#and some people make CLOTHES out of this yarn? i think i fear those people the most in this world

[uncanny-tranny]

You know how some clay artists make a little kiln god to protect their pottery? I need to crochet a little yarn god to make sure my projects always have good omens near them because I think I need that 😭😨

[mysteriouslyspookyandcooky]

Kilug the Orc (f/m)

female protagonist has moderate stutter

warnings: violence, language, sexual themes, mature themes

words: 4442

Being born into such a high family has, I admit, given me some problems. Unlike the rest of the clan, I refuse to follow in their footsteps.

That sounds stupid and selfish. But in this day and age, as the world progresses and the different empires rise from the ground, I realize there's no need to murder our way through.

Death is necessary. I, too, have fallen into the desire to paint people red, but in youth, anyone can be an idiot. My mother, bless her soul, has tried her hardest to make sure I never turn into my father. As terrible as it is, I thank the gods he's dead. Even though I was meant to love him, his ways are worse than any tyrant could make up.

As an orc, we were destined to be hated. Yes, we rule a part of the North, but it wasn't taken without decent bloodshed. Now I'm left with the parts my father destroyed. Left with string and hope to try and pull the kingdom back together.

Coming into the crown was terrifying at first. To think I had to try and win the hearts of a nation over from the fear my father planted within them.

It was a slow start, but in two years' time, I made Aidrinyar into a prosperous nation that didn't need to kill people to show its dominance. Trade with neighboring kingdoms opened once more with some negotiation. Seems people are more trusting of my mother. A saint she is.

Along the corridor, Kilug hears a small cry. Not one of pain as it sounds. Opening the door to his right, a woman looks over frantically. It's one of the maids. Kilug takes in her disheveled figure and gasps, "Is everything alright?"

She shakes her head as she sits on the edge of the bed, "My mother. And sister. They're oh gods-"

Kilug looks around then approaches her, "Come along. My mother will help you."

His mother sits in the mess hall playing with some yarn as her son approaches her. The woman gasps and sets her needles down, "Dear, what's wrong?"

The woman falls to her knees. Kilug manages to catch her as she falls to help her into a nearby chair. She sobs slightly, "Tell me what's wrong."

She takes a moment to collect herself, "My mother and sister are at the edge of town. I just got word that someone raided that end and I-" 

The maid breaks into sobs again, "Kilug. Take Ornis and the others to go check it out. What do your mother and sister look like?"

Gulping, she squeaks out a simple response. "My mother is older but my- my sister has bright red hair. It's long too. Answers to Ivor."

Kilug nods to his mother and heads out of the room. Ornis is his head knight. His sword shield as well. Just as he tells the darker orc the news, he's grabbing his axe off the wall with a curt nod.

It doesn't take long to reach the edge of town. The maid was right. At least five homes are destroyed. Kilug curses but a person comes flying out of one of the houses. It's a man. Human man. He groans from the floor as someone appears out of the door he got thrown from.

Red hair flashes in the wind as a sword is held in their grasp. It's a woman. The man scrambles to get up but she steps on his hand as he reaches for his sword. He begs for a moment before her sword goes into his chest.

Kilug frowns slightly but he gets what he deserves. The woman turns to them quickly, terrified. Kilug gets off of his steed first and smiles.

Her sword goes up, ready to attack him as well. Seems she has a wild spirit. Her clothes are dirty and ripped in some places. Those places are from slices to her limbs. Bloody scratches seep through the fabric as she stares him down.

This must be the sister. Her hair is long down by her hips. She wears pants much like a soldier would. Her legs stand apart as she breathes in heavily. Her eyes are a dull blue as they stare into his own brown ones.

He approached her carefully, "Ivor?"

Her head tilts, "Your sister. She sent for us to come and find you."

Her head shakes as she holds her sword, "She works as a maid in the castle."

That makes her drop her sword slightly. Then she points to the house. Kilug motions for Ornis to check. They stare at one another as the knight heads in. He comes back out, "Her mother. She's sick but doesn't look injured."

"We'll grab your mother and take her back to the castle, okay?" Kilug watches as she goes to retort but when her mother starts a coughing fit she frowns. Ivor nods his way. She watches as they load her mother into the wagon. Ivor looks at the thing before pulling herself up.

Ornis takes hold of the reins as the king moves back to watch the two. Ivor holds her mother's hand. She's going to be fine, that he's sure of, "Did you know those people?"

The redhead looks his way and only shakes her head. Kilug nods and it goes silent the rest of the way back to the castle.

Her mother is automatically taken in by the medics as Ivor follows the king and his tall knight suspiciously into a large room. Kilug's mother looks over and then stands. 

The maid gasps, "Ivor!"

The redhead smiles for the first time as she runs toward her sister. The smaller one collides with Ivor as she wraps her arms around her frame. The maid sobs into her chest as her sister holds her there.

She pulls away, "Are you okay?"

Ivor nods. Her sister sighs, "You look terrible..."

Kilug approaches, "Go get some rest. I will have to ask you about what you knew of those men. I'll also send one of the guards to tell you news of your mother."

Ivor still stares at him as her sister smiles, "Thank you. Thank you so much. What could I ever do for you?"

The precious queen shakes her head, "Nonsense, my dear. Go rest."

Ivor holds her sister's arm as they walk out of the room. The redhead looks around as her sister speaks to her.

"Good job, my son."

Kilug smiles down as his moth, "Her sister is odd."

His mother raises an eyebrow, "Idi, the maid, mentioned she doesn't speak much. And tends to be the most standoffish of them both."

"I could tell. She raised her sword at me."

His mother, Amaria, chuckles. They both leave the room. Sometime later, Idi heads off to sit with her mother as the king calls for her sister. They have a small conversation before splitting ways.

Ivor looks much cleaner now as she comes into the main area. Kilug sits there waiting for her. He smiles when she enters, "Please come sit."

She looks at the chair before sitting in it. Her clothes seem new and there's no blood left so he assumes her wounds were also dressed.

"Ivor."

The woman looks up at him, a plain expression on her face. The orc smiles, "Do you remember anything about the raid?"

She says nothing for a moment before settling on a simple nod, "What do you remember?"

The woman makes a motion with her hands and points to her ears. She symbolizes a loud noise with her fingers extending, "Loud noise?"

Ivor nods then points to her mouth then makes another move to show screaming. The orc feels odd watching her act this out but he doesn't question it. But he can't help but wonder as to why.

Kilug nods, "Could you tell me what you heard or if you knew anyone's faces?"

She frowns before pointing to the quill on his desk. He frowns, "I'm afraid it's empty at the moment."

Ivor groans and crosses her arms in front of her, "Can you not speak to me?"

The woman flinches. The king watches her as she opens her mouth, "P- p- people do- don't like th- the way I- I talk."

Kilug sighs. She has a stutter. That must be why she doesn't talk. Her speech sounds lovely though considering.

"I don't see anything wrong with it," he tells her. She looks up at him and sighs. Then she starts the story.

The king leans back into the chair as he nods, "And that's what happened before?"

The woman nods, "Y- yes. Is th- that al- all you n- ne- need me f- for?"

"Unless it's for personal business, I will no longer need to ask you questions."

"P- personal b- b- business?"

Kilug smiles and shakes his head, "I just meant if we could talk."

Ivor looks at him and laughs, "Why?"

"Am I not allowed to want to speak with you?"

She sighs, "You c- can. B- but wh- why wo- wou- would you wa- want t- too?"

The king smiles her way, "It may surprise you but I rather enjoy your voice."

She states at him then laughs. He rolls his eyes, "I'm not kidding. Besides, I have time to talk to you as you'll be staying here for some time."

The redhead nods her head and offers him a hand, "I- I'm n- no e- eas- easy t- t- target."

Kilug smirks, "Doesn't that give me more of a challenge?"

Ivor opens her mouth to speak but closes it again. A small smile comes to her lips, "D- do- don't get y- your h- hopes up."

The king smiles, "I'm sure you'd humble me real quick if I did, my dear."

He watches as a small blush comes to her cheeks. She smirks and nods her head, knowing he to be true.

A week goes by. Their mother heals splendidly as Ivor acclimates to the castle life. Her time is spent in the library or in the training field. Her work as a warrior is worth talking about.

Every day, given the chance, Kilug will show up by her side. He watches her fight and looks at a distance as she reads.

One day, he moves into the library and notices her sitting by the window. He smiles as she tucks her hair behind her ear, "H- how m- m- many times wi- will you j- ju- just stand th- there?"

Kilug flinches but ends up chuckling. This time he approaches her, "You've noticed?"

The woman nods her head, "Ev- ev- every time."

A blush comes to his face and she chuckles. Her hand comes forward and pats his shoulder. She leans back and looks back to the pages before her, "You read a lot."

Ivor smiles, "I do."

"Why?"

The woman frowns. He tilts his head her way. She smiles at his ways, "I can- cannot spe- speak well."

"You sound lovely," he admits. The woman stutters, but not from speaking. She shakes her head, "I re- read be- be- better than I- I ta- talk."

He thinks for a moment and nods his head, "It makes you feel better?"

Ivor nods a little sheepishly. Kilug smiles and takes the book from her hands, "May I?"

The woman nods slowly, not sure what he's about to do. He looks at the page and starts from the top. Then he starts to read. It surprised her but soon she was leaning against the cushions and watching him. She studies his movements. Everything. It only makes her smile. At some point, she's not even listening. 

After the chapter, he turns towards her. He blushed from the look on her face, "Did I read okay?"

She nods. The woman moves towards him and brings him into a hug. He freezes for a moment before wrapping his arms around her, "Th- thank you."

Kilug smiles and squeezes her a little, "I'll do it for as long as you'll have me."

Ivor shakes her head, "Idiot."

"That I am."

After that interaction, Kilug doesn't shy away from walking up to her. For months they talk and become closer. Sometimes he even spars with her. It makes her happy and he could always use the practice.

Approaching the field, he notices she's not there. Frowning, he enters the castle. Ornis comes running up to him, "Kilug?"

"What?"

His friend seems frantic, "It's Ivor."

He runs alongside his friend as he takes him toward the medical ward. Idi stands outside the door with his mother. She sighs, "She's in there."

"What happened to her?"

Kilug's hands won't stop shaking as he speaks to them. They notice.

Idi let a few years fall down her face, "Some orc had asked to spar. She thought nothing of it. But he wasn't even playing fair! He almost chopped her arm off!"

Kilug turns to Ornis. He nods, "We have him already."

He says nothing more as he walks past his friends and into the room. The medics now at his presence, "She should be fine, your highness."

"What's wrong?"

"Her arm is in bad shape. The gash was so deep we're surprised it didn't fall off," the king grimaces, "But she's a tough one."

Another medic cuts in, "She may not have all the feeling back on the lower end of her left arm though."

They bow once more before leaving the room. With a shaky sigh, he moved towards the bed. Her hair lays on the white pillow. It's a stark contrast that makes him smile.

Sitting next to her wakes her. Ivor looks up at him through blurry eyes, "Kilug?"

"I'm here, my love. I'm here."

She barely registers the endearment as she sits up some. Then she hisses, her arm hurting, "Th- that fu- fu- fucking hurts."

He chuckles. At least she had her humor still. He pulls her to his chest, "Are you alright?"

"I'm a- alive."

Kilug sighs and pulls back. The man reaches into his trousers and pulls something out. It's a necklace. Small green beans are the main focus but a rin hangs in the middle, "Wh- what's th- th- this?"

"I won't lie to you, Ivor. These past three moons you've changed my life. I couldn't bear the fact that you were injured. I may kill that orc with my bare hands..."

The woman chuckles, "But that made me realize how I can't live without. You may say you hate your voice but I want to listen to it for the rest of my days."

He moves to kneel on the floor beside her. He takes her hands in his own, "Marry me. Be my queen."

Ivor notices how he says my instead of our. The woman feels tears in her eyes. They fall but she makes no sound for some time. Her good hand cradles his cheek in her palm, "I love you."

The orc smiles and crashes up against her to meet her lips. Her hand tangles I'm his hair. He pulls away, "I wou- would l- l- love to m- marry y- you."

Kilug smiles, a tear falling down his face, "My lovely bride."

The redhead laughs and kisses him over more just before he places the necklace over her head.

As she heals, he barely leaves her side. Rehab becomes something she has to do towards the end. Her arm is still attached and still works but she had to train it back to what it once was. She can't feel much of anything below the elbow, but it still can be used.

Moving around the library, someone comes up and picks Ivor off of the floor in a sudden burst of energy.

The woman yells, but a welcoming and rememberable smell hits her nose. She turns to look down at her king and smiles, "H- hello."

Kilug lets her down some and places a kiss on her lips, "Hello, darling."

She still blushes at the nicknames but it only makes her happier. Much like the rest of the family was to the news of the engagement.

Her fingers tangle into his hair and push it out of his face. He nips st her fingers making her pop his cheek, "Stop."

"You know I can't help it."

He sets her down and she smiles, "Now wh- why are yo- you here?"

He smiles and winks, "You're arm feeling better?"

"Yes?"

"Good enough to get married in an hour?"

Her mouth hangs open wide, "Hey, close that mouth of yours."

He pushes her bottom jaw up and smirks as she rolls her eyes, "R- r- really?"

He nods, "Just us, Idi, my mother, your mother, and Ornis."

Ivor only smiles, "I d- don't ha- have an- any- anything to- to we- wear."

"Coming as you is good enough for me."

The woman smiles up at the orc and nods, "I- I'll me- meet you in a- an hour."

The king smirks wide and kisses her again, "Good. I plan to enjoy you tonight."

He leaves her with those words. The woman almost drops the book in her hand. She looks at it. It's a romance. She laughs as she puts it back on the shelf.

Idi grabs her within minutes, refusing to let her go in without something nice. Her mother stands there and chuckles as the two bicker, "Now, dear sister, we both know Kilug is rather large so-"

Ivor makes a loud noise and shushes her sister, "Th- that's not im- im- important!"

Their mother rolls her eyes, "Idi."

Idi shrugs, "You're my sister. My tall and strong sister. But Kilug is two feet taller than you! Be careful."

Ivor grumbles as her sister winks at her. The wedding is simple. Neither of them wanted anything grand anyway. In the end, they all serve themselves food and ale. They all realized Ornis rather enjoyed it a little too much.

Kilug, being his friend, helped him to his room before heading back to his own. Ivor was already there, sitting at the vanity in the room. Her knees were up to her chest as she wrote something.

He enters the room. She smiles his way before turning back to the letter, "What are you writing?"

She blocks his vision, "Yo- you can see l- l- later. It's n- not d- do- done."

Kilug smiles and nods, "Of course, dear. Now come to bed."

She shakes her head but is soon picked up from the vanity and taken toward the bathroom. He, with her still in his arms, starts the flowing water from the river. The bath fills with water as he sets his wife on the sink.

Ivor frowns but smiles regardless. Kilug moves between her legs. The redhead kisses his nose with a small chuckle. He growls and kisses her lips in retaliation.

Their lips move against one another before he leaves to stop the water. The woman hops off the sink and starts to discard her clothing. The orc turns and is met with tanned skin. She shakes her head to ruffle her hair.

His eyes trail along her naked body in awe. She turns to him and notices his staring. Ivor frowns and points to his own clothes. He laughs and starts to discard his own.

Her eyes widen when his pants drop but she only smiles at him. He approached her and pulls her up. He settled into the tub with her in his lap. Ivor frowns and pushes his face away playfully.

Her thighs lay on his own. It's plushy, he notices. And soft to the touch. His hands land on her hips, somewhere he usually settled then but this time it's different.

Her hips are wide to accommodate her larger thighs. Her waist is straight from her work. Muscle lays in her abdomen and arms. Her breasts lay against his chest. They're bigger than he thought but she also liked to layer her clothing.

He lays on her chest. The woman sighs and drags her fingers through his hair. 

The two of them wash each other in the quiet. Then his wife settled back into his lap and kisses him softly. The notion makes the orc moan into the kiss. She smirks and he notices.

"I love you," she mutters.

"And I, you, my love."

Her hands fall down to his stomach as they kiss. One stays at his chest while the other reaches down to his cock.

He flinches and bucks his hips, "Hey...you don't need to do that."

Ivor rolls her eyes, "I- I wa- want to- too."

Her hand barely wraps around it. But the weird angle is worth it when he moans out. Her fingers drag along it, bringing him closer.

His head falls back and she kisses his jaw. He makes a small groaning noise before grabbing her hand, "Wa- was th- that not oh- okay?"

"No," he states, "I didn't want to cum like that."

Ivor smiles and kisses him once again. One hand of his holds her neck while the other moves down her chest. She gasps as he drags over her nipple but his trail doesn't end. His fingers turn oddly as he searched for her clit. 

Her body jolts when he finds it. The woman whimpers and pushes away some but he holds her there. His thumb makes small but precise circles. Her body then starts to move on its own, humping into his hand. Kilug smiles and kisses her forehead.

He keeps going and her moans only increase. Such beautiful sounds, he thinks. "K- kilug."

He nods and holds her in his arms, "Please," he begs, "Cum for me."

His thumb pushes harder and she yelps. It both hurt and felt so nice at the same time. Ivor falls slack against his chest. He runs her back as she catches her breath.

She shivers from the cold water, "P- pick me u- up?"

The man smiles and takes her with him as they wander back to the bed. He lays her down on top of the furs and smiles as she does.

Her hands reach out for him and he willingly falls into her embrace. One of her hands moves down and grabs his cock in her hand. He shivers, "Hey..."

Her hand pulls him towards her slightly and aligns it with her entrance. Kilug smiles, "Are you sure?"

"M- more than a- ah- anything."

The king smiles and moves his arms around. He helps align with her entrance and pushes in. The first initial thrust makes her back arch. He groans as her chest collides with his own. She already feels full.

He pushes forward more and a wanton moan comes from her lips, "Please."

The man smiles and kisses her softly, "You okay?"

"Yes. Pl- please."

"Please what?" He teases.

She groans aloud and slaps him playfully. It makes him shiver and twitch inside of her. The woman smirks and wraps her legs around his middle, "M- my love, pl- pl- please."

Kilug smiles and pushes into her. Soon enough his thigh is touching her backside. She whines and holds onto him. Her sister was right. Ivor lets out a small chuckle and kisses his lips.

"Want me to move?"

"Please."

He does. The first thrust tests the waters and she moans lightly. That's not enough. He pulls out and pounds forward. A loud moan exits her lips. He smirks and moves to her neck. He lays his neck in the crook of her shoulder as he pounds into her.

Her voice heightens as she mutters words. Small jumbles of words come out of her mouth. He does hear a few "I love you"s and "harder". The man smirks and takes her legs and pulls them over his shoulders.

Her back arches as she moans into his mouth. Her hands reach his back and hold onto him. He smiles as her nails drag painful lines down his back. He'd be proud to wear those for the rest of his life.

Ivor whimpers and holds onto him, "Love?"

"Hm?"

She grabs his head and keeps him close, "I- l- love yo- you s- s- so mu- much. You- you're the- the be- best th- th- thing t- to hap- happen to m- me."

It takes her a minute to get it all out, but it only makes tears form in his eyes. Kilug wraps one arm under her and keeps her to his chest. He kneels up, holding her upright in his arms. 

She moans and holds onto his face. They kiss with a fever as he bucks up into her. She grinds into him as they go. Her head falls back as she feels her climax approaching. His head falls forward and kisses along her collarbones, "I love you."

"I love y- you too," she whispers back.

One more thrust and a thumb to her clit has her screaming into thin air. She convulses a little as he thrusts into her, helping her high and reaching his. She can feel him cum. It's warm and it makes her smile. Her hands hold her body against his as they both breathe heavily.

