#the good being - it’s touching upon things marvel refused to for a long time

[whisperingtales]

the tortured munson department presents | you okay, honey?

— or simply, entering Eddie's bedroom. no towel, nipples perked, skin glistening, causing his brain to short circuit. eighteen plus, no minors allowed. 18+ — a. notes: apologies for this taking me so long, it was a crazy turn of events and a long weekend, but here we are! feedback is much appreciated. — the tortured department masterlist | main masterlist

He's lounging — leaned back in the armchair, legs spread, unruly curls bobbing to the beat in his head. His eyes shut, fingers shredding in an epic rendition of Metallica's hit Master of Puppets.

His door creaks upon opening, gaining his attention. His gaze dark, bulging out of the sockets at the sight of you, waltzing into his room without a care.

No towel, nipples perked, droplets dripping down bare skin. A sight of beauty, gifted by the gods — truly marvelous, and for his eyes only.

His jaw slacks, drool seeping from parted lips — his cock twitches against the rough denim of his pants, cursing into the silence.

Time versus desires, a quarrel, battling the craving to touch, to taste, fuck until the only thing those pretty lips could do was beg for his cum.

He couldn't. Wouldn't, rather, refusing to fall prey to this disguise of feign innocence. Not this time, anyways. The minutes spiral, conspiring against him. His appetite too much, standing to flop down onto his bed, desperate for relief from this treachery.

Meanwhile, an impure grin forms on your lips — a mischievous sparkle behind a naive gaze, rummaging through the dresser in search of a sinful, little number. The soft skin visible beneath sheer lace, ass left bare. A thong, one he treasured.

You took pleasure in the deception, teasing him. You enjoyed the way he turns into a rugged beast — frantic to unbutton his pants, shimming them down to just pass his pale thighs. His cock springing to life, slapping his hairy trail and leaking for you.

He'd pat his lap, begging for a quickie. Eddie would insist there's plenty of time, only for you to deny him, giving him that agonizing speech on the importance of being on time, setting a good example. You'd walk him to the van, giving him a quick kiss to the cheek — leave his balls aching.

His night ruined, plagued by the images of you and all the things he plans on doing to you, generating him to wrap up faster.

You bend over, giving him a perfect view of your drenched folds. Your lips curve into a satisfied grin, spinning to discover Eddie's face buried in his mattress. The poor thing, so desperate to ignore the corruption of your little act.

"You okay, honey?"

His response is muffled, ring covered hand flying upwards to give a thumbs up. Your arms cross in a huff, trying your best not to giggle.

"You act as if this is the first time you've seen me naked."

His curls launch up, turning to glare at you. "You're being very rude, sweetheart." The grin on your face pivots, turning sinister. He gulps, tongue darting from his mouth as you crawl onto the bed, sitting in his lap. "Can't handle it, big boy?" You tuck some of his hair behind his ear, temptation hovering, lips inches apart.

His for the taken.

He leans in, forgoing his plans — lips brushing past yours, smashing onto your cheek. "Oh, would you look at the time!" You gasp, leaning away from him with a pout of your lips. "Mustn't be late for Hellfire, again." You task, pecking a gentle kiss to his nose.

"I fucking knew it." He groans, generating a giggle from you as you climb off his lap.

You grab his leather jacket off the chair, skipping out of the room and towards the trailer's door, waiting for him. It takes him a few minutes to emerge from the room, sneakers striding to stand in front of you — a scowl on his face, hands on his hips.

You smile at him, motioning for him to spin and helping him into his jacket. When he turns around, his eyes give him away — soft and warms towards you. "You're killing me, sweetheart." His arms lace around your waist, pulling you to his chest and planting a kiss to your forehead. "Love you, baby."

"Love you, pretty boy."

You stand on the porch, watching his van drive out the driveway. His eyes haven't left your figure, allowing another wicked idea to form. His shirt flies up, flashing him your bare chest. The van screeches to a halt — the taillights coming closer, returning to his parking space. He leaves the engine running, snatching you up and throwing you over his shoulder.

The first and only time Eddie the Banished, dungeon master of The Hellfire Club was late to a campaign.

#eddie munson #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson x y/n #eddie munson x you #eddie munson fanfic #fanfic #blurb #smut #*emfics #*emblurbs #the tortured munson department

[haaam-guuuurl]

Little Women Amy x Laurie Fake Dating Modern AU

Theodore Laurence and Amy March run into each other in France, after years of not speaking.

The not speaking thing wasn’t their fault, though, not really. But Laurie and Amy’s sister Jo, who’d been his best friend, had a big falling out a couple of years before, after he told her he loved her and she told him she didn’t. Consequently, Laurie took upon himself a March embargo, determined to completely forget about Jo and anything that could remind him of her, which included her family.

Which is a shame, since he’d been quite close with the March sisters, and came to regret not keeping in touch with Meg and her husband, his good friend John, and their new babies, as well as not being there as Beth got sick, and no longer seeing Amy, whom he’d started to be real friends with as well.

So, the contrast of denying himself their presence and suddenly being completely surrounded by Amy almost overwhelms Laurie, but as it turns out, he’s nothing but happy upon seeing her, as well as relieved.

Amy March is as bubbly as he remembers, even though she’s older, and accordingly more mature. She’s not as dramatic, he thinks, and seems to be more careful of what she says and how she moves. For a second, he reflects on how the innocence and freedom of childhood is truly gone, if Amy, the youngest among them, is now a grown woman, but mostly he marvels at the adult she’s become.

Amy, for one, is ecstatic at seeing Laurie again – he’d been severely missed in the March household, and while Jo had been annoyingly vague about what had happened between them, they got the gist of it, and gave them the room they needed to process it all.

Amy always thought it was unfair, though. That just because he and Jo had a fight, that no one else could be in contact with him either. Sure, they’d been best friends (which they’d never missed a chance to remind the others of, always going off on their own lone adventures), but Laurie had at least been friends with them, too. But they weren’t allowed to say anything, and Laurie became a ghost, vaguely somewhere across Europe, but as good as dead for Jo March, and so as well for the rest of them.

Finding him in France, though, leaves no room for Amy’s grievances, or her insecurities. They were friends, it’s clear now. They are friends. They can have their own relationship, independent of Jo, and she’s so happy to have her friend back, to have back a piece of home that’d been missing for long.

They become almost lifelines for each other in the foreign country. Laurie has his contacts, and Amy has made friends in the art course she’s taking there, but the two quickly become inseparable, almost as if making up for all the time they lost not talking - she fills him in in all things March; he regales her with tales of his gap year misadventures. And a misplaced piece of the universe rights itself a little bit.

So, when Amy needs an reason to refuse a date with Fred Vaugh – an old acquaintance, here on business, whom yes, she’s admittedly been flirting with for the past few weeks, but whom she can’t, in good conscience, actually go out with, because while he’s perfectly nice and respectable, he doesn’t actually do anything for her romantically, and wouldn’t that be leading him on? – Laurie’s is the first name to pop into her head, and is, she thinks, a perfectly valid excuse. Well, valid, with a few tweaks. Namely, saying that he’s her boyfriend, as opposed to the far truer, yet less usable, boy friend.

When she explains the situation, Laurie finds it weird. Then funny. Then, given the opportunity to act out the role at a party she knows Fred will be at, downright hilarious. Amy would be furious at him for making fun of her situation, if he didn’t manage to, at the same time, make a convincing enough showing that Fred leaves her alone. And, she has to admit, it is pretty funny.

It hadn’t been anything more than that, really. Shortly after, Fred went back to London, and the whole thing was simply a lark between the two friends, notable only because Laurie starts referring to Amy as a heartbreaker.

It only becomes a thing a couple of months later.

Amy has since returned home, her summer course over, and spends the first weeks of Autumn in Massachusetts, prepping for her final school year, looking after Beth as she waits for test results about her remission, babysitting the twins for Meg, and avoiding telling Jo about her summer, since she’s not quite sure how her stance on Laurie has shifted (or not) in the past few years.

This becomes apparent when Laurie calls her, a few weeks into the semester, to cash in.

Apparently, Amy has inspired him, and Laurie is returning to the US as well. Seeing her has made him realize he misses home, and, admittedly, his grandfather has been on him about what is an acceptable amount of time for a gap year. This decision prompted him to reach out to Jo. They talked, for a bit, and mostly everything was fine. Great even, and signs pointed to them being able to return to their friendship after all! Until Laurie had the brilliant idea to tell her he’s dating her sister.

Amy, which she feels he deserves, promptly laughs in his face when he tells her.

He says he’s completely and totally over Jo, he is! (Amy maintains a healthy skepticism about this, but lets him go on) It seems that Jo had been looking forward to seeing him again, but adamant that her feelings hadn’t changed, and hoped he’d finally moved on. He’d made assurance after assurance, but the only way he could think of to truly prove it was to tell her he was seeing someone – which isn’t completely a lie, as he had dated other people in the meantime – only to then pop out Amy’s name when Jo asked about it – which is completely a lie.

Here is where Amy questions his reasoning, since he could have said literally any other name beyond Jo’s baby sister’s, and how could he think she’d take that well, and Jo was going to think she’d kept it from her, Laurie, did he have any idea how furious she will be when she sees her at Christmas??

But Laurie maintains that Amy owes him for Fred Vaughn – which has her rolling her eyes every time he mentions it, because c’mon, that was nothing like this – and that she’d been the first person he’d thought of – which does warm her heart a little – and who else could he rope into a fake relationship who could understand the whole thing with Jo?

“Fake relationship” stops Amy in her tracks.

Apparently, Laurie has a plan. A whole plan.

Amy tries to explain that all her lie had demanded of him was going to cool party. Laurie doesn’t see the relevance. Amy wants to yell at him through the phone.

Laurie will be arriving in Massachusetts shortly before Amy’s winter break, giving him only a while to face Jo on his own (and hopefully mend some bridges), at which point Amy will return home, spend her break cuddling with him by the fire – “Is that really so bad, Ames?” – convincingly enough that Jo sees he has completely moved on. Come the New Year, Amy will return to school, and eventually they’ll break the news of their uncoupling, stating how they’re better as friends, and everything will go back to normal.

It’s so easy!

Sure.

It starts off not easy at all, when the very next call Amy receives is from Jo, demanding to know every single detail of her relationship with Laurie.

For all intents and purposes, Amy is pretty proud of her performance, actually, given how little time she had to prepare. She thinks she manages to sound convincing yet apologetic, explaining how they’d gotten close in Paris and had been keeping it low-key because they weren’t sure where it was going yet, plus the long-distance while Amy went back to the States and Laurie stayed in Europe, not to mention his previously chilly relationship with the rest of the family (a not-intentional, but also not-untrue dig at Jo, there, which Amy isn’t sure she gets or not). She talks about how she totally intended on telling her when they knew it was serious, but Laurie totally blindsided her by telling Jo so soon. The best lies, Amy finds, have a little bit of the truth.

“So it’s serious?” Jo asks, and Amy hesitates for a second. A serious relationship. With Laurie. Faking a serious relationship with Laurie.

Her heart does a weird little twist she isn’t sure comes from lying to her sister, the anticipation of the scale of the performance she’ll have to give when they’re all together, or something else entirely.

“I guess.” she settles on, and promptly puts it out of her mind. There’s no point in spiraling for the intervening weeks, she tells herself, even if she does get progressively more stressed out as the semester ends.

When she does get home, though, it’s all so familiar, her anxiety just vanishes.

She’s missed her family. As close as they’ve always been, it’s always been tough being away from them all for months at a time. As soon as she walks through the door, it’s all hugs and smiles, and she feels nothing but welcomed.

And, admittedly, despite everything else, she’s missed Laurie, too. He’s already there when she arrives, like he’d told her he’d be, and Amy doesn’t even think about it before hugging him tightly when she sees him. It’s been ages since they’ve been together in person, after all, and this after months of spending every day together. No matter what else is going on, she just missed him.

It’s only when Jo chides at them to “break it off, lovebirds” that Amy remembers, and hopes her resulting awkward smile/grimace is seen as embarrassment for being with her “boyfriend” in front of her family, instead of regret over her every decision of the past few months.

Other than that, though, it ends up being not too bad. As much as Amy is loath to admit it, Laurie wasn’t too far off in his plan. They don’t have to act that lovey-dovey, just sit together at gatherings, hold hands once in a while, talk amongst themselves for a bit. It’s actually remarkably similar to how they’d behaved nearly every day in Paris. Amy hadn’t even thought of it as romantic, though, not until now, when the contrast of how they used to be, in their childhoods, is so apparent.

Her family’s reactions aren’t so bad either. Dad makes a joke about Laurie having to watch himself from now on, but since it’s been well established how much he loves him and the Laurences, it’s never meant as nor taken seriously. Marmee attempts to have a talk with her about their relationship, but Amy manages to abort that pretty quickly. Meg looks at them like she wants to say something, but doesn’t ever actually do it. Beth, bless her, just tells her she’s happy for them. And Jo makes a few comments here and there, which almost get to Amy, until she reminds herself that the whole purpose of this thing was for Jo and Laurie to get their friendship back.

And it even seems to be working. Since she’s been home, Amy’s watched Jo and Laurie joke around, argue and play off each other almost exactly like they did when they were kids. She can’t bring herself to talk about it with Laurie, but he hasn’t said anything to indicate otherwise, either, not that it was going poorly between them, nor that it was going in any other direction at all.

She’ll admit she was skeptical, when Laurie explained his plan to her, and that a large part of it was because she wasn’t ever truly sure if Laurie was really over her sister, as he claimed. He’d seemed so in love with her, before. And he’d been so heartbroken, when she’d rejected him. A small part of Amy wondered if he wasn’t just saying all of this for show, and if, once he saw Jo again, his feelings wouldn’t come rushing back. Amy does hope not. Even if she had her doubts, she wants for Laurie to be over Jo, really. She never did think they be very good together, is all. And she doesn’t want them to go through that heartbreak again.

If she watches them closely, just to try and see if there’s anything in Laurie’s eyes beyond friendly affection… Well, she’s just looking out for him, isn’t she? For both of them, really, or even for all of them, because everyone’s been excited to have the March and Laurence families together again, and another big emotional fight is the last thing they need.

And if she’s a little relieved every time Laurie notices her there and comes over, slinging his arm over her shoulders, or giving her a peck on the cheek… Well, that’s not really anyone’s business, is it?

It all goes fine, though. Jo and Laurie are perfectly friendly, not a hint of romantic drama nor icy coolness between them, and everyone’s happy through the holidays, and no one’s seemed suspicious of Amy and Laurie at all.

Amy’s all but forgotten about the plan and her anxieties over it, until it becomes all too real right on top of her.

Literally.

On Christmas morning, after they’ve opened their presents, and once Laurie and his grandfather have joined them for breakfast, Amy’s just greeting him, like she’s done every day, when Beth pipes up.

Amy hadn’t realized. She hadn’t been there when they decorated the house this year, even though their decorations haven’t changed in years.

As it always has been, right in the middle of the archway that separates the kitchen from the dining room, and right on top of where Amy and Laurie are standing, is a sprig of mistletoe.

It’s not even a big deal. Beth is the only one who noticed, and then Jo, who turned to look at them when she said it, but everyone else is busy, no one is really paying attention to them.

Yet, in Amy’s mind, this is maybe the worst thing that could’ve happen.

Mistletoe. Of course there’s mistletoe. How could she not have remembered the mistletoe?

Laurie seems as dumbstruck as she is, but he recovers quickly. They’re supposed to be a couple, after all. Couples aren’t supposed to be completely terrified by the mere notion that they kiss.

Amy only has time to register that it’s happening before it happens. Laurie inches his face closer to hers, and Amy doesn’t move away, doesn’t say anything. She meets him when he reaches her, and they kiss.

Laurie only intended it to be a chaste kiss, anyways. Something tangible enough for the others to not get suspicious, but light enough as to not make things uncomfortable, threading the needle to slip under the guise of them not wanting to kiss in front of their families.

It was supposed to be a chaste kiss.

It’s not that.

It’s something else entirely.

Before he knows it, not only has Laurie stepped closer into Amy’s space, but his hands have come up to her cheeks, and Amy has responded by placing hers on his waist. His eyes are closed, yes, he can’t see the room surrounding them, but all of a sudden he isn’t even aware of it. The only thing he’s aware of is Amy.

It’s so familiar. She’s Amy. He’s known her almost all their lives. They’ve been close for most of that time, have seen each other in all sorts of ways, have touched each other numerous times, they’ve shared friendly kisses and teasing ones, they’ve even kissed under the mistletoe before, a simple kiss on the cheek, when they were very little, after which Amy had blushed furiously, and Jo mercilessly made fun of them for the rest of the day.

But it’s also so new. He’s never been this close to Amy. Has never touched her like this, has never known what her lips tasted like before now. Peach chapstick. It should all be so simple and familiar, and Laurie should just let go and pretend it was nothing, but it isn’t and he can’t.

He has no idea how long they’ve been kissing, when Meg and John’s twins barge into the kitchen, crashing into Amy and Laurie and sending them almost flying apart. Jo “oooh”s at them teasingly, but it’s quickly forgotten about, in the bustle of the twins’ arrival, and the adults trying to get everyone to sit down and have breakfast.

Except that Laurie can’t forget about it. He can’t stop thinking about it, in fact. He can’t even make sense of it. He tries to catch Amy’s eye, to try and see how she’s feeling, but she won’t meet his. Is she being glib? Did it really mean nothing to her at all, just a fake kiss for their fake courtship? Or is she totally weirded out, unable to meet his eye? Could she be just as lost as he is?

The rest of the day passes by quickly, almost in a blur, and before he knows it, goodbyes are being exchanged, everyone headed back home for the night.

Amy’s barely looked at him since the kiss, but he tries one more time to talk to her before they leave.

And though she does look at him, this time, and smiles, gives him a quick hug goodbye, even, she’s gone before he can barely say anything.

She clearly doesn’t want to talk about it, then, so Laurie decides to try his best at putting it out of his mind. It was a kiss. So what? A great kiss, yes, but that was that. It was part of a plan. His plan. A plan that went great, even. Him and Jo are friends again, the Marches don’t hate him, and all they have left to do is explain they decided to break it off, in a few weeks. That they tried, but determined they were better of as friends. Him and Amy. Friends. Because that’s what they are.

Except that friends don’t think about each other for as long as Laurie starts finding himself thinking about Amy that week. Friends don’t wonder what it would have been like if they’d kissed any other time in the past couple of days, or if they’d been alone when they had, or wondering about any scenario where Laurie could have kissed Amy again, or for longer. And friends probably take each other’s calls, too. Which Amy hasn’t done since Christmas Day.

While Laurie understands she could perfectly well be busy, which would be a logic assumption from her curt text responses saying just that, Laurie also knows how it feels like to be brushed off, and it quickly becomes obvious she’s just avoiding him.

He wants nothing more than to talk to her, be near her again, something in the back of his mind desperate to be with her. It’s like seeing her in Paris after all those years set something off in him that can’t be satisfied, and it was only made stronger by that goddamn kiss.

But he won’t push her. He hopes she isn’t mad at him for the whole scheme, it is possible it was more taxing than he’d anticipated, after all. She’s probably weirded out by the kiss and needs some space. Okay. Space. He can do that. He won’t push.

He does count down the days until he sees her again, though.

Namely, at the Laurence’s New Year’s party, a week later.

Though Amy hasn’t explicitly stated she’ll come, the Marches have all been attending for years, and while there have been exceptions granted for illness, or work, Laurie sees (hopes for) no reason for Amy not to attend.

He’s already planned out what he wants to say, how he’s sorry for the whole thing, how he understands if she feels put off by him, how he just wants the two of them to be okay, and they never have to mention anything about the whole mess ever again.

Of course, though, as soon as he sees her, walking through the door after her sisters, the first that comes into his mind is how he wants to kiss her again.

Instead, he turns right back around and gets a drink.

He spends the next hour telling himself to get it together, that it’s just Amy, and he’s being ridiculous, and only then goes to talk to her.

Amy is reticent about being alone with Laurie, but also knows she’s avoided it for as long as she can, and they really should talk.

It’s not like anything will happen, right? Just because they’re alone, and Amy’s been thinking about the kiss since then, as well as basically everything that happened over Christmas, it doesn’t mean anything will happen when she actually talks to Laurie, other than just that. Talking.

