#i would integrate it in the fic if it allowed it

[saltcxrcle]

i eventually do want to make a sam winchester x angel! reader but i have no idea what the plot of that fic would be LOL

[starcurtain]

Another Phaidei Fic I Want to Read

It's the political arranged marriage AU but make it (ooooo) complicated~

Crown Prince Mydeimos of Castrum Kremnos was born under a dark star, with a prophecy of abject despair uttered at the moment of his birth: Mydeimos will be the last king of Kremnos. The city-state will fall, her people will be lost, and the glory of Strife entirely will fade into nameless oblivion. Year after year, the prophets repeat the same warnings: Mydeimos is cursed, and he will bring the downfall of their kingdom and all its inhabitants.

But no one in Kremnos knew just how cursed their prince was until the day the regent's war council convinced their king to do the unthinkable: If Mydeimos was sacrificed, perhaps their prophecy of destruction could be averted and Kremnos saved...

Only Mydei couldn't even die like he was supposed to. No matter how many times he was mortally wounded, the boy just kept standing up--not even Thanatos would take him. That glorious death in battle that all Kremnoan warriors were expected to achieve--even this most central aspect of Mydei's own culture rejected him.

This life of betrayal and total loneliness, with the promise of eventually destroying everything he knew and cared for, seemed inescapable--until one day, when Mydeimos had already passed the age of majority (and would have long since been allowed to challenge his father for the crown if it weren't for the despair prophesied to be his reign), a new vision was shared among all of their people's seers: There was a way to avert their kingdom's impending destruction and save their people. "Only the son of Aedes Elysiae can deliver Castrum Kremnos from the dark tide and restore the true king to her throne."

Aedes Elysiae is a tiny city-state with nowhere near enough military might to defend against a full onslaught from the Kremnoans. But the risk that the Elysian prince could be harmed--and all of Kremnos' future lost in the process--is too high to engage in a traditional war of conquest. Although it runs contrary to the Kremnoans' very natures, if it means securing their kingdom's future and hiding the truth of their foreseen fate forever, they will engage in any manner of subterfuge and political maneuvering necessary.

Namely, by using the threat of war to force Aedes Elysiae to surrender their crown prince to a permanent and binding political alliance. If the Elysians want to avoid obliteration by the military might of the Kremnoans, they will tie the destiny of their crown prince to the Strifewalkers' through blood and oath--a marriage to Kremnos' own Prince Mydeimos. In this way, perhaps the curse can finally be outweighed by the glory of a savior.

Enter Phainon: the pride and joy of Aedes Elysiae, the golden sun to his people, loved by everyone who knows him. Although his heart has always been soft and romantic, rebelling fiercely at the idea of marrying someone he's never met and doesn't love, there is nothing Phainon won't do to protect his people and his kingdom--even if it means sacrificing himself.

So Phainon agrees to leave his family and homeland behind, and makes the miserable journey to Castrum Kremnos to meet his destiny... as well as his new husband.

Too bad Mydei wants absolutely nothing to do with him.

Disgusted by his father's willingness to forsake Kremnos' sacred principles of pride and integrity by using underhanded tactics and falsehoods to force Aedes Elysiae's prince into compliance, Mydei refuses to even acknowledge his marriage to Phainon, let alone look in his fellow prince's direction.

Which wouldn't be a problem, honestly, if it weren't for the fact that poor Phainon is smitten within days.

When the Kremnoans were strong-arming Aedes Elysiae's king into giving up his beloved son, why had no one thought to just tell Phainon that Prince Mydeimos was so... so... upright and honest and brave and powerful and gorgeous and straightforward and humorous and quick-witted and honorable and also gorgeous? (Phainon thinks perhaps this last point should be repeated a few more times for good measure.) Truly, Phainon might have gone willingly if anyone had just thought to show him a portrait of his husband-to-be in advance!

While Phainon struggles to catch his own husband's attention and soften Mydei's seemingly unbreakable stone heart, Mydei struggles with his father's demands to keep his curse hidden, to not reveal the omen of destruction lurking behind this sham of a marriage. Though having to lie shreds every last tatter of pride Mydei has, if this prince of Aedes Elysiae discovers the truth, that he's been brought here solely to counteract Mydei's prophesied inability to reign, Kremnos' enemies will know it within the hour. A single weakness will be all the world needs to turn on the Kremnoans, to bring Mydei's terrible destiny to pass.

And... And if Phainon learns the truth about Mydeimos, about his curse, about how he is an abomination that not even death will accept, about the misery he is destined to bring, about the failures that are sure to come, about how he is hated by his country, his people, his own family--then Mydei will lose the first person who has ever smiled freely at him, ever wanted to walk beside him, ever spoke kind words in his direction...

There is no way Phainon would ever look at him the same again.

There is no way Phainon would stay.

And that would be cruelest fate of all.

(What Mydei and Castrum Kremnos don't know is that Phainon has a secret of his own: He's not royalty by blood in the slightest. He was a penniless orphan who just got lucky enough to be taken in by the castle and end up, through twists in his own destiny, to be raised by the childless rulers of Elysiae from nothing but the kindness of their hearts.

There is no son of Aedes Elysiae to save Castrum Kremnos from its fate--and the dark tide comes for all.

But visions bestowed by the gods must not be doubted. Perhaps the combined efforts of two lonely people--the one who forsook his own land for love and the one who could only be loved by someone from another land--will see the sun of Aedes Elysiae delivered to Kremnos once more...

And put a true and honest king upon her throne at last.)

[crescenthistory]

Hi I really love your fics and was hoping to send in a request! I was thinking a fem!reader who’s also a swan animagus, and partners with any or all of the marauders (minus Pete). She’s a very clumsy person, constantly stubbing her toes and bumbing into corners and walls, so when the boys find out that her animagus form is something so graceful they’re just baffled. That’s all I got really, so with that as you please if you please ❤️

this was such a sweet request darling, thank you so much<3 i made this into a general view of what her animagus process looked like + the boys' reactions to what she became

Words: 3.5k

Warnings: fem!reader, use of y/n, remus' pov, loads of anxiety and fearing for safety of a loved one, post-hogwarts with references to oncoming political turmoil but it is not canon compliant, reader is regulus' best friend, flirty bullying lol, mostly fluff and some hurt/comfort

Note: this is my first official poly!marauders fic, and i absolutely adore writing their dynamic

When you began your animagus journey, Remus was unsure of what to expect.

Back when James, Sirius and Peter did it, none of their animagus figures came as a surprise, the picturesque manifestations of the personalities Remus had come to love. Sirius, the loyal guard dog, looming and intimidating in your periphery or on the battlefield, but playful and loving by the fire in his own home. James, the noble and brave Head Boy turned stag, equal parts beautiful and fierce, able to balance out and maintain the worst and best in the rest of the boys. Peter, the quiet and mousy dry-humoured boy they came to love much in the same way you love your pet rat, slippery and smart, able to wield what he has to his advantage. All of it made sense to Remus, which provided a balm for the anxiety that settled in his chest at the thought of the lengths his friends and partners were willing to go for him.

With you though, nothing seemed to make sense. Never really had, it was just right somehow.

You came in later in the Gryffindor friend group, a year younger than the rest of them and best friends with Regulus. It was seemingly a buy one, get two deal when Regulus was finally able to escape the Black household and join Sirius at Potter Manor at last. He refused to leave you behind, knowing all too well what it felt like. Neither Sirius nor James could argue with that, and Remus quickly found he didn't want them to.

No, because when you were integrated into the friend group, hesitant for a mere second – mostly out of respect for Regulus it seemed – before allowing your full personality to prosper at its natural breadwidth, Remus was infatuated. You weasled your way into his heart, knocking against every surface on the way there, leaving him breathless.

He was beyond relieved to look at his two boys – his two lovely boys – and see the same longing in their eyes.

In a relationship that already housed a half-blood half-breed, a disgraced son of a most ancient and noble house and a blood-traitor himbo-jock, Remus had not fathomed there would be room for one more. Until that one was you in all your clumsy-bodied warm-hearted glory – then suddenly, it was unfathomable not to have you.

Despite his shock, Remus found himself quite pleased when finally sat in your shared flat a year after Hogwarts, with you held securely in his arms while Sirius and James were commuting home together from their apprenticeships as aurors at the Ministry. The picture of domesticity. The life he never dared imagine. With your scent filling his nose and your cheek pressed against the skin of Remus' throat, he was sure there was nothing else he could ask for.

"I did something today," you murmured absentmindedly then, trailing patterns on his arm, careful not to snag him with the edge of your nail that broke a few hours earlier that he had not bothered filing down yet.

"Mhm, and what was that, dove?" he replied in the same tone, only half-paying attention as he drowsed in the warmth of you.

"I applied to become an animagus."

Suddenly, Remus was no longer tired nor warm nor comfortable nor nuzzled into your hair as he jerked back to look at you in shock.

"You did what?" His voice somehow didn't convey his immediate turmoil, but he's sure his eyes did as you bit your lip sheepishly.

"I applied with the Ministry to become an animagus," you restated as if it was the simplest thing in the world. "Dumbledore's suggestion. Though if one person in our household is properly registered, it could be easier to avoid any suspicion should the order need you to utilise it more often."

The rest of the night was spent with you explaining what was surely a sound and reasonable plan, but that still lit Remus' veins alight with fire. As was the next few weeks, awaiting the pending response, spent with you and James – who quickly jumped onboard, eager to support you – reassuring Remus and in part Sirius that the plan was sound and reasonable and you would be fine.

"Honestly, I'm beginning to think you have zero faith in me," you joked one evening when you were all cuddled up on the sofa.

"It's not that I don't trust you, dovey," Remus began despondently.

Sirius preferred to cut to the chase with a deadpan. “We just prefer for our darling girl who has never once gone a day without a single bruise to not be undertaking dangerous magical transformations that largely depend upon precision.”

"I have gone a day," you muttered petulantly at that, to which James began rubbing your arms up and down whispering something in your ear about "pick battles we can win, angel".

Remus smiled a bit hesitantly at the sight of his two loves sat opposite him, while he himself was currently held in Sirius' arms and unable to see his face. He could, however, feel the tension in his grip though, likely at the thought of all that could go wrong.

"I understand why it has to be done," Remus started. "And you know I support you always, dove. I just can't help but worry."

You cooed at what Remus was sure was a slight pout on his face before leaning forward out of James' arms to kiss it off him. At that, a genuine smile spread across his lips and into your kiss, breathing you in as a sign of defeat.

"I may stumble, but I can do difficult things, my love," you whispered, brushing your thumbs over his cheekbones. "And with you here, I'll always be alright, won't I?"

"I suppose," Remus faux grumbled, to which James leaned forward to ruffle his hair.

"You are so cute," James all but exclaimed. "So, so cute."

"Alright Jamie, that's enough of that," Remus tried but James kept on playing with his hair, though with slower movements.

"Look at you caring for our little clutz." You let out an undignified "hey" at that. "With big Moony on watch, we will never have to worry."

"And big Padfoot!" Sirius exclaimed from behind Remus, causing the latter to roll his eyes fondly at the boy's not-so-fake fear of missing out.

James caught it too with a hearty laugh, slipping off the sofa to slide to the floor beside Sirius with a soft "of course, baby" before littering his face with a sickening amount of kisses.

As Remus watched you giggle, he pulled you closer. Sickening indeed he thought as he stared down at you with overwhelming love in his throat.

The cycle of worry and reassurance continued well into the animagus process when your application was approved, which Remus suspected Dumbledore also had a hand in. Though, for these, you often couldn't reassure him as much with your words, with the mandrake leaf and everything, but James was your perfect advocate, speech ready on his lips, and your hand never strayed far from Remus' body, keeping his anxiety at bay.

When you fell down the stairs one day or when you ran into doors, Remus' breath caught in his throat like never before, the implications of your clumsiness far more prominent than ever before. You were always alright, and Remus knew he just had kept telling himself that until it was over.

You're alright, you're alright, you're alright. A mantra, a prayer.

"She will be alright, right Siri?" A broken sob into his lover's chest on nights you were away to complete the process.

"Always, always, always." A murmured response that weighed a tonne in his chest.

He never did tell you about those nights, he knew you didn't deserve the guilt or the fretting that would overtake you at the knowledge, not when you were doing something to support your loves, your family, your cause. He could never tell you that while you, in all your clumsy chaos, was being brave, he was being a coward.

And you never did tell him that you knew, that you saw, but you held him closer the nights following them.

While one the precipice of oncoming political collapse, one is rarely allowed full reprieve from anxiety, but Remus found himself washed with immeasurable relief and calm when the front door opened on the final night and he heard two sets of boots and laughter as you and James walked into your flat.

The lightning storm in the background required for the final night of the process was still raging outside, but your flat might as well be on another planet for all Remus cared because you were inside, you were alright and you were laughing. 

Only James could follow you to it, as you had to go through the very final bit alone and Sirius convinced Remus you should be surrounded with calm and reassurance before you took those last steps alone. He agreed, always wanting what was best for you, but it did not help his roaring fears to not be able to go with you.

Thus, the homebound boys immediately shot up at the sound from where they had been anxiously perched on each their chair in the living room, running towards the front door. The latter placed his hand pacifyingly on Remus' shoulder, a silent I'm here, it's alright, she’s alright.

You were.

You were alright.

You were also being laughed at, they now realised.

Chucking off your boots, drenched to the core with hair plastered to your face, you looked awfully displeased with James who - equally as drenched but thrice as enthusiastic - was bent over against the wall, face scrunched up with delight. Remus supposed some of the water drops trailing down his face were actually tears of laughter.

"It's not that funny, James," you grumbled, but the twitch in your lips gave away that perhaps it was.

Ignoring whatever petty squabble for half a minute, Sirius swept you up in a hug and twirled you around, the squelch of your clothes and your own giggle filling the room. "My love!" he exclaimed with glee. "Oh you did it my darling, you did it."

Remus walked towards your embrace with reverence, laughing a bit wetly with relief. You looked at him with so much love in your eyes he wasn't sure if he could take it – and then you opened your arm to invite him into your hug, and he knew he couldn't.

With a shaky breath, Remus let himself fall into you with a few tears rolling down his face and an immense smile across his lips. He murmured some sweet nothings into your hairline that not even he could quite make out.

Pulling back just enough to see your now-wide grin, he kissed you searingly in the exact way he had dreamed of doing on this day.

Safe in his arms, at last.

At the thought, he could almost hear you whisper back that you always were.

"Thank you," Remus whispers against your lips. "Thank you."

"What for?" you laugh back into him.

He opens his eyes to gaze warmly into yours. "For being okay. For being brave."

A soft cooing sound escaped you as you gave him another lingering kiss that seemed to promise you always will be. He felt Sirius' lips drift between each of your foreheads, an eternal comfort in all of Remus' worry, even when he had his own.

"Is this the part where you lie to me and say you knew I could always do it?" you tease as you look between the two boys pressed up against you.

At the same time, Sirius gives you a resounding "yes" while Remus shakes his head at you with a laugh.

"It's not a lie," he begins, continuing despite your light scoff. "I always knew you could, you can do anything you set your mind to. I just love you too much not to freak out about the what ifs."

"You absolute sap," Sirius laughs at him, resulting in you slapping his arm lightly in defence of Remus.

"Do you disagree with him?" you question with a raised brow, challenging smile tugging at your lips.

Sirius' humour was washed away to be replaced with soft fondness. "Of course not, doll."

Behind you, James cleared his throat.

The three of you turned around to see your final boy leaning against the wall, admiration written clearly across his face as he took in the picture before him with heart eyes. It didn't escape Remus, though, that you tensed in his arms beside him nor that James had one of his most mischievous smiles across his face.

"Yeah, angel, we are all super duper proud of you now and forever and always." James says it in a way that makes Remus suspicious he has already told you as much a hundred times over while you were out together. "Now can we skip to the fun bit?"

You groan, throwing your head back against Sirius' shoulder – who whispered a petulant ow! – and promptly pulled out of their grasp. Remus tried to focus on whatever bit was about to come from James to ignore the feeling of loss.

"Fine, but I am going to need so much flattery from you after this relentless bullying, Mister." You threatened as you pointed your wand at James, first in replacement of an accusatory finger, and then to vanish the water from his person. You did yourself the same favour, then grabbed Remus' hand to direct your boys to the living room and its wonderful fireplace that Sirius kept alive for you while you were gone.

"You know I will, baby!" James called after you as he grabbed some water bottles from the fridge on the way to follow you, handing one to you unprompted.

"Now? What's so funny?" Sirius asked impatiently as he perched himself on the end of the sofa, directly in front of where you and Remus stood before the fire.

James' grin came back in full force as he looked at you devilishly. "Can I be the one to tell them?" At least he had the decency to ask you.

"You're the one who thinks it's so bloody funny, so you ought to." Remus chuckled at you, pulling you closer into his side, protecting you from James for once.

"So we all know that your lovely, lovely girl here does not have the best track record when it comes to, you know, general spatial awareness?"

Sirius barked a laugh at that and Remus had to pull you back from kicking his shin, resulting in you stumbling slightly. You shot him a half-hearted glare that seemed to scream don't prove his point!

"Yeah," Remus agreed readily, shooting you a smug smile at the betrayal.

"I have yet to meet a table she can outsmart." Sirius nodded solemnly.

This all seemed to excite James even further. "Right! Or a cart she can't run over her foot, or a door handle she can't smash against her hip, or a staircase that won't make her eat-"

"Okay, okay!" You threw your hands up in defeat. "We get your point, Jamie, gods."

James' smile almost turned rueful, but your cute expression was not really helping your case here. Remus couldn't blame him as James reached out to pinch at your chin.

"And we love you all the more for it, angel, really."

"Yeah, yeah," you grumbled, waving his hand away and placing more weight against Remus. "Get to it, Potter."

"Moony, Pads," James said, looking at them with levity, as if he was about to disclose serious news. "Our beautiful little klutz is a swan animagus."

There was silence for two seconds, as Sirius' jaw fell on the floor and Remus' eyes widened. Remus regretted to disclose that he was the first to break it as he snorted a laugh, prompting Sirius to immediately match James' previous hysterics, clapping his hands together.

"No way!" he laughed as you crossed your arms in further petulance.

"A swan?" Remus questioned with mirth to no one in particular.

"A swan!" James confirmed excitedly.

"And what about it?" you grumbled, stepping back so you could more easily glare at all three boyfriends at once. "What's so so funny about it?"

"It's nothing, dove, it's just-" Remus' placating was undercut by him laughing through it "- swans are know to be, like, elegant."

"I can be elegant!" you retorted. Sirius just snorted at you. "I can be!" you continued, nodding your head in that endearing way you do when you try to insist.

"You certainly look elegant," James relented. "But, my absolute love, you are anything but."

"Again, stairs." Sirius said it as if the word "stairs" in and of itself was an argument. Knowing your past, it most certainly was.

"Grace and elegance are often considered opposites of clumsiness and incoordination, dovey," Remus explained.

"I know that," you seethed in response, but the fight was already running out of you.

"It's just a tad bit ironic, isn't it?" James fought to calm his laughter.

Sirius did no such thing. "Understatement of the year, Prongs."

"Maybe the grace my animagus refers to has something to do with my inner grace in handling you lot," you grumbled, to which James cooed – effectively not helping his case. "And they represent wisdom and understanding, not to mention that they bite so you watch yourselves now." Your glare was withering as you couldn't help but laugh a little at your own joke.

With another breath of laughter, Sirius rose from his seat to reach for you in a hug, but you stepped out of the way. "No hugs for rude boys," you said simply.

"Oh, come on dollface, let me appreciate our little swan." You put up little effort as Sirius tucked you under his chin, chest still rumbling with laughter. “I just cannot believe you're a swan, baby."

"I can," Remus said, letting affection take over the humour in his voice once more. "They represent love too, you know."

James' face scrunched up in laughter as he roughly pulled the wolf into his arms, squeezing him tightly. "You're killing me, Moons, you can't say stuff like that."

"Why the hell not?" Remus grumbled all the while holding James tighter, eyes trained on you and Sirius.

"Because I’ll love you too much." At that, Remus laughed, kissing James' cheek softly.

"Regardless of any humour and irony, you did something incredibly difficult, dove. We're so proud of you." This was not just placation, Remus believed it with his whole chest. You could evidently tell as you almost shied into Sirius' chest.

James walked his embrace with Remus towards you and Sirius, so you were all standing close to one another in front of the sparkling fire.

"Is it okay to say I'm really proud of myself too?" you asked then with a slight self-conscious smile.

Sirius shut down any insecurity with the searing kiss he pressed to your forehead. "Of course, baby. It would be a tragedy if you weren't."

Remus could feel James tilt his head in thought. He couldn't help but pry. "What is it, Prongs?"

"Just that," James began. "Because of our animagi, I'm Prongs and Sirius is Padfoot. But you've always called Y/N dove just because – and now she is a bird, so should we all call her that now? It's not the same bird, but close?"

"No," Remus and you said quickly and shared a small smile. "Dove is mine, you lot can find your own bird-name for her," he teased.

James just laughed. "The possessive streak runs deep in this wolf, huh?"

"What nicknames can be derived from a swan then?" Sirius wondered out loud. "White Wing sounds too much like a superhero name."

"We are not calling me White Wing." You laughed, leaning your head on Sirius' shoulder. "I quite like what you've always called me. If we need a codename later we can come up with it then."

Remus was sure his irises could melt from how soft his gaze on you felt. "Sure thing, dovey. Tonight we just do whatever you want to celebrate."

Your smile was relaxed in that domestic, beautiful way that Remus felt the urge to frame. "We're already doing it. Just being with you three."

"Sap," Sirius whispered in your ear, accidentally tickling you, causing you to giggle and twist in his arms.

As Remus' body shook with both his and James' laughter, he knew that you had once again gone and done everything he never expected. If he was lucky, you would do that for the rest of his life – and that is what would make it good.

"Oh, I have to go tell Regulus!" Sirius exclaimed, running off - with you hot on his heel.

[avifaunaa]

share your soul with me [ unzip your skin, let me have a see ] [ l.m. + s.s. ]

Authors Note: I swear to god if you know me no you do not. I’m going to hell lmao. i had to split this into TWO parts with smut coming in the next one.

Masterlist

PART TWO

Pairing: Lottie Matthews x fem!reader x Shauna Shipman

Summary: Survival in the Wilderness with territorial Alphas and naturally violence-avoidant Betas was going well, all things considering. Your sister, Jackie Taylor, had worked hard to ensure a pack dynamic had formed before the crash and that it remained strong two years within the struggle for your lives. Until you presented, that is, as an Omega.

Content Warnings: I cannot stress this enough — this is a fic that contains A/B/O dynamics so if you aren't comfortable with that I do have multiple other non-a/b/o fics and don't plan on making this a super-regular thing. I’ve never written for this, but here we are.

Within regular Yellowjackets dynamics: Descriptions of injuries and illnesses, death and blood, discussions of + actual cannibalism, canon-typical violence, cult-like behaviors, the Wilderness being the Wilderness

A/B/O Warnings: pack / power dynamics, gender-norm discussions within ABO context, heat/rut cycles, presenting, r is distressed later in the chapter

Word Count: ~4.8k

The sobs and the screams were almost drowned under the sound of your own blood swimming in your years. How is it you've never noticed how loud your heartbeat is?

You weren’t supposed to even be here with your older sister’s soccer team, stuck fighting for survival and waiting for a rescue that may never come. Jackie wouldn't look you in the eye sometimes over it, anymore.

You were meant to still be back at the same University you all attended. One year behind most of the team -- some were in their final graduating years, some were in their third years like Jackie, Shauna, and Lottie. It was your first year away from home, fresh and wide-eyed and supposed to be attending frat parties you had no business being at and making mistakes you would save later first years from when you were in your second year.

