#The answer is they stopped trying to live past the end of their myth. They accepted the world as is.

[imminent-danger-came]

I think everyone needs to come together and congratulate DBK (and the rest of the Demon Bull family) for being the only ones to just give up. They DID quit while they were ahead. It's the only reason they're still alive.

[dpennedit]

TO LOSE YOU

A little angst prompt to hold over while I finish up the Xmas one, followed by Mister Mistletoe. If anyone wants to use this as an idea and/or continue on, please feel free to. Also this has not been proofread, so please ignore any grammatical errors. **Originally written as a MLM pairing.

You want it to work.

In the beginning, you promised yourself to do everything right—to bend to Terry's needs and fulfill his every desire. Commitment called, and you were ready to answer. You never wanted to fuel the myth that men like you avoid long-term relationships and monogamy. You were ready, more than ready, for forever.

As you zip your suitcase, you face the crushing truth that all good things must end. The constant arguments have become suffocating; you need to breathe. But losing him feels like losing your very breath. He has become your life, your comfort. Walking out of his apartment feels like pulling the rug out from under yourself, tumbling into the cold void of loneliness you'd long forgotten.

But there's no saving this, no matter how much you want to. With tears welling in your eyes, you bury the past and prepare to leave. You lift the suitcase from the bed, dropping it to the carpet with a thump. Grabbing your duffle, you sling it over your shoulder and step toward the door.

Each step up the hallway feels weighted with regret. Whether it's regret for leaving or for starting this relationship, you can't decide. All you know is that it hurts, as you struggle to breathe through shallow gasps. You stop in the living room, staring at the walls lined with memories that are now cutting you to the core. Pain grips you, squeezing your heart until tears spill over.

With trembling hands, you shield your face, feeling monstrous for erasing yourself from this house with no warning. You wouldn't be able to face him—even though you're about to.

A soft click snags your attention, and your head snaps toward the front door. The lock turns, and you whisper an obscenity, quickly trying to collect yourself. The door swings open, flooding the dim space with evening light. Terry stands in the doorway, watching you with wary eyes.

He closes the door, his gaze shifting to your bags, then settling on your tear-streaked face. Worry deepens his stern expression. As he steps toward you, you shake your head, stopping him in his tracks. His brows knit in confusion as he stops inches away, searching your face. The truth sinks in, and he looks off, a sharp breath escaping him. "No," he mutters, low and firm.

You close your eyes, drawing a breath, praying for strength. Heart thudding, you clench your jaw, eyes fixed on the floor, and make him aware that your mind is made. Terry meets your eyes again, the green and grey orbs swirling with growing distress. You've never know the man to beg, but it's clear that he's about to.

Unable to stand the tension, you retrieve your bags from the floor and attempt to move past Terry and out of the door. He traps you instead, his broad palms braced on each of your shoulders. You speak his name in full, something you've hardly done in the years of your relationship, and your seriousness settles even more.

Your voice is calm despite your nerves, and you don't meet his eyes as you speak. "Move out the way."

"Don't do this to me," Terry growls, guiding you backward and away from the exit. "C'mon, we can talk this out."

The words feel like a strike to the face, an offensive blow that earns a cold glare. You've tried to communicate your woes in every way—in layman's terms, phrases from counseling, even silence—but nothing worked. And now he's asking you to talk things out?

"Why?" The syllable soars out of your mouth, pricking him with visible confusion.

He stills, brows furrowed once again. "Why not?"

"There's nothing left to say. So why talk it out?"

A silent pause hangs as Terry's pillared shoulders crumble with defeat. You hadn't expected him to relent so easily, but you aren't going to stick around to question it either. With your things in tow, you push toward the door, not forgetting to snag your car keys from where they hang, and exit the apartment.

The door closes with a thud, and you halt. You've done it. You've left. It's a reality that becomes painfully apparent as you descend the steps, and you feel that stinging moisture in your eyes again. You shuffle across the lot to your car, loading your bags in the trunk. The driver's seat is next, and you're immediately keying the ignition before the door even closes. It's a slam instead, evidence of your frustration.

With an exasperated sigh, your head leans forward to rest on the wheel. You fight your tears, debating whether to let them free or stay composed until you reach your own apartment across town. Thank God you were wise enough to hold onto that. But although you have a place to return to, you don't have a home. Terry is your home, one you will undoubtedly miss.

Suddenly, your mind begins to toss with doubt. Should you stay?

You wearily lift your head, glancing at the apartment in the rearview mirror, only to see Terry rushing down the steps. He pursues you like a dark stallion, charging across the lot. His feet are like thunder, slapping against the pavement. Your breath hitches as your body becomes alarmed, and you shift gears. Before you can reverse, the man is already at your window.

Terry is frantic, knocking at the glass and pulling on the handle. "We can talk this out!"

You can only marvel at his desperation, mouth slightly agape. There's a whine in his low, muffled voice—foreign on your ears. What had come over him? Terry is usually so steady, so sure. Seeing him unravel reminds you that there's a human behind the walls you grew tired of trying to climb.

His pleading intensifies, his knocking knuckles now pounding palms against the glass. He begs you to open the door, sputtering promises to do better and listen. He's fighting for you, and you hate how it makes you reconsider. You want to let him in—but you know better.

You lock eyes with him, lips pressed into a thin line, and firmly shake your head. Your heart aches at the pain in his expression as his face contorts into a grimace. Before you can react, he angrily begins jerking the door handle.

"Open this fucking door!" He demands in a startling roar.

You panic and quickly move to reverse out of the parking space. All the while, he's still gripping the handle, determined to never let you go. You used to adore his strength, and can't believe that it might actually cause you injury now.

Before you can pull forward, Terry dashes to the front of the car, bracing his hands on the hood. He's glaring at you, both a warning and a plea. You flush with embarrassment—what if someone's watching?

"Baby, please," he croaks. "Don't do this to me."

You clench your eyes shut, swallowing down the will to lose all morale and run the bastard over. When they open, you take a hitching breath and roll the window down a safe measure, ordering him to step aside. Terry defiantly kicks the front bumper, fists clenched at his sides as he moves for the driver's side. You seize the moment to pull forward, catching him off guard.

Disregarding the stop sign, you pull out of the lot on a prayer that you don't wreck your car. Terry continues pursuing you even as you speed down the main road before finally tripping over his own feet. Hands gripping the wheel, you take frequent glances at the mirror, watching as he quickly scrambles to his feet. He squares his shoulders as if to make a second attempt, but seemingly decides against it, holding his head in despair.

[nomaptomyowntreasure]

I couldn't stop thinking about how A Home For The Holidays Pete and Patrick would spend New Year's Eve together, so I wrote this little ramble for my darling @shark-myths and she encouraged me to share it with you.

next year, Pete is definitely going to book them a lakeview room at a luxury hotel, maybe the Langham, where they can ring in new years, just the two of them, preferably dressed in only bath robes.

this year.

this year. well, you have to give him a break. in all honesty, he had planned on going to bed at 9pm and forgetting about the whole thing, ignoring the well-meaning invitations to hang out from friends. ten days ago he didn't even know Patrick existed, and since they got back from their holiday it's been a whirlwind of dropping the kids at the airport, answering phone calls from his ex about "who mr. Patrick is", and trying to figure out how often is too often to drop past patricks' house unannounced. so, he's not exactly prepared, but he still wants to do something special. patrick's year has arguably been a lot worse than his, but even he wants to celebrate being shaken out of his daze, his pause, with this beautiful stunning kind man (his soulmate, he's sure). so he spends way too long on his phone, researching last-minute options of what he thinks they'll both enjoy - some places seem good, but when he looks further into it, the reviews aren't promising. he's just not going to take patrick to a place with 3.8 stars out of 5, thanks.

selfishly, he'd love to see patrick in a black tux (and he looses about 15 mins of his allocated research time thinking about that) but he doesn't even know if he owns one and new years eve is not the right moment to find out. probably all the rooftop bars will be incredibly crowded and noisy, and the fireworks are always a little underwhelming when viewed whilst pressed against a crowd of people.

he ends up following his instinct, books them last minute seats at the NHL game at wrigley because even if Patrick probably doesn't love hockey, the Cubs christmas ornament makes him think he does love wrigley field and stadium hot dogs and he can tease patrick about his own ice skating skills. he's right, Patrick does love it, even the teasing. they check into a hotel afterwards, a nice one (not Langham nice) and Patrick complains about how it's not necessary to stay at a hotel when they're just twenty means drive away but secretly he obviously loves it. they get changed into suits, and Pete kinda bluescreens a little when he sees Patrick and manages a garbled "you look.... good." and they barely manage to leave the hotel room then. after the more casual wrigley field thing, patrick is extra surprised pete booked them a table at momotaro (both because it's fancy and also because Pete paid enough attention to remember patrick loves Japanese food even though he probably only mentioned it in passing once). after that, Pete found them a little jazz club to ring the new year in with live music, something he knows they'll both enjoy.

patrick is absolutely dazzled, doesn't even know what to say other than how amazing it is and how it would have been enough for him to just spent new years together, at one of their places, with petes mac and cheese. petes solemn when he responds, takes patricks hands in his, "You're done settling, you're done expecting too little, from now on, always prepare to be spoiled." and patricks too busy blinking back tears to say anything, just nods, squeezes petes hands, smiles.

[dorokora]

Chapter 15 Episode 1 Part 1

We begin with drones flying over eastern Tokyo. Most of them are controlled by a single guild, The Rule Makers. All of its members believed themselves to be ``Angels of Heaven.'' To be more precise, what they have in common is that they have "faith" in an omniscient superior being. The ones who stand at the top of the Rule Makers are the World Reps, the players of this "game". Michael, the highest angel, the world representative of the Eden, was also one of them. He was the angel of Eden who is said to have once given King Solomon the power of omniscience.

We cut to flashback of Michael spending time with Shaytan. When Michael close his eyes, what he remembers is his hideous yet ignorant past. At that time, he was desperately trying to follow his brother's footsteps. His older brother was once the highest angel of Eden. It was said to be the closest being to God. He respected his older brother, who alone carried the weight of the world and the sky on his shoulders. He wanted to be able to do whatever his brother could do (It’s Seth/Ash all over again). If he keep doing what he can, his older brother will surely be happy, and that is his role. Michael couldn't stop believing that everyone's happiness and bright future was waiting for them. Although is brother is still immature, He will definitely stand in the same place as his brother and show him.

We cut to where we left off in CH14. Michael looked down at MC as if they were a lower being, unworthy of understanding. Michael tells MC, No matter how many times he see it, it's pathetic. Humans are weak, ignorant, stupid, and incompetent. They don’t understand what they’re doing now or what their actions will bring about. Flashback to the scene in CH14 where Solomon was shot. MC ask Michael why he did that. Michael tells them it was necessary and for the best. That is the problem on the part of small humans who cannot understand the Lord's will. He knows what he’s doing is better than his brother. Michael explains, A human being who cannot leave the ground. A person who forgets the repetition of the past and continues to make mistakes. There's no point in trying to talk to his current brother, who has fallen to such a being...to a human being. MC won't be their enemy either and their purpose here has already been fulfilled. Solomon, who is in charge of overseeing the entire game, is sent off. This will finally bring them to the situation they desire. King Solomon is the only person in this world who has achieved omniscience. He made something like that. Michael won't make the same mistake again. He will lead this earth to the right future.

Flashback to Overlord who explains that the ruin city from before was Tokyo in the future. That is the future that this city of Tokyo will eventually reach. This is a future in which humans on this planet will lose their ``role'' and have no choice but to continue to devour the pleasures that are given to you. We cut to Nomad and Algernon. Algernon too came from a ruined future. Solomon knew that this was Tokyo’s future as well. That’s probably why he decided to cooperate as a watchdog for this game. Because there is no future beyond this, Tokyo has no choice but to repeat the same era. In the near future, this Tokyo will lose its future in every sense of the word, just like that Utopia. Algernon tells Nomad, they both will accelerate and advance faster than anyone else but there’s no faith in this acceleration. Even with his accelerated intelligence cannot answer where the world should go. The only thing left for them both to believe in is "getting faster and faster." It's like believing in a myth. They live in an unmistakable faith. It's the latest religion that believes that acceleration is all justice, and it's the dead end of the era.

Back to Michael, who’s declaring he will save this earth and educate human down the correct path. MC say they won’t let that happen. Michael says MC admires Mononobe by imprinting on him, they really cares for Kyoma Mononobe...very much. Michael says it’s absolutely disgusting. It reminds him of how stupid he used to be. Michael tells MC he’ll be waiting for them at the Rule Makers base. In the future city, east of Yurakucho. Just then the Warmongers and Invaders Mobs show up. Amaterasu tells Michael the other World Reps will show up so they should retreat. Michael leaves saying he has work to do unlike his brother who likes playing around. MC says they will stop this game. Amaterasu declares she will turn MC into a worthy God. Barguest suggests they use an escape route and retreat as well. MC and the alliance are surround by all three guilds. Barguest says they know the right man for this job. Then enters Prometheus.

[crimson-chaffinch]

I'm writing a fanfic xD Not sure if i can translate the whole story well in English but this extract seems nice. I wish we could see Beta's interaction with Tilda in game.

4 months before returning to Earth

Beta flinches when a tiny envelope with the inscription “ART” appears in the corner of the menu. Corners of her lips creep up in a slight smile and she clicks on the invitation.

Simulation of APOLLO stays in the back background, and living room of Tilda’s mansion appears in the the periphery. Light curtains on huge windows are swaying in a weak breeze. Of course, the wind is only the creations of the house’s owner, just like everything else around, but at some brief moment Beta feels its touch on her skin. ​

“And here you are,” Beta catches softness in Tilda's tone and smiles openly now. She is full of excitement which fights the fear of being discovered. This is already the fourth invitation, and Beta is quickly getting used to their strange communication. Internally she is afraid of the day when everything will be ended, and she will have to return to her routine. Although why their meetings must be ended?

“Did you do as I said?” Tilda asks, inviting Beta to the balcony with the soft gesture. Today she is wearing a white dress with flowing skirt and long translucent sleeves, so Beta can see her graceful arms. Tilda always appears here in clothes from her past life which doesn’t look like Zeniths’ multifunctional costumes. ​

“Yes, created an extra projection,” Beta nods. Last meeting was in the library, and the balcony is a new location for her, so she can’t wait to see the world around as Tilda remembers it. 

The view isn't disappointing, even knowing about its unreality, Beta can’t stop enjoying it. The sunset is like a skilled artist, painted the ocean with strokes of golden paint. The water sparkles and shimmers, stretching somewhere far beyond the artificial horizon.

Unexpected cracking sound makes Beta raise her head and move away from the railing. A big white bird flies above her.

“Seagull,” Tilda laughs. She sat down in one of the chairs watching the sunset.

“Is it always a sunset here?” Beta looks around. She loves asking a lot of questions but rarely receives answers.

This time Tilda nods lazily.

“Why?”

Tilda squeezes armrest of the chair and stands up quickly. There are no emotions on her face but Beta understands that she said something wrong. Nobody was bothered to ​explain her the rules of the game, so she tries to understand them by trial and error.

“Let’s go,” Tilda’s voice is dry, with a slight tint of irritation. ​Beta has already heard it a couple of days ago, when I asked who Tilda lived with here before leaving for Sirius. “Today we will talk about Galatea”.

Beta reluctantly returns to the room, ready go to boring library, but Tilda sits on the sofa. Beta sits down opposite to her, trying not to look around. She notices the piano near one of windows, and new question comes out of her mouth before she can think about it better.

“Can you play?” her delight fades out fast under Tilda’s heavy glance.

Tilda is silent. Apparently the question is too personal​.

After her sharp gesture a picture appears in the air above the coffee table: in a sculptor’s workshop a man hugs naked, pale woman. Her soft forms tower over him like a white spot. Man’s face isn’t visible but Beta notices some kind of desperation in the way he hugs his creation.​

“Pygmalion and Galatea,” Tilda begins, slightly zooming the image, and Beta understands that characters of the painting are kissing. “Created at the end twentieth century by French artist Jean-Leon Gerome.” Tilda slightly tilts his head. “Do you know the myth about Galatea?”

“She was one of the fifty Nereids?” Beta’s training program includes history and mythology, especially Greek one. “Dr. Sobeck had a special attachment to Hellas,” one of her avatar-teachers told her one day. Beta likes myths too, they make her purely technical study a bit funnier.  

“There is one more story” Tilda stands up, walks around Beta and stops behind her, leaving the girl alone with the painting. “Pygmalion was a skilled sculptor who cut a beautiful sculpture of a woman out from ivory. She was so beautiful that he fell in love with her”, Tilda’s voice seems trembling to Beta. “Goddess Aphrodite had a compassion for him and revived the statue. Galatea became his wife soon. Many artists were inspired by this story…”

“Hmm,” Beta tries not to chuckle but it turns out badly. She can’t stop smiling even when Tilda sits down softly on the armrest of her chair.

“I said something funny?” Tilda lightly touches Beta’s shoulder. Her eyebrows are raised in surprise and anticipation of the answer. ​

“How could he fall in love with a sculpture? She’s not alive,” Beta feels like Tilda’s fingers put a few strands of her hair behind her ear. Her heart stops for a moment, missing several necessary beats.​ She looks up, meeting an attentive glance of van der Meer’s gray eyes and continues confusingly. “And even when she became alive. Just appearance is not enough for love...”

“You need a haircut”, Tilda decides randomly, without removing her hand. Beta’s hair reaches her shoulder blades and looks fluffy after a shower, so she even doesn't mind to change something in herself.

“Damm,” Tilda’s face expression changes quickly and she jumps up from her seat. “Get out of here! Now!”

[justafairytailofinnocence]

Can I request a Davy Jones one shot of the reader being sick but doesn’t say anything. Because she has been working with the crew 24/7 she hadn’t been able to take care of herself properly and because of that, it made her stubborn about it if anyone asked. Maybe after making a mistake on the job, Davy scolds her and asks her what brought her to that. Before she could respond, she takes off and vomits over the side of the ship then he understands when he sees that happening.

Thanks! ����

Hello dear💖, thanks for the request, I hope you get better soon.

Davy Jones x Sick reader🐙😷 A hymn in sickness😷

Synopsis: A woman sings every full moon at the forecastle only to become ill, Davy seeks out her reson.

Warning: vomiting.

It was a fine misty morning along the sea’s horizon, clouds of fog hovered just above the water. The Briny deep had been aware of the Flying Dutchman’s presence—the ship that caused the sea to quake in fear. Up on top of the main helm, Davy Jones gripped the wheels edges; his long tentacular hand wrapped around the handle. One hand on the right and the other on the left. He had planned to set course over the horizon to hunt a certain buccaneer for their debt. The only problem was, they had to pass a monstrous storm, a tyrant Calypso had summoned to stop Davy in his tracks. A storm that represented her own heart ache from the day Davy Jones broke his promise. Davy could still hear Calypso’s voice in his mind, a cry out for the love they once had, a cry out for his heart to be returned. Davy locked his heart away forever, inside a chest that cannot be reached by any man nor woman. It’s said whoever owns the heart can control Davy Jones, however for that to happen, they would need to find the chest with the key—the key around Davy’s neck. Sometimes at night, along the current of uncharted waters, Davy would debate deep down whether to carry out his duties and ferry the dead to bring back Calypso’s love. However, as the saying goes, once a monster, always a monster. Davy would rather torture the souls he encountered rather than put up with any of the pain he endured over the centuries.

The legends all aligned toward Davy’s tragedy, a tragic drag that he brought upon himself. And now, he must bear those marks from his past.

Along the side the very front of the ship Forecastle, a woman dressed in brown breeches and a white blouse, held her hands together as she was kneeling. She sang a hymn.

“And even though I'm walking through the valley of the shadow I will hold tight to the hand of Him Whose love will comfort me.

And when all hope is gone and I've been wounded in the battle He is all the strength that I will ever need He will carry me.”

