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#it was easier with 09 knowing they were both dead

gyu-effect · 5 months

Note

i was thinking what if the s/o of one of the members ( you choose who :D ) was sat next tk their group during the MAMA awards and how both groups would try get you too to sit next to each other and interact, knowing the relationship isnt public yet :)

PAIRING || Jihoon x Female Reader

GENRES || Fluff, Idol!Jihoon, Idol!Reader

WARNINGS || mentions of killing (as a joke)

WORD COUNT || 1.0k

A/N || hi anon! i hope you like this timestamp. it was really fun to write and the first person that came to my mind when i saw your request was jihoon and totally not because im going through a ruby brainrot. but yeah it was fun writing about down bad jihoon on the verge of strangling seventeen. requests are open !!!

TAGLIST || @romeosbreastmilk @y00nzin0 @cecedrake2217 @candidupped @ashkuuuu @hanicore @alyssng @weebotakuboy @angelfeverdream @aaniag @sea-moon-star @thepoopdokyeomtouched @amethyistheart @mnstxmnbb [if you want to be added to my taglist, fill in this form!]

[23:09]

did jihoon like, no love, sitting next to you? yes, absolutely. especially when you were looking so drop dead gorgeous in your outfit, making it hard for him to concentrate on what was going on stage and to not steal glances at you continuously.

but did he like the fact that his members and your members had on purpose saved the two of you seats right next to each other when they had learnt that the two groups would be sitting next to each other? of course not.

on any other day he would have been thrilled to be able to sit next you, to hold your hands as he tried not to laugh at some lame joke you had made.

but now, during an award show, especially mama, he was not at all happy about it. especially when he had to pretend like he was not at all affected by you. he thought he was a master in controlling his emotions but turns out that all his placidness could easily be crumbled by you.

“hi.” you whispered a bit awkwardly, smiling at him in an apologetic manner, clearly embarrassed by your own members too.

oh, pearls looked great on your hair. maybe he should gift you a pearl hairband the next time-

“hi.” he said, remembering that he had to greet you back. he could already feel his cheeks heating up from the way you were looking at him, and he immediately turned his attention back on to the stage, not wanting to embroil the two of you in a scandal.

“you look really handsome, by the way.”

shit.

glaring once at junhui (who was sitting right next to him) for snickering in the rather obvious way, he reached out for the water bottle. taking in a sip, he prayed for his heart rate to slow down, hammering away in his chest because of your compliment.

jihoon dearly wished it was him who had complimented you first because it was you who looked so, so beautiful and elegant and pretty. had it been the usual dinner dates the two of you always managed to squeeze in between your tight schedule, he was sure he would have been staring at you the whole time and probably be putting in empty spoons into his mouth.

in fact, had you been sitting anywhere else, it would have been easier for him to steal glances at you (he thinks).

but right now he was just so flustered by the situation that he could not even think straight. not only was he controlling the urge to strangle his members who had for some reason (now it was very obvious to jihoon as to what the reason was) had run to catch seats before he did but he also was dying to not blurt out right in front of the cameras about how pretty you are. (though he was pretty sure that by now if anyone were to pan the camera in his way, anyone with a pair of eyes could see the awkwardness between the two of you).

“um, you too.” he muttered, exhaling hard. to his surprise, he heard you giggle, causing him to look at you in surprise.

“sorry, it’s just that…you’re really cute when you’re flustered, you know.” you smiled at him, and for a second, he nearly forgot that he was out in public and that he had to control his emotions.

“oh my god, i don’t think i’ve seen jihoon this lovesick before.” soonyoung said, snapping him back to the present.

“guys, i’m going to kill you.”

“you threaten to kill us everyday.” mingyu complained, earning another giggle from you. did your giggles always sound this cute?

“i do not.”

“yeah, he does not!” you argued back, with a fake glare. jihoon always loved how his members and you got along so well but right now, he felt like his heart was going to burst with love for you. “jihoon is an absolute sweetheart!”

“um, babe, i would really appreciate it if you didn’t compliment me so much right now…since we are in public.” he muttered, looking down in an attempt to cool down his heated cheeks.

“oh my- oh my. is jihoon blushing?” seungkwan asked and by now, jihoon had abandoned all his plans on killing his members and instead resorted to hoping the ground would just swallow him up as a whole.

“ooh, now even the camera is on the two of you!” one of your members, joohyun, snickered.

“you wish.” you said. “it’s on all of us. watch the headlines talk about how close we are with seventeen.”

“is that so?” jeonghan asked and to jihoon’s horror, he could see the cogs in his brain literally moving. “then everyone shut up so that only jihoon and y/n are on camera, okay? but just keep egging them on to get them to interact.”

“respect our privacy please.” jihoon glared, but all he got was his beloved members laughing. grumbling, he turned his attention back to the stage, hoping they would soon get tired of it.

they did stop with the teasing after some time, but the effect of their previous teasing was still lasting. jihoon could still feel his cheeks blazing from before, his heart going at a hundred kilometres per hour.

and as when he went to receive an award and saw you cheer louder than anyone in the crowd, he felt a sudden surge of love for you. because he was dating you. you, who was a goddess in his eyes. you, who loved him so, so much. him and you, who the members supported so much and he was always grateful to them. you, whom he loved and treasured so much but sans few, no one else knew.

and as he walked back to his seat and was greeted by your beaming, proud face, jihoon suddenly had a thought. maybe, maybe it was a good thing your relationship wasn’t public yet.

because there was certainly a thrill knowing what was the real reason for tomorrow's headlines of his group and your group being close.

#╼ 𝐅𝐈𝐂𝐒 #╼ [𝟐𝟑:𝟎𝟗]#╼ 𝐀𝐒𝐊𝐒 #caratlibrary #woozi x reader #jihoon x reader #lee jihoon x reader #seventeen x reader #seventeen fluff #lee jihoon fluff #woozi fluff #jihoon fluff

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sleepingdeath-light · 7 months

Text

innocent s/o hcs ; grelle

requested by ; anonymous (04/09/23)

fandom(s) ; black butler

fandom masterlist(s) ; hub | specific

character(s) ; grelle sutcliff

outline ; “i dont remember if i already requested this but may I request sfw and nsfw hcs (or scenario) of grell with an innocent s/o (preferably fem) pls? have a nice day/night :]”

warning(s) ; none, just fluff!

now let’s make one thing clear before anything else: grelle sutcliffe is absolutely crazy about you and loves every little thing about you from your ‘flaws’ to your strengths — including your innocence, even if it can leave her a bit frustrated at times when the exact motivations behind her dramatics goes a bit over your head and you just don’t get what she’s practically begging for (granted, in a very roundabout way)

she’s basically always hanging off of you or touching you in some way (hand holding, holding your arm, hugging you from behind, cuddling into your side, resting her head on your shoulder, fake fainting into your arms, kissing you anywhere and everywhere etc.) — and once you’ve established that you’re comfortable with it, not all of her touches are innocent in intention and a great many are intentionally very flirty and suggestive with a goal of getting you to reciprocate her gestures in kind

so having you not understand her intentions or miss them so distinctly that you’re just smiling and earnestly complimenting her is both heartwarming and frustrating to her — yes she’d much rather you were all over her like she is you, but she also loves you for your innocent streak so she can’t even bring herself to complain much (not beyond an overly dramatic sigh before she corrects her actions to become much more blatant so you have that ‘oh? oh.’ moment and give her what she wants)

she’s fiercely protective over you, even more so than she would be otherwise, because of your innocence and she’s been known to threaten or ‘dispatch’ anyone who might pose the slightest threat to your well-being and/or your innocence — including a very emotional confrontation with her once dear ‘bassy’ when he tried to flirt with you, and the murders of a few dozen humans for trying to harm you

she finds a great deal of solace in your relationship and in you — you are her island, her reprieve, where she can be herself without experiencing that same darkness of judgement and cruelty and sin that took her life the first time around (your innocence makes you kinder than most, easier to love than most, and if she wasn’t already dead then she knows that she’d die for you if it meant keeping you safe — and that thought, that level of attachment, no longer scares her like it used to)

the pet names she uses with you are also changed by your nature and how different you are to her because of it — of course she still calls you ‘darling’, but she’s also been known to use pet names like ‘angel’ and ‘sweetheart’ and ‘my heart’ when she’s feeling especially dramatic

#sleepingdeath #gender neutral reader #fluff #fluff hcs #black butler fluff #black butler x reader #kuroshitsuji fluff #kuroshitsuji x reader #grell sutcliff x reader #grelle sutcliff fluff #grelle sutcliff x reader #grell sutcliff fluff

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sie-rui · 3 years

Note

Absolutely love you work the one had me crying but I didn’t cry enough may I request Mitsuya angst where the s/o get caught up in a fight and dies or like dies in his arms sorry for my English bad

❀ PLEASE DON’T GO | TOKYO REVENGERS 🤍 mitsuya takashi 💿 gender neutral, second pov (you/your), angst, hurt no comfort, mentioned canonical character death, tw: character death, tw: murder, established relationship, au - canon divergence, timeline: shit future (21), imagine 📅 july 09, 2021 🔗 masterlist ,, similar: hold on for me

mitsuya takashi realizes the pain of losing someone you love, who you considered your soulmate, who you thought you'd spend the rest of your life with.

Mitsuya remembered.

When they were fifteen, he had attended a funeral. It was Emma’s. He remembered seeing Draken up front, back straight but a sense of melancholy hanging all around him. His face was blank but his eyes were dark, a sea of waves that carried his tears.

Draken didn’t say anything but other than Mikey and the older Sano, Mitsuya knew that he was the one hurting the most. The girl he loved was right in front of him, only cold, only dead.

Mitsuya realized.

It didn’t matter if you were fifteen or if you were twenty-one. Lost does not get easier. It doesn't get easier with time. Nor does it get easier when you’re older. Because the fact that you lost someone, someone you loved with all your heart, doesn’t ever change.

Despite knowing that this was the path Toman chose, that this was the path that led them to the underworld, Mitsuya never imagined losing someone while he walks this road. He never thought about being in the same pain Draken was in, not even the pain Mikey nor Chifuyu carries on their shoulders.

Mitsuya stands there, feeling his heart drop to his chest as he kneels down to catch you.

Instead of anger bubbling inside him as the perpetrator runs away, gun in their hands, fear only stirs deep in his stomach as he catches you.

It had happened too fast, almost faster than he could blink. One moment you were standing right beside him, talking with a small smile as the two of you passed by an alleyway on your way home after a Toman meeting; on the other, a gunshot rang out and Mitsuya was reaching out as you tip forward.

Blood starts to bloom on the front of your shirt, painting it a sick color of red as your eyes are wide in shock and pain. Your mouth is slightly agape, trying to take in breaths but your pupils are dilated.

Mitsuya fumbles for his phone as the other hand pushes on the wound, your head on his lap. It had barely missed your heart but the shot was lethal and you could die of blood loss and go into shock.

“Y/n? Y/n? Hey, can you hear me love?” He mumbles, almost hysterical as the phone keeps on ringing. Why wasn’t Draken picking up? “Please Y/n, just- just keep your eyes open okay?”

He can’t call an ambulance, he can’t call the police. After treating you, the two of you would get arrested for being members of Toman. It would save your life but only for a while. You were most likely to get the death penalty with him, Toman is known for its cruelty after all.

Mitsuya picks another number. He doesn’t know who he’s calling this time but he knows that it’s one of the captains, hopefully, someone near them. Blood is on his hands and it’s warm and it’s leaving your body, leaving you on the brink of falling asleep forever.

He puts it on speaker, putting the phone down on the concrete and pressing both hands on the wound instead. “Y/n, hey… You’re alright- you’re alright.”

Mitsuya tries to smile. All he knows is that it’s teary and it’s fake.

You were staring at him, lips quivering and eyes blinking slowly, trying to see, trying to focus. “You’re doing good. Just keep on taking deep breaths for me, okay?” Please don’t go.

Nahoya is the one who picks up. “Yo, Mitsuya. Need anything-”

“I sent the location. Y/n’s bleeding out.”

“Got it.”

Short and firm, Nahoya hangs up. Mitsuya trusts that he’ll be here with backup and their assigned medic. Hopefully not too late.

“Hey, you know that it’s my birthday in two weeks right?” He holds you closer, counting the seconds that passed by, counting the seconds left before you completely bleed out.

Your eyelids were heavier now, gaze a little more unfocused from all the blood lost. Breaths a little shorter than before. “You said that you had a surprise for me,” he laughs but it was joyless, only filled with so much desperation. “You better give your best in surprising me.”

He blinks and his tear lands on your cheek. Only then does he notice the small smile on your lips. Don’t smile at me.

It’s as if you’re trying to form words with your gaze.

Don’t look at me as if it’s the last.

Lips quirked up just a little more as if telling him that it was going to be alright.

Please don’t go.

A few more tears leave his eyes and land on your face. “I’m so sorry, Y/n.”

I don’t want to attend another funeral.

If only he didn't fall in love with you. If only he didn't force you to walk to this future with him.

I don’t want to lose another person.

Time ticks a little faster.

I don’t want to lose you.

When a car skids to a stop right beside them, Nahoya and Souya stumble out with a few more vehicles behind. One of the trained paramedics approached Mitsuya but he dares not let you go.

A second too late. They were a second too late.

You had closed your eyes and it wasn’t long before you had stopped breathing right before him and Mitsuya can only hold you.

#tokyo revengers #tokyo revengers x reader #tokyo revengers x y/n #tokyo revengers scenarios #tokyo revengers imagines #tokyo revengers mitsuya #mitsuya #mitsuya takashi #takashi mitsuya #mitsuya takashi x reader #mitsuya x reader #mitsuya imagine

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quirklessidiot · 4 years

Text

Title: voicemail [one-shot] Pairing: gn!reader x kuroo tetsuro (age up characters) Genre: angst with a fluffy ending

Synopsis: You say good morning, when it's midnight Going out of my head, alone in this bed I wake up to your sunset and it's driving me mad I miss you so bad. [this request kuroo + angst + ldr]

Warnings: some bad language but other than that none Notes: heavily inspired by simple plan’s jet lag ngh, hope you enjoy it anon. i def had fun writing this. Kuroo was my first love in haikyuu HAHHSHSS T-T

masterlist

“Hey this is kuroo tetsurou, i’m currently busy right now, just leave a message after the beep.”

“Hey it’s me…” you paused, “How are you? I haven’t heard from you in a while. Uh- Kenma visited me yesterday, he told me that you secured a new deal. I-I just wanted to congratulate you...and-well, i miss you. Call me when you’re not busy, alright? I-I love you.”

The apartment turns silent after you end the call, your head throbbing at the thought of your third unanswered voicemail. Were you being overbearing? Would he find you annoying? You shut your eyes tight, all this overthinking at this time of the day.

Maybe it would’ve been better to just pass the message on to Kenma.

You let out a loud groan as you dropped yourself on the bed.

Man, when people told you that long distance relationships would be hard, you laughed it off, saying that you and tetsu wouldn’t feel that way. You were both open and too much in love, trivial things like time zones and miles away wouldn’t break you two apart.

Yet right now, you weren’t so confident to say that out loud. It was easier at first, following a scheduled facetime at least twice a week at most and a short call when you both had time everyday. As months pass though, the little schedule you promised to keep up was dwindling.

When he called, you were busy or you were dead tired from work. When you called, he was either asleep too or busy scouting some people on volleyball leagues. The face times would just turn to very short conversations or a curt message.

Now this happened, its been a week since you haven’t heard from him and it was Kenma who had told you about his little victory at work.

What happened to weekly updates?

Were you just overthinking?

You furrowed your brows together as you turned to the abandoned cellular phone next to you, maybe this was nothing. Maybe he was just tired or maybe he was worried he’d disturb your sleeping time (he feels awfully bad when he does that), maybe he just told Kenma to tell you since he wasn’t good at figuring out the timezone things (after all, Kenma barely slept so he’d definitely be a good messenger)

Yeah, maybe that was the case.

Things returned to normal after that one week of no replies and it bothered you even more, why couldn’t he apologize? Did he not see the voicemails you sent? Did he not notice the nervousness in your tone when you sent that last message?

You feel your stomach clench as if you’re on a high up roller coaster about to go down.

God, why were you even overthinking? You sound like one of those girls that Kuroo and you would make fun of back then in high school.

A small ding resonates in the quiet apartment and you see a text from the man himself,

From: Tetsu Time: 09:00 pm Can’t facetime tonight :( Work has me by the neck.

To: Tetsu Time: 09:01 It’s fine :D Take care of yourself and just text me when you’re done. I love you.

You shut your phone off and ran your hands through your dry hair, moments later, you realize he doesn’t reply and the feeling of uneasiness does not waver.

It just worsens.

“Y/N, you alright there?” Kenma asks, it’s sunny today and you manage to drag Kenma out of his not-so little hideout. The man needed some sun, he was getting extra pale these days but these days, it seemed like it was actually you that needed this break.

You immediately snapped out of your thoughts when you hear the low voice of your friend, “Yeah,” You laugh, scratching your neck, “Just peachy.”

Kenma Kozume was many things, observant is one of them. It was easy to notice how distressed you looked yet he didn’t know exactly why. Was it work? Did you and Kuroo fought? Weird, his friend hadn’t said anything and he seemed pretty happy when he called to check up on him this morning at three am.

“Is something going on at work, Y/N?”

“Yeah,” you try to mask your overthinking by something else, knowing Kenma he’d voice out your worries to Kuroo and right now that was the least thing you wanted, “Something at work.”

“Don’t overthink about it Y/N. I’m sure you’re doing a great job.”

‘Yeah.’ you thought bitterly, ‘Don’t overthink about it.’

The low sound of your laptop ringing resonates throughout the room as you do your own nails, you immediately shoot-up to see Kuroo’s name on the screen, you dive on the front of your laptop and click answer, his face immediately occupying the screen, “Kitten!” he exclaims.

Your worries are gone as soon as you hear that voice, yes, this was fine. He was alright. You were both alright.

“H-hey, baby.” You try to control your voice.

“You alright there?” his brows furrowed, “Am I disturbing your sleep again-”

“No!” You suddenly cry out, “N-No, it’s just...I haven’t seen you in so long, I guess.”

Kuroo’s gaze immediately softens, “Oh, Y/N...Baby, I’m so sorry…”

God, you wanted to touch him so bad. You want to lay next to him and wake up to his face like before, you wanted to be selfish right now and just cry and beg him to come home.

“No, It’s fine.” You suck it up, “It’s probably just the late night dramas I’ve been watching that’s got me missing you.”

His deep chuckle resonates in your quiet room and you start to feel alright until you hear someone call his name, “Oh shit.” He cursed, “I have to get back, Baby. Boss wants me, again.”

Your expression shifts to an uncharacteristic frown, “Right, bye. I-I love you.”

“I love you too, Y/N.”

The screen turns black once again and the bile on your throat begins to rise, the feeling of dread turning worse.

Who were you kidding, long distance relationships were shit.

You were feeling like shit.

You stare at the fish fillet in front of you, it's midday and your day off from work. If it were your usual day, you’d facetime your boyfriend while doing some paperwork but after that brief videocall. You became more withdrawn, your texts would become curt and you didn’t bother leaving messages on his voicemail anymore.

You didn’t have facetimes anymore too.

Yet you keep your phone next to you, hoping he’d still call and when he does, your can’t help it but your replies are starting to get dry. Sometimes forced even yet Kuroo doesn’t notice, he never does.

So when he finally calls again that time at lunch and is once again cut off by his workmates, you finally snap, “...Why are we still doing this?” your voice was rough and dry.

Kuroo is silent on the other line, the only thing that could be heard was his office mate calling him.

“Kitten, what do you mean? Are you okay?”

“Forget it.Just go.”

“Y/N?” His tone was serious now, all playfulness void, “I thought we were doing fine-”

“Thought.” You shakily cut him off, “You thought.”

“Y/N, you seriously - look- I don’t have time for this.”

That was the final straw, your tipping point. Those words were your Achilles heel.

“Then we should just break up, right?”

The only thing that could be heard was the silence on his side and your fast heartbeat. Guess you got your answer and as much as you hated it, you could only handle so much.

“Hey this is Y/N, I’m out now and kinda busy so just leave a message after a beep, yeah?”

“It’s me.” Kuroo’s voice echoes through the walls, “Y/N baby, please pick up the phone. I’m sorry. You know I didn’t mean it that way. I was an ass. I should’ve kept our promise. Please call me when you get this”

A loud beep echoes throughout the room after his message is cut.

“It’s me again. I miss you and I’m sorry. I really am, I miss you so bad. Can we facetime? Same time as usual, I promise I won’t let work get in the way again. Please call me back when you receive this.”

A loud beep once again echoes through the quiet walls of your room.

“Y-Y/N.” Kuroo stammers, “sweetheart, I-I asked Kenma to check on you. He brought a meal and well I know its a far fix from what I did but just eat well, yeah? He says you haven’t been looking well and I worry. I love you always, y-you know that right?”

Before the next message could play, you grab your phone and shut it off. A soft sigh escaping your lips. It had been two weeks since that breakup. You wouldn’t say you were doing well yet you wouldn’t say that the burden was lifted either.

You were just so confused at the moment, so withdrawn. The world seemingly void of color without your lover truly next to you anymore.

You slowly snuggle on his side of the bed, shutting your eyes. You might as well start moving your things when you wake up tomorrow, no sense in staying at your shared apartment.

You’re awoken by a familiar warmth caressing your hair. You flutter your eyes open, trying to adjust your vision to the room's dim light, the familiar figure of the man you missed and dearly loved sitting across you in a suit. His bags are thick as if he hadn’t slept in a while and his hair’s unkempt more than usual.

“I’m sorry.” the first thing he says.It's soft and warm like his touches, “I’m so sorry, Y/N.”

“Y-You..” It slowly dawns upon you that this isn’t a dream, that he’s right here, “You’re here.”

“Sorry it took so long, Y/N.” He apologies once again, dipping his head down to give you a soft kiss on your forehead. You sit up and suddenly all the tears burst out as you throw yourself to him in a hug, “I was too busy getting my work done so I could be assigned in this division earlier I hadn’t-”

“You’re home.” You cry, cutting off his explanation, it didn’t matter anymore. He was home and he was going to stay, “You’re finally home.”