Was there any point dwelling on it? You did not think so -- you clung to your older sister most of the time anyways.

Jackie was a formidable Alpha both in the field and off. She made a great captain and her leadership skills were second to none; but you were always privy to the side of Jackie that revealed more of what made her an Alpha. She was fiercely protective in nature and had been your guardian from the second you'd come into the world a wailing, pink-faced creature. It had kicked her instincts into gear, she had told you, having something so innocent and vulnerable to help her parents care for.

And so you became Jackie's shadow. You never presented -- not in any way that would declare you anything other than a Beta -- and that allowed you to drift through unnoticed in Jackie's circle [ in the world ] while keeping your head down and trouble away. It never kept your sister's overprotective nature from lashing out at times, but it turned unwanted attention off of you.

And it allowed you to become integrated within Jackie's pack -- the Yellowjackets team -- without seeming like an intruder or like anyone the team looked too closely or too long at. At most, you were simply the soft-spoken Beta sister of Jackie Taylor who shied away from sports herself and always had pink ribbons in her hair.

You were welcome within the dynamics of the pack your sister had created in the soccer team. Strange, quiet, often kept to herself -- but you always seemed to be there and thus the team saw you as belonging.

So why wouldn't you have been with them on the plane? Shauna had claimed a seat with Jackie [ "That's fine," you promised the Alpha shyly, cheeks pink when the taller woman beamed at you ], so you settled with Misty Quigley -- a strange Beta in her own right.

Everything had been a blur after the plane had taken off.

You woke up in excruciating pain in your left knee and your sinuses being crushed by the invasion of uncontrolled scents of death, of dying, angry Alphas and --

“Hey.” Hands encircled your cheeks and a comfort blanketed you. The familiar peach and vanilla scent [ Jackie, your hindbrain recognized on instinct, a rush of knowing filling you ] wrapped around you like a soothing second skin. "Oh, Watson," she murmured, tone cracking.

Watson. She was never a big reader -- but you had once convinced her to read some of the Sherlock Holmes books with you. The nicknames had stuck.

The air was so thick with distress from everyone around you that it was becoming so overwhelming, on top of the pain that was rippling down your knee in never-ending waves. A noise of your own distress was beginning to rise in the bottom of your throat as your sister's shaky hands stroked your face in an attempt to soothe.

"H-hurts," you garble out, eyes finally opening. You regret it instantly when you're greeted by Jackie's face above you spinning around in circles. She was bleeding from somewhere on her temple, blood fresh in a waterfall down the side of her cheek.

Something shifted slightly on her features -- or were you just imagining that?

"I know," the redhead responded, still keeping a careful hand on your cheek. You were no fool -- you could feel her shaking. "Don't look, okay? Are you cold?"

"A little," you murmured.

Jackie's scent suddenly soured, drowning out the surrounding scents but still choking you. You did not think she realized she was releasing it so strongly as she rapidly began to shift your shoulders closer into her lap. "Okay, okay . . . MISTY --"

The last thing you remember is hearing bloodcurdling screams that you would, in the future, come to understand were yours.

The cabin was blessing in not-so-great disguise. Coach Ben had lost an entire leg, some of the members of the team and another coach were lost in the process -- leaving behind two of his teenaged sons for your pack to care for. An unpresented boy, Javi, and a withdrawn Beta, Travis. They liquidated into the dynamic as well as they could considering what the shared experience was forcing on them.

You woke after initially passing out three days later, apparently, to a warm mid-day with Shauna hovering beside you. Most of the group was gone, Jackie included, but their scents were still fresh enough to tell you they hadn't been gone for more than an hour.

The scratching of paper had you weakly turning your head. Shauna was sitting dutifully at your side -- a couple of feet away -- writing in her journal with a furrowed brow and the side of her cheek sucked into her mouth.

For the first time since you were introduced to her by Jackie, she did not look like an Alpha. She just looked like . . . she simply looked like any other college girl, you'd surmised. Freckles dusted her face, but you wondered if, once the grime and injuries were washed off, more would reveal themselves to you.

Her scent was pleasant to your senses, as well, and had never irritated you like a lot of Alpha and Omega scents did. An earthy oak with an underlay of smoky that seemed to fit her just right.

You had been to doctors for scent sensitivity, an unusual ailment for Betas to be afflicted with. You had been tested for mis-presentation, underlying illnesses, and damaged sinuses. Nothing. You were just an outlier Beta -- sensitive to the other two presentations without having either of the traits to declare you either one.

You do not know how long you watched her, but you were eventually found out. A strand of hair shifted from her bun as she turned her head and met your gaze. She blinked in surprise as she instinctively shut her notebook.

"How long you been awake, Taylor?" she asked, setting the object to the side and turning her body to face you fully.

"Just a couple minutes," you rasp, pressing your shoulder upward against the tree you'd been leaned against so you could test your knee. "How bad?"

Her eyes drifted down to your knee, then back to your face. "Quigley has more medical expertise than we ever gave her credit for," she told you as she reached out to help you sit up, allowing you to escape the slumped over position you'd been in. "Your kneecap seems broken. She found some parts of the plane that had come apart during the crash and we worked to make a brace that would hopefully heal it."

Your eyes drift to your knee, splayed out straight. You noted your jeans had been torn to your upper thigh on that leg and some of the strips had been used to help tie a seatbelt from one of the plane's seats to a make-shift brace of a part of the plane.

"You won't be able to bend your knee very much, if it works right," Shauna added after a minute of silence as you stared at your injury.

"Okay," you said, swallowing. You hoped you weren't expressing too much anxiety in scent or body language as you came to comprehend your position right now. You're lucky at all they managed to get somewhat of a brace to try and work it out, but it may never heal right. Knee injuries were . . .

"At least I don't play soccer," you said with a shot toward humor when Shauna's hand drifted to your arm, radiating concern from her place near you.

Shauna snorted, and she seemed to be smiling at you a little more relaxed when you looked away from your knee and at her.

The girls who had left had returned in a jittery, excited mood. "We found a lake," Jackie told Shauna, eyes twinkling. "It's open skies and if a plane flies over they could see us. We could write an SOS on the shore.''

"Shouldn't we stay here?" you asked hesitantly from behind your sister. "What if a rescue team finds the crash? What if they're looking for us?"

Tai crossed her arms and kicked at some dirt. "We're running on rations and luck right now. The cabin is shelter until help gets us and the lake is a water source. We can make an HQ there at the very least."

It was hard to argue even as Jackie told everyone to lay out pros and cons of staying at the plane and going to the cabin. Eventually the pros of migrating to the new spot won out and everyone was given the afternoon to take what they wanted now and come back for the rest later.

Jackie had a familiar dusty pink backpack over her shoulder when she came striding over to you, a smirk on her face. "Ready to go on an adventure, Watson?"

You blinked. "Is that mine?"

She shrugged her shoulder with the backpack hoisted over it and confirmed, "Sure is. It has all your goodies in it. All you need to do is try standing up."

You rolled your eyes but felt tempted by the change of clothes you had in there alone. "No need to bribe me, Holmes. Get over here." You reached your hands out, looking pathetic you were sure.

The Alpha was oozing a smug confidence as she strides closer and wrapped her arm through yours and -- carefully -- hoisted you to your feet. You yelped out when you started putting pressure on both feet like you normally do, easing up on foot with the broken knee and allowing it to hover.

"Did any of your makeup survive?" you asked Jackie as you leaned into your older sister's warmth and letting her help you over to the gathering team.

The redhead scoffed in your ear. "I don't know. We're gonna come back later to search for more suitcases. Be happy I dragged your backpack out."

You kissed her cheek. "Best big sister in the world."

Jackie pretends to look disgusted when her free hand flew up to wipe her cheek, but the Alpha in her seemed pleased to provide for family -- or anyone -- who needed her help.

Lottie and Shauna hovered nearby the both of you as Jackie became your human crutch. Shauna in particular was aggravated as she hovered behind you and curled a lip at anyone who approached with an offer to help. Lottie simply became a comforting presence, talking to you as you tried to walk through the pain.

You knew the team was dragging slower because of you, but it’s not exactly like any of you were on a time crunch. The walk was filled with revive and hopeful chatter as the forest seemed to open up the closer you got to this cabin and the lake nearby.

And finally, you were rewarded. The view was breathtaking in and of itself — the wide open view, the singing of nearby birds, and even the lake looked welcoming.

Scents started to change from despair and uncertainty to excitement and joy as the girls started ripping away from the pack a few at a time to dart toward the shore of the lake.

Jackie squeezed your waist reassuringly, but urged you toward what you now realized was the cabin. It looked rather old, as though it hadn’t been cared for in years. It wasn’t in shambles but it would take effort on everyone’s part to make it livable while you waited for rescue.

Jackie helped you settle onto the front steps of the cabin and followed you down, resting against you like she knew what you needed was your sister’s comfort.

Shauna stayed nearby instead of meeting the rest of the pack at the lake, but Lottie had parted from you guys with a wave.

You placed your head on Jackie’s shoulder, watching the backpack she carried for you flop down on her other side. “Hey, checking in. How’s your knee?” she murmured.

“It hurts,” you admitted tiredly, reaching a hand down to rub at the injury wrapped together with spare parts and old shirts.

“I’m sorry, Watson,” Jackie started, unable to prevent the shakiness from entering her voice as she did, “I’m so fucking sorry. If I hadn’t dragged you . . .”

You swallowed when she started this line of thinking, of guilt-eating anxiety you saw overwhelm her before. You place a hand on hers in her lap, settling her rocking knees. “Jacks I don’t blame you,” you said quietly, glancing up to make sure Shauna wasn’t listening to close. She wasn’t, busy inspecting the sturdiness of the cabin’s porch beams.

“None of this is your fault,” you continued with an attempt at a reassuring smile. “Let’s not cause either of us more distress if we can prevent it. Please don’t let me be a contribute to a mental breakdown.”

A huffed breath of laughter from behind you. Shauna had perhaps been listening closer than you believed, not that you were discussing anything of sensitive nature.

You knew Jackie. Your sister, your greatest protector, your best friend. She carried the responsibility and wellbeing of her pack — her team — like it was a burden she alone had to endure. It made her both a great Alpha, one that can be assured reliable and capable, and her own greatest foe.

Shauna knew this too — she had been Jackie’s constant next to you in the redhead’s upbringing. They were attached at the hip even before they presented and instead of seeing one another as a threat they had each other’s backs. Jackie relied on Shauna to be another set of eyes on the team, to see and hear what she couldn’t. And Shauna — Shauna was a different Alpha that fit Jackie’s like a puzzle. They were a duo that couldn’t be challenged.

Bring in Lottie . . .

Lottie had come in during Jackie and Shauna’s first year of university. She had simply . . . “Slipped in,” Shauna offered during their break home and catching up with your family. “She slipped in. But she’s great.”

You weren’t positive Shauna wasn’t in love with the brunette Alpha, from the way she talked about her all the way to meeting her and seeing Shauna interact with her. They were different than Shauna and Jackie, or Jackie and Lottie.

They were an enigma you had always found fascinating but kept your eyes from wandering too dangerously.

Jackie had been talking, you not listening. You drifted off into your thoughts and only managed to get shaken out when you felt a nudge.

“Watson, you with me?”

You blinked at her. She watched you with mild concern, holding one of your ribbons from your backpack delicately in her hands and fiddling with it, twirling it around her fingers before loosening it and pulling at it.

“Sorry, yes I’m with you,” you respond with a futile attempt at hiding your brainwandering.

Jackie’s eyebrow quirked and a small smirk pulled her lips. “Liar,” she teased, but didn’t sound too upset. “Are you upset I didn’t take you to the lake?”

You shrugged. “I can go to the lake tomorrow, or when my knee is less sore. I don’t think I can walk that much again right now.”

Your sister nodded in agreement. “I didn’t think so. I don’t want the materials we’re using to get ruined if you swim and we just put them on . . . So I thought . . .”

“Good idea, as usual, Holmes,” you praised, offering a mock salute to which earned you a scoff.

1 /12 Years Later — Winter, The Wilderness

“More snowfall?” The voice of Jackie drags you out from a fitful sleep, the heat of the fire in the cabin forcing your eyes to remain closed.

“Bad,” Natalie’s cold-soaked voice rasped, half-muffled behind what was probably the scarf she used to keep her face covered from the piercing storm while she went hunting. “No visibility.”

For a moment the only sound that could be heard in the crowded cabin was the wood crackling from the fire. Then Jackie sighed. “Thank you for trying.”

“It’s the third day in a row.”

“I know, Nat. We’ll — we’ll work something out.” Jackie didn’t sound so assured, but her scent remained as steady and calm as she could when she was this concerned.

“We . . . I don’t want to have to . . . Again.”

“We may not have a choice,” your sister whispered, “but neither do I.”

It was a dismissal, and Nat shuffled through the cabin to get to her usual spot near the back window. You heard the press of her shoe near your head as she treaded lighter. Jackie rejoined you, and you allowed her movement to make you pretend that’s what woke you.

“Jackie?”

“Did I wake you?” The Alpha settled herself back into your shared nest. Your making with what few materials you had. You had considered discussing with Jackie about making a nest for the entire pack, for warmth; but so many people were on edge and you weren’t entirely sure how they’d take a Beta making the offer.

“No,” you lied, turning around and pushing yourself up on an elbow to gaze at your sister. She had bags under her eyes, shadowed by the firelight that danced off the corners of the cabin. “Have you slept?”

“No,” Jackie echoed though you feared she was being truthful in that regard, pulling her ragged blanket toward herself. “It’s getting . . . Well the snow isn’t getting lighter right now.”

You eyed her with suspicion simply from how she seemed to avoid saying exactly what she was thinking and the furrow of her brows.

“It’s going to be okay,” you vowed to her, reaching your hands out to warm them at the fire while your back was turned to her. “We’re going to be fine.”

Until you got sick.

The body aches and dizziness were what came first. Misty was adamant that you had no fever, even if you felt warmer inside of your own skin. Usually you tended to the fires and helped with laundry when your knee permitted it, but currently it was mid-afternoon and you could barely crawl out of bed.

Jackie was pacing like a rabid animal, unsure of how to help you but feeling unable to physically approach. She was avoiding you in the same breath that she was hovering from a distance.

You ate your rations when they were offered [ Melissa was the Wilderness’ choice this season, the sacrifice for greater success of the rest ]. You were ravenous, and though the piercing stomach pains were telling in your continued hunger, you did not mention it.

Sleep, food, wake to shiver and go to the bathroom. Repeat. Eyes were following your every movement, mostly from Shauna and Tai — like they were studying an animal at an exhibit. Shauna’s were shadowed over as though they were hiding something from everyone else. It terrified you and drew you to her — and somehow, her scent made your mouth water.

Another three days bouts of sleep and shakes was when the nesting started.

It took the team by surprise when you crawled out of your own barely shaped nest, created by whatever you and Jackie had managed to use as blankets and clothing when it was colder at night, and started seeking out items. You later would hardly remember any of it, just going on an instinct you didn’t know you had.

Lottie and Shauna’s scents stuck out the strongest and as the most soothing — so you went to their beds first. Neither of the Alphas, who stood near their beds, tried stop you [ nor did anyone else ] when you started grabbing small items from their makeshift beds.

You snagged something of Misty’s and Mari's— even though they were Betas — and you definitely may have something from Tai in the attack while she was out with Van.

It went unaddressed, but there was a fascination as the women watched you work. Your body was aching like it did when you first landed and yet you moved without even consciously thinking about it. Autopilot in full force and you do not remember much of it.

The fever eventually struck a day or two later and waking up that morning feeling it in its' entirety was a hectic one. Your burning eyes peeled open from a long sleep, and as your senses returned to you the barrage of aggression and tension filled every pore. The air was thick and when your eyes adjusted, you noted most girls moved with a cautious stiffness.

You did not see very much of it with Jackie apparently using her body as a sort of shield. You noticed, blearily, Melissa make hesitant movements past you and Jackie's body turned with each step, keeping herself as a wall between yourself and the other Alpha.

Claw-like sensations ripped at your lower back neck, urging you to try and make sense of your surroundings. Uneasy, nervous, you felt so many things and -- "Jacks?" you managed to slur, fists curling into the thick nest you had unknowingly made, "Jackie what's going on?"

Your voice seemed to snap her out of some sort of mindset. Her face angled slightly back toward you without moving the rest of her body. "Hey, Watson," she greeted softly, tone a lulling purr she used when she knew something had upset you, "How are you feeling?"

You started sitting up as she spoke and she moved quickly in response; a hand curling around your arm to help you. While her touch was usually welcome and encouraged, her fingers making contact with your skin set off a reaction you'd never experienced.

You whined lowly as the touch brought on a burn. Why did it feel wrong? Why did your stomach lurch, curl into sickly knots, urging you to pull away and bite at her fingers for daring to --

“You’re presenting.”

Lottie's announcement from her spot feet away was met with silence so intense that only the howling of the wind against the rafters of the cabin was heard.

Presentingpresentingpresenting—

Tai and Van were hunched with Nat near their spots by the front door, the Alpha and two Betas gazing your way with soft eyes, concerned frowns.

Not many of the other Alphas were in the cabin right now, you noted, as your eyes darted around.

No.

“Lottie,” Jackie snarled with warning, followed by a fast rise to her feet that momentarily left you exposed. Your head was spinning as Lottie got closer — oh, she was —

“As an Omega,” Lottie continued as though Jackie hadn’t said anything at all. Her dark eyes were steadily firm on you; an Alpha who was awful relaxed while supposedly in close proximity to an Omega in their first heat.

Your fingers dug into the nest you’ve created for yourself in your haze. Now you understood, with a sort of unrecognizable prick of satisfaction [ they're providing, pack is caring, a low purr you did not have days earlier echoed in your head ], the lack of protest in your doings — the Alphas not stopping you when you entered, uninvited, to their own beds to snag their warm clothes, the Betas who wouldn’t meet your gaze.

With that understanding also came a wave of dread that covered you like a thick sandstorm covers any form of life not smart enough to get out of the way. You sat on your knees as Lottie's never-ending gaze rest upon you with an expression you could not read.

And then tears filled your eyes. You lifted your hand to bite down on your knuckles to stifle the sounds -- but you could smell your own pheromones pouring out of you like the tears you cried. You were spiraling quickly, unable to yet control it and the overwhelming realization that your entire life as you knew it was changing.

"I didn't . . ." you whispered, choking on more tears, teeth sliding across your chapped knucklebone, "I had . . . no idea. I wouldn't have kept this . . ."

Jackie's head snapped back around to look at you fully and the panic in her eyes was not helping. She moved slow and crouched in front of you. "Oh, Watson, we know that. We know you didn't know. How could you?" She reached out a hand, as though to soothe a wild animal, but her scent -- normally a comfort you took readily -- was currently sour and had you rearing back from her offer.

Her expression revealed hurt, briefly, before she lowered her hands to her knees. "You must be . . . pretty deep into it if you can't stand the scent of me anymore," she said a little sadly.

You blinked owlishly at her, digesting her words and trying to connect them to what you learned about Omegas in biology. You recalled [ after a few moments of thought ] that Omegas in a heat cycle will suddenly reject the scents of Alphas or Betas they're related to, as their biology and the changes that came with a cycle began to prepare for said Omega to seek out a suitable mate. Familial scents would sour and attempts at comfort were met with resistance until after an Omega was mated or the cycle was over.

You had an Omega friend who commented on how disgusting her family smelled for days after she returned to classes after her first heat. It took a week for it to return to normal, she had told you.

You tried to give your sister an apologetic whine, crooning and deep with signs of distress. A noise you never knew you could produce -- you were a Beta for twenty one years of your life.

"We need to move her to the attic," Tai said from her spot. Your eyes moved to her and you breathed out in relief when the Alpha seemed to be showing little interest in you. You had suspected she mated with Van, but the lack of interest seems to prove your theory.

"My nest," you weakly protested, palms running along the pathetic little nest you made. Not that you had many options in the wilderness.

"We'll move it upstairs with you," Jackie promised, nodding at you. "Make it nice and cozy, less crowded."

The door opened suddenly and a snowy Shauna entered, bringing int he scent of fresh snow and the oak you familiarized her with. You were drawn to her so intensely like you were with Lottie.

She glanced at you very briefly before beating her shoes of snow and stalking over to Lottie. You watched intently as the two Alphas lowered their heads together and murmured something that you could not hear even when you strained to listen.

Jackie was a ball of nervous energy as the Alphas gave you space, and Jackie, to move your nest and belongings up into the attic. You couldn't help but feel as though you were being isolated for an illness . . . but the rational side of you that remained understood why this had to be done.

That didn't mean you hurt less as you were forced to recreate your nest and curl up ride out the pain on your own, away from your pack and processing what this meant for the future.

PART TWO

Again you absolutely do not know me if you know me.

[turtleshelf]

I need more fics about the batkids school lives and from the perspective of their teachers and I need them now. Fuck it, put some of them on IEPs, I think that shit would be so good.

Give me Damian where when putting him in school, Dick and Babs have to fudge some (not completely inaccurate) diagnosis' to get him put on an IEP and in the behavior classroom so he can have social skills education literally built into his day. So that he has a small classroom setting of other kids with their own problems so he doesn't feel so singled out by his own like he would in gen ed classes. Him slowly integrating into not just American society but also into interacting with kids his own age with the safety net of the behavior classroom and teachers that are literally designed and trained for kids who lose their composure and lash out to fall back on. He's disliked or written off by most teachers as a behavior case, but there's are a few who hold a soft spot for him, he likes to gift them art.

Give me Jason on an IEP because of how much school he missed when he was homeless, being given the tools and resources to catch back up to where he should be. Show him being quiet and keeping his head down trying to catch up. The first time he gets in a fight he was defending a younger student, he cries in the office afterwards, and privately none of the staff can really blame him even if they do have to follow through with a consequence for the fight. Show him reserved and jumpy when health class moves into their unit about drugs, he comes in with Bruce the next day to talk to the principal and is excused to the office with a alternative assignments until they move onto their next unit. Teachers tend to like him, and they're always a little surprise when he gets into fights.

Give me Dick in an ELL (English Learn Language, program for students learning English) program that allows him to slow down and get a grip on the basics of the English language. Give him accommodations that translate his assignments into a language he already knows, so he doesn't have to spend hours attempting to translate his homework and then translate his answers. Show him being reserved at first, then popular and smiley and kind until something ignites his short fuse. Show his growth of the short fuse getting longer as he gets better control of his emotions and learns time and place. Teachers don't know what to make of him, sometimes it's like he's a completely different person day to day. He's got this little troublemaker smile that tilts dangerously on his lips before a fight, his teachers think he's either going to run the world or destroy it one day.

Give me Steph whose school has to go on lock out because her father who doesn't have custody shows up and attempts to check her out for the day. Give her fidget toys and break passes. Show her spitefully doing assignments for teachers that don't like her so well that they have to give her an A: "Oh you think The Great Gatsby is the best book ever written? Here's my essay on why it's the worst book ever written and should stop being taught in schools." The arguments are sound, her writing is flawless, her sources are bulletproof. Most teachers don't have much of an opinion on her, she just another popular girl to them, but there are a few that are with her during the father debacle, who saw are angry and sad and scared, who hold a soft spot for her.

Give me Tim who keeps his head down and turns his work in late on crumpled and stained papers, but it's all flawless work. He shows up after three days absent with deep circles under his eyes and a shallow smile and explanations for his absence that are just sound enough that they can't poke any real holes in them, even if most don't believe him. He's friends with the rowdy, popular kids but he's always careful to keep just to the sidelines of their trouble so he never gets taken down with them in consequences. His teachers whisper about the disorganized genius who they hope gets himself together, because he could do great things.

