"What a darling you are." @thoughtful-lume - Tumblr Blog

someone used to wait here

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writing-prompt-s

Temples are built for gods. Knowing this a farmer builds a small temple to see what kind of god turns up.

sadoeuphemist

Arepo built a temple in his field, a humble thing, some stones stacked up to make a cairn, and two days later a god moved in.

“Hope you’re a harvest god,” Arepo said, and set up an altar and burnt two stalks of wheat. “It’d be nice, you know.” He looked down at the ash smeared on the stone, the rocks all laid askew, and coughed and scratched his head. “I know it’s not much,” he said, his straw hat in his hands. “But - I’ll do what I can. It’d be nice to think there’s a god looking after me.”

The next day he left a pair of figs, the day after that he spent ten minutes of his morning seated by the temple in prayer. On the third day, the god spoke up.

“You should go to a temple in the city,” the god said. Its voice was like the rustling of the wheat, like the squeaks of fieldmice running through the grass. “A real temple. A good one. Get some real gods to bless you. I’m no one much myself, but I might be able to put in a good word?” It plucked a leaf from a tree and sighed. “I mean, not to be rude. I like this temple. It’s cozy enough. The worship’s been nice. But you can’t honestly believe that any of this is going to bring you anything.”

“This is more than I was expecting when I built it,” Arepo said, laying down his scythe and lowering himself to the ground. “Tell me, what sort of god are you anyway?”

“I’m of the fallen leaves,” it said. “The worms that churn beneath the earth. The boundary of forest and of field. The first hint of frost before the first snow falls. The skin of an apple as it yields beneath your teeth. I’m a god of a dozen different nothings, scraps that lead to rot, momentary glimpses. A change in the air, and then it’s gone.”

The god heaved another sigh. “There’s no point in worship in that, not like War, or the Harvest, or the Storm. Save your prayers for the things beyond your control, good farmer. You’re so tiny in the world. So vulnerable. Best to pray to a greater thing than me.”

Arepo plucked a stalk of wheat and flattened it between his teeth. “I like this sort of worship fine,” he said. “So if you don’t mind, I think I’ll continue.”

“Do what you will,” said the god, and withdrew deeper into the stones. “But don’t say I never warned you otherwise.”

Arepo would say a prayer before the morning’s work, and he and the god contemplated the trees in silence. Days passed like that, and weeks, and then the Storm rolled in, black and bold and blustering. It flooded Arepo’s fields, shook the tiles from his roof, smote his olive tree and set it to cinder. The next day, Arepo and his sons walked among the wheat, salvaging what they could. The little temple had been strewn across the field, and so when the work was done for the day, Arepo gathered the stones and pieced them back together.

“Useless work,” the god whispered, but came creeping back inside the temple regardless. “There wasn’t a thing I could do to spare you this.”

“We’ll be fine,” Arepo said. “The storm’s blown over. We’ll rebuild. Don’t have much of an offering for today,” he said, and laid down some ruined wheat, “but I think I’ll shore up this thing’s foundations tomorrow, how about that?”

The god rattled around in the temple and sighed.

A year passed, and then another. The temple had layered walls of stones, a roof of woven twigs. Arepo’s neighbors chuckled as they passed it. Some of their children left fruit and flowers. And then the Harvest failed, the gods withdrew their bounty. In Arepo’s field the wheat sprouted thin and brittle. People wailed and tore their robes, slaughtered lambs and spilled their blood, looked upon the ground with haunted eyes and went to bed hungry. Arepo came and sat by the temple, the flowers wilted now, the fruit shriveled nubs, Arepo’s ribs showing through his chest, his hands still shaking, and murmured out a prayer.

“There is nothing here for you,” said the god, hudding in the dark. “There is nothing I can do. There is nothing to be done.” It shivered, and spat out its words. “What is this temple but another burden to you?”

“We -” Arepo said, and his voice wavered. “So it’s a lean year,” he said. “We’ve gone through this before, we’ll get through this again. So we’re hungry,” he said. “We’ve still got each other, don’t we? And a lot of people prayed to other gods, but it didn’t protect them from this. No,” he said, and shook his head, and laid down some shriveled weeds on the altar. “No, I think I like our arrangement fine.”

“There will come worse,” said the god, from the hollows of the stone. “And there will be nothing I can do to save you.”

The years passed. Arepo rested a wrinkled hand upon the temple of stone and some days spent an hour there, lost in contemplation with the god.

And one fateful day, from across the wine-dark seas, came War.

