#I could draw squid romance forever

[fritterbat]

commission for the lovely @ghostcouncil of the Emperor and Tav from her fanfic! it was great fun to work on a painting for one of my favorite BG3 fics (go read it now if you have not!)

[angelasscribbles]

Savage Love Chapter 24: Tension

 Series: Savage Love

Fandom: The Royal Romance

Pairings: Riley x Liam, Riley x Drake

Rating: R         

Warnings: Mature themes

Word Count: 1,743

My other stuff: Master List.

Back in the car, Liam asked, “How did you know about Squid Whiskey? I’m positive Drake didn’t tell you voluntarily!”

Drake ran a hand down his face with a groan, “Blame Savannah!”

“Ah. That makes sense.” Liam’s brows drew together, “When…ah….did you meet Savannah?”

“We ran into her at a bar Drake took me to for live music, real food and beer!” I answered.

“Real food?”

Drake responded, “Come on, Li, you know the food they serve at those fancy galas can be….less than filling.”

“Yes, that’s true.” Liam said thoughtfully before telling me, “You know, anytime you want something more filling, feel free to stop by my room. I can have the kitchen make anything you want, anytime, even after they’re closed!”

I giggled at that, “There you go, abusing your power again.”

“You have that effect on me.” He gave me a seductive grin as he waggled his eyebrows.

“Oh, no! Don’t blame me for your tyranny!” I pushed his shoulder playfully.

Drake cleared his throat, as he leaned closer to tell me, “I keep the kitchen in my suite fully stocked and I cook.”

I turned my head from one to the other noting that both men had scooted closer to me. Liam’s leg was pressed against my left, Drake’s against my right.

The back seat suddenly seemed smaller. I kept my hands clasped tightly in my lap in front of me, afraid to reach for either one of them. But I wondered what would happen if I did.

I swear there was an electrical current flowing out of each of them and into me. My body was awash with want, every nerve ending on fire and at attention. My brain was screaming at me to do something about it, to reach out and touch one, or both, of them. I swear I could smell the damn pheromones filling the interior of the SUV.

My breathing intensified as I struggled to keep my desire under control. I slowly lifted my eyes and looked up at Drake. He was staring down at me with a look I knew only too well. I turned just as slowly to look at Liam. His face clearly telegraphed his need.

Shit!

“Um….good to know I have options…for food! Thank you both. But…shouldn’t we be trying to get Leo, Max and Bertrand here by tomorrow? You know…so I can make good on my promise, and we can get our meeting with Dr. Boedecker and follow up on the whole secret heir thing?”

“Yes, of course.” Liam moved away from me, but not by much, as he reached for his phone.

“Right.” Drake mirrored Liam’s movements.

There was air between us now. Not much, but enough to defuse the situation, a little. I was both relieved and disappointed.

We split the work. There were three of us and three people to convince. I took Max. Turns out I didn’t have to do any convincing at all.

Max was one thousand percent enthusiastic, “Yes! I haven’t played my guitar in forever! Squid Whiskey! Rock on!”

Bertrand was less enthusiastic, “Why, on God’s green earth, would I ever agree to-“

“It’s for Liam and Leo.” Drake cut in.

Silence for a moment followed by a long suffering sigh, “Fine. Tell me when and where.”

Leo was the most difficult to convince. “All the reasons I didn’t go with you to Auvernall in the first place still stand! I’ll draw attention to everything and I’m excruciatingly busy!”

“Leo, don’t you want to know if we have another brother, or a sister, out there?” Liam pressed.

“I do, but surely, there’s another way-“

“There’s not. At least not anything that won’t take months!”

“What about Riley?”

“She’ll stay backstage. No one looking for her has any reason to believe she’s traveling with us.”

“The press will be all over this. Dad will kill me!”

“We’ll use stage names, like we did in college. You can use face paint if you’re really worried about it, but even if it gets out, so what? Get the palace PR team on it, we are doing this for charity, Leo!”

Drake leaned across me to speak into Liam’s phone, “Isn’t pissing off your dad half the fun of doing it?”

“That’s not as much fun as it used to be.” Leo intoned drily.

“The charity is for free and low income clinics, Leo. You know universal healthcare was mom’s big thing.”

Eleanor was the reason Cordonia had instituted state supported healthcare. The mention of Eleanor did the trick. With a sigh, Leo agreed, “Ok, sure. I can move some things around. It might even be fun.”

“Perfect!” Liam grinned at me triumphantly, “It’s a short flight, if you leave tonight, you can sleep on the plane, and we can have a full day of rehearsal! I’m sure we’re all rusty.”

“Not me.��� Drake scoffed, “I still play from time to time.”

I ran my eyes appreciatively over his body. I could believe it. You don’t really appreciate the physicality of drumming until you’ve seen it up close and I found myself suddenly imaging it. Things low in my body pulled tight.

“I still sing in the shower.” Liam offered.

I closed my eyes. Dear God.

Were they both trying to kill me? Now I was picturing Drake’s muscles rippling as he drummed and Liam naked in the shower. Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck!

I wasn’t against dragging one of them into an empty room somewhere, but we were stuck in the backseat together and there was no slipping away discreetly with one or the other.

“So, what are we going to do until the others get here?” I asked, to try and change the subject. Because if we didn’t dispense with some of the sexual tension filling the backseat, I couldn’t be held responsible for what might happen.

