#so i had to rewrite it and it somehow got longer...

[marvelstoriesepic]

A Thousand Times Before

Pairing: Avenger!Bucky x Avenger!Reader

Summary: Bucky travels to an alternate universe for the sake of a mission. But he doesn’t expect to come face to face with a version of you that loves him, completely and openly. Back in his own world, he is left with a truth he can’t keep to himself anymore.

Word Count: 16.5k

Warnings: alternate universe; multiverse; so much yearning; identity confusion; emotional distress; guilt; self-worth struggles; unintentional non-consensual kiss (non-violent, due to mistaken identity); angst; heartbreak themes; slight mentions of Bucky’s past; self-preservation; self-doubt; Bucky is a man in love

Author’s Note: This ended up being longer than I intended. Anyway, I’d love to hear what you think! Also, I’ve been toying with the idea of writing an alternate version where the roles are flipped. This time the reader travels to another universe where Bucky and your counterpart are already a couple. Let me know if that’s something you’d be interested in reading too! I hope you enjoy ♡

Divider by @cafekitsune ♡

Masterlist

The air smells of memory.

As though someone took the world he knew, put it through a sieve, and rebuilt it with hands that were almost - but not quite - shaking.

Bucky walks slow, even though his boots echo down a corridor that used to be silent. Used to be. In his world, the east wing of the Avenger’s compound is always cold, sterile, mostly unused. Here, the lights are warmer. Someone’s installed those vintage bulbs. They buzz faintly and flicker around.

There is a plant in the hallway. A real one. He steps past it. Looks down. A ceramic pot painted with little sunflowers. A tiny sticker peeling off the side.

This version of the compound is lived-in.

It’s unnerving.

He hates how it makes him breathe more deeply as though he is listening for something it shouldn’t. How everything is just off. The couch in the lounge is turned at a different angle. The vending machine is missing. There is a lavender-scented candle burning on the coffee table.

He doesn’t trust this. He doesn’t trust any of it.

Not the way the ceiling seems too low or how the hallways echo the wrong sound the longer he walks. The floor beneath his boots is almost the same. But almost is what gets people killed. And he’s not in the business of dying again. Not even here. Not even in a world that’s supposed to be some mirror image of his own.

It smells of lemon disinfectant and something faintly floral as though someone sprayed a bottle of room freshener and hoped no one would notice the rot underneath.

He runs his metal fingers along the wall as he walks, lets the vibranium whir quietly against the plaster. Feels the microscopic grooves in the paint.

In his universe, there is a crack near the main stairwell. Sam swears he didn’t do it. Clint insists he did. Here, it’s perfectly smooth. That bothers him more than it should.

He takes in this slightly different world as though maybe this is all some trick of the multiverse, some clever illusion designed to fool the worn-down man with the metal arm and the hundred-year-old ghosts. But the walls are still painted in the same color - off-white, barely warmed by the overheads. The hallway lights flicker golden. As though someone decided the compound shouldn’t feel like a facility. As though someone decided it should feel like home. His breath still fogs faintly in the colder patches of the corridor.

This could still be his universe somehow.

Even though it isn’t.

And even though he doesn’t want it to be.

He never wanted to be part of the mission.

He said no. Loudly. Repeatedly. With many adjectives and lots of glares. It didn’t matter. Fury said he was the only one who could go. That this universe had some piece of tech - some half-mythical Howard Stark prototype that their Stark never got the chance to build.

Something with the potential to rewrite temporal coordinates with precision. To fix anomalies. Maybe even to bring back the ones they lost.

He sat through the debrief like a man sitting on a bomb. Not moving. Not breathing more than he needed to.

And Bucky noticed, the way he always did, that you never ask quite so many questions during debriefing - unless the mission involves him. And this time, it’s only him. So that meant more questions from you. More concern you didn’t even try to mask.

And it made his heart clench.

You asked how they knew this tech even existed in that timeline.

You asked why Tony couldn’t just build it himself to which the man gave you a look.

You asked what would happen if Bucky saw someone he knew. If he saw himself.

You asked what exactly Bucky was going to walk into and what was expected of him.

You asked how much they even knew about this universe.

Steve had exhaled, hands braced against the briefing room table, blue eyes clouded. “We don’t know much,” he admitted. “This universe is close to ours in structure, but details are limited. No major historical deviations. No sign of HYDRA still in power. No active wars. Just small shifts. Choices made differently.”

Bucky had watched your face tighten as if the lack of data itself was a warning.

“SHIELD had a file on it, but nothing concrete,” Steve went on. “Stark’s readings say it’s stable - no time fractures, no reality collapses. Just another version of what we know.”

Bucky had listened, fingers flexing against his metal wrist. Close to theirs, but not the same. And he wonders, not for the first or last time, what choices this other world made for him.

The mission is simple. Locate the prototype. Extract it. Avoid unnecessary contact with variants. And get the hell back before anything breaks - him, the people, the timeline.

Bucky stopped listening entirely after receiving all the information he needed.

He only registered you shifting beside him, and it was the tiniest movement, but he noticed. You always get fidgety when something bothers you. He wanted to say something, reassure you, but he didn’t truly know if he even got this.

He knew you were worried. Knew you were angry. The kind that made your eyes too quiet and your hands too still. The kind that made Bucky feel like he was walking through a house where all the lights had been turned off, but every door was open.

When Dr. Steven Strange opened that portal, you stood in the corner of the room, watching him and giving him that guarded look that said you better come back whole. He couldn’t meet your eyes for too long.

And when the world rippled and bent, and the air shimmered as though it might break, and he stepped forward like a man walking into the sun with his eyes closed, he thought of you.

The stairs groan beneath his boots, familiar but not.

Same wood. Same color. But smoother. As though someone took the time to sand down the scars.

In his universe, the fifth step has a chip where Steve dropped a dumbbell. Everyone tripped on it at least once. Here, it is whole. Perfect. No history at all.

That’s what gets him. The lack of damage. As though this place hasn’t lived the same kind of life.

He reaches the second floor and hesitates.

The hallway is dim. Only the lights overhead are on, flickering just slightly. He hates the buzzing. It’s like something alive and trapped.

He turns left.

Your room is down this hall.

Or - your room in his universe is down this hall. He shouldn’t assume anything. Things are wrong here. Tilted just a few degrees off center. The kind of wrong you don’t see until it’s already unmade you.

But his feet are already moving.

It’s not like he’s planning to go in.

He just wants to look. Maybe see how different this version of you really is. Maybe see how different he is, through your eyes.

He reaches your door at the end of the corridor. It’s cracked open. That’s weird. You usually always have it shut.

Your voice isn’t behind it. You’re not laughing, humming, ranting about something. There is only quiet.

He steps closer.

The doorframe is covered in tiny indentations. Not scratches - these are deliberate. Someone’s been marking height on the trim. Two sets of lines. One lower than the other. Two sets of initials scrawled in black ink. Yours. And his.

He knows it’s yours. Because he knows your height. Like a number carved into his bones.

He’s memorized the space you take up in a room. Not just how tall you are, but the way your presence fills the air.

He knows where your head would rest if you stood beside him. Knows it would reach just beneath his chin. Knows the sound your footsteps make when you enter a room, and how the air shifts when you’re near.

He has painted you in his mind a thousand times before.

Eyes open, eyes closed.

In dreams, in silence.

In the echo of a laugh you left behind on a Tuesday.

He’s mapped you in the kitchen. Measured, in his mind, which cabinets you can stand beneath without hitting your head. Which shelves you can’t reach so he can be there, quietly, to help. So he can hand you that mug you always squint up at, the one you pretend you don’t need.

He knows how your arm swings when you walk.

Knows the rhythm of your stride. Knows your pace.

And sometimes, not often enough to be suspicious, he lets his hand brush yours.

Lets his fingers catch a hint of your warmth.

It’s not an accident.

It never is.

He carries you like a story he hasn’t told yet.

And he is aching, aching, aching to write you down.

Bucky stares at the markings like they might reach out and touch him.

He brushes his fingers against one. The ink smudges slightly under the metal pad of his thumb. Fresh.

He doesn’t understand.

Why would he-?

No. It has to be a coincidence. Just a prank. A weird joke. Someone else with your handwriting, maybe. Another version of him. One who doesn’t carry his past like a loaded gun. Or it’s just some odd inside joke he never got to know about in his own universe.

Bucky moves to step back, but his eyes catch on something else.

To the right of the door, hanging crookedly, is a small, square canvas. Acrylic. Textured.

It’s a painting. He knows it immediately. Your style.

He’s seen you paint a thousand times in silence, your jaw clenched, music too loud in your headphones. You always say you paint when you can’t say something out loud. When the words get stuck in your chest and rot.

This painting is familiar. A half-sky. A steel arm. Fingers open, reaching toward a red string that trails off the edge of the frame.

He knows what it means. He knows you.

But the painting doesn’t belong here. Not like this. It’s intimate. Meant for someone who understands the weight in your throat when you speak through colors.

Someone like him.

His stomach twists.

Maybe it is him.

He doesn’t like that thought. Doesn’t like how it makes his heart trip over itself.

He takes a step into the room because his brain told him to and his body didn’t want to argue. And he stops breathing.

Because you're not there.

But the room is.

The room is here.

And that’s almost worse.

It’s too familiar.

Not identical, not exact, but similar enough to tear him wide open.

The walls are a different color. Now necessarily lights. But just not how he remembers it. The books on the shelf are in new places, different spines, rearranged lives.

But the couch is the same shape, the same worn-out comfort.

The window still drinks in the light the same way - slanted, soft, forgiving.

And there’s a sweater messily folded on your dresser.

A book, face-down on the cushion like someone meant to come back to it.

Like you were just here.

Like maybe, if he stays long enough, you’ll walk back into the frame of this almost-life.

He doesn’t touch anything.

He’s afraid to.

Because this version of the world remembers you.

The shape of your existence lives here - in shadows and coffee rings, in the faint scent of something sweet and floral and you.

He walks the room like an intruder in someone else’s dream, eyes cataloguing the differences, chasing the sameness.

He notices that the cabinet doors hang slightly crooked in the same way.

And for just a moment he swears he hears your voice in the next room.

But it’s only silence, mocking him.

He wants to sit.

He wants to stay.

Wants to believe that if he closes his eyes, you’ll be beside him again.

He knows it isn’t true.

This isn’t his world.

This isn’t his home.

And this isn’t his you.

But the ache doesn’t care about reality.

The ache believes in the melodic sound of your laughter and the empty seat beside him.

There’s a coat draped over the back of a chair.

His coat.

Not one like it.

His.

The leather’s too worn in the same places. The collar stretched where he grips it with his right hand. There’s even the tear near the cuff that you stitched together with dark red thread, muttering that you weren’t a tailor but you’d seen enough war movies to fake it.

He steps inside without meaning to.

The room smells like you.

It’s your scent - soft, unassuming, threaded through with something sweet. Like worn pages and old tea and maybe vanilla.

It’s the same smell that clings to your hoodie when you get closer to each other on cold stakeouts to warm the other. The same one that lingers on your gloves when you pass him something, and he holds them a moment too long just to feel the warmth you left behind.

There’s a mug on the nightstand with faded text that reads I make bad decisions and coffee.

He bought that for you. In his world. As a joke.

You still used it until the handle cracked, and then you glued it back together and kept using it anyway.

He reaches out for it.

Stops.

His hand is shaking.

Bucky turns slowly. And sees the photo.

It’s not framed. Just pinned to a corkboard on the far wall, beneath torn paper scraps and to-do lists written in your handwriting.

It’s the two of you.

He recognizes the background - Coney Island. A bench by the boardwalk. Sunlight in your hair. His arm around your shoulder. His face not looking at the camera, but at you.

You’re laughing. And he looks-

He looks in love.

Like he has everything he ever wanted.

His breath hitches.

He steps back.

Back again.

Like distance might undo the gravity of what he just saw.

His ears are ringing.

None of this makes sense. Not fully.

He is stepping into a space he should not recognize but does.

The walls are a little brighter than in his world. Pale blue. Like the sky on cold days. There’s a candle on the windowsill—burned low and forgotten. Its wax has dripped onto a saucer, hardened into a small, messy sculpture. The bed is half-made. A throw blanket in a tangled heap at the foot of it. He recognizes that blanket. You two fought over it last movie night and then ended up sharing it.

There’s another book lying face-down, this time on the mattress. A knife on the nightstand. A half-written grocery list in your handwriting with his name scrawled at the bottom next to coffee and razor blades and more apples.

He stares at the list too long. At his own name like it sits in the wrong place. Like it’s foreign and familiar all at once.

His heart makes a quiet, traitorous sound in his chest.

He shouldn’t be here.

This isn’t his room. It’s not his place. Not his world. He’s just a shadow slipping through someone else’s life.

The longer he stays, the more it feels like the walls are leaning in.

He has a job.

A mission.

A very, very clear objective and a limited window to complete it in. That’s the only reason he’s here. The only reason he agreed to this whole ridiculous plan.

He doesn’t belong to this life.

He doesn’t belong to you.

Not like this.

Especially not like this.

He steps back. Slow. Controlled. As if the room might lurch and pull him in again, keep him held tight inside the heat of it. The scent of lavender on your pillow. A half-drunk mug of something still faintly warm on the desk. A soft blanket, folded neatly over the back of the couch by the window. Woven wool, pale grey, fraying just at the corners. In his world, that blanket lives in the rec room. He draped it over your slumbering body a few times already after you fell asleep somewhere between the second and third act.

The room creaks as though it knows he’s not supposed to be here.

So he leaves.

Each footfall measured like a soldier retreating from a line of fire. Not because of danger.

Because of what it could mean.

He closes the door behind him. Doesn’t let it latch.

He is leaving your room because he has to.

Because he’s still Bucky Barnes, and he still has something to do with his hands that isn’t letting them hover uselessly over photographs he never shot, or standing in the middle of a space that smells like your skin and wondering how long it would take before he forgot this wasn’t real. Or wasn’t his.

The hallway is still and dim. It breathes around him, too familiar and too wrong all at once. Different lungs, but the same bone structure.

His boots scruff over the same tile. The grooves on the walls are the same, the small imperfections in the paint still visible where someone - Clint, maybe - banged a cart too hard against the corner and then tried to cover it up with exactly the wrong shade of touch-up.

There’s a duffle bag sitting outside the laundry chute with a name tag stitched in crooked red thread: WILSON. Of course. Even this Sam never takes his stuff all the way in.

And there is a vending machine. It stands in the wrong corner, but it too has a post-it note stuck to it - out of order, again, thanks Tony - with a penknife stabbed through it, just like Natasha used to do when the machine ate her protein bar credits.

These things shouldn’t exist here. But they do.

Everything feels so carefully replicated, as though this universe is a reflection cast on rippling water - almost right, except where it wavers.

The picture frames are all straight here. No one’s taped up drawings on the elevator doors. But the dent in the wall by the training room door is still there - Tony left it during a particularly aggressive dodgeball game. And the pillow on the corner of the couch is still upside down. Steve never fixes it.

Someone’s sweatshirt is slung over the railing. Sam’s. Same one he wore for three weeks straight after the Lagos op. It still smells like burned rubber and that weird detergent Sam insists is “eco-friendly but manly.”

The common room has a blanket folded over the arm of the couch.

It’s yours.

You always fold it the same way. Two halves, then thirds, then smoothed flat.

The corners of his mouth twitch. Not a smile. Just muscle memory of one.

He walks slower now. Like he’s afraid he’ll wake something up.

He turns down the south hall, toward the kitchen.

He tells himself it’s for the layout. That he’s retracing steps, building a map in his head, keeping sharp like they trained him to. But really it’s you. It’s always you. He knows you’re here, somewhere, and if he turns the wrong corner too fast he might see you in a way he isn’t ready for. Or worse - see you in a way he’ll never forget.

His hand curls into a fist. Flesh and metal both.

The light changes first.

The kitchen here is bigger. Airier. The windows seem to stretch wider than they should, the frame redone in something softer than steel. Someone left the lights low, warm glimmers buzzing faintly above, full of melancholy chords.

And then he freezes. Everything in him turns to stone.

He stops breathing.

Because there are you.

Standing with your back to him.

You are in fuzzy socks, standing at the counter, shoulders relaxed, a pot simmering on the stove, and a sway in your movements that hit him so hard his throat tightens. You shift your weight slightly, hip against the edge of the counter, your hand rising to tuck your hair behind your ear.

The way the light hits you from behind is exactly the same.

You are moving through a rhythm you don’t know he’s watching.

You’re cooking something - he doesn’t know what, can’t smell it through the barrier of this aching distance - but it all is so heartbreakingly familiar. The tilt of your head as you read the label. The absent little sway in your hips as you stir something in the pan.

It’s domestic.

Effortlessly soft.

The kind of moment he’s never had, but has imagined a thousand times before.

His body goes very still. Maybe if he moves, the moment might shatter.

But it cleaves him open.

Because you move the same.

You move the way you do in his world - as though every room bends slowly toward you. As though you don’t know how much of your soul you leave behind in your trail. As though the air makes space for you because it wants to. Because it has to.

He watches.

Rooted to the floor.

This is doing something brutal to him. Seeing you here like this, in this soft golden kitchen that smells like tomatoes and thyme and something slow-cooked with patience and love, tucked into his shirt as though it doesn’t tear his heart apart.

You’re not just wearing it to steal warmth or tease him, the way you’ve done before in his world - tugging on his hoodie after a long mission, smirking when he raises an eyebrow, pretending it was an accident. You always returned it too quickly. Always laughed too loudly when he was too nonchalant about it. Always looked away too fast.

But here. Here you wear it as though you truly mean to.

Here you stir sauce in his shirt and sway slightly to a song you don’t know you’re humming and taste the spoon as though this is just another Saturday. Here, the shirt is not a stolen thing.

The hem skims your thighs. The collar is stretched slightly. The cotton even moves in your rhythm. His name is ghosted into the shape of you, etched along your silhouette. It’s almost too much. It’s absolutely too much.

Your movements are familiar in the way only time can make a person. And God, you move the same way. The same way. Like the version of you he left behind an hour ago. Fluid. Quiet. Self-contained. You hum under your breath, just barely.

He feels it like a bruise forming under his ribs.

His hand curls at his side. Metal fingers flex.

You don’t see him.

He’s not ready for you to. He knows he shouldn’t let you see him.

Not here. Not like this. Not when you’re standing in a kitchen that looks like the one you always complained was too small, in a shirt that is his - or the other Bucky’s - cooking with your whole body curled in that same subtle tension like you’re thinking about something else entirely.

And for one breathless second, he forgets.

He forgets this isn’t his kitchen.

That this isn’t his world.

That the you standing there isn’t the one who left a hair tie on his wrist last Wednesday.

That you’re not the one who laughed at him for not knowing how to use your espresso machine but then proceeded to teach him with that sweet voice of yours he doesn’t mind drowning in.

But God, he wants to walk across the room. Wants to slide his arms around your waist. Rest his chin on your shoulder. Breathe in your scent and feel your heartbeat under his hands.

Because he’s seen you like this before.

In his own kitchen, in his own universe.

Not often. Just enough to be dangerous.

You, in fuzzy socks. You, humming softly. You, squinting into a pot like it might confess its secrets.
You, looking over your shoulder and catching him staring.

Smirking. Amused. But with a warmth in your eyes.

And now, he just watches.

This version of you doesn’t turn around. Doesn’t feel him standing there, made of want and memory and too much tenderness for a heart that was never meant to carry this much.

He grips the doorframe.

Tries to swallow the pain.

Because this is what he’s always wanted, but it isn’t his.

And it won’t be.

But he can’t stop looking.

He knows he should move. Now.

He’s not supposed to linger.

Not supposed to look.

Not supposed to feel.

He’s a shadow in this world, a breath not meant to be heard. A presence designed to pass unnoticed.

But you-

God.

You are gravity and he is weak against it.

You are the glitch in every rule, the exception in every universe.

And he can’t help it.

He looks.

He stays.

Because there is no version of reality where he walks past you untouched.

You are the only thing in this place that hasn’t changed.

The only thing that feels right.

And that’s the worst part.

Because you feel like home.

And you’re not his.

You might never be.

But he stands there, selfish and still, pretending the silence could make him invisible. Pretending this version of you isn’t real. That your shape, your voice, your hands wouldn’t undo him in ways the war never could.

You reach for the spice rack, standing on your toes just a little, the hem of the oversized shirt lifting slightly. His name is written in the way the fabric hangs off your frame. It’s branded into this whole place.

He watches you like a man watches fire from the other side of glass - warmed, lit, and ruined all at once. You move like morning through him - and he, all dusk and dust, knows he is never meant to touch such light.

You wear that shirt on your shoulders as though it is normal for you. As though you want it to be there.

Bucky watches it stretch across the curves of a body he’s only ever worshiped in dreams.

You still feel like you, he thinks and the thought is so sudden and so violent that he has to step back - just a fraction of an inch, just enough to pretend he didn’t feel it, just enough to pretend it doesn’t mean something.

He doesn’t understand how this version of you still reads like poetry he’s already memorized.

He backs away, so slowly, he wonders if time might forgive him for the moment. For his hesitation to leave.

For the way, he just stands there and watches you as though you are the last good thing in the world.

As though you are the world. His world.

You turn, slow, stirring spoon still in hand. You haven’t seen him yet. You’re focused, brow furrowed just slightly, lower lip caught between your teeth, and he knows he should get the hell away from here.

But he is frozen in place. His muscles aren’t working.

He sees the angle of your cheek, the line of your neck, the quick twitch of your nose as though you’ve caught a scent you know too well.

And then you look up.

You see him.

Bucky’s mind is running on empty cells.

Your whole face changes. Clouds lifting. Sun rising. Your smile is instant. As though seeing him is something your body wants to do.

Everything in you brightens. As though the sun cracked open inside your chest. Your whole body jolts. Just a fraction. In surprise, delight. As though seeing him is something that rearranges the air in your lungs and makes it easier to breathe.

He is not prepared for the way you breathe his name.

“Buck-” your voice is thick with shock and joy and something lighter than either. “You’re back.”

He doesn’t move. Can’t.

The word back rattles in his ears. Echoes. Feels like a lie made of gold. He is not back. He is not yours. Not in this life. Not in this room. Not in the way you somehow seem to think he is.

You don’t give him time to speak. You don’t give him space to even think.

Because you’re already closing the distance between you, fast and sure-footed, and he has just enough sense left in him to realize he should say something, before you launch yourself into his chest, arms flung wide, a soft gasp of excitement still spilling from your mouth.

You collide with him hard and certain and unapologetic, and your arms wind around his neck as though they’ve done this a thousand times. So easy with him. Knowing the shape of him.

He stiffens. Every muscle in his body locks up, heart ricocheting against his ribs. He chokes on his breath.

He’s too overwhelmed with this situation to hug you back. His arms stay frozen at his side. His fingers twitch, trying to reach for you but remembering they shouldn’t.

You’re warm. You’re so warm.

You smell like that candle on your windowsill. Like a version of comfort he hasn’t earned.

“Why didn’t you tell me you were back?” you murmur, voice muffled as you bury yourself into the crook of his neck, full of a joy so honest it makes his entire ribcage squeeze the life out of him. “I thought you were still stuck over there. I was starting to get worried. Were you trying to surprise me? Because you definitely surprised me.”

Bucky can’t speak. He can’t do a single thing and that’s absolutely pathetic. He wants to say something clever or distant or safe, but his mouth is a graveyard and the words are bones. He’s not sure he even remembers how to use them anymore.

Your breath fans across his collarbone, your nose brushing his jaw, and it’s too much.

The feeling of you against him is unbearable. You fit. Of course, you do. His body knows you, even if his brain is screaming that this is wrong, that this is not the life he is living, that this version of you is not his to touch.

But you don’t know that. You don’t hesitate. Your hands slide up his back. One of them tangles in the hair at the nape of his neck. The other rests against the curve of his shoulder. His flesh shoulder.

He feels like glass. Like a single breath could rip him to shreds.

You pull back just enough to look at him.

There is something tender in your eyes. Something known. Something that sees him without flinching. You’re beaming. And he is blinded.

You’re looking at him as though he’s something you loved for years and known down to the marrow.

And then, so quickly, so confidently - you kiss him.

Bucky freezes.

All the air leaves his lungs.

His heart stutters in his chest.

Your lips meet his as though the air between you has gravity, as though you have done this before, soft and sure, knowing how he likes it. You kiss him as though you’ve kissed him a thousand times and a thousand more.

Bucky is a rigid wall, thunderstruck.

But he doesn’t stop you.

He should. He knows he should. The second your hands touched his face, he should have stepped back. Should have told you the truth. Should have warned you that this isn’t him. Not the right one. That the man you think you’re kissing is a ghost wearing someone else’s memories.

But he doesn’t. He lets you. For a heartbreaking moment. Lets his mouth press to yours for the span of a beat and a half. Lets the warmth of you crack the ice he’s been carrying in his chest for too long.

Your lips are warm, soft, sweet, tasting of honey and cinnamon and nostalgia and the imaged version of a dream he’s buried too deep to name, one he’s never dared to reach for but still lingers in his bones. Bucky doesn’t know if he’s breathing or if that became something irrelevant.

He lets you press into him as though the whole world hasn’t changed, as though this you is not a stranger wearing your skin, your voice, your tenderness. And for a second, a small and selfish, shattering second, he melts.

His muscles go slack and his eyes fall closed and the universe falls into place. Your lips on his feel like relief, like the end of war, like something he didn’t earn. He lets himself sink into it, into you.

You kiss him as though you know him. As though you know the hollow places and where they go. As though your body is working off muscle memory forged from love he was never around long enough to deserve.

Your hands are on his face and you’re kissing him as though this means something and he wants to pull away, he does, but not for one split-second. He folds like wax in flames, pliant and helpless under your affection.

His heart stutters - skips, crashes, burns.

Your body is pressing forward as though it’s coming home.

His mouth moves with yours, slow and stunned and melted, like a man learning to breathe in a language he doesn’t speak.

This is what he has imagined. This is what has haunted the spaces behind his eyes when he lets his guard down. He has imagined this. Wondered what your breath would taste like when it caught between your mouths, how your fingers would feel fisted in his hair, how it might feel to be wanted by you - openly, without hesitation, without shame.

But then you whisper against his mouth, soft and breathless and full of joy.

“God, I missed you.”

And everything collapses.

The words strike like ice water down his spine. It’s like being shot. He grows tense again. His eyes snap open. His mind catches up to his heart. The sweetness goes sour in his mouth. The warmth becomes poison under his skin. Because it isn’t real. This isn’t real.

You’re not his.

Not his to kiss. Not his to miss him. Not his to touch him with that bright look in your eyes as though he is part of your story.

You think he’s your Bucky. The one who - as Bucky would imagine - kissed you on every hallway in this place, whenever he could. The one who knows which side of the bed you sleep on. The one who earned your trust, your touch, your history.

And so he breaks the sky.

He pulls away - rips himself out of paradise with shaking hands and a jaw clenched so tight it might snap. The breath that leaves him is ragged, torn.

Every muscle in his body is tight. This is not your kiss. Not yours to give or his to take. Not when you don’t know. Not when you think he’s someone else.

And even though it’s you - your warmth, your voice, your heartbeat fluttering against his chest - it’s not the version of you he’s imagined this with.

And it’s not right.

The guilt punches him all at once, shame and grief and confusion he’s never quite learned to survive. He recoils - not even fully on purpose - but instinct, instinct that tells him he has stolen something you didn’t offer him.

He’s just a stranger behind familiar eyes.

You freeze. Blink at him. Confused. Concerned.

Your smile falters. Disappears.

His chest heaves once, twice, too fast, not able to breathe properly with your taste still caught in his mouth. His hands curl into fists at his side, trying to remember what they are for.

And then he sees it - your worry folding into something smaller, something more ashamed.

And it murders him in slow motion, one heartbeat at a time.

Your hands drop away from his face and flutter against your lips for the smallest second as though maybe you’re the one who crossed a line.

And he watches, helpless, as the light behind your eyes dims.

You take a tiny step back, shoulders inching inwards as though you’re suddenly unsure of yourself.

And then your eyes widen, and the guilt spills out of you now, sharp and immediate.

“Buck, I-” you start, your voice soft and hesitant. “I’m sorry. That was… I shouldn’t have just- I didn’t mean to- God, you probably needed a second to just settle, and I-” you trail off and take another step back as though you think you hurt him.

Your face crumples, not dramatically, not completely. But enough to look a little wounded. Vulnerable in that way you only let him see when no one else is around. Even here. Even in this life that isn’t his.

It’s killing him.

That pain in your eyes. The sheen of doubt and confusion that he put there.

You wrap your arms around yourself, retreating inward, your expression far too close to shame.

His chest caves as though something vital just got torn out, and his body hasn’t caught up yet.

Because even if you are not his - you are you. And hurting you, even by accident, even like this, feels like peeling the skin of his ribs.

He feels it in the hollow beneath his ribs, a wound that won’t stop bleeding.

“No!” he forces out quickly, voice low and rough and all wrong. “Hey- no, no, you didn’t- You weren’t- I’m not-”

But he doesn’t know what to say.

He wants to tell you it’s okay, that you didn’t do anything wrong, that it’s him, it’s all him, it’s always him, it’s never you.

He wants to scream that his bones are made of want, that his blood sings only your name, that he is drowning in everything you don’t know you’ve given him.

But none of this is simple. None of it is clean.

And all he does is stand there.

Breath shaking.

Heart breaking.

Hands curled so tightly to keep from reaching.

Because you didn’t give this kiss to him, not knowing who he was. You gave it to the man you think he is. The man you trust.

And he accepted it anyway. Let it happen. For just a split second, but still, he let himself have it.

He feels sick.

And now you look like you’re folding in on yourself, and all he wants in the world is to pull you close and undo every second of pain.

“I just got excited,” you say timidly, even softer now, eyes dropping to the kitchen counter. “I missed you and I didn’t- I thought you’d- Never mind. I’m sorry.”

You’re already turning away, trying to tuck the moment back into yourself, trying to pretend it didn’t just break the air between you. As though you haven’t just handed him a piece of your heart and watched him flinch from it.

And Bucky feels like the worst kind of monster.

Because it’s not your fault. This version of you, who somehow but clearly loves him, who thought she was greeting the man who has kissed her a thousand times and more. Who thought this was welcome. Who probably counted down the days until he walked through that door.

He knows because he does the same thing although his you and him aren’t even a thing.

Because in his world, you’re his friend. Just that. A friend with soft eyes and sharper wit, someone who argues about popcorn toppings and sings loudly in the kitchen when you know he needs some cheering up. You’ve patched him up after missions. You’ve watched old movies with him in silence, both of you staring too long at the screen and not long enough at each other. You’ve fallen asleep on his shoulder. You’ve tucked his hair behind his ear when it stuck to his cheek after a nightmare. You’ve told him - more than once - that you’re here for him.

But you’ve never kissed him.

You’ve never touched him as though you owned the moment.

You’ve never stood in his clothes and cooked dinner for the version of him who let himself be yours.

And god, he wants to hate this version of himself. This man who found the courage to step forward when he only hovered on the edge. Who earned the right to be held by his dream girl like a homecoming.

And now you are ashamed. Now you are hurt.

Because he couldn’t be the right Bucky.

He steps forward, frantic, needing, desperate to fix it, to say something, anything that would wipe that hurt look off your face.

“No- no, hey,” he rasps, voice frayed. His hands are hovering. He wants to touch you. He wants to hold your face in his palms and make this better. “It’s not your fault. It’s not you. I just… I mean, I didn’t think-” He knows he’s not making this better at all right now.

He sighs, mouth open but language failing him, and he scrubs a hand over his jaw as though he can erase the hesitation you saw there.

You search his face, your eyes too deep.

A trembling nod.

“Okay,” you say. “I just thought- I don’t know what I thought. I was just really happy to see you. But I should’ve given you a moment.”

And there it is.

The softness.

The part of you he has always tried to guard. The one he’d go back to Hydra to protect. The one that makes his chest ache and his hands shake at his sides.

He wants to tell you everything. The truth. The mission. That he’s not the man you think he is.

He almost does.

But his throat is choked up.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper, and that only breaks him in a new way.

Because you think you did something wrong.

“No,” he starts again, firmer this time, softer too. “You don’t need to apologize, sweetheart. I-” he hesitates, and you see it. “I missed you, too.”

He screwed up. Completely.

You bite your lip, unsure. Your eyes flick down to your shirt. His shirt. Not really his shirt. But Bucky’s shirt. You tug at the hem as though it suddenly doesn’t belong to you anymore.

And Bucky knows that this moment will haunt him long after he leaves this world. Long after he goes back to the version of you who wears his hoodies just to tease, who touches him only in passing, who is his friend despite him wishing for you to greet him the same way this you greets her Bucky. For the rest of his life.

You look at him as though he’s a wound.

As though he’s something tender and broken and half-open, and not in the way that frightens you but in the way that makes you reach for the first aid kit. As though you’ve seen the blood already, and you are not afraid to get your hands dirty to make him whole again.

Your voice turns softer now. Maybe trying not to shake the walls around him. Like you’ve already seen him flinch once and you’re afraid of making it happen again. He can hear the thread of caution in your throat, stretched thin with concern.

“Buck,” you say, slow, quiet. “Are you okay?” you ask and it’s not just a question. It’s a doorway. A key turned in a lock he hasn’t let anyone touch. You’re peering through the walls he built up as though you have done it before. Maybe you know all his hiding places. Maybe you’ve kissed every scar on his soul and memorized the way his silences mean different things.

But not this version of him.

Not here. Not now.

And it does something sharp to him.

Because he’s not okay. He is a thousand feet below the surface, lungs full of water and salt and regret. He is standing in a version of his life that is too soft for the callouses on his hands, and you are looking at him as if he means something to you, as if he still matters even after he’s flinched from your kiss, after he’s stood there in a borrowed skin, giving nothing in return.

He wants to say yes. Wants to lie because it would be kinder. Because maybe it would make your forehead smooth out and your mouth curl back up and your shoulders drop from where they’ve crept up near your ears. But the words catch in his throat. He can’t swallow them. He can’t spit them out.

You step closer, slowly now, more careful than before, and the guilt rises more than ever.

“Do you need anything?” you ask, as though you’ve asked him this a thousand times before. “Water? Food? A shower? A-” you falter, “- a second to breathe?”

Your eyes are so gentle he could cry. You’re hurting and you’re still soft with him, still reaching across this invisible crack in the earth, still offering care with both hands like it won’t burn you if he doesn’t take it.

He doesn’t deserve this.

He doesn’t deserve you.

Not when he’s not the man who earned the right to walk through that door and be met with your affection like sunlight. Not when you looked at him like a miracle and he gave you nothing back but a statue.

His hands remain in fists. His chest is too tight. Too small. His own skin is too loud.

“I’m fine,” he answers. Too fast. Too clipped. He regrets it instantly.

Your face drops a little, enough for him to feel it all over again. Another weight, another reminder that he is ruining something delicate, something not meant for him.

“Oh,” you murmur, nodding too quickly, stepping back as though your warmth was a mistake. “Okay.”

And there it is.

That thing he can’t stand.

That thing you do - both of you, all versions of you - when you feel shut out. That pull inward, that retreat behind your own ribs, as though maybe you’d overstepped, and now you need to fold yourself small enough not to take up space.

It crushes him.

Because he made you feel that way.

He made you feel as though you’re making it worse by caring.

He swallows hard, sorrow burning down his throat.

He doesn’t deserve your tenderness. He doesn’t deserve your care. He doesn’t deserve the way you’re moving again, back to the counter, shoulders tense. You’re trying to give him space and comfort in the same breath and it hurts to watch.

You stir something in the pan. Wipe your hands off a towel that looks as though it’s been used too many times. Domestic. Familiar. This life is familiar, too much so, and he is standing in the middle of it like a trespasser.

“I’m almost done here,” you note sweetly, glancing back at him with that look - gentle and worried and wounded. “If you do want something.”

You say it as though you’ve fed him before. As though he likes your cooking. As though this is something you fall into easily, the kitchen your common ground, your voice echoing off the same cabinets.

Bucky can feel his heart cave in.

You’re still looking at him like that. As though he’s someone you’d give your last spoonful of soup to. As though he isn’t just standing there like a coward with your kiss still on his mouth and your concern sitting in the hollow of his chest.

Even when he pulled away, even when he didn’t say a damn word, you didn’t get angry. You didn’t accuse him of anything. You just worried. And you’re still here. Still cooking. Still offering pieces of yourself like they’re nothing when they mean everything.

It makes him feel like a thief.

Because he’s not your Bucky. And he doesn’t know what yours did to earn you, but he can’t possibly live up to it.

His guilt is a creature now - gnawing and breathing heavy in his chest, pacing in circles behind his ribs. He feels it crawling through him, scraping at the back of his throat, making it hard to speak, hard to swallow. You are being careful with him, and all he can think about is how he should have stopped the kiss the second you leaned in.

You wouldn’t have kissed him if you knew who he really was.

And still, he wants to say yes.

Wants to sit at the kitchen table as though he belongs. Wants to take the plate you’d hand him and eat every last bite and listen to your stories and pretend just for a moment that this is his.

But it’s not.

It’s yours.

And it’s his job to leave it untouched.

“I’m good,” he lies, voice a gravel-dragged croak.

You pause, spoon in hand, frowning softly.

He hates that look.

That little line between your brows. The tilt of your head. Maybe you know he’s not telling the truth but don’t want to press. Maybe you’d rather hold the silence in your hands than make him bleed more words than he has.

“Okay,” you say again, quiet but still open, still gentle. “Just let me know if that changes.”

And you turn back to your pan, shoulders remaining to stay curled in. Like a window closing just enough to keep the cold out.

And Bucky just stands there.

Mouth dry. Hands shaking. Jaw tight. Chest full of something that feels like grief and guilt and anguish all tangled up in barbed wire.

And you’re cooking for a man who doesn’t exist in your world.

And the worst part - the part that scrapes down the back of his throat - is that he wishes he could deserve you.

He wishes this was real.

He wishes it were him.

He wishes it more than he’s wished for anything in his life since he lost it.

Since he became something else, since he forgot his own name, since his hands were turned against the world, against himself. Since all he’s done is survive.

He watches you like a man starving for sunlight. Terrified it might disappear if he blinks too long.

The way your shoulders move as you stir. The curl of your fingers around the wooden spoon. The tuck of hair behind your ear. The shift of your weight from one foot to the other.

He watches you move like he’s memorizing. As though this is the last time he’ll see you in motion. Like your movements are things he can bottle and carry with him, tucked deep into some pocket where the world can’t steal it. Where time can’t take it. Where even regret has no reach.

Your fingers fuss over something inconsequential now. Adjusting the position of a mug that didn’t need to be moved, opening a drawer, and then closing it again. You’re pretending not to look at him but he sees the way your eyes keep falling over, the way you keep folding and unfolding yourself. You’re waiting. Giving him the space he didn’t ask for and that he doesn’t actually want but knows he should take. Giving him something kinder than he’s ever learned to give himself.

And you are so familiar. You’re the same here. Even in this place that’s slightly sideways and tinted in colors, he doesn’t recognize. You move the same. You speak the same. You care the same way.

Even if your kindness isn’t meant for him.

Even if your kiss was meant for a version of him he doesn’t even understand.

Because this Bucky - the one you seem to love here - he must have done something right. He must have looked at you one day and not looked away. He must have let himself have you. He must have been brave enough to reach for you with both hands and hold on.

Bucky doesn’t know how to be that man.

He wants to be.

But he doesn’t know how.

Not in his own world. Not where he loves you from afar and pretends that’s protection. Where he swallows the way you laugh like it’s medicine and doesn’t let it show on his face. Where he listens to your questions in briefings - always you, always asking the most, as though you know people better than they know themselves - and he lets the sound of your voice guide him through the fog in his head like a rope he can follow back home.

But he never says anything. Never answers unless he has to. Never tells you how often he thinks about you, about your hands and your hair and your smell and the way your eyes find his in a crowd like a lighthouse built just for him.

Because what would he even say?

Hey, I can’t sleep unless I replay the way you laughed when Sam dropped popcorn all over the floor last month. I still have the napkin you folded into a crane at that terrible diner. I know the shape of your handwriting better than my own.

And what would you say to that?

Would you smile?

Would you run?

He doesn’t know. He’ll never know. Because he never asked. Because he never tried.

But this Bucky did.

And now this is the price.

Standing in the compound’s kitchen that smells of roasted garlic and too many things he’s never had. Watching you move around as though this is all so very familiar to you.

He wonders if you’d greet him like this every day if he were yours. If you were his.

If you’d light up like that every time like he was coming come and not just showing up, arms open, voice warm, like there was no place he could be safer than here with you.

If you’d wear his shirts as though they are yours because of what he means to you, not because they are soft or convenient or too clean not to steal.

He aches with the idea of it.

He wants this.

He wants you.

And not just in the sharp pain that lives under his ribs. Not just in the sleepless nights and the imagined conversations. Not just in the way he stares too long when you’re laughing or how he makes excuses to sit beside you on the couch.

He wants this.

You, warm and open and lit up from the inside. You, the way you could be if you saw him like this. If you let yourself. If he ever earned the right for you to let yourself.

But he hasn’t. He knows that.

He’s just your friend. The one you trust with your coffee order and your spare key and the heavy things you don’t want to talk about until 2 am. The one you steal clothes from, but always give them back because they don’t actually belong to you. The one you fall asleep beside during late movies without worrying about what it means because it doesn’t mean anything. Not to you.

Not like it means to him.

And still, he always watches. From doorways. From shadowed corners of rooms that dim the moment you leave them. Not to possess you - but because to look away would be a small death he cannot bear.

You laugh, and he holds the sound like contraband. You glance past him, and he lets it wound him sweetly. He’ll love you like that forever - at a distance, in silence, in awe. A man carved hollow by devotion, wearing his yearning like a prayer no god will answer.

And this version of you belongs to someone.

Even if it’s just a different version of him, it’s not him. Not this one. Not the one still lost in the burden of everything he’s done. The one who still wonders if the blood on his hands will ever wash off. The one who doesn’t know how to be soft.