Arepo came stumbling to his temple now, his hand pressed against his gut, anointing the holy site with his blood. Behind him, his wheat fields burned, and the bones burned black in them. He came crawling on his knees to a temple of hewed stone, and the god rushed out to meet him.

“I could not save them,” said the god, its voice a low wail. “I am sorry. I am sorry. I am so so sorry.” The leaves fell burning from the trees, a soft slow rain of ash. “I have done nothing! All these years, and I have done nothing for you!”

“Shush,” Arepo said, tasting his own blood, his vision blurring. He propped himself up against the temple, forehead pressed against the stone in prayer. “Tell me,” he mumbled. “Tell me again. What sort of god are you?”

“I -” said the god, and reached out, cradling Arepo’s head, and closed its eyes and spoke.

“I’m of the fallen leaves,” it said, and conjured up the image of them. “The worms that churn beneath the earth. The boundary of forest and of field. The first hint of frost before the first snow falls. The skin of an apple as it yields beneath your teeth.” Arepo’s lips parted in a smile.

“I am the god of a dozen different nothings,” it said. “The petals in bloom that lead to rot, the momentary glimpses. A change in the air -” Its voice broke, and it wept. “Before it’s gone.”

“Beautiful,” Arepo said, his blood staining the stones, seeping into the earth. “All of them. They were all so beautiful.”

And as the fields burned and the smoke blotted out the sun, as men were trodden in the press and bloody War raged on, as the heavens let loose their wrath upon the earth, Arepo the sower lay down in his humble temple, his head sheltered by the stones, and returned home to his god.

sameenbyhat

Sora found the temple with the bones within it, the roof falling in upon them.

“Oh, poor god,” she said, “With no-one to bury your last priest.” Then she paused, because she was from far away. “Or is this how the dead are honored here?” The god roused from its contemplation.

“His name was Arepo,” it said, “He was a sower.”

Sora startled, a little, because she had never before heard the voice of a god. “How can I honor him?” She asked.

“Bury him,” the god said, “Beneath my altar.”

“All right,” Sora said, and went to fetch her shovel.

“Wait,” the god said when she got back and began collecting the bones from among the broken twigs and fallen leaves. She laid them out on a roll of undyed wool, the only cloth she had. “Wait,” the god said, “I cannot do anything for you. I am not a god of anything useful.”

Sora sat back on her heels and looked at the altar to listen to the god.

“When the Storm came and destroyed his wheat, I could not save it,” the god said, “When the Harvest failed and he was hungry, I could not feed him. When War came,” the god’s voice faltered. “When War came, I could not protect him. He came bleeding from the battle to die in my arms.” Sora looked down again at the bones.

“I think you are the god of something very useful,” she said.

“What?” the god asked.

Sora carefully lifted the skull onto the cloth. “You are the god of Arepo.”

stu-pot

Generations passed. The village recovered from its tragedies—homes rebuilt, gardens re-planted, wounds healed. The old man who once lived on the hill and spoke to stone and rubble had long since been forgotten, but the temple stood in his name. Most believed it to be empty, as the god who resided there long ago had fallen silent. Yet, any who passed the decaying shrine felt an ache in their hearts, as though mourning for a lost friend. The cold that seeped from the temple entrance laid their spirits low, and warded off any potential visitors, save for the rare and especially oblivious children who would leave tiny clusters of pink and white flowers that they picked from the surrounding meadow.

The god sat in his peaceful home, staring out at the distant road, to pedestrians, workhorses, and carriages, raining leaves that swirled around bustling feet. How long had it been? The world had progressed without him, for he knew there was no help to be given. The world must be a cruel place, that even the useful gods have abandoned, if farms can flood, harvests can run barren, and homes can burn, he thought.

He had come to understand that humans are senseless creatures, who would pray to a god that cannot grant wishes or bless upon them good fortune. Who would maintain a temple and bring offerings with nothing in return. Who would share their company and meditate with such a fruitless deity. Who would bury a stranger without the hope for profit. What bizarre, futile kindness they had wasted on him. What wonderful, foolish, virtuous, hopeless creatures, humans were.

So he painted the sunset with yellow leaves, enticed the worms to dance in their soil, flourished the boundary between forest and field with blossoms and berries, christened the air with a biting cold before winter came, ripened the apples with crisp, red freckles to break under sinking teeth, and a dozen other nothings, in memory of the man who once praised the god’s work on his dying breath.

“Hello, God of Every Humble Beauty in the World,” called a familiar voice.

The squinting corners of the god’s eyes wept down onto curled lips. “Arepo,” he whispered, for his voice was hoarse from its hundred-year mutism.

