#The verse in question: “I ventured too far and took too long!”

[one-in-a-million-fishsticks-blog]

Major "EPIC: The Musical" Brainrot in 3... 2... 1....

I've Been stricken with a new animatic idea!!!! But since I'm already working on an animatic that'll take me god knows how long, I'll probably be limiting this new concept to a piece of fanart for my own sake.

"The Underworld Saga" my beloved.... 😍

Is it wrong that in my mind I'm kinda meshing fandoms and getting major Alucard vibes from this one? I'm all in on the actual story of the track, I love me a good Greek tragedy, but y'all....

What about my vampire tragedy? 😭

Like as someone who's played or watched Castlevania, read these lyrics in particular and tell me you don't get Alucard vibes?

|| All I hear are screams, every time I dare to close my eyes

I no longer dream, only nightmares of those who've died

Nothing's what it seems

And here in the underworld the past seems close behind!

When does a man become a monster?

558 men who died under your command...

All I hear are screams, every time I dare to close my eyes!

I no longer dream, only nightmares of those who've died! ||

Like dude, I am not healthy. I just keep picturing Oldmanacard in 2036, being sad about every previous generation of humans he's ever fought alongside and outlived.

[peace-coast-island]

Diary of a Junebug

Carving treasures out of wood after going on a wild goose chase over a what seems to be self-inflicted curse

Wood carving is actually kinda chill once you get the hang of it and stop worrying about accidentally cutting one of your fingers off. Sure, I’ll probably really need to smooth things out with sandpaper, but after several attempts, I’m finally satisfied with what I’m coming up with. After all, you shouldn’t expect to be able to get something right the first few times if it’s all completely new to you.

This venture into wood carving was kinda random in the sense that we didn’t plan for it, but it provided us a nice sort of distraction after the past couple days have been quite eventful. By that, I mean in a not so good way, the kind that sorta leaves you tired in an I’m done with this shit. And I was not the only one who felt that way.

I’ve learned over the years that solving a mystery or a dilemma isn’t always straightforward. Sure, it can be satisfying when you can finally address a nagging question or bring closure to something that’s haunted you for a long time. But more often than not, trying to get to the heart of a mystery or a problem often results in more questions, bringing in more uncertainty that can potentially lead to an unsatisfactory resolution.

Sometimes it’s best to leave things alone, especially when it’s not in your place to get involved. Trouble comes to those who don’t know when to stay in their own lane. For me though, I don’t find it an issue - I know when to back out. But for some, they’re too busy poking and prodding that they don’t realize the disturbance they’ve caused - and that’s obviously not a good thing. In other words, it’s easier said than done when it comes to minding your own business.

We originally just came here to collect wood gyroids, and since the woods isn’t too far from the consultation office, I invited the gang - Taiki, Nene, Batt, Emmanuelle, Mikayla, Satoshi, Scotch, Haru, as well as Aileen and Kira - to join in on the fun. The kids especially enjoyed running around looking for gyroids.

What was supposed to be a chill get together turned out to be something else - not that it took away from the good, just an unexpected detour that maybe we could’ve done without. then again, work is work, and with exorcism jobs few and far between, they weren’t really in a position to turn it down, even if they had misgivings about the job. To be clear, it’s not like they’re struggling - the exorcism gig is basically a side freelance thing for them, if that makes sense - but since they’re the only exorcists in this area who happen to be very well versed and serious about what they do, if something of the sort comes up, they can’t afford to not address it.

Basically, when it comes to the supernatural, like cursed spirits, there’s a lot of unknown factors at play, so you want to be 100% certain if stuff like that is involved, If left to its own devices, a cursed spirit can really wreak havoc on its surroundings and mess with people’s minds, even cause mass destruction if it’s powerful enough. Exorcism’s a dangerous field, which is why there’s not many of them, and it’s even more unusual to find a small group of them working together who aren’t related by blood.

So we were in the middle of a break from collecting gyroids when Taiki, who was on call, received a message. We were gonna head back to the office anyway and that was where we met the client. Her name was Tibby, and right off the bat it was clear that she was loaded when she just handed Taiki a stack of bills like it was nothing. Of course, to the exorcists, it’s not unusual for someone to throw money at them when they’re desperate. She seemed pretty serious, so he decided to take her in for further questioning.

And so the story goes like this. A few months ago, Tibby’s partner’s sister died from ingesting poison, presumably by suicide. As far as anyone knows, Alix was not the kind of person who would willingly end her life like that. She was said to be a well respected and successful woman who has it all. However, she had a difficult relationship with her half-sister Isidora, which is why the family pins the blame on her for Alix’s death. Along with the harassment, Tibby said that Isidora has also been plagued by nightmares, leading to her believing that she’s cursed by her sister.

Since Taiki and Mikayla were on call, they took on the case and asked if any of us wanted to tag along as assistants, so Nene, Haru, and I joined in. The others headed back to Scotch and Satoshi’s house since we got a pretty nice haul of gyroids thanks to the girls. I’m glad they had such a great time playing outside, especially after being cooped up inside because of the rainy season.

Just like Tibby said, Isidora was in a terrible state, huddled up in a corner and muttering incomprehensibly. At a glance, you could say that maybe she’s under some curse, but if not, it’s obvious that something’s very wrong. Seeing her was unsettling, to put it simply - though that was probably the least concerning thing going on compared to what we later uncovered. In short, she was not under some sort of curse or possession, at least not an actual one caused by Alix herself.

As soon as Taiki and Nene began questioning the family, we had a feeling that something was off. It’s not that they were exactly flat out lying to us, it’s more like they’ve deceived themselves so much that they won’t know the truth if it hit them in the face sort of thing. How sad it is to craft such lies that are so ingrained into you that anyone who dares challenges them is seen as a threat. Sure, the ugly truth may be hard to accept, but there should be limits as to how much you can play ignorance, especially when the whole picture has been rotten to the core to begin with.

In the family’s view, it’s “Poor Alix was driven to her death by the cruel and heartless Isidora.” The way they paint Alix as some poor helpless victim, a saint who could do no wrong and yet a tortured soul too fragile for this harsh world we live in - that alone is disturbing, almost to the point of absurdity. To put it respectfully, it was like watching a terrible soap opera, like from start to finish rather than hearing bits and pieces and leaving the rest to imagination. I wouldn’t say predictable, but it’s easy to have an idea of which direction things are gonna go. Kinda like witnessing some online discourse happening that you really couldn’t care less about but you’re somehow invested in watching both sides go up in flames.

I mean, according to them, Alix committed suicide because she was fed up with Isidora’s failures, which doesn’t sound like a lot to go on. Alix seemed to have it all, wealth, power, popularity, charm, charisma, beauty, intelligence - she sounded like an infuriatingly perfect person, almost too perfect. Meanwhile, Isidora was almost the opposite in terms of luck and success, having been described as intelligent and possessing great beauty, but lacks ambition and direction, making her a constant source of frustration towards her family. In other words, they saw her as a failure and an embarrassment - the perfect scapegoat to explain away anything that goes wrong.

Not surprisingly, outside of the family, they’re conflicting views on what exactly the kind of person Alix was. She had many who idolized her, seeing her death as tragic because she could do no wrong, and she had those who saw her as a tyrant, a conniving, manipulative bitch who knows how to play the victim turn things towards her favor. The truth that no one wanted to admit was that she made her way up to the top by stepping on everyone else, using everyone and everything she saw as an obstacle to her convenience to bring in a false sense of security.

Basically, she wasn’t above using suicide baiting tactics to manipulate someone to coerce them. One of her former colleagues asked to meet in private so she could open up about what happened, and it’s just as bad as it sounds. Alix saw her as a threat and bullied her to the point that she threatened suicide by drinking poison, setting it up in such a way that made it look like murder. Not only Alix was conniving, but she also had the resources to be able to pull such a scheme like that, and considering how much power and influence she had, the other person had no choice but to comply to her terms unless she wanted to bring ruin to herself and those around her.

Yikes. No one should have that much power over another. Such a blatant example of abuse of authority - not just by Alix alone, but also by those around her who let something like this happen. And of course, she wasn’t raised in a vacuum, the fact that she was able to get away with manipulating people like that means that those around her not only found that behavior acceptable, they most likely encouraged it because that’s how they got into those positions themselves.

Now we know why Alix took the poison that ultimately killed her. She pulled that same stunt with Isidora in an attempt to get her to cut ties with Tibby and work under her. The reason, I feel like that’s one of those things where we’re like, we don’t have time to unpack all that. Could easily be them making a big deal out of nothing, or there could be more to it - doesn’t matter, it has nothing to do with the case. If anything, I think it’s a ridiculously stupid thing to get riled up about, so I’m pretty sure it’s one of those flimsy reasons they latch on to just so they can justify their hate.

The reason why Alix was harassing Isidora was over a fucking web novel that she and Tibby were writing together. Apparently, the reason why the family was clutching their pearls over it is because it’s a slice-of-life historical drama that takes place in a pleasure district with the main character working in a brothel. From a quick search, there’s nothing controversial about the novel, though there are issues with the tone as Tibby leans more into slice-of-life while Isidora leans towards the drama, resulting in what most call a tone-deaf mess. But other than that, it’s an average web novel that is doing fairly well - not groundbreaking or anything, just light entertainment.

I skimmed through a couple chapters out of curiosity and it was all right, nothing worth noting, and definitely nothing worth getting mad about. I’d get it if it’s like some overly sexualized bullshit or some other gross porno stuff, but it really seems like Alix and the family saw the words pleasure district and courtesans and automatically assumed the worst. Like, there’s literally nothing wrong with writing fiction about courtesans as long as it’s not offensive - the same could be said for all kinds of subjects that are considered dark or taboo, really.

Again, it’s basically stupid online discourse, except it’s happening offline and not as funny.

Said web novel that I honestly can’t be bothered to remember the name of because it’s ridiculously long ended up getting a publishing deal thanks to Tibby. Like I said earlier, she is loaded - in other words, she and Isidora have been living off that money. As to whether a story like that is worth publishing material is questionable. I mean, a lot of light novels started off as web novels, so obviously the light novel version is likely going to be more polished, and probably more detailed, but it does leave me wondering how much different the light novel version will be. I mean, it’ll probably take a lot of extra work - basically a drastic revamp, in my opinion - to bring the web novel to publishing standards - meaning something people will actually pay to read.

And so Alix threatened to kill herself in order to stop Isidora from publishing the novel, which is such a stupid thing to do. It was the same stunt she pulled with her former colleague, drinking poison and just pushing Isidora into a difficult position like she had always done - except she went a bit too far this time. A couple weeks earlier, Alix used that same poison on Tibby - attempted murder - except her plan was thwarted by Isidora. Of course, the family denied that ever happened, so we only have Tibby’s word to go off on. It’s clear that they don’t like each other - but that’s a whole ‘nother tangent that’s also irrelevant.

In conclusion, Alix’s hubris is what killed her. She thought she could have it her way again, manipulating Isidora like she always did. And she went as far as to actually drink the damn poison to prove her point if we were to believe that she really did poison Tibby. However, Isidora refused to comply, so maybe Alix got annoyed and took another dose of the poison to really hammer it in, only to be ignored once again. A stupidly fatal move indeed.

While Isidora is indeed the victim in all of this, she���s not entirely innocent either. Again, it’s not relevant to the case, so it’s none of our business, but it looks like she’s also good at playing the victim game and using people when it’s convenient for her. The family was actually in the right to be skeptical about Isidora and Tibby’s relationship, just for the wrong reasons. To put it simply, there seems to be some toxic co-dependency on both sides, even more so now that Isidora’s incapacitated by her demons.

Of course, that’s not what Taiki and Mikayla told Tibby, not when she and Isidora insisted that Alix was cursing them. They’re used to dealing with clients like that, so they’re able to improvise. Usually the reason why they put on a show is to give people some peace of mind, but in this case it’s to appease the masses, which didn’t really take much effort. Whatever happens after, it’s out of our hands, and honestly, I could care less.

Mikayla felt bad over how things ended, especially since she wanted me to see her in action, as in actually helping people. I don’t hold it against her - there’s no way of knowing how things will turn out. I’ve heard that she and Taiki aren’t on good terms with their family, so it’s understandable why the whole thing was getting to them, especially the whole “it’s for their own good” shtick that some people like to throw around to justify mistreating someone. They only care about you when it’s convenient for them and have no problems deserting you when you can’t give them what they want.

Still, it was nice seeing her and Taiki in action, as well as Nene and Haru working together as assistants, so I don’t think it was an entire waste. The reason why they set up this consultation office is to help people and dealing with a few bad apples won’t stop them. The world is thankfully not full of people like Alix because that would be a disaster.

Nothing like getting into wood carvings and journaling your thoughts out to unwind and feel like yourself again.

Read on AO3

[ddagent]

“Silk and Lace”

John/Delenn | Alien Roommate AU | FR12 | 2,008 words     Delenn keeps borrowing John's clothes. So he takes his new roommate shopping. Part of the Alien Roommate verse.

For @stardustinthesky, who is equally obsessed with Delenn wearing John's clothes.

So, I've started making some John/Delenn AU gifsets and, after I watched Tron, I fell in love with scientist John bringing his work home with him. You can see the gifsets here and here.

I'm open for prompts of this verse; feel free to prompt me at my tumblr. Happy reading!

“I think we need to buy you some clothes.”

Delenn glanced up from the novel she was reading – one of many stacked by the armchair in the corner – as a line formed across her brow. “Clothes?” She plucked at the shirt – his shirt – that she wore. “Is this not sufficient?”

Sufficient enough to keep me occupied with cold showers for the next month. John had come home from the observatory to find his alien roommate swathed in his clothes. A royal blue button-down draped over Delenn’s slight frame; the sleeves rolled back over her forearms, revealing the cerulean swirls that decorated her porcelain skin. Her legs were bare; beautiful, shapely legs that curled beneath her. Delenn was wearing his underwear – boxer briefs that he would never be able to wear again without thinking of her. No socks. Just a beautiful alien woman wearing his things.

Continue Reading at AO3 or Continue Below

“It is—” John rubbed the back of his neck, trying not to linger on the curve of Delenn’s breasts under his shirt; the open collar revealing her décolletage. “—it’s more that, if you’re staying on Earth, you really should have your own things. We can go shopping this weekend, if you like.”

“Would that–would that be acceptable?”

John considered the logistics of taking his half-alien roommate-slash-fugitive out in Seattle to shop. Bester had long-since moved his attentions to the east coast; an extra-large baseball cap or a beanie hat should cover her bone crest. Thank God for the Seattle weather. “It’ll be fine. We’ll be together; we won’t be out for very long. Just need to get the essentials.”

So they made a plan for Saturday. Delenn was, again, dressed in borrowed clothes to venture outside the confines of his apartment. He’d donated a pair of jeans that were a little too snug; a different button down, one that he wore often for work (only thing that was clean; not so he could think about her at work, fantasise about smelling her scent on his clothes). A University of Washington sweatshirt and a Mariners beanie completed the ensemble. Delenn looked far too cute, drowning in his clothes. Cute enough to kiss.

“We should go,” John blurted as the thought – not for the first time – crossed his mind. He brushed past Delenn to open the front door. “We don’t want to run into too many people.” 

Delenn nodded. “Of course.” She pulled the beanie hat over her still unfamiliar ears and took a tentative step outside the apartment. “Lead on, Doctor Sheridan.”

It was the first time Delenn was to leave his apartment since John had found her crashed ship and brought her home. He guided her down the fire escape, avoiding the tweaking net curtains and the elevator that rattled and groaned with every tug of the cables up and up. Unfortunately, his new roommate was far too curious for her own good. Delenn was fascinated by all the sights, sounds – smells – of Seattle.

“Delenn,” he gently chastised. “We need to be discreet.”

Her nose wrinkled at the mail boxes outside the apartment, a question dying on her lips, before joining him in heading for his car. “Are you to tell me, John Sheridan, that you would not be equally as inquisitive if you found yourself on Yedor?”

She had him there. “Fine. But unless there’s a Minbari equivalent of Alfred Bester, we need to be cautious.”

They eventually made it into John’s car; Delenn less dismissive of the primitive and destructive technology that got them around the city. The pair headed for a few boutiques downtown that Susan had recommended with an amused tone. The entire journey, Delenn’s nose was pressed against the glass, taking in the sights of the human world. Outside the confines of the car, her hand slipped into his automatically and they walked along the pavement, hips bumping as the early morning shoppers jostled them closer. Eventually they stopped at the first boutique, a little place with no CCTV and just enough foot traffic that the employees wouldn’t remember them if Bester ever came sniffing back around. The woman at the counter smiled as they entered, Delenn marvelling at the bell above the door.

“We have markets on Minbar,” Delenn explained. “The worker caste sell the wares they create out of joy, a sense of…service to themselves. But for places such as these, they often come to the homes of those who require them. Our clothes serve a very specific function. They are not intended to be ornamental. Like your…what did you call them?” Delenn turned and placed a hand above his chest, thumb brushing along his sternum. “The material with the oranges on them?”

“Ties?” She nodded, her face lighting up in delight at a new word for her vocabulary. “Yeah, they’re pretty decorative. I guess that’s part of our human charm – dressing nice.”

Delenn did not reply. Instead, she quickly became enamoured with the racks of clothes on display. She looked at each of them in turn, examining the fabric and stitching in great detail. When Delenn had first arrived on Earth, her clothing had been loose, in faded pink and tan, with little ornament save from a crystal pendant that now resided in a small keepsake box she kept under her side of the bed. John had no doubt that the Minbari cared little for fashion; Delenn had spent a week in his clothes, after all. But he also knew that she was fascinated by everything human and he’d have to make some considerable room in his closet.

“Can I help at all?”

John smiled politely at the shop assistant. “Hi. My girlfriend just flew in yesterday – she’s from Europe – but the airline lost her luggage. We’re looking to pick up a few things. Dresses, jeans, a coat, some pyjamas.” John swallowed. “Underwear.”

“Not a problem. Happened to me more than once. If I could drive to see my sister in Maine, I would.” She turned to Delenn. “What do you like the look of, sweetheart?”

“This.”

Delenn reached for a dress in velvet green. The sleeves and skirt were long; the bodice cutting low on her breasts. There was another, too, in burgundy that stole Delenn’s attention. This one had laces pulling the bodice tight, with lace embroidery over the skirt. She seemed to appreciate clothes that were textured, that felt unique under her fingertips. Together, the shop assistant and Delenn gathered every item Delenn said she wished to own and the three of them travelled to the back room where the changing rooms were located. The woman left them alone to source some underwear for Delenn (“Not sure of the American sizes, sweetheart? You look like a small to me; I’ll be right back.”) and John waited patiently outside for Delenn to try on the first dress.

She emerged in a soft pink dress, the fabric floating around her knees. Delenn twirled in front of the mirror. “It’s beautiful.”

“So are you.”

Delenn flushed high on her cheeks. She turned her attention back to the mirror; once again, her fingers pulled at the edge of the beanie. “The hat, perhaps, does not suit?”

“Maybe. Why don’t you try the burgundy one?”

She darted in to change dresses, not questioning matching blue with burgundy. When Delenn emerged, her hands were smoothing over the silk fabric of the bodice; the pads of her fingers tying the laces in knots. John shot a glance over his shoulder, heart thrumming at the huge risk, but quickly yanked the beanie off of Delenn’s head. She stared, lost in her reflection. John had watched her, at home, running her fingers through the curls that fell over her shoulders; the half crest that adorned her skull. Now she stood, hands mapping her sides in the form-fitting dress. Her touch stole, not for the first time, to her ears, her throat.

“It is quite, uh, revealing?” Delenn asked. “Would the purpose of this dress be to attract a mate?”

“Not always. Women on Earth, they dress for themselves as much as a mate.” John leaned in; hand pressed to the small of her back. “Though it’s a good thing we’re not letting you out; you’d turn so many heads you’d be sued for whiplash.” Delenn’s gaze settled upon him, a question forming on her lips. “You look attractive, Delenn. Sexy.”

“Sexy.”

Delenn pondered his words while John retreated, wondering why he had called his alien roommate sexy when he couldn’t do a damn thing about it. Thankfully, approaching footsteps signalled for Delenn to retreat back into the dressing room, beanie in hand. Unfortunately, the shop assistant returned with a small bundle of bras and panties; black and green and red. Wisps of silk and lace. The woman winked at John as she laid them down beside him; the implication clear that Delenn’s ‘boyfriend’ would get equal joy out of the purchase. He crossed his legs, struggling not to fixate on the image of Delenn wearing very little. In front of him, Delenn continued to emerge wearing dress after dress, overjoyed by the weight of fabric in her hands and the swoosh as she spun in front of the mirror. They weren’t anything special; no designer labels, no fancy fabrics. But they were unique and they would be hers.

When the shop assistant brought over some nightgowns for Delenn to wear, John pressed his credit card into her hand. “We’ll take it all.”

They emerged from the boutiques laden with bags: a pair of sneakers, some ballet flats, an array of dresses, three nightgowns, a midnight blue robe with moons and stars embroidered upon the lapel, and a hat and scarf set that was not emblazoned with any Seattle sports team. After a visit to Theo’s second-hand bookstore on the corner, the pair returned to John’s – to their apartment. Saturday afternoon was spent clearing out one half of John’s closet and Delenn sharing extracts from her favourite sonnets in a battered paperback with lines rippling down the spine. She lay, head at the foot of their bed, skirts splayed across the sheets, as she recited poetry to him.

He was a goner.

But, to his relief, Delenn would no longer be wearing his clothes. There were nightgowns, with long sleeves and frilly lace. John would finally get his pyjama shirt back. Yet, when it came time for bed, John could only find his shorts. No shirt. That was when Delenn emerged from the bathroom in the soft, blue sleep shirt he wore; the familiar socks keeping her feet warm. She stared, sheepishly, at her toes encased in the thick wool socks.

John just shook his head and threw back the covers for them both to get under. All that work, all that money, and she was still wearing his things. “You’re a thief, Delenn. You know that, right? A thief.” Delenn just beamed and practically jumped in the bed beside him. He laughed as she began stacking pillows on her side. “First my shirt, then my pillows. What else are you going to steal, huh?”

“Minbari do not steal.”

“Oh yeah?” He yanked out a pillow from underneath Delenn’s head and tapped her stomach lightly with it. “What do you call that, huh? That shirt is mine.”

“I am…” Delenn trailed off as she searched for the word, wrenching the pillow out of his grip with far superior strength to his own. “Borrowing. I am borrowing your shirt. It smells like home.”

