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#i’ve grown up watching my family drink itself to death and it just feels like there’s no other option sometimes

rainsongmp3 · 3 years

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here is the thing about alcoholism and alcohol abuse. a lot of it is learned. as a society, we’ve normalized it. college kids and like ayyy i’m such an alcoholic because they rip tequila shots when they go to party. the word got nerfed. this with the fact that alcoholism is genetic and a large component of it is generational trauma; it’s just wow. society normalizes alcoholism and then demonizes alcoholics. i grew up watching my mom drink because she had a lot of sadness and anger and was never taught how to handle it. she watched her father and grandfather drink. it becomes something that people just do: you don’t talk about your, feelings you drink about your feelings. i also grew up watching alcoholism on tv treated as a joke or even sometimes suggested as a solution to your problems. i’m even guilty of making alcoholism jokes. you’re expected to be an alcoholic and then you’re hated when you’re an alcoholic. i am frustrated.

#every time i see the dean alcoholism post i think about this and i get angry #tw alcoholism #tw alcohol abuse #cw alcohol #i’ve grown up watching my family drink itself to death and it just feels like there’s no other option sometimes #i’ve had really tough conversations with family members where they tell me about my mom’s drinking #and then it’s my job to try to get her to cut back and get help #my first thought during these conversations is always ‘i need a drink’#alcoholism is a generational trauma

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naruhearts · 4 years

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I’m done keeping my composure.

Sorry, this will be a LOADED post! (And I’ll be repeating the points others have made)

for real, to everyone being nasty and telling heartbroken fans that “Dean was always supposed to die get a grip you’re just butthurt etcetera etcetera—” F you royally.

How dare you police the brutal feelings that’s been embroiling us since the Finale That Must Not Be Named aired.

The show you think you all watched, the show you all believe was the same SPN from Season 1-4, changed at some point. Kripke wrote his original vision, put it to screen, saw it through in S5 as he intended, and closed the door on that era.

In 2008, Supernatural was adopted and inherited. As you know, there was a supreme paradigm shift post-Kripke era. The show FLOURISHED (we won’t talk about Gamble thanks). It evolved, transformed, grew beyond trauma-induced self-worthlessness and toxic masculinity and endless death and hegemonic social ideals and conservatism and repressive anti-revolutionary ideas. Castiel, the iconic favourite and beloved staple of the series portrayed by Misha Collins, was introduced in Season 4 as the core lead character, and he ushered in a brand new era of Christian mythos that SPN took advantage of. Longevity SKYROCKETED. Audiences were INTERESTED. SPN amassed an incredibly groundbreaking fanbase infused by non-nuclear principles. A massive subversive wave began, fighting the Status Quo of the times since 2008. It’s precisely why such an abysmal ending to a show of extensive Freud-Jungian metanarratively meta META complex stature and social POWER will render us totally and unbearably broken for years to come.

Point is, DEAN WINCHESTER NO LONGER WANTED TO DIE. HE WANTED TO LIVE. HE WANTED TO SIT ON THE BEACH, PLUNGE HIS TOES IN THE SAND, AND SIP UMBRELLA DRINKS WITH HIS BROTHER AND HIS BEST FRIEND. He said this in Season 13. And then, a season later, he told the ghost of his long-deceased father — the source of his deep-running trauma and the figure of self-reductive authoritarianism permeating his arc since Season 1 — after being questioned why he didn’t pursue the Nuclear Fam, that he already has his own: his brother Sam, his adopted child Jack, and Cas.

Dean’s best friend Cas. Oh god, Cas, who made his inevitably permanent mark on Dean’s soul beyond allyship. Castiel, renamed to Cas, God’s -iel removed by Dean. Dean, the human spark that lit the fire of pre-existing autonomy in the inherently rebellious angel who was, this entire time, the catalyst for free will in God The Writer’s puppet show. Their friendship set on goddamn fire. I can also write paragraph upon paragraph about my love for Cas while devastated tears stream down my face, but I digress—

Cas’ romantic love for Dean pushed our main Heart of SPN to love himself. Love is free will. Free will is also love. Of note, Cas’ love confession in 15x18 was supposed to offset something so vastly important and fundamental...to maybe (read: most likely) pull the trigger on SELF-TRUTHS in conjunction with free will. And The Great Anticipated Follow-Up to the episode penned by the passionate Berens should have included (read: seemed like it was going to be) Dean, closeted trauma survivor in love with his best friend, being given the opportunity to do it right: to SPEAK HIS TRUTH, and then that very singular opportunity was STOLEN so grossly. After poring over it for days, I refuse to believe we made their years-long story up out of thin air, spun it out of fantastical-delusional dream cotton candy, because we DIDN’T. IT WAS REAL.

As I said in another post: “I’ve just been feeling physically ill for the past >40 something hours with the terrible knowledge that 19/20 undid years of vital progression towards healthy interdependence, autonomy, and a positive endgame, where Sam, Dean and Cas close the ring of found family in final empowering self-fulfillment...where Dean, no longer repressed and set free, is able to use his words and speak his truth as a queercoded trauma survivor, henceforth confirming and self-affirming his own bisexuality since S1 by reciprocating — by telling Cas that he always loved him, too, loved him endlessly, which would have altogether divested Supernatural of its cult status and catapulted it into global worldwide significance as the longest running sci-fi genre show in American broadcasting history that actually dared to defy and, by proxy, empower LGBTQ2IA+ everywhere who found profound personal meaning in Destiel through VALIDATION,” — found themselves mirrored in Dean and Cas’ respective character journeys individually and as each other’s queer love interests.

THIS IS WHY DEAN WASN’T MEANT TO DIE.

THEY WERE SO ESSENTIAL, NOT JUST TO THE OVERARCHING STORY AND HEALTHY INTERPERSONAL THEMATICS OF MODERN SPN, BUT ALSO TO THE SOULS OF THOUSANDS OF PEOPLE ACROSS THE WORLD WHO FOLLOWED THEIR JOURNEYS, HOPED FOR THEM, ASPIRED TO BE LIKE THEM, TREASURED THEM, WEEPED FOR THEM, AND FOUGHT FOR THEM, LIKE YOU AND ME.

Heck, how could anyone think Sam Winchester had a well-deserved characteristic ending? He didn’t. Dean’s brother was shafted so badly. He stopped hunting when seasons ago, he had canonically accepted that he no longer wanted an apple pie life. He simply...turned the lights off in a resoundingly empty bunker and left — abandoning his dead brother’s room — never to return (he did return later to get the Impala, family photos etc, I mean this symbolically)...as if — dare I say it — Supernatural itself eerily told us, in the negative-spaced pitch blackness, that the organic show and the wonderfully complex, matured characters we’ve grown to love weren’t going to survive or be revisited...that it was all going to perish, and that they no longer gave a single shit about their own show, which, to me, is the worst cardinal sin, because how dare they throw Team Free Will, an immovable and indomitable and passionate found family they built from the ground up, a found family CHOCK FULL TO THE BRIM OF LOVE AND LIFE RAGING AGAINST THE AUTHORITARIAN MACHINE IN ORDER TO ACHIEVE FREE WILL, under the bus no matter who is to blame. Growth was stomped on.

Then Sam married a faceless wife who wasn’t his textually established (and deaf) love interest Eileen, named his son Dean Jr., and grew old miserably, still mourning the passing of his older brother, shaken and sombre. Back to square one. IT WAS ALL ANTITHETICAL, even OUTSIDE a shipping context, and I ripped my hair out at this point in sheer disbelief.

This 15x20 ending would have fit somewhere between S4-7. Now? IT DOESN’T FIT. IT’S A JAGGED PUZZLE PIECE THAT DOESN’T BELONG ANYWHERE. IT’S THE FOREBODING UNKNOWN STRANGER IN ITS OWN LAND, BOTH LITERALLY AND FIGURATIVELY. This kind of ending was basically an illogical, unsound cluster of metastasized cells that, to me, ruined the viability of previous seasons to sustain bold praise and respect and dignity and rewatches and classic nostalgia in such insidious ways.

Dean Humanity Winchester and Cas, after everything they’ve been through, were silenced and lost in death, ripped apart from each other, unable to love each other the way they deserved, because of disappointing, vile incompetency and homophobia. The greatest love story ever told, again obliterated in less than 60 hollow minutes.

You know what this tells your audience, CW SPN? Death without self-growth is the way to go, and no one is allowed to forge their own path to freedom.

HOW INSULTINGLY HARMFUL IS THAT?

I don’t think I’ll ever stop grieving.

We all deserve answers.

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yslkook · 3 years

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BRIGHT (2)

mind of mine masterlist

summary: you and jungkook share a moment in a bookstore. pairing: “badboy” jk x “shy/reserved” oc warnings: cursing, excessive use of pet names…bc its me

“Oh, lighten up Jeon,” Yoongi rolls his eyes, “You look like someone told you that your cat died.”

“The only kitty he wants won’t give him the time of day,” Mina grins, earning herself a glare from Jungkook.

“More like I can't get her time of day because her stupid best friend has a stick up her ass,” Jungkook mutters.

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you like this,” Mei observes, “Our baby tattoo artist pining over a girl…”

“If looks could kill, you’d be dead by now, Mei,” Yoongi says pointedly, “Now stop wasting time meddling in Jungkook’s love life, Jin will have all of our heads-”

“Love life? I don’t have a love life,” Jungkook protests, eyes adorably round.

“And that’s why you’re so broody today, honey,” Mina teases, “More so than usual at least.”

“I am not broody,” Jungkook grumbles, turning his back on his laughing coworkers and friends. He can’t help but smile at their teasing.

“Oh, lighten up, Kookie,” Mei says lightly, clapping his shoulder, “If it makes you feel any better, that girl couldn’t stop staring at you at Hobi’s birthday. And she definitely wants a piece of this.”

Jungkook ignores the raucous laughter of his friends (which only increases when Jin comes out from the backroom to add on to his suffering) and the reddening of his cheeks as he gets ready for his full day of tattoo consultations and appointments.

Jungkook’s day ends about an hour earlier than he had anticipated- his last client for the day had to reschedule due to a last minute conflict. That’s fine by him. It gives him time to stop by the bookstore a few blocks away from the tattoo parlor before it closes.

Jungkook tries his best to read at least one new book a month. He’s known the older shop owner, Jia and her young son, Jae-sung, for years now, as he had basically grown up with Jia from childhood.

He loves the quiet of the store and the immediate scent of vanilla and cedar that surrounds him as soon as he walks in. The bookstore itself has a vintage sort of feel, with dimmed lights, old shelves of mahogany and candles placed throughout the store.

Jungkook always brings croissants from the bakery nearby for Jia and little Jae-sung. Usually when he comes by, the bookstore is empty (or close to it).

Jae-sung screeches when he sees Jungkook walk in the door and immediately runs up to him, hugging his legs. Jungkook crouches, ruffling his hair fondly and Jae-sung is nearly bouncing off of the heels of his feet.

“Mommy say she have new book for you, Kookie!” Jae-sung beams, eyeing the box of croissants in Jungkook’s free hand.

“Does she?” Jungkook muses, “Your mommy always knows what kind of books I like.”

“Me too! Me too!”

“Hey, Jungkook,” Jia’s voice filters through the store as she approaches, “It’s been a while.”

“It took me a while to finish the last book. But so worth it,” He says apologetically, “I also brought croissants. Enjoy.”

“You spoil us,” Jia rolls her eyes, “The new arrivals are in the back, third aisle from the left. You know the drill.”

Jia has known Jungkook since he was a baby in diapers- she’s been his aunt’s close friend for years and years now. Jungkook likes to joke that he likes Jia more than his own aunt, and Jia always reprimands him (without really meaning it).

He thought the bookstore was empty, save for Jia and Jae-sung. But he’s clearly mistaken, when he sees a figure in an olive green sweater and black jeans perusing through the new arrivals with their bottom lip tucked between their teeth in concentration.

He recognizes them immediately and when the person raises their head in curiosity, he sees your wide eyes and a shy smile starting to pull across your lips.

You’re here, in his favorite bookstore where he feels like he’s at home. If he was looking for a sign, then this was it.

“Hi,” You say softly, waving your fingers at him, “So you like reading, huh?”

You visibly cringe and Jungkook chuckles. Your cheeks feel warm when you take him in, swirls and dots of his tattoos peeking out of his black leather jacket and beckoning you closer to him. The three hoops in his left ear glint with the light and the dangling earring on his right ear dangles with the movement of his head. His hair is tied back into a ponytail, accentuating the curve of his jaw and his soft dimples.

Your breath is stolen away when you meet his eyes, deep brown and murky, popping against the peach eyeshadow on his eyelids.

You nearly swoon on the spot before you get your bearings. Maybe he’d catch you if your knees buckled, you think dryly. How embarrassing.

“I try reading something new once a month,” Jungkook replies, pulling you out of your reverie, “And I just like the bookstore in general. Sometimes I like to just come here and hang out with Jia and Jae-sung.”

“Oh! Jia makes my favorite lavender chamomile tea. There’s nothing like it,” You say a little dreamily, “Jae-sung is a cutie. That boy can just look at you and you’d be putty in his hands. Kinda like you.”

The last bit slips out of your mouth without you meaning for it to.

“Kinda like me, huh,” Jungkook smirks, eyes glittering, “It would be fun to see if you’d be putty in my hands, wouldn’t it?”

“The world may never know,” You mumble sheepishly and avoid his eyes again, “What kind of book are you looking for?”

“The one you’re holding, baby,” Jungkook murmurs, looking past your shoulder for another copy of the same book.

“Are you looking for this book just because I’m reading it or because you’ve been genuinely eyeing it?” You ask boldly, a hint of a smile playing on your lips.

“Oh, you’re funny,” Jungkook snorts, walking past you to grab the book off of the shelf.

“So I’ve been told,” Your eyes flash, “We should do a boozy book club.”

“Is it a book club if it’s just the two of us?”

“It can be whatever we want it to be,” You shrug, “Besides, don’t you wanna hang out with me?” You tilt your head and Jungkook’s resolve weakens. His heart does something funny- is this how it’s supposed to be?

“Of course I wanna hang out with you, baby,” Jungkook murmurs smoothly, “C’mon, let’s go have some of Jia’s tea. And a croissant too, if Jae hasn’t eaten them already.”

Jungkook glares at Jia the entire time that she’s making tea for both of you. He knows her sly, curious eyes and was unable to keep the surprise off of her face when you had both walked down the stairs together.

She even had the audacity to wink at him. He hopes that the family groupchat doesn’t start blowing up when Jia inevitably informs his aunt and mother about this new development.

“Kookie,” Jae-sung whispers (loudly) when you step away to use the bathroom, “Is dat your girlfriend?”

“What?” Jungkook hisses, “Who told you that?”

“My mommy say I ask you! I not know!”

“No, Jae, that’s not my girlfriend,” Jungkook mumbles, shooting Jia another death glare. She only smiles smugly at him from her spot behind the counter.

Jia leaves him alone for the most part when you return and take your seat next to him. He can still feel her eyes on you both as she washes teacups, watching like a hawk.

“These croissants are so good,” You nearly moan, “Where’d you get them?”

“There’s a bakery near the tattoo parlor,” Jungkook says, “You should come by sometime.”

“The bakery or the parlor?”

“Both?”

“I’ve only been there a few times,” You muse, “I hear you’re the best tattoo artist there. From the mouth of Hobi and Jin themselves.”

“Don’t let Mina and Mei hear you say that,” Jungkook says weakly, rubbing the back of his neck. His cheeks are a little pink and you resist chuckling to yourself.

“I’ve always wanted to get a second piercing,” You trail off, “But never really committed to it.”

“What would you want to get? We do piercings, too,” Jungkook says.

“Cartilage? Industrial? I don’t know,” You shrug, sipping your tea.

“Mina usually has a good eye for that,” Jungkook admits, “Now you have more of a reason to stop by.”

“Oh, I already had a reason to stop by the parlor,” You say brazenly with a sweet smile.

“Is that so?” Jungkook says, quirking an eyebrow at you.

You hum and continue to sip your tea, wondering if he can somehow hear the loud rattling of your eager heart in your ribcage.

Conversation with him comes so easily and you don’t know when the last time you had spent this long with him was. Something always seems to interrupt you both when you eventually do find yourselves alone with each other during outings with friends. But this time, it’s just you and him tucked away in this bookstore.

The sun has long gone down and Jia was about to close the bookstore for the day. In fact, the only reason she kept it open for this long was because of you both. You apologize profusely with worried eyes when you realize the time and see Jae-sung fast asleep in his mother’s arms.

She waves you off, giving Jungkook a lingering look that you don’t understand.

“I’ll be back soon,” You promise Jia in a soft voice, so as to not wake Jae-sung, “Be well, Jia.”

She bids you both goodnight, and unbeknownst to you, she shoots Jungkook a simple text. It states: “keep her close, i like her”.

Jungkook ignores it in favor of focusing on you.

“How you getting home, baby?” Jungkook asks as you both walk up the block shoulder to shoulder.

“Hmm… I’m supposed to meet Sora for dinner but she said she’s stuck at work,” You murmur, wrapping your arms around yourself as you scroll on your phone, “But I was just on social media and it looks like she’s getting drinks with her other friends…”

You look at him with a frown tugging at your lips and your eyes wide. “Maybe it was a last minute thing,” You mumble to yourself.

“Or maybe she lied to you,” Jungkook says sharply. You only look at him in silence for a few moments with furrowed brows.

“Maybe there was a reason,” You shrug, “Why would she lie about that?”

Because she’s Sora, and she just would. But Jungkook stays silent. You don’t need to hear about how he dislikes your best friend, at least not yet. Not when you’re not ready to hear it.

“Forget about her,” Jungkook says easily, “Lemme take you home, baby.”

“I’m not riding that metal death contraption,” You say flatly, “You just got it! Like two weeks ago! You don’t even have an extra helmet, and forget a helmet, I need elbow pads and knee pads-”

“Will you relax,” Jungkook says, putting your books in the small basket he built into the front of the motorcycle.

“No, I will not relax, Jeon Jungkook!” You nearly screech, “This is so dangerous, we could both fall in the road and then what? Become roadkill for the next soccer mom van to run us both over? Death by soccer mom, what a way to go-”

“Are you done?” Jungkook says dryly.

“No, actually, I’m not done-”

“You trust me, baby?” Jungkook asks, hand on your shoulder. You can’t even properly appreciate the warmth of his large hand over your jacket.

“Of course I trust you, I don’t trust that,” You point at the motorcycle accusingly and Jungkook rolls his eyes. You can already feel your resolve weakening. He wordlessly places his own helmet over your own head and you glare at him, about to start your tirade again.

“You take mine,” Jungkook murmurs, “And hold on to me.”

“You can’t just give me your helmet, what if you fall? Or worse, get pulled over?”

“Or worse, get pulled over, are you joking-”

“Jungkook! Be serious!”

“I am being serious! You said you only live ten minutes from here, just relax. I won’t let anything happen to either of us,” Jungkook says, tongue poking the inside of his cheek.

“If anything happens, it’s your head on a platter and I’m bringing it to the tattoo parlor.”

“How can you do that if we both die?”

“Shut the fuck up,” You say, but a laugh escapes your lips. Jungkook sits on his bike and looks at you expectantly.

“C’mon, baby,” Jungkook coaxes you and you awkwardly sit behind him, making sure that your legs don’t touch his and your arms are safely away from him.

“If you sit like that, you’ll definitely fall off,” Jungkook snorts, “Wrap your arms around me.”

You hesitate, afraid of touching him like this for whatever reason. He unnerves you and you feel completely exposed like this. You’ve never really been this close to anyone, at least anyone who made you feel the way Jungkook makes you feel.

Biting the bullet, you tensely wrap your arms around his narrow waist loosely. “Good girl,” Jungkook murmurs, “Tighter, baby. I don’t bite, unless you want me to.”

Your stomach flips at his words, subconsciously wrapping your arms around his narrow waist even more tightly. Your fingers graze the hard press of his tummy over his jacket and you almost moan at how warm and strong he feels. He smells nice, like Sunday morning laundry.

“Ugh, you’re annoying-” And then you shriek as he pulls away from the road and shoots off into the night with you plastered against his backside.

“See that wasn’t so bad, was it?” Jungkook says, taking the helmet off of you. He’s met with a glare but you sigh in defeat.

“No, I guess it wasn’t. But I never want you driving this hunk of death without a helmet for yourself,” You say, poking his chest.

“You should be nicer to her,” Jungkook says, taking your finger in his large hand.

“You’re right, it’s you that I should be mean to,” You roll your eyes. You wonder if Jungkook could feel your heart slamming in your chest (in fear, adrenaline and excitement) as you hung tight to him. You had refused to look up, pressing your face into his back and squeezing your eyes shut the entire way. Jungkook had only chuckled.

The heat in your eyes melts away quickly once Jungkook helps you off of the motorcycle. “Thanks for taking me home, Jungkook,” You murmur, “I’m glad I ran into you at the bookstore.”

“Any time, baby,” Jungkook says. A strand of dark hair falls from his ponytail and into his face. You reach your fingers up to thread through his hair before pushing it back behind his ear for him.

“Get home safe,” You say, with stars in your eyes, “Can I hug you?” When he nods, and before you can change your mind or convince yourself out of it, you wrap your arms around him. And before he can properly return it, you dash into your apartment building while calling out “text me when you get home!”

Hours later, when he’s in the comfort of his home, he decides that he likes the way your spicy vanilla scented perfume clings to his leather jacket.

tags: @kookdbean @tiemeuptogoldenchains @boymeetsparadise @jungkooksseuphoria

#jungkook x reader #jungkook fluff #jeon jungkook x reader #jeon jungkook fluff #badboy jk #badboy jungkook

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theladyofdeath · 3 years

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Life As We Know It {Chapter Two}

Summary: After the sudden deaths of Nesta’s sister and Cassian’s best friend, they gain guardianship of their nephew, Nyx.

Based on Life As We Know It (2010) and a prompt sent in by anonymous for our Nessian fanfic contest. This is a modern au.

Instead of doing a tag list for this story, we have decided to have a set posting schedule. Chapters will be posted weekly on Mondays and Thursdays. Chapters will be posted on both my and Shelby's blogs! >> @snelbz

Life As We Know It Masterlist

Shelby's Masterlist

Tara's Masterlist

Trigger warning: death

The vibrations beneath her pillow had nearly stopped by the time Nesta dug it out and held it up to her ear.

“Hell-hello?” she asked, barely able to keep her eyes open, barely able to get the words out.

Her eyes adjusted as she sat up and looked at the alarm clock on Feyre and Rhysand’s bedside table.

1:26 a.m.

“Is this Nesta Archeron?” a quiet, female voice asked.

It was the tone that got Nesta.

It was the tone that had her sitting up straight, her heart slowing in her chest. “Yes, this is Nesta.”

“Nesta, this is Claire from Velaris Hospital,” she began. “There’s been an accident-.”

