#LITTLE QUIVERING DISNEY SELF

[hasaniwalker]

Hundred Acre Kingdom: Prologue Teaser

I started expanding on my Hundred Acre Kingdom story for print now that tigger is in public domain. Kessie and Gopher will be changed, they’re still very much all Disney.

If you didn’t see the original story post years ago, this is the story of Christopher Robin’s daughter and the world she creates after she gets her father’s childhood toys. With a more adventurous imagination, she creates a world of knights, castles and monsters. This isn’t a horror film (though those adaptations get the most attention). Instead, it’s a coming of age story about what we inherit from others and finding our own paths.

I’m planning to self publish this for myself and anyone who cares to read it. It’ll probably be limited once it comes out.

Anyway, here’s a first draft of the new opening prologue for the book.

The Hundred Acre Kingdom

“I knew when I met you an adventure was going to happen.” 

― A.A. Milne

Prologue

The covers were a poor defense. She knew that, but pulled them close all the same. As the thunder rolled closer, it was only a matter of time before it found its way to her home. Destroying the door to and pouring inside. Lightning striking the walls, tearing down all the comforts decorating the hallway. All to make its way to her room and take her away to the darkness outside.  The Noise outside was proof enough of the sky’s intent. Loud, desperate and hateful that it hadn’t found her yet.  Yes, the covers were a very poor defense.

“Tut, tut little one.” Her father told her. “It’ll pass in good time.”

His ignorance of the threat outside was laughable. How could anyone be so calm with the storm so close to finding them? However, his words were a distraction. And a distraction of any kind was welcomed.

“I was just as afraid when I was your age, but you come to enjoys the thunder after a while.”

“I’m not afraid.” She nearly snapped in a whisper. “I’m just, wary.”

Her father smiled. “Well, when I was wary, I had some friends who would help me through it. Would you like to meet them?”

The girl barely paid attention to his words. A flicker of light lit up the room for a second. The threat was closer. Checking windows. Trying to find any trace of her. Time was running out.

“This one, he was always so afraid.” The man continued. “But his friend was always by his side to help keep him calm.”

The thunder had lost its way. Confused. They were safe for a little while. The girl looked to her father to see him holding a stuffed pig and bear. Old and ragged. They looked up at her with curious eyes. He placed them on the bed with her.

“These are your friends?”

“They were, a long time ago.”

She lifted up the pig. He was a small creature, but not without charm.

“Piglet.” Her father said. “On account of his size.” The girl smiled at this as her father stood up from the bed. “They’ll keep you safe through the night, and you can do the same for them I’m sure.” He looked at her, waiting for an answer to a question he didn’t ask.

The girl looked at the bear and the pig. The covers wouldn’t help, but reinforcements would.

“Yes.” She responded. “I’m sure I can.”

With that, her father left the room, closing their door behind him.  The rain still poured outside. Gently hitting the window and roof. For a moment, it was peaceful. Until a shattering boom was heard. The girl pulled the covers closer and looked to the window. Everything went silent again, except for a low whimper from the side of her bed.  She looked over to find the bear. Quivering, paws over its head and eyes tightly closed.

“I don’t think it’s found us yet.” She reassured him to no effect.

“He’ll be like that for a while mum.” The pig, Piglet had moved to the window. Peaking outside. “Looks like pure fury, but he’s nothing but fluff.”

“Don’t look out the window, it’ll see you.” The girl warned the pig.

“Looks to have lost our scent.” He leaped from the window and walked to the bear. “But if it comes back, I’ll be ready.” Piglet scratched the bear’s head. “And you’ll find bravery then, won’t you cub?”

The bear raised his head and nuzzled Piglet. He was large, but gentle with the small swine. Another flicker of light outside sent the bear into trembles. He looked to the girl. Eyes pleading for her to do anything to help. All she could offer, was a hand, to which the bear licked affectionately.

“We should pass the time then.” Piglet suggested.

“With what?”

Piglet leaned against the bear as if relaxing in the grass. He placed his hands on his stomach and thought.

“A story would be nice.” He offered.

“Something adventurous?” 

“That would be preferred if you’re able Miss…What should I call you?”

The girl thought this over. Not a strange question, but to be asked by a pig seemed like a unique situation.

“Clover, you can call me clover.”

Piglet nodded. “We’ll, Miss Clover. Tell us a story of adventure and courage and when the rolling thunder is done searching, I’ll take you beyond this fortress to real adventures waiting outside.”

“Along with the bear?” Clover found herself growing excited.

“Of course, can’t leave our steed.”

As Piglet rested and the rain passed, Clover spun a story of perilous events and wondrous places. It was the first of many that she would share with her new friends. Eventually, light shone through the dark clouds, and the rolling terror was long forgotten. Now it was time to go outside with the bear and Piglet, and ride off into the vast woods. Making discoveries and creating their own stories. Of which, there would be many.

[fox-buried-in-maple-leaves]

THE. THE SOFT OC ASKS FOR SERA. PLEASE.

Is your OC a hugger or do they not like that sort of affection? Do they intitiate a hug or get roped into them?

Serafim wasn't a hugger at first but he quickly became one once he got used to the affection. Still, he's usually roped into hugs rather than initiating. He's much more likely to initiate smaller actions of affection. Like hand holding or interlocking pinkies or elbows.

Does your OC have any endearing qualities?

Plenty! But his most endearing would probably be how witty and unique he is. Serafim is very intelligent and very interesting. And it shows :)

How does your OC react to affectionate gestures?

When he was younger he was anxious about it. Affection wasn't a big thing. But again settling into his new family he became used to it. Now he likes it :) he's very open to affectionate gestures.

Forehead kisses or hand kisses?

Hand kisses!!! Victorian boyyyy.

Do they like oversized jumpers?

His at home clothing often involves big comfy sweaters so yessss

What calms they down most when they're anxious?

When he was a child; Alee would play with his hair and quietly hum while he laid with his head in Alee's lap. As an adult though; Serafim will often play with his own hair to self soothe. But he'll love if a partner or parent does it even then.

What makes them blush?

Either by being very crude or being very romantic.

What Disney/musical song do you most associate with them?

Honestly I have no idea but Let It Go works! The idea of hiding such a large part of himself from his bio parents and then running away when it became too much, running away to try and deal with it himself to learn about himself. :)

Animated Fancast?

Don't have one...

Your OC is surrounded by puppies/kittens/ducklings. What do they do?

Serafim's lip will quiver as he starts petting... sits on the floor and let's the cute animals crawl all over him. He's so soft right now..

Do they talk to their pets?

YEAH but he does it in the same way he talks to anyone. It's so funny.

What's a childhood memory they cherish most?

Alee wrapping him in his coat, buttoning it up with a soft "Oh.. what's happened to you? Tsk.. poor kid.." and Vesper tugging a hat over his hair.

Are they a romantic at heart?

YESSIR.

What's the most touching gift they've ever received?

A family??? That or when his fathers crafted him a sword when he asked. He loves his sword so much.

What's their favourite item of clothing?

I mentioned it before but the blouse he stole from father ^^

What's their most treasured possessions?

The blouse, sword, his tome, a photo of his family and him, honestly most gifts he's been given. He's a very big family man.

Do they have a comfort food? Who makes it best?

A lot of Russian sweets count as his comfort food.. Alee makes those best. But also father evening's dulce de leche... listen nothing beat his fathers' cooking):

How do they cheer up a friend when they're down?

Their favourite snacks, films/shows, he'll shittalk the person making them upset if it's a perfect but with that speaking quirk of his, sleepover basically!!

What's a guilty pleasure of theirs?

Really bad Russian rap music.

Is your character a bookworm?

Embarrassingly so.

Does your character have a particular sweet/candy they love?

Honey Cake! But also Laffy taffy

Who knows how they like their tea/coffee/(insert drink) best?

'Artist Father' aka Mieran. And it's tea! Or kompot but then it's Alee who makes that best.

Do they like to have a lie in or do rise early?

Exactly 0605 every morning.

Does your OC wrap themselves into a burrito to sleep or do they get tangled in the sheets?

He goes to sleep on his back, sheet pulled up to his chin. He wakes up limbs and sheets EVERYWHERE.

Does your OC like to cuddle their significant other when they sleep? If so, who is the little spoon? Would they admit it if asked?

He loves snuggling!! He doesn't mind any cuddling positions, whatever makes his partner happy! Of course he'd admit it. He's whipped.

[frogtanii]

warm.

it’s too warm, was your first waking thought as you sluggishly waded through the mound of blankets that encompassed you to get a breath of fresh air (you assumed bokuto and kuroo were the culprits for your warm and fuzzy hellhole). your eyes first fell on the television playing the credits to the second or third pirates of the caribbean movie on mute, the remote haphazardly thrown somewhere to your left as though the person who did so left in a hurry.

speaking of people, there was no one left in the room as you slowly joined the land of the living. a part of you suspected everyone had gone to bed but atsumu or akaashi would’ve woken you up if that had been the case.

belatedly, you recognized voices coming from the front door and your still sleep-addled brain lit up. oh! you thought. food must be here! untangling yourself from the blankets proved to be an exhausting feat because by the time you were done, your body was covered in a sheen of sweat underneath oikawa’s sweats and sakusa’s hoodie.

ugh, gross.

you began to make your way towards the door, the blood rushing through your head preventing you from hearing the details of conversation but knowing atsumu, he was just haggling for a lower price even though you told him repeatedly, that isn’t how pizza places work tsum.

as you drew nearer to the commotion, you started to pick up on the heavy tension in the air, leaving you extremely uncomfortable. you had no idea what the cause of it was but you did know it was making most of the boys upset, who, by the way, hadn’t noticed you creeping around just yet.

a feminine voice rang out from outside the doorway and though you were still attempting to gain your hearing, the sound sent chills down your spine. it sounded saccharine, sweet, familiar, and oh so evil.

even with a head full of cotton, you figured now wouldn’t be the best time to reveal yourself, what with the clear discomfort permeating the atmosphere, but your big fat mouth apparently had other plans.

“‘tsum, just let the poor pizza lady go,” you muttered, the beginnings of a headache making itself known at the back of your skull. you were a little too caught up with the dwarf banging at your head with a sledgehammer to notice the shock that everyone in the room turned to look at you with.

a gentle hand grasped at your forearm, whispering something into your ear before attempting to pull you back to the living room, but that same familiar voice from the door kept you planted where you stood.

“oh, the princess finally makes herself known,” meiko sneered, her face finally coming into focus, striking you with pang of fear straight through your heart. “funny, i thought i left you speechless the last time we... ‘talked’.”

“ya shut yer fuckin mouth,” atsumu lunged at her but was stopped by sakusa’s arm around his waist, successfully holding him in place. meiko just giggled, taking a step into the house, her heels clicking as she glided across the hardwood floors.

in the back of your head, you noted that meiko looked unusually beautiful, her makeup flawlessly done and her outfit complementing it perfectly, almost reminiscent of how she used to be before... well, just “before”.

you watched the boys unconsciously angle themselves as a protective wall around you, the person holding your arm (who you now realized was koushi) pulling you in tighter until your back was resting against his chest.

a part of you couldn’t help but feel a little suffocated but the other, more self preserving, bit felt irrationally safe and protected around these boys. it was nice... or it would’ve been if meiko wasn’t taking herself on a tour around the house as though she hadn’t been living there for almost the past year.

“you all can tone down on the guard dog act. i’m not here to fight,” she said as she pretended to wipe dust off the island. “you’re not?” bokuto’s skeptical voice rose up from behind you, one of his hands finding yours underneath the massive sleeves of your (sakusa’s) hoodie.

meiko shook her head with an empty smile, her perfectly painted red lips stretching unnaturally wide. “no, of course not! i’ve just come here to collect.”

the boys collectively tensed around you, akaashi whispering for kenma to go find yachi and quickly. as he slipped away, you made eye contact with sakusa who gave you an imperceptible nod that you assumed meant one thing — keep her talking.

“collect what?” you asked, your voice coming out weaker than you wanted, but you hoped she didn’t notice. she cocked her head as her eyes snapped to you as if she’d forgotten you were there, but judging by her growing smirk, you knew that wasn’t the case.

��my boys of course!” meiko clapped gleefully, clicking her way over toward kuroo to run her hand over his bicep, laughing when he jolted away from her touch. “they’ve always been mine, you know that don’t you?”

it felt like a cold bucket of water had been dropped over your head. you felt frozen again, the same feeling of dread creeping up your spine as it did when meiko attacked you. in turn, you barely noticed kenma’s return who whispered something to sakusa — an action that didn’t go unnoticed by meiko.

“what’re my boys talking about? are you plotting against me?” she pouted, scooting closer to the pair. kenma visibly paled and moved to hide himself behind sakusa’s broad shoulders. “we aren’t doing anything, meiko.”

wrong answer.

“oh, we both know that isn’t the case kiyoomi. i’m not a fucking idiot.” meiko’s voice filled with venom before moving even closer still. you felt your heart beating rapidly in your chest, your hand gripping bokuto’s even tighter.

what if she brought some kind of weapon to the house? what if she hurt you? what if she hurt them?

before you could think, you were standing in front of the group, the boys calling out your name as meiko’s face lit up. “so the precious little princess wants to take a stand! let me have it then, huh? let me see what all the craze is about!”

despite the fear thudding in your chest, you stood tall, glaring at her with your head held high. “the boys are not yours, meiko,” you declared, her mouth instantly opening in protest but you refused to let her speak.

“they aren’t possessions or objects you can own and treat like shit. they are people, real living, breathing people and they aren’t mine either. they have full reign to do what they want, when they want, to make their own choices and decisions. and you know what? they didn’t choose you or me. they chose themselves and their happiness over any bullshit you or i could try and sell them. so please, for the love of god, get your shit together, put it in a box and take it to fucking therapy.”

by the end of your impromptu speech, your chest was heaving but you felt good. really good. adrenaline was rushing through your veins and you felt powerful. out the corner of your eye, you noticed osamu and daichi standing at the bottom of the stairs with something akin to awe on their faces.

yeah bitches. take it all in.

unfortunately, while you were basking in the feeling of badassery, you completely missed meiko’s eyes lighting up with pure, unadulterated,

rage.

you faintly heard someone call your name before you were taken to the ground by meiko leaping at you like an animal. the two of you scrambled about on the hardwood, her hands yanking at your clothes and leaving scratches on your skin but you were sure as hell giving her a run for her money.

you finally managed to get on top of her, pinning her arms to the ground but that wasn’t before you gained a hard elbow to the side and a bruise to your face. meiko thrashed and shook in your hold but you were not wavering, trying to keep her entirely still for...

well, for what exactly?

almost as though they were on cue, you heard the sound of police sirens wailing in the distance, growing louder as they drew closer to the house. underneath you, meiko’s eyes widened before she began fighting even harder than she’d done before, her erratic movements making it much more difficult to keep your hold on her.

luckily, you had extremely muscular men at your disposal, one of which (osamu — even though he was a dick, he was still incredibly muscular dick) held down meiko’s arms as the lapd stormed the building.

the police officers easily retracted meiko from your arms and cuffed her, taking her to the back of the cop car, despite her loud and insistent threats on you and everyone you love.

very disney villain-esque.

a kind looking officer helped you to your feet and walked you out to the porch where he began to ask you and the boys a few questions. you answered them honestly and you were genuinely proud of how well you were handling the whole situation when—

“bubs, you’re shaking.” sure enough, when you looked down at your hands, you were twitching uncontrollably, the reality of the events that just occurred finally sinking in.

you were just attacked. again.

you and your friends were threatened.

meiko was sitting in the back of a fucking cop car.

“what the fuck,” you whispered, eyes staring unblinking at your palms. the same officer mentioned something about shock, prompting all the boys to gather around you; atsumu pulled you in between him and sakusa, wrapping his arm around your shoulders, kenma and bokuto took hold of your quivering hands, sugawara and oikawa sat off to the side watching you with blatant concern, and kuroo and akaashi spoke to the officer in hushed tones.

the man nodded and shook their hands before shooting you a pitying smile and heading back to the car where meiko was waiting.

“it’s over angel, ‘s over,” atsumu muttered into your hair, pressing kisses to your forehead in between each phrase. you leaned into his touch but you refused to take your eyes off meiko who was watching the whole scene from the backseat, her eyes wide with anger, hurt, and confusion.

you didn’t bother dwelling on it, instead focusing on evening out your breathing and looking at the car drive over the horizon. you heard yachi’s soft voice calling everyone inside, atsumu lifting you up to your feet and walking with you, never once taking his hands off of you.

still, his words echoed in your head, even as yachi spoke of the end of the hyper house, even as the boys brought you to your room, and even as they all automatically cuddled around you in an attempt to get you to sleep.

it’s over. it’s all finally over.

you couldn’t keep the grin off your face if you tried.

℗ poker face

it’s over

series masterlist

(●’◡’●)ﾉ

an - OK THE TITLE IS MISLEADING THE STORY IS NOT OVER YET SKENSM (there are 2 more official story chapters before all the endings :3) also m not the biggest fan of this chapter?? so i’d love to hear what y’all think <33 don’t forget to feed me!!

taglist - if your name is in bold, i cannot tag you

@boosyboo9206 • @geektastic84 • @elianetsantana • @trashy-simp • @infinitebells • @6mattsun9 • @suhkusa • @katsulovee • @kotarosbabygirl • @fucktheworlddude • @insomniacwreck • @calumsfringe • @saltylettuce • @chai-blu • @al3x1ss • @hawksyoongi • @jooleuuh • @loubells • @kissungjae • @liberhoe • @tetsurocore • @animeoverdosee • @duhsies • @saiKishaircLip • @afire24 • @premiyagi • @kit-kat428 • @doctorspencereid • @daphnxy • @kyomihann • @maer-333 • @sinoflust19 • @peteunderoos • @peachiikichu • @iidanotlida • @yongboxerrr • @kac-chowsballs • @tanakaslastbraincell • @memorableminds • @risjime • @starry-magicshop • @sugavwara • @smuttyanimeslut • @kiwibirbs-library • @haijkk • @airybnb • @crybabygumi • @iwaisa • @decaffinatedtealover • @notameera • @kawaii-angelanne • @rintarovibes • @urlocalsimp • @keiarma • @shrimpypenis

the rest of the tags will be in the replies!!

[evildisneydorks]

ok so.. if you can, could you do headcanons for a reader insert situation where reader is essentially a normal person that just.. happens to end up bunking with the rest of the villains in the mansion by some odd chance (and thus wacky and frightening hijinks ensue you know the drill) like maybe they were looking for an apartment and end up there somehow and the others are just like ‘eh sure why not they can stay’ like a Jess from New Girl sort of thing? Sorry if that’s too specific I just thought it’d be kinda fun ^^;

I apologize if this one took soo long, I kept getting things to add to the post and I couldn't stop.

CW: Long post ahead.

How did you get there:

-You are currently looking for a new place to stay after your landlord practically kicked you out shortly after announcing that he was selling the building. You had no other option other than going to a friend's house for a couple of days. It was nice but you still hoped to find a new place soon.

-Whether you are working or studying, you are getting desperate for any place that’s cheap enough just so you can have a roof over your head as soon as possible. There were many places with free apartments in Disney Ville, but most of them would have cost an arm and a leg to rent for even a month in your current situation.

-Until one day you encountered an announcement in the newspaper which promised an extremely large house with a surprisingly low rent since it was split between more people. You were accustomed to living with roommates so you figured it wouldn’t be much of an inconvenience… The only problem? The mansion was filled to the brim with villains. Hell, it was advertised by the Lord of the Dead himself!

You had heard the legends, you had heard the atrocities and the tales involving them; you feared them deeply… but you also had no other option at this point.

-Gulping, you called the number listed below a picture of a large, dark mansion. A fast-talking, sleazy salesman voice answered the phone giving you some directions and things to keep in mind when approaching the area known as Gloom Forest. Let the animals cross in peace, step on the gas and don’t look back if you happen to hear chanting coming from the woods, don’t stick your head out of the window... You found it odd but you didn’t question these orders either.

-A day later and after a long ride to the outskirts of the town and through the woods, you got to the place. It was… odd, to say the least. The dark-coloured gothic mansion stood tall and menacingly in front of you, but it gave off the impression to be held together by only prayers and duct tape. It was old, ancient even, and as you approached it with a cautious pace, you noticed how deteriorated it was. The planks of the porch seemed weak, the fence was missing a few pieces and the black paint was doing a poor job covering how worn out the walls were...

-Fearing the steps might collapse under your weight, you skipped them as much as possible and rang the eerie sounding bell next to the massive door. A loud “COMIN’” came from the inside after the bell stopped.

-A tall, freaky looking man opened the door, towering over your little self. Upon noticing you, he changed his slightly annoyed expression for a toothy, business grin. Although it intended to appear friendlier, you couldn’t help but quiver slightly when you notice the yellow-fang-like teeth poking out of his lips.

“Hey! (Y/N), right babe? See ya didn’t get your head snatched by the Horseman on your way here, heh! Oy, don’t get all shaken, dollface, I’m just messing with ya”

The god pulled you closer to himself and kept on his speech “Look kid, I only got a minute ‘till my next shift starts so let me give ya a quick tour around the place, alright?”

-Before you could respond, Hades was already pulling you inside the wolf’s mouth. Unlike the exterior, the insides of the house seemed quite comfortable and even luxurious. Dark wallpaper and floors, gothic-style furniture, some rather grim decorations such as skulls being used as pot plant (You were too afraid to ask where it came from), dark-wood bookcases, chairs and tables; a black marble kitchen...

-You also had the chance to greet some of the villains around the house. Hook greeted you with a little bow while he was cooking what seemed like a large stew, Facilier tried to give you a reading before Hades pulled you out of the backyard where you caught a glimpse of Gaston and Clayton’s target practice. In the small library next to the living room Maleficent’s eyes seem to dig into your soul while Ursula tries to start a small chat with you (and possibly another potential deal from which Hades was quick enough to pull you from. If someone’s having your soul is gonna be him). Meanwhile Pain and Panic rushed behind you carrying your luggage.

-The god poofed out of existence shortly after leaving you in the room. It was maybe twice as big as any dorm you have had in your life, looking more like a palace chamber than something you could get for a cheap rent. It was then that you remembered that the little devils still had your luggage. When you opened the door however, you saw Kronk standing there carrying your things.

Apparently Pain and Panic had gotten into a bit of a fight with Facilier’s shadow (Fantome, as Kronk addressed it) on their way upstairs so Kronk had decided to bring your bags to you before the fighting escalated.

“Oh! I hope they are fine”

“Oh yeah, don’t worry about it! The little devils are two tough cookies” Kronk chuckled. “I just gotta make sure they don’t break anything, but if you need a hand just call me, okay?” he said with a sweet smile before leaving your room, closing the door behind him.

Although you still felt a bit uneasy because of the type of people surrounding you, maybe things weren’t soo bad...

Everyday life:

-It took a while for you to lose fear, but eventually you understood that most villains prefer to be left alone and they would not cause you any harm as long as you didn’t mess with them. Still, some of the more extroverted villains such as Facilier, Cruella, Medusa, Hades, King Candy and Ursula; will try to strike conversation from time to time.

-Aaaaaaand strike shady deals with you. It seems like they are all competing for your soul sometimes, but you manage to survive their sweet talking.

-Whether you’re studying or working, you rarely see all the villains and henchmen together at the same time when you’re home, but the house always seems full somehow. There are always at least two people fighting in the kitchen and one person doing god knows what in the basement.

-And you’re not allowed to go to the basement either. You tried asking Ursula, who seems to be one of the most open villains, about the basement but you couldn’t get anything more than dismissing comments. Eventually you give up, even if you still die of curiosity sometimes you don’t know if it will be worth the risk of getting a curse.

-On your free days, you have gotten invited to go hunting with Gaston and Clayton. If you’re cool with weapons, then they’ll probably make you join their hunting competitions; if you’re not okay with killing animals then you’ll probably just hang around in the back of the pickup or carrying stuff.

-Cruella insists on giving you advice and has tried to get rid of your clothes at least once in favour of more “fashionable” outfits. She means well, in her own way...

“Hey! Hey! That was a gift from my mom!”

“Oh darling, I hate being the one telling you this thing you call a shirt but I’m pretty sure this could be considered hate crime”

-You were afraid of the big cats when you first came in and seldom interacted with them, until you casually put your hand on Scar’s head and started petting it while you were both on the sofa. He would never admit that he likes it but he won’t shake off your hand either because it feels nice.

-Thank goodness you have two hands because Zira soon joined the petting sessions. Shere Khan on the other hand, still doesn’t trust you because you’re human but he tolerates your presence.

-Either you die in the crossfire or as the objective of one of the henchmen’s shenanigans or you live enough to join them and then get chased down by one of the villains.

-You’re never taking anything from Yzma again. Kronk was not joking when he warned you that she really needs to label her potions…

-Heads up, Frollo is worse than a Jehovah witness unless you put him in his place. It is a similar deal with Gaston. He’s insistent but if you put your feet on the ground then he might step back.

-Don’t worry, ALL the villainesses have your back when it comes to either of those men.

-Although a lot of the villains weren’t happy with having you living in the mansion, but you paid rent so they learned to tolerate you. Maleficent, Shere Khan, Yzma, Jafar and Clayton didn’t want anything to do with you at first. If they find you worthy, they might take the time to talk to you sometimes.

-One time you discovered Ratigan coming out of a hole in the wall. But after a very intense session of eye contact you decided that the wisest thing to do was to just keep your mouth shut.

[mehphoobia]

HERE

Pairing- Tom Hiddleston x Reader (news channel anchor)

Summary- People say falling in love can be a scary experience. Well, that scary experience for you had a different meaning for you.

Warnings- blood, horror, mystery, thriller, suspense (I suggest get a water bottle for yourself)

REQUESTS OPEN | MASTERLIST

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"Susan Hive, another 25 y/o was found dead in her apartment approximately at 10:00 am today. Who is the mastermind behind these brutal murders? the mystery is still with the police to crack. The only witness in the case are the walls of the apartment which are covered in parts of human anatomy never seen before just like the other five murders. This is Y/N of NewsToday with cameraperson David on scene." You sighed after finishing your report and looked at the crime scene. The camera person packed his camera and headed towards the van as he couldn't handle the stench. With ripples on your forehead you contemplated your decision. Should you or should you not tell the officers.

But soon you let aside your dilemma. These were brutal murder cases that had everyone shook.

And you had a lead to follow.

"Who are you?" you whispered as you sat in your chair staring at the photo of the deceased Susan Hive with a man. The face was not visible as he wore a black hat and a black overcoat. "Typical" you said gesturing his attire, which was straight out of a murder mystery. Unfortunately, the officers couldn't find him. But the lead you had could directly deliver this man to you.

"North House please" explaining the address to the taxi driver, you couldn't miss his expressions. "You want to go to the North House?" he asked you with genuine concern. "If you are not comfortable, you can just drop me near the curb" you suggested understanding his hesitation. Reluctantly he drove the taxi and there you were. Standing outside the hospital for mental patients. "How much will it be?" asking the driver for the fare you rummaged through your purse.

"I will wait here miss. You can pay me later" he said. Of course, the deaths in this hospital would scare anyone. But you weren't here for the suicides, you were here for the murders.

"I am here to see someone. A Mrs. Hill." you spoke confidentially to the receptionist. "For an investigation, are we?" the receptionist questioned. "It's confidential" you replied with knitted eyebrows. "oh! of course it is." she chuckled.

The receptionist accompanied you to Mrs. Hill's room. She was the oldest patient, who had been in the hospital for for around thirty years. Every patient, every staff member; she had seen for herself. "Are you here for the investigation for Susan Hive?" the receptionist questioned. Your head whipped faster than the wings of a bee. "You knew her?" you enquired. "Yes, I knew all five of them. They were interning under me." she answered.

"Janice Dean" her ID card read. "Of course" you murmured. Ten days back you had found one of the victim's case file from the officers which had something in common. North House, all three of them worked here and now so did Susan Hive.

"Don't worry I won't bug her too much" putting a and on Ms. Dean's shoulder you reassured her. She offered you a tired smile. With that she unlocked the door and you saw Mrs. Hill sitting on her chair.

"He killed another one didn't he?" she enquired in her shaky voice as if she knew it was going to happen. "Yeah. Do you know you he is?" trying to keep your posture, you asked. "No, but I have seen him." she replied. "Black eyes which weren't even his. Long hair which covered his face and the cuts." "Everyone thought, something was wrong in his head. They tried all kinds of medicines but none of them worked. He kept screaming and yelling every day. It would echo you know. The screams. Other patients could feel it too. But the doctors didn't know something." she explained but suddenly trailed off.

"He was possessed" she declared.

"How did he get out. I mean the patient like--" "Demon" she corrected. "We saw a body lying in his room. We thought its him. He had cuts all over his face so it was recognizable. The post mortem reports found out it was one of our doctors. He escaped as his disguise." explained Ms. Dean.

You couldn't get the fact out of your head as you stepped outside the hospital. With quivering hands, you opened the taxi's door. Looking at your condition, the driver ran to the opposite side of the street and bought you a water bottle. "You should go home miss." the driver suggested. "Beverly Hills Apartments please". The driver nodded and drove you home.

Maybe you should tell the police. It was not your job to go after the killer. Of course it would be one of the biggest news article for your company but this, its not worth it. Just then your phone rang. All of that tension and weird feeling in your chest was replaced by a sense of comfort. It was Tom.

"Hey babe! dinner's ready, when are you coming home?" he asked in his cheerful voice. You chuckled and said, "I started right now. Is my kitchen all right?" you mocked. "Uh..sort of. I'll help you clean though" he replied like a child caught doing something wrong. It was comforting to have him in your life. Amidst all of this, he was the exact person you needed. "Love you honey" you said unexpectedly. He could sense your uneasiness and knew your line of work. It can be terrifying sometimes. "Love you too..Hey, I am right here." he said immediately putting a smile on your face.

You met him three years ago. How boring can news conferences be? it was something you knew very well. But it was a little bit tolerable when a hot shot investigating officer suddenly made his way to you. Tom and you immediately clicked. As if you were meant to be. One date led to another and suddenly he started picking you up from your work almost every single day. You remembered he had proposed on your cruise date which had you in complete awe. How could you say no to such a perfect man. His beautiful eyes which were a perfect peek to your universe, his warm embrace and how he fit in your life perfectly made it so much easier. He made it easier.

The sudden nostalgia calmed your nerves and you took a deep breath in. Within no time you were home. You leaped out of the taxi, paid the man and ran to your apartment. As you were going to ring the bell, Tom opened the door and picked you up in his arms. Both of you giggled as he kissed you passionately. With your fingers curling in his long wet hair and his arms coiling your waist, you could melt under his effect and you did.