“Yeah.” He whispers, “I’m here. I’m home.”

#kuroo angst #kuroo testuro #kuroo x reader #kuroo tetsuro fluff #kuroo tetsuro headcanons #kuroo tetsurou #kuroo tetsuro x you #kuroo tetsuro scenarios #kuroo tetsuro imagine #haikyuu imagines #haikyu!! fanfics #haikyuu x reader #haikyuu scenarios #haikyuu headcanons #haikyuu requests

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snackhobi · 4 years

Text

pairing: jimin x reader / word count: 11.8k / genre: tea witch!reader, nonwitch!jimin, growing up and finding your place in the world; fluff

summary: be careful, his mother would say. witches don’t care for mundane humans. be polite, do your business, but then leave. don’t linger. it’s not safe.

park jimin feels lost and alone and he’s still looking for home. but something unspoken leads him to your door—a witch who brews tea to match the stories and sadness that spill from his lips. a witch who gives him a question that he has to repay with an answer. (after all, you always have to pay a witch their dues.)

warnings/rating: SFW - talk of negative self thoughts, but that’s it I think! (so I suppose it’s a little angsty but it clears up dw :) )

a/n: thank you to the lovely @hobi-gif for beta reading this, ily queen!! the majority of teas mentioned are by the company bird & blend, and where possible I’ve inserted links to the exact teas I’ve included (so I suppose you could buy them yourself if you wanted to 👀)

edit [24/09/20]: please see the end of the story for an extra author’s note. -- Jimin is wet.

Jimin is tired, and sad, and lonely, but these are all things he's intimately familiar with, monochrome burden curled around his limbs and his heart, dragging him under their relentless weight. A familiar Sisyphean torture. Struggling against gravity only to be brought hurtling down once again. Yes, he's used to it by now.

But the wetness? That's new. Rain paints him with messy strokes, laid slick and cold across his body, soaking through clothes to skin to bone, reaching and curling chilled fingers into the heat of his insides. His shivers are full-bodied, every atom of his soul dripping rainwater, and Jimin—

Jimin wants to go home.

(He just doesn't know where that is, now.)

(Doesn't know if he's ever going to find it here.)

People rush past him. A sea of lifted hoods, unfolded umbrellas, crumpled newspapers— an array of protection from the downpour, some effective, some less so, but each offering at least a modicum of shielding. Hasty armour against the heavens.

Jimin is not so lucky. His pockets are empty and his jacket has no hood. Sodden blond hair guides tributaries down his face, the back of his neck, rainwater rivers that touch him so soft, so cold. Just more weights on the scale that are tipping him down, down, down.

(He's so tired.)

(He's so lost.)

The city becomes a different beast in the rain, grey and hazy, heaving with bodies, and Jimin has been swept up and spat out, road signs useless, phone dead, passersby more intent on their own destination than his. Too busy to spare a glance for the soaked boy who stands aside, out of the shifting tides of people, out of place.

(He's used to that, too.)

But then: a touch. Feather-light. A breath of wind, the gentlest curl of fingers as it brushes over his rain-slick cheek; a summer breeze, dappled sunlight and rose tinted warmth.

He turns into that touch, turning his head into that ephemeral hand, chasing the sensation of sun-hot air, and then, it hits him—

the smell.

(Sea salt and pale waves, a view that stretches on forever and falls into nothingness, endless skies and deep waters; cold across his skin and in his nose as he breathes in Songjeong beach, fills his lungs with the mellowed chill. The sand is a familiar soft roughness under his feet as he stares across the horizon, out to the world beyond, so close he can almost touch it.)

(Frying pastry, sticky street food, the smell of hot oil as the vendor flips the ssiat hotteok; air sweet with brown sugar and warm yeast, round and plump and full of seeds, a delicious crunch against his teeth. Laughter fills his ears and his lungs, as sweet as the sugar on his fingers, his lips, warmth and happiness and light.)

(Fish tang, salt and wet; the bustling yell of the fish market, fat shrimp and slick squid and rough oysters, fresh from the sea; everything breathing and shuffling and so alive, air full of the brightness of it all, edged with brine, sharp. He cuts through the choppy waves of people, treading a path that’s drawn by his steady feet, guiding him through this place he knows so well.)

Here, Jimin stands in the rain of Seoul, and all he can smell is Busan, Busan, Busan.

All he can smell is—

All he can smell is home.

(Home, that place of comfort, carved out in the heart of his memories, when he was younger and smaller and burned brighter; rose tinted and past perfect, unchangeable.)

Something stirs in his stomach. Something far reaching, but light, that soft curl of salt air brushing past the cold rain that's filled him.

He follows it.

(After all, it couldn't possibly take him somewhere that's worse than where he already is.)

Jimin has only met two witches in his life.

For the first, he was young, all chubby cheeks and small hands—he’s lost the round cheeks but the small hands have stayed.

He can easily recall the grizzled edges of the witch’s face and the deep solemnity in his voice. He’s a cliffside of a man, unbending and awe inspiring in his earthly solidness, almost terrifying; skin with pockmarks like crags, sandstone rough and chipped, eyes flint-hard and unchanging as he squats down to look at Jimin. The only thing that keeps him from bolting is his mother’s presence at his shoulder, hand warm in his, holding him tight and safe.

The witch is a monolith, and that scares Jimin. But whatever concoction the man passes over to Jimin’s mother—after she gives him jars of their family-recipe kimchi, spice and salt and sour—finally clears up the cough that’s been lingering in his throat for weeks, squeezing his lungs and throat, so he’s happy. (Even if his lips taste like sickly sweet aniseed and something deeper, something he still can't name).

For the second, he was all pubescent awkwardness, limbs still so short and yet so ungainly and gangly, a cygnet still shedding the grey plumage of his youth—desperate to reach the signature elegance and grace of a swan, all curved neck and crystal feathers and perfection.

This witch is all hard, perfect edges, glittering diamond, beautiful, untouchable; hair a dark waterfall around her face, lashes long, lips red, perfect curves and yet still so sharp. Terrifying. She eyes Jimin with something bordering on disdain, but disdain would require him to be worth her time. (He’s not.)

But he comes with payment, bundles of samphire he picked from the coast with bare hands, fat and green and salty, and so she deigns to give him a moment of that time. The metal charm is cold in his palm, ice and fire, but it works—Jonghee finally notices him, sees him, smiles at him. (Even if their relationship only lasts two weeks, a short lived school romance, she never would have looked at him twice without the charm that’s tucked in his pocket, drawing her gaze.)

Both witches had carried power like a cloak about their shoulders. Heavy around them, magic weighty and dark, smoke and fumes. Both were so different, but cut from the same cloth; clouds in the distance, sparking with lightning and weighty with rain.

Never cross a witch, they say. Always pay your dues, they say. Never approach a witch without knowing what you want, and never approach a witch without appropriate payment, ready to strike an accord, reach an agreement. One thing for another, tit-for-tat, keeping the scales even.

Witches are dangerous, they say.

(Be careful, his mother would say. Witches don’t care for mundane humans. Be polite, do your business, but then leave. Don’t linger. It’s not safe.)

(But witches keep their word. A promise from a witch is ironclad and unbreaking, written in stone. They’re dangerous, and you should always be wary, but there are rules they cannot and will not break.

In a way, it’s easier to trust a witch more than anyone else, because they’ll always honour an agreement. Jimin might not have spoken to a witch in years, now, but he knows this: if a witch gives you their word, it’s worth more than its weight in gold.)

Jimin’s feet—so skilled at treading the sea slick sands of Busan’s beaches—are unsteady on the firm concrete of Seoul’s streets. But still, he follows them. They tread a path he doesn’t know, tracing directions he cannot see, but it’s impossible to ignore and even harder to resist.

Ley lines cross. They settle here, a soft X drawn in smudged pencil on a finger-worn map, and Jimin stops.

The sign in the window says closed. At least, Jimin thinks it does, but then he blinks, and it’s almost like the words have rearranged themselves: open.

The building is unassuming, nestled between two others, a stunted tree surrounded by towering redwoods, but it’s this shopfront door that draws his eye—duck-egg, blue green, the colour of new life, the morning sea, the ebbing tide. The sign that hangs above is wooden, a little faded, but in a way that suggests comfort and not disrepair; like an old jumper, worn soft with age, but still warm, still loved.

Aurora.

A spark of light catches his eye. A glint, a dazzle, pulling his gaze towards it: below the sign, windchimes, circling a piece of quartz, catching the sunlight that's swallowed by clouds. It glitters at him through the rain. Even in the harsh breeze, the chimes are almost still, gently singing, soft voices whispering under the sound of falling water.

The door seems to swing forward at the lightest touch of Jimin’s gaze, already open, opening further. Beckoning him in.

The smell of sea fills his senses.

The quartz throws refracted light over him, lines between each colour sharp and defined despite the rough hewn edges, a rainbow that shines even brighter on the dark wetness of his clothes as he steps through; the windchimes ring out, a crystalline murmur, and then the door eases shut behind him.

It’s warm. It’s warm, and dry, and serene. Light slants in through the windows, dulled by the rain but still painting the room in white and gold. Everything is in its place, neat and quiet and cheerful, a spray of pastel crocuses in a lopsided, handmade clay vase on the counter. The counter is clear while the rest of the room is full; busy shelves and wall hangings and a garland that has the shifting phases of the moon, crescent-quarter-gibbous-full; glittering geodes, polished crystals, water smoothed pebbles; half burned candles, jars and bottles and shells, all crowding against each other.

The whole place hums with magic. But unlike the magic Jimin has felt before, sulphur sour at the back of his throat, burned tobacco in his lungs, this is gentle, all encompassing—like a kitchen warmed by a busy oven, full to the brim with bread, filling the room with its scent and heat.

Jimin feels out of place. He’s wet and dark and sad, drip-drip-dripping dirty rainwater on the hardwood floor. Hair hangs into his eyes, and he’s small and cold, almost bowing under the wet of the weather that clings to him. He shivers, caught up in the chill.

“Jinnie? Are you back already?”

A voice calls to him, out of sight. Jimin looks away from the mug and open book that lies on the counter, ring mark caught by the sliced geode coaster, sparkling copper green and jade.

“Did you forget to bring your charms? I told you to double check your bag before you left. I’m not done yet, anyway, I—”

Blink, blink. Wide eyed, soft and slow, surprised into stillness.

You look like comfort. It’s like someone’s taken a soft winter’s evening and turned it into a person—jumper big and thick weave warm, hair a softened mess, dangling earrings that look like little cherries, bare feet, skin touching the warm wood floor, mug in hand that coils with steam. Like a fireplace that flickers warmth and light in the cold.

Your pretty mouth is a little open, poised to speak another word that fails to come as you blink at Jimin.

“You’re not Jin,” you say, instead.

Drip, drip. Shying away from that doe-eyed gaze, Jimin looks down at his feet.

“The sign said open,” he mumbles, wanting to fold in on himself, a sodden origami crane that collapses under its own weight.

“It did?” There’s a tinge of surprise in your tone, but then a drip of rainwater trails down Jimin’s nose and falls, a teardrop of crystal. Your voice turns soft. “Oh, dear. No, of course it did. You’re soaking. Come on, come in. Take your shoes and coat off, leave them by the door. You look like you need a cup of tea.”

You leave no room for argument, disappearing back the way you came. Jimin is shocked into stillness, but then you reappear with a soft cream towel, an uplift to your eyebrows that looks expectant. Jimin pulls his worn shoes off, leaving them in self-created puddles at the door, jacket hung on the curved arms of an old coat rack.

The towel is warm around his neck and in his hair, cotton soaking up wetness with unnatural ease. The warmth of his surroundings is seeping in, chasing away the chill that’s settled in his bones, and when Jimin perches on the chair you’ve pulled out for him, he feels a little better. Not much, but a little, and that’s more than he can ask for.

The tea room is cluttered, racks of glass jars, some full to the brim, others almost empty, washed-out white and green and brown, some bright with full flower buds, some muted with dried berries and fruit; strings of dried orange slices hang from the ceiling above, surrounded by scatterings of bundled flowers and leaves. And yet, somehow, under the smell of bubbling water and dried tea, that tang of salt lingers, light on Jimin’s tongue.

“You look like you’ve had a long day. Would you like to talk about it?”

(In Seoul, no one has time for Jimin. Their eyes are closed off, hard, absorbed in themselves, their own problems—Jimin understands. Life is difficult, and it can be an uphill struggle, everyone so hungry, starved. Just like him. Trying to scrabble for a foothold in a mountain that’s been worn smooth by generations of grasping hands before him.)

The look you give Jimin is soft, and warm, and open; the look a mother gives a child when they fall and scrape open their knee. No pity, no judgement, just empathy.

“No,” Jimin says. Then: “Yes.” Then, after a long, lingering silence: “I don’t know where to start.”

You let out a little hum, patient, encouraging, reaching for two mismatched cups; one, soft camellia pink, the other, dark blue, bumpy ceramic, deep ocean waves.

“How about you start with how you’re feeling?”

How he’s feeling?

(How is he feeling?)

(Lost. Lonely. Alone. Like he’s caught in a riptide, and no matter how much he swims, the shore is growing further and further away; adrift and out to sea, swallowed by merciless waves.)

(Like he should have listened to the cautious words of everyone back home. Like he’d set himself up for failure from the moment he’d set his sights on Seoul, on success.)

(Like he’s never been good enough, will never be good enough, and he should have known that.)

Jimin doesn’t—Jimin doesn’t want to show you this raw, aching part of him, fit messily between his lungs.

He doesn’t have to tell you anything. He doesn’t have to peel back the skin of his chest and lay himself bare.

But for the first time since he’s stepped foot onto Seoul’s soil, Jimin feels seen.

His words are slow and faltering.

Jimin is out of practice, talking about himself, the things that he keeps small and folded away in quiet corners of his heart, but you listen. You hum and shift and move, opening jars, closing jars, weighing out loose leaves, eyes intent on your work. Maybe that’s what makes it easier.

You’re not staring at Jimin, watching as he strips himself raw. You’re watching the fire that flickers on the small burner, water bubbling and almost boiling, but not quite. Not yet. You’re watching your careful hands as you scoop the blend into a cast iron pot, burnished darkness. You’re not watching him, but you’re listening: how he’d come to Seoul to pursue his passions, his dreams, how it’s left him lonely and lost and aching. A ship on a course without map or compass, sky overcast, no stars to guide him.

“Sometimes I feel like I should have stayed in Busan,” Jimin murmurs. His head is bowed forwards, eyes caught in a knot on the wood of the table, lines coiling together. “Everyone was right. I’m never going to make it.”

The cup set in front of him is empty. Your fingers are curved around the handle as you turn it towards Jimin, and he notices little clouds on your nails, fluffy white against pastel blues. You hum lightly at his words, lifting the iron pot from its woven mat, steady as you pour.

(This is unlike any other place he’s ever known.)

“Do you want to go back to Busan?”

The tea smells lovely, a little floral, a little sweet, mellow and warm. It flows over the sharp salt that’s coating Jimin’s senses, sweeping away the last drops of rain that cling to his bones; washed fresh and clean. It settles in the pit of his stomach, lies light against his tongue, warming him from the inside out.

(A blanket that’s tucked over his shoulders and wrapping him tight.)

Suddenly, Jimin wants to cry.

He swallows down the tears, the rising tide that threatens to spill from his eyes. He thinks about his answer—does he want to go back to Busan? Back to the salt and the sea? Back to the world he knows so well, misses so well?

“No,” he admits. “I miss it, but… no. I want to find my place in Seoul.”

I want to be good enough. I want to find a new home.

The answering smile on your face is a small, tender thing.

The tea stays hot, no matter how long Jimin takes to drink. Rooibos, coconut, lavender, cocoa, earthy and delicate flavours mixing across his senses. His hands wrap around his cup, the shifting blue waves steady around the liquid inside, cotton towel around his neck crowding even closer as his shoulders bow inwards.

He notices, then, that he’s dry, somehow—every inch of him, from his skin to his hair to his clothes, whisked away by some unseen, ephemeral hand. Like he’d never been in the rain at all. His hair is soft on his head, clothes unwrinkled, and he smells like citrus and light, a shimmering garden. Not like rainwater and muted sorrow.

“You’re a witch,” he realises, suddenly.

He knows this place must be home to magic, but he’d figured you some sort of assistant, apprentice, as soft and unassuming as you are.

But, no. The magic he feels in the air, butter rich and sugar sweet, isn’t from the building. It’s from you.

He shouldn’t have told you anything. Witches are dangerous. He owes you now, undeniably so—for the tea he’s drunk, cup empty and cooling in front of him.

No one ever denies a witch their dues. No one would dare. But he has nothing to give you.

“I don’t have anything to give you.” Jimin’s eyes are wide. “I don’t have any money.”

“Jimin.” Your voice is a murmur, but it does nothing to quell the spike of worry in his heart, the realisation that he’d never told you his name, not once. But of course you know it. Witches see the unseen. Witches read the unknown. “You don’t owe me money. Please, don’t panic.”

Jimin tries to swallow down that panic. There’s nothing in his pockets but his phone, dead as it is, an old bus ticket stub, his keys, plain and unadorned save for the tiny puppy keyring he’s had for years, but doesn’t remember the origin of. Nothing a witch might be interested in. “Then what can I give you?”

“You’ve already spilled your heart to me,” you say. “That’s half of the payment. A confession of feelings.”

Jimin’s lashes flutter. He can’t help his eyes darting over you, reading the signs he’d missed before—you might not stink of magic like coal dust and smothered fires, but instead it rests like a garland of flowers about your head, woven into the wool of your jumper like silken thread, gossamer. Delicate and light but undeniable, a fleur-de-lis that blooms over hard marble, strong and steady.

“What’s the other half?”

“That’s up to you.” You tilt your head, little cherries in your ears swinging with the motion. “A secret. A memory. Something you’d like to share. That’s the price; a story you want to share. The final half of the transaction.”

“Do you… keep it?” He’s heard of witches stealing the memory from people, leaving them hollow shells, but you shake your head with a soft laugh.

“No. You share your story, Jimin. You don’t give it to me. Your words and history are yours, not mine. I promise you: anything you give me remains your own.”

A witch’s promise. Unbreakable truth.

(What does he have that’s worth a witch’s time?)

A memory. A good one.

Climbing the trail of Geumjeongsan, warmed by the sun overhead, filtered by the arching trees, his brother beside him, his parents behind. He was still young, too young to climb all the way up the mountain route, bundled into the cable car that had lifted them towards the heavens, world spread at his feet, a feast for his hungry eyes. Their dinner had been roasted duck, fatty and crisp, leaking oil over his lips and cheeks as he’d eagerly bit in after a day of hard work. His family had been laughing, surrounding him with their love, liquid sunlight spilling over him. Happiness.

Your chin rests in your palm as you listen, hair a soft frame around your softer eyes, smile lingering at the edges of your lips. Jimin’s words trickle and slow, and for a second he wonders if it was enough, if this years-old memory, fuzzy around the edges, pays his dues—but as his mouth curves around the final syllable, listing the room back into warm quiet as he smiles at this remembered joy, he knows. Something in his heart knows. It is. It’s enough.

“Thank you for sharing that happiness with me, Jimin. It was lovely.”

For the first time in a long time, Jimin’s heart feels less like a broken thing. It feels like someone’s starting to take liquid gold to the cracks in his heart, protective resin that brings his broken parts together, the soft touch of kintsugi that shows his flaws but also lets him see that his heart can work despite them.

Broken and imperfect but still here. Still whole.

(He may have paid off his debt, but Jimin feels like he’s taking away something that’s more than just a cup of tea.)

His shoes are dry when you return to the door, and when he reaches for his jacket, it’s like he’s just peeled it off a washing line, smelling of sun and fresh laundry. His trainers fit better on his feet, not rubbing at the heel like it should. Small, little things that change so much.

“It’s still raining,” you say. “There’s an umbrella in the stand that you can have.”

The umbrella is a long, sturdy thing, plain black, but when Jimin lifts it, there’s a small charm tied to the handle. A tiny string of rose quartz beads, polished pale pink.

Witches never give things away for free. Jimin knows this.

“The price is that you have to share it with the first person you meet who needs it.” The words fall from your smiling lips before Jimin can ask. “You’ll know who it is when you see them.”

The arms of the umbrella spread so wide above him, engulfing him in protection, keeping him dry and safe. He turns to look at you. You're leaning against the doorframe, still barefoot, fingers that bear the sky barely peeping out of the sleeves of your jumper. Untouched by the rain and grime of Seoul, a lit candle in the night, vanilla scented wax, dribbling hot and sweet. So unlike any other witch Jimin has ever heard of.

There’s no smell of sea, any more. No lingering memories of Busan. Just petrichor, rain and concrete, an undercurrent to the fresh smell of his clothes, his hair, washed clean by a magic that’s softer than anything Jimin has ever known.

The only thing that’s softer is the smile on your face, the curl of your fingers as you wave goodbye. The door swings shut as you step back, windchimes trembling at the gentle parting, quartz throwing glitter over Jimin’s cheeks and catching in his lashes.

(The sign in the window remains untouched.

As Jimin turns away, it says closed.)

The rain has lessened, a drizzle that threatens to sweep over him, but the umbrella keeps him safe, draped over the air around him, warding away the cold that tries so desperately to claw back into his chest. Jimin doesn’t know where he’s going, just like before—but he steps onto the street and immediately stops.

The string of rose quartz pearls swings into his wrist.

“Hello. Would you like to share my umbrella?”

Jimin has to hold it up high, shorter than the long-limbed boy who stands in front of him. His eyes are dark and almost solemn, sliding across Jimin’s face as he seems to pull himself out of some faraway, unseen place. He doesn’t seem to notice the rain that’s starting to soak through his clothes, peppering his handsome face with small, cold kisses, but then he smiles, gratitude written across his grinning teeth.

“Hello.” His voice is so deep. “Thank you.” And then, after only the briefest pause: “My horoscope said I’d be helped by a Libra today.”

Jimin startles, umbrella scattering rain with the motion. “How did you know I’m a Libra?”

