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charlvr · 28 days ago

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- the universe's cosmic joke | Daniela is not in love

Pairing. Main: Daniela Avanzini x Reader | sub: Megan Skiendiel x Reader

w.c. 3.2 k

Read the main story: here

Daniela Avanzini was not in love with Y/N L/N.

Or at least, that was what she told herself, over and over like a prayer she could recite in her sleep. She repeated it in the quiet moments between practices, in the stillness of the dorm room at night. She repeated in the brief glance shared across crowded hallways, in the silent sighs escaping her lips when their hands brushed accidentally. It was a truth she clung to because she had always known what her life was supposed to be: ordered, controlled, disciplined. Mapped out by clear routines, dreams carefully nurtured through years of hard work and unwavering focus.

She had been born with a purpose, or so she had always believed. From the instant her tiny feet touched the polished wood floor of a dance studio at just three years old, the world had watched her with wide eyes and whispered promises. She would be a star. She would be brilliant. She would be everything. Daniela never questioned it. She didn't need to.

So when Y/N L/N arrived at Dream Academy, quiet and gentle, all soft smiles and a curious sort of determination that didn't quite match the cutthroat world they inhabited, Daniela paid little attention. Y/N was good, yes. Talented, yes. But not exceptional. Not unforgettable. Just… good. Daniela’s eyes had always been trained to find brilliance, and Y/N, for all her earnest effort, wasn’t that.

And yet there was something about Y/N that made Daniela hesitate, anyway. Something that made her pause the first time she watched Y/N laugh in the middle of a routine she’d just messed up, cheeks flushed with embarrassment but eyes bright with something Daniela didn't recognize. It was a kind of genuinity Daniela didn't understand. She was used to people who moved with purpose, who danced to win. But Y/N? She moved like she was dancing for herself. Like she didn’t care who was watching.

Daniela told herself that was why she offered to help Y/N after that late-night rehearsal. It was curiosity, maybe even a little bit of pity. Nothing more. She was the best dancer in the room, and Y/N was struggling. It was a simple kindness. A moment of generosity from someone who had more to give.

It definitely had nothing to do with how Y/N’s smile made her heart stutter in incomprehensible ways. Or how she’d had to Google “how to tell if you’re allergic to a teammate” because every time she caught Y/N’s gaze, her cheeks would burn and her body would flush.

No, she decided firmly. It was just curiosity, that was all.

“Want me to walk you through that combo again?” Daniela said, her voice as casual as she could make it, her expression easy. She was already half out the door, but something had made her pause, turning her back around to look at the girl who was still breathing hard, sweat clinging to her hairline.

Y/N looked up, surprised, and Daniela found herself memorizing every detail of that expression. “Me? Really?”

Daniela smiled, the way she always did when she wanted to put someone at ease. “Yeah, you. Unless you think I’m secretly plotting your elimination.”

The second the words left her mouth, she winced. They felt too real, too close to the kind of thing that actually happened in a place like this.

But Y/N laughed—a startled, breathless sound that startled Daniela in a way she wasn't prepared for. It tightened her chest and made her pulse quicken, and for a fleeting moment, she found herself wondering how she could make that laugh hers and only hers, before her senses kicked in and she quickly brushed the thought aside, confused by what had come over her.

After that night, Daniela declared her curiosity satisfied. Better not to mess with things, people, meant to be left alone.

She never planned to stay behind so many more times. She certainly never meant for those late hours in the studio to turn into something else entirely.

At first, it was just about the dancing. Y/N would watch her with wide eyes, trying to copy the way Daniela’s feet moved, the way she let the music live in her bones. Daniela would correct her posture, show her how to let the music fill the spaces between every breath. Y/N would listen, nodding seriously, and every time she finally got it right, her face would light up like she’d just discovered the secret to flight.

But then it became something more. Something dangerously close to attachment. The nights turned into a quiet ritual: just the two of them, feet moving in the near-dark of the studio, breath misting on the mirrors. In that quiet, they found a rhythm that felt almost like home, a fragile sanctuary built on laughter and the soft scuff of shoes on the floor. Y/N made her laugh in a way no one else did; laughter that peeled back the weight of the world she carried on her shoulders. With Y/N, she could almost forget that every move she made was meant to be watched, every smile carefully polished and perfect.

Almost.

Then came the finale, the stage lights hot on her skin and the roar of the crowd like a heartbeat under her feet. Daniela had always imagined this moment: the applause, the confetti, the validation. But when they won, when her name was called alongside Y/N’s, Daniela was no longer sure she really cared about the cameras or the bright glare of the lights that celebrated her hard work. All she really saw was Y/N. Y/N’s wide eyes and trembling smile, the way she reached for Daniela’s hand like it was the only thing keeping her grounded. And in that instant, that one perfect moment, Daniela realized she didn’t want to let go.

—

The feelings that followed were slow and consuming, creeping into the edges of her thoughts like a shadow. A longing that settled in her chest, making her breath hitch every time Y/N brushed against her shoulder in the practice room. And the shame that followed close behind, coiled tight in her throat, always there to remind her: this was only friendship. This was normal.

Because to admit there was more than that? Daniela couldn’t even begin to consider it.

Still, there were moments—late at night after the dorm lights had gone dark—when she let herself forget. Just for a little while. She’d press closer to Y/N in the cramped twin bed they sometimes shared, their laughter softening into quiet murmurs and unfinished sentences. She’d memorize the lines of Y/N’s face, each freckle and mole, telling herself it was only comfort. Only the warmth of two friends too tired to care about boundaries. But then she’d breathe in the scent of Y/N’s shampoo on the pillow, her hand drifting up to brush a strand from Y/N’s face, lingering, her fingers trembling with something she couldn’t name. And the guilt would come crashing in like a wave, pulling her under until all she could do was lie there, perfectly still, and wait for it to pass.

She told herself it would. That it had to.

But every smile Y/N gave her tightened something in her chest that felt like betrayal. Every time Y/N’s touch lingered, Daniela felt her world tilt, her heart beating too fast as if gravity itself was shifting. She stumbled through each day, wanting, aching, for Y/N to catch her.

But it was a want that had no place in the life she’d planned so carefully.

When the rumors started, little jokes on lives about Dani x Y/N, teasing comments from fans about how close they were, she laughed along. She let them think she was immune, that none of it mattered. Like her every thought wasn’t consumed by the need to quiet the feelings she didn’t want to name.

She wasn’t in love. She wasn’t. She repeated it so many times that some days she almost believed it.

It was after one of their late practices, both of them spent, sitting side by side on the cool studio floor with their heads tipped back against the mirrored wall. Shoulder to shoulder, legs stretched out in front of them, breathing slow and heavy. Daniela turned to look at Y/N, at the flush of her cheeks and the soft curve of her neck, and for a single breath she let herself wonder: what would it feel like to kiss her? To thread her fingers through Y/N’s hair and never let go? The thought slammed into her like a punch, sharp and breathless.

She looked away quickly, a flush rising in her own cheeks.

“I should… I should go shower,” Daniela said abruptly, pushing herself up. “I have to go live with Manon and Lara later.”

Y/N blinked at her, a little surprised, but understanding nevertheless, “Oh, okay. I’ll definitely tune in.”

Daniela forced a smile, her heart pounding a little too fast. “Yeah. Sure. I look forward to it.” She caught the flicker of Y/N’s smile at her words, turning quickly before Y/N could see how her hands were shaking, or how her eyes had lingered on the other girl’s mouth just a moment too long.

And when she said it outright, during that Weverse Live—“Enough with the gay allegations. I’m not into girls.” The words slipped out easier than she’d expected, like she’d been rehearsing them for weeks.

For a moment, she felt something in her chest loosen, like saying it out loud had finally make it true. Like it had erase the way her pulse stuttered whenever Y/N smiled at her, or how every accidental touch felt like it left a brand on her skin.

It didn’t. But she told herself it did.

Because that fit her plan. It fit the life she’d been building ever since she was old enough to understand that the world didn’t have room for girls who wanted things that didn’t fit neatly in the lines.

So, she tried to convince herself those feelings would just vanish on their own. That the ache she carried like a second skin, and the way Y/N’s laughter haunted her dreams, would finally fade.

And it seemed the universe finally listened—but in all the wrong ways.

—

The interview was nothing at first. A shared sofa, a round of questions they had all answered a dozen times before. The lights were hot, the smiles practiced. Megan and Y/N had been seated next to each other, unusual but not worth sparing a second thought about. Probably management testing out a new pairing. But one slip, one awkward laugh in front of the camera later, and suddenly the whole world decided it was something more.

Daniela watched it unfold in real time. She didn’t even have to look for it; it found her on its own. Soft-focus edits, bright colors, captions that blurred the line between teasing and obsession: #MegY/N, a hundred thousand hearts and counting. Their names tangled together in ways that made Daniela’s stomach twist.

She told herself it didn’t matter. That it was just the fans being fans: harmless, if a bit overzealous. That the only reason it bothered her at all, if she would even call it that, was because she didn’t want Y/N to feel cornered by something she hadn’t asked for. That it was about boundaries, not… whatever else she might be feeling.

But the feeling clung to her anyway, stubborn and familiar. It settled behind her ribs like a quiet bruise, pulsing there whenever the world got too quiet, whenever her thoughts wandered where they shouldn’t.

She was used to control, to order, to plans she could see and hold and predict. But this was none of those things. And she didn’t know how to keep it from slipping under her skin.

The next day, she watched from across the practice floor as Y/N and Megan followed a manager out. No explanation. No glance back. Daniela stayed where she was, stretching in the corner, feigning indifference. She didn’t ask what it was about. She didn’t need to.

Sophia filled in the blanks later, her voice light, almost dismissive. “Probably just PR damage control,” she said, fingers tying her laces with practiced ease. “Nothing I would worry about.” Daniela only nodded, her smile brittle and small. She didn’t ask why Sophia felt the need to say it, and Sophia didn’t try to explain.

And for a while, it did seem like it didn’t matter. Megan and Y/N stayed polite but distant, the space between them unchanged. Practice took over: long hours, tired bodies, the endless push toward perfection. Daniela let the rhythm of it all carry her. Let the burn in her muscles and the steadiness of routine drown out the rest. Let herself believe it would all settle back into place.

Until it didn’t.

Y/N hadn’t shown up for their usual after-practice ritual—the quiet hour that felt like it belonged to them alone. Daniela waited anyway. She stretched in the low light, the music a soft whisper in the background, glancing at the door every few minutes like she could will it to open. Like Y/N would slip inside with a sheepish smile, hair damp from a quick shower, and lean close to murmur, “Sorry, I lost track of time.”

But the door stayed closed, and the room felt too big, too empty.

Eventually, she texted.

Daniela: Where are you? We’re supposed to go over the new routine.

The reply was quick. Clipped.

Y/N: Sorry! I forgot. PR assignment. I’ll catch you up later.

I forgot.

Daniela stared at the words, her phone suddenly unnaturally cold and heavy in her hand. A tightness formed in her throat, one she didn’t know how to swallow down. One she couldn't explain away.

That night, she opened her laptop and saw the photos. Y/N and Megan, heads close together over steaming cups. Later, at the arcade. Then, the park. For the camera, she reminded herself, trying and failing, not to overanalyze every frame. Every smile. All for the camera. But the images felt like salt in a wound she’d never let herself touch.

When Y/N came back to the dorm, cheeks flushed from the cold and a spark in her eyes, Daniela forced a smile. She asked how it went, careful to keep her voice light, careful not to let the bitterness slip through. She secretly hoped Y/N would say the date had gone badly. That it had been a disaster. But Y/N’s easy laugh was disarming, and Daniela tried to let it wash away the questions clawing at her throat. She did her best to pretend she didn’t notice the lingering scent of Megan’s perfume clinging to Y/N’s coat, sweet and sharp and so very much not hers. Fought the urge to scrub every trace of the other girl away, to reclaim what felt like was slipping through her fingers. So she sat there, acting like everything would be the same. Like the quiet dread that had begun to creep in could be ignored.

But the shifts started small and slow. A lean here, a shared secret smile there. Y/N’s laughter ringing out for Megan, bright and unguarded. Megan’s hand resting on Y/N’s arm, soft and familiar. All of it quiet, but expanding, slipping into the spaces Daniela had once thought were hers alone.

She tried to tell herself it was okay to be jealous. That it was about friendship, about wanting to be the one Y/N came to first, the one she trusted with those soft, easy smiles. She was allowed to want that, wasn’t she?

But even that excuse was starting to crumble, thin around the edges and frayed where she pressed on it too hard.

Weeks passed, and the feeling only grew. Daniela hated how she noticed it all. The way Y/N’s eyes would light up when Megan walked in, the way Megan would catch her gaze and smile, something tender flickering between them like a secret only they shared. The way they found each other without trying, like pieces of a puzzle that had always fit.

She tried to ignore it. The voice in her head, the twist of something deep in her chest. Told herself she just wanted Y/N to be happy, even if it meant sharing her laughter with someone else. That it wasn’t her place to feel more than that.

And maybe that was true. Maybe it should have been.

But every time she caught Y/N’s eyes across the room—soft, open in a way that made her breath catch—she felt the truth settle deeper in her bones: it was more than she could admit. And it wasn’t going away.