John was momentarily blindsided. It smelt like home. It smells like you. He retreated back to his side of the bed, giving up on a counter-attack, as he watched Delenn pull the duvet up to her chin. Ever since her transformation, her internal temperature had been unable to regulate. Seattle was too warm during the day; too cold at night. So they huddled together, under the sheets, sharing a pyjama set. John didn’t mind sharing, not really. He was happy to share his bed, his clothes, his apartment. His heart he’d given to her a long time ago.

[gavin-plz-call-me]

The Brothers + Dateables & Luke react to MC owning a cat named lucifer

A/N- To attempt to avoid confusion, the demon Lucifer’s name will always be capitalized, while the cat lucifer’s name will never be capitalized.

~

“Now,” Diavolo said, obviously nearing the end of his speech, “Do you have any more questions, MC?”

You nod, “Is my cat up there all by himself?” you ask, “I don’t want him to get lonely, and without me he wont have anyone to feed him.”

The men, no, the demons in front of you stared, all obviously dumbstruck. You had been ripped out of your home, brought to a strange place, and told you were to live here for a year, and your first thought was of your cat? What a strange human you were.

“We can arrange someone to take care of your cat,” Diavolo said, smiling wide, but your face fell at his words. Diavolo seemed to sense your discontent as he spoke again, “Or we can arrange for your cat to be brought here?”

“Yes, please,” you spoke almost immediately.

Diavolo called for a demon named Barbatos, telling him to go to the human world to retrieve your cat. He disappeared then reappeared in a matter of seconds, your cat laying comfortably in his arms.

“Oh, lucifer,” You cooed, taking your cat away from Barbatos, kissing the cat’s forehead.

The hall went silent once again, before someone, the demon they introduced as Asmodeus, spoke up, “Honey, that’s Barbatos.” He said, a slight chuckle laced within the words.

Confused, you glance back up at the hall of demons, you point to your cat, “No? His name is lucifer.”

Lucifer

Can't decide if he's confused or insulted.

He's confused because, who the hell would someone name a cat of all things after a demon

and he's insulted because WHO THE HELL WOULD NAME A CAT AFTER HIM?

He's one of the strongest Demons in the Devildom, much stronger than a mere housecat, the insinuation that he, Lucifer, avatar of pride, shares anything in common with a cat has him fuming.

Of course, he shows none of these emotions outwardly, keeping his face stoic as always.

And any one of his brothers who dare joke about this cat's name will be hanged from the ceiling in a matter of seconds.

Is fairly annoyed with their shared name in day-to-day life, and not just because it's insulting.

But, many times a day, Lucifer'll hear his name called through the halls and, when he goes to investigate, one of his brothers is cooing over the damned pun intended cat.

Will eventually get used to lucifer and will definitely be seen cuddling with him.

Is like the dad who insists he doesn't want a cat, but as soon as he gets one they're inseparable.

At the end of the day, he loves that damn cat.

Mammon

Laughs out loud at the revelation that the cat's name is lucifer.

Until he realizes now he has to look after the human and the cat.

Will complain about it in typical Mammon fashion, but he warms up to lucifer about as quickly as he warms up to you.

Buys him a bunch of cat toys when he has the grimm, and loves to play with him

especially with a laser pointer.

Also loves to cuddle, but always acts very tsundere about it.

"What is it lucifer? Oh, of course, you want to cuddle with the Great Mammon."

Will either steal lucifer from your room at night, or sleep in your room to cuddle with him and totally not you, of course, but you should be honored he's even sleeping in your room.

Leviathan

Thinks it's hilarious as well.

Though he prefers anime, Levi is well versed in other human media, especially classic Disney films, so, because of Cinderella, he's well aware that lucifer is a popular cat name in the human realm.

That doesn't make it any less funny, though.

WILL NOT allow lucifer into his room.

He has too many expensive figurines to risk it

Plus, he doesn't want to risk Henry 2.0 getting hurt.

Will only play with, pet, or cuddle with lucifer if he initiates it.

"He probably doesn't want to be pet by a gross otaku like me," as if cats know what otakus are.

Will, at some point, sew lucifer a costume that looks suspiciously like what his older brother tends to wear.

He may or may not have been hanged for that one, but it was totally worth it.

Satan

Like Lucifer, Satan is conflicted.

On one hand, cat! He loves cats, he wants to pet this cat all day, and give him kisses and cuddles and love.

On the other hand, Satan would rather his soul be ripped apart than give love to something named after Lucifer.

Will try his hardest to completely ignore the cat's existence.

Has to leave the room if lucifer comes in because he can't trust himself to not pet him.

Is like this with lucifer until he sees him respond to the name luci as well.

After that, you cannot separate Satan from lucifer even if you tried.

Spoils him rotten.

The two are often found reading together in the library, Satan leisurely petting lucifer.

Fights with Mammon at least once a day for lucifer and always wins.

Goes on long rants about how cat lucifer is much better in every way than demon Lucifer.

Asmodeus

Another one who thinks it's hilarious.

Definitely thinks lucifer is cute but hates all the shedding, so he usually keeps his distance.

Like Levi, Asmo doesn't allow lucifer in his room.

Will constantly complain about fur getting all over his clothes.

Has had to buy more lint rollers in the first year you spent in the Devildom than he had bought in the last century.

Constantly posts pictures of lucifer on his Devilgram because, despite being a furry monster, he is just the cutest little kitten around.

Beelzebub

Thinks the name is a bit weird but accepts it pretty quickly.

It's just a name, after all, lots of people who are very different share names.

lucifer's food has to be hidden from Beel because he can, and will, eat it.

"It just smelled so good, and I was so hungry."

Apologizes by buying him some luxury cat treats that took all of Bee's willpower not to eat on the way home.

At first, he won't interact with lucifer unless lucifer approaches him.

Beel is so big, and lucifer is so small, he doesn't want to crush the little cat.

But with enough time and reinforcement, Beel will pick lucifer up himself for some much-needed cuddles.

Before Belphie comes down from the attic, Beel'll bring lucifer up to their room at night when he's feeling a bit more lonely than usual.

Beel will invite you up to his room as well.

Belphegor

Finds out about lucifer after everyone else, due to the whole, being locked in the attic, thing.

Hears Asmo trying to coax lucifer into a good pose from down the hall.

"Oh lucifer, cutie pie, you gotta look at the camera."

Is surprised that Asmo is still alive talking to Lucifer like that.

Is even more surprised when he turns the corner to find Asmo talking to a cat, not his eldest brother.

Thinks it's hilarious, but Lucifer is already over it so teasing him about it doesn't do much.

Won't actively seek out lucifer's attention, but will gladly nap with him.

Beel continues his habit of bringing lucifer up to their room for cuddles when Belphie returns, so the three of them usually end up in a big cuddle pile.

Bonus points if he brings you up too.

Diavolo

Thinks it's very amusing.

Laughs about it, probably for a bit too long.

He can't help it, especially because he knows Lucifer is most definitely a bit upset about it.

Will tease Lucifer once or twice about it, but will ultimately leave it alone.

When he visits the House of Lamentation, he'll give lucifer a nice pat, hello, but won't go very far beyond that.

Barbatos

Read lucifer's name tag while he was collecting him from the human realm.

Wasn't surprised in the slightest because nothing ever surprises him

Is definitely excited to see everyone's reactions to his name, and is not disappointed.

If given the chance, he will spend hours brushing lucifer's fur and pampering him

but doesn't get the chance to do so often, if ever.

Solomon

Has had a cat named lucifer in the past.

I mean, he's lived hundreds of years, it's not out of the realm of possibilities.

Named his own cat lucifer because he thought it was funny, and the humor hasn't faded since.

So he's very amused by this new lucifer in his life.

Will unabashedly cuddle and play with lucifer whenever he's given the chance.

I mean, this lucifer reminds him of his own cat, so he becomes pretty attached pretty quickly.

Whenever he visits the House of Lamentation, he'll hold lucifer until the very last minute he possibly can, and will be pretty sad when he has to leave.

Will joke about stealing lucifer, may actually try to steal him.

Simeon

Like Levi, Simeon is pretty well versed in human media, so the concept of cats named lucifer isn't new to him.

Still finds it a bit funny nonetheless.

Tells Michael right away.

Likes cats well enough, and, when he's in the House of Lamentation, will seek out a few pets from the kitten

but he doesn't venture to the House of Lamentation too often, so he never grows too close to lucifer.

Luke

WHY? WOULD YOU NAME A CAT? AFTER A DEMON?

There are so many better names for a cat!

Like whiskers, or oreo, or simba.

Is genuinely confused, and maybe even a bit concerned.

He's afraid you were consorting with demons before coming to the Devildom and that's why you named him lucifer.

After his brief stay in the House of Lamentation, Luke is absolutely in love with lucifer.

Plays with him constantly.

Wants to pick him up, but doesn't know how to.

Luke will end up getting scratched eventually, but Luke forgives him.

Bakes lucifer special cat treats and hopes you'll let him feed lucifer one.

[sleeperswakewriting]

Emily don't bonk me! But if you can save this request for the future I will appreciate it 🥺 what if ghost levi has a fight with her petra and somehow he ends in kindred spirits verse and scares cottagecore petra 😆 and they bond over life because she had a fight with her postman levi + tea + pancakes (no horny though but i ship them now ahaha❤️)

oh gosh, this was SO self-indulgent, I could never bonk you, Matri 💕no horny times ahead, this is all fluff. I think I ship it now too??

Rating: G

Word Count: 1.6k

The time in the multiverse had come to an end with each Levi and Petra returning to their universes. For most of the couples, it was like a bad dream (the Levis would attest to this) and for others, it was like an awakened fantasy (see: The Petras).

Therapist Petra in particular had a lazy smile on her face as she recounted the ridiculousness of the whole matter.

“This just affirms that we’re meant to be soulmates! We’re meant to be in every universe,” she sighed to her Levi over their nightly tea. As usual, he sat across from her at the dinner table while she ate and he observed.

“Did you have a good time with Fire Alarm Levi?” Levi asked, his color growing more opaque. While Petra didn’t need his permission, she graciously asked and requested for him to watch so that she could pretend it was him. Fire Alarm, the freaky bastard he was, didn’t mind roleplaying for Petra, and hot jealously turned the tips of his ears pink.

Petra poked at her oatmeal while she blushed. “Of course I did. He’s you.”

Scowling, Levi’s stare bored into hers, “Obviously not. He’s the one with the dick.”

“Stop it,” Petra snapped, her tone uncharacteristic as shame welled in her stomach. “You told me it was okay. And if you remember correctly, I was envisioning you the entire time.”

“He looks exactly like me, of course you were! Bet if you had the chance to visit, you would.”

Petra chewed the inside of her lip, the taste of the oatmeal losing all its flavor. “Can we drop it? I love you and I had the chance to be with you physically.” Petra’s watch vibrated and her eyes widened as she looked at the time. “Shoot, I have to go. See you at dinner.” And she gave an airy kiss to his head, her lips passing through, and Levi could feel himself growing smaller.

“Love you too,” he grumbled and watched the love of his life whisk away into the real world.

He paced. He was too restless to draw, too early to cook, and there was little to garden with the chillier air of autumn setting its course.

He was such a pathetic excuse of a man. Why did he end up without a body while the rest of the Levis were rich, got regularly laid, and at least could go on a real date?!

Levi floated back and forth in the living room and eventually settled to people watch on their balcony. The world looked so small from up here and it comforted him. He liked seeing the sky touch the horizon, the buildings cascading like a rolling wave, and the infrastructure of the city. Petra mentioned there was a beach town not too far from here, he wondered what it would be like to take her there.

Immediately, the image of her in a bikini made him color, and Levi drifted off into a daydream, his vision becoming muddled with the sound of a sea breeze and the honking of a ship horn.

“Levi! Come back, please.” It was Petra’s voice. Except it was softer, less confident, and longing dripped from every word.

“I have to go, do we need anything in town?”

Floor boards creaked while Petra moved and their voices became muffled again.

“…okay. See you later.”

“Bye.”

Regaining his senses, Levi recognized this place from the multiverse, except it was real.

It was Petra’s cottage.

And there was cottage Petra, standing outside her house, crying into a handkerchief.

Not wanting to scare her, but not knowing how else to make his presence known, he coughed.

A bright smile formed on Petra’s face and she turned around, expecting to see her Levi, but gaped as she saw him.

“Ghost Levi?” she squeaked. “How did you get here?”

He shrugged. “Not sure. Was imaging a calm place and I guess all your stories of the island made me think of here.” He looked to the used handkerchief in her hand. “You okay?”

Petra sniffed and turned her head to the side. “I got into a fight with my Levi.” She shuffled on her feet, clearly uncomfortable, but politeness wore through. “Do you want to come inside? I can show you around.”

He entered the tiny house and it looked like something out of Petra’s TLC shows. Except it was authentic, and he remembered that Cottage Petra was from the 1960s. It was curious since Levi and Petra had relatives that were very much alive during this time and they must literally be from a different universe. He listened with an attentive ear as Petra flitted about the home. Adoration was evident from how she lovingly described every inch, every meaningful item, and then they settled into the kitchen.

Her tears were long dried and forgotten while she spoke to him of her latest baking ventures, and he eagerly added onto her dialogue, enjoying prodding her mind for new recipes to try for his Petra.

“I love that you cook!” She said earnestly, donning her apron, then her face fell. “Wait, you can’t eat, right?”

Levi laughed. “Nope. But why don’t you sit back and let me cook for you? Do you like pancakes?”

Discarding her apron, Petra situated herself on a kitchen stool, fascinated that someone besides herself was cooking in her house.

“I make buttermilk all the time for me and my Levi. He doesn’t have as much as a sweet tooth as me, but we like to use up our fresh fruits.”

And so Levi did what he did best and began to cook. He could see Petra’s fingers twitching as she watched him assemble the ingredients, and with a smirk, he gestured her over. “You can mix if you want.”

Tying her apron with ease, Petra popped beside him, a smile so wide on her face that it could break his dead heart. She put on a record, the vintage tunes not usually Levi’s style, but it felt right with Petra beside him as she idly hummed and danced along to the music in her socks.

“Do you like raspberries?” she asked him, though realized the question was silly as soon as she queried. He pretended to be offended, went as far as to pool into the floor like the batter they were mixing, and Petra shrieked.

“Levi! I’m so sorry!” She wailed, collapsing to her knees to assist him despite his corporeal form.

Laughing echoed in the cottage as he fixed himself. “Sorry, I had to,” he said, taking the basket of raspberries from her hands. “I like messing with people. Life gets kind of boring when you’re me.”

“I think you’re fascinating!”

A blush rose to face, though only noticeable from his opaqueness, and he silently added the raspberries into the mixture, stirring them idly. Petra watched him, her lips pursing while her foot tapped, and Levi sighed in amusement.

“Have something to say?”

“You have to make sure you mix the fruit evenly,” Petra blurted, and Levi finished with her, “Or else the fruit will sink to the bottom and you’ll get a soggy bottom.”

She gave a shy smile. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to overstep.”

He shook his head, “It’s nice having someone else to cook with.” A long pause passed between them. “Is everything okay with you and your Levi? You looked upset when I arrived.”

Petra went scarlet and Levi’s eyebrows rose to the top of his head. She fiddled with her skirts and began to anxiously mix the pancake batter while she started the gas on the stove.

“Oh, uh, we’re fine,” she stuttered cutely.

“Do you want to talk about it?” he offered.

She shook her head as she poured batter onto the pan, the sizzling mixing with the music. “I don’t think Levi would appreciate it. It’s, uh, personal.”

Levi flashbacked to their personal time in the multiverse, and he gave a low cough. “I might be an exception to that. As my Petra likes to remind me, we’re all just parts of each other.”

Biting her lip, Petra stared at the pancake with unnecessary meticulousness. “Well,” she began in a soft voice, “I want to try for a baby. After hearing Fire Alarm Petra talk about her work as a teacher, it got me thinking how much I want to be a mother. My Levi got upset because he thought I wanted to have a kid with Fire Alarm Levi because Fire Alarm and I,” and she halted, her face going an even deeper shade of red while she said just above a whisper, “you know.”

He did know because he was part of it, but Levi spared her the embarrassment and floated beside her. He took the ladle from her hand and gently set to the side while he looked into her honey eyes. “You would make a great mother,” he assured her. “Any Petra would.”

Her eyes glistened. “Really?”

“Absolutely,” Levi said, reaching for the ladle and exchanged places. “And speaking of Fire Alarm, my Petra and I got into a fight about him. Dude’s a trouble maker.”

Petra shuffled while a gooey smile came to her face, clearly enamored with the rich man, but Levi chose to tamper his jealously while he finished off another pancake.

“Want to talk about it?” Petra asked, reaching for her kettle. “You said you liked to smell tea. I make my own brews sometimes.”

Instantly, the comfort of Petra’s home had Levi sharing all of his worries, and before they knew it, the sun had begun to descend, and several cups of tea had been finished off. They sat side by side in the meadow while Levi drank in the sunshine and reveled in the quiet.

Maybe he found a kindred spirit in this strange predicament.

[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.

[collecting-stories]

One Sunset - c. 08 - JJ Maybank

Summary: Your birthday keeps getting closer.

A/N: Two more chapters to go! 

You Are Ok Masterlist | Outer Banks Masterlist

✰ Oh, my love, she waits, so long overdue ✰

The baby, Hope, the youngest, so far, of your sister’s six children, was propped on your hip. Clingy, she pressed her face against your collar, head tucked in your neck as you bounced just slightly from foot to foot. She‘s been crying when Esther handed her off, a passing comment that “there was something different about you” as she rejoined the conversation your older siblings were having. You carried Hope outside when the fussing started again, threatening to interrupt your father’s reading from the bible before dinner. She wasn’t the youngest of all the babies there, Jubilee’s son took that honor, being just three months, but Hope was the most restless.  

“You used to be like that,” your mother teased, coming out to bring you a bottle for Hope as she squirmed in your lap. You’d settled with sitting under the tree in the yard, letting your niece tear through the grass.  

“Destructive?” You asked, looking up through the sunlight to her.  

Ever since JJ had mentioned the possibility of leaving you had been thinking about what it would look like when you were gone. Knowing what was in store if you stayed, you had given leaving your mom and dad a lot of thought anyway. It would be just them in the house, plenty of grandchildren to take care of but just the two of them at night when everyone else went home. You would miss it, but it was these moments, so rare now that you were the last left in the house, that you would miss most of all.  

“Restless, unsatisfied.” The adjective stung when she said it, as if she resented the trait even in a baby. “The minute you were steady on your feet, you used to take off.”  

“Maybe I was just curious about everything around me?” You suggested, that bizarre fear that she knew something settling in your stomach. It was the same queasy feeling you used to get when you were little and you would lie, certain your mother would know.  

She nodded, though it was not in agreement, “and what does the bible say about that?”

“And he said unto them, it is not for you to know the times or the seasons, which the father hath put in his own power.” You replied, all too familiar with the warning verse that your mother had kept taped to your bedroom mirror as a child, a reminder that your curiosity was as much a sin as anything else.  

“That’s right, we don’t need to concern ourselves with other, worldly things.” She replied.  

“I don’t think Hope is concerned with anything other than appreciating God’s creation,” you joked, an attempt to lighten the mood, as you looked down at Hope sill pulling at the grass and then staring in wonder at her dirty hands.  

“I’m not talking about Hope, I found a…very revealing outfit tucked under your bed along with a sweatshirt I’ve never seen in the house before.” She said, playing her cards. She did know something she wasn’t letting on, just as you had suspected. It was better than you thought, something you could play off easily.  

“They’re Kiara’s. She wore the dress on Sunday and I told her it was too revealing for church so she came in and changed. And the sweatshirt is her…boyfriend’s, she had it with her.” You lied. The dress was the one that JJ bought for you. For almost three weeks, since he’d first suggested it, you had been packing and unpacking a duffel bag, certain that you wanted to go but then unsure at the same time.  

Your mother’s observation of you was probably right, you were restless. They had raised you the same way they raised your siblings and yet, nothing about the church seemed to comfort you. It made you discontent just exist in the space sometimes but you had always assumed it was because of some deep fault of your own. Some sin you weren’t consciously aware of that ensnared you. Restlessness would follow you forever, it felt like. But then you’d never felt restless with JJ or Kiara or Pope. You never felt like you were trying to fit into something that wasn’t made for you.  

“I didn’t realize she had a boyfriend.” The tone was back, the disapproving one that silently conveyed the underlying meaning of her sentence. If your mom had known, she would not have let her hang around.  

“He’s very religious too. I think he goes to a non-denominational church,” you lied, pulling Hope’s dirty hands away from the hem of your dress.  

You had come outside with Hope because you wanted to be alone. Her crying was the perfect excuse to separate yourself from the rest of your family but then your mom had followed you out here, determined, it felt like, to deny you any moment alone.

“Your good with the kids,” she ventured, “It’ll only be a couple of years before you’re having little ones of your own.”  

“That’s what Esther said when she handed me Hope.” You replied lifting the baby with you as you stood up. There was no point in trying to hold onto your attempts at relaxation. Babies had been all your mother wanted to talk about since Timothy’s visit to the house. She couldn’t stop herself from mentioning your future imaginary family. “How did you and dad know you wanted to have kids?”

“We prayed and fasted and the Lord answered us by giving us Faith and I knew then that he was telling me to leave my womb in his hands.” She replied as you fought the urge to roll your eyes at the response, “How many kids you have is something you’ll have to talk about with Timothy but God will guide you.”  

“Yeah, I guess so.” You shifted Hope in your arms as she babbled, her dirty hands gripping your cardigan.  

Maybe JJ lying to you should have been the push that you needed to embrace this idea of Timothy and Zambia and the twelve children he was probably going to expect you to have. It should’ve put you back on the path of the Lord, that “most righteous” path, as your father called it during Sunday service. But you couldn’t bring yourself to just close off the part of you that loved JJ so much that you considered running away with him. He had lied but you couldn’t bring yourself to believe that all of it was a lie. There were parts of it, you were certain, that had to be true. You had been thinking about him since you left John B’s.  

“What if...” you chanced, beginning to walk back to the house with your mom, “what if Timothy isn’t who I’m meant to be with?”

“Why do you say that?” Your mom asked, stopping. She didn’t look surprised or even bothered by what you thought sounded like your usual restlessness.  

“I just think...what if I’m not a good enough wife?”

“You have to pray, and have faith in the Lord and in your husband that they will guide you down that path and help you to learn how to serve your household.” She answered.  

Hope started fussing again and your mom took her from you, proclaiming that it was most likely time for a feeding and heading back inside with her. She called over her shoulder for you to check the church, the light in the nave was on. You wanted to thank her for the moment alone but then she might’ve stuck around and questioned you further.