Aware she’s trying way too hard to convince herself of this, Amy follows Laurie, becoming determined to push all of her internal doubts and bubbling feelings to the side and just have a talk with her friend. They’ll clear the air, he’ll tell her how the kiss meant nothing and will never happen again, and they’ll be back to normal. Friends. As it should be. And anything Amy might be feeling that’s clearly been brought on by the nostalgia of being home and not having been in a relationship in a while and not at all by this new-found closeness with Laurie and inability to pay attention to anything else when he’s near, it will all just fade away.

When they’re alone, he does apologize for his scheme and how maybe it went too far. He thanks her for going along with it, but that he never meant to make her uncomfortable, and he probably didn’t think it through as he should have, and if she wants, they can just come clean to their families right now.

Something in Amy melts a little. She’s not mad at him, not really. The fake relationship thing was weird, sure, but in the end, she gets it, and if things can be good between all of them in the end, then it was worth it. It was all maybe a bit more than she’d bargained for, but that doesn’t really matter does it? It’ll all just go away.

She also predicts that telling everyone they were lying now will just make things worse and more confusing, so Amy tells him she appreciates it, but there’s no need, they’ll just lay low and stick to the original timeline.

They both leave the room feeling better for having hashed it out, but still a little disappointed. It’s been agreed. They’ll just let the next few weeks go by, and that’ll be that. Back to normal, and no possibility for anything else. Great.

The rest of the party goes well, as light and fun as it can be. And if Amy and Laurie barely leave the other’s side during it, well, to anyone else, they’re supposed to be in a relationship, right? That’s normal. Beyond even that, they’re friends, it’s totally okay! Just like before, Amy squashes any feelings, even part of her is telling herself to enjoy it while it lasts.

Either way, when Mr. Laurence announces to the party that it’s only a couple of minutes till midnight, of course Amy and Laurie find themselves next to each other.

The panic from their first kiss is gone, and a certain inevitability remains over them. Well, of course this would happen. Of course, as a couple they’ll be expected to kiss at the stroke of midnight. When they turn to each other, Amy’s prepared to shrug it off like just something else they’ll have to do – she does not want to be caught off guard again – but finds Laurie already looking at her, a slight smile on his lips, and she can’t help but mirror him.

When the clock strikes midnight, cheers go up around them, but Amy and Laurie are oblivious. This one doesn’t even start as a peck. For all her distancing herself from it, Amy leans into the kiss fully intending to savor it this time. And for all his denial over it, Laurie does the same.

Before long, Amy’s hands are reaching up into Laurie’s hair, and his arms are circling her waist. One kiss turns into two, then three, as they slowly disentangle themselves to get some air.

Amy feels lightheaded, her body against into Laurie’s, their foreheads pressed together and her eyes still closed. She can’t push it away this time. She wants to do that again. She wants to kiss Laurie forever, if that’s even possible. She just wants Laurie.

She doesn’t feel able to say anything right now, but Laurie beats her to it.

He says he’s been wanting to do that again since the last time, and Amy can’t help but agree.

She opens her eyes, sees Laurie, looking at her like he’s just had some revelation of his own, and Amy wonders just how long they’ve been headed here without realizing it. Before Christmas? Since Paris? Maybe even before that? Either way, standing here now, it feels inevitable. Her and Laurie, it’s just… It’s fitting. She doesn’t want to let go.

Amy drops the pretense.

“What are we doing, Laurie?” she asks, softly,

“I don’t know” he answers. “Do you want to stop?”

She shakes her head no, and he smiles.

“Can you just…” Amy adds. She needs to make sure. “This isn’t… It’s not the plan, right? It feels, different, at least for me, so just tell me, Laurie, is this still about that? Is it still about Jo, about getting things back to how they were?”

Laurie shakes his head, already interjecting as soon as Amy finishes speaking “No! No, it’s different for me too. It’s not… It’s certainly not about Jo. Amy, I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you in days. Actually, probably years. I don’t want things to go back to how they were. Not if they can be better.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

Amy can’t help but smile brightly. “I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you either. This feels… I don’t know what it is, but… Better, yeah. Better’s good.”

Laurie’s grinning right along with her, and he has, frankly, waited long enough, and dips his head to kiss her again.

When they finally separate, Amy asks “So, you still think we should go tell our families we’ve broken up?”

Laurie laughs, the whole plan he’d concocted feeling like a lifetime ago. “Well, maybe not right now. Or in the next few weeks. Or years. I don’t know, how about we just see where this goes?”

Amy grins. “That sounds good, yes.”

The two kiss one more time, blissfully unaware of the party going on around them, the Marches and Laurences and other guests toasting, and celebrating, and awaiting the New Year unfolding in front of them all.

#little women #amy march #theodore laurence #amy x laurie #modern au #fake dating au #little women fanfiction #little women moodboard #little women aesthetic #little women au #my writing #my moodboards #my posts #this got so much ridiculously longer than i'd anticipated #it literally just started as “with as many a/l modern aus that have come out lately it's shocking that there haven't been any fake dating” #and then i just kept needing to add more and more stuff and then it was this hulking 8 page monster of a thing #i seriously considered doing it like full out and posting on ao3 insted of this simpler version here but nah i'm lazy #if you've made it till the end thank you and i hope you've enjoyed this completely self indulgent little thing!

[kaedeakeshisworld]

Heavenly touch

cw: as always black fem reader intended, polyamory relationship, sub sakusa, femdom reader, hard dom bokuto, sakusa in lingerie, sassy sakusa, sakusa is sweet, praise kink, sakusa is spoiled, slight voyeurism

wc: 606

aperçu: Polyamory relationship with these two but switch things up a bit for once…

Sakusa Kiyoomi, Bokuto Koutarou and you are in a polyamory relationship. When you had first heard about his type of relationship you thought that this wasn’t for you at all. Yet, here you are in one as of now. There is no such thing as secrets, everything that comes to the surface is talked through. This is quite refreshing especially because you hardly ever argue with them. If that happens, it’s often resolved after a proper discussion followed by a thorough fuck session.

The dynamic you share with them is unexpected. You're a femdom, Bokuto is a Hard dom but Kiyoomi is the submissive one. You met Kiyoomi first, he was so sweet, whenever you met him for a date he would give you flowers and you were honestly amazed by him. Later, he introduced you to his boyfriend Bokuto and then you put two and two together. Now, you were able to see why he hadn’t had sex with you yet. He was loyal to Bokuto and could have never done that to him. 

Your touch on Kiyoomi's skin makes him lose his breath, kisses on his jawline. All of this affection for him is augmented by the words you whisper in his ear " you're such an obedient boy Kiyoomi. What would you like to have as a reward for your good behaviour?".

He tells you " I want your mouth on me, please" 

You grab his face and look straight into his onyx orbs " Now Kiyoomi, you are not telling me where you want my mouth. I can't guess what you desire so, say explicitly where you want it!" you interjected. He swallows hard, gathers enough courage to say "Please, I want you to suck me off."

You pat his head, kiss his forehead and announce "You asked for it so nicely, how could I refuse it."

There are times when you come back home just a little before dinner time. You are tired, take off your heels but hearing muffled moans and grunts make you walk silently. You cautiously make your way towards the room from where those cries are coming from. You carefully take a look and there they are. You stumble upon Kiyoomi marvellously dressed in white lacy lingerie, in the kitchen on his knees, giving Bokuto a blowjob. He has certainly mastered how to do it thanks to you. They are both well endowed when it comes to their shafts but Bokuto is slightly thicker and curvier than Kiyoomi.

“You’re doing so well Kiyoomi, you have gotten so much better at it since last time” Bokuto praised him. Kiyoomi keeps going, he really wants to hear those praises. His leaking cock is strained by the thong fabric, he looks angelic like this, you think. But Bokuto is aware that you are there so he is going to put on a show.

He yanks Kiyoomi’s head away from his rod, holds it in place and starts degrading him “ You really like sucking me huh don’t you? So much that even your pathetic dick is oozing precum, you’re thinking about getting fucked dumb? ” 

Kiyoomi is also aware that you are here, Bokuto only becomes like this when he is being watched so he plays along “ Yes, I truly do enjoy having your cock in my mouth and don’t make me wait for too long, I can also do it on my own” He challenges him. 

Bokuto likes being riled up, it really gets him going. Kiyoomi is there back arched waiting to be pounded into oblivion by his boyfriend. You surely are living your best life while enjoying their intimate display of affection.

Fic 9 of pride series

Comments and reblogs are widely appreciated!!

2022 © All rights reserved to @kaedeakeshisworld. Translations, modifications, replicas or even property of my achievement are not allowed without my approval. Do not repost/ recommend/ share it elsewhere!

#hq smut #haikyuu smut #sakusa smut #bokuto smut #femdom! reader #hard dom! bokuto #sub!sakusa #polyamory relationship #poc! reader #black reader #hq x female reader #anime smut #reader insert #hq x black reader #sakusa x black reader #bokuto x black reader #black reader smut #black female reader #haikyu x reader #female reader #smut

[merryfortune]

The Frog Prince

Written for Multiamory March 2023

Day 22: Bonding

Title: The Frog Prince

Ship: Saviorshipping | Ryoken/Spectre/Yusaku

Fandom: Yu-Gi-Oh! Vrains

Rating: T

Word Count: 2,669

Tags: Alternate Universe - The Frog Prince/Fairy Tale

   Once upon a time… there was a prince who did not do very much.

   Why should he? He was a prince, after all, born to the lap of luxury, born into a world that did not know war or famine. Contentedness spread far and wide. But he was still a prince.

   And princes were expected to do things. The sort of things that made for good publicity for the royal family, such as participating in the lawmaking process or make appearances at orphanages to look kind-hearted by playing with underprivileged children. This prince, however, had no such desires to appear even vaguely in public, let alone political.

   This prince’s name was Yusaku and Prince Yusaku was a very lazy young man, to the chagrin of his mother the Queen, to his royal bodyguard Shoichi, and even his personal jester, Ai. He simply had a listless personality, he would claim. He would prefer to keep to himself in his room sleeping than do anything else, be it civic minded or otherwise.

   And so, his bodyguard and jester had a marvellous idea together on how to put some pep in their prince’s step.

   “Hail, Queen,” Shoichi began, “I have an idea for our predicament.”

   “We have an idea.” Ai piped up, miffed that he would be excluded from such prestigious planning. Irony totally lost on him since Prince Yusaku was entirely unaware that such plans existed as he was currently lazing his bedchambers rather than sitting with his Mother in the parlour where they took audience.

   Queen listened intently and gave blessing to the pair’s plan. It would only be for a week. Less than, even. It’s not like there were any pressing engagements young Prince Yusaku needed to attend and were there any, it was not as if Prince Yusaku was likely to attend, let alone in a lively manner so begone with him and the others, she supposed.

   Maybe some fresh air would be good for him. So long as an eye was kept on him. It was dreadful what had happened to that Prince from the Kingdom of Hanoi. Just up and disappeared. No body was found, no news to follow.

   Prince Yusaku meanwhile was not as blase about this like his mother was. He was entirely uninterested in going out into the big, wide world and doing even the most minimal of efforts like camping at one of their more neglected castles in the furthest wing of the kingdom. 

   The forests around here were dense and evergreen in shine, hail, or snow. The weather itself was pleasant and balmy however. The trek to getting this far out into the country was tedious with all the parading and having to say hello to people of all stations. It really tired and exhausted Prince Yusaku who was given some time to rejuvenate in one of the dusty rooms of the castle.

   He could completely understand why this particular dwelling of theirs had fallen to the wayside. The castle was unfashionable by today’s standards, or more importantly his Mother’s. It was just a touch too far from civilisation to be properly connected to trade routes and merchants. Not enough folk in the village to staff it when there were more practical and immediate ways of earning money than serving the upper class here who used it as an infrequent holiday home.

   Still, for the time being, Prince Yusaku enjoyed some time to himself… for a few precious hours. Once it turned to the next day, his retainers Ai and Shoichi were all over him like the bedbugs in the linen which was already here - and he had refused to use.

   Bombastic and bawdy, Ai and Shoichi took him into the forest for some fishing of all things. Prince Yusaku was dragged along like a rag doll behind his two good men, forced to carry things like the fishing rods and bait, even the lunch they had brought for a picnic. His poor, weak noodle arms could not take holding one of these things, let alone all of them.

   Prince Yusaku was more than excited to finally have to put them down because as it would turn out, fishing was an entirely suitable pursuit for him. Just sitting and staring at the water. Perfect. He would pretend to get a bite here and there but really he was just sleeping with his eyes open.

   The water of the lake was pristine as it reflected the sun and sky above. The surrounds were large and tranquil. The lake itself, and all its contents like the fish and molluscs, werekingdom property, technically, so there were no pesky intruders. There was sure to be a fine or similar to be inflicted were someone not with royal blessing and permission were to use it. Assuming they were caught or dobbed on. 

   As they fished, Ai and Shoichi made small talk. Yusaku vaguely listened in.

   “Did anyone else feel like the lodgings were weirdly… lived in? Despite being abandoned so long? Like the kettle in the kitchen and some of the pots and pans. Way cleaner and more used than I was expecting.”

   No, Prince Yusaku did not notice that. He yawned to himself. At least to show he was listening and that he was reacting, even if he was terribly bored by it.

   “I know exactly what you mean,” Ai agreed, nodding his head, “it was surprisingly tidy in the banquet hall, too. As though someone had gone through to make sure all the chairs were lined up but a couple seemed more used than others. If that makes any sense.”

   Ai and Shoichi hummed thoughtfully. Very strange, very odd. Or at least that’s what they thought.

   “Maybe the Castle is haunted.” Ai suggested.

   “By one of Yusaku’s ancestors, perhaps?” Shoichi snickered.

   “I’m going to go for a walk, if you don’t mind. Just around the circumference of the lake.” Prince Yusaku announced. “I simply can’t lose precious braincells with your bizarre speculation. There are no such things as ghosts.” He huffed.

   Ai and Shoichi gasped. They never thought they would have seen the day. Let alone so early! Their Prince Yusaku was… doing something? Of his own volition? Heaven forbid, so surely. And the dramatics that ensued from them both just convinced Prince Yusaku that as nice as sitting was, he would much prefer to get away from them. Just for a little bit, he would still be within eyesight of them both as he got up and began his walk around the lake.

   The weather continued to be pleasant the further away from the bottom of the lake, where the dock was, Prince Yusaku was pleased to discover. The mud underfoot was not too soft nor too mushy that he was prone to sinking in it. Distantly a lovely and cool wind blew gently. He could hear it in the treetops that rustled, too, same with birdsong and the chitter of squirrels or other, woodland creatures. 

   Not to think about his future or anything but Prince Yusaku could see himself retiring here one day. That would surely be nice. He just had to get to the age of retirement. The age of which was arbitrary at best considering there had been members in his family tree who had come into their position as king or queen before they left the nursemaid’s tit and those who had retired when they had been beheaded who were barely older than he was now.

   Prince Yusaku continued to wander. Just slowly following the round curve of the lake. Just listening to the birds and the squirrels and the cicadas, too. It was all very peaceful and from across the lake, it occurred to Prince Yusaku how far he had walked. He wondered how long it had taken him. Ai and Shoichi from across the lake were so very small on his horizon now. He wondered if he looked the same to them.

   He thought about waving to them but they were having a grand time fishing. He watched as they reeled in something of a large size, water flicking up and Prince Yusaku smiled. They were having fun and that’s all that mattered.

   He looked away for just a moment and something caught his eye in amongst the trees. A flash of white. He blinked. Prince Yusaku did not believe in ghosts but he did believe in intruders and trespassers.

   He took one step closer and he saw that person. Not upright, not trying to walk away but merely trying to escape into the undergrowth, crawling on the ground like a worm. In suffering. Muted grunts and groans.

   Prince Yusaku hurried his pace as he tried to find this person in the long grass and shrubs. He put his knee down to their side.

   “Are you okay?” Prince Yusaku asked.

   He was past the threshold of the forest with this person. A young man in servile clothes akin to that of Ai and Shoichi’s but the fashion of white with hints of silver, yellow, and red: another country. The one which bordered on this very forest, actually. Prince Yusaku licked his lips as he tried to get information from this person as he held his chest.

   “D-Don’t worry about me.” he said. “It's my Master I’m - we - should be more worried about.” His voice was strained as he dealt with whatever affliction of his chest which had him agonised so.

   “Your Master?” Prince Yusaku echoed.

   “We were attacked by a witch,” he said. “Th-This witch put a curse on us both. We’ve been doing, argh-” He screamed in pain, he tried to still himself but in this wounding, his legs thrashed involuntarily.

   Prince Yusaku flinched.

   “We’ve been surviving as best we can until we can remedy this curse but alas.” this man continued to speak through gritted teeth and a sheen of sweat.

   Prince Yusaku's heart hammered in his chest. He was really not the person who should have encountered this wounded man and his missing master. Ai or better yet, Shoichi, would have been much better. They weren’t too far, however.

   “Let me get you to my henchmen, they can help.” Prince Yusaku said.

   “No.” the man spat. “The witch told us that this curse-” he yelled again in pain, his fingers raking through his chest and under the white of his blouse, Prince Yusaku noticed he had something underneath which jutted out, it looked almost like a strip of iron but surely he had to be mistaken. “A kiss from a royal is the only way.”

   Prince Yusaku had to bite his tongue before he let out a very loud and very rude “Huh?” in response.

   “Master Ryoken! Where are you?!” this man yelled at the top of his lungs.

   Loud enough to make birds fly away, for squirrels to scatter, and for a frog to jump closer to him. To atop his shoulder, even. He didn’t seem to mind, in fact he smiled. His eyes were blurry as he turned his head but his expression softened. The frog was unusually coloured: white with lilac stripes. 

   “Master Ryoken, thank goodness…” the man murmured and then he turned his gaze unto Prince Yusaku again. “This is… This is my Master Ryoken, transformed by the witch’s curse and I. My heart is bound in iron, too. I - I fear my heart cannot go on much longer with this bondage and this grief. Oh, please, gods, save my Master Ryoken.”

   “I’m… My name is Prince Yusaku of the Sol Kingdom. Allow me to help.” Prince Yusaku declared.

   “My word,” the servant gasped, “truly fortune smiles upon me.”

   He near fainted promptly after. Unable to hold himself up much longer, he let go his chest and his body went limp against the trunk of the tree. The frog on his shoulder pawed pitifully at his sweaty, pale face. As though with real and genuine concern, not like a pet but no… Prince Yusaku had to be rational. He was anthropomorphising this frog.

   All in all, Prince Yusaku wasn’t sure how much he believed this servant and that his master was a frog transmogrified but Prince Yusaku did believe that this man was severely hurt. Possibly made delusion or otherwise delirious by the very real affliction upon his body. But maybe if he indulged this alleged witch’s curse’s remedy, he could gain his trust and get him to safety.

   Prince Yusaku reached for the frog and scooped it up off the man’s shoulder. The servant watched with a tear glimmering his eye and a loose, wonky smile as he held his breath in abated hope.

   Prince Yusaku was certain, to himself at least, to disappoint. Nevertheless, he brought the frog closer to his mouth and kissed it on its own. The frog was soft and slimy, Prince Yusaku almost gagged but there was no time to ruminate on the taste of rising bile and other displeasures as the most impossible and marvellous thing happened. A miracle occurred. 

   From out of his hands, the weight of the frog grew heavier until Prince Yusaku let go. A bright, blue and white light erupted from the frog. In this burst, the silhouette of the critter changed from that of a frog, to that of a human who stood tall above him.

   The frog smiled and then brought himself down to one knee, he placed his hand over his heart in the utmost gratitude unto Prince Yusaku. Who could only stare and gape like a beached fish.

   “What in the world…?” he breathed.

   “Thank you, Prince Yusaku of Sol for breaking my curse, I am glad that Spectre was able to find you in our time of need.” he said, his head bowed low, his gaze just slightly towards his servant, Spectre, who had yet to regain strength but was grinning in mad and wild delight that his master’s humanity had been restored. “I am Prince Ryoken of Hanoi, it is good to make your official acquaintance.”

   “Yes, the same.” Prince Yusaku replied. Still very much in shock.

   Prince Ryoken got up and he offered his hand to his servant. Weakly, Spectre raised his hand and was able to place it in Prince Ryoken’s awaiting palm. At the moment of such contact, as Prince Ryoken pulled his servant up, the bonds of Spectre’s heart crumbled. The outline of them beneath his shirt disappeared as he was pulled up - and into a kiss.

   Prince Yusaku blushed, averting his gaze. He would hate to intrude but his presence did not seem to impede the apparent lovers. Not when Prince Ryoken turned his head and offered his other hand to Prince Yusaku.

