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#she promises each of them that she’ll dedicate at least one song to them and then dedicates a track to each of them individually

ilguna · 2 years

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☼ before he cheats (Draco Malfoy) ☼

summary; ' I also have a angsty request based of before he cheats by Carrie Underwood like maybe there is a talent show and reader says she has a song dedicated to draco or some thing in u are the angst queen so I have no doubt u can do it but obviously take your time and no rush!! ‘

warnings; swearing, might be a lil cringy tbh

wc; 4.3k

notes; READER IS SLYTHERIN. this is a songfic.

–

Well, if there’s anything that Draco should’ve learned about you, it’s that he can’t embarrass you in front of the whole school and then expect to get away with it scot-free. You were dating for two years, friends for years before that. Draco’s parents loved you, and vice versa for yours.

So, you’re not exactly sure what went through his mind for him to think that it’d be okay to cheat on you with Azolia Biscus, and why he thought he’d be able to get away with it, too. The whole school was talking about it, they were snogging in the stairwell, he’d have to be invisible to get away with that type of thing.

That’s not where the whole situation ends, though. Besides the fact that they were trying to act like they didn’t know each other—even though you’re all in the same potions class—she then tried to claim that she didn’t know that you and Draco were dating. It wasn’t hard to miss the way that Draco grimaced when she said that.

Did she suddenly have amnesia or has she been living under a rock for the past five years? Draco’s been your best friend since you were children, it’s the whole slytherin-pureblood-heritage bullshit. He asked you out two years ago. He’s the one that took you to the Yule Ball, and made a whole show out of it. You wouldn’t believe her, even if she was telling the truth.

You had to teach her a lesson, right there, in the middle of the hallway. If Draco was going to proclaim his love for Miss Azolia Biscus, then you’d also share your feelings about the matter. And get a message across while you were at it, because no one else was going to catch you off-guard for the rest of the year. Not even if they tried.

In the few minutes between passing classes, the best you could do was break her pretty little nose and knock out a few teeth. In all honesty, you should’ve kept punching her until the professors came around, but you weren’t entirely prepared for detention for the rest of the year. You won’t let either of them destroy the rest of the year at Hogwarts.

You have a reputation to uphold, and parents to impress.

You told Azolia that if she even breathes a word of who kicked her ass to anyone, you’d make sure that she’ll never be able to speak again. You’ll kick all of her teeth in and break the parts that make her human until she’s a mangled mess of meat, skin and bone.

Before you left, you’d turned to Draco with this wide smile on your face, and all you had to say was, “What will your mum think of this one, Malfoy?”

If Draco’s allowed to make all these promises and break every single one of them, then you’re going to, too. He made you swear—not magically—that you wouldn’t ever go to his mum to tell on him. If there’s someone he’s more terrified of his father at times, it’s Narcissa, because she’s the gentle parent, and Lucius is the aggressive one.

Narcissa loves you like one of her own daughters.

You can still imagine the way his face turned bright red the moment his howler let loose, screaming at him in front of the whole Great Hall during lunch. If he could take your heart and break it into pieces, the least you can do is make sure that he won’t do it again, even if it’s in the favor of Biscus.

You’re not quite done with him, yet. You’ve let these past few days go by without any real issues, letting him assume that he’s finally in the clear to date Azolia. They’re all cuddled up on the other side of the table, her head on his shoulder, batting her eyelashes like some moron. It’s a good thing that she’s slytherin, which makes it easier to keep the affair in some confinement.

However, you don’t doubt that at least half of the population at Hogwarts knows about it. And while you’d love to make sure that the whole school doesn’t know that you were stupid enough to let Draco cheat on you, he’s got this whole thing about making sure his business stays his business. It’s one of the things you two had in common, neither of you wanted to air your relationship super publicly.

You suppose it’s not like that now with Azolia, but you made it that way by screaming in the middle of a packed hallway. They have to prove that they’re actually in love and he didn’t ruin his whole future for a quick snog in the stairwell.

What you’re saying is; it would be perfect if you got the last laugh by spreading the news to the rest of the school. You just have to find a way to do it.

“You look like you’re going to murder someone again.” Vixen, your best friend, murmurs. She briefly glances up from her notebook, quirking an eyebrow, “You wear your emotions on your face.”

“I see no problem with that.” You tuck some hair behind your ear, “I’m planning my next move.”

She makes a face, turning a page. Since your break up with Draco, most people in the slytherin house have decided to try and stay out of picking sides. There’s Draco’s friends, on the far side of the table near the entrance and exit to the Great Hall, and there’s your friends, on the other side by the teachers. Everyone else chooses to sit in the middle.

It’s hard for them to decide who’s more dangerous to mess with.

“You know that the longer you wait, the more it’ll seem like you’re hung up on it.”

“Rightfully so.” You mutter.

You catch sight of Dumbledore rising from his seat at the long table, coming around the side, heading for the podium. Judging by the way the teachers all seem to straighten, preparing for the announcement, it must be something important. The last time you saw them like this was when he was going to tell you about the Triwizard Tournament.

This has to be good.

“Ladies and gentlemen!” He shouts, a hush falls over the Great Hall, not wanting him to use the voice amplifying spell—sonorus. It’s loud, and never fails to give you a pounding headache, “I have been working hard with some of the professors to create an event for you all to enjoy.

“It has not been easy by any means, but with help from the Prefects in each house,” He motions to the tables, “I have come to the conclusion to allow an opportunity to show off your talents.”

“A talent show!” A girl squeals across the room, must be a gryffindor.

“Yes, exactly.” He nods, “I will allow five acts from each house, you must perform your talent in front of your Head Professor in order to be allowed to participate. The show will be taking place an exact week from today, the tryouts will begin tomorrow afternoon.”

You can feel the smile twitching at the corner of your mouth, listening to Dumbledore explain how it’ll happen exactly. At dinner a week from now, the area where the teacher’s sit will be cleared and made into a stage to ensure that the student—or students if it’s multiple people—will have the spotlight all to themselves. There is no limit as to what a person can try out for.

“I can see the gears turning in your head.” Vixen says, watching you.

“They’re done turning.” You look at her, a wicked smile on your face, “I know what I’m going to do, Vixen. And Draco will never recover from this.”

You lean back slightly, looking down to the other end of the table, curious as to how Draco and Azolia are reacting to this news. She can’t have anything that she can show off, besides her ability to put her foot in her mouth. That’s the only talent she seems to have.

Draco catches your eye for only a second before you’re turning away.

“Any questions?” Dumbledore asks.

Hands shoot in the air, too many for each table, yours being one of them. He answers a few gingerly, trying to be fair on who he calls on. His eyes finally catch you, patiently waiting.

“Yes, Miss (L/n)?”

You lower your hand, “What will be the order in which the houses go? Is there a certain slot I can request?”

“That’s two questions!” Someone shouts, you send them a nasty glare.

“We will start with the hufflepuff house, then gryffindor, ravenclaw, slytherin. In order of the way the houses are presented from left to right.” He says, “As for the slots, we can make that possible.”

Perfect.

—

You can’t say that you were surprised when you came out of the slytherin common room and found that the line to the potions classroom for tryouts was already reaching the staircase. A chance to earn reputation among peers? That’s right up a lot of your guys’ alley.

Of course, the first person standing in that line was none other than Azolia Biscus herself, hair curled and makeup done. She was loudly talking to her friends about how some people are never going to get a slot, and she doesn’t know why they’re even trying. Her eyes were dead on you when she was saying it.

You ignored her, there’s no need to start drama with her at the moment. She’s still bitter that you broke her nose, which was easily put back into place by Madam Pomfrey. As for her teeth, that was a new story that Vixen told you between fits of giggles.

Professor Snape must’ve been in a bad mood, though. She was only inside the classroom for a good five minutes before she came out in tears, cheeks red, eyes puffy. It was a clear indication that Snape wasn’t exactly thrilled about having to sit around and endure the different talents that everyone had to offer.

And if that’s how he felt with the first person in line, you couldn’t imagine how he’d feel toward the end. You still joined, though, firmly planting your feet on the cobblestone, patiently waiting your turn. You weren’t going to cut the line or convince others to get out of it.

You had time to waste, and revenge to plan.

It took less than an hour before you’d finally walked through the door, head held high. The first question that Snape asked you was whether or not there was anyone else behind you in line. The second question was if you actually had a talent, and you weren’t in there to cause trouble.

“I have a song I’d like to sing, Professor Snape.” You told him, pulling out one of the stools to sit on, “And I want the last slot of the show.”

That was a couple days ago, and from what you’ve heard over these few days, you have a general idea on how it went in the other houses. Everyone’s got their suspicions on who’ll end up in the show, based on the pacing and personalities. No one knows for sure, though. The names of who made it in will be posted on the bulletin board in the common rooms by the Head Boy and Girl.

There wasn’t a specific time that was said about it showing up, which means that the people that have been sitting on the couches all day have gotten comfy enough to leave their butt prints on the leather. You, on the other hand, couldn’t care less about the chance of you not getting inside.

The look on Snape’s face alone was pretty telling that you’ve secured your spot in the talent show.

You round the corner, stopping in front of the slytherin door.

“Password?”

“Variantia.” You murmur, reaching for the handle. It audibly unlocks, allowing you to go inside. You hold it open for a couple of slytherin students heading in after you.

The slytherin common room is packed full, there’s not a single path available leading to the staircases. There’s pushing, shoving, and a lot of shouting going on, all facing the bulletin board. You watch as the Head Girl begins to wave her hands, shooing people back, face turning bright red in color out of frustration.

You’re not exactly sure what her and the other Prefects expected. It’s not often Hogwarts gets to have fun like this, besides the Yule Ball, of course. It’s once a year, and sometimes not even that entertaining.

You wave your wand, murmuring, “Sonorus.” The tip of the wand glows pink, showing you that the charm worked. You point it to the underside of your jaw, “Please back up and give the Prefect’s room!”

There’s a few people that slap their hands over their ears, but for the most part, everyone takes a few steps back, and fan out across the room. You tuck your wand back into your skirt, nodding at the Head Girl when she thanks you. She blocks the Head Boy while he picks the spot for the paper on the bulletin board, pins it, and then they dodge the students that come rushing in.

She lets out a loud huff, smoothing her hair down, “Animals.”

“It is Hogwarts, after all.” You laugh, she smiles.

The two of them stand post at the door, answering questions that the students have to ask. You find Vixen somewhere in one of the private rooms, feet propped up on a table, reading a book. She glances at you once, and then has to look again to realize that it’s you.

“The names are up.” She says, “Have you seen the order yet?”

“No, I’m going to wait for the crowd to die down.” You sit next to her on the couch, looking over her shoulder, “Are you reading a herbology book?”

“I got bored.” She shrugs, “Do you want to go to the astronomy tower later tonight?”

“Sounds good to me.”

The two of you wait until dinner to finally leave the room, by then the common room is practically a wasteland, except for a certain girl crying on the couch, dabbing at her face with the cuff of her shirt. It’s Azolia, blabbering about how Snape is unfair to her and he obviously picked favorites.

You walk up to the board with Vixen, reading down the list of names. You recognize most of them, there’s a few grey areas where you can’t put names to faces. You see Hannah Abbott, a hufflepuff girl. The Weasley twins, naturally, you can guess what they’re going to do. Seamus Finnigan, one of the gryffindor boys that can’t brew any potions correctly for the life of him. Luna Lovegood, she’s a friend of yours. Pansy Parkinson will be taking the first slot in the slytherin house.

And at the very bottom, in pretty handwriting, is (Y/n) (L/n).

You smile, “I can’t believe you couldn’t go through with your idea. I’m sure Snape would’ve enjoyed it.”

“Listing all the potions, and then the ingredients to them in alphabetical order in the form of a song? He would’ve stopped me before I hit B.”

“Still would’ve been hilarious, might’ve gotten you a couple extra house points for paying attention in class.” You snort, she rolls her eyes.

“Shut up.”

—

“(Y/n), we’re going to be late.” Vixen says, “And I heard that there’s an opening speech by Snape, we can’t miss that.”

“We won’t.” You say, rinsing the green glitter eyeshadow off in the sink. There’s a few sparkles that stick to the bowl, but you don’t care all that much. You cleaned off the black eyeliner mess that occurred a few minutes ago. They can deal with glitter.

You turn in the mirror, checking yourself out in the mirror. The low-maintenance makeup, your curled hair, the way that the loose dress perfectly fits on your body. Vixen’s holding your heels in her hands, shoving them in your face.

“Okay, I get it.” You take them from her, pulling them onto your feet and securing the straps around your ankles.

Normally Vixen’s taller than you by a good inch or two, but with the heels, you can see clear over her head. You place your hands on your hips, tilting your head at her. She looks you over, nodding her head.

“Draco will wish he never broke up with you.”

“I bet he already does.” You smirk, and then break out into a squeal, “Okay, let’s go!”

The two of you are far from being the last to show up in the Great Hall, plenty of people still lurk in the hallways, waiting to see who’s going to be on stage. It’s not a huge prestigious thing, it’s the fact that you’re all wearing varying outfits.

Hannah Abbott’s wearing a yellow dress made out of tulle flowers. It’s in a teacup shape, so whenever she spins, it flattens out and allows you to see the shorts she’s wearing beneath. She’s got a whole flower headband on too, keeping her blonde hair from falling in her face.

The Weasley twins are wearing suits, you heard that Professor McGonagall had to clear out an area in the corner just to pile what they’ll be using during their part of the show. It can be anywhere from a minute to ten, they’ve been cryptic about what they did during their audition. Seamus Finnigan is wearing his regular clothes, but he’s wearing a grin on his face.

Luna Lovegood is wearing a holographic dress that ends at her calves. She’s sitting in a group with the other ravenclaw performers. You’re not entirely sure you’ve seen her talk to this many people at once before.

And of course, you’re wearing a deep green dress that would be floor-length if it weren’t for the heels. It’s off the shoulder, and it’s covered in sparkles that are embedded in the dress. If you run your hand over the fabric, it doesn’t transfer. It’s perfect when the light is shining on you only, you made sure that you’d be the most eye-catching person in the room tonight.

You walk to the end of the table, by the stage. There, a few spots have been reserved for you and Vixen by your shared friends. The moment you’re closer, they give out a few whoops and whistles, you laugh, and then shush them as you sit down on the bench.

It’s a few minutes later when Snape appears on the stage, sighing into the microphone before giving a speech about how this should be a new tradition for years to come. He delivers that line through gritted teeth, probably picturing himself in the potions classroom every year, going through forty talentless slytherin students, having to pick five that aren’t the complete worst.

The monotone voice makes tears appear in Vixen’s eyes, lips pressed together, trying to keep from crying laughing in his face, especially since he’s less than ten feet away from where you are. Once the speech ends, he’s immediately off the stage and walking to the teacher’s tables by the front doors of the Great Hall.

Dumbledore clears his throat at the podium, and announces the first student that’ll be performing tonight.

You have to admit, it’s entertaining watching the different talents everyone has to offer. One of the hufflepuff girls pulls a ravenclaw on stage and draws a perfect portrait of them in five minutes. There’s not a single stroke out of place, and she gives it to them as a gift.

There’s a group of boys and girls from hufflepuff that do a brief classical ballet show that no one dares to speak during. A muggleborn boy sits on a stool in front of the microphone, strumming away on his guitar, singing songs that every student knows. He has the brightest smile on his face when people begin to sing along.

The Weasley twins perform a comedy routine that lasts fifteen minutes long, that has everyone in stitches by the end of it. Even Professor Snape is stifling his laughter into his sleeves, shaking his head. They have a natural talent for this, instead of the prank business that they’re trying to start up, you think they should invest in this.

From the moment that Seamus Finnigan steps on stage, he continuously blows up anything he touches. Dropping things into the cauldron, turning water into wine, trying spells that you haven’t been taught just yet. It’s got half of you trying to turn away and hide from the sight.

The ravenclaws are by far the most interesting. One of the boys calls up a group of volunteers, hypnotizes all of them, and gives them a series of tasks while talking to you guys about how it works. When someone in the crowd tries to be funny and do it themselves, he rolls his eyes and says the kid has no experience.

A girl comes up and does a series of impersonations of people from the school. Dumbledore, McGonagall, Filch, Malfoy, some of the paintings, the ghosts. She even turns to the slytherin table, starting to say that she’ll impersonate Draco, and then makes a face, “Never mind, I couldn’t stoop to your level even if I tried.”

Luna Lovegood does a ventriloquist act. She has this doll sitting on her knee, and no matter the words she says, or the facial expressions that should cross her face, she’s got the whole dead-eyed smile on lock. And when it’s her turn to speak, it’s like a switch is flipped in her head. Like the doll is the one controlling her.

Finally, the slytherin table comes around. A group of three boys breakdance all over the stage, one of them rips their pants wide open at the crotch and doesn’t bother to stop to cover the area. Even the gryffindor students are chanting and clapping along to the music.

A girl creates a ten minutes game show for people to compete on. This is when Vixen decides that she’d like to participate in some way. She hula-hoops, tries to balance cards to create houses, singing the alphabet backwards. It’s a bunch of meaningless tasks but she manages to win at the end, placing the silver toy tiara on her head with a shit-eating grin.

Vixen sits down across from you, gently pulling it from her hair, “I won this for you.” She says, securing it in your hair, “Are you ready?”

“As much as I’ll ever be.”

“And our final performance of this evening will be Miss (Y/n) (L/n).” Dumbledore announces.

When you rise from your seat at the slytherin table, your friends begin clapping, making everyone follow suit. You walk up the few steps, readjusting the hair on your shoulders and taking a deep breath before you stop in front of the microphone. The candles dim, except for the few that hang over where you are.

You wrap your hands around the stand, leaning into it, smiling, “Well, as it turns out, he doesn’t have a lick of common sense in that peanut sized brain of his. I mean, he had to pay off Hogwarts to let him get on the slytherin quidditch team, talk about daddy’s money. His best friend slips him exam answers while the professors aren’t looking because his skull is too thick to penetrate. And he thinks that he can snog a girl in the stairwell and get away with it, assuming that I won’t make it the whole school’s business.

“Here’s to Draco Malfoy.”

You flip your hair.

“Right now, he's probably slow dancin' With a bleached-blond tramp and she's probably gettin' frisky Right now, he's probably buyin' her some fruity little drink 'Cause she can't shoot whiskey Right now, he's probably up behind her with a pool-stick Showin' her how to shoot a combo And he don't know

“I dug my key into the side of his pretty little souped-up four-wheel drive Carved my name into his leather seats I took a Louisville slugger to both headlights I slashed a hole in all four tires Maybe next time he'll think before he cheats

“Right now, she's probably up singing some White-trash version of Shania karaoke Right now, she's probably sayin' "I'm drunk" And he's a-thinkin' that he's gonna get lucky Right now, he's probably dabbin' on Three dollars worth of that bathroom Polo Oh, and he don't know

“That I dug my key into the side of his pretty little souped-up four-wheel drive Carved my name into his leather seats I took a Louisville slugger to both headlights I slashed a hole in all four tires Maybe next time he'll think before he cheats

“I might have saved a little trouble for the next girl A-'cause the next time that he cheats Oh, you know it won't be on me No, not on me

“'Cause I dug my key into the side of his pretty little souped-up four-wheel drive Carved my name into his leather seats I took a Louisville slugger to both headlights I slashed a hole in all four tires Maybe next time he'll think before he cheats

“Oh, maybe next time he'll think before he cheats Oh, before he cheats Oh-oh.”

You let the microphone down, the Great Hall is filled with the sound of clapping and whistling. You let a smile take over your face, covering your mouth with the back of your hand.

The candles brighten, signaling the end of your act. You find Draco’s eyes still on you, face twisted, jaw clenched. You can’t help winking at him, before looking away. You pull up the ends of your dress, giving a curtsy to the crowd.

Dumbledore’s coming down the aisle, “Please, everyone who performed tonight, get on the stage.”

Once you’ve all gathered together on stage, he counts down, making you all bow at the same time.

#ilguna #draco malfoy #draco malfoy imagine #draco malfoy oneshot #draco malfoy fanfic #draco malfoy x reader #requested #angst #songfic

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aramiheartilly · 2 years

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Without Losing Heart Head Cannons - Nomi

Actually went to the same sixth form college (Equivalent to the last two years of high school in the USA) as Eve and met at the first practice of the year for netball. They knew each other in passing from their time at rival secondary schools but they were finally able to play for the same team.

With Nomi as centre and Eve as Wing attack they were a formidable duo and, largely thanks to them, their team won two years in a row.

They went to different universities but kept in touch even though neither of them had time to be on the netball teams anymore.

When they both moved to London for work they met up at least weekly, complaining about their respective training and attitudes of some of their colleagues.

For both of them, having grown up in inner cities and ‘Girl Power’ being all the rage when they were younger, sexism wasn’t something they’d knowingly experienced until they were adults.

As a child, Nomi had been designated ‘Scary Spice’ because she’d sung along to one of the Spice Girls song at a school disco and although happy to be included, it stung that she had no choice about which of the five she could be because she was black. If she’d been asked, as one of her friends actually once did, her favourite was Ginger.

One thing Nomi has never lacked is confidence in her own abilities. She’s excellent and she knows she is but this is because of the dedication and effort she puts into making sure she’s the best possible agent.

This is why she starts to realise things at Five aren’t how they should be. By this point she and Eve have enough clearance to officially talk about work and bit by bit she shares her concerns.

People at Five disappear and no one seems to want to ask or talk about them in case they’re next. One of the code breakers, who she things was called Alex, disappeared one day and reports are that both he and his boyfriend died. There’s also one of the secretaries, a canteen worker, and two other agents that are just gone. People die in the field, and people actually retire and leave but this is different.

When Max Denbigh becomes C and builds his actual own tower, she keeps her head down as much as possible but passes on anything to Eve she thinks will help them stop this merger with Six and also get rid of the poison within Five.

At one point she realises agents have been sent to knowingly kill a double o on foreign soil and it’s her breaking point.

She calls Eve, and gets on a plane, absolutely serious when she says she wants a job at Six for this.

She meets 004, Isobel and becomes instant friends with her as they shoot their way to safety in a Clinic at the top of a mountain.

She’ll become the new 007, Bond deciding to hand his number over to one of the most promising agents he’s ever met.

#007 fest #007 fest 2022 #teamqbranch #qb-a1 #characters of color day #WLH headcannons

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blossom-hwa · 3 years

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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 – 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)

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suituuup · 3 years

Text

pieces - chapter fourteen

Five years ago, Chloe dropped off the face of the Earth. Beca didn't expect to see her again dancing in a strip club, out of all places.

rating: E (drug use and emotional abuse in early chapters)

ao3 link

“A bit higher.”

Beca pushed the small mountain-shaped shelf an inch higher, looking over her shoulder as she held it. “Like that?”

Chloe nodded, smiling. “Perfect.” She walked over and handed Beca the drill, watching as she skillfully made a hole into the wall and inserted a dowel. “I didn’t know you were handy with tools.”

Beca snickered. “Basic things only.” She twisted the screw in and hung the shelf, taking a few steps back to observe her work. “That looks cute.”

Chloe glanced around the room, nodding as she absent-mindedly rubbed her belly. She had just reached thirty weeks, and Bean’s arrival was scarily close. The nursery was coming along nicely, the crib having just been delivered today, while the rest was pretty much done.

The closet was full of onesies, tops, pants and a few dresses, swaddles, blankets, and loveys, and the dark oak changing table (matching the yet to be assembled crib) was stocked up with diapers, wipes, bodysuits, and a variety of creams and oils.

Chloe had channeled her stress into reading as much as she could about newborns, what to do and not do, and while she had experience with babies from back when she was a teenager, she was relieved not to be doing this on her own.

“It does,” Chloe agreed, loving the subtle woodland theme she went for and all the love they poured into making this safe place for Bean. “It’s really cozy.”

“Alright, now onto the big project,” Beca said, nodding towards the large package laying on the floor. “You’ll get to see how limited my knowledge of tools really is.”

Chloe laughed and helped take the different parts of the cribs out of the box, then headed into the kitchen to get them some refreshments.

The last six weeks had been really good. The Bellas welcoming her back with open arms had definitely helped with Chloe’s recovery, and her talk with Beca, that promise that she would wait for her to be ready filled Chloe with a renewed sense of self-worth and made her fall in love with Beca a little bit more.

Chloe was now just over six months sober. The nagging for booze and snow sat somewhere at the back of the brain, and she doubted it would ever go away, but she was getting better at not listening to it.

She stifled a laugh at the sight of Beca looking awfully perplexed by the instructions when she walked back into the room. “You good?”

Beca chuckled. “Yeah. Just trying to make sense of this.” She glanced up to Chloe, accepting the glass of homemade lemonade with a smile and setting it beside her.

“They sent us two baby monitors?” Chloe asked as she sat on the floor, noticing the two exact same boxes. They had ordered a bunch of stuff from the same website, and quite a few boxes had come with the crib while Chloe was at her NA meeting, and Beca had put everything in the nursery. “We only ordered one.”

“No, um, I figured one more would be handy,” Beca said as she picked up one of the crib ends and two of the four legs, along with four bolts. “So I hear Bean when she cries at night, too.”

Chloe shook her head. “I can take care of nights. I don’t want your whole sleeping rhythm to be thrown off because of Bean, you’ve got work, too.”

“I know, but I’m concerned the lack of sleep might mess up with your recovery if you handle it on your own. I’ve read some horror stories about some babies waking up every few hours and that for six months.” Her focus shifted from the crib assembling to Chloe. “I meant what I said when I told you you wouldn’t be on your own with this. But I don’t want to overstep either, so I want you to tell me if you need me to back up a little. I promise I won’t be upset.”

Chloe’s heart swelled with more love. She didn’t know why she kept being surprised every time Beca showed her how dedicated to the both of them she was. Still, she felt a little guilty for disrupting Beca’s routine, but she knew Beca was right.

“You’re not overstepping,” Chloe assured her, softly. “And I want you guys to bond, so I think you taking care of her without me might be a great way to do that.”

“Okay,” Beca murmured, smiling as she went back to her task at hand. “The label already knows I’m taking two months off once she’s born, so I’m around to help out. Maybe she’ll sleep through the night by the time I have to head back.”

Chloe chuckled. “We can always dream.” She cleared her throat. “I was also thinking about Bean’s guardians, in case something happens to me, and I’d like for you to be one of them.”

Beca paused mid-screwing in a bolt and met Chloe’s gaze. It was clear she was moved, and it made Chloe smile. “Of course. I’d be honored.”

“Aubrey will be the other guardian, just so you know. So if I die, you’ll be seeing a lot more of her.”

