#do you realize how many centuries its been
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Wait people fucking know about me? As in my dead name from like centuries ago?
Ya'll actually have been talking about.... About Lethe?
For shits and giggles I figured I would go as myself for Halloween. And then I saw... I saw that there has been developments.
Sure its not as extensive as Zeus's history. But... Fuck people are talking about me.
Its been forever. Also explains the dreams about people asking for shit these past few years.
Like damn. I thought I had too much wine but really someone has been reaching out. Some... People.
Sometimes... I just let myself forget what I was. Its easier then the pain of remembering it all.
I guess... I guess if anyone cares to learn about Lethe or any of the others I .
. It would be hella rude not to answer?
Also yes dream walking is rather easy for me and yes ya'll have weird as fuck minds. I literally will walk around minds when I am sleeping. Its how I avoid my memories. I can't exactly dream ironically enough. I just relieve things. So I wander through other peoples minds and pretend I am just. Dremaing like them.
And I refer to my first name I ever had as my dead name. Because it is. For all the hell and troubles it caused me. I am much better now away from it.
#it weirds me out a bit ngl#do you realize how many centuries its been#sparta was not even a thought when i dipped out
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Tesla's Dieselgate
Elon Musk lies a lot. He lies about being a “utopian socialist.” He lies about being a “free speech absolutist.” He lies about which companies he founded:
https://www.businessinsider.com/tesla-cofounder-martin-eberhard-interview-history-elon-musk-ev-market-2023-2
He lies about being the “chief engineer” of those companies:
https://www.quora.com/Was-Elon-Musk-the-actual-engineer-behind-SpaceX-and-Tesla
He lies about really stupid stuff, like claiming that comsats that share the same spectrum will deliver steady broadband speeds as they add more users who each get a narrower slice of that spectrum:
https://www.eff.org/wp/case-fiber-home-today-why-fiber-superior-medium-21st-century-broadband
The fundamental laws of physics don’t care about this bullshit, but people do. The comsat lie convinced a bunch of people that pulling fiber to all our homes is literally impossible — as though the electrical and phone lines that come to our homes now were installed by an ancient, lost civilization. Pulling new cabling isn’t a mysterious art, like embalming pharaohs. We do it all the time. One of the poorest places in America installed universal fiber with a mule named “Ole Bub”:
https://www.newyorker.com/tech/annals-of-technology/the-one-traffic-light-town-with-some-of-the-fastest-internet-in-the-us
Previous tech barons had “reality distortion fields,” but Musk just blithely contradicts himself and pretends he isn’t doing so, like a budget Steve Jobs. There’s an entire site devoted to cataloging Musk’s public lies:
https://elonmusk.today/
But while Musk lacks the charm of earlier Silicon Valley grifters, he’s much better than they ever were at running a long con. For years, he’s been promising “full self driving…next year.”
https://pluralistic.net/2022/10/09/herbies-revenge/#100-billion-here-100-billion-there-pretty-soon-youre-talking-real-money
He’s hasn’t delivered, but he keeps claiming he has, making Teslas some of the deadliest cars on the road:
https://www.washingtonpost.com/technology/2023/06/10/tesla-autopilot-crashes-elon-musk/
Tesla is a giant shell-game masquerading as a car company. The important thing about Tesla isn’t its cars, it’s Tesla’s business arrangement, the Tesla-Financial Complex:
https://pluralistic.net/2021/11/24/no-puedo-pagar-no-pagara/#Rat
Once you start unpacking Tesla’s balance sheets, you start to realize how much the company depends on government subsidies and tax-breaks, combined with selling carbon credits that make huge, planet-destroying SUVs possible, under the pretense that this is somehow good for the environment:
https://pluralistic.net/2021/04/14/for-sale-green-indulgences/#killer-analogy
But even with all those financial shenanigans, Tesla’s got an absurdly high valuation, soaring at times to 1600x its profitability:
https://pluralistic.net/2021/01/15/hoover-calling/#intangibles
That valuation represents a bet on Tesla’s ability to extract ever-higher rents from its customers. Take Tesla’s batteries: you pay for the battery when you buy your car, but you don’t own that battery. You have to rent the right to use its full capacity, with Tesla reserving the right to reduce how far you go on a charge based on your willingness to pay:
https://memex.craphound.com/2017/09/10/teslas-demon-haunted-cars-in-irmas-path-get-a-temporary-battery-life-boost/
That’s just one of the many rent-a-features that Tesla drivers have to shell out for. You don’t own your car at all: when you sell it as a used vehicle, Tesla strips out these features you paid for and makes the next driver pay again, reducing the value of your used car and transfering it to Tesla’s shareholders:
https://www.theverge.com/2020/2/6/21127243/tesla-model-s-autopilot-disabled-remotely-used-car-update
To maintain this rent-extraction racket, Tesla uses DRM that makes it a felony to alter your own car’s software without Tesla’s permission. This is the root of all autoenshittification:
https://pluralistic.net/2023/07/24/rent-to-pwn/#kitt-is-a-demon
This is technofeudalism. Whereas capitalists seek profits (income from selling things), feudalists seek rents (income from owning the things other people use). If Telsa were a capitalist enterprise, then entrepreneurs could enter the market and sell mods that let you unlock the functionality in your own car:
https://pluralistic.net/2020/06/11/1-in-3/#boost-50
But because Tesla is a feudal enterprise, capitalists must first secure permission from the fief, Elon Musk, who decides which companies are allowed to compete with him, and how.
Once a company owns the right to decide which software you can run, there’s no limit to the ways it can extract rent from you. Blocking you from changing your device’s software lets a company run overt scams on you. For example, they can block you from getting your car independently repaired with third-party parts.
But they can also screw you in sneaky ways. Once a device has DRM on it, Section 1201 of the DMCA makes it a felony to bypass that DRM, even for legitimate purposes. That means that your DRM-locked device can spy on you, and because no one is allowed to explore how that surveillance works, the manufacturer can be incredibly sloppy with all the personal info they gather:
https://www.cnbc.com/2019/03/29/tesla-model-3-keeps-data-like-crash-videos-location-phone-contacts.html
All kinds of hidden anti-features can lurk in your DRM-locked car, protected from discovery, analysis and criticism by the illegality of bypassing the DRM. For example, Teslas have a hidden feature that lets them lock out their owners and summon a repo man to drive them away if you have a dispute about a late payment:
https://tiremeetsroad.com/2021/03/18/tesla-allegedly-remotely-unlocks-model-3-owners-car-uses-smart-summon-to-help-repo-agent/
DRM is a gun on the mantlepiece in Act I, and by Act III, it goes off, revealing some kind of ugly and often dangerous scam. Remember Dieselgate? Volkswagen created a line of demon-haunted cars: if they thought they were being scrutinized (by regulators measuring their emissions), they switched into a mode that traded performance for low emissions. But when they believed themselves to be unobserved, they reversed this, emitting deadly levels of NOX but delivering superior mileage.
The conversion of the VW diesel fleet into mobile gas-chambers wouldn’t have been possible without DRM. DRM adds a layer of serious criminal jeopardy to anyone attempting to reverse-engineer and study any device, from a phone to a car. DRM let Apple claim to be a champion of its users’ privacy even as it spied on them from asshole to appetite:
https://pluralistic.net/2022/11/14/luxury-surveillance/#liar-liar
Now, Tesla is having its own Dieselgate scandal. A stunning investigation by Steve Stecklow and Norihiko Shirouzu for Reuters reveals how Tesla was able to create its own demon-haunted car, which systematically deceived drivers about its driving range, and the increasingly desperate measures the company turned to as customers discovered the ruse:
https://www.reuters.com/investigates/special-report/tesla-batteries-range/
The root of the deception is very simple: Tesla mis-sells its cars by falsely claiming ranges that those cars can’t attain. Every person who ever bought a Tesla was defrauded.
But this fraud would be easy to detect. If you bought a Tesla rated for 353 miles on a charge, but the dashboard range predictor told you that your fully charged car could only go 150 miles, you’d immediately figure something was up. So your Telsa tells another lie: the range predictor tells you that you can go 353 miles.
But again, if the car continued to tell you it has 203 miles of range when it was about to run out of charge, you’d figure something was up pretty quick — like, the first time your car ran out of battery while the dashboard cheerily informed you that you had 203 miles of range left.
So Teslas tell a third lie: when the battery charge reached about 50%, the fake range is replaced with the real one. That way, drivers aren’t getting mass-stranded by the roadside, and the scam can continue.
But there’s a new problem: drivers whose cars are rated for 353 miles but can’t go anything like that far on a full charge naturally assume that something is wrong with their cars, so they start calling Tesla service and asking to have the car checked over.
This creates a problem for Tesla: those service calls can cost the company $1,000, and of course, there’s nothing wrong with the car. It’s performing exactly as designed. So Tesla created its boldest fraud yet: a boiler-room full of anti-salespeople charged with convincing people that their cars weren’t broken.
This new unit — the “diversion team” — was headquartered in a Nevada satellite office, which was equipped with a metal xylophone that would be rung in triumph every time a Tesla owner was successfully conned into thinking that their car wasn’t defrauding them.
When a Tesla owner called this boiler room, the diverter would run remote diagnostics on their car, then pronounce it fine, and chide the driver for having energy-hungry driving habits (shades of Steve Jobs’s “You’re holding it wrong”):
https://www.wired.com/2010/06/iphone-4-holding-it-wrong/
The drivers who called the Diversion Team weren’t just lied to, they were also punished. The Tesla app was silently altered so that anyone who filed a complaint about their car’s range was no longer able to book a service appointment for any reason. If their car malfunctioned, they’d have to request a callback, which could take several days.
Meanwhile, the diverters on the diversion team were instructed not to inform drivers if the remote diagnostics they performed detected any other defects in the cars.
The diversion team had a 750 complaint/week quota: to juke this stat, diverters would close the case for any driver who failed to answer the phone when they were eventually called back. The center received 2,000+ calls every week. Diverters were ordered to keep calls to five minutes or less.
Eventually, diverters were ordered to cease performing any remote diagnostics on drivers’ cars: a source told Reuters that “Thousands of customers were told there is nothing wrong with their car” without any diagnostics being performed.
Predicting EV range is an inexact science as many factors can affect battery life, notably whether a journey is uphill or downhill. Every EV automaker has to come up with a figure that represents some kind of best guess under a mix of conditions. But while other manufacturers err on the side of caution, Tesla has the most inaccurate mileage estimates in the industry, double the industry average.
Other countries’ regulators have taken note. In Korea, Tesla was fined millions and Elon Musk was personally required to state that he had deceived Tesla buyers. The Korean regulator found that the true range of Teslas under normal winter conditions was less than half of the claimed range.
Now, many companies have been run by malignant narcissists who lied compulsively — think of Thomas Edison, archnemesis of Nikola Tesla himself. The difference here isn’t merely that Musk is a deeply unfit monster of a human being — but rather, that DRM allows him to defraud his customers behind a state-enforced opaque veil. The digital computers at the heart of a Tesla aren’t just demons haunting the car, changing its performance based on whether it believes it is being observed — they also allow Musk to invoke the power of the US government to felonize anyone who tries to peer into the black box where he commits his frauds.
If you'd like an essay-formatted version of this post to read or share, here's a link to it on pluralistic.net, my surveillance-free, ad-free, tracker-free blog:
https://pluralistic.net/2023/07/28/edison-not-tesla/#demon-haunted-world
This Sunday (July 30) at 1530h, I’m appearing on a panel at Midsummer Scream in Long Beach, CA, to discuss the wonderful, award-winning “Ghost Post” Haunted Mansion project I worked on for Disney Imagineering.
Image ID [A scene out of an 11th century tome on demon-summoning called 'Compendium rarissimum totius Artis Magicae sistematisatae per celeberrimos Artis hujus Magistros. Anno 1057. Noli me tangere.' It depicts a demon tormenting two unlucky would-be demon-summoners who have dug up a grave in a graveyard. One summoner is held aloft by his hair, screaming; the other screams from inside the grave he is digging up. The scene has been altered to remove the demon's prominent, urinating penis, to add in a Tesla supercharger, and a red Tesla Model S nosing into the scene.]
Image:
Steve Jurvetson (modified)
https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Tesla_Model_S_Indoors.jpg
CC BY 2.0
https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/2.0/deed.en
#pluralistic#steve stecklow#autoenshittification#norihiko shirouzu#reuters#you're holding it wrong#r2r#right to repair#range rage#range anxiety#grifters#demon-haunted world#drm#tpms#1201#dmca 1201#tesla#evs#electric vehicles#ftc act section 5#unfair and deceptive practices#automotive#enshittification#elon musk
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Elemental (M) Pt. 1
Author: kpopfanfictrash
Genre: Second Chance Romance / Modern Fantasy
Pairing: Jungkook / Reader (she/her)
Synopsis: Fear has never been a foreign concept to you. Your entire life has been shaped by the knowledge that you’re different, and fear of the stigma which might follow discovery. Although fire, earth, air and water Elementals have been public for decades, the fear-mongering around your kind hasn’t changed; something you have intimate knowledge of, having experienced it firsthand. Since then, you’ve done your best to hide your water powers. This is for your own safety, as your mom likes to say.
Safety flies out the window though, when you fall in love. Jeon Jungkook isn’t just any love, either, he’s the love. The person who makes you feel as though your darkest corners deserve to be seen. Unable to control your magic around him, you find yourself faced with a horrible fact: you need to break up.
A plan which proves difficult when Jungkook simply refuses to go. And maybe, just maybe, you find the constraints placed on yourself don’t make sense anymore.
Rating: 18+
Warnings: death of a parent (past), some emotional abuse
NSFW Warnings: oral (woman and man), multiple orgasms (woman), fingering, hand job, face-riding, sex outdoors (in a secluded, private area), very slight ass-play, breast play
Word Count: 17,287 (32,487 total)
Author's Note: Unfortunately, the new Tumblr text editor doesn't allow for more than 1,000 paragraphs per post. Part I is here, and Part II will be uploaded shortly. Please, please, please reblog both if possible! In my experience, engagement tends to be worse when split into two parts. (also, if you haven't already realized based on the premise, Y/N does break up with Jungkook in the first part of this fic lol so, if that's something you don't want to read; fair warning!)
[ Cross-posted to Wattpad here ]
Magic, to you, has never been a boon.
Despite its romanticization in movies and stories, the reality of magic is messy and unpredictable. As dangerous as it can be fickle, your mom likes to say. Usually followed by a glance in your direction, swift enough for you not to notice, although you always do.
Either that, or an unconscious tilt her chin towards the photograph on the mantle. You aren’t sure she even realizes she does it, acting on instinct alone. The photo is of your dad, holding you on his shoulders with an ear-to-ear grin. He was the other Elemental in your family.
Even with only one magical parent, the Elemental gene tends to be passed on to children. Your dad’s magic was water, skilled in manipulating and calling forth the element. He was lauded for it, which was in itself unusual. More often, Elementals are run out of town by other humans. Although time has gone by since societal integration, there are still many who view your kind with suspicion.
You can’t say that you blame them – not really. Because again, the reality of magic is it can be dangerous. Based on experience, bad things tend to happen when you lose control.
Head tilted, you squint through the fog at your boyfriend’s apartment. For centuries, fog has been heralded as an ill omen and maybe there’s some degree of truth to it. Maybe the first speaker lived near a temperamental water Elemental, unable to keep their emotions from manipulating the weather.
Thoughts souring at how close to reality this feels, you shake your head once and some of the fog clears.
A pep talk, you think. That’s what you need to convince yourself to enter. Unseasonably chilly this late in the summer, your fingers curl into the ends of your sweater. Going inside would be preferrable to standing out in the cold, and yet you can’t manage a single step.
Better to stand in the cold than enter and shatter.
Again, you remind yourself you’re doing the right thing and again, this doesn’t help. If anything, it makes you clutch your sweater tighter. For once, you wish doing the right thing meant what’s right for you. Exhaling deeply, your eyes shut as a train passes and shakes the ground.
You began dating Jungkook three months ago and within a week, you knew it was different. You have a tendency to hide pieces of yourself, knowing most people won’t like what they find. Jungkook never allowed that to happen. The first time you ghosted, he showed up at your favorite coffee shop the next morning and asked what had gone wrong. Taken aback, you responded honestly and to your surprise, Jungkook listened.
He stayed. Stayed when others had run, cementing himself on a short list of people you can trust. Three months into dating, things have moved at once fast and slow. Fast because typically, you exit relationships long before feelings like these ones develop. Slow, because you haven’t given Jungkook every part of yourself.
Physical intimacy comes to mind. On several occasions, this has proved… difficult.
Eyes opening, you stare at the door. Memories of last night rise to the surface. For a long time, you’ve known this relationship has an end date. Knowing this doesn’t prepare you for the difficult conversation ahead.
The last time you saw Jungkook was after midnight. Fat raindrops chased your footsteps while you ran from his place, descending the subway at a record pace. The look on his face remains stuck in your mind and even now, you find the thought hard to revisit.
Imagining hurting Jungkook again is unfathomable. Stifling a gasp, you spin on your heel and march away. Halfway to the gate, you get a grip on yourself. Coming to a stop, you remind yourself this isn’t about you. Jungkook will hate you – there’s nothing to do about that now. Now, this is about Jungkook and ensuring he’s safe.
Slowly, you turn around and make your way forward. In the name of procrastination, you stop at a trash can to clean out your purse. Old receipts, gum wrappers and a crumpled-up napkin shake into the bin. You pause at the napkin, staring at the embossed name of the restaurant you work at. Or – more accurately – worked at.
Slamming the trash lid, you turn. You began work at Pierre’s Bistro two months ago as a temporary measure. Ideally, you paint but lately, inspiration has run dry. Waiting tables pays the bills, leaving time at the end of the day to stare at a blank canvas.
Pierre’s is an upscale French restaurant a few blocks down with semi-decent food and waiting tables would be fine if the owner – Pierre – weren’t a massive asshole. Now that you don’t work there, you can be honest about that. Pierre was the most sexist, elitist, capitalistic piece of shit you’ve ever had the displeasure of working for. While on his payroll, you tried to make the best of it but now, you have nothing to lose. Pierre was a dick.
A point he proved yet again last night, much to your mortification. You prefer working the lunch shift to dinner, and weekdays to weekends. Saturday nights are worst of all, and last night Pierre didn’t arrive until well after six. You were forced to cover the entire front section, picking up for a co-worker who called in sick.
Rushing from the bar, you nearly crashed into your boss removing his coat. Grabbing you by the elbow, Pierre steadied you, his hand lingering.
“Whoa, where’s the fire?” he joked.
You forced a smile. Experience has taught you the best thing to do in those types of situations is to smile and laugh.
“No fire. Lots of customers! Excuse me,” you said and tried to move past.
Pierre didn’t release you. If anything, his grip on you tightened until you turned your head.
“Yes?” you said, impatient.
Pierre didn’t respond, looking you slowly up and down. Eventually, he released you to take a step backwards. “Nothing,” he said carefully. “Be careful out there tonight.”
Trying not to gag on his words, you moved on. Unfortunately, it was hard to escape Pierre’s notice once caught. From that point on, each of your flaws were held under a microscope. First, it was that you didn’t fold the napkins correctly. Next, you took a wandering path from kitchen to table. Each time you entered the dining room, scornful words were covered by simpering smiles.
By the time your shift end approached, you could barely keep going. A large group had entered and, seeing the host occupied, you took it upon yourself to seat them at your last table. Fixing your apron, you hurried through the restaurant and into the kitchen.
Grabbing another table’s dishes, you thanked the cook and pushed open the door. Immediately, arms shoved you back in. Startled, you barely had time to recognize the host, Vanessa, before the doors swung shut.
“Vanessa?” you said, adjusting your grip. “What’s going on?”
Harried, she glanced over one shoulder. “Sorry,” she sighed, curly hair slipping from her messy bun. “I wanted to warn you before you went back out. Pierre is pissed.”
Your stomach sank. “Pissed… at me?”
She nodded, another dark curl escaping. “Something about saving the table up front for his friends? Bullshit, yes,” she said at your expression. “But you know how he is.”
“Yeah, I know,” you muttered. Deciding there was nothing to be done but keep moving, you hefted your plates higher. “Okay, thanks for the warning. I need to get these to table ten.”
“No problem,” she said and stepped out of your way.
You walked inside with slightly less spring in your step. Pierre lounged near the bar, surrounded by a group of people you could only assume to be friends. Although you felt his gaze on your face, you avoided him the best you could while you made your rounds. Taking the long way to the kitchen, you passed in front of the window.
Which was the moment you noticed Jungkook waiting for you on the curb. He stood beneath a streetlight, light pooling around the ends of his dark hair. When he saw you approach, his face lit up and he smiled.
Cursing beneath your breath, you smiled back. You were supposed to be done a half-hour ago, but there hadn’t been a good time yet to stop. Waving back, you mouthed, just a minute, and frantically pushed through the crowd to the back.
Merely seeing his face lifted a weight from your chest. It was easy to be around Jungkook because he liked every part of you. You never felt the urge to pretend, to curve yourself into something someone else would find pleasurable.
Well, he liked every part except one – and you were working on telling him that.
Hurrying into the staff room, you forgot your plan to avoid Pierre. You nearly jumped a mile when a hand grabbed your elbow, spinning you to face your fuming manager.
Pierre stared down his nose. “Follow me,” he snapped, releasing your arm to spin around.
He passed tables full of patrons, leading you to the bar before turning. “Y/N,” Pierre said, his voice dropping. “Are things okay tonight?”
“Yes,” you responded, deciding one-word answers were safest.
“Then why, exactly, are you fucking this up?”
Your jaw tensed. “I wasn’t aware I was doing so,” you said carefully.
“The napkins?” Pierre made a tsk-ing sound. “How many times should I say that presentation is important? Not to mention your laziness. One of your tables had to flag me down to ask for a refill. And now, you gave away the front table.” His expression darkened. “What makes you think you, a fucking waitress, can step in for a host? You sat someone at the table I personally reserved for my friends!”
You shouldn’t have responded. You should have stayed quiet and yet –
“There was no name in the book,” you muttered.
“What’s that?” Pierre waited and, when you stayed silent, shook his head. “I hadn’t had time to write their name down, but I told Vanessa, who assured me it’d happen. Of course, she wasn’t taking into consideration Y/N, the wonder waitress! Taking everyone’s jobs and making them harder.”
At your sides, your hands balled into fists. It took a greater amount of concentration than normal to keep your emotions from spilling over.
Of course, there were explanations for Pierre’s accusations. The napkins were correct before he jostled the table. You had been circulating your tables and if you were unavailable, it was because of his poor staffing. Oh, and – he didn’t make a reservation for his friends.
Slowly, you exhaled and stuffed down the responses. Deep down, with other emotions and magic. Beyond Pierre, a glass trembled but once you relaxed, the water went still.
“I apologize,” you said, not meeting his gaze. “I’ll do better next time.”
Pierre sniffed. “See that you do,” he said, brushing past. Grabbing a beer from the bar, you heard his friends burst into raucous laughter. Apparently, your humiliation was entertaining.
Heaving a small sigh, you turned – and froze where you stood.
Outside, Jungkook stared into the restaurant with murderous eyes. Too late, you realized Pierre had pulled you in front of the window. Away from anyone dining, but in full view of anyone on the sidewalk. Like your boyfriend, who witnessed the entire spectacle.
For a moment, your emotions overwhelmed, and you felt magic crack the walls you kept hidden. Embarrassment crept past your boundaries. Humiliation. Fury. Stuffing everything back, you quickly turned to rush through the tables.
