#if you have your entire sense of reality shattered what is there to do really but join a cult

[captaincrazycreative]

I love the implication that Celia survived the apocolypse, arrived in another reality, and immediately went

"well...time to FUCK"

[kpopfanfictrash]

Elemental (M) Pt. 1

Author: kpopfanfictrash

Genre: Second Chance Romance / Modern Fantasy

Pairing: Jungkook / Reader (she/her)

Synopsis: Fear has never been a foreign concept to you. Your entire life has been shaped by the knowledge that you’re different, and fear of the stigma which might follow discovery. Although fire, earth, air and water Elementals have been public for decades, the fear-mongering around your kind hasn’t changed; something you have intimate knowledge of, having experienced it firsthand. Since then, you’ve done your best to hide your water powers. This is for your own safety, as your mom likes to say.

Safety flies out the window though, when you fall in love. Jeon Jungkook isn’t just any love, either, he’s the love. The person who makes you feel as though your darkest corners deserve to be seen. Unable to control your magic around him, you find yourself faced with a horrible fact: you need to break up.

A plan which proves difficult when Jungkook simply refuses to go. And maybe, just maybe, you find the constraints placed on yourself don’t make sense anymore.

Rating: 18+

Warnings: death of a parent (past), some emotional abuse

NSFW Warnings: oral (woman and man), multiple orgasms (woman), fingering, hand job, face-riding, sex outdoors (in a secluded, private area), very slight ass-play, breast play

Word Count: 17,287 (32,487 total)

Author's Note: Unfortunately, the new Tumblr text editor doesn't allow for more than 1,000 paragraphs per post. Part I is here, and Part II will be uploaded shortly. Please, please, please reblog both if possible! In my experience, engagement tends to be worse when split into two parts. (also, if you haven't already realized based on the premise, Y/N does break up with Jungkook in the first part of this fic lol so, if that's something you don't want to read; fair warning!)

[ Cross-posted to Wattpad here ]

Magic, to you, has never been a boon.

Despite its romanticization in movies and stories, the reality of magic is messy and unpredictable. As dangerous as it can be fickle, your mom likes to say. Usually followed by a glance in your direction, swift enough for you not to notice, although you always do.

Either that, or an unconscious tilt her chin towards the photograph on the mantle. You aren’t sure she even realizes she does it, acting on instinct alone. The photo is of your dad, holding you on his shoulders with an ear-to-ear grin. He was the other Elemental in your family.

Even with only one magical parent, the Elemental gene tends to be passed on to children. Your dad’s magic was water, skilled in manipulating and calling forth the element. He was lauded for it, which was in itself unusual. More often, Elementals are run out of town by other humans. Although time has gone by since societal integration, there are still many who view your kind with suspicion.

You can’t say that you blame them – not really. Because again, the reality of magic is it can be dangerous. Based on experience, bad things tend to happen when you lose control.

Head tilted, you squint through the fog at your boyfriend’s apartment. For centuries, fog has been heralded as an ill omen and maybe there’s some degree of truth to it. Maybe the first speaker lived near a temperamental water Elemental, unable to keep their emotions from manipulating the weather.

Thoughts souring at how close to reality this feels, you shake your head once and some of the fog clears.

A pep talk, you think. That’s what you need to convince yourself to enter. Unseasonably chilly this late in the summer, your fingers curl into the ends of your sweater. Going inside would be preferrable to standing out in the cold, and yet you can’t manage a single step.

Better to stand in the cold than enter and shatter.

Again, you remind yourself you’re doing the right thing and again, this doesn’t help. If anything, it makes you clutch your sweater tighter. For once, you wish doing the right thing meant what’s right for you. Exhaling deeply, your eyes shut as a train passes and shakes the ground.

You began dating Jungkook three months ago and within a week, you knew it was different. You have a tendency to hide pieces of yourself, knowing most people won’t like what they find. Jungkook never allowed that to happen. The first time you ghosted, he showed up at your favorite coffee shop the next morning and asked what had gone wrong. Taken aback, you responded honestly and to your surprise, Jungkook listened.

He stayed. Stayed when others had run, cementing himself on a short list of people you can trust. Three months into dating, things have moved at once fast and slow. Fast because typically, you exit relationships long before feelings like these ones develop. Slow, because you haven’t given Jungkook every part of yourself.

Physical intimacy comes to mind. On several occasions, this has proved… difficult.

Eyes opening, you stare at the door. Memories of last night rise to the surface. For a long time, you’ve known this relationship has an end date. Knowing this doesn’t prepare you for the difficult conversation ahead.

The last time you saw Jungkook was after midnight. Fat raindrops chased your footsteps while you ran from his place, descending the subway at a record pace. The look on his face remains stuck in your mind and even now, you find the thought hard to revisit.

Imagining hurting Jungkook again is unfathomable. Stifling a gasp, you spin on your heel and march away. Halfway to the gate, you get a grip on yourself. Coming to a stop, you remind yourself this isn’t about you. Jungkook will hate you – there’s nothing to do about that now. Now, this is about Jungkook and ensuring he’s safe.

Slowly, you turn around and make your way forward. In the name of procrastination, you stop at a trash can to clean out your purse. Old receipts, gum wrappers and a crumpled-up napkin shake into the bin. You pause at the napkin, staring at the embossed name of the restaurant you work at. Or – more accurately – worked at.

Slamming the trash lid, you turn. You began work at Pierre’s Bistro two months ago as a temporary measure. Ideally, you paint but lately, inspiration has run dry. Waiting tables pays the bills, leaving time at the end of the day to stare at a blank canvas.

Pierre’s is an upscale French restaurant a few blocks down with semi-decent food and waiting tables would be fine if the owner – Pierre – weren’t a massive asshole. Now that you don’t work there, you can be honest about that. Pierre was the most sexist, elitist, capitalistic piece of shit you’ve ever had the displeasure of working for. While on his payroll, you tried to make the best of it but now, you have nothing to lose. Pierre was a dick.

A point he proved yet again last night, much to your mortification. You prefer working the lunch shift to dinner, and weekdays to weekends. Saturday nights are worst of all, and last night Pierre didn’t arrive until well after six. You were forced to cover the entire front section, picking up for a co-worker who called in sick.

Rushing from the bar, you nearly crashed into your boss removing his coat. Grabbing you by the elbow, Pierre steadied you, his hand lingering.

“Whoa, where’s the fire?” he joked.

You forced a smile. Experience has taught you the best thing to do in those types of situations is to smile and laugh.

“No fire. Lots of customers! Excuse me,” you said and tried to move past.

Pierre didn’t release you. If anything, his grip on you tightened until you turned your head.

“Yes?” you said, impatient.

Pierre didn’t respond, looking you slowly up and down. Eventually, he released you to take a step backwards. “Nothing,” he said carefully. “Be careful out there tonight.”

Trying not to gag on his words, you moved on. Unfortunately, it was hard to escape Pierre’s notice once caught. From that point on, each of your flaws were held under a microscope. First, it was that you didn’t fold the napkins correctly. Next, you took a wandering path from kitchen to table. Each time you entered the dining room, scornful words were covered by simpering smiles.

By the time your shift end approached, you could barely keep going. A large group had entered and, seeing the host occupied, you took it upon yourself to seat them at your last table. Fixing your apron, you hurried through the restaurant and into the kitchen.

Grabbing another table’s dishes, you thanked the cook and pushed open the door. Immediately, arms shoved you back in. Startled, you barely had time to recognize the host, Vanessa, before the doors swung shut.

“Vanessa?” you said, adjusting your grip. “What’s going on?”

Harried, she glanced over one shoulder. “Sorry,” she sighed, curly hair slipping from her messy bun. “I wanted to warn you before you went back out. Pierre is pissed.”

Your stomach sank. “Pissed… at me?”

She nodded, another dark curl escaping. “Something about saving the table up front for his friends? Bullshit, yes,” she said at your expression. “But you know how he is.”

“Yeah, I know,” you muttered. Deciding there was nothing to be done but keep moving, you hefted your plates higher. “Okay, thanks for the warning. I need to get these to table ten.”

“No problem,” she said and stepped out of your way.

You walked inside with slightly less spring in your step. Pierre lounged near the bar, surrounded by a group of people you could only assume to be friends. Although you felt his gaze on your face, you avoided him the best you could while you made your rounds. Taking the long way to the kitchen, you passed in front of the window.

Which was the moment you noticed Jungkook waiting for you on the curb. He stood beneath a streetlight, light pooling around the ends of his dark hair. When he saw you approach, his face lit up and he smiled.

Cursing beneath your breath, you smiled back. You were supposed to be done a half-hour ago, but there hadn’t been a good time yet to stop. Waving back, you mouthed, just a minute, and frantically pushed through the crowd to the back.

Merely seeing his face lifted a weight from your chest. It was easy to be around Jungkook because he liked every part of you. You never felt the urge to pretend, to curve yourself into something someone else would find pleasurable.

Well, he liked every part except one – and you were working on telling him that.

Hurrying into the staff room, you forgot your plan to avoid Pierre. You nearly jumped a mile when a hand grabbed your elbow, spinning you to face your fuming manager.

Pierre stared down his nose. “Follow me,” he snapped, releasing your arm to spin around.

He passed tables full of patrons, leading you to the bar before turning. “Y/N,” Pierre said, his voice dropping. “Are things okay tonight?”

“Yes,” you responded, deciding one-word answers were safest.

“Then why, exactly, are you fucking this up?”

Your jaw tensed. “I wasn’t aware I was doing so,” you said carefully.

“The napkins?” Pierre made a tsk-ing sound. “How many times should I say that presentation is important? Not to mention your laziness. One of your tables had to flag me down to ask for a refill. And now, you gave away the front table.” His expression darkened. “What makes you think you, a fucking waitress, can step in for a host? You sat someone at the table I personally reserved for my friends!”

You shouldn’t have responded. You should have stayed quiet and yet –

“There was no name in the book,” you muttered.

“What’s that?” Pierre waited and, when you stayed silent, shook his head. “I hadn’t had time to write their name down, but I told Vanessa, who assured me it’d happen. Of course, she wasn’t taking into consideration Y/N, the wonder waitress! Taking everyone’s jobs and making them harder.”

At your sides, your hands balled into fists. It took a greater amount of concentration than normal to keep your emotions from spilling over.

Of course, there were explanations for Pierre’s accusations. The napkins were correct before he jostled the table. You had been circulating your tables and if you were unavailable, it was because of his poor staffing. Oh, and – he didn’t make a reservation for his friends.

Slowly, you exhaled and stuffed down the responses. Deep down, with other emotions and magic. Beyond Pierre, a glass trembled but once you relaxed, the water went still.

“I apologize,” you said, not meeting his gaze. “I’ll do better next time.”

Pierre sniffed. “See that you do,” he said, brushing past. Grabbing a beer from the bar, you heard his friends burst into raucous laughter. Apparently, your humiliation was entertaining.

Heaving a small sigh, you turned – and froze where you stood.

Outside, Jungkook stared into the restaurant with murderous eyes. Too late, you realized Pierre had pulled you in front of the window. Away from anyone dining, but in full view of anyone on the sidewalk. Like your boyfriend, who witnessed the entire spectacle.

For a moment, your emotions overwhelmed, and you felt magic crack the walls you kept hidden. Embarrassment crept past your boundaries. Humiliation. Fury. Stuffing everything back, you quickly turned to rush through the tables.

Jungkook’s gaze snapped towards you, his brow furrowing. Reaching the staff room, you paced up and down. Jungkook saw you. He saw Pierre’s outburst, which meant you’d have to explain. You’d have to explain to Jungkook – the only person whose opinion you cared about – why you allowed other people to walk all over you.

He’d start to ask questions. Questions like, when was the last time you really got mad? You’d have no good response. Not because you don’t get mad, because you do. But because you don’t ever allow yourself to act on the feeling.

Faced with the prospect of brushing him off, you buried your face in both hands. Your usual excuses wore thin in your ears.

Pierre isn’t so bad. It was a one-time thing. You promise you’ll talk to Pierre tomorrow.

None of it would be true, and you didn’t want to lie to Jungkook. People never understood why you wouldn’t stand up for yourself, but the answer was complicated.

Your last date said you lacked emotions, but you don’t think that’s it. Of course, you have feelings, but those feelings are buried beneath so many layers, they can be hard to see. It’s not that you don’t feel, it’s that you cannot.

When you feel, your magic reacts, and people get hurt.

That was the last part of yourself you kept hidden. Jungkook is normal and he doesn’t know you’re an Elemental.

You know that by now, you should have said something. Obviously, but the timing was never right. Twenty-five years old, and you still aren’t sure how to broach the conversation. Few people know what you are, so you haven’t had much experience with the explanation. Your magic isn’t something you use if you can help it.

Yet another lesson you learned from your mom.

Your dad, an Elemental, died when you were five. Before, you lived near the ocean on a flat strip of sand. Your memories from before then are faint, but whenever you try, you can hear his booming laugh. Can feel the salt sting your cheeks, your mom tossing you in the air while you spun around.

Everything afterwards faded. At five years old, a hurricane swept past the barrier islands and that, you remember. You recall your mom at the door, pleading with your dad not to go as he donned his jacket. You remember him holding her hand, kissing the top of your head, and saying he’d return soon. Not many Elementals lived in your area, and even fewer had water magic.

You recall the hours passing, stretching longer and longer until dawn approached. Flashing lights followed, a woman climbing from her car to speak to your mom. You recall the sound of your mom sobbing, the policewoman’s voice floating into the house.

The storm surge was stronger than expected, but your dad managed to divert the worst. He saved the town only to be hit by a bolt of lightning. Instant death, the policewoman said, her tone implying this might be a comfort. Chest tight, your fingertips dug into the railing. Comfort meant nothing when your dad was gone. The irony struck you even back then – your dad saved others, and no one came to save him.

For weeks following, your mom was a ghost. At first, neighbors stopped by to drop off casseroles and condolences. Soon though, their sympathy stopped, and the whispers began. You were young enough not to notice, too consumed by the enormity of your own loss.

Eventually though, you noticed something was off. Suspicious eyes followed you down the sidewalk. Mothers clutched at their children, hurrying them to the side of an empty street. One day, you traipsed downstairs and overheard your mom on the phone.

She sat at the kitchen table, facing away from the staircase. You paused on the landing, listening to your aunt’s voice blast on speakerphone.

“Nonsense,” she was saying. “Your husband was a hero, and anyone saying otherwise is cracked. He saved your town!”

“I know.” Your mom blew her nose. “But now, people are wondering if he caused the storm. They’re saying maybe he… made the hurricane. It’s this new mayor,” she said, frustrated. “He hates Elementals and keeps insisting our family orchestrated this to collect money. He says –”

“Oh, no.” Your aunt sounded furious. “Don’t you repeat a single word that hateful man says.”

“He has a point, though,” your mom said, her voice low. “Did you hear about Uniontown? A fire Elemental accidentally set their barn on fire. Nearly burned the whole town. Magic is dangerous. I tried to warn him, but he wouldn’t listen, and now –”

“When was the last time your husband lost control, though? Are you saying you think he caused a hurricane?”

“God, no!” You watched your mom straighten. “But there are people saying… awful things.”

“Some people aren’t worth listening to.”

“I know.” Wearily, she exhaled. “They’re talking about Y/N, too, though. Apparently, she caused a tidal wave at the pool last weekend.”

Hearing your name said out loud, you shrank back in the shadows. You weren’t aware your mom knew about that, or that she cared. Bobby Clemmons teased Judith Bryce about her hair until finally, you snapped. Bobby was swept to the other end of the pool, much to Judith’s relief. She thanked you repeatedly.

Bobby was fine, except for some water up his nose. From the way he carried on though, you’d have thought he broke his arm.

Your mother lowered her voice, as though magic was something to be mentioned only in whispers. For the first time, a sense of shame crept over you. Your dad had always been open about magic, though stern. Stern in his belief magic should help people, not hurt. Never once did your dad insinuate magic itself was the problem.

Magic is dangerous.

Your mom’s words on the phone sank in as, your head pounding as you turned around to run up the steps. Even at six, you felt panic. If magic was dangerous and you were magical – that meant you were dangerous, too.

Slipping beneath your comforter, you stared at your shaking hands. Rain hit your windows, snowballing your worry to full-on fear. By the time your mom rushed upstairs, you were rocking under the covers as a storm raged.

She helped to calm you down, got your magic under control and a month after, you moved far away from the sea. A version of yourself vanished as you passed the pier. Despite this, you felt instant relief at the thought of control.

You remember your mom smiling when you joined the highway. “This will be good,” she said, her voice cracking slightly. “A fresh start, away from it all. You can be whoever you want to be, Y/N.”

Except for the person you actually were.

Her meaning was clear, even if she didn’t say it out loud. At the time, you found the thought soothing. If you didn’t want to use magic, you didn’t have to. You never had to become your dad, who all your friends said had caused the bad storm. Even the news had turned against you.

Earth Elemental suspected behind San Raoul earthquake!

Jailed air Elemental claims innocence against onslaught of tornadoes!

Fire Elementals flee after string of arson!

Always the exclamation point. Always the lurid fascination that blame could be pinned on a single person. New rules were implemented in the house. No magic, except in your mom’s presence. This soon became no magic at all, but you didn’t mind. Whenever you did use magic, it felt wild, chaotic – the opposite of how you wanted to feel.

Your early years were marked by the struggle to conceal your powers. Years passed without incident and then, something would happen, and you’d have to move. Your mom never begrudged you, simply packed the house to travel to the next city. Each time, you promised you’d do better but by the time you realized school wasn’t for you, you had moved no less than six times.

Art was a risk, though one you found necessary.

Creation meant tapping into emotion, but you found methods of coping. Painting was the only place you loosened the reins on your magic, and so it became an outlet of sorts. A release, preventing your emotions from spilling into unwanted places.

There were other strategies, as well. Deep breathing. Counting backwards from one hundred. Focusing on one point, then on another until the magic calmed in your veins. Until you forgot the dangerous and destructive water around you.

Some people proved more reactionary to you than others. With some people, your magic responded so strongly, you were forced to cut them out completely. The first person this happened with was your best friend, Katrina. You were fourteen when she confided in you her family was fire Elementals. In response, your magic surged.

For a glorious summer, you practiced magic in secret. Each morning, you and Katrina bounded through the woods towards the far creek. You summoned great waves of water for Katrina to singe into mist. Everything was fine until late one evening, your mom caught you. She witnessed the combined magic and lost her temper.

Dragging you from the woods, your mom slammed the front door in Katrina’s face. She sat you down at the kitchen table, delivering a scolding you’ve never forgotten.

Do you know how reckless you were? What if a tree had caught fire? What if you altered the town’s water supply? What if someone saw and the next time a disaster happened, they blamed it on you – or Katrina?

Stricken by these very real possibilities, you promised not to do it again. Although you begged not to move, your mom packed the next day – your fastest exit ever.

The second time you cut someone out was after high school. Elliot was an artist, a quiet guy who dabbled with oils. He saw you painting one day in the park and silently set up his easel beside yours. This happened for weeks until he asked you out. Your ensuing romance was brief and sweet, and your feelings grew within a short period of time.

When Elliot told you he loved you, you dissolved into panic. You could feel how your magic responded, reaching for water that surged through his tiny apartment. Tossing on clothes, you stammered apologies and fled into the night.

For weeks following, it rained. Enough for the reporters to forecast local flooding. The fact terrified you – imagining people trapped on top of cars, small businesses flooded, the Red Cross called in to ferry locals to safety. It took your mom flying out to put you at ease, clearing the skies and regaining control.

Since then, you haven’t let anyone else past your inner walls. Until Jungkook.

Swallowing hard, you stare at his apartment and wonder if you’ll survive. Breaking up with Elliot is one of your worst memories and you only felt a fraction of what you do for Jungkook. Maybe you’ll conjure a hurricane, bringing the events of your life full circle.

Shutting your eyes, you rub at them dully. There’s no point in wondering what-if. You need to end it now, before things get worse. All day, you’ve gone over the facts and arrived at the same conclusion.

As expected, Jungkook was livid about Pierre last night. He wanted to confront your boss himself, although quickly backed off when he realized this was your battle. This though, turned to confusion when you said your intent to do nothing.

Although you tried the usual excuses, none of them stuck. Even if it was just once, Jungkook argued, it shouldn’t go unnoticed. You snapped slightly at this, insisting you’d deal with things in your own time.

Getting angry near Jungkook was peculiar. Suddenly, you became aware of the water around you. Thick, leaden pipes lacing Jungkook’s walls. Moisture that hung in the air, in the clouds – within his very veins. The thought terrified you, wondering what you might do accidentally.

Your panic must have been visible, because Jungkook instantly softened. Crossing the room, he pulled you into his arms.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured into your hair. “It’s just… I hate seeing you hurt. Of course, you know what’s best. I’m sorry I doubted you.”

His grip grounded you, enough that your magic dissipated, and that you realized a truth you’d hidden for some time.

You were in love with Jungkook.

No one in your life had ever been like him. Someone who was always in your corner, who protected you when they could and lifted up parts they couldn’t. Someone who liked everything about you – even the parts you weren’t brave enough to admit.

Studying his face, you tried to ignore the sudden ache in your chest. Even last night, you knew the inevitable. Memorizing his face, you tried hard to hold on. Jungkook’s slightly rounded nose, his full bottom lip accentuated by two piercings. Dark hair fell over his forehead; strong features contrasted by a soft gaze.

Jungkook watched you as well, and you wondered if he felt the same. Wondered why he’d commit you to memory, since you were the lucky one. He was the miracle, and you were biding your time.

Bending, he lightly brushed your mouth against his. Instantly, you melted. It wasn’t your first kiss and prayed it wouldn’t be the last, but something about last night felt different. Walking the two of you backwards, Jungkook pressed you against the wall and kissed you harder. His touch became desperate, one hand sliding beneath the lines of your blouse.

Your breath hitched at the brush of his fingers, delicious and warm against skin. His touch unknotted a hidden, tangled piece of your soul.

Ever since you met Jungkook, you’d held yourself separate. When you asked him to go slow in the beginning, he agreed. Touching was fine. Kissing was fine. Anything more, and you lost control.

About a month into dating, you met Jungkook at a bar and got tipsy. Three drinks in, you were frantically making out in an alley outside. Jungkook panted, “my place?” against your mouth, and you nodded. The journey back to his place was fast and slow, pausing in every dark place to drag his mouth to yours.

The second his door shut, you found yourself stumbling – into his bedroom, his bed, the confines of his heart. Shoes were discarded with every step, and Jungkook couldn’t seem to keep his hands to himself. You returned his fervor in spades, nipping his lower lip to watch him smile.

When he fell back on the bed, you saw his pulse quicken. Staring up at you, Jungkook watched your clothing disappear with a gaze so dark, it bordered on onyx. Climbing onto him, you resumed kissing with a newfound reverence. Eyes falling shut, you did your best to stay present.

Each brush of his lips was combustive, each touch of his hands filling you with sharp, pulsing light. And then –

The sink and shower in his bathroom burst on.

Startled, you pulled away and realized it had been you. Your magic had caused it, flooding his bathroom with water. Swearing under his breath, Jungkook scrambled out of bed to hastily turn off both faucets.

You sat there on his bed, heart pounding with fear. By the time he returned, you were already dressed and mortified. Jungkook was all apologies, certain he’d moved too fast, but you assured him he hadn’t. Anything that happened, you were an equal participant – too much maybe, although you didn’t say so out loud.

Lying in bed that night, you stared up at your ceiling. For a moment, it felt as though you were six and under the covers at your old house. Magic was dangerous. You would eventually hurt someone. Dread pooled in your stomach, recognizing the truth. If you couldn’t control your magic around Jungkook, you’d have to end things.

