#serim angst

“Was any of it real?” Serim asked foolishly hopeful, and oh it sounded so tragic from his lips.

You didn’t look at him, you couldn’t. You kept your eyes on the line of thorny roses curling around the tower’s window and the setting Sun painting the world beyond it red.

“Of course not,” you scoffed like somebody scolding a child for their naivety but your words tasted bitter in your mouth, they tasted like a lie.

“I don’t believe you,” Serim said, his voice hoarse and hurt but he refused to show it. “Unless you look at me when you say it.”

It was a silly ultimate as if you had anything to prove to him. As if the fact that you had him alone and at your mercy wasn’t enough. As if you couldn’t rip his heart out with your bare hands if you wanted to. He had no royal guard coming to his rescue now after all.

Princes and their self-assurance, you tsked, thinking he knew you better. Thinking you were still the innocent maid who cut her finger in his study. Thinking you wouldn’t have the heart to hurt him. That’s where he was wrong: you didn’t have a heart to begin with, you had given it away in exchange for power, for revenge and the last of your innocence had died when the king had closed off your village at the first signs of a plague.

“Don’t,” you snapped sharply when you heard the prince take a step.

He couldn’t leave. Not because you locked him in but it was a prison anyhow. The window from so high up was a death sentence and while the door to the staircase leading down was open, he would have been stupid to try. You made sure of it when you poisoned his bloodstream and tied his soul to this very place. The moment he tried to leave the tower, his heart would squeeze and fail him.

But he was even more stupid because he didn’t attempt an escape, no, he moved closer to you and that, somehow, was even worse because you remembered how it felt to have his gentle touch on you.

Candle light was flickering beside you when you lifted your gaze and looked at him. He was every bit of the prince he was born to be: lush dark locks falling elegantly over his forehead, soft features, warm brown eyes, broad shoulders filling out the expensive wine-colored suit he wore, the symbols of the kingdom sewn over the fabric and the material of his heart. He was the prince of people, kind and good. Too bad his father was a monster.

The truth was Prince Serim had lived in a golden cage his whole life.

There was a rumour whispered from mouth to mouth under the night sky that the midwife had told the king a prophecy just when his son had been born. She had said that dark days would befall on the kingdom the day the boy would leave the court. Then the queen had died, the king locked up his own son and years later, those unfortunate days the gossip promised became your goal once you coughed up the last of blackened blood of your lungs as you left your burning village behind.

It was ill-fated, really, the prince and you. It was his father’s fault that you had lost everything and everybody who had ever mattered to you, it was his fault that you cut a piece of your heart out and sealed your emotions, closing them deep inside a corner nobody would look for. If it wasn’t for him your hands wouldn’t have been crimson with blood and death, veins running black with forbidden magic coursing through them.

You had sworn to take revenge and you were willing to pay any price to show the king what it felt like: losing somebody you cared for. If you had just killed the crown prince, the sole heir to the throne, the king would have ordered a witch hunt, one so grand scale it chased you to hell and back. You weren’t afraid of death, you were almost friends after all, but you wanted the royal family to suffer more. You wanted to prolong their torture just how you had to watch the people you loved slowly die of either disease or starvation or the fire the king ordered to cleanse the ground. You wanted the kingdom to burn through and through.

You thought the prince being alive would have given you leverage and it would have given the king hope you could trample upon. What was a kingdom’s future without its heir and what did it say about its king if he couldn’t even protect his own son? You wanted to watch the monarchy crumble to dust. You wanted the king to beg you to spare them.

So the plan was easy: you had sneaked into the palace, disguising yourself as a maid, pouring small doses of your magic potion into the prince’s tea every morning. You had no plans to get close to him, you didn’t need to because if magic compromised his heart enough he would have followed you like a marionette anyways, but one day you cut your finger on a rose thorn while arranging the flowers in the vase of the prince’s study and Serim made such a fuss about it. He held your calloused hand in his soft ones, cleaning the wound like it meant something.

