#you were a windchime yet you wanted to become human. was it love for their love of others really your driving force? or were you envious? | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

snackhobi · 4 years

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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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starlightsaeran · 3 years

Text

Moonchild

Author’s note: Hello hello! I’m so excited to be posting the first of two pieces created for the @mysme-rbb !! I’ve been unbelivably lucky to be paired with such an overwhelmingly talented artist, @pili-art {{please go show her all the love in the world!! }}, and I've had more fun creating these than I can even put into words!! I hope you love them <3

Summary: Saeran drifts off to sleep after another night of anxiety, but for the first time in a long while, his dreams are far from torturous...

Read on AO3: here!

Make sure to check out my partner’s STUNNING accompanying art here!! ✨

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Saeran wanders among the scintillating tightrope hung between the planets, tangled among the clouds.

The darkness is inescapable. A thick blanket of it envelops him, entangling everything it isn’t with everything he is, securing him, but never trapping him. It pulls him under into its reassuring embrace, and quellls the flames of his neverending fears and anxieties. The darkness is a lullaby to the exhaustion of his soul.

Saeran is alone. He had long ago grown used to being alone, and now he felt the most at ease when he was by himself, in the hours when he knew no one else was around to see his weaknesses and the insecurities that were always lit up like a neon sign behind his eyes. He enjoyed being alone, but the inevitable loneliness that managed to creep up on him without fail every time he was alone made him want to run far and far away. But every silver lining has its cloud, and Saeran, being as smart as he is, knew there would never be anywhere for him ro run to. In this moment, Saeran is alone, but he isn’t lonely. The darkness, though he is sure that’s all it is and all it has ever been, feels like a friend. It remains silent, watching, though Saeran knows it is never judging. That’s why he has always found it so easy to be comforted by the darkness, to melt it into it, until he can’t remember where the darkness ends and he begins. Intertwined - with the emptiness he came from, the emptiness he belongs to. The darkness hides him. Him, and everything he is, everything he has ever been and never will be. It sees him, though for once, that doesn’t scare him. He knows he can be himself within the darkness, though in reality, he has no choice. He is simply too tired to hide it now.

No, the darkness is not empty, not as his heart had once been, is usually for that matter, but right now he doesn’t feel it; the infinite, endless cavern of depression he can't help but fall and fall and fall into. There is no escape, for it exists within him. It is him, this nightmare he can’t awake from. His heart is a blackhole. Perhaps this, the ocean of nothingness that exists many lifetimes away from all human creation, this is the perfect place for a creature like him to reside. There is nothing for him to destroy here, nothing for him to tarnish with the breaths he can’t help but to take. He is something to be feared. But perhaps here, in a place as wholly consuming as this, in an atmosphere which plucks his every thought from him like they are naught but weeds in a flowerbed, the inevitable ache which demands to be felt cannot find him.

In this moment, in this place, he cannot feel the heavy burden of his heart. This is a welcome escape from the anguish of his daily routine. In fact, Saeran can’t feel very much of anything else either. Not the untamable wisps of his hair that usually torment the corners of his always tired eyes, not the ache in his bones from the repeating days in which his body is stuck in its chair whilst his mind runs at the speed of light, or the pounding in his head that refuses to cease. He can’t even feel the rips and tears in the skin of his fingertips, which usually serve as a constant reminder of his own weakness and lack of self control. He feels none of it. He feels...nothing. Like the darkness within which he is encased, he is still.

Saeran tries to recall how it was he wound up here, wherever here is, and vaguely remembers the ghosts of his tears as they ran down his cheeks, and the way their rhythmic flow ebbed him to sleep. His head had been resting on a pillow dampened by the tears he’d cried an hour or a day or a year before, and the night sky visible through the glass ceiling above him had seemed to be inviting him to rest with it.

That must be where he is now. Dreaming, his mind wandering as his body rests, safe. But if his body was resting beneath the stars, then where were they now?

Open your eyes.

Saeran hears a voice say, or does he? It’s hard to tell if the words had manifested from the darkness, or if he had simply imagined them himself from the newly relaxed state of his mind. All he knows is that those words had sounded unimaginably pretty. They were a sound unlike any he had ever heard before, even lovelier than windchimes, and sirens singing in a storm. They had felt like kisses from a butterfly gliding past his skin. Regardless of the origin of the words, he feels as though he has no choice but to obey. He isn’t sure he is even in control of his own actions now, and though he hadn’t realised they had even been closed;

he opens his eyes.

An uncountable amount of stars had suddenly filled all of eternity. They are shining in all their seraphic glory, as they dance and dance with themselves and with each other, a cacophony of love, a symphony of light. They are beautiful in a way that nothing else is, and nothing else could ever dream to be. They intertwine with one another, forming families of constellations and creating a sight like nothing Saeran had ever imagined possible. They light up the world, and for the first time, Saeran can see it as it stretches for miles and miles, a whole galaxy of possibilities. Each one twinkles and sparkles in greeting. To his surprise, Saeran can feel their excitement; they are excited to see him. Their colours fill his soul, and he aches to be one of them.

And there, like a lighthouse within the storm of the ocean, is the moon. Like a forgotten lover, she calls to him. One look is all it takes and he is mesmerized, completely and utterly lost in the light of her glow.

Saeran.

The voice was a breeze blowing softly through him, and it called his name with such tenderness, such care, possibly even… love? Now wouldn’t that be a strange sort of thing. Love, for a nightmare like him? Yes, he mustn’t let him himself forget, even in the paradise of a place like this, he was a nightmare within a dream, a beast amongst beauty, and the blackhole of his heart would tear this goodness to shreds. He couldn’t let that happen. No, as much as he wanted to stay, and oh, did he want to stay, he wouldn’t let himself be this selfish. He wouldn’t watch his happiness be ripped from him again. He had to leave, had to get out, had to find a way to wake up, had to-

Saeran.

He hears it again, and this time he realises the voice is definitely feminine. The way she says his name holds him captive. He hadn’t been able to feel a thing, now all of a sudden he feels her, and the warmth in her glow. He feels her surrounding him. He feels her hands, as though one was stroking his cheek and another tangles itself in his hair, grounding him, but never trapping him.

Oh, Little Prince. My cloud wanderer. My star wonderer.

He melts into her soothing touch as though there is no other choice. Her light finds its way to his every corner, lighting him up from the inside, and extracting all his fear. It reminds him that this is where he exists in the present. All that matters is this moment. He hadn’t realised in his sudden calmness that his eyes had closed themselves again, shying away from the light as he was used to doing, until he hears her say;

Look. Look at all of your stars. They shine for you and only you. With each breath you take, you grant life to a new star. They exist because you exist. This is your galaxy.

Her words were a command his soul did not possess the ability to disobey, as though she retained complete control over him, and so he opens his eyes and looks. He tries to take it all in; the words of which their truth he feels in some deep, unexplored part of his soul, and the billions of lights, each one its own individual life, all shining for and because of him. If he had been on earth right now the truth of it all would have brought him to his knees. He feels like he is falling. How...how could all of this exist for him? How could a creature like him even pretend to be worthy-

Let go, my love. You are not falling, but flying.

He wants to let go, has been trying for it seemed the entirety of his existence, but the weight of his heart was an anchor to the world with which he no longer wanted to have anything to do, especially not now. Not after seeing exactly where it was his soul could escape to.

A heart is a heavy burden indeed. And yet you handle yours so well, little one. My starlit dreamer, to love as you do is a wondrous thing. Flowers grow to meet your smile. Birds sing their joy when they feel your presence. A soul as pure as yours, and a star as sweet as you, well, it’s no surprise the weight of the love in your heart made you sink, and the Earth claimed you for itself.

He feels it now. The pull of the night. The song of the stars that matched the one his soul had been singing alone for so long. He is a star. A star with a heart too full of love. And it had caused him to fall to the Earth.

You have become earthbound, and now so many worlds exist within yours, within you, within the wonders of your eyes.

Although of course the truth is shocking, more than anything, he feels a wave of welcomed understanding wash over him. He is as calm as the night. He hasn’t learnt a new truth, it’s more like unlocking a very old memory. But it is a truth nonetheless, and one he hopes he can carry with him. A truth he hopes he will be able to recall on those recurring nights of agony, when it felt as though all the world were against him.

You know who you are in your heart, little one. You have survived until now. You have been brave, and you will be braver still. The stars have already written your name amongst theirs, and there it will always remain. Your home is only a dream away.

Then why, he wants to scream. If his home is amongst the stars and the love and the light of the galaxy, if he is so special to them, then why is he cursed to a life of pain and heartache? Why can’t he remain here, where for the first time in his life he feels loved and like he has an understanding of the world, he has a grasp on the workings and intricacies of life, and he doesn’t feel like he’s on the cusp of letting go?

The Earth needs you, precious one. There are lives you are going to save and smiles you’re going to bring to so, so many people. They need you. And they will love you more than you could ever imagine. Your struggles make you stronger, so that your heart may find the hearts of those that need you, and in turn you may pass on your wisdom and your love to save them. And every time they look up at the stars, on the painful nights as you have, they will see you there, shining brightly, and they will know they are safe. They will know they are loved. They will know there is a world out there waiting for them, and there are lives for them to save in turn.

You know the truth of who you are. You will carry that truth with you for always, it is not something your soul can forget. When the days are hard and the nights are long, remember that you are loved by stars both up here, and stars that are like you, whose overflowing hearts have caused them to fall through the night and land upon the Earth. You need each other, and together, you will shine across every darkened corner of a land that feels lost. Discover it. Discover yourself, and the weight of the love within you.

I will always be with you, dear one. The stars in your eyes are the tears in mine, and though there may be little rest for the moon, your existence will never be a burden to me. I exist to guide you through the night.

Saeran feels himself growing sleepy; not tired, as though it is torture to his eyes to keep them open. Not exhausted, as though even sleep isn’t enough to fix him. But safe, warm, full of love and of light, as though he himself were just a little cloud floating carelessly through the sky.

Rest now, my angel. Tomorrow, your eyes will once again light up the sun. For now, may you rest, and allow me to take on your worries. Whenever your heart bubbles over with fear, may your dreams carry you home, where we will always be waiting.

And as Saeran gives in to the waves of sleep pulling him under, he rests his head against the gentle surface of the Moon, and the smile on his face is bright enough to be seen from Earth.

#mysmerbb #mystic messenger #saeran choi

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simpingforthisonedeer · 3 years

Link

Chapter 10: Storge I

SFW Version Here

Summary: There is some discussion of Kabbhalic lore in the beginning but this chapter and the next focuses mainly on the parental relationships Julius and Aika present. They certainly feel their age.

Notes:

- Ive split another massive chapter in half sighhhh. This is 5279 words and I’ve written 7.3k already but I still haven’t reached the ending I wanted so I just split it. 

- I know Yami and William haven’t made an appearance yet but they will. This chapter will shed some light on how Julius and Marx’s relationship and how proud he is that Marx grew up from an antsy young boy in his squad to a dependable young man by his side. -There’s like 2-3 sentences where its NSFW but besides that, nothing much sorry folks ajskjlk

Tagging: @thoughtfullyrainynightmare

Aika observed the dirty grimoire with one part apprehension and one part excitement. It was the first time she encountered a devil-possessed item without any supervision. A weg magic user that had come to Spade Nation War College as a guest speaker to her class had shown her how to recognize and deal with Devils. They were often best left alone in their sealed states whether they were friendly or not unless you wanted to make a pact. Though Aika’s curiosity was piqued, she had no interest in any other Devil except for one specific one, but he wasn’t heeding her calls or summons so she had lost any interest in becoming a host, especially considering the downsides.

There was no doubt there was a devil in there. She could feel the familiar mana from the Underworld. Aika cracked open the spine and stared in shock at the familiar writing. It was the same runic scripture from her own grimoire. She flipped through pages, skimming them. They all spoke of multiple different swords. Now, she had lightly studied grimoire magic over the years for fun because she found it fascinating how the countries in the Four Suits continent determined their borders purely based on the symbol on the grimoires. So she knew the basics such as checking the grimoire to see if anyone’s mana was connected to it and it wasn’t. This means that she could keep it and study it. If she took off her gloves, she could even make contact with the devil if she wanted to, but this was neither the time nor the place.

Aika looked up at her protégés as they stared warily at the book in her hand.

“What are your thoughts on this grimoire? What is so unusual and exciting about it?” She asked testingly. They needed to discern what it was from their own knowledge.

“Well, according to Clover Kingdom mythos,” Ellie began. “The three leaves symbolize hope, faith, and love. In the fourth leaf, a formation which occurred 500 years ago with the first Wizard King’s grimoire, contains luck. But according to legend,” she paused as she took a deep breath. “In the fifth leaf, there is a demon.”

“Do you think there is a demon in this grimoire?” Aika asked lightly.

Evan shivered before he answered, “There is definitely a devil in it. It reeks of the Underworld.”

She snapped the book shut and squinted at the anti-bird. Still strange how it was still here.

“Yes, you are right there is a devil in here,” she confirmed. They all tensed.

“What should we do? Should we kill it?” Jayce asked, his voice slightly shaking.

“No,” Aika shook her head and she crossed her legs again. “You don’t kill devils unless absolutely necessary.” She opened her backpack and stuck the grimoire carefully in it, willing it to be placed on top of her research table in her not-so-little study space in her loft.

“What?! Why?!”

“Because the very existence of devils obscures most of God’s Light and allows reality to exist. Killing them is counter-intuitive. You only kill them when they are unshackled and out in the human realm. This devil is very neatly sealed in this grimoire so no worries,” Aika explained as she smiled demurely. Their panic was quite amusing, especially when they are noticeably frustrated with her nonchalant attitude.

“Are you sure, ma’am?” Ellie asked carefully.

“Very.” She put the tea set away. “Now, if that is all, you may stand at ease.”

Their shoulders slackened and Ellie slinked over to her side and sat down next to her with a sigh.

“I can’t believe we are still brushing over the devil,” she murmured as she rested her head on Aika’s shoulder.

“Don’t worry. When I have recovered, I will make sure the devil is safe before I take you guys to interact with it.” She carefully patted Ellie’s mass of white curls.

Evan sat in the armchair to her right as Jayce picked up a book from the stacks around them and flipped through it.

“I’m in no hurry to talk to a devil, ” he began as he absentmindedly traced the pages in the book. He snapped it shut with a wicked grin. “But I do want to know everything about you and the Wizard King.”

They all rolled their eyes at his theatrics. Aika shifted in her seat, quickly categorizing information that she was willing to share and details that were better left to herself. She found that this method was better than completely shutting herself out from people as per her first instinct.