One night, after another long rehearsal, Daniela lay in bed, staring up at the ceiling. The dorm was too quiet without Y/N’s laughter to fill the dark, too still without the gentle weight of her presence pressed close. The air conditioner hummed low, Manon’s breathing a distant, steady hush. Daniela’s phone rested on her chest, heavy and unyielding, each second of silence pressing down like a secret she didn’t know how to hold.

Y/N was out late again, probably with Megan. Daniela forced a smile when the thought crossed her mind, even as something sour tugged at the edges of her calm. She turned her face to the pillow, trying to breathe through the emptiness that had settled there like it had always belonged. Like it was just another part of her she couldn’t cut away.

Then her phone buzzed, and she hated how her heart jumped at the sound.

Y/N: Hey, still awake? Sorry if this is random, but I was thinking about that transition you showed me earlier. I think I finally got it.

A small smile found her lips despite herself. As if the simple fact that Y/N had been thinking of her at all was something she could cling to. Her fingers moved before she could second guess.

Daniela: Show me tomorrow. I want to see it.

It was an easy thing to say. Just a dancer checking in on another dancer. Just a friend encouraging a friend. But even as she typed it, she felt something tighten in her chest, wrapping itself around her heart and refusing to let go.

Y/N: Deal. But only if you promise not to laugh when I mess it up again.

Daniela’s smile softened, but it didn’t bring her any relief. Her throat felt too tight, her pulse too loud in her ears. She read Y/N’s message over and over, each word gentle and warm, but weighted with something she couldn’t push away.

Daniela: I never laugh at you.

She paused before sending it, reading the words again and again, as if she could convince herself that they were only what they seemed. Something a friend would say, nothing more. But each time she read them, they felt heavier. Like she was trying to wrap all the feelings she couldn’t admit into something simple, something safe. But it wasn’t safe. It wasn’t simple. And no matter how she tried to pretend, it didn’t feel like nothing. It felt like everything.

Y/N: Good. Because I always feel like I’m better when you’re watching.

Daniela set her phone aside, her breath catching in her throat. She pressed the heel of her hand against her chest, like she could hold the sudden, overwhelming warmth there in place. But it was no use.

Because the truth was already there, raw and electric, pulsing through every breath, every heartbeat. The truth she had tried to scrub away like a stain she could wash out. The truth she had prayed over like a sin she could somehow unlearn.

And if Daniela thought that admitting it would make things better, if she thought that finally facing what she had been running from would suddenly fix everything, she was wrong. It didn’t make the feelings any smaller. It didn’t make them any easier to bear.

Daniela Avanzini was in love with Y/N.

And she didn’t know what to do with that truth.

catch me dropping a megan's version too (?)

Read:

⁺ Megan is not in love

listen to. (i have a song, wait wait. i'm just too tired to find it rn, will update)

#katseye x reader #megan skiendiel x reader #daniela avanzini x reader #charwritez

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deathworlders-of-e24 · 9 months ago

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We finally did it. We slipped the surly bonds of Earth to step among the stars. It took over two decades of research, billions of dollars of taxpayers money, and almost every country on the planet working in tandem, but after the International Space Coalition was founded it was almost effortless.

Faster than Light travel was accomplished almost on accident. Just the right ratios of radioactive material and an ‘ever so slight’ gravitational anomaly generator was all it took. To keep the population safe from any possible drawbacks, the first launch of the FTL drive, or Warp, was conducted at Tranquility Base on the moon. Either that was minimum safe distance or there wasn’t any, so it was decided to just roll the dice. The Angel was built there, the ship that would go further than any before it. The drive was set for Alpha Centauri, the big red button was pressed, and off they went, 300 crew members, going faster than anyone else in the history of mankind.

After 4 months, 319 ‘people’ came back. The extra 19 individuals wore special thermal suits to keep their body temperatures stable, and each had scaled skin with varying hues of greens and grays, with elongated prehensile tails. Their eyes were almost solid black, save for some red around the edges. Their hands were like a chameleon’s with only 3 fingers each. If it hadn’t been for a heads up from the Angel’s captain, the first words out of the welcoming party mouth would’ve been “they’re lizards!” Honestly the only thing they had in common with us was that they were bipedal.

Apparently the people of the ‘Alpha System’ as we called it, the Quintins, were just as surprised to see us as we were them. 2 ambassadors, 7 scientists, 10 military escorts, and a partridge in a pear tree came with them back to Earth. They just had to see it, after hearing stories of home from the crew aboard The Angel. They had to see how a world so full of dangers, from predators to the sheer deadly climates, could have allowed such a species as humans to exist let alone thrive and advance far enough to get off the ground.

The surprises didn’t stop there either, as if finding out WE ARE NOT ALONE wasn’t a big enough shock to the human race. The Quintins weren’t the only species out there, they were in fact only one people in a collective, a Grand Assembly of Intelligent Lifeforms (it sounded longer in Quin tongue but they brought auto translators) or The GAIL, and the Human race was immediately eligible for probational membership. Developing the WARP capabilities was what sealed it. Faster than Light travel was the first prerequisite for joining the GAIL. The second was a planetary inspection, and since the Quintins were our first contact, who better? It was time to meet the neighbors for the human race.

That was 50 years ago. Now the Human Race were full fledged members of The GAIL, and the International Space Coalition was renamed into simply the Terran Academy, putting out graduates of every field imaginable. We had an entire fleet of WARP enabled ships, spreading human explorers into the depths of space.

The only problem these days were the rumors. 50 years of interaction with alien species had made one thing clear to the rest of the universe at large:

Their planet is completely unstable

Their bodies are unimaginably fragile while simultaneously unbreakable

They claim not to have a hive mind but nobody believes that for a second

They seem to ‘pack bond’ outside their own species

They’ll eat anything (maybe even you)

The Humans make no sense

THE HUMANS ARE DEATHWORLDERS!

AND HERE THEY COME!

(This will be an account of various humans and their travels through the known universe. Earth, also known as E24, is a terrifying deathworld. This should be fun)

#deathworlders of e24 #earth is space australia #humans are weird #humans are space australians #humans are deathworlders #humans are space orcs #humans are space oddities #humans are insane #humans are strange #humans are terrifying #humans are cute #humans are space fae #aliens #original story #writing

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marvelsswansong · 2 years ago

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show and tell

summary: a white rose at the train station. his hand in yours at the zoo. his mother's golden mirror. does he love you or is he simply trying to gain the public's favour and secure the Plith prize? you're unsure. and so is he, until he very much isn't.

tags: coriolanus snow x fem!reader, slow burn (ish), fluff, angst, technically a happy ending but quite dark, purely based off the movie but I take some creative detours, CW for violence, mentions of starvation, toxic/manipulative behaviors and a semi-dark!snow (please read at your own discretion, take care of yourself above all else :))

☆ word count: 5.6K+ words ☆

⚠️ 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠: 𝐈 𝐝𝐨 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐠𝐢𝐯𝐞 𝐚𝐧𝐲𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐦𝐢𝐬𝐬𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐭𝐨 𝐜𝐨𝐩𝐲, 𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐬𝐥𝐚𝐭𝐞 𝐨𝐫 𝐫𝐞𝐩𝐮𝐫𝐩𝐨𝐬𝐞 𝐚𝐧𝐲 𝐨𝐟 𝐦𝐲 𝐰𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐧 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐤𝐬 𝐭𝐨 𝐚𝐧𝐲 𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐩𝐥𝐚𝐭𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐦 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐟𝐢𝐫𝐬𝐭 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐬𝐮𝐥𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐦𝐞.⚠️

Coriolanus hates waiting.

The stillness, the eerie silence of an early morning at the Capitol train station. It eats away at his core.

His mouth tastes like copper, his throat's starting to itch from the dryness and there's a brief moment of fear as he ponders if he's making a huge mistake. A sharp whistle ringing through the station signals the train's arrival, and as his eyes adjust to the billowing grey smoke and a sea of white (the peace keepers), the flower in his left hand suddenly feels heavy. As if the weight of the situation is starting to bear on his shoulders.

He wasn't supposed to be here. If all had gone to plan, he would've already been the recipient of the Plinth Prize and taken the first car back home to buy his grandma'am some chocolates and Tigris a new dress. No more worrying. No more surviving on dwindled fortunes. No more pretending to fit in with high society.

Then, of course, the rules had to change. Viewership was down and it was of both Dean Highbottom's and Dr Gaul's opinion that what was missing was spectacle. Now, whoever the best mentor was in transforming their tribute into prime entertainment would win the prize.

"Your role is to turn these tributes into spectacles. Not survivors."

The silence that hung after this announcement in the Academy was heavy, but Coriolanus knew better than to show his true emotions on his face. After all, if there was one thing that he knew how to do as the star student of the Academy: it was to plan. And when he saw your... unruly introduction to the public, sneaking a snake down a woman's dress before cussing out the audience, it dawned on him that it would be a tall order to endear you to the public.

But not impossible.

The sounds of the tributes being roughly unloaded off the platform snaps him back into reality, his eyes easily landing on your figure as you jump off the train, your upper arms supported by the tribute (Jessup, Coriolanus recalls his name being) standing next to you. Pushing through the soldiers, the blonde nearly breaks into a small sprint to catch up to you as you turn your head upon hearing the sound of hurried footsteps.

"Welcome to the Capitol." the strange man in front of you says, before holding out a pristine white rose. It's a peculiar looking flower, you think, a kind of flower you've never seen before (at least, certainly not back in your home district). It looks almost artificial, you think, with how perfectly white and untouched its petals are.

The blonde assesses your cautious glance - the sunlight hitting the under color of your irises perfectly in a glistening twilight - and a fleeting thought passes by, that the tv camera didn't do your natural beauty justice. He has to suppress a smirk when you finally respond, narrowing your eyes at him with your arms crossing above your chest.

"You seem like you shouldn't be here."

He chuckles at that.

"I'm not supposed to be. And yet here I am." A pause. "But I'm your mentor. Coriolanus Snow."

That's a first, you think. Mentors for tributes.

"And what does my mentor do except bring me roses?" you question, flicking the buds with your fingers. Coriolanus just smiles.

"I do my best to take care of you."

Your supposed mentor says it so sincerely, you think, and he's obviously charming with his devilishly handsome looks and low whisper. But there's something that stops you from holding out your hand and taking the rose from his fingers. You suppose he isn't lying - after all, what would be the point of it - but there's something in his eyes that you can't quite explain.

Something that makes your stomach flutter in both excitement and dread.

"Move." the soldier behind you then barks, shoving you and Jessup forward. You decide to give your mentor one last grin and a quiet "see you later", thinking that's going to be the last you see of him for a while.

The last thing you expect is for him to jump into the back of the vehicle alongside the other tributes, drawing the eyre of a few who pin him against the moving vehicle and start taunting him with violence.

"You look rather out of place." the tall boy pinning Coriolanus drawls.

"I'm not, I can assure you. I'm here for (Y/n). I'm her mentor."

That puts the unwanted attention on you, as the other tributes begin to circle around you with sinister expressions twisting on their lips.

"Mentor, huh? How come little miss music gets one but not the rest of us?" a brunette girl drawls, eyeing you up and down.

The boy pinning Coriolanus down applies stronger pressure to his neck, and you rise in an attempt to intervene, but he meets your gaze discreetly and motions for you to remain seated.

"You all have a mentor, they're just... not here." he croaks.

"Right, and we're all supposed to believe you?" another girl, this one from district 4 you believe, taunts. "What's to say we shouldn't just kill you now?"

The blonde shoots you a nervous look and that's when you feel pity. Just like you, he's in a foreign environment and pretending to be brave. You suppose also that he's your only ticket out, your only chance of potential success at surviving in the games.

So you intervene.

"You could kill him. But then the moment this truck stops you'll all be gathered round and killed by the peace keepers. He's clearly Capitol. And if they're willing to hang District people simply for stealing, can't imagine what killing a member of the Capitol would mean for punishment."

That scares them off and Coriolanus sits down next to you, breathing heavily in an effort to catch his breath, before quietly thanking you.

"You really wanna thank me?" you quirk, leaning over to whisper in his ear. "Start by thinking about how I can actually win."

The truck then suddenly comes to a halt, and the next thing you know the truck is being tipped over and the doors fly open. Coriolanus grasps your arm in lightning speed, pulling you close towards him so that he'd hit the harsh ground first, absorbing most of the impact.

When you shakily stand up on your feet, you realize you're enclosed in a large metal cage akin to that of an animal enclosure. There's even an over enthusiastic TV presenter in the background, who now seems to have noticed your mentor and begins to call out to him.

"Where are we?" you breathe out, already shivering from the autumn cold.

The blonde barely shifts, only dusting off his suit in a calm manner.

"(Y/n) (L/n) from District 12, welcome to the Capitol Zoo. Would you like to meet my neighbors?" he jokes, eyes slyly shifting to the right to refer to the small audience that has now gathered around the TV presenter.

You hesitate, but then he takes your right hand in his before leaning over to whisper in your ear.