You walked to the church, pulling the old wooden door open and heading inside to turn off the lights in the vestibule. Your father was known to forget and leave them on and you were sure that your mother thought sending you was some subtle way of telling you that you needed to reconnect with Jesus through prayer. You weren’t so sure that was what you needed but you would take the moment alone that you had been trying to get the first time you went outside.  

Before you could hit the light switch you noticed the familiar army green backpack leaning against one of the back pews. You hadn’t seen JJ since you left John B’s house but that was his backpack, sitting in the middle aisle. There wasn’t any reason for JJ’s bag to be in the church but you walked toward it anyway, curious as to its existence in that space at that moment.  

The bag, you quickly discovered, was not without its owner. JJ laid there on the bench, asleep, from what you could tell, his lip split and a horrifying bruise under his left eye. You knelt down by the edge of the pew, brushing his hair away from his face so you could see him better. Just the sight of him had your heart pounding.

“Oh my god, JJ,” you whispered, laying your hand on his arm. “JJ.”

He groaned, shifting on the pew before opening his eyes slowly, a smile gracing his features as he saw you there in front of him, the cut on his lip bleeding slightly at the motion. “Hey Ace.”

“JJ, what happened?” You asked, moving to sit next to him as he sat up. Maybe you should have been more apprehensive with him, considering what John B had told you, but all you could think about was the bruising on his face. You’d seen less noticeable bruising before that JJ had always brushed off and maybe it was unrelated but your mind was drawing connections as you looked him over, noting the large purplish mark peeking out from the arm of the cut-off shirt he was wearing.  

“Nothing,” he swore, shaking his head and shifting away from you slightly. “I’m sorry, I just needed to crash for a few hours.”  

When you reached for him again and he moved back, you felt an ache. He looked battered and you didn’t care about what sort of bet he made, all you wanted to do was hold him and tell him that for the last few days you had been thinking about him. “JJ, please, tell me what happened?” you asked, taking his hand in yours before he could stop you.  

“I fucked up everything.” He replied, leaning back against the pew and closing his eyes. “I didn’t...I should’ve told you about-”

-

Despite Pope’s attempts to reason with him, to remind him that the last person on earth you probably wanted to see was him, JJ couldn’t stop himself from moving forward with his original plan. He had offered you a way out and, whether you wanted it with him or at all, he was going to come through on that promise. He loved you and maybe it was selfish but he couldn’t stand the thought of you going to Tennessee.  

JJ almost never went home but he did a few nights after you had run off, after Kiara told him that you’d come to see her, he went back home again to get the keys for his dad’s boat. Luke always kept the keys on him and JJ hadn’t actually been on the boat since he was a little kid. The first time he had smoked weed when he was twelve and his cousin took him on the Phantom for a joy ride down the coast to buy some specially cut stuff from a friend of a friend. He had let JJ smoke it on the way home and the probably broken rib that he’d suffered the week before suddenly didn’t hurt half as bad.  

He wasn’t stealing the keys for a joyride this time though. He was stealing keys to get you as far away from the Outer Banks as he could. Pope had reasoned that you hadn’t really ever made up your mind and that by now you had probably definitely decided not to go off with some guy on a whim, but JJ had to believe you were still leaning toward going with him.  

“Hey, look who finally decided to show up.” Luke chided, sitting at his work bench. If there was anything that JJ knew about his father, it was that Luke could sit in front of his work table all day and nothing would ever actually get done.  

“I’m only here to grab some stuff.”  

If he said nothing, it caused an issue. If he said something, it caused an issue. JJ had spent enough years in his father’s home to know that it didn’t matter what he did, if Luke was in a mood then there was nothing, he could do to avoid it. And usually, he would just make his visit a short one but he needed that key and that key was hanging off his dad’s neck.  

It took Luke a couple beers and a trip down to Barry’s trailer before he confronted JJ’s return home with more than a snide remark. It started off with shouting about the electric bill when he tried to hit the light switch in the living room and realized that the darkness was unescapable. And that, of course, like all the other bad things that existed in his life, was JJ’s fault.  

“How many fucking times I gotta tell you to do something before you actually do it?” He screamed, a string of insults following that would stay trapped in JJ’s head for what would arguably be the rest of his life. The rage was just what JJ needed though, his dad was erratic, distracted, and close enough that when he shoved JJ against the wall and tried to choke him, the key was in reach.  

He had the key and when he finally got his dad off him, he ran for the door, grabbing his bag and running through the woods. Still not talking to John B, he knew there weren’t too many places for him to go. He stayed on the beach for a while but then moved on, heading to the one place he knew he wasn’t technically welcome. JJ had seen your family’s cars in the yard and had ducked into the church, falling asleep on one of the pews.  

It wasn’t like you could’ve contacted him, you had no phone and you couldn’t exactly get away easily during the day and maybe that was what made it so easy for him to convince himself that he wasn’t beyond forgiveness. He needed to talk to you, had wanted to for days now. He needed to explain things to you, make you understand that he did love you and the bet was stupid, a mistake that he wanted to take back more than anything in the world.  

-

“JJ, I don’t care about any of that right now,” you said, brushing hair away from his face. “What happened?”

He sat up a little, pulling the makeshift necklace out beneath his shirt, the keys to the Phantom hanging there around his neck. “I got the keys.” He replied, “I don’t know if you even would still want to go, but I got the keys.”  

“Is that how this happened?” You asked, eyes still on his bruised face and not the keys he was holding up.  

“It doesn’t matter-”

You cut him off, “it does matter, JJ-”

“No.” He insisted, “no, it doesn’t matter. I don’t want you to base anything on feeling bad for me.” JJ had spent his whole life trying to make sure that nobody felt bad for him. Sympathy, charity, pity, it was all just fake and he hated it. He did everything he could to be sure that no one ever knew what kind of father Luke was because he never wanted them to look at him like he was broken.  

“I don’t want you to hurt.” You admitted, kissing his cheek.  

JJ didn’t protest the affection, though he wanted to laugh. Here he was with you worrying about him, telling him that you didn’t want to see him hurt while he had hurt you. For days he felt like he had been plagued by that moment, replaying the way you looked at him when you asked him if John B was telling the truth. Kiara told him to give you space and Pope told him to take things slowly but all he wanted was to be with you again, to make everything right.  

“You shouldn’t even want to talk to me right now.” He said, rubbing his hands over his eyes.  

“My propensity for forgiveness might surprise you.” You teased, then shrugged, “I don’t think that you lied to me about...about being in love with me,” you chewed on your bottom lip as you spoke, “I mean, I hope not-”

“I wasn’t.” JJ replied. “If Sarah hadn’t bet me to ask you out, I wouldn’t have, but everything else was real. I know I should’ve told you...I just, didn’t want you to look at me the way you did after John B told you. Everyone else already looks at me that way, I didn’t want you to. I’m so sorry.” It seemed like the only logical thing to say to you.  

The door to the chapel creaked open and JJ slid down to the floor as you stood up, moving down the aisle to keep whoever it was out of the church. Your dad stood there at the entrance, holding the door open with his foot as he caught sight of you. “There you are, your mom sent me out to find you, she said she asked you to turn the lights out here.”

“I was,” you replied, moving closer to him, “I just, stopped for a moment to sit in prayer.” An easy lie, one your parents were always all too willing to believe.  

He nodded, “do you need another moment? Some fellowship?”  

“No, no, I’m okay.” You promised. “I’ll be right there.”

The door swung shut behind him as he stepped back out of the church. You knew he’d be just on the other side of the door, waiting for you to turn off the lights and follow him in for dinner. Knowing the limited amount of time you had, you ran back down the aisle to where JJ was just standing up.  

JJ’s eyes went wide as you grabbed his collar and quickly pulled him into a kiss, “I have dinner with my family, come to my room tonight?”

“Yeah,” he nodded, “yeah okay.”

As you left him you flicked the lights casting him in darkness as he dropped back down onto the bench, a small smile etched on his face. He’d come to the church because he needed to be close to you, especially after his encounter with Luke. But JJ had honestly thought that things between you were irreparable. Knowing they weren’t felt better than he could’ve imagined. Like he was floating above clouds. Stupid to think maybe but he didn’t care.  

-

JJ’s muscles tensed as you traced your fingers beneath a nasty purple bruise that stretched across his stomach to his side. You leaned over him, hovering like a ghost in the stillness, and placed a kiss just over the discolored skin, eliciting goosebumps over his skin.  

He stayed camped out in the chapel until the lights went off in the house and your family left for the night. There were too many smaller units these days to accommodate everyone when they came home to visit but your father was friends with a local motel owner who always gave him a good deal. JJ had tried to stay alert and awake but he’d fallen asleep, getting up later when the lights were off and sneaking across the yard to your window, knocking and hoping that you answered. That you meant it when you said you still believed he loved you.  

Your parents were asleep down the hall from your room and he knew that trying anything would be risky and dangerous but being back in your room again since the last time, since he’d slept with you, it was almost as if a switch went off for both of you. He climbed through the window and was already grabbing at your waist, pulling you into a kiss as you led him to your bed.  

He breathed out apologies and “I love you’s” between kisses, making sure that he took every opportunity to remind you both how sorry he was and how much he had missed being close to you in the few days apart. JJ had tried to tell himself that if you chose to stay with your family, he would be okay and understanding and he would force himself to be but he knew that he was lying to himself, if things ended between the two of you, he wasn’t sure how he would cope. Maybe that was unhealthy but he really didn’t care at all.  

“I was thinking, we could go to Florida,” you said, keeping your voice down as you sat on the bed, JJ’s shirt keeping you warm. He was laying on his back, covers pushed down to his waist, one hand behind his head and the other resting on your thigh.  

“Why Florida?” He asked.  

In all honesty it wasn’t that Florida was anything particularly special it was just that you were trying your hardest to think of anything to say so you didn’t start crying. When you’d seen him in the church earlier you had almost lost it and that was with only his face visible. The bruising on his stomach and sides made you feel ill. “I don’t know, I’ve always wanted to go to South Beach.”  

JJ grinned, hand squeezing your thigh, “you on a topless beach? Yes, please.”

“How about I conquer a two piece before I attempt going topless?” You joked, taking his hand in yours.  

“I don’t know, you look pretty hot...” he said, moving his other hand from behind his head and grabbing the hem of your shirt to pull it up passed your chest. You swatted his hand away, stifling a laugh. The sound of it made him smile though it didn’t quite meet his eyes, that flicker of sadness still there behind them. There was nothing he wanted more than being here with you but he couldn’t shake that gnawing feeling of guilt that settled in.  

“What’s the matter?” You asked, registering the change in his demeanor before he was even fully aware of it himself.  

“Nothing, I-” he sighed, shifting around to sit up in bed, “I should have told you. About the bet, about my dad. I just...I know, under the surface, I’m not the most likable person. I’m loud and I smoke too much and I drink too much and I’m not that smart and I just...really wanted you to like me. So I didn’t say anything. And I know that’s not an excuse-”

“JJ,” you cut him off, “I was mad that you lied and didn’t tell me about the bet but that doesn’t change the way that I feel about you. And it doesn’t change the way I know you feel about me.” It was hard to explain, it had been hard to explain to Kiara when you had shown up crying at her house, but you didn’t think that JJ was lying to you about the whole of your relationship. He said he loved you and you believed him, there wasn’t a single moment that felt unreal to you in that sense, whether he had asked you out because of a bet or not. “You said you only asked me out because of the bet but everything else was real and I believe you.”

“I don’t deserve the benefit of the doubt.”  

“Stop trying to sell yourself short.” You replied, leaning forward to kiss him, “it won’t work.”

Before he could answer you, the floor creaked and the you both looked toward the door as footsteps sounded down the hall. The light by your desk was still on and the footsteps came to a stop outside your bedroom door, a knock sounding, followed by your dad’s voice. “Ace, you awake in there?”  

You pulled JJ’s shirt off, grabbing your nightdress and putting it on as you got off the bed and went over to the door. “Yeah, hold on!” You were thankful that the door opened in, obscuring the twin bed from view. “Sorry, I was having trouble sleeping so I was just up reading some verses.” You lied.  

“Hmm,” your dad nodded, easily convinced, “what were you reading?”

“1st Peter, 4...uh, ‘and above all things have fervent charity among yourselves: for charity shall cover the multitude of sins.’ Just felt like something I really needed tonight.” You replied.  

“That is a good one,” he contemplated, “I told your mom I’ve been a little stuck on the sermon for this coming weekend...it’s a big one, with Timothy’s family visiting and your birthday. But maybe I’ll put some focus on that verse, see if the Lord speaks to me about it.”  

“I’ll pray on it as well,” you promised, twisting the doorknob in your hand as you waited for your father to decide to head back to bed.  

“I’m just grabbing some water, do you need anything?” He asked, looking toward the kitchen.  

“No, I think I’m gonna call it a night,” you replied, stepping forward to give him a hug, “love you, see you in the morning.”

“Love you too Ace,” he said, leaving you and heading to the kitchen.  

You shut the door to your room, blocking out the rest of the world again and nearly jumping when you turned and found JJ standing right there beside you. “My dad could’ve seen you,” you whispered, pushing him away when he tried to wrap his arms around you.  

“He didn’t.” JJ replied, voice low. His hand darted out from his side, grabbing the front of your nightdress before you could get away, using the leverage it gave him to pull you back to the bed. He flicked the light off on your desk lamp on the way to the bed, sitting when the back of his knees hit the mattress.  

“What are you doing?” you asked when he started to pull the nightdress over your head again.  

“Undressing you.”  

“JJ,” you fought a smile, biting your bottom lip, “you need to go...that was way too close.”  

He pouted in the dark, letting your nightdress fall back into place as he laid his hands on your hips. “Can I see you tomorrow?”

“I can walk to Heyward’s in the afternoon?” You offered. “Timothy and his family will be here on Wednesday...”

“When’s the party?” He asked, trying not to let himself dwell on the actual question, were you staying or were you going?  

“Saturday evening...I don’t know what to do.” You admitted. It was leaving home either way but one of those included the possibility of never speaking to your family again.  

“It’s your decision. I love you, either way.” JJ promised.  

-

taglist: @heavenlymama @vindictive-hearts @alexa-playafricabytoto @dontjinx-it @randomficsandshit @niamhobrien @strangerthanfanfiction713 @tovvaa @freckled-and-daydreaming @harleylynn @bibliophilewednesday @dpaccione @bolaurel @poguestyleskye @beautyandthebleh @under-a-canyon-moon @outerbankspreferences @stevie-buck @bijleegiregi @vitaminekabc @minigranger @teamnick @just-smile-darling @obxsummer @damonsalvawhore27 @isqbella @tomzfrog @fangirlvoice @phantompogues @98starkeys @ilovejjmaybank @lemur46 @khiaraaa-in-spacee @babygal-babygal @niya-savage @divvrx @princess-of-the-fandoms @thecaptainsgingersnap @jenjie @yourprincess-maybe @wowmaybankk @goldeng1rl8 @outrbanks @mendesmaybank @thehomeiknow @minnie-bby @katiaw2 @2kayla64 

[fromthedeskofelizabeththird]

Hellfire

This is a prequel to Exercises in Self Control, going into the events leading up to Enji's arrival on Reader-chan's doorstep from his POV.

You don't need to have read Exercises in Self Control to enjoy this fic, but I recommend it!

Fandom: BNHA

Pairing: Endeavor x Reader

Rating: Explicit. Minors BE GONE

Trigger Warnings: Enji is possessive and thirsty in this fic so bear that in mind before continuing. Some of Enji’s fantasies involve dub con

Sequel Piece: Exercises in Self Control

AO3: Here | Want to support me? I have a Kofi

For as long as he can remember, Enji has had problems sleeping. He’s counted the ceiling tiles, counted sheep, counted hours. He’s helped himself to cups of tea, herbal and otherwise. He’s tried meditating, he’s tried ASMR, all to no avail.

It doesn’t strike him as out of the ordinary that he can’t sleep tonight either. He stares at the ceiling, eyes wide open, listening out for the wind in the trees outside. He put chimes in their branches on purpose; something to ground himself every time he closes his eyes.

Tonight he’s grounded by something else; the warm body sharing his bed. He lies flat on his back and doesn’t look, listening to your soft breaths.

Enji is a grown man, now twice married, but this is the first time anyone has shared his bed. In his first marriage, he and Rei slept in separate beds. He visited her only occasionally and never bothered to stay the night, making sure to leave the moment the deed was done. Tonight you’re the intruder and his immediate instinct is to tell you to leave.

He can tell you’re asleep from your steady breathing and he wonders how you got so relaxed. His own children never slept in his arms even as babies but here you are, not just an adult but one he stole away, sleeping so calmly that for a second even he believes you’re an ordinary husband and wife.

You’re not, of course; your first conversation was your wedding vows. You became husband and wife knowing little more than one another’s names.

Against his better judgement, he turns to look at you, admiring what details of your face he can make out through the darkness. He knows you’re beautiful without looking.

Your beauty, in fact, was one of the first things he noticed about you and he remembers that moment with perfect clarity.

Even before Rei’s admittance into a hospital, it had been years since he felt welcome in his own home. It fell silent whenever he returned, his childrens’ laughter dying the moment he was in sight. He had always told himself it didn’t bother him; that they would understand when they were older. Everything he did, however cruel, was for their benefit in the long term.

Touya’s death was the first time he questioned it. Rei’s hospitalisation only drove the point home. For the first time in his life, he saw his house for what it truly was: misery and trauma under several layers of paint.

He couldn’t stand being there for more than a few hours, sitting alone in the dark with nothing to do but think. At first he stayed at the office for longer, taking on extra jobs and filing away paperwork long before it was due. It was a temporary solution and one that backfired spectacularly. He was greeted at work one day by smiling interns, who enthusiastically pointed out the piles of paperwork they had completed in his absence. They told him they’d done it so he could spend more time with his family and didn’t understand why he reacted with anger.

Enji realised then that he needed an alternative hiding place; somewhere no one knew him and he could spend the night alone.

He went from one bar to another, never settling down in one for too long. His reputation was crucial to his career and he didn’t want to risk being recognised.

It was with a great deal of reluctance that he finally arrived at a hostess bar. The owner was well versed in discretion and offered him his own table towards the back, as well as his pick of any of the hostesses. Enji didn’t bother to absorb any of their names or memorise their faces. Instead he asked for the owner himself to tend to him. He had a vested interest in his good graces and was therefore less inclined to gossip.

It became his routine for the next few months. Enji would finish up at the office and head straight for The White Rabbit , simmering in the corner as he sipped his drink. He stayed there until the early hours, returning to the estate once everyone else had already gone to bed and leaving for the office before they woke up.

It seems strange to him now. He used to be a regular, but he hasn’t been since he married you.

He remembers your first encounter far more clearly than you do. As far as you are concerned, your first meeting was in your home, the day he bought you from your father.

You couldn’t be more wrong, of course. He’s known you far longer than that.

Enji spent that much time at the bar that he came to know the regulars. He knew which men were married and booked hostesses to escape their wives. He knew which customers worked long hours in an office cubicle and came to the bar to let loose. He knew which ones were heroes as well and just as incognito as he was.

Among all of these customers was a familiar gaggle of six businessmen who very often dropped in after work. They were boisterous and very often blind drunk, booking multiple hostesses to sing karaoke with them.

One night in particular, you attended their table, carrying over a tray of crimson strawberry daiquiris. Your specialty, he found out later.

The businessmen were louder than usual that night and when Enji glanced over at them, it was with disapproval. He quickly became distracted, though, by something else entirely. You were setting a tray of drinks on their table, laughing and smiling as you tended to each customer.

Perhaps it was the backless dress you had on, showing off smooth, unblemished skin that reminded him of undisturbed snow and still waters. Maybe it was the coquettish way you fluttered your eyelashes as you spoke to them, giggling at their bawdy jokes and expertly dodging any of their attempts to take you by the wrist. Perhaps it was the way you left them hanging.

In any case, the next drink he ordered was a strawberry daiquiri and he relished the tangy sweetness, all while thinking of your lips.

That night, for the first time in many years, Enji fell into a deep slumber and deeper dreams. He dreamed about bending you over his desk, holding one arm behind your back and slamming into you so forcefully that you squealed. Your cunt fluttered every time his hips hit your ass, betraying how many times you had unravelled around his girth.

“Enji,” you whined, “Enji please .”

He slapped you across the ass at that, relishing the way you squealed in shock. He let go of your arm, eying the red marks he had left on your skin.

“It’s what you deserve,” he said in his dream, holding onto your hips and driving his cock in deep, so deep that you cried out and gripped the desk. He came so hard that it painted your insides and left him groaning in pleasure. He held you in place as his cock twitched and filled you with his seed, letting go only to shove his fingers deep into you to stop any drops from escaping.

“Enji,” you said, quivering.

He woke seconds later, pleasure running through him and semen covering his sheets. He cursed and threw himself out of bed, spitting obscenities as he rinsed his body clean.

For a moment, just a moment, he hated you. He was filthy, all because of you and your backless dress and long eyelashes.

You’re sleeping with your back to him tonight and he draws back the covers to admire it. He takes in your naked shoulder blades; the way the moonlight hits the curve of your spine. Not so long ago this view was enough to drive him mad.

The dream left an imprint, after all. He thought about it when he brushed his teeth, patrolled the streets, got into the bathtub at night.

He continued to attend the bar, telling himself it was because he liked the atmosphere and not because he hoped to catch another glimpse of your innocent smile.

He told himself he didn’t want you.

He didn’t want to defile you and fuck you senseless.

He didn’t want to fill your belly with yet more Todorokis.

You were a distraction and one he needed to be free of. He was Endeavor, the flame hero, the world’s number two. He couldn’t afford to fall into such debased habits as the businessmen who had tried to paw you. He was better than that, better than them and certainly better than you.

Every night he sipped strawberry daiquiris and masturbated furiously when he got home, fantasising about you in all manner of scenarios, each filthier than the last. He took photos of you as you worked and scrolled through them when he got home. He filmed you at the bar and watched it over and over, knowing what he was doing was wrong.

Heroes didn’t do this. He should have been protecting you from such terrible invasions of privacy, not enabling himself. Something about you, though, prickled at his skin. Something about the backless dresses you sometimes wore and the careful way you mixed drinks. He knew desire all too well, but never for a person. It was intoxicating; addictive. You were untouched and unspoiled and it drew him to you like a moth to a flame. He wanted to spend the rest of his life as relaxed as when he came all over his fingers, before reality sank back in and he remembered the ghosts lurking in every corner of his home.