   “Please,” he said, “allow us to properly introduce ourselves. We have been using your family’s facilities here as Spectre could not bear to bring me back to my kingdom in my sorry state as a frog. Thank you for the hospitality, I hope we did not infringe.”

   Prince Yusaku couldn’t believe that the dithering between Ai and Shoichi had, in actuality, been astute observations. Their castle had been in use. He accepted Prince Ryoken’s hand, pulled up into a three-way embrace.

   “We should celebrate my return to good health, no?” Prince Ryoken asked.

   “I would like that immensely.” Spectre said.

   “Then allow me to bring you back to my castle, as proper guests.” Prince Yusaku offered, knowing full well he would have to do things like entertain and host were he to.

   Yet, somehow, for the first time ever, the lazy prince did feel obligated to at least try and be social and perform regal duties of figuring out inter-kingdom relations. And also how he was going to explain to his retainers that he had gone out for a walk and come back with a seeming lover and concubine. The former of which had just ceased being a frog. 

   Oh goody, Prince Yusaku was certain, Ai and Shoichi were going to love this tall tale but at least it was one with a happy ending. 

#multiamorymarch2023 #yugioh vrains #saviorshipping #ryoken kogami #fujiki yusaku #spectre (vrains) #kogami ryoken #yusaku fujiki #writing tag #the frog prince

[reidjumpers]

would you ever write something along the line of the minimal loss episode reimagined. so instead of emily being in the ep it’s the reader and spence has the biggest crush on her. it kills him knowing that she’s getting hit and bruised. yeah i don’t know if you would do it but i love that idea.

GUESS WHAT I really love this idea too so I tried to rewrite Minimal Loss reimagined. Please emphasize on tried.

“Which one of you is the FBI agent?”

Spencer could feel his blood run cold at the question Benjamin Cyrus fired at him and you. He subtly glanced towards your direction, pressing his lips and tried his best to maintain his composure. He watched you shift on your seat a little bit, eyeing the gun on Cyrus’s hand intensely.

“Why do you think one of us is an FBI agent?” Spencer furrowed his eyebrows in faux confusion.

“God will forgive me for what I must do,” Cyrus said calmly. Too calmly. Spencer gulped as he heard the clicking sound of his gun. He caught the sight of you gaping and eyes widened in horror as a gun aimed against his head.

“I- I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“One of you does. Who is it?”

“Me,” your voice was firm, slicing through the thick tension. Spencer slowly turned his head towards you with a wide eye. You glared at him with an eye that screamed don’t you dare at him, determination and fear swirled together in your eyes made him shiver. He could feel dread and helplessness slowly sinking in. “It was me.”

Cyrus lowered his gun that aimed at Spencer, slowly turned his direction towards you. Spencer shot you a glare and silently demanded you for explanation at your stupid sacrifice. You had just deflated your own fear and bargained for your safety in order to save him. There was a bitter taste curled and overwhelmed him at the tip of his tongue upon knowing he couldn’t do anything to diffuse the situation.

Spencer let his shoulder sink a little bit as Cyrus silently holstered his gun into his pants, allowing himself a brief relief upon knowing that he didn’t have to watch your demise today. It took everything inside him not to jump and inserted himself in between you and Cyrus as he yanked you to the ground by hair and a sound of your pained whimper filled the room. He couldn’t even bring himself to flinch when a rifle aimed towards him as his eyes fixated on the sight of you being dragged across the room.

“I told you not to put me in this position!” Cyrus snarked, releasing his hold on you and slammed you to the concrete floor. Spencer bit the inside of his cheeks and could feel the tip of his fingertips go frozen as dread and fear pumped rapidly into his system.

The sound of you being slapped filled the room made him flinch a little bit. He glanced briefly towards the rifle against him, giving him a brief break from the horrifying sight before him. Spencer could feel anger and disappointment filled him with the knowledge that he couldn’t do anything besides watching you being beaten mercilessly by Cyrus. It was supposed to be him. It was supposed to be him who took all the beating instead of you. You were everything good left in the world and you are a living reminder that there are lights and hope in life despite all the horror and worst face of humanity he was constantly being contaminated with.

What would he do if you were gone then? The brief horrifying thought flashed before his eyes as he watched Cyrus slammed your defenseless body into the ground again. He could feel hot tears prickling in his eyes at the thought of living his life in void and helplessness if you ceased to exist before his eyes. Spencer collapsed his balled fist into his lap as the realization that he couldn’t live without you washed through him.

Spencer squeezed his eyes shut as your body was slammed against the wall and hit the mirror, refusing to picture the sharp shard of glass cutting your skin.

“Proverb 23rd tells us that bloods and wounds cleanse out evil,” Cyrus recited as he yanked you by the collar again and slammed you against the wall. Spencer could feel anger and disdain boiled inside him as he watched your body helplessly fall into the floor after the impact of your collision with the wall.

“I can take it,” you said with a firm voice. Spencer caught your eyes briefly as your eyes flickered in between him and Cyrus that stood in between you and him.

His heart fell into the bottom of his stomach like a heavy sandbag. He knew what you meant from your firm stares alone. You only said that to reassure him and signal the team outside not to come in a rush. It was a minimal loss situation, Spencer had concluded. He drew a sharp breath as he mentally prepared himself for a situation where he couldn’t possibly save everyone and had to accept however many people he could save while others perished.

Spencer glanced up to meet your eyes again before Cyrus moved to block his sight. He furrowed his eyebrows at the sight of your eyes screaming I’m fine, I’m okay at him with blood flowing freely from your broken nose. Dread settled painfully in his bones that the possibility of the team having to choose between your life or his was too close than he liked.

He blinked his eyes to shoo away the tears that threatened to fall. He couldn’t afford it. He couldn’t risk blowing up another cover that guaranteed his life when you had sacrificed yours for him.

Cyrus beat and slapped you for another round with disdain painted clearly on his face. “Pride comes before the fall,” he said as he punched your stomach and slammed you to the floor, thinking you were antagonizing him as you repeatedly said you could take it. Spencer let out a relieved sigh as Cyrus took a step back from you and left you shaking with pain on the ground, instructed Cristopher to tie you up and took you upstairs.

Not today, he reassured himself. Forcing himself to be satisfied and grateful for your spared life. Not today.

***

Spencer had just successfully coaxed Cyrus into testing the negotiator for the FBI and proving them that they were not a liar and ensuring your safety. Disgust and anger brewing at the pit of his stomach every time Cyrus glanced his eyes towards him. He somewhat marveled at the plain trust Cyrus gave him effortlessly. The memory of him beating you hadn’t left his mind, still painted fresh and clear as if it still happened before his eyes. He had to mentally restrain himself from glaring in disgust at the thought of Cyrus molesting a child and beating you up until bloody and bruised.

“What is it, Christopher?” Cyrus addressed his man that had been trying to shot down Spencer’s suggestion regarding the situation. Only then Spencer turned his attention fully at him who had been pacing around in agitation repeatedly.

“Some of them had been talking about leaving,” he sighed.

“Leaving?” Cyrus pressed his lips together as Christopher affirmed his question. Spencer balled his fist and hid it inside the pocket of his pants as he waited in antagonizing anticipation with whatever next step Cyrus would take. “Wake the baby. Let’s get them meet the orphan that they made.”

Spencer nodded mutely at Cyrus’s decision. He let out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding this whole time, letting himself loose a little bit and allowed himself to feel relief washed through him. Cyrus had taken the big bait and he had ensured your safety with his lies and negotiation skill. It was the least thing he could do after what you did for him.

He knew he would be damned if he couldn’t get you out of his god forsaken place alive. For now he just has to give and surrender with whatever fate is waiting for him into the hands of the team waiting outside. He took one longing glance outside from the window, wishing that he would be staring into the starless sky with you right now.

***

Spencer watched from the back silently as the members of the cult filled the empty chair inside the chapel one by one. What was once an empty and quiet chapel now buzzing with life and the air was stale and raked with fear. The negotiation test went as smoothly as Spencer could wished for. He heard Rossi rattling out your identity to Cyrus in exchange for your safety from a speaker phone as they released the orphan into the team outside.

You emerged from the opposite end of the chapel, a swarm of children and women pushed through from behind you. Spencer stared and watched the way the sunlight that slips through the chapel window fell into your skin. The glowing sunlight from behind your back casted a halo behind your figure. He noticed that your blood had been cleaned up and there were a few specks of dried blood on the collar of your shirt. Some newly formed bruises littered your face, angry and red and was a painful sight to behold. He hated it.

Cyrus was listing out names from the list he had written the day before as Spencer slowly made his way towards you. Everyone’s attention was focused on their leader calling out the names on the altar, but Spencer’s focus was solely on you. Your eyes were watching Cyrus solemnly as you leaned yourself into the wall to support your weight.

Spencer lifted his hand to touch your face and stopped midair before he realized a tad bit too late. His finger twitched painfully with a burning desire to feel you underneath his fingertips, but he couldn’t risk another round of beating and blowing up plans that had been rolling quite smoothly so far.

Guilt surged inside him like the sea, disdain and bitterness brewing and threatening to explode from the bottom of his stomach. He could feel himself dying a little bit inside at the frightening state you were in, all because you were sacrificing your life for him. For his sake when he wasn’t even sure he deserved it.

You finally acknowledged his presence and spared him a glance. Your eyebrows furrowed together in distress and Spencer had to restrain himself from the temptation to put his thumb in between your eyebrows and smoothen out your stress wrinkle between your eyebrows. If he could take away all your pain, he would.

“He looks pissed,” you whisper-yelling at him. Spencer couldn’t bring himself to respond to your words. Even after you took the downfall and hard beatings for him, you still think about other’s well-being instead of yours.

You took another glance towards him from the lack of response from his part. Your eyes scanned his face briefly before your lips twitched into a soft, reassuring smile. “I’m okay. It’s not as bad as it looks.”

Spencer shook his head, refusing to believe your words. “I’m so sorry,” he croaked, his voice hoarse and full of regret scratching his throat painfully.

“No, no,” you shook your head and quickly squashed his apology. “No apologies. We both know one of us has to take it.”

“But why should it be you?” Spencer hissed through his greeted teeth. His distress and agitation, and overall emotions that he had been trying to tuck and buried it away seeped into the surface. He could feel his mask cracking and threatened to be broken, and he was thankful for the roaring voice of Cyrus listing out names that masked his own. “Why should it be you? Why couldn’t it be me?”

“He had a gun against your head, Reid!” you hissed back with an equal amount of emotions laced on your voice. “I couldn’t risk it. I couldn’t let them kill you. I know they would kill you first if one of us refused to answer. I can’t, Spencer, I—” you took a sharp breath and glanced away from his prying wide eyes. He could hear your voice wavering and your eyes glossed with tears. “Look at the people he’s releasing.”

“It’s the one who failed the loyalty test,” he observed. The previous slip of emotions was being put to the back of his mind again as he noticed the new fact he just found. “I’ll get word to the team, wait for the sign from outside indicating what time the raid will come.”

You stared at him with a wide eye, confusion and fear swirled together. You looked so vulnerable and small like that, like a polished porcelain that could crumble into dust anytime. Spencer nodded firmly and gave you a reassuring smile, silently asking you to believe him. He almost jolted with surprise when you grabbed his hand and squeezed it tightly and briefly, understanding what he was trying to do.

“Be careful,” you whispered.

He nodded and turned away to make his way to Cyrus, not believing himself to utter any single words without breaking down. He was determined to make sure you were safe and would make it out alive, whatever it takes.

“Told her she shouldn’t have blinded you like that,” Spencer told Cyrus with a faux exasperation and disappointment. He shuddered when Cyrus nodded sympathetically.

“To either of us,” he corrected him sympathetically, which made Spencer want to do nothing but curl up in disgust. Cyrus jerked his chin towards your direction and addressed Christopher, “Bring her back.”

Spencer watched you being dragged up by your upper arms into wherever they were keeping you. He forcefully gulped and shook away the lump of dread on his throat, disbanding it as soon as it was formed. His eyes were apologetic and yours were nothing but filled with determination and forced bravery.

Those who had failed for the test were ushered out of the farm through the front door. Spencer mentally counted the amount of people who walked out into a guaranteed safety, relieved that it held a much greater amount that he had prepared. It was only a matter of saving the rest and finding a way in for the team to bring you and him out of this place.

Cyrus was making his final and last negotiation call with Rossi, asking for a fried chicken and its sides for their last supper and the presence of media to document his sacrifice to God. A suicide attempt to bring down himself and his faithful fanatic followers was a more appealing option to him rather than surrender himself to the authority apparently. It was obvious from the first time Spencer stepped into the building, but it still didn’t fail to fill him with dread and fear.

“I’m always looking for signs of things to come,” Spencer explained to Christopher with a polite smile after he demanded how he had known Cyrus’s plan of final act of sacrifice all along. He maintained his gaze firmly and silently wishing that the team would catch his words through the parable microphone planted outside. It would be his only hope and way for them to come in.

***

Thick smog and fire blinded his sight and blocked his way. Spencer stumbled upon a block of brunt wooden log as Morgan dragged his limping body outside the chapel. Cyrus was dead, but Jesse had finished his suicide mission by blowing up the chapel and the rest of the building. He could hear sirens blaring outside and faint sounds of wails and fearful screams mixed together in the air.

The thought of you trapped inside the building flashed before his eyes for a moment. He didn’t have a moment to glance back to make sure about your whereabouts as he kept coughing and stumbling, Morgan’s grip still firm on his upper hand to drag him outside into safety. Fear started to paralyze his body that he nearly fell into the concrete fall face first. He just needed to see you, to make sure you were safe.

He didn’t know that the sight of armed soldiers and police cars could bring an immense amount of comfort for him. Spencer nearly cried at the overwhelming relief that he was out unharmed, slipped by the last strand of his hair from his ultimate demise. But he couldn’t allow himself to be relieved and comfortable before he knew where you were. Before he knew if you were safe.

“Spencer!” your voice came faintly in between the chaotic sirens and the sound of angry fire eating up the chapel. “Morgan!”

Spencer watched you squirm out of Emily’s embrace, running limpy towards him. He knew he had burst into tears as soon as his eyes landed on you, safe, alive, although littered with bruises and dried blood on your shirt. His shoulders sank and shook as your arms wrapped around him tightly, all the horror, fear, and dread that he didn’t allow himself to feel in the past few days before had rushed into him and knocked all the air out of his lungs.

Relief and comfort of knowing you were safe in his arms was a breath of fresh air for his burned lungs. Usually he would squirm at the thought of touching someone, but the steady rise of your chest as you breath against him overcame all the unfortunate uncomfortable thoughts that came with the activity of hugging someone.

“You’re safe,” Spencer gasped as he released you from his embrace. He was aware that everyone was watching him hugging you and he fought all the mortification that slowly crept up his cheeks. He tried to mask it away as being a relief to find his coworker made it out alive from the sticky hostage situation.

“I’m okay, I’m okay,” you reassured him with one last firm squeeze on his arms. He wanted nothing but to pull you into his arms again, shield you for any harms lurking in the outside world. The anger that had been forgotten on the back of his mind surged inside him again. But he had to be satisfied with only one final squeeze as you parted from him to be checked by the paramedics.

The flight back to Quantico was quiet and a peaceful one. Everyone was winding up and breathing from the horror of the case that just wrapped up. Spencer tried his best to distract his mind with his book, burrowed in the furthest corner of the jet as the comforting and steady hum of the jet lulled him to sleep.

You slipped into the empty seat right across from him. A weak smile and a timid greeting were exchanged between you and silence followed right after. Spencer knew what conversation would follow after this, and he didn’t want to face it just yet. He had stopped reading from the moment you took the seat and watched him with careful eyes, but he still put up the act in the hope it would steer you away from bursting his bubble.

It did not. Spencer didn’t put up a fight as you gently took his book away from his hands and placed it gently on the table.

“I need you to listen to me,” you started with a firm voice. You were wearing the nice lilac shirt that Spencer liked, and the bruises on your face had started to heal and fade away. “What Cyrus did to me is not your fault. It was my decision and I would do it again.”

Spencer opened his mouth to say something, but you tilted your head with your lips pressing together, discouraging him to counter your statement. He took a sharp breath and shook his head.

“Do you hear me?” your voice was softer this time. Your hands silently reached for his and held them gently. Your thumb made a soothing pattern on his knuckles, a reassuring and determined smile was on your face. Spencer couldn’t look away even if he wanted to. “Do you hear me, Spencer? I will do it again. It wasn’t your fault. It was my decision.”

“I know,” he answered finally.

“Thank you.”

“Please know that I will do the same for you.”

His words had caught you off guard. You stared briefly before nodding, patting the top of his hand gently with your hand as you gave him a really bright smile. Spencer let himself sink further into the comfortable leather seat and let relief washed through him again. Everything will be okay.

#spencer reid #minimal loss #criminal minds #spencer reid imagine #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid x y/n #spencer reid x you #cm #spencer reid fluff #spencer reid angst #cm fluff #cm angst #mgg #matthew gray gubler #minimal loss reimagined

[forthechubbies]

What's Wrong With Secretary Park?!

Synopsis• If balancing work and a stubborn ex-husband isn't hard enough, Let's add the boss’s seven sons falling head over heels for her to mix.

Category's• Romcon, Comedy, Office Au.

Duos• BTS X Reader

A spin-off of the original series ‘ What's Wrong With Secretary Kim’ Bangtan Edition! Starring the Handsome, Seo-Joon Park as the Ex husband.

There will be more parts but I didn’t want the title to be to long.

EP. One Two

“ Mrs. Park, Good Morning!”

“Mrs. Park, What does my schedule look like today?”

“Mrs. Park, Your coffee keeps me alive.”

In case you haven’t noticed, Park Yn, I’m the secretary to Jeon Sung-ho, the CEO of Dnd Parmatech, 85 percent of the time, newly build hospitals or centers use our funds as kickstarts. Daily I make schedules, appointments, filing documents, answering calls, and blah blah blah.

Is it boring? Yes, I know. However, quite refreshing coming from my hectic marriage. Once upon a time, I was wedded to the marvelous actor Park Seo-Joon for three years. I sat in the limelight and even had the privilege to play the part of his wife in movies. Sigh. Although the attention and riches were grand, no amount of expensive counseling could save our marriage. We never saw eye to eye on anything, and his short temper wasn’t helping.

Knowing my worth, I packed up and left without a doubt in my head. However, The documentation of our separation wasn’t finalized due to a certain one refusing to sign off on the divorce agreement. So physically, I’m still Mrs. Park but ain’t no piece of paper telling who I belong too.

Whatever! I have too much to focus on already! Game on, Game on! First, I got to get these papers approved and signed by Mr. Jeon then-

Buzz Buzz Buzz!

Who’s calling-

Speak of the devil. I could have sworn I deleted his contact a long time ago! “ What Seo-Joon? I’m busy-“

“ When is this little temper tantrum going to end? Darling, I think you made your point.”

“My point?! Listen here, You slimy son of-” Now, Now Yn calm down calm down don’t let him get a rise out you that just what he wants. A quick exhale should do the trick. “ Seo-Joon, I believe we reached an agreed on no type of communication unless it revolves around the settlement for the divorce.”

How is it possible I can physically see his snarky face?

Seo-Joon stretched out his list of complaints.” It’s been over a year. I miss your kisses, soft skin, that cute birthmark on your-“

“ You will not talk about such embarrassing things over the phone!” Thank goodness, Nobody was around to hear me shot like that.

“Why is this divorce still an issue?!” There goes that temper again-How whinny can one man be? “ If you don’t stop this, I will take matters into my own hands.”

I laughed. “ Ha, Seo-jerk, I’m not scared of you! Do your worst because It doesn’t matter if you drag me back home; it doesn’t subside the problem being over our marriage.” I feel like a broken record at this point. “ If this isn’t about the papers, this conversation is over, Mr. Park; please refrain from calling me again, goodbye.”

He chuckled and mumbled something along the lines of, “ Your cute acting cheeky like this.” The rest he continued louder “ Those delicate hands of yours were made to indulge in the finest silk and satin I can obtain, not working nine to five at whatever job hired a housewife with zero work ethic. I just know I haven’t touched your side of the room since that night- I love you, Mrs.Park, I always will.”

He hung up. You know, after he finished insulting my new lifestyle and calling me a useless housewife, the ‘ I love you’ bit at the end sounds sincere, but he is an actor! Of course.

Hmph! Just because I’m working for myself for one doesn’t mean I’m miserable. I’m actually in love with my job, It pays well with benefits, and I sat on my butt all day. If that pompous little bedazzled turd thinks making me the butt of his jokes will get me back in his arms, he has another thing coming!

