s ombre grey Crane wings spread out freely, and Chat Blanc’s mirrored in unison.

She smiled confidently, feeling joy swell in her heart. She stepped to the very edge of the Cathedral tower’s roof and turned toward the open sky.

“Ladies first?” Chat teased, and she laughed.

“As you wish, Sir Knight,” and with that, she tipped forward into the air, pulling him with her by the hand, and together, they flew.

[jngles]

Thoughts You Definitely All Asked For on ‘The Mandalorian’ Season 2 Finale!!

These are in chronological order for the show.

One of my biggest fears about them reintroducing Boba Fett was that by removing some of his mystery, they would make him less cool. Thank god that has not been the case. He’s still an aloof and nasty piece of work but with dimensions added.

We all know the Empire is most often a metaphor for America right? At least when it’s not being Nazi Germany? The Imperial pilot talking about destroying an entire planet (of peaceful weaponless civilians no less) to stop terrorism hits a little too close to home of the nuclear bombs the US has dropped and the endless destruction of the Middle East in the “war against terror.” And of course we frame all our wars in similar language like “our troops died to keep our country safe,” which hasn’t really been true since WWII.

I do think it’s worth noting that this is the first time SW has had someone acknowledge the human losses of the Death Star blasts. Usually it’s framed as a loss in construction time, strategical advantage, and power. The Empire proved time and time again that the lives of its soldiers were utterly expendable, which always made me question why people remained loyal outside of fear. Through this pilot’s phrasing, you can see the propaganda Imperial superiors used to twist the truth to their followers, always blaming those deaths on Rebel aggression instead of prideful Imperial neglect (I.e. not abandoning ship when there was still time) or even direct Imperial aggression like Operation Cinder where they fired on thousands of their own (discussed in S2E7.)

You can’t tell me Din wasn’t into it when Cara shot that asshole pilot. That cold faced revenge shot? 100% Mandalorian style, and also very very hot.

I appreciate that it was a pretty equal match between Boba and Koska Reeves. So much of Boba’s advantage comes from his suit, but since she also has one, it’s a battle of wits on how to use it, and they even out. This both maintains his legendary badassery and also that of highly trained Mandalorian warriors, and hopefully avoids asshole chauvinist SW fans on the internet complaining abujt “pandering to feminism” (fuck off @ all of them, especially since Mercedes Vernado who plays Reeves is a WWE champ and could kick all of your asses.)

Din point blank asked how many Death Troopers there are and Dr. Pershing never answered, and that annoys me.

Why is no one suspicious why Dr. Pershing is being so helpful and revealing so much information? He totally did not have to tell them about the Dark Troopers or any of the specifics of locations on the ship. He’s still with the empire post-fall, implying he’s a loyalist, so... wtf on his part (since no tricks come of it), and “be smarter” on the part of everyone else. Unless he’s been captive as a clone engineer all this time. But couldn’t he have made his escape back in Season 1 when Din killed everyone at that lab to get the kid back?

Bo Katan really could’ve just told them how the retrieval of the dark saber needs to work in the flight before the mission instead of being vague about “he belongs to me.”

Boba Fett’s usage of “Princess” and “don’t worry about me” are a good throwback to Han Solo and the culture they both grew up in. You can never quite tell if it’s based in misogyny or resentment for upper classes, but both of them seem to use it as a shield for begrudging respect they hold for a woman they think is brave but following a fool’s errand (the Rebellion and retaking Mandalore).

The Comms Officer (Katy O’Brian) assisting Moff Gideon will forever and always look like Ilana Glazer to me, and then I get swept up imagining what would happen if the Broad City cast accidentally got transported to Star Wars.

The launch tube sequence has some amazing cinematography.

The second I saw Boba was cut off from the pack, I really thought they were going to kill him again and make his return bittersweet. Glad they didn’t.

God this team of Bo Katan, Koska Reeves, Fennec Shand, and Cara Dune is SO BADASS. I’m just obsessed with all these characters and their various motivations to get shit done. I honestly didn’t even think about the fact it’s all women until my re-watch, showing that the writers made it feel natural, the way women deserve to have their representation done. You can bet I am SO EXCITED for my future daughter and the wealth of possibilities she’s going to have of characters to play pretend as, action figures she can relate to, Halloween costumes to wear, etc. It’s so validating that we’ve gone from only Princess Leia as a female main character to all these women + Rey, Jyn Erso, Ahsoka, etc. etc.

Can’t wait for the trap remix of the Dark Trooper activation noises. (And the transition from that to the minimalist flute theme is perfect.)

The spy movie version of the main theme music is sick.

The Dark Trooper droid faces have a lot of similarity to Darth Vader’s mask. That callback is especially apparent when the one is literally lit from the inside with fire. He was already a martyr/legend to the Imperial remnants, Kylo Ren didn’t start the trend of ignoring his redemption.

Cara’s “excuse me” right before shooting up Stormtroopers is hilarious. Literally “can’t talk rn, doing hot girl shit and murdering space Nazis.”

Finally an Imperial ship got some frickin security cameras. Truly- the amount of times people just wander down hallways they’re not supposed to be in with no one being able to find them throughout the course of Star Wars is ridiculous when you think about the degree of surveillance our real life society carries out. I also love that this means The Mandalorian characters have also seen The Mandalorian.

The storytelling does such a service to Pedro Pascal and his already heroic efforts to portray emotion through a helmet. For example: Din easily could’ve killed the one stormtrooper outside Grogu’s cell much more efficiently, but instead, to show his absolute rage, they wrote in Din choking him out with a spear.

Moff Gideon would have been the BIGGEST pain in the ass in philosophy class. “Assume I know everything” my ass. I want to hear about his backstory (he would’ve been “coming of age” at the time of the Clone Wars) mostly just to hear about him getting bullied at school.

Smart move honestly, to try to tempt Din with the Mandalorian throne, given the Mandalorian power struggles of the past. Proud of our boy for keeping his priorities straight.

So has the blood from Grogu been transferred out of the ship and back to the remnant empire already, or do they have to find a new “donor” to help with building Snoke and Palpatine’s clones? Will they continue to go after him with Luke?

Lmao Din being so annoyed by Bo Katan being stringent about the tradition of winning the Dark Saber through combat is HILARIOUS, coming from a man who up until like a day ago hadn’t shown his face to a living being in decades.

The dark troopers can punch in blast doors but NOT Din’s helmet?? That’s a wild testament to beskar. Somehow that’s the comparison that sticks out to me, more even than its resistance to lightsabers.

This show works because of the cynicism of so many characters adding contrast to the moments of heart. Cara Dune is not a “fan” the way Rey was (for the record I love Rey, don’t come at her, it’s just different). Cara doesn’t see an X-Wing and go OMG THE REBELLION I LOVE THEM. She’s been through too much to believe in the magic saviourism of the “good guys,” and is instead thinking strategically when she, the one Rebel present, brushes off the usefulness of “one X-Wing.” The only positive things she seems to feel in battle situations are moments of relief and brief satisfaction in hurting the empire, with a dark knowledge that it will never make up for the hurt they did to her.