Give me Duke who's snarky and quick thinking, but comes in some days quiet and with a far away look on his face. His best grades are in PE and it drives his teachers crazy because he's smart enough to honor roll if he ever put the effort into his work, it just doesn't seem to interest him. Give him accommodations that he can't be cold called on in class and never has to present presentations because he doesn't do well being the center of attention. He's always fidgeting and looking at the clock like he has somewhere better to be, he disappears to the library every lunch.

Give me Cass, who nobody can seem to really pin down. She's so startlingly unobtrusive that her teachers often forget she's there until she's standing right infront of their faces. She doesn't talk and from her writing it's clear that she's not familiar with English even if she can get by. The first time anyone hears her voice, Bruce picked her up from school early and she bounces over to him calling "Dad" before giving him a hug, the office staff feel a ripple of shock travel through them as they realize that it's not that she can't talk it's that she doesn't. She gets pulled out of classes for ASL tutoring, but not speech therapy which causes a few raised eyebrows after the revelation that she is capable of speaking. She looks at people with this intensity that makes them feel like she's looking straight through them and most teachers won't admit it, but it freaks them out.

Give me batkids with preferential seating accommodations so they never have to sit somewhere they feel exposed and unsafe. Give them early transition accommodations so they're not caught in the crowded halls during passing periods. Give them phone accommodations, so they always have a direct line to Bruce/Alfred/their siblings. Give them extended test taking accommodations, because once you've literally defused a bomb or raced across the city to stop a murderous meglomaniac doing things on a time constraint is just, not good.

For angst, give them teachers/subs who "don't believe in accommodations" and put end up putting the batkids in bad situations. Give them panic attacks when their accommodations are violated.

Give me teachers gossiping about the batkids and their odd quirks in the office or during their planning period. Give me first year teachers who flounder trying to figure those kids out and veteran teachers to just can't make heads or tails of them. Teachers marveling about how they can all be so alike while sharing absolutely no DNA. It becomes common knowledge that Bruce Wayne is a little less "Brucie" than he'd like the media to believe, but hell that's his business, and he seems to be doing alright by his kids. Give me haggard parents Bruce and Dick getting called to speak with the principal, or in IEP meetings, or at parent-teacher conferences.

Idk I just feel like this is a really untapped market we could be writing for here and I love outsider pov fics so much.

[kpopfanfictrash]

Elemental (M) Pt. 1

Author: kpopfanfictrash

Genre: Second Chance Romance / Modern Fantasy

Pairing: Jungkook / Reader (she/her)

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

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

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

Rating: 18+

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

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

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

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

[ Cross-posted to Wattpad here ]

Magic, to you, has never been a boon.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Better to stand in the cold than enter and shatter.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Whoa, where’s the fire?” he joked.

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

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

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

“Yes?” you said, impatient.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your stomach sank. “Pissed… at me?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Yet another lesson you learned from your mom.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Some people aren’t worth listening to.”

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

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

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

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

Magic is dangerous.

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

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

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

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

Except for the person you actually were.

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

Earth Elemental suspected behind San Raoul earthquake!

Jailed air Elemental claims innocence against onslaught of tornadoes!

Fire Elementals flee after string of arson!

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

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

Art was a risk, though one you found necessary.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You were in love with Jungkook.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The sink and shower in his bathroom burst on.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You had to leave. Now.

Sensing the change in your body, Jungkook paused.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You went still.

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

At him, not on him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A weighted pause, and then –

“Come in.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Rain splatters against the window, and your stomach lurches.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Jungkook will never forgive you for this.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I am not running.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“That’s… a tornado, Seokjin.”

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

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

“Listen.”

Turning around, he shuts the dishwasher with his hip.

“Oh, no.” You grimace. “What now?”

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

“Was there a question in all that?”

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

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

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

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

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

“No,” you say, automatic.

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

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

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

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

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

“Don’t know – a few months?”

“Not long after you started dating Jungkook.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Oh?” you ask. “I never noticed.”

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

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

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

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

“Why not?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No?”

You frown at the obvious joy in her voice.

“Yeah,” you admit.

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

“I know, mom.”

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

Your entire body goes still. “What?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Missing Jungkook is painful.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Uh-huh.”

“Want a receipt?”

“Nope.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He nods. “Hey.”

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

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

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

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

“Ah.”

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

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

“Y/N?”

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

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

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

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

“Like what?” you ask.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He’s still holding your elbow.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Everything was not fine.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What’s all, then?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Startled, you turn and find a stranger beside you.

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

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

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

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

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

Your jaw nearly drops. “Are you serious?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Classes?”

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

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

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

You can’t help but grin. “Exactly.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your cheeks heat. “Yeah, that’s me.”

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

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

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

“Yep,” you admit. “That’s me.”

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

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

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

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

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

Dangerous.

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

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

“Will do. Thanks, again.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A throat cleared from behind.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

No. No, no, no – absolutely not.

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

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

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

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

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

Startled, Jungkook stares.

Equally swift, you withdraw. “I, uh…”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Okay,” you whisper.

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

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

A tiny fissure within your chest splinters.

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

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

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

“Yeah,” you whisper.

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

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

“What… do you mean?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He starts to go.

Everything around you becomes white noise.

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

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

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

Silent, you shook your head.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hands grip your arms.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yeah?”

“Could you… you know, set me down?”

“Oh.”

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

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

“Are you okay?” he asks.

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

Truthfully, you’re not okay.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Once shattered, the dam can’t be rebuilt.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[asilentguardian]

Okay but I’d love to see your take on stepdad Hal attempt at parenting and trying not to overstep if you’re up for it

Thank you very much for the prompt! I love fics where Hal is slowly integrating into the batfam.

Please enjoy Hal's attempt at giving Tim advice, just in time for Hal's birthday!

-----

It’s a rare night. Bruce and Hal in the same bed, relatively early. Early meaning 11pm, but for them it’s a miracle. Hal thought that somehow being married would mean their schedules would magically align, that the universe would start seeing them as one person, one unit. But between Batman and the Green Lantern corps and their jobs and Bruce’s kids, there really isn’t time for them alone. Plenty of time to save the world together, to put out fires both literal and metaphorical, but little time for this. Laying together, falling asleep together.

Bruce has already slipped under, arm firmly around Hal’s waist. Hal would love to follow him, to curl against that heat, but Hal’s insomnia has joined them, too, and he can already tell it’s going to be a rough one. It hits him out of nowhere, sometimes, this restlessness. Bruce is still in the early stages, liable to rocket out of sleep if Hal tosses and turns too much. Good sleep is so rare for Bruce these days, so Hal begins the slow process of extracting himself from the bed and Bruce’s grip, only cheating a little bit with the ring to climb over him.

Nights like these used to find him fleeing the manor to the apartment he had refused to give up. But Bruce would inevitably come hunting him down, because he could never let anything go, and Hal would end up putting on a show of resisting, and they’d end up back in bed anyways. The apartment was another battle, one that Hal also ended up conceding. It still felt strange to have a permanent residence in Gotham, of all places.

Now, these nights have him wandering around the manor, exploring the library or one of the multiple sitting rooms or the kitchens until he inevitably runs into one of many nocturnal members of Bruce’s family. His family, really. Another argument they’ve run into, one that Hal isn’t quite ready to concede. He’s never seen himself with kids, doesn’t really think he’s cut out for that. He’s not a natural, not like Bruce.

The glow from the kitchen at the end of the hall tells Hal that he isn’t the only one awake, as usual. Hal makes his footsteps heavier, not willing to repeat the mistake of accidentally sneaking up on a bat. It’s Tim sitting at the counter tonight, another familiar sight.

“Hey kid,” Hal greets as he walks to the fridge. Tim grunts in acknowledgement, face still buried in his phone. It’s funny, the different ways Bruce is reflected in his children. Hal is certain he’s heard the same exact noise come out of Bruce when his attention is turned toward a case. Not that Hal would say so outloud. They all tend to get prickly, when he compares them to Bruce. All of them except Damian, who is still young enough to worship his father. 

Hal is still smiling to himself when he turns back to Tim, snack in hand. He scans his eyes over Tim, making sure his sleeplessness isn’t self-imposed, as it too often is. Another trait, courtesy of Bruce. Hal’s smile quickly drops when he notices that Tim isn’t actually absorbed with his phone, just kind of staring at the black screen, mind clearly somewhere else. There’s no dark circles under his eyes, but they are red and puffy. It’s clear he’s been crying.

“Hey, you okay Tim?” Hal asks. Tim blinks and looks up at him before quickly looking away again, trying to hide his face.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” he responds, voice devoid of emotion. Tim is still a teenager, technically, and Hal knows that they don’t take well to prying. Tim especially keeps most things close to his chest, doesn't share much with anyone, Hal thinks. Bruce is only able to keep track of his life through border-line unhealthy amounts of surveillance. Tim seems to be aware of this and allows it, so Hal figures it’s fine. But he’s never seen Tim cry, not enough to leave him looking like this. Bruce would probably go apeshit, if someone had hurt Tim, so Hal tries again.

“You sure? Because you can talk to me about anything, if you need to,” Hal says, and immediately cringes. He sounds like his high-school guidance counselor. “I mean, I know I’m just that guy your dad married, but I’m still happy to help you with anything.”

Even worse now, Hal sounds like his own step-dad, and what a horrific thought that is. Tim doesn’t take the opportunity to poke fun at his fumbling attempts to be cool, just continues to stare at his phone. He glances up at Hal, then back down at his phone, tapping it against the counter. Hal doesn’t move, sensing that Tim is either going to actually open up to him or deflect again, and he wants to give him the space to think.

“It’s not that big of a deal, really,” Tim hedges.

“C’mon, hit me with it then,” Hal encourages. Tim glances at him again, and his shoulders sag in defeat.

“Bernard and I got into a fight,” Tim mutters. Hal is secretly grateful that it seems to be a teenager-shaped problem, and not a vigilante-shaped problem, though maybe he would be a better help with the latter. His few teenage relationships were pretty disastrous. He takes a moment to wrack his brain. He had heard from Bruce that Tim was dating a civilian, a boy, and assumes that this Bernard guy is said boyfriend.

“First one?” Hal guesses. Tim shrugs.

“Not really. But this one was just,” he pauses, trying to find the words.

“Worse?” Hal offers, and Tim nods, finally making eye contact with him.

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen him that mad before,” Tim says. Hal winces in sympathy. He remembers the first time he had seen Bruce really, truly, mad at him. It hadn’t been a fun night.

“What was the fight about?” Hal ventures, still unsure of how far he should push. Tim is a Wayne, and he’ll have no problem telling Hal when to fuck off, but he’d like to not piss off Bruce’s kids.

Tim huffs and looks away, guilty.

“Vigilante stuff,” he says vaguely. Hal raises his eyebrows. He wonders if Bruce knows that Tim’s civilian boyfriend knows his identity.

“He mad you didn’t tell him sooner?” Hal asks. Tim shakes his head, brows furrowing.

“No, he figured it out a long time ago, he’s just. He’s overprotective, I guess,” Tim says. He freezes after a moment and looks at Hal, frantic.

“Don’t tell Bruce I said that. He’s already twitchy about Bernard knowing at all,” Tim rushes out. Hal puts his hands up in surrender.

“Relax, kid, I won’t rat you out,” Hal says. Tim relaxes like he just dodged certain death. “But you know what he’d say, right?” Hal adds. He didn’t use to understand Bruce’s paranoia about identities, not really. He thought it was all bullshit, a way for Bruce to exert control over all of them. But after they started screwing around, after Hal ended up at the manor a few times, after he saw the way Bruce talked about his kids, he started to understand. The stakes were higher, for Bruce.

“Man, you used to be cool,” Tim groans, rolling his eyes. Hal crosses his arms at that.

“Hey, I just said I’d help you out,” Hal says. 

“Yeah, whatever,” he huffs. They fall into silence again, Tim picking at the edges of his phone case. Hal lets him have the time to collect his thoughts like Bruce often needs. 

“How did you and Bruce do it?” Tim asks, suddenly much more timid.

“Do what?” Hal asks.

“Stop fighting all the time,” Tim says. Hal can’t stop the bark of laughter that bursts from him, and Tim looks at him in confusion.

“Kid, we have not stopped fighting since we met. That didn’t change just because we starting fu- I mean, dating,” Hal says. Tim raises an eerily familiar eyebrow at the slip up, but lets it lie.

“But you’re married now,” Tim insists. Hal knows that his smile in response to that is embarrassingly soft, but he still can’t help it. It’s still thrilling, to think about Bruce and married in the same sentence. 

“Yeah, we are. I married him even though he drives me crazy and can make me madder than just about anything else in the universe,” Hal says. Tim shifts in his seat, clearly more uncertain than before. Hal Hal panics, just a little, at the thought of completely blowing this.

“Look, just because you love someone doesn’t mean you won’t disagree sometimes. You might even get angry at each other. Bruce and I could disagree on the color of the sky, probably, but the difference between then and now is that we actually try to understand each other. We fight because we don’t want to be misunderstood, you know?” Hal says. Tim looks at him suspiciously.

“Not really, no,” he drawls. Hal sighs.

“Well, then you can’t go wrong with a good apology,” he offers. Tim looks even more suspicious now, and Hal suppresses his laughter, this time, but can’t help but be reminded of a prickly kitten.

“Yeah, I guess,” Tim says. Hal offers him a smile, and turns to the cabinets to hunt for a glass.

“You’re not, by the way,” Tim adds, quiet enough that Hal almost misses it.

“Not what?” he asks, filling his acquired glass with water.

“Just some guy Bruce married. You’re a part of the family, too, you know.” Tim says. It’s Hal’s turn to feel uncertain now. He swallows his knee-jerk reaction of denial, takes a sip of water before turning around. Tim’s gaze is piercing, and Hal gets the same feeling he gets when Bruce stares at him, like he can sense whatever self-deprecating thought has passed through Hal’s mind.

“Thanks, kid.”

[moongreenlight]

What if your brain tells you that nurse!reader from the previous fic was on the field with the boys as an on call medic and gets taken as a POW and ghost is losing his fucking mind?? - like actual feral behavior

Ohhhhhhhhhmygod. Hi? I’m in your walls. So mad I didn’t see this before because I’ve been SLAVING over a Simon fic all week and this apparently is the motivation I needed to put some more batshit insane things on the internet forever.

We all know that Simon is a fucking machine. Prides himself on his ability to essentially turn off his humanity on the field. But for some reason his nurse!reader is the one thing that interrupts that ability. Even seeing you treating a few rowdy privates gets him worked up. Lingers around the medbay in his free time for no apparent reason just to side eye your patients and glare at them to make sure there’s absolutely no possibility of you getting hurt.

There was probably an occasion where you were treating a soldier who didn’t fare well with pain. Moaning and crying and thrashing while you did something simple like tuck their arm into a sling, and they somehow writhed around enough to hook you in the cheek with their elbow. Nothing serious, but it left an angry red mark on your cheek for so long that he caught it on one of your evening walks around base. Usually after dark so you could both avoid being found out.

And then the next day you see Simon dragging that same soldier to a different nurse’s bed under the armpits. Explaining gruffly that he went unconscious because he couldn’t handle training. (He made the poor bastard run the track in full tactical gear on one of the hottest days of the year for nearly an hour straight. No water. No breaks.)

You were the kindest, softest thing he’d ever come in contact with. Something he never thought he’d be able to find in this lifetime after so much hate and anger and pain. He couldn’t risk losing you, which is why he was so strict on his saying no to you joining the task force on the field. The shit they did was dangerous. Immensely so. And this brought up two main points for Simon.

One; he wouldn’t be able to focus on the task at hand knowing you were out. He slept with one eye open when you were nestled close to his chest and snoring softly in the comfort of your own home that he’d all but booby-trapped home alone style. No fucking way he’d allow you out into hostile territory with only a introductory understanding of self-defense. He’d be on pins and needles the entire mission. Probably get the entire squad killed because he’d constantly be looking over his shoulder for you.

Two; it would rip him to shreds if he lost you. You were the only person he truly saw as an equal. The first time the two of you met, he was probably being angsty and rude because he did something to land himself in the medbay, and when he refused to take off his tact vest so you could listen to his heart and lungs, you all but held him at scalpel-point and threatened him within an inch of his life until he finally submitted. After that he was fucking hooked. Obsessed with the way you could get brutes like him to roll over and show you their belly like obedient dogs. And you were kind to him. Immeasurably kind. Dealt with his mood swings and took the time to get to know him. Suffered through the impossibly long process of him letting his guard down.

So if somehow his orders were ignored, it was almost certain that you’d be given strict orders to keep your involvement under wraps. Price would have enough of an idea of the situation to keep the two of you on opposite schedules in the days leading up to deployment. Minimize the possibility of you letting slip that you’d be coming along to preserve not only the integrity of his team but also his quality of life.

It would seem like a regular day to Simon at first. Loading into the helo before dawn, sitting between Johnny and Gaz and trying to tune them out while they snarked at one another across him. And then Price would come on looking guilty as sin. You could practically smell it coming off him. Leaning both his arms on the open door and signaling the driver to start the engine for a quick take off in case Simon decided to abandon ship in his outrage.

He’d give some spiel about teamwork and the importance of focusing on the mission and whatever other bullshit he thought would keep Simon the most level headed. Spewing on and on until Gaz finally cut him off with a pointed yawn. At which point he’d give the group one last look, lingering the longest on the ghost mask, before stepping aside to reveal you.

Dressed up in a uniform that looked about a size too big. Tailored as best it could be in the short notice. Pants chopped and hemmed to make them a manageable length, belt pulled as tight as it could go around your waist. Strapped into a vest that was loaded with medical supplies instead of weapons. Two pistols holstered on your either side.

Simon was beyond livid. Spouting steam like a cartoon bull. Staggering to stand when the chopper took off and stalking over to the cockpit where Price sat and tried to look casual.

Gave him a fucking earful. Screaming over the roar of the engine into the earpiece on a private channel for the entire two hour long flight. Bitching about paperwork and dead weight and how it’s just another person he’ll need to look after and he doesn’t want to. It’s almost impressive. Price doesn’t get a word in sideways. Gets shut down immediately if he even dares to open his mouth.

And he’s a monster when he finds out you’ve been taken POW. Circled by the enemy team like ravenous wolves finding a wounded deer. Soap and Gaz both have to pin him down when Price breaks the news. Seeing fucking red.

A large part of me thinks he internalizes a lot of the torture he went through in the comics. Letting it sit and fester inside him like the worst kind of poison that it took him years to meticulously extract from his very being and carefully contain into a small vial. Laying dormant in the back of his mind for a moment like this. He had no idea what the enemy wanted with you, so he had to assume the worst.

Storms their base by himself. Sniffs you out through a maze of bunkers and underground tunnels and infinitely many heavily secured doors. And the rest of the force just watches his six. Stands back feeling a little nauseous, but letting him blaze down his war path. Any and everyone who gets in his way is guilty unless they can prove their innocence- and they don’t get the chance. Runs through all his ammo gunning down countless grunts and privates stationed outside the base of planted as decoys. Specifically demanding that Price be the one to give up his weapons and ammo so he can continue on. And it’s the one time that the captain allows him to snarl orders like that.

Price knows that Simon is, in his core, a fighting dog. Rescued by the force and given an opportunity to channel his aggression into a more productive outlet. And now it seems all his hard work and training is coming unraveled. Watching Simon once again snap his jaws and bare his teeth, killing without rhyme or reason to get you back, is jarring to say the least. So in some last-ditch effort to preserve some of the trust that they’d built, he surrenders. Shows his belly. Shrugs off his rifle with no objection other than the way his mouth drew into a tight line.

Simon kicks through heavy metal reinforced doors without the need for a battering ram. Pushes himself well past the point of exhaustion. Fueled purely off the instinctual need to recover you. He can’t speak. Can’t eat. Can’t drink. Can’t stop.

He’d mow through the first few ranks of soldiers until they finally found someone that looked like they’d have at least a sliver of useful information and beat them within an inch of their life until they gave up the information that would eventually lead him to you.

In all honesty, you were probably taken with the intent to lure them in. Not anticipating your absence would have such an impact. Kept you bound in a guarded room. Roughed up a bit just from your struggle, but they hadn’t had time to interrogate you before they got word that 141 was coming in wild and sideways.

This would send Simon even further into madness. Body aching, bleeding from his knuckles. His knees and shoulders screaming their protest when he broke down the door, sending it crashing into the room. And the first thing he sees is you huddled in a corner blindfolded and bound with handcuffs that were cutting into your wrists from your trying to escape. He’d be an entirely different person. (I am giggling and kicking my feet.)

He wouldn’t even bother wasting time with the rifle. He’d handle what few guards were left with his bare hands. Possessed by some kind of superhuman strength. Catching a second wind the moment he laid eyes on you. He’d rush over, the rest of the boys standing guard in the hallway, and break you free from your restraints.

And as much as I would want him to be sweet and coddle you and coo over you, he’d probably be riding such a high that he wouldn’t be able to. He’d immediately start in on you, but with significantly less ferocity than he had with Price.

“You got a fuckin’ death wish? Think they’d turn you into a martyr for bein’ a medic on the field? Real original fuckin’ concept, yeah?”

He’d pull you in close to him, giving you an incredibly detailed once over. Inspecting your face and neck and arms legs for any further damage, and once he determined after three checks that all your wounds were purely superficial, he’d allow his hands to shake just slightly when he smoothed your hair back off your forehead.

[nilsavatar]

DAY 23 BITING - Part 4

Parings: Neteyam x Fem!human

PART 1, PART 2, PART 3

Genre/Warnings: fluff, ANGST, introspective, delicate themes (hibrid pregnacy, political and ideals conflict). All characters are AGED-UP. This the sequel of the @layla2-49 request used to fullfil the promp day 23 of lunakinktober 2023

Summary: Following the unexpected pairing that occurred at the Tree of Souls, after connecting as only two Na'vi normally could, Celeste and Neteyam entertain a clandestine relationship. Several times they have discussed coming out, but the girl is too prey to her insecurities as a human to do so. It is Eywa who will decide for both of them with a disconcerting revelation: they have conceived a hybrid child.

Word Count: 4,5k

Masterlist - Request a fic

In the bioluminescent glow of Pandora’s night, Jake Sully stood at the forest's edge, his gaze fixed on the distant horizon. The vibrant nature around him buzzed with life, yet an unsettling turmoil brew within him. As olo’eyktan of the Omatikaya and Toruk Makto, he had faced countless challenges, but none as perplexing as the transformation unfolding before him.

Celeste, a human who had become an integral part of their clan, was undergoing a metamorphosis that defied all understanding. Eywa had blessed her union with his son, yet the consequences were unprecedented. To say that the news of Celeste’s pregnancy sent shockwaves through both the scientists and the People would be an understatement. A tawtute woman carrying the offspring of a Na’vi? It was far beyond imagination. The avatar bodies—engineered through terrestrial brilliance, blending both genomes in just the right sequence to function under Pandora’s conditions—were compatible with the natives. Little Socorro was only human, though—kind of. Her body was changing, adapting in ways that blurred the lines between Earthborn and Pandoran.

The man’s mind raced with questions in the nighttime peace, hugging his half-sleeping wife in one of their occasional getaways from responsibilities and worries. Though this one was hard to forget even for an evening. “This isn’t like what happened to us,” he said, suddenly, breaking the silence of sweet slumber, thinking about Spider’s sister seated in the shade of their kelku, her hands resting on her growing belly. “I was logged in my avatar when we mated. I was Na’vi, physically. But her? There’s no scientific explanation.”

After the commute at the Tree of Souls, the clan split in two. Some supported the child as a sign of mutual prosperity, a miracle meant to exist in the balance of the world. Others, however, labeled it an ill omen, a violation of the natural order, feared what they couldn’t understand.

“It is not natural.” “Eywa may have allowed the union, but this... this is wrong.”