Heartache chased the thought, filling you with so much panic, you nearly drowned. Pushing this aside, you simply resolved to do better. To be better and keep both Jungkook and magic. This was simply another challenge; you owned your magic, not the other way around.

Thus, began the two best and worst months of your life. The best, since you’ve been dating Jungkook and the worst, because at every moment, you’re terrified of hurting him. Walking a line as thin as a razor, you’ve fallen in love while trying your best not to feel.

Until last night, you thought you’d been successful. Life was mostly under control, but then the Pierre debacle took place. Then Jungkook kissed you with such intensity, you forgot who you were and why you’d been holding back. Two long months of restraint and suddenly, you came undone at the seams.

Before long, you were again in his bedroom. Jungkook stripped off his clothes, bare skin pressing to yours with a searing intensity. Pulling you over him, a low hiss escaped while he kissed your throat. Even through his boxers, you could feel how hard Jungkook was. How badly he wanted this; a need you returned.

The thought of him inside you made you frantic. Pushing Jungkook onto his back, you straddled his waist and rocked forward.

Jungkook lay underneath you, his hair a dark halo. Suddenly, you could feel water everywhere. Magic, everywhere – it was in you, around you, in Jungkook’s walls and molecules. Everything felt so utterly fragile, and your magic responded.

Ferocious, it strained at your self-crafted bonds. Realizing how precarious your grasp on control was, your emotions slipped into panic.

You had to leave. Now.

Sensing the change in your body, Jungkook paused.

“I – I’m sorry,” you blurted, scrambling off him. Bending for your pants, you pushed one leg through and hastily zipped. “I need to go.”

Jungkook stared, frozen in place. “I…” Shaking his head, he pushed a hand through his hair. “What’s going on? Did I do something wrong?”

Stomach dropping, you roughly shook your head. Part of you ached to correct him but your magic was barely leashed, and you weren’t certain how much longer it’d hold.

Your magic wasn’t something you wanted Jungkook to see.

Frantically throwing on your shirt, you rushed towards his front door. His dog, Bam, whined from the couch and lifted his head as you passed. Yanking open his door, you escaped to the hall and downstairs. You heard Jungkook call after, but he didn’t follow, for which you were grateful.

Remembering his face broke your heart as you entered the subway. You kept your magic at bay until reaching your building, at which point rain swept the city in waves. Soaked through, you got in the elevator and saw Jungkook had texted. Shaking, you responded you’d talk to him tomorrow and turned off your phone.

Rain poured all night and you barely slept. By the time you woke, your mood had gotten worse. Work was torture. Even the lunch shift couldn’t save you, the looming specter of Jungkook impossible to forget. When Pierre showed up around one, you knew you were doomed. His glower could be felt all the way across the restaurant and no matter what you did, you somehow stayed in his way.

With little to no sleep and haunted by last night, the grip on your magic was tentative at best. Your entire shift, it hovered at the edge of your fingers. When Pierre commented you looked tired, the rain outside worsened. When a table of middle-aged men called you ‘girlie,’ their water glasses shook.

It was miraculous nothing happened until the end of your shift. That was the moment Pierre’s friends arrived, seating themselves at the table you gave away last night. One of them laughed as you poured them water, and you managed to push down your snide remark.

Glasses full, you turned around to go and the same one grabbed your waist.

You went still.

For so long, you’ve hidden your magic to protect others. You’ve kept them from hurting and there you were, broken, and no one cared about you. Just like no one cared about your dad, in the end. Teeth gritted, you whirled – and the entire water pitcher dumped itself at him.

At him, not on him.

You didn’t trip. Didn’t throw the water, although either would have been preferrable. Instead, the water leapt from the pitcher to slap the man in the face.

Horrified, you stared as reality sunk in. You had just assaulted a guest – a friend of Pierre’s, at that.

Shocked, the man wiped water down his visage. The entire restaurant fell silent, every eye in the room locked on you. Panic-stricken, you stammered an apology, flung a napkin on the table and fled into the kitchen.

The moment you crashed through the doors, you were hailed a hero. Izumi, your line cook, wistfully recalled the one time she punched a guy who grabbed her ass. Georgina added that once, she spit in the drink of a man who called her a bitch.

Both tactfully avoided the fact that you were an Elemental, which you appreciated. You were starting to feel marginally better – maybe you wouldn’tbe fired, after all – when the door to the kitchen swung open and Pierre stormed through. Seeing his face, your heart sank.

“You!” Spittle flew from his lips as he pointed. “Y/N – pack your things! You’re done here. Fired. You think you can insult my friend, pull some magic bullshit on him, and continue to work here? Fuck that. Get out – now!”

A pin could have been heard in the silence. Coming to your senses, you did exactly as asked and got your things. Pierre hadn’t mentioned pressing charges, and you didn’t want to stick around long enough to find out.

Outside, you stood on the sidewalk and stared at the bus stop. Storm clouds brewed above, a visualization of your inner turmoil. Eventually, you turned and trudged down the subway.

Things had reached a point you couldn’t ignore anymore. You were beyond out of control. Emotions surged and strained against your internal walls, threatening everyone you held dear. The city didn’t deserve to be punished, even if no one within it knew of your sacrifice. Pierre’s friends were awful, but you could’ve just as easily lost your temper with someone you loved.

Someone like Jungkook, whom you couldn’t seem to be around without incident.

That was the reason most people feared Elementals. It was selfish of you to put your desires ahead of another person’s safety. The only way to protect someone you loved was to stay away.

Starting with Jungkook. You just wished he didn’t have to get hurt in order for that to happen.

Standing outside his building, you take a deep breath and press the buzzer. You wait for several long moments, wondering if he’s home and then –

“Hello?” Jungkook’s voice crackles over the speaker.

Leaning in, you press 316. “Hey. It’s me. Y/N.”

A weighted pause, and then –

“Come in.”

The door unlocks, and you push it inside. Climbing the steps to his place, your heart starts to pound. The last time you saw Jungkook, you were running away. The last text he sent was, ‘ok,’ in response to your message. If you were Jungkook, you wouldn’t be thrilled to see you.

Coming to a stop outside 316, you lift your hand and knock. A howl responds, followed by the patter of gigantic dog footsteps. Unable to stop your smile, you shake your head at the chaos.

“It’s just me, Bam!” you say, and he stops.

Bam’s howl is replaced with a whine and the sharp thwack-thwack of his tail on the door.

“Bam, out of the way,” Jungkook calls, his voice coming closer. A few seconds later, the door flies open to reveal your boyfriend.

You only catch a glimpse before Bam barrels out, nearly knocking you over. Legs and tail akimbo, he slobbers all over until you bend to pet him. Once satisfied, Bam turns around and trots back inside.

Silence falls between you, and you look up to see Jungkook. He’s dressed casually, sweatpants and a t-shirt bought at a concert you attended. He hasn’t moved aside, blocking you from entering.

Uncertain, you straighten. “Can I come in?”

Slowly, he nods and moves. You walk past him, trying not to focus on the heat of his shoulder. This might be the last time you see Jungkook, so you try to focus on that. Not the prospect of what you’re about to do.

Hearing the door shut, you take a deep breath and turn to face him. “I can’t stay too long,” you admit, digging your nails into the palms of your hands.

Jungkook regards you warily. His expression makes your chest ache, unused to him with such a stern expression. After last night, you suppose it’s earned. You should probably get used to it.

“Y/N.” His jaw works. “What’s going on?”

Deciding honesty is the best policy – up to a point – you force out your next words. “I think we should break up,” you say in a rush.

With a low whine, Bam slinks in the direction of the bedroom. Jungkook glances at him, distracted, before facing forward.

“What do you mean?” His head tilts. “Like, you want to take a break?”

Steeling yourself, you shake your head. “No. As in, I want to break up. Permanently.”

A train passes by the building, rumbling the floorboards underneath. Most people would avoid living in this building for that reason, but Jungkook was overjoyed by the prospect of discounted rent.

He doesn’t seem overjoyed now, though. Instead, he looks stricken.

“Walk me through this,” Jungkook says, walking closer. The set of his mouth has turned stubborn. “I don’t follow. Why are we breaking up again?”

The knot in your chest tightens. You should have known Jungkook wouldn’t make this easy on you. “We’re not good together,” you say, only to correct yourself. “I mean, I’m not good for you. I’m not in a place where I can be in a relationship.”

He comes to a stop. “I can wait, Y/N. I don’t mind.”

Reaching for you, Jungkook’s brows crease when you take a step backwards. His hand falls between you, and he stares at the empty space. The crack in your heart widens, made worse by his silence.

“I mind, though,” you force yourself to say. “I can’t ask you to wait for me, Jungkook. That’s not fair to either of us. It’s too much pressure.”

The words make your heart splinter, reaching a point you aren’t sure can be reassembled. Maybe the pieces will simply lodge in your muscle, bruising your insides each time you draw breath.

“I won’t pressure you,” Jungkook says, automatic. His frown deepens. “Tell me what this is really about, Y/N. Is this about sex? It’s fine if we don’t have it.” Stepping closer, he takes your hand and you let him. “I just want you to be honest with me.”

Somewhat manic, you shake your head – and then nod.

Sex is a part of the problem, but it’s not the root cause. Sex with Jungkook is unthinkable. You can barely remain in control when you kiss, let alone allow more. With your past partners, this wasn’t an issue, but your past partners weren’t Jungkook.

Never have you met someone able to scramble your thoughts with a kiss. Whose gaze melted inhibitions and tore down every wall. You have little doubt that with Jungkook, you’d lose full control, and the thought is terrifying. Already, your makeshift barriers are weakened.

Rain splatters against the window, and your stomach lurches.

“Seriously, Y/N,” Jungkook says, returning your attention to him. “What’s this about? I can tell something’s on your mind.”

He takes your other hand, and you realize how close he stands. “Is it work?” Jungkook asks, a crease between brows. “Is there… some reason you can’t quit? You can tell me, Y/N.”

An odd zing of disappointment goes through you. For a moment, you thought Jungkook had guessed your secret, and this could all be avoided. If Jungkook knew what you were and that you lied to him – well, he’d end things for you. Hesitant, you consider revealing that truth but can’t seem to form words. It would devastate you, seeing fear replace love in his eyes.

“Work isn’t the problem,” you say at last. “It’s us, Jungkook. Or – it’s me. I don’t want to be together anymore.”

Disbelief flashes across his expression, and you idly wonder what will happen if Jungkook refuses. Even as you think this though, his expression shifts. Jungkook takes a careful step backwards, dropping your hands entirely.

He’s never been good at hiding emotion. Jungkook is your opposite in that way, revealing every shift of thought and desire. You watch confusion become anger, then bitterness a moment before he turns away. The set of his shoulders is still, staring out the window as yet another train passes.

Restless, he turns to drag a hand through his hair. “I don’t believe you,” he declares. “This is so out of nowhere, Y/N. What aren’t you telling me?”

“I’m telling you everything,” you say, panic rising. “And this isn’t out of nowhere! I’ve been telling you for months I need to take things slow and this – well, this is the opposite of slow, Jungkook!”

Jungkook stares back at you, heated. “Yeah, I guess so.”

The two of you stand there for a moment, the tension thick in between you. Eventually, you look away first and pull your bag tighter.

“Right,” you exhale. “Well, I should go –”

Striding forward, Jungkook reaches you to cup your face with both palms. Gently, he lifts your face towards him, and all thoughts cease completely. Gaze searching, his breath fans across your parted lips.

Jungkook’s gaze intensifies. “I don’t believe you,” he murmurs.

Adrenaline zips under your skin, stirring your magic into a deadly storm. Entire body tense, you suppress the urge to fight or flee. So often, you’re the one running but right now, you feel more compelled to fight.

A knife in you twists, knowing you’re a coward. If you were stronger, you could keep Jungkook. No matter how understanding he is, the fact remains that if he stays with you, Jungkook remains in danger. Each passing day only worsens the pain.

His face blurs. With a start of surprise, you realize there are tears on your cheeks. The furrow between Jungkook’s brows deepens, noticing as well.

“You’re not listening,” you blurt. “I can’t see you any longer, Jungkook. It’s in your best interest, I promise – I can’t do this. It’s too much.”

Reaching up, you remove his hands from your face and head for the door.

Jungkook follows close behind. “Which is it, then?” he demands. “You want me to go slowly, or you feel too much?”

Pressure weighs every inch of your skin, demanding you answer. Anything that comes out now will only make things harder. Reaching the door, you feel Jungkook’s hand on your shoulder. Caving, you don’t fight when Jungkook turns you to face him.

He’s too close to you. Too much and too close, his one hand sliding to cup the back of your neck. Slowly, his thumb strokes the elongated line of your throat. You swallow, hard, and his gaze follows the motion.

Jungkook’s gaze flicks to yours. “You keep saying you’re no good for me,” he says, his voice low. “But what if I don’t care? Don’t I get a say in this decision?”

The force of holding in your magic worsens, becoming near impossible. Hastily built walls threaten to collapse, and reality blurs between one moment and the next.

“I’m sorry,” you blurt, your hand searching behind you. “I have to go.”

Finding the doorknob, you twist and stumble backwards. Jungkook watches you go, the look on his face physically painful as you turn around. Each second that follows is pure concentration, trying not to break before getting outside.

The ocean is only a few blocks from Jungkook’s apartment.

Reaching the harbor, rain pelts your face in a way that feels punishing. Magic makes your limbs tremble, escaping your body in wisps of fog and rain. The moment you arrive at the harbor, you shatter, collapsing forward to grip your knees with both hands.

Eyes pressed tightly shut, you hear the storm howl. Waves churn the harbor, sloshing over the sidewalk in an attempt to get closer. No tidal waves, you plead in an attempt at reason. No whirlpools, no water spouts.

Your magic listens in this regard, at least. By the time your eyes open, a curtain of rain mingles with tears on your cheeks. Staring out at the ocean, each inch of your body is numb.

Jungkook will never forgive you for this.

The thought banishes all the rest. You can’t say that you blame him. Slowly, you exhale as you lift your gaze. The chasm in your chest widens, becoming something unbreachable. This is all your fault. You wish there was some satisfaction in knowing this, but there isn’t.

Eventually, the rain dulls, and you push yourself upright. Your sneakers squish with every step, the silence all-encompassing as you ride on the subway. Entering the building, you remove your shoes and collapse on your bed, fully clothed. Thankfully, your roommate isn’t home, so you aren’t forced to explain the events of tonight. Seokjin would have wanted to discuss, and you aren’t sure you can without breaking down.

Burrowing your face into the pillows, you manage to cry yourself asleep. Rain doesn’t let up the entire night.

“Tell me again.” Taking a seat at the table, Seokjin spoons yogurt and berries into his mouth. “Why did you have to end things with your boyfriend?”

Cracking open one eye, you glare from where you sit, slumped forward. “You know why, Seokjin,” you grumble. “Not all of us can be air Elementals in perfect control of their magic.”

“You could be, though,” he says, pointing with his spoon. “If you put in like, five seconds of training and embraced your water powers instead of running away whenever things got bad.”

“I am not running.”

“No.” Seokjin lifts a brow. “You’re cowering, which is far less attractive.”

“I’m not cowering, either.” Scowling, you bury your head deeper into your arms. “I’m wallowing. Big difference.”

Scoffing, his spoon scrapes the bottom of the bowl. Pushing his chair back to stand, Seokjin heads for the sink and turns on the tap. The water itches a spot deep in your chest, almost taunting.

“I can’t be too hard on you, though,” Seokjin says as he cleans. “You did get fired and dumped in one day – that’s pretty rough.”

“Does it count as being dumped if I did the dumping?”

“I’ll allow it.” He opens the dishwasher. “But only because really, you didn’t want to break up with Jungkook. You’ve just convinced yourself the world is better off without you – something I highly disagree with, by the way, but can’t fault you for feeling. It’s too sad.”

“Thanks,” you mumble, and close your eyes.

Two days have gone by since your decision to end your relationship with Jungkook. It hasn’t been great, to put things mildly. On Monday, you barely left your room and rain poured from the sky. When you did enter the kitchen, the weather person on Channel 9 predicted local flooding.

Seokjin arrived from his business trip that night, took one look at your face and helped stop the storm. You sagged with relief, falling into a fitful round of sleep that only lasted three hours.

Seokjin is one of the few Elementals you know who embraces their power. Both his parents are air Elementals, and he was raised to take over their magical consulting business. Said business does well, leading Seokjin to own a gorgeous, three-bedroom apartment in the middle of the city. He got bored last winter, decided to post for a roommate and here you are. One of the few people in the city willing to room with an Elemental.

You don’t care what Seokjin does with his magic, although his laissez-faire attitude can occasionally be unnerving. You’ve lived your entire life with the assumption your existence is dangerous. All you need is a quick Google search to reinforce this fact. But then there’s Seokjin, living his life, seemingly none the worse for the wear.

He discovered your powers about a month into rooming together. Coming back from a trip, Seokjin opened the door to stare, slack-jawed, as plates washed themselves in the sink. Glancing up from your book at the table, you immediately sent two dishes crashing onto the floor.

Seokjin stared at this for a moment, then looked up. “You owe me new plates,” he declared and walked into his bedroom. After a moment, he popped his head out. “Hey – you think if we combined my wind and your water, we could create a waterspout but on land?”

“That’s… a tornado, Seokjin.”

“Right.” He slapped the doorframe once and disappeared. “Well, something to think about!”

Months later, Seokjin still doesn’t understand your avoidance of magic, but respects the decision enough to leave it alone. At least, until something like this happens and he’s again at a loss.

“Listen.”

Turning around, he shuts the dishwasher with his hip.

“Oh, no.” You grimace. “What now?”

Seokjin raises both hands. “Nothing, nothing. Far be it from me to comment on your mistakes. I’m sorry – did I say mistakes? I meant, ‘learned life experience.’ Through mistakes.”

“Was there a question in all that?”

“No question.” Loosely, he gestures. “Just wanted to say you can stay here, rent-free, until you figure this out. You know I’m only taking your money because you insist. I don’t need it. This place is already paid for.”

“Only because you frightened the seller so badly, they cut the price in half.”

“Listen.” Seokjin’s smile turns slightly sinister. “If they were willing to let their ingrained fear of Elementals influence their selling point, that’s on them. Not me.”

“Fair enough,” you sigh and sit back. “But seriously – thank you. This will give me some time to come up with a plan.”

Seokjin nods, tracing the rim of his coffee. Absently, he glances down the hall at the empty third bedroom. “You know…”

“No,” you say, automatic.

His right brow lifts. “You don’t even know what I was going to say.”

“You were going to suggest I use this time off to work on my art.”

“Okay.” Seokjin shrugs. “Maybe you did know. But seriously, Y/N – why not?”

Weary, you exhale. “Because every time I try to paint, I get this… block. I can’t explain it. Watercolors used to be the one place I felt comfortable using my magic. Now… I don’t know. I can’t seem to use my magic anywhere. Even my art.”

Seokjin tilts his head, thoughtful. “How long has this been going on?”

“Don’t know – a few months?”

“Not long after you started dating Jungkook.”

Staring at Seokjin, you realize he’s right. That’s exactly around when you began dating Jungkook. The block happened not long after. Thinking about the early days of dating are painful though, and so you choose not to.

“I don’t want to talk about him,” you declare with a shake of your head. “Right now, what I need is a job. And to earn money. Preferably in that order.”

Seokjin’s lips twitch. “Let me know if the order changes. I know a guy.”

Before you can consider his offer too seriously, your phone rings on the table. Glancing down, your heart constricts at your mom’s name. It isn’t that you don’t want to talk. It’s that if you do, Jungkook’s name will come up, and you’ll be forced to explain why you two aren’t together. Right now, you’re managing to cope by avoiding the topic. You aren’t sure what will happen if you’re forced to confront it.

Not to mention the very real possibility your mom will be happy. She liked Jungkook, but she always worries whenever someone new enters your life.

Also glancing at your phone, Seokjin scowls. “Don’t answer it,” he says, walking past. “Whenever you talk to your mom, things get even worse.”

Seokjin’s not wrong. Your mom means well – really, she does – but talking to her tends to leave you exhausted. Still, you know from experience it’s better to answer now.

“I know,” you sigh and stand up. “But if I don’t pick up now, she’ll just keep calling. Hey,” you say, pressing answer. “One second, mom.”

Ignoring Seokjin’s sad shake of his head, you scoop up your coffee and head for your bedroom.

Closing the door to your room, you lean backwards. “Hi, mom,” you say, lifting your phone to your ear. “Sorry about that. I was eating breakfast. How are you?”

“Oh, you know,” your mom says, and you can practically hear her smile. “Same old, same old. The better question is, how are you? I saw on the weather there’s some flooding by you. Hope you’re alright!”

Grimacing, you move the phone to speaker. You should have known your mom would check in. Reading between the lines of her question, you can hear what she’s really asking. Your mom wants to know if you caused the flooding – an answer which is undeniably yes, but she doesn’t have to know that.

Setting down your half-empty mug, you flop face-first on your bed. Less information tends to be more with your mom. You’re debating what to say when she solves the problem for you.

“I know you haven’t had a slip in years,” she continues. “But if there’s another water Elemental in town, you should try to steer clear of them! Being around them could set you off – that’s what happened to Becky’s nephew, she said.”

Fighting an eye roll, you roll on your back. Becky Mayweather is your mom’s best friend in the entire world and one of your least favorite people. She’s the type to bake cookies, offer a shoulder to cry on – and then promptly turn and gossip to the neighbors about it. She fancies herself an Elemental expert because a few of her friends married them. Funnily enough, neither you nor your mom have met these friends in person.

“Oh?” you ask. “I never noticed.”

“It’s true! You know that I worry, Y/N. All alone in the city with another Elemental for a roommate…”

Annoyance spikes in your stomach. “His name is Seokjin, and I’m an Elemental too, mom. His mom could say the same thing about me.”

Seokjin’s mom could be saying that, but she wouldn’t because Seokjin’s mom and dad are both magic enthusiasts. The few times you met them, they were nothing but kind.

“Oh, Y/N.” Your mom sighs. “It’s not the same.”

“Why not?”

“Watch your tone,” she says. “I’m only telling the truth. You work hard on controlling your magic. Your roommate, on the other hand, uses his magic willy-nilly. In broad daylight! You two couldn’t be more different.”

Your mom isn’t wrong about that, although not for the reason she thinks. Seokjin does use his magic freely, but you’re the one at risk of hurting others – not him.

“Seokjin is a good guy,” you say tightly. “He’s letting me stay here, rent-free, while I search for another job.”

“Another job?” Her voice pitches. “What happened to the job at that restaurant?”

Cursing yourself for your own stupidity, you close your eyes. “Um… I was let go. Difference of opinions with management.”

“Oh. Well. That’s too bad, Y/N, I’m sorry. It’s probably for the best – you don’t want to be working for someone you don’t respect, right?”

Some of your anger lessens at her genuine sympathy. It’d be easy to paint your mom as the villain but truthfully, she comes from a good place. You know that she loves you; she just doesn’t want to lose you the same way she lost your dad.

Exhaling deeply, you reach to grab a pillow. “I’ve been trying to paint,” you say. “It hasn’t been going well.”

“No?”

You frown at the obvious joy in her voice.

“Yeah,” you admit.

“Well…” Your mom draws the word out. “We always knew art was a risky hobby, Y/N. Painting. With watercolors. Something could easily go wrong and put you in danger.”

“I know, mom.”

“Actually,” she adds, her excitement growing. “Maybe this is a sign. Y/N – what if this means your powers are weakening?”

Your entire body goes still. “What?”

“Yes!” she says, oblivious to the panic in your voice. “You always loved watercolors because they made sense to you, right? Because of your… well, magic. What if a block means your powers are growing weaker? I wonder if other Elementals ever lose touch with their magic. I’ll have to ask Becky.”

Irrational anger surges within, and you hear the faucet in your bathroom turn on. Hastily, you work to turn it back off.