How do you keep a cloak hood on while fighting? Both from a technical standpoint (my hats fall off without me even having to move- is he expending force energy just to keep it on and look cool lol?) and also because idk, maybe it’s just me, but peripheral vision is helpful when surrounded by killer robots on a thin bridge above oblivion. I know his first lesson was to “see” through the force, but every resource helps, right?

Now that she has the ship, I wonder if Bo Katan can reprogram any salvageable Dark Troopers to help with retaking Mandalore?

There is nothing like seeing Luke’s fighting style, with its efficient choppiness and twinge of darkness. I always wonder how much is natural and how much is influenced by his first fights with Vader (that Skywalker diva flair). I love how they’ve advanced his technique but also kept him extremely “grey” here- like to straight up COMBUST a Dark Trooper takes some violent energy lol.

How tf is Moff Gideon alive after threatening Grogu’s life twice directly? That’s a wild testament to Din’s regard for Cara.

I love how seeing Luke slice through a bunch of murder droids like butter probably was a huge point in his favor for Din actually letting Grogu go with him. Like he will only send his child to boarding preschool if he knows the teacher will be a certified killing machine.

Oh my god they finally brought in some OG Star Wars theme music for Luke to take his hood off to 😭 It felt weird seeing him fight to different music, so the emotional payoff is huge when his themes come back for the face reveal.

Whoever added the digital young Mark Hamill face NAILED those classic shining Luke eyes and the earnest eyebrow lift.

Whoever shines the glass of Baby Yoda’s lil puppet eyeballs each day deserves a raise. The light caught in those babies is devastating.

Din is shaking as he takes off his helmet. This is the most enormous show of love he could give him, and possibly the last he’ll be able to for a long time. He only just got Grogu back and is desperate for a moment of real connection before letting him go once again.

This is the first time anyone has touched Din’s face since... likely his parents as a child.

Whoever wrote this scene clearly actually has kids. Anyone who’s ever had to leave a young child even just to go out for a bit or to drop them off somewhere knows that heartbreak of seeing them look in your eyes and hold on to your leg, trying to keep you with them. Especially when they can sense your mutual separation anxiety. The one thing that starts to make them feel better is something fun like a new toy or friend who can be their guide in the new environment, and R2’s friendly introduction is exactly that (since digital Luke isn’t being particularly emotive or child friendly... I hope that’s just because he’s reaching into Grogu’s mind while also keeping an eye on the multiple people with guns trained on him, not because he’s going to be totally unfeeling raising this kid.)

I love that Grogu and R2 are immediately buddies in contrast to Episode 5 when R2 was like “fuck this guy” @ Yoda stealing food and hitting him with a walking stick lol. I would imagine Luke must be reminded of that first introduction too and entertained by this display of playfulness in a *positive* light between R2 and mini-Yoda.

I need to know if Luke and Ahsoka have met- it is KILLING ME.

Does this mean Grogu will get killed by Kylo Ren when he fucks up Luke’s academy??? I will reincarnate Ben just to kill him again if that’s the case.

How does Luke not even fully SMILE at Grogu?? An adorable little baby version of his beloved master Yoda, and you’re telling me he doesn’t have the same heart stopping gasp we all did when we first saw him?? Maybe he did when they first connected through the force. He has a bit of bemusement on his face, and also wonder in his eyes, but I want a grin of recognition and welcome, dammit.

I really wish Luke had somehow acknowledged Cara Dune. Everyone else seems to see the tear drop Rebel sign and know it means Alderaan. He could’ve been like yo I have a badass warrior sister from your planet that you should meet. Or just “thank you for your service.” (I know this actually wouldn’t have been cinematically good but my heart wants it.)

Luke didn’t tell Din his name?? Or ask for any details about the kid and his care?? I could literally never let my kid go with someone, regardless of how worthy, and not be like, “Excuse me sir who are you and where tf are you taking my tiny beloved green goblin in case I need to find him? Here is my contact info. He likes to eat frogs and eggs, and he can have macarons as a treat. He’s 50 years old and his favorite toy is still a ball. Bedtime is 8pm and he’s allergic to dairy.”

Another reason I wish Luke had identified himself would be to see the mishmash of reactions that would ensue. Cara would be like DAMN IT’S THAT GUY WHO BLEW UP THE DEATH STAR AND KILLED THE EMPEROR, ACT COOL (and she would indeed act cool). Fennec would be like ugh it’s that guy who helped kill my best paying client Jabba the Hutt and then fucked over my boss Boba, I helped save the kid for THIS? And I would LOVE to know how Bo Katan feels about him, assuming she’s heard of him, and especially if she knows he’s Anakin Skywalker’s son. That confusion is probably the reason WHY the writers didn’t have him reveal himself- they didn’t want to break the emotion of the scene.

Let‘s all be real I’m just being needy about wanting things from Luke because of what he meant to me as a kid and my resulting innate need to have more canon of him, whatever it is, whenever I can get it. Especially in this form that’s so similar to ROTJ, a movie I watched on endless repeat. Even getting this was incredible though. Who else could we trust this lil heart-stealing green bean with so fully? Yet who would be so arrogant as to try to train a baby yodling (see: Ahsoka’s wise refusal)?

R2 is reckless as hell lmao. Not that we don’t already know that, but for him to just head on in, effectively abandoning Luke’s ship (how can they know if there are more troopers or not who might blow it up?) and also putting himself in the path of the ridiculously deadly Dark Troopers is NUTS. I’m usually on his side but he absolutely deserves a scolding by C3PO for this one.

I wonder if Grogu has any memories of R2 or vice versa since they did occupy the Jedi Temple at the same time. Can Grogu understand droids? They could swap stories about mutual acquaintances.

Does Din pretty much have to go with Bo Katan now since a) he’s shown his face and may not be able to go back to the Watch, and b) because he has the darksaber and has to figure out how to get it back to her without dying?

How in the hell did Bib Fortuna (whose chins age was not kind to) go from being butler to being boss? Were all the henchmen just like, “Fuck yeah, no Hutt parents no rules, let’s do what we want!!” And then they’ve spent the last ten years living off of whatever money they could salvage from Jabba’s non-banked wealth? Why has no one challenged them for that prime real estate and loot? I would love to hear that story.

Fennec Shand says “respect sex workers” so you better fuckin’ do it.

Idk dude Bib Fortuna really was a good butler, and he seemed pretty willing to comply with whoever’s in power. Did he screw Boba over in his attempt to return from the dead and earn that killing shot somehow? Or was this to make sure there was no one left who would have a claim to loyalty? Or maybe Boba just really wanted to sit in that chair.