"You want to win, right? Good. I'd like to win as well. And the first thing you'll need to do? Perform for the cameras." Coriolanus accentuates the end of his sentence by sliding the rose behind your ear, a gesture which draws an excited reaction from the crowd.

Is your mentor doing it for the cameras or for something else? You're unsure. But given your desperation to win, and the fact that he clearly knows more about the games than you do, you decide to play along.

Warm hands twisting in the cold, Coriolanus drags your enjoined hands towards the TV camera as he does what he does best. Lie, smile, and charm the audience. Even when the attention turns to you, as Lucky Flickerman (that's his name, you learn) directs questions towards you, the blonde never lets go of your hand in his.

Before he leaves, as news of his rule-breaking spreads amongst the members of the public, you grab him out of desperation one last time.

"Please get us some food, we've been starving since the Reaping."

The blonde nods, but you can't help but feel anxious: not knowing if his previous gestures of kindness were just for show.

-------------------------------

"Who's that for?"

Coriolanus had meant to sneak the sandwiches and cookies into his spare napkin discreetly, but of course Clemensia had to be two steps behind him, interrogating his every move.

"Just not very hungry, that's all." he nearly grits through his teeth, forcing a fake smile.

The dark haired girl chuckles at that, shaking her head sideways.

"You don't have to lie to me, Snow. Especially me."

"... It's for (Y/n)." he quietly admits. She hums at that, picking at her own food from across the table.

"That's awfully nice of you. What, already going soft for some girl you met yesterday?" she teases, and it immediately elicits an angry refusal out of him.

"It's not like that." Coriolanus snaps, his sudden harshness making his classmate flinch in surprise. "I just... can't have her dying before the games even begin because she's not as well fed as the others."

Clemensia scoffs, flicking the rest of her orange peel into the trash.

"Honestly, Snow, I don't know why you bother. She's clearly not going to survive. I mean, have you seen the tributes from districts 1 and 3?"

Ignoring her comments, he wordlessly slips away from the table and hails a ride down to the zoo. News of his intentions travels fast and whilst he doesn't mind Sejanus' company, it takes intense effort to force himself to look away from Arachne when she tags along and decides to taunt a caged tribute with a glass bottle.

"You came back." you mutter, staring at the neatly wrapped napkin in disbelief. Coriolanus dislikes how surprised you sound, then hates himself more for caring about what you think.

Why do you care what she thinks? he scolds himself. She's just a tribute you're mentoring.

"Of course I did. Can't have my tribute dying before the games even begin, now can I?" he teases, feigning nonchalant.

The presence of academy mentors seems to have attracted a crowd, with a few photographers even pointing their lenses towards you and Coriolanus as his hand slips through the metal gates to meet yours to hand off the food. When your fingers touch his, a part of you wonders if he would've ever came back if there was no PR involved.

Too grateful and too hungry to care, you just say thank you, before breaking off a piece for Jessup and offering half a sandwich to your mentor.

"Oh no, I'm not hungry." he says out of instinct, surprised by your offering. You raise your eyebrows in response, pursing your lips.

"You sure about that? Because I could hear your stomach growl from a mile away." you retort.

"Right. Uh, thank you."

Biting into the soft bread, you chew, savoring every bite. A silence settles between the two of you as you both eat, right before you ask him a quiet question.

"... Did you get into a lot of trouble for what you did for me yesterday?" your eyes shine with worry, you nervously looking up at him for an answer. He finds himself again surprised by how much you seem to care.

Yes, he wants to say. I nearly got myself disqualified as a mentor and it would've been the end of my family's future in the Capitol. But he swallows his thoughts down, alongside the dry taste of the tuna sandwich.

"Not much. Actually, I was able to convince the gamemaster, Dr Gaul, to implement a few changes to the games."

"Really, like what?"

"To let the public send you donations. That way, I could send you supplies you needed into the arena - food, water, medicine. It'd mean having to do the extra job of playing to the public and getting them to root for your survival, but with a voice like yours, the songbird of Panem -"

Your smile drops at that, your gaze turning stern at his suggestion.

"I only sing when I please for an audience I choose." your eyebrows furrow, your usually sweet expression melting into something more sour. It's oddly cute, he thinks.

"I know, but I'm really going to need you to try. It's for your own survival. Our survival." he emphasizes, staring right into your eyes. You can't suppress your sad smile at that, crumbling the empty napkin in your hands.

"Are you sure it's not just for your survival?"

Your question haunts Coriolanus that night, alongside the sounds of broken glass and pained gasps as Arachne lies bleeding on the ground, having been stabbed in the neck by one of the tributes. When he quickly runs to his classmate, he doesn't get to see your expression, as you're ripped away by Jessup pulling you into safety in an instant and peace keepers swarm the scene in an effort to remain calm.

When he's back home and the crimson blood coating his hands have dried from where he was holding his dying classmate's wounds, he wonders if there's any truth to your answer.

-------------------------------

Everything changes at the arena tour.

You've not had much sleep. You're confused, you're angry, but most of all you've been haunted by your conflicting feelings towards your mentor and the name he'd called you - songbird. A silly little songbird, you think spitefully.

To sing and charm the very same public who had doomed her to a violent game of death.

It was absurd, really, that he'd even ask that. It made your stomach churn and your head ache at the thought of cheapening your craft for something so juvenile.

And yet, when you spot the familiar red suit and white blonde hair in the mass of other mentors at the arena, you can't help but feel warmth in your chest and stomach. A part of you even feels lucky, given that the other mentors seem to waste their time insulting their tributes or being too afraid to talk to them. Whilst Coriolanus, on the other hand, seems to be full of ideas to ensure your survival.

"The game master liked my suggestions. So the donations system is going to be implemented, with a broadcast beforehand for the tributes to get a chance to endear themselves to the public for donations." He's speaking so fast that you almost think he enjoys explaining the games to you. "Now what this means is that assuming you get enough donations, when the bell goes off, you don't go for the weapons. You don't fight. You just run as fast as you can, hide and stay alive for as long as you can."

"How can you even be sure I'll get enough donations for you to be able to send supplies?" you mutter, looking around at the other tributes. "A lot of these folks are a lot taller and stronger than I am. They've got a much better chance at surviving than I do."

Coriolanus surprises you by taking both of your hands in his, squeezing your palms tight in his cold palms.

"I know, but we have something none of the others have."

You scrunch your face in confusion.

"What's that?"

"A story. A strong connection between you and me, a Capitol mentor and a District 12 tribute. Not to mention, your incredible singing and songwriting. Match that with my knack for public relations and we'll have enough donations to send you any supplies necessary for your victory in the games."

You realize then that Coriolanus is unlike anyone else you've ever met. So confident, so sure, so perceptive of other people and their secret desires and pitfalls. His unwavering commitment to his beliefs is admirable, if not almost foolish, but you keep that part to yourself.

"How're you so sure I'll even survive the first few minutes?" you push back, still unconvinced, though you don't pull away from his hold. "And, again, I don't just sing for anyone."

The blonde opens his mouth to respond, but he's interrupted when a sudden cascade of dust and fire crumbles down from the ceiling of the arena. The sound of a bomb exploding reverberates as you're both thrown off of your feet by the impact. Your head is still ringing from the chaos when Jessup pulls at your sleeves, commanding you to walk away from the wreckage.

Rising onto shaky legs, you even spot another tribute running from the guards towards a blown out hole on the side of the building. And when your eyes meet with Coriolanus' frantic ones, his lower half trapped underneath rubble, you both recognize that you now have an unbridled chance to escape -

But you don't.

To the blonde's complete shock, you instead shove your friend off, screaming as you lift the heavy cement column with all your strength in an effort to pry the debris off of his body. With the help of a few peace keepers, it works, but Coriolanus falls into unconsciousness quickly as he succumbs to the excruciating pain of crushed ribs and bruised limbs.

The last thing he sees before he fades into darkness is your teary eyes, a sight he so badly wants to fix by wiping away your tears with his fingers...

When he eventually wakes, it's in a dark hospital next to his grandma'am and sister. There's a roar on the television screen as you're brought onto the broadcast, shy smile and a glittering guitar in hand. It hits him that you're actually going to sing.

"I didn't have a chance to... uh... write a new song. But I'd like to dedicate this performance to someone very special who's recently been hurt." you say into the mike, your eyes clearly brimming with nerves and doubt.

As you sing, there's a tight sensation in Coriolanus' chest once the lyrics settle into his mind - a small voice whispers in his mind that it's jealousy, for you singing about a boy back in your home town who broke your heart - but it's overwhelmed by the feelings of gratitude and awe that you'd ended up doing what he asked you to do. All that, after selflessly saving his life.

"A...are you okay, Coryo?" is all Tigris asks, brushing his hair back and gently guiding him back down onto bed upon seeing his expression twist into one of discomfort.

"She could've run."

"What?"

"At the arena. The blast blew open a large opening on the side of the stadium. I saw one of the tributes actually make it out that way." he lets out a shaky breath, hating you for what you've done to him to make him feel this way. "Damn it, Tigris. She could've run. She could've-"

A single tear drops from his left eye and onto his injured palm, his weak voice giving away his true emotions.

"She could've saved herself from even having to participate in the games. But she stayed. She fucking stayed behind to lift the debris off of me."

"She saved your life." his sister finishes for him, the atmosphere turning somber as she wraps her arms around his shoulder. "I'm just so glad that you're both safe."

As you retreat from the screen, the donation numbers only piling up higher as Lucky Flickerman closes out the broadcast, a hot fire lights up in Coriolanus' stomach.

He has to save you.

No matter what it takes.

--------------------------------------

"You know he's just using you, right?"

After the broadcast, once it's revealed that you were given the largest amount of donations out of all the other tributes, Coral from District 4 corners you backstage.

"Pardon?" you fake ignorance, a small smile playing on your lips, which only seems to aggravate the girl further.

"Your pretty boy mentor. He's only been faking all sweet for you to get the public to send you donations. In fact, I bet he didn't even bother to try and pull himself out of the wreckage so that he could get more public sympathy.

You snap at that, all fake modesty melting away in an instant.

"You have no idea what the fuck you're talking about, Coral. Coriolanus isn't like that." you spit, but all she does is look down at you with a nasty smirk on her lips.

"Oh really? And how would you know, little songbird? Think he'd care about someone from district 12? And why do you think he wants you to win so badly? Because he's a good person?" she mocks, her face now a mere inches away from yours. "No. I reckon it's more for the prize money."

You can't sleep that night at the zoo, tossing and turning in the dark. Your mind can't seem to rest, torn between the adrenaline and dread for the games tomorrow, alongside the constant worry over Coriolanus' wellbeing and doubts over his genuinity and trustworthiness.

Coral's just trying to get in my head. you repeat to yourself, over and over again. You're on the edge of sleep, exhausted and upset by your conflicting emotions, when you hear a familiar voice coming from the darkness.

It sounds like Coriolanus.

You sit up straight, and it's true: he's here, and he's whispering your name repeatedly, beckoning you towards the front of the cage and away from your sleeping competitors. Suddenly, the overwhelming exhaustion and fatigue disappears, and you find yourself gravitating towards the only person you've been thinking about for the past 24 hours.

"Coryo, you're... you're alright." you sigh out, almost overwhelmed with relief. You don't even realize you're crying until his hands reach up and brush away your tears, his warm hand a stark contrast to the freezing cold of the night.

"I am. All thanks to you, songbird." he breathes out, his fingers tracing the ripples of your cheeks. His head feels dizzy and his hands tremble as he searches his pockets for his mother's golden compact mirror.

"Don't call me that." you weakly laugh, as he does too. "What's this?" you ask, staring at the object he’s folded gently into your hands.

"It's for you to use in the arena. Now listen to what I say very carefully. Don't breathe this in, don't spill it on yourself, and only use it when you really need to." he slowly explains, as if he's terrified that you're going to harm yourself by merely carrying it in your pockets.

"Is... is this allowed? For you to sneak in and give me this?" you whisper, looking around your surroundings, but it's pitch black.

The blonde purses his lips, using every muscle in his body to keep his expression neutral.

No, it's certainly not allowed. I am risking my life, as well as my family's future, by doing this.

"That's not important. What is important is that the blast from the arena has created a hole leading out to a bunch of service tunnels. I tested it out myself, it leads towards the outside, far away from the peace keepers."

"Wait, I don't understa-"

Desperation grabs a hold of him, and it's a foreign feeling - the crushing despair of wanting to protect someone that he can't, the burning urge to want to put someone else ahead of him for once.

"What I need you to do tomorrow, (Y/n), is to run. The moment the alarm rings, don't even think of running towards the weapons or fighting the others. Don't even hide anymore. Just… just run towards the tunnels, by yourself, and get out."

"But what about Jessup-" you hiccup. Your head's spinning, confused and horrified by your mentor's change of plans and the prospect of leaving behind your friend to die in the arena.

"Forget about him." Coriolanus snaps. Suddenly, his eyes are cold and his voice is firm, commanding you as if you have no choice in the matter. "In there, he's as dangerous as the other tributes. You can't trust anyone, not even your supposed friends, okay? The games, they-" he chokes on his own words, and there's something again in Coriolanus' eyes that you can't quite decipher. "They bring out the worst in people. Promise me you'll run."