“You don’t need to do that,” you blurt. “I’ll research it myself. Actually, I should get going – I wanted to apply for some jobs this morning.”

“Oh, yes – good call, honey. You go and apply. Let me know if you need help. Becky has connections with the local university. I’m sure someone could help you update your resume – or even apply, if that sounds interesting to you.”

“Thanks,” you say, although it absolutely does not. “That’s a nice offer.”

“Have a good day, honey – I love you!”

“Love you, too,” you say before hanging up.

Dropping the phone onto your bed, you hug your pillow tightly. It takes several long minutes to relax, wading your way through an anxious sea of thought. Although your mom means well, conversations with her tend to leave you feeling drained. Since you were young, it’s felt like your mom has an idea of the perfect child, and they aren’t you.

Eventually, you stand to bring your mug to the kitchen. Seokjin is busy making another pot of coffee, the delicious scent wafting overhead.

Passing him by, you eye this warily. “Isn’t that your third pot this morning?”

“And?” Seokjin reaches for his mug. “You’ve had three cups yourself.”

“Touché,” you sigh, collapsing on the couch.

Minutes later, Seokjin enters the living room and hands you a mug.

Staring into the drink, you say, “Thanks.”

Settling onto the sofa, Seokjin examines you over the rim of his coffee. You ignore him, taking a long sip of your drink. A summer breeze wafts through the window, and with a flick of his wrist, Seokjin sends it back out.

A stab of envy goes through you, although you know it’s irrational. Seokjin always makes magic look easy, but you’ve never found it to be so. Maybe when you were younger, before the crippling fear and anxiety had a chance to set in. The only time magic ever felt normal was when you painted and now, you can’t even do that.

Thinking about painting makes you think about Jungkook though, causing the dull thud in your chest to become a sledgehammer. You miss him. Miss the easy way Jungkook made you laugh. How he insisted on constantly touching some part of your body.

Cupping your mug of coffee, you take another sip and sink into the sadness.

“Far be it from me to dole out advice.” Seokjin interrupts your tiny pity party. “But I think you’re going about this the wrong way.”

Too exhausted to argue, you merely exhale. “What’s the right way, then?”

His head tilts. “I don’t know. But I find it weird your block appeared around the same time you started dating Jungkook. You’ve…” Seokjin hesitates, and you recognize his how-do-I-put-this-delicately face. “You’ve given up a lot over the years, Y/N. Maybe this time, you gave up more of yourself than you realized.”

Silently, you wonder whether he’s right. For too long, you’ve gone through the motions of life without really living. Too scared of letting people in, scaring them off, of being yourself. Perhaps giving up Jungkook will be the final straw. The thought doesn’t comfort you, and you have no response.

After a moment, Seokjin turns on the TV. The morning slips by, though you can’t help but think about his earlier comments – could you control your magic if you tried harder? The moment you think this, you instantly banish the thought. You’ve been attempting for months, and nothing has worked.

With this cheery thought, you allow yourself to sink further into melancholy. Only this time, the water rushing overheard isn’t your friend. You aren’t sure it ever was.

Wednesday morning, you leave the apartment in a haze. You thought that by today, things would be better but if anything, the situation seems to be worse.

Missing Jungkook is painful.

It hurts more than you thought, which might sound stupid, but that doesn’t make it any less true. When you and Elliot broke up, it was sad, but you knew it was for the best and that lessened some of the pain. Now though, each beat of your heart prevents the wound from closing. A tentative scab in one second, only to be torn open the next.

Jungkook always sent you good morning texts. Not because he was up before you, but because he went to bed so late, it was only an hour or two before you awoke. His words were the first thing you read in the morning, smiling sleepily at his rambling. Sometimes, Jungkook would include a late-night snack recipe. Always, he’d end with something he liked about you.

His silence is deafening. Something not even your favorite coffee shop can fix, although you try. Standing in line, you aimlessly flip through songs on your phone. Today, you promised Seokjin you’d attend at least two interviews. The first one is in an hour at a sushi restaurant. Before then, you plan to load up on caffeine and organize your thoughts.

When the line moves forward, you flip to your messages. No new texts. Unsurprising, but it rends the scab in your heart anew.

Facing forward, you remove an earbud to order. “Hi,” you say, mustering a smile. “I’ll have an iced americano with rose syrup.”

“Got it.” The barista barely looks up. “That all?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Want a receipt?”

“Nope.”

“Cool.” She nods. “That’ll be ready soon at the end of the counter.”

Nodding your thanks, you replace the ear pod. Cranking your music louder, you wait for your coffee and lean against the counter. The coffee shop is tiny, empty for a weekday after the morning rush. Aimless, you glance over the clustered tables.

Your thoughts are on Jungkook before they can be stopped. You wonder what he's doing, what he’s wearing, whether he’s blocked your number yet from his phone.

A talented graphic designer, Jungkook works mostly on commission and on his own time. He does well for himself – enough to afford rent on his own place. Your mutual creative streak was something you had in common. Not your sleeping hours, that’s for sure.

Jungkook usually slept until nine or ten, then went to the gym before he made breakfast. You used to tease him about that, saying he couldn’t call it breakfast if –

Your heart falters. Jungkook must be on your mind since you seem to have hallucinated him here, at the coffee shop. You blink once, and then twice, but the mirage doesn’t fade, and you’re forced to conclude Jungkook is actually here.

Unfolding himself from a chair, he heads in your direction. Panicked, you glance at the counter, then back up. Your coffee hasn’t finished, which means that you’re trapped. Straightening, you do your best to seem natural and are certain you fail. Jungkook doesn’t just look natural, he is so as he approaches. At least, until you notice his hands in his pockets.

Jungkook does this when he’s nervous. Likely, he’s playing with the inside pocket lining. It hurts, knowing him so well, and not being his. When Jungkook comes to a stop, you stand mere inches apart.

“Jungkook,” you say, his name punched from your diaphragm.

He nods. “Hey.”

Uncertain, you glance down at the counter to check for your drink. Still nothing and, looking back, you tilt your head. “What are you doing here?”

Jungkook’s hands go deeper, if possible. “Getting coffee. Is that allowed?”

Your lips press together. “Sure. Theoretically, you can get coffee. What I’m asking though, is why you chose this coffee shop, five blocks away from your place. Usually, you’re not awake before noon.”

His expression is inscrutable. “Couldn’t sleep.”

“Ah.”

The silence between you lengthens, and not in a good way. You know why you’re quiet but can’t tell what Jungkook is thinking. You suppose that it’s possible he woke up early, forgot this was your favorite shop and went on a long walk for coffee – it’s possible, but unlikely.

At last, Jungkook exhales. “Alright, fine. I wanted to see you.”

“Y/N?”

Both of you turn at the sound of your name. Glancing between the two of you, the barista seems to pick up a weird vibe, dropping the cup to hurry away. Grateful for the interruption, you reach for your coffee and attempt to reset.

It’s not fair of Jungkook, corning you like this. You were already forced to end this once – unfair, making you do so again. Breaking up with him once was barely possible; twice is unthinkable.

“Don’t you have anything else to say?”

His voice interrupts your train of thought and, gripping your drink tightly, you turn.

“Like what?” you ask.

“Like, I don’t know.” His brow furrows, frustration obvious. “Anything, Y/N.”

Behind the counter, the barista fills a tea kettle to set this on the stove. You watch it instead of Jungkook, unsure how you’re going to do this again. The pressure of the water boiling is near tangible, mimicking the internal state of your mind.

Biting your tongue, you decide a safe exit is best. Jungkook will get the hint without you being forced to break his heart. Counting backwards from ten, you exhale and attempt to walk past.

“I’m sorry you came all this way,” you say in a murmur.

You’re nearly past Jungkook when you hear a soft swear. Only one more step happens before his hand grips your elbow.

“Y/N, please,” Jungkook breathes, turning you towards him.

Your gaze lifts and you start at his obvious pain. Staring back, Jungkook searches your face for something unspoken. Whatever he seeks, he must find it, since determination enters his.

You tear your gaze away. “I don’t know what you want me to say, Jungkook.”

“I want to know if you were serious about breaking up.”

He’s still holding your elbow.

You must notice this at the same time, but neither of you move. Your gaze returns to his, drawn like a magnet and you realize your mistake when you can’t look away. Romeo’s line about Julie being the sun comes to mind, making sudden sense. You orbit around Jungkook, whether you like it or not.

In the background, a tea kettle whistles. “I meant what I said, Jungkook,” you say, forcing yourself to speak first. “I’m not good for you.”

A muscle in his jaw feathers. “But why,” he demands, frustration seeping through. You can hear in his voice the long nights of desperation, of little sleep in your absence. “I don’t understand what went wrong, Y/N. What did I do?”

A chasm in your chest opens, hating how easily he jumps to self-doubt. Before you can think better of it, you move closer.

“Nothing,” you say, one hand on his arm. “You did nothing wrong, Jungkook. I’m just not in a place where I can be in a relationship.”

“But why not?” His gaze sharpens. “Everything was fine between us until Sunday.”

“Everything was not fine.”

Jungkook pauses, then barrels on. “When you say you can’t be in a relationship… what you’re really saying is you can’t be in a relationship with me.”

“With anyone,” you correct, although you aren’t sure that’s the truth.

Your magic has never been this temperamental. Possibly because this is the first time you’ve fallen in love. Dating someone not Jungkook would be safer, but the thought is abhorrent.

If you can’t have Jungkook, you don’t want anyone. That will be your punishment. Jungkook will move on, fall in love, and be happy with another person. Not you. No one else will compare, and if you can’t now, you doubt you’ll move past this crippling fear.

“You keep telling me that,” Jungkook says, growing heated. “But I’m the one you’re breaking up with, so it’s a little bit about me. You need to give me something, Y/N. Is this about your past? I know you don’t like to talk about your childhood, but I want to know.”

A loud buzzing fills your ears, gaze darting around. You haven’t told Jungkook much about your family, not wanting to invite questions about being an Elemental. The thought of him guessing sparks panic again, and the tea kettle on the stove whistles louder.

“People in my past hurt me,” you say in a rush. Magic itches beneath your skin, begging for escape. “That’s part of it, but not all.”

“What’s all, then?”

Frustration seeps past the wall, and several things happen. Your magic lashes out, a loud noise makes you jump, and the tea kettle shatters while hitting the floor. Water sloshes across the tile, steam hissing as the barista jumps back with a yelp.

Startled, you whirl around. One barista turns off the stove, another grabs a towel while a third finds a broom. Luckily, none of them seem injured – the tea kettle missed their skin. Taking a half-step towards them, you force yourself to stop. Although you want to help, that might make you seem guilty.

Already, the guilt within you is rising. You felt your magic overpowering you and chose to stay. If a barista had been hurt, it would’ve been your fault.

Turning back, you find Jungkook staring at the mess. He looks similarly shocked, twisting the knife in your gut. If he knew you caused this, he’d look at you that differently.

“You see?” you blurt, and he glances in your direction. “Everyone around me gets hurt. I can’t hurt you, too, Jungkook.”

Shoving open the door, you’re halfway outside when his words reach your ears.

“That’s the thing, Y/N,” he says softly. “You already have.”

The door shuts behind you, and you almost make it home before starting to cry. The skies open again above the city.

“This can’t be a coincidence,” you mutter, staring through the window.

The slightly dilapidated Ramen-rama tables stare back at you until the owner walks past. Catching you standing there, he motions you on.

Somewhat chagrined, you trudge down the sidewalk. Reaching a playground two blocks away, you collapse on a bench and attempt to be rational. Four different interviews. Spread across two different days. Each one ending the exact same.

One crappy interview, even two, and you’d understand. But four crappy interviews in the same way? Something weird is happening. Each interview, you arrived, greeted the owner, answered a few questions, and were thus informed the position was filled.

It wasn’t that you hadn’t gotten a job. It was that your interviewers seemed nervous, staring hard at your resume and never your face. They seemed relieved when you left, as though you were liable to break something for fun.

“Hey. Did you interview this morning at Ramen-rama?”

Startled, you turn and find a stranger beside you.

You don’t recognize him; certainly you’d remember if you met before. Dressed in a Ramen-rama t-shirt, his dark hair is gathered in a bun on his head. His hair makes your chest ache, since Jungkook used to wear his like that.

“Um, yeah,” you say, yanking yourself from your daydreams.

He smiles and nods. “I thought that was you. Listen – I overheard the manager talking this morning on the phone while I was unloading the truck. I think he was talking about you, so I thought I should tell you what I overheard.”

Concerned, you straighten. “Uh, okay. What was he saying?”

“He was talking to your old boss – Pierre? Apparently, he’s calling around and warning people not to hire you. Said that you stole from him, or something. Not sure if it’s the same story for everyone, or if he’s making up shit up in the moment.”

Your jaw nearly drops. “Are you serious?”

“Yeah.” The guy’s smile turns wry. “I’m assuming none of it’s true. You don’t look like the thieving type, but the boss is running a business, I guess. Can’t be too careful.”

“Right.” You pause, then shake your head. “I didn’t steal, just so you know. A guest was an ass to me, so I dumped water on him – on accident,” you add.

Laughing loudly, the guy clutches his bicycle. “Wow, I’d love to hear that story. Especially the part about it being an accident,” he adds with a wink, sticking out his hand. “I’m Wooyoung.”

“Y/N,” you say as you shake. “So. Pierre is calling people?”

Brow furrowed, Wooyoung pulls back. “Yeah. Sorry I had to tell you like this. Wasn’t sure whether you’d want to know, but figured I should.”

You push yourself to stand. “I do appreciate it. Thanks for telling me.”

“No problem.” Sheepish, he glances down the road. “I should actually get back if I don’t want to lose my job. Delivery,” he explains, nodding towards his bike. “Need the extra income.”

“Makes sense,” you say, forcing a smile. “Good luck.”

Wooyoung nods, then pauses in a way that feels familiar. He’s checking you out, you realize after a moment. Although flattering, it’s instantly followed by a rush of guilt. Wooyoung is cute and in another life, you’d say yes, but in every life, it’s hard not to want Jungkook.

Waving goodbye, Wooyoung climbs onto his bike and takes off. You head in the opposite direction, needing to put distance between you and Ramen-rama. If Pierre is shit-talking you across town, you’ll be hard-pressed to find another job at a restaurant. Owners are notoriously clicky and for how many restaurants there are, there are surprisingly few out of the loop.

Maybe you can ask the coffee shop if they’re hiring. Although you should probably avoid work with water for a bit. This drops your mood, your thoughts turning desperate. You’re so deep in an anxiety spiral, you nearly run into an open door on the sidewalk.

Jerking upright, you stare at faded, golden letters. Creative Courage is spelled in looping cursive over a frosted window. Art supplies fill a display case, while the other is clustered with art of all kinds. You spot sculpture, pottery, painting, and sketches before losing count.

Before you can chicken out, you push open the door.

Stepping in, tiny bells chime to announce your arrival. Soft, ambient light fills the space – a shop that’s two-fold, you realize now that you’re inside. The front sells art supplies while in the back stands a classroom. There’s a class in session now, several artists seated on stools before easels.

“Can I help you?” someone asks, stepping into your path.

Blinking, you focus. “Um, no – thank you! I was just looking.”

“Of course!” The woman beams, reaching up to arrange a clip in magenta hair. “That’s what we’re here for. If you do change your mind, let me know – we’ve got art supplies out front, and classes are held daily in back.”

“Classes?”

“Mhm.” Crossing her arms, the woman nods. “Mostly still life and figure drawing, but we’re hoping to add some more soon. Are you an artist?” she asks, sounding hopeful.

Immediately, you stiffen. “No. At least, not right now.”

Her lips twitch. “Not sure it works like that, unfortunately. Who you are can’t come on and off like a jacket. I like that, though,” she admits with a laugh. “Might borrow it the next time the muses aren’t singing.”

You can’t help but grin. “Exactly.”

Her head tilts, surveying you with unnerving intensity. “My name is Taryn. I co-own this place with my partner, Micah. They’re the one teaching right now.”

“Oh,” you say, somewhat wistful. “That’s nice.”

“Thanks.” Her smile widens. “So, what was your preferred medium? You know, ‘back when’ you were an artist.”

You can’t help but laugh when Taryn lifts her hands to use air quotes. Some people have a way of making you feel included in their jokes, and Taryn is one of them. She teases you in a conspiratorial way, letting you know she understands. People often call art a labor of love, which can be true but more often, it’s a complicated tangle of love, pain and frustration.

“Watercolors,” you admit. “And my name is Y/N.”

Her eyes brighten. “We’ve been meaning to add a watercolor class for ages. Some of our regulars have asked, but Micah and I are both hopeless. Potter,” she explains, gesturing at herself. “And Micah prefers charcoal. Sometimes sculpture.”

“Wow,” you say. “Those are very different.”

“You don’t say.” Taryn laughs. “Micah likes to keep things fresh. What about you? Have you ever taught be– hang on,” she blurts, her eyes going wide. “Did you say that your name is Y/N? As in Y/N Y/L/N?”

Your cheeks heat. “Yeah, that’s me.”

Whirling, Taryn hustles through the front room to duck behind a counter. Digging through several drawers, she pulls out a print to hurry back.

“Is this you?” she demands, thrusting this in your face.

Even cross-eyed and close, you recognize your most popular work. A watercolor series on the majesty and destruction of sea storms. Looking at this makes you feel raw, and so you look up.

“Yep,” you admit. “That’s me.”

Pulling back, Taryn looks at the print reverently. “You’re amazing. Micah was trying to do something similar but couldn’t capture the right feeling.”

Shuffling awkwardly, you shrug. You’ve never felt as though your work deserved acclaim, although it’s nice to know the series resonated with others. One of your favorite aspects of art is how it can be intensely personal but once shared, takes on a universal quality. You find it constantly surprising; how many people seem to share the same burdens.

“Seriously.” Taryn shakes her head wryly. “If you ever wanted to teach a class, let me know. We’d be lucky to have you here.”

“Thank you,” you say, stuffing both hands in your pockets.

You hadn’t realized your desperation was obvious. Or possibly Taryn is just incredibly good at reading others. Truthfully, it’s been a while since you stepped foot in the art world. Even before dating Jungkook, you felt your passion lagging. It’s been a long time since you wanted to connect with your inner voice, although merely the act of being here calls the tide in your blood.

Dangerous.

Recognizing this, you reinforce an inner wall. “I’m sorry,” you repeat. “I’m not really looking for something right now.”

Taryn nods. “Sure. If things change though, just let me know – before next week,” she adds. “We try to publish our class schedule on the first of each month.”

“Will do. Thanks, again.”

“Anytime!” Beaming, Taryn spins to restock the next shelf.

Realizing your conversation is finished, you continue down the next aisle. The shop’s materials are superb, and your fingers are itching to reach out and touch. Reaching the front, you notice a quote painted over the register: Creativity takes courage – Henry Matisse.

You stare at this for a while, unsure why it hurts. Courage isn’t something you’ve thought about in a long time. When you were younger, you pushed people away because it was safe, but now you find yourself wondering who was that for – others? Or yourself?

Maybe the reason you keep yourself separate is because you are afraid people might leave you. Like Katrina. Or Elliot. Or even your dad.

Suppressing magic was hard at the start. Everything about it felt counter-intuitive but you reasoned doing the right thing often took effort. This is what you told yourself, anyways. It made said effort more bearable.

When you first began painting, the relief you felt was immense. After so long spent ignoring your emotions, you found a space to be free. Your series about the sea was oddly therapeutic, working through complicated emotions; your love for the ocean, coupled with fear of its wild beauty. Similar clashes within yourself about magic. And always, always, the desire for more.

For a few hours though, those feelings could be a part of you. Magic could be a part of you, so long as you remained in control – and with brush in hand, you were.

Only now does it occur to you that maybe, this wasn’t healthy. Maybe you shouldn’t feel the need to compartmentalize, as though certain pieces of yourself can only exist in certain spaces.

Tearing your gaze from the words, you exit the shop and gently shut the door. Pulling your jacket tighter, you head down the sidewalk and let your thoughts drift. Jungkook only saw you paint once, but the memory is hard to forget.

You had just started dating, barely past the stage of calling him ‘boyfriend.’ The constant influx of emotion was difficult to manage, and after a few weeks, you were exhausted. Most of your time spent without Jungkook was seated before your canvas. After one particularly frustrating session, you set down your paint to stubbornly stare at the canvas.

A throat cleared from behind.

Startled, you spun and found Jungkook standing there. His gaze moved quickly to yours, but you realized he’d been staring at your half-finished work. Normally, you felt panic at the thought of someone seeing a work in progress. That night though, the look on Jungkook’s face eased your concerns. Awe; pure and clear.

Yanking down giant, over-ear headphones, you hastily stood.

Jungkook lurched forward. “No!” he blurted, only to halt. “I mean – you don’t have to cover the painting. I liked it.”

He seemed flustered, which made you slightly flustered, but you took a slow step sideways. Eager, Jungkook’s gaze traversed the canvas.

Eventually, he looked back. “Sorry about that,” Jungkook said and walked closer. Warm hands found your waist. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

“How did you get in?” you laughed, burying your face in his chest.

“Seokjin.” He paused. “Did he not say I was here? I texted you a half hour ago, but you didn’t respond. I figured I’d stop by, and Seokjin said to come up.”

Softening, you made a mental note to chastise Seokjin later. Tightening your arms, you lifted your head and smiled.

“So.” Jungkook glanced over your shoulder. “This is you.”

This sent a thrill down your spine. He spoke as though he’d known you before, but only on a surface level and now, he understood. Jungkook knew your art was part of you, as much as your heart or your soul. You had often felt the same, but never said so out loud.

Magic swelled, and you pushed it back down, but it was difficult. When Jungkook bent his head, you forgot to be scared and let yourself feel. The brush of his lips. The tightening of his hands. The current within you, swelling against your highest walls.

Loudly, someone knocked on the door. Breathless, you jerked backwards and found Seokjin in the door.

“Hey.” He jerked a thumb over one shoulder. “Wanted to let you know our dishwasher broke. Flooded the kitchen.” Pointed, Seokjin looked at you. “Everything is all good, but I’m calling a plumber tomorrow. Carry on.”

In a flurry of embarrassment, you abruptly ended the evening and sent Jungkook home.

Remembering how the night ended, you stifle a groan and walk faster. Once more, you couldn’t control your magic and put Jungkook in danger. Hardly the creative courage Henry Matisse imagined.

You always assumed suppressing your magic was the best choice. But the best choice for who? Certainly not for you, who lives isolated, inert and in fear of yourself. Your dad used to call your magic a gift, but it’s been a long time since you felt that way.

This memory brings with it a sharp stab of pain. Since your dad passed, fear has replaced any joy your magic brought. Fear of falling victim to the same fate he did. Of others’ rejection. Of failing to live up to your father’s example.

You have little doubt that if your dad could see you now, he’d be confused by your actions.

You push others away in the name of saving them. Again, you think of Jungkook and for once you allow it. The entire way home, you wish that he’d call.

He doesn’t though and eventually, you stop hoping.

By Friday, the threads keeping your feelings at bay are nearly worn through. Intrusive thoughts push against fragile bonds, threatening the haven you’ve carefully crafted.

With more force than needed, you toss clothing into the washer. Your usual laundromat was closed, forcing you to walk five blocks to the next one. Sweaty from suddenly sweltering temperatures, your arms sore from the hamper, the situation does nothing to improve an already crappy mood.

Wiping your forehead with one arm, you slam the door and press start. The machine whirs to life, laundry tumbling in a way reminiscent of your inner turmoil. Up, you did the right thing by ending it with Jungkook. He’ll swiftly move on and find someone else. Down – but you don’t want him to find someone else. You want him to find you.