Beca’s nose wrinkled. “Is it too late to backtrack?” She asked with a soft laugh. Chloe knew she was just joking, as she and Aubrey got on really well, now. “I think Aubrey is a great pick. At least I know I won’t have to be the bad cop. But let’s hope she and I never have to be Bean’s guardians. I’m good with just being the cool aunt.”

The crib was easier to put together than they had originally thought. It only took Beca forty-five minutes, and once it was all done, Chloe grabbed the mattress and set it inside.

“It’s just missing one thing,” Beca said, casting Chloe a smile before she left the room, coming back a minute later. “Close your eyes.”

Chloe did so, and it sounded like Beca was fumbling with something by the crib.

“Okay, open them now.”

Chloe let out a soft gasp at the sight of the animal mobile set up above the crib. A fox surrounded by mountains and clouds. “Beca…”

“I wanted to get Bean a gift, and you mentioned an animal mobile, so I had this custom made with a friend of a friend.”

“It’s perfect,” Chloe whispered, blinking back the tears pricking behind her eyes. She was used to crying over the smallest of things by now that she wasn’t embarrassed anymore. Wrapping an arm around Beca’s waist, she leaned her head over her shoulder, basking in the warmth and peace being in close proximity with Beca brought her.

“I think so, too,” Beca murmured, her own arm coming up to wrap around Chloe’s back as she brushed a soft kiss to her forehead.

Summer chilled to fall over the following week. Chloe was thankful for the cooler temperatures, as her body felt like a furnace on its own, she didn’t need any additional heat. Now thirty-one weeks, she had started to waddle, much to Beca’s amusement, it seemed, even if she only claimed to find it adorable. She also got winded after walking up a single flight of stairs and was insanely grateful for the elevator in Beca’s building.

Hanging a left when it reached the right floor, Chloe headed down the hallway, pulling her keys out of her jacket pocket and sliding them into the lock.

“SURPRISE!”

Chloe jolted slightly, her hand shooting up to her chest in shock. Most of the Bellas stood in Beca’s decorated living-room, beaming at her. Above them hung a cute oh baby banner and a table was laid out with various snacks and a cake.

“Oh my gosh, you guys!” She exclaimed as soon as she regained her composure, stepping further inside to hug each one of her friends tightly. “Did you do all this?” She asked when she got to Beca, awe leaking in her tone.

“Aubrey helped,” Beca said, nodding towards the blonde standing to her right.

“Thank you,” Chloe murmured as she pulled away, embracing Aubrey next. It had taken some time for them to find their way back to how they used to be after so many years apart, and Chloe was so grateful Aubrey gave her a second chance. “Love you, Bree.”

“Love you, too.”

The afternoon was filled with fun activities such as onesie decorating, a Name that Tune game with songs that had the word baby in it, and a cupcake decorating contest. Towards the end of the day, Chloe was coaxed into opening the girls’ present, starting with the one Jessica set in her lap.

“This is from all of us,” she said, smiling as Chloe peered into the bag.

She fished the item out, her heart bursting in her chest as she unfolded the blue and gold onesie which bore the Barden Bella B. “Oh… I love it. Thank you.”

The girls definitely spoiled Bean, gifting Chloe with a bunch of adorable onesies, animal stuffies, mittens, swaddles, a bear winter jumpsuit for those freezing days ahead of them, and an expensive-looking electric swing.

“This is too much,” she croaked out once she had unwrapped the large box, shaking her head in disbelief as the girls simply waved her concern off.

“Oh, that’s from your parents,” Beca chimed in as Chloe reached for the second-to-last present.

Tears pooled in her eyes (she had honestly lost track of how many times she’d cried in the last couple of hours) as she took the familiar item out of the bag. “It’s my baby blanket,” she told the girls as she unfolded the mustard blanket her mom had knitted while she was pregnant with her. She traced the name she had picked for her baby girl, which her mom had added in white lettering in a corner. Chloe smiled as she brought it to her nose; it smelled like home.

The last gift was a pampering kit for Chloe, as well as a few items she would need for after labor.

“I learned some stuff about childbirth that I wish I’d never known while looking for items to add to this,” Amy said with a grimace, drawing a giggle from Chloe. “I didn’t know things could tear like that down below.”

Chloe winced along with the rest of the Bellas, her chuckle coming out strained. “Thanks, Amy.”

Beca ordered pizzas for everyone, and the girls stuck around until nine pm, helping to clean up the living-room before they left. Chloe changed into her pajamas and made herself some herbal tea for her and Beca, joining her on the couch.

“You okay?” Beca asked as she took one of the mugs from Chloe.

“Yeah,” Chloe breathed out, curling up on the opposite end of the couch. “Thank you for today. It was so nice to see the girls again. I’m really lucky.”

“You’re welcome, Chlo.” She motioned towards her lap. “C’mon, hand me those feet.”

Chloe giggled, setting her feet on Beca’s thighs and biting back a moan as she started kneading the sole of her right foot. It had become a sort of a ritual these past few weeks, for Beca to give Chloe a foot rub while they chilled on the couch after dinner. “Am I going to lose those privileges once I’m no longer pregnant?” She teased.

Beca smirked. “We’ll see.”

“I heard back from my old vet school, this morning,” Chloe said, following a few minutes of comfortable silence. She had been communicating back and forth with the advisor over there, who finally heard back from the head of the department. “Since I did two years of vet school already, I’d only have to do one more year to become a vet tech. They offered for me to jump into the school year in January, but that feels a little too soon after Bean gets here, so I think I’ll wait until September next year,” she explained as she rubbed her bump. “But I definitely plan on getting a part-time job waitressing or something by next spring, as soon as Bean is old enough go to daycare.”

Finding a good daycare with availability had been a headache, but Chloe had luckily found a spot at the one she had set her eyes on in the neighborhood.

“That’s great news,” Beca mused aloud, smiling. “I’m proud of you.”

“I wouldn’t be where I am without you, Bec,” Chloe murmured, returning her smile. A groan flitted past her lips a second later. “Ugh, I need to pee again.”

Beca chuckled as Chloe heaved herself to her feet and waddled to the bathroom. She had just shut the door behind her when a sharp pain in her lower belly made her double over, her hand shooting out to grip the counter while the other one cradled her bump.

Panic gripped her insides as she slowly straightened when her head stopped spinning, letting go of her stomach to dip her hand past the waistband of her sweatpants. Her fingers met something warm and sticky, and Chloe’s heart lurched to her throat when she pulled them out, eyes zeroing on the blood.

“No, no, no,” she muttered to herself, forcing down the lump forming in her throat with a hard swallow. She called Beca’s name, her voice wavering as tears rose to her eyes.

“What’s wrong??” Beca rushed out as she rounded the corner, the sight before her answering her own question. Her eyes widened, and she paled, freezing for a couple of seconds before setting into motion. “I’m taking you to the ER. I’ll grab your shoes and coat.”

Chloe gave a faint nod even though she wasn’t sure she registered Beca’s words. Her feet seemed rooted to the floor while Beca’s hurried steps faded. She couldn’t move. She kept staring at her bloodied hand as the most dreaded, terrible, gut-wrenching feeling seized her entire being.

“I can’t--” she found herself saying when Beca appeared in her line of vision. The air got stuck in her throat before it could reach her lungs, just as her words died before it reached her tongue. She couldn’t lose her baby. “Bec.”

“I know,” Beca murmured as she helped Chloe slip her jacket on. Her own hands were shaking. She bent down to guide Chloe’s feet into her sneakers, one by one, then grabbed a towel from the cupboard under the sink.

Another cramp made Chloe cry out, and she felt more blood seeping out of her, in a greater amount this time around. She felt it dripping down her legs and choked on a sob, clutching at her stomach.

The elevator ride and walk to the car was a blur, and Chloe found herself blankly staring out the window as Beca rushed to the hospital, hoping with all her might that her baby would be okay.

#bechloe #bechloe fanfic #beca mitchell #chloe beale #period piece

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keiyoomi · 3 years

Text

letters to satori | t. satori × reader

summary: you did your best to keep yourself from confessing your feelings towards satori, but you just. . . can’t help, but imagine how your life would turn out with a bubbly tendō satori by your side.

details: 2k+ words | unedited | fluff? | ft. semi and ushiwaka

note: i’ve reached 2k followers recently. thank you for following me!!!

The idea of giving a handwritten letter to someone they like fascinates the red-haired middle blocker of Shiratorizawa—Tendō Satori.

It all began after he read a shōjo manga wherein the female lead tirelessly slips a handwritten note in the shoebox of the male lead. He wanted to experience that once in this lifetime. Yes, he received a lot of letters once in a while, but none of them are consistent. Their feelings towards him seems like a mere passing fancy.

“I haven’t seen you so dejected before,” Semi remarked as he stood next to him. “Don’t tell me you received another red mark in the tests?”

Satori groaned as he rest his chin on his desk while stretching his long limbs. “N—”

“AH-T!” Satori’s eyes widened upon hearing your voice. “Tendō!” you yelled with your fists tightly clenched. He can only smile at your direction in response.

This wasn’t the first time you tripped while he’s stretching his body. All incidents were unintentional and definitely not funny, but for some reason, he could feel that something’s bubbling in his chest.

“Sorry. Sorry.”

You squinted your eyes at him before walking away. While watching you approach one of your classmates, he let out a sigh. “I wonder if she’ll do it for me.”

Semi’s eyebrows furrowed. “Do what for you?” he asked. However, instead of answering his question, Satori chose to grin and kept his mouth shut.

‘It must be nice if she’ll secretly write a letter for me.’ He thought with a giggle. ‘I wonder what she’ll write in her letters though.’

●○●○●○●○●○●○●○●○●○●

You were in a daze while monitoring the movements of each members of Shiratorizawa Academy’s Boys’ Volleyball Team. The image of the red-head middle blocker, holding a copy of a famous shōjo manga plague your mind.

‘Is he implying something?’ you thought while watching him play around with his teammates—something he usually do when Coach Washijō is not around. You shook your head to clear your mind. ‘Nah. Impossible. He doesn’t like receiving such things. He said so himself.’

Then, you tilted your head while looking for a reason that’s more acceptable that the one you’ve concluded earlier. ‘Maybe that manga is just as popular as they say,’ you thought with a nod.

You blew the whistle to get the attention of everyone in the gym. “Start the drills. Fifty jump serves, and another fifty float serves. We have to finish at least half amount of that drills before coach returns.”

They all responded ‘yes’ with dread. Honestly, you feel the same way too. The last thing you want is to be scolded by Coach Washijō. His gaze alone can make a fragile person cry.

You were recording the status of each players, including some habits that has to be corrected, when you felt someone’s presence beside you. Specifically, his. “Woah. You’re pretty dedicated, huh.”

“This is how I normally do things, Tendō-kun,” you pointed out. “I’ve been doing this for almost three years.”

“Say,” he began before calling you by your nickname playfully. “Do you think someone will confess to me before our graduation?”

Your body stiffened for a moment, tightening your grip on the clipboard you were holding, before regaining your composure. “Maybe, maybe not.”

The thought if someone confessing to him made you feel uncomfortable. It feels suffocating and you hate it.

You hate what you’re feeling.

Satori vocally expressed his desire to explore the world beyond Japan. Falling in love with him wouldn’t be wise and might only result in something heartbreaking—a situation you’d like to avoid as of the moment.

Then, he sighed. Loud enough for you to hear. “Must be nice to receive a handwritten letter before graduating,” he mumbled, making you look up at him.

“Have you read that manga?” he asked while looking at you. “Letters to My Love*?”

“I’ve heard about it. Got no time to read it, though.” A blatant lie. “Is it that good?” you asked.

“Mhm. I can lend you my copies if you want.”

‘No need. I have my own. Thanks.’ Of course, you can’t say it that way. “Maybe after the tournament,” you responded before glancing at him. “Aren’t you going to do the drills? Toshi’s already done with the entire drill.”

“Fine,” he grumbled before whispering. something.

‘He wasn’t cursing me, right?’

●○●○●○●○●○●○●○●○●○●

“This is hopeless,” he whispered as he trudged towards the side of the court where his teammates stands. ‘I’ve tried all the tactics that the male lead in the manga did. All of them were neatly dodged by her.’ Then, he sighed. ‘At least in the manga, the female lead—despite the fact that she’s dense—picked up what he was hinting. But. . .’ He looked towards your direction before sighing. ‘It’s hopeless.’

The next day, though, he found a pink envelope neatly placed on the top of his indoor shoes. His eyes widened with delight before taking it with sheer enthusiasm. ‘Or maybe it wasn’t hopeless at all!’ he cheered in his head while skipping towards the gym.

“She must be embarrassed,” he said while grinning. “Wait, should I pretend that I didn’t know that I’ve received her letter? It must be embarassing for her if the others discover what she did.”

He clenched his fist with a promise. ‘I won’t let anyone tease our cute little manager.’

“What are you doing, Tendō?” Semi asked while standing near the entrance of the locker room.

“Nothing,” he respond playfully before humming an upbeat song. “Is she here already?” he asked.

“Huh? What are you talking about? She’s skipping today’s practice to rest. I heard she was feeling feverish on her way back to the dorms.”

Satori’s delighted humming paused. “O-Oh. . .” he forced a smile before facing his friend. “. . . that’s unfortunate.”

“What happened to your mood?” Semi asked while watching him change.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” he said before smiling as if everything’s alright. ‘Maybe I shouldn’t get my hopes up.’

●○●○●○●○●○●○●○●○●○●

You’ve decided to isolate yourself from the rest of the team after catching a cold.

“How did he react?” you asked before coughing. You shouldn’t have left the dorm in that cold weather. “Please tell me that my sacrifice was worth it.”

Semi sighed. “Disappointed.”

“Oh.”

“He was humming at first, but when I told him that you’re skipping today’s practice, he looked disappointed.”

“I wonder why.”

Semi scoffed. “Yeah. I wonder why too.”

“And. . . what did you do with the letter I gave you earlier?”

“I left the pink one in his shoe locker after he left.”

“It’s blush pink.”

“Still pink.”

“Whatever.” Then, you coughed once again. “Thank you, Semi.”

“Mhm. But I still think it’s better if you just tell him directly. You do know that someone might claim to be this anonymous confessor, right?”

You sighed. “I’m working on it, Semi. Don’t worry.”

“Who said I’m worried?”

“Wow. Just. . . wow.”

“Rest and attend tomorrow’s practice. It’s not the same without—Tendō?” Your forehead scrunched. “Shit.”

“Oh God.”

“Go to sleep.”

Without another word, he ended the phone call. ‘He wouldn’t misunderstand. . . right?’

●○●○●○●○●○●○●○●○●○●

I’ve been watching you from afar since we’re freshmen. No, not in the creepy way. At first, I was a bit hesitant to be around with someone like you. Someone who shines vibrantly like a star, attracting almost everyone around you. Maybe one day I’d be courageous enough to approach you and tell you everything I’ve been wanting to say for years.

Sincerely,

Your Admirer

He placed back the small note inside the envelope before staring at it. So far, the hints he got from this letter alone is that they’re in the same year and that they’re somewhere near him. Not that it minimized the number of possible senders, but it is still something.

Maybe they’ll drop more hints in tomorrow’s letter. That is, if they’re attempting to copy what happened in the manga.

However, the next letters he received did not give away the identity of the sender. Aside from the possibility that they’re probably a girl. Although it’s possible that they’re not too.

“I feel more tired than usual,” he complained during lunch, after reading the latest letter from his admirer. For three weeks, they consistently leaves a letter in his shoe locker without anyone catching them. Not even the hallway monitor.

“What’s wrong Tendō?” Ushijima asked while looking at him with stern face.

“Nothing,” he briefly responded before glancing at Semi. “How’s your relationship with manager-chan?”

Semi choked upon hearing his question. “I’ve told you we’re not—”

“—you’re with her? I didn’t even noticed.”

Semi shook his head in response. “You got it all wrong. We’re not—”

“Whatever you say,” Reon teased while patting his shoulder. “She’s heading to the gym first, right?”

“I don’t know. Leave me alone,” Semi grumbled, not noticing Tendō’s gaze towards him.

Satori sighed before playing with his food. “Must be nice. . .”

“That’s it!” Semi exclaimed before looking at Satori’s eyes. “Meet me at the shoe locker thirty minutes after the practice. Make sure to pretend to walk towards the dorm.”

Tendō tilted his head while watching his friend walking away while holding the tray.

‘What’s wrong with him?’

●○●○●○●○●○●○●○●○●○●

“Confess!” You were startled when you heard Semi’s frustrated voice. “Please. Stop waiting for the ‘perfect time’ to confess.”

“I swear. I’ll do it next week.”

“You’ve said it before.”

“This time, it’s for real.”

“You do realize that next week would be the finals, right?”

“Yes. That’s exactly the reason why I wanted to do it next week.”

Semi sighed before patting your head. “I’m sorry, Y/N.”

“Huh? Why?”

Instead of answering, he began to walk away from you while waving his hand. ‘What’s with him?’

●○●○●○●○●○●○●○●○●○●

Unfortunately, the practice dragged on and wasn’t able to meet Semi in the shoe locker. That’s also impossible considering that Semi’s stuck in the gym too just like him. Same goes for you who’s stuck with them too.

The next morning, he was disappointed that he wasn’t able to see a letter on the top of his indoor shoes. ‘Are they sick or something?’

With a sigh, he picked up his shoes before walking towards the classroom with a gloomy aura surrounding him. Until today, he wasn’t aware of the impact of his admirer in his life.

●○●○●○●○●○●○●○●○●○●

‘Fuck,’ you grumbled as you rush towards the shoe lockers. You didn’t mean to run late. By late, you were attending your afternoon classes and missing your morning classes.

You were just too tired after last night’s practice.

You sighed before pulling out the letter you’ve prepared earlier. You stood in front of Satori’s shoe locker before taking a deep breath. You opened his locker and placed the letter inside.

“Y/N-chan?”

‘Shit.’

Sometimes, things just don’t happen according to your plans.

“Y/N-chan? What are you doing?” Satori asks in a playful way. Your hands were shaking as you slowly turn your head towards him. “You’re not planning to pull some prank on me, right?” he asks, squinting his eyes.

“A-Absolutely not,” you stuttered. “What the hell are you talking about?” You nervously chuckle as you close his shoe locker. You gave its door one last push before approaching him. “Aren’t you hungry, Tendō-kun? You’re hungry, right?”

You swallowed hard as soon as he leans towards you, way too close for your liking. “You’re keeping some—”

“—Tendō would you like to come with us?”

You let out a sigh when you both heard Wakatoshi’s voice. Satori turns to Wakatoshi before nodding with enthusiasm. “Sure!” he chirps.

“Thank goodness!”

“After I deal with our cute manager-chan,” he says while grinning at you. “She’s been trying to keep something from me.”

“Oh, God. Wakatoshi. . . do not expose me, I beg you,” you thought while looking at Ushijima with wide eyes. You were silently praying that he’d notice the subtle gestures you were making.

“Oh, you know something, Wakatoshi-kun?”

You both waited for his response, but he just stood there, looking at you and the red-haired middle blocker.

Satori sighs.

“This is hopeless,” Satori says before glancing at you. “Come on. I’m starving!”

Thanks, God. For delaying the inevitable.

●○●○●○●○●○●○●○●○●○●

The next morning, the typically loud and cheerful Tendō Satori was quiet. Too quiet and stiff as if he’s tensed. A lot of your classmates noticed it too and tried to ‘squeeze out’ some juicy information from him, but his lips are sealed.

You took a deep breath while fanning yourself with the notebook on your desk. “Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. He definitely read the letter. Will he reject my proposal or will he accept it? God. I didn’t made him uncomfortable, right?” Your heart race while overthinking. “I hope this wouldn’t affect his performance later. . . wait, he’s only visiting the team later with Wakatoshi to train the rest of the team. Oh God. I almost forgot about the meeting I’ve arranged with the students who’d like to apply as the team’s manager.”

Your head unconsciously turns to Satori’s direction. It used to calm your nerves—looking at him, but now. . . now that your eyes met each other before you both looked away?

Damn.

You pursed your lips as you pleaded to your heart to calm down. But. . . an image of grinning Satori, and pleased Satori, and softy Satori flashed your mind.

You squeak.

Your classmates turn their attention to you before laughing.

Sometimes, you wish that the ground swallows you whole.

●○●○●○●○●○●○●○●○●○●

The moment the bell chimes, you immediately cleaned up your desk. While placing your things inside your bag, you felt someone’s presence beside you. You tried your best to calm down, but catching a whiff of his not-so-heavy scent made you more nervous than you were earlier.

“Y/N-chan,” he called.

’Here it is. The moment of truth.’

“I. . .” he clears his throat. You look at him and watch him rubbing the back of his neck. “. . .I’ve read it and. . .” He purses his lips before meeting your eyes. “. . . I can’t wait until the end of our practice.”

“And?” you asked, preparing yourself for whatever his response would be.

“. . .I’ll see you tomorrow.”

That was all he said, but it made you cry–bawl–in sheer happiness.

You nodded your head, with tears and a wide smile on your face.

“I’ll see you tomorrow!”

#keiyoomi: does impulsive shits #keiyoomi: rewrite #haikyuu x reader #haikyuu!! x reader #hq x reader #hq!! x reader #haikyuu!! x reader fluff #haikyuu x reader fluff #hq!! x reader fluff #hq x reader fluff #tendō x reader #tendō satori x reader #tendō x reader fluff #tendō satori x reader fluff #haikyuu fluff #haikyuu!! fluff #hq!! fluff #hq fluff

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artificialqueens · 3 years

Text

Better Than Revenge, Chapter 1 (Multi) - Joley

ao3 link

Jan put her hands on the back of Jackie’s chair, trying to read over her shoulder as if it would help one way or another. “Still looking into the Sarah Jones case?” she asked, resting her chin on the top of Jackie’s head.

If it were anyone else, Jackie would’ve shooed them away, but she didn’t have it in her to deny Jan’s presence. “Just about finished,” she assured. “It seems pretty cut and dry, the court case is well-documented. It’s yet another instance of a straight, white boy getting off with a slap on the wrist. Did ninety days in jail and another month of community service. Sarah came to the right people.”

“She getting any restitution?”

“Not a dime,” she shook her head and clicked her tongue in disapproval, then turned to face her. “Are you taking on this one?”

Jan looked over her shoulder into the other room. “Nah, Gigi’s on this one, I have a few cases to follow up on.”

There was a beat of silence where Jan was unaware of Jackie’s internal debating before finally asking, “so, you think you’ll be free tonight?”

She bit her lip, a smirk twitching at the corner. “You missing me in your bed already?”

Jackie turned around in her chair, looking up at Jan. “You’re a cocky little brat, aren’t you?” she teased.

Jan braced her hands on either arm of Jackie’s chair. “But am I wrong?”

“I can’t really argue when I’m eye-level with your tits.”

“Well, I–” her retort was cut off by an alarm on her phone going off. “Ah, fuck, my three o’clock case is gonna be here any minute now. I’ll be in my office if you need me, gorge,” she winked before turning on her heel and making her way down the hall.

Jackie turned back to her desk, exhaling deeply as she allowed her heart a chance to return to its normal rate. But it wasn’t long before she sensed that once again, she wasn’t alone, and groaned. “Don’t say it.”

“She has you whipped,” Nicky observed matter-of-factly. “It would be cute if you weren’t such a stubborn bitch about it.”

She rolled her eyes. “I’m an Aries. Stubborn bitch is my default setting. Ask Denali, she can vouch for that.”

Nicky furrowed her brows. “Where is Denali anyway? She left before noon to meet with a new client, she’s usually back by now.”

“I’m sure she’s fine,” Jackie assured, “she knows how to take care of herself.” Before they could question her whereabouts any further, her office phone began to ring. “Let me take this,” she said before answering in her ‘business voice’, “Karma Inc, Jackie speaking. How may I help you?”

——

It wasn’t uncommon for Denali or the others to make house calls for consultations. Oftentimes, someone’s privacy or safety could be at stake. So, she didn’t bat an eye as she made her way to the address listed in the email. But when she saw that she was at a scarcely used office building, her suspicions grew.

With her hand on her taser, Denali cautiously entered the building and looked around. The email said to wait in the lobby – not that she planned to wander around.

“Denali?”

The voice startled her from her thoughts and she turned to see where it was coming from. She then saw a tall woman with auburn hair and pale skin approach her. “You’re Rosé?”

“That’s me,” she confirmed before leading Denali into an empty office. “Listen, this is going to sound like bullshit, but I have a case for your organization. It’s of critical importance and could be huge for you guys as well.”

Denali’s brows furrowed as she eyed her suspiciously. “Who are you, exactly?”

Rosé strummed her fingers against the desk. “I’m a former detective and–”

“Hey, what we’re doing is completely legal!” she cut in, eyes narrowing in a glare. This wasn’t the first time she felt inclined to defend what her group did. What she considered their group was an ethical version of mercenaries (which may seem like an oxymoron, but that was beside the point).

They pick up where law enforcement, the justice system, or even society itself failed. When someone came to them seeking revenge on someone that wronged them, they took it seriously. The vetting process that Jackie would put each case through could take days depending on the circumstance. Bottom line, their goal was to help people who had exhausted their options and she would be damned if she let some cop get in the way of that. “If this is some sort of sting, I’ll have you know I have an attorney and I won’t–”

“This isn’t a sting,” she replied calmly. “I’ve seen the justice system fail far too many people to stay within it. That was why I left, but I have unfinished business. There are people out there that have hurt others that’ll never see justice and could cause even more harm. That’s where you and your associates come in.”

Denali went from defensive to intrigued in a second flat. “So, you want us to give the victims some closure by hunting down criminals? And do what, specifically? Because a lot of what we do doesn’t cause long-term damage… physical damage, anyway.”

Rosé grinned. “That’s where I team up with you guys. I can arrange for Karma Inc. to have the proper training you would need to be at the level of effectiveness we would need here.”

“We?”

“I have been working closely with some of the victims of the people we’re after. This isn’t going to be easy, but from what I understand, I’ve come to the right place.”

Denali strummed her fingers against the desk as she mulled it over. She would need to run it by the rest of the group, but she couldn’t fathom them not being on board. That’s why they had come together – to right wrongs in ways only they were able to. “You certainly have.”

——

“This is exciting!” Jan chirped, bouncing a bit in her seat. “We’re gonna be like actual crime fighters now. Think of all the things we’ll be able to do once we have all the skills for it! Maybe we should get matching leather jackets or something.”

“Take a breath, Bubbles,” Mik chuckled, then turned his attention back to Denali. “So, tell us about this detective.”