“What exactly do you want to know about the Wizard King and I?” She asked as she wrapped her arm around Ellie. “There’s a lot to know.”

“Ooooooh,” Jayce plopped down in front of her like a kid at storytime and gave her his brightest smile. “How did you two meet? How did you get so close? ” He winked. Even Evan, who was usually understanding of Aika’s reluctance to share information, leaned forward as she braced herself to tell them the barest details at the very least.

She told them about her first encounter with him that night and the captain’s meeting and the assassination attempt at her home.

The three listened to her story and watched in great interest as Aika grew more and more animated, an easy smile gracing her face and a twinkle in her eye as she spoke of the Wizard King. It was fascinating to see their boss grow less and less reserved as time went by and what little time she had spent with the King had sped the process up. The more she smiled, the younger she seemed, happier, more carefree, and very undoubtedly in love.

Aika grew more somber when she talked of today. They knew of her condition and how it was dangerous to spend too much time around her. It was why they valued the time they spent with her so much. It saddened them to hear about how she had to reject him so many times when she wanted nothing more than to be with him.

“But if it truly doesn’t affect him…” Aika’s gaze fell to the side. “Then I may have a chance.”

At love. She left unsaid, but they knew. They knew her well.

“There’s always an exception,” Ellie whispered soberly. “And if his words are to be believed, then he may be it.”

They all stayed quietly for a moment, and as if to herald the end of the storytime, Evan, Ellie and Jayce’s stomachs growled in unison.

Aika was the first to laugh. A tinkling kind of sound like windchimes swaying in the summer wind. They quickly joined in after the momentary shock, a sort of happiness bubbling in their chests to see her smile so freely after all these years.

“I’ve made flat bread and curry for dinner. Would you two like so—”

“Yes!”

Aika chuckled and opened her backpack. Ellie dove headfirst without warning and Jayce soon followed. She carefully helped Evan step into it as the anti-bird perched on top of him again. As he disappeared into the void, Aika set her backpack down next to the sofa in an innocuous spot. Satisfied, she climbed in and closed the flap above her. Light brighter than the study flooded her vision. She kept her loft well-lit and tidy for the most part so she was fine having guests today. Aika heard a faint “wheeee” as Jayce slid down the pole to get to the bottom floor.

When you walk further into the living room that first greets you, there was a L-shaped railing that overlooked a spacious opening to the bottom floor. There was a break in the railing for a spiral staircase and a pole which Jayce had always loved to use.

The anti-bird she had allowed into her home flitted around, exploring the open kitchen to her right and the rooms in the hallway adjacent to the railing. Evan and Ellie were already setting up plates and utensils on the table in the dining area.

Aika walked past them with a tired smile and quickly heated up curry and bread with the firestone on hand and a touch of her Time magic. She placed them carefully on the table just as Jayce launched himself into his seat. It may be rather late in the night, but he was still full of boundless energy.

Ellie helped serve the food and Aika muttered a small prayer before they dug in.

“There was something off about the Wizard King, wasn’t there?” Ellie remarked innocuously. Aika looked at her curiously. She motioned her to elaborate as she spooned some curry.

“I stood where you two were, er, standing and the remnants of your mana felt like they were the same yet completely different.”

“Well, he doesn’t have a heartbeat, if that information means anything to you.”

“He’s not the undead. He certainly has a lot of mana,” Evan added.

“Is that why you are pursuing him while still keeping him at an arm’s length, Miss?” Jayce asked suddenly. They all looked at him in shock. He looked uncharacteristically serious. “You could never resist a mystery after all.”

Aika stared at him evenly and his gaze never wavered from hers. Anger initially shot through her at his words but she held her tongue. She couldn’t be mad at him for discerning part of the truth. She was known for her lack of patience but she had lately been trying to better herself and she asked for the three infront of her to help her in this. Ellie and Evan were patient with her when she lost her temper while Jayce was the only one with the courage to test her, keep her on her toes so she wouldn’t one day explode.

“That’s not completely true,” she finally answered. Julius’ smile replayed in her head and she felt a lot calmer, a little happy even.

“I do genuinely like him.” She looked down at her plate. Her breath stuttered when she remembered his laugh, his eyes, the way his soft hair threaded between her fingers. Aika couldn’t help the smile that crept up her face.

“I must admit, he is the only one that makes me laugh and smile like that.”

“And what are we for doing all that too? Chopped liver?” Jayce snorted as he crossed his arms over his chest childishly. She rolled her eyes at that.

“You guys make me smile in a way mother smiles when her children do stupid things,” she quickly retorted. “Or when they make her proud—”

“You think of us as your children?” Ellie interrupted breathlessly.

Aika gaped at her for a moment. She had accidentally let it slip hadn’t she? It’s been too long since she had to be so careful and alert and she was losing practice. And she was especially close with these three so her guard was completely down.

She hesitated before she answered, “Well, yes—” Ellie hugged her arm tight and Jayce was suddenly behind her, arms wrapped around her neck. Evan stayed put in his spot but his shoulders were hunched as he smiled shyly at the plate in front of him, a pleased blush high on his tanned cheek.

“We’re glad you think so.”

Aika stiffened at the sudden touch. Did they really want to be that close to her? Then it hit her. Of course they thought of her as a mother. They were orphans, she had rescued them from their various dangerous situations, taught them valuable lessons, protected them, gave them means to better themselves.

Oh.

She relaxed in their hold. She had more than one child, didn’t she? “I—” I love you guys. She wanted to say, but the words were lodged in her throat. She had a severe aversion to that particular sentiment. It saddened her that she couldn’t comfortably say the words she wanted to say.

Jayce slinked back into his seat and they continued eating.

“If he makes you happy in a way nobody else does,” Evan spoke first, changing the subject for her sake. “Be as careful as you want to be before you get together.”

Ellie hummed in agreement with him. “But you also have to make it clear that while you are keeping him at an arm’s length, that you still like him, or he would take your distance as disinterest.”

“We want you to be happy, but we just hope you just don’t get hurt like last time.” Aika smiled gratefully at all three of them. They were no longer children. They were wise beyond their years and people she could depend on.

“Thank you,” she whispered hoarsely and cleared her throat with a blush as they giggled.

They thanked her for the food and helped wash the dishes before they all climbed out, ready to turn in for the night.

Ellie, Evan and Jayce wrapped Aika in a group hug, coaxing a joyful laugh out of her.

“Good night!” They exclaimed in unison before they shut the door to study behind them.

When they left, Aika grinned and buried her face in her hands. Her whole family died when she was just sixteen and she had wandered this plane of existence for decades, making friends along the way but they all had their own lives. She forcefully planted her feet in Clover Kingdom to protect it but along the way, she had found a family again. Her uncle, aunt, her daughter, whatever Arthur meant to her, Ellie, Evan and Jayce.

She felt an indescribable giddiness as she activated her Mana Hands spell to rearrange the stacks of books around her back into their places on the shelves. This was what she was looking for all these years. She didn’t even need Julius. This was all that she needed. –

Julius closed the door behind him and shifted the painting back into place so it was covered. He leaned his head against the canvas as he exhaled.

There was an unmistakable force pulling them towards each other every single time. First, that night, then the Captain’s meeting, that moment on the battlefield, then today again.

What in the world was wrong with him? Never in his life had he felt so lost. His whole life that he only ever needed magic and the power to do good in this world but what was this squeezing sensation in his chest?

“One month,” she said. One whole month. He thought about the way her eyes lit up at the Captain’s meeting, the palpable relief when she realized there were no hard feelings, the intent way she looked at him when she slipped off her blindfold.

Julius pressed his hand to his mouth as a blush suffused through his cheeks.

Oh, he was down bad.

He had always kept these sorts of interactions at an arms-length. One-offs were fine but what was so different about her? He just became Wizard King yet she consumed his thoughts. He was supposed to be thinking about the future of his kingdom not—

‘She held you like no other.’ His voice whispered in his head. ‘You have always protected others but you felt warmth and safety for the first time in the crook of her neck and her tight embrace.’ No one had ever dared to hug him and touch him like that. No one had ever kissed him so sweetly, and with that same mouth called him a “good boy” and made him see stars.

His hand clawed at the painting behind him as he pressed his legs together.

Julius let out a breathy laugh.

This was not the time.

He stared at the voluminous stack of papers on his new desk. His desk as Wizard King. He felt the crushing weight of that title again for the second time that day. He walked up to it, his fingers lightly tracing the edges as he stepped onto the side where he had rarely ever been.

He was here now, wasn’t he? He looked around the corner less office, cold and empty in every way. There was no fireplace, only torches that lined the walls.

Why was the room so big anyways? It should have a few couches at the very least to have comfortable conversations over tea instead of the vast barrier that the desk was sure to put up.

Julius turned around and faced the view he used to envy as a Captain. The giant, arched windows looked out over the Clover Kingdom from its highest peak. The sun had set hours ago but the bright, purple glow of the wisteria trees at the base of the tower was both exhilarating and calming.

He took a deep breath and faced his desk. He ought to finish at least one stack of papers. He filled up the fountain pen with ink and sat down heavily. Julius began with the paper on the top. It was a report from the Crimson Lion Kings.

Well, that piqued his curiosity.

He had always dealt with his own squad’s affairs and some collaborative missions with other squads but he didn’t know the specifics of the internal affairs in each squad.

The report wasn’t from Leonardo, it was in fact from his son and the new captain, Fuegoleon. From the lengthy conversation he had with the Vermillion during the banquet, he could tell that he was a hardworking, young man who was eager to do his job. He also inferred from their talk that he didn’t particularly care for anyone’s class or background unlike his father so he had high hopes for the Crimson Lions to set a good example for the rest of the squads. The most recent reports were all about how the battlefield was being cleaned up and about the dead. He genuinely focused on his work for half an hour before slowing down.

He was so tired. So much had happened today and the words in front of him began to look like scribbles. Perhaps he shouldn’t have exhausted himself so much…

A knock sounded on his door, jolting him from his thoughts.

Julius cleared his throat and asked, “Who is it?”

“It’s Marx, Lord Julius,” he called out, a little surprised he was actually in there.

“Come in.”

Marx stepped into the room, eyes alert as he examined the big office. When his eyes landed on Julius, they softened, happy that he seemed to be working.

“Are you working, sir?” He asked as he moved closer.

“Yes, Marx.” He smiled lightly. “May I help you with something?”

“No, sir,” He shifted his new cloak. “I was just making sure you were working, sir, and offer my congratulations once again.”

Julius set his quill down as he sat up straighter.

“Thank you.”

“You’ve worked so hard to get here and I am so grateful you chose me of all people to be your advisor, sir.”

A smile grew on Julius’s face as he regarded the young man in front of him. He was only 20 years old and Julius had only known him for the last 5 but he had a special place in his heart. He may not be a superb fighter but Julius saw his value in other places. He took Marx into his squad for his brilliant memory magic, his work ethic, and his unique ability to be the only person who could stand up to him and keep him in line. And now, he couldn’t think of a better person to make sure he didn’t stray his path.

“Of course, Marx. I know you will be the one to make sure I do my job right,” He added with a laugh.

Outside of family, Marx was one of the handful of people who was truly close to him and could stand up to him. Even as a 15-year-old magic knight, whenever Marx would find him trying to sneak away, he never hesitated to berate his captain and made sure he worked. With time, Julius had come to see that he was also a hard worker and was one of the few people who could successfully curb his propensity to slack off. If it wasn’t for Marx, he would’ve neglected his paperwork all together.

Yet, there was one more person who began to worm his way into his heart.

“Though, I have to say, there is one more person who you may see often as you work whom you haven’t met yet.”

“Sir?”

“She is a private consultant who used to work for the previous Wizard King and she had offered to work for me as well,” Julius explained as he laced his hands together.

“She?”

He raised an eyebrow at that. That was an unexpected remark. “Yes, Marx. She’s a woman. I hope you don’t have any issues with that.”

He threw his hands up as he shook his head. “No, sir. That’s not the issue. I just never heard of any women in particular that could be a consultant for the Wizard King.”

Julius laughed, slightly relieved that Marx wasn’t that kind of a person.

“You wouldn’t know her. She likes her privacy and used to only work in the shadows,” he explained as he cast his eyes down.

Marx observed his melancholic demeanor. Why does speaking of her make him feel so down?

“What’s her name, sir?” Julius’s eyes flicked up. “Her name?” He steeled himself for reasons he couldn’t put his finger on. “It’s Aika Tolliver.”

His eyes immediately widened in recognition.

“M-Madam Tolliver?”

Julius cocked his head at him. Madam?

“Yes? Do you know her?”

“Yes, my older brother used to be the head of communications in her company.” His voice wavered as he clenched his fists. “He was recently promoted to president. But why would she be a consultant to the Wizard King?!”

Julius was taken aback by all that he had just told him. Marx spoke very rarely of his estranged brother, Karl, and he never knew that Aika knew him. And what exactly does he mean why she was a consultant to him?

“What do you mean by that, Marx?”

“Sir, she has a bad reputation for using forbidden magic,” He whispered urgently.

Julius stared at him blankly.

“Yes, I knew that.”

“Y-you did?”

“Yes. A Wizard King sometimes needs a licensed forbidden-magic user to deal with some unsavory things. She is also an amazing strategist and has experience in warfare for reasons I am still unaware. ” He added quietly as he picked at his quill. “We’ve talked for hours about a lot of things.” A lot of things indeed. “And I know she will be crucial in the future.”

Marx was about to object again but quieted at the stern look Julius gave him. He sighed as he clenched his fists by his sides, his light blue hair tickling his cheeks as he bowed his head in acquiescence.

“I will try to keep an open mind, sir.”

“Thank you, Marx.” He looked down at the papers, his smile falling. “I will see if I could introduce you tomorrow. I’m assuming you haven’t met her properly.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Then that’s settled.”

He stood there quietly as he watched Julius sign a paper with a flourish. Marx knew the man a lot better than most people and he knew that Julius would be ecstatic that he was finally the Wizard King and maybe even goof off a bit but right now, he was much too somber.

“Sir, are you alright?”

Julius looked up, surprised he was still here. He was far too lost in his thoughts. He opened his mouth and stopped. Marx didn’t need to know about Aika. He rubbed the back of his head as he forced his best natural laugh.

“Yeah, of course I’m fine, Marx! Why wouldn’t I be?”

“Well, you would usually be more excited on finally achieving your ambitions and…you wouldn’t be working…”

…He’s right.

“Well, I have simply realized the weight of my new title and I suppose that is what is making me more serious.” That technically wasn’t a lie. Julius mentally patted himself on the back for that.

Marx grinned, a giddy sort of feeling washing over him.

