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#each of them are going to have to do some self-examination and reconsider their own dreams and desires

funkymbtifiction · 1 year

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Hey Charity! Firstly, I appreciate the hell outta you! I'm from a family of 8s and without your fined tooth comb, I would have never got to the bottom of why we always ended up at each others throats throughout my childhood. (*ahem* instinct stacking) 😆 Among other mbti / enneagram based epiphanies.

Anyways.. I wanted to ask you what your longterm takeaway on the goblins of discords reading of you is. Put it this way... if there's anything out there I trust as much as the gut instinct of the 8... it's the healthy skepticism of 6. And I get it.. they have a charming way of disarming the whole 'First things first, I disagree' mentality that you might normally bring to the table... but. In my opinion, you have more experience and ways of applying the information that goes into deducing type... hard to aim it at the 'self' though... which i get too.

Do you think their tri-type reading of you takes precedence over your own or do you revert back to your appraisal?

Or.. does the process whole process to submitting to their point of view sort of leave you ambivalent to typing as a whole since... ultimately everyone is 'entitled' to their opinion. I know theres sort of politics involved when it comes to opinions about enneagram websites and content providers but... I figure it makes a decent last question.

ps hugs and kisses, thanks so much for your dedication to this altruistic endeavor.

I started to answer this several times, and even talked to myself about it in the car on the way someplace today, but naturally I remember none of my earlier attempts, so I’ll just think/answer it as I go.

It’s been almost five months since I got my results back, and in that time, I have reconsidered, questioned, and also introspected, challenging their typing by coming at it from my inner lens. I keep looking for ways out of it, but all roads lead back to the exact same conclusion. Which is to say, I think they “nailed me.” I tried to indulge a 2 fix again for a while, but that always falls flat when I examine my motives and what I want from other people (what I want them to see, what I want them to remember about me). I am casually nice and helpful, but have no ego strategy tied to it. It’s not what makes me neurotic, 3 is what makes me neurotic. Being admired, seen as successful, being afraid of failure, shape-shifting (as much as Fi will allow, which isn’t much), being aware of how things will “look.” I am definitely the workaholic tritype – the instant I finish a massive project, I don’t exist until I start another one, and I never rest – I launch right into it.

And 1 is fairly obvious, so… yeah. I may quibble on the wings (I could see an argument for either 1w2 or 1w9 as a fix), and I’m not sure that 1 comes before 3 (I feel a lot of tension between 6 and 3), but overall I think they did a good job based on what I gave them – and when I sent them that video, after watching/editing it (to remove all the awkward pauses and paper shuffling… a very 3 fixed thing to do, managing the presentation), I thought, “They will type me as 3 fixed.” All the confusion in my own mind cleared the minute I saw myself on video. I’m not into visual typing, but that forced me out of my head and made me assess myself as an independent individual – I know enough about type dynamics to get a read on myself, if I watch myself answer questions and truly listen to what I said. I typed me based off that video as I would have typed anyone else, had it come from them – 6 (buzzy head type, all in the mind, never in the body), 1 (frustration, competency, annoyance), and 3 (accomplishment, some aggression, image-managing, “I want to be the best”).

I think there’s some value in recording a video and then watching yourself, based on what you know about the types and how they play out, assuming you know the types deeply. And I think if you are genuinely unable to introspect, or lost, or have been cycling through types for a long time, an independent assessment can go a long way into helping you gain clarity – you may or may not agree with their assessment of you, but if they provide reasoning (as Goblins do), at least you understand “why” they saw that in you, and can reject or listen to it. I don’t think anyone should just accept what an “expert” tells them about their type, but instead, take some time to consider whether it “might be” true, based on the inner experience. By watching yourself for a while, to see if/how that number’s dynamics play out in your daily life. Once you see it, you can’t unsee it. You start noticing it, along with when and what triggers that fix.

I’ve said before that you can’t know your MBTI type until you both know the functions well enough to understand how they work, and have observed yourself enough to see you “doing” them in “real time” (recognizing that what you are using this very second is this or that function). It’s the same with the Enneagram. Enough introspection and “watching of me” without judgment, but by looking for certain patterns, will confirm or prove that you are/are not this or that type.

IF you decide to pay someone to type you, I recommend that you only do so with someone who a) seems to have a strong and accurate knowledge of the different types (I trust Goblins, because they know what is and isn’t 4, what is and isn’t 9, and what is and isn’t 6, the three most misrepresented and mistyped types), who has a proven track record with explanations that make sense both in the context of their argument and comparatively to what that type is, and who actually interacts with you and talks to you and/or gives an in-depth explanation, rather than just giving you an answer; because you cannot determine someone’s type from a static ten minute video, you need to interact with them and get a sense of their inner motivations.

Lastly, I encourage you to share the video in other places, to see what the general consensus is, and have spent enough time in various groups noticing who does and does not seem to have a knack for typing. If the answer you receive from the majority of people is similar, there’s a good chance that that portion of your typing is accurate. (I shared several videos in several different typing groups, and it was overwhelmingly 6-1, with people divided between 2/3 heart fixes.)

I have seen people pay a lot of money to be mistyped by various teachers, and it’s obvious from observing them that they have not done the inner work necessary to notice the mistype (6s who think they are 5s but who are always soliciting outside opinions, “4s” who make a long post about how overwhelming life is and how they internalize everyone else’s feelings [9s], and even a few 9s mistyped as 3s who display extreme withdrawn tendencies, etc).

The point of the Enneagram is inner work. The point is to learn to identify your mechanisms and learn not to do them automatically (choice vs. “nature”). If you can’t or won’t do that, it’s useless. And I should add that the only people who truly find their type are willing to be whatever their true type is; there is no ego-defense or preference for one type over another. Resistance to being X heart fixed, or Y gut fixed, or Z head fixed only impedes the process and makes you unable to see yourself clearly. When all you want is the RIGHT answer, even if you hate it, you're ready to accept the truth.

#question #enneagram #goblins of discord

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seodiggerz · 1 year

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Micromanagement : The Ins and Outs That Every Manager Should Know

Every manager or CEO has their own way of leading their team. While some managers believe in empowering their subordinates with autonomy, others prefer to keep discretion to themselves. However, the brightest managers are those who constantly adapt their leadership style to reflect the latest workplace trends. Talking about workplace trends, you already know that things in the workplace change very quickly. Now that remote work and hybrid offices are the new dimension of work, there's a lot to reconsider. However, as a manager, you should examine whether micromanagement is relevant to today's corporate culture. Are the positive effects of micromanaging enough to outweigh the downsides, or vice versa? Every leader should keep this in mind when considering the meaning or relevance of micromanagement. It is an undeniable fact that managers are not without problems. Your team is your responsibility, you must oversee it effectively and ultimately you are responsible for your team. This often creates a dilemma for managers. You can never be sure how much autonomy your team will give. In the end, your productivity will be watched when your team members underperform. Here you can feel the compulsive tendency to micromanage. However, it is important to be aware of the pros and cons of micromanagement. Before we get into that, let's try to understand the importance of this business management style. What is micromanagement? The term micromanagement is self-explanatory for the most part. It is a leadership style in which the manager tries to control or oversee every little detail in a team or workplace. This can also be understood as the opposite of giving team members freedom and believing in their abilities. A micromanager shows little faith in his team members to let them go their own way. Of course, in some cases this may prove mandatory and lead to greater efficiency. But is it always like this? Let's dig a little deeper to understand the pros and cons of being a micromanager. Micromanagement benefits Records of skills in levels: When you micromanage, you contribute to the effectiveness of each team member by mentoring them. As a manager, you naturally have more experience than your team. So when you micromanage, you are constantly instilling a sense of direction in your subordinates. In addition, you can track their mistakes, predict and prevent failures. Thus, micromanagement appears to be a bright style of business management. Plus, your strong interest in all aspects of workflow management can drive better collaboration. It also provides a continuous flow of information and important details. In fact, it becomes much more important in a remote work culture. According to GoRemotely, 83 percent of employees now rely on technology for collaboration. Additionally, SalesForce concluded that lack of collaboration is a major cause of inefficiency in the workplace. More than 86 percent of employees and managers cited it as the leading cause of absenteeism from work. You can prevent the consequences of a lack of cooperation through micromanagement. They are the key where the team aligns its interests and goals. - You can provide better support Not all employees feel secure enough to do their own work. It's quite possible that not everyone on your team is looking for flexibility and autonomy. Instead, they seek constant support and feedback from their superiors. Everyone has their own pace of learning and that's fair enough. From now on, you will be a supportive manager for employees who want to continuously upgrade their skills. They will appreciate you keeping track of everything, pointing out their mistakes and helping them grow. As Lohrman cited, 87 percent of millennials say they want to learn on the job. However, micromanagement can create a supportive work environment. They can ensure better sincerity in the team When you micromanage, your team knows you're watching them every step of the way. This will bring out in them the best sense of discipline and sincerity. In this day and age, when most companies are embracing the remote work culture, employees can take unfair advantage of it. Since he didn't have anyone to watch over him while they were working from home, they were able to exercise their freedom. It is possible that they will become relaxed with their sincerity and ability to work. However, if you micromanage it, you eliminate such a possibility. It is understandable that the overall performance of an organization will be affected when employees start to lose diligence. In the end, the responsibility lies with you. You must ensure that your employees are honest, responsible and engaged at all times. Remote workers may have engagement issues, according to Buffers 2021 State of Remote Work. While 15 percent of employees are overwhelmed by distractions at home, 12 percent struggle to stay motivated. To solve this problem, micromanagement is probably the best approach. Disadvantages of Micromanagement This can lead to higher employee turnover Given the high cost of recruiting, no company wants a high turnover rate. In fact, every company tries to develop and invest in different strategies for high employee retention. Likewise, companies place great emphasis on the need to encourage high levels of employee engagement. In most cases, micromanagement tends to annoy employees and they quit or quit. To confirm this, a study by Trinity Solutions concluded that 69 percent of workers are considering changing jobs due to micromanagement. In addition, according to the aforementioned survey, 36 percent of employees have changed jobs due to micromanagement. Additionally, micromanagement can lead to lower employee engagement. One of the key characteristics of highly engaged teams is their autonomy. As a result, massive micromanagement can reduce retention and engagement. Better to have a balanced and sensitive approach to micromanagement as well. This can hinder creativity and motivation at work According to LinkedIn Learning, creativity is the most important skill. Creative employees create added value and diverse perspectives in the workplace. This is why companies are hiring for creativity. You need people who can think outside the box for strategy and problem solving. But according to Gallup, 35 percent of employees feel they don't get enough creative freedom. For employees to bring out the best in their creative talents, they want their managers to support them. Rather than micromanaging, they want their boss to have more trust in them to do things their own way. They want a work environment that inspires them to express their creativity and value thinking outside the box. But if you micromanage, you can destroy your team's creativity forever. Likewise, a lack of empowerment can affect employee motivation. It goes without saying that falling motivation leads to a decrease in labor productivity. Increased autonomy leads to greater role clarity, engagement, alignment and adaptability. All these virtues contribute to employee performance motivation. However, not many workers feel that they have much or no autonomy in their work. This prevents them from realizing and developing their true potential. As you can see, too much micromanagement can limit individual and organizational productivity. Micromanagement can lead to employee burnout No manager will like that; The people on your team are under constant pressure and prone to burnout. A depressed mind cannot do its best. It is a well-known fact that burnt-out employees have nothing to offer the organization. If you micromanage and tend to interrupt employees at all levels, it can create tremendous work-related stress. In fact, according to the American Institute of Stress, 40 percent of workers report extreme stress at work. While human problems account for 26 percent of workplace stress, workload accounts for 44 percent. As a manager, you don't want to add stress to your employees. Instead, you want to support them, inspire them, and encourage them to align their goals with those of the company. When employees are stressed, they also begin to balance their work and life. With each passing day, they lose steam and can soon become a liability for the team. What employees are more likely to want from their managers is empathy. Empathy in the workplace is more desirable than ever in times of the ongoing COVID pandemic. Everyone experiences emotional trauma and insecurity during COVID-19. However, more emotional support is what managers need to do now. Therefore, micromanagement as the basis of corporate governance is not highly valued. In short, micromanagement comes with great advantages and disadvantages. While it has benefited from a management perspective, it is not appreciated by most employees. It is now a widely accepted fact that the future of work is a long way off. While micromanagement can be very important in remote organizations, flexibility and autonomy are more desirable virtues. However, you should find the right balance between supervision and empowerment. The more you empower your employees, the more confident you are in their independent work, and the better results they will achieve. If you can instill trust in your team members, you don't have to micromanage them. Read the full article

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periminkle · 4 years

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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.

#jungkook fanfic #jungkook scenarios #jungkook imagine #btswritingcafe #heartsforbts #jungkook x reader #jungkook au #bts fanfic #bts scenarios #bts imagine #bts au #bangtanscenery #btsgoldnet #ficswithluv #goldenclosetnet #cypherwritersnet #bangtanhq

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vermin-disciple · 3 years

Note

For the random scenes - ask me to stay?

(Random Scenes Ask Meme)

This is one of the backstory scenes I wrote early on for the This Be The Verse universe (although it doesn't really need that context - it's basically an AU take on the final Garak/Bashir scene in the finale). It's one I've just never been that satisfied with. I did end up cannibalizing parts of it for one the Interludes in Tell Me You See Me (with a change in POV), and I may end up using other parts of it in something else (so it will probably end up thoroughly dismembered by the time I'm through). But here is the original version.

***

Julian remembered his last conversation with Palis, and the guilty little bubble of relief swelling in the back of his mind when he’d ended things. He’d always known that he couldn’t stay on Earth sitting behind an oversized desk anticipating the medical needs of visiting dignitaries and treating the occasional bout of indigestion. But there was more to it than that. There were the lies between them, the fact that he wasn’t the man she thought he was, and his certainty that she would never have loved him at all had she known the truth. He never even gave her the option of coming with him. The thought of her accompanying him to some starship or starbase, following him from posting to posting while he calculated just how many accomplishments he could get away with, was too utterly incongruous to contemplate. And she, well—she didn’t suggest it either, did she? Maybe a part of her was just as relieved as he was to end it.