He doesn’t know what the other Bucky did to deserve this version of you. Doesn’t know how he got so lucky. Doesn’t know what he offered you, what words he spoke when you were doubting yourself, afraid of being too much.

He’s not sure if he even knows this Bucky. It sounds weird as fuck. But maybe he doesn’t. Because it seems impossible to Bucky that this guy actually managed to get his girl. To get you.

Though he sure as hell would start a fight if the other him ever took this for granted. If he ever walked through this kitchen distracted or tired or in a bad mood and missed the way you smile when you think he’s not looking. If he ever left you waiting too long.

Bucky thinks he’d kill to have what that punk has.

And he hates himself for that.

But he can’t help but watch you, and it feels like the axis of something turning. Like time folding in on itself to offer him one brief, borrowed breath of what could have been.

It feels like being kissed by a future he lost, and forgiven by a present he never dared to ask for.

Because he knows that if you knew his thoughts, if you knew what he is feeling right now, you’d feel betrayed. You’d feel wronged. Because this wasn’t yours to give and it wasn’t his to want and now you’re both tangled in something made of shadows and parallel paths that should never have crossed.

But you’re here. And he’s here. And the moment still smells of cinnamon and citrus and something sweet, like safety, like you.

And he can’t stop wanting.

He wants it so badly he feels like a child in his chest. Like a boy in Brooklyn again, heart too big, hands too empty. Wanting something too beautiful for his fingers. Afraid to touch it in case he ruins it.

He wants this kitchen, this quiet, this life. He wants to be the Bucky who you wrap your arms around without thinking. Without hesitation. The one you miss. The one you think about. The one you care about so deeply. The one you kiss without asking because of course he wants you to.

He wants to be the one you light up for.

He wants it so bad it hurts.

But you are too soft for the ruin of his hands. Too bright for the rooms he lives in. You drink from fountains he was never invited to approach, speak in tones that his rusted soul cannot mimic.

And this is gutting him. To know the shape of your intimate kindness, the tilt of your adoring smile, the poetry of your presence - yet remain nothing more than a silent apostle to your orbit.

And maybe that’s why he finally moves. Why he tears himself away, footfalls too loud in the silence, heart thudding wildly in his chest.

He can’t stay here, not with you standing in the soft yellow light looking like everything he’s ever tried not to need.

He clears his throat, tries to make his voice sound normal, even though nothing about him feels human right now.

Your eyes lift to his. Wary. Still warm. Still worried. Still too much.

“I should, uh,” he mutters, nodding toward the hallway. “I’ve gotta take a shower.”

He bites his lip in frustration at himself.

Your lip twitches. Tugs down ever so slightly. It splits him open.

“Okay,” you say, quiet. There is disappointment in your tone, you weren’t able to overshadow. “You’ll tell me if you need anything?”

He nods too fast. Too tight. “Yeah.”

And then he leaves.

Because if he doesn’t, he’s going to do something worse than kiss you back.

He’s going to beg.

And he knows he has already taken too much.

And he needs to turn away.

Because he has something to do.

Because this world isn’t his. And he wasn’t sent here to collect the storyline he’s too afraid to build on his own.

He’s here for a mission.

He wasn’t sent here to linger in your doorway and let his bones dissolve into longing.

He walks away with you still behind him. He feels your gaze on his skin and with every step, it’s like he’s leaving something behind he’ll never quite be able to touch again.

He almost turns around.

Almost says your name.

Almost asks what this Bucky did - how he said it first, how he reached for you, what it took.

But he doesn’t.

Because he doesn’t get to ask.

So he keeps walking, heart in his throat, your taste still on his lips, and the echo of your smile carved into his spine like something sacred he was never meant to keep.

****

“Did you run into anyone while you were there?”

Steve’s question comes as casually as a bomb dropped from the sky.

Voices rise and fall in the conference room - wooden chairs squeaking under shifting weight, pens clicking, someone’s fingers drumming absently on the table.

The room is too bright. The lights overhead white and clinical, burning a little too harshly through his eyes and down into the back of his skull.

The air smells like ozone and burnt coffee. The kind that’s been sitting in the pot too long, scorched at the edges.

Bucky sits at the far end. Back against the chair but not relaxed, never relaxed, spine too straight, jaw too tight, metal fingers tapping once against the glass of his water before he clenches his hand and stills it.

And he knew this was coming.

Knew from the moment Strange opened that cursed slit in the fabric of the universe and Bucky stepped through like he was boarding a train to nowhere. Knew the second he saw your face - your face, but not yours - that this would catch up with him. That this would unravel under fluorescent lights and scrutiny.

Every muscle in his body coiled tighter. A reflex. A learned thing. His mouth is already dry.

The table is crowded with Avengers, coffee cups clinking, files half-open and untouched because no one is really looking at the paper.

The prototype sits in the center of the table, carefully sealed inside one of Tony’s vacuum-shielded cases. A long-forgotten Howard Stark fever dream, something meant to bend energy fields into weaponized gravity. Or something. It doesn’t matter.

They have it. He got it.

But that’s not what anyone is talking about right now.

Not when Sam is already side-eyeing him. Not when Doctor Strange is seated in his dark robes like the warning label on a grenade, fingertips tented, waiting. Not when you’re sitting two chairs down - his version of you - and you’re watching him with that same knitted expression you always wear when something doesn’t sit right.

“Bucky,” Strange says, voice low and still too loud. “I need to know. Did you encounter anyone significant while you were there? Interacting with alternate selves is risky. Prolonged exposure can ripple. If you spoke to someone who knows you-”

“I know the damn rules,” Bucky mutters, sharper than he meant to, and instantly hates the way your brows lift at the sound of it.

He rubs a hand across the back of his neck. Tries to breathe. His body is still holding something that didn’t belong to him. Your smile. Your voice. The feel of your lips, pressed to his like they had every right to be there. Like you knew him.

He can’t stop thinking about you.

He doesn’t want to talk about it.

He dreads talking about it.

“There was someone,” he says, and the room quiets.

You sit a little straighter. Sam leans forward. Even Clint lowers his cup.

He can feel you watching him.

You, his version of you, sitting across the table with your arms crossed and your head tilted just enough to catch the shadows under his eyes. The real you. The only important you. And it’s so difficult to just look at you because he swears there’s a phantom echo still lingering in his chest. Of another you. Of another kitchen full of light.

“Who?” Strange asks.

Bucky exhales slowly, eyes fixed on the table. The grain of it. The scratch just under his knuckle. He imagines digging his fingers into it, splinters biting through skin, anything to ground himself.

“You,” He meets your eyes when he finally says it, and it feels like swallowing gravel. “I saw her.”

You blink.

“You ran into Y/n?” Sam asks, something like a smirk in his voice.

Bucky nods once. It feels like rust grinding his neck.

He can’t look up anymore. Can’t look at you.

He doesn’t need to look to know your breath has caught. He can feel it in the air. The absence of it. Like the moment before thunder.

He pushes through.

“She was there. She saw me.” His jaw clenches, his fists curl under the table.

Bruce exhales, pushing up his glasses. “That’s not ideal.”

Tony makes a sharp noise in his throat.

“Did you talk to her?” Strange inquiries, voice tighter now, more urgent. And Bucky has to refrain himself from wincing.

He sees you shifting in your seat in his peripheral vision.

“Yeah,” he sighs, quieter now. “We, uh- we talked.”

Silence.

Strange’s eyes are boring through him. “How close did you get?”

Sam leans forward. Bucky doesn’t look at him.

You’re staring at him now. Open. Quiet. You haven’t said a word. Your silence feels worse than anything else.

“I don’t think that matters-” Bucky starts, but Strange interrupts.

“It matters exactly. If she saw you, if you talked, if you touched, if anything that could destabilize your emotional tether occurred-”

Bucky laughs, but it’s hollow, breathless. Rotten. “What the hell is an emotional tether?”

“It’s you,” Strange answers simply. “And her. On a metaphysical level. The same person in different timelines can act as anchors. Or explosives.”

“Jesus,” Bucky mumbles, dragging a hand down his face.

His palms won’t stop sweating.

He hasn’t felt this kind of sick since HYDRA used to strap wires to his temples and ask him how many fingers they’d need to break before he forgot his own name.

The conference room is too still. Too sharp. His chair feels wrong under him, too stiff, too narrow. The soft, predictable sound of conversation from earlier has dropped into something tighter. Focused. Hunting.

He doesn’t want to lie. Not about you. Not when you touched him like that. Not when you said his name like that. Not when it almost felt like it could be true.

So he swallows hard and pushes words through his locked jaw.

“She hugged me.”

A pause.

He doesn’t look at anyone. Just the table. That one dent from Steve’s shield. The scratch Clint made with a fork because he talks with his hands. A small, folded paper crane tucked under your fingers. He doesn’t know where you’ve got that from but your fingers are bending the wings back and forth. He doesn’t think you even realize you’re doing it.

“She hugged you?” Sam repeats, brow raised. “Like… greeted you?”

Bucky nods slowly, heart thudding in his ears. “Something like that.” He can feel your gaze like heat pressed against the side of his face and it almost burns to meet it, so he doesn’t.

“What happened before that?” Steve wants to know, eyes narrowing.

“I-” Bucky starts, and then stops, scrubs a hand over his mouth. “I walked into the kitchen. She was cooking something. Then she saw me. She thought I- he- was back. From something. A mission. I don’t know the details.”

“And she hugged you,” Steve adds.

“Yeah,” Bucky sighs.

He doesn’t mean to look at you, but he does. For a second.

And you’re watching him with something unreadable in your eyes. Something still. As though you are trying to understand.

“And you just let her?” Sam presses, not unkind, but relentless in the way only Sam can be. “You didn’t say anything?”

“What do you think I should have said?”

“Well, I don’t know, man-“

“Did I say anything? Or… she?”

It’s your voice.

And it makes his stomach flip.

His eyes snap to you. But you’re not looking at him directly. You look at the edge of his shoulder. The hinge of his jaw. The tension written across his face.

He shifts in his chair. “You- She asked why I hadn’t told her I was coming back. Thought I was surprising her.” His hands are pressed flat against his thighs as though he can keep himself from shaking if he stays grounded.

“And?” Steve asks, too gently.

“She kissed me,” Bucky manages finally, and the room stiffens around him like a held breath. His voice is almost flat now. Hollowed-out. Maybe he’s trying to bleed the memory dry so it stops spreading in his chest.

There is a momentary lapse of silence that feels like someone dropped something delicate and no one wants to be the first to point it out.

Clint exhales slowly, muttering something under it. Sam leans back in his chair, maybe trying to decide if this is funny or devastating. Steve just blinks.

And you go completely still. Not a twitch of movement. Not even your fingers on the paper crane.

“She kissed you?” Natasha says, brows high.

Bucky exhales. Nods.

“What kind of kiss?” Sam blurts, leaning forward again. “A welcome-home kiss? Or a- like a real kiss?”

Steve sighs exasperated.

“No, I mean- we gotta know. This matters.”

His hand is aching. Flesh thumb pressing hard against the knuckle. “It was- not friendly.”

And the room really freezes. Stunned.

Until Sam lets out this sharp, incredulous sort of whistle, and Clint groans, dragging a hand down his face.

You glance down at your lap, jaw clenched, breath held so still it barely moves your chest. And it twists something in Bucky’s stomach, the way you sit there trying to disappear. He’s not sure who it hurts more - you, hearing this, or him, saying it. There is shame curling behind his ears. Shame and something like grief. And it’s all turned inward.

Sam’s eyes narrow. “So she kissed you thinking you were the other Bucky.”

Bucky doesn’t answer. He’s trying to keep still. Trying not to flinch. Trying not to look left. Trying not to look right. Trying not to look at you.

Because he feels the air around you shift like the press of a coming storm. It’s not anger. He knows that heat, and this isn’t it. It’s just quiet and tight and uncomfortable. A subtle withdrawal as though you’ve stepped behind some invisible wall only he can see.

And he hates it.

Bruce clears his throat carefully. “That implies a romantic connection. At least in her mind. Probably in his, too.”

Tony makes a face. “So we’re saying that Barnes and our girl are a thing in that universe.”

“Looks like it,” Natasha muses, eyes sliding toward you.

“Holy shit,” Clint remarks unhelpfully.

They say it so easily. As though this is nothing. As though this doesn’t wreck something fundamental in Bucky’s ribcage.

And suddenly everyone is quiet. Even the noise of the lights seem muted. It’s hot and awkward and strangely intimate.

Bucky stares down at his hands. They look like someone else’s. He can still feel your touch on them. Still feel the heat of your mouth against his. The softness. The way your lips pressed with such intention.

He says nothing.

He feels terrible.

Because a part of him still wants it.

Still aches with it.

Not the kiss. Not the accident.

The life.

That version of himself who gets to love you out loud. Who gets to be yours in daylight, in kitchens, in the moments that don’t demand heroism but just presence. That version of him that doesn’t have to swallow the way your voice makes something flutter in his chest like a broken-winged butterfly. The one who can kiss you because you already know him. Trust him. Want him. Miss him.

He wants that version to exist so badly.

And it makes him feel like a monster.

You’re sitting just far enough to be untouchable, just close enough that he can feel the space between you aching like a wound.

You are you. You are right there. And you don’t even know that in another universe, you loved him so much you ran into his arms without hesitation.

The light from the high windows drips in thin streaks across the long table, catching on Bucky’s knuckles, the tightness of his body.

There’s a long pause.

Then Tony exhales. “Well, that confirms it. Barnes is getting some in another universe.”

“Tony,” Natasha warns lowly.

Tony holds his hands up in mock innocence, but Strange interrupts them, turning to Bucky with a roll of his eyes. His cloak rustles.

“Did you tell her anything?” His voice is edged. “Did she suspect something?”

Bucky doesn’t answer immediately. He shifts in his seat. His back is too straight, and still, and his hands are bracing for something.

“No,” he relents. His voice is raw and rough like gravel pulled from the bottom of a riverbed. “I didn’t tell her anything.”

Strange’s eyes narrow. “Nothing?”

Bucky shakes his head. “Nothing.”

Strange tilts his head slightly. His expression is unreadable. Calculating. “Her behavior. Did she seem disoriented? Odd? Suspicious? I assume you know Y/n well enough to tell if she’s acting off.”

The lump in his throat settles as though it lives there.

“She was hurt,” he admits, and the words punch out of him. “I froze up. She thought she’d done something wrong. But she didn’t suspect anything.”

Across from him, you shift. A small movement. But he feels it in his bones. He looks up. Meets your eyes.

You’re watching him as though you’re trying to learn something about yourself from inside of him.

He swallows hard.

“I didn’t tell her anything,” he says again, and it’s not for Strange this time. It’s for you. “I didn’t compromise anything. I was careful.”

“You were compromised,” Strange says, not unkindly, but without sympathy. “Emotionally. Whether you said something or not.”

Bucky doesn’t argue.

Because yes. He was. He is. He doesn’t even know how to be anything else anymore. His chest still echoes with the memory of your laugh - not your laugh, but close enough to trick him. His arms still remember the shape of your body, the way you buried yourself into him. As though you’d been there a thousand times before and would be a thousand times again.

He wonders what that other you is doing now. If you are still standing in the kitchen, perhaps waiting for him. Still hurt. Still confused. Still so worried.

He wonders what that Bucky is doing now. If he’s back. If he’s home. If you’re in his arms, asking what took him so long. If he knows what he has. If he’s grateful. If he deserves you.

And he wonders too, if you - the you here, right across from him now, quiet and tense and real - will ever look at him that way.

Your eyes are on his and it seems as though you want to say something, as though maybe you’ve been wanting to say something for a while now.

He doesn’t hear the others anymore.

They’re voices in a room, sounds in space, language and logic pressing against the outside of a window he’s no longer looking through.

Because your eyes are on him and they are too open, too careful.

And, unfortunately for him, this is where the hope begins.

Small. Thin. Stupid.

Because there is a version out there who loved him already. Who ran to him as though he was safety and home and joy all wrapped in one reckless heart and it had been so easy for her. Natural, even. Like a reflex. Like a need.

And he has to think that if she could, then maybe you could too.

Maybe - if he just keeps showing up, if he keeps giving you pieces of himself even when it’s terrifying, even when he thinks he has nothing worth offering - maybe you’ll see something in him that you’ll want to keep.

Maybe he’s not beyond that.

Maybe he’s not on the edge of the world after all.

His heart stumbles inside him, a sharp jolt under his ribs, and he realizes too late that his breathing has gone shallow. His palm is sweating. His chest is aching in a way that is not just pain, but hunger, longing, desperate weightless wonder.

Strange is talking. Something about dimensional instability and neural resonance and all that science talk - but Bucky is no longer a soldier at a briefing.

He’s a man staring across a room at the person who has made his worst days survivable, and he’s remembering how it felt to see you in his shirt in a different kitchen, how you stood there with your back to him waiting for him to wrap his arms around you, how your lips tasted like things he should never know but can’t ever forget.

You shift again. Your knee knocks lightly against the leg of the table as you tuck your foot beneath you. And your hair falls forward, soft and a little tangled from the wind that always sneaks through the compound’s side doors. Your lips part, as though maybe you’re going to say something in front of everyone, and he braces for it, all of him going still like a wolf spotting something too delicate to touch.

But you don’t.

You break eye contact and tuck your hair behind your ear as though you caught yourself doing something you shouldn’t.

But Bucky doesn’t stop hoping.

Because he watched you do exactly that in a very different universe. Such a small gesture but it means so much to him.

Because yes, maybe he is not the Bucky she thought she kissed.

He’s not the Bucky who wakes up with you tangled in his sheets.

He’s not the Bucky who lets himself believe he could be loved without earning it first.

But maybe he could become that man.

Maybe if he tries hard enough, he too can get the girl.

Maybe if he works at this more than anything else that matters, you’ll love him too. Not just in some alternate world, but here.

In this one.

In your voice, when you say his name.

In your laugh, when he says something without meaning too.

In your eyes, when you don’t look away.

And he knows he would do anything to earn that.

He would do anything to be enough for you in the only universe that matters.

His fingers twitch. His shoulders square slowly, almost unconsciously, as though some decision has clicked into place without needing permission.

The room is still full. Voices layered over voices like shadows that haven’t realized the sun moved. Chairs creak beneath shifting bodies, Sam’s laughter breaking loose and grating on Bucky’s nerves.

The idiot is grinning, leaning back in his chair as though this whole situation is the best thing to happen this week. “Alternate-universe you is in a relationship, Barnes. What do we think about that, huh?”

“Sounds like he’s living the dream,” Clint mutters, giving Bucky a jab to the arm. “You finally got the girl, Barnes. Took a whole damn reality shift but you got there.”

Someone chuckles. Tony, maybe. Or even Steve. He can’t tell anymore. He can’t hear much over the buzz in his ears, over the sound of his own heart pounding behind his ribs.

“Hell, maybe all our multiverse selves are having better luck,” Sam remarks, amused.

Clint chuckles. “Ah, Barnes just grew a pair.”

“Well, that’s kind of a big deal, isn’t it?” Natasha, calm as ever, lifts one elegant eyebrow.

“Alternate-universe Barnes has game,” Sam says delighted.

“Lucky bastard,” Clint mutters under his breath.

They mean well. They always mean well. This is how they show they care. With ribbing and teeth-bared grins, with shoulders nudged, and things they don’t say louder than the ones they do. It’s how they keep their own wounds in check. How they keep from bleeding all over the carpet.

But Bucky isn’t laughing. He isn’t smiling. His lip twitches but only with frustration at his teammates.

He notices your stillness. The lines around your mouth have gone soft and tight all at once. Your hands are folded too carefully in your lap and your gaze is pinned to the table.

With every mention - every offhand comment, every teasing jab - he can see it.

The way your shoulders stuck in closer to themselves. The way your breath grows quiet and shallow. The way you can’t seem to look at him anymore.

He swallows around it, the sharpness in his throat, but it doesn’t go down.

Everyone else seems to think this is a strange, mildly awkward, maybe slightly endearing detail in a weird mission story.

But Bucky feels sick.

Because he’s seen it on your face. The way the information about the kiss struck you like a misfired bullet. A shadow in your eyes, the small breath that caught in your throat, the way you shifted your legs like you needed to move, to run, to put distance between yourself and what you heard.

God.

He’s such a fool.

A lovesick idiot.

Because he let that brightness curl in his chest. The hope that even though you have every right to feel nothing at all, even though he’s spent so long training himself not to want this, not to wish for things he can’t have - he truly thought that if there was a version of you that looked at him that way, that reached for him without fear, then maybe this version, this you - maybe there was something possible here too.

But now he is watching it close again. Watching you feeling uncomfortable, retreating into yourself, folding inward like the paper crane you left behind. And he knows the fault lines are his. That even his silence can crack things apart.

When the meeting finally breaks - Strange dismissing everyone with a calm nod and a list of inter-dimensional protocols Bucky doesn’t hear - you stand before anyone else. Quiet. Not hurried. Just deliberate.

As though you’ve made a decision.

You don’t look at him. Not once. Just gather your notes and your coffee and the sweater you left draped over the back of the chair.

And you leave.

No goodbye. No glance back. Not even that half-smile you offer when the day has left you tired and the silence between you feels soft instead of loud.

Bucky is on his feet before he realizes it. He ignores Sam calling after him, something about needing to finish signing off the tech. Doesn’t respond to Steve’s “Buck?” Doesn’t glance at Strange, who’s looking at him as though he already knows where this is headed.

All Bucky sees is the hallway.

You, disappearing around the corner, just a whisper of your hair and the sound of your boots against the polished floor. And all he can think is no.

Not like this.

He walks fast, with his pulse in his mouth and panic blooming in his chest.

You’re so graceful even when you’re upset, even when your body is stiff with tension. You carry yourself with that strength that’s always pulled him in, and he hates that he knows it. Hates that he can read you this well, because it means he knows you’re hurting.

He walks fast enough to catch up, to not give himself time to think about it too much. His hands are cold again. The way they get when he’s unsure. When something matters more than he knows how to handle.

“Hey,” he calls out, and his voice comes out too soft. Almost hoarse. “Wait- can you- can we talk?”

You stop. Slow, reluctant. As if the last thing you want to do is this but some piece of you can’t help it.

You don’t turn around at first. You’re breathing hard. He can see your shoulders rise and fall too quickly, your jaw tight, your arms folded across your chest as though you are trying to keep yourself together.

You turn.

And it’s worse than he thought.

Because your eyes are shiny and your expression is made of glass and restraint and you’re biting the inside of your cheek in that way you do when you want to pretend something didn’t bother you.

He hates this. Hates that he did this to you, even accidentally.

But god, you still are beautiful in a way that feels like gravity. Like the ache in his chest could drag the stars down to meet you.

You watch him as though trying not to give too much away.

“Can we talk?” He repeats, breath catching somewhere between hope and despair.

You shrug, not cold, not angry. Just tired. “If you want.”

He steps closer. Not too close. Careful. Always careful with you.

“I know it probably sounded bad in there,” he says, voice rough. “I didn’t want it to come out like that. Like I was… caught up in something.”

“You don’t have to explain yourself, Bucky,” you say quickly, voice too neutral. “You didn’t know. I get it.”

But he wants to explain. Wants to lay it out, piece by bloody piece. Wants you to understand that for a minute there, he forgot how to breathe because of how you looked at him. That he hasn’t stopped thinking about it since.

“I didn’t tell you- I mean, tell her,” he blurts, breathless. “I didn’t tell her who I was. Or where I came from. I didn’t say anything.”

You blink at him. “Okay.”

“She thought I was him. I- I didn’t say anything because I- I wasn’t supposed to engage and I wasn’t planning to. I swear I wasn’t planning to.”

You say nothing. Just stare at him with that sweetly confused expression.

Bucky steps closer. He’s aching, head to toe, something brittle in his chest like cracked glass.

“You kissed me,” he continues, and you bite your lip, looking away, “but I didn’t- I froze. It felt wrong. And when you said you missed me, I panicked. It felt like I was stealing something. From you. From you both.”

He stops. Swallows.

And there it is again. That dangerous spark. That sharp, flickering thing that’s lived inside him ever since he saw that other version of you, ever since your arms wrapped around his neck and your mouth pressed to his and your voice filled his chest with something whole.

He wishes for a version of that hope here, too.

But not if it means breaking you to find it.

You’re watching him with something unreadable in your eyes. He can’t tell if it’s pain or disappointment or confusion or all of it. He just knows it’s tearing him apart.

“I know it wasn’t me she kissed,” he goes on, quiet, every word dragging out of him as if it doesn’t want to be spoken. “And I know it wasn’t you, either. But it made me think that maybe-” He breaks off, exhales. “I know it’s not fair to say it, but-”

“Then don’t.” Your voice is soft when it comes.

And he flinches as though you touched a nerve.

But your face isn’t cruel. It’s sad. Honest. Tired in the way people get when they’re holding too many emotions all at once.

“I’m not her,” you clarify, but there is something fractured in the way you say it, like the words are paper-thin and barely holding shape. “I’m not whatever version of me you saw, whoever she is to you, that’s not me.”

“I know,” he croaks out. Bucky steps closer, just once. Not touching. Not yet. He doesn’t dare.

“No, I don’t think you do.” Your arms unfold slowly, but not in surrender. You gesture at yourself, the smallest movement, but there is steel in it. “She looks like me,” you go on. Your voice is tight. Bitter. It’s not like you. Not how he knows you - the warmth, the patience, the fire and calm and kindness all mixed together. “She sounds like me. But she’s not. She’s not me, Buck.”

And then you turn as if you’re about to go. As though you can’t stand another second of standing still in front of him.

“No- don’t,” he pleads, and before he can stop himself, he reaches. His hand finds your wrist, not tight, not rough, just enough to stop you. “Please.”

You pause again, with an exhale that is sharp and hurt and too loud in the hallway.

He is closer now. Close enough to see how tight you press your mouth together to keep it from trembling. The twitch of pain in your brow, the soft crease between your eyes he knows only shows up when you’re trying really hard not to cry.

Guilt and desperation roll through him, thorough, like a tide pulling everything warm away. It unspools him from the inside.

“What?” There is no weight behind your words. Your voice is worn. Defeated.

Bucks swallows. His voice feels like rust trying to be rain.

“She hugged me. Said she missed me. She kissed me like she’d done it a thousand times before.” His voice is shaking, even if he’s trying not to let it.

“And I didn’t stop her. Not for a second,” he goes on, quiet. “I should’ve. I should’ve pulled away sooner, but I-”

You pull your arm back, but he doesn’t let go.

“Why are you telling me this?” you question him, voice breaking in the middle. “What am I supposed to do with that, Bucky? Be happy for some other version of me?”

There is so much pain in your eyes, so much confusion and hurt and jealousy and heartbreak and it cuts him right through the heart. He feels it bleeding into his organs.

He closes his eyes, forgets how to breathe for a moment.

“I didn’t stop her,” he says lowly, slowly, “because, for a second, it felt like you.”

The silence between you is thick enough to drown in.

Your lips part, but no sound comes out.

“For a second, it felt like something I’ll never have,” he confesses, barely audible now. “And I was selfish. I let it happen. Because it wasn’t just a kiss to me.”

You don’t speak. You don’t move. Your chin trembles.

You look at him as though you want to say something but can’t trust yourself to do it.

“I’ve been trying to bury it,” he admits, voice strained. “This thing in my chest. This want. It’s been there for a long time. And I kept thinking- if I just waited long enough, maybe it would go away. Maybe you’d never have to know. But I saw what it looked like when I had it. When I had you. Even if it wasn’t really you. And I- I didn’t want to come back here and pretend I didn’t feel it anymore.”

You don’t move. Just stand there. Staring at him as if you don’t know what to do with the version of the world he is handing you.

“I’m not asking for anything,” he adds quickly, voice thick and gravelly. “Not expecting anything. I just- I couldn’t let you walk away thinking it didn’t mean anything. Because it did. But not because of that other you.”

Bucky loosens his hold on your wrist the way someone lays a weapon down.

Slowly. Gently. Like an offering. Giving you a choice. A chance to run. A way out, if that’s what you need.

His fingers brush fabric as he lets go, every inch of skin unthreading from yours just another stitch in the fabric holding him together.

He steps back. Not far, but enough. Giving you the room to run if you want to. Because he would never cage you. Not you. Not the girl he’s tried so hard not to need and failed so spectacularly at not loving.

The cold creeps in like a punishment.

He swallows, breath shallow, heart trying to climb out of his chest. He doesn’t look away.

“It meant something,” he breathes, and the words are low but steady, dragged out of some buried part of him where he’s kept the truth folded up too long. “It meant something because I love you.”

The words hang there. Open. Unarmored. His voice doesn’t shake but he feels the quake underneath it. He is already bracing for the ruin of it, for the way your silence might cut him down. It’s too much. He’s too much. Too much and too late and he’s saying it anyway, because what else can he do now, what else is left to do but burn with it.

“I love you. You. Only you,” he repeats, and this time it’s quieter, as if speaking it softer might hurt less if you break him.

He is bracing for your silence. For the recoil. For the slow turning of your back and the slam of a door, he won’t ever be allowed to knock on again.

But you don’t run.

You just stare at him.

Wide glassy eyes, lips parted, your whole face carved out of disbelief. Your chest rises with shallow, trembling breaths, and for a second, it’s like the hallway has no oxygen at all. Just the two of you standing in a vacuum made of shattered timing and aching things laid bare.

You look like someone trying to decide if the ground beneath you is real. If you are dreaming.

And Bucky is not breathing.

Doesn’t know how he will ever take in a breath again.

Then you move.

Fast. Sharp. Certain.

You close the distance between you with a speed that knocks his soul out of him, and before he can even process the intention behind the storm in your eyes, your hands are in his collar and your mouth is on his.

It’s not gentle.

It’s not careful.

You crash into him as though gravity has finally won. As though your body has been held back for too long and now it’s surging forward with years of restraint snapped at the root.

It hits him like an impact. Like a whole damn earthquake disguised as your mouth on his.

He makes a noise - somewhere between shock and surrender - and for the barest second, he is frozen.

He’s still.

Because this is you.

You.

One breathless, startled second he forgets everything - his name, the room, the hallway, the mission, the multiverse - and then he’s moving.

He melts.

His arms are around you in a heartbeat, tight, desperate, finding your waist, your back, the edge of your jaw, greedy and trembling and too careful all at once. He pulls you in, tighter, tighter, one hand threading into your hair, the other locking around your waist.

And then he is kissing you back with everything he has, with everything he’s been holding back, with every version of himself that ever wanted to belong.

He is kissing you back as though he’ll never get the chance again.

His whole body folds into yours, heart slamming into his ribs, mouth pressing against yours, like a question he’s been dying to ask. He kisses you like an apology, like a promise, like he’s been holding his breath for a century and only just remembered how to exhale.

It’s not a careful kiss.

It’s years of aching packed into the space between your lips. It’s soft lips and a metal palm and your nails digging in his jacket and his thumb shaking against your jaw. It’s a kiss that tastes of every unsaid word, every sleepless night, every time he looked at you and wondered what it would feel like to have you.

The second your tongue touches his lower lip, a low and tortured sound rips from somewhere deep in his chest. He answers you with open-mouthed hunger, tilts his head just enough to draw you in deeper, slants his mouth over yours as though he’s living out every dream in which he’s imagined this before.

He feels the warmth of your lips and the way you lean into him, the way you give yourself over completely, and he pulls you even closer, as though he’s trying to kiss every version of you that exists in every universe just to get back to this one. You. Here. Now.

His tongue brushes yours and everything goes tight inside him - his stomach flips, his spine arches ever so slightly, his body not knowing whether to hold steady or fall apart entirely.

Your lips are sweet and urgent and you make a sound - quiet, somewhere between a sigh and a gasp - and it knocks the air in his lungs every which way.

His mouth moves faster when your fingers curl into him tighter and tug him closer, dragging him under. His metal fingers are splayed over the small of your back, and his flesh fingers are tangling at the nape of your neck, holding you still as his tongue licks into your mouth, gentle but full of everything he’s feeling.

He moans softly into you, doesn’t even realize it’s happening until he feels the sound buzz against your lips. His pulse is pounding in his ears. His knees feel untrustworthy. There is heat spreading through his chest, through his limbs, and he wants to live in this moment forever, suspended in the place where you chose him.

When you finally pull back, your lips are swollen, flushed. He presses his forehead to yours just enough to breathe, but not enough to let you go. Never that.

His hands are on your face. His thumbs brush under your eyes. His breath shudders out against your lips.

When he opens his eyes, slowly, he is met with yours. Glistening and wide and so full of feeling it almost floors him.

He stares at you as though he’s seeing the sun rise for the first time.

“I love you too,” you breathe against him.

Bucky shivers.

It lands like a heartbeat he forgot to hope for.

Pleasure surges through his veins, straight to his heart. His eyes fall shut, lost in it.

And something in him tells him he will hear this at least a thousand times, maybe even more, if he’s lucky.

“I loved her not for the way she danced with my angels, but for the way the sound of her name could silence my demons.”

- Christopher Poindexter

[cheftsunoda]

Alexandra x Charles x reader where readers a really smart genius engineer that basically fixed ferraris problems so the fans love her but Alex is like hates so it’s Charles and reader comforting Alex

you belong — cl16 & alexandra saint mleux

smau + blurbs

when yn joined ferrari in 2025 as charles leclerc’s race engineer, no one expected the team’s fortunes to turn so sharply. but yn had never been one to follow expectations. brilliant, unshakable under pressure, and fiercely dedicated, she wasn’t just charles’ partner off the track anymore—she was the mastermind behind his winning streak. their relationship had always been the kind people whispered about in disbelief—dating since 2022, unshakably in love, and then—just as the world adjusted to that—opening their hearts in 2023 to alexandra. a soft, steady presence in their chaos. an unlikely throuple that somehow made perfect sense. at first, the world loved them. loved the victories, the public kisses, the unity. but as the wins piled up and yn’s brilliance took center stage, the tide began to turn—toward alexandra. whispers of gold digging. accusations of riding coattails. a sudden, brutal wave of online hate. and while yn and charles were too caught up in podiums and progress to notice at first… the cracks were forming. but yn isn’t just intelligent in engineering, she is emotionally intelligent as well. and she can read alexandra like no other.

fc : lissie mackintosh

(a/n) : obvs all the hate comments in this are completely fictional and i love alexandra with my whole heart and im so happy that her and charles are together!

—

scuderiaferrari & yn_ln

liked by yn_ln, charles_leclerc, arthur_leclerc & 7,709,001 others.

scuderiaferrari : A new era begins. We are proud to welcome YN LN to the team as Charles Leclerc’s race engineer for the 2025 season. With a reputation for brilliance under pressure and a mind made for motorsport, she’s ready to rewrite what it means to wear red. Strategy. Precision. Power. Benvenuta, ingegnere. 🔴🏁

—

view 501,0188 other comments.

charles_leclerc : the best in the business. can’t wait to make history together, mon bébé❤️‍🔥

liked by yn_ln and scuderiaferrari

↳ username00 : oh these two working together is gonna be the death of me. so fucking cute.

lewishamilton : Incredible move. So excited to have you on the team and can’t wait to see you shine! 🫶🏽

liked by yn_ln, charles_leclerc & scuderiaferrari

alex_albon : Do I send my strategy questions to her or does that count as spying? 😅 Congratulations YN!!

liked by yn_ln, charles_leclerc & scuderiaferrari

↳ yn_ln : sadly it does count as spying, alex. but thank you!!!

arthur_leclerc : yes she’s always been this smart. yes she used to help me with my math homework. but YAYYYYYY YN!!!!!

liked by yn_ln, charles_leclerc & scuderiaferrari

georgerussell63 : I fear F1 might not be ready for this level of brainpower. Congrats YN! You earned it!!

liked by yn_ln, charles_leclerc & scuderiaferrari

alexandrasaintmleux : my pretty girl, my angel, my genius. proud does not even begin to cover it. love you with all my heart ♥️

liked by yn_ln, charles_leclerc & scuderiaferrari

username0 : charles finally gets a strategy team that knows what they’re doing AND gets to talk to his gf during the race. he’s winning on all fronts.

username1 : this is the same girl who rebuilt an engine in heels during a charity gala. ferrari is in excellent hands

liked by charles_leclerc and scuderiaferrari

lando : yn please go easy on us.

liked by yn_ln and charles_leclerc

↳ yn_ln : absolutely not norris, we are not friends during the season😈

liked by lando

username5 : i’m excited but also nervous… dating your driver?? hope there’s no bias or drama.

↳ username7 : her and charles are both professionals at what they do. plus they’ve been together since 2022 and have been friends even longer than that. they got this.

liked by scuderiaferrari

carlossainz55 : you mean to tell me that ferrari waited to make their smartest decision until after i left??? congratulations, mi hermana! no one deserves it more❤️

liked by yn_ln, charles_leclerc and arthur_leclerc

username10 : so we’re just letting girlfriends engineer now? cool cool

↳ yn_ln : well, ferrari hired the engineer with a first-class degree, years of motorsport data strategy experience, and three patented telemetry models under her name. the fact that i also happen to be charles’ girlfriend? just a bonus, babe;) stay tuned.

liked by charles_leclerc, arthur_leclerc, alexandrasaintmleux, scuderiaferrari, lewishamilton, pierregasly, lando, franciscagomes and carlossainz55

↳ lando : oh she ate you up.

liked by yn_ln

↳ username000 : oh i love her.

username11 : love wins i guess… but can she actually do her job or is this just a PR stunt?

↳ alexandrasaintmleux : she works harder than anyone i have ever met. but don’t worry, your opinion was noted… and ignored. 🥰

liked by yn_ln, charles_leclerc and arthur_leclerc

username15 : funny how she only got the job after dating charles. make it make sense.

↳ charles_leclerc : she got the job because she’s brilliant, OVERqualified, and has been outperforming people in this sport long before she became mine. if you think ferrari hires based on relationship status, maybe you should try keeping up with the lap times. 🙃

liked by charles_leclerc, arthur_leclerc, alexandrasaintmleux, scuderiaferrari, lewishamilton, pierregasly, lando, franciscagomes and carlossainz55

↳ username30 : oh he LOVES this girl

username17 : idc how smart she is this is messy. ferrari is a team, not a love triangle.

↳ arthur_leclerc : ah yes, how dare ferrari be functional, fast, and happy at the same time. if “messy” means winning races with the best engineer in the paddock, maybe we need more of it 🤭

liked by yn_ln, scuderiaferrari, charles_leclerc and alexandrasaintmleux

username33 : not only is she the smartest person in the room, she’s the calmest. y’all just hate seeing a woman win.

liked by charles_leclerc, yn_ln, arthur_leclerc and alexandrasaintmleux

username35 : just a reminder that yn rebuilt a gearbox by hand during her master’s thesis. she’s not a girlfriend first. she’s an engineer first. but she happens to be in love too. deal with it 😌

liked by charles_leclerc, yn_ln, arthur_leclerc and alexandrasaintmleux

↳ arthur_leclerc : mhm mhm. periodt

↳ username33 : arthur is her hype man I CANT.

username37 : “nepotism” accusations are wild when she literally published a telemetry algorithm that teams still use. stay mad.

liked by charles_leclerc, yn_ln, arthur_leclerc and alexandrasaintmleux

↳ yn_ln : ilysm. thank you for following my work🥹

liked by charles_leclerc and alexandrasaintmleux

↳ username37 : omg ofc you are brilliant, us girlies in motorsport have to stick together:)

liked by yn_ln

username40 : charles on the track. yn on the radio. alex in the paddock. name a more iconic setup. i’ll wait.

liked by charles_leclerc, yn_ln, arthur_leclerc and alexandrasaintmleux

—

Charles had been told his race engineer for the 2025 season would be “someone new, someone bold.” Fred had been vague, smug even, telling him—“Trust us, you’ll like her.” Charles had assumed it was just another seasoned strategist brought in from Mercedes or Red Bull. Good. They needed fresh thinking. After last year’s chaos? He’d take anyone who could tell the difference between Plan A and Plan D.

Still, he hadn’t expected the secrecy. When he arrived at the conference room Ferrari had booked for the “introductory meeting,” it was empty. Well, not completely. Arthur was there. With Alexandra. Sitting way too casually on opposite sides of the room, like they hadn’t clearly coordinated whatever this was.

“What are you two doing here?” Charles asked, suspicious already.

Arthur swung a leg up onto the chair next to him. “Moral support. Big day, bro.”

Alexandra smiled, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “We wanted front row seats.”

“To what?” Charles narrowed his eyes. “Is this about the simulator prank? Because I swear I didn’t know it would spin like that.”

“You’ll see.” Alexandra’s voice was sweet, teasing. She gestured to the chair at the head of the table. “Sit. Be professional. Your new race engineer is on her way.”

Charles sat, shifting restlessly, drumming his fingers on the table. “If this is some weird internal promo stunt—”

The door opened. And in walked you. Clipboard in hand. Ferrari-red badge around your neck. Black slacks, sharp posture, and that telltale smirk that only ever meant trouble for him.

You didn’t speak right away. You just raised a brow, eyes flicking across the room—at Alex, Arthur, and finally Charles—before you said, cool as ever— “Leclerc. You’re late.”

Charles just stared. Blink. Blink again. Then— “What?”

You set your things down and clicked the monitor on with a practiced tap. “I’m YN. Your new race engineer. Shall we get started?”

He was speechless. You, you, one of his partners—his everything—were now also the voice in his ear on race day?

Arthur snorted. “Get Netflix in here.”

Charles turned to him, wild-eyed. “You knew?”

Alexandra was biting her lip to stop from smiling. “We’ve been planning this for months. Fred made us swear not to tell you.”

“I—” Charles looked back at you, utterly betrayed and somehow more in love than ever. “You kept this from me?”

“I wanted to earn it,” you said softly, gaze steady. “Not as one of your girlfriends. As the best damn engineer Ferrari could hire.”

The silence hung heavy for a beat. Then Charles stood so fast his chair screeched back. “Are you joking? I’m in love with the most brilliant woman in motorsport and you’re telling me I get to win races with you in my ear? Mon dieu—this is cheating. This is unfair.”

You blinked. “Is that a problem?”

“It’s perfect,” he breathed, grinning like an idiot. “Tu es parfaite.”