“If you’re up for it, I would love to show you the town.” Liam responded immediately, then glancing past me, “Both of you, of course.”

“Sure, sounds good.” Drake replied as he stretched out, draping his arm across the back of the seat, not quiet touching my shoulders, but pretty close.

I reached out and clasped Liam’s hand as I told him, “That sounds lovely.”

The rest of the morning and afternoon passed in a swirl of activity. First order of business was finding and purchasing band equipment and setting it up for delivery at the venue. We had lunch, then we did a little shopping and a little sightseeing. We went to the military museum, because that’s what Auvernall is most proud of and because Liam thought Drake and I would like it.

“Whoa! Is that a tiger tank?” Drake’s eyes brightened with excitement.

I smothered a laugh as I told Liam, “We may never get him out of here!”

“You know it was the heaviest tank used during world war two, right?” Drake asked looking back and forth between me and the tank.

“Yes, I’m aware.”

A few minutes of wandering later and Drake called out, “Oh, shit! Brooks, come look at this!”

“Oh, my God! You found the old paratrooper equipment!” I returned his smile and his enthusiasm as he spent the next fifteen minutes explaining all the usages and functions of each item.

“Damn. This just makes me want to go jump out of a plane again!” He said.

“Well, then, let’s do it!” I replied.

“Really? You’d want to do that again?”

“Try and stop me, Walker!”

“I’m not going to try and stop you from doing anything you want, Brooks!” He told me as he placed a hand on each of my shoulders and stepped closer to me, “I like everything you do.”

“Yes, well,” Liam cleared his throat, “If you’re ready, there’s more to see.”

Drake stepped away with a sigh, “Sure.”

We stumbled across a small, owner operated bookshop.

Liam smiled at me as he pulled the door open, “Maybe they’re interested in selling.”

I giggled as I remembered our conversation about what our lives might look like if we’d taken different paths. “If so, you’d better get started on that book or you’ll have nothing to sign.”

“Not a problem.” He said as we strolled from aisle to aisle, “I already have a plot in mind!”

“You do?”

“Oh, I do! It’s about this undercover agent that falls in love with a prince!”

I snort laughed at that. “So, it’s fantasy?”

He leaned toward me with a wicked grin and lowered his voice, “Autobiographical.”

I returned his grin as I leaned a little towards him, “Oh, yeah?”

“Knock it off, you two,” Drake interrupted, “No PDA’s!”

“Jealous?” Liam asked.

“No.” Drake scoffed, “But if a reporter, or a looky loo with a cell phone, recognizes you, her picture could be splashed all over tomorrow’s news and she needs to keep a low profile until we catch the psychopath trying to kill her.”

“You’re right.” Liam agreed, stepping away.

I ended up seated between them in the backseat again and it wasn’t any less awkward. If anything, it was more awkward!

I turned toward Drake to say something, and he ran a finger down my cheek as he answered. I turned toward Liam to respond to something he said, and he brushed my hair back, his fingers trailing electricity across the back of my neck.

I was glad Rud was there during dinner to break the tension a little. We updated him on our progress.

“So, you promised them a band?” Rud asked before throwing his head back and bellowing. He then pointed his fork at me while speaking to Liam, “She’s got moxie, that one!”

“Oh, I’m aware.” Liam smiled indulgently as he dabbed his mouth with the green linen napkin. He cleared his throat and sat a tad more upright in his chair, “Speaking of the band, grandfather…would it be alright if they stayed here? If you’d rather not, that’s fine, I can book a local-“

Rud waved his hand in the air, “Bah! Hotels are for places where you don’t know anybody! Your brother and your friends are welcome here! It’ll be the most life this old mausoleum has seen in years!”

My phone dinged. I looked down at it then back up to find three pair of eyes watching me questioningly. I grinned, “We’ve got our appointment with Dr. Boedecker first thing in the morning!”

[snackhobi]

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. 

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. 

[alexdecampi]

As @imagecomics IMAGE+ hits stands today, with the big feature on our Twisted Romance book, I thought I’d write a little more on how it came about and how we picked who would be in it. It’s quite long, so more under cut!

the tl:dr is: big two comics is a trashfire but it’s OK, because all the cool girls, guys and nonbinary folks are off in indieville hiring each other and making awesome stuff.

I’ve really gotten into reading fanfic. I love a nice romantic story, and strong emotional arcs are something mainstream comics doesn’t do well. I say “mainstream comics” but really I mean mainstream comics now – romance anthologies were a huge part of the comics market back when comics were sold on newsstands. Back when publishers had to keep it to a tight dozen comic titles total a month to remain cool with their newsstand distributors. Jack Kirby wrote ‘em. So did Joe Simon, and Stan Lee. John Romita Sr drew some of the best ones you’ve ever seen. Yep, all your big masc faves wrote kissy books! 

But, as comics moved to specialty stores, they became narrower in subject matter even as they ballooned in volume (over 50+ titles a month at each of DC and Marvel). The romance market went elsewhere. It’s still adjacent (hi, AO3!), but mainstream comics publishers seem happy to just walk by all that free money on the street. 

(@ironcircuscomics is doing a great job publishing diverse romance and smut. Check ‘em out! And the Fresh Romance series that Janelle Asselin founded is carried by most comics stores. So we’re not claiming to be original or first or anything.) 

