#fool me three times ; maybe this is fate. ( BUTTERFLY EXPERIMENT. )

[omgkatsudonplease]

[ficlet, bagginshield] feeling exceptional (bridgerton au)

The Great Smials Assembly is in Tuckborough, which means for Bilbo that it’s little more than a glorified family reunion. All of his various aunts and uncles push and pull at him when he arrives, wishing him good luck in his courtship with the King of Erebor. Gandalf, staying at the Great Smials on an invitation from Thain Fortinbras II, looks especially insufferable every time someone hopes to be invited to the Royal wedding. 

“He hasn’t proposed yet,” Bilbo grumbles whenever it does.

“But surely he’s on the very verge of it!” gasps Aunt Donnamira, clutching at her chest. “Gandalf says he’s never seen two creatures on Eru’s green Arda look at each other with such devotion. If he doesn’t marry you, he’s a fool!”

Well, then, we are both fools, Bilbo does not say. King Thorin is a fool for letting such a fanciful Hobbit pretend to be his, and he is a fool for squandering this opportunity not to look for his true love.

Still, something strange burns at him, deep inside. He’s felt it all this while, over all of these weeks of lies and pretences slowly becoming wishes and truths. Thorin is nothing like the brusque Dwarf-king he had first met at the Party Field Dance, nothing like the cold statue barely making conversation with him at Gandalf’s surprise dinner. Bilbo has seen through the outermost layers of him —rather literally at one point, during the Brandywine River Promenade — and he has to admit, he likes what he sees.

And liking what he sees is the last thing he needs, because they had agreed to avoid just that. They had agreed not to fall in love. 

“Bilbo!” He is jerked out of his thoughts by a familiar cheerful voice. His cousin Primula comes barreling at him with ungraceful fervour, pulling up short just as he braces himself for impact. He finds himself curtsied to first before being squished into one of her overenthusiastic hugs. Clearly the etiquette lessons were not taking root with her at all. “Bilbo, Bilbo, you’re here! And I’m here! I had to go to Fornost earlier in the month so I missed the Promenade but I’m here! And I got permission to attend this ball! And Mama is going to lower my hems soon so I can debut in a year or two!”

“Prim! Calm down!” exclaims Bilbo. The young Hobbit-lass bounces in reply, the ribbons in her hair shining with each toss of her thick, dark curls. “What was that about a trip to Fornost?” 

“Mama and Papa took us to Fornost for the spas,” says Primula happily, holding him out at arm’s length to examine him more closely. “Now I’ve missed all the excitement. I heard you’re going to be a Dwarf Consort!”

“I’m not going to be a Dwarf Consort,” scoffs Bilbo, before quickly catching himself and tacking on a hasty, “yet. He hasn’t asked me to marry him.”

“Oh, but I hope he does,” gushes Primula. “It would be so romantic!”

“You’re taking cues from Auntie Donnamira, I see,” says Bilbo, spinning her around in circles. “Are you sure you can behave yourself tonight?”

“It’s just dancing,” scoffs Primula. “I promise not to tread on Cousin Sigismond’s feet again. I promise.”

Bilbo snorts. “All right, Prim. And what’s this about your mother letting you debut soon? Aren’t you still in your tweens?”

“Yeah, but all of my sisters are gone and married,” replies Primula, pouting. “And if I enter society, I get to go to all the parties with you! It’s been no fun being cooped up in Brandy Hall being told to go to bed just before the party guests arrive, you know.”

Bilbo remembers a ball at Brandy Hall during one of his earlier seasons, catching Primula in her nightgown by the doorway into the ballroom. He’d taken her out into the gardens and told her stories until she got drowsy. She’s grown up faster than his beansprouts since then, her childhood roundness briefly interrupted by tweenhood gangliness. And now here she is in a lengthened evening-gown, her eyes bright and ribbons woven into her cloud of dark hair. 

Bilbo feels immeasurably old beside her. With any luck, she’ll be declared the rose of the season the year she is presented to the Queen of Arnor, and, just like her sisters, she’ll be swept off her feet by some strapping Hobbit-lad and sent off to her happily ever after. 

And Bilbo will remain here, forever picky, forever searching. Possibly even lamenting the events of this year, and what could have been.

The refreshments are laid out, the band is arrayed to the side, and the first couples begin to form a line for the first dance of the night. Bilbo looks at Primula fiddling excitedly with her dance card, and gestures to it with a grin.

“Do you mind so terribly if your favourite cousin had your first dance?” he asks.

“Bold of you to assume you’re my favourite cousin,” replies Primula, but she’s smiling nonetheless, extending her wrist out to him. He signs for the first dance, before taking her out to join the other dancers lining up on the floor. 

The first dance is a reel in which the leading couple weaves their way through groups of three couples at a time. This means that Bilbo and Primula have a great deal of time standing still, waiting for their turn, and so Primula breaks the silence again with a devious grin. 

“I heard Mr Gladden has finally left town,” she says. “Something about his grandmother’s failing health. He’s gone back to the Greenwood.”

Bilbo exhales. “Good for him,” he says. “I feel terrible for saying that, but I don’t think I will miss him one bit.”

“I’ve never met him, but lots of people said it was about time,” agrees Primula. “He must have been quite the stinker.”

“I would be the last person in Arda to judge someone for being odd,” muses Bilbo, “but besides being odd he was rude. No sense of boundaries.”

“If only other people would get the hint.” Primula tosses her head towards Miss Bracegirdle, who had just joined the line with Otho Sackville-Baggins. Bilbo scoffs.

“For someone who isn’t in society yet, you certainly know a lot about the people hounding me,” he remarks. 

“Just because I’m not in society doesn’t mean I can’t read Lord Stormcrow,” replies Primula with a sly grin. “He’s had a lot to say about you two. Because of him, there’s now a betting pool between the Master, the Thain, and the Mayor for when King Thorin will propose!”

Bilbo feels like he’s been doused in cold water. “What a bunch of nosy busybodies,” he declares, just as the lead couple gets to them and they start to link arms and circle with them. 

“Well, of all the Dwarves of Arda, I suppose a Dwarf-king isn’t a bad choice for the head of the Baggins family,” muses Primula once they meet up again and the lead couple has moved on down the line. “I never liked the Bracegirdle option, if you cared to know my thoughts on it. I mean, it is the respectable choice, but she’s clearly more interested in being Mistress of Bag End than your wife.”

Bilbo chuckles. “Whatever happened to little Prim?” he wonders. “The one who crashed the Brandybuck Ball in her nightgown and listened to my stories of butterflies and dumbledoors in the garden until she fell asleep?”

“Well, it’s because of your stories that I know you wouldn’t marry someone unless they made you perfectly and incandescently happy,” Primula points out. 

“You make me perfectly and incandescently happy, too, and I have no plans to marry you,” Bilbo replies.

“That’s because you’re ancient Cousin Bilbo,” says Primula matter-of-factly, “and all I want for ancient Cousin Bilbo is someone who will make him smile his happy smile, not his brave one.” 

Bilbo wants to chalk everything she’s saying up to simple tweenhood twitterpated nonsense, but the words fly out of his head the moment he catches a glimpse of familiar blue. The music hushes into an awed murmur, as dancers and other guests alike stop and turn to see Thorin’s arrival at the Assembly. Bilbo dimly feels Primula dropping his hands as she turns to see the Dwarf-king, her small gasp of delight echoing deep in his heart. 

The first time Bilbo had read the Lay of Leithian, he had been struck by the verses depicting the meeting of Beren Erchamion and Lúthien Tinúviel. Deep within the woods of Doriath, the fateful meeting of those two had been a dance, a chase, a cry, a capitulation. As Bilbo read, he had wondered, dimly, if one day he would ever experience a captivation so thorough as what Beren had felt when he first watched Lúthien dancing in the forest grove.

Now, as he sees Thorin enter in his dark-blue tailcoat and white cravat, with the beads of the line of Durin shining starlike in his hair, Bilbo understands. 

The reel quickly finishes after that, allowing Bilbo to turn to Primula. “I could make an introduction,” he offers.

Primula opens her mouth to accept, before catching sight of someone else in the crowd. “Oh, your cousin Drogo wants to see me,” she says, winking mischievously at him. “Some other time? Maybe when you two have come to an understanding?” 

And with that, she scampers off into the crowd, leaving Bilbo alone in confronting the Dwarf-king he’s not actually supposed to be courting. Clearing his throat and taking a deep breath, Bilbo steps forward and pushes through the crowd of girls clamouring for Thorin to sign their dance cards. 

“There you are.” Thorin’s wintry expression thaws the moment he sees Bilbo. “Have you come to rescue me?” 

“Am I your excuse not to dance?” wonders Bilbo drily as he reaches Thorin’s side, forcibly squashing down the fluttering in his stomach. “I thought the goal of this was to improve your manners, not give you an out.”

“No, it was to improve my image,” replies Thorin, “and as you can see  —” He gestures to the gaggle of Hobbit-lasses arguing with one another nearby, “it worked.”

Bilbo huffs in amusement. “Apparently it worked too well. There are wagers set up about when you’ll propose.” 

Thorin raises an eyebrow at that, but does not say anything one way or the other. “Which two dances shall we have tonight?” he asks. 

Every dance, Bilbo wants to say, but even a third dance might as well be a proposal in and of itself as far as the Shire is concerned. Instead, when the next Hobbit-lass comes up to the two of them for a dance, he merely checks her card and politely declines a spot, before turning to watch Thorin do the same. 

“The Petty-skirt,” he suggests, “and the Springle-ring.” 

Thorin’s eyes crinkle amusedly at him. “Promise you will not run from the Springle-ring?” he teases.

Bilbo chuckles. “I would never,” he replies, just as the music for the first figure of the Petty-skirt begins to play. “Come on,” he says, offering his hand to Thorin. “Let’s dance.”

And for the rest of that night, he takes no other partner. Lord Stormcrow will note upon it, of course, crowing in his next pamphlet that surely an understanding is on the horizon for the two of them. 

In the meantime, Bilbo dances the night away in Thorin’s arms, and his mind is full of nothing but nightingales and the exquisite pain of being perfectly, incandescently happy. 

[conjaime]

Hii can you do a Theodore Laurence imagine pleasee💜💜

ego death ; theodore laurence

Laurie could die by your hands and have no qualms or regrets because you would be the last thing he saw. He had studied a tiny bit of philosophy, of only for you to pique some interest that he happened to be skimming through popular works of René Descartes. He thought that would make him more interesting and somehow make him stand out against the crowd, but you soon moved onto crochet by the time he had actually absorbed anything.

Without you, he couldn’t breathe and his mind began to blur the lines of truth and fiction. His fantasies of you were scribbled with things he would be too mortified to ever read aloud and would always stare when in close vicinity. Even beside the creepiness, it’s not as if you would notice him and all his strange tactics for attention. You never did.

He’d often like to say that you were his first heartbreak, but that would be inaccurate as you two had never really had a romantic connection. Let alone, a steady conversation without him being flustered or blushy. But when you announced your departure to Asia, it felt like some part of him had died.

Stage One: The Spiritual Awakening

He woke, eyes fluttering open with the urge to continue on his daily routine of being a pest to everyone in sight. But he stayed in bed, staring up at his ivory ceiling with something strange clawing at him. Laurie couldn’t describe it, like a piece of him had ripped from his clutches and now he was forced to wallow in some pitiful despair.

His eyes wander around the room, maybe finding something to keep his mind off of you. And his eyes land on Descartes, the name reading clear against the spine of a crimson skinned book. He’d never actually had remembered anything that the man had published, a few quips here and there to impress you; but philosophy bored him and older men telling him how to live his life was even worse.

But his nimble fingers prick at the spine and maybe a bit of refreshing wouldn’t do him any harm.

Stage Two: The Dark Night

Laurie’s a complete mess, others have noticed it and it’s come to the point where he’s utterly aware of his disparity. Jo has given up because she claims he smells like grease and sweat while his grandfather occasionally comes in to only feed him before leaving. He can’t deal with this hole threatening to tear him apart, even with his constant studies, all his mind manages to do is wander back to you.

He looks in the mirror when he figures he looks better than other times and realizes how truly pathetic he is, he can’t even recognize himself anymore. He’s a shell of the boy he used to be, all of this due to your absence. There is nothing but you that remains within his soul.

Isolation, he figured, would always be a fate worse than any death imaginable. But it’s become his only skin that’s left to bare. He feels naked and it’s what propels him to do the right thing.

Stage Three: Exploration

Despite the common misconception about spirituality in fields other than religion, you always had a soft spot for tarot readings and certain types of energy healing. There’s something about it that attracts you to it and your reminded interest in it draws Laurie to explore it more.

He likes citrine out of all the crystals he’s come across, researched to find out it carries some meaning of prosperity and optimism. It’s hung right around his neck, covered by the fluff and frill of his everyday outfits. Sitting at the piano and writing repetitive sonatas that sound good to his ears.

He hopes that sitting and working his fingers to the bone will only lead to reward. He hopes that once you arrive home that you will hear and adore his symphonies all inspired by your lovely memory. Laurie hopes that he can become a better man for you.

Stage Four: Glimpse of Enlightment

When he looks at himself in the mirror, the bags underneath his eyes have become less striking. His sense of self has gone, something that frightens him when he suddenly awakens from a deep slumber in the middle of the night and can’t recall his own name. But this sensation simultaneously intrigues him to discover more.

Books have told him about something underneath what his identity connects to, something labeled as his True Nature. He wants to relish this feeling forever, this gradual enlightment that has been bestowed upon him during your absence. It’s not enough to starve himself of what he craves every singular day of his treacherous life.

Enlightenment is what he seeks and perhaps this heavenly experience will only grow his everlasting affection for you.

Stage Five: Soul Growth

He realizes this doesn’t occur until he’s forced to join Amy during her travels to Europe. Well I. His reflection, that’s when he’s fully aware of the effects occurring during the cycle of ego death. His soul is maturing, maybe not his outer appearance but he can feel it growing tender with each lesson he forces his mind to remember.

He still keeps the citrine wrapped around him, a momento that all of the spirituality stemmed from your jumping interests that changed as quickly as the sun setting. He’s knows Amy has been sent off to find a suitable, meaning wealthy, match for herself and can only assume that you have done the same thing for yourself.

He only wish is that once you return to his home with your husband that you may familiarize yourself with the man he’s grown into. That you may finally notice him as something other than a flustered little boy that can’t even stutter out a full sentence. That in your eyes, he may no longer be a “poor baby” and rather a fully grown cherry to pick from the orchard.

