#Hand Wood Pipe for Smoke

[vunblr]

A Star Without a Sky (#3)

Pairing: Sheriff! Bucky Barnes x Female Reader

Warnings: 18+ only. Slight angst. Comfort. Fluff. Slow Burn. Smut.

Summary: A wounded Sheriff Barnes seeks shelter in a young widow’s home, and finds himself wrapped in a warmth he no longer believes he deserves, and longing for something he thought long buried.

Word Count: About 6.9k.

Previous Chapter - Masterlist

She slowly tied the mare to the post outside the general store, hands cold despite the wool gloves. She patted the crate of preserves at the back of the cart, then hoisted it down and walked toward the porch, as her skirts brushed dust and straw.

The bell above the door let out a lazy chime as she stepped inside. The familiar scent of old wood, pipe smoke, and dried grain greeted her like always. Mr. Bell stood behind the counter, polishing his spectacles with the hem of his vest, while Brock Rumlow leaned on the far side, thumbing through a pouch of tobacco like he had all the time in the world.

His head turned the moment she entered, and his gaze dragged over her like molasses, slow and deliberate. Stopping at her bosom, lingering there just a hair too long.

Same as always.

She chose to ignore it.

“Well now,” Rumlow drawled, curling his lips. “Was wonderin’ if the little homestead swallowed you whole. Been a stretch since you graced the town with your smile.”

She kept her tone light, and polite, but clipped. “Hi, Mr. Rumlow. Been busy.”

“Busy,” he echoed, the word was slow on his tongue like he meant to chew it. “Takin’ care of your land all on your lonesome? That must get… exhausting.”

Mr. Bell cleared his throat pointedly. “Brock,” he warned him without looking up from the ledger.

She set the crate on the counter with a soft thump. “Three of the plums, four of the pears.”

“Appreciate it, Miss L/n,” Bell said, moving to check the jars. “Been running low. Folks keep askin’ for your pear preserves.”

“Might bring more next week if the weather holds,” she answered, feeling Rumlow’s eyes on her like heat off a pan.

Bell gave her a kind smile. “Glad to hear it. Figured you were due for a trip, truth be told. Just didn’t expect you to roll in with the sheriff.”

Her mouth went dry for a heartbeat. She adjusted the strap of her satchel. “Found him on the road, near the ridge. He said he was walkin’ back from some job. He looked like hell warmed over, if I’m honest. Thought I’d give him a ride.”

“Kind of you,” Bell nodded.

Rumlow snorted under his breath, stuffing the tobacco into his coat pocket.

She didn’t look at him, but still, he talked anyway. “Didn’t know he was the ridin’ sort. Looks more the skulkin’ kind to me.”

Bell frowned. “Don’t start, Brock.”

Rumlow raised both hands in mock surrender. “Hey now, I ain’t sayin’ nothin’. Just thinkin’ it’s curious, is all. You keep to yourself, Miss L/n… and suddenly you’re givin’ rides to the sheriff, bringin’ him into town lookin’ like he’s fresh off the gallows.”

Her jaw worked. “I didn’t bring him in. He was already headin’ here.”

Rumlow’s grin didn’t falter, but his eyes lost all pretense of warmth. “Maybe you ought to think twice ‘bout bein’ seen with the likes of him. Even if he is wearin’ a star now.”

She stilled in the motion of adjusting her shawl. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

He leaned an elbow on the counter, grazing his belt with his thumb. “Rode with some fellas, types that don’t get invited to Sunday supper. Vigilante crew, some say. Kept killin’ long enough someone finally handed him a badge and said go ahead, make it legal.”

She turned, slowly and deliberately, resting her hands on the crate of preserves she was arranging. “Didn’t know the law required saints now. And no offense, Mr. Rumlow, but you’re not exactly a cherub yourself, and here we are, talkin’ like always.”

His expression twisted, not quite a scowl, not quite a smile. “Least I know who my folks were.”

Her breath hitched.

He leaned in, and his voice dropped a note, all honey and venom. “Ain’t no secret Barnes is a bastard. Left behind, orphanage-raised. And you know what kind of temper grows in a man made from nothin’.”

For a beat, the store was silent but for the creak of the settling wood. Bell busied himself in the back, pretending not to listen.

She straightened her back.

“I’ve known men with fathers who were monsters,” she said. “And I’ve known bastards who’d give their coat off their back to a stranger. So unless you’re holding something real in your hand, I’d think twice about spreadin’ dirt just to feel taller.”

Rumlow studied her, and his lip twitched a bit like he hadn’t expected her to bite back.

“Just tryin’ to help a lady keep her name clean,” he said, mock-gentle.

She stared him down. “My name’s clean, Mr. Rumlow. And I’m not the one slingin’ mud.”

He stepped away with a low chuckle, tapping his tobacco pouch with his thumb. “Suit yourself.”

When the door closed behind him, Mr. Bell cleared his throat from behind the shelf. “He thinks Banker Pierce’s coin makes him untouchable.” He muttered.

She didn’t answer. Just picked up the last jar and set it on the shelf behind the counter.

But Rumlow’s words swirled in the air like woodsmoke. For how easily men like him wielded rumor like a blade.

He’d called Bucky a bastard like it was a curse. Like it meant he was made wrong.

She pulled her shawl tighter as she stepped back into the morning light.

He didn’t know a thing.

----

The sheriff’s office smelled like old coffee, dust, and iron oil. The usual. Bucky stepped through the doorway with a stiff roll of his shoulders, his coat still damp at the hem from the morning frost.

Sam looked up from behind the desk, as usual, with a sandwich halfway to his mouth. He blinked once.

“Well,” he drawled, chewing slowly, “look what the cat dragged back in.”

Bucky didn’t smile. Just set the rifle gently against the wall and pulled off his gloves, one finger at a time, like he had all the time in the world and no interest in small talk. “Mornin’.”

“You smell like pears and pine,” Sam added, leaning back in his chair with a lazy sprawl. “What’d she do, bathe you in preserves?”

“Don’t,” Bucky said quietly.

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You were gonna.”

“I wasn’t.”

“You were.”

Sam sighed exaggeratedly and stood to unlock the armory with a key. “A week holed up with a lonely widow out in the hills, gettin’ fed and patched up? Some folks got all the luck.”

Bucky shot him a look. Slow, flat, and unimpressed. The kind that emptied rooms and quieted fools.

“I said drop it.”

Sam’s grin just widened. “Oh, I’m just gettin’ started.”

“You really missed me, huh?”

“Don’t flatter yourself. Jail’s been real quiet without you brooding in every corner like a cursed statue.”

Bucky finally cracked the ghost of a smile, rubbing a hand through his wind-tangled hair. “Good to be back.”

Sam leaned on the doorframe of the armory with his arms folded. “So, about your ladyfriend-”

Bucky turned.

Slow. Sharp.

“Sam.”

That was the third time.

The deputy lifted both hands in surrender, with the grin still perched on his face but softer now. “Alright, alright.” He let the words hang just long enough to keep Bucky’s pulse on edge. Then- “Just figured you should know. Your buddy Rumlow’s been sniffin’ around her skirts since the minute she put on the black.”

Bucky froze. Took one breath. Then another.

Sam didn’t push, just sat into the desk chair again, elbows on his knees, “Walker told me. Word’s been floatin’ around since before either of us showed up. Banker’s lapdog’s got a habit, and her porch light’s been on too long for him to ignore.”

Bucky’s jaw ticked. His gaze dropped to the floor, then to the rifle by the door. One hand flexed.

Sam leaned back further, crossing his arms loosely. “Funny thing is… every man who tried callin’ on her after the mourning period ended, far as I’ve heard? Well. They either backed off real quiet or had themselves a little misfortune.”

Bucky’s eyes flicked up, sharp and dark.

Sam nodded once, slowly. “Tripped horse. Busted hand. One fella’s barn mysteriously burned halfway to ash. Nothin’ anyone could pin. Just… bad luck. It ain’t a secret Rumlow don’t like to share what he thinks is his,” Sam finished. “Seems like the only person who hasn’t noticed is her.”

Bucky’s hand curled tighter. He didn’t ask for details. Didn’t need them.

His jaw ticked, and his gaze dropped to the floor for a beat. When he looked up, there was something colder behind his eyes. “You tellin’ me this for a reason?”

“I’m tellin’ you,” Sam said, no grin this time, “because things in this town’ve been cookin’ a long while. You just stepped into the kitchen.”

Bucky didn’t answer.

Didn’t have to.

The silence between them was heavy with meaning. The way his shoulders tensed, the slow clench of his jaw, and how his fingers hovered, just a second too long, over the rifle’s stock.

Sam watched him, then let out a low breath and pushed off his knees. “Yeah,” he muttered, brushing crumbs off his vest. “Figured you’d take it that way.”

Then he stood, brushing crumbs from his vest, and walked back toward the little back room without another word.

----

The bakery door creaked softly as she stepped inside, and the warmth of the oven was certainly appreciated by her chilled cheeks. The air was thick with cinnamon, butter, and rising dough, comforting.

Mrs. Marshall looked up from behind the counter, with her hands dusted in flour. “Mornin’, dear! I saw your cart earlier. You brought the preserves?”

“Sure did. Plums and pears this time.” She managed a smile, tucking a windblown curl behind her ear.

She barely had time to step forward when someone turned from the display near the window.

“Why, if it ain’t the lady of the orchard herself, what a coincidence,” came Rumlow’s voice, syrupy sweet and dressed in charm.

He held a small paper box of tarts in one hand, the other resting loose at his hip. No spurs now. No hat. Just that too-smooth smile and a casual lean against the counter.

“Mr. Rumlow,” she said with polite reserve, gripping the crate tighter in her arms.

He glanced at her, slowly and deliberately, then looked back to the tarts like they required deep thought. “Hope I didn’t come off too sharp earlier. Just tryin’ to look out for folks, is all. Rough place, this town. Rougher men in it.”

She blinked, caught off guard. He sounded sincere, contrite, even. No trace of the earlier sneer. Not a hint of lechery. Just concern, well-practiced and polished, clean.

“Didn’t mean to give offense,” he added, glancing up through thick lashes. “I’d hate to think I made you feel uncomfortable. Wasn’t my intent.”

The baker moved behind them, sliding loaves into the oven.

“I appreciate that,” she said after a beat, softening a little. “It’s easy to speak without thinkin’. We’ve all done it.”

He nodded slowly, tucking the pastry box under one arm. “You’re gracious. That’s a rare thing these days.”

His voice carried the right amount of warmth, and deference. It felt measured, not too eager, not too slick. The kind of tone a man used when he wanted to be trusted.

Still… something didn’t sit right. It wasn’t just about the way his eyes had lingered on her body in the general store. It was a wrongness she couldn’t name. But she smiled politely, thanked Mrs. Marshall, and turned toward the door.

Rumlow was already there, stepping ahead to hold it open.

“Let me,” he said, almost gallantly, the gentleman act slipping on like an old coat. “Least I can do.”

She hesitated, but walked through, nodding once as she passed.

“Actually,” he said once they were outside, “I was wonderin’... Would you let me make up for my tone earlier?” His gaze flicked sidelong, all soft lines. “There’s roast at the hotel restaurant today. Real nice. You let me buy you a plate, and share a civil conversation. Just neighbors, makin’ peace.”

She stopped on the sidewalk, lifting her chin just a notch, the crate against her hip.

He didn’t push. Just waited, still smiling. Still polite.

She stood there a beat too long.

The cold nipped at her shawl, and her hands pressed harder on the handle of the crate. Rumlow’s eyes didn’t press, but they didn’t look away either. Waiting. Open.

Maybe she was too quick to paint everyone with suspicion.

After all, he’d apologized. Earnestly. And while the way he’d spoken about Bucky earlier had crawled beneath her skin, wasn’t it, sadly, the sort of thing most decent folk thought? Especially with a man whose past came tangled in blood and bounty?

He had been trying to look out for her. In his own rough, clumsy way.

And maybe it wouldn’t hurt, just once, to indulge that peace offering. Squash whatever awkwardness might fester between them. Ensure she wouldn’t find herself whispered about in the corners of the general store or glared at by the banker's men.

You and the gunman got bad blood now? That’s not wise.

She adjusted her shawl and shifted the crate to her other hip. “Alright,” she said lightly, like she hadn’t just talked herself down from a dozen misgivings. “Lunch, then. Neighbors making peace. Let me leave the crate in the cart.”

He smiled widely, wider than she would have liked, though she told herself that was just his normal expression.

“Glad to hear it,” he said, offering his arm.

She didn’t take it.

Just walked beside him, with her back straight. Letting herself believe that maybe, she’d imagined that little flicker in his eyes.

----

Just across the road, down the mouth of an alley, the edge of a dark coat shifted with the wind.

Sheriff Barnes watched from a shadowed corner, with crossed arms, an unreadable face under the brim of his hat. A flicker of movement, a flash of her shawl as she walked beside Rumlow.

His jaw clenched once. Hard.

But he didn’t move. Didn’t follow.

Just watched them disappear into the warm light of the hotel’s front door.

Then turned, slow and silent, and walked the other way.

----

The hotel’s restaurant was quiet at midday, just a few men nursing coffee or waiting for stew. Rumlow waved off the waiter like he owned the place and guided her to a corner table with a hand lightly at her back, too lightly to protest, too familiar to ignore.

She sat across from him, smoothing the napkin across her lap, fussing her fingers with the edge of her spoon.

Rumlow ordered for them both without asking. “Beef’s decent today,” he said, flashing a smile full of teeth. “And I remember you don’t eat pepper bells.”

She blinked. “That’s… thoughtful.”

“Just observant,” he said, leaning back on the chair. “Always tryin’ to be of service. Like I always tell you on Sundays, if you ever need anything out there on your land, being alone and all… just send word.”

He smiled again, broader this time. His eyes didn’t leave her face.

She gave a soft, noncommittal hum, reaching for the glass of water. “I appreciate the sentiment, truly. And if I find myself in a bind… I’ll ask.” A pause. “I do have neighbors. And folks in town have been decent enough.”

“Sure,” he said, tapping the table with one finger. “But not everyone’ll come runnin’ without askin’ questions.”

She managed a polite smile, but the way he said it turned in her stomach. She kept sipping the water, cool against her tongue.

It wasn’t that he said anything wrong, exactly. But the idea of sending for Rumlow, having him alone at her property, with no one else around...

It didn’t feel right. Not like it had with Bucky.

Bucky had been half-dead, bleeding out, but somehow, even when he was better, she hadn’t felt unsafe. Never once worried what he might do, even when she’d undressed him, fed him, tended his wounds.

She forced her thoughts back to Rumlow, nodded once more. “That’s generous of you. I’ll keep it in mind.”

After all, Alexander Pierce was a respected man. A generous pillar of the community. He wouldn’t keep untrustworthy men around.

Right?