One night, desperate to be free of you, he ventured into a nightclub and took a girl into the bathroom, pushing her down onto her knees in front of him and holding her in place to fuck her mouth. She had the same colour hair as you and that was why he chose her, pretending you were the one gagging on his cock. He thought it would help him; that once he got a fix he would stop thinking about you. Ultimately, it only made matters worse. The girl in the bathroom wasn’t you and every time he looked down at her he came crashing down to earth. He wondered what you would think of him if you knew what he had done.

It took him ages to cum that night, holding the girl’s head in place as it shot down her throat. She slumped over when he let her go, choking on semen and wiping her mouth even as he dropped notes down to the floor. Just like when he finished alone, Enji felt disgusted, tucking himself away and leaving the girl without bothering to express his gratitude.

He went to the White Rabbit straight afterwards, paying for you to stay at the bar and ordering his usual daiquiri. He expected to feel different, only to curse his own stupidity for ever thinking the woman in the nightclub could have compared.

He splashed out on bracelets, earrings and more, eager for you to wear them. The thought of them touching your body where he couldn’t made his mouth water, even though you never wore them. The only jewellery you ever wore was a set of plain earrings. Your mother’s, he found out later.

Meanwhile, his dreams only grew more obscene.

He dreamed of rescuing you from villains and insisting you spread your legs in exchange. He dreamed of hiring you as one of his house staff, permitted only to serve him without clothes. He dreamed of sitting you down on your knees before him and covering your face in cum.

He was a man possessed, desperate for any sight of you. The realisation came to him slowly: he didn’t only want to corrupt and break you anymore. He wanted you to desire him as he desired you. Perhaps even more.

He wanted you to want him, wanted you to let him touch you.

Every time he sat down in the bar, he almost managed to convince himself that your circumstances were different; that he truly was the honourable man the world believed him to be. He almost believed that his touches wouldn’t ruin you.

He was desperate and not only to be fucked, though refused to acknowledge it.

He told himself it was no weakness on his part, no dent in his armour. He wasn’t as vile or depraved as the businessmen who tried to paw you on a near daily basis.

He begged the owner of the White Rabbit to let him spend the night with you, begged him to leave the pair of you alone. He was quite convinced that he wouldn’t want you anymore the moment he had you in his arms. He’d find an imperfection on your body that would shatter the illusion.

The owner, being a shrewd businessman, refused him every time.

Enji isn’t proud of how cruel he became in his desperation. It wasn’t hard to break the owner into handing over your name, nor to track you down to your home address. It was all too easy to learn of your father’s gambling problems and difficult financial situation.

He was on your doorstep before he knew it, happy to pay any price to keep you under his roof, unspoiled and protected from harm. He was an honourable man, he told himself. He could keep his hands to himself.

It was what you deserved, after all.

You shiver next to him and he drags the covers back over your body, considering that you are the only person he has ever wanted and the only one to want him in return. He brought you into his home, yes, but you’re the one who sought him out. You’re the one who led him to the bedroom and shed your clothes willingly. He’s almost certainly spoiled your body, but if anything that makes him want you more.

He’s addicted to every inch of you: the feeling of being buried within you, the scent of your hair as he holds you close. You’re the only person he’s ever fucked for pleasure and he hasn’t been able to resist ever since. Even now that you’re asleep, he’s desperate for a fix. He feels starved of oxygen and it’s keeping him awake.

Not long ago, he would have prodded you awake and told you to spread your legs. Now, though, he rolls over onto his side so he no longer faces you, content to listen to your gentle breathing instead.

He curses under his breath as you begin to stir and squeezes his eyes shut, laying perfectly still as you yawn and turn over onto your own side to make yourself comfortable. His skin still prickles when you touch him, especially as you drape an arm around his chest and plant kisses on his shoulder.

“Enji,” you whisper, “are you awake?”

He doesn’t answer and you smile before burying your face in the back of his neck, the combined heat of your bodies lulling both of you to sleep.

He has no need of wind chimes to ground him anymore.

[calpops]

veiled valor | 14 | c.h.

endless edges

series masterlist

Copyright © 2021 calpops. All rights reserved. This original work is not allowed to be reposted on any platform in any format (translations included). 

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Calum stood at the rail of the ship, wood under his palms; the course grain meeting his work rough palms in harmony. Elodie stood still at his side. The clouds were growing grayer by the moment as a storm formed in sky and sea. The waves were already becoming more rough, knocking against the ship without mercy as they gained traction and size. Calum shifted his weight to one foot, fingers curling a bit tighter around the rail as he sized up the storm and ran through preparations in his mind. The princess was silent, eyes contemplative as she watched the swirling sea mimicking the clouds above. Somehow the water mirrored the gray clouds in such a menacing way it sent chills through Calum. He had seen many storms but none had ever put a pit in his stomach quite like this one.

“Will you stay in our cabin?” Calum asked, wanting her to be as safe during the storm as possible. Asking became a necessity; it was a hard lesson to learn that the princess would take no orders even from her captain; storms and attempted mutinies not even able to keep her from wanting to be in the fray.

“I suppose,” she answered quietly. “So long as you’re safe too.”

Calum gave her a grin and took his hands off the rail in favor of settling them on her delicate waist. She pressed into his touch, receptive and unafraid of the crew around them.

“I’ve been through many storms, princess, I’ll be okay,” Calum said and pressed a small kiss of her forehead, reveled in the moment and the feeling before the storm would make them part ways. Calum would stay on deck to oversee the crew and the condition of the ship, keep them on course and ride out the storm to the best of his abilities. “I just need you to keep yourself safe.”

Elodie nodded and turned as clicks against the wood caught her attention. Duke strode forward with his short gait and stuck his nose into the air; sensing the storm and narrowing his eyes. Elodie crouched down to receive the small dog and brought him back up, face buried in his warm fur and a kiss given to his cheek.

“Duke will protect me,” she offered around a smile and hooded eyes. “Until you can come back to the cabin.”

“You won’t come out until I say it’s safe?” He asked, eyeing her suspiciously. The princess was never so easily agreeable when it came to separating, Calum pondered if their two latest run ins with danger had put a distaste for it within the princess.

Elodie nodded her agreement. “I’ll wait for you,” she amended and cut a gaze at the cabin door that stood closed. “Though you should know, if I knew how to swim it would be a different story.”

Calum chuckled at her slightly threatening tone and knew her words were true. The storm would bring dangers she couldn’t fight with a sword, pull a pistol or dagger on; her training was useless when it came to the waves. Calum would have to teach her to swim the next time they docked. She began to sashay away, paused only to give Calum a peck, and headed for the cabin he knew she would lock up as the storm rolled in.

Luke took up beside Calum; a grim look etched across his face and dismay swimming within pools of blue eyes. Calum shifted, gave him a curious look and shot his eyes across the deck. Nothing seemed amiss but for the way his boatswain was acting. The crew was busy around them, prepping for the storm and ensuring the ship would make it through the venture.

“We have trouble coming,” Luke finally said when a moment of calm came and the crew dispersed. “A ship sails behind us.”

Calum’s arms crossed over his chest, his comfortability declining at the news. Not every passing ship was a threat, not every flag that flew in the wind was one to fear, but the look of concern so apparent on Luke’s face was hard to ignore. The boatswain was well traveled and versed in the flags and sails that they encountered. Calum held his breath and let silence answer the questions the new ship’s presence brought about.

“They fly flags of a rival kingdom,” Luke further explained as his eyes skirted to a closed cabin door a princess hid behind. “It’s not a royal vessel but it causes me worry they might try something.”

Common men were notorious for staking out ships and head hunting pirates for a pocketed reward—their lives suddenly worth something to someone else, and only for a trip to the gallows. The concern did not arise from a fear for their own lives but for a woman aboard that might be recognizable and worth more than a petty piece of gold. Calum felt his heartbeat stall and come back to life with a painful force that knocked against his ribs. His fingers curled into his palms and he tried to catch his breath, reminded himself that she would be locked away in her cabin, that the storm might fend off the afflicting ship and a passing in peace might ensue.

“Get Michael up from the galley. I need him as a master gunner once more,” Calum said just in case. Michael would be more useful in his rightful position if it came to a fight than stowed away in the shadows. “Have Ashton prep the crew; if they try to take us we won’t be going in unprepared. I want you to guard her door.”

“With my life,” Luke promised as his hand found the hilt of his sword at his side.

Calum remembered a fight in which Elodie was clueless but writhed with anger for being kept locked in the dark. He had to tell her and he had to do it before the ship made to pass. He strode to her quickly, rapped his knuckles against the wood three times in a rhythm she knew to be his—a secret communication of identification. The locked clicked and the door opened slowly, confusion written all over Elodie’s face in the way her eyebrows furrowed and her lips pursed.

“The storm?”

“We have new troubles,” Calum said before she could further ask of his appearance. “A ship trails us. Flags with a kingdom that knows you. Please, please, stay in the cabin. I’ll have Luke at your door. Don’t come out for anyone but me.”

“They don’t know I’m aboard,” Elodie said quietly as she peered past Calum as if to try and find the mysterious ship through the fog.

“And I’d like to keep it that way,” Calum added on to her thought. “They might pass peacefully. They might try a raid. Either way, you should stay out of sight.”

“I understand,” she said and Calum could hear and feel the fear in her voice—it was palpable. Everything she had run away from was catching up to her in the face and flags of a foe. “I won’t do anything stupid.” Her hands settled at her waist and a bitten lip etched worry across her face.

“Don’t worry princess, I won’t let any harm come to you,” Calum said though the words were thick and his gaze trained down to her healing arm. He’d made promises in the same faith before, broken them with smoky accidents and an inability to be what she needed.

Elodie nodded and her trust in Calum renewed a vigor to ensure his promise was kept this time. Luke would guard her door and Calum would keep the lines of fight as far away as possible—if it came to that. She stepped out of her room, just enough to put herself against Calum once more, a silent hold between the captain and his lady ensuing. She felt much smaller in his arms than usual, the face of danger looming on the horizon making her more delicate, more prone to being harmed and broken. A clamor of noise on deck made them pull apart; fear of what could be happening  already had the door shutting between them and Calum stalking off to take up position at the wheel.

With spyglass in hand and poised at his eye Calum saw his first glimpse of the ship emerging from a formed fog. The flags blowing in the wind sent chills up his spine, the gray and red reminding Calum of scars and blood. Of lines that cut through skin and showered life onto wooden beams. Wind swept through the ship and the first of rain fell onto Calum’s forehead, waves began building a pit of anxiety that told Calum a fight would ensue formed low in his stomach. The ship behind was gaining speed, making so as to come upon them. His own vessel couldn’t compete in speed but its size and artillery might withstand a chance. He had men who had freedom to lose and that meant they had everything worth fighting for. Calum’s everything stayed behind a locked door. His hand found his pistol, an order to ready cannons fell from his lips and to the crew around him.

It came as no surprise when the ship caught up to them and men swung to deck on ropes that seemingly fell from the sky; appearing out of thin air much like clouds caught in a drift. Calum’s cannons ripped through the hull of the enemy ship, splintered wood crackling in the dull air against the war cries of men who plotted to commandeer the ship under Calum’s feet. He knew their game, lest their own ship be destroyed they would take over the other and force the crew to surrender or into the sea. Bringing back a pirate or two was nothing in comparison to a ship of this caliber; to a stolen Captain’s glory and livelihood. The rain was coming down harder and faster, soaking the deck as every step was slick and unbalanced. Men fought mercilessly, the clanging of metal against metal, of pistols firing in harmony and cannons colliding and ripping through wood sent out pleas to the heavens above and gods below.

Calum cut the wheel, hoping to offset balance and start to veer away from the men still slinging from ropes or diving and rolling onto the deck. He saw a few bodies fall into the waves below and a satisfied smirk placed itself upon Calum’s face. His own crew had his back but chills still danced along his spine in menacing ways, crawling around and making Calum tremble against his white knuckle hold. He chanced a look back, over to the door that Luke promised to guard with his life. It remained closed but his boatswain was nowhere to be found and the windows were shattered, glass dancing on the wooden floor. Ashton quickly cut past Calum’s line of vision, sparring swords against a man in fine clothing that was being hacked away at. His vest was torn across his chest, a line of red followed a cut around his arm. Ashton was clearly leading the fight and winning, his foe suddenly knocked back to the beams below after fumbling feet failed him. Calum had no more time to watch, the feeling of someone approaching from the side had him turning, discarding spyglass for sword, the tool for vision rolling along the notches in the floor.

Calum’s breath was torn away from him as he dodged a swipe of a sharpened blade that dripped with someone else’s blood though rain still pelted the deck. It was fresh. He stood back up, charged with full force and let a blow land against his attacker. The rock of the boat swayed him forward, the hilt of the sword buried against the man’s rib cage, a small moan his last word as he fell to his knees and Calum withdrew his sword. The fight around him was a blur as he pivoted, once more glancing toward the only thing that mattered. Her door was still shut and Luke was still nowhere to be found. A new group of men swarmed the cabin, locked doors always hiding treasure. The wood was nothing against the force of five and blades that hacked it away and off its hinges in mere moments. Calum abandoned his perch at the wheel, ran headlong into the men that endangered all he was protecting.

He vaguely heard Ashton call behind him; his second in command undoubtedly having won his own duel and joining Calum for a fight worth more than anything else on the ship. Except the men were stopped short in the abandoned cabin, now backed into walls as Calum and Ashton and Michael and a few other men took up arms against them. It quickly became apparent the enemy ship was outnumbered by pirates. The fight didn’t last much longer but the abandoned cabin and no sign of a princess or boatswain worried at Calum as the last of the men fell. The captain cut worried looks at Michael and Ashton. The ship was riddled with bodies and blood, Calum’s crew was high on victory and soon enough they would be drunk on it too; rum sure to be passed around for the stocks in the galley. Calum had no reason to celebrate in the face of a missing princess. She had promised not to leave for anyone but him. His boatswain had sworn his life to protect her.

“Cap’n?” Michael’s voice cut through the haze of anxiety that swept over Calum and dared to try and drown him. “We have a hostage.”

“Find her,” was the only command he could manage to withdraw from his lips as his eyes swept the ship aside them that was slowly sinking among it being engulfed in flames. Words of a hostage were completely lost on Calum. No one else mattered.

He didn’t know how the fire started, much of the fight passed by him in a worried blur. Michael needed no further instruction from the captain, he pulled Ashton into the search and swept the deck and down below. Calum was called down to the galley where a broken and splintered door led down soaked steps.

“Elodie?” He heard himself asking as he ducked down and only tendrils of muted light from above lit his way. Michael had proposed the idea of the galley as he saw the door was broken and open. Hope infiltrated Calum’s chest as he stepped forward, past the makeshift dining tables and barrels as seats.

“Calum?” Elodie. Her voice was small and buried, a tip of a boot stuck out from behind a barrage of barrels stacked on the back wall. Luke.

“It’s safe now,” he made himself say though there was still an unsettled feeling harbored within his chest.

Luke was the first to move from around the barrels, he wore a sorry expression but he stood tall and sure. Duke padded out next, seemingly unbothered by the commotion that had ensued and Calum knew he had rested within Elodie’s arms. The princess was slower to come, eyes in disbelief and a moment of pause stalling her as she stood upright, gaze sweeping Calum up and down, likely taking him in for injuries. When she saw he was well she made for him and he made for her, met in the middle and melted into each other’s safe embraces.

“You promised to stay in the cabin,” Calum said gently though he had no fault in his tone. She had evaded the fight and stayed safe and that was all that truly mattered. He pulled away from her just enough to look into golden eyes and see her honesty.

“The rain and wind shattered the windows. I convinced Luke to take me here before the fighting truly began. Besides, what man raids a kitchen before that of a captain’s quarters?” She asked and made Calum blow out a breath of relief at her smart thinking and overall safety.

She was right, the men had attacked his quarters without thinking. Whereas the only thing that had been touched was the galley door and the weather and fight on deck may have been responsible for that. He could have kicked himself for his narrow minded and unthought out plan. But it had all worked out and Elodie was unharmed. He pulled her back into him and Luke excused himself; knowing the moment was private, though the small dog kept to Elodie’s side and settled at her feet. Silence befell them and Calum savored it for the day had been wrought with the firing of cannons and pistols, of war cries and last words. She pressed against him, cheek resting against his chest and arms wound around his middle. He held her close, hands softly stroking through her hair and breaths finally coming much easier. The crew was alive above them and Calum knew their time alone would be short lived if they stayed in the galley; all the rum and liquors stocked around them.

“We’ll have the windows fixed next time we dock,” Calum murmured and hoped the sea would treat them well the next week or so until they could find somewhere to find new glass. “If another ship passes this will be the safest place for you.”

Elodie nodded her agreement and thanked Calum for sending Luke to guard her. She admitted her fear at the sounds of a fight much bigger than an attempted mutiny. Calum sighed, pushed a tendril of hair behind her ear and cupped her face.

“I feared more for you,” she said and a faint blush danced from cheek to nose to cheek again, heating the tips of Calum’s fingers unabashedly. “I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

Calum stiffened at the admission and thought through the realities that easily could have been. What would she have done if the sword had gone through him instead of his foe?

“You’d command the ship to go wherever you wanted. You’d find somewhere safe. Michael, Ashton and Luke would make sure it happened.”

Elodie looked down, golden eyes lost to the floorboards and the dog below. Calum could tell it was a reality she didn’t want to consider. But Calum would rather be lost in a fight than she; she could find somewhere the world didn’t know her, could find a safe haven among an island with a small but loyal crew to guide her. Calum would always have an identifier burned into his skin and chasing his steps and ship with every motion.

“Captain?” It was Ashton’s voice that broke through the dismay at thoughts neither truly wanted to entertain. He stood at the top of the galley steps, uncertainly peering down at his superior and his lady. “What should we do about the hostage?”

“Hostage?” Calum and Elodie both questioned at the same time, voices blending together in equal parts surprise and terror.

Calum turned, vaguely recalling Michael’s words on deck but they had been drowned out by the worries of his missing princess. Calum cleared his throat and approached, begged Elodie to follow with a motion of his hand and put one foot up on the bottom step. His second in command was a little worse for wear after a battle but victory gleamed in hazel eyes and the tears in his clothing and the few scratches along his skin could be mended.

“He begged for mercy and Michael allowed it. He’s not much more than a boy. He’s in the brig.”

“See that he has food and water and if he’s injured any wounds are tended to. We’ll drop him next time we dock,” Calum decided.

It was a risk, a man from a kingdom that opposed Elodie’s—whether young or old—posed a threat. Calum had no intention of harming the boy, he could stay in the brig and keep his eyes off the princess, and they’d be rid of him as soon as they could. Elodie’s hand found its way to Calum’s shoulder and called his attention to her.

“Might he be good for questioning?” She wondered. “Even a boy has useful information. Was the raid just a raid or was it for something else?” Someone else.

“I’ll question him myself. I want no one else speaking to him,” Calum began and let his eyes settle on his second in command. “Make that an order.”

Loose lips could travel word from crewman to boy, from boy to land and kingdoms beyond. Calum was still wary about many who sailed his ship and didn’t want any cracks in the precarious foundation to slip through. Ashton nodded his understanding and took off to spread word of the captive and the captain’s command. Calum turned to Elodie and excused himself with one last kiss to her forehead and a promise to meet her in their cabin shortly. She spun to head back toward the kitchen where a victory feast would be prepared; mostly rum and whatever could be prepared quickly. Calum stalked off and set pace for the prisoner they now kept.

The brig was always a grim place and scarcely used in Calum’s time as captain. He remembered times as a lowly crewman and all those who went and never returned from the holding. Calum vowed he would never let a man’s life end within the dark keep. Ashton was right, eyes of not much more than a boy—somewhere between sixteen and eighteen—stared back at Calum sullenly. Desperately. His clothes were modest and covered in filth, blood spattered and worn to the threads coming undone. A mop of shaggy hair was worn in tangles and pale skin was kissed with a red burn on full cheeks and round nose. He was still a child.

“Please,” he begged before he even knew of the captain’s intentions. “Please let me go. I didn’t mean no harm, was just followin’ orders.”

Calum sympathized with the boy; he had done the same and it had earned him a brand and title for life.

“What’s your name?” Calum questioned, stepping forward to where bars withheld the boy who was dropped to his knees.

“Theo,” he replied though the name was uncertain and shaken. “We was just tryin’ to escape a war. That king’s gone mad and me own king took up arms for his cause, we want nothin’ to do with it.”

Theo spilled news like a thrashing current of a river. It was unbridled honesty and piqued Calum’s interest and sped up the beat of his heart. Elodie’s rival kingdom had joined forces with a maddened king, which king and the cause unbeknownst. Calum slipped into silence, knowing it was a query for more information, eyes never flickering from the boy nervously gripping the bars of his cell.

“That king, he's out for vengeance, he be wanting that princess he was promised. My kingdom—we’re small and poor and been mad at theirs for years, swearin’ they stole our riches—but we have lots of men and was promised rewards if we took up the fight. The king is convinced they be holding her from him. We was supposed to ship out to help invade their island and siege their castle. We don’t want nothin’ to do with that. I reckon they was gonna trade yous over for gold and supplies to keep fleeing. That’s all.”  

Calum’s heart plummeted at the words of war and reasons for fleeing. The princess was just up some steps, down the deck and tucked into a cabin. News of war and the reasons why would land hard on her shoulders. They had sailed so far away from her homeland that looping back came as a casualty. Her rivals and enemies shared the same water. Though it was good cause to know they believed she was on the ground, behind castle walls with an army of her own people and kingdom. Instead, she stayed behind wooded walls with the sea under her and nothing but a band of pirates to protect her.

“Please,” Theo said once more, his voice tight and eyes begging. “I’m not no danger I swear it. Let me go.”

“You’ll stay here until we next dock. You’ll stay unharmed and well fed. As soon as we weigh anchor my second in command will row you out and you’ll part ways.”

Theo let out a loud breath of relief, his grip tightening on the bars and shaking as he thanked the captain with all of the life inside of him; for the life he feared he would lose. Calum simply nodded, being thanked for a simple human decision left him uncomfortable, sparing the boy’s life was an easy call. He left Theo with the promises he’d have dinner delivered to his cell—Luke would run his meals from this point forth—and stalked back up the stairs and away from the creeping feeling of claustrophobia the brig instilled in him. He had done his own time in a cell, held without a trial and without question. Calum never made it a habit to visit the damp and dark quarters. He was met with a surprise on the top step.