It was all she heard.

After that, everything became blurred and the words that Claire spoke made absolutely no sense at all.

Rhys and Feyre were supposed to be home the following evening, the last she’d heard from her sister, she and Rhys were going to dinner and then out dancing before heading back up to the cabin.

That had been a little before eight, almost six hours ago. She could hear the rain coming down, much harder than it had been when she’d gone to bed, even a few hours before. Nyx had been asleep by seven, only waking up to cry once or twice a night the whole time she’d been watching him. All in all, the weekend had been uneventful, but she was ready for Rhys and Feyre to be home, so she could go home to her townhouse, to peace and quiet and blessed, blessed silence.

But as she quickly tucked Nyx into his car seat, doing her best not to wake the sleeping baby up, she tried not to think about the phone call. She tried not to think about the firm, but steady tone of voice as she drove across town, to the hospital.

She had been to the hospital before.

Twice in the last fifteen years.

Once when her mother passed, once her sickness finally took her.

And once again when their father passed over complications from his heart surgery.

Nesta hated that drive, hated pulling into the hospital’s parking lot. She didn’t trust it, not one bit. She hated it. Hated the ground on which it stood.

As she parked her car in front of the building, she looked in the rearview mirror. Nyx was still fast asleep, completely unaware of what was happening, completely unaware of the phone call that had just occurred only half an hour before.

There’s been an accident.

Nesta got out of the car. She shut the driver’s side and went to the back. She carefully unbuckled Nyx from his carseat and picked him up, holding him tightly against her chest as she covered him with his oldest, softest, favorite blanket.

The parking lot was nearly empty.

Nesta carried Nyx inside.

You need to come quickly.

She found Azriel by the doors leading deeper into the hospital, calling out his name as soon as she saw him. He turned, and she nearly froze at the look on his face, the paleness and hollow look in his eyes. But she couldn’t and she hurried to where he stood, with a stone-faced doctor.

We did everything we could.

The next few minutes were a blur of explanations and condolences, but Nesta could do nothing but hold onto Nyx, still sleeping soundly in her arms. She hadn’t even realized she was crying until Azriel slid an arm around her shoulders, offering her what little comfort he could.

They’re gone.

They had been driving back to the cabin when the storm had hit. Both of them had been drinking, but not enough to even break the blood alcohol level. The winding roads leading up into the mountains quickly grew slick and when they hydroplaned, Rhys had lost control of the car.

With how hard it was coming down, he hadn’t even seen the ledge coming up, or how far the drop was to the bottom of the ravine.

Nesta prayed that wherever they had gone after their final breath that they were together.

And that Rhysand wouldn’t be blaming himself.

It wasn’t his fault.

She repeated that prayer one after the other until she had begun to doze in and out of sleep.

When she woke, it was nearly five in the morning.

Nyx had slept through it all, hadn’t even realized what had happened. When they got home, Nesta had laid him in his crib, where he had remained, sleeping soundly, ever since.

4:56 a.m.

Nesta had managed to sleep for nearly forty-five minutes.

That in itself was a blessing.

Yet, as she threw her legs over the side of the bed, Nesta felt guilty. How could she sleep after the news she had just received?

None of it seemed real.

Her little sister, her youngest sister.

Dead.

All that was left of their family was her and Elain.

Her, and Elain, and Nyx, and Seph.

Dad. Mom. Feyre.

Gone.

Nesta stumbled into the bathroom and looked in the mirror. She didn’t feel a thing. After turning the faucet on, letting the cold water run for a minute, she splashed some on her face.

It didn’t bring her back to reality like she was hoping for.

She was hoping it was all a dream.

But it wasn’t.

Her legs carried her into Nyx’s nursery, where she sat for the next couple of hours, watching him sleep, peacefully. Not knowing, not realizing, not understanding his parents were never coming home.

She heard the front door open around seven-thirty, rushing down the stairs, praying that she had, in fact, dreamed it all and Rhys and Feyre would be coming inside, home a few hours early.

But it wasn’t Rhys, or Feyre. Instead, it was another familiar head of golden-brown hair, her eyes trained in the hardwood just inside the walkway. The door had barely closed before Nesta made it down the stairs and wrapped her arms around Elain.

They both collapsed, falling to their knees on the worn rug, as Elain sobbed into her sister’s shoulder.

The following days were a blur. A constant stream of people calling, texting, reaching out to see what could be done. Nesta and Elain handled the arrangements, with Azriel’s help, but none of them realized how prepared Feyre and Rhys had been for their own deaths.

Maybe it was because they’d both lost their parents young. Maybe it was because they didn’t want Nyx to ever have to deal with it on his own. All Nesta had to do was sign some paperwork and present their death certificates.

The funeral home had taken it from there.

She sat in the corner of the room, wearing a simple black dress that Feyre had always told her looked matronly on anyone else, but made her look like a badass CEO. It was one of her favorites. She figured Feyre would have wanted her to wear it today.

She hadn’t been able to bring herself to look into the caskets yet, to see what her sister and brother-in-law looked like, if they even looked like themselves.

She’d never be able to wipe the memory of their pale, lifeless bodies from her mind, as she and Azriel had to confirm that it was them in the hospital. Until that moment, she’d held out hope that maybe they had been wrong. That maybe someone had stolen their car and they were waiting at the bar for the rain to die down.

But even in death she couldn’t mistake their faces.

She couldn’t imagine that they looked anything like they once did, knowing that she’d never see Feyre’s bright smile or amusement sparking in Rhysand’s eyes.

The funeral dragged on, a preacher they had grown up with leading the crowd that had gathered. Nesta was asked if she wanted to say something, but she didn’t. What was there to say? There was too much to say.

Nesta couldn’t.

So, she didn’t.

They carried the caskets out and loaded them up in the hearses.

Nesta didn’t remember getting behind the wheel, didn’t remember loading Nyx into his carseat, didn’t remember driving to the cemetery.

And yet, she ended up standing in front of a set of holes in the ground with Nyx on her hip. Only a few words were said before the caskets were lowered into the ground.

Nesta wondered what was going through Nyx’s head. The one-year-old didn’t make a sound, not a peep as the day went on. He simply remained perfectly calm, his head resting on Nesta’s shoulder as she swayed back and forth.

“I can take him, if you want to say goodbye.”

Nesta spun around, meeting the eyes of Cassian Nazari.

He’d been crying, she could tell. If it wasn’t for the redness in his puffy eyes, Nesta surely would have snapped.

“There’s no need,” Nesta said, with an empty calmness. “I’ve already said my goodbyes.”

It was a lie, of course.

Could you ever really say goodbye to someone you loved?

He didn’t push her, just silently stepped up next to her and stared at the mounds of dirt. Nearly everyone was gone, Azriel taking a silent, distant Elain home. Mor, Emerie, Gwyn, Amren, and Varian had left just a few minutes after them. The only ones still present were those who had filled the graves, the preacher, saying a few final prayers for peace, and the three of them.

“I don’t…” His voice was rough, in a way she’d never heard it. “I keep waiting for him to call me and tell me it’s all dumbass prank,” he breathed. “That this was all some elaborate joke to get back at me for something.”

Nesta nodded, understanding. She blinked, but was unable to stop the few silent tears from sliding down her cheeks. She didn’t know what to say, but for once she agreed with Cassian.

“If you, uh, need anything…” Cassian began, before shaking his head and taking a deep breath. “If you need anything just give me a call.”

Nesta nodded once. She knew he was just saying it out of kindness due to the situation, but she supposed it was still a kind offer.

“I’ll be fine,” she said, after a moment had passed. Without giving Cassian another glance, she was turning toward her car, walking away.

Her legs became heavier with each step she took, but she continued onward until she was sitting behind the wheel of her little black car, Nyx buckled into his carseat.

He began to fuss.

Nesta understood.

Maybe he was beginning to realize that his mom and dad were never coming back.

As Nesta drove back toward the house, her vision blurred as the tears came.

The next few days passed by slowly. She and Nyx made it just fine, but the time seemed to drag on and on and on.

She had just put Nyx down for his afternoon nap when her phone began to ring, a number she didn’t recognize showing up on her screen.

She hesitated for a moment, not sure if she could handle another one of Rhys or Feyre’s friends offering their condolences. Their pity.

Ultimately, she grabbed her phone, swiping across the screen to answer the call.

“Nesta Archeron speaking.”

A smooth voice came from the other end of the line. “Ms. Archeron, my name is Tarquin Hadrian.”

She paused. The name didn’t seem familiar, so she cleared her throat. “How can I help you, Mr. Hadrian?”

“I’m terribly sorry for your loss, Ms. Archeron,” he began. Nesta sighed quietly, waiting for the words to continue, but he said something she wasn’t expecting. “I’m the Lunasa’s attorney. I was hoping to speak with you about their will.”

Shit. Nesta hadn’t even thought about a will, hadn’t thought about any of the plans Rhys and Feyre had made. If they’d planned everything, down to their burials and graves, surely they had prepared a last will and testament. “Of- Of course.”

“Are you free this afternoon?” He asked. “I know it’s short notice, but I’d wanted to give your family as much time as possible to grieve, however, there are some matters that need to be handled sooner rather than later.”

“Yes, I can be there any time,” she said, looking at the clock. Nyx wouldn’t be up from his nap for another hour or so, but she could figure something out. “When would you prefer?”

“Is three o’clock okay?”

After Nesta’s agreement, he was giving her the address to his office and the call was over and Nesta was calling Elain, asking to drop Nyx off on her way over. She didn’t want to wake him, nor did she think a meeting with a lawyer was a good place for a one-year-old.

An hour later, she was pulling into the parking lot of the small law office, and she froze in her car when she spied a familiar truck across the lot.

What in the hell was he doing here?

Nesta made her way inside, letting the pretty receptionist know who she was here to see and she was escorted back to a plush office.

Cassian already waited inside, sitting across the desk from a handsome, dark-skinned man.

“Ms. Archeron,” he said, standing, extending a hand. Nesta shook it with her own. She didn’t miss that Cassian merely sat there as she entered. “Thank you for meeting with me.”

“Of course,” she nodded, taking the seat next to Cassian. Neither of them acknowledged the other, which was for the best.

There was a large stack of papers on Tarquin’s desk and as he sat, he began to lead through them one by one. Sighing, he laid his hands atop the papers.

“I’m going to cut right to the chase here,” he said. “Did Feyre or Rhys talk with either of you about what should happen to Nyx in the event that both of them should die?”

A glance at each other, but they both shook their heads. Cassian said, “No.”

Another deep breath. “They...named the two of you.”

His blue eyes looked between them, and it took Nesta a moment to realize he wasn’t just speaking to her. Just as long as it took Cassian to realize the same.

As one, they both leaned forward, Nesta resting her hands on the desk, Cassian letting his elbows fall in his knees. Nesta said, “They picked us together?” at the same time Cassian asked, “I’m sorry, what?”

Tarquin cleared his throat. “I tried to advise them against it. An unmarried couple, with your own personal history…”

“I don’t understand,” Nesta said, shaking her head. “I…don’t understand.”

“Yeah, me either,” Cassian added.

“Here,” Tarquin said, handing the two of them a letter.

Neither of them reached for it, but Tarquin didn’t back down. He held out the piece of paper until Nesta snatched it and opened it up.

Cassian hovered over her as she read.

Cassian and Nesta,

We are writing this letter in case of a tragedy. Of course, we don’t expect a tragedy to happen, but you never know.

In case something does happen, you’re to take custody of Nyx. Both of you. We know you two don’t get along, but if something were to happen to us, we need you. You see, we want Nyx to have a mom and a dad. We want him to have two people who love and support him no matter what.

There’s a reason we chose you both to be godparents.

Nesta, you have a heart bigger than anyone we’ve ever met, even though you don’t often show it. When you care about someone, you care about them wholeheartedly. You devote your life to them. You make them feel loved, make them feel wanted, make them feel protected. And we know you care about Nyx.

Cass, you love more fiercely than anyone we have ever known. You were dealt a poor hand as a child, and instead of making you bitter, it made you stronger. It made you realize how you want others to be treated, instead of the opposite. You would make an incredible father. Therefore, we made you godfather.

The two of you are opposite halves of the same coin. One of you cannot succeed without the other, even though you’d both probably argue against that statement.

Look.

If you’re reading this, it means that something awful has happened. If you’re reading this, it means that we are gone. And, if we are gone, Nyx needs someone. He needs his godparents.

We know you’re scared. We know you’re heartbroken. But, if you love us, the two of you will work together to create a family-like environment for Nyx.

We love you both.

We believe in you both.

Tell Nyx we love him, too. So damn much.

Rhysand and Feyre

Nesta’s hands shook as she lowered the letter. “We… The two of us can’t… We can barely be in the same room as each other, much less take care of a child.”

“As I said, I advised them against this, especially once they explained your personal history to me,” Tarquin said, leaning back in his chair. He laid a hand atop the paper on his desk again. “As I mentioned before, they were very thorough in their planning, even going so far as to put a sum of a portion of their life insurance to pay off the mortgage of their home. They’ve left it to the two of you as well, to ensure Nyx has the easiest time possible. No on and off weekends, no moving back and forth.”

Nesta was still processing his words, when Cassian asked, “Wait, so we’re supposed to live together? Not only take care of him, which I’ll do anyways, but live in the same house?”

With a blink, Nesta looked at him. “You’ll take care of him? I’ve been taking care of him for over a week now.”

“Well, he’s my responsibility, too,” he replied, practically snarling at her. “I’m not going to disrespect Rhys’s wishes by shirking it off on someone else.”

Nesta was about to say something else, was ready to snap, but Tarquin cut her off. “It was my duty to give you the letter, per their will. What you do with it is up to you.”

Nesta left twenty minutes later, ready to set the entire city on fire. She burst out the front doors but didn’t leave alone. Cassian was just behind her, right on her heels, calling her name.

“I’m his godfather and I’m not letting Rhys down,” he said.

She wasn’t backing down, either. “You realize this isn’t a part time job, right? This is a lifetime commitment, Cassian-.”

“You think I don’t know that?” He asked, stopping in front of her. He paused and blinked, as if he’d just realized she didn’t have him with her. “Where is he?”

She scoffed. “With Elain and Seph. I didn’t want to bring him because I wasn’t sure what this meeting would entail. He’d just gone down for a nap and I didn’t want to mess his schedule up.”

She watched as the words registered, watched as he processed them. He probably didn’t even know Nyx had a nap schedule, and he sure as hell didn’t know what it was.

Nevermind the fact that she hadn’t known it the week before, when Feyre had explained it to her before they’d left. Before they’d-.

Tears stung her eyes, trying to spill over as they always did when she thought about her sister, about Rhys. The fire inside her, the will to fight with Cassian, disappeared almost immediately.

“I need to go get him,” she said, adjusting the purse strap on her shoulder, stepping off the curb towards her car.

Cassian didn’t follow her, and when she pulled out of the parking lot, he was still standing in front of the law offices, looking as lost as she felt.

#nessian #modern au #life as we know it #fanfic #fanfiction #collab #shacmc #acotar #acosf #sjm

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giorno-plays-piano · 4 years

Text

Promises

Hi dear! As agreed, I’ve changed it to dad’s friend!Bucky <3 Hope you’re going to enjoy this!

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader

Warnings: yandere, obsession, age gap, daddy kink, allusion to non-con, death of minor characters.

Words: 3000.

_______________________

Looking at the lonely chocolate muffin laying on the table in front of you, you closed your eyes for a couple of seconds, making a wish: it was your birthday, and you were stuck in some filthy roadside diner with no one but Mr. Barnes by your side.

Bucky. You were ought to call him Bucky, you reminded yourself, opening your eyes and blowing softly on a single candle sitting on the top of your muffin.

It wasn’t his fault you two ended up here - there had been a huge accident on your way back home, a tanker truck exploded into flames in the middle of the highway. In fact, you were lucky you were far away since several drivers and passengers who had the misfortune to be close to the truck had already been declared dead. It was all over the news, most of the people inside diner glued to the old TV hanging on the wall.

Staring at the candle, you carefully pulled it off and dropped it on a cheap white napkin, taking the muffin and eagerly having a bite. Mr. Barn... Bucky watched you from the other side of the table, his coffee already long cold. There was no smile on his face as you quietly said thank you to him, but you barely remembered him smiling at all despite knowing him for several years at the very least. He was your dad’s friend, and he often visited your house to share a beer and watch hockey with your dad late in the evening. Who could imagine it would be Bucky of all people helping you stay afloat.

“What did you wish for?” He asked you, and chuckled grimly at him, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand. Apparently, you had to keep it a secret to make your wish come true, but it didn’t matter now.

“To have a family.”

You gulped down a sob and stared at the red table as Bucky reached out to pat your shoulder gently. Both of you knew what you meant, but you had no strength to talk about it again. It was still painful as hell.

“It will get better.” He said quietly as you nodded, wiping away your tears and gulping down your coke. “You need time.”

Yeah, time, that was what everyone around you kept saying as if time could change the fact you were all alone now; as if it could make you forget all that happened and keep the pain away. What could time do? Make you insensitive, unsympathetic, and unable to feel anything at all. All this time could probably do to you, sure.

He bought a couple of ham sandwiches and bottles of coke for the evening and left with you following him closely. The motel room was just as dirty as the diner, but you didn’t expect anything else, preparing to cleaning it up - anyway, there wasn’t much you could do around here. Although there were lots of people stuck here along with you two, you had no wish to go talk to them about the tragedy. You had your own already, and it was enough for you.

“Your uncle looks scary on this photo.” Your phone buzzed in your pocket, and you picked it up, reading the message from April, your best friend - your only friend, to be completely honest. “Like he’s straight out of those serial killer documentaries.”

“April, come on."

"what, I'm serious lol"

"Maybe he’s not your sunshine guy, but he’s the only one who stayed with me after all that happened."

"And he is NOT my uncle!”

“sorry girl just wanted to cheer you up”

You smiled at the text, missing Bucky’s gaze as he came closer to you.

“Who’s that?” He asked, and you raised your eyes at him, immediately getting back to your grim state.

“April. She saw the photo I sent her.” Explaining quietly, you tried pretending you were happy, stretching your lips in a thin smile and thinking whether Bucky could feel it. “She’s checking on how we are here.”

“Good.”

With that he left to bathroom, leaving you on your knees scrubbing the floor. He was bad at cleaning - really bad, missing tons of dirty spots to the point it felt like he didn’t clean anything at all. That was why you preferred doing it yourself. Besides, it was him who paid for the room and food despite you trying to share the expenses, so you felt obliged to him.

Bucky certainly wasn’t the most talkative or friendly type, but he still cared about you, supporting you the way he could. Even if he was way older than you, and a part of you still didn’t feel very comfortable around him, Bucky was the only one by your side. He agreed living with you when most of your relatives had little interest in staying even for a few days longer, leaving you all alone. He helped you with all the legal stuff you knew nothing about, never having to deal with these issues before. He gave you a drive to your university campus every morning and called you every time when you were supposed to come home, probably afraid you’d do something to yourself. That was what you thought, at least.

He was a good man. Maybe a little gruff, seemingly unfriendly, intimidating even, but still better then all those who promised to look after you and then vanished.

“I’m going to go for a walk.” Bucky said after leaving bathroom and putting his sneakers on. “Will you be okay by yourself?”

You felt shame bubbling up inside you at his words. He still thought you might be suicidal.

“Of course. I’ll be waiting here.”

With that he nodded and left you alone with a bright pack of Lysol and dirty doormat on the floor. Sighing, you felt relieved, finally staying all by yourself in the grim silence of the room. It wasn’t that bad. You weren’t stuck together somewhere in the desert with no food and shelter. Tomorrow morning you’d be able to return home from that little improvised vacation Bucky organized purely for you, staying in a cabin close to the beautiful lake in the woods. It wasn’t his fault you were spending your birthday like this, scrubbing the floor clean and wiping the dust from shelves and nightstands instead of celebrating somewhere in the club with April, drinking fancy cocktails.

In half an hour you finished the clean up and had a shower, changing into your funny pink pajamas - you knew your looked pathetic in it, considering how old it was, but it was one of the things that made you feel safe. Anyway, Bucky didn’t care about the way you looked, so you simply wore whatever you found comfortable, often looking like a kid who was too big to fit into their old clothes.

“Whatcha doin??” A message popped up on the screen as you checked your phone again.

“Gonna go to sleep, I guess. I didn’t sleep well yesterday again.”

“i have a gooood recipe for a nice 8-hour sleep”

“Really? What’s that?”

Instead of answering you clearly, she sent you a link. To your horror, instead of checking the name first you simply clicked on it and found out April sent you some porno. Groaning, you quickly turned it off, afraid somebody gonna hear it - the walls here were out of paper, you could swear.

“WHAT THE HELL IS THIS?” You typed furiously. “Are you mad?”

“come on, what are we, holy virgins?? Ima telling you, this thing works! Just try it, you’ll be sleeping after this in no time!”

“April, even if I’m gonna believe this crap, Bucky just went for a walk. I have no clue when he’s going to come back. Do you really think I’m ready to do this when he’s around?”

“damn girl just don’t put earphones, cover yourself with a blanket and sit facing the door.” You could literally see her rolling her eyes at you. “you’re a grown up, there’s nothing to be ashamed of. When you hear the man coming, just turn it off!”

Rubbing your eyes tiredly, you muted your phone and carefully opened the link again, trying to understand what kind of porno she sent you exactly. Apparently, it was that daddy thing she kept telling you about - you read the name of the video, and your face grew unbearably hot in a second. Damn, this girl had no shame whatsoever.

But maybe she was right: you needed to release some tension that had been building up over the last months. It was quite an innocent way to do it, really, and you’d be careful enough to do it before Bucky came back, finding anything suspicious. You were a human being, after all! There was nothing nasty in what you were going to do, you tried assuring yourself.

“I’m gonna regret it.”

“NO GIRL YOU WON’T! Treat yourself!!”

Laughing, you quickly dropped your phone on your bed, taking a tablet out of your backpack along with a pair of pink socks - you couldn’t explain it, but your feet were always getting cold while you pleasured yourself. Getting comfortable on your bed and wrapping a comforter around yourself, you opened your tablet, setting the volume level low and finding that link April sent you. You threw a quick glance to the door, prepared to switch the tablet off any second if Bucky was going to show up. Shoot, were you doing it for real? Yes, yes you were.

Opening the video, you bit down on your lower lip, a little ashamed still. Trying to get these thoughts out of your head, you concentrated on what was happening in the video, watching a girl sitting on the lap of a beefy bearded man stroking her ass. He was speaking to her softly, but in a very low, husky voice, and you realized it was getting warm in between your thighs. You closed your eyes, listening to the voice that, along with a sound of him slapping the girl, was making you aroused way more than the picture itself.

"Have you been good, princess?" The man whispered, and you could see the smug grin on his face even with your eyes closed.