"Tada!! Fish N chips" Tom declared in his voice that he called his disney voice. You chuckled at his endearing self. Both of you couldn't spend enough time with each other with all these murders. He too was tensed but never showed it in front of you. The least you could do was to help him out. You watched your favorite drama as the both of you ate your dinner.

After the chocolate ice-cream, he got up to get the wet wipe to wipe your face which was covered in chocolate. You were gone out cold because of the tiring day. He picked up the plates and noticed you had run out of kitchen soap. "Back in a few" he wrote on a post it and pasted it on the fridge. He wore his black overcoat and decided to forego his phone and left.

"Tom? babe?" you woke up around five minutes and searched the house. Suddenly the post it note grabbed your attention. You chuckled when you saw it and you knew a lot of unwanted things were gonna be purchased. Who could help it, its Walmart after all.

You saw his phone and found his headphones on the table. He would sit on his chair for hours and listen to his music but he never shared them with you. So you grabbed the opportunity and plugged in his headphones.

"19-21-19-1-14 8-9-12-12" the first song read. Then you realized it was a recording. "Mr Hiddleston sings?" you scoffed as you pressed the play button.

"Ahhh" a woman screamed and with that you immediately grabbed the headphones and threw them. "Oh God" you whined as you rubbed your ears. You played all the five recordings and all of them were similar. Screams. Then it hit you. The numbers were different and were too wrong to be dates. WHAT IF?

"19,S,21,U,19,S,1,A,14,N 8,H,9,I,12,L,12,L" you wrote on a piece of paper. "Susan hill?" you gasped. All the other four recordings added up to the all the other four victims. You sat there staring at the paper.

"It took you long enough" Tom spoke from behind you. You flinched as walked away from him. "Did you?" you asked. "The screams, oh my soul was cleansed" he said as he put his hand on his chest. Tears were rolling down your cheeks as you looked at his face. He was in content, in peace. "Why did you kill them? What had they done to you?" you enquired.

"THEY LAUGHED!!" he yelled. Your eyes widened as you looked at him. It wasn't your Tom, it was someone else.

He was possessed.

"They fucking laughed when I was being experimented on. I cried for help but they were too busy laughing. Fucking bitches" he scoffed. "You know when I made cuts on their skin how peaceful it felt. Slowly, deeply I dragged my knives on their skins and watching them slowly dying because of the pain. So good. They were the ones who cried and screamed and I was the one who laughed." He was a maniac explaining his masterplan. Little did he know everything he said, you were recording it all.

"You think you can run away with it?" you mocked trying to make him spill out. "How will they know Y/N? I am the chief investigating officer." he ran the tip of his fingers on your cheeks. But you didn't waver, he was a demon. "All this time I have been trying to erase all the evidence" he spoke as he turned his back on you.

"But you?" he turned and walked towards you. He bought his face closer to your neck and kissed your neck. If it were any other day, your eyes would slowly close themselves as he would press you against the surface. But today there was nothing but tears. "You are my favorite. I can't leave any witnesses. But don't worry, your screams will live in my recordings. You know how much I love making you scream now don't you my love?" He laughed sheepishly.

THUD THUD. The bang on the door grabbed his attention. He looked at you made a sign with a finger in his lips. Was this the man you loved? Who was he? You thought as you looked at him slowly unlocking the door.

"Ahh LEAVE ME GET OFF" he yelled in surprised as the police officers pinned him on the floor. Slowly you got your phone in front of him which you were hiding behind you and showed him the 911 number. The officers dragged him away but his hooded eyes would not leave your soul.

Two days later, while clearing his room. You found a notebook with all the five victim's name on it which was struck of with a red marker and also five knives covered in dried blood. "Why?" you whimpered as tears made their way down your cheeks. Your company had printed one of the biggest hit ever and were at the top. You were promoted and were appreciated by everyone but at what cost? You were scarred for life.

Back in the North House, Mrs Hill was sitting on her chair as the receptionist were cleaning her room. "Oh no" Mrs Hill exclaimed. "What is it Nana?" enquired Ms. Dean. "Y/N call her!! NOW"

Something was going to happen.

At the prison cell, all the officers were in havoc as one of the security guard was found dead in Tom's prison cell. Hysterical laughs and water droplets echoed through the hallway as Y/N was written on the wall and was struck of by the dead security guards' blood.

You were sleeping when Ms. Dean called you. "Hello" you spoke in your grumpy voice, the sleeping pills were slowly kicking in. "T-TOM!" her line was cut because of the heavy rain. Just then you got a message that Tom had escaped.

"What? where did he go?" you murmured to yourself and then you heard it. The hysterical laughter and the sound of the recording button being pushed.

"I am right here my love" he said.

_____________________________🤍______________________________

A/N: Hey guys, here is my first Tom Hiddleston fic. For the those of you who don't know me personally I am a contemporary dancer and this fiction I had seen being performed on the stage. I loved the suspense and I loved writing it even more. Writing this was a challenge and it was a wonderful experience and I hope you all like this as well.😘

Tom Hiddleston is such a versatile actor and just fits in any character which is the main reason why I love him so much. It was very easy for me to visualize his demeanor in this character and I tried my level best converting it into words. Let me know what you think about this fic.😃

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My requests are open. So ahead and check my masterlist and send me your plots.

Love yourself...you are worth it❣❣

[jerrienelock]

Mad At Disney- Kendall Jenner

For as long as Kendall had lived, she had always believed that a prince was all she would ever need for her happily ever after to come true. To her young self life was nothing but an incomplete fairy tale just waiting for the ending to come too and make her dreams a reality with a loyal and faithful man by her side.

As time grew on and the girl flourished, the gracious future she had planned out for herself had been picked away as she was slowly revealed to the cruel and harsh reality of the world around her. The boys in her school were nothing of a prince portrayed in all those Disney movies she had loved. In fact, they were quite the opposite, they made themselves out to be more of the villain in her story like the horrid stepmother and stepsisters in Cinderella, or like Jafar and Gaston and Claude Frollo except they hadn't the even tiniest of likings to her.

It was a good thing she reciprocated their feelings.

Since the discovering of the villainous demeanour most of those had reeked, she had found herself lying in her bed from days on end just questioning the trance the unrealistic realities Disney had managed to print into her head. It felt almost wrong to her about the fact that maybe she just wasn't destined to be happy.

Well, that was until Kylie brought you over for a sleepover that one fateful day. And just then Kendall thought that maybe the reason she had thought that her original destiny was false was that maybe she just wasn't interested in boys.

At first, when the girl had succumbed to the realisation, she was so confused about it all as Disney had always taught her that a romance between a man and a woman was natural and was always bound to happen at some stage in her life, and nothing about a possible romance forming between those of the same sex. For that ever so reason, she had ended up thinking that something was wrong with her.

She practically ended each day crying herself to sleep afraid to ask those around her if it was deemed acceptable for what she was feeling at that exact moment. Nobody had noticed the change in mood the girl had not so subtly been eliciting except for you.

Kylie had always had you come to the house just to hang out or whatever reason she could come up with, so it wasn't strange for you to notice the peculiar way Kendall had been acting since you first met her.

At first, you had shrugged it off just assuming the girl was going through something and just wanted to be alone. But as time flew by you had become increasingly worried as you had seen less and less of Kendall every time you had come over.

Initially, you had asked the youngest Jenner what was wrong with her sister but she shrugged her shoulders and muttered something along the lines of "being moody" before going back to her strawberry kombucha. You rolled your eyes at your best friend swiftly pushing yourself away from the kitchen counter and stalking all the way to Kendall's room.

You didn't even get the chance to even announce your presence when you heard a soft voice telling you to come in.

Kendall sat up a little straighter on her bed, the sheets pulling down slightly whilst she clutched the white cloud-like pillow to her chest. She sent you a weary smile before pushing the tip of her chin into the pillow, resting her head.

Her eyes were red and swollen, an evident sign that the girl had most likely been crying. You gazed at the girl sympathetically, moving yourself over to her bed and sat near the bottom. Kendall delicately removed her hand from her pillow and gently patted the barely touched covers beside her gesturing for you to move closer to her.

You oblige and make yourself comfy on top of the duvet. Just as you relaxed into the headboard Kendall dropped her head down onto your shoulder, her hair falling past her face slightly.

"Are you okay?"- You questioned the girl softly, Kendall nodded, head rubbing against your clothed shoulder.

-"I just feel alone"- the dark brunette confessed, gaze stuck on the now slightly crumpled bedsheets.

"How so?"

Kendall shrugs, -"It feels like there's something wrong with me, and I don't want to tell anyone in case it really is true."

You knitted your brows together, shifting in your spot so that your body was tilted in her direction. You lift her head so that she was now looking at you. -"There's nothing wrong with you candle"

Kendall took her bottom lip between her teeth and diverted her gaze away from you, a sullen look taking over her. -"There is, and its the fact that my family might not accept me for who I am is what is worrying me"

"Oh"- you breath out somewhat finally understanding what she was talking about. -"It just feels wrong to feel this way about girls. Disney didn't tell me anything like this would happen."- Kendall continued bottom lip quivering, not really understanding the fact that she had just come out to you. Kendall tried to blink the tears away but before she knew it they had already escaped and were now slowly tumbling down one by one, like a raindrop on a car window that you would bid on to see if it wins a race against others.

You brushed her tears away and gently place her head back onto your shoulder. -"Disney didn't prepare you for these feelings, it only prepared you for the doomed alternate future you would have if you stuck to being with men"

Kendall continued to sob into you but let out a nod showing that she acknowledged your words. -"I'm just so mad at it,"- her voice broke slightly, -"I don't know why I ever believed in it"

Kendall's sobs resolved into sniffles and she let her head drop off your shoulder momentarily before nestling it into the crook of your arm. She pushed herself further down her bed so that her arm could wrap securely around you. -"Cuddle me. Please."- She whispered.

You were obliged to shift down so that the girls head was properly placed on your shoulder and wrapped your arms around her.

Kendall knew she couldn't be mad at the cartoon company for long, no matter how upset she was with it she wasn't able to hold a grudge. Instead, she just spent the remainder of her afternoon situated securely between your arms that moulded perfectly over her body without a worry on her mind.

***

Masterlis; Celebrities

[hansolmates]

g.p.s - god, parents suck | m

summary; seokjin just wants to enjoy the disney treatment and you are more than happy to deliver pairing; dilf!jin x hotelier!reader genre/warnings; crack, humor, gets a lil emotional, teenage daughter issues, one very minor allusion to a daddy kink LOL, a very vaguely implied sex scene, so CHEESY  w.c; est. 5.1k a/n; wee my first jin fic! this is for @btsghostiewritersnet​ #DynamiteDads event! I was supposed to go to disney this year but sadly miss rona had to cancel our plans so this is just pure self indulgence. as always thank u to @eerieedits​/ @chillingtae​ for the disney dream fic banner!

if you like it give it a bippity-boppity-boop on the like and share buttons! ✨✨✨

“Left, left!” Seokjin cries, holding onto the emergency break for dear life, “not my left, your left!” 

“We’re facing the same way! We have the same lefts!” 

“Clearly not if we’re going right, Sweetheart.” 

“But the GPS says to go right!” 

“In four-hundred feet, keep left at the fork,” Google Maps interrupts pleasantly.  

“That’s it. Kim Yeji, pull over!” 

“But Daaaaaaaaad,” yet his daughter complies, sadly pulling over at the edge of the road. She doesn’t even have to step on the gas, just turns the wheel slightly so she can land slowly, pathetically on the gravel. 

“Angel,” Seokjin says levelly, reaching over to unclick the seatbelt. “I will drive the rest of the way, I gave you time to practice for you have to drive to college but we can’t get on the highway like this.” 

“You never let me do anything.” 

“What, I do! Who let you go to prom in that sequined excuse for a dress?” 

“Uncle Namjoon!” 

“Fine, I’ll give him that! Who let you dye your hair to a crisp—” 

“Uncle Hoseok!” 

“Uncle–” Seokjin is affronted, jabbing the seatbelt in it’s locked position when he gets in the front seat. “Forget it, let’s just have a peaceful drive for the next few hours until we get to the hotel,” he removes Yeji’s phone from the holder, placing it in her lap. 

“Dad,” she waves her phone around, pointing to Google Maps, “you need the GPS to get there.” 

He scoffs, “No, I don’t. We’ve been to Disney plenty of times. I know where we’re going.” 

“Oh yeah? When’s the last time we went to Disney?” 

“When you were two? Three?” 

Yeji relaxes in her seat, not ready to argue with her dad once more. “Alright, lead the way,” she gestures vaguely to the empty parkway, devoid of life for miles. 

Seokjin is undeterred, reaching over the console to pat Yeji’s blonde hair. He turns on the radio, only to be met with the sound of crunchy static and terrible country music. Cutting the radio, he immediately switches to an old Disney CD, telling Yeji to let it go as he pulls into the open road. Reddish dust clouds around the car briefly, ripping against the tires as they drive off to their hotel. 

“Is this the Princess Hotel?” 

“Nope, this is the Prince S Hotel.” 

You can’t help but grin at the way your current customer’s face falls. He’s a handsome thing, all plush and pillowy in the cheeks and lips. Despite his daughter hanging off his arm like a limp noodle—after all it’s past 2AM and they’ve probably been driving for hours—he still manages to look somewhat put-together despite you telling him they’ve got the wrong place. 

“Told you, use the GPS,” her daughter chastises weakly, tucking her cheek in his shoulder. 

His kid’s a pretty girl, kind of reminds you of when you were a teenager. “The Princess Hotel is about an hour away on the other side of the Disney resorts,” you say slowly, noting from the way the girl is swaying on her feet that her father must be equally as tired, “although, I would suggest staying here for the night. Your daughter’s about to fall asleep on my counter.” 

At the pointed look you’re giving the teen, Seokjin puts a protective hand on her slim shoulders. “Yeji-bear, why don’t you lie down for a bit,” he leads her over to a spare couch. “We’ll call our booked hotel,” he says shortly, looking over his shoulder to give you a forced smile. 

Ah, you’ve seen this scene one or two times in your days working at Prince S. A father too prideful to admit he may have messed up just a little with the directions, and a child that probably argued or simmered so hard on the way they’re passed into a stupor on your lobby couch. Tonight, or your early morning is a little special though, you’ve never seen a father as handsome as the one in front of you, exasperatedly calling up their real hotel reservations. 

“What? My reservation has been revoked?” her daughter groans when he jostles around his lap, knocking her head, “how can you do that? Past the time? I thought this was Disney!” 

You drum your nails against the counter, using your other hand to pull up your guest list for the night on the computer. The father, now furrowed in the face, walks up to you and leaves his daughter on the plush couch. 

“One double bedroom for the weekend, please,” the father pulls his cards out, flicking it to your side of the counter. He places down his car keys in the available holder, “I parked out front, you do valet right?” 

With a nod, you get to work. “Take it they weren’t very accommodating?” 

“They gave our hotel room to some Make-A-Wish Foundation kid!” he cries exasperatedly, hands in the air as you patiently book the room. Your eyes linger longer than usual on his driver’s license and ID: Kim Seokjin. Even his driver’s license mugshot looks handsome. He rests his arms against your counter, despondent. “Is it terrible for me to hate on some kid with a terminal illness?” 

“A little,”  you shrug, slipping his keycard under his elbow, “but I mean according to your, Yeji-bear,” you can’t help but giggle at the nickname, “if you used the GPS you’d be at the correct hotel.” 

“Don’t remind me,” Seokjin glares, hauling his and Yeji’s luggage in one hand, “baby, let’s go upstairs c’mon.” 

You watch the small family trudge to the elevators,  sleepily walking forward like zombies. No one spares you a second glance, they never do, so it gives you ample courage to take a look at Kim Seokjin’s toned body. Broad shoulders, a Dorito-trimmed waistline, and long legs that you want to climb up on.

Oh, daddy. 

“Hey,” Yeji pops up on your counter, looking much perkier than she did hours before, “do you have my dad’s car keys?” 

Trying not to raise your brows at your young guest, you give her a smirk, leaning over the counter. A spunky thing, with sharp eyes with a pretty cat-tipped eyeliner shape that has her looking well put-together. You wish you had your shit together as a teenager, you barely have it together now. 

“I do,” you quip, “why?” 

“I wanna get Starbucks,” she says simply, “the pineapple matcha is to die for, and I want to drink as many summer specials as I can before it’s over.” 

“Valid,” you reply, going into your master key to retrieve all the guests’ keys. Taking Seokjin’s from its holder, you note the expensive make. Peering up from your desk, you look at Yeji’s innocent features. Before you place the key in her waiting palm, you snatch it away, “Why do I have the feeling you’re doing something that you’re not supposed to be doing?” 

Yeji tilts her head, “I don’t think it’s any of your business,” 

Sassy. You like it. “Get me a grande matcha frappe and your secret’s safe with me.” 

“Deal.” 

Watching Yeji drive off in the large Hyundai Palisade gives you a little twinge of worry, but you quickly tamp it down to motherly instinct. If you were Yeji’s mom—which you’re definitely not, you’d be worried. Naturally, you feel similarly. 

The hotel phone rings, the red light from 921 blinking on your switchboard. Flipping down the room number you pick up the receiver, “Prince S Hotel, how can I help you?” 

“You do booking, valet, and housekeeping?” Seokjin’s exasperated voice says in your ears, “who would I call if I want breakfast?” 

“That would also be me,” you reply wryly, twisting the curly wire between your fingers, “we advertise ourselves as a hotel for the quality, although we are much smaller with only thirty rooms. Sort of like a bed n’breakfast, getting the true royal treatment.” 

“Would the royal treatment consist of some extra towels and a continental breakfast?” 

“You got it.” 

A little cliché of you to do the whole “whistle while you work” segment—a lacy apron to make sure your uniform doesn’t get dirty, a spot of coffee to keep you peppy and setting everything up on a gold trimmed cart. You didn’t think you’d see Seokjin again, especially after how upset he was about his room. 

With a little rap on his door, Seokjin invites you inside to set up. Their room overlooks the valley as opposed to the busy roads, so it’s a perfect way to rise with the sun. He immediately reaches for the coffee as you drag your little cart in, completely ignoring the cream and sugar on the side. After a long sip, he moans in pleasure. 

“Ah,” he exhales, a sound that has you teeming. You grip the handlebars a little tighter than usual, “Maybe it was fate that we ended up here.” 

“Maybe,” you fight the urge to bite your lip, because Seokjin has no idea how cliché of a line that is. He isn’t even speaking directly at you, talking in front of the sun like it’s his morning routine. “Say, have you seen Yeji around?” 

“Ah,” you shug, pretending to be oblivious, “I think she went out for a walk.” 

He turns to you, giving you a quivering brow, “She hates walking. Probably calling her friends in Korea or something.” 

Of course she doesn’t like walking, you think, that’s why she took your car for some overpriced drinks. 

Instead, you place the fresh pancakes and sides on the guest table, making sure everything is organized and in order. You place the towels atop the haphazardly made bed, making sure to put two mints on top. It isn’t customary to include mints, but you think the mints your hotel has taste great and deserve to be shared around more often than not. 

“So, it looks like you’re ready for Disney,” you remark, taking note of his outfit. He has on blush mid-thigh shorts, stretchy and made from a canvas fabric that looks airy and comfortable. Around his neck is a little portable fan, and on his head is an old Mickey baseball cap. 

“Ah, just for today and tomorrow! Sunday is my ‘me’ day,” Seokjin says, dashing across the room at the sight of fresh food, “Yeji is meeting with some cousins and will be spending the rest of the weekend with them.” 

“Sounds like a fun weekend,” you remark, turning to leave. 

“Will you be working the rest of the weekend?” 

This is supposed to be small talk. You try to convince yourself that Seokjin is just being polite, wondering if his service is going to be impacted by you being around or not. There must be nothing sexual, or just mere attraction, going on between the two of you. Well, maybe on your side of things. The pink shorts and the baseball cap are doing things to your body that you barely understand. Unfortunately, the eager apples of his cheeks and the innocent upturn of his lips lets you know that any possibility of returned affections is virtually nonexistent. 

“It’s my weekend off,” you fight the twinge of excitement when you see Seokjin pout, “but Park Jimin relieves me, and he’s definitely a much better host than I am. He’ll make sure everything’s taken care of.” 

“Does he make better pancakes than you?” Seokjin asks, swirling a bite in a ribbon of maple syrup.  

“I’m afraid not,” you smile, “he makes a mean breakfast burrito though.” 

He shrugs listlessly, eating slower. He takes his time to make sure every pancake is cut in equal two-centimeter pieces, taking his time as if he’s savoring the last of your home-cooked meal. “Not sure if I’ll be completely satisfied then.” 

With a firm smile, you wheel your cart out as fast as you can. You can’t keep up the facade now, not with your trashy mind and your dampening panties ruining your sense of self. Quietly slamming the door behind you, you’re met with Seokjin’s spitting image. 

Yeji tilts her head at you, eating you alive with her dead-on stare. She places the keys and your matcha beverage on your cart. 

“Did my dad confuse you or something?” 

“Is it that obvious?” 

“He’s like that,” Yeji shrugs, taking a long sip of her drink, “don’t worry, I’ll put in a good word for you.” 

A good word? With an uneasy smile you wheel away, ignoring the burn in your cheeks.

“Can I have the keys?” Yeji asks the next morning, minutes before your shift ends.

You fight the urge to roll your eyes. You’re sure Yeji is a wonderful kid and has a good heart, but she’s seriously putting your five-star Yelp review on the line. Cocking one eyebrow you say, “What, need your Starbucks fix?” 

“Do you know how to parallel park?” 

“Why, need a teacher?” 

“It’d be better to have someone nearby to make sure I don’t park into a guard rail.” 

“Does Seokjin approve?” 

“You obviously know the answer to that,” Yeji replies, “and you and my dad are on a first-name basis, huh?” 

Fighting the heat in your cheeks, you busy yourself by locking up the money box and key tin, but not before grabbing the keys to the Palisades. “I’m doing this for you because I have impeccable customer service skills,” you feign haughtiness, leaving your front desk and scanning your ID to clock out. 

“Not because you think my dad is hot?” she follows you out the door. 

“Do you always talk about your dad like that?” 

Yeji is silent as she takes the keys from your grip, and you follow her in the passenger seat. A scent that’s fruity yet musky fills your nostrils, and you hug your arms for comfort. This is painfully awkward, at least in your point of view, but Yeji pays no mind as she connects to her Spotify playlist and turns on the air conditioner. 

“I’m not one of those prissy daughters that try their damn hardest to make sure their dad doesn’t date,” Yeji murmurs, adjusting the mirrors, “anyone my dad dates will be better than Hyehwa. He deserves to be happy for all that he’s done for me.” 

“Hyehwa?” 

“The biological carrier for nine months,” Yeji replies dryly. 

Your heart pinches, squeezing against your ribcage as you put two and two together. Hyewha, who you’re assuming is, or was Yeji’s mother, is definitely out of the picture. Yet seeing how confident Yeji is with herself, and how much he loves her father and wants him to be happy, is clear in your eyes. 

“You are one cool kid,” is the only thing you can say, hoping you don’t have that silly heartened look in your gaze. 

It seems that you do, because all she does is roll her eyes and put the car in drive. 

It’s nearly one in the morning when you get the call. 

You’re off the clock, but it’s graveyard hours and you and Jimin are craving pizza. So while Jimin tends to the last minute guests, you pick up a cheesy pie and hide behind the desk while Jimin does his job. 

You’ve polished off half the pie when the main phone rings, and Jimin sighs heavily. Late night and early morning calls are the absolute worst. 

“Get the hospital on speed dial,” Jimin jokes, but not really because the last time someone called at one, you really did wish you had an ambulance on-site. 

“Prince S hotel,” Jimin spins the cord between his fingers, looking like a dreamy teen heartthrob as he leans against the counter. He immediately swings the phone over to your greasy fingers, “it’s a personal call.” 

Wiping your hands on the box, you raise a brow. “Hello?” you ask, wholly confused. 

“Mm, it’s Yeji,” the voice slurs on the other line, “I need help.” 

“A-are you drunk?” you say, incredulous.

“Yeah, me and my cousin snuck a bottle downtown,” Yeji sounds nervous, and you unconsciously grip the phone tighter, “can you pick us up? I can drop you my location if you give me your number, please. My dad trusted me with the Palisade this weekend, I can’t let him know what happened. I know I’m always trying to get under my dad’s skin and whatever but I don’t want him to lose my trust, what we did is a dumb mistake.” 

A part of you feels for Yeji, you’ve done dumb shit like this when you were young. All those fond memories are nothing but memories, and definitely not reflective of your current life now. 

The rational, intelligent part of you knows that you should probably call Seokjin right now and tell him what’s going on. You don’t really want to get involved in their family matters, especially when as of late you’ve been inserting yourself in Yeji’s antics. 

With a sigh, you pull up your Lyft app, already knowing whose side you’re on. 

It takes no more than fifteen minutes for you to arrive at the scene, Yeji and what you assume is her older cousin sitting on the curb of a dilapidated Krispy Kreme, sadly polishing off a whole box of glazed donuts, Well, her cousin is polishing off the box, Yeji is taking nibbles at her proffered donut. 

You sigh, pulling Yeji up. You see tear-streaks, her previously perfect cat-eye smudged off and running down her cheeks. “I’m sorry,” she whispers, sounding not as inhiberated as she did before, “I bothered you.” 

“Not at all,” you soothe, running a hand down her braids. You try not to melt when Yeji nearly leans into your warmth, but backs up at the last second, “I’m happy that you called. Would rather know that you’re safe now than later, yeah? I’m not mad at you,” you assure, pulling a crumpled brown napkin from the pizzeria to dab at her ruddied cheeks. 

“Hi, I’m Jungkook,” you turn your head dangerously slowly towards the cute muscle pig who’s still sitting on the curb, “Ya deserve a five-star Yelp review for this service—” 

“But I’m mad at you,” you pointedly ignore his drunken charm. He looks old enough to drink, which only further annoys you because he should be the one taking care of Yeji, “get in the damn car, Youngkook.” 

“It’s Jungkook—”

“Get in.” 

He swallows his tongue, and you notice Yeji stifling a giggle at your attitude. She wordlessly hands you the keys, clamoring in the front seat while Jungkook takes the whole back row. Yeji tiredly informs you the address to her cousin’s hotel, and you drive off into the night. 

“Did I ruin my dad’s chances with you?” you think that Yeji has no clue what she’s saying, but there’s a little sliver of heart in her tone. Her face is pressed against the window, the cold glass on the verge of keeping her awake as she stumbles in and out of consciousness. 

“You could never do that,” you mumble, and you smile when her eyes willingly flutter shut. 

“Hey, babe,” you practically hear desperation in Jimin’s voice.

“Jimin, no,” you already know that his request is sitting prettily on the tip of his tongue, “it’s my weekend off. I’m not getting out.” 

“But someone requested your pancakes,” he whines, and you can practically feel his pout on the other line, “and he said and I quote ‘I’ll be able to tell that you made them.’ I feel threatened!” 

“Did they offer to pay in diamonds?” 

“N-no. But he said it’s his daughter’s special weekend and he’d be really thankful if you’d come by and make your breakfast for him.” 

Daughter? Yeji. You sigh, rubbing a hand over your face. You have your own room separate from the hotel, a deal that has you living rent free in exchange for your hard labor five days a week. “Heat up the stove for me and crisp the bacon,” you mutter, hanging up and throwing the phone under the covers. 

Tugging your hair back and throwing on a large hoodie, you put on your slippers and pad down the little sidewalk that leads to the hotel. The sun beats down on you immediately, willing you to go back to your air-conditioned room to fall back asleep. Swimming through the soup that is the Californian air, you shuffle inside Prince S and make a beeline for the kitchens. You brush through busy employees, flashing a quick smile and “good morning” as you get to your station.

Jimin is already there, sitting at your workspace. All your ingredients are sitting out: flour, eggs, butter, vanilla, baking powder, baking soda, buttermilk, and fresh berries. However, Jimin makes  no moves to attempt cooking, instead looking at you with pursed lips and waiting for you to get a move on. 

“Get your butt off my counter,” you slap his thigh disapprovingly, pulling your sleeves up to start mixing the ingredients, “you’re dirty.” 

“I embrace being dirty,” Jimin replies majestically, kicking his legs back and forth. His Doc Marten creepers wave in your vision, “thank you for swinging by. He said that it was really really important that you come in and make them. Daughter’s request.” 

“They’re lucky they’re a cute family,” you mutter under your breath, although the words aren’t laced with malice. 

The batter is fluffy and puffy, rising with the scent of melted butter and caramelized sugar. You take careful fingers towards the berries, creating a smiley face in the uncooked pancakes. 

“Is your maternal side kicking in?” Jimin says in your ear, and you swing at him with your spatula. 

“Leave me alone, art is being made.” 

“Sure,” Jimin hops off the table, patting your shoulder, “I got a date with room 69,” you roll your eyes, there is no such thing as room 69. “So please continue to be awesome and finish off this favor by delivering it to Mr. Kim’s room.” 

“Jimin, no!” you don’t care that half the staff is staring at you amusedly, the other half uncaring because they’re so used to the two co-managers. “I’m not wearing—I’m not wearing pants.” 

You gesture to the obscene amount of bare legs out in the open. California’s hot as hell, you try to wear as little layers as possible. However, in the workplace you like to keep a modicum of decency. Even though Kim Seokjin is fine fine fine, you have decorum. 

But Jimin’s already off to visit the guest in room 69 and you’re stuck with a pile of fresh hotcakes and none of the workers want to get involved in your shenanigans. Typical. Begrudgingly, you force your Hallmark-esque smile and arrange the gold trimmed cart, taking care to put extra berries in the fruit dish. 

It’s a simple transaction. Get in, drop off the food, accept the tip if Seokjin feels generous, and get out. The door to room 921 looks larger than life, intimidating like the gates to heaven. You knock firmly, but gingerly. “Room service?” the voice that escapes your lips is your sugary professional voice, one that makes you wince immediately. 

A muffled “coming!” has you bristling at the door. You curse yourself, looking at your bunny-clad feet and your legs disappearing under your hoodie. 

As soon as Seokjin pops his head open you blurt, “I swear, I’m wearing shorts underneath this.” 

“Uh,” and that forces him to look at your legs. Dammit, it was a good intention but the wrong way to go. “Good to know,” he coughs, opening his door wider. 

The room is much messier on Seokjin’s side of the room, now filled with Eeyore and Baymax memorabilia. A large, white Baymax plush sits innocently at one side of his untouched bed. You crack a smile at that. 