He searched his psyche for that same sense of relief now, and found something else churning just beneath the surface of that bone-deep, hollow despair: anger. Because of course, of course, Garak wouldn’t even contemplate the idea of asking Julian to come with him. When it came right down to it, he hadn’t asked Palis to come with him because he didn’t want her there. On some subconscious level he had known that their feelings for each other were shallow, and the hurt of leaving her could never be more than skin-deep. The relief covered it over like a bandage, and he’d hardly thought of her in those first months on DS9. Until this moment, he hadn’t thought of her in years.

If he thought that Garak’s reasons were the same as his had been seven years ago, then maybe he could just go back to DS9 and let the cycle of sadness and loss run its course, piecing his heart back together so he could present it to someone else, maybe someone less maddening and broken and morally questionable.

But he knew Garak too well to dismiss his feelings as shallow. Garak feared sentiment because he felt it so deeply that it was beyond his ability to control.

It wasn’t even some misguided appreciation for the importance of Julian’s career. He didn’t think that much of Starfleet, or of Julian’s ambitions.

No, he was going to give Julian up without even trying to discuss their options, because in his mind this was some sort of symbolic final sacrifice to the great alter of Cardassia, just like in some depressing Cardassian epic. What kind of dutiful Cardassian hero were you, after all, if you hadn’t sent the love of your life away to prove your devotion to the State? Julian wanted nothing more than to grab him and shake him and shout at him, remind him that his whole goddamn life of self-sacrifice had not saved Cardassia, and force him to admit that rejecting every opportunity of personal happiness wasn’t going to help rebuild her.

Julian had always known that he would never outrank Cardassia in Garak’s heart, but if he could accept that, then frankly, Cardassia was going to have to learn to share.

“You’re going to need doctors.”

Garak froze. After a moment he turned around, examining Julian with narrowed eyes. “Undoubtedly.”

“You’re going to need more doctors than the Cardassian Union has left. You’re going to need to accept aid.”

“True. I’m sure the Federation will be happy to step in. Out of pure altruism and magnanimity, of course.”

“I’m not saying there isn’t any strategy to it. We’ve done very well for ourselves turning enemies into allies. Just look at what happened with the Klingons, after Praxis.”

This show of cynicism had the desired effect. Garak took a few steps closer to him. “You’re right of course, Doctor. In the decades to come, our civilizations may yet be friends. But this situation differs from the Klingons’ unhappy catastrophe in several respects. Cardassia isn’t the only world to suffer devastation. The Federation has also suffered in this war, and they will have to allocate their resources accordingly. They will have to temper their generosity. After all, Betazed is also in need of doctors.”

“Any Federation doctor can work on Betazed. Or Ricktor Prime or Tyra or any other Federation planet. But there’s a limited number of us who have any experience treating Cardassians.”

“Doctor,” said Garak, and there was a warning note in his tone, and a hesitation. “Julian—”

“For god’s sake, Elim! Do you want me to come to Cardassia with you or not?”

“Please think about what you’re doing,” said Garak, in a soft voice, the hint of warning replaced by something else, something that made Julian’s heart ache. “I don’t know if you can truly understand loss on this magnitude. I know that it hasn’t occurred to you that you might add to it, but let me assure you, that is exactly what you are proposing.” He held up a hand to stop Julian’s protest. “Listen to me, my dear Doctor. Back when I used to consider you entirely off-limits, I used to imagine what it would be like to bring you to Cardassia - to tour the museums of Lakarian City, or the Institute of Art, with my arm linked in yours. Take you to a little restaurant in Lakat that I think would make you reconsider your opinion on sem'hal stew. Listen to you scoff at all the monuments to colonial excess in the Imperial Plaza. It was a very idle fantasy, you understand. Or so I told myself, at the time. It was far too intoxicating an idea to take seriously. Being welcomed back to my home with open arms, all my sins forgiven, and you at my side - your body and mind at my disposal. Your love, if I was feeling especially maudlin. Not just for me, but for my world. I would have liked nothing better than for you to see her the way I did. And now…” he sighed. “And now, Doctor, tell me what it is you’re offering, exactly? You will volunteer your considerable skills to help my people. I certainly don’t doubt your intentions - compassion is second nature to you. I know that asking you to turn your back on them is pure selfishness on my part. But I don’t know if I can cope with it. How long would we have? A few months? A year? How long before Starfleet realizes that it has better uses for your talents? And where would that leave me? I know that in the midst of this destruction I will be haunted by memories of the past, visions of things as they used to be, faces of the dead. Don’t ask me to see your face there as well.”

Julian digested all this in silence. “And what if I stayed? Is that what you want?”

“What I want is not, and never has been relevant.”

“I think you actually believe that.”

“I’ve told you before, my dear, that I believe all my lies. But I know better than to believe yours. You are not going to resign from Starfleet, leave all your friends behind, and give up the protections of the Federation so that you can come live in the ruins of an enemy planet. With me. Not even you are that impetuous.”

“I’m not being impetuous,” he said. He paused, trying to form his reverberating, tumultuous thoughts into something that Garak would understand, and accept. “I’m smarter than you, you know. And that’s not arrogance, it’s just a fact. I’m smarter than most people. My parents made sure of that. But you’ve been spinning me around in circles since the day we met. You make me question everything I know and re-examine everything I believe. I can’t just wave my ideals and principles around like a flag, I have to argue for them - they have to hold up to scrutiny. I like the way you provoke me, even if sometimes you push too far. But when I get you to concede a point, I spend the rest of the day glowing. And sometimes, more than anything, I wish that you would let me comfort you, because I think you need it more than you’ll ever admit. You might be the most frustrating person I’ve ever met, and you drive me completely crazy. But I think I would rather be driven crazy by you than stay sane with anyone else. And frankly, you are being selfish - I can do more good here than I can anywhere else, and I think I’m going to, whatever you say. Avoid me, if you can’t bring yourself to trust me - it’s a big planet. I know you think that I don’t know what I’m getting myself into. You’re probably right. When I came to DS9 I was naive enough and insensitive enough to see Bajor’s woes as my grand adventure. But I’m not that person anymore - at least, I hope I’m not. I know this is going to be nothing short of hell. And—” Julian swallowed, and reached out a hand to cup Garak’s cheek. “And how can I say that I love you, and leave you to face that alone?”

Garak exhaled slowly, as if he’d been holding his breath. He leaned into Julian’s hand and covered it with his own. Then he chuckled, almost to himself. “This may surprise you, but I don’t have any idea what to say.”

“That must be very disconcerting for you,” said Julian. “Say that you want me to stay with you. Say that you want me to help you rebuild Cardassia. Say that you love me.”

Garak wrapped an arm around his waist and kissed him. “I want you, in every conceivable way. Stay with me, and help me rebuild my home. I love you more than I have ever allowed myself to love anyone.” His smile shifted into something more mischievous as he leaned in again and lowered his voice, speaking directly into Julian’s ear. “And I would very happily ask you to take me hard against that console, but I’m afraid I wouldn’t be able to stay quiet enough to avoid detection.”

Julian laughed, a little helplessly, wondering at the humanoid capacity for inappropriate humor in the face of tragedy, to reach for love amidst unspeakable horrors, and to find hope when nothing else was left. For a moment, they clung to each other as if the world might fall apart when they let go. But it didn’t, and it wouldn’t, and there were still many things left to do before they could take another step.

#ask meme #my fanfic #this be the verse #vermin rites #garashir

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star-maiden · 3 years

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Weekly Tarot Forecast 11/30/20 - 12/6/20

Hello and welcome! This is a general outlook tarot reading for the collective, by zodiac sign.This week, we are focusing on any message or messages coming through from Spirit that you need to hear right now in order to navigate the week ahead. If you happened upon this reading, then there is a message here that is meant for you! As with all of my readings for the collective, these messages are meant for a wide range of people, life paths and situations. It is general outlook advice. As such, you may find that not everything resonates with you completely, and that is ok. Please take only what resonates and leave the rest. You will also want to check your sun, moon and rising signs for the message or messages that are meant for you. I sincerely hope that these messages will serve your highest and greatest good, and assist you in making wise, informed decisions. Best wishes and many blessings!

♈ - Aries: Knight of Swords R: There is a situation in your life or coming toward you where you may feel as though you are bumbling around in the dark. Usually, the knight of swords charges in and defeats any obstacle with logic and discernment, but in this situation you may not have all the facts. Moving forward while in a state of fear or confusion is not likely to yield the best results. Alternatively, you might be rushing into something without conviction. When our actions are out of alignment with our true heart’s desire or higher calling, then we may feel stuck, bogged down or that we are just going through the motions for the sake of pleasing society or someone else. This isn’t good for you, Aries. You might need to reconsider a few things, and decide how you would like to get “unstuck” and move past this situation in a way that is supportive and healthy for you.

♉ - Taurus: The Empress R: This card feels very emotionally charged. There may be a pervasive feeling of lack or disconnection from abundance. You might be fearful about losing something that is close and dear to your heart. Taurus, there may be a situation in your life that is causing undue stress and/or anxiety. If this is the case, then the Empress Reversed is reminding you to slow down. Reconnect with yourself and the Earth. If you are open to alternative spirituality, you might want to practice connecting with the Earth as Divine Mother. Remember how she supports and sustains you, and know that there is no burden too heavy for her handle. If that’s not for you, consider focusing some extra attention on your self care practice. What can you do today that will help you feel more secure and supported? Who in your life can you talk to. It’s ok to lean on your loved ones for support. The key thing to remember here is that the Empress is never truly lacking in all resources. There is always a solution. There is always a way forward.

♊ - Gemini: High Priestess: Gemini, this week you may find yourself tapping into your intuitive side more than ever before. For any ongoing situation in your life, or for anything that comes up for you this week, know that your subconscious has been speaking to you. Trust your intuition and yourself enough to make your own decisions. Look for internal insights and convictions, rather than any form of external validations. Right now, speaking your own truth can be the most powerful catalyst for change. If you have been wondering about something, then this card is confirming that you already know the answers. Quiet down the outside noise and opinions of others. Listen to the voice of your inner wisdom; your experience. What is it saying to you?

♋ - Cancer: The Hanged One R: This week is time to get moving toward your goals! If there has been something that you have been trying to accomplish or bring into your life, then now is the time to start actively working toward achieving it. This message is especially true if you feel that you have been stuck in a period of waiting around, or a stalemate of some sort. Right about this week, things should be looking a lot clearer than before, and you should be feeling pretty on top of things. Your understanding and insights should be crystal clear in the coming week. What is it that you need to accomplish? How will you get there?

♌ - Leo: Knight of Pentacles R: There may be something coming into your life or a situation that you have been dealing with that now feels well and truly stuck. All progress has halted, and you may be feeling unmotivated and uninspired to continue. The important message of this card is to not give up hope! Often times, when we feel stuck on something and don’t know the way forward, we need to spend some more time researching and planning. Through the act of examining alternative routes and talking to those who have had similar experiences, new doorways will open up and you will be able to get things moving again, back on track. Another message that I’m hearing with this card is that you may need to take a bit of a break. This second message is especially true if your project is related to your creative capacity in some way. Sometimes, the best way to unblock a situation is to completely ignore it for a little while. This way, you can rekindle the passion and inspiration that helped you get started in the first place.

♍ - Virgo: 10 of Swords R: This week, you may find that a burden of some kind will be lifted from you. This is likely to be more mental/emotional than anything else. Old wounds are finally getting a chance to heal, and you should be feeling pretty good about things moving forward. For some of you, this may take the form of something moving out of your life for good (and for the better!). If there was a person or situation that was causing you a lot of stress, then this card is indicative that things will soon be resolved. You can hasten this healing process by releasing anything that does not support you mentally and emotionally in a healthy way. If something appears to be on its way out, it may be time to let it go. “Good Riddance” to old habits and dramas that were weighing you down.

♎ - Libra: 4 of Cups R: This week is a good time to notice the many blessings that have always been around you. You should be moving into a situation or mindset that feels more positive and uplifting. If you have been feeling lately that you’ve been in a bit of a slump, then this card is confirming that you are now reading to move away from that. This message may be related to social media or communication by phone in some way. If you have been feeling a bit off or like the people/situations/energies in your life just don’t hold the same spark for you anymore, then it may be time to look inwards for a bit. Consider what you really want in your life, and what would be most fulfilling to you. Opportunities will always present themselves to those who keep an open mind and look for them, but remember that you don’t always have to take what is being offered. If there is something in your life that you feel like you have to take because there are others telling you that it’s too good to pass up, be sure to check in with yourself and make sure it is actually in alignment with what you truly want. A blessing from one person’s point of view can seem rather disastrous from another.

♏ - Scorpio: 8 of Swords: There may be a situation in your life that has you feeling stuck and unable to see the way out. It may feel that your hands are tied or that the ground you have built your life on is mushy and slowly sinking into the depths of the earth. In your life, this feeling may manifest itself as a job you don’t like, or as a relationship that no longer feels fulfilling for you. It could even be a general sense of unease and entrapment. However, it is important to remember that there is always a way out. Oftentimes, when we are stressed, we can talk ourselves into a feeling of being powerless and unable to act. If this is the case for you, Scorpio, you’ll want to be extra mindful of your self-talk. We can easily make a situation feel worse than it is simply by using words that are negative, untrue or downright mean. It doesn’t have to be all sunshine and rainbow language all the time, especially if that’s not your thing. But consider how the words you use with yourself and others either disempower or empower you. How do your words inform your actions or inactions? Do they make you feel paralyzed, or do they inspire you to move forward toward your goals? Another thing to notice is that this card always comes with a silver lining. See the water at her feet, flowing away from the situation? Water has a lot to teach us. With patience and diligence, it can flow right through any obstacle. There is always a way out.

♐ - Sagittarius: 7 of Cups: This week, there will likely be many possibilities opening up for you. In situations involving choices that must be made in order to move forward, you may find that there are too many options to choose from. Each path forward may seem mystical and utterly full of excitement and magic. You may even be feeling a bit overwhelmed with the sheer number of possibilities. This may manifest as a feeling of feeling scattered or unable to commit to a person, situation or mindset. While it’s generally a good thing to keep our options open, sometimes we can become so mystified and distracted by the possibility of achieving what we desire, that we miss out on the opportunity to act. This week, Sagittarius, it may be beneficial for you to commit to one path and/or decision. Having a clear goal or purpose in mind while you make your choice will assist you in this.