Yes, you have, you thought, your hand slowly trailling down your belly and touching the elastic of your cotton panties.

Fuck, you heard the sound of one more slap and bit your lip again, imagining it was you he spanked, caressing your raw, hot skin with his calloused palm, his fingers digging in your soft flesh when you tried moving away, quietly squirming from his touch. You were a good girl for him. You'd do what your daddy told you, baring your ass in front of him and getting back on his lap, moving on top of him, making him feel you through the fabric of his pants until you ruined them. Would daddy be happy if you rode him, moaning like some dirty slut until he shut you with his mouth? Would he like you cumming on his cock with your eyes rolling inside your skull out of immense pleasure?

With your fingers on your clit, you gently stroked that bundle of nerves, getting more and more wet until you soaked your panties, listening to the voice of that man and imagining being with your own daddy, somebody who would take care of you, somebody who would never leave you alone and comfort you when you needed it the most. Oh, were you crying, thinking of it? You could feel your eyes growing wet as you softly moaned. You imagined the man touching your hair and kissing your forehead, and tears were now streaming down your cheeks.

You were pathetic, you thought. You couldn't even pleasure yourself while watching porno anymore.

Softly sobbing, you kept listening to the video, touching your sleek folds and missing the shadow that descended upon you - you couldn't see the stranger behind the window, watching you sitting there on your bed with a tablet in front of you, seeing the video clearly. Maybe Bucky couldn't hear it from the outside, but he knew it - he saw it a couple of weeks ago when he felt a little lonely.

You almost cummed when you heard the steps right outside the door, inmediately hitting the screen to stop the video and hiding your tablet beneath the comforter. You didn't figure out anything better than pretending you were already asleep, aside from the fact it was barely seven.

Covering your head, you prayed Bucky didn't see anything suspicious, mentally cursing April for sending you the link. Shit, you knew this wasn't going to end well! Why on Earth did you even tried something as reckless and stupid as this when Bucky could show up any minute?

"I know you're not sleeping."

His voice sounded so much closer than you anticipated that you almost flinched, holding your breath for a couple of seconds. Fuck, did he know? Did he hear you? Could he see the tablet beneath your blanket?

You stilled, still pretending you were sleeping when Bucky landed close to you, the bed dipping under him. When he suddenly touched your leg, making you flinch involuntarily, you clamped a hand around your mouth. Shit! What was he doing? He had never ever touched you like that before. Was he mad? Did he-

"You can stop pretending, little one." As Bucky lifted your comforter, you stared at him, terrified to the core with your eyes almost popping out of their sockets.

Immediately, you tried moving away, determined to get to the other side of the room, but he quickly held you down with his hands on your wrists, getting on top of you. Shit. Staring at his dark but calm expression, you saw a strange glint in his eyes that had never been there before. The thought made you shiver.

Something was wrong with the way he hold you, looked at you - it was not like before when he treated you like some sad kid, patting your head awkwardly when you cried and rarely giving you a hug. You were staring at the man who barely reminded you of Bucky who had been coming to your house to watch a hockey game late in the evening. This man seemed like a stranger.

"Please, Mr. Barnes-"

"Shhhh." He interrupted your pleading, leaning closer to you so his dark hair brushed against your face. "Don't be scared. It's alright."

No, no, it wasn't alright in any sense, and you kept struggling, doing your best to break free from his grasp until Bucky made you yelp from pain, grabbing your hands so hard you thought you'd have bruises. When you got silent, trembling beneath him with your eyes full of tears, he got closer, his forehead touching yours as he exhaled into your face.

“P-please, I don’t want to.”

“Don’t you? I’ve seen what you’ve been doing while I was gone.” His stormy grey eyes bore into you, and you thought Bucky was angry at you watching that filthy porno. “But I won’t punish you.”

“What do you want then?” You sobbed, then froze when he kissed your cheek, and then your nose and eyelids, his chapped lips brushing softly against your skin. His touch felt warm.

“To take care of you.”

You looked at him with your watery eyes, whimpering softly when Bucky kissed your forehead as you relaxed beneath him, shocked at his words. Take care of you? What did he mean by that? Wasn’t he taking care of you already? No, now you knew why Bucky was close, and he definitely wasn’t some good Samaritan you imagined him to be. Was it all for this? Did he pretend to be your friend just to let you lower your guard?

Crying, you closed your eyes, thinking how silly you were wanting someone to be by your side, having dreams about someone taking care of you, comforting you when even the one you thought was there for you just wanted to use a silly little girl and throw her away.

“Take what you want and go.” You managed to mumble, choking on a sob. “Just leave me alone.”

Bucky raised his brows, his gaze heavy as he stared at your face wet with tears. “Why would I? Didn’t you hear what I just said, little one?”

You gave him a sarcastic smile, avoiding looking him in the eyes. “You’re here because you want to take something from me. So, take it and go. Please!”

Bucky let out a loud breath, getting off you and rolling to the side, but holding you close and pressing your face into his chest. You could feel a subtle smell of sweat coming from him; strangely, it was almost comforting. Anyway, you had no strength left to fight him, so you just laid there, his hands on your back and in your hair. His black zipped hoodie was quickly getting wet with you still sobbing quietly.

“I’m not going anywhere, little girl.” He whispered, touching the top of your head with his lips. “You’re mine to take care off. Look at you, barely able to sleep on your own. How do you think you will manage without me?”

You didn’t answer, not knowing what to say. What Bucky told you was true - you barely existed outside of your house, facing the reality where you were always alone. April was trying her best to help you come to your senses, but she wasn’t family. You needed a family.

“Will you stay?” You whimpered, shaking lightly at the though Bucky would go, too, and you would end up all by yourself, talking to four walls until one day they would talk to you, too.

“Remember your birthday wish?” He asked instead of answering your question, and you felt like the air was sucked out of your lungs. But before you had time to said something, Bucky dropped a kiss to your forehead again, caressing your head tenderly. “I am your family, little one. You will never be alone.”

______________________

Tags: @finleyjayne @alexakeyloveloki @helenaeisenhower @villanellevi @hurricanerin @abyssaint @heeeyitskay @chris-evans-indian-fanfic @navegandoaciegas @rosalynshields @brattycherubwrites @sllooney @angrythingstarlight @lookiamtrying @buckysbunny @soleil-dor @stargazingfangirl18 @dillybuggg @ninefuckingoneone @iheartsebastianstan @inlovewiththefictionalcharacters

#dark bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes #dark bucky barnes #bucky x reader #dark bucky x reader #winter soldier #mcu #mcu fanfiction #marvel #catws #yandere #requests #bucky barnes x reader

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darkficsyouneveraskedfor · 4 years

Text

Of something beautiful, but annihilating🚬2

Warnings: nonconsensual sex, violence and abuse, mentions of miscarriage, mentions of death [other warning to be added throughout series]

This is dark!fic and explicit. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: Reader’s husband brings home an unexpected houseguest.

Note: Still working a lot but here’s another chapter. I work gaming and the console launches are just killing me for real. Why do (some) gamers have to be idiots?

Thank you. Love you guys!

As always, if you can, please leave some feedback, like and reblog <3

You awoke stiff and cold. Your legs were tucked up under your nightgown as the early spring turned frigid in the night and your muscles ached as you fell onto your back. You were still young but you didn’t feel it. The deep snores still rose from the bed as you sat up and the soft light of dawn broke through the curtains.

You suspected that Roy would be just as unpleasant once it came time to rouse him. You got to your feet with a grumble and rubbed your tender stomach. You could feel the bruise and winced as you went to the closet to gather your clothes for the day. The usual; a plain blouse and dull skirt. Then you took a pair of old nylons, some underwear and your brassiere from the chest of drawers.

You wrapped yourself in a robe and crossed to the washroom to quickly clean yourself up before you dressed. You stared in the mirror, your eyes puffy with fatigue. You sighed and dumped your robe and nightgown in the bedroom before you continued on downstairs.

If there was anything that would placate your husband, it was food. Since your wedding day, he had put on quite a few pounds, not that he had ever been particularly slim. He had also aged more than three years of your union, though he was ten years your senior already. Well, your father and mother had about the same difference between them; it was far from unusual.

You took out your iron pan and placed it on the stove, a relic of the Depression era but still able to catch a flame. Your father was always proud of his old appliances. Before you were born and in the early years of your life, he’d worked hard to build not only the farmhouse but a home for his young family. Those years before the war had remained his most precious until the end.

You took out the tray of eggs and the small sausages bartered at a discount from the butcher. You hated to think of replacing the puttering fridge but you doubted it would hold up another couple decades. That in itself would be a battle with Roy. He worked hard for his money. It was difficult enough to negotiate a pair of nylons without holes from the terse man you called your husband.

You were startled as you heard a footboard whine. You turned and accidentally cracked an egg onto the floor as you did. Arvin was dressed in jeans and a plain tee. His overalls were slung over his arm as he entered.

“You’re up already?” You asked as you bent to clean up your mess. “Hope it’s not ‘cause of me.”

“I’ve always been an early riser,” he assured you, “Need any help with that?”

“No, no,” you stood with the egg and shell in your hand, “I think I can manage.” You went to the bin and dumped your handful. “You drink coffee? Orange juice?”

“I wouldn’t mind some milk, if it isn’t too much a bother,” he smiled. “But I can fetch it myself.”

“You don’t have to--”

“You keep saying that. I respect that this is your house, ma’am, and you’re used to doing all the upkeep but I don’t mind at all.”

You pursed your lips and nodded. You wiped your hand on a dish cloth and went back to adding eggs to the mixing bowl. You listened to his footsteps as they continued onto the dining room and he returned to search for a glass among the cupboards.

“Here,” you reached up and opened the cabinet, “Milk’s on the middle shelf in the fridge.”

He neared and grabbed a tall glass from the rows. He was awfully close as he did. He set the glass down on the counter and went to the fridge. You listened as he struggled with the handle.

“You gotta wiggle it. Don’t be afraid to put some muscle into it.” You chuckled.

The door popped open and you heard him grunt. You whisked up the eggs as he approached with the milk jug and filled his glass. He paused as he watched you work. A long silence rose between you, interrupted only by the clink of the whisk on the bowl.

“You got any laundry?” You asked suddenly. “I can manage another load today.”

“If it’s not too much,” he lifted the jug and slowly backed away, “The laundromat isn’t much for efficiency. Sometimes I think my shirts come out more stained than before.”

You listened as he put the jug away and took his glass from beside you. You felt his lingering gaze before he left you but ignored it as your tendency to overthink. He was a kind, young man and you had grown unused to that.

You loved Roy, tried to at least, and you reminded yourself that he hadn’t always been bad. You hoped that he could be good again. Perhaps Arvin could help with that.

You moved stiffly around the stove. Your muscles strained more with each stretch of your arm or bend of your leg. The floor never left you in very good shape and your apron reminded you of the bruise that deepened along your torso.

When the eggs were fluffy and the sausage browned, you climbed the stairs to wake your husband. You stayed in the doorway as you called to him. It was best not to get close when he was hungover.

He grumbled and threw a pillow. When you reminded him he would be late to work, he lobbed the lamp. It landed a good foot from you but still caused a thunderous thump on the floor before the bulb shattered.

You left him. He would rouse himself and be too late to bother much with you. He would also have an audience to keep him in line.

You went back downstairs and plated the food; you covered Roy’s before you laid it out on the table along with your own and Arvin’s. You sat across from your houseguest as he greedily eyed his breakfast.

“What was that?” He asked as his brown eyes flicked up to the ceiling.

“Silly me,” you twirled your fork nervously, “I tripped over the cord of the lamp and brought the whole thing down.”

Arvin nodded and his cheek twitched. He said nothing as he cut into a sausage and you pushed around your eggs without eating. Your appetite was soured by memories of the previous night. If fate and alcohol favoured you, Roy would not recall it so well.

“Did you sleep well?” You asked suddenly as you tried to distract yourself. “I know the attic gets a bit gusty, walls aren’t very thick and that couch is old…”

“I slept finer than I have in months,” he replied, “Thank you.”

“You’ve been down at the motel, Roy said. You new in town?”

“Was meaning to just pass through,” he swallowed, “But a few odd jobs turned into a full gig down at the garage. I used to fiddle around with my aunt’s truck when I was a kid and… guess I figured a few things out.”

“Oh? And where’s home? Is that where you were headed?”

“Leavin’, actually. Sometimes you just outgrow where you’re from.” He said wistfully, “Life shakes you awake and says ‘go or die’ and you’re too restless to wait around for the inevitable.”

Your mouth fell open. His face had fallen, a lifetime worth of worries and tragedies set in his thin lips and squared his jaw. He looked through you at the past that had chased him all the way to your doorstep. The naive boy fractured before you to the frightened young man. And then, he was gone.

He smiled and was once more firmly sat in the present.

“I know what you mean.” You said quietly.

“So…” He set his fork down, “You from here then?”

“Daddy’s house. Never left it.” You confessed, “Never had the courage to stop waiting, I suppose.”

“You got lots of time for that,” Arvin said, “You know, when life’s seemed to slow down, it starts back up all at once.”

You rubbed your fingertips along the tablecloth. You looked at your plate, your food barely touched.

“You okay? You’re not eating.”

“I’m fine,” you lied, “I didn’t sleep too much…. there’s this shutter that just knocks against the house when it’s windy, you know?”

He leaned back and considered you. He grabbed his glass of milk and drained it.

“So, how long have you and Roy… been married?” Arvin asked.

You heard the stairs creak and stiffened in your seat. You tapped your fork on the lip of the plate and cleared your throat.

“Three years,” you said as Roy’s grumbles grew louder.

“Oh,” Arvin glanced over as Roy stumbled in and caught himself on a chair. You stood and uncovered his plate as he sat. He waved you away groggily and swiped up his fork. “A long time and not very long at all, then.”

“Mhmm,” you sat and watched Roy nervously. He said nothing as he shoved a whole sausage in his mouth and groaned.

“Coffee,” he choked out.

You diligently went to the task of pouring him a mug and returned as Arvin watched him with a placid awareness. You set down the cup and Roy emptied it just as fast as it appeared.

“Too much beer, huh?” Arvin chuckled.

Roy tilted his head and gulped down his mouthful. “Maybe you’ll join me tonight,” your husband challenged. “Boy your size, one bottle’ll have you on your ass.”

“Probably,” Arvin said coolly. “Maybe I’m better stickin’ to water.”

You sat gingerly and looked between the two men. You realised how easily Arvin had distracted Roy. How he kept the temperamental man from his usual morning rage with a few words. You wondered if he had dealt with men like Roy before. Or maybe he had no idea what he was doing at all.

“You want me to drive today?” Arvin ventured, “You can close your eyes on the way.”

“Probably best you do,” Roy smacked his lips, “Don’t know I’ll be very useful at the garage.”

“Ah, just keep your head under that old Chevrolet and no one can tell you’re napping,” Arvin laughed at his own joke. “I won’t tell.”

🚬

You filled your day as any. Your chores kept you busy; laundry, sweeping, dusting, prepping dinner for the return of your husband and the houseguest you kept having to remind yourself of.

You made certain to fold Arvin’s clothes and stack them neatly in a basket for him. He didn’t have much; a few pairs of jeans, some tee shirts, two sweaters, and a denim jacket. You would search through your father’s stuff and see if there was anything worth salvaging.

When the old truck rumbled in front of the house, you were shoving a glazed ham into the oven. You wiped your hands on your apron and strode through to peek through the window. Arvin was quicker than Roy, smaller, younger. Your husband stomped across the gravel as the other man kept a deliberately slow pace behind him.

You opened the door to greet them as they neared the porch.

“How was your day?” You asked as you held open the door.

“A day that calls for a beer,” Roy snarled as he brushed past you. You couldn’t remember when he’d stopped kissing you; sometimes, you were certain you’d imagined he ever had.

“It was good,” Arvin said softly as he smiled at you. Roy ambled into the front room and fell onto the sofa. “How was yours, ma’am?”

“Well enough,” you replied pensively as you watched your husband, “You want a beer too?”

“No, it’s still a bit early… Actually, I’ll get his beer.” Arvin said, “Why don’t you take a break?”

“She can do it herself,” Roy growled. “What else she gonna do around here?”

“I’m goin’ that way anyhow.” Arvin said. “Think I’ll get myself some water.”

“She’s my wife. She can serve me. Well, you would think she could.”

“Please,” you looked to Arvin pleadingly, “Just sit down.”

He stared at you and nodded slowly. His arm jerked as if he was going to touch your elbow but he backed away and turned to drag his feet into the front room.

“I have some Coke?” You offered, “If you prefer that.”

“Water,” Arvin said dully, “Thank you.”

You slowly retreated but didn’t miss the way Arvin glared at Roy. He sat in the armchair and bit his thumb as he watched the other man. You spun before you could overthink it and scurried into the kitchen. You grabbed a bottle from the fridge and poured a glass of water. You hurried back to offer the refreshments and rung your hands as you hovered in the doorway.

“Your laundry’s on the landing,” you said meekly, “And Roy, I fixed the lamp.”

Roy merely belched as Arvin lifted his chin and sighed.

“Thank you,” Arvin uttered and set aside his glass, “Show me where that bed is and I’ll move it after dinner.”

“I--” You hesitated and looked at Roy fearfully. He was entirely unconcerned with anything but his beer. “Sure.”

Arvin stood and you led him to the stairway. He followed you up and bent to lift the basket from the landing. You turned to him and he was quick to take the clothes from you.

“I didn’t want to go up there without you knowin’,” you said, “Since it’s your space now.”

“I appreciate all you’ve done.” He hugged the basket. He pressed his lips together and peered back down the stairs. “Are you alright?”

You frowned as he looked at you again. You turned your hands out and shrugged.

“I’m just fine.” You lied.

He squinted then his eyes fell to the clothes. “Well, you let me know if you need help. With anything.” He slowly edged away from you, “I might be payin’ Roy but I won’t be living on your hard work, ma’am.”

“I-- It’s my job to--”

“It’s his job to love you, with all due respect,” Arvin set down the basket and grabbed the cord of the attic hatch, “Ain’t no work hard enough at the garage that he can’t do that.” The stairs slid down and he picked up the basket again. He placed a foot on the bottom of the latter as he cradled the laundry in one arm. “I’ll be down for dinner.”

🚬

Several days passed with little change. Arvin barely seemed to affect things around the old farmhouse; he kept to himself mostly but helped where he could. Roy didn’t change either. His moods, his brutality, his demands. As you always had, you distracted yourself with your chores.

On Saturday, Roy announced that he was going fishing. Arvin refused an invitation and it didn’t seem to bother your husband. It did, however, make you wonder. Most men in the area were eager to be away from the homestead with a rod or rifle in hand. Well, it didn’t seem like your houseguest was most men.

You bid Roy goodbye. He was in a happier mood and let you kiss his cheek as he packed up his bait box. When he was gone, you went about your usual. You would sweep and dust the entire house before you started lunch; a small one as Roy took his with him.

When you got to the dining room, Arvin was at the table. He had a small, leather-bound notebook before him as he scribbled in it with a stubby pencil. He smiled as you hit the doorframe with the broom and apologized under your breath. He went back to his work and you went about your own, quietly, carefully.

As you bent to sweep up the dirt into the pan, you looked at him. His reddish-brown hair hung forward, the strands dangled along his nose. You stood and neared the table.

“I don’t know how you see anything,” you remarked.

He lifted his head and his hair tickled his cheeks. He chuckled and closed the notebook around the pencil.

“Guess I’m just used to it,” he said, “Do you ever sit down? Don’t think I could run around like you in those heels?”

You glanced down at your kitten heels. Not very high or fancy. You gripped the broom and leaned on it.

“I just think my feet are naturally curved now,” you kidded. “Sorry, if I interrupted you.”

“No, no, you’re right. I need a haircut,” he pushed his hair back and stretched as he bent his arms behind his head. “Been a while.”

There was silence between you. You weren’t sure why you’d broken it in the first place. Usually, you wouldn’t dare bother Roy. He always had the first word. And the last.

“I cut Roy’s hair. I could do yours.” You were shocked at your own words and snapped your mouth shut bashfully. “Or you could go down to Hannon’s and get him to give you proper trim. I’m just… offerin’.”

“Really?” He sat up, “If you wouldn’t mind. I’m tryna save my money for a car of my own right now. I’ll pay in labour? Got this old batter recipe I learned as a kid. Roy brings back some good fish and we’ll have some filets.”

“You don’t--” You voice died as he gave you that look. How many times had you said those words? ‘You don’t have to do that.’ You took a breath. “Bring a chair in the kitchen and I’ll get the scissors.”

You went to the kitchen and dumped the dustpan. You leaned the broom against the wall and searched for the scissors in the second drawer. You heard Arvin behind you as you took a dish cloth and turned to him. He placed the chair in the middle of the floor and sat.

You tucked the scissors into your apron along with the comb you kept with the old silver shears. You neared him and held up the cloth. “I’m just gonna tuck this into your shirt to catch the hair.”

“That’s fine,” he smiled at you as you bent to wrap the dish cloth around his neck and tucked it into his collar carefully. Your fingers grazed his neck and you saw him tense.

You backed up and took out the comb.

“Where do you usually part it?”

“I usually just comb it back but then it just kinda… falls,” he snorted bashfully. “So, just wherever.”

You rounded him and combed his hair back before parting it along the left side. It split naturally from his crown and you did your best to be precise. You pulled his hair up with the teeth of the comb and began to cut away the length. The chopped ends fell over the towel and the shoulders of his tee.

As you came around the front, he watched you with his deep brown eyes. You tried not to fidget against his intent gaze.

“Close your eyes,” you said and he seemed reluctant to do so. You began to snip as you let the hair hang to see the length and lifted it again to cut away more.

“So, you got any records for the player?” He asked. The question surprised you but eased you.

“My daddy loved Sinatra and Crosby.” You said. “But I don’t suppose many listen to that anymore.”

“Well, some,” he said, “You ever listen to Ray Charles? I was down at the general store and they… they were selling his album at discount.”

“Oh?” You leaned closer as you softened the blunt ends of his hair, “I think… on the radio. Sometimes, I turn it on when Roy’s workin’ but I always make sure to turn it back to his station before he gets home or he--”

You stopped yourself and focused on your task. You didn’t want to mangle his hair. He had such nice hair. Soft and thick.

“Or he what?” Arvin opened his right eye.

“Or, you know… he just gets real upset. The dial on that old thing is so fussy,” you moved around him so the heat receded from your cheeks. “Just don’t want him breakin’ it.”

“You think he’d break it? Over that?” Arvin asked gently.

You chewed the inside of your lip. “No,” you said after a pause, “No, Roy can be grumpy but he wouldn’t…” You sniffed and combed his hair, “Maybe we can dig out some of my daddy’s records when I’m done.”

“Maybe,” he said evenly as he tapped his fingers along his thigh. “A little music might brighten this place up.”