Does “The Book of Boba Fett” mean we’re not on Din Djarin’s story anymore? Or is it a new show? I would much prefer the latter. I want to see Din help retake Mandalore or at least get a hug.

[spacebatisluvd]

Summary: Things do not go as expected when Hordak and Entrapta arrive in Salineas.

Content warning: Chronic pain, ableism, speciesism, Mermista being unpleasant (and responsible for most of the aforementioned ableism and speciesism), internalized ableism. Bear with me, folks. Things will get better.

-

The second leg of their journey was decidedly less comfortable than their time on the ship. “Sorry. Bethany’s not really designed for long journeys,” Entrapta said as they cleared another copse of trees. “I’ve been intending to install better shocks but—" Bethany tumbled down a steep hillside, her loping run intermixed with sliding somersaults. The harness barely held him in place, and absolutely nothing absorbed the shock of impact as Bethany barreled through the forest. “—You know how it is.”

He nodded, trying not to let his claws puncture the seat leather. “How much further?” he asked. His voice was firm, almost harsh.

“Not far!” she said. Which was what she’d been saying for most of the journey. He eyed Bethany’s path and braced himself as they approached yet another forested hillside.

Even with his armor, the jostling was aggravating his defect. Pain radiated down his arms and across his back, spreading all the way from his forearms to the base of his spine. He grit his jaw and flexed his hands, trying to focus on his breathing. Just a little longer, he lied to himself, grip tightening as Bethany leapt forward. Her landing rocked the cockpit, throwing him first into the harness and then back against the inadequately padded seat. “Doing okay back there?” Entrapta asked, glancing at him.

“I am fine.” And he was. He was fine—or he would be, when Bethany finally stopped and he could take a sedative and sleep through the pain.

“Oh—look! I think that’s the festival.”

He looked past the sea of trees, focusing on the glimpse of colorful tents just barely visible now that they’d topped a small rise. “So it would seem.” A bubble of nervousness swelled in his chest. How had she persuaded him to willingly surround himself with his former enemies for absolutely no purpose whatsoever?

He glanced at Entrapta as she urged Bethany forward. “This is going to be so much fun!” she said, fingers tapping excitedly on the controls. Perhaps not entirely without purpose. These were Entrapta’s friends. He would need to make peace with them for her sake. Tolerant coexistence should be attainable—his interactions with Sea Hawk had proven that, at least.

They plunged back into the forest, and the tents disappeared, but Bethany had her bearings and ran on, dodging trees and boulders as they went. Hordak braced himself again, grateful that he was not lying to himself this time as he mentally chanted that it was only a little further. Finally—finally—they reached the edge of Plumeria, and Bethany lowered her bulky body, cockpit sliding open so he and Entrapta could disembark. She jumped out with ease, and before he could attempt the same, her hair pressed the button on his vambraces to activate the cuffs. He paused, about to protest that he needed his hands to get down, when he found himself bodily lifted from the cockpit by a rope of hair and set on the ground. He huffed, looking at Entrapta. “That was unnecessary.”

“But fun!” she teased, looping her arm through his. The mech disgorged their trunks, and Entrapta waved at her. “Bye, Bethany!” she exclaimed as the mech ran off to explore. She leaned close and ‘whispered’, “She’ll be back in a few days.”

For once, he wasn’t listening. His gaze was fixed behind her, on the people that had gathered there. Fauns, he thought they called themselves. He stiffened his spine, despite the shock of pain that ran like a bolt down his back. They were staring at them—at him—and Hordak’s hearts began beating harder and faster. They were deep in enemy territory, with no guards, and only a shaky justification for his presence. He glanced at Entrapta, trying to gauge her feelings on the situation, but it was clear she hadn’t noticed.

She grinned at him and walked around the crowd, talking excitedly about her friends and the festival as her hair casually dragged the trunks behind them. The fauns lingered, watching them with eerie, goat-like eyes. Hordak toyed with the button to release his bonds, uncomfortable with their scrutiny and ready for a fight. All the while, his body screamed that he needed rest, but he pushed that aside, relying on his exoskeleton to keep him upright.

They left the fauns behind without incident, but he remained watchful as Entrapta led him toward a collection of yurts, the outer hides dyed in fanciful colors. A fire pit rested in the center of the circled of huts, and though the fire was not currently lit, the princesses and their partners were gathered there.

Naturally, Sea Hawk saw them first. He leapt from his place beside Mermista and waved exuberantly. “You came!” he exclaimed, running for them.

Hordak did not want to be hugged, especially not right now, but as he opened his mouth to say as much, a rope of hair caught Sea Hawk around the middle, holding him at a safe distance. “Hi!” Entrapta greeted him. “Is everyone else already here?”

“Yes—I was hoping you’d both get here before the festivities began.” He tugged at the rope of hair. “Er. Do you mind releasing me?”

“Oh, right! Sorry. I’m just not really ready for a hug right now....”

Sea Hawk blinked, then flinched. “Aw, yes. I was perhaps a touch over-enthusiastic—but I respect your boundaries. I’ll stay here. Unless...” He eyed Hordak.

“No. I do not want a hug.”

Sea Hawk did not seem put out. “When you change your mind, I will be—"

“What is he doing here?” Mermista demanded, pointing at Hordak as she stormed over. “I didn’t say he could come.”

“Well, technically, he’s not here of his own volition.” Entrapta stepped up beside Mermista, while Sea Hawk sidled over to Hordak, grinning. He kept true to his word and didn’t try to hug him, so Hordak offered a nod of acknowledgement. “See?” Entrapta’s hair tugged on Hordak’s wrist, pulling his hands up to showcase the bonds. “I kidnapped him!”

Sea Hawk grinned at this, elbowing Hordak to stage-whisper, “It was my idea.”

“I am aware.”

Mermista groaned, one hand covering her face. Their shenanigans had attracted some attention now, and the others hovered close by. The archer’s eyes widened. “You...kidnapped...?”

Catra bent in two, cackling. “You actually—!” She slung an arm over the young queen, still snickering. “Can you believe—?”

Bow glanced at her, then sidled up to Hordak’s other side, saying, “You are okay, right? She didn’t really kidnap you, did she? You want to be here? You’re not being forced, are you?” Hordak stared at him, ears back, as the archer anxiously looked him over.

Hordak was about to ask him why he cared, when Mermista threw her hands up in the air and said, “No. Uh-uh. This is not happening. It’s not cute or fun or funny. I’m done. You—" She pointed at Entrapta. “—are sending him back to Salineas, And you!” She glared at Sea Hawk. “Stop encouraging this! Stop trying to make friends with the guy who tried to conquer the world and hand us all over to a megalomaniacal dictator!”