“Um, Mrs. Park?”

“ What!” I snapped. “ Oh, Hoseok, I’m sorry!” I bowed my head; the poor thing nearly jumped out of his shoes.

Hoseok beamed his warm heart-shaped smile at me. “ Oppa is having a family meeting today; I guess I’m the first to show.”

I wasn’t informed about a meeting today from Mr.Jeon, maybe because it’s a family affair.

“Tada!” He cutely squeaks. A tasteful package breakfast alongside a tall cup of what I presume is a coffee from..’ Thanks Nature’!

“Oh my- Hobi, this cafe is across town-”

“I overhead Oppa scolding you for skipping meals one day and I’m here to do the same, don’t skip meals or else We will be hurt if something happens to you.” Hoseok pointed at the pack. “ Eat every bit.”

Hoseok displayed a small heart using his index finger and thumb, hopping off to his father’s double doors.

Mr. Jeon has seven sons in all. The man is a true saint; men like him and his sons are why I still believe not all men are dogs. After losing his wife to heart cancer, He just about went bankrupt, donating all he had to have found cures to multiple diseases hoping nobody else had to suffer his same heartbreak.

Love found him again in an orphanage just north of here, ‘Seoul Children Home.’ His first son, Kim Seokjin, at the time Jin was already in his teenage years, making it difficult for him to find a family due to the high demand of couples wanting a single-digit child. His birth family mistreated him, but he was beaten everywhere except his face to keep his handsome appearance. The family decided to put his money-maker to fair use and attempted to sell him. Seokjin saw his opportunity and high-tailed, landing himself in the orphanage where he happily lends a helping hand every chance he got. He learned how to read, write, cook, clean, and even tend to the tots when the nuns were busy.

This is how he met his slightly younger brothers, Min Yoongi, Jung Hoseok, and Kim Namjoon; when being chosen for adoption, Seokjin refused to live without his baby brothers by his side.

“ Hello, Noona!”

Oh, Look just in time, “ Hello, You’re father is in his office.”

Namjoon eyed my edible gift from Hobi and raised his eyebrow as well as a question. “ So this is why Hyung left so early in the morning for-and I hope you’re having a good morning, Noona.”

I’m not older than them. Why do they call me Noona? Do I look old!?

“ Yn, Good morning! How are you!” Jin greeted me with English this morning. He must have been practicing with Namjoon lately.

“ I’m Fine. Seokjin.”

“Chu.” He blew a kiss my way. “ You’re not fine. You’re amazeing.”

“Amazing.” Namjoon corrected for the sidelines.

“Same thing.”

“Pronunciation is everything, Hyung.”

They stopped halfway from their dad’s office. Jin grinned. Wait, I know that smile; oh no, here comes a dad joke.

“ Hey, Namjoon-You know the reason I took the elevator instead of the stairs?”

Namjoon sighed. “ No, why?”

"I don't trust stairs. They're always up to something." Jin burst out laughing and clapped his hands.

I giggled not from the joke, but Jin has a contagious laugh.

“See, Yn has good taste.”

A slow deep groan entered the office belonging to Yoongi, lagging. “ I heard that terrible joke from the elevator.” Yoongi waved and leaned against my desk. “ Good Morning.”

“Good Morning.”

There was an awkward pause before Yoongi tapped my desk and pointed to his dad’s office from walking that way.

“Yoon-Yoongi!?”

He turned back towards me.

“ I have something for you. I packed it up on the way here.” Getting off my butt, I walked up and gave him a bottle of his favorite black ice coffee. Ew. I don’t know how he drinks it with no cream or sugar.

Yoongi smiled his gummy smile. “ Thank you for thinking of me.”

“You’re welcome.” And off he goes into the office as well.

Yoongi isn’t the biggest fan of human interaction, but he put forth an endeavor towards me, whether it’s a light ‘ Hi or Hello” or the simplicity of a wave. I admire his gusto. Sidenote, He’s so adorable-I know I know I shouldn’t be gushing over my boss’s son, but his chubby cheeks and almond eyes melt my heart like butter on toast!

Ahem-I better get back to answering those emails and drink this beautiful cup of expensive mud before it gets lukewarm. Yummy, The delectable taste is a boost of serotonin! I really should get to work buuut Hobi did command me to get every last bit and technically he is my boss through some type of weird relative aspect. He is the boss.

Just in a moment of seconds, The breakfast and drink was trash. Something that good should be sinful. I feel terrible I should have saved some for the babies; they would have some, especially Jungkook.

The babies should be here any minute.

#bts imagines #bts fanfic #bts fic #bts imagination #bts imagine #bts smut #bts namjoon #bts run #bts #bts army #poly ot7 #ot7 x reader #bangtan #bts x chubby reader #bts x reader #bts kim namjoon #bts kim taehyung #jimin x reader #namjoon x you #kim namjoon x y/n #bts jung jungkook #jungkook x y/n #jungkook x reader #bts series #kim seokjin #seokjin x reader #jhope x reader #taehyung x reader

[bansept]

Ichihime Week | Day 1: Flowers

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

Ichigo scratched his head, his thoughts running wild in his head as he stared at the internet research. Once upon a time, he fell in love, started to date the woman who loved him back and all was well in the most beautiful of many worlds. Honestly, everything with Orihime, now that they were officially together, was marvelous. Waking up, while it was fastidious before, was oh so sweet now. Going to his work, taking a meal, hell, even walking in the streets was a source of unlimited happiness if his beautiful girlfriend was by his side.

Not everything was all shiny and butterflies though: with some occasional “fights” between them, and moments of silence that go with the dating experience, Ichigo was always left feeling guilty. Everyone assumed it was for no reason, since it was normal to chew a bone occasionally. But then, the same people had not been the greatest of help finding the perfect way to reveal his feelings for the auburn beauty, and the young man had to it alone, so, he’d rather not listen to unexperienced dead souls.

A few days ago, Ichigo had been a dick. An unpleasant one. After a long day of listening to nonsense sputtered by tiny kids, who did not want to obey the requests of “an orange top man” and stretch properly otherwise they would be in pain, having the same remarks from an older sensei about his lack of smile and being drenched to the bone because of sudden rain, Ichigo had been exhausted. So much he had grumbled at Orihime, and made her feel like she was bothering him by welcoming him with open arms when, quite exactly, it was the opposite. But, of course, with his greatest weapon – grumpiness – he had managed to push her away, shut this enlightening smile of hers. She had forgiven him later, shrugging it off as “it’s just a bad day, it happens from time to time”.

So now, ashamed of his behavior, feeling unworthy to even look at her without a proper apology, he was asking to google what to do. A few ideas popped in his mind, but one can never be too sure about them.

Flowers. They could mean someone carrying their courage and revealing the truth about their feelings. They could mean an apology, a vibrant “I’m sorry” as well as a desire to remain close. Very good.

.

.

.

It was stormy outside, once again. This time equipped with a large umbrella, Ichigo walked to the ABCookies bakery, frowning at how utterly impossible it was to hide the bouquet of bright white and soft orange flowers with the green herbs surrounding them. People glanced at him, mumbling about how he was either trying to be forgiven for something or trying to have a good night. He ignored them, stopping at the corner of the shop.

Deep breaths. He could do it. He had to. Orihime would forgive him for almost anything, because she loved him deeply, but he would man up and truly deserve forgiveness.

The door opened with the sound of a light bell, right above the door, and Orihime was not to be seen behind the counter. Ichigo frowned, the other worker stopping in his tracks to stare at a tall, orange-haired and clearly confused man.

“Can… I help you with anything?”

Ah. So that guy in the work clothes was obviously new. Great. Ichigo walked closer to the desk, the sound of his shoes in the silent room making it look like he was ready to fight someone.

“Could you tell me where Orihime Inoue is? I have to talk to her.” He requested, nicely and politely.

The man, shorter than him, obviously sporting fewer muscles, looked him up and down, then at the flowers, then at his face.

“Who’s asking her? I’m pretty sure those flowers won’t make you have a date with her.” He questioned, crossing his arms over his chest to look scary, Ichigo guessed.

That little… The Substitute Shinigami breathed in deeply, opening his eyes wider to not yell at the young man, who was probably just doing his job and protecting his co-worker from, maybe, yet another dude asking Orihime for something…

“I’m her boyfriend. Could you please tell her that Ichigo is here? It’s rather important.”

The man behind the counter squinted his eyes at Ichigo, not trusting him, but still going to the back to ask for Hisayo, the “boss” of the co-workers, eldest and responsible of the shop. Who knew Ichigo and shook her head when she saw him standing there like an idiot.

“Yeah, Hiro, he’s right. Orihime and he are dating. Let him through next time, otherwise he’ll scare the clients away.” She chuckled, but her face was unamused, remembering how complicated it had been to convince everyone that no, he wasn’t from a gang and yes, her clients were safe, a few months ago.

The orange-haired man nodded at her and walked at the back of the bakery, in the resting room. There, he saw Orihime enjoying a little snack she had made in the morning, licking her fingers to not waste a drop of wasabi and red bean paste.

“Hime…” He talked, surprising her and making her face him, face full of food. Ichigo tried not to laugh at the spectacle, walking up to her and lowering himself down, crouching to meet her incredulous eyes.

“Ichigo? What are you doing here? I’m supposed to get back to work in 5 minutes…” She wondered, raising her hand to touch his hair and caress it.

“I know, I’m sorry I’m perturbing your time off. But… Listen, I’m so sorry for snapping at you the other day. I was tired, drenched and pissed off, and while none of that excuses my behavior, it still is what happened. Because of my bad mood, I downgraded yours too. Made you feel bad… Which I swore never to.”

He placed the flowers in front of him, right under her nose for her to smell, and her eyes widened again, mouth gaping.

“Ichigo… Really, it’s fine! I told you I understood that you were in a pissy mood the other day. You didn’t need to buy those…” She tried to refuse them, but her eyes had left him to stare intently at the tiny blossoms of white anemones, dahlias and soft orange geraniums. Her boyfriend really was… so many things, from sweet, kind to caring and atrociously scared of hurting her feelings. She needed to reassure him, tell him all was fine.

The young man in front of her watched as she accepted the bouquet with a hand and taking his in her left hand, intertwining their fingers together.

“I know I might be overdoing it… But everyone and everywhere, people say that one tiny thing can ruin a relationship if it’s not tended to, so I want to apologize for every time I’m a dick to you. I… Don’t want to lose you because of my bad temper.” He admitted, blush on his cheeks as if he was mortified to admit this out loud.

Orihime smiled gently, sniffing the flowers for a bit before lowering the bouquet on the table, far from her leftovers, to take Ichigo’s face in her hands, kissing him on the cheek.

“You won’t lose me because you grumbled. Or because you don’t talk to me for an hour. Or something close to that. I’ve known you for years and years, and that behavior is part of who you are, and I love it as much as I love your eyes, your hair or your hands. It’s part of you, and I would be a terrible person to ask you to change that. So… Everything is fine.”

Her eyes were shining like two gems, tiny droplets shaking in them as he nodded his head, hugging her close.

As the two enjoyed their time together, the feeling of being understood and cared for, the other workers left them have their sweet moment together. Ichigo thought, with a smile, he had done a good job bringing flowers with him, if Orihime’s attempts to touch them over and over again was a sign to take into account.

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

Well, well, well. Here it is! Day one of IH week 2021!

I decided to pick “flowers” because I wanted to write something cute but realistic. I think a lot about the thoughts and little scary moments Ichigo can imagine in his big head about his girlfriend, and how insecure that might make him. He might be Soul Society’s savior, he’s still a human boy that never got any kind of indication on how to act around women his age, and certainly not around his own girlfriend.

Flowers can be something cute, romantic, erotic, sad, desperate and so many more things. I decided to go with the meaning of the three flowers I chose: anemones, dahlias and geraniums. Go look them up on internet lol

Thank you for reading this! See you tomorrow for Day 2 hehe

#bleach #ichihime #ihweek2021 #ichigo kurosaki #orihime inoue #ichigo x orihime

[yellowsuitcase]

The Niffler // Draco Malfoy

A/N: I’m really happy with how this turned out! It took me a good three hours to write and I hope you enjoy it!

Summary: A niffler got loose in the Slytherin common room. Draco and Y/N get into an argument. Angst and fluff follow.

Warning(s): Swearing

Word Count: 2.5k

Draco grabbed Y/N’s hand as they made their way to the Great Hall to get some morning tea as well as sausages, eggs, and toast. His ring brushed up against her middle finger, the cold metal shocking to the touch. She turned her head to admire her boyfriend’s handsome side profile. He sensed her eyes on him. Draco smirked and, without warning, went in for a sweet kiss. Y/N let out a small surprised squeal but eagerly kissed him back. Draco began to deepen the kiss, Y/N pulled away. 

“As much as I’d love to snog you all day long—” her stomach growled, “I’m starving. And you have terrible morning breath, love.” 

Draco sputtered, his soft expression turning into a perplexed and shocked one. Y/N simply giggled and dragged him to breakfast.

-----------

Y/N rushed into Greenhouse Three; she’d only just made it in time. As she took her spot at the table, she made a mental note to scold Draco later. Professor Sprout was going on about dittany, and Y/N was trying to pay attention, but a teary-eyed Pansy Parkinson was rather distracting. 

“Pansy!” She whisper-yelled. “Pansy, what’s wrong?”

“Ms. Y/L/N, would you like to tell me the three uses of dittany?” Professor Sprout called out. 

Y/N felt her face turn crimson. Luckily, her mother became a Herbologist after working at the Ministry in the Department of Magical Transportation. 

“Dittany can be used in potion-making, healing magic, and a dittany stalk can be used as a wand core,” Y/N answered. Professor Sprout simply nodded, “Correct, 5 points to Slytherin.”

With Professor Sprout off her back, Y/N was able to speak to Pansy. 

“My necklace is missing. It was a summer gift from my father,” Pansy said while wiping away a tear. Almost all her mascara had been washed away.

“A summer gift? Your father gave you a necklace just because it was sum—” Y/N stopped herself realigned her focus on the problem at hand. “Where did you last see it?”

“I put it on my nightstand last night, this morning it was gone. When I find out who stole it, I’ll hex them. I was thinking the horn tongue hex,” Pansy smirked, “That ought to teach them not to touch my possessions.”

Y/N rolled her eyes. She and Pansy weren’t really friends, but she still felt inclined to help her. Y/N knows that if her emerald choker, given to her by Draco as a birthday gift, had been stolen, she’d be just as upset as Pansy, albeit a bit less.

“Who would’ve stolen your necklace, Pansy?”

“I’ve got no clue, who would do that to me? I mean everyone loves me, I don’t understand!”

Y/N eyes widened as she stared at the empty plant pot in front of her. Surely Pansy wasn’t this thick, was she? If she genuinely believes everyone loves her, she’s got observation skills to develop.

Y/N inhaled through her nose and out through her mouth before asking, “What does it look like? I’ll keep an eye out for it.”

“It’s got three diamonds on each side, with a sapphire gem in the center.”

Y/N nodded and shifted her focus back to her Professor.

----------

Draco spotted his girl from across the hall. She was waiting in their usual meeting spot, the bench outside the Transfiguration classroom. Most of the time, Y/N would have her eyes closed and her head propped against the wall, trying to get in a few moments of shut-eye since she had likely stayed up a few hours longer than she should have the night before. But today, Y/N’s eyes were wide open and scanning every student who walked past her.

The blonde boy weaved his way through the crowd of students and walked up to her.

“What’s got you so tense, love?” he asked as he put his hands on her shoulders, gently massaging them.

Y/N let out a sigh. “Pansy has lost her necklace. She believes it's been stolen. I told her I’d look out for it, but it seems nobody’s wearing any jewelry today.”

Draco frowned. “Since when do you care about Parkinson’s problems? Didn’t she bully you in year 2?”

“Yes, I suppose she did. But it’s been years, we’re young women now, and women help women.”

Draco smiled at his girlfriend’s feistiness and placed a kiss on the crown of her head. “That reminds me, Bulstrode’s been interrogating everyone in Apparition class about the whereabouts of her bracelet.”

“Millicent? That couldn't have been fun.”

“It wasn’t.” 

Just then, Blaise Zabini walked up to the pair, making an effort to avoid Y/N’s eyes, “Malfoy,” he said while looking around suspiciously, “Have you seen my pocket watch anywhere? It’s been stolen.”

Y/N and Draco shared a look. “Haven’t seen it no. How do you know it was stolen?” Draco asked as he removed his hands from Y/N’s shoulders.

“I don’t simply misplace things, Malfoy. Someone had to have stolen it while I was distracted.”

“Well, we haven’t seen it, but we’ll keep an eye out.” Y/N said with a smile the quickly diminished when she heard Blasie’s next words.

“No matter, I’m certain it must’ve been one of your mudblood friends.” He glared at Y/N as he spoke. Very clearly conveying his disapproval of Y/N’s mingling with muggle-born Hogwarts students. 

Y/N visibly shrunk under his fierce gaze. “Watch it, Zabini," Draco spat. He was not enjoying the way Zabini was talking to his girl. 

Zabini said nothing more. He turned on his heel and walked off.

Draco sighed. “Sorry about him, darling.”

Y/N scoffed. “Why are you apologizing? Just a year or two ago, you would’ve agreed with him. Hell, you probably would’ve called me blood traitor every day; you were an arse. I mean, honestly, I still marvel at the fact you were able to stop being a git. What did make you decide to stop bullying everyone who didn’t think purebloods were superior? Huh?”

Draco stood speechless. Y/N was practically fuming, her pupils had shrunk, and her ears were bright red. He looked at her, his hurt expression catching her off guard. She blinked quickly as she realized what she’d just said to him. Her feet stumbled backward, and she took off down the hallway, leaving Draco standing alone as the clock tower bell rang, signaling the beginning of class.

--------

Y/N felt like utter, for lack of a better word, shit. She couldn’t believe she had said all those nasty things to Draco. Thank Merlin it was the last class of the day; after Charms with Professor Flitwick, she’d be able to take a relaxing soak in the Prefect’s Bath. One of her close friends was a Head Girl and would tell Y/N the password to the bathroom if she ever asked.

Y/N heard mumbles behind her. 

“I heard they got into an argument.”

“She really went in on him, he looked shocked, he did.”

“He deserved it that scum bag.”

Y/N turned in her chair, facing the people who were whispering, and twirled her wand between her fingers. Silently suggesting her capabilities. “Can I help you?” She asked while batting her eyelashes. The two Gryffindor students hastily shook their heads. Y/N nodded and turned back around, deciding to actually pay attention to Flitwick’s lecture on the Bubble Head Charm.

Soon enough, the bell rang, and Y/N dragged her feet, leaving the classroom. “Everything alright, Ms. Y/L/N?” Flitwick asked, concern lacing his voice.

“Yes, no need to worry, Professor. I’ll see you next week. I do hope you’ll allow us to practice the Bubble Head Charm in the lake.” 

Professor Flitwick didn’t look entirely convinced, but he smiled and nodded nonetheless.

As she turned the corner, Y/N could sense something was wrong. She surveyed the crowd, searching for someone she knew. A flash of red caught her eye. Fred Weasley. She ran towards him, the crowd whispering as she weaved through them.

“Fred!” she called as she waved her hand. “Fred!” 

He heard her call, “Ah Y/N, what’s up?”

Y/N breathed heavily, catching her breath before asking Fred, “Something’s wrong, what’s happened? Is Draco alright?”

“Take it, easy mate, he’s alright, he’s only lost his ring.”

Y/N felt her heart sink. Draco was quite fond of his Slytherin ring. He was likely not very happy to have lost it, especially after their altercation. She knew she needed to find her boyfriend.

“Thanks, Fred, got to go, see you!”

Fred chuckled as he watched her run off to the dungeons. “Good luck!” He called after her. But she was already out of earshot, adrenaline running through her veins. She was so focused on getting to the Slytherin common room, she hardly noticed she’d already run past it. Her feet skidded across the cold stone floor as she came to a halt. To her defense, it was easy to miss the entrance to the common room. It was a hidden passageway that only appeared when the password was said. Otherwise, it was a bare wall. 

Y/N stood anxiously outside the entrance. “Serpent,” she muttered. The wall moved to reveal a staircase leading down into the common room. Upon her entry, all eyes fell to her.

“Well, well, well. If it isn’t Y/N,” said Pansy, “Would you like to return our stuff, prat?” Some people snickered at her comment. 

“What do you mean? I haven’t stolen anything.”