Over time what started out as a few polite exchanged words turned into whispered confessions about his heavy responsibilities and duties and as much of your loss as you could tell him. What started as stolen glances turned into brushing hands over silverware.

His fingers were dirty with leaked out black ink the first time he kissed you. Gently like you could break and oh how sweet revenge tasted when you scooped out the pomegranate seeds and fed them to the prince, licking the fruit’s bleeding redness from your fingers once you stained his lips with your dark magic.

You almost changed your mind then. Your hand trembled as you tipped the glass and more potion poured into his tea before flushing it down the drain. You told yourself maybe it was even better. Having the prince’s heart in the palm of your hands was a crueller revenge than you had originally planned. That if the prince chose you, a lowly maid, a witch, over his crown, over his family, it was enough.

But then Princess Amala came.

It was wrong and selfish and vile but if you couldn’t have him, you didn’t want anybody else to have him either. If the king wanted to take him away from you too, you wouldn’t let him.

So while Serim was busy convincing you that he had no idea about the royal wedding, you finished what you had started: you kissed him hard enough to draw blood and bonded the last of his soul to a place only you knew. With the promise of freedom, the prince followed you out of the palace, through the woods, to a tower covered in roses. He was still delirious when he fainted into the silk sheets when magic drained out of you.

When he woke with a start, gasping for air and clenching his hand over his heart, you knew what he felt. Dark magic always left an empty hole in one’s heart like a wound that would fester forever. So really, you couldn’t understand why he still looked at you like that instead of disgust. Like you hung the moon and the stars when now he knew what you were and what you had done.

“Please, Y/N. Please,” he pleaded, eyes glassy and bruised lips trembling, and the lie you should have told him was choking you.

Witches didn’t have a heart and yet, yours broke for him.

END NOTES. i had the idea of writing a villainess girl & damsel in distress guy dynamic for a while now so here it is. also if you noticed the hades & persephone reference, kudos to you!

title and inspiration from marionette obviously

header picture from spring rhapsody

☆ cravity masterlist

💌 askbox

Serim was like a shadow around the corner shop you worked; he was usually invisible, but you could feel him lingering there. You welcomed him coming in time and time again, but he was always pretty quiet, so you didn’t try striking up a conversation with him. You didn’t even assume that he could have it in him to stand up for you against some thugs who had come in for alcohol, but he did so, and something akin to fear lingered in the air when the men noticed who had spoken up.

That was the day you got to know his name. You wanted to thank him somehow, so you said that his purchase was on you, but he insisted that it wasn’t necessary. Somewhere along the way though, you introduced yourself, and he did the same, but he did it so carefully as if he was afraid of letting you know who he was that you didn’t push him for more questions.

The subtle signs were always there - him wearing all black clothes all the time, the loose ones that allowed him to get away from the curious eyes because he got lost in the darkness of his garments; his fingers dressed in calluses, a hint that he was working with his hands a lot; him always paying by cash and coming here late enough at night to not bump into anyone but you most of the time; and being as reserved as one could be -, but you didn’t pay attention to them. To be precise, you didn’t want to. This might not have been the safest neighbourhood, but he looked as harmless as one could be with his unruly midnight black locks frequently getting into his deep, dark eyes, his words gentle and soft-spoken when he exchanged a few meaningless words with you at the counter, and his subtle acts like leaving the change behind for you or leaving a bottle of ginger tea on the counter when he noticed that you were quite raspy due to a cold.

He was always there, swimming around the edges of your pond - a constant presence, though not yet a permanent visitor -, and you gazed at him from afar because you were similarly afraid to get too close. You were afraid that if you did so, you would get drowned, the waves crashing down on you, and keeping you down, down until you heaved your last breath. Though the bottom was as alluring as it could be…

Then, one night, a motorbike parked on the pavement before the store, and everything changed. It was after closing hours, and you already put the ‘closed’ sign on the door. You just started counting the remaining cash to let the colleague in the morning shift know how much was the starting amount when you heard shuffling from the staff room. Nobody else was supposed to be there, except you, so you held your phone in your hand, your fingers hovering over the quick emergency call button as you made your way to the back of the store. You remembered closing the back door of the staff room that led to the outside area after you had taken out the trash, so your boss or a colleague might have come in with a key or someone had broken in from behind.