That’s the background. The reality is I was up in Maine going quietly mad for the summer, had too much sugar one night, and emailed Eric Stephenson at Image the following “Hope you’re well! I’ve been chatting to friends about doing a 6-issue mini of romance one-shots, each collaborating with a different artist. Katie Skelly, Alejandra Gutierrez and Carla Speed McNeil all interested / down, and I’d need to line up three more artists. Is this the sort of thing Image would be interested in?”

Folks, I hate to make you weep, but that was the entirety of my pitch. Eric emailed back after talking to their sales manager and suggested due to retailer reticence about anthologies that we instead do a four-issue run and make it weekly in February.

Gulp.

It was early August. Solicits for Feb are due in early October. That is not a lot of time to make up a series from whole cloth. But I was like *grins, flashes peace sign* sure I can do that. I mean, weekly! Cool, right? Great idea, right? *screams internally*

Then: to the DMs, Girl Wonder, where I lined up @artoftrungles (he and I had been talking about another project that hadn’t worked out). Then I thought more about old comics formats and was like hey I want backup stories! Backup stories are awesome.

More DMs. I approached creators that I loved to write and draw eight page romance shorts. Katie Skelly and @mercurialblonde were old friends (and I’ve loved Sarah’s work since forever) so she was an easy choice. Likewise, Peggy Trauth and @swinsea, both of whom have been on my radar since forever. And @meredithmcclaren, for similar reasons. 

I also spoke to @prom-knight, who ended up not being able to do a backup because of her schedule, but will be doing the trade cover. In retrospect there are a ton of people I would have loved to get involved, if they had the time and inclination, but we were so rushed to pull this together (in order to give my artists and creators a reasonable, human amount of time to do the work) that I barely had time to breathe. 

Then we started organising. Everyone was extremely patient with my slightly OCD group emails. I suggested that the backup creators also draw a back cover (because we can do that at Image). Peggy in return suggested we run the stories as a flip book, so the back covers can be racked like front covers. I checked with Image to make sure we could run different versions for print (flipped) and digital (unflipped), and they were good for that. We made it so.

Then I started thinking, oh, if we flip it, how do we end up not spoiling the end of the other-direction story when you finish reading whichever comics story you choose to read first? So this brought us to adding a 5,000-word prose story to the centre of each issue, bringing our total up to a 48-page weekly book. I mostly asked more close friends I wanted to work with, including a couple well-known fanfic writers from two different fandoms. Again, Magen and Vita and @naomisalman and @squid-bits were all people whose work I loved and respected and I’ve wanted to work with for ages. 

Then I wrote four 28-page scripts over a fortnight, each specifically in the style/interests of four radically different artists, almost had a nervous breakdown, and passed out. 

Now the book is almost done. It’s been a whirlwind. A great whirlwind. I can’t wait for you all to see what we have in store for you. Those fat 48pg issues out weekly in February! Trade not out until June. If you don’t have a local comics store, @escapepodcomics in the US and Page45 in the UK will happily do mail order. And you can always buy digitally anywhere on @comixology!

[lonerangerinspace]

Bellarke Fic Rec 1/?

The 100 Bellarke fandom has some fabulous writers and I’ve been saving some of my favorite fics.  And now I’m sharing them.  I tried to group them into basic genres and I’m planning to do more posts! (Fics under the cut)

Genres: Modern AU, Soulmate AU, Celebrity AU, Cannon Divergence/AU, Grounder AU, Historical/Fantasy AU

Modern AU

so put your hands down my pants and I bet you'll feel nuts

Summary: Clarke meets a guy at a party and drunkenly shares a lot of information with him that she is going to regret.

Don't Trust People Who Read Fight Club

Summary: Bellamy Blake is a librarian. And with that great power comes great responsibility. But it’s what he does, and he lives for those who are actually interested when they lean on his desk and ask for recommendations. That sort of people make him forget all about assholes like the blonde who drops by his desk one day, looking to check out Shakespeare’s Hamlet and Palahniuk’s Fight Club.

Aurora Borealis

Summary: Clarke sets up shop next door to Aurora's Tattoos; Bellamy takes issue with her flower shop's name. The rest goes from there.

Time Enough for Rocking When We're Old

Summary: boston > boston/camb/brook > housing > apts by owner$2-300 Roxbury small room in 3-br 1-bath house, spouse preferred (Roxbury) Pair of siblings looking for housemate. Due to extenuating circumstances I will share with interested parties, I would prefer a roommate who is willing to get married for legitimate personal reasons that do not include sex or anything sketchy. If not interested in marriage, room still available for $300/month plus utilities. Pets okay, no smokers, NO DRUG USE.Please don't just email me to tell me this is fucked up, I know it is, you really don't have to tell me.If you are interested in the marriage part, a female spouse is preferred, but male would be okay too. I promise I will explain this if you really want details, but I'm not putting it online.Serious inquiries only.

The Giant Squid's Got Nothing On You

Summary: “That is what stalking is though, technically,” says Raven, stirring cinnamon into her coffee. She’s joined her today on her sketching run, and the cafe is packed to the brim. “And it’s not normal either. Soon enough someone is going to show him those drawings and then there’ll be a lawsuit on your hands. And I’m not going to bail you out.”Objectively, Clarke knows she’s probably right, but she still can’t help but lift her chin determinedly and say, “He is not going to find it.”She can barely hear her scoff in reply over the din of the cafe. “Yeah right,” says Raven, “The internet is forever, Clarke Griffin. He will find it eventually.”or, Clarke finds her new muse at the local cafe

Soulmate AU

Livewire

Summary: Clarke Griffin finds 'Atlas' written on her wrist and Bellamy Blake sees flowers bloom on his skin.  *Soulmate au where when you write something on your skin with pen/marker/whatever the hell you want, it will show up on your soulmate's skin as well.