It makes your stomach twist in anxiety.

"I-"

"Please."

As he begs, his face crumbles, his voice so desperate and feeble that you can't find it in yourself to say no.

"I... I'll try." you relent, and he lets out a sigh of relief at your agreement.

"Good. Perfect." He takes your head in his hands and softly kisses your temple. "I won't let you die in there, okay? Just like you took care of me after the explosion. I'm going to take care of you."

"I'm your mentor. I do my best to take care of you."

Coriolanus' words from the train station echo in your head as you nod, pocketing the mirror deep inside your dress to hide it away from plain sight.

"Will I... will I be able to see you, after the games?"

You immediately feel stupid for even asking that. Everyone knows winning the games merely allows your return to your home district. And on all logical accounts, it wouldn't make any sense for the man to give up his life in the Capitol to follow you back to 12.

But he smiles at your innocent question, only nodding whilst squeezing your hands in the dark. To your feeble heart and mind, it feels like a genuine promise.

"Of course, my songbird. I'll do whatever it takes."

"Don't make promises you can't keep." you whisper.

"I never do."

And for the first time, you think you actually believe him wholeheartedly.

----------------------------------

You can't believe it.

You've won.

You were so sure you were going to die once the snakes had been released, eyes closing shut once the venomous snakes began to crawl up your skin, but as you continued to sing... The reptiles simply slithered by your side, remaining docile and non-threatening. And based on the snakes' sudden change of behavior and Highbottom's scowl when he announced you as the victor of the 10th Hunger Games - "consider yourself lucky, little girl, as it seems your mentor was willing to break more than a few rules for you" - your stomach churns at the realization that Coriolanus kept his promise.

He did whatever it took to get you out.

Even cheating.

You've only heard whispers of the punishments for cheating at the Capitol. But based on the frequent hangings of rebels in your home district, you can't imagine that the punishment would be very kind.

Weeks have passed since your victory, since the last time you've even seen Coriolanus, but it does nothing to erase him from your mind. You still see his faint silhouette in the mornings, when your eyes have barely adjusted to the morning light and there's a pile of clothes sitting on the chair beside your bed. You think you hear his voice amongst the sea of strangers’ conversations, calling out for his 'songbird'. And you swear you see his face in every crowd at the bar.

Unbeknownst to you, Coriolanus is having the same struggles on the opposite end of the country. Luckily, bearing the last name Snow meant his punishment for cheating was to be lighter than the usual hanging: mandatory military service. District 8. But he's sure to bring his last few bills to bribe the immigration officer for a transfer to 12.

All to come find you.

He suffers through the first week of training - grueling hours, hanging ceremonies, endless ramblings from Sejanus about making a change for the better. He pretends not to notice Sejanus establishing connections within the rebel community, until he can’t ignore it anymore. After all, Coriolanus simply can't afford his friend’s idealism and recklessness to get him killed too, and potentially you, when you're thought to be linked to the movement by mere virtue of association.

Especially not you, Coriolanus thinks.

After the games, of having to watch you bleed, sob and fight for hours on end as he stood helplessly, only able to watch: even the passing thought of your death elicits a violent reaction in him. He'll do anything for you.

Even if that means turning in his only friend to prove his loyalty to the Capitol.

It's an unremarkable Wednesday night for you when you're singing a song at the bar, black guitar in hand and the smell of booze thick in the air, when your eyes come across a familiar face.

It takes you a few seconds, of course. You almost think it’s a hallucination, if it wasn’t for the sea of other soldiers surrounding him, validating his presence. His fluffy white locks are gone, replaced with a clean buzz cut. He's lost a bit of weight, his shoulders more broad and rough from military training, and the lack of expensive bright fabrics draped around his figure is jarring at first. But it suits him, you think.

The song can't finish any faster before you're slinging your guitar to the back and rushing up to Coriolanus, immediately throwing your arms around him. He stiffens in your embrace before relaxing, his arms finding your waist and squeezing you tightly. And you can't help but savor every essence of his being: he smells of sweat and coal (unlike his Capitol uniform which always smelled of florals and clean linen) and you can feel the cool metal of his dog tags press against your collarbone at this angle.

"You came back for me." you breathe out, still not believing that he's in front of you. Your ex mentor just smiles, tapping your cheeks with his hands.

"Said I'd never break a promise, now didn't I?"

As the next performer goes up on stage, recapturing the attention of the audience, you pull him away towards the back room, far away from the bustling crowds and twinkling lights.

"I've thought of you every day, my songbird." Coriolanus whispers against your skin once you two are away from the crowds, his head falling forwards into the nape of your neck.

Your cheeks warm at his comment, your fingers coming up to play with the dog tags around his neck, before a light chuckle escapes your lips.

"What's so funny? Did you not miss me?" the blonde teases, and you shake your head sideways in denial.

"Of course I missed you. I missed you more than you could imagine."

"Then what's the chuckle for?"

You let out a short sigh, not knowing if it’d be wise to bring it up. But all he does is encouraging you, looking deep into your eyes and nodding, urging you to say what’s on your mind. You relent, shoulders sagging.

"It's just... when I won the games, Highbottom congratulated me. But not for winning the games. But for surviving you." you awkwardly chuckle in hopes of diffusing the seriousness of your question. "Is it true, Coryo?"

"What are you getting at?" is his response, coy and low. You can't tell if he's amused, annoyed or disturbed.

Or all three at once.

"There's rumors, you know. I heard that you... you had to kill a tribute." you whisper, as if what you’re saying is the biggest secret in the world. "Is it true?"

Coriolanus pauses at that, the smirk on his face dropping for a fraction of a second before he's cupping your face and lifting your gaze to meet his eyes. His stare is so strong, so unwavering, almost to the point of unnerving you. But it's matched with such warmth and softness in his touch as he strokes your hair.

"You have to understand, darling… It was just like the snakes. If I hadn't rigged the game by getting the snakes used to your smell so they wouldn't attack you, you would've died. And if I hadn't killed the tribute charging at me when I had to sneak into the arena to rescue Sejanus-" he sighs, slow and long. He looks as if he’s thinking hard. "I had to, my songbird. I had to do it to protect you. To take care of you." he emphasizes.

You're not sure what kind of an answer you wanted, but you're unable to respond immediately, as it slowly dawns on you that this man both cheated and killed another person for you.

His response to your silence is a swift kiss, calloused hands dropping to your waist to pull you in close, the gesture desperate and messy. Breathing heavily when he parts from you, he kisses you once more, this time a short peck which is more rough and demanding.

"I would do anything for you, (Y/n) (L/n). Anything for you."

Coriolanus chooses to keep quiet about the fact that technically, he could've just injured the tribute charging towards him instead. Or that it felt freeing to have ended the tribute’s life. Or that just a few hours ago, he tipped off the Capitol about Sejanus' rebellion. All in an effort to secure your unbridled safety. So that he doesn’t ever have to let go of you again.

"Now, where are your manners, my songbird? Aren't you going to thank me?" he whispers against your lips, smoothing out your hair.

"T-thank you, Coryo." you manage to stutter.

He smiles at that, kissing the top of your head as he sways you from side to side.

"Of course, love. Don't worry. We’re going to be just fine. In fact, everything will be fine from now on."

As you peak out from under his embrace, you're not so sure if you can believe him anymore.

a/n: leave it to a new hunger games movie and Tom Blyth playing young!Snow to make me return from my 1.5 year long writing hiatus.

I'm quite nervous about this one as it's my first time writing for a semi-dark character and also because it's been so long since I posted my writing on here... But I hope you enjoyed, please leave a comment, like, reblog, etc if you liked it. If this one is received well I might go ahead and post the other Snow fics currently sitting in my drafts!!!

#coriolanus snow #coriolanus x reader #coriolanus snow x reader #coriolanus snow x you #coriolanus x you #hunger games x reader #tom blyth x reader #tom blyth x you #coriolanus snow oneshot #the ballad of songbirds and snakes #hunger games #1k

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floweryanarchy · 4 months ago

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OUTLAWS AU GALES BACKSTORY

Put on your reading glasses, it’s a long one.

In 1879, Blackstaff academy was the most prestigious institution in Waterdeep, filled with only the brightest minds the city had to offer. Dr. Mystra Ryll, the formidable dean of Blackstaff, a woman with untouchable intellect, respected by her peers. A woman that will never stop till she gets what she wants, pushing the boundaries of science beyond reasonable limits. But Gale was never content with being within limits. That's how he caught her eye, young, eager, ambitious, brilliant. Gale was her star pupil, her favorite prodigy, her lover.

Before Gale, there was Dr. Karsus. A brilliant but secretive researcher at Blackstaff, rivalling Mystra in both intellect and obsession. These traits had led to his downfall, once he had discovered a strange dark ore that shimmered unnaturally in the light. He named it “The Netherese Ore”.

Then he died.

What was strange about his death is that the reasoning was kept vague, leaving people with only theories as to why the man had passed so suddenly, most assumed it was a case of tuberculosis.

Karsus’ body wasn't shown at the wake, they didn't see the slickly plagued veins that crawled across his body, the rot from inside out.

Mystra ordered that his research be sealed away, that none should touch it, or they'll meet a similar end. Whatever Karsus had found, it wasn't worth the cost.

But Gale couldn't let it go.

He found Karus’ old notes that were hidden under the floorboards, a loose thread Mystra didn't account for. The last writings of a dying genius, detailing his symptoms, half completed formulas and theories that hinted at something beyond his understanding.

Gale knew Mystra wouldn't grant him access to the ore, that it was too dangerous at this time. Gale convinced himself that if he could do this, he could grab Mystras fleeting attention again, that she’d be proud and grant him larger projects. So he did what he always did when faced with a locked door- he found another way in.

He stole the ore.

For a full year he conducted experiments on the mineral, away in an abandoned section of the archives, deep under the university. He studied it, tested it with chemicals, burned it, and crushed it. And slowly, he'd come to a half conclusion, the ore wasn't any mineral- it was reactive in ways no substance should be. It pulsed and spat when heated, changed composition under immense pressure, almost as if it were alive.

At first, it was just fatigue, shortness of breath, and spotty vision.

Then the blackened poisonous veins appeared under his skin, his chest ached, a deep gnawing pain near his heart that never faded.

Gale ignored it. He was too close. Too close to a discovery that would put his name permanently in history. It wasn't till he collapsed in the makeshift lab, coughing up black bile that he realized he was running out of time. So he did what he should have done months ago, he went to Mystra. She was furious, demanding what he knew and to give up on the project. But Gale already uncovered too much, and went too far. Even as his body deteriorated, even if his lungs burned and his chest ached with each breath. He knew the ore wasn't just a toxic mineral, it had potential. A priceless material that could be utilized for numerous needs. So Gale refused to let it go, and Mystra responded with a bounty on Gale's head. She labelled him as a madman, a danger to society, and an unstable scientist who stole a highly toxic and untested substance. He was a threat. So Gale fled, taking the Netherese ore and sickness with him, questioning how long he has left.

He takes regular doses of curated pain meds to keep the pain and exhaustion at bay and remain functional, although to wont stop the slow spread of his sickness.

#bg3 outlawsau #gale dekarios #gale of waterdeep #bg3

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lexicorp · 5 months ago

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Transformers Earthspark: Another Place, Another Prison

"You missed me, aadmit it, you missed me!" (friggin bill cipher quotes are in my brain)

They're goofy and I needed more of them- They're my favorite dumbasses

Fun lil chapter with a bit of reprieve from the angst. Although Star still is struggling with the sussy bs, The main point is just as the title of the chapter describes. All about finding some distractions. Avoidance and denial are always the best coping mechanisms :3

Previous Chapter: Not All Scars Can Be Welded

First Chapter: The Need For Read

Next Chapter: A Game Of Charades

Chapter 15: Distractions

Once Starscream managed to reach the Terran’s little lab, he began carefully opening the cabinets in search of that energon. He found an assortment of inventions in progress, and organized cashets of parts and tools. Nightshade was actually rather impressive. Wheeljack could certainly learn something from the kid on the matter of structure. That inventor’s workspace had always looked like a typhoon had blazed through any chance Starscream had passed his door in the Academy.

Eventually, he found the box designated for energon, and flicked open the lid. Of course it was in an Autobot crate. He should have thought of that first, really. Starscream’s focus immediately drifted away from the cubes, and landed on the patches. Those would be far easier to carry, as well as more convenient when he’d likely only purge the liquid variety in his current state. He wouldn’t exactly call that productive. So, he gathered as many of the patches as he could, stuffed a couple sheets of metal he found in their place, and covered it with the remaining patches before sealing the crate again.

Starscream once again found the need to trace the perimeter on the journey back to his room. It was ridiculous that his leg and helm were continuing to put up such a fuss, but no matter. He was still plenty capable of achieving this minor victory of hiding away his little stash of energon. He could perhaps even periodically gather more bit by bit to increase it without them knowing. That’d be at least something to quell his nerves.

Once all was in its place, he stumbled again as he stood, but pushed himself up stubbornly and glanced out the doorway. Starscream chuckled darkly at the fleeting revelation of how much this reminded him of those vorns on the Nemesis. Getting crippled by Megatron, limping across the halls, hoarding bits of energon. It was quite the classic it seemed. One that never ceased to humiliate him. Although a fact that has only proved his superior resilience. This was nothing he couldn’t handle.