Jake had heard it all before. The same fright, the same resistance to change that had nearly torn the Omatikaya apart when colonizers first came back to Pandora. But this time, he got that fright. Because deep down, beneath his duty as olo’eyktan and his instinct to protect his family, he felt it too. As wild as the perennial torment that the two sides of his very identity instilled in him.

“There is no scientific explanation for Eywa,” Neytiri stated, her voice serious, resolute just as it always was when faith and Na’vi culture were at stake. It was a conviction he has never fully embraced. The need to rely on science, on logic, on the knowable, was an earthly instinct he could never entirely cast aside. That lifeline—the belief that there was a reason behind everything, something demonstrable, classifiable, repeatable—was still a part of him. Neytiri might have agreed that there was a universal design, but her understanding of it was vastly different from his. Less analytical, less tangible than the laws of physics and biology, but to her, no less real. Perhaps, in some ways, even more so.

“It’s as much a mystery as Kiri conception.” “Not of the same scale, though.”  “We must trust the Great Mother nonetheless.” Jake exhaled, rubbing the back of his head. “Trusting her is one thing. Convincing the People...”

He was right. There was division among them. Leadership weighed heavily on his tired shoulders, and the safety of his loved ones, of Celeste and the baby, depended on the decisions he would make in the coming months. As the night creatures sang their melodies, Jake took a troubled breath, seeking clarity. The path ahead was shrouded in uncertainty, and for the first time in years, he felt the sting of doubt piercing his resolve. This wasn’t just about Celeste; it was about what she was becoming and what it would have meant for all of them. He knew Pandora. He had lived, fought, loved, and lost for this world. And he knew that when the Great Mother acted, it was always on purpose, even when it felt like uncharted territory.

It started subtly; Celeste first noticed it in quiet moments—when the dizziness from exertion subsided faster than it should have, when her heartbeat, once erratic in Pandora's dense atmosphere, slowed into a steady rhythm, perfectly in tune with the nature around her. Insects that normally avoided humans drifted closer during her strollings in the forest, as if sensing that she was no longer a regular alien walking in their world. Plants reacted to her touch, sending a pleasant tingling along her fingertips. Gradually, her senses were heightening beyond the limits of her species. She could hear animals weaving through the luscious vegetation, their calls reaching her feeble ears in way they never should have.

But then, the changes became undeniable She didn’t need the mask anymore.

The moment had come without fanfare. Celeste sat at the edge of a clearing, absentmindedly sketching in her notebook as the sun warmed her skin. Tuk sat beside her, both watching Neteyam train a small group of young aspirant warriors—the few still permitted to learn under their prince’s guidance. A shadow passed over Celeste’s face, the weight of guilt settling deep in her stomach, more and more pungent. Tuk, noticing, gently patted her forearm.

“Hey, don't think about it.” Cel forced a smile, though it did nothing to brighten her tired expression. “They would have signed farce papers to train with him first. Now, half the clan despises him, and the other avoids him out of fear.” “He is still the heir to the throne.” “How much longer?” she asked, her voice tight with distress. “Tsentey's faction is gathering more support every day. If they grow into a majority, it could mean exile for you. It could...” She trailed off, her fingers instinctively tightening over the slight swell of her belly. A tear caught the sunlight before she quickly lifted her head, blinking it away. “Sorry, Tuk-Tuk. I didn't mean to upset you.” “I'm old enough to listen to you if you need me.”

Celeste glanced at her, a genuine, grateful smile breaking through the tension. Tuk—still so small, yet already so mature. The rhythms of the clan left little room for childhood. By fourteen or fifteen, many had already completed Iknimaya and faced the Uniltaron—the Dream Hunt—to find their spirit animal and take their place as adults among the Omatikaya. Tuk’s own rite of passage was approaching fast, and for sure, growing up amid the ongoing conflict with the Sky People had only accelerated that process. Yet, she was still, indeed, a child. And Celeste wished she could protect that innocence just a little longer.

“Don’t worry for me,” she said with a sly grin. “Rather tell me about Enyetan.” The young woman arched a brow, giving her a suggestive look that made the teenager blush furiously. “Don't you start too!” Laughter bubbled from the sister-in-law's lips, warm and unrestrained. The sound carried across the clearing, reaching the ever-attentive ears of her mate, who couldn’t help but smile at the rare moment of lightness in the chaos of their lives.

What no one noticed, however, was how the energy in that laughter was off—wavering, unsteady. That day, the mask felt suffocating, the air too heavy and humid against her face. Suddenly, her breathing grew shallow, her throat constricting more at every second, intense heat searing through her airways. Panic should have set in; the desperate scramble for the emergency rebreather strapped to her belt. But it didn’t. The familiar choking weight of asphyxiation never came. panic. Instead, she felt light. Open. She gulped, and the air flowed freely into her lungs.

Pure. Fresh. Alive.

Her hands trembled as she hesitantly removed the exo-pack, bracing for inevitable. She expected her vision to blur, her throat to seize, the raw, toxic atmosphere of Pandora to set her lungs ablaze. Nothing happened. She inhaled deeply. No torturous pain, no giddiness. Just... oxygen filling her chest with an ease she had never known. Cool and sweet, like taking a true breath for the first time. The world around her looked brighter, colors deeper, sounds richer, the pulse of Eywa’s life clearer in her mind.

When she turned, Tuk was staring. “Cel...” she called with big, round, unblinking eyes. “Your mask.” 

Neteyam, mid-correction a boy’s stance with a bow, snapped his head in their direction, froze in place; a rare crack in his usual aplomb. Lo’ak, across the clearing, nearly dropped his spear as he strode over with a grim intensity, eyes flashing with disbelief. “Are you insane?” he blurted. “Put that back on before you drop dead!”  It was only then, as every pair of eyes locked onto her, that the human girl realized what she had done. Her breath was even, her chest rose and fell without resistance. She just shook her head, equally disoriented, “I... don’t need it.”

Neteyam was at her side in an instant, his large, calloused hands cupping her beautiful face, his lemon-gold eyes scanning hers with an unreadable mix of trepidation and alarm. “How?” The question wasn’t directed at her so much as at himself, as he looked at her with those giant orbs that characterized him in moments of extreme concentration. Pupils blown wide to the point they almost covered the entire iris. An adaptation response to threat, to enhance vision, to assess danger, to track an escape. His entire frame was on high alert, wired for protection. To keep his mate safe from something that was beyond unfamiliar, though.

This was odd.

For months, he had wrestled with sleepless nights and unshakable guilt. Gilt for giving in to his urges, for silencing reason when he should have resisted. No matter how much he loved Celeste, no matter how natural it had felt to surrender to his feelings, he should have held back. Instead, he had let desire eclipse caution, and now, she was paying the price. Inside, a sick weight settled in his gut, he felt lousy. He had failed at the one thing he had been trained for: protect. Maybe Tsentey was right. Maybe he wasn’t fit to lead. the leader of his people. How could he secure the clan if he couldn't even take care of his woman?

She reached for him, her fingers wrapping around his shaking hand, her respire hitched. “It’s the child.” Because what else could it be? What other options could explain what was going on with her?

Silence fell, thick and heavy. She could see the thoughts written plainly across their faces—the shock, the unease, the dread they didn’t dare voice. The training had come to a standstill. Stiff postures, atonic stares. Lo'ak and Tuk, who had been watching open-mouthed, exchanged a glance, their usual roguery absent for once.

A student’s voice, when it came, was quiet but edged with something serrated. “This has never happened before.”  “Shit,” Lo’ak exhaled, running a palm down his face. Neteyam's ears darted back at his brother’s reaction, tail lashing once before forcing himself to regain composure. Then, gently, he pressed his forehead to Celeste’s, his long fingers sliding down to cover hers over their unborn child. He tried—desperately—to ignore the whispers around them, the same echoing in the back of his mind, threatening to surface. “Isn’t this amazing, tìyawn (love)? I can finally admire you all day without this horrible mask hiding your beauty.” 

Celeste giggled at his ridiculous, love-drunk words, and for a fleeting minute, her preoccupations faded. Neteyam had always possessed this quiet strength—the ability to lift the weight off others’ shoulders, to remind them of the light even in the darkest moments. But it was also his greatest flaw. He carried too much. He took on burdens that weren’t his, stretched himself thin until he was on the verge of breaking.

Still, as he pressed their entwined hands against the gentle swell of her belly, warmth spread through her—not quite human, not quite Na’vi, but something in between.

There was content for a while, the nice, peaceful fondness of being in her lover's embrace. But it didn’t last. An acute sting twisted through her abdomen. She doubled over with a cry, her breath coming in ragged bursts. “What is it?” Neteyam asked urgently, his hand instinctively landing on her baby bump, aggravation evident in both his expression and voice. She couldn’t respond; the dull ache so severe it prevented her from speaking. The sensation wasn’t just pain—it was movement. Not the ordinary flutters of a fetus developing in the womb, this was deeper, stranger, as though something resonated within her. Not far away, the plants pulsed in time with her heartbeat, their faint radiance glinting like distant stars. Celeste clutched her stomach, feeling something under her skin shift. 

Kiri, who had been meditating high in the green canopy, sat upright. “It’s happening,” she whispered, her yellow eyes as large as a lemur’s.

By sunset, Celeste was in the ambulatory unit, surrounded by meds. The air soupy with tension; the sterile, white walls felt oppressive, nothing like the vast, living jungle or the cosy, homely ambience of Hometree. She sat on the examination table, palms firm over her tummy, mind reeling while they ran test after test, talking in hushed tones laced with both awe and fret.

The weight of the exo-pack she had worn her entire life was gone, yet the air in the lab had never felt stifler. Norm and Max worked in quiet urgency, moving between holo-screens displaying her vitals, their brows furrowed. The data didn’t make sense, her heart rate had slowed, more like Na’vi's than a human's. Her oxygen saturation was perfect—too perfect—the high carbon dioxide levels in the Pandoran atmosphere should have been affecting her, but they weren't. The ultrasound showed something incredible. She had developed wichow—the specialized organs, similar to kidneys, that allow natives to extract oxygen for their bloodstream from Pandora’s otherwise toxic air. A natural filter. A biological unfeasibility for her, still there it was.

Then there was the genetic scan. And that was when everything changed.

“This is phenomenal,” one doctor exclaimed, rubbing her temples as she stared at the results. Adjusting her glasses, she leaned closer to Max. “Her DNA is evolving. Look at his—her respiratory system has adapted to filtrate Pandora’s atmosphere, but it’s not solely adaptation. It’s... transformation.” She turned to the patient, her eyes filled with both scientific fascination and deep concern. “Your body isn’t just compensating for the pregnancy, Cel. It’s rewriting itself.” “What does that mean?” Neteyam’s reassuring grip on her shoulder stiffened while she shuddered. Max didn’t sugarcoat it. “The fetus isn’t a simple hybrid,” he explained, voice calm but dour. “It's triggering changes in you. Something in its DNA is interacting with yours in a way we’ve never seen.”  She swallowed hard, “I’m... mutating.”  Jake's words came out through clenched teeth, his jaw tight enough to snap. “That’s why she can breathe out there.” 

Neytiri stood rigid near the door, her narrowed eyes fixed on the glowing monitors. She didn't fully grasp the science behind the data plashing across the screens, nor the theories the experts were debating. But of one thing, she was totally sure: they had entered unknown territory. There were no answers here, no precedents. And the deeper they went in, the more question marks and anxieties sprung up. The creature Celeste was carrying was extraordinary in every sense of the term; not yet born, and already it was reshaping the world around it. This child—this impossible child—was changing everything from its very core.

But Celeste could see the unspoken fear in her eyes.

Kiri, who had insisted on coming, stood by her bestie’s side, her yellow orbs bouncing between the readings and her own intuition. “My nephew is part of both worlds. And now, so is Cel,” she stated softly. Spider shook his head, still baffled, struggling to wrap his mind around the unsettling reality. “That’s not how genetics works.”  The future tsahìk observed her friend with a grave look. “Nawna Sa’nok’s touch lingers on you,” she declared, pressing a cool palm on her forehead. 

Spider’s expression darkened, memories surfacing of all the times he had found Kiri lying in the middle of the wilderness, lost in a trance, nature beating around her. The way plants reacted to her touch, how she had tamed her ikran with freakish ease, how she swam through the currents, breathing underwater without any training as if she had always belonged to them. “You have felt this way before, haven’t you?” he asked, voice aloof with realization. Kiri nodded. “Not like this,” she admitted. “But yes. I have felt a... pull. A connection.” Her glance glimmered to her friend’s stomach. “It’s like Eywa’s energy is flowing through her.”  Neteyam’s jaw clenched, his hold on Celeste’s stronger. “Is she in danger?”  His sister’s lips pressed together into a thin line. “Was I?” she retorted, her words heavy with meaning.

“She’s not you.” Spider rubbed things in, rough, blunt, unable to conceal his growing agitation for his twin'. “Yet she has been chosen exactly as I was. As my mother was.”  “Your mother was an inanimate body in a fucking tank! She wasn't risking anything.” His remark was harsh and cruel, the tone leathery with frustration, but Kiri didn’t flinch. She knew he didn’t mean to hurt her. If anything, he had always been one of the few who had stood by her, defended her when others doubted. But just like everyone else in that room, Spider was terrified. As much as it hurt on a par with an anvil, she could find it in her heart to justify him. Celeste reached for him, squeezing his hand with one of hers while the other rested on her hip. The warmth inside her, the link she felt deep in her bones, was changing her at a fundamental level.

“Will I survive this?” she finally asked, voice barely above a whisper. The medical team couldn’t answer that question; the entire ordeal was new to everybody. Neteyam tensed beside her. Jake and Neytiri exchanged glances, the weight of precariousness dense between them, the pressure in the unit mounting at any second.

Truth settled over them like a murky, noxious fog. Neytiri’s ears flattened, her tail rolled dolefully around her leg as if seeking comfort in making herself small. One hand clamped against her chest, the other tentatively sought her husband's touch, resting on his contracted arm. His fist was clenched so tightly his knuckles had gone white, his other hand raking through his dreadlocks as he inhaled noisily through his flat nose. They had never shown such vulnerability before, or at least not at this magnitude. As parental figures, as leaders of the Omatikaya, they had always carried their burdens with quiet strength—as their firstborn son had learned to do. But now, stripped of that armor, their fear was palpable.

This only made Neteyam even more nervous. His whole frame was taut, trembling on the verge of exploding. His eyes, wide, glassy, shimmered with unshed tears, perfectly round and reflective like polished stones. He was there, present among them, but his spirit was somewhere far away. Cel—the love of his life— could have died, and no one could have stopped it. And for what? A child they never needed? A future they never chose? Why was Eywa doing this? Why them?

Their love was already complicated—strained by their incompatible species, haunted by past pain and resentment, burdened by the expectations of his status. He had thought he could cast it all aside, that he could embrace the reward the Great Mother had granted him. But that gift came with conditions—conditions so heavy that, had he known them in advance, he might have turned away. Yet none of it mattered. He would sacrifice his own happiness if it meant keeping Celeste safe.

In the fragile months after they had first come together, he had offered nothing but solace and praise. He had consoled when she was in distress, lifted her up when she doubted herself, encouraged her to trust her decisions—even the reckless ones as this one. But now, standing at the precipice of something unknown and terrifying, he could no longer do the same. He wished, more than anything, that he possessed the human gift for lying. At times like these, it would have proven useful—even if only to convince himself that everything would be fine, that at the end of this impossible journey, they would be happy. The three of them. Three, not two. Not just him and the baby. Not just him alone. Imagining a life without her was unbearable, and he refused to linger on the thought.

For a brief moment, once the initial panic had subsided, he had even allowed himself to believe that what was happening was beautiful. A miracle. Celeste could now breathe Pandora’s air—something that would surely help her through the long months ahead. But now, with this new revelation, he could no longer meet her gaze with comfort. Those warm, sweet, frightened, yet fiercely brave eyes searched his for reassurance. He had none to give.

Na’vi do not lie. And he would not offer false hope for something that, deep in his heart, frightened him so terribly.

As agitation grew, Norm reluctantly stepped forward and stroked his foot with the caring and kind manner of an uncle. “Look, we need more tests before we jump to conclusions. Right now, the priority is monitoring Cel’s condition. If your genome keeps reconstructing at this rate, we have no idea where it will end.”

*

The days blurred together in a haze of tests, scans, and restless nights where Celeste lay awake, feeling her body shift in ways she couldn’t see but knew were happening. The lab’s artificial lights felt oppressive, suffocating. The sterile environment clashed with the instincts waking inside her. She craved the jungle, the open air of Pandora—she needed to feel the earth beneath her feet, to hear the hum of life all around her. But every time she voiced this, Jake or Neytiri would exchange wary glances, and Neteyam would grip her hand a little tighter, unwilling to risk anything.

The fear in his eyes was worse than anything else. But the changes weren’t waiting for permission.

She no longer needed the exo-pack to breathe, that much was obvious. But it wasn’t just that: her lungs had changed. Max’s latest scans confirmed it. “They’ve elongated,” he said, adjusting his glasses as he stared at the results. “Your oxygen absorption rate has increased. You’re breathing like a Na’vi now.” Celeste touched her ribs absently while taking a deep breath from the inhaler—one designed for avatars and natives alike. She had already felt it. The deep, instinctual way her chest expanded when she inhaled, the effortless intake of Pandora’s air as if she had been born for it.

And her skin, once the soft beige of an Earthborn, had begun to repigment in tone—a faint iridescence beneath the surface was spreading, veins shimmering faintly in dim lighting. It wasn’t full bioluminescence like the Na’vi, but it was close.

Then there were her senses. At night, she could see in the dark. Not just in the way humans adjusted to low light, this was different. Colors took on a richer depth, details sharpened beyond what should have been possible. Smelling the lightest traces of the rainforest that clung to Neteyam’s skin, the sticky whiff of the cerulean paint his brother painted his body with, the pungent tang of disinfectant in the lab, once a mild annoyance, now felt nauseous. Scents she had never detected in the past. And her hearing—she could pick up sounds that no one else in the lab could. Conversations whispered in corners, the rustling of fabric from another room. She didn’t tell anyone, but she could hear the low, rhythmic hum of the planet itself when she closed her eyes. It was overwhelming.

And the baby—the baby was growing fast. Too fast. At just four months, she already looked closer to six. The doctors were baffled, worried. The hybrid nature of the child seemed to be accelerating everything as if her body wasn’t just adapting—it was rushing to keep up with whatever the baby needed.

Neteyam never left her side. She felt his hands on her belly every night, felt the quiet reverence in his touch as he whispered to the child in Na’vi, his forehead pressed to hers in silent devotion. But she also felt his dread. The terror that she would slip away from him. That she would become something unrecognizable or disappear entirely.

Celeste stared at her reflection in the sterile glass of the lab’s observation window, barely recognizing herself. Her fingers trembled as she traced the outline of her cheekbones. Were they more angular than before? It wasn’t just weight loss. The structure of her visage was subtly shifting—her features elongating ever so slightly, her eyes taking on a faint amber hue that had not been there before.

And her hair. It had thickened, the strands darkening from their usual color to something richer, a shade closer to the inky black of the People. When she moved, the fine strands caught the light in strange, reflecting tones of deep violet and green—pale but unmistakable.

The changes weren’t just superficial. Her senses were growing keener by the day. She could hear Jake and Neytiri talk outside the room, even through the sturdy walls. She could smell the faintest traces of the jungle that clung to Neteyam’s skin, scents she had never been able to pick up before. The stench of disinfectant of the compound, once lightly noticeable, now felt almost insufferable.

Then there was the most undeniable proof of her metamorphosis, the most disturbing change—her queue.

the way her body responded to Pandora’s energy. She could feel the pulse of the world in a way that made her dizzy. When she stepped outside, the very air around her seemed to hum against her skin. The plants, the ground, the very life of the moon—it was as if she were beginning to tap into something bigger, something she had never been meant to connect with as a human.

And the most undeniable proof of that was her queue. It had appeared three nights ago. Celeste had woken in the middle of the night, drenched in sweat, her entire body burning as if feverish. Neteyam sprang into action immediately, pressing a damp cloth to her forehead, whispering soothing nothings as she gasped through the strange, intense sensation of her own body warping itself. When the pain finally ebbed, she had felt it, something pulling at the base of her skull. A tendril-like appendage forming, hidden beneath her thickening hair. It wasn’t fully developed—not yet—but the sensation was undeniable. A strange tingling at the back of her neck, as though her body was forcing her into something closer to the Na’vi.

The moment Neteyam realized, his eyes had gone wide, caught between stupor and scare, his hand trembling as he brushed over the barely formed kuru. He exhaled shakily, his gaze raw, almost reverent. “You’re not human anymore.”

Taglist: @minnory @faith2155 @stardream14 @akari-rosefield

[apomaro-mellow]

Divine and Damned 1/? Read on AO3

a/b/o; cult fic; Steve has been hiding his omega nature and living as an alpha. When his family moves to Hawkins, he catches the eye of town freak, Eddie Munson. Steve finds himself drawn to Eddie, unaware that the Munson family has plans for him…

Hawkins appeared like most other towns. Schools, neighborhoods, post office, library, the usual. The people were just as average. But among them lived a group that operated by different rules. A group that had secrets. A group that had no formal name but simply called themselves

The Family.

----------------------

Life had been pretty easy for Steve up until he underwent puberty. That was when his first heat hit and all of his problems started. His parents called it a stroke of luck that it happened during the summer. They hid him away the entire week and even after that, Steve wasn’t allowed to see anyone until the suppressants they gave him took effect.

He was the only son of Richard Harrington. He couldn’t be an omega. And Steve had done a pretty decent job of keeping up the ruse until he let someone get too close. It had been one of his house parties and someone went into his bathroom, finding the pills and scent blockers. It didn’t take long for the rumor to spread and for his reputation to be ruined.

Steve thought having the cat out of the bag would force his parents to accept it at least. But no such luck. They simply moved. Easy as that. From small town New England to small town Indiana. And so Steve began his senior year with no friends and hiding who he truly was again. With his broad shoulders, he was able to pass for an alpha. And after wowing the athletics department and joining a couple teams, he cemented his place in the hierarchy of Hawkins High School very quickly.

That was the version of Steve that Eddie first laid eyes on. 

Eddie had heard that a new jock had joined the flock but it wasn’t until he happened to be by the field that he saw him. Long legs hidden under sweatpants that stretched as he ran laps around the football field. The late August heat had him wearing a crop top that stopped mid-torso. Eddie’s first thought was that perhaps Hawkins was getting the ball rolling on co-ed integration in sports. But as he continued to watch, he realized he must be mistaken. None of the other players were treating him like an omega.

In fact, despite his newness to the school’s ecosystem, others seemed to defer to him. So he must be an alpha. But Eddie found beauty in all, regardless of gender and designation. And Steve Harrington was a work of art. 

He told his uncle so that very day at dinner.

“Hm, and you’re sure he’s an alpha?”, Wayne had asked.

“I didn’t get the chance to get up close and take a whiff, but he must be”, Eddie said. “That or a beta.” He swallowed. “I know I’m meant for an omega-”

“Your destiny says nothing about an omega”, Wayne said. “And even if it did, if you’re drawn to this boy, follow that feeling. Your mother was drawn to me first. But that led her to my brother. We are all guided in ways we can’t begin to comprehend.”

------------------------

And so while Steve was not an omega, Eddie watched him all the same. He hung around with Jason and the rest of the basketball team. But Eddie noted that whenever he swooped in to save a freshie or member of his club, Harrington was suspiciously absent. They didn’t share any classes together, so Eddie was only able to steal looks outside of those times. He wasn’t subtle at all as he stared at Steve in the lunch room but he didn’t care. He wanted to see what Steve would do.

What he did was ask around. Who was the guy who was always staring at him?

“Him? That’s Eddie Munson. He’s a freak”, Tommy had answered. It was definitive and didn’t leave room for much questioning. But Steve was curious.