Still… her hands remained folded neatly in her lap. And she didn’t finish the stew.

----

An uneventful week came and went until one morning, when the sun had barely cleared the eastern ridge, she reached the edge of the orchard and stopped cold.

Ten trees. Maybe more. Splintered stumps jutting from the ground like broken teeth. Pears crushed into the dirt, sticky and swarming with flies already.

She dropped her basket without realizing it.

She hadn’t heard a thing. Not a damn thing. No dogs barking, not the trees falling in the dark. But someone had been here. Someone had taken an axe to her land like it meant nothing. And done it close enough to her house.

Her trees. Years of work reduced to kindling. She clenched her fists.

She should’ve gone to the neighbors. Asked if one of their men saw something. But her mind snapped instead to a voice quieter than most, one that still echoed in her ears some nights.

If you ever find yourself in trouble... even if it seems foolish... come to me.

So she hitched the mare to the cart, fast and sloppily, threw her coat over her dress, and did a quick braid on her hair. She rode hard toward town, the wind biting her cheeks, dust and snow kicking up under the wheels. The orchard flashed behind her eyes with every jolt of the road.

By the time she reached the main street, the town had already stirred to life, doors propped open, smoke curling from chimneys, folks tipping hats in greeting. She didn’t slow down.

She pulled up hard in front of the sheriff’s office, and her boots hit the ground before the cart had even settled. The door creaked as she stepped inside.

Sam was behind the desk, polishing the handle of a shotgun with a rag over his knee. He looked up, blinking once.

“Morning, Ma’am,” he said. “You alright?”

Her chest rose and fell with uneven breaths. “Where’s the sheriff?”

Sam set the shotgun down slowly. “Ain’t here. Went to check somethin’. Why?”

She stepped forward. “Someone’s been on my land. Cut down half my pear trees. Fruit ruined.”

Sam stood now. The chair scraped back against the floor. “When?”

“Last night,” she said. “I didn’t hear a thing.”

He grabbed his hat from the peg behind him and motioned toward the bench along the wall. “Sit a spell. Let me ask you a few things. Bucky’s out workin’ a lead, but he’ll be back soon. Might help to have the details ready for him.”

She nodded and sat, folding her hands tightly in her lap. The office smelled like tobacco and oil, and the clock on the wall ticked too loudly in the quiet space.

Sam settled back behind the desk, already reaching for paper and pencil. “Now… you said trees were cut. You see tracks? Anything else disturbed? Tools left behind?”

She shook her head. “Nothing I could see. Just trunks, clean cut. Fruit all over the ground like someone went outta their way to ruin it.”

He hummed, jotting notes. “Any trouble with neighbors? Workers? Someone pass by lately that didn’t sit right?”

She hesitated. “No. Nothing like that. It’s been quiet.”

Sam gave a thoughtful nod. “Ain’t the kind of damage you do unless you’re lookin’ to send a message.” He tapped the pencil once on the desk. “Don’t worry, ma’am. We’ll get to the bottom of it.”

She offered a tight smile, but her insides were churning.

The longer she sat, the more the walls pressed in. The louder the clock ticked than it had any right to, and the lamplight made the air feel thick. Her mouth had gone dry, but her palms were damp in her skirt.

Sam noticed. “You alright?”

“I’m fine,” she said quickly, then stood. “I think… I should go. Need to get back. If the sheriff -or you- come by later, just knock.”

“You sure you don’t wanna wait a little longer?” Sam asked, standing too, “He might be back any minute.”

She shook her head. “I’m just tired. I’d rather be home. Thank you, deputy.”

He gave a polite tip of his head, watching her go with a thoughtful frown as she stepped out into the sunlight.

The town was louder now with creaking wagons and raising voices. She moved down the steps, trying to clear her head, focusing on each step.

Then, a smooth and too familiar voice startled her.

“Well, now. Didn’t expect to see you in town this early.”

She looked up.

Rumlow.

He was standing near the water trough, with his arms folded, chewing something leisurely. His eyes flicked over her -lingering too long, as always- before returning to her face.

“You alright?” he asked, all concerned, all charm. “You look rattled.”

She froze for half a second before forcing her shoulders back, smoothing her skirt. “Just had a bit of trouble at home,” she said, cautiously but politely.

“That so?” he said, stepping closer, narrowing his gaze just slightly. “You know, if you ever need help out there…”

She offered a tight smile. “That’s kind of you, really. I’ll ask if I ever need anything.”

But she wouldn’t. Not from him.

Still, she told herself not to overthink. He was just being nice. Maybe a little crude sometimes, but it wasn’t rare in those lands. Maybe he just didn’t know how to talk to women like normal folk. So she said thank you, gave a small nod, and stepped around him, her heart ticking a little faster as she went.

Because no matter how calm his voice was, or how polished the apology, something about Brock Rumlow had always made her skin crawl.

And today, that feeling was worse.

----

She hadn’t meant to fall asleep.

The fire had burned low, casting soft golden fingers across the floorboards. The weight of the day, the trees, the ride, the faces in town, it all felt heavy across her shoulders, and when she sat on the old chair near the stove, just to rest her eyes… her body had decided for her.

She woke with a small jolt.

The fire was dimmer now. The room, colder. Outside, beyond the window, snow was falling in slow spirals, coating the ground. It took her a moment to place the faint sound she’d heard beneath the rustle of wind.

Knocking.

Not frantic, but insistent. Three times.

She sat up, with her heart climbing slowly into her throat, with one hand still tangled in the folds of the blanket.

It could be Bucky or Sam, or-

Another knock. Louder now. More forceful.

She rose slowly and turned slightly, squinting toward the window near the door. She couldn’t see much past the snow, but a tall figure stood on the porch, low hat, black coat pressed flat to a solid frame. Her pulse kicked up.

Then she heard his voice, low and unmistakable, behind the door.

“It’s me.”

----

She motioned him inside. He looked windblown and a little agitated, like he’d galloped the whole way and hadn’t let himself breathe since. The snow clung to his coat hem and melted in his hair, dampening the ends that curled against the collar of his long coat. His eyes were unreadable.

“Your horse-” she started.

“Took the liberty,” he cut in, his voice was low, rough from cold and something more. “To put him in the stable with the mare.”

She nodded, stepping back so he could pass fully inside. The door clicked shut behind him, sealing them in the warmth of the house. He stood awkwardly near the threshold, like he didn’t know what to do with himself now that he was here.

“Sam filled me in,” he said after a pause. “Before coming, I spoke with the closest neighbor. Just makin’ the rounds. Gotta ask a few questions myself, in case anything got missed.”

She gestured toward the sitting room. “Well, come on then. No use freezin’ in the entry.”

He slowly followed her in, removing his hat, pressing his fingers at the brim. The fire snapped softly in the hearth. She’d tucked the blanket tighter around her shoulders, motioning for him to sit. He did, stiff-backed, resting his hands on his thighs, eyes on the fire instead of her.

She studied him for a moment. He looked guarded. More than usual. Not just tired or worn down, but distant, like he’d put something between them and couldn’t find the words to move it.

“Something wrong?” she asked quietly.

“No,” he said too quickly. “Just doin’ my job.”

Except he wasn’t. Or he was, but this wasn’t the man who’d laid half-dead in her bed. Not like the one who’d eaten preserves with careful hands and watched her when he thought she wouldn’t notice.

This version of him was tense and cold. Polite, but brittle.

She tried not to let it show. “You said you had questions,” she offered softly.

He nodded, like he had to remind himself why he was here. “Right.”

And then came the usual list: had she seen anything, heard anything, remembered anything new? She gave the same answers she’d given Sam, almost word for word.

Until he shifted in his chair. Cleared his throat. Didn’t meet her eye.

“Has anyone new been here the last few days? Spent time with you in town?”

She blinked. “New? No. You were the last new person here. Before you…” She shrugged. “Just the neighbors. Their wives.”

He swallowed hard, flexing his jaw. “Let me rephrase,” he said, and something in his tone turned pointed. “You spend time with anyone lately? Had a conversation that got… close? Maybe a disagreement? Some kind of confidence?”

Her brow furrowed. “Not that I recall.”

He exhaled sharply, and sat back like he didn’t believe her, or didn’t want to. “This won’t work if you play coy.”

The room went still. The crackle of the fire filled the gap he left.

She stared at him, clutching the blanket in her lap, as something cold crawled beneath her skin that had nothing to do with the snow outside.

“I’m not playin’ anything, Sheriff,” she said firmly. “And if you think I am, maybe you should try askin’ plainer.”

He raked a hand through his damp hair, his face shadowed in firelight. “I didn’t mean it like-”

“No?” she cut in. “Because it’s starting to sound like you did.”

A beat passed by.

“Sorry,” he said, dropping his gaze. “I shouldn’t’ve said it like that.”

She let out a breath through her nose. Nodded once.

He hated this. Hated that his chest felt tight over something he had no business feeling.

He didn’t tell her that seeing her step into the hotel with Rumlow, with his hand hovering too close to her waist, had lit something ugly in his chest. That made him feel stupid, boyish. Like a stray dog sniffing around a place he didn’t belong.

It wasn’t jealousy. He didn’t have that right. Hell, they weren’t anything. She’d helped him. Cared for him. He’d held onto that feeling too long, long enough to let his thoughts wander where they shouldn’t.

But damn it, something in him had imprinted on her. And now here he was. Snapping at her like she’d betrayed something between them, like she’d wounded a bond they’d never named.

It wasn’t fair. Not to her.

It wasn’t even like he had a clean slate to stand on. He was a man with a past soaked in ash and blood. A man most decent folk crossed the street to avoid, badge or not.

He scrubbed a hand down his face. The stubble rasped against his palm.

“I just think you’re leavin’ something out,” he said, the words coming out too rough, too flat.

She looked at him like he’d just insulted her straight to her face. “Well, think again. Because-”

“I saw you,” he said. The breath in his chest caught halfway through, but he forced it out anyway. “The day you dropped me off.”

That made her blink. “I went to the general store. Then the bakery-”

“The hotel,” he cut, and that stopped her cold.

Something shifted behind her eyes, confusion, maybe. But that didn’t matter. Not to the part of him that had ridden out here with this iron weight pressing deep in his chest. The part that saw her walking past those swinging doors with Rumlow on her heels like a man walking where he was welcome. Too welcome.

She stared at him, the corner of her mouth twitched, maybe with realization, maybe with anger. “I had lunch,” she said, incredulous. “At the restaurant.”

He didn’t answer. Didn’t blink.

She scoffed, a breath of disbelief. “Jesus. Is that what this is? You think-?”

“I don’t think anything,” he said stiffly, gaze burning into the dark of the fire instead of her face. “It’s not my business what you do, or who you see.”

Except it was. Except his guts had twisted since Sam mentioned Rumlow’s name. Since he’d watched that hotel door open and seen her coming in with a small smile. Like they were gonna-

His jaw worked, tight.

“Unless it has something to do with your land being torn up,” he added, quieter now. “Unless it puts you in danger.”

But that wasn’t why it haunted him. Not really.

He hated that the thought even crossed his mind.

And most of all, he hated that he’d ridden all this way, with a badge and a reason, and still couldn’t look her in the eye.

She didn’t move for a moment.

Just sit there until she finally looked up. “So that’s what you think of me.”

Bucky’s jaw twitched. “I didn’t say-”

“No, you didn’t. You didn’t say it. You just asked around it, circled it, hoped I’d fill in the blanks for you.” Her voice was calm, but it cut straight through the dim room like a knife.

She crossed her arms, not defensively, more like she was holding herself together. “You think I’d do that. After what we- after the way we sat under the same roof, broke bread, shared the quiet without needing to fill it? You think I’d let a man like that in my bed just because he looked my way?”

He winced; the soft tone she used did more to shake him than if she’d raised her voice.

“I don’t know what I thought,” he muttered, dragging a hand down his face. “I just… saw you with him. Walkin’ into that place. And my head ran with it.”

“I went for roast,” she said plainly. “I sat across a table and let a man I don’t like tell me I should be grateful he looks out for me, like he owns the right. And I smiled through it because sometimes that’s easier than making an enemy in a town too small to disappear in.”

She took a breath. “If you wanted to know, you could’ve asked. You didn’t need to look at me like I’d proved something ugly.”

His throat worked around a word he couldn’t get out. His hand flexed once at his side like he wanted to reach for something but didn’t know what. He looked down.

“I’m sorry.” It came rough.

She didn’t speak.

He forced himself to meet her eyes, even if it made something twist in his gut. “I ain’t good at this.”

Still nothing from her, but she wasn’t walking away. That was something.

“I saw you with him, and I knew what it looked like, but I also knew it didn’t mean what my head started sayin’ it did. But I let it talk anyway. I ain’t used to bein’ in the company of decent folk, ma’am,” he added, reverting without meaning to, the word slipping out like armor. “I should’ve known better.”

Her stance relaxed a little, just enough to notice.

“Damn right you should’ve,” she said.

Well, it wasn’t cold. Not quite.

And it wasn’t a door shutting in his face.

Bucky sat there, with his hat hanging in his hand, rubbing his thumb slowly over the brim. He looked like he’d rather be anywhere else than under her gaze, but he stood his ground all the same.

“I’m sorry,” he said again, voice quieter this time. “I was wrong to think it. Or to speak it. Either.”

Her arms folded tighter across her chest.

“I know what that sounded like,” he said, trying again. “And I’d take it back if I could. You… didn’t deserve that. You deserved better than me makin’ you feel low in your own home, after all you’ve done.”

He paused, looked down again. He shook his head, like the words failed him.

She didn’t speak for a long moment, studying him, how his fingers twitched around the hat brim, how his boots didn’t quite plant firmly on the floor like they usually did. He wasn’t looking at her now, with his gaze fixed on the corner of the room like it might forgive him if she didn’t.

“You always call me by my name,” she said finally. “Except just now.”

His jaw flexed, and his mouth worked once before answering. “Didn’t figure I’d earned it anymore.”

The quiet stretched again.

Then came the smallest exhale. Not quite a sigh, not quite a laugh.

“Sheriff,” she said dryly, “you have the backbone to drag a half-dead body into law and stare down a gun barrel, but the moment a woman looks disappointed in you, you start unravelin’ like a spool.”

That got his eyes to lift, just barely.

“And I’m not sayin’ I’m ready to be all smiles and pie,” she added, softer now. “But I can see when a man’s trying.”

He swallowed. Gave a small nod.

She got up and reached for the kettle without looking at him. “Might as well stay a bit. Snow’s still fallin’.”

And that -more than anything- was her way of saying he was forgiven.

She smoothed the skirt of her dress with one hand, though it didn’t need smoothing. Her voice was calmer now, even, but not cold.

“Answerin’ your question… I didn’t have an altercation with anyone.”

His eyes slowly lifted to her at that.

