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kpopfanfictrash · 1 year ago

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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.

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

#bangtanarmynet #bts fanfic #bts smut #jungkook fanfic #jungkook smut #bts au #bts fic #jungkook au #jungkook fic #jungkook fanfiction #bts fanfiction

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mintmatcha · 9 months ago

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tw: implied abuse, no curses au

"Can I ask a question?" Yuuji digs his heel into the wood chips as he swings, digging a growing trench behind him. "You don't have to answer."

Ash falls from the end of Choso's cigarette. He leans against the anchor of the swing set, cheek against cold metal, and sighs. Twilight has passed and the streetlights have turned on, giving the playground a hazy, barely lit glow. Yuuji's guardian will start calling soon, but Choso decides the extra time together is worth the future ire.

"I already told you that I'm not giving you a tattoo."

"Aw, damn-" Yuuji clicks his tongue against his teeth. Ever since they met, he's been dying for a tattoo of his own, throwing out wild new ideas almost every day. One day, when he's eighteen and likes an idea for more than a month, Choso will bring him to his studio and comply.

But, not yet.

"That wasn't my question though," Yuuji says.

"Then go for it."

The younger boy takes a deep breath, then lets it out even slower, pulling the tension longer and longer until it snaps.

"Why weren't you... around? Like, when I was a kid and stuff."

Choso takes his own breath.

"Your mom-- our mom." The taste of that sits bitter on his tongue. He never called her mom, even back then. "She was different for me."

And for our other brothers, he adds silently. Yuuji doesn't need to carry that weight yet, the knowledge that he was the exception to it all.

"Why?" Yuuji pumps his legs a little softer, the back and forth motion of the swing slowly dying out.

"I dunno." Choso wishes he had the answer to that. "She was sixteen, did bad things. Don't worry about it."

Finding out about Yuuji wasn't a shock, somehow. Years after Ken had surrendered her children to the state, Choso had received noticed that she had died. The news felt overdue. No tears were shed, no love lost; the group chat of siblings had all agreed not to go to any service, but the day of, Choso had changed his mind.

He had put on his nicest outfit -some thrift store pants that didn't fit and a shirt he stole from foster dad three- and went expecting to be the only one there, the only one willing to say goodbye.

Choso hadn't known about her new family. They hadn't known about him either. It was typical of Ken to leave a mess in her wake.

Turns out, through a series of lucky breaks, the woman had clawed her way out of poverty and into the arms of a rich, but nice man. Her life was easy and sweet, filled with luxuries and love, including a son ten years younger than her eldest.

No one knows why Yuuji was different than the others, why she decided to be good to him and no one else. Mental illness is strange like that, picking and choosing how it pleases.

Yuuji huffs, gripping the metal chains tighter. "But-"

"Yuuji." Choso drops his cigarette and crushes it under his boot. Then, he thinks about the child that will play there tomorrow, shoveling wood chips into their mouths like idiots, and decides to pick it up. He jams it into his pocket. "You have good memories of her. Don't ruin that."

He used to resent how much Yuuji loved her. He was eight when she died, the same age Choso was when he first had to dial 911 for her. That anger had long faded, replaced with a strange amount of pity.

"But I want to know. What she did and stuff." Yuuji's voice jumps high with emotion. "I'm basically an adult, I can handle it."

"You're sixteen."

"Well, mom was doing this stuff at sixteen, so-" Yuuji is seething suddenly, brow furrowed and teeth grit.

"So?"

"So, she was old enough to be doing bad things and I'm not old enough to know about it?" He stands and the swing clatters behind him. He's stocky, yet tall, bunched with muscles that he's built from baseball. On one side of his cheek, there's a bit of chocolate stuck there, a remnant from the ice cream Choso bought him. Below it, there's a rosy hickey on his neck, a remnant of the boyfriend he hasn't told Nanami about yet. He thinks they're having sex, maybe, but doesn't know how to broach the topic without scaring his brother into never talking about it again.

"And you had tattoos at my age, by the way!"

Choso lets him stew in it, huffing and puffing. The blown out edges of first tattoo peek from under his sleeve, the image barely legible now. An older woman gave it to him at fifteen, in the basement of her house. It became so insanely infected that he ended up in the ER a couple days later.

"I'm not a kid. I can handle it." Yuuji states, calm and clear. "I'm not a kid."

A car passes, it's headlights stretching and pulling the shadows across the park. In the changes, Choso can see his mother in his brother, those soft eyes and thin lips and the same slightly crooked nose that Choso has himself. He thinks, maybe, if time was kinder and his father was better, they'd look more alike each other, but then the moment is gone and they no longer even look like siblings.

"Okay."

Yuuji untenses a bit. "Okay?"

"Okay."

"Like, okay, this conversation is done, or okay, I'll tell you?"

"I'll tell you," Choso says, jamming his hands in his pocket. The cigarette butt is there, mushed and still warm against his knuckles. "But not tonight."

"What?!"

"Next time, I promise."

Choso doesn't understand why Yuuji insists on rushing away from innocence, but he knows that he can't stop him. Yuuji will find out about the abuse, the neglect, the other brothers, and the other horrors in some way or another and then things will never be the same.

"Stay a kid just a little longer." Choso resists the urge to ruffle his hair. "For me?"

"Yeah, sure," Yuuji sighs. "One more day."

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diejager · 5 months ago

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My favourite type of people is those mfks that never give up and whenever they're in a bad situation they just end up going apeshit crazy. Now imagine reader, someone who actively fights against the government, versus Corrupt 141

Cw: DARKFIC, CORRUPT!141, corruption, abuse of power, mentioned death/murder, kidnapping, tell me if I missed any.

You can’t remember the time where powerful people weren’t corrupt, tempted by greed and self-empowerment, tempted by knowledge and influence. You can’t remember the time where all your heartfelt emotions, soft touches and deep connections meant something when it was all a ruse, hidden under embellished words and beautiful promises that worked wonders to silence you suspicion. Their smiles and tender affection drowned out every dark gleam in their eyes, covering the miasma that followed them everywhere they went, like a shadow of one’s sin. You wondered how naive you were. So willing to comply to be praised and rewarded with a soft pat on the head by your older teammates —ones you thought you could trust, ones you once thought were righteous and loving.

You were blinded by your optimism, your beliefs and their reputation. After all, who would believe that the famous Task Force 141 would be corrupt? Famously known for thwarting murders, terrorist and crime lords from accomplishing their goals, for saving countless lives from mass murder or potential death, and for being so wildly loved and sought after. They were a rare commodity to a low ranking soldier like you, but you’d somehow garnered their attention and interest, brought into their ranks believing that you’d be of use in their conquest to protect the world.

But you should have known better. The subtle glances back and forth, the purposeful wording and the hushed conversation in secrets. There was a plague of secrecy, hidden right under your nose until you caught them in a mumbled conversation, whispered words about taking away a man’s family and using it as leverage, only for you to watch them kill the man’s sons and daughters under the pretence of them being terrorists. You’d been so enraged that you hadn’t thought up a plan before you confronted Price about it.

“But they were innocent!”

“It was a means to an end,” he hadn’t reacted to your screech, neither the hateful glare you’d sent his way nor your erratic hand movement, “To drive our point.”

You scowled and stepped towards him, your name falling from his lips as a warning. He reminded you where you were standing, in his office, surrounded by the three other men and on your own. Laswell wouldn’t help you, she was the one who fed them information and helped plan these clandestine Ops. General Shepherd wouldn’t hesitate to dispose of you, he was the one who cleared them, who sent you on these Ops, and he would stop at nothing to keep his money and reputation.

“What point, Price?” You scoffed, huffing at the mounting tension, the growing apprehension you felt when the others closed in on you, “That you’d do anything for power?”

He dared sigh at you, as if you were a misbehaving child he was exhausted by:

“No, but you wouldn’t understand, would you?”

His eyes filled with disappointment, the sudden frown that darkened his face when he bobbed his head, lips pulled in what seemed to be regret. You weren’t able to get another word, your world turning black in frightful struggle and looming danger.

Taglist: @sae1kie @yeoldedumbslut @bvxygriimes @distracteddragoness @konigsblog @im-making-an-effort @daisychainsinknots @h0n3y-l3m0n05 @danielle143 @tuttifuckinfruttifriday @notspiders @brokenpieces-72 @petwifed @randominstake @haven-1307 @shironasumi @sparky--bunny @bloobewy @cod-z @sweetnanah @aldis-nuts @evolutionarry @kaoyamamegami @cassiecasluciluce

#x reader #cod mw2 #cod mw2 x reader #ghost mw2 #simon ghost riley x reader #soap mw2 #soap x reader #gaz mw2 #gaz x reader #john price #price x reader #corrupt!141 #tw: dark content #dark content #dead dove do not eat #task force 141 #task force x reader

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punkpandapatrixk · 6 months ago

Text

🌬Mother Earth’s Message for Children of the World ♦︎ Timeless Pick A Card

Astrologically speaking, beginning this year a number of generational planets were moving either into Aquarius or Pisces. You know that Aquarius represents the Divine Masculine in its best form and Pisces represents the Divine Feminine in its best form. Earth’s temperatures are changing especially with Pluto finally dipping its toe in Aquarius. All members of Humanity are being asked to elevate their intelligence—both spiritual and cognitive—and become keen on the patterns of lies and abuse in the world.

We as a collective are entering a new era of true abundance and joy. Sure enough, echoes of the terrible Reality of the past are still heard but they are echoes at best. If you notice everything around you crumbling to the ground, these are withdrawal symptoms; but if you look within yourself, you will find that you’ve grown stronger and surer of your place in this completely Brand-New World. As they put it, you are the Chosen Ones.

What the hell does it mean to be a Chosen One? Are there only 144,000 Chosen Ones within this Matrix? Of course not. We have collectives of 144,000 working towards the same goal. And those collectives really bleed into each other as we share knowledge and assist each other. So in essence, there are millions of us Chosen Ones working together holding the Frequencies of Light, assisting the birthing of a completely new paradigm of real Paradise.

Be excited, o Holy Ones~ Many of you have grown up without ever abandoning your pure inner essence as Holy Children and Stewards of Gaia. Your time to shine is NOW. Revive your memories, recall your power back to you, redefine what it means to be Human, and rediscover your true motivation for being alive on Gaia at this passage of time.

There is a dream, or two, you’ve always felt important since you were a child. You’re entering a brand-new chapter of being fully immersed in your Mission. The next 3 years on Earth are the final years of the CHANGEOVER—if you know what this means, you know who you are ;P The years after 2027 will be the years of your greatest achievements, abundance and blessings, but most importantly, a phase of intense clarity as to your purpose for being here on Earth at this time.

Keep the vision, Sisters and Brothers of the Light. All of us in our own unique ways are reclaiming Gaia as the Paradise Planet of Blue and Green Sheen. Namaste—I honour your Light, fellow Stewards of the Planet~

‘To have the feeling of wanting to care for someone. It’s simple, that’s all. I don’t mean that it’s insignificant. Just…you don’t need a reason.’ — Shiroma in Chocobo’s Dungeon 2 (1998)

BOOK: Totto-chan's Children: A Goodwill Journey to the Children of the World (1999) by Kuroyanagi Tetsuko

MOVIE: Tokyo Godfathers (2003)

SONG: Aishiteru by Nakashima Mika

[PAC Masterlist] [Patreon] [Paid Readings]

☆♪°・. ☆♪°・. ☆♪°・. ☆♪°・. ☆♪°・. ☆♪°・.

Pile 1 – Go Forth Towards All Your Spiritual Rewards!

Soul-deep motivation – VI The Lovers

You, for sure, came into this world with a BUNCH of Soul Family and Tribes. It’s a given; you’re meant to ‘open up shop’ together and be of such great service to Mankind. Some of you reading this probably already met some of your Soulmates from a young age and you will continue to meet more of them as you go along; but for the majority of you, this is a lifelong journey—a discovery—that could’ve left you feeling quite lonesome when you were much younger.

Well, it’s ironic, right? Now that connectivity is this easy. But for the most part, this ease in technology could feel more like a nuisance and a breach of privacy rather than an actual sense of belonging. If you’ve ever felt deeply lonely and divorced from the rest of Humanity, I’d like to assure you that such feelings naturally arise from your Soul knowing that you’re meant to have a beautiful relationship with like-minded, like-souled people. Because you’re eager to meet them you can feel quite impatient about it, and this causes anxiety and sadness to some degree XD

Truly, you possess a Soul-deep motivation to connect with people of similar values. Life is most beautiful when people of similar values and goals work together to create good things for the community. You ain’t talking about values in terms of how we identify with religions, races or political views though—you’re so much more transcendent than that! You’re so much purer than that~

your Co-Creational prowess – Ace of Wands Rx

You and your Soul Tribes definitely will come up with some crazy-ass creative solutions for many of the world’s problems. I really can’t imagine a person with your type of consciousness being confined to an office cubicle 9-5 hahah But since the workforce is changing rapidly, it doesn’t seem a problem in the near future. Still, I feel most likely you will jump into very unusual types of jobs like a forest ranger or something related to the healing and protection of wildlife XD

Perhaps some of you will want to be involved in politics or journalism or something on the periphery of those segments of society, because you’re seeking justice for those who don’t have the power to seek justice for themselves. Perhaps in a sense, you will create a true crime podcast revealing all the dark and corruption of some industries and stuff like that. Basically, what you and your Team Mates are meant to do is something that could be considered quite ‘scandalous’…to the establishment LOL

What you do may not be the most original thing in the world, but your Soul Mission ain’t about that; what you do and create will have a very refreshing impact on your audience nevertheless. You will become very popular with whatever endeavour or movement you will be championing with your Soul Tribes. I see that you could be involved in more than two projects that could be related to one another. When you’re fully immersed in your Soul Mission, I promise you Life is going to get exciting again and the greatest reward of all is the sense of positive Human connections you’re able to foster along the way.

turning wishes into Reality – 9 of Cups

Since you’re doing so much good on the Planet and the effects are positively felt by a large group of people, you bet the money is there as well. I imagine someone like Sadhguru for some reason? He does a very spiritual thing and his teachings have touched the lives of so many people, although in a sense what he does is ‘business’ so he’s smart enough to know how to expand his exposure, influence, and wealth. This isn’t evil, of course, and I think you know that already XD People are deserving of financial rewards for all the good they do for the world, right?

And if you’re still unsure, try to understand that getting the money for your spiritual work will allow you to continue to do more of that spiritual work, and that is ultimately what’s good for all of Mankind—if you believe in what you do. Right? Right. So, Mother Earth and the elements of nature want to shower you with a great abundance of material wealth that corresponds with the spiritual happiness you gain from making other people’s lives better.

If when you’re reading this you feel that you’re not fully immersed in your Spiritual Mission yet, it’s going to happen this year, babe, so get ready! For the majority of the peeps tuned into this Pile, it’s gonna start happening this summer, end of the year, up to mid 2025, or maximum the next couple of years for some, OMG!!! Are you ready?? Are you ready?!? Why am I more excited than you?!?!? XD

MAKING A DIFFERENCE IN THE WORLD🔻💗

YOUR WORLD – Priestess of Opulence

COSMIC ANCESTORS’ SUPPORT – Red Astrologer (William Lilly)

Access full reading + cards on Patreon🌸

☆♪°・. ☆♪°・. ☆♪°・. ☆♪°・. ☆♪°・. ☆♪°・.

Pile 2 – Your Duality that Resembles Mother Gaia Herself

Soul-deep motivation – Queen of Cups Rx

The spirit of service, of nurture, was something that was already embedded in you from a young age. Perhaps it was nature; perhaps it was nurture; either way, you’ve always wanted to be of some kind of help to the world at large. You’re someone who has a charitable Soul. You were the kind of kid who’d nurture a sick stray animal back to health; you were probably the weird kid who’d be so gentle to worms whereas other children would squish them to mush; you were also likely the kind of kid who weren’t afraid of getting dirty to help someone find something valuable that had gotten lost in a gutter or something.

You’re such a gentle Soul, but sometimes you do feel a little misunderstood or even underappreciated. In some manner, you could’ve gotten taken advantage of quite a bit for your generosity. You’ve felt like, when you extend some help, sometimes you notice how people take your help for granted as if they expect you to do whatever it is you’re helping them with naturally—as if, you’re a maid or a henchman or something—and they’re not even that appreciative in the end. Like it’s expected. Like your entire existence is just for serving them. Ugh, yuck.

That’s crazy and massively annoying because deep down you’re a super self-respecting person who can be a bit of a bitch when you let loose, but you make an effort to present your best face forward and be helpful always, so it’s only natural that you expect to be treated with appreciation and grace. That’s just basic. At the core of your being, you believe in a world where people show deep and genuine appreciation for what’s truly good in this world. Genuinely good and helpful people are rare in this world, you’d be a little happier if the world would show more respect and gratitude for rare qualities like these.

your Co-Creational prowess – Knight of Pentacles

Due to your charitable and generous nature, it is possible that this feeling of being treated like some kind of an underappreciated maid is a theme surrounding your childhood or young adult years. But as you grow up and grow into your power, sooner than later people will notice what a grandiose character you are. You’re just naturally gentle and sweet and helpful, but when you stand still you exude a strong charisma just from your regal quietude. Well, depending on many things in your birth chart, this charisma and quiet power could attract admirers or enemies. At the end of the day, you just need to know how to play your cards right XD

So you can see, you have a natural charm about you that can gather many enemies, all for your learning of how the Devil ticks. If this is the case, best believe when you’re older you’re going to swash so many narcs, bullies and unveil the tricks of the truly negative people in society. If your natural charm attracted many admirers since you were young, very likely when you’re grown up you’re going to continue to serve as a humanitarian or philanthropist or whatever it is that you do to help the less fortunate.

Your path is one that’s filled with learning, careful planning, baking ideas and experimenting with new ways of doing things. Perhaps that is why you’ve had to deal with difficult or annoying—even frustrating—human interactions from a young age. It seems like that whole ordeal was necessary for you to understand the variety of human psychology. This will serve you greatly when you’re on your Mission, gathering different types of people in a team, battling different types of losers and psychopaths on the way.

turning wishes into Reality – 4 of Cups

Hahah, before jumping into your main real Soul Mission, you could’ve felt that Life is so boring. No matter how glamorous it could look to outsiders, no matter the money you have, no matter how grateful you are that your everyday is fulfilled and you can eat whatever you want, you could still feel like nothing that you do is truly deeply importantly meaningful. In the years leading up to your spiritual breakthrough, you will be itching for something more. You may not necessarily understand what ‘more’ means but it’s just a nudging feeling that there should be…more to your whole existence.