And so—this is how Park Jimin meets Kim Taehyung. With a witch’s blessing warm in his belly and overhead, umbrella a shield against the heavens.

And so—this is how Park Jimin meets Jeon Jungkook. With Kim Taehyung at his side, a witch’s charm around his wrist, rose quartz a soothing calm against his skin.

And so—this is how Park Jimin starts to build a home in Seoul, brick by brick, larger hands working alongside his own; Taehyung’s palms large, Jungkook’s fingers steady, laying the foundations to happiness. Together.

His feet find their way back to Aurora again and again, a moon that pulls at his waters, caught in its gravity. Quartz to citrine, aventurine to hematite, windchimes singing like bells whenever he passes underneath them, door swinging open at the lightest of touches.

Your wide eyed surprise ebbs like the tides. The second time, and then the third, and fourth, you’d stopped in your tracks at his arrival, hands a tumble of confusion whenever he’d appeared at your door, but now you’re always ready and waiting.

(“How did you find this place the first time?”

Today’s tea is sencha, salty sea-buckthorn, bright spearmint, delicate lemon verbena, tinged blue with cornflower and butterfly pea, the ocean waves in a cup, brewed just for him.

“I followed the sea,” Jimin answers. “The salt air. Didn’t you do that?”

“No.” The same tea lies in your own cup, a shared moment in the past and present. “You called out and you were answered. This shop is older than you or me, and even Jin doesn’t know the magic that lies in its walls. We don’t control this place. We just live here.”)

The stories he pays you with change over time, memories from years past, growing closer and closer to the present, an autobiography that lays out the peaks and valleys of his life; the happy, the sad, the embarrassments, the triumphs. The tea changes every time, too, mellow greens to bright fruits, smoky blacks to delicate whites, whisked matcha and woody lapsang souchong. Matching the timbre of his voice, reflecting his words, letting him dwell on happiness, or pulling him out of sorrow.

Sometimes Jin is there. Oftentimes, he isn’t. The tea room is sacred ground when Jimin is paying his dues, stories and secrets falling from his lips, but otherwise Jin will bundle in, all energy and noise, leaving plates of flaky pastry and tiny biscuits and soft bread, brioche lined with chocolate, melting and hot. They leave Jimin warm and full, no matter how much or how little he eats. Two kitchen witches that give, and give, and give.

Jimin pays for a plate of rose shortbread with a recollection of the time he’d spilled juice over his brother’s homework, only to blame the dog, who was refused his usual after-dinner gravy bones. Jimin still lives with the guilt. Jin laughs, and you smile, flower petals soft and sweet in your mouth as you listen to him speak.

He wants to bring Taehyung and Jungkook, share the brightness with them, with you, the things that make him smile and laugh; lifting him out the deep waters of sadness and towards the sun, light dappled waters, bright coral reefs, a multicolour display of life. But Aurora doesn’t call to them the way it calls to Jimin, which means he goes alone.

Taehyung’s eyes widen when Jimin mentions his disappointment.

“Jimin-ah.” His mouth is round with shock, a sweet pomegranate, red flushed lips. “Don’t you know?”

“Know what?”

Jungkook’s cheeks bulge with lettuce and samgyeopsal, but he swallows it down in one go, a gannet with the metabolism of a god. (Lucky.) “Finding witches in Seoul is hard,” he says. “You have to actively search them out. Do you?”

Jungkook has met more witches than any of them, a little golden spark of magic nestled deep in his chest, a magnetised needle that points him forward like a compass. But even he can’t find Aurora, no matter how much Jimin tries to guide him.

“I just… walk,” Jimin says, unsure. “I just feel it and I walk.”

“I’ve alway wanted to get a cup of tea from that shop. They say the best way to solve your problems is to share it with a witch, but I’ve never been able to find it, no matter how hard I’ve tried,” says Taehyung. An empty leaf of lettuce lays in his palm, curled up, almost sad in how small it looks. (The same would be a riverboat in the tiny cups of Jimin’s hands.) But rather than jealousy sparking in his eyes, he just seems happy for Jimin, toothy grin appearing on his face. “You’re so lucky, Jimin-ah. I bet it’s incredible.”

(Jimin is a nightjar, a singing bird, calling out into the darkness. The dawn bursts over the horizon, light heavy, laden with brightness, aurora shimmering rose and gold, welcoming hands.)

(Jimin sings. You listen.)

This time when he finds Aurora—or maybe it finds him—it’s snowing.

Seoul is blanketed in white, pavements worn smooth with a thousand busy feet, roads salt slick and slush. The wind bites at his cheeks, apple crisp and sweet, the air a soft whisper that runs its chilled fingers through his hair and turns his head.

(The rose quartz lies warm around his wrist.)

The winter sun overhead casts short shadows, pale light flushing down Jimin’s face as he leans into that fleeting touch. It’s not Busan that fills his senses this time; it’s the smell of mulled wine, hot cinnamon, melting chocolate, but more than that—dark evergreen and sweet cherry-wood fires, dusty pepper and star anise, sticky caramel.

(Homely.)

Open, the sign says.

Today, the windchimes circle a shard of snowflake obsidian. It trills out a greeting as he touches his fingers to the door, tiny bells that tinkle their hello as Jimin steps over the threshold, Aurora just as warm and inviting as it had been the last time he’d stepped foot here. As warm and inviting as it always is.

(Closed, the sign says.)

He’s warm too, today. He’s wrapped up against winter, hand knitted hat on his head—a recent project by Taehyung—and his hands are nestled in his pockets, curled around the small hand warmers that Jungkook sneaks into his coat without comment. Reminders of the love of his friends even when they’re not beside him. His cheeks are flushed pink from the cold and his eyes are sparking happiness, smile wide as he stomps snow off his feet.

But there’s no one to greet him. No candles are lit, no half-finished drink on the counter, an unintentional offering to the quiet building. It feels like a held breath, light, heavy, ephemeral, weighty.

(Every moon hanging from the garland is waning.)

Jimin’s socked feet are quiet as he steps the familiar route to the tea room, hallway beckoning him forwards; the door is shut, and he hesitates, but even as he watches, it quietly swings open, untouched.

You’re bowed over the table. A hand rests over your eyes, your body held still, a rictus of—of deep thought, maybe? The weight of decision, indecision. Maybe. Something that hangs heavy about you, usual shimmering magic pulled down, osmium heavy; still glittering and beautiful, but sharper edged, burdensome.

The cup in front of you is dry, empty, matte ceramic the colour of bone, muted white, brittle cream. There’s no smell of warm tea today. Just still air.

(No matter how many times Jimin has seen you laugh and smile and tilt your head, the truth is that you’re a witch, and Jimin has only just started to map your world. He’s a cartographer with nothing more than his own hands and the aching need to find the stars, to trace those celestial bodies overhead that shine out so bright.)

The floor groans under Jimin’s unmoving feet and your head snaps up.

“Jimin?” Your eyes are wide and startled. All at once the air lifts, sunlight seeping from the floorboards; an open window that’s been thrown open to pull in the summer breeze. “I didn’t hear you come in.”

(The windchimes had been as loud as always, announcing his presence.)

“I’m sorry,” apologises Jimin. “I didn’t mean to disturb you.”

You shift away from the table and straighten, magic coiling around your neck like a scarf, thick and warm. (Covering your mouth and muffling you.) “I just wasn’t expecting any customers,” you say. “You never have to apologise, Jimin. Come on in, take a seat. What do you want to talk about today?”

Jimin had wanted to share his happiness. He’d wanted to talk about Taehyung, and Jungkook, and the dancing job that’s turned steady, all the bright little pieces of his life, glistening opals, precious stones. But he realises, then, that’s not what he needs, really.

(Not what he wants, really.)

“Nothing,” he says. His voice is soft and sweet, white milk bread, fluffy and light. “I just wanted to see you. How are you?”

The fire under the water flickers, a sun flare that dies as soon as it’s born, settling into its usual ring of tiny flames. The magic around your neck turns into a stole, slipping away from your mouth, settling about your shoulders. You’re silent, for a long moment, as if you’d been in some unseen place and Jimin has pulled you back.

You glance at him through the curl of your lashes. “Busy,” you say, eventually. “Distracted, I suppose. Trying to work things out.”

Why? Jimin wants to ask. Work what things out?

But he knows better than to pry for a witch’s secrets, as open armed and soft palmed as you might be. So he just says: “I hope it gets better soon. I’m sure you’ll find the answer.”

The bundles overhead shift in an unseen breeze, dusty cinnamon sticks and fat berries and handfuls of clove, stirring the spiced smell of winter. Jimin would swear he hears the windchimes singing, a tiny choir of voices that swells and breaks as quickly as a wave crashing against the shore.

You let out a small laugh. It’s edged with something Jimin can’t put a name to. “Oh, this is the kind of answer that’s given, not found, so I have to wait, even if I think I know what it is,” you say. “And it’s… not one I was expecting. Witches don’t do well with being unable to take control of the situation, but I can’t do anything about it.”

Jimin pauses. He realises then, in a way, he’s been selfish—always speaking, never listening. But you don’t offer yourself up in the way Jimin does. A witch is a library of knowledge and secrets, locked to the outside world; Jimin wouldn’t dare to try and find the key. It would burn his hands, sear itself into his palm. The door has to be willingly opened by whoever’s inside.

He thinks about those words he’s heard you so many times, now, mouth so gentle around the syllables, the lilting question. A flickering constellation that guides his feet. One that he can trace, lines between the stars.

“Would you like to talk about it?”

The smile you offer him is one he hasn't seen before, crooked, a whispered secret. Sending the pages of all those books fluttering, stirring on their shelves. “Do you want to strike a bargain, Park Jimin? I give you a story, and you pay me in turn?”

A tiny shiver prickles over Jimin’s skin. Your question feels like a test you both know he can't complete, but—there's something inside him that flickers bright at that challenge.

He’s not a witch and has no magic glowing in his spirit, but a contract takes two people, mundane or not. He’s never considered himself bold, softer and gentler than he wishes he was, sometimes, but—there’s that unrelenting part in him, reckless and brave, hungry for more, that pulled him from Busan and set him in Seoul, that bruises his knees and rubs blisters on his feet from his endless dancing; the part that brings him to a witch’s door, over and over, heedless of the magic that lingers like crystallised sugar about his wrists and ankles, almost painful were it not so sweet.

(Bravery isn’t always about being bold. Sometimes bravery is trying again, and again, even if it seems hopeless.)

“If that would help you?”

The delicate hanging chains of your earrings tremble, tiny sparkling hearts of crystal, your eyes widening imperceptibly in surprise. Witches are forces of nature, relentless, but for a second—just a second—Jimin stops you in your tracks. Not as an imposing seawall built against the crashing waves, but rather, a soft hand that’s lifted, palm first, fingers spread wide.

(Bravery is this, too: being gentle and open where others might expect you to be cold and distant, worn bitter by the cold world around them.)

(Jimin has always known this, but you’d reminded him, when he’d almost forgotten.)

The air smells like mulled wine, heady and sweet, a bonfire of spice and tannin. For a moment, Jimin fears he’s misstepped, craggy cliffs crumbling underneath his feet and throwing him into the merciless waves below—but then you step back, cast your hand at the wall of jars, almost endless in width and height.

“What tea do you think I need today, then?”

Jimin smiles, all full lips and shy teeth, and says: “You have to tell me your story first. That's how the transaction goes.”

And for the first time, Jimin sees you truly laugh. You shed every piece of armour that’s girded about you; you might be quieter, and gentler, but your magic is coiled close, plate metal that shines so bright but falls so soft. Your heavy iron door opens, just a crack, the smell of leather bound books and old manuscripts curling outwards, letting Jimin catch a glimpse of the wonders inside.

“I can’t tell you a story that hasn’t finished yet, but I have plenty of memories,” you say. “Hm. How about the day Jin and I found this place?”

Jimin doesn’t know how to blend tea. He doesn’t know how to balance flavours, top notes, heart notes, base notes, curling tastes together in a way you do so effortlessly. But he knows how to follow his heart, and as always, Aurora helps guide him.

He listens to your words the way you listen to his, with soft encouragement and gentle laughter, eyes bright as he swallows down the secrets of witchcraft that are banal to you but utterly fascinating to him. A glimpse into a world he’s barely touched. He traces unseen vibrations in the air, reaches for jar after jar, none of them labelled, but perfect each time he pulls them open and breathes in their scent. Almost jumping into his hands. He thinks of a feeling, a flavour to match each memory you lay in front of him, and the magic responds; not under his control, no, but letting him drift in its flow.

He plants a garden: fat rosebuds, yielding petals, bright lemongrass, earthy raspberry leaves, flaky cocoa shells.

(Jimin doesn’t know these ingredients, but you do, eyes intent and sharp as you watch him move with an ease no one else has ever displayed here, moving around the room that’s entirely yours—a part of your heart nestled safe in Aurora’s walls, one that even Jin could not traverse, if he tried.)

(But here he is. With no magic in his bones, here he is, treading a delicate path through this sanctum, weaving the energy around him without knowledge or thought. Just human, but also so much more.)

The iron pot is heavier than Jimin realised, a solid weight that you always heft with ease. The scent that fills the room when he pours is delicate and light but it washes away the spicy scent of winter warmth, and instead smells like floral enchantment.

He slips into the seat across from yours. It’s a reversal, tipping the world on its head, an entirely unfamiliar perspective; the wall behind you isn’t lined in the tools of your trade. Today, Jimin sits in the master’s seat. Today, you are silhouetted by the dried bouquets that hang from the crooked branch that coils from the ceiling, muted colours even quieter in the nimbus of your magic, dawn light and warmth, dripping honeycomb, gold and saccharine.

“Would you ever leave Aurora?”

(Even the fleeting thought sends disappointment through every part of him, an echo of loneliness for something that hasn’t happened. Jimin’s always been possessive, in a way, wanting to keep a tight hold of the things he cares about.)

(You’re one of those things, now.)

The smile you give Jimin is answer enough. “Once a witch finds their home, there’s no turning back. No matter how long I’m gone, or how far I go, I’ll always find my way back home.” And then there’s a little glitter in your warm eyes, gold dust under a sun-laden river. “Time for tea, I suppose?”

It’s rosewater sweetness, dark chocolate bitterness, a citrus undercurrent that flows around it all. Biting into Turkish delight, coated in rich chocolate, yielding to the press of your teeth, an explosion of flavour. Jimin has never tasted anything like this— rich and creamy but also fragrant and light.

Judging from your wide eyed stare, you haven’t, either.

(It’s perfect.)

(It takes that indecision that’s been settling around each of your bones, sweeps it away, Jimin’s eyes as large as the moon and just as bright. This cup is so much more than just a warm drink, a hot touch down your throat; it’s the world telling you something, showing you something, something about Jimin, something you thought you'd been wrong about.)

(Jimin has no magic of his own, but he burns so bright. A lovely, sweet, strong, talented boy, stronger than he knows, lovelier than he knows. The world fits around him so well, a backdrop to his beauty, shaping itself to his touch.)

(Your magic shapes itself around him in a way that's as easy as breathing, and it should frighten you.)

(But it doesn't.)

With any contract, the witch sets the price. Your story for this cup of tea should be enough, a parting of the curtain into a world he shouldn’t be allowed to see—but something still pulls in Jimin’s stomach. He feels a little empty. Like he’s eaten a meal and could be content to finish now, but he’s waiting for that final course, that bite of dessert. Something to satiate his lingering hunger.

You still need to pay the final part of the price.

“You need to give one more thing,” says Jimin, reciting the ancient law that he’s never been taught but sings in his bones.

Your silence is summer lightning. Light sparks in the distance, flashing hot and bright, but without the weight of thunder, without the promise of rain.

“A secret,” you decide. “I’ll give you a secret.”

If a witch’s word is worth more than gold, then a witch’s secret is worth more than rhodium; stronger, rarer.

“I’ve told you that Aurora answers people who call out, if they need our help?”

“Yes.” Jimin remembers this well, thinks about it every time he’s led back here, the guiding hands that helped him find the path he’s treading now. “You’ve told me that.”

“Witches can find the shop and come here often,” you say. “They come to buy things and leave again; they have to keep their magic safe. You see, a witch’s power is most potent in their own home, and weakest in another’s, so you’ll find witches won’t drink one of my teas, or eat Jin’s food, unless they’ve left the shop. It’s a sign of absolute trust to do something like that.”

You snack on Jin’s biscuits all the time, spread homemade jams over freshly-baked bread, watch Jin drizzle honey into soft camomile, slip lemon slices into hot Earl Grey. Mixing your magic and trust together like a tangle of fresh sheets.

“But humans, without magic? Even if you try, you can’t find this place unless it wants to be found. Neither Jin nor I control that, really, but the sign helps control the flow,” you continue. “If we put it on closed, the shop won’t beckon people in. But if it’s open? People come with their burdens and their sorrows, and I’ll sit, and I’ll listen. My magic isn’t what helps them. Sometimes all people need is a listening ear and that’s what I offer: a single moment of quiet in their busy lives before they leave again. You want to know what the secret is, Jimin?”

“Yes,” says Jimin, eager. Not just as a payment of something that’s owed, but for his own curiosity, digging its fingers into his stomach and lungs. “I want to know.”

The smile you deliver now is the final jolt of lightning, white hot and flooding the air with crackling energy, before the clouds part to reveal the quiet night sky, the vibrant colours of the Milky Way naked for the eyes to see.

“My secret is this: you shouldn’t be able to keep finding this place. I didn’t realise anyone could, but here you are, again and again. You’re the only non-witch who’s ever stepped foot in here more than once.”

Clink.

“My secret is this: you are the only thing in my life that I cannot answer with magic, and it’s completely out of my control. Even if the sign says closed, you can walk in, regardless.”

Clink.

“My secret is this: I know I won’t be able to find that answer I'm looking for, because it’s not in me, or my magic, or my shop. It’s something in you.”

Clink.

Three falling secrets that fold into one. A handful of coins tumbling over themselves into the waters of a wishing well, slipping into that liquid quiet. Throwing ripples across the glass surface.

Jimin has always thought that witches were gods of their domain, endless fonts of wisdom, magic cast over the world around them that catches knowledge in its weave, Indra’s net. “But I’m—I’m just human.”

Your eyes are soft. “There’s no just about it, Jimin,” you say. “Witch or not, we all have our place in the world, as small or large as it may be.”

“But I don’t have any magic. Jungkook does, and even Tae does, a little.” He always knows when to say bless you before someone sneezes. “But I’m just… completely mundane.”

“I know you don’t have magic, Jimin. But do you know what the word mundane originally meant? It doesn’t mean boring, or dull. It’s rooted in the world. The earth. There’s nothing more powerful. Don’t you know how brightly you shine?”

Jimin tilts his head away. The truth is that for all the happiness that’s started to grow across his heart like blooming roses, trailing wisteria, some days the river at his feet feels less like sun flecked waters and more like tar, thick and dark, ready to pull him back under. It’s not so easy to cast off sadness once it’s found you. Sometimes his chest feels like it could cave in under the weight of his own failings, each and every one of his flaws stacked up high, pressing on his lungs, his heart.

He doesn’t feel like he shines.

“Oh, Jimin. You really don’t see, do you?” The magic that curls around him is silken, light. Touching the rose quartz around his wrist with recognition. “Remember earlier, when I said the answer I wanted has to be given, not found? It’s because you need to find it. You can give it to me, once you do.”

“What if I never find it?” He looks back at you, back into your eyes, endless and deep. You’re a witch with power that drapes about you, a cascading mantle spun from silver and gold—if you don’t know the answer, how could Jimin possibly find it? “What do I do then?”

“I promise, you will,” you say. “You will. Sometimes the things we need to find appear when we’re not even looking for them. After all, you found your way here, didn’t you?”

“I did,” Jimin answers, truth settling quiet between his lungs. Easing that weight that presses down on them. “I did.”

He did. And he does. And he will.

You stand in the open door and watch Jimin go, wrapped up once more, a Christmas present of woven wool and thick socks.

“By the way,” you call, and Jimin stops, turns back. “You said that your friends wanted to come here too, right?”

“Yes,” answers Jimin. Taehyung asks him endless questions and Jungkook might pretend like he’s not interested but he’s always nearby when Jimin recounts his tales of the witch’s shop. “They really do. But we can never seem to find Aurora when we try, even though Jungkook is normally so good at finding magical places.”

“Next time, don’t focus on Jungkook.” Above your head the windchimes tremble, obsidian spiralling. “You said he was a compass, didn’t you? But he’s not the one with the map. You are. Don’t forget that, okay? Trust in yourself, Jimin. Be your own guide.”

The next time Jimin stands with his friends flanking him, he thinks about the moon. How its silver light is loved so dearly, even if it’s just a reflection of the unseen sun, shining with someone else’s flames.

He might not have the strength of fire, but he can still shine.

The windchime’s call is throaty as Aurora comes into sight, brushed by a stone of lapis lazuli, door falling open at their arrival, the building filling with sunlight as Jimin steps in. Welcoming him. Jungkook and Taehyung are far more hesitant, staring at Jimin like he’s a voyager into unknown waters, here there be dragons, at risk of being swallowed whole, never to be seen again.

Jimin laughs at them. The lapis swings into the windchimes in a way that sounds like a giggle, too.

“Holy shit,” Jungkook says, once he’s inside. A candle sets alight. “Jimin, what the fuck.” Another.

“It’s Jimin-hyung,” Jimin says, but Jungkook ignores him, staring at the candles that start to catch flame one by one as he watches them.

“It’s so nice, Jiminie.” Taehyung’s eyes are huge. “Aren’t those flowers pretty?”

On a nearby shelf, the bowl of pansies blooms brighter under Taehyung’s gaze, every plant in the room standing tall, trying to catch his attention.

But of course, the thing that’s stronger than any of the candles or plants or trinkets here—you, stepping into sight, every inch as overwhelming as always, swallowing the room with your magic. Souffle soft and sweet, with all the rich headiness of melted chocolate.

You’re barefoot, as always, cardigan overlarge and draping, nails adorned with tiny butterflies. Jimin’s never met another witch like you, but now that he knows you, it’s almost laughable how he hadn’t noticed from the instant he’d seen you; you’re a witch, through and through, magic dripping through the air like nectar, ambrosia. God touched.