Kilug falls forward slowly and lets her lay back on the covers. He rolls onto his side and watches her breathe. Her breasts move up and down with her movements.

Ivor turns to him and smiles. Her bad hand cradles his face and rubs small circles over his cheek with her thumb.

He kisses her hand before pulling her towards him. She lays on top of him completely as they bathe in the afterglow.

Her hand lays on his chest, drawing patterns, "Darling?"

"Hm?"

"Don't you want to clean up?"

Ivor shrugs, "W- wait. I wa- want to feel you."

He smiles and pulls her up to his face. The redhead smiles and kisses him, "A- are y- you pre- pre- prepared for- for the con- conse- consequences?"

It dawns on him and he chuckles. She joins in and shakes her head, "I am as long as you are."

Ivor smiles, "If it d- deals wit- with you, I- I don't m- m- mind."

The king smiles and pulls his queen down to lay beside her. Within the next year, however, two babies are born on a stormy night.

Then came Isiaha and Lynoi: the heirs to the throne. One temperamental princess and a powerful prince.

On that stormy night, the woman spoke a verse. Something they would share for years: "I love you."

The orc then repeated the same verse, yet only with a bigger smile and a baby in his arms: "And I love you, my dear."

[pbandjesse]

Overall today was a really good day. I am dealing with some mixed inner emotions and stress about money and budgets. But like. I am trying to be calm. I am trying to just feel good in my environment.

It was wildly warm for November. It got up to 78 degrees. I am worried about this. Both for regular climate change reasons but I am also convinced that this warm is going to lead to very bad cold. But regardless of my fears I enjoyed the nice weather.

I woke up very tired. But James was there and I was happy about that. My skin wasn't looking great to have pretty bad rashes in my armpits again. Which is frustrating because it has been better for a while now. But I felt good beyond that.

Me and James headed to the museum. We stopped for breakfast and I got overly upset when they filled my soda with so much ice and James didn't tell them that's not what I wanted. And I just kept repeating it. Like I wanted them to say they were sorry for not sticking up for me. But it was just an annoying thing to be upset about.

James would help me get set up though. And we would see that Tucky had a few pumpkins left. So I said I would like to get one of those. And we would. And a bunch of baked goods. Ginny even gave us a few free things like focaccia and cupcakes.

The nice Mexican ladies were there and they had a special thing. The husband bright his wood fire pizza oven!! Everyone was very excited. I would get a pizza before the end of the day. And it was excellent. Not a lot of sauce and exactly how I like it. I was thrilled.

And I really wasn't concerned with selling. I was very focused on my knitting. I did not have a great time with my first two rows of the day.

Because I brought the wrong yarn. I brought a different brand of black to do my first two rows of the month and it wouldn't stop snapping and breaking and it was horrible. I'm going to have to go in and sew it all because it will fall apart and I'm bummed. But once I finished this two the next 5 we're totally fine and a pleasure to do. My fingers hurt though and it was very time consuming. I would finish knitting around 11.

I had some excellent chats today. With Ann. With Stanley. With the regular market people. I did make two big sales and one small one. And hit my normal goal. So that felt good.

Dad asked me to call him and we would chat for a while. I felt really loved and supported hearing them (mom yelling in the background) be a united front. I really have the best parents. I am really lucky.

I would talk to them for a while. But eventually I had to go back to my table. I would pop inside to talk to James and let them warm up their lunch. And then back outside.

I would start working on my embroidery on my new puhtok sweatshirt. Stanley keeps saying I have so much patience. But like. I couldn't watch a football game without losing my mind. And he could watch that all day. I think that helped him understand.

And I really had a good time. The weather was beautiful. I sold a few things. I had great chats. I enjoyed my pizza. It was a good day.

I was excited to go though. Because I was going to hang out with Callie.

I had some time to clean up though. Put stuff away. I had to make two trips to the car because of my baked goods and pizza. And when I came back for my bag there was a card inside from Ann. She gave me a card telling me how much she appreciates me and gave me a $200 gift card. I could cry. I am so grateful that I've gotten to work with her and help support ehr while she got through her cancer treatments. I hope I can continue to help next year!

I went to say goodbye to James. And then I was off.

I met up with Callie at savers. There were two many people but I had a great time talking to her and we found some really awesome stuff.

I got a few gifts for people. And a few awesome pieces of clothing. I got a white shirt dress, a long black sweater dress with buttoned slits on the sides, and I got James a blue sweatshirt. I also got a belt with ducks in it . Callie got some great frames and decor items. A few sweaters. I found a few really neat quilts. I would chose one with stars in a dark color. It looks great on our couch. It was a lot of fun. Even when we got very started by a huge smashing of glass we could hear from the back where they sort things. It was like a pallet of glass items fell and it was very startling.

I was sticking well to my budget until Callie suggested we check out the books. Now I love books. But I almost never look at books anymore. Because I cannot control myself.

And this was very true today. I would end up with 9 books. A few are gifts. Three are Dear America books that Callie found for me. And I even got a book for puhtok reference and a book about how fiber arts and spiritually come together. It was such a fun haul.

I am actually looked at the sports books and found two about figure skating. But they were published before 1996. So I only found one reference, and no pictures, of Rudy but it was still cool to find it.

Me and Callie both spent about the same. And unloaded our stuff at our cars before returning the cart. And hugging goodbye. She had her mom's birthday dinner. And I was beat.

Driving home I felt very. Dazed. Very tired. I was awake enough but I was very excited to go home.

James pulled up right as I was rounding the corner. I was so thrilled to see them.

They ran upstairs to put their bike awake and then came back down to help me carry stuff up. I hid the Christmas presents I got and they carried the foods.

I was so happy to be home. I put things away. And James started the laundry. I would lay in bed for a long while. But I never slept.

Once the sun went down I went to the living room to knit for an hour. James made me a baked potato while they finished laundry stuff. And I would go back to bed.

Where I would stress myself out. I was filled with the need to get rid of stuff. So I would go in my studio and started working on that. I filled a trash bag with stuffed animals. And James helped me reorganize a few places around the room. We reordered the furbies and moved stuff around. I felt better but not great stuff. I went to hang up the later clip I got yesterday and the drill kept slipping and I got frustrated. But it would be fine in the end. It just was a lot on my head.

James said I seemed tired and upset. This is true. So they said they would finish what we were doing and I should go shower and rest.

So I did. Everything still smells metallic but I am glad to be in bed at least. I am ready to sleep.

I have the day off tomorrow. My plan is to make outfits and go through my clothes. Maybe I'll find more things to give away. Maybe I will just organize and clean. We will see what the day brings me.

I hope your day is good. I love you all. Sleep great. Be well!!

[dwellordream]

theon and walda frey: tacenda (n.) - things better left unsaid; matters to be passed over in silence ?

When Walda was a young girl, she once happened upon a skinny, scrawny, half-drowned cat that had recently escaped the torments of some cousins.

She doesn't remember which ones- the Twins had too many animals, on top of too many people, and that cats were breeding so rapidly that they were constantly being stuffed into sacks and flung into the river.

While she'd never been overly fond of cats before then- she'd always preferred squirmy, soft puppies who would lick her face and never hiss or claw- something tugged at her to see this poor creature clinging to life, so she took the ragged thing in, fed it from her own plate, made it in a little nest in her mother's knitting basket.

That went well enough for a few weeks, and the cat began to curl up beside Walda and purr while she embroidered or read poetry or indulged in tarts and cakes, but eventually it got rambunctious and underfoot, and her father kicked it so hard it died.

He felt sorry for it afterwards, her father- he was not a cruel man, you see, only... straight-forward minded and likely to rage when drunk, but no amount of sweets seemed to make up for her cat.

The Greyjoy is a bit like the cat, she thinks, in that she does feel sorry, she is not insensible, as Amerei accused her of being for seeming so eager to wed Lord Bolton.

"The man's entire line is cursed," Amerei told her breathlessly, "and who is to say he did not kill his last two wives after they displeased him? You are marrying some savage northman because he bought your weight in silver. You may never see any of us again. You should be frightened, Walda, not grinning like a fool!"

Walda did not say that the prospect of never seeing any of them again was perhaps not the crushing loss it should have been, but that's unfair. She misses her mother.

Sometimes she does miss Amerei, who, true, is a slattern who's shamed them all so many times it no longer bears wasting breath over, but Amerei has a good heart underneath it all, and as much as she and Walda bickered, they never loathed one another.

She does not miss her brother- how could she, when he is right here? She wants Little Walder no more near her babe than she does her stepson.

Theon Greyjoy, however, she does not mind letting him curl up in the corner of her solar. He seemed rigid with terror for much of the first hour, no doubt expecting one of Ramsay's boys to fling the doors open looking for him.

But while Walda has never considered herself brave, she is still a highborn lady and has her pride, and it will be a high summer's day before any bastard or common man at arms stalks into her private quarters without her express leave.

Of course, her express leave may not matter if anything were to happen to her dear husband, but she doesn't like to think of such things.

"Would you like some tea?" she asks Theon, who has finally unwound himself slightly from his huddled corner. He still sits hunched and silent, though, as near the fire as he can bear. His clothes are frayed and faded.

Walda purses her lips at his silence, and has half a mind to drag some yarn in front of him, see if that might provoke a response. The thought makes her laugh to herself, and he flinches as if she'd flung a curse at him.

"My lady, I should go," he finally rasps.

"I am not holding you here," says Walda. "Go if you will. I had only thought to get some halfway decent stories of the Iron Islands out of you. Long winter nights are the best for adventurous tales."

He gives her a look that might almost be exasperated, which, to be perfectly honest, is the most emotion besides fear that she's ever seen out of him.

"Those would not be fit for a lady's ears," he says, after a moment.

Walda gives a little shrug. "Well then go if you must."

But he does not leave, either, and his shoulders ease down some, after another long while.

[nat-20s]

for @jonmartinweek THE FINAL DAY prompt- Pining/Longing. This one takes place, well, you’ll see

~*~

A Study of Longing, Told in Six Parts

Part 1

Martin wonders if he’ll ever get to a point in his life where kindness doesn’t feel like a shock to the system. It’s already surprising enough when Tim and Sasha invite him for drinks in a genuine offer of friendship, but for that kindness to come from Jon? Martin has no idea what to do with being believed, let alone being protected.

And now here he is, blearily opening his eyes only to find himself staring at a mass of hair. As he sits up and rubs the sleep from his eyes, the shape resolves into the form of one Jonathan Sims. He had apparently fallen asleep with his head cushioned on his arms, against the cot Martin was currently occupying. It’s not an image that Martin can fully process at the moment, so instead he debates whether or not to wake Jon up or quietly get off the cot to let him get some much needed sleep. He decides on the former, both thinking that it would be hell on his back to keep sleeping in that position, and that he would like an explanation.

Hand hovering above Jon’s shoulder, but not fully touching, Martin oh so quietly calls out, “Jon?”

That’s all it takes for Jon’s head to rush up with a gasp, glasses askew, and with the texture of his sleeves pressed in red marks on his face. It is a horribly endearing look. “Hrn?”

Martin opens his mouths, closes it, and waits for Jon to get his bearings. Jon smooths down his (frankly ridiculous) sweater-vest, adjusts his glasses, and slips back on his professional demeanor. “My apologies, Martin, I, ah, must have fallen asleep.”

Glancing to the crappy little digital clock resting on a file box next to him, Martin rolls his eyes. Only Jon could be quite so stuffy at 4:32 in the morning. “No apologies needed. Though, um, was there? Something you needed or..?”

Jon shakes his head and stands up, dusting off imaginary grime. “No, no, nothing like that. I had just, er. I had heard you cry out and I- I wanted to make sure nothing was going on. It appears that it simply a nightmare,so I will be.. taking my leave. Now.”

He doesn’t know what part of himself replies, “Oh! You don’t have to go!,” but he replies it anyway. Jon does that little thoughtful frown at him, which forces him to continue, “I mean, if you wanted the cot. For sleeping. I’ll probably be awake for the rest of the night, so, you know, no skin off my back .”

“Ah. No, that’s quite alright, Martin. Try to get some more sleep, there’s still a long work day ahead.”

Jon doesn’t even wait for a response before turning on his heel and leaving. Martin sort of hates how much he wanted him to stay.

Part 2

Jon is laughing. Jon is terrified, all the damn time, and yet, somehow, he’s laughing. Honestly, he was starting to wonder if he was still capable of it. Martin is gesticulating wildly with his fork, animated in a way that Jon’s only ever seen when in they’re in the middle of a rather silly debate. He thinks this lunch’s topic was something like whether or not snakes were cute? He lost the thread of conversation about half an hour ago, honestly. Covering his mouth, he lets the giggles run through his whole body, shaking his shoulders and heating his core. He feels light, heady, like he’s reminiscing with an old friend and they’re both on the edge of having had too much to drink.

He only wishes he could trust this feeling. He wishes that he could trust Martin, that they were normal coworkers having a normal lunch, that the previous person in Jon’s position had gone into an easy retirement instead of being violently murdered. He wishes he hadn’t read that letter telling him, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that Martin, Martin, who took him to lunch and brought him tea and seemed so very warm in so very cold circumstances, was lying to him.

Jon stops laughing.

Part 3

Of course, the second his body hits the simultaneously stiff and weirdly lumpy motel mattress, his phone goes off. It may only be about 8 pm, but he’s tired, and he’s sore, and he’s had a persistent headcold for the past week for some unholy reason, the last thing he wants to do is talk. However, only about four people have the number to the burner cell, and they’re almost certainly have a purpose behind their call.

Closing his eyes and letting out a sigh that turns into more of a groan, he picks up on the 4th ring. “Hello?”

“Hey, Jon! It’s Martin, I’m not sure if you have my number programmed in that phone, or if it even has caller ID if you do. Anyway, it’s been about a week since I’ve heard anything, and I wanted to make sure you weren’t, y’know, dead or arrested or anything.”

His previously tense and aching muscles all relax, without him consciously deciding to relax them, and a sleepy smile spreads across his face, because some time in the past year he’s become a parody of himself. Yes, maybe he should be more affronted by how much Martin’s tinny voice brings him comfort, but he’s had a rather terrible time of things since...since he began work in the archives, really, and he’s worn down enough that he can admit he misses his friend.

Huh. Friends. They are, aren’t they? Wonder when that happened. (He can guess, something involving a fake CV admission, but he doesn’t feel like it right now.) “Martin, I recognize your voice, no need to introduce yourself.”

“Right! Yes, uh, ‘course..of course you can. Right. Sooo...I take it you’re not dead, then.”

“Correct. I haven’t been arrested, either.” It’s only sort of a comforting lie, so Jon thinks it can be forgiven.

“Good. Great! Yeah, that’s...that’s good.”

The conversation could probably end there. Jon could probably tell Martin good night, and they’d hang up, and Jon could get the sleep he had been so desperately craving not moments ago. Somehow, he thinks that neither of them want that. Scrambling for something to talk about, Jon replies, “Hang on, isn’t it something like 2am over there?”

“It...might be.”

“Martin!”

“What! It’s not like you have a monopoly on bad sleeping habits. Besides, I was up anyway, and I just..”

“Just what?”

“I just missed your voice.”

Oh. Heat rushes to his cheeks, and tears start to prick at the corners of his eyes, and god. He had missed Martin’s voice too. “Really? I know you’ve had to listen to a fair number of tapes lately, thought you might be sick of it by now.”

“No. I mean, I am a bit tired of tapes, honestly, but even the ones that you recorded, that not really your voice, is it? I mean it is, but it doesn’t sound like you when you’re actually, um, you. I wanted..I wanted to hear you.”

Jon’s far too worn out to deal with that sentiment, and the way that it makes his heart clench. So instead  of addressing it, he says, “I am very close to being asleep.”

“Oh. Right, sorry, I’ll let you go-”

“No! No. Um. Would you mind staying on the line? Until I’m gone? I-I like hearing your voice. As well.”

“Oh! Sure, yeah, definitely. Anything in particular you want me to talk about?”

“Whatever you like. Something nice?”

“All right. I can do that. Um. Did I tell you about this little yarn shop I found the other day. It’s called ‘Puttin’ on the knitz’, and it’s…”

Jon peacefully drifts off, listening to the voice of the man who he can only admit in moments such as these, he wishes was in this bed, laying beside him.

Part 4

please come back please come back for the love of god come back I can’t believe you’re doing this do you have any idea how stupid this is come back to me come back come back come back

Part 5

There is plenty of things to long for in the apocalypse. A decent cuppa. The relief of actual sleep. Murdering Jonah Magnus. For there not to be a apocalypse. They are grateful, however, to not have to long for each other.

Part 6

Martin comes to without a knife in his hand, or bloodstains on his clothing. Those, under other circumstances, would be good things.

Martin comes to, laying in the grass, without anyone beside him. He barely has the moment to feel agony spike through him before he’s out once more.

There are no Jonathan Sims admitted to the hospital. As far as he can tell, no one was admitted into the hospital at the same time as him, and certainly no one with a stab wound.

There are thousands of ‘Jonathan Sims UK’, typed desperately into a library computer search bar, wielding mostly results about a sport manager and a romance novelist. None of the images are of the right person.

Sometimes Martin puts one foot in front of the other, carefully blank in heart and head. Surviving, even  during times that he’s not sure he wants to, is one of his greatest abilities.

Sometimes Martin despairs.

On the worst nights, he tries to call the Lonely back to him, tries to be swallowed whole. It never works. He’s not sure if it’s because the fears aren’t in the reality or if they’re not established enough to have any leverage or if his connection has simply been broken. (He doubts the last reason. He hasn’t been this alone since Tim’s funeral. Even then, Melanie had thrown a few stilted condolences towards him. No one is aware enough of him to give condolences now. He misses Melanie. He misses all of them. He misses Jon like a gaping, bleeding wound misses skin.)

Seven months later, and he has enough money saved and identity built that he moves on to Scotland. The little village they had been adjacent to exists in this reality. Daisy’s cottage does not.

On a whim, he enters the yarn shop. He’s not going to pick anything up, hobbies are the last thing he can focus on, but it’s nice to look. To feel the various textures, to take in the rich variance of colors, to, hopefully be present in his own body, if only for a moment.

Martin steps in. The bell chimes. He’s there. Standing in front of him. Whole. In a cry that’s closer to a gasp, he calls out, “JON!”

Jon turns, looks up at him, recognizes him even before he’s even fully seen him. It’s his Jon, he’s here he’s here he’s here. The callback of “MARTIN!” sounds like it was punched out of him, the start of a sob and a laugh all at once.

In a blink, they’re together, their embrace a tangle of limbs, a collision of lips, a mixture of tears. Martin can’t tell which of them is saying the litany of “thank god thank god thank god” and who’s repeating “it’s you it’s you it’s you.”

It’s Jon that’s telling him, “I knew you had to be here. I knew it, because I kept thinking. Surely. Surely this new universe wouldn’t be so cruel as to allow me to live, but to make me live without you.”

It’s Martin that replies, “I didn’t know. I thought it would be that cruel. Please don’t make me go through that again.”

Jon pulls him in tighter, eliminating the centimeter of space between them. Speaking into Martin’s neck, whispered in fierce devotion, Jon promises, “Never again. Never again. You and me. Together. For the rest of our lives.”

Barely discernible through his sobbing, Martin tells him, “I love you.”

“I love you too.”

~*~

There are people that think that wanting is more worthwhile than having. Martin thinks, frankly, that those people have never been in love.