At some point in your spiritual awakening phase, you will be tempted by the Universe to choose from amongst a few options or paths to take seriously for the continuation of your existence. Weirdly wildly enough, even if you can’t really explain why, you will choose one thing and one thing only: your Highest Intended Destiny. You may not necessarily know exactly what it means or how to get there, but you’ll choose wisely. This isn’t something you could mess up, trust that. If the Universe is tempting you, it is more for you to see for yourself just how badly you want this. And if you want it, you will have it~

By the time you’re reading this PAC, I think it’s obvious you’re mere months away from fully embracing your truest highest intended Soul Mission. Months…could mean up to 2 years or so hahaha But babe, Mother Gaia is saying, your Life is going to get even more abundant than now (if you’re already quite abundant) but more importantly, that extra abundance is going to come from endeavours that are truly exciting. Your Soul will sing again when it happens~! Since this is a general reading, I can’t pinpoint exactly what’s coming into your Life soon, but your intuition already knows this, right? Keep the vision! Expect the best! Because it’s really coming to hit you like a silly UFO!

MAKING A DIFFERENCE IN THE WORLD🔻💙

YOUR WORLD – Priestess of Beauty

COSMIC ANCESTORS’ SUPPORT – Silver Astronomer (Galileo Galilei)

Access full reading + cards on Patreon🌸

☆♪°・. ☆♪°・. ☆♪°・. ☆♪°・. ☆♪°・. ☆♪°・.

Pile 3 – You Have Everything in Your Power to Create Your Very Own Peace and Calm

Soul-deep motivation – 3 of Cups Rx

You’re somebody who has a tough outer appearance. It’s probably your optimism and confidence, but for some, it could also be your resting bitch face and aloofness. At any rate, most people would never guess how sensitive and fragile your heart really is. That at the core of your being you’re such a lovely person who would be extra gentle and friendly towards animals and children. It's probably some kind of a paradoxical existence that you can understand through the lens of astrology :D

You’re definitely an Old Soul who has experienced many past incarnations on Earth before, and thus you possess this level of complexity to both your psychology and worldview that most people can’t even grasp. I know that Human beings tire you for the most part if you’re honest about it. Though I sense, many of you tapping into this Pile are still such sweethearts that you still make an effort to be accommodating and understanding! What can you do? Humans are infants in the grander scheme of cosmic events XP

You came into this world carrying Soul-deep motivations to smoothen out friction in society, mitigate cultural conflicts, dissolve hatred born out of differences, etc etc… Isn’t it crazy that people can hate and even destroy each other due to ‘differences’ when at the core of everything, we’re all really just Humans riding on the same ship—Planet Earth?

You, are essentially an ambassador of Peace. If you’ve chosen this Pile as your main pile, know that you have a very important role to play on the world stage. This is defo my ‘celebrity pile’ hahah

your Co-Creational prowess – Knight of Cups Rx

The majority of you tuning into this reading probably have significant Pisces/12th House placements—followed to varying extents by Scorpio, Capricorn or Aquarius. In simple terms, I’d say you don’t immediately look like a ‘spiritual’ person and depending on what kind of industry you’re in, your true sense of OG spirituality could well be hidden, or that you could’ve needed to struggle quite a bit to let your more spiritual side shine. Due to this paradoxical background, when you speak on the world stage, you’re going to offer the world some of the most fascinating perspectives on what it means to be a spiritual being having a Human experience at this passage of time.

No, baby, you don’t understand; you’re going to be super fascinating! The elders who are currently doing their thing on the Internet can’t even keep up XD And of course, we’re not talking about being in a competition with our wise elders who are already doing their Lightwork. This is just acknowledging your brand-new highly elevated perspectives that could change the world for sure. And to be sure, we acknowledge that we’ve learnt a great deal from the elders, too, right?

In that sense, you could also be the type of person/persona that bring back knowledge or speeches from old—even ancient—esoteric texts. Whoa, those are some highly intelligent writing/speeches—kids of today can’t keep up what with their brains rotting every day from TikTok LMAO You have this power to glue together aspects of society, history, or Life itself, that don’t usually work on paper, but you can make it happen because you’re FUTURISTIC as fuck!

turning wishes into Reality – 4 of Wands Rx

It’s very clear to you that there’s no going back when it comes to the trajectory of what Humanity is becoming. The problem is, most Humans aren’t even aware of what they’re being herded towards becoming. And you want to be that force that halts this train to hell and inform the passengers of all the details of their journey as a collective. What you can do for yourself and Humanity is to enlighten with your words/speech—to wake the people up from their mass delusions.

Humanity has been living under a bad spell for far too long. I think you’re the type of person who understands that the first step in removing black magick is to first be aware of its existence. The power of black magick lies in deception and sneaky movements. As long as the mass can be aware of it, its effects weaken naturally; that’s the thing with black spells, you know that? And this is why your perspectives matter. When you speak the quiet part out loud and help the mass realise some kind of a blind spot.

Your words are very much needed by this world. You’re going to be some kind of a prototype that gets emulated by others in the decades to come. You’re going to be blessed by so much ease and abundance as you continue courageously to walk this path of a trailblazer. Your good karma, essentially, really comes from your walking this lonesome and challenging path of a spiritual rebel—a spiritual gangster, even LMAO

MAKING A DIFFERENCE IN THE WORLD🔻💜

YOUR WORLD – Priestess of Innocence

COSMIC ANCESTORS’ SUPPORT – Silver Magus (Merlin)

Access full reading + cards on Patreon🌸

☆♪°・. ☆♪°・. ☆♪°・. ☆♪°・. ☆♪°・. ☆♪°・.

[PAC Masterlist] [Patreon] [Paid Readings]

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raven-at-the-writing-desk · 9 months ago

Note

I don’t know if you already wrote about this so forgive me if this is a repeat question but, what do you think about Leona’s depression? I feel it’s pretty obvious in game and yet it’s always glossed over as him being ‘lazy’ idk but I don’t find many talking about his really shitty mental health with any seriousness.

Surprisingly I haven't addressed this (at least not in detail)! So thank you for bringing this to my attention; I definitely feel like I've heard people (especially Leona fans) discuss this quite frequently. If you look in the right places, you’re sure to find insightful commentary on the subject! I know I certainly have, but I've yet to say my own piece on it yet.

Now, before I actually get to actually rambling, I want to preface this post with a few points so we can walk in knowing the perspective I'm coming from. Analysis isn't a "one size fits all"! My experiences and background will color the lenses through which I view Leona’s mental health.

First and foremost, I usually don't go out of my way to claim, "this character has X condition" beyond what is outright stated or implied in canon. That does NOT mean that I disapprove of fans who may have their headcanons that say otherwise or project onto or relate to characters' mental health. You can consume the media you like however you want! I am just saying that I don't have this preference so I feel somewhat uncomfortable speaking on this matter.

Secondly, I am trying to approach this situation from a very clinical viewpoint (as I do have knowledge in this area). This means that when I look for “implications” or read between the lines, I am doing so as objectively as I can. It’s how I choose to process and understand characters from a health angle. This does not mean that my opinion is certain; you could very well find someone else in this area that gives you the opposite opinion. As always, I warn you that my response is for fun, it is NOT meant to be taken as medical advice.

Lastly, PLEASE READ THE ENTIRE POST before you comment or share your own thoughts. I'm up for having a discussion, but I ask that you not do so without getting the full context of my thoughts. It’s a lot of information, and I did my best to break it down in a way that (I hope!!) is easy to understand.

CONTENT WARNING: due to the nature of the question at hand, I will be discussing or mentioning potentially triggering topics such as ***depression, suicidal ideation, dieting, homophobia, and substance abuse.*** Please look away if you are not in the right headspace to read about such topics.

Okay, let's rip the band-aid off now: I don't think Leona is clinically depressed.

Pause. Rewind. Take note of my careful wording there: clinically depressed. I don't think Leona is clinically depressed. What does that mean, and how does that relate to "being depressed"?

I think when people describe Leona as "depressed", they commonly mean that he "has depression", not that he is just feeling sad or has low self-esteem. By "having depression", I'm going to assume they are referring to "major depressive disorder", which is the technical term for the condition.

"It's just an abbreviation of the longer term. What's the issue with using 'depression'?” you're probably wondering. “You understand that we mean major depressive disorder.” Well, equating the two does NOT a diagnosis make.

Mental conditions such as major depressive disorder are documented in a handbook known as the DSM (or the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders). The latest version, the DSM-5-TR (5th edition with text revisions), was published in 2022. The DSM is a manual that sets forth criteria for each diagnosis in its pages. Of course, this includes major depressive disorder—and it may surprise you to learn that Leona does not meet its diagnostic criteria.

A diagnosis of "depression" (the term I will henceforth be using as shorthand for the disorder) is much more than having persistent feelings of sadness or hopelessness, being unmotivated/lazy, and wanting to sleep often. (I bring up these three things specifically because they are the ones I see being pointed at most frequently to “prove” the diagnosis.)

In order to be formally diagnosed, an individual must be experiencing at least 5 or more of the following symptoms during the same 2-week period:

Depressed mood most of the day, nearly every day.

Markedly diminished interest or pleasure in all, or almost all, activities most of the day, nearly every day.

Significant weight loss when not dieting or weight gain, or decrease or increase in appetite nearly every day.

A slowing down of thought and a reduction of physical movement (observable by others, not merely subjective feelings of restlessness or being slowed down).

Fatigue or loss of energy nearly every day.

Feelings of worthlessness or excessive or inappropriate guilt nearly every day.

Diminished ability to think or concentrate, or indecisiveness, nearly every day.

Recurrent thoughts of death, recurrent suicidal ideation without a specific plan, or a suicide attempt or a specific plan for committing suicide.

At least one of the symptoms should be either 1) depressed mood or 2) loss of interest or pleasure in activities they previously found enjoyable. Furthermore, the symptoms must cause what is known as "clinically significant distress", which is defined by impairment in important areas of functioning. This includes, but is not limited to, socialization, occupation, and/or education. The symptoms must also not be the result of substance abuse or another medical condition, and the individual must ever have experienced mania or hypomania.

Let’s briefly go through each criterion + additional documents and see what evidence there is or isn’t to support it:

We do not have his medical records to cross reference, so for the sake of convenience let’s assume no underlying or additional medical conditions.

We must consider additional context about family, lifestyle, etc. which can confound his symptoms. For example, as a prince, Leona has grown up having most things done for him by servants. This is what he is used to. So when we observe Leona not doing basic things for himself (getting food, doing laundry, making his bed), how much of this can we truly attribute to an underlying condition and how much of this can we attribute to Leona being accustomed to a certain kind of lifestyle?

Leona (at least from what we know of) does not experience mania, nor is he depicted as taking mind or behavior altering substances.

Of the first two criteria, Leona must fit into one: either 1) depressed mood most of the day, nearly every day, or 2) markedly diminished interest or pleasure in all, or almost all, activities most of the day, nearly every day. These depend on how you interpret his actions and behaviors. Personally, I don’t think Leona strongly fits into 2 because he still has an interest in his hobbies like Magift/Spelldrive and playing chess (though his involvement in it varies depending on the context). I will concede that there is stronger evidence for 1 over 2, as Leona has definitely expressed sadness and despair regarding himself and his future prospects. It is these thoughts that drive him away from home and keep contact with his family at a minimum. It is these thoughts that prevent him from seeing himself as worthy or even capable of change—a sentiment he shares in book 6, when he encourages Jamil but does not grant himself the same kindness or optimism. For this reason, we will go with the first criterion.

He has not experienced notable weight loss nor gain, nor a notable increase or decrease in appetite. Regarding his general diet, Leona has expressed a preference for meat and rejects vegetables. This by itself does not really provide any useful information in of itself; many people have this preference.

Leona does not experience a slowing down of thought. He is still very sharp and quick-witted in responding to his surroundings, especially in potentially dangerous ones, and coming up with an appropriate plan to counter. It can be argued that Leona has had a reduction in physical movement, as many characters often make remarks about how they perceive him as lazy or not doing much. However, this criterion actually refers to the speed at which one completes an activity and as far as I know, Leona is not said to be moving sluggishly, he only conducts himself in a manner that can be described as "lazily elegant". Even if we stretched the definition to encompass long-term goals he is putting off (like graduation), this criteria is still not counted for Leona since the wording used in the DSM-5-TR states “slowing down of thought AND reduction in physical movement” must be present. In other words, both must be true, not just one of them.

Leona does seem to experience some level of fatigue or loss of energy. This could be one way of interpreting his desire to sleep excessively instead of tending to more meaningful matters (like class). Fatigue, in this case, can also refer to emotional or mental fatigue. The sleep, then, can serve as a means of escape from reality for Leona, but it does not indicate actual physical tiredness. Rather, the tiredness can be intangible. This is also a potential explanation for his lack of motivation when it comes to some activities, especially those that demand him to take charge.

Leona does appear to experience feelings of worthlessness, though perhaps not excessive or inappropriate guilt. In fact, I would wager Leona does not demonstrate the latter, although this could be attributed to the fact that we are not in his head and he does not open up to others about his feelings. For example, we still don't know what his feelings are on almost killing Ruggie in a fit of rage. This does not discredit this criterion though, as the wording in the DSM is “feelings of worthlessness OR […] guilt” meaning one or the other suffices. It is no secret that Leona seeks recognition for his skills—something he was denied as a child and even put down for. While he is aware of his strengths, he has moments when he doubts himself (stating that he can’t change, or giving up when he realizes his plans won’t work so what’s the point in trying?), the contributions he can make (even when his older brother reassures him he can help their country), and encouragement from others (Jack telling him his play inspired him).

As I've said before, Leona does not have a diminished ability to think or concentrate. It has been shown to us time and time again that he doesn't do schoolwork not for lack of trying or lack of understanding, but because he thinks of himself as above it. Leona has already been tutored by the finest teachers royal money can buy, so he believes there is not much else for him to learn. He is also not shown to be indecisive--he can make decisions very quickly and can guide others or at least convince them to go along with him.

Leona does not have suicidal ideation or have recurring thoughts of committing suicide/death. While it's true that this is a game rated for ages 4+ (and therefore has restrictions on what content is and is not allowed in it), TWST has demonstrated to us that there are ways to imply suicidal ideation and other dark themes without explicitly saying it. (One notable example is Idia in late book 6, where he drops lines like "I'll go with you" and expresses dissatisfaction with "this world" to Ortho, who is known to be dead. To this, Ortho reassures him and encourages him to keep living. In fact, I could go on a whole tangent about how Idia better fits the criteria for major depressive disorder, but we're not going to get into that here.) The fact that TWST does not really imply this about Leona makes me think this is not true of him.

It can be said that the symptoms Leona does have are clinically significant, as his behavior is shown to have significant impact on his studies to the point where he was held back a grade. This was not because he did not know the material, but because he failed to find the motivation to attend class and to do his assignments. It also appears that Leona didn't really make an effort to work toward his future until book 7, when he actually talks his internship plans and about wanting to graduate.

We may guess that the symptoms persisted for two weeks or more (given Leona’s history and involvement in the main story), but the frequency of the symptoms is unclear since the game controls what we see of Leona and what we don’t.

Taking all of that into consideration, Leona does in fact exhibit depressive symptoms, but only 3 at most (I say “at most” because we have no idea about the true frequency at which some behaviors occur; we aren’t with Leona 24/7, nor has he reported it to us) out of the 8 total criteria. That’s 2 short of a diagnosis.

“But wait, there’s a lot of information missing here! We don’t have medical records, his weight and appetite changes, etc.” That’s true—but see, the main issue I take with diagnosing fictional characters in the first place is that we oftentimes do not know a character in detail enough to understand the full scope of their lives and symptoms. Noticing a few details is one thing and valid to an extent, but to evaluate an individual is not purely observational. This is particularly true for TWST characters, as even though there is plenty of content to refer back to for behavior, there is still a lack of really going into daily activities or deep feelings (beyond the one post-OB flashback for the OB boys). We cannot observe their behavior extensively. Because of this, tons of key criteria may not be visible to us from the audience’s perspective, let alone a medical history or other data to consider for assessment. We will almost always have an incomplete profile of a fictional character. Health is holistic and not entirely based on what we as individuals see or on all anecdotal evidence.

Just as health considers all parts of the individual, we, too, must consider individual cases of depression. It is possible for depression to exist without a diagnosis—many people (especially older adults), unfortunately, go undiagnosed for their condition. At the same time, it is possible for Leona to have depression which manifests in an atypical way. Each person with depression presents differently than the last, so I so not intend to make any blanket statements about the general population with this condition. The only statement I am making here is that based on my own interpretation of the current lore TWST has granted is, Leona Kingscholar does not satisfy the criteria for a formal clinical diagnosis, at least not for major depressive disorder as is defined by the DSM-5-TR.

Interestingly, Leona does fit the diagnostic criteria for a subclinical form of depression in a 1994 version of the DSM (IV). Minor depression or minor depressive disorder, colloquially known as “everyday depression”, is defined as having 2–4 depressive symptoms persisting for more than 2 weeks. One of these symptoms must be either depressed mood or loss of interest. It should be noted that this terminology is no longer recognized, as new information is added and dropped from the manual all the time. The information is flexible based on the consensus of a panel of hundreds of experts. Older versions of the DSM can be horribly outdated and it is not advised to reference them over newer ones. (As an example, "homosexuality" was legitimately listed as a mental illness in the very first version of the DSM. Yikes. Thankfully, this was dropped from the DSM-II. Other conditions like "multiple personality disorder" are granted new names like "dissociative identity disorder" or reworked altogether as our studies and understanding of mental health and science improve. It is important to keep up with the research coming out and update our approaches accordingly.)

We do not currently have a label for Leona’s situation aside from perhaps experiencing depressive episodes (periods of notable sadness lasting under 2 weeks) and exhibiting some depressive symptoms. I must stress that just because we lack a full-blown diagnosis, it doesn’t mean that it doesn’t impact his life. Leona is shown to very clearly be struggling with his mental health. He spends a lot of time in bed, typically cannot be motivated to attend class or do complete assignments, and has moments where he thinks very lowly of himself in spite of the confidence he exudes to others. What's more is that because Leona does not speak to others about what he's going through, it comes off as laziness or arrogance to his peers. Think of it this way: if you have a bad day and snap at a stranger or an acquaintance, the stranger/acquaintance is far less likely to grant you grace or forgiveness for your behavior compared to, say, a friend. They are not as familiar with you, so they will have less patience and are less likely to consider what you may be going through on a personal level. This also applies on a fandom level; if a fan is not actively reading between the lines, they, like Leona's peers, may miss the depressive symptoms he is displaying because they aren't looking for it. How many people can we say are close friends with Leona for him to open up to them about his circumstances? I would say Leona barely even lets his own dorm members be intimate enough with him to let them know about this part of himself. He has Savanaclaw backing him, but he probably does not talk to the mobs extensively. Ruggie is his errand boy, but I doubt Leona pours his heart out to him. And Jack is the newbie who did technically betray their dorm, so Leona might not trust him. Forget about people beyond his dorm. Even his family is not much better off; we've seen that Leona tends to brush off his brother's friendliness and attempts to make amends. There is no strong support system in place for him, which is tricky because Leona perpetuates it by keeping others at bay. In the light novel adaptation of book 2, Leona has an inner monologue about how he is afraid of letting others give him hope because it will encourage him to try again, only to fail another time. I imagine similar logic applies here; he is afraid of showing his vulnerable side because it might give him hope for change when he as late as book 6 expresses that he has given up on himself. I think that this is the detail about Leona most look to when they consider his mental health. The hallmark of depression is, after all, the feeling of perpetual sadness and despair itself. Most do not realize that other factors are considered.