It was a well-known myth that, if you travel far out at sea and listen carefully, you can hear the wails of a hymn, a hymn in prayer. Even if sailors try to locate the mysterious woman’s voice, It disappears before you reach the whereabouts. The voice was said to come in two ways, either as a golden, soulful tune or as a deep, haunting melody. The voice will only appear when the moon is highly risen in the sky; a bright monument to commemorate a will of hope. It’s said to either be a cry out from Calypso, calling to her long, lost love or it’s the white wench, a ghost who pulls men and sailors under who fall in tune to her voice. In truth, it was a woman who sings at the front of the dutchman. It’s unknown as to why she does, even the crew couldn’t put a finger on the reason however, it seems to be the one calming, peaceful enchantment to Davy’s mind. He wouldn’t forbid her, he wouldn’t banish her, he wouldn’t—he wouldn’t kill her.

What? How? How could Davy Jones allow someone to live on his vessel?

Well…no one knows, believe me, if someone had the answer. They would’ve recorded it down on a piece of Paper and sent it, well away in some history book of myths or legends.

As per routine, the woman sang her hymn and ended it with a soulful tune. She had to get back to manning the Crowsnest, swabbing the decks and navigating into the unknown.  Davy stood at the helm, his eyes were shut, he pictured nothing in his mind but the hymn. Listening to the tune, to the melody, to the rhapsody of her song. But—it ended, and like that Davy had to snap out of his trance. He uttered out a small growl of frustration, her voice, it was the only calming thing to his damned eternity.

 The woman followed through with her task, swabbing the main decks until it’s spotless. Only, she felt ill, an illness that couldn’t be recognised as scurvy nor the flu. This has been going for a while now, well, since the start of winter. The woman wasn’t entirely damned, she was still human. However, a human who had to pay her debts through serving on the dutchman from her father. Y/n, a woman who was originally sold as Davy Jones’s wife, instead, a slave to her father’s doing. It wasn’t an arrangement she initially agreed to nor wanted, it was to save her own life. A daughter to take to wife, a soul for a soul. Davy didn’t necessarily pull through with the sailors accord—he wanted a soul and, well, he got the soul he wanted. Her father.

Y/n used the brush and rag to scrub the muck and mould out of the floorboards on the main deck. Her vision became blurry, her stomach ached. Y/n laid onto her side, clenching her stomach, praying it would stop. The Dutchman has been known to be a bad omen—and even her pleads couldn’t save her. Maccus patrolled the swabs cleaning the decks, he fell and tripped over y/n’s body. All the swabs stopped scrubbing to find Davy’s first mate collapsing over the lass.

“Ah! have mercy upon me for I did not intend to cause havoc on your duty” y/n begged. She kneeled over to plead to the first mate not to whip her.

“Bilging wench, will be keelhauled over the kraken” Maccas threatened.

“NO!” Y/n screamed.

Maccas went silent, he didn’t inch closer but instead, walked away—call this a blessing or miracle, in a few seconds, it was about to be a curse.

“WHO BAH DISTURBIN MAH PACE!” the booming voice of the captain emerged when Maccas backed down.

Davy Jones stomped down the steps; one by one, a boot then a peg leg, inching forward the miscreant. Jones leaned down, his head came on par with y/n’s eye level. Quickly, y/n averted her gaze to the ground. Smoke blew out of the captains mouth, the white mist surrounded y/n’s face as she dreaded the worst.

“What bah yer reason fer causin’ ah blistarin’ disturbance on mah ship” Davy spoke in a low growl. His heavy accent caused y/n to quake in fear.

“I-I lost my scrub captain” y/n whimpered in a whisper.

“Last yer scrub did’cha? Tha be yer best excuse?” Davy laughed.

“Aye” Y/n couldn’t come up with anything else. ‘Blast this sickness’ she thought, she couldn’t tell anyone. The only man who questioned it was Bootstrap bill, however, she snapped at him to not give away her illness.

Y/n tried to open her mouth but slammed it shut, she couldn’t talk, she tried to nod at the captain scolding her just to hurry it up. She needed to go—like, now.

“Wha’ brought yar ta tha excuse-Ah?” Davy’s tentacles curled with impatience.

Y/n pushed herself off the deck as she bolted toward the ships railing to haul up last night’s dinner. It was a mess; it poured into the water and stained the planks in the water. “I. am. So. Dead.” She thought to herself.

Davy witnessed the whole scene unfold, his brows furrowed with annoyance and yet he couldn’t speak aside from. “Yer Sick-ah” he muttered.

Davy’s head turned, he pointed his claw hand toward Bootstrap Bill. “Take er’ ta yar quartars, n’ keep ah’ aye on er’” he ordered.

Bootstrap came forward with an understanding, he quickly came up to y/n and placed his coat over her. Bootstrap carried y/n back down to the quarters. Davy felt foolish, of course, she had a sickness, a blasting sickness. The only thing he could do was watch, she could’ve died from this, he had to make it up to her. After all, she was the only human on board.

The captain ordered Maccus to keep an eye on the helm, he hobbled down to the quarters. There in the door way, he could see Bootstrap place her in a hammock with only one blanket and coat.

“She’s sick captain” Bootstrap pointed out “the child can’t push on anymore, if she did, she could fall ill fatally”.

Davy towered over Bootstrap and ordered him to get back to his swabbing station. He towered over the hammock, his eyes softened. The woman was asleep trying to catch a breather. Jones wanted to scream and shout at the dying woman however, he couldn’t, it wasn’t her fault. The woman, this woman right here was the only one who could bring him to peace. He believed, even if his heart still beats and the pain lingered, she silenced it. Davy’s tentacles reached toward y/n; he was caught in a trance. Davy placed his lips on top of the girl’s forehead, like a prayer for her health.

Jones turned and went back to his position at the helm not before looking back and muttering.

“Calypso, I bag o’ ya, bring mah y/n back”.

anyways that's all I have for now:

Ta Ta 🌟

[decepti-thots]

how do u think springer is doing in his time travel adventures? also writing that made me remember that verity & springer split and it made me unbearably sad again..

this is always a question that is so... like there are two answers i have for this.

one is that the end of wrequiem is the whole 'when a story ends, the characters are doing what you last saw them doing forever' thing. like. the only reason the end of wrequiem doesn't collapse in under a bunch 'wait, but then-' bits of fridge horror is that. well. the story ends there! it's an ending that makes thematic sense. it works as a kind of emotional end statement to the whole thing, petty logic aside.

but also... i mean... idw is a continuity that has multiple extended stories about time travel. and it establishes really clearly how time travel works. time travel works by default as a closed loop/solving the paradox type deal. and it's really hard to resist the temptation to pull on the thread a little! because the whole thing is so obviously futile from an in-universe perspective when considered more pragmatically; and you run into some messaging too about the entire idea of feeling like you can change the past rather than live with what you've done and experienced. and it would feel very disingenuous, i think, to read the actual story that way. but if i think about the idea of it continuing past that...

anyway. i don't think it necessarily goes well if you take that route, is what i'm saying. i wonder to what extent springer is being honest about his stated motivation being to stop the war, though. like i think he does want to do that, but there's also this whole element you could poke at i think where... springer has never lived in peacetime! springer was built during and as a product of the war, he was handed off to kup as a mentor figure who was explicitly there to teach him how to be a soldier and took him out to fight. he has never interacted with someone outside the framework of war until he meets verity. so do i think springer is going to be able to do what he says he wants and somehow avoid the war? no. but i think he will probably be able to admit to himself, eventually, that he kind of wanted to just see what it would be like to live pre-war at least as much.

but i think that would be hard. imagine going back to before one of the most destructive events in your and many other species' history and trying to live knowing that if you can't change it then everyone's fucked. not that much of an escape really, psychologically speaking. you'd second guess everything. i feel like eventually you would just lose it.

there's a couple routes you could take, i guess.

springer going back in time is a closed time loop that is in some way linked to the start of the war. this is very mean and i don't want to do this to him, even though springer's ultimate goal turning out to be 'oh wow, the fifth dad was ME' is objectively very funny as a capstone. i cannot lie.

springer going back in time is just... it's irrelevant. and he has to try and come to terms with the fact that he cannot Main Character Syndrome his way into making the myth of a single hero saving everyone true. this option feels better to me because it gives Springer an arc that engages with the real problem of a time travel story about fixing things: the degree to which it assumes the course of history is a story, not something we turn into a story later. i think you could do a lot with a Springer who was born into a war going back to a pre-war era and coming to terms with that.

i do like to imagine that maybe one day he would find himself back where he started. i think a Springer who went through all that would have a lot to talk about with Verity, who was the first chance he had to make a friend outside wartime in the here-and-now, no trying to erase old mistakes needed.

(sidenote: i went this WHOLE THING and didn't even mention the obvious. imagine his reaction to young Impactor. man.)

[ink-fireplace-coffee]

Heart of Stone: A PrinceLover St. Valentine's Special (Part 2)

A/N: welcome to the nightmare friends :) I promise it'll get better. I also correct myself and say this will be a 4 part special.

Pairs: PrinceLover (Agatha and Jasper)

Warnings: mentions of death, mild body horror (nothing major), a sense of desperation.

wc: 1255

Part 1 can be read HERE

----

Agatha stood frozen on the threshold. She wanted to run as fast she could to Jasper’s flat, throw open the door, or break in and check on him. She wanted to find Arei and grab Him by the neck if she had to and demand answers. She wanted to slide down the wall and cover her ears and her eyes with her hands until everything had passed and there were no more Stars in her living room every single morning and there was no more curse or magic involved in her life.

She missed having a simpler life. A more boring life. One when she didn’t have to worry about angry relatives, the concept of soulmates, destinies or prophecies and myths of a statue in a museum. She missed being normal and going to bed without worrying about nightmares where the boy who would’ve (who should’ve) been King of a far away and forgotten land didn’t make it and died in her arms, his face bloody and stained with her tears.

She missed being Agatha Wilder, nothing else. No Lover, no nothing.

But, even though she missed it, she could not change what had already happened. She couldn't go back and change the past. And she wouldn’t either: not being all of that also meant not meeting Jasper. Or maybe it did, but then again, he would’ve met a tragic end himself.

And she already had enough deaths behind her.

So, instead of running, instead of threatening or fighting, instead of crying and screaming, Agatha Wilder, Lover, looked her friend right in the eye and said: “I need you to explain it all to me as fast as you can.”

“I know just as much as you do, Ags,” Imara answered, her words a long stream of rushed vowels and consonants. “Kit had called me and told me to tell you because you weren’t answering your phone!”

The Stars hated technology, and Agatha, expecting Cerad to show up every morning had stopped trying to bring hers downstairs: the Star always made it appear in her bedroom whenever she tried to sneak it in.

She turned to the living room, about to show Imara the reason why she had missed the call, but found no one there. Cerad had vanished, the cereal bowl and spoon clean and drying on the kitchen counter.

“We need to go to them,” Agatha finally decided and waited for Imara to agree, to use whatever spell or potion she had used to appear on her hallway and use it again. 

“Agatha,” she said instead, in a tone that indicated the rest of the sentence wasn’t good news.

“No. We need to go.”

“Agatha, but what if-”

“We don’t have time for what if’s, Imara! When he was a Statue and I touched him the spell broke and that’s our only alternative right now.”

“And if it doesn’t work?”

“We’ll think of something else. Right now is not the time to think but to take action.”

Imara had to agree: they couldn’t waste time they didn’t have. She closed her eyes, took a deep breath and visualized Jasper’s apartment. Her whole body started itching, and she felt like floating. 

One second they were in the Wilder’s hallway, and the next Agatha and her found themselves right in the middle of Jasper’s living room.

Kit came running from somewhere in the house, his footsteps sounding as loud as the Lover’s heartbeat. “You are here! We don’t have much time, he is already-”

There was a noise from the room, as if someone had dropped a heavy object directly to the floor. A grunt came right afterwards.

The three of them shared a panicked look, before rushing to wherever Kit was leading them. “I told you not to move Jasper!” he lamented, navigating the small flat. And even if Agatha had almost taken Imara by the collar of her t-shirt and demanded to be brought here, even if she had been unconsciously repeating herself a mantra (“It’s gonna be okay. It’s gonna be okay. It’s gonna be okay”) from the minute her stomach dropped, even if she could rationally stop and be certain that the Stars would never let Jasper die, she was not prepared for the scene that unraveled when she reached the threshold of the bedroom.

What was left of human Jasper was struggling to get up from the floor, his legs a solid block of white stone- of marble- that crept upwards towards his black boxers, as if it was lifting his skin and replacing it for the stone. The curse was already almost covering his knees completely, turning them purple for the lack of blood reaching the lower part of his body.

Sweat pearled on his forehead, dark hair sticking down, as the Prince gritted his teeth to avoid screaming, a definite proof that whatever it was happening to him was some sort of painful torture.

He turned to the threshold, body contorting because of his useless legs, and his jaw dropped, seeing he had been caught and for whom.

“Hi, Love. I’d dress myself, but…” he greeted, trying to smile but not quite managing to. His eyes were shining with fever and then the hold of his arms to the mattress failed, head dropping down, as Jasper Asya fainted.

Agatha could only hear the rush of blood in her ears, as she lounged forwards, catching the Prince’s head before it hit the floor. She didn’t hear the gasp of Imara, indicative that she was not expecting something so twisted to be happening. She didn’t hear the orders of Kit, already grabbing the boy’s stone legs, but she knew the plan was to lift him to the bed again.

When that was done, her knees dropped to the side of the bed, hands trembling for the effort but also the raw fear in her chest. She wanted to touch his face, she needed to throw his hair back, so it didn’t stick to his forehead anymore. She wanted Jasper to wake up, to open his brown eyes and smile at her, reassure her that everything was okay. 

Maybe what she really wanted was to wake up from this nightmare.

Instead, Agatha took a deep breath, and let her eyes go to the part of Jasper that was a statue already. She noticed he had socks on, and it was such a stupid thing to realize, a small and strained laugh escaped her mouth.

They’ve bought those socks together, dark blue with a pattern of small hearts. He had said it reminded them of her. “Hearts, Love,” he had explained, amusement tainting his words. “Can’t you see? You are everywhere I look.”

It had been a few days before Valentine’s, but she decided not to tell him that.

Now the hearts were almost invisible, and the color white with gray cracks had replaced the dark blue.

Reality came back to her, like a punch on the gut or a slap on the face.

“I’ve touched him,” she gasped, eyes already swelling with tears. She turned to Kit and Imara. “I’ve touched him!” The rest of the sentence was left unsaid.

I’ve touched him and nothing has happened.

Agatha Wilder had turned a statue back to human months ago. It had almost exploded, crumbled to the floor, stone turning to dust as the spell lifted. A boy from another age had landed on top of her, confused.

Her touch did not save him this time. It couldn’t.

And, suddenly, Love was powerless.

----

Marble and Magic taglist (ask to be added or removed!!):

@enchanted-lightning-aes @zonnemaagd @alexwritesfiction @euphoniouspandemonium @fiercely-raging-writer @dontcrywrite @47crayons @the-writing-moon @diphthongsfordays @writing-is-a-martial-art @shamblingthing @kingsinking @generalblizzarddreamer @chayscribbles @rose-bookblood

[writingdesknashu]

Writing from the Eyes of Gods

From Dark Orange: Reborn Chapter 11—Roles Played

Hi again, silent eyes of the Tumblr Sphere. It's been a while hasn't it?

Today marks the release of Dark Orange: Reborn Chapter 11 though, and rather than my usual post talking about the details in the chapter, I'm going to talk about its concept instead.

You see, Dark Orange is a story about Gods and man, and how they both inform each other. At the heart of it, Gods are how humans define the luminant remnants of an ancient race once having been a source of information that then turned into a source of dominance and destruction. There's a whole story that you can read in Dark Orange: Revive, but over here in Reborn we're past those stories and dealing with how they affect the world.

Gods are back, more or less, right in time to see the world end and try to claim its new beginning. Our protagonists prepare for the battle with the worst of them all, but when Gods were once myths, preparations take a lot more effort than the mortal world was ready for.

That's your recap, but today, I find myself thinking about writing gods. The only real experiences I have with divine stories are of course the ones the world talks about and the ones often told. Gods are powerful and unimaginable beings, meant for us to bow before and beg for mercy, but with Dark Orange, I ask myself, what are Gods to each other, and what are mortals to them.

The image that heads this post is my answer, leaning into some of the things we know about Zeus. The chapter itself is about how divine roles empower gods, and how that power is fed. It would be easy to write them as kinglike figures, but I think gods come with how we worship them.

We can fear a king. He has all the resources and the power to shift our lives in ways we don't like. Either he can send his arm to stomp us or send his army to burn our crops. At the end of the day though, a king could die in his bed to disease. He can be killed. And no amount of force is going to change that.

But gods aren't man. Ivan the Terrible can become a nightmare, but he was at the mercy of the storm just like the rest of us. Gods are not kings, though they can be, but since they aren't kings they wouldn't see death the same way.

Zeus fears that a son will overthrow him in part because he overthrew his father and ripped his siblings out of his stomach. Despite the violence of it all, no one is really "dead" so to speak. Cronus is sealed but still alive as if he's more than something physical. They're all more than something physical. If you can gut a god who has eaten others, and everyone makes it out of the situation alive, what really provokes their fear?

Perhaps taking power from what lets them live?

Or perhaps giving more of that power to something else.

Gods are conceptual beings after all, and there is a story in the idea of how they die. Zeus overthrew Cronus. Cronus was probably a God of the Harvest, which would have been a powerful thing for mankind for a long time, and always threatened by the storm. If Gods are unimaginable things we should beg for mercy, then would we not beg the storm to spare our harvest? And so long as we need a harvest, Cronus can never die. Storms never stop either, so what's there to kill Zeus?

Maybe nothing, or maybe it's a slow death. And when the sky is just the atmosphere, and storms are things we can predict or protect our crops from, it becomes a silly thing to praise or beg it for mercy. But not so much the forge, which always exists to give us tools and weapons, and is more immortal for how we know it will give them. Or war, which is a great and terrible thing that lets not-so-great but more-so-terrible men gain more than they can ever need.

Writing from the eyes of Gods is fun when you see them like that. Of course, they'd hate mortals for being small, but they'd probably fear the mortal who grew bigger.

[popi-the-fatui]

CHILDE BF HCs

(that no one asked for but here they are anyways)

A/N: this man needs some luv. Long post, there is a whole iceberg under the “read more”. Also, I tried to keep a Gender Neutral reader so pls DM me if there are any mistakes!!

TW: DESCRIPTION OF AN ANXIETY ATTACK, SPOILERS FOR THE REX LAPIS QUEST AND CHILDE’S PAST, a little bit of angst

🐋 Let’s bust some myths first: contrary to popular belief, Childe has no experience at relationships or intimacy at all. Non. Cero. The Venn diagram of romantic/intimate stuff and things Childe has done is a void. But it’s not that he doesn’t want to, it’s just that he hasn’t had the time to experience any of these things because he is a busy man: between fighting, training and being a Harbinger, there is not a minute left for him to indulge in other things. 

🐋 The problem with this is that Tartaglia is a people’s person. He WANTS to be able to have someone that he can do these things with. At the end of the day, when he comes home tired after a mission, all he wants is someone to be waiting for him with cuddles, hugs, kisses, reassurance, caresses, or just a simple “how did your day go?” Because of this, he has a lot of pent-up love that he has not been able to give. 

🐋 In that note, he is also incredibly touch-starved: not only does he want someone to give that love to, but Childe also craves to receive it. When was the last time he was touched by someone in a context that was not a fight? He loves fighting, obviously: he has trained for a big part of his life to be able to defeat everything and everyone. But he is also just a human, and there are limits to how long a person can go without a loving touch. 

🐋 So when he finally falls victim to the first signs of infatuation, this poor whale man will have an internal battle: do I reach for them? Would they be better off if they never meet me? Will they accept me? Has my reputation already ruined this for me before it even began? How do I approach them? Do I look presentable? Am I going to scare them away? Childe will be torn between wanting to protect you from himself (as the Fatui business is not an easy pill to swallow for everyone) and protect himself from you (his heart would not handle rejection/disgust very well), and wanting to KISS YOU AND HUG YOU AND KNOW MORE ABOUT YOU BECAUSE ARGH WHY DO YOU HAVE TO BE SO ADORABLE.