Stage Six: The Surrendering

He has let go of what was most dear to him, your attention and validation. And although some part of him is depressed that his only goal for your relationship has been discarded, it makes him realize that he can expand on what was previously built. That you may guide him into salvation without any insecurities built up by his pathetic ego.

He trusts in his lack of knowledge, that his anger has only been a cover for what had been possessing him all along. He has no fear of what the future may present him, he only knows that soon enough he will return to you and your lovely embrace.

Stage Seven: Awareness and End

It’s the spring when you finally arrive once again, unhappily married and noticeable exhausted. He feels saddened by the result of your exposition but that feeling is subsided once you wrap your arms around him. He’s missed your touch, he’s missed everything about you.

You release him to his disappointment, but the smile stretching your lips apart melts any grievances against the lack of contact during your first meeting in what feels like decades, maybe even centuries. Laurie’s adoration hits him like a ton of bricks and your eyes are enough to send him blushing. He’s grown but under your touch, he’s rendered weak.

“Laurie,” you whisper softly and cup your hand to his rosy cheek, he’s finally been noticed. “the spring is always too kind your features.”

He pressed his head against your hand, lightly kissing your palm. He’s always been some sly romantic, sneaking around acts that he thought you wouldn’t catch. He takes you for a naive fool at time, but his innocence is endearing enough.

“And it’s even more ravishing when I see you against yours.”

You roll your eyes, soft touch turning into a pinch which he yelps at, “You’re such a tease, refreshing compared to the men on my travels.”

He hears that sentence and the butterflies within hi stomach flutter with previously unfound zealousy. This equivalence works in his favor, he’s a man to you now and you’ve grown into his idealistic partner. He wishes he could just melt into you and pepper your face with kisses, but that will have to wait.

After all, you’ve only just returned to your childhood friend, the only man who could truly capture your attention.

“A walk in the garden, my dear?” He dips low into a dramatic curtsy and extends out a hand.

He’s always been a fan for theatrics and you can’t help but accept with a bow of your own. Promptly smacking the back of his head once whole charade is over.

“You’re making me tea, don’t patronize me with exercise.”

idk maybe i like gave up on this when i reaches stage four, but this was probably inspired by listening to ego death in thailand.

[theonceoverthinker]

When Will My Life Begin? (Fair Game, 13/?)

Summary: Tangled AU. Clover Callows has been confined to a tower for all of his life, and given the threat that his Uncle Tyrian says his semblance poses to his safety, he accepts that fate. It’s the only life he’s ever known, after all. But when he’s offered the opportunity to fulfill his greatest dream after a chance encounter with a thief -- or bandit, as Qrow Branwen insists there’s a difference between the two -- both Clover and Qrow will discover joys that they never knew life could offer them before. AO3

Tumblr: (1) (2) (B1) (3) (4) (B2) (5) (6) (7) (8) (9) (B3) (10) (11) (12)

()()()()()()()

Let it never be said that Qrow Branwen was ever either without a plan or very far from concocting one.

Developing plans was a skill that certainly helped him as a bandit, and in a matter of minutes, that skill would faithfully serve him once more as he and Clover proceeded to Lil’ Miss Malachite’s.

Qrow took pride in the fact that he knew the world well, that between his intelligence and his semblance, he was able to manipulate the knowledge he possessed as well as his own ‘charms’ to do all manner of things for him.

In fact, the only aspect of the world Qrow felt that he couldn’t say he completely understood was anything regarding Clover -- nor that grouchy raven of his -- but even with Clover, he was starting to make progress on that front. 

After all, most people didn’t show nearly as much of their personalities as Clover did in just the three hours they’d known each other, and there was plenty that Qrow gleaned from what he saw there. Qrow wouldn’t deny that he had more pressing matters to attend to regarding the very satchel Clover was keeping him from, but as he studied Clover as to best redirect him towards that end, he couldn’t help but take some interest in the mystery that was Clover. 

Sure, Clover was without a doubt the oddest person on the planet, his poorly-named bird had done nothing to curry Qrow’s favor in either of their directions, and of course, he was still holding Qrow’s satchel hostage.

But honestly, for someone raised all alone in a tower, Clover was pretty impressive in his own right -- strong, smart, witty, handy with that fishing pole of his, and unfortunately for Qrow, not bad at holding someone to a deal. 

It was almost something of a shame that after this stop and the return to Clover’s tower, they’d be rid of each other for good. 

Still, it had to be done if Qrow was to get that satchel of his back. 

But that didn’t mean Qrow couldn’t allow himself to muse on his traveling companion for the time they still had left together, if for no other reason than it gave him something to do besides just navigate through the forest that stretched on as far as the eye could see.

Clover was...absolutely unlike anyone else Qrow had ever known before -- naive, but only to a point, curious, but also scared easily, and determined, but clearly conflicted as to what he should be determined about. 

“Did you get us lost, Qrow?”

Finally, apparently, he was patient, that is, until he got hungry.

There was an inescapable patronizing -- though almost teasingly so -- tone in Clover’s voice as he spoke, a tone that was well reflected in the deadpan accusatory look he gave Qrow.

“No.” Qrow said, half grumbling as he waved a dismissive hand. “It’s close by. I just know it.”

“You sure about that?” Clover shot back. “Because you said that five minutes ago.”

Oh, and cheeky. Clover was undeniably, borderline groan-inducingly cheeky.

Qrow was about to show Clover a bit of his own cheekiness when he suddenly spotted something.

“I see the roof,” he said, pointing just above a hill as a recognizing smile grew on his face. “This way, muscles.”

Yet again, Clover huffed at the nickname, but Qrow didn’t care -- he loved it, for no other reason than how it riled Clover up just enough to get an annoyed pout out of him.

Qrow could watch Clover make that look all day.

“There it is! Lil’ Miss Malachite’s, in the flesh!”

Qrow half expected Clover to pull out a double dose of cheekiness and correct him by saying that buildings didn’t have flesh, but upon glancing at Clover, Qrow saw he was too entranced by the building to bother.

True to Qrow’s word, but three feet from them was a sign for the establishment, green letters against a blue background that read ‘Lil’ Miss Malachite’s,’  and just beyond that sign was the tavern itself.

Qrow had to hand it to himself -- even though he’d been in and out of this place more times than he could count, its quaint outer surface still even managed to fool him for a second into thinking the pub was...different from its current reputation.

Seemingly crafted nestled against the large oak tree that curled behind it, Lil’ Miss Malachite’s was simply lovely looking. Within the clearing where it stood, a purple and green speckled roof covered the restaurant’s wooden front alongside colorful carvings around every window and door.

For Gods’ sake, there were even horses in front of it!

How much more picturesque could it get?

Clover had clearly fallen in love with the place. Right now, he was marveling at the horses.

This guy…he clearly liked nature and animals a lot.

Qrow considered seeing if he could find that puppy they spotted earlier on their way back to the tower after this and give it to Clover as a little animal friend.

It would certainly be an improvement over that bird on his shoulder, no matter what Clover thought.

Then again, that uncle of Clover’s didn’t know he’d left on this trip, so there’d be no way he could sneak a dog up the tower without giving that little detail away. 

Maybe he’d just grab Clover a butterfly or something.

That would make him happy, right?

Well, either way, he’d decide on that after his plan worked.

And it would work.

“Isn’t it just picture perfect?” Qrow asked, turning to Clover. “Nice and quaint. After all, no need to scare you off from this trip of yours, right?”

“It is beautiful,” Clover admitted, smiling. “I mean, if we’re going to stop somewhere to eat, this looks like a good spot.”

Qrow smirked. “See, muscles? Who knows better than Qrow Branwen?”

Clover snorted amusedly. “With all that bragging you do, you’re more like a peacock than a crow, if you ask me.” He seemed pretty happy with the quip, and apparently couldn’t help but burst out into laughter at the deadpan look Qrow shot his way for it.

He was not a peacock.

“Well, let’s not wait any longer,” Qrow said, gesturing his hand towards the restaurant and dodging Clover’s quip.

“Sounds great!”

They made their way to the restaurant’s door, and with a creak, Qrow carefully opened it.

“Table for two!” he called out, though confident that over all the ruckus of the tavern, he wouldn’t be heard.

For his money, Qrow preferred that it would have stayed that way, especially by the management. 

If he had timed their arrival right -- and he was certain he did -- one particular part of that management team wouldn’t be here. The window was tight, but Qrow believed he could manage it.

After all, as long as he had anything to say about it, luck was decidedly not on her side.

How unfortunate would it be for her to have missed them.

Oh, well.

Clover walked halfway through the now opened door...and then he stopped.

Qrow knowing exactly why, smirked, as he looked into the dark tavern.

Unlike its quaint outskirts, Lil’ Miss Malachite’s interior was anything but quaint -- unless your definition of ‘quaint’ was closer to anyone else’s definition of ‘seedy.’ Dark wood covered the walls and through the inclusion of some olive green curtains, only a handful of candles and a small fireplace in the back provided light for the tavern. 

However, the most interesting feature of the place -- like any place -- was its people. As far as the eye could see ahead, people occupied the tables and standing space, all with tones and looks that came across as rowdy as the day was long.

Speaking from experience, Qrow could attest to the fact that the impression was one well earned by Lil’ Miss Malachite’s patrons.

They looked like crooks.

They looked like miscreants.

They looked like everyone that that uncle of Clover’s had probably ever warned him about.

And Qrow, putting his hands on Clover’s shoulders from behind him, inched him towards them.

Finally, his plan was in motion.

Clover immediately took out Kingfisher, brandishing it close to his chest with shaking hands as he and Qrow waded through the unruly masses.

Everyone had a weapon -- spears, hammers, tridents, sharp crossbows with sharper arrows, and more blades than there were hours in a day. Granted, those weapons largely weren’t in use -- most in sheathes and lazily left on the floor -- but it was their sheer presence and numbers that Qrow was counting on.

And oh, did those miscreants come through for him.

At this point, they’d probably be out of here before they even got a table.

He could practically hear every word Clover was thinking, but it really just came down to three words.

‘Damn it, Qrow…’

Happy to play the role of the devil when thought of, Qrow leaned in his head close to Clover’s left ear.

“Smell that, muscles?” he asked, absolutely rhetorically. “Take a deep breath of that through the nose. Lots of different types of stinks around here. There’s man stink, ma’am stink, and good old regular stink stink.” Qrow took a pronounced deep breath of his own, content laced in his voice like dirt in a puddle of mud. “Mmm. Gotta love that stink stink.”

No, no Clover did not seem to love that ‘stink stink’ at all, nor did he likely feel any obligation to love it.

“What do you think?” Qrow went on. “What’s your favorite of the stinks?”

Clover, scowling in front of Qrow, turned back to him, clearly about to tell him to shut up when all of the sudden, he stopped.

Qrow looked ahead.

Someone was touching Kingfisher’s tip, and their team had assembled to inspect the bar’s newest occupant alongside her.

Oh, this was likely going to do him in.

The people surrounding Clover -- the Juniper Jaggers -- they weren’t mean or cruel or even necessarily all that scary, but what they were was loud, brash, boundlessly energetic, and in regards to the girl who presently touched Clover’s weapon, lacking in almost any regard for personal space.

They’d been pains in the asses for Qrow to share a bar with in the past, but for the purposes of this particular mission, they were exactly what he needed.

Clover was frozen in place as he looked at the source of the tug.

When he found it, he saw the team’s four members -- two boys and two girls -- standing two to each of his sides -- undoubtedly far too close to him for his liking. 

Then, they started asking questions.

“Where are your shoes?” one of the girls asked. 

“Forget that, Phyrra,” one of the boys dismissed, “Where are your sleeves? We get it, you’ve got muscles -- no need to show them off so much.”

“Looks like someone’s jealous, Jaune,” the other girl teased. “But what I want to know is what’s up with the fishing pole?” She flicked Kingfisher’s rod backward on her finger before releasing it, creating a ‘boing’-like sound. Raven squawked. “Ooh! And your bird! Tell me all about her!”

“And how do you keep your clothes so clean?”

“Ren! This barefoot, muscle-bound guy with a weird fishing pole and a bird walks in, and his cleanliness is what you choose to ask him about?” 

Ren shrugged. “I can’t help it if my curiosity is more inclined to ask about his laundry skills, Nora.”

The four of them continued, mixing arguments amongst themselves with the questions they kept coming up with for Clover.

The initial questions flew at Clover like rapid fire, and others in the bar, while not joining in the questioning, did feast their eyes on the scene, and specifically, Clover.

While the questions themselves were harmless enough, Qrow could tell they were coming at Clover so quickly and with such a large audience that it was overwhelming.

Qrow was tempted to pull him back right there and then -- albeit with much laughing on his part because of how relatively benign they were -- but before he could, Clover took an action all his own.

He ran away.

Unfortunately for him though, the only clear direction to run in was ahead, further into the tavern, so that’s where he went. The Juniper Jaggers, seemingly too caught up in their own musings to realize that the subject of their curiosity had fled, continued arguing amongst themselves.

The laughter bubbling in Qrow’s belly couldn’t contain itself any longer, flowing out of him like water out of a destroyed dam.

Bringing Clover to ‘Lil Miss Malachite’s was a stroke of pure genius.

It was perfect. The folks here weren’t dangerous, per se, but what they were was energetic, weapon-clad, and menacing enough looking.

And Clover was absolutely freaked out by them.

Looks like he knew Clover well after all.

Qrow walked over in his direction, ready to end his plan before Clover ended up passing out, when suddenly, a voice called out to him.

“Well, hello Qrow,” a woman behind the counter scoffed as her hands cleaned a glass with a rag. “Haven’t seen you around here in a long while.” She had cream colored hair and a cream, green, and dirt colored apron.

Among all of the other things Qrow knew, this woman’s identity was one of them.

“Robyn, always a pleasure,” Qrow greeted, bowing his head in an over-the-top manner before shrugging. “Haven’t had a reason to be here in a long while.”

“Oh?” Robyn asked, a rhetorical nature in her words as clear as glass. “What about that tab of yours? I think you forgot to pay that off before you went to do...whatever it was you did.”

“I didn’t forget,” Qrow excused, raising a countering finger. “I just...need a bit of time to get the funds together.”

At that, Robyn sighed. It was an excuse she probably expected, and if Qrow was being honest with himself, it was a mindset well merited. This hadn’t been the first exchange they’d had over this very topic, or even at these very spots they currently stood in.