Glistening golden eyes and trembling petaled lips told that Elodie overheard it all. She sighed, hands occupying themselves with tugging at her skirt as an old nervous habit fluttered back to life. Calum reached out for her but she flinched away from the touch and stepped back from him; allowing him up the last step. A night at an inn with whispered secrets of broken betrothals and fear of a life married to a cold king came rushing back to Calum. Guilt wrote itself clearly in Elodie’s eyes, in the way they couldn’t meet Calum’s for more than a moment.

“War?” She asked and Calum nodded, knowing she needed to know and have the knowledge solidified.

“Men like that, they never win,” Calum said in an attempt to soothe the fears that plagued her. “His cause is unjust and only fools would take up arms for him.”

“Men like him have been put on pedestals their entire lives; they are always so fragile. It takes one knock of their ego to get them to fall and shatter. They will do anything to feel like they are back at the top,” she responded, suddenly despondent and far away as she began moving toward the rail to watch the waves below. “There are many men like him, many who would fight such folly in an attempt to feel powerful. Even if it’s not their own power they’re fighting for.”

Calum came up behind her, suddenly hesitant to put his arms around her. So many times before they had stood at the rail with her back pressed to his chest or his hands on her waist holding her safe and secure. There were no promises of safety through a war. Whether she was there to witness it or not. She settled into silence and gripped at the rail as she contemplated the news that befell her. She turned to look at Calum as night began crawling into the sky. Stars were dull and the moon was barely there through the fog that still rolled off the waves and to the sky above.

“Might I retire early tonight? The food is nearly prepared,” she asked and peered over at the cabin with shattered windows and a broken door.

“We’ll commandeer Ashton’s cabin until ours is fixed,” Calum agreed and instructed as the reality of an unprotected princess wavered before him.

She always locked the door and for the door to be locked it needed to be in one piece. Ashton’s cabin stood untouched. It was smaller than theirs but safer and the second in command would understand; grab a hammock with the rest of the crew or swap with the captain, he had no fears of shattered windows or a broken door. Elodie excused herself, took off for Ashton’s cabin and Calum set off to inform of the changes though it didn’t need much explanation as Ashton was already one to suggest the change so the lady might be afforded some more comfort and privacy. Calum found his way back to Elodie once the crew was settled and the high of a victory started to deplete. Elodie was already in bed, Duke curled into her side and eyes closed though Calum knew she wasn’t yet asleep. The door shut with a soft thud and click of the lock, Golden eyes fluttered open and a shifted position welcomed Calum.

They stayed close all night, no space between them in the smaller bed. Calum reveled in the sound of her heart beating beside him, in the even breaths that escaped her and calm of a storm come and gone. When morning came with light spilling through the solitary window Calum took in the image of her. She was tired and restless as she greeted him.

“Good morning, captain.”

“Good morning, princess,” he responded in kind and ran a soft hand down her bare arm.

“Where are we headed?” Elodie asked, voice still weak from the morning.

“Wherever you want,” Calum said and had an inkling that weighed heavy on his heart of where that might be.

“I think I need to go back,” she replied, voice filled with sorrows and a longing for things to be different. Calum could see the weight of responsibility for a war weighing her down so heavily. “Then someday, if the war is won, I might be able to go home.”

Calum knew home meant his ship, or a small house in the secluded woods—anywhere so long as it was with him. He nodded. Endless edges of their journey were still being forged; Calum could only hope fate would be so kind as to keep them together, or at the very least, let them find their ways back to each other.

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[mor-beck-more-problems]

Death Rings Twice || Morgan and Eilidh

TIMING: Current

PARTIES: @braindeacl @mor-beck-more-problems

SUMMARY: While searching for answers, Morgan and Eilidh realize the situation is worse than they realized.

CONTAINS: conversations with dead people

They came and went in waves. The first time, only the first time, Eilidh believed them to be just a part of being a ghost. James had done so many times—go in and out of view like the watts on a bulb. But those changes had been consensual, come upon by his own will, and he never truly left. Not like she had, and did, and still do. Moments of nothingness. Blink and she was gone, truly and ultimately gone. Blink and she was back, not even left with a memory. Just a faint recollection, a faint feeling of a blank. Like trying to recall a blackout. You knew it was there, you felt it too—pages torn from a book. But you also didn’t, couldn’t, for nothingness was all that remained. Nothingness that seemed to be her destination. Those blinks got longer, longer, longer. With no sign of slowing.

Eilidh knew Morgan was facing her own bouts of strangeness. Maybe they were connected. Morgan believed them to be—magic set loose like a wildfire, with them in its path. Consumed in its flames, would it burn them all the way to the ground? Or would they come out the other side, for the better? This curiosity, and a gnawing worry, compelled her forward, right into Morgan’s residence. She ventured through those great and winding halls, as if she already haunted the place. She ought to haunt at least one. Before it became too late. Passing by an open door, that familiar face was finally seen. Eilidh stopped, stared. Felt that nothingness threatening to claim her again. Visage flickered—like a light on its dying breath. But the feeling passed, leaving her there, shining on. The motion, or her very presence, must’ve caused a stir. The two women met each other’s eyes.

“Boo.”

Morgan just needed to find the right book. Zombies had been around for ages and so even if whatever was happening to her was obviously very rare, it must have happened to someone else before. And that someone must have wanted to write it down. Because magic directly affecting a zombie body at all was worth writing about; doing so in this cruel, backwards way defied everything she understood about magic and living matter. So, Morgan sat on the floor in the library, swimming through a large haul from the scriberary, searching. When Macleod appeared behind the volume she was holding, calling boo, Morgan yelped with surprise.

“Oh! Stars! That was--” she laughed uneasily. “That was something alright.” She sat back and looked at the other woman. She had believed everything Macleod had told her but seeing her friend, so wild and earthbound, so connected to her flesh, floating and transparent was uncanny in a way her mind struggled to process. “I wish I had good news on the funky magic boogaloo front, but there’s just lots of dead ends so far. But that can wait. Are you...okay? At least, relative to our situation?

Good-hearted chuckle lept out of Eilidh—breaking the illusion of the spooky ghost in the corner. She closed the distance between the two, eyes curiously scanning the cover and pages of the book nestled in Morgan’s lap. More were strewn across the room, circling Morgan in a protective barrier, or perhaps a tomb—either for future study or determined unsuited. Where one group ended and the other began, she wasn’t sure. Mouth parted to offer assistance, her hands and mind well-versed to such a skill, but the words quickly died just as her flesh had. Wouldn’t be much use when turning a page was a difficult endeavor. She had learned that fact rather quickly.

When attentions were placed on her, Eilidh perked. “Aye. Convinced this guy his cereal was sentient. And some lady she could control plants.” Snort of delight shot out her nose as their faces returned to memory. But as the chuckles faded, so too did this delight. That lingering worry remained. A hand brushed her lips, seemingly in thought. “Also…” In absence of external stimuli, she bit on a knuckle. But where a prick of sensation, a prick of life, would usually awaken her hand, only a mere acknowledgement greeted her. Fucking hell, how has James not gone mad by now? A low growl rumbled, and at least it felt nice in her chest. Familiar. “Been going in and out. Kinda like blinking. If you did that with a soul. James says it isn’t normal. And they’re getting longer.” Another knuckle met her teeth; that same hollow impact replayed. “Guess it’s soon time.” Her eyes scanned Morgan, transferring the focus back to the other woman. Wandering gaze found the darkness under her friend’s eyes. “What ‘bout you?”

For what seemed like a long time, Morgan could only stare at her friend. Or rather, through her friend. She could see every title on the shelf behind her if she concentrated enough, because Macleod, despite speaking and smiling and grinning and mischief-ing as much as she had ever done, was incorporeal and transparent. Like a ghost. A baby undead ghost. Which wasn’t supposed to exist. “..Blinking? What? Uh, that sounds bad. And weird. I’ve never heard of ghosts doing that before. They cross over, and they have some kind of teleportation thing, but they don’t play peek-a-boo with a whole plane of existence. That’s…” Another very strange, logic defying twist of magic.

Morgan cleared her head and tried to answer Macleod’s questions. “I woke up at the beginning of the week able to feel again. All my physical senses that went dull were back. It took some adjusting, but I think it was more or less how they were when I was alive. But then my body started decaying even when I was full, or more than full, and healing was fading and now it’s basically gone! So I’m basically rotting away for no discernable reason, and I get to be super physically aware of all of it. Also, I smell, so maybe it’s a good thing you don’t have any senses right now. When did your stuff start? I mean, none of this should be happening at all, because the undead are immune to spellcasting magic that engages with our body’s energy, as far as I can tell, and we’re immune to most drugs and toxins, and I haven’t found anyone else in town being effected like this, so it’s not the big cosmic town bullshit--but if we can get a timeline, maybe that will tell us...something.” She sighed and closed the book in her lap, staring off into anywhere but Macleod’s face. The whole world was slipping through their fingers, just when she’d thought it really did want them after all.

Curt laugh escaped Eilidh. “Yeah. You’re telling me.” Just her luck to be subjected to the worst game of peek-a-boo in existence. Maybe her soul truly did want to pass over, but this supposed magic was keeping her here? Maybe the universe was trying to remedy the fact she shouldn’t have remained—at least not in this form—but the magic tried to go against the very will of the cosmos? Thoughts followed that tangent until it caused a dizziness. Bah, there’s too many maybes and what-ifs. She snapped a finger, sharp noise bringing her back to the present. Mind focused on Morgan’s words, her own story. As such a tale unfolded, her face fell, allowing that worry bubbling inside to find itself in her eyes, her parted mouth. Just as quickly, her eyes tightened, mouth closed, jaws tightened. Resolve overcame the worry, gave her goal new fire. “Aye. That is real bad.” Especially when it started so promising—the worst kind. “Best we hop to it prompto, then. Know anything I can look over? Double-check? Triple-check?” The ways of magic, the ways others shifted the energies of the world to their will, was not a strong subject of hers. But perhaps there were other pieces of the puzzle her ever inquisitive eyes could find. She needed that hunt, after all. Needed something to do—when all things physical brought boredom at best, her mind frequently rushed into restlessness.

Eilidh recalled the start of this plight. “I died beginning of this week.” The same as Morgan’s own unfortunes; a fact that did not escape her. “Or alchemied this way. Or some other magic.” At this point, she wasn’t sure which was true. Death was more reasonable to her. Familiarity always felt more reasonable, and she was very familiar with death. But Morgan seemed convinced its cause was magically induced and, well, she was the expert in that regard. Not Eilidh. “Blinked out the first time a few days later. Didn’t think too much of it. ‘Til a few more days later when it kept happening.” How much longer would this affliction let her speak with Morgan? Would it rip her away mid-sentence, as it had with Milo? Sharp snap of fingers returned. Temptation to bite the nagging thoughts away surfaced—to subject another knuckle to her teeth. But the snap sufficed. For now.

Morgan sat back, thinking. The town had already been shifted in the cosmos by the time she and Macleod were affected. And no one else she spoke to, dead or undead, was feeling anything strange in their body. So why them? And how? It didn’t seem right that the universe should literally change its rules just to be cruel to them. And if an alchemy break-through was responsible for Macleod, it didn’t explain her progressive deterioration. She would have to be confined to a circle in order for that to be the case, and the energy required to continually re-write her body would be outrageous.

She looked over at Macleod, aching to give her an answer. “I only have a few general compendiums on the stuff, but maybe there’s some kind of sickness, or some kind of critter that can affect people like us. Like, bookwyrms and brain biters mess with people’s brains, and there’s plenty of necrophages out there maybe…” Some magic, universe defying critter happened to chomp on both of them without their noticing on the exact same night? Morgan could hardly stand to hope for the idea, it sounded ridiculous enough in her head. But she had to try. If she stopped trying, this thing would take her. “Maybe there’s one that can explain this. Weird abilities that make people incorporeal or mess with their magic composition. Um, it’s those thick ones back there--” She pointed. “Or you could check out the area, see if anything unusual is sniffing around. Every critter’s gotta eat and sleep somewhere.” She smiled feebly. “We’ll figure this out before it’s too late. We’ve got too much to live for, right?”

“Critters!” The word shot out like a bullet. That was more Eilidh’s forte. A hand returned thoughtfully to her lips, though a bite did not come. Her mind was moving far too fast to focus on anything physical. Feet began to pace without her knowledge, beating against the air as if they contributed to her movements anymore. “Those bees cause hallucinations…” What were they called again? Those dick-hive bees. She had still yet to encounter them personally—such a treat will have to wait when she finally visits… that woman. Knowledge was acquired specifically for said venture, so she really should remember… “Eintykara.” But as research came tumbling back into her mind, so did an issue. “No. Cold.” Such weathers would cause them to grow sluggish—springing into action now would make no sense. “Hm. Caballi?” Her encounter with one had been very brief, but James’ was much more intimate. And she had certainly heard stories that mimicked their own. Of ghosts being attacked by them. Or more accurately, being fed upon by them. Could be the cause of their deterioration, those astral feedings. Perhaps they can affect zombies too? “But never saw…” They weren’t exactly invisible, to people like them. But much of them was left unknown, on this world at least. Could be a special sort?

More ideas flowed into Eilidh’s mind. And just easily flowed back out—conflictions and contradictions found in every sort. Though the universe was vast and wide and full of exceptions. Hardly anything could be said with certainty. And hardly everything was stored in her mind—that vastness refusing to be contained in just one thing. Or even in one world; creatures not found in any book had laid just beyond those cracks in the air. One, or two, or more could’ve slipped through. “You could be onto something.” Her feet stilled, and it was only then she realized she had been on the move at all. But they already missed that constant motion. Focus turned to the mentioned books, causing a chuckle to stir. “Would. But these guys do whatever the hell they want.” She wiggled her fingers and they blended and meddled together, like waves crashing into each other. “I’ll look ‘round. You focus on the books. We’ll see this through.” There was an attempt to turn and leave, but something held her there just a moment longer. Those hints of decay sprinkled on Morgan’s form—some grown worse over the course of their conversation. “Think you’ll manage?” The question spanning far beyond just Morgan’s research capability.

With the way Macleod lit up at the suggestion, Morgan could actually start to believe they were onto something. The world was full of strange things and there was so much they didn’t know. Of course if it wasn’t someone it had to be something. Maybe even a creature from another dimension. Some of the critters in those portals had probably gotten stuck on this side when Adam closed them, too, and maybe that was why they couldn’t understand the rules this infection worked on.

Morgan met Macleod’s eyes bravely. They were looking for a needle in a haystack. It might take weeks to comb through all of White Crest and identify the exact creatures they were looking for, especially if they turned out to be beyond sapient record on this world. But they would figure it out, wouldn’t they?

Somewhere beyond them, bewildered geese flapped their way to the sky and called to each other for safety, snow crunched under tired feet, a wind blew through the hollow tunnels of the world. Morgan took it all in, staring through the frosted windows. This was a world that buried its secrets better than its dead, but it was also one where life persisted in the most bitter cold. If anyone was proof of that, surely it was her and Macleod. And Morgan had a future to get to; Macleod probably did too, and if she didn’t, she deserved to stick around long enough to come up with one. So she had to be okay. There wasn’t room in this scenario for her not to be.

Morgan summoned her best smile and hoped with all she had that Macleod believed it and let some of the warmth rub off on her. “I’ve got this. And so do you. Death cut us a break once, right? Twice should be just as easy.”

That smile filled the air, found its way on Eilidh’s face, lifting her spirits in turn. Hell yeah. They had this. That implication hung in the air, threatened to bring it all back down. The one where she died. This soul she carried certainly had—will again. And technically death had touched her a few days prior. But the implication ran deeper than that, tied her to an assumption she kept getting chained to. But she did not let that weight touch her; only a twitch of a brow, a tighten of lips, betrayed these thoughts. Resolve kept her steady—kept them both just the same. Fate may try to give them a losing hand, but she’ll keep playing until a full house. And if not, well, seems she’s had her time then. Her soul will enjoy more, if these pesky blinks didn’t consume her in totality. For fate was hungry this week—eating away at her very soul, at Morgan’s very flesh. Was it feeding on others? How far did this hunger spread? She had no mind, no time to worry about passerbyers on the street. Those teeth readied to pierce again, steal more of them away. But she’ll try her hand at dentistry and rip them out before all was taken. “Good to hear! Let’s give this a–”

She vanished.

[kyberphilosopher]

����𝐤𝐫𝐚𝐬𝐢𝐚

The both of them were searching for someone whose demons would mirror their own.

Word Count: 5489

a·kra·sia/əˈkrāZH(ē)ə/ noun

“akrasia: the state of mind in which someone acts against their better judgment through weakness of will.”

Obi-Wan Kenobi had always been far too versed in the light side of the force for your taste. It was annoying, to say the least. The way the Jedi walked around like they’re better than everybody else, and then denying it. The narrow minded point of view. The ridiculous robes. It was all very exhausting to deal with. 

The Jedi Order had no recollection of you. There was nothing to suggest you had ever been a part of them, or even ever fallen under the power of the Republic. Therefor, nobody knew where you came from. 

Anakin and Master Kenobi simply encountered you one day as a General for the Separatist forces. You were also a Sith of some kind- they weren’t sure on the details. The very first fight ended with you nearly killing Anakin, Obi-Wan having to bandage his knee, and you receiving a scar from your left collarbone to your shoulder. Another time, you and Kenobi went head to head. You would’ve killed him, had Anakin not intervened. 

So, Anakin didn’t like you very much. Fine with you. 

The real prize was Obi-Wan. 

As stated above, Kenobi was far too attached to the light for your liking. As far as you could tell, the man wasn’t tempted by the darkness in the slightest. This fact baffled you. You had seen what Kenobi’s life would be like if he became a Sith. He would’ve been far powerful than many of his fellow Jedi. You would've even been willing to venture that his skills would come close to your own! But, the man was inexplicably, irrationally, and annoyingly selfless. 

Similarly, Obi-Wan had taken note of your own fatuous traits. 

Obi-Wan, through all his goodness, had never thought you to be selfish. There were times where he saw you make selfish decisions, or act selfishly- but you were not selfish by nature. Obi-Wan knew, somewhere deep down, that you felt guilt at your bad deeds. Unfortunately, that distant guilt was not enough to stop you from being ruthless and cunning in battle. And for that, Obi-Wan felt that he had somehow failed you, even though he didn’t know anything about your previous life. 

So, if Obi-Wan had to describe you, it could be summed up in a few words. Lethal. Intelligent. Devious. Unnerving. Powerful. Dealing with you was something that Obi-Wan never looked forward to, unlike Anakin, who was secretly rooting for it.

 However, despite all your flaws, Kenobi shared something incredibly disturbing with you.

You were the one that had started it. The night of your first encounter, you couldn’t stop thinking about the man. He was just so... good. The way he fought used the third form of lightsaber combat- the one that focused more on defense than offense. So he wasn’t aiming to kill you, and he probably never would be. Baffling. You could sense that he wasn’t excessively good with the use of the force, but well enough. Kenobi was in no way attracted to power or stepping on others. This, in it’s entirety, is what made you decide to try a bit of psychological warfare. 

You appeared to him in the night. Projecting yourself across the galaxy, across the moon and the stars, you let him see you. He couldn’t see where you were or where you were going to be, only you. Dressed in black robes and your hair tied back casually, you wore the little scratch Kenobi had given your cheek with pride. 

While you were proud of this feat, Kenobi was caught off guard. He had just finished a conversation with Anakin about the young man was seriously skirting the line with the council, ending in Anakin walking away with thin lips. Obi-Wan sighed, glancing at the ground and leaning against the wall in deep thought. 

He couldn’t explain what happened next. One blink, and it was the other half of the archive room. The walls glowed blue with technology and magic. The floor was a clean and sterile white. But then, it wasn’t. It wasn’t even really the archive room anymore. In the next blink, Kenobi was looking at the other half of a gray, blockish room. It reminded him very much of a Venator, especially with the giant window that gave a view of the trillions of stars against the ink black heavens. 

And, of course, you were there in the middle. 

Obi-Wan perked up in shock. His blue eyes widened, his shoulder coming off the wall as his lips parted. You stayed still, your hands clasped behind your back as a smirk danced across the corners of your mouth. 

“Hello, my dear Obi-Wan,” you greeted slyly. “What’s the matter? Did you miss me already?”

Obi-Wan took only a second to understand the situation. He wasn’t sure how you were doing this, or a certainty as to why. Still, he was a smart man, and he saw that if this was how the night would go, then so be it. 

“Oh, of course,” he answered with equal tone. His own lips were curling up into a smile, the way they did when Ventress tried to pull dialogue like this with him. The only difference was that he truly preferred you doing this instead of her. “I was beginning to wonder if you’d forgotten about me.”

“How could I forget the man with such a clean technique?” you quipped back. Your right hand raised up to gesture at the dark red injury on your face. 

Obi-Wan raised an eyebrow smugly. The retort he had thought of was not even a true one, but he knew how this banter would go. “I suppose any technique would appear clean to you, Y/N.”

Yes. There it was. That little twitch in your lips that revealed the Jedi had struck a nerve. “Oh, and here I was believing Ventress when she told me you were a gentleman.”

“Did she? Why don’t you tell me where she’s going to be next so I can talk to her about it myself?”

“Does it matter?” you questioned. Step one of throwing him off was complete. Now it was time for step two- sowing doubts. “You’ve already lost the war. You’re going to lose the battle, too.”

“That’s bold talk from you,” Obi-Wan challenged. 

“I’d call it truthful gossip,” you mused. “And in case you’d forgotten, I almost killed your precious padawan today.”

Obi-Wan couldn’t help but take a sharp, defensive step forward. “Anakin is more than capable of holding his own.”

“But you care about him,” you ventured. Your grin was becoming more and more poisonous as you began to waltz around the area. You knew exactly what you were doing, and Obi-Wan knew that. “What’s going to happen when you’re forced to kill him? Ah, I can only wonder.”

Kenobi was at a loss for words. His eyes were flitting back and forth between your own, trying to make sense of your statements. Were you lying to him? Was this part of the obvious ploy to upset him? If so, it was working. He cared for Anakin. He couldn’t imagine harming the man he called his brother. 

“Oh, how I wonder,” you smirked finally. Then you turned away from Obi-Wan, and he was left alone in the Archive room again, as if you were never even there. 

                                    ◇─◇──◇─────◇──◇─◇

The next time you had come to him, things ended differently. 

It was days before your third encounter, and your second fight. The last time you’d seen him, he’d only caught a glimpse of you smirking before disappearing into the depths of the ship and most likely the escape pods. But this time, Kenobi and Cody had hatched a brilliant plan to intercept you outside Christophsis. During the battle to attempt to slow your troops, Anakin and Obi-Wan would infiltrate your ship and attempt to subdue you. There was no way you could reach the escape pods this time- a new confrontation was inevitable. 