“I am the god of devotion, of small kindnesses, of unbreakable bonds. I am the god of selfless, unconditional love, of everlasting friendships, and trust,” Arepo avowed, soothing the other with every word.

“That’s wonderful, Arepo,” he responded between tears, “I’m so happy for you—such a powerful figure will certainly need a grand temple. Will you leave to the city to gather more worshippers? You’ll be adored by all.”

“No,” Arepo smiled.

“Farther than that, to the capitol, then? Thank you for visiting here before your departure.”

“No, I will not go there, either,” Arepo shook his head and chuckled.

“Farther still? What ambitious goals, you must have. There is no doubt in my mind that you will succeed, though,” the elder god continued.

“Actually,” interrupted Arepo, “I’d like to stay here, if you’ll have me.”

The other god was struck speechless. “…. Why would you want to live here?”

“I am the god of unbreakable bonds and everlasting friendships. And you are the god of Arepo.”

jeonjcngkook-deactivated2025071

babiest of all boys → for @tattookoo

violetwolfraven

So I just had a thought

What if supernatural creatures don’t exist anymore? What if they did once, but through the years, they slowly mixed in with humans?

You can see the blood of fairies in the way a ballet dancer hovers in mid air before he or she hits the ground. You can see it in the way that middle school girl never forgets when someone makes her a promise. You can see it in how that one little boy in the kindergarten class seems more comfortable in the forest on that field trip than the others.

You can see the blood of dryads in hikers who never trip over roots. You can see it in that suburban grandmother never lets any of her garden die. You can see it in that one kid who climbs a tree faster than his friends, barely looking at the branches as he goes.

You can see the blood of naiads in the way a professional swimmer seems to command the water to help them. You can see it in how a cross country runner needs a water break more often than his teammates. You can see it in the way that one girl in your class always has a water bottle on her desk.

You can see the blood of mermaids in a surfer who can be tossed around underwater for a long time without drowning. You can see it in a teenage boy who doesn’t have to pretend to be unbothered by the pressure when he races his friends to the bottom of a swimming pool. You can see it in the little girl who wades into every stream she sees on a hike without quite knowing why.

You can see the blood of sirens in people who never have a problem with getting people to date them. You can see it in that soprano who can hit notes most of her fellows can only dream of. You can see it in the camp counselor who all the straight girls have a crush on, who can play guitar and sing better than any of the others.

You can see the blood of shapeshifters in the way an actor adjusts their personality to become their character with scary accuracy. You can see it in the subconscious, barely noticeable changes a tween girl’s eyes make to match her outfit better. You can see it in the way you always lose that one friend in a crowd if you’re not careful, because he’s just too good at blending in.

People who carry the blood of werewolves don’t change with the full moon anymore, but you can still see it in the way your best friend always knows something is wrong, though even they don’t know they’re smelling the changes in your body chemistry. You can see it in the way that one guy always seems to eat more than the reasonable amount of red meat at an all-you-can-eat buffet. You can see it in the way that one werido never has a problem when the teacher turns off the lights before a PowerPoint presentation because her eyes adjust quicker and better than yours.

The blood of supernatural creatures may have mostly faded away. But if you look closely, you can still see it.

Why are brainstorming sessions in Discord always the most productive ones? Like, I read that stuff back and it's like I was possessed when I wrote it? The vocabulary, the ideas, the dialogue? All of it is exquisite, hot hell 🤌🤌 Where is that same brain when I open a blank doc, for real.....

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taee

love comes in many forms

characterlimit

hate when folk call the Sun “our nearest star” no you dweebs that’s OUR STAR! After everything she's done for you and you want to compare her to some lightyears away ass nobody called some shit like Guncho 785B? We're not spinning eternally around any old ball, we’re three deep in the window on board the Sol Train and she did NOT provide the catering, the itinerary and all the fuel to share credit with some two-bit Proxima Centauri hack. point to these nuts in a constellation while you're at it. i love the sun

fidelishaereticus

in case anyone else needs to hear this it’s ok to be more serious. i don’t just mean ‘it’s ok to be serious sometimes’ i mean in general. not everyone has to be funny. it doesn’t have to mean you’re sad or unlikeable. you can just be serious and genuine most of the time and that’s great. i personally think that we’re too focused on ‘funny’ as the primary carrier of likeability right now. i often feel starved for serious conversation, for serious spaces, for a feeling of gravity. you don’t have make good jokes to give people a good time. i say, goof only as the spirit moves you, & don’t worry about it.

beaft

characters who view themselves as tools/weapons first and people second... characters who martyr themselves for a cause because they think that's the only way they can be worth something... characters who push themselves past their breaking point again and again and again... characters for whom devotion and masochism are inseparable... characters whose self-sacrifice becomes self-annihilation...... what was my point again? i had a point. anyway.

sabbitabbi

ko-fi

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Лексикон на “Жива”

От книгата на Ина Ясипова, “Жива”.