She met his gaze without flinching. “Mr. Rumlow invited me to have lunch. Said it was a way to make amends for somethin’ he’d said earlier. A misspoke, that’s all.”

Her tone wasn’t defensive, but measured. Like she was offering him the facts and not asking for approval.

“And before you ask-” she added, tilting her head slightly, “it was nothin’ that matters to the issue at hand.”

He was quiet. Too quiet.

Then, low: “Without due respect, I’ll decide if it’s not important.”

His thumb rubbed slowly along the edge of his belt. “What did he say, that needed apologizin’ for?”

There was no heat in the question, but something in his posture had stiffened, and his gaze pressed on her. Heavy. Blue and unreadable.

She sighed, slightly curling her fingers around the fold of her skirt.

“He said… I oughta be careful who I’m seen with.” Her lips pressed into a line. “Then went on about your past. What you used to do before you came here.”

A flicker of reaction passed through his body -barely there- but she saw it. A twitch in the jaw, the faintest crease between his brows. Still, he didn’t speak.

“I told him I didn’t see how that was any of his business,” she added quietly. “He backed off. Seemed sorry. And I figured… I dunno. Maybe he was tryin’ to look out for me in his own way.”

He nodded once, slowly and shallow, and leaned forward, elbows on his knees, rubbing a hand over his mouth.

Something about his silence didn’t feel like judgment.

It felt like shame.

He needed to get a hold of himself. Do his damn job.

But he wasn’t made of stone.

He leaned back slightly, fixing his eyes somewhere near the wood grain on the floorboards, working his jaw like he was grinding down a thought that wouldn’t settle.

Rumlow and he had been oil and water from the start. The second he stepped foot in that town wearing the badge, Rumlow had made it clear he didn’t much care for new dogs sniffin’ around old territory. Tried to undermine him from the first week, worded suggestions like they were orders, challenged decisions with a smile too thin to be friendly.

The man was used to a softer sheriff, someone who knew how to look the other way when Pierce’s interests didn’t align with the law.

And Bucky… didn’t look away.

It had come to a head not long after he took the post, in the middle of Main Street, hands twitching toward pistols. Townsfolk froze in their tracks. No bullets flew that day, but it was a close thing. Banker Pierce had stepped in, of course. Smoothed it over with the mayor, all shaking hands and backroom talks, calling for a “more amicable coexistence between two capable and trustworthy men.” That’s what he’d said.

He never forgot the wording. Nor the way Rumlow smiled afterward, all teeth and threat. They hadn’t traded words since unless it was required, but that cold simmer never left. And now…

Now that son of a bitch had gone and put his name in her mouth. Dug up pieces of his past and handed them to her like stones, waiting to see if she’d throw them back at him.

He swallowed slowly and tightly.

“And you suppose he told you all that just to be helpful,” Bucky said, tone clipped. “Lookin’ out for you.”

Her lips pressed into a line. “That’s what he claimed.”

Bucky’s hand flexed once on his thigh.

“Alright,” he said after a beat. “Did he say anything else to you that might be… meaningful?”

She shrugged, like she hadn’t thought twice about it. “Sincerely, no. It’s the same speech over and over about me being alone.”

That caught his attention. Subtle, but sharp.

He straightened slightly. “And what speech is that?”

She turned to remove the kettle from the heat. “Oh, you know. That I oughta ask for help if I need it. That I can count on him for anything.” She paused, poured water into the mugs. “He always says it like he’s doin’ me a kindness.”

Bucky narrowed his gaze. The warmth from the fire didn’t reach the knot forming low in his gut. “You say ‘same speech.’ Does he bring it up often? That you’re alone. That you- need a man around.”

She furrowed her brow, like she hadn’t thought of it that way before. “I mean... yeah, I guess he does. Just figures it’s odd I’m still by myself out here.”

“Hmm.”

Just a sound. Nothing else.

But behind his eyes, the gears turned. Slow. Steady. Ugly.

The day she brought him to town, Rumlow saw them together. Saw her at his side, blanket on their laps. Not even two hours later, the man had cornered her with a mouth full of sugar and tried to tear Bucky’s name to pieces. Then offered himself up instead. Big-hearted. Concerned. Eager to step in.

If that was something he did often, subtle, polite, persistent… and if Sam’s warning was true… other men had tried before. Men who'd backed off too fast. Or had little accidents. Coincidence, maybe. But now?

Now, it was starting to look like something else.

Because maybe Rumlow wasn’t just tryin’ to win her favor.

Maybe now he was trying to scare her into his arms.

The thought curled like smoke in the corners of Bucky’s mind, foul and slow. He didn’t let it show, just kept his eyes on her face, his voice quiet.

“And… have you ever taken him up on it?” he asked. “Relied on him? Brought him out here?”

She turned halfway, with the kettle still in her hand, furrowing her brow as if the question caught her off guard.

“Oh, no,” she said, shaking her head with a little laugh. “No, I never have. I mean… I can’t name it, and maybe it is silly, but I don’t-” her fingers pressed a little harder around the kettle’s handle, “there’s something about him that rubs me the wrong way.”

Bucky watched her carefully and didn’t interrupt.

“It’s not that he’s done anything wrong,” she added, like she was trying to be fair even to her discomfort. “On the contrary, he’s polite. Apologetic. Always offers help.” She exhaled, looking at the wall like it might explain what she couldn’t. “But he makes me uncomfortable.”

He nodded once, slowly. Said nothing at first, just stared into the fire like he was measuring its heat.

But inside him, a match had been struck.

Because she had no idea how well her instincts were working. How lucky, maybe, that she hadn’t needed help yet. That she hadn’t given that vulture an inch to take.

He cleared his throat and looked at her again, voice rougher than before. “Trust your gut.”

She blinked. “What?”

“If he makes you feel that way. Don’t second-guess it.” His gaze met hers, firmer now. “Ain’t silly.”

She held his stare for a breath, slightly softening her posture. “…Alright,” she murmured. Then, quieter, “Thank you.”

And he gave her the smallest nod in return.

But inside?

He was already thinking about how fast a man could lose a hand for reaching too far.

Next Chapter

Taglist: @civilbucky @pandaxnienke @whitewolfluvr @webbedwonders @ddrewcameron @globetrotter28 @homiesexual-or-homosexual @maryevm @nojudgmentjustsupport @jaderabbitt @hi172826 @littlesuniee @lonelyghosts-stuff @vxllys @mrsalexstan @winter107soldier @muchwita @gentlelimerence @gotminho @alaskaloveposts @oldernotwiser26 @daylighthazzz @dollface-xoxo @danzer8705 @ana27qz @carrotlove @valyriantarg @mgchaser @kittieboo @buckysbbydoll @purplefluffycows @yes-ilovetowrite @greatenthusiasttidalwave @technicallytinyheart @y0urgrl @wintrsoldrluvr @neyr100

[karvokr]

unscripted

it was all for show– until it wasn’t. now the lines are blurred, the feelings are real, and no one remembers who’s cast in what role.

pairings: actor!gojo x actress!reader x actor!geto content warnings: mdni, smut and angst, unprotected piv sex, fingering, oral (m and f receiving), infidelity/cheating themes, love triangle, fake dating/pr relationship, secret relationship, they did NOT rehearse their lines << episode five • series masterlist

S1, E6: final cut

The day it leaks, you’re at your apartment two weeks before the Oscars. Not in the middle of an interview, not in the middle of a fight, not even on set. Just sitting there, phone buzzing against the coffee table like it’s having a seizure. One missed call. Then another. A load of texts in your friends’ groupchat– nothing helpful.

Shoko [3:05pm]: you seeing this??? Shoko [3:05pm]: what the fuck happened Utahime [3:05pm]: PLEASE tell me that isn’t satoru’s jacket. am i hallucinating?? Yuki [3:06pm]: tell me these are old pics. 

You don’t open the links. You don’t have to. 

You feel like you’re choking on your own reflection. It’s not even nine a.m. when the masterthread drops– anonymous, unsourced, terrifyingly thorough. A 40-part Twitter compilation of every interaction you’ve ever had with Satoru that looked just a little too familiar. Every red carpet glance. Every behind-the-scenes clip. Every paparazzi photo where your body language leaned a fraction too close, where his hand lingered a second too long.

The worst ones never come with captions. Just headlines. Screencaps. Zoomed-in candids from hotel lobbies and parking garages and that one godforsaken restaurant in Manhattan he took you to last week that you knew the tables were too close to the windows.

The thread spreads like wildfire. By noon, it has its own hashtag. You scroll through the comments even though you shouldn’t.

@/popculturecryptid: wait. WAIT. isn’t that the hoodie Satoru wore in Brazil??? why is she wearing it in LA like 3 weeks later @/chaoticneutralfem: that’s also his chain. i only say this bc i zoomed. i ZOOMED. ↳ @/convincednumb: you need to go outside. ↳ @/chaoticneutralfem: he’s my roman empire. @/sugururealwife: if i was suguru i’d be in the woods with no phone service rn @/satoruburner69: the fact that no one has denied anything is making me physically ill ↳ @/softforsato: i would also shut up if i was getting piped by both @/parasocialdisaster: i’ve seen cheating allegations with less evidence in actual court cases @/popculturetwin2: where is her publicist. where is her PR team. where is GOD ↳ @/verysanecommenter: i know her manager chain-smoked through lunch @/bitchesbewatching: “we’re just close friends” CLOSE FRIENDS DON’T DO WHATEVER THAT WAS IN THAT PARKING GARAGE ↳ @/angelcoreliar: do we… have that clip ↳ @/bitchesbewatching: check part 23. it’s on the body language analysis tiktok too @/satorutruther: imagine cheating on suguru geto with satoru gojo. girl i get it but also. jail.

You don’t talk to Suguru for a week. Not on set, not in transit, not in passing. Not even when your chairs are next to each other during press or when you’re handed mics for the same segment. You answer questions with practiced smiles, keep your shoulders angled just enough to suggest closeness, and hope no one notices how stiff it all feels beneath the surface.

He doesn’t look at you unless the cameras are rolling. Doesn’t nod when you say good morning. Doesn’t sit next to you unless he’s forced to.

The silence isn’t loud– it’s surgical. Precise. Like he’s decided that giving you nothing is the only power he has left– and you can’t blame him.

When you finally do see him again– when you walk into the green room before a talk show interview and find him alone, scrolling through his phone, legs crossed, unreadable– you hesitate in the doorway like a stranger.

He doesn’t look up. Doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t even acknowledge your presence. But you step inside anyway, because pretending you can wait this out forever would be the real lie. And even if he won’t say anything first, you owe him something. Maybe not an apology he’ll accept– but something.

The studio’s quiet. No shouting, no chaos. Just the buzz of a half-broken overhead light and the faint echo of your own heels across the polished floor. He’s seated in one of the production chairs– composure so intact it’s almost eerie. He doesn’t look up when you sit beside him.

You clear your throat. “They’re all wrong, you know.”

Silence. The kind that isn’t passive– no, it’s purposeful. A fuse waiting for the spark of a match.

You shift in your seat, suddenly too aware of the space between you. Of the fact that he hasn’t looked at you once. That his fingers are still swiping slowly across the screen.

You try again. Softer this time. “It’s not what they think.”

He lets out a breath. Not a laugh, not a scoff– just air, sharp and drained. “They think a lot of things,” he says finally, voice low. “That I’m being strung along. That you and him have been together for a while.”

That last part lands between you like a brick. Your throat closes up, but you force a response. “Satoru and I–”

“Don’t.” His voice doesn’t rise. If anything, it dips into something quieter. Rougher. “Please don’t insult both of us with whatever comes next.”

You look down at your hands, suddenly unsure what they’re even doing. Resting. Fidgeting. Guilty. He sets his phone down with a quiet click and finally turns his full attention to you. His expression isn’t angry. It’s worse. It’s wounded.

“I don’t care what people say online,” he says. “I care that you lied when you didn’t have to. That you did string me along– made me believe I had a chance.”

You blink. “That was before–”

“No.” He shakes his head, slow. “Don’t give me timelines or excuses like I’m your fucking lawyer. I’m not asking for an alibi.”

“Why haven’t you ended it yet?” The question comes out before you can stop it. Maybe it’s selfish. Maybe it’s cruel. But you need to know.

Suguru leans into his hand, rubbing his eyes. “Because I wanted to believe it was just noise. Just fandom delusion– that we were still something real behind all of it.” His jaw flexes. “I didn’t realize I was the only one hoping.”

You want to apologize. You want to defend yourself. You want to reach for his hand and say something soft and sincere and cinematic. But you don’t.

Because Satoru’s cologne still lingers faintly on your coat. And Suguru notices. Of course he does.

The silence sits between you– thick, rancid, almost sentient. You open your mouth, then close it. Try again. “Suguru…”

“I’m not asking you to explain.” He leans back in the chair, folding his arms like it’s the only thing keeping them from shaking. He still hasn’t looked at you. “I’m just trying to understand how I missed it.”

You shake your head. “It wasn’t like that.”

He huffs a humorless laugh. “Wasn’t like what?”

“Me and Satoru–” you wince at how wrong his name sounds on your tongue right now. “It didn’t mean– I mean– me and you weren’t even really together.”

That’s when he snaps. His head whips toward you, eyes narrowed and mouth twisted in disbelief. “Oh, don’t do that.”

Your spine straightens. “Do what?”

“Rewrite it just because it’s convenient now.” His voice cuts clean, no volume but all edge. “We weren’t together? Really? You wore my ring to four premieres. Slept in my bed almost every night for the past eight months. Gave an entire quote to Vanity Fair about how I felt like home. You told me you loved me.”

“I didn’t lie about any of that,” you whisper, even though part of you wants to take it all back.

“No,” he says, bitterly. “You just left out the parts that would’ve made it messy.”

You open your mouth, but he’s not finished.

“You want to know the difference between me and him?” he says, quiet and mean. “I loved you and stayed silent. He fucked you and smiled for the cameras.”

That one lands like a punch to your gut. You feel your throat close. Your face flushes hot– guilt, shame, maybe something like pain. But he’s not wrong. You earned every sharp syllable.

He sighs, runs a hand down his face. “I’m tired, okay? I’m so fucking tired of pretending like this didn’t hurt.”

You swallow the apology rising in your chest, thick and half-formed. “I didn’t want this to happen,” you offer, and you hate how fragile it sounds. How small.

“Yeah,” he mutters, eyes on the floor. “But you let it.”

For a moment, neither of you says anything. Then– quietly– he stands. But he doesn’t walk away. Instead, he takes your coat from the back of the chair. Holds it up. Sniffs once, subtly. The corner of his mouth tightens. Still, he helps you into it anyway.

He lets his hands fall once the coat is on, fingers brushing your shoulder like muscle memory.

You don’t thank him. You can’t. It would feel cheap. Instead, you both stand there– two people in the wreckage of something neither of you wants to name.

Then, with a breath that sounds heavier than it should, Suguru nods toward the door. “We should get to set. They’re probably holding for us.”