I Knew You'd be Trouble

Summary: A soul-bond AU where the first words that your soul mate will say to you are marked on your skin in their own handwriting.Wherein Bellamy is a giant sap and has spent his entire life planning the first words he'll say to his soul mate and practicing his penmanship so her marks will be perfect and Clarke sort of forgot that it was a thing entirely and never quite learned to hold her tongue.

and love, you taste like magic

Summary: For a moment she was sure she was seeing lightning marks, her lightning marks, but then the sunlight hit his arm just at the right angle and the black ink glinted under her fingers.But tattoos weren’t real soulmarks, no matter how much she wished them to be.

Where the Memories Flicker

Summary: It's very tempting, to get in touch with your childhood friend once he makes it big in Hollywood. But it's also very awkward, so Clarke's going to skip it. Really, she is.

Feel the Beating of Your Heartache Drum

Summary: Bellamy is seven when he feels his soulmate for the first time. He is also seven when he meets Clarke Griffin. And for the next eleven years, nothing makes sense about the person he is supposed to love, his soulmate. But loving Clarke Griffin feels pretty right.

Celebrity AU

Time Is Running out (but We Are Running Free)

Summary: It starts because of a show about space pirates and mojitos. And everyone loves an off-screen romance between co-stars.  Or: Bellarke co-stars fake dating AU.  “So, what? We just do this? Fake dating?” Bellamy asks, leaning forward on his forearms, bewildered.“I don’t see a problem, then. Just do what you’re usually doing. Tweet at each other, but don’t confirm anything.” With that, Anya focuses all of her attention on Bellamy and Clarke. There’s steely determination in her eyes as she announces, “We’re going to slow burn the hell out of this.”

Caught in a Riptide

Summary: Bellamy invites his best friend, Clarke, to the gala of his movie, and she just refuses to step on that red carpet. Because.

What We Do to Each Other

Summary: A Bellarke AU in which Bellamy and Clarke are childhood best friends, separated by life and trying to relearn each other again.  *"You would, yeah."He frowns at her wistfulness, looking like he's caught between spreading his arms for her and rejecting every memory they made together. "I would what?""Fill your apartment with books, have a fire escape so you can run away a little and - and I bet you still keep sunflower seeds around, don't you?"Bellamy flashes her a rueful smile and she's back into the day they shared her bed, his body curled into hers as they watched their lives being pulled apart at the seams.This is the real distance, and it is not measured in miles. It is measured in time you spent away, time that is lost, time that can never be brought back.

Or, You Could Always Google It

Summary: “You know,” Bellamy muses, grin wide and a little conspiratorial, “you’re robbing our legions of fans here. They’re expecting a showdown and you’re being perfectly cordial towards me.”“Right,” she nods, pursing her lips to keep from smiling. “Well, it’s not too late. I could always pitch that glass of water down your shirt.”Someone really should have warned Clarke that the first step to becoming internet famous would involve acquiring a nemesis. (Or, Bellarke as rival YouTubers, basically.)

take the world

Summary: “Bellamy!” Monty greets, “Thanks for coming. I know you’re swamped with homework. This is Clarke. She’s new!”  “Great,” Bellamy mutters, meeting the wide eyes of Clarke Griffin, who schools her features into boredom the second she takes him in. “Princess,” he says, nodding at her. “I will castrate you.  ”Monty looks warily in between the two of them. “So… I guess you guys have met?” “Oh, we’re old friends,” Clarke says cheerfully, a smile plastered on her face. “This is going to be so much fun.”  OR; a The Prince and Me AU. Bellamy and Clarke meet in college. Bellamy is just trying to make it through his last semester, and Clarke is trying to keep a secret.

Canon Divergence/AU

Let Me Show You How It's Done

Summary: Bellamy's a virgin, which wouldn't be such a problem if virgins didn't make such great sacrifices.

take what you can (give nothing back)

Summary: For Clarke Griffin from the Arcadia Colonies, being abducted by space pirates was not what she had in mind. Being ransomed back to her potential husband, was definitely not what she had in mind.

Love Will Come Through

Summary: "The vows were short, perfunctory; Clarke was asked to say I do, and she did. There were rings, too: Bellamy’s fingers were warm against her hand when he slipped a ring on her finger, and she put a ring on his. They were instructed to kiss. His lips were dry, pressing against her mouth for a moment, and that was it. They were done.  She was a wife, and her husband was a stranger."AU. Clarke winds up in an arranged marriage with Bellamy.

bound by the secrets we share

Summary: Ninety-seven years ago, a nuclear apocalypse rendered planet Earth unlivable, leaving only the four-hundred people on the twelve space stations as its survivors. Over three generations, these twelve nations joined together to form the unified Ark Station.To preserve the human race, the leaders of the Ark implemented strict measures including: capital punishment for anyone over the age of eighteen, a ration system based on job placement, and the arrangement of marriages based on genetic compatibility. If the human race was to return to Earth, it had to be strong to survive.Clarke Griffin turned eighteen and celebrated her birthday with a marriage ceremony.