While Obi-Wan leaned over the holotable, studying the battle plans and maps, he stroked his beard thoughtfully. His blue eyes glinted in the glow of the room, sparkling like two little planets. Even you had to admit, the General had a beautiful, analytical brain that everyone could take a few lessons from. This only spurred you on more in your endeavor to ruin him, however. 

“What’re you looking at?” you mused. 

Obi-Wan stiffened upright, focusing on your voice. He knew you hadn’t somehow sneaked your way onto the ship at least, which left the second most likely scenario more realistic. 

“I’m sure you’re smart enough to figure that out,” he said. Obi-Wan turned around, careful to leave one hand looming over the button that turned the table back to simple planets. In a swirl, the maps and plans were gone, replaced with artificial stars and systems projected into the air. The ocean light of the room fell over your features faintly, which confused the Jedi for a second. The only colors he had ever seen as shadows with you were the deep red from your lightsabers. Usually, they were so angry and stark that you looked menacing. 

Make no mistake- you were menacing. Obi-Wan would never be foolish enough to think that you weren’t. But in the sapphire light, you reminded him of a Jedi. You looked- dare he say it?- pretty. Softer. Is that what you could’ve been at one point? A Jedi? Soft, and pretty?

“You flatter me,” you purred as you dipped your head. “I almost really believed you weren’t a gentleman.” You gave Obi-Wan the moment to respond, but he did not take the possibility. In fact, you could see that he was clearly raking his eyes over your face in search of some kind of answer. Perhaps you should do the same.

“Tell me,” you continued. “How does the gentleman intend to capture the lady tomorrow?” 

You took note of the faint wrinkles under his eyes. They weren’t from age or ailment, but lack of sleep and too much experience. There were few marks on his face, but still noticeable. No, they didn’t make him appear unattractive or undesirable, but instead gave him a sort of character. Did he have scars along his body? Was there ever a foe who marked him forever? Sure, you had scratched the Jedi with your lightsaber not too long ago, but it was nothing that wouldn’t eventually fade. Even then, it wasn’t like he hadn’t done the same to you. Your cheek was still streaked with a thin, pink gash that had begun to heal as a part of your flesh from what Kenobi had done to you. 

“Perhaps the gentleman would rather avoid conflict all together?” Kenobi mused. Ever the polite one, this man. “Perhaps you could turn yourself in now and save yourself the troops?”

You scoffed audibly. It was close to a laugh, but not quite. Did Sith’s laugh? “You are easily mistaken if you believe I care for the lives of a few clankers.”

“Clankers? Spending some time with the Clones, are we?”

“I’ve had enough of them in my detention cells to know what kind of language they use,” you said with a promise. In truth, you had captured a few Clone troopers, but that wasn’t how you had picked up the term ‘clanker’. You had gathered it after hearing some Clone describe it while listening in on transmissions. Finding it catchy and somewhat clever, you adopted it yourself. 

“Is that something you enjoy?” Obi-Wan quizzed. He took a step forward, his hands coming together with bent arms to hide each other in the length of his sleeves. 

No, actually. It wasn’t. You’d never cared much for torture. Sure, you had used it when you had to, but it had never been your first resort. You had no explanation for this. It just didn’t seem high up on your priorities list. 

“Now, who doesn’t love a good torture chamber?” you quipped. 

Unfortunately for you, it was too late for that kind of response. Obi-Wan had somehow seen the fault in your face. Maybe he saw your brow twitch, or your eyes dull, or your throat catch- you couldn’t say. But he had seen it. 

Obi-Wan nodded once, his lips still upturned at the stimulation from the interaction. “I don’t believe you.”

You weren’t sure where to go now. Your cocky and sarcastic features were beginning to fade away, replaced with a slow and diminishing frown. 

“Give up this fight,” Kenobi ventured. “If you turn yourself in now, you’ll avoid bloodshed. We both know that’s what you want.”

You swallowed dryly. Did you want that? To avoid bloodshed? You hadn’t minded it in the past, but there were times when you found enough of it distasteful. Could tomorrow’s battle be one of those times? 

“A Sith does not negotiate with the weak,” you finally answered. Once more, your face hardened back to it’s original expression. Menacing. 

Obi-Wan wondered if he should’ve said the next words. He played them over in his mind several times in the next second, before finally deciding on giving them a try. “Then perhaps, you are not a Sith.”

Your eyes widened at the statement. It struck a million things inside of you- anger, frustration, wonder, longing, embarrassment, astonishment, fear- everything. Your lungs tightened so much in your chest, they felt sore. From the sheer impact of Kenobi’s words, you took a step back defensively. 

Then you disappeared again. 

Obi-Wan stumbled backwards, hand reaching to clutch his heart. A dull headache had immediately begun forming in his temples, thrumming around like a growing drill. His lungs felt like they had had all the air kicked from them. His right cheek stung in the shape of a straight, thin line. Struggling to catch his breath, the Jedi reached his free hand back to grip onto the edge of the holotable for support. 

Mirroring the man, you jolted back as his form vanished. Your feet slipped from under you, and one of your knees was now angrily demanding your attention. Your bottom hit the floor flatly as your chest heaved up and down, gasping for the breath you had somehow lost. A bead of sweat had singularly formed on the side of your face in something like terror and shock. 

Neither you, nor Obi-Wan could explain this. 

                                   ◇─◇──◇─────◇──◇─◇

By the third... ‘projection’ between you and Obi-Wan, you had met eachother on the battlefield six times, and Anakin five. The scar Kenobi had given you from your first encounter had softened significantly. Even so, it would remain forever. As much as you hated it, you had spent several nights awake thinking of how it was like a kind of mark he had made on you. Not quite something that ‘claimed’ you, per say, but a type of signature. A permanent autograph or stain that was made by the person who bothered you the most. 

Ventress, who was probably the closest thing you had to a friend, had told you it was awfully seductive in her overly sweet voice. While her hand caressed your cheekbone, the heaviness of your heart only briefly softened before falling back. 

But the third projection was different. You were not the one who initiated it. In fact, after your second meeting, you were perfectly happy to never interact with Kenobi again, unless you were fighting. During those combative moments, you could put your deep thoughts aside in order to accomplish your mission. 

But this time was not a combative moment. And yet, you were having some trouble accomplishing your mission. 

“Go on,” your master commanded in his low voice. “Execute the younglings.” 

Your lightsabers were in your hands, crossed over each other. When you would pull them apart, the sabers would slice out, and heads would roll. That’s what was bothering you. The heads reminded you very much of your young nephew, who had turned six not too long ago. 

You couldn’t remember why you had to do this. All you could remember was that Count Dooku was telling you to do it, and his patience would not last forever. You didn’t want to. You didn’t want to kill younglings. They hadn’t done anything wrong, and they had no place in the war. 

And thus, this was why you were hesitating. Every time you thought you had the surge of energy to do the deed, your heart pounded so hard your arms stayed stiff. 

“Is it really so hard?” Count Dooku said tautly. His eyes narrowed in disappointment at you, frown deepening. 

And then, Kenobi’s voice called out to you. Like an angel, or a kind of conscious, you could see him so clearly in front of you, it was like you were actually speaking to him. 

Obi-Wan’s eyebrows were furrowed together in concern as he looked you up and down. He could see your stance, and the force surrounding you so intensely. He could analyze the sweat forming, your heart rate that matched his own. Your expression was laced with anguish and conflict, and he just knew you were about to do something you didn’t want to do. Obi-Wan understood that you were about to kill.

“Where are you?” he asked. 

You couldn’t answer. You would’ve looked like you were talking to yourself, and how horrible would that have been in front of Master Dooku? Instead, you only open and closed your chapped lips softly. Your eyebrows twitched. 

“What are you waiting for?” Dooku boomed at you. 

Obi-Wan leaned back and widened his eyes at the recognition of the voice. “Y/N, whatever you’re about to do, don’t.”

“If you’re unable to do this, my young apprentice, I will have to find someone more suitable.”

You squeezed your eyes tight. 

“Don’t!” Obi-Wan called. 

You didn’t stop yourself. You so desperately wanted to. But you didn’t. 

Your arms sliced apart. The searing hum buzzed through the air crisply, followed by multiple thumps against the ground. 

“Very good,” your master praised coolly from behind you. Even with your eyes shut tight, you could tell he had a cold smirk of relief resting on his face. “Meet me back at my ship.”

You opened your eyes slowly. Your skin felt sticky with sweat, and every muscle in your body was tightened up. Your shoulders and neck felt sore, and even your eyelashes felt heavy. The familiar weight of guilt sunk into your stomach so much more solid than ever before. Maybe it was because you had just committed something so terrible in front of one of the most noble people in the galaxy. Maybe it was just the sheer and straight anxiety that came with doing something you knew was against your better judgement. 

Obi-Wan looked at you silently. He knew what you had done. He knew the irreversible, evil and disproportionate thing that you had done. 

But now, he also knew that you needed help. You looked at him with pure fear and shame, and he could see how vulnerable and inhumanly human you were. He could tell, for a fact, that you would never be a real Sith. Did you have fear? Anger? Hate? Were you suffering? Yes. But you were not evil. Obi-Wan might’ve even dared to say that you were incapable of being so. 

You tore yourself away when Count Dooku called your name from the ship. Eyes darting between his blue orbs. The first step you took away from him, you evaporated into thin air, and Obi-Wan was alone in his ship once more. 

                                   ◇─◇──◇─────◇──◇─◇

The fourth time was the one that changed everything. 

You had only faced Obi-Wan and Anakin one time since he saw you kill the younglings, and unfortunately, Obi-Wan had also noticed you had a split second to kill him during the fight. Obviously, you hadn’t taken it. 

Your hands balled and unballed themselves against your knees. Palms sweaty, your whole abdomen had begun feeling like shaky jelly. Ever since the day with the younglings, you had begun to lose weight. You felt weaker, even though the darkness inside of you told you to feel so good. The circles under your eyes had darkened and deepened, and several lines had appeared on your face to make you look far more detached. 

You look unhealthy and unhinged, to be frank. 

Luckily, Ventress was there to tell you you still appeared inherently ‘handsome’. 

Your lungs pierced themselves and screamed with every breath. 

A hand reached out to touch your own, your left. 

You only allowed yourself a few moments to look it over. You observed the veins through it, the strength and width. It was a man’s, and a rather wise man’s at that. You could see little divots and callouses from work with a lightsaber, and clean nails that showed the owner had no time to bite at them anxiously. Despite how much you hated touching, you felt yourself sinking into the simple touch from the hand. It was, to be direct, the most comforting thing that had ever happened to you. 

Still, you gripped a hold of your heart, and shot your hand away. Your head raised to meet the owners eyes. 

Obi-Wan Kenobi, though you hated to admit it, had the eyes that you found yourself looking for often. Whether it was to avoid him, or find a comfort deep down, you did it. They were dapper and blue and deep, and changed in the shades of the sunlight. In contrast to his strawberry blonde hair, they shown and glimmered like an ocean. 

Obi-Wan felt the same about your own. Your eyes were conflicted and obviously conveyed several emotions, but also held a history that captivated him. He felt that they deserved everyone’s captivation. He wanted to study them like he would an ancient story, and memorize every changing detail within them. Even with the tired darkness underneath, he felt that they were uniquely beautiful in their own way. 

“Why are you here?” you seethed lowly. 

Obi-Wan glanced down, and then back up honestly. “I heard you calling out.” Before you could scoff, Obi-Wan quickly added, “I felt it.” 

You shook your head. “I wasn’t calling out. I would never call out for you.”

The man swallowed, determining the best approach. “I know that you are angry, but I’m here to help you.”

Kenobi’s tone was sincere, but you wouldn’t- couldn’t- believe it. “Help me?” you scoff. “I don’t need help.”

The Jedi tilted his head at you, looking deeply into your eyes. His orbs were piercing and infinite, it seemed. “You know that’s not true.”

At that, your anger washed away. A frown came down over you. Your eyebrows knitted themselves together in pain. Your eyes became rimmed with simultaneously hot and cold tears. Cheeks grew pink enough to totally disguise Obi-Wan’s signature. 

The way he was looking at you was just so intimate and understanding. Never, not in your whole life, had somebody done this. It seemed, in fact, that Kenobi could see right through you. He could feel you. He could feel your heart, your ribs, your tendons, and your pain. He could feel the soreness in your muscles, how tired your head felt. He wanted, more than anything, for you to have a rest. The Dark Side had done everything it was ever going to do for you. You didn’t need this weight any longer. Obi-Wan wanted to know how you would look when you laughed. 

Your head hung down as your first sob came out. Your fists balled even tighter together, both returning to your knees. 

Feeling his respect for you, mixed with your sadness, Obi-Wan reached his hand out again. His palm ran over your right fist for the second time, and this time you did not rip away. Instead, your own fingers unraveled and relaxed. The Jedi ran his thumb over your angry knuckles and your cunning fingers, silently keeping you close, even though you were far, far away. 

                                   ◇─◇──◇─────◇──◇─◇

You did not see Obi-Wan in projections again. 

Some weeks later, you had however, seen him in his entirety. 

Your ship was on fire. Some stupid clanker had miscalculated and allowed your fleet to settle right into General Skywalker’s attack. With every jolt, you stumbled and struggled to maintain balance. Your internal conflict had been continuing to cause you to lose weight in the worst way, and it had recently gotten hard enough to keep yourself upright. 

Finally reaching the hanger, you heaved in exertion. Somewhere, Obi-Wan was outside, either flying around or searching for you aboard. You found, to your nightmare, you had missed him terribly in this exact moment. 

The igniting hum of a lightsaber made you raise your brows. In the middle of the hanger, with sparks falling from above, was that young Togruta girl. The Skywalker padawan. What was her name again? Aheka? Aurora? Ahsoka? Yeah, Ahsoka. 

She glares at you angrily. Her face is scrunched in determination, something that reminds you so much of Anakin himself. Both her sabers were at the ready, and her stance was that of one about to pounce. 

Yes, Ahsoka was trained by someone powerful. This, however, did not mean that she was a match for you. If you fought this one without restraint, you would undoubtedly kill her. You did not want to do that. 

“Hello, General,” she taunted. Definitely Anakin’s padawan. “I’ve been waiting for you.”

Despite your exhaustion and the sharp pain in your ribs, you answered her sincerely. “Please,” you called out. “Please, move aside. I don’t want to fight you.”

Ahsoka’s eyes narrow at you. “You’re under custody of the Galactic Republic now. If you won’t fight, you’ll be detained.”

You shook your head, exhausted and defeated. “I can’t go with you. I won’t fight you, but I won’t go with you.”

Darkly, the Togruta replied to you. “Then I will make you.”

She launched forward from the balls of her feet. In a flash, you managed to take out one of your sabers and switch it on. The red clashed against the green in defense, making you lean back before pushing forward. 

No. You would not kill Ahsoka Tano. 

You are very strict about playing offense in the next minute. The only time you ever actually strike the young one is when your blades catch each other.

Not so far away, a voice yells, “Snips!” 

Ahsoka Tano looks at her master. You identify Anakin quickly enough, and seize the opportunity. Your leg snaps up against the Togruta’s stomach. She crumples on herself with a gasp, and you push her to the ground before moving past her. 

As you sprint as fast as you can, you can hear Skywalker scream, “Ahsoka!”

You move down the hallway as fast as you can. You have to get to the escape pods. The hanger is no longer an option. Either that, or find Obi-Wan. 

                                   ◇─◇──◇─────◇──◇─◇

It doesn’t take you long to find him. You stand at the opposing side of the bridge, your breathing rapid as your headache tortures your temples. There was so much pain inside of you, falling off your robes and your skin like steam. You just wanted this all to end. You wanted to be free. At this point, you didn’t care if it was from the Dark Side, or the Light Side. 

And Obi-Wan knew that. 

As he finished analyzing you to make sure that, no, you wouldn’t hurt him, he took a tentative step forward. 

You looked terrible. Kenobi wanted to fix that. 

“Y/N,” he called calmly. “I am here to help you.”

You nodded your head, suddenly feeling very hot. “I know,” you confess. Your lip quivers under the weight of everything- the pain, the anger, the frustration, the conflict, the admiration for Kenobi. He looked so handsome now, even with the ever growing danger surrounding the both of you. “I need help,” you admit, voice breaking. “P-please help me.”

Obi-Wan walked quickly to you, sensing your weakness. He knew that at any moment, you were going to collapse both outside and in. Your turmoil had bubbled over, your Akrasia breaking whatever spirit you had left. He knew that you were too tired to feel darkness now. You had nothing left to fear, anger, hate, or suffer over. 

“Obi-Wan,” you said shakily. Your hands came up to rub your arms as if you were cold. “I love you.”

Obi-Wan Kenobi knew how selfish it was to replay the words over in his head at the moment. He just couldn’t help it. 

You had always been radiating. You had always been strong and worthy of admiration. When you struggled with your guilt, you struggled with your deeds, and that gave Obi-Wan hope. You had restored his faith all on your own, and he had already known that it was worthy of being expelled from the Order. But this was you. This was the woman he had grown to care for, like a mold to fit into, and had come to understand. The Jedi felt hungry for that. He felt hungry to know you. To analyze you. To help you. 

“I know,” the man said, sincerely and slowly. Against his better judgement, and the rocking of the falling ship, his right hand reached out to cup your face. Your skin was warm. Slightly sticky from the sweat, but Obi-Wan didn’t mind. “I know.”

His other hand opened up. His calloused and strong palm revealed itself to you, drawing your attention, and reminding you of the night that he had held your own inside. “Y/N, I need to know if you will follow me.” Obi-Wan paused, looking into your eyes. This was his confession. His begging, his pleading, his longing, was a confession for the love he felt for you. “I need you to come with me. You must leave this behind.” Then Obi-Wan swallowed. “Come with me. Please.”

The both of you were betraying your Orders. 

Your right hand came to meet his. Palms against palms, skin against skin, you connected. You could feel Obi-Wan’s need and frustration, and he could feel your longing and fear. 

“Yes,” you said, tiredly. “Yes. I’ll go with you.”

And, in that moment, you could see a life with Obi-Wan. 

He would not leave the Jedi. You knew that for sure. But you would go back to Scarif, where you were born. On a shore, near the crystal blue waters, Obi-Wan would build you a house. He could visit when he had the time, holding you in your sleep to protect you from the oncoming nightmares, and you could kiss the scars on his back. Every time he would leave, your heart would break, but he would always bring you something small to apologize. Perhaps you could start to draw again? Obi-Wan would’ve loved to draw with you. He could teach you how to meditate, and clear your thoughts. Somewhere deep in the ground, you’d bury your lightsabers and never touch them again. On top of that ground, Obi-Wan would hold your form tightly as his skin moved against your own. Everything would be like a song, and maybe one day, you could give him a new verse. You could give him a child. You could have peace. Not fake peace, but real peace. The kind of peace that follows the storm, and lingers til the end of your days. 

A choke escapes your throat. 

You feel your lungs quiver in weakness, then refuse to allow any more air in. Obi-Wan watches your face change from sorrowful, to shocked. Your mouth agape, eyes wide, you suddenly go very, very pale. He feels you still yourself upright, and he tells himself the blue blade in your chest isn’t real. 

Anakin pulls the lightsaber out of you. Your pupils dilate as the blood begins to drip from your nose thinly. You can’t think, you can’t even move. You cripple to the ground without choice. 

Obi-Wan Kenobi keeps you close to him as you die. He has nothing to say to either Anakin or yourself, and he knows there is nothing he can do to heal you. He watches you watch him, your vision fading in and out as you try to memorize every detail of Kenobi’s face for the last time. Your vision of a life with him becomes nothing more than a distant memory and a sad dream, and you don’t know when it ended. 

                                   ◇─◇──◇─────◇──◇─◇

Obi-Wan burned and buried you in secret. 

The Jedi had loved you, and he had known you enough to see that you deserved respect. You were not to be shipped off into the ground like any old Sith. You were to be cared for, and cradled until the end. Even in death, he wanted to help you.

And perhaps, simply that statement alone, was his greatest form of Akrasia. 

✫*ﾟ･ﾟ｡.☆.*｡･ﾟ✫*

Taglist: @omg-we-really-doo @chokemeanakin​ @typicalfanlife​

This is the version that was requested. Please let me know how you feel and if you noticed any errors! I wrote this while I was very tired, and I may want to tweak some things. 

[tribus-mantodea]

[ Oh, words...? There are more of those as of late. ]

Brandishes nail. Alright. Here we go. Content will be scatterbrained snippets concerning the AU where the Lastborn Brother never succumbed to the infection.

Summary of what I’ve thought of is as follows:

Recall the scrapped Dryya fight. Well she’s alive and dandy now, so... Get Dunked On, Ghost (in which she would still not die here).

The Traitor Tribe still exists in this verse; however, they are small and generally leaderless, without direction even by due influence of the Radiance.

Ze’mer and the Mantis’ Child are also very much alive, happy, and venturing together.

Cloth is alive.

Ogrim gets a bit of closure.

Essentially what I have here is a “happier” AU through a round of shenanigans. I could prattle on about the Lords themselves, but I’ll get to my favorites another time. As far as timeline goes, it still aligns with the game. Sorta.

Uncertain of what I want to do with the ending.

DRYYA | SHE’S. WELL. THERE

Her assignment was to the White Lady, and so she’ll stay at her post until otherwise said. See those trifling beasts? (Whack.) No you don’t.

In which she has heard Ze’mer speak long, long stories of someone she’s infatuated with, always returned with her persistent line of questioning because Are you sure that she’s suitable for you and are you suitable for her and do you both actually love each other or are you just infatuated and what does she look like and Wait what do you mean it’s a Manti -- [Ai... ’che thinks you tell stories longer than her.] [...]

Of course, she meets the Mantis’ child at some point. Abruptly at that, where she also very obviously accepts that fine, okay, they’re cute, they seem fine. Fine.

(...She never asks when the Daughter’s features seem to crease just the slightest at the sight of the occasional husk of a beast.)

ZE’MER AND THE MANTIS’ CHILD | OH MAN THEY ARE LESBIANS

As for meetings go, it was (plot) when Ze’mer, the ever so elusive mystery, decided to visit the tribe one day if only to check on its state (perhaps by order and duty, perhaps not). She took a brief moment to mull in a few memories by the lowermost bench, staring beyond the pools of acid. Flowery parts omitted, the Daughter essentially took a detour and encountered (maybe threatened) this Tall Bug in White to which the response was a pause, a winding tale.