And just like that, it’s back on. The script. The rhythm. The fake smiles and real silences.

Your publicist puts out a statement. So does Suguru’s. And Satoru’s. They all say roughly the same thing: that sometimes, cast chemistry gets taken out of context. That it’s all part of the job. That you and Suguru are stronger than ever.

You doubt anyone really believes it. But it buys you time. Puts a band-aid on the bleeding.

You still arrive together when the cameras call for it. Still pose for press junkets, still say the right things in interviews: how emotionally demanding the project was, how lucky you feel to work with such a “tight-knit, supportive cast.” Things almost return to normal.

Suguru stops sitting across the room from you. He even starts making eye contact again– brief, restrained, carefully rationed. On the surface, it looks repaired. But you feel the difference everywhere.

He still doesn’t laugh with you like he used to. Doesn’t linger after wrap, or walk you to your trailer, or ask if you’re okay when you space out in the makeup chair.

It’s not cold. It’s careful.

Suguru's presence becomes measured down to the breath. Every interaction a decision. Every gesture a transaction. Like he’s still in it, but only with one foot. You’d do the same, if the roles were reversed.

You see Satoru more now. Carefully. Quietly. Never when Suguru might notice– and especially not when paparazzi might notice.

Sometimes it’s five stolen minutes between press calls. Sometimes it’s two hours at a bar across the city where no one recognizes you, where he buys you a drink and pretends you aren’t unraveling. Sometimes it’s just a knock on your hotel door at midnight– light, like he’s not sure he should be there– and the two of you curled up on opposite ends of the couch, doing absolutely nothing and everything all at once.

He never asks what Suguru said. You never bring it up.

You try to compartmentalize. To split yourself clean down the middle. But it never works that way. Because when Suguru touches your hand on set– just once, for a scene– you flinch before you melt into it. And when Satoru kisses your cheek too close to a window, your heart stutters like it already knows you’ll get caught.

You're not back together with Suguru. Not really. You’re not sure if you even were in the first place. But to the press, you are.

Maybe that’s the worst part. Because now, you’re not sure if he’s pretending to protect himself or pretending to protect you. And you’re not sure which one would hurt more.

You tell yourself it’s temporary. That this tightrope won’t snap if you just balance a little longer. That you can keep Suguru without really having him. That Satoru won’t ask for more than what you’re already giving.

But then there’s a moment. It’s nothing, really– just you and Suguru on set, waiting for lighting to reset. You’re seated beside him, hands folded in your lap, and you lean your head on his shoulder without thinking. And he goes still.

You realize it immediately. You’re not supposed to do that anymore. Not unless the cameras are rolling. And that’s when it hits you– you don’t even know what you’re doing anymore. Who you’re trying to protect. Who you’re trying to keep.

He leans in eventually, rests his head on yours for a second before turning and placing a soft kiss on your head. You try to not cry. Because you know what it looks like. To anyone watching, it’s tenderness. Reassurance. A silent signal that everything’s still intact. But to you, it feels like a goodbye you weren’t ready to hear.

It clings to you as the final night looms. The Oscars– the end of the awards run. The night it all culminates. You’ve made it through months of interviews, panels, photoshoots, seat fillers, and subtle betrayals– but this is the finish line… or the cliff.

Publicists are circling like sharks. Wardrobe fittings double as damage control. Suguru’s team is banking on elegance. Satoru’s betting on chaos. And you? You’re the image of balance. The careful center between two opposing forces.

Until the cameras start flashing, and all you can think about is how you’re standing between them again. Not by accident, not by design. But by consequence.

It happens in a green room backstage. You’ve only just stepped off the stage– your heels still echoing with the memory of applause. Someone handed you a glass of champagne you didn’t drink. The envelope with your film’s name printed in bold is resting on the makeup counter, half-forgotten. The room smells like hairspray and nerves. Outside, you can hear the tail end of the orchestra playing someone else off. Someone’s asking for touch-ups around the corner.

No one sees it happen. But if someone walked by, they’d feel it.

You’re fixing your makeup in the mirror. Satoru’s stretched out in a velvet chair like it’s his. Suguru stands by the door– arms crossed, jaw tight, like he’s holding something back.

Then, so quiet you almost miss it, “how long?”

You freeze. Your lipstick pauses mid-swipe. But he’s not looking at you.

Satoru sighs. “Seriously? Now?”

“Yeah.” Suguru doesn’t blink. “Now.”

Satoru shrugs. “Does it even matter anymore?”

Suguru’s eyes narrow. “It does if it started while I was still stupid enough to think it might be real.”

Your stomach twists. Satoru lets out a dry laugh. “Then that’s on you. She wasn’t yours just because you wanted her to be.”

“You always think you know better,” Suguru snaps. “Like you’ve got some right to her.”

“You think you do?” Satoru fires back. “You were fake. I didn’t have to lie.”

“You didn’t lie?” Suguru laughs, cold. “You kept her hidden. You fucked her and still let everyone think she was mine.”

Satoru stiffens. “You don’t know anything about that.”

“I know enough.”

You want to say something– step in, slow it down– but they’re already too far in.

“She came to me,” Satoru says, voice sharp now. “You wanna be mad at someone? Be mad at yourself for not noticing she was slipping.”

“She wasn’t slipping,” Suguru says. “She was choosing. And she still looked at me like maybe it meant something.”

Satoru stands. Slowly. “You act like you were some safe place for her. But you never made room. You just waited around hoping she’d do all the work.”

“At least I didn’t make her a secret.”

“At least I didn’t treat her like a prop.” Their voices rise with every word– closer to something dangerous. “She didn’t pick you, Suguru,” Satoru says. “You’re pissed because you had her first and still lost.”

“I didn’t lose,” Suguru growls. “You just jumped the line and took what you wanted the second it felt easy.”

That hits. Hard. The room goes quiet for half a second. And then they both look at you.

It takes a second to register that they want you to chime in. “I never promised either of you anything,” you say, voice shaky but rising. That silence again. You should’ve stopped there. “I thought maybe– maybe it could still be real with you, Suguru. Even if it started as a lie.”

Suguru’s jaw tightens. “Funny. You still can’t say it was real. Just that it might’ve been.”

You flinch. Satoru doesn’t move. Just stares at you, like he’s bracing for the part that hurts most. And you give it to him– quietly. “I didn’t know what I wanted, ‘Toru. And you… you felt like the only thing that didn’t ask me to decide.”

“Right. Because God forbid I ask you for something real.” His voice cracks, just slightly. “Glad I could be the fucking placeholder while you made up your mind.”

Suguru doesn’t even laugh. He just nods like that was exactly what he expected to hear. “At least now we all know where we stand.”

You open your mouth. Regret already sitting in your throat. But it’s too late.

Suguru turns. “Hope it was worth it.”

He’s gone before you can stop him. Satoru lingers. For once, no smirk. No fire. Just something heavy in his eyes.

“Next time,” he says, voice flat, “don’t say you want someone if you’re still weighing options.”

He walks out too. You’re left in the quiet. Your words still hanging in the air like smoke– thin, curling, impossible to take back. Your eyes sting. You don’t even realize you’ve been holding your breath. 

You hesitate only a second before moving. Your heels click down the hall after him, fast and uneven. You don’t even know what you’ll say when you catch up– just that you can’t let him leave like that.

“Satoru.” He doesn’t turn around. “Satoru, wait!”

He stops. Doesn’t face you. Just stands there in the hallway, back rigid, jaw tilted up like he's bracing for impact.

You catch up slowly. Careful. “I didn’t mean it like that.”

He lets out a short laugh. Cold. “You did.”

You shake your head. “No. That’s not fair–”

“No,” he snaps, turning to face you. His expression is blank, but his eyes aren’t. “You don’t get to decide what’s fair anymore.”

You falter. “I was trying to be honest–”

“And I’m telling you it sucked to hear,” he snaps. “Congratulations. You said the truth. You still made me feel like a fucking stand-in.”

“I didn’t use you.”

He steps in closer. Just enough to make it hurt. “You sure? ‘Cause it felt like I was what you settled for when the PR fantasy got too fucking messy. Like I was good enough to need– but not good enough to want.”

You shake your head. “It wasn’t like that.”

“Then what was it?” His voice drops, quiet and mean. “Bored? Lonely? Wanted to see if the rumors were true?”

That one stings. He sees it. Of course he does.

“I waited. For things to sort themselves out. For something to get easier.”

“And when it didn’t, you just thought you could have both? Got it.”

“That’s not fair,” you say again, voice rising.

He stares at you– really stares. Like he’s trying to find something in your face that’ll make any of this hurt less. “Yeah? You know what’s not fair? Falling in love with someone who can’t let the other guy go.”

You stare back at him. “Do you think I don’t care about you?”

“Oh, no, I do think you care.” He looks at you like that’s the saddest part. “Maybe not enough to choose.” That’s when he steps back. “I’m not your in-between. I’m not your maybe.”

And then– so quietly it almost doesn’t register: “Probably would’ve been easier if you’d just picked him, movie star.”

He doesn’t wait for your reply this time. He walks.

And you don’t follow. Not down the hallway. Not through the maze of handlers, stage managers, and security. Not even when someone calls your name– soft but firm– to line up just in case you win.

You stand there too long. Too still. Eyes fixed on the space where he disappeared, like if you just wait, he’ll come back. Like he’ll turn around and say this was just one more fight, not the end.

You should go after him. Say something. Fix it. Try.

But your feet won’t move. Because what if he meant it this time?

Another voice breaks through. A woman with a headset and kind eyes. “You’re on deck, sweetheart. They’re calling Best Actress next.”

Your heart lurches. Not from the nomination. Not from the moment. From him– because this isn’t how you pictured any of it.

You nod. Barely. Move when they gesture. Sit when they guide you to the wings. You let them touch up your face, adjust your dress. You let them lead you like you’re sleepwalking.

You don’t hear them say your name. You only hear the applause. And suddenly, you’re being pushed toward the stage, heart pounding, everything too bright and too loud. You don’t know if either of them clapped. You don’t look.

You just breathe. Smile for the cameras. Take the statue from someone whose face already blurs in your memory. It’s colder than you expected. Heavier, too– like it knows it doesn’t belong in hands this unsure.

“Um…” You laugh, soft and a little breathless. “I don’t really have the words, which is wild, considering how many I’ve had to memorize lately.”

Polite laughter. A few warm smiles. You don’t look toward either side of the room. You can’t.

“But this… this means a lot. More than I think I’ll be able to understand for a while. So thank you. To the Academy. To the cast, to the crew. To the people who believed in this story even when it was hard to tell.” Your voice wavers. You steady your breath. Swallow. “Some stories ask more of you than you expect. And some people carry pieces of you, whether you meant to give them away or not.”

The words nearly catch in your throat. But you keep going– barely.

“This performance– this role– it asked a lot of me. And I wouldn’t have made it through without the people who reminded me who I was underneath all of it. The ones who saw the story in me long before I knew how to tell it.”

You pause. Just for a second. Just long enough for those who know you to know.

“I hope I honored what we built. I hope it meant something.” A shaky breath. Your fingers tighten around the statue as you glance down, trying to hold yourself together.

You can feel the tears now– warm and certain, slipping down your cheeks no matter how hard you try to stay steady. “Thank you for letting me be part of something real.”

The music swells, and the lights begin to shift, and the world pulls you offstage. You barely make it through the curtain before you see him. He’s standing just off to the side, out of view from the cameras, arms crossed over his chest like he’s holding himself together with tension alone. No handlers. No press. Just him.

Your grip tightens on the statue. You don’t know if it’s your pulse or the lights that are still making your head spin. 

He doesn’t say anything at first. Just looks at you. And the way he looks– like he’s still trying to decide if the speech was meant to heal something or if it just picked the scab– is enough to steal the breath from your lungs.

Finally, he speaks. “That was sweet,” he says, voice low. “Really vague. Real poetic.”

“Satoru–”

“Was that for me?” he asks, tone flat. “Or do you just want me to believe it was?”

You open your mouth. You don’t know where to start. “I–”

“No, it’s fine,” he cuts in. “I really liked the part about being part of something real.” He huffs a bitter laugh, shakes his head. “Hell of a way to say everything and still not say what you want.”

“That’s not–”

“No?” He steps in a little closer. Not enough to touch you. Just enough to make you feel how far apart you really are. “You said it meant something. That you hoped you honored what we built.” He tilts his head. “Tell me something– what did we build, exactly?”

You blink against the heat behind your eyes. “You know what we built.”

“Do I?” he asks. “Because lately it just feels like I built something alone and you were just passing through.”

Your fingers curl around the base of the statue. You wish you could put it down. It feels obscene to still be holding it. “I was trying to tell the truth.”

“Yeah?” he breathes. “Then say it. Say it here. To me.”

You look at him– really look. And it breaks something in your chest to realize he’s not angry anymore. Not really. He’s just tired. So you say the one thing you know won’t fix it, but might make him understand.

“You were the only place I ever felt like myself.” His breath catches. Just barely– but you see it. “With everyone else, I was pretending. With you, I didn’t have to be brilliant or likable or perfect. I could be a mess and still feel like I was wanted.”

You swallow hard. The words feel like glass in your throat– sharp, clumsy, but honest. Maybe the most honest thing you’ve said all night. Silence follows. Not soft. Not forgiving. It stretches long enough to feel like punishment. Satoru’s still. Too still. His stare pins you, unreadable. You can’t tell if he’s about to speak or walk away for good.

Finally, he does speak– not kind. No– now he has bite. “You think that makes it better?”

You flinch. He sees it.

“You think saying the right thing now erases what you did?” His voice cracks, just a little. “I asked for reassurance so many fucking times. And you fed me crumbs. You looked me in the face and said it wasn’t what I thought– when it was exactly what I thought.”

Your breath catches, but you say nothing.

“I hated myself for not hating you for it,” he says, quieter now. “Still do.”

And it breaks something in you. You nod. “I know.”

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t reach for you. But his jaw flexes, and his eyes flicker– hurt, anger. A myriad of other emotions you can’t even begin to filter through.

“You ruined me,” he breathes. Not accusing, but broken. “And I still wanted you.”

He takes one step forward. Pauses. Another. Then he reaches out, slow and hesitant, like he’s expecting you to disappear. Fingertips brush your jaw. You don’t pull away.

And that’s when he caves– just a little. “Don’t make me regret this,” he murmurs.

You don’t answer. You just lean in. When he kisses you, it’s like he’s still fighting it. Like he’s punishing you with the way his hands grip too tight, with the way his mouth parts against yours like he resents needing it. It’s not soft. It’s not sweet. But it’s real. And it’s the only thing left between you that still feels alive.

Your hands find the front of his shirt, twisting in the fabric like if you let go now, it’ll all disappear again. When you pull back, both of you are breathless.

“I meant it,” you whisper. “Every word.”