“Why’s he a freak?”, he asked.

Jason replied this time. “Munson, his family, and some others…they’re not normal.”

“How do you mean?”, Steve urged.

Jason just shook his head. “You stay clear of him and you won’t need to find out. They should’ve been run out of town a long time ago.”

That just gave Steve more questions. He turned to look at Eddie and found that his gaze still hadn’t wavered. Even as his group of friends spoke, some even getting rowdy, Eddie’s eyes didn’t stray from him. Steve couldn’t look away either. Tommy stood and glared in Eddie’s direction.

“You got a problem, freak?!”

Eddie’s lips parted and he licked at a fang. Steve suppressed a shiver. Blockers kept his omega scent from leaking but he tried not to work it too hard by feeling arousal. He turned his back on Munson then, bringing up a game they had to change the subject. They all eagerly latched onto that.

-----------------------------

The game ended in their victory and there was going to be a party at Tommy’s to celebrate. But before that was the most daunting part of Steve’s life. The locker room. His blockers weren’t powerful enough to hide his scent if he got aroused. But regular sweat from exercise was fine. It just smelled of salty adrenaline without being infused with his natural scent. Honestly, it had been so long, Steve forgot what he really smelled like.

No, his smell wasn’t the problem when it came to this. It was being in such close quarters with his friends and having to hide a particular part of his anatomy. Steve typically got away with it by a number of strategies. Being the last one in the locker room, undressing at a snail’s pace, distracting the others with gestures and conversation. 

So far, it had worked and he was able to undress and shower alone without anyone noticing anything. But tonight, Tommy was snapping at him to pick up the pace.

“There’s omegas hot and ready and heading to my place. I bet that game has ‘em soaked!”

“You know if an omega is wet before they get to you, it means they’ve been fucked already”, Andy grinned. “Nah, the drier they are, the tighter they are.”

Tommy’s nose scrunched. “Jason, you hearin’ this?”

“Only whores get wet at the slightest touch. And I don’t lay with whores”, Jason said. “The girl I marry is gonna be pure as snow because she’s saved herself just for me.”

Steve raised a brow. “You’re saving yourself for marriage?”

“Why would I save myself? It’s the wife’s duty to be pure.”

“Wish there were more dude omegas in this town”, another teammate piped up. “I heard their pussies are the wettest.”

“They’re sluttier too.”

“Steve, c’mon!”, Tommy urged.

“I’mmmm actually gonna go home and shower first”, Steve said, putting his jacket on and grabbing his bag.

“What? Dude just run in the shower and let’s go.”

Steve smirked, putting on the charm. “The hair doesn’t happen on its own. You’re not the only one who wants some pussy tonight.”

He got away with that and after showering, doing some actual primping, and taking another dose of suppressants, he went to Tommy’s. The party was already jumping and the house was filled with teens, both from Hawkins and even a few from out of town. This was Steve’s element. He loved to drink and smoke and no one suspected a thing about him. It was easy to forget who he was when he was three drinks in.

It was easy to ignore when he’d see someone like himself being crowded around and then led away to a room. Or like now, when a cheerleader was slumping across the couch and some guy picked her up and took her upstairs. It wasn’t happening to him and wouldn’t happen to him so why should he care? Why should he follow them upstairs? Why should he call out to make sure she was okay?

“Hey!”, his voice left his mouth without permission as he stood in the doorway.

“Fuck dude, get your own. Or like, close the door and wait your turn? I’m not gonna be long and she’s ready to go.”

She was almost completely passed out, as evidence of her groaning and how she was trying to turn to her side but was unsuccessful. Steve wanted no needed to say something else to save her. But what was he supposed to say? And the guy was already unbuckling his belt, Steve’s presence clearly didn’t matter. Then he smelled something burning.

“There she is.”

Eddie Munson appeared next to Steve, then shouldered his way into the bedroom. The guy paused in undoing his pants to see who else had barged in.

“Fuck off!”

Eddie wasted no time in scruffing him and pinning him to the wall. “That little bitch owes me money. So you can either give her to me, or I can beat it out of you.” 

He didn’t wait for a reply as he turned and threw the girl over his shoulder and left the room. Steve’s lips are still parted and as Eddie passed he realized the burning scent was him but there was something else to it. He followed behind, unsure of where Eddie was going or what he was doing. People gave the alpha a wide berth until he found who he was looking for. Or rather, she found him.

“Simone! Oh my god!”, another cheerleader ran up to Eddie. “Let go of her, you freak!”

“Wait, no-”, Steve tried to speak up because there was clearly a misunderstanding but Eddie just grinned wide, baring his fangs.

“Keep a closer eye on your little lambs. I almost got a bite outta her.”

Why wasn’t he telling them the truth? The whole party turned to behold the spectacle and it wasn’t right. Eddie wasn’t the one they should be scorning. Eddie didn’t overstay his welcome, leaving the party before a mob could be formed to kick him out. The ordeal stayed in Steve’s head, even when the party ended and he went home.

He tossed and turned in bed, fixating on Eddie’s scent. It was something warm and familiar and yet he couldn’t place it. It was driving him mad and he tried to think of something else. But he kept coming back to that moment. That girl, completely helpless and Steve was useless. 

And then there was the base fear underneath it all.

That Steve could have been her.

If he was living as the omega he was, would he be considered just as disposable as her? The way his friends talked was seared in his head. It was how everyone talked about omegas in the locker rooms and anywhere else that was split by designation and gender. Steve had known this for a long time. But when he had to face the truth of how others viewed omegas, it was like a slap each time. Even Jason, who went to church, didn’t hold them in any sort of high regard. 

But Eddie… He had swooped in and saved her like it was easy. Would he have extended the same kindness if Steve was in that position? Somehow, the idea began to form and that was what finally calmed Steve enough to go to sleep. 

In a world where he was openly an omega. Maybe things wouldn’t be great. The guys he called teammates and friends would leer at him. Maybe one would even get handsy. Or it could be exactly like tonight. Steve having a great time until he drinks a little too much…or maybe someone slips him something…He’s taken upstairs against his will, completely at the mercy of whoever has him. And that’s when Eddie steps in, pushing the assailant away and holding Steve close as he carries him to safety.

Steve is asleep by then and his dreams are formless but the sensations are there. Surrounded by the scent of a safe alpha. The birds were chirping in the bright early light as Steve moaned himself awake. The morning felt warm and syrupy and he couldn’t tell why until he began to wake up more.

He realized his lower half tingled and his cunt was throbbing with the aftershocks of an orgasm. He just had a wet dream. A notion that was mortifying on its own made even worse when he remembered his dream. So it was even worse than he thought.

He just had a wet dream about the town freak.

Part 2

[olderthannetfic]

This isn't a complaint, just sort of a musing-- Yeah, if AO3 allowed monetization, it would cause the whole platform to become way shittier, not just for legal reasons. But this kind of reminds me of something I've thought about a lot.

I'm someone who's not a very strong or attentive reader, but the ease with which I can find thousands of appealing works on AO3 means I have ALSO found dozens of writers who grip me enough that I would read ANYTHING by them. I also find reviews and recs for popular book series' to be... very unreliable, but I can consistently find interesting works by looking at user bookmarks and by trawling tags. And I don't even mean in a "oh, this user doesn't want stories, they want tropes" way, because I'm with everyone else that reading the exact same enemies to lovers romance gets kind of boring after a while (no shade on people who enjoy that sort of thing). I mean that sometimes I find an idea and think 'oh, this is a VERY cool literary theme; I wonder how other writers have explored the same idea?' - and then find out that there's a canonical tag that sees very little use, and trawl through people exploring the same ideas about the nature of freedom when you have a duty to family (or whatever it is this time) until I find one that just NAILS it and sets my brain on fire.

In other words, AO3 is the only place I can get the same reading experience that I had in school where there were teachers and mentors who would not only do just about anything to help me find interesting stuff, but also knew me personally and would help me find extremely specific concepts like "I want a story that captures the feeling of being completely owned by another person and the oppressive surrendering of will that comes with it, but which isn't about slavery, religion, or marriage" or "I want a story that's just like Howl's Moving Castle but specifically in these three ways."

I don't wish AO3 was marketplace, but I wish there was marketplace that gave me the experience of AO3. The fact that there is SO MUCH free user generated content on AO3, and that it's so easy to explore with great specificity, means it's the only place I KNOW I'll find something fun. I wish it served as a platform to find professional artists doing silly stuff on their down time. (In fact, last time I fell in love with a fic, I got to talking to the author, who sent me a novel draft with all of the same themes but original characters and setting. That unpublished work is now one of my favorite books.)

I can think of a bunch of platform ideas that would scratch this itch for me, but I can't imagine any of them working out as well since the fandom experience and culture is such an integral part of why fanfic is different from original fic. (And also since monetization makes platforms get shitty fast.)

--

[eldritch-spouse]

Thought of a Meet cute with Vorago. We are walking and reading a human x demon romance book. We almost walk into traffic and Vorago pulls us out of harm's way. We look up at him and thank him for saving us with all the adoration in our heart. He's going to write a fic of this 100% guaranteed.

[50/50 chance you knock into each other and swap interspecies smut books.]

[Fem reader.]

Vorago wishes he liked going to the surface more.

Really, he should. It's where a lot of his future business will be conducted, and he won't always be summoned to his target locations. Therefore, it's integral to his status that the prince not only find his way around without help but also maintain his air of infernal royal descent. This task is easy enough to achieve, and he certainly doesn't mind the change in scenery, being surrounded by so many humans even.

The problem lies in his conservative conduct. Vorago isn't allowed to interact with strangers more than he must, he shouldn't approach things outside his defined goals, so as to reduce the possibility of scandals and failure. Not only that, his standard appearance already puts off a lot of people from speaking to him, the attitude he must uphold pretty much ensures he's given a wide berth wherever he goes. Much too wide. It's an isolating experience.

He remembers when he was a clumsy hatchling, clinging to his mother's tail when the two of them ventured into the surface buzz. Sure, Queen Vorticia would have to eventually hold him by a horn, but before such, he was free to march his way to any human and ask them to play games with him. The memories alone put a smile on his face.

This is precisely why Vorago's favorite moments on the surface are when he's surrounded by busy people. People who are simply too distracted, too in their own bubble, to even register his presence, much less distance themselves.

He's been behind you for a few minutes.

Not because he chose to, you just happen to be walking the same paths.

So engrossed in your little book, you're hardly looking where you're going. Vorago knows the feeling, many times have the hours slipped past him while he bent over a desk and devoured endless pages. He had to be shaken off it by his siblings frequently, disoriented and embarrassed.

All three eyes strain to get a better view of the words on those two pages.

What are you reading? Is it fiction? Educational content? Maybe you're a student. History? Crime thriller? Drama? Sci-fi? Romance...? He can't even get a glimpse of the cover, at least not without encroaching upon your personal bubble.

Mild disappointment flashes on the prince's face.

He's just close enough to be politely curious, to catch a whiff of your scent, but that's about it.

You may not be attentive to the environment around you, but other people certainly are. The crowd slightly ahead of you hastens to catch the last few seconds of a soundless pedestrian green light. Predictably, you don't.

Right as green becomes red, impatient vehicles have already began picking up speed, your body about to resemble that of an impact dummy in a matter of seconds.

Vorago acts on reflex mostly.

Many times has he had to be the one yanking younger baby sisters and brothers from certain injury, so the prince hardly thinks before wrapping his claws around the collar of your shirt and pulling.

It was a harsh pull, definitely. Measuring strength was the last thing on the glutton's mind when he acted. The force of it doesn't just launch you back, away from the zooming cars now passing by, it also causes you to lose balance, scream, and land right on your ass.

Your personal belongings fly just about everywhere, and Vorago's focus breaks enough that he feels somewhat guilty now.

" I'm incredibly sorry. " He blurts out, a hand reaching out towards your panicked self.

You seem frantic, quickly trying to crouch and pick up your phone, keys, wallet. " N- No no, I just- " Finally, you look up.

And the look on your face says you expected quite literally anyone, except him.

He can't even interpret it at first. Is it a good kind of shock? A bad one? He understands he's rather large compared to a human, and plenty of monsters out there, but you're giving him nothing to work with. Your cheeks look warm, a much too long second passes.

You're quite beautiful up close.

" I'm okay! "

The volume of your sudden input makes his head flinch back, ears flicking. Vorago watches you drop your phone a couple of times before shaky hands finally manage to collect everything and you're standing, awkwardly.

" I uhm- " Your head veers to the traffic, then back. Beneath all the nerves, there's something like naked admiration in your expression, as if Vorago were some fantastical entity. " Thank you so much, you probably saved my life there. "

Probably?

The prince smiles, nodding, trying to make the situation as natural as it can be. " Don't mention it, ma'am, I'm just pleased you're safe. "

Something about that made your eyes widen, you look even more frantic now. He barely gets a word in when the light turns green once more, with you preparing to nearly sprint away.

" R-Right. Thanks. "

Vorago is about to walk as well, not all that eager to stop the conversation, when his foot brushes an object, causing him to reflexively glance at what he identifies as your book.

He picks it up fast. " Ma'am, your... "

When he straightens, you're already quite a distance ahead, walking decidedly fast and harshly tapping away at your screen.

" ... Book. "

Something about the cover feels weird. The glutton strolls forward with the thing in hand, indulging his curiosity while he flips it around.

'Unlocking The Quiet Mind, Exercises to find clarity and mindfulness within yourself'

Ah, self-help books. He's read a few. Lord knows today's world could use the time to reflect and find balance.

When he prepares to flip open the first few pages, the cover crinkles, making him frown. That's not natural. He moves it around some, eventually making it slip down.

Oh.

Vorago removes the fake plastic protection.

Oh.

'The Eclipse Pact, Tethered by blood and soul'

He nearly chokes.

This, is the real book. The actual cover consists of a woman in what seems to be a forested area, below a solar eclipse. She kneels before an inaccurate summoning circle in nothing more than a flowing nightgown, ritual utensils beside her, shocked and flustered by the presence of a demon confidently emerging from said circle.

He can feel his claws tightening onto the book, a rabid wave of excitement making the glutton's body become furnace-like, hair standing. He finds the back.

'Soon after moving out, Eliza Winters inherits a summoning book from her recently departed distant grandmother, detailing a ritual that, when performed during a solar eclipse, brings forth an infernal companion devoted entirely to her service. She never expected it to work, much less that she would now have to house a charming yet secretive demon who claims he will do anything to gain her favor for seemingly no reason. As she attempts to navigate her newfound reality, tensions and nosy family members highlight curious similarities between them. Can Eliza believe this infatuated summon? Are they meant to be, or are they now stuck together until the next few eclipses?'

The prince starts laughing to himself, trying to control his volume when a grin as wide and toothy as a lion's paints his complexion.

It's not that this is a particularly original story premise, it's that you were reading it.

No wonder you were panicking.

Wildly overjoyed, Vorago bolts his head every direction he can, desperate to find you again.

It's unsightly for a royal to be sprinting in public, but when the high-ranker recognizes the top of your head in a crowd, he doesn't hold back, nearly shoving past people.

He doesn't even know what he'll say when he catches up, he just knows he has to find you.

It's too perfect.

[iwasnotaslasher]

The moment I choose pomegranade as main scent for omega!Bruce I got flashbacks of my old Hades/Persephone obsession and I knew I had to integrate the trope into the fic.

I mean, it's perfect!

There's Persephone!Clark: the epythome of hope and life itself.

His body feeding on sunlight, his whole youth growing in contact with nature and animals. He loves Earth and earthlings, activelly doing everything in his power to help them.

A godly being among mortals, loved yet so alone in his status, not being able to actually live a normal life. To actually love and mate like anyone else can. Too powerful, too scared of his own desires to even try.

Then there's Hades!Bruce, living into that huge Manor, surrounded by his dead parents' things and memories.

Despite all his kids he feels alone. He spends his time in auto-isolation down into the cave, going outside mostly during night, patrolling a city that he loves even if it's an actual hell.

He doesn't feel like he deserves to be loved: he's too broken inside, his body marked like a battlefield... after what Bane did to him, he can't even bear children. He doesn't meet any omega standards, what alpha would ever want an omega like him?

When Bruce will ask Clark to share his heat, he will be so flattered, yet so scared to accept. Too scared. He never did something like this. He doens't trust himself enough.

And Bruce, who instead trusts him deeply and tried to open up for once, hoping at least to became friends with benefits with him... only to be rejected...

But Clark just can’t do it. Not like that.

If only Bruce would allow him to actually court him, to descend into his cave and bring a bit of light into his heart...

[avifaunaa]

how the world spins without you [ n.r. ] [ pt.1 ]

AUTHORS NOTE: Hey guys just a quick note. I go a bit into Natasha's entrance into the U.S. and exit from the Red Room in a sort of big chunk of this. It involves Clint being there as her buddy and as someone who helps her get used to her new life. If you're just here for smut I apologize greatly. I do get to it but I wanted to have Nat be a large focus in this fic! That said -- I hope you enjoy it otherwise. This is an AU where Thanos simply doesn’t live after infinity war. They get to him in time.

Masterlist

PART TWO | PART THREE | PART FOUR | PART FIVE

Pairing: Natasha Romanoff x Fem!reader

Summary: Natasha was adept at many things: assassination, spying, avenging — they made for a great resume. What she wasn’t quite so adept at was understanding you when she returns from her exile and found you at her beloved table.

Content Warnings: Discussions of culture shock and Natasha's integration into the States, SLOW BURN TO GET TO THE SMUT, Mild-to-moderate angst, SO SOFT, hints that R's parents are absent / neglectful at best, Yelena and Kate being immediate gremlins upon introduction

Word Count: ~7.9k

Men and Minors DNI

Natasha Romanoff did not indulge in many things for herself. 

Growing up, it was because she was never offered such things. Enjoying 'the small things in life' was simply not an option in the Red Room and Dreykov was particular about ensuring what his girls consumed. Even the smallest comforts could lead to the idea of freedom.

One of the first things Natasha did when she walked away -- after signing an agreement with the United States government, with S.H.I.E.L.D., -- was get coffee. With Clint.

"You ever had coffee? You've had to have coffee," the Hawkeye said as though it were obvious. They had just been transferred back to the U.S. after a successful escape from Budapest. Growing close in tight quarters had meant learning a little about one another between them listening and watching the people go about their lives.

And between the games of hang-man and tic-tac-toe. Another introduction from Clint, seeming flabbergasted that he had to explain the concept of both games to Natasha who, despite her brief stay in America as a child, simply did not know either game.

She learned quickly and had eventually started to defeat him.

"Once," Natasha replied shortly following behind the bruised and filthy man into the bustling New York shop. "For a mission. To blend in."

Clint did not ask her to elaborate, but he clapped his hands together loud enough to garner some curious looks towards the two [ who already stood out like bleeding, infected thumbs needing to be amputated ].

"Wonderful," he chortled, eyes focusing on the chalk-board menus hanging above the barista bar. Fake vines wrapped invitingly around the signs and little drawings decorated the corners.

Natasha did not know -- could not know -- if she hated such a sight of casual happiness when her entire world before today was never allowed this.

"What do I get?" the redhead asked as the line grew closer.

"Whatever you want," he responds as his muscled arm gestured to the various pastry displays and again at the hanging menu board. "Everything here is different. Some things are iced others are hot. Do you want it made like a caffeinated milkshake? Ask for a frappe, I guess."

"Why so many options?" Natasha questioned next, frowning and feeling slightly overwhelmed.

She would never admit that even her fine training and brutal grooming couldn't have prevented some of this culture shock. The Red Room was able to prevent her from seeking out these luxuries in the name of her duties -- they scarcely deigned to say what luxuries they were.

Natasha felt as though she were face to face with one now. Why so many choices when not one person can try nor like them all? She did not even want to look at the amount of food inside of the displays stacked. 

She knew the reality of what happens to the food not finished after a store closes. Thrown out and wasted while others hunger for prices they cannot afford.

"Natasha?" They were at the counter now, where all the thick scents of coffee beans and other smells unfamiliar were at their strongest. "Anything look good?"

Natasha scanned the board for something and to squash that overwhelming lump that threatened to rise from her stomach and into her throat, she just said, "Coffee, black."

Clint groaned from beside her as he pulled out a battered wallet. Natasha watched as he used a credit card to pay and wondered if that would be another luxury given to her.

The Red Room gave them everything they saw as a necessity. Money for missions was sent through a wire transfer to a bank account to withdraw as cash. Mostly to keep their mission as untraceable as possible, but also to control the Widows by only ever giving them enough to get through their assignment. 

Running away never worked out for most who tried, anyway.

Clint nudged her a moment later. "C'mon, let's get you sat down okay?"

"Where?"

Clint shrugged more dramatically than needed as he once again used his arms to gesture to the open plan floor where some tables were taken and some sofas around a fire-place hosted people as well. Other tables and some overstuffed leather chairs remained vancant.

"Wherever the heart desires, Nat. No assigned seating required. I'll wait for the order -- why don't you find somewhere for us to sit?"

Natasha wanted to do something other than that.  People hardly bothered her in most circumstances -- people had been her job for her entire life. But she was not used to people in a casual context where there was no target to watch out for, no enemies to ensure weren't around with you.

But her feet were moving anyway, avoiding the high traffic tables and definitely shying away from the social circle the fireplace seemed to attract.

She found an empty table near the back close to the hallway leading to the bathrooms where the volume wasn't so thick and where her back could sit comfortably where less amounts of threats were.

She sat awkwardly, arms crossing across the table as she waited. Her eyes floated around the small but busy shop and took in the scene. A mother handing her child a small lidded cup of chocolate milk, a delighted look in the kiddo's eyes, as she adjusted her bag and grabbed her own cup of coffee and started leading the child out the door.

"Clint!" a low-sung voice called out clearly. Clint practically skipped to the counter where two different drinks awaited him as he thanked the barista and turned around on his heel with a swerve.

He spotted Natasha pretty quickly and danced through the crowd -- but he actively involved himself in people instead of avoiding them. He said cheerful "excuse me's!" and a very scolded "pardon" to an elderly couple he nudged the table of as he approached.

"That was a lot of foot work when you could have walked around," the Russian told him when he finally made a safe approach with a smug grin. 

"What, and not show off my circus-grade balancing act? I don't think so," he retorted with an even wider grin as he set both drinks down with a flourish. 

Natasha bit her tongue when a comment almost forced its' way out. Instead she turned her gaze to the two drinks on the table and read their labels. BLACK read one, the other in a clear tall cup with heavy ice, ICED MOCHA.

Clint pulled his toward him and pulled a straw out of nowhere [ later, Natasha would admit she was still impressed by it for a month until she learned his secret to the trick ] and popped it into the drink's lid.

"I cannot believe," he starts, dropping into the chair across from her and leaning back comfortably, "that I bring you to one of the best coffee shops New York City has to offer and you insult me--"

"It is all the same -- the same intentions, yes?" she asked as she brought the hot drink up to her lips. It was bitter like the one or two other times she'd had coffee but this flavor had a hint of hazelnut. Perhaps a different brand?

"Sure, I mean sort of?" Clint scratched the chin scruff he'd began growing in Budapest. "Some people can't stand the bitterness of normal coffee or don't like it hot. That's why there's so many different ways to get it."

"I don't see the point."

"Would you eat pizza the same way as someone who say . . . likes anchovies?"

Natasha lets herself think on it. The one time she had pizza was when she was with Melina and Alexi as a child. She could still remember how melted the cheese was -- that was the type they got. Cheese. Alexi got some sort of "Americanized Everything" as he called it.

She answered with, "I suppose not. Anchovies are not good."

Clint laughed. "Right. Not everyone wants anchovy on pizza but they still want the pizza. The same goes for coffee. They want the coffee but they may not like how bitter or hot it is. So there's different flavors, different ways to make it. Iced, blended, the works."