Teeth gritted, you turn and grab your hamper from the floor. Placing this on the washer, you wearily tug your cell phone from your pocket. By the time you walked home, you’d have to come back, leaving you with forty minutes to kill. You could read more of the book you just started. Or submit your resume to a couple of restaurants.

After yesterday’s disaster at Ramen-rama though, the interview process has stalled. Instead, you’ve found yourself thinking more about Creative Courage. For a brief moment, you even walked into the third bedroom to paint.

You immediately walked back out again, but merely the act was more than you’ve done in months. The thought of creation brought mostly panic, since it’d involve you being honest. Something you haven’t been with yourself in a while.

Because if you were honest, you know what you’d find. You would regret breaking up with Jungkook. Maybe even find that, deep down, you want to be selfish. You want to keep dating him, even if Jungkook gets hurt in the end.

After all, you saw what loving an Elemental did to your mom.

Putting down your phone, you scan the laundromat and find your gaze catching on the person in the next aisle.

No. No, no, no – absolutely not.

The universe – or whoever’s writing your story – must be cruel and unusual, since standing beside you is Jungkook. You’d recognize his head anywhere. Straightening from his hamper, Jungkook turns to face you and goes still.

Eyes wide, he seems stunned until someone slams shut their dryer. Both of you jump, breaking eye contact and time seems to reset. Pressing start on his machine, Jungkook grabs his gym bag and hoists it over one shoulder. He strides towards the exit, halfway there when you spring into action.

Dashing towards him, you cut him off at the dryers. Footsteps slowing, Jungkook meets your gaze with visible confusion.

“Sorry,” he says, tugging his gym bag behind him. The thick, grey strap of it cuts across his hoodie. “I was just leaving. I can come back later if you want to finish your load.”

Again, he tries to move past you, but something inside of you snaps. You aren’t sure what possesses you, but somehow, find your hand gripping his sleeve.

Startled, Jungkook stares.

Equally swift, you withdraw. “I, uh…”

Head spinning, all your words seem to fly out the window. Nothing about this was planned. You have no idea what to tell Jungkook besides I’m sorry, and even this would be woefully inadequate without explanation. Which you can’t give.

“You don’t have to leave on my account,” you say at last.

A singular brow lifts. “No? You didn’t seem to think that way on Wednesday.”

You suppress a wince, although you try your best to hide it. “I know,” you admit. “It’s just… this is your usual laundromat. I don’t want you to leave because of me. I wouldn’t even be here, expect the one near me is broken and –”

“Got it,” he interrupts, the words tight. “You wouldn’t be here if you didn’t have to be.”

Swallowing hard, you stare down at your shoes. You know you deserve this, but it’s just so hard to see Jungkook hurting. He deserves to be happy, not wasting his energy on hating you.

“Okay,” you whisper.

Your eyes start to burn, and you squeeze them shut to prevent a reaction. You absolutely cannot cry in front of Jungkook. Not when you’re the one who started this; the very last thing you want him to feel for you is pity.

“Hey.” Something in his tone shifts, and you hear Jungkook step closer. When you open your eyes, he watches you intently. “What’s wrong?”

A tiny fissure within your chest splinters.

Anyone else could have asked those words, and you would have been able to answer. For Jungkook to do so is unthinkable. You’re the one who ruined this. The one who hurt him, who ended this and still, Jungkook is concerned about your well-being.

“I was fired on Sunday,” you say in a rush. “Before I came to see you.”

He blinks only once before his face hardens. “Before you broke up with me, you mean.”

“Yeah,” you whisper.

Running his tongue over the back of his teeth, Jungkook glances away. His expression is taut, and you feel a sharp pang of envy. It’s so easy to read Jungkook. You’ve spent so long hiding your emotions, it strikes you as luxurious how easily he feels.

A muscle in his jaw tics. “Y/N,” Jungkook says, turning back. “What are you doing?”

“What… do you mean?”

Fear spikes your heart, wondering if Jungkook has finally pieced the facts together. Maybe he saw more than you realized at the coffee shop. Maybe he finally knows what you are.

“Why are you… torturing me?” he clarifies, a slight rasp to his voice. “I don’t know what you want me to say. You were fired? That sucks, but it doesn’t make this okay. It doesn’t make us okay,” he adds, gesturing to the air between you.

“I – I know,” you stammer, nearly blurting out something you’ll regret.

Like that you’re an Elemental teetering close to the edge. One who can feel every pipe, every spin cycle within the walls of this laundromat. All of them churning, pulsing, begging for your magic to release the water inside.

“You know?” Jungkook stares at you, incredulous. “Again, Y/N – what do you want from me?”

Since you started talking, you’ve moved several steps closer. Another breath, another reach and you’d be in his arms. Glancing down, you notice how quickly Jungkook’s chest rises and falls.

He’s afraid, you realize. Jungkook’s fear isn’t the same one as yours, though. He isn’t afraid that you’ll see him, but rather that you’ll destroy him.

Realizing this, a barrier within you crumbles. “It doesn’t matter what I want,” you say, somewhat desperate.

“You keep saying that.” Determined, he steps closer and somehow, your hand entwines with his to press against his chest. “You keep saying you don’t want this, but you won’t tell me why. Won’t tell me anything, Y/N – you were fired, and this is the first time I’m hearing it.”

“I couldn’t tell you!” you blurt. “I can’t explain it, Jungkook, but I couldn’t tell you when it happened.”

His gaze sharpens. “Then, yeah, maybe you’re right. Maybe we are better off broken up.”

Releasing you, Jungkook brushes past you and heads for the exit. You stare blankly at the wall before you, your whole world caving in as your head starts to spin. Magic seeps beyond your fractured walls, flooding your veins in desperate search for an exit.

“That’s not true,” you protest, spinning around. “I’ve told you more than anyone else in my life, Jungkook. I’ve let you in in ways no one else has.”

Jungkook stiffens at the door, his entire body taut. For a single, long moment, it seems as though he might reconsider but the longer you stand there, the more you watch the fight drain from the lines of his shoulders.

“I don’t doubt that’s true,” he says, hand hovering above the doorknob. “But that’s not the same as letting me in.”

He starts to go.

Everything around you becomes white noise.

When you were ten, you passed a famous dam on one of your cross-country moves. Your mom took you to see it, swinging your hand while entering the viewing platform.

The moment you saw it, you went wholly still. Trillions of gallons of water, trapped behind concrete, constantly pushing but unable to break. It felt like your magic. Raw, untamed power contained by a solid wall. You stared for longer than any other visitor, until your mom pulled your arm and said you should leave.

The entire way to the car, your mom was silent and once you were buckled in, she twisted around to see you. “Listen to me, Y/N,” she said, her voice serious. “That dam will only work if the wall holds. If the wall breaks, do you know what happens?”

Silent, you shook your head.

“The water will flood the whole valley. Everyone in its path, all the forest – they’d be gone. The wall can’t break, or bad things happen. Do you understand me?”

Solemn, you nodded because even then, you understood. Although your magical dam was intangible, it held equal importance. You had to hold in the magic, otherwise bad things would happen. So long as the wall was in place, you were safe.

Now though, you squeeze your eyes tightly as the wall starts to crumble.

Emotions break with the force of a tidal wave, racing ahead and drowning all in its path. Memories you thought were long buried continue to rise, crushing you further. Your walls are destroyed in a matter of seconds.

You remember your dad, kissing you on the head before leaving the house. Katrina’s stricken expression when the door shut in her face. Jungkook, asking you what he’d done wrong again.

Each memory drags you under, and you shudder against the onslaught. It takes everything you have to remain standing while your restraint dissolves.

Hands grip your arms.

Surprised, your eyes fly open to find Jungkook before you. His neck muscles strain, yelling to be heard over thundering water. You try your best to focus, to rein your magic back in – only to realize with horror, it might be too late.

The laundromat around you is in chaos. Several ceiling pipes have burst, water crashing down in torrents of water. Already, waves lap at your ankles. Noise filters back in, flickering before solidifying to something substantial.

People are screaming, abandoning their hampers in an attempt to get out. The door has stuck though, unable to open under the onslaught of water. Jungkook yells again, and this time you hear him.

“Are you okay?” he bellows, close to your face.

You stare upward, stupefied. Another pipe bursts, and you think that was you, but it’s hard to be sure. Hard to understand which parts are in control and which parts are not. What particular emotion is holding the reins at any moment.

Determination replaces fear in his face, and Jungkook bends before you have time to blink. In an instant, you’re tossed over his shoulder. A yelp escapes, upside-down but he’s already wading through the aisle of washers.

Jungkook shouts at people to move, but no one is listening. After a moment, you feel him exhale and surge forward. Although you can’t see, the people seem to be moving, so Jungkook must appear confident.

Grasping the door, he pulls on it, hard. Nothing happens. Exhaling, Jungkook grips your waist tighter and mutters, “Hold on.”

You don’t have time to ask why, since he yanks harder and the entire frame shudders. Jungkook does this again and another pipe bursts, drawing your gaze. By the time you look back, the door has budged an inch and water is pouring out. With a final wrench, Jungkook yanks open the door.

People shove past him, rushing into the street with the tide of water. Spinning around, Jungkook shields you with his frame from the wet crush of bodies. His grip never wavers, feet anchored to the ground as though they’ve rocks themselves.

With each breath, your pulse slows until finally, you locate the faint threads of magic. Before, you felt too much at once. The crush was overwhelming but now, you manage to breach the surface. For the first time, you see your panic influencing the tide.

Realizing this, you reach inward and try to – turn. With great effort, you identify the source of your power and disconnect. Water in the ceiling slows to a trickle, and then, nothing.

Exhaling against your neck, Jungkook’s hand moves lower.

You can’t help but shiver. “Jungkook?” you murmur into his shoulder.

“Yeah?”

“Could you… you know, set me down?”

“Oh.”

Somewhat sheepish, Jungkook lowers you to face him. He doesn’t step away, and neither do you. If this is the last time you see him, you want to be selfish and make it as long as possible.

He stares back at you, waterdrops caught between his lashes. In the background, water continues to drip from a pipe. The soft plink-plink echoes the thud of your heart.

“Are you okay?” he asks.

Jungkook’s hands remain on your waist, his touch scrambling all semblance of sanity. You aren’t sure how to answer without being honest.

Truthfully, you’re not okay.

An okay person wouldn’t break up with their boyfriend and then, six days later throw themselves in their path. An okay person wouldn’t be hiding their magic, they wouldn’t be lying to the person they love and most of all, wouldn’t continue to place that same person in danger.

Silent, you survey the aftermath of your outburst. Deep down, your magic itches in response to your panic. Seeping outward, it seeks to mold to the fear, but you manage to stop it. Something about the wall being gone makes your power less alien. No longer an unknown variable, but a constant.

“No,” you exhale. Steeling yourself, you take a step backwards. “No, Jungkook, I’m not okay. I… this is exactly why you should stay away from me. Bad things happen, and I can’t control them. I’m so sorry.”

Again, you brace yourself for his anger, but it never comes. Jungkook is unusually quiet, head cocked to one side. He sees right through you, a sensation unnerving enough that you drop your gaze.

“I should go,” you repeat, stepping around him. Reaching your washer, you hastily unload your soggy clothing. “I have to go.”

Jungkook says nothing, although you feel his gaze on the back of your head. Hefting your hamper, you slam the door shut, and turn. The water level at your ankles has dropped, no more than a centimeter remaining in the room.

Sirens wail in the distance, likely on their way to investigate. Your stomach lurches, recognizing the cost of your magic. As soon as possible, you should reach out to Seokjin. His company might be able to cover the damage if the laundromat can’t.

Nearing the exit, you look anywhere but at Jungkook’s face. “I’m sorry,” you repeat, unsure what else to say. “Really, I am.”

Again, he lets you move past. Water rushes out when you open the door, seeking the street, then the gutter. Hurrying past, you can’t shake the feeling something has changed.

Not only with you and Jungkook, but with you and your magic. Silent, you prod the place deep within from which your magic stems. You’re used to a wall, feeling closed off but now, it seems your mom was right.

Once shattered, the dam can’t be rebuilt.

A weightlessness accompanies this that you didn’t anticipate. Despite the terror of your outburst, there was a moment near the end when you stopped it. When you felt what was wrong and controlled your outburst of magic. You haven’t done that before.

The thought is followed by regret, remembering Jungkook. When you broke up, it was supposed to save him. Instead, you’ve only put him – and yourself – in greater danger. Maybe because you’ve continued to see him. Everything would be fine if you moved or kept your distance.

But then, another part of you wonders if you were wrong from the start. Maybe instead of providing distance, you should have come closer. Should have allowed Jungkook to decide whether he wanted to stay. After all, today, he experienced the worst of your powers, and he didn’t run. If anything, he moved closer.

Suddenly exhausted, you hail a cab. The driver grumbles at your wet clothes but allows you inside, and you tip him extra upon reaching your place. What you should do is find another laundromat and finish your load, but there’s an itch in your fingers you haven’t felt in some time.

Dropping your hamper at the door, you shutter yourself within the third bedroom. Not allowing yourself to second-guess, you sit down at your easel and pick up a brush.

For the first time in a long time, you allow the magic to flow. You paint.

 © kpopfanfictrash, 2023. Do not copy or repost without permission.

Author’s Note: thank you for reading so far! Continued in Part II, here.

[azrielbrainrot]

I Laugh Like Me Again... She Laughs Like You - Part 4

Pairing: Azriel x Reader

Description: Azriel would give anything to hold you one more time.

Warnings: Angst (not that bad)

Word Count: 6680

Notes: This chapter was actually trying to fight me. I'm still not sure how I feel about it. Hope you enjoy!

Part 3 ○ Part 5

The days were blurring together the longer you stayed in this room. You've long since memorized the golden stripes and swirls beautifully decorating the navy walls, counted the teardrop-like glittering stones hanging from the small chandelier. You've gone through every closet and box in this room as well. Unsurprisingly, the room was almost empty, but you weren't looking through it to find any information anyway, you'd really done it out of boredom, and admittedly some curiosity.

You knew you couldn't complain about your treatment in this house, you'd never heard of a prisoner being treated to home cooked meals and expensive clothes. The House had even brought you books and journals in case you wanted to read or write, and Azriel brought you little treats from the bakeries in town - things you suspect he already knew you liked. He also kept you company every chance he got, even if it meant simply sitting together in silence. You didn't go a day without seeing him. But it was hard to focus on romance novels, chocolate cupcakes or even the captivating hazel eyed male when your entire reality was shattering around you.

The day after you met the High Lord and Lady, Azriel had found you snooping through the few clothes left behind by Feyre, and that same night he dropped off what he called some of your old belongings - some clothes and jewelry so you didn't have to borrow anything else from the High Lady. Everything was neatly folded and carefully arranged, it seems Azriel was extremely meticulous about how to store his late wife's belongings. He told you he's barely allowed himself to touch them in fear of ruining anything.

The clothes had since lost your scent, even if put away in a closed box it would be impossible for it to linger after a century. Still, you knew these were your things, somehow you could feel it deep inside you. You hadn't told Azriel about this, scared of getting his hopes up.

There was nothing personal in the box, Azriel was probably reluctant in letting you see them in case it overwhelmed you and triggered any more painful reactions, but there was enough for you to get a sense of who you were before.

It was clear she lived a happier and much more fulfilled life than yours. The clothes were all beautiful, if a little outdated. They came in all sorts of colors and fabrics, but even if you still liked them now, you know you'd never buy something like this for yourself.

Working at the guild, you had to prioritize functionality. You didn't have many personal belongings, you traveled a lot for missions and had to keep hidden, never staying in the same place for longer than a couple of months at a time. Your clothes reflected this, you prefered to wear pants or even your armor since you never knew when you'd be called for a mission or attacked.

You always had to be ready to drop everything at any moment so there was no use getting attached to anything or anyone. Even your favorite dagger was simply the model you've found works best for you, and you can get it anytime from different blacksmiths. The small hoops currently in your ears are the only jewelry you actually own and it's more of a way to keep the holes open for when you have to do undercover missions in which you might need to dress up.

There was no time or place for getting pretty clothes that made you feel good or buying a nice pair of earrings for the sake of it. Even less for making friends. You were living an empty life, something you always had a hard time coming to terms with, but that seems impossible to accept now that you know what you could have had, what you used to have and was taken from you.

Not being able to even trust your own memories affected you more than you'd ever admit, knowing things you considered unquestionable facts before that night were all made up. You've had to rely on what Azriel tells you and your own intuition to try and fill in the gaps. Your body seemed to be giving you clues, nudging you in the right directions but it only left you beyond frustrated that you could feel like all the answers were on the tip of your tongue but not being able to put your finger on it.

From what you've gathered, the night you disappeared from the Night Court corresponds with the mission in which you almost died, meaning someone in the guild - your handler, if your suspicions are correct - must have found you and brought you in. It's safe to say that, aside from a few lies and omissions here and there, your memories since that night can be trusted. But everything before that was all a lie, over a century of your life was nothing more than a made up story.

A burning feeling behind your eyelids has you forcefully shaking out your thoughts. You can't let yourself get consumed before you even find out what exactly happened, before you can get your revenge. And you refuse to cry in this room where anyone, especially Azriel, could walk in at any moment and see you in such a state. If you had to pick one helpful thing the guild taught you, it was how to handle your emotions.

You knew the High Lord was making good on his promise, knew that Azriel was working to help you as well. He'd only ever left your side to look into any information you could give him about the guild, though your knowledge was limited. You weren't a high ranking member and they were more than careful. You didn't know anything about the other members, as much as they didn't know anything about you.

Still, you weren't used to waiting around while everyone else did all the work and it took them over a week to schedule a new meeting with you, where you hopefully will learn more about this whole situation and what they intend to do with you. It feels like they're keeping you in the dark, something you knew you'd also do in their place, but that has left you feeling nothing but frustrated and worthless.

That meeting was happening in less than an hour and anticipation was eating away at you. Azriel promised he was going to take you to the office, letting you use him as a safety line as you've done so often these days.

Aside from the welcome information and decisions you hope would be talked through, you were also just excited to leave this room for a few hours at least. Only being able to feel the wind through an open window was getting old, and the city below this house felt like it was almost calling to you at this point, but you were too scared of seeming too interested since you didn't know if they'd find it suspicious. Just because the High Lord left the room on a friendlier note doesn't mean he'll trust you completely after what you've done.

You were technically allowed out of the room, free to walk around the House, with Azriel's supervision of course, but after your first attempt you decided it wasn't worth the trouble.

It had been mostly a miscalculation on your part. You were so consumed with your problems and with finding some sort of distraction that you almost forgot Azriel wasn't the only one you knew before, didn't stop to think what reaction they all would have to you.

Azriel asked you to join him for breakfast downstairs as he usually did, trying to get you to move around and talk with the other residents of the House. You accepted, tired of being in the stuffy room and curious to meet the General and his mate, who you've sometimes felt around the House and heard so much about from Azriel.

The atmosphere turned painfully awkward as soon as you entered the dining room with the shadowsinger at your side, making the other residents of the house look up to meet your eyes, surprised you had left the room. It wasn't long before Cassian stormed out, barely making an excuse on his way out after getting a good look at you, his mate following right behind him.

You ended up eating breakfast alone with Azriel, the same way you would have if you'd stayed in your room like you always did instead. Except now you couldn't take the general's haunted expression out of your mind. It truly had looked like he'd seen a ghost. Maybe he did.

Azriel apologized to you on his behalf, even though it wasn't his or Cassian's fault, and you're almost positive there was some sort of fight between them, though you hope not too severe. You'd hate for Azriel to get into arguments with his family over you. He didn't invite you downstairs again after that, simply joining you in your room whenever he could. The reminder of how caring the shadowsinger has been with you almost brings a smile to your lips.

“I'll make you fall for me again.”

Those words haven't left your mind since that night. You've never had anyone look at you with so much love in their eyes, and tell you something so bold with such conviction.

You're not sure you deserve it, and you're terrified you'll never remember him because you know this version of you can't ever be compared to the one in his memories. Even if you end up regaining your memories, it's impossible for things to truly go back to how they were. It's been too long and you've changed too much. The both of you know this.

You haven't actually talked about his or your feelings since that night, but it's clear that he still loves you, well he loves the female he once knew anyway, you're not so sure you're even that similar to her aside from your appearance. It doesn't feel fair to let him dote on you, knowing he's in love with a version of you that will never come back, knowing that, even with the fluttering of your heart, your feelings for him don't come close to his.

It makes you feel like you're taking advantage of him, how he's so dedicated to taking care of you and to restoring your memories, even trying to find the people who hurt you, while to you he's a stranger. Even if an extremely handsome stranger whose company you enjoy a lot, who makes you smile and even laugh despite the precarious circumstances you've found yourself in, who makes you believe you can get through this.

You can't deny you have a reaction to him either, every soft touch feels like lightning running through your veins, and every whisper of your name has goosebumps spreading all over your skin. Your body obviously still remembers how it feels to love him and to be loved by him in return, but the butterflies in your stomach don't even come close to the depth of his feelings for you. It's glaringly obvious that Azriel would do anything for you, even going as far as letting you stab him the very first night you met and brushing it off when you tried to apologize during this week.

Truthfully, falling for Azriel sounds like the easiest thing in the world, but you don't think you'd ever feel like you deserve him.

The shadows in the room start shifting ever so slightly as if reading your thoughts - something Azriel has assured you they can't do - a sign that their singer is approaching.

You put down the book you never even started and hop down from the window sill you had been sitting on for most of the afternoon, waiting for him to knock softly at the door like he always did, letting you prepare for his arrival or deny his company if you so wished. Anticipation was buzzing at your skin the longer you waited so you opened the door for him as soon as his knuckles met the dark wood, catching him off guard with his hand raised.

You can't help but smile at his wide eyes. Surprising the feared Spymaster of the Night Court has to be a hard feat to accomplish and the fact that you just did it so effortlessly makes you revel in his expression for a moment. He offers you a small smile of his own but you can immediately tell something is holding him back.

He hasn't really given you any information about their research or the guild, simply letting you know that they were working as hard as they could on it. You knew the High Lord still had his reservations about your presence in his court so it only made sense for them to keep their cards close to their chest until they knew more about the situation. You suppose he also wanted to see if any of the leads you gave Azriel on the guild actually turned out to be helpful, a last test to see if you were being truthful.

So you wouldn't be surprised that the Inner Circle had a meeting among themselves before bringing you in, one it seems like Azriel just came from, but his expression is making your anticipation steadily turn into nerves.

“Are you ready?”

Even with the lump that has lodged itself in your throat, you nod and try to give him a pleasant smile. You've been waiting for answers and you're finally going to get them, even if it feels like your heart is threatening to give out.

You quickly turn back into the room to slip on your shoes, before looping your arm around the one he offers, ever the gentlemale. He guides you through the painting covered hallways, most of which you haven't walked through before.

As you approach the room your nerves get the best of you. There are a lot more people in the office than you thought there'd be, you can hear their mismatched heartbeats from here, feel their suffocating presences. One you can distinctively recognize is the General's, it reminds you of his reaction in the dining room, how it seemed to hurt him just looking at you.

You didn't think the entire Inner Circle would be in attendance, figured that it would only be the ancient one, the High Lord and Lady aside from you and Azriel. You'll likely have to reveal more about yourself than you'd be comfortable with in any other situation, including things you're not proud of, things you know they'll judge you for, they'll judge the female they once knew for.

Azriel noticed your body tensing, your steps getting slower and the apprehension rolling off you in waves as your thoughts soured. He stopped in his tracks and looked over his shoulder, meeting your unfocused eyes.

Seeing the worried look on his face makes you take a deeper breath, willing your mind to focus on what's important right now and let your fears stay locked inside you. Thinking of it as another mission the guild sent you on, you've put your life on the line numerous times, you can get through a simple meeting.