He doesn’t answer right away. Just breathes you in like it might be the last time. Then his eyes flick to the side– past your shoulder, down the corridor.

You don’t have to turn to know who’s there.

He rests his forehead against yours. “Go. You have to.”

You turn– and there he is. Suguru. Standing at the far end of the hallway, near the service exit. Hands in his pockets. Shoulders squared like he’d been standing there long before Satoru said a word. His eyes meet yours. Not angry. Not pleading. Just resigned.

You don’t say anything. Neither does he.

And then– he turns. Walks away without a word. No pause. No hesitation. Just his back to you and the sound of his footsteps fading into the noise of everything else.

You take your time getting back to the hotel. The walk feels longer than it should. Every hallway too bright, too quiet. The statue in your hand is heavier now– like it's mocking you.

By the time you reach the suite, your throat is tight. Your chest is worse.

You open the door slowly, half-expecting the lights to be off. Hoping, maybe, that he didn’t come back. That he’d let you leave this one thing unfinished. But he’s there. Sitting on the edge of the bed, jacket off, dress shirt untucked, tie loosened around his neck. Somehow he looks like he’s aged five years since the awards show ended.

He doesn’t look at you when you step inside. Just stares at the floor like it might offer him something you couldn’t.

You close the door behind you. Carefully. The click feels too loud in the silence. “You came back,” you say, barely above a whisper.

He still doesn’t look at you. “Wasn’t sure if I should,” he says quietly. “Didn’t really see the point.”

Your throat tightens. You don’t know if you’re more ashamed of how much that hurts– or how much you understand. You set the statue down on the desk beside the minibar. It lands heavier than it should.

“I don’t know what I should say,” you whisper.

Finally, his eyes lift to meet yours. And for the first time in hours– maybe days– he lets you see just how wrecked he really is. His voice is rough. Tired. “Just tell me what part was meant for me.”

You don’t answer right away. You can’t. You just stand there in the too-bright hotel room, dress wrinkled from hours of wear, lashes damp, mouth dry. You want to move toward him, to reach for the part of him that still might want you back– but you don’t.

Because what if he doesn’t? Because what if he does?

“The part about seeing my story before I could tell it.”

A humorless breath leaves him. Not quite a laugh. Not quite a sigh. He leans back on his palms, head tilting toward the ceiling like he's trying to keep it together by sheer force. “I watched you kiss him.”

You wince. “I know.”

“Yeah.” He swallows hard. “And that’s the worst part– you knew I’d see it. And you did it anyway.”

You want to deny it. But you don’t. Because he’s right. “I never wanted to hurt you.”

“Didn’t stop you, though, did it?” He says it without heat. And somehow, that’s worse. Like he’s past the point of anger– past the point of yelling or pacing or begging you to say something that’ll make it make sense. He looks at you again. “Just tell me it mattered,” he says, voice low. “That I wasn’t just wasting my time.”

You step closer. “You weren’t,” you whisper. “You were the one who stayed. That meant more than I ever said.”

That lands. His eyes close, and his shoulders sag like your words physically undo something in him. “Then why wasn’t I enough?” he says.

You don’t answer. You can’t. But you move again. Sit beside him on the bed. Close enough to feel the heat of him, not close enough to touch.

He doesn’t pull away. You look down at your hands. Your voice cracks when it comes. “You were enough,” you whisper. “I just wasn’t ready for it.”

Something in him breaks then. Quietly. And when he reaches for you– hand on your thigh, forehead to your shoulder– it’s not lust. It’s grief. It’s need.

“Don’t say anything else,” he murmurs.

And you don’t. You just unbutton his shirt with shaking fingers. Slide to your knees in front of him like you’re praying for something you know won’t come. His hand finds the back of your head– gentle, shaking.

It’s not forgiveness. It’s not closure. It’s just sadness, dressed like love. Or maybe it is love– just not the love it needs to be.

You undo his belt. You can see he’s already hard– painfully so– and you don’t ask why. You already know. Your mouth replaces your apology.

Suguru lets out a shaky breath. He doesn’t push, doesn’t pull. Just sits there with his eyes shut and jaw clenched, like if he feels anything more than this, it’ll break him. When he opens them again, they find yours. And there’s something in them you’ve never seen before. Not even on your worst nights. It’s not anger. Or jealousy. Or even heartbreak.

It’s knowing. Knowing that he was never yours. Not officially. But he loved you like he was. And you let him.

You take your time– like he deserves every second of reverence you never gave him before. Your fingers work slow, easing him out of his slacks, letting the fabric whisper against his skin. You drag his briefs down just as carefully, brushing your fingertips along his thighs, your mouth ghosting over the sharp line of his hipbone like a goodbye you don’t know how to say.

He sucks in a breath when your lips press to the inside of his thigh. Then again, a little higher. He’s already half-hard, twitching with every kiss, and when your tongue grazes just beneath the base of his cock, he shudders. His fingers clutch the comforter. White-knuckled. He’s almost silent.

You wrap your hand around the base of him and drag your tongue up the underside, slow and soft, like the first time. Like it means something more now. When you finally take him into your mouth, he gasps. Not loud. But wrecked. Like the air’s been punched out of his lungs.

He leans forward instinctively, his hand moving to cradle your cheek, thumb pressing gently beneath your jaw– more to ground himself than to guide you. You take him deeper, your mouth warm and wet and open around him. You suck him in slowly, purposefully, like he’s breakable. Like this is a prayer and he’s the altar. His hips twitch once, restrained, like he’s trying not to ruin it with greed.

You hum against him. The sound vibrates through your throat and into his skin, and he groans– long, low, and drawn out like something’s cracking open in his chest. His hand slides back into your hair, not tugging, just holding, like he needs the anchor.

“Fuck,” he breathes. “You don’t have to–”

But you pull off with a soft pop, eyes flicking up to meet his. “I want to,” you whisper. And then you take him back in, deeper this time, until your nose almost brushes the soft skin of his stomach and his whole body trembles.

You breathe in slow, swallowing him inch by inch until he’s buried in the heat of your mouth. His thighs tense under your hands, a low curse falling from his lips like it was dragged out against his will.

His hand tightens in your hair, not guiding, just gripping. You start to move again, slow and steady, letting your lips slide down, then back up with a soft suck that makes his stomach twitch. Your tongue flattens along the underside of his cock, tracing that vein you know makes him shiver.

He exhales sharp, head tilting back, eyes fluttering shut. His chest rises with each shaky breath, every sound he makes like a fracture deepening.

You moan softly around him– part instinct, part apology– and it wrecks him.

“Fuck– don’t do that,” he chokes, like it might push him over the edge too soon. But he doesn't stop you. He never could.

You pull back just enough to tease him with your tongue, lapping at the tip, tasting him. His hand fists the sheets now, the one in your hair trembling slightly as you swirl your tongue around him, then ease him back into your mouth with aching, deliberate care. It’s quiet except for the wet sounds of your mouth and his breathing– unsteady, uneven, and full of something you both know will leave a bruise in the morning.

When you look up again, his eyes are open. Glassy. Desperate.

“You’re gonna ruin me,” he says, voice low and frayed at the edges.

And you don’t stop. Because maybe you already have. Because maybe you're already ruined too.

When he cums, it’s quiet. No warning. Just a breath caught in his throat, the sharp twitch of his hips beneath your palms, and the way his fingers curl into your hair like he’s holding onto the last piece of something slipping away. You feel him pulse against your tongue then taste salt and heat and heartache. You swallow it all.

And when you finally pull away, you do it gently. Wipe your mouth with the back of your hand. Sit back on your heels, dress rumpled, knees aching against the carpet. You watch him. You wait.

He doesn’t look at you. Doesn’t speak. Just leans forward, elbows on his thighs, both hands clasped like he’s praying or begging or trying to keep from unraveling entirely. His head drops. Shoulders tense. The silence stretches too long.

You shift, but not closer. Not yet. Your voice barely breaks it. “Suguru–”

When his eyes finally meet yours, the light catches on them– catches on the wet shimmer streaking down his cheeks. Tears. Not loud, not shaking. Just… there. Like they’d been waiting. The kind of tears that don’t ask for comfort. That exist because the body has no other way to hold the ache.

You feel your heart twist, ache ricocheting through your ribs like something broken loose. You want to move to him, to touch him, to say all the things that might make it easier– but you don’t.

He doesn’t wipe them away. Doesn’t hide. Just looks at you. And in that look, you see all of it. The hurt. The want. The part of him that waited even when he said he wouldn’t.

You don’t even realize you’re crying too until he moves to kiss you. Not sudden. Not rushed. Just leans in, slow and searching, like he’s asking for permission even as he’s already giving you forgiveness. And when his lips brush yours– soft, wrecked, trembling– you feel the wetness that isn’t just his.

The kiss doesn’t deepen. Doesn’t lead anywhere. It just is– an ache in the shape of closeness. His hand comes up to cradle your cheek, not possessive, not desperate. Just steady. Familiar.

You kiss him back like you’ve done it a hundred times. Like you’ll never get to do it again. And when he pulls away, just barely, breath mingling with yours– he doesn’t speak. His eyes search your face like he’s memorizing the parts of you he knows he’ll have to forget.

Then, softly– like it’s the last thing he has left to give– “Stay.” Not a command. Not a plea. Just a single, breaking wish.

“I’m sorry,” you breathe against his mouth, again and again, like it might undo the fact that you’re leaving. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry–”

He kisses you harder. Because he doesn’t want to hear it. Because he already knows. Because he’s sorry, too. His hands are on your face, cradling you like you’re something fragile. Something irreplaceable. His eyes are red when he breaks away to look at you. “Why does it feel like I’m losing you?”

“Because you are.”

That’s when it breaks. Both of you. You feel his fingers tighten against your cheek like he can stop it from happening. Like holding you tighter will freeze time. Like love is enough. It isn’t.

You move to sit next to him, your hands tangled in his hair, mouths pressed together again so tightly it hurts. Every breath is a sob you’re trying to swallow. Every kiss is a word you’re too scared to say.

He leans his forehead against yours. His hands are trembling. “I used to think about telling people. Saying it out loud. But I was scared you’d leave.”

“I never would’ve left,” you whisper.

“You’re leaving now.”

You don’t correct him. Because it’s true. Even if your body’s still here, your heart is already packed up and standing at the door.

You don’t get to be his. Not in public. Not where it counts.

But God– he made you feel like you were. Every night you cooked dinner barefoot in his kitchen. Every time he tucked your legs over his lap on long flights. Every lazy morning when he kissed your shoulder before he was even awake.

You feel it all at once now. And you realize– this wasn’t almost a relationship. It was one. Just quiet. Unclaimed. Unspoken.

And now, unsalvageable.

He kisses you again, softer this time. Like it’s already goodbye. Like it’s always been goodbye. “I don’t want this to end,” he breathes.

“I don’t either.”

“Then why are we letting it?”

Because loving each other wasn’t enough. Because it never got named. Because you both waited too long to ask for more.

So you kiss him once more, and it’s the kind of kiss that ruins every one after it.

The kind that tastes like what you could’ve had.

And then you stand. And walk to the bathroom to wipe your face. Because you already know you’ll be gone before he wakes up.

Suguru’s already asleep when you move to leave. You watch the slow rise and fall of his chest, hesitate in the doorway, and tell yourself it’s better this way. Downstairs, Satoru’s waiting in the lobby. Of course he is.

White shirt, sleeves cuffed to the forearms. He’s leaning against a column like he’s trying to be casual, but he stands straighter the second he sees you.

You don’t say anything right away. You just stop in front of him and let the silence do the talking. He scans your face once– eyes catching on the smudged eyeliner, the glassy sheen you haven’t managed to blink away. “So,” he says softly. “That bad, huh?”

You nod. And then you crumble. The strength leaves your spine. Your eyes fall to the floor because looking at him, right now, is too much.

He doesn’t ask. Doesn’t press. Just moves toward you and wraps his arms around your waist, pulling you in tight, tucking your head under his chin like he’s done it a thousand times before. And maybe he has. But, not like this– not after everything. But the shape of you fits there like it remembers anyway.

“Did he say anything?” Satoru asks eventually, voice low, cautious.

“Yeah,” you whisper. “He said he didn’t want it to end.”

A pause. “And you?”

“I said I didn’t either.” You let out a breath that barely counts as a laugh. “Then I left.”

Satoru swallows hard. You feel it in the way his chest rises against yours. “So… you chose me.”

You pull back. Just enough to meet his eyes. “I didn’t choose anyone.”

That hits him harder than it should. He looks away. Stares out the revolving doors like they’ll offer an exit from this conversation. “Right. Of course.”

“But I showed up.” You wrap your arms around him, grasping the back of his shirt in your hands.  “And that has to count for something.”

“It does,” he whispers, brushing a loose piece of hair from your face.

“Satoru,” you say, voice thin, wrecked. “I’m not okay.”

“I know,” he breathes. “Neither am I.”

You look at him for a long moment. “Can we go up?” you ask finally, voice cracking.

He hesitates. “Is that a good idea?”

You shrug. “Probably not.”

But he follows you to the elevator. It’s quiet the whole way up. His hand brushes yours, then stays there. Intertwined. Familiar. Safe. And when the door clicks shut behind you, when the suite swallows you both in a too-clean kind of silence– he turns to look at you.

“You don’t have to pretend with me,” he says. “If you want to cry, or scream, or lie down and say nothing at all– I’ll still be here when it’s over.”

You believe him. You do cry. Not just because of Suguru. Not just because of what never was. But because of what could’ve been. What might be.

And Satoru, for once, doesn’t fill the silence. He doesn’t try to fix it. Doesn’t ask for more than what you’re able to give. He just sits beside you on the bed, takes your hand, and waits.

and thats a wrap on unscripted! hope you enjoyed the season finale <3 ty to everyone who read and liked and reblogged and supported this fic!! i had a blast writing it.

season 2 is in the works :p

comment to be added to the taglist for season 2!: @twilightsumu @aizzon @jabulile @jadeisthirsting @1satoruu @nombakugoswife1 @feelya @goonforgeto @bandomonia @aftersnrise @wvnkoi @von-studios @roseyjoo @m0rgui @saoirses-things

[j3llyc4kes]

happy birthday kento nanami <3

nsfw mdni!