“Where’s Yeji?” you ask lightly, putting both stacks of pancakes down on the available table. You absently wipe the crumbs off, leading the little pile of food-crust to the garbage can. 

“Yeji?” Seokjin asks, “why would Yeji be here?”

The way you put the cutlery down instantly slows, “You called Jimin this morning saying you needed pancakes specifically made by me to give to Yeji.” 

“Who?” 

“Jimin?” you raise a brow, losing your high-pitched commercial tone. “Tiny, annoying blond guy?” 

Seokjin stares.

You stare back.

“Yeji’s at her cousin’s townhouse,” Seokjin states plainly. 

“No, you called and said Yeji wanted pancakes—” No. 

Yeji, or Jimin, or both called you and set it up. 

“Oh, Jimin’s an idiot,” you tap your head lightly, wanting to bop out any potential embarrassing memory that has burned in your brain, “must’ve misheard. Or is hearing ghosts! Honestly he isn’t the right mind I’m so sorry I reallygottaneedto—” 

You can’t even breathe let alone exhale the rest of your sentence, so you instead do the only thing you can do—run away. You don’t bother to exude grace as you plop any trash on the cart from yesterday’s room service, whipping the cart around so fast that the side wheels fly off and pop a wheelie. 

“We don’t have to let the food go to waste,” Seokjin says pointedly, probably watching you like he’s watching a comic show as you try to bolt out of the room. 

The door is closed, and the little hallway is too small for you to put your body and the cart between the walls. You’ve trapped yourself. Maybe you could just leave the cart and dip? You’re sure there’s at least two extras downstairs. 

“It won’t,” you reply dumbly, “I can eat it in the breakroom or something, I haven’t made breakfast for myself yet. I mean, I was kinda craving an avo-toast this morning, but pancakes are always a classic.” 

Seokjin snorts at your incessant rambling, carding a hand through his chocolate locks, “I’m trying to ask you to stay for breakfast.” 

“You’re trying to—oh,” you mirror his expression, running a hand over your hair so it pulls out of its already messy style. You haven’t done much physical activity this morning, but you feel absolutely breathless as you’re glued to the cheap carpet, taking in Seokjin’s wide glassy eyes

“And if you stay for dessert, I’d like to thank you properly,” 

“I didn’t bake dessert,” you hide the shudder in your throat when he steps closer, pinning you against the cart. Your knuckles must be transparent by now due to how hard you’re gripping the cart. 

“You didn’t,” Seokjin agrees, “but you definitely brought it.” 

You yelp, actually, a whole little dolphin-squeal escapes your lips as Seokjin puts his hand against the wall. You’re actually living a Disney-esque scenario that you do not want to be in. Seokjin’s either trying to give you the Eugene-Signature-Smoulder, or the Prince Naveen charm that isn’t very charming. 

“You’re a cheeseball,” you try to snap back, but it only comes out as a small reply, fitting of your cramped situation. 

His buttery brown eyes are clear and warm, and his sweet scent envelopes your form. You feel impossibly small, sinking deeper and deeper into your hoodie until you feel the heat of his voice sinking deep into your skin. 

It’s then that he leans in and whispers in your ear, his voice a simple request, “Please tell me that you’re interested in me too.” 

Something clutches softly in your heart, tethering you to Seokjin’s gaze. You wonder how many times Seokjin goes through this scenario. You wonder if he’s happy being a bachelor. You figure that many partners must have doubts being tethered by a teenage daughter, or if Seokjin is used to fleeting hook-ups.

“Have been since check-in,” you reply smoothly, finding your breath and looking up from your eyelashes.

Seokjin’s lips find yours, and you swear you’re lip-locking with Cloud Nine. They’re soft and supple and taste a little like maple syrup as they mingle with yours, and you can’t help but weave your hands through his equally silky strands, tugging him closer as he hooks his arms under your bare thighs. 

He gives your bottom an experimental squeeze, leading you to the unmade bed.

Needless to say, breakfast has to wait. 

“So, I’m going to throw a cliché.” 

“Sure, we’re in Disney.” 

“Why me?” you slap his bare chest when Seokjin laughs, pouting, “I mean it! All I did was look cute and give you pancakes!” 

“So you admit you’re cute,” Seokjin smirks. 

“C’mon don’t change the subject, tell me!” 

Even though this hotel is partially yours, you’re still amazed at the softness of the Egyptian cotton as it engulfs both your bodies. Maybe it’s because you’re warm and bathing in the noon afterglow, maybe it’s your bed partner. Still, it feels divine as you lounge in bed, sipping champagne (left by the door, courtesy of Jimin.)

“Mm, caught you driving around with Yeji in my car.” 

You sit up straighter, clutching the sheets to your chest, “You saw us last night?” 

“You were also out last night?” Seokjin tilts his head, “I meant when you taught her how to parallel park.” 

“Oh fuck—I mean,” you slap your forehead, knowing you can’t get away with this one, “Let’s just say I helped her out of a sticky situation. Don’t blame Yeji, blame Yeji’s bunny-headed cousin.” 

“Noted,” Seokjin throws an arm around you, snuggling closer. You relax into his hold, melting between the sheets and his soft skin, “Knowing you’re pulling through for her. Let’s just say I’m a little soft for my daughter, no matter how old.” 

“She’s wonderful,” you say genuinely, taking slow sips of your bubbly drink. 

“Wanna go visit her for lunch? I’m supposed to be meeting her in an hour.” 

You don’t feel deterred or nervous to see Yeji, or even the possibility of meeting Seokjin’s extended family. So you agree, run back to your room quickly to throw on a reasonable summer outfit that doesn’t consist of hooded sweatshirts and booty shorts. 

Seokjin offers to drive your sedan, and since you feel a little princess-ish today you decide to let him take the wheel. After a few minutes attempting to drive in the direction of the townhouse however, you lower the volume on the radio. 

“Jin? I think you’re going the wrong way,” not only do you live here, but you went to the townhouse last night and you’re sure it’s in the opposite fork, “do you want me to plug it in the G.P.S?” 

“I know my way, hon,” Seokjin waves you off, confidently streaming through the oncoming traffic. You smile nervously, you have a feeling this situation has happened once or twice. 

“Oh, is that why you ended up in my hotel?” you tease, “because you’re so good at directions?” 

“Duh,” Seokjin reaches for your hand atop the console, “after all, my intuition led me to you.” 

[macybeckham7]

Hey love, Trent imagine in he says to daughter “you’re so beautiful” and she says “no daddy mummy’s beautiful and I’m second beautiful” and he agree you can hear conversation listing everything that’s beautiful about you makes you motional thank you??????xxxxxxxxxxxxx

‘You are so beautiful’ he gushes over his little girl and peppering kisses all over her face. She moves the hair from her face as she shakes her head. ‘No daddy, Mummy’s beautiful and I’m second’ she says. Trent smiles as he nods as he always tries to tame her curls which was freshly washed. ‘I love mummy’s face, she has pretty eyes’ she gushes. You had been sat outside on the bottom step of the stairs listening to the two of them. The way they were gushing over you, anyone would think that you were a disney princess, but that just showed you just how much they both adored you. You felt your bottom lip quiver as you played with you hair, you realised that they had picked out some qualities that you didn’t realise that you had or some things that made you self conscious about. They both stopped and looked at you as you entered the room and joined them on the sofa, kissing them both as you snuggled on the sofa to watch a film.  

[periminkle]

blazes of deceit

this fic is a part of the disney collab hosted by @btswritingcafe​!! please go check out all the other talented writers and their works 💕

+ summary. When the opportunity to finally venture past the stone walls you’ve grown up in presents itself, you jump at the chance to discover the origin of those mysterious lights—even if the trip comes with a harsh truth and a suspicious, yet undoubtedly attractive, tour guide.

+ pairing. jungkook x reader

+ genre. fluff, angst. tangled!au.

+ word count. 26.052

+ rating. 18+

+ warnings. threats against a baby’s life, unwarranted death, mom problems, trespassing, pan violence, hiding a (not dead) body, tying people up with hair, curse words, drinking, thievery, deadly chase, sword/pan fight, recklessly jumping from a great height, graphic descriptions of wounds and blood, general violence, dark family matters (it’s pretty twisted!), orchestrated infidelity.

+ author’s note. happy early birthday to golden baby jungkook!! this fic took me wAY too long to write but she’s finally here! HUGE thank you to my big brain frenemy @guklvr​ for beta reading and hyping me up by boosting my confidence level +2000 even tho she’s on vacation and should be relaxing LMAO i would’ve postponed this until next year if u didn’t push me so TY ILY LOADS CARL 💘 i also wanted to shoutout #1 jk ryder supporter @dewykth​ and wofe @yeojaa​ for encouraging me every step along the way, y’all are the best n ily both to pieces 💝💕

You are positively ravenous.

Flurries of people scurry past the towering bars of your crib, yet none spare a glance in your direction despite your boisterous wailing. Like moths to a flame, they’re all huddled in one corner, surrounding a panting woman that clutches her rotund abdomen in one hand while tightly clasping onto a bejewelled crown in the other.

“What are you waiting for?” she spits out, hardened orbs narrowed in on your pathetic form.

“Your Royal Majesty, it’s only been an hour since you have given birth, please reconsider—”

Her glower is redirected onto the younger woman’s trembling form. “Are you questioning your Queen? Shall we reconsider your life as well?”

“No,” she begs, her tone quivering with anguish, “please spare my ignorant self.”

Your facial muscles begin to cramp and the walls of your throat feel like sandpaper, which only serves to exacerbate your violent sobs. The insistent suckling on your thumb is doing nothing to quell your raging stomach.

Her lips peel back to reveal two rows of pearly white, dazzling teeth framed by a nasty snarl. “Somebody slit that brat’s throat!”

Another midwife adorned in the bloody rags of childbirth darts across the cramped space with a weeping bundle of rough canvas in her arms. As she scrambles to deliver the shuddering newborn into his counterfeit mother’s arms, the clumsy woman trips over thin air, flying across her enraged Queen’s lap. Without a second thought, her backside is pierced by a shiny steel sword, sullied in a crimson liquid when it reappears.

The introduction of another babe deters your cries for attention. Instead, you distract yourself with a dull glimmer that you catch in your peripheral. Your chubby fingers hopelessly extend toward the dingy stars dangling above your head, just out of reach, reflecting the bright orange tiger lily printed onto the high ceiling of your cage.

“Not a soul shall speak of today's treachery.”

You’re well aware that your short arms could never stretch the distance required to satiate your unending curiosity; but they stay aloft, searching for the reassuring warmth of your mother’s embrace.

“Our blood will remain on the throne.”

Screams of agony overwhelm your developing eardrums as your tiny hands come to cradle your head, willing the pain to end.

Every inch of your walls is covered with abstract paintings, doodles of twisting branches snaking around the edges, dainty birds in every colour under the sun, and a joyous little girl dancing in her own brilliant freedom. No matter where you look, bespeckled tiger lilies are buried within the intricate linework like easter eggs, waiting to be found.

Your favourite by far is the uncanny depiction of the image stashed deep inside the crevices of your memory, a sight your heart desires to view most from up close. The miniature illustration captures your longing gaze pinned on the multitudinous lights ascending from a foreign location, golden hair streaming down your back and flowing over the fireplace in your determination to capture its vast length.

You attempt to steel your nerves for the umpteenth time, but you can’t help your nervous pacing across the minuscule length of your room. The entire tower is spotless as a result of your mindless cleaning—floors scrubbed twice, nonexistent dust wiped away, and trinkets set at the perfect angle to encourage your mother to comply with your outrageous request.

Today is the day, after all. The day that you’ll finally convince the stubborn woman to bring you out to watch the masses of floating lanterns disappear into the night sky.

The pitter-patter of your bare feet scuttling against the concrete floors nearly drown out the melodic appellations from outside your window.

“—down your hair!”

You dash over to the aperture, hastily gathering the ends of your mane to fling down while fixing the bulk of it onto the hook above your head. When the figure enshrouded in a black cloak snatches up your tresses, looping it around to create a foothold and carefully wedges one leg inside, you haul them up through the makeshift pulley.

By the time both of their feet are safely planted on the ground next to yours, sweat is beginning to form by your temples and the perpetual ache in your arms flares from consistently being forced to heave another grown adult up the stretch of the colossal tower.

“Welcome home, Mother.” You pull the rest of your hair inside and turn to face the stunning woman who lowers her excessively long hood, the extra length of fabric intentionally stitched on to keep her identity obscure as she travels.

Your mother sweeps you up into her comforting embrace and you allow yourself to relax in her arms, resting your cheek on her chest while your digits tightly clasp on to one another around her middle. Her chin settles onto the crown of your head.

“You would think that lifting me up all these years would give you some more upper body strength,” she says, her disappointment practically tangible. Placing both manicured hands upon each of your shoulders with a light squeeze, she pushes you back to examine your body from head to toe. “But look at you! My poor, delicate, little flower.”

Your forehead creases from your raised brows as a tense smile completes your agitated countenance.

“Oh, darling, what’s wrong? Come, come with Mother.” The adamant woman latches onto your forearm, dragging you over to the rustic fireplace and pressing down on your shoulders. Ever the obedient child, you kneel down onto the thick rug below.

Your mother delicately takes a seat on the antique chair beside you, a weary sigh slipping past her lips before she starts sweeping a brush through your golden strands. As per tradition, you sing the incantation that’s essentially engraved in the back of your mind at this point.

“Flower, gleam and glow Let your power shine Make the clock reverse Bring back what once was mine,”

A gleaming shimmer races across your tresses at the verse and from the corner of your vision you watch the light creases marring your mother’s features fade in rapt attention. She hums along to the tune with a detached, distant look in her eyes.

“Heal what has been hurt Change the Fates' design Save what has been lost Bring back what once was mine,”

You allow your lids to slide closed, gathering all the courage you can muster for the following conversation.

“What once was mine.”

Once the last note fades and a deafening silence reigns, she gently urges, “Tell Mother everything.”

This is it, it’s now or never.

“Uh, well, as you know,” you mumble, clearing your throat, “my eighteenth birthday is tomorrow.”

“Mhm, and I’ve already gotten your present as well,” she hums, steadily working her way down your mass of hair.

You falter at the information she casually reveals, guilt eating away at your conscience for preparing to ruin her good mood. “Yes, I know you’re always thinking of me, but, uh, well—”

“You can tell me, darling.” You register your mother’s heavy palm stroking your head, coaxing the words to tumble out of your mouth.

So you lay it on her. “I was just wondering if you would take me to see the lanterns this year.”

“What was that?” she questions, rightfully so when the garbled words blurt out quicker than you can process.

Before you can second guess yourself, you stammer, “C-can we please go see the lanterns?”

The brush suddenly halts in its path, suspended within the waves and dips of your many strands. Although you can’t see her, you know your mother well enough to feel her stiffen up, peeved at the topic you’ve brought up many times before.

“Petal—”

You interrupt, desperate to plead your case, “Mother, please, I’ve been waiting for—”

“Zip it.” You instantly clamp up at her hissing.

Your mother takes her time to stand, stalking over to halt directly in front of your hunched form. Her daunting figure looms above you, fierce orbs evoking a filthy shame that sinks its claws into your spine, and you lower your stare to her ankles from its intense weight. “Enough. I don’t understand why you keep asking this idiotic question when you already know what my answer is going to be.”

Her spontaneous refusal dampens your spirit, but you press on. “I just, uh, thought that I could see them once for my birthday a-and then I’d never ask to leave the tower again.”  

With a scowl as cold as an executioner’s axe, her arms come to cross beneath her bust. “I’ve already told you time and time again that they’re to celebrate the healthy birth of the Prince, any special ‘connection’ you feel to these lights is simply misguided and naive.”

You scramble to gather the scraps of bravery she shredded in order to sputter out, “But it’s my b-birthday too. Even if it’s just a coincidence, I wanna see them with my own two eyes.”

“How many times do I have to explain to you how dangerous the world is outside these walls? Do you know how many people are jumping at the chance to use your magic for themselves?” She rolls her eyes, chiding at you as if you’re a petulant child who disobeyed their elders one too many times. “If your little heart wants some adventure, you can go downstairs and explore the living room, besides darling, you should be thankful that nothing has happened all these years.”

“How am I supposed to be thankful for anything when you keep coddling me like this!” you lash out, frustration bubbling over at her usual response and refusing to toe the line any longer. Any notion of gently swaying her judgement or prompting her to consider your point of view is thrown out the window.

But your mother is nothing if not resolute.

“What?” Her words turn to ice—syllables forming razor-sharp blades that figuratively line your throat, poised to strike the second you step out of place. “Do you want to repeat that?”

Your breaths quicken, deathly afraid of the repercussions that will follow if you decide to continue your rebellious act. It wouldn’t be the first time that she punished you for begging to leave the tower.

“I’m sorry,” you apologize, head hanging low and voice laced with resignation, “I didn’t mean that. I shouldn’t have brought it up.”

“Aw, my precious petal,” she coos, her mood drastically flipping one hundred and eighty degrees as the edges of her lips subtly point upwards at your obedience. “That’s why Mother is here, to guide you in the right direction. You know that I’m only looking out for you, right?”

“Of course, Mother.”

Evidently content with the outcome of the conversation, she turns back to continue brushing through your tresses.

By the time her ebony cloak rests upon her thin shoulders, hood draping over her face, your hair is already hanging by the hook above the window and she hops through the opening to lower herself to the ground below. You watch as her figure shrinks with the increasing distance, only turning back once to give a short wave before disappearing through the lush greenery.

And then you’re alone once again.

In the hours that pass after your mother’s departure, you become well acquainted with the five stages of grief. Of course, your requests to leave have been denied more times than you can count on both hands, but you foolishly believed that mentioning the eighteen years you spent cooped up in one place, fending off boredom, would hit a soft spot.

You forgot that your mother doesn’t have any of those.

Obviously, she anticipated your attempt to convince her by throwing yourself a pity party, as she deliberately mentioned purchasing a gift in advance. Out of all your celebrations, you couldn’t recall a single time where she prepared—much less remembered—your birthday.

Utterly absorbed within your final stage of acceptance, you lose yourself within your thoughts. That’s why the steady, rhythmic tapping on the cobblestone metres below makes you jump, mind wiped clean of everything except questioning the origin of the sound. Goosebumps manifest across the length of your arms, already slick with cold sweat.

Initially, you believe that your mother may have misplaced something, but your doubt accumulates when you don’t hear her usual jingle follow the rapping. You wonder if she is harbouring acrimony at your earlier outburst—even though she seemed quite pleased as she left.

Thus, like the loving daughter you are, you gather the ends of your hair, about to throw the lump over the aperture when you take notice of the stranger’s bulky frame and lack of disguise. Last time you checked, Mother certainly hadn’t chopped all her curls off either.

You can feel your heart thumping in your head, chest rising and falling expeditiously to compensate for the sudden rush of adrenaline surging through your veins. In your distress, her words come back to bite you, echoing within your mind that he must be after your magic.

Mother knows best, after all.

Discreetly glancing back down, you spot the man scaling the wall using two arrows, a feat which you’re sure he wouldn’t be capable of performing without those well-defined muscles, attractively outlined through his thin clothing. Realizing that you’re wasting time ogling at the intruder, you spin back to survey your room, scanning the area for any weapons you can use to defend yourself.

You disregard any prospect of overpowering him and decide to approach the confrontation by taking advantage of your ability to startle him. Before long, the sounds of the rigid arrowheads wedging into the spaces between the stones are no more than a couple of metres away, and you grab the nearest object in a blind panic.

All too soon, his large hands are gripping the window sill, and you scurry to press your body against the wall directly next to the opening. You grip the handle of metal tighter, struggling to keep your heavy breaths silent as you watch his fit form effortlessly raise himself up past the open window.

When he lands inside, you’re transfixed by the way his shirt hangs on his brawny body, the veins in his arms enlarged from the physical exertion of carrying his weight up the tower. Just for that moment, you let your eyes roam his lean figure in unadulterated fascination.

“Hah! Stupid guards, thinking they could catch me after—”

And then that moment ends.

A loud clang resounds throughout the cramped space as a result of the pan in your hand bashing into the back of his head. For a split second, you worry if the force behind your swing is enough to knock him out cold, but then he meets the floor headfirst. You wince for him.

With the substitute weapon in hand, you circle around his seemingly unconscious form up to his head, which is turned away from your prying stare. In order to decipher his level of cognizance, you crouch down and bow over him to get a better look at his face.

Long, dark locks that were perfectly mussed before his fall now cover nearly half his countenance, so you push them to the side to reveal his closed lids and strong brows. Following the curve of his cheekbones, you pass his cupid’s bow to gaze upon his thin lips, a tiny beauty mark laying directly underneath—an intimate detail that you feel uncomfortable knowing.

A faint blush colours your cheeks as you comprehend how utterly breathtaking the stranger is, drastically disparate to the stories your mother told you as a child, where men resembled ogres that lived under bridges, grotesque and unkempt.

He is nothing like that. Not at all.

He reminds you of the princes you read about in picture books—dashing and strong, willing to go to extreme lengths to find their Princess, their one true love. You know you’re taking it too far when you begin to fantasize about his personality purely based on his, admittedly, strikingly handsome appearance. With a vigorous shake of your head, you force yourself out of your reverie and get back to your task.

You stretch two fingers out to rest just beneath his nostrils, feeling the warm air that leaves his body at constant intervals, a good sign that he was not only alive but knocked out cold.

You prod at his shoulder, whispering, “Are you awake?”

No reaction.

With this confirmation, you take hold of one of his wrists with both hands and clench your jaw while leaning back, trying to use your body weight to help drag him. He proves to be much heavier than you initially believed, though you feel him moving inch by inch. Rather than another human being, you simply think of him as a heavy sack of potatoes for the sake of your conscience as you shuffle backwards, heading for the wardrobe on the other side of the room.

By the time you reach said armoire, you collapse on the ground next to him, gulping in as much air as you can. Now, there was simply the problem of shoving him inside. You turn your head to face the stranger, pouting at the prospect of having to lift his bulky self.

After much pushing and rearranging, the doors finally close behind him, although, as you predicted, stuffing him in there took much longer than you would like to admit. You aren’t sure how comfortable he is in the disfigured pretzel position you left him in, but his contentment is not at the top of your list of priorities right now.

Rubbing your palms together, you go to pick up the frying pan that lay discarded on the floor near the window when you take notice of the brown satchel that sat next to it. You have no use for any kind of travelling equipment, obviously, what with your whole life existing in this tall building, and your mother only carries a quaint, woven basket around. She is insistent on living as modestly as possible, and that includes whatever goodies she brings back from her adventures.

That rules out everyone but the stranger. The bag does look more masculine, anyway. Grabbing the strap, you raise the object in question up to have a closer inspection and find the leather to be heavier than expected. There are odd bumps protruding from its exterior, filling you with a tenuous curiosity.

Carefully, you lift the flap open to expose a heavily jewelled crown. Perplexity is written within the creases of your brows as you reach to grab the item within and drop the empty satchel. From your inexperienced eyes, the thing is as real as it gets, a shimmering gold decorated with the finest jewels in the kingdom. The different colours of each gem catch the light, reflecting the brilliant rays onto the walls of your room.

Your impromptu analysis concludes with an inexplicable pull towards the diadem, which you’re uncertain how to act upon until you involuntarily place the crown on your head. You turn to face the mirror leaning against the wall and it feels so right, as though two matching puzzle pieces have finally been brought together. The reflection staring back at you seems complete in ways you have never been before.

Yet, you can’t begin to fathom the reasoning behind all these strange epiphanies, unfamiliar with the tranquillity that quiets the constant buzzing in your head. Overwhelmed, you remove the crown and not a moment too soon, for a familiar, shrill shriek meets your ears.

“Petal!”

Your stomach lurches. Eyes darting to the wardrobe, you’re reminded of the man inside. You know if Mother saw him, she would definitely freak out, maybe even refuse to visit for the next week to drive you insane with solitude. But, then again, you could use him as an example to show that you could handle yourself out in that dangerous world she was always going on and on about.

“Let down your hair!”

You stuff the diadem back in the bag and stow it in an empty flower pot.

Giddy at the prospect of having a legitimate argument to reinforce your reasoning to leave the tower, you dash to the window sill and fling your hair over without a second glance outside. The rush of excitement blinds you from the sensitivity of your sore muscles as you haul her up.

“Petal,” your mother grits out, staggering inside due to your rushed actions, “what did I tell you about checking who’s calling before letting your hair down?”

“Hello, Mother!” you brush off her question, practically bouncing on the balls of your feet. “I have something really important to show you!”

“Don’t change the subject.” She squints her eyes at you, lips pursed with frustration. “You're getting more and more reckless. One of these days, a crook will make their way up here and you’ll be foolish enough to invite them inside, maybe pour them a cup of tea while you’re at it?”

“I’m truly sorry.” You decide to humour her to prevent her temperament from flaring, throwing out a meaningless apology—one you’re used to blurting out left and right.

“Now that’s what I like to hear,” she says, as smug and haughty as always. Your mother removes her coat, handing it off to you. “But today’s your lucky day! Just as I was about to visit, I remembered to bring your present!”

Your heart warms at your mother’s unusual thoughtfulness, although you’re much too eager to prove your strength first. “Ah, thank you, Mother. But I really want to show you—”

“Something more important than your mother’s present?”

“Of course not! I just wanted to get it out of the way so that I could enjoy your present later.” She seems unconvinced, so you add, “Y’know how they always say to leave the best for last?”

The older woman heaves an exasperated sigh, shoving you out of the way as she heads for the armchair in the corner. She slumps her tired form on the rickety seat as it creaks its refusal, then waves her hand, gesticulating that you get on with whatever it is you have up your sleeves.

Perspiration gathers within your palms and you fight to ward off the minuscule smile that plays on your lips while you gradually make your way back to the wooden armoire, “So, you’re always going on about how weak and fragile I am…”

“Yes.” She rests her chin in her hand, scrutinizing every hair on your head as though the answers to your ridiculous behaviour are buried within the multitudinous strands. “And what of it?”

“Well, I just thought that I should show you,” you start as your back hits the old furniture and your fingertips graze its rough texture. “That I’m more than capable of handling myself when we go out to—”

“When we go out?” she interrupts, irritation hardening her sharp features as she fixes you with an enraged scowl. “And where do you suppose we’re going exactly?”

You hesitate as your earlier confidence slips and you scramble to correct your word choice before she completely blows you off. “Uh, I just meant that this will show you how strong I am, and, uh…”

An eerie silence occupies the room when you find yourself at a loss for words. You know that your blabbering will get you absolutely nowhere, so you tighten your grip on the handles of the wardrobe, counting on your actions to speak louder than your words ever could.

“How old are you turning again, Y/N? It was eighteen, was it not?”

You shrink under her abrupt question, choosing to play along to pacify the shreds of annoyance flickering in her orbs. “Yes, Mother.”

“And for how long are we going to play this game?” she asks, standing with her basket in tow. Your mother rounds closer to you and your gaze automatically flies to the floor.

“I’m not sure what you’re talking about.”

“What’re you hiding this time? Did you find another mouse? A rat?” she mocks, resting one hand on her hip. “Ooh, did a raccoon find its way inside?” Once her face is a mere couple of inches from your nose, you allow your eyes to meet her own, dreadfully empty ones. The sight sends a chill down your spine.

You release your hold on the furniture, dejection seeping from your tone. “Two mice this time.”

Her boisterous cackle echoes off the stone walls and she clutches her stomach in an attempt to quell the onslaught of laughter. The gesture reminds you of the countless other times you tried to ‘prove yourself’ through similar methods when you were younger, catching rodents that occasionally found their way into the nooks and crannies of the tower.

The first time you caught a mouse, you’d been ecstatic, rushing to show it off to the only person you knew. Although at that age, rather than a ticket to freedom, you were simply seeking your mother’s approval and perhaps a few praises here and there. You wanted to prove that despite your lonely upbringing—with your mother lounging around the tower for only a few hours every other day—you could handle yourself. She wouldn’t have to worry.

Evidently, you were too young to understand your mother’s rash nature, and she immediately assumed the worst—that you had somehow managed to sneak outside and wanted to prove your calibre by hunting down a nearby animal. The harsh scolding you received that day still lingers as a scar on your wrist, a painful reminder to never cross your mother.

“The outside world is not a simple matter of ‘two mice’ darling. You should know better than to think I’ll ever be impressed by these foolish displays of strength.” She swoops you up into her arms and you automatically bring your hands to circle her lithe waist. “That’s why you’ll always need Mother to protect you.”

Your chin rests on her shoulder, stare unfocused as you dismally state, “Yes, Mother.”

“Now, onto more exciting matters.” A couple of light, successive pats strike your back and you’re released from her hold. She is quick to open her wooden basket and rummage through the contents, reaching inside for what you assume to be your birthday present. The vegetables in her hand don’t excite you, but you put on a fake grin for her anyway. “I’m making your favourite soup!”

She scurries away from your static form to head past the doorway, but you stop her in her tracks with a low voice. “I’m not really feeling up for soup today.”

“You know how far the journey is to get some of these vegetables, let alone how expensive each one is!” she exclaims, waving said produce in her hand as she spins to face you.

“I’m really sorry, Mother,” you mumble, flashing her your best puppy-dog eyes. “But I ran out of paint recently and I’m feeling kind of down about it.”

She tuts. “That’s a three-day journey, Petal.”

“I know, it’s just that when I can’t distract myself with painting, I get these horrible thoughts of leaving the tower.” Doing your best to reason with her, you shift your weight to the other foot and fiddle around with your fingernails, attempting to appear as innocent as possible. “And I think those paints are a much better idea than going out to see the lights.”

A few seconds pass before a groan escapes your mother’s lips. “You’re lucky Mother loves you dearly.”

You stumble into her torso, grateful that she is unintentionally following along with your plan—a tedious scheme that you were saving as a last resort. She strokes the crown of your head, allowing you to nuzzle your cheek into the comfort of your mother’s embrace before her immediate departure.

Goodbyes are exchanged with some more reprimands sprinkled into the conversation, then she scales down the building and is no longer in your line of sight. You rub the nape of your neck, inching towards the armoire as you ponder whether a trip to indulge in your greatest desires is worth it when weighed against the lifelong bond you have with your own blood.

While navigating through your moral dilemma, you twist open the knob and watch as the scruffy man’s body slumps down to the floor without the support of the door to hold him upright. You refrain from cringing at his reddened nose.

Prioritizing your safety first, you retrieve your trusty pan and manhandle his body onto a chair, the seat still warm from your mother’s presence. This time around, you won’t be able to attain the upper hand by catching him off guard, so you settle on tying him up.