[secondhand-trash]

Heart Knot

A/N: this is in honor of the whole 30 minutes in which I knew how to knit because I was bored at a school function and forced my friend who brought an unfinished scarf with her to teach me lmao

Description: You did not have much happy memories regarding both knitting and your past crushes, but the boy that had your heart now just so happened to be a great knitter. 

Pairing: Kita Shinsuke x reader

Word count: 7827

Playlist:

Permanence//Bears In Trees

The Way You Look Tonight//Frank Sinatra

Hiding Tonight//Alex Turner

-

Kita Shinsuke’s first exposure to the art of knitting was through his grandmother, who taught her grandson the ways you could weave anything into something from doing each repetitive action properly and with care.

Something beautiful, something soft, something that could bring warmth to someone else on a harsh winter morning.

Winter in Hyogo could be rough, with inches and inches of snow blocking the road from down the mountains and into the towns. Kita Shinsuke spent his winter days away from school still waking up at the first ray of sunshine beaming through the paper window, his body glued down on the sweet comfort of his futon but still, he never overslept even as other kids his age would protest just for a few extra seconds in the warmth. 

By the time he was done with the daily chores, it would already be way into the afternoon and his tiny hands, soaked in water to wet the towels, would be shaking under the cold. Grandma Yumie always brought out the kotatsu in times like this. “It is a luxury,” she said with a chuckle as her grandson watched in awe at how the tiny round table in the living room had now been transformed into a warm cave, shielding the winter cold out with the blanket draping down the sides, “a reward for those who worked hard in the cold.”

The days he spent with his grandmother was some of his fondest memories, to the point where years later, even as he was old enough to have his own house with paper windows and a round table perfect for being turned into a kotatsu, he still insisted that there weren’t any feeling better than laying under the warm blankets after a hard day at work with the tv playing and a cup of warm tea in his hand.

When he was small, very small, with his fingers still a bit clumsy and not quite able to aim at the little loops held together by the yarn, Kita would sit there and watched as grandma Yumie brought out the baskets and baskets of colourful yarn, all sorts of sizes and patterns, and let him pick which one she should use that day. The afternoon news was playing in the background, and baby Kita had his palms holding on the warm mug of tea that was far more diluted and with way more honey drizzled into it than the one sitting in front of the older woman. His golden eyes all round and focused on the needles going in and out of the woolen piece that grew longer and longer with each flick of her wrist.

He could not figure out what had happened in the quiet hours where he just stared, not yet worked out the way each loop and thread came together in holding everything together, but all he knew was that the scarfs grandma gave him were always the softest and warmest, and comes in all the colours that lighted up the roads of Hyogo that were covered in white.

Kita learnt how to knit when he was old enough to remember the sequence at which the needle thread through the yarn. One hook under the open loop, the other holding it still, before pulling it out and putting the neat knot in place. He started with the thickest needle and the yarn that showed every knot and pattern clearly, before slowly moving to thinner threads and fancier ways of knitting. Now, winter afternoon at the Kita household consisted of grandmother and grandson sitting side by side around the kotatsu, the afternoon programs playing softly at the background as the sounds of yarns brushing against each thread filled the air.

There had never been a single cast out of place in whatever he made, whether it be a scarf or a pair of socks or a little hat for the puppy next doors. Because knitting was about patience, the knowing that you just had to keep repeating and repeating to make sure everything holds together, until you eventually had something good in your hands. It was feeling the tiny bumps under your finger once you had the finished product laid out in front of you, knowing that you put time and care into every single one of them.

Grandma Yumie complimented her grandson on everything he had ever made, smiling until her eyes were just two thin curves as she watched the boy who wasn’t so tiny anymore with his golden eyes fixed on the needle going in and out of each loop, the knitted fabric growing longer with each flick of his wrist.

-

You could not knit to save a life.

But you had tried, you really did. 

Once, when you were 12 and sitting in art class, your eyes beaming at the many balls of yarn your teacher had brought in.

“Today, we’re going to learn how to knit!” The teacher, with pins all over her apron and a book of stickers for the kids who did well poking out of its pocket, said as she placed the plastic box on the table, “By the end of class, you can all bring home something you made to give to your parents!”

You liked art class. It was fun being able to play around with crafts supplies under the disguise of early creativity development, and the things you brought home were always somewhere around the house.

You liked the way you could walk past something you had made and know that it was good enough to be put up, and liked the feeling of showing people the things you were proud of.

You picked out your colours carefully, imaging the way your father would have fitted a dark brown scarf into his work clothes or how mom could have used something in that lovely cream coloured yarn that was ignored by the other kids who went straight for the blues and yellows. You ended up with balls of grey in your arms as you made way back to your seat, thinking that it would go well with, well, everything.

You did not quite remember how you felt about the knitting process itself, all you knew was the excitement budding up in your chest as you just kept repeating and repeating, until the grey bundle of yarn got smaller and smaller.

You knew you could make something they would like, you just knew it.

The outcome of the hour and a half where you did nothing but fidget with yarn and needle was a subtly misformed scarf, a bit crooked at the edges because you forgot how to tie up the piece by the time it was long enough to be thrown around your shoulders and back. It wasn’t exactly the most intricate piece of knitwear, with small ends of the thick thread clumsily tugged back within the grids and some places missing a loop or two. 

But still, it held together nicely with the softest texture, and you were proud of yourself.

Your parents took the gift graciously when you presented it to them like you were handing them something of the uttermost value, complimenting you on your hard work and thought as they felt the piece in their hand. You made your father promised to wear it out the next day and he complied with a grin as he threw the scarf around his neck.

Now that you looked back on it, it was definitely not something a proper adult would prefer to be seen in in the public since it was rather... wonky, to put it lightly.

But you were small, and you did not have any idea that even though you tried what you thought was your best, sometimes your best was just not enough.

Oh, the way you froze when your father handed the pile of loose yarn to you that was all bundled up with a worried stare, your throat tight while you used all the might in you to suppress the urge to let the tears just fall.

You soon learned that loose ends and hasty stitches meant that even the slightest tug would make the whole thing crumble, and hours of your dedication was not a match to even the most accidental pull at the widened hole where you tried to hide all the mistakes you made.

You told yourself you were never knitting ever again at age 11, with your face buried in your pillow at the late nights when you didn’t have to fear letting anyone know that you were crying over a few balls of yarn.

At age 15, you had your first real, serious crush, the kind that made the pitch of your voice go higher unconsciously and the corner of your lips tug up just at a passing thought. Your crush was popular, the type of boys that spoke each word loud and clear like they had endless energy. You thought he was dazzlingly good-looking, even though he still had a bit of the awkwardness of being mid-puberty left in the soft arc of his brows and loop-sided grin. He was the captain of the football team, always the first to dash out the classroom with a dusty ball in his arms during break. You spent a good amount of your recesses just looking out of the window with your elbows propping you up against the frame, pretending to listen to whatever your friends were saying when you were looking at him instead.

Occasionally, he would look up from the field as he jogged backwards, and your heart always skipped a bit at the possibility that maybe his gaze had stopped at you for even just a second.

Holiday season rolled around the corner as you looked out one morning to see dots of white landing on the glass, each speckle of the snowflake clearly visible as it plastered on the window, the one you always pretend to not be looking too longingly out of while doing exactly just that. The nearer your last day of school before winter break was, the more you felt the knot twisting and turning in your stomach at the thought of whether you should try and disguise all that feeling into what could be as simple as a normal holiday greeting, between normal classmates.

It was at a passing that you overheard your crush telling the group of people who were crowding around his table during one lunch break that he thought it was attractive when people hand out handmade gifts, earning a round of high-pitched responses from those who were smiling a bit too widely for it to be natural around him, each one of them claiming that then they would try to make something for him.

You shifted in your seat, pretending that you were just napping on your desk casually instead of pitifully eavesdropping on a conversation you both wished you were part of and was absolutely detested by.

You had long decided that you could not even pretend that you were crafty by any means, but sadly, you were also young and very much so head-over-heels in love with a boy who just announced to everyone who was, like you, trying hard to impress him that he basically preferred people who make their own presents.

So that was how you found your way back to the knitting needle that you had not touched since 4 years ago, after how every single trashy article in every single teen magazine that you, at age 15, read an unhealthy amount of, told you that there was no better present to give that would portray the amount of thought and care you were willing to put into something like a garment that was hand knitted with only the receiver in thought.

It should be quite clear that the editors of those articles were just too lazy to come up with something new and picked the safest, most conventional option to put in there, but you were too desperate to find something you too could do that you didn’t care.

You left school each day in complete darkness now that the sun was long gone in the middle of the day as the end of the year approached, and spent the little free time you had to yourself at home struggling to knit. Your hands were a lot more in control compared to the last time you knitted, but the lack of guidance in every step of the way as you relearnt how to knit all from the very beginning.

It was cold, and your fingers were already hurting from the chill, but it did not stop you from staying up each night trying to get the piece done before it was finally the holidays.

You had spent hours looking for tutorials only, always battling between the knowledge that your skill was not enough to replicate a good half of the videos you had bookmarked and thinking that the easy ones were too basic for you to gift to someone. You settled on a neck warmer, something you could imagine the boy you so pined after wearing while running on the court. And as you held the finished piece up under the light, you were proud of yourself for actually carrying through.

There were no messy threads in the scarf this time, and you were sure this was something that could at least be of use to whoever got it.

The day when you were supposed to gather the courage to hand out the present came sooner than you were ready for. You came back to school early that day, knowing that your crush was usually having morning practice at the hour and no one else would be around. 

To your surprise, there was already another neatly wrapped box inside of his desk drawer by the time you got back. Its tag was hanging out of the tray rather deliberately, like a sly wink and a wave. Your chest tightened that someone was already one step ahead of you, but quickly fed yourself the narrative that it was actually better this way. This way, your gift would not stand out and seemed like it did not belong there. 

It was just a scarf, but the little paper bag that you spent an embarrassingly long amount of time decorating the night before felt so heavy in your hands as you stared blankly at it, the nerves settling in your stomach as your throat tightened at the last minute conflict.

The loud footsteps that neared broke you out of your trance, and you threw the gift bag into your drawer before pretending like you were doing something else. You cursed inwardly when you saw that it was the last person you wished to see at this moment, a rare sentiment given how your eyes usually search for him in a crowd.

The group of boys didn’t seem to pay you much mind as they huffed, laughing at something you did not catch on to as they threw their bags down. You masked the pounding of your chest with a violent stroke of your highlighter against the notebook that opened up hastily in front of you when you heard them going near the table you had been eyeing all morning.

“Huh? What is this?” 

You buried your nose in your book, but glanced at the few boys gathering around the desk from the corner of your eyes. 

Your heart wrenched when you heard one of the boys snorted, before shoving the box into your crush’s chest. “It’s for you.”

The sharp tear made your scalp tingle, but you fought back the urge to sit up straighter in reflex.

Couldn’t let them know you were listening, couldn’t let them know you cared.

“Ah... it’s a scarf,” even in your most delusional mind, there was no way you could ignore the slight hint of annoyance at his voice. 

“Hm, they said they made it themselves.”

The density of the air around you was a stark comparison to the boys’ howling and laughing that followed. The recipient of the gift only shoved the garment into the box roughly before plopping the lid back on.

“So?” one of his friends asked, snickering, “what are you going to do about it?”

The click of his tongue that followed twisted around your throat until all the blood rushed up to your face, burning and suffocating you. “Do you want it?”

“Hell no, why would I want a re-gift?” The other boy yelled with a holler, “why don’t you just keep it yourself  

“Well, I can’t wear it, can I? It’s gonna give them the wrong idea.” The nonchalant way he so easily brushed off the undoubted hours and hours of effort whoever made the gift must have dedicated to the present that was now pushed to the very back of his drawer felt foreign to you. A pang of bitterness welled up in your mouth, running your tongue dry as your mind go blank. 

“Besides, don’t you think getting something handknitted from someone you aren’t with is a bit too suffocating?”

The gift bag in your drawer remained to stay right where it was when other people started rushing into the room, when the class bell rang, when the same boy who you now realised wasn’t as nice as you thought he might be rushed out with the same smile he had on when he came in that morning. 

You shoved it into your bag first thing when you were getting ready to leave, hoping that no one would catch on.

You were surprisingly serene when you tore into hours and hours of effort until it was just a bundle of yarn on the floor.

You were age 15, swearing that you were never doing crushes ever again and finally decided with determination that knitting was just not for you

-

But life has its ways of making you think twice about every promise you had made to yourself.

First in the form of a snowfall you had not expected, and then with a boy who was always prepared for the cold.

Waking up early in the mornings just to tread yourself through the chilly streets sucked, but having to rush out because the initial “5 minutes more” you told yourself as you pulled the futon over your head once more turned into you having to rush out the door with your coat barely even worn properly in the matter of a flutter of your eyes. 

Your mouth was dry and your stomach empty from skipping past the breakfast that had already gone cold on the table by the time you passed it by. It wasn’t until you felt the pain tearing at your skin from the few bits of your body exposed to the specks of snow flowing down onto the back of your hand, so cold that it felt almost like a burn when the feeling settled, that you remembered the mittens you had also left at the side of your dresser. 

Great, just wonderful.

Winter in Hyogo was forgiving on some days, brutal and mocking on the others. The grey clouds were thick and gloomy as you dashed down the road, pulling the collar of your jacket up desperately to shield your face from the wind that you were up against face first, slicing down like blades before you finally made the last turn into the comforting walls of your school building. Your face felt numb of any senses even as you brought your palm up to try and give it some warmth, only to hiss into your hand when the frosted tips of your fingers brushed against your skin.

The bell rang almost right on cue as you stepped into the classroom, letting out a sigh and salvaging in the temporary supply of warmth from your own breath. Your lips were so dry and so chapped from the cold, even just darting your tongue out to swipe over the rough edges had it almost tearing at the thin skin. You winced at the pain, which did not serve you anything other than making the ache worse.

You sighed as you sunk down on your chair, finally able to let your limbs go slack at your sides after being so tense all the way through your walk. The sudden release of the tension you had been holding on you resulted in a broken inhale as you tried to calm the beating dee under the many layers you were wearing, feeling as if you were suffocated in your core with the heat trapped in and only within the center of your body.

“Are you alright?”

Turning to your side was a struggle as you shrugged off the stiff coat you were wearing. You were sure you looked nothing short of ridiculous as the puffer jacket hung loosely around your arms, your arms extended awkwardly to hold it from sliding off the ground. Your state of being was a stark contrast to the boy who was sitting next to you, his back all straight and proper. 

You did not really think much about Kita Shinsuke, even though he had been sitting next to you for almost half a year now. There was something distant about him, like he was in a whole world of his own while everyone else just circulated around. He was always polite, never slipped up, getting back earlier than most and arrived at each function punctually. Your image of him was that he was always paying attention in class while everyone else was drooling off, his voice loud but calm when he was suddenly called to read out whatever passage you were supposed to have read at home but obviously didn’t.

It was strange, you were almost distancing yourself from him despite physically being next to him at all times.

He just didn’t seem so real, didn’t feel very human to you.

“Are you alright?” Kita asked again, this time tilting his head a little seeing that you were looking ahead blankly instead of responding.

You snapped out of your trance, quickly yanking off your jacket to place it on your lap in what you hoped was a swift motion to save the embarrassment of acting like a socially numb idiot.

“Oh, I’m fine,” you smiled, shoving your hands under your coat to try and warm up the fingers you still couldn’t feel under the fleece, “thank you for asking.” You added, almost like a second thought as you grew more and more uneased by his seemingly doubtful gaze.

Kita’s eyes went to your hair that was still not yet tidied up from being tangled up by the wind, the dots of water on your coat that was no doubt left from the snow, and your hands that were now rubbing together again and again under the coat according to his guess.

His brows furrowed at the way you were folding yourself smaller and smaller, pulling the heavy jacket that was about to slip off your lap up against your body desperately.

There was a rush of shiver to your spine at the way he pursed his lips together, and you gulped as subtly as you could while trying to maintain the smile on your face. 

There was a speckle, a tiny bud of warmth setting off in your stomach when he turned around and slipped his hands into his jacket, hung neatly at the back of his chair unlike yours, and took out a small packet. It was a white fabric pocket but you could see the black powder inside from the thin fabric. 

You did not react when he held his hand out, slender fingers holding on the hand warmer mid-air as he waited for you to take it from him. You blinked at the boy who you had never really looked at properly until now, and felt a strange twist in your stomach at the notice that there was a slight flush on his face from the cold, dusting over his cheeks and leading your gaze to his eyes that were looking at you patiently.

He must have thought that you were so strange, you grimaced to yourself when the pang of guilt rushed to your face and burning to the tip of your ears at the remembrance that you had assumed him to be the strange one when you were being so disrespectful right now.

You held out both hands in front of him, looking like a child when he dropped the little bag in your hand. Nothing could stop the sigh from slipping out of your lips when you felt the heat it was emitting, landing on your fingertips like coal in the snow and seeping into your skin.

The warmth travelled from your skin down to your veins, running slowly and slowly until it settled down as a fuzzy tingle in your chest at the thought that it was so warm because he had been the one keeping it in his pocket, likely trapping the heat within his palms when he was holding the warmer himself.

“Thank you Kita kun...” you said appreciatively, swallowing the whine that was threatening to come out with the last note of your voice when you felt your senses slowly returning to you.

“You’re welcome,” he replied, and your heart skipped a beat when he leaned his chin on his palm and gave you a tiny smile, “you should keep it, my hands don’t get cold that easily and I brought mittens.”

You did not speak to him again that day as class started and he, like the good student you never were, put his attention back to things that were more worthwhile. But you could not help but listen carefully for the first time ever when he was once again called to read out the lengthy piece of literature you didn’t study, and feeling a burst of exciting, nerve-wracking warmth budding in your chest.

-

At age 15, you promised yourself you were not doing crushes over dumb teenage boys again. At age 17, you realised that the pang in your chest when Kita Shinsuke replied to your greeting each morning (one that you tried hard to make it sound as casual as one could get, if you may add) with a smile was the same as that when you imagined your old crushed looking up from the ball court to lock gazes with you. 

But Kita was not a dumb teenage boy, he was nice and well-mannered and asked you if you were alright on a winter day. So you told yourself you did not exactly break your promise, even though there was a lingering fear at the knowing that there too was a time when you thought the boy who sneered at the carefully wrapped box on his desk was nice and beaming like the sun.

(You had, however, screamed into your pillow in frustration the day he told you they made him the captain of the volleyball team for the next year when you carefully suggested that he seemed happier than usual. “Captains,” you groaned into your make-shift punching bag, “why are they always captains?”)

Winter passed, and then it was spring. Spring was the time for a new start, but you were not excited about changes. You had been content with a simple “good morning” every day made possible by the convenience of your adjacent tables, but how were you supposed to conceal your yearning for a smile and a nonchalant word of care as nothing out of place if you had to go out your way just to even catch a glimpse at him?　

You had to force yourself, clamp your lips tight together to stop the pitiful squeal that was close to bursting out from the back of your throat when you saw the familiar kanji, the same one as the direction always pointing people forward and the brightest star hanging on the sky, at the “ki” column of the class list. 

Your third and last year and still in the same class, this was a sign, this had got to be a sign.

The anticipation was hard to conceal as you paced down the hallway until stopping at the sign of “3-7″ above the door. The embarrassment immediately followed the initial rush of glee at the boy who was, as expected already there. He was sitting at the first seat at the row leaning by the wall and even though your heart died a little at the conflict that you could not slack in class with the whoever it was standing in front of the blackboard so close to you, you still walked closer to the table right behind his with carefully controlled steps.