You feel a familiar mask of indifference fall onto your face, the mask of a killer the guild made sure you wore almost every day of your life, but before you can rid your mind of emotion, Azriel grabs onto your hand, intertwining your fingers together, and bringing it up to his lips. He leaves a soft kiss on your skin, one that sends chills down your spine, though it's the look in his eyes that makes you stop.

You're not alone. For the first time in your life, at least in the life you remember, you're not alone. He's going to be next to you for every step of the way. You don't need to resort to assassin tactics. The blank mask was something you didn't have a choice but to use, to protect yourself from the things you'd seen, from the things you feel. But here you're allowed to delve into your emotions, to stay true to them.

Azriel gives you a small smile and lowers your hand away from his lips, proud of whatever determination showed on your face. He lets go of you, making you feel the absence of his warmth immediately, fingers twitching as if trying to reach out to his comfort on their own.

As soon as you walk into the room all eyes turn to you. You had been right to assume everyone was here. You let your eyes wander around the room briefly, noting the familiar and new faces, before settling back on Rhysand's, the reminder of the excruciating pain you've felt the last time you saw him an obvious weight on your mind.

You'd seen them all before except for the blonde sitting on the sofa by the window, her brown eyes were wide, as if she couldn't believe what she was seeing. You know that was Morrigan, the High Lord's cousin, and from what Azriel has told you, one of your once closest friends. Apparently she'd tried to come talk to you but it so happened to be on the day after you went down for breakfast and you denied it without a second thought when Azriel brough the option up. You wonder if that had been too harsh but you weren't sure you could handle a repeat of the Cassian situation.

Feyre and Morrigan are the only ones who attempt to throw a greeting smile your way but you can't bring yourself to respond, acutely aware of the tension in the air, eyes never straying from the High Lord's. Choosing to focus on the elephant in the room.

“I trust your stay has been enjoyable,” Rhysand muses as he points to the chair across from his desk, urging you to sit as if this were a simple business meeting. As ridiculous as the idea sounds, it does something to loosen your muscles and the snort that escapes Cassian lifts some of the tension.

“Yes, the House has been making sure of it,” you sit on the chair across from his desk, not daring to look away from him and the High Lady. He releases a simple hum at the answer, but you're too anxious for small talk. “Have you found a way to get my memories back?”

“In a way,” he offers, leaving you with more questions.

Thankfully, Amren fills up the silence in his place. “The spell suppressing your memories is the work of witches. Daemati can enter anyone's mind and make them forget certain memories but if someone had simply rewritten your memories then Rhys would have been able to fix them.”

“Witches?” The thought was enough to send shivers down your spine.

“Witches use tools to strengthen their powers, to access magic they aren't privy to,” she continues, “It seems someone used a witch's tool to feign daemati powers and rewrite your memories, effectively warding them as well.”

“That's why you had such a strong reaction when I entered your mind.”

You were positive this had to be the work of a daemati. It had never crossed your mind that there could be something else at play.

“You can't undo the spell,” you conclude for them.

Witches have a completely different approach to magic than faeries. While your kind was gifted their magic by the Mother, witches have to resort to the kind of tools Amren mentioned. The resulting magic isn't organic and as such it comes with rules and drawbacks you don't experience as fae.

“We'll need to find the person responsible for it. They're the only one who can tell us exactly how to undo it,” Feyre says.

You bite your lip, your mind reeling with the information. You only have one suspect and the thought of not only finding him but also making him talk sounds beyond ridiculous. He also hasn't shown any hint that he could use witch magic. As far as you know he's as much high fae as you are, but you can never be too certain when it comes to one the best assassins in the world.

“Azriel says you can only identify one member of the guild,” the High Lord continues, barely giving you any time to process.

You nod. “I had direct contact with a few other assassins when I was called for backup but never knew their names or even what some of them look like without disguises.”

“Our only option is finding your handler, but Azriel hasn't been able to find any tracks even with the information you've given him,” Feyre stands closer to the desk now, her hand leaning on the dark wood.

“I'm not surprised. Norris is one of the most prominent members of the guild, I'm not sure how old he is exactly but I suspect he's been working there for close to a millenia.”

“Azriel is extremely good at his job,” Rhysand tilts his head slightly, as if offended for his Spymaster.

“I know.” From the briefings he's given you, he has spies all over the world aside from his shadows, who can listen and see things fae could never begin to imagine. Even with your hints, he's come closer to the guild in a week than entire countries have in decades, perhaps even centuries. “But we've been trained to kill and hide from people like him, like you. And Norris has been doing that successfully for a very long time.”

“We…” He taps his nails on the table, the sound echoing across the room. “So you're an assassin then,” the distaste clear on the High Lord's face.

You hadn't said the words out loud but everyone had probably guessed it the moment you walked back into their lives. The guild has made a name for themselves, and as much as some of your work consisted of spying or retrieving objects, most people came to the guild for mercenary jobs.

“Yes,” you confirm, forcing yourself to keep up the eye contact.

“An interesting career choice,” he muses, as if you had the pleasure of just choosing to become this monster.

The several pairs of eyes watching you intently were making you feel defensive, your temper rising up with it. It's easy to judge someone looking in from the outside. You'd been an assassin or training to become one ever since you could remember, which in reality wasn't your whole life like you thought before. Still, whether it was because you'd been taken in by the guild as a child or had your memories rewritten, you were thrown into it against your will and had since been stuck with no chance of an escape. Everyone has done things they're not proud of and you know fae in such important positions as these and as old as they are can definitely relate to this sentiment.

You weren't proud of it, far from it, but you didn't have a choice. And it's not your fault the female they knew before wouldn't do these things. It's not your fault that innocence and chance at being better she had were ripped away from you.

“Not everyone has the luxury of getting a court handed to them,” the venom drips out of your tongue, every word meant as a weapon.

You know this is a low blow, being aware of the circumstances in which Rhysand became High Lord, how he lost his whole family in one night. But if he wants cruelty, the assassin he keeps judging, you can certainly give it to them. Your bravado lessens when you feel the sharp intake of breaths around the room, most notably from the Illyrian by your side, where he still stands despite how tense his posture has become.

Rhysand's wings tighten against his body and his eyes narrow, finally letting go of the faux relaxed look he's presented you with. He takes a moment to answer you, likely leveling his temper or receiving soothing words from his mate.

“There was a time you wouldn't even dare to hurt an innocent.” This statement lacks the same bite as before, it gives way to disappointment, and it feels like a bucket of ice poured over molting lava. It cuts deeper than any amount of judgment he could have presented you with.

You straighten yourself in the chair, trying to not let it show how much this whole conversation is affecting you. “Well,” you lick your lip, now realizing how dry your mouth felt, “The only thing left from before is my body.”

His violet gaze finally becomes too much for you to bear, allowing yourself the respite of looking down at your hands. There are too many emotions swirling in his alluring eyes, even more felt around the room, the tension has become so thick you could barely breathe, couldn't even risk a look at Azriel in fear of what you'd find written on his face, terrified that the same disappointment lingered there as well.

“It's not,” the change in tone has you looking back up at him, meeting his gaze once more to find understanding reflected on it. And I can only imagine how you've been surviving through it all.

His echoing words make you pause, not being able to look away from him. It's only when wetness gathers in your eyes that you look back down, praying the room of perceptive fae don't notice how close you are to tears. You don't even remember the last time you cried, the last time someone extended you the kindness Rhysand just did, even after all the judgment.

Shadows start crawling up your legs, tentatively moving towards you as if asking permission to comfort you. You bite back a smile, keeping your tears at bay as you wonder if they moved of their own accord or if Azriel sent them to you. You relax your body, allowing them to twist and turn over your legs, mildly surprised that you can actually feel a ghost of a touch. You didn't think you could feel shadows.

You risk a glance at the shadowsinger in question, almost regretting it as you see the fondness reflected in his beautiful eyes as he watches his own shadows move across your skin. This must have been a regular occurrence before. You look away as soon as your gazes meet, not being able to bear the intensity in them in this room full of onlookers.

Unfortunately, your escape brings you back to facing the High Lord and Lady, who seem more than amused at your interaction with Azriel. The change in atmosphere from just a few moments ago almost gives you whiplash.

“You haven't told me what you plan on doing about the guild,” you try to keep your tone leveled, but looking at their reactions you're failing miserably.

“Finding your handler seems to be our best bet,” the smile on Feyre's face only falters a bit, the tension from before has almost dissipated. “Since he's the one who sent you here he might know who hired the guild and their motives for wanting the book.”

“You said he was the one who introduced you into the guild.” You nod at Rhysand. “It's possible he's the one responsible for your… accident.”

“I think so too,” you agreed, your hand moving up to touch the scar on your neck, “I've always been told this scar was the result of a failed mission, and that Norris had been the one to find me and take me to a healer.”

“We found the attackers not long after your death,” the general finally speaks up, cringing softly at the choice of word. His mate was quick to narrow her eyes at him, as if reprimanding him for mentioning it.

“He might not have actually cut my throat,” you shrug, trying not to linger in unpleasant thoughts. “He likely saw me after the attack and decided I'd make a good addition to the guild if I survived. I'm basically a ghost, that's perfect for an agent. I wouldn't be surprised if they'd done similar things before.”

“Either way, we need to find him.”

“Even if we do, I'm not sure he'll actually tell you anything.” Norris was one of the most respected members of the guild. His abilities far surpassed yours, he'd been the one to teach you most things after all. You've never been able to even sneak up on him so finding and capturing him alive already seemed hard enough, but making him cooperate and answer any of your questions was next to impossible. The Mother only knows how many fae have tried it and failed.

“He will,” Azriel stated. When you look into his eyes you can only see pure fury and determination written in them, leaving no space for any doubts. He stares into your eyes before adding, promising, “l'll make sure of it.”

Some of that confidence rubs off on you it seems, because your hesitation starts evaporating the longer you stare into his eyes. You've always been on your own, and as such you've only ever considered how you'd fare against your handler without backup. Between the famed Shadowsinger, the strongest High Lord in history, the Made Sisters, and everyone else in this room, your chances were exponentially higher. Escaping the guild doesn't feel like a pipe dream anymore.

“How do you want to find him?”

The High Lord rewards your determination with a smirk. “The only way to find someone like him is by making him search for us instead.”

“You want to use me as bait,”

“You can refuse,” Azriel assured. This explains his sour mood. You didn't think he'd agreed with this solution with the way he's been treating you so carefully, almost as if you're made of glass. You can't exactly fault him for it either, but the truth is you can't refuse. You don't know if you could ever find Norris with traditional tactics, or if the guild wouldn't send more assassins to the city, if they hadn't already.

“And keep living like this? Hiding without even knowing who I am?”

He searches your eyes, fear and vulnerability swimming in the hazel, but nods all the same. He told you he's dreamed of getting you back for a century, and thought it was something that would never come true, so it makes sense that he'd be hesitant on letting you put yourself in such a risky position. You know he understands why you need this though.

The meeting runs for a while longer, and by the time Rhysand was calling it a day the sun was already setting on the horizon, making way for the night to take over in all its glory, one that could only be fully appreciated in the Night Court.

As much as everyone seems to be warming up to you, letting go of the conflicted feelings towards having you back in these circumstances, you were extremely overwhelmed by the end. Talking to someone who knows you so intimately even though you don't have any recollection of it is a confusing experience. You could almost hear your mind screaming at you, begging for some peace and quiet.

The contrast between the Inner Circle and Azriel becomes clear in your mind. Your relationships were very different before but it's interesting to see that even when you don't have your memories, you feel so much calmer with him. That nagging feeling of being faced with something you've lost keeps rising up when they speak to you, but it doesn't come anywhere close to the myriad of emotions Azriel evokes simply by looking at you. And even if those emotions are more intense, you have a much bigger tolerance for them, as if your body would gladly accept any turmoil as long as you stayed in his company.

Just as you were about to leave the room, Rhysand invites you to join them for dinner. Everyone turns to you with expectant eyes before the words fully leave his mouth. They clearly planned it out together. This habit they have of speaking through each other's minds is one it might take a while getting used to.

You bite your lip, as you think of what to say. Cassian and Morrigan look particularly keen on the idea, it makes you feel a little relieved that the general isn't looking at you like a nightmare came true anymore, but you really don't think you can handle any more questions today, or to have them reminisce about your former relationships. You're not used to spending time with a lot of people in general, you'd go months without any sort of fae contact sometimes. You just want to go somewhere quiet, and you can only think of one person whose company would allow you to relax.

Making up your mind, you decline the invitation politely, trying to ignore the disappointment in their eyes as they bid you goodnight. This still feels like a huge improvement from where you stood with them just at the beginning of the meeting, that they'd want to keep you company when it felt like they were avoiding you this whole week. You might have gained some of their trust, and, to your immense shock, you trust them as well. It feels like a breath of fresh air after a century of not even trusting your shadow.

Maybe it's that feeling, or the immediate quiet that settles over you as soon as you walk into the empty hallway, maybe even the fact that you finally got some answers and even a plan, a chance at leaving the guild, something you never even dared to dream about, but it has you feeling a little indulgent. Your steps are noticeably lighter, and all the tension from before is now only a faint ache in your muscles.

“Azriel?” You look up at him with a smile, feeling it widen when he looks at you in answer. “Since I'm out of the room, can we go somewhere to watch the stars?”

The smile that takes over his face is blinding, it feels like it could rival the moon. It's fascinating how his beauty can still catch you off guard like this, even if you've been spending most of your time with him for an entire week.

“Of course,” he moves closer to you and takes your hand, pulling you into him, his eyes never straying from yours. It takes you longer than it should have to realize he was covering you both in shadows, too lost in his eyes to pay attention to your surroundings, how they've turned to black. He told you before that's how he winnows, though it can't be called that since he moves through shadows instead.

The light almost blinds you as his shadows disperse, giving way to a view you can't believe is real. The sky wasn't completely dark yet, stuck in the brief moments of twilight where you could still see the last rays of the sun illuminating the dark blue sky. And yet the stars were already twinkling in the sky, surrounding the full moon.

You can't help but gasp, forgetting about Azriel and moving to the edge of the roof, admiring the unforgettable view. Your eyes don't stray from it as you lean against the railing, long enough that the sun completely sets, and the streets become illuminated by faelights.

You had thought there was some sort of celebration when you first came here, but have since learned that every night is enjoyed to its fullest in the city of dreamers.

As some of your awe settles, you turn to look at Azriel as he too admires the city. His shadows had left him uncovered, choosing to scatter around what you now recognize as a training ground. You almost regret staring up at the sky for so long when you could have been reveling in his beauty this whole time.

His tan skin was glowing with the pale moonlight, eyes as bright as the stars when he looks down at you. You move closer to him almost unconsciously, as if you've been bewitched.

“Thank you for bringing me here,” you sound breathless even to your ears. “The view is a lot more beautiful from up here.” Your bedroom window could never do this justice. If you looked up, it almost felt like you were walking on air, among the stars.

He turns to you fully, ignoring the captivating sight in favor of watching you. His face relaxes further as he takes you in, the smile on his lips growing and the air around you changing. He raises his scarred palm up to cup your face, whispering softly, “It can't ever compare to you.”

“That's cheesy,” you stutter, clearly taken aback by the sudden flirtatious tone.

He grins down at you, a mischievous look in his eyes, rubbing his thumb over the increasingly warmer skin of your cheek. “You're blushing.”

Azriel has been open with his feelings for you all week, making it clear that they haven't changed over the years, even with your absence from his life, but he has never been this brazen. None of the interactions you've had can be considered anything else than platonic, and even with sweet compliments and bashful admissions, he has never looked at you like this, like he truly believed just one second of looking at you was worth more than this unbelievable view.

“You know,” you start hesitantly, “We haven't actually tried everything.”

He furrowed his eyebrows, trying to catch up to your train of thought. You can feel when he does because he tenses against you, and would have let go of your face if you hadn't placed your hand around his wrist, keeping him there.

“I think I've read it in a story before,” you lick your lips, feeling like lava is pumping through your veins when his eyes follow the movement, “Sometimes a kiss can be stronger than any magic spell.”

He leans closer to you slowly, looking into your eyes to search for any sign of discomfort. You can't be entirely sure what he finds in them, you can't feel much else but desire in this moment, but it has him clearing the rest of the way, both of your eyes closing as his lips finally touch yours softly.

A sigh escapes him when you press into him harder, needing to find out what he tastes like, what he feels like. His other hand comes up to cup your other cheek, holding you against him. You can feel him losing his restraint bit by bit, hands moving from your face to hold your neck, your waist, grip getting tighter with every stroke of his tongue against yours, a century of longing and raw passion melting into the kiss. Your own arms find their way around his neck, pulling him down, finally feeling the softness of his hair around your fingers. His chest is pressed against yours, close enough that you can feel his heart beating.

When you finally pull away from each other, you're both breathless. He leans his forehead against yours, eyes closed. You wonder how many times he's dreamed of this moment, of being able to taste you again after so long.

“Any memories resurfacing?” His voice is rough, deeper than you've ever heard it. It almost makes you hold back a moan.

“No,” you lick your lips, reveling in his taste, “but we can give it another try.”

His lips find yours as soon as the last words leave your mouth, more than happy to deliver. You might chastise yourself for giving in to temptation tomorrow, but in this moment nothing else matters. Not the guild, not your lost memories, not your mistakes. Right now there's only him, you and the stars as your witnesses.

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[thevirgodoll]

when you decide to love yourself more, you pick up the pieces you thought they left and just move tf on with your life. you take those pieces and do some heart surgery. this may be the first person, the tenth person, or the fiftieth that has hurt you and shattered you. but it's far more worth it to reconstruct your heart to be whole again than to let someone who didn't even have half of a heart when they met you steal yours and walk around with it as their own.

it's dramatic, but you have to decide that your life is literally on the line. people lose their minds trying to figure out why someone lied to them and why they're gone. heartbreak (from an ex, a friend, a family member, etc) can literally kill you. the light in your eyes is now a poor excuse for a fire that can barely spark. your appetite doesn't even exist and left a pit in your stomach. your soul is tied to all of the limiting beliefs they brought with them and now, in your unwillingness to see them for who they are, YOU have adopted their same cadence, mindset, and loathing.

i think subconsciously we sit in pity just to feel closer to the person that we couldn't quite "fix" or the person we always say "if they could've just...if i could've gotten them to see XYZ about themselves" or "what if". IF THIS OR THAT.

you can recognize you're in the trenches with them because you really loved them, but you cannot STAY there. this isn't you. in your reality, you are LOVED. you are WHOLE. you are WORTHY.

i don't even think it's the fact other people don't see it. i think they do, and because they see it that means they'll have to live with just as much integrity as you do. they'll have to step outside of their comfort zone and finally measure up to this new person they have around them. and they can't...so they sabotage. but that's the thing. THEY made that decision. so stop suffering on their behalf and let them lay in the bed they made.

and i know you're like, easier said than done??? trust me. one day, you wake up and it doesn't hurt at all. one day, you stop waiting for them to come back. it's like a switch. what am i waiting on someone else for? why would i want someone to decide that they love me? pfft.. literally with those questions, i regain my common sense and detach. it's over, it's done. it's like they never existed.

give them a mental funeral with their flowers for what they DID do that you were able to appreciate - if anything - and look back on the entire thing as an experience you needed to push you in a different direction. stop wishing things were different and start creating a better story. literally, just tell yourself this isn't real and that they passed away.

genuinely believe that sometimes we need somebody to fumble as a wake-up call. take that time out, recoup, and write a new story where none of this shit ever happened. and never let anyone have the option to shift YOUR world like that ever again. i mean it.

[toomanybandstocare]

{With or Without You, U2}

Program: It's time to move on. Just about everyone else could easily go about their days, but it felt like there was nothing left. Until Steve Harrington decided to crash your pity party and push you back into reality.

Pairing: Platonic(ish)! Steve Harrington x GN, Platonic(ish)! Reader, Best friend! Eddie Munson x Heartbroken! Reader

Genre: Angst, Heartbreak, Learning to move on

Warnings: couple of swears, depictions of anxiety symptoms, mentions of depression, pet name (babe), heartbreak, trying to move on, slight jealousy, angst, unrequited love

Length: 1942w

Series Program | Camp Upside Down Masterlist

Counselor Notes: Thank you so much for the love on p.1 of this! I really wasn't expecting the reaction I received, and it meant the world as I'm coming back to creative writing. Much love to each ot you campers! <3

Your nose grazes across his cheek bone. His left hand squeezes your hip as his other presses against the small of your back, pulling you as close as he can. Your chest heaves to push any and all amount of oxygen through your burning lungs. The sound of blood washes over your ears, deafening anything the sweet boy tries to say. Gasps break past your chapped lips allowing salty tears to catch on the rips and cracks.

You couldn’t do this. The pain nearly broke you that night. But this? You teeter on the edge of shattering. Pieces of you to never be found again or never truly fitting comfortably again.

Panic dulls all your senses and weighs down on your bones.

“Come on, babe. I know you can hear me, Come back to me,” Steve quietly rasps against your ear, “Please”. He dances his fingertips from the small of your back, gently pressing on the tense point against your spine, and grazes them down your arm to take your hand in his own. Bringing it to his lips, Steve locks onto your welling eyes. As soft and fleeting as a butterfly, he presses small kisses onto the pads of each of your fingertips. He then presses a tender kiss that sends sparks through the palm of your hand.

“Breathe with me. Just breathe with me- I know you can do it,” he murmurs, moving your palm to rest against his cheek. “It’s just us, babe. Just you and me”.

You break from his heavy gaze and turn your attention to the flickering stars above. So distant, yet ever present as they look down on you.

Feeling like you were pushing through water, you move your hand from Steve’s hold and place it against his chest. Your entire focus shifts to the sawing breaths as you try to match with Steve’s collected ones. Pants and tiny sniffles echo in the parking lot, muffling the giggles and chatter of groups as they enter the roller rink.

“That’s it, babe. Take your time, “Steve murmurs again, pressing himself closer. His heart pounding against your palm despite keeping a steady, deep breath. “I’m here- I’ll catch you. Come back to me. Please?”

You may have his heart in the palm of your hand, but he grounds you to reality. A month of settling back into the mundane Hawkins routine had become what felt like an eternity of social isolation. Every phone call to the trailer park was answered by a giggling school boy apologizing and promising another time to hang out, or the sound of a concerned uncle asking if you were okay only to flood you with more tears. Group plans fell through in favor of couples pairing off on their own, or the kids hiding in the Byler’s basement to plan their own summer campaign. Except Steve. Steve never left you.

He dragged you out of bed after two days of radio silence from that first hang out of the season. After a week of stale air sitting in your room and clothes moving from unpacked suitcases to piles on the floor, he just about threw you into the shower, so he could tidy up your safe haven. So he could make you feel welcomed in your own home. 

The two of you had countless arguments spanning over the course of the month as Steve tried to bring you back to the land of the living. You yelled and protested, tooth and nail, to stay in your catatonic safety net. If you didn’t leave its walls, then you wouldn’t drown from the unyielding flood of heartbreak. Even through all the stinging sobs, hair pulling deflections, and hoarse pleads, Steve stayed by your side.

He wasn’t leaving until he got his friend and right hand comrade back- doing what everyone else seemingly had no time to do. To share and enjoy in your missed company.

“Hey,” he gently taps his finger tips against your jaw bone. A flurry of tingles linger under your skin. “I know they’re beautiful, and I can see you mapping your story in the stars- but could I see those stunning eyes again? I miss getting lost in them”. He softly cranes his neck to try to regain your attention.

Slowly, you stop searching for your answers in the stars only for time to all but freeze when you meet the radiant hues of sunshine, twinkling from the moonlight, in Steve’s umber eyes. His smile beams when the pair of you reconnect, and he takes you in for a moment. “You got this. And,” he holds your wrist to send a comforting squeeze, “I’m right there beside you”.