“Confident now, aren’t we?” Meridian quipped and projected the insight that he was most certainly mocking Starscream’s previous statement towards the humans.

Starscream tightened his grip around the doorframe. “Yes. Actually. Now silence. I have no need for your petty interference.” He attempted to move towards the exit, but found his servo locked in place with a wave of disorientation as his optics flickered. He stumbled against it to prevent himself from falling, and put his other servo to his faceplate in a futile effort to stop those images from infecting his processor.

When he finally got his optics to work in some semblance of clarity again, Mandroid was right in his faceplate, with an expression filled with contempt while still managing to look unimpressed. It was disgusting. “For someone with such a disgraceful record as yours, you have nothing to prove yourself worthy of such credence. You were notoriously ruthless in the war, and even if you fought beside these…Terrans, against me once, you clearly only know how to continue to destroy all that surrounds you. Why stop now? Why not give in to your nature?”

“Shut up.”

“Do you honestly believe that you can show your face up there and talk to them like you don't have a kill count in the thousands, with even more personal betrayals to speak of? Perhaps you could start a conversation by showing a shred of reverence. Yet we both know you’re incapable of such a thing.” Meridian was pacing around him with his floating helm following him as he moved.

Starscream knew this abomination wasn’t real. He didn’t know why his processor was projecting this, but logically, there was no way Meridian was here. He was dead. They had melted that horrid suit he carried his corpse in. It was flatly impossible. Starscream just needed to ignore it. His inventive processor had been on overdrive as of late, and he just needed to push through like he always did.

So, he forced himself to disconnect from the wall and walk right through the spector. Starscream put all his focus on keeping his peds steady. On the crisp, real pain that shot from his knee that loved to taunt him at the most convenient of times. He found the activation switch to reveal the stairs to the outside, and ignored anything that was supposedly lingering behind him.

“Nothing to add?” A putrid laugh. “Go ahead then. Make a fool of yourself. Say hi to Alex for me.”

Starscream wasn’t listening to any of it. He didn’t care. Meridian didn’t deserve his attention. If that even was Meridian at all. Either way, he wasn’t going to grace it with another thought. He was going to get out of this suffocating confinement, and get some much needed stimulation. Any sort of distraction was exactly what he needed.

Bumblebee was always a good option for some meaningless yet entertaining bouts of banter. He’d be the best candidate for Starscream’s attention. Any of the Terrans would surely be far too complicated to navigate at the moment. What would he possibly say to them? Hashtag? How would that conversation go? He still didn’t know how to make anything up to her, and now would most certainly not be the right time to contemplate it.

The trap door closed behind him as he exited, and he slowly pushed aside the doors to the barn. Starscream hovered there a moment as he took in everyone’s positions. The humans had their wall opened up for the Terrans to share in their fueling session. They had some type of wrapped, organic slag, while the kids had some oddly shaped, frozen confection on a stick. It seemed like more of an excuse for a social event, like the Decepticons often did during their breaks. Perhaps such a thing wasn’t an abhorrent waste of time as he had once thought. Hashtag looked happy.

That cursed vision of Unicron cut through him in a fleeting, yet persisting force. It was coming. None of this mattered. Their meager moment of joy was nothing. Meridians scheming meant nothing. His defiance meant nothing. In the face of eternity, in the face of a god. They were all…

No. What was he thinking? It was just his overdramatic processor again. It had to be.

It had to be.

He needed to find Bumblebee. Focus on something else. Where was he?

Starscream shook his helm and shifted his wings. He felt for the subtle gusts of wind, filtered the structures and flora with those cows that surrounded him in his optics; as well as tuning his audials to minute notes of sound. Solid. Real. Like the absurd noises those creatures made, or the familiar pacing of peds around the corner.

He traced the edge of the barn and finally found just the mech he was looking for. That mattered enough. Right? Right.

Starscream leaned one servo on the exterior wall of the barn, and put the other on his hip. “Hey.”

Bumblebee was stacking cubes of hay–an amusing name for such a thing–a couple brandishing painted targets. “What?”

Scrap. What did he want to discuss with the bug again? Surely he had some sort of direction in mind for this interaction.

There was a moment of awkward silence between them as the question to his greeting went unanswered. He couldn’t let the scout think he came here without some sort of purpose! He needed to think of something. There had to have been something.

“Weellll…” Starscream began with an air of boredom laced with confidence. “Surely you were deprived of my presence for long enough after that…unfortunate, incident with Megatron. I am here to graciously offer my company! What are you doing?”

“Riiight. I’m just setting up a small target practice game for the kids for after they finish lunch.” Bumblebee placed another cube, then pointed to the color coded rings on the target. “The exercise is on accuracy, and I even have a fun point system with prizes planned for them! Ehhh I admit, Alex helped me figure out the prizes–but the rest is all yours truly!” He put a proud servo to his chest plate.

Starscream hesitated a moment as he scrutinized the rudimentary setup. “It’s a little… plain. No aerial targets? No projectiles for them to dodge? Tell me you are at least planning on throwing some incoming blaster fire. How would this teach anything?”

Bumblebee’s faceplate scrunched, then he ex-vented in frustration. “It isn’t meant to be so intense, just a bit of low stakes friendly competition to build some confidence. Not everything has to be some high stress ordeal to teach you something, thank you very much.” He dropped a cube to punctuate his statement, then knelt down to adjust it with a small grumble. “These kids already have plenty experience with that scrap if you ask me.”

“Hm…I suppose.” Wait, no, he couldn’t let the conversation lull out like that with only some passive agreement! He shifted his expression back into a comfortable smirk and prodded at the bug. “Are you certain that you are not simply too soft-sparked to allow them proper training? For Primus sake, a couple pebbles tossed their way wouldn’t permanently damage them. If you truly have confidence in their ability, you wouldn’t underestimate their threshold for punishment.”

Bumblebee tossed his servos in the air in some note of defeat. “Fine! I MIGHT add something for them to dodge. Like…water balloons! Ohoh now THAT would be perfect!” He bounced in place a moment before remembering where the objects he sought were located. “Wait here, I’ll be right back.”

The bug dashed off towards the humans for their assistance in the matter. He had taken that criticism surprisingly well. Perhaps Dorothy had talked to him about that patience slag or something. Starscream wasn’t sure if he was entirely enthused about that prospect or not. It was strange having the bug agree to some degree instead of turning to accuse him of some sort of scheme against them.

Starscream began tapping his ped in an effort to cement its presence below him as those images came into view again. Bumblebee was taking too long. What was it that he was even looking for with such urgency? Rocks would work just as well as whatever it was he was insisting upon. Why did it matter so much? The kids needed to be prepared for more than ridiculous little scoreboards anyway. Why had Starscream even initially agreed to that scrap?! None of them knew what was approaching, and they wouldn’t believe him if he warned them. Or…WAS it even something to worry about…?

“Hope ya didn’t miss me too much.” Bumblebee suddenly arrived and tossed a sack of flimsy elastics in his direction, of which Starscream instinctively caught with ease.

“What is this?” He inquired with a hint of disgust as he took one of the miniscule, assumed balloons from its packaging.

“They’re the water balloons, and since you wanted there to be projectiles so bad, YOU can fill ‘em up for me.” The scout strutted over to his ridiculous stacks of hay to continue his work with a smirk.

“Uugh…” Starscream groaned as he rolled his optics. “This–” He shook the elastics– “was not MY decision. You really only fill this scrap with water? How droll.”

“Yup! There’s a spigot right over there.” The bug gestured a couple yards from Starscream’s ped. “I suggest you get to filling those things because it’s gonna take ya quite a while. Trust me. It’s more difficult than you might think to deal with those things.”

Starscream scoffed and knelt down beside the spigot and carefully examined the fragile, sack-like elastics. “Don’t be dramatic, Bumblebee. I sincerely doubt this pathetic thing could possibly pose such a challenge.”

“Uuuhuh. I warned ya.”

Starscream glared at him suspiciously. Did he sabotage these things somehow?

He adjusted the balloon to the spigot and slowly began to crank the tiny, human sized wheel. If anything, it was absurdly precise and tedious. Then, the elastic abruptly detached itself and catapulted into the mud that resulted from the loose water.

Bumblebee laughed. “See? Not so easy is it?”

“Oh spare me the “I told you so”, and focus on setting your stupid excuse for targets over there.” He carefully attempted to pull open the elastic to fill it again, but it only tore into a useless mess. Whatever. He’d get a different one. This wasn’t so hard. Besides, such meticulous work was a perfect task to keep his own focus tethered to this ridiculous moment.

“Excuse me, my targets are resourceful and awesome.” Bumblebee proclaimed as he gestured to one of the stacks.

“Such strong words.” Starscream crooned. “Insecure about your lackluster little set up, are you?”

“Pff–” The scout scoffed with an indignant toss of a servo at the idea– “Hah, no! What would I have to be insecure about? That’s ridiculous. This idea is perfect and they are going to love it.” There was a moment of pause as he retrieved another cube and continuously readjusted their arrangement. “Right? Yeah. I know good target practice! You’re just a hater, as the kids say.”

Starscream snickered at the bug's antics, but growled as one of the balloons burst from merely being placed inside the bucket. These things were so weak. Why they were better than his rock suggestion was beyond him. “I will gladly be your ever loyal hater, Autobot.” He flicked his wings up tauntingly with a momentary glance back at Bumblebee.

He rolled his optics. “Gee, thanks. I’m flattered.”

“You should be.”

A more comfortable lapse in conversation fell between them as Starscream focused on the rhythm he’d gotten filling the silly little balloons. A couple of those birds were communicating in passing above them in some strange string of music. Bumblebee’s constant pacing was quite amusing to track, paired with his occasional muttering. Even taking an occasional moment to parse out what the Maltos were up to in the background proved to be a productive use of his attention.

Eventually, he topped off a fifth bucket filled with water balloons ready to be tossed at those unsuspecting Terrans. They had finished their fueling session and made their way towards Bumblebee’s target practice. He relayed the objective, displayed the parameters, and informed them that Starscream was going to be the one giving them an extra bit of a challenge to the exercise. Perfect.

Twitch was the first up. She watched him and waved a taunting servo in his direction. Starscream carefully selected one of the balloons, retracted his servo into his arm, and launched the projectile her way. She dodged it with ease. Impressive. The longer her turn went on, the more difficult he made his watery onslaught as he rapidly threw them her way and predicted her pattern of flight. Soon enough, She failed to dodge three of the shots, which put an end to her streak.

“Aw scrap! I totally thought I dodged that one!”

“You nearly would have, except you failed to account for your opponent changing their own trajectory at the last second.”

“You did great though! Never missed a target.” Bumblebee encouraged as he reset the cubes.

Hashtag was up next. She readied herself on her wheels after a quick scan of her surroundings, and the next round began on the scout’s signal. She had many close calls and missed one of her shots because of it. Yet halfway through, a new air of determination came to her faceplate, and her movements became more fluid and precise. Alas, once again, as Starscream allowed himself to aim with unyielding precision, she lost the rest of her strikes. The last hitting her square in the faceplate. It was good they weren’t rocks after all, he supposed.

“Augh! Dang it, I was so on a roll that time!”

“Hah! Perhaps, but if you want to keep your stamina for long term battles, you have to get consistent.”

“Hey, I’m supposed to be the teacher here Screamer!” Bumblebee complained plainly as he replaced the targets.

Starscream put a servo to his hip and arched an optical ridge. “Then by all means scout. Add some wisdom to the eager young sparks, why don’t you?”

“I will! Uh…well, Hashtag. You did great with utilizing your environment, but you could also try and transform your wheels away for quick stops to increase your sharp agility options when changing directions.” Surprisingly insightful.

“Ooooh, gotcha!”

Then came Nightshade. They were the first to actually retaliate against the incoming balloons with their own projectiles. They took a far more methodical approach by hiding behind the stacks of hay, and requiring Starscream to maneuver overhead on his thrusters to follow them. By the end, they got hit twice, and the third shot at the same time they had hit the last target in their alt mode. They landed, transformed back and shook off the water with a smile.

“Well that was invigorating! It is unfortunate I could not avoid that pesky balloon at the end.”

“There’s a moment of lag when you are readying that final attack of yours with your alt mode’s wings. It leaves you far too exposed if you aren’t careful about it.”

“Yes–” Bumblebee interjected with a raised digit– “that’s true, but using your offensive tools defensively is very smart Nightshade! And I’m sure we could work on that move of yours in the future by taking inspiration from Twitch and how she can flip and fire at the same time! We can always learn from each other's tactics while on the sidelines.”

The game continued through the rest of the Maltos kids. They were all actually quite impressive with their varying styles. Although he had to scold Jawbreaker regarding the validity of eating the water balloon as a response to an incoming attack. That wouldn’t save him against real blaster fire or a missile. The fact that the dinobot had argued simply that it wasn’t, only proved that this method of training wouldn’t teach them the true seriousness surrounding the lesson. Even so, Starscream could admit that this version of events was far more fun. The atmosphere was calm. There was no looming threat of a trip to the medbay. Only the prospect of reward for doing one’s best.