No, those aspects of the conversation were similar, at least. Others...were different.

Suddenly, he remembered a whole different reason he wanted to be out of here as soon as possible...

“Look,” she said, “I’m not gonna say anything to anyone, but if Lil’ Miss Malachite herself sees you, your time’s gonna be up. You’d better get out of here fast.”

Qrow was about to thank her and ask how much time he had before she was due to get back, but before he could, he heard the now unmistakable sound of Raven squawking at someone who was approaching Clover from behind. 

Jeez, even half a tavern away, he squawks came at his eardrums with the force of an anchor falling into the ocean.

Robyn snorted. “Who’s that guy? White clothes, a fishing rod, a bird on his shoulder, looks scared out of his wits -- what kind of weirdo did you bring to my bar? We’ve already got more than enough of them to go around.”

“Him?” Qrow started, thinking up a quick lie. “He’s just a tourist browsing. I told him myself the nicest pub in all of Remnant was here, and he wanted to see for himself.”

Looks like it was about time to bring this plan home.

“But,” Qrow continued, “I think he’s had his fill of the scenery. I’ll go get him out of your way.”

Robyn shot Qrow a deadpan look, clearly not believing a word of what he said, but Qrow just innocently shrugged as he headed once more for Clover.

He looked terribly freaked out, and so small. If he were in any actual danger, Qrow wouldn’t have been as amused as he was. Even still though, he did take some pity on him.

“Clover,” Qrow said, approaching him, feigning an innocent and concerned tone in his voice. He took a gentle hold of Clover’s shoulder -- the one without Raven on it -- and tugged him in the direction of the exit. “You don’t look so good. Should we turn around, maybe get you home? I mean, this place is a five star joint, and if you can’t handle being here, it might just be best for you to get back to your tower.”

“I know what you’re trying to pull, Qrow, a-and it’s not going to work,” Clover said. “I’m not going back to my tower without seeing those lanterns.” 

Qrow smirked. “Then may I ask why it is you’re following me out of this lovely establishment?”

“I’m still going to see the lanterns,” Clover asserted. “I’m just not going to eat here on the way to see them.”

“We’re gonna have to see people eventually once we get to the capital, and believe me, there’s only more like this crowd to come. What are you gonna do, then?” It was a lie, but one that wasn’t completely a work of fiction by a longshot. After all, while the kingdom’s capital was home to plenty of perfect normal folks such as himself, it also had characters that ranged from as eccentric as the Juniper Jaggers to as shady as Mercury to as uppity as the Ace Ops.

Much to Clover’s evident frustration, it was a legitimate question he’d asked.

“Well,” Clover started, clearly not prepared with an answer. “I’ll-”

“Hold up!” a voice called, interrupting Clover. It was the shout of an older woman with a drawl, and like Robyn, Qrow knew its source all too well. “I’d know that raspy voice anywhere. Branwen! Where are you?”

Crap. He’d taken too much time.

The boss was back.

“Well,” Qrow said, playing up a happy tone, “if it isn’t Lil’ Miss Malachite herself!”

Qrow turned around to shoot at Lil’ Miss Malachite a fake, yet charming enough to him smile, only to pause towards the end of his rotation upon seeing what she held in her hand.

“Looks like you got yourself into a little bit of trouble,” she said, showing off a copy of Qrow’s wanted poster to all of the tavern’s patrons. She then pointed to the bottom of the poster where the word ‘reward’ was listed. “Ooh, and look here! You’re actually worth something. Who’d have ever guessed. After all the money you’ve stiffed me of over the years, I think this reward will settle our debts quite nicely.”

Qrow, urging Clover to get behind him with an arm of his raised cutting off Clover from the rest of the bar, stepped back slowly to try to get out the door.

However, before he could, the door slammed shut. 

“Cardin!” she called out to a young man who stood by the door, watching the scene play out with eager anticipation. “Go get the royal guards. That reward for his head’s gonna have us set for life. Monkey boy, you go guard the door in his place.”

In the blink of an eye, Cardin zoomed out the door and into the forest. The door had been left closed, but abandoned. However, it was only for a second until a blond boy dropped down from the ceiling to block the path to it.

“And you, Robyn!” Lil’ Miss Malachite shouted once more. “Have that motley crew of yours go capture Branwen!”

From behind him, Qrow could feel Clover staring at him, but not with the heat of a glare. 

Instead, it was with worry.

Qrow couldn’t turn back to look at him, whether to assure that they’d be okay, or to give Clover warning before something...less than pleasant happened, for Robyn had jumped up from the bar, whistled for her friends to surround Qrow, and approached him herself.

“Robyn,” Qrow protested.

As she was just a few steps away from him, Robyn bit her lip. 

“Sorry, Qrow,” she said, remorse heavy in her voice. “But a job’s a job, and I can’t afford to lose mine.”

Immediately, Qrow rushed to grab Harbinger, but his arm was grabbed midswing by Robyn’s teammate Fiona, the tips of his fingers only gliding over the blade’s handle for a fraction of a second. The other arm was grabbed a second later by another one, Johanna. Qrow kicked his legs in an attempt to free himself, but they were grabbed all the same by the final member of Robyn’s group, May. All the while as her teammates kept him in place, Robyn looked over the scene to see if they left any stones unturned that could lead to his escape.

And dammit, they didn’t.

He could see Clover in the distance, at a complete loss for what to do.

Qrow couldn’t blame him. Clover had been outside his tower for what -- maybe three hours. To see his guide of all people grabbed and bound, ready to be arrested had to be scary stuff, on top of being surrounded by nothing but miscreants and crooks as far as the eye could see. Clover was strong, but he wouldn’t instigate a fight, not under these circumstances.

Now, the only one of them he knew he could count on to not let him get hurt was captured, likely to be arrested within the next hour.

What was he going to do now?

Completely captured, Qrow tried looking around for a means of escaping his captors, but found none. 

Qrow was good at working with things and qualities he had to find solutions, but at that moment, he really didn’t know what to do next, nor was any idea appearing. 

For the first time in a long time, he was completely left without a plan.

[2nakeeyes]

group verse // open starter.

        “ this theatre is strange -- it’s far larger than any i’ve ever been to before, if the dimensions listed in the tablet are correct. it’s so quiet in here as well. . .it makes my skin crawl.

       what do you make of it? ”

[themockingcrows]

Doors of Fate Ch. 10: On The Offense

Unrelated Striders AU/Magic Husbands AU THIS CHAPTER IS SFW Also available on my AO3!

Dave believes he's capable of capturing the moon if he wishes sometimes, but is he truly capable of as much as he feels he is? Or are some things truly better left to the professionals when dark magic is on the line?

     The books concerning time magic were dense and confusing, but with Dave’s mood he needed something complicated. They’d not made up for days, existing in the same space awkwardly at meal times, trading conversation and discussion before separating once more like ships leaving port for opposite edges of the world. Dave’s bed was obviously closed, and so too, at least for now, was his companionship save for the scraps and scant bits they allowed. Both were proud, stubborn men. Both had hurt feelings.

     Both were aching and waiting for a resolution, but refused to be the first to budge given the stances of the original argument. Ambrose couldn’t promise things he couldn’t feasibly perform, and Dave wasn’t happy with the answers he got.

     The house felt both too big and far too small when he was studying alone. 

     It was a fascinating read at least, the material coming to him somewhat naturally as he puzzled and untangled the bits and bobs and loose strands. A lot of the magic seemed experimental, yet he’d been doing it without even meaning to before. The more he could remember the feeling of trying to make it stop, the easier it was to try recalling the feeling of it happening. His experiments were limited to a candle, making it stop its movements entirely, blowing on it, and then letting it stutter and dance around before trying to get it to go in reverse. They were exhaustive studies, taking a lot of energy out of him, but the control felt right in his hands. Natural. Maybe this really was his element.

     Ambrose existed at the corners of his vision like a ghost during this time. He kept coming to the library, obviously to check in on Dave’s condition and make sure he was doing okay, before leaving with one book or another that he most likely had no need for. It was comforting to know he was still there, but it just didn’t feel like time to acknowledge him yet. Not yet.. Not till he was prepared.

     Prepared for what? Dave wasn’t certain. Something felt like it needed to be done, to be ready, before he could fix things between his spouse and himself. 

     A solid week passed, then a second and third, with the two of them existing in the vacuum of their home before Dave finally felt ready to talk. He decided to broach the topic over dinner, book firmly in hand and a solid plan in mind… that faded the second he entered the kitchen early and saw Ambrose at work. His hands passed over the vegetables as he chopped them solidly on his own instead of with magic, knife sure and sturdy in his hands as it clunked against the wooden board beneath.

     Gold eyes flicked over when he entered the room, Ambrose either sensing him or knowing instinctively his lover was nearby, then went back to watching the vegetables he cut. Broken pieces of carrot lifted up and headed towards the stew pot over the fire, soon followed by fresh greens and crisp smelling onions. A tomato was cubed by the time Ambrose finally talked to him, apparently just as uncertain of how to approach.

     “I’m afraid dinner won’t be ready for a little while longer,” he said, giving a faint smile that didn’t quite reach the sadness in his eyes. “If you’re very hungry though, there’s things about to tide you over. Some of the bread is fresh from this morning, should be good with some butter.”

     “I don’t mind waiting,” Dave said, going to set his book down on the table, clearing his throat briefly. Shit this was awkward. Just seeing Ambrose made his chest hurt and his stomach ache, but nothing that was coming to mind was the be all end all way to smooth over a multi-week near silent treatment. It had gone on far too long. Was it even reparable at this point? Could anything be salvaged? Fuck, did he just ruin his marriage? Even if he was upset, three weeks was a long time an-

     “I’m glad you came early,” Ambrose said, interrupting Dave’s thoughts with a calm voice. “It’s been strange not having you in the kitchen with me, or knowing you won’t come in suddenly remembering that food exists after getting distracted by a book. ...Can I hope you’ll start coming in more often?”

     He all but said he’d missed Dave without saying the words, but the impact was the same. Another rush of butterflies in his stomach and Dave clenched his fists at his sides, trying to recall his plan. He’d been so ready to lay down the law, to make some grand stand, yet in the face of it what was to be gained by that right now? The stand could wait. There were repairs that needed to happen first, water to be bucketed out of his sturdy ship and patches to be laid over the holes that had opened up.

     A dialogue had to happen, because the no communication thing hadn’t changed a single damned inch of problems. If anything, it just made them feel worse because there was no way to work on anything alone. Taking a deep breath, Dave forced his clenched hands to relax at his sides, his stiff shoulders to slowly fall and the tension to wind down his spine. He swallowed and looked to his husband, trying to keep his voice calm and even, fighting the sudden waver that wanted to accompany his words.

     “I’ll be coming more often, if you’ll have me.”

     Ambrose’s smile warmed a bit, but he still seemed cautious. He pressed a hand to his abdomen and bent forward in a bow as a few items raced by his head towards the stew pot, dinner continuing to bubble and churn out savory scents as the contents were stirred and some seasonings were added.

     “Of course I’ll have you. You’ve no idea how pleased I’d be to have you,” he promised.

     Dave couldn’t handle it anymore. When the words bubbled up out of his throat, he didn’t fight them in the slightest, eyes watering at the edges despite how much he did fight that.

     “...I’m sorry, Ambrose. I’m sorry for storming off. For ignoring you. For all that. I’m still angry, I’m still pissed off, but I’m more pissed at the situation than at you right now.”

     “That’s understandable,” Ambrose said, taking a few steps closer before opening his arms in offer, not wanting to approach too suddenly or too closely in case it wasn’t welcome yet. “I’m sorry too, for letting my pride get in the way of seeking you out first. You’re far braver than I, to manage to say the words properly. More mature.”

     Dave closed the distance between them and clutched at the back of Ambrose’s shirt as he hugged him tight, grateful for the warm arms that surrounded him seconds later. He followed the slow sink down to the floor, winding up on his knees with his spouse by the time the stinging water at his eyes flowed over his cheeks when he blinked like traitorous lines against his flesh. They stayed that way a moment, just rocking back and forth holding one another desperately before Dave felt a hand stroking at his hair and heard the hitch of breath in Ambrose’s chest.

     Well. At least he wasn’t the only one who’d be snuffling after this.

     “I worried I was losing you, for a while,” Ambrose murmured against his hair, breath warm on his scalp. “And I wouldn’t have even blamed you.. This isn’t just a little thing, what’s upset you. It’s not something I can stop suddenly, or choose to ignore, but I can’t think of a way to please you and fulfil my obligations either moving forwa-”

     Dave lifted his hand and made a zipping gesture, rendering Ambrose’s mouth closed. The mage lifted his brows in a clear ‘when did you learn that trick’ question, but played along rather than unzipping himself, eyes focused only on Dave, waiting for him to talk. Dave heaved a quiet sigh of relief.

     “We’ll deal with that soon enough. I’ve got an idea for it, though I know you won’t like it. But it’s an idea,” Dave said. “It’ll come down to if you’ll trust me enough though.”

     Ambrose looked at him with concern, but kept his mouth shut, trying to implore Dave to continue with his eyes alone by shifting his brows ever so slightly.

     “If you let me come with you through the portal-” Dave started, only for Ambrose to grunt unhappily and thump the tabletop. Dave ignored him and continued. “-...I can help. But you’d need to let me join you.”

     Ambrose frowned and glanced to the side, unwilling to put his spouse in danger like that. This entire mess was his own thing to deal with, his own mess to clean up, his cross to bear. The same stalemate they’d been in before. Apologetically, he glanced back to Dave and furrowed his brows, looking pained. The options weren’t good ones, was there anything else?

     “Your options are either you let me help, or you drive yourself practically to oblivion trying to do this fools errand on your own,” Dave said seriously. Then, softer, he clasped Ambrose’s face in his hands and held him gently for a moment. “...You can trust me. I can do this.”

     Ambrose gestured to his lips, asking permission to speak. Dave removed the zipper motion, freeing his mouth and letting him work his jaw for a moment or two before speaking.

     “Dave, really, you don’t understand what you’re saying you’ll do. Even if you had a plan, there’s just too much to do, there’s too many soiled points to cleanse. Every time I go in I come back out coated in congealed magic residue, you’d have no guard on you.”

     “Then put a guard on me,” Dave said with a shrug.

     “I’m not turning you into a beast, Dave.”

     “Then find some other way to keep tainted magic from clinging to me like oil, and you’ll feel better,” Dave said with a smirk. “Though I don’t know for sure if I’d even need anything covering me if things were done right.”