Arthur groaned. “Okay, and I’m leaving. This is disgusting.”

Alexandra, still smiling, leaned over and whispered, “Wait for it—he’s going to do the dramatic declaration in three, two—”

“I AM GOING TO WIN A WORLD CHAMPIONSHIP WITH MY GIRLFRIENDS,” Charles shouted, arms up. “FRED VASSEUR, YOU BEAUTIFUL MAN!”

Somewhere down the hall, someone dropped a wrench. Laughter echoed from the Ferrari offices. You shook your head, but your eyes were warm, glassy even. You whispered just loud enough for him to hear, “You don’t have to win for me to be proud of you.”

Charles stepped close, hand brushing yours on the table. “But I want to win with you.”

Alexandra stood, clapping once. “Okay, now kiss and then get back to work. We’ve got a season to dominate.”

And Charles did. Right there in the Ferrari conference room, with Arthur fake-gagging and Alexandra beaming behind him, Charles kissed you like it was his first win of the season.

—

The sun had just started to dip, painting the hills in gold and rose as long tables were set under string lights in the garden of a villa that looked like it had been plucked straight out of a Tuscan dream. Ferrari had spared no detail—wood-fired pizza, fresh pasta, bottles of red wine already half empty, tiramisu trays stacked and ready. There were little hand-printed name cards, red cloth napkins, and centerpieces made entirely of roses and miniature Ferrari flags.

And at the head of the table? Charles. With you on one side. Alexandra on the other. His hands interlaced with both.

“You know,” Arthur said, half a meatball in his mouth, “this might be the first time I’ve seen Fred Vasseur drink wine and smile at the same time.”

Fred, two seats down, raised his glass. “That’s because—for once—I am confident we might actually finish a season with a functional strategy and a world championship.”

Laughter rippled around the table.

Charles leaned in to you, voice low. “You’re already working miracles.”

“I haven’t done anything yet,” you said, a little flushed.

Across from you, Pascale was quietly slicing through a piece of veal while smiling proudly at all three of you.

“You’ve always been family,” she said softly to you and Alexandra, “but it feels different now. Like it’s… I don’t know. Official.” She gave a gentle nod. “I’m glad he has you both.”

Alexandra reached over and squeezed your hand under the table and leaned her head on Charles shoulder, her hair tickling his arm. “Should we make it more official and crash the next team press conference together?” she whispered.

Charles perked up. “Can we all walk into Bahrain together in matching red?”

“Matching fits,” Alexandra corrected. “Not team polos. We’re still chic.”

Fred coughed deliberately. “As long as she doesn’t wear heels in the garage again,” he pointed at you and then to Alexandra, “or she doesn’t try to steal telemetry printouts because they ‘looked aesthetic.’”

“I was scrapbooking!” Alexandra gasped, scandalized. “For sentimental reasons!”

Everyone burst into laughter. Lewis, who’d arrived slightly late and was now eating some focaccia, pointed his fork dramatically. “You three are the first throuple in motorsport history I actually believe in.”

The toast clinked again. Wine refilled. Glasses raised.

“Okay, okay,” Arthur said, standing and holding up his phone. “Speech. Someone say something emotional or I’m leaking the video of Charles crying during their first strategy meeting.”

“I WASN’T CRYING,” Charles shouted immediately.

You stood, cheeks warm from the wine and the moment. “I just want to say…” You looked at Charles, then Alexandra. “I know how strange it must look to people. But this—” you gestured between the three of you, “—this isn’t a gimmick. It’s not a PR stunt or a phase. It’s love. And I am so, so proud to build this future with you both.”

Alexandra stood next, sliding her arm around your waist. “I don’t know much about race strategy, but I know this feels like the best plan we’ve ever had.”

Charles stood last, grinning like he’d won a championship already. “I don’t care what the grid says. I get to have the best race engineer in the paddock and the two people I love most in the world by my side. If that’s not enough to win a championship, I don’t know what is.”

A cheer erupted. Glasses clinked again. Even Fred smiled, shaking his head. Later, under the glow of the string lights, Charles rested his head against yours on the patio couch, one hand playing gently with Alexandra’s fingers on your knee.

“You think this year will be different?” he asked softly.

“I know it will,” you said, pressing a kiss to his cheek. “We’re doing this together now.”

Alexandra hummed. “And we look very good while doing it.”

Charles laughed, leaned back, and looked at the stars. “I don’t think it gets better than this.”

You smiled. “Oh, just wait until race one.”

—

voguemagazine

liked by yn_ln, charles_leclerc, alexandrasaintmleux and 17,001,003 others.

voguemagazine : This month, we’re shifting gears and accelerating into the fast lane with our exclusive feature on YN — the brilliant engineer who turned Ferrari’s season around overnight. In a male-dominated world, YN’s relentless innovation, sharp intellect, and fierce determination are inspiring a new generation of women in motorsport — proving that talent knows no gender, and leadership comes in many forms. Discover how YN’s blend of technical genius and unshakeable grit brought Ferrari back from the brink, redefining what it means to be a leader in Formula 1 today. Plus, a rare glimpse into her life beyond the track- the challenges, the triumphs, and the love story that fuels her relentless drive.

—

view 1,034,025 other comments.

lando : an absolute legened. exactly what motorsport needs. we are so proud, yn. keep smashing it!

liked by yn_ln

charles_leclerc : proud doesn’t even begin to cover it. watching you break barriers every day is incredible. i love you

liked by yn_ln

carlossainz55 : yn’s brilliance is unreal. proud to race alongside such talent.

liked by yn_ln

scuderiaferrari : so proud of what yn has accomplished in such little time with us. we love you, yn!!

liked by yn_ln

arthur_leclerc : the sister i never had. you are absolutely incredible. keep pushing ynn- you are the future.

liked by yn_ln

alexandrasaintmleux : my gf is on the cover of vogue!!!! omg omg!! i love you so much, mon ange. you are the biggest talent the grid has.

liked by yn_ln

↳ username15 : yn’s talent is undeniable but alex? she’s just a distraction. hope yn doesn’t lose focus.

↳ username17 : since when did being a girlfriend get you famous?? stop distracting yn and charles.

leclerc_pascale : Watching your journey fills my heart with joy. You’re an inspiration to us all. Très fier de toi!

liked by yn_ln

lewishamilton : Always pushing the limits — on and off track. Respect, YN.

liked by yn_ln

maxverstappen1 :💪🏻💪🏻

liked by yn_ln

—

time skip to monaco gp…

f1gossipgirls

7,520,007 likes.

f1gossipgirls : It’s a Leclerc affair in the streets of Monte Carlo today — and the grid’s favorite power trio did not disappoint. Engineer-extraordinaire YN LN arrived alongside boyfriend Charles Leclerc this morning, the two spotted walking hand-in-hand through the paddock looking calm, collected, and very much in sync. YN was all business in Ferrari red—Monaco may be Charles’ home race, but it’s clear who’s running the show. Not far behind? Alexandra Saint Mleux, arriving with the Leclerc family — including Charles’ Sister in Law, Charlotte, Mama Pascale and Arthur, who fans caught hugging YN just before pre-race prep. The embrace was short but sweet, with Arthur mouthing something suspiciously like “you’ve got this, boss” before the two shared a laugh. Whispers in the paddock say Ferrari’s found its rhythm — and it might just be thanks to the calm, chaotic, and totally unexpected balance Charles and YN bring to the track.

—

view 175,099 other comments.

username000 : if they don’t win today i’m rioting. emotionally.

mercfan123 : idc how cute they are, it’s weird that she’s dating the driver and running his race strategy. feels messy.

↳ username000 : y'all are just mad that out of everyone A WOMAN managed to pull ferrari out of the gutter.

username00 : monaco is home for charles, but this season is home for YN. the girl built a dynasty in six races flat.

username0 : since she joined, ferrari’s barely made a wrong call. this isn’t a PR stunt, this is a masterclass.

username1 : you mean the woman who’s turned ferrari into a real threat again?? MOTHER

username5 : watch ferrari fumble again and everyone will forget this little fairytale energy real fast

username7 : no because even as a red bull fan i have to admit… the vibes? immaculate. this is what we’re fighting against??

username10 : ok but what does alexandra actually do besides show up and look pretty?

username11 : yn’s out here saving ferrari and alex is… posing for pictures in charles’ jacket? lmao

username15 : yn’s got degrees and trophies. alexandra’s got what, a moodboard?

username17 : i can’t be the only one who thinks alex is just riding this wave for clout, right?

username20 : alex doesn’t even look like she wants to be there most of the time. awkward is an understatement.

—

The air in Monaco was heavy with sun and tension. Boats lined the harbor, red flags waved from balconies, and the scent of salt water mixed with champagne and engine oil. The city felt like it was holding its breath. Ferrari was leading the Constructors’. Charles was second in the Drivers’ Championship—narrowly. But today was his track. His home. And for once in his career… everything was aligned. Almost. Charles stood at the edge of the garage, staring out toward the narrow streets, arms folded tightly across his chest. The usual sparkle in his eye was dulled slightly, his mouth tight. His leg bounced as the crew buzzed around him.

“You alright?” Arthur’s voice came from behind, lighter than usual.

Charles shook his head once. “No. But I think I’m supposed to be.”

Arthur stood beside him, nudging his shoulder. “You’ve got the best car on the grid. You’ve got Maman, Us, half of Monte Carlo in red. And—” he paused dramatically— “you’ve got the smartest woman in motorsport feeding you strategy.”

Charles finally cracked a smile. “She is terrifyingly brilliant.”

“And in love with you, which is even scarier.”

That’s when he heard your voice behind them, calm but commanding. “Tire warmers off in 15. I need final telemetry on Sector 2. And—Arthur, stop making him more nervous.”

Arthur saluted. “Yes, boss.”

Charles turned just in time for you to reach him. You were still in your headset, tablet in hand, the clipboard from hell tucked under your arm. But your expression softened as you looked at him—really looked at him.

“You’re doing the thing,” you whispered.

“What thing?” he asked, even though he already knew.

“The overthinking thing. The ‘what if I ruin everything in front of my entire country’ thing.”

He let out a breath. “Monaco’s cursed for me. Always has been.”

You stepped closer. “And what if it’s not this time? What if you finally have the right car, the right team, the right… everything?”

“Even the right race engineer?”

You smiled. “Especially her.”

That’s when Alexandra arrived, weaving her way between pit crew and chaos like she belonged there. She wore his name on her necklace, your initials on a ring, and Charles’ jacket draped around her shoulders even in the heat.

“Hi,” she said gently, coming up beside you both. “I thought you might need this.”

She handed him a folded piece of paper. Charles raised an eyebrow.

“What’s this?”

“A reminder.”

He opened it to find a little sketch Alexandra had drawn—stick figures, obviously. One was him with a helmet. One was you, with a headset the size of your body. One was Alexandra, holding a flag that said “WIN!”

Underneath it, in her soft handwriting—"You already have everything. Now just drive like it."

Charles didn’t say anything for a moment. He just looked at both of you—his people. His heart. One all fire and logic. One all warmth and instinct. And him, somehow caught in the middle of both and better for it. He pulled you into his side with one arm, Alexandra into the other, and held them there like a shield.

“Whatever happens,” he said, voice thick, “thank you. For getting me here. Both of you.”

“We’ll be here at the finish line,” you promised, forehead pressed to his chest. “In the garage. In your ear. In your heart. Always.”

“Plus I brought good snacks,” Alexandra whispered, trying to lighten the mood. “And I have my crystals.”

“I don’t believe in crystals,” Charles mumbled.

“You believe in love, though,” she smiled.

And then—Pascale approached, giving Charles the kind of look only a mother can give. Proud. Steady. A little teary. She kissed his cheek. “Go. Do what you were born to do.”

He nodded. Breathed. One last squeeze of your hand, one last kiss to Alexandra’s temple, and then he turned toward the car. Helmet on. Gloves tight. The weight of a nation on his shoulders—but this time, it didn’t feel so heavy. Because this time, he wasn’t carrying it alone.

—

The streets of Monte Carlo were louder than usual. Not from the engines — no, those always roared. It was the crowd. Louder. Frenzied. Unrelenting. Because Charles Leclerc was leading his home race. And for once… the script wasn’t falling apart.

“Gap to Norris behind: 2.1 seconds,” your voice came through his radio, calm, composed, a tether. “Tyre temps are stable. Keep braking gentle into Rascasse. You’ve got this, Charles.”

He didn’t respond immediately. He never did when he was this deep in the zone. But the way his shoulders loosened slightly in the cockpit — the way his head dipped like a subtle nod — told you everything you needed to know.

The streets he grew up on blurred past him now at nearly 180 mph. The turn into the tunnel. The bump near the chicane. The glitter of the yachts in his periphery. He knew them like the lines in your palm.

He’d dreamed of this moment since he was a boy in karting boots, looking through the fence as F1 cars screamed past on the same pavement he walked every day. Monaco was home. Monaco had broken his heart. But today, it was healing him.

“Just breathe, baby,” your voice whispered again in his ear. “Last lap.”

From the pit wall, Fred stood with arms crossed, not daring to exhale. Mechanics were frozen in place, monitors lighting their faces with green sectors and live telemetry. Arthur had stopped pacing, for once. Pascale was clutching her scarf like a lifeline. And Alexandra? She stood at the barrier.

Red jacket zipped halfway. Hair pulled back. Face tilted toward the track with eyes glassy. Every time the red 16 car passed, she stepped closer. As if her heartbeat could will him home.

In the garage, your fingers tightened around the edge of the counter. “Exit Nouvelle clean. You’ve got the run. Fuel’s good. Battery’s charged.”

You paused, just for a second.

“You’re about to win Monaco, Charles.”

You didn’t say it to pump him up. You said it because it was real. And Charles — hands steady, foot light on the throttle, mind completely and utterly focused — flew through Tabac, hit the apex at the Swimming Pool perfectly, and took La Rascasse like it had always belonged to him. The crowd’s roar broke through the radio static.

“Charles Leclerc wins the Monaco Grand Prix!”

The moment shattered time. You exhaled — then let out a noise that was half laugh, half sob. In your headset Charles shouting something unintelligible in French, followed by — “MERCI, MERCI, MERCI!”

The team erupted around you. Mechanics jumping. Fred finally smiling. Arthur running toward you and picking you up in a spinning hug. You ran toward the pit wall.

And Alexandra — still standing at the barrier, now crying openly — turned just in time to see Charles leap from the cockpit, arms raised, the Monégasque flag in hand. He spotted her first. And then he looked beyond her — saw you standing there next to Arthur, headset tangled in your hair, still in team gear, eyes shining with everything you had held back all race. He ran to the barrier. Security didn’t even try to stop him. He climbed it like he was born for it. First to Alexandra — grabbing her face, kissing her, holding her like she was the only soft place in a world of fire. Then to you. He pulled you in — headset, clipboard, adrenaline and all — into the kind of kiss that said thank you, I love you, I never would’ve made it without you.

You smiled against his mouth, pulling away just enough to say, “You finally did it.”

“I didn’t,” he said. “We did.”

The cameras caught all of it. The kisses. The tears. The way his hand held onto both of you like he was anchoring himself to the moment. The way you and Alexandra leaned into each other on the cool-down lap, your hands tangled, hearts still racing. And somewhere on social media, the photo would soon be everywhere. Charles Leclerc — Monaco winner — standing on the barrier in front of the Ferrari garage, arms around the two people who built the road back to this dream with him. A race. A win. A homecoming.

—

yn_ln

liked by alexandrasaintmleux, charles_leclerc, arthur_leclerc and 11,007,009 others.

yn_ln : my man and i just won monaco together...wyd??

tagged : charles_leclerc, alexandrasaintmleux and scuderiaferrari

—

view 545,001 other comments.

lando : wyd?? crying in my hotel room because this post made me feel single and slow

liked by yn_ln and charles_leclerc

username100 : ngl this race won me over. yn has turned ferrari AROUND.

franciscagomes : when she wins a grand prix and serves looks doing it 🧎‍♀️

liked by yn_ln and alexandrasaintmleux

pierregasly : power throuple.

liked by yn_ln, charles_leclerc and alexandrasaintmleux

scuderiaferrari : "thank you charles and yn" we all say in unison.

liked by yn_ln, charles_leclerc and alexandrasaintmleux

alexandrasaintmleux : you were flawless. in the garage. in red. in everything. we’re so lucky to love you 🥹

liked by yn_ln and charles_leclerc

carlossainz55 : happy for you both. annoyed that i teared up watching him win. confused about it.

liked by yn_ln, charles_leclerc and alexandrasaintmleux

arthur_leclerc : you left out the part where you nearly passed out from nerves and still pulled off the perfect strategy call lmao. LOVE YOU YN.

liked by yn_ln, charles_leclerc and alexandrasaintmleux

username001 : alex being there doing nothing still takes me out.

↳ username15 : i would not talk bad about alex rn. yn ripped into a reporter earlier.

↳ username001 : WHERE???

↳ username15 : check @/f1gossipgirls.

—

f1gossipgirls

5,009,110 likes.

f1gossipgirls : Well, Charles Leclerc won Monaco… but not without drama. After a dream victory at his home race, Charles Leclerc was seen celebrating in the most Leclerc-throuple way possible — kissing race engineer girlfriend YN and girlfriend Alexandra Saint Mleux moments apart in a red-hot Ferrari love fest. Fans also caught a sweet moment between Alexandra and YN — YN lifted Alex off of the ground and the two shared a sweet kiss. But things turned tense post-race when a reporter made some harsh and completely uncalled-for comments about Alexandra in the paddock. Witnesses say YN didn’t hesitate — she got visibly defensive, stepped in, and had a few choice words for the reporter in question. The vibe? Protective. Unshakable. Not here for the disrespect.

—

user has disabled comments on this post.

—

The cheers still echo across the harbor, a high, golden sound that hasn’t stopped since Charles crossed the line. Champagne sticks to your skin, your headset hangs loose around your neck, and you haven’t let go of Alexandra’s hand once. She’s warm beside you. Glowing. Her cheeks pink from sun and adrenaline, her lips still curved from watching him win. The two of you are walking slowly toward the podium tunnel, through a blur of high-fives, cameras, and team crew celebrating in every language.

And then— “Must be nice to hang off the arm of a championship team and not have to actually do anything.”

It cuts through the noise like a knife. You freeze. You don’t even feel Alexandra’s fingers tighten around yours because the blood in your ears goes sharp and hot. You turn on instinct. The voice came from behind the media line. A man with a mic and a press pass. Too smug. Too comfortable saying something like that in public. It wasn’t a question. It was meant to sting. And it lands exactly where he wanted — you see it in Alexandra’s face. Her smile falters. Just for a second. But that’s enough. You don’t think. You move.

“Hey!” you snap, your voice slicing clean. “What the fuck did you just say?”

The reporter doesn’t backpedal. “I was just asking if—”

“No. You weren’t asking anything,” you cut in, stepping forward. “You were insulting someone who shows up every weekend, supports this team with her whole heart, and gets nothing but hate in return. You don’t get to speak to her like that.”

The paddock goes quiet. The crew stops celebrating. Cameras slowly turn your way. Alexandra stands where you left her, eyes wide, like she’s holding her breath. You keep going.

“And for the record,” you say, your tone low now, dangerous, “if all you’ve done today is tear down a woman who’s done nothing to you, then maybe you’re the one who doesn’t belong here.”

A beat of silence. Then—

“YN.”

Arthur’s voice. Right behind you. Calm but firm. He gently touches your elbow, eyes flicking toward the growing crowd. “Come on. Let’s go. Not worth it.”

You don’t move for a second. You just stare that reporter down. He looks nervous now. Good. Then you exhale and step back. You don’t say anything else. You just turn, walk straight back to Alexandra, and take her hand like you never let go. Her eyes are glassy now, but there’s something else there too — awe, maybe. Or something softer. You don’t look back as you disappear together into the tunnel, Arthur flanking behind you like a guard. But if anyone didn’t know before — they know now. No one talks down to Alexandra Saint Mleux on your watch. Not ever.

—

The celebrations had faded. The city was still buzzing outside — yachts pulsing with music, voices carrying over balconies, streetlights painting gold across the port. But in here, it was quiet. Just the soft hum of the AC, the leftover scent of champagne in Charles’ hair, and the weight of everything that had happened settling like dust on your shoulders. He stood in the kitchen in a Ferrari hoodie, barefoot, drying glasses. The night had worn him out — but not as much as it had worn you.

You sat on the couch, legs pulled up to your chest, one of Alexandra’s cardigans draped around your shoulders. She was already in bed, fast asleep, her cheeks still red from crying — not from joy. Not from the win. But from that moment. The one you couldn’t stop replaying in your head.

Charles finished drying the glass but didn’t put it away. Instead, he turned, leaning against the counter. Watching you.

“You’ve barely said anything since we got home,” he said softly.

“I’m tired.”

“You’re angry.”

You looked up. And the tears in your eyes betrayed you.

“I’m not just angry,” you murmured. “I’m ashamed.”

He crossed the room without hesitation, kneeling down in front of you, placing his hands gently on your knees. “Why would you be ashamed?”

You swallowed, trying to find the words. “Because I knew this would happen. I knew the moment I took this job and we made it official — all of it — the cameras, the gossip, the fans choosing sides…”

You blinked quickly. “Alex never asked for this. She never wanted to be part of the noise. She just wanted to love us. And now she’s getting ripped apart for being in the garage, or not being on the pit wall, or not looking the way they want her to. And I stood there today and watched it hit her.”

Charles’s eyes softened, thumb brushing over your kneecap. “You didn’t just watch it. You defended her.”

“I shouldn’t have had to.” Your voice cracked. “She shouldn’t have to walk into a paddock wondering if someone’s going to ask her if she belongs there.”

Charles lowered his head for a moment, then looked back up at you. “She told me something tonight. While you were in the shower.”

You stilled. “What?”

“She said… ‘I’m proud of her. I’ve never been loved like that before.’”

That broke you. Your head dropped to your hands. Charles was in your arms in a second, pulling you to him, hands gentle against your back, voice steady in your ear.

“You didn’t do this, mon amour. The world did. The internet did. Their hate — that’s not yours to carry.”

“But I brought us into the spotlight.”

“You brought Ferrari back to life. You gave me a chance to win my home race. And you’ve given Alexandra more love and protection than half the people who’ve known her for years.” He pulled back just enough to look at you. “She doesn’t blame you. I don’t blame you. We’re proud of you.”

You wiped your face with your sleeve, breathing shakily. “She’s been different lately. Quiet. A little smaller.”

Charles nodded. “I noticed. I just didn’t want to admit it.”

“I should’ve… asked her more. Talked to her. I got so wrapped up in the strategy and the pressure and—”

“And now you’re here,” he whispered, forehead resting against yours. “And she’s asleep in our bed. Safe. Loved. Because you fought for her when it mattered.”

You exhaled slowly, grounding yourself in his presence. In his warmth. In the truth of what he was saying.

“I just want her to feel like she’s ours in every room. Not just when the cameras aren’t watching.”

“She is,” he said, gently. “But tomorrow, let’s remind her anyway.”

You nodded. “Yeah. Let’s remind her.”

—

The kitchen is filled with the scent of browned butter and vanilla, soft music playing low on the speaker as sunlight spills through the windows, bathing Charles in gold. He hums along as he moves around with practiced ease — slicing strawberries, flipping fluffy pancakes, even attempting a cappuccino with a tiny heart drawn in the foam. You’re curled up on the couch nearby, eyes puffy and tired, but glowing with the kind of quiet pride that only comes from pulling off something impossible — or close to it. After hours of DMing collectors and calling obscure boutiques across time zones, you finally found it- Alexandra’s dream bag. A rare forest green Birkin, pristine, vintage, perfectly her. It’s now hidden in the hallway closet, nestled in tissue paper, your phone still buzzing with confirmation emails from luxury couriers at 4AM.

“She’s going to cry, you know,” Charles says, peeking over his shoulder with a grin as he flips the pancake on the stove.

“She better,” you croak, rubbing your face with both hands and stretching. “I aged five years sourcing that thing. Do you know how hard it is to find a 30 in Vert Rousseau with gold hardware?”

Charles walks over and kisses the top of your head gently. “You didn’t have to do all that.”

You tilt your head up to meet his eyes, expression soft. “She’s been having a hard time. I just want her to have something that reminds her how loved she is.”

You both fall quiet for a second, and he nods — understanding all the things you don’t have to say. That the world outside is cruel. That she’s been doubting herself, curling inwards. That this is your way of saying don’t listen to them, you are worth everything and more. The bedroom door creaks open then, and a sleepy Alexandra appears — hair tousled, sleeves slipping off one shoulder, eyes barely open as she squints toward the kitchen.

“Is that...pancakes?” she mumbles, rubbing her eyes.

“And strawberries. And coffee. And,” Charles announces dramatically, “today’s very special surprise.”

Alexandra blinks, still half-asleep as she pads closer, reaching out to you blindly before settling in your lap with a sleepy sigh. You wrap your arms around her and press a kiss to her temple.

“You guys are being weird,” she mumbles.

“Good weird,” Charles says, slipping the pancake stack onto a plate.

“Birthday weird?” she asks, confused. “Anniversary weird?”

You shake your head and nod toward the hallway. “Just…open the closet.”

Alexandra blinks at you, then shuffles to her feet and moves toward the hall, dragging the blanket with her. You and Charles both watch from the kitchen. A pause. A gasp. Then. “No. No, no. No way.”

You grin. There’s a soft thump as she sinks to her knees in the hall, hands pressed over her mouth as she stares down at the box. She opens it like it might vanish, slowly peeling back the layers — and when she sees it, her whole face folds. Eyes glassy, mouth trembling.

“I—how did you—this color—” She clutches the bag like it’s something holy. “You found this?”

You cross the room and kneel next to her, wrapping her up in your arms.

“Of course we did,” you murmur. “You deserve beautiful things.”

She lets out a watery laugh against your shoulder as Charles crouches beside you, pressing his forehead gently to hers.

“I love you both so much it actually hurts,” she says, tears now spilling freely.

“And we love you,” you whisper back. “More than anything.”

Charles nods, smiling softly. “Even more than Ferrari. But don’t tell Fred.”

And in the quiet, between pancakes and presents and tangled limbs on the kitchen floor, Alexandra begins to believe it again — that she is loved, and safe, and exactly where she’s meant to be.

—

Alexandra practically melts into the heated massage table, limbs slack, hair wrapped in a soft towel, as your fingers gently stroke through hers. The private spa suite smells like eucalyptus and orange blossom, the low trickle of water from the nearby fountain adding to the tranquility. You’re both swaddled in robes, facials setting, feet soaking in warm rose petal water.

“You didn’t have to go this far,” she says quietly, a little hoarse, but her voice is already laced with that floaty, relaxed softness you’d been desperate to hear.

“You say that like I wasn’t ten seconds away from stealing a private jet and flying you to Ibiza,” you tease, brushing your thumb over her knuckles. “This was the reasonable option.”

Alexandra turns her head on the cushioned rest and looks at you — really looks. Her eyes, still rimmed with the kind of exhaustion she never likes to admit, shimmer with something raw and grateful.

“I don’t want you to feel like you have to fix everything for me,” she murmurs. “I’m okay. I’m just… I’ve been struggling.”

You shift, leaning across the narrow bench to press your forehead to hers, letting the silence settle.

“You don’t have to be okay all the time,” you whisper. “Not with us.”

She exhales shakily, eyes fluttering shut as your noses touch.

“I love you,” she says.

“I know,” you smile. “And I love you so much it made me haggle with a Hermes collector on WhatsApp at three in the morning. So you’re stuck with me.”

Alexandra lets out the softest laugh — the kind that rumbles in her chest — and kisses you with the slow, sleepy kind of affection that lingers.

—

Alexandra hums contentedly as she sinks deeper into the passenger seat of Charles’ car, cheeks pink from steam, her legs folded up in her seat. Her hand is nestled in his, and every now and then, you glance over at her — heart tugging at how peaceful she looks. Charles drums his fingers against the steering wheel, sunglasses low on his nose, glancing at you both with a satisfied smirk. “So… how do my girls feel?”

“Like I am in heaven,” Alexandra murmurs dreamily. “I think I’ve transcended stress.”

You smile and lean in to press a kiss to her temple. “That’s what we like to hear.”

Charles slows as he pulls into an underground parking garage, and Alexandra blinks awake.

“Wait—where are we?” she asks, sitting up a little straighter. “This isn’t home.”

“Nope,” Charles grins, parking with dramatic flair. “It’s part two of your day.”

She blinks. “Part two?”

Charles turns around in his seat and looks at her with a glint in his eye. “We are going shopping. You and YN are going to get everything you want. No limits, no questions, no checking price tags. If it makes you feel pretty or powerful or happy — we’re getting it.”

Alexandra blinks between the two of you, stunned. “You’re joking.”

You shake your head, grinning. “Nope. You got a massage, now it’s time for retail therapy.”

Charles hops out of the car with the kind of giddy energy you’d expect from someone planning a heist. “Come on, let’s blow some money irresponsibly in the name of love.”

—

The soft rustle of silk and the faint scent of fresh perfume fill the room, where you and Alexandra are surrounded by the bounty of your shopping spree — racks of clothes, piles of shoes, and half-unwrapped accessories strewn across the plush chaise lounge. Alexandra sits on the edge of the velvet ottoman, slipping on a pair of strappy heels she just bought, her eyes wide and sparkling with a mix of nerves and excitement.

“You really think Charles will like this?” she asks, holding up a shimmering emerald dress—the one you’d both fallen for in the boutique.

“I think he’s going to have a heart attack,” you grin, helping smooth the fabric along her back.

She turns, catching her reflection in the mirror, and gives you a tentative smile. “I feel… like a new person.”

“That’s what happens when you get spoiled by two people who adore you,” you say, brushing a stray lock of hair behind her ear.

You pull out your own outfit from a hanger — a sleek black dress with delicate lace sleeves. As you slip it on, Alexandra giggles, teasing, “Look at you, all mysterious and chic.”

You catch her eyes and wink. “You’re the star tonight.”

Alexandra reaches over and links her fingers with yours. “Promise me this night won’t end.”

“It’s only just beginning,” you whisper.

Alexandra stands in front of the mirror, the green dress hugging her in all the right places. You thread a delicate necklace around her neck — the ivy bracelet Charles gifted earlier catches the light on her wrist.

She turns to you, eyes shining. “I’m really lucky.”

“No,” you say softly, cupping her face. “We’re the lucky ones.”

You help her slip on her heels, then take a deep breath together before heading out.

—

The yacht rocks gently beneath your feet, the faint scent of saltwater mingling with the delicate aroma of jasmine candles flickering on the table. The sky is a deep indigo, sprinkled with stars so bright they seem close enough to touch. The world feels impossibly still except for the soft murmur of the waves and the quiet laughter shared between the three of you.

Charles stands close, the warm strength of his body a constant comfort as he holds both your hands in his. Alexandra leans into your side, her breath soft against your skin, and you feel the steady rhythm of her heart through the thin fabric of her dress. The two of them — your girls — glowing in the low light, their eyes shimmering with a mixture of joy, vulnerability, and something tender that makes your chest ache.

You brush Alexandra’s cheek gently with the back of your hand, your fingers lingering as she closes her eyes, leaning into your touch like you’re the only safe place she needs. Charles steps around to wrap an arm around your waist, pulling you closer until there’s no space left between the three of you.

The moment stretches, quiet and sacred, and you let yourself breathe it all in — the warmth, the love, the softness that you’ve fought so hard to build. Alexandra opens her eyes and looks up at you, a small, shy smile tugging at her lips.

“Thank you,” she whispers, voice trembling just enough that you know it’s everything she’s been holding back. “For this. For us.”

You lean down to press your forehead against hers. “Always.”

Charles’s hand moves from your waist to brush over Alexandra’s cheek, thumb stroking gently. “We’re yours, Alex. Every part of you. No matter what.”

Her eyes fill with tears — not the harsh kind, but the kind that come from feeling truly seen and loved. She leans into Charles’s touch, then back into yours, as if anchoring herself between the two of you. You slip your hand into hers, fingers intertwining as your other hand cups the side of her face, thumb brushing soothing circles. The intimacy between you hums, electric and peaceful all at once.

Charles steps back just enough to pour champagne into the crystal flutes, his eyes never leaving yours. He hands you the glass, and you toast softly, “To us. To love without limits.”

The glasses clink, a delicate sound that echoes over the water. Alexandra takes a sip, then sets her glass down carefully, reaching up to rest her hands on your cheeks. Her touch is feather-light, but it sends a shiver down your spine.

“I never thought I could feel this safe,” she murmurs. “This loved.”

You smile, your heart swelling until it feels like it might burst. “You always deserved it.”

Charles moves behind you, arms sliding around your waist, pulling you into a slow, swaying dance under the stars. Alexandra steps close, resting her head on your shoulder, and you all move together — three souls beating in quiet harmony. The night deepens, and words fade into soft kisses, whispered promises, and the comfort of being exactly where you’re meant to be. Hours later, the yacht gently glides through the calm water, the three of you wrapped in blankets on the deck, watching the horizon blush with the first hints of dawn.

Charles’s voice is barely more than a breath as he says, “This is our forever.”

You squeeze Alexandra’s hand, your heart full beyond words.

“Yes,” you agree. “Forever and always.”

—

charles_leclerc

liked by yn_ln, alexandrasaintmleux, arthur_leclerc and 14,007,003 others.

charles_leclerc : my girls mean absolutely everything to me — more than words can ever fully express. yn and alexandra are the heart of my world, my constant support, and my greatest joy. to anyone who follows yn or i- if you’re being rude, disrespectful, or insufferable toward alexandra, please know that you are not welcome here. we stand united, and kindness is non-negotiable. we celebrate love, strength, and respect in all forms, and alexandra deserves nothing less than that — just like yn and I do. if you can’t show that, then this isn’t the place for you. i love you both, my angels.

tagged : yn_ln and alexandrasaintmleux

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[wildestdreamsblog]

The Story of Us: Unedited

Pairing: Mahwa Character!Min Yoongi x Reader

Summary: You wake up in the body of the second female lead in a manhwa, determined to rewrite your fate. No longer willing to be trapped in unrequited love for the elusive main lead, Min Yoongi, you set out to change the ending of the story. But leaving him behind isn’t as simple as you thought. As the lines between fiction and reality blur, the narrative begins to shift in unexpected ways—Yoongi, who was once only devoted to the main female lead, starts to see you in a new light. Can you escape the cycle of heartbreak, or will you find yourself entangled in a love story you never asked for?

or in which Yoongi found out you aren't from that world and refuses to let you leave.

A/N: This is an unedited very very very raw draft! But I wanted to share this with you before I forget the ideas and before my flight today <33 let me know what you think! ALSO I WILL EDIT THIS WHEN I GET BACK NEXT WEEK AND I WILL POST IT IN TUMBLR. okay bye ily

It was your second week in Paris when curiosity finally got the better of you. Her phone—your phone now—sat untouched on the marble nightstand of your hotel suite. You’d avoided it so far, reasoning that it felt like rifling through a stranger’s diary. But tonight, as the soft glow of the Eiffel Tower illuminated the room, you gave in.

Plugging it in, the device vibrated to life, and a flood of notifications lit up the screen. Your jaw dropped slightly as you skimmed through the endless stream of missed calls and messages. Most of them were from Yoongi.

“Of course,” you muttered under your breath, scrolling through the list. There were texts, voicemails, and even some emails from him, all timestamped over the last two weeks.

His messages started casual enough, asking you where you were and if you were still avoiding him. He even stopped by the mansion only to find out that you weren’t there, let alone in the country. Not one in your mansion could tell him where you were despite his endless threats. As days passed by, however, his tone shifted to frustration.

I’m not kidding anymore. If I don’t hear from you, I’m coming to find you.

I am hiring a team to find you, princess.

His final message was dated today.

I do hope you remember that it is my birthday today. We always celebrate it together. We’re not gonna stop now just because you’re hiding from me.

You stared at the phone for a moment longer, the screen dark now but somehow still demanding your attention. Should you respond? What would you even say?

The phone vibrated in your hand, the screen lighting up with his name. Your stomach did a little flip, but you shook your head firmly. No. You weren’t going to answer. It was better this way—for him, for you, for the storyline. Yoongi belonged with the female lead, and the longer you stayed out of their orbit, the better.

Instead, you grabbed your jacket, ready to explore the city some more. Paris was too beautiful to waste time fretting over a fictional man’s messages. Let Yoongi wait.

But just as you opened your hotel room, there he was with his signature stoic face, his dark brow raised. He pointedly looked at your phone, his name on the screen. He had his phone on his ear, while you had yours in your hand. You were literally caught red-handed ignoring his calls.

He ended the call with a deliberate tap and tucked his phone into his pocket, his gaze never leaving yours.

“What are you doing here?” you asked, shocked at his sudden appearance. He was supposed to be with her. The story said that he was supposed to be with her, celebrating with her, saving her from any other accidents or situations she found herself in.

Yoongi tilted his head slightly, his gaze narrowing. “Shouldn’t I be asking you that?” His tone was calm, but the edge was unmistakable. He stepped inside as though he owned the place. He didn’t ask for permission, didn’t wait for an invitation. He was just… there, filling the room with his presence like he always did. “And Paris, of all places? You’re more predictable than you think, princess.”

“I-I mean, I didn’t think you’d notice,” you stammered, your voice barely above a whisper, already regretting how ridiculous it sounded.

“What? How could I not? You literally disappeared on the face of the earth. You think I wouldn’t notice when you disappeared? When you’re not there?”

The intensity in his gaze left you momentarily stunned, your thoughts scrambling for coherence. “Y-you’re not supposed to be here…” you muttered, more to yourself than to him. Your disbelief bled into your words, your mind struggling to reconcile his presence with what you knew—or thought you knew. “The story says you’re supposed to be with her. This isn’t—this isn’t how it goes.”

“What story?”

You blinked owlishly, realizing what you’d said. “Huh? Nothing!” you exclaimed a little too quickly, waving your hands as if to physically push the moment away. “Anyway! Happy birthday!” you added, your voice unnaturally bright, hoping to distract him.

His squint deepened, a mix of curiosity and frustration flickering in his eyes. He clearly didn’t buy your deflection, but he let it slide—for now. Without a word, he crossed the room to the small bar cart in the corner, casually pouring himself a glass of whisky.

The tension in the air was thick as he swirled the amber liquid in the glass, his movements deliberate. He raised the glass to his lips, his gaze never leaving yours. After taking a slow sip, he finally spoke, his voice low, “Glad you remember my birthday, princess.”

Okay, fine. You were at loss. How were you supposed to know what you should say? This was not in the manhwa! Yoongi was basically going off-script!

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t. Instead, you turned your gaze to the door, silently willing him to leave. But Yoongi didn’t move. If anything, he seemed more determined, his presence as unyielding as ever.

“Fine,” he said after a long moment, his voice quieter now, almost resigned. “If you won’t come back, then I’ll stay. Paris is nice this time of year, isn’t it?”

Full story (unedited) in KoFi

[mentalpolaroids]

Wolf's Home

(Part I)

Geralt of Rivia x female!Reader

Summary: Geralt takes Ciri to Kaer Morhen and reunites not only with his family of witchers, but also with the person that makes him feel at home the most

a/n: this is sort of rewrite of S02E02. Sorry for the use of (y/n) but couldn't really think of a name for the reader. Also, this is my first try at writing for The Witcher so be nice to me please!!

.................................................................................

She woke up that morning expecting to face another routine-repeating day, possibly with an occasional healing of one of the witchers coming back to Kaer Morhen from a hunt, or coming up with a new excuse as to why she didn’t want to eat whatever crap Lambert cooked for them. His turn on food duty was always a dreadful one.

Her days were never too adventurous, not since Vasemir had insisted on a more permanent stay at the keep two years ago, when she was dragged through the Blue Mountains by a silver haired witcher, both injured, after fighting and killing a monster together. An encounter she still couldn’t really understand to this day, how they happened to be in the same place, at the same time, looking for the same creature, but she knew better than to question Destiny. 

Even with her own wounds to take care of, she still healed Geralt of Rivia first, who fell under her natural charm like a trap. He wondered if it was a spell, the way he so easily was put at ease in her presence. She was a mage after all. But as the days passed, he concluded that there was no spell besides the one used to close the gash on his abdomen. That woman was simply a caretaker by heart, one that somehow remained open and pure even knowing of the existence of nasty beings out there in the Continent. Everyone else in the Fortress seemed to be as mesmerized, and so, she was welcomed with open arms to stay, and heal, and fight with the witchers. 

The ropes were starting to burn the palm of her hands from all the knots she had conquered in the last hour, but she definitely didn’t mind because it was at least keeping her hands warm as she stood outside, light snow falling over the already white ground. 

One of the few advantages of the icy weather was that they could hear when someone was approaching, the crunch of the footsteps over the snow being hard to disguise. She heard those in the distance, but it was of a horse. (y/n) dropped the rope and grabbed her sword, preparing herself for the sight of the intruder before making her own known. But, the sight wasn’t at all what she expected. She didn’t know what to expect at all, but it sure wasn’t a familiar brown horse carrying Geralt of Rivia accompanied by a blonde girl, who (y/n) quickly convinced herself must’ve been a princess, if not for her looks, for her posture. She looked like she didn’t belong there, nor next to someone with the nickname The Butcher of Blaviken. 

The girl got down from Roach and looked around curiously. Her dress blended with the snow, from afar, (y/n) wondered if she was even real. Her gaze didn’t last long on the girl when Geralt got down from his horse too, the mere sight of his face barely visible under his dark cloak sent a shiver of excitement to her stomach. He had always had that effect on her, but it seemed the longer she went without seeing him, the stronger the sensation got after meeting again. 

The witcher and the princess shared words (y/n) couldn’t really hear from where she was still in the hiding, and as they started to walk towards the main entrance of the Fortress, the mage put down her sword and walked towards them. 

“You sure we’re safe here?” the princess asked Geralt, who walked in front of her. (y/n) was not close enough to hear the question, not yet to be noticed. 

“Safer than out there.” 