“You finally made it,” you say. “Jimin's told me a lot about you both. Your timing is perfect; I’ve just put the water on to boil. Who wants to go first?”

“Holy shit,” murmurs Jungkook.

The final candle bursts alight when you smile.

Jimin is always surprised at his capacity to find new happiness.

His parents had been heartbroken when he’d announced his decision to leave Busan, and pain had turned to anger, and anger had turned to arguments; he wanted too much, asked for too much, was never happy with what he was given. (All has been forgiven, now, but as always, the memory still lingers.)

Seoul had been so lonely, at first. He’d felt like the bottomless pit his parents had accused him of being, hungry, demanding ceaselessly for more, more, more—his heart had felt like a shrivelled thing, only good for holding onto sadness and bitterness. No room for happiness in any of the weeping corners of his soul.

But, now, Jimin realises that he’s sated.

He’ll always strive higher, work harder, that little edge of hunger in his core, but life has been given to him in its fullest measure. Unconditional friendship stuffs his heart full, but it can grow and grow, more and more, shuffling around to make room. Taehyung and Jungkook, and now Hoseok, then Yoongi, then Namjoon, each one burning bright, another star in his growing galaxy.

(Things he’d needed to find without knowing, appearing when he hadn’t even been looking.)

He still doesn’t know what answer it is he’s looking for, to give to you, and really, he’s not sure what the question is. He’s been given so much, and he’s so grateful, but there’s still that tiny hollow inside him, waiting for his hands to close around the final puzzle piece. Waiting for him to slot it into place.

But winter passes, sliding into spring, and then spring rolls into summer, and Jimin realises—he has time.

He has time. There’s no rush. He’s so used to chasing and running and aching, and that momentum will never leave him, but he’s starting to learn that it’s okay not to always sprint forwards. He sparks bright with progress, a glistening shine, but the things that shine out greater still are these: the moments of stillness. Taehyung and Jungkook sprawled around him, cheeks full of takeaway food. Hoseok in the dance studio, all the energy of his limbs brought to a quiet standstill as he sits and drinks water, staring at Jimin in the mirrors and wiggling his eyebrows. Yoongi beside him on the subway, eyes shut as he listens to the music coming from his earphones, tilting his head at Jimin’s questioning touch and taking one bud out to share. Namjoon, brows furrowed as he reads the book in front of him, large hands flipping the pages with such care, but turning his attention to Jimin the second he appears.

You, ankles hooked around the legs of your chair, cup of freshly brewed tea in front of you, letting the steam curl over your nose and cheeks. A cup of the same tea in front of Jimin, sometimes made by his own hands. Not often, but enough to find out more about you, the building blocks that have shaped you into who you are.

Jimin learns about witchcraft, and magic, and how it’s far less complicated and somehow entirely more complex than he thought. You’ve pulled the library doors wide open and invited Jimin to browse at his leisure, through ancient tomes written in languages he doesn’t understand, vellum covered in calligraphy too faded to be read, but you’re his Rosetta stone, translating it all. He always thought that magic was a secret thing, and it is, but you’re letting him look in. You give him knowledge, and patience, and time. You give him an open door, a place that always welcomes him, no matter the time or weather.

He doesn’t know exactly when it happened, but Jimin doesn’t have to wait for Aurora’s call any more. He doesn’t have to wait for that crest of that nascent dawn on the horizon. He follows the curvature of the earth and walks towards the sun himself, chases that luminous aureole and finds it all on his own. And there you wait for him, at the base of that shining star, your magic a halo that’s settled in your hair, the north on his compass.

He still comes empty-handed, no answer to offer you; but you seem content to wait, so Jimin is, too.

He’ll wait.

He has time.

Jimin returns to Busan for the weekend. He sleeps in his childhood bed, eats food that never tastes the same when he tries to cook it himself, thinks about how tall he feels compared to his parents now, even if he hasn’t grown at all. He feels a little off kilter, like he’s pulled on an old t-shirt that used to fit him perfectly, but doesn’t anymore; too loose around the neck, too tight around the arms. Wearable, but different. Still comfortable, but not the same. He’s outgrown it now.

(Busan will always have a piece of his heart, but it’s not home anymore.)

(Home is somewhere close, he knows, but he’s still waiting to find that key, final tumbler of the lock sliding perfectly against its metallic teeth. He’s close, so close, but not there. Not yet.)

He’s walking past the fridges in the supermarket, on a quest for fresh radish for his mother, when he catches a smell that dredges up an old memory, smoke and ash.

Jimin turns his head.

The witch looks just the same as before: ageless and perfect. Long dark hair in perfect curls, nails and lips blood red, eyebrows perfect arches, imperious ice. She’s already staring at him, and once their eyes touch, a flicker of recognition passes over her face, and then surprise, gaze darting over Jimin.

“Well, look at you. You finally grew into those cute cheeks of yours. I thought you would.” Although her words might be patronising, Jimin is shocked at her tone. It’s polite; almost friendly. Nothing like the aloofness she’d shown him all those years ago, when he’d come to her with the reckless desperation of a youth in love. “You’ve clearly done well for yourself.”

Jimin’s jeans are ripped more from wear than fashion, his shirt is from the discount rack at the Lotte mart, and his trainers are scuffed and worn. He might have grown into his face but nothing about him shouts success—and yet this witch is looking at him with something like mutual respect. “Pardon?”

“I can smell the power of the magic on you from here,” the witch says, and Jimin startles. “Like warm banana bread. Or the bark of a maple tree. It suits you.”

“That’s—that’s not mine,” Jimin admits. His heart races in his chest. He hadn’t known that he carries some brightness of your magic with him, some sweetness, motes of light swirling around him even after he’s left Seoul. He hadn’t known that other witches could smell that magic the way he can smell theirs.

(He hadn’t known that he would smell like you.)

The witch tilts her head. Her earrings are interlocking hoops, circling each other, sliding at the motion. “Oh, I know that,” she says. “It’s been given to you. It’s not yours, but it’s a part of you. It just takes a special kind of person to control that flow of power, and I’ve never met a mundane who can do that. Surely you must have realised?”

Jimin’s lashes flutter. He mixes tea, sure, but—that’s not him. It’s the shop guiding his hand. Isn’t it?

It’s been given to you. It’s not yours.

That promise you’d made Jimin, last year, the first time he’d stepped over your threshold, dripping rainwater and sorrow, so sad, so small: Anything you give me remains your own.

You just hadn’t mentioned it was the same for you, too.

(Hadn’t mentioned that you’d given him anything at all.)

(But you’ve given him so much, haven’t you?)

(It’s a part of you.)

(Jimin is changed by every person he meets, the sum of every part that’s ever been given to him by someone else. But he’s also more than those parts; he’s himself, something he’s made, is still making. Working towards being the best he can be.)

(He's himself, controls himself, the world around him. When he lifts those jars from the shelves, he's following his heart. He's his own guide. He trusts himself. Oh, it's not the shop after all, is it?)

(Is it?)

“Ah.” The witch lets out a knowing hum. “Understanding will come with time. Magic can seem such a fickle thing to the mundane, but it’s not. A witch’s magic is a reflection of who they are.”

He thinks of your magic, warm and honey-sweet. Dawn light; sun bright. A reflection of you. One that adorns him with its brilliance, even when you’re miles away from each other. You’re the silver lining to every cloud in his sky, when they’re white and wispy, or heavy with rain, torrenting water, weathering every season that turns in his heart. In the bittersweet death of autumn, the cold loneliness of winter, the emerging life of spring, the buoyant joy of summer. You’re a shelter against the elements. You’re the place Jimin feels safest in. You’re his—

Oh.

(There it is.)

(Home isn’t a place. Home is a feeling. You carry it with you, in your heart; that comfort, that belonging. Somewhere you want to come back to, that you know is waiting for you at the end of the day, any day, every day. That knowledge of love. Your friends; your family. Familiarity. Contentment. Feeling at peace because you know no matter where you are or where you go, home will always be there with you, and waiting for you back where you started, or wherever you finish.)

(Dropping that answer into his hands, feather light, rays of the morning sun cast over his palms, weightless in his grasp.)

(The key finally fits into the lock, and turns, door bursting wide open, letting life and light into Jimin’s heart, filling something that he already thought was full.)

The dark haired witch gives him a smile that’s equal parts pleased and self-satisfied. She sweeps away, leaving Jimin lost, and found.

Jimin steps down in Seoul with an utter lack of grace. Like the world has been pitching beneath his feet and has only just turned steady, sea legs buckling on the solid earth.

His bag is heavy with everything he’d brought to Busan for the weekend, and he’s tired after the train journey, and it’s hot, so hot, the summer heat oppressive in its height and weight, pressing sticky hands over his sweaty skin. Even so, he’d spent almost all three hours of travel with his leg jiggling up and down, wound up, pent up, every thread of him coiled around the knowledge he holds. The answer he’s been looking for, inside him all along.

Part of him wants to run. That hungry part of him, still scared of not being good enough, terrified that if he doesn’t grab something with both hands it’ll slip away like quicksand; that the river at his feet will pull the earth up in its rush, leaving an empty canyon in front of him, lonely and deep.

But another part of him—the part of him that’s grown so bright, watered by the love of everyone around him—quells that fear. It’s the part that gently reminds him that he has time. It’s the part that carries him gently in its current, guiding him through the swell of bodies and busyness that’s all pervasive in Seoul, guiding him north.

(His north.)

His feet aren’t a stumbling rush. He doesn’t have to hurry, after all. No matter how long he takes, he’ll get to his destination.

(Home is always waiting for you at the end of your journey.)

The windchimes orbit rose quartz today. The same pastel pink that circles his wrist.

“Hello,” says Jimin. “I missed you.”

The windchimes shiver and spark out a note of happiness, and Aurora’s blue-green door swings open. He’s hit with a burst of cool air that pulls the sweat away from his skin. Stepping into the shop feels like a shot of caffeine in his veins, and, besides, he’s found what he’s looking for.

He has the question, and the answer. (He’s had it all along.)

(Where is your home?)

He sheds his shoes and bag, cast carelessly on the floor, and doesn’t hesitate to step forwards. The door to the tea room swings open before he reaches it, as always, feeling his urgency and responding without being asked.

And there you are.

Your hair is bundled up out of your face, arms and legs bare in the summer heat, tiny pineapples on your nails, a sweating pitcher of tea dripping rivulets of water on the table as you pour yourself a glass, ice tumbling around slices of fresh peach. You glance up at his arrival, and when you smile, Jimin feels how the magic in the room lifts and swirls around him.

It’s the tart sweetness of fresh-squeezed lemonade; the soft chill of vanilla ice cream; the rich cream of mango parfait. It’s all happiness and tender affection, and Jimin wonders how he’s never seen the depth of it before now.

“Hi, Jimin.” Your voice is brighter than the summer sun outside, stronger still. “Did you just get back from Busan? You must be exhausted. How was your family?”

He answers by stepping forwards and wrapping his fingers around your glass. You watch in stunned silence as he lifts it to his lips, swallowing down the mix of flavours; rooibos, apple, hibiscus, rosehip, orange peel. Peach melba, sugary and mellow against his tongue, cold biting pain against his teeth.

He wipes away a stray drop of tea from his lips. Sunlight ripples in the room as your eyes flicker over his mouth. “Ask me.”

Your eyes tear back up to his. He can feel how the magic in the air slides away from you, pooling on the floor, swirling about your ankles; it’s like the brush of sand against his skin, treading across wet beaches, sticking to the soles of his feet. “Ask you what?”

“I need to pay for the tea. Ask me for a story.”

Jimin can feel the tug in his stomach, that telltale sensation that he has to pay his dues. Still, you seem surprised. “Okay, Jimin. What story do you have to share?”

“I met a witch, once. I was sad, and lonely, but she listened to me, every time I went to see her, again and again.” Jimin can feel your magic rising with each of his words, the gentlest tide. “And one day, she let me listen to her, too. She asked me to give her an answer for an unspoken question. But she didn’t press me for it. She just let me come back, again and again. She gave me a part of her magic. She’s not like any other witch in the world. I’ve been waiting to find that answer to give to her, but then I realised I had it all along.”

(Where is your home?)

Your mouth drops open, but Jimin speaks over your intake of breath. That tugging in his stomach is still there. That pull towards you. “Ask me for a secret,” Jimin says.

“Okay, Jimin.” Your voice is quiet, but your magic has never felt stronger, spilling out of you like morning dew, shimmering, opalescent. “What’s your secret?”

“I think I’m in love,” he says, feels how the magic in the room swells, but he knows he still has more to give. “Ask me for a confession.”

“Okay, Jimin.” A whisper. Your magic is as bright as a solar flare, glimmering crystal, spun sugar. “What’s your confession?”

“I want to kiss you,” Jimin confesses.

And then he does.

Every window and door flies open, every plant bursts into bloom, every candle catches light, windchimes singing, breeze rushing through every room, but Jimin doesn’t notice any of these things. All he can feel is the warmth of your mouth against his own, the sweet taste of peach, how your magic fizzes on his tongue like champagne, a heady rush.

Your breath is a flicker of candlelight in his mouth, one that grows into a bonfire, one he readily fans, watches how the flames leap high. One kiss turns to two, then three, your lips fitting so perfectly against his own, parting so readily at the first press of his tongue; your mouth a sweet little curve, dripping honey and syrup, as lovely as the rest of you. The world narrows down to this, to you; your hands warm where they cup his face, run through his hair, soft touches, how perfect those feel.

He’s breathless when he finally pulls away, resting his forehead against your own. The magic is a heat shimmer, glistening air, surrounding the two of you in its embrace—but it doesn’t shine as brightly as you, your beauty, the sheen on your lips, kiss-swollen and exquisite.

“Oh,” you breathe. “Oh, Jimin.”

You’re so warm under his hands. The summer air that fills the room is swirling motes of brightness, brushing over you both with its delicate touch, and Jimin breathes you in. Not your magic, but you; a little salt, summer sweat, a little sweet, perfume soft. You feel so perfect like this, wrapped up in his arms, a powerful witch that’s opened up for him, the yielding petals of a flower, the sweet nectar at its core. Jimin’s always hated feeling so small, almost dainty, a slip of a thing compared to Taehyung’s height or Jungkook’s strength, and yet you fit so perfectly against him.

For all the magic that drips from you like liquid gold, divine and powerful, here you are: all comfort and tenderness and affection, open arms, calling him home.

“I’m giving you my heart.” Jimin presses his words into the lovely swell of your cheeks, the line of your jaw, your neck, lips trailing over your skin, drinking down the way you shiver. “It’s still mine, I know, but I’m giving it to you, too.”

The smile on your face is all open happiness, laughter brighter than every star in the sky. “A witch never lets a payment go unreturned,” you say. “My heart for your heart. Sound fair?”

Jimin’s answering laugh is echoed by the windchimes outside, tickling and light. “I think that settles the score.”

(Where is your home?)

(Wherever you are.)

taglist: @beyoncesdragon

[24/09/20] author’s note: hi, guys. so I’ve recently been on a bit of a rereading binge, digging up old favourite fics of mine and enjoying them all over again, and I was horrified to discover a scene in a fic that’s eerily similar to something I’ve written here: namely, the scene where Jimin first comes across the shop and pays for a cup of tea with a happy memory.

I genuinely had not read the fic in over two years and don’t recall many details at all, but I must have remembered it without realising and echoed it in my own writing. I was reading the fic and my heart genuinely stopped in my chest and I started to freak out because I would never, ever want to plagiarise someone else’s work, intentionally or unintentionally.

however, on a reread of both the other fic and my own, the scene in question is somewhat similar but not the same. I just feel uncomfortable at the idea of benefiting from someone else’s time; writing is hard work and publishing things online takes a great deal of courage, and I know people who’ve had their work plagiarised, and how much it hurts. so I want to state for the record that when I wrote finding home it was without reference to anyone else’s story, so any similarities were coincidental.

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mostlysignssomeportents · 3 years

Text

Google's short-lived data-advantage

There's a lot of ways to think about the movement to tame Big Tech, but one of the more useful divisions to explore is the "Night of the Comet" people versus the "Don't Believe the Criti-Hype" people.

This is a division over the value of the data that Google, Facebook and other large tech firms have amassed over the years - data on their users, sure, but also data on the advertisers and publishers they serve with their ad-tech platforms.

Big Tech companies and their investors are really bullish on the value of this commercial data-advantage: they say that spying on us - the users - lets them manipulate our opinions and activities so that we buy or believe the things their advertisers pay them to push.

More quietly, their investors believe that the data-advantage extends to publishers and advertisers, a deep storehouse of data that makes it effectively impossible for anyone else to do the precision targeted that Big Tech manages, which is why they have such fat margins.

Night of the Comet tech criticism accepts these claims at face value: Big Tech's advantage, they claim, comes from having amassed this insurmountable data-advantage that allows it to both predict and shape what we - and therefore advertisers and publishers - will do.

The implication of this is that traditional antitrust remedies - breakups, say - won't be merely ineffective; they'll be terrifyingly harmful.

If Googbook invented a mind-control ray to sell your nephew fidget-spinners, then breaking them up will only make it easier for Robert Mercer to hijack that mind-control ray to turn your uncle into a Qanon racist.

Googbook's data-advantage, in other words, is like a planet-killing comet heading towards the Earth. If we break that comet up, it will turn into a killing rain of meteors that shower onto every part of the globe - we can't break up the comet, we have to *steer* it.

In this version of tech criticism, the answer is to leave Big Tech intact, but turn it into a utility, or some other highly regulated entity, bound by rules that limit its use of that mind-control system.

Bringing Big Tech to heel by deputizing it to serve as an arm of the state (and perhaps a national champion in the new Cold War with China), like the Bell System prior to the AT&T breakup in '82.

On the other side, you have the Don't Believe the Criti-Hype school. Lee Vinsel coined the term "Criti-Hype" to describe a kind of criticism that actually hypes its subject - say, by repeating Big Tech's self-serving claims.

https://pluralistic.net/2021/02/02/euthanize-rentiers/#dont-believe-the-hype

These claims aren't just self-serving, they're also highly dubious. Everyone who's ever claimed to be able to read - or control - our minds was lying (to themselves, or to everyone else, or both).

The "psychometrics" that all this behavior-modification depends on is - to quote *Nature* - a "scant science." From Big Five Personality Types to microexpression/sentiment analysis, we're deep into the realm of irreproducible results and junk science.

https://www.nature.com/articles/d41586-018-03880-4

The Criti-Hype school posits that the supernormal returns to capital for Big Tech aren't driven by awesome ad-tech capabilities, but rather, by monopoly (buying or crushing all competitors) and the fraud it enables (the industry has nowhere else to go).

That is, Big Tech makes money the same way hedge-fund managers make their own stunning returns: by cheating so they get paid whether or not they're any good at their jobs. The mere existence of a profitable industry is not proof that the industry is run by competent people.

And to be clear, there is a *lot* of fraud in ad-tech. Tim Hwang calls it a "Subprime Attention Crisis," where the ads are fake, the clicks are fake, the publishers' inventory is fake, the whole thing *riddled* with fraud.

https://pluralistic.net/2020/10/05/florida-man/#wannamakers-ghost

As Aram Zucker-Scharff wrote, "The numbers are fake, the metrics are bullshit, the agencies responsible for enforcing good practices are knowing bullshitters profiting off the fake numbers and none of the models make sense at scale of actual human users."

https://pluralistic.net/2021/01/04/how-to-truth/#adfraud

It's a "bezzle" - a con whose mark hasn't twigged to the ruse...yet.

And while the Night of the Comet side relies on the irreproducible claims of self-proclaimed Svengalis, the Criti-Hype side has an increasingly corpus of cold, hard facts about the bezzle's operation.

Take last November's "Why Google Dominates Advertising Markets," Dina Srinivasan's superb and detailed dissection of Google's crooked ad-markets, in which they steal from advertisers and publishers by rigging the bids on both sides of the exchange.

https://pluralistic.net/2020/11/20/sovkitsch/#adtech

Srinivasan proves you don't need mind-control rays to explain how Big G makes fantastic returns from the ad-tech market. That prospect is further explored in the UK Competition and Markets Authority's 437-page report on "Online platforms and digital advertising" (Jul '20):

https://assets.publishing.service.gov.uk/media/5fa557668fa8f5788db46efc/Final_report_Digital_ALT_TEXT.pdf

Here's where it starts to get *really* interesting. In May 2020, Yale's Fiona Scott Morton and Omidyar's David Dinielli used preliminary CMA data to publish their "Roadmap for a Digital Advertising Monopolization Case Against Google."

https://omidyar.com/wp-content/uploads/2020/09/Roadmap-for-a-Case-Against-Google.pdf

Morton and Dinelli zero in on the actual mechanism of Google's data-advantage, the thing it commands a lion's share of, which advertisers genuinely prize: location data. If I know you're around the corner from my cafe, I might spend a *lot* to show you an ad for my pasties.

This location data advantage is undeniable, but man, it has a short half-life. Thing is, I might spend a lot of money to show you an ad for my coffee shop when you're around the corner, but once you've moved on, you can go to hell as far as I'm concerned. You're dead to me.

This short half-life tells us that we're not living the Night of the Comet nightmare scenario. Break up Google, starve it of location data, and within *hours* most of its location targeting advantage is gone...forever.

As the antitrust cases against Google proceed, more and more of these technical exposes of rigged markets emerge, showing us how monopoly and fraud are at the heart of the data-advantage, and how contingent, time-bound and fragile that advantage really is.

The latest is the bizarrely named "Project Bernanke," a formerly secret ripoff that was exposed when Google forgot to redact a document it filed in its Texas antitrust case:

https://twitter.com/KhushitaVasant/status/1379955848118726659

Google used data from recent ad-auctions to help advertisers shade their bids for ad-placements, exploiting the information asymmetry so the ads it brokered won the auctions, ensuring that rivals ad-brokerages were frozen out.

https://www.yahoo.com/entertainment/googles-secretive-project-bernanke-reportedly-093732134.html

Though Google insists that this was just an industry practice, the leaked document reveals that Google kept this a secret from publishers. Its internal presentations claim that they made $230m in 2013 alone from this practice.

https://www.wsj.com/articles/googles-secret-project-bernanke-revealed-in-texas-antitrust-case-11618097760

All together, this constitutes a highly specific account of how a data-advantage worked - and what its weak-point is. Project Bernanke was not grounded in longitudinal market data from ad-sales - it exploited *recent* data to deliver a $230m+/year advantage.