“Does this mean you will finally be serious about your paperwork, sir?!”

That was not what he meant.

“Wait, no!” Marx’s expression fell. “I mean yes! Of course I will do my paperwork!” His advisor’s face could not look any more disappointed. He quickly needed to change the subject before he got lectured again. “Speaking of paperwork, I think I will feel motivated to do it if I’m in a better setting like a study, you know? There’s a Wizard King’s study and it’s desk is longer and faces the windows so I would have an amazing view to keep me energized. And I would also be surrounded by a lot of books and I would feel so studious and motivated!”

That seemed to have caught Marx’s attention. He had never heard of study. “I would like to show it to you tomorrow and we could both explore it. Does that sound good?”

“But sir, you have to tour the squad bases and then you have to hold your first meeting with all the Captains—”

“We will explore the study after that, okay?”

“But then, there’s a lot of paperwork that—”

“Marx,” Julius addressed him patiently as he held his gaze. “Taking breaks is important, you know?”

“And all you want to take are breaks, sir,” Marx replied with an imperceptible roll of his eyes.

Julius laughed.

“I promise I will be productive!” – Aika threw her crimson cloak on, a cloak she had worn since her days with Mereoleona. She quickly examined her trousers for any odd wrinkles and stacked the needed papers for a meeting she had in 20 minutes.

She felt much, much better after speaking to Ellie, Evan and Jayce and Julius seemed like the type to be more casual about such things and not let them get in the way of work. She was rather worried it might because her Uncle told her that Julius gets distracted easily. She couldn’t meet up with him and talk today because she would be occupied, especially since she accepted Lord Silva’s invitation for tea.

Aika reached for her communicator to call for Ellie, but she tensed and quickly pointed her daggers at the person who teleported into the study.

“Mom!”

Her shoulders slackened and a tired smile softened her face as she dropped to crouch. Aika enveloped Holly in a tight hug as she giggled. She loved how her daughter smelled like roses and apples, though they smell the same. She pulled back and pressed light kisses on her cheeks and smiled indulgently.

“Hello, Holly. You are here to spend time at the CLK base right?”

“Yeah! Uncle Fueggy said I could play with the lions and I thought I should congratulate him for becoming captain too! I made biscuits and wore my crimson cloak.” She spun on her heel, showing it off.

“That’s really nice of you dear.” Holly led her mother to the sofas and motioned her to sit down. “Did you make any for me?” She murmured, amused as Holly climbed into her lap and made her wrap her arms around her tiny frame.

“I hoped to give you the leftovers if that’s okay.”

“That’s fine but what if there are no leftovers,” Aika asked, fake hurt lacing her voice.

“I have a plan to make sure there’s leftovers. Don’t worry, Mom,” Holly grinned and sighed contentedly into her mother’s chest. Aika looked down at her curiously, gently rubbing her hair.

“May I know what the plan is?”

“You really want to know?”

Aika let out a short laugh. Only her children could ever sass her like this and get away with it and she must admit, it was very refreshing.

“Yes, I really want to know.”

“Okay, so if Uncle Fueggy didn’t like them too much, you will have some left over. Obviously. But if he liked them and wanted to keep them, and give them to his squad or something, I’ll be like ‘I was going to save some for my mom, but oh well. I’m glad you liked them.’ And then he would feel really guilty and leave some anyways,” she finished with a proud smile.

Aika pursed her lips, tamping down the laughter bubbling in her chest. Holly caught this and narrowed her eyes suspiciously.

“Is something wrong, Mom?”

“No…” She cleared her throat and took a deep breath. “Have you simply thought of maybe just giving me one biscuit to taste or maybe simply telling Fuegoleon to save some for me?”

“What.”

“Yes, I mean it doesn’t have to be that convoluted because Fuegoleon is polite and wouldn’t say no to that and even simpler, giving me one biscuit now would be the simplest solution,” she explained with a laugh.

“Oh.” Holly buried her face in the crook of her neck in embarrassment. “You’re right.”

Aika laughed quietly as she rubbed Holly’s back. No one could make her feel as young and light as her daughter could and she absolutely loved her for it.

Holly peeked at the window between her mother’s arms to check the time. The moment she saw or felt the sun, she could instantly tell what the time was. But she let her jaw fall slightly when she saw an anti-bird perched on the lap. She had never seen one so close.

“Mom, is that a…” She pointed at the bird. Aika followed her gaze and found that the little bird from last night still here.

“Yes, that’s an anti-bird, but it also seems to be an anomaly.”

“Oh, you mean it doesn’t run away from us like other anti-birds?”

“I mean that bird is still avoiding me but seems perfectly fine with others.”

“Isn’t this a perfect opportunity to study how an anti-bird reacts to magic then?”

“What? No! It’s an anomaly so it doesn’t behave like other birds so it’s useless to study it, Holly”

“What about studying the anti-bird for its biology through the possession technique?”

The possession technique is a forbidden magic spell used in the study of animals to possess them and view how the world was from their perspective including the five senses and what instincts activate in any given situation etc. Possession magic only works on other species so a human cannot possess another human unless an attribute explicitly allows that.

People have tried to use a possession spell on an anti-bird before but like the North and South repel each other, anti-birds have shown to dodge magic at abnormal speeds when magic was thrown at them even in containment. The ongoing theory was that anti-birds actually feel some measure of pain, most probably a lot, the presence of or when in contact with magic.

“An anti-bird’s biology was already studied by people with less magic and it’s no different than a normal bird’s. You don’t have to worry about it—”

The door leading from the Wizard King’s office clicked open. Aika paused as her heart skipped a few beats when she glimpsed the blond hair before the door revealed to the Wizard King in all his glory. She could never get used to that strange yet commanding-looking cloak he wore.

Julius met her gaze and they were lost for words for a few moments. Last night seemed like a fever dream compared to the clarity brought by the daylight. His eyes flickered down to Holly who broke the silence. “Good Morning, Julius!”

Notes: Holly actually plays a bigger role than intended👀👀

#demons run #julius novachrono #marx francois #oc: aika tolliver #julius x reader #julius novachrono x reader #julius novachrono x oc #demons run chapter 10

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jasperwhitcock · 4 years

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01. AN IMPOSSIBILITY

i stumbled upon a post you can read here from @bellasredchevy from like a year ago where she expanded on an au where bella & edward switch places where bella is a vampire in the cullen family and edward is a human. we’re all social distancing (or we all SHOULD be unless u have work so if ur out partying take ur ass home boo) so i had time to kill & i thought i’d write a chapter hehe.

It was an impossibility for me to have missed the presence of my adopted brother entering the room. What with my astute senses, my supernatural sensitivity to everything – the microscopic details of the book page’s porous beige paper, the length of his shadow stretching onto the floor beneath the novel in my hands, cast from the golden light of the hallway, the smooth, feathery finish of the paper under my frozen fingers, the whooshing sound of air caressing his mountainous stature as he appeared, the soft yet heavy thud of his feet against the floor – a sound nearly imperceptible, the impossible to place scent of something like bergamot, white cedar, rose, and sandalwood perfuming the room at his appearance. An impossibility, and yet, my focus was so invested in the words inked on the page, enamored with a story I’d read a hundred, a thousand, a million times, that I found myself shocked when the novel surprisingly ripped down the spine into two perfect halves before my eyes, another one of my novels that he had plucked off the shelf barreling towards my face. He had thrown the other book with such force that in the process of his attempt to grasp my attention, he knifehand-striked a book I had taken from my mother Renee’s sad little toilet-reading, bathroom basket collection of a library.

I was on my feet hunched towards him infinitesimally, the book that had been less than a centimeter from crashing into my face tenderly clutched in my right hand, my lips pulled back over my teeth to let out a snarl. The right half of the original novel I had held fell onto the floor with a thump a moment later. He stood crouched as well, a wicked smile spread on his lips, a mischievous glint in his eyes. He loved provocation – eliciting this kind of response in me fueled him. A fight with some authentic irritation, a fight with an edge.

“Time for school, baby sister,” He raised an eyebrow, inviting the challenge.

“Emmett,” I hissed through my teeth, tensed to launch myself at him. Part of my mind sifted through a dozen plans of attack, strategizing what would be my most successful method of taking him down since he was pretty much insurmountable. He had all the strength and all the size. Stealth would be my greatest chance. Another part of my mind pulsed with irritation, an irrational, furious mood swing sweeping over me. The kind of emotional response only our kind could experience...or handle. I nearly saw red as the rest of the words flew through my lips. “Couldn’t you have told me that without destroying a priceless artifact of my human life, big brother?”

I made the name sound like a curse word.

“Artifact?” Emmett snorted. “Please. How many times have you read that same damn story in the past few years? I did you a favor,” he smirked as he feigned right and left so fast that it was as if he hadn’t moved at all.

I tensed to hurl myself forward at the opportune moment before a tsunami tide of calmness washed over the room along with an earthy aroma of citrus, patchouli, musk, and leather. “We really should be leaving now,” my other adopted brother Jasper murmured in his lightly southern accent as he appeared.

“Restricting as it may be, vehicles only allow up to a certain speed, and Esme wouldn’t like for us to be late,” my tiny sister materialized by his side in a blur of porcelain skin and inky black hair. “Although, maybe she’d get a kick out of a call home for tardiness,” Alice laughed, a sound like windchimes. “I can tell you who would have won or you could have your fight later.”

“Ugh,” Emmett groaned in disappointment, dropping his stance. “It’s so hard to get her that riled up. Fuck!” He complained, grumpily disappearing from the room in a flash.

“Later,” He promised under his breath from the garage.

“You would have won,” Alice mouthed, her beautiful lips stretching into a secretive smile as she winked. She picked up the other half of the novel I had purposefully dropped to catch the meteor Emmet had propelled, tossing it in the air towards me in one fluid motion.

I grinned to myself, gently tucked the other book back into its rightful place on the shelf across the room, and caught the ruined piece before it hit the ground. My face immediately dropped into a frown as I analyzed both halves. Fortunately, Pride and Prejudice was not beyond repair. I could mend the division by sewing it back together down the spine later. I set the injured book down and flew downstairs not a moment later. As I passed my adopted mother on the way to the door, I pecked her on the cheek before exiting the house and sliding into the dark leather backseat of the pearly white car next to Alice. Without checking the mirrors, Rosalie sped out of the garage as soon as the door lifted enough for us to clear.

The trees outside the windows were a green haze as we flew by, our speed only decreasing when we arrived in the main part of town among other drivers. We could have ran to school much, much faster – and thus not had any concern about tardiness – but without our cars for appearance, our show might prove unconvincing. It wasn’t abnormal to walk to school in the unrelenting pouring of rain in our small town of Forks, Washington. However, though few people in town knew the location of our home, perhaps the front office ladies might find it concerning that a group of teenagers trekked a half marathon to their classes. It was unlikely they’d care to look up the address from our files, but we were never too cautious.

I liked running. I had been characterized as very clumsy in my human life, so it was a welcome change to feel graceful and coordinated. It was a welcome change to feel powerful. It was, however, unwelcome to participate in the daily charade of masquerading as exactly the opposite of that. As much as I had enjoyed my afterlife, I loathed the same thing many teenagers did, a hatred that may be my greatest commonality with the humans that surrounded me.

High school. I didn’t mind school prior to my immortal life. I had been decent and even above-average in most subjects. I had been a responsible, diligent, and quiet seventeen year old: I paid attention, I completed assignments in time, I spent most of my time in solitude which allowed me ample time to study. There were subjects I enjoyed far more than others that kept things interesting enough for me. Unfortunately, after a number of graduations, high school lost any potential interest and became something of a purgatory. Even classes like English lost their charm over time. Once you had spent years studying literature from the greatest professors, scholars, and writers both living and dead, it was immensely rare for a small town high school English teacher to offer a new take that would make my attendance worthwhile.

Attending high school provided us with the opportunity to remain in one place longer, so complain as much as I want, I suppose it’s something to fill the endless amounts of time. Still, that didn’t make the obligation any more tolerable.

Rosalie hummed along to a song playing quietly through the speakers while Emmett sulked in the passenger seat over having missed out on a fight. I smiled, a bit smug. On the other side of Alice occupying the middle seat, I sensed Jasper’s head jerk slightly in my direction to see the expression that reflected my slight change in mood. I shook my head, still smiling, and he smirked a bit himself before returning his attention back to his window. His scarred hand traced affectionate circles onto Alice’s hand in her lap, and she stared forward, her unfocused eyes seeing not what was in front of her, but the potential realities of the future.

They were a gifted couple. We become immensely enhanced when we’re transformed from being human, and as a result, some immortals are equipped with a special gift on top of their already unparalleled supernatural senses. Our creator and father figure Carlisle theorized that our strongest traits from our human life develop in even stronger ways once we’ve been changed. Jasper’s influential nature flourished into a skill of sensing and manipulating the emotional climate of those around him. Alice’s gift was even more unique. She could see into the future. We didn’t know what in her human life this had developed from. Her past is a secret to not only us, but Alice as well.

I too was gifted. For some time, we had no idea until I had met our cousins. In Denali, Alaska, there was another coven similar to us not just in kind but in diet and ideology who we considered extended family. Another commonality we share is that they also have gifted immortals among their coven. One of the only males, Eleazar’s, gift was sensing the abilities of other vampires, and he had detected my ability. He revealed, to all of our surprise, that I was something called a mental shield. It’s a talent of blocking out any powers that could invade my mind, and it is absolutely, entirely useless to me. I didn’t have a need for this kind of protection. My gift was a complete waste.

The drizzling rain was picking up into a steadier shower as we pulled into the small parking lot of Forks High School. Scenting the earthy, fresh stormy air was the tempting fragrance of the students’ pulsing blood as they ran for the dry cover of the maroon brick buildings. I was entirely satiated from my most recent hunt. Still, my throat burned with the slight dryness that would never completely go away. Jasper sighed.

There were only a few late stragglers hurrying from their vehicles towards their classes that could potentially see us, but as Rosalie parked, we moved at the frustratingly slow pace of the humans around us as a precaution. No risks. After exiting the car, Alice tossed me my backpack of useless school material from the trunk. I slid one strap over my shoulder and departed from my siblings for my first class.