A slight smile tugged at the corner of Denali’s lips and she began absentmindedly twirling her hair around her finger as she spoke. “She’s like six foot, auburn hair, beautiful blue-green eyes, big ti-”

“That is not what he meant, you horny dumbass,” Symone cut in. “Also, I’m pretty sure you just described Jolene, like, from the song.”

“Hey!” Denali pouted, then tilted her head in thought. “Actually, now that you mention it…”

Gigi pinched the bridge of her nose. “Focus, Denali. Please just tell me you handled yourself professionally and weren’t staring at her ‘eyes’.”

“Give me some credit here, Jesus,” she rolled her eyes. “I was fine, I wouldn’t volunteer for something just to appease a pretty face. I take this shit just as seriously as the rest of you.” Once she’d taken a breath to refocus herself, she continued. “She’ll be coming over tomorrow to meet with us, then once we work out the details, we’re gonna get started on combat training. Well, you guys will,” she smirked at the last part.

“Lest we ever forget your black belt,” Nicky chimed in. “Did you brag to her about that?”

Denali scoffed. “I prefer the element of surprise, thank you very much.”

Nicky shrugged. “You’re welcome.”

As much as the group liked to joke around with each other, the seriousness of their new mission never left their minds. They enjoyed their work, but they took everything seriously. It was people’s lives, their mental and physical health. It was their safety and their future and they knew how much power and responsibility came with their mercenary work. But it fulfilled each of them in their own way - they didn’t end up doing this by accident, after all.

And they all made their feelings clear when they spoke to Rosé. Denali had texted her the address of their headquarters and led her inside to their main meeting room. “Everyone, this is Rosé. Rosé, this is Nicky, Symone, Mik, Jan, Gigi, we’re the mercenaries. And this is Jackie; she does all of the research, tech, paperwork… basically, the glue that holds us together.”

“I’m very excited to meet you all,” Rosé replied in greeting, clasping her hands together. “I know this may seem like a heavy task, I promise it’ll be worth it.”

“I’ve got a question,” Symone chimed in. “I saw the numbers you sent us. Who, exactly, is funding this endeavor?”

“It was somewhat of a crowdfunding endeavor,” Rosé explained. “But it turned into something much bigger. The community of people affected by the people we’re tracking down is dedicated and pulled in resources almost in excess. Rest assured, we can live up to those numbers.”

The answer satisfied Symone, who nodded in acceptance. “Alright,” she cracked her knuckles, “what’s the next step from here?”

Rosé’s face cracked into a grin. “From here, we get you guys into training. I have a combat specialist and range master on standby to help you guys prepare for as many possible scenarios as we could think of. This will take some time, so we’ll work with your schedules.”

“I’ll email you that,” Jackie nodded. “The rest of the day is open if you guys want an introductory session or something.”

They all looked at each other, slowly nodding before Jan, speaking for the group, said “we’re in, let’s at least get a taste of what’s to come.”

“We don’t need to know what you and Jackie are doing tonight, babe,” Gigi teased, earning a glare in response.

After that, the group took the twenty-minute drive to the private gym they would be training in. It was spacious and clean, not having an overabundance of exercise equipment. Most noticeably, there was a boxing ring towards the back of the space. “Any of you guys ever box before?” Mik asked casually.

Most of them shook their heads, save for Symone who shrugged, “a little bit in college.” She looked over at Denali, “what, you aren’t secretly a heavyweight champion on top of your blackbelt?”

“No, but I’m a fast learner,” Denali retorted, brushing her hair off her shoulder.

“Mercenaries,” Rosé redirected everyone’s attention. “This is Jaida, military trained in hand-to-hand combat. There’s no one I’d trust more to whip you all into shape.”

While most of the group had reactions ranging from neutral to excited, Nicky looked like she had just seen a ghost. Her eyes went wide, her face paled, the beating of her heart drowned out anything else Rosé was saying. There was no way, she thought. It had to be a coincidence – the universe doesn’t just align like that in real life.

But if Jaida shared those sentiments, she didn’t let them show – something that went hand-in-hand with military training, no doubt. Though it seemed that she was actively not looking at Nicky, her unwaveringly stoic expression seemed focused to her left, where Jan, Mik, and Denali were. “Alright,” she said once Rosé had finished her introductory speech, “I’m gonna work with each of y’all one-on-one to get a read on your skill level,” she looked the line-up over and tilted her head. “I’ll take the ginger one first, the rest of you start warming up.”

While Gigi left with Jaida, Jan turned to Nicky with a concerned expression. “You okay? You look kinda… sick. Do you want some water or something?”

“I’m not sick,” she assured, but let Jan lead her off to the side anyway. “I just think I might be going a bit crazy.” There was hesitation as she worked herself up to being honest – this was Jan, if there was anyone she could confide in, it would be her. “The instructor. She looked familiar… like the girl. You know, the girl.”

Jan’s expression went from confusion to wide-eyed realization over the course of the next few seconds. “Oh my gosh, her? Are you sure?”

Nicky shook her head. “I do not think I can be… she didn’t react at all. But she might just have a hard façade. I am sure the military helped with that.”

“What’re you gonna say when it’s your turn?”

“What can I say?”

Jan pressed her lips together as she wracked her brain, only to come up empty. “I don’t know,” she sighed. “I get it, this is a lot to process at once, especially if she is who you think she is. Maybe don’t even bring it up yet if you’re not ready.”

Nicky sighed, resting her head against the wall. “I guess that’s the best option,” she agreed halfheartedly.

By the time it was Nicky’s turn, her nerves had subsided. Whatever Jaida’s reaction to her was, she was sure she could handle it. “Hi. Um, I’m Nicky and–”

Jaida cut her off by firmly cupping her face and kissing her hard and for as long as her lungs would allow. “You fuckin’ think I wouldn’t recognize you? Come on, Nicky.”

It took a moment for Nicky’s brain and mouth to reconnect, for her head to stop spinning. “It’s been fifteen years,” she whispered in her weak defense. “I didn’t think… I never thought…”

“Neither did I,” she assured gently. “But here we are. We can talk later, we gotta get this assessment done before Rosé bitches at me.”

——

It had taken another few days for the details surrounding the first case to come together, and it would take longer than that for it to be put into action. But as it progressed, they all became more and more invested, and Rosé was thrilled to see her ideas, her seemingly far-fetched concepts, starting to take form.

“I’ve been working with one of the victims for this case very closely, I think it’s important to have someone like her on board,” she was explaining. “Mik,” she prompted, “I want your job in this to be working with her, I think you’ll handle that best.”

Mik tilted his head. “Sure, but based on what?”

Rosé shrugged. “Being a detective, you pick up on the ability to read people, you know, get a sense of their personalities. I think yours will balance with hers, and that’s going to be a necessity.”

“Believe it or not, one thing we’ve learned doing this is empathy. Not that we weren’t before, but this shit like, really bonds you with people,” Mik remarked.

“Definitely,” Jan agreed, “I’ve made connections with people through the process of getting them their revenge that I’ll have forever.”

Denali nodded, “I got invited to a client’s wedding. Honestly, I forgot she even hired us, I just see her as my friend now.”

Rosé beamed broadly as she listened to their anecdotes. This was what she had hoped to find in her previous career, to help people that needed it and solve problems. She wanted to connect to her community even when she was rather high-ranking. But it ended in frustration and hurt time and time again. Part of her almost envied the gang, how they had managed to achieve this all on their own. More than anything, however, she was happy to see it happening. “Can I ask you guys something? How did this happen? Like, what inspired you guys to come together to create this enterprise?”

“We’ve all got our backstories, gorge,” Mik chuckled dryly. “Took a while for us to all find each other, but we all had that in common.”

“What, that you all took revenge in your own lives?”

All of them nodded in confirmation. “You gotta start somewhere, right?” Jan hummed.

Rosé leaned forward in interest. “So… Can I hear them? Your stories?”

The group exchanged glances with each other, then nodded. “Buckle up, Detective,” Gigi warned, “this is going to be one hell of a history lesson.”

#rpdr fanfiction #better than revenge #joley #s12 #s13 #rosnali #jankie #jaida x nicky #lesbian au #rosé #denali foxx #jan sport #jackie cox #jaida essence hall #nicky doll #gigi goode #symone #gottmik

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edensbuttercups · 3 years

Text

Pairing: Jaskier x reader Word count: 1.9k Request: Can I request a oneshot of Jaskier&Fem!Reader? ❤️ She's travelling with Jask, Geralt and Ciri. One night while they're camping, the reader heard the scream of a kikimore, she fought the beast and she gets badly hurt. Geralt heard her scream and went to see what was going on, he found her lying down on the ground with the corpse of the kikimore behind her and went to the camp as soon as possible because it was poisonus and they have to reach the next village really soon because she's going to die and Yennefer was the only one who can save her. Maybe a little angsty and fluffy with happy ending oneshot where Jaskier confessed his love to her and viceversa? A/N: Aaah, I’m so happy that I got this request! This was a lot of fun to write and made me feel productive again. Thank you so much @caritobbg ❤️

This was a foolish idea. You shouldn’t have followed that scream, not alone, not knowing what it could’ve been. But you couldn’t risk for the beast to get closer, you couldn’t risk losing Ciri, losing Jaskier.

You remembered the first time you’d heard him sing. He sat in that small tavern, alone, signing one of the saddests songs you could fathom. Of course, as you’d learn, he had just left his Witcher behind, and had felt lost, forgotten, after having dedicated so much to something that was worth so little to someone else. You talked that night; you drunk on ale, him drunk on sadness, and somehow came to the agreement of traveling together. You weren’t a Witcher, but you went on adventures, occasionally fighting monsters, but mostly thieves and other outlaws. But that was enough for ballads and stories of heroic moments, so it was enough for both of you. And so you went on, together, living each day with a new mix of excitement, laughter, adventure, leaving loneliness behind. You eventually met the Witcher again, of course, but this time he wasn’t alone. The reunion wasn’t smooth, but all came down to an apology, a string of profanities and a simple pat on the back. It didn’t stop Jaskier from making occasional remarks and comments, but you and Ciri learned to laugh at them, and Geralt learned to ignore them.

And there you were, four improbable friends, camping out for the night, avoiding danger. Geralt left the three of you by the campfire to hunt for food, or wood, the main aim that to survive the night. You could live without food for one more night, but the dark wouldn’t do you any favors, he knew that, and the fire had started growing low. He wouldn’t be far, and he was fast, and more than all, he trusted you. He knew that you knew your way with a sword, you’d protect the others just fine - if needed of course.

And then, just after two pleasant conversations and an incredibly inappropriate joke (Jaskier, of course) after, you all heard it. That scream. That incredibly terrifying scream, one you recognized easily. You quickly stood, your eyes meeting Jaskier’s for a moment, before glancing at Ciri and quickly smiling at her. Jaskier followed suit, standing up and looking around, his hand reaching for the small dainty dagger he carried with him. “I’ll come with you.” he started, eyes glancing around the dark. “Stay with Ciri. Geralt will have heard the scream too, he’ll reach me there.” “Let him go then! He’s not far, he’ll have heard it and-” he tried to convince you. He tried. “Jaskier, trust me, if we heard it, that means it’s near. I don’t want it harming Ciri or … you.” just the thought of that pained you. You’d never admit it, yet… “Stay. I’ll be back soon. I can handle it.” you smiled at him, your hand instinctively reaching for his, a quick gesture of affection that you allowed yourself before dashing away. If only you’d have said something, held him a bit longer, kissed him even… You ran. You ran fast, your sword held tightly in your hand, even when you reached it, you didn’t stop, you didn’t cower under it, you hit it, barely stopping for aim, you just hit. You don’t fully recall what happened, but you knew that something had hit you, and you were bleeding, you were weak, but the kikimore was down, and wasn’t moving, so everything was going to be alright.

You heard your name being called, once, twice, from a familiar voice, but everything was spinning, and you were so small, and so tired. “Keep her awake! Make sure she stays with us as long as possible!” you heard the words distantly, but you recognized Geralt’s voice. He seemed… worried? But the kikimore was down. Everything was going to be alright. “Is she going to make it? There’s a lot of blood, Geralt.” “Ciri, I-” he paused. “We’ll do what we can. But we have to get her to Yennefer. She’s our only chance. Quick.” Something pulled you up, roughly, and you felt the air being pulled out of your lungs for a moment. “Geralt!” “What, Jaskier?” A mumble, then something else. You couldn’t hear clearly, but he was there. Was it him holding your hand? Or was it Ciri? “I can’t Geralt. I couldn’t.” “Just talk to her. Keep her awake for as long as you can.” “You felt your hand being squeezed gently. You moved your head, or you tried at least, making them see that you were still with them. “Oh my, she’s… she’s moving.” you heard him sigh, squeezing your hand tighter, “Hey, it’s alright. I’ve got you. Everything is going to be alright.” Everything was going to be alright.

You don’t remember much from after that. Those last words. You kept reliving that moment, that evening, but each time something different happened. The first time you had left to fight the monster, but found nothing, only a rose. A small rose. “For you.” he spoke. Jaskier. “It’s lovely.” “Not as lovely as you.” you smiled at the dream, feeling that familiar pang in your chest. The second time you were at the campfire again, Ciri sleeping by the fire, you next to Jaskier, inches away, gazing at each other’s eyes, those beautiful eyes, before leaning in, lips touching and… The third time you were alone in the dark. You could see the kikimore’s body, but nothing else. Until you did. You saw your body next to it. Cold, still, lifeless. And a single rose next to it, a gesture of affection, of loss.

But you weren’t dead.

You weren’t.

You could feel something. Something warm, something soft. You held it, or it held you. You moved, your body stiff, trying to reach it, but it moved away. You were alone again, in the dark. Then you started to feel lighter again, and sounds started to be heard again. “She moved! She did, I swear!” Jaskier. You smiled. “You know she might not make it, Jaskier. I know you want to believe it but-” “But she did! She did move, I tell you!” “Go look for Ciri then. If she is waking up she’ll be thrilled.” You heard some commotion, then the door closing and some hushed whispers. You slowly opened your eyes, meeting the blurry world once again. “Geralt, she actually is waking up.” You felt the air shift around you, as two hands gently guided you up, so you could sit once more. “How do you feel?” she asked, her eyes analyzing your face. “I’m… weak. But I’m alright. Thank you.” you smiled at her, thankful that you felt better again. Your eyes scanned the room, looking for someone that wasn’t there. “Ciri and Jaskier should be in soon.” Geralt sat next to you, slowly, afraid to startle you in some way. “He wouldn’t shut up about you.” “I heard him. Not everything but… I was conscious for some time. I don’t recall exactly what happened but I remember hearing your voices.” “We were worried.” he spoke after a moment. “I heard the scream but assumed you had stayed with Jaskier and Ciri. By the time I reached them and figured out where you were… I should’ve been quicker. I apologize.” “There’s no apologizing to do, Geralt.” he smiled, reassured. He wouldn’t forgive himself, he knew that, but he appreciated the fact that you didn’t blame him, and he promised himself to be more careful when it came to your surroundings, wanting to make it up to you. “You did good. With the kikimore. But don’t do it again.” “I just wanted to protect Jaskier and Ciri.” “Oh, I know. But you’ll put me out of work.” you laughed, reaching for his arm and patting it, assuring him you’d focus on a different career. You both turned when the door opened and Ciri ran past it, jumping into your arms. You fell back onto the bed, laughing, as Geralt tried to pull her off, warning her that you weren’t well enough yet and she should wait. When you sat back up you glanced at the door, where Jaskier stood. He nodded at you, smiling for a moment before turning away, walking back out. “I’ll go talk to him.” “Let me help you stand.” Both Yennefer and Ciri were by your side, helping you up and allowing you a moment to get your balance. You thanked them and made your way out, looking around and spotting the bard under a tree not too far. “Well hello there.” you said as you sat next to him. “I… are you… alright?” “I’m fine. Really.” you smiled and reached for his hand, but he flinched, moving away and standing quickly. “Jaskier?” “That was my fault. I knew I had to come with you. Or tell you to stay. But I didn’t. This is on me.” “Jask, this isn’t anybody’s fault. And I’m alright, that’s what matters, right?” “But what if you hadn’t been.” his voice lowered, fear taking over him once more. “What if you were still there, on that bed, in Yen’s house. If you hadn’t woken up.” “We’ll never know. We don’t have to know.” “But it killed me. It killed me imagining my life without you. I went through two days without you and feared for what life was without you by my side, without your words and jokes and smiles. What would a life without you be?” “I’m here now. And I’m not leaving.” this time your hand found his. He didn’t move away, just held it tight, not willing to let you go again. “I dreamt of you.” he laughed bitterly, waiting for you to carry on. “I dreamt of many things. But you were always there.” “Must’ve been a nightmare.” he joked. You both felt the shift in the air, the worry washing away and leaving both of you to bask in your usual comfortable mood. “Quite the opposite actually.” you laughed. “But it did make me realize something.” “What?” “That no matter the dream, you were there.” “Arguably, it’s a curse” “Jaskier!” “No, but it’s true! You probably don’t even like me that much, yet you see me in every dream? That’s a tragedy, my dear.” “I like you. A lot.” “I like you a lot too.” No one dared say anything for a moment, allowing the words to just linger in the air. “When you say that you like me-” he pointed at him, vaguely gesturing around face “you mean ‘like’ as in…?” “As in ‘like’.” “But like… do you like like me or just like me?” “Jaskier, you’ve said ‘like’ way too many times in that phrase.” “Well it’s my phrase. Now answer.” “I like like you. I have for a while, if I must admit.” “You have?” “Indeed.” He smiled, moving closer and sliding his hand up to your cheek, resting it there. You waited for a moment, moving your arms to embrace him. “Are you going to kiss me, or…?” You whispered, laughing. “Oh, honey, now I think that I might be the one dreaming.” “But this is definitely true” you winked at him and leaned it, placing a kiss on his lips and getting lost in it, feeling the sunrays gently warming your skin and the sounds of nature whirl around you. “Almost-dying was SO worth it.” you whispered, laughing. “Yeah, well, don’t do it again” he joked before kissing you again, this time determined not to let go.

#the witcher jaskier #jaskier x reader #Jaskier #geralt of rivia #ciri #the witcher fanfic #fanfic #the witcher netflix #jaskier x you #imagine #jaskier imagine

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botwstoriesandsuch · 3 years

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Whoopsie King Rhoam’s a dick but I gotta flesh him out so

Read Part 1 here!

Part 2

If you’re on mobile, and tumblr hates this post, follow along on this google doc!

Rules/overview this rewrite in the beginning of Part 1

‘sup ya beautiful bastards it’s time to gush about the process of storytelling and writing as we fix up the fix it fic so let’s just jump into it

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A quick recap of Part 2, and I swear this recap is faster than the recap last time: Chapter 3 of Age of Calamity opens with a more substantial scene the beginning points of Revali’s character, and contrasting the old position that Link and eggbot have, so that their later changes in this chapter (well, at least for Link in this chapter) are more pronounced. We edited a bit of the dialogue to make Revali’s intentions make a bit more sense, while also putting some little foreshadowing points with some camera tricks for the Hollow Champions. The Hollow Champions can now speak, which means their potential for being used to bring out the flaws or bitter aspects of each character is more readily available further into the story. And of course, we’ve introduced the main antagonist of Astor, and coupling his presence and dynamic with Zelda’s insecurities. While his intentions of needing Zelda for something is clear, his motivations and backstory remain a mystery as of yet, the only true clue we have so far being some sort of connection to eggbot.

I didn’t get any big asks or comments about Part 2 so I’m going to assume that it was mostly well received (although I will note that I promise I’m going to flesh out Revali to be more than he has been presented as of yet, this is just the very very start of this development don’t you worry your feather loving butts) that being said, you should totally critique me or give me your opinions or comments. I’d love to hear them! Although, keep in mind that I am restraining my rewrite to the guidelines already said, so don’t get mad at me for not killing off all the Champions or something. Thaaat’s a rewrite for another time. So yeah if you reblog you get a little kiss from me because believe it or not I spent a lot of time trying to rewrite an entire storyline while keeping it’s tone and integrity intact. So thanks much <3

Okie dokie then chaps! Let us finally delve into Urbosa lesbian vibes, a zest of Zelink angst, rants about pacing, and a couple tablespoons of Astor backstory, all starting in the latest stage of Chapter 3: The Road Home, Besieged

So right of the bat, big problem here. This Chapter follows directly after the events of Korok Forest, so you assume that maybe “The Road Home” refers to the team, going home, back to the castle, to tell King Rhoam what’s up. But...that’s apparently not the case.

So this entire stage, firstly, it brushes over any scenes where Zelda, Link or the other Champions might talk to King Rhoam about the Master Sword, or the Deku Tree, or...hmm what else happened last stage that might be interesting to see—oh yEAH HOW ABOUT that mysterious magic guy that tried to kill Zelda and was going off about the future and stuff?? That guy that wielded a bunch of dark magic and malice looking stuff and, uh yeah, you’d think it might be important and interesting to see the King’s take on was is essentially a wanted traitor to the crown who may or may not be leading the entire movement for the Calamity’s uprising. But nope, no one asks questions, no one says anything or has interesting conversations that reveal stuff about the plot. It's just….just all about Zelda and ooooOOooo she can’t awaken her powers oh no what’s a gal to do!

And I do mean that quite literally, this entire stage is all centered around two scenes with Zelda. The first, an admittedly narratively important scene of Zelda having a quick flashback about eggbot after he sings her a song, but it lasts for five seconds. And the second, being a pep talk with Urbosa as Link eats rocks in the background. For the majority of this stage, it’s all focused on Zelda, and pacing wise, it does virtually nothing to progress the narrative/plot forward.

And on paper, there’s nothing wrong with that! Hell, people read entire fanfictions dedicated to character development and relationships that have absolutely no external plot. Having a scene dedicated to just character development is completely fine, it’s something that’s pretty common and even encouraged to an extent. The problem arises when you remember that this is a story being told through the medium of a video game.

Now, I am going to try and breeze by this because, similar to Age of Calamity, I have to also construct this post with pacing that keeps my audience engaged, while progressing with my core narrative and story. But I highly encourage you to watch through this video by hello future me (On Writing: How to Master Pacing) because a lot of what I know about this I’ve picked up from his videos, and if you’re a writer or just someone who thinks storytelling is cool, it’s a great guide to the art of pacing.

youtube

Anyhow. There are two levels of pacing within a story. There is the small type of pacing, like for the structure of a singular scene. And there is the pacing of the overall core narrative, how the larger beats of the entire story is revealed. Good pacing for your core narrative is about whether the reader feels like they are getting closer to the big thing, the big climax or answer or promise of satisfaction. The smaller type of pacing, for your singular scenes, focuses on that timing between how close you get to achieving new information, this refers to your slow and fast pacing, tension versus rapid action.

So, overall the rule of thumb is: the amount of time you invest into your smaller scenes, even put together, that must correlate with a big enough payoff in the core narrative. That’s what good pacing is. (And that’s why people make stuff like the Three Act Structure to help visualize this pacing process but obviously other forms of pacing guidelines exist like the Five and Seven Act Structures but that’s too complicated for this Nintendo Game anyhow that’s just some educational flavour for ya to impress your highschool English Teacher I guess)

So knowing that, the question now is: Does The Road Home, Besieged contribute good pacing to the story? This is going to be my excuse for changing up other later scenes in the game, so when I mention pacing and narrative again, remember this. The time spent playing for thirty minutes, minimum, in the game, to only be paid off by two lines of character development isn’t good pacing. So the answer is “no.”

Delving as long an amount of time as thirty minutes, means that pretty much everytime a stage is complete, you must introduce new substantial progress to your story. A game like this just doesn’t have time to waste it’s valuable cutscenes on character development alone. There’s an even further wrench in the issue when you consider you also need to account for sidequests, so you could really be forcing your player to go through hours of gametime before you introduce new details in the story.

Obviously it’s not always gonna be cut and dry like that—sometimes you have to account for how enjoyable the gameplay is, and sometimes the amount of character development offsets any lack of narrative development—but for the majority of stages I’m gonna change, they all suffer this pacing problem. In a game that's entire story hinges on these cutscenes, bad pacing is just something it doesn’t have time for.

Anyhow anyhow anyhow, I got to get my dose of serotonin by talking about pacing writing structure and stuff and blah blah, so now I shall grace you with the changes that address these problems that would theoretically lead to vast improvement. I gave you this reasoning and backstory to writing because I am making hella changes, to hopefully make the experience more “poggers,” which is something the cool kids say these days if you didn’t know.

Firstly, timeline wise this stage is gonna take place directly after the Korok Forest battle. The gang is returning home from the battle, with Link, the new wielder of the Master Sword, along with this new information regarding a certain Astor character.

We open the same way it does in game, focusing on Zelda’s face, before the frame is suddenly blocked by the pommel of the Master Sword. A wordless way to express how the sudden revelation of Link being the hero has forced its way into Zelda’s mind, great use of camera Koei Tecmo 10 outta 10

Now I don’t want to immediately jump into Zelda’s “oh poor me I can’t awaken my powers” dialogue because—and this is something even Breath of the Wild is guilty of—This game seems to forget that there are other characters besides Zelda. It’s marketed towards kids, sure, but I assure you that kids playing this game have a longer attention span than 2 minutes. You don’t need to keep reminding the audience every single scene about how Zelda is anxious about her powers. It gets redundant, you waste the audience’s time, and therefore you waste your own time, because you could have been using that precious screen time to develop some other thing further. So anyhow, goes a bit like this.

Zelda’s walking, the Master Sword comes into frame. Zelda looks down at the ground but keeps walking, but you can tell from her expression that she’s troubled. Don’t need to waste time on dialogue for her here, show don’t tell, we need to make the most of the scene here. Camera is still on Zelda, but the focus blurs shifts from Zelda to the Champions behind her. We can start with Mipha, I don’t have my heart set heavily on any specific dialogue, but I want her to say something along the lines of “how proud she is of Link” and what an honor it will be to fight by the side of not just her dear friend, but also someone selected by the goddess to be the hero. Subtextually, I want her to say this in a tone that suggests that she doubts the need for her to be here at all. She’ll say something like “He’s grown so…” glances up at Link who's just walking ahead, “...so much stronger than I could ever imagine. [Something Something] His power has grown so much over the course of a few days, more than I have achieved in a lifetime.” She looks down, but she still has a sweet smile.