“Good morning Kita kun,” you said, still fumbling to find a balanced tone between letting him know you were happy to see him but not too much, glad that you were in the same class but not in a creepy way, hoping that he also searched for your name the way you looked for his but not holding out too much for it.

your throat tightened when he smiled back at you, “Good morning, (y/l/n) san.”

“You are early,” you blurted out, praying that it wasn’t too sudden.

“Yes, I had to stop by the club room to prepare for the upcoming tryouts before coming back.” He had turned around to face you completely, and you searched for everything your brain could come up with to keep the conversation going.

“Oh right, you are the captain now,” you cursed yourself for stating something so obvious in your brain, absolutely loathing air-headed your own voice sounded in your head. You breathed in, mastering your courage to appear confident and charming, “I hope it’s alright if I sit here behind you?”

You were smiling, but your knuckles were hurting from how hard you had to grip at the handle of your bag just to hold yourself back from fidgeting. The chair was already half pulled-out, and you crouched down just slightly as you waited for a response.

You knew you were the one who asked, but what if he said no?

But he didn’t, and not even the fear of appearing like a fool in front of the boy you so wanted to impress could stop you from grinning ear to ear when he laughed. You didn’t think you had heard Kita laugh before. It was an addicting sound, crisp like bells and like the pink petals that were falling off the trees all around campus. 

You knew at that moment you didn’t care if this crush was just as dumb as the last one, or that you might end up looking like a fool for going against what you had so sternly told yourself when you were 15.

Screw 15 year old you, they knew nothing.

“Of course.”

-

Then winter rolled by the corner, as an angry current sweeping the dried leaves off the road and the temperature dropping and dropping until you were taking out your heavy coat from the back of your closet again.

It was with great regret and exasperation that you found out, one year after starting to learn more about Kita Shinsuke, that he was brilliant and absolutely so passionate about knitting.

The way you had a whole storm brewing in your head over something as simple as getting back to your classroom after lunch break to see a very calm, serene Kita at his table, with a ball of yarn on his lap and two needles threading with each other in his hand, was an absolute joke. You had tried to form an interest in volleyball just to have more chances to talk to him, going as far as to sit through the hour long practices matches that Inarizaki always had with other schools at the far back corner of the gym just to have something to bring up in a passing the next day. But of all the things, of all the things this person who seemed to be good at everything liked, it has got to be the one thing that you associated with nothing but bad memories.

“What are you making?” you asked, holding back the screaming thoughts in your head as you slid down into your own seat and leaned forward.

The little glimmer of joy in his eyes was hard to miss, and you were not sure if you want to feel triumphant for finding a new excuse to talk to him or cry because you had not looked at a knitting needle in years.

“I’m knitting socks,” he said and held up the tunnel of knitted fabric dangling off his needles, “it’s almost Christmas, and I wanted to make something practical for my teammates.” 

“Hm?” You nodded, urging him to go on as if your own scalp was not frying from the recoil of what happened the last few times you wanted to make something practical for someone.

“This is for Akagi from class 6,” he immediately added, thinking about how you might not know who Akagi from class 6 was, “he had been complaining about having cold feet at morning practices lately.”

(You did, in fact, know who Akagi from class 6 was, but decided to let him give you the information instead of exposing how much attention you paid to the Inarizaki Volleyball Club.)

Man, you had never wished you knew how to knit as much you do now.

“Can you teach me how to knit?”

Oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck-

You froze at the words that went straight through your brain to your mouth and vocalised in the quiet classroom. 

“There’s something I want to make,” you gulped, stumbling to force a smile onto your face, “for someone.”

Someone as in, well, him.

You had already braced yourself to chuckle it off when he said that he was busy, or just some sort of well-intended reasoning that would all point to the immediate  conclusion in your head that you were just overstepping boundaries as no one but another classmate who just happened to sit near him for the past year.

But the screaming in your head stopped, leaving your world in absolute silence when he placed the ball of yarn onto his table and pulled another ball out from his bag.

“Sure.”

-

You did not notice, which was strange because you were usually the first to overthink on each of his miniatures, that Kita Shinsuke nearly dropped the needles in his hand when you quickly, in the middle of your inner panicking, suggested that there was someone you wanted to knit for.

He wavered for a brief moment, wondering if he really wanted to teach you how to knit for someone else, before feeling a sour guilt that he was being a bad friend by hesitating to help you when you asked.

He wondered who it was that you wanted to make something for, he thought to himself as he handed you the spare pair of needles he had.

Must be someone important to you.

-

So every day until you eventually go on break for Christmas and the new years, you would go back to your classroom early during lunch period to learn how to knit from Kita Shinsuke, who was coincidentally who the eventually finished piece that you hope you would finish was meant for.

You went into this with no thought other than to suck up on your own impulsiveness and just milked what had become of it as much as you could, trying to fish the opportunity of spending extra time with him. You were not even sure if you would actually give him the finished piece if there would be any, you were not sure if you were prepared to go down the progress of determination turned hesitation turned eventual heartbreak that last time you had to muster up any courage just to gift something to another person.

Even though this was all an excuse for you to talk to Kita, there was no denying that the 3 years in which you avoided knitting only made your hands even clumsier than before. He was always patient, always stopping his hands with whatever sock or hat or glove he was making to take a look at what would hopefully become an intact piece of knitwork dangling off of your needles.

“Let me see.”

The soft hum from his nasal every time you called for his assistant was enough to have you weak, and you were so glad that he put all his focus on helping you because then he wouldn’t notice you staring at him rather shamelessly.

On days when the weather was good, it was as if his eyes were the winter sun, the same one that was spilling in through the windows and casting a soft halo around him, all while his brows contorted in concentration over your work.

It turned out that Kita Shinsuke was great at teaching, and while much slower than him, you eventually managed to sit in comfort silent with him in the tender winter afternoons of Hyogo and let the sounds of thread pulling filled the air. You were trying but he was a natural, even though he claimed that it was just a direct result from years, a decade of practicing.

In the time you had struggled to focus on one piece, you had seen Kita worked on a multitude of things you were sure you should not even attempt to make. There was a nice thick pair of gloves for Ojiro, the trusty spiker who was feeling bothered by his dry hands from cold water. Another pair of gloves but this time fingerless because, to quote Kita, Suna Rintarou probably wouldn’t wear anything that kept him away from his lovely touch screen. You saw woollen hats twice but in different colours, and he had explained that he thought of making something different for the ruckus twin boys but figured they would just get into yet another fight over who gets what.

Crush aside, you wished you had a slither of his skills.

“I think anyone can be good at knitting,” he said, handing you back the row of maroon casts you had asked him to check up on with an approving nod. His fingertips just barely brushed against yours as he let go of the needles, sending shivers up your forearm that you were so glad was covered by your cardigan.

You laughed, brushing your finger at the few spots that you struggled to get right on the pattern, “I doubt.”

His eyebrows furrowed. “What do you mean?” he said, pointing towards the casts that got neater and neater as you progressed visibly, “you are already getting better.”

You pursed your lips, toying with the unfinished hem.

You had learnt a long time ago that sometimes you tried your best, but the best was not always enough. Sometimes, the best would get you a huff and a complaint that your heart and soul was too heavy, too suffocating. Sometimes the more and more you put into something meant that you did not know where to put it anymore once you tore it apart after no longer having someone to give it too, but it was too much to shove back into the hole in your heart.

You wondered if your best or your “better” was enough this time.

“Kita kun.”

“Hm?” he hummed, like how he always did when you look up at him from your hands. But you did not look at him this time, twirling the loose end of the yarn in your index finger instead.

“Do you think getting something handknitted from someone you aren’t with is suffocating?”

Kita frowned at the sad smile that was on your lips. You were looking at what he assumed would be a scarf from the casting and the patterns, rubbing at the slightly crooked cable. Were you thinking of the person you want to give it to? Were you worried that they wouldn’t like it? He had made himself stop speculating who it was that made you get back early each day and struggle so clearly with something you didn’t seem to exactly enjoy just to make something thoughtful for them, but he couldn’t stop the bitterness from welling up that it was someone who made you worry over them finding you suffocating.

He wanted to tell you that anyone who thought so was not someone who deserved your time, but swallowed it down anyways.

“No,” he said, and you finally looked up at him, “I think it is rude to think that of someone who put effort into doing anything with me in mind.”

And there it was again, the same warmth that tingled until it was all you could feel. Like a hand warmer, like a simple hello in the mornings, like the winter sun that was shining on you.

Right.

You smiled, a genuine one this time.

Because Kita Shinsuke was not just some dumb crush, because he wasn’t like the boy who never really did look up to see you, because you were ok with breaking every single promise you had made to shield yourself off just for a chance with him.

He seemed confused at your sudden change of mood, but you only shook your head and picked up the knitting needles again.

“You’re right.”

-

To say that everyone was hyped for winter break was an understatement.

But you, you were just really nervous.

You greeted Kita when you came back in the morning as usual, feeling the nerve bundling up in your stomach already just from knowing that if this went badly, you could not bear it to pretend to still be his friend from then on. Classes did not pique your interest in the slightest, and the only time you even diverted your gaze upwards from the book you were staring at blankly was when Kita’s voice rang in the classroom, blocking the blackboard from your view as he stood up to answer some question you did not know the answer to.

He looked warm, you remarked to yourself as your eyes scanned through the grey vest he was wearing.

Did he make it himself? Maybe you should ask him for a tutorial later.

And then you remembered that it was the last day before break, and your knitting sessions with him was already over. Your scarf was finished, he even complimented you on it. (“I’m sure whoever got this will be very pleased,” he had said, and you were just praying to whatever entity you could think of that he would still think so when you give it to him) It wouldn’t make sense for you to go to him anymore, and it would be awkward for both of you if he knew that you were only learning how to knit to be around him.

Your hands were so cold, nearly in pain as you grip on the box that you had been hiding in your bag all day long. You backed out of giving it to him during lunch when no one else was around, deciding that you would rather not stare at his back for another few hours after basically exposing yourself. But the day was about to come to an end. The winter sun was always gone early, and the sky was lit up in shades of orange and red as students rushed home for the start of their break.

You sucked in a deep breath when you saw him packing up his things after the end-of-class bell rang.

“Kita kun?”

“Yes?”

All you could hear was the beating in your ears and the hilt of what was a steady rhythm when he turned to look at you. His voice still made you melt, and heat spread on your face like the fiery cloud hanging on the sky from the setting sun.

Warm, bright, beautiful.

“This is for you,” you tried to stop your voice from shaking as you looked into his eyes, the same ones that widened when he saw the box on your extended hands, “thank you for helping me all through last year.”

You had to remind yourself to breath as Kita took the wrapped present. “Can I open it?” he asked, his hand hovering above the ribbon.

You tried to maintain the smile on your face.

“Of course.”

Kita knew the scarf that was sitting inside the box, he could point out which cast was his doing and which ones you had asked him for help even with his eyes closed. He had wondered about what you had done with it, whether the person who got it was worth your heart and soul.

He had wished, with sincerity, that it would go well for you but there was also a selfish part of him that pondered, contemplated how it might go if he told you he would love to have that scarf.

You grimaced when he didn’t say a word, before slowly closing up the box. You had prepared yourself for this outcome, but part of you still felt a familiar sting in your chest.

Until you saw him digging into his own bag and pulling out a tiny bag. You were still dazed as he handed it to you, his fingers holding onto the handle and a smile on his face as he waited for you to take it. You reached out with both palms, before the weight of it settled in your hand.

It was a pair of gloves, soft and sturdy in your hands without a single stitch out of place. Your finger brushed against the intricate patterns at the center before stopping at the elastic hem. You could not help but slid it on, gasping in awe at how it fit perfectly.

Kita was smiling at you, and he was throwing the end of the scarf to his back when you looked up at him. The one he had worn that morning when he made way back to school under the cold was shoved into his bag and replaced by the less well-made one you had given him.

But he didn’t care, he loved it.

“Should we go?” He asked, holding his own gloved-hand out, “They are closing the school soon.”

You finally got to be mesmerised by him without having to shy away, and the way his eyes were full of you could only be matched to the sun that was setting outside, rays of what would be the last of its shine until tomorrow reflecting off the snow.

Beautiful, soft, and had your heart all warm and gooey.

“Let’s go.” You replied, grinning ear to ear, before taking his hand.

And it was so, so warm.

[concerningwolves]

When Dealing With Wolves \ Project Info

What if Little Red Riding-Hood's mother had reached out to the wolves in the woods? What hidden truths would she have found out there in those cool, green depths, where the earth itself sings and the trees know your name?

WDWW is my debut novel, coming in late 2021. It's a very loose retelling of Little Red Riding-Hood in a high fantasy world and features an autistic lead character, polyamorous families, a magic system inspired by yarn & fibre crafts, and strong fairytale/mythological vibes. Oh, and talking wolves. If you're curious, the first two chapters are available to read free [here].

OVERVIEW

GENRE: Epic/High fantasy

SUBGENRES: Mythopoeia; thriller

TARGET AUDIENCE: Adult

STATUS: Final revisions; self-publication prep

SERIES?: Yes – Book one. [Book two is The Kindness of Ravens; info on that WIP is here]

KEY THEMES & TROPES: Redemption & personal growth \ trauma & recovery \ magic & witchcraft \ found family \ the importance of compassion and empathy \ emotion-based magic \ fairytales \ mythological worldbuilding \ mystery & intrigue \ character-driven plot

SYNOPSIS

Ys is a wild and restless place, ruled by the ancient magics that lurk there. At its southernmost tip is the town of Erdansten, surrounded by fear and crumbling walls; to the north is Deothwicc, the forest of the Wolvenkind, dark and ancient. Between them lies a land marked by the ghosts of a history nobody can remember, rich with secrets that could tear apart everything the Kinds think they know.

[full synopsis, character overview and other info below the cut]

Rostfar is supposed to protect the people of Erdansten from the wolves and magic, a duty she takes seriously – despite being the very thing that her people fear. For years she has kept a tenuous balance between her duty and her own magic, clinging on to her secret with everything she has. She knows that the line she walks is a perilous one, but she can’t escape this lie she has built now. Not if doing so would tear apart her world and put her family in danger.

When her lover’s estranged brother arrives in Erdansten, however, the delicate balance she has maintained all her life is thrown into turmoil. Things from beyond the walls start to close in, attacking her people, and increasingly it seems that her only hope lies far to the north. In Deothwicc. But Rostfar’s absence from Erdansten sends the careful structure of power crumbling down, and those she has left behind must fight to maintain order as the worlds of wolves and humans collide.

CHARACTERS

► MAIN CHARACTERS

Rostfar → human || 36 || Arketh's mother, lover to Isha and Mati || autistic with a special interest in folklore, mythology and history || white; red hair, freckles, blue eyes; short and stocky build; small scar on her upper lip || As the Dannaskeld of Erdansten, it is Rostfar's job to oversee the security and defence of the town. It is difficult to protect people from magic, however, when you are the very thing they fear.

Arketh → Human || 4 || darker, copper-toned skin, auburn hair, brown eyes; small for her age; likes colourful clothes || autistic || daughter of Mati, Isha and Rostfar || Bright, curious, optimistic and wise beyond her four years, Arketh is well-loved in Erdansten. While her mother fears the magic that hounds them both, Arketh loves it – even as night-terrors and sleepwalking episodes threaten to expose her to the world.

Grae → wolf || grey-brown coat and brown eyes || has PTSD and depression || yearling || One of the youngest of the Deothwicc pack, Grae has grown up under the shadow of his litter-brother's death. While all the wolves around him seem content to live and move on, he has struggled in silence with an anger that now threatens to consume both himself and everyone he loves.

Aethren → human(?) || 18 || nonbinary || trainee hunter under Rostfar || white; black hair, grey eyes; gangly build || For all their skill at hunting and tracking, Aethren has never felt good enough. Never felt right. They're always too prickly, too surly, too quick to take offence. Nothing makes sense right now, but they're certain this new power uncoiling in the back of their head is only going to make matters much, much worse

Yrsa → wolf || reddish coat, amber-brown eyes; small and slight compared to most of her kind || Although Yrsa agrees that wolvenkind must stick close together to survive, she cannot help but feel curious about the odd, two-legged beings beyond the marshes and mountains. Her packmates call her naive, but Yrsa is sure there is something they could learn from the humans – and she is only too eager to prove her theories right.

► SECONDARY CHARACTERS

WDWW has a large supporting cast, but some of the foremost secondary characters are —

Isha → human || 33 || One of Arketh's fathers, in a triad with Rostfar and Mati || Copper-brown skin, darker than Arketh's, and close-shorn hair, brown eyes; very short and lean; calloused hands || blacksmith || trying to grow beyond the ghosts of his past

Mati → human || 37 || Arketh's other father, in a triad with Rostfar and Isha || Long brown hair and beard, green eyes; extremely tall and bulky build || always slightly scared of his own strength, so he never does anything fast || solid as rock with a warm, compassionate heart

Marken → human || 40 || Rostfar's best friend, Aethren's father || foremost healer in the Isles of Ys; nobody is quite sure where he learned such revolutionary medicine || grave and closed-off, he is often accused of aloofness, although anyone treated by him can see the deep compassion behind his eyes.

Natta → human || 36 || Rostfar's twin sister and Dannhren (head of the council) of Erdansten || cool-headed, driven and ambitious, with a bad habit of forgetting to share her emotions with the people she cares about

Kristan → human || 15 || Natta's son || Apprentice healer || Born with one arm || Both gullible and headstrong, Kristan's fear of the dark and the mysteries beyond the walls of Erdansten may prove to be his undoing. And the undoing of the town.

Myr → wolf || father of the Deothwicc pack || world-weary but determined to find a better future for his pack

Estene → wolf || mother of the Deothwicc pack || scarred deeply by the deaths of her last litter, Estene now believes that the only hope for her pack is to trust a human. Unfortunately, she is yet to meet a human who could be worthy of such trust.

Thrigg → no longer human || 200-ish? (She can't remember) || Thrigg longs to rejoin the world outside of the magic-bound city of Hrafnholm, but her longing is kept in check by her fear of what she will find.

► ANTAGONISTS

Faela → human || 42 || Isha's estranged half-brother || arrives in Erdansten in the dead of night, with old wounds on his body and deeper wounds in his psyche. Guilt surrounds him like a shroud.

Ethy → human || mid-late 60s || retired hunter who now tends to the half-tame ravens in Erdansten. She wields her love for the town like a weapon.

Unwolf and Other → no longer wolves || ?? || strangers from another land, wreathed always in a malicious, living fog that covers their tracks.

OTHER INFORMATION

► MISC. INFO

As of writing this post (17.03.2021), I have one (1) chapter of copy-edits left to revise.

I hope to have a solid release date for the novel by the end of April.

It will be self-published, with both ebook and print versions available.

► TAG LISTS & TRACKING

Taglist members will be tagged in important milestones/updates, and in longer excerpts from the book. If you'd like to be added, please reply to this post or tell me that you'd like to be added on the reblog (or send an ask if the askbox is open). You can ask me to take you off at any time :)

To keep track of the project progress or learn more about it, check out the #When Dealing With Wolves tag

► SUPPORT ME

I have a Patreon for my writing, with £1 and £5 tiers. You can also support me on Ko-Fi, where I cross-post monthly Patreon stuff, either through one-off tips or monthly support.

[blossom-hwa]

To Bloom in the Night - JOOCHAN

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

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

Pairing: Joochan x gender neutral!reader

Genre: fluff, angst, fantasy, royalty!au

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

Word Count: 24.4k

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

To Spin a Yarn | Golden Child Masterlist

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

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

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

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

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

(It had happened once already.)

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

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

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

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

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

. . . . .