From a clinical lens, it is not “obvious" that Leona is depressed. However, I understand why the prevailing sentiment tends to skew in the opposite direction. For the layman, it may be difficult to distinguish what is and is not clinically significant enough to warrant an actual diagnosis. Again, most will cite the same three pieces of information to support the depression reading: Leona's irritability, his unwillingness to participate, and the rejection he experienced as a child (which has now manifested as self-doubt and low self-esteem). Characters are often judged based on fans' own experiences, and this naturally comes with biases and subjectivity. Thus, some fans may project their own understanding or preconceived notions of what the "typical" depressed person acts like in their head onto Leona. This is normal human empathy at play. I believe that other fans see depression in Leona either because they experience it themselves or are familiar with someone in the same shoes. It can be difficult, and at times we can find solace and solidarity in fiction, especially if we find a character that “speaks to us” and seems relatable. That character may be Leona for some people. If you see do see him in this light or relate to his situation, I’m not invalidating your feelings. On the contrary, I'm happy that you were able to find comfort in him and that a piece of media you love can serve as a coping mechanism. You keep on doing you!

It is at this point that I will reiterate what I said at the start with a little extra nuance: I do not think Leona clinically depressed BUT I do believe he has depressive symptoms and poor mental health as the result of his cumulative circumstances. It is possible for him to have major depressive disorder, but we cannot determine this for certain with the information available to us right now. We are still missing several key components that would typically be considered in the evaluation process.

I think it's important to step back from focusing on labels and instead focus on the individual experience, and how you can still grow as a person and not let a perceived label define you. Leona is definitely working on himself! Changing, particularly changing a deeply ingrained mindset, takes much time and effort. We may not see the progress since Leona tends to hide it and/or we have limited intractions with him. We may not always see giant strides because the process is difficult. Even so, Leona is trying to jump over those mental and emotional hurdles. He's putting his all back into Magift/Spelldrive training. He's attending classes and doing the assignments. He's going home for the holidays. He has an internship planned. He wants to graduate. I've enjoyed following Leona's journey of growth and self-development and seeing all the intense discussion surrounding that. It all comes from a place of love and wanting to support the characters we care about, no matter how we may individually view him.

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panakinthedisco · 4 months ago

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PART 1 | HEAVEN ━━ Marcus Acacius

summary: acacius' mother forged a blood pact with the goddess of love, vowing to safeguard and elevate her son, while dedicating her life as a delphi in return. through all general acacius' triumphs, you as the daughter of venus deftly orchestrated his victory as promised but then gradually nurturing a forbidden attachment.

author's note: don't get me started how i almost died with the trailer and the photos of papi pedroooooo so i had to do this (also i can use my greek mythology knowledge for some good use) so yup reader is an immortal goddess and possibly daughter of venus, idfc anymore because i'm making my own lore! they're going to be arwen and aragorn-esque ending coz i eat those kind of tropes lmfao

warnings: eventual smut to later chapters. mentions of misogyny, violence and also implications of sexual abuse.

word count: 4.4k

In the heart of a desolate village, a young woman stood at the fringes of society, shunned and abandoned for bearing the child of a powerful general. Clutching her infant son tightly to her chest, she wandered aimlessly, her heart heavy with despair and fear. The whispers of the villagers echoed in her mind, a cacophony of judgment and scorn. Tears streamed down her face as she made her way to the grand temple of Venus, the goddess of love, her last beacon of hope.

The temple, with its towering marble columns and intricate carvings, loomed before her like a sanctuary in the midst of her turmoil. The air grew thick with an impending storm as she fell to her knees at the entrance, her cries piercing the silence of the sacred place. "Great Venus, goddess of love and mercy," she sobbed, her voice trembling, "I beg of you, protect my son and guide us, for we have nowhere else to go. I fear for his life, for he is innocent."

As her desperate pleas echoed within the hallowed halls, the wind suddenly picked up, swirling around her with a fierce intensity. The sky darkened, and the deafening roar of thunder cracked through the air. In the midst of this tempest, a radiant light descended upon the temple. From the ethereal glow emerged a figure of unparalleled beauty, clothed in pure white robes that flowed like water.

Venus, the goddess of love, knelt before the fallen woman. Her presence was divine, her skin like alabaster, flawless and luminous. Her eyes, a captivating shade of deep blue, held the wisdom of the ages and the compassion of a thousand hearts. Golden hair cascaded down her back in waves, shimmering as if woven from sunlight. A gentle smile graced her lips, exuding warmth and serenity.

"Rise, my child," Venus spoke, her voice a melodious symphony that filled the air with hope. "Do not despair, for I have heard your cries and felt your anguish. I can offer you and your son protection, but it comes with a price. You must dedicate your life to me, serve as my devotee, and in return, I shall ensure your son’s safety and guide you both to a brighter future."

The young woman, overwhelmed by the goddess's presence and her words, gazed into the loving eyes of Venus. With unwavering determination and gratitude, she nodded. "I will do as you ask, great goddess. My life is yours to command, if it means my son will be safe."

Venus gently lifted the woman to her feet, her touch tender and reassuring. "Then it shall be so. From this moment forth, you are under my protection. Fear not, for love shall guide your path, and together, we shall overcome all obstacles."

With that, the storm subsided, leaving behind a serene sky. The young woman, now filled with renewed hope and purpose, cradled her son as they both embraced the divine path laid before them by the goddess of love.

Years had gone by, the once forsaken young woman found solace and purpose as a devoted Delphi. She served with unwavering faith, her every breath a testament to the sacred bond she had formed with the goddess of love. Her son, Acacius, grew under the protective aegis of the temple, receiving the finest education and training from the wise sorceresses who resided there. His days were filled with rigorous training and study, molding him into a formidable warrior.

One golden afternoon, the courtyard of the temple buzzed with activity. Acacius, now a young man of remarkable prowess, moved with grace and strength as he sparred with his fellow trainees. His body, chiseled and powerful, gleamed with sweat under the sun. Every muscle in his arms and chest rippled with the precision and control honed through years of discipline. His jawline was sharp, his dark hair tousled, and his piercing eyes focused, exuding an aura of confidence and determination.

From a distance, Venus, resplendent in her divine beauty, emerged from the temple accompanied by you, her daughter. Venus’ robes flowed like liquid moonlight, and her presence illuminated the courtyard. While you, whose divine essence shimmered with an ethereal glow, stood by your mother’s side, your eyes subtly observing Acacius as he trained vigorously.

"Look at him, my daughter," Venus spoke, her voice a soothing melody. "Acacius’ mother devoted her life to serving as a Delphi, and it is now your duty to watch over him. He has grown into a man of great potential."

You were hesitant and prideful, replied, "Mother, surely I am capable of far more important tasks than merely watching over a mortal."

Venus laughed, "Ah, my dear, I see great things in Acacius. I made an unbreakable oath to his mother to protect him and guide him to victory. This task is of utmost importance, and you, my daughter, are perfectly suited for it."

Reluctantly, you agreed, though you felt the weight of the responsibility. As Venus gracefully returned to the temple, your gaze lingered on Acacius. You had watched him grow from a vulnerable child into the powerful warrior he had become. His masculine form, sculpted by relentless training, was a testament to his dedication and strength. His broad shoulders, strong arms, and defined torso were a sight to behold, each movement exuding a raw, magnetic energy.

As the daughter of Venus, you had spent millennia observing the ways of mortals. From the heights of the celestial realm to the depths of human existence, you had witnessed the endless cycles of birth, love, ambition, and vanity that defined their ephemeral lives. Mortal men, in particular, seemed ensnared by their own reflections, driven by a relentless pursuit of power, beauty, and validation. Their obsessions with vanity, you mused, were like chains binding them to an endless quest for an ever-elusive perfection.

In the sanctity of your divine solitude, you pondered these thoughts, your mind weaving through the countless interactions you had with mortals over the ages. Vanity, you concluded, was a double-edged sword. It spurred men to greatness but also led them to their downfall. How often have you seen warriors, poets, and kings, their hearts consumed by the desire for eternal youth, adoration, and glory? They built monuments to themselves, adorned their bodies in opulent garb, and sought the fleeting approval of their peers, all the while neglecting the deeper virtues of humility, wisdom, and compassion.

Living among mortals, you had grown accustomed to their ways, understanding the fragile nature of their existence. Yet, with each passing century, you have grown more disillusioned by their unchanging flaws. Despite the wisdom imparted by time and the guidance of the gods, mortals remained predictably obsessed with their own image.

When your mother, Venus, entrusted you with the responsibility of watching over Acacius, you could not help but feel a familiar pang of skepticism. Was he not just another man, destined to be ensnared by the same vanities as those before him? Despite his formidable strength and the disciplined mind he had cultivated, you feared that beneath his heroic exterior lay the same vulnerabilities that had claimed countless others.

As you observed Acacius from the shadows, your thoughts grew heavier. You remembered how, as a boy, he had shown signs of the same traits that plagued mortal men: the pride in his burgeoning strength, the flicker of arrogance in his victories, and the longing in his eyes for recognition and admiration. He seemed no different from the countless men who had walked the earth, striving for greatness yet ultimately ensnared by their own hubris.

Your divine heart, though swayed by eons of witnessing human folly, felt a curious twinge as she watched him. There was something about Acacius, a glimmer of potential, that both made you intrigued and worried. Could he break the cycle? Or would he, too, succumb to the inevitable downfall of vanity?

As you silently vowed to fulfill her mother’s promise, you found yourself grappling with an unexpected sense of protectiveness. Despite your reservations, there was an undeniable bond formed by watching him grow, a reluctant admiration for his resilience and strength. You feared for him, not because you doubted his abilities, but because she understood the weight of his mortality.

With a sigh, you resigned yourself to the task. "Acacius may be like other men," you thought, "but perhaps there lies within him a spark of something more." You would watch over him, guide him, and protect him from the shadows, ever vigilant and ever hopeful that he might transcend the very vanities that ensnared his kind. As the daughter of Venus, you knew that love and duty were bound by unbreakable threads, and you would honor them both, even if it meant confronting your own doubts and fears.

As you observed him and embedded in your own thoughts, Acacius suddenly paused and turned his head, his sharp eyes meeting yours across the courtyard. Startled, you quickly retreated into the shadows, your divine essence blending with the darkened corners of the temple.

Hidden from view, your heart pounded. You realized the gravity of your new role, feeling a mixture of trepidation and an unspoken bond with the man she would protect and guide. As Acacius resumed his training, unaware of the divine eyes watching over him, you knew this won’t be an easy responsibility.

As the daughter of Venus, you have watched over Acacius from the shadows, your divine presence hidden but your influence ever-present. From the moment he drew his sword, you felt the weight of your mother's promise pressing upon your shoulders, a vow to guide and protect him, to steer him towards greatness. Acacius was more than a mortal; he was the culmination of a divine pact, and your duty to him was as sacred as the bond forged between his mother and Venus.

In his youth, you whispered wisdom into the ears of his mentors, guiding their hands as they trained him in the arts of war and leadership. You ensured that the best teachers found their way to him, that he learned not only the strategies of battle but also the virtues of honor, compassion, and justice. Through subtle interventions, you shaped his character, molding him into a man worthy of the destiny laid before him.

As he grew, so did the challenges he faced. You were there in the thick of his battles, unseen but ever vigilant. During his early skirmishes, you would nudge his instincts, sharpening his reflexes and lending him the strength he needed to overcome his foes. When he faltered, you were the whisper of encouragement that steeled his resolve, the invisible hand that steadied his sword.

In the grand halls of strategy and politics, you guided his thoughts, helping him navigate the treacherous waters of Roman ambition. You planted seeds of wisdom in his mind, urging him to form alliances that would strengthen his position, to make decisions that would earn him the respect of his peers and the loyalty of his men. You were the unseen force that smoothed the path before him, ensuring that every step he took led him closer to his destiny.

When he was appointed as a general under Maximus Decimus Meridius, you knew that your efforts were bearing fruit. Acacius had become a formidable leader, his name spoken with reverence and fear across the empire. Yet, his journey was far from over. Under the rule of Emperor Geta and his co-Augusti, Caracalla, Acacius faced new trials. The invasion of Caledonia was a test of his mettle, a crucible that would forge his legacy.

As the Romans prepared for their campaign, you took on the guise of a tradesman’s daughter in Caledonia, positioning yourself to be near him, to watch over him more closely. The battles were fierce, and the land was unforgiving. You ensured that crucial information reached him at the right moments, that his strategies were sound and his decisions unerring. You softened the hearts of those who might have betrayed him, turned the tides of fortune in his favor.

Through the years, you have been his silent guardian, his invisible ally. You have seen him rise from a young warrior to a revered general, each victory a testament to the bond you honored. Even now, as you stand among the captured townspeople, disguised and hidden, your purpose remains unchanged. You are here to protect him, to guide him, and to ensure that he fulfills the destiny that was promised.

In the moments when doubt clouded his heart, you were the light that pierced the darkness. When he faced insurmountable odds, you were the strength that carried him through. You have watched over him with a mixture of pride and affection, your heart swelling with each triumph and breaking with each loss. Acacius is more than just a mortal; he is a living embodiment of the divine promise you are bound to uphold.

Amidst the chaos of the Roman invasion of Caledonia, the air was thick with smoke and the cries of the conquered. The formidable General Acacius, now a seasoned leader under Emperor Geta and his co-Augusti, Caracalla, surveyed the battlefield with a steely gaze. His once youthful visage was now marked by the scars of countless battles, his presence commanding and unwavering.

In the midst of the turmoil, you risked disguising as a daughter of a tradesman, moved with quiet resolve. Clad in the coarse, earth-toned garb of a peasant, she blended seamlessly with the captured townspeople. Yet, even in your humble attire, your divine essence could not be wholly concealed. Your skin, a flawless alabaster, stood out against the grime and soot of the war-torn village. Your eyes, a striking shade of hazel, gleamed with an unearthly light, and your movements, though tempered to appear modest, held an innate grace that betrayed your true nature.

The Roman soldiers, drunk on victory, rounded up the women of Caledonia, separating them from their families with ruthless efficiency. Among the throng, the disguised goddess maintained a facade of fear and helplessness, your heart pounding as she witnessed the suffering of the innocent. The brutality of the soldiers, their coarse laughter, and lecherous gazes made you shudder inwardly, but you knew you must maintain your cover.

General Acacius, his mind burdened with the responsibilities of command, scanned the scene with a practiced eye. His soldiers were securing the captives, ensuring the spoils of war were collected. His gaze fell upon the group of captured women, and for a moment, he saw them as mere pawns in the grand scheme of conquest. But then, his eyes landed on you.

Despite your plain clothing, something about you stood out. Your skin, untouched by the harshness of the elements, was too smooth, too luminous for a common peasant. Your hair, though partially hidden beneath a simple headscarf, shone with a subtle, otherworldly luster. You moved with a quiet dignity, your posture erect even in the face of despair. Acacius's sharp eyes missed nothing, maybe a nobility pretending to be a peasant so they can escape from the invasion. He finds it as a clever tactic.

As one of his soldiers, emboldened by the chaos, approached her with lecherous intent, Acacius felt a surge of anger. The soldier, a brutish figure, reached out to grasp your arm, his intentions clear. Before he could lay a hand on you, Acacius's voice rang out, authoritative and cold.

"Stand down," he commanded, his tone brooking no argument. The soldier froze, his hand hovering in the air. "Do not touch her."

The soldier, taken aback, stammered a protest, "But, General, she's just a—"

"Bring her to me," Acacius cut him off, his gaze fixed on the disguised goddess. "Now."

The soldier, reluctant but obedient, withdrew his hand and roughly pushed you forward. You stumbled slightly but quickly regained your balance, your eyes meeting Acacius with a mixture of apprehension and curiosity. As you were brought before him, he could see the subtle details that marked you as different: the refinement in your features, the intelligence in your eyes, the air of quiet strength exuded within you.

"Who are you?" Acacius asked, his voice softer but still commanding. "You do not belong here, do you?"

You hesitated, you mind racing to craft a plausible response. "I am the daughter of a tradesman," you said, your voice steady despite the fear you felt. "Captured like the others. Please, I mean no harm."

Acacius studied you for a long moment, his instincts telling him there was more to your story. "Take her to my tent," Acacius declared, his voice carrying an edge of finality. "She will be my personal cupbearer."

The soldiers, recognizing the unwavering tone of their general, nodded in agreement. They stepped back, leaving you untouched. Acacius's gaze softened slightly as he looked at you, a mixture of curiosity and protectiveness in his eyes.

"Find her something clean to wear," he instructed, his tone gentle yet firm.

Two soldiers led you through the encampment, their grip on your arms firm but not harsh. They guided you to the lavish tent of General Acacius, a striking contrast to the roughness of the battlefield outside. The tent was grand, its exterior adorned with rich fabrics and ornate decorations. Inside, it was a sanctuary of luxury and comfort amidst the chaos of war.

The interior of the tent was spacious, with plush carpets covering the ground and opulent cushions scattered around. Rich tapestries adorned the walls, depicting scenes of Roman victories and mythological grandeur. A large, intricately carved wooden table stood at the center, laden with an array of sumptuous food and fine wine. The scent of incense filled the air, mingling with the aroma of roasted meats and freshly baked bread.

As you stood in the middle of the tent, feeling the weight of her disguise, General Acacius entered. His armor gleamed in the soft light of the tent, and his eyes locked onto yours with an intensity that made your heart race. He moved with the confidence of a seasoned warrior, yet there was a gentleness in his approach.

"Sit with me," he said, gesturing to the cushions by the table.

You hesitated but complied, lowering yourself onto the soft cushions. Acacius sat across from you, his gaze never leaving yours like a lion observing his prey. He offered you a plate of food, the array of delicacies a testament to the wealth and power he commanded.

"Please, eat," he urged, but you shook your head, declining politely.

"I’m not hungry, my Lord," you explained, your voice steady.

Acacius leaned back, studying you intently. "What kind of business does your father have?"

You took a breath, weaving the story you had prepared. "My father is a tradesman, specializing in silk. We travel far and wide, even to the distant lands of China, to procure the finest silk. He sells it to the emperor and to those of noble birth."

Acacius nodded, intrigued. "A tradesman of silk, you say? But then, you do not seem like a mere peasant."

You lowered your eyes, the weight of your divine secret heavy upon you. "We have faced many hardships, but my father has always ensured that we present ourselves with dignity."

Acacius leaned forward, his gaze unwavering. "Tell me," he said, his voice low and measured, "does your family live in Caledonia?"

Your heart is pounding. "Yes," you replied, your voice steady. "We come from an impoverished background. My father sought to make a better life for us through his trade."