Now I’m doing this because I want to develop further this plot line of “getting stronger” that Age of Calamity sets up but never does anything with. Remember how in Chapter 2, Mipha asks Daruk to train with her to get stronger? I really like the possibilities of this arc with Mipha as it can not only parallel with her feelings for Link, but also make her character better as an individual. Mipha wants to get stronger so that she can protect Link, but now she thinks that Link’s already growing stronger to an extent that she might not be needed. She’s not jealous of Link, nor does she wish him to be weaker, she simply wants to be more than she already is. This is literally echoing her words that she left her father, about how leaving the Domain and experiencing new challenges would be “good for her.” So I wanna run with it. The dialogue here establishes Mipha’s motivation to grow stronger, almost equivalent to a rivalry of sorts.

So after Mipha says this, Revali scoffs and butts in. Again, I’m not too set on any particular dialogue here, just something like “Hmph! Well, I don’t know about that. Seems to me all that’s happened is some magic sword gave the knight an ego boost. Blade’s only as strong as the little Hylian who wields it, and—based on my own extended experience and professional observations of course—I’ve yet to see this ‘stronger’ boy that you speak of.” Another camera pan to Link a ways in front of them. “If you ask me, hero or no, that knight is still exactly the same as I first met him.”

Revali places a wing on his chest dramatically. “Perhaps if you’re truly keen on seeing growth in skill and strength, Mipha, you’d do well to—”

“Flattering of an offer as that may be, Revali,” Urbosa interjects, “But I think Mipha might find it difficult to observe growth from one of the shortest Rito in Hyrule.”

Cue laughter from others or snickering or something. We just need some banter to add a bit more flavour to the characters. Revali can do a little huff and cross his wings or flip his scarf or something. But then Urbosa continues.

“Although...he is right about one thing.” Urbosa looks straight ahead. “A sword does not alter a hand, just as strength does not alter character.” She puts a hand on Mipha’s shoulder. “Grow as he might, there is no doubt in my mind that he is the same boy as he’s always been.” Urbosa looks up in the direction of Zelda. “Whether you realize it or not.”

Ok so, scene’s not done yet, BUT quick gush on the dialogue flow here. I’m trying to establish parallels in these character perspectives based on the flow of conversation. We started with Mipha who, like I said, wished to grow stronger along with Link. This flows into Revali who also has a similar parallel as he wishes to grow above Link’s shadow. But the distinction between Mipha and Revali is that Mipha think’s Link’s strength is earned, and Revali thinks he cheated, gaining authority through a magic sword, and not through merit and skill. Thus, leading to Revali’s perspective of Link being exactly the same as he’s always been, he believes the sword doesn’t change anything. Urbosa then speaks, because she thinks exactly the same thing. However, her distinction is that Link is the same as he’s always been: a determined young boy earned his place and cares for his friends. Then she looks to Zelda who, as we know, will develop a perspective that contradicts this. So you get it? This scene is like 20 seconds long but it already mirrors nearly all the character parallels and perspective, that’s why the flow of dialogue is important. And I know half of you probably think these kinds of details are a stretch but I promise you it’s not, just look at any movie or show ever and I guarantee you can find similar stuff there too. Ok moving on moving on—

Urbosa looks up at Zelda, comments her, “He’s the same boy, whether you realize it or not” piece of dialogue. Camera shifts back to Zelda and Link, who, idk if I mentioned this, but in the scene there’s enough distance between the Champions and Zelda and Link that the Champions can speak without the other two listening. So they didn’t hear any of this.

So the camera is back on Zelda, and now we can get her “How can I…..If I am unable to awaken my inner power….” line. Eggbot senses her sadness, does his little cheer up dance, Zelda gets a flashback.

One small change I wanna make to this flashback: Instead of just a baby Zelda going “nighty-night” I want there to ALSO be a figure in the background behind eggbot wearing a silk royal blue dress. And said woman has blonde hair and she’s by the table back there. We don’t have to show her face or anything because Nintendo hates that. Just place the woman somewhere in the back somewhere

Also possibly you could add the shadow of another figure by the doorway, maybe? It would serve good continuity purposes for the plot points that I’m telling, but that part is not as necessary. I just need at least the woman there.

Then Zelda is like “I remember you” to eggbot and all that and blah blah… Now, instead of Impa offscreen just yelling “enemy ahead!” I just want it to be a full on ambush. Not like a major one, but just enough where the group is surprised a bit. Maybe on the cliffs above, a lizalfo throws a boomerang, or a bokoblin shoots and arrow, or even just throws a rock. I don’t really care. I just need this to happen because…

As soon as this danger is presented, Link turns around to grab Zelda’s hand and they start running again. And he can like use his body to try and shield her a bit, I need it to parallel how he acted during Chapter 1 on the road to the Royal Tech Lab. However, this parallel has one important distinction because…

Zelda rips he grip from Link’s after a moment. “You don’t need to coddle me!” She says, or something along those lines. “Y-You...You’re the hero aren’t you! I’m perfectly fine, you don’t need to spend your precious time playing babysitter to me.” In the distance, a horde of monsters is beginning to form. Zelda looks between the monsters and Link’s Master Sword, her expression unreadable. “Well? Just...just go do what you need to do.” Link hesitates, looking between her, and the approaching monsters. Zelda speaks more sternly now, “Go!” So Link, not one to disregard an order from the Princess, gives one last look to Zelda before setting off towards the monsters. Maybe Zelda can take a deep breath to steady herself after he leaves, but as soon as Link unsheathes his sword, the metal glistening in the setting sunlight, it cuts immediately to gameplay. Start battle.

For essays’ purposes this is the part where I explain why this is better than the original. So here’s my reasoning:

Uhhh, it just is. :3

Ok but seriously, I’ve already talked a tone about why the pacing and dialogue flow is better than the original. But also this scene doesn’t just say “Ooo Zelda is sad about her powers,” because that’s not interesting. Like I said, it’s redundant information. What is interesting is see how characters deal with that internal conflict and how it affects their relationships. AKA Zelda’s relationship with Link, who now basically embodies the success that she’s been working so hard towards but never achieved, is deteriorating a bit. I wanted to get that sense of the Zelda that we see in Breath of the Wild because all things considered, they should be roughly the same character.

So that’s that, you fight the battle, the Hollows show up a bit, so insert “dark evil Champion” dialogue because if you’re gonna use the evil clone trope might as well use it to the fullest. Then you fight the Talus and hurray horrah the day is saved.

Then we have that iconic Urbosa motherly pep talk to Zelda as Link eats rocks in the background. Now honestly, I’m not that big a fan of the first half of the dialogue, so I wanna change it into something more interesting. But the rest of the beats and camera work go roughly the same.

Zelda: “Link is...so much stronger now”

Urbosa: “‘And yet I have not.’ I presume that’s what you’re thinking, hmm?”

Zelda: “Well it’s true, isn’t it? More and more, monsters have been appearing around Hyrule. It is a sign that the Calamity draws near. So...there isn’t much time. And still, no sign of my power awakening.”

Urbosa: *sighs* “Little bird…”

Zelda cuts her off, in an attempt to change topics: “Why do you call me that?”

Urbosa: “Hmm?”

Zelda: “Little bird...I feel like I’ve heard it before. Why do you call me that?”

Urbosa, after a beat looks off in the distance or something: “A long time ago, my dear friend would call me to the palace, or perhaps invite herself over to mine, [she chuckles] ...and she would talk with me all day, and ask me to gaze upon her little bird with her. Her dearest daughter...a princess”

Zelda: “You mean my…”

Urbosa just smiles with a soft nod: “Back then, times were a bit different. The destiny that you have was still upon the Queen, who worked day and night to refine her powers and fulfill her destiny. In just a few short years, I went from being friends with a Queen, to friends with the destined sealer of the Calamity.”

Another pause, before Urbosa speaks again: “But...she was still the same woman I had grown with. Still the same loving mother who spoke about her little bird with joy. She had not changed one bit.”

Urbosa: “Even when your mother passed, her loving smile was there until the very end. She always loved you—believed in you, Zelda. She had great hope, great faith that her daughter would grow into the beacon of light Hyrule needed. That even with her gone, you would spread your wings and fly, because you were just that amazing to her.” *Urbosa puts her hands on Zelda’s shoulders.*

Urbosa: “Destiny did not change your mother’s love, just as it does not change Link’s courage, or your value.” *the camera can pan to Link eating rocks now*

Urbosa looks directly at Zelda now: “Look how hard we’ve all worked to get this far, how hard you have worked to get here. While we may grow in strength, in that regard, we’re all one in the same.”

Zelda: “...I….well…”

Urbosa: “What did the Great Deku Tree say? There is no need to fret princess.”

Urbosa: “Our faith, Link’s, your mother’s, it’s all as strong as ever. And everyday, with every moment that you travel towards your destiny, it just grows. It is always with us. So believe in that, have hope, yet, little bird.” *Eggbot can scurry up and make cute noises here next to Zelda*

Urbosa: “I know, you are where you need to be. You must accept that too.”

Zelda: “...”

Zelda gives a solemn nod: “Thank you, Urbosa.”

So that’s that scene! Don’t let the length fool you, it’s technically even shorter than the original scene in Age of Calamity. So why is it, in my opinion, better? Because for one, we actually get an insight into Zelda’s mom and Urbosa’s relationship, something that was PROMISED To us but never given and I’m still a bit salty about it. Anyhow, in addition to just getting some lore details, that relationship between the Queen and Urbosa is important for this scene because, just like Urbosa spells out, it’s in direct parallel with Link and Zelda.

Before the Queen suddenly got sick and died, she was destined to seal the Calamity. But she didn’t let that destiny change her, she was still the same loving mother to the end. Now that is something that Zelda needs to realize about Link, as his newly acquired destiny doesn’t change who he was before, the knight who cares for her and wishes to protect her. Zelda needs to realize he’s the same and that she can still trust and confide in him. Hence, that’s why this mom backstory is in this scene and not somewhere else, because it serves to the narrative but also more impactfully to the character development.

The dialogue could probably be polished a bit more but come on, not half bad for an improvement yeah? So that concludes Chapter—

SIKE we’re not done yet. We still have to move into the entire point of this stage, the road home, to the castle.

So, badabing badaboom, I’m adding an entirely new scene from scratch right here at the end, because it is VITAL that I set up something new about the story, as a sort of clincher. So anyhow

Zelda is alone with her father, let’s set it in the royal library (Intact, not ruined, of course) because we don’t see enough of that location and it’s really cool. So Zelda is briefing her dad about the events in Korok Forest and on the journey back home. I know I always gush about cinematography but it can’t be fully appreciated since I’m….writing,,, this, BUT I think it might be fun if the side shots of Zelda have her background be some bookcases of the library, maybe half bookcases and the other half the ornate walls. Then the background for the King’s shots is the full symmetry of the elegant staircases.

[And if you needed the specific reasoning for that, because it makes camera shots more fun. Like when Zelda says something that aids in her scholarly side, the camera angle can change slightly where the bookcases take up more of the frame, and then when the King’s will takes more power, then the book cases can be angled a bit more out of frame. And then the symmetry of the King by the staircase is a way to show his higher power dynamic to her, and contrasts well with Zelda’s shots since the bookcases are dark and the stone is lighter, so on a meta level is also makes it easier for the audience to understand where they are. Shot composition is fun ok, and that’s not even getting into color theory (Thinks about Baby Driver and LaLaLand....even videogames like Undertale and Hollow Knight have such wonderful shot composition and use of color theory hhhhh love it)]

Ok so Zelda’s briefing the King in the library, she’s standing while he’s sitting at a desk. There’s maybe two or four Royal Guards on the staircase entrances, but for the most part, they’re alone. You can tell that this meeting between them has been going on for a bit now, as from Zelda’s dialogue, she’s retelling events midway through the story.

The King is flipping through some paperwork, not really looking Zelda in the eyes. She continues speaking.

“And so...with the malice cleared and the monsters being dealt with, Link and I made our way into the heart of Korok Forest.”

The King hums a response, flipping through another page. “And this is when Link pulled out the Sword that Seals the Darkness then, I presume.”

Zelda paused, as of thinking of how to phrase her next words. “Not exactly. I...we both encountered someone beforehand. A man, with a pale face, and dark hair and robes, and he had the power to control malice, using a strange object in one of his hands.”

Rhoam stops writing in his journal or whatever. He doesn’t look up, but the sudden stop he makes is obvious. Zelda notices, but continues.

“He talked about...the Calamity, and my birthday...destiny, and the future….I’m not quite sure I can remember his intentions word for word. But he did introduce himself as—“

“Astor…” Zelda and the King say simultaneously. The King has fully perked up now, looking at Zelda. She’s pleased to see a reaction from him. The King rises from his chair, and starts pacing a bit, stroking his beard thoughtfully like the asshole he is.

“So you know him then? This Astor man? Who is he, father? What does he—“

“Were you alright? Did he hurt you, or mention anything else?”

Zelda pauses for a moment before shaking her head, as if the concern he was expressing was uncharacteristic. “N-No. No, I’m fine, and Link was there. During the battle, as Link fought him off, that was when the sword was pulled. Then Astor fled, or...” Zelda pauses for a beat, “retreated...he expressed his wish to speak with me again.”

Another beat of silence, as Rhoam gets up, hands clasped behind his back. “He used to work at this very palace.” The shot is now directly on Rhoams back, as he faces a bookcase, although it’s clear that he’s just deep in thought, and not just staring at books. Rhoam is in third column of the shot (he’s to the right, not in the center)

“A trusted advisor. Someone gifted with foresight, who many years ago, had first predicted the coming Calamity.” Cut to shot of Rhoams face, the camera being by the bookcase, so that we see Rhoam’s expression and Zelda’s.

“In truth, I thought him dead. For the last time I saw him alive—truly, truly alive—was ten long years ago...” The shot goes back to the original establishing shot, of Rhoam facing away from the camera, towards the bookcase, he’s standing to the right, hands still clasped behind his back.

“...when your mother still graced this earth.”

From left frame, a younger Astor walks up and stands beside Rhoam. He runs his fingers along the books. Rhoam looks to his left, as if he is seeing Astor. Camera cuts to Astor’s right, as if looking at him from Rhoam’s perspective. He continues brushing his fingers against the spines of the books, before he finds the one he’s looking for. Pulling it out, he opens the book, flipping through its pages, before giving a genuine smile. Cut back to wide angle behind them. With the book, Astor starts walking back out left frame, but this time the camera follows him. Filter fade to a memory tint as the camera pans right to left

[when the camera fades fully into the Astor memory, the figures can have that silhouetted effect like you see in botw. Cause I know Nintendo hates making new character models for some reason.]

So if it wasn’t clear already, even though the memory filter doesn’t come immediately, Astor isn’t actually there, but it’s just a flashback. I’m a sucker for merges, which is something this game and botw NEVER do which bugs me because there are so many creative ways you could introduce flashbacks without just doing “ooOooOoo fade to sepia filter and then oooOOooOOO we fade back to reality and no time has passed.” I apologize if my explanation of the camera doesn’t make sense as it’s hard without much visual aid, but hopefully it makes sense so far. Anyhow! Let’s continue.

We’re now fully immersed in this memory, but King Rhoam’s voice still narrates overhead.

Astor brings the book to one of the desks in the library, where a woman sits writing something onto paper. News flash, it’s the queen. Astor hands her the book and starts speaking about something, although you can tell the tone of their conversation is light, almost akin to Zelda rambling about Sheikah Technology. The Queen laughs about something unheard, as Astor continues ranting about something, his hands moving to like a professor giving a lecture.

Rhoam Narration: “When he had first predicted the Calamity, things were much more hopefully for our kingdom. As although his foresight granted him only glimpses and fragments of a future, he was almost certain that with the Guardians, and the strength of your mother’s power, our victory would be absolute.”

Scene changes to the Queen walking down a corridor, Astor is leaning against the wall by a window.

Rhoam Narration: “He and your mother would often work together tirelessly to study the ancient arts, to make the most of the powers given by the goddess.”

The Queen has walked up to Astor now. She crouches down and gestures to her left, the side not yet seen by the camera.

Rhoam Narration: “In fact…”

The camera changes to focus to where the Queen was looking towards—a young Zelda, crouched behind her mother’s dress, stares up at Astor.

Rhoam Narration: “I would not be surprised if you found within yourself, a memory of such.”

I would prefer if you could see the expressions of Astor (giving Zelda not a smile, but not really a frown or anything rude either) and young Zelda. But I guess it can also just be silhouettes too cause again, Nintendo hates giving us younger character models outside of first person POV stuff. Anyhow.

The scene fades, the light from the window dimming as everything darkens.

Rhoam Narration: “I often times wish we could go back to such a time, when victory and pride swam in every corner of this castle. But of course…”

The scene brightens again, although not as bright as before. It’s the exact same corridor with the large window, but now it’s raining. A young Zelda stands alone in front of it, looking outside.

Rhoam Narration: “Such a time did end…”

We now cut to a new scene, King Rhoam is walking down a hall, the camera’s perspective is of a bird’s eye view, like we’re peering in from outside a window. We can see the shadow of Astor chasing after him, as he starts speaking frantically about something, not quite, but almost to the point of shouts.

Rhoam Narration: “After your mother died, the visions of the future shifted drastically. No longer was there glimpses of rolling fields and shimmering skies, but instead, of rubble, red earth, and death.”

You can now more clearly hear the words coming out of Astor’s mouth. He is telling something about failure, and souls, and the Calamity to the King’s ear. He’s still walking forward.

Rhoam Narration: “He was adamant that our demise was now coming faster than ever, and that without your mother, we were doomed. That even you, should you take up your mother’s mantle, could not save everyone.”

Astor: “I’m telling you Your Majesty, if you go down this path, there is no going back.”

King Rhoam: “There is no other choice, we are moving forward.”

Astor: “I don’t think you quite understand the true gravity of the fate you’re choosing for yourself. It is a guarantee that you, me, and countless others shall die.”

King Rhoam: “I don’t want to hear it.”

Astor: “And of course, there are a multitude of possibilities, but the end result is the same.”

Astor: “Do you have a preference, perhaps? Crushed by rubble? Suffocation under ash?”

Rhoam’s tone is deadly: “Stop.”

Astor: “I’ve seen fire too. I’m not yet quite sure the exact circumstances that lead to flame appearing and spreading so quickly, but rest assured that if you—”

King Rhoam: “Stop.”

Astor: “If you saddle someone else with this duty I am absolutely certain that you and I will—”

King Rhoam, voice not shouting, but still with a booming intensity: “Just like you were so certain of our victory 10 years ago?”

Astor’s face darkens. He’s silent for a moment, collecting his words before practically spitting the first articulation: “...That, future, was the one that would come to be if Her Majesty was alive. If you’re so unsatisfied with my departed wisdom you can go ahead and flail around with destiny alone. You think I choose for these events to happen? You think I lie when I saw I want what’s best for this kingdom—”

King Rhoam: “What’s best for you.”

An ugly pause.

King Rhoam: “It is decided, Seer. It’s time you accept this. My wife is dead. That is the truth. Thus the role of sealing the Calamity shall pass to my daughter. She will work to awaken her own ability. It will be her duty to save us.”

Astor half laughs: “A child?! Surely you don’t need the supernatural to see how foolish that is.”

King Rhoam’s voice is even more stern: “You are living proof that the future is not absolute. Therefore I...must place all belief in her ability.”

The King walks away, leaving Astor alone. Weirdly, he smiles. Perhaps to mask some other emotion.

After another moment, Astor yells to the King: “I’ll fix this! Alone if I must!” He’s chuckling as he shakes his head. “Your useless faith may cost many lives, but even so mark my words, I will fix this.”

The King looks back, but says nothing, his expression unreadable. He continues forward, leaving Astor alone chuckling, or perhaps something in between chuckling and crying to himself.

Rhoam Narration: “We haven’t spoken since that day. I simply left him to his devices. If he was so determined to find another way to stop the Calamity, then who was I to stop him. I doubt my word could have swayed his mind regardless.

We’re now looking at a room, the camera is just by the doorway, looking at an office, circular and domed. It’s stone brick walls are covered in parchment and ripped books, covered in symbols and frantic writing. An old Sheikah tapestry hangs crudely on the left wall, and the window on the right seems to tint grey, or even a deepest crimson. Centerframe, is the back of Astor, robe hanging just above the paper ridden floor. He is flipping through something on his desk.

Rhoam Narration: “Fixated as he was on the perfect future that you mother might have led, I still had hope that with time, he might still assist you with your destiny one day.”

The camera slowly comes closer to Astor. We can see more clearly the type of stuff that sprawls the papers and books and diagrams across his office. Some depict stars and constellations, and even a few notes on Ancient Technology, although in a noticeably cleaner font. However, as the camera moves close and closer to Astor, the papers and books depict only one clear topic: the aura of death that comes only with necromancy.

Rhoam Narration: “It seems…”

Astor finally reacts to whatever he was doing on his desk. You don’t see his eyes, but as he fully turns around to face the camera, you see his smile, along with him holding a dark orb of unknown energy. It hovers in his hand.

Rhoam Narration: “...I was mistaken.”

The camera cuts to a wide angle, looking at Astor from behind a stack of books on his desk. The stack of books on Astor’s desk brighten in color (from the memory dull filter), until the scene fully fades back into the Royal Library. The camera is now focused on a similar stack of books on the desk behind Zelda, where Rhoam was working before.

Zelda is still looking at her father, who is still turned away. Now, he turns back around to face her.

“He had disappeared completely one day, so it was my understanding that whatever he was working on killed him. However, if he is truly back as you say…”

Rhoam walks closer to Zelda, close enough that he might have put a hand on her shoulder, but his arms stay behind his back.

“It is in your utmost interest to prove him wrong. I know not what he plans on doing, but it would be wise to stop him before he does.”

Rhoam turns away now, pacing back to the otherside of the desk. “But, your more important priority is unlocking your powers, understand? Now more than ever, is not the time to get distracted.”

Zelda, taking this all in, takes a deep breath. She then nods at him. “I understand...Father.”

After a moment, the King makes a motion as if to dismiss her. She starts to walk away, her thoughts churning in her head, heart thumping to the same beat as her echoing footsteps. Suddenly, Rhoam calls,

“Zelda.” It’s not a question, but the tone is asked like one.

She turns back, looking at him, expectantly. Rhoam only stares at her, an uncharacteristic moment of uncertainty for him. The words he wants to form seem stuck in his throat, until finally, he lets out a quiet breathe through his nose, before simply saying:

“You must.”

Zelda can only frown, her shoulder’s slumping slightly, as she ducks her head and leaves.

- - - - - -

And that’s that! That’s the complete end of Chapter 3. So tune in next time for Chapter 4, including a new slight but important story changes, Yiga husbands, and shocking turns of events.

Edit: I forgot that posts with link’s dont show up in tag results so a rb is appreciated :p

#Hwaoc: The Kip Cut #fuck this is the biggest one yet #hwaoc #age of calamity #hwaoc rewrite #hw age of calamity #hyrule warriors age of calamity

42 notes · View notes

ineloqueent · 4 years

Note

dialogue prompt? “don’t kiss me ‘cause if you do, i’ll kiss you back.”

this is long, and quite dramatic. oops.

gif by @imladrs , which i had to include because it’s absolutely beautiful.

⭒

1977

The room was full of strangers.

They called him a friend, when in reality they knew nothing about him.

They knew of his fame, sure, how he’d built his guitar from scratch and was in a band with three others, three others whom he had named equals in family to anyone who shared his blood.

But they knew nothing of him.

Not how his heart ached in its loneliness, not how he dreamt of belonging to another, because he could not imagine a purer form of love than that of sharing your entire world with another person, enthralled by them, indebted to their kindness though they never expected a repayment, someone to share one’s happiness with in its entirety, someone to promise him that he would make it through the darker hours of his life.

Somebody to love.

Oh, he loved, there was no doubt about that.

He loved so much that it hurt, and though he wasn’t always good at showing it, he would have died of grief had he lost any of his friends, or his mother or father. He had so much love to give, and no one to give it to. He longed to hold someone’s hand for the sake of holding their hand, to dedicate his touch to their skin and prove to them that they were loved, to show them how much brighter the world looked when they looked upon it with a fondness for life, a fondness for being alive, like gazing up at the moon and being in awe of its beauty, thinking of how lucky one was to see such a glow, even from so far away.

Brian had never in his life felt special. And he knew that it was a ridiculously self-deprecating thought, but he supposed he was simply never meant to feel special, because if everyone was special, then no one was special. He knew in his heart that no one would ever love him as much as he loved them. He knew he would never be special. But damn it all, he wanted to make someone feel special. If he could make someone happier, then he would be happier too; he would die happily in his accomplishment.

But there was no one to give his love. With each passing day he felt lonelier than ever before.

Until she walked into the room.

⭒

Much to your dismay, there was not a quiet corner to sneak off to at this party.

Every corner was occupied by lovers or friends, and though you had come here with a friend, you suddenly found yourself entirely friendless, surrounded by strangers and people you vaguely recognised but did not know well enough to strike up a conversation with.

You had never been a talent in the realm of small-talk, and you weren’t willing to start a career now.

The room was full of people, and yet you had never felt more alone in your life.

Deserted by the one person you knew, you sighed and fought the urge to sink to the floor in despair. She hadn’t meant to leave you, but she’d always been like that— self-assured and well-adapted— and was easily swept away by a tide of companions that might have repulsed you, if you had not known how kind she was, and how that kindness ebbed and flowed, and attracted every human in sight.

You had always been bluntly honest, and few people, very few people indeed, valued honesty to the degree where they did not mind a slight offense to their character if it was the truth. Even you understood, because you were honest, but struggled to deal with the honesty of others. Particularly when it involved romantic involvement.

In the past year alone, four people had confessed attraction to you, and you had broken down each time, crushed by the horror of having to hurt them and say that you did not feel the same way, as well as the sinking feeling of how perhaps you were incapable of loving anyone, for but the idealised versions of people that lived within your head.

But many years ago, there had been a person you had loved, though perhaps you had been too young at the time to understand what it was you were feeling.

Since you’d left the place where he existed, you’d turned bitter and cynical.

You chose your friends carefully, not out of haughtiness, but out of a fear of being hurt, of trusting the wrong people with the terrible fears of your heart— ones that would certainly make them love you less, if they loved you at all.

And yet. You idealised the memories of people to an extraordinary degree. Far too often.

The ones you trusted you hefted upon a shrine of goodwill, embracing them longer and more fiercely when they departed your company, never ceasing to speak of them to anyone who would listen, thinking of them every day. It wasn’t an obsessive habit, you told yourself. It was just like everything else.

It was a desperation to be loved.

To be loved despite your faults, despite your vices and your numerous, unyielding virtues, to be loved even in the face of everything that made you unlovable.