It all seemed very juvenile. All the same, he enjoyed toying with Bumblebee, giving the Terrans little notes of advice, and watching them light up at the silly prizes they won. Hashtag even asked to run the course a second time to improve her score. Starscream revelled in the fact that he could see her little bouts of improvement. As well as the fact that she listened to any critics he gave her. Starscream even showed Nightshade and Twitch how to rapidly change direction in the air. A tactic of which a couple of the other Terrans attempted to mimic from the ground.

Such moments of peace and comradery were fleeting. Yet still something he was determined to cherish in these strange times. He’d never spout such nonsense aloud, mind you. But it was true all the same.

He could focus on detailing aerial maneuvers, and sharp shooting a moving target. Focus on the decisive wind through his wings, and the rocks beneath his peds. The vast sky overhead, with a single, small moon barely visible in the blue sky.

He didn’t want to think about anything else.

#starscream #tfe starscream #tfe bumblebee #dr meridian #twitch malto #hashtag malto #nightshade malto #transformers #tfe fanfic #tf fanfic #hallucinations plus flashbacks plus eldritch knowledge is not a good mix evidently #denial for days #bit of dissociation still #tfw when reality is an illusion the universe is a hologram buy gold bye-#nothing sus ever happens actually #nothing sketch is going on here #only wholesomeness :)#transformers fanart

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shuastar · 5 months ago

Text

Between Softened Silks and Gilded Thrones (KMG) - pt.1

masterlist; next

pairing: mingyu x reader

warnings: KIM MINGYU HIMSELF IS A WARNING; none for this chapter except for sexual jokes (only one!), death threats (um two?), childhood memories </3

a/n: FINNALY OMG when i tell you im so excited for this, i'm SO excited for this. if you think wonwoo's was hot...mingyu .... he's just so hot i can't. i'm like creaming (hahaha lol /jk!!) just kidding!!! anyways, have fun reading, and always, lmk if u wanna be on the taglist for this whoresssss (very kindly)!

y/n

“Students, please rise for the walking of our flags.”

The dining hall, previously messily noisy with chatter and laughter, diluted to a quiet hush, a thick blanket that fell over the students, dressed sharply in their uniform. The back-most doors – double and oak – slammed open on its golden hinges, revealing five boys, the first and last holding the school’s standards and the middle three bearing the flags of Obella, Xiawei, and Estoran, arms straining under the weight of the heavy flags.

From some corner of the dining hall, the music restarted in a mellow sort of canon that echoed through the ears of everyone sitting on the hard wooden chairs, pushed close to both the tables and each other.

The Dean of Schools smiled, proudly watching as the three flag-bearers turned to their respective flag slots, letting the pole drop down into its holding. The BANG!s rang out in the quiet hall, effectively stopping the music.

The five boys turned towards the rest of the students, the five now raised higher on the steps to the speaking platform.

The Dean opened his arms. “Greetings! And welcome to another semester in the National Academy!” his voice boomed through.

There was a slight beat of silence before students – after glancing around at others – broke out into hesitant applause that slowly built itself into a roaring ovation, including whoops and cheers.

The Dean nodded approvingly. “Allow me the pleasure of introducing to you, your five Academy Standards of this semester,” he continued, “Please save applause till the end.”

He was handed a tightly-bound scroll from another student, standing just off at the edge of the speaking platform. He cleared his throat before starting.

“With the Academy’s golden standards, Jeong Jaehyun of Obella and Lee Seokmin of Obella!” The Dean let the scatterings of whoops and yells from the Obellan boys table die down before continuing. “With the National colors, Kim Mingyu for Obella,” here, the Dean was required to pause his announcement of the boys because the most ear-splitting, gut-wrenching screams and applause erupted from almost every corner of the dining hall, threatening to split the Dean’s smile wider, “Xu Minghao for Xiawei, and Kunpimook BamBam for Estoran!”

This time, there was no pause before the volcanic standing ovation the five boys received, all five of them almost keening at the attention (some more than others).

You had the utter displeasure of selecting a seat too close to the manic Obellan girls who seemed to just about scream their lungs out when Mingyu turned to give them a fleeting glance. You grimaced as the screams felt ear-splitting.

“He’s been a standard for the past two semesters. You would think they would get tired of screaming,” you sigh, slumping in your seat, dipping your spoon in and out of your congee that lay slowly turning colder by the minute.

“Well, he is a prince,” Yuqi states, looking possibly even more bored than you as she slowly brought a leaf of bok choy up to her lips to nibble on discreetly as the Dean tried to hush the (manic) student body.

“Still doesn’t make sense why they treat him like some world famous star,” you huffed. “He’s not even that cute.”

Yuqi laughed at that, brushing her hair out of her face to look at you properly. Dimly, you heard the Dean announce for everyone to start eating.

“You really don’t think he’s that cute?” Yuqi asked.

“Of course not. Why? You think he’s cute? What strange taste in men you have, Qiqi.”

Yuqi rolled her eyes, moving back to her plate of food, only to stifle a loud laugh when Mingyu pulled out a chair right behind you, sitting down in between his group of rowdy friends, slinging an arm around his new girl blessed enough to be able to run her hands down his chest for this week.

You couldn’t help but let out a fake gag, face twisting into an expression your mother would kill you for.

“Absolutely disgusting. And he still calls himself a prince,” you muttered, shaking your head, opting instead to turn back to a less grotesque image: your cold mushroom congee, char siu, and steamed bok choy.

From next to you, you heard Yuqi laugh, choking slightly on her water.

“Stop laughing! You know I’m right. He never takes anything seriously and just goes off flirting with half of the Academy–”

You never got the opportunity to finish your sentence because at that moment, someone tapped your shoulder from the back, making you turn away from your untouched plate of food.

“Wha-”

“-Is your default being miserable and hard to deal with?”

You blinked, staring dead straight at Kim Mingyu who ever-so-slightly loomed over you even when sitting. When you realized what he had said, your lips curled up into the faintest mocking smile.

“Oh, I’m sorry, did what I said hurt your little royal pride?” You taunt, huffing before turning back to your table.

Mingyu grabbed your shoulder, forcefully turning you back to face him. You shoved his hand off of your blazer, eyes narrowing as he stared at you, now with the company of his friends.

“What is your problem,” you snapped.

“Y/n–” Yuqi started, only to be interrupted by Mingyu’s huff of taunting laughter.

“What is my problem? What the hell is your problem? It’s the first day of the semester and–”

“-And you’re already out here pretending to be better than us–”

“-I can’t ever recall what I did for you to–”

“-What you did? How about what your country did? Can you recall that, your highness?”

There was a hush that fell over your vicinity as you stood up, chair streaking across the floor. Mingyu looked like he wanted to stay something, except at Yuqi’s sharp look, you saw him slowly close his mouth and turn back to his table. As you walked out of the dining hall, back to its lively atmosphere, you glanced back, unexpectedly meeting Mingyu’s eyes as Seokmin, from his seat next to the flag bearer, whispered something in his ear that made him frown, muttering something back.

“He’s just immature,” Yuqi mumbled as she turned to make you face forward, pushing you out of the dining hall and into the cold hallway.

***********************************************************************

The library was usually not this loud at five in the afternoon.

Which is why you prided yourself when you arduously climbed the winding staircase in the law corner of the Greane Library to haul you and your miserably weighted bag up to the third floor study corners overlooking the Field. The third floor was notoriously known for being completely empty, save for the time when students on the War and Diplomatics track would come up to skim through the Diplomatic textbooks shoved to a corner of the bookshelves separating the study corners.

You passed three study corners, all empty, to reach yours (well, not technically), the sunlight streaming through the stained glass windows, illuminating every ridge of the antique oak desk. Except-

“-Jihoon?” Your surprised voice echoed through the empty third floor, bouncing off of the old, dusty, cloth-backed books that were falling apart at the spines. Your bag thudded heavily on one of the chairs.

A mop of black hair looked up, strands sticking up in the air. Dark circles crowned under tired eyes, drooping already as the warmth of the spring afternoon sun shone in, refracting colors. A hand rose in a bleak and heavy greeting before his forehead met the opened pages of his textbook with a loud THUMP, followed by a muffled groan.

“I hate this place,” Jihoon complained, head rising. You had to force yourself to not laugh when he rose with a big red mark on the middle of his forehead.

You pulled out a chair, soft against the carpeted floors, sitting down in front of him. “Finals? I thought Strategy and Politics only had an open discussion?” You opened your bag, taking out an ink well, fountain pen, textbook, and notebook. Your lamp clicked on automatically when you waved your hand in front of it.

Jihoon nodded, closing his textbook with a massive sigh, sliding down his chair. “A three hour open discussion and a war strategy simulation on the Great War.”

“What Great War? Isn't there like five?”

“Exactly.”

Your hand stilled as you dipped your pen inside the ink pot. “So you don’t know what you’re going to get?”

“It seems so.”

You couldn’t help but laugh at how Jihoon’s face fell at every word he uttered, frown lines wrinkling his forehead and the space between his eyebrows. Although he was your year, you couldn’t help but feel bad for him as he picked up his carved-down pencil again, scribbling tired words onto his fat notebook.

“You’re the smartest person I know. You’ll do amazing. I know it,” you consoled, capping your pen to instead dig through your bag. Your eyes brightened when your fingers brushed a cardboard box, decorated with a ribbon. With a flourish, you pulled the box out onto the table. Hesitant hands slowly pushed the box towards Jihoon’s drooping head.

He looked up, a questioning sort of sound escaping his lips.

You smiled, your hair tumbling over your shoulders. “A present.”

“For?”

“You. Consider it an effort of my toils.”

“Toils? You?” Jihoon let out a small laugh, but he pulled the box towards him when you teasingly reached for it back. He shook his head with a rare grin. “No need to get defensive. I’m just saying. A princess? Toiling?”

“Hey!” You huff, “I bought this out of the kindness of my heart when I went home yesterday.”

Jihoon visibly perked up at those words, unwrapping the box with great care. The smile on his face grew when he lifted a box, opening it to find a pair of topaz cufflinks, delicate and studded with the small gem in a small circle around the main design. He gently placed the velvet box back inside the wrapping with a small sigh.

“You didn’t have to, y/n,” he mumbled and you couldn’t help but giggle when he tried to cover his blushing ears.

“It was nothing. Plus, don’t you remember when you brought me those candies from Obella? I think those were one of the best things I’ve ever eaten,” you laughed, returning to your schoolwork.

Jihoon nodded pensively, tucking the present into his backpack. “Those are really good,” he hummed, then almost as an afterthought, he added, “They’re Mingyu’s favorites actu–” and then he suddenly stopped, lips pursed when he realized how your expression had suddenly fallen. He cleared his throat with a sheepish look. “Sorry.”

You waved him away with a huff, dipping your pen back into the ink pot. “Don’t be like that. I’m not going to combust if I hear his name.”

Jihoon let out a snort of laughter. “Why do you hate him anyways? He’s a year younger than us.”

“I don’t hate him,” was your automatic response.

“Liar.”

“I’m serious.”

“Okay fine. Why do you severely dislike him?”

You gave Jihoon a deadpan look. “He’s annoying.”

“That’s all?”

“And excessively flirty, seriously stupid, loud, obnoxious, happy-go-lucky, and the prince.” You said everything so matter-of-factly that Jihoon seemed to just stare at you, processing your words.

After a beat of silence, “Isn’t happy-go-lucky something that’s good?”

You rolled your eyes. “Shut up. You know what I mean.”

Jihoon shrugged, closing his notebooks and sliding them into his bag. “Why does him being the prince have to do with anything?”

You clicked your tongue. “We’ve been over this. He’s the prince of Obella. I’m the princess of Xiawei.”

“I’m Obellan.” Jihoon gave you an eyebrow raise that you refused to acknowledge.

“You’re different. You’re not annoying like everyone else,” you huffed, crossing your arms.

Jihoon laughed, poking your puffed cheek with a quick finger, dancing out of your reach when you went to slap his hand away. “Whatever you say.” He stood up, slinging his bag over his shoulder and snatching his blazer from the seat next to him. “I’ll catch you later, yeah?”

You smiled as you nodded. “See you later!”

You returned Jihoon’s quick wave as he disappeared through the tombs of the Greane Library, messy black hair waving gently with every step.

***********************************************************************

“I never imagined our first visit to be under these…” your brother trails off as the carriage wheels rumble over the cobblestone road of the Capital, “conditions.”

You scoff at his words, fingers brushing away the strands of hair that had fallen into your paled face. You pluck off a stray hair from your red ruqun – a delicate silk hand-woven from the imperial tailor shop of Xiawei. “Neither did I.”

When the carriage slows, the hushed chatter of voices leaking into the curtained windows of your gilded cage, your brows furrow, taking a gloved hand to gently peel away the velvet curtains. Your eyes squint as the blazing Obella sun, so different in its intensity than the warm comforting rays of the gardens of Xiawei. Even from within the guarded carriage, you can hear the whispers and the sharp glares of the crowd that is gathering around your slowing carriage. The horses whine as the driver clicks his tongue, trying to calm them as he waits for the palace guards to open the blasted iron gates.