     Ambrose looked even more uncertain, looking Dave up and down. Trying to imagine if he was capable of all he said he was while remembering that, yes, this was the same boy.. No. The same man who’d already done so many impossible things.

     “..I’ll consider it,” Ambrose finally said. “I can’t promise more than that yet. But I’ll consider it.”

     He’d expected as much, but it didn’t quell the sting of disappointment Dave felt. Well, then. He’d just need to be a little devious, then, and bide his time. For now, Dave put on a smile and kissed the bridge of Ambrose’s nose fondly, nuzzling their foreheads together.

     “Fine. I can accept that, if that’s all you can give me for now.”

     Sagging with relief, Ambrose reached his arms up to hug around Dave’s shoulders, enjoying their proximity once more. “Does this mean you’ll continue to be around me moving forward? I may go mad if we go back to the ghost dance we’ve been doing.”

     “Yes, yes, I’ll be your shadow again,” Dave chuckled. 

     The kitchen seemed to have gotten excited, a new recipe being worked on in the background. Sweets, from the amount of sugar going into a bowl with flour and some eggs. He was almost lost in watching it work alongside the dinner prep when Ambrose suddenly stood up, taking Dave along with him via hands lacing underneath his armpits. The mage embraced him again at full height before gently setting him back down onto his feet, rubbing his upper back as if unwilling to remove his hands from his body. Dave had no complaints.

     “What’s for supper?”

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

     Dave’s chance didn’t come for another month, late into the night. They had gone back to their usual habits by then, mornings and afternoons cuddled up in the library with odd hours being devoted to chores and keeping the household running. At one point they took a doorway to a remote village to get fresh eggs and some kind of vegetable filled pastry for a snack, and debating the idea of getting eggs to hatch to chicks for the Spring and Summer. The idea was shelved for the time being, too many things on board already with their own vegetable garden and needing to exercise the horses after the long winter of being cooped up too often. 

     Ambrose and he had spent the day busily in their own pursuits, worlds apart yet comfortable connected at the hip, comfortably within arms reach. The night had given way to Ambrose curling up beside Dave in his bed, warming him and keeping him company… before slipping away as if he wouldn’t be noticed.

     The extra study had done him well, Dave realized. When Ambrose opened his doorway, it was easy to freeze him in place by bending time around himself from behind and dart into his room, hiding safely out of the way before the spell unwound time on its own and his spouse continued without missing a pace. He paused only briefly, furrowing his brow and glancing around as if checking for something to be amiss before donning his feathery appearance and readying himself for the door.

     Late night work to be done, more things without Dave.

     There was no second pause here. Instead, when Ambrose went through the door, Dave scurried and caught it with his foot before it could close, hopping through as well. He understood almost immediately why Ambrose had tried to keep him from coming along as he spotted the fetid magic spouts in the distance, decrepit spots of decay and evil spoiling a landscape that may otherwise have been pleasant to look at once upon a time. Dave panicked as he began to fall aimlessly, flailing his arms and legs until he hit an equilibrium in the air. Was he flying on his own? Holy shit, he was flying on hi-

     “Dave, what the fuck.”

     Oops, busted.

     Well. Then again maybe it was good to be busted, Dave hadn’t exactly worked out how he’d stop falling on his own. He smiled brightly, pulling on his best attitude.

     “Ambrose, I came to hel-”

     “Dave, what the fuck,” he repeated, shocked at the interference. Looking around wildly, Ambrose lifted his arms and muttered under his breath, reduced to verbal spell casting to raise what seemed to be a shield of some kind around them, a bubble of peace where they wouldn’t be interfered with. It came just in time, a dark, sludgy substance being lobbed against the side not a minute after it went up.

     “I uh. I came to help,” Dave repeated, suddenly feeling less certain about his plan. Maybe it was the way Ambrose looked in his feathery disguise, maybe it was the dark gloms of material that continued to splatter against the edges of the bubble, trying to find entry as if it had a mind of its own, but this… didn’t feel like a good idea anymore.

     Perhaps, just maybe, he’d underestimated just how bad things were here as much as he’d overestimated his abilities.

     ....Well. Too late now, might as well try what he could do.

     “The most you can do to help right now is to go home,” Ambrose gruffly responded, already looking up towards the sky where the doorway was waiting, hidden in midair. The way his feathery covering shifted looked beautiful in a way, yet somehow dangerous. They were armor after all, and armor was only needed during intense struggles like what was happening below and all around them. Another splatter on the bubble, targeting Dave from the look of it, and the mage grit his teeth. “I’m taking you home right now. Grab on and hold on tight.”

     “I’m not going home, I’m here to help you,” Dave insisted. “I can help! I really can! You didn’t even notice when I slipped into your room this time, I was able to bend time on command. Let me help you. Let me speed you up or slow them down, it’ll be useful.”

     Ambrose glowered at him, looking upwards again for a moment, then towards where the darkness was coming from. Releasing the bubble might result in Dave getting hit anyway, even if they were going home, even if he wrapped him in his wings. Dave being exposed directly to such foul magic… it wasn’t an idea he was interested in seeing come to fruition.

     “How big is your range.”

     “...Not gigantic,” Dave said. “Not that I think. I know I can control time around me, though. If I try to make it big as possible while we move, we might be able to freeze whatever’s launching this goo at us so you can take it out,” he explained, coming up with a more detailed plan on the fly, hoping it worked out enough for his spouse to find it useful. Or even possible.

     Ambrose was tense, not wanting to put Dave at risk but also not wanting to stay here with him. His breathing increased and a wild look entered his eye, so unlike the appearance Dave was used to seeing. It was… kind of attractive, actually, compared to the usually so composed look he normally sported. He ruffled a hand through feather coated hair and looked up towards the doorway a final time, desperately trying to think of another way around this before he nodded.

     “Fine. We’ll have to be quick, and you’re not staying the entire damned time. I know even if you’re good at your new skill you’ll still tire quickly with a scale that big.” He’d just need to do the most damage possible in a short amount of time before speeding his mate- no. Husband. His husband back home. Focus, keep the feathers at bay, keep the animal instinct out of the human mind.

     “How do we do this then,” asked Dave, steeling himself to fight.

     “...You’re going to need to get on my back, between my wings.”

     “Won’t I be too heavy?”

     “A bit, but I can stand it,” he promised. “I can carry you. Or would you rather be carried by foot?” he asked, displaying a taloned set of toes, curling them a few times.

     “I’ll take by back,” Dave said. “I can try to aim better that way, and it won’t feel like I’ll be dropped,” he continued, circling around Ambrose till he knelt and hefted him up into a leaning piggyback. Dave dug his fingers into warm, soft feathers that felt too real to his hands and positioned himself like a backpack, hooking his knees in place to help steady himself and hold on. This wasn’t just magic.. There was no way this was just magic. 

     “Are you ready? Keep your head down, the bubble will be going away and the last thing I need is you getting hit by anything. You’d take weeks to recover.”

     “Yes, I understand,” Dave promised, mentally kicking himself for not studying bubbles like this on his own before. They’d be so useful! There was just too much to learn in one lifetime! “Which direction are we going first?”

     “Down,” Ambrose said the second the bubble finally popped, sludge freefalling alongside them as they dropped like a stone. Dave tried not to scream as Ambrose dipped down face first, falling even faster with his wings tucked back, trying to focus on breathing as wind whipped his face and stung tears into his eyes before he finally cranked them open and soared straight ahead. Dave lifted his head to try orienting himself after the rush of the fall, watching the patches of darkness warily. It looked like they were headed right into a place that had been coated in pitch and splashed with oil, the very plants and remainders of buildings coated in sludge that moved and twitched uncannily.

     Wait. Remnants of buildings?

     “This was a city once,” Dave realized, wide eyed.

     “Once,” Ambrose agreed. “Make with the time magic when you’re able, we’re already in range of the first target,” he called out, tipping the glide to the side to angle their approach. The target in question was a cohesive glob of darkness, the source of all the affliction and foulness, several in a cluster as if they were trying to figure out how to conjoin into one bigger blob. Sentient, it reached out tendrils the direction of their approach, a sickly swelling appearing at the base of each tendril before forcing its way to the end, firing a wad of the tainted magic their way.

     Ambrose banked again, avoiding the first few shots as Dave focused on casting, holding on tighter with his knees to free his hands cautiously, needing to make a few hurried gestures. The blobs nearest them froze in place, allowing Ambrose to zoom around them in quick maneuvers as if he were a horse rounding barrels in a show, and as they neared, so too froze the tentacles. Dave could feel sweat forming on his brow as he struggled to hold time in check, finding the dark masses harder to manipulate than Ambrose had been. Was it the range? Or was it the fact they were basically pure globs of tainted magic? Whichever the reason, it was something that he hadn’t anticipated.

     There was no way he could keep this up for too long… but now Ambrose was practically in the jaws of danger, with him clung to his back. There was no too little, he had to manage this, or it’d be big trouble for both of them.

     With the way clear for the attack, Ambrose sunk his clawed talons into one of the creatures faces (Was it a face? It all looked the same to Dave, but he supposed Ambrose knew where the weaker points were) and ripped a massive chunk out, exposing a glowing core that fizzled and popped darkly, shooting deep purple sparks. Rearing back between barely frozen tentacles to charge what looked to Dave like a sphere of fire, letting it grow to a large size. When the flames were hot enough that Dave could feel them over Ambrose’s shoulder, face warm enough it felt like it was burning, he launched the orb into the opening and flapped his wings hard as he could a few times to gain altitude.

     “Drop your control, and hang on,” Ambrose said, “we’re going to be making a few twists soon.”

     “Are you sure? I cou-”

     “DROP IT!” Ambrose barked, voice holding a commanding beastly edge that refused to be denied. Dave dropped his manipulation and clung tight to his husband’s back, lowering his head to keep from getting dizzy at the fast climb. He could taste blood in his mouth, in the back of his throat, and felt the warmth of a nosebleed trickle over his lips. No time to rub it, things were getting crazy. He could feel Ambrose’s heart hammering underneath him, could feel the rise and fall of his ribs as he panted for breath.

     This was what he did all the times he was away. This was what was so dangerous. When the creature finally could move again it was too late, the fireball was in place inside it, causing it to explode messily outwards in flaming goo that chased their ascent and spread to others around it. The material seemed to be as highly flammable inside as it looked at first glance, as the fire spread to the other creatures who struggled to smother it before it could torch everything. Ambrose glanced over his shoulder to check trajectory before suddenly banking to the side and diving again, swerving around flaming chunks to approach the same cluster of creatures as they struggled to fight the fire.

     Without being told, Dave threw up his control of time once more, wavering at the edges but holding strong as he determinedly clung with his knees to avoid falling. The attack this time was ice based, a spike that pierced the target from head to gooshy bottom, pinning it to the ground before it exploded into dozens of further spikes in different directions, a long mace in its own right. They didn’t ascend this time, however, Ambrose going in to strike another two before the control of time started to falter, ripping into one with his talons and gouging another with a spurt of blue flame from his palm before they finally rose back into the sky. The dropped time allowed the frozen creature to collapse inwardly before all but melting away from the prongs of ice, while the others flailed aggressively in response to their injuries.

     Dave was so tired he felt nauseated, head throbbing, but he held tight. From the look of things, there weren’t many of the beasts left in that section they’d been so focused on… but he just wasn’t sure if he had it in him.

     “Are you good for one more run?” called Ambrose, needing to know before he chose which direction to head. This was the best run of this he’d had in ages. There was clear progress, and he barely had any sludge on him, and even then it was only the sludge he’d contacted on purpose. Perhaps Dave had the right idea after all. It still wasn’t a one man job, he knew there were others like him trying to clear the area of the tainted magic as well, but with this up his sleeve it almost felt doable for once.

     Was he?

     “Yeah. Yeah I’m good,” Dave shouted against the rushing wind and the flap of wings, wanting to make sure he was heard.

     Was he? Was he really?

     He had to be.

     Holding down bile, Dave made himself breathe and focus. He could feel his control of the magic slipping as if he were holding an eel, but he just needed to do it one time more. Just once, and they could go home then. He’d have helped.  Needed to keep his balance. Every action had its reaction, and every bit of magic had to be controlled or else it would run amok. On such a big scale, Dave couldn’t afford to let it run wild and do as it pleased.

     “Ready it, we’re going in fast again!” Ambrose warned, before once more diving. Dave lifted his hands, focused… and faltered. He wet his lips and tried again, managing to stop some sludge and slow tentacles, but not stop them entirely. It was obvious something was wrong, but Ambrose was committed to the attack already and couldn’t risk losing the momentum. He tried to adjust midair instead, landing the hit successfully, talons crunching into a section of the darkness and shredding it as he aimed blue tinted lightning into the wound.

     The hit came from the side, from where Dave’s magic was no longer able to reach as it wavered and twitched shakily, a forwards and backwards playing recording that jittered uncomfortably before finally dropping. A large, dark glob from one of the remaining beasts hit Ambrose to the side of the face, rushing into his mouth and eyes, some of the material splashing back over his back and seeping into Dave’s clothes. He couldn’t recoil fast enough, flapping and fluttering as he coughed and hacked, only to be hit by a tendril from the creature below him in its death throes. 

     More darkness, more sludge. Dave’s arms burnt where it touched, and yet all he could think to do was scream “AMBROSE GO HOME!” at the top of his lungs.

     As if the thought hadn’t occurred to him somehow, Ambrose lurched backwards with several rough flaps of his wings and faltered like a stunned bird, nearly hitting the ground before he swooped back into motion. A spiraling, twisting ascent that occasionally dropped several feet, but the destination was clear: they were headed for the hidden door, if only he could find it in his hazy state.

     Ambrose reached out as if blind, pawing at the air where the door apparently must be, trying to call it forth. Struggling.

     Dave had never seen Ambrose truly struggle before, and somehow it made his heart hurt to see. The door was there, was right there, it had to be. 

     “Hold on, hold on, we can get it. We can get it,” babbled Dave, promising the world, the moon, if only things would calm down and improve. He clung with his knees and leaned forwards, grasping either side of Ambrose’s face and holding it steady despite how much it burnt his palms to touch the material even more. He wished he had feathers to guard him too. “The door’s here, right?” Was it? It had to be. He was reaching for something. Feel for it, Dave, come on, come on…

     He could sense the outline, a barely there wavering against the background of sky like the waves of heat on a high summer’s stone. Dave squinted, released Ambrose’s face, rose up and lunged for where the assumed the knob was.