Entrapta retreated a bit. “I thought.... I mean. He was invited.” She looked to Scorpia for help. “And-and Sea Hawk said he’d see us here. I thought there was an implication of tacit approval—“

Mermista stepped close to Entrapta, looming over her. One hand was balled into a fist at her side. The other was raised, finger extended and leveled at Entrapta’s face. Hordak’s ears drew back. “Don’t you get it?” Mermista asked, “Don’t you see what he did? He doesn’t get to just pretend like nothing happened and everything is fine! He’s lucky he’s not rotting in a prison cell.”

“Oh.” Entrapta threaded her fingers through her hair, searching their surroundings for a safe place to look. “I...I didn’t realize you felt that way.”

“Hmph. I thought you were supposed to be the smart one—"

“Enough,” Hordak snapped, stepping between them and using his body to shield Entrapta. “You will not speak to her like that.”

Mermista glared up at him. “Oh, yeah. I’m definitely going to take manners lessons from someone like you.” His ears flattened, and he bared his teeth, unable to articulate why she was so clearly in the wrong. “Look, I don’t care what Geek Princess does. She can stay here or she can go back to Dryl. It’s whatever. But you’re not leaving Salineas until you fix what you broke!”

A rope of hair caught his elbow. “Hordak, why don’t we go?” Entrapta had pulled in on herself, huddling against his side. He looked from her to Mermista, glowering and wishing he could find the right words to make her see just what she was doing to Entrapta.

She tugged on his arm, and he allowed her to pull him away. Sea Hawk darted forward, looking distressed. “My love, surely you don’t—!”

“Can it. He doesn’t get to go on vacation or make friends. Not while Salineas is still in ruins.”

Sea Hawk fell silent, looking from Hordak and Entrapta to Mermista. “But....”

Catra checked Mermista’s shoulder as she passed. “Whoops,” she said, smirking. “‘Scuse me.” Hands behind her head, in a pseudo-relaxed position, she walked up to Entrapta and Hordak. “So? Room for me in your ‘bot? Or do I need to find my own way to Salineas?”

Though Hordak was having trouble tearing his gaze from Mermista, he spared her a glance. “What?”

“Can I go with you to Salineas or do I need to find my own way there?” she asked, slowing her words down as if re-stating something that should have been obvious.

“Catra?” the She-Ra asked, “What are you doing?”

“Sorry, Adora. Can’t go on vacation or make friends until we fix what we broke. See you in...?” She glanced at Hordak. “How long is this gonna take?”

“My work in Salineas is nearly done, but general reconstruction will not be finished for several years. Longer, if one considers the ecological damage—"

“Sure, right, whatever. See you in a few years, then!” She waved at Adora and started walking vaguely in the direction Entrapta and Hordak had come from.

Hordak cocked his head. “I do not know what game you are playing—"

Scorpia was suddenly at his elbow as well, her smile big and broad. “Uh. I know you don’t like hugs, so—" She touched her elbow to his, still smiling. “It will be an honor to serve with you again, sir.” She joined Catra, who glanced her way and offered an arm, which Scorpia took with glee.

Hordak, growing annoyed, looked at Entrapta. “What are they doing?”

Entrapta just shrugged. “No idea, but here comes Adora.”

The She-Ra paused in front of Mermista to say, “I mean...I did spend most of my life in the Horde. On-track to become an officer, too.”

Mermista stared at all of them, floundering. “But. You were a kid. It doesn’t count.”

The She-Ra shrugged. “It’s hard to tell what ‘counts’ anymore. I mean, how do you ever really know when you’ve done enough to fix things?”

With that, she walked past and paused in front of Hordak, offering an abbreviated—and what he would characterize as ‘overly familiar’—salute. “Reporting for duty, sir.”

He cocked his head, ears folded back. “I am not your commanding officer. You are not a soldier. What is—?” He sighed, taking a moment to compose himself. “Sea Hawk. You have never been in the Horde. What are you doing?”

Sea Hawk, standing shoulder-to-shoulder with Adora and mimicking her salute, grinned. “Ah, but I was a no good, underhanded, scheming pirate.”

“I would find it difficult to believe if you claimed to be ‘good’ at piracy.”

“Thank you, my friend! My honest heart prevented me from taking things too far, but—" He dropped the salute to dramatically throw his hand over his eyes. Adora giggled, while Hordak tried to cross his arms, only to be brought up short by the cuffs. He sighed instead. “—I too have a sordid past!“ He inhaled deeply, and began to sing. “~As a child—~”

Hordak’s eyes went wide and panicked. He looked to Adora, who seemed just as frantic. Thankfully, the archer appeared behind Sea Hawk and threw an arm over his shoulders. “Hey, uh, why don’t we save the song for another time, okay?”

“But it’s thematically appropriate!”

“Enough of this farce!” Hordak snapped, “I do not understand what is happening!” He pointed at Catra. “You! You started this. Explain. Before I lose my patience.”

Unintimidated, Catra crossed her arms and leaned her weight on one leg. “Isn’t it obvious? You didn’t exactly conquer half of Etheria by yourself.”

Entrapta perked up. “Ooh! I see! It does seem unfair that the treaty places the bulk of the rebuilding efforts on you and you alone.”

His ears drew down. “Those were the terms I agreed to. I do not object to rebuilding what I helped destroy.” If pressed, he’d admit he found the process cathartic.

Scorpia raised a claw. “Yeah, but...it’s not fair that we’re allowed to hang out together and have fun if you’re not.”

“Exactly,” Adora said, smiling. “So, if you’re not allowed to take a break until reconstruction’s finished, then I guess we can’t take a break either.”

He cocked his head, still trying to process what was happening. Mermista was not having the same difficulties. “Ugh. You have got to be kidding. You’re seriously on his side?”

“They are not on my ‘side’,” Hordak objected, “This is absurd! I don’t even know what they aim to accomplish with this display.”

The princess from Plumeria stepped forward. “Maybe we can find a compromise?”

Catra snorted. “What? You want to put him in a guest prison during the festival?”

“I mean, that’s not a terrible idea…is it?” the young queen asked, looking from the She-Ra and the archer to Mermista.

“Yeah, actually. It is,” Catra said, arms crossed.

“Perhaps, it would be for the best,” the princess from Plumeria said, hands folded neatly in front of her. “His presence might make some people…uncomfortable. If he were to remain in a yurt during the day, Entrapta would still be able to take meals with him. Oh! And it would give him a chance to reflect on the vastness and severity of his crimes!”

“He knows!” Catra snapped. “He already apologized during treaty negotiations! The first four pages of the fucking thing are nothing but him apologizing for—”

“That kind of language isn’t very productive,” Perfuma said. “Perhaps we should form a drum circle and work out our negative feelings before proceeding?”

Mermista threw her hands up. “This is stupid! We’re not forming a drum circle—and he’s not staying.” Catra started to object again, but Mermista pointed at her and snapped, “Look, he’s not the same as you or Scorpia—and we all know Adora’s time in the Horde doesn’t even count. He’s just—he’s different. He’s not even Etherian!”