Her voice seemed to echo in the silence of their footsteps coming to a stop, both turning their heads to their right, finally acknowledging her. Geralt’s lips curved into a brief smile, his yellow eyes softening when they locked with hers. (y/n) smiled back, the shiver in her stomach was now climbing to her chest and for a moment she forgot he could probably feel her heart beating faster. Good thing she didn’t mind him knowing how she felt around him. 

Three steps away from coming face to face with the witcher, she slowed her pace, planning to walk past them. 

“Well, well, well, if it isn’t my dearest friend in all the Continent.”

“It’s great to see you.” 

“Oh I’m afraid I was speaking to my best girl here.” (y/n) approached Roach, caressing the horse over her nose and planting a light kiss on her short fur, “But it’s great to see you too, Wolf.” she walked towards him again, for a second forgetting it wasn’t just the two of them there. The way Geralt followed every step of hers, his gaze warm even in the middle of a Winter day. (y/n) opened her arms to him, “Welcome home.”

The man embraced her tightly against him and it felt like getting drowned in memories of his days with her. He had forgotten how much he cherished her affection, and holding her reminded him how nice it was to let his guard down for a brief moment. It all felt like he had never left. 

“I missed you.” he murmured, unrecognizably self-conscious. He surely didn’t enjoy showing this vulnerable side of him, especially in front of someone else.

“I’m sure you did.” (y/n) let go of him, casting him a warm, welcoming smile, before looking to the girl standing behind him, now more curious about the pair’s dynamic than the Fortress, “And who’s this poor thing having to deal with your company?” 

“This is Ciri.” 

“Ciri.” (y/n) tried the name on her lips. She walked towards her with the same welcoming smile, but a different fondness in her eyes, “It’s nice to meet you, Ciri.” she said as she extended her hand to the girl, “I’m (y/n).”

“It’s nice to meet you too.” she spoke softly, clearly wary of meeting a new face, but the shadow of a smiling curve on her lips showed potential trust as she accepted the handshake. After all, the woman was obviously someone dear to Geralt, “I’ve heard a lot about you.”

“Is that so?” (y/n) smirked, hoping the cold outside cooled the warmth spreading across her face. She turned to Geralt, who watched the two girls interact, but the words were directed to Ciri, “I’m sure I have a lot to hear about you, too.” It was a warning to the witcher: an endless night of chatting was to come, questions needed to be answered, stories to be told and his whereabouts to be known. 

As if reading Ciri’s mind, (y/n) squeezed her shoulder and tilted her head towards the entrance, “Don’t worry, you are safe here.” 

“Keep up.” Geralt told the girl, and both followed (y/n). 

They both pushed the heavy wooden doors and walked into the main room of the Fortress that was occupied with chatty men and the smell of burning wood and ale. (y/n)’s words echoing through the wide space caught their attention. 

“Look what the snow dragged in, boys.”

All eyes turned to the mage and the murmur came to a stop when everybody noticed the figure standing behind her. Her attention turned to Geralt as well, in time to see him remove the hood of his cloak and finally getting a decent view of the face she missed so much. She also checked on Ciri, who looked uneasier than before, standing in the middle of a room full of men. (y/n) winked at her, hoping to reassure her everything was alright. Geralt noticed, and he too turned to the girl and nodded at her before moving to stand beside (y/n) as Lambert stood from his seat and walked towards them. 

“Where the fuck have you been?” 

“We thought you got lost.” Coën followed Lambert, “Or killed.” 

(y/n) rolled her eyes. Geralt smiled tenderly.

“Not yet. Sorry.”  

The mage elbowed his side. She had always hated when he implied the possibility of his death at any moment, considering what he was and he did, in reality it wasn’t a massive impossibility. Still, even a simple joke triggered a non-existent grief that resided in her chest everytime she had to see the witcher leave and go long periods of time without hearing a single word from or about him. In his presence, (y/n) pretended he would stay forever, and if he didn’t stay, he would come back. Everytime. 

Geralt caressed her back and brought her in for the embrace Lambert had already initiated. He then went on greeting and hugging the other witchers and, more than ever, Kaer Morhen felt like a real home. The family was back together. 

“I guess I’m back to being second favorite now that you’re back.” Lambert complained to Geralt, referring to (y/n).

“Who said you were even a favorite in the first place?” 

Geralt laughed. 

“I hope you’ve all been treating her right.”

“We do, but she’s a mean one. Lucky for her, we don’t dislike her cooking.” 

The banter was interrupted by Vasemir, who entered the room already smiling at the sight of the silver haired witcher. 

“Wolf. You’re home.” the elder joined the commotion, “Finally.”

Ciri, still feeling out of place, placed herself visibly between Geralt and (y/n).

“Yeah. I had to make a few stops.” the witcher replied, referring to the princess next to him. 

“He’s home!” 

Once again, the commotion grew around Geralt as they kept celebrating his return. Ciri smiled shyly watching the content interactions.

“Come on,” (y/n) extended her hand for the princess to take, “I’m going to introduce you to everybody.”

When everybody settled enough for the mage to be able to order everyone to be nice to Ciri, the men were somewhat curious about the unexpected guest. The girl seemed less vigilant as she was offered a seat and cup and conversation started flowing as if both her and Geralt had always been there. 

(y/n) stood next to him, a sigh leaving her nostrils as she crossed her arms and discreetly nudged the man’s broad figure. 

“Yeah, I know. I have a lot to tell.”

“Yeah. You do.” 

Geralt looked down at her to meet her eyes and, with a soft motion of his hand, uncrossed her arms. He smiled, in a way she knew he was promising to stay for a while. She couldn’t tell what he thought her eyes were saying, but whatever it was, he felt the need to hold her hand, hidden behind his cloak, caressing the cold skin of her knuckles with his thumb. 

“I’m home.” his hoarse voice, along with the softness of his touch and stare, nearly warmed her up on the spot. 

In the back of her mind, there was a voice telling her he would eventually leave again, but for once, she shut it down. 

.................................................................................

Part II

[kidicaruslover911]

Chapter 9: Mournful Whisperings

Mizu x Fem!Reader

summary: Over the course of your travels, you and Mizu find ways to relax around each other.

You finally meet with your master- mother (?) again and it's not pretty.

*inserting devious grinch smile* alone time with mizu????

abit angsty and very very messy afterwards but it gets better, i promise.

LONG ASS CHAPTER AHEAD AND LOTS OF INFORMATION i actually had to cut it in two and rewrite it again bc it's so damn long bro i was in the zone.

est. wc: 18.8k  I think I’m a little insane but its whatever

story on AO3

2 am and interestingly enough, you happened to have had the place all to yourself, which was an extremely rare occurrence when resting in the plain conditions most establishments had to offer.

It had to be the second or third day of your journey towards Yunjing's humble abode and between the constant walking, training and horse riding, you had yet to find some time to properly wash yourself and neither did Ringo or his master.

Although you did try your best by stopping by any hot spring you could find on your way, unfortunately, there weren't many.

The more you got to think about it though, the more you guessed that Mizu wasn't planning on washing herself either way, given the fact that there weren't any occasions around this time and sneaking past the female owner of the inn really wasn’t an option either. 

It almost made you feel itchy and did end up leaving you as the only one to enjoy the sento, giving you the opportunity to wallow within a very limited personal vice of yours.

Nicotine and its calming effects.

To smoke peacefully and away from prying eyes.

'Yikes.'

You stretched your arms, joints popping during the process, warm water enveloping your body, sinking into your muscles and soothing the tension you hadn't realized you had been holding for the longest time.

For the first time in days, you felt the knot in your shoulders ease, the constant hum of stress that had clouded your thoughts fading into the background.

You leaned back against the wooden tub, eyes half-closed, arms spread out against the edges of the wet wood, small and silver kiseru pipe resting in your right hand while letting the heat soak deep into your bones.

That pipe, you had always kept it on yourself which often did not fail to bring back lonely memories to your mind, of bygone ages and memories in which you were doing ten times worse than now.

You had randomly told Ringo before, (for once not dodging his questions) that you weren't a chain smoker but for reasons you didn't feel like elaborating on, you decided that once in a while couldn't hurt, at least that’s what you said.

Especially in your case, your guilty pleasure had to die down eventually a bit if you were hoping to live just a tad longer.

'Never get a vacation, you find ways to take one...'

And the brothels didn't really help either, it’s not like you were the most grounded person in those spaces and the rumors showed it.

Those gossipy prostitutes had struck once again yet somehow you couldn’t seem to care less.

If there was one thing you knew, it was that over the course of the years, you had absolutely bettered yourself and you were the only one to congratulate on that.

Whether one believed it or not, there was indeed a timeline in which you smoked two to three pipes a day, cause of constant stress and anxiety, waves of depression and mania and the nicotine burning instrument had grown to have seen rougher days from which you subtracted it down to once every two to three weeks, mainly because of your health and because you were getting closer to one of your main goals.

You did hope for your addiction to come to a halt soon.

There were no signs of promises though.

Speaking about coming to a halt, your short lived moment of solace was accidentally interrupted by the semi loud creaking from the bathrooms sliding door, causing you to pause the inhalation of your next drag, small clouds of smoke lazily dissipating from your lips as you proceeded to set the kiseru aside before craning your neck back to get a better view of the intruder.

Fact was that you really hadn’t expected to see anyone with the need to wash themselves that deep into the night and yet here they were.

The sound had hit you like brick and if you didn't know any better, you'd have let out one hell of a gasp.

Your stupefaction died down pretty fast too.

"Oh-" The cheeky grin on your face said it all and you had yet to expect it.

A blow of hot steam mixed with the thick scent of soap hit Mizu's face, her eyes skillfully avoiding to look anywhere she shouldn't which made you rotate your head a bit more at her, slightly confused but not bothered by it in any type of way.

It actually made you unbelievably happy a nd she was fast too, one second Mizu was undoing her chignon and the next she had already soundlessly slid into the small bath with you, right before you'd have the chance to make out any significant parts of her nude body amidst the rather heavy steam. 

That and the burning water were the only things covering up her and she liked it that way, regardless whether it was you she was bathing with or not.

It made things more or less…’difficult’ for her and you never missed an opportunity to mess around with her for it, not that you ever meant any of the things you said but as always it was just fun to poke and prod at the samurai for your own amusement.

Then again this was only the second time she wordlessly allowed you to witness her like this  and didn't bother asking why.

If she felt comfortable enough around you or if it just truly was the tremendous need to clean herself, you’d be the last one to complain about.

After all, you grew to think of it as a privilege of its own, to see Mizu… unraveling herself from that stoic vagabond persona she so well portrayed, even just for a moment, presenting herself as honest and sensible as she’d allow herself to be around you.

And that in itself was…something.

The water almost reached up to her clavicle and by the looks and sounds of it, she needed this bath just as bad as you did, a similar sound of contentment gracing your ears.

'Hm.' You mindlessly bit at the inside of your cheek.

You weren't children anymore and so you couldn't have felt more honored and just a tad shy (you'd never let her know) at the fact that she did end up deciding to wash and decompress herself in your presence, you couldn't help but smile.

The context was different, yet this was the second time the samurai was intruding on you while you were trying to cool off, enjoy a moment of rest and it seemed like she just couldn't help herself, always breaking in on at the 'wrong time'.

Not that any of you seriously minded.

Seriously, what about you had she not seen at this point?

You had been inside of the bath for about thirty minutes by now so naturally, "I would've expected you'd already be done-"

She started with a more breathy voice, eyes averting your gaze while she tried to ease up her shoulders and back a bit, making the sides of your lips turn upwards instantly.

You still were in a public Onsen after all.

Steam rose gently from the surface of the bath, curling around her slender form like a soft, comforting blanket.

The flickering oil lamp in the corners of the room casted a soft, golden glow, its scent of lavender mingling with the steam and a faint whiff of nicotine.

’She smokes…?’

The cobalt eyed woman didn't comment on it since, one, she never actually thought about it or expected it and you were grown.... and two, health issues put aside, from the short instant she had caught you handle that pipe, she effortlessly thought that it suited you…unbelievably well. 

Not catching herself thinking beforehand once again she thought that the silver in your hand  made you look...important and chic, very sore to the eye as always.

It made her skin crawl in confusion and guilt.

"Alrigggght, I get it now, Mizu" Pushing a bit back in the water to give her space, your voice sneered at her, a teasing tone meeting her ears which simultaneously painted themselves red.

"..." It was the waters heat.

"You sure this isn't about you really wanting to see me naked?"

There she was and she immediately went to suck her teeth, rolling her eyes only to return them at you, staring you down and seemingly not amused at all.

It almost didn't sound like a question and the woman should have pinched you by now. 

Maybe she didn't need to take a bath that badly after all, she pondered but at the end of the day, you were both women, and that, well, it made almost everything simpler, and many times all the more difficult.

Not always but...your bodies, stripped of adornment, of any need to mask or hide, never carrying the weight of complete judgment between you ever since you had found one another again.

Comfortable, and even though she tried not to, your situation turned out a bit awkward, especially with some moments you choose to joke around with her.

After all, Mizu didn't show herself completely bare to you, the last time you had stopped at a hot spring you had covered your eyes for her to get undressed until she had set herself in the rejuvenating waters. 

Simply shaking her head, she cocked an insensitive brow at you, "I'd rather not" while throwing off a breathy chuckle and eyeing you a second later, Mizu was at a loss for words and just a bit…lost.

‘Just what is it with her-…’ She didn’t dare finish that thought, she didn’t need to and the feeling was absolutely not wanted.

You were sitting on the other side of the hot tub now, right in front of her and her response made you cock a brow, not taking her words personally while you threw your head over your shoulders, humming in a curious manner as a response.

Funny.

"A lot of lying today,"

Nonchalance dripping from your tongue, you scoffed. Like usual, you were just toying with her and she didn’t always exactly know how to handle it.

Your attitude and…’humor’.

Not that she completely hated it. It was just...bold, tickling and it never completely ceased.

Another unsure look. "If you prefer, I can leave right now?" You heart almost skipped  a beat.

No.

No, it didn't, you had simply gotten shivers from the wet skin area that had been slightly exposed to the damp air.

It made you shiver, that was all.

"No..." You murmured, head rolling back up to look at her.

Properly holding eye contact with her this time, you shamelessly drowned in her image, quenching your thirst for a few moments until you realized once again, that this actually was your first time seeing her so...easygoing?

Serene.

That was it.

You liked it and  you weren't that full of yourself either. 

Obviously enough you didn't want her to leave.

Not when you had her all to yourself like this, l ike a rare flower that only bloomed once every full moon in the dark of the night with two striking patches of blue adorning her core.

A girl.

A very pretty girl.

That and the more...subtle yet still apparent reliance that grew whenever it was just the two of you.

It was unspoken and as much as Mizu tried to refrain herself from showing it too much, you could tell.

It wasn’t really a secret anymore.

Your friend was always very straight forward and mostly truthful with you, but you felt as if tonight she was just a bit more open, a bit more indulging and not, or almost not on guard mode at all.

She was bare and it made you fall silent just for an instant which passed by way too fast for you to take any notice of it.

‘She looks very pretty like this.’ You thought for the Xth time and it had turned into an indisputable fact for you by now.

From the way she spoke, to her mannerisms and down to the way she presented herself most of the time, masculine or not, she was hypnotizing.

The more you watched, the more she fitted your nocturnal flora description, h er hair cascading around her, a dark river of ink that spilled down her swan like neck and over her collarbone, curling gently at the edges as it floated on the surface of the water.

For a moment, you were drawn to its depth, the way it seemed to merge with the warm embrace of the bath b ut before your gaze could wander any further, remembering who it was you were ogling at, you pulled it back, focusing on what she was saying and the now sheepish expression resting on her face.

Her eyes were a drawn a little wide, brows raised in slight surprise with her mouth agape in a quiet breath.

She was sitting pretty next to you like this, like a painting. The person next to you.

Right.

That person was your friend.

And that same friend only rasped with a small pinch on your neck which made you crack up in a small hiss, playfully bumping her shoulder in response.

"Just because I look like a man, doesn't mean I have to smell like one?" Mizu scoffed playfully, making a chuckle erupt from your chest.

"Obviously. Mizu, I was joking." She hoped you were??? 

You wondered and soon enough asked about how she even managed to pass by that old and noisy lady?

The proprietor of the establishment was an elder woman whose husband had died not too long ago, finally leaving her with an entire guest house to manage on her own.

Seemed like that granny had nothing better to do than to start a small talk with every single passerby, which soon enough turned into an insufferable series of pushy questions, directly shooting unruly assumptions about you and your friend.

Not like the lady even tried minding her own business when you first asked for three separate rooms, she immediately assumed that your 'husband' had angered you in some type of way, making you want to sleep away from him for the night.

People's perception of you two was definitely...interesting and you guessed that it was most beneficial to keep it that way.

It took everything in Ringo for him to keep his lips closed and let the moment pass by as the owner of the inn went on and tried to dig deeper into why you didn't want to share a room with your 'husband' at the moment, which you simply cut short by saying that you didn't want to talk about it, swallowing down a ridiculous grin at your 'husband's' indifference at the lady's rambles.

Being too curious isn't always an...adequate trait, you might add. 

Yet you were a woman and well, for legal reasons you needed your dear husband as your chaperone, right?

Gods, you hated small talk.

'Men will be men' The older woman had tapped your shoulder in as a consolating gesture. 'You shouldn't be too hard on him' was her last piece of advice to you when all you could do was share a dumbfounded stare with your navy friend who only shrugged, not adding anything else to the discussion.

'Men will be men.....' Right.

Not your ‘husband’ though…

"Let people believe what they want to, you're my very angry 'wife' after all, remember?"

And you could’ve sworn that you heard a faint layer of pride and downiness in that fake statement of hers, closed eyes while slightly turning towards you, keeping a respectful distance between the two of you at all times.

At the sight of it, your own confused gaze softened, slowly transforming into a wry, lopsided smirk.

Little did this madam know that if it actually came down to it, if the circumstances were different and if she truly were a man, Mizu would have at least tried her very best to keep a wedded life pleasurable for her 'wife', and refrain from angering you in that sort of way.

It made no sense.

Happy wife, happy life, no? 

Makes no sense...

"Of course...my my, then I must the luckiest woman in the world, right?"

You cupped your cheeks for dramatic effects, ducking a bit deeper into the water as you spoke and while you didn't know when or why it happened, it was barely visible and yet, she was simpering and after letting out a chuckle of your own, for your own good, you tried not to read too much into it.

‘This woman...’

Soon enough there was another long silence, the soft flicker of oil lamps dancing across the walls, casting long shadows that swayed gently in the quiet.

The air felt thick, heavier than it should have been, as if every breath the both of you took carried the weight of things unspoken. 

Things that weren't necessarily bound by vengeance or infected with murder and the both of you knew it.

It was unspoken and the two of you stood by it.

Whatever unspoken topics you held back, both of you didn’t dare to ruin it all and decided to keep it on edge.

Feeling the water levels shift poorly again, you anticipated Mizu's barely opened lips preparing to speak before abruptly, shutting closed tightly, a small wince escaping her, expression tight as you watched her turn to the side a bit more, one hand covering her mouth while the other had a finger roaming in it, searching for some sort of relief.

"Ah ..." Almost pained, the finger seemed to search deeper and deeper for the intruder, and after a few more seconds, she found it.

This went on for a minute or two and you were hesitant at first but moved closer to her, carefully tapping on her shoulder before completely placing your hand on the higher part of her back.

She didn't react and it made you let out a sigh of relief that you didn't even know you were holding but you'd digress.

"Something bothering you?" You asked, voice gently laced with concern.

Whatever was hurting her, it didn't look pretty.

"Stubborn teeth. Nothing serious but..."

Mizu had to speak a bit more slowly now but from what she explained to you, when she had just started her quest of revenge, she had happened to have fought some vagabonds after trying to gain information about the white men she was looking for.

She lost the battle, got stabbed and thrown out like some piece of shit. 

When she got thrown, she had fallen onto her face and that's when one of her back teeth chirped, leaving her with something akin to a minuscule knife tearing up the inside of her cheek whenever she tried to talk and though it had been a few years already, it still happened from time to time.

"It is not very pleasant." It took you back to when you were younger, you remembered how your master had the same problem and Asano's solution was always pretty simple.

He had learned to soothe his wife's pain in an almost gentle and painless manner which consisted in rubbing down onto the concerned tooth with extremely moderate pressure in order to less irritate your mother and every time he'd be done, she claimed to feel better...

So?…

Blink blink blink.

Blinking once, then twice and then a third time again before you opened your mouth again, à short exhale fanning against your friends skin before it then finally hit you.

Silence but…

You wanted to help.

While the slender woman was practically still scratching her teeth into oblivion, you tenderly took the liberty upon yourself to remove her hand from her mouth, meeting momentarily resistance and a suspicious glare.

"I fear that you scratching it won't make it feel any better..." You returned an assured expression, sitting right next to her now, skin touching underwater which you ignored at the instant.

And she did too.

"It does the job for me." 

Meeting her with an exasperated sigh, you only shook your head further before your fingers hovered near Mizu's humid jaw, her hand shooting up to grab at your wrist out of reflex, keeping your hand at bay, she squeezed, the sudden yet quiet vulnerability of the moment settling over her like a weight, blood shooting towards her ears for no specific reason.

You two were already awfully close and her watchful eye didn’t help. 

This wasn’t one of your senseless tricks and games, she knew she could trust you this time.

Or did she really?

"What do you think you're doing?" She snapped at you in an instant, not in a mean way, she just didn't expect it.

"I know what to do. My master had the same issue when I was younger." It took her about a good ten seconds until you felt her hand slide down from your wrist down to your elbow, settling there.

An exhale.

She didn't know what to expect but this placement felt the most...acceptable.

You didn't flinch.

Your tone was low and serious yet still filled with a certain air of care.

"....Don't try anything stupid..." An undeniable warning.

Whatever she meant with that, you’d respect it either way and e ven if she glared halfheartedly, she trusted you.

You knew she did.

You didn't want her to hurt and your tone surely didn't help her to keep up her guard...

"Let me handle this for you." Now kneeling upwards, you tilted her head back up towards you with your fingers, rising out of the water to get a better view of her mouth and simultaneously revealing your bare and defined upper body’s muscles to her, which again, she avoided staring at like an awkward teenager.

Her hand progressively relaxed, until it was barely caressing across your elbow for support, surprisingly letting you guide her through this while you simply stuck to the task at hand.

You felt her cold and slippery digits tense up at your elbow. Immediately, you went to reassure her.

You were a doctor after all.

"Don't worry, I promise, I'll be gentle." Staring right past her azure globes and ignoring the sudden heat in the back of your neck, your fingers softly brushed against the curve of the samurai's cheek.

(doctor doctor, i wasn't familiar with your game-)

The bathwater lapped quietly at the sides of the tub again as you reached toward your friends mouth, her hand growing warm and steady despite the nervous flutter in her own chest as you leaned down closer to her face, your thumb now sliding over her lower lip, silently asking for permission to enter.

"You'll feel better, just… trust me,” You said, the words meant to reassure again, though you could hear the edge of nervousness in your own voice.

”May I?…”

Mizu glanced at you for what felt like an eternity, eyes wary but trusting, her lips slightly parting as she waited for your touch.

’You may.’ She didn’t have to say it, neither did she really want to.

Mizu was…

Obedient to say the least.

At least for this brief moment.

You handled it like stroll in the park. At least you'd like to think.

Pressure? What pressure?

You calmed your breathing pattern, feeling the warm air slowly getting to your exposed breasts and its peaks hardening at the slight shift of the temperature, which you knew Mizu didn't mind because she was just the same as you.

You just didn't really care as long as it was a female individual. 

But she still noticed.

Slowly, you extended your finger, the tip gently brushing over the woman's swollen gums, moving carefully toward the back of her mouth, where the sensitive tooth had been causing all the discomfort.

Mizu tensed up for another moment but then sighed, her hold on your elbows tightening for a short instant before the pressure of your thumb led to a strange kind of relief, though the discomfort still lingered.

You continued to move your finger in small, deliberate circles, applying just the right amount of pressure, as though trying to coax the stubborn ache to let go. 

She focused on your breathing, the slow and steady rhythm of your continuously rising and falling glittering bust, shortly becoming her center before she mentally averted herself.

You were insane.

Eyes looking up, back to the side, back up, maybe if she looked to the side.. the rain in her irises kept swaying back and forth, unable to decide.

Mizu's ears were on fire and it didn't help that the proximity between the two of you gave her no other choice but to stare, as much as she tried to act unbothered which at least to you, she did a pretty good job at.

You were insane.

And her eyeballs couldn't help but wander because of your gorgeous complexion, suave eyes, that nose with its inimitable wings, those lips with such well-defined contours, the intricate softness of your features undoubtedly eclipsed even those with the most stunning faces.

Your beauty that had withstood so many physical and mental corsets, so many constraints, absurd prohibitions, sadism, conspiracies and humiliations -

It was your doll like face, your scarred and toned waist and the softness of your bosom you so mindlessly exposed with the way you looked down at her, fiercely concentrated and not to be deterred...and then all of a sudden, the tilt of your own head and a breath of your lips that revealed a simple treat she had yet to discover.

You were insane and it would've been a matter of time until you'd have heard your friends heart thudding in her chest, feeling the delicate nature of the moment, of the trust she placed in you just because and without too much hesitation whatsoever... 

Those small circles you kept rubbing into her mouth, Mizu unconsciously replicated them gently onto the edge of your elbow, and it took you every muscle and willpower in your being to not cup her entire face-

What were you doing? 

Naked, thighs slightly touching with another woman,  with your thumb in her mouth and your eyes blurring at the feeling of her lips around you...

Her lips around your thumb…with her hooded and heavy eyes looking up at you.

Digging deeper and deeper into your core as if she had long understood…

The wetness of her tongue tingling at the side of your digit…

You were insane.

Soaked all over, (literally) warmth radiating out off of your sculpted bodies onto one another, breaths fanning over each others glowing faces…

A fine line between unknown insanity and practiced restraint.

Inhale, exhale, inhale, exhale… the both of you were doing an amazing job at keeping it casual and it showed. 

Your mission seemed to come to an end when you noticed Mizu’s quietness and lack of reaction, slowing down the rhythm of your finger within her mouth, naturally keeping up with her intense gaze that had been burning a hole right through you, her fingers caressing you and still tightening, scraping right across your skin whenever it was too much...

But she never made you stop. Almost didn't want you to.

She followed your every move down to the raise of your brows until she felt something akin to a harsh slip. 

It hurt but it was over soon and still, you didn’t hesitate to apologize immediately…

The last rub was the most intensive one, to the point where your aloof 'husband' let out a small gasp combined with a much more intense grip on your forearm which you decided to ignore for the sake of your own sanity.

You had turned sloppy towards the end and Mizu was convinced.

You were insane.

What the hell was going on? 

You stopped, checking on last time before removing your thumb from her at once, heavy eyes on you while the back of your fingers grazed her cheek.

To make sure she was doing  well and the pain was all gone.

It was an accident.

"There, all done..Feeling better?" 

You were insane.

”I suppose so. Thank you.” A nod.

You had to be.

”You’re welcome.”

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Ever since that Heiji Shindo guy first mentioned it, you felt like the two of you had reached at point in your journey where people automatically assumed that you were married, a samurai couple, since you still walked around with your faithful katana bound to your hip and honestly, none of you felt like going out of your way to say otherwise.

Mizu had already found her way to navigate around it all and weirdly enough, it didn’t really surprise you.

When it came to acting and playing an acceptable role in the eyes of society and to its fullest extent as well, neither of you were to be underestimated.

And again, it showed. 

"Oh and...You should've listened to what the lady was saying earlier, it's a mixed Onsen, Y/N. So there was no need for me to sneak around her or anything of the sort." Mizu was talking about the old woman from earlier again.

People really were gullible, or it was just the two of you, being born as excellent actors.

Either way, you would have expected the granny to eye Mizu more intently and to ask her more about her ‘quarrels’ with you, holding her up and acting as insufferable as ever…but the woman didn’t.

Apparently.

The more you thought about it the more it would’ve been a way to give her even more false ideas...

"Plus, it's very late into in the evening,  so I doubt that any more people will be gracing us with their presence tonight."

At least the owner of the inn had assured her and therefore she felt just a little more comfortable to wash herself up for the short time being.

She didn't want to push her luck too much after all.

Right.

Like you had concluded earlier, you did have the place for yourselves with Ringo being knocked out right after he got into his room and Mizu disappearing into her own, you felt favored by the gods.

And now she was here with you.

You sunk deeper, chin almost touching the clear surface with your arms wrapping around your body underneath the water while your mind turned a bit fuzzy, your eyes felt compelled to plainly watch, an intrepid compliment lingering on your tongue.

Her.

It was apparent that it had been too long since she'd allowed herself something like this—

She’d been too busy, always rushing through the country on her pursuit of the remaining three men, barely able to catch her breath.

But now, here she was.

She let out another slow, contented sigh, her fingertips tracing the edge of the tub, the water rippling softly in response.

Your words came out in a whisper, almost like a forbidden spell. "Then I'm glad."

And you knew she was listening, sinking yourself even deeper until it was only your nose and eyes staring ahead of you, the rest of your body drowned in warm comfort.

'I get to see you like this.' you repeated in your consciousness, a tickling sense of courage taking over your mind. It wasn’t calculated, nor was it a joke and there wasn’t much struggle either.

She was attractive…to you.

Your type even. 

In a friendly way of course, and even then you thought you'd let her know.

There was no shame in it.

"Believe it or not, I think you're very...satisfying to look at Mizu. Very pretty. "

Her characteristics… they complimented each other well, never failing to steal your attention.

Yet you still had to be careful with the way you sounded, even when you let your heart speak.

Seriousness with the blend of a soft treat mixed in your tone, and you didn't just mean that now, the thought actually came to you pretty often lately and right now you had no intentions of hiding that from her.

It is ok to find your friend good looking, right?

You said it casually enough either way and her true emotions had unraveled for just a moment.

"..."

In hopes to not scare her off with your comment, you tried your best to make it sound as amicable as possible and not some sort of sick joke as you caught a part of her relaxed state stand stiff at your words.

Shocked?

Taken aback?

Azure eyes shot open again, not necessarily feeling the need to face you just yet.

Her already quiet demeanor stood still...a bit too still, silence creeping up your back as if the whole room was holding her breath with her.

Oh no...you saw her look downwards, seemingly towards where her chest was hidden by the waters and steam, feeling your stomach sink for just a moment and her prolonged quiet didn't help.

"I…I didn't mean to offend-" What demon had possessed you to say something like this again?

"Huh..." the woman started out, before slowly all too carefully as if not to spill any more water, turning to look at you in your entirety.

Her gaze lingered, distant and yet still so close, cerulean irises tracing the edges of your face, searching not for answers but something...more elusive, tender and honest.

Why would you lie to her like this, knowing what she had faced on a daily basis?

Why would you do something like that?

Or maybe, staring more intently now, you weren't lying?

Well, with you, one could never really tell.

”Pretty?…”

Another short silence until she broke it with a barely audible scoff.

"I don't get it...." Mizu replied slowly, small timid waves moving along with the way she spoke to you, full of honesty and respect.

She meant every word that left her mouth, "but you're very beautiful yourself. I hear people telling you all the time. They see it and naturally it's only the truth." She breathed shortly and her words almost pinched your heart.

You didn’t think of yourself as ugly per say but, ever since he happened to have been out of your life, you avoided mirrors and other such things that threatened to reflect back at you.

He completely destroyed the way you saw yourself and whenever you thought about the situations your looks, character and naivety had ended up putting you in at the time, you wished you were born a bit less fortunate in that sense.

With a different mouth, or a bit more lively skin, or a bit less distance between your front teeth, a smaller nose…

Anything that did not remind him of her.

He married you because of her-

And you, young, unexperienced and dumb as you were, lived cluelessly, transgressing and questioning your own grasp on reality.

The short lived union practically left a sealed perception of men and their most sinful motives ingrained into the deepest parts of your consciousness, always keeping you at edge.

It was a nicely decorated trap with no exit in sight except for death and finality itself with you, a bewitching mannequin, a replacement, a 'consolation price' at the heart of it all.

From a bright and promising soul to the devil and all its perverted fantasies himself...w hat good use was beauty when you couldn’t even recognize who you truly were from within anymore?…

Innocence, was it?

That privilege has been ripped from away from you a long time ago, like  a ripe fruit with parasites feasting at it from the inside, slowly spiraling into whatever name you had become…

The things men would call you…

Men will be men.

Fiend, Demon, Beast…Men would always be regular men and their fury was no different.

A man’s wrath was one thing… but the Damsel’s was another.

Men would always be regular men, but the Damsel of Devastation was the devil.

So they said.

The devil…that was what your line of work turned you into, because you let it.

A woman’s wrath…

Word on the street said it was explosive, brutal and vile, the injuries found on the bodies sometimes looking more akin to animalistic ripping and stabbing rather than anything else really, since most of the time, you were unable to keep what was left of your emotions under control and ‘work’ was practically the only way to let it all out.

And it was all true, your recent encounters with Taigen only serving as a pre taste of what you usually let yourself into.

And that same dark spot within you helped in convincing you that there was no reason to feel bad about it at all either.

Your hurt and short temper, pretentious arrogance and lack of self control at ‘work’ and even before.

But…

You weren’t always like that though, there was a time where you tried to erase yourself from men’s radars, to be kind and docile, non problematic and truly willing to try and bend yourself to societal norms.

To bring honor to your family, to marry, to quit swordsplay and to bear his children even when it felt wrong and unnatural to you.

Soft on every single level.

That was a long time ago though and your encounter with himhad taught you differently.

But what did that mean to you?

Cleansing was far too insufficient for you by now and you had no intentions of redeeming yourself whatsoever, that was out of the question.

The damage this bond had done to your soul irreversible.

It was all a bad dream, a facade, things you had left behind but that never ceased to plague your mind at the end of each passing day, when you worked had finally become nothing, his mark still on the back of your neck, something you had long enough considered to cut off and out your skin once and for all.

And yet you couldn’t, never had the courage to do so even after all those years.

The ‘Damsel of Devastation’ and the red ‘crane’ on her back…an irremovable thorn forcefully blown into the shadows of your nape.

 A restless wandering corpse, with an unquenchable thirst for more foul blood to spill, to punish and to keep it going…

Except that you didn’t decompose half as fast as one would have expected you to by now, no, you were more defiant.

That thing that had been burned deep into you…you’d never forget.

But Mizu could not know, she didn’t have to.

You didn’t really want her to.

And you’d try to keep it that way. 

Poison.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Now that your heart had climbed back to its usual spot, you could breathe again only to ask yourself two seconds later if you the one that was dumb or just stupid.

What was  there not to understand in what you were saying?

The quiet that reigned now wasn't awkward or heavy but it definitely left you confused and without thinking, you shifted slightly, carefully inching closer, letting the warmth of the water guide you forward.

You wanted to be closer to her again.

You wanted to understand, you..."Mizu...I don't understand what you don't understand.." And her answer hit you like a gut wrenching punch.

How could you forget? How could she forget?

Did she still think she looked that awful? 

"I don't understand what you're calling pretty." Right. 

To be unsightly in a man’s world, wasn't that comparable to death itself?

Death of one's own...but not in your eyes.

You dared to answer with no filter whatsoever.

“You.” It was fearless and the intensity of your voice muted your friend in a moment of awe and something else, something deeper…more rooted.

And yet she only scowled, brows raising once again.

You should’ve known better.

“Really...Let's just say that no one has ever used that to describe me...” To her you were always pretty and ten times more alive than the others.

“No one?”  To the rest of the world, what was she?

You should’ve known better.

Not even her own husband had dared to compliment her and there you came spouting such nonsense from your lips.

Unless the words ‘You’re not as hideous as I expected’ were supposed to count as a compliment.

It was the closest thing he ever said concerning her appearance. Her husband’s words, not yours of course.

And then there was you…

"...but thank you.” It came out as a whisper and Mizu slid back up a little. It was sincere.

Your head tilted at her, straightening your back which minimally revealed your chest to the damp air. Her thanks meant enough, it answered your question more than it should have but...

"Not even men- Oh uhm...right"

The more you spoke, the more brainless and sorry you felt for her and she went back to closing her eyes along with a shrug of her shoulders.

"Nope. Not their cup of tea I'm afraid." It made you break a scoff. Men will always be men, right?

'Mine neither. The men part.' You thought casually, " Oh actually you'd be surprised."

And again, you meant what you said, causing her storm-like eyes to flutter open again, frowning at you with an attitude.

After all, as far as you knew, same sex relationships between men had always been quite frequent, if not even rampantly accepted and welcomed by the Japanese society, especially between daimyos and within the ranks of the samurai...it was practically a norm.

Honorable even.

Although for women, it was ultimately more rare, questioned and borderline looked down upon.

Unorthodox.

(did my research ppl in the edo period were legit like ‘lmaoo yeah being gay is honorable ok but wlw? why should that exist??? of course it wasn't forbidden but it was definitely more lowkey!)

But what did that matter to you?

"You're already unbelievably handsome during the day and then you turn even prettier when you're....like this...at night?  If I were a man, I would've already been courting you, no questions asked." 

You stared back at her with nothing else but meaningfulness, while she was not entirely sure to have heard you right. 

You were insane and she felt like splashing you to keep you from blabbering such nonsense.

You were 'the Damsel' after all...

"You don't know what you're saying..." Except that you did and right now, she didn’t exactly know how to handle it.

'What an odd thing to say...'

You had to be insane, there was no other way.

You threw such strong words into the conversation and Mizu's jaw tightened and yet, before she could rethink about it, "Have you ever even been courted before?"

Leaving you a bit confused and tucked into a corner by now.

'What the hell??'

Mentally face palming herself, she cursed and didn't know what she was even expecting to gain from t hat.

What did she care if you had already been pursued? And even if you did it could've hardly been-

It's not like it was any of her business and besides-

"Yes" Your answer was nasty and short but quite simple in the end.

You didn’t seem to recall it fondly though.

"....By a man?"

The question rolled off naturally with a bit too much disappointment and yet before she could 'correct' herself, something in the air had shifted, like the playful tug of a hidden spark.

Mizu noticed it first-

Your hand, just beneath the surface, moved slowly, like a quiet invitation. A mischievous glint flickered in your eyes as you glanced at the woman besides you, a faint smirk pulling at the corners of your lips.

"Wait no...forget I ev-"

Before Mizu could react, you flicked her wrist, sending a sudden splash of warm water towards her, the droplets hitting the woman's face with a soft splash, the water tickling her skin as she gasped in surprise.

You had beat her to it, h er eyes widened, and before you could stop herself, you laughed—a bright, surprised sound that echoed against the walls.

Your hand covered up a bit of your sunshine like smile before lowering it just enough to bite your index a little, in an attempt to calm your laughing down only to finally reveal the treat the samurai had caught a glimpse of earlier, back when you helped her soothe her pain. 

There was a small gap between your two front teeth.

It was precious, it was what caused her smile right after you and she didn't care enough to curse herself for it right now.

"Oh…” No matter what you always seemed get bolder and bolder the more time you spent with her, she couldn’t get enough of the beam that would present itself whenever you tried to annoy, tease and get reactions out of her.

Now was one of those moments again.

And she enjoyed it.

”You’re going to regret this Y/N…” 

”Is that a promise? Or just an empty threat?”  The small gap between your front teeth showing itself once again.

You were giggling like a child.

“You do that again and I can promise you that you will be dealt with…” Her gaze was unmistakable, glimmering with malicious intent.

”Properly.”

The last word reached your ears with an incredibly dangerous tone and you wished nothing more than for her to back up her threats with her actions.

”Hm.” No hesitation whatsoever.

You repeated the same action again with much more force which Mizu semi managed to dodge while you backed away right before she could get back to you, your singsong laughter resonating all over the place once again, completely forgetting you were still in a public space.

"Well, I didn't know getting courted by women was a thing now...Is there something you aren't telling me or am I the one missing out?"

Coming back at her question, you wished for it in silence, watching her expression shift to an unsure one before regaining composure.

“Tsk...you know very well this isn't what I meant” Mizu said shaking her head at herself, her voice a mix of amusement and sheepish disbelief.

She wiped her face, still smirking, but your eyes sparkled with challenge.

You could only return her almost self assured expression.

It wasn't? 

Really?

"Then what is it that you meant?"

You were Y/N after all.

(me x yn when lowkey???)

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Not everyone could be fooled as easily by your antics as you liked to think.

But then again she wasn't just 'everyone'. Or anyone.

"What was the last thing I said to you?" You tried to justify yourself but she wouldn't let you.

"Master I-" You were trapped, quick and short answers without much space for arguments of your own, raspy counterattacks and that infatuating smell of her kizami. 

You’d force yourself to speak, you couldn’t let her suffocate you like this. Even if you knew better, you’d still try. 

It wasn’t smart but it was also something close to a once in a lifetime opportunity, to speak to your mentor again and to die once more.

After all it was better to speak than to run away and die. Even if buried alive.

Right?

She'd eat you while you were still breathing, chewing your puny little self up and your hidden faults before spitting you out to leave you bare and you knew it.

She wasn’t just anyone, she wasn’t just everyone.

Even if your main focus was Mizu and helping her a bit with the whole revenge mission, she primarily served as an excuse to drag yourself here in an attempt...

You wanted to fix things before your eventual demise and as if your situation wasn't already at it's worse...(it wasn't), Ringo had accidentally found out about your illness one fateful morning when Mizu was still tight asleep.

There was no need to deny it. You were getting sloppy and you didn't like it.

You had been executing your usual meditating and exercising routine when out of the blue your complexion turned even more lifeless, transparent and you felt your lungs tighten again.

The exact thing you claimed to handle so well and had proved yourself quite formidable to have hidden for so long, going unnoticed.

You suddenly broke down to your knees, coughing a hefty amount of blood which ended up tainting your white undergarment and flooding your hand with the ruby like liquid.

Ringo had been strolling through the crystalline woods that day, searching for mushrooms or berries like he usually did and with luck (or not) came back to you at absolute random, humming a tune which quite literally felt like a stab wound the moment he saw you.

You looked like you could hardly breathe, fighting an already lost battle and the man thought he’d felt his heart fall to the soles of his feet dropping his fruitful bounty at the nauseating sight.