Apparently the Daughter liked stories more than she thought she did, but more importantly, she was best intrigued when “gently persuading” the knight into having a spar with her. One thing led to another and things went absolutely downhill from there (but the moments were almost always private, exchanging small bits of culture and pasts).

What ultimately mattered to the Lords when concerning partnership is whether or not said partner was strong. Are they capable in mind, heart, and skill? Being able to trust and rely on the lover and vice-versa -- that was the ideal, the only criteria. It would not do well for someone to have to be protected all the time as it sows heartache.

And they generally trusted that the Daughter had good enough judgement if she so selected (considering she could hold her own well enough to frequent outside of their domain, not that she often did so in the past). So in hearing and seeing the arrival of two, they did not interrogate despite their eagerness. Itched to test The Bug.

Beforehand, Ze’mer and the Daughter had exchanged more than enough words. She was warned they wouldn’t want to hear her tales and would better acknowledge strength and accept her if she simply challenged them.

So she did, of course, and wound up with many respectable brownie points and quite the leeway (as well as recognizing that the Tribe indeed deserved their prideful demeanors). She gifted them a delicate flower for their treasury which grows and entangles their only bench.

And then the two kind of just vibe for the most part. They occasionally separate to handle their own matters when needed, but generally, they venture together.

CLOTH | LIVING THRILLSEEKER

Her interactions with Ghost remain the same. With the absence of a Traitor Lord however, she instead returns to the place where she once fled at the mere sight of a Warrior, managing to push her way onwards to challenge the Lords... sort of. She did somehow avoid blunt-murdering any mantis on the path (instead maybe knocking them out cold) without sustaining too much damage.

So she challenged the Lords, having accepted that if she died here, well, fine, that can’t be any worse than the depths below and she only needed to prove her courage for herself anyways. It would be an honorable death. Would be, in that the cicada had managed to hold on with enough will and force that despite the incredible strain and aches, she bested them. And then passed out right then and there into a lovely nap. (She was moved to the bench not by their warriors, but by the Lastborn Lord with his excuse being, “I need to meet with our tribe anyways.” They all admired degrees of perseverance, but he especially found it worthy of respect.)

And such an encounter had inspired her. Reformed her resolve into wanting to fight as many strong (and cool?) bugs as she could so that when she did return to Nola when her time came, she would have more than enough tales to share.

In this verse, she absolutely has the time to have a few friendly bouts with the Lords when they have nothing else to do (which is fairly often). Said Lords were only more open to such a thing after the relationship between Ze’mer and the Daughter was formed.

...She totally saved Bretta. To the void with you, Zote.

Incredibly rarely, she will accompany the two lovers and get giddy every time they all somehow manage to get into a fight that involves all of them playing their due part together. (And oh, she cannot wait to tell Nola how exciting synergy was!)

OGRIM | OATH-BOUND?

Of course, Ze’mer introduced her fellow knight to her beloved just the same as she did with Dryya.

And Ogrim is ecstatic, happy to hear! And... complicated, in knowing of the other matters that have occurred in his near-isolation. Aching, when given the closure that both Isma and their King was no longer present. But, haha! There’s no room for sorrow is there? Not the time at least.

So he still follows his duties; it’s only right. But he allows himself little moments to visit Isma’s grove, never lingering too long as he mustn’t stray from oath, but...

It is a confusing matter to say the least.

Or something.

[risingsouls]

Recruited: Chapter 1

[Yeah it’s for real happening because I’m weak. So here it is. I’m basically going to write out my new recruited verse because I have lost control of my life.

Shoutout to @kiealer for a mention of her OC’s healer race and the HC we have that Vegeta and co demolished most of them. :3]

Nabooru

Traveling beyond the bounds of her desert home had always been limited. Within the desert, never ending sandstorm made venturing too far from known landmarks treacherous for fear of never returning or serving as a meal for the beasts lurking beneath the sands or in caverns. Beyond the eastern border lay greater Hyrule. Lush, green, thriving. 

To Nabooru, it always felt like she was stepping into an entirely different world and not simply because of the stark contrast of weather and scenery. In her younger years, the culture shock hit her harder than more recent years. Women didn't fight and served their husband's needs and desires. It was rare that they served in government, and it was almost taboo for them to talk about it. To have an opinion of matters deemed "too dirty" for the so-called fairer sex. Most resided in the home and only the men provided. They dressed modestly, and did not speak out of turn. None of which would have bothered Nabooru had the denizens not tried to hold Gerudo women to to same standards while traipsing through Castle Town or outside of the desert. The mostly matriarchal Gerudo, where women ruled and fought and drank and cursed. Where their sexuality was celebrated and not demonized (though many Hylian men and women alike had celebrated right along with them for at least one night of their lives until the sun rose and those same Gerudo became whores and heathens once more). Who cooked and cleaned and raised children. Gerudo women did everything Hylian women did and then some. 

If the lesson didn't stick with Nabooru the few times she ventured out with her best friend, Aveil, against her will, it certainly did when she joined Ganondorf at court. When she spoke among the other delegates of Hyrule's court, it wasn't uncommon for her to face chortling, eye rolling, or grimacing. Ganondorf could then repeat the same point moments later, word for word, and be met with at least some modicum of agreement or a proper debate.

And that only touched on the prejudice spurred by anger and fear Hyrule harbored toward her people. The Civil War may have ended in a peaceful treaty, one promising unity and safety, a new beginning. But none forgot how avidly and proudly the Gerudo fought for their sovereignty until their second to last breath. The skills and power of the demons from the desert.

None of that mattered for Nabooru any more. Hyrule was far behind, somewhere in the vast, new realm of space that she could never possibly fathom before she boarded a ship primed for traveling such an expansive place beyond the world and reality she understood. She could only guess what other planets might offer her in terms of terrain or people. What her new life as a soldier to a galactic emperor entailed. But beneath the inorganic lighting and in the midst of technological advances even the brightest on her home planet could not begin to dream up, she hadn't found much opportunity to ask while she struggled to process her surroundings. Stars and debris whizzing by windows as they passed them. The words her new commanders spoke amongst themselves. 

“Remind me your name?”

It took Nabooru several seconds to note the silence that had befallen her company, curiosity and shock holding her gaze transfixed to the door that slid open of its own accord to admit them. She tried to mask the hurried step she took over the threshold as well as she could, though her continued awestruck surveillance of her surroundings--the large screens along the walls displaying information, the flashing lights, the beeps and low, mechanical hums--displayed the mixture of her curiosity and apprehension of it all no matter the measures she took to downplay them. And, when she finally found the emperor and his generals again, their mixed bags of expressions confirmed her failure. Frieza stared at her with an increasingly amused smirk, his tail tapping against the side of his chair, one a parent gives a learning child. The wide, pink general with a layer of spikes on top of his otherwise bald head and forearms grunted, his expression squished in impatience. The taller of the two sporting a green braid and a tiara with matching earrings tucked a strand of hair behind his ear, yellow eyes half-lidded in either boredom or disbelief.

Nabooru straightened her posture, mind working overtime to replay the last few seconds and figure out what sort of answer they expected her to give to a question she hoped she heard. She chewed the inside of her cheek, and hoped the blush in her cheeks was less apparent than it felt when she came up short.

“I apologize,” she bowed her head, unsure of the proper etiquette, “did you ask me something? I’m...a little overwhelmed.”

“Yes, I suppose even just this ship is quite a marvel to you, isn’t it, coming from such a technologically barren planet as yours? It has been quite some time since we recruited someone from a planet like yours.” Nabooru released the breath she held and raised her head again, returning to her full height and her hands behind her back when Frieza didn’t berate her for her misstep. A small voice inside her whispered how it wished he hadn’t whisked her away from her home, but she tamped it down like a stubborn weed before the sentiment could reflect itself in her eyes. “You will get used to it soon enough. As for what I asked, I requested your name. I like to know what to call my more promising acquisitions.”

Another fight to keep her expression neutral, her pride festering at being referred to as some otherworldly trinket that caught his eye. She lowered her head again. “My name is Nabooru, my lord. I thank you for the opportunity to serve you.” 

Bitter words on her tongue. Subjugation didn’t suit her, but laying the act on thick felt like the right move with the emperor. The whispers of his other soldiers about his temperament swirled through her mind as a constant reminder to behave if she wanted to survive. A reality that would take some adjusting to, and, once more, a role she didn’t want to play. One given without the luxury of choice.

“Splendid. Then, let’s get straight to business then.” He raised a pitch-taloned hand and the taller of the generals stepped forward. “Once we arrive at the base, Zarbon will give you the tour and enumerate your daily schedule for the time being. He will also outfit you with a proper uniform.”

Nabooru glanced between the three of them, taking the time to note that they all sported similar attire, as had the soldiers who first landed on Hyrule. She still wore the clothes she left Hyrule in: her patterned bandeau and pink pants in the typical Gerudo style along with the jewels she adorned herself in. The chest piece looked like armor of some sort, and though she never cared much for it, it didn’t look entirely uncomfortable. She wasn’t worried about the look of it either, as there seemed to be different styles and perhaps she would get lucky with one that suited her taste and figure. What did bother her was that her attire was all that she had with her to remind her of her home, her past and people, due to the instruction to pack light if anything at all. She gripped the strap of the bag slung over her shoulder; the changes of clothes she brought along felt all the more irrelevant.

She nodded as a show of understanding, sensing that resistance or questioning of the regimen set out for her would only go ignored if she was lucky. When the three returned to their own conversations about the successes of a few planetary ventures, the prospects of others to be considered in the future, Nabooru used the rest of the flight to drink in whatever information she could from them and her surroundings. What she would be expected to do. How the technology surrounding her worked or what she would needed to understand for her own purposes. The personalities of the emperor and his most trusted generals. A difficult task when, perhaps purposefully, they kept their talk clinical and impersonal. Emotionless reactions to each report, whether good news or bad.

When the ship landed at the base, a large edifice that could pass for a castle on her home planet save for its plainness and more angular architecture, Zarbon led her away from the emperor and his fellow general, his boredom once more pervasive on his immaculate face. His tone of voice matched it as he pointed out areas of interest: the mess hall, showers and bathrooms (a mild concern to her when she only saw what she identified as male bodies entering or exiting them), and the expansive halls that held the soldiers’ quarters where she would sleep. He did not spend much time discussing any of them, their functions self-explanatory enough. So Nabooru hoped. The last thing she wanted was to find that, after a long day, her bed was some sort of complicated apparatus or had some fancy voice command that made it comfortable enough for rest.

The door to another room slid open and she followed. “This is where you will have your daily lessons considering your...under educated background,” he said, the hint of a sneer on his lips. “Mostly teaching you the basics you will need to operate the most rudimentary of our tech needed to do your job efficiently along with the expectations of your role in planetary trade.”

“Trading planets?” Nabooru couldn’t help how her eyes narrowed, the implications of such a business unpleasant at best in her mind. Not to mention what that could mean for her own home. Was their fate as secure as she thought? She hid her distaste by continuing to survey the room and commit its location to memory. It looked like a fairly ordinary, all purpose classroom. Another expansive screen replaced a chalkboard at the head of the room with a metal podium in front of it. Two rows of glass-topped desks faced the front of the room. It made her wonder if others would be joining her for her lessons.

Zarbon flipped his braid over his shoulder. “Yes. Our business is in finding planets to trade or sell and readying them for such transactions in most cases. Others are used for the empire’s purposes if they’re deemed worthwhile for some reason or another. Much like yours.”

Hyrule had been lucky, then. Avoided a likely more violent takeover, potentially thanks to her people’s warrior prowess. While she doubted Ganondorf and the rest of the Gerudo would be horribly merciful when they took over, she had a feeling they would spare far more than Frieza’s forces if the decision concerning their planet had swung the other way. She would have laughed at the irony of it had better circumstances been offered for amusement.

“I see…”

“You will learn more about that here. It isn’t my job to teach you such basics.” He moved to the door and Nabooru took her cue to follow. “You will be expected to report here first thing in the morning after the first meal and your lessons will last until the afternoon meal. The rest of your day will be spent training so you can get a better handle on your ki and utilizing it in the most efficient ways for your station.”

“I mean no disrespect and I understand the need for learning the other facets of my new job, but that sounds more up my alley than sitting in a classroom for several hours.”

“Of course. It is expected of you warrior types.” Nabooru could hear the eyeroll in his voice despite her position behind him. Along with the scrunch of his nose with his next scoffed statement: “Speaking of brainless imbeciles…”

Her curiosity outweighed the split second surge in her temper over the insult to her and her people along with whoever the general had spotted in front of him. She took a step to the side to peer around Zarbon as they continued down the corridor. Three men in the similar style of armor as the rest of the crew strode toward them, a shorter one flanked by two much larger figures, the sight reminiscent of her first exposure to Frieza and his generals. The two in the back--a bald one with a mustache and the second’s large stature the only thing keeping him from being swallowed by the mass of black spikes sprouting from the top of his head down to the top of his boots--appeared to be in high spirits, excitedly discussing their latest victories and sharing in each other’s laughter. The one in the middle paid them little mind, his dark gaze only shifting from its fixed, forward position to note the two of them approaching. His lips curled into a smirk.

“Well, well. Did Frieza let you off your leash for once?” He cast Nabooru a fleeting glance but little more. His hand rose to press a button on the side of the device fitted over his ear connected to red glass over his eye. The two behind him had stopped laughing and followed suit, exchanging a glance between them. “And for babysitting duty nonetheless. Is there a demotion in your future?”

“Remember your place, Vegeta, before I have to forcefully remind you of it,” Zarbon sniffed, his haughty air rivaling that of the shorter male. Any ounce of resentment she had sensed over the task meted out to him disappeared, replaced by what she could only describe as pride in his sense of duty to Frieza. Once more, Nabooru had to dampen the urge to, at the very least, snort at the display. “I do hope the report from your latest mission is better than the last. Frieza wasn’t particularly fond of the amount of near irreparable collateral damage you and your baboons caused in sacking it.”

“Hmpt.” Movement at Vegeta’s waist caught Nabooru’s eye. What she had mistaken for a furry belt turned out to be a tail, the end of which had loosed itself from its secure position for a moment before it tucked itself back into place. “Whatever. We got the job done when all your other units failed. It’s a sad day when Nappa here can figure out the secret of their healing abilities when none of your top picks could. How many fleets failed and crawled back to base with nothing to show for it? Three? Four?”

“It hardly matters when you can’t follow simple instructions. Two prisoners is hardly recompense for the damage. But unfortunately, your fates are not mine to decide.” Zarbon twisted around to nod to Nabooru. “Come. We’ve wasted enough time with filth.”

The two larger men stepped aside as Zarbon pushed onward, and Nabooru didn’t miss the fire in their supposed leader’s or their own eyes as she passed. The seething rage bubbling beneath the surface at such a dismissal. The kind she had grown used to on her home planet when dealing with Hyrule’s court. She bit the inside of her cheek to distract her from such empathy she couldn’t afford. While she didn’t trust Zarbon either, she had no real intent of making alliances here if she could help it. She worried enough about the welfare of her people whose fate could very well be tied to her own performance within Frieza’s ranks. Whatever the story of those three tailed warriors and the animosity they had toward Zarbon and he to them, it was of no importance to her. Squabbles between ranks and authority were bound to happen in a militaristic environment.

Another door slid open and the pair entered what Nabooru could only describe as a storage room. Arrays of what she assumed were weapons lined the walls alongside cabinets and displays for the armor she would soon don. She waited near the doorway while Zarbon considered each set. “You would do best to steer clear of those Saiyans if you want to avoid trouble. Or be successful.” He picked out a set and held the pile of clothing out to her. “Before you ask, yes, it will fit. All of it stretches to even the most extreme sizes.”

When Zarbon turned around, Nabooru took that as her cue to change into the new outfit. Setting her satchel on the floor, she picked through the garments to figure out the sequence with which she was meant to put them on before undressing. She started with what looked like the pieces that went beneath the armor: a long sleeved, high neck-lined top in a deep red several shades darker than her bright hair and a matching pair of bottoms cut to cover little more than her private areas. A single test revealed that they did stretch with incredibly little resistance and enough for her to slip them on with little trouble. Though far from what she was used to, the fabric was more breathable than expected and fit her like a second skin.

She picked up the armor next, the same cut as that she had seen on most of the other soldiers save for the wings on the shoulders and hips, and the chest portion looked more suited to a feminine form. It stretched just as easily as the singlet, and she pulled it on over her head, sliding her arms through the straps. Once more, even the armor seemed to mold to her shape without being too tight or restricting her movement. 

As she tugged on the last few pieces of her new uniform--thigh high socks of the same material as her singlet and a pair of white, leather gloves and boots much like those she noted the smaller Saiyan wore--she watched Zarbon shift to another storage unit and tap in a code. A drawer popped out and, when she informed him she was decent and he faced her again, he held one of the devices they all wore over an eye in his hand. This one with orange glass.

"This is your scouter. It scans power levels and acts as a communicator, among other useful functions you will be taught in your lessons." He handed it over, and Nabooru turned it over in her hands. "I'm sure you will find it useful."

“Power levels? Like how strong another person is?”

“Indeed. No need to worry about wearing it now, but do remember to take it to your lessons.” Zarbon swept past her and back to the door, and Nabooru didn’t need any coaxing to follow. She dropped the scouter into her bag along with the rest of her belongings and shouldered it before following him back into the hall. 

"We have one more stop, the medical bay," the general continued in that same bored tone, but Nabooru noted a flicker of what she assumed was excitement over the prospect of finishing the task so beneath him and returning to his proper duties. "Its use is what you would expect, of course. It is where we will part ways. You will have your translator chip installed. By the time you wake up, it will likely be dinner. After you'll have time to do as you please for now. Fill it how you wish."

She almost failed to register any other information that followed the first bit. "Translator chip?" She felt dumb asking so many seemingly obvious questions. "Installed how?"

"It is a simple and near painless procedure," he responded, his sigh just barely held back. "We all have them for ease of communication. The task of learning every language in the universe would be all too time consuming, and not everyone can speak the galactic standard."

Nabooru nodded despite the discomfort she felt over what sounded invasive and too foreign for her liking. The reason behind it made sense. She had taken the time to learn as much of the other languages of Hyrule as she could, and to describe the endeavor as time consuming put it lightly. Not to mention the imperfection of it. In the time she left her home, she had only gotten a taste of the vastness of the universe. If it took her years to get a grasp on just a handful of languages, it would take eons to manually learn all the languages of every race in the universe. Reasoning through it, deeming this chip useful, still did nothing to ease her apprehension.

The double doors to the medical bay slid to each side and admitted them into the sterilized space so unlike the healing ward back home. Several tanks lined the far wall, and more screens lined half of the one adjacent to it The doctors wore the similar armor the rest of them did, though the one who approached the pair from the rows of cots on the other end of the room wore a white robe of sorts beneath his armor. His bushy orange eyebrows and beak-like snout made him resemble a rotund, wingless bird.

The conversation he and Zarbon held between one another was clipped and short, all business and no filler about the reason for their visit--one the doctor had been made aware of and prepped for prior, he proudly noted--as well as a discussion over new recruits to the medical bay and their adjustment. From the sounds of it, they were the prisoners he had mentioned in the conversation with the Saiyans. She had to keep herself from snorting when the doctor discussed a certain reluctance to help; if she didn't fear her own rebelliousness would trickle down to the fate of her people, she might not be so compliant. Piecing together the brief tiff in the hallway with this information suggested they had little left to lose.

Zarbon turned to her once more. "This is where I take my leave. Keep to your schedule and don't cause trouble. Frieza may have chosen you specifically out of a gaggle of mediocre warriors, but that does not mean you're valuable."

With a toss of his head and one last pointed glare, the general left her alone with the doctor and a smoldering combination of helplessness and anger searing her heart and lungs. He wasn't wrong; that she had no reservations about. But hearing it, feeling it in the presence of these warriors, generals, and other help within the base, she could not deny her expandability. How her rank on her home planet meant nothing now, and she had been kicked from the top to the bottom, her life of hard work and pushing herself to fight better and harder than the next Gerudo, learn everything she could to improve her station, all she did to earn rank and respect among her people had been reduced to cinders here. She was starting over with no real idea where she was headed. Where she could head, if anywhere at all.

Survive. That's what she had been taught to do first and foremost. The costs of survival, of not endangering the deal made to ensure her people got the better life she always wanted for them, would have to be worth paying.

The doctor led her to one of the tables and instructed her to lie back, the cool metal on the few portions of skin left uncovered making her shiver. She listened for a moment to the explanation of the procedure--a gas to put her under, an incision behind the ear, and just a bit of prodding around in her brain--before she decided that her ignorance of it would keep her from bolting. He fitted a mask to her face and told her to simply breathe deep and count backward or recite some poetry. Nabooru hardly made it through a line of a Gerudo poem she did happen to memorize before the gas clouded her brain and muddled her words. Her eyes fluttered closed, the tension in her body eking out of her, her hands balled into tight relaxing as she succumbed to sleep.

[mzcal]

JUNKENSTEIN  /  la muerte me pela los dientes .

long ago in a small village just south of aldersbrunn lived a woman who went by the name of olivia colomar. she traveled from lands far away in search of resources and connections, solely interested in furthering her scientific ventures. olivia found herself interested in what made everyday contraptions and tools work from a young age. as an orphaned child, she occupied herself by taking things apart and putting them back together. as a lonely teenager, she occupied herself by creating her own gadgets. now as an adult, she dedicated herself to greater creations  -  along the way she found herself interested in the power of lightning and its potential for propelling humanity to a golden new age. 

unfortunately, she was born in a time where science was shunned for the sake of religion and women were meant for little more than caring for families. olivia learned in her teenage years that she had to hide her work from the public. it was simple enough to keep it a secret seeing as she was brought up shrouded in secrecy. the problems began when her work started to require more resources  -  she burned through various metals, alloys,  leather,  and ink far too quickly. these materials were hard enough to come by without bountiful riches. they were even harder to come by when she was presenting as a woman. she took it upon herself to dress more masculine when in the markets, concealing her most notable features with wigs and baggy clothing.  

in her newest town, olivia kept to herself in the house farthest from the others. rumors began to circulate about the newcomer, especially as more and more of the townsfolk were granted glimpses of her work in the midst of traveling to and from the market. whispers of witchcraft circulated, further exaggerated by the tales of a truer witch in the nearby adlersbrunn. with each month the whispers just grew louder with nothing to stop them once the seed was planted. knights and authority were alerted and she was watched closely. every wrong move added to her list of “crimes” until the day came where she was taken and questioned on her activities. well aware that there was nothing she could do but accept her fate, olivia left them with a final message: if she could come back to life, she would haunt each and every one of them.