Acacius studied you closely, his eyes dark and intense. As he reached for a cluster of grapes, he popped one into his mouth, chewing thoughtfully. The act, so casual and yet so intimate, made your pulse quicken. His scrutiny was unrelenting, and you felt as though he could see through the layers of your disguise.

"You should know," he began, his tone carrying a note of warning, "that the nobility of Caledonia will be captured. There is no escape for them."

You remained silent, her expression carefully neutral. You knew he was testing you, probing for any signs of deceit. His words, though intended to intimidate, also carried a hint of concern.

"My soldiers are ruthless," he continued, his voice growing colder. "They would take advantage of you if given the chance."

You nodded silently, acknowledging the gravity of his warning. Your heart ached at the thought of the suffering around you, but you knew she had to maintain your composure.

As Acacius spoke, the flap of the tent was pushed aside, and a soldier entered, carrying a bundle of fresh clothes. They were simple but clean, likely taken from a Caledonian household. The soldier handed the bundle to Acacius, who thanked him with a curt nod.

"Here," Acacius said, extending the clothes to you. "Put these on."

You rose from your seat and took the bundle obediently, your fingers brushing against his for the briefest moment. The contact sent a shiver through you, a reminder of the thin line she walked between mortal and divinity.

"You may change behind the screen," he said, gesturing to a beautifully carved wooden partition that provided a modicum of privacy within the tent.

You nodded and moved behind the screen, the fabric rustling softly as you slipped out of your peasant clothes. The new garments were a marked improvement, though still modest. As you dressed, you could feel Acacius's presence just beyond the screen, his protective aura enveloping you like a shield.

When you emerged, you found him watching you intently, his eyes reflecting a mixture of curiosity and something deeper, something you could not quite name. The new clothes fit you well, accentuating your grace and poise even in their simplicity.

"Better," he murmured, his voice softening. "You look more like the person you claim to be."

You offered a faint smile, lowering her gaze. "Thank you."

Days passed, and you, now working as a cupbearer in General Acacius's camp, endeavored to maintain your humble facade. Despite your best efforts to appear as an ordinary servant, your innate grace and poise occasionally betrayed your true nature. Acacius, ever observant, began to notice the subtle refinement in your movements, the way you carried yourself with a dignity that spoke of nobility.

Your body language, though deliberately subdued, hinted at a life of privilege and education. You moved with an elegance that seemed out of place in the rough-and-tumble environment of a military camp. The way you poured water into cups, the delicate curve of your fingers as you handled the pitchers, all bespoke a background far removed from the impoverished tale you had spun.

One afternoon, a group of generals gathered in Acacius's lavish tent for a luncheon. As you silently poured water into their cups, you could feel the weight of their gazes upon you. The generals, their voices booming with laughter and boasts, paid little heed to the solemnity of their surroundings. One of them, a burly man with a coarse beard, eyed you with a lecherous grin.

"Acacius," he called out, his voice thick with drink, "is your cupbearer good in bed?"

The tent erupted in raucous laughter, the crude jest echoing off the walls. Acacius, seated at the head of the table, narrowed his eyes. His gaze hardened, and he fixed the offending general with a stern look.

"Such things are not to be discussed," he said, his tone carrying a quiet authority that silenced the laughter.

The general, still chuckling, raised his hands in mock surrender. "Ah, Acacius, always so reserved. You'd do well to indulge a bit more."

The disguised goddess watched the exchange with keen interest, your heart pounding. You knew Acacius's character well, having observed him for years. You despised these gatherings, these displays of vanity and ego. He found no pleasure in the idle boasts of his peers, preferring the company of his own thoughts and strategies.

As you continued your duties, pouring water and refilling cups, you could sense Acacius's discomfort. He was a man of action, a warrior with a clear sense of purpose. These luncheons, with their empty chatter and frivolous banter, were a stark contrast to the disciplined life he led. You admired his restraint, his ability to maintain his composure in the face of such provocation.

The generals continued their revelry, their conversations shifting from one boast to another. They spoke of past victories, of conquests and spoils, their voices a cacophony of pride and self-importance. Acacius, though present in body, seemed distant, his mind likely focused on the next battle, the next challenge.

As you moved around the table, you caught his eye for a brief moment. In that instant, you saw a flicker of something deeper, a connection that transcended. You knew that he valued substance over show, strategy over vanity. His reluctance to engage in their crude jests and hollow boasts only endeared him to you more.

The luncheon dragged on, the generals growing more boisterous with each passing moment. Acacius, ever the disciplined leader, maintained his stoic demeanor, responding to their jibes with measured patience. You could see the tension in his posture, the tightness in his jaw, and felt a pang of empathy.

As the daughter of Venus, you had always found mortal men to be easily swayed by vanity and ambition. They are like clay, molded by the hands of society and their peers, their true selves often buried beneath layers of ego and pride. But Acacius is different. Despite the pressures and temptations that come with his rank, he remains steadfast and true to his values. You're secretly proud of him, of the strength he shows in resisting the crudeness and arrogance that so often define his comrades.

That evening, after the generals had left and the camp had settled into a quiet lull, you found Acacius outside his tent, gazing up at the night sky. The stars twinkled above, their light casting a gentle glow on his strong, chiseled features. There was a tranquility in the air, a moment of peace amidst the chaos of war.

You approached him silently, your heart swelling with admiration for the man he had become. "Thank you for everything, My Lord," you said softly, breaking the silence.

He turned to look at you, his eyes reflecting the starlight. "You don’t need to thank me," he replied, his voice steady.

You nodded, understanding the brusqueness of his words. "Even so, I am forever grateful."

As you turned to return to the tent, you could feel his gaze lingering on you. There was a mystery in his eyes, a curiosity that you knew he could not easily dispel. You wondered what he saw when he looked at you—this woman who appeared from nowhere, cloaked in the guise of a humble servant yet betraying hints of refinement and grace.

CONTINUE READING: PART 2 | PART 3 ━━ AVAILABLE ON AO3

☆ MASTERLIST | NAVIGATION | SOCIALS | SIGN OFF BANNER MADE BY. @ALDERAANDORS ☆

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apas-95 · 1 year ago

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On Authority

A number of Socialists have latterly launched a regular crusade against what they call the principle of authority. It suffices to tell them that this or that act is authoritarian for it to be condemned. This summary mode of procedure is being abused to such an extent that it has become necessary to look into the matter somewhat more closely.

Authority, in the sense in which the word is used here, means: the imposition of the will of another upon ours; on the other hand, authority presupposes subordination. Now, since these two words sound bad, and the relationship which they represent is disagreeable to the subordinated party, the question is to ascertain whether there is any way of dispensing with it, whether — given the conditions of present-day society — we could not create another social system, in which this authority would be given no scope any longer, and would consequently have to disappear.

On examining the economic, industrial and agricultural conditions which form the basis of present-day bourgeois society, we find that they tend more and more to replace isolated action by combined action of individuals. Modern industry, with its big factories and mills, where hundreds of workers supervise complicated machines driven by steam, has superseded the small workshops of the separate producers; the carriages and wagons of the highways have become substituted by railway trains, just as the small schooners and sailing feluccas have been by steam-boats. Even agriculture falls increasingly under the dominion of the machine and of steam, which slowly but relentlessly put in the place of the small proprietors big capitalists, who with the aid of hired workers cultivate vast stretches of land.

Everywhere combined action, the complication of processes dependent upon each other, displaces independent action by individuals. But whoever mentions combined action speaks of organisation; now, is it possible to have organisation without authority?

Supposing a social revolution dethroned the capitalists, who now exercise their authority over the production and circulation of wealth. Supposing, to adopt entirely the point of view of the anti-authoritarians, that the land and the instruments of labour had become the collective property of the workers who use them. Will authority have disappeared, or will it only have changed its form? Let us see.

Let us take by way of example a cotton spinning mill. The cotton must pass through at least six successive operations before it is reduced to the state of thread, and these operations take place for the most part in different rooms. Furthermore, keeping the machines going requires an engineer to look after the steam engine, mechanics to make the current repairs, and many other labourers whose business it is to transfer the products from one room to another, and so forth. All these workers, men, women and children, are obliged to begin and finish their work at the hours fixed by the authority of the steam, which cares nothing for individual autonomy. The workers must, therefore, first come to an understanding on the hours of work; and these hours, once they are fixed, must be observed by all, without any exception. Thereafter particular questions arise in each room and at every moment concerning the mode of production, distribution of material, etc., which must be settled by decision of a delegate placed at the head of each branch of labour or, if possible, by a majority vote, the will of the single individual will always have to subordinate itself, which means that questions are settled in an authoritarian way. The automatic machinery of the big factory is much more despotic than the small capitalists who employ workers ever have been. At least with regard to the hours of work one may write upon the portals of these factories: Lasciate ogni autonomia, voi che entrate! [Leave, ye that enter in, all autonomy behind!]

If man, by dint of his knowledge and inventive genius, has subdued the forces of nature, the latter avenge themselves upon him by subjecting him, in so far as he employs them, to a veritable despotism independent of all social organisation. Wanting to abolish authority in large-scale industry is tantamount to wanting to abolish industry itself, to destroy the power loom in order to return to the spinning wheel.

Let us take another example — the railway. Here too the co-operation of an infinite number of individuals is absolutely necessary, and this co-operation must be practised during precisely fixed hours so that no accidents may happen. Here, too, the first condition of the job is a dominant will that settles all subordinate questions, whether this will is represented by a single delegate or a committee charged with the execution of the resolutions of the majority of persona interested. In either case there is a very pronounced authority. Moreover, what would happen to the first train dispatched if the authority of the railway employees over the Hon. passengers were abolished?

But the necessity of authority, and of imperious authority at that, will nowhere be found more evident than on board a ship on the high seas. There, in time of danger, the lives of all depend on the instantaneous and absolute obedience of all to the will of one.

When I submitted arguments like these to the most rabid anti-authoritarians, the only answer they were able to give me was the following: Yes, that's true, but there it is not the case of authority which we confer on our delegates, but of a commission entrusted! These gentlemen think that when they have changed the names of things they have changed the things themselves. This is how these profound thinkers mock at the whole world.

We have thus seen that, on the one hand, a certain authority, no matter how delegated, and, on the other hand, a certain subordination, are things which, independently of all social organisation, are imposed upon us together with the material conditions under which we produce and make products circulate.

We have seen, besides, that the material conditions of production and circulation inevitably develop with large-scale industry and large-scale agriculture, and increasingly tend to enlarge the scope of this authority. Hence it is absurd to speak of the principle of authority as being absolutely evil, and of the principle of autonomy as being absolutely good. Authority and autonomy are relative things whose spheres vary with the various phases of the development of society. If the autonomists confined themselves to saying that the social organisation of the future would restrict authority solely to the limits within which the conditions of production render it inevitable, we could understand each other; but they are blind to all facts that make the thing necessary and they passionately fight the world.

Why do the anti-authoritarians not confine themselves to crying out against political authority, the state? All Socialists are agreed that the political state, and with it political authority, will disappear as a result of the coming social revolution, that is, that public functions will lose their political character and will be transformed into the simple administrative functions of watching over the true interests of society. But the anti-authoritarians demand that the political state be abolished at one stroke, even before the social conditions that gave birth to it have been destroyed. They demand that the first act of the social revolution shall be the abolition of authority. Have these gentlemen ever seen a revolution? A revolution is certainly the most authoritarian thing there is; it is the act whereby one part of the population imposes its will upon the other part by means of rifles, bayonets and cannon — authoritarian means, if such there be at all; and if the victorious party does not want to have fought in vain, it must maintain this rule by means of the terror which its arms inspire in the reactionists. Would the Paris Commune have lasted a single day if it had not made use of this authority of the armed people against the bourgeois? Should we not, on the contrary, reproach it for not having used it freely enough?

Therefore, either one of two things: either the anti-authoritarians don't know what they're talking about, in which case they are creating nothing but confusion; or they do know, and in that case they are betraying the movement of the proletariat. In either case they serve the reaction.

- Engels, 1872

#on authority #engels

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writerthatcannotwrite · 1 month ago

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TROP SEASON FINALE SPOILERS!!!!!

Elrond, my baby, my little guy, my poor soul.

DWARF RANT:

King Durin, may you rest in the Halls of Aule with honor.

I've seen a common theme in this series: people who had lost their minds, but found them in the last moment of shocking clarity that was (almost) their last noble act.

Celebrimbor, cutting off his thumb to escape (Which was very "I'm honoring my Uncle Maedhros" core, which I very much appreciate) and saying, "Whose will is the mightier?"

I can go on another rant about that phrase and the implications, but that was last episode.

King Durin III awoke the balrog, literally Durin's Bane.

Prince Durin and Disa's kiss was iconic, fyi.

Prince Durin tried so hard to help his father, but in the end, he couldn't stop him. Well, he alone couldn't stop his father; what truly set King Durin over the edge was the knowledge that his son might die. King Durin saw the balrog, something that he had willingly called forth, and went, "Holy shit, get the boy OUT". And how did King Durin get his boy out of the balrog's fire? He sacrificed himself.

Throughout this entire season, I have seen nothing but poor parenting from King Durin; he never listened to his son's advice; he literally shoved him away, and into a wall (My first thought was, "CHILD ABUSE!!! CHILD ABUSE!!!! GO GET DWARF DFCS!!!"). But here, we see the true affection King Durin had for his son.

The cataclysm that brought King Durin clarity was not anything his son could have done by himself, but the knowledge that his son was helpless. King Durin was not going to let his son suffer something of his own making, so he charged the balrog.

And then died.

HUMAN RANT:

Okay, so Kemen (I finally learned his name, unfortunately) needs to get off of his swampy ass and tumble into a grave. It'd be so simple; Isildur just needs to *grab by lapels* *shift three spaces to the right* *drop in hole*. Simple! Easy solution! Would the Valar be very happy? Probably not, but hey! We'd get rid of Kemen!

And I do appreciate Earien's technically treasonous act for her father; by now, she is a pretty prominent figure in Numenorean politics; the right hand of the king's right hand.

And you know what confused me?

The way Pharazon---I'm not calling him Ar-Pharazon, he doesn't deserve that---gathered up all of the RELIGIOUS LEADERS of the Faithful and said, "Yeah, sorry you're conspiring with Sauron, aka the DEVIL so you and all of the Faithful are to be arrested. Sorry."

One of the main things that always strikes a cord for me is religious freedom; when these wrongs are shown in this show, it makes me SO angry, because people should be able to practice their faith freely, regardless of whatever religion the government favors.

The sacking of Nienna's temple, the prosecution of the Faithful in earlier episodes, and now the legit imprisoning of people who are Faithful.

Recently, I have been reading "The Crucible" in class, and we have been discussing the causes and effects of mass hysteria, one of the contributing factors of the Salem Witch Hunts. I feel like there might be bought of mass hysteria going around Numenor now; the king/queen-ship is a major dispute, the Faithful are being arrested, major political and social leaders of the community have been imprisoned. People can likely accuse others of being Faithful (Even if they aren't) because of petty rivalries. In the Crucible, Mr. Putnam accused George Jacobs, his neighbor who had lots of land, of witchcraft, so that he would be able to purchase his land.

How many people in Numenor would face a similar dilemma?

Would Mr. Smith the Sailor accuse Mrs. Johnson the Tailor of being an Elf-Friend because her tapestries looked a little too much like those of Vaire? But it doesn't matter that Mrs. Johnson's only daughter is of marriageable age and Mr. Smith has had his eye on her. But who would be watching that if Mrs. Johnson was an Elf-Friend?

All of these factors are the most basic ingredient for a good ol' bought of mass hysteria; my English teacher doesn't watch this show, but I'm tempted to tell her the similarities.

then, to Isildur.

I thought Theo and Isildur's hug was very nice.

Theo was like, "Ah, yes, I shall bid my friend farewell after discussing the traumatic deaths of our mothers. I wish him well!"

And Isildur's like, "Why is the kid who hated me yesterday wanting a hug???"

I always got bad vibes from Estrid. I get swearing servitude to Adar in exchange for your life, I get that, but.

I never felt comfortable with her and Isildur's relationship. I get that she wasn't able to decipher her feelings for Hagen, her betrothed, until she met Isildur, but seriously. I also know that Isildur has an "unnamed wife" (SCREW THE NOT NAMING OF FEMALE CHARACTERS IT MAKES ME ANGRY), so I know he's gonna get somebody EVENTUALLY, and before Numenor sinks.

But then, Isildur and Estrid started MAKING OUT in Theo's kitchen. Like, bro. THAT'S NOT YOUR HOUSE!!!! Do that ELSEWHERE!!!!! Better yet, don't even do it!

And then, that slimy bitch Kemen had to stroll up, all, "Yeah, we'll put the watchtower there, knock down a few houses to do it." And then, he tries to be all buddy-buddy with Isildur, who obviously realizes that something is a bit off.

Then, Kemen drops the ball, saying that his father is wanted for treason, Queen Miriel is no longer queen, and "low men" are not allowed in Numenor.

First off: very classist of you, go kill yourself, Kemen.

Second off: Isildur learns that the woman he saved from the fire is no longer queen; is he thinking that his sacrifice, everything that he's endured in Middle Earth, has been for naught?

Third off: Kemen mentioned Earien. Does Isildur know that his sister has gotten a little racist in his absence? How will he react to seeing his sister betray their entire family by literally trying to put them all in prison (Anarion, Elendil, AND Isildur)?

Kinda happy that Estrid wasn't going to Numenor. Don't like the circumstances, but I'm glad that she isn't going.

I also think that Earien is coming to her senses; she might not have wanted Miriel on the throne, but now, Pharazon's tyranny is affecting HER. HER family is being prosecuted. HER father is wanted for "treason". HER people are at risk. Earien is getting a rude awakening to this thing.

I also think that its interesting how that guard left when Earien told him to; it shows how people in power are STILL defying the law in Numenor, all because, "Oh, she knows the king's son."

Of course, Earien did this for a good reason, but it still demonstrates the corruption of Numenor's political system.

Then, Miriel and Elendil. As I was watching this my mom, I was like, "Hey, do you ship it?" and she was like, "Oh, yeah" and I was like, "Good, my assumptions are not unfounded."

So yeah, Anarion, Isildur, and Earien are going to be getting a step-mom, good for them!!

What messed me up was when Miriel was like, "No Elendil, you must go, I will stay." Like Elendil (And us) were under the impression that she would remain with the Faithful; Elendil draped the cloak over her shoulders and she didn't flinch, she listened to his plan, but when the time came to make the decision she stayed. Frankly, I don't understand WHY, but go off girlie, I guess.

ELVES:

Okay, so Galadriel getting the refugees out of Eregion, I really liked; in cannon, Galadriel and many of Eregion's fled Eregion and headed south. Then, Galadriel gave up the Nine to save the refugees (Iconic, Queen Behavior), and we see Adar, leaning against a fallen tree. Is he injured? Is he hiding? Has his hand been conveniently cut off by some guy on an eagle? What happened?