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

And curses and death.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Joochan?”

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

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

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

No.

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

. . . . .

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Bomin pokes his side. Someone said his name.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Joochan raises an eyebrow. “Slightly?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

If only he could inspire such life.

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

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

Your spoken voice is as beautiful as your song.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

. . . . .

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

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

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

“Not in that way, though.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Alone.

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

Already he knows it will be a sleepless night.

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

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

No use.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It doesn’t stop.

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

And not just them.

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

Y/N.

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

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

You know.

You know.

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

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

. . . . .

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And then what would they do to you?

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

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

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

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

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

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

He swallows. “Sorry.”

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

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

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

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

. . . . .

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

“Your Highness!”

Why did he ever think he could outrun Jangjun?

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

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

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

Hopefully, they won’t.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

What if you’re afraid of him?

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

And you freeze.

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

He disappears into the shed. The door shuts.

Alone with you, Joochan is struck with two realizations.

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

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

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

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

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

Since when did he learn to inspire such terror?

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

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

Even if it hurts.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Most?”

He lifts his head. “I’m sorry?”

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

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

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

“It’s just you,” Joochan snaps.

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

“Your Highness?”

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

You bow your head. “I apologize.”

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

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

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

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

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

. . . . .

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

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

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

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

Good thing Bomin has always been a good actor.  

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

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

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

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

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

Joochan does not want to test that out.

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

Until a bouquet of roses is delivered to his room.

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

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

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

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

Then, almost as an afterthought:

You have a beautiful voice.

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

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

You have a beautiful voice.

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

It feels nice.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Joochan flushes again. Was he that obvious?

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

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

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

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

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

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

You cock your head, listening cautiously.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Joochan has never opened his mouth faster.

. . . . .

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your pain is probably even more intense.

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

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

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

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

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

“I apologize.”

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

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

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

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

You raise an eyebrow. “Hm?”

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

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

“Joochan.”

“Your Highness.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Is that a challenge, Your Highness?”

“And if it is?”

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

. . . . .

Joochan thinks you might have underestimated his stubbornness.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Joochan’s cheeks burn. “What –”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Your Highness?”

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

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

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

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

“No.”

His jaw drops. “You –”

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

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

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

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

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

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

. . . . .

“You look happier,” Bomin remarks one afternoon.

Joochan looks over. “Do I?”

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

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

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

Joochan blinks. “Glad about what?”

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

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

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

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

“Something like that,” he lies.

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

. . . . .

Except, apparently, he doesn’t.

. . . . .

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

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

“Joochan.”

Jangjun?

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

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

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

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

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

He stays silent.

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

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

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

Bomin?

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

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

“Something like that.”

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

And right now, Joochan hates that.

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

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

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

“Because we care about you!”

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

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

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

“Joochan –”

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

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

. . . . .

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

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

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

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

And Joochan snaps.

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

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

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

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

Joochan laughs into his hand. “You too?”

“… What?”

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

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

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

“From us!”

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

Bomin’s mouth snaps shut.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“But how –”

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

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

. . . . .

Joochan doesn’t know what to do about you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Like you’re waiting for something in reply.

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

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

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

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

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

He feels at peace.

. . . . .

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

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

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

Yeah. Normal.

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

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

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

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

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

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

But then dinner actually comes.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Great.

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

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

Bomin will definitely be teasing Joochan about this by tomorrow.

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

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

She stiffens. “I – you heard us?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

. . . . .

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

It makes his stomach curdle a little inside.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Neither does Joochan. 

. . . . .

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

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

Need a lullaby?

Your voice almost soothes him to sleep on the balcony.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He’s never hated it more.

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

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

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

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

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

No.

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

. . . . .

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

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

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

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

Sleep well.

Joochan lies awake for at least another hour.)

. . . . .

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

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

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

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

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

He’d know that face anywhere.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The right person’s song.

The right person…

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

Oh. Oh, gods…

“I agree,” he replies softly. 

Only he thinks that the right person was you.

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

The right person.

The right person…

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

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

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

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

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

Oh.

Joochan is in love with you.

And you might be in love with him.

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

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

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

. . . . .

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

And this gardener is in love with him too.

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

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

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

“Joochan.”

He blinks. “Jangjun?”

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

“I –” Joochan frowns. “What?”

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

Joochan’s eyes widen. “How did you –”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He nods. “Okay.”

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

. . . . .

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

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

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

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

“I love you.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“It matters to me,” Joochan protests.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

. . . . .

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And the rose bush is out of control.

. . . . .

On the fifth visit, Jangjun finally says something.

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

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

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

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

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

Jangjun frowns. “The gardener? Why?”

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

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

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

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

Joochan only hopes he isn’t too late.

. . . . .

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

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

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

How it could have slipped.

Slipped.

How –

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

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

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

Was there a time when he wasn’t singing?

Oh.

There was – that last time –

His eyes fly open. “That time you told me to go –” he chokes, does his best to continue – “we met, and I told them that I loved them but –”

“But what?”

Joochan puts his head in his hands. “We agreed that it couldn’t work out so we just spent that one night in the garden – nothing happened, don’t look at me like that – but neither of us sang much and someone could’ve heard something and – they could have pieced it together?”

“Okay.” Joochan hears Jangjun take a deep breath. “Okay. That would… that would explain it.” Hands place themselves on Joochan’s shoulders and he opens his eyes to Jangjun’s serious expression. “What do you want to do about this?”

Joochan blinks. What does he want to do about this? What kind of question – “I need to get them out, obviously!”

“Then they’ll be on the run for the rest of their life,” Jangjun counters. “Granted, they’re just a gardener and they might be able to blend in somewhere on the outskirts.” He squeezes Joochan’s shoulders so hard it almost hurts. “Would you go with them?”

In a heartbeat. In a heartbeat.

“Even if it meant giving up living in the palace, bringing a lot of trouble on Bomin and possibly breaking your fiancée’s heart?”

Selfish, selfish, selfish.

“Bomin – Bomin will understand,” Joochan says, desperately trying to convince himself. “And Donghyun’s sister doesn’t love me. She doesn’t want this marriage any more than I do.”

“There will be political ramifications,” Jangjun warns. “I know you weren’t raised as the crown prince, but you have to know this much.”

Joochan scoffs. “My parents will try to pull it off as a kidnapping or something,” he says. “No way would they let it slip that I dared to run away.”

“Then they could send an assassin or a mercenary after you. Kill Y/N, bring you back. Force you to return to everything you tried to run away from.”

Fear bubbles in Joochan’s stomach, but he swallows it down. “If Y/N is willing to deal with it, so am I.”

Jangjun searches his expression for several excruciating seconds. When Joochan doesn’t flinch from his gaze, he finally pulls back and nods. “Prison break is the last resort,” Jangjun says. “Right now, you need to go to your parents and see if you can convince them to let Y/N go. Swear them to secrecy, keep them under watch in the palace or something – it doesn’t matter. Getting them out of here will be much easier if they’re not imprisoned in the first place. Tell Bomin, ask him to help you convince them if you think that’ll help.”

Joochan swallows, still feeling the burn of Jangjun’s hands on his shoulders. The residual pain clears his mind, helps him think. “Okay,” he whispers. “Okay.”

. . . . .

Bomin takes it about as well as Joochan thought he would, which is not as well as he would’ve liked but better than it could have been. After seemingly endless explanation, he agrees to back Joochan – you’re only a gardener, after all, this is kind of overkill, and Bomin is just a good brother like that. It almost makes Joochan cry again.

As the doors to the throne room open, Joochan’s heart feels like it’s going to beat out of his chest. He hates facing his parents, hates looking at them and speaking to them more than most things in the world, but for you?

He’ll do it.

Joochan walks into a silent room, boots thumping on the cold stone floor. Bomin’s footsteps just behind him give him strength as he looks up to his mother and father, sitting with blank expressions on their thrones. “I request that the room be cleared.”

His father searches his gaze. “Request granted.”

It takes a minute for all the guards and officials to filter through the doors, during which Joochan tries to calm his beating heart. Finally, the room is empty save for his immediate family.

Joochan swallows. “I ask that you take Y/N out of prison.”

Eyebrows raise. Joochan hates that they don’t even seem to recognize your name. “The gardener,” he almost snaps, reigning himself in only just in time when he catches Bomin’s warning look.

Faces clear. Eyes become stone. “They know the secret of your curse,” his father says, voice flat and cold. Joochan can hardly believe he has healing power – his voice sucks all the heat out of the room. Your voice always made him feel warm. “They cannot be left to wander the kingdom and spread the word.”

“So bind them to secrecy. Keep them under watch in the palace,” Joochan counters. “They shouldn’t have to be stuck in prison – there are already people outside our immediate family who know, and they’ve kept their mouths shut!”

“They have not been vetted by the palace,” his mother snaps. “They are liable to speak, and as such, they must be kept away.”

Kept away. Like an inanimate object, a toy from ages past, to be locked in a cupboard and never shown the light of day…

Bomin shoots him a sharp glance, but Joochan is sick of this.

“Are you serious?” he yells. “You – have one single ounce of sympathy, will you? Or is that impossible with the way you’ve been running your kingdom – your household – for so long?”

“You are marked by death,” his mother snarls. “It is imperative that no one know this beyond all those necessary.”

“Father, they’re just one person,” Bomin breaks in before Joochan can explode again. “It’s entirely possible to not keep them in the prison and just keep watch over them –”

“You clearly have much to learn before you become king.” Their father shakes his head, as though disappointed. “Just one person? One sick person can spread an illness to a city within days, and illness travels even slower than words. How fast do you think news of this would spread if your gardener decided to speak?”

Joochan scoffs. “You never have any problem paying people off to be quiet or do things you want them to do. What’s so different this time?”

“I? Pay off a gardener?” His father laughs. “Who do you think I am?”

Joochan explodes.

“You think so highly of yourself, don’t you?” he yells. “You think so highly of yourself just because you wear a crown made of some shiny metal and jewels – you think you have the right to rule because of your supposed royal blood even though there’s nothing but cold evil under the surface? We are the descendants of killers – your father wiped out the weavers and you have no sympathy, so how can you think you have the right – why do you think you can just play people as pawns and have them do whatever you want – even your children – do you ever think about what we want?” Angry tears brim in his eyes but Joochan keeps them back. “I never wanted any of this! I never asked for my gift, I never asked to be born, I never asked to be the evil, death-marked child you always made me out to be, I never asked for the arranged marriage, all I ever wanted was to be happy and to use my gift but I couldn’t even do that – and now you’re taking away half the reason I still want to live by shutting them in a prison because of something they found out by accident –”

“You have no gift,” his mother intones, voice icing Joochan’s veins. “You are cursed.” Her lip curls. “Your song is no gift to us.”

Bomin makes an outraged sound in his throat, but Joochan barely hears it. All he can register is the blood roaring in his ears, the cold look on his mother’s face, the abhorrence and disgust on his father’s –

And he knows it isn’t true. You’ve taught him otherwise. Death is a part of a cycle – some flowers you can’t even bring back from their withering, it is just their time – and life needs it just as much as death needs life. Just as much as he needs you.

But hearing the words come directly from his mother’s lips, the woman who bore him, hurts almost more than your words can heal.

Joochan swallows. He could end it all right now. Tell Bomin to get out, sing, watch his song wither his parents away like the petals of an old rose – no, not a rose, even a withered rose is a sight better than the two monarchs sitting in front of him –

But he isn’t a killer. Not by far. He can’t do it.

Joochan steps back once. Twice. His voice, though small, carries in the silence.

“You know,” he chokes, “for people who pride yourselves on your ability to heal, all you really do is cause pain.”

He doesn’t wait for Bomin to follow before he runs out of the room.

. . . . .

Jangjun finds him in his quarters with Bomin half an hour later, sitting on the floor and staring at the wall. “It didn’t work out.”

Joochan doesn’t need to say anything to confirm it.

“So what happens next?” Bomin asks, still rhythmically patting Joochan’s back. It helps a little.

“We break Y/N out,” Jangjun says. “And they run away with Joochan.”

Bomin doesn’t look surprised, but Joochan’s heart still twists. He doesn’t want to leave Bomin or Jaehyun or Jangjun behind – they’re some of the only people who’ve kept him sane since he was old enough to think – but at the same time, he’s been itching to just leave the scrutiny of his parents for years.

After so much pain, even brotherly ties won’t keep him here for much longer.

“I’m going with you.”

Joochan’s head snaps up. Bomin furrows his eyebrows. “What – Jangjun?”

“They might send assassins after you and Y/N.” Jangjun crosses his arms. “I know you’re good in a fight, but Y/N doesn’t know anything about that sort of life. I do. You need me there to lead people off track, plant evidence –”

“That’s not the only reason,” Joochan interrupts. His eyes narrow. “You’re hiding something.”

Jangjun’s jaw works. He doesn’t look angry, exactly, maybe worried –

No.

For the first time Joochan has ever seen, his guard looks scared.

Bomin casts Joochan a concerned look. “Jangjun, it’s fine –”

“I’m a weaver.”

Joochan’s jaw drops. So does Bomin’s. Jangjun just stares back, defiant, arms crossed to hide the shaking in his hands.

A weaver. Joochan’s guard is a weaver. His loyal guard is one of those his forebears tried to wipe out generations ago – so why is he here, protecting the descendant of those who probably killed his family, his ancestors –

All of a sudden, Jangjun’s words from so many weeks ago make sense.

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

He’s a weaver. One of those who wove stories into clothes, one of those his grandfather tried to massacre.

“Why?” Joochan manages.

“I was decent at fighting and needed a stable roof over my head that wasn’t the orphanage,” Jangjun explains. An unreadable look flashes through his eyes. “Took the first opportunity I could get and thought I would hate it. But then I realized… neither of you are your parents. Not even close.” He swallows. “So I stayed. Longer than I expected to.”

“So why leave now?” Bomin asks. “You could still stay – I mean, if we’re the only people who know –”

“Daeyeol knows too,” Jangjun says. Bomin starts at the name of his personal guard. “He knows, and he told me that some of the higher ups have been getting suspicious of… things. My unknown parentage. Why I’m so good at sewing.” He scoffs. “Like only commoners can be good at sewing. But yeah. No one will care how loyal I am if they find out I’m a weaver, so I’m going to have to run off at some point.” His jaw sets. “I might as well go along with you.”

Joochan has to try hard not to cry. “Thank you.”

“Don’t be a sap.” A sliver of the old Jangjun comes back in the scowl that paints itself across his face. “Bomin, you could come with us, you know that right?”

He shakes his head. “No, I need to stay back. If both of the princes disappeared, there’s no telling what our parents would do.” Bomin swallows. “Who knows. Maybe one day, when they’re gone, you might be able to come back.”

That would be a dream.

“Thank you, Bomin,” Joochan whispers.

His brother squeezes his hand in response.

“Well, that settles it.” Jangjun snaps his fingers before Joochan can do something stupid like cry. “Get moving. We need to get out of here as soon as possible.”

. . . . .

Joochan does not like the prisons. He’s been there before, but every time, the mildew smell and darkness make him want to hurl.

The fact that you’re in here, though, spurs him on.

Jangjun makes quick work of the last guard, slamming the handle of his sword into his head. The man crumples to the ground. Joochan stands over another unconscious man, peering forward into the darkness. “Down the hall?”

“Yeah.” Jangjun looks down at his arm. “Oh, come on.”

“What happened?”

“Just a scratch.” Jangjun waves him off. “Go and find them. I’ll stand guard here. There should be one more left, two at most. You can handle it.”

Heart in his throat, Joochan turns towards the dark. Several torches flicker light onto the stone walls and he takes care to remain in their shadows as he creeps down the line of cells, eyeing the guard standing at the end.

One shot. One chance. Joochan takes another step. Another –

The guard turns around.

For a moment, they only stare at each other, eyes wide. Then Joochan leaps forward.

Metal clangs. Armor crashes. Joochan whirls, dodging a metal-covered fist before slamming his sword against the side of the man’s helmet. He crumples to the floor.

Joochan experimentally prods the body with his foot. Breathing, but unconscious. Good. He plucks off the ring of keys –

“Joochan?”

He spins around at the sound of your voice and meets your gaze, face thinner, eyes wider, but still you. Still you.

“Y/N,” he breathes, rushing forward. His fingers tremble as he tries one key after another, all the while trying not to cry. What did they do to you? “Give me a second, we’re getting you out.”

A key finally clicks and Joochan drops the ring, pulling open the cell door and letting you fall into his arms. He holds you close as you shake against his shoulders, chest heaving, not crying yet but the small sounds in your throat make it seem like you’re close –

“We need to go,” Joochan whispers, squeezing you one more time. “Come on, Y/N.”

You lift your head. “Where are we going?”

Good question. Joochan doesn’t even know. Just away, away from the palace, away from everything…

“We’re running away,” he says. “Both of us. And Jangjun.”

To your credit, you take it without question, only nodding and pulling back. Joochan wants to hug you again, but there’s not time. “I guess we should go, then.”

. . . . .

Bomin meets them as they emerge from a dark passageway, immediately pressing a bag into Joochan’s hands. Something rattles inside. “Money,” he says. “And hair dye. You need to get rid of that pink.”

He wraps Bomin in a hug. “Thank you.”

“Live a good life, yeah?” Bomin pats his back, hand steady even as his voice trembles. “I’ll see you again.”

Joochan blinks back a tear. “Definitely. Tell Jaehyun, okay?”

“Of course.” And with that, they separate.

Joochan only hopes that another meeting will come to pass.

Jangjun leads them down endless halls and passageways, some even Joochan doesn’t know. All the while he holds your hand, pulling you forward anytime it feels like you’re faltering, and in the end, Jangjun pushes open a last door and you burst into the early evening, a floral scent in the air. The gardens. 

He looks around. 

Meets a familiar face.

Shit.

“Joochan?” His fiancée takes a hesitant step forward, eyes flickering between the three. Your grip tightens on his hand. “What – where are you going?”

Jangjun looks at him. So do you.

He says nothing.

Her eyes widen. “You’re running away.”

No one needs to confirm it. Their clothes, the bag on his shoulder, the weapons strapped to his and Jangjun’s waists say everything.

“Yes,” Joochan finally says, lifting his chin. “I’m sorry.”

Her expression sinks, though she puts a smile on her face. “I understand.” Her gaze shifts to you. “You were never in love with me. It was obvious.”

The ache in Joochan’s heart grows even stronger. “I –”

“It’s fine.” Her smile takes on a semblance of mischief. “If it doesn’t hurt your ego too much, I was never in love with you.”

Joochan almost laughs. “I figured.”

“Glad we’re on the same page.” Her lips turn down slightly, a little wistful. “Shame, though. I think we could’ve been friends.”

“I think so, too.” And it’s true. If they hadn’t been forced into all of this…

“Well, I never saw you. Not even a glimpse.” His former fiancée begins to turn around. “Don’t mind me, just walking in the gardens.”

He calls her name, just before she fully turns. She looks back. “Hm?”

For a moment, Joochan falters. This could go very wrong.

But he decides to take a chance.

“Find Bomin,” he says. “Tell him I said he could tell you everything. Donghyun, too. And for what it’s worth…” He swallows. “I really am sorry.”

“Things rarely go according to plan.” She smirks. “Our parents should’ve thought of that first.”

They really might have been friends. Joochan tries not to think of what could have been as he follows Jangjun between bushes, helping you through trees, crawling under fences until they reach the edge of the forest that borders the palace.

Jangjun plunges in, but Joochan pauses. Looks at you. Even gaunt, thinner from weeks of prison, you are radiant under the rising moonlight that filters between the trees.