… her eternal slumber was evidently not so eternal. despite every bit of logic dictating that she was not to open her eyes ever again,  olivia was awoken with a jolt. blinking away the crust of sleep and… well... death, she met her reflection in a set of emerald lenses. the man was far too loud with a foreign accent, pitchy laughter guiding his introduction to her as doctor jamison junkenstein. he had created her, brought her back to life and she was to be the bride of his first revival; an unnamed man that simply grunted in… irritation, perhaps? olivia argued against this - she did not choose to be revived in the first place and she would not be marrying any man. the doctor did not care for her protests. he simply rattled on about his plans, jumping from topic to topic. amongst his ramblings she heard that he would name her “shadow”, a nickname that she decided she would later use as her new alias once she escaped from his castle. 

to keep this from getting any longer, i’ll summarize what’s next. “shadow”, translated into sombra by her own accord, escapes from her chains when junkenstein leaves. she takes with her a big sack of his equipment. she travels through the lands and from here on out it’s thread dependent but her default is that she finds the countess’ castle and convinces her to allow her to stay.

some notes on her appearance since this is set in the ~1800s so there would be no cybernetics, dyed hair, etc.

as a nod towards her dyed hair and eyebrow slits, sombra has poliosis. this gives her a natural streak of white hair towards the front of her scalp along with a bit on her left eyebrow. it also fits with her in-game skin/the bride of frankenstein's hair since shes got the white locks on the side!

her eyes are her natural color of very dark brown. they have a purplish tinge after death because monster logic LOL

her eccentric/"punk" fashion is translated into a more gothic fashion sense and how she dresses more masculinely frequently pre-death. i dont want to break immersion and i dont think she would dress to stick out because it would only hold her back and this woman is an Opportunist.

she primarily goes by olivia in this verse. sombra is an alias given to her by junkenstein and its only used after her death!

[lynenspray]

summit

summary: joohyun, the chairperson of the board, makes time out of her busy schedule to visit and check in on the CEO of the company.

(yerene, mommy kink, slight bondage, exhibitionism)

*yerene path for the CEO!yerim verse

***hoejangnim = chairperson of the board

---

joohyun taps her fingers against the file on her lap. she had looked over the same sheets again and again for over three hours now, the clock on yerim's desk showing that it was half past eight in the evening. not that joohyun couldn't tell from the night outside, seen through the large windows beside her. 

she sighs. yerim is a brat for keeping her waiting, but she always does her best with every task, so joohyun can't really fault her for having her priorities straight. the report on her performance this week shows how dedicated the younger woman was to her company.

her gaze lifts from the papers at hand when the door clicks open, yerim stepping inside and leaving the entrance slightly ajar. it takes the younger woman a second before she noticed that joohyun was seated on her chair.

"oh! hoejangnim. I've kept you here so late," yerim mentions, her tone apologetic but not explicit about it. "I was in a meeting at the bottom floor."

joohyun tilts her head, humming before leaving the weekly report on yerim's large desk, getting up from yerim's chair, walking around yerim's office. everything here belongs to the young prodigy, even the view. 

"was it about the station X project?" joohyun asks, casually looking at the collection of books along the wall. the dim mood lights of the younger woman's office made a good ambience for reading, but that's not what joohyun had in plan tonight after being disrespected like this.

"yes. we decided to scrap it," yerim replies, tone nonchalant.

joohyun nods, focusing on the conversation at hand. she can give her hell later. "the market predictions for that venture suddenly took a turn, so it was the right decision. I expect similar news about it this coming monday."

the younger woman nods. "yes, hoejangnim. I expect the same."

"and it looks like the acquisition of KSG is finally bearing fruit. the results in that sector looks good so far, and data shows that it's going to keep that way for at least another six months. did you predict this when you decided to buy them out?" 

"yes, hoejangnim."

"then I'll mention it to the board during the next quarterly meeting. your performance has been consistently excellent, even by our standards."

"I'm happy to be part of the success of the company."

"but," joohyun says, clicking her tongue. the younger only gives her a questioning look as she turns to the wall. 

the older woman flips through a random book before placing it back in the bookshelf, preoccupying herself before having to confront the CEO on her attitude towards her, the chairperson on the board that's keeping the CEO in her position in the first place. 

"none of that is enough to merit your behavior, such as making me wait on you for three hours." she turns to see that the CEO's face remains expressionless. "don't you think, CEO-nim?" 

a few seconds pass before yerim replies with, "I agree, hoejangnim."

joohyun eyes her. the younger woman's body was stiff, and her eyes stared straight ahead, but the line of her lips looked unsteady. joohyun walks closer until she comes face to face with the CEO, seeing bags under her eyes and a trickle of sweat dripping down her forehead. joohyun hums, moving even closer, watching yerim's face flush at their proximity. 

"that has repercussions, don't you agree?" 

"I… I agree, hoejangnim. I accept any punishment you deem fitting for slighting you.”

joohyun scoffs. of course she accepts. she has no other choice but to. anything and everything uttered out of joohyun’s mouth was law, especially when it came to yerim. “it seems you’ve forgotten just who’s in charge here, yerim-ah.” she lets her breath linger along yerim’s jaw, watching the skin in front of her heat up with a blush as she says, “should I remind you?”

yerim’s voice cracks into a whine when she replies next, and joohyun hides a smirk at the desperate look in yerim's eyes. “yes.”

joohyun unbuttons the cream blazer of the younger woman. it looks like yerim didn't even bother putting on anything else under her jacket, joohyun's fingers meeting only skin and her bra. 

"yes, what, yerim-ah?" 

she hears the younger swallow hard before letting out a shaky sigh as joohyun's hands slip under her bra and circle her stiffening peaks. "yes, mommy."

joohyun retracts her hands. "good. now strip."

the younger woman holds back an obvious whimper. she must be disappointed that she has to peel her clothes off herself–joohyun usually did it herself, after all. with her hands. her teeth. her gaze locked with the CEO's. 

yerim steps out of the pile of her discarded clothes on the floor, and joohyun walks to the door left ajar. she pauses when her hand rests on the knob before chuckling. my, my, what a naughty girl. 

"did you leave this open on purpose, yerim-ah?" 

the CEO doesn't move from her place, back facing the entry to her office, inches away from the table perpendicular to her desk, stark naked. she doesn't give a response either. 

joohyun knows the grin on her own face looks feral. yerim was being naughtier than usual. 

"maybe you want someone to pass by, hm? you want them to see just how fucking dirty their CEO is, getting fucked by the chairperson?" 

yerim hisses out a breath, and joohyun chuckles darkly, pushing the wood open wider. the hallway outside is bright, which allows light to leak into the room. it isn't enough for someone to be able to peek inside–the lights were still too dim for that–but just knowing that it was a possibility to be seen, to get caught, is enough. 

"stay put," joohyun orders, in case yerim had any inclinations to start touching herself. the older woman opens the second drawer on the desk, finding just what she's looking for. and more. "these weren't here the last time…" 

she picks up the familiar pussybow tie made from sleek black silk. yerim wore this last week when they'd met–joohyun had shoved it into her mouth to keep her from making noise as she fucked her against the door. 

there was also yerim's favorite bullet vibrator in the corner of the storage space, but joohyun only slides it shut, satisfied for now. 

"bend over, honey. you want them to see your pink pussy lips, don't you?" joohyun draws out, watching yerim move in the shadows to cater to her demand. 

the younger woman leans forward, chest against the marble desk, her ass and cunt in full view, facing the entrance to her office. if anyone walked in and turned the lights on, they'd be greeted with the sight of yerim bent over, her hole oozing out slick quim, clenching around nothing but air. 

joohyun takes her time to circle back until she's behind yerim again, the silk tie in hand. "what did you want me to do with this?" 

yerim doesn't make a sound, only breathes out against the marble desk. so joohyun slaps an exposed ass cheek, ripping a cry out of the CEO, followed by a whine. 

"answer mommy," the older woman growls. "and tell her what you wanted her to do with this."

joohyun places a hand against her back and holds her down, making the younger woman groan. "blindfold me," she gasps out breathlessly. "I wanted mommy to blindfold me."

the older woman grins darkly and presses her front against yerim's exposed center, savoring the whimper she hears come from the younger woman at the feeling of her package. 

"you think you're going to get what you want?" she asks, pressing her bulge harshly against yerim's heat, eating up the delirious sounds the younger woman made. when she doesn't receive an answer, joohyun slaps yerim's other cheek. that should wake her up. 

"n-no!" yerim sobs, hands scrambling and slipping on the tabletop from her sweat, grinding back against her bulge. "I-I'm sorry, mommy!"

"damn right you're sorry," joohyun grits her teeth, sinking her nails into the soft flesh of yerim's butt. "you think you're hot shit, huh? just because you're the CEO?" 

"ah!" yerim cries and whines when joohyun slaps her once more. "no! I'm sorry, I won't–I won't do that again!" 

the older woman drags her fingers against the naked flesh of the younger woman. "who's the boss, yerim-ah? who brings out the dirty little slut in you?" 

yerim sobs into her arms, desperately tilting and pushing her hips back, joohyun minimising the friction between yerim's center and her bulging crotch by holding the younger woman firmly against the marble. "you, mommy," she pants. 

the older woman pulls yerim up by grabbing her hair and gently tugging her, yerim following her whims, limbs useless, the ultimate sign of her submission. "a bad little girl like you deserves to be punished." 

she guided yerim until they both faced the door, joohyun leaning back against the table as yerim stands in front of her. 

"put your hands behind your back, yerim-ah. I know a better use for this tie." yerim does as she's told and joohyun knots the silk in place, swiftly binding her wrists together.

the older woman then unzips her slacks and lets them fall to her knees; she didn't need to have much mobility for this, because yerim was going to do all the work. joohyun uncurled the fake cock attached to her underwear, wincing at the pull of the harness against her skin. three hours was a long time to be wearing this thing, double use or not.

she carefully brushed the tip of the silicone against yerim’s labia, making the younger girl visibly tremble. joohyun’s solution was to hold her by her long blonde hair.

“you tired me out by making me wait,” the older woman said, smirking as she tugged on yerim’s hair, causing the younger woman’s pussy to swallow another inch of her strap. “so why don’t you come and fuck yourself instead.”

joohyun let her grip on the younger woman’s hair stay loose, unwilling to help yerim in any way. she can set the pace all she wants–it doesn’t matter. yerim will still see the fault in her thinking she could take control of what happens in this office when joohyun is around.

although she can’t feel what’s happening between their sexes, joohyun can imagine it. the slight resistance of yerim’s cunt and the squelching sound made an awfully detailed image. joohyun feels the push against her hips as the dick bottoms out, yerim gasping for breath and arching her back beautifully, joohyun feelingl it as she palmed the sweaty skin.

yerim takes a second too long to relax, so joohyun slaps her ass again.

“fuck! mommy, mommy,” yerim sobs, rocking herself against joohyun’s strap. her position is far from comfortable, but that’s the point. she only thinks she’s in control. the truth is that joohyun is.

“do you like it, you slut?” joohyun grunts as yerim speeds up and knocks back onto her roughly.

yerim continues moaning, grunting every few thrusts. “yes, mommy, so good,” she blubbers out almost deliriously, and joohyun smirks wider.

“who gives it to you this good, yerim-ah?”

the younger woman cries when joohyun tugs on her hair. “haah, ah, fuck,” she gasps as joohyun responds with her hips in turn, finally meeting the poor woman’s demands. “y-you, mommy.”

“and who’s the reason you’re still here, hm? is it your eomma and appa?” joohyun grins as yerim’s weight pushes forward. the CEO was already losing strength in her limbs, just as the older woman wanted. “fucking answer me,” the chairperson hisses out and squeezes yerim’s hip, pounding into her, the sound of their hips slapping together echoing in the room and possibly even out the hallway.

“ah! it’s you, mommy, you,” yerim mewled, no longer bucking her hips back into joohyun’s, letting the chairperson have her way with her instead.

“that’s right, it’s me. I can replace you anytime with the snap of my finger, you dirty slut. don’t fucking forget that.” joohyun clicked her tongue when she felt yerim’s body get heavier, quickly pulling out and letting go, yerim collapsing into a kneel on the rug, gasping heavily. the older woman untied the binds on the younger’s wrists before making her stand, pushing her onto the table so she was on her back.

the older woman discarded her pants and shoes before swiftly closing the door and turning on the lights–revealing yerim’s flushed nakedness to whoever bothers to look into the window, its curtains set aside and of no use. 

not that there was any building around with this high of a floor, anyway.

joohyun grabs yerim’s legs and proceeds to tie her ankles instead, lifting the youngers legs and placing it atop her left shoulder. the position made for a tighter fit, and yerim’s stuttered gasp proves this as joohyun penetrates her lips with the strap once again.

“oh, fuck, mommy, yes,” the younger woman grunted, hair splayed against the dark marble, arms raised above her head. “right there–right there!”

the resistance is different too; joohyun can feel it in the drag of the cock as she pulls out, much tighter, as if yerim’s pussy didn’t want to let go. she tilts her hips up, hitting the front side of yerim’s inner walls, watches yerim’s breasts bounce from her thrusts, and takes note of how yerim’s back arches against the hard surface.

joohyun grunts as she reaches for yerim’s face, tilting it towards the window where their bodies were reflected against the glass. “look at yourself, you slut,” she hisses, holding yerim down as she continues to pump her hips against yerim’s ass. “how’s the view from the ‘top’?”

the older woman furrows her brows when she spots yerim’s eyes flicking towards her instead. “so good, mommy.”

that’s it. joohyun lets go of the younger woman’s face and starts rapidly slamming into the younger woman (–ah, ah, ah, mommy!–), pounding against her with her hips while holding the CEO’s legs against her (–mommy mommy pleasepleaseplease–), watching yerim’s body quake and convulse as she comes (–oh my god, oh fuck!). 

she pumps into the younger woman all the while, prolonging her orgasm with well-timed thrusts until yerim relaxed completely and raised a hand to half-heartedly stop her from fucking her further, breathing heavily.

and when joohyun pulls out, she does so slowly, kissing the outside of yerim’s thigh in appeasement when the younger woman gasps from the feeling of being emptied. she ingrains the sight of the yerim on the table, eyes covered by an arm over her face, skin glistening with sweat from their intercourse. 

what a pretty sight. joohyun is never going to get tired of putting the CEO in her place–especially if this is how she looks in her afterglow every time.

if the board tries to find any reason at all to strip yerim of her CEO position and, consequently, separate her and joohyun–the older woman would rip them to shreds. 

no one is allowed to take this sight away from her: the actual view from the top.

---

[vicunaburger]

Imperfect and Inhuman, are we?

Fandom: School of Rock: The Musical (AU Verse) Chapters: 3/? Pairing: Dewey Finn x OC (Magdalena Newton) The Players: Dewey Finn, Magdalena Newton, Ned Schneebly, The School of Rock Students Word Count: 1,618 Warnings: M for Future Things

Notes: I’m just gonna sit here like it hasn’t been 2 months since an update

Chapter 3 - Late Night - Taxi

It was 1:30am.

There was a light drizzle all day, which turned mostly to slush due to the drop in temperature the last few nights. Not enough to soak through to the bone, but enough to make one excessively damp, which was arguably worse depending on the type of clothing one sported.

Unhappily, Magdalena sat outside on the fire escape, her umbrella doing little against the wind whipping the rain around her at such a height. Something was wrong, and it was gnawing away at her nerves by the minute. Dewey was supposed to have been home hours ago, so why wasn’t he going into his room? His van sat parked in its usual spot, having been there when she arrived, but she didn’t see him go into the apartment building. Faint noises through the apartment caught her ear, but they weren’t his sounds. Lighter footsteps, a softer touch on the light switches and refrigerator door.

Even though they had been meeting every night for the past three weeks - sometimes only a few minutes at a time - they had not reached the point where she could venture in and out of his home as she pleased. Dewey often met her on the steps outside, or as he got home from band practice. Never the right time to invite her inside.

What if something had happened to him? He could be lying in an alleyway somewhere, beset upon by local vandals. Maybe he was tutoring one of his students and lost track of the time?

What if he was on a date?

Magdalena pulled herself into the fur collar of her coat, resembling an unhappy feline as she stared holes into the window glass. If he was on a date, without her, she was going to be extremely distressed to say the least. She wouldn’t be too angry with Dewey; perhaps she was too old fashioned in her attempts at courtship. Too slow to reach the intended result. Truth be told, she was rusty in the art of new-age courtship; the very idea that she was pursuing him without reciprocation was almost too much for her to handle. It was unladylike, but so was this entire century.

The soft sound of the window being opened in front of her brought her attention back to the present, finding herself face to face with Dewey’s roommate. He blinked at her, which she mimicked, and cleared his throat with an awkward grumble.

“Uh… can I help you?” He asked, giving her a suspicious glance.

“I take it Mr. Finn isn’t home?” Magdalena adjusted her posture, trying to put on a more intimidating air. “Why would that be?”

Ned’s eyes seemed to glaze over briefly, “He’s at the bar on 5th.”

“5th and what?” She fought the urge to roll her eyes, not wanting to risk breaking the tenuous hold she had on his subconscious.

“Matinee. It’s open mic night, he’ll be there for a while until someone drags him home. Usually me.” He explained, seemingly unbothered by her on the fire escape.

Nodding, she took a deep breath, standing in preparation for descending to the ground below, “Don’t worry about him tonight, I’ll take care of him for you. Go to sleep or… whatever you do at night. If needed, you’ll recall this conversation happened in the hallway like a perfectly normal human interaction. La revedere”

—

Magdalena stood just outside of the bar under an awning, shaking out her umbrella and doing her best to put herself in a more presentable state. Offkey caterwauling of drunken patrons made her regret her sensitive hearing, wincing as she opened the door to the chorus of an 80s love ballad.  

She weaved her way through the small bar like a serpent through the grass; the small room filled to the brim even so late into the night. It didn’t take her too long to find the musician, hearing his distinct laugh and following the sound to the far side of the bar. He was surrounded by empty beer bottles and a few random patrons - female, she noted - his face flushed with laughter and alcohol.

Dewey caught sight of his neighbor immediately; sticking out from the usual crowd wrapped in her fur trimmed coat.

“Snow! Wha- what’re you doing all the way here?” Dewey stumbled his way through the girls surrounding him, “I wanted to c-call, ya know. But I need your number… so I can call you and stuff. How’dya know I was here? Are you magic?”

He was trying to be subtle but having to yell over the noise made that rather impossible. Magdalena reached out her hands, grasping his shoulders to steady him as he wobbled in place. Dewey, perhaps misunderstanding the gesture, pulled her tight to his chest, engulfing her petite frame in a hug.

His body was so warm, she thought she might melt.

Magdalena wasn’t going to let his opportunity slip away, pressing her face into the crook of his neck, inhaling the mixed scent of his soap, sweat, and the blood sluggishly running through his veins. Even when they would sit side by side on the front steps of his apartment, she had yet to be this close to him. Social convention dictated that a certain amount of distance must be kept between people of small acquaintance.

Technically, since he was the one who broke that social boundary, she felt comfortable enough to start showing him more physical affection, and not just hidden wordplay.

“Not magic, I’m afraid, just well informed. Your roommate told me where to find you, and warned me about how inebriated you might be.” Magdalena allowed herself the small victory of sliding one hand behind his back, patting him gently. “It’s late, Mr. Finn, don’t you have practice tomorrow?”

Dewey’s gasp was audible even with the noise around them, his grip tightening around her, “Oh… oh… OH SHIT. I gotta go to sleep. Gotta go home. Not in that order. Mags!”

He let her go, placing his hands on either side of her face as he struggled to see her clearly. She could feel him adjusting the placement of her head within his vision, trying to keep her head steady as he wobbled around.

“Mags, do… do you have a car? Did you drive?” Dewey leaned forward as though they were sharing a secret. “Can you take me home? Maaaaaaags, you’re my only hope.”

Magdalena didn’t answer him at first, completely thrown off kilter by his incredible closeness and his use of a new nickname for her. “Mags” was a new moniker in her history; often being reduced to “Magda” by close friends and family only. Was he being sincere? Condescending? His logic being muddled by the amount of beer in his system?

Eh, she would take what she could get.

Magdalena nodded her head, watching him follow the movement with his own, “Come, we’ll go home, Mr. Finn. No cars, but the walk will sober you up in no time. Get your things.”

It took a while to get him out of the bar; Magdalena made sure his tab was paid, and that he had his coat on before the stepped outside. Even walking halfway down the block was a struggle, but not because he had a few pounds on her and thought it was “a great idea” to lean on her for support. It was struggle because she could very well

It wasn’t the fact she had to support him; it was the fact she had to do so without using near her full strength. Truth be told, she could have easily lifted him off his feet and carried him over her shoulder, but that would have been terribly suspicious given her small stature. It didn’t help that he would start slumping over, tripping on something or other on the sidewalk and narrowly avoiding splitting his head open on the cement.

Magdalena managed to subtly put him back on his feet, thankful that he was too muddled to notice. Suddenly, Dewey stopped cold, wobbling in place as she kept him steady.

“Maaaaags. I can’t walk anymore. My legs are bad.” He whined loudly, “How far?”

She winced at the volume, knowing it was probably the result of him unable to hear himself clearly, “We’re not even halfway to your apartment, Mr. Finn. Come on now, if you can stand, you can walk.”

Pouting, Dewey slipped himself to the ground with dead weight, sitting down on the sidewalk with a huff, “Too far.”

For a brief moment, she questioned her mental faculties in regard to her affection for him, “Ahh… I see. Would you like me to leave you here out in the rain and call transportation?”

“…no.” Dewey’s pout became more pronounced.

“Then we find ourselves at an impasse,” Magdalena bent down to be eye level with him. “Tell you what, my home is about a block away. If you can manage that distance, I will offer my sofa for the night.”

He eyed her suspiciously, “Do I get a pillow?”

She nodded, getting up and extending him a hand, “Yes, and you’ll be next to a fireplace, Mr. Finn. I am nothing if not hospitable.”

At once, Dewey leapt up from the ground on his own, seemingly catching a second wind at the prospect of a warm place to sleep. He threw his arm around Magdalena’s shoulders, squeezing her tight to him with a goofy smile plastered on his face.

“C’mon, Snow White, take me to the cottage~” He waggled his eyebrows at her, earning him a soft bit of laughter from his escort.

“Cottage isn’t the word I would use, but do as you will, Mr. Finn.”

Writing Tags:  @hoodoo12 @mr-geuse @paxenera @leiasolo77 @go-commander-kim @a-subconscious-manifestation @asriells @missihart23 @heknowshisherbs @mrgeuse @amywright @beetlebitchywitch