🐋 So he finally decides to compromise between these two stances, and let YOU decide whether you want him as a friend, a lover or a stranger. He starts greeting you whenever he sees you in the streets, subtly asking if you would like him to join you in your commissions, inviting you for lunch/dinner after a mission so you can recharge your energy, asking if you want to go and share drinks with him and Zhongli. You know, friendly stuff friends do. And he doesn’t even try to hide the happy smile that escapes him whenever you say yes to him: when it comes to you, there is nothing he needs to hide. Well, except for that one thing. 

🐋 He knows that you know he is somehow associated with the Fatui, if his constant trips to the Northland Bank aren’t enough to tell. Usually, Childe dislikes going around things as he much rather hit straight to the point (being the point a fight, a deal or just a simple conversation). But he has grown so addicted to the sensations you make him feel that he can’t help but to try to postpone that tiny little detail about himself for later. He has never had anyone who genuinely wants to spend time with him and that can keep up with him. Childe knows he can be quite intense and that rumors about him aren’t really rumors but WARNINGS, and to finally have someone, even if you’re just friends, that is actively trying to get to know the real him means so much, and he doesn’t want to let that go as selfish as he knows it is because there’s a chance you could get hurt (emotionally and physically). 

🐋 Unfortunately for him, everything that goes up must go down, and that fateful day comes when his plans to take Rex Lapis’ Gnosis blows back to him. After that brief, tense conversation with La Signora and Zhongli, Childe’s ego can’t be any lower: it’s not often that he loses, and much less often that he loses while feeling like a fool. He wants to scream, fight, punch, kick. Anything to take out the impotence and anger he is feeling right now. 

🐋 You found him in this state while you were looking for him to see if he was alright because a WHOLE ASS PALACE JUST FELL FROM THE SKY and you’re very concerned for him as you haven’t had any news directly from him and all you know is that apparently Childe was the cause of it?

🐋 As soon as he sees you, his blood-lust disappears and he no longer wants to fight something: he wants to cry from shame. Shame at being found in this state. Shame at failing. Shame at what you would think of him now that the cat’s out of the bag because from the look in your face is EVIDENT that now you know how far his relationship with the Fatui goes. 

🐋 He falls to the ground, tears finally coming out and he is crying ugly sobs while hiccuping nonsense about how he is a weak, pathetic, disgusting failure and it’s not fair it’s not FAIR IT’S NOT FAIR IT’S NOT-

🐋 “Look at me” you softly call to him, but he is panicking and hyperventilating and not responding to anything that’s outside of his head, so you decide to sit on your knees in front of him, gently cupping his face with your hands, caressing his tears away with your thumbs. 

🐋 “Childe, look at me. Please?” You try again, carefulness in your tone as to not startle him. And when he finally reacts and looks up, you don’t see Tartaglia the 11th Harbinger, nor Childe the fatui flirt. All you see is a broken man that carries the weight of the world on his shoulders, exhausted from constantly fighting against everything the world has thrown at him, and your heart aches for him and wonders how long this man has suffered alone, how long has he suffered in silence. 

🐋 “It’s okay, Childe. You’re okay. Can you breathe for me?” You position yourself behind him and put your hands on his shoulders, rubbing circles with your fingers to further calm him. “Breath with me, yeah just like that. Now hold it for a bit and then release it. Keep going, I’ll do it with you. I’m here”

🐋 Childe finds himself finding it easier to breathe with each inhale and exhale, and when he is finally going down from his high, catharsis hits him HARD. Is this what he has been missing all of his life? Is releasing all that pent-up frustration supposed to feel this good? And he feels a little selfish, because he knows he doesn’t deserve your comfort after the stunt he pulled, but Childe can’t help but become putty under your tender touches and your soft words, and he wishes for a different context, for a different past in which he never fell into the abyss, never joined the Fatui, never felt that the only way to survive was to fight. Instead, he wishes for a past in which he is traveling because he wants to, and he meets you, and he courts you and makes your cheeks heat up at something he said. And you are not touching him because he had a panic crisis that he himself caused. No, he imagines the both of you after a dinner date in Liyue. The sky is dark and the stars are shining but the streets are still full of people laughing and talking and the light from the lamps are reflecting beautifully in your hair. You are walking near the harbor, and you are holding his hand and he is giving you a kiss on your forehead because he can’t help himself. In another life, he would have found you and loved you the way you deserve and the way he needs. 

🐋 But he knows that now is too late, and all he has left is a mind full of regret because he did, in fact, hurt you. How could you trust him after this? How could you WANT him after this? So imagine his surprise when the first thing that comes out of your mouth is a soft “Are you ok now, Childe?”

🐋 “I- how- what?” He mutters in disbelief. Why are YOU asking HIM that? Shouldn’t it be the other way around?

🐋 “You had me very worried back there. I thought you would stop breathing at any moment. You are not hurt, are you?”

🐋 And he laughs. A high-pitched, almost maniac laugh. “You know I was the cause of all of…” he says, moving his arms to signal, well, everywhere “...this, right? I believe you now must know what my real business in Liyue was, and that I’m not just some random Fatui officer”

🐋 “Well… I kind of suspected it? How many ‘random Fatui officers’ are carrying a Vision, huge amounts of Mora and have so many ‘meetings’ at the Northland Bank with the Qixing themselves? I mean, I didn’t know you were a Harbinger, but I did know that you were a higher up in the organization. I’m not dumb, you know?” you answer light-heartedly. 

🐋 “Then why would you keep hanging out with me? If you knew all of that, then you for sure must have known that people tend to keep me in a ‘do not trust’ list. People are wary around me, and they should! If you knew of the things I’ve seen, the things I’ve DONE. The reputation surrounding the Fatui, especially the Harbingers, wasn’t built on nothing, you know?”

🐋 “Don’t get me wrong. I do have somewhat of an idea of the things you do for a living. And let me be clear: I certainly do not condone it. And to be honest, I know that things between us would be easier if you weren’t a Fatui and I actually wish you weren’t one” you can feel how his whole body deflated at that, and even if you are sitting behind him, you just know he has a pout on his face, so you resolve for hugging him from behind and rest the side of your face between his shoulder blades, and continue. 

🐋 “But in the past weeks, I also had the opportunity to get to know you. Not Fatui you. But human you. I know that you have a family that you love very much and you do everything in your power to protect them. I know that you haven’t had it easy, and that some scars you have still hurt. I know that you absolutely can’t eat with chopsticks, but your pride refuses to give up and you try anyway. I know that you’re a passionate man that holds his dearest people close to his heart. I know that you hate when I’m sad so you’re willing to make a fool of yourself if that means I’ll end up laughing. I know how you wait outside of my building until my window lights up after you get me home so you are sure nothing happened to me. I know by the way you sometimes disassociate from the world around you that you are thinking of home and returning to your family” as you speak, you feel something wet falling on your upper arms, and realize that Childe is silently crying. You have half a mind to stop, but you also know that he needs to hear this, so you tighten your hug a little in reassurance. 

🐋 “I also know that whenever I see you with a new wound, I can’t help but worry for you and my first instinct is to check if you are okay. I’m now familiar with the way my heart skips a beat whenever I get to see one of your genuine smiles, especially when the reason behind them is that you get to spend some time with me. I know my eyes soften when I see you talking about something you’re passionate about. The truth is, I care for you, Childe. I really do, Fatui or not. Harbinger or not. And yes, while I would rather you not be one, I still can’t help but long for your company because you make me happy. Because I love you. So don’t underestimate me. I’m strong and so are my feelings. You being a Fatui is not gonna change that”. After this, you two sit in silence for a few minutes, but it’s not an awkward one despite your confession. You know he is gathering his thoughts so you move one of your arms that is wrapped around Childe’s torso to card your fingers through his hair, mindful of the knots that had appeared after the battle. If he doesn’t believe your words, then you sure hope he trusts your actions. 

🐋 Childe is the one who breaks the silence when he asks “How could you possibly love someone like me?”. If you weren’t sitting that close to him, you wouldn’t have heard it. He says this so softly, so gently, almost as if he was trying to convince himself and not you. 

🐋 “Silly boy” you laugh warmly. “Did you hear anything I just said?” You ruffle his hair, and finally, FINALLY, you can hear him giggle a little. “You don’t get to decide who I love. That’s my choice, and I choose to love you”

🐋 No kisses were shared that day. No grand, magnificent romantic gestures were made. Only the silent promise of two young lovers to love and cherish each other as they were. And maybe, just maybe, you could work things out, together, to build yourselves a brighter future. 

🐋 So after all has been said and done: congrats! You are now the proud s/o of Teyvat’s biggest simp. 

🐋 Childe is your number one fan. Everything you do is carefully recorded in his mind for later use. He has to go on a mission away from you? Be prepared to be pampered and being taken on several dates the previous week so this clingy man has something to hold on to. 

🐋 Also: he is shameless. He will not be afraid of making out with you in plain daylight on a busy street. But fear not! If you happen to not be a fan of PDA, he will try to be low-profile. You are, afterall, a person he treasures and can’t live without, so your comfort comes before his needs. Now, I say “try” because he will still demand to hold your hand and give you the random kiss on your cheek. 

🐋 HUGS. FROM. BEHIND. Watch him giving you hugs like Oprah. You are buying something? Cooking? Chilling? Expect to feel a pair of long limbs wrapping from behind you in a tight hug like a koala. It’s his hourly vibe check. 

🐋 Very jealous and protective of you. He is very afraid that one day you’ll realize there are plenty of people better than him and you’ll leave him, so please remind this simp that he is more than enough for you. 

🐋 He also has nightmares from the time he spent in the abyss and will take sometime for him to realize that he is no longer there, so give him a few minutes for him to come to his senses and then please for the love of the Tsaritsa cuddle the life out of him. Also on this note, I have the headcanon that he prefers being the little spoon. That, or facing each other and he rests his face in the crook of your neck while leaving little pecks there. 

🐋 Also you discover, to your surprise and as stated at the beginning , that this man has absolutely no idea how to do relationships. To compensate for this and to give you only the best of the best (as you deserve), he spends time in his travels to read romantic novels to have an idea of what to do, so don’t be surprised if he says or does something corny or cringey. 

🐋 The most chaotic “meet the family” you’ll ever have. As soon as he takes you to Snezhnaya, you will have all of his siblings running and tackling you into a bear hug (he sends A LOT of letters to his family about you and if you read them you would not be sure if he is talking about you or a deity).

🐋 He also tries to keep you out of anything regarding the Fatui. It’s a relief that you finally know about how deep his person runs in the organization, but he also wants to spare you from the details of what he does unless something is really bothering him. 

🐋 All in all, this golden retriever is your biggest hype man and the most loyal boyfriend. You will never get bored with Childe, as everyday is an adventure with him and he will make sure you to make you as happy and loved as you make him feel.

[woniepop]

feel special ༉‧₊˚✧

➜ the three times you didn’t want to be Karl’s best friend any more and the one time you weren’t

Pairing: Karl Jacob’s x Fem!Reader

Genre: fluff, best friends to lovers au, enemies to lovers au

Warnings: Mentions of bullying, cursing

Word Count: 2.0k words

a/n: hi everyone! this is my first time writing for a mcyt streamer, but unfortunately I will not be writing works for more streamers anytime soon. This is for my lovely friend basil Ly and losingvienna’s follower event, which you should definitely check out of you are in to mcyt streamers!!

I highly recommend checking @basilly and @losingvienna out if you haven’t already!!

Ever since you met Karl, you’ve hated everything about him. He was sweet, he was caring, he was everything you’ve ever wanted in anyone. From the moment he stepped foot in your kindergarten your life had become a living hell. He was great! You on the other hand, had never felt more miserable in your life. It had never occurred to you that being different was a bad thing, but apparently, to your whole kindergarten class of 26 kids, it was terrible. But, somehow, amidst the screaming kids and the poorly colored art projects, Karl only saw you.

Your fellow kindergarten classmates stared at you, perhaps a bit too judgingly, as you sat down in your seat. Feeling super excited to come to school today, your grandma has recently gotten you your very own pink sundress, equipped with a pink satin ribbon to tie a cute little bow in the back. You wanted your classmates to like you, so you had to be the prettiest you could ever be. 

“Why are you wearing a dress to school? Do you think you’re a princess?” one of the children say, rather, shout across the room. And with that, the whole class starts laughing, except you. 

“What? Are you trying to impress someone?”

“OOO Y/N HAS A CRUSH!”

“I bet it’s Karl”

“Of course it is. She just wants to daaaaaaate him, doesn’t she?”

With tears welling up in your eyes and boogers dripping down your nose, you quickly stand up just to take the hall pass and run to the nearest bathroom. It was humiliating, feeling like you had tried so hard to make friends just to get laughed at. It felt terrible. 

You were NOT excited for your first day of high school. Why would you be? It was just another year of “light hearted” jokes about you and how you were “so different.” Settling with a seat in the back, you tilt your head down only for the teacher to walk in right after. 

“Good morning, students! Welcome to your first day of Freshman Year! I’m sure you’re all very excited for these next four years, but before that why don’t we all introduce ourselves to each other!” The teacher says, in a high pitch, peppy voice. You had stopped listening to her after that. You already knew what was going to happen, you were going to be paired up with some immature male football player looking for a tall, hot, and blonde cheerleader girlfriend, then he was going to say something stupid like, “Girls like you aren’t really my type.” No shit you weren’t his type. It happened every year. Feeling a light tap on your shoulder, you force your head up, preparing yourself for the dreadful introduction. 

“Hi! I believe we’re partners for the All About Me project. May I sit here?” he says, pointing to the chair beside you. He, as in Karl Jacobs. The Karl Jacobs. The man, the myth, the legend, the boy that filled your entire life with “She just wants to date Karl. She’s such an attention whore.” With that, your eyes widen. You weren’t expecting him, nor were you ever this mad about anything in your life. You didn’t want to know anything about him, let alone do a whole project learning about him. 

“Yeah, you can sit there.” You answer through clenched teeth. 

“Thanks! I’m pretty sure we’re not going to be able to finish this within the period considering there are like 30 questions, so did you want to work on this in the library after school?” he asks.

“Sure.” You say promptly, not even bothering to make eye contact with him. 

“I believe we went to the same elementary school, but I haven’t really gotten the chance to talk to you, so I’m glad we got to be partners for this project. I’m excited to get to know you.” He says, a glint of hope in his eyes. You hated it. Was he actually being nice? To you? 

The rest of the period would have been answering all the questions on the list, but instead you guys had been side tracked, going off topic and talking about anything and everything. Putting aside your hatred for the boy, Karl seemed like a genuinely nice person. You had learned he loved gaming, which he was surprised you had a knack for as well. 

“Well, Y/n, I’m sorry we couldn’t get a lot done this period. But, I’ll see you at the library later, and maybe we can even try out that new game you talked about tonight.” He says, standing up out of his chair and leaving the classroom. Maybe today wouldn’t be too bad after all.

ONE “Move!” you say, playfully shoving Karl off of you. It was the summer before your senior year, and you would have never guessed that you, Y/n L/n, would be spending your whole high school career with the boy you loathed most, Karl Jacobs. If there was ever anything you'd ever looked forward to, it was spending every Friday night with Karl Jacobs. That fateful day at the library was the start of the best tradition ever known to man. 

“But we’re watching a movie!” Karl exclaims. 

“So? You don’t need to watch it while squishing me half to death.”

“What do you mean? Have you ever heard of CUDDLING?” 

“Cuddling has never consisted of MURDER.” 

It was always like this. Every Friday night Karl would come to your house, your mom would gush at how handsome he was while she set a plate down of whatever food he wanted, and him telling her that she was the best cook ever. This is what you’ve always wanted, right? You had a best friend, who accepted you as you were, and you him. Despite always having heartwarming and laughter filled moments with your best friend, your heart hurt. A lot. Maybe the moment was just too heartwarming, or maybe this was the universe telling you that you didn’t want to be his friend anymore. 

TWO “Hey, Karl!” she says. Ah, yes. Her. Karl’s childhood crush since what? Fourth grade? 

“Oh, um, Hi!” He replies. There it was. That dreadful pain in your chest that only grew bigger as she sat down right next to him, disregarding the fact that you were sitting right there. The way she twirled her long blonde hair, the way she leaned over to show all of her cleavage, the way she wore skirts so short you could almost see her underwear, and the way it made your blood boil and your heart hurt until you couldn’t handle it anymore. You wanted to walk away so bad, but as Karl’s best friend you should support him in his romantic interests, even if you didn’t like them. 

“So… I’m sure you’ve heard already. I broke up with my boyfriend.” she says, tracing her finger up and down his arm, making him noticeably very nervous.

“Oh, I’m so sorry to hear that. If you ever need anyone to talk to, I’m always here.” You hear him say. Of course he was always here. He was there for everyone, and he would never try to exclude anyone from his kindness. 

“I broke up with him because of you!”

“W-what”

“I want to be with you, silly!” she says. And with that, you felt your whole world go black and white. Did you hear her correctly? She wanted to be with him?

“I- I’m sorry, I can’t be with you.” 

“WHAT?!? BUT I BROKE UP WITH MY BOYFRIEND JUST TO BE WITH YOU!”

“Well I’m sorry, but I love someone else. You should’ve consulted me before you threw away your relationship.”

Did you hear HIM correctly? He loves someone? You couldn’t take it anymore and excused yourself. Yet again, you ran to the bathroom feeling the same pain in your chest only 10 times worse. You didn’t want to be Karl’s friend anymore. Not like this.

THREE “I can’t believe you’re moving to California, Y/n” Karl says as he pushes his hair back, sighing in disbelief. “You’re really going to leave me?” He continues, tears welling up in his eyes as he turns to look at you with his signature puppy eyes. 

“I have to! It’s always been my dream to go to college there!” You reply, feeling guilty for leaving behind everything for your dream. 

“But I’ll miss you!” he says, fully knowing facetime exists, and you would always visit him during breaks. 

“I’ll miss you too! But, I need to do this. Can you stay strong? For me?” you ask, cupping his face with your left hand. You had gone on one of your late night drives again, parking in an empty parking lot as you have deep late night conversations. Today’s topic happened to be college, and while it had been always known you were moving across the country after high school, the day was coming closer and it all felt too real.

 As Karl leans his face into your hand, he lets out a yawn. “I guess it’s time to go back then.” you say.

“No, I don’t want to. I have to spend every second with you until you leave.” he whines. You wanted to as well, but then, there it was. The stinging in the back of your heart. You were tired of it. You hated feeling this way. You didn’t want to be Karl’s friend anymore.

THE END The warm summer air blew past you as you and Karl sit atop your roof, staring into the distance in the comfortable silence that was there from the moment Karl got to your house. Neither of you had spoken a word but neither of you cared. You just wanted to be with him. What would’ve made the night perfect was if you weren’t getting on the plane the very next morning, moving across the country. 

Building up as much courage as you could, you said the three words you’ve been wanting to say ever since you had become friends. You were leaving, but before that you wanted more than anything else to let him know this. “I love you.” You say, causing his eyes to go wide. You… loved him? That was impossible. 

“Yeah, I love you too.” He says casually. 

“No. I love you more than in a friendly way.” You reply.

“Really? Why?” He asks in disbelief.

“I don’t know. Maybe it was because you were my first friend, but it’s definitely because you’re you. I’ve been bullied almost my whole life, and you know that. But, no matter how the world brings me down, and even when hurtful words stab me, I can smile again. Because you’re there.” You say, tears rolling down your face. You pause, before continuing on about how much he means to you. “I mean, my whole life, one moment I feel like I’m nothing at all. Like no one would notice if I were gone. But then you came! And I was so happy. Or maybe it’s cause you make me feel loved. But when I’m with you, I feel so special.” 