He steps back a bit, still gently holding your hip as he points towards the entrance to the rink. “We are going to walk in there, heads held high,” he steadily grows in enthusiastic volume, “and we are going to have the time of our lives making fools out of ourselves.” 

An astonished laugh pushes past your sealed lips as you look at him in disbelief. Steve is all for pep talks and motivational speeches, but one without an air of royal confidence? He might just be spiraling as hard as you at this rate. “You can’t be fucking serious right now. The love of-” your voice rising so your defense can be heard.

“Ah, ah, ah,” he jumps back, holding his hands out to stop you. Not even realizing, you stumble to take a step and follow. A smile creeps past your guard and breaks across your face. What the actual hell has gotten into him?

Steve excitably points at you in uncontrollable joy, “Yes! There! Just like that”. Rushing back, he grabs your arms and holds you in an electric embrace.

Like two magnets, neither of you can fight the connection pulling you together. As far as either of you are concerned, it’s only the two of you on Earth. No one else around. No else to break your bond.

Resting his forehead against your own, Steve breathes out, “It’s just you and me, babe. It’s just us- no pressure to look good or to fake it. It’s your time to let go and enjoy yourself”.

A heavy ache forms in your chest when Steve moves away and holds out an outstretched hand. Dizzy from the whirlwind of emotions and slightly high from the warmth he left buzzing where he held you, your stomach plummets at the invitation to the next stage of heartbreak.

Shakily pushing out a breath, your peer up from his hand and nearly take a step back from Steve’s beaming expression of encouragement.

“ ‘S just us?” you whisper.

“You and me- against all this bullshit ‘young love,’” he boasts.

Bouncing on your toes, you nod in determination as you grab Steve’s hand and run into the unknown. The two of you wildly laugh while pushing and pulling at each other. Not a care in the world about how others see you. It’s just you and him.

The two of you dash and stumble into the rink, entangled in each other’s hold. The pair of you can barely collect yourselves from the fit of laughter and childlike joy you’ve fostered.

 Only for your secret world to be breached. “Guys, over here! Christsake, what made you this late?” With Johnathan’s joking welcome notice, the sounds of the roller rink break the spell wrapped around the two of you. The scraping of skates, beating music, and flashing lights make you wince.

Not letting go of your gaze, Steve calls back, “Be there in a sec- gotta finish this conversation real quick”.

Steve squeezes your hand, “So what’s it gonna be, babe? Lousy, overhyped ‘young love’? Or the time of your life with this catch?” He chuckles and points to himself.

Enthralled by the guy holding you, no one else could win your attention in that moment. There is no other competition. It’s just Steve. And, maybe Steve is onto something? For fuckssake, Steve has been there since the moment all meaning left your life. Yet, a guy this caring still hasn’t met someone who can see past the social crown atop his head. Even if it didn’t shine as bright as it once did, that’s all people would note when complimenting him.

He meets your stare with a look of teasing inquiry. How much longer can you put your life on pause for a man, no a fool, who doesn’t even spare you a second thought now.

“Come on,” Steve tilts his head to the side with a playful smirk, “I know I’m good looking, but at this rate you might as well buy a guy dinner first”. He waggles his eyebrows. 

Gagging as you push him away, you turn to see the table your friends sit at. Eddie securely wraps his arm around Chrissy’s shoulder on one side, and the back of Nancy and Johnathan’s heads lean against each other across from them. One chair at either end of the booth.

Pin pricks building in your waterline, you whip back to look at Steve. “Fuck, ‘young love,’” you huff and make your way over. Steve falls in step right beside you- his proud presence fills the once empty spot of another’s. He fist bumps the air spreading his excited energy to you and overpowers the nervous one beginning to fester through the tips of your toes to the crown of your head.

Taking a seat at the head of the table and between the couples, both of you greet them kindly. Nothing like the giddiness bouncing between the two of you.

“The hell man?” Steve whines, “Where am I supposed to sit, huh?” He quickly steals a vacant chair from the next table over and seats himself between yourself and heartbreak. Settling himself in the tight squeeze, Steve shoots you a wink before sitting upright.

“So what took so long for you two to grace us with your presence? Did big boy over here need to fix his hair?” Eddie jests, easily sending the table into a fit of giggles.

Before Steve can protest, you rush to defend him. The nervous adrenaline rush coursing through you pushes you over the edge at long last. “No, actually,” you let out an anxious, airy chuckle. “There was a song that I really wanted to share- listen to, so we just got caught up in our own little world for a bit”. You smile softly at Steve’s own- noting how it grows into a sincere one. Not the stage performance either of you use to hide behind around everyone as of late.

Eddie stiffens at your response. He’s the person you share music with. The hell happened to that? Eyes darting between your fidgeting figure and Steve’s confident, relaxed posture, Eddie chews on his bottom lip. Watching Harrington casually drape an arm on the back of your chair.

A shock of electricity strikes your shoulder and spreads like a wildfire through your body when Steve brushes his hand across your shoulders to readjust his position. “Yeah, it was out of my usual taste, but I really enjoyed it. What was the name again?” he hums. 

Barely even registering Eddie’s scoff, you blink and try to break from Steve’s comforting pull. You grip the edge of your seat, recentering around the cold, solid metal biting into your palms.

Still feeling Steve’s intense gaze, you look around the table practically buzzing. Taking a deep breath as you subtly poke Steve’s thigh, and he pushes it against your own. It’s just you and him.

“‘With or Without You’ by U2,” you nervously share.

[seitosokusha]

Hi! I recently got into reading some of your fanfics via Ao3 and ff.net. I instantly fell in love with Ayame and her chaotic nature. I was wondering if it would be possible if we could get a overview on her and her many abilities. If possible of course, Pls and thank you!

ANON YOU HAVE MADE MY *DAY*

I'm always down to talk about Ayame!

As a character, Ayame has basically 2 rules.

Nothing is impossible for her*

She's stronger and smarter than anyone else.

*There are things that she won't do and thus will lie to your face and say it's impossible. If it's truly impossible, then it's like... "shatter reality if it's done" type possible and then survival > "it's possible" wins.

Because I toss her into multiple fandoms, she always scales a little with said fandom. And as I discovered with the KNY fic with her, putting her in fandom where the balance is off makes for a boring fic.

Ayame (Tier and Asher too) whole concept is to be the most OP, curbstomping, there's nothing they can't do, type characters. They have their strengths and weakness of course. Tier and Asher essentially fill in the gaps in Ayame and vice versa. There's no limit, except perhaps some logical limits.

For example, it's not impossible for Ayame to build a time machine, but if you need a time machine RIGHT THIS INSTANT, she can't just snap her fingers and have on made instantly. She might come up with the design right away, but between testing and physically having to build one, it'll take days. (Or a day at least)

Abilities

Ayame's base kit includes

Sight

Onmyodo

Portals

Sight, despite it's name, is not reliant on sight only. wwbtf is the only fic I wrote that really goes into it, but essentially just like how shrimp can see colors we can't, Ayame's view on the world is a little more skewed than others. She sees/hears/feels/senses/tastes/smells things we can't. Goes from anything from ghosts to fate strings to seeing the future and past to dreams to aura and more.

Onmyodo, Ayame grew up on a shrine. Her father was a powerful priest. So she's got all the normal rituals, basic purification and blessings and more down.

Portals, Ayame has the ability to anywhere she wants to be.

That's it. No, seriously. That's it.

Ayame's OPness comes from the fact that the "power system" from her world is highly flexible and compatible AND Ayame understands the truth of the system on top of being a genius.

FFXV calls it magic, KHR calls it Dying Will Flames, at the end of the day, to Ayame, it's a type of energy that you produce from your soul and since she produces that type of energy, she can use any technique you use with higher efficiency and more power and better understanding probably.

And when it comes to raw output of that same energy, she got more than anyone else in the entire universe.

But what about the gravity power she always uses in fics?

That's Engetsu's power :D

And her weapon?

:D

[helloescapist]

yo wsg

Been checkin your account for a while now and your stuff is real damn cool. I was wondering if youd be willing to take an ask abt shinobu and a gn reader who was previously the sisters younger (biological) sibling . Like 2 years younger than shinobu that, when their parents were killed ofc like in canon they got injured and passed out , but inthe shock and shit when himejima came they all thought they were dead (i know himejimas heightened senses so id think their heart was barely beating and it could be confused w another sound? To try and justify) and left . Ibthink what im yk is that when shinobu becomes a hashira she accidentally founds her sibling . Who thought was dead is actually thebsound hashiras tsugoku . I feel like the fact they thought they werent alive and how close in reach they were and didnt notice would be very conflicting .

If you dony wanna tis okay

Hello, hello!

Thank you so much anon! It means to so much to me to have you wandering my page. I’m not entirely sure how I ended up with so many Shinobu requests, but I’m so grateful for each and every ask. I hope as the series is animated, there will be more attention to all of the Hashira. Thank you for entrusting me with this ask—I hope I did it justice.

Within Reach | Shinobu Kocho

Word Count: 2517

Setting: Shinobu Kocho x gn!reader (sibling fic!/reader is a lost Kocho sibling/Sound Hashira’s tsuguko)

Content Warning(s): minor spoilers (training arc + Kocho background), mentions of blood/gore, loss, death

Summary: following the defeat of two upper moons, all available Demon Slayers have been beckoned to training under the care of the Hashiras. The rare opportunity to train the medics of the Butterfly Estate, leads Kocho to memories, and a sibling that she had believed death had claimed.

A/N: I felt that the wielder being a tsuguko of Uzui would indicate a smaller hand to hand knife, and rely upon speed. I also felt that a breath that utilizes music would be a great branch off from Sound Breathing, and I was really, really tempted to do a Breath of Jikata. However, as the reader is gender neutral, I worried that it would lean too far towards a feminine, or fem!reader. Because of this, I have chosen Breath of Hogaku (folksong)—expect to see Breath of Jikata at a later date. [image is not mine! all credit goes to the artist]

Bandages weaved over fingers, and forearms. Touched upon foreheads, and danced across thighs, Shinobu’s own stamina was growing weary from the lack of break. The training bound across the Slayer Corps had waged far and wide, and the retired Sound Hashira had been anything but forgiving. Shinobu had suspected as much, for what little of his background he boasted of, she had been able to deduct that the training inflicted upon the ranks would be brutal, but necessary. Though she lacked the proper strength to engage in the hand-to-hand combat, the Insect Hashira understood that in regards to heightening the battle prowess for the war to come, she was not a likely candidate. The unique aspect to her breathing technique had more than disqualified her as an instructor. The best the needle wielder could hope to do was wage emotional warfare in the hopes to reinforce emotional and mental states, but the reality remained that her tongue could inflict more harm than good. So rather than verbally assault anyone, well at least openly, she had seized the opportunity to reinforce a training of her own sorts amongst the physical strain. The wide variety of abrasions ranging from light scathing to deep wounds, risks of infection, shattered bones, concussions and the likes, ensured an opportunity to increase the capabilities of the young members of the Butterfly Estate; though she would never openly confess to Kanao, Shinobu wanted to ensure her protégés wound remain a pillar after her passing. An inevitable fate that awaited her as the last of her biological line, her parents and youngest sibling having passed in her formative years, followed her older sister in death. Yes, the Insect Pillar had adapted the training to ensure that those she left behind would have the tools to survive. To remain. To live.

                Aoi Kanzaki had more than proven herself capable, the blanched cloth snagged over her adjusted uniform. The sweat of her brow drawn and the height of her blue eyes focused. Her quick response and steadfast nature had only stumbled a few times upon this training endeavor; fair enough, some of the wounds inflicted by Uzui were… creative. His laughter regenerating Aoi in moments of exhaustion, the distant memory of his near abduction of her eliciting her stubborn response. If left to her own devices, she may even be tempted to strangle him should he need medical care. Such moments of befuddled were quickly remedied. She had always been a fast learner, as well as a reliable caretaker. The three youngest members of the estate had noticeably fatigued. Half of Sumi’s hair had been unbound from her ponytails, the blue butterfly clip barely clinging to the frays of her hair. While the green motif of Naho’s hair had remained untouched, the smear of dirt and sweat, muddled against her cheek and the white of her dress from her fumble down the mountain side was in great company with the strain of Kiyo’s pink sash that had been tied to her waste half torn and ragged. The collar had fallen open upon her neck as though she had been shaken. Not that any such subordinates would dare with Shinobu overseeing their efforts. Her hand guiding the practice wrappings of the formative members. Their progress evident, and gaining traction despite their noticeable exhaustion. Uzui had kept them busy, and with the Hashira matches having taken place, they had been more than set up for a variety of inflictions.

                The draw of your blade, noticeably smaller than your opponents drew Kocho’s attention from the wrappings between her fingers. Metal released from its sheath, harmonious as a melody. A distant song from a forgotten memory she could not place. Your voice, loud and bold had drawn her gaze. Muichiro only slightly taller than you, but equally as frail in stature. His long hair flushed in the wind carried the poise of your blade, a match not to be missed from what she could gather from the onlookers humming. Their excitement and eagerness to witness to the scuffle radiating, drawing quite the crowd and spectacle.  To be expected, her information of the ranks had long since indicated your capabilities. Few could draw the attention of the former Sound Hashira, let alone receive the honor of tsuguku. Though this was the first time she had the opportunity to appraise you for herself—long missions had kept introductions from her for quite some time, and admittedly, she had dodged introductions as well. Anyone who could garnish Uzui’s instruction was likely cut from similar material, and in this moment, she could see small resemblances that trembled her resolve.

                Raven hued strains of hair that ruffled in the wind. As though the feathers of a bird, crpped near the ears, and meticulously maintained. Luscious and well cared for in appearance, thick enough to draw the envy of any woman. Piercing lilac eyes that met over long eye lashes crafted from the gods, telling traces of a kokeshi doll. The saturation giving way to peculiar shades of purple. No, not quite violet, nor were they pink in tone. A hushed shade of fuchsia the ends of your bangs, to the traces of your locks that met at your neck reminiscent the petals of tree fuchsia. The draw of your lilac eyes excited and bold as you declared your intentions to meet the Mist Hashira in combat. The offset of age almost humorous in the way you composed yourself, eager as the grin that met your lips. Noticeably older than your opponent, and quickly dismissed by the younger swordsman. “Uzui’s nincompoop,” Muichiro had sighed before the callous of his hand met the ito of his handle. Still against the jostle of the crowd, both of you matched eye to eye. The first to draw none other than the Mist Hashira, quick to dispose of you and move onto the next challenger. The draw of your footing quick in the evade, unable to draw upon an opening as Muichiro’s blade met your own.  Footing crossed, delicate as you weaved through the well trained swordman’s precise grades. Mixed match speed, as the retiree Hashira’s tsuguko drawing the praise of the boisterous man. Shinobu could only fathom the training the man had etched into your bones. Nor did she really wish to inquire. The trio of girls voices gasped and shrilled in the way they leaned forward. The rare slip of their own age drawing a warm smile from the Insect Hashira as she allowed the medic camp to enjoy their time as spectators. More than content to observe her self.

                “Your footing has improved, but your grasp is loose,” Muichiro observed. “You’re predictable, too.”

                Blade against dagger. Seized opportunities to attempt to slide as close to the swordsman as the chances arose. Almost tactless in the way you attempted to seize the opportunity, allowing him the opportunity to parry your blade quickly and efficiently.  Practically toyed into the palm of his hand, guided across the layout. Your speed the only warrant that kept the swordsman on his toes, having underestimated the pace you had mastered. Sigh of annoyance, nor hint of sweat touched upon Muichiro’s features. “First Form: Teru-Teru-Bozu, Teru Bozu.” Caught by surprise, the unfamiliar tone shift. The caught of the swordsman gaze only active at the melodious press of your lips. “ashita tenki ni shite o-kure,” a smile delicate and weaved, slip of a tongue as enchanting as the words tumbled from your lips, and shattered her heart. “Itsuka no yume no sora no yo ni,” distant memories. Some touchable, no faint. “Haretara kin no suzu ageyo,” rain dolls weaved as your parents soothed your small frame. The touch of fuchsia painted upon a small child’s features. “teru-teru-bozu, teru bozu,” The flip of your frame, the sight of your back to her now. The small child who had eagerly reached for Kanae, the small whelp of tears that clung to the ends of your long eyelashes. Her warm giggle as she brushed your hair from your eyes, the same hands that desperately sought her comfort now wielding a blade. “watashi no negai wo kilta nara.” Your movements swift as a song, as longing for sunlight on a rainy day. Fluid as a dance, oh how you used to dance to mother’s songs as she hung the laundering. “Amai O-sake wo tanto nomasho,” fingers that gripped your dagger toes that tipped around the taller swordsman fluid as a melody. How your fingers had clutched the edges of her sleeves, tugged upon them in the dead of a winter night before slipping into the bedding. “teru-teru-bozu, teru bozu,” the resolve undeniable weaved into the tint of your eyes, the once sweet touch of beni imo. How you had looked to her when the children in the neighborhood had teased you.  No more capable of fending for yourself, she had elicited justice in her rage. Evidence of that same child bleached from your essence, grounded and capable. “teru-teru-bozu, teru bozu,” the blood had stained the earth. Shattered her existence, ripped her from her home, and the peaceful world she had known. H-her mother’s scream. “ashita tenki ni shite o-kure,” no, no your father had relinquished his life. Tried his best to shield his family, slaughtered in a moment. Horror, how your mother had clutched your small form to her breast, the blood that had radiated from you flesh. The sickening crunch of bonest, your wailing silenced and lsot to the earth. “sore de mo kumotte naitetara,” K-Kanae had checked, soothed your lifeless body to her chest. Himejima- Himejima had evaluated your vital signs. The Stone Hashira had prayed over your corpse, had entrusted your burial to the villagers. H-How had—Lazarus Syndrome. Echoed across her thoughts, practically robbed her of her senses. A term she had come across in a foreign medical book. Rattled her bones. “Sonata no kubi wo chan to kiru zo.”

                Metal screeched, fended and blocked. The dance of mist that had met song, elusive as a siren’s wail.  Shattered against a dagger before finding a solid mark into your arm. Not enough to inflict permeant damage, nor retire you from duty, but as the first to draw blood, Muichiro had succeeded in the match. The victor sheathing his blade, turquoise eyes that had once been listless and bored, now interested to meet your lilac gaze. The shuffle of bows, the plop of your bottom before the medical tint as your eyes appraised the depth of damage the Mist Hashira had inflicted. The knot that had formed in her throat as you sat before her, oblivious to the way her eyes traced you. Traced out memories, etched out childhood fondness. How she had sworn you annoyed her to no end, the small scuffles Kanae had been left to sort out when your parents were immersed in work.  The small scuff of a scar, that scar. She had gifted you so many years ago, carved it into your cheek. Marred your delicate face, in a tussle over a simple pinwheel toy. [YN]. Fought her senses and decorum. Understood duty, defined its necessities in the way the Insect Hashira’s quivering fingers found the bandages at her side.  Trembled at the grasp of your sliced training clothing. Delicate, and tremoring as she peeled back the layers. Blood, your blood. Forced the purse of air as she steeled herself. Demanded her attention. To disinfect. To bind the bleeding. It wasn’t fatal—she understood it was nothing more than the casualty of sparing. Yet, she could not cease the quiver of her frail fingers, nor silence the unceremonious way she near choked upon her own spit as her plum eyes met your own, curious. So, unaware. Trembled her resolve in the tilt of your head, gauged her reaction. So. Fucking. Stupid. As younger siblings often were, no, no. she reprimanded herself, you were a child. A small child. D-did you even remember her? K-Kanae, h-had you forgotten her? “Lady Kocho, are you alright?”

                The formality that tore the final blow. Seared her, branded her distance. Revealed the horrors of that fateful day when your family had been torn asunder. Shreds of the Kocho clan left danced upon the wind. Oh, gods above, they had left your corpse—no, left you to be raised by strangers. By Uzui.  The wide of her eyes, and tears that threatened to fall from her bottom lashes, the confusion touched upon your face. How could she ever explain, no did she even have the right to? W-where you happy as you were? Unaware. The small sniffle that found her slender nose, and the compulsion that found her soft smile despite the aching knot of her heart. The way her fingers slipped between the folds of your hair, patted and soothed. K-Kanae had told her how to do this once, a life time ago. When Shinobu had mistakenly snatched your ginger root. Your older sister had guided her, demonstrated how to sooth the end of your hairs in the way you favored. Offered a dumpling to substitute your stolen bite, now reflected in the way she touched upon your head. The wrinkle of your brow, “Miss Kocho?”

                “Y-yes,” The Insect Hashira lamented. Distant memories sweet as they were bitter. Familiar as they were distant, as the child who she had mourned unlike the adult before her. Unexpected, and yet, anticipated in the way life trudges forward. Contemplated the verge of death, and edged upon her heart. To be allowed the opportunity to sooth you as once loved. The ease of your shoulders, and the small blushed that caught your cheeks. Muddled in your thoughts and her actions, there is the child I know. The tease of her smile, in one that only an older sister could provide a younger sibling.

“Yes, I’m alright now.”

[demispark]

I Swear Mickey Did Not Abandon a Woman in Hell For Over A Decade (In Defense of Kingdom Heart's Mickey Mouse)

Excellent question! @notbrucewayne48 and @mintchocolatemagic , Mickey Mouse did not do anything wrong, and I will explain why.

Firstly, please leave you The Walt Disney Company-based opinions of Mickey by the door. If you have negative opinions of Mickey as a result of him being the mascot of an evil all-consuming corporation, those don't really apply here. Mickey Mouse, in Kingdom Hearts, is the king of Disney Castle and a talented Keyblade Wielder.

People seem to have a lot of animosity towards Mickey Mouse in Kingdom Hearts. Maybe its because his reputation has been ruined by the corporation he represents, I can't say for sure. It's fine if you don't like the guy or think he's annoying, but it personally grates on my nerves when people let that color his depiction and actions in the Kingdom Hearts franchise.

This post ended up pretty long, so if this is way too long of a post, I recommend reading the first two paragraphs, watching the video, and reading the last paragraph. Maybe not as good as a TL;DR, but it should give you enough context and understanding without taking up too much of your time.

Beyond this point, SPOILERS for basically the entire Kingdom Hearts series up to KHIII, excluding the mobile games.

To begin with, what am I even on about? That title is a pretty extreme and ridiculous statement, after all. So, here's the plan: I'm going to show you the clip, and then we'll go through the relevant points on the timeline to examine the truth of this claim.

Here is the claim, made by the supposed victim herself: Keyblade Master Aqua.

Aqua claims that Mickey abandoned her in the Realm of Darkness, knowing full well what a decade trapped there would do to her. However, her statements contradict reality at multiple points, likely due to the effects that sustaining an attack filled with darkness and being submerged in the waters of The Dark Margin, as well as the mental toll of being stuck in the Realm of Darkness for over a decade.

To figure out where everything went wrong, let's turn back the clock by about 11 years, to see where this all started.

At the end of Birth By Sleep, a prequel taking place a decade prior to KH1, Aqua is with Mickey in the tower of the wizard Yen Sid. Following the final battle at the Keyblade Graveyard against Master Xehanort and Vanitas (we'll get to them later, don't worry), Aqua and her friends are in bad shape. Aqua was really the only survivor, with Terra going missing and Ventus' heart being shattered, leading it to sleep elsewhere until it could recover (we'll get to them as well). Mickey, Aqua, and Ven were blown away after defeating Vanitas and destroying Xehanort's attempt to forge the X-Blade (Pronounced the same as Keyblade, and good lord we will get to that later), and Mickey brought Aqua and Ven to Yen Sid.