And so you idealised those who made you feel loved, even when they ignored your letters or shunned your sentimentalism, because you knew that deep down, they wanted to be loved as much as you, but simply deigned to have more shame than you.

But you’d been ashamed for too long.

Now, you would be ashamed no longer, and would live in the dreams of your head if that would make you happy, because you were tired of being unhappy. And you were as good as addicted to the version of life that you’d created inside of your mind.

More often than not, however, the idealism caused you no end to grief, when years later, you would reunite with someone and they would turn out to be so very unlike the person you had dreamed them to be.

But there was one person. One person who, every time you ran across him, unbidden but never unwelcome, renewed your faith in humanity, and in being loved. Because he always made you feel loved, important, special. It was like there was no end to the love he could give to you, through his smiles, and the way he held your hand, even though the two of you had never been anything more than friends, through his quiet laughter at the silliest of your musings.

You were never quiet around him, as you were with most people. In fact, when you were in his company you had absolutely no filter at all, because he was the least intimidating person you had ever met. He wasn’t intimidating, because he was honest. Like you.

But he was also endlessly kind and endlessly romantic— he lived his life by the light of the stars and the music that hummed beneath his words, as though he found everything beautiful in some way or another.

You were angry at the world. He was in love with it.

Better still, you had never idealised him to become that person. He just simply was.

And you would never see him again.

He’d always been in and out of your life, but this time, it was over. You were sure of it.

You’d known him since the two of you had been no more than five years old, and you’d been in the playground with your all-girl friend group.

Even from a young age, you’d spent much time occupied by your thoughts, and standing in the middle of the playground on that summer’s day, counting to a hundred in this game of hide and seek, you’d thought it odd that you’d ended up with only girls for friends, when your very first friend, at age one, had been a boy.

You had wondered then, opening your eyes to find that your giggling friends had all hidden away, whatever had happened to him. When you’d started a new school, you’d lost contact with him…. Jacob. Yes, that had been his name.

And at five, insecure in the onslaught of new culture that surrounded you, you’d been overwhelmed by the terrible thought of your name fading from someone’s memory.

You’d started to cry.

You hadn’t meant to close your eyes a second time, having finished counting and intending to go and find your friends, but it was an easier way to hide your tears from any teacher who might have wandered past and asked you what was wrong. But in closing your eyes, you had dimmed your senses, and were thus startled by a hand on your shoulder, turning you around.

“What’s the matter?”

You’d opened your eyes to find a boy staring at you.

“I— I can’t find my friends,” you lied.

His smile was quick. “Don’t worry,” he said. “I’ll help you. If you want..?”

Feeling strangely at ease in his presence, you’d nodded, unsure of yourself, but sure of the kindness he embodied. He took your hand into his own, and without a thought, kissed your cheek.

Baffled, you blinked.

He seemed to sense your startled reaction.

“It’s what my mum does whenever I’m sad,” he said. “She says it means she loves me, and that she’ll be there for me, no matter how lost I feel.” He shrugged. “You looked lost.”

And with that, he’d pulled you along at a jog, smiling a gap-toothed grin and going around the playground with you until you’d found each one of your friends.

Everyone had teased you from that day on, about how he was your boyfriend. They’d said it in such a sing-song way, though, and you couldn’t help but giggle at their remarks, to smile when he smiled at you and witness the oohs that chorused from the kindergartners around you.

So you’d let them tease you, and begun to call him your boyfriend.

He became one of your closest friends, taking you to the cinema on ‘dates’, paying for the tickets and the concessions with his own pocket money, the money he’d earned from whatever little chores he could pick up from his neighbours— weeding out the garden, walking dogs, polishing shoes.

He taught you how to play chess, how to swim faster than anyone else, and how to stand up for yourself, even when the people you had to stand up to were adults, ones who had proclaimed themselves older and wiser than your young, knobbly-kneed self.

You’d grown older, and when six years had passed, the remarks about him being your boyfriend had turned earnest. Your friends asked constantly whether you would ever kiss him, whether he’d asked to kiss you, and your parents joked about the two of you marrying one another when your ages eventually passed into the twenties.

But at the time, you were only eleven, still naïve and innocent of mind, and when you’d moved away, you’d thought next to nothing of your last day of seeing him, thought nothing when he hadn’t hugged you goodbye, because you were eleven, and hugging people was an intimacy reserved for family.

Over the years— once in every five, to be precise— you’d returned to your old home town to visit, and you and he had gotten on as well as you always had, though now he would hug you properly and tell you how tall and beautiful you’d grown in the time you’d been away. If he hadn’t always been so honest, you would have scorned him for lying to you, because you knew you were not beautiful, and he had always been taller than you.

So perhaps it was a fantasy to think that you should see him at this party tonight, in the city where it had all begun.

But still you hoped, because despite how your other friends had told you about his various new girlfriends over the years— real girlfriends, because you had been too young to ever be that to him— a part of you still dared to think that he could love you, as no one had ever loved you before.

⭒

She was here.

He walked with her in memories, had savoured her touch even when they’d been only eighteen, shivering, terrified beneath her fingers when they skimmed his arm, because he was afraid of acting upon his feelings, lest she rebuke him for crossing an unforgivable boundary— the boundary between friends and lovers.

It was a cliche, he knew, but his terror was real.

And seeing her now made him think he was dreaming, because she was standing alone, in precisely the manner that had characterised her solitude when they had been five.

Only this time she was not weeping. She had learned to stem her tears, as all children eventually must, and in her resolve, she was more beautiful than ever.

Anyone else might have found her eyes cruel, surveying the room as though the world was hers, and hers to judge, but he knew what she was doing.

She was doing what she had always done, compartmentalising and rationalising her fears until they withered beneath her incessant will to be stronger than that which scared her, and looking for a place to escape to, beneath the dim lighting and close-crowded bodies of the party.

If he hadn’t known any better, he’d have said she was looking for him.

But Brian was nothing if not honest, and so he quelled that train of thought before it was even fully formed.

Still.

It couldn’t hurt to say hello, could it? By some quick head-maths, he reckoned they were due for a reunion. It had, after all, been a good deal more than five years since he’d seen her last.

He downed the last of his drink, flexed his shaking hands, and began to carve a path through the crowd toward her.

⭒

“Y/N?”

Your heart had already been in your throat, but by god, surely it had ceased to beat at the sound of your name breathed from his mouth.

You turned around and your stopped heart nearly broke at the sight of him, standing there short of breath, tall as ever, those hazel eyes liquifying you completely with the earnesty of their gaze.

“Brian, hi.” You were as breathless as he, and when you stepped closer to him, you found that you were dizzy too, because you nearly toppled in your low-heels when he smiled.

“H-ey, watch yourself, love,” he gripped your hands before you fell, and you flashed him a grateful smile.

“Sorry,” you said, and, to your dismay, blushed.

He shook his head, gentle laughter bubbling up over his lips. “It’s okay,” he assured you.

You stared at him for a moment before the words fluttered from him like a net-full of butterflies, newly freed, only to choose their new home to be your stomach. “It’s so good to see you,” he gushed, and wrapped his arms around you.

Caught by surprise, your arms found residence around his neck, and when he leaned his head against yours, you breathed in the fresh-linen smell of his curls, the slight musk of his skin that was between vanilla and sage, impossibly both rain and perpetual sunshine.

“Why do we wait five years every time?” you wondered softly against the shell of his ear, like the honest person you were.

This was the most honest you’d been in years.

Because your honesty seemed to hurt others, and so you forewent honesty for honeyed lies, to spare them of the pain your words might otherwise have caused.

It was draining to lie all the time.

But you never had to lie with Brian, because where your honesty seemed to hurt others, it enamoured him. He told you so, as often as he had the chance.

“I honestly don’t know,” he whispered back, and you couldn’t help but laugh.

He pulled back at the sound and smiled again.

You suddenly couldn’t bear to spend another minute in this room full of strangers.

“Outside?” you said, and he nodded, taking you by the hand just as he had done all those years ago.

Outside, it was quiet and cold, and without a second thought, Brian had his arm around your shoulders, his warmth a welcome replacement to the coat you hadn’t thought to bring.

“So what brings you back home?” he asked as you sat down with him, by what appeared to be a garden pond. The water babbled with the presence of a small, adjourning stream, and the surface of the pool brimmed with blush-pink water lilies. The moon’s friendly light showed you as much.

And it showed you the marble-carved contours of Brian’s face, the bow of his pretty lips.

You licked your own, willing yourself to glance away, but finding the action utterly inviable.

“Oh, you know,” you began half-heartedly, “old friends to meet, new memories to be made.”

He raised his eyebrows. “Old friends?” he said. “And here I thought you were here to see me.”

He was joking, but his closeness abruptly dampened your skin with a nervous sweat. You wrinkled your nose and pushed his arm off of your shoulder before he noticed.

“Shut up, Brian. You know I mean you.”

Brian chuckled, carding long, elegant fingers through his tousled hair. “No, don’t worry. You don’t have to lie to me.”

You looked at him.

“When have I ever lied to you?”

The air was pulled taut as a string when his eyes met yours.

“Never,” he responded quietly. He made no movement for but that of speaking. He did not blink, and you did not breathe.

“I always come back to you,” you said, and now that the words were flowing, you could not stop them. “Because no matter how many years pass, no matter how much other people change—” you had to take a breath before it physically killed you. But it was a sharp breath, and Brian hung on your every word, so when you inhaled, he gravitated toward you.

“You,” you whispered. “You never change.”

He let out a little sound, something like oh, like a realisation.

And you couldn’t keep yourself from your honesty any longer, because you leaned in to kiss him.

His thumb curved over your lower lip, depriving you of that final touch, the one which held you suspended before him, with no modesty left, no secrets, no shame, no nothing.

No end to the love which you carried in your heart for him, like a candle you had held shielded for years, cupping your hands around the flame, even if your fingers burned, because keeping that candle alight mattered more to you than the suffering of pain, more than anything in this world.

“Don’t kiss me.”

How easily three words could shatter a soul.

“Wh—”

“‘Cause if you do, I’ll kiss you back.”

You dared exhale, and his eyes fluttered shut when you kissed the pad of his thumb.

“I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

Brian’s eyes opened, as his thumb tugged softly on your lip again. It was difficult to keep quiet when he touched you like that.

“Then despite our proclaimed honesty,” he said, “you’ve lied to me every day of your life.”

You shook your head slowly. “No, Brian. You just haven’t let yourself hear what I’ve been telling you.”

His eyes widened, and you were staring into a hazel-ringed abyss, a black hole super-positioned over dying nebulae.

Brian’s thumb slipped from your lip, and he replaced its pressure with his mouth.

Exhilaration surged through you and wound itself around your heart, turned your brain to nothingness as his kiss turned you to treacle, thoughts abandoned in favour of returning the tenderness of his touch.

It felt like he’d waited forever to kiss you, from the way he cradled you in his arms. And you felt suddenly desperate that he should never let you go, that he should stay this way forever, with the curve of his hips melded against yours, the press of his chest and the fold of his hands keeping you closer to him than you could ever have hoped to be, a breathless whine escaping his perfect mouth as he kissed you deeper, more desperately, as desperate as you felt. You were his equal in your want, in your need, and the understanding between the two of you set you free, because never had you felt such an easy, mutual understanding as this. It was the simplicity of his kiss that killed you a little— how plain he was in his emotions, how willing he was to show them to you. He had the same honesty as you, even if it manifested in a different way— a better, more loving way— because he understood how truth grounded you, and in revealing to you his affections, without the intent to play games or string you along, he understood you as well.

He was quick to love and slow to judge, and though his movements were languid, his kiss was not, dissolving you like sugar beneath his lips, wet from your tongue or his— it was difficult to tell. His senses were yours, his desire a divinity when you needed his touch as hopelessly as he needed yours, and you craved for the world to always hold him this close to you.

When he brought your lower lip between his teeth, you allowed yourself to shudder, and he smiled, pressing another quick kiss to your mouth.

“Why did we wait so long with being honest?” he murmured.

You laughed in response, winding your arms around his slim waist and kissing his shoulder. You felt him kiss your hair, and you nestled further into his hold.

“Never again,” you said.

He repeated the words in his lilting voice, and combed his fingers through your hair— lingeringly, lovingly.

And in the cold and the dark, you knew he would continue to be honest with you forever, because Brian was unlike anyone you’d ever met before.

Brian was special.

#tina’s writing #brian may x reader #fic

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hookedonapirate · 3 years

Text

Summary: The Jones brothers are polar opposites. Liam's the safe and honorable one, straight-laced and straight as an arrow. The good son.

Killian's the dangerous one, the bad boy with tats, leather jackets, a motorcycle and a questionable past.

The only things they have in common are panty-melting sea-blue eyes, the flat they share in Storybrooke and a rare blood type.

Oh, and apparently their taste in women.

Or rather, one woman.

Feisty.

Blonde.

Gorgeous.

Green-eyed Goddess.

Killian saw her first, but she chose his brother—the nice guy over the playboy. And even though she’s dating his brother, it doesn't make him want her any less. If that's not bad enough, she moves in with them and he has to pretend he's not completely in love with her. His life could not get any worse…

Until Liam dies in a tragic motorcycle accident.

Leaving each of them with one half of a broken heart.

Now Killian and Emma are left helping each other pick up the pieces.

Just as they're beginning to learn how to live in their new reality, another riptide pulls them further into the deep end when she finds out she's pregnant with Liam's baby.

Notes: So I made this post on Tumblr the other day, and then this fic happened. If you haven't seen the tags, please read them before starting this story or becoming invested because it’s very angsty. First of all, this starts out as Swan Jewel? I don't know what their ship name is or if there is an official name, but yes, Liam and Emma are in a relationship in the beginning, and I know it’s not everyone’s cup of tea. If you're not comfortable with that, I highly encourage you to hit the back button.

Thank you @ultraluckycatnd for looking it over!

This story was inspired by Baby Mine by Kennedy Fox, and I loved the book so much and thought it was very much underrated. I’ve wanted to write a fic like this for a long time now because it’s one of my favorite tropes, but after I read that book, I just had to write my own take. Also, I made this post about a Baby Yodarita drink last year when it was trending and since the beginning of this story starts one year prior, 2019 and since Killian is a bartender, it was a perfect way to include the prompt.

The title comes from the lyrics of the song, Lay By Me by Ruben. The particular line goes like this:

"I hope you know through the rising tide That I'll be here and you can lay by my side"

If you've never heard it, I recommend giving it a listen. It's an amazing song and very fitting for this story.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VFJbLzEtoZw

P.S. In case you're unable to read the shoulder tattoo in the picture above and are wondering what it says—

"There is no happiness without tears

No life without death

And no true love without heartbreak"

Rated: Explicit for smut (including sexual fantasies, masturbation, implied and detailed sex, etc.) and language (lots of F-bombs).

Also available on: AO3 FF.N

Chapter 1

“Late again?” Liam chides when Ruby waltzes into work as if everything is completely normal. As if she’s not an hour late for her shift.

For the third time that week.

She gives him an apologetic smile, but Killian knows she’s not actually sorry.

He’s just wondering who she was with this time.

“Won't happen again, boss.”

“Damn right it won’t. This is your third warning. Next time, there will be a write-up,” he admonishes.

Frustration creases her forehead. “Geez, would you just chill? My car broke down.”

Liam crosses his arms, narrowing his eyes at her. “So, you mean to tell me your car has broken down three times this week?” he asks, holding up three fingers. “And on either of these occasions, you couldn’t pick up the phone and give me a heads up? Did your phone break, too?”

She flashes him a look as though the answer to his question is obvious. “I told you my car’s a piece of junk. And I tried to call, but no one answered.”

Killian fights off a laugh, knowing for a fact Ruby is bluffing. At least about calling tonight, since the phone hadn’t rung in the past hour. But he could easily check to see if she’d called on the other two days on the bar phone’s caller i.d. to find out for sure if he really wanted to.

“So get a new car. Don’t you make enough from your tips and the hourly wage I pay you?”

“I make enough from my tips,” she replies with a sarcastic smirk, “but I have more important things to buy.”

Liam rolls his eyes. “Like what? More six-inch heels, low-cut tops and short skirts?”

Ruby lets out an exasperated sigh. “How do you think I get good tips—by dressing like a Catholic schoolgirl?” She twists her lips and presses the back of her long, red-painted fingernail to her chin, pondering her own words for a second. “On second thought, that actually might bring in even more tips. Besides, you should be paying for my work clothes. Maybe then I could afford a new car.”

Liam scoffs. “You want me to pay for your outfits?” He shakes his head. “I don’t think so.”

Ruby's eyes widen, as though she’s shocked he declined her request. “Why not? Can’t you claim them as a work expense?”

He nods. “Alright, fine. But if I’m paying for your work attire, then I’m choosing what you wear. Sound good to you?” he asks, knowing damn well she’ll never go for it.

Unsurprisingly, she shakes her head. “Absolutely not. I ain’t wearing no damn polo shirt and black slacks. I like my low-cut tops and short skirts, thank you very much.”

Liam sighs and cups his forehead in his hand to indicate she’s giving him a headache as he turns around and walks toward his office. “Just get to work, Ruby.”

She wraps her apron around her waist and mimics his words in a mocking tone, “Just get to work, Ruby.”

“I heard that!” Liam hollers.

“I could be already serving customers if it weren’t for my pain in the ass boss riding me every two goddamn seconds!” she shouts, hoping he heard that too.

Killian chuckles to himself as he rings up a customer for his drinks and hands him the change.

“That dude seriously needs to get laid,” Ruby huffs. “Maybe then he’d back off a little.”

“Ha! I doubt it,” Killian comments before taking another drink order.

Ruby heads to the dining area to wait on customers. She knows Killian’s not wrong to doubt Liam’s ability to show a little mercy. He’s worked for his brother for two years, longer than anyone has ever been able to stand working for him, and he’s never once seen Liam be lenient, not even to his own brother. He runs a tight ship, and Killian doesn’t see that ever changing. Liam has owned this bar for five years and takes his job very seriously.

Killian’s just glad he only has to work here for another six months. Or at least that’s the plan. He’s about to graduate from Storybrooke University and get his degree in engineering. As much as he enjoys working for his brother, or rather listening to his coworkers complain about his brother behind Liam’s back, he doesn’t plan on spending his entire life making drinks.

Liam emerges from his office an hour later and announces he has to take off for a while to run some errands. Killian’s confused because this is Liam’s night to manage the bar. He dedicates the majority of his other time performing administrative tasks during the week.

“What errands do you have to run on a Friday night?” Killian asks, his words laced with suspicion.

“Just some errands I promised someone I’d take care of. You’re in charge while I’m gone.” He pulls on his jacket and leaves Killian behind the bar with a confused expression on his face, wondering what his brother is up to.

Killian brushes off the thought, deciding to further question him later.

Liam heads out the door, but not before scolding Ruby for sitting down at a table full of rowdy men, chatting (and not about the menu). She may be into women, but she flirts with customers regardless of their gender for the tips.

Ruby curses under her breath and gets up, moving to her next table to jot down orders.

~*~

Emma sighs as Mary Margaret grabs her hand and pulls her into The Captain's Rum. Or more like, drags her in kicking and screaming. She doesn’t wish to be at this bar any more than she wanted to be at the last two. But her sister-in-law insists on the outlandish idea Emma’s going to find Mr. Perfect tonight. Or somehow get over her asshole of an ex-boyfriend after one night of drinking.

And even though it's been two months since she left Neal and his thieving and cheating ass, and as much as she wants to get over him, Emma knows it’s not gonna happen for a while. At least not tonight.

And yet, here she is.

One night of drinking can’t hurt, she supposes. One night of forgetting everything. Of numbing her pain. Or so she keeps telling herself, but that could be the alcohol she’s already imbibed at the other two bars speaking.

“So, how’s it going tonight, Rubes?” Mary Margaret asks the cocktail server once they’re seated at a booth.

Apparently, they know each other.

“Well, no one's tried to manhandle me yet, so it's a start.” The tall brunette with red streaks in her hair leans over the table and murmurs, “Not a great start, but it's a start.”

Mary Margaret rolls her eyes and laughs as she gestures at Emma. “Rubes, this is my sister-in-law, Emma. She just moved here from New York.”

Looking at Emma, Ruby grins and sticks out her hand. “Hi! Nice to meet you!”

Emma gives her a polite smile and shakes her hand. “Likewise.”

When Ruby brings the chips and cheese Mary Margaret ordered, she places them on the table along with two empty plates. Before arriving here, Mary Margaret decided they would put some food in their bellies before they added more alcohol so they wouldn't get too drunk too fast and have to head home early. Well, that was Mary Margaret’s idea at least. Emma would much rather be home in the comfort of her bedroom watching Netflix. Or rather, her brother’s and sister-in-law's guestroom they so graciously let her sleep in until she gets her own place.

“Enjoy, ladies.”

“Sure will,” Mary Margaret beams as Ruby leaves their table. She sips on some water as she scans the bar. Probably for potential suitors she can hook her sister-in-law up with, Emma surmises. “What about him? He's cute,” Mary Margaret remarks, her eyes trained on someone behind her.

Emma looks over her shoulder and arches a brow. “He’s cute if you’re sixteen. He looks way too young.”

“Well, he’s drinking, so he must be at least twenty-one,” Mary Margaret points out.

“He looks sixteen, and sorry, I don’t date children.”

“Emma, he’s not a child, probably a college student. And you act like you’re so old just because you already graduated. You’re twenty-two,” Mary Margaret points out like she’s jealous and wishes to be so young again. But she's only a few years older—the same age as David.

Emma groans. “No, thanks.” Her last boyfriend was immature enough as it was, and he was ten years her senior. “So, tell me, how are you and my brother getting along?” Emma asks, attempting to change the subject and get her sister-in-law to avert her attention from the college boys across the room. “Sick of each other yet?”

Mary Margaret whips her head around and scowls. “Of course not. Why would you ask such a thing?”

Emma laughs and raises her hands in defense. “Because I knew it was the only thing that would get your attention.”

Guilt and apology flicker in Mary Margaret’s eyes. “Sorry, Emma.” She lays her palms on the table. “David and I are just worried about you, that’s all.”

Emma sighs, frustration creasing her forehead. “I’m fine, I promise. Neal was an ass, and honestly, him cheating on me was a good thing. I needed the wake-up call, okay? I was blinded by love. But now that we're over, I can move on with my life. That’s why I let you talk me into bar hopping.”

A slow, hopeful smile spreads across her lips. “I know, and I’m so happy you got out of that relationship, Emma. David and I both are.”

Emma laughs. “I know. When I landed on your door stoop, we both had to stop him from driving all the way to New York to kick Neal's ass.”

Mary Margaret nods. “True. He’s very protective of you.”

Emma rolls her eyes. “I know. It’s both a blessing and a curse.” She takes a sip of water as she scans the bar. It’s the first time she’s been to The Captain's Rum, and everyone is so unfamiliar to her. New York is a huge place, especially compared to Storybrooke, but in this bar, it feels like she‘s back in New York. She swears everyone in Storybrooke is here.

Ruby returns to their table to sit and chat. And steal some of their chips, double-dipping them in the cheese. Emma fights off the urge to laugh at this as her eyes wander past Ruby’s shoulder.

Huge mistake.

The group at the bar counter disperses, revealing the most gorgeous sight she's ever seen.

Holy. Fucking. Hell.

She loses a breath when she sees what she can only describe as a fine specimen.

Good Lord.

Handsome features and such a delicious smile to accompany his perfect face as he chats with a male patron at the bar, she finds herself licking her lips.

“What about him?” Emma manages when she’s able to find the words in her throat.

Mary Margaret’s eyes light up before she even looks to see who Emma is staring so unabashedly at. “Who?!” She and Ruby both turn their heads, their eyes following the path of Emma’s gaze until they land on the target.

“You mean the bartender?” Mary Margaret asks, though, to Emma’s surprise, she doesn’t seem very excited; more like disappointed.

Emma tears her gaze away from the bartender, as much as she doesn’t want to. But she couldn’t breathe when she looked at him and she needed to come up for air. “Yeah, why not?”

“Why not what?” Ruby asks as she looks at Emma, curiosity flashing in her big hazel eyes. “Because if you’re asking ‘why not jump his bones,’ then I can’t think of one good reason.”

“Ruby, don’t encourage her,” Mary Margaret chides with a glare.

Ruby frowns, confusion etched in her features. “Why not?”

“Because… Killian is a player. Emma just broke up with her player of a boyfriend a couple of months ago. She doesn't need another one in her life.”

“Um, excuse me, I’m right here,” Emma groans wryly. “And I’m perfectly capable of making my own decisions.”

“She’s not wrong though,” Ruby remarks. “He is a player. But a fucking hot player. Between the two of us, we’ve conquered all the women of Storybrooke.”

Emma lifts a brow. “Does that mean what I think it means?”

“Yep. Probably even some of the same women,” she winks, her words bearing no shame or remorse.

“Ruby, would you stop? Besides, neither of you have conquered me,” Mary Margaret points out with air quotes.

Ruby rolls her eyes. “Of course not. Prince Charming had already parked his car in your garage long ago.” She reverts her eyes to Emma. “If you’re looking for a relationship, he’s definitely not for you…” she leans over toward Emma, speaking softly, “but if you’re looking for a hookup to get over that cheating ex of yours, then he’s absolutely perfect for that. He’ll give you an orgasm sooooo hard, you’ll forget all about that scumbag. Then he’ll do it over and over again until he knows you won’t be able to walk for weeks.” Ruby grins wide. “Hell, you’ll forget your own fucking name for weeks.”

Emma gulps, having to recover from the images Ruby implanted in her mind of the man on the other side of the bar. Once she recovers, she furrows her brows at the conclusions she’s drawn from Ruby’s graphic depictions of what a night with the handsome, dark-haired bartender would be like. “How would you know? Have you two—”

Ruby laughs as though Emma just said the funniest thing she’s ever heard in her life. “Oh Gaaaaawwwwd, no! I don’t swing that way, honey,” she says, rising and waving off Emma’s words with a flick of her hand. “But I’ve seen the number Killian’s done on his conquests. People talk, especially the drunk, horny females who enter the bar. Plus, as I said, he’s my competition, so I have to know what he's working with… if you know what I mean,” she says with a wink.

“Yeah, I got it,” Emma groans as Ruby saunters away. Why do all the hot guys have to be players?

It’s just her luck.

Emma turns to catch another look at him.

God, he’s gorgeous.

Dark, wild hair, stubble on his chin and cheeks, and a fantastic body based on what she can see from her vantage point.