You tried telling him that this happened from time to time, nose bleedings, coughing up blood, it was all because of the levels of stress, that you could handle it.

It was funny because you were the one that tried to change his mind on joining Mizu on her quest and there you were, your respiratory system overstimulated by everything little thing.

“Not a single word of this goes to Mizu.”

You didn’t even have to threaten him that seriously.

At least for now you had made him swear to you to keep it between him and the gods, threatening you’d make him eat loads and loads of eggplants if even a single syllable of this reached the ears of your blue friend.

You still couldn’t grasp how one could be so absolutely scared of a vegetable but it served you well.

Ever since, Ringo always made sure to stop by markets or pharmacies whenever you’d pass by a city or hamlets in hopes to find anything that could soothe your nerves even throughout this tumultuous journey.

You said it were your nerves but that was merely a theory...and you didn’t even try to believe it.

You had always had mixed feelings about it but the apprentice insisted he was your guardian Angel now the same way you always defended him and made him feel seen and protected despite the short amount of time you had known each other.

You were surprised how well he had been able to keep his lips sealed and allowed yourself to relax a bit more whenever you’d leave him with your cunning friend.

In other words, you had things to do before it was too late and being able to sort things out with your master was one of those.

It had to be done or else you’d be turning in your grave for the rest of eternity.

Well, that and unbeknownst to everyone here she genuinely craved to see you as well, despite her harsh words and unwavering stubbornness.

To think that she was the one that had raised you, before you had to keep raising yourself…

You still longed for her, the ache in your chest growing deeper with each passing day, week, month, year...

In the quiet moments, your mind would drift, consumed by the impossible hope that Yunjing might somehow take you back—

To at least acknowledge you as the apprentice, the daughter you once were to her, before you chose that thing over her-

Carving such a great wound in her, she believed it would never heal.

It took you a few agonizingly long seconds to make up your mind, but when you did, you decided you didn’t care who was watching.

Whether it was Mizu’s cold glare, slicing through your fragile composure behind her glasses, or Ringo’s eyes painted wide with concern, this was your last chance, and nothing else mattered truly anymore.

You were at everyone's mercy, some might even say that you were pitiful, what were you even doing?

This was unlike you and it definitely did put your friends in an awkward position, Mizu soundlessly watching the scene unfold in front of her with Yunjing’s infinitely patient form digging into doorway.

At this specific moment, Mizu’s fixing gaze was driving you insane one could only imagine what everyone was thinking.

“…” Ringo and Mizu…

They could both sense the guilt that now plagued your conscience, reluctantly reclaiming a truth you had long buried away with a myriad of complex emotions, even if the process was painful and arduous.

You were small now, and anxious and tired and you were a mess... in every sense of the word.

So what?

They wouldn't dare hold this against you. They didn't even fully understand the situation, nor did they know the extent of your quarrel with the lady.

Despite keeping her unreadable and apathetic like visage on the both of you, Mizu was...surprised to say the least. 

During the last few days she had spent traveling with you, she did notice that whenever Ringo tried to pry a bit more about your master and her whereabouts, what she was like or how you two last interacted, you always seemed more than evasive about the topic and went mute.

She could have never guessed that it was that serious though.

"So when was the last time your master and you have spoken?" 

"You mean in person?" He nodded.

"...About 4 or 5 years ago?"

"..." Mizu was training but it didn't stop her from eavesdropping either way, accidently or not.

It wasn't really eavesdropping because the two of you were literally at a ten meter radius from her, she was concentrated at her task at hand yes, but she really couldn't help but keep an ear open.

"Oh....that's uhh...that's a lot of time." No shit.

"Hm. You think so?" you humored him dryly, binding your tasuki sash back up against your upper arm. 

Of course you knew that it wasn't normal per se but the current circumstances really didn't make things any easier for you, it didn’t give you much room to try.

You valued Yunjing's words and respected her every wish, no matter how absurd or hurtful, you always took her seriously.

And the last time the two of you had spoken she had made herself abundantly clear.

Now you could only hope enough time had past to try and be reasonable again, now that you had grown out of your teenage years and she had (you hoped) properly mourned her husband.

"Oh! I know-"

A nd you prepared yourself for another one of his breathless rambles, automatically tuning it out a bit while you shifted your focus onto the woman that was all blue, who undoubtedly had been immersing herself within her own ruthless fantasies for about an hour now, whirling her weapon around, fueling her footwork, dodging and cutting through frozen trees and leaves taking short breaks only when needed.

You had already trained that morning, for an almost equal amount of time yet less intensively due to Ringo begging you to let him watch you closer which you quite reluctantly accepted under the conditions that he stayed put and quiet.

Either way Mizu didn’t want him near her when she exercised because in her own words, ‘A simple breeze can throw a crane off course.’

Ringo was a typhoon.

You scoffed at her but it was no use arguing with her, something along the lines of how she’d like to avoid a maximum of distractions if possible.

She couldn’t focus with him around, she needed quiet and peace and so did you but you were honestly more open to the idea of taking on the role of someone Ringo would not feel like a total nuisance to most of the time.

You had accompanied him with his shopping in the small village of Miyama to give the samurai her space and much needed tranquility and it seemed like the both of you had just come back in time.

It had been around ten minutes and  after all that slicing and meditating, Mizu’s workout seemed to have finally come to an end for the day.

You weren't crazy.

Ringo’s bouncy voice kept ringing your head with his prying questions ever since you left up until your arrival and Mizu had heard it all, jaw tightening at the thought of your eventual discomfort.

She knew you could speak up for yourself, she knew you probably already told him off and she also knew how forgetful Ringo could be by now.

She was sure enough to have warned him though?

"You ever tried to send her any letters? You're good at calligraphy and your stories are..interesting! I heard older women love reading mukashi banashi-"

"It's not like that"

You flatly spat at him, according him a few seconds of your attention again for him to leave the subject alone which soon enough ringed a bell.

Mizu had mouthed him crucial advice a few days ago just when the three of you had started your journey towards the east of the country for the sake of pursuing your own advice.

It was brief and discreet but right after abandoning Taigen, when she found her apprentice already asking a bit too much about Yunjing, she slid a small whisper into his ear all while making sure you weren't listening:

'For now you should leave the topic of her mentor alone. She doesn’t like it.’ Depending on what aspect he asked you about.

You seemed pretty proud, full of admiration and nostalgia when talking about your younger years with her, but whenever Ringo would ask about any recent interactions, you’d grow serious in deep thought, heavy aura shining through with dry answers.

Right.

It wasn’t very appropriate and Ringo never wanted to purposely put you in any uncomfortable situations.

He was being too invasive with your personal relationships for his own good and after you bit back with that snappy tone of yours, he was quick to catch on but he was a bit late to the party.

Eventually you’d open up on your own.

You didn’t fail to apologize instantaneously but Ringo had long forgiven you, telling it wasn’t right on his end.

Only problem was that now you were borderline scowling, energy levels laying low with the mention of Yunjing and your complications with her…

And it really didn't help that Mizu noticed it right away despite  her supposedly dedicating her entire focus on her exercising only, and frankly….

She hated herself for it.

What?

It had been a month now, almost a month and a half since you, her charming warrior, assassin, doctor friend had joined her (with her approval might one add) and gods help her…

She couldn't stand it.

It made her feel even more confused and disgusted with herself really..

You frowning, you being sad, you being frustrated, angry, whatever negative emotions you displayed, she always tried her best to ignore, to turn a blind eye one them because at the end of the day, it wasn’t her center.

You weren’t her center, friendship wasn’t her center, your laughter and unnecessary bickering wasn’t her center.

You holding out food to her in offering and her leaning down without much thought to rip a chunk out when Taigen was quick to call her a dog wasn’t her center. 

Why was she like that? 

Seriously. 

It didn’t matter much because the food came from you and with that new haircut of his you were just as fast to compare him to a baboon’s bottom.

It did make her bite her tongue.

She huffed, holding back a cackle yet this wasn’t her center.

Blowing into your ear to make you spasm and annoy you wasn’t her center, using her agility to act like a gymnast and entertain you in silent hopes to see you grin wasn’t her center either.

Her newly found friendship with you wasn’t her center.

She barely knew you anymore. You weren’t her center.

Revenge was and she hated how often she had to remind herself of that within your presence.

Still, that damn scowl really wasn't a good look on you and she was on the verge of grinding her teeth to dust if she didn’t find a way to fix it within the next 5 minutes.

She guessed this was what friendship did to a person and she hated it.

You weren’t insane.

Stealing a few glances her way every now and then and you could have sworn that even if minimal, she'd reciprocate them here and there, always careful of course.

She didn't want to give you any wrong ideas after all.

Right.

Neither did you, of course...?

What was there to misinterpret?

You only looked her way to study her body's abilities and limits, reflexes, the way her feet swayed and how her chest would rise and fall frantically whenever she'd go and breathe a little harder because of her efforts and constant concentration.

Catching her asleep, drinking up her peaceful image from the crease of her eye bags to the small gap between her lips and the softness of her small breaths.

It was a rare occurrence.

Or how she would smirk at herself whenever she'd successfully cut through whatever tree she had designated as her training dummy, her signature raven lock falling to the side of her temple while her brow would raise with pride and cockiness, the accentuation of her cheekbones and nose not going unnoticed by you.

It was rare to see her wear anything close to a smile on her face so you made sure to take a mental picture before she could go back to her typical frown which you gave up scolding her for.

That was practically her default face really.

Mizu and her training made you feel...exclusive?

Exclusively honored, yes!

You meant lucky. Lucky to have found someone to match your intensity in combat. 

You really had to admit that she did occupy most of your undivided attention right now, in a friendly way of course, while Ringo kept going on about what he would have written to his own mother if she was still alive, it pained you to conclude that you had not heard a single word of what he said, your rival friend here being far more interesting to look at and it almost made you feel terrible.

"Miss Y/N?" Not right now Ringo.

You had fought her once and she was good.

She was really good and you knew that if it wasn't for your stupid mistake, you would've given her a harsher time.

So it was only natural for you to take notes for the future duel she promised you.

She didn't exactly promise but she did keep it in the back of her mind, so it was going to happen eventually.

Her movements came to a halt and you were far too intrigued to even see yourself.

Of course you couldn't.

You were staring and staring and before you knew it the navy clothed woman whipped her head into your direction, her orbs strictly piercing your way as if she had been sensing your insisting, dare she say longing eyes on her.

’Oh-‘

You were so taken aback that you didn’t even notice Ringo telling you about how he was leaving to pee and promised you not to get lost but that if he did, he’d probably be chilling with a family of tanukis for a bit but he’d try his best to find his way back to you no matter what.

”What?” He had already left.

Little did you know, she did exactly the same when you weren't watching. 

Studying you, didn't matter if you trained or not actually.

She didn't even know she was doing it and Ringo would always be seconds away from addressing her new found habit. 

The woman never gave him the chance to.

Mizu simply had better chances at not getting caught and her reasoning was sort of the same as yours.

She had to study you if she wanted to win your next battle, even if it was only in second position of her worries.

You were still quite the unusually interesting individual and she somehow couldn't come to terms with it. 

How could she?

It was sisterly affection, she was sure of it. (i cried writing this💀 useless sapphics-)

The way you'd keep rolling your eyes at her, backing it up with confident yet sheepish snicker, whenever she'd deliver a sarcastic remark at your own sassy antics, pretending to hate it.

More often than not holding eye contact with her, or whenever you'd talk about martial arts and you'd exchange combat skills and tactics, executing your deadly techniques on her with upmost gentleness, knowing you would never do anything to actually hurt her.

And she did the same.

You could handle each other, that was the point.

Or when you'd insist on teaching her more advanced calligraphy whenever you weren't training, eating, sleeping or on the road in general, speaking to her ever so understandingly and guiding her brush with her having a hard time to ignore the burning feeling in her ear...

Or when night would fall and you'd help her change her bandages, always respecting her boundaries such as her bandaged chest and the sight of her open hair.

She didn’t know how to react to it, second thoughts always invading her mind whenever she’d enjoy your company a little too much.

Second thoughts about this friendship of yours.

Seriously, you were a problem and she had to thank the tint on her glasses for covering her fleeting gaze at all times or else she would've gone insane with the amount of times she'd catch herself (and the amount of time she wouldn’t) searching for your eyes, your company, your proximity.

It made no sense.

You were a woman and here she was acting like some moody awkward teenage boy, confused by your person.

What was happening? Why was it happening?

Sisterly affection it was.

But she'd digress.

She caught you, stretching a bit by reaching her hands to her feet in the negative temperatures, momentarily looking up towards you, she knew that if you’d decide to turn you’d catch her, and this time she didn't have her glasses.

She stopped but then it didn't even take her a minute and there she went again, staring at you from the corner of her eye, like a sphinx ...four, five, six seven-

Bingo! Oh no..

You lost! You turned too soon and luckily for her, it made you seem like the creep in this situation.

Mind you, she lost no time.

"What is it?" Mizu broke your trance swiftly and you almost stumbled upon your words trying to act unbothered by the fact that you had quite literally just been caught gawking at your friend while still looking bothered because of Ringo’s choice of topic.

What the hell were you thinking again?

Right, Ringo went to take a piss, you were a bit pissed and so it was only the two of you, once again.

Either way you weren't gawking, you were taking mental notes..!

You shrugged your shoulders fast. A bit too fast actually.

"I don't know, I'm asking you.." You singsonged at her, quickly thinking of another one of your jokey remarks before she'd nail you alive. 

She’d definitely nail you alive. Mizu only raised her brows, chuckling for a second as she shook her head.

"You think I don’t see it but you keep staring at me..And I asked you first." Oh really?

You mentally ran laps and cursed at yourself again.

What a time to irritate her a bit.

Your favorite game and pass time after all.

You shifted on the floor, giving her a confused air and view of your face but she knew better by now.

Whatever was about to leave your lips would put her in an awkward position, you were always so quick.

And she was right.

"Oh...You've got it all wrong Mizu...I'm not staring at you" Was your tone ever not dripping with confidence and...everything else?

The woman only tsked at you, sheathing her blade briefly before making her way towards your sitting form, suddenly arming herself with an unreadable expression on her features.

So this is how you wanted to do things?

"I was simply..." You started, an awkward beam on your lips while you tried your best not to laugh already.

"You were simply?..." She mimicked in her rough tone, inky brow cocking at you while searching your eyes for any indicators of another one of your infuriating answers, her voice a bit lighter than usual, ever so softening whenever she spoke to you.

It was like a reflex at this point.

"The posture in your forms was off all along and I’ve only been back for 10 minutes now" You lied straight through your teeth as you scrunched your nose in order to avoid snickering too fast.

This was a friendly insult.

The word ‘insult’ was an overstatement.

It was hard not to keep your eyes on her when she was now towering over you with her lanky frame and signature frown combined with a small pout as you were struggling to read her next move.

She was already close and  you were heating the fuck up.

You felt her shift towards you with the same puzzled expression on her face as she slowly but steadily started lowering her face to meet yours, almost closing the gap and you'd be lying if you said that despite the numbing temperatures, you didn't feel anything rise between the two of you.

She had bad posture, it was a fact and she knew that but on that day she was in an unusually good mood which made her entertain you a bit more actively.

Not only that but it did in no way make her forms look any less better, perfection honestly.

So?

You had to keep yourself grounded and shot her a defying glare, the one Taigen failed to resist, the one that usually left your blue eyed friend so silent.

"Hm. Is that so?" she muttered barely audible and you almost stuttered...again.

So this was how she was going to be?

"Yeah..." You felt her large hand sneak its way up your arm but didn't react to it because she was commanding your attention with her eyes, indifferently removing some of the tiny loose strands hovering your face.

What was even happening right now?

You two were friends, she was allowed to do that.

Of course only she could do that.

She was watching you and she wanted your eyes on her, it was undeniable.

It was unnecessary.

It was stupid.

"Yeah?..." You felt her warm breath fan against your cheek and you almost wanted to die from the heat rushing to your ears.

Gods be damned what was wrong with her? 

What was wrong with you?

"Oh, absolutely.” You reciprocated courageously. It was final.

What was wrong with the both of you?

”…” Damn her.

“I mean...How could I not watch?" You shook your head dramatically as you bit your lower lip, the ends of your mouth twitching in anticipation.

She’d eat you alive if she could.

"So you're not denying it anymore?" Fuck her.

"Well yes because it was just that bad." You quickly saved yourself with a short breath leaning back a tad while Ringo’s bell alerted you that he’d be back any minute now.

That guy could probably only wonder if he was interrupting you two in the middle of ‘something’.

Wait- You two were women…How would that work again?

"Like reaaal bad posture." Her fingers tracing closer and closer to your neck, your body warmth radiating onto her, gods this was pathetic and you were itching for her to see through her actions this time.

"Mhm." Her voice was barely above a whisper, dropping an octave lower and if it wasn't for you already being seated, you would have too, that woman just couldn't keep her hands to herself…

Of course. 

You were already halfway there, what was the point  of backing out now?

”I see.” 

That’s it, you were done for. Her hand was caressing the side of your nape with the back of her fingers, you almost couldn’t feel it until-

"You know, you should try andAH-"

Your tone emphasized and shrieked, breaking the glass ceiling.

And before you could add more onto the plate and egg her on any further, you were met with a squatting Mizu, feeling your train of thought being interrupted by the shuddering feeling of her long and frosty fingers finding their way onto your exposed collarbone, proudly pinching into the crook of your neck just enough to shock you but nowhere hard enough to actually hurt you.

But they were seriously so FUCKING COLD what the-

And she kept going.

"Is that all? No, don’t hold back, princess...Anything else you want to add?" HOW DARE SHE?

Oh and how this shitty nickname rolled off of her tongue, this woman, of course she had you right where she wanted.

Just this once.

"OW! NO NO NO NOSTOP AH-  MIZU PLEASE AHA-" How did she even-?

It was a mix of pinching, squeezing and caressing all over your neck with her frozen digits which didn't really matter because in the end it was her and she had you squealing all over in no time, holding back a laugh or two.

"And just where exactly do you think you're going?" It made your heart jump and Mizu cackle for just an instant.

You couldn't run, you were at her mercy even in such an unserious argument and she'd take advantage of it and at the same time it had made your frown disappear.

That was all that she wanted.

She didn’t catch herself thinking but to her, you wore a smile better, taunting her, you could practically hear the malicious grin spread on her face while you couldn't help but squirm for your life.

You could've undone yourself from her grip easily. But at this very moment, you just didn't want to. (sisterly affection MY ASS-)

"OW OW OW OW OW- MIZU! MIZU I'M SORRY I WAS JOKING, I WAS JOKING  SERIOUSLY, PLEASE GET THEM OFF!!" You cried out laughing, stomach fluttering with bubbles and butterflies as you couldn't help but feel like a teenage girl being bullied by her boyfriend.

Ew.

To cheer you up when you were down…to make sure you weren’t doing too bad when confronted with unsettling things, to be gentle with you whenever she could, it wasn’t her center.

She later justified her actions by saying that you had an insect clasping onto your neck. So she tried to remove it and you would’ve been a fool to ignore her ironic tone when she said so.

That’s what friends are for, no? 

"MIZU STOP I’M GONNA PEE!-”

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

It was safe to presume that the woman thought you had died.

That night, that argument, the shouts, the rain, the deception, the slap that left a trail of crimson, like a bridge connecting your stinging nostril and upper lip down to your chin, like a zipping thunderbolt.

Well, there were a lot of thunders that night, you just realized.

It was the first time she had laid a hand on you, achieving the unthinkable. You pushed her to her limits.

You two weren’t strangers, besides Asano, no one knew you better than her. You regretted it but it also made you glad that it was her after all.

1 825 days, 43 826 hours, 261 weeks, However one would like to count it.

You longed for her, the sight of her dark hair confined within strict hairstyles and still very faint strands of grey, the sound of her even throaty voice snickering and advising you, the feeling of her numbing hands on your forehead when you’d feel down at times, the bearable smell of her pipe and it’s contents…

The two alternately colored planets residing within her eyes. Like chestnuts and greens.

And they had missed the sight of you too, empty of any compassion.

She had flicked your forehead, Mizu’s pupils dilating directly just for a bit, lip separating in a small ‘o’  as she realized who this woman was. 

Somewhere in the deepest parts of her mind, realized who this woman truly was.

Whose sword she had forged all these years ago, the you now wore on your hip, the one Master Eiji refused to refine any further despite her complaints and his rectifications, because of the nature of her spirit.

She didn't think she’d ever get to meet her ‘training partner’ ever again, especially not under the current circumstances.

It was the middle of the night and Yunjing’s stance was relaxed but firm and her left arm was circling her waist, the right one supporting her infamous pipe, brown tinted glasses scanning over your friends briefly before returning to you.

As if they had tried to unmask each other, but not right now.

There was no need. 

She had all the time in the world for such games later. Now it was all about you and what you had to say to her.

Now or never truly.

It clicked and you couldn’t take Yunjing’s silence anymore.

There was hesitance and discomfort at first, sweaty pearls slipping down your temples not going unnoticed by your friends and your mentor before it happened.

‘Bam’ . Resonance.

It took you a few agonizingly long seconds to make up your mind, but when you did, you decided you didn’t care who was watching. Whether it was Mizu’s seemingly cold glare, slicing through your fragile composure behind her glasses, or Ringo’s eyes stretched wide with concern, this was your last chance, and nothing else mattered truly anymore.

You were at everyone's mercy, some might even say that you were pitiful, what were you even doing?

So what? 

They wouldn't dare hold this against you. They didn't even fully understand the situation, or the extent of your quarrel with the lady who was clearly expecting somme sort of response from you.

What an awkward situation for any bystander, let’s just get this over with.

They could both sense the guilt that now plagued your conscience, reluctantly reclaiming a truth you had long buried away with a myriad of complex emotions, even if the process was painful and arduous.

You were a mess, you sat there trembling, strands of hair sticking to the side of your face, hands fiddling with the tissue of your hakama and it wasn’t pleasant.

A mess in every sense of the word.

Ringo’s eyes blinked hastily and nervously while navy clothed woman kept her silence.

Right now it wasn’t their place to intervene, sort of like a personal challenge of yours.

You got this.

A loud thud resounded throughout the wooden staircase, the brief pain slowly climbing your kneecaps as you uncomfortably knelt in front of her.

All of this was temporary, all of this would pass when all would have elapsed.

And she kept standing, statuesque as ever, daring to speak first, you had a heavy heart, one slip up.

She could tell.

Not your mentor but your mother.

Not the Red Soldier from the Mountains but Tan Yunjing.

Not Tan Yunjing but ‘Mama.’

You were kneeling like a beggar, like a follower, distraught as ever, as Y/N, not the Damsel of Devastation but in fact like the grown woman that you were, crying like no other little girl should, throwing your dignity aside until your head lowered near enough to kiss the ground. 

Your hands reached for her kimono, gripping it tightly, making Ringo share a worried look with his stone faced master.

Oh you had a lot of explaining to do.

Whenever there is a meeting, a parting shall always follow.

But that parting does not need to last forever.

At first, your slightly opened mouth made no sound but you pushed yourself, a wave of something delicate washing over you-

"Please…” Your voice was so insecure, it was…unfamiliar to anything anyone has ever heard before but Yunjing didn’t seem to care.

Whether a parting be forever or merely a short while…in your case it was entirely up to you.

She had tried but you had rejected her.

“What was the last thing I said to you?” crickets sang throughout the darkness of the night, a small source of light illuminating your face from within her house, memories swirling up to the surface of your brain again.

"Foolish girl, you are no apprentice of mine. Get out of my house Y/N, I want you out by morning."

Where were you?

“Master I-” Water threatened to spill and the only thing protecting you was your back, faced towards the people you cared about the most.

Seeing you like this, Mizu decided to keep her indifference for her own good. It wasn’t her place to speak. It wasn’t her place to speak, you could handle yourself…she kept on repeating to herself.

This wasn’t her center.

“Don’t make me deny you twice.” Your master wouldn’t budge.

“Mama…” the endearing title, the one you used whenever you felt at peace with her, whenever her presence made your heart feel content, the one that reminded her of who you truly were. 

No, the one you truly still are.

Oh you were desperate, pleading, rummaging through your brain, you couldn’t even think straight.

It didn’t matter anymore how many times you had played this scene out in your head in advance, right now you were bare, you were helpless and your friends were being called to hold their breaths and let you handle this on your own.

But at least you didn’t recite, you spoke from the heart, that much Ringo and his master knew.

Of course Yunjing did as well. It was complicated.

Right now, you weren’t doing this for Mizu, or Ringo but you were indeed doing this for yourself.

How were you supposed to let her know?

This place had always been a haven of your own serenity until you spiraled and you didn’t want to hear a thing after your adoptive father had been killed, Yunjing’s husband, Asano.

A good man, really.

Something within you died at that time and you tried to find it again within that thing, it wasn’t your fault.

That thing really did leave a hollow place inside of you. 

You had to admit it and until this day, she still blamed herself and how poorly she handled it all.

But you couldn’t understand-

Money could never replace one’s presence but at least you tried to make up for your errors.

After you left, you never stopped sending her money, lots and lots of it. 

You wanted to clear yourself and after you disappeared, you felt like you owed it to her, this was the least you could do.

Hell, with all the jobs you had taken on she could’ve bought herself an estate, you knew that she knew.

And it still wasn’t enough.

“Mother, I have given you my life and rightfully so-” You gritted through your teeth, hands squeezing the fabric even tighter it almost looked as if you were about to grip the flesh of your madams thighs through it.

“With all due respect…After Asano left us,  who helped you pay for the rice in your bowl, the silk on your back, the kizami in that damn pipe of yours?” you grimaced. 

You supported her from afar, clearing yourself from any monetary debts.

Ringo and Mizu thought they had misheard you.

It wasn’t your place and at the time Yunjing  had told you that there was no need, but you had hurt her in unfashionable ways.

You were a failed investment.

You had found a way to pay all these years of hard labor back to her, at least financially. The entire sum of money she had spent on you from the very moment she had laid her eyes on you to the day you decided to leave in the heat of an argument.

You could've sworn that it wouldn’t have taken her anything more to throw you onto the streets with that attitude of yours.

It was bloody money nonetheless since you refused to take in any money for your healing jobs.

It was ‘dirty money’ but it felt good knowing that you helped her somehow.

She didn’t need it but that didn’t matter.

The guilt never stopped eating at you.

You paid it all back during your years of absence as a silent apology and of course, it still wasn’t enough.

“WHO?” You barked, silent tears rolling down your cheeks and chin. She simply didn’t want to understand the choices you had made, the ones she so desperately tried to protect you from.

She could’ve done more, knowing who she was. The woman took another deliberately long drag of her pipe, shifting her weight onto the other leg as your poor condition reflected itself within her glasses.

You were directly looking at her and that for the first time in this whole conversation. Your eyes were soaked.

Mizu’s jaw tightened. This wasn’t her center.

“Yes, that is true,” Yunjing exhaled, pausing briefly, drinking both of your friends' expressions once more.

It was clear to her that you hadn’t spoken a word of this to them. She cocked her brow and shrugged, the action making her chest rise dramatically.

“Only to thank me with your impudence, leaving me to deal with your arrogance and that foul temper of yours” she hissed through her teeth, followed with a dark chuckle, venom spilling from her lips to which Ringo decided that he had to say something.

This wasn’t fair, it made no sense.

“You wouldn’t dare-” You were 17 at the time, she had no idea what you had gone through afterwards and you didn’t know any better.

You were foolish, yes. You still felt ashamed and guilty, you truly weren’t proud about it.

It was your biggest shame if there was any about you.

But she wouldn’t dare.

“Don’t exaggerate now!...Tsk, what was his name again?” No, she wouldn’t dare, dashing up your feet your puppy like stare changed into something much harsher.

If anyone wanted to hurt you, this was the last place they should reach to achieve that.

After a short sigh, she gasped lightly, “You chose that no good joke of a man, sneaking through your window at all hours of the night-” At the mention of a man, Mizu unconsciously bid her tongue. She had no idea. 

She actually thought you were joking back in the bath house, but then again, what else were she to expect?

After all, it was what made the most sense in society's eyes-

Right? You were different.

Yunjing didn’t need to continue, the unshakable disgust in your face said it all. 

‘Please don’t.’

Yunjing chose to finish her sentence either way, the topic you had meticulosly avoided so much, and she just ripped the band aid off.

“Not like an apprentice of mine but…”

Not like there was ever one to begin with.

“Like a-” A man's voice raised itself. 

"StOp" Yunjing blinked, unfazed.

This was unacceptable, you were trying to be the bigger person right now, to right your wrongs and all this woman had to do was to constantly cut you off and not take any of your words seriously.

It made the two planets within your master's eyes glimmer.

Who would’ve known? 

You had good taste in friends after all, she’d guess.

It wasn’t his place but he couldn’t watch this any longer, “Ringo-” the sapphire eyed woman barely had any time to react, to get a hold of his arm, before he stepped forward, adding onto the loudness of the previous sound, smoke soon enough seeping through Yunjing’s teeth, a joyful jet shocked combination guarding her face.

The man didn’t let her finish. Whatever dirty title she was going to give you, he wouldn’t let her.

This wasn’t what you deserved.

“YOu CAn’t sAY Things LIke that.” He forced himself to speak just above a whisper, knowing how loud his voice could be.

It was dead in the night after all and he had no idea if your mother had any other people sleeping inside her house. 

You couldn’t believe your ears. What was he thinking?

“Ringo this isn’t your-” He didn’t care about any further consequences, and at this exact moment, he strictly cared about you.

“LISten.” And she listened, surprisingly enough to which Mizu’s eyes only bulged, meeting yours for a second.

Your mother had let a man raise his voice at her, and didn't flinch?

Was he in his right mind? This didn’t have anything to do with her or him and yet he still pushed himself to support you in this trial of sorts.

“I’M rInGo and I’m Am one oF  yoUR DauGhterS FriEnds. I hAveN’t knOwn Y/N foR too Long-”  Your bald friend started, clearing his throat thoroughly.

“I’m entitled to do as I choose.” Her words seemed final. “ Young man, you’re standing on my property as we speak.” 

This wasn’t how you expected things to go. In a moment of despair you let go of Yunjing but Ringo had no plans of stopping now.

“It’s alright, we’ll leave at this very moment”

As if the situation wasn’t already tricky enough, you heard Mizu declare that she’d be leaving, already turning to get her horse. 

What a waste of her time. But her apprentice stopped her, he just needed a minute of Yunjing's precious time.

He persisted and she…waited. Mizu and her thick head, she actually waited just a bit more for you.

“I don’t agree with what you’re doing right now. I don’t know what she possibly could have done to anger you like this but she’s trying her best to make up for it. Truly. She’s here now apologizing in every way she possibly can and you, you’re just walking all over her…”

From what he gathered, you paid her literal money for years, knelt in front of of her trying to prove how serious you were about regretting your actions and this lady still wanted to put on a tough fight.

It made no sense for her to battle her kid.

He understood that she wasn’t someone that could be easily swayed but this wasn’t right, you were visibly at your breaking point.

And she didn’t care?

“What kind of mother does that to her child?” He was brave and Mizu glared daggers at her apprentice in disbelief, her gaze morphing into a troubled one. 

You didn’t do any different.

For the first time that night, Yunjing’s lips pressed into a straight line, smoke escaping her nostrils now.

She was actually listening and let your friend speak, never cutting him short.

“I don’t have a mother anymore but if I were given the chance see her or to speak to her again I’d be a fool not take the chance so immediately. And Y/N shares that sentiment” Despite your reluctancy to do so, he knew you did.

When Ringo started talking about his mother, you could sense Mizu’s attitude shift drastically, even more quiet than before and less prone to objecting to whatever the man had to say.

It made her feel…uncomfortable and it was as if all the nerves in your body alerted you of her...regret.

You turned to look at her “I can’t even imagine what I would do if my own mother rejected me in my worst times of need.” He was hinting at your unstable health, you needed solace even just for a short period of time, he was sure it could help.

This was the only home you had left.

You’d forever be grateful to Yunjing, she knew that.

Ringo’s mention of his deceased mother had Mizu’s irises shining a melancholic grey behind her orange lenses and of course her change of mood radiated off onto you almost instantly.

While Ringo was doing gods work, you subtly slid your pinky towards her index without saying a thing, keeping a straight face, interlocking them underneath her coat for just about ten seconds.

It felt secretive and delicate but honest. Just like when you touched her hand before your encounter with Heiji Shindo.

She didn’t say anything as you didn’t let her see your face during that action, it would not have been a pleasant view and either way you didn’t want her to see you like this, eyes puffy and dried tears of buildup anger and unrequited shame, your message came through nonetheless.

I’m sorry about your mother…and I’m sorry for dragging you into this mess. I’m a bad friend, I know.

Before she could reciprocate anything you let go.

You were hoping to make things easier for Mizu in her quest today and instead, you had put her in this strange position which had nothing to do with her.

To say you felt horrible was an understatement. You purposefully hid things from her because they were just too painful to talk about, you knew she’d understand eventually.

Now your mother was fuming. 

Literally.

Your chef friend felt like this had to be cleared up once and for all, even if he didn’t know all the details.

You could talk to her in private but he couldn’t stand seeing you this hurt anymore.

At least for tonight.

“Madam, she is your daughter. She’s done bad things but you should still try and treat her as such.”

Silence, complete utter silence. The kizami in her pipe had burned itself up down to the last weed and right now her main point of focus seemed disoriented.

Sort of like you, Ringo noted that the both of you were truly unpredictable. Like mother like daughter. A tragedy almost.

You had nothing else to add, your round friend had stolen all of your words by now and all of you waited for Yunjing’s reaction, a movement, words, anything really.

You were her daughter and Ringo was determined to make Yunjing forgive whatever faults you had committed, Mizu deciding to opt for silence on her end once more  while thinking that maybe she really did want to spent more time looking for information on her own rather than like this.

But she couldn't help but remember the ‘joke of a man’ your master had been talking about in such a nasty tone…

The words wouldn’t stop haunting her mind…

And she knew that she wouldn’t really have any business asking you about it but she still couldn’t help but wonder…

You had someone courting you once?

A man?

Even the thought- with your character and your rather...questionable ways, you and a man courting, marrying or anything of the sort-

A man could never handle you, disrespectfully.

'...'

It didn’t take long for Ringo to apologize with you, “Please accept my apologies for intruding alongside hers, I mean it. She means it.” You were mute.

The path of death and destruction you shared with Mizu really wasn’t his call and yet here he was defending with all the volition in his heart.

You didn’t even know if she’d let you in after the stunt you just pulled but that didn’t stop the apprentice at all and he was serious about it.

He kept going.

“I can help around your house, I can cook, I make the best soba in the world, I’ll help you clean anything you need, I can sew, I’m big and I’m strong and I can carry things for you but please don’t be mad at Y/N like this anymore.” Another long silence followed.

Hell at even Mizu lowered her head at your mother, she didn’t need to but she still did.

“My sincerest apologies once again, Lady Yunjing.” She simply uttered and it made ask yourself why the hell these two were going through with this. 

Right now you felt as if this wasn’t completely about revenge anymore.

What were they even apologizing for?

They didn’t need to know the details, they just did it. You felt like your legs were about to give out but of course, Mizu noticed before she could catch herself doing so. 

What mattered right now was you and your unstable self, the dark haired woman didn’t like seeing you like this at all, it made her feel anxious which she didn’t like either.

Seeing you unwell made her ache and she couldn’t stand it. 

And right now it didn’t matter.

You almost wanted to gasp when you felt her light hand on your shoulder, like a grounding stone. It was light and the action was short lived but it spoke very loudly for itself. 

Hang in there. She didn’t question herself for caring about you this time either.

She just did.

And suddenly, there was a crack. Not an audible one but there was a crack.

A crack in that witty mask of hers, that unattainable persona Yunjing executed so well.

The shield she had developed in times you weren’t even born, unbreakable but at this specific moment in time, it cracked open just a bit.

You were sure she’d laugh at him, right into his face but to everyone’s surprise, she simply sucked her teeth lightly, something akin to a fox’s grin.

And seconds later her beam softened again. She was genuinely smiling, pleased with…something?

Her hands fell her sides and with no warning, she stepped to the side. She was eyeing your blue friend who failed to speak this entire time.  

And yet she knew, she had a feeling Mizu needed to talk to her. 

It really came out of the blue.

Letting out a small huff the woman’s voice commanded.

“Why if it isn’t Mizu, I’m assuming you’re the one looking for a nice long heart to heart chat with me?” She disregarded your state and no one could have prepared you  for her drastic change of heart. Just what was she thinking this time?

Uhm...

The air was thick with filtered confusion on your end and something close to shocking embarrassment on Mizu’s. 

‘How the hell…’ You bit the inside of your cheek, but before you could ponder any further the woman’s responded politely, the faint disbelief in her voice making you frown.

“There’s nothing more I’d like than that…but right now might not be the right-“ Your blue friend being interrupted and she could only sigh.

“You can raise your head at once, young man.” Yunjing’s wish was simple “It’s late now”

Cutting Mizu’s already short answer even shorter, the older woman didn’t add much onto what had just happened, she minutely wore a neutral expression now, explaining that there were two free rooms, Mizu and Ringo being men should have no trouble sharing one and you could sleep in your old one.

'This makes no sense'...to you, none of this made any sense. Mizu had just met the lady, how did your mother know her name?

Whatever spell Ringo had laced into his words, you would have to thank him later in the morning.

”The three of you must be exhausted. Get washed up quickly and then go to bed. Tomorrow is another day…”

She was avoiding your gaze now and it was clear that the large man's words made her...well, you'd pick up on this tomorrow.

Like she said, it was late and right now none of you had the energy to continue this conversation, if you could even call it that.

”We’ll be able to talk and discuss further all that you want. Or that you need to know.”

The three of you muttered your most sincere thanks and without much more waiting, you stepped through the door, passing by the owner of the house and slipping off your shoes before entering the ancient place of your serenity, still processing everything that had just happened.

The only source of light was a small oil lamp sitting in the hallway of the entrance and therefore you almost couldn’t see a thing. 

Good for you.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"Something that the strange ronin had no way of knowing, too busy bedding and poisoning other women, was that the amanranthine woman he had come to misuse and fool over the course of the years....well...while on her quest to find him again, she had no other choice but to grow to mistrust, reject and even run away from a multitude of men."

You mused, snow crunching underneath  your feet as you descended your way downwards to the fishermen's town to go and get the ingredients for yours and Mizu's medicine. 

"And yet she never lost hope in her one and only's loyalty, the one she was absolutely spellbound with and practically ready to sacrifice herself for."

It was the continuation of an odd story but a good one and even if your freshly made acquaintance didn't understand all of it's undertones and metaphors, it didn't matter, he only wanted to hear you talk more. 

'She has a gift for story telling', was what he kept thinking to himself and your friends apprentice secretly wondered if by any chance your master might have told you these stories when you were younger, given how vividly and carefully you recounted them with no fear of saying anything wrong, still keeping a certain air of wisdom.

As if you had already lived through countless lives, these stories felt like a mirror of sorts. You had that effect on him and he barely even knew you.

That was to say that Ringo had failed to contain his curiosity about what turn the tale might have taken, he just couldn't help but urge you to continue your narrative (even after promising that he would stop talking given how early it was in the morning) and you on the other hand secretly could not have been happier than to indulge him.

It was strange, but it felt innocent, fluffy and light, Mizu's apprentice and his unconsciously tranquilizing, childlike energy, he wasn't heavy on you at all.

Though the young man probably wasn't even aware of it, you took note to tell him later sometime. It was a good trait and from the first time you had set your eyes on him you knew, you could already tell that he was truly kind and did not wish you any harm.

Hell, if he'd ever mess up as Mizu's assistant (as if), you'd be the first person he'd think of turning to. That was his first impression of you and maybe for now, it was for the best.

You honestly wouldn't recommend it though.

Like a warm welcome, you  had merely known him for a day but you couldn't ignore how easy he was to talk to and how naturally you felt at ease with him, he listened with no ulterior motives lingering in the back of his mind, his jumpy voice and constant questions sometimes echoing loudly but never truly bothering your space.

You twinkled.

"Wait- earlier you said that the pretty lady found her husband-" Right, you made it explicitly clear that the pair in the folkloric tale wasn't married, but something Ringo didn't know was that in this story, things were just a bit more complicated than what they seemed. 

Just like real life.

The young man was quick to correct himself, briefly clearing his throat before continuing.

"You said that the pretty lady ended up finding her lover with some other woman, making...uh.. making love to her like he never had never done with her. Now you're saying that he was actually 'poisoning' multiple women while he was away?" The apprentice urged, wanting to make sure he was still following your words correctly.

  You nodded.

He didn't fully understand, muttering his words out in a short breath.

A small glance over your shoulder reflected the image you had just recounted of him in your mind and the round giant made sure to step a bit closer to you, returning your kind expression.

It made you think how you instinctively thought of him like...a younger brother?

An irresistible, annoying younger brother definitely.

You had always been an only child so you had no idea what having siblings felt like, but if you were to be asked about how you perceived Ringo as for now, you would qualify him as...likable enough for you to let him 'bully' you into telling him stories.

You'd guess that that's what older sisters did, pretend to not care about their siblings wishes and needs only to succumb to them immediately later, it took you a few moments before you shortly turned your head again, yet this time you were faced with a seriously interested expression in the man's irises as his brows furrowed lower, still listening intently.

'You have good taste' Was your conclusion towards Mizu's choice of an apprentice, even when she claimed that she really did not want him around her, you were convinced that it was for the better since one didn't need to be a genius to know that she did not take care of herself as well as she should.

He wanted to learn from her and in exchange he'd watch over her well being.

So he seemed something close to a voice of reason just like your own mentor used to be for you.

Now if she chose to listen to him or not was entirely up to her and though it seemed a bit weird you were really happy that she had found a 'caretaker' of sorts.

What you did not fully agree on was him deliberately throwing himself onto a path littered with death and sin.

It wasn't his calling, you thought and on the other side you had to respect his determination and loyalty, and if this was what he desperately wanted for himself, then so be it.

Even if you felt like he didn’t fully understand what he signed himself up for, he must’ve had his reasons.

He was a grown man, he could decide for himself.