The question is: with what? You have no reason to keep ropes casually lying around the tower and one glance at his bulging biceps assures you that sewing thread will not be enough either.

As you’re thinking about stuffing him back into the wardrobe until you come up with a better idea, the blond strands at the edge of your peripheral catch your eye. For the first time in your life, your excessively long hair proves to be of use.

When he is tightly restrained to the armchair, your tresses acting like a straitjacket around his torso and snaking around his legs, you step back to appreciate your work. Your eyes drift over his corded muscles and roam over his face once again.

Before you let yourself get lost in his model-like features, your free hand reaches out, palm outstretched, to slap him across the face.

You nurse the stinging pain ebbing atop your outermost layer of skin, cradling the appendage to your chest as you hiss out a low whine, although the sound is masked by the low timbre of a groan. Your body stiffens while you gawk at the stranger, watching him gather his surroundings, whipping his head back and forth before his chestnut orbs land on you.

Your grip on the handle of the pot tightens.

“Wha—”

“No! Uh, I mean, hush!” you exclaim, deepening your voice for a rather weak, intimidating effect. “I’m doing the talking here.”

Your breath gets caught in your throat before you can utter another word. His doe eyes bore into yours and you step back, instantly feeling threatened by the intensity of his gaze. He wriggles around in his restraints, testing his extremely limited range of motion.

A prolonged, slightly awkward, silence stretches in the air as you attempt to recall the interrogation questions you practiced while tying him up. Regrettably, you come up blank.

He rolls his eyes at your lack of speech, raising a single brow.

“Well?” he questions, seemingly accepting his lack of free movement and slouching comfortably against the back of the chair. “I thought you said you were gonna do the talking?”

You grit your teeth at his impertinence, shaking off the nerves of talking to another human being that was not your mother as you adorn a superficial, bold facade. Striving to exude the same persuading tone that all those mystery books depicted, you mimic the slow strides you’ve read detectives take around their suspects.

“How did you find me?” You round the corner to escape his unimpressed glare, circling around him.

In turn, he cranes his neck to peer over at you, bewilderment written in the slack of his jaw. “Find you? Who says I was looking for you?” He whistles lowly catching sight of your mane, “That’s some hair you got there. Is that what’ve you tied me up with?”

A scoff escapes your lips, unconvinced at his act.

“Oh yeah?” you challenge, marching back to the front of the chair to dramatically slam your hands down onto his bound wrists, effectively halting his faint wriggling. “Then why did you come all the way up here, huh?”

The dashingly handsome stranger’s tongue prods at his cheek, serving to rile you up further. Taking his sweet time, he inspects the space around him before his focus comes back to you, and he leans in, smirking devilishly. “Sure as hell wasn’t for you, Princess.”

At the odd nickname combined with the close proximity, a flush tints your cheeks and you take a few steps back. He chuckles at his small victory—a deep, melodic sound that sends your flustered state into a muddled craze of butterflies, threatening to burst from within. You purse your lips and narrow your eyes at the man, more so to collect yourself than to unnerve him.

“Got something in your eye?”

You tilt your head back and grumble, exasperated at his lack of cooperation followed by his audacity to tease you further. “For your information, my eyes are working perfectly fine.”

“Good for you. Now, if you’ll just untangle me and give me back my bag, I’ll be out of your hair. Literally.” He grins at his joke, which you don’t find quite as funny.

“Like I’ll believe that.” You roll your eyes and cross your arms over your chest. “I’ll ask you again. How exactly did you find me?”

“As I said, Princess,” he jeers, his impatience made visible by the bulging veins lining his neck, “why would anybody be after your poor ass? I mean, just looking at the place, doesn’t look like you’ve got much else other than a bunch of hidden property and a shitty old tower.”

“Shitty?” You repeat, accosted at the stranger’s portrayal of the place you grew up.

He takes another look around the place as if to confirm his accusations before curtly nodding his head.

You glower at his blunt words, taking personal offence for the many hours you spent decorating, cleaning and doting over the building. “Well, I didn’t know we were expecting a rude guest. Then again, guests are invited inside, aren’t they?”

“Listen, you seem like the ditzy type, so I’ll keep this short and sweet. I got into a bit of a scuffle with some scoundrels and before I knew it, I was outnumbered!” he recounts slowly and melodramatically as if he is presenting a bedtime story to a child. “Then I stumble through some vines and find this gigantic tower!

“And to my surprise, rather than hidden treasure, this place has some naive, pan-wielding maniac at the top,” he concludes with a sigh, soundlessly implying that you should pity the unfortunate situation he stumbled upon—the unfortunate bit caused by your interference. All you feel is a burning itch to sock him across the face again, although that wouldn’t be too helpful in discovering his real objective.

His whole story sounds like pure bologna to you, but you feed into his obvious lies with a hum of acknowledgement. “Must’ve been so hard for you.”

“Like you wouldn’t believe,” he whines, a pout forming on his pink lips.

You flash a close-lipped smile and thrust the metal weapon centimetres from his nose with more force than intended, though it seems to do the job when you catch his eyes widen slightly before reverting to the same relaxed stare as before. His posture is evidently tenser than a few seconds ago, which builds your pliant determination.

“Either some truths are gonna come out of that smart mouth or you’re gonna take another nap,” You threaten, waving the pan back and forth.

“Okay, easy now.” The stranger bends his hands upwards by the wrists, waving his fingers down slowly, as though he were calming a raging bull. “There’s no violence needed in this okay? We can make a deal.”

The sound of his cooperation piques your interest, so you inquire, “What kind of deal?”

“First of all, can you lower that?” You comply with his request, although you keep the skillet in the air, ready to strike at a moment's notice if he tries anything funny. “Okay, Princess, how about you give me the satchel, let me go without any trouble and I won’t tell anyone about your little hideout here, hm?”

You shake your head. “No, I’m the one with the upper hand here.” If you two are to come to a compromise, you’re going to need more from the stranger than his word to keep quiet. “And I need you to take me to see the lanterns at the capital.”

A hacking cough morphs into a distorted chuckle in his throat. “Hm, you see, that would be a bit difficult considering the rocky relationship I have with the royals.”

You cock your head to the side, raising the metal menacingly.

His fists curl into balls as a strained grin stretches across his face. “But I guess we could make it work.”

Pleased with his compliance, you continue with your conditions, “You take me to see the lanterns tomorrow night, bring me back home in one piece and I’ll give your bag back. Then you can jump out of the window for all I care, just keep your mouth shut about this place.”

“Do I even have a choice in the matter?”

“Nope.” His lack of protest makes you giddy, and you allow yourself to credulously overestimate your influence over the man. It has to be that or your frightening frying pan, right?

“Then what’re we waiting for?”

A childlike wonder brightens your countenance as you speedily unravel your locks from around the stranger, whipping the bulk of it over the hook and out the window. With his newfound freedom, you catch him combing through miscellaneous trinkets and in fear of him identifying the location of his bag, you call out, “There’s no use, you could ransack the whole tower and never find your precious satchel. You’re better off fulfilling our agreement.”

Fitting your trusty skillet under your arm, you don’t spare him another glance and hope that your bluff is enough to deter his scouring. Thankfully, the clattering of objects ceases and he saunters past the vase with his dear bag inside. Your attention flits to the verdant scenery below.

You allow an exuberant screech to rip through your vocal cords while you effortlessly fly down, your body wrapped around your hair as though the strands have solidified into a firepole and land on the plush, vibrant grass with a bounce. The prickly sensation on your bare skin is not what you imagined the spindly plant to feel like, yet you revel in its oddities nonetheless.

Your companion follows along with less flair, steadily climbing down using the two arrows that were left between the stones. By the time he reaches the ground, you’re already feeling the consequences of sticking your bare feet in the mud by a river.

He rolls his eyes at your antics and darts off while you tread toward the water to wash off the muck between your toes. You swish your foot back and forth, watching the current run off with the dirt and avoiding the miniature fish that gather around you. Their bright orange bodies are stark against the rocks underneath, easy to spot due to the clear, crystalline stream that you’re splashing around in.

When one of them decides to start nipping at your ankles and the rest of his posse tag along, you wade deeper—searching for a grassy area to withdraw from their persistent suckling. As you’re scouring the landscape, enjoying the slight breeze blowing through your hair, you find yourself alone.

This doesn’t bother you at first, used to the notion of having only your own inner thoughts as company. You’re preoccupied with rinsing the brown stains that mark one section of your tresses and gather the clean, soaked mass into your arms before you realize that the tour guide you recruited has gone missing.

At first, you can’t believe he abandoned the precious crown that he appeared to cherish so greatly, but before you can think too deeply about it, a light smack meets the nape of your neck.

“Looking for me, Princess?”

“Stop calling me that,” you whip around, a glare directed at his triumphant smirk. “And where were you anyway? Not trying to run off already, are we?”

He raises his hands up as though he has been caught red-handed, although his digits are curled around what looks to be strips of tree bark and long strands of weeds. Just as you’re about to question him further, he crouches down and grabs one of your ankles, lifting your leg out of the water and closer to him. You yelp and shift your weight to rest on your other foot.

“What?” He secures a few layers of the rough wood to the sole of your foot, wrapping the flexible plants around the bark and expertly tying it at the top. “This is what I get for being considerate isn’t it?”

“Is considerate even part of your vocabulary?” you tease, the relief at his presence causing you to lower your guard.

He freezes halfway through fastening the second makeshift shoe onto your other foot when the orbs staring up at you light up with mischief. Changing position, he folds forwards then rocks back to stand up to his full height. “Ah, I see how it is. Then I would never do something so thoughtful, right?”

“I take it back! I take it back, just finish it up,” you beseech.

“That’s what I thought, Princess.” He bends over to complete the second knot then scampers off to the forest as soon as the job is complete.

As you test out the peculiar slippers—inwardly marvelling at the barrier they provide against the elements of nature—you vocalize your displeasure with the nickname he has taken to calling you, “I thought I told you not to call me that.”

His strides ease up from his hurried pace, shortening to compensate for your smaller steps. “Aw, does Princess dislike being reminded of who she is?”

“I’ve never heard of a Princess living outside of a castle before.”

He hums, tilting his head in wonder. “Is your tower not considered a castle?”

“Not when I’m the only one living there,” you mutter under your breath, although you’re not sure if he catches it or not based on his silence. Regardless, you change the subject before he has a chance to respond. “So are you gonna tell me your name or what?”

Sneaking a peek at his side profile, you catch the endearing crinkle that appears by his eyes when he grins. “What’s with the sudden interest? I mean, I understand the enthusiasm but—”

You strike his elbow with the bottom of the skillet and he whines like a kicked puppy.

“Don’t get ahead of yourself. I just thought we should be on a first-name basis if we’re going to be travelling all this way together.” You amuse yourself by twirling the skillet around in your grip, acting as though there’s a gigantic pancake that you professionally flip onto its other side. “I would prefer my name over ‘Princess.’”

“I kinda like the ring of it though.” He winks at you, but you’re too invested in your cooking charades to notice. “You can call me Geum.”

“Geum? Like ‘gold’? What kind of name is that?”

“Ooh, someone’s judgemental.” Snatching the pan, he brandishes it around like a deadly cutlass in a seasoned pirate’s hand, bounding around you. He ends his show with the tip aimed straight at your heart.

“Just saying. You’ve got to admit it’s a bit… unique.” You halfheartedly brush him off, fighting to keep your grin from showing. As a side note, you announce your name.

“Whatever you say, Princess.”

Before he can prance off, you pluck the skillet out of his grasp and tear through the dense bushes with your treasure. His war cry echoes throughout the expansive woodlands as he rushes after you, untangling your hair from lone branches as he goes.

To claim that your feet are about to fall off is a gross understatement.

You have been travelling alongside Geum for hours now without a single break. Despite the high spirits that you two kicked your trip off with, the elation from brushing against the silky plants, cooing at the wildlife that crossed your path, and inhaling the fresh scent of damp moss and wet tree trunks from yesterday’s showers wore off quickly.

You’re inclined to believe that your enthusiasm began to subside when Geum yanked you away from running your finger along one set of rich emerald leaves—narrowly avoiding what he explained to be poison ivy. Your curious hands have been cemented to your sides ever since that close encounter.

After your lively bickering dies down, rather than a peaceful, quiet walk, listening to the whispers of the wind and the pleasant chirping of the birds, the antsy man beside you puts you on edge. He can’t stop looking from side to side, trying to peer past the endless birches and elms that obscure your view.

Is Geum expecting someone?

Perhaps some parts of his story are true. Perhaps having a ruffian with other delinquents hunting him is not the best partner to accompany you on this journey—not that you have much of a choice in the matter, it’s either him or no one. You’re unsure which option is worse.

Any conversation you strike is met with teasing remarks, so you give up on prodding him for any substantial information. But with the sky darkening and the breeze turning brisk, you’re about to mention camping out somewhere when Geum says, “We should settle down for the night.”

“I never thought I would agree with something that came out of your mouth.”

“That’s why you’re wrong most of the time.” And there it was, another snotty retort that practically begs you to deck him with the pan you keep tucked in your underarm.

The quibble ignites a fire under your skin, the flames licking at your sides and providing some warmth amidst the chill in the air. “Most of the time? So you’re saying that you’re wrong sometimes?”

“Yeah, nobody can always be right.” He flashes a lazy smirk your way, adjusting the bundle of your locks in his arms. “Like when I said that your hair isn’t an inconvenience.”

You take a second to process his snarky words. With your mind occupied, stuck in a whirlwind of potential reprisals, you unintentionally head towards the distant outline of the castle when you approach a crossroad branching in two opposite directions.

Just as you’re about to let loose a nasty quip, his warm hand wraps itself around your wrist, dragging you away from the faraway mansion. You overheat at the source of the touch, thoughts going haywire.

“Hey, hey!” In hopes of snapping him out of his reverie, you raise your voice. “You can’t blow off our deal now, don’t you want your precious satchel back?”

When he offers no explanation for his cryptic actions, you attempt to pry off his fingers with your other hand—making sure not to trip over your own two feet while you’re at it. Your wriggling is all for nought because Geum’s iron grip is too durable to be outmatched by your fumbling digits.

“Geum, please just,” you plead, ceasing your struggle when the delicate skin in his grasp begins to sting from his strength, “let’s talk about this, okay?”

You’re so preoccupied with regaining your freedom that you don’t notice the dingy sign you two pass; a rubber duck with the words The Snuggly Duckling etched onto the wood. “Shut up and hurry.”

Your jaw drops at his insolent tone, astounded at his change in demeanour. There’s no playful spirit behind his words this time, only a sharp annoyance accompanied by his sudden haste that you feel all too strongly in your wrist. You stumble after him and duck your head through a small doorway, your mind caught up in formulating a coherent response that consists of sounds other than your outraged sputtering.

“Don’t tell me to—”

You’re cut off by the ruckus inside the establishment. Burly men surround the two of you, drinking, howling in laughter, practicing their aim with throwing knives—there’s even a large group of people fighting in one corner. The amount of blood streaked across the walls, their clothes, and pouring out of their open wounds is concerning. You can smell the metallic tang from the entrance.

When the hand around your wrist disappears, you find yourself yearning for the physical connection, serving as some kind of reassurance that he is not leaving you to the metaphorical, and sort of literal, wolves before you. In order not to lose Geum as he wades through the crowds, you latch on to the thin hem of his shirt. He pays you no mind and continues onward.

Skillfully slipping through the giants while you bumble behind him, you two arrive at a row of vacant barstools. You loosen your grip at the unexpectedly tranquil space, such a drastic contrast to the commotion in the background that it’s like you’ve been transported to another place altogether.

You’re brought back to reality from the loud grunt that booms throughout the joint, although you tune out again when you hear a punch being thrown, then a crack that you can only hope isn’t a bone. Or two.

“Uh, Geum?” you ask, although he pays your appellation no mind. His attention is focused on the intimidating, tattooed man behind the counter.

“Joon.” Your unofficial tour guide takes a seat. “A mead?”

Determined to stick close to the only familiar face in the building, you slide onto the seat next to Geum. The overwhelming scent of liquor hits you hard, causing you to crinkle your nose the exact moment that your narrowed eyes spot the bartender, Joon, awkwardly cough into his fist, trying to stifle his snickers for your sake.

“Just a water for her.”

While Joon confirms Geum’s order with a slight nod, you cast your head down to stare at your twiddling fingers. Your mind is still reeling from the abrupt change in scenery, unsure how to carry yourself in this new setting. It was no problem in the dense forest, with only Geum to judge you—but it isn’t like you’re trying to impress him anyway.

In here where hordes of broad men are gathered, drunk out of their minds with crimson staining their attire, you’re scared. Everything is too raucous, too rancid, too overwhelming. You’re uncertain whether the trip to the capital will play out as you’ve imagined and you turn towards Geum to tell him as much when—

“Was this from me?” You instinctively flinch at his tug on your elbow, although regret rushes down your back, clawing against your spine like ice-cold water when hurt flashes across his shadowed orbs. Before you can blink, it’s gone.

As a feeble apology, you offer a tightlipped smile. Referring back to his words, you examine your arm and grimace when you spot the blooming scarlet streaks encircling your wrist, taking the shape of Geum’s slender digits. “Oh, uh, don’t worry. It’ll fade.”

It’s not a lie since the marks will eventually fade. You hope it doesn’t turn black and blue before that though.

A clear glass is thrust your way, which you’re overjoyed to snatch from Joon’s hand, noting Geum’s copper liquor from the corner of your eye. Hours of travelling without any form of hydration definitely took its toll on you, evident by your severely chapped lips that you can’t help but swipe your tongue over every minute—not that the dried saliva is doing you any favours.

Before you have a chance to sip from heaven in liquid form, you’re halted by a gentle finger tracing the length of your forearm. Thankfully, you’re not as skittish this time around, remaining frozen until Geums pulls back; the pale, discoloured scar he was following having tapered off into your natural skin. “Where’s that one from?”

His strange inquiry confuses you with its unusually intrusive nature considering his inability to chat seriously five minutes ago. You pause for a second to debate on revealing the truth or constructing a comical narrative for the sake of avoiding a sombre turn to the light conversation. Despite your decision, your lips rebel, taking on a mind of their own. “A punishment.”

Bronze orbs snap up to yours, boring into the deepest parts of your soul and uncovering each of your secrets one by one as if they’re gems, buried within the layers of your lonely childhood. You’re transfixed. “Mother said it would remind me to never leave the tower.”

The condensation running down the side of the chilled cup meets the edge of your palm, sliding down your index finger and becoming a stark reminder of your parched mouth. You lift the glass to take a sip, but a taste renders your control inoperative as you guzzle down the rest, leaving not a single drop inside.

Your famished stomach makes itself known with a growl when your thirst is quenched. Attracting the attention of the bartender with a small wave, you ask, “Is there any chance you’ve got some food here?”

“We’ve got anything as long as you’ve got the coin for it, blondie.”

You shudder in alarm at the introduction of another patron in the bar. Leaning away from the repulsive drawl to your left, you shift over to position yourself as far away as possible. Seeing your discomfort, the stranger takes a few steps forward to invade your personal space once more and you recoil back with a jerk of your torso.

The abrupt motion messes with your centre of gravity, tipping you over the edge of the barstool. Just as you’re about to have an unpleasant meeting with the floor, a palm darts out to the small of your waist and steadies you. You follow the arm up to Geum’s clenched jaw.

“She’s not looking for anything that you guys can offer.”

Your throat tightens at your companion’s harsh answer, wary of how the other men will react. The burly man to your other side bursts out in obnoxious laughter and a glint of light reflecting off of his silver teeth catches your eye, which you recognize from earlier. He’s one of the goons that was involved in the fistfight near the entrance.

“As if you’re packing anything better.” He nudges his lackeys behind them and they chuckle along like they’re all in on one big joke.

“It’s not hard to top a baby carrot.”

Panicked at his provocation, you glimpse at the challenging smirk plastered across Geum’s lips. You aren’t sure why he’s trying to pick a fight or if there’s any logical reasoning behind his actions at all, but you tap on the arm still attached to your torso, conveying your opinion on his moronic pride with your widened eyes.

Of course, men will be men, and the little posse arranged behind the silver toothed boss riles their leader up, encouraging him with disgruntled yells and unintelligible speech to prove their dominance. With you in between the two blockheads, you’re sure that you’re not going to like how this plays out.

Dismissing your distress, Geum takes a sip of his drink. He seems unbothered by the commotion surrounding him and you envy his nonchalant demeanour.

“You got any bite behind your bark, pretty boy?” His lackeys change tactics, switching over to goading Geum on. You assume their greater numbers spark their courage, reassured that they could overpower one man. “Or are we just trying to impress this little miss right here?”

“I’m not sure if it’ll be very fair for you guys,” Geum says cockily, scrutinizing each member from head to toe then returning to his sweet mead. “I mean, just looking at you boys, doesn’t look too impressive if you ask me.”

If the atmosphere didn’t thicken with a fatal tension, you would have giggled at his smart mouth. But the other man’s nostrils flare in resentment, beginning to surge forward before he’s interrupted by a spindly boy who thrusts a paper below his nose. “Boss, you were right, it’s him.”

His unsightly features twist upwards in joy, displaying his horrendous set of chompers once more as he chuckles. That’s when you realize that a sinister smile can be much more frightening than any bellow of rage. “Looks like you’ve got quite the bounty on your head there, Geum.”

At the snarl of his name, your eyes dart to the wrinkled sheet in his hand which he graciously flips to face your direction. An uncanny depiction of Geum’s face is drawn, a sum containing many zeroes painted underneath his name. What appalls you the most is the red, bolded letters at the very top, distinctly spelling out wanted.

Geum is a wanted criminal.

While your mind is reeling, sight blurring and breath quickening from the influx of information, the man in question unabashedly finishes off the last of his alcoholic beverage and proceeds to slam the glass onto the counter. Through all of the clamour, you pick up Joon’s exasperated sigh in the background.

The door to the establishment flings open, hinges creaking as the wood bounces back from the sheer force of the blow. While everyone is distracted by the bustle, Geum stealthily hops off his seat, slipping an arm around your waist to soundlessly lead you to the other side of the counter. Although you’re reluctant to follow, you refrain from squabbling with him in order not to attract any unwanted attention.

“We’ve received a report that a well-known thief has been spotted in the premises—”

Geum kneels in front of the shelves lined with drinks of all shapes and colours, fiddling with something you can’t see from your position behind him. Following his lead, you crouch behind him, softly muttering in disbelief, “You really think they won’t find us hiding here?”

A click is heard as a few of the racks cave in on themselves, revealing a concealed passageway. Geum shakes his head towards the opening, silently directing you to enter first. You’re hesitant to accompany him any farther but you’re pushed forwards by Joon’s calf on your back and you understand that you don’t have much of a choice in the matter anymore.

If you’re caught now, you’ll be accused of being an accomplice to whatever crimes Geum committed.

You spare a thankful nod to Joon, stealing a glance at the guards blocking the entrance while you’re at it. Their white uniforms are decorated with accents of bright oranges and reds, a familiar flower fastened to the right side of their chest. One of them holds another copy of Geum’s wanted poster which you tear your gaze from, willing yourself to escape from this mess before thinking about anything else.

Geum shoves you through the opening, and you crawl through the underground passage as fast as you can in order to keep his pinching fingers away from your ankles. You two are far enough to safely whisper short phrases to one another, but he insists on being a nuisance as he urges you to pick up the pace.

It’s pitch black when the trapdoor shuts behind Geum, and you’re unable to make out your own hands in front of your face; with no other path in sight, you blindly head forward. As you continue, you pass torches burning with a bright fire that provide light, illuminating the stones around you and the shadows following you. You wonder how often this underground system is used to have fire running at all times.

Eventually, the tunnel’s height expands enough for the two of you to comfortably tread through on your feet. If you weren’t tired enough from walking for hours on end, the brutal jog which Geum sets is more than enough to tire you out within mere minutes.

“Geum,” you heave, unable to catch your breath with your chest fruitlessly rising and falling, never passing enough air for you to gather your senses. He’s too far to catch, effortlessly sprinting ahead, yet you still uselessly reach out to capture his attention. “Geum.”

You push yourself to the limit, another few minutes passing by before your powerless body can no longer handle the stress of the strenuous activity, and you slow down, coming to a full stop. One hand on the rocky wall steadies your dizzying sight as you hunch over, throat burning and stomach aching. Even though you try to remain standing, your legs involuntarily give out and you end up on the floor.

As you try to regain your breath, hands grasp your shoulders and gently shake you back to reality. Geum’s intense gaze is only centimetres away, torso bent to level with you. “You can do this, come on. We have to lose them.”

“I,” you huff, “I can’t… It’s… too much.”

Geum’s arms return to his sides, his brows furrowing as you watch the gears whirring in his head through your blurry vision. When he spins around to face the exit, you cry out in a hoarse voice, believing that he’s leaving your pathetic, crumpled form to fend for yourself—but instead of running off, he crouches to the ground with his backside to you. “Get on.”

In spite of your resolute will to arise from your folded position, your legs can’t seem to extend outwards in order to climb onto his back, which you convey by tapping his shoulder and pitifully shaking your head. Geum’s lips pry apart to respond, but his words are drowned out by the pounding footsteps that echo throughout the tunnel walls. He curses under his breath as he turns and scoops your fetal form into his arms.

All you can register is his natural woody scent enveloped in the sweaty musk that drenches his frame, your body clutched tightly to his torso as he races to the end of the tunnel. You grip his thin shirt in one fist, unfamiliar with the warmth fluttering in your chest, so you brush it off as another side effect from the arduous sprinting.

A bright light can be seen at the very end, but your eyes are locked on the well-defined jaw of the man carrying you as if you were as light as a feather, running as if your lives depended on it—which they kind of do.

You couldn’t differentiate the pounding of Geum’s shoes from the mob of guards pursuing you two. As you slowly recover from your exhausted state, the guilt of becoming a burden settles into the creases of your face, worrying lines etching onto your features from thinking about your impending fate.

Your thoughts wander to the reasoning behind this violent chase. By the fancier uniforms they sport, you suspect their position to be rather high, perhaps palace guards or ones belonging to the royal family. Reminded of the wanted poster clutched within one of their hands, the image stirs unease within the depths of your stomach that’s already stinging from the massive amounts of cardio you’ve done today.

Before you can connect any dots, you’re out in the wilderness again, although instead of the sun’s blazing rays on your face, the moon’s tender beams spill over your surroundings. The sort of serenity that accompanies the stillness of the later hours are interrupted by your rapidly beating heart, which is amplified by the pulse felt on your left side.

After a few more strides, Geum comes to a sudden halt.

“What’s wrong?” You tilt your neck to look at his face in curiosity. Although he doesn’t appear fatigued, his cheeks only slightly flushed from exertion and a few sweat droplets racing down his temples, you ask anyway, “Are you tired?”

The grip under your legs lower you to the ground and you stand in front of Geum, beginning to worry about losing your advantage over your pursuers. He doesn’t provide a verbal response to your questions, simply shaking his head and causing the tips of his hair to sway back and forth with the motion. The strands cover his eyes when he stops, but he doesn’t bother to brush them aside.

Geum’s shoulders slouch, heavy from the weight of defeat. You’re unnerved at his strange actions, turning to look ahead at the obstacle that’s forcing him to give up all hope.

You two are standing at the edge of a cliff.

Your knees buckle at the length of the drop, which seems never ending from your viewpoint. The tenebrous shadows of the night obscure the bottom, painting the jagged walls with uncertainty at any chance for survival. Your heart constricts as the despondency emanating off of Geum slithers its way into your rapidly diminishing resolution.

“When they get here,” he announces, bravery shining through his firm tone, “I need you to run as fast as you can. I’ll distract them, just focus on getting back to the bar. Tell Joon to take you somewhere safe and trust no one but him.”

You’re baffled at his complete change in attitude as well as his idiotic plan. There’s no trace of humour in his piercing orbs though, simply an obstinate determination that implores you to obey his orders. But you aren’t about to abandon the first friend you’ve ever made. “Are you insane? What do you think you can do against trained soldiers?”

“There’s no other choice.” He nudges your torso to position yourself behind him, both your backs to the cliff, watching the guards get closer and closer. Dread weighs ponderously on your limbs, the adrenaline pumping in your veins with every footstep marching to surround you two. You’re cornered.

The soldier closest to Geum unsheathes his sword and steadily approaches. You slip the rusty pan into his hand and he inconspicuously reaches back to pat your thigh, reminding you of his reckless scheme.

Seeing your defensive stance, the guard rushes forward, thrusting his sword forward to slice through layers of skin. Instead, the clang of metal against metal resounds throughout the empty cliff and your apprehension increases tenfold with your front row seat to Geum’s doomed duel, fending off a glinting sword with your rickety skillet.

Although he’s fighting well considering his enormous handicap, you spot more soldiers creeping their way into the skirmish, unable to stand and watch one of their own be bested in battle. Overall, the odds weren’t looking too great for your pan-wielding knight.

You have to do something. With Geum’s plan off the table, you can’t think of anything other than taking your chances with the cliff. You gather all your faith in the landscape, Geum, and yourself while taking a deep breath. Waiting for an opening within the clash, you cautiously inch towards Geum and when one particularly hard blow jolts both men back a few steps, you snatch up the opportunity.

Before another guard can take his ally’s place, you rush over to snake an arm around Geum’s lithe waist, tugging his back to meet your chest. During this process, he nearly elbows you in the face, writhing around in your tight hold until he recognizes your delicate hands on his stomach.

With the enemy frozen in confusion at your ostensibly desultory actions, you take advantage of their shock to stumble backwards, proving harder than necessary due to Geum’s long legs tangling with your own as you head towards the edge. You’re nearly there when one of the guards pick up on your plan to escape, jumping into action with his razor-sharp sword and waving it in a deadly arc that nearly slices both of your heads off clean.

Thankfully, you lose your footing on a slippery rock and tip over.

While airborne, any air is momentarily robbed from the heavy drop in your gut and a terrified shriek rips past your mouth as you lose your tight grip on Geum, utterly absorbed in your fear. The distance between you two grows, but because of his quick reflexes, Geum is able to fist a clump of your clothes in his hands and pull you into his chest with one hand resting on the nape of your neck.

You don’t have enough time to react to the new position before both your bodies are enveloped in gelid water. All of your nerves fire off, enraged at the sudden change in temperature. A violent shiver overtakes your limbs in a weak attempt to warm yourself up.

Although Geum’s palm on your neck withdraws to wade your bodies back up to surface, the grip around your middle only tightens.