♑ - Capricorn: The Hierophant: This week there is a lesson that needs to be learned or experienced in order for you to move forward or step away from a situation that has been causing a lot of harm or discomfort. This lesson holds the key to your success and inner growth, and will likely seem a bit stuffy or restrictive at first. The Hierophant is a card that speaks of tradition, status quo and learning for the sake of spiritual and/or character growth. It relies heavily on the idea that there is a certain way that things must be done, and to deviate from the traditional path means that you cannot achieve or accomplish the thing you are trying to attain. Is there something in your life right now that requires you to follow steps or a specific order? If so, then this card could be reinforcing the need to make sure you follow the proper guidelines well. When we are learning something, or being initiated into a tradition of some sort, then we can expect to follow certain steps or sequences of events. If this kind of learning is not for you, then there may be another path or study that will be better for you.

♒ - Aquarius: 8 of Pentacles: This week is the time to begin the work toward any project or goal that you have been considering. Being an air sign, it is likely that you excel at the mental/planning stages of the creative process, but you may struggle with the actual, physical work part. If this sounds like you, then this card is telling you that now is the time to go for it. You have planned and envisioned the way you’d like everything to be, and now it is time to bring your idea into being. This will likely be a process that could span several weeks to a few months. Know that any hard work you invest into your goals now will majorly pay off in the future.

♓ - Pisces: The Queen of Cups: This week, you should be able to embody the archetype of the Queen of water. This could mean that you are feeling in tune with your emotions and intuition. Your actions should be feeling in alignment with your emotions, and while you are able to source your inspiration from your deepest feelings, you should also have no trouble a healthy separation between your emotional reality and your physical reality. You may be feeling so in tune with this compassionate energy that others may look up to you or come to you for advice. You give off a vibe that makes others feel that they can speak with you about any personal or sensitive issue. They trust that you will always listen with compassion and empathy, and that you will never mock or belittle an experience, no matter how it seems. This week, you may find yourself stepping into the role of the Queen of Cups. Alternatively, this could be a gentle reminder to embody all of her qualities in your own life, for yourself. How can you bring the energy of this queen into your life this week?

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bestworstcase · 3 years

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With Cass changing sides with how she views Corona (and with the current strain on her relationships with Eugene and Rapunzel) how will this change Cas's and Caine's interactions? Will all of this bring them closer? Should we anticipate a possible rift in Cass's relationships with Eugene and Raps?

spoilers, anon! 😔 though i will say that all of these relationships are dynamic and not necessarily linear in how they develop. (also that there are already rifts in cassandra’s relationships with rapunzel and eugene.)

but i will happily chatter about the first two arcs and the kind of… overarching structure of moonless air. because it’s fun 8)

except wait to back up a little. benighted first. benighted follows a very strict plot structure of inciting incident -> rising action -> first crisis -> aftershocks -> second crisis directly resulting from first crisis -> aftershocks -> third crisis directly resulting from second crisis -> aftershocks -> climax -> falling action/resolution.

(cass gets a letter -> cass writes more letters/character building stuff/emergence of black rock subplot -> journal theft -> cass wrestles guilt, doubt, and fear -> party at janus point -> cass is a hero!/sirin reveals shattering truths -> blizzard and BOOM -> cassandra flees herzingen/sugracha enters the ring -> party at janus point…2! -> getting the band back together.)

once the big domino of the first crisis began to fall, things just… snowballed. avalanched.

moonless air is not like that. it follows a much more episodic structure - it has arcs instead of crises - with each episode strung along the intertwined through lines of 1) cassandra’s personal journey [the emotional core] and 2) the quest for the moonstone [the overarching plot]. (sidebar: this is the exact same plot structure tts s2 used except item #1 was rapunzel’s personal journey.) WHICH MEANS. that every arc has 1) its own little self contained ‘cass journey’ and 2) pushes the moonstone quest forward in some way beyond the obvious of they are traveling toward aphelion.

(sidebar again: tts s2 accomplished item #1 but not item #2, as the only episodes that drove the moonstone quest forward in any way beyond physical travel were BTCW [met adira, learnt black rocks were now inert], KOTS [gained scroll piece], RATGT [dark kingdom/moonstone lore, crispy hand], rapunzeltopia [cass face heel turn begins], LAF [demanitus exposition, completed scroll], and DC [climax]. that is… 5 out of 21 episodes. this is why the pacing sags.)

sO.

in moonless air there are 10 arcs: alcorsīa, vardaros, quintonia, spire, swamp, azoth, GT, HOYT, badtimes, and aphelion. with a handful of transitional chapters scattered in between. we’ve just reached the end of the vardaros arc - chapter 8 transitions us into quintonia. which means we’re done with and i can talk about the mini-journeys and plot engines of two! whole arcs now.

alcorsīa

- the purpose of this arc is, first, to transition from the end of benighted into the eldritch travelogue that is moonless air by establishing the immediate status quo that team corona and team pirate settle into once they are forced by circumstances to merge, and, second, to lay the groundwork for one of the big…recurring themes of moonless air which is how people are sculpted by their pasts.

so we get cass meeting moira’s family and making this connection with her own aunt and how that causes her to feel the absence of her lost family much more keenly, and we also get cass having these buried/forgotten memories starting to trickle free, and we get the huge unfolding clash between rapunzel (who is trying to make sense of cassandra’s past without any of the perspective, people skills, or personal experience to do so and fails miserably) and cassandra (who is trying to communicate her past without exposing herself to further pain and failing miserably on both fronts). and we also get caine making jabs at rapunzel with history that rapunzel was only very tangentially a part of. there is - by design - no emotional resolution to any of this. it just builds up behind the dam of people not talking to each other. that’s the mini-journey.

the plot engine here is obvious: varian learns about a new kind of magic by studying the zampermin and making connections with what he already knows about turul. there is also a smaller secondary plot engine of cassandra learning a bit more about zhan tiri. nothing too complicated yet, we’re just getting warmed up.

vardaros

- the purpose of this arc is to break the stalemate of the alcorsīa arc. that stalemate exists because moira thinks rapunzel is a privileged and spoiled brat who treats cassandra poorly, rapunzel thinks moira is a cruel and domineering monster who treats everyone poorly, and cassandra is trying to appease them both whilst also cajoling them into getting along. and in order to break it she has to pick a side.

so we get cass sort of ping-ponging back and forth between defending rapunzel to moira and then defending moira to rapunzel, and we also get cassandra changing her perspective on both of them as a result of this big catastrophe, which shows her a really vulnerable side of moira and a more thoughtless/self-absorbed side of rapunzel. she realizes that moira isn’t this strong, snarky, 100% self-sufficient person but actually someone harboring a lot of anguish and who could really use her support sometimes, just as cass sometimes needs hers. and she also sees that moira is willing to bend and compromise a lot by rescuing lance and eugene after the threat to her ship becomes a moot point, but that that isn’t enough to make rapunzel (or eugene) reconsider their judgment of her on their own. and this change in perspective leads to her deciding that she’s going to get off the fence into moira’s pasture, because she now trusts moira to meet her halfway and doesn’t have that same trust in rapunzel.

meanwhile the primary plot engine is dipping our toes into the saporian agenda for this trip, which is very different from the moonstone quest, and the secondary plot engine is the dream sequence in 7, which is connected to both the overarching plot and to cassandra’s personal journey, and there are also two tiny tertiary plot engines in the form of 1) varian’s success in contacting adira and her promise to meet them at the spire and 2) abraham learning definitively what happened to his niece after midwinter.

so that is where things stand Right Now. 8 transitions us to quintonia, and the purpose of the quintonia arc is first to examine how the dynamics of the rapunzel-cassandra-moira triangle shift as a result of cassandra’s choice in vardaros, and second to take our first real dive into the lore via varian’s research. make of that what you will and stay tuned 8)

#bitter snow

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mageicalwishes · 3 years

Text

Read on AO3: Here

Rating: Teen & Up

Chapter: 1/? (More chapters to come a little later in Dec + Early Jan!)

Summary: A loose crossover between Carry On and parts of I'll Give You The Sun. "He’s haloed under the streetlights, and I’m trying not to stare. But, it’s hard. His face is celestial - The sunshine of his soul peeking through his features. I want to say more, just so that he doesn’t leave. Our houses are right there but, I feel so ... multicoloured."

Carry On Countdown, Day 10 - Crossover @carryon-countdown

Tags: Fluff, Getting Together, Meet-Cute, Social Anxiety, Crossover, Pining Baz, Artist Baz, Space Enthusiast Simon, Star Gazing, Anxious Thoughts, Carry On Countdown 2020 Day 10

Words: 2,145

Baz

I need to stop thinking about grey, slippery roads and black shrouds. About the purple under my Father’s dull eyes, and the red of my Aunt’s anger. I need to stop thinking about me - About my life. My head is too loud. Too noxious. I need someone else to take my mind for a while. I need to see. To paint. And so, I search for a subject.

Dragging my binoculars across the bleak, colourless houses, I search, desperately, for even a glimpse of a hue. But the colours are slipping from the world again. They always do when I’m trapped in my head.

And then I see them - The movers - so far from colourless that I’m dizzied. They’re great work horses, both of them - One chestnut, and one palomino - Hulking a grandfather clock up the house-next-door’s stairs. I’m zooming in, before I have time to reconsider - Into the stretch of navy against the flex of their arms, the rose flush of their foreheads, the tan swath of smooth stomach revealed each time they lift their arms. And then ... Shit.

I drop the binoculars onto the floor, my body following swiftly behind them. Because, on the roof of the house, there’s a boy pointing a telescope directly at me. Fucking Hell. How long has he even been there?

I risk a glance over the top of my windowsill. He’s wearing a tatty purple jumper, and there’s a mess of bronze curls tangled atop his head. Even without the binoculars, I can see that he’s grinning at me. Is he laughing at me, already? Does he know what I was doing? That I was watching the movers? Does he think that I’m ...? He must. Why else would I be ogling them. God. I feel the dread pinching at my throat, and try to tether my mind, so that it doesn’t get away from me again. Maybe he’s just a smiley person. Maybe he thinks I was looking at his clock. That’s equally as plausible, surely? And, I mean, he has a telescope. Dickheads don’t tend to have telescopes, do they?

Tugging at the ends of my hair, I stand. When he sees me he waves, but before I have a chance to reciprocate, he’s reaching into his pocket, drawing his arms backwards, and lobbing something straight at me. (Maybe he is a dickhead, after all).

On reflex, I stick out my hand. The unknown object slapping hard against my skin, as I close my fingers around it.

“Nice catch!” He yells. His voice deep and bright, with a definite Northern tinge. I decide that I like it. It suits him.

But, I don’t know what to say back. So, I don’t. Instead, I examine his potentially dangerous ‘gift’ - Spinning the rock around in the palm of my hand. It’s small (About the size of a pound coin) and covered in irregular lightening-like cracks. What am I supposed to do with it? Do I throw it back? Why did he even throw it at me, in the first place? I don’t know, but I slip it into my back pocket for safe-keeping, anyway.

When I look back at him, hoping for some kind of explanation, he’s turned himself back towards the sky. Too focused on looking through his telescope to notice me. Which, to be honest, is odd. I mean, it’s daytime. What could he possibly be looking at?

Even though I’m curious, I don’t stick around to find out. I’m worryingly off-kilter, and I need to rebalance. I hadn’t prepared myself for meeting a new person. I wasn’t ready. And so, I run to the place that I know best, to recuperate - The Art Institute. Where I can carry out further recon on the studio.

-------------------

It was a good, productive sketch session. Nobody caught me peeping through the window, and I was able to get a few decent body references down. But … I don’t feel my usual post-art calm. My mind is still racing (Although, with a different genre of thought than earlier).

Every over time I have visited, the models have been women. Posing demurely, with a bowl of fruit or silks. Arms placed, to partially protect their modesty. I’m used to that. I’m prepared for that. But today … it was a bloke.

I don’t have a problem with that (Not really). There’s nothing wrong with blokes. And there’s nothing wrong with naked blokes, either. I’m mature enough to handle that. A body is a body. A sketch is a sketch. And I’m an artist first, queer person second. I just … hadn’t expected it. And I don’t like to be caught off guard. So, I’m feeling slightly rattled. I just need to get home, and get back to normality. To safe things - Like a beach scene, or a self-portrait. Familiar things. No more surprises.

And yet, a few steps into my walk back home, I see the guy from the roof leaning against a nearby tree, the same lopsided-grin aimed over at me. I blink, confirming his existence, and then he’s talking. Stood, barely 3 metres in front of me, in the dirt.

“How was class?”

He says it like it isn’t the strangest thing in the world that he’s here, with me, where he really has no reason to be. Like it isn’t only just slightly beaten in its absurdity by me, sketching propped-up on a wall outside, rather than inside, the studio. Like we aren’t complete strangers (Because, no matter how much he may be smiling at me, we don’t even know each other's names yet).

‘Yeah, sorry, I kinda’ followed you. I wanted to check out the woods, but I wasn’t sure of the way. So … I just tagged along. Figured you wouldn’t mind. Don’t worry though, I wasn’t watching you the whole time. I was busy with my own stuff.”

He points to an open suitcase filled to the brim with ... rocks? As if that’s normal.

“My meteorite bag’s all packed.”

I nod like that explains something, but it really doesn’t. Meteorites? I thought those were in the sky, not on the ground. And what does that even mean? He just carries around pieces of infinity. For what?

I look at him more closely, studying his face for any sign of disingenuity. For any sign that he’s just having me on. But I find nothing. Nothing … bad, anyway. Just a deep dimple accompanying his crooked smile, and miles of tawny skin, speckled with moles. He exists in shades of orange and gold. He’s the sun. And I can’t look away.

“Stare much?”

I drop my gaze, embarrassed - Staring down at his scuffed Nikes, as my neck prickles with heat. I don’t talk. What am I even supposed to say to that? Yes?

“Well ... you’re probably just used to it from staring at that bloke for so long. You know … for your drawing.” I look up - Grey meeting blue. He’s eyeing my pad curiously. “He was naked?” He breathes in as he says it, like the words stole his oxygen. It makes my stomach plummet, but I try to keep my face calm. I think about him watching me, watching the movers. How he watched me, watching the model. He must know. And ... I don’t know how I feel about that, just yet.