     The door opened, and Ambrose scrambled inside it at a crawl, leaving the door open as he hurriedly got himself and Dave inside, feathers ruffled and breathing hectic. Dave rolled from his back and slammed the door shut the second they were free of it, leaving his husband to crawl towards the bathroom, leaning over the edge of the tub to let the trails of dark sludge disappear down the drain. Feathers began to fall, one by one, as if bits of lights were falling from Ambrose’s back and dissipating. If it wasn’t terrifying it would be beautiful, the man emerging from beneath the beast’s attire. The areas where sludge hit him in the face seemed to have done some notable damage, if the fact that when he made himself retch it came up dark and viscous as the creatures had been. Dave forgot all about how much his hands stung for how worried he was for Ambrose in that moment, wincing when he retched again.

     “Blue bottle,” he croaked. “Big blue bottle. Bedroom. Left side of bed. Bring it.”

     Hurrying, Dave ran for the main part of the bedroom and searched for the bottle, finding the only one that fit the bill. It was more of a jug than a bottle, a handle sturdily on its side and its top a spout plugged with a stopper. It seemed half full when Dave hefted it up, wincing when his burning hands nearly dropped it, and hurried it back into the bathroom. Without a word, Ambrose popped the lid, doused his head in the milky liquid from inside, and took a drink. It seemed to taste foul if his appearance was any indication, face screwed up and hands shaking as he held the jug to his mouth, forcing himself to get it down. When he’d had enough, he hurriedly poured some into his hands and scrubbed at his eyes, trying to purge himself of what was trying to gain access.

     Another retch, more sludgy darkness, and Dave felt the hairs on the back of his neck prickle. This was bad. This was very bad.

     “Are. ...Are you going to be okay?” he asked. “I’m so sorry, I thought I could hold it for a bit longer!”

     Ambrose coughed, reached for normal water, and rinsed his mouth. His spit was gray against the white of the tub. 

     “I’ll be fine. I’ll be fine… I just need time,” he promised. “I just-” Ambrose paused as if recalling something and looked over his shoulder so suddenly that Dave flinched back a step and lifted his burning arms. Dark marks covered Ambrose’s face like a mask, the liquid spatter pattern a clear outline of inflammation. “Fuck.”

     Oh. Right. His arms. Yes.

     “Dave, come here. Come right here, I’m sorry for the mess, we need to get that off you quickly!”

     Doing as he was bid, Dave extended his arms over the tub and watched as Ambrose poured more of the liquid, a potion of some type he expected, over his arms… and screamed. The pain was unimaginable, how the fuck had Ambrose been drinking this liquid not a moment before? How could he put it in his eyes? The dark goop slid off and into the tub as well, leaving behind weaving tendrils of dark, scarred looking skin, angry red at the edges. Dave looked horrified, turning his palms over to look at the markings there as well.

     “What… what is this. When will it come off!”

     “They’re curse markings, from the foul magic. With luck, they’ll come off with treatment. Don’t worry.”

     “But. But you had some of that inside of you are you going to be okay?” he panicked, clenching his fingers despite the discomfort it caused.

     Ambrose smiled, though he looked gray in the face behind his own markings, ill.

     “I’ll recover. I’ve had worse, Dave.”

     “You’ve drank it before?”

     “Well, no, but-”

     “THEN HOW DO YOU KNOW.”

     “I know… because I have to be okay,” he said quietly, reaching up to take Dave’s hands in his own, gently cradling them. “...We’re not doing that again. Not until you’re stronger, and not until we can figure out how to protect you better.”

     “Yes,” Dave agreed wholeheartedly.

     “And you’re not following me without warning ever again.”

     “...No promises.”

     “Dave.”

     Wincing, Dave finally nodded before leaning forward to hug tight around Ambrose’s neck. “Fine. Fine I won’t follow you without warning again. ...I’m so sorry, Ambrose.”

     Could he still be mad at Dave? Yes. It was the brashness of youth, the lack of forethought and planning, that could have gotten them both irreversibly damaged. Could have gotten them killed. The inexperience along could have killed them multiple times if the magic had failed at any other point. Yet, he was just as guilty for not turning around and hurriedly trying to get him back home first and foremost.

     There was no anger, then. There was only concern, deep appreciation his treasure of treasures was safe at his side, and the surging chill down his stomach that signaled their troubles weren’t over yet by a long shot.

[im-not-a-what]

Little Lantern

My fic for @rumbellerevelry 

Rating: G

Word count: 6622

Summary: Lady Belle just wants a little freedom. She wasn’t expecting a ball of light in the forest to offer her that and more.

Prompts used:  Lantern

Lady Belle liked to think she was not very foolish, even if she had a bad habit of risking her safety to satiate curiosity. She was ravenous for anything that broke the humdrum of a quiet country life. Books sometimes quenched the thirst of mind and eye, but mind and eye still wandered to the window when the sun dipped behind the trees like a friend sneaking off to adventures she wasn’t allowed to participate in. As a child, she would let herself dream that, one day, nothing and no one would stop her from chasing the sun and moon to the farthest corners of the world. Now that she was grown, Belle felt it a disservice to deny her younger self that dream. Sir Maurice, of course, had a different opinion.

Aside from the guards and nobles who protected or visited their castle, Belle and Maurice had only each other. Belle honored that, cherished it, but when she knew that her father was going to attend a summit with the other vassal fiefdoms for a week, there was no hope of strictly honoring his strictures that she never, ever leave home without his express permission. The castle guards didn’t require steep bribes, but there were loyal enough to the baronet (and sensible enough of the dangers to a young woman in the nearby forest) to insist on an escort. Belle conceded; she took it rather well, which should’ve caused a little alarm among the men who, saddled on horseback with her, processed down the royal road amid whispering trees.

If Belle was just a little bit of a fool, the guards weren’t much better. Some of them had enough experience to foresee the perils caused by a ball of light that darted out of the dense woods and weaved between them. The luminant was far too large to be an insect. Even if it had been smaller, there was no reason for a firelight to be awake and alight in the mid-afternoon. Belle guessed what it was, but she didn’t dare name it for fear that her escorts would shoo it away or demand they return home.

What was such a light doing in the forest? They preferred bogs, swamps, anywhere with still water. Maybe it was drawn to the road in a desire to lead away the insensible and adventurous. As soon as the ball of light zipped back into the trees, Belle proved she owned at least one of these qualities and followed it.

The guards gave chase, for they were faithful to Maurice and rather endeared to their master’s daughter. The little light might harm their charge. At the very least, it might confuse and frighten her if she was ensnared by its enchantment. Whether such a fate befell Belle, who with her horse disappeared in an emerging mist, or on the guards, who shortly lost all trail of her, was difficult to say on their end.

Belle did sense that her men had vanished in her wake, although her ears caught distant calls and hoofbeats. The road had disappeared, too. A fog bank teased her horse’s legs, though it gave way to an unobscured woodland path that the ball of light brought into even clearer view. Panic grabbed her heart for a few seconds. Then the yellow light--a will o’wisp--flew around her head. She could feel its heat, no stronger than a candle flame. While it charmed more than threatened, it moved with urgency after a moment of hovering hesitation. When it shot away along the new path, the idea of following shifted from daringly precarious to pressingly necessary.

Her hands started to sweat, but she held the reins fast and beckoned Philippe onward with soothing murmurs. Gloom stole over the area, as though the day were passing more quickly than natural. By the time the winding path and the flying light brought Belle to a clearing, the sky’s overcast palette thwarted any attempt to determine the hour. The inconvenience did not bother Belle for long. Across the clearing, nestled on its edge and hemmed in by a garden, stood a small, tidy house. A radiance similar to that of the playful will o’wisp flickered in the front-end windows despite the efforts of curtains to block the view. Smoke curled out of the chimney. It was suspiciously charming, the perfect abode for a mischievous witch who might just as easily offer Belle food and a bed as throw a sack over the girl’s head and hold her captive in preparation for human stew.

Belle reined in her horse and her wild inclinations so that she remained on her side of the clearing. The one evident peculiarity was the presence of two dozen carved pumpkins along the garden’s boundary and on each side of the doorway.

The will o’wisp seemed to guess her question about them. It rushed to the pumpkin on the far left, slipped into its gaping mouth, and set its hollowed insides aglow. A goofy, grinning visage stared at Belle. She gasped and stared with a smile of her own. The wisp left that pumpkin and moved to its neighbor, then the next and the next, down the line to the walkway. Each carved face had its own personality: some smiled; some grimaced; some were frozen mid-cackle, some mid-sigh or mid-scream. Belle was fascinated by each. When the wisp came to the final pumpkin, a winking face, Belle dismounted and, leading her horse, tiptoed closer to the house. The wisp squeezed out of the one open eye, flew up and touched Belle’s nose. The contact was hot but did not burn. She wiggled her nose and squinted. The wisp bobbed, excited or anxious, before hovering down the path to the front door.

Belle pulled in a breath while her stomach tightened. She shouldn’t. She knew better. But the wisp was waiting, mutely calling to her. Behind her, Philippe bent his head to graze. His flank twitched a little, probably from a fly or the chill that she was beginning to feel on her bare arms. In the end, it didn’t take much persuasion. The scene, the circumstances, they needed her bravery to continue this odd adventure. For good or ill, she needed to continue.

She let go of Philippe’s reins. Skirts marginally raised, she shuffled down the walkway, a flat dirt path embedded with round white stones. At the door, the wisp drifted to the doorknob. Did it want her to just walk in? The firelight in the windows was as present as ever, a warning that someone called this cottage home and was enjoying the late afternoon (if it was still the late afternoon) in peaceful domesticity. Belle brought her knuckles to the wood and landed three knocks, loud as she dared without being rude.

The wisp touched the doorknob. Without the knob turning, the door popped open and slowly swung inward. Belle lurched back. Her surprised and disapproving look at the wisp failed to stop the glowing orb from bouncing about like a yo-yo.

“Bae?” said a voice unseen somewhere behind the half-open door.

Belle jumped. Her stomach could’ve burst into a swarm of butterflies. The voice belonged to a man, but it was both delicate and course, perhaps in disuse from lack of company and conversation. Not a frightful voice, thank goodness. It was strange enough that she didn’t have the courage to cross the threshold. She did not bolt down the path, either. Confusion held her still while the wisp floated into the doorway.

“Bae? What is it?” There was creaking. The man Belle couldn’t see was standing up. Maybe something else creaked too--wooden, small--and continued to when she could hear the man’s gentle steps approach the door.

She couldn’t help the backward step. A part of her did want to run. It especially wanted to when she saw the face that came with the voice. That is, until she made herself return the man’s astonished stare. Her guess at this being a witch’s cottage wasn’t far off the mark. The man had long hair, tangled and wavy, full of wildness. There were rough scales on his face and the wrinkles and folds about the neck. Was he wearing a skin-suit made from chameleons? Or perhaps a small dragon? The scales weren’t just pronounced but also glimmerous. When the wisp floated up to meet the man’s eyes, the scales reflected the light.

And, oh, his eyes! So large, so nearly without whites! The pupils just pinpoints, the irises like great green marbles swirling with other colors she couldn’t yet name. Those eyes gaped at her, then a few seconds at the wisp. But those seconds told Belle something important. The wisp’s light pulsed in a pattern that meant nothing to her, but it had meaning to the strange man. After an erratic sequence, the wisp flew to Belle’s side and remained a breath from her shoulder.

“Um … good day,” Belle said when the man took her in head to toe. “I … I don’t really know why I’m here, except that this little fellow led me to your home. I hope I’m not disturbing you.”

The man stepped forward. Belle finally noted the man’s attire, which was a little too fine for someone living in the woods alone. The burgundy cloak looked like something a noble might wear, only the hem started to fray at the cuffs and the bottom edge. Maybe the cloak was second-hand.

“Of course I’m disturbed,” said the man at last. “Why shouldn’t I be disturbed by a lady showing up on my doorstep out of the blue?”

“As I said,” Belle answered after clearing her throat and praying for bravery, “this wisp led me here.”

“Did he make you follow him?” The man’s perplexity started to fade into sardonic admonishment.

Belle bit her lip. “I suppose not. I was … I was looking for something interesting.”

Faint eyebrows rose. A smile quelled whatever annoyance the man tried to show before. “Did you find what you were hoping for?”

That smile, probably unintentional, gave her mettle a little reinforcement. Belle tilted her head. “It’s hard to say. Perhaps I’ll know if you invite me inside.”

His appearance was still startling. Now, though, she found that quality had a magnetic effect. The wisp zipped to the man, pulsed and whizzed and brushed the man’s cheek. A giggle slipped out of the man. That was enough to satisfy the wisp so that it--or he, possibly the one called “Bae”--returned to Belle and did the same thing. Their shared giggles cleared away the tension. Belle might have needed to worry about how exactly she was going to find her way home, or what her father would say and do when he learned about her disappearance; here and now, however, there was little to fear. With a wry smile that tried not to be pleased at having a visitor, the man stepped aside, bowed, and gestured for Belle to come in. She curtsied and smiled to the point of making herself laugh, and she accepted the invitation.

*~*

Maurice’s return occurred when everyone expected it, but it came too soon for Belle. Of course she was happy to see Papa again and that he had a safe and successful trip. But with him came someone she hadn’t expected at all. He presented an immediate problem.

“You need to show Sir Gaston the utmost hospitality,” Maurice impressed on Belle in his study. He’d summoned her to address more than just the importance of playing host to the visiting son of Lord Legume.

“I will be courteous to him,” Belle said, “but you can’t insist that I should consider marrying him!”

“You’ve no reason not to give him a chance,” Maurice said, and he wasn’t inclined to debate it further.

“Except that I am not interested in marriage.”

“Belle, in these times, that is not a luxury you can afford. Marriage means an alliance, and Lord Legume would be able to provide us with resources and protection against the ogres. I know the threat may seem a ways off, but it’s closer than you think.”

“Only because you won’t let me help with any plans to repel them.” Belle started pacing. Being constantly underestimated due to her age and gender was an old and tiresome ordeal. It alone would’ve justified her agitation, as would’ve the notion that she might be paired off with a man against her wishes. Maybe she could like Gaston if she knew him. That was beside the point, though. There was more. Specifically, the presence of both her father and the visitor would thwart any ventures to the woods for a visit of her own. Disappointment was a cold gruel in her stomach, and the feeling of imagined shackles pulled her weight down, try as she might to ignore them and hold herself upright.

“It’s not a burden I would have you bear.” Maurice’s solemnity couldn’t escape the ghost of condescension. He meant well, or so Belle told herself.