#arvin russel #arvin russell x reader #the devil all the time #reader x oc husband #fic #dark!fic #Dark Fic #of something beautiful but annihilating #series

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periminkle · 4 years

Text

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.

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recurring-polynya · 3 years

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POLYNYA please tell me about the sea/your Soul Society sea(s)!!!!! (I also wanna talk about the sizes of things but I will save that for later, haha.)

My entire writing/worldbuilding self is just an agglomerate of about 10 different books/comics I read when I was 19, and one of those is Books of Magic. The major thing I took away from Books of Magic, a thing I think about every single time I read or watch something with a magic system, is the idea that humans have their own magic which is fundamentally different and in some ways more powerful than the magic of magical beings, and that they aren’t bound to a lot of rules and restrictions that magical beings are. A lot of media that features other worlds tends to split into the human world (which has no magic) and the magic world (which has magic). Sometimes the human world has technology and the magic world doesn't, I don't care, that is boring to me and I reject the idea that magic is technology you don’t understand. The thing about Books of Magic, which featured a lot of traffic between the human and the faerie realm, was that humans can do magic that faeries can't. Faerie magic is all illusion and glamour. It cannot affect real change. It is much harder for humans to do real magic, but their magic can actually transform things.

This is foundationally the way I approach worldbuilding in Soul Society. It seems like Soul Society is more powerful and magical than the World of the Living, but that’s only true for a limited set of circumstances, and much of Bleach takes place within those circumstances. Taken in a broader sense, though, Soul Society is not a complete world, it is a projected world, constructed of memories and ideas. Hueco Mundo is the same, but it's even less complete. My husband always gets really irritated by physically impossible moons, like this one:

but I actually think that's appropriate, because it's not the moon, it's the concept of the moon and this is a very romanticized concept of the moon. You cannot build a rocket in Soul Society or Hueco Mundo and get to the moon. The earth is not round in Soul Society. Its borders are limited.

What is Soul Society even for, anyway? I have been watching Hotel del Luna, a kdrama about a hotel where ghosts can stay for a little while and rest and work out some of their issues before they go to the afterlife. I feel like Soul Society is the next step after this. It is too big a shock to go from being a human to becoming a few motes of reishi, so you get another stage of retaining your human form and living a half-life where you don't need to eat or drink and your family has the idea of being a family without all the actual past-to-future connective tissue of a family. It's my impression that when you die in Soul Society, you don't get reincarnated as yourself. You become reishi, and that reishi gets mixed up with everyone else’s and new souls are created when new human children are born. Soul Society is also a sorting mechanism for separating out powerful sources of spiritual energy (that is, shinigami) and putting them to work as balancers, while letting the less volatile soulstuff flow through the reincarnation cycle without cavitating the impellers, so to speak.

That being said, seas are important. I have lived my entire life on the east coast of North America, never more than a few hours from the Atlantic Ocean. I think about moving inland sometimes and I think I would die. My husband grew up in the mountains and he feels a similar connection to the mountains, you can feel him becoming more powerful every time we drive north. I think it is necessary that Soul Society contain the geographic features that anchor people to the physical world, because ghosts need these things to feel as though they are still people and not vague amorphous spirits.

You need a sea. Also, as noted in the post that inspired this one, people in Soul Society eat a lot of fish and it’s gotta come from somewhere. So I think there is at least one sea in Soul Society (I like to put it in East Rukongai), but this is a sea built on human memories, it is not a sea based on the power of the sea, because that is not a thing that can exist in Soul Society. You can fish in the sea and you can swim in the sea, and an ocean god visiting from another realm might be able to pull a little power from this sea, but it is not a true sea. You need a different magical realm for that, a Sea Society, if you will. The Living World, in contrast, is a true world with true oceans, which draw their power from the Sea Society, just as there is death in the Living World because of its connections to Soul Society and other assorted afterlives. (it has been 2 sentences and I am already sorry I called it Sea Society).

Earlier, I mentioned that the borders of Soul Society are limited, and I think that it is surrounded by impassable no-man’s-lands on all sides that, if you could cross them, would lead you into a different dimension. This is not my original idea, it’s something I have picked up from numerous fanfics, but I think it’s a good one and I am adopting it. I think that, as a border between Soul Society and something else, each of these borderlands represents different kinds of death. I think I’ve figured they are a jungle, a desert, a mountain and, of course, an ocean.

The power of the ocean encompasses both life and death, but this ocean or at least this part of this ocean is only death. It is cold and it is dark and it is full of things with horrible teeth. If you sail a boat into it, you will not come back. I do not think that dimensional borders are, well, two-dimensional, so to speak-- if you could somehow cross this ocean, you might end up in Sea Society, or you might end up in some other death realm, because a lot of afterlives are connected and you get to a lot of them via waterways. The Slavic afterlife, Nav, for example, is ringed with a river, and you cross the Styx to get to Hades. Come to think of it, both of these are sometimes portrayed as being full of unhappy spirits, so maybe the death ocean is an afterlife in and of itself.

This is a little off the topic of oceans, but it is on the topic of natural resources. For all we know, everything that everyone eats in the Seireitei is grown in reishi vats, like the chickienobs in Oryx and Crake. That actually makes more sense, honestly, than fishing and farming, but I have always assumed that many of the upper districts of Rukongai do, in fact, have Nice Things, which turns into jobs and commerce and an improved class of life. The quality and quantity of these resources thins out severely as you go outward. Why don't people in Inuzuri grow their own food, I asked myself? Well: poor soil. Unpredictable, violent weather, so if you can get anything to come up, it either bakes or drowns. A general miasma of low-grade toxins in the air that tend to stunt growth or prevent things from breeding true. Obviously, I think about South Rukongai more than I think of other directions, but I think it’s easy to imagine this process also working as you approached cold rocky mountains with cutting winds and rockslides, or dry, dusty desert where it never rains.

The canon concept of Soul Society is that everything in Rukongai sucks and everything in the Seireitei rules, but this honestly vexes me constantly. It must be ungodly expensive to own and maintain property in the Seireitei, which is why most of the shinigami seem to lead solidly middle class lifestyles and take advantage of on-base living arrangements even though they are allegedly the best of the best. If you're a noble, and especially not Great Family noble, I think it may make sense to maintain a large estate in a pretty part of Rukongai as opposed to a townhouse in the city-- I've mentioned the Kira family estate before, in North Rukongai, which, in my mind, is sort of overgrown and run-down, very Wuthering Heights. Alternatively, if you are super-rich, maybe you have a second property out somewhere nice, hence the Lake District. Did I just make these places up because I want to set a fanfic there someday? Probably yes.

When I was writing Between Tides, the most basic, raw part of that story was just "Rukia and Renji get sent on a lonely mission near the sea" that was the thing I wanted to write. Back when it lived in my head, it originally took place in Soul Society, but I wanted it to have a melancholy, tourist-town-in-the-off-season vibe, and that didn’t feel like a place that would exist in Soul Society, so I moved it to the World of the Living. I guess I feel like if there’s beach tourism at the Soul Society Sea (I should name it but then I would be forced to write a story about it), it would be sort of Old Timey, and I’d don’t know much about what an Old Timey Trip to the Beach would look like in Japan, if that’s even a thing.

Anyway, sorry this was so rambling, this concludes my thoughts about THE SEA in Soul Society. I am happy to hear everyone else’s headcanons, please and thank you.

#THE SEA #soul society #bleach worldbuilding #everytime i write something like this i feel like you all must think i am a person who owns a lot of crystals #i am actually very practical #also i know just enough about how geography works to know that i am shit at worldbuilding #that if i tried to construct an Actual Map some d&d-loving dudebro would slide into my mentions #and criticize my river placement #and i would turn into dust and blow away #the idea of soul society being built on a shared concept of the shape of the world and not Physics is actually very comforting to me

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inkandpen22 · 3 years

Text

Beautiful Angel of Darkness (7/?)

Pairing: Spike x Female!Reader

Warnings: Mild swearing

Word Count: 1.8k

Part Summary: Y/N is starting to improve and live by Angel’s lifestyle. Then, someone pays her a visit.

Masterlist

Six months later...

Who would've thought working at the law firm as one of Angel's team members would be so fulfilling? Granted, it took a moment to get settled... more like a month. There was a withdrawal period, not pretty. Angel sort of locked me away in his basement for a few weeks. After that, I bounced right back and started fresh! Now, I'm Angel's assistant, much better than Harmony. I gave her the boot as soon as I got released from the basement cell.

I step off the elevator to Wolfman & Hart with Angel's usual blood bag in a cup and my iced coffee. I drink my blood bag on the way here.

I set everything down at my desk in front of the firm's sign. The normalcy of having a daily routine again is nice. When I was with Spike, I thought normalcy would bore me to death. I guess Angel was right, there is some humanity left in me.

I knock on Angel's office door, blood cup in hand. When he announces for me to enter, I greet him warmly and immediately get into the day's agenda.

"Morning Boss, we have a busy day ahead of us!"

As per usual, he wears a crossed expression as he stands behind his desk shuffling through some papers.

He sighs in frustration, "Y/N, have you seen the-"

I place his mock coffee cup in his hand so I can grab the case file from under my arm. He glances between me and the file in amazement.

"You left it on my desk when you were leaving last night," I explain with a light chuckle.

"You're a lifesaver," he thanks as he eases down in his chair.

"It's what I'm here for," I shrug and lean against his desk beside him.

"Sorry for keeping you here late this week. I'm sure you much rather be home," he apologizes as he reviews the contents of the case. "I just... I don't know how to go about this."

"Maybe a fresh pair of eyes?" I suggest, reaching for the file.

Angel hesitates to hand it over. He doesn't like me working directly on cases. He believes I'm not ready for the gruesomeness of them and that the blood may trigger me to regress.

"Angel, I'll be fine!" I assure him confidently.

Reluctantly, he hands over the papers and I begin to skim the crime scene photographs. The police are involved, believing it to be a violent murder. However, Angel and the others are pinning it with a series of animal attacks the last few days. They suspect a werewolf. Angel wasn't wrong, these images are rather unsettling, but nothing I can't handle.

"Based on the slashes on the neck, I would agree with you and say it's not cut wounds. There are no signs of forced entry either," I analyze.

"But all of the damage..." He debates.

"It's from the attack. If you were being attacked by a werewolf, you'd toss a lamp and vase at it, wouldn't you?" I reason. "The front door is in perfect condition, except for the blood, of course. I suspect the victim knew their attacker," I determine and hand the file back to Angel.

He leans back in his chair, deep in thought. Humming, he considers my predictions. "That would certainly narrow down the suspect list."

"Was she single?" I question.

He frowns in confusion, "I think so, why?"

"Check her calendar, see who her latest date was with," I suggest as I rise from my leaning position against his desk.

"You got all of that from looking at one photo?" Angel remarks in astonishment.

I glance over my shoulder as I head toward the door. "Told you shouldn't let me help sooner," I wink.

_____________________________________

At noon sharp, Angel likes his second cup of O Neg. It sounds tedious, knowing exactly when my boss likes his blood. If someone told me months ago that I would be fetching Angel everything he needs, I would've killed them. Ironically, I've never felt never more human than when I'm at Wolfman & Hart. I feel like I have a life of my own, my existence. Before...Before Spike, I belonged to my family. Then, I belonged to Spike. Now, I belong to myself. Granted, Angel watches me like a hawk, but he's easing up.

Angel and the others hold a team meeting at the same time I'm supposed to deliver his refreshment. More and more lately, Angel lets me sit in on the meeting. It's usually so that I can act as a scribe while they talk, but I still appreciate the invite.

Carrying my files, notepad, and Angel's drink, I back into his office door as I'm handless at the moment. Right when the door gives, I immediately announce his dinner plans with a major banker to discuss his Greed Demon issue. "Don't forget tonight, the meeting with Stuart Lawrence! You have to be at his residence in Brentwood at seven o'clock sharp and-"

I stop dead in my tracks as my eyes flicker toward Angel's desk. Instead of just seeing Angel stressing over some papers, as usual, I see a bleach blonde vampire reading over his shoulder.

The paper coffee cup falls from my hand and spills on the floor by my feet. The substance coats my left heel, staining it crimson.

"Y/N..." Spike utters my name with his smooth accent.

"Oh my God..." I whisper breathlessly in awe.

Angel flies up from his chair and points to the door. "Y/N, get out of here!"

"Never took you for the lawyer type," Spike smirks mischievously as he slithers toward me. "Gotta admit though, loving the working woman style." He gestures at my body up and down like I'm a mannequin in a store.

Behind me, the other members of Angel's team enter for their meeting.

"Lorne, take Y/N home!" Angel instructs.

"Right away, Boss," Lorne complies.

"Take one step closer to her green goblin and I'll bite your head off!" Spike threatens sharply.

"Spike, stop it!" Angel barks.

"Oh come on, Angel," Spike dismisses as he closes in on me. His fingers comb through the ends of my hair. "It isn't like you to ruin a perfectly good reunion!"

My body tenses under his touch, much to Spike's dismay. It wasn't long ago that his embrace was the only thing that kept me tied down to Earth. Now, it makes me shutter.

"You shouldn't be here!" Angel growls as he rushes over to us and yanks Spike away from me. "She's been doing great without you!"

"Have you forgotten? She was mine before she was yours," Spike chuckles wickedly.

The English vampire turns to me again and caresses my cheek. His eyes continue to linger in my memories late at night staring at me intensely.

"Did you really think I was going to let you go?" He mumbles to me and the words make my heartache.

"Get away from her!" Angel hisses warningly, on the verge of throwing Spike through the top floor window.

Spike ignores Angel and continues to admire me. "Did you miss me, My Love?"

Yes.

I shake my head while I slip my hand over his to remove it from my cheek. "You hurt me. I can never forgive you for what you did."

Spike's face falters immensely. "Y/N... Let me explain! I-"

"No!" I stand my ground, something I never used to do when we were together. "You deceived me, used me, broke me!" I switch my gaze between Spike and Angel frantically until I find myself overwhelmed. "I... I can't do this... I'm sorry Angel, excuse me."

Thus, I hurry out the door past my coworkers before anyone can stop me. Both Angel and Spike call for me, but I ignore each of them as I gather my things and disappear onto the elevator.

________________________

After today's cluster of events, a long shower was much needed. I have no doubt Angel will be visiting me once the workday is over, just to check-in. I can't believe Spike is here in Los Angeles. It all felt like a dream or perhaps a nightmare. How dare he come here after half a year and expect me to act as though nothing happened.

Immediately after my shower, I go to my kitchen to fix myself a cup of tea. I stick the kettle on the stovetop before I get dressed. At first, living alone startled me, but since then I've grown to prefer it. I like the peace. After long days at the office, time alone and space alone is what I need.

"Y/N," a voice makes itself known.

My hand flies up to my chest as I pant. "Spike! Jesus and Mary! What the actual fuck?!"

"A vampire scared of the dark... how ironic," he teases with a smirk.

"Get out!" I shout, pointing toward the door. "I'm not even dressed you feen!" I start to march back to my bedroom which makes Spike follow. What part of 'get out' doesn't he understand?

"Oh come on, Love. It's not like I haven't seen anything before," he insinuates.

"Get out!" I repeat.

"No, not until you hear what I have to say!" He insists.

"You love Buffy! Congrats! Now, go be with her!" I urge him away.

Abruptly, Spike grabs my forearm and yanks me to a halt. His free hand flies up to my chin and forces me to meet him in the eye. I fight him off, prying at his arms, but nothing works.

"I never loved her!" He barks at me. "Well... maybe a little once... but that was before I met you! That night I didn't cheat on you! I swear it! I went over to her house to kill her and when I got there she was crying! Her mother has been ill! That's why I couldn't come sooner... plus I... I..."

"You what?" I growl in disdain.

"I got a soul for you," he remarks calmly, nearly solemnly.

I frown, how is that possible?

"You what?" I question.

"I went to the desert, got my soul back so I could be like Angel..." He explains. "To be like someone you'd want to be with," he adds.

He softens his grip on my face. To my surprise, I don't pull away. I stare into his blue eyes with astonishment. How could he get back his soul? Is that why it took him so long to come and find me? For months I wondered if he would ever come... but he never did. When I finally started to get settled and moved on he shows up. Spike's hand falls from my face with a sigh.

"Forget this. Never mind," he starts to back away. "Have a good life, Y/N."

I stand frozen, speechless, and unsure what to do as Spike struts away toward the door. Thus again, he has disappeared from my life.

________________

Masterlist

Tags: @currently-obsesed-with-spike @mx-pibbles @shy-ginger-in-the-graveyard

#Spike x Buffy #spike fanfic #spuffy #spike #btvs fanfic #btvs imagine #btvs imgaine #btvs #Buffy The Vampire Slayer #Angel x Buffy #buffy summers

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ghostdrew22 · 3 years

Text

Bloodlines || Draco Malfoy

Requested: No Pairing: post-war Draco Malfoy x fem!reader Warnings: alcohol and some angst

WORDS : 1767

~~~

Song - Bloodlines by Sleeping With Sirens

"Try not to be like mom and dad, realize you're just fucked like them."

"Are we bound to lose? Maybe we just don't get to choose."

"Is it in our DNA? Was I just born this way?"

~~~

"Another one." Draco Malfoy declares to the bartender as he slams his empty brandy glass back onto the bar. He's always loved muggle bars- the awkward stench of desperation and misery wafting through the air, and the weird music they play to keep themselves busy- absolute chaotic perfection.

Not that wizard bars are much of an option for him- after the war ended six months ago, most wizards cut ties with the Malfoys and made a public show of shunning them. In wizard bars he's usually followed by cold stares and hushed whispers- about his parents and their sentence Azkaban- which makes it particularly difficult for him to drink away his sorrows in peace.

So this is now how most of his nights are spent- hopping from bar to bar and getting blackout drunk in an effort to erase the itch of memories from the war. The silence of the night is too heavy in the Malfoy Manor- all it does is remind him of the muffled screams and pleas of people that had been trapped in his house only months before- and he can't sleep there at night.

Sometimes the moonlight creates dancing shadows across the hallways- shadows that so starkly resemble death eaters floating through his house- and it takes everything in him to not set the entire house on fire. Every time he pulls out his wand he remembers the way his aunt had tortured Hermione Granger in their foyer, and he wishes that he could just snap it in half. Every time he thinks that he can move on and escape the past, it just finds another way to follow him.

He takes his refill and starts sipping it- hoping that peace will find him before the bottom of the glass does.

~~~

Across the bar- drowning her sorrows in a bottle of gin- is Zara Jameson. Her and the blonde had known, and hated, each other throughout their Hogwarts careers- constantly bickering and arguing with every opportunity that had presented itself. She'd hated him and everything he stood for- the spoiled, pretentious Slytherin prince- and her hate had only grown when the Dark War had fallen upon them and he'd found himself on the wrong side.

But that last night- when Voldemort had finally been defeated- she'd seen a shadow of the boy she'd always known as he walked to his parents, and all the hate had completely dissipated. She'd spent years despising him and yet in their final moments together she could only muster up pity for the blonde- realising that he'd only been a product of his parents love, or lack thereof.

She takes a sip of her gin and takes a look around the room- trying to find someone that she can use as a distraction for the night. Her eyes spot that familiar tint of blonde and she almost falls over- reality hitting her like a freight train. While he's being haunted by the memories of the war- thinking about them with every waking moment he has- she's been doing the opposite and pretending that it had never happened.

Even though the pain of losing her parents and friends has never left, she's managed to shove it down so far that it's merely a dull ache of a memory now. But seeing him sends all those memories flooding through her mind again, at full force- the sound of screams filling her ears and drowning out the music that's blaring through the room. She takes a deep breath and runs her hands down her face- trying desperately to collect herself- before doing something that she never thought she'd do.

She gets up and walks toward the blonde for a chat.

~~~

"I'll have some of what he's having." Zara tells the bartender as she sits herself beside Draco- who hasn't yet turned to look at her.

He groans, "Look, I'm not particularly interested in-" The words fall out of his mouth once he turns to find that the girl sitting next to him is Zara. He looks back it his glass quietly and gulps- remembering the way she'd looked terrified the last time he'd seen her.

"Don't flatter yourself, Malfoy." She rolls her eyes- picking up the glass of brandy that's been dropped in front of her and taking a swig of the foul drink.

"You'd actually be surprised how many times I've had to decline women's advances." He sighs and takes a sip of his drink- still refusing to look at her. "Even when I look like this." He gestures to his appearance.

Zara takes him in- noticing the way his hair has grown longer and now falls in his face slightly, and the stubble he has forming by his chin. "You look the way you should after something like that."

"What the fuck do you want?" He turns to her finally and asks- his voice raw like he's been crying for hours. "I hope this isn't some kind of scolding session, because believe me I've had enough of those."

"I'm not here to argue with you Malfoy."

"Are you here to console me? Because my parents are in Azkaban and I'm alone now? Or better yet, mock me for my misfortune?"

"I'm not here for any of that."

"Then what is it? What could the great Zara Jameson possible want with the tainted Draco Malfoy?"

"I just thought maybe you could use some company."

"Not sure it'd look good if you were seen with me. Your parents might disprove." He mumbles- remembering how much her parents had hated his own, not that he blames them.

"My parents are dead, Malfoy. Killed by death eaters- people like your parents." She says coldly as she finishes her drink, "I came here because I thought that maybe if anyone could understand trying to forget that it'd be you, but maybe I was wrong."

Draco feels guilt cage him and grabs her arm to stop her leaving. "I'm sorry, please stay."

"Are you done spitting in my face?" She crosses her arms.

"Yes." She slides back into the seat and gestures for the bartender to bring an entire bottle. "I'm sorry about that- the last six months have been rough."

"Don't I know it."

"Um, I'm sorry, about your parents-"

"No. No apologies." She opens the bottle and pours brandy into her glass before passing the bottle to him. "I've heard so many of those that I think I can probably predict what you'll say next."

He refills his glass and twirls the liquid around nervously. "Have you managed?"

"Managed what?"

"To forget?" He looks at her hopefully.

"No." She takes a deep breath in, "I didn't have the strength to obliviate myself."

"I didn't either." He blinks away the memory of all the dead bodies in his house, "I think I deserve to remember."

"I think we all deserve to remember."

"Why?"

"So we learn our lesson- so we learn to be better."

"What do you possibly have to learn? Your parents weren't death eaters- they weren't murderers."

"That doesn't mean they were good people. They might not have been death eaters but they were horrible people too, Draco."

"You called me Draco." He remarks absent-mindedly.

"I think you deserve to be separated from your family name." She smiles at him softly and he looks at her with a puzzled expression- not understanding where this newfound tolerance of hers has come from. "I want to be separated from my family name."

"Why?"

"There's too much weight in it." She sips her drink. "Everyone wants me to follow in my parents footsteps and take over their dynasty."  "You don't want to?"

"Not at all."

"Why not?"  "Why do you keep asking me for explanations?" She laughs and he shrugs with a sheepish smile.