Leaving alone, and not really having told anyone at the tower where she was going, Aqua returns to her old home, the Land of Departure. There, she drops off Ven's sleeping body, and uses the Keyblade of her now-deceased Master to transform the land into a confounding castle that we'll come to know as Castle Oblivion. Following this, she senses Terra's voice and goes to a world called Radiant Garden. It is here that Aqua discovers the truth of Terra's disappearance. Terra had been manipulated throughout his journey to be consumed by darkness, which Xehanort took advantage of. Using his own Keyblade, he removed his heart and sent it into Terra's body, possessing it.

Long story short, Aqua won the fight but failed to free Terra, and he began to sink into the darkness. Aqua dove in after him, using her Keyblade Armor to protect herself and her glider to attempt to get herself and Terra out of the darkness. Realizing that herself and Terra were too heavy and wouldn't make it out in time, Aqua sent Terra ahead with her Keyblade and armor, launching him out of the darkness as she sank into it.

This will be very important later, so remember it, I won't be getting into it in this post, but it will come back later.

This is where she spent the next decade, wandering through the Dark World and the remnants of worlds that had fallen into the darkness, plagued by hallucinations, phantoms, wave after wave of Heartless, and even a dark reflection of herself that pointed out all of her mistakes and gave a voice to all of her intrusive thoughts.

Mickey didn't know where Aqua went, and it isn't easy to just enter the Dark World, so he was not able to find her. Between being the King of a world and training to become a Keyblade Master, he likely didn't have time to look for her forever, either.

Do we see Aqua sitting around waiting for help to come, as she claims? Nope.

... 0.2 - A Fragmentary Passage is an interesting game.

Anyway, silly new accessories aside, we see Aqua traveling though the Realm of Darkness, enduring the previously mentioned hardships. Here, she encounters Mickey, who slipped in via a world that was in the process of falling to darkness. He explains that the worlds are in trouble, and that he is searching for a Keyblade of the darkness, a counterpart to Sora's that will allow them to seal the Door to Darkness.

This coincides with the ending of Kingdom Hearts 1. After battling through more powerful Heartless, Aqua and Mickey see Riku running towards the Door to Darkness, and are beset by a Demon Tide, a powerful storm of basic Heartless known as Shadows. Aqua attempts to hold them off, which allows Mickey and Riku to assist Sora, Donald, and Goofy in sealing the Door from their side. Aqua tells Mickey to go on without her, before losing control of the Demon Tide and getting swept away. Her ending monologue is resolute, however, prepared to face the darkness and act as a guiding light for whomever finds themself trapped in the Realm of Darkness next.

Not only was this Aqua's choice, her sacrifice, but she stood by it. So what happened, and why didn't Mickey return for her immediately? The simple answer is that Mickey had a lot of more urgent things to worry about than assuming a Keyblade Master couldn't take care of themself.

Immediately after this, Mickey needs to look after Riku and get them out of the Realm of Darkness. This leads into Re:Chain of Memories.

Sora and Co. could help, except that they had their memories tampered with, and will spend the next year asleep while false memories are removed and their forgotten memories are put back in place.

Riku has been struggling with the darkness throughout KH1 and Re:CoM, so he isn't in the best place to be thrust back into the darkness.

Over this next year, the threat of creatures called Nobodies and the sinister Organization XII rears its head, and Riku doesn't exactly get better with his darkness.

Forced to rely on the darkness, Riku transforms into the spitting image of the man who used his darkness and possessed him - Ansem, Seeker of Darkness - and this isn't exactly great for his mental state, either.

Sora was weakened by his journey through Castle Oblivion in Re:CoM, and with the threat of the Organization looming, the hero had his work cut out for him before Mickey would even dare asking him for help.

Sora and Riku, who has finally gotten his darkness under control, end up at the Dark Margin by the end of KHII, but do not encounter Aqua there. Since Aqua was not there, the attack that overwhelmed her with darkness and sent her flying into the water that was mentioned earlier must have happened between the final world of KHII and this scene. They manage to escape, and return to the Realm of Light.

Sora and Riku rest back at their home, the Destiny Islands, during the events of Re:Coded, and eventually receive a message from Mickey calling them to Yen Sid's tower. These boys need to get better, hopefully becoming Keyblade Masters, in order to rescue the fallen Keyblade Wielders from their fates and prepare for the upcoming final battle. Dream Drop Distance comes and goes, and Riku is named a Keyblade Master.

Prior to the events of Kingdom Hearts 3, Mickey relays his experience in the Realm of Darkness with Aqua, to which Riku angrily questions why Mickey never told him or attempted a rescue.

You should know the answer to that by now.

Mickey explains that he respected Aqua's wishes, just as he did for Riku in the past, stubbornly refusing to tell Sora anything about his missing friend during KHII, as Riku was dealing with the whole Ansem and darkness thing and made Mickey promise not to tell Sora.

Yen Sid also chimes in, pointing out that if Sora and Riku had found out, they would've recklessly tried to find a way into the Realm of Darkness to stage an ill-fated rescue mission.

Now, however, the time has finally come. Since Mickey's Kingdom Key D is a Keyblade from the Dark Realm, he could use it to enter the Realm of Darkness without having to use the incredibly unreliable and dangerous method of waiting for a world to fall into darkness.

Mickey and Riku suit up in some new darkness-resistant threads made by Yen Sid and the Three Good Fairies (of Sleeping Beauty fame), and set out for the Dark Realm.

This doesn't go well, to say the least, leading to Mickey and Riku's Keyblades being damaged. Mickey's is recovered and used to create the Star Cluster (which Aqua can be seen picking up in the video shown at the beginning of this post), while Riku leaves the pieces of his behind and recieves a brand-new Keyblade.

Second time's the charm, and now we are all caught up to the aforementioned clip from KHIII.

Anti-Aqua happens, Sora shows up via the power of friendship and following his heart (oversimplification, you know KH isn't that simple), and Aqua is finally rescued from this dark hell.

So, to wrap it all up, Mickey very much did not abandon Aqua. Aqua disappeared off the face of the worlds - literally all of them - for ten years, sacrificed herself to protect Mickey, Riku, and the worlds when Mickey finally did find her, and then Mickey simply did not have the time or resources to stage a rescue mission that actually would've worked in the year or two following his original trip in the Realm of Darkness.

Thank you for joining me on this rather long-winded case. I feel like my writing ended up being a little stiff due to all of the recapping I was doing, so if you have any critiques I would love to hear them!

Until next time, may your heart be your guiding key.

[thelemonsnek]

There are a lot of fun questions that come about from a tma-verse. How faithful are we talking. Are they full blown Avatars? Do they have to feed their patron? If so how would they go about it? I do believe a subway system would be pretty rich in targets as they have commuters that come day in and day out.

[vibrating at a speed that shatters glass] I am SO glad you asked

It is very faithful to tma canon, because instead of being eebied to Hisui, Ingo instead ends up in tma London! So the first part of the au is quite literally in tma. There's a whole running gag that Jon used to be into pokemon, and he gives Ingo and Emmet a copy of Pokemon White to play and they mark it with the Spiral and Buried respectively, and eventually it just gets marked by so many different avatars that that's what starts the apocalypse instead of the statement Elias gives Jon. Ingo and Emmet do get back to the pokemon universe before that happens though so it's fineeeeee

(They also bring the entities to the pokemon universe in coming home)

Are they full blown avatars?

Yes they are!! Ingo became an avatar when he became the Distortion, and Emmet became an avatar to escape Ingo's subway :)

For context on that, when Ingo and Emmet first reunited, it. Didn't go well! Because Michael had latched onto Ingo as a perfect victim (he was literally questioning the entire foundation of his reality, how could Michael resist?) and used Ingo's vague memories to torment him with the idea of the man in white

So Ingo doesn't think Emmet is real, and they end up fighting, and in that fight it comes up that Ingo has been eating people bc. He's the Distortion, that's what the Distortion does. And Emmet is like WHAT THE FUCK. THATS NOT OKAY. And anyways things continue and Ingo is convinced of Emmet's realness and is like oohhhh. He was important to the person Ingo. He could make me be that person again (bc the Distortion is a what, not a who, but just like Helen, he wants that anyways)

So he says to Emmet, "I have missed you so much. We can catch up, on the subway" and there, impossibly on the wall, is a sliding door leading to a subway car

Ingo is Emmet's brother. He will always trust him. He walks through the door, and finds himself in an impossible, endless subway

By now their argument has caught up with Ingo, and he's like. Ah. Emmet, the thing that anchored me to myself for the first time, said I shouldn't eat people. So I won't. And he goes on a hunger strike

Problem is, because of him doing that, Emmet can't get out. There is no out

But, a pressure at the back of his head whispers, there is a way down. And he Becomes, and begins to understand why Ingo took those people. He understands, because he has his own subway now

Do they have to feed their patron?

Also yes :) and yes, the subway is a verrrry convenient way to feed, especially since their domains are both subways as well! Very verrrry easy to be in a rush to get to your destination and take the wrong door :)

It's a bit of a perfectly awful situation really! They're both each other's anchors, which is great because they're good anchors to their sense of selves. The problem is, they kind of have this massive echo chamber going on, where as long as the other agrees and says that the act was justified, anything goes. And of course, with feeding, it keeps the other person healthy and alive. Why wouldn't they want their brother, their anchor, to stay safe? So their morals degrade rather rapidly!!

As far are their domains go, they're both differently flavored subways that have some degree of overlap (meaning it's possible to start in one, and end up in the other). Ingo's an endless maze that should not be possible. Trains that just never stop, stairwells that go on forever only to lead to nowhere, windows that show cities that don't exist

Emmet's is much more centered around the claustrophobia of the subways. Passageways that are a little too small, ceilings that are surely too cracked to hold, the weight of the world bearing down above you, held off only by the flimsy, crumbling cement. The trains are tight, dirty. There's never enough light to properly see anything

This video reminds me a lot of Ingo's subway :)

And this post is both of them tbh, in my tags I explain how it's Emmet, Ingo I think is self explanatory

[polysyndetonaddictsupportgroup]

Oh my *god, in most recent chapter of Sea Glass Gardens, the line “It would make sense, being afraid of the nuclear boy. He didn’t mean to make them afraid,” shattered my heart into approximately seventeen million pieces. I think I audibly sucked in a breath when I first read it. Absolute devastation. God, it’s fantastic!! I want to shake your Yuuta like an etch-a-sketch ❤️

See, I really like that line because it really does go to what an unreliable narrator Yuuta is. Nanami and Shoko weren’t afraid of Yuuta. If anything, they were afraid for Yuuta.

Yuuta’s deeply uncomfortable and embarrassed with what he’s experiencing. First, he’s aware that his emotions towards Megumi have exploded past what would normally be acceptable. Which, again, isn’t his fault. It’s a direct side effect of the level of reverse cursed energy he used on Megumi.

I’ve said this in several other places, but this was partially inspired by when I got concussed out of my mind and lost all emotional control. I never cry normally and then I spent weeks weeping and having violent outbursts against my own alarm in the morning. It can be kind of alarming to normally have very solid control of yourself and then completely lose it. It kind of gives me body horror vibes.

I also just like the JJK theme of nothing’s free. And while this isn’t exactly a direct cost imposed, it does impose a negative consequence on gaining reverse cursed energy. Sure, you can heal anyone, but it may destabilise you in an embarrassing way that doesn’t have a way to heal.

And the thing is that it makes Yuuta feel like he’s to blame even if he objectively isn’t.

Overwhelming or driving love that doesn’t have a basis in reality just makes me really uncomfortable, personally. Like, you know that love isn't genuine because it can't possibly be sourced in the person themself. Love can make for an incredibly interesting or compelling motivation or conflict in a story, but if you want love to be healthy (and real), you really need it to be sourced in actual, established knowledge of a person. It's sort of what Maki is talking about at the end of the chapter--there's no such thing as soulmates. Love is a thing you build.

**Minor Spoilers for the manga in this paragraph** It's honestly one of the reasons why I didn't like Hana just as a character design. Just so much of her character and motivation centered on her feelings for Megumi, and she didn't know Megumi. Sure, he saved her as a kid, but she knew nothing of his personality, his likes or dislikes. That kind of sort of baseless affection just makes me uncomfortable. You say that you love them but who do you even think they are?

Which begs the question as to why I just used it in my own work.

When I say a trope or character dynamic makes me uncomfortable, it's almost never absolute. It's up to how it's treated by the narrative. Like, I hate it when it's played straight or genuine, because it can make for a really unhealthy dynamic but the narrative for some reason insists on it being played as a good thing. But Death Note used this exact device with Misa Amane, and I loved it, because how wrong and unhealthy it was was the entire point. The narrative never tried to sell Misa's love for Light as a good thing or as a genuine emotional bond between them. He was always a fantasy to her, and it came to their mutual detriment because it led to her being manipulated and used by him and him having to. be near her.

Yuuta’s emotional response to Megumi is a legitimate source of distress for him. It was never genuine. I wanted there to be some kind of consequence or cost for reverse cursed energy. Since cursed energy is so heavily tied to emotions—both with how negative emotions builds up into curses, and with how being near cursed energy results in ominous feelings—I thought it’d be appropriate to have the opposite emotional response from positive energy.

I also thought that canon just barely had enough room for it to be a possibility. We only see one instance of reverse cursed energy being consciously learned (since Yuuta’s original use of it was canonically subconscious and while in a state of intense emotional distress), and that’s Gojo after his fight with Toji. He was high. He felt amazing, to the point where he couldn’t even feel anything about Riko’s death. Like, yeah, I assumed (and I think most people did) that was some kind of reaction with his Six Eyes and unlocking his full potential, but I don’t remember it ever being explicitly stated. I decided there was space to say that was a reaction to using RCT on a mass scale.

Which is why Yuuta actually says the exact same line as Gojo at one point: The world just feels so damn good right now.

But it just didn’t really do anything narratively to have him feel like he was high or like, seeing shrimp colors the way Gojo did. It didn’t make for compelling conflict. All it would do was have him act completely out of it and a bit looney in the aftermath, and that 1) would have been tonally dissonant with the more serious conversations that needed to follow and 2) would realistically lead him to be cut out of the loop entirely. Like, thank you for your service, Yuuta, everyone’s impossibly grateful to you for restarting Megumi’s heart, but you’re high as fuck and need to go lie down until you start existing on the same spectrum as the rest of humanity again. Please leave the room, guy who is the sole narrator of the fic. We sure don’t need you there, seeing everything.

So I also decided that there was space for tailored responses to positive energy. After all, cursed energy feels different by user, to the point where people can recognize the person it originated from just by how it feels. So I decided that it wasn’t just that positive energy made you feel amazingly good—it made you feel whatever positive emotion felt best to you.

And Yuuta, who had always been so very lonely, suddenly felt that he was not alone.

It wasn’t even that the reverse cursed energy made him specifically love Megumi, per se. It’s more that his brain filled in the blanks. Like, our own brains will lie to us all the time. It was being bombarded with an overwhelming sense of youarefinallynotaloneyouarefinallynotaloneyouarefinallyfinallynotalone, and his own brain filled in the gaps by tying that sense to Megumi, who it seemed to be most directly related to.

It was never real love. It couldn’t be. Yuuta didn’t know him. And Yuuta knew that, logically, but there was just nothing he could do to stop the feeling.

Now, a lot of people would look at that irrational, unprecedented emotional response and say “wow, something is medically wrong with me” and consult a doctor. I actually realized that my concussion was way worse than I thought it was because I could not stop weeping over minor inconveniences and I was like “what the fuck? I am never like this” and went back to the urgent care.

But I didn’t think Yuuta would, because I think Yuuta views his love fundamentally as a bad thing that happens to other people.

Yuuta repeatedly blames himself for things that honestly aren’t really his fault. Rika is the biggest example of it. He blames himself for everything that happened to her, but honestly? He was a little boy who just had his best friend mowed down in front of him. He didn’t even know that he had powers. The only thing he did was just… not want her to die.

This isn’t a habit he’s shaken by the end of JJK0. When he finds out that he cursed Rika, the first thing he says is that it’s all his fault. Not just for her, but for the people that got hurt. For Geto coming after him and almost killing his friends.

Which is a fucking wild takeaway. “It’s my fault that grown man planned and executed my premeditated murder and my friends got hurt voluntarily attempting to save me.” Like. Yuutas not to blame for any of that shit. He blamed himself instead of the adult man who tried to kill him.

Yuuta blaming himself for his irrational emotions around Megumi is just an extension of his own self-hate and tendency to take responsibility for things outside of his control. He’s waiting for his love to be a bad thing again. He gets this irrational, uncontrollable surge of affection around Megumi, and all he can think is “please don’t let me hurt you too”. He keeps insisting that he won’t hurt Megumi because he’s the one concerned about that.

Which is the sort of tint cast over his reading of everything else. He sees Nanami and Shoko’s concern, and he superimposes on a fear of him instead of for him. It’s not accurate at all; he’s just an unreliable narrator.

Nanami and Shoko are actually the most predisposed to be sympathetic to yuuta—shoko went through this herself, and Nanami watched it happen. They’re never worried he’ll hurt Megumi; they’re worried he’ll hurt himself.

And of course they are. Yuuta is visibly distressed, and they can’t give him anything to help. But Yuuta is, fundamentally, an unreliable narrator. He filters what’s happening through his own mental state, which is never good.

[silo1013]

need you to talk about the “the red and the black” scene like what are your first thoughts

YESSSS YES OF COURSE….

first of all this scene is gay. just to get that out of the way now. i know we all know it is but it’s worth reiterating.

second of all even outside of that particular connotation this scene is also just extremely visually and impressionally odd. it’s intense! it’s charged! it’s creepy and weird! the entire sequence has a delightful strangeness to it—the almost nonexistent lighting turns mulder and krycek into living shadows, both their voices are hushed and quiet as if they’re afraid someone else is going to hear them even though they’re in mulder’s apartment alone, it’s shot in a way that makes them look like they’re across the room from each other even though they can’t be more than a foot apart. it makes it seem not real, like a dream that mulder is having that he won’t be able to wake from until it’s done with him; mulder’s night-dark living room becomes his tired mindscape, krycek a warped reflection of himself.

the cryptic note that “things are looking up” lends an air of delicious cinema to it all—it’s so incongruous it loops back around to being perfectly in keeping. it’s the sort of thing you’d expect from a spy novel, a murder mystery, a point-and-click escape-the-room video game. it’s really not the kind of thing that the syndicate does but it IS something you get the sense that the well manicured man would do, which is cool, because it makes it seem like krycek’s new boss is sort of… monitoring the entire interaction, which in turn makes the fact that mulder and krycek are acting like they’re being watched even more interesting. there’s a sort of surreal quality to the entire scene that is very obviously and abruptly shattered by the arrival of scully to mulder’s apartment—she turns on the lights, breaks the spell, brings mulder back down to earth by injecting the situation with a syringe full of reality like she almost always does.

you and i have definitely tossed this around before but the emotional crux of this scene i think very heavily leans on the sort of like. bizarre innate Understanding. that mulder and krycek have with each other. even though it sort of feels like neither of them WANT to have it? like, krycek isn’t here of his own accord—we can infer that the well manicured man has sent him—but his boss is probably not ordering him to present the information to mulder in this specific weird way. i doubt the well manicured man cares how krycek tells mulder anything as long as he does it. krycek is here because he was told to be, but he’s here in this way, as the silhouette in the dark corner, the monster under the bed, the man-upon-the-stair-who-wasn’t-there, because… of course he is. like, he has to be. neither he nor mulder have a choice in the matter—they can’t just walk up to each other and have a conversation the way they may have used to, because they’re literally no longer capable of it within the confines of the story. they have to play mind games, they have to lunge from the shadows and leave cryptic clues and beat the shit out of each other over and over because something, in a weird cosmic way, is always demanding it.

krycek gives mulder a kiss—an action which has several purposes, one of which IS definitely to fuck with mulder. i think krycek thinks that mulder will be more likely to believe him if he does something that throws mulder off balance, because unpredictability is paradoxically what mulder has grown to expect from krycek, to the point where it reassures mulder (who’s currently mentally kind of off balance anyway) that this is, like, still the same person he thinks it is. i think it’s probably a taunt on some level, and maybe also a legitimate expression of …. not affection exactly, but comraderie? in whatever weird way krycek is experiencing it. even though mulder has no idea yet what they’re now comrades in or why. it feels like a joke that krycek is having with himself.

he then gives mulder his gun and proceeds to fully turn his back on him to leave—it’s another game he has to play, and he knows mulder isn’t going to shoot him. mulder can never be straight with krycek because metanarratively speaking krycek is mulder, and mulder is historically not good at being straight with himself, but mulder also could never. like. i think he’s CAPABLE of doing that to himself but i don’t think he would be able to rationalize it. just like he couldn’t rationalize the idea of killing krycek—and in fact, he never does! it’s actually kind of funny how they’re physically not allowed to be honest and stop fucking with each other (even if it’s for one of them to kill the other!) because something will not let them, and they know this, and it’s making both of them, like, visibly insanely angry. this is where they always end up, somehow, for some reason, in endless different permutations forever, until someone else shoots one of them. destiny and fate and how to throw a curve ball.

they (being mulder and scully) talk about this in quagmire, sort of, and i think something that contributes to the sort of vaguely tragic nature of mulder as a character is the fact that for him, sometimes the pursuit of truth is what he lives for, not so much the truth itself. catching big blue would have invoked the same emotional response as catching the giant alligator, because big blue itself is not what matters—what matters is the mystery, and either way, the mystery is over. that phenomenon is what krycek is representing in this scene; that’s his metaphorical purpose, independent of his relationship to mulder as a character and as a person. it’s a very interesting parallel to the scene of scully and jeffrey spender in the x files office, which we can assume even might be happening concurrently. scully’s disquiet over the situation with ruskin dam, her experience with regression hypnosis, etc is leading her closer towards finally starting to believe, but spender showing her that tape pours a pitcher of water over the burgeoning spark. at the same time, mulder thinks he’s finally found the truth—the truth being that it’s all a lie—and it’s left him disappointed, empty, cold. his flames have gone out. krycek brings news that the mystery might not actually be solved, holding a match to the cooling embers, rekindling the fire that mulder has lost. the episode casts both spender and krycek less as men and more as metaphors, agents of thought, and it ends, maybe disappointingly, with mulder and scully back where they started, in the places the powers that be always seem to want them—mulder the believer, scully the skeptic.

lastly, independent of the feeling of the scene, i want to mention the stuff that’s actually being talked about. obviously i haven’t finished the show yet so YMMV on how much you agree with me at this point, but in my opinion this part of the show (i.e. mid season five) is where they seem to start losing their handle on the myth arc. the stuff about planned alien colonization, “interstellar war”, it’s kind of cartoonish and dumb and i don’t really like it. i’ve mentioned before that i wish the central conflict of the myth arc was slightly more down to earth (lol); i would have preferred something a bit less, i don’t know, fantastical. maybe instead of the aliens planning to invade and colonize the earth, they’re just exploring. they’re not harmless by any means (i think the whole idea of the black oil was absolutely marvelous and arguably i think that sort of thing is scarier when it’s not something actively malicious but rather something that just causes harm by existing) but they don’t care enough about us to gun for us. the conflict maybe comes even from the government; they’re picking up the stuff the aliens leave behind (technology, biomatter, etc) and using it for their own purposes (human experimentation, military applications), probably in ways that benefit them politically or financially, and the conflict comes from what they’ve done to people in their efforts to cover it up. just stuff i think about

sorry this got long and took forever i had more to say than i thought i did. tl;dr great scene with a very fascinating vibe from a great episode with a very fascinating vibe. alexa, play “i’ve got all this ringing in my ears but none on my fingers” by fall out boy

[tobiasdrake]

On that note, I think now is a good time to talk for a bit about Maki Harukawa and the challenges she introduces.

Maki is a walking enigma. She's a mystery wrapped in a question mark shaped like twin-tails. Her lab compounds that mystery. That sure is a hostile looking door for the Ultimate Child Caregiver, isn't it? And while we're all out and about checking out everyone's labs, why is she standing guard at hers to block anyone from peeking in?