“If I’m to suffer the consequences of the ogres’ threat, I might as well be part of the solution.”

“And you will be if you marry Gaston, or find another way to persuade him and his father to help us.”

The bile in her throat burned upon swallowing. The sensation came from an unwanted acknowledgement: if the choice was to sacrifice herself for her people, Bele would marry someone she didn’t want to. But, oh, if only it didn’t have to come to that!

Maybe Rumplestiltskin could help her sort this out. Despite the carved pumpkins and the uncanny gloom of his glen, she felt safe beside his hearth while listening to stories he shared about his life. Even when he was theatrical and intentionally unsettling, she was too engrossed to fear him. Afterward he always asked for a little more about herself, like what books she was reading. She didn’t have many exciting tales about her life, so she turned to the stories or knowledge her beloved books offered. If there was a tale that Rumplestiltskin had lived through, he gladly contributed his own version of events, always to Belle’s incredulity or amusement. Baelfire, as Rumple called the will o’wisp, rested in a glass lantern that magnified his light, which filled the room most pleasantly. The glow would flicker, dim or beam depending on his mood in response to Rumple and Belle’s conversations.

Belle found herself missing that little room, that little house and its strange residents. She’d known them after only a week of woodland visits every other day. The guards suspected that she was meeting someone, but each time they tried to follow her, the magic protecting the glen threw them off the trail. Since she always came back unchanged, they warily forgave themselves of incompetence and agreed not to tell Maurice unless they thought Belle in clear danger. Only a week of this game, but it felt like longer, and yet not long enough thanks to Sir Gaston’s interference.

With Gaston close at her heels, her power to slip out was greatly diminished. Her mind turned over every idea, each increasingly dicier, until she decided that the only reasonable option was to sneak off in the dead of night. The last thing she wanted was to alert either her father or her suitor to her new friends. For now, in the light of day, she played the obliging lady.

“All right, Papa,” she told Maurice. “I’ll give Gaston a chance.”

“Good girl.” His smile was satisfied and unsurprised.

The more she thought about it, the more sense it made. The best way to divert suspicion was to engage Gaston in friendly (but not overly friendly) conversation and give the appearance of someone who was giving his suit some consideration. He was enjoying a stroll through the castle gardens when she found him. Any chance that she had disturbed his privacy, possibly freeing her from the duty of amicable hostess, evaporated when he greeted her like a lighthouse, welcoming and alight with a flash of pearly teeth and scintillating eyes. He was handsome, Belle granted. Fit, too, thanks to his passion for hunting. He also managed to be genteel, even gallant, when they walked together and he offered his arm, then accepted her polite refusal. He even said, “I like a woman who knows how to stand on her own two feet.”

“Do women often like to take your arm?” Belle asked.

“Some do, and not always to innocent ends.” Gaston blended amusement with humility, which added a little charm to his demeanor.

“I’ve heard you’re quite popular among women in your native town.”

“I’m sure some accounts have been exaggerated,” he said, composure unwavering. “I have entertained suitors, as have you, for that is our lot as people of distinguished birth. And, if I may be a little conceited on my part, blessed with a fair appearance. But that is hardly our fault, no?”

Belle allowed a genuine smile and shrugged. “I suppose you’re right.”

“But I’m searching for something more,” Gaston continued. “A woman of substance. A woman of inner strength and sharp intelligence.”

“I hope you may find one who suits you,” she replied with a cheeky curve to her smile. “I think intelligent women are not difficult to find if you know how to look for them.”

“I hope you’re right,” Gaston said, “but my greatest hope is that I won’t have to look for much longer.”

She could see his appeal. Maybe if their circumstances weren’t so pressing, she could let herself come to like him more naturally. He might have depths she had yet to see. She credited him with wanting a partner who knew her own mind rather than defer to his will out of wifely submission. Yet some part of her, even if it was a small portion, held back from letting her heart be won by these attractive traits. For some reason, as they came inside and a servant approached them to announce that dinner was ready, Belle had an urge to speak to Rumplestiltskin about Gaston. In their conversations, Rumple had half-accidentally recounted his experiences in the first Ogres War, which happened over a hundred years ago. Far from alarmed, Belle considered his advanced age a fount of experiential insight. He might better know what a man like Gaston really thought and felt when he made these pleasing comments to her.

Congenial as Gaston was, she highly doubted that he would approve of her late-night venture. She did not fear losing his good opinion--not greatly--when she kept herself awake deep into the night, then dressed for the outdoors, snuck through the servants’ passages all the way down to the stables, and saddled Philippe. Her horse nickered a little in surprised excitement; thank goodness he was an obedient friend most of the time, hushing his sounds at Belle’s command. Soon they were at the gate surrounding the estate. Belle pulled out a small bag as she approached the guards on duty. She’d chosen this night and this hour with the knowledge that Jean and Robert would be there. Inside she had smuggled out tarts, still fresh from tonight’s dessert, and handed them to the guards. Robert gave her a conspiring grin. Jean looked more ashamed to take the bribe, and a paltry one at that.

“This is very foolish, even for you, milady,” he said.

“If anything should happen to me, I have this.” Belle pulled back her cloak to show him a round vial fastened to a belt. The purple substance within was neither quite a liquid nor a gas. Glittery bits permeated it. “I was given this in the event I meet trouble on the road. I only have to break it, and the magic will bring me to safety.”

“This is from your friend?” Jean asked, his words heavy with doubt.

“Yes.” Belle touched his arm. “I trust him. So trust me.”

“This cannot go on, milady.” The guard remembered to add the title out of respect, but the tremble in her voice remained, as though she were a friend rather than a noblewoman he’d sworn to protect.

Belle, for all her assurances, bit her lip with some chagrin. Taking a breath, letting her chest balloon, she smiled and said, “I’ll be back before sunrise. Watch for me.”

Jean nodded slowly and said no more.

Tonight a great deal of luck was on Belle’s side. She made it beyond the wall and to the forest road without being waylaid by anyone. This was her first time going out at night, devoid of an escort, so she was prepared to listen for a patrol and bolt into the trees if necessary. Her way was clear up to the moment a friendly orb of light flew out before her.

“How do you do that?” she asked with a laugh and a headshake. “You always know where to find me.”

A special talent of the will o’wisp, she reasoned, for Baelfire could not communicate with her the way he could with Rumplestiltskin. What an odd relationship they had, the warlock and the wisp. Bae loved flying outdoors when he brought Belle to and from the cottage, but inside he was content to nestle in his lantern near Rumple’s spinning wheel. Belle had read up on warlocks and witches, and though Rumple was singular even among magic-users for his appearance, having Baelfire as a familiar would fit his vocation. Usually, witches and warlocks chose animal companions; spirits they could summon for help with their magic, but the shades returned to where they’d come from once their task was complete. What role did a wisp serve a warlock other than to spare him the expense of candles?

Maybe Bae, as a wisp, had first been summoned to provide Rumple with companionship. Not through his own presence, but by bringing people from the road to his glen. Yet from their conversations, Belle had gathered that neither Rumple nor Bae had enjoyed a visitor in a long time. Maybe their early attempts failed and resulted in people fleeing or threatening to expose Rumple’s refuge.

So why did Baelfire try again with her?

Perhaps for the same reason she had risked her father’s discovery and chastisement when she first arranged her outings to the forest, and why she now risked even more condemnation by going to visit Rumplestiltskin alone in the dead of night. Anyone would chafe from isolation and stagnation after a while, even in light of the dangers waiting outside the door.

As soon as the trees opened to the clearing, Belle hopped down from Philippe and, letting Bae’s glow guide her steps, walked briskly to the cottage. Only the faintest hint of firelight from the hearth flickered behind the curtains.

“Rumplestiltskin?” He might’ve been asleep. It made sense since this was an impromptu visit at a late hour. The witching hour. But didn’t warlocks do their best work then?

What made no sense at all was the bubbling anxiety in her throat that he wasn’t home at all. Baelfire would’ve alerted her to that fact. He flew right to the house as usual rather than lead her to a waiting spot where they could wile the time until Rumplestiltskin returned. But that wasn’t what Belle feared. She reflected on this acidic agitation in her throat and stomach and found the answer. Even after a week, her childlike side worried that Rumple and Bae would suddenly be gone like mist, and no one except her would be wiser. Or these visits could be a vivid dream or illusion she would wake from at any moment.

She called Rumple’s name again. In past instances where he didn’t immediately appear to greet her, a single utterance of his name from her lips invoked his presence as though she were the witch and he the spirit to aid her. Even if he didn’t pop in right away, his voice answered with a terse demand to hold the team of horses she must have ridden in on if she was in such a hurry. No such answer came now.

The carved pumpkins smiled or grimaced with candlelight. They gave her feet some idea of where to go when Bae left her behind to busily peer into each window, regardless of the drawn curtains. Belle reached the door after one minor stumble. She knocked and got as far as a third “Rump--” before the door groaned open.

He stood in the poorly lit doorway like a creature that had crawled from the earth, bedraggled and smeared and wrung with exhaustion for his efforts. Scaly as he was, Belle had had no trouble seeing the human shape it covered before tonight. Now, his eyes looked too large for his face, his teeth seemed eager to poke past his gaping lips, and his fingernails looked longer than ever. Was the nighttime darkness or the shadows in the house warping his appearance? Or did his body lose some humanity in the lonely, sunless hours?

“Belle?” A rough whisper, crackly, yet more human than the rest of him. As if by her name, some of his usual manner seeped back into his figure. He stood a little straighter, and his expression balanced weariness and confusion with some wonder and delight. “What are you doing out so late?”

“I did tell you that my father was returning yesterday,” Belle said. “He brought a suitor for me with him. That’s why I didn’t dare visit you earlier today. I’m sorry to keep you waiting.”

Rumplestiltskin waved off her apology. “You shouldn’t bother with me. Not when you have a suitor waiting for you at home.” He was smiling, but the smile had a bitter flavor he was trying to hide.

Belle moved closer to the door. “He’s actually what I want to talk to you about. May I come in?”

“Of course. As always.”

Warmth fizzled in her skin and her gut at those words. Belle relaxed and smiled, all the more when Baelfire flew in behind her and resumed his special spot in the lantern. The fire in the hearth was barely a pile of embers; Bae’s light returned some of the familiar atmosphere (and her sight of the room) she was coming to know well in the daytime. Rumple didn’t need to direct her to her chosen chair anymore. They both settled into a pair of cushioned rocking chairs in no time. The rocker Rumple favored was his second favorite seat after the stool of the spinning wheel in the corner. Wrapped in a long robe, he leaned on his thighs and peered at Belle with a mounting question.

“What did you wish to discuss regarding your suitor?” That wasn’t the question, but it was the easiest way to start.

Belle guessed what he really wanted to know. In truth, she was still debating the answer, so they both would have to wait. Instead, she explained her first and subsequent conversations with Sir Gaston, her impressions and speculations. It was nice to talk and not wonder if Rumple was secretly deriding her as a silly girl. Maybe he did think that, but he never betrayed the thought on his face while she vented her feelings. He was forward in his seat, crouched with focus, still as a statue except when he felt like scratching his chin. Mostly his hands remained clasped on his knees.

“Maybe I’m being too severe on him,” she finished, “but I’m not wrong, am I, for being reserved in giving him my good opinion?”

“Well, if you’re looking for some encouraging advice about seeing the best in people,” Rumple twittered, “you’ve come to the last place to find it.”

Belle smiled. “I came to you because . . . well, I do have a good opinion of you.”

The warlock snorted. “Can’t imagine why.”

For some reason, Belle looked at Bae. The glowing ball rested low in his lantern, hovering almost sleepily, yet he buoyed a little when she looked at him.

“May I ask you something that might be personal?” she said to Rumple.

“You may ask, though I may opt not to answer.”

She sighed. “Fair enough. But it would mean a great deal to me. I promise to keep anything you tell me in confidence.”

Rumplestiltskin slowly pushed himself so his spine rested against the back of the chair. “Very well.”

It was hard not to duck her gaze for a few seconds. She’d thoroughly enjoyed his stories about making deals with wicked queens, combatting jealous witches, outwitting powerful fairies, and secretly helping children and parents find each other. He didn’t always act kindly or with the most noble intentions, but he had something soft and true within him. Even as he sat rigidly, his gaze had lost any distrustful frost from their first encounter. He was ready to listen.

Belle inhaled. Then she stood, pulled her chair closer to Rumple’s, and sat back down. Her knees could now touch his. With a flinch, Rumple rocked back in his seat. Otherwise he did not push or pull back.

“Who is Baelfire?” she asked in as soft a voice as she could while still being audible to him.

Rumplestiltskin swallowed. His head began to turn toward the table behind him, only to stop, fully face Belle, and lean so he too could whisper. “It’s . . . it’s not a happy tale, I’m afraid.”

Her hand found his. Some patches of scales were rough, particularly around his knuckles. The rest felt like snake skin. Without her complete awareness, her thumb brushed on the silky patch above the base of his thumb. His breath shortened before finding a steady rhythm for Belle to listen to when he didn’t quite have the courage to speak. But speak he did, eventually. Minutes filled the bucket of time. She didn’t tire. The tale began so very long ago, when Rumple was just an ordinary man. He lost the love of his wife when, after hearing a prophecy about losing his son, he sacrificed a chance for honor to go home and be with his newborn child. He wore the coward’s brand for the rest of his non-magical days, up until his son was dragged into the same war that saw the prediction of his loss. He sought any means to save his boy, which of course led him down a dangerous path. He’d found magic, dark magic, strong enough for him to stop the war. But the price was already paid. He found his boy’s broken, bleeding body among other children soldiers. He’d come so far, let his body and mind be tainted with corruption, only to watch his precious boy die. No, he couldn’t let it happen. He begged his boy to let him make it right, for such magic had to be accepted to work. Finally his child--poor, scared, innocent, ignorant--agreed when his father promised that he’d turn this act toward good.

For a while, he did. Children who lost their way in the woods were somehow discovered by a ball of sunny light that would lead them back home. But it was still rooted in dark magic, and dear Baelfire felt the weight. His light started to fade, and he took to wandering himself. It was getting harder and harder to ground him in this plane when his soul longed to move on. But he couldn’t move on; the magic held him too tightly. And maybe it was Rumple himself who was binding him here. So he and his son retreated into the wilderness, hid away, and Rumple gave Bae lanterns in which to fool around and rest. Each year, on Bae’s birthday, Rumple would carve a new pumpkin. Magic kept them fresh for many years, but in time he had started disposing of them to make room for new ones. He had lost count of the exact years, as had Bae. Perhaps time didn’t really exist for them. Rumple’s dark magic slowed his aging considerably; as a spirit, Bae had no aging body at all. So here they were, except now Bae had got it into his disembodied noggin to invite Belle into their secret world. Why, Rumple still didn’t know. The lad was probably bored after so long.