He looks down at my pad again. I don’t understand why. Does he want me to show him the drawings of the model bloke? It seems like he does. And some disturbed part of me wants to. But I doubt it. ‘Hey stranger, wanna’ see how I draw dicks?’ said no sane person ever. My stomach twists tight, and I’m out of control - My brain hazy amongst the moment’s tension.

“Look, man,” he sighs, half-smiling as he scrubs at the back of his neck. “I legit’ have no idea how to get home. I tried, but I just ended up back here. I’ve been waiting for you to lead the way. You don’t mind do you?”

I don’t think I mind. Do I? I don’t know. I shake my head, anyway, and point him in the right direction.

-------------------

It’s a long way home, and we walk the majority of it in silence (Well, near-silence. The bumping of his suitcase creating a constant accompaniment to our steps). I try and resist the urge to look back at him. The urge to ask him all of my ‘Why?’s - Why did you follow me? Why are you still following me? Why are you collecting meteorites? Why were you looking at the stars in daylight? Why were you looking at me in the daylight? It would only make me more muddled. So, rather than relent, I take out my invisible brushes and start to paint behind my eyes.

And, after a while, I feel myself settling back into my skin. The dancing trees and setting sun relaxing me, in spite of the moment’s unsteadiness. Or ... maybe it was him. He’s an alarmingly relaxed person (I mean, I don’t know anybody else who would just follow a stranger around, with zero self-consciousness), so it wouldn’t surprise me if he had some sort of ‘Realm of Calm’ thing going on around him.

When we emerge from the woods, returning to our familiar concrete-laden pavements, he spins around and jumps in front of me. Ecstatic.

“Holy shit! That is like ... the longest I’ve ever gone without talking in my life! I was holding my breath just trying to keep the words in. How do you even do that? Are you always like this?”

He’s a mile a minute, and I’m lagging behind.

“Like what?”

And then he’s laughing at me. I can tell that he’s a person who laughs a lot, from the way he lets it take him over so easily - His whole being lightening up, as the sides of his eyes crinkle, joyfully. But it’s alright, I don’t mind. It’s not a mean laugh. It just makes me feel a little bit fizzy inside (In a good way. I think).

“Dude! Are you kidding? You do know those are the first words you’ve said all day, right?”

I didn’t, actually. But I don’t tell him that. He’d probably just think that I’m more strange than he, no doubt, already does.

He’s properly cracking up now (Although, I don’t know what, exactly, I did that was quite so funny). “And then you’re all just like ‘What?’”. </p>

He makes an absolutely atrocious attempt at imitating my accent (Which leaves him sounding like some kind of drunken Prince Charles impersonator), and before I can stop it, I’m laughing outright, alongside him. Both of us hunched-over cackling, wholeheartedly, probably looking more than a little mad.

Once we’ve calmed down, he starts staring at my pad again. Jesus Christ. I really wish he wouldn’t. I’m not going to show him my sketches. Not even if he begs. I’d never survive the embarrassment.

“So ... lemme’ guess. You do most of your talking in there?” He points down at my pad, and I feel the tips of my ears flood scarlet.

“Yeah. Something like that.” My voice comes out mumbled and gruff. I didn’t mean for it to. He probably thinks I did it on purpose, though.

He’s haloed under the streetlights, and I’m trying not to stare. But, it’s hard. His face is celestial - The sunshine of his soul peeking through his features. I want to say more, just so that he doesn’t leave. Our houses are right there but, I feel so ... multicoloured.

“I paint in my head sometimes,” I blurt. Dumb. So unbelievably dumb. “That’s why I was so quiet, I was painting.”

“Oh that’s cool. Saves paper, I suppose. Better for the trees, and that.” Stalling. He’s stalling. I’ve made it weird. I always make it weird. “So ... were you painting anything specific?”

“You.” Oh, fucking hell! I’ve ruined it - I’ve smeared on that last glob of un-erasable acrylic and ruined the painting. I shouldn’t have said it. I didn’t even mean to say it, it just ... popped out. And now he’s stood, gawping, eyes wide and face flushed. I’ve embarrassed him. I’ve gone and dumped all my greedy keenness on him, completely uninvited, and now he’s drowning in it.

Everything feels tight. The air, suddenly too humid to swallow. I’m gasping - Waves of breath crashing, loudly, in my ears. Panic. I’m panicking. I need to - I have to go.

So, for the second time today, I run. Spinning on my heels and darting back towards my house, without as much as a ‘Goodbye”. Away from him. Away from humiliation. Back to my room, where I pull the blinds shut and open up my pad - Briskly skipping over today’s work. A blank page. A fresh start. I really am no good at talking the normal way.

#carry on #carry on countdown #coc 2020 #simon snow #baz pitch #snowbaz #my fic #my writing

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eirian-houpe · 4 years

Text

Bluebell

Fandom: >Once Upon a Time (TV)

Rating: Teen And Up Audiences

Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply

Relationships: Belle/Rumplestiltskin | Mr. Gold

Characters: Belle (Once Upon a Time), Rumplestiltskin | Mr. Gold, Prince Charming | David Nolan

Additional Tags: Fluff, Flirting, Courtship, A Monthly Rumbelling June 2020 (Once Upon A Time), A Monthly Rumbelling (Once Upon a Time)

Series: Part 1 of The Language of Flowers

Summary: Belle has a secret admirer, one that leaves her pressed flowers inside random library books. when she figures out who, she sends him poetry in return.

Written for the June, A Monthly Rumbelling prompt: Secret Admirer.

Bluebell

The flowers were a cliché, the method of delivery maybe less so.

It wasn’t always the same flowers. Sometimes it was miniature red or pink roses, sometimes bright yellow jasmine. Other times, especially last spring, he’d gathered a single bluebell and with care had pressed it perfectly. The color reminded him of her eyes. Otherwise the color of the flowers didn’t really matter, what mattered was that he sent them, and that she received them.

He would transfer the carefully pressed flower in its tissue paper cradle from the back pages of the heavy tome in the back room of the shop to a slim note book he kept in the inside pocket, and then he would temporarily close the pawn shop, and walk down the street to the corner where the library stood, now open and welcoming. He would wait, of course, until a time when he saw several patrons enter the library, and slip in along with them, heading to select a book at random into which he’d transfer the flower, then carefully place the book along with other returned novels and reference texts to the top of the stack waiting to be shelved, one tiny corner of the tissue deliberately showing outside of the pages. Then he would leave. Not immediately of course, because that would be too obvious, but soon after. It was too hard to do otherwise.

It had been his ritual for so many years, he’d lost count of how many, to bring her a flower once a week every week, hidden in a book in the library. He tried to be patient, to wait it out and told himself that one day she would figure it out and that even he - heartless Mister Gold - could hope to win the affections of the lovely librarian, but each week that passed caused the pain and self loathing in his heart to grow, and his resolve to do no ill - beyond that which had already earned him is reputation - crumbled just a little more.

Belle sighed, an almost dreamy sigh as she stood in the library doorway, clutching the book to her chest as though it were the most precious thing in the world, her fingers barely touching the softness of the tissue paper that peeked from between the pages, and watched Mister Gold’s retreating back as he limped along the sidewalk back toward his shop.

She couldn’t remember how long ago it was that she’d worked it out, where all the beautifully pressed flowers she found inside random library books had come from, and where she knew others might have been mortified - repulsed, even - to think that the the Monster of Storybrooke was trying to secretly court them, she, Belle French, was moved almost nightly to tears that she couldn’t explain at the thought of it.

She kept each perfectly pressed flower, hundreds of them by now, and carefully mounted them onto acid free card-stock, together with greenery and other complementary flora, in images of beautiful bouquets. Beneath each bouquet she wrote in perfect calligraphy, a simple word or two that encapsulated her feelings in the moments she made them: passion, love, sunlight, and longing - yes, longing. The day on which she had received the tiny spring bluebell, she’d been filled with such yearning for a life with a man that loved so completely that he would go to such length to bring his beloved beauty, joy and happiness.

She framed and hung the pictures she made around the library apartment, the secret hope she harbored growing with each one she displayed, and each time she saw them.

Shall I come to you when the day is new born, casting the red blood of life around the world?

The note was unsigned.

Two lines of text, carefully written on a rectangle of fine vellum in perfect flowing script. Her penmanship was delicate, precise and as beautiful a hand written note as he had ever seen, but the words… It was the words that turned his belly in knots and set his breathing to quicken, put the flutter in his chest.

He had found the envelope as he opened up the door of the shop that morning, sitting just inside the door as though it had been slipped beneath. At first he’d frowned. No one ever left him personal mail, or at least the last piece of mail he’d received in person, and not through the Storybrooke post office, had been hate mail from a tenant he had recently evicted, and had been delivered via a brick through the shop window.

This… this was unexpected, but it was welcome.

With a smile he walked to the back room, to the vase wherein the few sprigs of lavender he’d plucked and set in water to keep before he pressed them, so that they were fresh and might retain their scent. He lifted one from the water, and brought it to his nose, inhaling deeply, his mind a whirl, trying to decide how best to answer. It had been weeks - years - since this floral courtship, as he now admitted to himself that it was, had begun, and it had taken until now for the object of his affection to show any reciprocating sign.

Was she truly so shy?

Still, having waited for so long, he was loathe to waste another moment, and was decided. He went back to the front, to a case he kept there and selected a tiny stoppered bottle, into which he tipped a small amount of water, and then carved the stopper so that it would fit around the stem of the lavender without causing it harm. Later that day he would deliver it to the library, and somehow ensure that she received his gift, but still without revealing himself to be the source, though he had no doubt that she would work it out.

Belle dipped the nib of the pen into the ink to which she had added the the barest splash of the essential oil she had obtained from the sprig of lavender that had appeared on the library desk in a tiny bottle to keep it fresh. The flower she’d taken and carefully set it to press, certain that it came from Mister Gold, though she hadn’t even noticed him come in. She wanted to add it to the latest picture she had made for them, that was almost ready for framing.

She paused in her lettering to consider the words she used. When did she begin to think of the pictures as theirs? With a shrug, she turned her attention back to her lettering. What did it matter the when of it. What mattered was that it was true, and that had to mean that her feelings also were true.

Or shall I come to you when day is done, and evening’s first blush paints all the world?

Setting down the pen, she examined her work, carefully so as not to smudge the ink while it dried, making certain the scent lingered in the ink, and when the poetic missive was complete, she slipped it into an envelope, pulled on her coat, and took in the evening as walked along the darkened street toward Gold’s shop. There, she paused as if looking into the window, when in truth she used the darkened window as a mirror to ensure that no one was watching, so that she would be unobserved when she slipped the envelope beneath the door.

True, they were no longer secret to each other, and were now more openly flirting with poetry and flowers, but from the rest of Storybrooke, she wished to keep their growing affections between the two of them alone; not because she was in any way ashamed of her feelings for Mister Gold, but because - until they decided otherwise - it was nobody’s business but their own.

She made the short walk back to the library, and her apartment above, with a lighter heart, and a smile on her face.

After he received the third of her short, poetic notes, Gold finally admitted, at least to himself, that he was afraid… a crisis of confidence, perhaps - a lapse into the self-loathing, debilitating depression he felt. A man who had lost everything.

The Thursday morning saw him staring morosely into his coffee cup in a booth at the rear of the diner, instead of up at the front in his accustomed place.

“Look, I can’t help you if you don’t tell me what the problem is,” David said, he voice perhaps a little too loud in so public a place and Gold winced, reconsidering his course of action even as he pulled the carefully folded, much cherished piece of vellum from his pocket. David apologized, adopting, instead, a tone of confidentiality.

Gold didn’t have many friends, not in Storybrooke, nor anywhere else. He could count them on the fingers of one hand.

“Is that it?” David asked, as Gold stroked the folded sheet between his fingers. “What’s got you all riled up?”

“I am not riled,” he said through clenched teeth, “and would you please keep your voice down. This is a private matter.” As David raised an eyebrow, and gave a quiet apology, no doubt, Gold mused, thinking that he had rarely, if ever, seen the dreaded landlord behave in such a way, Gold sat slightly forward in his seat and quietly, succinctly and confidentially explained the entire situation to the only man in Storybrooke that he might consider a friend - whom he still saw, he reminded himself.

David sat back in his seat, whistling softly as Gold finished his tale. “That’s some commitment,” he said. “How come you haven’t approached her before now? In person, I mean.”

“Please,” Gold said, “With my reputation? Besides, I had no reason to believe that she reciprocated my feelings in any way.”

“Until now,” David said, and it was definitely not a question.

“Until now,” Gold agreed, and handed over the latest of the notes he had received that morning. He watched as the other man opened it, saw the way his eyebrow raised as he read, and knew the words by heart - almost literally - as even thinking them made its beat a birdlike flutter in his chest.

Shall I come to you in cascades of yellow silk, a delicate chain of gold woven into my hair?

“Wow,” David said, looking up from the note. “And you’re talking to me why exactly?”

“Because,” he began, surrendering to a moment of almost painful honesty, “after all this time, in spite of the longing I feel for this - to take this further - when it comes to it, I fear I have so very little to offer her. I can’t give her what she deserves.”

David regarded him without words for the longest time, meeting his eyes and holding him in place with only his gaze until, uncomfortable, he began to fidget.

“I think you need to let her be the judge of that.”

Belle shelved the last of the books from the pile on the circulation desk and a soft sigh escaped her. She had hoped, as before, that she might find a pressed flower, or a fresh one standing in its little stoppered bottle. There had been neither, and her heart was so crushed with disappointment that she felt her eyes heat with unshed tears.

Had her poetic notes been too much? Had the flowers merely been… what? Some cruel game to him?

She glanced at her watch. Five minutes before ten, and the library was empty, so it was close enough To closing time. She would lock up, head upstairs and drown her sorrows in a gallon of tea, and some trashy romance novel. Not at all her usual reading matter, but…

His soft voice began the moment she left the stacks to head back to the desk, rolling like a wave of warmth across the space between them as she came to a sudden halt, her heart beating so quickly it was like unto one continuous drum-roll.

“Or shall I come to you,” he purred, “bearing a garland of bluebells.”