And with that, Karl makes no hesitation in cupping your cheeks, silently wiping away your tears. In that moment, he decides that he doesn't want to be your friend anymore either. Leaning in, he whispers, “I love you too.” before he crashes his lips onto yours.

[bandaigaeru]

song of the summer - bang chan

→pairing: ceo bang chan x gn reader

→genre: kinda strangers to lovers

→synopsis: he runs one of the biggest music companies in the country, yet he inducts you to help aid him and his friends, each of them deemed as representatives of the ‘big three’, for their next official comeback.

→word count: 12.5k

→ warnings: swearing, shitty father figure

i.

A single question hangs over the dim conference room you’ve somehow scored a seat in. Does the general public want to see 3Racha? Bluntly, the answer is right in front of you. Glowing against the whiteboard from the overhead projector, the carefully curated slideshow answers the rhetorical question.

One of the dance representatives from the back of the room twirls his pen between his fingers. Leaning back in his chair, he apathetically wonders aloud, “So it’s true, then?”

“What’s that, Mr. Lee?” the marketing representative, a Mr. Choi, holds his remote between both hands as he leans toward the table. The word ‘full’ dances across his face as he steps in front of the projector’s path.

“That they’re making a comeback. A full one?”

Mr. Choi nods, scanning the rest of the patrons’ reactions with squinted eyes as he says, “That would be correct.”

Of course, the three who would walk onstage and perform aren’t here. Mr. Bang is probably running around, abiding by his role as the professional CEO who never skips a beat. Regarding the other two, you’re not sure. They’re not as predictable.

The project is pretty tight in terms of what needs to be met. Summer is around the corner, and everyone and their mother will be fighting to hold that mere title of having the temporary greatest hit. When the general public awaits their yearly easily digestible, flowery songs.

“Keep in mind that we are all under Bang! Entertainment,” Choi remarks, clicking to his next slide displaying headlines questioning the company’s next move. “It should go without saying, but all eyes will be on us as the season turns.”

You stare at the bolded words, trying to digest each of them. Joining the company was likely the best decision you’ve ever made, outside of adopting a cat named Loba. When you got scouted as a producer, you were under a different company. Bang! offered a contract, but didn’t require an interview because they ‘didn’t want to invalidate or question a talent they’ve already seen.’

It was an ego boost.

“I’m sure you all know what your roles are in this,” Choi says, taking glances around the room to make sure each face isn’t lost or distant. This is 3Racha we’re talking about. Everything must be perfect.

You take a glance of your own. A few belong to the dance department, some to hair and makeup; however, you are the only producer here.

You raise a low hand to garner Mr. Choi’s attention. “Why am I here?” you subsequently ask, dropping your hand and crossing it against your chest as before.

“The team personally requested you,” he says.

Connections, you instantly understand. In a place like this, in a time like this, they’re a necessity. Nepotism is practically required in the world of music, hence why it sucks for most aspiring indie artists. You didn’t choose to befriend a guy who happens to be best friends with one of the big three here. So, you cast a blind eye.

It’s all a game of luck.

The meeting doesn’t run much longer. A concluding statement with hints of a threat if anyone messes up rings through your ears. A project end date of July 20th, when the album is supposed to go live. You’re not nervous, per se. Simply blindsided given the lack of information. What’s the song about? When’s the due date? Will 3Racha come to you first, or do you have to take time out of your day to the CEO’s harrowing office? The uncertainties aggravate the impulse of opening a new document on your computer and delving into your producer rituals. You can’t create someone else’s project out of blankness. And that irritates you to no end.

Someone throws their arm around your shoulder in an attempt to throw you off your purposeful stride.

“Congrats,” the belonger says.

You glance over to look, even though you know the voice well. He is your connection, of course.

“Thanks.”

Minho pulls you back to a slower pace. Familiar faces from the meeting pass you to the elevator, a majority in a meaningless chatter. They expected an appearance on this project.

“What are you doing tonight?” he finally asks, stopping altogether and dropping his arm from your shoulder.

You shrug, looking curiously at him. Minho’s not one to beat around the bush.

“Hypothetically,” he starts, “how would you feel being invited to bro night?”

“And actually witness you or Felix puke on the lawn instead of hearing about it? No thanks,” you scoff, making an attempt to abandon the situation by following the distancing crowd.

He grabs your wrist, spinning you back to him. “Please?” His eyes are pleading, glaring back at you like an innocent kitten.

You tip your head and sigh. “Why?”

Instead of cutting to the chase, he sucks in a deep breath and says, “I’ll pay you.”

An eyebrow cocks. Regardless of your amusement—a desperate Minho doesn’t appear often—worries consume you. “What’s up? Why are you acting like this?”

Wary eyes jump around the hallway before they land back on you. “Follow me,” he mumbles.

His steps are calculated as he guides you to the elevator and presses the floor his office resides on. The ride is silent, as is the walk down the hall. You step into the room first, and he closes the door behind him. Despite the urge to ask if he’s about to murder you, you bite your tongue and take a seat on his upholstered couch. Identical to the one in your office.

Gently, he lowers himself into his chair. A few minutes pass of you simply staring at each other. Nerves crawl up your spine and you disguise them with a snarky comment. “Are you going to tell me why you’re willing to bribe me into spending time with your friends?”

In the time he takes to respond, you think about how the only mutual friend you have is Jisung. Sure, you know everyone on a name basis; but it’s not like you’ve known them as long as Minho. He doesn’t have other, more qualified, friends to drag to bro night?

“Chan’s kinda in a mood right now,” Minho’s words are slurred by the breath he releases as he speaks.

“And?” you press.

“I want you to see it before you work with him. And for him to understand you in advance. Y’know. You’re a little,” he hesitates, “forward sometimes.”

You should take this as an insult, but you can’t because words’ owner knows you too well. Minho never speaks unjustly.

“Touche,” you nod. It’s better to own up to your flaws. If you don’t, that’s how you end up walking into a carefully curated narcissistic personality.

His features loosen as he presses his forearms on his thighs. “So. You in?”

“I don’t really have a choice,” you emit a wry laugh. All in one sentence, you’ve managed to prove his point. It’s simple, really.

“You see, I’ve already told the boys you’re coming. Either way, I would’ve gotten you to go. The only other option would have been to threaten you with a knife,” he admits. As you gawk at him in awe, realizing you stand in the same boat, a proud grin grows on his face. With time, you begin to mirror the ones you admire. Friends, for example.

“I think Seungmin will like you,” he adds.

“Why do you say that?”

All you know of Kim Seungmin is that he’s in the vocal department, along with his younger counterpart Yang Jeongin, and that he’s a menace. Minho’s words.

“You’re both evil.”

That’s the last straw. You stand up without a word and stomp for the door.

His laugh echoes behind you, striking a quieter one of your own. Still, you stay in character and slip out into the hallway. Minho has won too many of these scenarios.

ii.

Loba sneaks into the kitchen as you wait impatiently for Minho. Thirty minutes. That’s how late he is. You consider texting him, but acknowledge the possibility he’s stuck in traffic or something. Agitation tells you to do it anyway since he only lives two blocks over.

The orange cat paws at your calf for attention, momentarily distracting you as you set your phone down on the counter. Minho’s chat is wide open. She, too, finds excuses for him.

Her head nuzzles against your palm as you scratch behind her ears. She meddles successfully enough to trick you into feeding her a few treats. While you reach for the top shelf of your pantry, a pair of footsteps sneak up behind you. Heavier than Loba’s.

“Did the cat convince you to spoil her again?”

“Son of a-” you recoil, whirling around to greet the man, the myth, the late bastard.

The familiar appearance of a sly smirk, mischievous eyes, and an outfit that makes him look like a casual runway model, pierce your vision.

“You’re late,” you mutter, stepping past him and scooping Loba up. You rest her head on your left arm, cradling her like a baby. She tilts her head up to stare back at Minho. Traitor.

Minho grabs the bag of treats for you.

“Sorry, I had to pick up Jisung. He’s in the car,” his voice trails as he slips his thumbs between the plastic fold and focuses on opening the difficult seal.

“Damn it,” he curses. Karma arrives faster in deserving situations.

“It took you thirty extra minutes to pick him up?”

He deadpans, “You know he likes to be presentable for the boys.”

When you don’t give him the satisfaction of a single laugh, let alone a change in emotion, he whines, “Oh come on, that was funny.”

“You trick me into going to your stupid hangout, and now you have the nerve to show up late?”

He sneaks a few treats to Loba. “You’re really not mad at me right now, are you?”

“Irritated, at the least,” you admit.

“Well, then I’m sorry. Jisung got off late so I had to wait at Bang! for him.”

The words sink into your skin, but you don’t acknowledge them further. The anger fades on the walk down to the car, a great distance separating you and Minho. It’s practically dissipated by the time you climb into the backseat of Minho’s Kia Soul.

Jisung turns in the front seat and offers his hand at an awkward angle. “It’s a pleasure to be working with you.”

You hold your seatbelt in one hand, accepting his with the other as you force a measly smile. “Same for you. Thanks for suggesting me to Mr. Bang.”

Confusion warps his face, twisting his eyebrows in a weird knit as he shakes his head. “It wasn’t me. Must’ve been Chan.”

Minho drops himself into the driver’s seat, suspending any further questioning.

Jisung returns to his original poise as when you approached the car. Eyes focused on his phone, actively typing something out.

You click your seatbelt into locking. An unnatural feeling plagues your gut. Mr. Bang wanted you on the team? It feels unlikely, but you know Jisung wouldn’t joke like that. Even if he were the type, his acting of unawareness gives away the truth.

Minho glances back at you in the mirror. “Ready?” he asks as his hand rests on the gearshift.

You press your lips into a line as you nod. “Mhm.”

You stare down at your hands carefully folded in your lap. For the first time since before producing, the itch to create is drowned by an intense, overwhelming brew of something lingering in your veins.

The expectation of you has pierced through the roof and is shooting out of the stratosphere.

Chan—Jisung quickly advised you to drop all formalities, so you’re rewiring your thoughts—has a home in Gangnam. Fitting for his status, but smaller than you expected. It’s still able to fit at least four of your apartment in it, though.

Jisung and Minho walk ahead of you up the stairs. The elevators in rich apartments on this end can only fit two people if you really scrunch together. What’s the money for, then?

“Today’s Monopoly night, right?” Jisung examines Minho’s side profile as he cautiously lifts one foot after the other. The stairs here are steeper than any you’ve seen. Hiking sounds better than this.

He hums in approval. “I guess we’ll sort teams later. We probably won’t live through the night with last week’s.”

A brash laugh escapes Jisung’s lips, subsequently echoing against the walls and bouncing back to your ears. “Right.”

You tune out their conversation for the rest of the climb, settling for watching your shoelaces sway with each step.

Jisung pushes on the door for the fourth floor, holding it open until you’re fully into the hallway. “Chan’s the second door on the right,” Jisung nods to one of the identical doors along the hall—appearing more expensive than your monthly rent with its rich stain.

Minho doesn’t bother knocking, instead opting for trying the doorknob. It allows access to the gigantic living space and the loud chatter previously muffled by walls.

You must be the last to arrive, but you probably could’ve guessed such.

“Hey,” Jeongin looks up from his conversation, inspiring a round of greetings from all the others.

“You all know each other enough so I’ll skip the introductions,” Minho glances between you and the group, starting for an empty end of the couch.

When Jisung follows his lead, you take a headcount. It appears everyone’s present except Chan—his birth name still feels awkwardly informal in your thoughts. You glance down the dark hallway to your right, counting one, two, three closed doors. Nature drags you into curiosity.

Seungmin, your alleged evil twin, waves you over.

As you take the empty spot beside him, he says, “Sorry, you looked a little awkward just standing there. Thought I’d save you before Hyunjin said something.” He shoots a pointed nod at the long-haired blond lounging between Changbin and Minho.

“Oh. Thanks,” you force a little smile that imitates gratitude. You didn’t feel awkward observing, but maybe your aura screamed otherwise.

Jeongin leans slightly over Seungmin’s shoulder with an inquisitive eye. “How did Minho convince you to come?”

“Blackmail,” you nod. Not attempting to summon a laugh, but managing so in the process.

“That’s Minho for you,” Seungmin tips his head in a slightly disbelieving manner.

“It’s okay, though. We’ll make tonight fun for you,” Jeongin raises his hand, and you meet it with a high-five.

Bro night might not be as bad as you thought.

“If only Chan comes out from his room,” Seungmin mutters, particularly to himself, as he leans his arm on the back of the couch and twists his body to look back into the hallway.

Questions. You want to ask them, but then Minho’s words return in full, blaring effect. Forward, he said. Meaning: blunt. In your face.

You bite your tongue. Redirect the temptation, you think, as your eyes scan the room. Admittedly, it’s odd seeing all these people away from their respective passions. However, Changbin’s phone is cradled in his hands, and his fingers are typing away potential lyrics. Felix, too, is hiding the fact his fingers are mirroring the directions of his recent choreography. Maybe passions are always a shadow of you.

“Should we just fix teams?” Minho says above the impatient silence.

“We can,” Hyunjin leans his forearms on his thighs. His hair falls in front of his shoulders like he’s some kind of Greek god.

“Team captains?” Seungmin asks.

“Let’s do the oldest of each unit, but since Chan’s God-knows-where, Changbin can represent,” Minho nods, glancing around for looks of satisfaction.

“Sure, rock-paper-scissors for who goes first?” Seungmin pushes a strand of hair out of his eye.

Short story short, Minho wins the first round with a victorious cheer of, “Easy!”

“You only say that because you know they always pick scissors first,” you accuse.

Minho points a finger at you, “Allegedly.”

You land a spot on Minho’s team since he got the first pick of the litter. Then, by Minho’s attempt at matchmaking, Chan lands on your team.

As you’re moving spots, you shoot Seungmin a sad, unmoving look.

He laughs, pushing you towards Minho. “Maybe next time.”

“What?” Minho glances between you. “Are you planning a coup against me?”

“You wish, Lee Minho,” you sigh, falling into the empty space beside him.

After a few beats of silence, for good measure, Minho leans down to your ear and says, “I told you you’d like him.”

“Yeah, he’s like a better version of you,” you turn to see the predictable look of offense on his features.

“Fine then, get Seungmin to drive you home,” he pouts, crossing his arms against his chest and pushing his back into the couch.

“Oh come on,” you nudge his elbow, laughing at his exaggeration.

You see a smile tug at his lips before he breaks, letting a chuckle break through his barrier.

In the remaining meantime that you wait, Minho calls dibs on the cat. Seungmin’s team claims the dog, with an offhand comment from Minho going, “You would choose the dog.” Finally, Changbin’s team chooses the hat.

“Is that a joke because you’re so short? So you can gain a few inches with the hat?” Hyunjin jabs.

Changbin reaches over the couch to try and hit him.

From this end of the couch, you can look directly into the dark, mysterious hallway. You watch as the second door knob slowly turns. You focus on it, and the shouting dispute fades out in your ears.

Chan steps out from the room, carefully closing the door behind him so as to not bring all the eyes on him at once. You fight your facial expressions to remain neutral as you take in his appearance—which is shockingly normal. Suits are his workplace fashion, and consequently, all you’ve seen him in. Now, he wears black basketball shorts and a black tee. His hair is even loosening into curls. Is this the same man who runs a massive music company? Are we sure?

His cover is blown the moment he steps into the light of the living room. Jeongin warily points a finger in your direction, “You’re on their team.”

Chan presses his lips into a makeshift smile as he approaches you and Minho. He pushes out a small ‘hey’ before taking his spot on the other side of Minho.

His reclusive figure makes your heart wrench. You wish you could have talked Minho out of going. To him, you’re just an outsider he has to put a front up for. But, the thing is, he isn’t trying to build a barrier. It appears that he doesn’t have any more energy to try.

You catch yourself staring when Minho nudges your knee with his. “You take the first roll.”

Collecting the die, you notice your hands trembling a little. Not good. You manage, somehow knocking Seungmin’s dog in the process. He feigns shock, whining in an accusatory tone, “You’re no different than Minho.”

The choir of laughter shuffles you back into reality when you glance back at your accused teammate, catching the look of the other. The corners of Chan’s lips are slightly turning up into a smile.

Whew. You’re amazed by the amount of relief that little smile gives you.

iii.

The game trails into the early hours of the morning, and a few times a boy will point at Chan and say, in an attempt to be lighthearted, “This is all your fault.”

To the dismay of the rivals, Changbin’s team manages to win. Jisung, a member of Seungmin’s team, flips the board twenty turns too late at the news. “This game is stupid!” he laughs through his words.

“You’re cleaning that up,” Changbin says as the money flutters to the rug beneath the glass coffee table. A cue for the group to laugh blinks above their heads, each varying in intensity. Hyunjin even claps a few times, for his vocal contribution pales insufficient.

Jisung slumps to the ground, “I know.”

Chan lifts himself from the couch to aid him with a lingering smile from all the laughs. As the night progressed, he seemed to slowly inch into his ‘normal’ state, as Jisung had referred to in the car.

Minho slips his phone out from his pocket. At the single-digit time, nearing close to sunrise, he heaves a sigh and pushes himself up. “Guess I should get you home.”

He extends a hand to help you up.

“You’re leaving already?” Seungmin asks.

“Uh, yeah. It’s like three A.M.,” Minho squints at him, turning his lit home screen at him for proof.

Chan snickers as he stacks all the thousands. “That’s early for me.”

See? He’s even making jokes now. This is a weird normal, considering all you know of him is his status, but admittedly better than whatever funk he was previously in.

“See you on Monday, I’ll just spend the night,” Jisung lifts his hand in a semi-wave.

Chan doesn’t protest. Instead, he looks up at you and sticks his hand up. “Can’t wait to work with you,” and smiles. Dimples indent his cheeks in a way that makes your stomach churn.

You take his hand and mirror his smile, though it’s rather genuine in comparison to the one you offered Jisung.

Minho has the decency to wait to call you out on it until you’re in the soundproof safety of his car.

“I saw that,” he says.

“What?”

“The smile. Don’t like Chan. That’d be way too awkward for me.”

You laugh, examining his twisted face of disgust as he starts the car. “Why?”

You’re not asking out of curiosity. You don’t like Chan, and you don’t see yourself liking him anytime soon. Or in the far future, for that matter. It’s just so easy to mess with Minho.

“Uh, my best friend dating my other best friend? That’s third-wheel central. I’m too hot to be a third wheel.”

Later, as you’re unbuckling your seatbelt to venture into the apartment building, Minho mumbles, “But, I mean, if you like him it’s whatever. I don’t want you feeling like you have to hide anything from me.”

You punch his arm.

“Ow! What was that for?”

“You’re getting all sappy on me again. You don’t have to worry about stuff like that, dude,” you frown. Above anything Minho can say to you, his insecurities taking over his words hurts the most.

“I’ll see you on Monday,” you say, then adding, “Unless you want to come over sometime this weekend. I’ll be home.”

He smiles, though you sense the differing thoughts behind his eyes. “Love you.”

“Love you too,” you say before shutting the door.

iv.

In all the wrong ways, Monday comes too fast. Faster than you can process Friday night, essentially.

You try to scramble your remaining thoughts into order as you walk into the lobby.

Is Chan going to be normal today? Hoping so. Why was that relief so astonishing? Did Minho catch onto something-

“Hey, Y/N!” Jisung intercepts your thoughts.

Your eyes involuntarily widen as he pops out from seemingly nowhere. Your gaze drifts to his outstretched hands, offering you one of the drinks each brandishes.

“I didn’t know which you’d prefer, and Minho wasn’t awake so I couldn’t text him. So, I got coffee and tea.”

You take your pick and nod a ‘thank you.’

“How was your weekend?” you find yourself asking as he leads you to the elevator.

He shrugs, “I did absolutely nothing other than a brain detox for this project. You?”

Despite his back being to you, your chin twitches into a nod. “Same as you, pretty much.”

“I think Chan’s in a good enough mood,” Jisung glances back at you as he reaches for the up arrow on the elevator’s panel.

“Sweet.”