“But you will someday leave for good,” Rumple said, trying to add a lightness to grave reality. “As you must, of course. Whether because of marriage or old age or what have you, this cannot last forever.”

“But you two can’t stay here forever, either.” Belle did her best to be gentle.

Briefly, Rumplestiltskin went taut, as though primed to release an arrow at her. When he instead relaxed, she slipped her fingers between his.

“You’re right,” he muttered. “But . . . what else . . .”

His throat clenched shut. He shivered. Belle’s single-minded hand gave up his fingers for his cheek. What bumps and edges it had left no impression on her caring fingertips. She was too enthralled by his widening eyes. They couldn’t seem to comprehend what they saw. Flicking back and forth, they asked more questions that neither the warlock nor the noblewoman felt brave enough to answer. That didn’t mean Belle would run away from the awkward uncertainty and longing. Her hand remained. So did her gaze, mellowing to a soft stare. He gradually mirrored her. Even his hand started to rise from his lip to her chin, or her cheek. She never knew which.

A thunderous kick and a terrible bang of wood smacking wood snapped Belle and Rumple out of their moment. They turned to the doorway. Belle gasped and jumped up. Gaston, armed with a bow and arrow in his hands while a sword hung from his belt, was fixed on them with murderous hunger.

“Belle,” he barked, “come here.”

“Wh-what?” Belle did move, but only sideways to block any shot he might take of Rumple. “What are you doing, Gaston?”

“Saving you, of course.”

“From what?”

“From this creature! The one Maurice told me about.”

Belle felt sure she’d been dunked in ice water. Her head snapped around to Rumple. “I didn’t! I didn’t tell my father about you!”

“You needn’t fear him now, Belle,” Gaston announced, almost shouting. “A few of the guards warned Maurice of your disappearances when he was away. He brought me here prepared to deal with the likes of this beast. His magic may be strong, but a little fairy dust does wonders to finding his ilk.”

Knowing what she did of Rumple’s feelings when fairies were involved, she didn’t need to see or hear his grinding teeth. She could guess he was wearing them down.

“There is no need to worry! He’s my friend, Gaston. He’s never hurt me, I promise you.”

“Of course you would say that. You’re under an enchantment. Belle, I’m here to protect you. Now come here.”

“This is nonsense!”

“Now, Belle!”

Gaston tossed aside all illusions. He was shouting and glowering at them like a hunter demanding his quarry. The only safe way out of this was to agree to go.

Maybe Belle really was a foolish girl. Maybe there’s no helping foolishness when someone has a weapon drawn on her friends.

“I will return home soon,” she said amid shaking knees and a dry throat. “But you must promise not to hurt them. Promise me, Gaston, and I will go with you.”

“Them?” Gaston dared to glance around. “Are there more of his kind with him?”

Belle stilled her tongue. He didn’t see or consider Baelfire a sentient entity. She gave herself a minute--maybe too long going by Gaston’s urgent look--before improvising a reply. “Sometimes. No one here deserves harm to come to them. Leave this house in peace, and I will go back to the castle without a fight.”

Gaston looked close to a haughty laugh. In that moment, she could see herself through his eyes: a silly child who needed him to think rationally for her. Maybe Belle wasn’t always rational, but she knew her mind and heart. Her body shook. She felt heat in her face and a chill in her fingers.

“Belle,” came Rumple’s quiet voice. “It’s all right. Go home. We’ll be fine.”

Maybe Rumple would be fine. Maybe his magic was strong enough to deal with Gaston. Maybe a terrible fate was destined for the knight rather than the warlock. For a few heartbeats, Belle did feel helpless and small, a fool to ever think she could decide her own fate. But the moment passed. She raised her chin. “Very well. I’m coming.”

She walked toward Gaston, now with lowered eyes. Gaston didn’t lower his bow. His tense muscles did ease a little. “You’ve chosen well, my dear. Now, let me deal with this demon and we can go.”

“You promised not to hurt him if I came,” she said, incongruously calm.

“I didn’t, actually. And a good thing. Someone like him can’t be allowed to exist to tempt you.”

Belle was now behind Gaston, which pleased him so much he didn’t think to watch her. “I guess I was tempted. You’re right about that. Maybe I was under a bit of enchantment.”

She saw the flash of pain in Rumple’s face. A small smile dared to touch her lips. “If I stayed much longer, I might not have wanted to go home at all. But you’ve cleared that up for me, Gaston. Thank you.”

“My pleasure--” Gaston began.

Belle threw the vial from her belt onto the floor, right at Gaston’s feet. Purple clouds glittering like sand swept up around the startled, befuddled man. Belle rushed back out of the magic’s reach. Gaston’s shouts at her were suddenly sucked into silence as he was swallowed. Then the cloud evaporated. No trace of him remained.

“Where did he go?” she asked as soon as her breath was back.

“To your castle.” Rumple sounded nearly as breathless. Then, in a blink, he was before her, hands carefully taking hers. “Why? Why did you--?”

“I couldn’t let him hurt you! I couldn’t let him take me, either.” She returned his grip. “I decide where I place my heart, not him.”

Rumplestiltskin looked like a man who’d long been lost in a terrible place and had found his first sign of home. So hopeful yet bewildered.

A light appeared beside him. Both he and Belle looked at Baelfire. His little form pulsed like a rushing heartbeat.

“What’s he saying?” Belle asked.

The answer was slow in coming. If she could’ve been sure, she’d have said that a blush rose in Rumple’s cheeks. Even Bae’s light couldn’t confirm it. There was only the nervous flutter of his eyes finding her face and an endearing stutter as he said, “He wants to know if you’ll be staying for a while longer.”

Belle thought of her father. Oh, Maurice. What did she really think of him? He was trying to protect her by sending Gaston, but he didn’t know or respect her own mind. Then again, what she wanted to do might be a very big mistake in the end. She had to see it through, however. It was her life, and she’d live if with foolish hope and courage.

She wrapped her arms around Rumple’s neck. A moment later, his arms came around her, and she smiled and melted. Bae’s heat tickled her cheek. She laughed, then whispered that she’d help them as best she could. She’d help them set up a new home where none would find them without their consent. They’d find a way to give Bae his rest, and she’d find a way to help Rumple see that he wouldn’t be alone. Lonely people find a way to each other.

[jae-bummer]

My Idol: The Finale

My Idol From Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia

My Idol is a South Korean competitive reality dating game show. It currently airs on Wednesday nights on Jae-bummer’s blog. First broadcast in 2016, the show offers the opportunity for a lucky fan to go on seven blind dates with seven idols. The idol plans the date with the show throwing in specific missions to complete during the day. At the end of the initial dates, the show opens up an audience vote to decide what three idols will move on to the second date.

Part 1 - Part 2 - Part 3 - Part 4 - Part 5 - Part 6 - Part 7 - Part 8 - Part 9 - Part 10 - Part 11 - Part 12 - Part 13 - Part 14 - Part 15 - Part 16 - Part 17 - Part 18 - Part 19 - Part 20 - Part 21 - Part 22 - Part 23 - Part 24 - Part 25 - Part 26 - Part 27 - Part 28 - Part 29 - Part 30 - Part 31 - The Finale - Idols Tell All

Your chest was so tight you thought it would concave. How could things spiral so wildly out of control? All of your worst fears during the entirety of this experience had manifested themselves into this very moment. You allowed yourself to be more invested than you should have. You were the only one you could blame and you were infuriated with yourself. 

“Baby! Baby girl!” Jay gasped, rushing behind you as he dodged the wires you had been tugging from your body. 

You spun at a breakneck speed and leveled him with your best glare. “I told you to quit calling me that.” 

“Y/N, won’t you believe me? This clown has no idea-”

“Can you blame me?” You interrupted, your thoughts somersaulting in thousands of directions, unsure of where to end. “How can I believe anything anymore?” 

“You’re making me look like a fool,” Jay groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Making everything we built look foolish.”

“Concerned about yourself,” you clucked bitterly. “I should have known that’s all it would have been in the end.” 

“I’m concerned about us,” Jay sighed weakly. “How can you expect me to just walk away after everything?” 

“Were you here for me or the competition?” you whispered. “Tell me the truth.”

“You. A thousand times. We all came here for our careers...but stayed for you,” he said quietly. 

“Then what Jooheon said...?” you trailed. 

“He’s honest to a fault,” Jay nodded. “He won’t admit he was catching feelings because you didn’t pick him. Men have too much pride. If he was going down, all our asses were getting taken with him.” 

“Why didn’t you tell me from the beginning?” You hiccuped, your anger turning into tears again. 

“Yeah, cause that’s what you want to hear on a date,” he muttered. “Ay, yo, shorty, this dating show you’re on has already had a winner picked, but psyche! None of the guys are actually going to follow the rules because you’re hot and actually have an IQ over 80. Jooheon was an ass to think it would go as planned. He’s too good at being perfect.”

 You closed your eyes, trying to let the tidal wave of information wash over you. As you were preparing for this night, preparing for your decision, this situation had never reached the forefront of your thoughts. 

“Hey,” Jay said quietly, approaching you slowly. He placed his hand lightly on your hip and began to pull you into his arms. You opened your eyes again, studying his earnest expression. “It’s me, Jay. You know you’ve been able to rely on me. Why stop now?” 

“Why...why stop now?” you repeated, shaking your head slowly. You pushed at Jay’s chest, trying to escape all of the feelings that came along with being held in his arms. “I can’t Jay...I’m...I’m sorry.”

“So it’s like that?” he asked, backing away from your light shove. His eyes had changed, a familiar expression of hurt overtaking his features. “You believe him over me?”

“No,” you hummed, continuing to shake your head. “...I don’t believe in anyone anymore.” 

Three months later...

You had circled the cafe twice before actually entering it. You were an hour early to your meeting, but that was more of a coping mechanism to deal with your anxiety. You were on a mission to find the perfect booth for optimal observing purposes. 

You avoided the gaze of the coffee shop’s waitress, attempting to hide your face to the best of your ability. You were used to people staring at this point, squinting their eyes and conveying through facial expressions the question you dreaded hearing. “Haven’t I seen you before?” 

Yes, you probably had. 

And no, you didn’t want to talk about the My Idol season finale. 

You tapped nervously on the cafe table you had positioned yourself at. The hard wood felt sturdy beneath your fingers, providing you a comfort you weren’t aware you needed. Maybe it had been a bad idea to arrive so early. As you gazed at the bustling patrons around you, you were left with your thoughts, which was a fairly dangerous thing. 

The thought of meeting him at the coffee shop sent butterflies aflutter in your stomach. It seemed like ages since the last time your eyes had rested on his handsome face, the only one to truly reassure you during the entirety of this experience. 

And one of the only ones you were truly willing to meet after this nightmare was officially over. 

Granted, it wasn’t always a nightmare. 

You rested your chin on your upturned palm and sighed, it had been a crazy couple of months. 

You had ridden every high and low that had been thrown at you during My Idol, and considering the circumstances, you were fairly content with the way you had handled things. When you looked back, of course there were situations that made you cringe and face palm, or situations where you had weeped and felt like your heart was literally ripped from your chest, but you wouldn’t change anything. 

You wouldn’t change even the smallest detail that was incorporated in your story because you were fulfilled with the person My Idol had made you. 

Coming into this crazy experience, you thought you would be seen as a joke. Every day felt surreal and as you grew more and more well known, you were noticed as much as the idols that had surrounded you. You had grown a thick skin and a sharp tongue from interacting with anti-fans and even some of the idols themselves. You held your ground on decisions you made and guided yourself along your own journey. You were gifted with strong men to lean on, and even though you had found out in the finale that things weren’t originally as they seemed, you were pleased with knowing that most of the men had taken their fate into their own hands. 

These men had met you and decided that they wanted to be standing at the end. No matter what contract or rules were presented to them. But also in the end, only one man initially told you the truth, and you had to reconcile that. 

Of course, one by one, the idols you had met that had now turned into friends came forward. Most of them wanted to clear their conscience, while others wanted to convey that they simply liked you too much. 

One of the first to come forward was JB. He was a shadow of the man you once knew, overcome with embaressment and nerves as you two had met at a park. After a solid five minutes of awkward silence, he finally began to release a flurry of anxious words, hardly stringing together an entire sentence. He knew he had upset you, fans, and his very own partner when the news broke. He was enticed by the attention, never thinking it would carry on for this long. 

“I’m not the most likable personality,” he whispered, looking anywhere but at you. “When I made it past the first round, I tried to quit, but I couldn’t. I wanted to tell you...but of course it didn’t happen on my terms. As is the life of a celebrity.” 

After your discussion, you felt at peace with his departure, accepting the unavoidable fact that JB was an incredible actor. You would never know if his feelings were reciprocated because it was too delicate of a question to ask, and frankly, you didn’t have the energy. 

You hadn’t heard from him since. 

The next two contacted you around the same time, but you had met with the youngest of the seven first. Mingyu bribed you with the allure of ice cream to settle down and talk out the situation. He insisted that he was not allowed to overlook his contract due to his management and thought that you were aware of the organized plot as well. He was completely clueless. 

Which wasn’t necessarily a hard concept to associate with MIngyu. 

As you thought back on the entirety of your My Idol interactions, Mingyu was oddly at peace with his departure from you, as well as his loss during the voting special. He had known all along that you weren’t set to pan out, but also knew that there could be a future once the show ended. He was cheerful as you expressed your forgiveness, insisting that everything happens for a reason, and he would love to continue getting to know you. 

You would be going to Seventeen’s concert in three weeks to support him as any good friend should. 

Shortly after your ice cream social, you met up with Sehun. He invited you to the same cafe you had traversed to and garnered life advice from a couple legitimately in love. He was relaxed as he saw you, his mouth turning up into an easy smile as he brought you into his arms. His story was similar to Mingyu’s, under the impression that you were in on the destiny funneled off for you all. He loved the experience as he didn’t get to date much as an idol, and had thought your first date had gone swimmingly. 

He even asked if you still had his collectible photo card. 

You did, but you lied and said you thought you had misplaced it. 

Sometimes it was easier that way. 