калдъръ̀м м.р. само ед.ч. (от турски: kaldırım) - настилка на двор или улица, занправена от обли камъни; (en: cobblestone) 🗒 “[...] Що деца са тичали по тия калдъръми.“

тикла, тикли ж.р. (от родопски диалект) - покривна плоча; 🗒 “Малко по-нагоре се виждаха покривите на няколко къщи, покрити с няколко тикли [...]”

сама̀р, сама̀ри м.р. - (прен. знач.) дълга туристическа раница или приспособление за по-лесно носене на тежести; 🗒 “Шофьорът ѝ помогна да свали от багажника големия самар, с каквито обикновено пътуваха стопаджиите.”

према̀ла ж.р. само ед.ч. - премаляване; 🗒 “По калдъръмите на село Елици, където беше тичала до премала през летните си ваканции [...]”

пиростѝя, пиростѝи ж.р. - железен триножник или четириножник, върху който се поставят съдове в огнището; 🗒 “[...] а над огъня върху бакърена пиростия вреше котле [...]”

миндѐр, миндѐри (миндерлък, миндерлъци) м.р. - издигнато място покрай една или две стени в помещение, предназначено за сядане;

вѐзан мин. страд. прич. от веза (веза гл. - шия фигурки, шарки, с разноцветни конци; бродирам) върху който има изшити, обикновено с разноцветни конци, различни фигури, шарки за украса; бродиран; 🗒 “Върху везаната покривка, жената сложи [...]”

дола̀п, дола̀пи м.р. (от родопски диалект) - стенен шкаф, част от мусандра;

мусандра (от родопски диалект) - вградени шкафове или гардероб в стара родопска къща;

юзче (от родопски диалект) - стограмово шишенце за наливане на ракия;

пла̀дне ср.р. само ед.ч. - средата на деня, когато слънцето е най-виско на небосвода; диал. обяд; ✒ “Ще видя звезди по пладне.” - Предстои ми голямо изпитание (или трудности);

доса̀м, доса̀ми предл. - разг. означава, че някой или нещо се намира в голяма близост до някого другиго или нещо друго; 🗒 “Досами черквата.”

дува̀р, дува̀ри м.р. - стена, зид, зидана ограда;

дюлгѐрин, дюлгѐри м.р. - строител зидар;

обро̀к, обро̀ци м.р. 🗒 “Тоя дъб е оброкът на Елици.”

❝ Това е свещено място, почитта към което се изразява в строга забрана за посегателство върху дърветата, камъните, кръста, водата до които се намира, или на които е посветено. В повечето празнично-обредни действия оброчищата служат за измолване на защита, здраве и благополучие. Наименованието на празника и оброчното място, или е наследено по териториално-родствена линия, или пък се помни неговото установяване в години на природни бедствия.

Оброкът е култов обект, посветен на християнски светец, Богородица, или Исус Христос и е предназначен за провеждане на празника на съответния ден. Оброкът се намира в рамките на селището, или извън него, на високо място, до култово дърво, или група дървета, в близост до извор, или кладенец. Много оброци се намират в развалините на езически светилища, надгробни могили, християнски храмове.❞

Източник: Венцислав Жеков, автор на “Оброчищата по българските земи носят ритъма на езичеството и духа на християнството”

ведро̀, ведра̀ ср.р. - дървен съд като кофа за вода, мляко или под; 🗒 “Влязоха в малкия обор и баба Стойка посочи на Яна ниско столче, пред което имаше дървено ведро.”

въгарѐц, въгарцѝ м.р. - паразитно двукрило насекомо (по едрия рогат добитък и някои диви животни), което с особения звук на крилата си, силно дразни и плаши животните; щръклица (голяма полска муха, която ходи по говедата); 🗒 “[...] щуро хлапе беше. Щъка напред-назад, не се спира. Като въгарец.”

бо̀йница, бо̀йници ж.р - остар. тесен отвор за стрелба в стена на средновековна кула или укрепление; амбразура;

амбразу̀ра, амбразу̀ри ж.р. - спец. отвор в стена или във военна машина за стрелба; бойница;

калѐ, калѐта ср.р. - остар. крепост; 🗒 “Нещо копа горе по калето, злато търси.”