“Emma! Don’t even think about it! That man’s trouble and you know David would never approve,” Mary Margaret explains, pulling Emma from her trance.

She turns her head, glaring at her sister-in-law. “David is not my father. And besides, I’m a grown-ass woman! He can’t tell me who I can or cannot date.”

Mary Margaret gives her a motherly look. “I know, sweetie, but this man doesn’t date women, he fucks them and then sends them packing. David only wants to protect you from guys like him.”

“I don’t need his protection, okay? Or yours. I’m perfectly capable of looking out for myself.” Emma stands from her seat, and she’s not sure if it’s because of the alcohol still brewing in her system, or because her sister-law has expressed disapproval from both her and David, making this man seem like a forbidden, sinful dessert she’s dying to get a taste of, even though she’ll pay for it later. But right now she doesn't give a fuck.

She sucks in a breath and strides across the bar, ignoring Mary Margaret’s pleas and warnings.

Her eyes are fixed on him like a magnet. He’s wearing a black v-neck that fits him like a glove and shows off a provocative amount of chest hair, his tight, firm muscles bulging as he wipes down the bar counter. His muscles aren’t inhumanly large, just big enough for her to imagine him picking her up and easily carrying her to his bedroom like she weighs nothing. Emma can feel her panties grow wet just from watching him work.

But even though she doesn’t wish to be told who to be with, she knows she should heed her sister-in-law’s warnings.

What would one night of fun hurt, though? She’s spent too much time holed up in her New York apartment, wallowing in self-pity and heartache after Neal hurt her. She hasn’t been with anyone since then. And maybe she’s not looking to dive into a serious relationship right now. Or ever. Maybe she just wants to blow off some steam. And this man looks like he can handle such a task. She’s more than willing to find out.

Emma approaches the bar and stands in front of him, placing her hands on the counter.

“What can I get you, lass?”

Well, fuck me sideways.

He has a British accent too?

She knows she should run for her life, but before she can talk herself out of it, he looks up from his task, and she feels like her feet are glued to the floor.

Ho-ly hell.

He’s even more gorgeous up close.

His arms are inked with tattoos she so badly wants to trace with her fingers, and his striking blue eyes sparkle as he stares at her, his smile showing off a set of pearly white teeth.

Well shit.

She couldn’t run away if she wanted to.

~*~

Killian had been running back and forth behind the bar for hours, ringing up bar patrons, making drinks and engaging in small talk. It’s a typical Friday night at The Captain’s Rum; the place is normally busy on the weekends, especially since the bar is only a stone’s throw away from the university, and tonight is no exception. It’s crowded and loud, couples are dancing, and the women are scantily clad in either tiny dresses or short tops and skirts. As he’s grabbing beers and making cocktails, the bar continues to fill and grow louder.

He hands off drinks to a couple before moving on to the next customer.

“Hey Jones, can I get two Blue Ribbons?” his good mate, Robin, calls over the blaring music.

Killian chuckles and grabs the desired beers, popping off the caps before handing them over. “Taking it easy tonight?” he asks, leaning against the counter and gripping the edge of it with both hands.

“Aye. Regina doesn’t like the hard stuff. She’s more of a wine person.”

“Ah, I see.” Killian nods; he can definitely see that about Regina. He doesn't want to say this to one of his best mates, but the lass can be a little stuck up and quite bossy at times. She makes Robin happy though, so he keeps his mouth shut.

He chats with him for a few minutes, finally getting a few minutes of reprieve. As Robin heads back to his girlfriend, Killian takes the opportunity to wipe down the bar top. But before he’s finished, someone approaches the counter. His eyes are still trained on his task, but he can’t miss the long blonde hair, pink lace and fantastic cleavage, seeing as the view is directly in front of him. “What can I get you, lass?” he asks, throwing on his most charming grin as he lifts his head.

His smile is cemented on his face the second he looks up.

Killian’s accustomed to seeing pretty women entering his brother’s bar and parading around in clothes that barely cover their essential parts.

Yet nothing in the world could’ve prepared him for the woman standing in front of him on the other side of the bar counter.

No, not woman.

Goddess.

Emerald green eyes, soft pink lips curved into a shy smile, smooth creamy skin, long golden hair cascading over her shoulders.

Good.

God.

She’s breathtaking.

Stunning.

“What would you recommend?” she asks in a teasing tone.

Fuck.

Her voice is that of an angel’s. Pure and sweet and innocent.

She looks like everything he doesn’t deserve but wants every... fucking... part of.

“Uh… I um…” he stutters, scratching nervously behind his ear. He can’t form a cohesive sentence as he looks into those hypnotizing eyes. He wants to get lost in them, drown in them. “What are you… what are you in the mood for, love?” he finally musters, adding another one of his signature grins. “I can make you anything your heart desires.” What he wants to say is, “I can give you anything your heart desires,” but even that may not be true. As gorgeous as she is, he’s afraid he wouldn’t be the man she deserves. He’s never been the guy women like to take home to their parents, anyway. He’s the guy chicks like to have around for a good time before they eventually settle into a serious relationship with Mr. Perfect. He’s definitely no Mr. Perfect, more like a Good Luck Chuck, but at the moment, he feels like he could be fucking Superman for this woman. And he's only exchanged a few words with her so far.

She arches a brow and it’s literally the most adorable and sexiest thing he’s ever witnessed in his life. “Anything?” He senses a challenge in her tone.

“Try me,” he encourages.

She bites her bottom lip in thought.

He lied. Now that’s the most adorable and sexiest thing he’s ever witnessed.

“What if I said I wanted a Baby Yodarita?”

He arches a brow, very much intrigued. “A Baby Yodarita? Never heard of it.”

She laughs and the sound is music to his ears. “That's because I made up the name. But I figure it would be a green drink that looks like baby Yoda.”

“So, I take it you’re a Star Wars fan?”

“Are you a bartender?”

Just as he answers like it’s the most obvious thing in the world, since he’s behind the bar serving drinks, he catches her drift and flashes a smirk.

Could this woman be any hotter? And yes, as he’s asking this question in his head, he’s picturing Chandler Bing and the way he would say it, emphasizing the word be. Gods, he hates that he knows that about Friends. He hates that he actually likes that show.

“You don't really have to be a Star Wars fan to be a baby Yoda fan though. He's so cute, he's trending on the internet, haven't you seen?”

He chuckles. “Aye, who hasn't?”

She plants her hand on her hip, donning a sultry smirk. “So, are you up for the task, or not?”

He licks his lips and leans over the bar counter, his eyes locked with hers. He wants to ask her if she fell from heaven. Or if he just died and went to heaven. But he has a feeling cheesy lines wouldn't work on a woman like her. “I'm afraid you'll have to be more specific as to what task you’re referring to, love.” But who the fuck is he kidding? There is nothing he could do for her he would consider a task.

Only a pleasure.

Blush paints her cheeks and she leans over, meeting him halfway until her face is mere inches from his. “I have a few in mind… but how ‘bout that drink, first?”

Bloody. Fuck-ing. Hell.

Her voice is a mixture of sweet and seductive. He doesn’t know how she manages to pull off a combination like that. His eyes drop to her lips and he’s seriously considering kissing the holy fuck out of her over the bar counter, audience be damned. He almost groans just thinking about her soft, luscious looking lips pressed against his, but he swallows the sound before it leaves his throat.

He lifts his eyes to hers. “Sit tight, sweetheart.”

“Okay,” she says with a smile and takes a seat on a barstool. “Oh, and a Cosmo for my sister-in-law.”

“Coming right up.” It takes every ounce of strength within him to pull away, but somehow he does.

He has to take slow, deep breaths to peel his mind from the fantasies he’s already having of him and the blonde temptress watching him intently as he prepares her drink.

~*~

Emma snorts. She honestly didn’t think he would actually take her seriously. She was only kidding around. But he took her very seriously and eagerly accepted her challenge. And he did an amazing job.

She stares at the green drink in amusement, impressed, to say the least. He brought it to her in a margarita glass with two lime wedges sticking out like ears. The stem is wrapped in a napkin tied with twine and clearly made to look like Baby Yoda’s coat. And there's a cocktail stick tucked into the twine like a sword.

“Well? How did I do?” he asks, eagerly seeking her answer.

“It's so cute,” she comments honestly. “It looks great, but does it taste as good as it looks?” As she asks that question, she’s looking up into his gorgeous eyes. And she can’t deny she’s wondering the same about him.

Does he taste as good as he looks?

Before she brings the glass to her lips, he puts up a finger to stop her.

“Hold on.” He grabs a toothpick and stabs two cherries, one on each end, before sticking it into the drink, giving the baby Yoda a pair of eyes. “For the finishing touch,” he smirks.

After she stops laughing, she takes a hesitant drink. Once she takes the first sip, her face sours and she blinks a few times as she swallows. “Wow, that’s strong.” She arches her brow, pinning him with an accusatory stare. “Are you trying to get me drunk?”

He chuckles. “Aye, isn't that the intention?”

She nods and grins. “This will certainly do the trick.” She rises from the stool and reaches into her back pocket, pulling out her phone case wallet, which holds her phone and money. “How much?” she asks, pulling out some cash.

He waves off her offer. “The drinks are on me,” he says with a wink.

“Are you sure? I don't wanna get you in trouble.”

“Trust me, I won't get in trouble.”

Taking his word for it, she tucks the cash into her wallet. “Thanks for the drinks, Killian.”

He arches a sultry brow, making her heart skip a beat. “So, you’ve heard of me, but I have yet to learn your name?”

She laughs and points at the name embroidered into his shirt. “Yours is right there.”

“Oh, that,” he chuckles, a light blush tinting his cheeks as he peers down and brushes his fingers over the letters. “My boss insists we have our names displayed on our shirts.”

“Well, your boss sounds like a pain in the ass.”

“He is, but I only have to work here for another six months. I’m graduating from SBU in the Spring.”

She nods as a group of people approach the counter beside her. She glances over at them and shifts her gaze back to him, wishing he had more time to chat, but she knows he has to work. “It's Emma,” she makes sure to tell him before the counter becomes too overcrowded. “My name,” she clarifies, in case that wasn't obvious.

“It’s nice to meet you, Emma,” he says sweetly, reaching over to shake her hand. When she slips her palm into his, she can feel the sparks from his touch, but instead of shaking her hand, he brings it to his lips and kisses the back of it.

Oh, God.

This man’s lips on her skin feel like heaven and sin. She has to clench her thighs to stop the throbbing she feels between her legs.

Fuck.

She feels the loss when she pulls her hand away and sees the loss written all over his face. “Well, I should um… I should get back to my sister-in-law,” she stammers after learning how to form words again.

He scratches behind his ear and opens his mouth to speak before closing it again like he’s nervous about something. “Of course, love.”

Emma swallows thickly and lingers a bit, patiently waiting for him to say what’s on his mind.

He must sense she's waiting for him because as she grabs the drinks and starts to back away from the counter, his voice stops her. “Emma?”

Good Lord, she loves the way her name slides off his tongue.

She cocks a brow, hoping he's about to ask for her number. Praying he does. “Yes?”

“I um… can you come back here before you leave? Say in an hour when it slows down a bit? I’d love to chat with you some more,” he says sincerely.

Emma purses her lips like she has to mull over his question. The offer is extremely tempting. But she has something else in mind other than talking. Something involving his hands all over her body and her legs wrapped around his hips as he's plunging into her.

And you know what? Fuck it.

She’s sure whatever he has in mind is exactly what she has in mind. Or at least, close to it. “Sure.”

His eyes widen in excitement and surprise, as though he wasn't actually expecting her to say yes. “Really?”

She flashes him her sexiest grin. “Yeah, why not? I’ll see you in an hour.”

“See you then, love. Enjoy your drink. May the booze be with you.”

She snorts and backs away from the counter, holding up her glass in salute before taking a sip. Their eyes are still locked before she turns around.

As she walks away, she cranes her neck to see him still watching her, even as he's serving other customers. She winks at him and has the pleasure of witnessing that adorable pink blush coloring his cheeks and the smirk on his lips before she faces forward and heads back to Mary Margaret.

She’s not looking forward to the lecture her sister-in-law is about to give her, but honestly, she doesn't care. She's looking forward to returning to the hot bartender, hoping to go back to his bedroom. Or the restroom. Either will do, really. As long as she gets to have him.

After Mary Margaret is done chewing Emma out and reminding her of what a player Killian is, and after she finally realizes Emma is going to do what she wants, regardless of what anyone says, they are able to have some fun.

Ruby keeps the drinks coming, and soon they’re tipsy enough to get up and dance among the crowd of gyrating bodies already on the dance floor. Emma glances over at the counter every now and then, and every other time, she catches Killian staring at her, sending shivers down her spine. And every time he tosses her one of his cheeky smiles, her stomach flutters with butterflies.

Emma's thankful Mary Margaret is plastered enough to let loose and not give her any shit because she has no idea what Mary Margaret would do if Emma told her she's going back to talk to Killian. Though she has a feeling if Mary Margaret were sober, she'd do anything in her power to make sure Emma stayed away from him.

When the time finally comes, they order an Uber, which takes much longer than expected. She helps Mary Margaret into the backseat and tells her she's staying for a bit longer and will catch another Uber when she's ready to leave. She doesn't dare mention Killian's name, or that she plans on leaving with him, for fear Mary Margaret will blabber to her brother. Because then he'll come marching into the bar on his white horse to find his sister with the bartender and embarrass the hell out of her.

Mary Margaret's too drunk and in no shape to talk her out of anything, so Emma’s able to escape, knowing her brother will take care of his wife when she gets home.

Emma quickly shoots David a text to let him know his wife had a few too many drinks and is on her way home in an Uber and that Emma decided to stay a little longer but will be home soon. Which is a lie.

She hopes.

Before the Uber drives away, Emma slips her phone into her pocket before heading back into the bar. She's fifteen minutes late, but it's not like Killian can go anywhere. He’s the bartender.

Once inside, she takes a deep breath and tucks some hair behind her ears, a smile playing along her lips as she makes her way to the bar counter. She has no idea what exactly will happen once she reaches him, but with a face as gorgeous as his, she’s pretty sure she would let him do anything he wanted to.

She’s also pretty sure he could help Emma get over her ex. As they say, the best way to get over someone is to get under someone else. And that’s exactly what she plans on doing.

As Emma nears the counter and spots Killian, the beaming smile on her face immediately falls flat.

And her heart sinks.

A busty blonde is standing at the bar, her hand running up and down Killian’s arm, her fingers tracing his tattoos. The woman is sitting on a barstool at the opposite side of the counter in a low-cut top that leaves absolutely nothing to the imagination, and a skirt so short and tight it looks like it's been painted on. Killian’s standing in front of her, so his back is to Emma as he gives his full attention to the other blonde. It's almost time for last call, so it's now much quieter in the bar, and she's close enough to be able to hear their conversation.

“What can I get you, love?”

“A Tequila.”

“Tequilas are trouble,” he says matter-of-factly.

She moves in closer, biting her smile. “So am I,” she taunts.

“I’m fully aware,” he replies with a chuckle. He tries to move, probably to make her Tequila, but she grabs his arm, forcing him to stay. Though, forcing is a bit of an overstatement; Killian doesn't seem to be putting up much of a fight. “Would you like a snack, too?”

Mischief dances in her eyes as she licks her lips, ogling him like he’s the snack. “I’m looking at it, honey.”

Emma feels like she's going to be sick.

The woman leans in and bites his ear and then pulls away slightly. “Last weekend was incredible. Can’t stop thinking about having my legs wrapped around you,” she giggles.

Jealousy stabs Emma’s gut and disappointment shoots through her like a lightning bolt, bringing her back to reality.

Mary Margaret and Ruby were totally right.

He’s a player.

Unable to listen to them for another second, Emma spins on her heels and dashes out the door so fast, she almost tramples over some guys heading in at the last minute.

She should’ve listened to the warnings, but she was too blinded by the attraction she felt for Killian.

God, she’s a fucking idiot.

Why does she always fall for the dangerous guys? The ones who are bad for her? Why can’t she just find a nice guy for once? Someone safe. Someone who won’t stomp on her heart and discard it like trash without batting an eye.

She pushes open the door, tears stinging her eyes as she runs outside into the bitter, chilly night, hoping the Uber driver hasn’t taken off yet. But it's wishful thinking because she can't think of a reason why he wouldn't have left by now.

“Ooof.”

The air rushes from her lungs as she slams into a tall, solid mass.

Hands are gripping her arms to keep her from falling as apologies leave her lips. “Sorry.” She looks up at the man towering over her, Emma's eyes connecting with soft blue ones, which are full of apology.

He flashes a warm smile, his lips framed by a light brown scruff.

“I’m the one who should be sorry, lass. I wasn’t paying attention to where I was going.”

Shit.

He has an accent too?

What’s with all the accents in this town? She’s noticed a lot of the locals here weren’t actually born here. Or the States. She didn’t realize how much she liked men with foreign accents until tonight.

This man continues to apologize, but he doesn’t sound very sorry. At least not for crashing into her. “I was distracted,” he says with a smirk, giving Emma the impression she was what he was distracted by.

Emma tears herself from the trance she’s in and glances at the side of the road, where the Uber once was. “Shit,” she curses under her breath.

“Are you okay?” he asks in genuine concern.

“Yeah, it’s just… my ride has already left. And I’m too drunk to drive home,” she sighs.

Before the man can respond, his phone chimes from his jacket. “Excuse me,” he says apologetically, pulling out the device. He studies whatever’s on the screen with a worried expression, then looks up at her, his mouth slightly agape.

“Everything okay?” she asks with an arched brow, starting to shiver as a frigid wind sweeps around her.

“Um, yeah.” He glances at his phone again before lifting his gaze. “You wouldn’t happen to be Emma, would you?”

She freezes and just stares at him, not knowing how to answer that. Or rather, why she should answer that.

What the hell?

She's never seen this man before in her life, so how does he know her name?

Her heart pounds and she wants to run, but she's afraid she’s not sober enough for that at the moment. “How do you know my name?”

He appears to be hesitant as he holds up his phone, showing her his screen.

Emma takes it in her hands so she can get a better look.

Her eyes widen when she sees a text from a Nolan.

Nolan, as in her brother? Who else with the last name, Nolan, lives with a Mary Margaret and an Emma?

Nolan: I just received a text from Emma. She sent Mary Margaret home in an Uber and is at your bar. Can you make sure she gets home all right?

Her blood sizzles as she rereads the message. Then she reads the texts before it, a couple in particular sticking out like sore thumbs.

Nolan: So… I have a huge favor to ask.

Me: Sure, what’s up, mate?

Nolan: The wife and sister are going to the Rabbit Hole tonight. Emma just moved here from New York after a terrible break-up and Mary Margaret is determined to hook her up with someone.

Nolan: Think you have time to get away from work and keep an eye on my sister, make sure she doesn’t find any trouble?

What the actual fuck?

Why is her brother having this man spy on her?

Emma turns around and pulls back the hand still holding the phone, about to toss the damn thing.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa, don’t shoot the messenger, love,” he pleads. “I need my phone.”

The endearment makes her shiver. Killian had called her love, too.

She spins around to glare at the stranger. “David’s using you to spy on me?” she demands firmly.

He holds up his hands in surrender. “I didn’t want to, lass, I promise, but I would’ve felt terrible if I said no and then, later on, found out something bad happened to you. I promise, I was only helping a friend and looking out for you.”

Emma sighs and hands his phone back, knowing he’s telling the truth. She saw his responses to David’s texts and gathered he didn’t wish to put his nose where it didn’t belong or to stir up any trouble. “David always has been good at persuading people,” she grumbles.

“Aye, especially when it comes to protecting the ones he loves,” he winks.

“Even so, he has no business spying on me!” she states louder than intended.

“I wholeheartedly agree,” he states adamantly, making sure to express how much he was against this whole idea, to begin with.

Emma crosses her arms over her chest, wondering how she never saw him at the Rabbit Hole when she was there. “So, you spied on me at the Rabbit Hole?”

He shakes his head. “No, I didn’t get the chance to. By the time I got there, you and Mary Margaret were already gone.”

Emma shakes her head and rolls her eyes at the thought of her own brother asking someone to spy on her. But she’s not surprised. “Brothers are so annoying,” she grumbles.

He chuckles, and the deep, hearty sound warms her heart a little, despite the chill in the air. “Agreed.”

She arches her brow, as though to ask him to expand on why.

“I have one of those, too. So I get it.”

Emma’s features soften, a small smile pulling at her lips. “Older or younger?”

“Younger. He can be quite the ponce sometimes, but at the end of the day, I’d lay down my life for him.”

“I usually feel the same about David… and then he goes and pulls something like this,” Emma remarks bitterly.

“I take it he does this a lot?”

“He did when we were younger. But then I moved to New York and he came here, so we didn’t see each other very much.”

“Ah, I see.”

Another gust of wind makes her shiver and has him removing his jacket and offering it to her. Even though she’s already wearing one.

“May I?”

She cocks a brow. “Won’t you be cold?”

He shrugs. “I rarely get cold.”

She gives him a soft nod. He looks like he’d be the type of man who knows how to stay warm, and therefore knows how to keep a woman warm. He has those big, strong arms and broad shoulders, and he’s very tall. She could picture herself being buried in his warmth, but maybe because she's currently freezing her ass off. “Thanks,” she murmurs when he goes behind her and drapes the jacket over her shoulders.

“It’s my pleasure, love.” When he’s standing in front of her again, he sticks out his hand. “The name’s Liam.”

Emma smiles and slips her palm in his.

She was right. He is warm. Very warm. “I think David’s mentioned your name a few times.”

“Probably not as much as he talks about you. In fact, I feel like I already know you,” he chuckles as they break the handshake.

“Hopefully, he had good things to say?” She almost groans at the idea of David spewing a bunch of embarrassing stories about her from when she was a kid.

“Aye. Very good things… well, mostly,” he admits. “But who doesn’t have at least a complaint or two about their siblings?”

She nods in agreement. “True. I complain about him all the time.”

He grins big and wide. “I don’t doubt that.” When his smile fades a little, he scratches his head as he looks at her, hesitant to form the next words he wants to say. “Well, uh… seeing as it’s,” he checks his watch, “almost two o’clock and not getting any warmer out here, how about I give you a ride home?”

Emma twists her lips in thought. Normally she wouldn’t even think twice about rejecting a ride from a stranger, but there’s something about this guy that tells her he’s not a serial killer or rapist. There’s something pure about him, a vast contrast to the bartender inside. That guy screamed danger and sin, but this man standing before her gives off completely different vibes. He has a warm personality, which is very refreshing, and he has honest eyes. Besides, she may not be able to stand her brother and his antics sometimes, but he's always had good taste in friends. And if David trusts Liam enough to keep tabs on his sister, then he must be trustworthy.

So with a feeble smile, she finally answers. “Okay.”

Tagging people who have shown interest. Let me know if you would like to be added. @itsfabianadocarmo @resident-of-storybrooke @onceuponaprincessworld @viajandosinalas @teamhook @captainswan-shipper88 @jamif @katielovesstarcrossedlovers @uhthreeyuh @lfh1226-linda @babyyouremyqueen @sthonour @julesep3026 @fairytalewhispersinmyheart @andiirivera @wefoundloveunderthelight @wickedsw4n @eleveneitherway @eherron14 @ouatpost @transparentclodsludgeweasel

#cs ff #captain swan #liam and emma #swan jewel #forced roommates #minor character death #angst #heartache #pregnancy #healing #through the rising tide #my fic

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junquisite · 3 years

Text

Friendzoned

WORD COUNT : 2.2K

WARNING : none~

GENRE : Fluff

NOTE : The song I use the lyrics of is ‘Knocking on your heart’ by Maggie Lindemann. Also fight me but Junhee is the kind of person to save people’s contact as cheesy nicknames. Thank you for coming to my ted talk.

Seonmi took a deep breath. It was now or never. She went on the stage with her guitar in her hands. She cleared her throat on the mic and suddenly all the eyes of the small bar were on her and she felt her nerves rising. Until she met the pair of eyes she had come to adore - Park Junhee's. When she found his eyes and saw him giving her that soft smile of his, her breath caught in her throat and she felt herself smile. She felt like she could do anything as long as he would be smiling at her like that and it scared her sometimes. But not now, now wasn't the time.

"Hi everyone. This is my first time here and I'm both excited and nervous. But I hope you'll like the song I'm going to play. It's a self-composed and self-written song and it's called 'knocking on your heart'. And it's not dedicated to anybody before any one of you hollers."

Her last comment got a few chuckles out of the people and with a few claps of encouragement, she strummed the first note.

Nothing makes it hard to breathe like being in your company

When you've got someone new around your arms

I thought'd I'd be over it

To see you lock with other lips

I guess I'm just no good at moving on

I always tried to tell myself that

I'd fall in love with someone else

But oh my stubborn heart is set on you

And every night I fall asleep just so I can see you in my dreams

And now I think you ought to know the truth

Are you listenin'?

I'm knocking on your heart, could you let me in?

Tell me I'm the one and I've always been

'Cause I don't wanna wonder if we'll ever meet again

I'm knocking on your heart, could you let me in?

She finally strummed the last chord and the whole room came to life with loud sounds of applause. She hadn't realised she had closed her eyes while singing and when she opened them, Junhee was not there where she first saw him.

She frantically scanned the crowd when she heard her name being shouted. Loudly. She turned towards the voice and saw him near the stage cheering her name and waving his hands like crazy to get her attention. A laugh escaped her lips and she thanked everyone and went down the stage.

To him.

He hugged her as soon as she was in his range and a sigh escaped her lips. He was chattering away while she was getting lost in his smell, the cologne she had come to love.

"..and that was so good Seonmi! I know I was mad that you didn't let me hear it before and I kind of still am but you did so great and I'm so proud!"

She just laughed and tried to compose her face into something less sickly-in-love since he was pulling back to look at her. It was short lived though since as soon as he had her in arms length, he squished her cheeks and laughed - happiness clear on his face.

She smiled and pushed his hands away from her face which he nonchalantly kept on her shoulder and she rolled her eyes. The concept of Personal space was alien to Park Junhee, not that she was complaining.

He pulled her towards a table slightly to the back of the bar and left her to get them drinks. A few minutes later he came back with beer for both of them. The next person after her was singing but they were busy talking to each other.

Her eyes have always been for him anyway.

"You know that guy at the bar? The blond one with the black jacket? He is interested in you. He has been looking at you and also asked me about you when I went there." Junhee told her and she shrugged.

"For a smart person, you're really dense in these matters." He said, staring at her hard.

She stared back at him, expressionless and said, "it's alright. Happens to the best of us."