With shaky breaths, you turned the doorknob and flung the door open, your fingers itching to push the emergency call button before you recognised the figure crouching by the supply shelf.

“Serim!” You breathed out, both relieved and concerned, as you pushed your phone into the pocket of your jeans. The boy looked up when you called his name, and the fresh burgundy bruises painting the pale canvas of his skin made your heart churn. His words even more so.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t know where else to go,” he admitted, his voice coming out hoarse. Your brain might have told you to stay away from him, especially when he showed up unannounced at your workplace after probably being beaten up, but your heart was in control, and it didn’t let you send him away. Instead, you found yourself saying:

“It’s okay,” you tried with a reassuring nod, but you weren’t sure whether you were trying to ease his nerves or yours. Yet, despite your heart hammering away rapidly, you crouched down to be at eye-level with him, and pushed a few stray locks out of his eyes, revealing even more dark patches underneath. After examining his bruises, your eyes found his orbs already boring into yours, and for a moment, you felt yourself falter, falling into that sea of oblivion. It would have been so easy to not object, to give in to that tension that sparkled between you two, but you couldn’t sway. At least, that was what your brain told you. Your heart was telling a completely different story.

You cleared your throat, detaching yourself from the mystery that his eyes were, and announced:

“Now, let’s get you cleaned up!”

Even if the boy wanted to disagree, you were quick to search for the first-aid kit that you kept in a locker among other supplies that you or your colleagues might need for work. Sometimes you might cut your fingers or crash into a shelf, so the first-aid kit was always much appreciated, and it was usually fully packed, much to your relief.

You shuffled back to the boy with the first-aid kit in your hand, and you were surprised to find him standing as opposed to his previous crouching position. Upon seeing it, you hesitated a bit, but then the boy with the most beautiful midnight-black eyes broke the silence:

“You don’t have to do this,” he said, resigned, his words coming out like a goodbye, a choice, a crossroad. Something in you told you that he genuinely didn’t expect you to help, he just didn’t know where else to go, but it hurt for you to hear it from him - like he had already given up on you and on himself.

“But I want to, so I will!” You announced, a bit more indignant than you would have expected from yourself, and in the surprised glint of his eyes, you could tell that he was just as perplexed by your confident response as you were. Maybe that’s why he didn’t object when you asked him to sit on the nearby chair, so that you would have a better access to his bruises.

You tried hard not to concentrate on the way his eyes were constantly following your moves as if he was still doubtful that you would go along with it, but you diligently cleaned his bruises as best as you could. You had never had to tend to bruises like these ones before, and you were sure that Serim would comment on your lack of experience, but he stayed quiet. He only grumbled when you started putting antiseptic on his wounds.

“I’m sorry. I’ll try to be quick,” you promised, and he nodded. The bruise around his lips seemed like the most painful one, no wonder he made an inaudible sound when you put the cream on it. Simultaneously, the boy grabbed your left arm - that you left hanging by your side - to hold onto it while you were working on him, and his grip was so desperate that you felt your stomach drop.

Serim had always seemed so strong, so powerful, someone who wouldn’t need the assistance of anyone, let alone yours, but now he was holding onto you like his last piece of hope, and you had no idea whether that should comfort you or torn you apart even more. You didn’t even know whether you should pay attention to the crazy beating of your heart or the way your stomach was twisting and turning with both fear and anticipation.

“It’s done,” you said when you finished with the antiseptic, and as he looked up from his eyelashes, his fingers still holding onto your wrists firmly, his lips bruised, his face covered in a palette of purple, red and blueish colours, you had the urge to hug him, to tell him that it would be okay, to caress his wounded cheeks. Did you have the right though? Would he let you?

“Thank you, really.”