—

you knew he wouldn’t come home early. your husband kento nanami never did. he hated working overtime, sure, and he kept to his hours as best he could—but the world rarely allowed it. curses didn’t wait for anyone. and if satoru gojo needed a favor? well, kento would begrudgingly give it, even if he grumbled about it for a full week after.

you’d been planning his birthday surprise for weeks—because of course you had. he wasn’t the kind of man who ever asked for much, but that’s exactly why you wanted to do something big. he worked too hard, too long, never took breaks unless he physically collapsed into them.

so when his birthday started creeping closer, you took charge. left little hints that maybe he could come home on time for once. he didn’t question it—he trusted you. and you used that trust to prepare everything: dinner, his favorite, hot and fragrant and plated with the kind of delicate care he always gives you. the cake was soft and perfectly sweet, with little swirls of frosting you piped yourself, fingers shaking because you were too excited and a little nervous. and then… you waited.

the apartment clean, candlelight flickering low and warm in the dining room. soft jazz humming from the speaker, the kind he listens to when he decompresses. you perched on the edge of the table, completely bare except for the little pink party hat tilted on your head, a lacey garter with a pink bow on your left thigh and the dollops of frosting carefully placed over your nipples, sticky and cool under your fingers when you’d smeared them on.

your legs crossed and back straight and heart pounding because god, he’s going to be so surprised, and probably a little scandalized, but you wanted that—you wanted to shake him out of that routine, even if just for tonight.

it was nearly 8pm when you heard the key in the lock. your heart skipped. you bit your lip.

kento walked in with a sigh—heavy and exhausted—setting his briefcase down by the door with a groan. “honey, i’m home,” he called, the way he always did. and then: “wait, what—?”

whenhe rounded the corner, all you saw was the way he froze. how his mouth parted. how his tie was already loose, his shirt sleeves rolled up, and how his sharp, tired eyes slowly dragged across the room to meet yours. he blinked. and then blinked again. “what… are you doing?” he asked, flat and stunned, like his brain just fully shut down.

you smiled. “surprise!”

“you’re…” he swallowed. his eyes dropped to your breasts, where the frosting was dripping down from the heat of your skin. his jaw clenched, twitched. “is that—?”

“mmmhmm.” you shifted slightly, arching your back just a little. “it’s vanilla. same as the cake.”

he didn’t even respond. he didn’t rush things—never did—but his shirt was unbuttoned in seconds. then his shoes. then his belt. he didn’t say a word as he approached, but you could feel the heat rising from him like smoke.

he doesn’t touch you at first. just stands between your knees, eyes dragging over every inch of your skin like he’s memorizing you all over again. and when he finally leans in, his mouth meets yours in a kiss that’s tender but deep, like he’s trying to say everything he feels without speaking—all love, all heat, all you.

you both pull away, breathless.

“you are… unbelievable,” he murmured, running a hand down your bare thigh, voice rough and already wrecked.

“do you even know what you do to me?”

you gasped when he leaned in—when he bent you back across the dining table, mouth hot and firm as it licked up a dollop of buttercream from your chest. “it’s your birthday…,” you whimpered. “wanted to make tonight special.”

“you did,” he growled, breathing hard against your neck. “you always do.”

his mouth finds the other breast, licks the frosting off slow, savoring it. “mm, you spoil me, sweetheart.”

and you whisper, “you deserve it.”

and then it was a blur. your legs around his waist. your body against warm wood and linen. him tasting every inch of you, from the sugar on your skin to the slick between your thighs. he took his time—because he always did.

but he was desperate, too. gritting his teeth as he fucked you so hard and deep, praising you between kisses and groans, telling you how much he loved you, how perfect you were, how this was the best birthday he’d ever had.

you lost track of how many times you both came. how many times he moaned your name like a prayer, breathless and wrecked. how he spilled inside you again and again until you were trembling, dripping, spent. he cleaned you up afterward, of course, he was still your kento—ever the gentleman even when dripping with sweat, kissing your forehead as he helped you slip into one of his old shirts.

you had dinner together like that, still flushed and giddy, laughter lingering between kisses. you sat in his lap while he fed you forkfuls, content to dote on you, wrapped in the quiet kind of comfort that only comes after love like that. the two of you talked about everything and nothing, soft voices over clinking cutlery and half-finished wine.

he went back for seconds. then thirds. and just as he was taking the final bite of cake, you slipped away for a moment—returning with a small box, tied neatly with a bow.

he frowned when you set it down beside him. “hm?baby, what’s this?”

“your real gift.”

he carefully opened it. a new watch—sleek, elegant, timeless, just like him. the kind he’d been eyeing but never bothered to buy for himself. his eyes softened as he turned it over in his hands, but then you passed him the envelope. opened it to read the card, handwritten, full of soft words that make his expression soften even more, if that’s possible.

tucked inside the card is a folded sheet of paper—an itinerary. five days in malaysia. a couples retreat. massages, beaches, no cursed spirits for miles.

his eyes scanned it. paused. scanned again.

“this is—”

“a trip,” you said, grinning. “malaysia. couples retreat. just you and me. next weekend. i already cleared it with gojo.”

he looked up at you like you’d hung the stars. eyes glassy, like he can’t believe you keep finding ways to love him deeper than he ever thought possible. he presses his forehead to yours.

“i don’t deserve you,” he murmurs, voice low.

and you say, “tough. you’ve got me anyway.”

he lets out a breathy chuckle, shaking his head. then an exhale, pulling back to meet your gaze.

“so… malaysia, huh?”

“…malaysia.” you whispered, curling into his side.

kento nanami—strong, stoic, unreadable to the rest of the world—holding you so tightly, voice thick and low.

“god, i love you,” he said.

“i love you too,” you murmured, kissing him sweetly.

“happy birthday, ken.”

© j3llyc4kes

:3 please check out my other works! here’s the master list! <3

a/n: thank you guys for so much love on my last nanami drabble! here’s a little something for his birthday :3 love that tree tunk of a man

[ratmare]

When the Lords of Leipa are summoned to treat, there are rumors flickering in the halls concerning the young swordsman accompanying Lord Capon. He’s a popular fellow. Many of the nobility toast him as the savior of Suchdol, and some offer him thanks for his hand in their own personal good fortune. But in the serving quarters below the banquet hall those who pay attention find reason to be wary.

They keep their voices hushed as they collect around the table, bowls of stew held close and prayers whispered before daring to take a bite. The chambermaid is the first to speak and she swears Lord Capon’s page hasn't touched his bed since arriving at the castle.

“Of course he hasn’t. When you all sleep, he mounts his horse and sets off God knows where.” The stableboy hisses. “There wasn’t a sliver of moon last night but he rode torchless, like hell itself was on his heels.”

“I’ve talked to him a fair bit.” The laundress stares blankly into her supper. “He’s kind enough not to haggle and even supplies his own soap, but it's the same pair of hose, gambeson and black waffenrock.”

“They’re soaked in blood each time.” The broth slip from her spoon, thin and murky rivulets dribbling back into her bowl. “And his eyes…they were blown black every morning, it almost looked like they were bleeding into the whites. Gave me the shivers.”

A huntsman leaning against the wall takes a long swig from his wineskin. “I want to believe I was seeing things but I stumbled on him dressing a deer in the Lord’s woods. When he was done he threw some of the meat to his hound and then took a handful for himself…I swear to the Blessed Virgin I saw him eat it raw.”

More than a few at the table cross themselves, mutters of “God protect us” rising into the air to mingle with the kitchen smoke.

“Henry seems like a fine man to me.” A serving girl fumbles with the hem of her sleeve. “He brewed fever tonic for Ludmilla’s child and wouldnt accept a groschen for it.”

“Did you see him make it though! The man was plucking belladonna and nettle barehanded. It’s devilry.”

“You don’t think Lord Capon would really have a demon in his service?” She frowns. “He prays in front of the wayside shrine each morning, and a demon could never do that”

“The devil quoteth scripture to suit his needs.” The farrier presses his tongue into his cheek, arms folded over his chest, and several at the table nod in solemn agreement.

“Devils is right.” The nightwatchman says. “You should hear the wailing that comes from his room after midnight.”

“So he beds a lass or two.” She shrugs. “Hardly unusual for a handsome lad like that.”

“Weren’t no lass in his quarters. Them were the moans of the damned I swear.”

“True enough.” The stableboy pipes up. “I bet thats why he rides all night. He’s out collecting souls for the Devil and then throws them into the flames for his master to feast on.”

“That’s nonsense!” The serving girl huffs. “The only master that man is interested in serving is Lord Capon.”

“But you see that’s the crux of it.” He leans in, voice low. “Don’t you find Lord Capon’s good fortune a little…suspicious?”

“Good fortune? The man’s been caged more times than a pigeon!”

“Shhh shhhh, yes, but he’s been freed each time and his uncle hasn’t had to ransom a single groschen for him.” He flicks his eyes between them waiting for the realization to dawn, but the serving girl is stone faced and the rest are slow with wine or fear.

“Capon sold his soul.” He concludes and the serving girl’s face instantly curdles.

“Blasphemy.”

“No it’s the truth. Do you really believe a no name peasant who’s held a sword for less than a year could rescue a lord half a dozen times.”

“That’s divine providence. Not devilry”

“”You think God favors some bratty lord from Sasau over our poor King locked in Vienna?” The huntsman quirks an eyebrow. “And after talking to our new bathmaiden from Rattay I don’t think God wants anything to do with that man.”

The stableboy slaps the table in agreement. “The rescues are one thing, but the marriage? Getting old Kunstadt to agree to that union had to take some bewitchment.”

She snorts. “You think Master Henry’s playing matchmaker?”

“If he is what I believe him to be there’s no telling what the limits to his powers might be.”

“This is all such foolishness.” She pushes back against the table as she moves to stand. “It’s plain as day you’re just jealous of a man who’s risen far above his station and has earned the friendship and admiration of the man he serves.”

“Careful how you speak, wench.” The stableboy hisses, teeth grit and finger punching at the air above her heart. “Or you’ll be dragged to Hell with Capon and his curr.”

“What’s that?” A new voice cuts through the air, deep and cold. They all turn to see a man standing in the doorway, the kitchen fire glints off the buttons of his black gambeson and combs bronze streaks through his chestnut hair. But the eyes that find the stableboy are icy.

“Did I mishear?” Henry takes a slow stride toward their table, gaze flitting from one face to the next. “It sounded as if you were speaking ill of my master.”

The stableboy feels the blood chill beneath his skin from this devil’s stare. He must be a devil. He’s seen more floggings than Christmases but his heart’s never hammered this hard from a man who’s yet to even raise a hand to him.

“O-of course not, m’lord.” He offers, throat clicking.

“Not a lord.” He draws closer, face inches from his. “Certainly not yours.”

“I can’t have you thrown into the stocks or horse whipped, but know that if I ever learn that you’ve spoken another unkind word about Sir Capon that I will have you begging for a Lord’s idea of justice.”

“Are we clear?”

He nods frantically, eyes pressed shut.

“Good.” He eases back just enough to allow the idiot to bolt, and like that the tension seems to lessen, a smile warms the swordsman’s face as he turns to the serving girl. “Ahhhh Anna is this your work it smells delicious.”

“It’s got that venison you brought me.” She smiles handing him a bowl. “Tried to dress it up a bit with some of Ludmilla’s spices.”

“You have a gift” He grins around a mouthful while he fumbles with the pouch at his belt. “Oh and before I forget here’s that wine you asked for.”

“Oh Henry, you are an angel. How did you manage it I thought Peter would laugh in your face?”

“I have my ways.” He winks.

Finis

Just a little quick and dirty drabble because good natured/kind protagonists being seen as creepy by outsiders is my absolute favorite trope

So did anyone else get the Tartare perk from the Mill? That’s gonna be hard to explain to his friends hehe, but oh boy is it good inspo for monster!Henry fics. Additionally, I always feel bad for mistiming nighthawk potions so Henry’s ryes are dilated during daytime. All that belladonna must make him look freaky.

[jam3sacaster]

“What do ‘ya want me to do to ‘ya?”

(Rivals) Declan O’Hara x Reader

Suggestion by a sweet anon 🫶🏽 / Hellbent on pleasing you after an argument, Declan allows you to take control…

18+ FANFIC / SMUT! Short work! Something a lil different for Declan 💋 Reader character aged at 21.

Observing the most magnificent view from the bedroom window of The Priory, your heart leaped at the wintery scene — blankets of glacial snow covering the vast lawn, snowdrops billowing in the arctic breeze & tiny badger prints making a path under the grand oak tree. “Feeling better yet?” A familiar voice spoke from behind you. No, I am not, you thought to yourself. It was often that you and Declan had arguments, but they were monumental when you did — thunderous screaming matches that often ended in Declan having one too many a whiskey and you, retreating to your bedroom in a rouge mass of tears. “Ahh, come on. You’ve got to speak to me at some point.” He huffs, puffing on his briar wood pipe. No, I don’t, you think to yourself again.

Eagerly catching sight of the badger that had created the tiny path, you gasp in amazement and shuffle to the end of your bed. “If ya’ won’t speak to me, at least let me make it up to ‘ya.” Declan tuts, sitting next to you now, clouding your vision with pipe smoke. Not waiting for your response, Declan takes hold of your arm and lays you down on the bed, drinking in as much of your body as he could from under your thick, emerald-green woollen jumper and black trousers. “What do ‘ya want me to do ‘ya?” He asks, voice gruff and wanting. “Oh, come off it, Declan. You hate not being in control.” Eyes rolling as you mumble. “But you love bein’ bossy. Just tell me what to do.” He urges you, kneeling beside you.

“Hmm, well. I’m not in the mood, really. So, maybe lick me to get me ready.” You begin shuffling out of your trousers, but Declan takes over, removing them and subsequently peeling your vile paprika-orange pants from your cunt. Lying between your legs, Declan wrapped his rugged arms around your thighs, drawing your heat closer to him. “How do ya’ want me to do it?” He asks, hazelnut moustache bristling against your folds, making your thighs tremble in anticipation. “Gentle and slow. Like how you did it when we first got together.” You respond, grabbing at your own breasts lustfully. Declan began to circle your pink bud with his pointed tongue, flicking haphazardly after a moment and waiting for your soft whimpers. His coated lips took your clit between them, sucking softly. Your slender hand gripped firmly around his ringletted curls, moans increasing in frequency. “Fuck, I’m gonna cum if you keep doing that.” You groan, back arching in ecstasy. “Good.” Declan spoke through a mouthful of your wet cunt. “No, I don’t want to cum yet. I want to sixty-nine.” You moan, prompting Declan to free himself of his beige outfit. “Top or bottom?” He questions, devilish smirk creating tension in your stomach. You point to your soft belly, and Declan lowers himself onto you, being careful not to apply all of his weight.

The scene that played out was nothing short of heavenly. Declan’s cock was buried inside your throat, restricting your breathing and releasing a stream of tears from your glassy eyes. The Irishman, however, was treating your cunt like the most delectable banquet, grunting under your heat and leaving a trail of saliva hanging from his lips. Gyrating your hips towards his mouth, you rode out your orgasm in deafening moans — or the most you could manage through the girth of Declan’s cock. Thereupon, your moans were stifled by the emergence of Declan’s hot, sweet load pumping into your throat, making your eyes bulge from the sockets with pleasure. His orgasmic grunts rose to the most magnificent crescendo.