Perhaps your face was slowly turning sour by the passing minute or perhaps you looked too ill-disposed because in the next second, Minghao pulls the curtain from your tight fingers, a loud scratch as he pulled the curtain shut and all evidence of Obella’s harsh rays disappeared with the crowded whispers and looks.

You blink. “That was unnecessary,” you state, leaning back into your seat as the carriage lurches again, starting forward slower than before but still moving into what you and your younger brother presume is the castle – no, palace.

Minghao just shrugs from his seat across you, face arranged into an expression, you guess, is in between grudging obedience and lamentable loathing. His posture is impossibly straight – almost rigid – against the cushioned seats of the carriage as you roll across the raised platform and into the grounds of the royal palace.

You rattle along with the carriage as it makes its way around the loop of the palace courtyard, stopping haltingly with a neigh of the horses.

“Are we–”

Minghao is effectively cut off by a sharp rap, followed by three more, against the doors of the carriage.

You suck in a breath as you peek out the window, only to see the magnificent towering Obellan palace, gilded in gold and spires decorated with amethysts so big you could use them as formidable paper weights.

“We have arrived,” comes the muffled voice of the driver, drawling and so obviously bored with his decided task.

When your younger brother raises his brow in question, you nod, letting him stand up, hunched, as he opens the door.

The first sight you’re blinded with is people. Just row after row of people, all dressed in what Obella supposedly thinks is a great display of their wealth (or power, who knows). And in the very middle, three people – lined in a small triangle and glinting with what seems to be gold-hinted armor.

Minghao steps off of the carriage, offering his hand up to you with a smile. You feel your expression soften at the sight of your brother, so starkly different amongst these Obellan nobles, forced to accompany you in this diplomatic envoy to the very country that had left yours in tatters.

The only tell – rare, usually, to see from him – of his anxiety in this foreign place is his outstretched hand, pale at the fingertips and shaking as he awaits yours.

Your golden fengguan, chosen by Yuqi to accompany your gold-embroidered ruqun, feels so much heavier at that moment.

Your fingertips meet the palm of Minghao’s hand and you duck, stepping out of the carriage and down the steps until your hanfu touches the cobblestone ground. Immediately, the whispers start again and Minghao visibly stiffens next to you, his arm robotically lowering when you tap his hand.

The two of you stand, side by side, shoulder to shoulder, as the carriage whisks away behind you, leaving you bare to the nobles standing before you. A quick glance to your brother threatens to pull a laugh from your lips.

His brows are furrowed in the same way as they would be if he was studying for his finals in the Academy and his bottom lip is pulled between his teeth.

“Nervous?” you tease, mouth barely moving when you see the three-person welcome group start walking towards you when they realize you have no intention of moving.

Minghao imperceptibly shakes his head. “No,” then, after a pause in a much more worried voice, “Should I be?”

You smile, but you know it doesn’t reach your eyes. “Depends. Do you think we’ll be paraded around like war spoils or treated like delegated guests?” The question is infinitely rhetorical and it stills Minghao into a silence that is tenser than his usual presence.

The jarring footsteps grow louder against the cobblestones and you watch as the three stop in front of you and your brother.

Closer now, you can see all three of their faces, glowing, almost, in the afternoon sun. And if this was any other time, you would have laughed, maybe run into two of their arms with the brightest smile on your face. But this situation seems too tilted to their side for you to feel any other emotion but betrayal. Pure flaming betrayal that simmers deep in your stomach.

“Prince Minghao.” Kim Mingyu’s voice is echo-y across the courtyard and hushes any other voice down to silence. Then, he turns his heavy gaze to you, pinning you down where you stood.

Mingyu seems to be, in every way, shape, and form, the same from his days in the Academy. Perhaps taller, more muscular, more handsome in the regal (disgusting) way (though you refuse to admit that fact). His gold-plated armor decorating his well-built figure glitters like a second sun, refracting and reflecting the golden rays. His shoulders are wide-set and he stands tall, proud, with his dark hair falling gently in his face, swaying with the currents of the light breeze that carries the scent of Obella’s spring flowers into your nose.

“Princess Y/n.” His smirk is as sharp as the blade at his side, your name rolling off his tongue in a teasing jab. His voice is smooth, polished, and entirely too smug for your taste – like violently rubbing salt into a throbbing wound that has yet to scab over.

Bitterly, you reply, “Prince,” and that one word alone leaves a sour aftertaste in your mouth. If your mother could see you right now, she would be rolling in her grave. The princess of Xiawei, greeting someone else in the place as an envoy-hostage.

Minghao stutters in his bow when you don’t make any move to bend.

Mingyu gives you the faintest tilt of the head, brows rising.

“A little late, aren’t we?” Mingyu hums, arms crossing and causing the sunlight to bounce off of his royal crest and directly into your face. He grins at your misfortune and you’re almost one hundred percent sure he did that on purpose.

“Yes, well,” your lips turn down, matching his head tilt, “even a princess can’t control carriage traffic, it seems.”

Your words are clipped and cold. From behind Mingyu, Jihoon and Jeonghan, both classmates of yours at the Academy, stand awkwardly as Mingyu looks you up and down in what you assume is ill-fated interests. Both of them refuse to meet your eyes as if they know the real reason why you and your brother have been dragged here.

“Your highness,” Minghao suddenly interrupts, extending an arm towards the glittering palace. His face is arranged into a haunting expression. “Shall we go inside? My sister doesn’t fare well after long carriage rides.”

Almost as if his words are magic, you suddenly feel lightheaded, eyelids fluttering as you try to steady yourself. If anyone notices, they don’t comment.

Mingyu gives a sideways glance at Jihoon, who nods curtly, before grinning, turning on his heels. “To the palace, then. I wouldn’t want our precious princess to go on bed rest her first day in Obella!” He gives you a cheeky little wink that makes you want to poke his eyeball out of its socket. But you refrain. If not for political decency and societal manners, then for your brother’s reputation.

With gritted teeth, you reply with a curt, “Lead the way.”

The walk to the entrance is deathly silent, save for Mingyu’s occasional hums of a random song. Somehow, the two of you ended up walking side by side, making you sandwiched between Minghao on the right and Mingyu on the left, with Jihoon and Jeonghan trailing behind, furiously whispering with each other (you pretend you don’t hear them).

When you reach the giant double oak doors, the numerous guards littering the entranceway suddenly all let out a war-cry-esque yell of some kind before they salute Mingyu in what you assume is Obella’s salute. You can’t help but let your face wrinkle in displeasure.

Mingyu salutes back and in that moment, a small part of you wonders how the prince – who used to be the lollygagging, effortlessly smart, playboy extraordinaire of the Academy – had transformed into the Crown Prince (apparently, you weren’t too sure), that you see in front of you, smiling warmly and bowing to the palace workers who line the entrance room of the palace.

But that thought quickly vanishes when Mingyu leads you into the entrance hall because gilded statues, so great in size you know the workers had to haul them up from the antique dusty storage room, line the path into what you assume is the actual royal palace.

When you sneak a glance to Minghao, he is already in awe, glancing around the chandelier-bejeweled ceilings and carpeted path, eyes wide and mouth just slightly open.

He leans into you before whispering, “Do they always try this hard?”

A puff of laughter escapes your lips that has Mingyu’s head careening towards you and your brother in apt curiosity.

“Do you remember the Obellan kids from the Academy? Of course, always.”

You laugh again at Minghao’s awe-stricken nod, craning his head to try to see over the top of the winding staircases.

Mingyu clears his throat but makes no move to stop your conversation, instead leading the way further into the palace. You chew on your bottom lip as you walk through the halls, paraded down another set of gilded statues. You can’t help but notice how Mingyu’s shoulders shift determinedly under his armor, broad and strong even under the dim chandelier lighting of the palace. That thought returns to you again, instead now you wonder how his presence changed into such a commanding aura suited for such a powerful Crown Prince.

Though you would never admit out loud, of course.

“Are you impressed?” comes Mingyu’s sudden voice. He glances down at you with a grin dancing on his lips. For a split second, you think he’s asking about himself.

You tilt your head. “Are you fishing for compliments?”

Mingyu laughs. “So harsh.”

“Someone needs to tone you down,” you mutter, not even missing a beat. From beside you, Minghao gives you a warning look that you refuse to acknowledge.

Mingyu sighs, as if he’s content with your answer. “I missed you,” he hums. Your brows draw together and Minghao’s head snaps towards him. Then, almost as if Mingyu finally realized what he said, his eyes blow wide open, an awkward laugh escaping his lips.

“God, not like that!” he defends, hands rising as he suddenly completely stops in the middle of a hallway. Behind the three of you, Jihoon and Jeonghan also slow, blinking confusedly at the two of you. Mingyu runs a hand through his hair while his head shakes furiously from side to side. “No, don’t ever take it like that! I just meant that I missed the Academy days! You know? When we used to– god, not like that – when we would fight and stuff! But not in like a–”

You have to basically hold your breath to prevent your laughs from spilling out of your mouth, shoulders shaking as you try to remain composed. You hold your hand out, fingers splayed. “--I never took you for such an experimental person, your highness,” you say, managing the sentence without any laughter leaking out of your traitorous mouth.

You hear Jihoon and Jeonghan (as well as Minghao) stifle their laughter at your words.

Mingyu’s face is now aghast, his ears a blushing red as he goes to defend himself again.

But you cleanly cut him off, “If you liked me when we were in the Academy, you could’ve just said.” You offer a mocking little smirk that sets Mingyu’s jaw out of its socket and Jeonghan almost dying in laughter. And you swear that if it weren’t for the situation, it would have felt like you were back in the Academy, glorifying yourself in the midst of Mingyu’s embarrassment.

“It’s not like that!” Mingyu stutters, almost stumbling over his own feet when you turn away from him and walk down the hall. He grabs your upper arm – which earns him a well-timed glare from both you and your brother – before he walks in stride with you again, trying to rearrange his hair so that it lays neat. “I swear, Y/n,” he starts, and you try to ignore how easily your name flows from his tongue, as his eyes widen almost puppy-like and he shakes his head again, walking sideways, “it’s not like that! I just– it just came out wrong! Completely wrong! I’ve never liked you – not in the Academy, not after we graduated, and definitely not now. And I’ll–”

As he continues with his monologue of how much he apparently doesn’t like you, you can feel your irritation bubble in your stomach.

“--Never! Never ever! Okay?”

“I’m so glad you think of me as so unattractive you’ve never ever liked me,” you snap, jaw clenched as you try to walk faster down the hall.

Mingyu just stupidly nods, sighing in what you think is relief, almost. If he hears your scoff of disbelief, he makes no note of it.

Beside you, Minghao gapes at the two of you, eyes wide.

“What?” you snap.

He shakes his head. “No, no. I just–” he clears his throat, “Never knew you guys were this … close?”

You make a face, disgust clearly, or you hope, written all over it. “Close? Us? If anything, the only thing being here reminds me of is how much I detested that man when I was younger.”

Mingyu scoffs from next to you, but still opens the door into the private royal wing, letting you enter first (which you do, with the slightest upwards tilt of your chin).

“I was so likeable in the Academy!”

You roll your eyes, mouth curving into a displeasured frown. “Get over yourself. God, how is it that you haven’t changed at all?”

“I can say the same thing to you.”

“Shut up.”

“Is that all you have?”

“What, you want me to insult you?”

“Well, I don’t know, can you? Because all I know is that the only insult you can come up with is–”

“--Can we please save this bitch fight for later?”

You find yourself on the other side of Jihoon’s outstretched arm, with Mingyu across from you. Jihoon looks at you pleadingly in what you assume is code for back off please! So, you grudgingly step away, fixing your curled hair, huffing.

Jihoon gives a pointed look to Mingyu who pouts in response, before turning back to you.

“Your highnesses,” he starts, bowing curtly to both you and Minghao. “His majesty originally wanted to dine with the two of you, but due to some other matters, this plan has changed. He requests for His Highness to accompany me and Mage Yoon to the strategy room where his majesty will meet us. He has also told me to convey his wishes that your highness, Princess Y/n, be accompanied to her room by Prince Mingyu. There is a welcoming ball tomorrow night and his majesty has also requested your presence there, your highness.”

Jihoon finishes with a deep-set bow. From over his lowered shoulder, you see, with something between elation and horrification, Mingyu’s thunder-shaken face, such sharp handsome features stuck in a weird expression.

Minghao suddenly steps up, touch light on your arm. “Sir, I would prefer it if my sister and I didn't separate.”

Jihoon glances at Jeonghan, who shrugs, before turning back to the two of you. “I apologize, your highness,” he murmurs, eyes flitting over to you. “I have been ordered by the King.”

Minghao looks like he’s going to argue back so you intervene, patting your younger brother’s back. You gently shake your head.

“No, it’s fine. I’ll do as the King wants,” you oblige, earning a worn, but thankful, smile from Jihoon.

“Thank you, your highness.” Jihoon gives you one more bow before ushering Minghao (who looks completely unaccustomed to people ordering him around) towards the strategy room with Jeonghan, who gives you one last look before following.