“It’s okay. You’ve saved me from those thugs sometime ago, we can say that we’re even now,” you croaked out, hoping to put together a coherent sentence when all you could think about was the gentle darkness of his eyes, the way a miniature version of you reflected back in them as if it was so natural and the abyss of him that you wouldn’t mind getting lost in.

His lips twitched and you didn’t know whether it was because of the pain or your words, and he didn’t say so. You merely gazed at each other, the moment stretching long and heralding something more, something different, something vulnerable between you two. The urges in you grew stronger, and before you could realise what you were doing, you were already reaching for his other hand that wasn’t holding yours, and gave it a light squeeze.

Serim looked surprised for a few seconds, but then he looked at your hands in a different way - he seemed thankful, touched even -, and when he spoke up, gentle and soft and warm like a blanket on a cold night, you breathed in his words, letting them fill your lungs and heart.

“Can we… can we stay like this for a few more seconds?”

Anytime, you wanted to say, but the words died on the tip of your tongue, so you merely nodded, and let him hold onto you just like you were holding onto him.

Maybe, just maybe, no matter what your brain was trying to tell you, your heart would still go for him, fight for him, care for him, and if you had to choose between the two in that moment, you would follow your heart.

A/N: Hope you enjoyed this story of mine! Let me know what you think!

If you want to read more stories of mine, let it be for CRAVITY or for other artists, consider signing up for my taglist here.

Sometimes it felt like you could fly.

Weightless. Free. Extraordinary.

Even if just for a few seconds.

And then gravity took a hold of you again, pulling you down with its magnetic field and you were falling, falling, falling… until Serim caught you.

The boy with the sweetest of smiles, twinkling chocolate eyes and wide shoulders you could always lean on. He was the best partner you could ever wish for: trustworthy, reliable, considerate and strong enough to hold up both your weights on a single trapeze when it was needed.

No wonder he caught someone else’s eyes too.

It was subtle at first, this one girl always lingering around after the Friday performances, hoping to catch the sight of Serim and tell him how much she admired him. You didn’t think anything ill of it in the beginning, it was innocent and cute and truthfully, your partner deserved every compliment he could get because he really was an amazing trapeze artist. Not to mention, it’s not like you had the right to be jealous. Despite the deep bond of trust you shared, Serim and you were just co-workers, nothing more, nothing less. Your foolish feelings for him were completely one-sided.

So you stayed quiet, only watching from the sidelines with this itchy, uncomfortable feeling bubbling under your skin as this girl approached the boy. At first you thought that he was just being polite, that he didn’t want to hurt this girl’s feelings by rejecting her but then you started wondering whether he really liked her and once you started, you couldn’t stop.

“Want some?” Serim sat down next to you with a relieved sigh, offering you a box of what looked like homemade chocolate cookies. It was the pink sprinkle on top that made you wary.

“What’s this?” You frowned at him, eyeing the dessert suspiciously but the boy seemed unaware of your feelings as he had been already happily munching on a piece of cookie.

“A gift from a fan,” he shrugged and nudged your arm with the box playfully. It wasn’t the movement but his words that made you alarmed.

“You shouldn’t just accept everything you are given, it could be dangerous,” you scolded the boy, trying to cover your jealousy with worry but the boy just ruffled your hair with a happy-go-around smile.

“Come on, relax. Clarisse is the circus healer’s daughter, what harm could possibly come my way?” He reassured you but your body stiffened under his familiar touch despite how used you were to his closeness after the years of routines.

Clarisse now, huh? What’s next, girlfriend?

You rolled your eyes when the boy didn’t take his intense gaze off you and eventually took a cookie from the box he so happily devoured just to shut him up. Tentatively, you took a bite, grimacing at the too sweet taste but even that was worth it to see Serim’s smile and you went along with it, listening to him tell you about this new routine he was thinking of for your next big performance. With your bare shoulders touching, talking about something you both were enthusiastic about almost made you forget about Clarisse.