A strange silence fell over the group. Hordak looked to Entrapta for guidance, but she’d pulled her welding mask down, and her hair was frizzing. “Yeah. He’s different,” she said, voice echoing behind the mask. The hair on the back of his neck lifted, and he reached for her, sensing something was wrong.

“Starlight?”

She caught his hand with her hair, grip tight. “We’ll leave in the morning.”

“Wait—" the archer said, darting forward, but Entrapta was already walking away. Caught by her hair, Hordak followed along, bemused. “Entrapta,” he said, walking beside her. “You don’t have to go.”

She stopped to stare at him, mask down. “If he’s not welcome here, then I’m not welcome here either.”

Hordak’s ears pulled down. He stepped close to her but didn’t touch, leaning down to say softly, “You do not need to abandon your friends for my sake. You could stay, and I will return to Salineas.”

“No.”

He paused, glancing at the archer, who seemed just as lost. “No? Do you...have another suggestion?”

“If you go, I go.”

He frowned, ears down. “I would not ask that of you.”

A droplet of water condensed on the lower edge of her mask. She shook her head and the droplet disappeared. Was she...? “I know you wouldn’t.” She inhaled deeply, her breathing unsteady. “I told you, Hordak. You’re my best friend. If they can’t accept you, then they can’t accept me.”

The archer looked thunderstruck. “Wait. He’s your best friend?”

She nodded firmly. “I’ve compiled the data. My feelings aren’t clouding my judgement. He’s treated me better and been kinder to me than any Etherian ever has.” She started forward again, leaving both Hordak and the archer behind.

“That can’t be right,” the archer said, while Hordak said, “Entrapta. That cannot be true.” They looked at each other, but Entrapta’s grip on Hordak’s hands soon tugged him forward.

She walked up to the princess of Plumeria and asked, “Which one is ours?”

“Um.” She tapped her fingers together. “We actually had separate yurts for you two....”

“We can share.”

Hordak flushed. “Entrapta, is that...appropriate?”

She turned to him, mask still down. “Oh. Would you be rather be alone?”

“I.” His ears flexed. “You are...upset. I will remain with you if it would be a comfort.”

“Great!” She turned back to the other princess, who mutely pointed to a yurt decorated in various shades of purple. “Thanks!” Entrapta tugged him along, and he followed obediently.

The archer trailed alongside her. “Entrapta, you don’t really mean...? We were nicer to you than—?” He looked at Hordak and fell silent.

She paused in the doorway. “Do you want me to send you the data?”

Hordak sighed. “I am sure that is unnecessary.”

Bow looked between them. “Um. Right. I’ll, uh, figure it out myself.”

“Good!”

With that, Entrapta tugged Hordak inside and shut the door, one rope of hair deactivating his cuffs. He only had a moment to brace himself before she flung herself at him, and he found himself with an armful of Entrapta. She buried her face in his chest and huddled close. He grunted as he caught her up, pain radiating up his arms—though he would not let her see him wince. Not here. Not now.

He threaded his claws through her hair. “Starlight?”

She gripped him tighter, shaking her head. Her hands grabbed the front of his dress, and ropes of hair wound around his arms, guiding them to wrap around her in a hug. He—gently—squeezed in assurance. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have insisted we come here,” she said, voice muffled. “I thought...I thought this would be fun. I thought it would be a good opportunity for everyone to get to know you better. But I misread the situation. Again. I really thought....” She sniffled and her body heaved. “I’m so stupid.”

He stiffened. “You are not stupid. You are the furthest thing from stupid.”

She looked up at him, face still hidden behind her welding mask. “Then why does this keep happening? I should have known that this would happen. I should have been able to tell. I wouldn’t have brought you here if….” She took a shuddering breath. “Why am I so bad this? It comes so easily to everyone else. What’s wrong with me?”

Hordak exhaled slowly, trying very hard not to get angry with the teenagers outside—getting angry would not help Entrapta. He pulled one hand free of her hair to cup the side of her mask. “There is nothing wrong with you.”

“The evidence says otherwise.”

“You are only looking at a narrow subset of data. You must look at the whole picture.” He disentangled himself from her, but only to hold out a hand and say, “Come.” She placed her gloved hand in his, and he paused, remembering how she’d taken care of him when he’d been having one of his bad days. “Bed?” he asked, “Or chair?”

She pointed mutely to the bed, and he guided her over, sitting her on the edge. Though it caused a spike of pain along his spine, he knelt and removed her shoes. In only her socks, she pulled her feet up onto the bed, and he looked around, spotting a blanket folded neatly on a trunk at the foot of the bed. He picked it up and draped it over her. After a moment of consideration, he pulled off his own boots, though he left the compression socks on. A rope of hair pulled him up onto the bed, and he went without protest, folding his arms around her and holding her from behind. “Are you comfortable?” he asked.

She nodded, leaning back against him. “Physically, yes.”

“Good. Now, let’s review the data.” He ran his claws through her hair, gently scritching her scalp. She made a soft little sound, low in her throat, and leaned in to the touch. “You have gone into hostile territory, multiple times, to rescue a friend. You have risked your life, your safety, and even your free will and sense of self in order to save them.”

“Yeah, but...who wouldn’t?”

He chuckled. “Starlight, you underestimate exactly how incredible you are.” He trailed his hand to the nape of her neck, and her head bowed forward, allowing him to run the blunt side of his claws over the unbroken, unmarked skin. “Even in small matters, you amaze me. All the little things you do for me. And for Kadroh. You are kind to us in ways we have never experienced. You treat us as people, as individuals.”

“Because you are!” she said, turning. She pushed her mask up, brows furrowed and mouth turned down.

He pressed a thumb to her cheek, wiping away the tear-tracks. “Not everyone sees that. You see things differently.” Her gaze skittered from his, but he continued. “I know that can be...challenging. Perhaps you...miss certain things. Things that others might find obvious. However, that does not mean there is something wrong with you, and it certainly doesn’t make you stupid.” He huffed a little, still appalled that she would call herself that. “Others miss what it obvious to you. Without you, I would no longer exist as an individual. Nor would Kadroh.”

“We don’t know that for sure—"

“I do.” He huffed, pushing her hair out of her face. “It seems to me that you are working very hard to understand your friends, but they aren’t putting forth much effort toward understanding you. Which is unfortunate; they are missing out on something quite extraordinary.”

She blinked. “What’s that? What are they missing?”

He smiled softly. “You, Starlight. You are extraordinary. If they can’t see that, then they are to be pitied.”

She cuddled against him, resting her head on his chest. Her hand sought his, and she laced their fingers together. For a while, they were quiet, then, softly, she said, “I know that I’m different. I’ve known that since I was a kid.” She squeezed his hand. “With everyone else, I’ve always felt like I had to change in order to be friends with them. And, when I couldn’t do that—and I never could; no matter how I tried I could never be normal—then I at least had to be useful. You’re the only one that ever seemed to like me for me.”