The multisided market - a multisided bezzle - exploits the monopolist's data advantage to harm readers, publishers and advertisers, not by predicting and shaping their behavior by bypassing their critical faculties with spooky, advanced psychometrics.

The bezzle requires fresh data - it's a flywheel that uses the monopolist's god's-eye-view to freeze out competitors and entrap publishers and advertisers to get more data to rig the market to entrap the publishers and the advertisers.

It's not a comet. It's a monopoly. It's not terrifying supergeniuses using machine learning to turn us into clicking zombies: it's garden-variety monopolists using anticompetitive, underhanded, dishonest and (probably) illegal tactics to maintain their monopoly.

Bust the trust, ban the conduct, and the data-advantage evaporates with the half-life of that extremely time-bound data. The criti-hype that says that the data-advantage is a deadly, unstoppable comet is just Google's own sales-patter, flipped on its head.

Don't believe the criti-hype.

#pluralistic

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imagines-by-a-typical-fangirl · 3 years

Text

White Lies (Pt. 10 of 21)

Pairing: Keanu Reeves X Reader

Word count: 2.5 K

Summary: Keanu found the girl almost dead, in the wrecks of what was once her car. While she was in surgery, stuck in a coma, he gathered the best doctors of New York to attend to her. They told him she is likely to have some kind of brain damage, what may lead to memory loss. And this possibility added up wit the fact that she's pregnant, made the council come up with an odd idea. They asked Keanu to pretend to be her husband, since the stress of finding out everything that happened could put the baby in danger. He reluctantly agreed, but only if she does has some kind of memory loss. He still goes she'll wake up soon, with her memories intact.

But when you finally wake up, there's nothing inside. You're quick to find your head is empty, void, like a blank canvas. The only thing that brings you some relief, that makes you feel less lonely is the mention of a husband. And you can't wait to meet him, because you know you can't deal with this by yourself.

<- Previous part (09)

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{Keanu Reeves Masterlist}

{John Wick Masterlist}

Candle Lights

Keanu is driving back home after your third antenatal class. You enjoy them, but most of the things they say you already know. But it's not their fault you and Keanu do a lot of reading and research, and your doctors keep you updated. But you want to keep going.

“I'm thinking about a cesarian.” You tell Keanu, both hands cupping your bump.

“What?” He glances at you, and his face makes you giggle. “You have to be kidding me.”

“Why?” You ask, stretching your arm to touch the back of his neck.

“Because labor is something natural. Your body knows what to do.”

“Yeah, it just hurts like a bitch.” You snap back, playing with his hair.

“I know.” He sighs. “It's your call. You're the one delivering the baby.”

“I'm not sure yet. But we still have time.” You're currently in the middle of week 18. You feel more comfortable, and you have more energy now. The bump already shows depending on what you wear, but there's still a long way to go. “And we need to talk names, by the way.”

“I thought we decided on Clarissa or Henry.”

“Yeah, but we gotta be one hundred percent sure. Are you one hundred percent sure?”

“Now that you're talking about it, no.” Keanu giggles, a hand coming to lay on your thigh. “What were the other options?”

“Sophie, Nicole, Ethan, and Liam.” You recite them, looking at the landscape outside your window.

“They're all great. But... Liam. I like Liam. Or Sophie.” He takes a turn left, entering the condo.

“I like them too.” It's always like this. Whenever you bring this up, you just can't decide. “Maybe it'll get easier once we know the sex. Because we're clueless so far.”

“Do you want one of those parties where the sex is revealed?”

“No. It's not like I'd know the guests so...” Pushing this thought back before it starts bothering you, you sigh. “Let's just keep it between us. The rest of the world will find out eventually, but let it happen when it happens.”

“Alright.” As he slows down and stops to wait for the garage door to open, you see Mrs. Jackson walking to her front door. She spots you and waves. You immediately remember the amazing brownies she makes, and you suddenly need it.

“I'll go say hi.” You tell Keanu before leaning for a kiss and stepping out of the car.

Mrs. Jackson is a kind old lady who lives with her husband in the house on the left. When she sees you coming her way she stops, smiling. “Hello, (Y/N). Good morning.” Her long white hair is being blown by the wind, and she keeps it off her face with a hand.

“Good morning, Mrs. Jackson. How are you today?” Smiling, you hug her.

“You can call me Anne, child, it's alright.” She immediately touches your belly. “And how is this tiny little human? Are you eating well, honey? Exercising?” She raises an eyebrow, tilting her head at your house. “Is your husband taking good care of you?”

“Yes, yes, and yes.” Giggling, and blushing a little, you nod. “I have weekly appointments with my nutritionist, Keanu and I take a walk every morning around the neighborhood and he's being absolutely amazing.” You say with a sigh, your heart beating a little faster just at the mention of him.

“Are you falling for him?” With both hands on her hip, Mrs. Jackson inquires, a funny expression on her face. She knows about the accident since she has become a friend of yours.

“I am.” You mutter, biting your lip.

“That's true, genuine love, sweetie. Even after forgetting him, you're falling for him all over again.” She has a teasing look on her face that makes you blush even more.

“Yeah, I guess you can say that. In the beginning, I really thought we'd end up divorced.”

“Honey, you don't know the way Keanu looks at you.” She shakes her head no, taking your arms and pulling you to a seat on the steps that lead to her porch. “When you came for dinner earlier this week, I could see it clearly. He looks at you like you're his whole world.” Running a hand through your hair, you look down. “That man loves you with all his heart, I have no doubt.” She puts an arm around your shoulders.

“Yeah...” You mutter, a low chuckle leaving your lips. “Oh, sorry for yesterday's noise. We're changing a few things in the house for the baby and also working on the decoration. Since we just moved and everything is happening at the same time...”

Anne furrows her eyebrows a little, tilting her head to the side. “Honey, Keanu has been living here for a little more than a year before you came. It was a surprise to me as it was for everyone to find he was married.”

Mimicking her expression, you start thinking, counting. Keanu said you came here only a few weeks before the accident. “Well... We were keeping it a secret. He's a public figure so the goal was to keep the marriage private for as long as we could. But the accident happened.” The words come out slow, as you try to understand what she means by that. A year... It can't be.

“I don't blame you for doing that.” Squeezing your shoulders a little, she smiles. “People can be very intrusive with celebrities.”

“Keanu's fans are great. We bumped into some on our way to the Walmart a while ago. And Ke was kind, as always.”

“That man is a rarity.”

“He is.” Smiling, you look at her, remembering about your current craving. “Oh, do you think you can make some of those chocolate brownies?” You ask, pouting a little. “I hate to give you trouble but I really want them.”

“Don't worry, child.” Anne giggles, taking your hand in hers. “I'm retired for way too many years and I enjoy having something to do.”

“Thank you!” Pulling her into a hug, you place a kiss on her cheek. “I gotta go now.” Pushing yourself up, you jump to the sidewalk. “Important talking about this little one's name.”

“Won't you tell me the options?”

“Nope!” Winking at her, you start walking backward. “It's going to be a surprise.” With another wave, you turn around and head home.

Keanu is in the kitchen, starting with the preparations for dinner. Homemade pizza night, and he's just starting to make the dough. Moving to seat on the kitchen island, you're just about to ask how you can help when what Anne said comes back. That was certainly weird, but you don't think Keanu would lie to you like that. “Ke...” You make a small pause when he looks at you over his shoulder. “Mrs. Jackson said you were living here for like a year. But you told me we came to New York a few weeks before the accident.”

He stops, both his hands dirty with flour. There's something in his face you can't read, as Keanu avoids looking at you. “We bought the house about a year ago. I used to come and spend a day or two because of work, but we only actually moved when you found a good job here.” He speaks slow, only lifting his eyes when he's done speaking. You work with social services, and he said that your job is secure for when you're able to go back.

“Got it.” You mutter, furrowing your eyebrows a little. “Are you alright?” Getting up, you walk over him. Once you're close, he has no choice but stares into your eyes. Wrapping your arms around his midsection, you tiptoe to kiss him.

“I'm great.” When you step away, Keanu touches your nose in a quick motion, getting it dirt with flour.

“I can't believe you did that.” You giggle, stretching your arm to shove your fingers inside the bowl before showing them to your husband. “If you don't apologize, sir, I'll paint all this pretty face of yours.”

“Is it a threat?” Keanu inquires, raising an eyebrow.

“It's a promise.”

“Alright then.” He chuckles before cupping your face with both hands, getting your cheeks and jaw covered in flour.

“You're playing with fire!” You shout, running your fingers through your face before reaching for the bowl and taking a handful of flour that you succeed to half throw it at him, with half of it falling on the sink. He holds your dirty hand, some parts of his hair all white. “You're messing with the wrong pregnant lady, babe.”

“I surrender.” He says in between giggles, hands raised. “I'm completely at your mercy.”

Squinting your eyes at him, you only grunt before washing your hands. “Let me help you.” You say as you grab the dishcloth, damping it before starting to clean Keanu's face.

“No. Let me do this for you. Just sit there looking beautiful.” Once you're done with his face, you clean yourself the best you can.

“Only if I get to see you around the kitchen looking handsome.” Sassing back, you leave the dishcloth on the sink and head back to your place at the kitchen island. You love helping him, but you decided to let him do his thing this time.

By nightfall, the pizzas are in the oven. All three of them, despite knowing you won't eat that much. But one is for Mr. and Mrs. Jackson, and the other two will probably cover up all meals for a while. That if Keanu doesn't bug you with eating super healthy on every single meal. The brownies arrive too, and you thank Anne a lot as you bite one of them.

The only thing to ruin the night, well, that got close to, was that the sudden violent wind caused a blackout. You were eating at the kitchen table when it happened, and Keanu left to check if there was anything he could do. There isn't, but he did find some candles and the pizza night became a lot more romantic instantly.

Right now, already satisfied after two slices only, you admire his face in the different lighting, his hand holding yours over the table.

“We should go out. Like a date.” He suggests, and it makes your smile grow wider. “If that's alright with you.”

“Of course it is. We're married.” Shrugging your shoulders, you notice the subtle change on his face. You never get it, it's a mystery. “Ke, what's wrong?” It's not the first time it happens, but even though you're getting to know him, learning to read his expressions, this one is still difficult.

“Nothing, beautiful. It's nothing.” He assures you in a low voice. “Do you wanna head upstairs? A shower lit by candles must be quite an adventure.”

He always does that. He says it's nothing and changes the subject... But you guess it's alright. Maybe Keanu remembers the accident. The wife he lost that day. Or maybe something you shared before that's completely gone for you. “Great.”

“You can go first. I'll clean this up.”

“Leave the dishes to me. I can do them tomorrow.” You say as you walk past him, a hand on his shoulder. “You already made dinner for us.”

“Alright.” He agrees and you smile before going upstairs.

Showering with nothing but candles to light up the bathroom is weird, and you almost slipped. And that you'll never tell Keanu or else who knows what he'll do. But it was different. Once you're done, you leave the bathroom loosening the bun you had your hair in, letting it down. “Your turn with the medieval style shower.”

“I didn't know they had bathrooms like this back then.” Keanu snaps at you, smirking.

“You couldn't just go with it, could you?” Rolling your eyes, you walk over the slide glass door that leads to the balcony, just to watch as the wind still rushes through.

“Absolutely not.” It's the last thing you hear before the door closes.

With your eyes on the street down there, you hope this wind won't bring anyone trouble by tomorrow. At least the news said the weather will get better in a couple of days.

After some minutes watching the threes bending under the weight of the wind, you walk back to the bed, sitting on the edge. This place is feeling more like home as the days go by, and you're falling back into the life you once had. And it's good. Despite all the medicine you still take, the endless appointments, and a very, very overprotective husband, everything is good. More than that, actually. It does bring you relief to know you were this happy before. That you weren't alone, that you somehow managed to find someone so amazing. You know it was probably difficult in the beginning, with him being a public figure, and so many years older, but look where you are now. It was worth it. It ended up in the best way possible. And you couldn't ask for anything else.

“Lost in thoughts?” His voice startles you, as he comes from the bathroom.

“A little.” Getting on your knees on the bed, you cross it until you're face to face with him. Well, he's still taller, but you don't mind. You like it a lot, actually. Smiling you wrap your arms around his neck. “But they were good thoughts.”

“That's good to know.” He whispers, and you can't resist the proximity, so you just kiss him.

It was supposed to be just a quick thing, soft and sweet, but it soon becomes too needy. You shouldn't be this needy, and you don't know where it comes from. But it doesn't take much until you're awkwardly wrapping your legs around his waist, but the sudden change of balance makes you fall back on the bed, giggling through the kiss. But you don't mind. You don't want this to stop.

But you sigh when Keanu pulls away, opening your eyes to look at him, his eyes barely lit by the two candles, one on each nightstand. “What?” You ask, your voice a little weak, you're not sure why.

“If we keep this going...” His voice fades, and you feel when he removes some of his weight from you. He wasn't crushing you, but you were feeling all of his body. “...I don't think we'll be interrupted this time.”

You get what he means. There won't be calls this time, nothing too put a stop to whatever is going to happen. But you don't care. He's your husband, and you're falling for him. You want this. “I don't want it to be interrupted, Ke.” You tell him, thanking the darkness because you're sure you never blushed this much.

“Are you sure you want this?” A thunder almost clouds his voice, but you manage to hear it.

It's kind that he still wants to know how you feel. Keanu doesn't push you, he never has. It suddenly snaps that you love him, that this is right. “I'm sure.” You whisper back, eyes closing again when Keanu leans in for another kiss.

@multific @inumorph @aestheticallywinchester @bvbwestfall @liviiii98 @allie1804-fan @gian-giannina @playboygeniusphilanthropist @partypoison00 @mariafetamina @fortheloveoffanfic @trin303

#keanu reeves x reader #keanu reeves imagine #keanu reeves fanfiction #keanu reeves fanfic #imagine keanu reeves #keanu reeves #keanu reeves x you #john wick imagine #john wick fanfiction #john wick #john wick x reader

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sondepoch · 4 years

Text

130 Days Before Rebellion

All Hail (Diavolo x Reader)

The current ruling class is brutal. Draconian. Tyrannical. Every demon who has sat the throne for the past ninety thousand years has brought nothing but hardship to the Devildom—something Diavolo and his father intend to remedy by seizing power as leaders of the Resistance. When Diavolo happens to come across the princess of the Devildom, he’s overjoyed. He sees you as an opportunity, a sign from a higher power that his cause is just; and he plans to use you as a pawn in his Rebellion. But life rarely goes as planned, especially in Hell. And when Diavolo realizes that he’s falling in love with you, things suddenly feel a lot more complicated than they used to be.

01 | 02 | 03 | 04 | 05 | 06 | 07 | 08 | 09 | ✔

MASTERLIST

The healing process is slow, to say the least.

You study the man's leg, squinting at the scabs that have begun to form around the edges of his wounds, but the flesh has only just started to return around the bone. Even with the superior healing of demons, this man will need nearly a full month before he's back to normal—a testament to how severely he was injured.

You sigh, walking around the makeshift bed to study the demon's arm.

His wounds are a little better here, given that you spent the first few days practically slathering the area in medicinal salve straight from the palace, but now that you've had to ration your treatment, the herbs you've collected are only doing so much to keep the man's pain away.

A huff of exasperation leaves your lips.

This would be so much easier if the demon would simply fall into unconsciousness once more.

The first time you'd brought him here, he had been dead to the world. He hadn't woken up even when you let an undead chipmunk run across his face. It had been simple to cast your spells then, while there was no threat of him waking up to see you in the middle of an enchantment.

But now?

Even when the demon sleeps, he seems to be on edge—as if he's somehow scared of you without even knowing your identity.

A light frown forms on your lips as you push your mask up, a habit you've developed over these past few weeks. You know, rationally, that the clay covering bears no chance of slipping or falling off, but you still need the reminder that the mask is there. That your identity is protected. That despite you helping him, this man does not know who you are and has no reason to suspect you.

"Sir?" You question softly, approaching him on the other side.

His eyes are closed—you can see that much through the thin slits on his mask—but you can never be sure.

You wrap your fingers deftly around his bicep (the only place on his body where he isn't injured) testing to see whether the man is truly asleep. Whether you might be able to speed his recovery along with a little magic.

His eyes dart open instantly.

You flinch at the amber scorn he instinctively regards you with, almost feeling scared of his glare, but it hardly lasts a second before the demon has hidden the expression away, masking it with a more neutral tone.

But even as he continues to regard you with an apathetic curiosity, the look in his eyes remains in your mind.

You know that look.

That's the look you get from the public when you tail behind your family, when the royal escorts bring you to lower districts and you try to smile at the commoners, only to be met with expressions of scorn and distrust.

An all too familiar look.

You have to reassure yourself that you must have misread the demon's eyes.

You know for a fact that he does not know your identity. He cannot know your identity. The green cloak you wear was purchased from a flea market, hardly constructed of royal silk to indicate anything of your high birth. And your mask does an equally brilliant job of hiding your face, your whole outfit so plain that even the guards pay you no attention when you pass by. The only people who pose a true threat to learning your secret are your parents, and they're rarely caught outside the palace.

The only possible way this demon might have an inkling of who you are is if he happens to be of a pure bloodline, one of the demons descended from the first rulers, able to sense and practice magic like you. But, again, most of the remaining descendants in Hell don't even know that they're descendants, and they've had little opportunity to learn magic the way you have, much less grow familiar with it to the point where they might sense that it's been used on them.

Right, you reason with yourself, taking a steadying breath. There's no way this demon knows who I am.

You shake your fears to the back of your mind.

"How are you feeling?" You ask tentatively, beginning to unwrap some of the herbs lain along the demon's cuts. "Sir?"

"Fine," He grunts. "When you were gone yesterday, I was able to sit up."

"Oh?" You replace the herbs with fresh ones, bundles of green and orange and yellow that you freshly picked on your way here. "That's certainly an improvement. Have you tried to move your legs yet, or is the muscle still too weak?"

"The muscle is..." The demon trails off, and you're certain that if you could see underneath his mask, he would be scowling right now. "Weak," He mutters, as if he hates the word.

"Hey," You draw his attention, squeezing lightly on a patch of uninjured skin. You wait until the demon makes eye contact with you. "The Victor did a lot of damage to you. There's nothing wrong with needing time to heal."

The demon makes a dismissive grunt.

You sigh.

That whole exchange is a pretty accurate depiction of what your relationship is like with this demon. You push a lot, he gives a little, you push some more, and then he ends the conversation. And while this progress (if you can even call it that) is incredibly slow going, so tortuously lagging that you don't even know the demon's name yet, it's something.

And that's all you need.

"Do you know what they say?" You continue, rambling on despite knowing that the demon doesn't particularly care. "Sometimes, when you get injured, your body is even stronger when it heals back!"

"I'm sure," The man says drily, sarcasm laced so thickly into his voice that there's no doubt he doesn't believe your words.

"It's true!" You protest, pausing in wrapping his forearm in gauze to show him your wrist. "Look, can't you see the scar? I injured my wrist there a few centuries ago. And I thought it would trouble me for the rest of my life, but it healed wonderfully under the same herbs and treatments I'm giving you. And now, my right wrist is miles stronger than my left, even though my left is the one that's never been injured."

"Right," The demon mutters, his tone utterly disbelieving even as you huff and go back to wrapping his arm.

So much for that, you think, internally sighing at another failed attempt to make conversation, redirecting your attention back to the demon's arm.

Even without any more magic, it should be completely healed within twenty days, you muse, cutting off the gauze and tucking it in, stepping back and smiling briefly at your work.

Perfect.

You move up to the demon's chest, quietly slipping open his robe and swiping a damp handkerchief along the patches of skin where blood has collected, deciding to let the herbs from yesterday sit for another day before you replace them. It takes hardly any time for you to exchange the soft bandages on the man's neck with new ones, and then you've finished work on his upper body completely, and you're ready to redirect your attention back to his legs.

Except...

You glance upward at the demon's mask, your eyes narrowing when you see the crusted blood underneath the wooden frame. It's painfully unhygienic. You've entirely avoided the demon's face and head ever since you brought him here, mostly out of fear for what his sharp tongue might say should you try, but he seems to be in a better mood today.

Surely it can't hurt to voice your concerns, right?

"Sir?" You murmur, withdrawing your hand.

"What?" The demon snaps, evidently not used to you trying to start a conversation up again so soon after him ending one.

"Would you mind if..." You trail off, voice hesitant.

No, you decide, flattening your palms. Yes, it is your responsibility to care for this demon, after he was injured so heavily as a direct cause of your actions. But as his caretaker, it is not your obligation to tiptoe around what you need to do.

And each day you put this off, the worse things get.

"I need to take your mask off," You declare, voice authoritative. "The Victor injured your head as well during the fight, and I need to know how bad the damage is. And I'm sure you can feel the sheer amount of blood that is stuck to your face right now."

The demon quiets, his eyes narrowing at you. And normally, you would look away out of respect for the fact that he has every right to resent you for getting him into this situation in the first place—but this time, you level your gaze and return his stare with equal force.

You're not going to budge on this, and he needs to know it.

"Fine," He mutters after what feels like a full minute of just staring at each other. "Do what you need to do. And do it quickly."

A light grin forms on your lips at that, and you quickly move your hands to both sides of his wooden mask, tugging on it.

But the mask doesn't budge.

"Oh," You mutter softly, feeling a twinge of sympathy. "The mask appears to be stuck to your face, Sir."

"Then work on my legs."

"No, that's not what I meant." You sit down on the edge of the stone table the demon is lying down on, gripping his mask more tightly. "I can still take it off. But it is going to reopen your wounds. And it will hurt, Sir. A lot."