Pulling back to lie next to you, body sticky with sweat, Declan lit a cigarette and panted in exhaustion. “You’re rather good at following orders.” You joked, eyeing up his cock, still proudly at half-mast. “And you’re fuckin’ good at being bossy. Like I said.” Declan replied.

[undyingdecay]

FARMER'S DAUGHTER; TAKE THREE

pairing: bucky barnes x fem!reader

words: 3.5k+

summary: a reckless farmer’s daughter gets sent to spend the summer with her father’s oldest friend, bucky barnes — a gruff, solitary man running a quiet farm on the edge of town. what starts as punishment slowly unravels into something heavier, tense, and dangerously complicated.

cws: eventual smut (not in this chapter), sexual tension, age gap / older man-younger woman dynamic, suggestive conversation, jealousy, mention of religion and church, ocs (READER IS NOT AN OC), mild drug use (mentions of smoking weed), alcohol consumption, subtle homophobia, casual profanity, suggestive language

reader mood board | faith's mood board | luke's mood board | pervious chapter !

 🏷 ; @pecter-specter @sumplys @petrichor-incorporation

a/n: all likes, comments, and reblogs are so heavily cherished and appreciated. send in an ask, message me, or comment asking to join the taglist for the series. please enjoy !!

you’d been woken by a lot of shit since ending up in bucky’s house — or, more accurately, bucky’s creaking, musty old farmhouse that smelt of hay and old wood and something sweet you could never quite place. the kind of place where the walls seemed to breathe with the seasons and the floorboards howled like dying ghosts anytime you tried to sneak around at night.

cows bellowing at dawn. chickens losing their goddamn minds over nothing. horses — fucking horses — who stomped around like they paid rent and screamed like they were auditioning for some barnyard horror film.

and, worst of all, what you thought — or maybe hoped if you’re being really fucking honest with yourself — might’ve been bucky jerking off somewhere in the house late one night when you couldn’t sleep. there’d been this quiet, broken rhythm of creaking wood and the occasional huff of breath that had you lying stiff as a board under the scratchy quilt, heart jackhammering in your chest, one hand clenched so tight around the sheets your knuckles had gone white.

only to find him half an hour later in the kitchen fixing the goddamn sink, wrench in hand, hair a mess, shirtless and scowling at a busted pipe.

no dick in sight.

guess miracles really were rare these days.

nonetheless!

now it wasn’t the farm animals or your own embarrassing voyeuristic tendencies that had awoken you it was this.

the sound of a woman’s voice.

it wasn’t the voice of one of the old ladies from the market, the ones that smelled like powdery lavender and always pinched your cheek a little too hard. it was younger, lighter. it made your stomach clench, made your hands itch.

you kicked the sheets off, bare feet hitting the floor hard enough you winced at the sound. but you moved quick, because whoever she was, whatever she wanted — you needed to see. down the stairs, careful to avoid the third step from the bottom — it always groaned like a wounded animal. the morning light bled in through the kitchen window, catching on the dust motes that hung in the air like tiny ghosts.

you peeked around the doorway.

and there she was.

about your age. maybe a little older. pretty even-toned skin, hair tied up at the top of her head with what looked like a dirty old shoelace. a tiny, fraying bow sat crooked in the mess of curls. she wore a blouse, soft looking, faded with time, and a pair of washed-out jeans that clung to her hips in a way that made your stomach flip.

her hands moved as she spoke, fingers flitting through the air, and before you could catch a single word of what she was saying, her eyes — a warm brown, like wet earth — slid right to yours.

she grinned. lifted her hand and gave a lazy little wave.

you nearly ducked behind the wall, heat flashing up your neck, but it was too late. bucky caught your gaze a second later, those sharp, unreadable eyes settling on you.

“whatcha hidin’ from?” he called, voice rough with sleep and gravel.

“chores,” you shot back, too quick, and it earned you a laugh from the girl. a soft, humming little thing that made you feel like you’d done something right for once.

she tilted her head, considering you like you were some odd bug she’d found on the porch. her lips parted, and then bucky was clearing his throat, rubbing a hand over his stubbled jaw.

“c’mere, kid.” the way your name sounded on his tongue made your stomach knot in a way you weren’t ready to talk about. you crossed the kitchen slow, trying not to look as awkward as you felt, standing there in your old tee and a pair of boxer shorts you’d swiped from the clean laundry pile. bucky nodded toward the girl.

“this here’s faith.”

faith.

the name dropped heavy in your head.

faith. faith. faith.

you said it three times to yourself, like some prayer. like a warning.

faith gave this crooked, lopsided grin — one side of her mouth quirking up higher than the other, a kind of expression you’d only ever seen on girls who knew too well how to twist a room in their favor without even trying. she flicked a glance over at bucky, her smile stretching just a little wider as she tossed out, light as anything, “this your girl?”

and you swore your heart stopped so fast it made your vision tilt for a second, the floor feeling a little too far away beneath your bare feet. there was a beat of silence, and you could hear the clink of bucky setting his mug down, a sharp little scoff pulling from his throat — one of those old-man sounds he made when he didn’t want to admit something, but sure as hell wasn’t about to deny it cleanly either.

“hell no,” he muttered, voice rough and dismissive, though you caught the flicker of his eyes toward you before he turned his back, fiddling with the coffee pot like it suddenly needed his full attention. “this is my buddy’s kid. she’s stayin’ for the summer.”

the words hit harder than they probably should’ve. something about the way he said it. casual. impersonal. like you were a goddamn paperweight someone left behind. you swallowed around the knot in your throat, unsure what to do with your hands, which suddenly felt too obvious and awkward just hanging at your sides.

faith hummed, not even looking at bucky now, her gaze steady on you. and there was something in the way she stared, head tilted just a little, like she’d already sized you up and filed you neatly away in whatever little category she reserved for wide-eyed, misplaced girls stuck in a house like this one. like she knew exactly what you were, and exactly what you weren’t — and it made your stomach pull tight.

"maybe she could help me carry all those eggs?" she offered, voice so syrup-smooth it made you tense, though her smile stayed bright and polite. “promise it’s not too much.”

you opened your mouth, already fumbling for an excuse, anything to not be trapped outside in the heat with this girl you didn’t know and who looked at you like you were the punchline to a joke she was already in on. “well, i—”

“she’d love to,” bucky cut in before you could finish, tone final in that no-arguing way he had about him, already reaching for a fresh cup like the matter was decided. he didn’t even glance your way when he said it, and you felt your shoulders stiffen, mouth clicking shut.

faith grinned again, eyes glittering, then jerked her chin toward the back door. “c’mon"

and god help you, you followed.

the morning was already thick and humid when you stepped outside, sunlight bleeding hot against your skin, the grass damp enough to soak through your thin socks. faith didn’t wait for you to catch up, moving ahead with that easy, long-legged stride of someone who knew every inch of this place by heart.

the coop sat at the far edge of the yard, the smell of hay and sun-warmed wood rising in lazy waves. chickens clucked somewhere out of sight, the soft rustle of feathers and the occasional indignant squawk breaking the quiet.

faith paused by the fence, glancing back at you with a smirk. “you always this shy, or is it just around him?”

you blinked, caught off guard, throat tight as you tried to summon some kind of comeback that didn’t sound defensive or desperate. but faith just laughed, shaking her head like it was all a joke you hadn’t quite caught up to yet, pushing the gate open with her hip.

“i’m not shy around him, he’s an asshole, you know.”

you muttered it casually as you followed faith out to the chicken coop, the morning sun hanging low, pale and gold, bleeding over the tops of the trees. you bent down to grab a tiny crate, fingers brushing against the rough wood, and she shot you a look over her shoulder, one brow cocked like she already knew.

“ya don’t say,” she grinned, crouching down and laying her hands over the eggs, fingers gentle like she was handling glass. her nails were chipped, dirt smudged across the knuckles, and you liked her already. “got any friends out here yet?”

you scoffed, shaking your head as you set the crate down by her feet. “i’m practically on house arrest,” you huffed. “you’re the second new face i’ve seen in a week.”

faith paused, glancing up at you for a moment before tipping her head back with a laugh, shaking her head like you’d just told the funniest thing she’d heard all damn morning.

“well shit,” she snorted. “we gotta fix that.”

she straightened up, wiping her palms on the thighs of her jeans and eyeing you up and down in a way that made you suddenly hyper-aware you were still wearing a stretched-out tee and boxers, hair a mess from sleep.

“you like pool?” she asked.

you blinked. “like… swimming?”

faith groaned like you’d kicked her in the stomach.  "pool, like the bar game. with the cue sticks and balls and busted-ass jukebox in the corner. i gotta get you out more.”

you cracked a grin despite yourself, watching as she grabbed the crate of eggs and started toward the house.

“well,” you started, half teasing, “good luck convincing the old man to let me off the leash.”

faith just tossed a look back over her shoulder, smirking. “don’t worry about bucky. i’ll handle him.”

the way she said it made you snort, and maybe blush a little. you weren’t sure.

“go back inside,” she added, voice light but firm. “put on somethin’ nice. not sunday church nice — just, like, jeans that don’t got holes in the ass. i’ll meet you out front in twenty.”

and just like that, she was gone again, leaving you standing there in the dust and morning air, the chickens clucking around you like you were the idiot of the century.

you glanced up toward the house, saw bucky by the barn, wiping his hands on a rag and watching you both like he knew every damn word that’d been said. you swallowed, offering him a stiff little wave before booking it back inside.

it wasn’t much — but hell if it didn’t feel like the first good thing to happen since you got here.

by the time you made it back downstairs, faith was already leaning against the hood of an old blue chevelle, the kind of car you’d only ever seen in movies or on t-shirts at the gas station. she was chewing a piece of gum, blowing bubbles and popping them, one hand flicking ashes off a cigarette she must’ve swiped from somewhere.

“well, damn,” she teased when she spotted you. “look at you, tryin’ to impress me.”

you rolled your eyes but couldn’t quite bite down the grin.

“you tell bucky?” you asked, glancing toward the house.

“told him we were gonna run into town, pick up some feed for the chickens. and maybe stop by the hardware store for more nails. y’know, stuff he won’t ask questions about.”

your stomach did a little flip at the casual way she lied. “he bought that?”

faith snorted, stubbing out the cigarette on the gravel. “he has better things to do than chase around a couple’a girls on a summer night.”

you weren’t so sure about that — but you weren’t about to press your luck.

“get in,” faith jerked her chin toward the passenger side. “bars don’t stay open all night around here. well… one of ‘em does, but only ‘cause luke drinks himself stupid behind the counter.”

“hey!” a gruff voice barked from behind, cutting through the dusty quiet just as you slid into the car. you glanced back through the open door and caught sight of the source —his eyes locked on you as you entered the front passenger, but not like most guys, he wasn’t scanning your body or smirking, just holding your gaze like he was trying to read every last detail in your eyes.

“hey,” he repeated, softer this time. just then, the back passenger door behind slammed shut with a loud thud.

faith didn’t miss a beat. “hey your way to the bar,” she snapped, voice sharp as a whip, her eyes practically daring him to argue. the guy’s mouth twitched like he was about to shoot back, but instead he just raised his hands like surrender and gave faith a mock-wide-eyed look.

“jesus, faith, you’d scare a ghost.”

you felt the tension ease just a little, the heavy southern air wrapping around you like a thick blanket, sticky but somehow comforting. the engine rumbled to life as the boy shifted the gear, and a flicker of warmth spread across your chest—a faint smile tugging at your lips. the memory of bucky’s gruff patience came flooding back, how he’d take your hands firmly when you fumbled with the clutch, muttering something about “ain’t rocket science,” but beneath it all, you could feel that rugged care threading through his rough words. it was an unspoken kind of kindness, one you’d come to lean on, even if you never told him as much.

luke caught your shift in mood like a seasoned driver reading the road. his smirk deepened, eyes glinting as they stayed fixed on the asphalt ahead. “never learned stick?” he teased, voice low, almost amused. “actually, i—”

before he could finish, faith cut in with that clipped but steady tone, smooth like she was used to juggling you both like some reluctant ringmaster. “she’s not interested, luke. drive.” her words held no malice, just an easy command that brooked no argument.

luke’s smirk stayed painted on his lips, but his hands tightened on the wheel with purpose. “whatever you say, faith,” he said with a shake of his head and a soft chuckle. then, turning his glance briefly toward you, “can i get 'er name at least?”

you say your name with a finality to it, refusing to let faith be the bearer of your story. there was something about luke that stirred something deep, a familiar ache, like a wound long healed but never quite forgotten. he caught it in your eyes, gave a subtle nod, but kept silent.

the car rolls to a stop at a dusty intersection, the late afternoon light casting long shadows over the dashboard. luke’s fingers twitch nervously on the steering wheel before he pulls out a small, neatly rolled blunt, the kind you knew wasn’t his own. his hands, practiced and restless, shift it with a kind of delicate reverence that contrasts sharply with the roughness in his eyes. he raises it to his lips, eyes heavy even before the smoke curls out, the way he exhales almost lazy, almost tired. then, just as the smoke thins into the air, he turns to you and extends the blunt, hand steady.

“i don’t smoke,” you said quietly, voice steady, though the memory whispered otherwise.

“yeah, you do,” luke replied, a knowing edge to his tone.

before luke could say something else, you leaned over, your fingers finding the small silver cross hanging around his neck. tugging it gently, you smirked, “church boy.”

he glanced down at the cross, then back at you, a slow smile creeping over his face. “guilty,” he admitted, flicking the blunt out the window as the engine idled, smoke trailing after it like a ribbon of regret.

"what the hell, i wanted a hit," faith huffed from the backseat, her voice sharp with playful betrayal.

"ask jay to roll you one," luke shot back, hands slipping from the wheel to adjust the mirror.

"bite me."

he let out a low laugh, shaking his head like he was used to this rhythm between them. but then his throat worked around something heavier, the kind of thing that didn't come with a smirk. his voice dropped, caught in the low of the moment.

"will he be there?"

faith didn't even pause. “god, yes, it was yes an hour ago, it’s a yes now. your little boyfriend will be there.”

luke flinched like she’d pressed a bruise, jaw tightening before he snapped, “i ain’t a fuckin’ queer. knock it off.”

the words hung heavy, slapped against the inside of the car like humidity on skin. you felt the air shift, not with surprise, but with that awful kind of quiet you knew too well—like something small had died in the silence that followed.

faith didn’t say anything right away, just sighed, long and slow through her nose, like she'd run this loop a thousand times already.