You smile at him, squeezing his hand. “Ready?”

So many times, he’s been asked that question before balls, before events, before arranged marriage meetings, and every time, though he said yes, his real answer was no.

This time, however…

“Are you two done being saps?” Jangjun hisses from further into the forest. “Hurry up!”

Nothing is certain anymore. He might now technically be a fugitive. But tomorrow is a new day, and though Joochan is on the run, he’s with you. 

And he’s free.

Joochan smiles at you, ignoring his guard. “Ready.”

Together, you slip into the night.

. . . . .

The palace called it kidnapping. There was a manhunt for months, search parties looking for a gardener and a royal guard, the prince’s alleged kidnappers. Many thought it ludicrous, however, that a mere gardener and a guard who had been known to be loyal to the prince for years would attempt something as ridiculous as this, and simply left the palace to fumble through its affairs in the wake of the disappearance.

The former prince himself dealt with assassins sent after his partner, bounty hunters charged to bring him back (dead or alive, he learned, it didn’t matter – if he were dead, at least no one would have to deal with him anymore). The guard lured them all away. Together, the three plunged further into the country outskirts until there was no trace left, not even of the last assassin who had been sent to take care of them all.

This is where the story should end, with two black-haired brothers and a gardener settling quietly at the edge of a forest. Yet though the words now come to close, the world still remains.

The end of one story, after all, is only the beginning of another.

If you enjoyed, please don’t forget to reblog and leave a comment to tell me what you thought! Thank you for reading and have a lovely day <3

(1 reblog = 1 prayer for a certain trio + a prince back at the palace)

[thehappyrealityproject]

Message from Mariya:

Creating a Happy Reality

Hey everyone! I believe an update is in order! Last time I posted on my blog was September 2019, and now it’s April 2021.

First, I’d like to say that I’m very thankful for my friend, who agreed to type up this message and post it. I’m also very thankful for this incredible tech-free journey, which turned out to be more like a gradual letting go of things rather than letting go of everything that I wanted to let go of at once, and the many wonderful discoveries I made because of it. 

Recent discoveries: Not using artificial lights makes it a lot easier to go to bed earlier and promotes a sense of inner peace, while not checking the time lowers anxiety.

At the core of why I wanted to leave modern technology was a deep desire to reconnect with myself and the magic of real life. And the electrical sensitivity – which reflected my deep dissatisfaction – provided me with the motivation to actually do it.

“Technology is the knack of so arranging the world that we do not experience it.” – Rollo May

The aim of everyday modern technology is to get things done faster, but what that actually does is keep people away from fully living.

Relatable excerpt from a book I was recently writing:

“I see what’s going on here,” said George.

“You do?” I asked.

“Yes. People are skipping the journey and going straight to the destination. You want food? Pop a package in the microwave. You want clothes? Order some online. You want to travel to a new faraway place? A plane will get you there while you sleep. ‘Instant gratification,’ they say. Yet that’s not gratifying at all. Life isn’t about the destination, it’s all about the journey. There is joy in cooking. There is joy in growing your own food and making your own clothing, too. The end result contains only a tiny fraction of the joy compared to the whole experience. People have forgotten this. They’ve replaced the whole experience with activities that only leave them feeling empty, like sitting online all day or watching television. On the flip side, if they returned to the whole experience of things, they might appreciate it much more, knowing that the alternative is senseless; it literally doesn’t require most of the senses. So there is a great lesson in this, one that I’ve learned myself. Maybe that was the reason for why it all came to be this way,” he replied.

I learned that many of the things that people think they need and often seek happiness through are not only the very same things that distract them and keep them away from the happiness they seek (which happens to be our natural state), but also cause harm to them, the environment, and the very life that sustains us – stuff that we actually do need! 

For instance, something we really need – like clean air – is completely taken for granted and diminished because of car fumes (one of the top causes of air pollution) and smoking. The population of bees, which are vital to many of the foods we eat, is decreasing at an alarming rate because of cell phone signals and pesticides. 

Wild nature, another thing we really need, has also diminished. The less I distract myself, the more I feel like I need to be there. I wonder, are we all consciously or subconsciously distracting ourselves from that need? After all, deep down, we are wild creatures who were conditioned to be otherwise.  

In other words, we need much less than we think we do, and we need to protect and take better care of that which we actually do need.

As I was letting go of electronics/modern technology, another interesting thing happened: I became increasingly aware of the state of modern society, AKA the comfortable prison, and it didn’t take long for me to want to leave that behind as well.

I noticed that cities have significantly small amounts of trees; some blocks don’t have any at all. There’s concrete all around, “Keep Off the Grass” signs, overcrowded stores with plastic everywhere, car/train/construction noises, saturation of cars, car fumes, and contrails being dispersed in the sky, releasing carbon dioxide and soot into the atmosphere. Some people are afraid of opening windows because of fumes.

Suburbs have perfectly manicured lawns, so much so that nobody steps on top of them. “Private Property” signs. There’s still concrete all around. Nobody is outside. Why? They’re all inside, staring at screens.

More rural areas have power lines hanging everywhere. Any sensitive or energy-intuitive person can feel the unpleasant energy coming from them. Houses are farther away from each other, and there are larger lawns. More “Private Property” signs. Again, nobody is outside. Same reason. Whether here or in the suburbs, people don’t usually take walks, they take their car everywhere. Unless people choose to exercise, movement is minimized and so is strength. A common theme in these places is stagnation and isolation. 

Most people pollute their bodies with drugs, alcohol, or smoking, and it’s considered completely normal to do so. In fact, many of them get startled when they discover that someone chooses not to do that.

Ironically, organic food, AKA real food, which is our birthright, is considered a luxury now and costs more than fake food.

Is this what they call progression?

I just want to add that even if this really upsets some people, it’s important to know in order to be inspired to create some real and amazing changes. Once you know what is going on, you can turn your attention towards creating what you do want.

I never used to be one of those people who focused on global issues much, but they’ve gotten so out of hand that they are affecting normal day-to-day living. This is not normal.

Meanwhile, I was just looking for a quiet place in nature where I could take walks barefoot on grass (a very natural and beneficial practice), relax, breathe fresh clean air, and not have to ask someone to drive me to a state park.

Can you live in nature without a car? YES. By becoming more self-sufficient.

Last summer, I met a family that grows their own organic fruits and vegetables (and what a magical thing that is!) without any machinery. They shared their strawberries with me. By the way, there are books that teach you how to grow everything, even how to make your own flour and yarn. That’s how they learned their skills. 

I realized that you don’t actually need money to live a joyful life and that the money and exchanging goods and services system is an outdated fear-based system that completely eradicates the joy of giving – one of the highest joys we can experience here. Giving to receive doesn’t feel nearly as good. That’s why many people don’t feel comfortable with that system, even if they do what they enjoy.

So if modern technology or modern society isn’t progression, then what is?

Love. Becoming more loving and allowing yourself to be loved! 

Treating ourselves, others, and the planet with kindness and love, realizing that we’re all connected. That includes not using substances that pollute your own body. 

Falling in love with your uniqueness and the uniqueness of others. 

Falling in love with life!

That’s what it’s always been about, folks.

At this point, however, it’s also about creating a completely different and better way of life. So what I’d like to do is bring The Happy Reality Project into real life, where it was always meant to be, and create an intentional community that reflects happiness and the true meaning of progression. This community can later extend to other places around the world.

Details below:

I’m looking for people who feel like they’re done with modern society – done with distractions, staring at screens all day, being around drug use/alcohol/smoking, air pollution, light pollution, and all the other pollutions, the concrete jungle, the rat race, stagnation, hiding and feeling shame or being shamed for their own beautiful bodies, etc., and done with being under the spell that this is all normal. I’m looking for people who see through the illusion and know that this isn’t progression, but actually quite the opposite. I’m looking for people who want to create something new with me and would be interested in living off the grid without electricity or electronics, observing a sky full of stars, dancing to or playing live music, rediscovering the magic of nature, becoming more self-sufficient, and exploring what it truly means to be a human being and to naturally feel happy, free, and alive!

Let’s put life back into life!

Harmony and being in awe with life is the norm.

Location = open for discussion.

If you’re interested or have any ideas or suggestions, send an email to ------, where my friend has agreed to respond.

Almost 4 months later, update: The email has been deleted due to no responses. Perhaps the internet isn’t the best place to find people who want a lifestyle without electronics. Regardless, we still think it was important to share this message.

[c-c-cherry]

Jojos Doing Jojo Things (with each other)✨😌

*sweating as the part 5 hc asks start piling up in my inbox*

 *looks at the one that mentions Jonathan*

Hello~~ I’m sorry for being criminally inactive here, I forgot during that long 6 month lockdown that I actually had a real life outside of the internet and now I have to go do real life things?? Instead of doing nothing but writing?? Crimes, I tell you.

I love the idea of Jonathan interacting with all the other jojos so I thought I’d take a little break from part 5 whump headcanons to fulfill this one :D SO HERE’S SOME SELF-INDULGENT HEADCANONS ABOUT JONATHAN DOING FUN LITTLE ACTIVITIES WITH THE OTHER JOJOS BECAUSE I KNOW WE ALL NEED IT RIGHT NOW😭😭😭

◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇

Joseph (lets say Youngseph in this case because shhh)

-Hear me out but KNITTING

-Let this man do some nice calm things please

-Joseph has absolutely no way to connect with Jonathan. Like. Nothing.

-He doesn’t see the two of them as anything alike even though they both have the star, and when it comes to connecting with such a righteous, nice dude he’s a bit :/ about it

-He also doesn’t want to do anything stupid (In his words.) He hates baking, he’s never been into reading and school, and the two can never really click with sports

-Our man Jonathan has searched his heart and soul for something to bring the two of them together but Joseph is always just not into it >:(

-He’s almost given up on connecting at all BUT—

-One thing they do have in common? Erina.

-BOOM. Johnny-boy suddenly has ideas >:)

-Joseph is really put off when Jonathan shows up with a ball of yarn and needles and in the most innocent way possible he’s like “I have something to show you ^-^”

-the first thing Joseph thinks is NO FUCKING WAY. If Caesar or his mother or anyone caught him fucking knitting he’d never be able to live it down

-So instead he just watches as Jonathan sits by the fire, and it looks really boring at first but he just starts going at it

-And of course the gears start turning and all his brain sees is “fast task?? task I can be good at? something quick my hands can do??”

-And Jonathan looks up to take a break to see Joseph perched on the edge of the chair in complete awe, but the moment he asks if he wants to know how to do it, Joseph gets really withdrawn :/

The rest of their conversation goes a little like this:

“Isn’t that meant for girls?”

“Why would hats and scarves be only for girls?”

“But its—”

“You know...I’m making Erina a matching hat and scarf for her birthday. I could use a little help with the scarf…”

“...”

“We can make it a race.”

And with a fire lighting in his eyes, Joseph accepts the contest even though he has no idea what he’s doing. But isn’t that what he does best?

-Needless to say, he becomes obsessed.

-When his greatest fear comes true and Caesar finds out, he’s too obsessed to care about the teasing

-Joseph is good at something that Caesar isn’t. Caesar is jealous. Caesar picks up knitting.

-Are knitting contests even a thing?? I don’t care because Joseph and Caesar could probably open a fucking etsy shop with all the stuff they make (and absolutely shamelessly at that)

-Anytime they meet someone new it's immediately “which hat is better?” “Joseph’s is worse, right?” “Can you start the stopwatch for us?”

-Even in his older years, he never actually stopped making things for Holy, Suzi, and even sometimes Jotaro (thought Joot wouldn’t be caught dead wearing any of it in public)

-He actually progresses past knitting and making clothes in general becomes a secret passion of his

-The hat he’s wearing in part 4? He definitely made that. And don’t even think he doesn’t send Josuke the tackiest shit in the mail

Jonathan is very proud :)

Jotaro

-Animals. Is that even a question?

-Jonathan was always more of a dog or cat person, but the moment he finds out that Jotaro’s interested in marine life? MAN GOES ALL OUT

-He not only researches the shit out of marine biology just so he can hold up a conversation with him, but he also buys A SHIT TON OF BOOKS for his favourite angst man

-We all know that Jotaro isn’t exactly a man of words, but his heart is touched when they exchange a few sentences and Jonathan shows up the next day with a book all about what they were talking about🥺

-Like—Jonathan was always scolded for never listening to his father, but when it comes to stuff like this, Jotaro swears he’s able to read his mind

-Most people can barely get him to utter a sentence, but when these two are alone they’ll talk for hours about the ocean

-Holy was actually pretty worried for a while that Jotaro rarely ever opened up to anyone, but after seeing the two of them talk it was like a weight lifted off her shoulders :)

-They go on trips all the time to study water life. First, it's just to the river a few minutes away. Then they start going out to the lake nearby, and then they’re suddenly borrowing Joseph’s private boat and going on all these “research trips” together

-Which just consist of Jotaro taking hundreds of pictures and surprisingly never shutting up about what he sees (which is definitely a first)

-They pass by snooty, rich fishermen all the time who make fun of them for only looking at the animals, and Jonathan secretly uses Hamon to attract the fish to anywhere but where the fishers are lol

-I can blame snipster on instagram for introducing me to Smiletaro but the pure happiness and smiles of happy Joot on this boat with Jonathan is like a DRUG

-Star Platinum is absolutely thrilled, and when Jonathan realizes that Star is an amazing artist, he actually buys the stand a cute little purple notebook to draw all the ocean life they come across :3

-The moment they get back to shore Jotaro’s all -_- again around people, but you can still see the excitement in his eyes if you look hard enough

-When he gets into school for marine biology, Jonathan is so fucking proud

-This is an au which means anything can happen so I formally declare that Jonathan definitely got Jotaro those golden dolphin-shaped coat pins when the man first goes off to Uni

-He wears them as a good luck charm :3

Josuke

-Josuke is soooo easy to get along with, especially since both of them are such warm people :)

-Jonathan figures that it wouldn’t be hard to find something fun to do together, but when he actually thinks about it...he really knows nothing about what Josuke likes to do

-He ends up just asking the kid next time they see each other, and they end up just agreeing to teach each other one thing the other doesn’t know

-Because the power of KNOWLEDGE BABYYY

-Josuke shows up the next day with an entire fucking Nintendo 64 and is absolutely set on teaching him how to play something

-Erina just kinda watches like 👁👄👁 as Josuke plugs it in and Jonathan is confused but also SUPER EXCITED because he barely even knows what a video is but there are also video games??

-After much internal debate, Josuke decides on Ocarina of Time because he’s worried Jonathan will have a fucking heart attack if they play something like Mario Kart

-Also he thinks Jojo would enjoy the whole “righteous hero coming of age” archetype thing because,,,you know,,,

-They start it up and immediately Jonathan is like WHAT and has no idea how to play and dies in ways that Josuke didn’t even know were possible, but they somehow make it to the first temple with a lot of help from Josuke

-Right before the boss fight, his mom pulls up like “bitch we gotta go come on” so Josuke sees no harm in leaving the system at Jonathan’s and coming back next week

-Oho,,,ohohooo,,,

-He comes back a week later to a dark house,,,Erina’s off on some trip, and he can hear the faintest “HYAH!” coming from the living room

-He walks in to find Jonathan in the exact same spot he left him, ALL OTHER SAVE FILES ARE COMPLETE, and he’s in some obscure location doing a side quest Josuke didn’t even know existed

-Turns out he’s really good at quest games

-After Josuke realizes that Jonathan’s managed to beat the game more than once, he asks if he wants to try out another game

-To which Jonathan replies: “There’s MORE?”

.

-Aside from giving Jonathan a crippling video game addiction, Josuke also learns a vital thing about Jonathan Joestar

-Hamon ^-^

-Josuke’s a little surprised that Jonathan can even see his stand, and Jonathan has no other way to explain it than that it must be connected to his Hamon somehow

-To which Josuke is like “what” and Jonathan realizes that his stupid fucking grandson decided not to tell ANY OTHER Joestar about Hamon

-He’s no Zeppeli, but he could try and teach him...even if it didn’t work, it would still be a nice bonding activity

-When Jonathan finds out that Josuke’s stand ability is revolved around healing, he’s overjoyed because he might have a better chance

-They start small with breathing exercises and meditation, which eventually lead to Jonathan trying to teach Josuke how to make things like flowers

-Since it doesn’t exactly come naturally to Josuke, things don’t exactly work out,,,but both are unsurprisingly happy when Josuke manages to make a single flower bloom :3

-It’s not much, but it’s there and it honestly makes Josuke feel much better knowing that he could eventually learn how to heal himself, too :)

Giorno

-Jonathan considered teaching Giorno Hamon a while ago, but he realized that his stand already has the properties of Hamon, if not just in a more humanoid form

-And when Jojo puts two and two together that he and his son can both grow a lot of plant life, he has the perfect idea

-Garden buddies!!!! :D

-They grow everything you could possibly think of, and to top it all off, Giorno fills the garden with all this animal life :)

-When it comes to biology, Giorno never shuts up about it. He’s the quietest kid when it comes to virtually anything else but prepare for MAJOR info dumps about frogs and his vast knowledge of flowers

-Speaking of flowers, them just sitting and growing them together and talking about all of their favourites? Yes please

-Although they love to accelerate plant growth, there’s one patch in the middle of the garden that they’re determined to grow naturally

-Also them growing and eating carambola (star fruit) together because it’s my pocket dimension that makes no sense and I get to decide what fun fruits the Joestars get to eat together

-the garden becomes a great place for picnics and outings and the best place to go when things get too chaotic

-Giorno starts a plant journal where he records everything that ends up growing there, and Jonathan starts impulse buying all these flower guide books so they can look at pictures of them and put their favourites in the garden :3

-They end up creating a little pond in the middle of everything, and Giorno puts a whole bunch of frogs and fish in it and it's all very tranquil and calm and nice :))

◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇

I was gonna do part 6 (maybe part 7 too?) but mental energy? I don’t know her, sorry y’all :(

Feel free to add on though!! I wanna see what y’all would think Jonathan would wanna do with Jolyne or anyone else I missed :D My first thought for Jolyne was Rugby because Jonathan was a rugby KING and I feel like she’d be really good at it lmao

[comicgoth666]

How would Toad handle his beloved expecting their kid (Bonus points if the kid hates Magneto's guts as a baby and the rest of their life)

"Mort?" They'd spoke softly as they floated around the kitchen, working on dinner for the lot of them. Some Italian dish Mort hasn't had yet.

"Yes, luv?" He answered, feeling like he was on cloud nine, thinking of how lucky he was to have such a beloved. One who held him during nightmares. One who looked at him with love in their eyes. Just him and his beloved.

"I was wondering, how do you feel about kids?" Kids? Thought they were gross grubby little things once upon a time. He recalled when Wanda was pregnant. Fatter than a doe eyed sow. Sweating and swollen. Then the brats came and he was put in charge of them for a week until Pietro came to get them. Smelly and loud and annoying.

Then, Billy smiled at him. Tommy held his finger. The little brats slept with him on the couch for hours. Laughed when he tried to play with them. Clung to him when they were awake. Pietro eventually got back and picked fun at him for an hour before leaving with them with Luna in tow.

His relationship with children was now... complicated.

"Depends, luv. Different chil'ren. Different reaction. Wha'? Yew baby si'in' again? Nee' my 'elp? Nee' me ta leave?" They hummed a no in response and set a glass in his hand. Flavored whiskey. A recent obsession of his.

"Not exactly, dear."

"Wazzat mean?" They floated easily around before continuing dinner.

"Well... I'm..... pregnant."