"Then make it quick," He hisses, his tone so vicious that you almost feel the beginnings of irritation prick at your side, a quiet frustration rising at this demon's blatant ungratefulness. But you push the feeling aside, opting instead to focus on sympathy for this man because you already know how much this is going to hurt.

"Feel free to scream," You whisper.

And you begin to pull.

To his merit, not a sound leaves Diavolo's lips when you pry the mask off of his face, an explosion of blood bursting forth as the wounds that had crusted over and hardened into the mask are ripped from his face.

Unfortunately, the demon blacks out barely seconds afterward, so his efforts to appear strong and collected mostly go to waste.

When Diavolo comes to, the pain on his face is less acute. It's a dull ache, and the demon can feel the blood as it continues to seep out of the open injuries on his face, but the discomfort is almost entirely replaced with an odd, tingling sensation, one that is all too familiar.

Magic.

Forbidden to all but the royal family, entirely unfamiliar to commoners, and only a vague word to those like Diavolo, who have it in their blood to master the craft but have never had the opportunity.

The demon might chuckle if he weren't scared to move his face.

It's almost like you're trying to reveal your true identity.

"Can you see properly?" He hears you ask as you continue to dab at the unending flow of blood trickling off his face. "Did the Victor do any damage to your eyes?"

"I'm fine," Diavolo mumbles, holding his face as still as possible. And the words are true. After nearly three weeks of lying down on this bed while waiting for his injuries to heal, this is the first time he has been able to look up without his vision impaired by the sight of his mask obstructing it. The world feels brighter this way. Shrouded in darkness as the Devildom eternally is, but brighter all the same.

"Does this hurt?"

You apply pressure on a certain point.

Surprisingly, it doesn't bring Diavolo any pain.

"No."

You lean back, dipping your white handkerchief (turned red with Diavolo's blood) into a makeshift bowl, squeezing it in the water until it returns a paler shade.

"I can't tell where the bleeding is coming from, Sir," You say, almost apologetic. "I'll need to press different points on your face and you'll simply have to tell me when it hurts. Is that alright?"

Diavolo grunts in response.

"Actually...it must hurt for you to speak, no?"

The demon feels your eyes turn sympathetic as you gaze down at him, a gaze so soft and pitiful that it irks him.

"I'm fine," He insists, raising his voice the slightest to emphasize his point.

But the jolt of pain that runs down his back the moment opens his mouth a little too wide, the already-injured skin stretching beyond what is comfortable, isn't missed by your observant eyes.

You nod your head quietly, mumbling a brief "Of course," before you move your hand into Diavolo's own, calmly pressing his fingers around your wrist. "But I realized that if you move your face, it'll make things difficult for me, even if it doesn't hurt. So squeeze my wrist whenever you feel me touch a spot that doesn't feel like normal, healed skin, alright?"

And as much as Diavolo wants to fight you, as much as he wants to hold his ground and resist, as much as he wants to live up to the expectations of a proper Resistance member and insist that he's fine and you don't need to pity him like this, a meek squeeze of your wrist is all he does in quiet acquiescence.

His father would not be proud.

But for a short moment, Diavolo listens to your urges to close his eyes as you begin dabbing your handkerchief along his face again, squeezing your wrist compliantly every time you brush against skin that is too sensitive to be unharmed.

It's almost peaceful—he thinks—letting you take care of him like this.

Almost.

"I'm waiting for an opportunity to kidnap her," Diavolo explains, crossing his arms. "Give me some time, Father. It shouldn't be long. She's just begun to let her guard down around me," He lies, pretending as if you haven't treated him with your defenses lowered from the very day you met. "I will bring her to you soon."

Good, son.

Diavolo flinches, as usual, the moment his father's voice rings out in his ears. The man mastered the magic of minds long before Diavolo was born, supposedly learning the craft before the current rulers came into power and banned its usage—but Diavolo has never had the same opportunity, and the sensation of another's voice ringing out in his mind is wholly uncomfortable.

Your wounds. How are they?

"I've healed," Diavolo answers, experimentally flexing his fingers. "My face may require some more time, but the princess has been using magic to advance the process."

She uses her magic on you? Is she a fool?

"It would appear so. She has no suspicions of my true identity, nor the fact that I know hers."

Good. And Diavolo?

"Yes, Father?"

Barbatos told me of your pitiful performance at the cage fighting rink. If you bring me the princess, I will not punish you for disobeying my orders to stay back, nor will I punish you for your disgraceful defeat. However, should you fail me again, do not expect me to be merciful.

"...I won't, Father," The demon mumbles, the beginnings of shame pricking at his heart. "I promise, I'll bring her to you as soon as I am at full strength."

Don't.

"What?" Diavolo's voice is sharp, almost seeming the puncture the nighttime silence as he looks up. When he speaks again, he sounds like a boy once more, indignant in his demand for knowledge. Like a petulant child, offended and hurt. "Have you already given my task to someone else? Father, I may have lost a single cage fight, but I assure you that I am beyond capable of—"

Calm yourself, my son. I have not given your task to any other. All I need is for you to wait until the time is right to bring the princess back to the Resistance.

"You are...asking me to wait?" Diavolo questions. "How long, Father?"

I do not know. I will tell you when the time is right. But be ready, my son. Rebellion draws near.

Diavolo is about to respond, about to ask another question about how long he is expected to stay by your side, to pretend to be some poor, ignorant fool who needs aid, before hears your footsteps approach.

His father must sense his instinctive panic, because the soft hum of sorcery which they had been using to contact each other disappears instantly.

Diavolo curses inwardly. He'll have to wait again until his father contacts him.

Of course, he's not upset that the man left. Diavolo knows that it's too risky to leave the connection open, to risk you detecting the hum of magic radiating off his body. It's borrowed magic, sent down from his father, but it's magic all the same—and Diavolo knows by now that you're too skilled in witchcraft to miss it.

The demon steps back, trying to act as inconspicuous as possible while you shuffle your way into the temple, looking around curiously.

"Sir?" You call, blinking in surprise. Instinctively, your eyes go to the stone table in the center of the room where he usually lays, sleeping his days away while waiting for his body to heal, but he's not there.

You glance around the room in confusion, eyes flitting from the ornate benches to the intricate stone tablets littered around the room, searching in every corner for the familiar man who seems to be in an unfamiliar place.

"Here," Diavolo calls down, deciding to humor you.

You jump at the sound.

"Sir!" You yelp, but your tone is strict, admonishing as you cross your arms and look up. "I know I told you that your wounds have healed enough for you to begin moving around, but I know for a fact that I never implied you should be climbing."

Diavolo keeps his face straight at that, hiding his internal amusement as he glances around at the indoor balcony he's standing on. It's high up, overseeing the entire room—but it's clear that the only way to get up here is to either enter via the door behind him, which is locked like the rest of the rooms in this temple, or to literally climb up.

It's clear that you know which option Diavolo chose.

"Relax," He sighs. "I am better healed than you think."

To emphasize his statement, he jumps off the balcony entirely, landing swiftly on his knees. He suppresses the urge to wince as his legs bend as they hit the unyielding ground, instead standing up to his full height, staring you down with confidence.

"Your wounds are going to..." You begin, but the protest dies on your lips the moment you look into Diavolo's eyes. The fiery ambers are lit bright with confidence, no signs of weakness present anywhere on his face.

"Fine," You mutter, glancing away. "But if you insist on walking about, I'd rather you do it outside."

Diavolo is slightly taken aback at that. His lips part briefly, and though he holds it back, he's certain that there's a flash of confusion on his face because seconds later, you're holding your hands up, sheepishly explaining.

"O-oh! It's just that, on my way here, I couldn't help but notice that there seems to be a beautiful cliffside where there are no guards standing post. And you know what they say, right? That fresh air is, um, the best medicine?"

Diavolo blinks.

You're an awful liar. Awful is a compliment, really—there's not a single doubt in the demon's mind that you either bribed some guards to get them to leave this supposed 'beautiful cliffside' or you personally changed their posts, but the demon doesn't comment on it as you continue to dig yourself into a hole with words, now mumbling something about nighttime being safer than daytime, and eventually, Diavolo decides to put you out of your misery.

"Enough," He says, holding up a hand. "I'll come with you."

"Ah, really?" You exclaim, and though Diavolo can only see your eyes through the clay mask you wear, he can tell that your entire face is lit up with happiness. "That's wonderful, Sir!"

You grab his hand instantly, tugging him out of the temple where he's remained hidden inside for so long, pulling him into the fresh outside air. And, although Diavolo knows that you wholly butchered the adage when you claimed that fresh air is the best medicine, it really does feel like the cool wind against his skin has a healing quality as it rushes through his silk robe, embracing his body whole in a crisp hug.

The demon is so preoccupied with enjoying his first moments outside the temple in so long that he doesn't even comment on the way you're still tugging him along, your fingers wrapped tightly around his wrist.

And really, why would Diavolo say anything?

These past few weeks, you've made yourself almost unbearably comfortable around him. You've gone from asking and touching to simply touching in your efforts to wrap and heal his injuries, going as far as to slap his hand away every time he tries to stop you. A grip on his wrist is nothing compared to the places you've touched him, especially given that your fingers often delved beneath skin when you first treated his wounds.

"Isn't it lovely?" You call, leading Diavolo through a field. But lovely is hardly the word the demon would use to describe this region—the grass so overgrown that it goes up above his waist, practically enveloping your figure whole, as the two of you walk through it.

He opts not to answer your question, deciding not to shoot your joy down with an arrow of sarcasm as he usually does, simply following.

But when you bring him to the edge of the field, now trying to pull him through a swamplike area, he pauses.

"Sir, what's wrong?" You call, tugging his wrist. "The ground is more stable than it looks, I assure you. If you'd like, I can carry you through it, though—"

"Enough."

Diavolo crosses his arms, glancing away.

"Excuse me?" You ask, but your tone isn't indignant. Instead, the words are soft as the breeze carries them to Diavolo's ears, unbearably kind as your grip on his wrist weakens. "I'm sorry, Sir, I can—"

"No. Enough Sir this, Sir that. Call me by my name."

"I don't know your—"

"Diavolo."

And Diavolo will never truly understand what possessed him in that moment, where he gave you his name.

But, oddly enough, he doesn't regret it when he sees the way your eyes light up.

The rational part of his brain will claim that it was a necessity. That, since his father has effectively ordered him to gain your trust and remain at your side indefinitely, giving him your name was bound to happen, and he may as well have done it sooner rather than later because he was growing so sick of the word "Sir."

But the irrational part? The section of Diavolo's brain that is in tune with his emotions? In tune with his feelings?

That part knows he gave you his name because he wanted to, and for no other reason.

"Diavolo, huh?" You whisper. "Named for the Devil himself. An honorable name."

A common name, Diavolo wants to respond, as if he's justifying the statement to himself, as an excuse to why it was okay to give you his real name when he knows his father would mock him for such a thing.

But before the man can say a word, you've stepped closer to him, resting your hands on his shoulders in a motion that is far too close for Diavolo's liking.

"Thank you for trusting me," You whisper.

And then Diavolo truly doesn't know what's more astounding: the fact that you have the boldness to hug him or the fact that you whisper your real name into his ear as you do so, absentmindedly overloading the demon's mind with such shock that he only stands there dumbly as you hug him, neither reciprocating nor pulling away.

You're hardly fazed by it, though, and you're pulling him forward once more without a care in the world, but Diavolo's mind is racing a mile a minute.

He can hardly process the fact that you gave him your real name.

The name everyone in the Devildom knows to be the name of their princess.

The name that no one else shares.

Does she trust me that blindly or is she truly such a fool? Diavolo wonders as he follows you, entirely unsure of what to make of this development. You seem entirely nonchalant about it, though, nearly skipping as you tug the man closer to your destination.

"You are..." The man trails off, eyes softening as he watches your hair bounce with each step you take.

"Wonderful?" You ask, and Diavolo knows that there must be a cheeky grin on your face under that mask. "Brilliant? Lovely?"

"Special." The man finishes, deciding on a word that can be used as an insult just as surely as it may appear to be a compliment.

"Are you trying to imply that I..." You begin, pausing to throw a disbelieving look Diavolo's way—but before you can finish your sentence, the two of you hear the familiar hoot of a Purgatorian Owl.

You glance back down the path you were traveling.

"We're here," You declare proudly, placing your hands on your hips in confidence.

"We...are?" Diavolo looks around in confusion.

Sure enough, there seems to be nothing but swamp: dreary vines, suspicious sounds, and the muddy ground that sinks every time Diavolo stands in one place for too long. It hardly sounds like the beautiful cliffside you promised.

"I don't think—"

"Come on!"

You begin sprinting ahead before Diavolo can even finish his sentence, lifting your green robe as you begin to escape the demon's line of sight, your laughter ringing out in the swamp as animals cry out when you pass them.

"Wait—" He tries to call after you, but you're already so far ahead of him that he has no choice but to grit his teeth and follow, internally cursing himself for ever going along with the whims of a princess.

Diavolo keeps his pace steady as he follows you from afar, somehow moving not half as gracefully as you appeared to as he darts through the swamp, and the man has to keep an arm in front of him to slash away any vines which only seem to trouble him as he sprints along.

But, sure enough, after what feels like a solid four minutes of running, the vines begin to grow thinner. And the darkness begins to grow lighter. And then it's barely thirty seconds before Diaovlo hears your overjoyed laughter from just a hundred feet away, and the moment he bursts through the treeline which contains the swamp, he, too, begins to understand the reason for your joy.

A sound of disbelief escapes his lips.

You've brought him to another field. But this is entirely unlike the first one: here, the grass is wild but tamed, barely up to Diavolo's ankles as he wanders through it. Undead squirrels and zombie raccoons scurry by at a distance, looking at the demon's tall figure with curious eyes as he passes them. The sky is entirely unobstructed, clear clouds of black rolling against the indigo sky, and not a single building is to be seen no matter how Diavolo squints and looks around.

Stunning, he thinks, trying to remember the last time he found a patch of land so untouched by civilization.

Never, he realizes. Never have I seen something peaceful.

Diavolo halts only when he finally catches up to you, pausing as the two of you stand right in front of the cliffside you were talking about: a sharp ledge that hovers over a steep drop, reaching so low that Diavolo can only make out the vague shape of darkness at the bottom.

Indeed, even that seems more magnificent than anything he has ever seen.

"I have never..." Diavolo begins, stopping when he realizes how soft his voice sounds. "I have never seen anything like this," He confesses.

"Truly?" You ask, glancing up at him with wide eyes. "Never?"

He shakes his head.

"I..." The demon trails off, wondering if he should say this next thing. But then he realizes that he's already so deep in a lie that another one can't hurt—and so he quietly decides to deceive you once more.

Only this time, he lies for your sake, not his.

"I come from the poorer districts. We don't have anything like this there."

"Oh," You mumble. "That's...tragic. It's a shame that anyone might have to live their whole life without seeing something like this."

"Isn't it?" Diavolo laughs lightly. "Why, in the tavern I used to live in, we couldn't even afford a picture of the imperial family."

"Huh?" You ask, sounding somewhat dumb. "Isn't it against the law to have a home without a picture of the rulers?"

Diavolo's eyes narrow at that—quietly wondering if he misjudged your character, if you are as evil and atrocious as he initially thought you were—but the look in your eyes is one of genuine curiosity, not accusation.

"Rules from a distant government are nothing in the face of extreme poverty."

True words. Though they hardly apply to Diavolo the way he's claiming.

"So, you've...never seen the royal family?"

"Never."

"Not even in passing? In paintings from other shops or such?"

"Not even once."

Diavolo sees the way you quiet at that, the way you begin contemplating the seed he placed in your mind with his lie. And while he won't complain if you choose to ignore it, opting to play it safe, there's hardly a single doubt that you'll do what he expects you to.

After all, now that he's directly stated that he has no idea what your face looks like, why would you need to hide it anymore?

Diavolo turns his attention away from you, redirecting it down at the great chasm that opens up in front of him. It's glorious but empty—much like the mask you wear. Both are undeniable works of art, but Diavolo has stared at emotionless clay for far too long.

"Sir?" You call.

Diavolo gives you a look.

"I mean," You laugh sheepishly. "Diavolo?"

"What is it?"

"Why were you at the cage fight?"

"I could ask you the exact same question," He answers, glancing away. The demon folds his arms. "I know why you helped me, but such an uncouth fighting ground is hardly a place for someone like you."

"Someone like me?"

"You seem..."

Diavolo pauses, abruptly realizing that he's speaking without a filter. A thousand curses, he thinks, realizing that he's dug himself into a hole.

But your piercing gaze, so bright with curiosity, urges him to give you the truth even though his mind is racing to come up with a lie.

"Kind," He finally admits, forcing the word past his lips with great reluctance. "And usually, savages are the only ones who enjoy watching cage fights."

"I..." You stop yourself, hesitant. Diavolo arches an unimpressed eyebrow.

A small part of him, a part that he would claim to be big but is in reality unbearably small, still hopes that your words will be cruel. That you'll confess that you are a savage, and that it gives you a sick satisfaction to watch opponents beat each other bloody over and over again. He wants you to prove that you are just as awful as the king and queen who raised you, that he should have every right to loathe your existence the way he did so passionately before he met you.

But Diavolo already knows that your answer will be different.

"My parents..." You trail off, hesitating. You sigh, gesturing for Diavolo to sit down as you swing your legs over the cliffside, letting them dangle freely as you stare at your palms. After a moment of watching you, Diavolo does the same.

"My family would rather that I not see the world. They prefer to have me inside at all times. That is the reason why I can only stay with you for a few hours each day." You lean back, releasing a sigh that sounds far too boorish for what one would expect of a princess.

"The poverty districts are so far off that I could never visit them and make it back home in time. And the cage fights are the closest I can get to seeing the dark side of the Devildom, so I try my best to visit as much as possible. Even if it's difficult for me to see so much bloodshed."

"And why do you want to see this 'dark side of the Devildom' so badly?" Diavolo asks.

"Because..." Diavolo can hear you swallow. "My parents never saw it. And a lot of people hate them because of it. So I...I want to be better than them."

Diavolo stops.

His grip tightens around the grass where he has lain his hands, fingernails digging into the dirt.

Lies, he thinks.

You must be lying to him. You have to. This must be nothing more than a sick manipulation tactic to get him to feel bad for you, to get him to regret his affiliation with the Resistance, to make him doubt the validity of Rebellion as it draws near.

It has to be a lie.

But Diavolo makes the mistake of glancing into your eyes—nothing more than a brief glance, one that hardly lasts a second—and even he can't deny the overwhelming sincerity that you reflect so openly.

"And you?" He hears you ask, voice soft, gentle as you regard him. As if your question is something he doesn't need to answer, as if he needs you to treat him so delicately. "I told you why I was at the cage fight, but what was your purpose in fighting there?"

"Because..."

Because if I had won and become the new Victor, all the most powerful demons in the world would willingly bow to me, and I could bring them to the Resistance and Rebellion could begin. Because then, together, we could overthrow your family and put all your heads on stakes.

For the first time, Diavolo feels something unpleasant in the depths of his stomach as he thinks about that—and for a brief second, he almost feels ashamed of his association with the Resistance.

"I needed the money," He blurts. "I wanted...a better life."

Yes, a better life. At least that much is true.

"A better life, hm?" You mumble, fidgeting with the edge of your robe. "I don't know much about you, but you seem to be a very noble person, Diavolo. I...I admire that. A lot."

Your fingers reach upward, and for a moment, Diavolo thinks you're just fiddling with your robe before he realizes that your hands are ghosting over your mask, fingers gripping the pointed bottom and the bindings at the back which keep it pressed against your face.

"Would you...be okay with it if I showed you my face as well?"

Of course I wouldn't mind, Diavolo thinks, momentarily dumbfounded by your request. But when he sees the way you actually pause, as if you're genuinely waiting for his response, he forces himself to say something.

"Yes," He whispers, trying to act nonchalant even as he sees you prepare to take down the final defense you had raised against him, naively opening yourself up completely to this man who, by all rights, will one day end up being your greatest enemy.

But the moment your fingers pull on the bindings, the moment Diavolo sees the beginnings of your forehead peak through, and then your eyebrows, then your eyes, fully unobstructed by the mask, and then the rest of your face, all thoughts of his supposed hatred for you fly out the window.

Diavolo has to remind himself to breathe, he's so enraptured by your face as you pull your mask off completely, shaking your hair loose.

He's seen you in pictures before. Hell, he's drawn your picture before. He's thrown darts at your image and burned newspaper clippings of your face and studied every inch of skin in the royal textbooks, searching for things to make fun of and things to hate.

But he's never truly seen you, not in person. Not your real face.

Diavolo's eyes refuse to blink, he's so utterly entranced by staring at you. He can't pull his gaze away even though he sees the way it makes you bashful as you avert your eyes, shyly raising them up again to peek at his face, his expression.

And all of a sudden, even the Resistance and Rebellion seem like far away topics as the man simply stops and takes in the picture before him: the stunning scenery, the gorgeous chasm, and your seemingly perfect face which brings the whole view together.

Diavolo swallows, his mind only able to echo a single thought as he continues to stare at you.

You're beautiful.

The most beautiful person Diavolo has ever seen.

MASTERLIST

01 | 02 | 03 | 04 | 05 | 06 | 07 | 08 | 09 | ✔

Word count: 6.3k

Notes: hc that a name like "prince diavolo" in the devildom is like "prince/king henry" in the british empire. overused as hell, but it happens anyway :D also i still have no clue how long chapters are going to be in this series so keep checking the tags for the word count before you read ^^

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Next Update: 8/22/20

I do not own the rights to Obey Me! or any of the characters within it.

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amikoroyaiart · 6 months

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I love ur '09 + '22 interaction angst so much... the way 09soap is grieving and furious that he couldn't be saved, AGAIN, and how 22ghost can only stand there and take it bc he feels the same,,, and the how comforting and tightly 09ghost is holding 22soap,,,, ahh I love them very much !!! thank u sincerely ur art is wonderful :]

This idea was haunting me for days after I saw the campaign and I am glad you guys liked it? And I am also sorry. I honestly felt that I needed to draw something like that, something that also showed my feelings towards what happened. It definitely made me feel better.