The rest of the morning dragged along like a slow, drawn out sigh. I spent most of the time in my classes thinking of ways I could reorganize the book shelves in my room again. By genre, by author name, by theme, by year published, by year the story takes place, by favorite author, by alphabetical order of the location the story was set, by date of author’s death, by favorite to least favorite protagonist, by which accumulated the most pieces of literary criticism, by section that each family member might enjoy the most, by order in which I first read each, by order of which I read most to least, by order of which my family had read most to least, by alphabetical order of the antagonist’s name, and by which was least to most realistic were all ways I had structured my personal library in the past few years. I was toying with the idea of organizing by order of the birthday of the first character introduced, but a lot of the birthdays had not been established throughout the plot. I would have to decide where they would fit throughout the year based on which zodiac sign I might consider them to have depending on their character traits. Not that I held much stock in astrology – horoscopes did me no good when I had a future-telling sister.

The only difference in this day than any other day was that the trivial gossip I unintentionally overheard throughout the hallways concerned a new addition to the student body. This stirred up a lot of interest seeing as the majority of the children here knew each other for the entirety of their lives. What I had gathered in passing was that it was a junior boy named Edward Masen from Chicago who had recently moved from living abroad with his family. The girls were very excited – they considered him a very attractive potential new love interest. Attractive, though those who had been brave enough to speak to him found him to be impenetrable despite his charm. I wondered what the boy would make of me and my family.

I joined my siblings at our lunch table, the farthest table from everybody else in the room. In front of each of us was the prop of a lunch tray piled with unappetizing food. Alice sat, staring forward with empty eyes again, living in her own ever-changing reality. Jasper and Emmett made a hacky sack out of an apple and subtly kicked it back and forth in the air beneath the table, the apple moving too fast for human eyes to detect. Rose twirled a piece of her golden hair around in her hands, disinterested. Her thoughts were clearly elsewhere. As were all of ours. Occasionally she participated in their game by intercepting the apple with her foot.

“The new student’s going to ask about us in approximately fifteen seconds,” Alice chirped, her face returning to the present.

Emmett chuckled quietly.

“What will be said, and how will the boy respond?” Rosalie asked, her foot sending the apple reeling toward the ceiling.

Alice caught the apple in her slender, white hand before tossing it back to Emmett to end the game. “No different than anything else that’s been said, and no different than anybody else.”

I scanned the cafeteria to find the new student, so I could place a face to the upcoming conversation I’d be listening in on.

My eyes locked with a pair of soft green eyes set in a pale, angular face beneath an untidy mess of strange bronze hair. I looked away immediately but caught the beginning jolt of shock lighting up those surprisingly wise eyes.

“Who are they?” The boy gasped. So it had been my gaze that brought Alice’s vision to life. No doubt he’d immediately recognize the subtle differences that distinguish our kind from his. Emmett and I exchanged a glance, laughing under our breath as another junior student I recognized as Naomi Parker provided the common knowledge of the strange Cullen children. The story was complicated. In Forks, the explanation for our family was that Carlisle had adopted his twin niece and nephew, Rosalie and Jasper Hale, after the unexpected passing of his much older half-brother. Similarly, after a tragic car accident took the lives of Esme’s parents in addition to her aunt and uncle, she took in her younger siblings, Emmett and I, along with her niece Alice to look after us. Bonding over the shared experience of so much responsibility so young, Carlisle and Esme eloped, and we formed one giant, misshapen family.

Instinctively, I caught the apple in my hand just as it nearly turned into applesauce by means of collision with my stone face. I snarled at Emmett’s hysteric expression, hiding my hand from view so that anyone watching would have missed the entire catch. “Would you quit doing that today!?”

Rosalie shot Emmett a disapproving look. He shouldn’t be so irresponsible when we were clearly on display for the new Masen kid. I shot a minute glance towards his table to make sure they were no longer watching us. The boy seemed to be focused on the information he was receiving.

“This,” I snarled, sneakily disintegrating the apple into a pulp in my hand below the table where the humans couldn’t see, “will be what happens to you at home.” I made a show of letting the mush slide off my hand onto my tray.

My brother guffawed, and my other siblings joined in the laughter.

“In your dreams!”

I couldn’t help but laugh as well. I also couldn’t help but feel the intensity of watching eyes.

“Who’s the girl with the really long dark hair?” The soft, low voice of the boy asked quietly from across the room.

Reflexively, my eyes met his stare once again. He looked away quickly.

“That’s Bella. She’s insanely beautiful obviously, but if you’re thinking about trying to talk to her, forget it,” Naomi shrugged.

Once lunchtime was over, we disbanded to head off to the last half of yet another monotonous day. On my way out of the cafeteria, I purposely bumped into the trash can for Emmett’s benefit as he and Rose followed close behind. The action was a little more violent than I intended, and the plastic container bent slightly at the force.

“Oops,” I bit my lip to keep from smiling as he erupted into laughter. Upon our move to Forks, it had become something of a joke between Emmett and I for me to feign clumsiness. I didn’t participate in this joke daily, but every once in a while I’d sprinkle in an elaborate fall for his sake.

When I reached my junior level Biology class, I settled into my seat at the lab table I shared with no one. I laid the books devoid of any information relevant to me out on the table, and propped an elbow on the surface to hold my head up in my hand, awaiting the oncoming tedium.

The room filled as students returned from lunch. I paid them no attention, my eyes fixated on counting the snow-like particles of chalk dust floating in the air likely from Mr. Molina writing on the board prior to the end of lunch.

“Ah, welcome, Mr. Masen! We’re so glad to have you join us. You can take the seat next to Miss Cullen,” I looked up to find the biology teacher pointing in my direction. Next to him was the new boy. Standing up, he appeared very lanky – several inches taller than our teacher – though his physique was still slightly muscular.

I pulled the books closer to my side of the table to make room for him, feeling bad that he had the misfortune of being assigned the seat next to me. He would probably feel more comfortable anywhere else. Not only because I didn’t go out of my way to interact much with my classmates, but because their long-buried survival instincts told them what their brains didn’t totally understand: we were dangerous.

I had never been more dangerous than I was in that moment. Because after the Masen kid politely thanked the teacher, he turned down the aisle, directly in front of the heated airflow that blew towards me.

His scent washed over me like the most vicious, violent wave, a wall of unrelenting water in a heavy thunderstorm in the middle of the ocean, drowning me, taking me down, down, down, further and further away from the traces of humanity I had once clung to.

In every direction of this blackest of depths, there was no escape that could lead me back to the light; I resurfaced as the monster I pretended not to be.

The sweet enticing smell of Edward Masen’s blood compelled my throat to rupture into a burning, aching fire. I had never been ablaze with such need. My mouth was pooling with venom as my prey approached. Since he spoke, he had only taken another step forward. He would not take another.

As my muscles begged for the release that would send me springing forward, stealing the first life of my existence, those sage eyes glanced at me, widening in bewilderment at the vicious expression contorting my features.

With great difficulty, I emerged from my horrible, repulsive compulsion. The look on his face was enough to spare him another moment.

His scent perfumed the air around me; I was encompassed in this irresistable cloud of bloodlust, eager to leap up and put an end to this unexpected torture.

In all my years of immortality, I had never experienced a desire this overwhelming. I had never been so vulnerable to committing this kind of atrocity. My record was clean. With guidance, I had been able to restrain myself from the temptation of human blood. Of course, instinct is not easily fought. Sometimes the abstinence was painful. But never like this.

A dozen scenarios on how to kill this poor human boy crossed my mind, and I combatted every single one with the last miserable shred of self control I had left. I had never exerted so much effort. The toil was something hazily reminiscent of human exhaustion, weighing heavily onto me.

I had no choice but to end his life. There was no other way.

He awkwardly settled into the seat next to me, aware of some unknown hostility, but unaware of the ferocity raging within, unaware of the way his blood sang to me, inviting me in, inviting me to betray all my years of discipline, effort, and tolerance. Inviting me to betray my family.

Despite the absolute consumption, by some miracle, I resisted.

I desperately clung to the thought of my family. Rosalie. Esme. Carlisle. Alice. Emmett. Jasper.

They loved me. They would forgive me for this detestable, inexorable act. They would understand. They wouldn’t harbor any judgment.

But how could I let them down in this way? Everything about who we are, everything about what unites us and bonds us is intricately traced back to the compassion that rules over our lives. It’s what makes us different from others of our kind. It’s what allows us to retain some remnants of the humanity we’ve lost. So just as I’ve done before, I would withstand human blood now. No matter the agony that accompanies the resistance.

I took one last deep breath. The scent washed down my throat, burning me alive from the inside out.

I wouldn’t dare to breath for the next torturous hour. It was uncomfortable to forgo the sensation, but the consequences that would follow if I did breathe had far worse implications.

Could I last that long? What was I trying to prove? Was the possibility of a lapse in the best of my judgment worth not succumbing to the honest truth – that I had more weakness in the face of human blood than I thought?

Perhaps Emmett might make fun of me. Perhaps Jasper might secretly appreciate someone else struggling more than he did. But Carlisle and Esme wouldn’t see any weakness in leaving. They’d be proud of me for making this decision. They’d understand.

The last of the students were arriving from lunchtime. Now was the greatest opportunity to escape without drawing too much attention. In my peripheral, I saw the boy open his mouth to begin to speak to me.

If I didn’t leave now, I never would. My resolve was slipping away with every thud of the boy’s heart.

I got up and walked to the front of the classroom a little too fast.

“Mr. Molina?” I asked, my voice tight. The biology teacher looked up from a lesson plan he was reviewing, his eyes startled as he registered my face. I heard his heartbeat pick up from the surprise.

“I’m feeling a little... unwell. May I be excused?” I utilized the last of my breath, hoping the subtle begging in my voice didn’t prompt more questions.

Mr. Molina recollected himself, his eyebrows pulling together in slight concern along with confusion. The Cullens were never sick.

“Of course, Miss Cullen. Do you need a nurse’s pass-” He began before I cut him off, resentfully taking another tormenting breath. The scent sent my mind reeling. I fought for coherency in my thoughts.

I didn’t need to work to put on a show; I probably looked pale and sick enough.

“No thank you,” I spoke quickly, desperate for the relief of fresh, untainted air.

“Alright, then. I hope you feel better-” I was out of the room before he could finish the rest of the statement. The bell for class rang. The hallways were empty, so I risked the charade and began to move at an inhuman speed around the corner. Only when I had exited the building did I allow myself to breathe again. I gasped, nearly choking on the mouthfuls of clean air when I reached the car. My head was still spinning as I climbed into the drivers’ seat. I gave little thought to worrying if my quick movements in the classroom would reveal too much. I hoped that the students were too focused on finishing up their leftover conversations from lunch to notice.

With a jolt, I realized I was not alone in the car. In the passenger seat sat my tiny sister.

“Bella?” She asked, her pitch-black eyes unable to convey the concern that was etched on the rest of her pixie-like features.

“Alice,” I breathed. I had been so distracted with my own thoughts I hadn’t even paid any attention to the proximity of the familiar vanilla and jasmine fragrance of her skin. What was wrong with me today?

“Are you alright? I saw…”

I winced, knowing what she must have seen.

“I’m fine. I just… I-... I don’t know what happened…” The words flew rapidly out of my mouth.

“Do you need help? Should I grab the boys? Or would you like to leave-”

“No! No. It’s really not...a big deal. I’m just going to… I promise I’m fine. I won’t go back there-” I gulped, the venom filling my mouth as I even considered returning to the class where he sat. Alice’s eyes widened, so I stopped the thought in its tracks. “Rosalie has a free period right now. I think I’ll go find her. I’ll see you when school is over.”

I reached for the door, turning away from her, shame filling me, making me unwilling to face her any longer. Her slender hand grabbed my other wrist, pulling me to a stop. “I’ll come with you.”

“Don’t. I’m fine, Alice!” I pulled my hand away too defensively. Regret replaced the shame for a moment. “Sorry.”

I left her alone in the car, feeling guilty.

I knew it was risky to utilize my sense of smell, but following the sweet, warm aroma of orange blossom, marshmallow, and roses – and avoiding anywhere remotely near the science wing – I found my other sister alone in an empty classroom. Now that it had been distinguished from the rest, I could still smell the boy, but with more distance between us, I fought the temptation off.

“You’re not in class?” She asked as she typed into a computer, her back turned to me. It looked as though she was searching for some car parts. Even though I helped her in the garage sometimes, after all these years I was still no better at identifying anything related to automobiles.

“Rose...” I began, before stopping short, unsure of what to say.

She turned around in an indiscernible millisecond, her breathtaking face worried at the tone of my voice. “What’s wrong?”

She reached for me consolingly. Though I didn’t need the rest – I could stand still for hours on end and never feel tired – I sat on the floor beside her chair, hugging my knees to my chest, my eyes fixated on the dust deep in the roots of the rough, outdated carpet.

Her silky hands smoothly brushed through my hair, patiently waiting for me to build up the courage to speak. It felt nice.

After a few seconds, she spoke up. “Bella, you’re worrying me.”

I sighed.

“I’ve never...struggled this way before,” I admitted, exasperated with myself.

I could see that she was nodding out of the corner of my eye, immediately understanding. “That’s nothing to be ashamed about, Bella.”

I didn’t need to see her face to know her perfect lips were set into a deep frown. She wasn’t lying to me, but I knew to her, this existence was everything to be ashamed about.

“I won’t pretend that I don’t find myself...repulsed with...well, what we are. That’s no secret to anyone.” Her musical laughter had a dark edge to it. “But I’ve spent enough time for all of us hating myself for the impulses we have and the tragedy of our existence. You needn’t be so hard on yourself. It’s alright to...” She trailed off, selecting different words. “We’ve chosen an abnormal path in this non-life of ours. The terrible consequences of what we are are normal” – her hands froze in my hair briefly saying the word – “so try to let go of the shame I know you’re feeling, though I don’t blame you for feeling that way.”

She paused for a moment before adding, “you know we won’t allow you to harm anyone.”

I bit down on my lower lip. I was glad I came to Rosalie. She didn’t think I was being overdramatic the way Emmett might have.

Though I deeply loved my mother from my human life, there hadn’t been much maternal guidance. We had a strong bond, but I was far more of the caretaker than she was. I had been very lucky in this immortal life. Esme treated me as her own daughter, and I became truly taken care of. Just as Esme became the most loving mother figure in all the ways that counted, Rosalie became the very best protective older sister. My life had no shortage of supportive femininity and womanhood.

I heard a springy, featherlight approach of fast footsteps.

“I told you not to follow me,” I grumbled.

Alice poked her tongue out at me as she entered the room and fluttered to my other side, joining my other sister in stroking my head. “You’ll forgive me. I didn’t want to be left out of a sister moment.”

Her words brought half a smile to my face.

I closed my eyes, allowing myself to be comforted by Rosalie’s words and the soft feeling of my sisters’ hands in my hair.

Yes, it was undeniable what I was. I could never change the fact. But I could change the fate of this boy, and I could deny myself the instincts that identified me this way. I could deny myself Edward Masen.