"I'm curious Zara."

"You called me Zara." She smiles at him again and this time he gives a genuine smile back. "I'm worried that following in their footsteps will turn me into them."

"It doesn't have to." He pops some peanuts from the bar into his mouth and continues speaking, "You can change what you were born into."

"Can I really?"

"Yes, Zara."

"I don't know, maybe we just don't get to choose."

"What do you mean?"

"The fight between nature and nurture is non-existent if they're both the same." She sighs and takes some peanuts as well. "Is it in our DNA? Are we bound to lose?"

"You can't let the weight of their failures bury you."

"What am I meant to do?"

"Create your own legacy- change what the Jameson names stands for."

A silence falls between them as she ponders on his words- deciding that there is some merit in them.

"I think the worst part, is that I didn't like them enough to grieve them and it makes me feel guilty." She says after some thinking. She hasn't told anyone this- not after they died and not after she buried them.

"I feel the same way about my aunt. A part of me had even felt relieved and I haven't been able to forgive myself for it."

"Maybe we don't get to forgive ourselves- maybe instead of grief or pain we just get guilt."

"Well if that's the case then I've got guilt to spare." He downs his drink and decides that he's had enough brandy. He calls the bartender over and asks for a bottle of vodka with some cans of red bull- a mixture he'd learned from a muggle he slept with a few weeks back. "You know, I can still hear them."

"Who?"

"Everyone." He shudders, "Everyone that my family ever hurt in our home- I hear their screams every night when I try to fall asleep."

"You're still living in the Manor?" She asks in astonishment- watching him pour a shot of vodka into his glass with half a can of red bull, and doing the same.

"I can't leave."

"Why not?"

"It's a broken home- I keep hoping that I can rebuild it."

"What's it like to be all alone in a broken home?"

"Like living with shadows. I see them everywhere I turn."

"You need to leave."

"I don't deserve to leave- it's fair that they haunt me forever." He smiles sadly, "Someone needs to pay for what my parents did."

"Yes- them, not you." She places a hand on his shoulder. "Their debts aren't yours to pay."

Another silence falls upon them as they stare at each other- the real versions of each other. For the first time Zara can see the real Draco Malfoy that had been hiding underneath his jaded persona- the vulnerable and empathetic boy he'd tried so hard to hide in an effort to gain his parents approval. Draco Malfoy can finally see the Zara Jameson that everyone at Hogwarts had fallen in love with- the strong and intelligent girl that he'd been too blind to see.

"You're not so bad Jameson."

"Likewise Malfoy."

{}

Okay, that's it for my first one! I wrote it with the name Zara instead of Y/N because I had already envisioned a Zara and by the time I realised that it was just going to be a one-shot, it was too late. The rest will be written with Y/N- unless requested otherwise ofc.

But let me know what you think and please drop in a request for me.

love you all,

jean <3

#draco malfoy #draco #draco x y/n #draco imagine #draco fanfiction #harry potter #harry potter fanfiction #harry potter imagine #draco malfoy angst

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angelicamerlinbarnes · 3 years

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TUA PIRATE AU

(of the Caribbean? Sort of? I guess?)

(please understand that by AU, I mean they share an incredibly small amount of things in common with the original source material which I barely remember BUT the “story” takes place in the setting of the books/films) (not to be misleading or anything :p)

(BEWARE: abuse, murder, pirates and all of their violent shenanigans, etc.)

(If you can handle watching Umbrella Academy, this will be fine for you.)

Luther is the captain of the guard, and pirates are the bane of his existence. He hates Diego most of all, the man who’s stolen unspeakable amounts of gold from Reginald, Luther’s employer. But as annoyed he is at all of the theft, he purposefully never catches Diego, because he knows Klaus loves him. And Luther may be a man of the law, but he’s also Klaus’ beloved brother-in-spirit, even if Reginald wants them to marry each other for some idiotic reason. (Something about getting Klaus to settle down - ha, he can try.) When Klaus disappears, Luther follows him, having no connections left here - and that’s when he meets Allison. And there are copious laws against getting involved with married women and outlaws alike… so Luther starts to think that maybe bending the rules wouldn’t be so bad. (Klaus is so proud.)

Diego grew up poor, and became a pirate in his early teens when Grace took him in. When she fled the colony, Diego went with her, leaving his childhood best friend Klaus behind. He’s got his own fleet and crew now, and mostly uses his scores as excuses to flirt with Klaus, who’s still just as drawn to him after all these years and often sneaks him into his bedroom when Diego’s in town. Diego’s kept in close touch with Lila and Eudora, both of whom he grew up with once Grace took him away, and they both help him when it comes time for him to crash Klaus’ wedding to Luther (fuck you dude) and steal Klaus away for a life at sea. (Klaus absolutely LOVES this. They kiss a lot. They swing from ropes. Klaus is screaming at all the guards as Diego carries him away bridal-style (ha, I’m so funny). It is delightful.) (His ship is a terror they call The Kraken. Ha, get it? Get it - because Diego’s name - and the monster from legend - okay yeah I’ll shut up now.)

Allison is a badass goddess, covered in colorful tattoos with gold in her hair. She was a prostitute for awhile, stealing a bunch along the way, but one day one of the pirate captains who approached her tried to take more than he paid for. She broke both his hands and killed him in cold blood, then defeated his entire crew in a sword fight single-handedly, earning their respect. She now rides with that same crew as their captain, in one of those off-the-shoulder poet-blouse-corset dresses and high brown boots. Ray is a leutinant who’s been chasing her for years, the two of them flirting back and forth forever… but he’ll never catch her. It’s bad form to arrest your wife.

Klaus is the governor’s bastard son, a totally wild spirit who wears dresses all the time, drinks his weight at parties, and has slept with half the town (marriage is not a problem for him, this is Klaus, we all know he is very down for threesomes). He’s stolen half of Reginald’s shit for Diego over the years, and has been sneaking off to see him just as long, completely in love with his pirate king. Though he’s loved others before - Dave, for example, a soldier whose death broke Klaus into give in to Reginald’s plan to marry him off to Luther (who Klaus loves, just, Not Like That™). The day Diego kidnaps him from his own wedding is the best fucking day of his life - okay, no it wasn’t. That was second best. The best day of his life was the day he and Diego watched Diego’s ship and treasure burn and sink into the sea, and Klaus asked him if he was alright, and Diego just shrugged. Said, You’re the only treasure I need, and kissed him like the world was ending. Yeah. That was the best day of his life, because Diego is the best anything in his life.

Five was a pirate queen until he transitioned a few years ago, though only by word of mouth. No one’s ever seen him. Anyone who works for him doesn’t make it a month outside of the job, usually by his own hands, but people keep coming because nobody knows who he is. He sails alone, though he offers Klaus refuge on his boat for a few days under the moniker Aidan, because he knows Diego loves him, and Five actually respects Diego (if only because he respects Lila who he only respects because he respects Eudora). He hates the Handler for leaving him stranded on an island when he was just a child, an unwanted product of her crew’s hard partying, and has vowed to kill her one day for leaving him alone for so long, ageless in misery. He talks to the mermaid on the front of his ship named Dolores and kills without mercy, and when he finally reveals himself as this skinny pale thirteen-year-old with the grandpa haircut, he revels in the looks on his family’s faces as they try to rebuild their blown brain circuits.

Ben loves Klaus more than life itself, which is, in hindsight, probably why he’s dead. Oh who is he kidding, it’s definitely why he’s dead. Klaus is sort of, kind of, maybe, just a little bit a witch, and they hang witches where they’re from. So when they needed someone to blame for the odd happenings Klaus had caused recently, Ben had taken the blame and worn the noose proudly. Klaus still talks to him all the time, his ghost anyway, and it’s fine - but Klaus lives on the sea now, with Diego, and Ben gets seasick like all the time. (And then he steals Davy Jones’ heart and gets trapped as a tentacle monster, which is honestly not that bad. It helps him scare birds, and Ben likes scaring birds.)

Vanya works as the blacksmith’s apprentice, sad and lonely. She’s been having an affair with the duchess Sissy for years, also working as her maid and a nanny for her son Harlan when asked, but mostly she’s alone, with no one else to care for in the world. (And that creep officer Leonard keeps asking her to marry him, which, just. Ew.) When Five shows up, his hands in his pockets, and offers her a way out, well - what else could she possibly do?

Lila is a badass pirate princess who don’t take no shit from anybody. She wears bright pink ballgowns while skewering people like kabobs, which is funny because she’s a well-known maneater. Literally. (Yes I included a Hannibal character in here because it’s my AU and I can do whatever the fuck I want.) She fell in love with Eudora, and thought she had corrupted the kind sergeant until she found out Eudora had been an undercover pirate the whole time, helping Diego smuggle Reginald’s gold and goods in and out of port. (That’s hot as fucking hell, she blurts when she realizes. Fuck, I’m gonna marry this woman.) She has a serious rum problem she will not be addressing and a collection of pet parrots that will forever prevent her and Ben from becoming friends. When she and Eudora get married, it’s in the middle of the pouring rain while thunder and lightning and gunshots crack around them and they’re killing people and shooting canons left and right (because I may not have shipped Will and Elizabeth but by god if their wedding wasn’t the best fucking thing I’ve ever seen). Now if only she could find the king of the pirates… she’s been hunting Five for years, hoping to prove herself to him, but he just… won’t show up.

Eudora is the sergeant in Reginald’s legions, and has been using her position to help Diego pirate goods since before he even left with Grace. She makes a lot of deals with him, having him carry her cargo and speak with her connections in exchange for her keeping an eye on Klaus for him, which to be honest they both know she’d do anyway. She helped Diego get to Klaus’ wedding and kidnap him, confusing the soldiers in pursuit of the bride, and follows them off to sea, finally home. She feels she owes an eternal debt to Klaus for not being able to save Ben from execution, though she tried, almost desperately. She flirts with Lila all the damn time, and believes in magic, wanting to travel the world looking for it. Most importantly, you should know that she will and has killed for a cheeseburger. (I know they weren’t invented yet shut up.)

Reginald is the governor of the colony, and Klaus’ father. He’s an asshole, one who constantly hunts the pirates because his wife Grace left him to be one. He only has one eye because Grace cut the other out viciously in their last fight, and he’s an abusive piece of shit who lives to terrorize and tax people. Pogo is his assistant / advisor / let-me-stand-here-and-give-you-good-advice-that-we-all-know-you’ll-ignore person. Reginald refuses to die before he catches Grace and sees her hanging in the square - something that seems more and more likely by the day. (HA, Grace says. He wishes.)

Grace is the original pirate queen, and lives in legend. She faked her death after living a double life for years, leaving Reginald and taking her son Diego with her. She knows Reginald doesn’t believe in her death, because she cut his eye out and nearly killed him right before she left, but everyone else believes it. She jumped from the bell tower and Klaus himself “went mad with grief” at the sight of her body, though he of course knows she’s alive and keeps up the story for her benefit. She injured Reginald so severely because he killed Ben, knowing that he wasn’t guilty, and that the witch in question had done nothing wrong anyway. She is known to be fiercely protective of her children, and kind in nature despite her ability to kill you using a historic number of methods. Her crew is made up of refugees who she offered shelter and a better life in exchange for their servitude, including Five, for awhile, who was running a scam. She knows who he is, and remembers his face well - but she keeps it to herself. Though she could match him in a fight easily, she has no interest in battling the boy she has grown to love as a son. (She’s also the one who officiates Diego and Klaus’ wedding, but that’s unrelated.)

The Handler is another pirate queen, and Grace’s greatest rival. She has two pistols at her waist and is not afraid to use them, having such deadly aim that she’s never missed a target - except Diego, which she hates him for. Also for encouraging her first mate and daughter Lila to mutiny, but that’s a whole other can of worms. Her ship is followed by an entire shiver of sharks, who let her use them like water skis whenever she wants. She abandoned Five on an island when he was born into her crew, as she hates children with a burning passion. (There are rumors she eats little boys’ bones. They have yet to be disproven.) Hazel is her snivelling first mate and Cha-Cha is her willing servant and second captain, a master at the wheel and with a sword. Agnes is an old psychic (ha, she’s faking it. She’s got no fuckin’ clue where Five is and will continue to lie whenever asked) she keeps in the brig after kidnapping her years ago, hoping to get a read on Five, who the Handler hates for constantly stealing her goods before they even make it to port. (She has no idea he’s the same boy she left on that island all those years ago - he’s certainly not the only child she’s done that to. But countless are out for her blood… almost every person Grace has rescued was left to die on an island by the Handler.) She eventually dies at Klaus’ hand, who plunges a sword through her heart in defense of his family, who she made the fatal mistake of coming after. (It happened in the same rainy battle where Lila and Eudora were married. He was wearing a yellow ballgown.)

Also Jack Sparrow is super great friends with Lila and he’s married to Will Turner who’s honestly so exhausted but gets along great with Ben and Elizabeth is their ace-aro friend who is a goddamn queen and who Diego has a lowkey crush on and Klaus can geek out with for hours. It’s awesome.

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sxfterhearts · 4 years

Text

wounded

24. [7:25 pm]

➳ pairing: yugyeom x reader

➳ genre/warnings: slow burn, fluff, slight bad boy!yugyeom, triggers; mentions of violence, injuries, physical abuse

➳ word count: 2,504 words

➳ summary: 24. “Just because,”

➳ author's note: this will probably turn into a two-shot, inspired by new era yugs. all creds for the gif below to @jinyoungot7, thank you so much 💖 i’ve been sitting on this idea for a bit too long + rewrote it 3 times (bc my dumb self forgot to hit save) so i really struggled to form the right words. i hope you’ll forgive me for this! any form of feedback will be very much appreciated 💕 (also: imo = aunty)

wounded // scarred // healed

A rush of stiflingly hot summer air pummeled through the double doors of your family’s restaurant, disrupting the once cool atmosphere created by the air-cons. Being reminded of this season’s unforgiving behaviours urged you to lift the straw of your cool drink to your lips.

The sip of iced Americano, however, got stuck in your throat when you laid eyes upon the restaurant’s newest patron.

Yugyeom. Kim Yugyeom, with his untucked shirt and loosened tie, took confident strides across the dining area in the direction of the kitchen window where chefs would place finished dishes, ready to be served. Your brain short-circuited for several moments as you did nothing but watch him from your position behind the cashier. His actions were that of a regular’s as he arrived at the window and stuck his head through the opening in the wall, his hand coming up in a small wave to catch the chefs’ attention.

It was then that you registered, quite belatedly, the bruises and splotches of crimson littered across the back of his raised hand, tarnishing the fair skin.

You distinctly remembered that you saw plasters wrapped around his fingers earlier today when you sat beside him in class. His current wounds made the older ones seem like insignificant paper cuts. It wasn’t unusual for Yugyeom to turn up covered in fresh cuts and purple bruises, though. In fact, you had grown so accustomed to this that you started stocking up on assorted Rilakkuma plasters. Since the start of the semester when you were assigned the furthest desk from the whiteboard, you learned how to disinfect open wounds with saline solution and cover it properly with pastel-coloured dressings, all courtesy of Kim Yugyeom.

“Imo, can I please order takeaway? One bibim naengmyeon and one mul naengmyeon, double serving of pickled radishes, two eggs and extra-”

“Yugyeom-ah!” Your mother’s unmistakeable voice pierced through as her head peeked out of the little window, coming face to face with your desk partner. She addressed him with such a warm and motherly tone, which left you surprised and confused. “Oh, oh dear… It’s best if you take a seat, you can have your dinner here. I’ll pack Mark’s in a takeaway container, don’t you worry.”

“But Imo, I need to get back, Mark-”

“No buts, Yugyeom. I already memorised your orders. Sit down, your food will be ready in a second.”

“Imo, I can’t-” Yugyeom protested weakly, waving his hands in refusal, but you knew it was all for nought. Attempting to deny your mother’s orders were an impossible feat.

A short silence ensued. You guessed this was caused by your mother’s signature death stare. Having been on the receiving end countless times during your lifetime, you were well aware that it could make anyone’s skin rise with goose bumps or a chill to run down their spines.

“Okay, Imo…” Came Yugyeom’s resigned voice as his lanky legs dragged himself over to the vacant seat closest to the kitchen.

You took this as your cue to question your mother in detail about how she became so familiar with your class’ bad boy. Unfortunately, you were met with a curt reminder of the first-aid kit in the cupboard under the counter as she busied herself with blanching the buckwheat noodles. When she was in her element, there was no way to deviate her attention from the task at hand.

Rummaging through the cupboard, you fished out the white box with a red cross stuck on the top of the lid. Taking a few moments to steel your quickening heart rate, you were struck by the realisation that this would be the first time seeing Yugyeom outside of school in the entire five years you spent as classmates. He was a quiet boy, never uttering a single word in school, even when the teachers were asking him questions, landing him a semi-permanent spot in detention. Most days, he would plug one earphone into his ear and rest his head on folded arms, taking frequent naps as the class learned about organic compounds or Punnett squares. He was also handed multiple demerits for breaking the school rules, which ranged from getting into fist fights with seniors who bullied students for their lunch money, or wearing one too many piercings (especially the shiny ones), to refusing to get a haircut when his fringe began to grow past his eyebrows, obscuring his eyes.

The most intimidating aspect about sitting next to Kim Yugyeom, however, was that nearly every week you were forced to come face to face with angry gashes and wounds that he seemingly gained overnight. He always turned a blind eye when you succumbed to your curiosity and inspected his injuries from your seat, mere inches away. Wordlessly, you would clean the damaged skin with practiced hands, then patch it up with a plaster. Rilakkuma, you decided, suited him best. The plasters matched his yellow Rilakkuma earphones. You even caught him occasionally staring at the plasters when you stayed in class during lunch, the only period in which he remained awake.

“Y/N,” Yugyeom called as you drew the seat next to him. He stared at the table, refusing to meet your eyes.

Your ears perked up the moment your name left his lips; you were not used to this. It was a rare occurrence for the two of you to speak. Usually you went about your everyday tasks silently, with little words being exchanged. It was a silence that grew comfortable over the semester, and you found yourself appreciating the peace it brought during stressful times.

Conversations between the two of you had only started up recently. This was largely attributed to your father, who worked front of the house, being ridiculed by your classmate’s parents when they visited the restaurant. They complained about your father’s complete lack of competence when they had to wait forty-five minutes for their food to arrive, only to receive the wrong dishes in the end. Furious, they shoved the plate of food off the table and stormed out of the restaurant, not even bothering to settle the bill. Your father was left to clean up the scraps in front of all the other customers, severely damaging the restaurant’s reputation.

The classmate, a snobby, pampered girl, confronted you in school the next day by rudely pushing your books and stationery onto the floor, just like her parents did. You held back angry, frustrated tears as she ridiculed you and your family in front of all your other classmates, tearing you down to shreds. Yugyeom, rousing from his nap, caught the girl’s wrist before she had the chance to slap you across the face with a notebook.

Everyone grew quiet then. The boy had never done anything to gain attention, always preferring to remain behind the shadows in perfect silence. “Keep it down, you’re ruining my sleep.” Yugyeom hissed threateningly. She cowered in fear and backed off, never to provoke you again.

“Look up, Yugyeom.” You instructed, returning to the task at hand. With a concerned gaze, you conducted a thorough examination of his injuries. The cuts on his hands and the bruises on his knuckles were fairly standard – a quick clean and plaster should do the trick. You got to work, pulling out the alcohol-free cleansing wipes and dabbing over the torn skin with gentle fingers. The boy flinched slightly upon the first contact but behaved rather well as you continued to tend to his hands. Your gaze flitted over the two spherical scars on the underside of his left forearm as he reached forward, closing the distance between the two of you. They were cigarette burns, you figured. You could feel Yugyeom’s fingers brushing against your temples as he pushed strands of your short hair back to rest behind your ears, the tips of which glowered pink at his actions.

“What happened this time?” You asked, somewhat rhetorically. You knew full well that Yugyeom would never divulge the events that led up to his injuries, no matter how persistent you were.

He hummed in response, as though that were an appropriate answer, and scrunched up his face slightly to express his reluctance in answering your question.

The wound smack bang in the middle of his nose presented itself as a bit more of a challenge. While Yugyeom was no stranger to facial injuries, often sporting shallow cuts close to his brow or near his chin, this was much deeper; much larger. It drew unwanted attention and tarnished his otherwise handsome features.

A dull thud sounded as a bowl of cold noodles landed on the table. Your mother stood over the two of you, shaking her head as she handed you a warm towel. You accepted it, still utterly clueless about how your mother was so well acquainted with Yugyeom and his injuries. “Y/N-ah, use this to clean the wound. If it’s still bleeding a lot, apply some pressure to it.” She then turned to the boy, tutting in disapproval. “Yugyeom, I’ve always respected your privacy when you show up in my restaurant covered in cuts and bruises, but this is where I draw the line. Your injuries are getting more serious. You and I are going to have a serious talk once you finish your dinner, young man. It’s been two years and I can’t watch from the sidelines any longer, are we clear?”

You watched as Yugyeom nearly heaved out a sigh, but decided against it in the last minute. “Yes, Imo. Thank you, Imo.”

Your mother, with her hands perched atop her waist, nodded gravely before strutting over to the kitchen, leaving the two of you alone once more. A million questions swarmed in your head as Yugyeom took the towel from your hands, pressing it onto his wound as he began to devour the bowl of cold noodles. This has been going on for two years? You wondered to yourself. Two long years, and yet I’ve never even ran into him in the restaurant. There’s no way, he must’ve been here when I worked over the summer. Maybe he was just sitting in a corner, eating in silence… As usual.

“You’ve been coming her for two years?” You asked before you could stop yourself, your curiosity getting the better of you. “But why?” Why didn’t you tell me? You thought silently, the rest of the sentence unable to leave your mouth.

Yugyeom shrugged as he picked out two halved egg yolks from the boiled eggs with his chopsticks. “Just because,”

Because you pitied me? Because you were ashamed of me? Because you couldn’t face me in school without thinking about that incident caused by the girl’s parents?

“It’s not like that.” The boy said flatly, his eyes meeting yours with a resolute gaze when he noticed you withdrawing, getting lost in your thoughts. “This is the only place that sells naengmyeon all year.”

“What?” You muttered in disbelief.

“I have naengmyeon every Friday, even in winter. The food is good and I only live five minutes away.”

You nodded at his explanation. Perhaps you were overthinking the situation.

“I was also trying to hide most of my injuries from you.” He admitted in a low voice, barely audible above the white noise of the restaurant. Yugyeom took another mouthful of noodles into his mouth, chewing appreciatively as the refreshing flavours soothed his senses. “Fridays…” He paused, eyes wandering vacantly around the vicinity of the restaurant. “Fridays are gambling days for my uncle. He’ll gamble, lose, drink and come home for dinner. You know my older brother, Mark?”