Your brows rose at him while you kept up the walk downwards the cliff's road, the fishermen's town slowly but surely making it's appearance on the far right, the half frozen lake reflecting the suns barely noticeable rays of light while the bland sky howled with heavy clouds.

You took it as a sign to get back to the matter at hand.

"The truth was...she hated men. She hated men and wanted to do unspeakable things to them, hurt them in every single way possible. Cast filth upon them, make them a spectacle." Slowing down your pace, your tone was grave, filled with an undermining layer of...pity, sympathy?

Understanding?

It was impossible to ignore.

Ringo couldn't quite shake the feeling of entering an almost secretive like atmosphere, like a confession of sorts.

He wasn't sure he could understand.

"...Oh...Really?" Silence followed.

His tone pitched carefully in contrast to your vaguely serious one, his body leaning more towards you with pinched brows anew, keeping up with your pace while you stared right past him into nothingness, somewhere his eyes couldn’t see, not even sparing him as much as a glance. 

"Why?" His breath materialized itself as a small cloud of smoke in the freezing morning light.

He didn't know you, so of course he was still new on how to deal with you as a person, your sudden changes of topics, your unpredictable sways of mood and reactions to things he’d say...

He knew better than to take it personally, after all, this story of yours did seem to resonate- Well, never mind, he thought that he couldn't really know. He didn't know.

He wasn't sure if he wanted to know and h e could only guess what you were hinting at.

You cut yourself short thinking about how you'd formulate the rest of the tale, what words you could choose.

He wasn't a child but it was...at least to you-

After a few more silent moments interrupted by the crunching of the snow underneath both of your soles, you sucked your teeth, letting out something Ringo believed to be a chuckle before answering without much hesitance.

"Because she's hurting...I guess." You guessed. Like a shotgun, the next question fell upon you immediatly.

"Why?" The apprentice faithfully pushed, feeling he'd irritate you any moment now if he wasn't meticulous with the way he spoke to you.

This time it was your turn to step closer to him, pausing shortly once again. You shot him a very direct and puzzled glare.

He didn’t budge but he did feel thrown…off.

Silence. This was really odd.

Now the chef wasn't too sure about whether he actually wanted to keep prying.

The distant crash of the lake against the shore echoed like a low, constant rumble, sending minuscule shivers through the frozen ground. Each wave hit with a soft, rhythmic thud, a stark contrast to the quiet yet intimidating tension of the moment.

The sound seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere, reverberating across the ice and snow, filling the emptiness with its persistence, until it became the only thing you could hear.

The air was so still, so thick with cold, it took you a while to get back on track, mainly because you listened to your environments noises, still thinking about something distant.

You knew this fable by heart.

Then again, without much questioning, you answered.

"She suffers constantly day and night, without letting up, no matter how much resilience she showed, no matter how much she persevered." 

A short hum acknowledged your response and you could sense Ringo's growing uneasiness. He wanted to know more but he didn't know if it was 'ok'?

"I'm sorry to be a bother but..." Why the hell was he sorry? He felt like apologizing instinctively, instantly.

But this wasn't a real story? It was a thousand year old tale that you merely happened to recount with such intense manner...so why did he-

"Because on her quest to search for her lover, she happened to have had a poisonous thorn forced deeply into the base of her spine..."

‘Yikes’…was the apprentice’s first thought.

A poisonous thorn forced into the base of a woman's spine.....

And this wasn’t even the most graphic part.

It didn’t take long for Ringo's mouth to go dry, realization first fighting against what he had heard, your last sentence reverberating within the crevices of his brain, the weight of your words undoubtably tugging at the strings of his heart.

"Against her own will." You let it sink in.

He would have never guessed. Man…Did all of your stories always take such a dark turn?

The man sighed, still unable to contain his inquisitiveness.

You didn't mind as much as he feared the story’s ending.

"Why...why didn't she ask a friend to remove it for her?" You flashed him a lazy smile, eyes rolling in frustration.

"Don’t you remember? She had always been lonely and therefore she had no friends, except for the ronin of course, he was the only one she still trusted after all that had happened to her." You heard the sound of seagulls at the base of the cliff and it didn't take you two much longer to reach the small beach, the one from yesterday’s events.

Chiaki's corpse was nowhere to be found.

One could argue that no matter how rotten a person was, everyone deserved a proper funeral. 

You let out an innocent scoff.

To each their own.

From there you had a bridge tracing its way directly to the small town just like you remembered it.

And so you went, Ringo never failing to follow your lead close by.

"But believe it or not, if she had known that someone, anyone knew the secret around her thorn and would want to remove it, she'd kill them." You announced with a semi grimacing expression, something between a jumpscare and a full on poker face.

The man only gasped, his dull wrists slapping over his mouth, surprised brows shooting into his hairline and all, he was 100% invested.

"Why?" That’s a good question.

"If one were to remove the thorn, she'd instantly suffer an indescribable amount of wounding pain sourly mixed with salty guilt and vinegary shame. Something that no one could ever imagine, even in their wildest nightmares."

"..."

"She'd rather die on the spot." With each step, the wooden bridge groaned underfoot, the planks old and weathered from years of use. 

Your feet’s rhythm did not falter once by now.

Your friend's apprentice didn't have anything else to add, speechless as he was actually still making sure he was processing everything you said properly.

The ronin had no way of knowing but during his leave, his actual lover had already tasted the pinnacle of atrocity, helplessness, fear and agony when a group of wild beasts held her down, while another one ripped the thorn inside of her...

For nothing in this world she'd want to go through this experience ever again.

a/n: i just love writing them like two ordinary non murderous girls living casually fr thank you for reading, i’ll see you in the next one, take care luv sic! again, if you're enjoying the story so far do let me know by commenting 🤎 theories, criticism or other, i'd love to read/engage with you!

Masterlist I Next Chapter

[rubiehart]

can you write something for jj + pope having a crush/dating a kook! reader? headcanons maybe? :)

i think you meant them both separately having a crush on kook!reader like not both at the same time?? but if this isn’t what you’re looking for lmk and i can totally rewrite it!! also this came out way longer than expected, i got carried away…

JJ!

✧ contrary to popular belief, i feel like he wouldn’t come up to you right away, especially if you were the so called ‘kook princess’, he’d study you from afar at first, catching glimpses of you at a kegger or maybe on the marsh with your girls catching some sun in your skimpy little bikini.

✧ you’d catch his attention because you weren’t a complete bitch like a lot of the other kook girls he’d had encounters with for starters, but also because you were the complete opposite of the tom boy-ish girls from the cut.

✧ he wouldn’t mentioned his (not so) little crush on you to any of the other pogues because he knew exactly what they would say ‘she’s too good for you jj.’, knowing all about his promiscuity, but he wasn’t gonna give up so easily.

✧ you first talked to him at some kegger thrown for the start of summer, despite your good girl reputation you and jj managed to bounce off each others jokes pretty much all night, bantering like friends which was refreshing coming from a kook, he hadn’t expected you to be like this but he somehow liked you more because of it.

✧ this obviously confused the pogues. jj bagging the kook princess? no chance. you were polar opposites. when jj was questioned about it he just told john b ‘what can i say man, opposites attract.’ with a wink which made john b roll his eyes.

✧ you’d been talking for a while when you came to realise the talk about the ‘big bad pogue jj maybank’ wasn’t real, and he was a genuinely nice guy and you really did like him even though he wasn’t the kind of guy you’d usually go for, stuck up preppy assholes were more expected, you guessed. that’s why so many people questioned your close relationship with jj and why you’d bother with a pogue like him, which you’d answer with some more than impolite remark or hand gesture or a punch in the face, when some bitch spoke about the man you were forced to love in secret because of the split between kooks and pogues.

✧ after you started dating and the news was out to the island, the waters seemed to calm down and you could walk around the island together holding hands, truly in love without getting yelled at by some random boneheaded kook just for simply being together.

✧ when he’d spend the night at your house, he’d be surprised by the luxury you’d been given on a silver spoon all your life, not exactly envious per-se just more shocked you weren’t a brat about it, lounging on your comfy mattress that he seemed to welcome him perfectly, your warm skin pressed up to his own and just you. clouding his senses as he drifted off to sleep with a lil’ smile on his face.

✧ you’d wear his shirts to bed sometimes when he’d sleepover, seeing them practically engulfing you making him all warm and fuzzy inside, leaning to press a big sloppy kiss to your lips making you giggle and push him away, whining “jayjjjj!” he’d just wink and reply “y’know you love me pretty girl.”

POPE!

✧ pope is honestly such a sweetheart so i feel like he’d be introduced through friends, way too nervous to go up to you himself, eventually your friends would scatter leaving you both a little further down the beach huddled around the fire pit soaking in the little warmth the flickering flame gave out.

✧ he’d be stuttering over his words, trying to keep eye contact with you through the conversation but it was a challenge because you were easily the prettiest girl he’d ever seen.

✧ after talking for a little while you took a liking to him, inviting him to hangout at the beach the next night, deciding to set up a little beach picnic for the two of you, wanting to get to know him properly away from your tipsy conversation at the boneyard party the previous night.

✧ he’d gone home and told the pogues about the night you had planned, all giddy and smiling, john b slapping him on the shoulder with a prideful grin “that’s my boy.”

✧ he’d arrived at the beach, a lot quieter than usual especially when the sun was setting, seeing your white jeep in the parking lot, clearly empty and mad his way down to the shoreline, spotting you on a white and red checkered blanket, waving rapidly and giggling when you saw him smile and wave, shoving his hands into his pockets and making the rest of the way over to you.

✧ his body tensed up when he saw you wrapped up in a pretty yellow sundress, hugging your body in all the right places and your hair flowing freely down your back and splayed over your shoulders care-freely. “hey pope!” you smiled, getting up to engulf him in a hug, breathing in his musky scent and settling down onto the picnic blanket. he reciprocated the hug and pulled away looming into your eyes.

✧ “you uh, you look really pretty.” he stuttered out nervously, gesturing to your figure. you giggled and raised your eyebrows, eyes taking down his own body, “you clean up nice yourself, heyward.” you smile, which you see a faint blush grace his cheeks which you decide not to poke fun about, already sensing his nervousness, which honestly you found adorable.

✧ you continued in comfortable conversation about anything and everything, once he got comfortable enough he started telling you all about himself, his dad’s business, where he was planning to go to college and his goals for the future, he seemed to know what he wanted which was a total green flag, giggling at all of the jokes he’d make and adding in your own little stories every now and then.

✧ as the sun started dipping beneath the horizon casting a dark orange hue over the whole landscape, and most of the food was gone, excuse a few spilled grapes from trying to throw and catch them into each others mouths, giggling loudly when they missed and bounced of pope’s forehead, he turned to you, “i always thought you were the prettiest girl on the island.” your eyes met his at his sudden confession and you looked suprised, never been told something like that before, “really?” you whispered quietly, not quiet believing what he said.

✧ “really.” he said, feeling a spur of confidence seeing the starstruck look on your face and deciding it was now or never. “want me to prove it?” he whispered, leaning in to tuck a lock of hair behind you ear, you nodding dumbfoundly and swallowing, not believing this was really happening. he leaned in and your warm lips were connected passionately, tasting him on your tongue, and nothing else mattered.

[sweetvoidstuff]

Where You Belong - Part 2

Jungkook x Reader I Werwolf x Werwolf I Mates I Slow Burn I Asshole JK I Supernatural Romance I Yoongi I Violence

Summary : A festival meant to bring unity turns into something far more intimate when you catch the eye of a wolf who never intended to fall. Torn between the freedom to choose and the instinctual pull of a mate’s bond, you face both emotional and political pressure from the pack and outside forces. As loyalties are tested, the question lingers: will you run, or will you stay and claim your place?

Word Count: 35K (all Parts)

Masterlist

A/N: Hi! I’ve been meaning to post this one for a while, but I kept going back and forth on it. Life got a bit hectic, I got sidetracked, and took a few days off—so it took longer than planned. It didn’t turn out exactly how I first imagined, but for now, I’m calling it done. Maybe I’ll revisit and rewrite parts of it in the future, who knows. In the meantime, I really hope you enjoy it—please be kind, but I also welcome honest feedback.

Well, I wanted to post this as one, but Tumblr won’t let me…again... so I’ll be posting Part 1, Part 2 and Part 3 back to back. Sorry about that! Hope you still enjoy it!

Part 1 I Part3

---------------------

You were crying.

Not sobbing. Not wailing. But the quiet, shaking kind.

The kind that hurt.

And he would not let you go through this alone.

His jaw clenched, instincts screaming at him to move you, to take you somewhere safe, somewhere away from prying eyes. His tent was only a short walk away, tucked at the far edge of the festival grounds, where the fires burned low and the noise didn’t claw at your ears.

But he couldn’t move you.

Not without taking. Not without pushing. Not without making this worse.

So he did the next best thing.

Slowly, carefully— he dipped his head.

Brushed his chin—his throat, his scent gland—against the top of your head.

The action was soft, unspoken.

The barest pressure, his jaw gently pressing against your hair.

It was subtle, a barely-there movement, but the effect was immediate. His scent—warm, strong—clung to you now, burying itself in your hair, overpowering everything else.

Yoongi.

The festival.

The doubt.

And Jungkook—Jungkook finally let himself breathe.

Your fingers curled tight into the front of his shirt, holding on like you would fall apart if you let go.

His grip tightened, his arms strong, unyielding, as if he could somehow physically hold you together. As if his presence alone could keep you from falling apart completely.

And then—

A broken, shattered sound left your lips.

You tried to speak, tried to force something out between shaking breaths.

And when you finally did—Jungkook wished you hadn’t.

“I’m a freak,” you whispered. “An outcast. The weirdest Omega there is.”

Jungkook stilled.

“You—” your throat burned, voice barely above a whisper. “You can’t—”

You sucked in a sharp breath.

“You can’t want me.”

His grip on you tightened.

“You don’t,” you whispered. “Not really.”

Jungkook’s heartbeat was loud against your ear.

Your voice cracked as you continued, words spilling out like an open wound.

“No matter how good your reputation is, no matter how strong you are—you can’t entertain this.” Your breath shuddered. “This isn’t fun for me anymore.”

His arms tightened.

Tighter than before, tight enough to make his knuckles go white.

And Jungkook felt something ugly rise in his chest.

Rage.

Not at you.

At them. At him.

At every single person who had ever made you feel like this. Like you weren’t enough. He wanted to rip them apart.

Break bones.

Make them beg.

Jungkook growled.

The sound, deep and low in his chest, rumbled against you.

He swallowed, trying to force the anger down, to bury it beneath the need to comfort you.

But his voice—his voice was steel. And then—his grip tightened.

“If anyone—” he growled, his lips grazing the top of your hair, “ever makes you feel like that again—”

His grip tightened, his body trembling with the effort to keep himself in check.

“I will fucking break them.” His voice was dark, voice vibrating through his chest. “I don’t give a fuck who they are.”

His next breath was ragged.

“No one treats my mate like that again. No one.”

The sounds reach you first—footsteps, voices, the easy, careless laughter of wolves who don’t have to think twice about where they stand in the pack. You stiffen instinctively, though it’s not like you had truly relaxed in Jungkook’s hold to begin with. The weight of his arms around you had been grounding in a way you didn’t want to admit, the warmth of his scent something that soothed the sharp edges of your thoughts even as you tried to fight it.

But now—now that comfort was gone.

Jungkook sensed the shift immediately. His hold around you tightened, the muscles in his arms flexing as if to keep you from slipping through his fingers. A low, irritated sound rumbled in his chest, something close to a growl, and you weren’t sure if it was directed at the approaching voices or at himself for failing to keep you at ease.

Then they were there.

At first, they couldn’t see you, tucked against Jungkook the way you were, hidden by the broad shield of his body. But you could hear them clearly. The relaxed banter, the teasing undertone that meant they weren’t expecting anything serious.

Then, Jimin’s voice cut through the air, playful and sharp.

“Damn, Jungkook, you finally got rid of the defect?”

Everything inside you turned to ice.

The words hit like a punch to the gut, sudden and breath-stealing. Your body went rigid, breath catching in your throat. A familiar weight settled in your chest, heavy and suffocating, a feeling you had carried for years. You weren’t even surprised, not really. You should have expected it. Should have known that no matter what Jungkook said, no matter how many times he whispered reassurances in your ear, this was what they thought of you.

Jungkook moved before you could even register his reaction. His entire frame tensed, his chest expanding as he sucked in a sharp breath. The warmth of him against you changed—still burning hot, but now in a way that promised destruction. His head turned slightly, the motion shifting his arms just enough, giving you the smallest sliver of space.

A window of movement.

You bolted.

You didn’t think—you just moved.

One second you were pressed against him, the next you were twisting out of his grasp, slipping through the opening like a ghost. The sound Jungkook made—a curse, sharp and furious—was nearly drowned out by the surprised exclamations of his packmates as you tore away from him. Your feet hit the ground hard, your body propelled forward by nothing but instinct, nothing but the desperate need to be anywhere but here.

The scent of him still clung to you.

You hated it.

Hated that it was already familiar, that it was starting to feel safe when it shouldn’t.

Behind you, chaos erupted.

“What the—who was that?”

“Wait, was that—”

“Jungkook—what the hell—”

But you didn’t stop to hear the rest.

Jungkook’s reaction, however, was immediate.

“Jimin.”

The single word carried weight. Enough to silence everything, to kill the easy camaraderie in an instant. The laughter, the teasing, the amusement—all of it died.

Jimin, still trying to process what just happened, turned toward Jungkook with a frown, clearly expecting some kind of explanation. But when he met Jungkook’s eyes—his entire body went still.

Because Jungkook wasn’t playing.

For a moment, Jimin actually thought Jungkook was going to kill someone—him.

The look in Jungkook’s eyes was something dark, lethal. His pupils had blown wide, his entire body coiled with barely restrained fury. The muscles in his jaw clenched hard enough to crack, his shoulders squared in a way that made it clear he was holding himself back by sheer force of will.

Jimin had seen Jungkook angry before. Had seen him in fights, seen him after a failed hunt, seen him when something really pissed him off.

But this—this was different.

This was dangerous.

Jungkook took a slow, measured step forward, and every single wolf present stiffened. His head tilted slightly, a movement eerily reminiscent of a predator deciding whether to chase down prey.

“Say that again,” he said, voice low, guttural.

Jimin opened his mouth, then hesitated. His mind raced, piecing things together too fast for his own liking. The scent—Jungkook’s scent—it had been all over you. Heavy, unmistakable. Not just from proximity, not just from a casual brush of skin.

Jungkook had scented you.

Claimed you.

And Jimin—Jimin had just insulted you right to his face.

Fuck.

Jimin’s throat bobbed as he swallowed, a slow realization creeping over his features.

“This isn’t a joke, is it?” he asked carefully, his tone much more cautious now.

Jungkook’s hands curled into fists.

“Does it fucking look like a joke?”

Jimin exhaled, rubbing the back of his neck. “Shit,” he muttered under his breath, finally understanding just how badly he had fucked up.

The moment the words left Jimin’s mouth, Jungkook moved.

There was no warning. No snarl, no buildup—just pure, unfiltered instinct driving him forward. One second Jimin was standing there, realization barely dawning in his widened eyes, and the next—Jungkook’s fist connected with his face.

The crack of bone breaking was sickening.

Jimin staggered back with a choked sound, blood immediately gushing from his nose, dripping down his chin, staining his lips. He clutched at his face, blinking rapidly, dazed, struggling to process the searing pain exploding across his features.

“Fuck—” he hissed, but Jungkook wasn’t done.

A vicious snarl ripped from his throat as he grabbed Jimin by the collar, yanking him close.

“You fucked up,” Jungkook growled, voice low, lethal. His breath was ragged, his chest rising and falling with the effort it took to contain the rage coursing through him. His entire body vibrated with fury, barely restrained violence coiled tight beneath his skin.

Jimin winced, blood still pouring down his face, but he didn’t fight back.

He knew he had made a mistake—a bad one.

“You’re going to find her,” Jungkook continued, his grip tightening like a vice, “and you’re going to apologize.”

Jimin nodded, fast, frantic.

But Jungkook wasn’t finished.

“And you better pray to the fucking moon she is more forgiving than I am.” He leaned in closer, voice dropping to something dangerous, quiet. “Because if she doesn’t forgive you, Jimin—if I so much as see a hint of distress on her because of you—I will break every single bone in your fucking body.”

Jimin swallowed thickly, genuinely afraid now.

Jungkook wasn’t bluffing.

And he wasn’t done making his point.

He turned his head slightly, glaring at the other packmates who had been present, the ones who had laughed, the ones who had stood there and watched as Jimin threw his careless insult into the air.

“This applies to you as well.” Jungkook’s voice was razor-sharp, cutting through the air like a blade. “You think you get to stand here and laugh at my mate without consequences?”

A few of them had the decency to look ashamed. Others looked wary, unsure how to react. But Jungkook didn’t care.

His tone final, absolute. “If she doesn’t forgive Jimin—if I find out that even one of you so much as made her hesitate to stay here—” He exhaled sharply, teeth bared in a snarl.

“I will make sure you regret it.”

Silence.

The tension in the air was suffocating. No one spoke. No one dared to.

And then—Jungkook released Jimin, shoving him back roughly.

“Go,” he ordered. “Now.”

Jimin didn’t hesitate.

With his nose still bleeding, his heart pounding, he turned on his heel and ran.

Because for the first time in his life—Jimin was afraid of Jungkook.

And he had never been so fucking determined to find someone and beg for forgiveness.

· · ────── ·𖥸· ────── · ·

Jungkook watched him go, chest still heaving, muscles still tense. He could feel the eyes of his pack on him, the weight of their silent questions, the shift in their perception.

And he didn’t give a single fuck.

His priority was you.

Because you had run from him again.

And this time—it was because of them.

Jungkook exhaled harshly, raking a hand through his hair, his mind a whirlwind.

If you didn’t forgive Jimin, if you didn’t want to stay—what then?

The thought hit him like a hammer to the chest, sudden and unwelcome.

If you left the pack…

Jungkook’s throat tightened.

Would he—would he leave with you?

The very idea made his heart clench painfully. He had never considered it before, never even entertained the notion of leaving his pack.

But you…

Fuck.

Jungkook clenched his fists, jaw set.

He still had time.

And he was going to spend every second of it making sure you didn’t want to leave.

· · ────── ·𖥸· ────── · ·

Jimin was fast.

But you were faster.

The only reason he could track you at all was Jungkook’s scent. It clung to you now, thick and undeniable, a guiding thread through the night air. Without it, he wouldn’t have had a chance.

Still—you made him work for it.

His lungs burned as he ran, his feet pounding against the dirt, the sounds of the festival fading behind him. The chase had taken you both further into the forest, where the moonlight barely reached, shadows stretching long between the towering trees.

And then—he saw you.

Just ahead, your form moved swiftly between the trunks, darting through the undergrowth with practiced ease.

“Hey!” Jimin called out, breathless. “Just stop for a second—”

You didn’t.

Jimin clicked his tongue in irritation. He wasn’t trying to make this harder than it needed to be. He needed to apologize, to smooth things over—mostly so Jungkook wouldn’t make good on his threat and actually break every bone in his body.

Honestly, Jimin didn’t care about you. He wasn’t heartless, but he’d never spent a second of his life thinking about you. And yet—here he was, bleeding, bruised, and chasing after you like his life depended on it.

Because, in a way, it did.

Jimin pushed himself harder, lungs straining, legs burning, until—finally.

He was close enough to grab you.

He reached out—

And in the blink of an eye, you moved.

One second, Jimin was certain he had you. The next—you had almost completely stopped, shifting your weight with expert precision. Before his mind could even process what was happening—

You flipped him.

Hard.

The moment his fingers brushed your arm, your body twisted, moving in a way no omega should have been able to. You used his own momentum against him, your balance near-perfect as you hooked your arm under his and leveraged his body into the air.

Jimin had barely half a second to realize—fuck, oh shit—

Then he was airborne.

And then—

The ground came up fast.

Pain exploded through his back as he slammed into the dirt, hard enough to knock the air from his lungs.

For a long, awful second, Jimin couldn’t breathe.

His vision blurred, chest convulsing as he struggled to inhale, to force air back into his stunned lungs. His body throbbed, shockwaves of pain radiating from where his spine had connected with the ground.

Fuck.

By the time he could process what had just happened—you were already gone.

Jimin barely managed to lift his head, still gasping for breath, just in time to see you disappear into the trees, changing direction so fast he had no hope of catching up if he hesitated.

The realization hit him like a punch to the gut.

You weren’t a normal omega.

Jimin had thought Yoongi had let you win. He had thought maybe Yoongi was weak.

But this?

He had completely underestimated you.

A part of him felt genuine awe. The rest of him—the larger, more immediate part—felt absolute fucking terror.

Because now, Jimin knew something for certain.

You weren’t easy prey. You were a predator.

And if Jungkook had scented you this much—if Jungkook had claimed you as his mate—

Then Jimin had really, really fucked up.

Forcing himself upright with a groan, Jimin staggered to his feet.

No more half-assed apologies. No more underestimating you.

If he didn’t find you, if he didn’t make this right—

Jungkook would kill him.

So, Jimin gritted his teeth, shook off the pain, and ran.

· · ────── ·𖥸· ────── · ·

You had decided.

Fuck your pack. Fuck all of them.

You couldn't—wouldn’t—stay another second.

Not when Yoongi’s invitation still stood.

For a moment, you had believed Jungkook. Wanted to believe him. His words had seeped into the cracks of your heart, into all the places left raw and aching from years of being cast aside. Had even entertained the thought of you being his mate. But the reality was the pack would never let you live this down.

Even if Jungkook meant it, even if his words weren’t just some twisted joke—they would ruin it.

Best-case scenario? You truly were Jungkook mate, and he wanted you.

Worst-case? You were the broken omega who got fooled around and had her heart shattered.

No, thank you.

So, you ran.

For the first time in your life, you fought back. Had defined the order of your pack. You had thrown Jimin to the ground, and you had kept running. The weight of your decision pressed heavy on your chest, adrenaline fueling your every step.

But Jimin was persistent.

An alpha, like Jungkook.

It didn’t take him long to catch up again. And this time, he cornered you.

Shit.

Your feet skidded to a stop as you reached the edge of a steep clearing. The ground disappeared into nothingness.

A waterfall.

The drop wasn’t extreme—maybe five to seven meters—but the water below was dark and unknowable, swallowing the moon’s reflection whole.

Your heart hammered against your ribs.

Behind you, Jimin’s footsteps slowed. He came to a panting stop, hands braced on his thighs as he took in your surroundings.

He huffed a sharp breath, straightening. “Fuck, you’re fast.”

You ignored him.

Your eyes flickered back down to the water. It wasn’t shallow—not completely—but you couldn’t see the bottom. Couldn’t tell what waited beneath the surface.

Jimin followed your gaze—and his expression shifted.

His eyes widened.

“Hell no.” His voice was sharp, slicing through the night air. “Y/N, don’t even think about it! Jungkook will fucking kill me.”

You turned to him with a sharp glare, your decision already made.

“Well, why would I care?”

And before he could stop you—

You jumped.

For a split second—you fell.

Air rushed past your ears, wind tangling through your hair, your stomach dropping with the weightless, terrifying feeling of freefall.

And then—impact.

Jimin watched in shock and horror as you leapt over the edge, disappearing into the darkness below.

Where you fucking mental?!

His heart lurched, and he bolted forward, nearly tripping over himself as he reached the cliff’s edge.

And there you were.

Alive.

Swimming, already halfway to the shore, your body cutting through the water like you had done this a thousand times before. Jimin exhaled hard, running a shaky hand through his hair.

“Holy shit.”

You were daring. Fearless.

Or just crazy.

He let out a breathless laugh, shaking his head. A fucking omega did that, and he didn’t even dared to.

Fuck.

Jimin glanced at the drop once more, then squared his shoulders.

He backed up a few steps, bracing himself—then he sprinted forward and jumped.

The wind ripped past him, and suddenly, regret clawed at his throat. His arms flailed, his legs kicked out wildly—fuck, fuck, fuck—

Impact.

He hit the water hard, the cold swallowing him instantly. He sank, bubbles bursting around him, his lungs seizing at the shock.

And then—nothing.

Seconds stretched.

One.

Two.

Three.

You had barely reached the shore when you noticed.

Jimin wasn’t coming up.

A flicker of alarm went through you.

You hesitated for all of a second before diving back in.

The water was heavy, dark, but you forced yourself deeper. And there—Jimin. His body tensed, struggling against the weight of the dive, limbs sluggish.

Your hands grabbed his arm—strong, steady.

And with a forceful kick, you pulled him up. The moment his head broke the surface, Jimin gasped—harsh, ragged, choking on air. You dragged him toward the rocks, your muscles screaming in protest as you pulled him out of the water.

He collapsed onto his back, panting, his chest heaving. You weren’t faring much better. Dripping, exhausted, you flopped onto the shore beside him, breathing just as hard. Silence stretched between you.

Then—Jimin laughed. A breathless, nervous chuckle, his hand scrubbing over his face.

“You are one hell of an omega.”

You turned your head, glaring at him through wet lashes.

“Fuck you.”

Jimin’s lips stretched into a lazy, lopsided smirk. “No, really.” He exhaled deeply, tilting his head back against the dirt. “After this? I think all other omegas might be defective.”

You didn’t even think.

Your foot shot out, kicking him hard in the side.

Jimin let out a pained grunt, rolling onto his side, groaning.

Still, he chuckled through it. “Fair.”

You tried to move.

Your body ached, cold water dripping from your clothes, but you weren’t about to sit here and listen to whatever bullshit excuse Jimin was about to give.

But he grabbed your foot.

Not hard, not enough to hurt—just enough to stop you.

“Wait.”

Your glare snapped to him, fury burning behind your eyes.

“Let go, Jimin.”

You tried to yank your foot free, but his grip held firm.

“No, wait—really. At least let me apologize.”

You scoffed. “Oh? And why, exactly? So Jungkook doesn’t punch you again?”

You took a pointed look at his nose—bruised, swollen, slightly crooked. Jimin winced.

“Well—yes. I mean—no!” He exhaled hard, frustrated, struggling to string his words together.

You tried to kick him again, but he caught your foot before you could make proper contact.

“Give me a second, shit.”

And then—he exhaled, his grip loosening.

His voice dropped, quieter now.

“Fuck, I don’t care about you.”

Something in his tone was different this time.

And for the first time, you believed him.

So—you stopped struggling.

Jimin noticed immediately. His fingers uncurled, letting your foot rest in the dirt, but you didn’t bolt this time.

Instead, you waited.

His chest rose and fell, his breathing still uneven, but when he spoke again, his voice was steady.

“I don’t care about you.” He shook his head, finally pushing himself upright. His gaze flickered toward you, and for the first time since meeting him, there was something else in it. Recognition. Respect, maybe.

His lips parted, and he continued, “You could stay. You could go. Doesn’t matter to me, honestly.” A slow breath. “But it matters to Jungkook. And he’s my friend.”

Jimin tilted his head back, looking toward the cliff you both had just jumped from. The muscles in his jaw flexed, his mouth pressing into a thin line.

“For some crazy reason, he likes you.” His brows pulled together, his expression somewhere between bewilderment and understanding. “He even called you his mate. And, fuck—after this?”

He huffed out a small, breathless laugh, shaking his head.

“I kind of get why he does.”

The words hung between you, weighty. Unshakable.

Jimin turned back to you, shoulders relaxing.

“Stay, go—both are fine with me.” He exhaled sharply. “But I’m honestly sorry for misjudging you.”

For a long moment, you just stared at him. No hesitation. No mockery. Just the truth. You let out a small huff, looking away. And then—you blushed.

Embarrassing.

This was probably the longest conversation you had with anyone without being insulted. The first conversation where you actually believed every single word. So, finally—you nodded. Jimin let out a breath.

And for the first time, he smiled at you.

· · ────── ·𖥸· ────── · ·

Jungkook was pacing. His boots carved restless circles into the dirt, his hands flexing at his sides. How long had it been? You had bolted into the woods, Jimin on your heels, and there was still no sign of either of you.

He should have gone after you himself. Instead, he had been stuck here, left with his own thoughts, and fuck, he hated it.

His nerves were raw, wound so tight that the smallest thing could set him off. He had seen Yoongi and Namjoon walk past twice now, their sharp eyes scanning the crowd. They were looking for you.

Giving you another chance to leave. And right now? They had the worst fucking timing. Because they had noticed you weren’t with him.

Jungkook clenched his jaw, his body tensed like a wire. He needed to see you. Needed to know that you hadn’t just disappeared into the night with them.

And then—You walked out of the tree line.

Jungkook’s head snapped up. His body moved before he could even think, his eyes locking onto you like you were the only thing that mattered.

And for a moment, he felt relief. Then he saw Jimin walking beside you. Not dragging you. Not forcing you back. You were talking. Softly.

Jungkook froze. That was – good?

There was no tension in your body—at least, none that he could see. And Jimin? Jimin wasn’t smirking, wasn’t gloating. He looked almost… relaxed.

But you were drenched. Both of you. Soaked to the bone, hair dripping, clothes clinging tightly to your skin. Jungkook’s brows pulled together, anger flaring to life inside him. What the hell happened out there?

His first instinct was to march over to you, but something in the way you and Jimin looked at each other stopped him. A quiet chuckle passed between you. The sound sent a fresh wave of confusion crashing over him.

Because he knew what he was looking at.

Jimin and you weren’t friends, not really. But Jimin wasn’t mocking you anymore. He was treating you normal. And then he realized something else. Your scent. Or rather—the lack of it.

The scent he had painstakingly marked you with was already fading. The water had washed it away.

Again. His teeth ground together, his hands curling into fists. He didn’t even notice Yoongi and Namjoon approaching—not until Namjoon’s voice cut through the tension like a blade.

“Why are you wet?”

Jungkook’s eyes snapped to him, his irritation bubbling over.

“That’s what I wanna know, too.” His tone was sharp, almost a growl. His gaze raked over you, scanning for any injuries. “Are you hurt?”

But you just gave Jimin a look. And the asshole had the audacity to look pleading. Jimin knew Jungkook was pissed—knew that if you didn’t explain, Jungkook would actually kill him.

“Please, say something.” Jimin’s voice was half-joking, half-serious. “Or he’s going to rip my head off.”

But instead of answering, you grinned. Jungkook’s scowl deepened. And just as he was about to demand an explanation—

Yoongi sighed, already shrugging off his outer layer. "You need something dry."

Before you could protest, he was already extending the fabric toward you. Jungkook’s jaw ticked. His muscles coiled with tension. His first instinct? Rip Yoongi’s hand clean off. His second? Turn to Jimin and finish what he started. Jimin must have felt it too, because he subtly shifted a step away to you as if he wanted to hide behind you.

But just as Jungkook was about to explode, you spoke.

And you were smiling.

A real smile—not forced, not tense.

Jungkook stilled.

The light teasing in your expression as you glanced at Jimin made something unfamiliar stir in his chest. You were mocking Jimin?

Not angrily, not defensively—just mocking.

Jungkook didn’t know how to feel about it.

On one hand, it was good. It meant you were more comfortable around your pack. That was what he wanted, wasn’t it? But on the other—what the fuck had happened out there? He hated being out of the loop.

"No, thank you, Yoongi. Actually—"

You turned to Jimin, something unspoken passing between you.

"You sure?"

Jimin nodded. And then, you genuinely smiled at Jungkook. Jungkook froze. It was small. But it was real. He barely had time to process it before you placed your pinky fingers in your mouth and let out a sharp, piercing whistle.

The reaction was immediate. Heads turned. Conversations stopped. Every wolf in earshot snapped to attention. Then—your next words.

"There’s a waterfall over there. Seven-meter drop." Your voice rang clear – not an alpha voice but, challenging. "Who’s daring enough to do what Park and I did?"

Silence.

Then—chaos.

Murmurs rippled through the crowd, then outright exclamations.

"An omega jumped off a waterfall?"

"No way."

"Bullshit."

Jungkook barely registered the noise.

Because for a second—just one second—his expression broke.

His carefully guarded composure cracked. And when he turned slowly to Jimin, his voice came out in a low, dangerous growl.

"You made her do what, Jimin?"

Jimin winced.

"Man, I couldn't do anything about it!" he hissed back, voice quieter than yours had been. "I told her not to, but she just—she fucking—jumped!"

Jungkook gritted his teeth. Before he could respond, someone from the crowd called out—

"Sure, honey. You got yourself wet and now you need an excuse."

Laughter rippled through the pack. Jungkook’s fists clenched. You simply raised your chin. And boldly declared, "If you don’t believe me—watch me do it again."

Jungkook’s heart stopped. And then—you turned. And you started jogging back toward the waterfall. For half a second, the pack just stared.

Then—chaos.

Excitement exploded through the crowd. A mad rush of bodies followed your lead, wolves shoving past each other to keep up Jungkook fucking lost it. His body moved on pure instinct, sprinting after you. Fast.

"Are you insane?!"

He barely registered Jimin, Yoongi, and Namjoon hot on his heels. And the pack? They were following too. He could hear them behind him—dozens of them. The energy was electric, wild, the excitement infectious. But Jungkook’s mind was on one thing only. You. And making goddamn sure you didn’t actually jump again.

Jungkook was losing his mind. At first, it had just been you and him. Just him jogging beside you, trying to reason with you, trying to talk you down.

“Y/N, just—just stop for a second.” His voice was tense, breath steady despite the fast pace. “You don’t have to do this.”

And you—you laughed.

Not just at him—but at all of them.

Not a nervous chuckle. Not an uncertain, breathless giggle. A full, open laugh that rang through the trees.

You were leading a fucking parade.

Because now—there were many.

Jungkook could hear them. The pounding of feet, the shifting of bodies, the murmur of dozens of voices. Jimin following close behind. Namjoon and Yoongi that had ran after you just as fast.

Not just your pack. Not just wolves from your own home.

No—this had caught the attention of others.

Curious wolves from neighboring packs. Spectators drawn by the commotion.

Jungkook could hear them, the murmurs, the laughter, the taunts.

They wanted to see this. They wanted to mock you. They wanted to watch you fall. They wanted a good show.

But fuck that.

Jungkook’s blood was boiling.

Because he knew better.

This wasn’t a game to you.

And fuck, you were fast.

Jungkook’s teeth clenched as he kept pace, eyes locked on you, of course. Your movements were sharp, fluid, perfectly measured.

Your breathing? Controlled. Your footing? Flawless. Your speed? Increasing.

And then—

The scent hit him. Water. Jungkook’s stomach dropped.

“Y/N, slow down—”

You didn’t. You ran faster. Jungkook cursed under his breath and lunged, snatching your wrist in his grip. But you didn’t stop.

And you—You didn’t even flinch.

And he—he didn’t pull.

He just—held on. Like maybe, if he just kept holding on, you’d finally listen. But instead—You didn’t look scared or startled or cornered.

No. And for the first time since you started running, you met his eyes. You just looked at him. Your gaze was steady. Calm. Gentle. And then, softly—

“Trust me.”

Jungkook’s breath hitched. You smiled. This was real. This was raw. You looked at him. And then—you ripped away. Jungkook’s grip faltered, his body hesitating just a fraction of a second too long—

And you were gone.

Faster than before, feet pounding against the earth as you laughed. Laughed as if this wasn’t insane. As if this wasn’t reckless. As if you hadn’t just made his heart stop. And Jungkook’s chest constricted.

Then, at the top of your lungs—

"I DARE ALL OF YOU, YOU WHINY ALPHAS!"

And before Jungkook could even process what was happening—

You leapt. His heart stopped. For a split second. For a fraction of a moment—Everything inside him screamed.

And —

Without hesitation, Without thought, Without a single ounce of fear—

Without anything except the raw, gut-wrenching need to follow—

Jungkook jumped after you. The wind ripped past his ears, the air stolen from his lungs as he plummeted. The fall was fast, brutal, endless.

The second his body broke the surface, Jungkook sucked in a sharp breath.

The water was freezing, biting at his skin as he surged upward, breaking through with a gasp. For half a second, the impact had stunned him, the weightlessness of the fall vanishing the moment the water swallowed him whole. His heart was still hammering, his pulse erratic, his body already scanning for you.

And the first thing he heard—

Your laughter. And fuck—he had never heard anything like it.

A splash beside him—

Jimin.

Jungkook blinked water out of his eyes, turning just in time to see Jimin crash into the lake beside him, his yelp muffled by the water.

His second jump was less clumsy, but still followed by a cursing, sputtering, "Fuck, not again." Jimin gasped, blinking furiously as he pushed his wet bangs out of his face.

You were just a few meters ahead, floating easily, your body loose and relaxed. Your hair was a wet, tangled mess, strands clinging to your skin. The water shimmered around you, catching the moonlight in rippling streaks of silver. You looked alive in a way that stole his breath.

A sharp, incredulous laugh burst out of you as you swept a hand over your face, pushing your soaked hair out of your eyes. You threw your head back, shoulders shaking, laughter echoing against the rocky cliffs. It wasn’t careful. It wasn’t calculated. It was genuine, filling the space around you with something electric.

Jungkook barely took a breath before moving.

His arms pushed through the water, cutting through it like it was nothing, his legs kicking strong as he closed the distance between you.

You must have heard him coming, because when he was just within reach, you turned, eyes gleaming. “That was a good jump.”

Jungkook huffed, still breathless, but there was something wild in his expression as he reached for you. “You—”

You grinned, twisting just out of his grasp, playful.

And then—

More splashes.

Jungkook turned his head just in time to see the others jumping.

Some were hesitating at the top, staring down with wide eyes, uncertain.

At the very edge—

Yoongi and Namjoon.

Jungkook could see the calculations behind their gazes.

See the way Yoongi looked down at you—

Then at Namjoon—

Then back at the drop.

And then, Yoongi shrugged.

He jumped.

Namjoon, sighing heavily—

Jumped after him.

Jungkook’s jaw slackened.

What. The. Fuck.

His gaze snapped back to you.

And you were smiling.

Not just at him—

At all of them.

Because holy fuck.

They were jumping.

Jungkook twisted to look up.

The wolves that had chased after you, the ones who had mocked and laughed—

Some hesitated at the edge—he could see the flicker of uncertainty in their postures.

But many were jumping after you.