“Of course, you haven’t. Draco, you agree with me, don’t you? It’s obvious she’s stolen my necklace, Millicent’s bracelet, Blaise’s pocket watch, and your ring. Is it not?”

Y/N’s eyes shifted to Draco. He was standing next to Blaise with his arms crossed, refusing to make eye contact with his girlfriend. 

“I can’t be sure,” he uttered.

“Draco, you know I wouldn’t,” Y/N said in desperation. She knew she looked bad.

“Prove it,” he said while lifting his eyes to glare at her.

 “Go on then, shake out your robes,” Pansy said. More laughter arose.

Y/N begrudgingly stripped her robe and held it in front of her. She pulled out the pockets, flipped it upside down. The only thing that fell out was two pieces of Fizzing Whizbees, a sherbet ball that made you float a few feet off the ground. It was her guilty pleasure. 

Pansy’s smirk lessened. “Well, you could have hid—”

She was cut short as Professor Snape and Hagrid came bursting into the common room. Snape looked very irritated as he glanced at Hagrid, who took that as his cue to speak. 

“I ‘ave reason ter believe a niffler ‘as gotten loose in ‘ere. I’ll need everyone ter help search fer the little guy.”

Pansy’s face turned red with embarrassment. It was apparent now who the culprit was. Nifflers were known for their excellent treasure locating skills. They’re always on the hunt for shiny objects, of which the Slytherin students had many. 

Y/N felt relief flow through her. Her name was cleared, but now they had a new task, find the niffler, as well as the items it stole.

They searched for what felt like hours. Millicent had found her bracelet and Blaise his pocket watch. Pansy’s necklace and Draco’s ring were still missing. Y/N was currently searching through a wooden cupboard. As she was lifting the random items within it, she came across something shiny. Upon further investigation, she realized she’d found the ring. Excitement rushed through her as she yelled, “Found it!”

Only she wasn’t the only one to have yelled. Turning around, she saw Draco holding the little niffler by the scruff of its neck. It was squirming in his grip. Swiftly, he grabbed its foot and gave it a shake, out fell his ring, which he quickly caught and pocketed.

Anger flashed behind his eyes, “I’ll kill this filthy rat,” he said as he raised his wand. Just as he opened his mouth to curse the niffler, Y/N shouted, “Expelliarmus!”

Draco’s hawthorn wand was ripped from his hand and cast across the room. Most students took this as their cue to leave; they didn’t want to be caught in the middle of Draco’s rage. On her way out, Pansy snatched her necklace from Y/N’s hand.

Hagrid stumbled over to him and gently took the niffler from him. “Thank yeh, Y/N,” he said kindly. Y/N nodded, sad to see the little guy go. She was rather fond of nifflers. A fact Draco knew of. She gazed at him. He was seething as he thrust his ring back onto his finger. 

“Go on then, yell at me, call me a git again. You said it yourself, I’m an arse.”

Her heart clenched. She really fucked up.

A few beats passed before she said, “Draco, I’m sorry. There’s no excuse for what I said to you. You didn’t deserve any of it. I was just angry at Zabini, and I took it out on you. He made me feel weak and stupid, and I was embarrassed. You only stood up for me. I had no place calling you a git and an arse. You’re not. You’re the complete opposite. You’re so much more than I deserve, and I’m so sorry. I’m so fucking sorry.”

A tear slid down her cheek. She knew his harsh words were coming. She closed her eyes tightly and bit her lip hard, bracing herself for it. But nothing came. Tentatively she opened her eyes. They were met with the sight of Draco’s chest. She tilted her head up, rubbing away her tears with her arm. Draco was looking down at her with an unreadable expression on his face.

A few moments passed, and Draco hadn’t said a word. Y/N thought it was over. This must be where he was going to end things between them. She began to cry again, burying her face in her hands.

“Oh sweetheart, come here, It’s alright, I forgive you.”

Draco’s arms wrapped around her. His hand came up behind her head and guided it to the crook of his neck. Y/N only sobbed harder. The weight of the embarrassment and stress endured that day finally crashing down on her. 

He began to stroke her hair. “I’m here, love, you’re okay.”

He held her in his arms for a while until gradually, her sobs turned to sniffles. She gently pulled away from him and peeked up at him. He smiled softly and pressed a tender kiss to her forehead and then to her lips. “Let’s get you some water, and then it’s off to bed. We’ve had an exhausting day, haven’t we darling?”

Y/N let out a chuckle. “We have.”

Draco’s eye’s twinkled with playfulness. Suddenly, he reached behind Y/n and scooped her up into his arms, bridal style. They both giggled like young children as he began to walk them up to their dorms. 

Y/N admired his side profile once again. “I love you, Draco,” she said quietly.

He looked down at her. “And I love you.” They shared another kiss. “Oh, and before you ask, yes, I’ll go apologize to Hagrid and the niffler tomorrow.”

Y/N smiled brightly. “You better,” she said with a stifled laugh. And off they went to get some well-deserved sleep.

#draco malfoy x reader #draco malfoy imagine #draco fanfiction #draco malfoy x you #draco malfoy #niffler #fred weasley #pansy parkinson #blaise zabini #millicent bulstrode #snape #severus snape #hagrid #rubeus hagrid #flitwick #professor flitwick #professor sprout #magical creatures #slytherin

[bittykimmy13]

Luck and Miracles (GT Angst)

In which a trapped trinket is discovered.

Warning: Mentions of cruelty

Characters and universe belong to me and the lovely @marydublin5​ / @little-miss-maggie​ 💕

Charles was lucky to be alive. And that was about where his luck ran dry.

He had been trapped for over a day. Footsteps thundered past his prison constantly, but no one gave a crushed beer can a second glance. He knew it was only a matter of time before someone stepped on the can or whisked it up to toss it in the trash. All his attempts to squeeze past the crumpled aluminum were in vain. With each failed effort, he only exhausted himself further.

Of all the ways to die as a trinket, he hadn’t seen this one coming.

It had been a seemingly routine night at the bar. He was ordered with a fancy drink, abandoned in the glass when the customer was done with him. Then another man, on his way back to his friends, had come by and plucked him up before a server could clear the table. 

Before Charles knew it, a group of humans had crowded around him at a corner booth to keep him from sight. Huge faces marveled and sneered at his size. They normally couldn’t afford trinkets, judging by their choice of cheap beers. Charles had every intention of riding out the situation, but he knew he was in trouble when one of the guys posed the question of whether a trinket could fit through the top of a can.

He still had shallow cuts on his arms and legs—a parting gift from his struggle when he was forced through the sharp opening. The beer had stung the wounds when he dropped in. Laughter had rattled through the can. Being a bar trinket was hellish enough, but a new fear had drenched him in the darkness. There was no warning when the can would be lifted and chugged at. 

It seemed he was forgotten by the end of the night. Or perhaps the men worried they would get into trouble for snatching a trinket. Whatever the case, Charles’ prison had been carried outside. With little warning, the top of the can was crushed into itself, and he felt himself plummet. The impact on the sidewalk knocked him out cold. It was a miracle he had survived the fall.

Luck and miracles. What a joke.

Weak and dehydrated, he finally caved and drank from the shallow pool of beer trapped with him. He knew logically that it would only make things worse, but at least he could trick himself for a few minutes that he was nourishing himself.  Before long, he felt weaker than ever, head buzzing.

The slight drunkenness injected a futile bit of confidence—just enough to make another escape attempt. He tried to shove his way through the concave part of the can. The opening let in a sliver of light, taunting him with freedom that was inches out of reach. He only managed to rock his prison and make himself dizzier. 

Footsteps pounded nearby, disturbing the can more than Charles’ worthless struggles. He slumped back down on his hands and knees, barely able to hold himself up.

The footsteps stopped.

They trailed closer, closer, then stopped again.

Charles held his breath, realizing the can had finally been noticed. This was it. He was going to be thrown away. Maybe this time the fall would kill him. But there was an unnervingly long pause like the giant was waiting for something to happen.

A man’s voice came from high above. “Hello?”

Choking on his trapped breath, Charles realized his movements had been noticed. He didn’t budge again, praying the giant would lose interest when nothing happened. But it was too late. 

Aluminum creaked as fingers closed around the outside of the can and lifted it upright. He slid to the bottom, bracing himself when a shadow darkened overhead. He glimpsed a blue eye peeking through the opening. The eye widened when it spotted him huddling in the darkness.

The giant uncrushed the can, making the walls groan and crackle. Charles whimpered and ducked his head, feeling the same stab of fear from last night that the aluminum would pulverize him.

“I’ll get you out of there,” the owner of the eye said, remarkably calm. A fingertip grazed the opening experimentally. A sigh. “You’ll cut yourself if you go through there. Hang on.”

The can was carried off. A car door opened and shut, and the giant settled into a seat. Charles braced his back against the damp wall, flinching at the sound of metallic rifling until the giant found whatever he was looking for.

“Keep your head down,” the voice commanded. “I’m cutting this open.”

Something stabbed through the wall near the top of the can, prompting Charles to do as he was told. The sharp point circled around until the entire ceiling of Charles’ prison was lifted away. Light stung his eyes. He squinted up at his captor, spotting curly brown hair and intense eyes that did not seem to match the mild voice. 

The giant reached for him. Charles reared against the metal wall, batting at the fingers. 

“D-don’t touch me!”

His attempts to evade were pathetic at best. The fingers gently pinned him before gradually curling to take him into their grasp. He expected to hear a scoff or sinister chuckle as he continued to fight. Instead, he was met with murmured assurances. 

“It’s alright,” the voice said, patient. “You need to get out of there. It’ll only take a second. I won’t hurt you.”

The giant brought Charles before his gaze, which searched him up and down. For what, Charles couldn’t be sure. He continued to squirm weakly as the giant briefly turned his attention away to rifle for something else. The next thing Charles knew, he was seated on the giant’s lap upon a handkerchief the size of a picnic blanket. A bowl of water was pressed into his hands—no, a water bottle cap.

“Drink,” the giant said simply. He mostly held the cap, coaxing Charles to drink as much as he could. He could only manage half the cap, after which he shook his head for no more. 

The cap was pulled away. Before Charles could even wonder what would come next, the giant hands gathered him up along with the handkerchief. Charles huddled into the cloth, flinching severely each time to the giant nudged a fold closer to dry the beer off him.

“Don’t worry,” the giant murmured. “You’ll be able to clean up properly soon. I’ll get you some food at home, too.”

“H-home?” Charles croaked. He dared to meet the giant’s eyes, almost losing his nerve at the stare he was met with. “W-what do you want with me?”

“To help.”

Charles scoffed before he could consider that humoring the giant might be his best option. But it was too late for that. Charles ducked his head as the giant leaned in closer for a better look.

“Whatever horrible worst-case scenarios are playing in your head right now… none of them are going to happen.” The giant sighed when Charles refused to look at him. “I’m not trying to scare you.”

Unsure what to believe, Charles tentatively peered up. “Why are you doing this? W-who are you?”

“I’m Will. I just… want to help.” He gave Charles a lingering, melancholy look, then glanced side to side through the car windows. “There’s people starting to walk by. We need to go.”

“H-hey!” Charles protested as Will moved him toward his pocket.

The exclamation did him no good. He sank to the bottom of his new prison, wrapped up in the soft cloth. The car started. It was so loud, Charles almost didn’t hear the voice rumbling against him. As the car lurched into motion, Will murmured for Charles not to worry. That he was safe. That he would have his own bed. Plenty of food. Space to roam. Whatever he wanted.

It had to be a fever dream.

Though Charles knew this was all too good to be true, he was willing to hold onto the delusion as long as he could. He settled against the bottom of the pocket, bone-tired. 

Somehow, the darkness began to feel less like a prison. Perhaps because it was warm and calm. Perhaps because, finally, he had been noticed.

#giant tiny #g/t #gt #giant #tiny #gianttiny #size difference #gt angst #mywriting #print universe #trinket universe #will #charles

[justalittletomato]

Make me Yours(smut  Darth Maul X Reader)

(SMUT 18+ please be responsible with the content you read. )

A/N: I mentioned I had some more of this sort of content coming up, and here we are. Here we have three categories, angst, fluff, smut, and more fluff as well as overuse of the word Goddess. Enjoy and as always be responsible for the content you read.  Read more as always on these 

Summary:  They haven’t done this, oh but how they wish too, its new and frightening and everything he should fear. Her tenderness soothes such worried and her kiss is a promise. 

Warnings: penetrative sex, unprotected sex (let me know if I need other ones) 

His connections to others had been limited, seeking to bring pain or only receiving it in return. With only a tether to reach for revenge. This was all he had ever known.

Slowly, a new connection had begun to form, unlike the rest it this was foreign from all he had known and frightening. Love was unknown and always silenced. He should be running from this or trying to destroy it.

To admit weakness was to admit defeat, leaving one open to attack, a strike to a heart left vulnerable.  Yet, here he was in this darkened room with his Starlight. Both beings bare to the other with only candlelight to guide them.

In his memory fire was never gentle it claimed and ate away, but here the candles flickered casting a soft glow to the bedroom. He had never known fire to be almost tame until now.

His Starlight straddled his hips, she wasn’t frightened despite having her bare flesh atop of cold metal. As always she waited and sought to ensure that he was alright. Her fingertips tracing the tattoos around his eyes, there was nothing but love in her gaze. Never had another being referred to him with such tenderness, her hands now holding his face, she asked again if he wanted this.

Never had he been given a choice. His hands moved from the silky sheets to touch her, marveling at the soft flesh of her thighs under his hands, her small gasp was encouraging. She never feared his touch. His hands moved from her thighs to her hips, entranced on how someone so beautiful could be in his grasp. She was ever the responsive type, a breathy sigh heard as those hands went up over her sides and higher brushing over her breasts. She arched back slightly letting him marvel and touch where he pleased, her pretty moans indicative of her enjoyment.

Normally, he was rough in these circumstances, thier time behind the library shelves evident of that. Both of them often having to tug up collars and pulling clothes back in place to hide the marks they left on another.  Those instances were always heated, nothing like this.

She adjusted herself slightly in his lap, the motion causing his cock to brush against her, he couldn't help but moan at the friction. His Starlight moved once more, again another moan threatened to break through but Maul put a hand over his mouth to trap it. She moved his hand away, “ Don’t hold back, Maul. I want to hear every lovey sound you make.”

Long ago he learned not to cry out, not to show any outward display of emotion that did not encompass anger. Now in her arms such actions were sought, they were encouraged. He was able to cry out, moan, shout, and scream; it was an offer he couldn't refuse.  Golden eyes were illuminated  in the darkened room lit only by candles, “As loud as I want?” he needed her confirmation, his Starlight nodded, “And as much as you want.”

Her hands explored his bare form as he did with her, running from his shoulder, down his muscled chest and stomach, to the v shape of his hips, reveling at the groans he gave as she teased lower. they Traveled back up to rest over his atop his hearts, their beats thrumming under her palms, “ Are you nervous?” she asked this only a short distance from his lips, one small movement and they’d touch.

“It’s many things, I can’t name them all,” he confessed leaning a bit so their lips brushed, it was a ghost of a kiss quickly eclipsed by pleasure when Y/N rocked her hips to get closer, her core again teasing his cock.

He wanted nothing more than to throw her down on the sheets, desire pulsing and raging under his skin and causing him to ache.

Maker, the things he wanted to do, ravage her and make her his completely. To curb  these temptations his hands moved to touch and grip at her chest; in his haste his nails pressed a bit too deeply. Y/N yelped at the sudden prick of pain.  Maul immediately released her, arms pulled away and hands balled into fists.

He could feel his nails press into his palms, sharp too sharp for soft skin.  He could already see crescent indents forming at her breasts.  He looked away, he had ruined this already. Her hand reached out to stroke his jaw coaxing him to return back to her, “ You got a little carried away ,” her voice calm, “That’s alright. “

Maul  furrowed his brow, “ Please don’t try to make light of this. This is dangerous. I haven’t..” he pauses, “ I haven’t done anything like this for so long.” he didn’t even recall the first time, and now all those years of isolation, denial of any affections and unreleased rage had sparked these desires to hold down and mark, “My kind can get violent in such moments.”  

Rather than push him away like any sensible person should  Y/N leaned in closer, y e/c eyes bright and her cheeks turning shades darker, “OH.”

She was ever so eager to find out, he could hear it in her small sound of surprise, the notion made him shiver, she truly wanted this. She wanted him. He needed to hear her say it, “Yet you still want to do this, with me?”

Y/N shyly smiled, “ Very much” she kissed his cheek to assure him, “Shall I lay back now?”

They weren’t getting out this…

“Yes,” he breathed, Maker, please let me take her.

She did as requested, her hair laid out on black sheets, as the candles flickered and glowed casting light upon her.  Now Maul didn’t believe in deities but in this moment Y/N was truly a Goddess before him. She smiled at him and spread her legs apart, already aroused by his touch from earlier and the promise this would be something to remember, his cock twitched at the sight.  

Maul placed himself between her legs, staring down at her all laid out for him. Yes, a Goddess was a fitting name for her now. He brushed the head of cock against her folds, already moaning as he began to push in slowly. His own sounds of pleasure echoed by Y/N. Despite her moans, she had to hold him back before he moved in too fast, no matter how good and full he was making her feel, “ You have to go slow, my darling.”

Human and Zabraks together were rare, and the size difference was evident when they first ventured into this. His cock was wider and ridged nothing like a human, without proper preparation, Maul frowned at his overreach. Her body was inviting and warm,  

he wanted nothing more than to just loose himself. But that would hurt his Goddess, he wanted none of that.

Y/N could see his hesitation, “ Just go slow at first, I’ll tell you right away, for now just start slowly,” Maul placed one hand by her head the other helping to guide himself further inside her. He seemed to calculated for such as task, his brow ridge furrowed and his usual scowl deepening. She couldn’t have him like that,  “ Kiss me as you do it.” his Goddess beckoned, Maul relaxed slightly and did as she asked.

Thier lips gently moved together as Maul pushed in between her folds. Focusing on the kiss and making sure to savor each moan she let out.

Maul was already groaning into their kiss, how could this feel so incredible already? He pulled away to look at her, Y/N’s eyes shut and biting her lip as the first ridge was almost done, “Just bit more.” she moaned.

It was permission to continue, instead of his hand gripping the black sheets he laced his fingers with one of her hands the other gripping the pillows behind her. The first ridge was in, the lovers moaned together. It was only the first and Y/N was in pure bliss while Maul kept trying to resist the urge to just sink inside her all at once. He had to resist.

Maybe this was already too much, without warning the ache he had felt increased and caused him to shout, Y/N mewled as he spilled inside her. He shouldn’t have done that, maker could he not even last?

He tried to pull away only for his Goddess to grab him by his shoulders and tighten her legs around his hips, “Don’t…. Don't go.” her already darkened cheeks deepened more, “It’s fine, please don’t go,”

She still wanted him, Maul leaned back in, and nuzzled agains her neck as she whispered into his ear, “ That just shows me how much love I still need to give you, you’ve been without it. So please let me love you.” he lifted his head to kiss her, “You’re too good to me.”

 He took his place again and pushed in further, this time as the second ridge went in Y/N hitched her breath, there was pain, but it was engulfed by how full she felt, Maker humans were ruined now, and he wasn’t even all the way in yet?

“Can I keep going? “ please say yes, he was struggling to make assurances while nestled inside her, all he wanted was to drive his hips forward and bury himself within her.

“ Yes, oh yes,” her answer breathy, “More,” the hands on his shoulders gripped a bit tighter, “ Give me more”

How could he deny her or himself that?

Her hips wriggled, desperate to feel him and take more within her. Each movement bringing Maul to moan as he fulfilled her request, with a groan the last ridge went in.

“OH. Oh Maul” she could cry, it was almost too much, the tinge of pain was present for now. The Zabrak was groaning, grasping at the sheets stopping himself from just slipping out and slamming into her, “ Can I move?” he begged,  “ Goddess, tell me I can move please?”

Goddess?! Maker, he was everything.  She wanted to say yes, oh how she wanted to say yes, “ Just a moment,” she whispered. He listened, slightly grimacing as he had to hold himself back again his nails almost piercing through the silk sheets, and his breaths grew ragged at his efforts. As Y/N’s pain subsided, pleasure began to eclipse her every nerve. She willed her hands to move down  to his arms and have him lace their fingers together, Maul waited with bated breath to hear her request, “Please move ” she was not one to beg but calling her Goddess would do it, “ Please love me.”

“As my Goddess commands,” instead of keeping thier hands joined Maul took the chance to hold her wrists down against the sheets. Y/N heart raced.