After dismissing the orcs, Adar turns around. At first, I didn't see any difference (I'm not very observant, sometimes, alright?), until I looked a little closer. His face was no longer scared and burned; his hair seemed thicker, cleaner; he looked less gaunt. The ring had healed him.

And then, Galadriel asked for his name, but he evaded the question, like a little BITCH.

"Adar was the name I chose for myself" blah, blah, blah, bah, JUST SAY MAKALAURE YOU IDIOT!!! Sure, there are some details in cannon that don't line up (Maglor wasn't strung up on Thangorodrim, Maedhros was) but here's the thing: not only has trop changed a few things, it made some things more accessible.

In trop, Elrond and Elros were found by Galadriel after the Third Kinslaying, not the sons of Feanor. Celebrimbor was supposed to be tortured for TWO YEARS before his death. Celeborn is still supposed to be present.

I also have a cannon-probable idea for Maglor being Adar; in Maglor's trauma and grief at loosing his last and first brother, could he have not clung to his brother, in all aspects? Maglor may have curated this story of hanging from a cliff because that's what happened to his brother, that idea is what keeps him close. The things about being with the orcs and Sauron, I can't really explain for this idea. That's just about as far as I got.

But Adar WILLINGLY returned the ring to Galadriel, proving that he truly meant to defeat Sauron with elven help. But then, there is an injured Uruk nearby, and Adar goes to help; he might not even be able to heal him, but he will be with that Uruk in his last moments.

And then.

The Uruk, Glug, I think? leapt up and stabbed him. All of the others followed suit. It was a mirror to Sauron's own death in the first episode: betrayed, stabbed, stabbed, stabbed, stabbed, stabbed, stabbed, stabbed, stabbed---

You get the gist.

By the end, Adar is well and truly gone. He raises his hand to touch one of the orcs, his children, and calls them such, but the orc stabs him again, one, final time.

The entire situation is disheartening; sure Adar might have been willing to risk his "children" in his hunt for revenge against Sauron, but he cared about them, well and truly. In exchange, the orcs killed him for his kindness.

In the end, I really do want to know who Adar was before his chaining to a mountain. Did he have a family? People he loved? He must have come from Cuivienen, so he probably did.

I also wonder where he would go after death. Now that his hroa (Physical body) is well and truly... extinguished, where will his fea (Spirit) go? Do orcish fear (Spirit, plural) go to the Halls of Mandos, or somewhere else?

Adar looked vaguely elven; he could walk in sunlight, unlike his children. I feel like he should go to the Halls of Mandos; he did many terrible things, but were they not in the pursuit of good?

Then, Celebrimbor's death (These are not in the order of the scenes, just what I remember).

We see streaks of blood on stone floor, and we know something has happened.

Then, there's Celebrimbor, BEING USED AS TARGET PRACTICE, with arrows in his arms. Sauron stand over him, grim, and he wants to know where the rings are. They bicker and banter, there's some (un)healthy badinage, and Sauron STILL says that Celebrimbor's pain is HIS fault, that Celebrimbor brought this upon himself. Even though Celebrimbor is well and truly destroyed, Sauron STILL wants to have Celebrimbor guilt-ridden and full of self-loathing. It sickens me.

And then, Celebrimbor has something to say. He says, "forsee", and Sauron stops. I doubt Celebrimbor has had many visions of foresight, but the line of Finwe is not without them; did Miriel not have a vision of foresight to name her son Feanaro? Was Galadriel not gifted in seeing versions of the future? So it is possible, especially since Celebrimbor is SPOT ON. It WILL be one ring that brings about Sauron's downfall, and Sauron will fall. Sauron realizes this, and runs him through with a spear. Celebrimbor is lifted onto the pillar (Which is what I think we're going to get as the Celebrimbanner, unfortunately; I would have loved to see his cannonical death) and finally dies.

Then, Galadriel and Sauron's duel. Sauron turns into different people to try and fool Galadriel, but by now, she is used to trickery. He turns into puppy-dog-eyed Halbrand (Annatar was literally just Halbrand in a heat-damaged wig and shaved, Celebrimbor should have seen that IMMEDIATELY). Then, he's Galadriel herself, depicting her darkest, most evil deeds and desires. Then, Celebrimbor, mocking her for her retreat. Franky, I thought he was going to be Finrod as well, but alas, it was not so.

And then, he stabbed her with the crown (rude) and Galadriel, salty to the last, PRETENDED to give Sauron the ring. Very slowly, just to watch the pride and greed flash in his eyes, and then, "If I can't have it, then neither can you." Not what she said, but what she MEANT.

And girlie does and Elwing. Too many people in season two have dove off of cliffs; Elrond failed to beat the mama's boy allegations by jumping off a cliff with an object of power (In this case, three). And I was wondering if these guys actually thought that Ulmo was gonna come in clutch and turn them into birds. I mean, he did it for Elwing, so why not her son? Why not some other random person jumping off of a cliff?

In the end, Gil-Galad approaches (I'll get to that part in the beginning with Gilly and Elrond, hold on) and knows that Galadriel cannot be healed. She has the Second Age equivalent of a Morgul wound. It festers with dark magic and cannot be healed.

But who do they have?

THE healer!

The top dog of his graduation class from Lindon's School of Magical and Physical Healing!! Elrond Peredhel Earendilion whatever other name you give him! He's THE healer! Just standing there!

So of course, Mr. Healer is all dramatic, like, "No, we can heal her" through the power of friendship of course, and perhaps these magical rings.

I do think it's interesting how the rings will heal scarring and a Morgul wound; I think they only heal physical wounds, not those done to the spirit (Fea).

And then, we appear in a grassy, bright area, with Gil-Galad watching over Galadriel. He says that it is safe, a sanctuary made by the rings. This is, of course, the beginnings of Imladris, Rivendell, the Last Homely House. In cannon, Elrond and refugees of Eregion fled north, and founded Rivendell.

The river down the center HAS to be the Anduin, I guarantee it.

When the offer of the sword or shield pops up, I though that Galadriel would choose the shield; after all, this series is basically about how Galadriel went from a brutish, hyper-angry, traumatized elleth to a proud, wise, kind Lady of Lothlorien. I thought she would choose the shield, protect what her people had lost so much of, but she remains silent. Gil-Galad chooses the sword.

That scene of the elves raising their fists in defiance felt odd to me; even the children were seen raising their hands. Elves reach their majority at approx. 100 years, so what are these children, who have never seen battle and bloodshed except for that day, doing, wanting to wage war? It reminds me of Feanor and the unrest of the Noldor; a people that knew no bloodshed, and in their innocence, went to their deaths. It worries me.

Alright, one of my favorite parts: Elrond and the Scrolls.

Elrond, Gil-Galad, and Arondir are brough to a city square and we see orcs piling scrolls to be burned. Elrond, who is obviously a scholar, I mean look at him, is outraged. Not only are these the last ties he has to his cousin Celebrimbor, they also hold invaluable scientific information; it's like destroying the elven version of the Library of Alexandria.

Then, my baby boy Gil-Galad is at sword-point (Very scary, but I know what his doom is so I wasn't THAT scared), and just barely saved. Ngl, I had thought Arondir had died in Episode 7, so it was good to see him still kicking!

My favorite parts were Celebrimbor and Annatar's scenes and Elrond's dismay at the scrolls. I would also like to say that I think Gil-Galad slayed in every scene he was in.

Well, then. I must go google when Season Three is expected to show up.

#silmarillion #galadriel #celebrimbor #elrond #the rings of power #trop #trop season 2 #rop season 2 #i love celebrimbor #gil galad #adar rings of power #adar #rant post

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tmpestuous · 1 month ago

Text

moth to a flame - 8

series masterlist

summary: bucky barnes was the love of your life, and you were his. there was no denying it. but after two years of dating, you found yourselves on different paths and decided it was best to go your separate ways. the only problem was how drawn you’d always be to him even after moving on.

pairing: College!Bucky x Reader

warnings: smut (mutual masturbation, 18+), angst, toxic relationships, emotional torture/abuse, kidnapping, physical torture, physical injury

word count: 6.4k

a/n: this is where everything gets juicy… already working on the next chapter as we speak. last bucky pov chapter! (:

“I genuinely think I want him dead,” Natasha said, a lot more angry than confused or sad.

“I just cannot believe you didn’t tell us anything,” Wanda interjected. “I yelled at her in that hospital, I called her a traitor, she moved out.”

“I could not tell anyone without knowing what I wanted to do,” Pietro explained. “Bucky has only known about it for 4 days.”

“So what is it that you plan to do?” Sam asked. “You said yourself Sharon is gonna tell Atlas. What does that mean for Y/n?”

“Buck?” Steve spoke up next, noticing Bucky’s silence.

The brunette had been staring off into space, flipping his phone in his hands.

Steve knew his head was running at a million miles a minute; he was worried that if anything happened to you, it’d be on him. Bucky may have not been in love with Sharon, but he trusted her. He told her they were all worried about you, and she was feeding it back to the last person he’d expected her to talk to.

He should’ve known. She was so adamant on him being at that party. Pietro got hurt that night, she must have known what was planned. She must have known that you were on edge. She must have known that him finding out about Pietro and your knowledge of it would ruin your life, your friendships. Leaving you isolated, what else did you have besides Atlas? She knew the entire time.

Bucky hated himself for letting his guard down. He didn’t even want to move on in the first place but he thought it was what was best for him, for you, for your friendship.

“Bucky,” Steve said again, interrupting Wanda’s ramble about getting into danger and prompting Bucky to look at him.

“What?” Bucky said, no attitude in his tone, in which Steve gave him a look in response that Bucky fully understood. “The only way we can help her is if we play into his hand.”

“You can’t seriously put yourself in danger,” Natasha said as she sat up, staring at Bucky with tears in her eyes. “We saw what happened to Pietro and he only had a piece of information on Atlas. Just imagine what he’s going to do to you, Bucky.”

“It’s the only way, Nat,” Bucky’s tone was completely monotonous, void of any emotion. “Y/n won’t like it either but it’s how we trap him.”

“So I ask again,” Sam came from the kitchen with a bottle of water and sat back on the couch. “What’s the plan?”

“Like Bucky said, we play into Atlas’s hand,” Pietro leaned forward on his knees. “They have their party in two days, so we have two days to get what we need. Bucky has to provoke them any way that he can. Talking to Y/n in public, testing their patience, whatever it takes. But we also need Atlas to admit on a recording to what he’s done to Y/n.”

“So we have to tell her,” Steve concluded.

“I’m seeing her tonight,” Bucky spoke up, though if everyone wasn’t sitting together, there’s no saying who could’ve heard him. “I’ll tell her.”

“I’ll go with you,” Steve offered, with Sam adding a ‘me too’ immediately after. “If Atlas is there, you’ll have backup. Pietro and Thor will stay with Wanda and Nat.”

“I don’t need backup,” Bucky assured. “I just have to get there before he does.”

After a 2-minute back-and-forth with Steve about protection and safety, Steve gave in. Everyone then decided to get some rest while Bucky planned to head out.

Bucky honestly wasn’t in the mood. The usual frown that adorned his face when he was irritated made a reappearance, the stare Sam would always tease him for before they got close.

Between Atlas basically keeping you hostage in a relationship, Sharon playing him like a card game, and his friends all of a sudden having everything to say about the situation, Bucky was tired. He was annoyed. He was in a mood that he knew only you could fix.

He approached the building carefully, keeping an eye out for the one guy whose face he wanted to punch in. He decided against texting you, not wanting you to get in any kind of trouble if Atlas was there. His idea to have Nat text you also fell short given the possibility of Atlas knowing about what transpired at dinner.

Luckily for him, as he pulled into his usual space in the parking lot, Bucky spotted Atlas getting into his car, thankfully oblivious to Bucky’s presence. He looked irritated, letting Bucky know that he definitely knew what had happened. Once he got in his car and left, Bucky made his way into the building, greeting the overnight security and heading up to the office.

The building you both worked in was always fascinating to Bucky; the fact that you could access it 24 hours a day, 7 days a week helped you have an escape. It was good for you, he recognized. Amidst the chaos, the solitude, the hurt, you had your work. At any time you wanted, any time you needed. All Bucky hoped was that it wasn’t just tainted for you.

Scanning into the office, Bucky saw you with your head in your hands from the couch in the office. You immediately looked up when he walked in, Bucky noticing the tears in your eyes and streaming down your face as you held a startled then softened expression. He attributed it to you realizing that it was him and not the person who had just left not too long ago.

“Bucky,” you said softly.

“Hey,” Bucky responded as he closed the door behind him.

“Is it- is it true?” You asked, your voice shaky. “Please tell me it isn’t true.”

Staring at you with an expression of hurt in his eyes, Bucky obviously knew he couldn’t lie to you. He never intended to, even if he had gotten here before Atlas, especially with the plan at hand. But as you approached him with so much fear in your eyes, Bucky could hear his heart pounding in his chest.

“I’m sorry,” was all he could muster.

You let out a broken sob, rubbing your face with both of your hands with so many emotions—frustration, anguish, fear. Bucky pulled you into his arms as you finally let everything out, whispering the same apology repetitively as you clung onto him for dear life.

“It’s gonna be okay,” he said before kissing the top of your head, but then you shook it and pulled away.

“It’s bad enough that you know but now he knows that you know and I— Bucky, I can’t and I won’t be able to look you in the face if he hurts you.”

“You don’t have anything to worry about, prinţesă,” Bucky assured you. “We’re going to fix this. We knew he was going to find out.”

“How?”

Bucky sighed, rocking on his heels with his hands in the pockets of his slacks. He hadn’t even changed before leaving the apartment, wanting nothing more than to be with you and decompress.

“He’s seeing Sharon,” he admitted, still not looking you in the face. When you didn’t say anything, unshockingly, he continued. “That’s what Pietro knew. That’s why they took him. Pietro told us everything right in front of her, so we assumed she’d run off and tell him.”

“Buck…”

“It’s okay,” he looked at you, an unreadable expression on your face. “I don’t love her, I didn’t love her, I love you.”

Sighing and wiping your tears, you made your way back to Bucky, embracing him with all of the energy you had left that he returned with no hesitation.

“I love you too,” you said, not letting up on your grasp. “I’ve never stopped loving you, I will never stop loving you, Bucky, but–”

“But?” Bucky grabbed your face in hands, making you look at him.

“You have to promise me you won’t provoke him.”

Scoffing, Bucky shook his head. “Baby, I can’t promise that.”

“You have to,” you said with a sniffle, your tears making a return. “If something happens to you—”

“I will be okay,” he interrupted, planting a chaste kiss on your lips. “We have a plan, it’s going to work.”

“Does this plan involve you giving Atlas what he wants?”

Furrowing his eyebrows, Bucky stared at you. “How did you know that?”

“I know you, Bucky. And I’m telling you that it cannot happen,” you lifted a hand to wipe your tears away. “You don’t get it. If they were just planning to mess with you a bit and let you go like they did to Pietro, then maybe you could convince me to let you go through with this. But they’re not going to just give you a black eye, bloody nose, and a concussion, Bucky.”

Bucky sighed, his gaze moving away. “What makes you so sure?”

“Because he’s talked about it, detailed every single thing he wants to do to get you to leave me alone.”

“Funny,” Bucky looked back at you. “Nat insinuated the same thing.”

“I’m serious.”

Sighing once more, Bucky knew you wanted nothing more but to protect him. Hell, you had done it for the past few weeks. But if there was anyone in this world that he’d risk it for, other than his family, it was you. He wanted you safe, even if he didn’t end up with you at the end of the day.

“I need you to listen to me,” Bucky started verbalizing his string of thoughts, shaking his head at you as you began to protest. “Please, okay? I knew you wouldn’t like this, and I can’t blame you. If I was in your position, I’d feel the same way. But… if I’m being honest, I am in your position. From the opposite side of the aisle. I have watched you destroy yourself for this guy; you have let him threaten your work, ruin your friendships, take your free will from you. I can’t sit by and watch it continue to happen and I won’t. So just trust me on this, please.”

After a few moments of looking into his pretty blue eyes, filled with sincerity and as much fear as you held on your own, you leaned into the touch of his hands still on your face.

“Okay,” you said in a whisper with a single nod. “But you have to tell me the entire plan so I’m not out of the loop.”

“Of course, prinţesă,” Bucky kissed your lips softly again. “It involves you actually… let’s sit down.”

Bucky led you back to the couch he found you sitting on when he first walked in. Pulling you into his lap, Bucky wrapped his arms around you. You could’ve melted into his touch, it having been so long since you’d just been held with so much care. Bucky could tell you were trying not to cry again, rubbing small circles on your back, pressing a few kisses to your temple.

“We need you to record Atlas admitting to what he’s doing to you,” Bucky said as you got comfortable, resting your head in the crook of his neck.

“Task of the century,” you joked, planting a kiss on Bucky’s neck.

“Kiss my neck again and we will christen this office,” Bucky joked back, eliciting a giggle from you. “Think you can get it done?”

“I already have.”

“What?”

Fiddling with the collar of Bucky’s shirt, you shrugged. “Guess I was a few steps ahead of you guys. I’ve been recording almost everything, usually when I’m at his place. All the threats, every single one. I don’t really know what I planned to do with them, but they’re there.”

“Keep recording them, especially now that he’s on high alert with you and us,” Bucky moved a piece of hair away from your face. Once Bucky had detailed the rest of the plan, regurgitated in similar words to Pietro’s speech in the living room to everyone else, you nodded without a word. Bucky noted your silence, which didn’t seem solemn. “What are you thinking about?”

“You smell really good,” you answered with no hesitation, placing a few more kisses on Bucky’s neck before sitting up to look up at him. “And you look really good.”

Bucky’s tongue darted across his bottom lip as he stared between your lips and eyes, your faces mere centimeters from each other. “You always told me I clean up nice.”

“Mm, you do,” your tone was a bit more sensual, your hands moving up and down over his torso. “You always leave the top two buttons undone.”

Moving his hands to grip your waist, Bucky leaned his face a bit closer to you, his lips brushing against yours. “Are you gonna undo the rest of them?”

Closing the rest of the gap, you pressed your lips against Bucky’s, his grasp pushing you to straddle his lap. You were both moaning into each other’s mouths, tongues tangled together. Your hips grinding down on Bucky’s crotch was encouraged by his grip on your waist guiding you back and forth, pulling away from your kiss to lean his head back with his eyes closed, a groaned ‘fuck’ from his lips only making the heat between your legs that much hotter.

Bucky moved his hands to start unbuttoning your pants, your gaze making its way down to his current task at hand though your hip movements didn’t falter. As soon as your button was undone and the zipper was down, Bucky laid you down on the couch, hovering over you as one of his hands made its way into your pants and underwear, fingers sliding smoothly through your folds before he rubbed circles on your clit. You couldn’t help but gasp at the sudden pleasure, almost forgetting what it even felt like.

“Holy fuck,” you said, your voice a lot more breathy than he anticipated.

“Mm, you’re so fucking wet, prinţesă,” Bucky’s voice was low, his hand movements picking up before he slid a finger past your entrance. “So fucking tight, my pretty baby’s been neglected.”