He approached her slowly, and it was only then that she noticed that he had turned out most of the lights in the library’s lobby, and that in his hand he did indeed carry a woven garland of mixed bluebells and ferns.

“So that we may speak without guile, and only truth?”

She felt herself blush softly as she realized that she too had been moving toward him as they came to a halt together, in front of the circulation desk, where it had all begun. She looked up at him, noticing the sprig of matching bluebells in the buttonhole of his suit jacket, and the liquid warmth in his eyes as they met hers.

“Mister Gold,” she greeted him softly, a little breathless.

“May I?” he asked quietly, resting his cane against a nearby cart, and lifting the delicate garland in both hands.

Blushing more fiercely, she nodded once, and then stilled, even holding her breath as he placed the flowers onto her head, and reached behind her to arrange the lilac ribbon to adorn her hair in a cascade of color.

“Thank you,” she said quietly as he withdrew his touch.

She watched as he retrieved his cane, and then tipped her head in query as he offered her his arm.

“Would you care to take a walk, Miss French?” he asked gallantly.

She smiled, and slipped her hand onto his arm.

“I should like that very much, Mister Gold,” she said.

#rumbelle #a monthly rumbelling #fluff #flirting #courtship

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illfoandillfie · 3 years

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Hiya! never done this before so haha bare with me, I know you do tarot readings, and was wondering if I could request a reading??? If not totally fine! 😅😅 I've been in a strange headspace for a couple of weeks now and was wondering if the cards could tell me if there's anything I might need to know going forward??? Sorry if that's too broad I'm not really sure what to ask haha

hopefully this helps you out darl!

tarot: the star, the hanged man, the tower, the sun, seven of swords, nine of wands, the high priestess, three of pentacles, knight of cups.

First off, before I jump into what the cards mean, just a quick little caveat. While I may not be able to give you specifics about what the cards are referencing, you may be able to glean extra info from them based on your knowledge of yourself and whats been happening in your life lately. It my be that I interpret the meaning one way but you see a different pattern or implication that makes sense to you and I fully encourage you to bring your own understanding as well as what I can say about them, especially in regards to the oracle cards which are often kind of vague to allow for multiple interpretations. But, with that out of the way, let’s get into what the cards are saying!

You may feel out of sorts at the moment but the Star is a card of hope, positivity, renewal and healing, so things will start getting better/back to normal. The seven of swords is an interesting card to come up as the clarifier though. It relates to secrecy or sneakiness, cunning, lies and trickery, as well as resourcefulness and strategy. This may indicate that the strange headspace you’ve been experiencing relates to actions against you by someone - perhaps a betrayal of some kind or finding out someone lied to you - or possibly your own actions that you felt were uncharacteristic or abnormal. It may also relate to a secret being revealed, or anxiety that such a thing will happen. But there is the hope that things will work out either on their own or through confession/communication.

Next we have the Hanged Man and nine of wands. The Hanged Man is a card of sacrifice and delay. It may be that there is a sacrifice that you need to make before you can go forward. A tough conversation that needs to happen, or just stopping for a minute to reconsider the direction you’re heading in and any changes that need to be made to your plan. The nine of wands is about resilience and grit and interestingly can also speak of delay. It may be that you’re waiting for something to happen and feel as if you can’t move forward until it does. But the nine of wands indicates that you can get through whatever this situation is. You’ve survived things in the past and you have the strength to do so again. Be brave and stand your ground. The Hanged Man may also indicate a need to change perspective. Perhaps you are looking at the situation from one angle but need to examine it from another before progress can be made.

So much major arcana appearing in this reading! Two more here - The Tower and the High Priestess. The Tower is not necessarily a happy card. It symbolises destruction, disaster, chaos, upheaval, sudden change. The High Priestess on the other hand is about intuition, the unconscious, and your inner voice. This may indicate that you already know what this tower moment could be, even that you’re expecting it. Often The Tower is seen as ominous but the changes it references don’t have to be bad. Even positive changes can bring chaos and trouble with them. If you’re getting ready to make a big change that will influence multiple areas of your life, then that is probably what the tower is talking about. Even if you don’t yet know what it is, it’s likely that you will by the time it happens. Listen to your inner voice, your intuition, and let it guide you.

And our final three cards. The Sun in the most positive card in the deck. This shows that, no matter what troubles you face, no matter what the Tower card is referencing, there is a brighter future on the other side. It will be for the best and you will make it through, even if you have to do a lot of clean up after the dust has settled. There is joy, success and celebration ahead of you. And it seems as if the best way to reach that point is with the help of others. The three of pentacles is a card of teamwork, collaboration and building. After the Tower falls, the rebuilding can start and the three of pentacles says it will be made easier by seeking out others and letting them help you. In particular it seems as if a Knight of Cups will come to your aid. The suit of cups is closely tied to emotions and the heart, so this knight may be a romantic connection for you but doesn’t have to be. But it is possible that this card is referring to a specific person. The knight of cups is someone who follows their heart rather than their head. They are idealistic and romantic and somewhat of a dreamer. It may also be that this knight will bring you a message or invitation, perhaps related to the 3 of pentacles it will be an invitation to work with a group. It may be that this work will be a passion project or will have significant emotional or creative value for you. However the knight present themselves to you, the sun is a sign that the connection will bring positive energy to you and whatever you’re working on.

Now onto the oracle cards.

Firstly we have 2 cards from the Earth Power oracle: Glastonbury Tor (Magic flows through my life. I will heal. I have power and it is real. Spiritual power takes time to develop and I find the right teachers when I am ready.) and Tanah Lot (The places ‘in between’ are important for my growth. I can release myself from worry and suffering if I choose. I now let go of all that no longer serves me.)

Both these cards tie into the messages of the tarot. The Glastonbury Tor speaks of healing just like the Star card and Tanah Lot speaks of release like the Hanged Man. There is something you need to confront and let go of which will help you move forward and continue on your path.

Next I pulled you 2 Ice Cream oracles: Charcoal Liquorice (innovation / invention / revolution) and Lemon (clean / detoxify / release). Yet another message of release!!

Then we have 3 Prism Oracle cards: Balance, Happiness and Flow. The balance card calls you to examine the different areas of your life and see is anything is out of balance or requires more attention. Are you spending enough time on yourself or are outside sources demanding all your attention? Happiness ties into that Sun card! This is a promise of better days ahead as well as an encouragement to acknowledge and cherish the little things that make you happy each day. Often we get caught up in the negative and forget to focus on the positive so take some time out to think about what makes you happy! And Flow is about going with the flow, adapting to a situation or to change rather than fighting against it. It may be that something has been approaching for some time and you’ve been trying to avoid it. Now is the time to let it happen, get it over and done with, so you can move on.

And finally, I also pulled 2 Sacred Self Care oracle cards for you and you got: Journal and Dream Journal. It seems like writing things down (or dictating your thoughts in a audio journal) may help you better understand what is happening around you! I’ll give you some info from the guide book for each of these as well.

Journal - Journaling is a profoundly intimate and powerful practice, one that provides a safe space for self-expression and channelling wisdom. It can help get your thoughts in order and process emotions. If you’re unsure where to start, try writing about what’s currently happening in your life or about whatever comes to mind. Don’t worry if it appears incoherent - it doesn’t need to be pretty. The process of writing free from expectation will allow you to exercise different parts of your brain. It will get you into a groove that will undoubtedly lead to more enlightening insights. Journaling can also help you keep track of your progress and see how far you are coming in various areas of your life.

Dream Journal: Dream journaling is a powerful practice. Once you establish a flow with it, there are many insights to gather from your astral adventures. Commit to interacting with your dreams in a new way and looking for the wisdom and guidance they hold for you. Starting with a seven day commitment to just write down what you remember about your dreams as soon as you wake up, before you forget them, can get you in the right flow. Or record voice notes for yourself and later transcribe them if you wish. Try naming your dreams, like a book or a movie, to help organize reoccurring themes. Review what you have written or recorded to see what guidance presents itself.

#card readings

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lyreplow8 · 3 years

Text

What Is A Trustee?

The Pensions Regulator

Content

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State Pension Uk: Brexit Deal Safeguards Rises.

A percentage of your pay is taken into the pension scheme instantly every cash advance. A workplace pension is a means of saving for your retirement that's organized by your employer.

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Posted: Fri, 15 Jan 2021 11:41:00 GMT [source]

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Are pensions considered marital property?

Generally speaking, a pension that is earned during the marriage is considered to be joint marital property and is subject to division during divorce, just like any other marital property.

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This will usually be a specified advantage plan based upon length of service as well as pensionable income. Locate more information of the payment rates payable by members as well as companies along with details on tax relief setups.

So a person beginning aged 32 must contribute 16% of their wage for the rest of their working life. While 16% of your pay seem a significant commitment, this number includes your employer's contribution - so you just require to money the rest. You get some tax back on the money you take into a pension, while gains from the investments you make with that cash money are mostly tax-free. After that, at retirement, you can attract cash from your pension pot or exchange the money with an insurance provider for a routine revenue until death, called an annuity. It is just a pot of money that you, and your employer, can pay into - and also which you get tax obligation alleviation on - as a means of conserving up for your retirement. From defined contribution as well as benefit plans, to individual pension plans and also pension plans for the self-employed. For guidance regarding increasing your workplace or private pension, talk to a monetary consultant.

Unless you are economically savvy, it's typically best to obtain advice from an independent financial consultant, provided the entire host of pension charges to look out for. Because January 2013, IFAs can no longer be paid in payment, so you'll need to pay a cost for advice. Under the new regulations, many people will certainly wind up in a firm pension so all they require to do is go on with what their company offers. To obtain any type of payments your company provides, you'll generally need to be part of its scheme. With a lot of workplace pension plans, your company chooses a third-party pension company eg, Aviva, but you can still choose the kind of threats you want to take with them. These are similar to work environment pension plans, but have low as well as flexible minimum payments, capped costs as well as a default financial investment choice.

#pension trustee eu #pension trustee europe #pensions and divorce eu #pensions and divorce europe #trusted pensions eu #trusted pensions europe

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aboycalledeverything · 4 years

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An In-depth Response to JK Rowling from a Transman

**CW: transphobia, suicide, surgery, discrimination, assault**

Let me first say that we should not allow this conversation to derail the progress and momentum of the Black Lives Matter movement. Though race and sexuality intersect in many fascinating and important ways, it is important to allow the voices of our BlPOC to be heard and amplified for as long as it takes for meaningful, sweeping changes to be made in our society. That being said, I would be remiss if I did not take the time to process and respond to the conversation you have chosen to bring to the table.

TLDR: To JK’s assertion that trans women threaten the political and biological class of ‘women’, Acknowledging that trans women are women is not the erosion of a political and biological class. It is strengthening those classes by accepting the women who, despite all threats of assault or death, stand by their identity and celebrate womanhood.

Let me also begin by saying thank you. For surviving, for persisting, for blessing the world with the gift of magic. The books-which-need-not-be-named were and are pillars of my childhood, identity, and life philosophy. I will never stop finding solace in the pages of those books.

Before we can continue the conversation, I need to introduce myself. I am a (relatively) young white transman and former D1 softball player. I chose to defer physical transition but came out socially as a transman in my sophomore year and was one of the few openly trans NCAA athletes at the time. I was also a student, and spent a large portion of my collegiate career studying LGBTQ+ issues and how they connect to human psychology. My senior capstone was a paper titled “Transmen and Suicide: Unique Contributors to a Disproportionately High Suicide Attempt Rate.” This involved both an in-depth literature review of trans research and theory as well as an independent collection and analysis of transman testimonies. The year after graduation was spent as a Lab Coordinator for the Sexual Orientation and Gender Identity: Health and Human Rights Lab at the University of Texas at Austin which does phenomenal sociological and psychological research on queer youth in particular. This is not to say that I am an expert, but rather to make it clear that I, too, have spent years researching the fraught topics of gender and sexuality.

Thank you for referring to my trans brothers as “notably sensitive and clever people.” We do try to use the unique empathy granted by being seen and treated as both women and men. Most of us grew up as girls and have been targeted by the misogyny and sexism that you reference; we try to use those experiences to inform our responses and opinions to societal issues. I, specifically, am going to use my lived experiences to respond to your essay. There are some points with which I agree and appreciate your recognition - freedom of speech, the importance of nuanced conversation, and the fact that both women and trans people are at disproportionate risk of violence and must be safeguarded. There are other points with which I take umbrage and will address one by one.

JKR: “It’s been clear to me for a while that the new trans activism is having (or is likely to have, if all its demands are met) a significant impact on many of the causes I support, because it’s pushing to erode the legal definition of sex and replace it with gender.”

Response: Let’s be clear: trans activists - at least the majority of us - are not trying to erase sex as a definition. Instead, we are asking that the parameters be reconsidered to make space for intersex people and who have biologically transitioned. Your points about the biological differences in treatments for MS are well taken. Ignoring intersex people and focusing on only the binary sexes male and female, you’re right. There are often sex differences in diseases and health disorders. But the problem is that we don’t always know what drives those differences; if they’re based on hormones, physical bodies, or something else entirely. Intersex and trans people, if they choose, now have the medical capability to change their hormones and physical bodies to the extent that they can be classified as male or female.

I’m not going to give you a full explanation on sex as an expression of levels of hormones, chromosomes, and physical organs. I’m sure you already know that both biological men and women have varying amounts of the same hormones, and that hormone replacement therapy can and does give trans men and women the hormonal levels that correspond to each definition. I have been taking testosterone for just under 2 years and, for all intents and purposes, have the chemistry of a biological man. In the same way, surgeries can and do affect physical biology and organ makeup, from removal or reconstruction of a penis or vagina to the removal of ovaries and uterus entirely.

This creates a gray area as to how to medically treat diseases like MS in trans people. We’re still learning, and I’ll be the first to admit that. What I can say is that there are many binary trans people who are not trying to replace legal definitions of sex with gender, but rather are trying to expand the legal definitions of sex to those who, for all intents and purposes, are biologically male or female.

JKR: “I’m concerned about the huge explosion in young women wishing to transition and also about the increasing numbers who seem to be detransitioning (returning to their original sex), because they regret taking steps that have, in some cases, altered their bodies irrevocably, and taken away their fertility. Some say they decided to transition after realising they were same-sex attracted, and that transitioning was partly driven by homophobia, either in society or in their families.”