Jungkook’s gaze snapped towards you, his brow furrowing. Reaching the staff room, you paced up and down. Jungkook saw you. He saw Pierre’s outburst, which meant you’d have to explain. You’d have to explain to Jungkook – the only person whose opinion you cared about – why you allowed other people to walk all over you.
He’d start to ask questions. Questions like, when was the last time you really got mad? You’d have no good response. Not because you don’t get mad, because you do. But because you don’t ever allow yourself to act on the feeling.
Faced with the prospect of brushing him off, you buried your face in both hands. Your usual excuses wore thin in your ears.
Pierre isn’t so bad. It was a one-time thing. You promise you’ll talk to Pierre tomorrow.
None of it would be true, and you didn’t want to lie to Jungkook. People never understood why you wouldn’t stand up for yourself, but the answer was complicated.
Your last date said you lacked emotions, but you don’t think that’s it. Of course, you have feelings, but those feelings are buried beneath so many layers, they can be hard to see. It’s not that you don’t feel, it’s that you cannot.
When you feel, your magic reacts, and people get hurt.
That was the last part of yourself you kept hidden. Jungkook is normal and he doesn’t know you’re an Elemental.
You know that by now, you should have said something. Obviously, but the timing was never right. Twenty-five years old, and you still aren’t sure how to broach the conversation. Few people know what you are, so you haven’t had much experience with the explanation. Your magic isn’t something you use if you can help it.
Yet another lesson you learned from your mom.
Your dad, an Elemental, died when you were five. Before, you lived near the ocean on a flat strip of sand. Your memories from before then are faint, but whenever you try, you can hear his booming laugh. Can feel the salt sting your cheeks, your mom tossing you in the air while you spun around.
Everything afterwards faded. At five years old, a hurricane swept past the barrier islands and that, you remember. You recall your mom at the door, pleading with your dad not to go as he donned his jacket. You remember him holding her hand, kissing the top of your head, and saying he’d return soon. Not many Elementals lived in your area, and even fewer had water magic.
You recall the hours passing, stretching longer and longer until dawn approached. Flashing lights followed, a woman climbing from her car to speak to your mom. You recall the sound of your mom sobbing, the policewoman’s voice floating into the house.
The storm surge was stronger than expected, but your dad managed to divert the worst. He saved the town only to be hit by a bolt of lightning. Instant death, the policewoman said, her tone implying this might be a comfort. Chest tight, your fingertips dug into the railing. Comfort meant nothing when your dad was gone. The irony struck you even back then – your dad saved others, and no one came to save him.
For weeks following, your mom was a ghost. At first, neighbors stopped by to drop off casseroles and condolences. Soon though, their sympathy stopped, and the whispers began. You were young enough not to notice, too consumed by the enormity of your own loss.
Eventually though, you noticed something was off. Suspicious eyes followed you down the sidewalk. Mothers clutched at their children, hurrying them to the side of an empty street. One day, you traipsed downstairs and overheard your mom on the phone.
She sat at the kitchen table, facing away from the staircase. You paused on the landing, listening to your aunt’s voice blast on speakerphone.
“Nonsense,” she was saying. “Your husband was a hero, and anyone saying otherwise is cracked. He saved your town!”
“I know.” Your mom blew her nose. “But now, people are wondering if he caused the storm. They’re saying maybe he… made the hurricane. It’s this new mayor,” she said, frustrated. “He hates Elementals and keeps insisting our family orchestrated this to collect money. He says –”
“Oh, no.” Your aunt sounded furious. “Don’t you repeat a single word that hateful man says.”
“He has a point, though,” your mom said, her voice low. “Did you hear about Uniontown? A fire Elemental accidentally set their barn on fire. Nearly burned the whole town. Magic is dangerous. I tried to warn him, but he wouldn’t listen, and now –”
“When was the last time your husband lost control, though? Are you saying you think he caused a hurricane?”
“God, no!” You watched your mom straighten. “But there are people saying… awful things.”
“Some people aren’t worth listening to.”
“I know.” Wearily, she exhaled. “They’re talking about Y/N, too, though. Apparently, she caused a tidal wave at the pool last weekend.”
Hearing your name said out loud, you shrank back in the shadows. You weren’t aware your mom knew about that, or that she cared. Bobby Clemmons teased Judith Bryce about her hair until finally, you snapped. Bobby was swept to the other end of the pool, much to Judith’s relief. She thanked you repeatedly.
Bobby was fine, except for some water up his nose. From the way he carried on though, you’d have thought he broke his arm.
Your mother lowered her voice, as though magic was something to be mentioned only in whispers. For the first time, a sense of shame crept over you. Your dad had always been open about magic, though stern. Stern in his belief magic should help people, not hurt. Never once did your dad insinuate magic itself was the problem.
Magic is dangerous.
Your mom’s words on the phone sank in as, your head pounding as you turned around to run up the steps. Even at six, you felt panic. If magic was dangerous and you were magical – that meant you were dangerous, too.
Slipping beneath your comforter, you stared at your shaking hands. Rain hit your windows, snowballing your worry to full-on fear. By the time your mom rushed upstairs, you were rocking under the covers as a storm raged.
She helped to calm you down, got your magic under control and a month after, you moved far away from the sea. A version of yourself vanished as you passed the pier. Despite this, you felt instant relief at the thought of control.
You remember your mom smiling when you joined the highway. “This will be good,” she said, her voice cracking slightly. “A fresh start, away from it all. You can be whoever you want to be, Y/N.”
Except for the person you actually were.
Her meaning was clear, even if she didn’t say it out loud. At the time, you found the thought soothing. If you didn’t want to use magic, you didn’t have to. You never had to become your dad, who all your friends said had caused the bad storm. Even the news had turned against you.
Earth Elemental suspected behind San Raoul earthquake!
Jailed air Elemental claims innocence against onslaught of tornadoes!
Fire Elementals flee after string of arson!
Always the exclamation point. Always the lurid fascination that blame could be pinned on a single person. New rules were implemented in the house. No magic, except in your mom’s presence. This soon became no magic at all, but you didn’t mind. Whenever you did use magic, it felt wild, chaotic – the opposite of how you wanted to feel.
Your early years were marked by the struggle to conceal your powers. Years passed without incident and then, something would happen, and you’d have to move. Your mom never begrudged you, simply packed the house to travel to the next city. Each time, you promised you’d do better but by the time you realized school wasn’t for you, you had moved no less than six times.
Art was a risk, though one you found necessary.
Creation meant tapping into emotion, but you found methods of coping. Painting was the only place you loosened the reins on your magic, and so it became an outlet of sorts. A release, preventing your emotions from spilling into unwanted places.
There were other strategies, as well. Deep breathing. Counting backwards from one hundred. Focusing on one point, then on another until the magic calmed in your veins. Until you forgot the dangerous and destructive water around you.
Some people proved more reactionary to you than others. With some people, your magic responded so strongly, you were forced to cut them out completely. The first person this happened with was your best friend, Katrina. You were fourteen when she confided in you her family was fire Elementals. In response, your magic surged.
For a glorious summer, you practiced magic in secret. Each morning, you and Katrina bounded through the woods towards the far creek. You summoned great waves of water for Katrina to singe into mist. Everything was fine until late one evening, your mom caught you. She witnessed the combined magic and lost her temper.
Dragging you from the woods, your mom slammed the front door in Katrina’s face. She sat you down at the kitchen table, delivering a scolding you’ve never forgotten.
Do you know how reckless you were? What if a tree had caught fire? What if you altered the town’s water supply? What if someone saw and the next time a disaster happened, they blamed it on you – or Katrina?
Stricken by these very real possibilities, you promised not to do it again. Although you begged not to move, your mom packed the next day – your fastest exit ever.
The second time you cut someone out was after high school. Elliot was an artist, a quiet guy who dabbled with oils. He saw you painting one day in the park and silently set up his easel beside yours. This happened for weeks until he asked you out. Your ensuing romance was brief and sweet, and your feelings grew within a short period of time.
When Elliot told you he loved you, you dissolved into panic. You could feel how your magic responded, reaching for water that surged through his tiny apartment. Tossing on clothes, you stammered apologies and fled into the night.
For weeks following, it rained. Enough for the reporters to forecast local flooding. The fact terrified you – imagining people trapped on top of cars, small businesses flooded, the Red Cross called in to ferry locals to safety. It took your mom flying out to put you at ease, clearing the skies and regaining control.
Since then, you haven’t let anyone else past your inner walls. Until Jungkook.
Swallowing hard, you stare at his apartment and wonder if you’ll survive. Breaking up with Elliot is one of your worst memories and you only felt a fraction of what you do for Jungkook. Maybe you’ll conjure a hurricane, bringing the events of your life full circle.
Shutting your eyes, you rub at them dully. There’s no point in wondering what-if. You need to end it now, before things get worse. All day, you’ve gone over the facts and arrived at the same conclusion.
As expected, Jungkook was livid about Pierre last night. He wanted to confront your boss himself, although quickly backed off when he realized this was your battle. This though, turned to confusion when you said your intent to do nothing.
Although you tried the usual excuses, none of them stuck. Even if it was just once, Jungkook argued, it shouldn’t go unnoticed. You snapped slightly at this, insisting you’d deal with things in your own time.
Getting angry near Jungkook was peculiar. Suddenly, you became aware of the water around you. Thick, leaden pipes lacing Jungkook’s walls. Moisture that hung in the air, in the clouds – within his very veins. The thought terrified you, wondering what you might do accidentally.
Your panic must have been visible, because Jungkook instantly softened. Crossing the room, he pulled you into his arms.
“I’m sorry,” he murmured into your hair. “It’s just… I hate seeing you hurt. Of course, you know what’s best. I’m sorry I doubted you.”
His grip grounded you, enough that your magic dissipated, and that you realized a truth you’d hidden for some time.
You were in love with Jungkook.
No one in your life had ever been like him. Someone who was always in your corner, who protected you when they could and lifted up parts they couldn’t. Someone who liked everything about you – even the parts you weren’t brave enough to admit.
Studying his face, you tried to ignore the sudden ache in your chest. Even last night, you knew the inevitable. Memorizing his face, you tried hard to hold on. Jungkook’s slightly rounded nose, his full bottom lip accentuated by two piercings. Dark hair fell over his forehead; strong features contrasted by a soft gaze.
Jungkook watched you as well, and you wondered if he felt the same. Wondered why he’d commit you to memory, since you were the lucky one. He was the miracle, and you were biding your time.
Bending, he lightly brushed your mouth against his. Instantly, you melted. It wasn’t your first kiss and prayed it wouldn’t be the last, but something about last night felt different. Walking the two of you backwards, Jungkook pressed you against the wall and kissed you harder. His touch became desperate, one hand sliding beneath the lines of your blouse.
Your breath hitched at the brush of his fingers, delicious and warm against skin. His touch unknotted a hidden, tangled piece of your soul.
Ever since you met Jungkook, you’d held yourself separate. When you asked him to go slow in the beginning, he agreed. Touching was fine. Kissing was fine. Anything more, and you lost control.
About a month into dating, you met Jungkook at a bar and got tipsy. Three drinks in, you were frantically making out in an alley outside. Jungkook panted, “my place?” against your mouth, and you nodded. The journey back to his place was fast and slow, pausing in every dark place to drag his mouth to yours.
The second his door shut, you found yourself stumbling – into his bedroom, his bed, the confines of his heart. Shoes were discarded with every step, and Jungkook couldn’t seem to keep his hands to himself. You returned his fervor in spades, nipping his lower lip to watch him smile.
When he fell back on the bed, you saw his pulse quicken. Staring up at you, Jungkook watched your clothing disappear with a gaze so dark, it bordered on onyx. Climbing onto him, you resumed kissing with a newfound reverence. Eyes falling shut, you did your best to stay present.
Each brush of his lips was combustive, each touch of his hands filling you with sharp, pulsing light. And then –
The sink and shower in his bathroom burst on.
Startled, you pulled away and realized it had been you. Your magic had caused it, flooding his bathroom with water. Swearing under his breath, Jungkook scrambled out of bed to hastily turn off both faucets.
You sat there on his bed, heart pounding with fear. By the time he returned, you were already dressed and mortified. Jungkook was all apologies, certain he’d moved too fast, but you assured him he hadn’t. Anything that happened, you were an equal participant – too much maybe, although you didn’t say so out loud.
Lying in bed that night, you stared up at your ceiling. For a moment, it felt as though you were six and under the covers at your old house. Magic was dangerous. You would eventually hurt someone. Dread pooled in your stomach, recognizing the truth. If you couldn’t control your magic around Jungkook, you’d have to end things.
Heartache chased the thought, filling you with so much panic, you nearly drowned. Pushing this aside, you simply resolved to do better. To be better and keep both Jungkook and magic. This was simply another challenge; you owned your magic, not the other way around.
Thus, began the two best and worst months of your life. The best, since you’ve been dating Jungkook and the worst, because at every moment, you’re terrified of hurting him. Walking a line as thin as a razor, you’ve fallen in love while trying your best not to feel.
Until last night, you thought you’d been successful. Life was mostly under control, but then the Pierre debacle took place. Then Jungkook kissed you with such intensity, you forgot who you were and why you’d been holding back. Two long months of restraint and suddenly, you came undone at the seams.
Before long, you were again in his bedroom. Jungkook stripped off his clothes, bare skin pressing to yours with a searing intensity. Pulling you over him, a low hiss escaped while he kissed your throat. Even through his boxers, you could feel how hard Jungkook was. How badly he wanted this; a need you returned.
The thought of him inside you made you frantic. Pushing Jungkook onto his back, you straddled his waist and rocked forward.
Jungkook lay underneath you, his hair a dark halo. Suddenly, you could feel water everywhere. Magic, everywhere – it was in you, around you, in Jungkook’s walls and molecules. Everything felt so utterly fragile, and your magic responded.
Ferocious, it strained at your self-crafted bonds. Realizing how precarious your grasp on control was, your emotions slipped into panic.
You had to leave. Now.
Sensing the change in your body, Jungkook paused.
“I – I’m sorry,” you blurted, scrambling off him. Bending for your pants, you pushed one leg through and hastily zipped. “I need to go.”
Jungkook stared, frozen in place. “I…” Shaking his head, he pushed a hand through his hair. “What’s going on? Did I do something wrong?”
Stomach dropping, you roughly shook your head. Part of you ached to correct him but your magic was barely leashed, and you weren’t certain how much longer it’d hold.
Your magic wasn’t something you wanted Jungkook to see.
Frantically throwing on your shirt, you rushed towards his front door. His dog, Bam, whined from the couch and lifted his head as you passed. Yanking open his door, you escaped to the hall and downstairs. You heard Jungkook call after, but he didn’t follow, for which you were grateful.
Remembering his face broke your heart as you entered the subway. You kept your magic at bay until reaching your building, at which point rain swept the city in waves. Soaked through, you got in the elevator and saw Jungkook had texted. Shaking, you responded you’d talk to him tomorrow and turned off your phone.
Rain poured all night and you barely slept. By the time you woke, your mood had gotten worse. Work was torture. Even the lunch shift couldn’t save you, the looming specter of Jungkook impossible to forget. When Pierre showed up around one, you knew you were doomed. His glower could be felt all the way across the restaurant and no matter what you did, you somehow stayed in his way.
With little to no sleep and haunted by last night, the grip on your magic was tentative at best. Your entire shift, it hovered at the edge of your fingers. When Pierre commented you looked tired, the rain outside worsened. When a table of middle-aged men called you ‘girlie,’ their water glasses shook.
It was miraculous nothing happened until the end of your shift. That was the moment Pierre’s friends arrived, seating themselves at the table you gave away last night. One of them laughed as you poured them water, and you managed to push down your snide remark.
Glasses full, you turned around to go and the same one grabbed your waist.
You went still.
For so long, you’ve hidden your magic to protect others. You’ve kept them from hurting and there you were, broken, and no one cared about you. Just like no one cared about your dad, in the end. Teeth gritted, you whirled – and the entire water pitcher dumped itself at him.
At him, not on him.
You didn’t trip. Didn’t throw the water, although either would have been preferrable. Instead, the water leapt from the pitcher to slap the man in the face.
Horrified, you stared as reality sunk in. You had just assaulted a guest – a friend of Pierre’s, at that.
Shocked, the man wiped water down his visage. The entire restaurant fell silent, every eye in the room locked on you. Panic-stricken, you stammered an apology, flung a napkin on the table and fled into the kitchen.
The moment you crashed through the doors, you were hailed a hero. Izumi, your line cook, wistfully recalled the one time she punched a guy who grabbed her ass. Georgina added that once, she spit in the drink of a man who called her a bitch.
Both tactfully avoided the fact that you were an Elemental, which you appreciated. You were starting to feel marginally better – maybe you wouldn’tbe fired, after all – when the door to the kitchen swung open and Pierre stormed through. Seeing his face, your heart sank.
“You!” Spittle flew from his lips as he pointed. “Y/N – pack your things! You’re done here. Fired. You think you can insult my friend, pull some magic bullshit on him, and continue to work here? Fuck that. Get out – now!”
A pin could have been heard in the silence. Coming to your senses, you did exactly as asked and got your things. Pierre hadn’t mentioned pressing charges, and you didn’t want to stick around long enough to find out.
Outside, you stood on the sidewalk and stared at the bus stop. Storm clouds brewed above, a visualization of your inner turmoil. Eventually, you turned and trudged down the subway.
Things had reached a point you couldn’t ignore anymore. You were beyond out of control. Emotions surged and strained against your internal walls, threatening everyone you held dear. The city didn’t deserve to be punished, even if no one within it knew of your sacrifice. Pierre’s friends were awful, but you could’ve just as easily lost your temper with someone you loved.
Someone like Jungkook, whom you couldn’t seem to be around without incident.
That was the reason most people feared Elementals. It was selfish of you to put your desires ahead of another person’s safety. The only way to protect someone you loved was to stay away.
Starting with Jungkook. You just wished he didn’t have to get hurt in order for that to happen.
Standing outside his building, you take a deep breath and press the buzzer. You wait for several long moments, wondering if he’s home and then –
“Hello?” Jungkook’s voice crackles over the speaker.
Leaning in, you press 316. “Hey. It’s me. Y/N.”
A weighted pause, and then –
“Come in.”
The door unlocks, and you push it inside. Climbing the steps to his place, your heart starts to pound. The last time you saw Jungkook, you were running away. The last text he sent was, ‘ok,’ in response to your message. If you were Jungkook, you wouldn’t be thrilled to see you.
Coming to a stop outside 316, you lift your hand and knock. A howl responds, followed by the patter of gigantic dog footsteps. Unable to stop your smile, you shake your head at the chaos.
“It’s just me, Bam!” you say, and he stops.
Bam’s howl is replaced with a whine and the sharp thwack-thwack of his tail on the door.
“Bam, out of the way,” Jungkook calls, his voice coming closer. A few seconds later, the door flies open to reveal your boyfriend.
You only catch a glimpse before Bam barrels out, nearly knocking you over. Legs and tail akimbo, he slobbers all over until you bend to pet him. Once satisfied, Bam turns around and trots back inside.
Silence falls between you, and you look up to see Jungkook. He’s dressed casually, sweatpants and a t-shirt bought at a concert you attended. He hasn’t moved aside, blocking you from entering.
Uncertain, you straighten. “Can I come in?”
Slowly, he nods and moves. You walk past him, trying not to focus on the heat of his shoulder. This might be the last time you see Jungkook, so you try to focus on that. Not the prospect of what you’re about to do.
Hearing the door shut, you take a deep breath and turn to face him. “I can’t stay too long,” you admit, digging your nails into the palms of your hands.
Jungkook regards you warily. His expression makes your chest ache, unused to him with such a stern expression. After last night, you suppose it’s earned. You should probably get used to it.
“Y/N.” His jaw works. “What’s going on?”
Deciding honesty is the best policy – up to a point – you force out your next words. “I think we should break up,” you say in a rush.
With a low whine, Bam slinks in the direction of the bedroom. Jungkook glances at him, distracted, before facing forward.
“What do you mean?” His head tilts. “Like, you want to take a break?”
Steeling yourself, you shake your head. “No. As in, I want to break up. Permanently.”
A train passes by the building, rumbling the floorboards underneath. Most people would avoid living in this building for that reason, but Jungkook was overjoyed by the prospect of discounted rent.
He doesn’t seem overjoyed now, though. Instead, he looks stricken.
“Walk me through this,” Jungkook says, walking closer. The set of his mouth has turned stubborn. “I don’t follow. Why are we breaking up again?”
The knot in your chest tightens. You should have known Jungkook wouldn’t make this easy on you. “We’re not good together,” you say, only to correct yourself. “I mean, I’m not good for you. I’m not in a place where I can be in a relationship.”
He comes to a stop. “I can wait, Y/N. I don’t mind.”
Reaching for you, Jungkook’s brows crease when you take a step backwards. His hand falls between you, and he stares at the empty space. The crack in your heart widens, made worse by his silence.
“I mind, though,” you force yourself to say. “I can’t ask you to wait for me, Jungkook. That’s not fair to either of us. It’s too much pressure.”
The words make your heart splinter, reaching a point you aren’t sure can be reassembled. Maybe the pieces will simply lodge in your muscle, bruising your insides each time you draw breath.
“I won’t pressure you,” Jungkook says, automatic. His frown deepens. “Tell me what this is really about, Y/N. Is this about sex? It’s fine if we don’t have it.” Stepping closer, he takes your hand and you let him. “I just want you to be honest with me.”
Somewhat manic, you shake your head – and then nod.
Sex is a part of the problem, but it’s not the root cause. Sex with Jungkook is unthinkable. You can barely remain in control when you kiss, let alone allow more. With your past partners, this wasn’t an issue, but your past partners weren’t Jungkook.
Never have you met someone able to scramble your thoughts with a kiss. Whose gaze melted inhibitions and tore down every wall. You have little doubt that with Jungkook, you’d lose full control, and the thought is terrifying. Already, your makeshift barriers are weakened.
Rain splatters against the window, and your stomach lurches.
“Seriously, Y/N,” Jungkook says, returning your attention to him. “What’s this about? I can tell something’s on your mind.”
He takes your other hand, and you realize how close he stands. “Is it work?” Jungkook asks, a crease between brows. “Is there… some reason you can’t quit? You can tell me, Y/N.”
An odd zing of disappointment goes through you. For a moment, you thought Jungkook had guessed your secret, and this could all be avoided. If Jungkook knew what you were and that you lied to him – well, he’d end things for you. Hesitant, you consider revealing that truth but can’t seem to form words. It would devastate you, seeing fear replace love in his eyes.
“Work isn’t the problem,” you say at last. “It’s us, Jungkook. Or – it’s me. I don’t want to be together anymore.”
Disbelief flashes across his expression, and you idly wonder what will happen if Jungkook refuses. Even as you think this though, his expression shifts. Jungkook takes a careful step backwards, dropping your hands entirely.
He’s never been good at hiding emotion. Jungkook is your opposite in that way, revealing every shift of thought and desire. You watch confusion become anger, then bitterness a moment before he turns away. The set of his shoulders is still, staring out the window as yet another train passes.
Restless, he turns to drag a hand through his hair. “I don’t believe you,” he declares. “This is so out of nowhere, Y/N. What aren’t you telling me?”
“I’m telling you everything,” you say, panic rising. “And this isn’t out of nowhere! I’ve been telling you for months I need to take things slow and this – well, this is the opposite of slow, Jungkook!”
Jungkook stares back at you, heated. “Yeah, I guess so.”
The two of you stand there for a moment, the tension thick in between you. Eventually, you look away first and pull your bag tighter.
“Right,” you exhale. “Well, I should go –”
Striding forward, Jungkook reaches you to cup your face with both palms. Gently, he lifts your face towards him, and all thoughts cease completely. Gaze searching, his breath fans across your parted lips.