Although internally she was rolling her eyes at his stupidity and cursing at him for being dumb himself.

Suddenly his phone rang and she saw it said 'Babe'. He just silenced the phone and she raised her eyebrow at him.

"You know your phone has been buzzing for a while now. What's wrong. Why are you ignoring her?" She asked and he sighed, rubbing his bridge of nose slightly.

By her, Seonmi meant Junhee's girlfriend of 5 months now. Lim Nari.

"She's mad at me. I had promised her to accompany her to some party tonight but your show suddenly came up and..well I am here aren't I?"

"You should have gone with her. You promised her first." She tried to make him understand. Nari was his girlfriend, not her.

"And what? Leave you alone when you perform on a stage for the first time? What sort of a best friend would I be?" He said and when she tried to argue more, made a sign for her to shut up. And she did.

His phone rang again. And he silenced it again.

"Pick up next time. Don't let this go on for too long." She said and he nodded, running his hands through his hair.

"But Junhee.." she started and he looked up at her.

"Babe? Seriously?" She asked and he shrugged.

"She insisted on it." He said and she nodded.

"So what's my name saved as?" She asked and she saw his face slightly turn read. Perks of having a friend who not only gets flustered easily but also shows it on his face.

"What is it?" She insisted and he just ignored her. So she called him since his phone was on the table only.

His phone rang.

It read 'Life ❤️'.

He ended the call as soon as it appeared, his face completely red now and she couldn't help but coo at him.

Still red, he looked her in the eyes and with all seriousness, said, "well you are."

Her heart quite literally stopped.

Was..was he saying what she thinks he was?

Was there more to what he just said?

"You're my best friend after all."

And she sighed. She knew it was too good to be true. And even though she felt a slight pain in her chest, she managed to cover it up with a smile.

And then his phone was ringing again and she was shooing him out to talk to her.

To Nari, his girlfriend.

Because she was his best friend. And that was all, wasn't it?

The bell rang and a half asleep Seonmi sat up in her bed to make sure it was actually her bell.

Another bell made her get out of bed, groaning of course and trudge to the door to find a tipsy and tired Chan carrying a totally drunk Junhee on with an arm around his waist.

"Sorry we woke you up noona but he just won't come home. He wanted to see you." Chan said and dragged Junhee inside, making him sit on the couch where he quickly laid down.

"Sorry noona." He said and she waved him off.

"What happened? Why is he so drunk?" She asked.

Chan ran a hand through his hair. "His girlfriend broke up with him."

She nodded and looked at the drunk man on her couch, shifting to find a comfortable position and sighed.

"I hope he figures out who he really likes now Noona." Chan said and when she gave him a surprised look, he just chuckled and left.

Locking her door after Chan left she came back to see Junhee sitting up on the couch and he gave her a huge drunk smile when he saw her.

"What is it?" She asked.

He waved at her to come close and when she did, he pulled her down on the couch and before she could protest, she had his head in her lap and she couldn't help the chuckle that passed her lips.

She started running her hand through his hair and he smiled, snuggling in her stomach and she laughed because it was ticklish.

A while passed when she finally asked,"What happened. Why did you break up?"

"I didn't. She did."

"Why?"

"She said she deserved better. Better than someone crazily in love with his best friend."

She froze at the answer until he pushed his head in hand and she started running her hands through his hair again, his words going around in her head.

The next morning found Junhee up with a killer headache and sight of Seonmi as soon as he opened his eyes because apparently, drunk him likes sleeping in her lap and she lets him. He got up and fetched a glass of water for himself and took an Advil from her kitchen. He was trying to think of what all happened the day before when he saw her stir awake.

And then it clicked.

He told her he was in love with her.

"Oh you're up. How are you feeling?" She asked while stretching slightly and the slight skin that peeked out from where her top lifted up made him look away.

"I should get going. I have an important class." He said when she called her name.

"Do you remember anything that happened yesterday?" She asked.

She wanted to know. He knew.

"Not really. I must have drank too much." He lied through his teeth and saw how her face fell slightly. But he was scared.

"Why did you drink so much?" She asked.

"We broke up. Me and Nari."

"Why?"

"Things just didn't work out between us."

"No noona. He left an hour ago. But you can wait for him here?" Chan said from the door and she said no adding how she'll look for him elsewhere and left.

"You need to talk to her. At Least answer her call. It's been three days hyung. I can't keep Lying to her." Chan said to Junhee who was laying on their couch with his face down and he saw him nod slightly.

But he also knew he wouldn't do anything.

He had to take the matter in his own hand now.

"Can you bring over the notebook hyung please? I'll meet you at the cafe at 1! Thanks!"

Junhee sighed over the one sided phone call that happened with him and then he went to Chan's room and after picking up the notebook, left their house.

"Noona, I'll meet you at the cafe at 1:10. I know your class gets over at 1. See ya!"

She heard the voicemail left on her phone and sighing, picked up her books to go to the cafe across from their university.

She entered the cafe and as if automatically, her eyes zeroed in on Junhee sitting alone at a table and suddenly everything clicked in her head.

It was all Chan's plan!

She went and sat in front of him and saw how his eyes widened when he registered who it was. Before any of them could say anything though, a tray with two coffees was placed on the table and they looked up to see Chan grinning at them.

"Talk stuff out like adults now okay? Hyung, stop avoiding noona. Noona, hyung remembers everything he said to you when drunk. Talk now! And hyung don't you dare come home without her being your girlfriend!" He said Quickly and left while Junhee was about to curse at him but then he just looked at his coffee when he saw her eyes on him.

"Why didn't you talk to me for the past 3 days?"

It had been two hours since Chan had come back home from setting them up. When he heard the PIN being entered of the apartment he shared with Junhee, he looked at it excitedly until a visibly upset Junhee entered. When he directly started to go to his room, Chan stopped him to ask what happened.

"Well you said to not come home without making Seonmi my girlfriend so I'm gonna pack and leave okay?" And Junhee kept walking until Chan called him again.

"What do you mean? Did she say no? But why?" Chan looked so close to crying that Junhee just started laughing and Chan heard the main door open and a grinning Seonmi entered with a box in hand.

"Couldn't you have held it in longer?" She yelled at Junhee who just pointed at Chan's face which looked really confused now.

"You were right, he looked so lost." Junhee said among tears and Chan finally figured what happened and yelled loudly.

"I HATE BOTH OF YOU SO MUCH!" And the couple in question just laughed.

"Don't hate us, we got cake!" Seonmi said with Junhee's arm wrapped around her waist and even Chan couldn't stay mad for long.

#A.C.E #a.c.e jun #park junhee #a.c.e fluff #a.c.e scenario #a.c.e scenarios #a.c.e imagine #a.c.e imagines #junhee imagines #junhee scenario #a.c.e junhee #park junhee smut #ACEWRITERS

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jlalafics · 5 years

Note

i beg of u. on bended knee. please write peeta on bended knee. by which i mean proposing. to katniss ofc

You asked for it...and here you go--

______

The bar—per every Friday night—was hopping. Round tables were filled with customers, old and young, and the noise was deafening. However, that was exactly how the owners liked their customers—jovial, bawdy, and just there for a good time.

Katniss looked around before waving at one particular waitress before reaching her usual table in the middle of the room. As she pulled out a chair and sat down, another woman approached with a group of her girlfriends.

“This is our table,” she stated before looking to her friends who snickered in approval.

Katniss smirked, clasping her hands and placing them on the table. “No, it’s not.”

“I know the owner and he said that it was my table,” she persisted. “So, you can just move—there’s room for you at the bar.”

“I’m pretty sure that he didn’t,” Katniss stated plainly.

Agitated, the girl placed a hand on her hip jutting it out aggressively. “How do you know?”

“Because he’s our Dad and I’m pretty sure he wouldn’t say yes to someone who’s insulting the heir apparent to his business.”

A golden-haired waitress, blue eyes cool and strong stance, appeared before the woman.

“My sister has had this table reserved since she spit up on it as baby—not to mention, I’m pretty sure that she was conceived on top of it.” The waitress nodded her head towards the exit. “Now, beat it before you make the wall of people barred from Everdeen Spirits.”

The women quickly scurried away, and Prim snorted before turning to her sister.

Katniss stood up, hands on her hips. “Do you really have to tell everyone that story?”

“It’s gives the table a little more distinctiveness,” Prim responded easily. “Plus, I’m pretty sure our parents have had sex on at least one of these tables. I mean, I caught them making out behind the bar just last night.”

“Gross.” Katniss pulled her sister into a tight hug. “I’ve missed you!”

“Well, that’s what happens when you move to the city with your boyfriend!” They both sat down. “How is living in sin with Peeta going?”

Katniss frowned, resting back against her seat. “It’s been good—but lately, he’s been…different.”

Prim leaned in curiously. “How so?”

“He’s been working a lot lately,” she explained. “Then, there are mysterious phone calls where he hangs up right when I walk into the room and he’s been skittish.” Katniss turned to his sister. “We’ve known Peeta since we were kids—he has a tell. When he’s lying or doing something obviously stupid, he does this adorable thing where he scratches the back of his head…like he’s trying to come up with a good excuse for whatever he did.”

Prim look unconvinced.

“You’re right,” Prim replied. “We’ve known Peeta long enough to know that when he’s lying or hiding something, he’ll get caught.” She flashed her sister a smile. “The man loves you and you’ve been blissfully shacking up with him for a year now. Trust him.”

“And, you don’t think that he might be cheating on me?”

Prim reached, smacking her in the back of her head.

Katniss scowled. “Ow! What was that for?”

“Because you sound like a dumbass,” her sister retorted. “You love him?”

She sighed, nodding her head. “Yes.”

“Then relax, enjoy Thanksgiving week with our crazy-ass family, and get excited for karaoke!”

“Since when do we have karaoke at the bar?” Katniss asked with a smile.

“Since drunk people love to post videos of themselves or their friends singing ‘Don’t Stop Believin’ and tagging our bar,” Prim said. “I told Dad that it would be great for business and he agreed. Sometimes he even goes up there and sings—you know he has a voice of an angel.”

Katniss could see Darius, one of the head bartenders, setting up the microphone on the small makeshift stage.

“Oh yeah. Practically stole Mom’s heart with that voice.” Katniss smiled softly. “It’s nice to be home.”

Prim leaned over and kissed her on the cheek.

“It’s great to have you home. I’ll have Vick bring your usual.”

With that, her sister stood up and headed back to the bar.

++++++

Once karaoke got started, Katniss put her thoughts on Peeta aside. Prim was right; there wasn’t a bad bone in Peeta’s body, it was why she fell in love with him.

What was once a childhood friendship had turned into love during a middle school dance. After being dumped by her boyfriend, Cato, for a girl who looked like her but had bigger boobs, Peeta had come to her rescue and asked her to dance.

Then, under an overabundance of streamers and the sound of slow jams on the speakers, Peeta Mellark became her boyfriend.

Surprisingly to a lot of people, they had remained together from high school through college—attending separate campuses—up until now. She worked as a paralegal for Haymitch Abernathy, a prominent Manhattan lawyer while Peeta worked as a sous chef for famed chef, Beetee Latier.

They were content with their life together.

At least, she thought they were.

The volume of the crowd heightened when her father crossed the stage. Richard Everdeen, with his salt and pepper hair and kind coal eyes, became everyone’s dad as soon as they entered his bar and it was apparent in the appreciative applause as he took to the microphone.

“Hello darling!” Katniss turned to find her mother pulling out a chair across from her. They embraced before sitting down. “I would have been out sooner, but I was having a hell of a time dealing with these wine distributors.”

“It’s alright,” she told her mother. “You didn’t miss anything but a round of Journey songs and a really good rendition of ‘I Wanna Dance with Somebody.’”

“I really just came to the front for your Dad.” Her mother’s blue eyes went soft at the man on stage. “And you, of course.”

Katniss chuckled. “Thanks Mom.”

“Oh, you know I love my first-born baby!” She gathered Katniss against her. “But I’m always hot for my man!”

“And, you wonder why you two were never popular with the other parents,” she responded.

Her parents were great, but they were a little more…boisterous than the staid parents that often ran the events at the girls’ schools. That never bothered Katniss or Prim though as their parents were as supportive as any parents could be.

The girls were often the top sellers during fundraising events as patrons at the bar would buy anything to support the Everdeen girls. Or whereas a parent might run a cotton candy booth during the annual springtime carnival, the Everdeens were the ones who ran the dunk tank which often featured her father promising a free bottle of wine or soda for anyone who dunked him.

“Who needs popularity?” her mother said. “We have each other.” She looked around. “Where’s Peeta?”

“He should be along,” Katniss said. “Had to work late…but he should be here soon—I hope.”

Peeta had texted his apologies, but he was once again caught up with the restaurant. He spent less time in their apartment the more successful he became.

Her mother gave her shoulder a squeeze. “He’ll be here sooner than you think.”

Katniss nodded, turning her attention to her father.

“Anyway, thank you for coming in for this new thing we’re doing. My girl Prim’s idea—” The crowd whooped and cheered for Prim who did a curtsey from the front of the bar. “It’s a joy to hear all your beautiful voices—”

“SING!” someone called out from the crowd.

Katniss looked around quickly before turning back to her dad.

“I guess we’re getting a request,” her Dad said with a humble smile. “I’m going to dedicate this to my wife. Pearl, darling, this might be a little past our time, but I think you’ll enjoy for many reasons. Also, Katniss, my oldest girl, is back home so I think she’ll enjoy this as well.”

The familiar strains of the song began, and it was like she was 12 again—all legs and arms with no tits, but feeling the beginning of womanhood and the beginning of love.

“Darlin' I, I can't explain

Where did we lose our way?

Girl, it's drivin' me insane

And I know I just need one more chance

To prove my love to you—”

There was a scrape of a chair and suddenly Peeta was sitting right next to her.

“Peeta!” She beamed at him. “I can’t believe you’re here!”

Peeta pressed a kiss to her lips. “Sorry I took so long…Beetee is so panicked about making sure that the holiday menu goes as planned.” He turned to Katniss’ mother. “Hey Mrs. Everdeen.”

“Hey sweetheart.” She stood up. “I’m going to grab a snack for you two—”

“Mom, it’s alright,” Katniss assured her.

“No, no…” Her mother was already heading away. “Don’t worry, I’ll be right back!”

Katniss turned to Peeta, who took her hand. “I guess she’s giving us alone time.” She smiled at him. “I really am glad you’re here. Truthfully, I’ve been a little worried about us.”

Peeta frowned. “Why?”

“You’ve been so busy…and sometimes I feel like you’re keeping something from me,” she replied.

“I’m sorry.” Peeta gazed at her, earnestness in those blue eyes of his. “I don’t know why you put up with me sometimes.”

“Because I love you, dummy.” His mouth widened at her words and she slid her hand to his cheek. “Always.”

Peeta covered the hand on his cheek with his own. “Always.” He looked to Katniss’ father and nodded a hello. “Do you remember this song?”

“Of course,” she replied. “It was the first song we danced to—when I got dumped for being Miss No-Boobs.”

“Trust me, the boobs came and more than made up for the delay,” Peeta told her with grin. He stood up. “Dance with me.”

She looked around the crowded bar as everyone listened to her father singing the chorus. Some people were even singing along. “Here?”

“Yes. I want to dance with my girl,” Peeta insisted as he stood up, pulling her along. He wrapped an arm around her waist, drawing her close. “I remember being so nervous when I asked you.”

“You were my hero,” she replied as they began to sway. “Imagine I was thinking that I was so heartbroken over Cato when you were in front of me all that time.”

Peeta met her eyes, suddenly nervous.

“I’m really sorry if I’ve been neglecting you. It’s just that I realized something; I don’t want you to be my girlfriend.”

Her heart suddenly ceased to beat, and she pushed away from him, her eyes filling.

“Then you don’t have to be.”

Katniss turned but Peeta still held her hand. “Katniss—”

“Let go!” She was full on sobbing in front of everyone. “I don’t need to hear anymore.”

Peeta obliged her and let go.

Katniss pushed past the rush of people, wiping her eyes. She couldn’t believe that he was dumping her in her family’s bar, on Thanksgiving week—

“I'm gonna swallow my pride

Say I'm sorry

Stop pointing fingers the blame is on me—”

Why the hell was Peeta singing?

She turned as the crowd parted and Peeta, mic in hand, walked towards her.

“I want a new life

And I want it with you

If you feel the same

Don't ever let it go…”

“What the fuck are you doing—”

Peeta stopped in front of her, falling to his knees, as he continued to belt out the bridge of the Boyz II Men ballad.

“You gotta believe in the spirit of love

It'll heal all things

It won't hurt anymore

No I don't believe our love's terminal

I'm down on my knees begging you please…”

“You really should get off the floor,” Katniss told him. “It’s disgusting.”

“Not until you hear me out,” Peeta told her.

Her dad was suddenly by their side and Peeta handed the mic to him. The music stopped and the whole bar turned silent.

“I don’t want you to be my girlfriend, Katniss, because you are so much more than that. You’re my best friend, my biggest supporter, my guidepost, and advisor…because I do some dumb shit sometimes—”

She scoffed. “That’s for sure.”

“And, just like that, you keep it real. You’re also my soulmate,” he continued. Reaching into his pocket, Peeta present her with a velvet box. “I’ve already mucked this up, but hopefully this will help you understand.”

Her hands shaking, Katniss took the box and opened it. “It’s a ring.”

Peeta chuckled.

“That it is. A pearl in the middle because you love them so much—and of course, it’s your mother’s name,” Peeta explained. “The two diamonds to the left and the right are for your father and Prim. If you look at the outside of the band, there’s a small engraving of the signet that I found when I was doing research about the Mellark family during our senior year and if you look inside—”

Katniss pulled the ring out and looked inside.

“Always,” she read out thickly.

“I don’t want you as my girlfriend. I want you as my wife,” Peeta told her. “So, I’m on bended knee—on this beer-stained floor—asking you if you will please…please…be my wife.”

From out of nowhere, her mother pushed her forward. “For God’s sake, Katniss, say yes to the boy!”

“Yeah,” Prim said from the bar. “That floor is so gross and I’m pretty sure he’s wearing Armani.”

“Will all Everdeens please shut up—” Katniss called out. She joined Peeta, going to her knees, and looking into his eyes. “—so I can say yes to the man who’s loved me since before my boobs came in?”

Peeta blinked back in shock. “You’re saying yes?”

“I’m saying hell yes.”

Katniss watched as Peeta slid the ring on her finger with trembling hands.

Standing up together, her fiancé pulled her close to cover her mouth in a deep kiss.

“She said yes!” Her father bellowed to the crowd. “Free beer for everyone!”

The bar erupted in cheers as Prim, wiping her eyes, dashed behind the bar to help the bartenders serve.

Richard held his hand out to his wife. “I guess we’re having a wedding.”

Pearl wrapped an arm her husband’s waist.

“Our daughter must really love Peeta,” she said, watching the newly engaged couple, lost in each other’s embrace. “Because with a voice like that—”

“Well, let’s just hope that the children don’t inherit his voice.”

FIN.

Song: “On Bended Knee” -Boyz II Men

#Everlark fanfiction #Everlark #Fluff #ModernAu!Everlark

128 notes · View notes

chloebeale · 5 years

Note

Bechloe.. “Nothing Really Matters” by Mr. Probz. Every time I hear this song I just think of Beca writing it for Chloe.

1) I’d never heard this song before, so thank you for bringing it to my attention, it’s adorable! 2) I don’t know how this took the direction it did, but I hope you like it ♡

(Thank you for the prompt!)

RATING: T (angst) | WORDS: 3,926 | (ao3 link)

“Next up, we have a brand new entry from Beca Mitchell! She’s really on fire this year, isn’t she? This is Nothing Really Matters, brand new this week.”

Normally, the name has Chloe’s head snapping up, it has her heart racing. But not this time. It’s almost like she’s getting used to it by now, to hearing the name Beca Mitchell wherever she goes. It’s not surprising really. Her ex-girlfriend, the woman who is arguably the love of her life, is really making a name for herself. She’s an incredible singer, an incredible songwriter. Honestly, she’s an incredible talent, and she’s getting everything she deserves.

“And we’re changing the station!” Aubrey chirps, hurrying in from the kitchen. There’s a pink apron tied around her waist, flour spattered across the middle. It’s an almost comical sight really.

Chloe shakes her head, not bothering to look up from the book she’s reading.

“No, it’s okay,” she promises, finally tearing her eyes from the words on the page in front of her. She isn’t really taking them in, anyway. She really couldn’t tell you what happened in the last couple chapters. “Leave it. I haven’t heard this one.”

Aubrey looks skeptical, and with good reason. The last three months have been a nightmare for everybody. There have been numerous tears shed, countless nights where Chloe has fallen asleep sobbing into Aubrey’s shirt. Presumably, Beca doesn’t feel the same way. Then again, what does Chloe know? She apparently doesn’t know Beca the way she thought she did, anyway.

In spite of her obvious reservations, the blonde simply nods her head, before disappearing back into the kitchen, and leaving Chloe alone with her book and the sound of the most beautiful, most familiar voice filling the room.

“When she’s okayThen I’m alrightWhen she’s awakeI’m up all nightAnd nothing really mattersNothing really matters.”

Most, if not all, of Beca’s songs are love songs. It almost seems a little unlike her, because to the outside world, Beca is really not the hopeless romantic type. But Chloe knows her better than that. Chloe knows just how sweet, how dorky, how utterly romantic her ex-girlfriend can be.

Until recently, until their breakup, most of Beca’s songs have been dedicated to, or at least influenced in some way, by Chloe. Oftentimes, she has tried to deny it, but Chloe has always picked up on the subtleties, the lyrics that have related entirely to them, and Beca has quickly caved, because she can’t lie to Chloe. Chloe knows her better than anybody in the world, she’s absolutely sure of that.

“I see her faceAnd in my mindI seize the dayWhenever she’s nearbyIt’s like nothing really mattersNo, nothing really matters.”

This song is catchy, Chloe notices. It’s the first time she’s hearing it, but already she can tell that it’s going to be a hit. She tries not to think about the emotion behind it, about how it’s likely written with someone new in mind. Not that Chloe knows if Beca has moved on yet, although she knows she will at some point. They both will. They both have to. Except Chloe knows that it’ll be a long time until she’s in that place. For now, she’ll get lost in books. She’ll transport herself to another world, a whole imaginary distraction. If she could focus on the words, anyway.

“I know what it feels likeSwimming through the stars when I see herAnd I don’t need air ‘cause I breathe her.”

Chloe pauses. Her eyes are down on her book, on the open page with the story in which she has absolutely no idea what’s happening, but they glance upward at that.

She replays the line over in her head, and then Chloe’s lids are closing, and she’s lost in a memory. The most beautiful, vivid, dangerous memory.

—-

“God, it’s so hot,” Beca whines, the flannel wrapped around her waist now discarded with an overly dramatic throw onto the ground.

Chloe giggles as she watches the other woman.

“Did that help?” She questions, eyeing the discarded garment, then returning her line of sight to her girlfriend.

“Nope.”

“Didn’t think so. You should come sit in the shade with me,” Chloe suggests, setting down her open book in her lap. She reaches out a hand toward the shorter girl, who looks at her with a small pout, one that Chloe can’t help but mirror. Her book closes itself, and she has no idea which page she was up to, but she doesn’t care. Beca is much more interesting to her, anyway.

“It just seems pointless,” Beca frowns, though she stands in spite of her words, picking up her laptop and carrying it over toward her girlfriend. “A beautiful, sunny day and we’re sitting in the shade?”

“Every day’s a beautiful, sunny day with you around, my love,” Chloe grins, and while she’s teasing, intentionally being completely cheesy, she does actually mean it. Beca responds with a playful eye roll, but Chloe notices the way her cheeks darken a shade as she plops down onto the end of Chloe’s sun lounger. She has pulled her feet up to make room for her girlfriend.

“Besides, you probably shouldn’t have your computer out in the sun like that.”

This is a pretty standard, typical Sunday for them. Chloe always has her lesson plans completed at the start of the weekend, giving herself the rest of the time free to relax and hang out with her girlfriend. She’ll sit out here and read, while Beca works on new music beside her. With her red hair and pale skin, the California sun is really not Chloe’s best friend, but this is where Beca’s management is, it’s where her career is thriving. It’s where Chloe has her teaching job now. So she doesn’t mind.

For Beca, she doesn’t mind.

She watches the other woman as she stares down at her laptop, and Chloe knows that face. She knows that expression.

“Babe, why don’t you take a break?” She offers the brunette a small smile. “Your focus is off right now, I can tell.”

“It’s the heat,” Beca sighs, tilting her head back in defeat. Chloe, as usual, just thinks she’s adorable.

“You could take a dip in the pool? That’d help cool you off a bit.”

Beca’s nose wrinkles as she looks over at her. “Are you forgetting your glitter explosion?”

Of course she’s not, and Chloe can’t help her soft laugh at the memory. She’d been carrying a stack of art supplies after work on Friday, and she’d somehow managed to miss her footing and dropped everything into the pool. They’d been able to fish everything out… Other than the glitter.

“It won’t hurt you,” she grins, motioning over toward the pool, “It’ll just make you sparkle a little bit. It’ll be like swimming through the stars.”

Despite the fact that Beca rolls her eyes, Chloe can see the small smile tugging at her lips. “How do you manage to make everything sound adorable, Chlo?” She questions, and Chloe knows that look, too. The one where she’s suddenly taking all of her in, overcome with that same swell of love Chloe knows all too well herself.

“Just a talent, I guess,” Chloe shrugs, setting her book down on the ground, then pushes herself up from her seat. “Come on.” She holds her hand out to her girlfriend, who looks up at her with a raised brow.

“You want to turn me into Edward Cullen?”

Chloe shakes her head. “No way, I’m team Jacob. Come on.”

“We don’t even have bathing suits. They’re all the way upstairs.”

“What, are you worried about me seeing you naked?” Chloe teases, already beginning to peel off her shirt. She tosses it down onto the lounger, and takes subtle pride in the way she sees Beca gawking at her newly exposed chest.

They have been dating for almost four years now, living together for two. But still somehow Beca looks at her like it’s the first time really seeing her, and Chloe can’t help the way her teeth sink into her bottom lip in response.

“Stop it, perv. You were already playing with them in the shower this morning,” she grins, going back to undressing. She quickly unfastens her shorts, tugging them down her legs, and then her underwear is coming down, too.

“Ugh, you make it real hard to say no to you, Beale,” Beca groans, though her arms are crossing in front of her until she can lift her own shirt up and off. Like Chloe, she also isn’t wearing a bra, and the redhead makes sure to appreciate the view as she backs toward the pool.