“Yeah, I know Mark.” It was hard not to know about Mark. Before he graduated four years ago, rumours about him spread like wildfire throughout the entire school. The one rumour you distinctly remembered as a first-year student was that he maintained good grades by doing, for a lack of better word, favours, for his female teachers.

“Mark would rush me out of the house before our uncle got home. He acted as my uncle’s babysitter by cooking him dinner, and then as his punching bag when he had to take out his frustration. I was home once when it happened, some time last year. After that I made Mark agree for us to take turns.”

Your head started to spin as your brain worked to process this new information. “Wait so, the cuts, the bruises, the burns, all of that…?”

Yugyeom nodded, still staring beyond the double doors. The sun was beginning to set. In the back of his mind, he registered that his uncle would be home soon. “Honestly, Mark had it worse, especially in the first few months after.”

He meant after his parents passed away two years ago. A car accident. They were coming home from their anniversary dinner. It was raining. There was a truck going around the corner at insane speeds, towards their car. It swerved. Their car plummeted off a cliff. They died instantly, the aunties gossiped as they filtered in and out of the restaurant. Poor kids, they would remark, casting pitied looks at the brothers.

“Your mother, she’s really something else.” He said with a small smile while picking up a few pieces of cucumber and radish. “The first time I came in, the restaurant was about to close. She took one look at me and forced me to press a piece of frozen beef on my bruise. She talked to me the entire time she was dressing my wound, I swear my ears nearly fell off.”

That sounded exactly like your mother. She loved to nag, but it always came from a place of genuine concern. “Imagine being her daughter.” You joked, grateful for the slight comedic relief from the heavy nature of the words you shared. It was one of the few proper conversations you had with your desk partner.

“Sometimes I have to remind myself that she isn’t my mother.” Yugyeom said, his tone so broken and devastated that you felt your heart ache within your chest.

You placed a hesitant hand on his shoulder, trying your best to provide him with some form, any form of comfort. “I’m sure she cares for you like her own son. Especially since she’s been making you dinner every Friday for the past two years.”

“Yeah, I suppose.”

“She even nurses your injuries.”

“But you do that too.” He pointed out without missing a beat, a teasing glint in his eyes as he finally turned to look at you.

“I…”

“Nevermind, forget I said anything.” Yugyeom replied with a knowing grin, returning back to his dinner.

I care about you too, a lot. You confessed silently, resting your heavy head on your palms as you watched him eat. The golden shine of the sun casted upon his pointed features. Despite the old scars and the new wounds, he glowed.

A part of you realised that after so many months, you had finally broken-down Kim Yugyeom’s iron walls. School would be very different from now on.

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jalapeno-princess · 4 years

Text

Broken-Hearted Girl

Mark Tuan X Reader

Genre: Angst with a happy ending

Word Count: 8.7K

Summary: After a petty argument escalates into Mark saying some things he didn’t mean, the two of you end up breaking up on your third anniversary. For the rest of the week, you find solace in your family and you learn how to live with a broken heart.

A/N: I don’t even remember how I stumbled upon this song but after listening to and falling in love with one of their other songs “Friend’s Don’t” by Maddie and Tae, I already knew I was going to like this one also. I recommend you listen to it while reading this imagine, the song really does tug on your heartstrings. I’ve been extremely busy for the last few weeks and so I wanted to put a hold on writing (even if just for a few days) but I’ve actually been staying up till the wee hours of the morning (I feel as if I might have insomnia but who knows) and I actually had a really bad mental breakdown earlier, so I needed something to help calm me down and take my mind off of my negative thoughts. Writing is my favorite escape from how cruel this world can be sometimes (although, my writing is literal shit haha) (and i really don’t care for how I ended this and I’m actually kind of unimpressed with this story) but I hope you guys enjoy it! (I have never been in a relationship before so I haven’t experienced the pain of a heartbreak (and I’m sure knowing my sensitive ass I would actually die)

Hey, mama, how do you get a red-wine stain Out of your favorite dress? Black mascara off a pillow case Cure a one-too-many headache Mama, can I come and maybe stay a few days? This weekend or next And hey, how do you get a red-wine stain Out of your favorite dress?

How does he sleep at night? Mama, the nerve of this guy To leave me so easy Am I gonna be alright? I wanna kick myself for fallin' so hard Mama, can you die from a broken heart?

This was not how tonight was supposed to end. Usually, anniversaries were meant to be extremely romantic. They were meant to celebrate the amount of time you’ve been in a relationship with your significant other and to relish in the love that you had for one another; yet here you were, storming out of your boyfriend—well, now ex-boyfriend’s truck towards your apartment with tears streaming down your face.

You were too focused on getting inside and just collapsing to the ground that you couldn’t even remember how the night ended so terribly. Just a few hours ago, Mark picked you up with the intentions on surprising you for your third anniversary together.

The two of you practically couldn’t even keep your eyes, let alone your hands off of each other to the point where Mark was just going to say fuck it and show you just how much he loved you and how happy he was to be able to call you the love of his life with his head between your thighs. However, things didn’t go as planned.

In fact, you had a hard time processing that he told you he planned on spending the rest of his life with you just a few moments before the argument broke out. As soon as you unlocked the door and stumbled inside, you immediately sank to your knees and let out the most heartbreaking cry you didn’t think you were capable of. Not once in your life did you ever cry as much as you were right now.

Sure, you’ve lost a few loved ones, failed a couple of very important tests here and there and sometimes you and Mark would watch some of the saddest movies every now and then but nothing ever hurt you as much as Mark’s last words did.

My life would’ve been so much easier if you weren’t in it.

Each word felt like a stab in your gut. At the time, you knew you said some things that you didn’t mean and that you were sure had a negative effect on him; but nothing you said was even half as bad as hearing him practically say he regrets your entire relationship.

It made you overthink the last three years of being with him. Mark was in more or less words, the perfect boyfriend. He was quite the gentleman; he always held doors open for you, pushed you on the inside whenever you’d be walking on sidewalks, pulled out chairs for you, always asked how your day was going and if you were eating all your meals on time.

He knew your coffee order by heart, he’d buy you cute little things he would see that he thought you would like and he even made you a few playlists of songs that reminded him of you. He took care of you as if you were the most delicate little dandelion; but that didn’t mean he wasn’t rough or dominant behind closed doors.

Mark knew you like the back of his hand. Three years would do that to someone; he knew each and every mole, freckle, beauty and birthmark on your body. He was well aware of the scar on your knee that was shaped like Texas and how you got it from playing football with your cousins. If perfect was a person, it would be him.

Everyone who knew of him wanted to be his friend. Mark was a social butterfly; he had a tendency to be friendly and kind to whoever he encountered. His golden heart, extremely kind and generous personality was got you to fall in love with him; on top of his indescribable good looks and charismatic charm. After knowing each other for over seven years, you’ve grown accustomed to having Mark in your life.

Even before the two of you started dating, he was there for almost every milestone in your life. He was there when you got accepted in to the college of your dreams, he was there when you got an internship with a company you’ve been wanting for a long time, he was there for your first time getting drunk at the young age of 16 and he was the one to rub your back as you threw up the following morning.

With that being said, he was also there during some of the darkest times in your life. When your grandmother passed away from cancer, it felt as if your entire world fell apart. She was your best friend and you were completely devastated as soon as your mom called you and told you the news of her passing. Mark was at baseball practice around the time that you were heading to the hospital, but once he heard of what happened, he wasted no time in making his way to where you were and pulled you in to his chest the moment his eyes landed on your frail figure.

It took months of grieving, crying over her absence and Mark constantly whispering sweet words of comfort for you to come to terms with her death and you were entirely grateful that you had someone so patient and understanding as Mark was to be there for you during such a traumatic time. What was going to happen now when he was the reason why you were so distraught?

Losing your grandmother was extremely painful and even after all these years, you weren’t completely over her death. However, knowing that man you loved more than life itself no longer wanted anything to do with you was a different kind of pain. Although there were a few times in your relationship that you and Mark would disagree, not once did a fight escalate this badly before.

Your relationship was one that everyone around you seemed to envy. Everyone and their mothers knew just how much Mark loved you and it was obvious by your words and actions that you felt the exact same way. His mom always used to tell you that your love was one for the ages; you both cared for one another in ways that only people who were genuinely in love could experience. For two people who’ve been in a relationship for as long as you and Mark have, you were still in the so called “honeymoon stage” where you constantly had to be around each other even if all you did was laze around all day doing nearly nothing.

Just being in his presence always made you feel so at ease; so serene. Home wasn’t necessarily a place you lived in or just a roof above your head. Home wasn’t just a place that gave you shelter; home was where you felt the safest, the most comfortable and home was where you were happiest. For the last seven years, Mark Tuan was your home and now, you were homeless. You always felt so protected and loved whenever you were around him and you hated every moment spent away from him.

The more time you spent crying on the floor, the more you came to the realization that tonight’s events actually happened and Mark was no longer your person. Although neither of you actually called it quits, you knew by the tone of his voice and in his facial expression that it was over. Even if he were to come back to you within the week begging you for forgiveness, you don’t think you could ever forget how his words screwed you up mentally and physically.

When you decided that you had cried all the tears you had in your body and that you were wasting your time crying over someone who couldn’t give less of a shit about you, you got up from your spot right in front of the door and slowly sauntered off in to the kitchen. Anyone who knew you were aware of the fact that you hated alcohol.

You weren’t a heavy drinker, and you were sure it’s because you spent your teenage years getting high and wasted to the point where it was no longer fun to do now that it was legal. The bottle of red wine that was in the back of your cupboard was a gift from Mark’s friend Jackson for your birthday a couple of months ago and you didn’t want to seem rude by not accepting it since you didn’t care for red wine or just wine in general.

But now, you were extremely grateful for his choice in gifts and you made it your responsibility to finish the entire bottle in one sitting before you went to sleep. That’s if you could even find it in yourself to even go to bed. Your mind was filled with thoughts of Mark and what he was doing right now; if he regretted what he said, if he knew you were currently suffering and beating yourself up about the argument.

How could the two of you go from being seconds away to ripping each other’s clothes off, to you drinking imported red wine straight from the bottle to take your mind off of your broken heart? As you continued to drink the wine, it was in that moment of sitting on your kitchen floor and banging your head on your refrigerator that you noticed your front door had a dent in it. You wouldn’t be surprised if you were to go up to it and see that you broke it by how hard you slammed it out of anger, but at this point you didn’t even care.

Your mind, your heart and your body were so numb that nothing else seemed to matter and if anything, the door represented your mental state and your relationship. Seeing as how you were the definition of a light weight, it didn’t take you long to completely knock out on the hard tile. Although that last sentence continued to replay over and over; taunting you as a painful reminder that you were living your actual nightmare, it was the fact that he gave up on you so easily as if you meant nothing to him that really killed you.

Was he planning to breakup with you and used this argument to actually go along with it? How long ago did he decide he no longer wanted to be with you? Everything seemed to be going so good for the two of you; so when did he decide he had enough of your relationship? You weren’t surprised when you woke up the next morning with an extremely painful migraine and a crook in your neck.

This is why you despised any type of alcohol and never understood why Mark and his friends constantly went out to bars whenever they hung out. However, you felt as if this was going to be your way to ease the pain and knowing that alone made you want to cry again. After taking a few moments to process what you were going to do for the rest of the day, you got up to take some pain killers and to look at your current state to see how much of a mess you probably were.

Almost half an hour later, you found the strength to get up and walked to your bathroom. Your head was throbbing and your bones ached from sleeping on the floor, but nothing hurt even half as much as your heart did. As soon as you saw your reflection, you didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. You looked horrible. Your hair looked like a bird’s nest; tangled and all over the place. You had mascara stained on your cheeks, your eyes were puffy and if you weren’t so numb, you would’ve screamed at the wine stain in the dress you were wearing; your favorite dress to be exact.

Mark bought you that dress a couple of months ago because he knew it would look good on you and he was right. The first time you wore it, it didn’t stay on for too long. It was your favorite dress for many reasons; not only did your boyfriend buy it for you, but as someone who was extremely insecure with her body, no matter how many times Mark would make it known how much he loved your body and thought you were the most beautiful and sexiest woman to exist, the dress made you feel beautiful.

You wore this dress with so much confident but now, it was stained with a deep maroon color right around the chest area and it was a brief representation of the hell you were going through. Like the fool that you were, the fool who was madly in love with the person you wished you could hate right now, you checked your phone to see if he tried to get in touch with you at all and you felt your stomach sink when you saw nothing.

No texts, no calls, no voicemails, no “I’m sorry, I made a mistake”, no “I love you” or “I miss you.” Couples went through breakups all the time so why did you feel pathetic for something you weren’t at fault for? The rest of the week felt like you were dreaming the same nightmare over and over again. You could still see the anger and rage in his eyes when he told you that you were annoying and that he wasted his night with you when he could’ve gone out with his friends. You were sure there was a chance he was with them right now and you didn’t care at all.

If he was so quick to let you go without a care in the world, you weren’t going to allow yourself to cry over him no matter how much you wanted to. But you were only human. Three years may not be considered “a long relationship” and you were still kind of young to get married and settle down but you knew Mark was the man you wanted nothing more than to spend the rest of your life with. The two of you talked about your futures on multiple occasions and every time Mark would talk about his plans, you were in each one.

On the fifth day, you came to terms with the idea that it was really over. You tried lying to yourself by thinking that he was going to come back and that he just needed some time to calm down, but you gave up on that idea entirely knowing how Mark could be. Two things about the older boy that you could do without was his pride and how stubborn he could be.

He tried his best not to show you those sides of him because he didn’t want you thinking negatively of him or being afraid of him; however there were occasions where he would get in to it with one of his friends because he always had to have the last word. With that being said, you knew Mark wasn’t going to give in. He wasn’t going to initiate reconciling with you even if that’s what he wanted because that’s just who he was.

A week away from work was what you needed to really try and get yourself together again. It wasn’t until your mom called asking how you were doing and if you and Mark wanted to stop by for dinner that you realized you weren’t okay nor were you ready to go out and put on a fake smile while pretending nothing was wrong. When your mom called you, you let her go to voicemail multiple times.

Although your mom was your best friend and you probably needed someone to be there to comfort you during your heartbreak, you weren’t ready for pity or sympathy. The only person you needed was Jack Daniels. You hated what you had become in less than a weak and you hated that you allowed Mark to have this effect on you. It was only natural for you to be responding to your breakup in this way; you were only human. But you were now a pathetic alcoholic who was wasting her time crying over a man who was no longer in her life.

Three shots of vodka, two beers and one shot of tequila later and you absentmindedly left a lengthy voicemail to your mom, telling her exactly what happened all the while begging her to let you stay at your parent’s house for a couple of days. Maybe even weeks. Deep down, you knew you needed to be around people no matter how much you enjoyed being alone because your mind always found away to think about Mark.

You told her how Mark yanked out your heart and stepped on it repeatedly. You told her about getting drunk every single day for the last week, how much you hated him for what he was putting you through and how you hated that you were letting such a stupid boy control your emotions. You also asked her if your dad could come over on one of his days off to take a look at your door. She didn’t take long to respond back to you nor were you surprised when you heard her knocking on your door while she quickly pulled you in to her embrace once you opened it.

“Oh yeah sweetheart, you really broke your poor door. Come here baby, mama’s got you.”

She helped you bring your bags to the car and the two of you stayed in silence the entire ride to your parent’s house. You had a feeling she had a few questions she wanted to ask you and that there was a couple of things she wanted to say but you were glad that the only noise in her car was the sound of the air conditioner. You weren’t ready for any kind of human interaction or a conversation you knew would drive you even more crazy.

All you wanted was for your mom to rock you back and forth like how she used to when you were younger and tell you that everything was going to be okay even if you lost all hope on it being so. When she pulled up to the garage, she told you to stay put so that she could help you get out of your car and you felt like such a child. Out of all your siblings, you were the closest one to your mom and even if you were an adult living on your own with a full time job and everything, you were always going to be her little girl.

Seeing your child cry was always painful for a mother, but because the reason behind your sadness was something out of her control, she felt like she couldn’t do anything but console you and get you whatever you needed to try and make you feel better. Once you made it inside of the house, she led you to your old bedroom and let you get settled in so that she could prepare you something to eat. You didn’t have the heart to tell her you weren’t all that hungry; you haven’t had much of an appetite in the last week and you were sure she noticed your sudden weight loss.

A part of you wanted to ask her to forget about it, especially because being in your old room brought back so many memories of Mark and how he would sneak in on school nights and how the two of you would stay up talking about anything your hearts desired. Being alone wasn’t something you’d think you’d ever get used to, especially because Mark was like your shadow. Wherever you went, Mark followed and unlike most people who would probably complain about his clinginess, you enjoyed it profusely.

Knowing that Mark always craved your presence and needed to be around you to maintain his sanity made your heart flutter. This has been the longest you had to be without him and every day felt like an entire month. It’s as if time went by frustratingly slow because the universe was aware of your heartbreak and wanted to make you suffer for whatever reason you were unsure of.

Taking a look around your old bedroom, you could feel your chest grow heavy when you saw the few pictures you had of you and Mark from when you were growing up and tears were soon building up at your eyes. The two of you looked so happy together; you were just a couple of kids who dreamt about so many wonderful things that life had to offer. Little did either of you know that one day, you would fall in love with one another before you could even comprehend the meaning behind that silly four letter word.

You silently cursed to yourself for getting all worked up again; you came to your parent’s house as a way to heal on your own and to surround yourself with people who love you and care about your well-being. You just needed to have some kind of support system or else you’d drive yourself crazy back at your apartment thinking about what you could’ve done to have prevented the breakup from happening. The gentle knock on your door took you by surprise and you almost ended up dropping the frame.

She released a long sigh before she walked over toward you and took the picture from out of your hands. The last thing your mom wanted to do was to make you even more upset by saying something to trigger you or cause you to overthink. But she couldn’t handle seeing you so broken; so defeated especially because you were an actual ray of sunshine. Your smile alone could light up an entire room and your personality was so bright and bubbly, people enjoyed your company because of your enthusiasm.

As much as your mom liked Mark to the point where she would secretly plan out your future wedding with his mom whenever they’d go out to lunch together, she wanted to find him and make him regret what he did to her baby girl. She was shocked to say the least when she got your voicemail and at first, she couldn’t even understand what you were saying because your speech was so slurred and she couldn’t hear a word you were saying through your tears. Mark made it known to his surroundings that you were his entire world and all he cared about was making sure you were well taken cared of and that you were happy, healthy and got everything you deserved. You were so agitated just by seeing his photo and you wanted to scream.

He was probably already over the entire thing and although it killed you to think like this, you couldn’t help but feel as if he was already looking for someone new. Why else would he have left you so easily? There must’ve been someone on the side but who were you kidding? That man planned an entire night out for you; to celebrate your life together. Your mind came up with all these different reasons for the breakup so you could get some closure but you weren’t stupid. You knew Mark loved you, you just couldn’t find a reason why he would tell you he regrets your relationship and wishes he never met you.

You despised yourself for trusting Mark with your entire being; for allowing him to see each and every part of you. The good, the bad, the ugly. You hated that he was the only man you’ve ever loved with your entire physical, mental and spiritual being. You were upset with yourself for falling so hard for him and giving him the control to do such a thing to your heart. The feeling of being in your mom’s arms again after moving out almost two years ago was extremely comforting and very calming.

She ran her fingers through your hair and continued to stay silent and waited until you stopped crying completely before telling you exactly what was on her mind. After your sobs slowly died down, she tapped on your forehead to get your attention.

“Sweetheart, have I ever told you the story of when your father left me back when we were in college?”

You shook your head in disagreement but widened your eyes in shock at her revelation. From what you were told, your parents were college sweethearts. Your dad fell in love with her when one of their mutual friends asked him to pick her up from work once and he was extremely grateful that their car was in the shop at that time or else he would have never met his soulmate.

They’ve been together for over twenty years and not once have you heard this story, but now you were heavily interested. You always loved hearing stories about your parents relationship; it gave you high hopes for your own relationship and since you were going through a breakup right now, you could only hope the story would lift up your spirits.

“We were together for only three months at the time and it was the first relationship I had where I genuinely cared for him. He was so kind, so flirtatious and used the cheesiest pickup lines to make me laugh. I knew he was going to be someone special in my life. Unfortunately, at the time your dad was the only one in his group of friends that was in a relationship. They told him that being in a relationship was “lame” and that he was still so young to be wasting his time being tied down to one girl. He tried to defend and fight for our relationship, but his friends continued to pester him over it, so he broke up with me. I was devastated, I cried for hours on end and couldn’t eat anything. But he showed up only three days later with a beautiful bouquet of flowers and a bucket of fried chicken. He told me he loved me and refused to be without me. It was quire romantic if you ask me.”

You giggled at the idea of your dad asking your mom to take him back with some Popeyes. You were upset to hear that your dad’s friends coerced him in to breaking up with her. However, you were happy to hear that it didn’t take too long for him to realize your mom was it for him.

“He’ll be back y/n. I know he will. That boy—he loves you. He doesn’t need to say it out loud, I can tell in his actions and with the way he looks at you that he’s head over heels in love with you. His mom also mentioned it a couple times; he’s—what is that word kids your age use these days? Whipped for you? She said he has stars in his eyes whenever you come up in conversation. It’s serious when a boy talks about you to his momma. One day when the two of you are married with a family of your own, you’ll look back on this little bump in the road and laugh—“

“Please don’t say that. You didn’t see the way he looked at me when he told me all of those hurtful things. It didn’t even feel like he was my boyfriend, it was as if I was looking at a stranger. It makes me wonder, did he ever really love me if he had no problem leaving me?”

“I’m serious y/n. I don’t know what things were said that night or how things ended up the way they did, but when it’s real, when it’s love, you just know. He probably looks just as bad and if not worse than you do. I know it hurts. Breakups are rough, especially because it’s obvious you and Mark were made for one another. But what have I always told you? If you love something, let it go. If it comes back to you, then it’s yours forever and if it doesn’t, well baby, it just simply wasn’t meant to be. He was probably just in the heat of the moment and said some things he probably didn’t mean. I’m sure he’s regretting this entire thing. Mark’s a smart boy; if he knows what’s best for him, he’ll be yours again in no time. Until then, get out of this funk y/n. There’s so many wonderful things in the world to do and to be grateful for. Do you really want to look back on your twenties and regret wasting your time crying over a boy when you could be doing so many different activities and go on so many adventures?”

You released a frustrated sigh and shook your head again. She was right. You were tired of crying and drinking so much. There was only so much alcohol your body could handle and it wasn’t worth all the hangovers.

“Maybe we should tell your dad what happened so he can mess around with him a little bit and teach him a lesson.”

The idea and the way your mom said it made you let out a genuine laugh. Your parents were always so protective over you and it was probably because you were so kind-hearted that people tended to take advantage of how polite you could be. However, even if she meant it as a joke, you were nervous at what your dad would do if he found out about what Mark said to you and how the breakup was slowly killing you. You were a daddy’s girl and your dad never failed to do anything to make you smile; even if it meant scaring your ex-boyfriend which you knew you didn’t want him doing.