Son of Lycaon

Summary: From the ground Clarke can see that Amy was right; it’s not quite a wolf, but she doesn’t know what else to call it. The teeth are wrong, its spine elongated too much- it’s the stuff of nightmares, if Clarke had any room in her dreams for more horrors.

Grounder AU

And I Love This Place, the Enormous Sky

Summary: The Skaikru needs an ally, and the Delphi Clan is willing. It might not be their tradition to seal such alliances with a marriage, but Clarke Griffin has always done what her people need. Bellamy can't help admiring that.  So he goes with her.

The Name of a Foreigner's God

Summary: Bellamy and the delinquents leave the dropship and run straight into the Ice Nation's arms. The Ice Queen only requires one thing to secure their allegiance: a marriage.Or, Grounder!Clarke and Bellamy in an arranged marriage. (Also featuring domme!Clarke and sub!Bellamy, just for funsies.)

Anywhere I Go (There You Are)

Summary: BFF fill for "I was wondering if you could do an 'In your eyes' (2014 film) bellarke fic, maybe when one of them lives on the ark and the other is a grounder? I love that film and can't find any fics for it" For valar-adorehaeris

In My Dreams We Are Always Together

Summary: 100 delinquents got sent to Earth and battled for survival against the odds. They landed in Trikru territory but that is not where they stayed. After weeks of battle and war, the Sky People finally lost. They were sent to a land far away, where a group of Grounders unlike any they've met waited for them.

Facing Tempests of Dust

Summary: Clarke Griffin has grown up in the perfectly controlled environment of the Ark dome, a city created to withstand the destruction of the world outside. Now, she's been sent out with 100 other delinquents to try to survive on their own, but she knows the truth. They weren't sent away for their crimes, but rather to buy time for others in Ark, as the city is failing. While Clarke struggles to lead her band of teenagers, she encounters a man with strange abilities and an offer she finds hard to refuse.

Historical/Fantasy AU

It’s Just That It’s Delicate

Summary: The main reason Bellamy gets Lady Clarke's hand is marriage is that her father was a traitor and he's the bastard heir of an unpopular baron. But it might work out for him, after all.

Your Heart and Your Mind (They Are Mine, and They're Lovely)

Summary: Bellamy Blake makes a deal with a witch.

Without Giving Anything Away

Summary: When Octavia gets married and leaves home, she's worried Bellamy won't be able to handle the ranch on his own. So she talks him into putting an ad in the paper to see if he can find a wife.

I Choose You

Summary: (Vague) Period AU: Just days away from her eighteenth birthday, Clarke is running out of time to find a husband. Conveniently, that's when Bellamy Blake shows up at her doorstep.

No Desire To Be King

Summary: Clarke is in love with him from their first adventure. But she's a Crown Princess then, and he's got no desire to be king.It's been ten years of him always showing up when she needs him the most - battles, armies, mythical beasts... even when she lost her parents. But they've just faced another battle side by side, and she's a Queen and he's got no desire to be King. And she's sick of saying goodbye.But this time, he doesn't seem to be leaving.

[analysis-by-vaylon]

The question of genre in Star vs. the Forces of Evil.

In this post, I’ll be discussing the importance of genre in Star vs. the Forces of Evil -- in particular, demonstrating how the series tips its hand as to what its genre is, and why understanding the genre of the series is important.

This post is possible in part thanks to two users from the Star vs. the Forces of Evil subreddit who directed my attention to the episode “By the Book”: /u/ElHijodelQuesoDragon and /u/Pedrogi. Their names link to their respective posts; without their observations, I would have overlooked some otherwise crucial lines of dialogue.

As I mentioned before, the reason I have these analysis posts is because there’s an incredible outpouring of love, effort, and creativity that goes into the show's production, from directing to writing to storyboarding, and I believe that our duty, as an audience, is to fully explore the wealth of significance that the series creators have given to us -- it would just be a damn shame not to -- and, as a critic, I feel obligated to illuminate that significance so that all of us, including myself, can come away from the work having realized more meaning in it.

Now back to the topic at hand: genre.

My old Shakespeare professor would say that, when trying to understand an unfamiliar piece of literature, the very first thing we ought to do is determine its genre. The genre of a piece of literature informs everything about it: its language, tone, conventions, effects, audience expectations, ending -- all of it. If knowing a work's genre is the first step toward understanding it, then what genre is Star vs. the Forces of Evil?

The series itself draws attention to genre in the episode "By the Book," in the "romantic comedy" or Twilight parody scene:

Marco: "Glossaryck, you'll miss the whole movie if you stay in there. I thought you liked romantic comedies."  

Glossaryck: "Yeah, yeah, oh, yeah. I've seen this one before, and the squid lady dies in the end."

Many people take this scene -- just check the YouTube comments for yourself -- to be foreshadowing: the film's characters, they claim, are analogues for Star and Marco. In other words, because Squid Lady and Werewolf Man can't be together, Star and Marco won't be together, either. Admittedly, this theory could be right, and this scene could indeed be the series meta-commentating on itself; I've seen some convincing arguments of this. On the other hand, I think we should seriously consider the possibility that the Twilight parody is actually misdirection. Why do I think that?

Simple: the film shown is not a romantic comedy at all!