The stream parts as you two float back up to meet the chilly air, greedily filling your lungs as you unravel from one another in order to paddle your way to shore. The current sweeps you along, aiding your furious efforts to reach the ground again.

Geum arrives at the muddy grass before you, swiftly lifting himself out and turning to fish for your soaked form. White puffs of your breath escape your mouths because of the low temperature, yet they dissipate as quickly as they’re formed.

“You okay?”

“Yeah.” You close your eyes and nod. “Yeah, I’m okay.”

The fire crackles alongside the chirping crickets, forming a peculiar orchestra with the breeze blowing through the rustling leaves. You extend your frigid digits as close to the flames as you dare, desperate for its warmth, yet recoiling from the sting of its heat all the same.

“Might as well stick your whole hand in there while you’re at it.” Geum emerges from the tenebrous thickets of the forest, making his way into the dull glow of the bonfire with a bundle of skinny twigs in his arms.

You’re drained from the day’s events, but you flash him a smile brimming with gratitude, appreciative that he’s intent on keeping the fire alive despite his inevitably numb appendages. You insisted on swapping turns, allowing his body to warm up a bit while you scavenged for wood, although he dismissed your offer multiple times, claiming that moving around was much more effective for him than any flames.

You’d have to disagree with him there. The burning fire feels incredible heating up your skin from the outside in.  

“If you take a second to come and enjoy the warmth, then maybe you wouldn’t be so moody,” You jest, rotating the fish skewers that Geum expertly caught in the river with a sharpened branch. By the slightly burnt edges, you suppose it’s ready. “C’mon, let’s eat before you head off again.”

He grunts his affirmation, depositing his findings on top of the ever-growing pile of wood and taking a seat on a fallen log located a couple of feet away from you. You allow the meat to cool down before separating the fish from the stick it’s impaled on and passing it to him.

“Is your hair dry yet?” He’s too preoccupied with forcibly ripping the fish in half to avoid scaling it, so he doesn’t catch your affectionate, lingering gaze.

You hum, grabbing a lock of your wet strands. “Not quite.”

He places his meal next to him on the log and leans over to take the bulk of your tresses in his grasp. You watch as he lays the blonde strands near the fire, quietly giggling at his strange logic.

“You think the heat is going to make it dry faster?” The appearance of his wide grin elicits the return of the bizarre tightening in your chest, a crushing pain that makes it difficult to breathe. You haven’t had a bite of the fish but nausea swirls in your stomach as your hands turn clammy and you rip your eyes away from Geum in hopes of collecting yourself.

Seeing your doubt towards his surely infallible rationale, his brows scrunch together and he pauses his movements in his perplexity, a distant look swirling in his eyes. He should be completely unaware of the turmoil raging within you, yet all your previous worries dissipate with the smoke of the fire as his face becomes increasingly wrinkled, flashing an expression more ludicrous than the last.

After you beg and plead with him to stop, cheeks aching from smiles and belly throbbing from laughter, he breaks out into his own set of snickers. More than satisfied, Geum grabs his fish again and begins to nibble on the meat inside. “You never considered getting a trim?” he asks between bites.

A few seconds pass as you calm yourself down from your hysterical state. “Never allowed to,” you answer, short and vague to keep the pleasant atmosphere.

“Allowed to?” His voice is laced with his astonishment. “Who’s telling you what to do at your age?”

Fidgeting with your own skewer, you ponder over an answer that’s precise enough to satisfy his curiosity, yet obscure enough to conceal your identity at the same time. Your eyes dart from side to side, following the light of the fire as it illuminates a wet, crimson stain on the sleeve of Geum’s jacket.

“What’s that?” you question, scuttling over to his log and sitting down next to him. To get a better look, you grab his elbow and pull it towards you.

“Nothing. Don’t change the subject.” He tries to shrug off both your concern and your hand that’s clutching onto his arm, which only makes you tighten your grip. At the increase in pressure, a low groan slips past his lips and you instantly release your hold at the sound.

“Does it hurt?” The memory of the guard wildly slashing his sword in the air comes to mind and you realize that although the blow didn’t cost either of your lives, his upper arm must have borne the brunt of the force instead.

“It’s fine.” He attempts to brush you off again, but you’re as clingy as a leech and refuse to budge from his side.

You latch on to the lapel of his jacket and tug. “Take it off.”

Despite your solemnity, his low chuckle sends an involuntary shiver down your spine. “Already asking me to strip? I’m not that easy, Princess. How about you take me on a date first and I’ll think about your offer?”

“You know what I mean,” you grumble, exasperated that he persists on maintaining his incessant teasing while injured.

When he finishes cleaning off one half of his meal, about to reach for the other, you move to stand in front of him. You dismiss the wild pounding of your heart to focus on slipping his jacket off of his opposite arm.

He puts forth no effort to stop you, although he’s definitely not helping much with his limp, bulky appendages that are a lot heavier than expected. Slowly but surely, you tenderly thread his injured arm out of his sleeve with careful hands.

The white, short-sleeved shirt he’s sporting underneath makes it easy to spot the splotches of crimson dyeing the hem of his sleeve through the dim, orange light. You approach his laceration delicately, treating him like a frightened animal. He snorts at your earnest actions.

Lifting the fabric covering the entirety of the gash, you gasp softly at the depth of the wound, grimacing as though it’s your own limb that’s been hurt. “You shouldn’t be moving around with this, you’re not letting it heal.”

“I’ll endure any pain to keep you close,” he whispers, sweet honey dripping from his words as he loops his other arm around your waist, effectively pulling you in between his open legs.

His chin is a mere few centimetres from your belly button, gazing up at you with a flirtatious wink as he perches his hand onto your lower back. You hold your breath, worried that he can hear the utter chaos erupting within your chest due to the close proximity.

Flustered, you push at his broad shoulders, desperate for some room to breathe. Geum flinches at your touch and you instantly regret your thoughtless behaviour. Your concern at the severity of his wound multiplies tenfold, feeding into a disquiet that nestles into every cell in your body. “I’m serious, it doesn’t look good.”

One hand falls into his lap while the other comes up to ruffle his damp locks. “Don’t get shy now, Princess.”

Taking in the defeated slouch to his back, the distant glaze that darkens his bronze orbs, you think about your hair. You think about how much younger your mother appears after she detangles each strand. You think about all the scars you’ve avoided throughout the years by singing a simple tune.

This man saved your life, and it’s time for you to repay the favour. You consider waiting until he’s asleep to heal his arm, plagued by the distress of being mistaken as a witch. Mother warned you about those kinds of people, who are ready to ruin your life in order to improve their own—anything ranging from taking advantage of your unworldly qualities to selling you for a pretty penny.

Mother always knows best. Right?

You peer into his expressionless eyes that stare holes into the dancing flames, the other uneaten half of the fish still laying untouched. From the limited time you’ve spent together, you shouldn’t feel this distraught at his pain, as though a chunk of your heart is bleeding out with him and leaving you in a puddle of your own misery.

But one look at Geum’s laceration and even a child could tell that the relentless stream would end his life before long. No matter how well he can conceal his shallow, rapid breathing, you begin to make sense of his sweaty, pallid countenance that shreds any remaining skepticism you hold against him—dismissing the wariness brought about by those wanted posters.

“Geum.”

His eyelids shut close at your grave tone. “I know. It’s fine.”

At your hesitant tone, he sluggishly spares you a placid, tame smile. You hate it.

The Geum you’ve come to know is exuberant, taking all his hardships in stride with a sly smirk to boot. He’s brilliant, craftier than any artist, and resourceful even in the face of despondency. He’s compassionate, extending his own neck to save yours, always sympathetic to your plight.

This Geum is hollow, a shell of the person you knew.

The crushed downturn of his doe eyes doesn’t belong to his captivating features. You yearn to watch that classic, mischievous glint sparkle in his irises as he taunts you endlessly, testing how high your pulse can spark when he invades your personal space yet again.

You take a seat next to him. “No, uh,” you stammer, “I got a solution. You just can’t scream or freak out or anything, okay? Most importantly, you can’t tell anyone. Not a single soul.”

Before he can react to your cryptic warnings, you separate a lock of your hair, wrapping it around his wounded bicep. He raises a single brow at your strange antics but provides no further opposition. You’re pleased with the amount of trust he’s placed in you.

You close your eyes, and then you sing.

“Flower, gleam and glow Let your power shine,”

Starting from your roots, a golden glimmer races across the tresses of your hair. Bewildered, Geum recoils in his state of shock but remains rooted in his spot nonetheless.

“Make the clock reverse Bring back what once was mine,”

He follows the scintillating shimmer in your strands until he reaches the portion wrapped around his bicep. You absentmindedly wonder if he can feel his flesh reconstructing, cells dividing at a rapid rate to close the smooth gash.

“Heal what has been hurt Change the Fates' design Save what has been lost Bring back what once was mine,”

Your lids slide open to stare at his wide eyes, his jaw hanging ever so slightly. You’re glad to see that his previously pale complexion has given way to his natural, lively undertone.

“What once was mine.”

When the last notes fade out, eventually overpowered by the lone hoot of an owl, you gingerly untangle your hair from the shell-shocked man. Geum slaps his other hand over the healed skin, his head rapidly darting between examining his arm and making absurd facial expressions that convey his amazement. From his naturally cool composure, you treasure this rare moment of awe.

“Wha—”

Your stressed squeak halts him in his speech. “Please don’t freak out.”

“I’m not freaking out.” He looks like he’s trying to convince himself more so than you when he continues, “Not freaking out. What’s there to freak out about? I mean, magical healing hair? Completely normal.”

Your grin is filled with mirth at his nervous tone, and you lift his prodding digits from the site of the wound. Or at least where it used to be. “You feel okay?”

With all of your attention directed towards analyzing his healthy appendage, ensuring that your magic had not screwed up somewhere along the process, you miss Geum’s tender gaze roaming over every inch of your countenance. “Yeah, I guess I’m more than okay now.”

“I promise I’m not some kind of witch or anything like that. Just, uh, was just born with it,” you try to explain despite being in the dark about many of the nitty-gritty details yourself.

“Born with magical hair?”

You giggle at the absurdity of his question, although the validity remains true, it’s rather peculiar to hear it out loud. “Some of us are born with more talent than others. But that’s also why I can’t cut it,” you smile sheepishly, deciding to answer his earlier question now that your secret is out in the open.

“It turns brown and loses its magic.” You gather all your strands into one fist, pulling the mass to the side to expose the short, chestnut coloured strands underneath. You feel vulnerable and exposed with your neck out on display, sharing the fragility of your powers with a man you’ve known for less than twenty-four hours.

But it’s Geum, and he doesn’t feel like a stranger to you. “An overbearing mother is also part of the reason, but that’s a story for another time. Carrying it around can be heavy and the tangles can be brutal, but I guess it has its perks.”

He hums, stretching his torso to throw some twigs into the fire in hopes of enlarging the dwindling flames. “Yeah, I, uh…”

You stay silent, neither dismissing nor pressuring him into voicing his thoughts.

“My name isn’t actually Geum.”

A teasing smirk lifts the corner of your lips as you lean closer and nudge his arm. “You don’t say?”

He scoffs at your playful demeanour and pushes you back with one finger on your forehead. When your upper body is tilted away from him and your head is facing the starry night sky, he retracts his digit and speaks so softly that the noise is almost carried away by the wind. “It’s Jungkook.”

“Jungkook,” you test it out, matching the syllables to the face. It’s a bit strange after getting accustomed to associating him with the name ‘Geum,’ but in a way, it complements him better.

“Yeah.” He pauses and you shift your body to study him, memorizing the slopes and angles of his side profile. His orbs reflect the flickering fire, engulfing the newly added branches in its blaze. “I just thought somebody should know.”

“Is Geum your alias... for when you’re being a criminal?” Although you’re hesitant to delve into the subject, especially right after he’s begun to unveil his true identity, your curiosity outweighs reason and you can’t contain yourself. You can’t say that you’ve never questioned the diadem hidden in his satchel.

Crowns don’t belong to convicts who run from justice.

You wait for his answer with bated breath, unintentionally trapping your lower lip between your teeth in anticipation. Please, Jungkook.

“If you’re trying to ask what I did,” he hisses, knuckles turning white from his clenched fists, “Yeah, I stole it. Those assholes don’t deserve their riches.”

Jungkook’s jaw clenches, his anger radiating off him in waves. You wish you could eat your previous words because of how furious he’s become, but you’re committed to finishing the job. “Are you talking about the King and Queen?” Your brows pinch together in your discomfort. “Was that their crown?”

“This is your first time out of that tower, right?” You confirm his inquiry with a quick nod of your head. “How much do you know about the kingdom?”

“Jungkook—”

He tuts, fixing you with a strict glare. “Answer the question.”

“Well…” While recalling all the knowledge you picked up from your mother and the few historical books within your collection, you fiddle with a strand of your hair and organize your thoughts. “The castle is located in the middle of the capital, said to loom over the entire kingdom with its height. After it was rebuilt to accommodate more space for the Prince, everyone, from poets to milliners, cried over the beauty carved within those walls.”

He expels a deep sigh, causing you to question the legitimacy written in those pages you recited. “I asked about the kingdom, not the castle.”

His question leaves you dumbfounded. The information you collected over the years is limited to everything inside that grandiose, opulent building. There was nothing about the land, animals or even the common folk.

A gust blows the smoke of your little bonfire towards you, and you blink rapidly to avoid any soot from lodging itself into your eyes. Jungkook plucks a large leaf from one of the plants nearby, lazily fanning the fumes away. “That cozy castle and the royal family sitting on top of it all couldn’t care less about their people. They rake their luxuries from our hard work when even one jewel off that crown could feed hundreds.”

You process the cold truth in silence, a shiver overtaking your limbs in spite of the heat in front of you. “Is that why you stole it?”

“I don’t care if they want to plaster my face all over the kingdom and put a bounty on my head, I’m not going to stand around and watch people die from their greedy hands,” he states, proud and resolute.

You’re torn between the anguish nipping at your heels and the relief washing over your head. Living sheltered in that tower, you had no clue about the perils outside your own stone walls, is this what Mother was trying to protect you from?

However, discovering the true nature behind Jungkook’s crimes restores your faith in him, and your shoulders relax as you crane your neck to peer at the stars again. With your curiosity quenched, you move on to another question. “So, how many people get to call you Jungkook?”

He follows your example, leaning back and revelling in the breathtaking sight. “Nobody knows my real name, everyone calls me Geum.”

Your jaw drops a fraction from the admittance, feeling rather privileged that he chose to share it with you. “Your family calls you that too?”

“Don’t have any,” he brushes off your sympathetic gaze with a shrug.

“Why the name Geum?”

You catch his tiny, forlorn smile in your peripheral. “I grew up hearing all about the royal family’s massive parties, overflowing with family, friends—people. They were never lonely. And since they were parading their money around, I thought that was it, that was the secret.”

The dejected tone in his voice clogs your airways and makes it difficult to breathe, stunning your motionless form into remaining as still as a statue, the magnitude of his sorrow sweeping over you in fatal waves.

“And I hoped that maybe naming myself ‘gold’ might give me some luck with that.” With his shoulders downcast, his eyes flicker over to you, gauging your reaction.

You desperately wish you could turn back time to console the young boy whose heart was too big to fit inside his tiny body. Although he’s grown into it now, you strive to ease his suffering by even the slightest fraction. “I think ‘Jungkook’ is even better for making friends.”

The edges of his lips flip upwards as he navigates his face to halt directly right in front of your own, pressing one hand to the other side of your farthest thigh and caging you in. “Would you be my friend, Princess?”

All your blood rushes to your head, warming your cheeks. In a futile attempt to preserve any of your remaining dignity, you shrink back to maintain some distance. But his smirk grows at the sight of your shy response to his advances, his orbs flitting down to your pink lips before returning to your eyes. He looks absolutely ecstatic over your flustered state.

His hot breath fans over your lips and you gather any rational sense you have left inside your muddled brain to push him back, missing the split second his confident facade cracks and a sliver of insecurity shines through. It’s instantly replaced by a tight-lipped smile that doesn’t reach his eyes.

“No matter what you decide to call yourself, I’ll always be your friend.”

Seconds seem like hours as the two of you stare at each other, seeking to uncover the words left unsaid. Jungkook’s palms press against his knees, pushing off of them to come to a standing position and effectively ending your little moment. “I’m gonna go get some more wood.”

You nod, staring at his retreating backside that ventures into the adumbral forest once more. Even though the perpetrator of all these complex emotions is no longer within sight, you feel unsettled from the mere thought of him, yet your heart yearns for him all the same.

“Oh, Petal, I thought he would never leave!” A distinctly high-pitched cry rings out in the empty space, a voice which you didn’t expect to hear until at least tomorrow night.

Your head whips to the side to confirm your suspicions. “Mother?” Her dark figure emerges from the shadows and your heart drops to your stomach. You fumble for the right words, at a loss from her unexpected appearance. “How did you—”

“The better question is how could you, Petal?” she corrects, continuing to step into the light provided by the fire. The once comforting flames turn harsh, sharp pops bursting forth from the aggressive combustion. She lowers her hood to reveal the disappointment etched into her youthful features—and without fail, the sting of upsetting her burns through your conscience. “Really, how could you betray your own mother like this?”

You stand, determined to explain yourself, “Mother, he’s different from the monsters you told me about. If you get to know him, he’s sweet and caring and kind an-and he isn’t after my magic!”

“And that’s where you’re wrong, my naive, little Petal.” She tilts her chin up slightly, peering down at you. “Everyone is the same out here, all looking after themselves.”

You approach her within a few strides. “Mother, please listen to me, he’s different! Even though he puts on a tough front at times, he’s really considerate on the inside.” You fiddle with the tips of your fingers as you whisper the next part, “And I, uh, I think he might like me.”

The reaction you least expect is her startling outburst of laughter, powerful enough to fold her in half, and you wait for her giggles to quiet down before warily stepping forward. Your mother is acting awfully strange. “You think he likes you? And what makes you think that?”

You blanch at her ruthless words, wincing as though they assumed a physical form and punched you repeatedly in the gut.

Her maniacal snickers abruptly cease and a frown mars her lovely face once again, her expression one you recognized from previous reprimands, whether it was shattering a vase or begging to go outside. Your chin falls down to meet your chest, unable to muster up your faux bravery for any longer.

“I’m asking what gave you the idea that he would like some insolent, unsightly brat like you?”

You can’t open your mouth to respond, frozen in fear.

“Hm, what’s with the silence? You seemed so certain earlier, Petal. This is why you never should have left, look at this pitiful romance you’ve created,” she mocks, rounding your nervous form like a predator playing with their prey. “Let’s put him to the test then, shall we?”

Your head snaps up at her odd suggestion, eyes widening at the satchel she uncovers from behind her slim form. “You found it?”

She tosses the bag to you and you outstretch your arms—only to catch it a second too late. The bag drops to the floor and the flap flips open. You race to collect the sparkling crown that tumbles out, hastily shoving the diadem back inside before Jungkook wanders back, even turning towards the fire to ensure his continued absence.

“Why so scared?” your mother questions smugly, “I thought you said that he’s different from the rest of them?”

“He is!” you exclaim, rushing to defend him.

“Then give it to him, let’s see if he stays once he has the crown back in his hands. But don’t come crying back to Mother when he runs for the hills,” she snarls, lifting her hood over her short curls and withdrawing into the woods.

Your mind reels from your mother’s visit, but your concern lies with where to stash the leather satchel in your grasp. Dead leaves crunch under approaching footsteps and you examine your body, contemplating the best area for your idea.

Hiking the hem of your dress up to your stomach, you loop the strap of the bag through your left foot, twisting and repeating until it’s coiled around your ankle and the pouch snugly rests against your skin. You shimmy the satchel until the middle of your thigh where it refuses to go any higher.

Satisfied, you release your dress, smoothing the fabric down and confirming that nothing is suspiciously sticking out. You violently shake your leg back and forth to ensure there would be no future problems and sure enough, the straps tenaciously cling onto your thigh throughout all your testing.

“Hey, look what I found! He’ll definitely save us some travelling time tomorrow, but I don’t think he likes me much.”

Jungkook appears from the area your mother disappeared with an overwhelming pile of lumber in his arms. You stroll over to lessen the load, but he brushes you off and bypasses you to drop it beside the fire.

A white horse tromps along after him, trying to nip at the crown of his head while he shoos it away with a waving hand. The comical sight distracts you from the dreary thoughts of your mother, although the stiff strap wrapped around your leg forbids you from forgetting about it.

When you snap out of your reverie, Jungkook is cocking his head to the side at your unusually spacey behaviour.

You spare him a weak smile and shake your head.

Rather than sore feet, the next day your entire crotch is painfully numb from riding Maximus, the quirky horse who holds an obnoxious grudge against Jungkook for reasons unknown to you. While Max allows you to rub his cheeks, scratch his neck and run your fingers through his mane, he huffs if Jungkook so much as breathes too loudly.

Oddly enough, the stallion follows Jungkook around like a lost puppy despite his cold attitude. What is with males and their inability to show their appreciation for one another?

Jungkook insisted on being in front and taking hold of the reins even though Max refused to let him mount his back at first. After some caresses and loving words with the sweet animal, Max permitted you to hop on—which Jungkook was not pleased with. It was a nice change of pace to watch the ordinarily suave man lose his cool over a horse’s favouritism.

In the end, the only way Jungkook was allowed on was by sitting behind you, latching onto you for stability. The animosity growing between the two males adds to your amusement, so you remain unbothered by the hostile glares you can feel Jungkook throwing over your shoulder and the aggressive puffs of air that blow through Max’s nostrils every once in a while.

“Tell me how you found Max again?” Skepticism leaks into your tone, courtesy of Jungkook’s thieving habits.

You could practically feel his eyes roll back into his head as his arms tighten around your waist. His built torso is glued to your back, which repeatedly distracts you from the path ahead. “I told you that I was collecting some twigs off of the ground when this guy appeared out of nowhere! I was scared shitless.”

“You mean to say that someone accidentally lost their horse in the middle of the woods?” You glance sideways to peek at his chin, lodged into the crook of your neck. His face is merely a couple of millimetres from your own.

When he insisted on resting his head there, you had thoroughly embarrassed yourself with a flaming face, resembling a ripe tomato ready for the picking, coupled with your inability to enunciate any word properly. But after hours of his head smooshed against the side of your face or leaning against your upper back, you finally relax into his hold, finding comfort and safety in the appendages coiled tightly around you.

“Sounds plausible, doesn’t it?”

You scoff at the impish grin stretching across his cheeks at his own horrible excuse.

The castle comes into view in the ensuing half-hour, the imposing building no longer obstructed by the towering trees of the forest. Your spirits are dampened slightly by the cruel secrets Jungkook revealed yesterday night, although your giddiness at the prospect of living out your dreams makes you vibrate in excitement. You remind yourself that you’re here for the magical lights, not the castle.

The faint pounding against your back picks up speed for a reason drastically different to your own. He is essentially walking right into his own imprisonment—his wanted posters more than likely plastered across every flat surface inside the marketplace with soldiers littered around the premises. You gather the sturdy reins into one hand, freeing the other to hold Jungkook’s conjoined digits over your stomach.

Completely engrossed in Jungkook’s dilemma, neither of you notice Max racing into town until a screech pierces your ears. You apologize profusely for the spilled legumes that begin rolling away from the young woman, and you whip Max into trodding off before she curses you out.

Once you’re satisfied with the amount of space between yourselves and the unlucky woman, you tie Max’s reins to a nearby fence and race to join the festivities carrying on all around you. Spotting Jungkook’s unsure form lagging behind, you dart back to tug on his wrist, flashing him an encouraging smile before lugging him from one stall to another.

You don’t get far before you experience a sharp pain on your scalp. With the large amounts of people bustling around the tiny square, your hair is a tripping hazard that you try to quickly bunch up into your arms. Your hair is way too long to carry by yourself, so you turn to ask Jungkook for help, though he’s nowhere to be found.

Your mind races to the worst-case scenario. The guards must have caught sight of him, capturing him off guard while you were none the wiser and now he’s going to be hanged for his crimes all because you were too stupid to—

A couple of little girls with flowers decorating their braids physically yank you out of your trance, their tiny hands gathering your multitudinous strands and dragging you off to the side. You’re about to protest against their actions, more concerned over Jungkook’s whereabouts than anything, but after catching a glance of said man playfully waving at you from a few feet away, you allow yourself to be whisked away.

The three girls deftly move from left to right, taking locks of your hair with them as they knot it all into one humongous five strand braid. When you stand up to your full height, you’re amazed to see that none of your hair touches the ground. Considering the hefty weight that pulls at the back of your head, you know this solution can’t last too long.

They scatter various fresh flowers all over, the scent of the blossoms wafting around your figure. As you’re appreciating their handiwork, an arm wraps itself around the curve of your lower back, drawing you into a herculean chest while you blow air kisses filled with your gratitude to the snickering girls.

Jungkook maneuvers you into a narrow alleyway, and you get a chance to admire his glittering irises from up close.

“Guards?”

He only grins.

You’re certain to keep an eye out for any wandering soldiers from that point on, with you pulling Jungkook behind crowds or him dragging you into the gaps between small buildings. Despite the situation being rather stressful with your lives at stake, your escapade is thrilling nonetheless and you enjoy being pressed up against his lean frame, carelessly giggling to yourselves.

Although neither of you carries any silver, window shopping proves to be equally as amusing—browsing through homemade accessories, toys and masks that you play around with, flashing ridiculous faces at one another.

The delicious smell of baked goods drifts through the streets and prompts your mouths to fill with saliva. You appreciate the artistry behind their beautifully decorated exteriors, adorned with colourful frosting and sprinkles. One booth catches your attention and you latch onto Jungkook’s hand to drag him along.

Rows and rows of shiny green bottles are positioned in perfect rows on a table inside the booth and plushies hang from the sides, acting as bait to any passerby. You tug on the hem of Jungkook’s dark vest, gesticulating towards the game with awe.

He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a few silver coins that glint in the sunlight. Your eyes widen into saucers at his mischievous grin and you smack his arm, chiding him for his wandering hands as he assures you that he found them on the ground. When he goes as far as to insist that he saved them from being trampled on, you can’t help your tinkling laughter from escaping.

Perhaps it’s karma that prevents your rings from landing on top of any bottle, but the exhilaration of watching the rings soar in midair with a flick of your wrist as Jungkook’s chants fill your ears is priceless. Certainly more precious than any stuffed animal.

You two amble about the streets again, side by side. Long fingers intertwine with your own and your heart flips in your chest, suppressing the raging flush that threatens to colour your cheeks whenever Jungkook is involved. You look around your surroundings, trying to conceal the cheeky grin on your face, resembling that of a toddler with their favourite candy.

Before long, your travelling gaze takes notice of the people hunched over on the ground, concentrated on the stones below them. With a closer look, you discover the sketches littered across the stone pathways—some spanning the entire street and some smaller than your palm.

You bolt over to join them with Jungkook in tow. This whole hand-holding business is proving to be more useful than you thought.

There are pieces of different coloured chalk dispersed throughout the streets, and you pick up an orange one, urging Jungkook to do the same. He searches around for a bit until he decides on a white coloured chalk.

By the time you’re finalizing the tiny drawing you sketched onto the uneven stones, the stub in your hand is half the size of your pinky. Your joints ache from kneeling for so long, but you’re more than satisfied with the bright tiger lily staring back at you.

You stand up, brushing off of any stray rocks that have embedded themselves onto the bare skin of your legs and nudge Jungkook’s arm with your foot. He grumbles under his breath that you ruined the white blob he claims to be a bunny, but you jest that it was doomed the moment he picked up the chalk.

The retort silences him and you stretch your hand out to help him stand, grinning sheepishly at the pout on his pink lips. He accepts your peace offering, although rather than using your aid to get up, he yanks you downwards and your unstable body lands right into his lap. You squeak at his retaliation and wriggle violently in his hold as he curls himself around you, his chin resting onto your shoulder and arms wrapping around your torso to quell your futile efforts of escape.

“You like the nation’s flower?” He questions, nuzzling his face into your upper back.

“Nation’s flower?”

He hums his confirmation and you feel the pleasant vibrations on your neck before he’s nodding towards the purple pennants that dangle off of thin strings, stretching between buildings. Now that you’re actively inspecting the marketplace for the flower, you notice the continuous motif of the orange lily sprouting everywhere from decorations to paintings.

Jungkook seems to have abandoned all hope on his own masterpiece, for he lifts you up by your underarms and leads you away.

As you venture through the rest of the market, grazing through the various stalls, you examine all the knick-knacks depicting the famous tiger lily. It soothes you slightly, recognizing the flower decorating your walls back at the tower.

Lost in your trance, you don’t catch Jungkook slinking away, disappearing into the crowds.

As you turn the corner to browse the next stall’s wares, a massive stained glass window depicting a family of three catches your eye. The man appears stern with his furrowed brows and deep-set frown, and the woman’s forced smile fits awkwardly onto her face. She’s holding a tight bundle of canvas, a tiny face peeking through the layers of fabric in her arms.

Rays of the setting sun pierce through the coloured, translucent material and surround the art piece with an ethereal glow. You’re transfixed by the woman, reminded of your own mother’s delicate features.

You shake off the unpleasant feeling of your last encounter with her and analyze the three squares dedicated to the child’s crumpled face. The only noticeable detail you can make out is his chubby cheeks.

“Interested in the Prince?” A warm breath whispers into your ear, “Am I not good enough for you anymore, Princess?”

You spin around to face Jungkook, barely able to contain your delight as you examine the playful glint in his eyes. “Bold of you to assume there was ever a point where you were good enough for me.”

He scoffs, hands automatically coming to loop around your middle. “I know you’re not suggesting that I’m anything less than stellar company.”

You hum aloud, feigning contemplation by rubbing at your chin and a wide grin breaks his irked performance. He tries to hide his little slip by burrowing his face into the crook of your neck.

His soft cheeks on your bare skin along with his large hands squeezing at your sides elicit all your muffled giggles to burst past your lips. Pure, unadulterated glee bounces around your stomach.

Some of the lilies lodged within your golden strands fall loose and flutter onto the ground with the movement. You intercept one that drops from near your temple, plucking it out of the air and slotting the stem just above Jungkook’s ear.

He pulls away from subjecting your clavicle with his tiny nips in order to rest his forehead against yours. Your head is cradled by one of his palms and you watch as his heated gaze roams down to your lips. Entranced by his overwhelming presence, your eyelids slide shut as he leans forward slightly, tilting his head to the side before a meaty hand encloses around the circumference of your upper arm, yanking you away from him.