Jungkook felt something snap inside him.

Something he couldn’t even begin to name.

You were mad.

Completely, unapologetically, beautifully mad.

And Jungkook—

He was going to follow you.

Wherever the fuck you ran next.

The water parted as Jungkook closed the distance between you, his strokes powerful but controlled. He wasn’t chasing you this time—not exactly. But he was coming closer, his dark eyes locked on you like he needed to make sure you were real. But instead of running, you turned toward him fully, watching him close the distance between you.

You felt the heat of his presence even through the cool water. The way the intensity in his gaze softened into something he didn’t quite have the words for yet.

He reached out—not grabbing you, not pulling—but hovering, just barely touching your wrist beneath the surface.

Not that you needed him to.

You weren’t struggling. You weren’t afraid. You had just done the impossible. And Jungkook, for all his strength and dominance, seemed at a loss.

His mouth opened, but before he could put any of this into words—

A splash broke the moment.

“Told you that would definitely change their view of you.”

Jimin.

He swam toward the two of you, grinning. His nose was still bruised from where Jungkook had broken it, but there was no malice in his expression. If anything, he looked almost proud.

You smirked, nodding in agreement but still keeping close to Jungkook, who had yet to let go of you. Jimin’s eyes flicked between the two of you, amusement flickering across his face before he sighed dramatically.

“Can’t believe I had to nearly die twice just to help you with something this crazy.”

“You didn’t nearly die.” You rolled your eyes.

Jimin gave you a look. “I wasn’t breathing for a solid five seconds, thank you very much.”

Jungkook growled, voice low. “And yet you’re still talking.”

Jimin snorted. “And yet I’m still talking.”

He grinned, ducking under the water to shake his hair out before coming back up, still smug. “You should’ve seen their faces.”

And that’s when you heard it.

Murmurs.

Voices carrying over the water, alphas speaking amongst themselves. Not mocking. Not dismissive.

Confused. Impressed.

“She really did that?”

“Shit—did you see the way she jumped? Not a second of hesitation.”

“That’s the kind of omega we need—”

“She would make a strong mate. Respect.”

Jungkook stiffened beside you, the words sinking into him like stones in a river.

They weren’t seeing you as less anymore. They weren’t seeing you as defective.

They weren’t even seeing you as just an omega.

They were seeing you.

Jungkook’s grip tightened, his body instinctively shifting between you and the voices, protective even when he didn’t need to be. Even when you had just proven, in front of everyone, that you give them a run for there money.

But then—

A dark chuckle rippled through the water.

Yoongi.

He swam up alongside Namjoon, grinning like he’d just witnessed the most entertaining shit of his life.

Namjoon, of course, was slower, more calculated, taking in the scene with sharp eyes. But even he had that look—that impressed, knowing look.

Yoongi snorted, as he floated lazily.

“And here I thought we’d have to drag you out of this hellhole. Turns out you just had to make them piss themselves a little first.”

You laughed, tilting your head back into the water, utterly breathless.

Yoongi grinned, his best gummy smile breaking across his face as he swam toward you—too close for Jungkook’s liking.

You could feel it in the way Jungkook’s fingers twitched against your skin, his body still tense from everything that had just happened. But Yoongi, as always, didn’t give a single shit.

“Still hoping you decide to leave with us by morning.” His voice was casual, but his gaze was sharp—too sharp. Like he already knew what your answer would be.

His eyes flickered past you, scanning the water.

Some of the wolves were now swimming lazily, finally relaxing, as if trying to process what they had just witnessed. Others still stood at the cliff’s edge, hesitant, trying to gather the nerve to jump.

Yoongi took it all in with one glance, then turned away. He let the water carry him toward the shore, Namjoon close behind.

As they reached land, you could still hear them talking.

“Was that really necessary?” Namjoon asked, shaking his head as he wrung water from his hair.

“What?” Yoongi chuckled. “It was fun.”

Their voices faded as they walked further inland, but their presence still lingered.

Jimin, now back on shore, had already begun talking to some of your packmates—his voice low but animated. You couldn’t hear the conversation, but the way they were listening, their stances no longer hostile or dismissive, said enough.

You exhaled slowly.

You had done it.

They were finally seeing you.

You turned, intending to swim toward land yourself, but—

Jungkook’s grip tightened.

Before you could move, his arms wrapped around you, pulling you in.

The water rippled around you as he held you against him, keeping both of you afloat with ease.

His chest heaved, his breath brushing against the side of your face, his heartbeat—wild, erratic—pounding against your back.

“You’re crazy.”

His voice was low, rough around the edges, like he still hadn’t fully recovered from watching you leap off that cliff.

“Absolutely fucking crazy.”

You just smiled, tilting your head slightly to glance at him over your shoulder. “You followed me.”

Jungkook huffed, his grip tightening just a little more.

“Do you even know what you did?” His voice was quieter now, almost disbelieving.

The water swayed around you, cool and weightless, but the way Jungkook held you made it clear—he wasn’t letting go.

You had done something impossible. Something that had changed everything.

And Jungkook—his voice, his hold, his very presence—made it clear.

You weren’t getting away that easily.

You stared at Jungkook, confused.

His dark eyes were locked onto yours, his expression dead serious, as if he needed you to understand the full weight of his words.

“Do you even get what you just did?” His grip on you was firm, his voice low, almost vibrating through your bones. “You just carved yourself a fucking big place in the pack.”

You swallowed.

Jungkook’s fingers flexed against your waist.

“After this, no one is gonna talk shit about you ever again.” His voice turned almost feral, his possessiveness seeping through every syllable. “And if they do—” His jaw tensed, his muscles coiling under the water. “—my offer to break some bones still stands.”

Your face flamed, heat rushing from your chest to your ears.

You already knew what you had done. Knew what this moment meant. But hearing Jungkook say it so plainly, with such conviction, made something in your stomach twist.

You averted your gaze, suddenly shy, the high from the jump, from the run, from everything that had happened—it was still there, but this was different.

This was real.

Jungkook saw your reaction, and for the first time, a grin—soft, teasing—pulled at his lips.

He leaned in slightly, nuzzling the side of your temple in a way that made your heart stutter.

“I’m a little offended, though,” he murmured, his breath warm against your ear.

You frowned, glancing at him. “What?”

“That you planned all of this with Jimin.” He gave you an exaggerated pout, though the amusement in his voice was unmistakable. “Not me.”

You let out a breathy chuckle, shaking your head.

“I was kinda hoping you’d be pissed about it.”

Jungkook scoffed, tilting his head. “Oh, I am.” His fingers tightened, his hold on you growing more possessive. “But I’m also fucking happy, so I’ll let it slide.”

A warmth spread through your chest at his words, at the raw pride in his voice. His nose brushed against your cheek, and suddenly his teasing tone vanished, replaced by something deeper, rougher.

“But you need to stop getting rid of my scent.”

Your breath hitched.

You blinked, looking up at him, pulse hammering against your ribs.

The way he said it—low, commanding, unmistakably Alpha—sent a shiver down your spine.

You felt the burn of your own blush creeping up your neck.

You scoffed, looking away. “You’re still sure about that?”

You didn’t dare ask the real question—the one pressing against your tongue, the one you were almost too afraid to hear the answer to.

Are you still sure about me?

But Jungkook understood anyway.

His growl was quiet, but it rumbled through the water like distant thunder.

And then—

He yanked you closer.

So close that you couldn’t even hold yourself afloat anymore.

But you didn’t need to.

Jungkook had you. Held you. Kept you so securely against him that there was no space between you at all—your chest pressed against his, legs tangled beneath the water, his arms locking you in a grip so unyielding it was as if he was afraid you’d disappear.

Your heart pounded as his lips brushed against your ear, his breath hot, shaky.

“I am so fucking serious about you.”

His voice was like gravel, raw with emotion, with something darker, deeper.

His fingers dug into your hips, pressing you against his solid, wet body, his scent flooding your senses despite the water.

“My omega.” His lips ghosted over your temple, his teeth grazing your skin.

“My mate.”

Your breath stuttered.

Jungkook pulled back just enough to look at you, his eyes ablaze with something wild and primal.

And then—his expression shifted.

A sharp, dangerous smirk curled his lips.

“And you better give me some kind of reassurance, little one.” His grip on your waist tightened, his thumb stroking slow, firm circles into your bare skin. “Because if not, I swear to fucking god—”

His gaze flickered past you, toward the shore.

Where too many alphas were watching you now.

Some were just talking.

Some were still stunned.

And some—too many—were looking at you like they had just realized something they hadn’t before.

Jungkook’s fingers flexed against your skin, and his voice dropped to a snarl.

“I’m gonna have to fight off every single one of those bastards.”

Your eyes widened.

Jungkook wasn’t joking.

You swallowed hard, suddenly hyperaware of the way he was holding you—how tightly, how completely. You felt small against him, but not in a way that made you feel weak.

Just… wanted.

Protected. Claimed.

And you weren’t sure how to handle it.

You had been so ready to leave this pack—so sure that you didn’t belong here, beside your feelings.

And yet, now…

Now, Jimin was defending you, laughing with you.

Now, your pack was looking at you with something close to admiration.

Now, Jungkook was holding you like he’d never let go.

You suddenly felt shy.

Your fingers curled slightly against his chest, your body tense with something you didn’t know how to process.

You had told Yoongi you’d give your decision in the morning.

But pressed against Jungkook like this—

Surrounded by the approval you’d craved your whole life—

Jungkook let out a soft huff, sensing your hesitation, sensing how overwhelmed you felt.

And just like that, the tension in his body eased.

He wouldn’t push you.

Instead, he just nudged his nose against your cheek, inhaling softly.

“At least…” His voice was lower now, rough but gentle. “Don’t get rid of my scent again.”

Your stomach flipped.

You blushed harder, looking away.

Jungkook chuckled.

“It should keep most of the other wolves away from you.”

And with that, he guided you toward the shore, leading you to land.

Leading you closer to Jimin, to his friends.

Your face was burning.

Not from embarrassment, but from the way so many eyes were on you now.

For the first time in your life, your pack wasn’t just looking past you, through you, around you.

They were seeing you.

And not just your pack.

Jimin was in the middle of a dramatic retelling to a group of alphas and betas, his hands waving wildly as he animatedly described how you had thrown him over your shoulder and sent him crashing into the ground.

And the moment you had first jumped—reckless, wild, free.

Some wolves were still hesitant, still adjusting their views of you. But others…

You could see it. The shift.

You still weren’t what they would call a normal omega.

Your scent wasn’t alluring in the way omegas were supposed to be. It wasn’t sweet, wasn’t gentle.

But the first time ever, you weren’t some defect to pity—you were something else entirely.

Something bold. Daring. Fearless.

And for the first time, you didn’t feel like an outsider.

· · ────── ·𖥸· ────── · ·

The festival was in full swing now.

The massive campfire at the center of the grounds blazed high, its flames crackling into the night air. Shadows flickered across the gathering of wolves—packs mingling, old rivalries being temporarily set aside, stories being shared.

And for the first time, you weren’t standing on the sidelines.

You were part of it.

You had changed into dry clothes, the warmth of the fire against your skin soothing after the cold water. Most of your pack had done the same, and as you stood watching the fire rise, the hum of conversation around you shifted.

People wanted to talk to you now.

Not just Jungkook, not just Jimin.

Other omegas had started approaching you, their eyes gleaming with something new—admiration, curiosity.

One of them, a smaller omega named Hana, grinned at you, her eyes flickering mischievously.

“You know, I might be a little jealous of you.”

You blinked.

Jungkook—standing close enough to touch, but still giving you space, space for them to approach—stilled.

Hana smirked at your confusion.

“Your scent.” She gestured toward you, shaking her head. “It’s so faint—barely there unless someone’s really trying to find it.” She huffed. “Do you know how perfect that is for sneaking up on people? It’s not fair. I could never get away with half the shit you probably can.”

You laughed, shaking your head.

“Trust me, it wasn’t exactly a blessing before today.”

Jimin suddenly joined the conversation, his arm draping lazily around your shoulders as he smirked at Hana.

“Yeah, but let’s be real.” He squeezed your shoulder, his voice mock-serious. “I never had a single chance of finding her. Not without Jungkook’s scent still on her.”

Your eyes snapped to Jungkook, who immediately tensed.

Hana’s gaze widened in realization, before giggling.

“Oh my god. That’s true, isn’t it?”

And then—to your horror—she turned to Jungkook, her grin mischievous.

“So is that why she smells like you? So she can’t get lost or so she can’t be a menace?”

Jungkook grumbled something, crossing his arms.

And then—as if on cue—two of Jungkook’s friends, Seokjin and Hoseok, swooped in.

Hoseok pretended to be concerned, his brows furrowing dramatically.

“That’s actually kind of dangerous.” He exhaled, shaking his head. “What if we can’t find her next time?”

Jimin grinned, his eyes flicking to you.

“Obviously, we need to just scent her at least twice a day from now on. You know, for safety reasons.”

“The hell you will,” Jungkook snapped.

Seokjin grinned wide.

“Fine, then. Jungkook needs to do it.”

The group erupted into laughter.

Your entire face went up in flames.

Jungkook growled.

Not because he was angry, but because he was watching you blush so fucking beautifully, and it was driving him insane.

Hoseok clapped a hand on Jungkook’s shoulder, his smile all teeth.

“No choice now, man. It’s for the good of the pack.”

Jungkook just exhaled, watching you.

Watching the way you laughed, the way you tried to hide your burning face, the way you fit so perfectly here now.

The festival was still alive with laughter, music, and the steady crackle of the bonfire. The flames flickered high, casting golden light over the gathered wolves, shadows dancing across their faces as voices rose in conversation. The scent of roasted meat, woodsmoke, and the mingling scents of different packs filled the air.

And for the first time, you stood at the center of it all.

Wolves kept approaching you—some curious, some excited, some just plain in awe.

Many of them were omegas, their expressions filled with something that made your chest ache—admiration, maybe even relief.

One, a tall girl with soft brown curls, hesitated before stepping forward, her eyes darting around nervously before settling on you.

“I just—” She took a breath. “I just wanted to say thank you. For what you did today.”

Your brows lifted. “Thank me?”

She nodded.

“I’ve… I’ve always been scared to do things like that. To fight back. To push my limits.” She swallowed, her hands curling into fists at her sides. “But after today, I think—no, I know—I want to be stronger. So… thank you.”

A strange warmth settled in your chest, and you opened your mouth to respond—

Only for another omega, a smaller boy with freckles across his nose, to step in, grinning.

“You made all the alphas shit themselves a little, too.”

Laughter rippled through your little group.

“It’s true,” another voice chimed in—this one deeper, a beta with sharp features and amused eyes. “I heard one of the Silverfang alphas muttering about ‘unstable omegas’ and looking like he’d swallowed a lemon.”

That made you laugh.

You had never thought you’d see the day when people looked at you like this—like you were something more than a fragile thing meant to be protected, claimed, or controlled.

And then—of course—some of the more cocky alphas had to make an appearance.

One of them—a broad-shouldered guy from another pack—strolled up, arms crossed, smirking.

“Alright, alright, we get it. You’re a badass. But let’s not pretend like you’re some kind of invincible warrior.”

But before you could say anything—

“Shut the fuck up, Taejin,” someone cut in sharply.

You blinked.

It hadn’t been Jungkook or even Jimin.

It was one of your own packmates—a beta, normally quiet, his eyes flashing in annoyance.

And just like that, the tension in your shoulders unraveled. Because it wasn’t just you standing up for yourself anymore. Your pack had started defending you, too. Taejin raised his hands in mock surrender, but the cocky edge in his smirk faded.

Jungkook, who had been watching all of this closely, relaxed a little.

He had stayed close to you all night—a constant presence at your side. But unlike before, he didn’t try to pull you away, didn’t try to stake his claim or keep you isolated.

He let your pack come to you.

Let them befriend you like he should have let happen ages ago.

And yet—he never strayed far.

Even as you laughed, even as you talked, his warmth was always there, lingering just close enough to remind you he was watching, waiting.

But giving you the space to choose.

The fire had burned lower, the embers glowing red and gold against the dark night. The steady hum of conversation had softened as wolves either drifted off to sleep or curled together in smaller groups, talking in low voices.

Across the clearing, Namjoon and Yoongi stood at the edge of the festival grounds, watching the interactions unfold.

Watching you.

Namjoon let out a slow breath, arms crossed over his chest.

“You still think she’ll come with us?” he asked, his voice quiet.

Yoongi didn’t answer right away. Instead, his eyes traced the scene in front of him—your pack, gathered around you, laughing, talking, nudging your shoulder like they should have years ago.

Jungkook was close, but not overbearing.

He wasn’t acting like he was claiming you.

But he was there.

Hovering at just the right distance, never letting you out of his sight.

Yoongi hummed, taking his time before replying.

“… Nah,” he finally said, slow and thoughtful. “I wish—but now that they see her? I don’t think they’ll let her go.”

Namjoon let out a quiet chuckle, shaking his head.

“You should have let her win easily and asked her afterward.”

At that, Yoongi let out a sharp huff of amusement, tilting his head in acknowledgment.

“Probably.” His gaze slid back to you. Then, without meaning to, he felt another set of eyes on him.

Jungkook.

Yoongi smirked when he saw the younger wolf shift his weight, his expression darkening slightly in that subtle, protective way.

Then, without looking away from Jungkook, Yoongi muttered, “Yeah, but look how happy she seems.”

Namjoon followed his gaze—to you.

Your laughter carried through the air, light and carefree, as you elbowed Jimin for whatever joke he had made. One of your packmates had an arm slung around your shoulders, and someone else—an omega from another pack—was leaning in, their expression open and friendly.

For the first time, you looked like you belonged.

Namjoon sighed. “Yeah… I see it.”

· · ────── ·𖥸· ────── · ·

As the night stretched on, the festival slowed.

Wolves started retreating into their tents, exhaustion creeping in after the long day. Some alphas, already paired with their mates, had wandered off well before now, their scents lingering in the air—faint traces of warmth, affection, and possessiveness all mixed together.

The fire had burned low, leaving the clearing bathed in shadows and dying embers. Jungkook, who had been watching you the entire night, felt something in his chest shift when you finally let out a yawn, stretching your arms above your head.

You were tired.

Ready to go to bed.

But when you grabbed your bag and started walking—not toward the main cluster of tents, but toward the farthest edge of the camp—Jungkook’s stomach dropped.

Your tent was too far away.

His jaw clenched as he followed you with his eyes, something uneasy curling in his gut.

He had been fine—or at least, he had convinced himself he could be fine—letting you go to sleep on your own if your tent had been close to your pack.

But now?

Now, he couldn’t.

Now, you weren’t just an omega.

You weren’t just some outsider anymore.

You had half the alphas in the festival either intrigued by you, impressed by you, or already considering how they could get close to you.

And you had barely a scent to track you.

Jungkook’s entire body tensed.

There was no fucking way he was letting you sleep alone.

Not out here.

Not tonight.

Before you could disappear into the dark, Jungkook was already moving.

Jungkook appeared beside you so suddenly that you startled, your tired mind still caught in the comfortable haze of warmth from the festival fire. You blinked at him, eyes a little bleary, surprised despite knowing he'd been near you all night.

“Jungkook?” you murmured, slowing your steps slightly.

His expression was stiff, his jaw set—like he was uncomfortable with what he was about to say.

“Your tent,” he said, voice low. “It’s too far off.”

You frowned, glancing toward the darkened corner of the camp where your tent had been set up. The spot had been chosen deliberately—back when your pack still saw you as an inconvenience, something to be pushed to the outskirts so they wouldn’t have to deal with you.

Some of Jungkook’s friends had even joked about it earlier.

“We put you so far away, we don’t even have to see you,” someone had muttered, back when the festival had just begun.

Jungkooks lips pressed into a thin line, and his grumble was almost frustrated, as he saw you hesitate. “Yeah, I know.” He ran a hand through his hair, exhaling sharply. “When we were setting up for the festival, I thought it was funny. I laughed about how we put you so far away.”

His fingers twitched.

“Now, I fucking hate it.”

Your chest tightened.

Jungkook shifted closer. “You can’t sleep there.”

His voice left no room for argument.

Your gaze flickered back to the tent, then to him.

“Why not?”

Jungkook’s brows furrowed.

“It’s not safe.”

For some reason, that made you snort.

You were an omega—but tonight had proven that you weren’t the fragile, helpless thing some of them still thought you were. And Jungkook knew that better than anyone.

So you lifted a brow, lips twitching.

“Then where do you think I should sleep?”

The moment the words left your mouth, Jungkook froze.

And then—

He blushed.

Furiously.

A dark, red flush crept up his throat, warming his ears, his cheeks, his entire face.

He looked caught.

You still hadn’t said anything about becoming his mate. You hadn’t even said if you were going to stay with his pack.

And yet—

Jungkook swallowed hard, ears still burning.

“It’s fine,” he said stiffly. “I’ll just keep watch.”

Your eyebrows shot up.

“Oh?” you mused, your lips quirking at the edges. “You’re going to stay up all night? Watching my tent?”

Jungkook glared.

“Don’t try to change my mind.” His voice dropped lower, more serious. “I’m watching over my mate.”

Your breath caught.

Jungkook’s eyes burned into yours, steady and unwavering.

His next words sent a shiver down your spine.

“I saw how some of the others looked at you.”

His jaw clenched.

“So yeah. I’m keeping watch.”

· · ────── ·𖥸· ────── · ·

Jungkook had been content.

It had been about thirty minutes—long enough for you to shuffle around inside your tent before going still. Long enough for him to settle into his post, his arms crossed as he kept watch over the darkened festival grounds. He had already caught the lingering scents of alphas from other packs passing too close for his liking. They had turned away eventually, but Jungkook wasn’t sure if it was because of his scent keeping them at bay or if they had just changed their minds.

Either way, he wasn’t risking it.

So he stayed put.

The night air was crisp but not unbearable, the distant sounds of celebration fading into the soft crackling of the massive bonfire still burning at the center of the camp.

Jungkook exhaled slowly.

And then—

Movement.

His ears twitched as he heard rustling from inside your tent. Even before you poked your head out, he was already looking at you.

Your sleepy, skeptical gaze met his.

“You really wanna sit there the rest of the night?”

Jungkook didn’t even hesitate.

He nodded.

Your annoyance was immediate. You huffed, rubbing your forehead like he was being unreasonable.

“Do you at least want to get yourself a blanket?”

Jungkook only grinned. “Not risking it.”

You groaned, exasperated.

Your fingers twitched at your sides, your entire body tensing like you were debating something serious.

Then—

You sighed.

Your expression flattened, your lips pressing into a thin line.

And then you muttered, “Fine. Come inside.”

Jungkook froze.

His brain short-circuited.

Had you just—

His heartbeat stuttered.

And then—

You disappeared back inside.

Jungkook sat there, stunned, staring at the now-closed flap of your tent.

Had you just invited him in?

For a solid heartbeat, he didn’t move.

Then—after another sharp glance around the area, his ears straining for any nearby movement—he rose to his feet.

And followed you inside.

· · ────── ·𖥸· ────── · ·

Part 3

[ssulvyyy]

you deserve the world

---------------------------------------------------------

pairing: kmj x reader

genres: fluffs, a LIL angst

warnings: age gap, student x teacher, family issues and etc

------------------------------------------------------------

yn had never known what it was like to be spoiled—at least, not in the way minji did it.

she had parents. a father who was always busy, a mother who cared more about appearances than love. yn had learned early on that no matter how hard she tried, she would never be enough for them. she was either too loud or too quiet, too stubborn or too weak, too much or not enough. the cycle never ended, and she had long since stopped trying to break it.

then there was minji.

ms. kim minji, the young literature teacher who had transferred to yn’s school at the beginning of the year. at first, she had seemed untouchable, too poised, too beautiful, too distant. but yn quickly learned that minji wasn’t distant at all—she was just careful with her affection, giving it only to those who needed it most.

and somehow, yn became one of them.

it started small. a hand ruffling her hair when she answered a question correctly. a soft “good job, yn” that made her chest feel warm. then there were the notes—tiny, folded pieces of paper slipped between the pages of her books.

"this passage reminded me of you. passionate and full of fire."

"you wrote beautifully here. don’t let anyone make you feel small."

"you deserve the world, you know?"

yn didn’t know what to do with all that warmth, all that care. It scared her, the way minji could so easily undo the years of neglect yn had suffered, as if she were rewriting the story of her life in soft strokes instead of harsh lines.

then came the drives home.

“are you walking again?” minji had asked one rainy afternoon, looking out the window as yn hesitated at the school gates. when she nodded, minji frowned before jingling her car keys. “come on. you’ll catch a cold.”

yn wanted to say no, but she was so tired of saying no to kindness.

so she got into minji’s car, and that became their routine. minji would ask about her day, listen carefully, and never invalidate her feelings. she never told yn she was overreacting when she talked about her mother’s cold remarks. never said she was being ungrateful. she just listened. and sometimes, she reached over to tuck yn’s hair behind her ear, fingers brushing against her skin so softly that yn felt like she would crumble.

it was dangerous—the way yn started craving minji’s presence, her warmth. but minji never crossed the line, never made her feel unsafe. she was simply there, like a lighthouse guiding yn through the storm.

---

a few weeks before graduation

the school year was ending, and yn was restless. she hated the thought of losing minji. would they stop talking? would Minji move on with her life, leaving yn behind like everyone else?

one night, minji drove her home as usual, but instead of letting yn leave immediately, she reached for her hand. the touch was light, hesitant, but it made yn’s breath hitch.

“yn,” minji murmured, her thumb brushing over yn’s knuckles. “you’ve been quieter lately. What’s wrong?”

yn swallowed. “i just… i don’t want this to end.”

minji exhaled softly before tugging yn’s hand, guiding her closer. “nothing has to end.”

and then she did it—minji leaned in, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to yn’s forehead. yn’s eyes fluttered shut, savoring the warmth that spread through her like a fire finally being lit in the cold.

minji whispered, “you’re so much more than what your mother makes you feel.”

yn’s chest tightened, her heart aching with something she couldn’t name. “i wish you could always be here.”

“i will be,” minji promised, “if you want me to be.”

---

graduation day

yn stood in her cap and gown, searching the crowd. her parents were there, standing stiffly, offering polite claps but no real pride. it stung, but she no longer needed their approval.

because minji was there too.

she stood at the edge of the crowd, wearing a soft smile, pride radiating from her like the sun. when the ceremony ended, yn found herself walking toward her, heart pounding. minji opened her arms, and yn didn’t hesitate to step into them.

“congratulations,” minji whispered, holding her tight. “i’m so proud of you.”

yn swallowed past the lump in her throat. “thank you—for everything.”

minji pulled back slightly, tucking a strand of yn’s hair behind her ear like she always did. then, with the subtlest of movements, minji dipped her head and pressed a soft kiss to yn’s cheek.

it was barely anything. and yet, it was everything.

“let’s go celebrate,” minji murmured, intertwining their fingers.

for the first time in a long time, yn felt like she belonged to someone who truly saw her. and as she looked up at minji, she realized—

she had been loved all along.

[blossomthepinkbunny]

Sinsmas made Stolas much worse

Sinsmas was probably the worst episode they could´ve done for Stolas as a character. He was always fighting an uphill battle to begin with because narrative wise, his character is the perfect villian/antagonist for HB.

It´s a show about a group of hellborns who run a gruesome business who, due to their low class in hells society, also face discrimination and are constantly undermined. Now what would the possibly best antagonist for such a show be? Probably a rich, royal demon who didn´t have to work for his wealth, who uses his high status to hold the object that the imps need over their heads, to get what he wants out of them. That´s Stolas. Or atleast that´s how Stolas functioned in the Pilot and the first episode. This changed a bit since episode 2 and then in "Ozzie´s", the different direction they wanted to take his character became apparent. Ever since then we got a mix of rewriting what we thought was happening to make Stolas more sympathetic and trying to force a newer personality into a mold shaped by the general narrative, which didn´t really fit at all.

And then Sinsmas happened as the season two finale and made it so so much worse. I just want to ignore all the other bad things about Stolas (like his relationship with Octavia, the show not really holding him accountable etc.) and for now focus on his absolutely ruined character arc. His whole motivation for doing anything in s2, was to convince Blitz that he isn´t what Blitz always assumed of him. I mentioned his role in the narrative before and I just want to say, that I do know that subverting the narrative has sort of become a main character motivation for Stolas. He doesn´t want to be seen as this pampered, ungrateful prince that Blitz sees him as. But he is just that.

Stolas loses his powers and status and goes to live with Blitz and his group. Someone he thought he was going to die for. One could assume that with all of this, Stolas would try and be on his best behaviour. That he would do everything in his power to help, support, love Blitz and mainly, to show him that he isn´t the spoilled asshole Blitz once saw him as. But he doesn´t do that. He behaves exactly how Blitz would have probably assumed him to be in s1. That´s a whole season worth of character development just skipped. Blitz makes him breakfast and he insults it to his face and then whines about how perfect his old life was. He looks this guy, who had to face being a lower class citizen his entire life (who he is supposed to love and has spent an entire season convincing, that he is different and not what he´s expecting) in the face and tells him practically "Oh no, being poor sucks, your place sucks, your food sucks, and your holidays suck too. I wish I was rich again, then I wouldn´t have to deal with all of this poor people bs".

And I know, that he was very in shambles after losing his status, powers and daughter, but he never once considers how Blitz was very close to actually being killed and is now basically letting him live there, which probably isn´t going to help their bank account. He is exactly what he wanted to convince Blitz he wasn´t. One could also be more cynical and assume that he pretty much has everything he ever wanted now, with Blitz feeling a little responsible for what happened, so he has no reason to be nice anymore, since he now knows he´ll get away with it. This episode just made him less likeable somehow, something I didn´t think was so easily possible.

And it didn´t even have to happen like this. Why couldn´t Stolas have just been trying to push everything down to try and fully care for Blitz. It would´ve actually been a pretty sympathetic character trait if he tried to ignore everything going on to support the person he supposedly loves. But that doesn´t happen and Stolas is just less and less likeable the longer the show goes on (which I always assumed was the opposite of what HB wanted to accomplish, esp with Stolas, but oh well).

It really sucks, because it feels like all of the emotional rollercoaster moments we had to endure over the course of s2 (a season that was really bad) were for nothing. Oh, not for nothing I guess. Just for Blitz to also completely change character all of a sudden and just be completely fine with being diminished like that and Stolas basically insulting him to his face. How nice that the one character mainly defined by not wanting to be tied down is now subservient to the guy who harrased him for a while. Really cool.

Also I just realized that Tumblr has a charater limit now for posts. That is really pissing me off. I love talking and now I have to constantly make sure I don´t exceed the word count.

[merlinmylove]

Dragonlord reveal pt 3: The Darkest Hour rewrite (Finale)

Read on Ao3 Here (fully updated and edited)

Read part 1 Here

Read part 2 Here

After saving their lives, Merlin tended to his duties.

He made a simple mushroom soup, refilled all the water skins, brushed down the horses, hung all their capes up to dry over some nearby branches, washed Arthur’s socks in a cold creek where he also gathered some algae for Gaius. All in all, it had been a very productive trip.

He rubbed his hands together for warmth as he looked over this work. Yes, he thought. All is well. Or maybe, not all is well, but at least he got his chores done before Arthur decides he wants to berate him again. Merlin trotted over the fire where Percival had upended two tree stumps, and placed them down as benches.

Sir Leon was stoking the fire with a stick, trying to even the smoke out. It was clear to Merlin that he’s been on the verge of speaking several time, but didn’t know how to begin. After he gave the older man a soft nod, he began.

"So is that how you survived the Dorocha? Your...dragonsblood?" His voice was guarded but not judging, as if he was trying to figure something out for himself. Merlin met his eyes over the fire and saw nothing but sincerity and honesty in them.

"It’s possible. Frankly, I’m not too sure how or why I survived”

"Its a simple enough question, Merlin. Just answer him” Arthur grumbled from the right. The Prince had made a point of sitting furthest away from him. What an ass.

“The question may be simple, but I don't know the answer, my Lord. Your father destroyed any books on the topic, and any other dragon-nobility was executed, so there is no one I can ask. Though I suppose I could ask Killgarrah, but I doubt you’d like to see him again”. Merlin added bitterly.

Arthur's eyes met his and Merlin could see in real time how quickly Arthur came to realise what he had meant by that. “I didn’t kill the dragon that night, did I?”

“No, Sire. You did not”

“So that was anther lie”

“You can’t blame me for lying when the truth is a death sentence”

Merlin let that statement sit for a moment. Perhaps it was a cruel thing to say, after all he hated lying to Arthur, and he did want to apologise for all the years of lying. But he also needed his friends to hear his side.

Lancelot, kind gentle Lancelot, placed a hand on Merlin’s shoulder. His touch had always had a calming effect on Merlin. His presence even more so. Tears begun to sting his eyes, but. he told himself it was just from the smoke of the fire.

“I met the dragon yesterday, he saved our lives from the Dorocha with his fire. And afterwards he flew us to you”

No!

“No, that’s not true. Sir Lancelot lies, he is not a traitor to the crown, he would never betray you sire!” Merlin scrambles to explain, desperate to keep his friend alive. Gods, why is it every friend he makes is so willing to sacrifice their own lives?!

“Lancelot!?” Arthur exclaims but is shushed by Lancelot soothing voice. “My Lord, I am your knight and I will always be loyal to you. It is an honour to serve you, Sire. But I must also look after my friend — and right now Merlin is my priority.”

He turns to face Merlin, placing his hand gently under his chin. “You don’t have to lie any longer, Merlin. You don’t have to hide”

That thought terrified him. As much as he had always wanted and fantasied about being honest with Arthur and their friends, he found himself more terrified than ever before.

“I’ve been hiding my whole life, I don’t know how to be visible” Merlin choked as he tried to wipe his tears.

“Then let me be your strength.” Lancelot gives him one of his gentles smiles before he speaks again. “It is true Sire, that I’ve always known about Merlin’s magic. You remember the griffin that plagued Camelot all those years ago. We were all told it could only die by magic, and I willing to lay down my life for your kingdom when I made my attempt at charging it. But somehow, seconds before I struck it, my lance erupted in blue flames killing it where it stood.”

All the knights were attentively listening. Lancelot had that effect on people, his voice and demeanour always seemed honest. “I admit I was surprised at its death, for my lance had not been made with magic. When I looked around I saw fallen knights on the ground, yourself amongst them. And hiding behind a tree stood Merlin. His eyes glowed gold, for it was he who saved Camelot that day. Not I.”

The fire crackled as everyone looked at Merlin, who seemed to grow pink. They all knew he had a tendency to hide behind trees and bushes during battles. Had this been the reason why? Had he been fighting using magic all this time?

“From that day on I swore to keep his secret. I’ve watched Merlin take down an immortal army, kill beasts and assassins without breaking a sweat, all while still serving you breakfast. You may question Merlin’s honesty but never for one moment should you question his loyalty. Merlin is entirely devoted to you, Arthur”

Lancelot pulled him into his side and hugged him with one arm. Merlin tried to even out his breathing as he waited for his prince to speak.

“But he was not a dragonlord back then…how did he have magic?” The idiot asks. Arthur seemed more confused than angry. Hopefully, that meant he would be able to forgive him for some of his worst decisions.

“I told you my dragon abilities were inherited. My father was a dragonlord and warlock, as am I”

“What exactly is a warlock? Is that any different from a sorcerer?” Elyan piped up from his left side. He sipped his drink as if he was merely asking about the weather.

“Well, sorcerers study magic, they must practice and it takes years to learn. Gaius is a sorcerer who studies magic for healing purposes. Warlocks and witches on the other hand, are born with their powers. Morgana is such a witch, just like I am a warlock.”

At this Arthur raised his voice. “That’s not possible, Merlin. People aren’t born with magic”

“Isn’t it? Says who?” Merlin cocked his head. His tears were dried and his breathing much steadier.

“My f-“

“Your father? The king who banned magic? The same king who burned pregnant mothers and drowned druid children? Right, of course, silly me. For a moment I forgot that my father was a dragonlord, whose ability was passed down from his father and from his father before him.”

Merlin explained calmly, letting the words flow over the knights as he spoke. It’s not the first time they’ve heard him speak treason, and judging by the look on Arthur’s face, he was not entirely happy about it. But Merlin knew him better than anyone; Arthur was not angry with him, but rather because he recognised the truth in what was said.

“And Morgana inherited her magic from her mother, who was a notable seer and the sister of a High Priestess” Merlin added lamely. “I had only known her a month when I realised she had magic. Gaius had been dowsing her with sleeping draughts for years in order to dampen her sight, hoping it would keep her safe from speculation. Of course, that didn’t work out. Her powers manifested regardless, and she was alone and helpless in a Kingdom that killed her kind”

Arthur looked away at that, and it hurt Merlin. He could never condone her actions, but Morganas path to villainy had been paved with loneliness and lies. Eventually, Arthur turned back and fixed his eyes on Merlin. It seemed he had more pressing matters than the revelation of Morgana's magic. At least for now.

“So the beast is still alive. How do I keep Camelot safe if it’s still out there?” Arthur grumbled at Merlin. The fear of another attack on his home was great. He was also angry that the dragon still lived, that his victory had just been a lie. A lie that Merlin made him believe wholeheartedly. Because he never thought Merlin of all people, would be so comfortable lying to him.

“I told you, Killgarrah is like an uncle to me and so I couldn’t kill him. He is the only one alive who truly knew my father. Instead, I banished him from Camelot, and he cannot return upon pain of death. He obeys my orders like your knights obey you.” He nodded towards Sir Leon who gave him a small if not uncertain smile.

At this point, Arthur had stood up and began pacing the campsite. His jaw was tightened as he thought and reasoned with himself. Anxiety and desperation were evident in his tone as he spoke. “If you are telling the truth, and you truly were born with magic — that it exists within you...how is it that you’re not corrupted?”

A loud sigh escaped Merlin`s lips as he shook his head. He knew it would be tough to explain to Arthur and the others that magic is not as black and white as Uther had made it seem. “Magic is woven into the very fabric of the earth. It lives in the leaves in the trees, the waves at sea, and the moss on the ground. Trying to eradicate it is impossible. Uther might as well try and shoot the moon”

The men around the fire sat silently and listened. The fire crackled and the wind blew softly across their camp. "You’re saying that magic is just a part of nature...what, like water? But we’ve seen magic corrupt and kill before" Said Elyan, admittedly a little confused.

“Yes, I am. Magic is no more evil than any other force of nature. To use your example of water." Merlin ignored Arthurs's scoff as he continued:

"It can sail a ship safely to shore, or sink it. Water can also grow crops, or flood the streets. It can put out housefires, or it can be used to drown druid children. Magic is about balance, just like any other part of nature. Too much of it can be deadly, but if you remove it entirely you will die." He paused for a moment. "It all depends on how it's used and how much.”

“You speak of magic like it’s poetry, but I’ve seen horrible things at the hands of magic users” Arthur tried to reason.

He wasn't entirely incorrect, Merlin had seen awful things at the hands of magic users. Moraguse and Morgana came to mind. But he`s come this far, he needs to make them understand that not every sorcerer is hellbent on destroying Camelot.

“That’s true, but you’ve also seen good things at the hands of magic. Just like I have seen good things from Uther, I have also seen the injustice of your father's paranoia" He steadied himself before he continued. Merlin knew he was closing on dangerous grounds, but Arthur needed to hear it.

"Gwen has been accused of practicing magic twice. She was innocent, yet Uther ordered her pyre built. Gaius was accused of magic, and tortured into a false confession. He was already tied to the pyre when you stopped it. How many more innocents must be accused and executed before you realise that crying magic is a death sentence in Camelot. That as soon as the word is whispered, your father orders their arrest - innocent or not."

Elyan looked distinctly green at this and moved uncomfortably in his seat. He no doubt remembered how his father died, and the vision of Gwen at the pyre was too much to bear. Percival placed a hand on his shoulder to soothe him.

Arthur seemed ashamed as he mumbled to Merlin “Magic killed my mother," as if this was a reasonable justification. And now, Merlin is no stranger to pretty revenge. But, Arthur is above such things and thus needs to hear the truth.

“And a sword killed my father, but you don’t see me refusing to sharpen yours. And a spear killed Sir Elyans father but you don’t see him burning all spearmakers.” Merlin snapped back harshly. It was a cruel thing to say, and he could see the pain in the knights eyes, but at least they finally understood him.

Elyan looked uncomfortable as he mumbled “I just think it’s unfair that someone can wield such power, while others” he gestures towards the knights “like us, don’t. We don’t have any way of defending ourselves against magic”

Merlin shrugged. “Well…most things in life are unfair, Sir Elyan. You’re all trained killers, I’m just a peasant with no sword training. You’re all of noble standing with a voice at court, but if I speak out of turn I would be flogged.” 

Arthur winced at that, he hated hearing of the time Uther nearly flogged him. “You guys dragged me with you on all sorts of quests and adventures, but you never gave me any armor or training. That’s unfair. My only choice of defending myself is to run or hide, which you will call me a coward for. But if I use magic to save mine, or even your life, I would hang for it. That’s unfair”

Arthur had since stopped pacing and had now walked over to sit beside Merlin. It made his heart happy to feel him so near, to know that his very presence no longer disgusted him. "Alright, Let`s say Im entertaining this idea of yours." He began.

“In your examples, it’s not just the water doing the work, it’s humans too. Like the ship; you say the ocean can sink or sail it, but that’s not entirely true — you’d need someone to man the ship". Arthur concluded.

Merlin smiled. “Yes, Arthur. But if you think back to what Elyan said, about how it’s unfair that some people understand this power while you guys don’t, imagine this:

"Could you prevent a shipwreck, tend to the sails or the mast? No, but a sailor can. You cannot command a dragon, but I can. Is it unfair, maybe — but that’s how life works. Everyone has their own skills and abilities, as we must all work together. I can’t fight in battle, but I can save your life afterward with medicine. You wouldn’t call that unfair, it’s just how life works. And that’s also how magic works — everything in harmony and balance”

Next to him Lancelot smiled and grabbed his knee in a comforting way. Gwaine kept his eyes on him, not judging, but he was clearly intrigued about this way of thinking.