#twilight au #twilight fanfiction #twilight renaissance #the twilight saga #twilight saga #edward cullen #bella swan #new moon #eclipse #breaking dawn #jasperwhitcock #equinoxjw

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lamiralami · 4 years

Text

TMA Retro 5: Thrown Away

Come on and get funky with your fellow feral trash pandas, it’s garbage day in MAG 5: Thrown Away

if MAG 4 was a hearty meal that needs time to digest, MAG 5 is a light and crunchy fortune cookie

(with a tooth in the centre)

which is good! it was a savvy decision to have the meta plot build so slowly over the first season. sometimes the thought of getting into something with a huge, complicated, mysterious narrative is...preemptively exhausting. but the format of singular spooky stories within a slowly illuminating enormous web eases you in, tricks your brain into getting invested despite itself. you know, like being in a pot gradually coming to a boil 🙃

this one is very self-contained indeed. I don’t even think anything in this statement ever comes up again. just get in, get spooked by a pile of teeth, get out

still, we are left with a lingering question: Which Fucking Entity Did This?

no but seriously. it could be so many!

the doll parts remind me of the Stranger, and it does come up later how much they like to play with teeth.

but then, piles of body parts would suggest the Flesh?

the metal heart sounds a little too elegant for them though (lest we forget, the Flesh ritual could have been called Hole Vores Some Meat. not sure coppersmithing is precisely their style)

could also be a bit Beholding? the whole mess would have been avoided if they hadn’t looked in the bags. Kieran talks about how bin men are privy to the secrets of those on their routes. and both he and Alan feel a compulsive need to look further into the odd disposals, an urge that leads Alan to his assumed end.

or even, maybe, just a whiff of...the Extinction?

yeah, almost certainly not.

but.

there has been garbage imagery linked to the Extinction, in MAG 149.

and this quote stuck out to me: “People have an odd mental block - this idea that as soon as they put something in the bin it’s gone. It’s officially been made rubbish and no-one will ever see it again. [...] it’s gone, far beyond all human understanding.”

maybe it’s just recent reports that make me think about this blind spot about garbage in relation to the catastrophic mess of climate change, which certainly feeds the Extinction if it’s not a manifestation of the same. a world without us, built on what we’ve left behind - that would involve a lot of trash.

okay, it’s definitely a reach. but hey! the fact that I can make a bullshit English paper of an argument for almost any of the powers being present is in itself a good example of the entangled nature of the entities.

a thing I love about TMA is all the background detailing. the individual world building lets the statement givers breathe, makes them feel like real people. the statements become a wee window into another life.

my little T. rex arms mean I’ll never be a London bin man, but now I, too, have strong opinions about proper garbage etiquette. Solidarity!

“You can throw away a mountain of grotesque porn and, as long as you’ve tied it into neat bundles, we’re fine with it, but if you throw away cat litter without properly bagging that, you’d better believe that you’ve earned the hatred of every bin man that ever slung a sack. Still, I’m getting off topic.

Point is, the bag of dolls heads didn’t bother me.”

WHAT a transition! Gold star! ⭐

I might just have a high threshold, but the bag of doll heads doesn’t strike me as...phenomenally weird? I dunno, hang out with a few artsy friends and suddenly any mass collection of objects is dismissable as part of some demented craft project.

and then there’s the Latin Lord’s Prayer streamer. ordination party clean up perhaps?

singed edges say maybe the Desolation. they do have a cult, they’re at least pseudo-religious...

...but the Dark have a church...

god, are multiple players just - using this house as a communal dumpster, in order to fuck with some garbage men? for no real purpose other than to be Chaotic Spooky?

that

that would be extremely On Brand for almost everyone

“[...] I realised that the others were waiting for me to pick it up - I’d picked up the others, and apparently this was how it was done now. It almost felt like a ritual.” well now it probably is a ritual because your own awful human brains imbibe everything with meaning! we did this to ourselves!!

“There was something about this, beyond anything else I’d encountered, that… I don’t know. It drew me in almost as much as it disgusted me.” even on top of the near possession he experiences reading statements, this part has got to resonate pretty deeply with Jon

(and yet he still doesn’t take note that this guy survived by NOT investigating further and his coworker disappears BECAUSE he ran off to investigate on his own, he got obsessed and then his heart got ripped out and alchemized into a fairly valuable amount of haunted copper, you ever want to reach back in time and shake a fictional academic until he listens)

but anyway, speaking of said copper: hope your buddy who works the medical incinerator just did you the favour without opening the package. copper scrap sells for a pretty penny, and a big chunk of it goes a long way since it’s primarily used in wiring. so. yeah, might have us an epidemic of eldritch electricals out there.

every time Jon bitches nastily about Martin is so delicious. a nutritious meal, rich in irony. “[..] at least it got Martin out of the Institute for an afternoon, which is always a welcome relief.” you spend the entirety of season 4 barely holding back tears because Martin is out of the Archives, you absolute windchime.

I’m weirdly bothered we don’t know which tooth is in the bag. you say there’s 2,780 examples of the same tooth but you don’t tell us which one it is? incisors? canines? this will haunt me forever you bastard

it does my head in that this statement seems so clearly to be inspired by this truly cursed news coverage...except that article is from 2018 and this episode came out in 2016 🙃🙃🙃

#tma retro #tma spoilers #tma meta #the magnus archives #honestly I don't find myself even a little wigged out by this one #it's the TMA version of a breather episode and it still involves a missing person and several thousand mystery teeth #that says it all don't it

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wanderingcas · 5 years

Text

a timestamp for ‘passing ships’. 1.7k ao3.

It starts happening about a year into their marriage.

At first, people were (politely) hyper-fixated on the fact that Dean and Cas weren’t soulmates. That snagged their attention more than anything else—“Oh, so you’re being progressive and rejecting the soulmate idea? Good for you.”—and despite being annoying the three-hundredth time Dean and Cas were asked, they learned to just laugh it off and provide their quick explanation, scripted down to the letter from how many times they had to repeat it.

But then, that curiosity wore off, which left questions about kids.

The first time to the question is asked is at the small book signing at Mary’s bookstore. Cas had worked his ass off all week to make sure the small space was accommodating to an audience of twenty and a small deli spread afterwards. Dean would know—he barely saw his husband or mom in the week leading up to it (which of course, he never complained about, because being co-owner of the bookstore with Mary was quickly becoming one of Cas’ passions).

Dean was standing by the drinks, getting lost as usual in staring at Cas across the room, at his wayward-buttoned collared shirt and mussed hair as he talked to the guest author. His reverie was interrupted by an older couple that used to live next to Dean, when he was growing up.

“It’s just so lovely that you’ve gotten yourself married,” Kate—or was it Nancy?—gushed, gesticulating a wrinkled hand toward Cas across the room. “And he’s such a nice man. Richard and I just met him.”

“Yeah, he’s really something,” Dean says with a grin. He practically rocks back and forth on his heels with pride.

“So, when you two thinking of having some kids?” Richard asks.

Dean freezes. “What?”

Kate-Nancy laughs. “We were just asking your husband that same question—he had the same reaction!”

“Uh, we…” Cas is suddenly looking over at Dean; their eyes meet. Cas may not be an angel anymore, but he still possesses this freaky sixth sense when he’s being talked about. Dean licks his lips. “We’ve discussed it,” he says neutrally.

“Ah-ha, that’s what he said too!” Richard proclaims, wagging a finger. “You two are peas in the pod.”

“In a pod, dear,” Kate-Nancy corrects. “Poor dear, native language is Polish. Still not getting American colloquialisms down even after 83 years!”

“Uh-huh,” Dean says distractedly. He takes a long swing of beer and lets the conversation steer elsewhere.

The second time it comes up is at a more casual setting: hanging out with Dean’s coworkers at a bar on the last day of spring semester. Anna even decided to come, which Cas expressed his quiet joy over by bringing her some books to borrow. He didn’t see her much, since she took over Naomi’s position in Heaven.

Dean is squished between Charlie and the new Biology teacher, Jo. They just finished a toast when Jo asks, cheeks tinged from her fourth Sidecar, “So, Dean, when are you and that adorable husband of yours gonna have some kids?”

Although caught in a conversation with Anna, Cas stops and turns his head to look at Dean across the table, his sad eyes meeting Dean's.

“Uh,” Dean begins, intelligently.

“They’re gonna have kids when they want to ,” Charlie yells above the pulsating dance music in the bar. “And they’re gonna be beautiful because it’ll be a half of each of their perfect genes!”

“You know we can’t have kids biologically, right?” Dean mutters, taking a swig of whiskey.

“I’m not that drunk, Dean," Charlie snaps. "There have been advances in the science of genetics. Hell, I’d be your surrogate if you wanted.”

“Awww!” Jo screams, leaning over the both of them, her drink sloshing in Dean’s lap.

“Guys, drop it, okay?” Dean sighs. “That’s me and Cas’ business.” He looks at Cas again, awkwardly, but Cas is already scooting past Anna, standing to leave. Anna gives Dean a Look.

The third time is, of course, the straw that breaks the camel’s back. Because it’s John that asks the third time, and worst of all, he’s not even trying to be a dick about it (which, to Dean, is a first).

Things not exactly being repaired completely with him, Dean and Cas only have John over for dinner about once a month. John has sobered up, has done the AA meetings shtick—he just recently completed the step of apologizing to the people he’s wronged, Dean included—and for once in his life, Dean isn’t jolting awake in the middle of the night with anxiety toward John’s situation. So he expects this to be a calm dinner.

But then John asks, innocently, and non-intrusively, if they’ve thought about having kids anytime soon, and before Dean can say ‘pass the butter’, Cas—Dean’s cool-headed, logical, and level-tempered Cas—is on his feet and slamming his palms down on the table. The plates and glasses shake.

“We don’t know that yet,” he says, jaw clenched. “We’ve discussed it, but we don’t know. Whose business is it that we have kids, but our own? I don’t understand why humans have to ask all these stupid damn questions!” And he spins on his heel, leaving John and Dean with jaws unhinged.

“I… should probably talk to him,” Dean ventures, putting his napkin on the table.

“Did I say something wrong?” John asks. He looks like he needs a drink.

“No, Dad, it’s just… a touchy topic.” Dean reaches over the table as he stands, patting John’s forearm. “Seriously, it’s not you. I’ll go calm him down.”

Dean finds Cas where he usually does—on the back porch, perched on the deck’s railing, staring up at the stars. Dean’s made the inane comment before that Cas must like it back here because he can look up at Heaven—to which Cas of course responded, coolly, that Heaven is on a different plane of reality, not simply ‘up’.

Nevertheless, Dean suspects Cas likes to think he’s looking up at his old home anyway, when he sits out here in the cool night air.

Clearing his throat to announce his arrival, Dean walks until he’s behind Cas. “Hey, uh… wanna explain what the hell that was back there?”

Cas doesn’t turn. “I’d rather not.”

“O-kay.” Dean fidgets with his hands. “I know we’ve talked about kids before. And we haven’t landed on anything. But don’t feel pressure, okay, Cas? It’s just humans makin’ small talk. You don’t—”

“I’ve already had a child, and I lost her,” Cas snaps. He still doesn’t look at Dean, just sits cross-legged on the porch railing, head tilted toward the sky. “She wasn’t my biological child, but she felt like mine . Especially since she was a foster child and never truly had parents. And now she doesn’t know me from a stranger.”

Dean presses a hand on Cas’ back; feels the tightness of his muscles. “Cas… I didn’t even think about that.”

“I know we’ve discussed children,” Cas continues, voice soft. “I know you want them. And nothing—” Dean can hear his breath hitch. “Nothing would make me happier than to give them to you. But I don’t know if…”

“You don’t know if you could lose one again,” Dean finishes. He sees Cas nod.

He lets the silence seep between them; lets the cicadas fill the space. Taking Cas’ arm, he turns him around. Cas relents and swings his legs over the porch railing, legs dangling, facing Dean.

Dean frames Cas’ face with his palms. “I know you miss her,” he says. Those gorgeous blue eyes still won’t look at him; Dean’s not discouraged. “I know how painful that was for you. And trust me when I say we will find a way to get her memories back. You know how hard Anna is working to figure out what Naomi did with them.”

“They could have been destroyed,” Cas whispers. “There’s no guarantee that—”

“Cas.” Dean firmly plants a kiss on his lips to shush the usual tirade of self-defeatist talk Cas usually spewed. “There was no guarantee that we’d find each other and fall in love, defying expectations and social convention, right? And we did that, didn’t we?”

Cas shrugs. “That’s true.”

“What’s important is if you want kids or not. And if you don’t, then we won’t have them.”

Finally raising his eyes, Cas gapes at Dean. “No, Dean. You can’t say that. All you’ve talked about for the past three years is having children.”

“Of having a family ,” Dean corrects. “If that means we get twenty stray cats you keep picking up off the street, fine. If that means I become some hot-shot professor someday with a bunch of graduate students treating our house like a second home, fine. If it’s just you and me, even better.”

Cas shakes his head. “Dean…”

Dean captures his lips into a kiss again. He rubs his thumbs gently against Cas’ cheekbones, resting his forehead against Cas’. “I mean it when I say that I love you, and I will take literally anything you have to offer,” Dean says, “because that’s enough, Cas. You’re enough. I mean it.”

Clutching Dean’s shirt, Cas confesses, softly, “But I do want children, Dean. I want children with you.”

“Then we’ll do that too.” His thumb travels up Cas’ face, carefully rubbing some moisture that’s gathered at the corner of Cas’ eye. “If it makes you happy, angel.”

“You’re too good to me,” Cas says, hushed.

“Not good enough,” Dean scoffs.

“Impossible.”

They stay like that, for a few moments—Cas sitting on the railing, legs bracketing Dean in front of him. Dean can hear the sound of Cas’ windchimes taking flight on the warm wind.

“We could adopt,” Cas says.

Dean leans back. Grins. “Yeah?”

Wiping his cheek with the back of his hand, Cas mirrors his smile in his soft, shy way. “Yeah. Give a child a home who needs it. Like Claire.”

“If I’m being totally honest, Cas?” Dean kisses Cas’ forehead, then his cheeks on either side, because it always gets Cas to nuzzle his head against Dean’s and give him that shy grin. “That sounds absolutely perfect.”

#destiel #passing ships #wanderingwrites #i wrote this in 2 hours and at 4 in the morning don't u dare judge me

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spockfallsinlove · 6 years

Text

simple harmonies

prompt from @sierra198466: After Beyond, Spock dumps Uhura and he realizes he loves Jim. He then finds out Jim has loved him since Into Darkness. word count: 2.2k ao3 link.