He shut his eyes and tried to push away his rising anger. “They are fools,” he growled.

“Then why do I want them to like me so badly?”

He didn’t have an answer for her. He just held her tight and hoped that would be enough. For now, at least.

-

I'm honestly braced for pitchforks after this chapter.

All your comments are greatly appreciated. I may not reply (for a variety of reasons) but please know that I treasure any feedback I get. Thank you! (And, uh, please be nice.)

[thirstystarkey]

ALL I WANT • RAFE CAMERON

Requested by: @flowersinvegas

Can u write something using 'All I want' by Kodaline please 🥺❤ for rafe. All I want is nothing more To hear you knocking at my door 'Cause if I could see your face once more I could die a happy man, I'm sure When you said your last goodbye I died a little bit inside I lay in tears in bed all night Alone without you by my side.

All I want is nothing more

To hear you knocking at my door

‘Cause if I could see your face once more

I could die as a happy man I’m sure

Ward order Rafe to go clean himself in order to get rid of all the evidence that could possible make him guilty for killing Sheriff Peterkin with a gun shot, Rafe was broken inside all he wanted was for his father to acknowledge him and see him as a brave young man who did everything to protect his father but Ward failed at seeing him that way Rafe’s entire life, today was no exception even though he hugged his son and patted his back Rafe knew Ward has never been proud of anything about Rafe, there was always more he could do, never was enough for Ward, all those issues raised a problematic kid.

The only person in Outer Banks that actually liked Rafe and could see more of him was Y/N, his ex-girlfriend who broke up with him once Rafe started to go off the trails, he stopped being the loving boyfriend he was to be this narcissistic careless guy who only care about himself and drugs, it broke Y/N heart into pieces since Rafe was the first guy she ever loved and let inside her life, it took a toll on both of them mainly Y/N in the first few mounts but Rafe was starting to understand how she actually felt was he washed the blood of him and disposed his dirty clothes.

He wanted her again or at least he wanted to see her face again, he daydreamed in his bed about how earing her knocking at his door at one in the morning would make him the happiest man in the world, if she for a miracle, came to him right now he could die a happy more for he died knowing he was loved by the only girl who could actually see something good in him when everyone else saw the vile evil monster Rafe Cameron was painted to be.

The last time he saw her kept replaying on his mind like a tape, like a slow torturous remainder that he messed up everything good in his life eventually.

When you said your last goodbye

I died a little bit inside

I lay in tears in bed all night

Alone without you by my side

Summer had just started which meant holidays which meant parties every night at Figure Eight were the rich people lived. Y/N loved to party since she was the life of every party she attended but as lately she didn’t feel so good nor did she wanted to party, especially with the people Rafe started invinting to his house beach, suspicious people who made her skin crawl with anticipation.

Her relationship with Rafe wasn’t good at the moment, Rafe seemed to be blinded by something else and at the beginning she even thought he was cheating on her who created a big big fight between them, and she felt weren’t the same after that night. He didn’t made any effort in seeing her and when he did he was high and wanted sex, which Y/N was fine at first, she craved his touch and his attention but as the days went by she started to see a pattern that really upset her, he realized Rafe would only come to her house in the middle of the night with dilated pupils asking for sex, his dominance was predominant even though his words were hazy and dragged out of his mouth.

Y/N sat alone on his roof, watching the party from above as her heart kept on breaking more, where was he? That was the only questioning running through her mind like a fast car in a free highway, eventually she got sick of watching the stars alone so she made her way down wanting to go home and sleep it off, maybe next day things would be better as she didn’t had the courage to speak with Rafe about breaking up.

And so days went by and when her patience ran thin she drove to Rafe’s house to find him high as usually, he forgot her anniversary and it was the last drop.

“We’re done.” She said watching him sniff a line off coke. “Rafe I love you so so much but I can’t keep hurting myself to be with you.” Y/N admitted with tears in her eyes.

“Baby, what?” Rafe gasped, cleaning his nose. He immediately got up to her, the height difference making her skin shiver. “Please don’t do this to me.” He grabbed her hands but she turned her face to the side.

“Rafe I mean it.” Y/N stated feeling her lip tremble. “You forgot my anniversary. Do you see how a big of a fool I was this night? Pretending I had everything in control when I didn’t have a clue where my boyfriend was?” The girl said cold, looking at his faded eyes. “Well, here he is. High off his ass.” Y/N nodded her head watching the mess his room turned to be since he didn’t care about anything else.

“I’m so sorry baby, please let me make it better for you.” He apologized. “Let me be better for you.” He sniffed.

“Rafe you need to do better for yourself, not me.” She started walking away. “Now that I will always love you Rafe Cameron, but right now you need to fix yourself and I can’t stay, yourself destroying me.” Y/N said before she left.

That day after she left Rafe cried the entire night, sobbing without her by his side to calm him down. He felt like he lost everything he ever cared about so there was no meaning in keeping caring about anything else.

“But If you loved me, why did you leave me?”

Rafe said out loud returning to the present day, where chaos had made itself at home in his life. He knew there was no easy way out of this situation and he had to live forever with what he did. Rafe knew he regretted it but in the moment he did what he thought would protect his dad, blinded by the need to be loved by his figure father, even though Ward was a evil person, Rafe wasn’t evil even though he did horrible things in the past, he knew deep down he was just lost.

Laying in his bed with a picture of him and Y/N he hugged it tight to his chest as tears kept on falling from his eyes. With eyes closed he tried to relive the moment of the picture, with was a beautiful day.

'Cause you brought out the best of me

A part of me I'd never seen

You took my soul wiped it clean

Our love was made for movie screens

Y/N begged for a day away from everything with Rafe and he gave her the day she wanted, driving off away from Outer Banks into a more calm area surrounded by empty field. The temperature was pleasant and the brizz made her soft hair fly against it. Rafe watched her run around through the high grass and the flowers mesmerized by her, it felt like a dream to him like he was watching an angel from above.

“Come!” She laughed grabbing his hands pulling his body close to her.

Eventually they fell into the grass laughing, Y/N rolled on top of him, her legs on each side of his hips, her dress rising up from her thighs. Rafe wrapped his hands around them.

“I love you.” She said softly, like a melody flowing from her lips.

“I love you too princess.” Rafe sat up to kiss her.

The sun was starting to set and they watched it sitting on top of Rafe’s truck, tangle in a cuddle, her head on his chest as he played mindlessly with her hair, her hands carressing his torso.

“I wish time stood still.” Rafe confessed kissing the top of her hand. “With you, like this, watching this beautiful sunset.”

Y/N smiled at his words taking her phone of her phone from his pocket since her dress didn’t had any.