Well, if you did look inside, you would find racks upon racks of deadly weapons. Assault rifles, grenades, pipe bombs, knives, anything you need to kill whoever you want dead in the most efficient way imaginable. Because Maki is the Ultimate Assassin.

I do not envy her during the course of 3-2, before her secret comes out. Can you imagine being effectively handcuffed to this door to ensure no one ever finds out your secret? Maki did not have a very good week.

In any case, Maki's effectively V3's take on Tokojack. ...well, one of, but we'll get to him. Oh boy. We will get to him. But for Maki, it feels like lessons were learned. I said back in DR1 that the MPD thing was not only offensive but unnecessary; You could just as easily write Toko as secretly being a serial killer, without having to make her out as a harmful stereotype.

Maki Harukawa is that character. A member of the group whose unassuming Talent masks her true, less savory Talent as a murderer. Someone whose murderous true Talent creates tension in the group when it's discovered. But despite being instantly suspicious the second you know, she never kills anyone over the course of the entire game.

Though not for lack of trying and oh boy is that going to be awesome.

But as I've said before, there's a tension in V3 between the "reality" of the Killing Game and the true reality underlying. With Maki, it's not so much a tension between character and actor, but a tension between character and in-universe writing. Her existence undermines the plot. Because. Well. Tsumugi's not a very good writer, as we've discussed before.

So, according to Tsumugi's script, these kids are literally the last survivors of humankind. A catastrophic meteor shower destroyed the Earth, not only killing off mankind but collapsing the biosphere and making the planet uninhabitable. I think Tsumugi played Horizon: Zero Dawn and enjoyed it immensely.

So, these kids were selected to journey through the stars to a new planet, right? Ignoring the fact that sixteen is not a stable breeding population, we can start to see their utility.

Gonta's Entomology lab is for saving species from the apocalypse. There's probably all kinds of gene samples and cloning shit on the ship somewhere too. Astronaut Kaito's here because we're literally in space and should have someone who knows what he's doing. Inventor Miu's here to design tech. Maid Kirumi's here to keep everyone fed and clothed and clean. Etc. etc.

But. Then you run into the problem of Maki. As a colony ship, an Ultimate Child Caregiver seems vital. But an Ultimate Assassin? There are sixteen people left in the world and the sole job of one of them is to murder the other fifteen? What? That makes no sense, Tsumugi. Why would Maki Harukawa ever have been put on this ship?

It would make sense if she smuggled herself in, like Junko and Mukuro slipping into the group in DR1. But. Uh. NOPE, her lab is filled with deadly weapons she can use to murder the other survivors so that's not it!

Honestly, it feels like this was a last-second throw-in. Like Maki really was supposed to be Ultimate Child Caregiver but then Tsumugi got the idea to make one of her characters a secret assassin. Like, Genocide Jack was a funny character, let's do that again! And then she threw that in there without thinking about what it would do to the integrity of her worldbuilding.

From the perspective of a Killing Game, a character who can be outed as secretly ultra-dangerous is a lot of fun. But Maki's existence shatters the entire premise of the reveals that Tsumugi's trying to build up to.

[brainworms-all-night-long]

So I've been randomly thinking like haha Sonic would be such a Mondstadt character, he's already an orphan with a knack of adventure freedom based mindset and zero self preservation he'd fit right in but a feew strings of thoughts later and it hit me that Mondstadt parents kinda suck????

A city of freedom with its entire economy reliant on selling alcohol is suprisingly a perfect recipe for creating mentaly ill children that probaly say "I don't have it that bad" to themselves on daily basis.

This post is kinda long but I just needed to put all this word salad somewhere, it has been stewing in my brain ever since Mika came out and it was finally put to words.

Like we have probably the most agredious example in Diona who is a child bartender that hates alcohol sounds contradictory right? Exept she hates alcohol because her dad spends more time at the tavern than with her, and she's a bartender because she wants to make the most revoting concoctions imaginble so people will stop drinking alcohol, while also wanting to destroy the wine industry. All of which sounds silly and over the top, but in her lonely child brain it just makes sense to get rid of the thing her dad chooses over her on the daily, right? All the while she is suffering from succes and subsequently exploited by every adult around her, because of her very neat power which turns every drink she makes into the most fantastic of beverages, no matter the disgusting ingredients used in the proces, and therfore makes the bar she works at a popular destination for drunkards. She just wants to have a dad that cares more for her than the bottle.

Next is Mika, a cryo vision bearer who's character story's first lines read "Mika comes from a loving family" which sounds sweet but suprising for a cryo character, kinda? Exept reading down you realize they might love their child but they, don't really do the whole.. parenting part. They're advetureres that are rarely home and Mika's older brother is usually too drunk to care and has to be covered up for way too often for slacking off on his job as a knight, which forced the poor boy to basically raise himself and steadily develop every anxiety and self esteem disorder and issue there is, because throughout his childhood until now he could never rely on anyone else, be it physicaly or emotionally.

Speaking of adventurer parents that are rarely ever home, Fischl spent most of her days engrossed in library books to distract her from reality of her parents also more ofthen than not fucking off on adventurers without her. In her years she was getting lost yet all too aware in a coping mechanism of play pretend of being an all powerful princess from another world that was exiled and nearly was drained of all her power, while running away from the fact that more emotional attention was given to her by a supernatural raven made of electricity she gained after having a breakdown in a library over her messy identity than her father that shattered her entire sense of self one day. Also more of an angst headcannon but it's possible she joined the adventurer's guild to get closer to her parents while also show them her powers as Fischl just make her one of a kind and most efficient in the field of investigation. But just a thought.

And questionable adventurer parents don't end there because god I have so much to say about Razor but can't atcually articulate it cause theres so little known about them so much is just left for guessing?? The kid was raised by a wolf pack lead by an undead spirit of a demigod composed of ice and wind taking on the form of a seven meter tall wolf. And his human parents, we don't know if alive or dead (they're 100% dead), named him. Razor. Like what the fuck, who names their child like that, put that bottle down and rethink that name. I get it has been nine months since last you had some but by god, Adventurer or not, as a nickname it's ok but girl, he's not a sonic character. Don't name your newborn child as if he was a sonic character. Also that whole being raised by wolves thing, how did that happen???? How and why did he end up in a forest not too long after he had been born, why did no one besides Varka knew about him really and, I mean the kid is now a part of the pack so you can't just take him but why the FUCK WAS HE LEFT WITH THE WOLVES. My working theory is just that his parents were fascinated by wolves and researched them from a safe distance until one day uh oh monsters struck, they got killed conveniently right at Andrius' doorstep who was like "damn you gonna drop your baby here like that- oh oh shit youre dead. Damn my bad what am I supoused to do with this thing tho, I can't leave it there to die too ah fuck-" and adopted the human child known as Razor because the husband was too drunk to stop his also drunk wife (ok I'm exaggerating this a bit but why is his real actual name Razor) and everyone just assumed both the parents and the child died than and there so no one bothered to look for Razor until Varka stumbled upon him that day. But that's literally just a theory/headcannon because Hoyo is allergic to giving us straight answers to character lore questions.

Bennett is a slightly special case because he was- actually one does not know if he was abandoned, his was family killed, or fell as first victim to his luck or if he just spawned in hell one day, but that doesn't really matter because he got cool adoptive adventurer dads that clearly cared for him deeply despite his curse and whatnot when he was a young kid. Exept now his dad's are really old, like have trouble taking care of themselves old. Which leaves Bennett, a former social outcast child(he has friens now that care him), to take care of –we don't actually know how many– old men, some with probably have severe past adventurer injuries. So yea on top of barely surviving the next day because the gods hate him, he also has to work for free as a caretaker of his own parents (but here I can't really blame them cause they're old and did their best while they could)

I don't know anything about Noelle or Sucrose's parent situation. I know there was some messy custody and breakup stuff happening with Jean and Barbara's parents that left an everlasting impact on their relationship as sisters and Albedo's mom caused the apocalypse, but he's not really a mondstader or a teen so he doesn't count

And yea theres Kaeya's and Diluc's dads respectively but Kaeya is not from Mond either and Crepus is dead but seemed to be a nice dad and this post is already way too long so please can we get more lore on these children and some theraphy would be nice too actually.

[kreideprinz69]

And sadly that sentiment isn't just on Tumblr and Reddit. But also on places like TVTropes, where a person who might want to know more about Danganronpa's characters may be liable to go. On his character page, they used his actions in Chapter 5 to slap him with the Hypocrite label. Just... This perception of Nagito as the "Evil Makoto" or being a hypocrite about hope is honestly fucking vile. Of course Nagito feels despair in his heart. He has every goddamn reason to. If you gave Makoto or really any of the other cast members the life Nagito had, they would have turned out pretty much the same way. The revelation he received in Chapter 4 was probably the most soul-crushing one that ANY character in the series has received. Unlike the "Actually the world has gone to shit" and the "Your personalities and backstories were all implanted into you for a reality show" revelations in DR1 and V3, there is no silver lining he could cling to. As far as he's aware, he and all his classmates betrayed everything Hope's Peak stood for and became complete monsters that ruined the world. Including the man that he's infatuated with. He would have had no idea about the brainwashing being a thing considering how Monokuma and AI Junko tried to frame the revelation to the Chapter 6 survivors. ANYONE in that position, with all the extra baggage Nagito had, would feel their spirit break. Including Makoto. His actions in Chapter 5 do not make Nagito weak-willed or a hypocrite. They make him fucking human. And as a side-note, I think the fact that he came to cling on to the concept of hope as a coping mechanism for the shit that he was put through is actually a sign of mental strength, not weakness. Consider what might have happened if he reacted to the insanity of his luck cycle in a different way. Someone else in his position could have just as easily become an uncaring nihilist that gave up on trying anything.

i truly do not understand how people came to the conclusion that nagito is a hypocrite. his actions and motives are arguably some of the most consistent than anyone else in the game. some people lack a lot of media literacy comprehension </3 especially on reddit or twitter… dear god. i try to avoid a lot of it.

take this with a grain of salt because this was something i saw a long time ago; i remember hearing that nagito was supposed to sort of reflect makoto, not as like his “evil” version but just a darker take on him. Hope taken to the unhealthy extreme mixed in with ridiculous amounts of trauma. sounds so pleasant! but they have a lot of similarities and a lot of opposites, which i’ve always found very interesting and they make complete sense if you think about them!

nagito’s character really is just tragic. unfortunately a lot of people put him into a box and don’t try to make much sense of his actions. which trying to fit nagito into a box is already impossible, he’s purposefully a contradictory character- but when you really take a minute to think about all of his actions, it makes complete sense why he does the things he does. i will never understand the lack of empathy some people had for him in chapter 5, he had everything taken from him and his entire world just shattered. the actions he took weren’t good by any means, but he tried so hard to do what he believed was the right thing. ugh i feel just awful for him man. that whole chapter was so well written in my opinion, and it really tied nagito’s whole character together.

and with the part about him clinging onto hope, it’s definitely a sign of strength! he’s a very resilient person and doesn’t get enough credit for it. he had a whole villain origin story and managed to keep trying lol. now this is more of just a theory i’ve had and i don’t have much medical knowledge at all; but i’ve always wondered if some of his obsession with hope had anything to do with his dementia. OCD is a symptom of frontotemporal dementia, and i think the more crazed obsession with hope that we see during the killing game could 100% have overlap with that. i might make a different post going more in depth on that because i think understanding just how nagito’s brain actually works on a fundamental level, gives a lot more insight onto him as a character. there was definitely a lot of research and care put into his character so there’s a lot to pick apart!

[bebx]

Sorry to bother you with this ask. I hope it's not inappropriate (you don't have to answer this if it makes you uncomfortable.)

To put things shortly: I like whump (and, among other things, you're a great wump writer and a nice person, which is why i turned to your ask box). I love hurt/comfort fics where the blorbos i ship go through hell and back only to fall (back) in each other's arms (and, yeah, I love a happy ending).

I've always thought that the *feels* I get come from me worrying about them, from how moved by their resilience I am and, of course, by how worried/protective/feral their partner gets (+ the comfort and reassurance that comes after). I saw it as a "normal" reader (or writer) experience to have such stories move your guts.

Only, recently, I've seen people talk about what they call their "whump awakening" aka the first time they felt "whumpflies", usually between the age 4 and 10. And I realised it happened to me as well.

I can't help to see in those "whumpflies" some kind of s3xual thing (or is it not? and is it something everyone experience to different levels?) and came to see myself as some kind of p3rv' who's been revelling in the suffering of other since a young age. Like what I thought came from my crying at how much they love each other/at how brave they are was just me craving for crude pain. What I thought was some normal reader experience (feel for the characters) was just me mind m4sturbating? I thought I cared and liked my ships and characters which made me feel the feels but was it all a smokescreen?

I do know I have a kink for loss of consciousness (as a fantasy only!!) but, although it may seem hypocritical since when i indulge in it, the scenarii leading to it are mostly whump, I always saw it as something different, definitely separated from my love for whump/hurt comfort (more like something to do with holding/releasing pressure, witnessing and allowing vulnerability).

I also realise that being on the ace spectrum this could be it: my entire s3xuality could only be watching people hurt???

I feel like i must precise that I do not wish to hurt anyone irl. (by the way, I don't especially feel like I want to hurt characters either, more like...put them in situations and be with them if it makes sense...but maybe it's all the same). And yes, I know it's perfectly ok to be into sm but I never really felt it was it?

Now I feel like my entire reality has been shattered. I have projects, fics in the makings, fics i'd like to read, but I'm afraid i'll never manage to do it again. I'm afraid all my assumptions are right and self disgust is all i'll ever be able to feel. I do not know if what I'm having is an panic attack for it's been more than a week now that i've been feeling like that and panic attacks are not supposed to be that long. I wanna scream, cry, stop thinking but i can't. All I manage to do is hold on to a pillow and keep breathing though not in a calm way. I can't sleep at night and i hardly manage to do it during the day.

I tried watching tv but keep thinkings of AU's ideas for fics I'm afraid i'll never be able to write again. Itried drawing but there's always a time i want to throw away the pen. I'm not working this week but i wouldn't manage to anyway. All I do is worry, scream internally, sob pathetically or eat - occasionally but probably too much at a time. I don't read my mails, only repeatedly reload me tumblr wall to see people post about ships and fandoms i crave to come back to but feel like i've lost (even a funny or innocently fluffy fanart doesn't seem to make my heart jump at this point) and it's tearing me down inside as it's such an important part of my life - of me!!

I am already taking pills to help with unrelated anxiety disorder so i can't just keep taking more! I live with my parents so I am not alone but how could i speak to them about it? I'd have to explain I write/read fic and make them understand how much it means to me. Then the part about s3x and my fears ...it's really difficult. I also have an appointment with my therapist next week so i probably should have waited instead of annoying you (which i am once again very sorry about) but this week has already been hell so the thought of waiting for another week was just too much. I am just so tired of being stressed and of hating me and of seeing no future

I just want things to go back to how they where but i can't seem to reconcile all those thoughts spiralling in my brain. I am lost and afraid. Imagining fics/plots has always been not only a joy and a passion but also a way to calm myself down and right now i can't do it and the thought of never being able to do it again is just killing me I...I'm sorry, i just wrote this all mess to you and wondering if with your knowledge and a calmer mind you could have any answer? advice? Experiences to share? i just had to write it down and reach out to someone for i felt like i might have exploded and I'm desperate enough to be annoying...

So thank you if you read it to this point and double thank you if you choose to answer, even if it's just to say you don't really know what to say!

Still wishing you a good day!!

hi, anon! so sorry you experience these feelings. firstly, I just wanted to let you know that you are not annoying me at all and that I deeply appreciate you thinking I’m a great writer who you trust enough to turn to with what’s been bothering you. secondly, your feelings — how you feel — are completely valid. I myself had my first “whump awakening” when I was at a very young age. I think it was when I was about 7 years old? I’m not entirely sure, but I was very young, and back then I didn’t know what it was called, only that I got these sense of euphoria whenever I imagined a scenario in which a character I liked, at that time, went through extreme physical pain, sustained severe injuries. I never told anyone about this, because I didn’t think they would understand. it wasn’t like I thought there was something “wrong” with me, but I did know that I was different than most of the kids my age, because most of them would react differently to the concept of, you know, pain and injuries (I didn’t know about the concept of whump back then.)

that being said, knowing what I know now, I don’t believe there’s anything wrong with liking whump. I’m actually glad to know that there’s a whole community (precisely on tumblr) here where people who are into whump can talk about their experiences, their enjoyment, their whump awakening or even their own creations whether it be in terms of writing and/or drawing, etc. and I’m happy to know there are actually so many people who are also into whump.

now you mentioned you were recently convinced that whump is a sexual thing. I mean, to be honest, whump can be a sexual thing for some people (keywords; for some people, not everyone who enjoys whump sees whump as anything sexual-related at all) within the community. I mean, since there are so many people in this community, of course, some may be enjoying whump for sexual purpose, and that is not a bad thing either (as long as no one in real life is hurt or harmed in any way, of course).

from how I see it, it’s mostly people who aren’t in the whump community — aka people who don’t understand the concept of whump and think we are “red flags” for liking pain and suffering that are strictly fantasy / fictional — who tend to say “people who are enjoying whump are enjoying it because they’re perverts” which is not. true. at. all.

(sure, whump can be a sexual thing — a kink — for some people within the community. because whump is a fantasy, and there is no “wrong” way for one to enjoy the fantasy they creat in their minds and sometimes bring to life in the forms of writing and/or drawing. again, as long as no one in real life is hurt or harmed. so even if you — general you — enjoy whump because it’s your kink, it still doesn’t make you a pervert.)

I mean people can enjoy whump for entirely different reasons. some enjoy whump because for them whump is their kink. some use whump as a way to cope and recover from their trauma (whether or not it’s sexual). some just enjoy whump because they just like whump in a way that’s not sexual-related at all. for what it’s worth, I’ve actually seen a lot of people in the whump community who are asexual.

so what I’m saying is, different people enjoy whump for different reasons, and they all are valid.

if you’re asexual and you enjoy whump = you are completely valid.

if you (general you) enjoy whump because it’s a kink to you = you are completely valid.

if you enjoy whump because it’s your way of coping with your trauma = you are completely valid.

if you enjoy whump because you like it when your blorbos find their way back in earth other’s arms or when they’re taken care of after the pain they were put through (aka the comfort that comes after) = you are completely valid.

or if you enjoy whump where it’s “hurt no comfort” because you just like it when your blorbo goes through hell = you are completely valid.

as long as you’re not hurting anyone in real life, your reasoning in regards of your enjoyment of whump is valid. you are valid.

being in a fandom should always be about the joy and the fun of being in a fandom, because fandom is supposed to be your getaway from reality where you can just enjoy whatever you enjoy. it should always be your safe place. though I do understand that, while in a fandom, you’ll most likely come across things you’re not comfortable with or things that upset you. my best advice is to ignore these things (block and mute as freely as you like) and only focus your time and energy on things that bring you joy.

don’t let other people’s opinions take that joy away from you.

if there’re fics you want to read, read them and enjoy them unapologetically. and if at any point you feel like they’re not for you, you can simply close the tabs and move on to other fics you feel like checking out.

if you have ideas for fics about your blorbos you want to write, write them unapologetically. if you want to draw some whump art about your blorbo, draw them unapologetically. there will always be people who enjoy the same thing you do (maybe even for the same reason) who will appreciate your talent. or even if you don’t feel like posting/publishing them on the internet — for any reason at all — and just want to keep them only to yourself, that is entirely okay too.

because the most important thing is, when you write a fic or draw a fanart (or even when you read something), it should be for you. not anyone else.

how you enjoy a fandom, how you enjoy whump, should be about you and only you.

you don’t have to speak to anyone about it if you’re not ready or if you don’t feel comfortable talking to them about it. at the end of the day, you don’t owe them anything. because whump is not something you have to explain to your friends or family, it’s your personal getaway and you don’t have to explain anything to anyone if you don’t want to.

though I recall you mentioned that you were seeing your therapist next week. if you feel comfortable talking to them about it, I think it might help make you feel better. because your therapist would most likely have a better answer for you.

last but not least, I wanted to remind you that there is absolutely nothing wrong with you. your mind is lying to you about all these unpleasant thoughts you have about yourself. I know how hard that can be, how real and convincing these thoughts can sound. because I’d been there. but the bottom line is that no matter how terrible these feelings get, they are lying to you. and there is absolutely nothing wrong or abnormal about your enjoyment of whump, of your blorbos. you are definitely not a “pervert” for being in a fandom or for enjoying whump, no matter what other people might say. because how can one be a pervert for finding their safe place in fictional things that don’t hurt anybody in real life at all?

I’m not sure if this is the answer you were looking for, but I hope it helped at least a little. and I hope you can get back to fully enjoying what you enjoyed soon. but most importantly, I hope you feel better soon. a little reminder that your mental health is the priority here. I’m sending my love your way, always. ♡

[m0nst3rgunxz]

Hey can somebody define the self for me pls?/genq

because I'm thinking about it and there are a few approaches that ive thought up as well as disputed. First off he have the notion that comes from a more psychology type stand-point where the self/identity is divided into named categories. Such as the ego states(that typically bind down into one cohesive identity with age) and ID/ego/superego. Which would mean you are the pieces that make you up, hypothetically. This makes me wonder where you should draw those lines(is your self really cut and paste enough to fit into predisposed definitions anyway?), and more importantly when one piece of you faulters (I.e. change in morality [superego]) do you STOP being you? Are you now a new self? Or can the self change.

Well lets move on to my other possible ideas, how about your personality/opinions? Well that would making you your brain in some sense of the word given you form your subjective opinions, on objective reality, WHILEST the reality you personally experience is subjective in nature. Hope i havent lost you, let me explain. The reality you experience through your senses(taste, touch, scent, ect.) is filtered through your brains ability to comprehend it. The colors we have named can be seen differently by other people. Things can feel different and be filtered through the optic nerve or olfactory glands or nervous system differently for others. Now that makes your reality immediately different from objective reality. This makes your opinions/perspectives limited to your experience with reality and your minds ability to perceive reality. If the self is personality then the self is dictated by the limitation of man/personhood. That brings the question of what's the limitation of man(disorder, sickness, the primal urges that occasionally directly contradict the frontal cortex and whatnot) and whats personality?

Moving on once again, i dont see this take often but theres the idea that you are your body. Which I think is quite a funny thing because very often the self and the body directly conflict, and the subject with the body makes alterations to the body to match the self(from hair cuts to surgery). The very way we speak of our bodies contradicts this idea as well. We say "my body" or "my arm" and its worded like its something we own. Like our body is not us but the object we own. And the object we are forced to present in. Off topic slightly but this makes body horror extremely effective because in it you are forced into an object that is grotesque and vile and your body becomes your agonizing prison. (Also if you are your body you can introduce "all your cells are replaced by seven years" and "what if ur body parts are replaced with machinery/consciousness download into the digital" notions and suddenly this idea is crumbling apart in your hands)

My final idea on what the self could possibly be is that you are your memories. Look dont ask me, i dont really get it, but rolling with this idea that would make me(someone with amnesia) lack self almost entirely. And truth be told I do significantly lack many general traits that others have decided comprises identify. And truth be told i am A-OK with being a nonidentity. Perhaps if i really am my memories and I dont have memories and i dont have a self, that means im completely up to viewer interpretation. Quantum physics style if you catch my drift haha(just dont get too attached to your ideas of me tho i suppose, theres always more under the surface or less under the surface than people tent to anticipate and its like this world shattering thing to many when I dont aline with their general consensus of personhood on a fundamental level)

Anyways please get back to me on these ideas, i lack the understandings and experiences required to come to the conclusion on what "identity" is, so it would be a big help :D!!