Spock has never known himself to do what humans refer to as “space out”. On the contrary, he does mental exercises daily to make sure his mind remains sharp. When there is a moment that he finds his thoughts floating from the current situation, he is normally able to bring himself back to reality.

However, during the whole conversation he and Nyota have, all he can seem to truly focus on are the wind chimes that are outside the coffee house door.

His mother had them, at their house. She used to say that it was the last non-electronic object that humans had to play music for them. The wind rarely gusted enough on Vulcan to make them sing; but whenever it did, she would look out the window and have one of her mysterious smiles that Spock never quite did figure out.

Like mother, like son. It is he who is transfixed, looking out the window, unable to look away as the chimes gently bump each other in the wind.

“We should end our romantic involvement with each other,” he says as Nyota takes a breath, ready to launch into the next part of her argument with him.

She stops. Blinks at him. “What did you say?”

The wind picks up again, knocking the littlest chime into the largest. A melodically odd tone results. “We should end our romantic relationship,” he repeats.

Nyota, for the first time since he’s known her, is speechless.

“Do you think that if we flew far enough in space, we could find the end of time?” Jim asks. He’s propped against the railing, staring out into the San Francisco bay.

Spock stops his vegetable gyro’s trajectory toward his mouth (it’s from a food truck that Jim insisted on them eating at; “the best in the galaxy” were his words). He frowns at his friend. “Modern physics suggests that a concept such as the ‘end of time’ is—”

Jim waves his hand, cutting Spock off. “I don’t want the science crap, any theorized evidence. What do you think?”

“Why do you wish to find the end of time?”

Jim shrugs. His hair is being lightly brushed by the wind and there’s a melancholic smile on his face that Spock cannot understand. “If you can find the end, maybe you can trace it back. To where you want to go.”

Spock takes a thoughtful bite of his dinner and swallows before saying, “Even the ocean has an end. Technically.”

“It does, Spock,” Jim says, looking as if he’s seeing Spock for the first time, “it sure does.”

An hour after Spock leaves Nyota at the coffee shop, he receives an angry call from Doctor McCoy. He lets his phone ring itself to voicemail. The message is about as emotional as he expected.

“Listen you crazy hobgoblin—Nyota just told us what the hell you did. Just breaking up with her like that, no explanation, then walking out? Where the hell do you get off? You better believe that I’m going to kick that green ass of yours into the sky, and make sure you don’t get on the ship for that 5-year-mission—”

Spock deletes the message.

He stops at a crosswalk. People jostle his shoulder as they walk by. As is typical in the crowded streets of San Francisco, he feels fleeting snatches of their emotions and thoughts as they touch him: grocery lists running through people’s heads, worrying about who will pick up the kids at daycare, annoyance at how hot and sticky it is for a day in December.

Spock remains standing there. Staring into space, once again. The sound of windchimes stuck in his ears.

Spock tries to forget the day Jim got injured and almost died in his arms.

Peace talks with the people indigenous to Echo IV had not gone as expected. After refusing relations with the Federation, things had become tense. Jim, trying to calm down the situation, had gotten caught in the crossfire.

Spock’s hands were uncharacteristically shaking when he tore Jim’s shirt open to apply medical attention. McCoy was on the ship, since there was no anticipated danger at this meeting. Around the corner, the security team tried to manage the situation. Any requests for beam-ups were greeted with static.

“Spock.” Jim’s hand, stained with blood, caught Spock’s. “Leave it, find a way to get to the ship, just—”

“Cease talking.” Spock applied pressure to Jim’s wound. His mind was spinning. He could feel Jim’s agony through his skin.

“Get to the ship. Just be safe,” Jim choked out as he slipped from consciousness.

Spock tried to hail the Enterprise countless times. He helplessly watched as Jim’s face grew paler. Most of the security team had died, and Spock knew that soon it’d be him and Jim left. That Jim would die, either by someone else’s weapon or from his own wounds.

And all Spock could do is watch.

By the time the ship was finally hailed, and they were finally beamed aboard, McCoy had to stick a hypo into Spock’s neck to stop his body’s shaking.

It took five crew members to pull him off the unconscious captain.

It was standing over Jim’s sickbed, with Jim patched up and well and sipping water from a straw, that he finally relaxed. Breathed. He didn’t listen to the words that Jim said. He only watched his face, alive with emotions, and his lungs, expanding with breath.

It takes the whole afternoon before Nyota finally answers her comm. Spock is walking on the Starfleet Academy campus, which is empty due to the holidays, when his pocket buzzes.

“I wish to say I’m sorry,” Spock says, in a rush, before she can hang up.

She sighs angrily on the line. “I knew you weren’t a smooth talker, Spock, but, this... this takes the fucking cake.”

“I realize that I was … too forward.”

“Too forward?” she yells. “You didn’t even give me warning! One minute we’re arguing about me spending time on Vulcan with you, the next you’re dumping me in broad daylight! What the hell is wrong with you?”

“I do not know.”

“Well…” She sighs again. “It’s not like I didn’t see it coming. But the way you did it, it just—” There’s a silence. “I’m pissed at you, Spock. And I will be for a long time. Don’t call me again, okay?”

“Underst—” The comm link cuts out. He pockets the device, and stands by a large oak tree.

A cadet walks by in his uniform and shouldering a backpack. He looks surprised that someone else is on campus before giving Spock a wry, understanding smile.

“What was your mother like?”

Jim is lying on the floor of Spock’s living room apartment, wine glass clutched in his hand. He stares up at Spock innocently.

“Why are you asking such a question?” is Spock’s reply.

“Tell me about your mom, and I’ll tell you about my dad.”

“You never knew your father.”

Jim lets loose a laugh. “Low blow, Spock. I know enough, okay? Now, tell me.” He sits up, legs crossed. “Just one thing.”

Spock doesn’t think about his mother often. It threatens his control.

But it’s Jim who’s asking.

“She loved nature,” Spock says. “She always tended faithfully to a garden in the backyard, and would cry if a plant died.”

“A happy thing about her, Spock.”

“I did not know these facts had to be so specific in nature.”

Jim raises his eyebrows, stares at Spock expectantly. Spock relents. “Very well, she... “ He pauses. “I never understood her. She seemed to have many secrets.”

Jim rolls his eyes to the ceiling. “I’ll never get anything out of you, will I?”

“Perhaps give me an example of what your father was like, so that I may see what you mean.”

Jim grins. “All right. Mom said that he used to sing to her all the time. He was really good at it.”

“You did not inherit this talent,” Spock observes.

“What? I’m awesome!”

“I have heard you in our adjoining bathroom on the ship.”

Jim laughs, a full-bodied one where his head is tilted back and his golden hair catches the light of the setting sun. “You’re such a jerk, you know that?”

Spock lets a small smile tug his lips.

Jim’s laughter dies down, and he takes a sip of wine. In the silence, Spock offers, “My mother loved music. Her favorite object in the house was the wind chimes that hung just outside our kitchen window.”

There’s a sad way about Jim’s eyes when he says, “I wish I could have met her.”

Spock feels something fissure his heart. “As do I.”

On his birthday a few weeks later, Jim showed up at his apartment with a small, blue windchime. Spock stared at it for approximately 9.78 seconds before accepting the gift.

Spock finds a bench to sit on the harbor boardwalk. The sun is dipping low in the horizon, making the ocean seem to glow.

He does not want to return home, just yet.

Since the coffee shop, his mind has been restless. Unordered. Jumping between memories and realities as if he were a living television set.

He remembers the last time he was on this boardwalk. The image of Jim is in his mind, face happy and open, eyes discerning the sea in front of him. Spock has no doubt that he could take the world by storm if he wished; the galaxy included.

Jim could have anything if he set his mind to it. Could have anyone. It’s illogical; if these are the facts, then what does Jim need with an awkwardly socialized half-Vulcan?

Spock frowns at his shoes. The idea of Jim not needing him… is frightening. When Spock himself needs Jim so.

Spock’s gaze snaps to the ocean. The pieces in his mind burst together in a colorful, clarifying light.

Jim is at his apartment door when Spock returns, sitting against the door. He quickly scrambles to his feet when he sees Spock.

“Where the hell were you?” Jim asks angrily. “I’ve been calling and looking everywhere!”

“I have just been to your apartment,” Spock explains, unsteadily. “You were not there.”

“Because I’ve been waiting for you, you idiot! I’ve gotten hundreds of messages from Bones, Uhura, even Chekov has heard about it and is upset—”

“I regret worrying you,” Spock supplies, lamely, as he takes out his keys. He walks into his living room as Jim follows him through the door.

“What, you just break Uhura’s heart and then take off? And don’t even tell anyone where you were? You’ve been M.I.A all day!”

Spock places his keys on the coffee table. “I am aware.”

Jim puts both hands on his hips, glaring at him. “So, what, no explanation? You’re just gonna stand there?”

“I was attempting to find you. I need to—”

“Then why didn’t you call me? Why did I have to—”

“I am in love with you.”

Jim stares at him. His mouth remains slack, his eyes wide. “What did you just say?”

“It’s why I was attempting to find you.” Spock sits on his couch, hands on his knees to stop them from shaking. “I have come to this realization 3.57 hours ago. I regret not realizing and telling you sooner. And I regret not knowing this as I was ending my relationship with Uhura. But I assure you, I will give her an explanation.”

Jim stares at him. “You’re kidding me.”

“I assure you, I am not.”

“How can you just—sit there and deliver that news like it’s the fucking weather?”

“It is a fact. I thought it best for you to know.”

Jim puts a hand on his forehead, shaking his head. “Uhura’s gonna kill me.”

“I understand that the likelihood of you reciprocating my feelings is 5.456%,” Spock says, almost too quickly, “due to the fact that you have not shown amorous feelings for me in the past. I understand if you were to open my position to applicants, as working with me may now seem impossible. If you were to—”

“Spock.” Jim walks to the couch and stands close enough so that their knees touch. He stares down at him. “Shut up.”

Spock obeys. Jim kneels down to Spock’s eye level.

“Do you remember when I died?”

Spock goes tense. “I do not see what that has to do with—”

“Spock. Just answer the question.”

“Of course I remember. It is a stupid question.”

Jim closes his eyes in frustration. “God, you’re making this difficult.” He takes a breath and opens his eyes. “When I died, I couldn’t really get words out. And there was that… damn glass between us. So I couldn’t tell you what was really in my head.”

“Tell me what?”

Spock’s breath hitches when Jim is suddenly taking his hand, holding it between his. “I’ve loved you for years, you stupid Vulcan.”

Spock’s heart feels to have stopped. He takes time to illogically memorize the moment; the shadows casting on Jim’s face, the complete stillness in his normally animated expression. But only a moment, because Spock cannot stay still any longer and is framing Jim’s face with his hands, bringing him forward in a very human, very emotional kiss.

“Finally,” Jim breathes on Spock’s lips between kisses, moving to bracket Spock’s legs with his. They fit together flawlessly; effortlessly. As if the small moments between them were meant to lead to this.

In the distance, on the flight of the wind, Spock can hear the chimes.

#my fic #spirk #space husbands #i tried to be artsy with a new writing style sigh #lemme know how i did i would love feedback

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ollie-ask-and-roleplay · 5 years

Text

Everything you need to know:

Looks defined: Silver hair. Blue eyes. About 5'6" tall, weighs around 130 pounds. Natural hair length is just past the ears, they have hair extensions that can make hair shoulder blade length. Has strap on breasts.

Their name:

Oliver Emanuele (Usually goes by Ollie)

Age: 22

A little about them:

Ollie is bigender (identifies as both a boy and girl), they are biologically male. They have a stutter due to severe, constant anxiety. Definitely the mom friend in a group. 100% human unless somehow changed in the future. Most of the time they are kind and shy, although this is the first muse that has seen the NSFW side of roleplay. They are confident and dominant when in "the mood" ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°). Haha (I like to think that they are secretly very kinky; but that's yet to be explored)

Has a history of self-harm, suicidal thoughts/tendencies, depression, and crippling anxiety. They are currently working on controlling themself better and improve mental health.

Likes: Making food for other people, helping others, quiet places, windchimes, baking, hoodies, zen gardens, low intensity yoga, etc.

Dislikes: Small spaces, themself (🙁), nuns, large groups of people, spicy foods, etc.

(Likes and Dislikes are to be updated)

Anyways! Ollie often carries fresh cookies with them, don't question it.

Usual Attire: When feeling more male they usually wear a large hoodie with whatever pants they have around. When female it's always different. (Just assume there is a skirt or dress)

Pronouns: Ollie uses They/Them to avoid confusion.

Background Knowledge: (warning: story about parents first) Ollie was born into a very "normal" family. A mother and a father that were happily married and went to a Christian church every Sunday. It was the happiest day in their lives when their first and only child was born with the birth name, ''Oliver". The mother's name was Elaine, she had lovely deep brown hair and bright, piercing blue eyes. The father was Samuel, with blonde hair like sand and blue eyes like the day's clear sky. They were highschool sweethearts. Unfortunately, it was Samuel's brother who had silver hair, received from their father above them. Of course, it could have been a gene that simply skipped Samuel, but he was certain.

Elaine was over-joyed and had hope that they could continue their lives as a happy family. After all, what her husband didn't know couldn't hurt him, right? Oliver was a happy healthy baby, that they both adored almost to the point of worship. Samuel kept quiet for the first month, acting as if the thought hadn't occurred to him. One night, after they had gotten Oliver to sleep, he confronted her.

"Elaine..." He said, the look on his face so morose it could bring someone to tears. "That isn't my son, is it?"

And like that, Elaine's fragile hopes cracked to reveal the ugly truth. She had to face what she'd done. She touched Samuel's face as both their tears started to fall, his of bitter pain and her of regret. She gazed into his eyes knowing this would be the last time they would look at her without hatred.

"... No, not biologically. Ol-Oliver was conceived b-by... your brother and myself." She could no longer look at him and her voice was no more, for sobs had started shaking her body to the core. Her hand fell from his face as she moved to cradle her own body.

Samuel had known. He let his tears fall and left his wife to cry alone. He went into the nursery where baby Oliver was sleeping peacefully, unaware of anything that had happened.

Samuel kissed Oliver's forehead and whispered, "I'm sorry, my son. They wronged us both. I'll be sure they pay for it..." Samuel stood there for a few more moments, tears dropping into Oliver's crib.

The events that followed that night were not what anyone had planned for.