Their hips pressed in tune with another, starting slow, he had to be gentle for now. Her parted lips let out whispered praises at the delightful feeling of Maul’s cock slipping  in and out of her. Her eyes half closed and body ever so responsive to his slightest touch. Now this was an exquisite sight, one that would burn in his memory, as well as the remarkable sensations of her pussy enveloping his cock with each thrust. Slow and paced with groans and moans, it was all wonderful, but it wasn’t enough.

He could have had this earlier on, he let go of her wrists, opting to lay kisses along her throat and collar, while his hands moved to hitch her legs higher on his hips. He reached even deeper inside her, Y/N’s eyes rolled back as he was now brushing over that mark inside her each time, “ I can take it if you go faster,” she needed him to do it, “Oh Maul please.”

His control was falling away, fueled by his Goddess requests.  

Their movements picked up pace, Y/N let out a startled cry at the pressure building inside of her. Leaving her gasping as each thrust found its mark inside her. She wouldn't last like this, each time his cock slammed into her just right.

Her hands moved to clutch at his back, nails dragging down his muscles and leaving faint scratches that had him groaning. “ Your perfect” another thrust, “ Incredible,” she gasped, that pressure now burning her,  “ I’m…” she didn’t get to finish as she screamed her release. Maybe it was her cry that finally broke him, but what happened next was Y/N trying to come down from her high only for Maul to just ram into her without care, he wanted to hear that scream again.

She didn’t try to stop him, she wanted all he could give her.

The gentleness he so tried to carry  was gone overtaken by the need to ravage and devour, he pulled all the way out to look down at Y/N panting, her eyes dazed and body shivering from the loss of his touch, Maker, he was responsible for this. he slammed his cock back inside her, each thrust driven by the satisfaction that those cries were his doing. He was making a mess of her, the sounds  from her lips and body were sinful and echoing through the room. If a passerby would walk past the doors they’d know the screams of a divine Goddess being pleasured and his own growls to keep away, she was his alone.

There was no tempo to his thrusts now, just  desperation to feel and pleasure them both, Y/N struggled to hold onto him, to bring some tempo, but she couldn't stop herself from pushing him on, “ More…more” her hips would be bruised after this, “ Please..please more,” again that pressure in her belly, “ Make me yours!”  Maul took that command into his hearts, placing his hands on either side of the head board and did as his Goddess asked.  

1..2 the bed hit the wall.. 3..Maker..4… she could die right now and thank him. “Mine..” he chanted with each slam of the bed, “ mine…” that burning feeling was encompassing him again, with each movement he was getting closer as he ravaged and fucked her. “ Let go, Maul,” his Goddess managed to breathe out, another loud slam of the bed, another breath, “ You're beautiful like this, let go.”

Maul snapped, screaming as he came. iHe was burning, but it was a fire that he didn’t want to escape from. She screamed as he filled her again, coming undone for the second time that night. The burning receded, and the headboard was relinquished, Y/N was still shaking from what had just happened, Maul moved his hands to either side of her face, “ Are you alright?”

His usually piercing golden eyes had softened to a glow, pretty dazed honey eyes gazing at her y e/c.  How should she answer, “I never want to leave this bed” instead she smiled and pulled him in for a kiss, “ My beautiful, “ another kiss, “incredible,” another kiss, “ divine, love of mine” each little praise and kiss had him moaning again, and more so as her kisses moved from his lips to pepper all over his face.  

His starlit goddess’s praises were answered prayers, each little touch and kiss a sign that she had answered him.  One last kiss on the lips, this one sweet and slow, a sharp contrast to the absolute mess they had made of another.

She groaned as he slipped out of her evidence of what they had done now spilling onto the sheets. Part of him wanted to take her again, but Maul could resist it, his Goddess needed rest. He forced himself out of her embrace and out of the bed, her hand reached out to stop him from leaving, she wanted nothing more than to just slip into sleep with him at her side, “We have to get you cleaned up my Goddess,” with little effort he lifted her from the bed, one arm under her knees and the other at her back. There was that name again, her cheeks burned, “ I’m no Goddess,” she whispered as he carried her to the refresher.

Now he couldn't have her in doubt not after she had so lovingly took him into her bed and granted him such pleasures, “ I beg to differ, such a divine creature is worthy of such a name and gets treated as such,” Y/N didn’t argue with him only blushing more with each compliment, “ May I give you a name as well?” she whispered, “ It won't be as good,” he was slightly surprised but intrigued, “ What name will you bestow on me?”

“ Dawn,” she let a hand cup his cheek, “Its in your eyes, at times a harsh golden light at others more gentle in hue and each time I look forward to seeing it,” she gets one more kiss, “I look forward to hearing it more,”

“ You will, my darling Dawn. I promise you that.”

#darth maul x reader #darth maul x y/n #maul x y/n #maul x reader #star wars x you #maul #darth maul #overuse of affectionate names #maul as always contemplating capacity to be with person #just loving #but smut #darth maul x you #maul x you #star wars smut

[mareebird]

If The Sun Should Tumble From The Sky Sylki; T+; 1.8k Words

Link to Ao3

The Ark collapsed, rending the sky with pink fire. The sound was deafening, and then there was no sound at all, and Loki stood transfixed. He wondered, once again, if he’d deluded himself. Had he really thought they might make it? Believed they had a chance? Had fighting his way to the massive ship been an act of desperation or pure insanity?

Haltingly, his breath caught up to him, as he gathered himself from the brain down: his neck, his chest, his belly, his legs; Loki came back together piece by piece, and then he could finally move.

He turned and saw vacant air where Sylvie had been, and his blood ran cold. Loki kept turning, circling the street, his eyes pointed down before he dared to look up. The possibility that she’d already been crushed by a chunk of the planet was, unfortunately, entirely possible. He’d just seen hundreds die at once. The two of them were going to die, too. What if he was already alone?

But no rocks had fallen on the little plaza where he stood and Sylvie wasn’t anywhere to be seen. Loki’s eyes narrowed on the way they’d come, the trail they’d blazed. He began walking back. There was no other way out. If she’d gone this way, he’d find her. And if he didn’t, then maybe it was for the best that she finished her life in some semblance of peace, without him.

Loki passed the rubble beneath the building he’d thrown back into place and stopped for a second, knowing he didn’t have a second to spare, but the feat deserved a moment of brief reflection.

“How the fuck did I manage to do pull that off?” Loki muttered, reflectively.

Then, it was through the bar. The cloak Sylvie had dropped wasn’t anywhere to be seen. It was possible she’d picked it up as she passed, Loki theorized, but maybe someone had scurried it off into the alleyway, keeping warm during their last few minutes of existence.

The air was neither warm nor cold, actually; damp, but somehow light, like walking through mist. Although breathing too deeply caused Loki to cough, so maybe what he felt was the ash in the air.

A single, lonely drink stood on one of the bar tables. Loki picked it up and threw it back, not caring what it was as long as it did the job. He tossed the glass over his shoulder as he went outside and down the steps. He could see the entrance tunnel, now. The fires in the trash cans were still burning. The city would be flattened before anything else put them out.

That was when he saw Sylvie’s footprints for the first time—the only markings leading out of a city where everyone else had been rushing in. Loki followed the trail down the hill, into the valley of the mine. Finally, he saw her, sitting on a large piece of debris that had cracked into two, staring in the direction of the falling planet, although not actually looking at it. Her gaze was falling somewhere else. Somewhere beyond.

Loki sat down on the other piece of rock, realizing that he was selecting the spot where he was going to die. And that Sylvie was sitting where she was going to die. And it was all his fault.

She looked noble, sitting like that, facing the falling planet with her chin tilted up. An Asgardian quality, possibly.

A deep ache in Loki’s chest began to spread outward.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

She had every right to hit him—again. Every right to draw the sword on her hip and run him through. Instead, Sylvie nodded. There was no anger in her gaze, at least none directed at him, just resolution and grim acceptance of her fate. She’d known she’d been playing with fire. She’d wanted to burn down the TVA. Exploding along with it had always been a risk.

Loki had to turn away for a moment, as looking at her quickly became agonizing. It had never been his intention to bring them here. In reality, he hadn’t really known what he was doing. He’d seen an opportunity, made up a plan, and pushed EXECUTE on the TemPad.

He’d only wanted to put distance between himself and Renslayer. Taking Sylvie along hadn’t been accidental, but it was secondary to his plan—although when he’d dropped through the Doorway and onto that bed, and realized that she was beside him, Loki’s first thought was that he’d done something right . Safely hidden within an apocalypse, they’d be free to talk, and talking to Sylvie was, somehow, going to solve all his problems. One way or another, it was going to get him in front of the Time Keepers.

But now, Loki couldn’t think of a damn thing worth saying.

“I remember Asgard,” said Sylvie. “Not much, but I remember. My home, my people, my life…”

His eyes flicked back to her, locking in, now unable to look away as she calmly shared the story of her life—a surprisingly short tale for someone who must have been born the same time as he, though what did Loki know? And maybe the story wasn’t short, it was just heartrendingly succinct: a life spent running. A sad, lonely life, narrowly escaping death after death, teaching herself how to grow up, how to use magic. Entirely self-taught. Alone. Surviving among the damned and the doomed.

No attachments. No family. Just Sylvie.

Loki shook his head, sick to his stomach as thought about his pampered life. For centuries, he’d had a family, a home, and whether they’d ever truly been his seemed like a moot point, in light of his approaching death. He’d had good things at his disposal. He’d had comfort. He’d never actually wanted for anything, even if none of it had satisfied him.

Though he supposed that meant, ultimately, that he’d only been as lonely as Sylvie.

A sizable rock landed in the pool of mining refuse water before them, sizzling and smoking before it sank. There were so many rocks above them that it was impossible to see the stars. The pink sky, which Loki had thought rather beautiful before, had bled out all it’s loveliness.

And yet, Loki couldn’t help but marvel at the drama of everything unfolding, fire-trails of meaning in the midst of chaos, of death arriving in slow motion. Every other death in his life had been sudden and swift, though time was little more than a construct now.

Loki’s brow tightened. How could the TVA watch this moment unfold again and again and treat it like plastic spinning in a snow globe? Something to toy with, or to set on a shelf?

He wondered if Mobius was looking for him, or if he had deluded himself into thinking the man cared. Even if he had, surely all that good will had dried up once he saw Loki run through the Doorway after Sylvie. Not that Loki could blame him for that, he supposed. It had just been...difficult to watch the betrayal splash across Mobius’s face.

Though it was possible he’d imagined that, too, Loki conceded; maybe Mobius had never trusted him. But Sylvie had. After ruining her plan and getting into a drunken brawl and breaking her TemPad, she’d still voiced her trust, as though her understanding of his motives was instinctive and innate. They’d become a team without realizing it.

“Do you think what makes a Loki a Loki is the fact that we’re destined to lose?” asked Sylvie, interrupting his thoughts.

Loki almost chuckled at that. Almost. He was beginning to think what made a Loki a Loki was that they were the only beings capable of understanding one another.

“No,” he said, after a moment. “We may lose. Sometimes painfully. But we don’t die. We survive.”

It wasn’t an attempt at comfort. They were going to die. Imminently. Mobius wasn’t about to burst out of a Doorway and rescue them. The TVA had no idea where they were, and even if they did, perhaps it was better to die here, somewhat free. Not alone.

Death and failure weren’t the same thing. Sylvie hadn’t lost, she’d left her mark. She was noble and brave, and Loki was glad to have met her on the last day of his life.

“I mean, you did,” he said. “You were just a child when the TVA took you, but you nearly took down the organization that claims to govern the order of time. You did it on your own. You ran rings around them. You’re amazing!”

The pitch of his voice shot up with exuberance as Sylvie turned her gaze away from the falling rocks and upon him. She looked as though she might cry, her puckish, pretty face contorting as the words rose to his lips faster than they could move. Loki could feel himself smiling. His swelling sensation in his chest was physical, too.

It was as though something good within him was lifting up and spilling out, and for once, there was no reason to hide it.

Loki hadn’t realized how close they’d drifted toward one another until her hand touched his arm. He looked down, startled to his core. Her fingers were clammy. She smoothed them across his skin, soft as a feather. He hadn’t realized Sylvie could be so gentle, nor had he realized it about himself.

The muscles in Loki’s belly fluttered all at once. At once, he lifted his eyes, only to be distracted by a pair of enormous rocks finally breaking the atmosphere and crashing into the mountainous wall of the mine. It exploded in fire, pushing the dirt like a wave crashing toward them.

Instinctively, Loki reached for Sylvie’s little hand. She took it and held it tightly.

This was it. This was the end.

But Loki had already seen his end. He’d been killed so many times that he’d lost track. What need did he have to see it again?

He wanted to look at Sylvie instead. If he got to choose the last thing he saw, he wanted it to be her, bathed in pink light.

Loki reached for her other hand and she allowed him to take it. He didn’t feel he deserved someone to hold on to, and especially not Sylvie, but maybe he didn’t deserve death, either. Sylvie certainly didn’t.

He wanted to kiss her goodbye.

But he dared not move. From the corner of his eye, he began to see the dust closing in. They only had seconds. Looking at her was enough. His heart thundered, full of terror and some sort of delusional hope.

And he counted himself among the lucky, the impossibly fortunate, that his last moment alive should be such a perfect one.

That was when a pair of Doorways opened.

And Mobius rushed out.

#loki #sylvie #loki series #loki spoilers #one shot #loki fanfic #loki fanfiction #loki fic #mcu #don't care if i'm sticking my neck out #i love them #i wanted to write about them #sylki

[modern-vellichor]

Helloo :) I hope it's okay to request an imagine 🙈 maybe a bucky one where you're both in love with each other but didn't talk about it. Then maybe at the party (at the beginning of age of ultron) you both spend a great and fun time together until ultron breaks in and the fight begins. You get hit and hurt terribly and Bucky freaks out when he sees your broken body. Then he stays by your bedside until you wake up and you both finally confess your feelings. Later then he cares for you and all fluff ❤️ I hope it's okay

hey there! I would just like to say: I have seen most of the marvel films. I was a child of marvel, but I cannot remember anything that happens before like Ragnarok so I’m sorry :) I did rewatch the scenes and i took some lines directly from them so spoiler alert ig. it also took me a fat minute to realise that Bucky isn’t in the scene lol but enjoy doll xx Warnings; graphic description of injury, blood, Bucky fluff :), minor age of Ultron spoilers soz

The dress hugged your form perfectly. It glittered in the dim light of the party. You had found home next to Bucky. He kept a hand loosely on the small of your back, and you leaned into his side. A sparkling smile graced your features for the duration of the party. 

You loved Bucky with your whole heart, as a friend and more. You wanted him to grab your hips and pull you in for a searing kiss. You wanted to feel his teeth against your skin. you wanted your touch to roam the vast expanse of his chest.

You had a wonderful evening. You spent the night attached to Bucky’s hip. You danced and laughed and drank. You were drunk on each other’s presence. The night began to quiet down and you settled next to Maria. Bucky on your other side. Your smile was wiped from your face as you brought your attention away from Bucky and to Maria. A deep frown suddenly landed on your features. Bucky watched as you listened, whispering for Maria.

You heard a metallic thunk, and then mechanic whirring. You pulled a gun from a holster on your thigh, silently cocking the gun and turning the safety off. You were ready to attack. The thuds and the whirring grew louder, you stood up, alerting the team of your anxiousness. They saw the gun hidden behind your back and readied themselves.

The disembodied robot rounded the corner, your breath caught in your throat. It was mumbling cohesively under its breath. You studied the beast, worry growing as you assessed the situation, and it didn’t look good.

“No,” it grumbled. You took a defensive step forward, it was small as you tried to quell your shaking. “How could you be worthy?” Your eyes widened and you opened your mouth to respond, but stopped yourself. Perhaps it was a simple malfunction. “You’re all killers.” It pointed at the group, but its wired finger lands on you, it lingers. It stays on your person, almost as if the thing had a grudge against you.

Steve and Stark mumbled quietly behind you, but it was frantic. Words fell from your lips before you could stop them. “Its justified, is it not?” It gazed upon you with a broken smile, it ignored your question. Maybe it was a malfunction, a simple prototype acting up. It didn’t respond to you, it wasn’t coherent.

“Sorry, I was asleep,” it said. It turned its head away from you, as if in thought. Was it confused? “Or, I was a dream.” It shook its head. Parts of it were missing. Wires were exposed in all its joints, the voice box was breaking. Fluid dripped from its arm as it swung about. Surely, it was about to fall apart. One bullet in the right place and this would all be over.

“I had to kill the other guy, he was a good guy” it said, hunched over. It acted like it was in pain.

“Who?” You asked. It ignored you once again, but when Steve spoke to it, it responded. It stood up, towering over you as you gripped the handle of your gun even harder. You took another small step forward. You were looking for a weak spot. 

“Ultron,” Bruce mumbled.

“In the flesh,” it confirmed. An idea dawned upon you, you scrambled away from the being, desperate to put as much space between you and it as possible. It laughed at your feeble attempt to flee, unaware of the plan being formulated. It finally addressed you.

“Scared, little one?”

“Not of you,” you said coolly, a small smirk on your lips. Maria stood up, and so did Bucky,

“You should be.”

Suddenly, two other robots came flying through the drywall. You launched your attack. You used the couch, using its projectile to fling you towards the bot. Ultron grunted as you landed on its back, your thighs tightened around the makeshift neck. You began to frantically cut any wires you could, but it was no use. It grabbed you with one hand and flung you across the room. You hit the wall, crumpling to the ground in a pathetic manner.

Bucky shouted for you, but you ignored him. You grabbed your gun from where it lay a few feet away from you. You began to shoot at Ultron, but it seemed invincible. You continued to launch your attack. You tried to escape, tried to find a control panel, or an override button. But one of Ultron’s sidekicks kicked you square in the chest, sending you stumbling backwards.

Bucky called out for you, tried to help you, but it was to no avail. You were immersed in the fight, there was no distracting you now.

No matter how many hits you took, you never stayed on the ground for long, Blood was soaking your dress and dripping from your face. It was matting in your hair and dripping into your mouth. You walked with a limp and your breath came wheezing out, your chest was heavy. You didn’t relent in your ruthless attack on the enemy.

Some of the team ran, others were flung from the building. But you stayed and fought. While Tony had gotten his hands on one, Thor had stunned another. It lay on the floor. You quickly jumped into action, removing plates and fumbling with wires as you tried to rewrite its code in such a small time frame. But the light in its eyes sparked again and it flung you off its back. With the help of Steve and Thor, you successfully managed to ‘kill’ it. You were probably going to use it for parts.

Three robots had fallen, and you were injured the worst. You weren’t superhuman, and you weren’t a god. You had been the first to launch yourself at Ultron without any protection, you had been the only one to get near Ultron. The other bots had thrown you around like a ragdoll, but you were stubborn and refused to give up the fight. 

“That was dramatic,” Ultron wheezed. He paced back and forth. He gazed at you as you stalked slowly towards him. “You don’t know when to stop, that’ll get you killed.” He stated nonchalantly to you, but you ignored him. He continued his monologue. “I’m sorry, I know you mean well, you just didn’t think it through... There’s only one path to peace,” he grunted, discarding the body of one of his own, it sparked on the ground. Thor threw his hammer at the villain, he hit him square in the chest. Ultron fell apart as if he were nothing.

You breathed a sigh of relief and collapsed. You fell onto ground covered in shards of glass that tore open your skin. Shards of metal and live wires sparked dangerously close to you. You panted as you let out a strained and pained groan. Bucky was quick to your side, helping you off the floor. Your vision was going, you had lost a lot of blood and your veins were still oozing.

“Hey, Bucky,” you grinned, your voice breaking as your eyes began to shut.

“Yes, doll?” He asked, frantically trying to keep you awake as he dragged you away from the scene, with Steve’s help. 

“I think its time for bed.”

Bucky opposes your proposal, but Bruce insists that sleep is the best thing for you right now. And Steve says that Bruce can be trusted, and that Bruce knows what he’s doing. So Bucky allows you to slip into a deep slumber while he slumps into a chair next to your bed.

You woke up after a few hours. Your body was stiff and bruised but the bleeding had stopped and Bruce had reset your ribs.

“Good morning, soldier,” you smiled at Bucky as he crawled gently into bed next to you. 

“Good morning,” he mumbled back, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “You’re an idiot.”

“We won, didn’t we?”

“You nearly died.”

“So, what? I signed up for this, you’re gonna break a couple ribs fighting killer robots. Haven’t you ever seen terminator?”