You knew good and well he wasn’t talking about you, but rather talking about your pussy in third person which only made you want to melt under him even more.

Shoving a second, then a third, finger inside you, Bucky didn’t let up fucking you on his hand, only as much as you started fucking yourself on his hand, his thumb expertly still rubbing circles on your clit. It was all so overstimulating, but it felt so good.

Somehow, even amidst how fucking good Bucky was making you feel, you thought about him needing to feel good too. You made a way of undoing his slacks, ignoring his pleas of only making you feel good, which quickly fell short as soon as your hand wrapped around his cock, stroking him the way you knew he liked.

He was groaning so loud in your ear, you could fucking cum just from the noises he was making. You stroked him faster as he picked up the pace of his own hand, your climax just around the corner.

“Shit, I’m gonna cum.”

“Cum for me, baby, fuck,” Bucky’s jaw hung open and his face was contorted in so much bliss, it was like he hadn’t been touched in ages. “Cum all over my fingers so I can taste you, sweetheart.”

“Fucking hell,” was all you could say as your orgasm creeped up so quickly, the most intense you’ve ever felt.

You kept stroking Bucky even as he left his fingers inside of you, slowly pumping them in and out as you rode out your orgasm. By the look on his face, you could tell he was close.

“Cum for me, Bucky,” you said, your tone soft and sultry to send him over the edge. Stroking as fast as you could through the confines of his boxers, Bucky was moaning so hard as he kissed and sucked all over your neck, making your own moans hard to control. “Cum for me, please.”

“Fuck, baby,” Bucky said, groaning again as he fucked your hand, his orgasm catching up to him shortly after as he lazily thrusted into nothing while you caught his release in your palm, pulling your hand out of his boxers afterward. “Jesus Christ.”

“That mouth of yours is a sin,” you said after he collapsed on top of you, making him chuckle as he pulled his hand out of your underwear, being obnoxiously obvious as he licked every single finger that was just inside of you.

“Come home with me,” he said, looking down at you with so much love and lust in his eyes, though your gaze showed a bit more hesitancy.

“Bucky…”

“Everyone regrets what they did and chances are they’re all asleep anyway,” he tried his best to convince you. “I don’t want you staying here or being alone at your place. Come home with me, baby, please.”

You always gave in to Bucky when he begged for you, something Steve and Sam would never let him live down but he always did it especially for you. But Bucky could tell you weren’t going to give in this time.

“I don’t know if I’m ready to see everyone yet,” you said, running a hand through his hair. “And Atlas has my location anyway, so that’d get cut short really fast.”

Bucky sighed. “Okay.”

“What if you stayed with me instead?” You asked, Bucky’s eyes softening at the thought of you not wanting him to go. “I don’t have any roommates and the place is all mine, we’d be all alone.”

“Trying to let me christen your new place too?”

Giggling, you shook your head. “You are so horny.”

“Weren’t complaining about that when I made you cum on my fingers two seconds ago.”

You rolled your eyes. “Are you in or not, Barnes?”

He smiled at you, making you admire his gorgeous face, the one you missed so much. “Let’s go home, baby.”

Once you both washed up a bit in the bathroom and Bucky helped gather all of your things, you both shrugged your jackets on and shut off the lights in the office. Making your way to the elevator that led straight to the parking garage, Bucky could tell you were stuck in your own thoughts again.

Everything about this situation overwhelmed Bucky, so he couldn’t imagine how much it was overwhelming you. He’d hoped he could ease your mind, but the fact of the matter was that you did not agree with the plan in place. It was dangerous, and above all, it threatened Bucky’s wellbeing.

Bucky has never shied away from a challenge, including those where he might end up hurt in the process. It didn’t come as a result of a big ego or too much pride, but rather always wanting to do what was best for everyone involved in a situation.

He’d do anything for you and for your happiness. He once traveled for 3 hours to get a cake you’d been craving from a bakery in downtown Manhattan with a looming snowstorm about to hit New York City. You’d scolded him for two whole days about it, even though he knew you were grateful. He also once nearly got into a fight at a party for a guy who got too rough with you, calling you a bitch and nearly pushing you to the ground. You said he was being dramatic but he didn’t think so. He’d do anything for you, and anyone who threatened your happiness and wellbeing was a threat to him.

He’d always felt the same about Atlas. There was something wrong with that guy from the start, but seeming like the brooding, jealous ex-boyfriend wasn’t really Bucky’s goal. That didn’t cease his ill feeling about Atlas and his constant possessive nature over you when he didn’t care to actually love you.

Bucky had no issue challenging the blonde, but he’d be lying if he said he wasn’t the slightest bit anxious. From what you described as “being beaten ten times worse than Pietro was” to Atlas’s eager state to hold leverage over him, Bucky was nervous. He could hold his own and put up a fight against the guy, but he knew that wouldn’t be the case. Pietro essentially was jumped by these guys and even that was gruesome. Anything ‘ten times worse’ than that meant Bucky was indeed facing the possibility of looking worse for wear.

“Maybe we should take my car,” you said as the elevator reached the parking garage, Bucky holding your bag. “I don’t really want to have to face the wrath of you-know-who if he decides to surprisingly swing by my apartment at any point tonight or tomorrow.”

Bucky scoffed. “He’s that ridiculous?”

“Probably worse,” you said as you unlocked your car with your key fob.

Bucky put your bag in the backseat before getting in the passenger seat while you were putting your seatbelt on. After his seatbelt was fastened, you pulled out of the parking spot, assuring Bucky that his car wouldn’t get a ticket for being parked overnight.

The drive to your apartment was fairly quick. It kept you at a decent distance from both work and school, though you were really only at home to sleep. You technically only worked 4 days out of the week, but you were analyzing data every day. You had classes 3 days out of the week, which let up on you a bit, though your schedule was more than hectic those days. You got extra money submitting your class notes to the tutoring center, along with the clubs you were involved in on campus.

The picture-perfect model student. Model person. Bucky honestly didn’t know how you did it. But it was evident that your enjoyment in a lot of these things was taken from you. Your mind was always focused on trying not to piss off the man who claimed to be your boyfriend.

When Bucky advised you to give Atlas another chance after missing one of the biggest moments of your college career, he genuinely believed Atlas cared about you. It was one mistake and none of us were perfect. But as you described Atlas’s incessant disdain for him, Bucky realized he was just too insecure to truly love you beyond his doubts.

You two would always have history, but you never intended to make Atlas jealous. You honestly never even intended to leave him for Bucky. But you would always gravitate towards each other. Your breakup was mutual, a rough decision made in the middle of figuring out what you wanted to do with your lives. With opposite schedules, grasping for gaps to spend time with each other, then often failing, it was what was best.

It hurt, but there was no indication that you were done for good.

Making it to your apartment after a quick 10-minute drive, one you attributed to the lack of traffic, Bucky finally saw where you called home for a short while.

Taking it all in after taking his shoes off in the doorway, it was very… you. You didn’t shy from displaying the pictures of the gang, even having a polaroid of you and Bucky at Sam’s birthday last year where you both had cake on your nose on your refrigerator door. Thanks, Nat.

It made Bucky happy that you were finding some peace amidst chaos. He knew how resilient you always were, but it was great that you didn’t shy away from finding the good in a bad situation.

“It’s not much but it is all mine,” you said, Bucky’s attention now on you and away from the pictures and notes all over your fridge. You stifled a yawn, Bucky helping you take your jacket off and mentioning that you should get some sleep.

You nodded, grabbing Bucky’s hand and leading him to your bedroom. It was cozy, not as decorated as your living room but just enough. It smelled like you had let a candle burn before you left, the scent of your favorite candle still looming in the air. An en-suite bathroom was the coolest part to Bucky, especially in the heart of New York.

You pulled out an old t-shirt that Bucky gave to you, hidden away in one of your drawers, handing it to him.

“I’m gonna shower,” you said after grabbing the pajamas you were gonna wear. “I don’t know if you want to shower but you can. Or we could shower together. I don’t really know how to do this anymore.”

Chuckling at your rambles, Bucky moved towards you and kissed your cheek. “Come on, let’s shower.”

After a warm, peaceful, and much needed shower, you and Bucky were both longing for how domestic you always used to be in your relationship. Of course, there were far more intimate showers, but there was nothing lustful about this. Just two people who loved each other getting ready to hit the hay.

After you were both dressed, Bucky previously stifling a laugh about a pair of boxers of his that you once used as shorts still living in your drawer which you now gave back to him, you settled into bed.

Your head took its usual place on Bucky’s chest, his arms wrapped around you with a comforting pressure.

“I missed you,” you said softly. “I missed us. I’ve thought about you every single day since we broke up. Sometimes I think to myself why we didn’t just let things run its course, save ourselves from all the heartache, you know?” Bucky graced his fingers from one of his hands up and down your back as you spoke. “I think we would’ve been okay in the end. We would’ve worked everything out and been okay. I kind of regret it now given everything.”

“Hey,” Bucky cut you off gently. “I get you, sometimes I regret it too, but we will still be okay. Everything’s going to be okay. We’re going to fix this, I promise.”

You nodded, not wanting to protest again, knowing Bucky was set in his decision on catching Atlas red handed. You had to admit it wasn’t a bad plan, but you wished it didn’t involve Bucky risking his health, his well being.

Soon enough, Bucky’s soft breaths as he slid into slumber helped you fall asleep too.

The morning came all too fast, neither of you wanting to get up to face the day. You didn’t have class which technically meant you were on Thanksgiving break, and after the day you had yesterday, work was a distant thought.

You woke up a few minutes before Bucky, getting to savor his most peaceful state for a bit before he caught you staring.

“I could easily get used to waking up to you every day again.” Looking away with a blush, you tried to sit up before Bucky encased you in his embrace again, kissing all over your face and neck. “Stay with me.”

“As much as I would love to do that, I should head to campus,” you said, trying not to giggle as Bucky continued to pepper kisses down your throat.

“For what?” He said, resting his head back on the pillow to look at you.

“I have a few things to do before break.”

“Okay,” he nodded. “I’ll come with you.”

“And risk you getting caught by Atlas’s minions?”

Bucky sighed. “We talked about this, prinţesă.”

“I know, and I’ve somewhat made peace with this plan you have in place,” you moved to straddle him, Bucky placing his hands on your hips. “But chances are they’re already plotting how they’re going to snatch you off campus like they did to Pietro. I don’t want to make it worse by them finding out that you and I are close again outside of work.”

Bucky nodded, knowing you were right. He fought his urge to keep an eye on you since Atlas left you so shaken up last night, but he trusted you. You’d made a life outside of the one you missed more than he probably would ever know, and you’d been surviving. That was the most important part.

As you leaned down and gave him a kiss filled with more understanding than any words could describe, everything was right again. When you pulled away, you smiled at him.

“We still have our little bubble,” you promised, pecking his lips one more. “I love you.”

“I love you,” Bucky whispered against your lips. “I should head back to my place anyway, I’m sure they’re wondering what’s happened.”

You nodded, quickly smiling as Bucky gave you yet another kiss, one of his hands gravitating to the back of your head.

—

Walking into his apartment, Steve and Natasha were watching TV in the living room. Sam was making his sister’s famous tea yet again, and everyone else seemed to be out.

You and Bucky had headed to the lab so he could get his car, though he hated the idea of leaving you at all. He stole a kiss from you before you got into your car, stopping him before it turned into you two making out in the garage.

Natasha noticed Bucky entering the apartment first, her attention moving elsewhere making Steve look in the direction of his best friend as well.

“You could’ve said you didn’t want us to tag along because you weren’t coming home last night,” Steve teased.

Bucky rolled his eyes. “Why are you guys leaving Sam in the kitchen again?”

“Shut up and tell us everything already,” Natasha sat up. “I’ve been sitting in anticipation for over twelve hours.

Bucky put his jacket on the back of one of the lounge chairs in the living room before sitting down. “It’s a go.”

“She agreed,” Steve stated, though clearly a question.

“Not necessarily,” Bucky leaned forward on his knees. “But she knows it needs to happen. She already has proof of Atlas admitting to everything, I told her to still get as much as she could, and she agreed to that. She’s more worried about what’s gonna happen to me.”

“See?” Natasha exclaimed. “I told you so.”

“Whatever happens will happen,” Bucky accepted the possibility. “She says they’re probably already looking for me, so I think we get a start on this today.”

“We don’t even have the location of where this is happening,” Steve added. “I don’t think they’re going to keep it at their usual place.”

“We’re running out of time, Steve. He already knows that we know. Maybe Nat can scare some information out of Sharon.”

“I can do a lot more than just scare the bitch,” Nat crossed her arms as Steve gave her a look. “What? She’s a weirdo.”

Steve shook his head. “We have to work fast then.”

And that they did.

After dropping all of the news in the group chat, Bucky was everywhere on campus. He could tell Atlas’s frat brothers were keeping their eye on him whenever they were in the same room as him. Bucky invited it. He talked with a few other people, getting random gossip from Maria Hill, asking T’Challa about how his little sister was doing with college applications, and having an awkward conversation with Tony about the Stark Internship.

Bucky’s favorite part of his campus escapades, however, was when he saw you. You had just bought food from the dining hall, making your way to what he presumed to be the tutoring center or some club meeting.

Catching up to you, Bucky pulled you behind a building, out of sight from anyone walking on campus unless they were a faculty member using the parking lot behind said building.

“What are you doing?” You exclaimed, looking him up and down. “I told you I don’t want you to get caught up, Bucky, and I was very serious about that.”

“I know,” Bucky nodded, shoving his hands in the pockets of his jeans. “We’re out of sight, prinţesă, don’t worry.”

“I have to worry, it is literally my job to worry.”

“They’re already onto me, I’m just provoking them a bit, but I would never put you in harm’s way, okay?”

Giving in as always, you said a soft ‘okay’ before Bucky told you everything he’s experienced all day. Nat’s working on Sharon, the boys are figuring out a location on a new house Atlas’s frat somehow got ahold of and are rumored to host their next party at.

“I know that house, it isn’t new,” you interjected. “Unless there’s some other house they’ve managed to acquire in a week but I can just text you the address of the one I’ve been told the party's at.” You pulled out your phone, quickly sending Bucky the address that he forwarded to everyone else.

“Will you be there?” He asked as you put your phone back in your pocket.

You shrugged. “I want to be there to help you but–”

“I know,” Bucky interrupted. “I wouldn’t want you to see that either.”

“Please promise me they’ll try and find you quickly.”

“They will,” he assured. “The plan is to use your recordings, Pietro’s injuries, and the address of the party to catch them in the middle of the act. We’ll move fast tomorrow, I promise.” You nodded. “We still have our bubble, prinţesă. It’s not going anywhere.”

“Meet me at our spot by the lake later? We can get dinner after and then stay at my place again. I just want another night with you before tomorrow.”

Bucky nodded. “Of course. How’s 6 sound?”

“See you at 6 then,” you looked around before kissing Bucky on the cheek, leaving him behind the building.

Much to Bucky’s demise however, he was quickly grabbed and thrown into the back of a van only a few minutes after you left him.

—

If Bucky had ever imagined getting kidnapped and/or jumped, he’d assume the guys holding him hostage were a bit smarter.

His head was killing him, no thanks to all the fucking punches they decided to give him with a bag over his head. But as soon as they were taking all their breaks, they dropped every single detail possible.

Bucky quickly learned he was the “star of the show” for this party tomorrow and they needed to rough him up enough, but as little as possible. Atlas’s orders.

The idea of Atlas giving orders was hilarious to Bucky, even more hilarious that these brutes even listened to him. He knew he was in for a beating but he guessed Atlas wanted Bucky all to himself.

After what seemed like a few hours, Bucky was tied to some dingy chair with that same bag over his head. His nose was starting to bleed again and his migraine had gotten worse. He’d been kicked in the ribs, punched in the face and had his face slammed into the floor a few times. Nothing he couldn’t handle. Or so he thought.

“Bucky fucking Barnes,” he heard Atlas speak, the grin on his face evident just from the tone of his voice.

He ripped the bag off Bucky’s head, Bucky’s eyes adjusting to the light of the room he was in. It wasn’t a basement or a shed, but just an empty bedroom in the house that clearly seemed out of use. It was dirty, some of Bucky’s blood from his nose dropping on the floor as he avoided Atlas’s smug stare.

“You know, it’s like you wanted to get caught today,” Atlas chuckled. “I could see you testing my brothers. Staring at them with a look that said ‘try me’ and I honestly almost told them to let it go. I was going to have them take you tomorrow, but then I found out the missing piece of the story I heard from our bitch yesterday.” Bucky looked at him, a glare in his eyes. “Oh, don’t worry, it’s not her. I mean Sharon. Of course she didn’t know you already had Y/n back in your hands, I mean—you wouldn’t want her to know you were cheating on her? Saved yourself that she was doing the same thing. Now we’ve shared two cunts.”

“You’re talking too much,” Bucky rolled his eyes. “If you’re gonna fucking hit me, then do it. We both know that’s what you came here for.”

Bucky became even more irritated at the tsk, tsk, tsk coming from Atlas as he picked up a metal baseball bat from the corner of the room. Both of the men knew just how bad this was gonna hurt, though their feelings about the situation were on completely opposite sides of a spectrum.

“I was gonna ease you into it,” Atlas said with a smirk, “but here goes nothing.”

Atlas swung the aluminum bat on Bucky’s left arm with so much force that Bucky swore he could hear the bones in his forearm fracturing. He repeated a few times, reveling in the screams of pain coming from the back of Bucky’s throat, kicking the chair so the brunette was suddenly on the floor, writhing in pain. The tears he was trying to hold back brought Atlas the most satisfaction he had in weeks. He was about to swing again when the door swung open, Bucky trying to mentally count his blessings to distract him from the throbbing of his arm.

“What the fuck do you want, Beck?” Atlas snarled.

“Your girl’s here.”

Both Atlas and Bucky froze.

“Why is she here?”

“Said you told her to come over.”

“Yeah, later,” Atlas sucked his teeth in frustration, throwing the aluminum bat on the floor, making Bucky flinch.

Then Bucky was alone in the room, focusing on your frantic voice outside the door, wishing he could ease your pain. That you could ease his.

He stared at the wall, his heart pounding in his chest. The pain from his migraine translating to his arm. His wrist being tied only made the pain worse, Bucky realizing he shouldn’t try and move it.

He’d only been here a few hours and his arm was already fucking broken. All he could do was try to relax, knowing it was only downhill from here.

After about a half hour, Atlas came back into the room, the two guys who threw him in the back of the van following behind.

“Ready for some more fun, Barnes?” Atlas said, picking up the bat again.

It was gonna be a long fucking night.