Jungkook’s gaze intensifies. “I don’t believe you,” he murmurs.
Adrenaline zips under your skin, stirring your magic into a deadly storm. Entire body tense, you suppress the urge to fight or flee. So often, you’re the one running but right now, you feel more compelled to fight.
A knife in you twists, knowing you’re a coward. If you were stronger, you could keep Jungkook. No matter how understanding he is, the fact remains that if he stays with you, Jungkook remains in danger. Each passing day only worsens the pain.
His face blurs. With a start of surprise, you realize there are tears on your cheeks. The furrow between Jungkook’s brows deepens, noticing as well.
“You’re not listening,” you blurt. “I can’t see you any longer, Jungkook. It’s in your best interest, I promise – I can’t do this. It’s too much.”
Reaching up, you remove his hands from your face and head for the door.
Jungkook follows close behind. “Which is it, then?” he demands. “You want me to go slowly, or you feel too much?”
Pressure weighs every inch of your skin, demanding you answer. Anything that comes out now will only make things harder. Reaching the door, you feel Jungkook’s hand on your shoulder. Caving, you don’t fight when Jungkook turns you to face him.
He’s too close to you. Too much and too close, his one hand sliding to cup the back of your neck. Slowly, his thumb strokes the elongated line of your throat. You swallow, hard, and his gaze follows the motion.
Jungkook’s gaze flicks to yours. “You keep saying you’re no good for me,” he says, his voice low. “But what if I don’t care? Don’t I get a say in this decision?”
The force of holding in your magic worsens, becoming near impossible. Hastily built walls threaten to collapse, and reality blurs between one moment and the next.
“I’m sorry,” you blurt, your hand searching behind you. “I have to go.”
Finding the doorknob, you twist and stumble backwards. Jungkook watches you go, the look on his face physically painful as you turn around. Each second that follows is pure concentration, trying not to break before getting outside.
The ocean is only a few blocks from Jungkook’s apartment.
Reaching the harbor, rain pelts your face in a way that feels punishing. Magic makes your limbs tremble, escaping your body in wisps of fog and rain. The moment you arrive at the harbor, you shatter, collapsing forward to grip your knees with both hands.
Eyes pressed tightly shut, you hear the storm howl. Waves churn the harbor, sloshing over the sidewalk in an attempt to get closer. No tidal waves, you plead in an attempt at reason. No whirlpools, no water spouts.
Your magic listens in this regard, at least. By the time your eyes open, a curtain of rain mingles with tears on your cheeks. Staring out at the ocean, each inch of your body is numb.
Jungkook will never forgive you for this.
The thought banishes all the rest. You can’t say that you blame him. Slowly, you exhale as you lift your gaze. The chasm in your chest widens, becoming something unbreachable. This is all your fault. You wish there was some satisfaction in knowing this, but there isn’t.
Eventually, the rain dulls, and you push yourself upright. Your sneakers squish with every step, the silence all-encompassing as you ride on the subway. Entering the building, you remove your shoes and collapse on your bed, fully clothed. Thankfully, your roommate isn’t home, so you aren’t forced to explain the events of tonight. Seokjin would have wanted to discuss, and you aren’t sure you can without breaking down.
Burrowing your face into the pillows, you manage to cry yourself asleep. Rain doesn’t let up the entire night.
“Tell me again.” Taking a seat at the table, Seokjin spoons yogurt and berries into his mouth. “Why did you have to end things with your boyfriend?”
Cracking open one eye, you glare from where you sit, slumped forward. “You know why, Seokjin,” you grumble. “Not all of us can be air Elementals in perfect control of their magic.”
“You could be, though,” he says, pointing with his spoon. “If you put in like, five seconds of training and embraced your water powers instead of running away whenever things got bad.”
“I am not running.”
“No.” Seokjin lifts a brow. “You’re cowering, which is far less attractive.”
“I’m not cowering, either.” Scowling, you bury your head deeper into your arms. “I’m wallowing. Big difference.”
Scoffing, his spoon scrapes the bottom of the bowl. Pushing his chair back to stand, Seokjin heads for the sink and turns on the tap. The water itches a spot deep in your chest, almost taunting.
“I can’t be too hard on you, though,” Seokjin says as he cleans. “You did get fired and dumped in one day – that’s pretty rough.”
“Does it count as being dumped if I did the dumping?”
“I’ll allow it.” He opens the dishwasher. “But only because really, you didn’t want to break up with Jungkook. You’ve just convinced yourself the world is better off without you – something I highly disagree with, by the way, but can’t fault you for feeling. It’s too sad.”
“Thanks,” you mumble, and close your eyes.
Two days have gone by since your decision to end your relationship with Jungkook. It hasn’t been great, to put things mildly. On Monday, you barely left your room and rain poured from the sky. When you did enter the kitchen, the weather person on Channel 9 predicted local flooding.
Seokjin arrived from his business trip that night, took one look at your face and helped stop the storm. You sagged with relief, falling into a fitful round of sleep that only lasted three hours.
Seokjin is one of the few Elementals you know who embraces their power. Both his parents are air Elementals, and he was raised to take over their magical consulting business. Said business does well, leading Seokjin to own a gorgeous, three-bedroom apartment in the middle of the city. He got bored last winter, decided to post for a roommate and here you are. One of the few people in the city willing to room with an Elemental.
You don’t care what Seokjin does with his magic, although his laissez-faire attitude can occasionally be unnerving. You’ve lived your entire life with the assumption your existence is dangerous. All you need is a quick Google search to reinforce this fact. But then there’s Seokjin, living his life, seemingly none the worse for the wear.
He discovered your powers about a month into rooming together. Coming back from a trip, Seokjin opened the door to stare, slack-jawed, as plates washed themselves in the sink. Glancing up from your book at the table, you immediately sent two dishes crashing onto the floor.
Seokjin stared at this for a moment, then looked up. “You owe me new plates,” he declared and walked into his bedroom. After a moment, he popped his head out. “Hey – you think if we combined my wind and your water, we could create a waterspout but on land?”
“That’s… a tornado, Seokjin.”
“Right.” He slapped the doorframe once and disappeared. “Well, something to think about!”
Months later, Seokjin still doesn’t understand your avoidance of magic, but respects the decision enough to leave it alone. At least, until something like this happens and he’s again at a loss.
“Listen.”
Turning around, he shuts the dishwasher with his hip.
“Oh, no.” You grimace. “What now?”
Seokjin raises both hands. “Nothing, nothing. Far be it from me to comment on your mistakes. I’m sorry – did I say mistakes? I meant, ‘learned life experience.’ Through mistakes.”
“Was there a question in all that?”
“No question.” Loosely, he gestures. “Just wanted to say you can stay here, rent-free, until you figure this out. You know I’m only taking your money because you insist. I don’t need it. This place is already paid for.”
“Only because you frightened the seller so badly, they cut the price in half.”
“Listen.” Seokjin’s smile turns slightly sinister. “If they were willing to let their ingrained fear of Elementals influence their selling point, that’s on them. Not me.”
“Fair enough,” you sigh and sit back. “But seriously – thank you. This will give me some time to come up with a plan.”
Seokjin nods, tracing the rim of his coffee. Absently, he glances down the hall at the empty third bedroom. “You know…”
“No,” you say, automatic.
His right brow lifts. “You don’t even know what I was going to say.”
“You were going to suggest I use this time off to work on my art.”
“Okay.” Seokjin shrugs. “Maybe you did know. But seriously, Y/N – why not?”
Weary, you exhale. “Because every time I try to paint, I get this… block. I can’t explain it. Watercolors used to be the one place I felt comfortable using my magic. Now… I don’t know. I can’t seem to use my magic anywhere. Even my art.”
Seokjin tilts his head, thoughtful. “How long has this been going on?”
“Don’t know – a few months?”
“Not long after you started dating Jungkook.”
Staring at Seokjin, you realize he’s right. That’s exactly around when you began dating Jungkook. The block happened not long after. Thinking about the early days of dating are painful though, and so you choose not to.
“I don’t want to talk about him,” you declare with a shake of your head. “Right now, what I need is a job. And to earn money. Preferably in that order.”
Seokjin’s lips twitch. “Let me know if the order changes. I know a guy.”
Before you can consider his offer too seriously, your phone rings on the table. Glancing down, your heart constricts at your mom’s name. It isn’t that you don’t want to talk. It’s that if you do, Jungkook’s name will come up, and you’ll be forced to explain why you two aren’t together. Right now, you’re managing to cope by avoiding the topic. You aren’t sure what will happen if you’re forced to confront it.
Not to mention the very real possibility your mom will be happy. She liked Jungkook, but she always worries whenever someone new enters your life.
Also glancing at your phone, Seokjin scowls. “Don’t answer it,” he says, walking past. “Whenever you talk to your mom, things get even worse.”
Seokjin’s not wrong. Your mom means well – really, she does – but talking to her tends to leave you exhausted. Still, you know from experience it’s better to answer now.
“I know,” you sigh and stand up. “But if I don’t pick up now, she’ll just keep calling. Hey,” you say, pressing answer. “One second, mom.”
Ignoring Seokjin’s sad shake of his head, you scoop up your coffee and head for your bedroom.
Closing the door to your room, you lean backwards. “Hi, mom,” you say, lifting your phone to your ear. “Sorry about that. I was eating breakfast. How are you?”
“Oh, you know,” your mom says, and you can practically hear her smile. “Same old, same old. The better question is, how are you? I saw on the weather there’s some flooding by you. Hope you’re alright!”
Grimacing, you move the phone to speaker. You should have known your mom would check in. Reading between the lines of her question, you can hear what she’s really asking. Your mom wants to know if you caused the flooding – an answer which is undeniably yes, but she doesn’t have to know that.
Setting down your half-empty mug, you flop face-first on your bed. Less information tends to be more with your mom. You’re debating what to say when she solves the problem for you.
“I know you haven’t had a slip in years,” she continues. “But if there’s another water Elemental in town, you should try to steer clear of them! Being around them could set you off – that’s what happened to Becky’s nephew, she said.”
Fighting an eye roll, you roll on your back. Becky Mayweather is your mom’s best friend in the entire world and one of your least favorite people. She’s the type to bake cookies, offer a shoulder to cry on – and then promptly turn and gossip to the neighbors about it. She fancies herself an Elemental expert because a few of her friends married them. Funnily enough, neither you nor your mom have met these friends in person.
“Oh?” you ask. “I never noticed.”
“It’s true! You know that I worry, Y/N. All alone in the city with another Elemental for a roommate…”
Annoyance spikes in your stomach. “His name is Seokjin, and I’m an Elemental too, mom. His mom could say the same thing about me.”
Seokjin’s mom could be saying that, but she wouldn’t because Seokjin’s mom and dad are both magic enthusiasts. The few times you met them, they were nothing but kind.
“Oh, Y/N.” Your mom sighs. “It’s not the same.”
“Why not?”
“Watch your tone,” she says. “I’m only telling the truth. You work hard on controlling your magic. Your roommate, on the other hand, uses his magic willy-nilly. In broad daylight! You two couldn’t be more different.”
Your mom isn’t wrong about that, although not for the reason she thinks. Seokjin does use his magic freely, but you’re the one at risk of hurting others – not him.
“Seokjin is a good guy,” you say tightly. “He’s letting me stay here, rent-free, while I search for another job.”
“Another job?” Her voice pitches. “What happened to the job at that restaurant?”
Cursing yourself for your own stupidity, you close your eyes. “Um… I was let go. Difference of opinions with management.”
“Oh. Well. That’s too bad, Y/N, I’m sorry. It’s probably for the best – you don’t want to be working for someone you don’t respect, right?”
Some of your anger lessens at her genuine sympathy. It’d be easy to paint your mom as the villain but truthfully, she comes from a good place. You know that she loves you; she just doesn’t want to lose you the same way she lost your dad.
Exhaling deeply, you reach to grab a pillow. “I’ve been trying to paint,” you say. “It hasn’t been going well.”
“No?”
You frown at the obvious joy in her voice.
“Yeah,” you admit.
“Well…” Your mom draws the word out. “We always knew art was a risky hobby, Y/N. Painting. With watercolors. Something could easily go wrong and put you in danger.”
“I know, mom.”
“Actually,” she adds, her excitement growing. “Maybe this is a sign. Y/N – what if this means your powers are weakening?”
Your entire body goes still. “What?”
“Yes!” she says, oblivious to the panic in your voice. “You always loved watercolors because they made sense to you, right? Because of your… well, magic. What if a block means your powers are growing weaker? I wonder if other Elementals ever lose touch with their magic. I’ll have to ask Becky.”
Irrational anger surges within, and you hear the faucet in your bathroom turn on. Hastily, you work to turn it back off.
“You don’t need to do that,” you blurt. “I’ll research it myself. Actually, I should get going – I wanted to apply for some jobs this morning.”
“Oh, yes – good call, honey. You go and apply. Let me know if you need help. Becky has connections with the local university. I’m sure someone could help you update your resume – or even apply, if that sounds interesting to you.”
“Thanks,” you say, although it absolutely does not. “That’s a nice offer.”
“Have a good day, honey – I love you!”
“Love you, too,” you say before hanging up.
Dropping the phone onto your bed, you hug your pillow tightly. It takes several long minutes to relax, wading your way through an anxious sea of thought. Although your mom means well, conversations with her tend to leave you feeling drained. Since you were young, it’s felt like your mom has an idea of the perfect child, and they aren’t you.
Eventually, you stand to bring your mug to the kitchen. Seokjin is busy making another pot of coffee, the delicious scent wafting overhead.
Passing him by, you eye this warily. “Isn’t that your third pot this morning?”
“And?” Seokjin reaches for his mug. “You’ve had three cups yourself.”
“Touché,” you sigh, collapsing on the couch.
Minutes later, Seokjin enters the living room and hands you a mug.
Staring into the drink, you say, “Thanks.”
Settling onto the sofa, Seokjin examines you over the rim of his coffee. You ignore him, taking a long sip of your drink. A summer breeze wafts through the window, and with a flick of his wrist, Seokjin sends it back out.
A stab of envy goes through you, although you know it’s irrational. Seokjin always makes magic look easy, but you’ve never found it to be so. Maybe when you were younger, before the crippling fear and anxiety had a chance to set in. The only time magic ever felt normal was when you painted and now, you can’t even do that.
Thinking about painting makes you think about Jungkook though, causing the dull thud in your chest to become a sledgehammer. You miss him. Miss the easy way Jungkook made you laugh. How he insisted on constantly touching some part of your body.
Cupping your mug of coffee, you take another sip and sink into the sadness.
“Far be it from me to dole out advice.” Seokjin interrupts your tiny pity party. “But I think you’re going about this the wrong way.”
Too exhausted to argue, you merely exhale. “What’s the right way, then?”
His head tilts. “I don’t know. But I find it weird your block appeared around the same time you started dating Jungkook. You’ve…” Seokjin hesitates, and you recognize his how-do-I-put-this-delicately face. “You’ve given up a lot over the years, Y/N. Maybe this time, you gave up more of yourself than you realized.”
Silently, you wonder whether he’s right. For too long, you’ve gone through the motions of life without really living. Too scared of letting people in, scaring them off, of being yourself. Perhaps giving up Jungkook will be the final straw. The thought doesn’t comfort you, and you have no response.
After a moment, Seokjin turns on the TV. The morning slips by, though you can’t help but think about his earlier comments – could you control your magic if you tried harder? The moment you think this, you instantly banish the thought. You’ve been attempting for months, and nothing has worked.
With this cheery thought, you allow yourself to sink further into melancholy. Only this time, the water rushing overheard isn’t your friend. You aren’t sure it ever was.
Wednesday morning, you leave the apartment in a haze. You thought that by today, things would be better but if anything, the situation seems to be worse.
Missing Jungkook is painful.
It hurts more than you thought, which might sound stupid, but that doesn’t make it any less true. When you and Elliot broke up, it was sad, but you knew it was for the best and that lessened some of the pain. Now though, each beat of your heart prevents the wound from closing. A tentative scab in one second, only to be torn open the next.
Jungkook always sent you good morning texts. Not because he was up before you, but because he went to bed so late, it was only an hour or two before you awoke. His words were the first thing you read in the morning, smiling sleepily at his rambling. Sometimes, Jungkook would include a late-night snack recipe. Always, he’d end with something he liked about you.
His silence is deafening. Something not even your favorite coffee shop can fix, although you try. Standing in line, you aimlessly flip through songs on your phone. Today, you promised Seokjin you’d attend at least two interviews. The first one is in an hour at a sushi restaurant. Before then, you plan to load up on caffeine and organize your thoughts.
When the line moves forward, you flip to your messages. No new texts. Unsurprising, but it rends the scab in your heart anew.
Facing forward, you remove an earbud to order. “Hi,” you say, mustering a smile. “I’ll have an iced americano with rose syrup.”
“Got it.” The barista barely looks up. “That all?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Want a receipt?”
“Nope.”
“Cool.” She nods. “That’ll be ready soon at the end of the counter.”
Nodding your thanks, you replace the ear pod. Cranking your music louder, you wait for your coffee and lean against the counter. The coffee shop is tiny, empty for a weekday after the morning rush. Aimless, you glance over the clustered tables.
Your thoughts are on Jungkook before they can be stopped. You wonder what he's doing, what he’s wearing, whether he’s blocked your number yet from his phone.
A talented graphic designer, Jungkook works mostly on commission and on his own time. He does well for himself – enough to afford rent on his own place. Your mutual creative streak was something you had in common. Not your sleeping hours, that’s for sure.
Jungkook usually slept until nine or ten, then went to the gym before he made breakfast. You used to tease him about that, saying he couldn’t call it breakfast if –
Your heart falters. Jungkook must be on your mind since you seem to have hallucinated him here, at the coffee shop. You blink once, and then twice, but the mirage doesn’t fade, and you’re forced to conclude Jungkook is actually here.
Unfolding himself from a chair, he heads in your direction. Panicked, you glance at the counter, then back up. Your coffee hasn’t finished, which means that you’re trapped. Straightening, you do your best to seem natural and are certain you fail. Jungkook doesn’t just look natural, he is so as he approaches. At least, until you notice his hands in his pockets.
Jungkook does this when he’s nervous. Likely, he’s playing with the inside pocket lining. It hurts, knowing him so well, and not being his. When Jungkook comes to a stop, you stand mere inches apart.
“Jungkook,” you say, his name punched from your diaphragm.
He nods. “Hey.”
Uncertain, you glance down at the counter to check for your drink. Still nothing and, looking back, you tilt your head. “What are you doing here?”
Jungkook’s hands go deeper, if possible. “Getting coffee. Is that allowed?”
Your lips press together. “Sure. Theoretically, you can get coffee. What I’m asking though, is why you chose this coffee shop, five blocks away from your place. Usually, you’re not awake before noon.”
His expression is inscrutable. “Couldn’t sleep.”
“Ah.”
The silence between you lengthens, and not in a good way. You know why you’re quiet but can’t tell what Jungkook is thinking. You suppose that it’s possible he woke up early, forgot this was your favorite shop and went on a long walk for coffee – it’s possible, but unlikely.
At last, Jungkook exhales. “Alright, fine. I wanted to see you.”
“Y/N?”
Both of you turn at the sound of your name. Glancing between the two of you, the barista seems to pick up a weird vibe, dropping the cup to hurry away. Grateful for the interruption, you reach for your coffee and attempt to reset.
It’s not fair of Jungkook, corning you like this. You were already forced to end this once – unfair, making you do so again. Breaking up with him once was barely possible; twice is unthinkable.
“Don’t you have anything else to say?”
His voice interrupts your train of thought and, gripping your drink tightly, you turn.
“Like what?” you ask.
“Like, I don’t know.” His brow furrows, frustration obvious. “Anything, Y/N.”
Behind the counter, the barista fills a tea kettle to set this on the stove. You watch it instead of Jungkook, unsure how you’re going to do this again. The pressure of the water boiling is near tangible, mimicking the internal state of your mind.
Biting your tongue, you decide a safe exit is best. Jungkook will get the hint without you being forced to break his heart. Counting backwards from ten, you exhale and attempt to walk past.
“I’m sorry you came all this way,” you say in a murmur.
You’re nearly past Jungkook when you hear a soft swear. Only one more step happens before his hand grips your elbow.
“Y/N, please,” Jungkook breathes, turning you towards him.
Your gaze lifts and you start at his obvious pain. Staring back, Jungkook searches your face for something unspoken. Whatever he seeks, he must find it, since determination enters his.
You tear your gaze away. “I don’t know what you want me to say, Jungkook.”
“I want to know if you were serious about breaking up.”
He’s still holding your elbow.
You must notice this at the same time, but neither of you move. Your gaze returns to his, drawn like a magnet and you realize your mistake when you can’t look away. Romeo’s line about Julie being the sun comes to mind, making sudden sense. You orbit around Jungkook, whether you like it or not.
In the background, a tea kettle whistles. “I meant what I said, Jungkook,” you say, forcing yourself to speak first. “I’m not good for you.”
A muscle in his jaw feathers. “But why,” he demands, frustration seeping through. You can hear in his voice the long nights of desperation, of little sleep in your absence. “I don’t understand what went wrong, Y/N. What did I do?”
A chasm in your chest opens, hating how easily he jumps to self-doubt. Before you can think better of it, you move closer.
“Nothing,” you say, one hand on his arm. “You did nothing wrong, Jungkook. I’m just not in a place where I can be in a relationship.”
“But why not?” His gaze sharpens. “Everything was fine between us until Sunday.”
“Everything was not fine.”
Jungkook pauses, then barrels on. “When you say you can’t be in a relationship… what you’re really saying is you can’t be in a relationship with me.”
“With anyone,” you correct, although you aren’t sure that’s the truth.
Your magic has never been this temperamental. Possibly because this is the first time you’ve fallen in love. Dating someone not Jungkook would be safer, but the thought is abhorrent.
If you can’t have Jungkook, you don’t want anyone. That will be your punishment. Jungkook will move on, fall in love, and be happy with another person. Not you. No one else will compare, and if you can’t now, you doubt you’ll move past this crippling fear.
“You keep telling me that,” Jungkook says, growing heated. “But I’m the one you’re breaking up with, so it’s a little bit about me. You need to give me something, Y/N. Is this about your past? I know you don’t like to talk about your childhood, but I want to know.”
A loud buzzing fills your ears, gaze darting around. You haven’t told Jungkook much about your family, not wanting to invite questions about being an Elemental. The thought of him guessing sparks panic again, and the tea kettle on the stove whistles louder.
“People in my past hurt me,” you say in a rush. Magic itches beneath your skin, begging for escape. “That’s part of it, but not all.”
“What’s all, then?”
Frustration seeps past the wall, and several things happen. Your magic lashes out, a loud noise makes you jump, and the tea kettle shatters while hitting the floor. Water sloshes across the tile, steam hissing as the barista jumps back with a yelp.
Startled, you whirl around. One barista turns off the stove, another grabs a towel while a third finds a broom. Luckily, none of them seem injured – the tea kettle missed their skin. Taking a half-step towards them, you force yourself to stop. Although you want to help, that might make you seem guilty.
Already, the guilt within you is rising. You felt your magic overpowering you and chose to stay. If a barista had been hurt, it would’ve been your fault.
Turning back, you find Jungkook staring at the mess. He looks similarly shocked, twisting the knife in your gut. If he knew you caused this, he’d look at you that differently.
“You see?” you blurt, and he glances in your direction. “Everyone around me gets hurt. I can’t hurt you, too, Jungkook.”
Shoving open the door, you’re halfway outside when his words reach your ears.
“That’s the thing, Y/N,” he says softly. “You already have.”