Panic seizes your muscles. Your heart threatens to shatter your rib cage with its fierce pounding. The soldiers. You extend your other arm to reach out for Jungkook—the same alarm piercing your flesh is reflected in his blazing orbs. Before he has the chance to rush after you, a dainty woman clothed in a primrose dress sweeps him away as well.

Barely a whole day has passed since you began running away from the soldiers, yet you’re more than certain that the soldier’s attire solely consisted of their royal uniforms, which did not include any flowy, pink garments. You whip back to your own abductor; a stout, jolly man with a cheshire grin stretching from one ear to the other.

He releases you in the middle of a swarming mass of people, moving their bodies left and right to the beat being pounded out on tabors and the sweet melody spilling from a nearby flute.

The man spins you around, encouraging you to let loose and sway your hips to the upbeat song as you’re handed off from one partner to the next. Somewhere within the chaos, you spot Jungkook’s longing stare and you subconsciously inch closer to his side.

The second that you two are within reach of one another, you dart into his arms. Just as you’re about to slip into his comforting embrace, a scrawny boy takes your place while an older woman wraps her arms around your shoulders. She wastes no time before guiding you into a dip, her palms supporting your back.

Upside down, Jungkook’s annoyed countenance is an amusing sight that you gleefully chortle at. Knowing that he is similarly distraught at the prospect of being unable to dance together soothes your aching desire and you savour the thrilling experience of moving as one part of a greater whole.

You prance and twirl your heart out as if it’s your last time. And you’re sure that it will be.

Eventually, both of you are able to slither your way out of the dancing crowds, and the cheers die down the farther you get from the main square. The sun is rapidly falling past the horizon and the capital is shrouded in the deepening twilight. You assumed that he would lead you to see the lanterns about now, but you’re clueless as to why you two are heading away from the castle.

“Jungkook?”

He turns back to you with a breathtaking smile resting on his lips, the dwindling light casting an otherworldly radiance around him. Reaching for your hand, he intertwines your fingers with his own as he leans down to softly bump his forehead against yours. “You’ll see.”

Jungkook directs you towards the moat that surrounds the marketplace, ushering you into one of the many gondolas lined up against the dock. You narrow your eyes at him and he attempts to reassure you with a simple, “We’ll bring it back.”

This man will truly corrupt all your morals.

But you’re so entranced in his spell that you follow along without more than a tiny squeeze at your interlaced digits. You release his hands before he jumps into the boat, the wood swaying back and forth under his weight, worrying you instead of the unbothered man a few feet away. As you take a sharp inhale, about to follow in his footsteps, Jungkook grips the sides of your hips and lifts you into the gondola with him.

You fix him with a reproachful glare at his unexpected actions yet the silent scolding doesn’t last long, for you’re hopeless to the sight of his elation, sticking to him like a second skin. Powerless against his charms, you sit on the thin wooden seat on the other side of the boat and watch him grab an oar, dipping it into the water and propelling you two forward.

You want to admire the unobstructed view of the sparkling night sky, but nothing can beat the galaxies hidden within Jungkook’s eyes, thus you try to seem as inconspicuous as possible in ogling him from your peripheral. However, your futile efforts are rather pointless considering your position, facing the handsome thief rowing the boat at the other end.

You think the title is fitting since he’s stolen your heart without a problem as well.

Once he deems your spot satisfactory, Jungkook strolls over to your side, taking a seat on the bench across from you. His legs slot in between the spaces of your own.

“Now that I think about it, it’s the Prince’s eighteenth birthday too,” he states. “He must be pretty excited, taking over the throne and everything.”

You perk up at the news. “He’s succeeding the King?”

“Mm,” he affirms, wetting his lips with a swipe of his tongue. “King announced an early retirement or something because they’d already found the Prince’s betrothed. His coronation is today.”

You nod your understanding, thinking about the responsibilities bearing down on the poor boy. “It’s kind of weird to think about, y’know, being the same age and even sharing the same birthday but leading completely different lives. He’s about to get married, lead a country and me...” you falter, pausing to string your thoughts into a coherent sentence. “Well, this is my entire dream. Seeing these lights is everything to me.”

“And what’s wrong with that?” he asks, shrugging his shoulders. “You’re living your own life, on your own journey. Comparing yourself to others does nothing but rob yourself of your own happiness.”

You hum with a teasing lilt to your tone. “Suddenly the boy who named himself ‘gold’ in the hopes of attracting some friends is giving me advice?”

He breaks out into a chuckle, doubling over and laying his forehead on your shoulder. His hands reach out for the locks of hair resting on your lap, plucking one of the flowers swimming in your strands. Like Hansel and his bread crumbs, many of the blossoms that fell off throughout your time in the marketplace left tracks of your whereabouts. Only a few flowers remain with you.

With the delicate daisy between his thumb and index finger, he rolls the pads of his fingers against each other, spinning the white petals so fast that they blur together into a splotchy circle surrounding the yellow centre. Once he becomes bored with the flower, he lifts his head and stretches his arm out with a classic smirk that heightens his flirtatious nature. “For you, my lady.”

You huff at the offering. “You act as if it wasn’t already mine in the first place.” Despite your sharp words, you gingerly pluck the stem out of his grasp, fingers brushing against his own. When you raise the daisy up to your nose, the invigorating floral scent startles your senses once more.

With not much else to occupy your time, you decide that now is a better time than ever to dislodge the wilting buds from your tresses. You face the side of the gondola overlooking the water, grabbing onto the ledge and leaning forward.

You muster all the grace you have within your bones to place the ivory daisy onto the water’s surface. The flower drifts along the calm current, painting the atmosphere with a tranquil serenity.

Despite your best efforts to suppress them, your clumsy tendencies shine through when you tip your torso over a smidge too far, losing your balance and diving headfirst for the water. Jungkook is quick to latch on to your wrist, steadying you before you accidentally throw yourself overboard.

You’re sheepish in both your apology and thanks. To avoid any further mishaps, one of his hands remain on your lower back and the other collects the remaining blossoms in your tresses, handing them off to you.

A slow rhythm develops between you two and your raging thoughts come to a standstill, a red light halting the traffic within your mind. In front of you, a garden of assorted blossoms assembles, floating gently towards the ornate castle. One sprout catches your eye.

A tiger lily.

Directly below its long petals, a flash of bright red catches your eye in the reflection of the water. Jungkook’s deep voice cleaves through the soft sloshing of the water. “The lanterns.”

“It’s…” You struggle to piece together proper words to describe the sight before you. One lantern lightens the dark sky, drifting alone in the expansive space before a bunch of others race to join the first. Their warm, yellow glow overpowers that of the moon, painting the landscape in an orange tint that seems to welcome you into its embrace.

“Beautiful.”

You’re too distracted by the enchanting sight before you to notice his eyes trained on your profile, and so you soundlessly agree with a nod of your head. It’s as if time has ceased in its endless ticking, halting in its tracks for another world to open where only you and Jungkook exist.

You don’t mind the idea as much as you think you would.

“I have a surprise.”

You turn over to face him, head tilting in curiosity. He carries a paper lantern in his open palms and your brows furrow at his attentive, considerate behaviour. “Jungkook?”

“We should join in on all the fun, right?” A genuine smile illuminates his soft features instead of the usual smirks he casually throws your way. Oddly enough, despite your inability to operate in front of his flirty personality, you adore both sides equally.

“Kook, wait.”

He perks up at the nickname, reminding you of a dog with its tail violently wagging back and forth—you can’t help but be enamoured by him. You raise the hem of your dress up to the middle of your left thigh and he sputters, looking away. “Hey, hey! I know I’m pretty irresistible but this boat is not the place to—”

“No, you idiot.” You snicker at his unexpected timidity, shimmying the coiled strap down your leg and covering your decency once again with the fabric. “I have something for you too.”

He peeks at you, ensuring that you’re sufficiently clothed before turning to face you. A cold sweat settles over the outer layer of your skin as you watch his brows raise at his satchel in your hands. Keeping the lantern in one hand, and his steady gaze focused on your eyes, he gently pushes the bag down to the floor of the boat, the metal of the crown banging against the wood.

“All I need is you,” he whispers the words into the empty space of the night, the syllables getting lost somewhere within the mellow breeze blowing by. Your heart constricts at the reassurance that this time, Mother is wrong. You fight back the tears gathering at your waterline and grab the other edge of the lantern after he lights the candle inside.

“Ready?” he asks.

You nod and the two of you slowly lift your arms to release the lantern with the masses drifting above you. After a bit, you lose sight of your paper lantern and you glance back at Jungkook to ask whether he was able to keep track of its location, but your voice gets stuck in your throat when you become captivated with the childlike wonder buried within his orbs, roaming over the sky and examining every single lantern at once.

His scouring eventually leads him back to you. He catches you staring, but neither of you care enough to break the moment. His eyes soften and you two shuffle forward on your seats, being pulled toward one another like magnets. Your legs entangle with his in the cramped area and you lean forward until your lips are millimetres from one another.

From this close, you have a perfect view of your reflection within his brilliant irises, the shallow scar that runs along his cheek, the cute birthmark right under his mouth. His eyes are locked on your mouth and you take that as the go-ahead signal to close the gap and slot your lips against his soft ones.

With your evident lack of experience, Jungkook takes control immediately, a hand flying to the back of your head, threading through your hair to keep you in place as he sucks at your lower lip. His tongue swipes at the closed seam that blocks him from your mouth, and you instantly open up to clash tongues, although you shrink back soon after, letting him explore your hot cavern.

You sneak a peek at him every time you two separate for air, confirming that this is indeed reality and not some product of your wild imagination. He invades all your senses and keeps you locked to him like an addict desperate for their fix, his other palm searing through your clothing with its heat and burning a hole through the thin fabric of your dress.

When you finally pull away, you feel feverish and dizzy as a raging blush colours your cheeks. You can’t find it in yourself to look directly into his eyes, but he reaches for your chin and forces you to study the haze of passion in his gaze.

Every part of your body is lit aflame from his touch. Hooked on the feeling of his plush lips pressing against yours with your tongues swirling in tandem with one another, you’re about to lean in for more when his eyes dart off to the side and he abruptly jerks away as if you burned him with your embrace.

His startling jolt snaps you out of your dazed state. With your head out of the clouds, you notice that the lanterns have already moved onto the next town over, taking their warmth with them. The fire within you, kindled by Jungkook, dwindles with the uncertainty of your future together.

Without so much as another word, Jungkook snatches the oar from the bottom of the boat and jumps back to his position at the front of the gondola. He urgently paddles the two of you back to land and you fumble for words. “Jungkook, I—”

“It’s not you.” His statement is reassuring in writing, although his tone is detached, distant in a way that crushes the passages to your lungs. Lost in your dejection, you’re powerless to prod him for any more information than that.

Before the boat can hit the edge of the dock, Jungkook springs out with his leather satchel tucked under his arm, pausing to mutter, “I just—I have to take care of something. Please believe me when I say I’ll be back.” His anguish leaks into his voice and you will yourself to nod, a forced smile on your lips. “Wait for me.”

He dashes off with your heart in his hands. You steady your shaky breath and place your faith in him, the man you have come to trust with your life.

You spend the next half hour struggling to get out of the gondola, craving the flat land to ground yourself. By the time you manage to clamber out, there are a couple of discoloured blotches on the length of your dress that put your many failed attempts on full display. You fan one of the bigger spots to help it dry faster, but the fabric becomes chilly with the extra wind and a shiver slips down your spine from its icy temperature.

Languid footsteps approach your frigid frame and you brighten up, forgetting about the cold. “Took you long enough. Y’know, for a second there I was worried you’d actually lef—”

You pick up more than one pair of feet advancing on you and your eyes widen at the lanky, redheaded twins that stop in front of your path. Cursing your quivering limbs, you cringe at the tremor in your voice when you ask, “What did you do to him?”

They simultaneously snort at your question and the one on the left replies, “Sorry about this, lass, but you’re gonna have to come with us.”

The blood drains from your face and you repeat, louder, “What did you do to him?”

“Aw, don’t get all riled up now. But don’t worry your pretty little head, we’re going to take you right to him.” They corner you back to the dock and you scramble to locate a weapon to defend yourself with. At your wit’s end, you prepare to jump into the murky waters.

However, before you get the chance to move another muscle, an intense pain blooms at the back of your skull, wrapping around to your temples accompanied by a flash of light exploding behind your eyes. Then everything goes black.

Your head pounds as a dull ache nestles itself deep within your bones. Your vision is nothing but a blurry, indecipherable mess of colours, so you opt to keep your eyes closed instead. You’re kneeling on cold tiles that rub your knees raw when you subtly shift into a more comfortable position, discovering the existence of the shackles around your wrists and ankles.

“—nd the girl. We expect you to keep your end of the deal.” The rugged tone that speaks is one that you recognize from before your blackout—one of the redheads.

“Yes, yes, all the charges laid against you have been cleared,” a high-pitched voice meets your ears and you subconsciously grimace, physically recoiling from the sound. Thankfully, your sharp motions go unnoticed. “You’re free to go.”

“What?” You hear shuffling nearby, the rustling of clothes getting farther away from you. The distinct, metallic sheen of a couple of swords being unsheathed follow and the footsteps come to a sudden stop. “You promised us gold.”

The woman scoffs, “Now why would I give you crooked-nosed knaves anything more than a death sentence?”

Many polished boots clamber against the ground with such force that the vibrations can be felt through the flesh of your folded calves. The grunts and garbled screams that ensue are silenced within seconds and two hefty weights hit the floor with a limp, lifeless thud.

“A pleasure working with you boys.”

There’s more shuffling, then something is dragged past your crumpled form. The throbbing across your cranium worsens and you’re incapable of fending off the blissful oblivion of desolation any longer, thus you surrender to the darkness once more.

The next time you open your eyes a harsh light coats your surroundings and the blocks of colour are clearer, sharp enough to decipher the intricate detailing painted on the tiles beneath your knees. Someone chokes on a wet cough, and your eyelids snap shut once more. Your nose crinkles in disgust as well.

“Her tiny skull should have been rolling through these halls eighteen years ago.” The woman’s wretched tone fills your ears, words full of deadly poison.

You remain chained, kneeling against the ground with your head lowered. A numbing sensation lingers no matter how much you fidget in place, bearing down your limbs with the weight of your useless nerves that refuse to fire off.

Another, deeper, voice responds, “Tone it down. Her magic is powerful, the advantage we hold over the other kingdoms is colossal with this kind of sorcery on our side. If she falls, the whole empire will fall with her.”

Sorcery? Although you can count the number of people you met on one hand, you’ve studied heaps of books and drilled your mother with enough questions to know that your magic is unique and rare—a product of alchemy that occurs merely once every millennium.

“I see no point in keeping her around when we cannot access her magic at our will, she is as good as worthless to us. That halfwit of a sister was incapable of locking this churl in a tower for long enough, and look at her now, running around, wreaking havoc with a criminal.”

Your mind swirls with the sudden barrage of information, unsure as to why these two strangers hold deep insights into your life, as well as the knowledge about your unusual hair.

“There is nothing to worry about, Jimin is on the throne. We will simply send her away once again,” the gruff voice states, exasperation clear in his tone.

A deafening thud reverberates throughout the spacious room. Helpless to the dreadful fear swimming in your veins, your body shudders in response to the noise.

The woman shrieks, clearly at her wits’ end, “I want her dead! Guillotine, hang, drown, burn, I could care less. She poses a threat to Jimin’s throne with her existence, and we have gone through too much to have our plans foiled by this knave. We were merciful enough in having my imbecilic sister continue to meet with Jimin throughout the years.”

There’s a long, drawn-out sigh before the man answers, “Have some heart, darling, that is her son you speak of.”

“In the eyes of the people, he is my son and the King,” she seethes. Her enmity is strangely familiar, yet you fail to identify the woman through her voice. “Quit acting as if I am the only sinner here and remember how much we both sacrificed for our blood to inherit the King’s throne.”

“It is not your blood though, is it, dear wife?”

The tension within the room is thick, palpable in the dense air in the way that makes breathing difficult. “You must have enjoyed sleeping with my sister more than I believed. Do you want to call her back here? Play a good husband and wife for the counterfeit King?”

You couldn’t keep the tremours from breaking out over your body as your breaths quicken and an abundance of liquid races to your eyes. It was all beginning to come together, but you wait for the two to confirm your suspicions.

The man chuckles with hollow intent. “Do you fail to recall your own words, pleading with me to follow this foolish scheme of yours? I would have much rather preferred a foreigner rule the kingdom alongside our daughter.”

“Funny, that’s not what you said eighteen years ago.”

You let out a choked sob, unable to repress the sounds of anguish that tears at your skin to brutal shreds. Enraged rivulets stream down your cheeks, and you lift your torso to stare at your legitimate parents. They turn to you, the man distraught and the woman with pure disgust.

“How—” you stammer through your heavy wails, “how could you?”

“So the Princess found out.” Your biological mother raises from her royal seat, storming over the short distance to your trembling form. “Fine, we can strike an agreement.”

She reaches behind your head to grab a handful of your hair, yanking your head up to peer up at the exquisitely decorated ceiling. When you yelp in pain, she crouches down to your level, baring her pearly white teeth as she threatens, “Leave. Be a good little girl and go hole yourself back up in that tower. Don’t worry, Mommy will come get you if we ever need that magic of yours, hm?”

You desperately wriggle around to loosen her hold, but she only grips your strands tighter, pulling downwards to introduce more pain to your scalp. “That thief will stay right here to ensure you keep up your end of the deal, alright?”

At the mention of Jungkook, your heart stutters and your expression morphs to that of despair, momentarily forgetting about the strain to the sensitive skin of your head. “Where is he?”

She smirks and snaps her fingers. The door to the throne room is pulled open with a loud clack, and Jungkook’s weak, bloody form stumbles through the grand entrance, hanging upright with the help of two sturdy guards.

“Kook,” you achingly howl.

“Mopping all his blood off the floor would be terribly tiresome for the maids.” She jerks your head down to bear witness to the sneer stretching across her lips. “It’s all up to you, really.”

“Let me heal him!” you agonize, sobs ripping through your chest, burning through every tissue to the outermost layer of your skin. “Pl-please, please let me heal him. I’ll leave, I won’t say a word, I’ll do anything you want—I’m b-begging you, please.”

The wicked smirk playing on her lips grows wider at your pleading. She shoves your head away, the momentum of the push throwing your whole torso over to the side, bringing about a harsh meeting with the floor. With Jungkook occupying every crevice of your mind, there’s no space to register the pain pulsing through your groggy body.

“That’s what I like to hear.”

You scramble to your hands and knees, disregarding the scrapes and bruises littering your limbs. Despite your tunnel vision directed towards reaching Jungkook, your movements are sluggish from the extended period of time spent kneeling in one position.

The guards supporting him release their hold on his arms, and you scramble to catch his limp frame in your arms, but your depleted muscles can only manage to soften his fall with your body. You detangle yourself from him and hurriedly begin wrapping your hair around his torso.

Your jaw trembles at his damp locks, sodden with sweat and stuck to the side of his head dripping in crimson. The vicious colour oozes out of the deep gashes you locate across his back, peeking through the tears in his shirt and stains the bloody spit drooling from the corners of his cracked lips. Great purple welts fill the rest of his exposed skin, completing the heart-wrenching picture before you.

You pick up the weak croak of your name, and you hiccup from your fierce laments at his red-rimmed eyes. “Guess I was right all along, Princess.”

Your mother’s cruel words follow the nasty glower she shoots his way. “Shut up or we’ll end your pitiful life now, you filthy criminal.”

“Jungkook, I’m here,” you reassure him, beginning to wrap your excess strands around his arms before he stops you with a stained hand. “Jungkook let me—”

“Stop,” he mutters, gripping his side in pain.  

“No! I can’t—I can’t let you die.” You grit your teeth, disobeying his words and going to wrap your tresses around his broken body once more.

“If you go back there,” he coughs, an alarming amount of blood spurting out, “then you’ll—”

“It’s fine, everything will be alright, okay?” You press your palm over his hand and the icy bite that greets you hardens your resolve. “We’ll figure it out.”

You take a deep breath, readying yourself to sing the incantation engraved into the back of your mind when Jungkook’s fingers graze your cheek. You unconsciously lean into his touch, examining every crimson stain marring his delicate features.

His doe eyes soften at your orbs roaming his face and when your gaze settles on his thin lips, he snatches the chance to land a peck against your mouth. The fleeting kiss fills you with greed, and your eyes flutter shut despite your rationale as you dip towards him for another.

You halt, gasping at the gut-wrenching sound of your tresses being severed from the base of your neck, the noise snapping you back to reality. Your eyes widen at Jungkook’s relieved countenance as his torso reclines to the ground, the sharp dagger in his hand rattling onto the tiles beside him. When you reach back to assess the damage, your hand grips onto the short strands that reach no further than your shoulder.

You glance back at the heaps of dead, brown hair sprawled across the palace floor and your mind wipes clean of any coherent thought. Instead, your chest caves in on itself, breathing made impossible because of your collapsed airways and you choke out, “Jungkook, what did you—”

“What an absolute halfwit, does he think he did anyone a favour with that little stunt of his? Without your hair, we have no need for either of you.” Your biological mother laughs, the notes turning ominously maniacal towards the end. “Kill them.”

Guards immediately surround you two, and in a weak attempt to protect him from their pointed swords, you cradle Jungkook’s powerless form to your chest. You prepare yourself to bear the end of their piercing blades.

“What do you roaches think you’re doing?” she seethes, blazing orbs flashing with white-hot fury. “I said, kill them!”

The gigantic doors burst open again, but this time, a lean man strides forward. His blond strands are neatly styled away from his forehead and the regal red robe hanging upon his shoulders elegantly sway after him. The soldiers part ways to make room for the intimidating man and one of his retainers at the door announces, “The King is here!”

You struggle to even out your frantic breaths, thankful for the distraction that grants you a break to rack your brain for a method to escape the dreadful situation you two have found yourselves in. Debating whether you should fight back, sneak away or plead for forgiveness, your eyes dart wildly around the room. A woman donned in a black cloak lingers slightly behind the King, gazing at you with a murderous glare that sends pin needles into the thin lining of your stomach.

“That’s enough,” the King states.

“Jimin.” The former Queen races up to him but is stopped by the retainers that encircle the King.  “What business do you have here? There are more important matters for you to attend to.” Her eyes narrow at the sight of the woman behind him.

“No, I think this has gone on long enough.” He sweeps his gaze over to the two of you, Jungkook barely clinging onto life, nestled within your protective embrace. The woman latches onto his bicep, her head vigorously shaking back and forth, yet you’re uncertain whether her disagreement will relieve your anguish or worsen it.

Despite her insistence, his head nods in your direction and the woman that raised you begrudgingly marches up to you, barely acknowledging your presence in favour of pressing her palms against Jungkook’s open lacerations. He winces at the pressure and just as you’re about to tell her off, you discern the thick gauze that rests between her hand and Jungkook’s side, the sterile white shade expeditiously being replaced by a bloody crimson.

“What are you talking about, dear?” the former Queen asks, a hard edge to her tone. “These two are hedge-born lowlives, simply not worth your time.”

He crinkles his nose in disgust, flicking his hand towards the former King and Queen. “Lock them up in the dungeons.”

Both their eyes widen comically, jaws dropping to the floor. However, you can’t find joy within their despair when Jungkook’s survival is still up in the air.

The woman sputters, recklessly thrashing her body to escape the soldiers’ grip. The man simply lowers his head, seemingly having accepted his fate as he follows the guards without another word.

“Did you forget who put you in that throne, Park Jimin?” the woman screeches, the blood vessels lining her neck about to implode. “How dare you disrespect your pare—”

“How could I ever forget your treacherous actions?” he spits out, disgust lacing his voice, “How could I ever forget how many lives you’ve ruined, dear aunt.”

“We did it all for you!”

“You did it for yourselves,” he hisses. Relief trickles through the tips of your fingers, spreading across your body like wildfire from the King’s aid. “Get them out of my sight.”

“You worthless—” Her shrieks echo throughout the halls, though you’ve long lost focus in their conversation after watching the two wretched souls being punished and put in their rightful place.

Your aunt passes some thick bandages from inside the bell sleeve of her cloak. You gratefully accept the offering, pressing it against his lower back—wishing that it’s not too late, that Jungkook has not lost too much blood yet. The passive stare that your aunt fixes you with crams your head with doubt and you begin to panic, bringing one of your hands up to cradle his face.

Although you’re convinced that you wailed through an entire year’s worth of sobs, the tears sliding down your face refuse to stop, dripping down and landing onto the dirtied skin of Jungkook’s cheek. You press your forehead against his, hoping against hope that some magic remains within your body, that the tiniest bit will reveal itself like a bag trick and heal his wounds.

But your magical hair was extraordinary enough, and this is no fairytale.

“Get those two to the physician’s,” the King orders.

Guards scramble to action, ripping you apart from Jungkook as you unsuccessfully attempt to resist being separated again. You’re absolutely spent from the tiring events of the past couple of days and your weary legs give out as the soldiers lift your drained form into a standing position.

Jungkook is moved onto a sturdy sheet, then carried away past the double doors and out of sight. Your flimsy arms wrap around the shoulders of two guards as they assist you in following Jungkook to the physician, passing the King on your way.

His plush lips stretch into a sympathetic, tight-lipped smile, but the adrenaline from earlier wears off and the sting of your own wounds drains you of your manners, uncaring that you’re facing the King. Thankfully, he dismisses your discourtesy instead of beheading you, and you’re hauled away from the gracious man.

On the way, you’re close enough to overhear what he mutters under his breath. A garbled scream rips through your throat in protest, and you shoot the King the deadliest glare you can muster. He releases a deep sigh at your childish antics, waving as you turn the corner.

“Poor guy doesn’t look like he’s going to make it.”

You spend the next few, rather tedious, days in a luxurious bed, being fretted over by everyone from the maids to the chefs. It was difficult to indulge in the extravagance that the castle had to offer when you were anxiously awaiting news regarding Jungkook, which they refused to disclose until your own condition improved.

After all the pampering, you were permitted access past the confines of the expansive room you were forced to recover in. Your injuries were minor in comparison to Jungkook, thus you were granted freedom much earlier than him.

Not like he was capable of stepping outside of his room anyway.

Although his body is repairing his torn flesh incrementally, he shows no signs of consciousness—not the twitch of a finger, the flutter of an eyelash, nothing. Doubt claws a bit higher up your torso each day, waiting for the moment that the disquiet slithers up your esophagus and suffocates you.

Despite the crushing news of his coma-like state, you work diligently to ensure that neither you nor Jungkook becomes a burden to the castle by picking up various duties. Jimin continuously waves off your attempts to help, but you’re restless and desperate for a distraction from wondering about Jungkook’s condition all the time.

Jimin banned you from performing some of the maid’s tasks once, then sorely regretted it when he had to tend to your nervous breakdown in the afternoon. Since then he has kept his comments on your excessive working habits to himself.

Today you’re in Jungkook’s room, dusting off the spotless shelves that house the many herbs being grounded into powders and rubbed as a salve onto his injuries daily. You organize the rolled bandages for the second time in the past hour and mop every inch of the floor.

You can’t devote yourself to lingering by the unconscious man’s side for too long, otherwise your mind gradually begins to spiral into every possible worst-case scenario and you simply can’t handle the reality of a future without him. It sounds overly dramatic—many of the maids you have grown close to over the months claimed as much when you brought up your journey together.

But they didn’t hear his melodic laughter that followed his teasing smirks when he said something flirtatious, effectively making your heart skip a beat. They didn’t feel his hand always reaching out to make contact with you in some way, craving your touch to ground him to reality. They didn’t see his eyes softening when he gazed at you as though you were holding his entire world in your eyes.

They didn’t know Jungkook the way you did.

You strain the mop of its excess dirtied water before stowing the tool away in the storage room. When you return, a draft filters in through the open window and you race over to close it, worried that Jungkook may catch a bothersome cold that will delay his healing process.

You take a seat on the lavish mattress adjacent from his thighs as you stare out the window in front of you. The air remains stale in spite of the fresh breeze that blew into the room seconds prior, and the dull atmosphere persists due to the lifeless man inhabiting its space.

You’re uncertain how many more times you can handle walking into this room with his weak body lying motionless on these pristine sheets, but you will endure it all without complaint for him. A knock at the door catches your attention, and you twist around to meet Jimin’s friendly beam. “How is he?”

“Same as he always is,” you state, allowing yourself to take in Jungkook’s sunken cheeks and pale face. “Unresponsive.”

“You wanna join me in the gardens for some fresh air?” At your unsure raise of a brow, he convinces you with, “You’ve been cooped up in the castle the whole day.”

The both of you head out to view the lush scenery outside, seated amongst the blooming tulips, although your eyes are drawn to the lilies that border the lilac cosmos. You trace the familiar shape of the orange flower with your pupils, reminiscing on the doodles decorating your room’s walls back at the tower. That seems like forever ago now.

Other than his lack of consciousness, Jungkook’s condition remains relatively stable and yet you still find it burdensome to stray too far from his side. The staff is under orders to instantly notify you should he arise while you’re away, but that doesn’t ease the disquiet that rouses whenever you leave the castle walls.

You’re convinced that the second you wander off, he will wake up without you there; a thought too unbearable to consider. You crave to lose yourself within his molten ember orbs once more, exploring the undiscovered galaxies in his gaze.

“These past few months must seem unfathomable,” he starts, pressing his lips together to ponder over his next words before continuing. “I don’t know how my mom treated you in the tower but, knowing her, I’m guessing it wasn’t too great.”

His casual mention of the affectionate term you pleaded to call your mother for ages—the topic she despised almost as much as you begging to venture outside the tower—stung the slightest bit. From her actions, it was evident that she never cared for you as much as her own, biological son, but it was difficult to dismiss the joyful memories you shared with her, no matter how few and far between they were.

“She started visiting me a few years back, explaining all their horrendous crimes and insisting that she was the only one I could trust. She told me about you, too. Your mother ordered her to lock you away in that tower and ensure that nobody ever found out the truth in exchange for my seat on the throne. ”

Your head lowers at the information, brows furrowing as you contemplate your true relationship with the woman that raised you from birth.

“When my mom caught word of you travelling with the thief, she returned the crown in hopes that Jungkook would run for the hills, and you would be left to come back with her. Her goal was to overtake the kingdom from your mother.” His eyes gloss over with a distant sheen and you sympathize with him; the boy was used as a tool, just like you.

“It’s reassuring in a way.” His strange admittance prompts you to glance up at him, confusion swirling within your orbs. “At least we’re both suffering from our family’s despicable actions.”

Our family.