Even knowing how tragic 09 ghostsoap ended in old games, it was easier for me to be in that 09 bubble knowing that they were both dead and 22 was like the second chance for them. So seeing the mess that was mwIII really hurt me and 09 Soap represents that. Meanwhile 09 Ghost reassures 22Soap because he knows how it feels to die first and to leave the his half.

I promise my next art will be all fluffy! I will work on it soon, I was a bit distracted playing COD zombies 🙈

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peachyaone · 3 years

Text

Lonely Heart pt.5

Pairings: Lierra x OC

(A/N : Hi again! I’m excited to announce that the song “You” in this chapter is written by me! :) So pls don’t steal it :( And I’m also less busy this month so part 6 might be out soon! So yeah, hope you enjoyed this chapter, See you in the next one!)

*Luke’s POV*

They arrived at Ashton’s. His palms are sweating, and his throat was getting dryer by the second. Sierra placed her hand on his shoulder, slightly calming his nerves. They stood in of his door. He hesitated on knocking, Sierra had tired of waiting and knocked. Nothing happened at first, Luke knocked this time. There were footsteps, and the door opened. “Look, its early in the morning, so what the fuc- Oh. You two. He groaned. “ I-Is Iris here?” Sierra asked him. “You didn’t check your phones?” He said, slightly irritated. The two took out their phones.

They checked their messages:

[10:00 pm, 09/10/2020] Iris <3 : Hey. Just wanted to tell you that I’m leaving for tour early. I cleared up everything with Ashley and my bandmates. I will be leaving at midnight tonight. You’re welcome to come and see me off, only if you want to. I’ll be with Ashley for the while leg of the tour, we might have separate shows, but we’ll wait for the management announcement.

[10:00 pm, 09/10/2020] Iris <3 : I just wanna say that I apologise for being so distant , I’ve been in a really bad headspace lately. I’m sorry. It’s my fault for making you mad, making Sierra upset and everything.

“Fuck.” he whispered. Ashton was staring at them, arms crossed. "Have you realized what you've done?" Ashton said. They didn't have the chance to speak. "You absolutely wrecked her, you know that? Both of you. I thought you're better than this. She came here, soaked to the skin. She could get sick, and you both know that she gets sick easily. She was trying to keep herself together. She on a verge on an attack, thank god Katniss was there to calm her down. I wanted to march up to your house and beat your ass . But Iris wouldn't let me, you know why? it's because she loves you, Lucas. And that's the only thing stopping me from beating your ass." He scolded. Luke was looking at the ground, ashamed.

"And Sierra, you know what the media could do. They'd do anything to tear people apart, fuck with their mental health, twisting lies into stories with without knowing the real truth. One article could turn people against each other. I really thought that maybe you would understand a little more about this." He said. Ashton was disappointed. He sighed. "Now that you have your answer, I have a lemon tree to save. Goodnight." He said, closing the door on them. The two walked back to their car.

What were they gonna do now?

*Iris's POV*

The live session was a blast. Once she felt sensation of the bass, the sound of the guitar, the kick of the drums, she never felt so alive. They were covering "I Don't Love You" by My Chemical Romance. She felt the problems slowly melt away when she started singing. She sang each verse with all she got. It was pure, raw emotion, the one that could make everyone tear up. It's like she was a different person. Long gone the Iris that was depressed. The Iris on stage now was, way more brighter and her eyes seems to shine with unshed tears. This side of Iris only comes out when she's performing. Usually, without the tears. The crowd cheered her on. She was smiling. The trio gave each other knowing glances, once the adrenaline from performing wears off, she would go back to the woman she was before.

Sad and empty.

They thanked the crowd and the host and went backstage. They were buzzing with adrenaline. "You guys, wanna grab some food before we go back to the hotel?" Maia said. Julia and Helena nodded. "Iris?" Helena said. Iris's head snapped up. "You okay there? Your lookin' a little bit pale, shortcake." Helena said. Iris rubbed her face. "I'm alright, Just need fresh air, that's all. Maybe something to eat." She said. The trio was looking at her worriedly. "Guys. I promise, I'm okay, don't worry." she shyly smiled, nervous from the looks her bandmates were giving her. "Macca's?" Julia said. "Sure." Maia said.

*timeskip*

"That's all your going eat?" Julia said. Iris was eating her veggie dippers. "Yeah. I'm not that hungry." she mumbled. "Bullshit. You haven't eaten anything since last night." Julia said. "Take some my fries." Maia said. "Maia, I can't take it. It's your food." she declined. "Iris, we won't let you fuckin' starve. We have a long night of performing coming up. And you need the energy." Maia said. Iris stared at the ground. Helena rubbed her back, "Please, Iris. We all know you have haven't been doing well." Maia said. "Fine."

"Good girl." Julia said. "Wow, Julia. I didn't know you were into that kinda of stuff~" Iris teased. Helena choked on her drink. Julia looked at Helena, confused. Maia shoved Julia's shoulder. The look of realization dawned on her face. "Oh. Iris, you kinky bitch." She said, smirking. "Well, someone's gotta be the Yuri in this club, and you guys don't have to balls to be him. " she teased again.

They heard cameras clicking.

"Paps." they said in unison. “Shit.” Helena mumbled. “We have to get out of here, quickly.” Julia said. The group got out and tried to get to Maia’s car. Iris was soon cornered by the paps.

“Iris, you know they can do better!”

“Is it difficult having TWO partners? Having to be jealous all the time and fighting for attention – what does that feel like?”

She kept quiet.

“What do you think to the rumours that you cheated on them? There’s evidence of you spending the night with a mysterious female.”

“You’re really nothing special though are you? They won’t stick around for long, whore.”

“We’ve seen the scars on your arms.”

“Don’t you think that’s a bad image for your band?”

“You should look into conversion therapy, disgusting whore.”

“What about your partners? Should they have to deal with that on top of everything they should be doing?”

“You’re nothing but a slut. A cheating, useless piece of shit.”

“You’ll be better off dead.”

“'Lena…” She mumbled, searching for any of her bandmates over the crowd, she felt her vision go hazy for a bit as she desprately tried to push through the paps. She was so close from losing her sanity. The paps was closing in, blocking her in. Insults was thrown her way. She was going to break.

Then she felt their arms. Helena's strong hand gripping hers and pulling her into their arms, cradling her against her chest and Julia pushing through the crowd telling the paparazzi to fuck off along the way.“Get away from her!” She pushed the paps away from the duo while Helena helped Iris up. “We just want answers!” One of the paps shouted back at them. “Well, you’re not gonna get any so take your camera, shove it up your fucking asshole, and fuck off!”

They got her into the car. Maia drove away from the scene as fast as she could. Iris's hands was shaking. “Iris?” Julia ask, her hand moving to cup her face. “Iris, come on.” Julia pleaded, she was desperately trying to help her calm her down, holding her hands and trying to help her breathe. “They said such horrible things.” Iris mumbled. “They’re just trying to get a response.” Helena said.

"Can we call, Ash?" she meekly asked. "Of course, shortcake." Helena said. Julia called him.

"Hey, Julia. Is everything alright?"

"Um... about that."

"What's wrong?"

"Well, we had a run in with paps eariler and they cornered Iris."

"What?! Is she okay? Did the paps do anything?"

"Well, they verbally harassed her. We might ask management to file a lawsuit. As for Iris? She's the reason why I called, wait a minute-

"'Lena take the phone."

Helena took the phone from Julia.

"Hey, Lemon boy"

"Hey, Helena. Is Iris with you?"

"Yup. Let me hand the phone to her."

"Thanks"

She passed the phone to Iris.

"Hey, Ash..."

"Hey, Sunshine. Are you okay? Did they do anything to you?"

"They were closing in on me, taking photos of me and said bad things."

"What kind of bad things did they say, sunshine? "

"That I’m not good enough, they keep insisting that I cheated. They said that I look into converstion therapy-"

She was startled by Helena's hand on her shoulder. "Let it out." She mouthed to her.

"They joked about my scars, they said I would be better off dead." she choked out.

"They what?! Oh, Iris, I'm so sorry."

She sobbed.

" Iris, listen."

"What they said.... it's all lies. You hear me? They are lies. You are not what they paint you to be, they don't know who you really are. You are amazing. You are the most amazing person I know, the boys loves you.... even Luke. He came by with Sierra the night after you left. I didn't do anything, like I promise. But you bet I gave him an earful. But all that aside, Iris, you deserve to be here, and you are good enough. You make people happy. Your fans? They all love you, you make them smile, you make them feels safe. This will pass, things will get easier. I promise you."

"What if I fail to do so, Ash? What if I disappoint everyone?"

"You won't. Trust me, you are not a failure. You will get better. You will heal. You will be stronger than ever. You will make it through this."

"Are they alright?"

"You're seriously asking that? You're not okay and you're asking if they're alright?"

"Please Ash... I want to know."

They arrived at the hotel.

"Yes, they are. You don't have to worry. All you have to worry now is me giving you a lecture. Look outside."

"What?"

"Just look outside."

She looked outside to see Ashton, giving her one of his signature smiles. Beside him.....Luke and Sierra.

"Ashton?"

"Hey, sunshine."

She paled. She turned at the bandmates and chuckled shakily.

"Am I finally going crazy? Is they really here?"

She looked at Luke and Sierra, laughing disbelievingly. Shaking her head, she walked up to them. She prodded Luke at his chest angrily, as she laughed. "You had the fucking nerve to show up here." She was chuckling yet crying in the same time. "Where were you, Lucas. Where the fuck were you when I needed you?!" she said. She stumbled back, shaking her head. Iris's knees gave out. Maia reached out to steady her. "Can we get out of here, please?" She whispered to her. Maia looked at Helena and Julia. "Let's get her inside." She said, quietly. They nodded. They moved to get her inside. Sierra moved to stop them. "Let's talk this through, please." She said to Iris. Helena glowered at her. She stood in front Iris protectively.

"After what you've done, you think you could just come up here and expect her to talk? After the pain you put her through? No, ma'am. You lost that right." Helena said. "Hey, don't talk to her like that." Luke defended her. Julia stepped forward. "Don't think we forgot about YOU, Hemmings." She said. "You don't get to come up here, all high and mighty and expect that we let you go that easily." Helena said. “You two are fucking dumb if you really believe that's a way to treat our bandmate.” Maia said.

“If anyone should be arguing, it should be me.” Iris said, as she straightened up and six pairs of eyes snapped to her. "Thank you for standing up for me, guys." she said to her bandmates. They shrugged and smiled. "Pop off, bestfren." Maia playfully winked at her. Iris smiled and turned to face the duo. The look that they gave her made her newfound anger surge.

“You both don’t get to look at me like that.” She snapped, causing them to reel back in suprise. They never seen her this mad, never at them. "If you gave me the chance to talk back then, we wouldn't have this bullshit." she said. Their faces fell in guilt. The Iris she was before this would've cave in and forgive them but she was seething with anger now to care.

"If you'd noticed the sleepless nights I had, the bag under my eyes. If you'd have cared to even try and listen to what I had to say, maybe I wouldn't be fuckin' pissed at you right now!" Iris snapped and Luke flinched back.

If they'd only looked into her eyes, they would see the bottled up emotions that was threatening to explode. It felt wrong to see Iris so angry. She was always been the one to break up arguements, not start them. "Did you know how much suffering you caused me? Do you know how much pain I've been through? I never asked for this, you know? I never asked for us to fight. I hate fighting, you know that?" She said. She looked at them, they were looking down to the ground.

"Look at me." she pleaded. Her anger disappated. Their heads immediately snapped up."I d-don't think I contribute to this relationship anymore." her broken voice reached their ears.

"Iris!" They called out, but she's gone. Luke frantically searched for her. "Luke, we still have one more chance." Sierra said. "Sierra, there's no more chance. We lost her." He said. "And it's all my fault." he whimpered. "Luke, honey. We have her concert tickets, thanks to Ashley. Let's not waste this chance alright?" She said.

*timeskip*

Two hours till the concert. The stage staff were moving around, making sure that everything goes well. After the encounter, Iris fell in the hotel bed and proceeded take a long nap. And woke up just in time for rehearsal.

Seconds turned into minutes, minutes turned into hours. Iris drank some vodka that was prepared by the staff, it did so little to calm her nerves. She was pacing around. “Iris?” Her makeup stylist called out. Her head shot up, “Yes, David?” She said. “It’s time for your makeup, and then your outfit." He reminded. She smiled softly at him, "Alright, I'm coming."

She got dressed and sat on the chair."So what would we like on this wonderful night?" He said prepairing the brushes. "I was thinking of skeleton kinda look. Some black, a little red." She said. "That sounds good. Would you like some to put glitter on the black part?" he asked. "Sure" she nodded.

(A/N: Here’s the outfit. Credit to @boy..brainr0t for the makeup look)

They made a small talk about the weather and the upcoming shows. Half an hour later, David finished. "Wow, you did a great job! I love it so much, thanks David! " Iris said, her mood brightened. "No probs, Iris." He said with a smile. She side hugged him and left the room.

"Looking good, shortcake! That choker looks deadly, in a good way." Helena hyped her up. Iris flushed. "Enough about me, look at your mohawk! The spikes are as deadly as my choker! " She said, smiling. "Can I.... touch them? " Iris said. It was like a child asking for candy. "Knock yourself out, shortcake. " She shrugged. Iris's eyes shined with excitement and she poked it. "It's rock hard, did you use hairspray?" she asked, "I did. Used a little bit of hair pomade. Gotta make sure it won't fall while performing." Helena explained. "That's cool." Iris giggled.

"Hey, cuties!" Julia hollered from arcoss the room. "Its almost time, get your sexy asses over here!" Maia said alongside Julia. "Alright, alright, we're coming!" Iris shouted back. "You look like Gerard Way, Iris." Julia said. "Awh, Julia that's nicest thing you ever said to me" she joked. Julia playfully punched her in the shoulder. "Heeeey" She pouted. "Hey guys!" Ashley jogged over to them. "Hey, Ashley" They said. "You ready to go up there?" She asked. "Yeah, it's been a while since we last went on stage, still kinda nervous, but excited." Iris said. "Excuse me, sorry to interrupt, but you guys are up in 10" the stage manager informed them. "Alright, thank you for informing us" Julia thanked the staff. "You welcome." the staff said, then walked away.

"Go get ready, I can't wait to see you guys out there." Ashley said, before leaving to get ready herself. "You ready?" Maia asked. " As ready as I'll ever be" Iris said. Her eyes shining with excitement. The group fistbumped each other and went on stage.

"GOOD EVENING, LONDON!" Iris screamed into the mic. The crowd screamed. "ARE YOU READY?" The crowd cheered. "WE CAN'T HEAR YOU" The crowd screamed.The intro for their song "You" started playing.

You,

The thought of you makes me sick

Heaven and Hell doesn’t scare me anymore

Not when your with me

Why you gotta be so greedy?

I’m giving all I have to you,

But you keep asking for more,I’m dying, can’t you see? (Look at me)

My blood stains the floor

And I know you love seeing me like this

When it comes to you, (you temptress)

You act so innocent, like an angel in disguise

Always painting yourself as holy

But your tainted halo says otherwise, my dear

Iris sang, stomping her feet to the rhythm. She was smiling, looking out to the crowd. And then she saw familiar head of curls. It was Luke. Her eyes widened, trying to maintain her composure as she sang. She looked at Julia, who noticed them too.

Look at what you’ve become

My still beating heart you hold,

Your knife against my throat.

I’m on the floor, barely breathing (Gasping for air)

My mind tormented by your lies

There’s no escape from you (Never)

There’s no saving for me

“Oh, my darling sweetheart” you said,

With your hands around my neck

“Let me own you” you whispered

Your cold breath makes me shiver

Death knocks on the door (It’s time)

She puts on a facade, performing all the energy she had. Maia and Helena soon caught up with the situation immediately. They were soon picking up on the energy that Iris is giving out. She was nervous. Very nervous. Her heterochromia eyes instantly found blue ones. She wanted to run off stage but her pride wouldn’t let her. What would the fans think of her if she did? She didn't want to be coward.

*Lierra's POV*

They were standing somewhat near to the stage, same as the people that are there, they were all waiting for the show to start. Soon, Iris came on stage along with her band mates. The crowd screamed and cheered.

"GOOD EVENING, LONDON!" she said. She sounded so different from 4 hours ago. She looked beautiful as always, her facial features were enhanced by her stage makeup. "ARE YOU READY?" They cheered. "I CAN'T HEAR YOU!" They cheered even louder.

Iris smirked. "Helena, darling. If you please." she said. They both knew it was her persona on stage to be a little flirty , but Sierra couldn't stop but feel a little bit of jealousy. Helena was smirking on the screen. " ONE, TWO, THREE-" Helena said, before she started playing the drums. The intro sounds familiar to them. Then Iris started singing.

In their eyes, she was the most ethereal being they ever seen. She was confident when she sing, it was beautiful.

Midway through the song, their eyes met. Luke could see her eyes widening. She turned to Julia. Julia gave her a brief nod. She turned to the front, with a smile on her face. He gave Sierra a look.She shared the same look, they clearly knew that she was faking her expression. And the thought of that made them feel even more guilty.

*Back to Iris*

Look at what I’ve become

My still heart you hold,

Your knife still against my throat.

I’m on the floor, still and silent

My mind corrupted by your lies

There’s no escape from you

There’s no redemption for me.

As she sang the last verse, the crowd cheered and clapped. She was a little sweaty and she was a little out of breath. She kept on smiling. Her bandmates joined her at the front. Ashley comes on stage next. “Good Evening, London!” Ashley said. The crowd screamed. “ I would like to thank my good friends, The Temptress, for their AMAZING performance tonight!” She exclaimed. The crowd screamed again. "You welcome, Halsey." she said.

In the corner of her she saw a sign. The sign said "It's Nia!". Her eyes shined. "Well won't you look at that, Hi Nia." She waved at the girl direction. A group of girls were screaming as she said that. "Thank you again for the wonderful gift you gave me yesterday, darling. I really appreciate it." She said. The group screamed again. She was smiling. A real smile. The camera was on her and the crowd screamed again. She and her bandmates said their goodbyes to the crowd and Halsey and went off backstage.

She took off her facade and became unsually quiet. She plopped on the couch and drank the vodka she poured for herself. Her friends didn't know if they should comfort her or give her space. "Hey, shortcake." Helena said softly. Iris just leaned against her, her head on her shoulder. "You okay, bub?" Helena said. Iris just buried her face further into her neck.

"I don't know, 'Lena."

#poly!5sos #poly!lierra #lierra x oc #lonely heart #luke hemmings #sierra deaton #5sos fanfic #5 seconds of summer #5sos

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deantransgressions2 · 3 years

Text

10x23 brother's keeper

#1: no comment

"they let her leave the house looking like a whore" (talking about a young dead girl)

time tag: 2:33

#2: rudy told dean about a case and met him at the crime scene. dean demanded he leaves, even though it was actually rudy’s case, not dean’s.

dean: "yeah, not today you're not. i'm gonna need you to take a walk on this one."

rudy: "uh, okay? except uh, except i called you, so, uh, if anybody's walking, it's..."

time tag: 3:25

#3: he just started bullying rudy so no reason.

dean: "oh, you called me? no, no. you begged me. just like tuscaloosa, just like old lyme, we both know you're playing dress up out here, and it's just a matter of time before you get yourself killed. so why don't you take that walk and let the real hunters do the work?"

time tag: 3:35

#4: a "slut" is a social construct built out of misogyny, so if you ever think of someone as a "slut" then, you are therefore a misogynist. it’s very simple.

some dad: "by suggesting my daughter was a slut?"

dean: "i'll admit that thought crossed my mind."

time tag: 7:15

#5: he admitted he was originally blaming the dead woman for her own death because she was a "slut"

time tag: 7:27

#6: sigh. when will this man stop using misogynistic language..

"no wonder she put on that skank outfit and went out there looking for validation, right into the arms of the monster that killed her."

imagine thinking women only wear clothing for validation...imagine thinking women exist just for male attention...

time tag: 7:28

#7: pointed a gun at a child.

time tag: 8:18

#8: taunted and convinced a vampire into killing rudy.

time tag: 12:12

#9: destroyed a motel room that i'm sure he didn’t pay the damages for.

time tag: 13:47

#10: lured sam to the bar under false pretenses.

time tag: 24:17

#11: he was fully content to kill his brother to save himself and others. which big picture i guess is okay, except dean didn't exactly give sam a choice. also let's be real, killing sam was the most irreverent and unnecessary part of this whole plan. they justified killing him because he would "never rest" until he saved dean. which, like, isn't true. we all know if dean had thoroughly explained the darkness, and made sam promise to leave the mark alone, he literally would have. truth is death just really wanted to kill sam <3 and dean doesn't have the brain cells at the minute to realize killing sam makes no sense <3

time tag: 24:36

#12: dean was prepared to kill sam just to fix his own mistake. it's pathetic.

sam: "you traded my life."

dean: "i'm willing to live with this thing forever, as long as i know that i and it will never hurt another living thing."

let's chat. sam was willing to die in s4 to stop the apocalypse by killing lilith and get revenge for dean. sam died in s5 to save the world and therefore dean as well. sam was willing to die in s8 to save the world and therefore make dean's life easier. sam was willing to die in mids10 in order to get a codex that would save dean. NOW let's talk about dean. dean died in s3 as a result of saving sam (this one's ok). dean tried to "save" the world and therefore sam in s5 by planning to say yes to michael, which in turn would have burned half the planet. dean saved sam's life in s8 by lying to and violating sam. dean tried saving the world and therefore sam in s9 by recklessly accepting the mark, which in turn got many people killed and even more injured. dean tried saving the world in s10 by murdering his brother and then shipping himself off to the moon or some shit.

do you see the difference? do you see what's wrong here? i'll wait.

time tag: 25:50

#13: when in doubt blame sam!! when in doubt yell at sam!!

sam: "this doesn't make any sense"

dean: "no, it makes perfect sense if you stop thinking about yourself for one damn minute!"

time tag: 26:09

#14: attempted to guilt sam into cooperating by bringing up an old situation that was so completely different than the one they were currently in.

dean: "remember when we were in that church, making crowley human, about to close the gates of hell? well, you sure as hell were ready to die for the greater good then."

sam: *said some bs about dean doing the right thing after 8x23 which isn’t true and we know sam agrees*

dean: "and i was wrong. you were right, sam. you knew that this world would be better without us in it."

sam: "you're twisting my words here dean"

time tag: 28:20

#15: more emotional manipulation.

dean: "i know what i am, sam. but who are you when you...when you drove that man to sell his soul...or when you bullied charlie into getting herself killed? and to what end? a-a good end? a just end? to remove the mark no matter the consequences? sam, how is that not evil?"

dean is living in a separate reality as the rest of us. or his amnesia is in full swing today because none of what he said is true.

time tag: 29:25

#16: he again reiterated that he will kill sam and sam has no say in the matter.

time tag: 30:32

#17: sam punched dean, which was justified considering dean was trying to murder him?? but dean decided to fight back so that as a result of the assault, sam would be broken, hurt, and compliant in dean's plan to murder him.

time tag: 30:34

#18: sam submitted himself to dean's will and plan. he agreed to die just because dean wanted him to. it’s unbelievably unsettling, this is not codependency or familial love, this is emotional abuse, manipulation, and fear. and dean has always gotten off on that. sam kneeling on the floor, looking up to dean, who holds all the power, as blood runs down his face...:/

time tag: 32:30

#19: asked sam to close his eyes. oh boohoo....what a wimp. he made this big fuss about sam needing to die, then brutally attacked him, and now he wants sam to close his eyes???? what a hypocritical baby.

time tag: 33:21

#20: killed death. death! worst thing dean ever did. i miss him already.

time tag: 35:04

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ktheist · 3 years

Text

FROM THIS POST

01: Do you have a good relationship with your parents?

i do! it wasn't always like this before buy i'm glad my relationship with them improved <3

02: Who did you last say “I love you” to?

me mom bc i luv her

03: Do you regret anything?

my wasted potential oof

04: Are you insecure?

who isn't?