#bucky x reader #bucky barnes fic #bucky fanfic #bucky barnes #bucky barnes x female reader #bucky barnes x y/n #bucky angst #bucky barnes x you #bucky x female reader #bucky imagine

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seramilla · 2 months ago

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So when in human au as Carmilla gets to know Emily and Sera she realizes all the issues Sera has to work through mostly do to her difficult life the biggest being that deep down she feels she can only rely on herself and that she can't rely on anyone else do to having a less than great home life when her parents where around and having to step up and care for Emily alone when they died. The thing that shocks her is that Emily doesn't have many of these issues especially the last one Emily feels she can rely on others mostly Sera because she never had the experience of being on her own like her sister. Carmilla is amazed at how with everything going against her Sera was able to raise and care for Emily so well

Carmilla notices early on in her and Sera's living arrangement that there's something special about Emily. It's not just her seemingly endless well of joy and zest for life. Or the way she shrugs off things that might have started a fight, were it between Odette and Clara. She doesn't overanalyze her piece of cake to make sure it's exactly the same size as everyone else's. She doesn't complain when asked to put away her phone or give up the video game controller for someone else to have a turn.

She does her own laundry, and folds it, all without being asked. She puts herself to bed at a reasonable hour, and likewise, makes sure all her alarms are set to get up and not be late for school the next day. Making her girls go to bed is like pulling teeth, Carmilla thinks. She has to yell at them at least twice (usually three times) to get their butts out of bed in the morning, or she's leaving for the academy without them.

Emily's sense of responsibility and good manners doesn't really come as a surprise to Carmilla, though. Her older sister and guardian is Sera, after all -- probably the most by-the-book and dedicated individual Carmilla has ever met. Her little sister is her world. Of course, she'd do absolutely everything to bring her up right.

Even before they officially called themselves a couple, Sera had confided in Carmilla about her childhood. Now, lying here in Carmilla's bed, which they've been sharing more often than not recently, Carmilla isn't annoyed when Sera's mind wanders. It had been a song that Carmilla was humming, while shuffling around her bedroom getting ready to turn in for the night. A tune that used to comfort Emily when she was a baby...Carmilla isn't sure why she'd started humming it. But it gets Sera thinking, and a story that Carmilla's heard multiple times starts coming forth from her mouth, but with more detail than Carmilla has ever heard before.

-----

Sera's parents spent most of their waking hours wasted or drunk, or both. They never really wanted kids, to be honest, but when Sera's mother's high school sweetheart got her pregnant right after graduation, both of them had to work to make end's meet. Sera had practically raised herself, and her mother reminded her every day just how little Sera was actually wanted. But at least her mother's abuse was only verbal; unlike her father, who would frequently come after her with a belt, when she so much as dared to forget to turn off a light.

Sera couldn't wait to get out of that apartment. She started working at 16, saved up every paycheck for 2 years to build up a nest egg, and then the day she turned 18, walked out the door with as much as she could carry in a backpack. She never said goodbye, and after that day, never spoke to her parents again. She wondered if either of them even noticed that their only daughter was gone.

College was wonderful. It was everything that Sera had ever wanted it to be. There was freedom, and parties, and schoolwork, and making friends, and fun times necking with her latest love interest behind the bleachers of the football stadium. For the first time in her life, Sera had thrived. She absorbed knowledge in her classes like a sponge, and was on track to graduate Cum Laude, if she kept up the good work. The sky was the limit, and life felt good.

But at the end of her third semester in university, everything literally changed for Sera overnight. She'd been at a party when the call came in. She didn't get back to her apartment until hours later, with some hottie she'd decided to bring home for the evening practically hanging off her shoulder. The girl had stumbled past the threshold, searching frantically for a bathroom to upchuck whatever booze she'd had that evening. Sera pointed her in the right direction, and while she waited for her companion to finish expelling the contents of her stomach into a porcelain bowl, Sera walked into the kitchen, and noticed she had a missed message on her phone. The one and only message shocked her to the core as it started playing. Sera had to catch herself on the edge of the kitchen counter before she passed out onto the floor.

"This message is for Sera Espinosa, from the Child Protective Services division. We are attempting to reach out to you about your younger sister, Emily Espinosa. She is in our custody at this time, as her parents have recently been found deceased. We are contacting Emily's next of kin to let her know of the situation, before she is placed with a foster family by week's end. If you would like to discuss this matter, or dispute your sister's case, please reach out to our office at 555--"

Sera hadn't heard the rest of the message. The remainder was a mental blur. By this time, her ears were ringing, and she was visibly shaking on the cold tiles of the kitchen floor. When her companion for the evening finished puking and found her there, shivering and quaking with her hand over her mouth like she was in shock, she tried to console Sera as best she could, patting her back. But Sera could not be consoled. She started sobbing; really loud and mournful sobbing, like her entire famly had just died, because they basically had. Her companion chose that time to awkwardly and silently see herself out, unable to provide the emotional support that Sera desperately needed at that moment. Neither of them spoke to each other again.

Sera spent the rest of the night crying on the floor, alone, and then finally, dragged herself to bed when it was almost 3am. It was too late to call back CPS, so she had to do that in the morning. As soon as their offices opened the next day, she had to re-listen to the message to get the correct phone number, and desperately dialed it, hands still shaking.

She spoke to the officer who had left her the message. It was through his callous, uncaring voice that she learned of her parents' untimely demise. They had been drinking the night before (of course, no surprises there) and ran their car into a ravine -- right into a tree, killing the two of them on impact. The only survivor had been Sera's little sister Emily. Still just a baby, and thankfully strapped into the car seat in the back. The only reason Emily was still alive was thanks to that blessed hunk of plastic, protecting her from the brunt of the wreck.

That was the day that Sera not only learned her parents were dead, but that she had a baby sister, to boot. Because of course she still hadn't spoken to them in the last 3 years, and of course they hadn't even bothered to let her know her mother had given birth. Sera's mother had absolutely no business having one child to abuse, let alone two; but she had gotten pregnant again, and she and Sera's father had gotten themselves killed, leaving their baby alone in the world, with no one else to care for her.

No one...except Sera. The young woman asked if she could see Emily, and was promptly told she'd have to cut through a lot of legal red tape in order to have that privilege. Sera was dedicated, though. She vowed to do whatever it took to see Emily, and get her sister, who was still a complete and total stranger, out of the predicament she was currently in.

What ensued was a months-long battle with the court system trying to prove that Emily belonged with her sister, the baby's only surviving relative. CPS wanted to place Emily with a nice young couple who had a big house, who had always wanted a child; they assured her that Emily would ultimately be better off. After all, Sera was still in school. She had her entire life ahead of her, and she couldn't even pretend like she could afford raising a child with her part-time campus job. That barely covered her tuition, let alone living expenses.

No, CPS said, Sera should just forget it, and move on with her life. No matter that Sera may never see Emily again, or be able to have any sort of relationship with her only flesh and blood. They kept telling her over and over again all the things that a 21-year-old college student should want. But Sera wasn't just any college student. She was an adult, with a good head on her shoulders, and a smart brain in her skull. She was resourceful, and determined, and full of all the love her parents never gave her, ready to be shared with someone else.

She had vowed to do whatever it took to protect Emily. Even at the cost of her so-called perfect life. Even if she had to quit school, and get a job. Get two jobs. Whatever it took, she would not let Emily grow up in a world wondering what became of her family. She'd never let that little girl go through life not knowing where she came from, and that she was loved, and wanted. All the things Sera had never had as a child...she would give it all to Emily, and more.

So Sera made the most difficult choice of her life. Starting college had been easy. Ending it was the hardest thing she'd ever done. Getting a job as a clerk was the second-hardest thing. But the moment that courtroom gavel dropped, echoing loudly throughout the courtroom and into her ears, and the judge declared her Emily's sole caretaker and guardian, Sera knew immediately she'd made the correct choice.

The only choice. There simply was no other path to take.

Emily looked like their mom. That was the first thing Sera noticed. All round-faced with pudgy cheeks; the little girl just never stopped smiling. Sera had the lankiness and strong profile of their father. But Emily was the personification of everything soft, and malleable, and innocent in the world. From the moment Sera finally held her in her arms, her little sister rarely cried ever again. She was the happiest baby anyone would ever meet, and Sera became the most devoted guardian on the planet.

She taught Emily how to survive. How to be independent and do many things for herself at a young age. She never wanted Emily to feel alone and worthless like she had. She wanted Emily to be able to take care of herself, even if Sera couldn't be with her. Their parents' death was like a wake-up call for Sera. A harsh reminder that everything can change, and be gone in a moment, before a person even has time to process it. Like a car smashing into a tree.

It had been difficult. Sera had given up everything. But even knowing now how things would turn out, Sera wouldn't change any of that for the world. She would do it all over again, if given the chance. In that sense, Sera had lost nothing at all. She'd gained a little sister. A daughter. A family. A sense of fulfillment she'd never had before.

Nothing else mattered. Not now. Now that she had Emily.

-----

Sera is so lost in thought, she doesn't realize Carmilla has moved to lie next to her on the bed. Her eyes widen, and she shakes her head a little bit, as if to slough off all the trauma and bad memories of her first 18 years of life. Carmilla is lying on her side, propping her head up with her elbow on her pillow. After Sera comes back down to Earth, metaphorically speaking, Carmilla leans in closely, pulling Sera into a slow and drawn-out kiss.

"I know I've said it before, but you're amazing." Carmilla says this mere millimeters from Sera's lips, so that the slight feeling of Carmilla's breath against her face makes Sera blush profusely.

"Stop it," Sera says, playfully trying to push Carmilla away.

Carmilla doesn't let her, leaning down and grinning, moving in to kiss her again. Sera smushes her hand into Carmilla's cheek, trying to shove the other woman off her, and soon, a battle starts playing out beneath the luxurious covers of Carmilla's bed. Sera squeals as Carmilla turns her over, forcing the taller woman onto her back, and then she's beaming down mischievously at her.

"Give up?" Carmilla teases.

Sera struggles a few more times, but when it's obvious she isn't getting out from under Carmilla's weight, she sighs.

"Yes! Fine! You win!"

Carmilla chortles, and rolls off to the side to look down at Sera. Sera sticks her tongue out at her, and Carmilla returns the gesture in kind. The other woman tries so hard to be a brat, but fails miserably every time. Sera is simply too much of a people pleaser.

Carmilla starts playing with Sera's hair, twirling a few of the long, curly locks around one finger before continuing.

"You've done an impossible thing, all on your own, with no one else's help," Carmilla states. "I've been a mother just as long as you have. I knew my family, had everything handed to me, with all the best babysitters and nannies that money can buy. And yet, you are still my better when it comes to raising children. Don't get me wrong...Odette and Clara are perfect and I would not change them for the world. But Emily...you just...she has never had to know the pain and suffering you dealt with. You shielded her from that. You did that by yourself, and I will never fail to remind you how commendible that is."

"You're just trying to butter me up," Sera responds. Carmilla knows there is nothing Sera hates more than being praised for something she feels obligated to do. Carmilla isn't doing this to upset Sera, but she feels this overwhelming urge to truly make the other woman believe the veracity of her words. Even if it isn't tonight, she'll keep saying it, until it finally clicks.

"So what if I am?" Carmilla quips, kissing Sera again before pulling the covers over their heads. She covers them both in a sanctuary of lush blankets, shutting out the rest of the world. "That doesn't make it not true. Now come here, you."

Carmilla kisses her again, and doesn't bring up the subject anymore that evening. She chooses instead to cuddle and do other fun things with her partner. She feels satisfied that she's planted a seed, and one day, Sera will actually understand how remarkable of person she is. She will hear Carmilla when she reminds her of that fact, and she will believe it, and know the truth of it.

Even if it takes hundreds of times, or thousands, Carmilla is nothing if not stubborn. She'll keep reminding Sera of her indomitable will and magnificent spirit, for as long as it takes. Until her adorable, humble, and oh-so-hot-with-that-ass-and-those-legs girlfriend finally gets it.

#hazbin hotel #sera hazbin hotel #carmilla carmine #emily hazbin hotel #odette hazbin hotel #clara hazbin hotel #ask #anon #seramilla #human au

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to-proudly-go · 9 months ago

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Obikin smut snippet reverse AU

(Top Padawan Obi/Bottom Master Anakin) Anakin gets wrecked by his padawan and is happy about it 😉

Story under the cut!

“Master,” Obi-Wan calls, voice full of mischief as he crawls over to where Anakin lays trembling, his muscles still jumping from the aftershock of his latest climax. The bed dips as he hovers over Anakin’s heaving chest, hands bracketing his shoulders and knees between his spread, bruised thighs. He looks down at his disheveled Master with a grin. “We’re not done yet, you know.”

Anakin whimpers and shakes his head where it lay on his pillow already drenched by fluids. Whatever fluids they are, Anakin is not sure anymore. “Obi-Wan, please, I can’t take anymore. Let this old man rest.”

“Alright, but do not try to escape me again,” Obi-Wan warns, eyes heated, and the threat in his voice only makes Anakin moan brokenly as his dick drools one more time over his abdomen already stained sticky white by previous orgasms, fire still racing through his veins despite his exhausted flesh.

He can’t remember how many times Obi-Wan had taken him by the waist and driven his ever-eager cock into his hole and unerringly pounding right into his oversensitive prostate. He thinks he lost count by the time he tried to crawl away only to find himself sliding backwards across the bed when Obi-Wan’s large hands made fists on the meat on his hips and dragged him back onto his waiting cock, leaving aching and angry bruises.

He’d sobbed and keened, face pressed against the abused pillow and nipples chafed raw from being rubbed back and forth on the sheets, words incoherent as he tried to tell Obi-Wan to stop for a moment and let him breathe. But his merciless padawan had only chuckled right into his ear and reminded him of his promise before that night.

“You said anything I want, Master. And what I want is to make you come as many times as it takes before I do.” He’d then sweetly encircled Anakin’s neck with careful fingers then wrapped his other arm around Anakin’s chest and levered him up to a kneeling position, gravity letting his cock drive further up Anakin’s insides and making him choke from the sudden fullness before he proceeded to try his best to make his Master’s brain melt out of his ears one more time.

Anakin is so, so proud of Obi-Wan and his insane learning curve, but he really shouldn’t have taught his padawan such fine control over the Force that he could literally stop himself from coming and could be hard for hours on end. He should have known Obi-Wan would use his skills for nefarious reasons, like fucking his Master until he couldn’t speak and could only cry on his oversized cock.

But even as he drooled and sweated onto whatever part of the bed he ended up on, even as he wailed when Obi-Wan held him by the arms and used his grip to bounce him back against his hard, dripping member again and again, making his hole feel sore and used, Anakin only ever felt happiness and adoration for the boy the Force had given to him.

And right now, as his precious star gazes down at him with what seemed like all the love and hunger a person could ever have for another, Anakin just knows that tomorrow, he will look into the mirror and trace all the bruises pressed into his skin with reverence, and he will memorize their shapes and colors and ask Obi-Wan to give them to him again when they finally fade away.

He suddenly raises his arms and wraps them around Obi-Wan’s neck to pull him down. Obi-Wan lands on his front with an oof, eyes wide as his limbs go akimbo. Anakin untangles their legs and wraps his own pair around Obi-Wan’s waist and crosses his ankles behind that strong back, trapping him between the warmth of his inner thighs. Obi-Wan moans as their sensitive cocks rub against each other, and Anakin feels so close to coming again just from the sound of his voice shaking, the knowledge that he broke Obi-Wan’s steely composure he’d kept up through the night making him feel buoyant and victorious.

“Give me all you got, Obi-Wan,” he whispers into Obi-Wan’s ear, and the younger man within his hold froze at those words before melting into him, laughing softly. He gently pecks Anakin's swollen lips and smiles sweetly, a sharp contrast to the way his fingers dig almost painfully into Anakin's shoulder blades where his hands have wormed their way under his back. He shudders in anticipation.

“With pleasure, Master.”

#i am definitely not getting out of this hole any time soon #so is obi wan #star wars #obikin #obikin smut #obikin snippet #anakin skywalker #obi wan kenobi #obikin reverse au #padawan obi wan #jedi master anakin #padaobi #masterkin

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bokettochild · 9 months ago

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Day 8 - "Why Won't It Stop?"

Took me forever, but this one is one that I am VERY pleased with. Part two will follow in later days

Wordcount: 4,847

Rating: Teen

Summary: An effect of abusing a god's power is that the soul of the deity is now bound to Time's own, and sometimes it has more power than he'd wish. usually, he can tame it, but learning the fate of the worlds he's left behind have made him slip, and the deity is intent on purging their legacy.

Written by request of @sweetlemonad

“It’s not like heroes can die anyways.”

The uncomfortable silence that follows those words is not something Time is particularly keen on learning the source of. The boys have all been in a rather good mood for most of the day, and currently Wind and Legend are trying to see who can outlast the other by remaining balanced on the rail fence that abuts the pathway on their right. He thinks Wind dared Legend or maybe the vet just got bored and Wind decided to follow. Either way, the elder is currently strolling along with his arms behind his head while Wind walks, precariously balanced and failing a bit here and there..

Balancing at sea and balancing on land are apparently exceedingly different.

He’s not particularly sure who’d started the conversation, but he thinks it was Warriors. The man has been a bit more stressed than he’d like these last few days, and the worry that something bad will happen to them definitely sounds like something the captain would express in order to keep the rest on their guard. The sudden way Legend falters, perfect balance suddenly failing and sending him flailing, is more telling than the silence that follows Wind’s words, and he finds it only right to offer a steadying hand to the younger man to stop him eating dirt.

Sky’s eyes settling on the sailor, confused, are just as telling.

“Right?” Wind looks between the vet, whose caught his balance and looks at the youngest with pricked back ears, gnawing his lip, and the chosen one who won’t meet their eyes. “Wait,” the kid glances back and forth again, as though to be sure, “they haven’t, right?”

The vet’s hand slips out of his own, rubbing the back of his head awkwardly. “Wind, did you receive an education?”

“What’s that have to do with anything?” Hyrule asks, sounding a little miffed. They all know the boy’s lack of formal teaching is a bit of a sore spot considering the apparent circumstances of everyone else. Had he the right, Time would maybe let slip that the captain was entirely illiterate before his enlistment, but he’s not sure that exposing that would actually help anyone.

Their chosen hero and vet share a glance at the question though, some silent conversation slipping between them for a moment before Sky gives an encouraging look that seems to indicate Legend ought to be the one to handle this. It makes sense, he supposes, considering Legend is the one with purportedly the best education out of them, or at least the most up to date between himself and Sky.

“Alright,” the pink haired hero slips down to a seated position on the rail fence, and the rest of them take the cue to stop, themselves sitting or leaning against the railing as well, save the captain, who stands at something almost like parade rest as he listens. “So, I suppose it’s lost to time for most of you, but there was a hero- a couple actually, who fell to the enemy.”

“How?” Hyrule demands. “I thought our whole existence was based off some heavenly power calling us so evil was always stopped?”

Murmurs of agreement sound from the rest, but the vet shakes his head, although he’s also very clearly avoiding eye contact. “I wish it was that straight forwards. No, actually, there are two heroes, to my knowledge and as of my era, that are quite famous for dying in their efforts against evil.” Dark eyes lift to Sky. “One was the first hero, the one who fought beside Hylia herself.”