It leaves you, awkwardly standing, with Mingyu, who had, throughout the conversation, busied himself with gazing out the window like some love-stricken fool. He makes no move to turn back to you, which leaves you standing in the middle of the hall with aching legs because your hanfu is not meant for long-distance travel on foot.

As you stare at his back and he stares out the window, oblivious (or you hope) to the three who had left, you can’t help but feel relieved that you are placed under Mingyu’s care. At least he was a recognizable face, even if the only memories of him you can think to recall involve you yelling at him or vice versa.

Finally, Mingyu turns back to you, clearing his throat. His hands are clasped behind his back, trying to appear composed though the faint blush decorating the tips of his ears gives him away. “Well, Princess,” he says with exaggerated formality as he steps up to you.

It’s unfair, really, how the sun perfectly halos around his form so that it forces you to think that you’re laying eyes upon one of heaven’s very own angels. His tan skin – so much more golden than your days in the Academy – glows, perfectly supplementing his golden armor (or perhaps his armor was supplementing his skin?), and his eyes are warm and teasing. When he stops right in front of you, it forces you to tilt your head up to look him in the eyes.

When had he gotten this tall?

“Shall we? It seems fate has deemed us a perfect match for tonight.” His voice is light and teasing, almost purposefully airy so that it can slither through your cracks and make you laugh.

You raise a brow, discreetly shuffling backwards to give yourself more space between his Mingyu-ness and your personal bubble. “More like the king has,” you mutter, trying to maintain your distaste.

Mingyu just grins, offering his arm to you that you refuse. He shakes his head in faux disappointment, instead gesturing to you to follow. “Either way. I’m honored to be finally of service,” he hums. “Shall I carry you to your room or sing you a lullaby?”

Your face drops into a look of utter disdain as you scoff. Sadly, your reaction seems to only fuel his amusement. “You and I both know you can’t sing for shit.”

Mingyu gasps in horror. “I can sing!” He then slows his steps until he’s walking side by side to you. He leans down, face in yours. You will yourself to not pull back and instead keep walking (even though you can feel yourself heat up).

“You’ve just never heard me actually sing,” Mingyu argues.

You shrug. “Whatever helps you sleep at night.”

Mingyu mutters something unintelligible and you’re not too interested in what he has to say, so you let him be, rolling your eyes when you see him pout.

“You’re such a child,” you sigh, turning the corner with him.

Glancing out the nearest window, you realize the sun has already half-set, basking your part of the palace in the prettiest shade of colors you’ve seen in the last couple months.

It seems that Mingyu has seen your staring because he clears his throat, pulling you out of your thoughts. When you turn to look at him with a sheepish look, he’s much closer than you thought he would be, causing you to almost crash into his chest, limbs stiff and pulled towards your own chest. Mingyu’s large hands – warm – steady you, firm around your shoulders.

“Woah,” he mumbles, “you okay?”

His words act as cold water sprayed over you and you blink, jolting, almost as you scramble back, dusting off your ruqun and straightening your fengguan from where it sits on the top of your head.

“Let’s go,” you sniff, turning towards a random end of a hallway.

Mingyu stops you, hand around your arm. “Dumbass, it’s the other way.”

You’re too busy trying to compose yourself that you just turn with his order, the insult not even registering properly.

You follow Mingyu down the hall, cheeks dusted with a light pink, and you try not to be too embarrassed as you hold your head up. As the two of you continue down the hall, the silence that follows is weirdly comfortable and comforting. You can feel yourself relaxing as Mingyu hums a soft melody, glancing back every so often at you. You take the intervals of a forward-facing Mingyu to study him. It’s been at least ten years (maybe less) since the Academy. You graduated before he did and then right away entered Xiawei’s Courts, ultimately pulling you away from any Academy holdings or other events. If you are honest with yourself, you thought seeing Mingyu again wouldn’t be as conflicting as it seems to be right now. And as you stare at his broad shoulders and thick arms, you feel that there is an odd familiarity in the Crown Prince’s presence that you convince yourself you are better off not acknowledging.

As you near what you presume is your chambers, there are guards loitering around the hallway, trying to play off what is so obviously an Obellan envoy-hostage game as some kind of “guards on break inside the palace.” This time, when the soldiers salute Mingyu, he looks a smidge uncomfortable, saluting back with less enthusiasm.

“Knights?” you ask, voice light but you know it has an edge of bitterness to it. “Just for a helpless princess like me? If I knew better, I’d think you were holding me hostage or something,” you hum. You keep on walking, trying to gauge Mingyu’s reaction from your peripheral vision as you continue down the hall.

Mingyu clears his throat, glancing towards one of the knights leaning against the wall. “It doesn’t hurt to have precautions,” he mumbles, and it surprises you to realize how little argument he has with your claims. And then you realize what he means.

Of course they were holding you hostage. It’s not like you had expected anything other than this treatment when you were coming from Xiawei. But still, hearing it from the very person who had called upon you under the guise of diplomacy bubbled a pot of frustration, bitterness, and betrayal in your stomach.

He stops in front of a set of double oak doors, handles a gleaming golden and manned by two guards who seem like they want to be doing anything but guard a foreign princess overnight.

“Yuqi arrived before you did. She’s in her quarters next door,” Mingyu suddenly states, turning on his heels to face you.

You raise a brow. “That’s,” you pause, eyes darting to the door just a few steps down the hall, “good to hear. She came fast,” you mumble, and your expression softens into one of tiniest gratitude towards Mingyu.

Then, he snickers behind his hand covering his mouth. “That’s what I always say,” he chortles, laughing at his own joke like he just said the funniest thing to exist.

And immediately, whatever gratitude or relief you had from his words disappears like it wasn’t there to begin with. You scoff, loud, pushing him to the side to wrench the door open, your eyes rolling.

Mingyu stumbles to the side, laughter dying to be replaced with a mocking smirk. “What? Oh, right,” he clicks his tongue, “You wouldn’t know what that means. Princess Prim and Proper.”

Halfway into your room, you glance over your shoulder at him and you hope your glare is heavy enough to pierce through his horribly thick skull (though quite handsome now). “Oh,” you sigh, “go fuck yourself, Crown Prince,” you snap. Your words echo in the hallway and it seems as though Mingyu hadn’t been expecting those words because the last thing you see when you slam your door shut behind you is Mingyu’s shocked face, the smirk diluted down to a surprised twitch of his lips, as if he didn’t know you could curse.

You shake your head as you look around the room.

“Fucking asshole,” you mutter to yourself as your eyes adjust to the darkness of the room, the only light being the roaring fireplace on the other end of the room. Just because you hadn’t been with anyone like he had, all prancing around in his half-buttoned Academy uniform with his arm draped over a new girl every week like he needed a new prey to satiate his ever-growing hunger. The audacity still embedded into the stupid stupid Crown Prince almost makes you gag at the prospect of being stuck under his care for the god-knows-how-long period of time you’re caged in Obella as a hostage (oops, envoy!). For all you know, he might just leave you out to die – starve and dehydrate in the royal gardens or something. And when Jun visits you and Minghao like he said he would, your older brother is going to find you dead in some random side-alley of the palace.

God, the things you go through to–

Knock, knock.

You exhale sharply, dragging a tied hand over your face before turning towards the door. The last thing you want to see, or deal with, is him. Again! So soon! But when you heave open the heavy oak door, the figure standing in front of you makes you just about cry in joy.

All you’re awarded with is a familiar scent of vanilla, a wave of curly light brown, and a blur of dark silk before the door slams shut again.

“I hate you,” Yuqi hisses, gripping your arms as she stares into you. “Do you know what I had to endure in this ghastly place?”

Despite your exhaustion, you can’t help but bite back a loud laugh. “You already knew we were going to be sent up here.”

“Yes,” Yuqi groans, throwing her head back, “but while you rode in with Minghao, that doesn’t mean I was prepared to sit in a carriage with Zhong Chenle of all people, while he waxed poetic about the ‘delicate political and economic balance of this arrangement’ and gawked at all the passing noblewomen.” Yuqi throws her hands up, shaking her head in disgust that looked a little too real to be fake. “I thought about throwing myself out thrice.”

She has you almost choking in laughter, stepping aside to let her roam your room in relative peace. Yuqi gracefully takes on the silent offer, striding past you and frowning at the lavish Obellan style room before flopping dramatically onto the velvet divan, an arm draped over her eyes.

“Hey,” you hum, hands slapping down onto her shoulders, “you think you have it bad? Now I’m here and he’s here and I’m forced to breathe the same air as the Crown Prince of–”

“--Your nightmares? Horrors? Terrors?” Yuqi groans, hands going to rest on yours, shaking your arms as she turns around, facing you properly. Her eyes are wide and she lets out a laugh of disbelief. “It’s actually tragic!”

You roll your eyes, moving to pour yourself a cup of tea from the tray by the fireplace. “I wouldn’t go that far. He’s not horrible.”

Yuqi gasps, hands flying to cover her mouth. “This wretched place has already tainted you so,” she cries, hands slapping her knees.

You shoot her a dry look, sipping your tea. “I’ve been here for five hours, Qi.”

“Exactly! Long enough, apparently, to lose your sense of reason!” She shudders dramatically. “What’s going to be next? You’ll start saying he smells nice?”

Your face wrinkles into displeasure. “Ew no. He smells like sweat.”

Yuqi blanches, “You smelled him?”

“No!” You huff, “Of course that’s what he’s going to smell like, god, I don’t know! Stop asking questions!”

“You hate him!”

You blink. “I never said that.”

Yuqi stands up abruptly, pointing an accusatory finger at you. “You just defended him! You–”

“--I never defended him!” you argue.

“Well, you did subconsciously! What happened to Qiqi, I’d rather drink poison than be stuck in the same room as him?” Yuqi narrows her eyes, stalking over to where you were standing. She is quiet before she scoffs at your aghast, blinking face. “Stockholm syndrome,” she states, hands flying up, almost hitting your teacup out of your hands. “It’s happening. Already.”

You sigh, gently setting the delicate porcelain down before she actually hits it out of your hands, and pinch the bridge of your nose. “Yuqi, you’re being dramatic-”

“-No!” She collapses onto another sofa, fanning herself with a fan you didn’t even know she was holding. “I know you. I know how much you loathe him. How much you think he’s a horrible, wretched, useless little-”

“-Yuqi.”

“Fine, fine. Either way, you’re telling me that you think he’s not horrible? God, please,” Yuqi scoffs, arms crossing over her chest, rustling the delicate navy blue silk of her robes, “you’re either lying to yourself or his princely Obellan cooties have already wormed their way inside your brain like a goddamn parasite.”

You want to laugh, really, but the stringent way Yuqi stares you down has you weakly forcing out a snort. “Fine. I hate him. I think he’s horrible. Good?”

Yuqi stares. “And smelly.”

Now you really laugh. “Fine, yes. And smelly.”

“Say it again.”

“I hate him…” You trail off when the moon, shining so bright outside like a glittering silver platter catches your eyes. You don’t think you’ve seen it so big and round when you were back in Xiawei. Or maybe you didn’t have time to gaze out windows back home. Either way. When you take a step closer to the large french windows, suddenly, a scene, from just minutes ago, rapidly rewinds through your head.

His chest, large warm hands firm around your shoulders, and the ever-so-slightly present glint of worry (disgusting) that shone in his eyes for a split second.

“Are you okay, y/n?”

And you must be actually going insane because you feel heat creep up your neck and blush your cheeks and your lips finds themselves whispering a soft “...most of the time,” towards the window.

It makes Yuqi gasp so loudly you jolt, almost jumping in the air.

“Oh my god.” She clutches your wrist so quickly it almost gives you a whiplash. “Don’t tell me you’ve gone soft. Not for him.”

You scoff, backing away. “As if.” Your eyes, however, search for something else to look at.

“Come on, y/n, I know it’s been years but he’s still the same old mindless prince.”

“I know, Yuqi.”

“What did he say to you to deserve even a moment of hesitation?”

“Yuqi, come on.”

“I’ll stab him. Actually. What did he say?”

“Yuqi.”

“This is a national crisis, y/n! If you’re wavering, then we’re all forever doomed to be chained to this wretched, wretched land with no silk!”

You shake your head, pushing her back onto the couch with a shove. “I hate him,” you insist. “Okay? He’s insufferable, arrogant, and the only thing I’ve realized today was that I’d rather bite my own tongue off than listen to him speak again.”

Yuqi is quiet while she studies you meticulously, brown eyes tracing over your form as if she could read your aura or something. She finally sighs, slumping back onto the couch. “That’s better. You scared me for a second.”

You don’t dignify her dramatics with a response, shaking your head as you turn towards a countertop to set your jewels on.

“...But mark my words. If you ever hesitate again, know that I’m poisoning his wine.”

taglist...

#mingyu #gilded thrones!!#seventeen #seventeen royalty #seventeen angst #seventeen fluff #seventeen smut #gia's winter special #mingyu fluff #mingyu angst #mingyu smut #seventeen royalty au #royalty!seventeen #MINGYU IS SO HOT I HAD TO LIKE REWRITE THIS FIFTEEN HUNDRED TIME BECAUSE I NEEDED TO GET HIMIN HIS FULL ESSENCE

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