05: What is your relationship status?

i'm taken!! by meeeeeee!!!

06: How do you want to die?

in my sleep because i won't notice i'm dying - or will i realize i died when i wake up? oof

07: What did you last eat?

a popia, i think it's a traditional food here.

08: Played any sports?

breathing is a sports

09: Do you bite your nails?

thankfully, no!

10: When was your last physical fight?

been a long while, last fight i remember is wrestling the tv remote from my bro and we were like kids and i'm old now ):

11: Do you like someone?

like someone i can potentially get or someone i can never? min yoongi and jeon jungkook ):

12: Have you ever stayed up 48 hours?

oof i don't think so but i might once i get desperate enough to take some adderall

13: Do you hate anyone at the moment?

at first i thought i don't but now that i really think about it, there's this one dude who, every time i think about him, makes me wanna puke bc of his shit hygiene and we got preeeeetty close at some point

14: Do you miss someone?

nopee

15: Have any pets?

my demons uwu

16: How exactly are you feeling at the moment?

as of 15th dec, ya girl is tideeeee

17: Ever made out in the bathroom?

naw that shit nastyy

18: Are you scared of spiders?

TERRIFIED

19: Would you go back in time if you were given the chance?

yes omg

20: Where was the last place you snogged someone?

at my ex's place before he left the country

21: What are your plans for this weekend?

work and sleep and hopefully sleep some more

22: Do you want to have kids? How many?

five is too many but i'll start off w one kitty and adopt more from there!!!

23: Do you have piercings? How many?

none, i'm a puthy ):

24: What is/are/were your best subject(s)?

english / research / acadamia. potato potato yk

25: Do you miss anyone from your past?

i shudder at the idea of meeting people from my pasts lol

26: What are you craving right now?

i’m always craving for ramen!!

27: Have you ever broken someone’s heart?

28: Have you ever been cheated on?

yes and no? it didn’t feel like a real relationship lmao

29: Have you made a boyfriend/girlfriend cry?

i wouldn’t say make since i asked them about why they did sumn sketchy and they ended up crying

30: What’s irritating you right now?

the shitload of work that i have ):

31: Does somebody love you?

meeee and ig my parents luv me

32: What is your favourite colour?

maroon, deep blue and grey!!

33: Do you have trust issues?

omg yes how did you know

34: Who/what was your last dream about?

i don’t remember but i usually like my dreams bc it’s like watching a fantasy movie lmaooo

35: Who was the last person you cried in front of?

i don’t cry in front of people

36: Do you give out second chances too easily?

i give out third chances lmaooooo

but ig it works out bc if they mess up after the third, then it’s bye bye for good bc they dead to me

37: Is it easier to forgive or forget?

to forget wooooooooo if you mess up then you’re dead to me

38: Is this year the best year of your life?

nah bro its 2020

39: How old were you when you had your first kiss?

legal

40: Have you ever walked outside completely naked?

outside like in public or just in my house? bc if the first, then neverrr

51: Favourite food?

ramen yumm

52: Do you believe everything happens for a reason?

depends lol sometimes things just happen to inconvenience me and i don’t appreciate the person who caused it

53: What is the last thing you did before you went to bed last night?

scroll my ipad

54: Is cheating ever okay?

depends lol, are you both cheating and aware of it? then yes. if only one party’s cheating and being sneaky? no i hope they get pooped by a bird every time they go out

55: Are you mean?

idk ): sum say i come off too strong but it’s only been them puthy ass men that’s said that

56: How many people have you fist fought?

my bro

57: Do you believe in true love?

yes for self-love and no for romantic kind of love, maybe for familial love

58: Favourite weather?

livin in a hot and humid country makes you appreciate the rain a bit more!!

59: Do you like the snow?

they look magical in tv!!

60: Do you wanna get married?

yea sure if the dude fits me. i don’t believe marriages are supposed to be a compromise, if you have to change something to fit the other, then that’s not really a good reason to keep being tgt for me.

61: Is it cute when a boy/girl calls you baby?

eh it’s okay

62: What makes you happy?

sleeping!!

63: Would you change your name?

i would... to cara (;

64: Would it be hard to kiss the last person you kissed?

idk man, i don’t have any problems but depends if they wanna ykwim?

65: Your best friend of the opposite sex likes you, what do you do?

noooooo best friends are best friends for a reason!!!

66: Do you have a friend of the opposite sex who you can act your complete self around?

no but oh well i’m v comfortable w my girlfriends alr

67: Who was the last person of the opposite sex you talked to?

uh, besides my dad and bro, ig this one friend from high school who’s like super chill

68: Who’s the last person you had a deep conversation with?

a friend on tumblr by the name of my fav day; rain ((((:

69: Do you believe in soulmates?

ig? i mean if they fit you then they fit you. 70: Is there anyone you would die for?

me mommy bc i appreciate her sm <3

#answered sum questions bc i want to #but i don't like how my answers go from large fonts to small fonts #takes away the aesthetic yk #might private this post after i get tired of it #cara the clown #wooo #vibe check

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okwilliamson · 4 years

Text

im back from the dead

i really wanted to answer some questions. and tumblr is the place to do that.

01: Do you have a good relationship with your parents?

- for the most part i really do. I feel really lucky in that way, it obviously grows much more complex

02: Who did you last say “I love you” to?

- my mom :)

03: Do you regret anything?

- lots of things, idk i sometimes regret wearing one pair of glasses versus the other. i dont feel like regret has to be so devastating. however it really can be

04: Are you insecure?

- of course i am

05: What is your relationship status?

- im in the beginning of a crush with a very very very very cute boy. i dont wanna think too hard or it wont work out. im such a hopeless romantic and it goes against everything i stand for lol

06: How do you want to die?

- peacefully and riddled with student loan debt

07: What did you last eat?

- i ate half of a burrito that i had left over it was delish

08: Played any sports?

- big nope 09: Do you bite your nails?

- i do not, i do pick my nails and cuticles to death tho especially when im nervous

10: When was your last physical fight?

- i simply do not know. ive never been in a real fight

11: Do you like someone?

- i like so many people

12: Have you ever stayed up 48 hours?

- ummm no i dont think so, for sure more than 24 but not a whole two days. I get really bad headaches when i stay up for too long

13: Do you hate anyone at the moment?

- donald trump

14: Do you miss someone?

- i miss my sister, and bella

15: Have any pets?

- me and syd have a cat called connie, i also have a house cat at my parents house and a cat who just had to be put down when he got suddenly so sick.

16: How exactly are you feeling at the moment?

- apprehensive

17: Ever made out in the bathroom?

- yes i have, many different bathrooms

18: Are you scared of spiders?

- umm not very much but i am scared of them generally. especially big ones

19: Would you go back in time if you were given the chance?

- i think i would be too tempted to make the same mistakes twice lol

20: Where was the last place you snogged someone?

- ummmmm, idk honestly i feel like i dont live in a situation where i need to snoop

21: What are your plans for this weekend?

- the weekend is just ending, I worked all weekend lol. Im off next saturday tho which will be nice. idk what im gonna do.

22: Do you want to have kids? How many?

- ugh

23: Do you have piercings? How many?

- i have my ear lobes and both nostrils and thats it

24: What is/are/were your best subject(s)?

- always english & art. Im bad at writing good papers tbh

25: Do you miss anyone from your past?

- i think about the people from my past all the time, but i dont think i miss anyone that i couldnt get ahold of if i wanted to.

26: What are you craving right now?

- to have a boy play with my hair

27: Have you ever broken someone’s heart?

- no i dont think i have. honestly

28: Have you ever been cheated on?

- yessirrr

29: Have you made a boyfriend/girlfriend cry?

- yes i have made a boy cry, long ago

30: What’s irritating you right now?

- umm miss rona, the way eveything seems lowkey pointless

31: Does somebody love you?

- so many people im lucky in that way

32: What is your favourite color?

- pink

33: Do you have trust issues?

- lol i am the queen of having trust issues

34: Who/what was your last dream about?

- tony probably, i dream about him all the time

35: Who was the last person you cried in front of?

- sydney, we really do be crying

36: Do you give out second chances too easily?

- i be giving 3rd, 4th, and 5th chances dude

37: Is it easier to forgive or forget?

- i dont really do either if im honest

38: Is this year the best year of your life?

- ew no not at all

39: How old were you when you had your first kiss?

- i was 13!

40: Have you ever walked outside completely naked?

- ummm yes i think so. I had sex in the woods once does that count.

51: Favourite food?

- chicken wings

52: Do you believe everything happens for a reason?

- idk sometimes i want to think this and sometimes i just think i have bad luck

53: What is the last thing you did before you went to bed last night?

- texted a boy omg im a headass

54: Is cheating ever okay?

- if you have a cuck partner ?? theres a world of options. but in a closed relationship i would say no.

55: Are you mean?

- lowkey

56: How many people have you fist fought?

- maam

57: Do you believe in true love?

- i think so, maybe more in a platonic sense tho i have true love with my sister and syd and evie

58: Favourite weather?

- sunny early morning in summer, when theres a chill in the air

59: Do you like the snow?

- i love how it looks, but i hate driving in it, walking in it etc

60: Do you wanna get married?

- maybe idk

61: Is it cute when a boy/girl calls you baby?

- sooo cute i melt for pet names

62: What makes you happy?

omg so many things!!! coffee, friendship, diet coke, sunshine, the color pink, my friends

63: Would you change your name?

- i used to really want to when i was young but i think im secure enough in myself now to just vibe, i like my name

64: Would it be hard to kiss the last person you kissed?

- no the last person i kissed is a great kisser

65: Your best friend of the opposite sex likes you, what do you do?

- ummm laugh

66: Do you have a friend of the opposite sex who you can act your complete self around?

- 100%

67: Who was the last person of the opposite sex you talked to?

- this boyyyyy

68: Who’s the last person you had a deep conversation with?

- idk me and syd be texting about our worst fears so, all my conversations are deep it seems like. 69: Do you believe in soulmates?

- yes yes yes theyre so real

70: Is there anyone you would die for?

my sister without a doubt

#personal #asks #thanks for tuning in all these years on my blog

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neovisioned · 5 years

Text

[09:54 pm] richkid!ten, angry sex.

When richkid!ten finally understands his feelings for you, he swears he hates himself more than he hates you.

Both hands grip his ivory bathroom sink, knuckles turning as white as the material, lost eyes staring at himself in his large, foggy mirror. Fresh out of the shower, the hot water running down his skin didn’t help his headache at all, it seemed it even made him think and overthink more.

One hand pushed his bleached hair back, the smallest of things managed to anger him even more, small locks drenched in water falling in front of his piercing eyes.

Everything reminded him of you, he couldn’t step foot in his room without having the lingering perfume of the fragrance you wore today, richkid!ten couldn’t even look at his desk without having the almost too realistic picture of your sitting, crosslegged on his chair.

A sigh left richkid!ten’s reddish lips, he had been bitting them for too long, his bottom lip tasted of blood and he even blamed in on you. A few moments ago, you two were sitting there, him helping you with math, you helping him with english.

It isn’t necessary to say that this, wasn’t his idea. In fact, it was your math teacher’s idea, since your grades were slowly dropping and his weren’t the best in english yet, poor teacher thought he was doing a great thing by pairing the both of you for mutual tutoring.

Needless to say, it started as awkward as you could imagine. The tension was almost embarable in the library and you even feared pointing richkid!ten’s mistakes, not wanting him to snap at you.

Really, you didn’t know why richkid!ten hated you so much. It was known in the school that two sides existed, the rich kids from the nearby, wealthy and privilaged neighbourhood, and the more middle classed kids. You were from the second named, those who had parents working as hard as they could to pay for the school, those who couldn’t let their parents down.

In the back of your head, you know he only hates you because of his education, his surroundings, and in the back of richkid!ten’s head, he knows it too.

The reasons why he hates you are so, so superficial, but he doesn’t dare question his education at first, he’d rather stay sheltered in his gold tinted reality. He doesn’t want to think over his feelings, think about how he doesn’t want to love you because he doesn’t want to put you through his family’s prejudices. Masking his love as hatred is so, so much easier.

But it seems like even without intending to, richkid!ten truly can't get away from you. A groan rambles in his chest, laying on his satin sheets, lay your textbook your forget.

It's the last straw for richkid!ten, his sports car park in your modest neighbourhood, and no one knows what's about to happen in your small student appartement.

Screamed travel easily through your paper thin walls, you're sure your neighbours are wonder who you're arguing with, and what type of argument this is.

"Are you really that fucking shallow ?", you asked, and richkid!ten's gold reality suddenly turns red. He was sheltering himself but wasn't seeing how this was all hurting you yet.

But if he was seeing red, you were seeing a hundred more shades. Richkid!ten had the audacity to come to your house in his overpriced car, almost throw you book at you and it was your time to snap. You've been dying to know exactly why he hated you, to which he seemed to get stiff. He wouldn't tell you for almost an hour, before finally telling you you two weren't in the same class.

"Your just about image and reputation.", you spat out, but this time, it was spoken against his swollen lips. Up and down, your body was moving on top of his own, like you were trying to prove a point, trying to prove how you two were, at the end, only humans with needs and messed up feeling.

"Shut the fuck up.", richkid!ten almost groaned, his voice almost foreign to you as his hand creeped up, long fingers wrapping around your throat. In seconds, your oxygen got gradually cut down, like a warning. But who were you to take warnings from richkid!ten, an arrogant smile stretching your lips, it was your turn.

"You think you're fucking smart, uh ?", he asked, hips snapping up to meet your own in a hard thrust, "You think you know it all ?"

Eyes closed, it took a few moments for you to compose yourself, before you could halfway open them, dead set on his own, lust gazed eyes.

"Yeah, I know it all.", you started, smile crowing larger as he gasped after your clenched around him. "You fucking love me.", you moaned out.

#neo culture technology #nct #nct smut #wayv #wayv smut #ten #ten smut #yukhei #kun #sicheng #yangyang #xiaojun #hendery #smut #richkid!ten

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fenriael · 4 years

Text

I was tagged by @sheirukitriesfandom, thank you for tagging :)

Arellius is my Imperial vampire, skilled with blood magic and healing, as well as alchemy and cooking. He travels around Tamriel alongside his love Safinia, necromancer and former Imperial battlemage.

Layer 01: The Outside

Eye Colour: Naturally a very dark grey/black, but red when his vampirism is showing.

Hair Style / Color: Long, straight grey hair with a noticeable ‘widow’s peak’ receding hairline. Frequently tied back from his face while working.

Height: ~ 5 foot 10’ (~1.78m)

Clothing Style: Usually black or grey robes with lots of pockets and satchels for carrying medical supplies and other odds and ends. Often clothing that is local to the area (e.g. Breton style robes in while in Rivenspire, moon-decorated silk robes while in Elsweyr). He also often likes to wear imperial tunic/toga style clothing for special occasions. Also is quite fond of deep purples and reds in his clothing. There’s also usually some moon symbology in his clothing, such as his belt or staff, hinting at his connection to Azura.

He also has a cloak of shadows he enchanted himself; very useful for grabbing hopeful vampire hunters who might try to sneak up on him or attack him while he sleeps.

Best Physical Feature: His other half, Safinia, would suggest his very fine aquiline nose, or possibly his well-defined high cheekbones.

Layer 02:

Fears:

- Very real fears: Isn’t terribly fond of fire for the obvious reasons. Will send Safinia to deal with any spiders in their cottage.

- Abstract fears: Further back in time it would have been losing control as a vampire. As an alchemist and physician in the Imperial City, when he first became a vampire he attempted to sate his hunger by paying for voluntary blood donations from suitable patients under the guise of research. However when a local became suspicious and organised a mob to kill him, he lost control. The next he knew they were all dead and he had incidentally murdered several people he had spent his career trying to care for.

He fled after that to the wilds for a time in an attempt to deprive himself of human blood. A series of events involving the Spirit Wardens in Stormhaven eventually led him to Azura, although his relationship to her is closer to that of a powerful patron than being religiously devoted, for the most part.

He has had better control of his thirst for a long time now, so losing control does not concern him quite like it once did. He is, however, very afraid that anyone he befriends for long enough (especially Safinia) will find out about his past and see him for the monster that he was, and shun him for it. It is one of the main reasons why he has avoided staying for too long in one place before meeting Safinia.

Guilty Pleasure: Nice clothing. Doesn’t need to be ostentatious, but pleasant cloth and a good cut is very much appreciated. Bonus points for extra pockets. Also appreciates a good pair of boots.

Biggest Pet Peeve: Cleanliness (or lack of), as he has a very refined sense of smell as a vampire and finds strong smells rather distasteful. For similar reasons, he is also not fond of loudness.

Ambitions for the Future: Between getting involved with various adventures in Elsweyr and Skyrim, he and Safinia found themselves settling down in a small home in a village in Rivenspire. They he tends to the local’s illnesses and Safinia helps out with other issues (mainly of the ‘giant spiders have invested a nearby cave’, or the ‘Granny’s got back up from the dead again and is haunting our barn’ variety).

The residents have become used to the Ravenwatch presence in the area over hundreds of years, and while no one would out-loud acknowledge anything supernatural about Arellius or Safinia, the locals are generally more happy than many villagers in other parts of the world would be to turn a blind eye to any sign of fangs or strange magic because of the help and protection they provide. Arellius would like to return to that life on a more permanent basis in the future.

Layer 03:

First Thoughts Waking Up: Blood, most likely. He’s still a vampire after all, albeit a very well-controlled one.

What They Think about Most: Frequent thoughts include Safinia, his latest alchemy experiment, or how well his garden back in Rivenspire might be being taken care of by the locals in his absence.

What They Think about before Bed: These days, most likely Safinia.

What They Think Their Best Quality is: I think Arellius would have trouble answering this question if asked, but possibly his empathy?

Layer 04: Either Or…

Single or Group Dates: Single dates

To Be Loved or Respected: Respected

Beauty or Brains: Brains

Dogs or Cats: Both. He loves cats and dogs equally. They aren’t always so fond of him, mind you, what with being a vampire; but he tries his best to befriend them nonetheless.

Layer 05: Do They...?

Lie: He tries to avoid it. He does not like others to think of him as dishonest. Although this does not mean he is adverse to a white lie if he thinks it will be of more help than harm.

Believe in Themselves: He comes across outwardly as very quietly confidant, but finds himself questioning his own decisions internally quite often.

Believe in Love: Being as old as he is, Arellius is hardly oblivious to the real life practicalities of love and relationships; however, his is still rather a bit of a romantic at heart.

Want someone: Safina, of course :)

Layer 06: Have They…

Been on Stage: He’s lived a very long life, so most likely.

Done Drugs: Not as a vampire, as he would likely be afraid of how the loss of control might mean for his restraint of his blood thirst.

Changed Who They Were to Fit In: He is always making an effort to hide his vampirism: his fangs, his sense of smell and hearing, the fact that he walks oddly quietly. He does this both for his own safety and so as not to frighten others. One of the reasons he appreciates being around Safinia is that she is not troubled by such things.

Layer 07: What’s Their…

Favorite Colors: Reds, deep purples.

Favorite Animals: Arellius is seen with wolves, who appear to have an affinity to both him and Safinia (possibly a connection to the moon and Azura, one could speculate).

Favorite Book: He has an extensive and eclectic collection of books on gardening.

Favorite Game: Probably any games involving bluffing. Although by no means fool-proof, he can frequently make a good guess as to if someone might be lying by listening to their heartbeat. He doesn’t usually gamble for money however with those who don’t know this fact beforehand.

Layer 08: Age

Day Their Next Birthday Will Be: Not sure on this one, and to be honest Arellius has probably forgotten by now. He isn’t one for birthday celebrations, especially since becoming undead.

How Old Will They Be: Hmm, probably around a couple of centuries, maybe three.

Layer 09: I…

I Love: Peace and Quiet

I Feel: Contemplative

I Hide: My fear

I Miss: the Imperial City

I Wish: It was easier to live with the mistakes of the past.

My brain’s stopped functioning and I couldn’t make a decision on who to tag, so tagging absolutely anyone else who follows me who fancies doing this. Seriously, I love reading about everybody's OCs!

#my oc #Arellius Sabellius #tag meme #eso #teso #vampire #imperial #blood mage #nightblade

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