Response: I would very much like to see the studies that you are referencing in this “huge explosion” of detransitioning individuals. If you’re referencing the article by Lisa Littman, it is definitely worth noting that her study was a) descriptive rather than empirical and b) based on the testimonials of parents and not the actual trans youth.

According to a different and arguably more experienced researcher, Dr. Johanna Olsen, regret and detransitioning as you talk about it are extremely rare. I encourage you to watch her video below and read over some of the other research she is and has been doing.

Even if we were to listen to descriptive research such as Littman’s and assume that there are people who wish to detransition, the lack of fertility you’re talking about is not universal and, as with people assigned female at birth, varies. According to recent studies, trans men who wish to reproduce biologically can take a break from testosterone while carrying their children and resume afterwards. So far, there are no negative side effects for the children of transmen.

What should also be considered, especially in youth, is that hormone blockers are entirely reversible. But puberty is not. When trans children are put on hormone blockers, they are essentially delaying permanent puberty and taking time to examine whether it’s right for them. Access to medical care such as hormone blockers are essential to trans youth because it does give them time to figure out their identity before going through the male or female puberty that affects them.

I have not seen any cases of transition driven by homophobia, but would like to note that working to make parents less homophobic and transphobic seems to be a better use of time than arguing against the right of many trans youth who do need access to medical intervention.

JKR: “The argument of many current trans activists is that if you don’t let a gender dysphoric teenager transition, they will kill themselves. In an article explaining why he resigned from the Tavistock (an NHS gender clinic in England) psychiatrist Marcus Evans stated that claims that children will kill themselves if not permitted to transition do not ‘align substantially with any robust data or studies in this area. Nor do they align with the cases I have encountered over decades as a psychotherapist.’”

Response: This point is one of the more frustrating parts of your article because it is using one medical professional’s opinion to ignore a horrifying truth. Trans adults and youths experience suicidality and depression at staggering rates. While I cannot comment on studies in the UK, here in the US the lifetime suicide ideation rates for trans adults is 81.7%. The attempt rate is 40.4%, almost 10x the national average of 4.6%.

And those are just the statistics of the people who survived long enough to participate in the study. Denying the real threat of suicidality in trans youth is not only saddening - it is actively harmful.

JKR: “The allure of escaping womanhood would have been huge. I struggled with severe OCD as a teenager. If I’d found community and sympathy online that I couldn’t find in my immediate environment, I believe I could have been persuaded to turn myself into the son my father had openly said he’d have preferred.”

Response: This is one of the most frequent arguments I see for people denying trans men their identity. My own mother has suggested that I transitioned to escape sexism. To this, I respond that choosing to transition does not provide an escape to discrimination and harrassment. I was well aware, when choosing to come out and transition, of the statistics of discrimination I was entering. I was well aware that it might mean the loss of my athletic scholarship, the dismissal of the team of sisters that I played on, It was not a matter of escaping sexism, but rather a matter of being my most authentic self. Even if you dismiss my own personal experience, I would point to the trans women who actively transition and give up their male privilege in exchange for the trials and tribulations of womanhood. Either way, I can assure you that the suicidality trans people experience makes the “choice” to transition no more of a choice than raising your hands because a gun is pointed at your head.

JKR: “ I want to be very clear here: I know transition will be a solution for some gender dysphoric people, although I’m also aware through extensive research that studies have consistently shown that between 60-90% of gender dysphoric teens will grow out of their dysphoria”

Response: I appreciate your recognition of our reality! I would love to see the studies that present a 30% difference. In my experience, those of us that lived long enough to see adulthood have not grown out of dysphoria, even if we’ve learned coping strategies to make it bearable. And again, hormone blockers for teens allow the opportunity for them to grow however they need to without permanent changes being made.

JKR: “So I want trans women to be safe. At the same time, I do not want to make natal girls and women less safe. When you throw open the doors of bathrooms and changing rooms to any man who believes or feels he’s a woman – and, as I’ve said, gender confirmation certificates may now be granted without any need for surgery or hormones – then you open the door to any and all men who wish to come inside.”

Response: Once again I cannot speak to the politics or legislation of the UK. What I can say is that “bathroom bans” on trans people that require us to use the fitting room/bathroom/locker room of the sex we were assigned at birth lead to significant sexual and physical assault on trans people, which already face a disproportionate risk (as you mentioned). I personally have been fortunate enough to have not been physically assaulted when I was trying to go to the bathroom, but have been harassed in both mens and womens bathrooms (which I varied between during my transition, depending on how well I thought I was passing). Many of my friends are not as lucky.

JKR: “But, as many women have said before me, ‘woman’ is not a costume. ‘Woman’ is not an idea in a man’s head. ‘Woman’ is not a pink brain, a liking for Jimmy Choos or any of the other sexist ideas now somehow touted as progressive.”

Response: The implication that trans women - who are literally dying to be acknowledged as women - putting on a “costume” is flagrantly offensive. I am choosing to believe that you did not intend this implication and instead are confusing sex and gender. In which case,would refer you to the seminal work Gender Trouble: Feminism and the Subversion of Identity by Judith Butler. According to her, gender is literally a performance that one chooses to express. Transwomen define their gender and femininity as individuals, and do not choose to go through the grueling process of changing their biological sex because they like Jimmy Choos. The gender ‘woman’ is not a “pink brain” but rather an identity that can be inwardly cultivated and outwardly expressed. The sex ‘woman’ or female is an amalgamation of complex physiological systems that, as we’ve already discussed, can be altered.

JKR: “I refuse to bow down to a movement...”

Response: There is undeniably a movement, a “cancel culture” that dismisses nuanced conversation. I, like you, am concerned about the erosion of free speech and the expression of alternative points of view in nuanced discussions such as this one. But this movement is not specific to trans people and should not be described as such. Most trans activists and researchers that I know are not asking you to “bow down.” We’re asking you to come to the table and have an open mind. We’re asking you to use your huge platform to help trans people (as you clearly want to) without harming them (as you clearly have).

JKR: “...that I believe is doing demonstrable harm in seeking to erode ‘woman’ as a political and biological class and offering cover to predators like few before it.”

Response: This is the crux of the “TERF wars”. The refusal to accept trans women as women. To this, I would simply say: Acknowledging that trans women are women is not the erosion of a political and biological class. It is strengthening those classes by accepting the women who, despite all threats of assault or death, stand by their identity and celebrate womanhood.

#long post #essay #jk rowling #response #harry potter #transmen #ftm #mtf #transphobia #transwomen #trans #LGBT #terf #terf wars

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returnn-of-the-mac · 5 years

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Companions (+ Maxson, Haylen and Sturges? 👀) react to a female sole who has long hair that gets caught on things / is always in the way but refuses to cut it.

Ahh this one was so much fun to write! I kinda went a bit crazy; the reacts are looong. But the more the merrier, right? I kinda have to cite the US Navy handbook for *spoiler* Maxon’s React; I copied and pasted some parts directly from there *end spoiler*. Please enjoy!😸

FO4 Companions React: Female Sole’s Long Hair Being An Inconvenience

Preston: Preston and Sole were hiding in a steam trunk, preparing a sneak attack on a gang of raiders that had taken over a newly established Minutemen checkpoint. When the raiders had gotten close, Preston turned to his partner. “On the count of three, we’re going to leap out of this truck and attack, okay?” Sole nodded. “One...two...three!” The pair leaped out of the trunk, safety’s off and ready to attack. Sole suddenly shrieked. The trunk had slammed shut behind her, right onto her long hair. She was stuck in place. “General! Stand your ground! Try to do as much damage as you can in that position and I’ll hold them back!” Guns blazed as the gang of raiders swarmed the little shack, trying to get past Preston who was standing in the doorway and fending them off. From behind, Sole aimed at the raiders, able to pick them clean with expert precision. When all the raiders had been cleared, Preston approached his companion and opened the trunk. Sole stood up, gently massaging her sore scalp and apologizing profusely. Preston chuckled. “It’s okay, I know how much your hair means to you.”

Sturges: Sturges and Sole were enjoying a relaxing afternoon in Sanctuary, listening to country music and crafting armor. “Hey, I made a prototype heated metal press,” Sturges mentioned. “It might make it easier to make thinner parts for your armor. Why dontcha try it out? You can be first to test it.” Sole beamed at the offer and followed Sturges over to the complex contraption he designed. Sturges picked up a metal bucket and set it down on the platform. “Whenever you’re ready, just pull the lever and boom! Gotcha self a sleek new piece of metal to work with.” Sole set a cluster of aluminum cans on the platform. Just as they were about to pull the lever, a gust of wind blew her long hair forward. The hot press clamped down on her hair. Sole shrieked as Sturges quickly yanked the lever up. “[Name], are you okay?” Sole stared in horror at the long locks of burnt hair still attached to the metal press. She then ran their fingers through her hair. Half of it was gone. Her eyes began to water. “I’m so sorry, [name]. Come here,” Sturges said, opening his arms to a devastated Sole. She accepted the gesture and mourned the loss of her majestic locks.

Cait: Cait and Sole were crawling in an air vent, prepared to ambush a group of gunners below. “We best be careful,” Cait warned, “these gunners have eyes like a Deathclaw and ears like...a Deathclaw. They are human deathclaws. With guns.” A gunner walked right under where they were standing. “Ye jump down behind me, yeah?” Cait gave Sole a thumbs up and then kicked the vent out. “COME ON YE STUPID BASTARDS!” Cait landed on the gunner’s shoulders and bashed his head with her gun. She then got up and started shooting frenetically, “How does it feel gettin yer arses kicked by girls?” It was when the gunners began to gang up on her that the redhead noticed the absence of her partner. “[Name]? Where the fuck are ye at ye whore?” She turned around and saw Sole hanging from the ceiling by her long hair. “Motherfucker.” Cait muttered in annoyance, “Well, I guess it’s gonna be a one-woman’s show then. INCOMIN’!” Cait chucked a grenade, and, using a fallen bookshelf as leverage, launched herself back into the air vent, dragging Sole with her. Using her knife, she chopped Sole’s hair to free her and they quickly retreated, just before the bomb went off. Cait woefully looked at her partner. “I’m sorry about yer hair. You probably ain’t pleased. But I didn’t want you to get blown to smithereens.”

X6-88: X6 and Sole were exiting the Institute, on their way to start their next mission. On the way out, the pair discussed their strategy to destroy The Railroad when Sole suddenly shrieked. X6 turned around to see his partner flailing. He then noticed that her long hair had gotten caught in the automatic door...again. Ma’am? May I suggest getting a haircut?” X6 asked flatly, “This is the second time this week and fifth time this month that this has happened.” Sole huffed and X6 rolled his eyes under his glasses. She could be stubborn; especially when the subject involved cutting her beloved locks. X6 made another attempt to change his partner’s mind. “What if this happens during our mission? The repercussions could prove fatal. Please, reconsider.” After seeing that Sole was not going to be persuaded, X6 held out an elastic. “Put it up. For this mission, at least. Now’s not the time to be irrational.” Sole finally gave in and put their hair into a bun.

Gage: Sole and Gage were sounding the evening constructing a base for a raider gang. Sole had just finished nailing a wooden wall into place when she walked away to take a sip of purified water. She took a few steps toward before she was yanked backward. She turned around to confirm her worst fear: she had nailed the board right over the tips of her hair. She called for Gage, who was busy spray painting the exterior of the shack. “Sup boss?” Gage asked. Sole pointed and Gage rolled his eyes. “You gotta be kiddin me. And I thought you were a smart one.” Gage examined the board and nail. “What’ve we got here? ...Hey, you ain’t half bad at carpentry. But as for common sense. That’s another story.” Gage skillfully removed the embedded nail using just a pocket knife and a bottle opener. He removed the board, freeing Sole’s hair. “Impressed, boss? Ya gotta learn how to improvise sometimes.” Gage chuckled dryly. “But uh. Ya ain’t gonna try that again without pullin your hair back next time, right? Don’t be stupid. You're on your own next time.”

Piper: Piper and Sole were standing outside Mayor McDonough’s door, trying to break in and free Geneva. “Okay so obviously kicking and screaming didn’t work,” Piper scratched her head nervously, “Any ideas, Blue?” Sole approached the door and began to pick the lock. “Oh that’s right, you’re the queen of lockpicking! Don’t mind me, I’m just gonna sit back and take notes.” When the lock clicked, Sole and Piper looked at each other, nodded, and flung the doors open. “I knew it! I knew you were a synth, McDonough! Now let that hostage go!” Just then a breeze came through the window and slammed the doors behind them. Sole flew backward; as her hair had gotten caught in the door. “Dimwits.” McDonough muttered, watching Piper panic as Sole frantically tried to free her own hair. “Blue, woulda quit fidgeting for a minute? I’ll open the door for you. Just stay still.” Piper turned the knob on the wooden doors and pushed out, freeing her partner. A disoriented Sole scrambled to her feet. Piper shook her head and focused her attention back on the deranged mayor. “I hope you enjoyed that little show, because now we mean business,” She turned to her blushing partner and smirked, “Right Blue?”

Hancock: Sole and Hancock we’re enjoying a relaxing afternoon on Spectacle Island . They had just taken down the Institute and decided to take a well-deserved vacation. “This is niiiice,” Hancock beamed, taking a long hit of jet. “I could really get used to this.” Sole smiled as she laid down in the sand, absorbing the warmth from the sun. She closed their eyes and imagined she was at the beach in Cape Cod with Nate and Shaun— a vacation spot the family frequented. She was just about to drift into a deep sleep when suddenly she felt a powerful force grab hold of her hair and toss her across the sand like a rag doll. Dazed, Sole looked around, trying to figure out what was going on. “[Name]! Are you okay, doll?” Hancock yelled, trying to fend off a mirelurk. “Bad move, buddy.” Hancock stayed as he repeatedly shot the underbelly of the ferocious crab. The mirelurk eventually gave in to its injuries and fell to the ground, dead. “Looks like I’m your king now.” Hancock teased. He then ran over to his partner and knelt beside her. “Seriously, though? Are you okay?” Sole nodded. “How’s the hair?”Hancock laughed, grabbing a thick lock of hair and examining it. “Is that a bald spot I see..!? Nah, I’m just messin with ya. It’s all still there.”