“What would I do without you?” He scolds. “You were just prepared to leave me? Without a proper goodbye?”

“You would have moved on,” you scoff, attempting to roll away, but his grip on you tightened and you winced. “Its not like we’re married, Barnes.”

“What if I want to marry you?” He interrogated. He raised his voice, and you lost yours completely.

“Do you want to marry me?” You asked slowly, gazing into his tired eyes.

“Not yet, i mean. I’d like to-”

You cut him off by pulling him into a heated kiss. He was gentle with you, wary of your broken body, but sparks flew, and you weren’t worried about anything else.

#age of ultron #Bucky Barnes #Bucky angst #bucky fanfic #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky barnes fanfic #bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes x y/n #bucky barnes x female reader #bucky barnes fluff #bucky fluff #bucky fic #The Avengers #marvel fic

[thisisarcanereverie]

Should’ve Known  Chapter 4.

Hey, so originally I was planning on skipping this episode in WandaVision and get straight into the 70′s, however, after re-watching the episode I thought to myself, maybe this episode would be useful in what I have planned for that chapter. Also again, thank you for all the love and support you show when I post. It really helps me write, especially when you leave a reply one what you liked or suspect from this chapter or other chapters. It really makes my day and it makes it easier to write knowing others are willing to read it. 

I’m trying my best to write as much as I can while i’m still motivated, updates really could be anywhere from a day or a few hours apart at this point. Honestly I only started writing fanfiction again to help me start writing in general since I’ve been writing a book for the past few months and I’ve hit a road block. Writing this helps and plus it’s fun for me to write fanfiction like this. 

Also I did write this based loosely on what I imagined the residents of Westview must have felt like living day upon day. Also a little on Doctor Who, specifically the “Silence in the Library” and “Forest of the Dead” When Donna was trapped and sort of lived like she was in a show. 

DISCLAIMER: I don’t own Wanda or Steve they are owned by Marvel, I don’t own the gif either I just got it from Pinterest, also I’m really tired so any mistakes or stuff that doesn’t make sense that’s on me. 

WARNINGS:Angst, Swearing, the stages of grief, loss, dark themes, 18 + from here on out.

WORDS : 2,040

SUMMARY: Feelings of unease continue to rise as you begin to know Wanda and start to be wary of Agnes....and of Steve. 

You could have sworn you and Steve were just having dinner, the thought of food caused your stomach to turn. You wished for the life of you to know what was ailing you so you could take some medicine. You would have to make an appointment with the doctor but for now you had to continue the day. You gently rose from the bed so as to not disturb your sleeping husband. 

Husband.

Something about that felt wrong to you. 

You shook off the feeling before finally getting ready for the day. 

When the thought of what to wear came to mind you suddenly found yourself all ready dressed with your hair and makeup done. 

You wore a cardigan sweater over your short sleeved blouse and plain skirt. Your hair was neatly done, curling slightly around the edges with a flower barrette in your hair. You looked good, however, how good you looked was the last thing on your mind. You instantly became confused and your head began to ache. How did you get dressed so quickly? Where did the clothes come from? 

As soon as all those thoughts appeared, they vanished upon hearing your husband's voice calling your name. Suddenly you wondered what you were even thinking about. 

“Doll are you ready to rehearse?” Steve’s voice carried out, seemingly echoing off the walls. 

“What are we rehearsing for again honey?” you asked, your heels clicked against the wooden stairs as you made your way down. 

It was only when you saw Steve did you realize something was seriously off. 

It looked as though someone had renovated your house as you had slept, there was new furniture and wallpaper. The kitchen was now at the opposite side of the house. Even the stairs were new, from bannister to the steps themselves. You don’t know why you hadn’t noticed before.

“Doll don’t tell me you forgot,” he teased you, you rolled your eyes refusing to admit that you may or may not have forgotten something. 

“Of course I haven’t forgotten,” you lied, “I’m making sure you remember.” 

“So you remember then, is that correct.”

“Yes.”

“So tell me what we’re rehearsing for then.”

“No.” 

You could feel his eye roll as you made your way to the kitchen, you were suddenly starving. Steve had followed you to the kitchen where you quickly made yourself a sandwich. 

“It’s the Annual Talent Show Fundraiser for the local school,” Steve said “it’s your favorite event in the season.” His eyes searched you in concern. You don’t remember there ever being an Annual Talent Show Fundraiser in Westview. Thinking about it you don’t really remember anything abou-

-

-

-

“Of course it is honey,” you smiled at him, “I was just keeping you on your toes.” you brought your pointer finger to his nose and bopped him lightly, you and him smiling all the while you both leaned on opposite sides of the kitchen counters.

“Are we still going for that strength test this year?” 

You nodded excitedly, you were never one for muscles, however, when your husband lifts hundreds of pounds over his head (or yourself for that matter) it had you all giddy with excitement. 

“Anything for me to bring out the big guns huh.” Steve teased face leaning closer to yours, you leaned in closer noses touching. “Naturally.” you replied, finally closing the gap and kissing him. 

-

-

You suddenly find yourself with Dottie and the rest of her Ladies in Hating sitting by the pool. When you realized you were seated next to Agnes you stiffened. You barely heard a word Bev was saying, it took most of your control not to switch seats with someone, anyone, so long as it got you away from Agnes. You pretended to listen to Bev talk about her store when you noticed Agnes looking at you through the side of her eye. It nearly made you jump out of your skin. 

You quickly tore your gaze from Agnes and to the person on her right, Wanda. 

You were greeted with Wanda looking at Dotty instantly, seemingly trying to mimic Dotty in how she presented herself, which you thought silly. 

Wanda was far more charming than Dotty anyways. 

Why were you so sure about that?

You switched back and forth between watching Dotty and watching Wanda who seemed to have made a new friend with Geraldine next to her. 

There was something off about her as well. 

-

-

You find yourself helping Dotty and Wanda with cleaning up after the meeting. Wanda was picking up the trays of the barely eaten cookies and desserts that Dotty had ordered, while you were busy stacking plates and cups. The radio was playing something light, which was more than you could say for Dotty. She was just “supervising” to make sure things went accordingly. 

Both you and Wanda made faces behind her back and tried your best to keep your laughter among yourselves. Although you have only known Wanda for a few months (although it feels like you met her only yesterday but it also feels like you’ve known her for longer.) you immediately became fast friends. 

“Thank you Dotty for choosing (Y/n) and I to help you clean up today we feel so lucky.” Wanda thanked Dotty, a kind smile adorned on her face. 

“You are.” 

As you and Wanda turned your backs to Dotty you both stuck out your tongues at each other. Playfulness in each other's eyes. You both turned back to Dotty you had adjusted herself in her seat. 

“I can’t help but wonder if you and I haven’t gotten off on the wrong foot Dotty and I would like to correct that if I can.” Wanda said, her smile a little forced but still pretty. 

“And how would you do that.” Dotty stated, her eyes glaring holes into Wanda. It was almost like you weren’t there. Wanda fidgeted with her hands and brushed away a stray hair that had fallen out of place. 

Dotty stood up from her chair and made her way to where you and her stood. 

“I’ve heard things about you,” she stated her eyes then darted your way, “and about you too, don’t think I’ve forgotten that you’re here.” 

Dotty’s heels clicked as she advanced, almost like a tiger stalking their prey, and you had the feeling you and Wanda were two very unfortunate monkeys. 

“You and your husbands.” 

That word still felt wrong to you. 

You weren’t even focusing on Wanda or Dotty anymore as you began to notice how the radio had stopped it’s tune, the crackling of the device overcoming the music and then you hear it. 

“Wanda, (Y/n) do you read me over.” it was a male voice, crackling, breaking in and out. 

Why was he calling for you and Wanda?

“Who is that?” You heard Dotty’s voice shake, you tore your eyes away from the gray radio and to the light haired lady in front of you. Her eyes were wide with confusion, all tiger energy faded and what was left was a frightened woman. 

She was trembling. 

Her eyes went from the radio to look at you and Wanda, her eyes widened. 

“Who are you?” her voice shakes. 

The man speaks again and you immediately tear your focus away from Dotty and to the radio again. 

“Wanda....(Y/n).....Who’s doing this to you Wanda....(Y/n).....Wanda....(Y/n).....Wanda” then as if a spell had been broken the radio blew up, shocking Wanda and Dotty, Dotty shattering the glass in her hand. 

Red

You had forgotten what other colors had looked like so seeing red was a change that left you speechless. After stuttering for a few seconds Wanda went to grab Dotty a washcloth. 

You kinda block the rest of it out, instead you stare off into the distance. 

Where Agnes stood watching. 

-

-

You paced backstage with Wanda, frantically waiting for your husbands to arrive. You and Steve were to go after Wanda and Vision. You tried your best to calm your erratic heart. Wanda looked breathtaking in her magician's assistant outfit and your eyes kept wandering back to her...Now wasn’t the time to question any of the thoughts running through your mind. 

Steve and Vision were late, Steve was a part of the neighborhood watch and went to the meeting today, apparently Wanda’s husband had done the same. Geraldine was backstage with you trying her best to keep the both of you calm, which even on a good day was nearly impossible. 

Finally you spotted your husbands together, one of Visions arms around Steve’s shoulders seemingly leaning on him for support while your husband seemed to be helping him walk. 

“Steve honey what happened,” you ask immediately, upon dashing to your husband Wanda instantly went to check on Vision. 

“I don’t know doll but I don’t think Vision is able to perform.” He answered, gesturing to the flampent behavior of the otherwise reserved man. Wanda looked at Steve and it broke your heart to see her eyes well up with a disappointed expression. 

You had a feeling you were going to regret what you were about to do. 

You immediately turned to Wanda, grabbing her hands out of what felt like instinct and grabbed her attention. 

“Wanda how do you feel about doing the Talent Show with me?” You asked, hopeful. You could tell she wanted to, her eyes lighting up at the mention of doing the Talent Show afterall, but immediately looked at Vision with concern. 

“Who would take care of Vision?” 

‘I would,” Steve answered, Wanda looked at him with apprehension, 

“Are you sure?” 

“Absolutely you girls kick ass out there.” 

You and her immediately looked at each other in excitement. You two immediately went to figure out whose routine you were going to perform, quickly settling on Wanda and Vision magic act. 

Instead of the magicians assistant she would take place as the magician while you took her place. Next was to figure out your stage name, once again Wanda quickly settling on her keeping Glamour and you sticking with Mirage. Finally she ran the whole act with you and by the time you were done planning the previous act was up and now it was your turn. 

“And now for our final act I give you, Wanda and (Y/n)” After Dotty’s introduction your performance ran overall smoothly, Wanda being shockingly good at close up magic and illusions. 

That was until suddenly Senior Scratchy decided to turn the magic act into an escape act. A powerful gust had knocked Wanda’s magicians hat off her head and you felt the terrible pit in your gut worsen. Looking to the crowd you thought you had seen something colorful, like the red you saw before. 

Before what?

Wait....how could you forget that?

Your eyes immediately darted to Dotty and saw her seemingly unfazed of what happened prior to the Talent Show. How could she be fine? She didn’t know who you were, how could she not have known who you were?

You turn to Agnes, her eyes narrowing on your figure. 

-

-

You and Wanda won the best magic show award at the Talent Show, you insisted Wanda keep it since it was her act, you had merely assisted her. You and Wanda immediately made plans for you to host that dinner you were talking about months ago, tomorrow. 

Steve congratulated you on a show well done and that if you ever felt the need to get magical in the bedroom he wouldn’t mind being your assistant there either. 

Upon returning home Steve immediately booked it for the shower, claiming that taking care of Vision was no easy feat. You laughed him off and went upstairs to your shared bedroom to get ready for the night. There was no need to cook dinner since you and him ate out. 

You were so tired that you almost didn’t notice the world around you changing colors. 

Or a familiar leather bound notebook on the bed. 

Almost.

After getting used to the newly found colors around you, you immediately opened the notebook noticing how old it was, and in semi faded ink on the first page read. 

“Property of Captain Steven G. Rodgers (Captain America).”

#i need sleep #fanfiction #x reader #steve rodgers x you #steve rodgers #steve rodgers imagine #wanda marvel #wanda maximoff #wandavision #vision #I am really tired #probably going to regret posting this tomorrow #marvel x reader #marvel #infinity war #end game #disney

[blossom-hwa]

To Bloom in the Night - JOOCHAN

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

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

Pairing: Joochan x gender neutral!reader

Genre: fluff, angst, fantasy, royalty!au

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

Word Count: 24.4k

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

To Spin a Yarn | Golden Child Masterlist

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

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

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

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

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

(It had happened once already.)

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

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

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

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

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

. . . . .

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

And curses and death.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Joochan?”

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

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

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

No.

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

. . . . .

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Bomin pokes his side. Someone said his name.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Joochan raises an eyebrow. “Slightly?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

If only he could inspire such life.

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

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

Your spoken voice is as beautiful as your song.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

. . . . .

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

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

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

“Not in that way, though.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Alone.

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

Already he knows it will be a sleepless night.

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

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

No use.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It doesn’t stop.

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

And not just them.

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

Y/N.

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

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

You know.

You know.

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

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

. . . . .

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And then what would they do to you?

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

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

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

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

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

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

He swallows. “Sorry.”

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

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

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

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

. . . . .

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

“Your Highness!”

Why did he ever think he could outrun Jangjun?

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

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

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

Hopefully, they won’t.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

What if you’re afraid of him?

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

And you freeze.

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

He disappears into the shed. The door shuts.

Alone with you, Joochan is struck with two realizations.

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

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

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

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

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

Since when did he learn to inspire such terror?

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

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

Even if it hurts.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Most?”

He lifts his head. “I’m sorry?”

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

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

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

“It’s just you,” Joochan snaps.

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

“Your Highness?”

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

You bow your head. “I apologize.”

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

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

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

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

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

. . . . .

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

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

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

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

Good thing Bomin has always been a good actor.  

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

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

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

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

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

Joochan does not want to test that out.

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

Until a bouquet of roses is delivered to his room.

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

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

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

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

Then, almost as an afterthought:

You have a beautiful voice.

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

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

You have a beautiful voice.

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

It feels nice.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Joochan flushes again. Was he that obvious?

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

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

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

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

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

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

You cock your head, listening cautiously.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Joochan has never opened his mouth faster.

. . . . .

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your pain is probably even more intense.

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

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

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

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

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

“I apologize.”

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

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

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

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

You raise an eyebrow. “Hm?”

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

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

“Joochan.”

“Your Highness.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Is that a challenge, Your Highness?”

“And if it is?”

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

. . . . .

Joochan thinks you might have underestimated his stubbornness.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Joochan’s cheeks burn. “What –”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Your Highness?”

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

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

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

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

“No.”

His jaw drops. “You –”

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

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

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

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

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

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

. . . . .

“You look happier,” Bomin remarks one afternoon.

Joochan looks over. “Do I?”

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

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

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

Joochan blinks. “Glad about what?”

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

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

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

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

“Something like that,” he lies.

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

. . . . .

Except, apparently, he doesn’t.

. . . . .

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

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

“Joochan.”

Jangjun?

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

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

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

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

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

He stays silent.

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

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

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

Bomin?

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

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

“Something like that.”

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

And right now, Joochan hates that.

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

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

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

“Because we care about you!”

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

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

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

“Joochan –”

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

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

. . . . .

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

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

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

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

And Joochan snaps.

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

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

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

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

Joochan laughs into his hand. “You too?”

“… What?”

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

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

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

“From us!”

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

Bomin’s mouth snaps shut.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“But how –”

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

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

. . . . .

Joochan doesn’t know what to do about you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Like you’re waiting for something in reply.

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

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

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

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

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

He feels at peace.

. . . . .

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

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

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

Yeah. Normal.

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

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

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

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

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

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

But then dinner actually comes.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Great.

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

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

Bomin will definitely be teasing Joochan about this by tomorrow.

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

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

She stiffens. “I – you heard us?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

. . . . .

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

It makes his stomach curdle a little inside.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Neither does Joochan. 

. . . . .

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

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

Need a lullaby?

Your voice almost soothes him to sleep on the balcony.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He’s never hated it more.

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

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

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

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

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

No.

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

. . . . .

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

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

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

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

Sleep well.

Joochan lies awake for at least another hour.)

. . . . .

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

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

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

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

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

He’d know that face anywhere.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The right person’s song.

The right person…

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

Oh. Oh, gods…

“I agree,” he replies softly. 

Only he thinks that the right person was you.

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

The right person.

The right person…

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

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

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

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

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

Oh.

Joochan is in love with you.

And you might be in love with him.

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

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

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

. . . . .

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

And this gardener is in love with him too.

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

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

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

“Joochan.”

He blinks. “Jangjun?”

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

“I –” Joochan frowns. “What?”

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

Joochan’s eyes widen. “How did you –”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He nods. “Okay.”

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

. . . . .

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

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

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

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

“I love you.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“It matters to me,” Joochan protests.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

. . . . .

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And the rose bush is out of control.

. . . . .

On the fifth visit, Jangjun finally says something.

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

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

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

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

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

Jangjun frowns. “The gardener? Why?”

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

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

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

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

Joochan only hopes he isn’t too late.

. . . . .

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

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

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

How it could have slipped.

Slipped.

How –

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

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

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

Was there a time when he wasn’t singing?

Oh.

There was – that last time –

His eyes fly open. “That time you told me to go –” he chokes, does his best to continue – “we met, and I told them that I loved them but –”

“But what?”

Joochan puts his head in his hands. “We agreed that it couldn’t work out so we just spent that one night in the garden – nothing happened, don’t look at me like that – but neither of us sang much and someone could’ve heard something and – they could have pieced it together?”

“Okay.” Joochan hears Jangjun take a deep breath. “Okay. That would… that would explain it.” Hands place themselves on Joochan’s shoulders and he opens his eyes to Jangjun’s serious expression. “What do you want to do about this?”

Joochan blinks. What does he want to do about this? What kind of question – “I need to get them out, obviously!”

“Then they’ll be on the run for the rest of their life,” Jangjun counters. “Granted, they’re just a gardener and they might be able to blend in somewhere on the outskirts.” He squeezes Joochan’s shoulders so hard it almost hurts. “Would you go with them?”

In a heartbeat. In a heartbeat.

“Even if it meant giving up living in the palace, bringing a lot of trouble on Bomin and possibly breaking your fiancée’s heart?”

Selfish, selfish, selfish.

“Bomin – Bomin will understand,” Joochan says, desperately trying to convince himself. “And Donghyun’s sister doesn’t love me. She doesn’t want this marriage any more than I do.”

“There will be political ramifications,” Jangjun warns. “I know you weren’t raised as the crown prince, but you have to know this much.”

Joochan scoffs. “My parents will try to pull it off as a kidnapping or something,” he says. “No way would they let it slip that I dared to run away.”

“Then they could send an assassin or a mercenary after you. Kill Y/N, bring you back. Force you to return to everything you tried to run away from.”

Fear bubbles in Joochan’s stomach, but he swallows it down. “If Y/N is willing to deal with it, so am I.”

Jangjun searches his expression for several excruciating seconds. When Joochan doesn’t flinch from his gaze, he finally pulls back and nods. “Prison break is the last resort,” Jangjun says. “Right now, you need to go to your parents and see if you can convince them to let Y/N go. Swear them to secrecy, keep them under watch in the palace or something – it doesn’t matter. Getting them out of here will be much easier if they’re not imprisoned in the first place. Tell Bomin, ask him to help you convince them if you think that’ll help.”

Joochan swallows, still feeling the burn of Jangjun’s hands on his shoulders. The residual pain clears his mind, helps him think. “Okay,” he whispers. “Okay.”

. . . . .

Bomin takes it about as well as Joochan thought he would, which is not as well as he would’ve liked but better than it could have been. After seemingly endless explanation, he agrees to back Joochan – you’re only a gardener, after all, this is kind of overkill, and Bomin is just a good brother like that. It almost makes Joochan cry again.

As the doors to the throne room open, Joochan’s heart feels like it’s going to beat out of his chest. He hates facing his parents, hates looking at them and speaking to them more than most things in the world, but for you?

He’ll do it.

Joochan walks into a silent room, boots thumping on the cold stone floor. Bomin’s footsteps just behind him give him strength as he looks up to his mother and father, sitting with blank expressions on their thrones. “I request that the room be cleared.”

His father searches his gaze. “Request granted.”

It takes a minute for all the guards and officials to filter through the doors, during which Joochan tries to calm his beating heart. Finally, the room is empty save for his immediate family.

Joochan swallows. “I ask that you take Y/N out of prison.”