The door shuts behind you, and you almost make it home before starting to cry. The skies open again above the city.
“This can’t be a coincidence,” you mutter, staring through the window.
The slightly dilapidated Ramen-rama tables stare back at you until the owner walks past. Catching you standing there, he motions you on.
Somewhat chagrined, you trudge down the sidewalk. Reaching a playground two blocks away, you collapse on a bench and attempt to be rational. Four different interviews. Spread across two different days. Each one ending the exact same.
One crappy interview, even two, and you’d understand. But four crappy interviews in the same way? Something weird is happening. Each interview, you arrived, greeted the owner, answered a few questions, and were thus informed the position was filled.
It wasn’t that you hadn’t gotten a job. It was that your interviewers seemed nervous, staring hard at your resume and never your face. They seemed relieved when you left, as though you were liable to break something for fun.
“Hey. Did you interview this morning at Ramen-rama?”
Startled, you turn and find a stranger beside you.
You don’t recognize him; certainly you’d remember if you met before. Dressed in a Ramen-rama t-shirt, his dark hair is gathered in a bun on his head. His hair makes your chest ache, since Jungkook used to wear his like that.
“Um, yeah,” you say, yanking yourself from your daydreams.
He smiles and nods. “I thought that was you. Listen – I overheard the manager talking this morning on the phone while I was unloading the truck. I think he was talking about you, so I thought I should tell you what I overheard.”
Concerned, you straighten. “Uh, okay. What was he saying?”
“He was talking to your old boss – Pierre? Apparently, he’s calling around and warning people not to hire you. Said that you stole from him, or something. Not sure if it’s the same story for everyone, or if he’s making up shit up in the moment.”
Your jaw nearly drops. “Are you serious?”
“Yeah.” The guy’s smile turns wry. “I’m assuming none of it’s true. You don’t look like the thieving type, but the boss is running a business, I guess. Can’t be too careful.”
“Right.” You pause, then shake your head. “I didn’t steal, just so you know. A guest was an ass to me, so I dumped water on him – on accident,” you add.
Laughing loudly, the guy clutches his bicycle. “Wow, I’d love to hear that story. Especially the part about it being an accident,” he adds with a wink, sticking out his hand. “I’m Wooyoung.”
“Y/N,” you say as you shake. “So. Pierre is calling people?”
Brow furrowed, Wooyoung pulls back. “Yeah. Sorry I had to tell you like this. Wasn’t sure whether you’d want to know, but figured I should.”
You push yourself to stand. “I do appreciate it. Thanks for telling me.”
“No problem.” Sheepish, he glances down the road. “I should actually get back if I don’t want to lose my job. Delivery,” he explains, nodding towards his bike. “Need the extra income.”
“Makes sense,” you say, forcing a smile. “Good luck.”
Wooyoung nods, then pauses in a way that feels familiar. He’s checking you out, you realize after a moment. Although flattering, it’s instantly followed by a rush of guilt. Wooyoung is cute and in another life, you’d say yes, but in every life, it’s hard not to want Jungkook.
Waving goodbye, Wooyoung climbs onto his bike and takes off. You head in the opposite direction, needing to put distance between you and Ramen-rama. If Pierre is shit-talking you across town, you’ll be hard-pressed to find another job at a restaurant. Owners are notoriously clicky and for how many restaurants there are, there are surprisingly few out of the loop.
Maybe you can ask the coffee shop if they’re hiring. Although you should probably avoid work with water for a bit. This drops your mood, your thoughts turning desperate. You’re so deep in an anxiety spiral, you nearly run into an open door on the sidewalk.
Jerking upright, you stare at faded, golden letters. Creative Courage is spelled in looping cursive over a frosted window. Art supplies fill a display case, while the other is clustered with art of all kinds. You spot sculpture, pottery, painting, and sketches before losing count.
Before you can chicken out, you push open the door.
Stepping in, tiny bells chime to announce your arrival. Soft, ambient light fills the space – a shop that’s two-fold, you realize now that you’re inside. The front sells art supplies while in the back stands a classroom. There’s a class in session now, several artists seated on stools before easels.
“Can I help you?” someone asks, stepping into your path.
Blinking, you focus. “Um, no – thank you! I was just looking.”
“Of course!” The woman beams, reaching up to arrange a clip in magenta hair. “That’s what we’re here for. If you do change your mind, let me know – we’ve got art supplies out front, and classes are held daily in back.”
“Classes?”
“Mhm.” Crossing her arms, the woman nods. “Mostly still life and figure drawing, but we’re hoping to add some more soon. Are you an artist?” she asks, sounding hopeful.
Immediately, you stiffen. “No. At least, not right now.”
Her lips twitch. “Not sure it works like that, unfortunately. Who you are can’t come on and off like a jacket. I like that, though,” she admits with a laugh. “Might borrow it the next time the muses aren’t singing.”
You can’t help but grin. “Exactly.”
Her head tilts, surveying you with unnerving intensity. “My name is Taryn. I co-own this place with my partner, Micah. They’re the one teaching right now.”
“Oh,” you say, somewhat wistful. “That’s nice.”
“Thanks.” Her smile widens. “So, what was your preferred medium? You know, ‘back when’ you were an artist.”
You can’t help but laugh when Taryn lifts her hands to use air quotes. Some people have a way of making you feel included in their jokes, and Taryn is one of them. She teases you in a conspiratorial way, letting you know she understands. People often call art a labor of love, which can be true but more often, it’s a complicated tangle of love, pain and frustration.
“Watercolors,” you admit. “And my name is Y/N.”
Her eyes brighten. “We’ve been meaning to add a watercolor class for ages. Some of our regulars have asked, but Micah and I are both hopeless. Potter,” she explains, gesturing at herself. “And Micah prefers charcoal. Sometimes sculpture.”
“Wow,” you say. “Those are very different.”
“You don’t say.” Taryn laughs. “Micah likes to keep things fresh. What about you? Have you ever taught be– hang on,” she blurts, her eyes going wide. “Did you say that your name is Y/N? As in Y/N Y/L/N?”
Your cheeks heat. “Yeah, that’s me.”
Whirling, Taryn hustles through the front room to duck behind a counter. Digging through several drawers, she pulls out a print to hurry back.
“Is this you?” she demands, thrusting this in your face.
Even cross-eyed and close, you recognize your most popular work. A watercolor series on the majesty and destruction of sea storms. Looking at this makes you feel raw, and so you look up.
“Yep,” you admit. “That’s me.”
Pulling back, Taryn looks at the print reverently. “You’re amazing. Micah was trying to do something similar but couldn’t capture the right feeling.”
Shuffling awkwardly, you shrug. You’ve never felt as though your work deserved acclaim, although it’s nice to know the series resonated with others. One of your favorite aspects of art is how it can be intensely personal but once shared, takes on a universal quality. You find it constantly surprising; how many people seem to share the same burdens.
“Seriously.” Taryn shakes her head wryly. “If you ever wanted to teach a class, let me know. We’d be lucky to have you here.”
“Thank you,” you say, stuffing both hands in your pockets.
You hadn’t realized your desperation was obvious. Or possibly Taryn is just incredibly good at reading others. Truthfully, it’s been a while since you stepped foot in the art world. Even before dating Jungkook, you felt your passion lagging. It’s been a long time since you wanted to connect with your inner voice, although merely the act of being here calls the tide in your blood.
Dangerous.
Recognizing this, you reinforce an inner wall. “I’m sorry,” you repeat. “I’m not really looking for something right now.”
Taryn nods. “Sure. If things change though, just let me know – before next week,” she adds. “We try to publish our class schedule on the first of each month.”
“Will do. Thanks, again.”
“Anytime!” Beaming, Taryn spins to restock the next shelf.
Realizing your conversation is finished, you continue down the next aisle. The shop’s materials are superb, and your fingers are itching to reach out and touch. Reaching the front, you notice a quote painted over the register: Creativity takes courage – Henry Matisse.
You stare at this for a while, unsure why it hurts. Courage isn’t something you’ve thought about in a long time. When you were younger, you pushed people away because it was safe, but now you find yourself wondering who was that for – others? Or yourself?
Maybe the reason you keep yourself separate is because you are afraid people might leave you. Like Katrina. Or Elliot. Or even your dad.
Suppressing magic was hard at the start. Everything about it felt counter-intuitive but you reasoned doing the right thing often took effort. This is what you told yourself, anyways. It made said effort more bearable.
When you first began painting, the relief you felt was immense. After so long spent ignoring your emotions, you found a space to be free. Your series about the sea was oddly therapeutic, working through complicated emotions; your love for the ocean, coupled with fear of its wild beauty. Similar clashes within yourself about magic. And always, always, the desire for more.
For a few hours though, those feelings could be a part of you. Magic could be a part of you, so long as you remained in control – and with brush in hand, you were.
Only now does it occur to you that maybe, this wasn’t healthy. Maybe you shouldn’t feel the need to compartmentalize, as though certain pieces of yourself can only exist in certain spaces.
Tearing your gaze from the words, you exit the shop and gently shut the door. Pulling your jacket tighter, you head down the sidewalk and let your thoughts drift. Jungkook only saw you paint once, but the memory is hard to forget.
You had just started dating, barely past the stage of calling him ‘boyfriend.’ The constant influx of emotion was difficult to manage, and after a few weeks, you were exhausted. Most of your time spent without Jungkook was seated before your canvas. After one particularly frustrating session, you set down your paint to stubbornly stare at the canvas.
A throat cleared from behind.
Startled, you spun and found Jungkook standing there. His gaze moved quickly to yours, but you realized he’d been staring at your half-finished work. Normally, you felt panic at the thought of someone seeing a work in progress. That night though, the look on Jungkook’s face eased your concerns. Awe; pure and clear.
Yanking down giant, over-ear headphones, you hastily stood.
Jungkook lurched forward. “No!” he blurted, only to halt. “I mean – you don’t have to cover the painting. I liked it.”
He seemed flustered, which made you slightly flustered, but you took a slow step sideways. Eager, Jungkook’s gaze traversed the canvas.
Eventually, he looked back. “Sorry about that,” Jungkook said and walked closer. Warm hands found your waist. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”
“How did you get in?” you laughed, burying your face in his chest.
“Seokjin.” He paused. “Did he not say I was here? I texted you a half hour ago, but you didn’t respond. I figured I’d stop by, and Seokjin said to come up.”
Softening, you made a mental note to chastise Seokjin later. Tightening your arms, you lifted your head and smiled.
“So.” Jungkook glanced over your shoulder. “This is you.”
This sent a thrill down your spine. He spoke as though he’d known you before, but only on a surface level and now, he understood. Jungkook knew your art was part of you, as much as your heart or your soul. You had often felt the same, but never said so out loud.
Magic swelled, and you pushed it back down, but it was difficult. When Jungkook bent his head, you forgot to be scared and let yourself feel. The brush of his lips. The tightening of his hands. The current within you, swelling against your highest walls.
Loudly, someone knocked on the door. Breathless, you jerked backwards and found Seokjin in the door.
“Hey.” He jerked a thumb over one shoulder. “Wanted to let you know our dishwasher broke. Flooded the kitchen.” Pointed, Seokjin looked at you. “Everything is all good, but I’m calling a plumber tomorrow. Carry on.”
In a flurry of embarrassment, you abruptly ended the evening and sent Jungkook home.
Remembering how the night ended, you stifle a groan and walk faster. Once more, you couldn’t control your magic and put Jungkook in danger. Hardly the creative courage Henry Matisse imagined.
You always assumed suppressing your magic was the best choice. But the best choice for who? Certainly not for you, who lives isolated, inert and in fear of yourself. Your dad used to call your magic a gift, but it’s been a long time since you felt that way.
This memory brings with it a sharp stab of pain. Since your dad passed, fear has replaced any joy your magic brought. Fear of falling victim to the same fate he did. Of others’ rejection. Of failing to live up to your father’s example.
You have little doubt that if your dad could see you now, he’d be confused by your actions.
You push others away in the name of saving them. Again, you think of Jungkook and for once you allow it. The entire way home, you wish that he’d call.
He doesn’t though and eventually, you stop hoping.
By Friday, the threads keeping your feelings at bay are nearly worn through. Intrusive thoughts push against fragile bonds, threatening the haven you’ve carefully crafted.
With more force than needed, you toss clothing into the washer. Your usual laundromat was closed, forcing you to walk five blocks to the next one. Sweaty from suddenly sweltering temperatures, your arms sore from the hamper, the situation does nothing to improve an already crappy mood.
Wiping your forehead with one arm, you slam the door and press start. The machine whirs to life, laundry tumbling in a way reminiscent of your inner turmoil. Up, you did the right thing by ending it with Jungkook. He’ll swiftly move on and find someone else. Down – but you don’t want him to find someone else. You want him to find you.
Teeth gritted, you turn and grab your hamper from the floor. Placing this on the washer, you wearily tug your cell phone from your pocket. By the time you walked home, you’d have to come back, leaving you with forty minutes to kill. You could read more of the book you just started. Or submit your resume to a couple of restaurants.
After yesterday’s disaster at Ramen-rama though, the interview process has stalled. Instead, you’ve found yourself thinking more about Creative Courage. For a brief moment, you even walked into the third bedroom to paint.
You immediately walked back out again, but merely the act was more than you’ve done in months. The thought of creation brought mostly panic, since it’d involve you being honest. Something you haven’t been with yourself in a while.
Because if you were honest, you know what you’d find. You would regret breaking up with Jungkook. Maybe even find that, deep down, you want to be selfish. You want to keep dating him, even if Jungkook gets hurt in the end.
After all, you saw what loving an Elemental did to your mom.
Putting down your phone, you scan the laundromat and find your gaze catching on the person in the next aisle.
No. No, no, no – absolutely not.
The universe – or whoever’s writing your story – must be cruel and unusual, since standing beside you is Jungkook. You’d recognize his head anywhere. Straightening from his hamper, Jungkook turns to face you and goes still.
Eyes wide, he seems stunned until someone slams shut their dryer. Both of you jump, breaking eye contact and time seems to reset. Pressing start on his machine, Jungkook grabs his gym bag and hoists it over one shoulder. He strides towards the exit, halfway there when you spring into action.
Dashing towards him, you cut him off at the dryers. Footsteps slowing, Jungkook meets your gaze with visible confusion.
“Sorry,” he says, tugging his gym bag behind him. The thick, grey strap of it cuts across his hoodie. “I was just leaving. I can come back later if you want to finish your load.”
Again, he tries to move past you, but something inside of you snaps. You aren’t sure what possesses you, but somehow, find your hand gripping his sleeve.
Startled, Jungkook stares.
Equally swift, you withdraw. “I, uh…”
Head spinning, all your words seem to fly out the window. Nothing about this was planned. You have no idea what to tell Jungkook besides I’m sorry, and even this would be woefully inadequate without explanation. Which you can’t give.
“You don’t have to leave on my account,” you say at last.
A singular brow lifts. “No? You didn’t seem to think that way on Wednesday.”
You suppress a wince, although you try your best to hide it. “I know,” you admit. “It’s just… this is your usual laundromat. I don’t want you to leave because of me. I wouldn’t even be here, expect the one near me is broken and –”
“Got it,” he interrupts, the words tight. “You wouldn’t be here if you didn’t have to be.”
Swallowing hard, you stare down at your shoes. You know you deserve this, but it’s just so hard to see Jungkook hurting. He deserves to be happy, not wasting his energy on hating you.
“Okay,” you whisper.
Your eyes start to burn, and you squeeze them shut to prevent a reaction. You absolutely cannot cry in front of Jungkook. Not when you’re the one who started this; the very last thing you want him to feel for you is pity.
“Hey.” Something in his tone shifts, and you hear Jungkook step closer. When you open your eyes, he watches you intently. “What’s wrong?”
A tiny fissure within your chest splinters.
Anyone else could have asked those words, and you would have been able to answer. For Jungkook to do so is unthinkable. You’re the one who ruined this. The one who hurt him, who ended this and still, Jungkook is concerned about your well-being.
“I was fired on Sunday,” you say in a rush. “Before I came to see you.”
He blinks only once before his face hardens. “Before you broke up with me, you mean.”
“Yeah,” you whisper.
Running his tongue over the back of his teeth, Jungkook glances away. His expression is taut, and you feel a sharp pang of envy. It’s so easy to read Jungkook. You’ve spent so long hiding your emotions, it strikes you as luxurious how easily he feels.
A muscle in his jaw tics. “Y/N,” Jungkook says, turning back. “What are you doing?”
“What… do you mean?”
Fear spikes your heart, wondering if Jungkook has finally pieced the facts together. Maybe he saw more than you realized at the coffee shop. Maybe he finally knows what you are.
“Why are you… torturing me?” he clarifies, a slight rasp to his voice. “I don’t know what you want me to say. You were fired? That sucks, but it doesn’t make this okay. It doesn’t make us okay,” he adds, gesturing to the air between you.
“I – I know,” you stammer, nearly blurting out something you’ll regret.
Like that you’re an Elemental teetering close to the edge. One who can feel every pipe, every spin cycle within the walls of this laundromat. All of them churning, pulsing, begging for your magic to release the water inside.
“You know?” Jungkook stares at you, incredulous. “Again, Y/N – what do you want from me?”
Since you started talking, you’ve moved several steps closer. Another breath, another reach and you’d be in his arms. Glancing down, you notice how quickly Jungkook’s chest rises and falls.
He’s afraid, you realize. Jungkook’s fear isn’t the same one as yours, though. He isn’t afraid that you’ll see him, but rather that you’ll destroy him.
Realizing this, a barrier within you crumbles. “It doesn’t matter what I want,” you say, somewhat desperate.
“You keep saying that.” Determined, he steps closer and somehow, your hand entwines with his to press against his chest. “You keep saying you don’t want this, but you won’t tell me why. Won’t tell me anything, Y/N – you were fired, and this is the first time I’m hearing it.”
“I couldn’t tell you!” you blurt. “I can’t explain it, Jungkook, but I couldn’t tell you when it happened.”
His gaze sharpens. “Then, yeah, maybe you’re right. Maybe we are better off broken up.”
Releasing you, Jungkook brushes past you and heads for the exit. You stare blankly at the wall before you, your whole world caving in as your head starts to spin. Magic seeps beyond your fractured walls, flooding your veins in desperate search for an exit.
“That’s not true,” you protest, spinning around. “I’ve told you more than anyone else in my life, Jungkook. I’ve let you in in ways no one else has.”
Jungkook stiffens at the door, his entire body taut. For a single, long moment, it seems as though he might reconsider but the longer you stand there, the more you watch the fight drain from the lines of his shoulders.
“I don’t doubt that’s true,” he says, hand hovering above the doorknob. “But that’s not the same as letting me in.”
He starts to go.
Everything around you becomes white noise.
When you were ten, you passed a famous dam on one of your cross-country moves. Your mom took you to see it, swinging your hand while entering the viewing platform.
The moment you saw it, you went wholly still. Trillions of gallons of water, trapped behind concrete, constantly pushing but unable to break. It felt like your magic. Raw, untamed power contained by a solid wall. You stared for longer than any other visitor, until your mom pulled your arm and said you should leave.
The entire way to the car, your mom was silent and once you were buckled in, she twisted around to see you. “Listen to me, Y/N,” she said, her voice serious. “That dam will only work if the wall holds. If the wall breaks, do you know what happens?”
Silent, you shook your head.
“The water will flood the whole valley. Everyone in its path, all the forest – they’d be gone. The wall can’t break, or bad things happen. Do you understand me?”
Solemn, you nodded because even then, you understood. Although your magical dam was intangible, it held equal importance. You had to hold in the magic, otherwise bad things would happen. So long as the wall was in place, you were safe.
Now though, you squeeze your eyes tightly as the wall starts to crumble.
Emotions break with the force of a tidal wave, racing ahead and drowning all in its path. Memories you thought were long buried continue to rise, crushing you further. Your walls are destroyed in a matter of seconds.
You remember your dad, kissing you on the head before leaving the house. Katrina’s stricken expression when the door shut in her face. Jungkook, asking you what he’d done wrong again.
Each memory drags you under, and you shudder against the onslaught. It takes everything you have to remain standing while your restraint dissolves.
Hands grip your arms.
Surprised, your eyes fly open to find Jungkook before you. His neck muscles strain, yelling to be heard over thundering water. You try your best to focus, to rein your magic back in – only to realize with horror, it might be too late.
The laundromat around you is in chaos. Several ceiling pipes have burst, water crashing down in torrents of water. Already, waves lap at your ankles. Noise filters back in, flickering before solidifying to something substantial.
People are screaming, abandoning their hampers in an attempt to get out. The door has stuck though, unable to open under the onslaught of water. Jungkook yells again, and this time you hear him.
“Are you okay?” he bellows, close to your face.
You stare upward, stupefied. Another pipe bursts, and you think that was you, but it’s hard to be sure. Hard to understand which parts are in control and which parts are not. What particular emotion is holding the reins at any moment.
Determination replaces fear in his face, and Jungkook bends before you have time to blink. In an instant, you’re tossed over his shoulder. A yelp escapes, upside-down but he’s already wading through the aisle of washers.
Jungkook shouts at people to move, but no one is listening. After a moment, you feel him exhale and surge forward. Although you can’t see, the people seem to be moving, so Jungkook must appear confident.
Grasping the door, he pulls on it, hard. Nothing happens. Exhaling, Jungkook grips your waist tighter and mutters, “Hold on.”
You don’t have time to ask why, since he yanks harder and the entire frame shudders. Jungkook does this again and another pipe bursts, drawing your gaze. By the time you look back, the door has budged an inch and water is pouring out. With a final wrench, Jungkook yanks open the door.
People shove past him, rushing into the street with the tide of water. Spinning around, Jungkook shields you with his frame from the wet crush of bodies. His grip never wavers, feet anchored to the ground as though they’ve rocks themselves.
With each breath, your pulse slows until finally, you locate the faint threads of magic. Before, you felt too much at once. The crush was overwhelming but now, you manage to breach the surface. For the first time, you see your panic influencing the tide.
Realizing this, you reach inward and try to – turn. With great effort, you identify the source of your power and disconnect. Water in the ceiling slows to a trickle, and then, nothing.
Exhaling against your neck, Jungkook’s hand moves lower.
You can’t help but shiver. “Jungkook?” you murmur into his shoulder.
“Yeah?”
“Could you… you know, set me down?”
“Oh.”
Somewhat sheepish, Jungkook lowers you to face him. He doesn’t step away, and neither do you. If this is the last time you see him, you want to be selfish and make it as long as possible.
He stares back at you, waterdrops caught between his lashes. In the background, water continues to drip from a pipe. The soft plink-plink echoes the thud of your heart.
“Are you okay?” he asks.
Jungkook’s hands remain on your waist, his touch scrambling all semblance of sanity. You aren’t sure how to answer without being honest.
Truthfully, you’re not okay.
An okay person wouldn’t break up with their boyfriend and then, six days later throw themselves in their path. An okay person wouldn’t be hiding their magic, they wouldn’t be lying to the person they love and most of all, wouldn’t continue to place that same person in danger.
Silent, you survey the aftermath of your outburst. Deep down, your magic itches in response to your panic. Seeping outward, it seeks to mold to the fear, but you manage to stop it. Something about the wall being gone makes your power less alien. No longer an unknown variable, but a constant.
“No,” you exhale. Steeling yourself, you take a step backwards. “No, Jungkook, I’m not okay. I… this is exactly why you should stay away from me. Bad things happen, and I can’t control them. I’m so sorry.”
Again, you brace yourself for his anger, but it never comes. Jungkook is unusually quiet, head cocked to one side. He sees right through you, a sensation unnerving enough that you drop your gaze.