Deacon: Deacon and Sole were leaving the Railroad for their next quest when the secret door closed behind them, right onto Sole’s hair. Sole cried for help and Deacon sprinted over to her. “Looks like you’re in a bit of a hairy situation.” Sole shot daggers at Deacon as he chuckled at his own joke. “Alright let’s see here...shit. What’s the password?” A livid Sole screamed ‘Railroad.’ Deacon looked at them. “What? No way, that’s too easy. Knowing Des she probably made the password something complex like...schadenfreude.” Sole was now cursing in frustration. Deacon had a goofy smile plastered on his face “Okay, fine, if you insist, I will try ‘railroad.’” Deacon spun the wheel to spell out the password and the door opened. Sole freed herself and glared at Deacon. He chuckled, “You’re fine, you were never really in real danger anyway.” Deacon explained, putting a playful arm around Sole’s shoulder. “Maybe you should cut hair a little so it doesn’t get caught on everything. You could even donate extra inches to Lockes4Deacon. I’m am bald, after all.”

Strong: Strong and Sole were wandering around Back Bay When Sole suddenly felt a massive tug on her hair. She was practically flung into the hard ground. A confused Sole yowled in pain; everything hurt from her head all the way down to her legs. Her vision was blurry— definitely a concussion— and she couldn’t get back up. “Strong sorry, human!” Strong apologized, “Strong step on fur and human kept running! No mean to hurt!” Sole weakly begged their Supermutant friend to give them a stimpack. Strong obedient searched through Sole’s inventory and grabbed the medicine, promptly injecting Sole. Sole stood up and massaged her scalp. “Human should cut fur.” Strong advised, “Long fur is weakness. Easy target.”

Longfellow: Sole and Longfellow were fishing on the docks of Far Harbor when suddenly a gulper leaped from the water and chomped down on Sole’s hair, dragging her into the salty water below. “Shit! I’m commin!” Longfellow yelled as he dove in after her. He took out a spear and swiftly swam toward the enemy. With a powerful jab, he impaled the creature, killing it instantly. Sole and Longfellow then swam to coast. When they had both reached the sandy shore, Longfellow chuckled. “Well, that was a doozy! Good thing I didn’t start my drinking at 7am today!” He joked. He then studied Sole’s hair. “Well, would you look at that; not even a scratch on the hair. Impressive! Mind donating some of that so I can use it as fishing line?”

Ada: Ada and Sole were fighting off robots in the mechanist's lair when Sole screamed. Her hair had gotten caught in one of the hostile robot’s machinery. “Hold on, ma’am! I’ll be right over to assist you.” Ada finished off the robot she was currently fighting and scrambled over to her struggling companion. She scanned the area of the trapped hair. “My diagnostic revealed that your hair is stuck in between a coil and a gear. There is only a 3.776% chance of getting your hair out unscathed. Your viable options include: manually freeing hair and risking a large bald spot— or— cutting hair short to at least have a style that looks half-decent—or— doing nothing.”

Nick: Nick and Sole were sloshing around the flooded streets of Forest Grove Marsh when Nick turned to his partner. “Careful,” he whispered, “I hear this place is a popular vacation destination for ferals.” Almost immediately after he said that the pair spotted emaciated bodies of the ghouls patrolling the end of the road. It was then that Nick noticed a building that was still in-tact but had a few openings that could be used to discreetly shoot the ferals. “Now, would you look at that? This building would make a fantastic shooting post.” The detective mused, “If we sneak into the building and lock the door behind us, we might be able to wipe them out from a spot where they can’t reach us.” Sole nodded and the two crept into the building. Sole closed the door behind her— unaware her hair had yet to make it through— and Nick barred it. “I’ll shoot from the window first; you stay there. We’ll trick them into thinking it’s just me over here. Then, you jump in. Ferals are pretty...feeble-minded. So your surprise attack will probably disorient then.” He then walked over to the window. “Ready?” Sole gave a thumbs up. Nick aimed his laser rifle and shot at the hoard of ghouls. Nick was able to take down about 1/3 of the mob when he called to Sole. “NOW!” Sole leaped toward the window—or at least tried to. She hollered in pain as her hair tugged at her scalp. Nick immediately understood what had happened. “I’m coming, pal!” He ran over to his companion. After quickly assessing the situation and realizing that opening the door was out of the question, he took a machete out of his inventory. “I’m so sorry I have to do this [name], but it’s either this or becoming feral food.” Sole gave Nick the okay and with the swift swipe of the blade, Sole was freed from her long locks. The pair quickly moved to the window to continue their ambush.

MacCready: Sole and MacCready were making their way down a dirt path in the woods when a pack of five wild mongrels attacked. All but one of the dogs were easily killed. The fifth dog— an alpha— snuck up behind the pair and clamped onto Sole’s hair. Sole screeched in pain and MacCready pulled out his gun. He aimed and fired, immediately killing the canine. Sole thanked her companion and MacCready smirked. “Hey, don’t mention it. That’s what I’m here for, right?” He shifted uncomfortably. “Actually [name], there’s been, uh, something I’ve been meaning to talk to you about, and I think this might’ve been the universe’s sign that now’s the time.” Sole perked up. “I...I don’t really think it’s a good idea to be wandering the Commonwealth with free-flowing hair that practically reaches your thighs. It could be dangerous. Like what just happened. What if that dog were a feral? I don’t even want to imagine-“ he realized he was rambling and stopped himself short. “But I digress. What I’m trying to say is maybe that was a sign that you should cut your hair.” Sole shot him a look. MacCready immediately understood that he had not gotten through to her. “It’s kinda a liability, yanno. For both of us.” Sole rolled her eyes and MacCready scoffed. “What? You gonna miss all those hairballs that clog the drain in the only working shower in Sanctuary? They’re gross.” Sole turned away and continued walking down the path, MacCready following close behind. The pair continued on their trek, an awkward silence between them. Eventually, MacCready sighed. “Look, I’m sorry. Your hair is beautiful. And I really don’t care about the darn hairballs in the shower. How many times do you think I actually use the shower? I just don’t want anything to happen to you.” Sole turned to face her partner and saw how genuinely distraught he was. She felt bad, and the two compromised that from here on out, Sole would wear her hair up in a bun.

Codsworth: Sole and Codsworth were walking around Sanctuary when Sole’s hair randomly got caught in a rotted doorframe. She called Codsworth for help, and the robot sighed. “Mum, remember back in the old days when your hair was...groomed? Well, wasn’t it easier to maintain? Didn’t it feel good not worrying about getting it stuck in everything?” Sole rolled her eyes at the robot’s question. Codsworth signed. “Fine. I suppose it’s none of my business. I just think you would be better off without your hair holding you back.”

Curie: Sole and Curie were approaching the Saugus Ironworks when they were attacked by a gang of Forged raiders. The pair fought valiantly and had taken out most of the group until a Forged managed to sneak behind Sole and set her hair on fire. “Madam! You’re hair! It’s been set ablaze!” Sole shrieked and threw herself onto the dirt ground in an attempt to smolder the flames. Curie defended Sole while they recovered. When she had defeated the Forged, she knelt down beside Sole. “Are you alright?” Curie asked, concerned. Sole sat up, revealing hair that was charred up to the shoulders as well as some minor neck burns. “Oh...” Curie mourned, “Let me treat your burns. As for your hair—“ Curie touched the burned hair and it crumbled in her hands. Sole began to cry. “Oh no, please don’t cry,” Curie pleaded, she wrapped her arms around her sobbing companion and gently held her. “I know you’re going to miss your long hair, but it will grow back. And hair can still look nice short.” Curie smiled, looked at Sole, and wiped away her tears “We can be like twins until your hair grows back.”

Danse: Sole and Danse were sneaking through the buildings of college square, fully prepared to ambush the synths that had taken over the area. “Remain vigilant.”’Danse warned, “These synths are stealthy sons-of-bitches.” Just then, a mob of synths busted down the door, revealing the duo. “Show no mercy!” Danse bellowed, loading his laser rifle and shooting at the robots. Just then, a gust of wind blew Sole’s long hair into Danse’s face. “View obstructed!” Danse yelled as he missed the targets. The synths used this error to charge at the pair. “They’re closing in— melee!” Sole and Danse put away their guns and engaged in physical combat with the synths. When the synths were finally defeated, Danse looked at his partner. He was not pleased. “Soldier! Do something about your hair!” The Paladin berated, “It’s a hazard, and it’s a violation of policy. I’ve been letting it slide, but this could’ve ended in a fatality had we not been prepared for physical combat.” Danse took a minute to cool off before continuing, “I apologize for scolding you. But this is a written rule, and it’s enforced for a reason. I know you take great pride in your hair, but for your own wellbeing and for the safety of your brothers and sisters please just...manage it.”

Haylen: “You sure your hair isn’t gonna get stuck in the power armor?” Haylen asked, concerned. “It might get locked in the door or caught on a gear or something. Thankfully there are emergency release switches but—“ Sole stepped into the power armor. “You’re a stubborn one, aren’t you?” Haylen muttered to herself, “And that makes 3 of the 4 members of this squad hardheads.” She looked back over at Sole, holding up an elastic, “You sure you don’t even want a hair tie? I have plenty extra.” Sole shook her head and activated the suit. It powered up and sealed— right onto their hair. Sole shrieked in pain, and Haylen rushed over to activate the emergency release. When the suit opened back up, Sole was greeted by Haylen, arms crossed and smiling smugly. She silently held out the hair tie again and Sole snatched it. “1 for Haylen; 0 for [name].”

Maxon: Sole was nervously sitting in Maxon’s quarters, waiting for the Elder to arrive for the private meeting he’s called for. The Elder finally entered the room, closing the door behind him. He took a seat across from Sole. “I called you here today to discuss a policy violation. Specifically the uniform code.” Maxon pulled out the Brotherhood of Steel Employee Handbook. Page 124, Rule #22 states: Because it is impossible to provide examples of every appropriate or unacceptable hairstyle, the good judgment of leaders at all levels is key to enforcement of Brotherhood’s grooming policy. Therefore, grooming appearance while in uniform shall present a neat, professional appearance. It should not impede one’s ability to enter/exit power armor and/or fight in combat. Hair length, when in uniform, may touch, but not fall below a horizontal line level with the lower edge of the back of the collar. Long hair should be pulled back.” Maxon sternly looked at Sole, who was obviously avoiding his gaze. “You are not an exception to the rules, so the choice is yours: you can either cut your hair or pull it back. You can no longer have it free-flowing.”

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deepsoulfury · 4 years

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Honest insights into Invisalign Near Me

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dailyaudiobible · 5 years

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10/24/2019 DAB Transcript

Jerimiah 44:24-47:7, 2 Timothy 2:22-3:17, Psalms 94:1-23, Proverbs 26:6-8

Today is the 24th day of October. Welcome to the Daily Audio Bible. I’m Brian. It's great to be here with you today continuing our journey forward as we all come in around the global campfire and out of whatever was going on and just let it go. Let it go. It's it…it's gonna be waiting. It just might look different after we spend a little time letting God's word speak to us and kinda carving out a little place in our day that we say, “nothing's getting in here. This is a specific time. It's a part of the rhythm of my life and I'm setting it aside for life to be poured in from God's word.” And, so, let's take that next step. We’re reading from the English Standard version this week. Jeremiah chapter 44 verse 24 through 47 verse 7.

Commentary:

Okay. In second Timothy today we came to one of the verses that…that directly explains why we’re here today around the global campfire doing what we’re doing. And, so, we’ll talk about that in a second because it’s the last verse that we read today. But before that, Paul's…Paul’s doing what he does. Like, he contrasts lists often or characteristics often and he's doing that today to show Timothy not only what he should aim for but what he should also avoid, the kinds of things that are soul killing but also community, like a community of faith killers. So, one path that is false and destructive, and one path that is true and enduring. And again, the Bible gives us the opportunity to examine ourselves. It brings us to this crossroad where we…we can listen to these lists and go, “okay. Who am I?” So, Paul writes to Timothy that in the last days and in the last times and, of course, he's speaking of his own time, he tells Timothy, “people are going to be lovers of themselves and lovers of money, and proud and arrogant and abusive, and they’ll be disobedient to their parents and ungrateful and unholy and heartless and unappeasable and slanderous and will have no self-control. They’ll be brutal. They won't love good. They’ll be treacherous, reckless, swollen up with conceit, lovers of pleasure rather than lovers of God. They'll appear godly but will be denying God's power as they're doing it. Avoid such people.” Paul tells Timothy. And he tells him that for his own sake but also, he tells him that as a means of protecting the community from…well…from things that will be nothing but destructive, right? We read the list and none of the things that we read of are healthy and all of them are destructive. I mean, especially in a community. And even though this letter was written a couple thousand years ago, like those characteristics, they’re heart issues. And, so, they’re still with us today in living color. But in contrast to that Timothy had seen Paul. Like he was a protégé. He had traveled all over the world with Paul, had seen the way that Paul did ministry and Paul's posture of heart. And, so, Paul gave him a different list, a different path than the first path, a path that had been modeled for Timothy. So, Paul tells him, “as for you, continue in what you've learned and have firmly believed, knowing where you learned it, and how from childhood you've been acquainted with the sacred writings, which are able to make you wise for salvation through Christ Jesus.” Okay. So, it's like the divergence between the first set of characteristics or that type of person and the second is…is drastic. So, if we’re following the first path and we’re walking in that way, then we aren't in a healthy place at all. And if those behaviors are bred into a community then they will become a black hole that will suck the life out of everything. On the other hand, the second path is solid, is life-giving, is enduring in all places and at all time even in trying times even in times when we have to endure.

Prayer:

Father, we invite You into what the apostle Paul was writing to Timothy and we’re grateful that we have the benefit of a personal letter that we can just take like this and read and understand advice that was being given from a spiritual Father to a spiritual son who was a pastor in spiritual leadership and understanding how vigilant of a task it is to consider the paths that we’re walking. And we confess that we usually kind of go through our day and it's our day whether we planned it or whether a lot of things came up that we didn't expect, we go through our day and we’re not necessarily in the moment thinking about the paths that we’re choosing that are leading us through the day and…and the reactionary way we often live so that we’re reacting in a negative way and maybe even exhibiting some of the characteristics that we’re to avoid. This often happens because things are just flying at us and we forget to take a deep breath and reconsider what path we’re going to walk. And, so, Holy Spirit You've promised You would lead us into all truth, and we believe that fully. It's just a matter of whether or not we’re gonna pay attention to where You’re leading or what it is that You're instructing us to do. We pray for the eyes and ears of the kingdom today, that we might hear You clearly in all of the choices we have to make. Come Holy Spirit in Jesus’ name we ask. Amen.