Minho is your gateway to an easy conversation. Of course, he’s not here, but you slightly wish he was. You’re forced to meander in an abrasive silence until the elevator takes you up to the eighth floor.

Eight, because Chan detests the idea of being too close to anyone. He doesn’t want his presence to divide anyone’s attempt at creating their best. An icon in distancing, Minho joked as during your first week under Bang!

Jisung sucks in a deep breath as he turns into a room whose door is partially cracked. “Here goes nothing.”

On the far side of the room is an L-shaped couch. Resting upon the vertical side as if he were in his own bed is Changbin. A laptop sits in his lap, closed, but his phone is inches away from his face as he types.

“It’d be more effective if you used that laptop,” Jisung comments, resting his drink on the coffee table and sitting by Changbin’s feet. Giving Changbin the perfect opportunity to wedge his foot between the younger’s ribcage. A cry of pain shoots out of Jisung’s mouth. Truly, he should have seen that coming.

“Dude!” he shouts, jumping to his feet and clutching his side.

“I told you not to mess with me,” Changbin’s eyes narrow into a warning gaze, but Jisung laughs anyway.

“You are not scary, bro.”

You start for the opposite end of the couch, pressing your back into the armrest as you watch the scene unfold. Cupping your drink with both hands, you’re unsure if the warmth stems from it or the sibling-esque fight before you.

Changbin slides the laptop off of his lap and pulls himself to his feet. He stands before Jisung, closes his eyes, and takes a deep breath. Then, as his eyes flutter open, he brings his fists up.

“Come on. Fight me.”

Jisung takes a step back. “You have got to be kidding me.”

Changbin shakes his head. “I’m not.”

Jisung’s eyes flit around the room for help. It would be that when the muscle man wants to fight, the only person physically capable of pacifying him isn’t here. Pure, unadulterated luck.

“And when you break my arm, then what?” Jisung’s eyebrows raise in taunting interrogation.

“Then I break your arm? What about it? You can perform with a shattered humerus. Right, ace?”

By chance of a higher being granting Han Jisung a break, Chan enters his office with a manila folder in his hand. Only a few steps into the room, he has to halt. His hand finds his hip, releasing a big sigh as he clutches the folder. To no surprise, he’s wearing a perfectly tailored suit. Black, of course. But with a surprising navy undershirt, which you give him credit for.

“How many times do I have to tell you not to cause injury in my office? Can you imagine the lawsuit? Would you do that to your beloved friend?” he asks a stream of questions.

He seems relatively happy.

Changbin drops his fists to his sides, gaze dropping back to his abandoned laptop. He scoops it up before reclaiming his spot. To fully conclude the argument, he opens the laptop’s lid. “Jisung started it.”

The accused boy looks at Chan and silently pleads his case. His hands clasp into a prayer.

Chan waves him off with a smile and a breathy laugh before starting for his desk. He acknowledges you with a small raise of his hand.

“Ah, where to begin?” he asks, to no one in particular, as he tosses the folder onto his desk and sinks into his chair.

“Han, can you turn the projector on?” Changbin takes the initiative, reaching over the couch’s back to grab a white USB cord.

He does as told, warily trying to avoid another pseudo-fight, before rushing to the light switch and fading the room into a mass of darkness. Chan must not like having his blinds open. Black world he lives in.

Changbin’s screen presents against the vacant wall across from him. A pre-written document appears, with the title ‘TT Ideas’ and a dashed list. 1.5 spacing, you admire.

“Okay, I did my homework,” he sighs, dragging his cursor over the highlighted ideas for the title track. “These are my personal favorites, but I’m up to debate.”

Jisung shivers at those words. Debate. Meaning: duel.

In the darkness, Chan steps in front of you. He sits halfway between you and Changbin, resting his elbows on his knees as he studies the list. You notice that his lips pout as he focuses, and his eyes squint a little.

You shift your own attention, for you’ll lose pacing if you stare at Chan the whole day. Changbin has highlighted unrequited love, turning the aura of summer into a song, unique abilities, and simply ‘flexing our equities’.

“Yeah, I definitely think that last one will go over well,” Jisung sardonically comments.

Changbin sighs in defeat and drags his cursor over his beloved idea, hitting the backspace in pity, “I knew you’d say that.”

“Can you elaborate on the unique abilities?” you ask, quieter than anticipated but still reaching its aim.

“Not to tute my own horn,” Changbin starts, running a hand through his hair, “but we’re sought after. When people see our names on tracklists, they immediately know the song is going to be good. They don’t sit and wonder if they’ll be disappointed, because they know with 3Racha that’s unpalatable. Hell, I saw someone tweet the other day that their favorite artist was spotted here, and the fandom went fucking crazy.

“People know what they expect from us, and that’s excellence. We deliver. You can’t say the same for a lot of producers. Doubt is inevitable for a lot of them, even if it’s only personal.”

“Couldn’t have said it better,” Jisung smirks, leaning his extended hand out to Changbin for him to high-five.

“What if we did it with an,” Chan hesitates, tilting his head at the screen to try and ease out the right words, “unnatural sound.”

“An experiment no one else could attempt,” you mumble, not expecting him to hear. His head snaps over to you, snapping, pointing a finger, and nodding.

“Exactly.”

The boys look between each other, bobbing their heads in agreement. “We can do that,” Jisung grins.

“You know, I had a feeling you would say that,” Changbin slips his phone out of his pocket, swiftly unlocking it and opening his notes app. “So I’ve already written my verse.”

“No way,” Jisung cocks his head at him.

“Okay,” Changbin mutters, “I had verses written for all the highlighted ones.”

“You are insane,” Chan chuckles, but not in an insulting tone.

From here on out, it’s smooth sailing.

v.

Until Jisung pats the pockets of his jeans two weeks later. “Shit,” he mutters, glancing back at the elevator you had just come from.

Midnight was around the corner and Jisung had promised Minho they’d go see the late-night showing of the latest horror film.

“What’s wrong?” you ask.

He turns to you with wide eyes and a gaping mouth. “I think I left my phone in Chan’s room. I’m gonna be late. Minho’s gonna kill me.”

You cease his rambling by putting a hand on his shoulder. “I’ll go get it. Just tell Minho to text me when you’re done so you can pick it up. ‘Kay?”

So what if Loba’s waiting for you at home, probably pawing at the front door and meowing like, “I’m hungry”? You have a profound soft spot for Jisung. And not because Minho threatened you if you ever showed any disliking. Plus, Loba’s spoiled in all other walks of her life. She can handle you coming home a little later than usual for one night.

He breathes a sigh of relief, looking up at the high ceiling in some kind of grateful manner. “You are a lifesaver, Y/N.”

“I wouldn’t go that far,” you smile, starting back to the elevator as he continues his path.

The company is rather unsettling without its daytime bustle. It’s even worse on the eighth floor. A usual ghost-town, except with an increased darkness and an odd chill trailing down your back.

The hallways feel stuffy as you get close to Chan’s office, your gaze set ahead. A sniffling sound seeps into your range of hearing, though you don’t think much of it. You can get colds in summer.

Naive to think a man as esteemed as Mr. Bang would succumb to a measly cold.

As you sneak your head between the cracked door, placing your hand around its width and slightly pushing forward, the view sends your heart crashing into your stomach. Chan’s head is lowered, either hand cupping his head as incessant tears drip from his nose.

Awkwardly stepping forward, you clear your throat.

His glossy eyes, rimmed with red and slightly puffy, jump up to you. Instinctively, he attempts to discard the evidence.

“What’s wrong?” you ask.

“Nothing,” he croaks, pulling his sleeve over his hand and gliding it across his damp cheek.

That’s something he could learn. If someone’s a witness, you can expect them to ease into questions. It’s only nature.

“Do you need a hug?” you attempt. Don’t be forward, don’t be blunt, don’t be mean. Minho’s reminder blinks across your vision.

He laughs, “Maybe.”

A pitiful smile creeps onto your lips as you step around the desk. Your arms link semi-awkwardly around his shoulders. He presses his cheek against your collarbone, silently crying a little. You take careful breaths, trying to stabilize your chest for him.

“Does anyone know?” Your hand rubs soft circles against his back. He shakes his head against your body. A small hiccup shakes his frame.

“You can tell me if you want.”

“I don’t want to burden you,” he manages through his tears.

You pull back a little for him to look at you. “I will smack sense into you if you say some stupid shit like that again.” In spite of his eyes crinkling into a smile—looking at you like you’re a childhood friend who he knows like the back of his hand—you try to recover. “I swear, you won’t burden me.”

He takes in a shaky breath. A blaring thought curses the forefront of your eyes. “Do you mind if we go to my apartment, though? I have a hungry cat waiting for me.”

Your arms retreat to your sides as he nods and drags the back of his hand across either cheek. “Yeah, no problem.”

You glance over at the couch, and the object of your mission stares back at you. For a second, you swear it’s glowing gold and screaming, “Your quest ends here! Bring me to my owner!”

You shuffle for the couch and scoop it up. When Chan looks at your hand in confusion, you offer, “Jisung left it. I’m the delivery service.”

“Right.” And he smiles. Comfort engulfs your body when you notice the flood has stopped.

Since you normally walk or ride the bus to work, Chan drives. His shiny sports car looks rather alien beside your used, well-used, car.

“I should warn you,” you turn to him as you push your key into the lock, “Loba’s a cuddler.”

“Sweet. I’d feel bad asking you for more hugs,” he jokes.

Sure enough, Loba is lying before the door. She scrambles to her feet and stares up at her guardian and the new intruder. Conveniently misplacing her cries for food, she scopes out the new man.

“What’d you say her name was again?” Chan asks, squatting in front of her and scratching behind her ears.

“Loba,” you say, opening the fridge to dish out Loba’s expensive special food. Adopting a cat with stomach issues, am I right?

“Loba?” Chan repeats, stifling a laugh.

“I didn’t name her,” you turn to him in defense.

Chan lowers himself, crossing his legs as Loba climbs into his lap. The love-hungry cat doesn’t even notice when you set her ceramic bowl next to her water station. She’s too absorbed in her newfound friend.

Rather than forcing them to relocate to the couch, you sit offset from them on the tile. Smiling down at the orange cat, you admit, “She’s not even like this with Minho.”

“Really?” Chan’s amused face stuns a vibration in your chest.

You appeal confirmation.

“That’s crazy. I’m a dog person, normally,” he coos down at the lovebug.

Don’t let this distract you from the task at hand, you remind yourself.

“So,” you drag. How do you say this without tempting the tears again? Admittedly, it would be nice if you had an ounce of insight. You’re walking into a minefield without a blueprint of where they lie.

Chan sighs, acknowledging his cue. “My dad doesn’t really like me all too much,” he wryly laughs.

“He seems stupid then,” you offer, not thinking further than trying to comfort him, “You’re very likable.”

“Thank you,” Chan drags his tongue against his bottom lip.

He continues, “Moreso, he dislikes his father. The one who skipped a generation when trying to continue his legacy. By association, I kind of take the brunt of it.” He looks at you through blurry eyes as he bites the inside of his cheek.

“If it makes you feel any better, I think you were the only person who could have continued the company. Your dad seems,” you hesitate, “insolent. You, on the other hand, are an ace.”

“I try to tell myself that. He makes me go to all of his business parties to keep his reputation up, as well as mine in a way. You don’t want the broken family running a huge corporation,” he mimics what he’s been told.

“So you can’t tune him out,” you echo.

“Yep,” he drags the word out, prompting a heavy sigh.

“I’m not really good at the whole comforting thing,” you study the creases of your palms. “But I’ll say that you are, by far, the most amazing person I could work for. You’re really admirable. Plus, Minho really likes you. You’re kind of like the brother he never had.”

“God, you’re gonna make me cry,” he laughs, staring up at the light as he pulls a hand away from Loba to wipe at his waterline.

“I’m serious,” you chuckle. “Would I blow smoke up your ass if you’re crying on my floor with my cat in your arms?”

When he hesitates to respond, you do it for him. “The answer is no. I don’t even do that for Minho.”

“That’s comforting,” he admits.

“I’d hope so. Now, hand me your phone,” you stick your hand out.

“Why?”

“So I can give you my number. Text me if stuff goes downhill, now that I’m in the loop.”

He looks at you quizzically.

“What? Do you think I’m going to let you suffer in silence now that I know?”

He leans to the side, cradling Loba protectively, as he draws his phone from his pocket. Unlocking it before he hands it to you.

As you type in a new contact, you say, “Do you want something to eat? I can order a pizza.”

vi.

Unfortunately, peace is temporary. Always and forever.

When you enter Chan’s office a few weeks after the father debacle, prepared to start the official recording of the album as decided on the previous day, you’re met with two confused men. Admittedly, you’re a little late, but not enough for them to be lost.

Changbin looks up at you as you cross the threshold. “Have you seen Chan?”

You shake your head.

“Heard from him?” Jisung follows.

Again, you shake your head.

“Shit,” they both fall back against the couch cushions in defeat.

“What’s wrong?” The grip on your bag tightens. Despite your inquisitive words, your gut gives you a fair answer.

“We haven’t heard from him since five this morning,” Changbin looks at Jisung for confirmation on the details.

“No one’s seen him?” you follow up.

“No one. He won’t answer our group chat either.”

Your foot taps against the floor as you try to remain composed. He texted you last night about his dad’s upcoming gala but was sparse about details. Or about the fact he would straight up disappear. Obviously, you can’t offer this information to them. A promise is a promise, even if half unspoken.

“Should we work through it? Get his parts whenever he decides to show up?” Changbin speaks.

“We can’t exactly meander anymore. Tracklist goes out at noon,” Jisung shakes his phone as annoyingly clear evidence.

“And you still need to learn the choreo for the title track,” you add. There’s only a month left. You bite your tongue, allowing the pain to slightly calm you down.

“God, what horrible timing,” Jisung laughs, but no joy laces through his tone.

You point harsh eyes at them, heavy steps leading you to the microphone stand designated for recording. “Come on then. Let’s get ahead before we can fall behind.”

vii.

You leave work the moment recording is done for the day, a discovery pulling you from focusing on anything else. Chan shared his location with you a few days ago when he offered a reciprocal to what you’ve done for him. “So you can always find me,” he said via text.

Though not for the right purpose, per se, you’re going to find him. And when you do, you might have to smack sense into him this time. With love, you convince yourself as you pull up to the stadium.

Who in their right mind rents an indoor stadium for an evening party? Rich people, evidently.

You find Chan’s car, among its shiny counterparts, and park as close to it as you can. As you get out, you pull your phone out of your pocket and call him. Not expecting him to answer, honestly.

“Hello?” his voice penetrates your ears.

“I’m outside,” you say, fighting the heavy heartbeat echoing in your head. Your hands tremble at the thought of him here, all dressed up and acting like nothing’s wrong.

“What?” he mumbles.

You look up to the big screen above the gate. “Gangnam Public Stadium, right?”

The background noise slightly fades as he says, “Wait where you are, I’ll come meet you.”

“Parking lot,” you offer before he hangs up.

You step into the shade and lean against a brick wall.

Today’s one of the finer days of summer. It’s mid-June. The solstice is just around the corner. A light breeze brushes against your skin and gently ruffles your hair. It probably helps that you’re surrounded by wealthy cars. A mood booster, in a weird way.

Quick, heavy steps draw closer. You turn your head to the source.

Chan drops his hands onto his knees as he pants. “You shouldn’t be here,” he manages.

“You should’ve told someone why you wouldn’t be at work. We all have our regrets,” you nibble on the inside of your cheek as you stare at him.

“God,” he mutters, straightening himself before standing next to you against the wall.

“You’ll get your suit dirty,” you comment, but he doesn’t care.

“You should leave.” His eyes, heavy with an emotion akin to irritation and sadness, scan over your face.

“I’m not leaving until you tell me why you did this,” you stand your ground. Just like Minho would hate in a moment like this. “To get to a person, you have to ease them into it,” he guided at one point. Frankly, you couldn’t care less right now.

He avoids your eyes as he tries to flatten his staggered breathing. In due time, he composes himself and finally looks at you. His features have loosened, and you note his brow is no longer creased.

“I didn’t want to lose my cool in front of them,” he admits.

“Scared to?”

He nods. “It was scary enough having one person see me cry.”

The place between your heart and ribs begins to pulsate heat.It begins to spread across your bones and through your muscles. For once, you have to think about what to say next. You can’t be mad at him, for his reasoning makes more sense than it had before. God, this is irritating.

“Let’s make the song of the summer, then,” you reassure him with a curt nod. “Pull you out of this monster field around you and let’s make history.”

The dark surrounding encasing him cracks away as an unbelievable smile finds its place. One like you have never seen. One that pierces your heart with its joy. “Let’s do it.” And he drags you into a hug. Despite the roles taking a quick turn, you feel comforted. But he’s squeezing the life out of you.

viii.

You’ve done all you can do for 3Racha within the next week. The album is complete, as far as instrumentals and lyrics. All that’s left is promotion, along with all the theatrical elements left to be discussed. But that’s separate from you.

It feels bittersweet that it’s come to an end. You know that sometime in the future you’ll return to the studio with them, working alongside creative geniuses to invent a piece. Together. That’s the key. But it feels so far away.

You sit in your empty office, staring at the broad window as raindrops fall down the glass. Recounting the process in your head with distant gratitude. Title track: God’s Menu. You’re proud of it, viewing it as your child. Watching it grow into a real song, with real words and sounds attached to it. Wow. You catch a glimpse at the meaning of life as you watch two raindrops race down. It’s this: blossoming art from a tiny idea. Admittedly not entirely your own, but the principle remains.

The other tracks enlist an equal amount of precious memories for you. Late nights felt normal with the unreal energy coursing through your veins. You notice the products of effort as you consider all those extra hours. Admiration shoots through your body, leaving it numb.

It was all them, though, you acknowledge. You were only there as a caretaker, offering your own hint to mark the music.

3Racha is like a shooting star. It's fantastic, in a sense. Not everyone can say they’ve seen a shooting star in the same way not many can say they’ve witnessed the production process with three of the most talented producers in the game. They’re unreal.

A knock against your doorframe shocks you out of your thoughts. You drag your foot against the floor to turn your chair.

Chan, dressed in an outfit similar to that of boys’ night, awaits your attention. Sweat lines his forehead, glistening his skin. You can guess where he’s been.

“Hey.”

“I need your help.” His words were trailing your simple greeting so close you could say he interrupted you. Seriousness brings his face into a dimness, slightly intimidating you.

“With?” you prompt.

He leans against the frame with his arm, replaying his words in his head over and over before spitting them out, “I kind of told my dad I’d bring a date to his next party.”

“Oh?” you say, slowly realizing. “Oh.”

“Will you do it?” His features twist into a nervous reflection.

“Sure, if you pay for my outfit.”

You say this as a joke, but he fails to convey it this way. “Deal. I’ll make it up to you, I promise. Does Loba need a cat tree by any chance?”

He doesn’t await your answer as he slips back into the hall. Was that conversation even real?

An indistinguishable whiplash conquers your body into a sudden realization. You turn to your desk, scooping your phone into your hands and texting Minho, beginning with, “When you see this…”

ix.

Certainly, Chan is a man of his word. From the mere month you’ve known him, you should have gathered this. But as you stand in his living room, decked out in some outfit he carefully chose for you, it blares against all of your senses in bright, evident clarity.

Minho’s message buzzes against your palm.

Lee Knows: Loba’s conked already, two minutes after she ate. Have fun ;)

You: Lol thanks again for taking care of her.

Lee Knows: Of course. Anything for my bestest friend in the world. Now, a night of yearning!

The only way to describe this feeling rooted in the base of your stomach are the words: raw emotion. It’s a cluster. Jitters mixed with a blend of uncertainty and a weird elation? To be fair, you are about to lie your way through expensive drinks and hors d’oeuvres. What even are those?

Regardless, one thing is certain. Minho was right. It’s...discouraging to admit. Frankly, you’d ignore it for as long as possible if you could. But adoration is difficult. In your face. Forward, some would refer to it as.

God, this is all Minho’s fault.