иманя̀р, иманя̀ри м.р. - човек, който се занимава с търсене на имане; често иманярите разравят и увреждат археологически паметници. 🗒 “ - През нашто село са минали много иманяри, Яне.”

зава̀рдвам гл. 1. (Какво) Заемам някакво място, обикновено при засада. 🗒 “Завардиха всички проходи, пътища.” 2. (Кого) Устройвам засада на някого; причаквам. 🗒 “Снощи го завардили и го убили.”

потѐря, потѐри ж.р. - истор. група въоръжени лица, които преследват някого (турска потеря); 🗒 “Добре, ама турците решили да го хванат. Пратили потеря и завардили всички пътища. Миладин разбрал, че ще го утрепат, и [...]”

ашладѝсвам гл. - разг. присаждам дърво, растение, лоза, за да облагородя;

калѐм, калѐми м.р. - клонче от дърво за присаждане; присад; 🗒 “На дръвчета, които дават малко, се присажда калем от дърво с убави плодове.”

берекѐт м.р. само ед.ч. - разг. плодородие; 🗒 “Господ здраве и берекет да наспори.”

наспоря̀, наспоря̀вам гл. - осигурявам нещо в достатъчно количество, много; 🗒 “Да наспори Господ!“ 🗒 “ Бог наспори богата реколта тази година. “

кома̀т, кома̀ти м.р. - разг. къс хляб, обикновено голям; син. къс, къшей, парче; ✒ “Награбвам/награбя комата.” - Сдобивам се със служба, която носи облаги. ✒ “За комат хляб.” - Само за прехрана. (”Работи за комат хляб.”)

ро̀мон м.р само ед.ч. - тих, приятен шум от разливаща се или плискаща се вода, от движение на листа от вятъра, от говор и други подобни; 🗒 “Чуваше се само тихият ромон на рекичката.”

чарда̀к, чарда̀ци м.р. - висока покрита тераса на къща; 🗒 “Седнаха да вечерят на чардака [...]”

дисидѐнт, дисидѐнти м.р. -

#словник #жива #ина ясипова

thecollectibles

Art by Davood Moghaddami

The former beginning of ‘Desideratum’

“Taehyung.”

Lifting his eyelids feels like the aftermath of a marathon. There is a tingle at the back of his head, much like he’s forgetting something crucial.

His vision is blurry and the gentleness in Seokjin’s voice does little to aid his focus.

“Taehyung-ah.” Seokjin’s hands are always warm, and so very tender when they squeeze his neck. It helps ground Taehyung. “Hey.”

Taehyung’s body feels lax, heavy even, as he struggles to pick himself up from his desk. His right cheek definitely hurts and judging by Seokjin’s chuckle, he probably passed out atop his keyboard again.

“You weren’t picking up,” Seokjin reasons as if Taehyung has the mental capacity to connect the dots at the moment.

“I’m good to go!” Jimin says as he enters, his cream-colored coat slung over his right forearm. “Oh.”

Taehyung’s head rests against Seokjin’s waist as one of his hands cards through Taehyung’s hair. He really is trying to pull himself together.

Neither of his friends say anything until all three of them are cozied up at their favorite café spot for lunch.

“Lay it on me,” Taehyung sighs.

After a shared look, Seokjin is the first one to speak. “I know you wanted to wait a while more, but I really feel like a psychiatrist might help. I,” he pauses briefly, “I don’t want to be dishonest, Tae. Ever since your episodes picked up again, I have been snooping around for a decent professional.”

They had agreed to drop the topic until the medications yield results. Clearly, they have. Not the results they had been hoping for, but results nonetheless. There is little more his neurologist can offer besides adjusting the doses. Taehyung knows that. This struggle for a semblance of normalcy is getting to him, as much as he is loath to admit it.

His friends worry, he is grateful for it. Hell, he’s grateful that they care enough to push him in the right direction when he doesn’t have the strength to do it himself.

So he nods with a smile on his face that thankfully his friends read the meaning behind.

[...]

(what would have been the beginning of Desideratum had I not gone 360 noscope on the entire story line)

- dated October 25, 2022, lying forgotten in my drive of course

#bts fanfiction #taehyung #seokjin #jimin #excerpt #title:Desideratum

An excerpt from ‘Equilibrium’

Namjoon’s vision is blurry as he forces air back into his lungs. His panic is short-lived, peculiarly so for a child at the tender age of five. He stutters an inhale, chest expanding as he wills the fear away. On the fifth exhale, his eyes blink open; he’s back in the middle of the street amidst the crowds of people racing every which way. The buzzing of their voices dims as he tunes out the sounds around him. He aims his focus at the slabs beneath his feet, the stone cool and uneven under the leather draped around his feet.