If Squid Lady dies at the end -- if the story is about her and Werewolf Man being kept apart forever not only by society but by death -- then the Twilight parody isn't a romantic comedy, it's a tragedy.

Before going into further detail about that scene in particular, I’d like to discuss each of the genres -- that is, romance, tragedy, and comedy -- and their definitions, both modern and classical: some of their meanings have changed over time. The use of these words -- and Star vs. the Forces of Evil, if nothing else, is very conscious of what words it’s using -- reveals some interesting things about the series.

Romance is a genre whose meaning has shifted radically over the years. There's medieval romance, historical romance, Renaissance romance, and modern romance -- you can find a useful glossary to these terms here. Famous literary examples include The Song of Roland, The Tempest, and Don Quixote. Interestingly, every single one of the definitions of romance fits the series: it's an episodic tale about a particular warrior, who is in fact part of a much larger chronicle of warriors, as she rescues fair maidens and confronts supernatural challenges on exciting, wild adventures while simultaneously developing passionate feelings about someone. Check, check, check, and check; the show is most definitely a romance in every sense of the word.

A tragedy, in terms of classical drama, is a play that ends in catastrophe -- usually death and destruction, whether of people or an entire society. Lovers are kept from being together, families are torn apart, and entire ways of life are destroyed. Famous literary examples include the Illiad, Hamlet, and Death of a Salesman. The meaning has stayed fairly consistent over time.

A comedy, in terms of classical drama, is a play that ends happily. Sometimes they were amusing (i.e., comic), while at other times they could be quite serious -- but they always end happily. For Shakespeare and other Renaissance writers, this happy ending usually meant that the play ended with marriage: that is, with two different things coming together in harmony. Famous literary examples include the Odyssey, Much Ado About Nothing, and Harvey. Over time, the meaning of the word comedy has shifted in sense so that now, in modern usage, it means any amusing work. The series is certainly funny -- but is it a comedy in a classical sense?

That’s the central question of this particular analysis: is Star vs. the Forces of Evil tragedy or comedy? If you believe it’s tragedy, then you might take Squid Lady and Werewolf Man’s plight at face value as straightforward foreshadowing: like them, Star and Marco come from two different worlds, and, because of that, they can never be together.

I think the clue here, however, is that Marco calls the Twilight parody a romantic comedy when it clearly isn’t. This is the equivalent of the writers sending up a warning flag to the audience and shouting, “Hey! Pay attention!” Pay attention to what? The rest of the episode itself, actually: “By the Book” contains subtle but convincing evidence that the show is, in fact, a comedy in the classical sense -- and that therefore will end with Marco and Star being together.

Remember how I said that Renaissance comedies end with two different things coming together in harmony? Star and Marco are those two different things: Mewni and Earth, respectively. Star is quite literally an otherworldly being -- a magic-wielding, winged fairy -- and Marco is an ordinary Earthling. That the two of them should meet and fall in love is a tale as old as storytelling itself, replete with stories of gods, goddesses, and other supernatural entities falling in love with mortals -- just open any book of Greek myths for an example.

Sound far-fetched? Maybe at first -- but “By the Book” subtly reinforces, throughout the episode, the theme of two different things coming together:

Warnicorns are a mixture of something cute -- a unicorn -- and something meant for actual battle, but it isn't until Star reads from the book that she manages to cast the spell correctly and combine the two attributes.

Similarly, there's Star's cotton candy cloud which drops spaghetti and meatballs down on Marco -- again, the contrast reinforcing the notion that her magic isn't working right; in other words, in order for two different things to come together appropriately, she needs to do things by the book.

Even the Incantationdance itself is an example of harmonious union, since an incantation uses spoken language, and a dance uses body language, yet somehow it all works together when performed.

"Earth eleven o'clock or Mewni eleven o'clock?" "They're the same, Star."

Squid Lady and Werewolf Man, as previously mentioned.

The popcorn-candy mix. Sweet and salty working together!

Finally, the most important example of the harmonious union theme is, believe it or not, the Boom Nuggets and the soda stolen by Glossaryck. There's an urban legend that Pop Rocks (i.e., "Boom Nuggets") and soda pop together can kill you, and "By the Book" playfully references it. Interestingly, Glossaryck instead uses the (allegedly) deadly combination to "rocket [him]self from a trash compactor" and "save the day" -- a creative if unusual metaphor reinforcing the theme of the harmonious union of two different things which normally would be in opposition. Crazy, right? But it works: Glossaryck turns what might have been a tragedy (Pop Rocks and soda together kill people!) into a comedy (Pop Rocks and soda together can ... save the day!).

Oh, and one last thing, in case you still aren't convinced: Greek comedies originated in festivals celebrating Dionysus. They involved revelry, music, merriment, and dancing and singing.

So let's say all of this is right, and "By the Book" is pointing to evidence that Star vs. the Forces of Evil is, in fact, both a romance and a comedy (in both classical and modern usages of the words) -- what does it mean? Why is it important? Well, I believe that people have the wrong idea about the Twilight parody scene: instead of foreshadowing that Star and Marco won’t be together, it actually foreshadows that the series will indeed end happily: that air and earth, normally opposing forces, will be wedded in harmony -- cleaved together, if you will -- and Glossaryck, as demonstrated by this episode, will be the catalyst that causes that to happen. (The phrase “by the book” itself has some interesting connotations as well, but those might be left for another day.)