“I can still immortalize this moment love.” Y/N looked up, dingling her phone.

Rafe laughed as they took a few photos, together and off each other alone plus the sunset.

But when Rafe opened his eyes he was brought to a much different reality, there was no field of flowers just the darkness of his messy room and the pain he felt deep buried inside his chest, almost exploding his heart.

Without thinking he grabbed his phone, it was late at night so he didn’t want to bother Y/N opting to text her instead of calling her, even though he really needed to hear her voice. Feeling anxious as he typed the message he stumble across videos and photos of him and her, which made him smile a little.

“I’m so sorry for everything I put you through, I love you so much and I will always do. You probably hate me and you have many reasons to, I don’t really know why I’m sending you this but the only thing keeping me together is the thought of us. I wanna do better for me this time Y/N so I can be a better boyfriend to you. I’m not giving up on you, I will never give up on you baby. I love you with all my heart and soul. – Rafe.”

[goldeneyedgirl]

TwiFicMas20 Christmas Eve: All These Broken Things

... Is it really the end of FicMas if I haven’t posted something from All These Broken Things? I think not. The first sections can be found here and here. This is the fic where Alice travelled with James and doesn’t meet the Cullens until that baseball game. 

It's very strange finally being with the family she was always destined to be with, when she thought she had lost them so long ago.

She finds great satisfaction just watching them - Emmett yelling at the sports on the television; Edward perched at the piano, Rosalie working on her cars. She hovers, like a little ghost, folded into corners and against doorframes, vanishing the second they might acknowledge her.

Esme seems to like her company, as she goes about day-to-day things, chatting away to the silent girl with the enormous, sad black eyes, who trails after her like a stray.

She stays away from Carlisle, trying to avoid the moment he declares her to be cast out, too far gone for them to redeem.

And she stays away from Jasper, because it hurts too much. She doesn't tell Jasper what she knows, what they were meant to be to one another. The past is gone, and she has been broken into too many pieces. He watches her like a hawk, and without words, she knows he will be the one to destroy her if she steps out of line. His hands will crack her limbs apart and he will not flinch or feel any loss.

She wonders if she should tell him that if he was the to destroy her, she would not fight it. She would part in his hands like a paper doll, and hold no ill will to him for such an act.

Sometimes, she lets herself remember the old visions, the ones where they were everything to one another. Only when Edward's away, though; she doesn't like him rifling around in her head. No one deserves being forced to see some of those things.

And it hurts, a raw wound in her heart, that she was meant for something else, for happiness and peace and love, instead of what she was dealt in life. One of her greatest unanswered questions is why? What unforgivable thing did she do in her forgotten human past that earned such a punishment?

Then she remembers what she has done at James’ side for so many decades, at the faces and the screams and the suffering, and somehow she lived her crimes and her penance at the same time.

So she continues to pretend she doesn’t notice that Edward keeps Bella away from the house; that Emmett or Jasper hover in the background as she trails after Esme, as she watches Rose. That she can only go hunting when Jasper and Emmett can go along too; the ones strong enough and fast enough to restrain her.

When Edward does bring Bella back to the house at Esme’s insistence, she sits on the opposite side of the room, and listens to the conversation, keeping still and silent.

When Carlisle arrives home from work, she focuses on the magazine or book she has found, pretending to be absorbed by the glossy pictures, still and silent, to not notice as he studies her with patience she isn’t sure is genuine.

When Jasper joins Emmett for something noisy and angry on the television, their gazes occasionally sliding towards her, she is frozen in place, her gaze out the window.

She’s played this game before. Be good and quiet and still. The blow will come, eventually, but at least she can prepare herself for it, brace herself for the inevitable fall. They don’t trust her.

She doesn’t trust her, either.

Six.

They settle into a sort of routine.

She’s allowed to hunt with Esme and Rosalie now, though she’s careful to keep her distance, to trek a little further into the forest, to reassure them. She usually waits until they call her back.

She is always carefully supervised during their hunts, and finally, finally, the cracks James left across her nose and cheeks have finally faded away. They hunt too often for her, and when she forces herself to finish the animal, she vomits everywhere. She says nothing, but she feels safer a little hungry, her eyes black rather than a strange gold-orange.

Edward lets her sit beside him when he plays the piano, tells her about each of the pieces of music. He tries to teach her once, attempts to guide her hands into position, but she panics and jerks away, and he doesn’t offer again.

Emmett is nice to her. He seems to understand not to come up behind her without warning, not to touch. Sometimes she perches on the end of the couch and watches the television with him. She doesn’t stay very long, but he always gives her a big smile when she leaves, as if he’s had a wonderful time.

She doesn’t understand Emmett, but she thinks she could like him.

Rosalie can’t seem to decide whom she dislikes more – her or Bella - and she’s sure that Rose is going to get whiplash from changing her mind about both of them so many times. But Rose addresses her and is reasonably civil, mostly out of some kind of misguided caution that she is some kind of threat, and that is some kind of progress.

She and Bella have few words to say to each other. ‘Sorry I helped someone attempt to torture and exsanguinate you’ isn’t something she can work out how to say out-loud and have it sound genuine. Mostly because the truth is closer to, ‘I’m sorry you found yourself in this situation, but I don’t regret my choices. The consequences for me would have been much, much worse than you can ever comprehend. Your fragile mortality would have spared you of the worst of it. I’d make the same decision one hundred times in a row without a second thought.’

She’s certain that would upset everyone.

Bella seems rather reluctant to spent time in her presence, and she does wonder if that’s because she’s the side of the coin that isn’t beauty-wealth-love. She’s the side of suffering, of pain and of misery, murder and regret. Bella wants perfection, wants the glamour and magic of the Cullens, and none of the honest truth of being a vampire.

But it’s probably the murder attempt.

Then there are things that haven’t changed since she arrived. She’s not allowed to be alone, or to leave the house aside from hunting – even then, she has to be accompanied.

But every single day, James is still gone and she is still here. And there will never be a time when that knowledge is not sweet.

//

Her wardrobe is limited - a few old t shirts that once belonged to Esme and are too big, her worn jeans and the filthy, stained cardigan that she had when they found her. Her thin knees have long since torn through her pants, and the cardigan's sleeves are frayed and holey, but she is clean and free.

And then she is deemed in control enough to go shopping. Esme approaches her with the idea, with glossy magazines and gentle suggestions. It is an idea that has even intrigues Rosalie enough for her to join them.

They clearly still think she is a risk, though, because it is a family outing, with looks of such boredom and long-suffering on the faces of the male Cullens when it is decided, that she laughs softly behind her hand.

The building they take her to is huge and full of people. It is like a blow to the face, of blood and scent, and she visibly recoils from it at first, unsure and on edge. And they are patient, escorting her in, with encouraging words.