“Ready?” Chan’s shoes click against the hardwood as he departs from his dark hole of a room. He looks stunning, though his attire isn’t much different from his office wear. A small sign of rebellion appears in his appearance, which ignites a flame in your chest.

Chan brings a hand to where your eyes are burning a whole into—his hair. The curls are there, less accentuated than bro night, but evident. “Ah, I didn’t really want to straighten it. I’ve already had fried hair one too many times in my life.”

“It looks nice,” you smile. Your throat tightens as you swallow. “You look nice.”

“Same for you,” he allows a prolonged scan of you. Sheepishly, you do one of those cheesy twirls you always see in the romance movies before Prom night or whatever expensive evening the protagonists are attending. Sincerely, with all the love rampaging through your chest, you’re going to kill Minho for cursing your life like this.

He snaps out of his trance, starting for the door. “We should get going.”

Aside from the quiet hum of the radio, the ride to the venue is silent. It wouldn’t be complete without hitting every redlight, either. Jisung’s luck must have rubbed off on you when you had that group hug.

You sit at one now, red gleaming against your face as you stare out at the sidewalk vacant of pedestrians. No one’s even at any of the other lights.

“You okay?” Chan asks.

“Yeah,” you turn back to him.

“Good,” he nods, instantly averting your eyes.

Perhaps you should have found a way to decline. Even Loba would have been a better date option. At least she has chemistry with him.

x.

To no one’s surprise, the venue is huge. Potentially larger than the stadium. From ceiling to the carpeted floor, decorated properly with the black tie theme.

Chan reluctantly grabs your hand before you tackle the crowd. If you were cold, the warmth radiating against your palm is sufficient for heating the rest of your body. Unluckily, though, you aren’t cold. Your hand feels clammy in his. If he wasn’t attracted to you before, he certainly isn’t now.

You stare at your shoes as you follow.

“Just a heads up about my dad,” he glances over his shoulder to make sure you’re still there, despite the tether between you, “he most definitely thinks we’re dating, so be prepared for questions.”

“Oh great,” you mumble. How do you cure a lovesick heart? What an ambiguous question offering up to a plethora of potential answers. One incorrect answer, though: acting out romance. In real time, too.

“Sorry, I probably should have told you sooner. Kind of slipped my mind,” he squeezes your hand in apology.

Even when you break out into a free space, his hand doesn’t pull from yours. Instead, he slightly tightens the hold as he approaches an older man. Without any prior knowledge (ie. not Googling his dad after he cried on your kitchen floor over the bastard), you could guess this is his dad. They practically have the same face. Striking differences, however, given some context.

“Hey,” the man grins, eyes shifting curiously between you and his son.

You dip your head in respect. “Nice to meet you, Mr. Bang.”

His hand claps your shoulder as you look up. “You don’t have to be so formal with me.” Silence hangs onto the end of his sentence as he glances at Chan for help.

“Y/N,” Chan offers. Your name sounds pretty coming from him.

“Y/N,” his father repeats. You want to sock him for saying your name.

“Well, it’s a pleasure to finally meet you. Would have been nicer if Chan had given a little notice,” he laughs for you, alternatively offering a subtle, but not unnoticeable, glare to Chan.

Reflexively, your unoccupied hand clenches until you feel your nails pressing sharply into your skin. Discreetly, you nudge Chan’s arm with your elbow as a sign that you’re here. Slightly, his hand loosens in yours as his nerves slowly ease.

“Sorry, it’s kind of recent,” Chan laughs. His eyes crinkle into a faux delight.

“Of course,” his father nods. “Haven’t seen any articles about it yet, which is good. You might not want this being exposed to the GP.”

“Wouldn’t want that,” Chan manages through gritted teeth, albeit hidden in a way only you could notice.

Then, as if the attack didn’t have a cooldown, he reaches up and tugs at one of Chan’s curls. “Your hair looks...interesting.”

It’s really difficult trying to remain neutral in the face of backhanded advice and compliments. Especially in front of this man, who shouldn’t even be given a title as esteemed as that. He’s scum stuck to the back of your old, rusty car that won’t go away in spite of however many power washes.

“Mr. Bang,” a waiter appears behind him, stealing his attention long enough for you to drag Chan in the opposite direction. He’ll find his way into a business conversation soon anyway. With no recollection of what he said to his son whatsoever. Considering his words will always stick with Chan, your face heats up.

You ignore Chan’s repelling tug, and his words that go in one ear and out the other. A hidden area near the bar is the only place where he has enough courage to stop you. But only because you let it happen.

“If we stayed there much longer, I would have caught an assault charge,” you huff.

“You handled it well, though,” he admits, “Even if you were about to break my hand.”

In the face of anger personified, he manages to smile and crack a laugh.

“Sorry,” you mumble, finally pulling your hand away from his.

“Do you want something to drink?” he asks, glancing back at the bartender serving an established looking woman a margarita. Likely strawberry from its tint.

You shake your head, “I’m good. Thank you.”

“Well, then, I’ll be back,” he reaches out to rub your shoulder before slipping back into the crowd. You’re jealous of the effect he has to just become invisible.

You pull your phone from its hidden spot and open Minho’s awaiting text.

Lee Knows: Has he made a move yet?

You: Why would he?

Lee Knows: Idk you’re kind of obvious.

Before you can answer, an incoming notification from Seungmin pops up.

Seungmo: Is it true that you like Chan?

Minho. Lee Minho. You grimace.

You: No comment.

Seungmo: Sweet. Jeongin owes me twenty bucks. But ew. Who would romantically like Chan?

The text really ties together with the barfing emoji.

“Who’s that?” the subject of both text logs peeks his head over your phone.

You snatch it back, instinctively turning it off. “Seungmin.”

“I didn’t know you were friends with him,” Chan observes, placing the black straw between his lips. His drink is also tinted pink, but not in a margarita glass.

“Minho built the bridge during bro night. Now we plot behind his back,” you joke, promptly making Chan choke. He coughs, covering his mouth with his sleeve as he sputters.

“Don’t do that when I’m drinking!” he laughs.

Your chest heaves as you try to stifle the laugh building up in your chest.

“Oh come on, you’re even gonna have the nerve to laugh at me?” he tips his head to look at your quivering frame. He finds this funny, but he can’t just not tease you. That’s not in the rule book.

“I’m not laughing,” you try to convince him, lips pressed into a fine line as quick breaths leave your nose.

“Right,” he rolls his eyes.

If he were being honest with you, he was doing this as a ploy to take your mind off of his dad. Honesty isn’t one of his finer points, though. So he stays quiet.

“Do you want a sip?” he offers the fruity looking drink to you.

“What is it?” you ask, but accepting the glass anyway.

“Just a strawberry mimosa.”

Again, if he were honest, he’d tell you he only got it to share with you. It was a shot in the dark, neutral enough. But, again, not one of his stronger urges. Minho would refer to this as him ‘making a move’, unbeknownst to you.

You take a quick sip. Humming in approval, you hand it back to him. “It’s good, I can barely even taste the alcohol.”

He fixes his hair absentmindedly as a passing conversation arises. Subject: Minho. Goal: offering both parties ammunition for his next offhand comment or prank.

“Did you know that Minho talks in his sleep?” you laugh.

Chan pulls at a curl, pulling it straight. “He seems like the type.”

You reach up and flick his wrist.

“Ow! What was that for?”

“Stop thinking about what your dad said,” you scold. The nerves in your stomach dissipate as your hand ruffles his hair, fluffing it out. He looks more relaxed as you pull away.

“Sorry,” he whispers.

“Don’t apologize, or I’ll punch you next time.”

“I can see why you and Minho get along so well.”

xi.

By the time you’re set free from the hell of socializing with all of Chan’s dad’s friends who last saw him when he was ‘this high’, the effects of the single mimosa wear off. Luckily for Chan, you drank most of it, so he’s set to drive.

“My feet hurt,” you complain. Maybe it would have been smart to break in the fancy shoes Chan invested for you before the event.

“Do you want me to carry you?” Chan asks, turning to you.

Against all voices inside of you screaming to decline, your pain receptors answer for you. “That’d be great, since you're offering.”

He bends his knees slightly and holds his arms slightly out. When you jump onto his back, he doesn’t even react.

“Do you religiously workout or something?” you joke, though true curiosity shines through your words. You’re pretty obvious.

“Duh. Every breathing moment I’m not working or crying over my dad. It’s a stress reliever.” Your arms, hanging from his neck, feel each vibration in his chest as he laughs.

As he readjusts his hands beneath your thighs, maintaining a steady hold of your body against his, your body grows warm and you can envision your cheeks glowing red. Minho was so right. And the field day he’s going to have with the upcoming weeks until the joke grows stale. You shiver at the thought.

“Are you cold?” Chan asks.

“Oh, no, I was just thinking about Minho.”

“Scary,” Chan mimics his own shiver at the mention.

You press your cheek against his shoulder, his steady steps drawing your eyes shut.

The silence you find is unparalleled to the one in the car earlier. This one is comfortable, homely even. So much so that you feel yourself fall asleep.

xii.

When you get to his apartment, he nudges your shoulder.

Your eyes slowly open, fighting against the dull light from the roof of his car.

“You can spend the night at my house. I’m not confident in pulling a sleeping body out of a car. Putting you in was hard enough,” he chuckles.

You manage a smile and hazily push the passenger door open. From the rest, your feet should be fine walking to the elevator (since there’s one less body than bro night, you’ll fit) and to his apartment. Still, he wraps his arm around your shoulders to steady you all the way up to his front door.

“I’ll grab you some clothes,” he says as you fall onto his couch. You didn’t acknowledge how comfortable it was just from sitting on it. Honestly, it feels like a normal mattress.

He returns from his room quickly with a pair of sweatpants and a shirt. Both black, as you could have guessed.

You walk to the bathroom and sleepily tug your fancy outfit off, careful not to ruin it. As you pull his shirt over your head, a rush of his cologne hugs you. You fight off the ‘I could get used to this’ comment that floats through your head.

You don’t remember walking back to the couch. But you remember Chan pulling a blanket up to your chin.

xiii.

Chan pokes your cheek, drawing you away from your precious dream of living in a cottage on the seafront—conveniently with him. You whine, pulling the blanket over your head in an attempt to ward him away. Dream Chan is waiting for you.

“Y/N, come on. You can’t sleep on my couch all day.” The worst part is: you can hear the faux pout in his voice. And potentially worse: you definitely could sleep on this couch all day if your life depended on it. Even if it didn’t, to be honest.

“Go away,” you grumble.

He sighs. His presence beside you disappears for a few moments, long enough for sleep to momentarily return. The bubble of peace pops eventually.

“Hey, Minho,” his voice returns, slightly muffled by the distance and the cloth pressed against your ear.

This is enough to spring liveliness into your bones. You sit up, hateful eyes shooting in the direction of the voice. When you see him laughing, his dark phone pressed against his ear, you reel. “One of these days, I’m gonna leave your company and then your stocks are gonna plummet,” you groan.

“Is that the best insult you can come up with?” he counters, dropping his hoisted arm to his side.

“I have more, but they're still closed off. You know, since you’ve rudely interrupted my sleep.”

“I’m sorry. Not really, though. It’s like noon.”

“And?”

“I can’t leave you here alone,” he laughs.

“What, do you have a date to attend?”

Awaiting his response, you reach for your phone on the coffee table. Two missed calls. A few Snapchats from Seungmin, likely pictures of his new puppy, but no matter.

“I wish. I have to meet up with Jisung. Pressing news he has to tell me, too confidential to be told over text.”

“He’s gonna confess,” you shoot him a look.

“Yes, because Han Jisung would be in love with me,” he starts for the kitchen. An extended arm pulls at the fridge, and he pulls two waters out.

“To be fair, if I were Jisung, I’d probably be in love with you,” you say, obviously without much thought behind it.

Okay. In your defense, you were a little too focused on reading Minho’s latest string of confusing messages. Trying to decipher the code, Chan’s response passes right through you like a ghost.

Lee Knows: Y/N you won’t believe this.

Lee Knows: Loba’s gonna be so happy.

Lee Knows: I know you’re probably cuddled up with Chan or whatever but call me ASAP.

Chan lowers himself beside you, tossing the cold water in your lap. He peeks over your shoulder. “Huh. That’s pretty much what Jisung said to me.”

“Why are you invading my privacy?” you glare at him, considering elbowing him precisely between the ribs. Ultimately deciding against it, of course. Through tense internal conflict.

“Really? You’re sitting on my couch, in my clothes, refusing to leave, and you wanna talk about privacy?”

Just because he has a point doesn’t mean he should voice it. Plus, he offered the clothes. And the couch for you to sleep on. It really just seems like a self jab to you.

“Should I call him?” Your finger glides across your bottom lip as you look at him for an answer.

“Sure, why not?” he throws his hands up in defeat. “Let’s see what Jisung and Minho have conspired this time.”

The ring echoing sparks a nervous pit in your stomach. You pick at the sticker of the water bottle. It feels like forever by the time he answers.

“Morning, sunshine,” Minho’s sweet voice reeks of sarcasm.

“You’re on speaker, by the way,” you close your eyes to avoid looking at Chan’s burning eyes.

“Oh perfect, you are too,” Jisung joins in, a dry laugh escaping his throat.

“We have some questions,” Minho begins, but fails to continue.

“Such as?” Chan prompts.

“Are you guys dating yet?” Jisung bluntly jumps to the case.

Your heart rams against your chest. That ‘yet’ tugs at your insides.

“Uh, no,” you draw out.

“The media sure thinks otherwise,” Minho jabs.

Chan’s already searching for the articles by the time you can react.

“Fuck.” He throws his head back against the couch in frustration, tilting his phone towards you so you can see.

CEO Bang Chan Lands a Date Weeks Before Comeback.

Bang Caught With Employee?

Bang Chan, CEO, Makes a Striking Appearance at Dad’s Gala.

“What? Did you really think there wouldn’t be journalists there? Come on Chan, do better.” You never knew Jisung had this cutting edge to him. If the words were aimed at you, you know you’d break down. It’s a miracle that Chan is this composed.

“Can you calm down? My god,” you say without realizing. “It’s not like we can’t fix this.” How, though, you ponder?

“If it makes you feel any better,” Minho reluctantly says, like this sentence could put his life on the line, “you looked cute.”

“Thanks,” you mutter. In any other circumstance, you’d be quick to mock him. Well. At least he’s not outwardly making fun of you. Another one of Minho’s late night insights seeping into your thoughts: see the positive.

A text notification drops down against your screen. Despite having the luxury of using his voice, it’s Minho.

Lee Knows: Would now be a bad time to out you?

You: Horribly.

“Well,” Jisung draws in a sharp breath.

“Good luck,” Minho finishes for him.

After he hangs up, promptly after letting you know he fed Loba this morning, you pick up the water bottle and place it against your cheek. The shocking chill redirects your nerves momentarily.

You try not to look at Chan, but you know he’s looking at you.

After a moment to catch your breath, he sighs, “I have an idea.”

It takes an effort to pull your attention to him. A war against yourself.

“Play along with me for a second,” he says, pulling his leg beneath him as he repositions himself beside you. Fully facing you, taking in your entire being—which doesn’t help your burning skin. You’d give anything to be invisible right now.

“What if,” he starts, “we go along with it?”

You laugh in his face. “Are you sure that wouldn’t blow up even worse? Imagine people finding out we faked it. That wouldn’t be good for you.”

He messes with his fingers, suddenly finding an intense interest in the linework of them. He rubs his thumb against the crease of his ring finger. “I don’t think anyone would have to find out it’s fake, per se.”

“How are you so confident?” You look at him in awe. Even when he’s spewing absolute nonsense and under pressure, he looks like a god. Calm as ever. It’s horrifying for your heart. And for common sense, but that’s not as important right now.

“I don’t think Minho would lie to me.”

“What does Minho have to do with this?”

His dimple shows itself as a measly smile crosses his lips. “He may have told me.”

Regardless of what he may have spilled, you know instantly. “You’re kidding me,” you huff. What was the point of his dramatic message, then? A distraction, maybe.

“I mean it’s okay. It’s not like it’s not reciprocated or anything.”

“You are unbelievable,” you shake your head. “How did you know and not say a single thing?”

His hands shoot up in defense. “To be fair, I didn’t find out until after you fell asleep last night. For the second time. He texted me with this whole ‘I know something you don’t’ facade. I wasn’t going to act on it until I had a stupidly romantic plan, but then this happened,” he gestures around the room, as if it’s the decor’s fault. He’s quick to add, “And I couldn’t do that as soon as they said anything about the articles. That’d kinda ruin the mood, don’t you think?”

So Chan’s probably not good with looking amazing under pressure—he very well could be, but you wouldn’t know that right now. Which slightly irritates you, but no matter.

“Well,” you sigh. “I guess that solves the problem.”

He nods, looking at you solemnly.

“Your dad’s gonna be pissed, though,” you comment, and he laughs.

“I know.”

Funny. As soon as the problem jumped at you, the imminent solution scared you just as fast. Your head hurts from the whiplash. That must be a pattern with him.

“You know what’s kinda perfect about this?” he says after a moment.

“Tell me.”

“We can write love songs together now. Isn’t that cool?” The sheer joy in his face shatters any aggravation left in your veins. A smile creeps up on you.

“You’re such a nerd.”

“And you’re madly in love with a nerd so I don’t see what your point is.”

You pull the pillow out from behind your back and chuck it at his head.

“Oh so you’re trying to kill your beloved love interest? Real classy, Y/N.”

“Please just shut up and kiss me already,” you lean over halfway and wait for him to meet you.

Kissing a major CEO doesn’t feel much different than kissing a normal person, but there’s a striking flare of passion to it. Maybe that’s a personal thing.

His lips fit against yours in a way that makes your soul instantly tethered to him. You hope he can’t feel your heartbeat against your lips, for it’s pulsing rather loud and antsy for you.

Chan radiates warmth in every piece of his body, extending all the way to his aura. If it wasn’t for your pesky lungs running out of air, you’d never pull away.

xiv.

In spite of his idea for a romantic confession going down the drain as soon as he decided to think one up, he makes up for it with incessant gestures. Bringing you snacks when he should be in meetings. Buying you sweets when you get stressed. Purchasing Loba a huge cat tree, even though she doesn’t need to be spoiled further. Spending the night at your house even when his is way more comfortable for the sheer reason that Loba would feel lonely.When you mention taking her with you, he’d say, “I don’t want her to feel uncomfortable with the new environment.”

He even postponed bro night because you got sick and wanted to be the one to take care of you.

You don’t need reminders that he loves you, but it’s all the while heartwarming when he says it.

Even now, with his arm wrapped around your waist and his chin propped on your shoulder, he’s thinking aloud in romance land. “What if we went on a vacation to France for Christmas? Isn’t Paris the city of love?”

You watch the TV, but his voice drowns out all of the dialogue. “I don’t know, Chan. Why can’t we stay here?” you shift in his arms to roll over and face him. This close, as you’ve grown accustomed to these past months, you can count all of his eyelashes. And you can see tiny freckles scattered across his cheeks. It must be an Aussie thing.

He presses a kiss to the tip of your nose. “We can stay here. I’m fine with that.”

Loba jumps onto the bed, her collar jingling with her sudden movement to warn you she’s arrived. You pull away from Chan a little to make room for her between you. “Here comes the princess,” you feign disappointment with a sigh.

She claims her spot between your chests and curls herself into a ball, burying her face in Chan’s chest. Per usual. She often forgets who feeds her around here.

“Anyway,” Chan leans over her, kissing your lips gently, “I’m okay wherever. As long as you’re with me.”

After a beat of silence, you cup his cheek delicately and say, “Let’s go to the moon.”

“Yeah,” he grins, “Let’s go to the moon.”

xv.

He leans over and presses a kiss to your temple, setting a bottle of water in front of you.

Jisung gags from across the room. “Get a room,” he complains.

“You are a grown man and you can’t handle a couple being affectionate?” Changbin criticizes. “Get a life, dude.”

“Yeah,” you chime in, “Just ‘cos you live a poor, single life doesn’t mean you can hate on us.”