Panic. His first thought is panic. Pregnant. With a baby? His baby? His beloved was simply walking around in the compound kitchen, like nothing was wrong. Like they hadn't just verbally rocked his shit.

"... wot?" His throat was dry. His tongue was heavy. Was his heart beating to fast? Is this a heart attack. Aren't these symptoms of that? "W... wha... re... really?" Another hum. Affirmation. Baby... a baby... his baby. Their baby. What if they have his mutation? What if they have his issues? What if-?!

"Dearest... you'll do great. I know it." A peck and off they went again.

The brotherhood was ecstatic to hear the news. His beloved wouldn't be able to fight for a bit to take care of the baby and he'd see to it. He definitely wasn't going back into the field for a bit. Building and planning, sure. No field work.

First, came the crib, long before the bump started to show. Built by hand and carved beautifully. Stress building toys while they sat around and tried to help before he'd panic and tell them to just sit down. Please, luv. Leave it to me. Let me take care of it. Don't have to lift a finger.

Baby books that his beloved picked out, baby clothes given by teammates. Frog and Toad (haw haw Mystique), guess how much I love you, where the wild things are. He never read those growing up. Never had them read to him. His goal was to do what he needed growing up.

The Brotherhood quickly found out that some people weren't aloud near them as their belly got larger. Freddy was aloud by them by himself, as was Neena, Dom, Irene and Wanda when she came to visit. Sauron was aloud, as he was their doctor at the moment. Raven, Peitro and St John had to be supervised by Mort or someone he trusted to be around them. Victor and Magneto were not aloud in any capacity if it could be avoided.

But, even then, he was croaking and clinging to his beloved when they came near. Magneto was curious about a second generation mutant, wanted to see what this mixture could produce. His child wasn't about to become his new science project. And Victor was... Victor. Picking fights by getting closer then he needs to be. He knows what a animal like mutant can do, and yet...

Once the time came for the child to come, Freddy had to hold the poor man to keep him from attacking Sauron. Their screaming and pain was to much for him to handle. Maybe he could drag them away to the lake nearby. Dig a hole. Hide themselves away and lay low for a bit till it was over. But, he knew realistically, this was what they needed. A doctor, a hospital (the compound counted, he supposed).

The panic had been building the entire nine and a half months. What if the baby died? What if they died? What if they and the baby died? What if his kid hated him? What if-?

"Mort." Carl, in his human form, called from the hallway. Freddy slowly released the Brit punk and he ran with wings on his feet through the doorway.

Tiny. It was so... tiny. Tiny hands. Tiny head. Tiny body. It could be crushed so... easy. If this were a fight, he'd feel grateful for the upper hand. But... this was his baby. All he felt was and overwhelming fear and love.

The only person, aside from the doc, to enter the makeshift hospital was Wanda. She was cooing and keeping her distance while his beloved slept, regaining strength.

The next few weeks were difficult, but do-able. He's taken on giant robots. He's fought the X-Men head on. A baby was small beans compared to that. His beloved had the patience of a saint. Arranging and rearranging toys nervously as they feed them. Teddy Bear next to stuffed Frog with a toy Bat by the foot of the crib. Froggy covers tucked and untucked and tucked again. It had to be right. Couldn't risk suffocation by rolling over wrong... or worse. Was he over reacting?

"Oh! Erik... hello." His beloved rocked back and forth in the chair as their boss entered the baby room, toy in hand. A stuffed doll with red yarn hair and a velvet green dress and black button eyes. His helmet gleamed in the soft lamp light. Wanda and Pietro stood behind him with a book and a stuffed black cat respectively.

"What do you want, Erik?" He allowed the twins to enter and coo at the small bundle in his beloved's arms, but blocked Erik at the door. He had simmered a bit, but still didn't allow him anywhere near the two.

"I can't say hello to the newest member?" Heat rose to his face.

"They will never work for you." He growled.

"Mort... it's fine." They held his eyes and silently beat his resolve down. He sighed and moved behind them, hands on their shoulders, teeth clenched, muscles tight.

"Hello, dear." Arms outstretched, silently asking to hold the child. Mort's breath hitched and heavy. His beloved slowly placed the child in his gloved hands. Large hands with blood on them from years of violence. He shouldn't be holding them. He shouldn't be here. Mort should take his beloved up on their plan to run. A cabin. No Magneto. They most certainly will not work for him.

Silence befell the room as he arranged the babe in his arms and once settled... a loud cry came from them. Screaming and fussing as they flailed in his hands. Mort moved fast enough to make Quicksilver proud while carefully and quickly scooping his child up and away from him. Shushing and rocking as his beloved apologised. Mort smiled to himself for the small victory. It wasn't much, but it worked for him.

Several times over the next two months, Magneto tried again and again to hold the infant, and Mort let him try. It had become entertaining to watch as he became flustered at the sudden cry of the child. Victor, he'd found, only had to get within their eyesight for them to cry and fuss. He was pretty much blacklisted from being near the child and he seemed just fine with that. Small victories for Mort. Animals and babies were notorious for sussing out bad people. It made him happy to know Erik would eventually give up on holding the child.

Wanda had begun helping him and his new family find a home and life away from this life after she'd left a month prior with her brother to work with S.H.I.E.L.D.

Peace. Quiet. And no more orders. It truly was everything he never knew he needed.

[chaotictommy]

Okay sooooooo I don’t know if this is good, lol, I have no clue about any of my own writing. But anyway, I finished my small Jimmy and Tommy oneshot, which, now reading through could be taken as them just being friends or if you want to dive down that rabbit hole, could be taken as more...

I don’t know... I have doubts about my own writing, so if it’s bad, I apologize XD

but here it is.....

fanfic warning: major character death... :(

A Little Piece of Home

The first time he finds Tommy wearing one of his sweaters, a blue grey one that was Jimmy’s dad’s, his friend is sitting back and eating a sandwich while crumbs hit the wool, Jimmy nearly gets annoyed at his friend, settling for a mix of confusion and hesitation, because his best friend has no care of other people’s possessions, is anything but gentle, and doesn’t think before he takes something that doesn’t belong to him, maybe it’s because they’re close, but Jimmy doesn’t notice him taking things from others like that. Maybe it’s because they are like brothers. It used to annoy the hell out of him. Now it leaves Jimmy smiling, a bittersweet smile tinged with a little melancholy, at the memory.

“You’ll ruin it,” “Says who?” It’s a teasing smirk, the one Tommy knows gets him every time, annoys him to no end, that one that makes him smile despite himself, the one that disconcerts him, because he doesn’t know if Tommy is serious or teasing, and Jimmy wants to dwell in certainties, it’s problematic without them, but his best friend lives on uncertainty and adrenaline alone, and pulls Jimmy into it too.

He fixes his glasses, squinting over them at Tommy before replacing them and giving a shrug “Just... just take it off before you ruin it... it’s cashmere...” he sees the look on his friend’s face and shrugs “No idea, some type of wool I think, anyway, it’s expensive and you’ll stretch it out,” he gets a remark, half sarcastic and half teasing him for liking sweaters that much, for not trusting him enough, he knows Tommy’s joking and he can’t help but smile and reply, even though he’s trying not to “Oh, I’m sorry but tell me again how I wasn’t the one guy who tried to flirt with a gal and got a milkshake in the face when her football player boyfriend walked back over? It stained your shirt Tommy, Let’s just face it man, you should come with a warning sign, a label of some sort, you’re a disaster zone, and I am definitely not letting you steal my clothes...” but it happens again because Tommy never gives up and it’d be a strange day if he ever stopped fighting about — basically everything.

The second time he just gives up. Obviously Tommy isn’t going to listen, or had forgot, Jimmy really hopes it is the latter, but he knows this is a battle he’s not going to win, and not sure he wants to fight, so he compromises, feeling somehow as if it’s a custody battle in a divorce, since they’re sharing time with the sweater, Jimmy getting it half the time with Tommy taking the rest. It should annoy him, and on the outside he pretends it does, but inside, it really doesn’t bother him at all, honestly, he’s happy that Tommy’s happy.

The third time he finds Tommy hoarding one of his sweaters, a tan one with light colors in the classic pattern, and he just laughs with annoyance, running a fry through mayonnaise as they sit down at their current meeting place (and honestly this is going to be a recurring thing for them, meeting at the Diner, the milkshakes are to die for, the meatloaf could be better, the burgers are great, and the service is lacking at times, but the booths have high walls, which is a added win for Jimmy, so Tommy can be a bit too loud, like he always is, because let’s face it, Tommy has no idea what an ‘inside voice’ is, Jimmy’s had to face that fact more times than he’d like to admit). Jimmy fixes his eyes on his friend and looks at him questioningly “I’ve been trying to find that sweater for months.” He frowns and shakes his head, sighing long and trying to make Tommy get that he is — not okay with this “Don’t you have your own? Don’t you have any clothes of your own?” His friend turns with a look, as if he’s been caught, usually looking like that even if he’s done nothing wrong at all, barely thinking before he answers “Yes, no, maybe, I like yours better,” Jimmy raises an eyebrow in confusion “What’s that even supposed to mean? You’re being too cryptic, I’m not up for riddles,” he laughs and cringes when his friend grabs for the ketchup, nearly spilling over the table and the sweater, his sweater, the sweater he’s been looking for for about a month now, just popping up right in front of him when he’s not thinking about it, now being worn by his best friend, one disaster away from being ruined. He’s seriously worried for the safety of that sweater. “You’re messy,” he says, hand instinctively tugging Tommy’s wrist away from over the mustard, pretending to be disgruntled “Honestly Tommy, you’re a complete mess of a person,” “But you still love me?” They both laugh till it hurts, and Tommy pays the bill. He tells Jimmy it’s because they’re brothers, because it feels like home wearing something that makes him think of family. Jimmy doesn’t get it. Later, he will.

He remembers giving him one of his favorite sweaters, wrapped up in leftover green wrapping paper (green was Tommy’s favorite color), a Grey sweater with a greenish blue argyle pattern, folded into it. It became a sweater Tommy couldn’t stop wearing and a present that Jimmy was proud to give, he values their friendship and everything that entails. Yeah, Tommy’s loud and kinda — crazy, crazy in the good sense of the word, and Jimmy’s quieter, locked in on his thoughts, calmer, like the sides of Ying and Yang, and it’s those complementing opposites that Jimmy wouldn’t change. They’re friends and sharing things is just what happens right? It earns Jimmy the comment that he ‘looks like a nerd now’ as Tommy pulls the sweater on, but they both know that it’s a great present that Tommy values.

Jimmy gets a couple of books, loving how thoughtful that gift was as well. He still has them, now his kids are reading from those same copies. It’s nice to remember that. Now that...

The time wore on and one after the other, he lost touch with Dutch, with Bobby, and with Johnny, but he somehow managed to keep Tommy, to stay friends even though miles separated them, college, family. He was there from the start and to the very end. Tommy was his best man at his wedding, when he was so nervous that Tommy had to talk him back from complete panic, his ever present fears of being inadequate, not enough. Tommy had been there, and Jimmy had been there throughout Tommy’s struggle, he’d been the second to know when fighting wasn’t an option anymore... they’d tried to make peace with it, but nobody ever tells you how hard it would be...

When Tommy died, everything felt disjointed, disconnected, everything stopped then and there as the paramedics rushed by, knowing it was over even though his brain was screaming it wasn’t true. THAT IT COULDN’T BE TRUE. But it was. But nothing seemed to make any sense anymore. Nothing fit.

The breaths he took then seemed foreign as if Tommy had taken everything, even the breath in his lungs, with him, the breaths were strangled and meek, mixed with pain, he had been ready for it, yes, but nobody was ever prepared, not even when they said they were. Jimmy knew that now.

Now, going through Tommy’s things, in his empty home, his hand brushed against something in the bottom of the box. It was soft, even though years had passed, worn at the edges and the elbows, from Tommy always leaning on them, into his friend’s personal space, talking way too close in excited tones, appreciative, teasing. Jimmy knew what it was before he saw it, and the fresh wave of tears hit him, mixed emotions in them now, the lingering sadness and joy, relief somehow there as well. He hadn’t cried that much in front of Johnny, neither had he cried much in front of Bobby, they had felt like strangers somehow... now he felt himself breaking down. The tears were long overdue.

So he sat there, with a sweater and a lot of memories.

Other people would see a worn sweater that has seen better days, just like the brunette man now holding it, but to Jimmy, this sweater is much more than a bunch of knotted yarn, a castoff to some thrift store because of the wear and tear

It’s the sweater his best friend wore when he needed to keep warm during the colder months, or when they went camping, the one he’d hardly take off because Jimmy had gifted it to him, and he said that it meant everything, the one that wrapped Jimmy in tight hugs he’d pretend to struggle out from, pretending to dislike them, but secretly loving them. It was something that would always remind him of Tommy.

It was a little piece of home. Something now missing from his life, having gone suddenly with his friend.

He’d always have Tommy with him even though he wasn’t there anymore

They’ll always be best friends. Nothing will ever change it.

It’s only a sweater, but to him, it’s a part of home, as much so as the the family he’s made, the house he lives in now, and Tommy, who left a heart shaped hole when he — left.

It’s something that reminds him of every moment with his best friend. That’s all he has now, those moments. He knows someday he’ll forget the playful smirk, the annoying laugh that was both and infectious.

But for now he has those moments and something, however insignificant it is to others, to remind him of the better times.

And that’s everything.

Author’s note: Okay, so the sweater that Jimmy gifted to Tommy is the one you can see him wearing in the first scene of TKK2

It’s grey and has a greenish blue argyle pattern.

the books Tommy gave Jimmy were:

The Outsiders (I always connect the Cobras to the book lol)

Fahrenheit 451

1984

and

A collection of Sci-fi stories by Ray Bradbury

Because I think Jimmy would love Sci-fi

I truly hoped you liked the story and if it was terrible lol, again my apologies

[songsformonkeys]

Pedro Character match-up for @knittingqueen13​. Written by me. Awesome banner by @yespolkadotkitty 

I’m pairing you with Zach Wellison:

You've just gotten a one year contract with a company that you've had your eye on for years. You are super excited about the opportunity! There's just one downside. The company is based in the US and so you've had to move there. It's not a bad place to be but city life is a big change from what you're used to and from day one, you miss the countryside something fiercely

Your apartment building has a huge garden though and you spend as much time there as you can, either working, reading, relaxing, or tending to the plants. It's not quite Home, but it's something.

It's only been a couple of weeks in your new place when Zach moves in. He finds you elbow deep in mud, trying to weed a horribly neglected flowerbed into submission. Initially, there's a bit of confusion where Zach thinks there's been some sort of mix-up with his employment as a building manager, and as he questions you, there's a look of fear in his eyes which you don't understand.

He only relaxes once you've explained that you live in apartment 2c on the second floor and that you're doing this for fun, not because you're trying to take his job. He's still a little reluctant about letting you do his work for him though but you promise not to tell anyone and eventually he agrees.

You see Zach again, several times over the following weeks. He greets you politely but mostly sticks to himself and his chores. Part of you is a little disappointed. You would be lying to yourself if you said you hadn't noticed how handsome he was, and you wouldn't have minded talking to him some more.

On sunny days, you take advantage of the fact that you get to look a little extra, behind the cover of your sunglasses. There's something soothing about watching him work. But you like it even better on the days when both of you are tending to the yard, working side by side. Zach still doesn't talk much, but he accepts it when you bring an extra glass of something cold to drink.

It feels a little silly considering how little you've actually talked but, besides the people at work, Zach is the closest thing you have to a friend here. Your time outside of work has so far mostly been spent in your apartment, knitting, reading, watching tv, or cooking.

Some nights you have trouble sleeping and if the weather is nice you bring a blanket outside and sit under the open sky. The light pollution makes it almost impossible to see any stars but it's comforting just knowing they're there.

One night, when you're outside, you hear cries and half-screams coming from one of the apartments. It sounds like someone is in pain. You realize that it's coming from Zach's apartment. You like Zach and don't want him hurt. So even though you feel scared, you grab a garden tool and wrap the blanket tighter around you and walk to his door to ring the doorbell.

When the door opens, it's Zach, looking tired and confused. His neck is shiny with sweat. ”Is everything alright?” he asks as if it wasn't him who'd been crying out. You look down and notice the knitted socks on his feet. You recognize the yarn. You have made those socks. It was one of the pairs you sent to the shelter in your first week here. ”My socks!” Zach is even more confused by this. ”I made those socks,” you explain. Zach realizes what this means and his jaw tenses with some mix between embarrassment and pride.

He asks what you're doing outside his door in the middle of the night, and his tone makes it sound like you've done something wrong. You tell him that you heard something and that you wanted to check if he was okay. He quite coldly tells you that he's just fine and that you should go back to your apartment. 

The next afternoon someone knocks on your door when you're watching some travel show about hiking in the mountains, and it's Zach. He has a bag with two cinnamon buns with him and says he wants to apologize for last night.

You let him in and he explains his history while you make coffee. The two of you sit and talk for a long time. You assure him that it's fine and share some of your own hardships in life with him. You both agree that it's a funny coincidence that Zach ended up with your socks.

His eyes drift over to the tv and absentmindedly tells you how that would be the dream, to hiking in the wilderness but to have a warm cottage to come home to at the ends of the day. You agree and tell him about your latest trip and your actual home back in Scotland. Zach listens intently and you enjoy the way he watches you.

You invite him to stay for dinner that evening and that is the start of...something. You're not entirely sure what. Zach is incredibly proud and only lets you cook him dinner a couple of times a week and always insist on helping you with something in return, despite you assuring him that it's not necessary and that you love cooking.

Zach is a tricky person to navigate. The more you get to know him the friendlier and more talkative he gets but sometimes you get the impression that he's not quite here. He's told you about the nightmares he sometimes has but had shot down any offers to help if there was anything you could do.

One evening, building an IKEA bookshelf gets the better of you and you call Zach in desperation. He immediately comes over to help you, laughing a little at how frustrated it makes you that you can't find the right pieces and figure out which thing goes where. It doesn't look like the instructions AT ALL! Eventually, you both realize that there actually are a few pieces that are wrong and that it's not just your imagination.

Zach offers to help drive you to IKEA the next day to get them replaced and you're so grateful that you blurt out that you could kiss him for how kind he is.

He looks at you a little strangely, watches your mouth, and you're not sure which one of you reaches for the other one first but then you are suddenly kissing.

You're both halfway out of your clothes before simultaneously agreeing that the half-assembled shelf really is a horribly uncomfortable surface to make out on. So you get up and pull Zach by his belt hoops towards the bedroom.

That's the first time Zach spends the night. It most definitely isn't the last...

[rachelkaser]

Stay Golden Sunday: The Break-In

In our first Very Special Episode, the Girls’ home is broken into. Rose doesn’t take it well. Blanche has a bad encounter with mace.

Picture It...

The Girls are returning from a Madonna concert, only to open the door and find the house has been ransacked -- they’ve been robbed. After determining that the robbers are no longer present, the Girls separate to check their rooms to see what was stolen. Rose, left alone in the living room, is absolutely petrified the robbers will come back. Dorothy returns and accidentally scares Rose. The robbers made off with Dorothy’s mink stole.

Blanche emerges from the kitchen covered in flour. The robbers got her jewels, which she keeps hidden in the flour or the freezer. Sophia tries to say her clothes were stolen but Dorothy doesn’t buy it. The Girls argue about why they were robbed, with Blanche saying it’s karma, while Rose insists they’d be safer with a man around. Sophia and Dorothy go to rest until the police arrive, while Blanche says she’ll see the robbers whipped and hanged for daring to touch her jewels.