"I see," Natasha said as she sipped at her bitter, hot coffee while Clint held his not bitter, hot coffee. "What form did you get?"

"I like mine iced with extra chocolate syrup," he told her. He eyed her, grinned, then nudged it closer. "Wanna try?"

She blinked at him. "It is your drink, I have my own."

Clint raised a bloodied [ days old and dried ] eyebrow at her. "So? It doesn't mean there's a contract that legally binds you from tasting it. Just try it. If you don't end up liking it, you know to not get it next time."

Natasha regards the drink for a moment as it was offered. She decided that she's already done so many things that she shouldn't otherwise be doing -- she was no longer working with Dreykov. Dreykov was dead and he could not touch her.

She leaned over and took a sip. It was definitely cold and tasted like coffee but had a chocolate taste and was sweeter than anything she's ever tasted.

"Good? Terrible? Wanna pull your tongue out and burn it?" Clint wondered. 

Natasha smiled a little at him. "I think I like it very much."

Over the years, Natasha would keep coming back to this coffee shop. She learned its name and kept it safe — especially when the attack of New York occurred. 

It had been destroyed when she got to it but she was able to save everyone inside. They rebuilt and continued on as anyone can do when a disaster strikes and shock that aliens exist have made the human brain barely able to cope. 

The first time they opened since the attack was when Natasha decided to try something new. She had been able to do many new things: become an Avenger, work somewhat nicely with other people, and above all: save the world with Tony Stark and not kill him in the process. 

She’d been greeted reverently by the staff who had starshine in their eyes and gratitude to give. 

It was overwhelming. She wanted to run away and never come back again. 

She ordered an iced mocha with extra chocolate syrup, instead. To go — because too many people were starting to come in. Regulars of the store that she’d recognized but ones that now knew her too. It was too much to handle at once and she needed her exterior to stay solid. 

They threw in a free pastry — she didn’t see what it was but heard the crinkling of the bag sat down by her as she leaned against the counter. She took her coffee and unwanted bread product of unknown origin and left. 

She didn’t return for three weeks. 

When she did she made Steve come with her. They’d grown close the more the government had implemented the Avengers program after the attack and had suffered Tony in bogus amounts. 

[ They grew to love Tony, too, if only because he knew how to handle the public more than even Steve but also because he was able to make them forget ]. 

Steve was better at this thing — the superhero persona. He took it in stride and spoke warmly with people when approached, offering conversation and knowing how to slip away from it politely and smoothly. 

This time while Steve was talking to a young pretty blonde near the entrance, Natasha ordered a macchiato. She got Steve his enormously detailed drink he’d listed off for her before being taken to the side and she threw in a couple of pie slices. Blueberry. 

She almost believed she could stay this time. Her table was open and it was still early enough to enjoy the energy before the morning rush took over and invaded their space. 

Natasha turned to Steve and said, “Okay, Captain America, your coffee is getting cold. We should sit down and eat our pies before we get called back.”

A perfect exit, a glance of relief from the blonde hero, and they sat down. Nat facing the front again but for entirely different reasons this time. 

She picked at her pie slice with a plastic fork while Steve drank his coffee and ate his with just the right amount of speed to not concern other patrons. 

“You’ve been holding out on me,” he told her, looking around comfortably at the shop. It looked somewhat the same rebuilt — perhaps more updated in terms of structure but otherwise not as new as one could come to think. “This is your hideout?”

Natasha played with a blueberry that fell from the crust. “It was.”

Steve regarded her for a silent minute, then sighed and set down his fork. “You’re not settling well with the attention.”

“I’m doing fine.” She didn’t glance up at him. They were the defacto leaders of their little operation even if Fury believed he was. Besides Clint, it was Steve that Nat was starting to confide in for some things. 

For others he seemed to read her like an open fucking book that she had previously managed to keep chained and locked tight. 

America was making her soft. 

“You’re lying,” he decided after a moment, then took a sip of his coffee and said nothing more. 

She waited for him to dig further, but he simply went back to his pie and coffee. She watched him suspiciously. “What — no pep talk about how this is my life now? How I should find a way to live with it so that I can better serve the people?”

Steve tapped his chin. “I’d say you’re living with this life in the best way you can, Nat. I don’t exactly know your entire story but I do know that you worked with people like I did but uh —“ he squinted, “oppositely.”

“You can say I killed people, Steve,” she sighed. Her pie was pushed back, uneaten. 

Steve nodded. “Okay. You killed people — maybe they didn’t deserve it but for whatever reason you were sent to do it. You didn’t ask questions but you did as you were told. I was in the army and they essentially ran the same rules but we did it on a greater scale in a massive war instead of in the shadows. Killing was in the job.”

“You became Captain America,” Natasha told him bluntly, curling her lip slightly, “A man that brought great comfort and safety to his country and protected them with the serum they never knew he had running in his veins. But they didn’t have to know — because you did good.”

“Sure,” Steve agreed, looking slightly sadder, “and maybe some of the men I killed could’ve been good. Because I didn’t ask.”

Natasha smiled at him, sadly, “I don’t think so, Steve. They let you play publicly like they let the Red Guardian in Russia play.”  She tapped her fingers against the table. “I was never meant to be a hero in anyone’s stories. I was always their nightmare and a blacked out mention on the paperwork and files.”

Steve didn’t know what else to say, how to comfort her. That was okay. Natasha wouldn’t know what to do with comfort or gentleness. She strayed away from it like she strayed away from her mistresses beatings in her ballet lessons. 

“In truth,” Natasha says, pulling her coffee closer in hopes it will ground her better than she can ground herself, “I needed you here because maybe I struggle being the part of someone’s story that doesn’t bring endless grief and anger.”

She watched now as the customers began going about their business and pretended that Captain America and the Black Widow were just ordinary people among them. 

“Right now, I’m just trying to figure out how to find my place in a world that wasn’t initially meant for me.”

She met you after the long, destructive battle that ended with the death of Thanos — and Vision with him. Wanda had vanished and Natasha knew she’d be called in when they found traces of her. 

But for now she was home. The drive from the compound was longer than the walk from the Tower but that’s okay. 

“Natasha,” Fiona, the manager, greeted with a small smile and quiet demeanor. “Welcome back. I saw what you did in Wakanda. What you and the Avengers all did.”

Natasha smiles in return, dipping her head in acknowledgement. “Ah, news travels fast now. It was a group effort.”

“I’m glad your name got cleared by the Accords. It wasn’t right,” she continued, shaking her head stiffly, “After all you did. You and Captain America. It simply wasn’t right,” she repeated.

“It’s okay,” Natasha told her with a relaxed stance as she put her hands into her jacket pockets. She was somewhat truthful. It was okay — the fight with Thanos had forgiven a lot of things. 

The government had turned their head and seemingly forgotten who their named fugitives were. Lost the paperwork and welcomed their beloved heros back as though it never happened. 

The other half of Natasha and the others — the halves that had sacrificed a lot of themselves over the years — were still angry and demanding more. 

“It’s being taken care of,” the redhead-turning-blonde continued as she graced an easy smile toward Fiona. “I’m just happy to be home. I missed this place.”

“We missed you too! We kept your streak for what you’ve tried and what you haven’t,” the small barista exclaimed, crouching down and digging under some shelves presumably. 

She pulled out a white board that was somewhat on the verge of being erased with all the scuffs it had on its writing. But thankfully it was still legible. She was on course for trying the caramel apple mocha next. 

She went with that. “Frappe or cappe?” 

Natasha thought for a moment. “Let’s do it as a frappe,” she decided, pulling out her wallet and handing over the sleek black credit card labelled with the large STARK INDUSTRIES on top. 

Fiona swiped it once before handing it back, “It’ll be out very soon,” she said as she hopped over to the machines to start making her order. 

Natasha meandered over to the pickup counter, finding a spot on the corner to lean against and pull out her phone. The chubby, slobbery face of Nathaniel grinning next to Cooper and Lila greeted her when she looked at her Lock Screen. 

She had one text from Tony regarding her rooms at the compound needing to be Clint-proofed [ “Why are you trying to keep me out of your life?” Clint bemoaned when he called her from the blocked off vents later that night ].

She sent a quick text, telling Tony to add flamethrowers to the vent walls if needed to keep the Hawkeye from breaking the damn thing. 

Tony only sent back a devil emoji followed by three fire emojis. 

Natasha snorted and pocketed her phone as Fiona came over capping the top of her drink, extra whipped cream spilling out the top. 

“Here you go,” she chirped proudly as she slid over the drink. “I did add a little of the spice that we use for our pumpkin flavored drinks. It’s really good with this one too.”

“I trust your judgement, Fiona,” Natasha said as she took the drink in hand and smiled. “Thank you. I’ll let you know how I like it.”

“Please do! Your reviews keep us busy.”

Natasha turned and tapped the cup with her fingers as she looked for her table. It was busy already this morning but Natasha had quickly learned that blending in could be as easy or as difficult as she made it. 

She said hello to some people who greeted her first, and made some small conversations. The regulars knew she liked to keep to herself until she finished her drink, however, and left her alone with just a smile and short greeting. 

But she came to a stop shortly. 

Someone was at her table, littering the surface with notebooks and a textbook opened that they seemed to be deeply focused on. 

Natasha kept walking towards her table cautiously, suddenly greeted with a new challenge in her comfort zone. 

Small talk was an effort — but maybe —

You looked up and they struck Natasha like a speeding car with no intentions to stop. They were so brown — your eyes. Rich in the color and fierce in the cold New York sun. 

She expected shock when you realized who she was. Some sort of spluttering hello. 

But you only looked slightly irked as you pulled out an AirPod she didn’t see you wearing before and said, “Why the hell are you staring at me?”

This was the worst place for you to have chosen to study — especially since you chose to do it during the height of Winter Break.

Kate had insisted on its perfect aura, the warmth it was saturated in. You called her dramatic and she didn’t answer any of your texts the rest of the night other than to spam emojis at every message you sent her. 

Whatever, you thought, as you settled at a table with your newly ordered dark chocolate frappe. It was five in the morning with no sun, few to no people, and sugar and caffeine to keep you going now even if it led to the inevitable crash later. 

You got to work with pulling your textbook out and beginning to take extremely detailed notes that you can make even more detailed study cards on at a later date. 

It was hours before an intrusion broke you from your study fever. It wasn’t a forceful one, either, but it demanded attention enough that it had you pulling focus after hours of studying with no end in sight. 

You pointedly ignored it as best you can, hoping that your music and the lack of eye contact would send a strong and clear message: leave me alone, I don’t wish for human contact. 

The message went undelivered as did the feeling of being watched. When you wrote the same bullet point down twice, your eye twitched and you finally gave in. 

Removing your AirPod and breaking your peace when the bustle and surroundings of the shop filtered into your space, you stared back with no motivation to hide how irate you were. 

The words came out long before your brain could process who, exactly, you were talking to.

“Why the hell are you staring at me?” you hissed out. Your eyes dragged upward just as the sentence fully formed and you suddenly wished you were not so eager. 

The Black Widow was staring at you, apparently. Dressed down from battle gear in a pair of jeans and a soft turtleneck, long hair down in waves. But that was the Black Widow without a doubt. 

You couldn’t back down now, you’d lose all respect if she had any when approaching you to begin with. No — you held your ground. You had to. 

Green eyes, green darker than gardens and well-cared for parks, crossed yours. Surprise lit up within them briefly — but it was gone as quickly as it came. 

“I didn’t mean to startle you,” she said perfectly polite, with an apologetic smile forming on her features. “I didn’t even mean to just stare like I did. Sorry.”

Really? You rubbed at your aching temple and glanced down at your phone. 8:45. You hadn’t moved for a good near four hours at the least. Your coffee was only half finished, and your hand writing had grown less organized on the sheets of paper beneath you. 

“It’s — it’s fine. I didn’t realize anybody was there. Or what time it was.” You flipped the textbook shut and clenched and unclenched your fingers. “No wonder you were staring. I must have looked like a zombified student.”

A soft laugh rose from the woman across from you, feet crossing as she stuck a hand into her jacket pocket. “Not at all. It actually had nothing to do with you, I must confess.”

You gave her a confused look. “What? Then why all the staring? If anything I should be giving you the wide eyed awestruck look.”

The Black Widow in all her glory and turtleneck sweaters suddenly seemed to grow shy. The smile remained but she tapped her fingers rhythmically against her cup. 

“It’s moreso that you’re at the table I usually sit at when I come here,” she confessed quietly, embarrassed at such a small thing to have been caught confused over. “But it’s been a while since I’ve been here so I should’ve expected that the table was likely to be used like I used it.”

You blinked at her confession to you, now more curious and being drawn out of your desire to over-study than ever. “Oh — right you were on the run for a while.”

“Yes,” she confirmed simply, lips thinning into a line as she glanced behind her. 

“You can sit here if you want,” you said, breaking the silence and deciding you didn’t want her to have to leave. You moved your stuff. “I’ve been here since five. I mean, if you’re fine waiting while I finish my coffee I can be out of your hair.”

“I don’t mind, if you’re sure.” Natasha pulled out the chair and gave one more long glance toward the shop behind her before sitting down with her back to them and starting to slowly sip her coffee. “May I ask what you’re studying?”

“Oh. Sure. I’m majoring in electrical engineering with a minor in physics,” you said, turning the textbook slightly so she could see the title of it. 

“That’s a heavy major,” she mused, but didn’t say it in a way most usually did when you told them. “What made you want to go into that?”

You felt your cheeks turning red at the question — something you normally have no problem answering but now do considering who it is asking. “Well to be honest with you —“

“Honesty is always best,” the older woman agreed in a drawl, amusement glittering across her face. 

You puffed, still red, and redder more when Natasha’s amusement seemed to grow upon realizing why without you saying yet, “Okay. I’ve always been sort of interested in engineering. But Stark Industries is literally paving a new path into technology we otherwise wouldn’t break ground on. Imagine what we could do for people in war-torn nations with it? What about turning it to medical use for progress towards incurable diseases? Anything is possible because it hasn’t been done yet. I want to see it, to try it. Like Tony Stark was able to do with that access.”

You were expected to be given a lot of incredulous responses when you told people your ideals for your major. Your expectations were met — but Natasha simply looked thoughtful as she sipped her drink. 

“A passion like that could get you anywhere you want,” Natasha told her. “You have dreams that most people give up on. If they have the technology why haven’t they done it?”

A question you loved answering. “Because they don’t have anyone fighting to get it used in those specific areas, to be produced for those situations,” you replied, leaning closer, “Don’t you see? It needs someone or multiple people to see it for what it can do if given the time and the resources.”

Natasha tilted her head curiously, studying you with an unreadable expression, “You think you’re that person? The one who can make the change?”

A flush of defiance coursed through you at the question. “If nobody else will, who better than myself?”

“Where are you going to school?”

“I go to MIT. I’m currently on my winter break.”

“And yet you’re studying like you have a test tomorrow,” Natasha concluded. She glanced from the scurried notes to the textbook and back to you, as if trying to read you out and get your secrets. 

“I’m on a scholarship and otherwise wouldn’t be there,” you admitted carefully, chin lifting, “It was a lot of hard work to receive it and losing it isn’t an option.”

Natasha rested a hand on her fist — calloused from whatever dark past and Avengering has rewarded her — and regarded you with a startling feline-like expression. 

“Working hard and overworking are different, that will be important to remember. I didn’t know the difference when I was young either.”

“What made you learn?” You ask carefully. 

She pursed her lips and stared behind you at the hallway that held no interesting object to look upon. “I did ballet as apart of a program. I found it fun until my instructor made my ankles bleed every single day for every mistake I made each session.”

You swallowed your shock down and fisted your hands together on the table. “She sounds like a fucking cunt.”

Natasha barked out a laugh, the glazed distance disappearing and replaced by a spark as she returned to focus on you instead. A stray lock of hair lowered across her forehead as she relaxed slightly, “She was, I assure you. I did not know the difference between brutality and hardworking traits until I came to the states. Sometimes,” she finished, “I still do not and must be reminded that I am no longer a tool for anyone’s use that I do not myself see purpose in.”

“Wouldn’t you consider the Avengers program being a tool?” You wondered aloud without meaning to.

Her lips twisted, perhaps impressed by your bravery despite the accidental slip. “That is why you must choose carefully what games you want to play and with who. Who to be a tool for and who to destroy.”

“Are you saying I should take more breaks?” You finally ask. 

She grins smugly as she removes her chin from her fist and leans back in her chair like a fat cat. “Well done, Malyshka. I like playing with you.”

You pondered her words and sort of wanted to know what got you into this situation where the Black Widow was giving you confusing advice. 

Natasha and you were comfortably silent as you two sipped on your coffees together. You think you like whose is without the grandeur that the media tends to flash onto her. She’s thoughtful and quiet — and holy shit you just met and hardly know her. 

Natasha suddenly broke your peaceful silence, looking very serious as she says, “I know a guy I can connect you to at Stark Industries when you graduate if you’d like to get your feet off the ground. He’d probably be impressed with you.”

You stared blankly at her, brain shutting down for ten seconds and rebooting in that time. 

“What.”

Natasha played with her empty coffee cup, nonchalantly saying, “I know a guy —“

“I heard the first time,” you said, shaking your head a little bit to clear it, “You’re talking about Tony Stark. You — you’re willing to put a word in for me?”

Natasha nodded once with finality. “Yes. You remind me of Tony in ways that are all good — and yet you lack the parts of Tony that make me want to kill him.”

“Thanks?”

“You’re welcome.”

“So . . . Like what’s the catch?” You asked, stacking your notebook on top of your textbook and fiddling around to keep from exploding. “Because it’s weird to me that the Black Widow is sitting down across from me and offering me a gigantic opportunity.”

“Once in a life time,” she corrects, “But there isn’t really a catch. Just a request — the offer will still be open and I’ll ensure Tony gets you on his ledger when you graduate and apply.”

“Sure,” you said, pretty much willing to do anything. 

“May I have your number?”

It was so clearly an unexpected request and even you could see Natasha's confident request was followed by tinted cheeks and more taps on her empty cup.

You gave Natasha Romanoff your number.

Your first date with Natasha was at the coffee shop —  where you met at the table. You spent hours talking like the day before except for this time you got to know each other a bit more on a deeper level. 

You learned she adopted a cat straight off the street that wouldn’t leave her alone. A small black creature with wide yellow eyes. The photos she showed you led to you seeing photos of her nieces and nephews through the Clint Barton. 

“He’s chubby little dude,” you noted as you scooted your chair closer to her to see the photo better. 

“That’s what I said!” she exclaims, beaming at you and nudging your shoulder with hers. 

“Just look at him,” you continued, “those cheeks say it all.”

You learned a little about her and she you. You had similar tastes in music and entertainment, but when it came to movies it seemed you were at an impasse. 

This became evident when she showed up to your apartment for the second date and flashed two tickets to a new horror as snow fell around you both. 

Your head dropped in defeat as she wrapped an arm around your shoulders and led you to her car. “I promise on Tony’s suit that I will protect you from the big bad.” Then she opened the passenger side door for you. 

With a heavy sigh and a suffering look sent her way, you plop into her car and wait for her to shut the door. 

She was a pretty decent protector at the movies. She armed you with sugary drinks and snacks and lifted the armrest between you two and opened an invitation into her arms at any point when it got scary. 

For you it did not take very long at all. You dived into her side and curled so tight when the first brutal murder flashed on the large screen. Natasha was smart, Natasha was clever. She wrapped her arm around you as you buried your face in her neck and grinned as she watched the movie without so much as flinching. 

They went to the coffee shop after to get the remaining heebeejeebies out of your system by chasing it down with caffeine. You notice Natasha thinking it over before ordering a plain mocha latte. 

“You ordered something different this time?” you asked her after she paid for both your orders like she had at the movies. 

Natasha rubbed the back of her neck. “It’s something I’ve been working on. For a lot of my life I was devoid of choices. They were made for me. This helps me remember that decisions I make are my own, nobody else’s.”

“One unique coffee at a time,” you murmured as you brought your straw to your lips and felt something flutter in your chest. 

“One unique coffee at a time,” she echoed, meeting your gaze as she brought her own drink to her lips. 

The third date was the only one left before you would be set to return to MIT. You were firm on making plans for this one and Natasha didn’t argue. 

It was planned for after Christmas and New Year’s — somewhere you had to begrudgingly drag Kate over to help you set up. 

“A date? Good enough to go here?” she asked as you scrolled the website for the restaurant. 

“I really like her,” you say, licking your lips and unsure of what else to tell her in regards to Natasha. “She walked right up to me and . . . I don’t know. She sort of just missile fired into my life.”

Kate snorts, but leans against your pillows and nibbles at her cuticles. “Okay. This is a place I think is good if you really really like her. It’s expensive.”

You checked your bank account earlier. You had enough fun money left to spend on this date. “It’s fine. I can do it.”

Kate tapped a few things into her phone before handing it to you. “Then make the reservation.”

Natasha had to pick you up from your place — considering you didn’t have a car in New York at the moment. She was beautifully dressed in a styled pant-suit with her hair curled into a bun. She had some sort of watch you thought looked familiar but couldn’t remember the brand name of. 

You ran your hands down your glittery dress and hoped it would be enough to impress her. She came to greet you, reaching out to take your hands. “You said dress nice and you end up dressing nicer than me,” Natasha comments. 

You scoffed, fussing with your bracelet to distract yourself from her unwavering gaze and how it made you blush. “T-thank you. You’re so . . . Yeah.”

“Yeah?” she echos, amusement and glee creeping into her tone as she guides you by the hand to her car. 

“Yeah.”

“Glad I got the yeah approval.” She settles you in and punches in the address you give her.

The restaurant is very nice — far nicer than even you usually were able to attend despite your parents’ wealth and reputation in the city. You stayed home from the nicer events often with a nanny. 

Dinner was started with a set course of appetizers followed by a few dishes brought for the main course. Dessert was the most popular dish and it brought you and Natasha closer and sitting together instead of facing one another so you could enjoy sharing the food while giggling to yourselves and talking. 

An entire bottle of wine had been left in an iced bucket at your table and the both of you indulged in a couple of glasses. 

“You hid in a vent for five days?” You squawked at her, failing to hide your laughter behind your hand and thus forced to set down your wine glass. 

“It was our only option, to be fair,” the redhead admitted, smirking. “We had the entire city in a state of disarray and we had to find a way to lay low for a bit.”

“I can’t imagine the discomfort between two people up there!”

“It was sort of fun. Clint was the first person who was actually . . .” Natasha pauses as she considers what to say next. “. . . Who actually spoke to me like a human, I suppose. Not a soldier or a robot.”

You frowned, lacing your fingers with hers. “That’s terrible, Nat.”

She tilted her head at you. “No, that’s just what my life was. I didn’t know any better, really. Didn’t see what life could be like if I knew what was out in the world other than cruelty.”

You ran a thumb over her the top of her palm. “I’m glad you got out and that you’re here now.”

“Me too, Malyshka,” she agrees, and meaning it to the depth of her soul, “me too.”

She drove you home and held your hand the entire time. It was hard to let you go even as she got out to walk around the front of her own car and help you out and walk you to the door of your building. 

“Well, this is me.” You tried to sound cheerful, but there was a sadness laced in the tone thick enough for Natasha to detect. 

“Will you let me drive you to the airport tomorrow?” she murmured, her fingers loosening from yours so her hands can trail up your arms, fingers marking the outline of your neck, and finally cupping your cheeks. 

You locked gazes with her and smiled warmly as you leaned in, seeking out her closeness just as she did with you. 

Natasha was not an expert with how to handle what you made her feel. It took everything in her training to control herself — so she wouldn’t run from the emotions that pelted her. 

It was like having her ribcage peeled open and her heart exposed for you to see. Natasha despised it as much as she adored it — the rush it gave her followed by the nerve-wracking fear. 