“Jeez, I didn’t sign up for slander on this Monday morning.”

“You definitely asked for it, but let’s get to work.” Chan draws his phone from his pocket and prepares for the official meeting regarding 3Racha’s next comeback.

God’s Menu was well received from the public, sending Chan’s dating scandal into the shadows. Minho basked in the compliments on the choreography. Seungmin whined when no one on Twitter noticed he was the vocal coach—and Minho didn’t make it much better by rubbing his glory in Seungmin’s face every chance he got. And you couldn’t get Chan to stop showing you funny Tweets and praise for nearly a month. Likely longer.

Here you sit in Chan’s office at the beginning of the new year. A lot of things can go south during six months, but things can shoot north too. Generally, for you, it’s been pretty north.

This time around, Jisung has calculated his homework and broadcasts his thoughts onto the wall.

“I already know what you’re gonna choose for the title track, so let’s choose B-sides,” he adds the disclaimer before anyone can mutter a peep.

“I don’t know about you all,” Chan dips his hands into the pockets of his trousers and leans against his desk, “but I’d say I’m pretty confident in writing a love song right now.”

You groan alongside Jisung. “Stop talking.”

Here we go on the hunt for the song of the new year. Conquer the competition before anyone has a chance. Like you did in creating the song of the summer.

[sokkastyles]

Zutara Month Day 10: Oma and Shu

I’ve seen some people point out that Zutara doesn’t necessarily fit Oma and Shu because the Oma and Shu myth is more Romeo and Juliet than enemies to lovers, and those people are not necessarily wrong. Romeo and Juliet, just like Oma and Shu, were never themselves enemies. They did nothing but love each other, but were forbidden from being together because of the feud. Zutara, in most interpretations, is less a “forbidden” romance and more a transition from enemies to friends to lovers. Most people imagine them growing to love each other after becoming friends, often after Zuko’s redemption and the end of the war. Nonetheless, the Oma and Shu story does share several parallels with Zutara that many fans have picked up on. What I want to do is examine some of these parallels from a meta angle, to look at the Oma and Shu story as it appears in the series and other similar stories that appear in ATLA, and to also compare them to similar stories in the real world, and analyze a bit the popularity of these various tales of forbidden love, why they are popular, and what their purpose is, as well as how Zutara fits into all this.

In universe, the Oma and Shu story, in addition to being a love story, is also an origin myth of sorts for the Earth Kingdom. It explains the creation of the city of Omashu, as well as telling the story of some of the first humans to learn earthbending. The message of the story, in addition to being a tale about love thriving between two unlikely people, and a cautionary tale about what happens when love is prevented from flourishing, is also a message about love being an act of creation and a force of transformation.

Love is brightest in the dark.

This sentence is a paradox, but it fits with the theme of balance that the show comes back to again and again, of breaking down barriers and deconstructing dichotomies to create something new, something more whole than the original. Something mirroring the harmony of yin and yang.

The greatest illusion of this world is the illusion of separation. Things you think are separate and different are actually one and the same. We are all one people, but we live as if divided.

The above quote by Guru Pathik is also similar to Iroh’s philosophy, which he tries to teach Zuko.

It is important to draw wisdom from many different places. If you take it from only one place, it becomes rigid and stale. Understanding others, the other elements, and the other nations will help you become whole.

Iroh also says something in “The Crossroads of Destiny” that echoes the Oma and Shu story.

Iroh: Perfection and power are overrated. I think you were very wise to choose happiness and love.

Aang: What happens if we can't save anyone and beat Azula? Without the Avatar State, what if I'm not powerful enough?

Iroh: I don't know the answer. Sometimes, life is like this dark tunnel. You can't always see the light at the end of the tunnel, but if you just keep moving, [Aang earthbends the rocks away one last time. Iroh's fire blows out. He smiles.] you will come to a better place.

Iroh says that Aang is wise to choose love over power, while walking through a dark tunnel, and advises Aang to trust in the darkness to bring him to the light. Meanwhile, Zuko and Katara, two people on opposite sides of a war, share a moment of unlikely tenderness in a cave lit by glowing crystals.

Zuko in the crystal catacombs does what Iroh has been trying to teach him to do, to let go of pride and the need for power, and to instead embrace compassion and humility. Which is what he does when he apologizes to Katara. This is also part of what stories like Romeo and Juliet teach us, that pride and petty grievances are destructive, and that only by embracing love do we become whole.

I know the prompt is Oma and Shu, but thinking about that story and its place in the narrative made me think about other mythic stories that appear in the series, so let’s look at another one that has significance for zutara: Love Amongst the Dragons, Ursa’s favorite play that she took young Zuko and Azula to see every year.

The actual story of Love Amongst the Dragons, according to the ATLA wiki, is this:

The play features the Dragon Emperor, bound to mortal form by the Dark Water Spirit, and forced to adopt the alias of Noren. The humble experience results in Noren falling in love with a mortal, and through this love he is able to break free of his curse. The play concludes with Noren defeating the Dark Water Spirit and embracing his mortal girlfriend, revealed to be the Dragon Empress.

What struck me when I found this description was that this is, with some slight changes, pretty much the Chinese myth of the marriage between Dragon and Phoenix, a representation for yin and yang and harmony in marriage, and which I compared in a meta to zutara as well.

Like the Oma and Shu story, it is a story about unlikely love, and about crossing divisions. It also has a lot of similarities with various myths involving shapeshifting love-interests, often referred to as “animal bride/husband” myths (which beauty and the beast is a subset of).

The symbolism of the tale in-universe is in its connection to Ursa, and thus Zuko’s connection to his mother. Zuko’s connection to his mother is contrasted with his connection to his father, which is representative of Zuko’s destructive side. When Zuko was trying to capture the Avatar, he was searching for his father’s approval, to become someone that would earn his father’s love. Ursa, meanwhile, taught Zuko kindness and compassion, and told him that it didn’t matter that he wasn’t the most powerful or strong. That Ursa took Zuko to see this particular play is significant, a play about a godlike being, the Dragon Emperor, being humbled and learning to love.

Only with your glory hidden in false form could you recognize my devotion.

Though different, and originating in a different nation, this is another tale about love shining through the dark, about letting go of pride and choosing compassion. Animal bride/husband myths are often about seeing past what is hidden to see the truth. They are stories of transformation, and like the Oma and Shu story, are about the transformative power of love.

It’s also from this play that Zuko gets his Blue Spirit alter ego, which Zuko uses as an exploration of his own identity apart from being the Fire Nation prince. In this story the same mask is worn by the villainous Dark Water Spirit. It is very interesting that Zuko uses an identity associated with water for this purpose. Also, like the Blue Spirit, the Dark Water Spirit seems to be a bit on the morally ambiguous side. Even though the spirit is defeated at the end of the story, its motivation for transforming the Dragon Emperor seems to be to teach him humility, and this is a message the play seems to promote.

Zuko and Azula’s dialogue from the above comic pages is interesting because it expands on what we already know about both characters. Zuko complains about always having to play the villain, just as he was made a scapegoat by his father and sister, and his adapting of the Blue Spirit identity is essentially him reclaiming that identity that was forced on him while trying to figure out who he really is. Azula sees herself as the Dragon Emperor, but she misunderstands the message of the story completely, and it’s not a coincidence that she talks over the love scene in the comic above and responds angrily and pridefully to the man who tries to shush her. Similar to Ozai when he names himself the Phoenix King, ironically misinterpreting the actual myth. I also think there’s something interesting to say about gender here, as this post points out. Not only does Ozai associate himself with a female figure, but Azula associates herself with the male Dragon Emperor, while Zuko is associated with the more feminine water spirit (water being a feminine element.) However, by the end of the series, Zuko embodies the transformed Dragon Emperor, while Katara I associated before with the Phoenix/Dragon Empress, as she is associated with healing and rebirth. Also notice the red and blue color coding in the comic page above, both with the Water Spirit and Dragon Emperor and in the coloring of the two lovers.

This also brings me to another play present in the series, the play that the gaang goes to see performed by the Ember Island Players. The same players that Zuko says his mother took him to see. The play we see them put on in the series is a Fire Nation propaganda play, promoting Ozai and the war. I actually can’t imagine that Love Amongst the Dragons, a play about a Dragon Emperor learning humility, was very popular during Ozai’s reign. We hear about it being performed before Ozai became Fire Lord, but we can assume that those visits to the theatre stopped after Ursa’s disappearance. The only other time we hear about that particular play being performed is after the end of the war. This leads me to imagine that it was necessary for the Ember Island Players to find a different play to perform while Ozai was in charge. While the play is not necessarily subverting Fire Nation superiority (the villain is a water spirit, after all), it is confrontational enough that I can imagine Ozai’s brand of narcissism seeing it as a challenge to his authority. Ozai who disdained love in favor of power and control.

“The Boy in the Iceberg” contains another love story between two people from opposite sides in their depiction of Zuko and Katara in the crystal catacombs. I wrote before about how I’ve seen interpretations of this that say that the Fire Nation was trying to portray zutara as an “inferior” Water Tribe woman falling for a “superior” Fire Nation man - essentially saying that the play is in favor of zutara as a piece of Fire Nation pro-colonization propaganda - but the problem with this is that that isn’t how zutara is depicted in the play. The play mocks zutara by portraying Zuko as submissive and subservient to Aang, and Zuko is later killed, as he is currently a traitor and threat to the Fire Nation. Thus, the “romance” between Zuko and Katara is not being depicted as supporting the superior masculinity of Fire Nation men, but rather portraying Zuko, who willingly chose to dissasociate himself with the Fire Nation, as emasculated and submissive to other, “lesser” men and aggressive “foreign” women.

This is a complete mockery of the real connection that Zuko and Katara had in the catacombs, the kind of love that is inherently subversive because it requires Zuko humbling himself in front of Katara and admitting that he was wrong, and working for her forgiveness. It is the kind of love that the Fire Nation under Ozai’s rule rejects. The kind of love that is truly transformative, revelatory, and brings light to the darkness. The kind of love that creates rather than destroys, that unifies rather than divides. That is humble and not prideful. That’s the appeal of zutara.

[pastelsandpining]

Whumptober Day 1

all trussed up and still nowhere to go

“you have to let go” | barbed wire | bound

kingdom come - corrupt!zelda au | part 2 

warnings: survivor’s guilt, trauma, gory imagery/body horror (descriptions of Ganon), injury mention, burn mention, blood mention, nausea, head injury, loss of consciousness, acceptance of death, binds, manipulation

____________________

Looking out at the rolling plains, the baby blue sky, the lively green grass, and the flourishing wildlife nearly everywhere he could see, it was hard to believe that Hyrule was decimated a century ago. Where life bloomed now, death had once spread, and it was anything but beautiful when the fields were burning—when guardians and monsters alike chased down any and all living things. It was hard to take down powerful beasts and even more so when they didn’t stay down.

But just like those vile creatures who only wanted to cause chaos, Hyrule never really died either. It was the quick and clever thinking of Princess Zelda that saved them all by containing the beast of Calamity inside of the very place she once called home. She was a thing of myth some hundred years later when people recalled her beauty or her bravery. If it were not for the moons scorched with blood, or the chilling cry of a colossal demon, or the guardians still roving over the land, one could find themselves thinking that the story of Hyrule was nothing more than a cautionary fairytale. What moral could come from such devastating times? Do not run from fate, or you will end up as caged as the Hyrulean Princess? Do not put heart above duty, or you will fall just as the legendary hero? Or perhaps, do not put trust in things you cannot always control?

Really, there was no lesson to be learned. Destruction would come as it did, and there was nothing they could’ve done to stop it. At least, that’s what Link told himself on the many nights he was found unable to sleep, too haunted by the ghosts of his past and terrorized by the stalling sensation of guilt. How solemn that sounded, how pitiful. He did not want pity. What good did that do him, when he’d already lost everything? He’d fallen once, and that cost him his friends, his life, the place he called home–pity would not bring that back. Hymns of brave soldiers and lost princesses would not bring that back. Stories that turned a traumatizing cause of devastation into a life lesson would not bring that back.

The only thing he wanted, months after waking in a shrine to a beautiful voice and with a fractured soul, was peace. He wanted to toss the sword of legend aside and never look at it again. He wanted to curl up in the bed of his Hateno home and sleep for another hundred years, or at least, until the pictures of a burning kingdom and the unholy screeching of Calamity Ganon disappeared just long enough for his mind to go quiet. He wanted to try to be normal, for even just a moment. No hero, no revenge, nothing of the sort.

It was a shame that the image of what he wanted was incomplete without the princess he’d once devoted his heart and soul to. He could not remember her in the way he would’ve liked. Link was granted a glimpse of her face here, a whisper of her voice there, a ghost of her touch when the loneliness became too much. On the few occasions he remembered more, when he could see her so very clearly in a moment framed in time, it felt almost like a dream. A dream that he didn’t want to wake up from. And just like a pleasurable dream that left one feeling warm and special, Zelda slipped through his fingers like liquid, faster than he could process and unable to be stopped. In its wake was a blank space of aching emptiness, right where he knew she should be. She was all he had left, the one thing that could connect him to the world he lived in, because without her, he had no purpose. He had no guidance. He was nothing.

So Link scoured the whole of the continent, from icy tundras to scorching deserts, climbing active volcanos and harnessing what the wild gave him, to grow stronger. He tamed the Divine Beasts and freed the shackled spirits of his long lost friends. He offered his company to the princess on the nights of the blood moon, where she would warn him and assure him that he was doing well, and that she was alright. He sought out the legendary Sword that Seals the Darkness and underwent trials upon backbreaking, painstaking trials to prove himself worthy of the full power the Master Sword was capable of. 

And then, he hesitated. He hesitated because he could not recall what Calamity Ganon looked like, or was capable of. Freeing the Divine Beasts became something horribly tedious, something that stoked a new sort of trauma in him, because the Scourges were certainly not for the faint of heart. The first time the malice surged past him and combined to form a twisted amalgamation of a beast, Link thought he was going to die again, with no hope for recovery this time. Every blight was grotesque, dripping with the glowing incarnation of hatred, and over twice his size. Their sickly skin stung to touch, leaving angry red burns everywhere it could. Their weapons were brutal and chaotically, skillfully wielded, and it was by miracle alone that he’d survived this long. There was nothing quite as agonizing as being shred alive by an ancient demon, only for his fire-filled nerves and ragged skin to stubbornly patch itself back together before his very eyes. Mipha’s Grace should not have been used so kindly on him.

For as much trouble and agony the Scourges were, they were only extensions of Calamity Ganon, small pieces of the monstrosity awaiting him deep within Hyrule Castle. Just thinking about it rendered him on the brink of a panic attack. Princess Zelda had faced it utterly alone for decades, so what if he failed to do the same? What if he could not defeat the beast, and would therefore be responsible for yet another destructive wave? All of the friends he had made, all of the new life that’d bloomed, it would be devastated by his hands if he could not slay the Calamity. What of Princess Zelda, then? Surely it would kill her, too. Picturing her expressive green eyes dulled by the kiss of death made Link feel so nauseated that he could not eat for hours. 

Shamefully and pathetically, he put it off. He searched for that hundredth Korok Seed, he filled the Hyrule Compendium, he ran every single errand and helped every single person that he could, all the while wishing that the darkness of night or comfort of walls could hide him from Zelda’s ever watchful gaze. It did nothing to quiet the screaming in his skull, the longing in his chest. It was only when his guilt had him by the neck that he swallowed his nerves and stormed Hyrule Castle before the courage could leave him.

Every room was empty. Sad, decrepit, and empty. Of course, the Calamity would want the biggest stage it could find and so, to the top floor of the castle he climbed. The guardians were pesky and the monsters relentless, but nothing could have prepared him for the sight of the beast, free of its prison, towering over him like it was starving and ready to feast.

He thought he saw a glimpse of golden hair, precious and fleeting, just outside of his peripheral vision, but the Calamity lunged for his neck and Link was forced to throw himself to the side, searching for any opportunity to counter the attack. For a monstrosity of a size that rivaled the Divine Beasts, it was quick. 

A jump at the wrong time, a split second too late, caused the Calamity’s ancient axe to slice through his skin. It was nothing more than a nick, but it stung enough to make him stumble and gasp, clutching at his arm through his rapidly soaking shirt. In the pause it took for him to steady himself, Ganon had crawled up onto the second floor like some ginormous spider. It looked ready to pounce on him and, Hylia above, there was nowhere he could hide. It would crush him easily. 

But it did not crush him. He wished it had, because it aimed the rapid red dot of a guardian’s laser on his chest, sending a spiral of panic through his spine and into his stomach, where it curled and lurched and made him want to vomit. He raised his shield, but the blast sent him spiraling through the air until his back hit a solid beam, knocking the wind right out of him. The Master Sword was sprawled uselessly out of his grip and he reached blindly for it, but his supporting arm slipped out from underneath him and his head hit the ground with a sickening crack. His vision was blurred. He wondered why he could see something walking towards him, something far smaller than the Calamity. It was Hylia, perhaps, coming to resolve his hideous fate at last. He tried to summon Mipha’s Grace, tried to will the strength back into his body, to will the excruciating pain away, but then Hylia was crouched before him, and her fingers felt so lovely and comforting in his hair that he wanted to fall headlong into her touch. He wanted to let her take him away.

“That’s it,” she cooed softly, brushing the bangs from his forehead. The motion was so jarringly familiar, the voice was haunting—this was not Hylia. “My dear Hero, look what they’ve done to you.”

Link choked on his attempt to speak, trying with everything in him to move, to take her hand, to see her clearly, but her hands pushed him gently back to the Sanctum floor and he groaned, his voice strained with pain. 

“It’s alright, Link,” the figure assured him, threading her fingers through his hair again like she was trying to subdue him. “The pain will fade soon, I promise. Can you do something for me?”

Death must’ve been approaching. He tried to nod, to tell her he would do anything for her, but the heavy ache in his head made it hard to do much of anything. She must’ve gotten his answer somehow, though, because her hands were cupping his face.

“You have to let go,” she whispered, her thumbs brushing against his cheeks. “Let go, Link, and I will catch you.”

She sounded so sweet, so incredibly lovely, and she felt so warm. Link felt his body relax, going completely still beneath her hands, and he wondered, vaguely, if they had all been wrong. If she was not sealed, but dead, ever waiting for her knight to join her so that she may be the one to welcome him into the afterlife. Princess Zelda’s green eyes came into clarity for no longer than a second, but comfort washed over him and he was quite happy that, for a second time, she was the last thing he was going to see.

There was a high pitched ringing in his ears and his head was swimming. Link tried to fight the grogginess that kept his eyes from opening, but he had very little success when the light was painful and his head was pounding. He raised a hand to rub his eyes, but the rough and tattered surface of what must’ve been a rope rubbed against his wrists, leaving them stinging with a brush burn he already knew would scar. That was his first indication that this was not his only time fighting his way back to consciousness. The pain brought him a little more clarity, even with the panic welling up in his chest.

He could see the Sanctum floor below his head, but trying to turn it to get a better look at his surroundings made him wince and squeeze his eyes shut again. He took a shaky, shuddering breath and, in one quick motion, tried to force himself to sit up. All he’d managed to do was make himself dizzy. His vision swam again, leaving him vulnerable and impaired, and he could do nothing but lie there as still as possible, waiting for the feeling to leave. When it did, it took the ringing in his ears with it.

He heard soft humming instead, backed by the horrid squelching of malice and a rumbling that chilled him to his core. Link tried slowly to tilt his head and immediately wished he hadn’t, because Calamity Ganon was among the last of things he needed to see right now. The beast was sitting, if one could even call it that, on the floor just below a balcony, right across the room from him. It seemed content to just sit there, watching him through orange, evil eyes. He tugged on the restraints again, sending another spike of pain down his spine, but he was stuck. Should it pounce, he would be done for.

But it didn’t. It sat there, staring him down. He thought he could make out a smile, cruel and unsettling and awful. It unhinged its jaw then and made a noise, a screech of unimaginable volume, and Link curled in on himself with a quiet whimper.