Eyebrows raise. Joochan hates that they don’t even seem to recognize your name. “The gardener,” he almost snaps, reigning himself in only just in time when he catches Bomin’s warning look.

Faces clear. Eyes become stone. “They know the secret of your curse,” his father says, voice flat and cold. Joochan can hardly believe he has healing power – his voice sucks all the heat out of the room. Your voice always made him feel warm. “They cannot be left to wander the kingdom and spread the word.”

“So bind them to secrecy. Keep them under watch in the palace,” Joochan counters. “They shouldn’t have to be stuck in prison – there are already people outside our immediate family who know, and they’ve kept their mouths shut!”

“They have not been vetted by the palace,” his mother snaps. “They are liable to speak, and as such, they must be kept away.”

Kept away. Like an inanimate object, a toy from ages past, to be locked in a cupboard and never shown the light of day…

Bomin shoots him a sharp glance, but Joochan is sick of this.

“Are you serious?” he yells. “You – have one single ounce of sympathy, will you? Or is that impossible with the way you’ve been running your kingdom – your household – for so long?”

“You are marked by death,” his mother snarls. “It is imperative that no one know this beyond all those necessary.”

“Father, they’re just one person,” Bomin breaks in before Joochan can explode again. “It’s entirely possible to not keep them in the prison and just keep watch over them –”

“You clearly have much to learn before you become king.” Their father shakes his head, as though disappointed. “Just one person? One sick person can spread an illness to a city within days, and illness travels even slower than words. How fast do you think news of this would spread if your gardener decided to speak?”

Joochan scoffs. “You never have any problem paying people off to be quiet or do things you want them to do. What’s so different this time?”

“I? Pay off a gardener?” His father laughs. “Who do you think I am?”

Joochan explodes.

“You think so highly of yourself, don’t you?” he yells. “You think so highly of yourself just because you wear a crown made of some shiny metal and jewels – you think you have the right to rule because of your supposed royal blood even though there’s nothing but cold evil under the surface? We are the descendants of killers – your father wiped out the weavers and you have no sympathy, so how can you think you have the right – why do you think you can just play people as pawns and have them do whatever you want – even your children – do you ever think about what we want?” Angry tears brim in his eyes but Joochan keeps them back. “I never wanted any of this! I never asked for my gift, I never asked to be born, I never asked to be the evil, death-marked child you always made me out to be, I never asked for the arranged marriage, all I ever wanted was to be happy and to use my gift but I couldn’t even do that – and now you’re taking away half the reason I still want to live by shutting them in a prison because of something they found out by accident –”

“You have no gift,” his mother intones, voice icing Joochan’s veins. “You are cursed.” Her lip curls. “Your song is no gift to us.”

Bomin makes an outraged sound in his throat, but Joochan barely hears it. All he can register is the blood roaring in his ears, the cold look on his mother’s face, the abhorrence and disgust on his father’s –

And he knows it isn’t true. You’ve taught him otherwise. Death is a part of a cycle – some flowers you can’t even bring back from their withering, it is just their time – and life needs it just as much as death needs life. Just as much as he needs you.

But hearing the words come directly from his mother’s lips, the woman who bore him, hurts almost more than your words can heal.

Joochan swallows. He could end it all right now. Tell Bomin to get out, sing, watch his song wither his parents away like the petals of an old rose – no, not a rose, even a withered rose is a sight better than the two monarchs sitting in front of him –

But he isn’t a killer. Not by far. He can’t do it.

Joochan steps back once. Twice. His voice, though small, carries in the silence.

“You know,” he chokes, “for people who pride yourselves on your ability to heal, all you really do is cause pain.”

He doesn’t wait for Bomin to follow before he runs out of the room.

. . . . .

Jangjun finds him in his quarters with Bomin half an hour later, sitting on the floor and staring at the wall. “It didn’t work out.”

Joochan doesn’t need to say anything to confirm it.

“So what happens next?” Bomin asks, still rhythmically patting Joochan’s back. It helps a little.

“We break Y/N out,” Jangjun says. “And they run away with Joochan.”

Bomin doesn’t look surprised, but Joochan’s heart still twists. He doesn’t want to leave Bomin or Jaehyun or Jangjun behind – they’re some of the only people who’ve kept him sane since he was old enough to think – but at the same time, he’s been itching to just leave the scrutiny of his parents for years.

After so much pain, even brotherly ties won’t keep him here for much longer.

“I’m going with you.”

Joochan’s head snaps up. Bomin furrows his eyebrows. “What – Jangjun?”

“They might send assassins after you and Y/N.” Jangjun crosses his arms. “I know you’re good in a fight, but Y/N doesn’t know anything about that sort of life. I do. You need me there to lead people off track, plant evidence –”

“That’s not the only reason,” Joochan interrupts. His eyes narrow. “You’re hiding something.”

Jangjun’s jaw works. He doesn’t look angry, exactly, maybe worried –

No.

For the first time Joochan has ever seen, his guard looks scared.

Bomin casts Joochan a concerned look. “Jangjun, it’s fine –”

“I’m a weaver.”

Joochan’s jaw drops. So does Bomin’s. Jangjun just stares back, defiant, arms crossed to hide the shaking in his hands.

A weaver. Joochan’s guard is a weaver. His loyal guard is one of those his forebears tried to wipe out generations ago – so why is he here, protecting the descendant of those who probably killed his family, his ancestors –

All of a sudden, Jangjun’s words from so many weeks ago make sense.

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

He’s a weaver. One of those who wove stories into clothes, one of those his grandfather tried to massacre.

“Why?” Joochan manages.

“I was decent at fighting and needed a stable roof over my head that wasn’t the orphanage,” Jangjun explains. An unreadable look flashes through his eyes. “Took the first opportunity I could get and thought I would hate it. But then I realized… neither of you are your parents. Not even close.” He swallows. “So I stayed. Longer than I expected to.”

“So why leave now?” Bomin asks. “You could still stay – I mean, if we’re the only people who know –”

“Daeyeol knows too,” Jangjun says. Bomin starts at the name of his personal guard. “He knows, and he told me that some of the higher ups have been getting suspicious of… things. My unknown parentage. Why I’m so good at sewing.” He scoffs. “Like only commoners can be good at sewing. But yeah. No one will care how loyal I am if they find out I’m a weaver, so I’m going to have to run off at some point.” His jaw sets. “I might as well go along with you.”

Joochan has to try hard not to cry. “Thank you.”

“Don’t be a sap.” A sliver of the old Jangjun comes back in the scowl that paints itself across his face. “Bomin, you could come with us, you know that right?”

He shakes his head. “No, I need to stay back. If both of the princes disappeared, there’s no telling what our parents would do.” Bomin swallows. “Who knows. Maybe one day, when they’re gone, you might be able to come back.”

That would be a dream.

“Thank you, Bomin,” Joochan whispers.

His brother squeezes his hand in response.

“Well, that settles it.” Jangjun snaps his fingers before Joochan can do something stupid like cry. “Get moving. We need to get out of here as soon as possible.”

. . . . .

Joochan does not like the prisons. He’s been there before, but every time, the mildew smell and darkness make him want to hurl.

The fact that you’re in here, though, spurs him on.

Jangjun makes quick work of the last guard, slamming the handle of his sword into his head. The man crumples to the ground. Joochan stands over another unconscious man, peering forward into the darkness. “Down the hall?”

“Yeah.” Jangjun looks down at his arm. “Oh, come on.”

“What happened?”

“Just a scratch.” Jangjun waves him off. “Go and find them. I’ll stand guard here. There should be one more left, two at most. You can handle it.”

Heart in his throat, Joochan turns towards the dark. Several torches flicker light onto the stone walls and he takes care to remain in their shadows as he creeps down the line of cells, eyeing the guard standing at the end.

One shot. One chance. Joochan takes another step. Another –

The guard turns around.

For a moment, they only stare at each other, eyes wide. Then Joochan leaps forward.

Metal clangs. Armor crashes. Joochan whirls, dodging a metal-covered fist before slamming his sword against the side of the man’s helmet. He crumples to the floor.

Joochan experimentally prods the body with his foot. Breathing, but unconscious. Good. He plucks off the ring of keys –

“Joochan?”

He spins around at the sound of your voice and meets your gaze, face thinner, eyes wider, but still you. Still you.

“Y/N,” he breathes, rushing forward. His fingers tremble as he tries one key after another, all the while trying not to cry. What did they do to you? “Give me a second, we’re getting you out.”

A key finally clicks and Joochan drops the ring, pulling open the cell door and letting you fall into his arms. He holds you close as you shake against his shoulders, chest heaving, not crying yet but the small sounds in your throat make it seem like you’re close –

“We need to go,” Joochan whispers, squeezing you one more time. “Come on, Y/N.”

You lift your head. “Where are we going?”

Good question. Joochan doesn’t even know. Just away, away from the palace, away from everything…

“We’re running away,” he says. “Both of us. And Jangjun.”

To your credit, you take it without question, only nodding and pulling back. Joochan wants to hug you again, but there’s not time. “I guess we should go, then.”

. . . . .

Bomin meets them as they emerge from a dark passageway, immediately pressing a bag into Joochan’s hands. Something rattles inside. “Money,” he says. “And hair dye. You need to get rid of that pink.”

He wraps Bomin in a hug. “Thank you.”

“Live a good life, yeah?” Bomin pats his back, hand steady even as his voice trembles. “I’ll see you again.”

Joochan blinks back a tear. “Definitely. Tell Jaehyun, okay?”

“Of course.” And with that, they separate.

Joochan only hopes that another meeting will come to pass.

Jangjun leads them down endless halls and passageways, some even Joochan doesn’t know. All the while he holds your hand, pulling you forward anytime it feels like you’re faltering, and in the end, Jangjun pushes open a last door and you burst into the early evening, a floral scent in the air. The gardens. 

He looks around. 

Meets a familiar face.

Shit.

“Joochan?” His fiancée takes a hesitant step forward, eyes flickering between the three. Your grip tightens on his hand. “What – where are you going?”

Jangjun looks at him. So do you.

He says nothing.

Her eyes widen. “You’re running away.”

No one needs to confirm it. Their clothes, the bag on his shoulder, the weapons strapped to his and Jangjun’s waists say everything.

“Yes,” Joochan finally says, lifting his chin. “I’m sorry.”

Her expression sinks, though she puts a smile on her face. “I understand.” Her gaze shifts to you. “You were never in love with me. It was obvious.”

The ache in Joochan’s heart grows even stronger. “I –”

“It’s fine.” Her smile takes on a semblance of mischief. “If it doesn’t hurt your ego too much, I was never in love with you.”

Joochan almost laughs. “I figured.”

“Glad we’re on the same page.” Her lips turn down slightly, a little wistful. “Shame, though. I think we could’ve been friends.”

“I think so, too.” And it’s true. If they hadn’t been forced into all of this…

“Well, I never saw you. Not even a glimpse.” His former fiancée begins to turn around. “Don’t mind me, just walking in the gardens.”

He calls her name, just before she fully turns. She looks back. “Hm?”

For a moment, Joochan falters. This could go very wrong.

But he decides to take a chance.

“Find Bomin,” he says. “Tell him I said he could tell you everything. Donghyun, too. And for what it’s worth…” He swallows. “I really am sorry.”

“Things rarely go according to plan.” She smirks. “Our parents should’ve thought of that first.”

They really might have been friends. Joochan tries not to think of what could have been as he follows Jangjun between bushes, helping you through trees, crawling under fences until they reach the edge of the forest that borders the palace.

Jangjun plunges in, but Joochan pauses. Looks at you. Even gaunt, thinner from weeks of prison, you are radiant under the rising moonlight that filters between the trees.

You smile at him, squeezing his hand. “Ready?”

So many times, he’s been asked that question before balls, before events, before arranged marriage meetings, and every time, though he said yes, his real answer was no.

This time, however…

“Are you two done being saps?” Jangjun hisses from further into the forest. “Hurry up!”

Nothing is certain anymore. He might now technically be a fugitive. But tomorrow is a new day, and though Joochan is on the run, he’s with you. 

And he’s free.

Joochan smiles at you, ignoring his guard. “Ready.”

Together, you slip into the night.

. . . . .

The palace called it kidnapping. There was a manhunt for months, search parties looking for a gardener and a royal guard, the prince’s alleged kidnappers. Many thought it ludicrous, however, that a mere gardener and a guard who had been known to be loyal to the prince for years would attempt something as ridiculous as this, and simply left the palace to fumble through its affairs in the wake of the disappearance.

The former prince himself dealt with assassins sent after his partner, bounty hunters charged to bring him back (dead or alive, he learned, it didn’t matter – if he were dead, at least no one would have to deal with him anymore). The guard lured them all away. Together, the three plunged further into the country outskirts until there was no trace left, not even of the last assassin who had been sent to take care of them all.

This is where the story should end, with two black-haired brothers and a gardener settling quietly at the edge of a forest. Yet though the words now come to close, the world still remains.

The end of one story, after all, is only the beginning of another.

If you enjoyed, please don’t forget to reblog and leave a comment to tell me what you thought! Thank you for reading and have a lovely day <3

(1 reblog = 1 prayer for a certain trio + a prince back at the palace)

#kpopscape #golden child #golcha #gncd #joochan #hong joochan #golden child joochan #golcha joochan #golden child scenarios #golden child imagines #golden child oneshots #golcha scenarios #golden child joochan scenarios #golcha joochan scenarios #golden child x reader #golcha x reader #hong joochan x reader #joochan x reader #golden child joochan x reader #golcha joochan x reader #fluff #angst #fantasy #tw death #tw cursing #tw blood #royalty!au #wisdom weaver!au #to bloom in the night #scriptura-delirus

[quillquiver]

no more watchers on the wall

Musings on Cas and love. 15x18 kind of coda.  read on ao3

Love—the concept of it, the feeling—had never been a difficult thing to grasp. Castiel was, after all, willed into being by love. What was he if not an agent of such feeling? What was his grace if not the divine manifestation of it? Castiel understood that love was in listening. In following. In obeying. It was steadfast and absolute.

And so Castiel was steadfast. Castiel was absolute.

He painted stars across the black, empty skies of his Father’s Universe and imbued joy into each one; closed his eyes and smiled as he nudged Pluto into place. Castiel dipped his wings in the stardust of Saturn’s rings and left behind nebulas of startling colour. He meditated between binary stars. Overwhelmed by the hunger and emptiness of the first black hole, he opened his mouth and sang with it.

It was not a burden, to love the Universe his Father created. Castiel walked along the sulphurous, scorched shores of the primordial beach and loved the creature of flesh that hauled itself onto the coarse black sand. He leaned over the very edge of heaven and watched pterodactyls fly and felt his own wings twitch. When God sent a meteor for the dinosaurs, Castiel reassured himself that the subsequent genocide must have been borne of love, too.

Privately, he wondered at this; his insatiable curiosity to know all God’s creatures, to fly to the farthest reaches of the Universe—just to see, to know. His passion outmatched that of his siblings, and among the closest of his kin, he became known for it. Though Castiel was not a Watcher, Uriel joked that he may as well have been—but to be teased by his brother was a privilege, and Castiel loved him, too.

The Neanderthals were poets, and Castiel would spend hours reciting their words of love to himself, over and over, marveling at them. Certainly, there were other creatures who loved and loved deeply, but there was something about homo neanderthalensis—their appreciation for beauty, their seriousness in all things—that Castiel saw reflected in his own self.

But the Neanderthals died, and so Castiel turned to humanity with the rest of Heaven. Waiting. Watching. There were rumours that humanity was the Father’s chosen people, and Castiel wondered briefly, treasonously, at all the creatures who had been casualties His divine search. But Castiel was a being of duty, of purpose—and so he set himself to the task of loving them, too.

God created the Garden.

The Lightbringer became jealous and in his hatred, offered Eve a pomegranate. Her own curiosity was too large to bear. This desire—for knowledge, for knowing—Castiel understood, though he kept his thoughts to himself. And as he fought for Michael, as he remained steadfast and absolute, he wondered at the ability of love to twist into something so volatile. Twisted. Wrong. He wondered if perhaps both sides weren’t wrong, in that neither cared about the creatures on Earth and the happenings of their little lives; that two brothers were fighting there, too. That one killed the other and was doomed to a life of wandering.

War waged on. Castiel found he was good at killing, when it was in defense of people he loved. Over time, he even began to see it as a mercy; that to take a life was to save his kin from eternal damnation as well as to protect the glory of the Father’s creation. Here, death and love were intertwined. Both righteous. Both absolute. Castiel’s knowledge of all things—the defense strategies of the parasaurolophus, the hunting behaviours of the sabre-toothed tiger—propelled him through the ranks until he became Anna’s right-hand. There was no doubt that, had the war continued, he would have had been named a leader in his own right.

But the war did end, and by the time it had, Earth had flooded for forty days and forty nights.

Castiel watched, despaired, at how the world had changed while he’d been gone. At the violence. The despair. By the time Moses was desperately hidden in a basket and pushed downriver, Castiel turned away from Earth and refused to look upon it again, heartbroken; so much had changed since he’d flown carefree among newborn stars.

Castiel was one of three called upon to slay every Egyptian first born. He was told to take a vessel and protect a boy named David. He’d heard rumours of the Father’s son—born to a human woman named Mary—and grief and joy echoed across Heaven upon Christ’s death at the hands of the Romans. Castiel remained steadfast throughout—dutiful, loyal, with a love for all things humming a baseline in the depths of his heart. He was devotion incarnate; the Father’s will was good and righteous, and he wielded his first children as instruments of love and light. If he couldn’t see the plan right now, it was because he merely did not understand it. Besides, understanding was beyond his purview. Castiel’s only purpose was love of the highest order. Steadfast. Absolute.

Or so he’d thought.

The angels laid siege to Hell for forty years. It was by happenstance that Castiel was the one to find the Righteous Man; twisted and smirking in front of his rack, his soul still shone with the power of a thousand suns. Be not afraid, Castiel had said, reaching out to touch the hurting thing. Like an injured animal, Dean Winchester shied away, and Castiel felt something within himself, something long-since tightened, unravel. I mean you no harm.

And he’d laid a hand upon the soul of the Righteous Man.

They lost precious time in the single moment of that act—one that lasted a second, an hour, a lifetime. Castiel had no need for breath, and yet he felt breathless in touching this human, this person whose warmth and light, palpable from a distance, was blinding so close. God had lied. Beautiful words about angels as the bringers of love and light—all falsehoods at the feet of his one human being, this righteous man, whose love was so… so steadfast, so absolute it led him to the deepest, darkest hole in the Pit. It had been no hardship to hold Dean Winchester close and fly him out of Hell, to sing for the first time in eons, so loud and clear and joyous it was heard in the Ninth Sphere: Dean Winchester is saved.

Castiel stitched Dean’s soul back into a body of flesh and bone with all the love he possessed, himself. He’d wanted to be his equal. His kin. He’d wanted to understand how such a man came to be, living in the world as it was today. And so Castiel remade his heart and hands and wondered at how one person could possibly embody so much goodness and grace. So much beauty. For Dean Winchester was comely for a human and that was right, too; that the Righteous Man’s love shone through his skin to make him golden and great.

How laughable that even then, Castiel had known nothing.

He understands, now.

Now, Cas has known heartbreak and elation. He has known despair and joy. And he understands that all of that—the good, the bad, the ugly—all of it is love. That love is not steadfast in itself, but a riot of emotion, and it is the ability to remain steadfast in spite of that that makes it sacred and glorious. That hope and love are irrevocably entwined, and it is in this intersection that humans find true strength. True dignity. That they become something greater than themselves when they are true to themselves.

And so, in a concrete room under the ground, Cas speaks his own truth. He pulls the words from deep within his own heart and lays himself bare not because he must, but because there is strength in it. Happiness in it. Because it is a privilege and an honor and this vulnerability, too, is sacred. For the first time in all the eons of history, an angel confesses to a human man—not because he has doubts, but because he is sure. Because he is certain. Because he—a being known for its sameness—has been forever changed by one imperfect, loving human. Because Dean Winchester is love incarnate.

“Cas—”

It’s funny; for all that he has been told he is an abomination, Cas has never felt more holy.

“Goodbye, Dean.”

Cas pushes Dean out of harm’s way and meets the Empty head-on. Ready. Proud.  

And his love is steadfast.

And it is absolute.

#15x18 coda #castiel #love confessions #can't stop thinking about it don't mind me #destiel #cas meta but like... in fic form #bc can you imagine what it was like for a being so old #who was literally created to love #to suddenly understand that he had no fucking idea what love was all along #adventures in fanfic