Sehun’s smile had faded for a moment, but he nodded, not allowing the small hiccup to dull his shine. He insisted you should see each other again sometime, and you happily agreed. 

You had exchanged a few text messages since then, but no hangout pending. 

The next to call you was Jooheon. It took at least a month for a number you had never recognized to text your phone. His method of conversation was ominous, and you weren’t truly certain of who you were meeting until you had appeared at the small cafe he had instructed you to go to. As soon as you sat down at the table, he dissolved into a mess of tears and frustration. He mentioned the battle of competition, the attraction of a guaranteed win, and the anger behind having that taken away from him. 

But more solidly, the anger of not being selected by someone you cared about very much. 

Jooheon’s apologies were sincere and his words were solemn. You were conflicted by the tone he had set, considering you had never seen the side of this man before. He was passionate about so many things and you had joined the growing list. 

He insisted he wanted to make it up to you and begged you for another chance. 

Chance still pending. You ignored his last three texts. 

When the show had finished, you had thought of reaching out to Seunghyun. He had been gaining a lot of negative attention in the media lately for things unrelated to My Idol and you knew he didn’t need the stress from you as well. You did however send him a simple text once you managed to receive his number. 

“no matter what you feel for me...you can always come back if you need to. i’m here for you and hope to see you in a brighter light soon. oo” 

The silence from him was unfortunately the loudest. 

The silence from Jay however was almost expected. 

You had hurt him. Twice. And as he had said himself, he wasn’t one to be made a fool of. 

Admittedly you had felt the strongest about Jay and once you had listened to the plight of the other idols, you had even considered contacting him, but you knew your efforts would be futile. You had pushed him away one too many times and you were certain he was done. 

You missed him, that was a simple fact. It was easy to miss someone who cared and invested so much in you. Your heart ached when you looked back on your confusion, on his expression when you had told him the final “no.”

Maybe someday one of you would overcome your pride, but that day wasn’t today. 

The last person for you to meet with today was actually the first to find himself in your inbox. 

Taehyung. 

The human sunflower himself. 

“Hey Y/N,” his familiar and deep voice cooed as he stood before you. You shook your thoughts from the reflection of the men who apologized before him and focused on his face. 

He was here. In this moment. Right now. 

And he was just as glowing as you had remembered. 

“Taehyung,” you whispered, looking up at him, letting a smile find your lips despite your reserve. You stood, an impulse you couldn’t deny. He wrapped his arms around you and hugged you tightly. He nuzzled his face into your shoulder and let out a light giggle. 

“I missed you so much.” 

“I missed you too,” you whispered weakly. You settled back into your side of the booth and glanced at him, sneaking any look you could. 

It was true, you had missed him. 

“So should I address the elephant in the room?” he grinned. 

“I sincerely don’t know what you’re talking about,” you hummed, batting your lashes. “There are no elephants in this room Taehyung.” 

“No, but there’s one on my arm,” he chuckled, wiggling his brows. You knew of his patented moles on his bicep that he would often squeeze the skin below to create an elephant trunk. 

It was nice to laugh with him. It was nice to laugh in general. 

“But really,” he nodded, his face stoic for a moment. “We need to talk about...you know.”

“You don’t have to feel compelled,” you sighed. “I’ve heard it five times through now.”

“But you haven’t heard me,” he nodded. Suddenly any response you had crafted escaped your tongue. He was right. You nodded as well, signaling him to continue. 

“It’s true, we had a meeting. We were told how the story would go. Besides Jooheon, we were all voted into our positions and progressed naturally. There was truth in the process,” he whispered lowly. It was difficult for him to speak, evident pain by having to dredge up something that hurt him to speak about. “We were told how it would end. But what I wasn’t told was how I should react to you. What I wasn’t told was how I should feel about you. What I wasn’t told was that I could possibly fall in love with you.”

Your jaw dropped for a moment, unsure of what you were hearing. 

“I have difficulty in following rules, but I thought that if I didn’t...I would never have the chance to see you again. That scared me more than being voted off. I know it’s a poor excuse, but in order to win you, I had to lose you. I couldn’t protect you...But now that everything has settled, I’m left worrying that your angry with me...that by not telling you what happened I ruined any chance we could have had...that I’ll really have to be a simple bystander to your life.”

You swallowed, attempting to internalize his words. 

While you sent away both men who had cared for you...they were unable to control their emotions. You however, were meeting with a man who could have appeared in your final two just as easily as Jooheon or Jay had. The one noble and pure soul who just wanted to love you and not win anything. 

“I understand if you don’t want to talk to me anymore,” he whispered. “Your trust is everything and I broke it. I just wanted to tell you my perspective...and I hope that it means something to you.” 

“Taehyung,” you managed after several moments of silence. You reached out, encasing his large hands with yours. “We’ve made our mistakes...but I think...I think if I didn’t talk to you anymore...the worst mistake I could possibly make is walking away from you...when you waited for me. 

And thank you...because it was an awful wait.”

Taehyung grinned, gripping your hands back. He lifted them to his lips and kissed your knuckles lightly. 

You were rewriting your own story. 

And the My Idol producers.

And the My Idol writer. 

Couldn’t do anything about it. 

The End. 

[siliconwebx]

Why Being Resilient is Essential to Success

The day my boyfriend moved his furniture out, a week after I’d ended our six-year relationship, my Mom called as I was curled up on my temporary makeshift couch of two oversized pillows pushed together. “I’m okay,” I said. “Oh, I know you’re okay,” she replied. “You’re strong as steel.”

Steel. I love that word. It’s a noun, of course, but it’s also a verb: to steel oneself, to mentally prepare for a difficulty that’s coming. Life is hard. Steel is harder.

There’s a storm before every calm. We’ve all faced one and will face more. You will not escape it. Some of us are probably in the middle of one right now.

Flailing and complaining, worrying and unraveling – these reactions don’t help us. They’re natural and honest, and they deserve acknowledgment, but the next steps are release, acceptance and bracing for impact.

Success isn’t found in the breakdown. It’s in the buildup.

We Need Resilience in Small Doses, Too

Resilience isn’t required for just the big things. Anyone who freelances, runs a business or is striving to level up in their career – or who has a newborn, is healing from an injury or is going through a divorce – knows that it takes bite-sized resilience multiple times a day. I’d argue that it’s more difficult to stay strong in little moments than in big ones. When life-or-death isn’t the conundrum, it’s much easier to buckle under lesser pressures, especially as they build up.

Rock Bottom Doesn’t Have to Be the Springboard

When the worst has happened, either by fate or your own fault, the way up is obvious because it’s the only way. You can be resilient before you stretch that rubber band that is your life as far as it’ll go, though. In so many situations, you have the ability to stop, shift and change the outcome; to improve your day now instead of waiting for tomorrow; to foresee bigger problems ahead and start making repairs now to avoid them.

Mister Rogers has a song called, “What Do You Do With the Mad That You Feel?” and even though it’s to help children make better decisions when they’re angry, it’s applicable to adults, too – because let’s be honest, we can all turn into toddlers when we don’t get our way. Here’s the best line: “It’s great to be able to stop when you’ve planned a thing that’s wrong, and be able to do something else instead.” Whether the difficulty you’re facing is within your control or outside of it, you can choose how you’ll recover.

(Have you see the Mister Rogers documentary? Watch it. Be prepared to cry.)

Maybe It’s a Good Time to Bail

When I was in high school, there were these two cousins who wanted to beat me up, tough, mean girls who wouldn’t have hesitated to punch me right in the face. They told me to meet them down in the parking lot after school. All day long, people came up to me to ask what I was going to do. I just shrugged, unflustered – “I’m not going to go down to the parking lot.” I left at 3 p.m., walked to my after-school job and nobody ever clucked another word about it.

We’re always bouncing back from something. Sometimes you have the luxury to choose what you want to cope with. I didn’t have to learn how to be resilient after getting a black eye. Instead, I bounced back from a scary threat and school-wide speculation, which taught me an entirely different – and more worthwhile – lesson.

Get real with yourself. What’s required here? What do you want to deal with? What are you even capable of dealing with? Is there a better, smarter choice with positive, long-lasting impact?

Life doesn’t reward you for taking the harder, tougher route for toughness’ sake alone. Your choices should make you a stronger person.

5 Ways to Be More Resilient

Assuming you can’t bail right now, here’s how to become more resilient, both in the moment and in daily life – think of it as your resiliency training.

1. Ignore the finish line. Believe in your abilities.

Few things turn out the way we envision them. A lot of the time, they end up way better than we could have pictured. Or way worse.

Goals are necessary so there’s something to strive for, but don’t fool yourself into thinking you’ll know exactly how a situation is going to turn out. (I dive into this some more in my article about the illusion of control.)

Personally, the best things in my life have come from two ideas working simultaneously: (1) utter acceptance that I have no idea what the future will look like and (2) complete and total faith in my abilities. Sometimes my ability is as abstract as making good decisions and leading myself in the right direction, and sometimes it’s a lot more tangible, like being able to write well and provide good customer service to my clients.

The point here is that if you’re more confident in your capability than hung up on the outcome, you’ll have an easier time bouncing back because you’ll be relying on the most trustworthy person in your life: yourself.

2. Gamify it.

Right now, you can’t do the last thing – you can’t solve the entire problem – but you can do the next best thing. Sometimes that’s super hard, like the time I hiked Giant Mountain, fell three times, hurt my knee and realized I didn’t bring my headlamp as the sun was setting (or the right boots or enough water). Or like when climber Joe Simpson shattered the Hell out of his leg at 19,000 feet – spoiler alert, he survived and then wrote Touching the Void about the experience, which I recommend you read.

Joe and I both gamified the experience. He created a pattern of movements to use for each step; I got up and down that mountain in 100-step groups. I’m sure we both cried, but we also both lived to tell the tale.

The point isn’t necessarily to make the situation fun but to make it bearable, to keep the mind distracted and focus on one crisis at a time. If you’re not in something as threatening and unforgiving as the wilderness, you can even give yourself small treats as you reach mini-goals.

3. Manage your impulses.

If you’re generally an impulsive person in life, you’re going to be an impulsive person under stress – possibly more impulsive and with worse consequences. Staying calm and making rational decisions can help you be more resilient because you won’t make a situation worse before it can get better.

Since most days you’re going to deal with minor problems and not major ones, get used to acting less impulsively. Don’t make decisions out of pure frustration or even pure excitement – think them through first. Write a pros and cons list if you need to. Or see what happens if you make no decision right now and give yourself plenty of time to sit on it.

4. Move through the stages of grief quickly.

There are seven stages of grief:

Shock: Paralysis when facing the situation.

Denial: Avoiding the inevitable.

Anger: Bottled-up emotion and frustration pour out.

Bargaining: Trying to find a way out of the situation (but not in a healthy or productive way).

Depression: Realizing the inevitable is…inevitable, and being upset about that.

Testing: Looking for realistic solutions to the problem.

Acceptance: Finding a way to move forward.

People who are resilient move from the shock stage to the testing and acceptance stages quickly. They may even skip some of the stages in between, especially if they’ve faced the same difficulty in the past. Laurence Gonzales writes about this in Deep Survival (great book, BTW): “The best survivors spend almost no time, especially in emergencies, getting upset about what has been lost, or feeling distressed about things going badly.”

Forcing your way through the stages of grief takes a lot of willpower, especially because the middle stages are so tempting to sink into. Getting it all out can help, whether that’s out loud to someone you know or down on paper. If you need to, write out the different stages and how you’ve experienced them. Then start listing those solutions.

You can definitely practice this in everyday life. When something small-but-totally-annoying happens, force yourself to skip over the “I’m so upset about this” stages. Go right to solving the problem. The next time you spill an entire carton of orange juice on your kitchen floor, start cleaning it up without hesitating. If you forgot to buy something at the store, put your sneakers on and head back out before you can beat yourself up over it. If you get a splinter, gather the rubbing alcohol and the tweezers and get that sucker out. Just get it done.

5. Learn from others.

“Others have been through it too” isn’t comforting for everyone, but it’s always been comforting for me, especially when I can tie my experience to that of a specific person, not just the general public. We’re all unique butterflies, but honestly, one person’s heartbreak or firing from work or fight with a family member is a billion other people’s, too. Knowing that others came before, labored through and walked out the other end healed, employed or on speaking terms is supremely hopeful. Pardon my penchant for sappy stories, but this quote from P.S. I Love You pinballs in my head whenever I feel alone in disappointment or sadness: “Thing to remember is if we’re all alone, then we’re all together in that too.”

In practice, this can mean telling people about what you’re going through – you’ll hear similar stories in return. I’m not a “spill your heart out” person usually, so my solution has always been to pick up a book or read a magazine article about how Joe Famous Person faced something horrible and got through it. And if you really need a jolt of “everyone’s been here,” listen to Nate Berkus’ interview called “Surviving the Storm” on the SuperSoul Conversations podcast.

On the same note, this is a perfect time to give back. Helping others can give you a fix of “my life isn’t so bad,” or just shake you out of whatever slump you’re in. If you get a confidence boost from being selfless, I give you permission to enjoy that – it’s not selfish to feel good about yourself.

Wrapping Up

If you’re not a person who can handle daily life and all its teeny struggles, you’re going to have a difficult time moving through those stages of grief in order to help yourself when the you-know-what really hits the fan. Your habits and the way you handle your emotions on a normal day are the training and preparation you need to be truly resilient when you need it most. Get used to helping yourself in small ways so that it’ll be second nature when serious drama or trauma blows through.

Excited about being less impulsive and more cool, calm and collected? Check out this article about how responding instead of reacting can improve your business relationships.

The post Why Being Resilient is Essential to Success appeared first on Elegant Themes Blog.

😉SiliconWebX | 🌐ElegantThemes

[2nakeeyes]

@incoronat // sc.

     when would the damned rain end? light had pushed himself under the nearest dry spot he could find, shaking fingers wrapped around the white cane he’d been gifted with once he had woken up. it felt heavier than the one he kept at home, weightier in his hands as he tapped it against the pavement in a nervous rhythm. there was a number of reasons for the anxiety bubbling hot under his skin -- the unfamiliar surroundings, the familiar situation, the lack of connection with his sister. the stew of thoughts bouncing through his skull practically distracted him entirely from the heavy footsteps of the person who came to stand beside him. 

     when he did notice, he jolted upright, his shoulders drawn tight as he tilted his head to the left. he needed to be more attentive to figure out how the person beside him looked.

       “ -- apologies. i know a number of us are attempting to escape the rain. "