Your mom stayed with you for a few hours until it was timed for her to make dinner and you ended up falling asleep because of how mentally exhausted you were. No matter how much your mom loved it whenever you stayed over, she didn’t want you to get used to running away from your problems and hiding when things got too difficult. She wanted you to learn to live without him on your own. Your mom knew that you were going to be okay. Maybe not right now, but one day you would heal from this entire situation and realize that your breakup was a learning experience.

Plus, you had to return back to work sooner or later or you would lose your job completely. A cloud of sadness came once your dad pulled up to your apartment complex and they offered to walk you to your door but you weren’t sure if you’d allow them to leave if they did. They both pulled you in for hugs as they said their goodbyes and you actually cried as you watched them drive away. Why did life have to be so complicated? You were so unhappy to the point where you thought you would actually die from a broken heart.

The aspect of dying from a broken heart was extremely devastating; you’ve heard about it on multiple occasions. It was normal for people to be so sad, so distraught and have no energy or motivation to do anything. They wouldn’t eat, sleep and only spend most of their days crying out what was left of their hearts. You didn’t think going through a breakup would cause this much damage to you and your well-being; but contrary to what your mom told you, Mark wasn’t just any boy. He was the owner of your heart and you understood that he could torment you like this because you allowed him to.

You stopped by the mailbox to see if you got anything before heading up to your apartment. When your parents were driving you back to your place, you decided that you would actually get up and do something today. Whether it was tidying up your place from how messy it had become from your one too many drunken stupors, or going to the cleaners to get that wine stain out of your dress. As you began to approach your unit, you noticed there was something sitting right in front of your door.

The closer you got, you realized that it wasn’t just something, it was someone. Your heart felt as if it was about to jump out of your chest when you realized exactly who the person was slumped up against the wall. It was exactly a week since your fight and you weren’t sure if it was what your mom had said about your love and how beautiful it was, or because you were miserable without him but you wanted nothing more than to wrap your arms around him and beg him to come back to you.

You expected to be angry if you were to see him again because of all the trauma you suffered through; yet seeing him tugged on your heartstrings and it was as if you pushed the entirety of the last week to the back of your mind. When Mark heard footsteps coming towards him and he looked up to see who it was, he had to hold himself back from running towards you. Your mom was right, just like she normally was.

This week was one of the worst weeks of his entire life. He was suffering without you. He never hated himself more than he did when he said all those things and he hated himself even more for not running after you as soon as those spiteful words fell from his mouth. You were the best thing that has ever happened to him, and if things were to end up differently that night, he would’ve been able to show you exactly what you meant to him in more ways than one.

He wanted to call you, to text you and to tell you how stupid he was and how he didn’t mean a single word that he said to you but words were never his forte. Nor did he want to give up his pride even if it meant preventing this last week from ever happening. It was all his fault, or so he kept telling himself and he couldn’t go one more day without you in his life. It was too much for his heart to withstand.

He was going to do everything in his power to get you to forgive him, even if it meant having to stay away from you for a little while longer for you to completely heal from this experience. As soon as he drove away from your apartment that night, he knew he fucked up and accidentally punched a hole in his wall out of anger. He was so selfish; so insensitive and didn’t think that his harsh words would have any negative effect on you.

After hearing your little jabs at him, he wanted to hit you where it hurt the most but if he knew then what he knew now, he would’ve kept his mouth shut and just dropped you home so that you both could calm down and not say everything you both said to one another. You let out a deep breath and tried to prepare your heart to hear why he was there and to be ready to fight if the situation called for it.

“Hey.”

You looked up at him and you could feel tears brimming at your eyelids. He looked so tired and you knew for a fact that he must’ve cried with how his eyes practically mirrored the puffiness of yours. The dark circles under his eyes were more prominent and his face looked smaller than it already was. It made you cringe; Mark was never one to portray himself as someone weak or someone who had feelings and emoted whenever something was up with him. If he had a problem, he’d deal with it on his own and this was no different.

Good. He deserved to have suffered as much as you did.

“Hi. How long have you been here for?” He shrugged before scratching the back of his head; something he normally did when he felt like he was in the wrong or whenever he was embarrassed and you took it as the former.

“Um—since Wednesday I think.”

Your eyes widened in shock at his answer. Wednesday? So that means he was sitting outside of your apartment for the last three days?

“Wait, you’ve been here for three days? Are you crazy? Mark, you could’ve gotten sick! It’s cold out here! And what about food? Have you even been eating? You look so malnourished, why would you—“

“You and I both know why. I fucked up. Big time. It took me a while to think about it at this perspective because I was just so mad and I wanted to blame you for the way things ended that night but I came to the conclusion that this was my fault. I’m the one who fucked up something so amazing, so beautiful and so perfect because I was a fucking asshole y/n and I’m sorry. I’m so fucking sorry.”

In order to prevent wandering eyes of your neighbors, you opened the door and motioned for him to walk inside so that the two of you could have your privacy.

“Shit y/n, what happened to your door? You have to practically force it open—“

“You don’t want to know. My dad is supposed to come over this weekend to try and fix it. I think the hinges must’ve came out or something. Can I get you something to eat? Drink?”

He shook his head and you could see in your peripheral vision that he was hesitatingly reaching out for your hand, probably in attempts to bring you to the couch so he could continue the conversation from where the two of you began from but he just walked over to the living room and took a seat. You wanted to hear everything he had to say and you were going to make it a point to let him know what this breakup did to you.

His focus was on the multiple empty bottles of alcohol sitting on your coffee table and because he was well aware of how much you hated alcohol, it was apparent that you must’ve had it really rough if you felt the need to turn to alcohol for solace. When he felt like he was ready to talk, he turned around to face you and released an exasperated sigh.

“I’m sorry it took so long to come here—oh, these are for you. I actually had to go back to the store because the first two bouquets actually died probably because they weren’t being watered and I bought your favorite cookies—but I got hungry so there’s only three left.”

He handed you the beautiful bouquet of sunflowers and you giggled at the sight of only three cookies in a big container but it made you smile nonetheless.

How romantic.

You politely thanked him and placed both of the gifts down on the table before speaking up.

“You should’ve called me, I wouldn’t allow you to have waited out here for me. Are you crazy Mark? What if something happened to you—“

“Then so be it. I’d probably deserve it. Fuck, you don’t understand how much of a mess I was without you and how much I’ve been suffering because the image of your pained face would not leave my mind once this entire weekend. I had a feeling you weren’t home when you weren’t answering the door but then again, you could’ve looked through the peephole and decided you wanted nothing to do with me and I wouldn’t have blamed you. The old lady next door was kind enough to offer me some food here and there but I’m sure she probably thought I was a thief or something when she first saw me. I should’ve called but you and I both know why I didn’t. I kinda wanted to give you your space because I’m sure what I said probably got under your skin. I ruined our special day and I’m sorry if I broke your heart—with the way you’re looking at me I’m sure I hurt you pretty badly huh.”

You looked up at him with a melancholic look in your eyes; that had to be the understatement of the year. If you didn’t have your family around to help you take your mind off of your failed relationship, you were sure you would have ended up in the hospital sooner or later.

“You broke me Mark. You made me feel like I was worthless. You made me think there was someone else or that you fell out of love with me and I genuinely wanted to die. Pathetic right? I just—I didn’t know how to function without you and waking up every morning felt like a chore. At some points I felt like I couldn’t even breathe. I’ve heard heartbreaks caused by breakups were an unfathomable pain that are impossible to bounce back from and some people even die from a broken heart I just never would’ve thought it would happen to me. Especially because we were so happy; so in love and I would have never thought one stupid, meaningless argument could cause us to separate. You made it seem like leaving me was so easy and hearing that you wished that we never dated in the first place is what truly fucked me over. I became a fucking alcoholic because of you—I blamed the entire breakup on myself even if I didn’t say anything that I knew would inflict any sort of pain to you because the idea of hurting you hurts me. It’s sad to know you don’t feel that way.”

“That’s where you’re wrong y/n. I regretted everything that I said as soon as I said them but the damage was already done. Please believe me when I say this, I didn’t mean a fucking word. That was just the anger and the irritation talking for me. My life before you always felt so empty, and once you came in to it, you made everything so much better. You filled my life with color and made my heart soar by just the mere thought of you. I could never regret you or our relationship; you’re all I could ever want or need in this hell forsaken world. You know the last thing I would ever want to do is hurt you—“

“BUT YOU DID MARK.”

You didn’t mean to yell, but it was all the built up emotions you’ve been holding in that finally released itself and you knew you wouldn’t be able to forget the way he shivered at your tone. Not once in the many years of knowing you did Mark ever see you so mad. You were always such a shy and introverted person; he didn’t think you were capable of such an intonation. He hated that he was the reason for your hostility and he was afraid that it was too late. It may have only been a week, but what you went through was enough to change your warm-hearted personality in to a cold and aggressive one.

“Nothing will ever change the fact that you gave up on us—on me. If you knew there was a chance that your words would affect me the way that they did, then you wouldn’t have said anything at all; but you said it all without hesitation like you did mean it. I was coming to accept our breakup for what it was. Sure I was hoping you would come back; hell this is the closest I ever felt to God because I found myself praying every single day for him to show me a sign. For him to heal me and make it known that I would be okay. I’d be lying if I said I’m not the least bit content that you’re here but—I really don’t know what to make of that.”

To your surprise, he made his way toward you and reached for your hands. As intimidated he was by how you were acting towards him, he knew he had to grow some balls and man up, or he would lose you forever and the tiny box that was in his pocket would no longer have any use.

“I don’t know what to say or do that would explain how sorry I am and how much I wish I could go back in time and prevent any of this from happening. I don’t know how to stop you from hurting, and to get you to forgive me—I‘ll do anything to fix this y/n. Please—tell me what to do. I can’t—I can’t lose you. Tell me you don’t love me, and then I’ll—I’ll—fuck, there’s no way I can let you go. Please baby—you asked God for a sign and I came here tonight to try and fix my mistakes. That has to mean something right?”

Hearing him sound so desperate, so willing to do whatever you wanted him to in order to bring your relationship back to what it was made you feel so many emotions. As much as you wanted him to give you some time to think, you knew you’d take him back. It was going to take some time to forgive him, and to get his words out of your mind completely, but Mark was everything you ever wanted for the rest of your life.

Why were you going to continue suffering on your own and staying away from him when all you wanted was to have him back in your life? You cupped his cheek softly with your palm and placed a soft kiss on the corner of his mouth. Feeling him smile against your lips sent a fire through your veins; Mark’s kisses always had quite the effect on you. His lips were so pink and so pretty and you loved every single moment that they were pressed against yours.

“You can start by paying for my dry cleaning. I got a huge wine stain on the dress I was wearing because I got drunk.” He giggled in to your neck before placing a chaste kiss there.

“Done. You silly girl. God, I missed you so much baby. I also think I have something that could win me some brownie points but I hope tonight ends the way last week should have.”

The question of what he was referring to was at the tip of your tongue, but before you could emit anything, he was now kneeling on the ground right in front of you and pulled out a red box. Your heart began to race on a you put two and two together; he was going to propose to you.

“I know, this is probably not how you wanted this to happen and I promise you I had different ways in mind on doing this—but after losing you, I realized that it didn’t matter how, where or when I would ask you to spend the rest of your life with me; all that matters is that I did. I was actually planning on proposing you at the beach once we were finished eating, but I chickened out like the coward that I am. And I guess I was irritated with myself and took it out on you that night and I know I said it so many times, but I will continue apologizing until I make up for all the pain I’ve put you through. I’m sorry y/n. I don’t deserve you—I don’t deserve being able to do this right now but this last week without you made me realize that I can’t live if I have to do it without you.”

He grazed your wrist with his thumb and you were sure he did that to calm down his nerves, but it was so cute. You loved seeing him so flustered and so nervous and you loved knowing that you were the reason behind his now shy demeanor.

“I’ve been in love with you for longer than I can remember. Every time I would drop you back home once we hung out back in high school, I felt this emptiness in my chest. Then I realized how much I loved hearing you laugh knowing that I was the reason behind it. I loved spending time with you and being around you. I loved the feeling I got whenever we were together. You and I can literally do nothing but I’m my happiest when I’m with you and that’s when I realized you were more than just a friend to me. These last few years with you have made me the happiest man alive. You mean everything to me baby—I wish I would’ve told you this sooner so we wouldn’t have wasted time apart but I’ll make up for it the rest of my life—if you let me of course. I’ll take good care of you my love. I’ll continue to love you and give you the world on a silver platter. Y/n, will you do me the greatest honor and marry me?”

You were sure if someone else were in your shoes, they probably would’ve said no right off the bat. Heartbreak really did change a person. It made your whole aspect on life change for the worse and you knew you weren’t the same person you were a week ago. But you’ve dreamt about this situation on many accounts. There were times where you’d sleep over Mark’s place and you’d stay up looking at him in admiration and thinking about what your future together would look like.

Sure, you would have preferred this surprise before all the unfortunate events that happened, but you were excited and speechless nonetheless. You sank to your knees and sat down on his lap; bringing your hands up to his face and pulling his lips up to yours. You couldn’t help the snicker that fell from the back of your throat when you felt a tear fall from his eyes on to your cheek. His hands were tight on your waist as he deepened the kiss, licking and sucking on your lips before all but gently shoving his tongue in between your teeth. When you felt his excitement pressing against your core, you pulled away and ignored the choked out whine that fell from his lips as you placed your forehead against his.

“Yes. I would love to marry you Mark. I love you so much, and I can’t wait to spend the rest of my life with you. Thank you for coming back to me love.”

The way he was looking up at you pulled on your heartstrings; you couldn’t wait to tell your mom of the news. You knew she would probably hit you with “I told you so” but she would also be extremely happy for you. He abruptly stood up and took you with him, wrapping your thighs around his waist. You knew exactly what his plans were as he made his way to your room and you were excited to say the least at what he was going to do with you.

Once the two of you entered the bedroom, he didn’t waste anytime throwing you on to the bed and attacking your face with kisses as he ran his hands along your body; needing to touch you everywhere. Right as he began dragging his fingers along your clothed heat, he gripped at your chin and made sure you were making direct eye contact with him.

“You know, since your door is already broken, I don’t see any problem in breaking your bed also—ow! What? You’re going to be my wife one day soon, so it’s only natural for me to want to fuck the living shit out of you in celebration of our engagement—I’m actually starting to reconsider this whole marriage thing. Give me back that ring, I’m gonna go sell it and buy me the PS5–“

“You wouldn’t dare Tuan, I’ll end you—“

“Just shut up and let me love you damnit.”

You couldn’t stop the laughter that came after his little complaint. You still had yet to process that Mark was currently on top of you, ready to make love to you and to show you just how much he missed you. He playfully poked your cheek to break you out of your trance and squeezed your butt as a force of habit.

“What’s going on in that pretty little head of yours?”

“I’m just really happy, that’s all.”

He gave you his signature cheeky grin and left a long, sloppy kiss on your lips.

“Good. That makes the two of us, and that’s the only emotion you’re going to feel now that you’re stuck with me. Now, let’s make up for lost time shall we?”

Can you ask daddy if he's got time To come and look at my front door? It got slammed last night And now it don't close right And just promise that you won't tell him everything And keep that pistol in the drawer Mama, please don't say I'm gonna laugh about this someday You didn't see the way he drove away

How does he sleep at night? Mama, the nerve of this guy To leave me so easy Am I gonna be alright? I wanna kick myself for fallin' so hard Mama, can you die from a broken heart? Oh, a broken heart

Can your knees give out from prayin' so hard? (Prayin' so hard) Can you go blind from cryin' in the dark? (In the dark) Was it ever really real If he don't feel like I feel?

How does he sleep at night? Mama, the nerve of this guy To leave me so easy Am I gonna be alright?

How does he sleep at night? Mama, the nerve of this guy To leave me so easy Am I gonna be alright? I wanna kick myself for fallin' so hard Mama, can you die from a broken heart? A broken heart

#got7 imagines #got7 #mark tuan #got7 mark #mark tuan imagines

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moonlightserenadeeznutz · 3 years

Text

Rizzo

Oneshot about how Sirius obtained his motorcycle. Prompt by @daylily-evans.

I should add, to all my non-UK readers, I use the word f*g in this as a slang word for cigarette, which is what it’s commonly used for over here, especially at the time the oneshot was set. I tried not to use it, but eventually it was impossible, and unrealistic, for the characters to not use it, so I apologise for the use of the word and I promise in this context it is not a slur word, and is only a slang word for cigarette. Anyway, hope you enjoy!

Request a oneshot here!

When Sirius graduated Hogwarts, he really had no idea what he wanted to do. Short-term wise, he wanted to go on missions for the Order, help out in any way he could and take down the death eaters one by one until only You-Know-Who remained. He couldn’t wait.

But long-term, after the war had ended, he was clueless. Truth was, he hadn’t planned that far ahead, just in case he didn’t survive to see it. But he was beginning to see that having a job now would be beneficial in a number of ways. Maybe as a cover-up, or a hiding place, or at least an opportunity to earn some well-needed money.

Dumbledore wanted him to get a job at the Ministry, to try and collect any inside information. But this suggestion made Sirius angry enough to ignore it completely. For starters, he didn’t care about what Dumbledore wanted. He tried to hide this of course, as he didn’t think the others would approve. But he’d lost his taste for obeying the old man ever since Dumbledore had forced Remus to live among the werewolves. And while Sirius could vaguely understand why it was useful, he couldn’t forgive Dumbledore for placing Remus in such a horrible situation, away from his friends, and possibly making Remus feel like the monster that Sirius knew he wasn’t. When Dumbledore had first suggested it, Sirius had been absolutely livid, and it was only Remus himself who managed to stop Sirius from marching down to Dumbledore’s office and giving the guy a piece of his mind. Remus had calmed Sirius down, but Sirius knew that he’d never shake off the resentment he had for the headmaster.

The other reason that he was angry at Dumbledore’s suggestion, was because he hated the Ministry. It was full of people like his parents, making rules to oppress anyone who wasn’t a pureblood wizard. And after having grown up with Remus, watching as the boy had to work for a future he didn’t have because of the Ministry, the last thing Sirius wanted to do was work for the bastards.

But what other jobs were there in the Wizarding World besides a ministry job? Hogwarts teacher? There wasn’t anything he could teach, and he certainly didn’t have the patience to deal with a bunch of teenagers, and nor did he want to give Dumbledore an opportunity to keep a close eye on him. Healer? He couldn’t think of anything less suited to him, though maybe Moony wouldn’t mind seeing him in a healer’s skirt and cap.

No, the problem was, wizarding jobs didn’t suit Sirius. So perhaps he needed to look outside the Wizarding World for a job.

Sirius wasn’t exactly familiar with muggle jobs, at least not first-hand. He’d seen plenty of them before. He, James, Remus and Peter had been to a few muggle clubs and bars together, and Sirius had spent all night chatting up the male bartenders, until he was quite knowledgeable on the job itself.

Sirius thought he’d be a great bartender. All he had to do was serve drinks, listen to music and chat up hot guys. And okay, so there was probably a little more to it than that, but he had the people skills, and he could easily learn about all the different muggle drinks.

Yes, he decided. I can be a bartender. I’ll be safe in the muggle world, I can still go on missions, and I can earn some money for the Order, or at least to support myself and Remus.

Sirius even knew about a bar that had an opening, since he’d been there so many times. He had to walk there, since he couldn’t apparatus, or floo there, and he still didn’t know how to use the muggle bus. But it wasn’t too long a walk, and it was a nice day at least. Sirius liked muggle towns, especially the underground-type, diverse, grunge places such as the one where the bar was situated. The streets were lined with music shops, pubs and all things that screamed rock n roll in the 70s. Sirius loved it.

When he was almost at the bar, he suddenly got distracted by a shop he hadn’t noticed before. He noticed it this time because Queen was blasting out of the speakers of some tinny radio from inside.

Sirius looked at the exterior: Lomax Motorcycles said the sign at the front. Another, smaller sign, stuck onto the window said: job vacancies with some smaller writing underneath that Sirius couldn’t read. But he was intrigued enough to go inside.

The interior- Sirius was quick to notice- was incredibly cool. There were two adjoining rooms, all filled with motorbikes. Sirius had seen motorbikes before, mainly in the films that he watched with James, Remus and Peter, but he hadn’t realised how much he liked them until he looked at them up close. These ones were all slick and shiny, some with patterns of fire along the side. They were like broomsticks, but with a muggle twist, and from Sirius’s limited experience, they were always ridden by punks in leather jackets. Sirius could definitely see himself riding one.

The shop itself was dimly lit, but he could see a number of framed posters lining the walls, of muggle bands that he loved: Pink Floyd, Ramones, Blondie, Joy Division. Not to mention all the cool-looking accessories that hung above the motorcycles.

Just then, the owner of the shop walked out.

“Alright, mate?” Greeted the man. Sirius nodded, taking the guy in. He looked around his late thirties, with a dark brown mullet, a badge-covered sleeveless jacket, leather gloves, at least twenty different piercings and full sleeves of tattoos. Sirius looked like Sandy from Grease compared to this guy.

“Yeah, hi.” Sirius replied, immediately intimidated.

“Looking for a bike?” The man walked behind a counter against the wall opposite to Sirius and started restocking a container of different locks.

“Nah, I’m just looking. I’ve never actually driven a motorbike before.” The man looked him up and down.

“Really?” Sirius nodded, awfully self-conscious. The man took out a cigarette pack and lit one up. The shop was quite smoky, but Sirius actually enjoyed that about it.

“I saw you had a job vacancy sign in your window,” Sirius plucked up the courage to mention.

“You looking for a job?”

“Yeah.” Sirius of course hadn’t intended to try for a job here, but since he had the opportunity he thought he might as well. See how far he could take it before the man asked him to leave. The man exhaled smoke out of his nose.

“You haven’t even driven a motorcycle.”

“I can learn. I pick things up quickly.” He realised that he sounded inexplicably uncool. It was typical. Around his friends he was effortlessly punk. Laid-back and relaxed, cigarette balanced between his lips, fluent in witty remarks and sarcasm. But here, in front of an almost carbon-copy of his cool persona, Sirius was sounding like someone who’d only recently entered the punk scene and had no clue on how to act.

“How old are you?” The man asked.

“Eighteen.”

“Pretty young, you even out of uni yet?”

“Oh, uh... I’m not going to uni.” Uni. University. Remus said that muggles went there to learn even more. Sirius didn’t see the point of it.

“I didn’t go either,” replied the man. He seemed very friendly, which certainly didn’t match with his overall appearance. “Didn’t interest me. Started working here instead. It was my dad’s.”

“Oh.” Sirius wasn’t sure how to respond.

“I’m Darren by the way. Darren Lomax.”