To sum up: I believe the Twilight parody in “By the Book” is the best indication yet that Star and Marco are destined to be together and will, in fact, be married by the time the series ends -- and as far as romantic comedies are concerned, that's about as by the book as you can get.

[sapphequinox]

Lunar Violet: Chapter 1

Content Warning and Foreword: Just don’t read this. Seriously. One night instead of venting into a journal nobody would ever read, I decided to channel my turmoil and restlessness into a work of fiction. The result we have here is the first chapter of a hopefully not ongoing series, which if I write another word of it will be an anthology of short stories chronicling the lives of the people that live in a small town with a population of exactly 26 people. I will repeat in clear terms that this is in no way autobiographical in any way. For realsies. Also this is my “After Hours” blog now, which means this is now the destination for everything I decide to put out on this site that I deem not suited for display on my main blog. You have been warned.

  Well, I guess it started that one night. Yeah, that was about the time, I’ll start there. I found myself hunched over my desk, passively scribbling away under the soft orange lamplight. Since my chair faced out the attic window, I always had a clear view of my muse at night: the bare neighborhood streets, free from the burden of its residents. Streetlights hummed and cicadas sang, providing the soundtrack to my work.

   I’m not sure why, but at approximately 10:33 that night I’d felt an incredibly strong urge to write. Just write. I hadn’t any particular ideas of what exactly I was to write, but I’d decided that I was indeed going to use a pen to create a story upon paper. And so far it was going spectacularly. I’d gotten off to a shaky beginning, testing out different ideas to see if any broad concepts could draw some inspiration out of me. A cyberpunk space romance, historical fiction comedy set in East Asia, so on and so forth. I’d eventually decided on “Effervescent Gamble: Furtive Adventures in Neo Tokyo”. I’ll be honest and tell you that I’d come up with the title before the concept, and at the moment was going through the tasking process of doing the name justice.

   Upon realizing that I’d been sitting and thinking about not being able to think about anything for quite awhile now, I decided to quit writing. Again. Defeated, yet still stirring with my lust for creativity and self-expression, my next course of action was to rise out from my slumped position out of my chair, and subsequently fall face first onto my bed. As I rolled over to examine my ceiling as I often do, I was once again prompted by a sheet of paper taped up there asking a question I’d mulled over many a night: “Should I masturbate?”

  I thought this through carefully, eventually coming to the logical conclusion that, since I had no desire to sleep or play video games or go find drugs, the best course of action would indeed be to masturbate. Yet the struggles of a young man such as myself are never so short lived, as I had no material with which to aid my impulses. You see, back in the early 2000’s, I did not have the infinite library of smut, filth and gratification that is instantly available to me today. The family computer was downstairs, and my mother was downstairs. You see the dilemma.

   Anyways, my first course of action was to sit back up and crouch down at the bottom of my desk, sliding open the black square drawer containing my magazines and graphic novels. I pulled out all the novels that were especially more graphic than the others, and laid them out on my bed.

   I picked up the leftmost one I’d put down after sliding the drawer back closed with my foot. Izuremata’s Muffin Appreciation Club. This copy actually had a signature on the inner cover from the author, which upon opening the book I rediscovered alongside the slip of paper that fluttered out of the pages. I examined the paper.

Main chick’s got huge tits, lots of sexy stuff. Got this signed by the legend himself at L.A., enjoy. ~ Dad

What the fuck. I decided to put the note back and pick up the next book. It was one of my old favorites, Danger Squid Girl 32. I flipped to the folded page and sank into the bed, sliding my sweatpants down to my ankles.

My door flung open, the knob kicking up dust and fragments of drywall as it crashed against the wall. My mom, Eliana stood in the doorway, panting.

I set down the book on my stomach. “I’m looking at porn, what do you want?”

“Keith, there’s been an accident, down the street.” She looked out the window nervously. “Your dad went out earlier, and he hasn’t come back, and…”

“If you’re scared that it’s him, just go yourself already. You’ll have more time to pay your respects that way before they drag him to the station and beat him to death.”

This visibly upset her. “Keith, that’s not how it works, and you know I don’t do well with this sort of thi…” As often happened, she wasn’t able to finish her sentence, the last few words painfully choked with pain and fear, frustrated tears building up behind her innocent amber eyes. Giving up all semblance of authority, she slowly walked over and fell onto my bed, exploding into a fit of rattling sobs.

This made me feel awkward with my Pokemon boxers bulging with the power of my raw, unbridled cock, so I stood up and pulled my pants back up to my waist before sitting back down and offering a confused, reluctant arm around her shoulder. “I’m sure dad isn’t dead, Mom.”

This did not seem to stop her incessant crying.

“Would it make you feel better if I went down the street and checked by myself?”

She collected enough of herself to tone the hysterics down to a helpless whimpering, punctuated by the occasional heavy sob, just long enough to give a simple nod and look of thanks. The facade collapsed immediately as I rose to adorn my silk, velvet bathrobe, adorned in gold on the back with the text “If You’re Reading This, Take Me Now”.

“It’s your dad, alright.” The officer took an apathetic glance at the smouldering wreckage before going back to scribbling in his notepad.

“What?!” You stare into the flames, eyes widening with confusion and disbelief. “How?! Look at it! Have you even checked?!”