Just almost because later that night you woke up with nausea and rushing to the bathroom, you coughed up the remains of her homemade cookies. You heaved heavily as you held your weight over the toilet, the pink sprinkles more vivid than ever against the white ceramic. You flushed it all down and washed your mouth, the feeling of uneasiness slowly settling down.

You didn’t sleep well after that and the next day you wanted to hurry and ask Serim before your practice whether he was okay or he got sick too but he couldn’t have looked healthier or giddier when you saw him by the tent. There was a wide smile on his lips and his eyes were shining like whenever you told him something he found fascinating such as random fun facts about gravity, but this time neither his eyes nor his smile were directed at you. He was staring at Clarisse, hanging on each of her words like a puppy waiting for pats. You felt like an outsider watching their interaction and no matter how much you tried to gulp down the bitter taste of jealousy, it was right in your face. You might have been petty but you also didn’t want to put your job on the line, so you raised your chin up and walked over to the duo with your arms crossed in front of your chest.

“Can we start?” You turned to Serim, rudely not acknowledging the other girl. You just didn’t think you could have looked at her without looking mean.

“Oh, Y/N! Right, we should,” the boy muttered with a confused giggle before turning back to Clarisse, still holding her hand. “Sorry, love, I’ve got to go. Meet me after practice?”

You almost choked on air. Love? When did that happen? He didn’t seem in love just the day before.

Clarisse pressed a chaste kiss to the boy’s cheek that flushed a pretty pink colour afterwards and you felt ashamed when you were caught staring.

“Is everything okay?” Serim asked, worried, probably because of your flabbergasted look and you could feel the burning gaze of the girl on you too.

“Yes, of course,” you lied through your teeth.

Nothing was okay.

Your suspicions were confirmed when you visited the circus healer. You said nothing about the food you ate being from his daughter nor Serim’s out of character behaviour. You solely told him about the nausea, the weird sparkly thing and how only you seemed to be negatively affected from the food, not others who ate it.

“That sounds like the typical side effect of consuming a potion that wasn’t meant for you,” the man said and prepared some herb tea for your stomach.

“What kind of potion?”

“Oh, it can be a lot of things, truth serum, memory booster, such things,” the man explained absentmindedly but you only started paying more attention when he continued: “As well as love potion, although those are strictly forbidden because some consequences cannot be undone and often lead to obsession instead of love.”

You hoped you sounded more put together than what you felt when you asked how difficult it was to make a love potion. The man smiled at you kindly and reassured you that some ingredients were so rare that in the entire circus it was only his collection that had it. Little did he know that it was exactly what you were afraid of: being his daughter, Clarisse must have had access to everything needed for a love potion.

Cannot be undone. The words echoed in your ears, frightening. Still, there must have been something you could do, right? There was an infamous curse-breaker in the circus but you weren’t sure they would be able to help. Was love a curse after all?

Even if you couldn’t change Serim’s love, because you just had your biggest fight ever when you dared to tell him that he acted like he was under a love potion’s spell, you should have tried to root out yours. Maybe then it would have hurt less to watch him being all lovey-dovey with Clarisse and drift further and further away from you. Whenever you tried to talk to him about ‘the love of his life’, he shot down anything negative you could have said and soon, you barely saw him, only when the two of you had practice for your performances and even then Serim was more and more distracted while you were getting frustrated with his behaviour.

The curse-breaker told you that every curse could be broken by the power of true love, but Serim becoming a puppet in Clarisse’s hands so easily only proved that he didn’t feel the same way as you did. You had known already but the confirmation still hurt.

Maybe that’s why this time, it didn't feel like flying. Your imaginary wings were too heavy, too rattered, too soaked with tears. Twenty-five feet from the ground had never felt so high. Right in the middle of a performance, watched by dozens of visitors, you had never felt more invisible when Serim didn’t look your way when he should have.

“Serim…” You called his name weakly and his eyes met yours, glossed over by fear, but it was already too late: your hand slipped out of his.

And then you just fell, fell and fell.