“I was just beginning to wonder when our guest would come out of his slumber.”

His eyes opened, wide and wild, and he tilted his head up towards where he thought the voice had come. There, sitting on a throne in the deck above the Calamity, sat Princess Zelda. It was the first time he’d seen her clearly in over a century. He could not breathe then, choked by his swell of emotions and the scratchiness of his throat. 

“Then again,” she continued, tilting her head with a cruelly beautiful smile, “our little hero is prone to sleeping in. Do be gentle with him, Ganon, and try to keep your patience.”

Those words meant nothing to him, but the Calamity turned its ugly head back towards Link and growled. Zelda clicked her tongue, beckoning the beast into silence, and it struck a horror into Link so deep that he felt the ache in every joint of his body.

Calamity Ganon was obeying her.

____________________

masterlist | whumptober by day | whumptober by collection | original post

[k-comfyspace]

Moment

Star: Jeon Heejin, Kim Hyunjin (Loona)

Idea: No

A bond stronger than anything in the world meant for the two people that were destined, but what if the world gave you something unexpected, something better than what was already happening➶?

A/n: It was a random idea I had in my head, hope it’s not too much of a stretch😂

They believe that when the earth was created, there was a myth that something had its own pair: the clouds with the sky, the moon with the stars, and the trees with the flowers.

This often applied to the people who lived on this planet, two people who were destined to stay together and were connected by an unbreakable connection.

Where one day you will meet your other half and you will love each other until the end of time.

A bond stronger than existence itself because you are both linked in every way, or Soulmates.

It was a concept that appeared difficult to believe, rumors that they were supposed to be with each other and that they could feel each other's physical sensations.

Everyone dismissed it at first, saying it was impossible and false, before they found it themselves a few years later and were proven wrong. Which continued for years until it became widespread.

That everyone would find their true love, the one with whom they would spend the remaining days with.

You waited in line, clutching your book as a small smile made it to your features before taking a seat in front of the first girl, "Hi, what’s your name?" You handed her the book, watching as she flipped to the page she was supposed to be writing on,

"Y/n," you replied, watching as the younger girl raised her head to look at you, eyes scanning before she asked, "Y/n? Is that you?"

"You shouldn’t really be asking your fans such questions, Hyejoo," you replied playfully, your voice teasing as the girl showed you a bright smile, "It’s been a while. How are you?" she asked, scribbling down on the book while you hummed,

"Been super busy lately, thankfully I had some free time to come here," Hyejoo grinned at you and slid the album back to you as you moved to the next person who seemed to be as happy when she heard you talking to her member.

"Wow, it’s been such a long time, Y/n," you giggled at the younger woman’s comment as she scribbled your name without asking,

“You girls assume too much. What if it’s just a coincidence? There are a lot of people named Y/n in the world," Chaewon laughed at your comment as she handed you the album,

"There are, but there’s only one Y/n that would talk to us like that," she said before the staff asked you to move over, throwing a playful glare at her jab.

"Hi, how are you, what’s your name?" The energetic girl came next, making you giggle when she didn’t seem to hear your conversation with the woman before her,

"Y/n, I'm fine, thank you," you replied, watching Jiwoo nod and write your name. "Your name is Y/n too? We know someone named Y/n," she replied, writing her signature on the bottom and handing you the album, "Really, you should introduce me sometime,"

You said, making the girl meet your eyes when she found a little familiarity in your voice,

"Y/n-ah?" You smiled behind your mask, nodding in confirmation before hearing the girl squeal, smiling brightly as she took your hands in hers, shaking them excitedly as you tried to match her energy,

"We missed you so much!" You squeezed her hands in response. As the manager asked you to move, you smiled at Jiwoo and moved on.

As the fan sign continued, the rest of the members showed their smiles and didn’t hide their excitement when they met you.

Most of the fans just thought that it was normal since they repeatedly said in most of their lives that they missed orbits so much. When you arrived in front of Haseul, you signaled for the girl to be quiet, motioning to the two members who were playing with each other, the older girl nodding as she smiled.

You gave Haseul your eye smile, squeezing her hand as she held it before moving to the side where Hyunjin turned to smile at you, yet to recognize who you were when she asked for your album,

"Hello, what's your name?" she asked, flipping through the pages before stopping at her picture, "Y/n," you answered seeing the small smile on her face before she nodded scribbling down your name and a small smile.

Though before you moved to the last member, you pulled something beside you, lifting the paper bag and handing her the plushie inside. Hyunjin giggled when you pulled out the bread plushie.

Taking it in her hands and embracing it, you pulled down your mask a little, calling the busy cat as she squished it in her hands. Hyunjin glanced up, her eyes going wide when you showed her your smile,

"Y/n?" Your name being familiar to Heejin’s ears, caused her to turn, seeing your face before you covered it back up again.

The bright smile that overcame both of their faces was satisfying to see, "It is you! How have you been?" she asked, but before you could answer, the manager was already telling you to move, giving the cat an apologetic gaze when you saw her pout, so you told her instead, "Let’s meet up when you’re free."

Moving to Heejin, the bunny took your album and finished it quickly, wanting to talk to you as you gave her your present. Like Hyunjin, you gave Heejin the exact same plushie, adoring the look that she had when you showed it to her.

Holding out her hands, Heejin held yours in hers, smiling when she saw your eye smile, imagining your smile behind your mask before you eventually stepped off the stage, back to your seat.

You’ve been friends with the girls for about a year now, having known Heejin when she was training and being classmates with Yerim made the two of you become closer again until before you knew it, you were friends with her whole group.

You were the hidden member as they liked to call you, always hanging out in their dorm and acting like you were living with them for years.

Though you were particularly close to the first and second members, they still treated you like their long lost sister. Along with that, you were relieved to have people that didn’t always pester you about your life, constantly asking you about whether you’ve found your soulmate, or if you have plans on finding them.

You were getting sick of it, but when you met them, even if they each had their own, they never once asked, never brought it up.

Though they teased you by being so lovey-dovey, you didn't mind because you knew it was all in good fun, and they weren't trying to show you something that would make you feel pressured or sad.

In fact, they gave you an opening to tease them back, giving them a pinch on the arm, or purposely pinching their cheeks too hard, which you knew both would feel. It was like getting two birds with one stone.

"Thank you everyone, this has been Loona!"

You clapped for the girls as they each left the stage, sending their fans hearts and smiles before everyone left soon after.

--

It took Heejin and Hyunjin a couple of days to text you asking if you were free to head down to the dorm, which you didn’t deny, washing up before you left. When you arrived, you received hugs from all the girls, expressing their excitement and joy to have you back again,

"Come on, sit, we have a lot to talk about," They sat you on the couch while the rest stayed inside the living room, near the area doing their own things as they conversed with you.

"How long has it been? We haven’t seen you in a while. Has college been treating you that bad?" Haseul asked, attending to the food she was cooking as you hummed,

“It’s been a month or two, college has been getting busier and busier, sorry if I couldn't stop by as much," you answered, all of them turning to look at you with smiles,

"It’s alright, Y/n, it’s not your obligation to stay with us, school is more important," Kahei told you with a laugh bouncing out of your lips at their unintentional matching responses.

The rest of the afternoon you catch up with the girls on what’s been happening for the past month, while you will also share your experience in school with them.

When dinner time came, everyone ate together, laughing like one big family would, continuing the previous conversation that you’ve had.

You offered to wash their dishes after eating, but you knew they'd object, so you had one of them assist you instead, which Heejin did not refuse.

"So how have you been doing?" You asked Heejin, not having had a chance to ask earlier because you were talking to most of the girls in the living room, "We're alright, having a lot more fun, we could finally see orbits again," You smiled at her response, finding it touching that she would still be that cute and caring for her fans even if there were no cameras present.

Continuing to wash the dishes as you talked with Heejin, you felt arms wrap around your body pulling you a little away from the sink. Glancing back, you giggled when you met Hyunjin’s eyes, a small pout on her lips as she looked at you,

"Do you need anything?" You asked, turning back to see Heejin smiling at her partner, moving to give her a kiss on the cheek.

"Let’s go buy some bread," she whispered, making you laugh, "We just had dinner!" Hyunjin whined, shaking your torso as she argued, "It’s for later, obviously," You glanced at Heejin, raising your eyebrows at the smile she had,

"Your stock ran out?" you questioned, knowing how much the cat loved bread, there was bound to be an entire closet filled with it, "Oh, we were supposed to buy it yesterday, I forgot," you nodded your head, turning back to Hyunjin,

"We’ll go out later, rest first, then we’ll leave,"

Almost like a baby, the girl nodded, placing a kiss on Heejin’s cheek before sauntering to the living room, a content and happy smile on her face making you and Heejin laugh at her absurdity.

--

You grabbed your coat when you opened the door, announcing that the three of you were leaving, and you heard a few people answer before closing the door. Wearing your masks and leaving the apartment to get some bread, as you promised.

When you got to the convenience store a few minutes away from the dorm, Hyunjin went directly to the pastries, getting a few loaves of bread while you got a basket to get some food for the others. A few minutes later, they settled on getting one each instead,

"It’ll last us for about a week," you heard from Heejin, giggling at their antics when they discussed how they were going to budget it.

Paying for the food, you headed back to the dorm. On the way, the three of you decided to walk through the park, strolling quietly, as both of them walked on either side and hooked their arms around your arm.

Spotting a bench, you took a seat sitting quietly with the two while you observed the night sky. When you went out, it was always like this, filled with excitement and playful energy.

There were also times where you sat in silence, hanging out with your friends while you did nothing but relax with them, and as they rested their heads on your shoulder, you often wondered how you were this close to them.

That it was greater, to a certain degree, than the other members who also mean the same to you. You think it was because you’ve known Heejin longer, and you got along with Hyunjin, but it never really explained the weird sensations you would feel around them.

You closed your eyes and relished the company before you felt something different. Your whole body shivered, as you suddenly felt light headed. Heejin felt you shake, sitting up from her place and pulling both of you to your feet,

"Let’s go back, it’s getting cold," she said, both of them sensing your cold hand as they lowered their own to hold yours. A small smile spread on your face at their actions, already feeling warmer as you walked back to the dorms happily.

--

It was a week in when you started to feel strange, your body started to feel random pains. At first you thought nothing about it, thinking it might’ve been your body being tired from all the things that you were doing in school.

The day you finally paid attention to it was when you were walking down the hall with your friends, talking about your projects when you felt pain shoot up your ankle.

You let out a scream, dropping your books as you held onto the lockers. Your friends grew alarmed, moving to support you as they asked what was wrong,

"M-my ankle," you whimpered, closing your eyes as you held back the tears, feeling your friends loop your arm around their shoulders before they brought you to the clinic.

"Does it hurt here?" You gripped the bed in pain, nodding when the nurse pressed down on a particular spot. She stood up and got some ice and bandages, wrapping your ankle and placing the ice where she asked you to hold it,

"What happened?" The nurse looked at your friends who were watching from the side, "We were just talking when Y/n suddenly screamed and held onto the lockers,"

"Nothing happened while you were walking, you didn't trip or step on anything?" shook your head at the nurse who wrote it down in your letter, "Is your soulmate in any sports?" A blush seared on to your face, hearing your friends giggle before you answered, "I haven’t found mine yet,"

They hummed before finishing the letter, ripping it from the stack and handing it to you, "Then either you had an accident or it was your soulmate, hand this to your professor. Make sure to keep it on ice and make sure not to move too much. It should go away in about two to three weeks. "

You thanked the heavens that it was already after your classes, so with the help of your friends, they brought you back to your apartment, teasing you on the way about your soulmate, gushing at the thought of you being paired with one of the people in your school teams.

When you arrived home, they made sure to wait for your parents to arrive before they left, but, unfortunately for you, your family was even more annoying when you told them what could’ve caused your injury.

Having their own little party as you shuffled to your room where you sighed as you hit the sheets. Relaxing as you tried to find a comfortable position to lay down in that wouldn’t hurt your ankle too much, and as you laid down staring at the ceiling, you couldn’t help but think how you got your injury.

Could it be a sign that you finally found the person that was connected to you? The thought made your mind turn, thinking of all the possible things this could mean for the following days to come.

The next three weeks were not as bad. You didn’t experience any more problems with your ankle and nothing much happened during it.

Your friends stopped by often, handing you some notes and projects that you did while you were on bedrest, so you didn’t miss out on much. The only time you got back outside was when the girls invited you over to the dorm again for movie night, which you agreed to, of course.

You were helping some of the older members to prepare food when Heejin and Hyunjin both came out to the hallway from their room, greeting you excitedly as they hugged you and when they pulled away and went to the couch.

"What happened to them, unnie?" you wondered as you were asked by Haseul to wash the vegetables while the leader hummed absentmindedly, tasting the soup first before turning to answer you.

"Heejin accidentally missed her footing, she twisted her ankle, and since Hyunjin is her partner. You know how it goes," you furrowed your eyebrows at her explanation, looking down on your ankle as you faced the two on the couch. It could have been a coincidence, after all, they were already soulmates.

"Do you remember when it happened, unnie?" you asked again, the gears in your head once again turning as one side fought against the other.

"About two and a half to three weeks ago, why?" She turned to look at you as you gave her a smile, shaking your head and looking back at your work.

One side of your head wanted to believe that it could be possible, but the other side forced you to get it out of your head and see that none of the things that you were thinking were even remotely possible. Even if you made up different reasons and points, you would contradict yourself.

You felt something sting on your finger before you instinctively jerked your hand back, a yelp escaping your lips as you accidentally cut your fingers. Haseul went to check on you, holding your hand while everyone was busy with their own stuff. Then suddenly, hearing someone yelp, they left their rooms and checked to see who got hurt.

Heejin and Hyunjin were both watching on TV when they heard you yelp, standing up. They suddenly felt pain run up their arms. They looked at their hands and saw the cut, the red liquid running down as they froze in their places,

"Yah, Heejin, you’re bleeding!" Sooyoung called out, pulling both stunned girls to the sink where your eyes lingered over them. Watching as they were unresponsive while Sooyoung washed their hands.

Haseul pulled you to the table, cleaning your hands as she did her best to patch up your cut.

"This might hurt a little," she put some disinfectant, making you flinch at the burning sensation as the other two seemed to draw back from the sink.

Haseul put on a cover, making sure it wasn’t too tight before facing the kitchen where she just noticed her two other members being taken care of by Sooyoung. Glancing back at you, she had her eyebrows furrowed. Seeing the blank expression on your face as the two sat beside you.

Sooyoung also noticed your finger but didn’t say anything and just helped the two to cover it, though at the same time, when she applied disinfectant you flinched in your seat, grasping your finger as if you were the one who was sprayed with it.

The members watched in confusion, seeing the three of you seated with unreadable expressions while flinching from time to time.

When Sooyoung pulled away, she let you be as they gathered around you, all of them having the same thoughts before Hyejoo walked up and did the best she could to solve your problem.

She drew her hand back and swung it, punching your shoulder as the three of you groaned and whined at the punch, the members looked at you baffled, before Jiwoo was the next and pinched Heejin on the cheeks harshly, watching as you would hold your cheek in discomfort.

"Yah, we’re not play toys, what are you doing?" You whined when you saw how Jinsoul was about to flick one of you in the head. You already understood the situation, you just had trouble accepting the reality and possibility of it all, when Haseul noticed the lack of communication, she finished the rest of the food quickly and gave a look to the girls who watched the three of you in silence.

One look from the older girl and everyone understood, going back to their separate rooms to give you three the privacy you needed.

Once you saw the older’s room shut, you fiddled with your hands on your lap, paying attention to your cut that had been treated by the older girl, "I-uh, don’t know what to say," you wanted to break the awkward atmosphere, but it seemed like you made it worse, seeing as neither of the two were looking at you, still staring at the table.

"I can go away if you want me to?"

"I know you two are happy the way they are. I'm not sure what I'll do if I randomly join in. I don't want to ruin anything that you already have," you said, and you thought that if they didn't do or say anything, you would've left the dorm.

So you were glad when Heejin’s hand moved to yours, clasping your right hand in hers and intertwining your fingers together, "I don’t mind," Heejin whispered softly.

You glanced at the other girl as she stood up, moving around the table until she got to your side and held your other hand in hers, "We’ve always had this connection, right? If the world destined us like this, then I know you’re good enough for me,"

The joke made you and Heejin giggle before they leaned closer and rested their heads on your shoulder. It was like every other moment you shared. Soft and sweet, yet you enjoyed it all the while. It might’ve been the same as the other moments, but this particular one had one detail you wouldn’t forget.

They say that when the world was created, everything had a pair. But sitting there now has made you realize that not everything you believed in was true, and that just because everyone else had it doesn't mean you needed it as well, you couldn't determine it, how could you?

You were with the people to prove it.

[save-the-spiral]

Wiztober 2022 Day Eight: Existential

part of maliswap :) ill properly link stuff when its not past my bedtime and i have an 8 hr shift tomorrow so. dedicated to @woop02 ty ty ty for the feedback and likes!!

content warning for child neglect, child abuse, emotional abuse, manipulation, funerals, grief, dead parents and stuff.

(Prompt List) (buy me coffee?) (Maliswap AU Masterpost)

Your father dies and the world ends with him. You hear secondhand news of it and run back home to Wizard City, away from the life you made for yourself in Marleybone.

You return and your mother is nearly catatonic with grief. You speak to your uncle and he hides his own grief with biting words that bring you to tears, embarrassed and ashamed to have even asked, as if you had no right to know how your father died.

At some point you get the message and stop trying to involve yourself in any of it, the funeral planning, the funeral itself, the grief. You don’t speak at the funeral itself, instead just standing there with a trained stoicism so you don’t shatter into a million pieces.

Already you want to go back to your shitty flat in Marleybone, where the water pressure is awful and you scrounge to properly feed yourself but at least you are free and left well enough alone. You forgot how much the ambient magic of Ravenwood grates at your skin, makes it hard to breathe.

You sit in your empty childhood bedroom, waiting for an opportunity to go back home, when your mother finally speaks to you after weeks of nothing.

She offers, yet again, to teach you magic. You nearly dismiss her immediately.

You are not good with magic. You cannot cast spells. Your mana is nonexistent, and so casting magic draws only on your health, breaking your body down in substitute. There is a reason you chose Marleybone, where magic is less common and even frowned upon in some circles, as a home.

Your mother brings you a book, however. It is not Life or Death or even Myth like your family has tried to teach you before. A dark swirling spiral inside of a squared triangle rests in the middle, gleaming mercurial in the light of your lamp. You don’t plan on reading the book, but take it anyway because this is your mother giving it and she is already so fragile with grief and its the first time she’s spoken to you since you moved out of the house nearly five years ago now.

The book sits on your nightstand for only a few hours before you succumb to boredom and curiosity and read it.

And it makes so much sense.

Magic always hurts you, but this magic is made to hurt. It is a balanced trade in exchange for changing something so integral to the fabric of the universe, for bending the light that weaves the celestial schools, for twisting the wizard that is made of the spiritual schools, for the change of the fundamental pieces of the universe that is the elemental schools.

This would be worth it, you think. 

It is late enough for your brain to buzz and eyes to ache when you finish reading the book. You did not realize how absorbed you were, how thoroughly you immersed yourself in the new knowledge.

How easy it was to read, for being in a language you don’t know, a language that has been dead for eons.

When you ask your mother about why she gave you the book, she seems to almost smile and its enough for you to not question her vague answer.

The magic of the shadow school is something new, something you can finally handle. You can finally become the wizard your father and mother and uncle wanted you to be, powerful and able to defend yourself. Able to make changes and live as you want.

Your mother gives you advice, tells you to write down your experiences. She gives you exercises to attempt and says they’re a part of standard magical training that you never got after failing to even cast a firecat without coughing up blood as a kid.

This magic, this guidance, it gives you a purpose in the grand scheme of the Spiral. It gives you what you’ve lacked for so long. It gives you so much and you return in kind as one should, as is only polite.

You give so much of yourself away until there is so little left.

Your mother is so proud of you.