Up until this point, Namjoon had believed the earth a constant. Grateful as he threaded over land, as his mother taught him, but the gentle mass that cradled life had never been in motion. Safe, stable, stationary. Until mere hours ago, when the ground had rattled and burst open, fissures rupturing the earth to swallow down entire buildings as the skies themselves had roared something petrifying.

His mother held him close, hand to his head as she had spoken words of calm despite the rhythmic surge behind her ribs right where Namjoon’s ear had been pressed. He wanted to believe her yet he knew her heart best – a melody ingrained in his very bones from way before he had been born.

So he takes another breath. Then another. And as his toes wiggle and trace the cracks and crevices of the patchy slab beneath him, he gathers all his courage, just like his mother had for his sake, and opens his eyes.

It takes him a few moments to process his surroundings, the loud voices, the thumping of feet over the road, the clinking of tools in the distance. He steels his heart, willing it to slow, to listen, and his eyes zero in on a building in the distance. One that stands tall and unscathed, mere steps away from an upturned fountain. A tower soars behind it, tilted, its roof ready to keel over. A tile slides off, then another follows.

Namjoon’s feet move. A safe place is what he had been taught to seek had he ever gotten lost.

He makes his way through the thongs of people swiftly. Rubble and debris stick to the bottom of his shoes.

A cart sits in the middle of the road, chock-full of stone wedges, tools, and leather fixings. He climbs on top of it, one foot after the other, eager not to lose sight of the building as he treads on.

With the general direction in mind, he jumps off the cart and makes his way over to the curved stone path to the right, ducking between a rushing adult’s legs one time too many.

Behind him, now, stretches the market street, where he’d lost the warmth of his mother’s hand all too suddenly.

The stairs at the end of the path are steep but it doesn’t deter him. He continues on valiantly, trusting that his mother will know where to look.

A tree cuts him in his tracks, the green giant lying horizontally across the path. Tears gather in Namjoon’s eyes, something as big is bound to be equally as old. His little hand runs over the bark, rugged and crumbling under his touch and with an apology on his lips, he forces his foot between the ridges of the bark and climbs over the fallen tree.

He swings one foot over the other side when the earth rumbles.

An eerie hush falls over the city.

He counts one, two–

A sickening crack echoes from his near vicinity and the very ground disappears before his eyes.

His hands scramble for purchase, fingers digging into the ancient bark.

Something moves.

Everything moves.

The earth roars as colossal chunks of it sink, their other halves lifting up towards the skies. Water splashes somewhere and the mere sound of it so petrifying as if a gargantuan mass has broken the surface. The wave of vibration it causes chills Namjoon to the bone.

He remains still way after the movements have ceased, eyes clenched shut and hands firm on the tree beneath him. Breathing in, then out.

Gradually, the sounds of the people come back to him and he chances opening a single eyelid.

His entire body breaks into a tremor when he notices the ground below him. The path he had stood on not ten minutes ago now sits meters below the tree and panic is ready to rush right back in as Namjoon shakily looks to the other side and sees the tree suspended by its crown on a chunk of crumbling land where the rest of the path continues.

His heart trembles. It shakes and convulses and it hurts. Tears roll down his cheeks, unbidden. Something squeezes at his chest and all he wants is to feel the warmth of his mother’s hands around him.

He’s petrified. Not a single muscle in his body wants to move. The tree hangs, its uprooted end barely touching the lowered part of the land.

He sobs and wails, tries to will it all away. But the bark under his fingertips persists, it doesn’t turn into the cotton of his sheets, the silk of his mother’s dresses when he lies on her lap in the afternoons. It’s hard and it digs into his soft skin, unlike the delicate fabrics that his mother blankets him in.

His sobs turn into gasps, his entire body pulsing in turn. The skin of his temple hurts with how hard he’s pressing into the tree, but he vaguely acknowledges it.

His vision swims, the forest across his line of sight mixes into greens and grays.

Something blinks. A yellowish dot blends somewhere into the colors and Namjoon sucks a breath in and squeezes his eyes shut. He pushes his forehead against the bark and hopes it all goes away.

The life gets startled out of him when something pokes his shoulder. He lifts his head and finds nothing there. Tremors continue to shake his small frame and he almost falls when he sees something dart closer within his peripherals.

A gust of wind and a flash of yellow and red twirl around him, disorienting him altogether, just as a shape forms before his very eyes.