Announcements:

dailyaudiobible.com is the website and that makes it home base for a virtual community like ours. So, that's where you find what's happening around here. So, be sure to stay tuned and connected.

Stay connected to the Prayer Wall. Pray for your brothers and sisters, or if you need prayer, know that there's a place to reach out any time. So, take advantage of that resource.

Check out the Daily Audio Bible Shop for other resources that are physical resources for taking this journey in a year. So, that's available, including this brand-new resource, the God of Your Story, the one Year Adventure with the God of Your Story to be more specific. So, that is out and available now. It is of us, for us, because of…I mean this is a resource that wouldn't have existed had we not been on this journey together because it's…well…it's a written form of the adventure that we take each and every year. So, that's available in the Daily Audio Bible Shop. It’s also available in the Initiatives section. So, check that out.

If you want to partner with the Daily Audio Bible, you can do that at dailyaudiobible.com as well. There's a link on the homepage. Thank you, thank you, thank you, profoundly for your partnership. If you're using the Daily Audio Bible app you can press the Give button in the upper right-hand corner or, if you prefer, the mailing address is PO Box 1996 Spring Hill Tennessee 37174.

And, as always, if you have a prayer request or comment 877-942-4253 is the number to dial.

And that's it for today. I'm Brian I love you and I'll be waiting for you here tomorrow.

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masseffecthoe · 5 years

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Soul Glitches

Chapter 4

< Chapter 3

The Observation Deck was a wreck, with metal scraps and wires trailing from one end to the other. A few pads and monitors bleeped alive with colorful writings all around the L shaped couch. The only "clean" part of the room was the improvised cot in the far left corner. But there was order in the chaos of tech. Jun knew exactly where things were and each served a precise purpose. Most importantly, it made the place feel like home. The only thing amiss was one depressed looking commander staring blankly into the dark void ahead.

"Weight of the world on your shoulders again, huh?"

"Fells like it will never end. We warn them, they ignore us and then we struggle on our own to save everyone. A vicious cycle."

"I don't know, this one seems pretty final. I mean, the reapers were the end game from the start, right?" She placed a hand on the other woman's shoulder, squeezing just enough to grab her attention from the stars outside. They locked eyes and she wished she could do more to help Shepard carry that weight. "Just one more, then it's shore leave, baby! I'm thinking of visiting more of Earth." The commander smiled sheepishly at her.

"You? On Earth? Vega got to you that badly?"

"Pff no, we're just passing time." She realized the possible interpretation as soon as the words left her mouth and she paused a bit to reconsider. "Wait, that sounded wrong. We just get along, that's all. Nothing weird happening between us."

"Mhm."

"He flirts like that with everyone, I wouldn't look too much into it."

"If you say so. But it looks pretty different from the outside." What looked different? Jun was pretty sure she figured him all out: he was just a fun guy, masking his inner demons from a shitty childhood probably, with little flirts and jokes. She doubted he'd actually put any of those naughty things that came out of his mouth into practice. He was all bark and no bite and she was perfectly okay with it.

"How's Kaidan?"

"He's awake already. Might have been worse if you weren't there to take action so fast. Thank you."

"Any time, Shep. You do know I don't actually hate him, right? Damn, I've been saying this a lot lately."

"I know. I'm sure he knows it too."

"I do hope he gets over himself..."

"Jun!"

"Ok, ok, I promise to try to be nicer to him when he gets back." She put her hands up in defeat, noting the small smile playing on the commander's lips, and went to sit on the clear spot on the couch. Shepard's eyes followed her, then scanned the state of the room, brows slightly furrowed.

"You working on something?"

"Yeah, you'll see soon enough. EDI's helping me with... a pet project."

"Something for fighting?" Jun raised her head from the little circuits she was working on and looked the commander dead in the eyes.

"Well it wasn't going to, but that could actually be pretty cool." She turned to regard the pieces in front of her, a new spark in her voice. "I'd have to make it a little bigger to make room for the additional systems and reinforce the other layer. The shielding will be easy enough, so I'll figure that one last... but... yeah, that would be neat. Can't wait to test this baby out!"

"You got me a little curious. But make sure you check on that Cerberus robot soon. I want it off the ship as soon as possible."

"I'm on it." She didn't raise her head from pile of wires she was sorting out as the commander left her room. She was completely engrossed in the possibilities this new idea brought. Claws! Now that would be awesome. It wouldn't be as efficient as any of her current drones, but it would be marvelous to watch her little creation in battle. After a little fun in a test drive, it could stay on the Normandy as a little extra defense. Never repeat the situation with Joker and the Collectors again. When EDI's voice sounded above her she was almost done modifying the outer carcass.

"Jun, I was wondering if you could help me with something as well?"

"Sure, EDI. What do you need?"

"I was scanning the Cerberus unit for more Prothean data, but I can't run a full diagnostic."

"Yeah, I'll check for anything useful in a minute."

"I would be more suitable for the job as I already have all the system mapped out."

"Then... what do you need me for?"

"It would be more accurate if I had a psychical link to the unit?" Jun dropped the little laser she was using and looked at the ceiling as if the AI would be pocking though it.

"You want me to plug an unsafe Cerberus unit to your main core?"

"Yes. I have located an appropriate cable in the Shuttle bay."

"That's a bad idea EDI, even for my standards."

"If I had any doubt of failure I wouldn't have asked." There was the briefest of pauses, not giving Jun the occasion to shut her down again. "Plus, as you said before, you 'owe me one'."

"Shepard will never allow it..."

"It will be our little secret."

"You're getting cheekier by the minute, girl! Hot damn!" Pinching the bridge of her nose, she thought about the outcomes. "I can't believe I'm actually considering this... But, I will run some diagnostics first, see how dangerous that thing can still be, okay?"

"If it will help ease your mind."

With a final look at the piece she had been working on and a long sigh, Jun made her way to the Shuttle Bay. The elevator ride there was long, her mind filled with questions about what they were about to do. One one hand EDI was right, she'd be faster and more thorough in her search, but on the other hand they were sort of going behind Shepard's back, though not doing anything particularly nefarious. She was hoping the commander would never know the full scope of their little rebellion, but when did she ever get what she wanted?

The double doors hissed open and she casually stepped into the shuttle bay. She'd never spend much time down there and was unsure where they kept spare parts and all that jazz. But as she rounded the corner she was met with a sight she did not expect: James Vega doing pull ups. And what a sight it was! With his back towards her, she could ogle him without shame, glorious muscles going taunt every time he lifted himself. The expanse of his back, even through the sweat ridden t-shirt, was just calling for her to run her greedy little fingers on. She found herself wishing what the commander said was true, and he did act differently around her, flirted just a bit more, with just a hint of seriousness to his words. Or maybe his eyes would linger on her a second more they did on others.

"Quite the view, isn't it?" Jun's spirit almost left her body, both from surprise and shame for being caught drooling all over the lieutenant. She was happy the man spoke loud enough for just her to hear.

"Umm, well, like I told him, I've seen better."

"Oh, that must have hurt, but I guess his ego didn't need to grow any bigger." The man looked fondly towards the lieutenant and Jun got the impression they were close, the kind that taunted each other a lot. He turned towards her shortly after, hand outstretched. "Steve Cortez, I'm the new shuttle pilot."

"Oooh that's great, no one should suffer through Vega's piloting skills ever again. Jun Saros." She shook his hand energetically, genuinely happy they now had an actual pilot for the damn shuttle. Besides Joker, there was no one on the blasted ship who could drive anything, her stomach would still turn when someone even mentioned the Mako.

"So you're Jun."

"You've heard of me?"

"A little bit." A smirk plaid on his lips as he gestured towards the still busy lieutenant. It took Jun every ounce of self control and dignity not to turn her focus back on his work out. "But Saros... why does that sound familiar?" She felt like she might have paled a few shades, but if her discomfort showed, Cortez said nothing about it and before she could change the subject he remembered, his eyes widening the second he made the connection. "Were you on Torfan?"

"Um, well... yes..."

"Impressive. I'm glad too see you're up and kicking."

"It's been, a long journey, but um, thanks." She wished, for a brief moment, that she could just teleport back to her little tech cluttered room and bury herself in research and possibly never speak to any living being again. She knew she didn't really want that and one day she'll have to get over it and talk about... Hell, it might even help to actually talk abut it. But that day was not the day and thankfully the Cortez guy was empathic enough to see she was dying on the inside and changed the subject.

"You were looking for something down here? Maybe I can help."

"Yes actually, I need a Y72 cable."

"Ah yes, I've seen it a few days ago. I'll get it for you." She watched him go deeper into the bay, behind the shuttle. She was waiting, a little impatient to get out of there, when she noticed the little white robot dog running around the room. Now that was interesting. She got just a little closer and crouched in it's path. It came closer, before making a small turn as if to avoid her, but she was faster. She made fast work, opening the small panel on it's back and examining the infrastructure. It had an odd choice of head and no functional mouth. Weren't dogs supposed to fetch things? And with no fur, petting it or "rubbing its belly" seemed pointless, even if may have been programmed to act like it enjoined the action.

"I don't think that's the way to play with it." How was he so silent on his feet when he was so damn bulky? She lifted her gaze and almost swore under her breath. James was, well, hot and it was affecting her a little more than she cared for. Maybe it had been all the commander's fault, putting ideas in her head. Or maybe it had been there all along, but whatever the case, it was not good.

"I was just curious what makes it tick. And also what's its purpose..."

"Yeah, this one's a little weird, but he grows on you." When she close the panel, the dog came back "to life" and made a few circles around James. It was probably designed just as a companion to show affection, maybe for a small child even, but the lieutenant was right, the more you starred at it the cutter it got.

"Well he seems to like you, Vega."

"It's because I spend a lot of time down here. Not a lot of people come this far except when we leave for missions." He scratch the back of his neck, thick, strong neck... Get it together, Saros! "Speaking of which, why are you here? Missed me already, cariño?"

"She was actually here for this." She ignored the question altogether and took the cable from Cortez, thanking to the stars he came when he did, for she might have actually said something positively retarded.

"Thank you. And it was nice meeting you. I look forward to next mission now that Vega isn't in the pilot's seat."

"Oh come on, we all got there and back in one piece."

"If it could, the poor shuttle would argue with that." She poked her tongue out, already backing away towards the elevator. "I've got to go finish something, see you guys around."

James waved her goodbye, eyes never leaving her until the elevator doors closed behind her. He wanted to ask if she needed help with anything, but he doubted he could actually understand anything of what she'd be working on. Nevertheless, he was weirdly interested in her passion for tech. His smile dropped a bit when he noticed Cortez' worried look.

"What?"

"You have no idea who she is, do you?"

"What are you getting at, jefe?"

"She was on Torfan. Their ship had been badly hit, they were abandoning it, but she went back alone and crashed the entire thing in an enemy dreadnought. She saved her entire team that day." It took James a few moments to process the information, mostly because it seemed surreal: Jun, sweet and fun Jun, piloting a burning ship into another. Steve saw the questioning look in his friend's eyes and continued. "I don't know the full story, they kept it pretty quiet for some reason. All I remember was that she was badly injured and they graduate her early from N7 for her service."

The first thing James thought about was how distraught she had been when he crashed the shuttle, how fast she hid her face, knees giving in under her and her voice cracking up. He felt like a jackass, especially with the comment he'd made. How was she still talking to him? He was beyond curious to find out more about about her accident and why she never mentioned she was N7. Most wore it like a sign on pride, but Jun didn't once talk about it. If anything, she avoided any topic slightly relating her time in with the Alliance before Shepard's suicide mission. He was sure the commander knew everything, but it didn't seem fair to pry. Even the bits of information Steve had told him felt like an invasion in her personal life she hadn't wanted to be known. He was sure curiosity would take the best of him sooner or later, though. He might at least apologize and ask Jun herself. Soon.

Back in the AI core, Jun was having a different dilemma. She had ran all the diagnostics she could think of, and a few suggested by EDI despite the cheeky AI probably already having done them. EDI had been patient with her, only cracking a few jokes about the speed process, but otherwise not pestering Jun to plug the robot to her main terminal. She had been staring at the still form of the robot a good fifteen minutes, having ran out of precautions she could take, but not yet ready to take a plunge.

"I'm going to regret this..."

"There is no scenario where we fail, the probability of success-"

"There's always one more variable we didn't account for, one more surprise factor we didn't notice..." She pinched the bridge of her nose, fatigue settling in. After this, a hot shower and sleep until they reached Palavan. "Alas, here we go. Anything goes wrong, you back out of there and tell me to unplug this thing." With her onmi-tool on hand in case the worst came to pass, Jun hooked one end of the cable in Dr. Eva's back, the other in EDI's terminal.

What followed were a few seconds straight out of those old "man vs machine" movies. The robot's eyes opened, a few moments of disorientation, before fixing on Jun. She barely had enough time to duck and evade the first shot. Cloaking her self, she wanted to move from her current position, thinking she could sneak behind her and unplug. She didn't get far before one of the shots ignited a fire and the extinguishers turned on, blocking her vision. The whole ordeal must have lasted less than half a minute, but the stress certainly took one year out of Jun's life. The panel above the console had gone dark, was EDI alright? Was the ship alright? Joker had probably freaked out and already alerted Shepard who was going to barge through the door in any second!

"Jun, are you alright?"

"EDI?" She peaked from behind her hiding spot, the air clearing enough to see the robot lady, thankfully not shooting at her anymore.

"Yes, I have taken control of this unit." It was said so matter-of-factly that Jun wondered if that had been the AI's plan all along. Shepard's voice rang loudly from the other side of the door, but she just sank back on the ground, headache drumming at her temples.

"This is going to be a fun one to explain."

#soulglitches #james vega x reader #james vega x oc #james vega #mass effect #mass effect 3

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