His optimistic viewpoint hits you like a wave crashing against the shore, sharing his vast fortitude and washing away a fraction of the sombre agony tormenting your heart. Although Jimin’s life was no doubt disparate from your own, you two are connected through the blood running through your veins. Even if those same bonds brought you to a tragic meeting with your own wicked parents, at least you could rely on one person within your family.

The edges of your lips curl into a tiny smile aimed at the blond man across from you, your own short, chestnut coloured hair providing a stark contrast. “I’m glad I can rely on you, Jimin.”

He readjusts his weight on the green, iron chair and leans forward to rest his elbows on the metal table between the two of you. “I think this is the first time you’ve called me by my name without me having to remind you.”

You quietly giggle at the memories flooding your mind, from the hostile attitude you first approached him with, then the days he comforted you over Jungkook’s motionless form, to Jimin demanding that you call him by his first name. You consider yourself extremely lucky to have someone as gracious and compassionate as Jimin to be your half-brother.

“I know we’ve already gone over this,” he starts with a serious edge to his tone, “but this is your last chance.”

You rip your gaze away from the plants to lay a couple of light pats to his hand. Despite the lack of context, the topic is familiar to you, as he has gone over this with you many times. “No, I don’t want the throne. You trained for this position your whole life, so I’m entrusting the kingdom to your capable hands. All I ask is for you to fulfill my request.”

Jimin releases a heavy sigh. “If you really want him free of all his crimes, there’s no way you two can live within the capital.”

“That’s fine with me.” You shrug your shoulders, unconcerned about the prospect of having to leave the busy city. “I don’t think I could live somewhere like this anyway.”

You don’t expand on your reasoning, and he doesn’t question you further, simply sparing you a solemn, understanding gaze. Supposedly, you aren’t supposed to pick favourites within your family, but Jimin is definitely golden in your eyes.

“Deeply sorry to intrude, Your Royal Majesty, but your betrothed is at the door and wishes to meet with you.” A guard inches his way towards your table with his head bowed, hands respectfully gathered behind his back.

Jimin looks to you with an apology on his tongue, but you wave him off before any explanations can spill from his plump lips. “Go get your girl.”

A bright smile enlightens his features as he springs up from his seat, dusting off his uniform before bounding after the guard. When he quirks his head back, you demonstrate your encouragement through a thumbs-up that you wave from side to side until he is satisfied, facing forward with a gleeful snicker.

You inhale the outdoor air, about to head inside yourself to rearrange Jungkook’s bandages again when your eyes wander back to the tiger lilies that caught your eye earlier. Within a few strides, you reach the vibrant buds, stretching your hand out to pluck a few stems. The sweet smell invades your senses.

With a tiny bouquet in hand, you make your way back inside, the metaphorical load on your shoulders a bit lighter than it was before. You expertly maneuver your way through the halls towards Jungkook’s room with the dwindling hope that today will be the day that his honey orbs reflect the sun’s light filtering in the window, filled with the mischief and tenderness that you remember.

When you’re met with his unmoving form instead, another sliver of that faith shatters into tiny shards.

You shake it off and head back to the windowsill, where an empty flower vase rests. The lilies within your grasp are carefully inserted inside and you place the bouquet back onto the tiny platform. Their floral scent wafts throughout the space as you take your place beside his legs.

As part of your usual routine, you use this time to relax. Just for a moment, you give yourself the room to breathe, giving your brain free rein to feel the emotions raging within you and fantasize about your future with Jungkook. You imagine yourself in a tiny cottage, craving a quaint place to live after the immense tower you were raised in.

The two of you would settle down there, adopting a pet to keep you company before you inevitably brought a few children into the world. Their genders didn’t matter, as long as you could raise them with Jungkook, forming a tight-knit family that shared all the love the both of you lacked growing up.

A warm hand wraps around your wrist. Your head snaps to follow the direction of his arm, curving into his broad shoulders, and past his sharp jaw with your heart in your throat. Tears gather at your waterline, spilling over onto your cheeks as you hiccup from the sudden sobs that overtake your body.

The doe eyes that stare back at you carry your whole world in their weight.

+ epilogue.

Tiny footsteps scuttle around the wooden floors, screaming in delight from being chased by a much larger, yet still very childlike, man. “Betchya can’t catch me, daddy!”

Your husband playfully roars at the taunt, speeding up his strides to snatch the little girl up into his arms. She shrieks at the hand that comes up to tickle her little torso.

“Okay, okay, enough playing you two,” you command, calming the baby boy in your arms that becomes far too excited from the chaotic energy erupting within your cottage. “It’s dinnertime!”

“Dinnertime!” your oldest repeats, violently wriggling around in her father’s grip to force him in lowering her back to the ground so that she can run to her spot at the table. She looks from side to side, doe eyes flitting back to you with a pout on her lips. “But where’s Pascal, Mommy?”

You pass the baby to Jungkook, freeing your hands in order to bring the steaming hot food from the stove to the table. The beige chameleon fades back into his natural emerald colour once you grab him by his scaly torso, dropping him into your daughter’s awaiting hands.

Her squeaky voice chides, “You can’t hide from Mommy.”

A boisterous, yet melodic neigh notifies you of Max’s presence in your backyard, and you shamble past the wooden door to hand the carrots you prepared for him. He snorts in delight as he lowers his head to the floor and begins chomping away. At the sight of his dirtied mane, you take a mental note to give him a thorough wash and brush later on.

Before you head inside, you catch sight of a blond man making his way towards you. “Jimin!”

His eyes reduce to two crescents from the wide grin that occupies his face. He swapped out his imposing robe for a commoner’s shirt and slacks, and they strangely suit his lithe form better than his bulky uniform.

“And where’s our lovely Queen?” You tease, elbowing him when he reaches out to ruffle the top of your head.

“Taking care of things that I don’t want to do.” You two snicker, ecstatic to see one another, and you step aside to let him coddle your children. The slight breeze in the air gingerly kisses your face, rustling the leaves on the trees surrounding your tiny house, and you close your lids to relish in the tranquillity of nature.

A pair of familiar arms curl around the shape of your waist and a smile creeps onto your lips as you open your eyes to examine Jungkook’s face, inches away from your own. He brushes your brown strands over your shoulder, leaning in for a quick peck as a loud chorus of disgust is vocalized behind you.

Both of you break out into giggles at your daughter’s behaviour and turn to face your family waiting for you inside. With your hand tangled with his, you walk to a brighter future together.

[th0mas1ut]

🎄ᴀ ʜᴀɪᴋʏᴜᴜ ᴄʜʀɪsᴛᴍᴀs: ᴅᴇᴄᴇᴍʙᴇʀ 11th

´･ᴗ･` "did you decorate the tree without me? i can't believe this!"

a/n: this was supposed to be the 11th lmao hmu in the ask box or fill out this form to be tagged also like and reblog if you enjoyed this to spread the christmas cheer! (ﾉ´ヮ´)ﾉ*:･ﾟ✧ + christmas tags form: @fee-btheweeb + @justifiedtoast​ + @bokutosimper9000 + gen tag form: @trifliz​

<3  gen tags; ask box; navigation

the first thing he noticed when he entered your living room after volleyball practice, much to bokuto's horror, was the placing of a star on the top of the christmas tree, completing a already decorated tree.

one he had hoped to decorate with you.  

"nooooooo!" he howled with agony as he ran toward you, like diving for a volleyball that determined the final point of the game, dramatically stretching out every step. your attention turned to him with the fuss he was making, and stayed there for a long moment before turning back to slowly lower the star on top of the christmas tree again.

with a touch of amusement, you kept lowering the star over the tree and pulling it back, all while watching bokuto's facial cues. his eyes were intensely focused on the star, switching back and forth between his usual excited self and his dreaded emo eyes as he followed the star closely, reacting to it's location. unsure what to do, you finally just put the christmas tree star down and pulled bokuto into your arms with a warm bear hug, much to his delight. he nuzzled his face into your soft chest, and buff arms wrapped around your waist as his hands gripped the back of your sweater. running your hands through his spiked hair, he trilled with joy at your gentle touch.

staring down at him with curiosity, you put the palms of your hands on his soft cheeks, your voice wholly tender. "what's wrong, bo?"

he gazed up at you with a pouty face and those blank eyes again, and several desperate attempts to keep his lower lip from quivering was a predetermined failed cause. finally, he let out a dejected wail. "did you decorate the tree without me?"

gaping at him, you stuttered for a moment before he sorrowfully continued. "i can't believe this! y/n, i thought we were gonna decorate the tree t-together!" he hid his face in your chest and continued his misery by moaning muffled nonsense, his blubbering leaving obvious tear stains on the front of your sweater. with awkward caution, you sheepishly rubbed the back of his jacket with apology, trying to comfort him to the best of your ability. eventually, his crying calmed down to whimpers.

"i swear i wasn't trying to leave you out, bo." you promised him, almost losing it when you say him flashing his sad puppy eyes at you, loudly sniffling his red nose.

"p-promise?" he managed to squeak out.

you pressed your nose into his hair and kissed the top of his forehead softly, soothing him. "i just wanted to surprise you was all. merry christmas, bo."

his mood practically swerved back around at light speed, and you felt it without even looking at him. his whole body began to shake with uncontrollable mirth, and his cheeks with tinted with a rose as he looked at the christmas tree again, this time full with glee.

"you did this all for me?" dashing around the christmas tree, he began to take in all the ornaments and lighting, whooping at the little artifacts and goodies, which were many testaments to your growing relationship over the years.

with fondness, you watched as he began to affectionately trace the many pictures in the hung up photo frames, along with little disney souvenirs and lighting. slowly, you pulled out a little trinket that you had been saving from behind you, wanting to add an element of drama, and bokuto's eyes lit up like a super nova as he glanced at your hand. his face perked up like a attentive puppy, and his eyes raised with curiosity as if his tail were wagging.

in your hand was a photo from your first christmas together. you could still remember it vividly, as it was quite the incredible one; many christmas themed dates had taken place, with bokuto dragging you from ice skating to coffee shops, and a big volleyball team party to top it all off, with bokuto showing you off to practically every attendee, up until you had to sit him down just to eat. to top it all off, it was placed inside a circular volleyball picture frame, one you had noticed after bokuto had stood by the checkout isle staring at it for far too long.

you held it out, watching him tilt his head with wonder.

with a affectionate look, you pushed it into his hand. "want to put it up on the tree?"

[kbuggg3]

JC Caylen Imagine: “Don’t Be Sorry”

Today's has been a pretty eventful day to say the least. While my boyfriend JC was out with some old friends who came into town to visit him, me and my dad got into a fight... again.

But the thing that hurts the most is not only is this the 4th time in a row he's been caught, but I'm the one that keeps witnessed it. Your probably wonder "the 4th time? Why do you keep falling for his bullshit?"

Welp. He's my dad. I'm not just gonna give up on him completely. When we would catch him doing something he would let fake tears fall from his eyes as he was apologizing to us and we would forgive him.

And then we'd catch him again, he'd apologize, we'd forgive him. It was an endless cycle. But this time I knew I can't get my hopes up to high anymore.

My mom always told me it takes years to build trust and seconds to destroy it. I felt that. He didn't only ruin my trust with him, but my trust with everyone else. I let everything that happened get to my head and now I have major trust issues. With the exception of one person.

JC Caylen

Before i met JC my life was pretty miserable. I lived in Florida with my mom and my older sister. After my mom and dad got divorced, my family slowly started going down hill.

My dad was barely in the picture due to his constant sneaking around as he was hooking up with random people and getting drunk and being so lazy that he never even bothered covering his tracks, allowing us to discover his dirty little secrets for ourselves.

My poor brother was clueless. Had no idea what his own father was doing behind his back and we didn't bother telling him because 1.) he was a very sensitive boy at the time and 2.) he looked to my dad for everything. My dad was his role model.

After awhile of all of this, my sister was diagnosed with depression. Not too severe but even the smallest bit can make you feel like shit. And as for me, I struggled with self love. Because I didn't really have a good male figure on my life I looked to guys for verification.

But after i spent a week with him and the rest of the O2l house at Vidcon i felt like my life was finally picking up. Fast forward a couple years and my sisters depression is gone, my brother grew up to be an amazing dad of 2 kids, and as for me, i stopped looking for verification in guys and me and JC started dating.

We've been dating for 2 years now and he has been nothing but amazing. I love him so much and I know he loves me. Ever since we've started dating people have been telling me they've never seen me so happy before or they've never seen me smile or laugh that much before.

I just wished he was here to comfort me right now. I haven't told him what happened yet. I didn't wanna ruin his day. He was hanging out with some old friends of his who flew down to visit him.

I wasn't gonna burden him with my stupid family issues while he was out with his friends. I turned on a random disney movie and began to watch as I continued to cry at random times when the old memories would pop up in my mind.

I would squeeze my eyes shut and burry my head in my pillow trying to make them stop but they never went away, no matter how hard i tried. Eventually I decided enough was enough. I just couldn't take it anymore. I had to call JC. I grabbed the phone and went to his name in my contacts. I dried my tears and took a few deep breaths to stop myself from crying so he wouldn't notice and be too worried.

After attempting to recollect myself, i pressed call, holding the phone up to my ear as i heard it ring. A few seconds later the line picked up and i heard his sweet voice on the other end.

"What's up baby." JC said in a super deep voice cause you to giggle only slightly.

"Hey JC. Um, I was just wondering when you were gonna be home?"

"Is my girl missing me already?"

"What do mean already you've been gone for hourrrrsssss." She groaned causing him to chuckle.

"I know baby I'm sorry. I'll actually be home soon."

I sighed with relief before responding, "Thank god!"

"Is everything ok (y/n)?"

Shit. Don't cry don't cry don't cry don't cry.

She sniffles a little and swallowed hard.

"Y-ya baby why do you ask?" My breath was uneven and he could tell.

"No no. Your not ok. I'm coming over right now."

Don't mess this up (y/n) he's having fun. Don't ruin his day.

"JC it's fine. I'm gonna be ok. Just go hang out with your friends. Have fun!"

"Gonna be?!"

I pulled back and cringed at my own words. Shouldn't have said that.

"Gonna be ok??? (y/n) what happened???" JC exclaimed again. She sighed and rubbed her forehead.

"JC I'm-"

Tell him your fine. He's with his friends. He doesn't need this right now.

Tell him what you tell everyone else in your life. Your fine.

"It's my dad again." I said with tears in my eyes.

What the fuck (y/n)! How could you?!

He can tell by my voice I was crying.

"Fuck. Baby I'm coming over right now." He side sternly. Was he mad?

"N-no JC it's ok really I-"

"No! (y/n) it's not ok! Baby he's put you through so much shit and I'm tired of it! You don't deserve that! You nor your family!" He began to shout a little and it caused her to cry harder. Not because I'm scared of him. But because he cared so much and that meant the world to her. He's the only one who gets it.

He did a deep sigh and you already knew he was running his hands through his hair and pacing, something he did when he was stressed, nervous, or in this case pissed off.

"I'm coming over. I'll be there in a few just hang on ok?"

At first no words were spoken. She didn't want to agree because she still felt bad about burdening him with it. But she was going to lose her fucking mind if he wasn't holding her ASAP so she finally spoke a barely audible "ok".

Immediately the phone call was ended. (y/n)'s phone slid out of her hand and onto the floor. She sat there curled up on her bed for awhile, staring blankly at the floor as her head was leaned on the head rest.

The thoughts and images filled her head again and she began to cry and cry and cry. "Go away." She whispered with quivering lips. "Go away!"

Not too long after the phone call she heard keys rattling as whoever was on the other side, who she assumed was JC, tried to open the door. She then heard footsteps quickly going up the stairs.

Her teary eyes slowly looked up to the door and saw the door knob slowly being turned, then the door opened revealing her boyfriend. In her mind she was smiling, finally being able to see him, but on the outside she unintentionally showed the opposite.

They made eye contact and (y/n) saw the sympathetic look on JC's face. She hated it when people would look at her like that and he knew it. He just couldn't help it. It makes her feel weak and helpless even tho those are the exact words that describe her in this moment.

When she saw the look on his face she quickly looked away, turning her head to the side and squeezed her eyes shut as more tears slipped down her cheeks, slightly embarrassed by her fragile appearance.

She felt the bed beside her dip down meaning JC was now sitting next to her on the bed.

"Baby..."

JC gently touched her chin and moved it to where her eyes had nowhere else to look but his.

"I... I am so sorry."

After looking into his beautiful brown eyes, (y/n) finally gave in and buried her face in his shoulder as she sat in his lap in a straddle like position.

Her arms were tightly wrapped around his neck and the more she cried the tighter she would hold on. In return JC would squeeze her back, both arms wrapped around her waist. He then began to run his hand through her hair and draw small circles on her back in a soothing motion.

JC continued to whisper little nothings in her ear as she gripped his shirt that was soaked with her tears.

"You don't deserve this."

"None of this is your fault."

"You're an amazing girl."

"You're my amazing girl."

After a few minutes or so of them sitting in silence, JC asked her if she wanted to lay down and cuddle while they watched a movie. (y/n) could only nod her head as they repositioned themselves to where she was laying on JC's stomach with her face still buried in his chest. He put on her favorite Disney movie "Finding Nemo" hoping it would encourage her to lift her head and hopefully help calm her.

When she heard the music play softly from the TV she slowly and hesitantly lifted her head from JC's chest as she positioned her head to where she could see the movie displayed on the large screen. JC smiled at her and kissed the top of her head. Occasionally throughout the movie he would rub her back soothingly, play with her hair, and give her kisses on the top of her head or forehead, causing (y/n) to smile slightly.

"Thank you... Seriously," (y/n) said quietly. He was surprised at first, judging by the fact that neither of them have said a word to each other for about an hour (not in a rude way of course but because there was no need for words. They just needed time to think and relax). "No problem, baby. I love you so so much."

(y/n) look up at him, resting her chin on his chest. He noticed how the red puffiness in her eyes went down and there was not a tear in sight, causing his heart to warm and a smile to make its way across his face. "I love you too." They shared a short but sweet kiss and went to sleep cuddled up in their bed as "Finding Nemo" continued to play and lull them into a deep and peaceful sleep.

ngl I hate writing sad stuff (unless y’all request it obvi) but I got this idea and couldn’t get it out of my head so you’re welcome. If you have any requests and/or feedback let me know plz! Love y'all💋                                                                                                                                 ~Kbug :)

[orphic-osamu]

Congratulations on 800 yue!! you have no idea how proud i am of you and you’re doing so well! may i have “whatever scars your s/o gets appear on you as well” with tamaki amajiki from the event? love you 👩‍❤️‍💋‍👩

title ↠ butterflies in your stomach

wc ↠ 2810

genre ↠ hurt/comfort; fluff

song ↠ dodie; sick of losing soulmates

a/n ↠ hiii xuxi !!!!!!!! tysm 🥺🥺🥺 i’m sorry this took so long but here you go! a 2.8k fic on tamaki amajiki, love you too 😚💕 also !! in this fic your soulmate kissing your scars is the only way to get rid of them!

tw! self harm

— AMAJIKI TAMAKI —

A racing heart was not foreign to the elven boy. His heart drummed in his chest when he faced a large crowd, and when things twisted wickedly against his hopes. He was sure his soulmate would scowl at his behavior like he thought everyone else did.

Tamaki was not a stranger to anxiety.

But he never thought he’d be feeling worried over the wounds blossoming on his skin. His mind jumped to his hero training before he quickly knew that wasn’t it. Wounds from training weren’t as angry as this. He peeled his hero costume off, wincing at the sight of them littering his arms. A jolt of pain shocked his body, earning a yelp from him.

Tugging his pants down, he saw more of them on his thighs. In a panic, he reached for his phone, calling Mirio. His chest heaved in fear of what could be happening to his soulmate. It took a while for his best friend to calm him down, but eventually, they concluded that his other half could be a hero too, explaining the injuries and the scars he wasn’t sure were his.

The next day he woke up sore, glancing down at the open cuts on his skin slowly forming into scars. He frowned. He was set on the thought that his soulmate would grow to hate him so he chose to try his best to avoid finding them, but as he glanced at all the new scars, he wished they were near to kiss them away. What he didn’t know was that his soulmate was already in his life, so closely knitted in his daily routine.

“Tamaki, are you alright?” Your voice tugged him out of his thoughts, making his heart thump loudly in his ears.

He flashed a shy smile towards you before nodding quietly, “I’m just a little w-worried about my soulmate.”

“Oh? Have you found them?” The grin you show him back is a little teasing, his face flushing at the question.

“N-No. But a few wounds appeared last night and i-it worried me a little..”

“A little, huh?”

The blush on his cheeks flooded ‘til the tips of his ears as he averted his gaze from yours, the conversation coming to an end.

You were an important person in his life, way more important than he knew you would be. Your aura surrounded him in a warmth he couldn’t explain, so calming but it kept him on his toes at the same time. The dynamic he had with you magnetized him to you, and he found himself in your hold whenever his mind wouldn’t shut up.

He didn’t know how it happened, how you grew to understand all his little habits, and how you just knew when he’d come knocking at your door in the dead of the night in hopes of comfort.

That day was one of those nights, as usual, you welcomed him with open arms and a promise of Disney movies. He sat on the opposite end of the couch, not wanting you to see the new injuries he adorned. When you didn’t make an effort to move close like what you do all the time, however, he felt a twist in his gut.

You played the same movie you’ve both seen numerous times, but Tamaki liked that. He didn’t want to worry himself more with an unknown ending. Though his mind was elsewhere, despite his eyes fixating on the screen in front of him.

“You’re still worrying.” Yet again, you snap him out of his trance.

“H-Huh?”

Your eyes locked onto his, and his mouth goes dry. You shuffled towards him. He leaned back as far as he could, the closer you got. Finally, when he had no space left, your hand came up to hover over his heart.

“Close your eyes.”

He squeezed them shut, butterflies fluttering in his stomach. He swallowed nervously, it wasn’t his first time being so close to you but it still made him jittery.

“You can feel it, right? Your heartbeat.”

For a moment he’s convinced you’re poking fun at him, but the tone in your voice said otherwise. He nodded hesitantly.

“That shows you’re alive if you can’t tell by how vibrant it’s being.”

He stifled a whine, feeling overheated by the pink hue painted on his face. He wondered how you weren’t hot and instead, clad in a thick sweater.

“If your heart’s beating like that, then surely your soulmate’s alive, and fine too.”

Ah right, this was about my soulmate.

You giggled, the sweet sound causing his heart to stammer. You moved away back to your spot, air rushing to fill Tamaki’s lungs. He hadn’t even noticed he was holding his breath. Your gaze returned to the film playing, and the shy boy wallowed over your words, face cooling down. You were right, his soulmate was probably just a hero in training and they were okay.

Tamaki soon learned he was wrong. A little later he realized his soulmate wasn’t like others. His soulmate often drew pictures, words, sometimes just lines that were an angry crimson. Not on paper and not with a red pen, but with what he guessed was self-loathing, translated into drawings on their skin.

When he wasn’t worried about his journey to becoming a pro hero, he was worried about the well being of his soulmate. So much so that what used to be an almost daily meeting in your dorm room lessened to simple greetings in class. He hardly noticed how drained you seemed until Nejire had asked about you.

Your eyes were sunken, lips tugged into a permanent frown and the life in your movement dissipated, like some sort of dark cloud hung over you. His mouth opened to ask if you were alright but the question lodged in his throat. He decided against it, fearing the thought of aggravating you further.

His eyes never left your tired figure the entire day. Tamaki’s never felt so helpless, stuck with the anxieties of his soulmates spiraling mental health and your friendship with him corroding into nothing.

He doesn’t know how he went to bed that night, with so many thoughts coming front. His slumber doesn’t last long, however, as yet another wave of pain flooded through his body. He groaned, awake from the feeling of a new injury on his thighs. The frown on his face was deepened in worry at the sight of more cuts caused by his soulmate.

His own heart throbbed in agony for his other half as the physical pain ebbed away. He certainly wasn’t getting any sleep after that. The clock in his room ticked loudly, only stirring his feelings more. He sighed, deciding to head down to the common room for a glass of water.

As he got down, he caught sight of a familiar silhouette, yours. You looked more sluggish than the day.

“[Name]?”

Your head whipped around in his direction. You looked surprised but, a watery smile danced on your lips in a greeting.

You’ve been crying.

He held his arms out, a silent invitation for a hug. Your footsteps sounded heavy as you allowed him to swallow you in his embrace. He ignored his heart picking up its pace and pulled you to his room, aiming to help you like how you helped him all those days before.

He stumbled his way to his bed, holding you gently to lay you down comfortably. Only then does your body start quivering as sob after sob escaped your lips. He could’ve sworn he was having a heart attack from hugging you so close but he prevailed, deciding keeping you in his arms was more important.

He stuttered words of reassurance as he rocked you back and forth, your cries lowering into hiccups. Soon even those stopped and your breathing slowed. Tamaki pulled away only to see that you’ve fallen asleep. He sighed in relief before concern took over him again. His eyes zeroed on the numerous marks lining your arms, eyebrows furrowing.

His fingers daintily brushed against your scars as his hand held your wrist up for him to get a closer look. He doesn’t know what urged him to do it, what tugged on his heartstrings, but he leaned in and kissed the healed wounds anyways, definitely not expecting the tingle he felt on his skin.

He didn’t stop with one, he kissed almost all of them away. His heart fluttering in an epiphany as he saw each one slowly disappear on both of your skin. You stirred in your sleep, causing the boy to halt and move away, letting you go. His breathing quickened as his previous actions and their results registered in his mind. Half of the scars on your arm were gone.

You were his soulmate.

He went to bed that night on the floor, his heart didn’t stop racing at all. All those years of wanting to avoid his soulmate without realizing it was you.

All those years of building up walls, only to find out you were already past them.

When he awoke the next day, you were gone from his bed, with no note left behind. He felt a little disappointed, hoping to at least bring up the topic of him being your other half. He shrugged the thought off and phoned his best friend, wondering which direction he should take on your friendship.

“I found my soulmate, Mirio.”

A wide grin stretched on the said man’s face at the news. “Well? Did you tell them? Do they know?”

Tamaki shook his head, the heaviness of his thoughts pushing down on his body. He fiddled with his thumbs, mumbling in response.

“They d-don’t.. I don’t know if I should even say anything.”

“Why not?”

His breath hitched. Why not?

Was he afraid of letting you down? But that couldn’t happen if you’ve stuck by his side this long. What was he so scared of?

“I don’t think I’m good enough for them..” He wasn’t exactly lying, but it didn’t explain what he felt about you. Mirio smiled reassuringly, patting the anxious boy on the back.

“There’s no way you’re not good enough, I’m sure they’d love you.”

But would you?

“I think I’ll just stay on the sidelines for now.”

And so he did. From the very next time, he saw you. You bashfully thanked him for that night and apologized, and he flushed and assured you that it was okay through stutters. For days on end, he’d stay near you, picking up on little signs when you’d have a bad day. He’d make sure to talk to you before you went back into your room, afraid of more wounds decorating your skin.

He knew you were apprehensive at first, but he pushed away the nagging voices saying you were annoyed and went on. Eventually, you fell back into your daily routine of staying over, except you were the one in his embrace. Countless nights he hugged you close in effort to keep your demons away, countless nights of him kissing your scars away without you realizing.

One day you felt his lips on your skin. His head was in your lap, one of your hands holding your phone up to your face while the other stayed limp beside him. He squirmed around in your lap ‘til he was lying on his side, looking at your scarred skin. You looked at him in confusion, failing to notice the marks disappear. “What are you doing?”

He stiffened, eyes widening in shock.

“S-Sorry, I just—”

You laughed, “It’s okay, Tama, I don’t mind.”

He moved around to look at you, eyes filled with wonder as they met yours.

Did you know?

He considered coming out with it and kissing you but alas, he was too scared. If he said something and you pushed him away, he wouldn’t be able to take your scars away. He wanted to at least leave your skin unblemished.

It’s weeks after when Tamaki felt a slight jab at his now clear arm. His eyes were the size of saucers as he worried about your well-being. He was out patrolling far from you, and that only filled him with regret. However, as quick as it came it vanished. In confusion he pulled his sleeve up only to see nothing but his own scars on his hand from missions.

Did something happen?

He got back to the dorms, constantly glancing all over his body for any signs of a new cut. And just as he was about to start checking his thighs, a knock on his dorm room interrupted him. When he opened it he saw you with a pillow in your arms, your eyes were glazed over in what he knew were tears. He pulled you inside and asked you to sit, forgetting about the wounds he was looking for.

This time, you were the one who hugged him first, arms tugging him closer in a loose hold. He breathed in your scent, his body slacking in relief. He shyly drew shapes on your clothed back, his way of asking if you were alright.

“Tama.” You called, voice muffled from being squished against him.

“Y-Yeah?”

“Have you found your soulmate?”

He tensed, “No, I h-haven’t.”

He heard you laugh a little, before you maneuvered both of your bodies towards the bed. “You’re lying.” You murmured, releasing your hold on him as you hit the bed. He let out a shaky breath, showing an apologetic smile.

“You didn’t tell them, did you? Why not?” Your eyes were avoiding his, locked on the soft carpet underneath your feet.

Did you find out?

“I—” He thought of lying, giving the same excuse as he told Mirio. But he knew you’d see right through it. He cursed under his breath. Sometimes he wished you didn’t know him as much as you did right now, all his antics and when the scowl on his face wasn’t about his regular anxieties.

“I’m d-damaged goods, y’know? If my soulmate’s the same, I don’t know if I’ll be able to take on their demons. What if I’m not enough to keep them happy? What if my troubles annoy them? What if—”

“Close your eyes.”

“What?”

You were glaring at him with such intensity that he had to follow. The scent of your shampoo hit his nose, your body moving closer to his, the sound of his rapid heartbeat ringing in his ears. He shivered as warmth hit his chest, your hand was over his heart again.

“Feel that?”

He nodded, nostalgia hitting him like a train. You took his other hand into yours, bringing it up to your own heart.

“Feel this?”

He nodded again, face flushing at the sync beating.

“We both have our own heartbeats, though I’m aware they’re insanely in sync right now.” You laughed.

“Amajiki Tamaki, we are individuals built with our own complexities. We are separate humans bound by a soul tie.” His heart began to race.

So you knew.

“I have my demons, you have yours. And I will take my demons on. You can help me through it but love, you’re not going to take on everything on your own.”

His eyes fluttered open, meeting your glossy, hopeful ones.

“I don’t love myself.. I’m sure you’re aware of that, but that’s okay. It’s not the easiest thing to do but if I have you with me then I know I’ll get there someday. But we can’t do this if you’re only focused on trying to deal with my problems while ignoring your own.”