He put his notepad into his pocket before turning to face me, leaning against the trunk of the police car. “I mean, I’m not about to just go in and check myself kid, fire is hot.”

“Then how can you know?”

“Keith, come on. There’s like twenty people in town, I checked and all of them are accounted for except your pops. And if we had a visitor,” he he said, pointing his pen at his badge, “I’d have noticed them.”

I cursed the abnormal population density. “I can’t believe it…” I slowly sank to the gravelly street, coming to a rest with my arms around my knees. “I knew my dad would die before I moved out of the house, but… I never thought about how I’d have to actually be there for it.”

“Let me tell you, kid, that really sucks.” He took a sip of his Red Bull and wiped his nose with the mittened hand holding it. “You’re an unlucky boy. My dad died from overdosing on tapeworm tablets while I was fucking a sixty year old prostitute in Indonesia during a college trip. I didn’t even have to deal with the guilt I would have had if cell phones had existed back then, as I would have no doubt received a text or call notifying me of my father’s death either while I was fucking her, or while I was sneaking out of the brothel.”

I ignored his words of comfort, staring deeply into the ember-lit tar of the street, blackened by the ash of the man who never taught me how to play baseball, which I used often to lie to myself that he was the sole reason I never got into sports.

The officer slowly eased off the trunk and crushed the can of Red Bull against his flat forehead, wiping the sugary nectar off his pornstache before tossing the can into the enormous fire, which persisted without anyone seemingly giving a shit. “Well, It’s getting late, it’s about time I was off.”

I finally looked up, catching his retreating gaze. “Wait, you’re leaving? You’re not going to call in anybody to put out the fire, or try and search for clues to make sure nothing weird happened?” I pointed to his coat pocket, rising to my feet. “I saw you writing in that notepad earlier, is that just for show?”

“I’m just the guy that makes sure we don’t have to get insurance involved.” With that word, he turned around and hopped into the driver’s seat before silently drifting away, out of my life forever.

I thundered up the porch steps, every essence of my being brimming with bitter, misguided determination. After flinging the heavy oak door open and storming down the entrance hallway, I turned to walk through the kitchen and sat down in the chair in front of the family computer, entering the password all in one swift motion.

Password123

Without a moment’s hesitation, I dramatically drove the cursor over the closest word processing application, double clicking and immediately doubling down over the keyboard as the document opened up, furiously drumming my sweaty fingers against the keys, the covers for some flying off in fragments as I channeled my overwhelming resentment into every word I recklessly strummed out. My hatred and remorse quickly began to weave an immense, artful tapestry of contempt for everything ever conceived or heard of. The computer began to levitate from the clock speeds of the CPU, struggling to keep up with the rapid output of pure, disgusting rage as I indented paragraph after paragraph of my deepest, darkest true emotions.

After I’d hit the 10,000 word mark after about three minutes, I minimized the window and opened up the web browser, navigating to the first hardcore porn site I could think of and smashing my head into the keyboard, and then clicking on the first thing my headbanging conjured up in the site’s search engine.

My senses were blinded by foul darkness and corruption, I channeled the dark lord himself through my numb lust as I ripped my pants off, gripping my member with the strength of a billion suns as I rubbed myself like a piston on steroids and coke to the senseless kaleidoscope of colors and moaning that my distorted state of mind perceived the smut as. Inside my brain towers collapsed, universes imploded, nebulae died. For that brief moment, I was a god. I looked over my vast domain, effortlessly comprehending and calculating every galaxy I cast my all-knowing gaze over. I witnessed civilizations rise, empires fall. I clipped my toenails and hurled them into the ether, my tremendous, ethereal biceps rippling with holy power.  Distant solar systems exploded as I rubbed myself under my billowing toga, crying tears of blood and liquid gold, each droplet creating a universe as they fell to the bottom of the void.

   At least, that’s what I felt like should have happened.

  I solemnly trudged up the cement stairs, limply gripping the door handle as I pushed into the entrance hallway. I was going to go back up to my room to write some more, but my mother encountered me before I even made it to the staircase.

   “What happened, Keithy?” She looked down at me with her innocent, hopeful eyes, soon to be weighed down by the weight of my next sentence. I could barely manage.

  “Yeah it’s him. His charred corpse is probably still somewhere in the burning wreckage out there. I doubt they’re going to stomp it out anytime tonight.” Unexpectedly, I began to choke on my words as I struggled to get them out, tears welling in my eyes both from the weight of what I was saying, and the realization that I was in fact my mother’s child. Potent, fermented tears began to stream down my hot cheeks, and I backed against the front door, sliding to a sitting position as my arms went limp at my sides, allowing myself to finally dissipate my supply of all the built up tears from years of anguish and depression.

   My keen mother Eliana noticed this, and walked down to the front door, crouching down to my position and ruffling my hair. “There there, Keith. It’s okay, I’m still here.”

   This didn’t make me feel much better. In fact, I felt worse upon remembering that my father was actually the parent I liked more, or resented less. In a sudden burst of sad, angry and weirdly sexual passion I launched off down the hallway, pushing my mother aside as I ran up the staircase, going off to sulk and be edgy in my room as I often did. Granted, this time I had a really good reason to do so, which I often use to convince myself that I’m not a terrible person, even though deep down I know that I hated my father almost as much as my mother, and really just hated my entire fucking life in general but was too afraid of pain to just end it all and jam a kitchen knife into my fucking throat and die.