The girls attempt to purchase a security system, but the salesman is doing everything he can to freak them out with statistics about violent crime. Unwilling to acquiesce to paying $10,000 despite the hard sell, Dorothy angrily throws him out. The girls go to get dinner, but the guard dog Rose got is camped out in the kitchen. Sophia eventually gets fed up and goes in the kitchen anyway. According to her the dog peed on the floor and ran for it. Clearly Rose is already starting to overcompensate for security.

Blanche is on the couch, groaning in pain as Dorothy tends to her. Rose comes running in, having mistaken their gardener for a “swarthy man with a weapon.” She assumes Blanche was attacked, but Blanche tells a different story: She took what she thought was a bottle of hairspray from Rose’s room, then went to the police station about her jewelry. When she sprayed herself, she found the hard way it was mace. Rose says she no longer needs mace, as she just bought a gun. Dorothy says Rose is now going overboard, as she doesn’t know how to use a gun, and insists they all go see a psychiatrist.

The Girls return later, having seen the psychiatrist. Dorothy feels better, Blanche picked up a date with him, and Sophia didn’t like him. Rose, on the other hand, wasn’t comforted at all -- she feels worse, believing he was her last hope. The girls reveal that Rose now doesn’t sleep at night at all, but sleeps during the day and then keeps an all-night vigil with the gun.

At night, we see the house in darkness and hear a man’s voice. The door opens, the alarm goes off, and Rose blindly fires her gun in the direction of the door. The lights go on, revealing Blanche and a date; Rose shot Blanche’s Chinese vase. Dorothy and Sophia come in as Blanche sends her date, who accidentally set off the alarm, away. Sophia helps Blanche pick up the pieces of the vase (while hiding some, because she hates the vase).

Dorothy tries to tell Rose this has all gone too far, and Rose can’t live this way, and tries to tell her that the robbery is over and she’s safe now. Rose has a breakdown and says, in her mind, the people who invaded her home will always be there. Dorothy holds her while she sobs.

This comes to a head when we next see Rose walking alone in a parking garage. Suddenly she hears footsteps behind her and looks back to see a shadowy figure. She panics and bolts for the stairs, as a man races after her, calling out for her. She makes it down the stairs before he catches up with her and grabs her. We see her cry out in fear before it cuts away.

Sophia and Dorothy are playing Scrabble, and Sophia denies Dorothy the right to disprove her word “disdam” by saying the robbers took the dictionary. Blanche announces they caught the robbers, and they found Dorothy’s stole. Rose comes home and tells them about the parking garage. When the man grabbed her, she managed to knock him to the ground. She’s finally got her confidence back, knowing she can take care of herself, which prompts Blanche to go put champagne on ice. Unfortunately, the man who was chasing Rose was the parking attendant, trying to give her back her keys. But at least Rose isn’t afraid. Blanche comes back with a surprise: Her jewelry was in the freezer the whole time.

“Now get out of here before the victim of violent crime in this house is you.”

This is by far the heaviest episode of Golden Girls yet. I hesitated at first to dub this a Very Special Episode, since I usually associate that term more with hot button issues of the moment. But it’s got all the highlights -- intense emotional responses, trauma, and references to a social problem of some kind (in this case, crime).

This is another episode written by Susan Harris, and I meant what I said about how her episodes are almost universally good. She has a knack for being able to make the girls feel sad or deeply emotional without it sounding preachy or overwrought. Rose’s confused attempts to verbalize how the crime has effected her perfectly capture how that kind of trauma feels.

ROSE: I know it’s over. I know they’re gone. But not for me. For me, in my mind, they’ll always be here.

Harris is also particularly good at showing how, having gone through that, Rose needs to heal from the inside. Rose’s attempts to compensate for her suddenly-missing security aren’t particularly effective, and it’s because, for Rose, nothing would ever be good enough, would make her feel safe enough. So while, when I first saw this episode I was a little baffled by Rose’s proclamation that “I’m not helpless,” I now appreciate it for what it is -- Rose reclaiming her own inner sense of safety, at the expense of one beleaguered parking attendant.

Speaking as an adult woman myself, being told that we can take care of ourselves and that we’re not helpless is something I think more women need to hear. Though I do have one question: Why didn’t that idiot parking attendant say that’s who he was, or attempt to tell her why he was chasing her? That fool deserves as many knees in his safety deposit box as he gets.

The emotional struggles don’t stop the episode from being hilarious, though. With the first two minutes, Dorothy gives a Dirty Harry monologue that I’d put on par with Clint Eastwood’s any day.

In fact, everyone gets their shot at a great comedy moment: Blanche is hilariously angry about the robbery, and Rue McClanahan gets the chance to show her comedy chops are just as strong as the other girls, especially her rant about the mace. Were it not for Sophia’s awesome line (see below), Blanche’s distressed cry of “I MACED MYSELF right there in the police station” would be my favorite part of the episode.

Dorothy, on the other hand, handles the situation very practically, even pointing out the societal ill that caused someone to rob them in the first place (massive unemployment). She even suggests they see a psychiatrist, which strikes me as surprisingly progressive -- even today, you’ll find people who respond to the suggestion of therapy the way Rose does: “You think I’m crazy!” The only time she really seems to crack is when she realizes Rose bought a gun -- and by the way, an understated but still great moment of visual comedy is watching Rose pull multiple skeins of yarn out of the same shopping bag where she’s carrying a handgun.

At first it seems strange that Sophia is so blasé about the robbery, immediately going to sleep after it happens. While the other girls shriek and gasp when they discover the ransacked house, Sophia’s response is a weary “Oh boy.” But then, in her “Stable Mabel” rant, she points out that she’s seen a lot more than a simple burglary in her time, and there’s not much that’ll phase her anymore. Her attempts to use it to con Dorothy out of new clothes and a Scrabble win are another early sign her character isn’t just “vaguely suffering from discretion-shattering stroke,” but is actually rather clever and devious -- traits that’ll become more apparent when she gets standout episodes.

As Very Special Episodes go, to me this is a good template for how to do it right. The situation is treated seriously, and there are two big dramatic moments (one the gun-shooting scene, the other Rose being chased through the parking garage). However, the show puts in about three jokes for every dramatic moment, and it’s those jokes you remember the episode for just as much as the important moment behind it. GG will do this again, but this will always remain one of the best.

Episode rating: 🍰🍰🍰🍰🍰 (five cheesecake slices out of five)

Favorite Part of the Episode:

You can’t beat Sophia, who’s been the stoic all episode, finally blowing her stack after Rose shoots her gun:

[treatian]

The Chronicles of the Dark One: Breaking the Curse

Chapter 16: The New Plan

His plan was convoluted. "Easier said than done," he'd told Dove. And he meant it. It had taken him most of last night to figure it out himself. In fact, even now, when he wanted to think about it, it required him to concentrate. There had been a lighter in the box of things that Graham had owned. He pulled it free now as he sat in his shop and tried to think. He stared into the flame, at what he knew was coming, trying to let his mind float and think freely. But it wasn't what he wanted. He wanted his spinning wheel. There was one in the back of his shop for the longest time, and when he thought about this plan, he was sorely tempted to use it. But he resisted. In his mind, he pictured his aunts spinning and toiling away, the comforting motion of two steps forward three steps back, the way the wheel turned with each press of the treadle, the fibers of freshly shorn, newly treated wool forming into thread beneath his fingers and doubling that thread and creating yarn fit for a King…

When he thought of that, his plan didn't seem as convoluted. Complicated, perhaps, but when he pictured himself spinning and recalled those memories down to the tiniest of details, it all fell into place perfectly for him. It wasn't the same as spinning, but it was something.

At this very moment, Emma was preparing to announce she was running for Sheriff. He was happy about that. Thrilled really. But he had no idea how Emma would fair in a debate or how she'd hold up against Regina and Sidney acting as the dynamic duo.

Emma running for Sheriff wouldn't be enough to win it for her. But he still had to play carefully. He didn't know nearly enough about the Savior to predict her actions as he hoped, but his one reassurance was that he did know Regina, and he knew how Regina treated Sidney and how the genie had reacted to his Evil Queen. The file he'd prepared for the Mirror that night, the evening edition, it would lead to a smear campaign. Emma would announce she was running, Regina would be angry and scared and desperate, so when that information fell into Sidney's lap, he'd run to Regina to decide what to do with it. And Regina, predicable as she was, she would have Sidney print it. That much he was sure about. The next bit…that was where he hoped that he'd learned enough about Emma Swan to predict her actions.

She was a fighter; she'd proven that much. She didn't step down in the face of fear, and she didn't lay down and ignore a challenge; her destruction of the toaster told him that. He hoped that she'd respond as she had every other obstacle the Evil Queen had thrown at her…with confrontation. The upcoming and unexpected debate would give Regina plenty of work to keep her at the office, especially with Henry having a session with Hopper that night. People would talk about the article, or Emma would buy it, or Mary Margaret would call her, and one way or another, the Savior would end up at the town hall with Mayor Mills. There would be a confrontation. And then…

Bang.

She'd be a hero. Emma was young, and healthy, and prepared to get out of a burning building. Regina was less than equipped, especially without her magic. But Emma, pure as she was, wouldn't leave the mayor inside a burning building. She'd make sure Regina got out safe. He only hoped that Dove called the paper and got them there on time to capture the footage because it wasn't so much being a hero that would get her elected. Becoming a hero was just the first phase. It was the second that was crucial to getting her elected.

Standing up to Regina was one thing…standing up to him was another thing entirely.

"Make it sloppy," he'd told Dove. He wanted to be caught. But he didn't want to be caught by just anyone, oh no, no, no. He wanted to be caught by Emma. The lanolin she'd smelled yesterday, the brushing of it on the cloth…it had all been a coincidence then, but now he considered it a happy little miracle. She wasn't likely to forget a smell like that any time soon. And smell was one of the best ways to get the memory working again. She'd remember it was him. And though she might not know about Dove and therefore might not come to the right conclusion, exactly…she'd come to the conclusion that he wanted her to come to. He'd set the fire so she would appear to be a hero and win the hearts of the Storybrooke citizens.

It wasn't his ultimate plan. But it was what he wanted her to think was his plan, at least for now. Because at the end of the day, he knew that she wouldn't agree to take part in any kind of rigging of the election. She was a proud woman, Miss Swan. She'd want to win based on her own merits. She wouldn't be manipulated, or at least so she'd think.

But the town could be. And that was precisely what he was counting on; exposure. She'd expose him. Legally she would have no proof that he had done it because he hadn't. Everything would be conjecture. But because she was as noble as her father, she'd come clean to the town; she'd stand up to him by unmasking him. How, he wasn't sure about that part yet, he hoped it would be public, but all that mattered would be that she'd do it. And the result? The town would follow after her like moths to the flame. Emma would win. Regina would lose.

It was convoluted and complicated, but at its heart, it was so simple! Graham had said it himself before he'd died, he didn't have any friends; most people hated him. It was one reason why he used Dove to collect his rent. The Swan might not be easily manipulated…but the town could be, and the Swan standing up for what was right at the same time she confronted him…that might be exactly what he needed.

Suddenly his concentration burst as light of a different kind flooded his shop. It was from the door to his shop being opened.

"Regina," he smiled, snapping the lighter closed as she flipped his sign to closed. He'd be lying if he said he hadn't been expecting this conversation. In fact, if this was what he was expecting, then the word "conversation" was to be used loosely. "Shall I move some things? Make a bit of space for your rage?"

"You found that loophole in the town charter."

He shrugged it off, and suddenly they were standing at that apple tree all over again. He didn't want her to know that he was awake, that he had his memories, or knew what was really going on here. But he'd like for her to be suspicious. He'd like to keep her on her toes, keep her guessing. And sometimes, she really did make it all too easy.

"Legal documents, contracts, if you like, always been a fascination of mine," he explained, moving around his counters.

"Yes, you love to trifle with technicalities."

"I like small weapons, you see. The needle, the pen, the fine point of a deal. Subtlety. Not your style, I know."

"You're a bastard," she growled.

"Oh," he chuckled. Name-calling. Without her magic, she was reduced to something a small child might do. She wasn't exactly up to the childlike temper tantrums of her sister, perhaps, but this was still a tantrum because it didn't matter if she knew he was awake or not; she was well aware of the same things he was. The Curse was breaking. After twenty-eight years of winning, someone had finally arrived to take everything she held dear, and he was excited for it. She, on the other hand, would do anything to stop it. And name-calling, well…he knew that was the least of what she was capable of, especially if she had magic stored away, which he was now firmly in belief of after Graham's death.

"I think your grief's getting the better of you, Regina. Shame what happened to Graham."

"Don't you talk about him!" Regina scowled, advancing on him. "You know nothing!"

"What is there to know? He died." A blatant lie. What had the coroner said? Aneurysm? Natural causes? Potentially. But Dove had reported to him that Graham had dropped dead after breaking things off with Regina and going with Emma. And he knew of one other thing that would cause a man to drop dead like that—a crushed heart. And what a coincidence…the last person to have his heart was none other than the woman in front of him.

"Are you really going up against me?" she questioned as if in disbelief. Odd thing. Whether as Mr. Gold and Mayor Mills or Rumpelstiltskin and the Evil Queen, they'd never precisely gotten along as friends. Why this surprised her wasn't really a mystery? She was scared. She knew she might lose. But, as long as they were still playing these roles, she'd assigned them…

"Not directly," he answered carefully. "We are, after all, both invested in the common good. We're just picking different sides."

"Well, I think you picked a really slow horse this time. It's not like you to back a loser."

"She hasn't lost yet."

"She will."

"Never underestimate someone who's acting for their child."

"He's not her child. Not legally."

He smiled. "Oh, now who's trifling with technicalities?"

"Go to hell."

He let out a snort at her retort. "So that's what it's come to? Childish name-calling unbefitting even of a teenager?"

"I don't have time for this," she spat before heading to the door.

"No, of course, you don't; you've got a debate to plan."

That brought her to a standstill.

"Debate?"

Suddenly he was glad she'd stopped by. He'd wondered if she'd know about the debate, it was the one thing he needed her to be aware of to ensure she'd be in place for his plan to work. This little chat allowed him to remind her of the rules for this upcoming election.

"Odd, one would think that the Mayor would have brushed up on the town charter before attempting to circumvent it."

"Enough. Just tell me what you know."

"Well, it's quite simple, really. This election requires a debate between the candidates. The people need to know who they're voting for, what policies each candidate will be supporting or not supporting, what changes they'll be implementing. That's how an election works, Regina. It's not as if you are a queen ruling over all of us."

He'd add the last bit just for his own entertainment. And what entertainment it was! There was a slight pause between them as she considered his words. Her breath hitched, and something dark in her eyes flickered as her back straightened and then slumped in an undignified yet purposeful way. She'd fallen back into her own self for a moment. Then tried to hide it. Because she suspected he knew something but didn't actually know. It was worth it.

"No. Of course not."

"Of course not. Which is why the charter calls for a debate. You have to give one week of announcements before that, so…I'd say if you want this election to happen soon and you should, seeing as how you fired Storybrooke's only officer yesterday, you have some work to do."

[thewiscryptid]

crazy ex girlfriend starters .

pt 4 -- a mixture of season 2,3 & 4

-- some mature language, change pronouns as needed

"A shirt with sleeves? Are you meeting the president?"

"An insecurity? Me likely."

"Let’s dye each other’s hair, yarn bomb a car ... or we can talk about our shared traumas?"

"I really love saying the word ‘skulk’."

"I saw a woman with a bikini top made out of the Bill of Rights!"

"What a beautiful drug trip."

"You don’t like a man until his Sandra Bullocks start dropping!"

"Let’s not knock someone with a fetish. Some people like being choked by red licorice— and I’m not naming names, but we both know it’s me."

"You’re so basic but in a really entertaining way."

"Has anyone ever told you that your voice sounds like a mouse with throat cancer talking into a little, tiny mouse voice box? "

"Thank you for taking my virginity. Do you want to take it again?"

"Trust me, I’m a lawyer. Almost."

"It’s not stalking because all of this information is technically public."

"We’re just two lesbians, don’t mind us! "

"I knew that bitch weighed herself!"

"What ... *MAN* ... did this?"

"I don’t want your dirty man ice!"

"Who needs college when you’ve got this pretty face?"

"Boobs are just sacks of yellow fat so they’re really not worth the whole obsession."

"Oh, my god. I’ve left my body. I’m floating out of my body and looking down."

"I thought she was a nice person. But I was wrong. She’s a poo person!"

"Does she always talk like an all timey detective?"

"He’s having a tough time ; none of his dream catchers work in here."

"I could teach a class on how to cozy up to awful, rich, white men."

"Paging Doctor Freud, Oedipus needs his blanky."

"Blasted legumes."

"I was a strong, feral, little girl."

"I am ready to turn my childhood trauma into a kink."

"There are two things I will always have ; indigestion and all of the answers."

"You just have to wait for him to whip his yuck out."

"You’re right. I bet he has a big yuck ... I don’t even think I could even take his yuck."

"For some reason, you’re on the top of my to-do list."

"Naps are for children, the elderly and the weak."

"Have fun flying coach, dick."

"I’ll never have problems again."

"I said he must be destroyed then I ran away like some scared little boy."

"Get out of here but.... slowly. I wanna watch those pants move."

"Ow! My vagina!"

"I don’t care what happens to me anymore."

"My friends all say I’m judgey but I never listen to them because they’re all a bunch of big dumb idiots.

"He turned the smartest person I know into a wannabe por.n star."

"God’s my EZ-pass."

"$600-$800? That’s like ... a pair of shoes."

"I love myself and I don’t purchase any periodicals that engage in body shaming."

"You are an amoral sociopath with no conscience."

"You have the heart of a weak, dying kitten."

"Help me destroy ____ and I will let you do anything to me."

"Rip off my compassion with your teeth."

"Let me choke on your cocksuredness."

"You just Father, Son and Holy Ghosted your entire life!"

"Hey— BOOBS! Big ol’ boobs! LOOK AT ME!"

"I am obsessed. I am. Totes. Hundo P."

"The choking, the spanking, the cuckolding... ugh."

"Maybe she’s not such a heinous bitch after all."

"Every little girl kinda hates her mom."

"You made me think that you loved me."

"Oh god, these jack holes."

"Bitch, don’t get in my way, bitch."

"I’m a big boy.... what’s the word for that?"

"I know I’m talking to you right now but there’s another version of me in a parallel universe that is tearing your clothes off and climbing you like a sequoia."

"And of all of the pensises I’ve seen, his made the biggest impact."

"He’s coming! Bail on the turntable!"

"Does she have a magic vagina?!"

"Harry Potter dirty talk. Don’t worry about it."

"And now I’m here to claim a prize for a job well done. You!"

"Wheee! I’m your boyfriend again!"

"I got you a pretty dress for when we promenade."

"You know I think menstruation is beautiful."

'I gotta say for a blackmailer, he’s very good about consent."

"I look like the host of a Nickelodeon show!"

"Even his choice of ramen flavor is concerning."

"Our relationship is based 90% on fear and the other 10% is hoping you’ll make that duck ragout again!"

"You’re not special because you’re sad."

"Wait— Whoa, did you have like a billion drinks?"

"Your pet name for me is slut."

"My lady is a badass and really, really, reeeeally stupid."

"It’s so hard. There’s always something touching my breasts."

"STAND DOWN, SIR!"

"I’ve got that high end jizz."

"Please don’t poop in my balloon."

"You’re the love of my life, you know that, right?"

"Hello, nice to meet you. You’ve been inside of me."

"Hello, nice to meet you. You broke my heart."

"Why aren’t you happy?! You’re supposed to be happy!"