You had the sole ability to tear her apart because she’s giving you the chance. She was warned at a young age never to give anyone that opportunity lest they get you killed by betrayal or by weakness. 

It was a cardinal rule Natasha never broke. Even when she got out she never sought out sex, romance, connection. It had the power to destroy everything she was. 

And here she was giving you the paperwork to the instructions. 

 But you wrapped your hands so incredibly gently around hers as they caressed you, nuzzling into the touch and inhaling in her scent and just . . . Simply being there. Both of you. Together. 

“Malyshka?” she murmured, nose nudging yours to grab your attention. “Airport?”

Your eyes flew open, still hazy from the moment that overwhelmed the both of you. You sighed. 

“I have to be there by six to catch by flight, Nat,” you finally told her, shaking your head slowly in her hands. “Too early.”

“I’ll be there at four.” Natasha leaned in, beginning to press soft kisses to your cheeks. One on each one. Then your forehead. 

You furrowed your brow. “Nat, no. That’s way too early.”

“I’m an Avenger, baby.” Nat only pulled back enough to grin at you with that trademark smile of hers. Smug and knowing like she was. 

You rolled your eyes. “Fine. Four thirty.”

“Okay.” She grinned. “Four.”

Then you leaned up and kissed her first, shaking her confidence and surprising her. One hand dropped from where it held your jaw and fell instead to grasp your hip to steady herself. 

It was the most amazing thing she’d ever experience since leaving the Red Room. She’d done many things in her newfound freedom — but this . . . 

You eventually had to pull back for air and she leaned forward to brush an errant piece of hair back behind your ear. So soft, so gentle. 

Your Natasha. 

“I’ll see you at four.”

You walked off the stage with a diploma -- a piece of paper telling the world that you were now a credited electrical engineer. Your parents promised to make it and then backed out the day before with apologies and a graduation gift: money. Perhaps in hopes to buy your forgiveness.

Kate flew down though and she hugged you so tight when you walked out into the crowd of thousands as the stadium emptied after the ceremony. You were hot under the robes and you wanted to go change but Kate wanted to embrace you in a death grip first.

"So fucking proud, duuuude," she said, shaking you before releasing you with a beam. "Look at you! My baby girl, all grown up."

You rolled your eyes. "Thanks, mom. You're not embarrassing me at all."

"I should hope not! It would be really awkward since I plan on dragging you to every single bar we can manage until we wake up somewhere the next morning," she said with the Kate-stamped seriousness.

You winced. "Kate, I'm not sure --"

She twitched, then grinned. "I'm joking. Your shit's already packed at your dorm and ready to be flown home. Plan tonight is something entirely low-key."

"First of all." You held up a finger. "How and why did you pack up my stuff already? I had the week to get my dorm cleared. I was going to drive it down with a rental and have Natasha help me move it into storage."

"Oh," Kate clapped her hands, "that reminds me--"

"Hi, Malyshka." That voice you'd been in love with since at least March, when she stayed up late with you while you tried not to break down during sessions of studies.

Natasha, who made the distance work by using her superhero mojo to fly down in her own jet to see you for a day and just hang out when she knew you needed it.

Natasha who was beautiful and followed by a younger, curious blonde with braids as she came up to you. She held an expression of pride as she took you in and --

You burst into tears when you saw her, "Nat?"

The blonde looked perplexed and leaned back a bit, expressing loudly in a thick accent, "Does your face always make her cry. Sistra?"

Sistra. Sister. Natasha had told you about her sister Yelena who she'd reunited with while she was on the run. Who helped her take down the Red Room and Dreykov for real this time. It was a story that Nat had told her on one of her visits to you and as she was opening up more. She told you that Yelena was her entire world before and that night expressed that now you were too.

"Yelena," you spluttered, gesturing to the wary ex-assassin in an attempt to hug her. 

"Hello," she greeted awkwardly, tapping your arm with a heavy hand. "I see you know who I am. Natasha." She side-eyed her sister accusingly, but Nat ignored her in favor of embracing you.

"You looked so gorgeous up there. I was very proud watching you walk that stage and keeping your chin up." She kissed the top of your head and held you close as you finally were able to hug your partner again for the first time in months.

Kate and Yelena stood off to the side awkwardly next to one another. "I did not invite you," Kate mentioned, squinting at Yelena.

Yelena sniffed. "Natasha goes, I go. Simple. What are you? Kate?"

"Kate," the brunette confirmed, "Bishop."

"Kate Bishop," Yelena repeated, letting the words flow off her tongue smoothly. A mischievous glint lost on you and Natasha but not on Kate started to glow in her eye. "Do you like mac'n'cheese?"

The look Kate gave her would've had you on the floor in tears if you weren't already in tears in Natasha's arms.

"Let's get you to a hotel, yeah?" Natasha murmured soothingly. She kisses your head again. "You can get to know Yelena if you'd like. We can all watch a movie together."

Nothing sounded better.

I will not be discussing how much fucking trouble this gave me. just take it and pls enjoy it.

PART TWO

[glutenh8r]

Homewrecker Alert

AN: have i written a proper fic before. no. this was supposed to be 500 words bc I thought it would be funny. its not 500 words and Im not sure its funny. I wrote half of it in the freezer at work in a possessed state. is it good? no idea. But I had fun so I'm throwing it out into the void have fun. Also NRC is a university here bc I always felt that fit better.

Summary: Malleus loves his partners, Yuu loves her partners, and you are an evil homewrecker

You loved routine. And second to routines, you loved when things were written out plainly for you. It wasn’t that you lacked the ability to infer things per se, but things said plainly helped eliminate the complex dance of understanding nuance and double-meanings and accidentally committing societal faux pas.

This is the logic you would use to justify how this entire situation was not, in fact, entirely your fault.

Yuu and Malleus were just as much to blame for the unfortunate misunderstanding that played out, thank you very much.

It started like this.

Two people dropped into a different world, displaced and confused in Twisted Wonderland. Victim Number One was Yuu-Yuu, who was smart, and kind, and so very adaptable. Who took to this world with a grace that one would not have expected from someone in such an unfortunate situation.

And then there was you, Victim Number Two. You weren’t quite as sociable as Yuu, and you weren’t as quick to make friends as she was. You weren’t out there fighting overblots, thank you very much, and you would much prefer if Yuu and Grimm could quit that particular habit. You’d rather them home and safe- a relative term- in Ramshackle. A homebody would be the best way to describe you- you enjoyed the D.I.Y. of fixing up the falling apart dorm, while Yuu was quick to try and experience everything this world had to offer. You suspected it was your ways of coping with the circumstances- Yuu with escapism, distraction, adrenaline rushes, and yourself with keeping busy with benign tasks, craving the sense of normalcy.

And somewhere along the way, you had become entwined. 

You had come to care for the two of them- Grimm, in the way one would care for an agitating younger sibling, and Yuu as someone truly cherished. 

Close friends are what you’d say if anyone ever asked. Best friends are what you’d say in the privacy of your own mind.

…something more is what you’d selfishly admit to wanting in only the darkest, most reserved corners of your heart.

And how could you not wish for that? The two of you just…worked together. You complemented each other, balanced each other. She was brave, whereas you were cautious; she soothed you when you got testy, and you helped her decompress when the stress of the world became too crushing. When the two of you would have nightmares, it was more common that not for the two of you to simply share a bed, taking solace in the ensuing tangle of limbs. Eventually, you’d just started sharing a bed regularly.

(You loved waking up before her. Her hair an auburn halo spread across her pillow, face relaxed in a way that was so very rare to see in the waking world. Lips slightly parted as her chest rose and fell in slow, measured breaths. She was beautiful like this. She was always beautiful to you. )

The two of you would alternate making breakfasts and dinner, and when the budget allowed, you’d go out. Nothing big, but there was a little cafe just off campus where you'd get a pastry and a drink- Yuu always got a croissant with strawberry jam and a black coffee, you liked to get a blueberry muffin and an Earl Grey tea.

A life outside of suffering through classes and retreating home as soon as possible began to take form.

Slowly, it became more common for you to leave the dorm beyond mandatory classes and errands. Yuu made it her mission to integrate you into her friend groups beyond the passive acquaintanceship you had with many of them. 

(Yuu had thought that maybe Ace and Deuce would welcome you in, or maybe Jack, or any of the other first years she hung out with. Any of them. Literally any of them.. But no, you had taken a shine to Rook of all people.

That development had resulted in a borderline intervention in the living room.)

You and Yuu showing up hand-in-hand to events and hangout sessions had become a common occurrence. Curling up on a couch together for movie night, teasing each other as you helped prepare food for unbirthday parties with Ace and Deuce, the two of you had become a package deal. The attendance of one of you had become synonymous with the attendance of the other nine times out of ten. And for the first time in a long time, you could cautiously admit you were..content. Happy, you’d even dare say

But damn, did you wish for more. You wish she could call you hers. You wish you could call her yours. 

And then Malleus entered the fold. 

Your interactions with him weren’t anything noteworthy, all things considered. A polite hello was given in passing as he met up with Yuu at the house, or when she said hi to him in the dining hall or class. It wasn’t that he intimidated you- Sure, his magic was powerful, but to someone who possessed none themselves, all magic was daunting to you. What did it matter that someone else had more of it than some random guy walking down the street? Any amount of it could put you out of commission if someone were motivated to inflict harm on you. 

No, if anything, it was a much more petty reason.

You were a little jealous of him. 

Yuu gave him the same warmth she gave to you, that extended hand of kindness. She’d flash him the same smile she gave to you- the one that made her dimples stand out and the corners of her eyes crinkle in mirth. 

Not to mention he was genuinely so fucking hot it was unfair.

So you dealt with it in the mature, reasonable way. Like the mature, adult woman you were.

By pretending he didn’t exist. 

In hindsight…not your proudest moment. 

You’d gotten over yourself pretty quickly, however, as your petty jealousy was replaced with, ugh, a crush. 

The shift had happened on a day of absolutely no consequence. 

You’d had the house to yourself, as Grimm and Yuu were off doing…something with Ace and Deuce. You weren’t jumping to know what their plans were exactly, as things tended to go off the rails when all four of them were involved, and you weren’t mentally prepared to play a part in whatever nonsense was occurring today. 

You were just pulling out the ingredients to make a mediocre sandwich when there was a knock at the door, three brisk raps against the rotting wood and peeling paint. Putting the loaf of bread down, you walked over to the entryway and opened the door.

“Oh! Uh, Hi Malleus. Are you…looking for Yuu?” You asked, voice trailing off in uncertainty at the horned man standing in the entryway. He didn’t usually come over when Yuu wasn’t here- Re: Ever.

“You are correct, Child of Man. I am here for the Prefect, is she available at this moment?”

“Ah, no, she’s out right now, and I'm not sure when she'll be back. Is it important? I could help you look for her if it is.”

“Your assistance is unneeded, although I appreciate the offer. I simply wanted to know if she would like to partake in a walk with me. Since she is not here, I will take my leave.” 

You weren’t sure what possessed you that day- maybe a desire to actually get to know the guy Yuu had taken such a shine to, maybe it was boredom, or maybe it was just pure impulsivity, but you found your mouth moving before your brain could pump the brakes.

“ Well, if you came all this way, would you like to stay for a bit? I was just about to make some lunch, so you could join me if you'd like.”

Malleus paused, seemingly caught off guard by your invitation. It was odd to see his air of confidence and subtle-but-not-really subtle superiority slip, even if by just a bit. You couldn’t say his reaction was uncalled for, really, the two of you hadn’t exactly been buddy-buddy.

“I mean, you don’t have to, of course. I just thought that maybe you would like to. I'm sure you're really busy with… stuff. You really don't have to stay if you don’t want to. Lunch was only going to be peanut butter sandwiches, anyway. So. Yeah. “

Ah. You were babbling now. What fun.

“You are offering me a meal?”

“I mean, yeah. If you want it”.

He had raised an eyebrow, seemingly amused as he appraised you, “My, how bold of you. Such fearlessness must be a common trait in your and the Prefects' world. Very well, I will accept your offer, Child of Man.”

For some reason, you had the feeling that this action may have consequences. Whelp. That would be a problem for future you.

Turning away from the doorway, you gestured for him to follow you into the kitchen and you resumed your preparation, pulling out four slices of bread and unscrewing the jar of peanut butter.

“The dorm is far more lively than what it once was,” Malleus said as he observed the kitchen, taking in the photos of you, Grimm, Yuu, and your array of friends stuck to the fridge, and the mismatched flower pots lining the windowsill.  “It has become different from the decrepit building it was before, and I find that I am not as adverse to the change as I originally thought I would be.” 

“That's right, Yuu mentioned you used to come here pretty often before we all moved in to look at the gargoyles here, right? Have you seen how I've cleaned them up?” 

The gargoyles had honestly been one of the things you'd been most proud of when it came to fixing up the dorm.  Elbow grease and determination had gone into cleaning those stone behemoths, several days' worth of scrubbing with soap and water, peeling dead vines off and picking the gunk and grime out of the nooks and crannies. 

That seemed to catch his interest, and his expression shifted, from somewhat polite but neutral to a genuine interest in what you were saying, his attention now focused on you. 

“Do you also appreciate the artistry of gargoyles?”

“Sure? I think they’re cool enough.”

You could work with this, you think, gears turning. Mentally, you gave yourself a pat on the back; Yuu was going to be so pleased. The beginning of a potential friendship? Unlocked. And if you’re two-timing, traitorous chest was left fluttering by the end of your impromptu meetup with Malleus, that was once again, a future you problem. 

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You had a grocery bag in your hand, and Malleus had his arms wrapped around Yuu, while Yuu had hers wrapped around his in kind as she stood on her tip-toes. They appeared to be in the middle of what would best be described as a very passionate kiss.

Figures. Of course, the two of them would end up together. You knew this wasn't a competition- hell, you had never even been an option for Yuu, but it still felt like you’d managed to lose. Like something precious had slipped through your fingers.

One of them- you weren’t sure who- must have heard you enter, and they separated. Yuu’s face was flushed, cheeks painted a vibrant pink, and Malleus’s pupils were dilated- like a cat, your mind unhelpfully supplied- it was super adorable, and kind-of-sort-of, weirdly attractive, your mind continued to supply because it one-hundred percent hadn’t heard of time or place.

“You’re home!” Yuu exclaimed, voice breathy, “We missed you- I- I- know we haven’t had a sit-down talk about this, but…are you okay with this? The three of us, I mean. I know for a while the three of us have been together, but I figured it’s time to make it official with Malleus. I’m sorry- really, we should’ve waited for you to come home, I know you like to take things slower. And there's nothing wrong with that! We love you, regardless, we just got caught up in a moment-andddd I'm running my mouth again. Really, though, how do you feel about this? We can discuss it more, if you’d like.”

Were you okay with…the three of…? 

Oh- 

She must mean if you were okay with them dating. You’d become quite close as a trio, and you imagined they were worried about messing up the dynamic that had been created. Malleus had already had so few friends in his life, you imagined he didn’t want to lose one of the people he’d grown close to. You didn’t want to be presumptuous but with how possessive Malleus could get with you, and the gifts he’d give you- books he felt you’d enjoy, food he’d bring you-those blueberry muffins you were so fond of-, and small pieces of jewelry- you imagined he’d grown quite fond of you. You would reciprocate in kind, not wanting to be the kind of person who took advantage of another's generosity. Admittedly, you'd come to care for him as much as he seemed to care for you. Honestly, you’d come to care for him more than he probably cared about you. Leave it up to you to go and fall for not one, but two of your friends. 

But truly, leave it to Yuu to confess that the two of them loved you while wrapped in each other. Poor timing for platonic declarations of affection, in your personal opinion. To answer her question, though, you wanted to say no, no, it wasn’t okay. In fact, it wouldn’t be okay if you weren’t involved. You wanted to say that you wanted them as much as they clearly wanted each other, but that was just the delusion talking. There was no way you could dream of actually having the nerve to try and insert yourself into their relationship. 

You weren't about to ruin something that filled Yuu with so much joy. She deserved it. After all the hardships she faced here, she deserved genuine happiness, and if this is who can provide that for her, then you would support the two of them as much as you could.

So, following their upgrade from friends to partners, you did the only thing you could do. You continued to include Malleus in the life you and Yuu had built. You’d invite him out with the two of you to get breakfast, and include him in study sessions and movie nights. Even when Yuu wasn’t available, you’d still invite him over. His company had grown to be a constant presence, and you loved getting to see new facets of him as the two of you grew ever more comfortable with each other.  

You had expected this new status quo to be painful, for it to feel like a knife twisting in your gut, relegated to being constantly on the outskirts of their lives. To be stuck forever basking in the glow they gave off, but sentenced to never be a part of it.

 That, however,  was not what happened at all. 

Instead, you sort of…kind of…kept getting invited along on their dates?

You would be regularly invited to spend the night in Diasomnia with the two of them, and for late-night, moonlit walks through the forest- there was one lake Yuu loved to go to in particular, where you could watch the swans that resided there for hours as they swam about the crystalline water. You were included in dinner dates and lazy days spent at home, curled up in piles of blankets and ignoring the existence of anything beyond those keeping you company. 

If being the slightly awkward third wheel to Malleus and Yuu was what kept them in your life, then you would settle for that with no complaints. You would leave your true feelings to wither in the recesses of your mind, and that would be nobody's business but your own.

Things carried on like this for months, as life started to settle back into a somewhat regular routine. The only real difference now, as opposed to pre-Malleus, is that not only did you still want Yuu, you also wanted him as well, and those feelings hung around your neck like a noose. You had signed your own death sentence when you’d fallen for the two of them, and you had no one to blame but yourself.

You wondered if throwing yourself off the roof would be a reasonable course of action.

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The three of you went well together, You proclaimed while drunk off your ass and sprawled across Malleuss’s lap on the couch while Yuu leaned against his shoulder, tipsy off of whatever the pink stuff in the bottle was. Some sort of magic alcohol you did not have back on earth, that was for certain. You'd always been a bit of a lightweight, but this shit was strong.

Of course, Malleus still appeared to be fully sober. Stupid Fae metabolism.

You giggled, unable to stop yourself, “Yes, like…like…a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. I'm the peanut butter because I'm salty and stuff, and Yuus the jelly because she’s like, super sweet. And Malleus is the bread because he keeps us all together and safe. And smooshed. “

Yuu was laughing, shoulders shaking at your explanation. “ He keeps us all smooshed, huh?”

“Yep,” You said, popping the “p” and reaching up with your right hand to card your fingers through Malleus’s hair. It was silky, the strands gliding effortlessly across your skin. 

“Malleus, you're the best,” you stated, as confidently as you’d say the sky is blue. Truly, you were embodying the phrase “liquid courage” right now. “I’m so lucky you're in my life, I like you so much.”

Malleus chuckled at your antics, “ I am equally as fond, beloved. To have you both is a privilege that fills me with a joy I’d never thought I would experience.”

Huh, kinda intimate. Maybe the alcohol was affecting him more than he let on?

“Is he better than me?” Yuu cut in, voice playful.

“Oh yeah, totally, Yuu. You're so pretty, but so is Malleus. But! he also has horns, Yuu. You don't have horns.” As if to emphasize your point, you moved the hand that had been playing with his hair to the aforementioned horns, glossy black and smooth to the touch. Only once had you seen another person outside of you and Yuu try to touch his horns, and that had been a particularly stupid classmate who had been dared by his friends to do so. The aura of barely controlled rage Malleus had omitted was, quite frankly, terrifying. The hairs on your arm had stood on end, and you hadn’t even been on the receiving end of his ire. Paired with Sebek jumping to defend his honor, sword drawn, he had made it very clear that he would in no way humour such casual, disrespectful touches. 

He never took issue when the two of you would do it, though. In Yuus' case, you figured it was because she was his partner. In your case, you guessed it was because you were close to him.  

You gave a satisfied hum, grabbing one of Malleuss’s hands and bringing it to your lips, placing a quick kiss on the back of it. 

That was fine. Friends gave affectionate kisses all the time. This was so fine, everything was great. Everything was awesome and cool and fine. 

---------------------------------------------------------------------------

You woke up with a hangover. Gross. Your head was aching, and a cup of water was sorely needed. Maybe some painkillers? And breakfast-something greasy would hit the spot. God, you’d kill to be back in your old house right now. There was a Mom-and-Pop diner that had been there since before you were born,  just down the block. It always had the faintest odor of cigarette smoke, and the plastic booths had faded and yellowed with age. But they had the best breakfast sandwich you’d ever had-you needed to hold it with both hands to keep it together, and it was loaded with american cheese, bacon, and fried egg, the yolk dripping from the english muffin-, and nothing had ever hit the spot like that sandwich did after a night of drinking.

There was a groan, and a weight on you shifted. Cracking open your eyes, you were met with a faceful of hair.

Yuu was on top of you, and you couldn’t feel your legs. The pins and needles were going to be awful.

“Yuu?” Yeesh, your voice was hoarse. 

“Mrphm” Was her response.

“Yuu, that’s not English.  Where's Malleus?”

“He had to deal with some situation or another at Diasmonia- he was so pissed. If he had his way, he’d be wrapped around us like he was earlier.” She spoke into your shoulder, nuzzling her head in deeper, as if trying to burrow into the well-worn cotton of your sweater.

“Wrapped around us?”

“Yeah, it was nice having all three of us so close together. I think it gave me a nasty crick in my neck, though. This couch really wasn’t made for three people to sleep on.”

“How did he even manage that? I'm honestly kinda impressed.”

“No idea. Magic?”

The conversation lulled after that, an intimate silence settling through the room. Fragile and delicate, a tender moment between the two of you, reminiscent of those first few weeks in Twisted Wonderland. You would bottle this if you could, keep this fleeting moment stored somewhere safe and made immortal.

Yuus' breath tickled your neck, her lips resting against your shoulder. Arms tightened around your waist for a moment, before they relaxed and moved off of you. Yuu pushed herself up so she was practically straddling you, and you couldn’t help the heat you felt rush into your face at the switch in positions.

“Hey there, pretty lady,” She purred, a playful smile pulling at the corner of her mouth, one hand coming to brush a stray lock of hair off of your cheek, “Come here often?” She asked, leaning down just a little further.

This was fine. You ignored the slowly increasing drum of your heart in your ribcage, your breathing becoming the slightest bit shallower. This was…fine. This was just friendly, playful flirting.

“Oh yeah,” You replied, “All the time. What about you, Prefect?, You teased, “ Come here often yourself?” 

“Mm, I do. Especially since I know there’s a particularly gorgeous  resident who lives here.”

Her tongue flicked out to lick her lips,  and you swallowed, mouth feeling dry, and you didn’t think you could fully blame it on just simple thirst.

You pride yourself on your endurance.

 You weren’t quick to buckle or cave under pressure. You pushed through and sure-okay, you might not be as brave as Yuu, or as powerful as Malleus, but you could play the long game, had played the long game. You’d stood strong against Yuu’s playful flirting and her affectionate touches-helping you style your hair, tender pecks on your forehead and cheeks, hugs from the back. You’d stood strong against Malleus’s intense gaze, the one that made you feel like you were the center of his universe, stood strong against him when he’d give you his little gifts, the way he’d run his hand down your back and nuzzle into your neck when you hugged him. You endured it, really you did, and you did it with a smile on your face, because at the end of the day, you were so very grateful for the opportunity to be so involved in their lives.

But god damn it, you were still only human.

You were only human.

With a nerve you weren’t aware you possessed, you reached your hand up to the back of Yuu’s head, fingers tangling in her hair. It was tangled, her bedhead having yet to be tamed.

Your chest was aching, your heart was thundering- a storm, a rush, a stampede contained by nothing but the delicate white porcelain that was your ribcage. 

It happened fast, pushing yourself up into Yuu, and you swear that for just a moment, you blacked out.