Samuel left his home with his wedding ring on the counter. He drove to his brother's home and didn't bother knocking. He broke a window with a brick laying outside and climbed in, knowing exactly where to go. Samuel stood beside his brother's bed with a brick in hand. He stood there, his rage boiling just beneath the surface of his stoic face. The rage of a man whose family had been stolen from him. Then, as the unsuspecting man was started to wake, Samuel hit his brother once over the head with the brick. Twice. Three times. Samuel did not kill his brother that night, but he did cause brain bleeding which which lead to death several days later.

Samuel got back into his car and started driving back to his home to gather his belongings. He planned to get a small apartment in town and fight for custody of Oliver. However a semi-truck had other plans. Samuel died in a "crash", his small car practically obliterated.

The only reason Elaine had to live was Oliver now. Unfortunately Elaine had always been selfish and her child wasn't enough for her. After attending her Husband and her child's father's duel funeral, she grabbed Oliver in his little mourning tux and left them on the porch of a nearby orphanage. Little Ollie had only the clothes on their back, a letter detailing who they were, a roughed up stuffed bunny, and a chain-necklace around his neck with Samuel and Elaine's wedding rings. Elaine knocked on the door and ran as fast as she could. She committed suicide later that day.

(Okay, parent story end)

Ollie grew up in that orphanage. It was a religious orphanage run by nuns. Ollie wasn't bullied at first, but was often ignored. They were small and quiet and did everything they were told, so the nuns decided they didn't need any extra attention besides "Have you eaten?" and "It's bedtime now".

They played with their bunny until the arm ripped off, at age 5, which triggered his first fit since he was an infant. The nuns quickly sewed their bunny together again, not used to the quiet one being so upset.

At age 8, a boy named Johnny on the playground at school decided to start picking on Ollie because they were an easy target. Ollie started coming back from school with scrapes on their knees from running away and falling. Plus bruises from Johnny and his group when they caught up.

At age 10, Ollie got caught playing with one of the older girls' makeup and dresses for the first time. The nuns were called quickly. Oliver got punished with 10 spanks for getting into another's property and 10 more for "inappropriate behavior". Ollie didn't understand why wanting to be pretty was wrong.

At age 12, puberty had started and something was really bothering Oliver. Some days they didn't feel right in their own skin and other days they were perfectly fine. Oliver was in middle school now, which meant everyone around them were becoming couples for a week or less at a time, and being very curious with themselves. One day, Oliver was listening in on some 8th graders and words of "sexuality" and "gender identity" were getting thrown around. They got curious. "Am I different?"

At age 13, they started seriously researching gender identities on the public library's computer. They were in awe that there were words to describe how they were feeling. They decided they identified with two genders, male and female. Ollie decided to start going by "Ollie" instead of "Oliver".

At age 14, Ollie got up the courage to ask a nun for a dress, and "maybe a lip gloss". The nun was outraged and gave him 10 spanks in front of all the orphan children at dinner time. The nun "made an example" of them and let all the kids know that the orphanage would never spend money on something a child does not need. Especially when the child wanted something that would "make them a disgusting fag". Ollie started getting picked on not just from the kids at the school, but from the kids in the orphanage too. So many slurs and hateful words were thrown towards Ollie that they started to internalize it.

At age 16, they were severely depressed and constantly on edge. The bullying didn't stop and had started getting more physical; ending up in the ER a couple times for stitches or broken bones. They had tried to kill them self multiple times at this point and always wore a baggy hoodie. The life was quickly draining from their eyes. A younger nun, who had only been with the orphanage for a few months decided it was enough. One evening the nun directly asked them, "Do you want to live?"

They replied, "Not here."

The young nun gave Ollie 2,000 dollars of her savings and told them to get as far as possible. They gratefully took the offer and was gone by dinner time the next day.

At age 18, Ollie had made a great life for themself. They lived with two other people to help pay rent of an apartment. They got a girlfriend. They work at a nice Subway job and graduated high school as the Salutatorian of their class. They were fairly accepted as a bigender person both at home, and in school.

At age 20, they broke up with their longest relationship of 3 years. Ollie sunk back into a deep depression and what little progress they made was thrown out the window. Ollie barely managed to keep their job, calling in "sick" too many times. Ollie worried their roommates by spending most of their time in their room alone.

At age 22, things have settled down. Ollie is over the breakup but the depression still lingered. They are trying to heal. They now go to college to get a culinary degree and hope to get their own bakery or restaurant one day.

Thanks for reading Ollie's Story!

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mysteira6 · 6 years

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Present! Human!Sans x Frisk: Love Me, Sans

THIS IS A (VERY LATE) BIRTHDAY PRESENT FOR @sinfulzany !!! I noticed that you liked my previous sexy one-shot of Sans and Frisk, so I thought, why not another for your birthday? ^3^

Also, I was thinking of continuing this (with those really erotic scenes, hehehe~). BUT! I don’t want my blog to have some smut which will trigger the safe mode option, so I can’t really write those smut scenes (even though I really want to ><).

If @sinfulzany wants them though, I might post them... somewhere. ^^

Until then, enjoy this!

“In the end, you never even cared about us, did you?”

“What…”

“No, you never even cared about me, did you? That’s the truth, isn’t it?”

The bed creaked in her sleep. “No…”

“If you never loved me, why didn’t you say anything? Why didn’t you tell me anything? Did you really think I could read that selfish mind of yours?”

“Please… Stop…”

“I should have known. Humans will always be the same, selfish and only after their own desires. If I have known better, I should have gone for a mage that was way better than you-”

“Stop!!” The girl bolted upright in her bed, her blanket flying across them mattress. Her right hand flew to her chest as she took in deep heavy breaths, beads of cold sweat dripping down her temples. She had to blink a few times in order to ascertain her current location.

Walls adorned with hand-drawn pictures from her childhood. A nearby study table covered with worksheets and her wide array of stationery. Bookshelves filled to the brim with thin and thick novels that she gathered due to her new pastime of book-reading. Then her eyes caught the sight of a wooden shelf above the full-length mirror next to her closet, the shelf had three photograph frames of herself and a man with white hair. Although his bright blue eyes contrasted with her dull brown ones, he looked just as happy and delighted as she was in those pictures.

Those pictures… A year ago, those pictures didn’t even exist. So much had happened since then, some bad but mostly good. And yet…

She didn’t have the courage to accept reality after all. Her nightmare was the evidence, a clear indication that she just couldn’t believe it…

After she heaved a heavy sigh, the brunette got out of bed, rubbing her eyes gently as she tiptoed out of the room, closing the door behind her quietly. She wasn’t the only one in this house, after all. It would be rude to wake the others.

But little did she knew that someone was already wide awake when she left.

The steel kettle landed on the cork coaster as the teenager turned the stove off, the blue flames that were quietly roaring minutes ago disappearing. While waiting for the boiling water to cool, she opened the cabinet and took out a small box, consisting of all types of tea bags, including golden flower tea. She remembered her adoptive father, Asgore, telling her that if she was ever feeling troubled, she should drink tea to calm down.

Calm down… calm down… calm down… Those words repeated her head like a mantra.

After pouring water into the ceramic mug, she dragged her heavy feet to the sofa, warming her hands with her hot drink. Her mind was full of thoughts, echoing over and over again in her head, even though they shouldn’t be. Yes, she managed to get her happy ending. Yes, everyone else was happy as they were right now. And most importantly, she could never reset and make everything happen all over again in an endless time loop.

But even so, why was feeling this… scared? It was not long before she realised that it was not worry that she was feeling; it was fear, fear for the future and fear for her wellbeing. And she didn’t know why.

She sighed again and took another sip of her tea. This was certainly getting nowhere. She felt nothing but sleepy, and she hadn’t calmed down a tiny bit at all. A few seconds had past before the teenager turned her head skyward, staring at the ceiling as the minutes flew by.

“Fly me to the moon,” She hummed quietly, lost in thought. “And let me play among the stars. Let me see what’s life like on Jupiter and Mars,”

“In other words, hold my hand. In other words, darling, kiss me,”

The light breeze from outside blew against the windchimes by her door, but the girl paid no attention to it. It was even stranger that it was windy now, in the dead of night of all times. Instead, she continued to sing softly.

“Fill my heart with song, and let me sing forevermore. You are all I long for, all I worship and adore.”

“In other words, please be true. In other words…”

Somehow, her voice trailed off at the last lyric. Try as she might, she could not bring herself to say it. Those three words that had been bothering her ever since she woke up in the middle of the night.

Luckily, someone sang it for her. A deep baritone voice entered the living room as graceful as a swan, a voice that had resonated in her head for a whole year. A voice that she never got tired of.

“I love you.”

The girl let out a startled gasp as she whipped her head to the side, facing the entrance of the hallway, where a white-haired boy was leaning his shoulder against the wall, his sea blue eyes gazing at her affectionately. Although his arms were crossed in front of his chest, there was a cheeky, mischievous smirk on his face, a smirk that she saw very often, even when he was mad.

“Sans-!” She yipped in surprise, watching as he slowly sauntered over and sat next to her on the sofa, his eyes never leaving her. “Heya, Frisk,” He calmly greeted her, ruffling her hair a little, making the ends of her lips curl a little. “A little early for tea, ain’t it?” He joked, leaning in to give her a kiss on her head. “Whatcha doin’, singin’ my favourite song at midnight, hm?”

Her eyes brightened at the mini PDA he gave her (okay, they are not in public but STILL). This guy really knew how to make her feel all better within seconds. And it wasn’t his magic, no it was all him, speaking the sweet talks and making his affectionate moves on her. That was one of the many reasons why she loved him.

But… Frisk thought, her smile turning sombre as she remembered her dream.

“No, you never even cared about me, did you?”

Does he love me back?

“Sans?” She whispered to the older boy, inadvertently leaning against his shoulder, her eyes wandering around the room. “Can I ask you something?”

“Sure thing, Frisk,” He answered immediately, smiling at her sweetly, as he always would. He knew that Frisk shared the same dreams that he had before the Barrier broke, the dreams that forced her to watch helplessly as her friends and family were killed over and over again. That said, he was accustomed to comforting Frisk about those nightmares, the same way that she had always comforted him whether he had them as well. “What is it?” He encouraged her.

She hesitated before speaking, putting her mug of tea on the coffee table. “Sans… Do you really love me?”

He blinked, quickly turning to her, raising his eyebrows. This was certainly new. “Now, what makes you think that I don’t?” He grinned in his usual jokester manner. “Of course I do, sweetheart,” He hastily assured her when she began to lower her head. “Why would you be here if I didn’t?”

She didn’t respond for a while. Then she spoke softly. “But… Aren’t there times when I’m just… a kid?”

“Does this have to do with me calling you ‘kiddo’ so much?” He chuckled. “I’ve said this before and I’ll say this again: ‘kiddo’ is just my special nickname for you. I don’t call anyone else by that name, you know, so it’s become my way of showing affection, too,”

“That’s not what I’m worried about, Sans,” She replied, her voice sounding more troubled now. Hearing her boyfriend talk about something that was kept between the both of them was certainly not helping her conquer the doubts she had about their relationship. “It’s… something else,”

Sensing her stress, he coiled his arm around her shoulder and lightly caressed her cheeks. “So, what is it then? What made you wake up so late, hm?”

She took a deep breath. “I had a nightmare again,” She began, biting her lip. “And this time, it… it wasn’t about a genocide run,”

“Who was in that dream?”

She paused, as if she was afraid of saying the next few words. “There was no one other than me and you,”

“And what happened?” He spoke after a few seconds of silence.

Her own hands wrapped around her chest as she reminisced. “You… you were saying a lot of stuff to me. And I couldn’t respond to them at all. You were shouting at me, saying that I never loved you or cared about you and that you should have found someone else to be your girlfriend instead of me,” At this, she could not help but start crying, tears peeking out of her eyelids and her voice cracking slightly. “I-I couldn’t say anything, and you just never stopped. I was s-so scared that you mean all t-those words and t-that you didn’t l-love me anymore…”

As her tears fell, Frisk buried her head into his chest, wrapping her hands around him and holding his tightly, as if he would disappear if she let go. Words started to spill out of her mouth as she cried. “I j-just don’t know… I don’t know if I c-can accept all th-that’s happened… I feel scared o-of facing people when I’m s-scared for the future… when I’m s-scared of losing you, Sans…”

The expression on his face saddened as he rhythmically patted her hair, getting his fingers tangled in her short brown locks. His other hand gently lifted her off the sofa onto his lap. (it was a good thing that she was light, or was that another bad sign about her stress?) Nonetheless, he steadily stroked her hair again and again as he held her in his arms. Times like these, Sans knew that words were not enough to comfort her. But this time, he couldn’t help but murmur softly.

“Frisk, you have no idea how much I love you,” He spoke, burying his face in her hair. “I know I don’t show it a lot, but I really really love you. There’s no one in the whole world who could be as sweet and kind and understanding and beautiful as you, okay? Don’t ever forget that,”

“I know… I won’t,” She replied in hiccups, still weeping quietly as she leaned against his chest. A moment of silence ensued in the living room.

Then Sans had an idea, and although it wasn’t really the best cure for a fearful heart, he had the feeling that it would do the trick. “How about this, I’ll show you how much I love you, sweetie,”

She looked up at him in curiosity. “How?”

“Tell me what to do,”

“What?” She tilted her head in confusion.

“I want you to tell me what to do, for the rest of the night, until daytime, Frisk,” He explained. “It could be anything you want, just tell me what you want, and consider it done,”

“But what does that do? I don’t understand how it proves that you love me…”

“Because, Frisk, love is built on trust, the trust that we have for each other. I’m asking you to tell me what to do, because I trust you,” He proclaimed, grinning again.

She took a minute to take it in and afterwards, she began to giggle. “Is this some censored way to tell me to dominate you?”

He widened his eyes, taken aback by her response. “Wha-where did you hear that word, sweetheart?”

“Don’t ask,” She waved her hand dismissively.

“But-”

“Don’t ask!” She interrupted him, although she was smiling. “You just told me to tell you what to do, so don’t ask me that, understand?” She seduced him assertively, her hands suddenly stroking up and down his back.

The white-haired mage bit his lower lip, holding back a moan as her fingers continued to sweep up and down his back, her fingers soon reaching under his shirt to touch his skin. This wasn’t what he was expecting, hell it was far from what he was expecting.

But he could roll with it.

“I-I understand,” Sans muttered, closing his eyes as he tried to stifle his moans. Sensing his submission, Frisk smirked triumphantly. It was such a fun new game for her that she forgot all about her nightmare.

“Sans,” She spoke softly as she raised her hands and wrapped them around his neck. “Bring us back to our room,”

“Yes, Frisk,”

One finger snap later, and they were both in her room again. Sans was holding her in his arms bridal style as he looked to her. “What’s next, my dear?”