It’s a good thing their backyard is so well hidden from passers by really, because there’s now an international superstar and her girlfriend completely naked for all to see. But neither is too concerned about that. As usual, they’re pretty wrapped up in each other.

As Chloe approaches the pool, she can see the glitter shimmering in the water. The sight causes her to laugh quietly, until she’s sitting down on the edge and lowering herself carefully into the ripples. It isn’t exactly cold; the sun has seen to that. It’s definitely cooler than standing around outside of it, though. Chloe dunks her head under, then emerges again a second or two later, pushing her wet hair back out of her eyes.

“Your hair is full of glitter,” Beca frowns, hands planted on her hips as she stands beside the pool.

“And yours will be too in a minute,” Chloe grins, lifting her arms out of the water by her sides and admiring the way her skin glistens with tiny flecks of gold and silver glitter.

Beca rolls her eyes yet again, but she doesn’t protest, and soon she’s jumping into the water, too. She lets it cover her entire body, her head disappearing under the waves caused by her abrupt jump, and then she’s reappearing a moment later, slicking back her glittery hair the same way as Chloe.

“Better, right?” The redhead smirks, allowing herself to float onto her back. The water ripples gently around her, and she feels herself relaxing into the serenity.

“I thought it’d itch more than this,” Beca says, beginning to glide through the water.

“I told you,” Chloe shrugs, glancing over at her, “It’s like swimming through the stars.”

“Sure it is,” Beca teases, pausing beside her girlfriend. She stands in the water, her arms slipping underneath the other girl until she can turn her around. Chloe watches her with amusement, letting her move her, until her arms are wrapped around Beca’s neck, legs comfortably around her waist.

“Told you this was a good idea,” Chloe beams, nudging the tip of her nose gently against her girlfriend’s. Beca responds with a soft, contented smile, until she’s leaning forward to press a delicate kiss to Chloe’s lips, one the redhead happily returns.

“I still feel like Edward Cullen,” Beca smirks, her arms wrapped around Chloe’s waist. She’s drifting backwards toward the side of the pool, holding tightly onto her girlfriend.

“Right. But only if Edward Cullen was swimming through the stars,” Chloe points out, moving one arm from around the shorter girl to wipe a speck of glitter from under her eye. Beca gives Chloe that same playful look as usual, eyes rolling and lips arched into a smile.

“Say it,” Chloe instructs, eyes on her girlfriend. Beca looks at her with a raised brow.

“What?”

“Say it’s like swimming through the stars with me.”

Beca’s brow arches higher, amused smile dancing on her lips, but she doesn’t respond.

With the hand still not around Beca, Chloe flicks a splash of water at her. Beca tries to duck out of the way, but it hits her in the face. Fortunately, her eyes close in time to stop any glitter from getting into them.

“Say it!” Chloe giggles, flicking more water the brunette’s way.

Beca cuts her off with a laugh, eyes finally opening. “Okay, okay. It is.”

“It is what?” Chloe asks, subtle smirk settling back onto her lips as she wraps her arm around Beca’s neck again. Her grip tightens, and Beca’s does the same.

“It’s like swimming through the stars with you, baby.”

—-

“Chloe?”

Aubrey’s voice startles her awake.

“Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t know you were sleeping.” There’s an apologetic look on the blonde’s face.

It takes Chloe a second to snap back to reality. She had evidently fallen asleep on the couch, her book still open in her lap. There’s a song playing on the radio that she doesn’t recognize now. It’s not one of Beca’s.

Aubrey perches down onto the side of the couch, bringing a hand up to brush a chunk of hair softly behind Chloe’s ear. “Why don’t you go lay down for a bit,” she suggests, voice soft and reassuring. She offers Chloe a sympathetic smile, one she’s grown all too familiar with lately.

Chloe responds with a short nod of her head, before pushing herself up from the couch.

Stacie will be home soon, anyway. Chloe adores both Aubrey and her girlfriend, and she’s eternally grateful to them for allowing her to stay with them until she gets back on her feet, but she has to admit, it’s difficult seeing them all over each other. She’s happy for them, she loves how in love they are, but Chloe doesn’t have that anymore, and she can’t deny that it hurts.

She retreats to the guest room. Her room, for all intents and purposes. Her laptop is laid on the end of the bed, where she’d left it this morning. Chloe had been doing some lesson planning, but she’d lost her focus, and she’d gone to sit downstairs with Aubrey.

When she takes a seat on the bed and opens the laptop’s lid, she minimizes her earlier work quickly, and instead opens up Spotify. It’s really no surprise that Beca Mitchell is one of her most recent searches.

Chloe scrolls to the new addition, Nothing Really Matters, and hits play. She turns down the volume some, not wanting Aubrey to hear.

“I know what it feels likeSwimming through the stars when I see herAnd I don’t need air ‘cause I breathe her.”

She hadn’t been imagining it. She hadn’t dreamt it. There it was, loud and clear.

“Swimming through the stars when I see her.”

Against her better judgment, Chloe clicks on the iMessage application, pulling up her last text message thread with Beca. It has been over a month since they’ve spoken, and the thought causes Chloe’s heart to ache.

Chloe, 4:29PM:I heard your song.

For a good ten minutes, there’s no response, though Chloe finds herself continually clicking back onto the conversation, eyes moving to the chat window. She’s about to close the lid again when the chat bubble appears, and Chloe’s heart begins to race.

Beca, 4:41PM:Which one?

Chloe, 4:43PM:Your new one.

Beca, 4:46PM:Oh.

Chloe waits a moment, wondering if there’s more to come. Apparently, there isn’t. And something about that angers her, but what can she do? She simply lets out a long sigh, before closing the laptop and flopping back against the pillows.

The backs of her eyes begin to sting, so Chloe closes them, shaking her head slowly and willing herself to woman up. She needs to stop crying. It’s been three months, she has to stop crying over Beca Mitchell.

She doesn’t know what time it is when the sound of her phone wakes her. Honestly, she didn’t even know she’d fallen asleep again, but the room is dark now, and Chloe blinks into the stillness, her phone still buzzing on the mattress beside her. She reaches for it blindly, squinting at the name on the screen.

BECA MITCHELL

And just like that, Chloe’s heart is in her throat. It’s against her better judgment that she hits accept on the call.

“Hello?”

There’s silence for a moment, followed by the quiet sound of Beca’s voice. “Chloe, hey. It’s me.”

Her tongue flicks over the part in her dry lips, and Chloe swallows back her emotions. “What do you want?”

More silence, almost like she’s hesitating. “You’re still staying with Aubrey and Stacie, right?”

Chloe doesn’t understand the point of this phone call, but she humors it. “Yeah, I am. Why?”

“Okay,” Beca responds simply. She clears her throat, and Chloe is certain she hears the sound echoing. It causes her to sit upright in the bed, her free hand running through her messy hair. Beca continues. “Can you come outside?”

Chloe’s heart was already racing, but it speeds up further now. Her body seems to be working without her mind as she rises from the bed. “What?” She questions, pulling down the sleeves of her oversized sweater. They engulf her hands, and Chloe appears smaller somehow, almost more vulnerable.

“Just come outside.”

Chloe doesn’t respond. She licks over her lips again as she makes her way slowly to the window. The guest room is at the front of the house, and she looks out to see Beca standing awkwardly outside in the evening light. Her phone is held to her ear, her free arm wrapped around her middle. Chloe sees the way she glances up, and she knows Beca has seen her.

“Please, Chlo.”

It’s pathetic, the fear she’s now filled with. Because Beca Mitchell is not scary. Beca Mitchell is not this negative presence she has started to become. She’s the love of her life, she’s her person.

But Chloe doesn’t have her anymore, and maybe that’s what makes this all so terrifying.

She moves through the house quietly, not wanting to catch Aubrey or Stacie’s attention. She can hear them in the living room, they’re laughing quietly at something on the television, though Chloe doesn’t stop for long enough to see what. She has hung up the call by now, her phone still on the bed, and she thinks she hears it begin to buzz again. She ignores it, and instead quietly opens the door, the underside of her white socks definitely suffering as she pads out into the evening, cautiously closing the door behind her.

“Are you mad?” Beca questions, and suddenly Chloe can see that same fear in the other girl’s eyes. It causes her chest to tighten, her stomach to clench.

“About what?” Chloe asks, approaching even more cautiously than the way she’d tiptoed down the stairs.

“That I’m still writing songs about you.”

Chloe licks over her lips. She doesn’t have a response, at least not a verbal one. Slowly, though, she shakes her head.

“Why are you writing songs about me still, Beca?”

“Because I’m an idiot.”

The response is almost like a punch to the stomach. She knows she isn’t supposed to be Beca’s muse anymore, not now they’re broken up. But to hear her calling the very idea idiotic is genuinely painful.

“For all of this, I mean.”

Chloe pauses, gaze trained on her ex-girlfriend.

She doesn’t respond, but it’s almost like the invisible rope tied around Beca’s limbs has suddenly loosened. Her emotions are rising to the surface, and she’s no longer glued to the spot. She shakes her head as she takes a step forward, and it seems like she’s daring herself to reach out. Eventually, she does, and the soft touch to her arm causes Chloe to flinch slightly. Beca recoils, but she’s soon reaching out again, this time for Chloe’s hand. The redhead doesn’t stop her.

“Chloe, I’m so sorry,” Beca says, voice thick with emotion. Chloe can hear the way it’s cracking, she can imagine the stinging sensation behind the other girl’s eyes, because she can feel it behind her own, too. She bites back a pathetic sob as Beca continues.

“I’m an idiot,” the brunette repeats. “No one has ever been as supportive or as amazing as you are. You never asked me to choose between you and my job, you never would. And I’m so sorry that I let myself get so caught up in the whole Hollywood thing. I just…” Beca pauses, swallowing back the lump in her throat. “It’s just a lot, you know? Paparazzi following us everywhere? Zero privacy? I hated doing that to you, Chlo. I hated dragging you through all of that with me.”

It doesn’t matter how well she tries to hold it together, Chloe is crying now. There are slow tears rolling down pale cheeks, and without her even realizing it, her fingers are laced with Beca’s.

“That wasn’t your decision to make,” she sobs quietly, shaking her head. Beca’s thumb is brushing softly over the back of her knuckles, and Chloe takes comfort in the familiar feeling. “I didn’t care about any of that. That’s your job, that’s all apart of it. And I didn’t care because I was with you.”

Beca takes a moment to compose herself, and Chloe sees the way her cheeks are glistening. She instinctively reaches out with her free hand to brush a tear from the shorter girl’s cheek with the pad of her thumb; it’s like the pool and the glitter all over again.

“I know. I’m sorry,” Beca finally says. “I don’t want to do this without you, Chlo. I know that when I ended things, I know I hurt you, and I know it was so selfish of me. But I need you to know that you’re literally the love of my life. Nothing really matters without you.”

Chloe doesn’t have a response. She’s too choked up, and she just stares at the other woman through tear soaked lashes.

“I’m going to fix this, okay?” Beca continues, tugging gently on the redhead’s hand, until their bodies are pressed closely together. Beca lets go, but only to wrap her arms around her waist. “These last three months have been hell. And if you’ll let me make it right again, I will. Because you’re it for me, Chloe. I want everything back the way it was. I want to fall asleep beside you every night, I want to wake up with you every morning. I want to do cheesy crap like putting flour on your face when I’m pretending to be bored when you’re making me bake cookies with you—”

Chloe cuts her off. “Or pouring glitter in the pool and swimming through the stars?”

Beca responds with a soft laugh, in spite of her tears. She nods her head in response. “Exactly. I want us to be in love again, Chlo.” She quietens, almost like she’s afraid to continue. Afraid to ask the question. “Do you think we can?”

Chloe’s teeth sink gently into her bottom lip, and in spite of the tears still rolling down her cheeks, her lips curve just slightly upward at the corners. “We never stopped, Bec. I’m always yours. I was always yours.”

The brunette’s lids flutter shut, and Chloe sees the way a couple fresh tears spill down her cheeks before she’s leaning up to delicately connect their lips, a feeling Chloe has been craving for the last three months, an action she returns without hesitation. Their tears are staining one another’s faces now, but neither one cares.

“I’m always yours too, Chlo,” Beca mumbles softly as she pulls back, lids fluttering open again to look up at her. Blue eyes meet gray, and the look is so familiar, so comforting.

“I was always yours.”

#beca mitchell #chloe beale #bechloe #bechloe fic #anonymous #question #mine #mine:writing #swimming through the stars

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cruelangelstheses · 5 years

Text

red jenny needs a rhythm guitarist!

fandom: dragon age rating: T characters: sera/female inquisitor, sigrun, charade words: 2k additional tags: modern au, punk rock band, first meetings, fluff description: one night while performing with her band, the red jennies, sera spots a beautiful girl in the crowd. a/n: this was supposed to be done for yesterday - @serappreciationweek day 3: headcanons/aus - but i was delayed due to having to evacuate for hurricane dorian lol. anyway this type of au is my fav thing ever and sera said gay punk anarchist rights

read it on ao3

—

The air thrums with anticipation. Backstage, Sera can hear the buzz of the crowd as she finishes applying her eyeliner, fucking it up on purpose because she loves the way it looks. She laughs and sticks her tongue out until it touches her septum piercing. Everything about her calls for chaos: old sneakers with holes in them, ripped skull-patterned shorts, spiked cuffs, tattoos on her arms, a black tank top hand-painted with the anarchy symbol, and a myriad of piercings in both ears—some studs, hoops, a chain, and an industrial piercing. One good thing about being an elf, she’s found, is that she has more space for them.

Behind her, Sigrun whistles the opening of one of their songs. “You about ready?”

Sera spins around in her chair and grins. “Frigging right I am.”

“Well, good,” Charade adds as she makes her way toward them, her bass guitar slung over one shoulder, “because I think they’re getting antsy out there.”

“Dagna said they were almost done,” Sigrun says as she takes a look in the mirror and smudges her eyeliner so that she looks a bit more...dead inside. Her knife earrings, black fingerless gloves, black jeans, and combat boots add to the “don’t fuck with me” look, complete with a black leather jacket that she’ll probably take off halfway through the set so she doesn’t die of heatstroke. Still, her dedication is inspiring.

As if on cue, Dagna, the band’s audio engineer, appears in the doorway of the dressing room. “Everything’s all set up,” she says with a smile. “Whenever you’re ready. Knock ‘em dead.”

Sera jumps to her feet and claps her hands together, grabbing her black-and-yellow guitar from off the floor. “Yes! Okay!”

In the center of the room, the Red Jennies form a tight circle. They’re a three-piece group, a “power trio,” with Sera as the lead singer and guitarist, Charade as the bassist, and Sigrun on the drums. It’d be nice to find a rhythm guitarist so Sera can focus on lead guitar, but they make it work. Charade has her hair tied back into a bun and is dressed in her usual getup: jean shorts, a t-shirt from the thrift store, and a plaid flannel, this one red.

Once they put all their hands in the center, Sera starts their chant. “Never mind the rich tits!”

“Never mind the bullshit!” Sigrun adds with a smirk.

“Never mind the bollocks,” Charade says, laughing.

Then, together, throwing their hands up in the air, they shout, “Here’s the Red Jennies!”

Sera leads them out of the room and up the stairs. The music playing inside the bar stops, and the crowd roars in excitement. They know what that means. It’s a relatively small venue, but it still packs a decent amount of people, and the show tonight is sold out—sold out for them. The Red Jennies are the main act. The idea makes Sera’s head spin.

Sera is the first person to step onstage, and the crowd cheers louder as the band takes their places, Sera and Charade plugging in their guitars and Sigrun sitting down at her drum set. Then Sera grabs onto the microphone with one hand and shouts, “Make some frigging noise, Wycome!”

As the crowd yells, Sigrun taps her drumsticks together four times to count off, and then they jump into their opening song, a politically-charged anthem aptly titled “Eat the Rich!!!” It’s one of their more “screamy” songs, which is why it’s first: perfect to pump up the crowd, as well as remind them why they’re here.

As Sera takes in the crowd, she notices a pair of bright purple eyes shining near the back of the venue. The fact that she can see them glowing all the way from the stage is enough to tell her that they belong to another elf, though she could’ve figured that out by the pointed ears poking out from underneath the girl’s mop of brown hair, as well as the distinctly Dalish tattoo that surrounds her left eye. She’s sitting at the edge of the bar with a drink in hand, watching the show with interest and looking as though she’s never seen the Red Jennies before.

For a short, weird moment, Sera feels...exposed? Judged? An age-old fear grips her, that she’ll be looked down upon—like always—or seen as uncivilized, crazy, a traitor to elves, perhaps all of the above if she’s unlucky enough. But then the girl looks right at her, right at her, and smiles, a snaggletooth grin that transforms her whole face, and those fears wash away, and Sera is herself again.

Alright, pretty elfy girl, she thinks. I’ll give you a show.

The concert is a whirlwind of jumping and sweating, of starting mosh pits and screaming her lungs out to a room full of strangers. It’s wild and cathartic, and no matter how many times she does it, she never gets tired of it—of reaching fans new and old, of hearing people yell her own words back to her, of music so loud she can feel it in her chest. When she’s surrounded by the wailing of her guitar, the heat of the stage lights, Charade’s voice on backup vocals, the rapidfire drums...that’s when she’s home.

Sometimes they hang out after a performance, and sometimes they don’t. Luckily for Sera, they have a day off between this show and the next, and they’re not planning on leaving Wycome until tomorrow, so they have some time to mingle. The girl at the bar only seemed to get more and more into the performance as it went along; Sera will be damned if she doesn’t at least speak to her.

She practically leaves her bandmates in the dust, as she heads back out into the bar barely ten minutes after the end of the show. “Sorry! Have to catch a pretty girl!” she calls over her shoulder. “Updates later!”

It takes a little while to get to the bar, since the crowd still hasn’t really dispersed. Since she’s small, it’s not difficult to weave through people without them really noticing, but she gets caught more than once by a fan. They’re wonderful, though, so she doesn’t really mind. Normally she loves talking to fans, and she still does; it’s just that tonight she has someone specific in mind.

It’s her lucky day. When she finally reaches the bar, she finds that not only has the pretty girl not left yet—the seat next to her is empty. Taking a deep breath, Sera pulls herself up onto the barstool and says, “Hey.”

The girl jumps a little and turns around, her eyes widening. “Oh. Hey!” she says, and Maker, her voice is so nice. “Great show, by the way!”

“Uh. Thanks,” Sera replies, already feeling her face heating up. The girl is even prettier in person, all tan skin and kissable lips and eyes like starlight. Sera doesn’t normally go for elves—too afraid they’ll think she isn’t elfy enough, and besides, a lot of them are too skinny and bony for her taste anyway—but this girl’s arms are more toned than most elves’, and her face is rounder and fuller. “I’m Sera. If you didn’t know.”

The girl giggles a little, rubbing the back of her neck. “I didn’t, actually,” she says sheepishly. “I’d never even heard of you guys until a few days ago. My brother bought two tickets and gave one to me. Don’t know where he is now, though.” She shrugs and takes a sip of her drink. “I’m Rana. Rana Lavellan.”

Her name sounds like music. Sera nods. “Saw you when I was up there, yeah?” she says, gesturing to the stage. “Your eyes are really...wow.”

Rana smirks a little. “Yeah, I get that a lot.”

For a moment, they both just kind of stare at each other. Then Sera clears her throat and says, “You ever listened to any punk before us?” She smiles mischievously. “Or did we take your punk virginity?” She says the last bit in a more dramatic voice.

Rana laughs. “Unfortunately, no, you did not,” she says, “though that would’ve been something. My brother invited me because he knew I liked your kind of music.” She deepens her voice in order to impersonate him. “‘Rana! You have to check out this band! They’re a bunch of punk rock lesbians singing about eating the rich! All your favorite things!’”

They both laugh at that. Then Rana adds, “Sometimes I think I’d like to be in a band. But I don’t usually get along well with other people. I have to really click with them, or see something in them that makes me want to talk to them.”

Suddenly, Sera feels immensely honored to be having such a fantastic conversation with her. “Oh!” she says. “What instrument do you play?”

“Guitar.”

Sera swears that the stars align right then and there. “Wait,” she says, trying not to get too far ahead of herself just yet. “Can you play rhythm?”

“Yeah, definitely,” Rana replies immediately, and then it starts to dawn on her. “Oh, yeah, I noticed you’re the only guitarist—”

“Want to join the Red Jennies?” Sera blurts. She can feel her heart pounding in her chest.

Rana blinks a few times, somewhat taken aback. “I...didn’t realize you guys were looking for a new member.”

“Well, we’re not, like, putting up ads on Craigslist,” Sera says, speaking quickly, “but we think it’d be nice to have a rhythm person if we could find one, ‘cause then I can do more cool shite on lead.”

Rana seems to think it over for a few moments, and then she nods. “If the other members will have me,” she says, “I’d be honored.”

“They will!” Sera says, finally allowing herself to get excited. “Really. Sigrun looks scary, but she’s lots of fun. And Charade’s a sweetie. Kind of have to work to get on her bad side. It’ll be good! Promise!”

Something twinkles in Rana’s eyes, something like amusement or endearment or pleasant surprise. Her face breaks into that beautiful snaggletooth grin again, and she says, “Then I would love to join the Red Jennies.”

Sera has to cover her mouth to stop from yelling with joy. Holding an index finger up, she pulls out her phone and sends a text into her group chat with Sigrun and Charade: I GOT US A RHYTHM GUITARIST!!!! SHES CUTE AND COOL AND LIKES PUNK AND HATES THE RICH AND I THINK SHES GAY???? DSJFDKFLKSJKD

Charade replies with some shocked and happy emojis. Sigrun says, pics or it didnt happen

Sera tries not to laugh. “They want a picture!”

Rana raises an eyebrow, but there’s a good-natured smile on her face. “Alright.”

Sera opens up the front-facing camera and holds her phone up so that both of their faces are in the shot. Sera does her standard pose—putting a peace sign up to her mouth and sticking her tongue out—while Rana just stares into the camera with a serious face, like she’s posing for a fashion magazine or something. Sera wonders if it’s possible to die of gayness.

When she sends the selfie into the chat, Charade says, Ahhh Sera that’s amazing!! Can’t wait to meet her!!

Sigrun writes, oh she’s definitely gay

Sera grins and turns to Rana, who is watching her expectantly, as if she’s expecting Charade and Sigrun to hate her. “You’re in, Buckles!”

Rana cocks her head. “Buckles?”

Sera nods. “Right. Buckles. That’s you. Said you’re not too good with people, yeah? Like a boot buckle. Serious. But take the boots off, and there’s the softness.”

Rana stares at her in awe for a moment. “You came up with that just now?”

Sera shrugs. “Well. Maybe a few minutes ago.” Suddenly feeling self-conscious, she adds, “I can change it if you think it’s stupid.”

Rana shakes her head and smiles warmly. “I don’t think it’s stupid. I like it. I think it’s kind of brilliant.”

Sera tries not to blush and glances down at her phone, where she sees another message from Sigrun. This one reads, Go get her, tiger.

Sera grins. “Well then, Buckles,” she says, “welcome to the Jennies.”

#sera appreciation week #serappreciationweek #sera #sera x inquisitor #sera x lavellan #sigrun #charade amell #female inquisitor #female lavellan #dragon age inquisition #dai #dragon age #seravellan #rana lavellan #my fics #this wasn't supposed to get this long but i got carried away lol

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rkjxy · 4 years

Text

──── k.arma december 2019 schedule ╳ year end music festivals ❞

the craziest year of her life so far is finally drawing to a close. thinking back on where she was at the start of it, she feels somewhat emotional.

it’s funny to think just how different her life had become throughout the year. with each month that passes by brings a new challenge and a change that she never thought she would be able to push through. the park sooyoung that she was at january is strikingly different to who she is now at december. in just twelve months, she feels like a better version of herself. she feels more confident, more independent, more capable. if there’s anything that she’s learned throughout the year, it’s that anything in her life is achievable once she starts believing in herself.

it’s not like she didn’t believe in herself before. if she didn’t, she wouldn’t be where she is today. the difference now is that believing in herself comes a lot more easily. she would have her apprehensions and the usual bout of nervousness but it eases away as quickly as it comes. she’s no longer the type to feel burdened by her worries. instead, she moves and walks forward in her constant strive to do better. after all, she gains her strength from so many things now as compared to before. it’s easy to push through when you’ve got so many things inspiring you.

she owes it all to their fans. seeing their invaluable support for them and their group is all the motivation that she needs in order to do well. whenever she thinks about it, she’s always humbled by their decision to love and support them. of all the groups in the world and they chose k.arma─that’s the kind of dedication she can’t find anywhere else. which is why she’s made a promise to herself that she would work hard and give back to them in the best way that she knows how. it’s the least she can do after everything that they’ve done for her and the group so far.

she’s excited to meet them again. it seems that after she’s had the taste of it, joy will never grow tired of performing on stage over and over again. she likes the thrill of being in front of so many people and just being in her element. she likes seeing glimpses of their fans huddled in one corner of the venue, with their loudest screams and amazing fanchants. she’s beyond happy that they get to be a part of these year end festivals. it was an experience she knows she would never forget.

performing their songs feels like second nature at this point. she didn’t want their fans to feel like every performance is repetitive so even if the choreography and the singing were the same, she tries to up her stage attitude. when the camera pans to her, she acts more. with fierce eyes she tries to embody their song in her dancing throwing away all remnants of joy as she channels the performing charisma of kil. this is her second persona and one that she’s proud to have.

as their performance ends and they retreat backstage, joy can only hope that within next year, they can bring more music for their fans to devour. she wants to be able to perform more and to show different sides of herself in the process. this is perhaps her new year’s wish; something that she’s clinging onto tightly.

when all the artists were ushered on stage for the encore. she happily walks around closer to where she knows their fans are at. she waves, throws finger hearts, and playfully interacts with them. she laughs at them too when they attempt to communicate with her, given the large barrier between them. when it’s time to go, she frowns initially but switches up to a smile as she waves goodbye. she’ll meet them all again soon; she knows she will.

as the last of the year end festivals finishes up, she thinks about the changes in her life and how she feels hopeful that more beautiful ones would come in the new year. with each day that passes by she will always remember to be grateful. grateful that she’s living out her dreams and grateful that she’s surrounded with love from the people closest to her heart. these are a few of the things she will take with her in her never ending journey of growth and discovery.

with this, she will say: bring on the new year!

#solo #trcfeat;#k.arma:dec19 #fiery ─ 카르마 *#era ─ ticket *#wc; 756

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