“I should go,” you repeat, stepping around him. Reaching your washer, you hastily unload your soggy clothing. “I have to go.”
Jungkook says nothing, although you feel his gaze on the back of your head. Hefting your hamper, you slam the door shut, and turn. The water level at your ankles has dropped, no more than a centimeter remaining in the room.
Sirens wail in the distance, likely on their way to investigate. Your stomach lurches, recognizing the cost of your magic. As soon as possible, you should reach out to Seokjin. His company might be able to cover the damage if the laundromat can’t.
Nearing the exit, you look anywhere but at Jungkook’s face. “I’m sorry,” you repeat, unsure what else to say. “Really, I am.”
Again, he lets you move past. Water rushes out when you open the door, seeking the street, then the gutter. Hurrying past, you can’t shake the feeling something has changed.
Not only with you and Jungkook, but with you and your magic. Silent, you prod the place deep within from which your magic stems. You’re used to a wall, feeling closed off but now, it seems your mom was right.
Once shattered, the dam can’t be rebuilt.
A weightlessness accompanies this that you didn’t anticipate. Despite the terror of your outburst, there was a moment near the end when you stopped it. When you felt what was wrong and controlled your outburst of magic. You haven’t done that before.
The thought is followed by regret, remembering Jungkook. When you broke up, it was supposed to save him. Instead, you’ve only put him – and yourself – in greater danger. Maybe because you’ve continued to see him. Everything would be fine if you moved or kept your distance.
But then, another part of you wonders if you were wrong from the start. Maybe instead of providing distance, you should have come closer. Should have allowed Jungkook to decide whether he wanted to stay. After all, today, he experienced the worst of your powers, and he didn’t run. If anything, he moved closer.
Suddenly exhausted, you hail a cab. The driver grumbles at your wet clothes but allows you inside, and you tip him extra upon reaching your place. What you should do is find another laundromat and finish your load, but there’s an itch in your fingers you haven’t felt in some time.
Dropping your hamper at the door, you shutter yourself within the third bedroom. Not allowing yourself to second-guess, you sit down at your easel and pick up a brush.
For the first time in a long time, you allow the magic to flow. You paint.
© kpopfanfictrash, 2023. Do not copy or repost without permission.
Author’s Note: thank you for reading so far! Continued in Part II, here.
#bangtanarmynet#bts fanfic#bts smut#jungkook fanfic#jungkook smut#bts au#bts fic#jungkook au#jungkook fic#jungkook fanfiction#bts fanfiction
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Some MORE sagau since my last post did some numbers and its given me confidence which feels nice.😌
This is completely self indulgence. And because it is the "you" referred to here is female. Slight yandere vibes but my intention was not cult au.
Albedo is the first to notice the unusual amount of shooting stars in the sky. There's never been this many meteorites in such a short span of time. Especially in Mondstadt. As Albedo observes another cluster of stars through his telescope, he notices this time the stars aren't all a bright white but of many different colors. Purple, gold, green and blue. Albedo notes how the sky melts and bends into these different colors too. Its all so strange but fascinating to him. He keeps his eye on the horizon, takes notes, but holds onto hope none of this spills any bad news.
Its Venti who catches you falling from the sky. Of course its him. It has to be him, at least he tells himself this. Its Venti who lays your head in his lap as anxiety and confusion reflects on his face. He gently runs his fingers over your forehead, brushing your hair out of the way. Only to see the sallow cut on your head leaking glittering golden blood. His hand flinches back as he thinks "They've arrived." He delicately holds you in his arms, as his thoughts race through taking you to the seven, which he assumed is the safest option. When you open your eyes. Your brain is fuzzy and your eyes are heavy but you can still make out Venti's visage. "Venti?" Your horse and rough voice manages, but you speak his name in more so disbelief. You let this stranger hold you as your arms are far too weak to push him away. And its Venti whose heart races as he realizes hes the first person you see. The first name you ever speak in Teyvat. His grip tightens as he swears to himself to keep you safe, to watch over you until your full power returns. "You...you really smell like apples." You smile weakly at him, body leaning into his embrace, closing your eyes enjoying the warmth he radiates. "You really do smell like apples." you repeat and Venti. is. beaming.
Venti becomes your comfort in this new world you've been thrust into. You find yourself hiding behind him when you're introduced to new people, holding his hand whenever you're anxious. Venti becomes quite proud that you seek out his presence so much. When you do start to become more brave, venturing out of Mondstadt, spending more time with Zhongli, Ei and Nahida. Venti finds himself becoming uncharacteristically jealous. His grip on you is never tight but it shows through his "You'll leaving already?" and "There's no reason to travel to Liyue/Inazuma/Sumeru ect you can do that here in Mondstadt." He treasures wearing the title of your first and closest friend and doesn't want anyone to replace him. And as you sit with him in the tavern again, making sure he fulfills his promise of writing a song for you, he finds himself getting terribly distracted by your eyes. Hoping he could become more than your dearest friend.
Venti's worship is friendly, playful, almost suffocating but in a good way.
Its Zhongli who becomes your second shadow. As soon as the overexcited bard announces your arrival to the present archons his heart skips a beat. Century after century he has heard stories of your power, your beauty, your grace. And some how he has lived long enough to see you in the flesh. His heart is racing as he waits for you to enter the room. And when you do, your hand in Venti's as he cheerfully introduces you to the geo archon. Zhongli's eyes widen for just a split second before he calmly attempts to regain his composure. He bows low, elegantly, although his knees threaten to give way. "Welcome back your grace." Your presence is otherworldly, ethereal. Your eyes bleed into the ever changing colors of the sky. And while maybe for a short time in the beginning Zhongli questioned himself, why you would return in such a small weak form. But that thought quickly left him, the longer he heard the unwavering kindness in your voice and the warmth of your smile. He was convinced he saw celestia its self within you.
Any and every time you step into Liyue, Zhongli is by your side. Even when your not in his country Zhongli still makes his presence known. Ever so observant and thoughtful. Helps you learn the names of people and places. Patiently tells you stories of the past over a hot cup of tea. Ever so patient Zhongli. When you playfully, nervously, confess you're a little intimidated by him. He waits. As long as you need. For you to initiate conversation, for you to stand closer to him, for you hold his arm as you take a walk through the city. And even as you continue to favor that childish drunken bard, Zhongli knows you would choose him. Maybe not today, but he will keep trying. Patiently demonstrating the upmost consideration so when the time comes for you to choose a spouse you will choose him. Zhongli convinces himself that out of the seven its him who deserves to be by your side. The patiently, gentleman Zhongli, will capture your heart, because who else deserves to spend eternity by your side.
Zhongli's worship is attentive, respectful, quietly fiercely loyal.
When Childe overhears the other fatui members whispering "There are rumors the god of Teyvat has arrived in Mondstadt. Taking on the form of a beautiful young woman." he stops dead in his tracks, eyes widening. He stops the informant demanding more details. Its Childe who has to show the most restraint in his entire life when the you agree to meet with the fatui harbingers. Your expression cold as you greet each member, your voice curt and short not entertaining a longer conversation. Childe has to fight back a grin when he first sees you and hears your voice. The sound immediately familiar to him. His heart racing, fingers twitch to touch you, hold you, to thank you over and over again. When your eyes finally land on him your expression quickly changes. You smile brightly, "Childe" you call his name is such an affection manner it makes his knees weak. The sweet sound throwing his mind back to when your warmth surrounded him in that dark pit. He finds himself dropping to knees before he even thinks, his head low and gaze to the floor to hide the tears threatening to slip. "The Fatui await your every command your grace."
Childe becomes your friend, easily, naturally. Even if you can not remember comforting him in the abyss. The other harbingers are completely dumbfounded why out of all of them you choose to spend all your time with Childe. And Childe is so prideful about it. He becomes infatuated with you. Learns every little thing about you. Falls in love with you. His world seems lighter, brighter whenever he speaks with you. He becomes addicted to your laughter. Wants it all to himself. Starts to imagine what it be like to be yours, your only. And when you return his feelings, he's elated. And Childe doesn't believe he'll ever let you go, he cant, not when he finally has you in the flesh. No he can't see his life without you in it and he'll keep it that way. No matter what or who threatens his happiness.
Childe's worship is possessive, selfish, brazen, bloodthirsty and warm like a fire comforting you on a cold winter's night.
One more below!
SIKE but no keep reading please
I'm currently in the middle of making some genshin related art and if that interests you maybe you can take a look at my instagram 👉👈
I'm also going write a NSFW sagau piece next. Which will include Xiao(and Venti again, really suddenly have fallen hard for him)🥰 this is my first time dipping my toes into writing characters that are not OCs so I'm trying🙇♀️
#genshin impact#genshin impact sagau#my writing#genshin impact zhongli#genshin impact childe#genshin impact venti#genshin impact albedo#sagau genshin#self aware genshin#genshin impact x reader#female reader#genshin impact x you#fem reader#self aware genshin au#self aware genshin impact#sagau#sagau x reader
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You're Good To Me | Eris x Reader
summary: Eris realizes two things. One, he's in love with you, his brother's betrothed. Two, he's put you in danger.
warnings: angst, mentions of killing, but there is some fluff in the middle!
a/n: This one is inspired by Hozier's Would That I. Eris is so Hozier coded and when I heard this song, I couldn't help myself but write this. You can find the masterlist for this series here or just read this as a stand alone imagine. I rewrote the last scenes to this so many times within the past couple of hours but I think I'm finally content with this.
The late morning sun casts long shadows through the towering trees of the Autumn Court's sprawling estate, dappling over Eris with golden hues. Resting against a centuries-old oak, he reads a book–your book–while his hounds run about freely. Occasionally, they bring him a random stick that he happily throws.
She was soft as an angel but oh, she could love with the fury of a demon–
Clover, his youngest hound, barks, pulling his attention from the book. It’s one that has an adorable chirp to it. His fingers still on the page he was about to turn. Recently, there’s been only one other person–besides him, of course– who can elicit such a sound.
With a roar of a fire, Eris’s heart rises to its feet, mirroring Clover’s excitement. He can feel you too. You’re close. The book he was reading lays forgotten in his lap as he listens for the telltale sound of hoofbeats drawing near.
You had gone for a morning ride with his mother as you’ve done nearly every morning for the past week. How convenient for Eris to be reading near the stables around the time you’d return.
He was strategically positioned not to be in your direct line of sight but for you to come into his.
You’re laughing at something his mother said and the small smile that tugs at his lips is almost inevitable. He lifts his gaze, admiring the carefree expression on your face and the way the sunlight catches your hair. Clover lets out a small wine, tail wagging in anticipation as she watches you. She looks back at Eris, as if asking if she could run to you, and though Eris isn’t one to deny his hounds, he shakes his head at her. He wants to bask in your presence from afar awhile longer.
He can tell your lips are moving but from where he sits, he can’t discern your words. The soft pat you give your horse, Maximus, and the responding loud neigh is enough to clue him in. Maximus stands proud, his long white mane blowing in the gentle morning breeze as you dismount him with the help of one of the stablemen. You traded your pretty dresses for something more fitting for your morning ride. His gaze lingers on the way your pants cling to your curves longer than it should.
A low growl from Clover has him abruptly tearing his gaze away from your body. He watches as you run toward an older male. Your smile is so bright it competes with the sun as you throw your arms around your father. There’s something unsettling about the way your father looks at you. Something that makes your father undeserving of your smile.
While you look up at him in admiration, he looks at you as if you are his most prized possession. An object. He can tell his mother senses it too by the forced smile on her face as she politely greets him.
In the blink of an eye, Clover is darting toward you with an urgency that startles Eris. The rest of his hounds pause, their muscles tensing as they watch the scene unfold. Your eyes widen in pleasant surprise. Clover bounds towards you, her tongue eagerly reaching out to shower you with affection.
“Do they just let vile creatures roam around freely here?” He hears your father loudly ask with a scowl on his face.
“Her name is Clover,” you are quick to correct, turning toward your father again.
Clover turns with you and suddenly, she’s growling and snapping at him. With a yelp, your father falls to the ground on his butt while Clover lowers her head with another growl in warning. Eris rises to his feet and brings his finger to his lips, letting out a sharp whistle.
Just as quickly as Clover had escaped his side, she obediently makes her way back to him. Your gaze follows after her, and it's then that you spot Eris. There's a softness in your gaze as it lands on him. Despite the tension between Clover and your father, you seem unfazed. Your focus solely on Eris as the stablemen rush to help your father, who is groaning out profanities while his mother apologizes on Eris’s behalf.
Eris holds your gaze, patting Clover’s head in a reassuring manner. He’s not sorry about the whole ordeal. His hounds are trained to appear menacing and fearsome but they never attack without reason. Now, he’s inclined to investigate further, realizing he does not know enough about your father.
“Come along,” your father says, wrapping an arm around your shoulder and forcing your attention back to him. He looks down at your outfit and a frown appears on his face. “You’re a Lady now, y/n. You need to dress like it.”
“I’m sorry,” he hears you apologize, unsettling him further. He watches as your body is enveloped by a golden glow and when he blinks, your riding outfit is replaced by a soft pink gown.
As your father rushes you back toward the forest house, you can’t help but glance back. There’s the slightest curve to Eris’s lips at that. He waves your book in a teasing manner, reveling in the immediate response he receives. You quickly turn back around and even from his distance, he can appreciate the blush that warms your cheeks. He feels a similar warmth swell in his chest, leaving him already anticipating seeing you again at dinner.
**
Eris hesitantly turns the final page of the book, as if reluctant to part ways. He had needed something to preoccupy himself with until dinner and with his father thankfully busy entertaining yours, he decided to immerse himself further into the book you held dear. He knew it was one you treasured by the worn-out cover and the pages threatening to detach from the spine. He’s almost distraught at the creases that line the top edges of random pages but is willing to forgive you for it.
His gaze settles on the last words, a bittersweet ache tugging at his heartstrings.
"You are the love that came without warning. You had my heart before I could say no,” he breathes, holding her close. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner.”
“It’s okay,” she croaks out as she looks up at him, blood seeping from her mouth. “I love you too.”
And as she drew her last breath, he felt his world end with it.
He stares at the words, reading them over and over again. Finally, he closes the book, but the words linger, echoing within him like a haunting melody. They stir emotions in him he’s never felt towards the ending of a book before. He feels lost. Angry. Disbelief. What kind of ending was this? If this book wasn’t yours, he would’ve flung it across his room.
He lets out a deep exhale, eyes fluttering shut momentarily. When he opens them, he looks at the clock hanging across the wall from him. Two hours until dinner still looms ahead. He wants to find you, to tell you his thoughts like you told him to but it’s too risky at this moment.
Rising from his seat, he gingerly sets your cherished book down on the small table beside him. He grabs his coat, deciding fresh air will do him well. Perhaps, even a walk through the village. There is a shop he’d like to visit. Anything to quiet his thoughts and the clamor of his racing heart. The characters from the book struck a chord too familiar with him.
**
“Hold my hand.”
“No.”
Eris pauses at the voices, eyes immediately finding the owners. There's a notable gap between you and Sawyer, tension crackling in the air as you exchange heated glances. For a moment, Eris wonders if there’s fire coursing through your veins too.
“Listen,” you start. “I don’t want to hold your hand but I want my father to believe I’m happy.”
Sawyer lets out a chuckle. “Your father doesn’t care.”
The look of hurt that flashes in your eyes is enough to have Eris’s blood boiling. “Can’t you at least do this one thing for me?” You plead, clasping your hands in front of him.
“Nope,” Sawyer repeats, accentuating the “p” sound, evidently relishing in the opportunity to further irk you.
“Gods, you’re such an–an…”
Sawyer raises a challenging eyebrow, his gaze locking onto you as your voice wavers, the resolve slipping away. "Say it," he whispers sharply, and Eris's muscles tense instinctively, not liking his brother's tone. Maybe, he should intervene…and teach Sawyer another lesson.
“You’re an asshole.”
Eris almost chokes on his own spit. He fights back the urge to laugh. Not at you, but at the sheer surprise written all over Sawyer's face. Sawyer clearly hadn't expected such boldness from you, and if Eris were to be honest, he is surprised too. Pleasantly surprised.
“Only for you,” Sawyer hisses back, surprise morphing into offense.
“I won’t even breathe in your direction for the next week.”
“And?”
You look at him incredulously. “And?”
Sawyer doesn’t respond. He folds his arms tightly across his chest, letting you know he expects more from you. Your response is a frustrated huff, a sound that would have typically elicited an amused smile from Eris. But not at this moment.
“Fine. I’ll cover for you for all the days leading up to our wedding. Do whom and what as you please. But–” you pause, holding a finger out to him. “–you have to say something nice to me in front of my father too.”
Sawyer’s lips curve into a pleased smirk. “That’s more like it, poo bear,” he purrs, bringing his hand up to pinch at your cheek a little too rough for Eris’s liking.
His fists clench at his sides, watching with envy as Sawyer slowly offers you his arm. Though it’s what you asked for, you eye it with caution. As soon as your hand is lifting to take Sawyer’s arm, Eris finally decides to make his presence known. He walks forward and toward the still notable gap between you and his younger brother. His shoulder purposely bumps into Sawyer’s, a mask of indifference on his face as he does so.
On the other side, his fingers graze against yours. A gesture so subtle it appears to be accidental. There’s no nuance in your expression but your fingers respond, gently lingering over his own. A tug on that golden thread in his chest has his steps wanting to falter. He does not give in, pushing forward instead.
Eris walks into the dining room and settles into his seat beside his mother, nodding a greeting to both his father and yours. They’re already immersed in what sounds like a pointless conversation over Prythian’s economy. Knowing that you and Sawyer will be following shortly, hand in hand, he yanks the bottle of wine from Oliver’s grasp. The heated glare he receives is instant but he couldn’t care any less as he fills his glass to the brim, wishing it was something stronger.
“There’s my blooming flower,” he hears your father happily greet as you grace them with your presence.
“The prettiest flower,” Sawyer remarks in a tone as smooth and soft as velvet. His younger brothers snicker, clearly amused with the drastic change in Sawyer’s attitude toward you.
Eris, however, does not find it amusing.
The grip on his glass tightens so harshly that his mother spares him a glance. She gives him a discreet kick under the table, silently urging him to relax. While his grip on his wine glass loosens, the tension in his jaw doesn’t. He remains quiet during dinner, chiming in only enough to not raise suspicion. He doesn’t dare to sneak a glance at you. Nor at Sawyer. Not even to glare daggers at him for every sweet word he speaks your way.
He knows it’s all an act but the thought does nothing to soothe him. Not when he heard you begging Sawyer to act like he likes you, to hold your hand, to say sweet nothings to you. To do all the things Eris is desperately yearning to do.
The Cauldron was cruel.
**
“I’m glad to see you’re doing well here,” your father says as you walk arm in arm. “A flower like you needs the right soil to flourish.”
After dinner, the two of you had taken a stroll through the gardens, catching up with one another. He told you all about his recent business adventures, gloating over how the deals coming his way were endless as the word of your family name mixed with the Vanserras spread throughout Prythian. It was when the autumn winds began to pick up and grew too cold for your liking that you made your way back in the forest house and toward your room.
“Do you really have to leave so soon?” You ask, a frown settling over your brows. Please stay, you want to add.
“I’m afraid so. I have a meeting with a potential business partner in Hewn City so I’ll have to leave early tomorrow to prepare,” your father replies in an apologetic tone. “I’ll try to make it in time for your next dress fitting.”
“Okay,” you respond, forcing another smile to your face. You hope your father can’t see right through it. “I’ll wake up early tomorrow to bid you farewell.”
“Lovely,” Your father says, the two of you coming to a stop near your door, where an Autumn guard is stationed right in front. With a nod of his head, the guard steps aside, allowing you access to your room. “Sleep well, okay?”
You lean your back against the door in contemplation. There’s so much you want to say. You want to tell him the truth. To ask him to call off the wedding. To have him take you with him, even if its to Hewn City.
Perhaps, if it were your mother standing before you, you would’ve confessed it all. She was always willing to listen. Your father…not so much. Given the way he was already bragging about the benefits from your arranged marriage, you worried it’d only be a waste of your breath. You also feared burdening him further, knowing he already had a lot on his plate.
You worry your father senses your inner turmoil when he reaches out a hand, lifting your chin. He smiles at you, his eyes seemingly capturing every detail of your presence. Almost like he’s etching it into his memory forever. “You’re everything I could’ve asked for and more in a daughter. Your mother would be proud too.”
There’s a pang in your chest and your smile falters. Something tells you, you wouldn’t be marrying Sawyer if she were alive. Unlike your father, she would see right through you and find a way out for you. But you can’t blame your father, either. Your mother’s last wish was to see you married and happy. Your father only wishes to honor it.
So instead of voicing your worries, you nod. “Goodnight, father.”
**
When you enter your room, you swear your heart skips a beat. Eris stands tall by your window, his red hair glowing like strands of molten copper under the pale moonlight. His gaze is fixed on the rustle of the leaves from the cool breeze, the shadows dancing across his delicate features. He looks ethereal just standing there.
“Your view is better than mine.”
You’re quick to shut the door behind you. “Lord Eris.”
Eris lets out a snort at your formality. He turns to face you with a small smile. “Just Eris,” he reminds softly as you approach him.
“Sorry, it’s a habit now,” you reply in a sheepish manner. You walk further into your room, joining him at his side. “What are you doing here? You didn’t leave a note this time.”
“I finally finished it.” Eris says as he reveals what he’s holding in his hands. Your book.
“You did?” Your eyes widen as you take it back from him.
The spine is gently bowed from decades of being held dear but you notice that the pages that were teetering away from the spine have been carefully attached back. What catches your eyes most, however, is the golden thread dangling from the midst of the pages. Your fingers toy with the autumn leaf charms that hang from it. Opening the book, you realize the string is attached to a bookmark. It’s placed exactly where you had last creased the page you had been on.
“I can’t believe you dog ear your pages, angel.”
Eris’s nose crinkles in disgust yet there’s an amused gleam in his eyes that has a laugh bubbling in your chest. “You say it like it’s a crime.”
“Because it is,” he insists with an incredulous furrow of his brow.
“Did you like it?”
“Like?” He laughs and you feel a flutter of uncertainty course through you. “I loved it,” he admits, soothing the flutter but then adds: “But I hated the ending.”
“Oh.”
“Oh,” he echoes, his tone mirroring the playful glint dancing in his eyes.
The two of you stare at each other for a moment and you remind yourself to breathe properly. “Do you want to talk about it?” You offer tentatively, your heart racing with anticipation.
Eris grins. “I thought you’d never ask.”
Sitting on the window seat, he adjusts his body so that his back leans against the window. He carefully angles his legs, giving you space to sit too. You settle across from, hugging your knees to your chest.
“Start from the beginning.”
And so Eris does, pouring out his every thought.
He tells you how he enjoyed the author’s world building of the human world, though he knows in reality, it’s actually very boring. You attempt to defend the mortals but Eris dismisses it, claiming he knows their world is dull based on a human he knows. He then tells you how the slow burn romance between the two protagonists nearly drove him insane. That he’d never been more happy to read about two characters holding hands.
“And don’t even get me started on the intimate scenes between those two. It went on in extravagant details for pages and pages,” he says with an amused exhalation. “How something so vulgar can be written so beautifully is beyond me!”
You can’t help but laugh at that, despite the heat rising to your cheeks. Eris continues with his passionate rant and you drink every single word. At some points, he pauses, asking for your interpretations of certain scenes, bringing forth small arguments and laughter.
"I just can't get over that ending," Eris remarks with a sigh, his brow furrowing in frustration. "It's just so... sad. Disappointing, almost. After all that trouble the hero went to save her only for her to still die at the end...”