At last, Percival spoke. "I think my issue is the trust we must then place at the feet of magic users. Druids are peaceful, I know. I've stayed with them for a while. But common sorcerers...I don't think I've ever met a kind sorcerer.”

"Well," Said Gwaine. "We are all fighters and killers, as Merlin says. But we trust each other not to attack while the others sleep. Arthur trusts us not to stage a coup, or steal from his vaults. We swore an oath, and our word as knights means everything. But that does not mean we are not capable of terrible things."

Merlin had never been more thankful for Gwaine in his life. He gave him the brightest smile he could, before turning his attention towards the largest knight. "What Gwaine says is true. And just for the record, you have met a kind sorcerer. Gaius is one. I am one. Many other kind magic users reside in Camelot, you just don't know them."

Percival seemed to listen attentively and motioned for Merlin to go on.

"Most people only have small amounts of magic, but you will never know about it, for if you did, they would burn. As a servant and a physician, I meet most people in the Citadel. There are many sorcerers in Camelot living a quiet and normal life. They have jobs like me and they’re nobles like Leon. We exist. And we don’t want to see our home destroyed”.

"In fact," he said, and turned to Arthur again. "Remember the tourney where you lost purposely so your father could win?”

“Yes, there was a peasant lad who placed second. Father beat him of course” Arthur smiled proudly at the memories.

“He was a sorcerer who inherited his powers from his father just like me. His name is Gilli, and his father was a kind man who never used magic to harm others — in fact, he died knowing he could save himself using magic, but he refused. Gilli is still my friend"

“But he fought using a sword, not magic?” Confusion clouded Arthurs's features.

“Exactly. You never knew he had magic, you only saw a competent fighter. Gilli wanted to kill Uther, or at the very least humiliate him. But he changed his mind once I told him about you. He and I both know what it’s like to watch a father die, and he didn’t want you to go through the same thing”

At this Leon sputtered "You mean to tell us that a sorcerer who sought Uther`s death...simply changed his mind! How?"

“Because I was kind to him." Merlin smiled and blushed at the coo`s Gwaine made. The knight was lazily laying against the log with a drink in his hand, smiling at Merlin across the fire. He was half tempted to box his ears, but instead, he continued.

"Because I offered him friendship and kinship. We still keep in touch. Last I heard he was in Nemeth fighting in their tourneys. He’s become quite the champion” Pride was evident in his voice, and his eyes beamed as he thought back on the many letters Gilli had sent him over the years.

Arthur seemed to calm down at that. He obviously remembered the boy and was now revisiting the memories in a different light. To think that his father may have died in that arena, that he would've been an orphan if not for Merlin's interference.

To think that a sorcerer seeking revenge simply changed his mind at the offer of friendship? Merlin saw a plot to kill the king, intervened, and kept quiet about it despite the possibility of a reward, simply because he wanted a friend. How could he ever think Merlin could be corrupted? Is magic not corruptive at all? Arthur needed to know for certain.

"Answer me this; Does magic corrupt at all. We all saw what it did to Morgana, how she turned spiteful and evil. Or is that also another of my father's lies?"

“Dark magic can certainly corrupt, and Morgana dabbled in it. Magic is all about balance, that much you know. You give and you take, and it’s closely tied to your emotions. She is angry and vengeful, so her magic will reflect that. But she takes too much without giving back -- the Gods are not happy with her for tearing the veil. She will be punished, and thus become even more angry, and the cycle will continue."

He shuddered at this. "But no, not all magic corrupts. I’ve never been good at healing spells, I’m better at dealing direct damage, jsut like you in a fight. I’m good at sneaking around, so my magic can be subtle. Gaius on the other hand, is a studious person with an interest in the human body, so his healing abilities are much better than mine. But Morgana…” Merlin trailed off, unsure if he should speak further.

Arthur nodded and wordlessly told him to continue.

“Well, think back to all the years you’ve known her. She’s always been proud and forceful. She could be stubborn as a goat, and once she made her mind up it was near impossible to change it. She stood up to your father many times, and even spent days in the cells for it. She was kind and playful yes, but also competitive and cunning. She knew how to play court and put up a false face”

Arthur couldn't disagree with that. It is true all he said. Morgana was his dear friend and sister for most of his life, but they too, had their spats and disagreements. She could be angry and dangerous at times if provoked. If Sir Leon's facial expressions were correct, he was also thinking back to what she was like.

"So it wasn`t magic that corrupted her. But it helped her achieve her goals. It was her, not Dragoon, who placed the love poultice in Gwens house. She used your father's paranoia of magic to frame her former friend to be rid of your future queen."

Arthur's eyes shot wide open at this. "Morgana was willing to let Gwen burn at the stake for a crime she has never committed?! I always knew we were not enchanted, but I thought that was just Dragoon being bad at magic”

“No, the love you two shared was real, and it frightened Morgana. She saw Gwen as a potential future queen and so she wanted her to die. It's no surprise why Gwen was so terrified she broke off your courtship.” Merlin looked sheepishly to Lancelot who had benefitted from this broken engagement.

The Prince Regent looked furious at this, but his anger was not directed towards either his knight or former love. The sting of betrayal ran deep, and the realisation that Morgana had turned her back on them earlier than he knew, was a painful one. Beside him, Merlin concluded.

"Now is probably the right time to tell you that I was Dragoon. I realised Morganas plot and changed my appearance to take the blame. Gwen was freed, and I escaped execution. Morgana was enraged, but thankfully she never realised it was I. So instead, she’s now afraid there is an old, dodgy sorcerer following and sabotaging her." Merlin giggled at the thought. It was kinda funny.

Elyan, Lancelot, and Arthur began speaking all at once. Their words drowned each other out, but it was easy to understand them. They were both furious at Merlin's lack of self-preservation, as well as thankful that he foiled Morgana's plan. Merlin let them ramble on for a few minutes before he waved his hand to silence them.

"Like I said, Morgana isn’t evil because of magic. She has always known how to anger and push you, how to act two-faced and conniving. The only difference is that she can now also utilize magic to further her goals"

The knights nodded at that. Arthur knew his friend was right, but it still hurt to hear. Beside him, Merlin had lifted his hands to his mouth and whispered a spell into them. Eyes shining brighter than Arthur’s crown. When he opened his fists, a small delicate butterfly emerged, flying from his hands and over to Lancelot. It landed on his nose.

Arthur smiled at the sight.

“You’ve seen magic used for evil before, but you have also seen it sued for healing. Morgana tore the veil using magic, and I fixed it using magic. You once believed that not all magic is used for evil, that it can be used for good. I hope that I can make you believe in that again.”

The blue butterfly flutters from knight to knight, standing out in the darkness. Seemingly taking a shine to Percival and stays seated on his head for the rest of the evening, while the men chat idly about nothing and everything. Merlin had never felt more happy than he did in this moment.

Things would need to change, and trouble was brewing on the horizon with Morgana yet defeated. But Merlin smiled to himself as he realised his friends didn’t hate him, and that they believed him about his magic.

Arthur believed him!

It was everything he had ever wanted and more.

Late at night when the others are asleep, Merlin and Arthur distance themselves from them. The Prince walks them over to a large rock, where they sit down, side by side like they always do. Arthur's chainail felt old against Merlins thin jacket, but the happiness he felt from finally being seen, kept him warm.

Arthur took Merlins hand in his. “I don’t understand” Said he.

“You have all this power. You’re a warlock and a dragonlord; you’re trusted by all the knights and even members of the court. You’re a noble with direct ties to the kingdom of Elmet, you could be King of the Perilous Lands. Why on earth are you still a servant? Others would’ve taken over the kingdom by now! Used me as a puppet King to do their own bidding”

“That’s not why I do it”

“Then why?”

“Some people are born to plow the fields, to sharpen swords, to sail ships. You Arthur, are born to be a great King. And I was born to be your servant, and I’m proud of that. I would never want to change a thing”

“Do you really believe that?” Arthur sounded hesitant, desperate almost, for the validation that he knew only Merlin could provide.

“I believe in you more than I believe in anything else. I know our destiny is true because I met you. You made it true — you made me believe in you, and therefore we made it real. One day you will be the greatest King Albion has ever known, and I will be there at your side"

Arthur held their joined hands close to his chest. “Do you promise to never lie to me again. To always tell the truth, even if it hurts me?”

“Yes, Sire. You have my word”

“Then I believe you.” He looked over to his servant. Their faces were closer than comfortable, and their voices hushed as they whispered in the misty night.

“Merlin" He began but found he needed a moment to gather himself. Melrin offered him one of his usual dopey smiles and it filled him with the courage and determination that he needed.

"I don’t know how to be King without you by my side. I don’t know how to do anything really, without you there to support me. I need you. And I cannot loose you. My heart would break and I’d go mad with grief like my father”

The very thought of losing Merlin hurt him more than he could ever put into words. The terror of these last few days, of watching Melrin almost die, the reveal and betrayal of his magic, had finally taken its toll on him. The Prince broke down in tears. 

Arthurs's voice shook with tears as he finally admitted. “I need you…to always just be you” His eyes shone wetly and he hoped that Merlin would understand him. That Merlin would understand his heart, the way he always seemed to understand his soul. 

Thankfully, Merlin is not so much of an idiot as Arthur seemed to think.

"You will always have me, Arthur. And I will never leave your side." Merlin promised his prince as he closed his eyes, and met Arthur's lips in a soft and everloving kiss.

[unoislazy]

‘Til The Caged Bird Sings

(Part 3)

Recap: Mizu found you in some makeshift holding cell in the basement of the gambling house you were being held in.

Surprise Shawties two in one night

CW: a bit bloody description

Mentions of SA

Literally falling asleep as I type this, hopefully there are no typos (I doubt it)

I’m probably gonna go back and rewrite this cause I genuinely can’t remember what I wrote and I’m frankly too embarrassed to go back and read it

————————————————————

Mizu approached you with haste, managing to open your cell with one swift motion of her sword, breaking the lock almost clean off. She cautiously made her way into the dark and dreary cell, the only light that entered the room was from a small window on the back wall. This place was not meant to be a cell, it seemed to have been made last minute more than anything. It wouldn’t take a genius to know that they didn’t care about the people they stored here.

Once she got right in front of you, she noticed that you had gone quiet and still, other than the tremble that you couldn't seem to stop.

Mizu kneeled down before you, lifting her hand, wanting to tap your shoulder just to gain your attention but just as she had just barely grazed that now tattered fabric on your shoulder you began to flail and scream.

Most of your words came out as nothing more than incoherent sobs, but Mizu could definitely make out the words, “Get away from me! Don’t touch me!”

Your voice was hoarse and scratchy, you had been shouting for a while.

Your cheeks were stained with tears, Your eyes were held shut in fear as you flailed about, trying as hard as you could to make it impossible for whatever man you assumed was in front of you to grab you.

You felt two strong arms grip yours, holding them still as you continued to struggle.You didn’t know who was infront of you but the last thing you wanted was to open them and be face to face with the fact that you’d have to endure another hour of torture. That was until you heard,

“Hey hey, it’s me.” Mizu shushed you, continuing to hold your arms still as you slowly began to stop thrashing. You continued to cry, still not wanting to open your eyes, believing your brain was playing some hopeless joke on you.

“Open your eyes.”

Finally, your eyes fluttered open. Immediately you were met with the blue eyes that you loved so much staring back at you, filled with a fear you could not even begin to explain.

You leapt forward, wrapping your arms around her as tightly as you could manage, never wanting to let go. You continued to cry, your words a jumbled mess as you tried to describe what had been done to tou.

You dug your nails into her clothes, trying to pull yourself closer than you could possibly manage, your breathing was unstable and your tears began to soak through Mizu’s clothes.

She didn’t care, she held you as tightly as she could, happy to at least have found you alive, but terrified of what you might’ve had to endure before she did.

You both sat there for a few moments as your crying died down a bit, a few hiccups here and there made it hard for you to properly express yourself as you tried to talk to the woman.

“Let’s go home, please.” You pleaded, no longer wanting to be in such a place. She nodded, carefully wrapping your arm around her shoulder, helping you to stand as you both made your way towards the door of the cell. As fast as you could go, you made your way back to the ground floor before you heard the clamoring of several armored men running into the house.

They finally knew Mizu was here.

“Someone go check on the girl!” You could hear one of the men yell followed by the sound of a few men running towards you and the rest running in the opposite direction. You began to shake, fearing that they would somehow manage to take you from Mizu again, right after you had just been reunited.

She noticed you shaking and putting a reassuring hand on your arm as she looked towards you.

“I’m not going to let them take you.” She said as she gently placed you up against the wall. She drew her sword, standing before you, emulating a wall between you and then men who had finally made their way towards the hall you both stood in.

Once their eyes landed on Mizu, they all immediately got into fighting stances and quickly charged at Mizu, who did the exact same thing towards them.

She sliced through most of them easily, but for each man she brought down, more came to replace them.

The men who had previously been upstairs had all made their way towards the commotion, making it harder and harder for Mizu to keep up with all of them.

Eventually she had been so caught up with the men surrounding you that she hadn’t noticed the one man who seemed to slip past her and make his way straight for you.

Mizu called for you, quickly gaining your attention as she continued to struggle against the men she was fighting with.

Your head shot up, quickly seeing the man who was making a beeline straight for you. As fast as you could react, paired with the adrenaline that suddenly shot throughout your body, you stood up and lunged yourself at the man. Not expecting you to fight back, the man had been taken by surprise as you scratched and clawed at him in any way you could manage. You didn’t have any other weapons on your so your nails would have to do, and with the right technique they could be lethal.

You have managed to successfully scratch at the man’s eye, leaving you feeling disgusted and him severely wounded.

But you didn’t stop there, you had so much anger from not being able to fight back that you could release until now. The only thing you felt like you could do as you continued to attack the man was to scream. You screamed as loud as you could, carrying all the emotions that you had been feeling for the past few hours. The emotions that you truly didn’t even have time to fully process, the emotions that scolded you for being weak and yet consoled you for this not being your fault.

You continued to scream, being blinded by your own rage you had not realized the sheer amount of damage you had caused to the man’s face. You had somehow managed to break the skin on several parts of his face, his eyes included.

He continued to scream, finally pushing you off of him as he knelt down, cupping his face in pure agony. With one clean plunge through his chest, the screaming stopped. You watched the man flop to the ground as the sword left his body, your entire body shaking as you tried to catch your breath. You had no idea how to react to what you had just done, you had never injured someone so severely in your life. You didn’t mind Mizu’s past, you were aware she had harmed many people before she had met you, but it was an entirely different story when the blood was partially on your hands.

He deserved it, he and several other men in his group had taken advantage of you, they talked down to you as if you were nothing, they tried to make you feel as if you were no more than an ant trapped beneath their feet.

And in some ways they succeeded.

Mizu bent down before you, gaining your attention before touching you.

“You ready?” She asked, making sure you were fully aware of your surroundings. You nodded, still not all there entirely, but you were there enough to know you wanted to get out of there. Just as she had done before, she wrapped your arm around her now blood soaked shoulder, helping you to walk as you made your way out.

However, due to the excessive amount of adrenaline coursing through you, and the blood that has already partially made its way onto your clothes, you had yet to notice the wound that was currently leaking from your abdomen. You hadn’t noticed, but through your moment of blind rage, in an attempt to get you off of him the man had stabbed you and took the knife back out.

You both left the building leaving nothing but piles of bodies and an egregious amount of blood behind.

You made it all the way back to Mizu’s horse before you had noticed the stab wound that still continued to bleed out.

Your hand grazed over the wound, almost as if to convince yourself it wasn’t real, but the blood that coated your hand afterward was indeed your blood.

“Oh shit” You muttered, looking towards her with a terrified look in your eye. Mizu, who was already getting the horse ready, looked back towards you, her eyes widening.

You knew Mizu had gone through worse but the same couldn’t be said for you, you didn’t know if you were going to die in the next two minutes or the next ten, if at all. You might have known what to do if you were thinking clearly but at this point in time you couldn’t think straight. You couldn’t think at all.

The world began to spin as you took one step towards Mizu, the world going black as you began to fall right into her arms.

Mizu admittedly panicked just a bit, not knowing whether the wound was lethal or not. All she did know was her question was going to be answered regardless of the placement if she didn’t stop the bleeding.

She ripped whatever piece of fabric she could find and hastily wrapped it around you, trying to add as much pressure to it as she could before carefully lifting you up onto the horse.

It was a bit of a journey back but luckily the makeshift bandage Mizu had wrapped around you was enough to slow the bleeding down a significant amount.

Everything was dark for you, you didn’t know how much time was passing, you could hear things happening around you but your mind was too foggy to focus on anything clearly. It only took you a few hours before you woke up, the stab wound miraculously being the only major injury you sustained after the whole ordeal. You had a few scratches and bruises littered throughout your body but it wasn’t something a lot of rest couldn't handle.

While you slept she had gotten around to cleaning the house up, getting rid of any mess that had been left waiting for you both to return. Mizu now sat next to you, she watched carefully looking for any sign of consciousness as she held your hand.

By this point she knew the cut wouldn’t be lethal, but waiting for you to wake up was excruciating.

She gently brushed away some of the hairs that had gotten stuck to your face, carefully moving them out of the way as she just simply stared at you.

She was so afraid of losing you, you had been taken from right under her nose and she had no idea.

Now more than ever she never wanted to leave your side.

And she wasn’t going to, not unless she absolutely had to.

She continued to sit calmly beside you, no noise really coming from either of you either than your slow and steady breathing. Every so often she would take a peek at you, making sure that you’re still alive and okay and that you hadn’t drifted off to the other side while her eyes were closed.

By every so often, it was actually every thirty seconds.

Mizu desperately wanted to try and persuade herself into believing she wasn’t stressed out about this, telling herself you were fine and that she shouldn’t worry, but there she was, worrying. She wasn’t trying to go too far on herself, after all self pity gets you nowhere, but she felt so guilty for not getting there on time. You were the one person who accepted her in every way that she existed and she practically offered you up on a silver platter.

She gently held your hand, feeling your pulse to reassure herself as she sat there. She said not one singular word as she waited for you to wake back up.

Once you had woken up, a wave of relief washed over her. It was one thing to think she lost you via kidnapping, a whole nother to think she was going to watch you die in her arms.

Your eyes fluttered up, meeting her soft gaze as you sat up.

“Mizu?” You asked even though you knew it was clearly her. You looked around, noticing the space was entirely cleaned up. She smiled down at you, moving a bit closer as you tried to sit up. She very gently pushed you back down before saying,

“I’m glad you’re awake but you need to stay down for a bit.”

The fact that you had woken up alright was enough of a reassurance for her, knowing that you were okay.

You immediately laid back down, listening to your wife who had suffered a great deal more pain than you. You practically considered her an expert when it came to pain.

Relieved to at least no longer feel direct pain from you abdomen, you wearily smiled at her.

“Thank you, for coming for me.” You thanked her, but it only threw offMizu a bit.

“You’re my wife, that’s part of my job, to protect you.” She said, looking towards you with a new found curiosity for what else you had to say.

“But in protecting me you put yourself in severe danger.” You argued, you weren’t entirely a big fan of Mizu being so badly wounded but then again who would be.

“A risk I’m willing to take for you.” She responded plainly as if it were a fact. Maybe because it was. She was willing to take any risk for you as long as it meant you’d continue to keep loving her.

“But-“ you began, only to be cut off by the woman.

“I don’t care what excuse you want to make, I went looking for you out of my own free will, I knew the dangers that came from it and I handled them pretty well.” She explained, finally being about to persuade you.

“I would do anything for you.” She said, holding your hand so you would understand just how serious she was being. She understood but she’s be lying if she said she didn’t want to hear it again.

“Anything?” You asked.

“Anything.” She responded.

[oceansarepink]

ppl point out Blitzo literally apologized to Stolas in Ozzie's (when he shouldn't have had to) when Stolas accused him of never feeling sorry but I just noticed

that wasn't the only time

Blitzo literally says 'I'm sorry' when he says he can't go rescue Stolas from Striker because he's busy.

so that's twice he apologized and Stolas somehow forgot

and if you count non-Stolas related apologies he also apologizes very loudly and sincerely to Loona at the end of Seeing Stars.

Stolas acting like Blitzo is this prideful guy who never apologizes and it's a major flaw of his is just him rewriting reality, yet again. it comes off like he only believes it because Blitzo wouldn't cave immediately and apologize a second time for expressing how Stolas made him feel (or in Stolas' head, for refusing to believe Stolas genuinely liked him despite it being entirely Stolas' fault that Blitzo has no good reason to believe that)

honestly it really feels like the classic abuser strategy of projection where the perp accuses the victim of doing something they literally just did to their victim

the perfect moment for Stolas to apologize would have been at the end of full moon - a genuine apology, not that weaselly-words 'I'll do everything but say it's my fault for making the deal' speech he did earlier. but he doesn't and in the very next episode accuses Blitzo of being the one who is incapable of apologizing

yucky abuse dynamics asides, idk why we're expected to believe Stol1tz will last longer than five minutes when one party is comically incapable of self-reflection or sincere regret and the other party is being manipulated into apologizing just for expressing their feelings

🤕 except it’s the writer herself who keeps altering past events to make her favourite character look better. So she creates a new character flaw in Blitzø who has actually apologised more than any in the character in the show. 7 times in the series.

1. Sorry I (x) your husband - to Stella (weird but it counts)

2. In truth seekers when he vowed to be a better friend to moxxie and reminded him his value, and to use his actual name. I count that.

3. I can’t do it tonight alright, I’m sorry. - to stolas

4. Loona my sweet baby girl I’m so sorry I’ll never replace you no matter what.

5. Aw shit stolas i cant today alright I’m sorry I’m literally on my way to take Loona for her very important S.H.O.T.

6. I’m sorry Fizz. I’m so sorry you got so hurt, I’m sorry for what you’ve lost and I know I can never make that right. But You have no idea what I lost in that fire. I mean it’s all my fault, I’d hate me too. I do hate me.

7. Stolas, wait, I’m sorry. - stolas kicked him out

8. Him berating himself and verbally lifting stolas up as amazing, so that he stops crying and stops drinking. Shows remorse also. None of which stolas deserved.

Stolas has once. To via. Unless you count a polite ones in those simpering texts of his. In seeing stars via doesn’t let him because she blames herself entirely due to Loonas words. I struggle to count the “sorry it’s a bad time yet again Blitzy but I’m in a sitch” because he’s asking for something. So if you stretch, that’s maybe 3.

The sad part is Blitzø internalises all of stolas’ cruelty and insults and believes them to be true. Blitzø already has an internal voice of hate and criticism; stolas is his externalised self hatred. Because why wouldn’t he believe the prince, stolas is the one dressed so nicely, singing so nicely with pretty props, crying and surrounded by people crying with him, who all hate Blitzø, so stolas must be right.

Idc, Blitzø knew stolas was in trouble and reacted accurately. He had other things to do and Millie offered to help him. He was going to go over there. It’s weird that Viv wrote him to say “he can get hurt?” “I didnt think he was capable of-” and this was all she could come up with to make stolas all wounded and all betrayed. I’m tired of Blitzø throwing himself in the line of fire all the time. Stolas encourages his worst instincts. It’s not his job to protect stolas. But he did anyway. Even if he had saved him Viv would say “but it’s his fault striker even came back at all because reasons” I think it’s Stella’s fault actually but maybe that’s just me? He’s angrier at blitzø than Stella because he didn’t fulfil his damsel fantasy?

I think vivzie doesn’t account for fans who aren’t knee deep in stolitz Twitter, Instagram, ao3, r34, tiktok etc. Those fans have the romance in their heads the show doesn’t need to even write it. I’m guessing their dynamic will end up as Stolas replacing Loona. Blitzø allows him to abuse him because he feels guilt and sympathy, he wants there to be love between them. The relationship is based on this feeling of remorse and self hate, and pity for how lonely and hurt stolas is.

[yarrayora]

[reposting this as its own thing]

if i were to rewrite tybw arc instead of a bunch of supervillains with overwhelming powers that can easily crush the shinigami, quincies should be tight knit survivors with limited resources who learned how to be REALLY really good at ambushing shinigami in group and picking them off one by one while being unseen

it would be soooo good if ichigo learns that “winning the war” doesnt always mean a victory, especially if they actually stick to their gun about quincies being survivors of a genocide it would be great to have shinigami fearing them thinking theyre outnumbered but we shifts to uryu’s perspective and then we see that even the quincies are struggling to survive

it would make ywach so much more of a threat too, a charismatic leader who unites his people with the promise of a better future instead of leading with fear and an iron grip

also god. to have an enemy asks ichigo “you enjoy fighting us, don’t you? you goddamn monster” pinned down by ichigo and no longer fighting simply waiting for their death. buying time for the others to escape

ichigo has never fought an enemy crying fearing death but already resigned to their death

like ichigo’s theoretically aware of the quincy genocide in canon but to have to look uryu in the face and see the weight of it? thats very different

you can also have younger quincies being gungho about fighting in the war because they can finally avenge their family, the reality of war itself hasnt settled in to them, only to be defeated and have an older quincy saving them

toshiro going “why would they send an inexperienced soldier like you to war?” sneering. not realizing the truth yet

ichigo already had similar storyline with hanataro. why cant he saved a quincy realizing theyre the same age as his sister?

battling a group of quincies and then to the rest of the shinigami seemingly out of nowhere ichigo blocks their attack and the first assumption is ofc that he got mindfucked somehow but then they hear ichigo mumbles and says “what?” and ichigo shouts louder “THIS IS JUST A KID!” as if he wasn’t the same age as the quincy he saved when he risked his life to save rukia

and the shinigami wouldn’t get it, maybe if it was komamura, but the rest of them? so in the end ichigo runs while carrying the quincy kid in one arm while using his blade with another to fend off attacks and the quincy kid grips onto ichigo demanding to know why he saved them while trying so hard to sound brave

tears swelling in their eyes waiting for this to be a trick a trap and not that their enemies have compassion too

also like. ichigo saving a quincy would make his mother’s heritage even more relevant! he brings the kid back to their people and like. imagine if yhwach tells them they can trust ichigo because he is his mother’s son

the quincy kid feeling less guilty about being saved by a shinigami bc turns out the shinigami has quincy blood in him and it’s just. that’s wrong, isnt it? his blood and his heritage shouldnt paint what he is as a person! but it’s hard to say that when he sees how the quincies are living

and then yhwach tries to radicalize ichigo because he is the strongest asset to have in this war. don't you want to know your mother's family? what happened to them? what the shinigami has done to us?

this yhwach is weak. he's dying. he's old and he's mortal his body doesn't work the way it used to. and this is the man who has managed to drove soul society into the crushing state it is in now but exactly because he's weak he knows how to fight against strong monsters who never had to worry about ants on their paths

quincies are humans! even if their supernatural ability helps prolong their lives it's not like their very organic body can keep up with their age!

to make him an effective leader who unite them. i can see him not even hiding how weak he is now to the other quincies. he uses himself as a warning sign

this is your future if we dont eradicate the shinigami i don't want this future for you

he's yamamoto's foil. he's everyone's grandfather. people are blindly loyal to him because he showers them with affection and promises them a future

instead of the ridiculously OP power that makes it weird he can be defeated at all, Almighty should have a limited usage of manipulating probability and causality, making the 0,0001% chance of victory possible, but can't do anything if the chance is 0% at all

meanwhile there's ichigo's grief about his mother and conflict about where he should stand in this war and his power not caring for anyone else but him? he should save yhwach from the shinigami's attack. yhwach should feel victory is in their grasp because of that. ichigo should be consumed by his power because both the zanpakuro and the quincy blood will no longer allow their ichigo be used as anyone's pawn

and. Ishida who tries to use his antithesis power to prolong Yhwach's life just a little bit longer temporarily enduring Yhwach's pain while he boosts the quincies morale by making an appearance

and when it's just the two of them and Haschwalth, Yhwach tells Ishida to reverse their condition again, because the young is the quincy's future, and he doesn't want to shave off Ishida's life just to prolong his

[the-face-in-the-mirror]

Something that endlessly fascinates me about Seven Deadly Sins, which I am 100% applying to the rewrite, is the potential it had to make these characters truly morally grey.

Not that the twist of them being innocent of the crimes they were accused of is bad, I think it worked fairly well for what we got, but it was also a missed opportunity to have the Sins genuinely be guilty of morally deplorable actions. Not because they themselves are bad people or had harmful intentions, but because they were driven by their own flaws; not just victims of circumstance but also their own mistakes, and the journey some of them go on to repent for what they've done and overcome the guilt of things they can't undo.

Ban's was already done the best in this regard, as he's never portrayed as a strictly morally good person (at least not at the start of the series). His original intention WAS to steal the Fountain of Youth, which is exactly what he gets tried for along with murdering the saint that guards it, which he DIDN'T do. But what if he did? What if it was Ban who hurt Elaine while trying to fight the Red Demon? Ban who is cocky before he realizes he's outmatched, before he realizes that he now has someone he cares for who isn't himself no matter how little time they've spent together. And he tries to save her, tries to make it right by giving her the Fountain of Youth, but she gives it to him instead. And he can't possibly imagine how she could think he was worth more than she was when he was nothing, nothing compared to her, especially when he hurt her (it doesn't matter that he doesn't mean to, because he still did, didn't he? And how can he ever explain that to her absent brother who she'll never see again?). And the guilt never leaves, and punishing himself through countless failed executions is never enough, because it's her gift to him that keeps him alive and somehow that makes it worse.

The circumstances behind King's crime always felt like a bit of a cop-out, with him having amnesia and not remembering who he is or the responsibilities he has or the people who need him. What if it was a conscious choice to stay away? Not out of sloth, but out of love? Out of devotion for this little giant girl who's all on her own with no one to rely on, who isn't helpless but is still a little kid. "Tomorrow," he tells himself, "I'll go back tomorrow, just one more day." And he tells himself that every day, and the longer he stays with her, taking care of her, making sure she's okay (because what if he leaves and something terrible happens to her and he isn't there), the harder it is to leave her. And then he does, because he is forced to confront the reality of his absence, and he can't erase her memory like in canon, and it breaks his heart and shatters hers and Diane is left bitter and angry, because everyone leaves and she's never enough for anyone because she's weak, because she's not naturally gifted like many of her other Giant brethren, and she hates herself, hates them for it, because why should they have so much power when she doesn't? Is it not just as much her right as it is theirs?

And Meliodas? Do not even get me STARTED on that little fucker. The series had the potential to do some truly interesting things with him, but it seemed to take on a very black-and-white narrative, more or less, a lot of the time. Maybe he doesn't feel guilt about all the terrible things he's done. Some things, sure, but all of it? No. In some ways he still revels in it. He does not feel guilty for slaughtering goddesses, because his rage against them is unending and "don't you see what they did to us?" Maybe I don't want him to be a wholly good person. Maybe I want him to be a little bit fucked up. Maybe even a lot fucked up. Maybe the threat to him ISN'T reverting back to his evil self - maybe he already is a little evil in some ways. How much moral greyness can I shove into one character? Let's find out.

TLDR; Nakaba fumbled the bag on potentially making these characters morally grey and complex, so obviously I'm going to do it myself.

[straightmundodiaz]

Okay my whole theory on how Bobby is still alive and that before the leaks it was supposed to happen at the end of 8x16.

On March 28th Oliver did an IG stories Q&A where he said that the upcoming episode that he was most excited for was 16. Then on the 30th they film Bobby's funeral in the middle of downtown LA and Tim Minear later claims to be shocked that the scene leaked.

Fast forward another two days to April 1st (famously April Fool's Day) both Oliver and JLH accidentally post scripts on their IG stories. In Oliver's script the episode clearly ends with Bobby calling 911 and telling Maddie he's being buried alive. Fans were able to decipher JLH's script and discovered that it was identical, and also featured a scene of Athena, May, and Harry burying Bobby.

Going back to Oliver, he does another IG stories Q&A on April 15th (a few days before 8x15 airs) where he then claims he was lying about 8x16 being his favorite and that it was just promo.

So how does all of this tie together? I think that Tim was somehow actually legitimately surprised that the funeral scene leaked (despite filming in the middle of LA in the middle of the day) and pissed off about the script leaks. There were also crew members posting at cemeteries and we saw the tribute in the station spoiled as well.

We know that this show is insanely behind schedule, that cast members get the scripts very last minute, and that there's sometimes as little as one week between an episode being filmed and the episode airing. We also know that they had to extend filming, since they were supposed to already be wrapped up by this point. So I think that the initial plan was for 8x16 to end like the scripts had, but then once everything got leaked he decided to rewrite the final two episodes to have Bobby be confirmed alive later as an attempt to throw off everyone who had seen the leaks, only to pull back the curtain later than expected and reveal Bobby's alive.

When Oliver first claimed he was most excited for 8x16 it was right as they were starting production on 8x16, and then a couple weeks later he claims it was just a lie? I think that during those couple of weeks the scripts and storylines got completely rearranged and reworked so that the leaked scripts would no longer be applicable to 8x16. The Athena, May, and Harry burying Bobby scene was basically exactly what the scripts said, the episode just cut with half a page of script left.

[idontknowreallywhy]

Shine

This little scene arose out of a discussion with @edutainer2022 about a headcanon we share re the boys’ Mom and this lovely fic.

Fluff, with the tiniest glimmer of sad (only just because I love her but she’s no longer with them).

Featuring tiny feral toddler Scotty and a very much besotted husband 💙🤍💕

☀️☀️☀️☀️☀️☀️☀️☀️☀️☀️☀️☀️☀️☀️☀️☀️

The speaker paused, her eyes twinkling as they always did when she knew the punchline and couldn’t wait to tell it. She completed the joke to an appreciative roar of laughter, a smattering of applause and one enthusiastic whoop.

Jeff wasn’t convinced that more than 50% of the room could actually have entirely got it… niche was an understatement. She’d had to explain several recent controversies from the world of experimental astrophysics to him last night before he appreciated that that particular part of the twelfth rewrite of her speech was actually funny on three different levels… but it didn’t matter.

You didn’t have to be married to this woman to know she could read out a grocery list and carry the adoring audience along with her. There was a reason it was the keynote after all.

She’d been so nervous. Same as she was before every paper she’d presented in all the time he’d known her. She’d agonised over the content of every class she’d given, no matter how small. He’d watched her pace the floor for a fortnight, glaring at her tablet in between bouts of frantic typing and clutching at her increasingly wild hair as she growled “WHY ME?” at the ceiling.

“Because you’re brilliant and they love you.”

This had become Jeff’s habitual refrain as he multitasked to perfection - simultaneously reassuring his wife while retrieving their tiny son from the top of the bookcase, the window ledge or, on one notable occasion which thankfully she still knew nothing of - inside the fridge.

She’d huff, never believing him. And yet, as he presumed was the case every time, as soon as she started speaking she relaxed.

And she shone.

Dr Lucille Tracy hadn’t taken the guest lectureship with much thought to the actual ‘lecturing’ part of it at all. That was just the quid pro quo. The offer of a close collaboration with those at the cutting edge of her field, the unparalleled opportunity to continue her research with the help of the brightest young minds - it should have been a no-brainer.

In the ordinary circumstances of their life, however, it would have been far too much alongside the remote but demanding day job at NASA, the all-day-and-most-of-the-night job raising a toddler whirlwind and the exhausting 24/7 secret mission of growing his sibling.

Jeff melted a little more as the love of his life shifted her stance behind the lecturn and ran a hand absently over the rapidly increasing bump. Alright, so they were probably long past the covert stage of that one now… she complained she was heavy and slow but was overtly glowing with life.

Again, Jeff thanked the stars she loved so much (and which she absolutely refused to countenance having any impact on their luck whatsoever don’t be ridiculous, Jefferson) that he’d had a well-timed hiatus in missions necessitated by the development and testing of the longer range craft that would hopefully carry him on the next one. He’d taken some rather belated paternity leave and insisted she take up the offer. And here they were.

And she was good at it. Very good.

Jeff had done public speaking training both at college and for work and he knew every trick in the book. But there were things that couldn’t be taught. Some things weren’t tricks after all.

He got the respect, sometimes a little awe from the younger ones. People followed Jeff because they respected him, because he spoke persuasively and, well, because he told them to. They hung on Lucy’s every word because her natural warmth and playfulness drew them in and the fact she seemed somehow to care deeply for each of them meant they stayed. That what she said was brilliant was almost secondary. The fact they happened to be learning from the best was a by-product. People just wanted to be near her.

It was the very reason he’d walked straight past his usual table in the NASA cafeteria that day, and found himself sat amongst a group of strangers listening to her tell some story about a cat in the observatory… or possibly it was a raccoon… he forgot the details but it didn’t matter. He was caught in her orbit and hadn’t regretted it for a second.

Despite the fact this wasn’t even a lecture, only a welcoming speech and that frankly they’d listen to and love any old thing she could come up with - Lucy redrafted and redrafted right up to the last minute, searching for the perfection she felt she owed them. Jeff, more of a rock up and wing it kind of guy, was occasionally exasperated but couldn’t ever convince her it was good enough to leave well alone.

He’d finally persuaded her to grab a couple of hours sleep when Scott had scaled his patently falsely marketed ‘unclimbable toddler gate’ and leaped into bed between the two of them. The kid even wriggled in his sleep. Jeff supposed they should be thankful the tiny flailing elbow hadn’t given her a black eye for her big day.

Their son squealed and bounced excitedly in his Dada’s arms and pointed up at Mommy’s face smiling down at them from the enormous screen and then at the smaller 3D figure on the stage. Jeff knew he shouldn’t really have brought him, but both sets of grandparents had been unavailable and Lee had looked frankly terrified at the prospect of solo responsibility for preventing young ‘Steve’ from leaping off high objects. There were some things you just didn’t inflict on your wingman. He redirected the little guy’s kicking feet from the poor chap in the next seat and helped them find the ground but kept a firm grip on his shoulders

“I know, Scotty, she’s wonderful isn’t she?” He murmured. “But we have to be quiet so everyone can hear her ok?”

The little boy nodded seriously and stood, jiggling quietly between Jeff’s knees, his rapt attention on the screen, his little fists opening and closing by his sides.

Jeff had lost the thread of the speech for a moment, he already knew it so well he hadn’t really been listening to the words as much as the cadence of her voice.

Clearly everyone else had though, as a sudden swell of chattering indicated they were following her instruction to spend five minutes discussing some particular point with their neighbour. It was a cunning ploy to give her chance to take a breath, a swig of water and to check through her mostly abandoned notes to ensure she hadn’t missed anything important.

Jeff bent to help Scott retrieve the multitude of brightly coloured plastic aircraft scattered across the floor in front of them before they became a trip hazard. At least their seats at the far end of the front row meant there was plenty of room for a little chaos.

An elderly gentleman tapped him on the shoulder, a look of expectation on his face and Jeff raced to remember what the prompt had actually been about. He failed, but scrabbled to introduce himself anyway, basking a little in the spark of recognition at the surname and the fact that in this crowd it was his connection to Her that merited it, rather than the minor NASA-specific fame that was attached to anyone who’d spent serious time on Alfie.

He smiled encouragingly as his neighbour launched into an excitable tirade about gamma ray bursts and wondered how far through the five minute break they were. Maybe he should take the opportunity to sneak one of Scotty’s snacks out of the small bag stashed under his chair. As soon as there was a decent gap in this chap’s monologue he’d apologise and…

The atmosphere suddenly changed as the hundreds of conversations shifted in tone from academic to amused with a heavy smattering of “awwwww!” The garrulous gamma enthusiast stopped and looked up and Jeff seized his moment, grabbing a cereal bar with his left hand and reaching for his son with the other.

The right hand closed on air.

Oh.

Oh no.

Oh he had messed up so very, very badly.

Reluctantly lifting his eyes to the only raised object in the room he was just in time to see the curly-haired Houdini complete his speed-toddle across the huge stage and leap into the arms of his crouching Mommy, who looked up and raised a mildly exasperated eyebrow in the direction of his guilt-ridden but helpless father.

He went to stand and approach the front of stage to retrieve his wayward offspring but she shook her head ever so slightly and stood up, hefting Scott a little higher so that his little legs straddled her swollen belly and turned back to the podium.

“I’d like to introduce you all, in person, to my most devoted research assistant. Some of you may remember him from such video conferences as “the one where the laptop learned to fly”, or “the one with the high pitched screaming” and not forgetting my personal favourite “the one with the minor explosion”… say hello to the nice astrophysicists, Scotty.”

There was more laughter, applause and a few more enthusiastic whoops. One of those might have been Jeff.

Scott, who had been making a grab for the microphone looked up at the sudden cacophony and blinked rapidly in the lights. He caught sight of his Dada and waved manically and Jeff couldn’t do anything other than wave back. His wife, free hand resting on the top of the podium, caught his eye and the soft little crinkles at the corners reassured him she wasn’t at all cross and the subtle little three-finger wave in his direction told him how glad she was he was there.

Lucy lifted her gaze to the rest of the audience and cleared her throat.

“Anyway… back to pulsars.”

The captivated crowd immediately silenced as she leapt again into the detail of the research group’s recent discoveries. She showed the way, they followed.

She carried them all with her.

Filled with pride, Jeff drifted to the sound of her voice and luxuriated in the invisible warmth she radiated, strong enough to bathe every soul in the room.

***

The assembled delegates laughed again and applauded and the speaker grinned. The noise died down slowly and he waited for absolute silence, eyes twinkling in the way they always had when he knew the punchline and couldn’t wait to share it. Of course, half the audience were TI employees and knew precisely what the CEO was unveiling - many of them had been working on it for months after all. And yet there wasn’t a metaphorical buttock in the auditorium that wasn’t perched on the edge of its metaphorical seat. It was just the way of things - he showed the way, they followed.

He carried them all with him.

“Anyway… back to that little announcement I promised you.”

There were a few whoops (one might have been Jeff).

The keynote speaker looked up and caught his father’s eye, the soft little crinkles at the corners revealing how delighted he was to see him there. Scott raised three fingers from the edge of the lectern in a subtle salute before continuing.

Filled with pride, Jeff drifted to the sound of his voice and luxuriated in the invisible warmth his son radiated, strong enough to bathe every soul in the room.

And she shone.

☀️☀️☀️☀️☀️☀️☀️☀️☀️☀️☀️☀️☀️☀️☀️☀️