Her lips soft against yours- and oh,

Oh, it was everything you thought it would be.  Soft, so soft, and tender, and warm; Gentle in a way that only Yuu could be, and it felt like everything in you settled for these few stolen seconds. Eternity compressed into less than a minute, and you knew in your heart of hearts you’d never be able to go back to being just friends. You couldn’t, not when you and she clicked. You clicked so well, beyond the platonic bond you’d shared, the three of you could-

The three of you. Malleus.

 Yuu pulled away from you, looking every bit like the cat who got the cream. Satisfied and self-assured in herself, not a shred of concern or guilt on her face. You, on the other hand…

Holy shit, you kissed Yuu. Holy shit, you kissed Yuu.

The disgust you felt towards yourself was immediate and all-consuming.

A miserable, grotesque thing that slithered through your very being, every nook and cranny, a flashing red sign at the front of your consciousness.

How could you have kissed her?

How could she have let you?

"Oh my god-Yuu, what the fuck. What the fuck! Ohhh my god, I'm a homewrecker. I'm a literal homewrecker, I'm horrible-you're dating Malleus! A prince! The Prince of Briar Valley, one of the strongest mages in the fucking world. He's going to kill me. I kissed his girlfriend and he's going to imprison me, and then torture me, and then he’ll kill me-”

"What are you talking about- homewrecker?! Why would Malleus kill his partners for kissing each other!? I think the only thing he'll be bitter about is that he didn't get to kiss you first, you know how possessive he gets-"

"Partners?! Why would Malleus want to kiss me-!"

"Because the three of us are dating!"

"Since when?! "

"What do you mean, 'since when'? For the last three months!"

"What. No, we haven't?"

"I-You-yes, we have! Is this a joke? Are you seriously trying to tell me you have no idea the three of us have been in a committed relationship for the last three months?"

"YES! This is news to me, Yuu!'

“We made it official in the kitchen- do you not remember the kitchen?! Shit- you haven’t been cursed have you?” She reached back out to you, grabbing your shoulders and scanning you, seemingly trying to check you over, “ Something that affects your memory? Malleus should be back shortly, We need to sort this out.”

“My memory is fine, Yuu!”You snapped, pushing her off you,” If anyone's acting like they've been cursed, it's you! You’re not making any sense! You let me kiss you while you’re in a fully committed relationship. Are you seriously trying to tell me that when you and Malleus made out in the kitchen and asked for my blessing, as your friend, that was actually you asking me to join a throuple?!

“No! It was me asking if you were okay with Malleus officially joining our relationship! We’d been courting with him for so long, it only made sense to make the three of us official!” 

“Yuu. Yuu, what do you mean by “our relationship”? You asked, fists clenched as they white-knuckled the fabric of your sweatpants. Your perception of what was happening was changing at an absolute breakneck pace. Your head was swimming with the information being unceremoniously dropped into your metaphorical lap, and you think you may be developing whiplash.

“I-I mean our relationship? The two of us?”  Where Yuu was confused before, she was starting to look deeply uncomfortable now.  She reached out to clasp your trembling hands. “You…you do know that the two of us are a couple, right?” 

Her eyes were staring into yours with an intensity that stole what little breath was left in your lungs, and you’d dreamed of this- of having her undivided attention. Of having honeyed pools of sunshine staring into your own eyes, of mapping each fleck of colour that dotted her irises, but- not like this. You hadn’t wanted it to be like this.

“You never…we never- What? 

“I had hoped to be back before you both woke up,” Malleus said, disappointment lacing his voice, startling the two of you. 

He came up behind you on the couch, wrapping his arms around your upper chest and pulling you in close, and you’d normally shrug it off as platonic, you’d normally relax into his hold, and ask how his morning was going.

This was not a normal morning.

“Malleus, she doesn’t think we're dating,” Yuu said, straight to the point. 

You pulled yourself out of Malleus's grasp and more-or-less threw yourself to your feet, turning to face the two of them, pointing your finger in accusation.

“Because we're not! Neither of you ever asked me out!”

“You've shared a bed with Malleus and me for months. The two of us have shared a bed for even longer! We kiss each other on the cheeks and forehead all the time, and we hold hands! The three of us are always together!”

“I thought it was friendly! Pals being Pals!”

“Malleus and I would kiss while you sat in his lap.”

“ I thought you were just really, really into pda!”

“You thought we were really into- how can you be so hot, but so dumb?! Malleus-you talk sense into her!” Yuu exclaimed, gesturing wildly at the confused fae.

Malleu’s gaze had sharpened, pupils narrowed into slits as he processed the hot mess he’d just walked into. His grip had tightened on the back of the couch, and you were certain it was going to crack if he kept putting force on it.

“Forgive me for my confusion, beloved, but I do not understand. You were the one who initiated courtship with me, did you not?”

You wondered if this is what bomb technicians felt like when disarming an explosive.

“How did I initiate courtship? Is that a fae thing? I'm not fae, Malleus!”

“You invited me into your home and offered me a meal-to do so with those who are not family is considered an offer of courtship, which I accepted. Yuu had done the same thing, so I was under the impression you were aware of the implications. ”.

A lightbulb buzzed to life in your mind. A peanut butter sandwich and an invitation inside. Ah. There it was. The consequence of that action.

“No one clarified that for me!” Your voice rose in panic, climbing to thrilling new pitches. 

“I thought you knew! We both started courting him at almost the exact same time! We read that book on the traditions of the Fae in Briar Valley together!” 

“  That doesn’t mean I was paying attention to what was read! No one ever asked me out! No one ever said, “Hey, want to go on a date with me?!” “ 

“Do you not wish to be partnered with us?’ Malleus inquired, looking like he was five seconds away from doing…something. His facial expression was hovering somewhere in between calculating and stressed to the tenth degree. You’re not entirely sure you want to know what he was thinking, actually. 

 The horizon was darkening, a blanket of dark clouds rolling across the sky. A fork of lightning illuminating the room in a white hot flash. 

“I selfishly hope this is not the case. To be parted from you is something I have not- and do not, wish to consider. To have one of you without the other would be torture, and one I am not certain I could bear.”

“I never said that! Shit, I've been in love with you two for months, but again, i’d like to circle back to the no one asked me out thing!”

Oh, you were laying all the cards on the table now, weren’t you? You supposed you had nothing left to lose given the circumstances. There was no way to shove the cat in the bag, no way to unspill the proverbial beans. You mean, with how things are unfolding this morning, you don't think anything is going back to normal after this conversation? You don't think you want it to go back to normal.

You could hear the telltale plinking of rainwater as it leaked from the hole in the ceiling into the pot positioned beneath it. 

“Alright- Alright! Okay. Let's all just take a deep breath, okay?” Yuu interjected, standing up and grabbing your shoulders, turning you so you were looking at her. “You love us, right? Like, really, truly? We heard you right?” She asked, searching your face for a sign she misheard you, that her ears were playing tricks on her. 

She’d waited for far longer than she ever thought she would have to hear those words fall from your mouth, but that was okay. You’d shown your devotion and care in other ways that mattered just as much. You said “I love you” when you’d warm her towel up before she got out of the shower, when you helped bandage her injuries with a tenderness she’d only ever experienced as a small child. When you’d wait for Malleus after his classes and curl up beside him to read in gentle silence, when you’d bring him home a flower to tuck behind his ear because the bloom reminded you of him. If it were for you, she would’ve waited lifetimes to hear you say those three words. She would’ve waited until the three of you had turned to dust, until the only thing that remained of your existence was the echoes of a time long past in half-rotted photos and dust-covered rooms, to hear you tell her that you loved the two of them. 

She was happy to have that confirmation from you, finally. She just thought it would be while you were aware you were in a relationship. 

“So obviously-” Yuu tilted her head up, as if pleading to the heavens for strength, “We like you- we love you, dummy. We’ve loved you for months, so would you like to go on a date with us? Officially, as our girlfriend?”

“I mean yeah! Obviously! Me wanting to date you two was never the problem!”.

“Great. Good, I’m glad we are all now on the same page. Malleus, Hornton, my love, breathe. No one is going anywhere today.”  

 You refocused on Malleus, who still looked remarkably tense, but a shred of amusement had made its way onto his face, the corner of his mouth pulling up into the faintest of grins. Actually, wait a second.

“If we’ve supposedly been dating for the last three months-”

“We have been, but continue,” Yuu said, cutting you off.

“Alright, fine, since you two were aware the three of us were dating, why did neither of you try to kiss me? Ever?” 

“We thought you just wanted to take it slow! We weren’t going to pressure you into a kiss.”

Which, okay, fair enough, that was respectable of them or whatever.

“So…since I’ve already kissed Yuu, Malleus, could we…I mean, if you wouldn’t mind…” You trailed off, feeling your face grow hot for what must have been the fifth time this morning. 

Malleus had the audacity to smirk at your  flustered state, “If I wouldn’t mind what, Child of Man?”

This man was such a menace, holy hell. He could at least cut you some slack after this emotional rollercoaster of a morning, but no, you weren’t so lucky.

…

Screw it.

You crossed back over to the couch and leaned against it, your knees sinking into worn green fabric, your face level with Malleus’s.  Your lips were on his before you could talk yourself out of this, and he didn’t hesitate to reciprocate, pulling you close, his fingers grasping the back of your shirt as if you’d somehow disappear if he didn’t anchor you to him. Where Yuu’s kiss had been gentle, Malleuss’s was intense and all-consuming, leaving you breathless as his lips moved against yours.

A second set of arms wrapped around you, Yuu hugging you from behind, coming to rest her head against your shoulder, and you just knew she was grinning so hard her face was probably aching. 

You separated from the searing heat of Malleuss’s kiss, catching your breath, only for Yuu to place her fingers under your chin and turn your head and pull you into another kiss with her. 

Judging by the evidence you had just gathered, you could safely say you were infact, not a homewrecker. 

Apparently, you’d simply managed to bag two of the most sought-after people at NRC without even being aware of it.  The three of you needed to have a discussion about proper communication.

[humanpurposes]

So thrilled you’re taking requests! I love winter themed fics this time of year. I’m requesting modern Aemond (if not allowed then Michael Gavey) + stuck in this cabin until the storm passes/come sit by the fireplace. As much smut as you’d like with maybe a teeny bit of angst?

Thank you for taking requests, I know they will all be lovely

A/n: Took the liberty of making this a Michael Gavey request 😈 Also this gif is the most beautiful thing I've ever seen!! Shoutout @barbieaemond and all the other amazing gif makers on here. These guys are such an integral part of fandom and they deserve all our love, appreciation and credit ❤️✨

Words: 2.9k

Warnings: 18+, slight angst, handjob, thigh riding (ish), Michael Gavey being awkard, but not quite a virgin

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“Fucking skiing holiday. Should have fucking known this would be a fucking disaster.” 

Michael’s foul mouth hardly phases you anymore. When you first met him you thought he’d be a shy type of guy, with his baby blue shirts, cargos and wire frame glasses he kept pushing up with his middle finger.

You’d quickly found that he wasn’t at all like you expected. He can be abrasive, often judgemental and vulgar, not so unlike your other friends but with Michael it seems to come from a place of unashamed honesty. You sort of admire him for it.

He’s pacing the small living room and kitchen of the cabin, furiously fiddling with his mobile. You’re kneeling by the wood burning stove, hovering a lighter by the kindling in the hopes that you can light a proper fire.

You’re surprised he agreed to go on this trip at all. 

You have a few friends who do Maths, and at the start of second year they started inviting Michael to the pub on the weekends. You recognised him from your trips to the library, where he’d usually sit alone after his friend ditched him for Felix Catton.

They’d been all talking about a skiing trip between Christmas and New Year, to this little Italian village in the Alps. You didn’t— and still don’t— actually know how to ski, but spending a few nights in a cabin in the mountains, surrounded by snow sounded like a dream. Michael had been sceptical at first but you’d managed to convince him to come when you said you’d need someone to keep you company when the others were on the slopes.

The others had all gone out as soon as you arrived, leaving Michael to get settled in the cabin.

But it’s turned out to be somewhat of a nightmare. It’s too dark to actually see the snow storm but you can hear it, shrieking and howling against the walls and windows of the cabin. You have no service, no central heating, just the small assortment of snacks you had brought with you, a packet of paprika crisps, a bar of chocolate and a prosciutto sandwich you’d bought back at the main resort, back down the mountain, back in civilisation.

“Fuck, fuck fuck!”

“What now?” You ask, still focused on the fire.

“Mobile’s fucking dead. Shit! I have a charger in my bag but the bloody electricity isn’t fucking working so I can’t fucking charge it!”

You smile to yourself as the kindling catches alight and the flames start to lick at the larger logs.

You glance over your shoulder as Michael tosses his phone on the sofa, runs his hands through his hair and catches his lower lip with his teeth.

“I have plenty of charge on mine,” you say, “I’ll turn it off to save the battery and we can see if the service is working in the morning?”

Michael stares at you for a lingering moment. He can be so intense sometimes, almost unsettlingly so. “You want us to stay here all night?” he says softly.

“People know we’re here. I’m sure someone from the resort will come up when they can. Until then, we just have to wait out the storm.”

He tuts, but he knows you don’t have any other options.

You sit together with your backs against the sofa so that you can be as close to the fire as possible. The heat pleasantly burns your face and skin through your jeans and jumper. Even then, where your arm presses against Michael’s, you feel the warmth of his body beside you. 

You grab the crisps and the sandwich out of your bag, offering them both to Michael. He only takes a handfuls of crisps and when you split the sandwich in two he takes the smaller half. You offer him more of the chocolate bar but he insists he’s not hungry. You frown at that. It might not be a Crunchie, but Michael never turns down chocolate. 

“How was your Christmas?” You ask, popping a square of chocolate on your tongue.

“Fine,” he says, looking down at his hands, “had dinner with my dad and my nan, went to see my mum on Boxing Day.”

Guilt twinges in your chest. “Are your parents not together?”

“Oh no, they split up a long time ago,” he says, like it should have been obvious.

“I’m sorry.”

He turns to face you, staring intensely. “Why would you be sorry?” 

“Because I didn’t realise.”

He smiles. You think it’s because he knows you’re nervous. “I’ve been splitting Christmases between my parents every year since I was twelve, I’m well used to it now.”

The topic doesn’t seem to phase him. He takes another crisp from the packet and looks into the fire as he crunches it between his teeth.

The low light reminds you of the nights you’ve sat opposite him in the King’s Arms in Oxford, all the times you’ve been tipsy off wine spritzers and found yourself trying not to make it obvious that you’re staring at him. He’s handsome, especially up close when you can see the details of his face, his lips, his surprisingly pretty eyelashes, the little cleft on the tip of his nose.

When his eyes turn towards you, you think your heart might leap out of your chest.

You take a quick breath, eyes darting around the room, at the fire, the pile of logs beside the stove, the sprinkling of ashes on the floor, but it seems inevitable that you’ll find your way back to him.

“Why did they split up?”

Michael raises his eyebrows but keeps his face solemn. “She left him for someone else.”

“Oh,” is all you can think of to say. 

“It happens,” he says. “People always want to find something better. My dad was never the most exciting guy to be around.”

“But what about you?”

He huffs a laugh to himself. “I’m not exactly enticing company either.”

You can’t tell if you just want the conversation to end or if you should say something else.

“It’s not something I can fix,” Michael says. One of his hands rests on his thigh and he slowly flexes it so the tendons shift beneath his skin. “And it’s not something that needs to be fixed. People come in and out of your life, but you move on. That’s just the way it is.”

He’s almost hunched over himself, with his chin tilted down and his glasses sliding down towards the end of his nose. 

You’d seen him in the pub once, back in first year, with that friend of his, Oliver Quick. Oliver had gone up to the bar and ended up sitting with Felix Catton and his band of admirers. You’d watched Michael leave the pub and remember your heart shattering for him, for this boy you didn’t even know.

Now, stuck in this cabin, snow swirling past the windows, the sound of the fire crackling a few feet in front of you, and Michael’s side pressed against yours, your heart shatters all over again.

You place your hand over his, and he instantly stops moving. “For what it’s worth, I think you’re great.”

Michael tries not to smile. “You don’t need to flatter me,” he says.

You curl your fingers over his hand and tighten your grip. His eyes meet yours and you feel yourself frowning, because he doesn’t understand, because he doesn’t see himself the same way you see him. 

“I mean it. You’re funny, even when you don’t even mean to be, and honest, and straightforward…”

You glance down at his lips, slightly parted as he listens to you. It crosses your mind to lean in closer, but something stops you.

“I really love that we’re friends,” you say.

Michael looks down at your hands. His lips are pressed together.

He doesn’t want this, you think. He doesn’t want me.

So you pull away, with a little smile to keep it friendly.

He blinks a few times as he looks back at your face. “Thanks,” he says, softly. 

He stands, and you don’t think you can bear to look at him as he moves towards the hallway that leads to the bedrooms.

You turn your attention to the fire, add another log for good measure and poke at the glowing embers in its heart.

You hear movement behind you, footsteps and fabric.

When you look back you see Michael has his arms full with pillows and blankets. He layers some of the blankets on the rug, and soon he has two makeshift beds, one on the sofa and one on the floor.

“What’s this?” You ask.

“We’ll freeze in the bedrooms without the heating, we might as well make use of the fire.”

It’s a good call, and now that you have somewhere to sleep you start to realise how tired you are. 

You rummage through your suitcase and pull out a pair of pyjamas you got for Christmas. Michael changes in one of the bedrooms and comes back in one of his maths pun t-shirts and a pair of red and black bottoms. 

You go to lie in the bed on the floor but Michael puts his hand on your shoulder and insists you sleep on the sofa.

Even with the heat of the fire on your face and the blanket pulled up to your chin, you can’t stop shaking. Your limbs are frozen and your skin is tight, but it feels deeper set than that. You feel the cold in your chest like a fever.

It feels like hours have passed and you still can’t sleep.

“I can hear your teeth chattering,” Michael’s voice grumbles below you. You peer down over the edge of the sofa. He’s turned away from you, towards the fire. You hadn’t even realised he was still awake.

“It’s fucking cold,” you say, wincing at the quiver in your voice.

Michael shifts to his other side so he’s facing you. You’ve never really seen him without his glasses, and he looks completely different, somehow softer, not as harsh.

“We’ll be warmer if we, if we share,” he says quietly.

His suggestion weighs heavy in the space between you, unless it’s just in your head. You can already imagine yourself pressed against him, feeling the warmth from his body and letting it sink into yours.

You don’t trust yourself not to try something stupid either.

You take the blanket with you. The floorboards are piercing against your bare soles so you step on the balls of your feet, quickly slotting yourself by Michael’s side, on the layers of blankets. 

He’s facing you now, your noses must only be inches apart and you feel his breath running over your cheek.

You try to steady your own breathing, but it only makes your heart beat faster.

You see his neck move as he swallows. “Come here,” he mutters, and brings his arm around you, pressing his palm to your back to pull you closer into his chest.

You let your arm drape over his side and your legs intertwine with his. You need the heat, tucking your head in under his chin and resting the side of your face against him.

You move with the rise and fall of his chest, breathe in the scent of him with every breath, hear his heartbeat against your ear.

If you shifted your head slightly, your lips would meet the base of his throat.

Want tightens and lingers in your stomach, but curled up under Michael’s arm, you let its dull ache soothe you to sleep.

You wake slowly, opening your eyes to cold sunlight glaring through the windows. In your haste to get warm last night, you had apparently forgotten to draw the curtains. All you see on the other side is white, the snow now settled and piled high.

The fire has long since died and the air is colder than it was when you fell asleep, sharp as you take a breath through your nose.

It’s still warm where your cheek meets Michael’s chest, where his hand rests against your back and your bodies are pressed together.

It feels good to be so close to him. He’s still asleep, as far as you can tell. You hear the heavy sound of his breathing, air fluttering in his throat and passing through his pouted lips.

As you start to become more aware, more awake, a warm wanting stirs in your gut and between your legs.

It’s a stupid little crush, one you’ve not been able to distract yourself from these last few months.

You start to trace your fingertips over his chest, feeling where his chest is hard, then soft, and remember everything you said to him the night before, and what you perhaps should have said.

You nuzzle your face in closer to him, to the clean scent of his t-shirt and something else that is so uniquely him.

You try to stay like this for as long as possible, even if it’s torture not to want more.

“You’re moving a lot,” he mutters. You feel his voice rumbling in his chest and humming against your head like it’s a part of you.

Only when you freeze do you realise you’ve been rocking your hips, every hint of friction you get against the fabric of your pyjamas only fueling your hunger. But you’ve stopped now, resting your palm against his stomach.

“I’m cold,” you say.

“Hmm,” he says, resting his lips and his chin against your head, over your hair, “I don’t feel cold.”

The low rasp of his voice only makes you want him more.

The lingering haze of sleep must be clouding your judgement, your sense.

You tilt your head up, brushing your lips over his throat like you’d imagined. You feel him shudder, and feel his stomach tighten under your touch.

He utters your name in a breathless whisper as he paws at your back and pushes his hips into yours. His arousal is evident, hard and pressing to your centre through two layers of fabric.

And then he pauses, and his hand slips away.

“Fuck, I’m sorry,” he says.

You drag your hand down a little further, to slip under his t-shirt and feel the ridges of his surprisingly toned stomach, just above the waistband of his bottoms. “Why are you sorry, Michael?”

“I don’t know, I just…” he huffs in frustration as his hand returns to your body, gripping at your waist through your shirt.

You start to snag your fingers on the waistband, and realise he’s forgone wearing any boxers to bed. “Do you want me to help you?” You whisper, unable to hold back a grin.

“Yes, fuck, please,”

A whine sounds in his throat as you shift his bottoms down just enough to free his cock, and close your hand around it. He’s bigger than you expected, long and thick, heavy, hard and soft-skinned as you stroke, up, down, up, down.

You enjoy the feel of him, run your thumb over his weeping tip as he starts to pant and try to hold back his moans, leaning against you and ghosting his lips against your temple.

You only feel yourself becoming more and more desperate. You hook your leg over his, grinding your core against his thigh. Sparse sparks of pleasure course through your body, not enough for a release, but it still feels good.

You tilt your head again, eagerly pressing your lips to his. He seems taken by surprise at first, but meets you with clumsy enthusiasm. He kisses you like it might save him from something. Once or twice he seems to lose track, dragging his lips to the corner of your mouth only to pull you back into him.

The movements become more and more frantic, your hand pumping Michael’s cock, his hips bucking under your touch.

“Fuck,” he hisses against your lips, “I’m close. Fuck, I’m so close.”

You rock particularly hard against his thigh, and he brings his hand to your rear, squeezing at your flesh and urging you on.

You tease your lips against the shell of his ear, smiling at the wanton noise he makes as he buries his face into the crook of your neck.

“Are you gonna cum for me Michael?” You whisper as you up the pace.

“Please,” he grunts, “please…” and suddenly he’s moaning against your skin, holding you tightly as you feel his cock pulse in your hand as he spills over your fingers and knuckles.

You quickly move your head back so you can look at him, eyes fluttered shut, jaw slack and tongue just peeking out from behind his teeth.

“You’re so pretty,” you say quietly.

He blinks his eyes open, looking down at you with a dazed smile. “You think I’m pretty?”

“So fucking pretty,” you say, with another drag against his thigh.

He hums, low and cryptic in his chest. “Do you need some help there?”

Before you can answer he’s slipped his hand underneath your pyjamas. He cups your bare, wet cunt, lightly circling over your clit with the tip of his finger.

“Fuck you’re soaked,” he mutters, all but teasing your lips as he leans in to kiss you. “Got yourself all worked up, hmm?”

“Yeah,” you breathe, “fuck, don’t tease me, please…”

“Now, sweetheart,” he coos as he presses more firmly against you, hastening his movements so your breath catches in your throat. “We might still have a few hours before anyone comes to get us, and I can think of more than a few ways to pass the time.”

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