"But isn't there a certain beauty in tragedy?" you counter softly. "The way it makes you feel, the emotions it evokes. The angst. Because as you read, you slowly begin to realize that it was not her who needed saving but him.”
Eris tilts his head, contemplating your words for a moment. Of course, you would see the beauty in the ending. His lips curve into a pout. He needs to protect you at all costs. He doesn’t want you to end up like him, spirit crushed by the cruel confinements of this court and forced to wear a mask at all times.
"I suppose I just prefer stories with happy endings. Life's already filled with enough sadness, isn't it?"
“It is,” you murmur, gaze softening with empathy. Then, your eyes are lighting up as a thought crosses your mind and you’re smiling at him. “Who would’ve thought Eris Vanserra, the heir to the Autumn Court, is a hopeless romantic with a soft spot for happy endings.”
The smile that breaks out brightens his entire expression and he lets out a chuckle, sending a warm flutter through your chest. He leans in closer, his amber eyes alight with an intensity that mirrors the flickering flames of the hearth in your room.
“And who would’ve thought a saint like you has the mind of a sinner.”
“Hey!” You gasp and give a playful kick to his thigh.
Eris laughs, body relaxing as he slumps against the window for support. He’s lost count of the amount of times you two have laughed tonight but he knows it’s more than he ever has before. When you shift to give another kick, his hand grasps at your ankles. He raises a brow at you in challenge, almost daring you to try again.
“You said and I quote ‘something so vulgar can be written so beautifully,’ meaning that you enjoyed them too.”
“I did,” Eris agrees, lips curling into a smirk as he lifts his gaze. His fingers mindlessly dance across your exposed leg, sending a delightful shiver through you. “But I am no saint.”
It’s when he feels your leg twitch that he realizes what he’d been doing. He stands abruptly and lowers his head. He fears he’s getting too comfortable around you. “I sh–”
Standing from the window seat, your hand grasps for his, stopping him. “Since you read one of my favorites, it’s only fair that I read one of yours.”
Eris's eyes widen in surprise and he turns back to look at you. No one has ever asked him about his favorite book. He read yours because he wanted to, curious to learn more about you through it. He didn’t expect you to return the gesture.
"Deal.”
The word escapes him with such ease it scares him but it’s short lived as he’s overcome with excitement. His passion for reading had always been a solitary pursuit. It was something he never really shared with others, but he wants to with you.
“I’ll bring it to you tomorrow.”
“Okay,” you respond happily.
“But,” he begins, not allowing you to let go of his hand, his thumb brushes against the back of it. “You’re not allowed to dog ear my pages.”
“I’ll also need a book in return. It’s only fair,” he adds, mimicking your tone from earlier. His mind then drifts to thoughts of the both of you, curled up against one another with a book in your laps. Or maybe, you’d read to him while he holds you close, his head resting atop your shoulder and–
“Of course,” you reply, pulling him from his fantasies and toward the other side of your room, where many books were neatly lined atop a shelf. “I couldn’t bring all my books but I brought all my absolute favorites!"
Eris watches as you hum in contemplation. His attention is drawn to the way you tap a finger against your lips. He remembers the way they felt against his cheek. Lovely and sweet. Like your heart. He’s dying to know what they’d feel like against his lips…
He knows you’ve finally decided on a book when your other hand frees itself from his hold to reach out for it. You carefully slide it off the shelf and then turn around, presenting it to him. “You’ll love this one,” you tell him and you’re so confident it has his lips twitching upwards for what feels like the hundredth time tonight. “It has a happy ending."
"I think I...," his voice wavers with a delicate tremor. He looks away, his cheeks tinged with a delicate blush over the words he couldn't bring himself to articulate. "You're good to me," he murmurs instead, taking the book from you.
“Why wouldn’t I be?”
Your words coax his gaze back to yours and the sincerity he finds in your eyes is one that’s never been directed at him before. It stirs a desire in him that he never even knew he was searching for.
The fire in his veins burns brighter. The bond in his chest sings louder. He allows it to pull him closer to you. You're also leaning in until the book in his hand is the only barrier between your bodies.
There's nothing else to interrupt this moment between you both. No bells chiming like that day in the fountains. No cloak to trip over or lanterns like that night he snuck you out. It's just you two, in the stillness of the night, where the only sounds are your breaths and the crackle of the hearth nearby.
His movements are slow, giving you the chance to pull away at any moment. You don't. He watches your every shift in expression as his free hand tilts your chin up towards him. Your eyes flutter shut in anticipation.
And then he's kissing you.
Softly and delicately like a butterfly's wings. Your lips are warm and perfect against his, your taste sweet and intoxicating. Even better than he could ever imagine.
Your hands travel up his neck and thread themselves through his hair, pressing his lips harsher against yours. Heat courses through him as you kiss him back. You're like a wildfire, burning away all memories of past lovers and leaving only the embers of your essence to light his way.
When he pulls away, a shared breathlessness lingers between you. As he looks into your eyes, it's like the world has somehow shifted. All at once, everything is different. He longs for the night he'll be able to hold you tight and let the blinding light you bring consume him fully.
For now, he leans his forehead against yours, breathing you in and taking in the soft smile on your face that mirrors his own.
**
But the very next morning, he's harshly reminded that though he's had a taste, your radiance remains beyond his grasp. He fears it will forever, like a forbidden flame that flickers just out of reach.
"Who does he think he is, making demands of me?" Beron seethes, his voice laced with frustration, as he paces back and forth in his study. “I’ve graciously taken in his daughter. I’ve even granted him half of his money upfront. And yet where is my promise?”
Eris, standing nearby, observes with cautious eyes, gauging the storm brewing within his father. He knew it was going to be a bad day the moment he woke up from a nightmare. A nightmare whose cruel grip he still cannot shake off…because for the first time, you were in it.
He prays his father can’t hear the rapid beating of his heart as he says, “Cancel the deal. Call off the wedding with Sawyer...”
And wed her to me, he wishes to add but the words stick in his throat. The painful truth lingers deep in his chest, nestled next to the strings of fate that bind him to you. It’s best if you leave this court and go somewhere far.
Far away where happiness might embrace you. Far away from the cruel clutches of his father’s power and even your own. Far away where you may free him of this torment…but the more time he spends with you, the more precarious the thread his honor hangs on becomes.
He fears that nowhere would be far enough now.
“Call off the wedding?” Beron laughs in an incredulous manner. The gold and crimson tapestries adorning the walls seem to shiver in response to his father’s simmering frustration. When Beron abruptly turns to face Eris, the younger male can’t help but flinch. “When you were the one who suggested this arrangement to begin with.”
Eris’s throat tightens. He had been the one to suggest this arranged marriage.
Your father, a respected merchant, extended an offer to Beron – an offer that, even now, Eris grapples to comprehend fully. It was a proposal that was lured with promises of enhanced power for the High Lord of Autumn in exchange for wealth and elevated status through matrimonial ties.
With no available Vanserra daughters to marry your father to and Sawyer's nightly endeavors tarnishing the family name, it led Eris to suggest an arranged marriage between you and Sawyer. A futile attempt to protect his younger brother from a fate similar to Lucien’s…but at what cost?
The Cauldron must be bubbling with amusement at the irony of it all. For, unknowingly, Eris orchestrated the union between you, his mate, and his brother. This is all his doing. All his fault.
Eris wills himself to maintain an outward appearance of calm. “What’s so important about this exchange anyway?” He asks with a measured voice.
“Jareth has access to something precious,” Beron responds, his words chosen with deliberate care. "Something that may hold the key to immortality."
Eris's eyebrows furrow in contemplation, his mind racing to grasp at what special thing your father could be harboring. "What if he is bluffing?"
Beron's eyes darken, sending a shiver down Eris's spine. His heart sinks to his stomach as he can already anticipate what his father is going to say.
“I’ll kill his precious daughter. Then, I’ll kill him.”
If your father keeps his end of the bargain, you’ll marry Sawyer. Doomed to a life of misery, where danger lurks at every corner. If your father doesn’t keep his end of the bargain, you’ll be the one to face the consequences of his father's wrath.
And you're in this situation because of him. The bond in his chest tightens, the golden strings pulling taut with a piercing resonance. No, no, no. Panic seeps in with an agonizing intensity. The mere thought of any harm coming to you, especially because of his actions, sickens him to his stomach.
He can’t allow that to happen. He won't allow it to happen.
“That won’t be necessary,” Eris says, carrying the weight of centuries of practiced composure. “I’ll ensure Jareth keeps his end of the bargain.”
“As expected,” Beron replies in a pleased tone. “I’m counting on you.”
Eris manages a nod, silently excusing himself. He’s never been more desperate to leave his father’s study. He feels his hands begin to shake and he shoves them into his pockets, not wanting to allow anyone a glimpse of the turmoil raging inside.
It's only when he's in the comfort of his room that he allows his facade to crumble. Leaning heavily against the door, he slowly sinks to the floor. His hounds are immediately rushing to his side, noses brushing softly against his arms.
"I made a terrible mistake," he tells them quietly and a low whine comes from one of them in protest. Then, with a strong determination, he says, "but I'm going to fix it."
"I swear it," he promises, rising to his feet, his hounds following after him as he makes his way further into his room.
You're not going to marry Sawyer and you're not going to be the one to pay the consequences of your father's actions, should he betray them. No. Eris will make sure of that. He's running out of time but he's going to find a way to get you out of this mess. He knows he can.
Eris realizes then he'd do anything to keep you safe, even if it means losing everything. Because if there's one thing he can't lose, it's you.
a/n: and here comes the angst train. I hope you enjoyed Eris and reader talking about her favorite book as much as I enjoyed writing it ♡
tagging: @fabulouslyflamboyant5 @fxckmiup @stormhearty @skyesayshi @sfhsgrad-blog @crazylokonugget @evergreenlark @secretlyhers @mybestfriendmademe @ib525, @96jnie, @kennedy-brooke, @scooobies, @sillysillygoose444, @lilah-asteria, @glitterypirateduck @thatsassyhufflepuff @acourtofbatboydreams, @mal-adaptive-dreams
#eris x reader#eris x you#eris x y/n#eris vanserra x reader#eris vanserra x you#eris vanserra x y/n#eris angst#eris vanserra angst#acotar x reader#acotar fanfiction#acotar angst#acotar x you#acotar x y/n#eris angel au#eris vanserra imagine#eris vanserra fanfic#eris acotar#Eris vanserra
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realities, maximalism,and the need for big book™️
some gubat banwa design thoughts vomit: since the beginning of its development i've kind of been enraptured with trying to really go for "fiction-first" storytelling because PbtA games really are peak roleplaying for me, but as i wrote and realized that a lot of "fiction first" doesn't work without a proper sort of fictional foundation that everyone agrees on. this is good: this is why there are grounding principles, genre pillars, and other such things in many PbtA games--to guide that.
broken worlds is one of my favs bc of sheer vibes
Gubat Banwa didn't have much in that sense: sure, I use wuxia and xianxia as kind of guideposts, but they're not foundational, they're not pillars of the kind of fiction Gubat Banwa wants to raise up. there wasn't a lot in the sense of genre emulation or in the sense of grounding principles because so much of Gubat Banwa is built on stuff most TTRPG players haven't heard about. hell, it's stuff squirreled away in still being researched academic and anthropological circles, and thanks to the violence of colonialism, even fellow filipinos and seasians don't know about them
this is what brought me back to my ancient hyperfixations, the worlds of Exalted, Glorantha, Artesia, Fading Suns... all of them have these huge tomes of books that existed to put down this vast sprawling fantasy world, right? on top of that are the D&D campaign settings, the Dark Suns and the Eberrons. they were preoccupied in putting down setting, giving ways for people to interact with the world, and making the world alive as much as possible.
one of my main problems with gubat banwa was trying to convey this world that i've seen, glimpsed, dreamed of. this martial fantasy world of rajas and lakans, sailendras and tuns, satariyas and senapatis and panglimas and laksamanas and pandai... its a world that didn't really exist yet, and most references are steeped in either nationalism or lack of resources (slowly changing, now)
i didn't want to fall back into the whole gazeteer tourist kind of shit when it came to writing GB, but it necessitated that the primary guidelines of Gubat Banwa were set down. my approach to it was trying to instill every aspect of the text, from the systems to the fluff text to the way i wrote to the way things were phrased, with the essence of this world i'm trying to put forward. while i wrote GB mainly for me and fellow SEAsian people, economically my main market were those in the first world countries that could afford to buy the book. grokking the book was always going to be severely difficult for someone that didn't have similar cultures, or are uninterested in the complexities of human culture. thus why GB had to be a big book.
in contemporary indie ttrpg spaces (where I mostly float in, though i must admit i pay more attention to SEAsia spaces than the usual US spaces) the common opinion is that big books like Exalted 3e are old hat, or are somewhat inferior to games that can cram their text into short books. i used to be part of that camp--in capitalism, i never have enough time, after all. however, the books that do go big, that have no choice to go big, like Lancer RPG, Runequest, Mage, Exalted are usually the ones that have something really big it needs to tell you, and they might be able to perform the same amount of text-efficient bursting at the seams flavor writing but its still not enough.
thats what happened to GB, which I wanted to be, essentially, a PbtA+4e kind of experience, mechanically speaking. i very soon abandoned those titles when i delved deeper into research, incorporated actual 15th century divination tools in the mechanics, injected everything with Martial Arts flavor as we found our niche
all of this preamble to say that no matter how light i wanted to go with the game, i couldnt go too light or else people won't get it, or i might end up writing 1000 page long tome books explaining every detail of the setting so people get it right. this is why i went heavy on the vibes: its a ttrpg after all. its never gonna be finished.
i couldnt go too light because Gubat Banwa inherently exists on a different reality. think: to many 3 meals a day is the norm and the reality. you have to eat 3 meals a day to function properly. but this might just be a cultural norm of the majority culture, eventually co opted by capitalism to make it so that it can keep selling you things that are "breakfast food" or "dinner food" and whatnot. so its reality to some, while its not reality to others. of course, a lot of this reality-talk pertains mostly to social--there is often a singular shared physical reality we can usually experience*
Gubat Banwa has a different fabric of reality. it inherently has a different flow of things. water doesn't go down because of gravity, but because of the gods that make it move, for example. bad things happen to you because you weren't pious or you didn't do your rituals enough and now your whole community has to suffer. atoms aren't a thing in gb, thermodynamics isn't a real thing. the Laws of Gubat Banwa aren't these physical empirical things but these karmic consequent things
much of the fiction-first movement has a sort of "follow your common sense" mood to it. common sense (something also debatable among philosophers but i dont want to get into that) is mostly however tied to our physical and social realities. but GB is a fantasy world that inherently doesn't center those realities, it centers realities found in myth epics and folk tales and the margins of colonized "civilization", where lightnings can be summoned by oils and you will always get lost in the woods because you don't belong there.
so Gubat Banwa does almost triple duty: it must establish the world, it must establish the intended fiction that arises from that world, and then it must grant ways to enforce that fiction to retain immersion--these three are important to GB's game design because I believe that that game--if it is to not be a settler tourist bonanza--must force the player to contend with it and play with it within its own terms and its own rules. for SEAsians, there's not a lot of friction: we lived these terms and rules forever. don't whistle at night on a thursday, don't eat meat on Good Friday, clap your hands thrice after lighting an incense stick, don't make loud noise in the forests. we're born into that [social] reality
this is why fantasy is so important to me, it allows us to imagine a different reality. the reality (most of us) know right now (i say most of us because the reality in the provinces, the mountains, they're kinda different) is inherently informed by capitalist structures. many people that are angry at capitalist structures cannot fathom a world outside capitalist structures, there are even some leftists and communists that approach leftism and revolution through capitalism, which is inherently destructive (its what leads to reactionaries and liberalism after all). fantasy requires that you imagine something outside of right now. in essence read Ursula K Le Guin
i tweeted out recently that you could pretty easily play 15-16th century Luzon or Visayas with an OSR mechanic setting and William Henry Scott's BARANGAY: SIXTEENTH CENTURY PHILIPPINE CULTURE AND SOCIETY, and I think that's purely because barebones OSR mechanics stuff fits well with the raiding and adventuring that many did in 15-16th century Luzon/Visayas, but a lot of the mechanics wont be comign from OSR, but from Barangay, where you learn about the complicated marriage customs, the debt mechanics, the social classes and stratum...
so thats why GB needs to be a (relatively) big book, and why I can contend that some books need to be big as well--even if their mechanics are relatively easy and dont need more than that, the book, the game, might be trying to relay something even more, might be trying to convey something even more than that. artesia, for example, has its advancements inherently tied to its Tarot Cards, enforcing that the Arcana guides your destiny. runquest has its runes magic, mythras (which is kinda generic) has pretty specific kinds of magic systems that immediately inform the setting. this is why everything is informed by something (this is a common Buddhist principle, dependent arising). even the most generic D&D OSR game will have the trappings of the culture and norms of the one that wrote and worked on it. its written from their reality which might not necessarily be the one others experience. that's what lived experience is, after all
*live in the provinces for a while and you'll doubt this too!
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Lost
Vampire!Azriel x Human!Reader
Summary: Azriel's worried he's drunk you dry.
Warnings: Angst
Word Count: 1,022
Notes: Woohoo, look at that. Finished it already. Directly follows Might Bite Back
_________________________________________
Azriel goes the only place he can think of.
He’s long since forgotten the feeling of cold. Of the wind spilling chills down his frail, human skin. Of the sting in his nose, the bite in his chest with every inhale of the crisp, winter air. Of the prickles of blood returning to frozen fingertips after spending too long in the snow.
But the night has always been his safe place, since even before he was turned. The familiarity of the moon looking over him would normally ease the knots in his stomach, the urge to flee in his veins.
If he could feel right now, it’d be the rolling of his stomach with sickness. It’d be embarrassment, a white-hot lance of regret burning through his blood for the things he’s swore he’d never do to you, lying unconscious on his settee before the fire, your pulse slow and your breathing shallow, tow punctures in your neck.
It doesn’t take long to get where he’s going. It’s a path he’s taken many times, through the winding trees of the forest his home resides in. Deep in the thicket of the Night Court forest between the Steppes and Velaris, bordering the Prison. It’s up in the mountains where he belongs, the very same ones that house other wild beasts just like him; the ones who should never be let out of their cages.
He lost his cool tonight. Went too long without feeding because you hold his interest all too well. It’s been like that since day one, even though he keeps himself scarce for your safety.
Fucking fat lot it’s done tonight.
Azriel can still taste you in his mouth. Not your sweet little cunt, but your blood. He swipes his tongue over his lips, chasing the delectable flavor.
His marred hands shake, because with just one drop of you, he knows he’s addicted to you.
It settles in his bones just like it had when he had the realization that he’d become the very thing he swore he’d never become. Azriel has known that you are the very thing he’s been destined to find, and he’s been very strict on himself, keeping away from you, giving you nothing but the cold, empty shell he’s been for hundreds of centuries. He’s been addicted since you wandered into his senses, the thunder of your blood calling to him like a beacon, the unmoving heart in his chest rattling with a recognition only he seemed to feel.
Azriel’s not even had close to his fill. The nagahound he drained on the way hasn’t done anything to satiate his hunger, not like your blood had. He can’t stop thinking about it, about the warmth, its heady taste, it’s fruity scent. He’d felt like a man again, despite the irony of the situation.
He emerges from the trees, landing in the backyard of the towering home of his High Lord. Azriel stumbles on weak knees like an Illyrian babe just learning how to fly. Once he rights his footing, he sprints for the doors.
The warmth of the faelights spilling across the cobblestones are a welcoming view. They always are, especially when he feels like he’s spent years too long hiding away in his secluded home, away from the hustle and bustle of the City of Starlight. All of his other clan members reside here, but their company has never interested him. Not when they’ve all become respectable parts of the city of night.
Rhysand meets him at the door, the High Lord’s hearing keener than most. He already knows there’s something wrong by Azriel’s stature. The dilation of his pupils, eyes mostly black instead of the familiar and less-than-friendly hazel. The clear flush to his skin after a feeding, the pale glow of his skin golden with the obvious signs of ingesting human blood instead of animal blood and there’s a scent clinging to him that is utterly human.
“Azriel—”
“You have to help her.”
Rhysand startles at the rawness of Ariel’s request. His frantic gaze searches his High Lord’s, hands that he always hides reaching up to grasp onto Rhysand’s to drag him over the threshold. They hit the invisible barrier keeping him from moving into the house to shake his High Lord into action, having not have been invited into the house. Azriel bares his fangs, mind still a spinning loss of thoughts about you and your well-being.
“Help who?” Rhysand asks. He doesn’t bother inviting his friend inside. He stalks out into the night, joining his brother.
Azriel’s plea is broken. “Please.”
Rhysand has only seen Azriel like this one time. The night he was turned into the creature he is now. Pain fills his voice, tightening his throat, dark brows knitted together in a distressed manner. There are often instances where Rhysand wishes that his stoic friend would show some semblance of emotion, but this gut-wrenching one is not the one he wishes to see.
“Okay,” he consoles, using the way Azriel is clinging to him help with their trip back. His shadowsinger’s fingers are digging deeply into his skin, through his finely pressed jacket and nearly breaking his skin. There’s a pinch of pain when his blunt nail does break skin, but Rhysand refrains from saying anything. He will heal, and fast. The human Azriel is leading him to will not. “I will help you, Azriel.”
On a whisp of nighttime, the pair appear on Azriel’s porch.
Azriel growls at the magical powers that keep them from entering homes that they do not own.
“Get inside,” he spits, more to the house than his High Lord, leading the way through the door as quickly as he can. “She’s in the sitting room, before the hearth. She needs help,” he directs, leading the way to where he’s left you.
In Azriel’s haste to get inside, he’s failed to realize one very important thing. It’s the one thing Rhysand catches, halting in his tracks, trying to calm the hellhound that is his shadowsinger when he spins on his heel and snaps his fangs at him.
“Azriel, there is no one here.”
#acotar#azsazz#azriel#acomaf#azriel x reader#azriel/reader#acowar#vampire!az#vampire au#vampire!azriel
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I want the human/cybertronian life difference to be talked about more in canon
Cuz I mean. it’s RIGHT THERE.
Just a smidgen of true acknowledgment I BEG YOU HASBRO‼️
i mean come on all it takes is someone mentioning how long the wars been going for one of the humans to go “4 MILLION YEARS???? WHAT THE FUCK HOW OLD ARE YOU???”
And optimus or ratchet to be like “…5/7 million?” And all of the humans to have a break down CUZ WHAT DO YOU MEAN YOUVE BEEN ALIVE SINCE BEFORE THE HUMAN SPECIES EXISTED??? WE WERE MONKEYS WHEN YOU WERE BORN???
And the (woefully uniformed) cybertronians to be like “??? What do YOU mean your species was still evolving when I onlined, how long do you guys live?? A thousand?? A few hundred??”
And the gobsmacked humans to be like “??? NO WE HARDLY LIVE OVER A HUNDRED ITS CONSIDERED AN ACCOMPLISHMENT?? AVERAGE OLD AGE DEATH IS LIKE MID 80s!! TECHNICALLY THE AVERAGE LIFE SPAN IS 72 OR SOMETHING???”
Cue the autobots being like “😨 72??? THATS A CHILD WHAT ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT⁉️”
the more attached/emotional bots looking at their charges and realizing that not only are they sparklings compared to them but they’ll die as sparklings too in just a few decades, causing them to straight up have a mini meltdown.
Yeah they’re in a war and they’ve lost plenty of friends, but never to anything as predictable and inescapable as old age.
It’s the seeing-it-coming part that gets to them, the slow dread of knowing that even if they do everything right and keep them out of danger and they stay healthy there’s nothing they can do to stop them from withering away in a couple of decades.