It’s stubby, a blend of reds and browns and grays, a hint of ivory peeking behind its trunk. The texture of its skin is similar to the one digging into Namjoon’s fingertips. Big, dark eyes peer back at him, globes of obsidian as deep as the fissure below the tree seems. It smells of foliage, the forest during fall. Its stubby body hangs in the air, held up by the two massive ears made out of what have to be numerous tree leaves intricately weaved together. It flaps them, up and down, up and down. An eleafant.

It stretches no bigger than the size of Namjoon’s fists put together.

The eleafant inhales and as its trunk stretches, a chirping sound chimes out of its tiny body.

It cocks its head as the sounds dies down, eyes curiously trained on Namjoon.

It, then, inhales again, its entire body straining with how much air it forces in and this time the sound is that of a cherry-green lemur.

Namjoon exhales shakily and the eleafant beams, back flipping in the air.

Its trunk reaches towards its ears and it squeezes its eyes shut before it pulls and plucks out a leaf out of its ear. A tear rolls down its face and it uses the leaf to wipe it away before it offers it to Namjoon, hoping that he does the same.

He remains unmoving, eyes fixed on the leaf the creature holds with its trunk.

Moments pass before his muscles budge and ever so slowly, he reaches out and grabs it tenderly, albeit shaking, and whispers out a ‘thank you’.

The eleafant watches happily as Namjoon mimics the action, pressing the leaf against the skin of his cheek.

Its eyes shift, however, and what Namjoon will soon realize is a sign of alarm washes over the little creature. It begins moving frantically before Namjoon’s face, trunk pointing behind Namjoon as it fidgets around.

He slowly turns around in time to see the stone plates that keep the tree suspended are beginning to crumble and crack. His heart speeds up but before he panics he feels a weight against his cheek, and a warm little mass signaling for his attention.

He watches as the tiny creature rolls in the air before it shoots up the body of the tree and begins jerking this and that way at the base of the crown.

Almost like... It’s urging him.

His instincts are split between latching onto the bark and never moving again and climbing up and getting back onto solid ground instead.

The eleafant squiggles from its spot before it shoots back down and wraps its trunk around one of Namjoon’s fingers, pulling it up towards the crown of the tree. He shakes his head from side to side, fear locking him up at the mere thought of moving. Yet, as the wind picks up, the little creature becomes more and more insistent, the urgency now clear in its dark eyes.

Stone grinds on stone and the telltale crack of wood splitting reaches Namjoon’s ears. He twists around once more and to his utter horror, the plate that holds the tree in the air is now threatening to slide off the lifted cliff and slam the entire tree down with it.

[...]

(An excerpt from a story that I probably will never finish.)

— dated December 28, 2021, dormant in my google drive

#bts fanfiction #fantasy #namjoon #excerpt #title:equilibrium

kkyus

jungkook’s beautiful smile <3

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An alternate universe ...

Where Jeongguk who is a part of the resort's animation team is utterly smitten for the new receptionist who's all dazzling smiles and soft dark curls.

And Jeongguk might catch himself trying to pick up conversations with the piccolo one time too many if only just to steal glances at the radiant man inside the lobby.

But that's okay because more often than not he'd catch a bashful pair of eyes looking right back and, oh, those prettily rose dusted cheeks are absolutely worth it.

And if during the evening entertainment show Jeongguk feels a pair of warm, chocolate eyes follow his every movement as his body shifts to the flow of the music and that childlike wonderment Jeongguk's become familiar with happens to shift to something slightly less innocent just as the thin fabric of Jeongguk's shirt slips when he moves into a one-handed freeze, that's also perfectly okay.

Because then he would have absolutely no qualms about sneaking an origami flower or two over the reception desk during work time.

And he might paddle through the lobby sans shirt one time too many but that's okay because he's only doing it to showcase the colorful little doodles that the children at daycare have littered all over his broad chest and back.

At some point, he might have also climbed his way by the banisters up to the second story balcony just before midnight for nothing more than an airy giggle and kiss on the cheek but, oh, had that been worth it.

Oh, there was also that one time when he'd forsaken his favorite black muscle shirt if only because he'd spotted Taehyung in the spectator crowd that had gathered to watch his impromptu tennis match with Namjoon.

But nothing held a candle to that one night under the stars when Taehyung had met him halfway through the path leading to the staff's sleeping quarters with nobody out but the moon to disturb them. And if the sensation of Taehyung's soft lips against Jeongguk's own and those gentle, dainty hands buried amidst his overgrown locks had left him feeling like the world had turned on it axis, then that's absolutely okay, too.

Because Jeongguk is irrevocably and utterly smitten for the boy with galaxies in his eyes and a smile that puts the sun to shame.