Eventually, though, they show her the clothes and the sight of the racks is enough to distract her from the heady scent. It is overwhelming, the colours and fabrics and styles, and she simply stares, with Emmett laughing at her stunned expression.

Esme is so kind, guiding her gently through the racks, telling her to choose anything she likes. She is careful, though, picking new jeans, a new cardigan, soft and clean and sunshine yellow. Esme helps her pick shoes out - the first pair she's had in decades. Soft brown winter boots, black sneakers, gold and black flats that make her feel like a princess. At her childlike delight with her fancy shoes, Esme buys her a black sundress with ties at the back and bows on the straps, that will bare her arms and triangles of flesh on her back.

Underwear is a strange concept. It's nothing that she has ever bothered with before. She is useless in the wake of so many choices, and let's Esme and Rosalie choose what she needs, dress her like a doll, whilst she amuses herself with how clearly uncomfortable both Jasper and Edward are in such a department.

She almost feels pretty – even desirable - in the plain cotton that make her skinny frame look almost womanly. She’s too embarrassed to even try on the satin and lace sets Rosalie has chosen. They aren’t for girls like her – girls that wear those things are more than she will ever be – prettier, sweeter, bolder. They are too much, and when she refuses, she doesn’t understand the look Rosalie and Esme exchange, Rosalie looking sly and Esme with an expression of warning.

Afterwards, they look for other things. The books hold little interest for her, as do the endless electronics. She doesn’t mean to wander off, but a demonstration by the art supplies store catches her eye, and she stands a little away from the crowd, watching the man draw. It is Esme and Jasper who find her, both looking alarmed, but she pretends she doesn’t see them, her gaze focused on the pencil that so carefully makes its way across the page.

“Alice,” Esme is at her side. “You scared us.” Her smile is bright, but her eyes worried – what would the Cullens do if she attacked in a place like this, with so many eyes? She doesn’t get to ponder that thought much longer, as Jasper’s hand closes over her shoulder and she is guided away.

For the rest of the afternoon, Jasper is her ominous shadow, as she dutifully trails after them.

She doesn't have her own room, but she doesn’t truly need one. Until now, she hasn’t had any possessions to store, and she doesn’t require the privacy a mated couple does. But, she has found she likes the attic. Full of things that need repairs or to be stored, it is a mad tea party of furniture and items.

There’s an old grey chair is missing a leg, and has an ugly stain that not even Esme could draw out that she likes. She folds herself into it, and she feels safe in that little corner, with the narrow window that overlooks the forest and spills in afternoon light. There's an old dresser up there, too, so that's where she arranges her new things, carefully folding and smoothing them into each drawer, precisely and lovingly.

Rosalie brings her some cosmetics and half a glass bottle of perfume – the bottle is shaped like an egg and etched with tiny flowers and curlicues and it is so delicate and beautiful, she is frightened to hold it. Rosalie watches as she sprays the scent into the air, the delighted look at the scent of flowers. She is nervous at Rosalie’s gesture, but grateful. Grateful enough that she allows Rosalie to cut the matted ends of her hair off into a neat, shorter style.

It makes her look more delicate, younger, maybe sweeter, she thinks as she strokes the strands in the mirror. And less like a roving maniac, at least according to the shiny-haired Rosalie, who watches her with satisfaction in her eyes.

She should be offended, but there’s this tiny hope that maybe, just maybe, Rosalie is turning her into something new. Something good and better.

Something like a sister.

//

It’s Esme’s idea to invite Bella around the evening of her birthday. Just a family gathering, with a few simple gifts. Everyone sort of agrees, and try to work out what to give the sullen girl.

She manages a portrait of Bella and Edward seated together at the piano that Esme gushes over, and has framed.

There have been some hints, from Carlisle and Edward that she will have to attend school eventually. She doesn’t understand that, but is just waiting for them all to graduate. They’ll leave when they’ve graduated and she won’t have to worry about school again.

She arranges peonies on the piano for Bella, upon Esme’s request, and is reminded of her old, fragmented vision of blood and glass. But nothing comes to her; the future is clear and her mind has decided to play tricks on her again.

Or perhaps her mind is the best part of her, the gentle warning she ignored becoming obvious as soon as Bella’s finger slips against the wrapping paper. Jasper’s eyes blacken as soon as Bella’s flesh parts and the blood beads, and suddenly he is lunging. She sees it in an instant, Bella’s crumpled body in his grip and Edward’s howls and the house of the Cullens irreversibly fallen. She sees an endless parade of James’ victims, broken and dead in Bella’s blank eyes.

She sees the horror and the guilt in Jasper’s eyes, sees the vastness of Mexico and the rise of a monster born of regret and impulse.

It is over before he even moves, decision made, and she has to stop this.

The shriek startles them all, coming from her mouth as she darts in front of him.

In another life, the flavour of her desperation and fear would be enough for him to pause, to grasp wildly at his resistance. Instead, he throws her aside, her body crashing through the front windows in a rain of wood and glass, leaving an imprint of her body in the flowerbed outside.

She picks herself up out of the flower bed as Emmett and Rosalie drag Jasper bodily from the house, Esme close behind them. Their eyes are all pitch black; a harmless paper cut did not cause this reaction.

“She cut open her arm,” is Emmett’s grim explanation as Jasper’s struggles slow, his eyes firmly on the door of the house.

“It was an accident,” Esme adds, shame in every line of her stance.

“Alice seemed to know,” Rosalie murmurs, her eyes still on Jasper.

She will never understand Rosalie, why she always needs to assign blame, to identify the victim and the antagonist. She ignores the statement, even as they all swing to look at her, as she examines her shoulder. Jasper didn’t hit her hard enough for cracks to form, but it doesn’t look like it’s properly aligned.

When she does look up again, she can see it in all their eyes – did she let this happen on purpose? Does she hold some ugly vendetta against poor, sweet Bella?

She did help James …

She’s surprised – she thought it would be Edward that came after her, later, to criticise and punish her for the limitations on her faulty gift. He still might – he hasn’t decided properly, too focused on patching up Bella.

But it’s Jasper, wrenching out of Rosalie and Emmett’s grasp, with murder in his eyes and the target on her.

He doesn’t yell, but his words are poisonous, nasty and accusing. She flinches, Esme gasps and even Emmett tries to get him to stop. Some of them, she knows, aren’t meant for her. They are frustration, humiliation and disappointment directed at himself, at his own weakness.

But when she instinctively backs away, and he grabs her wrist, and she lets out a tiny cry of fear; it is Rosalie who comes to her rescue, who snarls and yells and pries his iron grip from her.

“I don’t care how pissed you are, you don’t touch her like that.”

The words seem to echo, and Carlisle, Edward and Bella are watching from the front door.

Her apology is stammered, weak in the sudden silence, her insistence that she didn’t know sounding bewildered and feeble as she darts away, into the forest to pick glass and wood out of her hair and wonder just how many other warnings she’s missed.

//