Most versions of bumblebee looking at their charge/friend and realizing his assumptions about the fact that since they’re both still young that they’ll have plenty of time to just. Live together and have fun- are wrong?? Immediately tears. Even if cybertronians can’t cry tears he’s doing whatever the equivalent is and running away to cry in his room. And then running back to snatch them and take them with him cuz HE CANT WASTE A SECOND IF THEIR LIFESPANS ARE REALLY THAT SHORT HES GONNA JUST HAVE TO SPEND 24/7 WITH THEM
This whole concept ESPECIALLY applies to TFP since all of them got their own little human buddy and there’s only like 5 autobots to begin with (of the main season 1 crew) they’ve lost so many of their own so recently, their numbers are already dwindling down to nothing, they’re losing the war and the kids are what’s given them a major morale boost. To continue fighting they need hope, and the kids have kind of become their hope for the future- to know they’ll die off in under a century despite how young they still are is a shot to the spark.
Look me in the eye and tell me bee wouldnt panic hearing that Raf only has 70-80 years to live. LOOK ME IN THE EYE AND TELL ME HE WOULDNT HAVE SOME KIND OF FIT OVER BEING TOLD THAT HIS LITTLE BUDDY (from a cybertronian perspective) HAS A LIFESPAN EQUIVALENT TO A LATE STAGE TERMINAL ILLNESS DIAGNOSIS. Bee would start treating Raf like a kid with stage 4 cancer 😭
I just KNOW bulkhead would have the worst reaction other than bee, maybe even worse cuz he looks at miko and realizes she’s used up basically a fifth of her entire lifespan already and she’s Still So Little and straight up starts weeping. That’s his DAUGHTER you can’t take her from him so soon it’s not FAIR! He might have to go destroy a canyon wall or something to let some of the anger and grief out
Arcee is Not taking it well either.
She JUST got attached to this one, just got used to a new partner and your telling her that no matter what she does he’s never going to last as long as tailgate of cliff jumper did?? Even if both he and she do everything they’re supposed to do to protect him and extended his life?? Depression time baby
Optimus and ratchet don’t react as much outwardly to the news as the others but inside they’re both 💔💥
These kids have brought optimus a level of contentment he hasn’t felt in vorns, and he sees how bright their spirits shine- Only to now know those precious spirits will burn out in less than a century- it gnaws at him inside, yet another strike from the cruelty of fate
Ratchet is devastated but refuses to acknowledge it, these kids- yes even miko- have become his pseudo grandkids and he’s not ready, nor will he ever be ready, to outlive them. Jacks reminds him too much of a younger optimus, still learning and still hopeful. Miko is… well she has a fire to her that ratchet can appreciate (when she’s not actively annoying him) she’s determined enough to make anything happen which he does begrudgingly respect even if he wishes she wouldn’t just throw herself into any and every situation just for fun.
And Raf…
Raf is his apprentice, the only one of the kids to understand him and listen intently to his stories of cybertron. To show appreciation for his work and his ideas, to Listen and Learn and Improve his inventions. He harbors the most fondness for Raf since he sees so much potential in him, and has taken him under his wing in teaching him cybertronian language and biology.
He feels almost like he’s training a student to take his place- only for the ground to be ripped out from under him to know that Raf will never have the chance to succeed him, will never even outlive him.
A parent should never have to bury their child, and ratchet already feels that he has.
-
TLDR the autobots find out humans have fruit fly lifespans next to them and become one big soggy mess of tears, optimus and ratchet included although they try to have a stiff upper lip about it (and fail to varying extents)
I swear this was supposed to be about any and all continuities but TFP took over completely😭 idk it just fits the best since they focus so much on how attached the bots get to the kids
Edit: btw this was inspired from the fact I found out that the cybertronian equivalent to a year (yes I know technically they have solar cycles which are roughly a human year but what they consider a year vs their lifespan/time perception is different) is a vorn. A vorn is 80 HUMAN YEARS. I saw that and went “oh wow a vorn is like a whole human lifespan!😃” and then I went “OH A VORN IS A WHOLE HUMAN LIFESPAN 😀“
#transformers#tfp#transformers prime#Fr tho i feel like ratchet would have an initial outward reaction of shock and mild horror#perhaps some anger(already going through the stages of grief💀)#and then he shuts them out cuz he can’t handle it 💔#tries to pretend it doesn’t bother him#OH MY GOD HES IN SO MUCH PAIN#optimus doesn’t shut them out but he is a lot more quiet#always has his version of sad puppy eyes when he watches them#like this 🥺 but way way toned down#basically just the eyebrows and small frown#considering he only does micro expressions that’s the best ur gonna get from him#optimus#ratchet#arcee#bumblebee#bulkhead#optimus prime#maccadam
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♡ Sweet dreams ♡
❥ TAGS: gn!reader, hurt/comfort, fluff.
I'm a little late, but happy birtday, Xiao, my beloved.
The clear sky, unencumbered by a single cloud, a blossoming tree spreading it’s wide branches in all directions, the gentle warmth of the sun's rays tickling his skin playfully. A beautiful scenery, previously unknown to Xiao. The blood stained soil, a devastated battlefield, chains of despair curling around his limbs and restraining them — this was what he was used to, not this gentle idyll.
But more important than anything else is the fact that you're here.
He always feared that if your image suddenly appeared in his dreams, he would plunge into the very depths of his ugly mind, disfigured by thousands of years of torment. That he would have to fight himself, protecting a fragile figure that had nothing to do with the vile spawn of the adeptus’ inner demons. What if he had failed to shelter you from this hidden danger? Was his title as your guard valid in that case? How weak would he be if he couldn't even keep you safe from his own subconscious? One thing he knew for sure: If that had happened, he could have been considered to have succumbed to darkness from that moment on.
But it didn't happen.
No, it’s exactly the opposite. With your appearance, it was as if you had healed the bleeding wounds of his mind, and with a gentle touch you had quelled the insatiable karma. With every step you took, flowers bloomed on the ground instead of the scars of the past, and the frozen earth came alive again, giving birth to something beautiful.
He no longer hears voices. He hears only the quiet rustling of the grass beneath your heels, coming closer with each step. It was truly astonishing, How the peaceful silence suddenly puts an end to the calm and gives rise to a newfound anxiety, the source of which is unknown. A new sound beats in Xiao's ears, different from anything he has heard before. Yaksha listens intently to the unknown with his eyes closed, trying to determine its direction - only to realize that it's his heart coming alive because of your growing proximity to him.
There you are, right here, less than a meter away from him. So many thoughts run through the Adeptus’ head at once, almost overwhelming in their intensity, but that ends when you reach out and gently take Xiao's face in your hands. So firmly, but at the same time so tenderly, that peace falls over your lover’s mind. His shallow breath falters from second to second, and he doesn't even notice himself snuggling into the oh so cherished by him palms, squinting his eyes contentedly. So warm and serene... When was the last time he felt like this in a dream? His love-stricken consciousness sighs for you so much that Yaksha can't realize tears coming to his eyes, threatening to roll down his cheeks in thin streams that will never end if so happens.
But that's why you're here. For him. The sight of your lover is pitiful, but also admirable — how strong does he have to be to hold back such untold amounts of pain and grief for centuries? Outlining the delicate skin of Xiao's cheek with a kind stroke, you admire his cathartic state that was yearning to come out for so many years. Your thumb reaches for the corner of your lover's eye as if of its own volition, picking up a heavy tear and brushing it away at the same moment.
He stares at you with a sudden realization, not taking his eyes off you for a moment. Golden irises glisten and shimmer, moistened by such a sudden but welcomed flood of tears. The glow of the wet glare of his eyes gives him a far more emotional appearance.
In that moment, it seemed as if your hearts united. That they beat as one - in unison.
Sighing lovingly, you press your lover's face against your chest, hugging the back of his head. At the same moment, Xiao's breath stops: like a frightened cat, with his eyes wide open, he presses himself against his beloved's heart, not daring to move a millimeter. At this moment, adeptus seems amusingly adorable because of the contrast with his already established image. But really? He was really nothing more than a lost soul, flitting from place to place, hoping to find his ultimate destination. A bewildered creature who had suffered much and put on a thick protective shell. You knew that — knew it better than anyone else, and you knew how to handle it.
A slight smile had been on your face all this time. That's how your lover really is, a lost little chick who's heart is so fragile. You could play an entire symphony on the strings of his soul, and he wouldn't even be able to resist you — but you won't. You're here to save and heal Xiao.
That's why you touch his hair, stroking it and playing with the short, curly strands. A gesture of comfort, full of genuine concern. He accepts it, and accepts it willingly; he clutches tightly to your chest and sighs with relief. The moment was impossibly tender in its sweetness - not even the most exquisite almond tofu could stand next to it. It seemed like it couldn't get any better, and trying to interrupt the perfect moment of union with each other would be a sin — but you had a talent for making everything better. Cautiously, you lifted his chin with your index finger, causing your eyes to meet again. Smiling casually, you lean closer and closer, shortening the distance between your faces…
“Xiao, what's next?! You've been beating around the bush for how long now, constantly stammering!”
...No. He couldn't just recount that moment of the dream to you like that.
“Don't look at me like that!” Xiao exclaimed with his eyes wide open, pressing his hands to his cheeks in an attempt to hide the acute embarrassment he felt. “It's... Personal.”
“How can it be more personal when we're already a couple?”
After taking a deep breath, you roll your eyes, sighing defiantly. No, he certainly looks really cute right now, but you need to know what was next!
“Hmm. Since you won't tell me about that part of the dream, why don't I reconstruct the course of events in reality and see how it ends?”
A sly smile lights up your face, while Xiao is at a loss for words and stammering incoherently, trying to squeeze out some sort of answer.
Of course, you couldn't waste any time at such a perfect moment. You'd shortened the distance between you two in just a few quick steps, and you were already holding Xiao’s face in your hands, recalling in your head his warm descriptions of his dream today. His anticipatory look of excitement couldn't help but awaken in you the very same tenderness he must have been looking for in you the most every time.
“So that's how you see me....”
The Yaksha's confused eyes softened, and his troubled breathing normalized. Swallowing tensely, he only nods eagerly a couple of times, forfeiting the need to be blunt and straightforward with his answer.
Closing your eyes, just as in his dream, you cradle his head against your chest — stroking, caressing the scalp and dark green hair. A perfectly reproduced moment that makes the hearts of both of you belt out an excited tune.
Not without its nuances, though, ‘cause the real you was far more multifaceted than your dream version.
“Xiao," you whispered his name playfully, "I'll be sure to recreate every moment like in your sweet dream... But I'll have to improvise on the part you were too shy to describe.”
♡ ── ✦ ──『♡』── ✦ ── ♡
Please note that english isn't my native language and can be awkward at times.
Please don't translate or repost my works without asking for my permission first!
#genshin impact x reader#genshin x reader#genshin x you#genshin x y/n#xiao x reader#xiao x you#xiao x y/n#genshin impact x you#genshin impact drabbles#genshin xiao#genshin impact#genshin drabbles
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Brother’s Best Friend (Azriel x Reader)
summary: you are cassian’s sister and have a thing for azriel
wc: 1K
a/n: this is my first fic ive written for tumblr since like 2014 i think so sorry if its absolute garage. this is also not proof read at all and honestly i wrote this while tipsy bc ive been nervous to write again so i’m just saying fuck it i’m sorry :)
warnings: slight smut/suggestiveness
You always looked up to Cassian since you were little.
Like most big brothers, he has always been protective as fuck, especially with growing up in the windhaven camp and becoming solely responsible for you after your mother died.
He shielded you from so much in your childhood because he wanted the best for you.
Like many little sisters, you thought Cassian and his friends were the coolest males alive and wanted to follow them everywhere.
You basically had three big brothers instead of one.
They would try to include you as much as possible, but sometimes they did certain things that you definitely should not be around and would find some excuse to get rid of you.
But at the end of the day, the three of them would stand up to just about anyone for you to protect you. And they did.
They only let you join the snowball fight once and then kicked you out because it wasn’t fair that you only targeted Cassian the entire time and that Azriel felt bad throwing snowballs at you.
Also you were a child and couldn’t throw far enough to hit any of them, but they still say you suck at snowball throwing to this day.
When you got older, you desperately tried to ignore the rumors you heard about the boys around the camp. No one needs to hear about their brother’s sex life.
When the four of you moved to Velaris and after everything with Rhysand’s family, they were all very protective over you.
Over time, you and Azriel grew closer. His close friendship with Cassian led to you becoming closer with him than Rhys.
He is soooo protective of you.
So much so that no one bats an eye when he scares off any male that tries to court you, claiming they are not worth your time.
“I’m not overprotective, I just don’t think that any of these males meet your standards.” Aka his standards for you
Having a shadow or two follow you around became the norm.
You and Azriel start to spend a lot of one on one time together, platonically at first. You two are definitely the comfortable silence type.
Reading your separate books on the couch together was a common occurrence.
You spent years trying to ignore the shift in how you viewed Azriel.
Neither of you are quite sure when you realized the change in your relationship, but one day you became very aware of how attractive you find him.
The shy and quiet boy quickly became the silent and mysterious male.
And Azriel isn’t quite sure when you went from being Cassian’s kinda annoying younger sister to a vivacious female with curves he can’t keep his eyes off of.
The emotional connection had been there for centuries through friendship, but once it became physical attraction, you both knew you were screwed.
One night after drinking at Rita’s, Cassian asked Azriel to make sure you got home safe.
The alcohol inhibits both of your judgements and you both end up in your bed that night.
“You don’t know how long I have wanted to do this. No other male even deserves the chance to try to make you feel as good as I do.”
He was your first (again because he scared away every single male who tried to come near you) and it was fucking adorable
Waking up next to your brother’s best friend is a different level of anxiety.
You freak out and tell him this absolutely cannot happen again. You make an effort to avoid being alone with him.
But obviously Azriel is not content with just one night after getting a taste of you.
He spends the next several weeks slowly breaking down your walls with sneaky touches and whispering dirty things in your ear when no one is watching.
Eventually you cave and end up at his door one night, pissed at him for succeeding, but also practically begging him to fuck you again.
And again. And again.
It took no time at all for the actual feelings to be revealed between you two and to start secretly dating.
And from there it’s months of sneaking around and pretending to be just friends in front of others.
Az feels sooo guilty about lying to his friend but you don’t want to tell Cassian because you know he will freak out.
He asks you so many times to tell Cassian because he hates lying to him.
And Rhys is so suspicious of you two but doesn’t want to interfere.
Eventually Cassian catches you two.
He enters Azriel’s room without knocking one night to ask some stupid question and finds Azriel with his face between your legs. We all know Az loves eating you out so obviously.
Cassian is pissed.
As in, he tries to fight Azriel.
But Azriel just lets him and doesn’t fight back because he knows he fucked up by not saying anything sooner.
You start screaming and put yourself between the two of them to get Cassian to stop, which makes Azriel immediately move to cover you in case Cassian doesn’t react quick enough to stop.
Cassian sees how protective Azriel is of you and how you were willing to throw yourself in front of Azriel to defend him and realizes this isn’t just some casual thing between you two.
It takes a couple days for him to forgive Azriel for lying. He forgives you within one day because you always have been able to use your puppy dog eyes on him to get what you want.
Eventually Cassian accepts your relationship.
But he threatens Azriel that if he ever hurts you, he will do something so severe that Az wouldn’t tell you what he said.
Cassian still makes an overdramatic scene of gagging every time you and Azriel are affectionate in front of him.
Which only makes you do it more to piss him off because that’s what sisters do.
#acotar#acotar fanfic#a court of thorns and roses#azriel#azriel x reader#azriel x female!reader#acotar fic#azriel acotar#bat boys#my writing
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Vidas Pasadas (Past Lives)
PART ONE: THE SHOW MUST GO ON
Mini-Series Masterlist
Also on AO3
Pairing: Cooper Howard/The Ghoul x Latina!Reader (Spanish speaking)
WC: 2.5k words
Series Summary: Before the great war, you were an actress—A good friend and frequent co-star of Cooper Howard. After two hundred years in cryogenic stasis, you’re being sent to New Vegas as a performer, but on the way there, things don’t go quite as planned.
Warnings: MINORS DNI, series is 18+, canon typical violence, some angst, friends to lovers-ish?, some miscommunications, eventual smut, chem use, there’ll be some Spanish in there for sure (with translations), cursing, the ghoul being the ghoul, aaaaand that’s all I can think of for now but lmk if anything else!
A/N: This is INCREDIBLY self indulgent, but imagine yourself in these shoes for a moment why don’t you? :) hope you enjoy! pt.1 dedicada ao meu amor @the-devils-littlegirl <33
——————-
The holotape was a little over two hundred years old, but it was in relatively good condition. It contained a talk show interview with two actors who were promoting a Western film. The image was in black and white, fuzzy with time, and the voices sounded tinny.
“So tell me, both of you, what’s it been like working on so many pictures together?” The interviewer, Holden Boyd, asked. “This must be — what, the fourth one?”
“That’s right. You know, Holden, in all my years in this industry, I have never met anyone more professional,” Cooper Howard, the handsome hero of the film, turned to you, sitting beside him. “But she also knows how to keep things balanced between work and play. We laugh a lot behind the scenes, actually.”
“Really?” Holden asked, leaning forward with renewed interest. “Well, that doesn’t surprise me, you two have some incredible chemistry on screen.”
“Well, gee, Coop, do we really?” You couldn’t help but grin at him, making him chuckle. “Maybe that’s why we keep getting cast together.”
“And how’s his Spanish? Are you teaching him any?” Holden asked you.
“I’ve certainly tried,” you said, raising an eyebrow in amusement. “Say something, why don’t you?”
Cooper’s smile turned sheepish, shaking his head. “Errr… No muy bueno, pero intento.”
His thick southern accent made you and Holden laugh, invariably charmed. In the background, claps and cheers from the live audience, equally smitten. Cooper always knew how to win people over, it was like second nature to him.
“He’s a natural!” Holden exclaimed. “Say the line Coop, you know the one.”
Cooper cleared his throat, squared his shoulders and pretended to point a gun, his expression fully serious.“Feo, Fuerte, y Formal.”
An eruption of cheers, louder than before. You clapped in delight, smiling ear to ear as you bumped your shoulder against his playfully.
“Ah, I see you’ve found our tapes,” the mechanical voice of vault thirty-one’s overseer startled you.
You looked down at… it, still not used to interacting with a motorized brain suspended in some sort of tank. Bud, you thought it said its name was. Vaguely familiar, but your memories were still hazy, having been in cryogenic stasis for so long.
“Why do you have these?” You asked.
“Everything pertaining to Hollywood was preserved for archival purposes. Feel free to watch anything you like,” Bud said. “We have all of your films, as well as interviews, press clippings, and pictures.”
You looked back at the screen, crossing your arms over your chest and trying not to shudder. You had me, too. You thought, stomach turning. A shiny toy shelved away for later use.
You’d gotten a spot in vault thirty one in exchange for compliance — after all, the future would need entertainers, right? And the nostalgia factor would just sell so well. You would be totally set for whatever came… or so they’d said.
It hadn’t seemed like a terrible deal at the time, but you hadn’t truly realized how tremendous the losses would be. Or how much things could veer off course in two centuries.
Cooper was gone, and so was everyone else you had ever cared for. Bud hadn’t said what happened to your former co-star, but it didn't need to.
You had entered the vault all by yourself, with no family or spouse to consider. And just a few days ago, you had been greeted by that same loneliness when you’d emerged from the pod.
Some things never changed, it seemed. Perhaps New Vegas wouldn’t be a terrible distraction, all things considered.
“Feels like it was only yesterday…” you said, keeping the melancholy out of your voice.
“Doesn’t it? That’s the best part of the stasis pods. Keeps one fresh,” Bud said, chipper. “How’s your head feeling, by the way?”
“Better,” you sighed. “Barely any pain left.”
“Oh, good. You should be ready to travel to New Vegas in a couple more days. I’ve been in touch with a trusted courier that should be able to escort you there safely.”
A tinge of fear in your chest. “How… bad is it out there?”
“Well, er, it’s… not great. But we’ll get there! I’ve heard New Vegas has a lot more going for it than these parts,” Bud said quickly, not wanting to linger on the negative. “Vault twenty one, where you’ll be staying, was turned into a hotel. Lots of people passing by. I’m sure it’ll be easy for you to attract the crowds.”
Stepping towards the projector, you ejected the holotape, unable to watch any more. The memories would consume you far too easily, if you let them. That life had crumbled to dust long ago, and there was nothing you could do to change that, either.
What other choice did you have but to trudge forward?
“For both our sakes, Bud, I really hope that’s true.”
————————————-
As with most things, Bud had severely understated just how bad things were on the surface. The sight of it had instantly struck you— Nothing was left but ruins and desert plains stretching as far as the eye could see. No one but you and the courier — a weathered, gruff looking middle-aged man — around for miles.
You’d left your vault suit behind in exchange for the clothes you’d worn when you first went in. You were also given a small survival pack, a tranquilizer gun, and a pip boy, but that was the extent of your belongings.
The courier handed you a hat and an old scarf to cover yourself from the sun and the sand, instructing you to keep close before whirling around and starting to walk.
Did he even say what his name was? You couldn’t recall, but you were too busy being in shock to care too much.
It was all so unceremonious, unlike what you’d been used to in the past. No cars or any other mode of transportation, no roads to smoothly cruise on. No kind words offered for your departure, except for Bud’s overly enthusiastic Good luck! before opening the vault’s enormous door.
“Say, how long do you think the… trip is going to take?” You asked, trying to keep your fear at bay.
“Around three weeks, give or take. That is, if the weather holds and we keep a good pace during the day,” the courier said. “Can’t be out at night around these parts.”
You swallowed hard, wondering what sorts of dangers lurked out there. You had some stunt training, but no actual fighting skills. Hopefully, the tranq gun would be enough, but you also suspected your companion had far deadlier weapons.
Better to stay on his good side, you thought.
“First stop’s at a town called Filly. Got some quick business to take care of there, so we’ll be spending the night,” the courier continued when you didn’t respond. “Keep your head down and let me do the talking. Don’t want anybody to recognize you.”
You nodded, letting out a long sigh.
“Hopefully they’ve got showers there,” you said, imagining how calming the hot stream of water might be.
The courier looked at you over his shoulder, incredulous, and barked out a laugh. Your face heated up at his ridicule, mumbling something about vault dwellers to himself with a shake of his head.
You walked in silence for the next couple of hours, trying to guess what area you might be passing through. Briefly, you wondered if the ruins of your old house still stood somewhere, and if you’d be able to find them.
But you reminded yourself not to dwell on what no longer existed.
Soon enough, you started to see signs of humanity. A few stragglers here and there, but the courier steered you in different directions whenever he spotted larger groups. Raiders, he’d told you, a grim look on his face.
You hurried your step, wanting to put as much distance between you and them as possible. Bud had given you a very basic rundown of what you might encounter on the surface, but while some of it was hard to believe without seeing it firsthand, raiders did not fall under that category.
Still, despite the danger, at least you were reassured that you weren’t the only people left around.
Filly was a ramshackle town made up of scraps; A small testament of humanity’s endurance. Vendors were hawking questionable food and other wares at the outskirts of it, the tight pack of more bodies making you nervous.
Your senses were invaded by smells and noises and even the occasional passerby bumping into you. Life was still brimming, as chaotic as it may seem. Somehow, it made you feel the smallest flicker of hope.
The courier led you through the crowd and down a rickety stairway towards a small square, where there was a little more room to move. The sun was beginning to set, bright tendrils of orange and gold tinting the sky.