“Sky’s going to die?” Four breathes, utterly horrified.

The boys almost all turn to their skyloftian but are quickly assured by a sharp ‘no!’ from Legend and a soft “not me, guys” from the hero himself. “It was my predecessor,” Sky says once they’ve all stopped looking so horrified, “the one who crafted the Master Sword and sealed Demise away, ages before my time.”

“So you knew.” He finds himself asking, and his question is answered with a slow nod.

“I did.” He knew about fallen heroes. He knew that the only other hero to exist before him had died. Suddenly Sky seems all the more brave to the scar-faced leader; he couldn’t imagine going into his adventure knowing all the others who undertook it had died.

“The first hero,” Legend begins again, hesitantly, “is said to have sealed Demise away, but succumbed from his injuries shortly thereafter, leaving the heavens to call another hero after his passing: Sky.”

There are a few hums, and Twilight looks like he’s half a second from taking notes. No doubt, the rancher hasn't heard this bit of Hylian history before, and while his pup is certainly less interested in the history of the kingdom than he is in the workings of things and understanding the dark magics, the dear lad is, all the same, what Mido would call “a nerd”. He finds himself smiling at the thought, watching as his boy absorbs every bit of the knowledge the vet is sharing, and what little Sky uses to back him up.

“What about the second one?” Wild asks, staring at Legend oddly.

Abruptly, he finds himself realizing that the cub himself has also died at the hands of the enemy, and though revived through some magic he couldn’t explain, the fact that it happened at all means that he too belongs on Legend’s list. Would that mean that the vet follows after the champion in the course of things then? Good gracious, would that make Legend the same to Wild as Wild is to Twilight? As Twilight is to him?

The vet, unknowing of their leader’s thoughts, drops his gaze a bit, fiddling with the bracelet on his hand but eyes clearly on the mark of the triforce he still bears on his left hand, just as most of them do. “He was my predecessor.”

Deku Tree bless, is he right?

“A hero called from the forest and trained to the blade since childhood, only to fall when forced to face Ganon.” The vet’s face twists up in something between sorrow and frustration. “He was prepared the best anyone could try, but for nothing. Ganon ruled Hyrule for almost a decade before the rebellion that sent the fallen hero managed to amass enough power to strike again and seal him into the sacred realm.” There’s a pause where Legend takes a heavy breath that’s neither sigh nor resignation, but maybe just the slightest bit sorrow for their fallen brother, and the rest keep quiet for it too, as though in mourning for a hero they’ve never met. But that’s when the vet says it. “If not for the sages and Skeik, I’d never have gotten a chance to defeat the monster that killed my predecessor, but with the aid of the Hylian Knights, they managed to seal him away for nearly four-hundred years.”

Sheik.

He knows, from the war, from meeting Warriors and watching people of all eras amass, that Sheik isn’t especial to his own time. The captain’s own princess had taken on the disguise herself in order to take a more active role on the front lines, but even so, the name catches him off guard, as does the association with the sages, which he’s only ever heard Wind talk of before.

The sailor doesn’t miss the reference either, the sharp little whip that he is. “What were the sages called? Do you know?”

The vet blinks, staring and clearly confused, but rattles them off all the same. “Zelda, Impa, Nabooru, Saria, Ruto, Daruna, and Rauru?”

The sailor nods, but the ground feels like it’s being swept out from under Time’s feet as the words sink in and that sunshine bright gaze is turned to him. Wind already has some eager words on his lips before his face falls, horror written across it as the truth of the vet’s words sinks in fully. “Holy shit.”

By virtue of simply not wanting to be met with the captain’s ire, he keeps the loud cursing within his own head internal, rather than letting it escape and being fixed under The Look. Even so, he’s half a second from slipping and repeating the sailor’s words in far more colorful language.

“Time...” Wind’s eyes are growing somehow wider, as though they weren’t just a bit too big to begin with, “....oh crap.”

It’s Twilight that makes the connection first, he thinks. He knows his story is forgotten to the world he’d returned to, the one the rancher is a product of, but if there’s one thing his pup is, it’s clever. Picking up on the clues in the exchange as well as what Legend’s said up to now, he can see for himself as realization dawns in midnight blue eyes and Twilight’s face falls. “Sweet Ordonia.”

“What?” Legend asks, glancing about between them, just the same as the others, save Hyrule who looks like he’s rethinking some matter of his own, no doubt what little history has been passed to him now bears reviewing. That doesn’t matter to the rest of them however, because those who know are now gaping, those who don’t are demanding answers, and the captain, who’d met two of the sages for himself and heard their tales, is shaking his head with a sigh.

Time did not sign up for this. Learning that’s he’d split time is one thing, but knowing that somehow, in some way, he’d done so to the extent that not only are his fears about creating multiple timelines actually a reality, but apparently there’s one that spun so far off that not only had he failed, but he’d died at Ganon’s hand and left the burden of defeating the demon to someone else. Two timelines, each resulting in a child being called to do a man’s work, just the same as he had. How old was Legend? Was he the same age as both he and Wind had been? Older? Does he resent the man who left him behind as some people in the sailor’s time do? Like Wind, does he respect his predecessor? Despise him? Curse him? Praise him? His thoughts are spinning and despite not using it, his right eye throbs.

As though sensing his distress, the deity awakens.

It doesn’t happen often. Without the mask, it isn’t nearly as powerful as to accomplish what they can with the aid of the power of the thing. Since abusing its power as a youth though, their magics are enough interlocked, souls enough intertwined, that even removing the cursed thing does not fully displace the deity’s presence from his mind. It is a silent thing at most times, but much like the mask it is sourced from, it awakens when he is in greatest need or fear, and more than once he’s allowed the modicum of its power that now lies bound to his own soul to overtake him in order to escape one situation or another. Such power does not present itself now, but the rumbling voice and the accompanying pulsing pain is enough to shift his focus towards quieting both, attention slipping from his boys and inward to the deity.

Despite managing to gather himself and the boys, to start forwards again on the path, he does not manage to silence the deity. He does, however, manage to ignore it for the time being.

He can only ignore it for so long though.

Sitting on watch after the boys have all gone to sleep, the rumbling thunder of the deity becomes impossible to ignore in the stifling silence around him. The deity will not be silenced, and try as he might, he can’t block-out nor forget the words spoken within his own mind.

“Failure follows in your legacy.”

As though he doesn’t know. It’s been bothering him all day, and despite the rest who hadn't pieced it together asking, he couldn’t bring himself to look, to say anything it was hard enough just putting one foot in front of the other. Wind revealing the split in time had shaken him, but at least he’d known how such a timeline came to be. The vet comes from a world where he’d died. How many of the other boys come from a world, an era, split off from time by his actions? How many timelines did he create?

How many of them have such dark fates as that of Legend’s own?

“He is an heir to failure,” the deity growls, “a scion of death.”

Time shakes his head, voice soft so as to not wake his slumbering team-mates. “No. He’s a hero.”

“To a world that ought not be, that ought to have perished.”

No world ought to perish, especially not because of the actions of one person. Still as he watches the vet sleep, curled up tight around his sword, the voice of the deity continues to ring about in his head. Turning his eyes away to the others doesn’t help though. The deity is truly set off and harsh whispers and growls sound, wondering, just as he does, how many of their number are born of his mistakes, his actions, in a world separate from his own because of actions he hadn’t realized the truth depth of.

He’d turned back time so many times, in both his first and second adventures. Are there timelines born of each time? What of his time in Termina? How many timelines did he create there? How many had seen the moon fall and everyone perish?

Time groans, running a hand over his face, rubbing at the scars and markings left by the deity’s power. Warriors would be so disappointed if he started scratching again, and the scars on either side of his face have finally faded enough to not be as noticeable as when he was a child. There's no mask to tear off, even if the sensation of one lingers as the deity speaks. He doesn’t want to wake up to the captain’s worried stare in the morning at the sight of scars made fresh again. He doesn’t.

Still, he wishes the deity would stop talking.

It doesn’t though, because of course it doesn’t. It hisses in his dreams, whispering as he watches worlds fall and two little figures, he thinks are meant to be Wind and Legend running about, facing the monster he remembers, as well as dark, shapeless figures he doesn’t. They look so small, so young, and despite his heart crying one thing, the deity hisses another. Where he mourns their innocence, the demon screams for their end.

Come morning, he’s a wreck. He manages to go through the motions, washing up with the rest with water from a well on the roadside, shaving and running a hand through his hair enough that it’s not a total mess. The captain was always strict about hygiene and basic care of their appearances. They’re Hyrule’s finest, not to seen wandering around like vagabonds and scamps. Still, the motions feel hollow, like a puppet moving at the command of another, and it feels like a chore to get ready, to strap on his armor, to gird his sword, and to step out onto the path with the others.

Wind and Legend return to walking the fences, apparently determined to do so until the railings give way to open country again. Usually, he’d find that endearing, a proof that despite everything his boys have faced, there still remains a childlike whimsical side to them. Now though, it means that every time one slips or Wind fumbles and yelps, he can’t help but look up and the deity’s words start up all over again.

Failures.

Never intended to exist.

Ought never have come to be.

Proof of the cruelty of the goddesses.

It’s painful. They're good kids, bright young men and skillful, admirable, talented, smart, sharp, kind, and he hates that such dark thoughts invade his mind at the mere sight of them, at even the smallest sound of their voices. It's not their fault that they exist, nor their fault that their worlds are a product of his actions and his mistakes. They don’t deserve the deity’s ire for simply existing.

Yet the roaring of that horrible voice in his mind continues, pulsing through his head and aching at the eye that the demon controls.

He wishes it would stop. Why won’t it stop?

“Time, hey, Time!” He comes back to himself with a blink, head shaking slightly as he raises his good eye to find the captain staring at him. They’re still on the path, still just walking along, still with nothing and no one else in sight, although the rail fence is nowhere to be seen anymore and blessedly means that the two younger heroes are back on the path with the rest, back in their normal places behind him, out of sight and away from the ire of the deity.

“Yes?”

The captain’s face is creased with worry, lips pursed, and gaze guarded. “You blanked out.”

Not blacked out, not fainted, not lost consciousness. No, it’s something rather different, and based off the familiar expression of the other, the soldier is well aware of what it really was; a slip. When stress or pain or emotion are too much, it happens. It’s been less common since he’d put away the mask for the last time, but during the war it happened frequently from overuse of the thing, the deity exercising control in the absence of his own will to.

“I’m alright,” he tries to assure, careful not to look behind him, even though he can feel the worry from the rest, “just tired.”

“We can stop for a rest.”

The captain’s halfway towards turning towards the other, already drawing a breath to call a halt to the rest, but Time stops him with a hand to his arm and a shake of the head, eyes carefully closed to avoid the sight of bright blue or crimson. “Don’t. It won’t help.”

Sleeping isn’t the problem, it’s his mind running away with him in a thousand directions, he doesn’t want it too. Sitting still will only make it worse. Stil, the captain regards him with worry. “Tell me if you change your mind.”

He nods. He won’t, but if he did, he’d tell the other There’s no worry of that though because sitting still right now sounds like actual torture. Just sitting there, a prisoner to his thoughts, to the deity’s thoughts, to wonderings and fears he doesn’t wish to address now or ever; he wouldn’t wish such things on anyone.

Except maybe Ganon. Screw him and everything he’s done to them. He deserves to be tortured by guilt.

Warriors lets it go, but not without a final worried look, and every so often he can feel heavy blue eyes settling on him, reading him, watching for any tick or sign that e’s in need of a break. He appreciates it, and focusing on the captain’s worry is an escape, because the deity has nothing ill to say of the soldier, in fact, he thinks it might even respect the other man, not that it will ever admit to such a thing.

In some ways, it gets easier, but in others, it’s worse. Focusing on his pup, his cub, turns his attention away. He can laugh and tease and watch them tease each other. Having Warriors standing beside him, talking about this thing or that, about paths and courses of action, is almost soothing. Sky’s smile and warm laughter is a balm, and Four’s quiet presence an assurance.

The moment Legend or Wind come into view though, even if his focus isn’t on them, or even what they’re doing, the growl of the deity rises again, a splitting pain in his head.

They know too. Wind’s hurt expressions and confusion are clear, and while Legend doesn’t appear to care at first, after a few days of such treatment, the vet tries to pull him aside and demand what has him treating Wind like a plague. He's not even noticed that the treatment is extended to him, but they all know of the vet’s soft spot for the sailor. He won’t stand to see their leader, whom the kid respects and admires so much, treating the sight of the boy like it’s painful.

But it is. It’s a rush of thoughts and twitch of his hands. It’s the hiss of the deity demanding he purge his namesake of all the dark twists it’s taken due to his actions. It’s images of children fighting demons and worlds falling due to his own failures.

He can’t bring himself to apologize, because that would mean looking at them, speaking to them, and thus hearing the demon scream for their blood to right the wrongs they represent.

Legend gives up in anger. Wind closes off, quiet and pensive. He doesn’t miss the veteran’s hand on broad little shoulders, a silent comfort when he passes by. Doesn’t miss the soft questions whispered from younger to elder, or the harsh glares from violet eyes as begrudging tones reply that they have no answers. He hates it but can’t do anything about it. For their own sakes, ignoring them is kinder than risking letting himself slip and do far worse.

When next they face the shadow, it’s nearly a relief. Finally, he can pour the aggression of the deity into his motions, into the swing of his sword and the roaring of his magic. He can let the demon loose, just a little, just enough to destroy and wreak havoc on enemies that deserve his wrath, on creatures who’ve earned his ire and hatred.

It’s freeing.

There’s no need to hold back, and maybe, just maybe, he let’s himself slip into the background, lets the deity have just a little more power than he’d planned. It’s fine though, it’s fine because maybe this will exhaust the thing, grant it the blood it’s so thirsty for, quench that hunger enough to make it fall silent again.

Once the battle is over, and the deity silent, maybe now he can talk to Wind. Show the boy a smile and apologize, tell him he’s had a migraine that’s impacted by the sailor’s magic or some such thing. Legend or Hyrule might call bull on that, but maybe he’s willing to abuse the fact that Wind’s hero worship of him means he’s more likely to be believed. He’s not telling the kid the truth though, not burdening him with the weight of the horrible thoughts and impulses that wreck his mind, but he’ll give an answer that’s half true, give him something, maybe even sit down and talk about nonsense together to assure that he doesn’t hate the kid. He doesn’t. Wind’s a good kid, and he deserves the world.

He just needs the deity to wear itself out. So, he drops his guard, lets himself fall to the backseat and lets the demon take the reins, sweep over the field with full fury and power unleashed, hoping to exhaust his magic enough that the demon will be silent. Enemies fall like wheat to a scythe, a cloud of black and purple smoke rising in his wake as the deity rampages, blade moving uncommonly fast as he darts to the captain’s side to assist him for a moment, springs over to Twilight to aid him as well.

The deity’s voice rumbles, laughing, savoring the bloodshed and reveling just as much in fighting beside their “true heir”, beside the “dragon of war”. He doesn’t understand that, not entirely. Still, he can guess what it means, and while a dragon does seem to suit the man he’s watched wield flames with the same proficiency as a blade, calling Twilight their “true heir” seems like a direct jab, like spitting in the face of the two other heroes that follow in his wake. They’re just words though. Just more words from the demon god’s mind. They don’t matter. They’re not his thoughts.

Except that when the enemy is dead, when the shadow fled, when the battle over, those words still play in his head, an echo of the deity’s thoughts, and when he tries to take back control, he can’t.

He can’t control his own actions, can’t control even his words, can’t do anything no matter how much he desperately tries to retake control of the body that’s stalking towards where their veteran is wiping his sword off in the grass, can’t do anything as he hears the deity’s thoughts echo around him, watching as his body becomes but a puppet to the still raging demon.

“If Nayru will not prune back the dead branches, it falls to me.”

He wants to scream, to say anything, to catch his own hand as it raises, blade lifted high, but he can’t do anything.

Legend turns at the last second, eyes sharp and blade sharper as it lifts, catches the weapon descending towards him, pushes it and the strength of the deity away and slips himself back, flips over them and perfectly executes a helm-splitter, stopping seconds before their leader’s skull is cleaved in two, voice sharp as it demands to know what’s wrong with him, what he’s doing.

The deity doesn’t care, simply springs back and away, Time’s body swinging his sword at the younger hero even as Warriors shouts something unintelligible and Twilight snarls something sharp, something terrified as their “true heir” rushes towards the scion of death, the heir to failure.

The others aren’t fast enough to stop the deity though, aren’t strong enough to stop the blade clashing, lifting and falling and lifting and falling. He can see, although he can’t do anything else, as the force of the blows rattles up the veteran’s arms. Sees the way his teeth set and his body shakes as he responds, holding the deity puppeteering Time’s body off, but only by backing away, driven slowly further and further from the others who rush and hurry.

Twilight throws himself at them, but the deity catches him by the pelt. All ire fades in favor of fondness as the demon’s thoughts turn sorrowful. He can hear them, a sadness that their true heir will have to see this, a confusion of why the pup does not understand their intent. He knows, if Twilight understood, that he would never condone the actions of the demon, but he can’t say as much even to his own mind as the deity lifts and throws their boy out of reach. Not harsh, not meant to harm, but fully intending to distance the boy from their fight, to stop him interfering.

He flinches, as does his body, as the rancher hits the ground some yards away.

In the opening left by the action, Legend’s tempered sword strikes, blood gushing as the blade rips free of flesh, but the blow does nothing to stop the assault of the demon In fact, it only provokes him further, and the little control Time felt finally fall into his hands is ripped away as his body returns control to the thing that will protect it, to the demon that will not let them be harmed.

Legend is the next to go flying, but not with the care and sorrow granted to Twilight, and instead with blood dripping in his wake as the biggoron sword finally lands a blow.

The shouts of the other boys sound, and there’s the snarling of a wolf beside them.

When his body turns from the broken form of the felled vet, he’s met with the sight of drawn swords and bared teeth as the wolf launches at him. He’s not sure when or why Twi has shifted, but the teeth closing on his arm hold him back for a moment as Warriors throws him forwards as well, attempting, no doubt to seek some weakness. In the war, he’d learned to rip the masks free from his kid’s face when he must, but there’s no mask for the captain to tear away this time, and despite the affection of the deity for “the dragon of war”, the demon god still tosses the captain away, plunging through the hesitant and terrified heroes.

Time’s heart drops when he realizes the goal of the demon: the sailor, eyes hard and blade raised, even as terror and confusion have the kid’s body shaking, voice doing the same as it demands ‘why’. “Time, what’s gotten into you?”

The cry of his heart at the veteran’s fall echoes again as the blow of the deity comes down on the sailor, and while the boy dodges, he’s not fast enough to escape injury.

Blood paints the earth, paints blue fabric and darkens crimson. Pain clouds in violet eye sand in the ocean ones of their youngest.

A roar, like nothing the deity can manage, has him turning.

The last things Time sees are Sky’s blazing eyes and the matching gleam of the Master Sword.

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