“Bring me to the bed,” She ordered gently, her face slightly pink.

Sans sauntered to the bed and tenderly placed her down, on top of the crumpled comforter. Although she was lying down, she sat up immediately and waited as Sans settled down next to her cross-legged figure. “What’s next?” He asked again, in the same submissive tone.

She was almost startled by that tone he was reusing but that did not stop her from saying her next command. “Kiss me,”

Obediently, he approached her and brushed his fingers across her cheek, lightly pulling her face towards him until their faces were only inches apart. Gradually, his lips perched on hers and pressed deeply into her. Her eyes shut at the romantic gesture and she wrapped her hands around his face, tilting her head to the side to deepen the kiss. His hands fumbled about, gripping tightly to her shirt as he delicately pushed her down on the bed, his lips still connected with hers.

In the pale moonlight peeking out from the binds at the window, Sans kept on smothering his girlfriend with passionate kisses. When he got bored of giving her kisses on the lips, he reached for her head and grabbed her hair, pulling her head back so that he could trail sweet butterfly kisses down her neck, with her moans and whimpers as his fuel. When he finally stopped, Frisk whined in complaint, her eyes half-lidded as she stared at him. “Why, in the world, have you stopped?” She breathed.

“Because you gave me the command to only kiss you,” He replied in a seductive tone. Right then and there, Frisk could feel the room getting hotter and hotter by the second, especially when Sans leaned in close to her face again, his left hand caressing her chin, and muttered in a sexy voice, contrasting the submissive voice he had before. “What’s next, my princess?”

Frisk gasped at the sudden change in her nickname, and even though Sans was the one who asked that question, she already knew that now she was the submissive one. With her face completely red and her cheeks red-hot like iron, the brunette reached out for his hands and twirled his fingers around his. In a low and anticipative voice, she whispered quietly. “Love me, Sans,”

The blue in his eyes glowed with a sapphire aura as soon as he heard those three magic words. She could hear the door to her room being closed and locked within earshot. When she looked back at him, she could see a burning desire in his azure eyes, an expression full of hunger and erotic want. Blue was often a cool colour, she thought to herself, but in this case, his eyes were anything but calm and collected.

“As you wish, your majesty,” He mumbled into her ear, his hands already reaching for his pants.

SO! What an ending, amirite? :D

I’ll leave it up to your imagination. ;D

#sans #undertale #frisk #sans x frisk #frisk x sans #frans #sf #human #human sans #sexy #somewhat smut??#suggestive #yeah let's go with that.

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strawberrymarshmallowstories · 7 years

Text

From the World Above

Title: From the World Above

Pairing: Hoseok/OC

Word Count: a tad bit over 2K

Rating: SFW guys, it’s all safe!

Summary:

From great many eons ago, where blue skies showed gods calamity,

Until when the timewheel dashed through wars and catastrophes,

We are still here and so lurk they,

Among us, spreading their poison.

BTS Oneshot Collection: Gods & Goddesses AU

***

You pulled your hair up into a ponytail, tilting your head just enough for the light to hit all the right places.

Utter perfection. As fit for a goddess.

To be honest, not all gods resided secluded in their kingdoms. Some chose to travel the worlds. They took years, some decades, but most returned to their homelands.

Only a rare soul strayed, hooked on the offerings of this world.

Unlike these gods, you’d spent your childhood on the physical Earth. A gift on its own - away from a tainted unforgiving realm where gods played petty games, weaving plans stretched over decades, with stakes greater than life and death.

And you’d never change a thing. Even with the rocky path behind you, even more for a child with no parents to show the way. You’d gone through your own share of battles that left you a whimpering mess, the raw growing power only muffled by acres of forest green.

You’d think yourself as special for surviving, but there were more like you. Exiles. Refugees.

You'd never seen them, but their ghostly brush always sent shivers down your spine.

A non-verbal agreement. To stay away and no harm would be done.

The living of the woods walked with you as you followed the trail up the hill, welcomed by whispers and soft flickers of light. You hummed a tune that came as second nature, that sparked joy in the living under your feet and above your head.

You'd been too young when Gaia had taken you in, only a babe whose basic elements had yet to stabilise. Your bare survival had been a game of roulette. A ticking bomb of the sorts without a countdown.

But although an unknown threat, Gaia had shown mercy. She’d taken you in when your own kind had tried to hurt you.

No, not hurt. They'd been set out to kill.

So when you glimpsed the hair of slow burning fire, lazing on a huge flat rock that was yours, you snapped. That rock had become your favourite lounging spot, surrounded by rocky climbs and steep hills no human ever explored.

And like you, it had seen hundreds of years of change.

You suppressed your anger, for your wind whispered of an otherworldly touch. But you could tell, by the halo gifted by the Sun. Energy of fire and earth.

But indeed, his energy..

A hint of something, a hint of ...

No!

But your will held no strength. The damp pitch black dungeons, heavy breaths in a place with no other beating heart, hot tears down your cheeks that dried before they hit the ground.

Whoever he was, he carried the blood of the old gods.

Of the same gods who’d given birth to you. Of the same gods who’d tried to kill you, playing with life and death. From the same world you had escaped, barely alive and barely breathing.

Notes slipped from his lips with careless ease - as light as windchimes, but full of whispers of dark midsummer nights. Beauty you would’ve perhaps appreciated in different circumstances.

Had he not reminded you of your past.

And so even the trees carried the warning with each sway of their branches, to stay away as the wind lifted its head. To take on a physical blockage in its invisible form. And only then, once wind rose - an escort for a message and warning in one - his gaze snapped to yours.

'Who are you?' You called out. With the words an echo through the woods, each tree gathered their branches, knowing that you would hunt before becoming the prey.

Never again.

He stood, his manners unrushed. Every line of his face as if carved from marble, his fiery hair and glowing complexion an exotic mix. Immortals often lacked warmth, only cool hues adding to their image of longevity.

No, but there’s something else.

He almost could’ve pulled off being a human, albeit earthly charms were not enough to describe him. Instead he’d passed through the line of humane beauty, wandered off the trails to the land of outcasts with a rebellious glint in his eyes.

He was a beautiful man who took orders from no one.

'Nice place you have here,' he said with an appreciative nod and jumped off from the rock. 'And my apologies, of course a spot of this beauty would be taken.'

You should’ve let him go then. But you couldn't, not with blood pumping through your veins, the barely scabbed over scars pulsing deep under your skin. Demanding justice for doings no one remembered.

The breeze grazed your cheek before lashing out in a circle. With a smirk you crossed your arms, forcing the bounds to draw to close.

'What do you want from here?' You demanded and pulled at the invisible ropes. His hands went to his chest once he realised he couldn’t take another breath. All while the wind picked up its speed, not wanting to lose its chance.

The sky roared, loud and clear as it echoed through the opening.

Not today. You snapped at Gaia. Not when revenge was so close. Not when it tasted sugar-sweet on your tongue.

'So you're not a complete weakling,' you hissed at the first sign of his power. An invisible wall, a strong one.

'Boy, who are you?' You demanded, enforcing your own barriers. A layer upon another, the weaving quick and strong. A skill you had perfected through sheer need to stay alive.

'A boy, is that what I seem?' He finally said, his voice a low sharp-edged sword. He’d dropped the casual demeanour, replaced by confidence and a hint of eerie otherness.

He pushed against your barriers, his energy testing yours with a sharp tug. Then another, stronger, until its mere pressure pushed you back a step. ‘Haven’t been one for a long time.’

And the quick weaving paid off, for it blocked his firebolt that sizzled out against your barriers.

A test. And a show. A balance of great control and massive strength. With clear outlines, each flame a form of mastery, it required huge amounts of energy to burn. Many had no chance of mastering it, and not because of talent or hard work, but because they could never channel enough energy to try.

But he did, and he used it carelessly for a stupid show.

He was no boy or a man as that would mean he was human. Not even a mere god. He was something other. Something more.

An Ancient.

Your breath hitched, fists clenching. You had to get out.

A diversion? You could stir Gaia’s balance, get the wind to hold him at bay until--

'Now now, ladies and gentlemen.' A voice cut into your thoughts. A familiar tall frame stepped out from the shade, with icy ethereal beauty you knew well. ‘Two is not enough for a party, but three is a--.’

'Who is he Tae?' You cut him off with a gust of wind that got him coughing, a slap enough to soothe the irk under your skin.

‘What does your hunch say?’ A displeased reply. But his relaxed form eased the tension.

'That he smells like a human dog.' You scoffed, propping yourself up on your rock to cross a leg over another. Coincidences didn’t exist. Gods loved their games too much - and you had enough of being anyone’s puppet.

'Then the human dogs smell better than I presumed.' The red-head noted and held out his hand. ‘My name’s Jung Hoseok, a pleasure to meet you.'

You only granted the silent request as per old etiquette. He wouldn’t attack, not yet.

Because he needed something from you.

'As pleasantries are over, what do you want?' You asked when he released your hand, tingling in the aftermath of his power. Nothing could silence the power surging through his veins.

'He wanted to see the human world, it's been a while,' Taehyung replied with a tight smile. 'And I had some errands to run.'

You blinked in disbelief. ‘It's been a while? So you brought him to me?’

‘It’s fine Kim.' Hoseok replied instead and the two shared a quick glance.

'Suit yourself,’ Taehyung finally said and turned to you, almost apologetic. ‘He's here on your father’s behalf'.

Red flashed before your eyes as the world flipped out of focus.

‘You bastards,’ you hissed. Decades had passed, but still you awoke in the middle of the night with clothes stuck to your skin. Chest heaving, panting as if no breath was quite enough. On that fateful night, these monsters had become a part of you.

Your only solace had been your mother’s embrace. She said she would protect you. That you were safe.

Lies.

The wind rose again, circling around the opening with a deafening whistle. It had found its opening, now sharper, stronger, now seeking for a taste of blood. Waiting for your command.

Or waiting for you to give in.

Your mother’s cries still rang in your ears as you’d sobbed into her chest. And your father--

Someone needed to pay. Even if at the cost of your own immortal life.

Your wind rose from the ground up, the circles wider and stronger, bending trees to its will. And you closed your eyes, letting go and succumbing to the power, listening to the sounds of your only protector. Hearing how loose branches and leaves flew with the wind, betraying its moves.

But you knew better, it was mocking with its invisible strength, wanting to give them a taste before a strike.

A loud crack of thunder interrupted your focus. A bright flash of light. Wind subsided.

Wait-- You opened your eyes.

But they were gone.

***

You ran. Towards the darkness that passed as a thick fog over the clearing. Lurking, whispering of committed sins and sins to be committed. Slithering across the land towards its chosen prey. Hungry, so hungry..

With the starless sky seeped with a sickening reddish tinge, there was no doubt of it. Something was wrong, very wrong. You could almost feel it - the pain, the confusion, the desperation as people fought for their lives.

And fresh blood.

As you approached the village, dark creatures danced above it, between the sky and the earth. Bigger with each step closer, swallowing any light from the stars above, lifting the darkness to unseen heights. With each move otherworldly sharp and out of place, these ugly beasts must’ve crawled out from hell to feast in the night.

With a snap of your fingers you pulled out air from their space, but they only roared louder than a hundred storms. Quickly honing the wind to a sharp blade, you flung it at the closest creature. But blades sharp enough to slice through mountains couldn’t cut through unphysical matter.

Smoke, right. Damn it.

The creature exhaled towards the village, a puff of fiery smoke hitting an old wooden house before you. The dark flames engulfed it within seconds, before turning red and violent and became seen to a human eye.

You willed your wind to restrict their freedom while you still had the element of surprise, backing them into an invisible cage. They roared again deep and loud, earth rumbling beneath your feet. But this time out of frustration, of anger.

But just as you closed the circle, one of the invisible bounds snapped. You tried to contain it, but the monster was faster. Out of its bounds, its big black pits of eyes landed on you. And then it disappeared as a puff of black smoke headed towards you.

Your eyes widened. It was going to hit the village.

No one would survive.

And you could do nothing, a goddess without any battle knowledge. You didn’t even have enough time to pull up enough wind to block it.

But a spark of blue flashed before the smoke touched the earth, the blast high enough to reach the sky. And the creatures fell as black blobs of goo, with a sickening quelch as each hit the ground.

Close to blinded and nailed to the spot, you saw him. A man standing in the hue of burning houses, with orbs gleaming brighter than the flames.

He looked furious, enraged, as he took care of a beast that had somehow survived. Ruthless in his actions, only a sharp swipe of his hand. Without hesitation, as if he’d done this many times before.

Your eyes widened. Out of all the people why--

A heart-wrenching cry cut through the air. A child flashed before your eyes, a baby. Lost. Alone. Afraid.

You'd seen her before. You had blessed her according to old customs, although you rarely took part in traditions. Because blessing a child formed a bond for protection, meaning you would look after the soul. Only few humankind tribes still knew of this art.

But the blessing had been bestowed as you owed a family your life. And this child crying for help was the grandchild of the couple that had saved you when you’d first arrived on Earth. Before Gaia found you.

It had been a thank-you blessing stated for 7 generations, each moving under your protection.

‘Go!’ You heard Hoseok shout. ‘I’ll take care of it!’

You zoned in on the vision, scanning the ruins. Big rocks rather than wood. A corner filled with equipment and hay.

There! You ran down the narrow pathways that hadn't collapsed yet, to where a woman laid on hay, barely breathing, her face in stern lines with will to live. For her child in her arms, whose cries were louder than the flames and cracking wood.

Another human you had failed to protect.

You bit your tongue. You needed to cut off the air to stop the fire getting to them. But with the flames too close to the people, the lack of oxygen would kill many more.

From desperation you did the only thing you knew. You called forth the rain with a plea to Gaia, a downpour of the maddest types that soaked you to the bone. It wouldn’t help against dark flames, but it would buy time with flames that could be distinguished. And with hair stuck to your face and the drops heavy against every inch of your body, you kneeled before them.

With a whisper of an old chant you placed a hand on the mother’s forehead and threw up a barrier around the three of you. Just for the little one. So he could live a life you never had.

And you let your energy flow.

You heard muted cracks through the barrier, but soon lost track of time. You didn’t see the flames die, didn’t know when the heat stopped pinching at your back. And not because of you, but because of Hoseok who was fire himself, whose energy still vibrated in the still-warm ashes.

He’d fought for you when he hadn’t needed to.

And when he finished, he stood behind you. Waiting. Keeping watch.

Observing you while Gaia cried from the loss.

***

#sfwbangtan #jhope.network #jhope #j-hope #jung hoseok #hoseok #hobi #bts #bts fanfiction #btsfanfiction #strawberrymarshmallowstories

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