For a brief moment, you stopped to look at it, moved almost to tears by the simple beauty of a sunset. At least, that hadn’t changed either, and you vowed to never take them for granted again.
“This way,” the courier said, urging you to move.
Unbeknownst to you, someone had taken notice of the two of you. More specifically, the courier. A hit had been placed on him, worth three hundred caps. There was no reason given for it, but he hadn’t thought to ask questions, anyway. He didn’t much like meddling unnecessarily.
He surreptitiously followed behind, keeping his distance so you wouldn’t notice him. He already stuck out like a sore thumb, what with being a ghoul and all. But, like any bounty hunter worth his salt, he still knew how to lay low.
The courier led you into a repurposed building that rented out closet sized rooms. You paid with a few of the caps Bud had put in your survival pack, relieved that you wouldn’t have to share a room.
The courier was curt but prudent, in his own way. You were just a task to him, and you knew he would protect you as best as he could because of it. You had nothing against him so far, but you didn’t want to take your chances regardless.
“Stay in your room, I’m gonna head out for a bit. I’ll bring back some food,” he said, turning to leave.
“Wait!” You hurried behind him, out into the open, where it was growing darker. “Wouldn’t it be better to, uh, stick together?”
“It’s private business,” he grunted, annoyed. “Besides, you’ll be safer in there.”
“But—”
“Hey, you,” you heard from behind you, followed by a commanding whistle. “Sabinez, is it?”
The courier looked up, his eyes immediately widening. “Oh, fuck.”
You followed his gaze, finding a… cowboy. His face was mostly obscured underneath the brim of his hat, but his lack of a nose was still strikingly apparent. Radiation burns marred what little skin you could see, the rest covered in old, tattered leathers.
A ghoul, from what Bud had described. The see-it-to-believe-it kind of danger. Your stomach dropped.
He was pointing his revolver at the courier – Sabinez – finger about to squeeze the trigger.
“No, please!” You exclaimed, panicked.
Foolishly, without even thinking about it, you stepped in front of him, arms extended in an attempt to further shield him. The ghoul raised his hairless eyebrows, both amused and surprised.
“I need him,” you said, heart beating so fast you feared it might leap out of your chest. “Please.”
“How sweet,” the ghoul said mockingly, one hand on his chest. “But as it turns out, sweetheart, I need him, too.”
Before you could react, he raised the barrel of the revolver infinitesimally and fired. A dizzying moment in which the bullet whizzed by your head, and Sabinez’s body slumped behind you, his blood spraying at your back.
Any onlookers that had stuck around scattered to safety, not wanting to be next in line for whatever the ghoul had planned. You let out a choked sound, too shocked to even scream. Shuddering, you slowly looked over your shoulder, only to avert your gaze quickly.
“No,” you murmured, horrified. “No, no, no…Fuck!”
It was just your luck, encountering death the very first day you finally returned to the surface. You wondered if you should fall to your knees and beg for mercy, but your body refused to move.
The ghoul’s spurs clinked as he stepped towards you, and you raised your hands in surrender, keeping your eyes down.
“You the cargo?” He asked, tilting his head to one side in curiosity. “Let’s get a better look at’cha.”
You whimpered as he grasped one of your arms, his other hand tugging down the scarf that covered half your face. He seemed to hesitate for a moment, eyes roaming over your features.
“Look at me,” he ordered, voice low.
Swallowing hard, you finally dared to look up at him. Tears clung to your lashes, a stray one running down your cheek. He looked more skeletal up close, his eyes sunken in, cheekbones prominent, and of course there was the cavern where his nose would be.
He removed your hat next, letting go of you and taking a step back. There was something in his expression you couldn’t quite decipher, but you felt a creeping sense of deja vu the longer you looked at him.
“You…” he said, something like recognition in his voice, as well as disbelief.
“I–Please, I don’t know w-what he did to you but I don’t–” You started to babble, but he interrupted.
“Where were y’all heading off to?”
“U-um, New Vegas, uh, sir?” You tried to smile placatingly, but it was watery and would slip away at any moment.
Not only was it strange for him to see you alive and in the flesh, but you were also fearing him. He remembered your earnest smiles, genuinely pleased to see him. Then again, you hadn’t yet recognized who he was.
He wasn’t entirely sure he wanted you to know, but he also didn’t really want to let you go on your own way. Plus, he’d just killed your only guide, so it was only fair that he took on the job and saw it through.
That way, he could try to find out more about all that had happened, without giving himself away.
“New Vegas, huh,” he mused, letting out a low whistle. “That’s a long ways away, especially if you don’t know where you’re goin’...But it’s your lucky night, sweetheart, ‘cus I just so happen to know the way.”
“R-really? I could pay you if you’d h-help me!” you said quickly, rummaging through your pack to show him some caps. “I’m not sure how much would be enough but… I’ll be making more once I start working.”
“Don’t get your panties in a twist now, we can do some negotiating later,” he drawled, lips curling in a smirk as he looked up at the building behind you. “Hope you don’t mind us bunking together.”
Your entire face heated up. “Uh, you can take his room. It’s already paid for.”
“Well, what a generous fella he was,” he said, tossing your stuff back at you. “Jus’ don’t come runnin’ when you get nightmares. I ain’t much of a cuddler.”
----
#cooper howard x reader#the ghoul x reader#cooper howard fanfiction#the ghoul fanfiction#the ghoul x you#cooper howard x you#fallout fanfiction#fallout smut#cooper howard#the ghoul
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𝐮𝐩𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐦𝐨𝐨𝐧 𝐜𝐫𝐮𝐬𝐡 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐜𝐚𝐧𝐨𝐧𝐬
ft: kokushibo Tsugikuni, douma hashibira, akaza soyama, demon!reader
I’ll probably make a pt 2 for the rest of the demons + the clones ! Banner by @mmadeinheavenn
# kokushibo ! ☆
KOKUSHIBO takes time to learn he adores you, he starts off with simple admiration. He attempts to convince himself he's just inspired by your talents, your strengths and your skills. He'll even attempt to train or spar with you as his body hopes to get close it you but his mind tries to deny it.
Surprisingly, Kokushibo can be the most self aware about his feelings, once he finally brushes off the denial stage he actually understand how he feels about you. He's been in love during his years as a human, he thinks he knows how to go about this.
Kokushibo is a very traditional man, his skills and knowledge of love are centuries old but he will still go about it the same way he does as a human. He'll watch from afar seeming to get to know you in silence before going after you face to face. He starts off as some sort of admirer of some sort, gifting you roses in secret seems to be his favorite tactic.
Once he's able to approach you face to face, he'll put up an act per say. Trying to get you to like his presence claiming Muzan wants him to train you, in reality he just wants to be close to you. Take in your presence until he finds the comfort into charming and courting you into adoring him as well.
# douma ! ☆
Poor people who are apart cult, because DOUMA is insufferable when he falls in love. While you can’t directly blame the demon as he never experienced such emotions. Even so, he annoys one to many people around him.
Douma ask one too many questions once he finally begins to feel something. His questions are oddly specific and he spits so many out like rapid fire. Some people may not even understand what he's trying to explain, as his descriptions are so abnormal. Don't be mad, he just has so many questions! He needs to know how he feels! He needs to know how he feels for you!!
"Is it normal to feel like the phrase where a certain insect is in your stomach?" or "What do i do when my cheeks rise above the 32 degrees Fahrenheit and become a shade of pink" once he saw a couple in his cult kiss and had bugged them with so many questions.. "what did you both just do with each other? Why do I yearn to do that with name as well?
he clings onto much more then he would originally. He complain once you have to go do missions and will try to accompany you no matter what. the only time you will get some peace is if muzan calls upon one of you. Even then he'll whine having to depart from each other even if its only for a couple of minutes. He's attached to you by the hip, at one point you're going to be annoyed by his antics. if the people in his cult are right about what he feels about you. Maybe being close to you will make you adore him?
# akaza ! ☆
At first AKAZA finds you as a nuisance. His mind tries to push you out of it but he can't help how you invade his thoughts and he can't get his mind off of you! It's not his fault your so intoxicating!
At first, he distances himself from you as he believes your the main problem. he's supposed to be focused on become the strongest and training himself to achieve his goal. he shouldn't be focused on the thought of being by your side and the chance to hold your hand! It's only then when he comes to his senses to realize he's fallen in love with you.
Once he realizes that distancing himself from you isn't the right way to go, he'll approach you.. slowly. It only starts from his commenting on your blood demon art, them commenting on your fighting skills. He even asks for inspiration or for guidance which is something he never say a word about around any other demon. It takes him a while to open up to you and actually begin to fluently have a conversation with you. Once he does get there, you've sure earned a place in his heart.
Douma bugs him about this, he never hears the end about it once the uppermoon knows. He'll pester Akaza about anything about you knowing it gets under his skin, he'll even go as far as to bother you about it. This only lands Douma a missing jaw and an embarrassed Akaza
#@.komoboko writes#kimetsu no yaiba#kny#kny x reader#demon slayer#demon slayer x reader#upper moons#kokushibo#kokushibo x reader#douma#douma x reader#akaza#akaza x reader#x reader#fluff#kny fanfic#kny fluff#headcanon#hcs
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with every passing day, being middle eastern is realizing more and more just how many people do not view you as a person whose right to life and happiness should also be protected.
im so glad to see the support for palestine in these past few weeks like never before, but i hope it isnt the case again of a short period of loud noise from the world then silence just because they get tired. ive seen that all too many times as an iranian american, and its frustrating since we cannot so easily move on from these atrocities the way others can; we are trapped.
i truly hope the world continues to put on more and more pressure until palestine is free. do not grow tired; do not grow silent. everyone should know and remember exactly what palestinians have endured and are continuing to endure for almost a century. everyone should know and remember well what has not been stopped by the inhumans who walk among us. it is the bare minimum.
#it makes me so sick#but we have always known this in my household; every middle eastern has watched this go on for far too long#the rest of the world is waking up but how sickening it is to see those who remain blinded by their hate and prejudice#our governments fail us; our civilization has gone rotten#palestine
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every now and then I play with the exercise of "what if we're wrong" because sometimes I get bored and also as an actual exercise. I usually apply this to Christianity/religion, matters of the after life, or about other people.
So sometimes I poke at the big question, if Christianity isn't real, what does that mean? And I don't usually go the route of atheism or bad sci fi, just that the religion is proven to be fundamentally inaccurate to reality, so what does that mean?
Anyway it wasn't until I was reading a really good sci fi story, where this one dude explains to some aliens the concept of "Love your enemies, do good to those that hurt you" and of course the aliens are like what? (Because in the sci fi narrative the universe is functioning under a Dark Forest Theory) And the dude explains its from one of earth's greatest teachers. And the aliens are like, if the inhabitants of the universe could believe that, this universe would be a different place entirely.
And it was at that point where I realized bro... even if it's not accurate, practicing Christianity is still worth it, for a human being. Loving your enemies means loving them like humans. The Poor, the Meek, and those who mourn, those are promises and comforts that we shouldn't toss aside even if heaven isn't real.
I don't know, this is just a terribly simplistic because I'm not the best at putting my English thoughts into english out loud, but that crack gave me a touch of useful coping. I asked my dad, if aliens are proven to exist it doesn't automatically mean christians stop practicing and believing, right? And he said obviously not.
I don't know but have you ever engaged in such a question " what if we're wrong?" And if you ever have what answer had you arrived at?
EDIT: As @atwas-meme-ing correctly pointed out in the comments section of this post, who cares whether or not I’ve played this game: God answered the question through Paul in his letter to the Corinthians: “If in Christ we have hope in this life only, we are of all people most to be pitied.” 1 Corinthians 5:19.
There’s no “good moral teaching” to be found in Christianity if Christ wasn’t God, or if God didn’t exist, or if eternity weren’t real. My rambling logic is below the cut.
I mean, I play that “game” all the time about other things, and sometimes I do it for work. I’ll take two established characters and a setting me and my friends have agreed on, and I’ll “run a scenario.”
But the thing is, once my brain picks out something that doesn’t make sense, or that wouldn’t be in-character for the characters to do, the whole scenario grinds to a halt and I have to start over. I can’t suspend my own disbelief once I notice that something doesn’t line up. Even if I really liked “where the scene was going” before I noticed that thing. Whatever I’m getting stuck on because of it’s out-of-character nature unravels the parts I like, too.
All that to say I can’t even run a scenario in my head where “what if all this isn’t true? What if it fundamentally doesn’t line up with reality?”
I can’t. Once or twice I have tried. But I hit snags immediately. I’ll go, “pretend all of this Christian religion really is just a centuries-old conspiracy humanity’s been patching up the holes in.”
But then that little simulation-checker in my brain goes, “then how do you explain people dying for it? That many martyrs aren’t likely to have allowed themselves to be tortured and murdered for something they knew was a conspiracy.”
And I go, “well, pretend they died because they didn’t know it was a conspiracy, they believed it.”
And the sim-checker goes, “but the original disciples of Jesus, ground-zero of the faith, were all martyred. Not just people who learned from them and came after them and could’ve been hoodwinked: the starting points, themselves. They would’ve had to know it was a conspiracy, if it was a conspiracy, and they still willingly died for it.”
Maybe I’ll pivot and go, “pretend there isn’t objective truth.”
And the sim-checker goes, “there isn’t truth…objectively?”
Maybe I’ll pivot again and try, “pretend that everyone really does just measure morality based on what they’re used to, what their individual society’s trained them to associate with pleasant feelings and reactions.”
And the sim-checker goes, “Okay, where did those societies get the training manual? Where did it come from? Why do so many different societies’ and people groups’ ‘association with pleasant feelings and reactions’ around the world have so many things in common?”
And the answers to all that leads me back to Christianity. Even if I go the longest way round I can think of.
And eventually I quit running those scenarios. Because guess what?
Where’d the ability to run scenarios come from?
How did I get that? How did you?
See, the thing is, we go, “what if all of this isn’t true?” But it’s right there in the question. “Where did you get that desire? The desire for “truth?”” Is it to keep yourself safe, like the natural animals have an instinct toward, or is it to keep yourself sane, because you need some sense in this life to make it through? Sure. Maybe. But why? What’s “sane?” What’s “safe?” Sanity presupposes order. Why do you, and all humans, naturally lean toward wanting things to be “the way they’re supposed to be?” Where’d that come from, that idea of “supposed to be?” And Safety presupposes good being found in avoiding pain and damage and fear. “Good?” Where’d you get that idea?”
The further you dig, even into your own psyche, the less you can run any scenario that has God absent entirely. And no wonder. He designed it.
One more thing.
“I am trying here to prevent anyone saying the really foolish thing that people often say about Him: I’m ready to accept Jesus as a great moral teacher, but I don’t accept his claim to be God. That is the one thing we must not say. A man who was merely a man and said the sort of things Jesus said would not be a great moral teacher. He would either be a lunatic — on the level with the man who says he is a poached egg — or else he would be the Devil of Hell. You must make your choice. Either this man was, and is, the Son of God, or else a madman or something worse. You can shut him up for a fool, you can spit at him and kill him as a demon or you can fall at his feet and call him Lord and God, but let us not come with any patronizing nonsense about his being a great human teacher. He has not left that open to us. He did not intend to.” - C.S. Lewis
I used to lean into the idea you’re saying here. “Even if it’s not true, I’m going to live like it is and believe it just in case. Besides, it makes me better, and makes the world better.” That’s not belief at all. That’s ends-justify-the-means thinking. The teachings that Jesus gave which “make the world a better place” are utterly worthless if they’re coming out of the mouth of a liar. Because why should anyone believe Him? Why should anyone “turn the other cheek,” or “do unto others?” Because it makes us “better?” Who gets to define “better?”
The answer, of course, is Jesus does. The One who taught those sayings. But only if He’s God. Only if He was telling the truth. If He wasn’t God, what right has He, to tell us to give away our possessions to others and let them abuse us and give our lives up? If He was a liar, all of those “good teachings” would be tainted and untrustworthy. Besides, like I just said, they’re all only able to be called “good” teachings if you accept that there is one objective, universal “good.” And we’re right back to “where did Good come from?”
All roads lead back there, to Him. But we humans like to do this thing with God where we pretend there could be any reality outside of Him. It sort of makes sense, how we got that way. After all, when was the last time you noticed oxygen? How often during the day do you consciously inhale and exhale? As often as it happens automatically? How often during the day do you notice oxygen touching your skin or moving your hair or drying your eyeballs? As often as those things happen automatically? No. But it’s ever-present. Without it, you couldn’t live, let alone notice anything. But oxygen has always been around and everything in our lives interacts with or can only exist WITH it.
God is much more than that, but that’s as close as I can get to communicating: He’s so good, and He’s so constantly there, everything, all the time, that it’s easy for us to take Him for granted, forget Him entirely, then use our two-pound brain matter to say, “He might not exist.” You might as well say, “imagine a world with no matter.” 🙄 “Ohhhh kay. Then it wouldn’t be a world.”
#This was fun to talk about though#because even when you’re trying to pick apart truth for “fun” you just get…a closer look at how true truth is.#analysis#christianity#apologetics#theology#faith#Jesus Christ#Bible#c.s. Lewis
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❄︎ Not Over you ❄︎ teaser
↳ Pairing: Minhox Reader
❧ Genre : demon Minho / dad Minho (kind of) / exes to lovers / fluff / smut / slight angst
❧ Warnings: will be added later
❧ Summary: Minho had it all. He was strong, powerful and beautiful. An immortal that people either loved or feared. Except you. You, a simple human. You who he loved so dearly. And yet, You who had left him heartbroken.
❧ To be posted mid-January
❧ A/N: Hello guys! While I'll still be posting every Friday Memories of us, I couldn't resist to post another story I've been working on for a while.
❧ Taglist: if you want to be added just send an ask or comment ♥
It's out! ► ♦
➺➺
Minho thought that after being alive for nearly five thousand years, nothing in this world (or another) could surprise him anymore.
Wrong. Terribly wrong.
The moment he opened his door and found you shivering and looking terribly worn out, he knew the world had come to its end. Because why would you, his ex-girlfriend, the love of his life, be standing at his doorsteps after almost three years of absence?
He stared at you, unmoving, face blank, mind empty. It had to be a trick. Or maybe he had finally lost his mind from being so old. It had to be his imagination, his restless mind playing a very dirty trick. Minho closed his eyes, took a deep breath and when he opened his eyes once more, you were still here. No. It wasn’t a trick and it wasn’t just his imagination.
“What-“ He started and stopped. What was he supposed to say? The urge to slam the door right to your face was so tempting. It was what he was supposed to do. He offered you his heart on a plate, he offered you the world and you trampled on it and left without looking back. And yet, he couldn’t do it. Not when you looked like a ghost, a shadow of yourself. Whatever had happened to you, left a mark on you and despite his anger, his resentment, he couldn’t ignore the tug at his heart. He worried.
“I’m sorry.” You finally found your voice. Being in his presence overwhelmed you in so many ways. Being finally face to face with him hurt more than you had expected. You knew, going to Minho was a risk; for your heart that despite your choice never fully recovered, but also for your life. You knew, deep inside you, that no matter how angry, how petty Minho could get, he would never hurt you but you couldn’t control your fears.
Minho opened his mouth, a snarky comment right on the tip of his tongue but all of it vanished the moment his eyes finally fell on what you were holding in your arms. Too stunned with your presence, the dark green blanket pressed tightly against your chest went completely unnoticed. Until now. As he stared at it, he quickly realized that it wasn’t the blanket you were clenching so tightly against you, as if you were scared someone would try to steal it from you. No, it wasn’t just a blanket. Warmth and pure innocence radiated from within the blanket.
Minho took a step back. Surprise, fear and hurt flashed all at once in his eyes. And yet, one question remained. Why were you at his doorstep with a baby?
“I-“ You hesitated as your eyes went back and forth between your little baby and him. “I didn’t know where else to go.” It was the lamest excuse you could come up with but it was also the truth. Of course, there was a whole story behind your presence and you knew, inevitably, you would have to share it with him.
“You got to be kidding me.” Minho growled, frustrated with your explanation. “You come back three years later and with a baby on top of that.” To say that Minho was not amused would be the understatement of the century. He drew nearer, stopping inches from you.
And then it hit him. The scent. The scent, he hated so badly. His eyes widened in shock as he looked at the tiny hand that appeared from under the blanket and grabbed a lock of your hair. “Why is there an angel in your arms, Y/N?”
As he sniffed and tasted more of the baby’s scent, the answer formed inside his head but his heart, already aching just because of your presence, refused it.
You averted your eyes from Minho’s face and looked instead at your baby, your little girl and the reason you found your way back to Minho. You couldn’t help but smile fondly at her and press a kiss on her forehead. “Hana is my daughter.”
“No.” Minho refused and put space between the two of you. Maybe he wanted to distance himself from you just so your own scent could stop messing with his mind, or maybe he was hurt because of what this little human-being meant. “There is no way you got pregnant with a fucking angel.”
You winced at his unspoken words. You could perfectly understand his anger, after all, didn’t you leave him because you refused to deal with what he was? When Minho confessed to you about being a demon, he shared his most prized secret; he did it because he trusted you, loved you. But you got scared. You weren’t a strong believer to begin with but when faced with the truth, you had no other choice and it terrified you. You doubted everything and even his love. Demons weren’t supposed to be nice. They weren’t supposed to be able to love and cherish. And definitely not a human.
“I didn’t know.” You whispered, your voice shaky.
#stray kids#lee know#stray kids smut#lee know smut#stray kids x reader#lee know x reader#stray kids fic#stray kids fluff#not over you
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Rewatching Treasure Planet (great movie, watch it) made realize something about the way that stories convey information to their audiences. There's been a lot of discussion on the overuse of plot twists and how many stories prioritise surprising their audience over telling decent stories. However, if you instead reveal the "twist" to the audience before it becomes known to the characters, you can build tension and stakes.
Treasure Planet comes right out and tells you that Long John Silver is the main villain almost immediately after his introduction (And even before he's introduced we're warned about a cyborg, so you'd have to be pretty dense to not put 2 and 2 together and realize he's a bad guy). So when the audience watches him and Jim bond and grow closer, it builds tension for when Jim finds out and it highlights the tragedy of their friendship, because we all know it's not going to end well. Then, after the truth is revealed, stakes are created because we want the friendship between Jim and Silver to be repaired, because we know it was real, but we don't know if can be after what Silver's done. And all of this would have been lost if Silver's true nature had been a cheap plot twist. The tragedy would be completely overshadowed by the surprise and betrayal, and any investment in their relationship would have been built on the false impression that Silver was a good guy.
Another good example of this is Titanic. Even if you were somehow ignorant of the ship's sinking, the film makes sure you know that it sank with its framing device of Old Rose telling her story to people salvaging the Titanic's wreak. And Titanic's plot structure could only possibly work if you know the ship is going to sink. I'm not just talking about building tension, tragedy, and stakes for the characters like with the above example, I mean that if you didn't know that the Titanic was going down walking into the film, the abrupt shift from romance to suspense-disaster would be an increadibly tough pill to swallow. But it works because we expect it. You don't walk into a film called Titanic without expecting the damn boat to sink.
However, the sad thing about both of these examples, is that despite all the benefits that came from telling the audience these things ahead of time, I think the main reason the creators didn't make them plot twists was because they couldn't have. Treasure Island is the single most influential piece of pirate media out there, and you'd have to have been living under a rock for over a century to not know the Titanic sank. So, the writers had to work around the fact that these important turning points in the narratives were common knowledge, and they wound creating incredible stories as a consequence.
I want to see more of this style of writing in stories where the writers aren't forced to do it. We've clearly seen that you can tell some really damn good stories by giving information to the audience before the characters learn it, and I just wish more works would do that instead of trying to surprise people with shocking twists.
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