“Oh right, like the name on the shop. I’m Sirius.”

“Sirius? Never heard that name before. It’s cool.”

“Thanks?” He’d never thought of his name as being cool before. It was run-of-the-mill in the Wizarding World. In fact there were already two other Siriuses in his family. He was Sirius the Third. “If you’re interested in motorbikes, I can take you on as an apprentice if you want. Give you a bit of money. Teach you how to fix up these babies.” Sirius blinked.

“Really?” He hadn’t expected any kind of offer. His resume wasn’t exactly impressive, especially not to a muggle. An inexperienced eighteen year old with no muggle qualifications and less knowledge of motorcycles that literally anyone else who could’ve walked through that door. Sirius wouldn’t hire himself.

“Yeah why not? If you’re shit I’ll get rid of you. We’re not a professional garage. Really we just piss about fixing engines, listening to music and smoking. That your style?”

“Yeah, blimey.”

“Great. You can start tomorrow. Fag?” Darren offered him his cigarette pack, and Sirius took one. Darren lit it for him.

“Cheers.”

Dumbledore wasn’t happy with his choice of job.

“How are you planning on gathering information for the Order if you’re spending your days working in a muggle shop?” The man asked. Sirius had no intention of being guilted by him.

“Isn’t the information that Remus is gathering enough for you? I should hope so, considering everything he’s going through to get it.”

“Mr. Black, in case you haven’t noticed, there is a war going on. You can’t spend your life thinking about yourself and Mr. Lupin and no one else.”

“I am thinking of everyone else! And what everyone needs is money. And I can get them that money, as well as staying safe in the muggle world. I’m not exactly useful if I’m dead am I?” Dumbledore sighed as if he was talking to a child. The old man was pleasant with everyone, but with Sirius there was a slight curt undertone to everything he said. Dumbledore knew that Sirius wasn’t happy with him at all, and it showed. Sirius didn’t care. Dumbledore hadn’t done shit for him. He didn’t owe him anything.

Sirius was taking that job.

~ His first day went well, in the sense that he got along with Darren and he enjoyed the environment of the shop very much.

Because of his very limited knowledge of how to fix a motorbike, Sirius’s main job was at the front desk, talking to customers. He really did have great people skills, as he quickly discovered, and he put this to his advantage, bagging more sales in a day than Darren achieved in a week. So even if Sirius was shit at the mechanical side of things, he certainly wasn’t going to be fired any time soon.

At the end of the day, when the shop closed, Darren asked if Sirius would like to stay late and learn his way around the motorbikes. Sirius, who hadn’t been assigned any missions, and therefore didn’t have much going on, agreed immediately.

Darren showed him the engines of one particular motorbike that was in rather a lot of disrepair.

“Completely useless she is,” explained Darren. “Not likely to get her running any time soon, probably won’t even be able to fix her. Engine’s blown, parts are missing, tyres are a wreck.” Sirius knew that she’d easily be fixed with magic, but obviously this wasn’t an option. So he was sad that she’d never be ridden. But even if she was little more than a shell, she was a good example for Darren to use as an introduction to the inner workings of motorcycles.

Sirius listened intently to everything Darren had to say, learning how to change the oil, how to change a tyre, how to know when a motorbike needed new spark plugs (and learning what spark plugs were in the first place).

Outside of the workshop, Sirius tried to research more on the motorbikes he was working with. When he wasn’t spending time with the Order, or talking to customers in the shop, or following Darren around like a puppy, he was at the library reading up on all the different motorbike types, how they worked and how they were made.

Whenever Remus was permitted a break from staying with the werewolves, breaks that usually only lasted a few days maximum to avoid any suspicion, Sirius proudly took him down to the shop and showed him all the motorbikes that he helped to fix.

Darren greeted Remus happily, commenting on his name too. “The weird name couple” he called them. Darren, being the punk anarchist that he was, that was so prevalent in the late 70s, didn’t give a shit about Sirius and Remus’s relationship. Sirius didn’t need to hide it for very long, especially since he hadn’t tried to hide his sexuality in the first place.

Remus was very interested in the shop, and as soon as he stepped foot in it his first response was “Shit, Pads, this place was made for you.”

Sirius showed him the motorbike that was “unfixable”, but that Sirius had still been determined to work on as much as possible. The engine was still a bust, but he’d at least changed the tyres, and given it a new paint job (red and black). Sirius felt very close to the bike, especially once Darren had struck up a deal with him, saying that if he could fix the bike he could have it: “even if it’s fixed, it’s a shit model. No one’ll want it, believe me. Besides, I’m already paying you fuck all, so consider it a raise.” Darren was paying Sirius, but it was apparently much less than the usual muggle wage, since Sirius was still technically an apprentice. However, the current muggle to wizarding exchange rate meant that Sirius got a lot of galleons for his pounds. So, he was perfectly able to support himself, and if he ended up with a free motorbike in the process? Well, he almost couldn’t believe his luck.

Sirius fixed up the engine as much as he possibly could, until it was simply a case of the engine just not working. It had been months now since he’d first started, and the engine was the only thing left. The motorbike looked good as new, and despite Darren claiming it to be a shit model, Sirius had fallen in love with it. He’d even named it Rizzo, after Betty Rizzo from Grease.

Sirius was absolutely determined to have Rizzo, and deciding that the engine simply needed a boost, he risked using magic out of sight of Darren. Darren would never know, and Rizzo would have a new lease of life.

“Fucking hell, you actually got her working!” Exclaimed Darren the next day, as Sirius showed off the brand new humming engine of his prized motorbike. “How the fuck did you do that?”

“She just needed a boost, that was all. Good as new.” A boost with a little bit of magic, thought Sirius. Darren was shaking his head in disbelief.

“Well, shit. I guess a deal’s a deal. She’s all yours, mate.” Sirius couldn’t refrain himself from grinning. He patted Rizzo’s paintwork proudly. She was all his. He couldn’t wait to show her off to Remus and James and Peter and all the others. James was dying to get a glimpse of her: Sirius had been bragging about his motorbike for weeks now, annoying the hell out of the others.

“This motorcycle better be fit for Merlin himself, Pads, or I’m gonna be pissed,” James had semi-joked. Sirius assured that she was even better than Merlin. “She was made for me,” he claimed.

When James did finally see Rizzo, he was very impressed, but then again, he was as knowledgeable about motorbikes as Sirius was when he first started at the shop. Sirius probably could have put a mound of metal in front of him, moulded into the vague shape of a motorbike and James would still have been impressed.

“Can’t believe you named her Rizzo,” James laughed. “You’re such a fucking nerd.”

“Yeah, well. I have a motorcycle and you don’t, so jokes on you.” James put his hands up in surrender.

“You’re right. I’m just jealous.”

~ Sirius had a lot of fun with Rizzo. He rode her everywhere, through muggle and wizarding towns alike. It felt even more freeing than a broomstick. He could weave in and out of traffic, the wind in his hair and the roar of the engine blocking out everything.

There was also room for two. Or at least, two was the legal amount. But Sirius could be rather lax with the law sometimes, especially muggle law. So it wasn’t uncommon for all four of the marauders to squeeze onto the back of Rizzo and go driving off into the night.

Eventually though, Sirius decided that four people on one seat could damage Rizzo, which was the last thing he wanted (and he supposed it could be dangerous as well). So he splashed out some of the money he’d saved on a sidecar. James was particularly keen on it.

Remus on the other hand nearly always opted to sit on the back with Sirius. Sirius loved these journeys the most. Just he and Remus, the man holding tightly onto him as they zoomed down roads, ending up in country lanes. He could feel Remus’s arms around his waist, and Remus’s head on his shoulder, and after everything Remus was going through, as well as the risk of sudden death around every corner for both of them, when the two were pressed together on the little black and red motorbike, roaring through the countryside without a care in the world, it felt like the most precious moment of their lives.

#does this end badly #hopefully not #i could write more but this felt like the natural stop #no I didn’t forget about the fact that the motorcycle could fly #he charms it later #and that’s writer for ‘I didn’t get round to it yet’#harry potter #wolfstar #sirius black #sirius x remus

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randomingoftherandomness · 4 years

Note

So I just realized we share another fandom!! Anyway, I have a rather angsts Booker prompt that I think only you can do justice and it’s long, so I’m so sorry: (1) so the team are still on the splits, maybe a couple years into Booker’s exile, and Nike asks Copley to keep an eye on Booker. Being ex-CIA, he has a camera out in Booker’s apartment but Booker only glances at it, salutes with his bottle, proceeds to get drunk. Then he lays out an envelope then spends the night in the bathroom.

Hello! First up, are you OK? 👀 Coz like. If you wanna talk it out, my messages are always open to friends, yeah?

Also, a big super thank you for the prompt and for your belief that I can do it justice. Am very touched and very grateful. Gonna keep the other parts and the fill under the cut coz there’s four parts to this prompt and I am living for the specificity 😍 Hope you like this!

Please do note that I am not of the medical profession. If you have feelings of harming yourself or of suicidal thoughts, please reach out and talk to someone. I know it gets repeated a lot, but, You are not alone. You are so loved. You are precious. And I send you nothing but love. If anyone ever needs an ear, please know that you can always drop me a line x

[[ TW: Suicide ]]

(2) This continues for a while until Copley tells Nike about it, and she mentions it and the gang watch the footage. Every night, Booker gets drunk, lays out a large envelope on the kitchen table then spends the night in the bathroom. He looks like absolute hell when he comes out every morning. After a couple watches joe suddenly starts cursing and rushes out the door, Nicky right behind him. Much travel later, they get to Booker’s apartment and Joe immediately goes to the bath.

(3) He barges in and there’s Booker in the tub, in his underwear, some kind of metal tube gauged in his arm as he bleeds out over and over every night, but the worst part is how *organized* he is: all the blood is is carefully in the tub, his clothes folded neatly, the apartment is spotless, money for a cremation and a will to have him buried at the family plot on the table and letters to be mailed to Copley to get to the others. He does this Every. Night. As Penance.

(4, long prompt is long, sorry) but the worst part is how *organized* he is: all the blood is is carefully in the tub, his clothes folded neatly, the apartment is spotless, money for a cremation and a will to have him buried at the family plot on the table and letters to be mailed to Copley to get to the others. Just, all the broken and depressed Booker and Joe still being angry as hell but mourning for his friend and what he’s going thru? Do your worst, you beautiful, wondrous person, you.

---

There was a too smooth hesitation in the way Copley asks for her attention and it immediately sparks suspicion in Nile when he casually directs her to the console on the far end of the office.

Far enough from the rest of her family that they would not be able to overhear, or at least will have to work to listen in, on whatever he was about to tell her.

She waits him out. Calmly holding her ground as he casts her a calculating gaze, unfolding the tablet and powering it on. “You know that thing you asked me to do? The one about Paris?” He looks down onto the screen before turning it to her. “I think you should see this.”

Suspicion bleeds into curiosity now because the last update Copley had given her about Booker was that the man was doing his best to drink himself to death. Was he successful? Wouldn’t his liver just heal itself if it was damaged?

The video plays without any audio. Booker crosses the screen, pausing at the kitchen sink for a moment, hands braced and head bowed like a man broken. He stays like that for a good minute before he pushes off, rummaging through the topmost drawer and pulls out an unmarked envelope. Placing it on the dining table, he picks up a fresh bottle of whiskey from its crate, looking up directly into the camera, saluting with two fingers before moving into the bathroom and closing the door.

“He has been doing this for months now and it seems like it’s something he has been doing even before we started our surveillance,” Copley says. Nile checks through the folder of recordings. “Every night it’s the same thing. He places that envelope on the table and goes into the bathroom until morning comes. He comes out, gets drunk and repeats. I’ve put in inquiries to the landlord if there are any disturbances and so far nothing. We don’t have a camera in the bathroom so we don’t know what he’s doing in there every night.”

Nile taps on a random one and watches the practised way Booker braces himself as if trying to gather courage for something big that he has to do.

“I’ll talk to the rest about it.”

She waits until they’re all settled with debriefing to broach the subject. Andy reacts with a tinge of worry in her brow that Nile has learnt to pick up on. “I’m sorry. I know you guys said he can’t contact us. But I just kept thinking about it and...”

“And you thought you wanted to check in on our brother,” Nicky finishes for her. Reaching out to pat her hand, she smiles weakly when he nods sagely. “You didn’t do anything wrong, Nile. You care.”

Andy picks up the tablet, watching the recording before passing it off to Joe. “Booker’s been doing this for months?”

“Longer, if Copley’s right about it.”

“Shit!” Joe curses in a rapid stream of languages that Nile could barely keep up with. Nicky, however, can.

“Are you sure?” He stands, the chair scraping on the floor as it is pushed back, eyes gone a pale steely grey. “Yusuf-”

“I’m sure,” Joe says, meeting their eyes in turn. “I hope I’m wrong.”

“What? What are you hoping to be wrong about?” Nile asks, dread slowly creeping up her spine. Andy stands too still next to her when Joe’s eyes flicker back onto where the video footage of Booker is saluting the camera.

“I hope I’m wrong,” Joe says slowly. “But I think he’s dying every night in his bathroom.”

They catch the next flight out to Charles de Gaulle, wasting no time in between the horrible realisation and packing up their most bare essentials. Copley seems to know their intentions because he arranges for a car to be ready for them with preprogrammed directions to Booker’s flat. The drive into Paris in the summer twilight is quiet. No one daring to speak more than the necessary need to point out exits, turnings and road signs.

God, she prays they’re all wrong. Nile keeps praying even as they steal past the front door under the shadows of night. Keeps on clinging to that hope of divine intervention even when they prepare to pick the lock of Booker’s flat, only to find it open.

Andy leads them in, cutting through the space with strong strides until she pushes through into the bathroom and something stops her in her tracks.

Joe and Nicky sweep past her, causing her to stumble back a little. Nile catches her, still not processing what she is seeing. Booker’s clothes were placed in a neatly folded pile on the stool by the door. The man himself is out cold. Looking for all the world to be content to spend the night naked in an unheated bathroom. A metal tube sticks out amongst the blood in the tub and it takes a second for her to realise that the tube is protruding from Booker’s limp arm.

“Oh,” She says.

Andy moves then, going to help pull Booker out of the tub and lay him out on the floor. He stirs, eyes blinking up at the ceiling before rolling back. Nicky has pulled out the tube, letting it clatter on the tiles, placing his hand over the gaping hole. “It’s not closing.”

“Find out if he has any clean towels. Something,” Joe instructs, keeping his fingers on Booker’s pulse point. Ever since Andy’s newly regained mortality, they’ve all been brushing up on the latest first aid measures to the point that Nicky has been talking about going to medical school.

Spilling back into the kitchen, she digs through the drawers for fresh tea towels when her eyes spy the unmarked envelope sitting innocently amongst the worn wood of the tabletop. Unable to resist, Nile tears it open. Instructions first greet her written in French. She has enough time to learn now that she can understand that Booker was instructing whoever found him to take the money enclosed and use it for a simple funeral and that the letters inside must be mailed to Copley. He ends it with an apology for inconveniences caused.

Inconveniences caused. As if this were a simple grievance. As if to whoever found his self-exsanguinated corpse, the trauma could be dealt with by an apology for inconveniences caused.

“He planned this,” Nile says in sick horror when she walks back into the bathroom. In the dim yellow light from the lone bulb, the blood in the tub and all over the tiles look almost black. “He has been doing this every night for God knows how long.”

Joe meets her gaze. “I had hoped I was wrong.”

They wait until the gaping hole begins to heal. All of them breathing a sigh of relief they did not know they were holding. Only then does Andy come close to cradle his head on her lap. Between the three of them, they get Booker cleaned up as best as they could, dressed and into his own bed.

“I’ll stay here with him,” Andy says, already undoing the laces of her boots. “I don’t want him to be alone.”

“We’re all staying here with him,” Nicky chimes in before she can say anything else. “We’re not going anywhere.”

The bed was far too small for three full grown men and two women to pile onto, but they make it work with Booker safely ensconced in the middle. Andy covers his right, the lovers take either side of his hips, leaving Nile to tuck herself on a shared pillow with Booker's head. There is an unspoken need to anchor themselves on their wayward brethren. Joe and Nicky murmur to each other in soft streams of reassurance, but she catches Andy's gaze and there is a deep sadness that was heavy with regret. How they all fall asleep, she does not know, but when she opens her eyes, it's in the liminal silvery-blue of night turning into day.

"It's not a century." She hears.

"I know," Andy answers in barely a whisper. "I know."

"It was meant to be penance," Booker's tired voice fills the small space between them. "I--"

"Are a coward," Joe interrupts. Nile gives up feigning sleep. Instantly moving to be at the ready if there would be an altercation. Joe's eyes are a firebrand of heated emotions. Crawling up until he cradles Booker's cheeks between his hands. "A coward and a selfish fool."

"I know," Booker whispers, breath hitching around a sob. "I know."

Joe presses their brows together, blinking rapidly at the tears that stream down his face. "But you're my brother and I love you. This is not a world I want to be in without you. Not like this."

Booker whimpers, hand not holding on to Andy's goes to touch Joe by the nape. Nile leans in then, pressing her cheek against strong arms that move to wrap her in a hug. She feels the bed move and the shifting of the air when Andy and Nicky come to join in on their embrace. There is still so much healing to be done and Booker obviously needs more than just their forgiveness now. She doesn't know how they'll come out of this or what shape their family will take. But she has faith that whatever that will be, they'll face it together.

#the old guard #the old guard fic #sebastian le livre #booker #nile freeman #andromache the scythian #joe x nicky #yusuf al kaysani #nicolo di genova #nicolò di genova #tw: suicide #immortal husbands #gab writes stuff #fluerallinmylis

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salfur · 3 years

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Wayward Guide Podcast Episode 8 Analysis/Theory

I’m gonna be honest, I think this might be the last essay I end up writing for this show. Sad, I know. But there just isn’t a lot left that really needs to be theorized about and even if there was it’ll likely be answered in the next episode.

If this is the last essay, then let me just say I had so much fun theorizing and analyzing this show. TCB really did an amazing job crafting such a deep mystery that even by episode 7 of 10 I was still trying to figure out who the killer was. But even then there were still so many clues that were hidden both within the narrative and within the visuals of the show itself to help figure everything out. And, while the essays may be over, I will cherish every minute that I’ve spent analyzing, writing these essays, and watching the show. Wayward Guide will forever hold a place in my heart and I look forward to future TCB projects that I may one day write essays on again.

So, with that being said, I leave y’all with my (possible) final Wayward Guide essay. It was a pleasure theorizing with you all and I hope to do so again soon <3

CONTAINS SPOILERS FOR: Wayward Guide Release Trailer, Wayward Guide Ep 5, 6, 7, & 8, WG Podcast Ep 4, 7, & 8

Truman is the werewolf and the killer. I had already assumed this given how she revealed herself to be a McMahon in episode 8. However, the werewolf amnesia is interesting, because I was under the impression that wolves could control themselves when they transformed, but they just couldn’t control the transformation time. But given the conversation that was recorded between her and Silas it’s clear that she didn’t have control until she got to Connor Creek. We know that the Connor wolves are special because of the trace amounts of silver in the water, but Truman never had that growing up. This would explain why she was constantly moving from town-to-town, city-to-city.

The death of Barney is still a bit confusing but I’m thinking that she’s still learning to control her werewolf abilities and she lost control while Barney was around. This then resulted in a sloppy kill and allowed him to run to town hall. Additionally, Truman is said to be invested in Connor Creek’s future, which makes sense since this is the only place she could possible control her werewolf abilities. I think had Silas not been a factor, she wouldn’t have even been pro-mining. Or, perhaps she’s only pro-mining so she can kill all the Connor wolves and then undo the act right after to claim the town for McMahon.

Silas, I think, was under the impression that he was controlling Truman into letting him drill the mines, and perhaps in the beginning he did have some control over her with all the silver at his disposal. However, I think because Truman was in the town for two years she’d grown accustom to the silver and has more control than Silas thought. Plus, he was starting to get in the way of her plans, hence why he had to go.

Paul bringing up that werewolves can only be killed by silver or by another werewolf is very important information (this also explains how Odie, a known wolf, died). The fact that he mentioned this makes me think that the bullet Madison has may kill Truman, but not before she kills another wolf. My current guess is that Truman will kill the wolf Connor (or at least severely injuring them) since we know that Artemis and Madison get chased in what is likely the next episode by a werewolf. The Connor wolf is probably going to show up because they figured out that Truman is a McMahon and went to stop her, so they end up intervening and saving Madison and Artemis, but perhaps gets killed in the process (or at least injured). Also, I feel like the reason Truman ends up chasing/hunting Artemis isn't just because she want to kill her. I think she's going to lose control which is what causes the chase to happen the first place. Either that or she loses control during her fight with Connor, allowing Madison a shot with the bullet to kill her.

As for the identity of Connor, I find it very unlikely it’s any of the current known wolves, meaning we still have at least one unknown wolf. I think it’s possible that Connor is Desmond, given all the cryptic things that he’s said. Plus, the fact that he’s a pacifist could be because he knows that taking sides could give away clues that he’s a wolf. Or it could just all be an act. Plus, he was very aggressive towards Artemis in the last podcast episode, which may have just been because the whole town was, but Desmond wasn’t even at the town hall meeting so why did he have a reason to hate her? Or, maybe he didn’t and was telling them to leave for their own good, knowing that a fight was going to be happening between the Connor wolves and Truman. The only thing that makes me unsure about Desmond being Connor is episode 5, because we know that Riley arrived at the bar after Artemis left and was drinking (heavily). That would mean that unless Quinn took over for Desmond, he couldn’t have been at the meeting where the wolves were gathered. Still, he’s def the most likely to be a wolf out of the remaining townsfolk.

TL;DR: Truman is a wolf, but because she didn’t grow up in Connor Creek she can’t control herself like the Connor wolves can. This caused her to constantly move as she would kill someone when she transformed. Since moving to Connor Creek, however, she’s started being able to control herself but not completely. Also, she and Silas were in cahoots and Silas thought he was controlling her, but it was really Truman controlling him. As a McMahon, Truman is trying to retake the town for her own family so that they can control themselves and live in peace. The Connor wolf is probably going to show up next episode and likely be revealed as well. Of the townsfolk, Desmond has the highest possibility of being Connor.

Confirmed Connor Wolves (and therefore not a killer): Helen, Odie (RIP), Rita, Sybilus, Olivia

Confirmed Killer: Silas (RIP), Truman (also a wolf)

Werewolf Suspects:

High-Tier: Desmond

Mid-Tier: Crispin, GPS, Vern, Wallis

Low-Tier: Jeremiah, the Walkers

Currently ruled out: Agnes, Aubrey, Donny, Henry, the Irons, Madison, Quinn, Riley

#wayward guide #wayward guide for the untrained eye #wayward guide theories #tin can bros #tin can brothers #episode analysis #salfur speaks

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