— dated July 23, 2020, stashed around that twitter account that I never took off private

#bts fanfiction #jungkook #taehyung #taekook #drabble

As per his grandmother's advice, Taehyung books an appointment for a massage. His sole disadvantage, he would argue, is that nobody had warned him the masseuse would be a stinking hot piece of a fine man and oh, lord, the uniform hugs those delectable biceps just righ—

Focus, Taehyung.

Now, the genuinely hard part is trying not to make a fool out of himself seeing as he is about to have his massage cherry popped. Crudely put. A negligible little fact that his guides appear to be having a field day about.

Here he is, lying snug on his back with this absolute god of a human being telling him to relax in what has to be the most perfectly pitched voice Taehyung’s hearing has had the pleasure of being subjected to.

Now you'll have to excuse the absolute fuck out of Taehyung because there is nothing remotely relaxing about having such an exquisite man fondling his skin like he's kneading the beginnings of a fine French pastry, so if Taehyung's baguette suddenly begins displaying signs of profound interest, then that is absolutely okay because Jeongguk had told him that it. might. happen.

But really, it's the two soggy pretzel sticks on the other side of the room with their invisible asses hovering over the lounge chairs that snicker up a storm who have Taehyung biting the insides of his cheeks because, listen, Jeongguk's palms feel like heaven and Taehyung is not about to laugh in his face, thank you very much.

What comes as a surprise is Jeongguk’s outburst of laughter instead. Taehyung pops an eye open, surprised by the abrupt fit.

"Sorry, I'm really sorry, their laughter is just— Excuse me." The palm of his hand covers his mouth as he tries—and fails miserably—to contain the onslaught of giggles.

‘Thei’—

"You can see them?!" Taehyung jerks into a sitting position, his blood circulation struggling to follow. The towel he had been covered with gathers in a heap over his lap. Jeongguk's hands reach out to steady him and another guffawing wave washes over the room.

"Oh, my god, I promise I am not laughing at you!" Jeongguk wheezes, his hands firm around Taehyung's waist and shoulders. Taehyung would be a little less pliant and a pinch more demanding had: A. His blood reached his brain in time and B. Had he not been suddenly and haphazardously treated face-first to the absolute most gorgeous smile.

He's guided back down onto his back with the most melodic of giggles to serve as a sweet, sweet lullaby.

He wakes up what feels like it might be an eon later to a face-full of a beaming smile and scrunched up eyes. "Rise and shine, little bean," his spirit guide titters and Taehyung is sad to find out that Jeongguk is nowhere within the perimeter of the room.

There is an attempt on Taehyung’s part to somehow tie the events prior to his black out together but, alas, it proves to be nothing but futile. It's not until a second later that the door bursts open and in jogs Jeongguk with a bottle of water in his hands and eyes drowning in concern.

"How are you feeling?" He asks tentatively and all Taehyung can do is blink back at him like a pointed long reed frog. Specifics intended.

"Earth to Taehyungie," his guide waves a hand over his face only to earn a stern remark in response.

"Let him come to in peace!" Jeongguk admonishes, lips pulled into a pout.

"You can see them!" Taehyung's voice raises and he sits up abruptly once more, blood failing to reach his brain in a timely fashion for the second time that day.

Jeongguk pushes him back down carefully before he says, "I'm curious as to why you find that surprising."

Taehyung stares at him like he’s grown a second head. Has he finally lost it?

"I believe it was your grandmother who insisted on your appointment with me, I highly doubt she is unaware that I am a spirit warden," Jeongguk chuckles at Taehyung's dumbfounded expression. "You seem to not be in on it, however."

His smile is stunning.

"Let me take you out on a date," Taehyung blurts out.

"What?"

There's laughter ringing somewhere to his left, but he ignores it. "Um, if you, um, want, you know, just— forget about it, I don't know what’s gotten into me."

"I'd love to go out on a date with you," Jeongguk says calmly.

"Huh?"

"I'd love to go on a date with you, Taehyung," Jeongguk laughs softly, the confusion on Taehyung's face utterly endearing.

"Huh."

"'Huh'," one of his guides parrots, shortly followed by a snort.

That is, in short, how Taehyung lands himself his wonderful boyfriend. The very man he makes sure to spoil rotten at any given opportunity if only to earn but a smile from Jeongguk. It becomes somewhat of a hobby of his, to go out of his merry way with each and every little thing he does for Jeongguk from that moment on. All the way until their happily ever after and then some more.

— dated August 24, 2020, stashed around that twitter account that I never took off private

#bts fanfiction #fantasy #taehyung #jungkook #taekook #drabble

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