“How’d you know I was your..?” He whispered.

You pushed your sleeves up, unmarked skin on display, “My scars are gone, and you kissed them nights before.” You didn’t say anything, but the whisper of a ‘thank you’ made itself clear in your eyes.

He looked away guiltily, ashamed of himself being found out. You sighed before tugging on his shirt, wordlessly asking for him to look at you. When he did his breath caught in his throat as your gaze bore into his very soul. He felt his heart drop to his stomach, joining the butterflies flying around. You were closer than you usually were, so close that he could count all the tiny flaws on your cheeks and the constellations in your eyes. You were breathtaking like this, every unique quirk proving how human you were. You were simply imperfectly perfect, his dear soulmate.

He cupped your face in his hands, pulling you in to press his lips against yours in a shy kiss. Your lips curved up, making the tips of his ears flush red. When he pulled away he felt dazed, carefree almost, like he was at home. The smile on your face was by far the prettiest he’s ever seen.

“Let me kiss your scars away too, Tama.”

[earmuffstar]

glazed eyes, empty hearts

ao3 link!! Summary: Remus lay on the carpet in the Commons, drinking something inedible and trying to figure out if he could saw off his hand. OR: Remus has ways of keeping himself from full lucidity. Janus has some things to say about it. Genre: canonverse angst Relationships: Dark Creativity | Remus "The Duke" Sanders & Deceit | Janus Sanders (platonic dukeceit/demus/intruceit) Words: 1589 Additional Tags/Warnings: Self-Harm, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Mentions of Dismemberment, Sympathetic Dark Creativity | Remus "The Duke" Sanders, Sympathetic Deceit | Janus Sanders, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Swearing

Remus lay on the carpet in the Commons, drinking something inedible and trying to figure out if he could saw off his hand.

He’d have to clamp his right arm down—since his left arm was stronger—and on a table, probably, for the best angle. He’d use an electric saw, to keep himself from stopping halfway through from the pain. Maybe he’d even get away with it, too: right here on the living room table in the middle of Family Game Night, or whatever the Lights were doing, he wasn't paying attention. The others normally didn’t question what Remus did, whether a product of not wanting to look too closely or because they just didn’t care, he didn’t know. It came in handy at times like this—ha, handy, he should tell that to Pappy Patouille.

“Handy!” Remus screeched. The conversation stuttered like tripping over a stone, tumbling to the pavement, skittering off a cliff and ending up squished in half by a train on criss-crossed railway tracks before resuming its pace as normal.

Remus went back to pondering his drink, now half-empty. He kind of hoped it was alcohol, although even the more potent stuff didn’t do much for him anymore. Maybe bleach, then. He took a gulp. Snapped his fingers and malathion filled the rest of the concoction to the top. Downed the glass. It didn’t taste half bad—he almost wished it tasted worse—but it made his head spin and his thoughts appropriately fuzzy, which was all he needed.

Remus stood up, bracing himself against the armrest as the room wavered, legs quivering inappropriately under his weight. The room continued their conversation—he couldn’t make out the words, not like he wanted to, he was sure it was about Disney or some other unimportant shit—as he sunk out.

The corner of Thomas’ mind which embodied Dark Creativity, forbidden thoughts, the macabre, badness, demented reason, remained perpetually in disrepair. Remus tripped over shards of glass—broken Bud Light’s?—needles, plastic orange bottles, and crashed to his knees somewhere wet, cheek brushing against bones and plywood as his eyelids drooped shut.

~~~

Remus shifted as he came to: alive, in his room, with a mind far too alert and lucid. Had he messed up with whatever he’d drunk last night—accidentally used orange juice or some shit instead of malathion? Remus growled in frustration. The easiest methods of forced mental incoherence—starvation, lack of sleep, the like—always took the longest time to take effect. If he’d paid attention last night, he would have been able to perpetuate the misery longer without this unfortunate break. He’d have to resort to more drastic measures for instant relief.

At least the blackout was nice. He normally didn’t get such an easy reprieve. When nightmares didn’t torment his sleep, the knowledge of coherence and well-restedness it offered did.

Dark Imagination always exhaled cold, stinking of rot and filth, miasma and decay. His thoughts always amplified in his domain, spinning and twisting in a way that felt good—or rather, felt terrible, which was good. Remus sank his foot into the muck, his realm unnaturally still. His creations normally drew into hiding when he came here like this—they didn’t like to see him do this. Welp. Too bad for them.

Here was a total blank slate. He could do anything. Remus’ claws itched.

It sucked how much it hurt, was the thing. The pain was delicious, and he soaked it up, reveled in it like cloth soaking blood, he needed it—but it still hurt, at the very beginning, the moment when knife hit flesh. The physical pain always hurt like hell, but the greater the pain at the beginning the longer it would keep hurting, and if at least some part of him was hurting he didn’t have to hurt a different part again to balance out the hurt in his brain.

Remus heard the footsteps only after rivulets of blood ran down his fingers.

“Remus?” The voice came soft, low, with a hint of a hiss curling the edge of their words. Remus’ blood ran cold, drip, drip, dripping onto the ground, and he grinned a false smile as he turned around—pointless, Janus always saw through him, Janus was the one person who wouldn’t brush off his antics as his simply unfortunate nature.

“Hey, welcome, Janny-Jan! Just messing around, you know me.” Remus was still far too coherent for this, brain just as awake as it had been when he’d woken up feeling nothing unnatural in his system despite the pain. Remus summoned a bottle of arsenic, aiming to chug it, when his fingers grasped empty air. Janus held the bottle away from him with one of his extra hands.

“Give it back, Jan.”

“Remus, this isn’t healthy.”

Remus cackled. The notion of “healthy” deserved that much. “Does it look like I care? Give it back.”

Janus sighed, looking resigned, and Remus knew what was going to happen before it did. That didn’t mean he didn’t struggle as six arms wrapped around him, yanking him from his domain into Janus’ room. Janus deposited him on a bed, holding him down by his arms and ignoring Remus’ pleas with practiced care.

Gloved hands met his own, stopping him every time he tried to scratch his arms, eyes, limbs. Already Remus could feel the effects of Janus’ room sink into his body, denials becoming truths as they healed his wounds, and Remus detested the comfort even as he gave in to it. Janus sat down next to him as the fight bled out of him, its absence hurting somehow more than blood and guts spilling from his wounds.

“Why do you keep doing this?” Janus said quietly, no more to Remus than to the air, but he shrugged anyway. He’d tried for far too long to rationalize his actions, formulate some sort of reasoning, some story, some grand reason why. Eventually he stopped trying, because no amount of reasoning ever stopped him. He would either do something or he wouldn’t, and that was how it worked—whatever thought that had led him to that action could have been fleeting, could have been in response to the opposite inclination, could have been anything. He’d long since given up on trying to understand his mind.

Janus should stop worrying. It wasn’t like anything would kill him, anyway.

“Well!” Remus struggled to sit up. “This has been fun, but—”

“Remus, you can’t—”

“I’m perfectly fine now, so—”

“You’re not —”

“I can’t say it’s been lovely but I should be going, got places to be—”

Janus looked about to explode, or cry, and personally Remus thought the former would be much cooler, wondered how flesh would become explosive, charred, twisted, dead. “We have to talk about this, Remus! I can’t— I can’t let you continue like this.”

Something furious and burning licked through his spine. Remus went still—still like the night, still like corpses buried six feet under the winter chill, still like death. Janus’ expression quickly smoothed over, but Remus was pleased to read fear in the pinch of his brow. “What I do,” Remus hissed, “is not up to you. I am not your charity project, and I understand perfectly well what I’m doing. You don’t get to take this away from me.”

“Remus, you—” Janus’ breath hitched. Remus didn’t— couldn’t turn to look at his face. “You can’t possibly think this is a long-term solution to your problems! ‘Oh yes, continually hurting myself will make my life better, it won’t have any lasting effects on anyone at all—’”

“I don’t want to think !” Remus screamed. He would have glared at the yellow-clad side had exhaustion not burrowed into his bones. Or maybe that was just the blood loss, or the aftereffects of the alcohol. “I don’t want to feel better, I don’t want to feel normal, or healthy, I just want to— to be numb, to be—”

He’d grown too used to incoherence to be able to deal with reality without it. The fact that the poisons gave him an excuse for being a fuck up, and that he’d have no shield, no scapegoat, no backup if he was still a fuck-up while being fully coherent. He didn’t particularly want to stop, not anymore, not for all the effort it’d take with too little payoff—but Remus knew better than to talk about his self-destructive tendencies to Self-Preservation.

Remus turned his back on Janus, though he felt his gaze tracing his spine. He wondered how long Janus was going to sit here with him—Janus knew better than to leave Remus unattended in his room.

Janus stood up abruptly, drawing Remus’ eye. He grabbed Remus by the arm again, and, to Remus' surprise, he felt the vertigo-like falling sensation of sinking back into his own room. Janus released his grip, opened his mouth, closed it again without speaking, and suddenly Remus found arms around folded him in an embrace. “We will be talking about this again,” Janus murmured, before both him and his touch disappeared as quick as it had come. Silence resounded in his wake, and Remus realized he’d been given what he’d asked for—his freedom.

Remus summoned another bottle of arsenic and drained it, relishing the way it instantly weakened his limbs, confused his thoughts. He sunk back onto his bed of corpses and plywood, gaze falling limp over his realm, wind rustling over eyes that saw no sights and ears that heard no sound.

[chiseler]

Trauma-Toons

A shortish documentary called Cartoon College, directed by Josh Melrod and Tara Wray, celebrating  the Center for Cartoon Studies in Vermont, left me thinking about a bunch related or semi-related things. The (unaccredited) Center offers a two-year course leading to a Master of Fine Arts in cartooning.

First of all, is such a curriculum necessary? In the  applied-arts sense, probably not really, but as a supportive place for artists doing something that, the film proclaims, society at best ignores, or at worst sneers at, it shines. Kids and adults – including a man in his late 60s – act as though they are finally being allowed to crawl out from under the carpet.

Which by the end made me uneasy. The presumably self-selecting group projects a stereotype of cartoonists as universally depressed dweebs with godawful childhoods – salvaged suicides or serial killers in waiting. Somehow, I can’t believe this is a broadly accurate cross-section of those involved in an admittedly wacky profession.

Which then led me to recall how much the newspaper comics meant to me growing up, and to a lot of kids of that era. And it wasn’t just kids reading the “funnies”; consider the sophistication and  orientation of “Winnie Winkle,” “Brenda Star,” “Rex  Morgan” – these were works written with an adult audience first and foremost in mind.

They were the static YouTube of the time, and their hold on me has never relaxed. Will Eisner and his seven-page Sunday adventure  "The Spirit" were the highlight of my week. In the ‘70s, Eisner’s boundary-breaking foray into the “graphic novel” made my liver quiver.

Try reading bio-bits by and about Eisner and his studio  (which produced Jules Feiffer and Wally Wood among many others), and you don’t come away with the idea that the comics artists of the '40s and '50s  worried much about making a living, what their work “meant” or whether it reflected their traumatic youth – even though many of them went totally unrecognized. Carl Barks, who drew the iconic Scrooge McDuck comic  books, was not identified as their author until after he retired, all original  credit going to Walt Disney, whose talent was business and hype, not drawing.

I’ve always taken cartoonists seriously, in a way that, I  think, Eisner did. They aren’t little laugh generators snickering off to the side, but unleashers of big guffaws at what society is and does, as were Rowlandson and the political cartoonists of the 19th century. But somehow, along about “Superman,” we began to separate “serious” words from “frivolous” pictures in published art – a highbrow-lowbrow division and a reversal of the Renaissance, when painting and drawing ruled as the ultimate expressions of what the artistic mind could produce.

The aspiring artists at the Center for Cartoon Studies see  cartooning as a particularly personal form of expression, neither social commentary nor kiddie trifles, but the key to the release of their inner demons (or at least their under-the-bed monsters). Yet they fear, one and all, that they will forever be viewed as warped outsiders.

I don’t think that’s anywhere near true in the wider world. But then, we’re very confused these days in how we approach art: We don’t know how to look at it, don’t have any definition of what art is. We don’t need academic definitions, certainly, but we do need social definitions. These were assumed in past ages but are now fluctuating and scattered.

Science fiction author J.G. Ballard foresaw this social-aesthetic removal in his Vermillion Sands stories, where art of the future becomes something we cannot keep hold of. In the half-mad art conclave of Vermillion Sands, statues whisper meaningless phrases and poetry floats on the breeze, not because it’s all ephemeral, but because no one can pin down what it might or should proclaim.

Graphic novels and higher comic book prices, better digital  graphics programs and Art Spiegelman’s Maus have together given comics a more upscale image while removing them from  their common ground. That holds largely true of most public art. Is this a wonderful thing – art set free from relevance, to be whatever we say (or fail  to say) it is? Or have we sliced it off from life, made it an "other,“ a separate thing to worship like modern religion (or laugh at, given your inclination), to appreciate without underlying humanity?

by Derek Davis

[emy-loves-you]

Sanders Sides AU-gust Day 13: Rock Band

Patton is the most popular boy in school, yet he can’t get the attention of his three crushes. When he learns that they’re all starting a band together, he becomes determined to make their dreams come true. Patton POV, endgame LAMP 

TW: Use of homophobic slur

Day 12 | Masterlist | Day 14

Patton Picani liked to think that he had superpowers. He could sway almost any person to be kind with just a smile. He could ask one question and topple an entire social norm. He could transform a nobody into a somebody with just a few words. It was his superpower, the ability to effortlessly sway the masses.

The truth was… complicated. Or rather, it was a series of scenarios and lessons that gave Patton this ‘superpower.’ The people who gave them to him? His parents, Emile and Remy Picani.

Emile and Remy loved their son very much and taught them everything they knew. This wasn’t a bad thing; Patton soaked up the lessons like a sponge. But the parents each had different things to teach him. Emile taught Patton everything he knew as a therapist so he could avoid conflicts. How to tell what someone’s feeling, what to say when someone’s upset, etc. Remy taught Patton how to grow up in a world turned against him. How to tell the difference between real and fake friends, how to lie with a straight face, how to spot a bully, etc. Emile helped Patton be confident in expressing himself with pastel colors and skirts. Remy helped Patton never lose a game of poker. So before Patton even started elementary school, he knew how to use his ‘superpowers.’

Patton also learned things on his own throughout the years. He learned that bullies were feared but not trusted. He learned that teacher’s pets would tell on you at a moment’s notice. He learned how to control the rumor mill, and which friends would stab him in the back. So in their tiny town with only three elementary schools, two middle schools, and one high school, Patton rose to power quickly. But Patton wouldn’t abuse his power. No, Patton tried to make a difference. He offered teacher’s pets protection and popularity in exchange for getting bullies suspended. He kept the rumor mill focused on the popular kids and away from the nobodies that couldn’t protect themselves. He ruined the lives of violent jocks and snotty rich kids with a few words and a disapproving frown. Bullying reached an all-time low, and by the time Patton was in high school he was the ‘friend’ of almost everyone in the city under the age of 21 (and all their parents. Patton was a model citizen, no one could dislike him).

But there was a cost for Patton’s power. Even though he was technically ‘friends’ with everyone, he didn’t have any actual friends. Everyone thought they were his friend, but after a while, everyone’s faces started to look the same. And even when they did catch Patton’s attention, they were usually too far down the social ladder for Patton to be more than casual acquaintances with.

There were exactly three people that caught Patton’s attention, and they just so happened to be his three crushes.

The first crush came in the form of Roman Prince. Like the name implied, Roman was a Disney Prince in terms of charisma and charm. He was in every school theatre production, and almost always the lead role. He would have been a popular kid, if not for his rivalry against Janice Mayberry. Janice had been at the top of the social ladder just as long as Patton had. She was extremely pretty, and a cheerleader to boot, so not even Patton’s influence could top the sheer power she held. So outside of the theatre group, Roman was a nobody. But Roman was also daring, and just, and drop-dead gorgeous. Patton attended every single play and musical, just to see Roman on stage. But beyond giving Roman a brief ‘congratulations’ at the end of each production, Patton couldn’t talk to him.

Patton could interact with his other crush a little more. Logan Berry was the definition of a nerd. He was in all advanced classes, he wore ties, he never got below 95% on any test. But he wasn’t a teacher’s pet. Actually, most teachers here hated Logan, for the simple fact that Logan would not let mistakes slide by. If a teacher said something wrong during a lesson, Logan spoke up. If a teacher graded something unfairly, Logan spoke up about it. The teachers always tried to report Logan for his ‘attitude,’ but the truth was he didn’t have an attitude. Logan only stated facts, and he kept his hand up politely while never having any sort of inflection in his tone. There were only a hand full of people that could make him show emotion, hence the nickname ‘robot.’ Patton wanted to speak up about the nickname, but he knew it would only draw more attention to Logan. But Logan wasn’t emotionless. He was kind, and patient, and helpful. Patton had needed help in his math classes, and his parents paid Logan to be his tutor. Patton ignored the fact the Logan was being paid to interact with him. Logan was extremely good with explanations, even when Patton couldn’t wrap his head around a concept. After a few weeks of math tutoring, Patton asked for help with English. One thing led to another, and they were basically study-buddies (with, you know, one of them being paid). But outside of study sessions, Patton couldn’t talk to him.

Then there was Virgil Storm. Virgil had transferred to their high school halfway through Freshman year. He was a loner, never seen hanging out with anyone. But something about him immediately drew in Patton’s attention. Maybe it was the (confirmed) rumors of Virgil getting kicked out of other schools due to fights. Maybe it was the way that his lips quirked every time he got a question right in class. Or maybe it was the way he looked in gym class, hoodie off and muscles exposed. Whatever the reason, Patton had been drawn to Virgil. Even if they had never spoken to each other. Well, until now.

It was September of Sophomore year, and Patton had been strolling down the hallway, minding his own business. He normally didn’t eat lunch at school, so he used this time to interact with teens outside of classes.

Crash!

Patton’s head whipped around, seeing a student shoved into the lockers. Now, that wouldn’t do at all. Patton quickly made his way to the fight, quickly recognizing the two teens. Virgil was on the ground with a bloody lip, while Jacob Smith stood over him. Jacob was captain of the football team, if Patton remembered correctly. Patton frowned as he noticed several of his ‘friends’ stand in the background but not help Virgil.

“Jacob!” Patton stepped between Virgil and Jacob, effectively pulling everyone’s attention towards him. Patton put on his best ‘disappointed’ expression. “Why are you hurting him?”

Jacob frowned. “He deserved it, Patton!”

Patton tilted his head slightly, making sure he kept the wide-eyed, innocent look. “What did he do?”

Jacob growled. “He’s a faggot that deserves to rot in Hell!”

Patton used all of his self-control to not show any of his shock. He didn’t know Jacob was such a homophobe. To use slurs and hurt a kid for being gay? That won’t do at all. Patton kept his curious look. “What does ‘faggot’ mean? Does it mean he’s a meanie?” Poor, innocent Patton wouldn’t know what that word meant. And Jacob Smith just sullied poor Patton’s mouth with those words. At least, that’s what everyone else thought.

Everyone stood in silence before someone spoke up. “It means he’s gay!” Patton couldn’t figure out who said that, but he mentally thanked them for giving him the perfect opening.

“So he got hit because he’s gay?” Patton hunched over slightly, pulling out all the stops for his ‘innocent, defenseless little lamb’ look.

Jacob smirked, glad to see that Patton was catching on. “Yeah, he deserves to be beat until he learns his lesson!”

Patton let his lip quiver as he summoned his crocodile tears. “B-but I’m gay!” While this wasn’t extremely common knowledge, it was extremely implied through Patton’s mannerisms and style of dress. Patton let the tears pour out. Several students started to approach as they caught on to what Patton was implying. “A-are you gonna b-beat me too?”

Jacob seemed to realize his mistake. “Pat-” He moved in to wrap his arms around Patton.

Patton flinched in (fake) fear, throwing his hands over his head. Still, what he yelled was loud and clear. “NO, PLEASE DON’T HURT ME!” Several students grabbed Jacob by the arms and dragged him away.

Janice approached Patton now, making sure to put some distance between them. “Are you okay, Pat?”

Patton let out a shaky sigh before lowering his arms. He gave Janice a wobbly smile. “Y-yeah. I’m gonna go wash my face in the bathroom. Can you go make sure Jacob doesn’t try this again?” Janice nodded, slinking off to wherever Jacob was dragged to. Now that all of the crowd was focused on Jacob, Patton turned his attention to Virgil. He was staring up at Patton with a mixture of awe and… fear? “C’mon, let’s go get cleaned up.” Virgil nodded mutely, getting up on his own. He grabbed his bag and a case of some sort (he probably dropped them when Jacob attacked him) before following Patton to the nearest bathroom. Patton grabbed some paper towels and got them wet before handing them to Virgil, who sat on the counter of the sinks. “Here, for your lip.” Virgil accepted it silently, dotting his lip to stem the bleeding. “I could take you to the nurse if you want.” Virgil shook his head no and Patton shrugged, moving to fix his makeup.

“Is it true?” Patton’s head shot up and Virgil looked away with a blush, hiding his face in his hoodie. “That you’re… um…”

Patton finished the question. “That I’m gay?” Virgil nodded, still blushing. “Yeah, I am. Are you also gay, or was Jacob accusing you of being gay for no reason?” Because if Virgil wasn’t gay, then that was an entirely different can of worms to deal with (one of which being Patton’s crush on him).

Virgil nodded. “Yeah, Jacob had seen my phone screen with me and my boyfriends.”

Patton tilted his head. He didn’t know that Virgil had boyfriends. “Can I see?” Virgil nodded, slowly taking out his phone to show Patton the lock screen. Logan, Roman and Virgil all stared at him, huddled under a mass of blankets. Patton felt his heart constrict at the fact that all of his crushes were dating each other so Patton didn’t have a chance, and smiled. “Awe, you look so cute together!” He moved to resume working on his makeup and accidentally bumped Virgil’s case with his foot. “What do you have in there?” He asked, genuinely curious.

Virgil blushed. “It’s a guitar. Me and my boyfriends were gonna practice after school.”

Patton let his eyebrows raise in shock. “You guys play guitar?”

Virgil turned even redder. “I do. Roman does bass and Logan does drums. We have a small band called The Sides. It’s nothing really.”

Patton’s eyes lit up. “You have a band? That’s so cool! Do you play at parties?” Patton hadn’t been to many parties lately.

Virgil sighed. “No, not yet. I don’t think we’ll ever be good enough for that.”

Patton shook his head. “I bet you are! Do you know how awesome it would be to have a live band at your party instead of some lame DJ? I promise, once you start promoting yourself, people will be begging to hire you!” Suddenly, the bell went off, signaling the end of lunch. “Oh, I’ve gotta go. See you later!”

Patton made a note to bring up playing instruments with Logan during their next study session. Even if Patton could never be romantically involved with his crushed, he could still make them happy. And if that meant pulling a few strings to make them the most popular music group in school?

Well, Patton was willing to pull a few strings for them.

[musicallisto]

🌒 Once Upon A Dream (Nik Ryder x F!MC)

what do you mean this is a dead book among the fandom? haha jokes on you, I'll keep posting about nightbound and endless summer until I DIE. here’s me being a disney & choices stan as well as a softie in the same post 😔

word count: 1.6k words

summary: In which Nik Ryder can't quite see nor sense the magic of the fae, but he can sure as hell enjoy how peaceful it makes him.

soundtrack: ♬ ; ♬

gif credit: @ pvscvls

NIK DIDN’T MIND waiting in the clearing anymore.

Sure, the first days, he'd had a hard time refraining his curiosity, and squinted his eyes like a child as if that could make him distinguish some otherworldly light; but after a few months of accompanying Louise every week to the Fae Realm, he'd found his interest wasn't as ardent as it once was. Besides, he'd been to the Fae Colony once and his memories of the place were all but pleasant - setting aside the murderous betrayal and terrifying pain-in-the-ass of a Bloodwraith to fight, it all had a certain charm confined in all too vibrant colors, smells, and noises, nauseous to his frail human condition.

No, for the time being, he was more than satisfied with juggling with his knives and vials, alone and still in the comforting silence of the forest - all the more so because Louise, somewhere undecipherable, was enjoying herself.

It was always the most important part of his day, the only worry that clawed at its heart even in the tranquility of a still forest; whether or not Louise was happy, content, and safe. He had never thought himself to be the selfless type - rather he'd been used to only looking after himself for countless years, benumbed by his work and pride to the solitude it had brought him. Yet as soon as he had been tasked with protecting Louise, his walls had come crumbling down one by one until all that surrounded his heart was her and only her. Suddenly he was restless when she was away; deaf when she wasn't talking; forlorn when her eyes weren't singing. What he had mistaken for another weakness to get rid of as soon as possible was a strength, his greatest; and he'd be damned if he let it go to waste. Though judging by the wide smiles she wore when she was with him, even after one year, he wasn't doing too bad a job of it.

Something unfathomable had always lingered in the woods of the Fae colony, but he tasted the sugar of another world on his tongue, like fruit he had never tried, even more now that he waited alone. His lungs filled with this tingling air and the murmurs of the forest, more relaxed with each breath. Really, he could get why Louise insisted on coming each week, and he hadn't even seen the best part.

A slight rustle in the leaves usually announced Louise's return. Nik could feel it carnally, a wave of warm, calming pleasure washing over his chest, and it wasn't as stupid as he once might've thought it. After all, magic was real. He'd put his hand in the fire that Louise worked a little bit of her Fae magic on the strings of his heart each time he saw her.

When the familiar swish in the air came, Nik stuffed his vials in his bag and his throwing knife in his thigh holster; he raised his head just in time to see the colorful lights emerge out of nowhere, twinkle for a few seconds above the ground, then buzz and cackle with a shiny white flash, gone in an instant. In its place stood a blissful and disheveled Louise.

She almost tripped over her own two feet, but she always did when she came back to the human world, so Nik had already stepped forward to steady her. Her heart was a galloping horse under his palms.

“Easy, easy. You're back.”

His voice, low and deep, rumbled like a strong and safe current on her skin. His chest held enough breath for the both of them; still breathless, she chuckled.

“You're getting used to it by now...”

“Used, but not tired. What did you do this time?”

She took a step back. As always when she talked about the Fae world, her real world, her eyes sparkled, and Nik couldn't help smiling before she'd even spoken.

“It was so cool- Thalissa called down the dragons, and one of them descended! It's super rare, and it was the first time I've been this close to one, and- the magic, Nik, it's like it's spilling over my fingers- I wish you could be there to see it all with me!”

“I wish too, but that's not gonna happen anytime soon, darlin'.”

When she was giddy like that, talking of dragons and spells and vibrant markets and spire towers, Nik forgot about Rookie, about the concern and the money and the monsters. All his heart knew was how he loved her. Oh, how he did. Like a lullaby and a call to arms, all at once.

“They played music in the great hall, this time,” she reminisced with a dreamy smile.

“What, fairy opera?”

In normal circumstances, she would've rolled her eyes, but the return from the Fae Realm never was a normal circumstance, so she just chuckled.

“No, it's... I don't know how to describe it. Don't you hear it?”

“Hear what? Music?”

She had perked her head up suddenly, quite reminiscent of the huntress she was usually; but the euphoric high that still inhabited her features told she was enthralled, and not intrigued. Still, as hard as Nik concentrated on his surroundings, all he could distinguish was the intermittent buzzing of insects.

“Hate it to break it to you, but this is just normal forest noise...”

“Shh, Nik. Listen.”

He listened. He truly did. He stopped. Louise often chastised him for looking straight ahead at all times; for keeping his blinder on, she said. So much of the world passed him by without a glance from him. The world was ugly and he saw it well enough, he would retaliate, but she'd retort that it was precisely because he moved so fast that all the shapes and colors appeared deformed, monstrous to him. So he tried to pay attention to the songs of the rivers and the lumps of the wood under his fingertips, but he wasn't half-Fae like she was. He would always see but a fraction of her world, so radiant and gripping like a quivering heart in her palm. In her world, there was still hope for him to be gentle and kind like her...

He listened. But he heard nothing.

He was never disappointed, though. Some of these bright waves still reached him through Louise if he was attentive enough.

“It's beautiful...”

Like in a dream, she started to hum, and for the first time, Nik thought he heard the voices of the Fae, fluttering all together in his girlfriend's throat and the air surrounding her. She then turned to face Nik and put a hand on his arm, the other on his shoulder. She had opened her eyes, hazy but tender gray. The notes flowed effortlessly between the two of them; Nik wasn't sure if it was still Louise singing.

“Dance with me, Nik.”

“Woah, Rook, you know I don't dance, Fae orchestra or not,” he stepped back.

It wasn't distaste from Nik, but rather his jokester and detached self trying to make sense of what he couldn't understand. Exactly like how he had first deflected his feelings for Louise.

But when she draped a hand over his arm, carefully as not to deter him, with a million stars shrouding her beautiful face, a ravishing peace washed over Nik’s entire body and soul. Maybe it was the Fae, maybe it was the forest, maybe it was her. Suddenly he was placid and surrounded by ethereal harmonies.

“Just this once?”

A little fairy laughed in his chest, settled in his smile. Slowly, he took her hand in his and raised it between the two of them, eyeing her with care.

“Alright. Just this once.”

Louise beamed in front of him, and a halo of white light gleamed around her head as if she were crowned by the fading day. His hand rested on the hollow of her waist, and hers on his relaxed shoulder, without question, without doubt, as if they had practiced the dance a hundred times before. Still humming her otherworldly song, Louise led him in tentative waltz steps, and he followed. They were artists of a kind, fighting monsters and dodging bullets with ease and grace. Surely a waltz in the middle of the woods would be no different.

Their movements picked up speed and breadth. From the corner of his eye, Nik distinguished small flowers along the path they were taking; but all his concentration remained on Louise’s face, her dreamy smile and closed eyes. Between his arms, she radiated a glow that bounced on everything around her, from the littlest leaf to his pounding heart, and a serene tingle twittered in his chest. She was the only heaven he'd ever know; and he was certain that what would ring in his ears long after his death would be the echo of her voice and that of the forest.

“I bet I’m the first person who convinced you to dance,” she murmured, opening her eyes to meet his.

Only they, the trees, and the clouds were breathing in the world, and all was still and quiet. Safe in the immense silence, Nik murmured back.

“You’re the first to all my first times, Louise.”

They twirled together in the clearing and under the open arms of the trees until the moon was high in the sky. When its silver shadow fell on the world, one could still see, reflected on its surface, two silhouettes locked in an everlasting embrace; and one could swear their feet weren’t touching the ground.