“you know what i mean, luke,” she said, voice softer now, like she was handling him with two fingers and a lotta care. “you don’t gotta throw knives at your own feet to make a point.”

luke didn’t answer. didn’t have to. the grip he had on the steering wheel said enough. you watched him from the corner of your eye, that twitch in his temple, the way his tongue pressed against the inside of his cheek. it was defense, not denial.

and maybe you knew a little too much about that too.

you didn’t speak up, just rolled your window down a little more, letting the night air in. the town rolled by in faded streetlights and silhouettes of cornfields, warm breeze ghosting your face like a sigh. you thought about the cross on his chest and the lie in his throat. thought about how you’d lied too, just minutes ago, when you said you didn’t smoke.

the car doors creaked open and the thick summer air hit you like a wet cloth to the face, carrying with it the low hum of cicadas and the far-off sound of music bleeding out from the bar’s screen door. gravel crunched under your boots as you stepped out of the car, the night sky stretched wide above, ink-black and scattered with lazy stars. luke slammed his door a little harder than necessary, the sound sharp in the stillness before the music swallowed it up.

faith rounded the hood of the car, bringing a hand up to fix up her curls, giving you a grin that didn’t need much effort. it was easy with her—like you’d known her longer than you had, like small-town girls had a way of finding each other no matter the circumstances.

“told you this place was a dive,” she muttered, nodding toward the crooked neon sign and rusted out beer logo swaying faintly in the breeze. “worth it though.”

you smiled despite yourself, letting your hand curl into hers as you followed her toward the door. luke trailed behind, kicking a stray bottle cap with the toe of his boot, head down like the weight of his own thoughts hadn’t left him in the car.

faith caught it too, glancing over her shoulder and rolling her eyes in your direction like boys, right?

inside was exactly what you expected and somehow worse. dim string lights hung haphazardly from exposed rafters, a single ceiling fan barely moving the heavy air. a jukebox in the corner warbled out an old country tune, and the handful of people inside were either hunched over cheap beer or leaning against the pool table, cues in hand.

at seeing a boy, brunette an easy going smile teeth that seemed too ungodly straight, and god did his biceps look huge in that shirt, though he seemed like he was approaching you both faith tugs you along quickly.

“let’s get you a drink before someone’s uncle starts offering you his old weed stash and a ride on his tractor.” she said, voice low, a smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth.

you laughed, because it wasn’t even a joke — you could spot at least two guys in the room who looked like they’d fit that bill. the two of you made your way to the bar, sliding onto the cracked vinyl stools as faith flagged down the bartender, a woman with hair too big for her head and a voice like warm molasses.

“two beers and somethin’ strong for my friend here,” faith said, gesturing at you.

“oh no, i—”

“it’s one drink,” faith cut in, brow raised, daring you to argue. “loosen up, promise i wont let you take it too far” and her words truly warmed you, faith would be there. catch you if you fell, made sure you'd be that girl bucky would be okay with at his farm. since when did you start caring about shit like that?

the glass clinked down in front of you, something dark and amber with a faint bite that caught your nose before it even hit your lips. you took a sip. it burned.

faith laughed, raising her bottle toward you. “to bad decisions and girls who don’t listen to their dads.”

“amen,” you said it liked you really felt it a smile growing on your face at the new found friendship, and clinked your glass against hers.

somewhere behind you, a pool ball cracked against another, the music shifted, and the night stretched ahead like a long, winding road you had no business following but damn well would anyway.

[v1kastr4p]

smoke in her lungs, ash on her hands // 1

sevika x fem!reader enemies to lovers

Chapter 1: Smoke, Steel, and the Scent of Lavender

Zaun never truly slept.

The Undercity was alive with the grind of machinery, the hiss of exhaust from shimmer pipes, and the ever-present buzz of life just clinging on. Y/N knew the rhythm of it better than her own pulse. Her boots tapped a staccato rhythm down rusted metal grates as she crossed the narrow bridge into the market district, satchel hanging from her shoulder and curls half-tamed beneath her shawl.

She wasn’t dressed like much—a faded brown wrap, loose pants tucked into weathered boots, her belt jingling slightly from scissors and vials she hadn’t had the chance to put away. Her fingers still smelled of antiseptic and sage from a poultice she’d made that morning. She was tired. She always was. The kind of tired that settled in your marrow and made you crave silence, warmth, something sweet.

But just as she turned down a quieter alley, she saw it.

Blood. Not pooled—dripped. Fresh. Bright arterial red.

It led behind a stack of rotting crates behind an abandoned shimmer lab, the stench of chemical burn thick in the air. She stepped forward slowly, instinct overriding reason. Her breath caught in her throat as she spotted the collapsed form behind the crates—sprawled out in a patch of oil, breathing in wet gasps, hands shaking.

He was barely a man, maybe a year or two older than her—Zaun-born, inked across his throat in an old gang brand, his jacket torn and soaked with blood. One arm hung useless, bones shattered and sticking out at the elbow. His face was a mess of bruises, lips split, one eye swollen shut. He looked like death already had its fingers wrapped around his throat.

"Shit," Y/N whispered, already dropping to her knees beside him.

“Don’t…” he gasped, flinching. “She’s… she’ll come back.”

“Not if I get you out of here in time,” she snapped, already unfastening her satchel, eyes scanning the damage.

The boy was half-conscious, too far gone to resist when she jabbed him with a painkiller and started bandaging his wounds, wrapping tight with surgical gauze and splinting his arm with metal scrap from the alley. He didn’t speak again.

She carried him the whole way back—5’3” of sheer willpower and adrenaline, dragging his nearly dead weight through side alleys and rat tunnels until she made it to her little home, tucked beneath a collapsed chem processing plant. Her clinic was crude but clean. Handmade tables, glass bottles lined neatly on wood shelves. She patched him up in silence, sweat sticking curls to her cheeks as her hands moved with practiced speed.

She never asked names. Never gave hers.

That was how she survived.

But Sevika wasn’t a woman who liked surprises.

The lab was still smoking when she arrived—long strides, coat sweeping behind her, metal arm humming with leftover fury. She stepped over corpses, crushed canisters, the smell of burnt flesh and melted steel curling in her nostrils.

“Where the fuck is he?” she snarled, kicking over a half-destroyed desk.

“He was here,” one of her scouts muttered. “Didn’t die here though. Got dragged out. There's... tracks.”

Sevika’s nostrils flared.

He shouldn’t have lived.

He had information.

Schematics. Formulas. Shit his gang wasn’t supposed to know. Silco had sent her to erase the problem—clean and silent. But now the problem had legs again, and worse: a story to tell.

Her fury bubbled under her skin like a second pulse.

It didn’t take long to find the trail.

Zaun whispered. Someone had seen a curly-haired girl in a brown wrap hauling a body through the industrial quarter. Sevika followed the scent of antiseptic and blood, boots echoing through the old tunnels, until she found the place—small, barely a shack, tucked into the skeleton of a broken factory. Too neat. Too quiet.

She didn’t knock.

The door crashed open under her boot, slamming against the wall.

Inside, Y/N jumped.

She was tying off a linen wrap around her wrist when the door burst open, light from outside slashing across her face. She turned sharply, curls spilling over her shoulder, eyes wide and dark and startled.

“What the hell—?” she began, but stopped.

Because the woman that stepped into her home wasn’t just anyone.

Sevika was massive. Steel-arm massive. Her presence sucked the air from the room. Smoke clung to her coat. Her eyes were metal—sharp, narrowed, set in a face carved from anger and war. Every inch of her said: I kill for a living.

“You,” Sevika growled.

“Me?” The younger woman blinked, setting the bandage aside.

Sevika was already across the room in two strides. Her metal arm shoved her hard—not even full force, just a warning. But it was enough. Y/N stumbled, catching herself on the edge of a shelf as glass vials rattled violently.

“You patch him up?” Sevika spat. “That rat with the broken arm?”

“He was bleeding out,” Y/N said, heart hammering but voice steady. “He needed help.”

“He needed to die.”

Y/N's jaw clenched. “That’s not my decision to make. I don’t choose sides—I treat whoever walks in needing help.”

Sevika’s mouth curled into something cold. Her voice dropped low and venomous. “You think this is a fucking charity? That bastard had intel. Dangerous intel. The kind that starts wars. You think you’re helping? You're giving them ammunition."

“I’m giving them a chance to live,” Y/N snapped.

Wrong move.

Sevika was in her face in a heartbeat, breath hot with rage, steel fingers curling like she was fighting the urge to grab her by the throat. Y/N refused to back down, though every inch of her trembled.

“You just made my job harder. And I don’t like that, sweetheart.”

“Don’t call me that,” Y/N said, voice cracking like fire over frost. “And maybe if your job involves murdering bleeding people in alleys, someone should make it harder.”

A beat of silence.

Then Sevika laughed. A low, dangerous thing. No mirth in it—just disbelief.

“You’ve got balls, I’ll give you that,” she said, circling her slowly like a predator. “But you just interfered in my business. You don’t get to cry innocence when that comes back to bite you.”

“I’m not innocent,” Y/N said quietly. “But I swore to help people. I don't ask what gang they belong to.”

Sevika stopped. Turned.

And for the first time, she looked at the girl.

Really looked.

Not at the shawl. Not at the clinic. At her.

Young, maybe mid twenties. Too soft for this world. But eyes like tempered steel, and a stubborn fire in her that hadn’t been stamped out yet. Sevika had expected some old crone, a babbling alchemist, a medtech dropout with more ambition than brains.

Not this.

Not dimples and defiance in the same breath.

She hated how surprised she was.

“You keep this shit up,” Sevika said, voice a low rumble, “you’re gonna end up dead. You hear me? Someone’s gonna gut you just to make a point.”

“Then they’ll have to try harder,” Y/N said.

Another beat.

And Sevika stepped back.

Not much. But just enough.

She tilted her head, cracked her neck like a wolf losing interest—for now.

“I see you patch him up again,” she said coldly, “I’ll come back. And next time, I won’t just shove you.”

“I won’t stop doing my job,” Y/N said, lifting her chin. “Even if you threaten me.”

Sevika’s smirk was dark. “Yeah. I figured.”

She turned and walked out, the door creaking in her wake, heavy boots thudding into the distance.

Y/N exhaled. Hard.

Her knees buckled as soon as the sound of footsteps vanished.

And yet, even as her hands shook, even as she went to pick up the vials that had fallen from the shelf… she couldn’t get those silver eyes out of her head.

Or the way Sevika had looked at her.

Like a warning. Like a promise. Like a storm just beginning to form on the horizon.

next part

[witchthewriter]

"𝑰𝒕 𝒊𝒔 𝒏𝒐 𝒃𝒂𝒅 𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒕𝒐 𝒄𝒆𝒍𝒆𝒃𝒓𝒂𝒕𝒆 𝒂 𝒔𝒊𝒎𝒑𝒍𝒆 𝒍𝒊𝒇𝒆."— J.R.R. Tolkien

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐋𝐢𝐟𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐚 𝐇𝐨𝐛𝐛𝐢𝐭. ⋆.˚📜..𓂃 ִֶָ🪶་༘

Homely, Affectionate, & Hospitable.

Hobbits, also known as Halflings, were a mortal race of Middle-earth. Though their exact origins are unclear, they were initially found in the northern regions of Middle-earth and below the Vales of Anduin. 

𝑻𝒚𝒑𝒆𝒔 𝒐𝒇 𝑯𝒐𝒃𝒃𝒊𝒕𝒔

The Harfoots were the most common Hobbits. They were smaller and shorter than the other kinds and had browner skin.

The Stoors often chose to live near water or on flat land. They were broader and heavier in build than the other Hobbits and their feet and hands were larger.

The Fallohides, who preferred trees and woodland, were the least common variety of Hobbits. They had fairer skin and hair and were taller and slimmer than the others.

𝑫𝒊𝒇𝒇𝒆𝒓𝒆𝒏𝒕 𝑷𝒍𝒂𝒄𝒆𝒔 𝒇𝒐𝒓 𝒂 𝑯𝒐𝒃𝒃𝒊𝒕 𝒕𝒐 𝒍𝒊𝒗𝒆:

𝑇𝘩𝜀 𝑆𝘩𝜄𝑟𝜀 – A patchwork of meadows, gardens, and green hills. Here, Hobbit-holes nestle beneath the earth like hidden worlds; round doors painted in soft tones, fragrant gardens blooming with marigold, lavender, and thyme. Life here is neighborly and known: bells chime for tea, and gossip drifts like birdsong through open windows.

𝐵𝑟𝜀𝜀– For the slightly braver Hobbit. Bree is a bustling town at the crossroads of travelers. Life is messier but exciting. You might run a bakery near the Prancing Pony or trade gossip with a Dúnedain ranger while hanging up your laundry.

𝛤𝜄𝜈𝜀𝜋𝜕𝜀𝑙𝑙– For the odd Hobbit scholar or dreamer. Here, under moonlit waterfalls and whispering trees, a Hobbit might study Elvish lore, eat in peace, and keep an herb garden of rare flowers passed down by Elven hands.

𝑀𝜄𝜋𝛼𝑠 𝑇𝜄𝑟𝜄𝜏𝘩 – A white-stone city where only the most adventurous or learned Hobbits dwell. They live in quiet corners of the city, often near libraries or bakeries with honey cakes.

𝑊𝜄𝑙𝜕𝜀𝑟𝜋𝜀𝑠𝑠 𝐻𝜎𝑚𝜀𝑠𝜏𝜀𝛼𝜕 – The recluse. A Hobbit who lives near Lake Evendim or deep in the Southfarthing, alone but content. Their burrow is overgrown with ivy, and they speak more often to birds than to people.

𝑻𝒉𝒆𝒊𝒓 𝑳𝒊𝒇𝒆𝒔𝒕𝒚𝒍𝒆:

Most Hobbits enjoy farming, food, ale, parties and the giving and receiving of presents. Their lifestyle is quite laid-back, as they preferred a quiet, normal, and peaceful life.

A Hobbit's lifestyle is deeply rooted in routine.

Especially when it comes to food.

Breakfast. 7:00–8:00 AM Usually hot and hearty. For example, eggs, sausages, porridge with cream, buttered toast, mushrooms, stewed apples, and strong tea. It’s the foundation of the day.

Second Breakfast. 9:00–9:30 AM A lighter snack to keep energy up before labour or walking. Baked goods (scones, seedcakes), fruit, or leftover meat pies. Often eaten outdoors while tending the garden.

Elevenses – 11:00 AM A midmorning break similar to English "elevenses". Think biscuits, honey cakes, sweet buns, and more tea. It’s also a social hour; Hobbits often pause and chat here.

Luncheon – 12:30 PM A proper midday meal. Roasted chicken, cheeses, pickled vegetables, potato salad, fresh bread, and ale. Often shared communally or enjoyed in a shady spot under a tree.

Afternoon Tea – 3:00–4:00 PM Their most ritualized meal. Always includes tea -herbal or strong black- and a selection of tarts, jams, buttered scones, and fruits. Often accompanied by storytelling or knitting.

Dinner – 5:30–6:00 PM One of the main events. It is the definition of a hearty meal: stews, roasted meats, mashed vegetables, gravy, thick crust pies, and lots of bread with butter. Sometimes includes entertainment. eg., song, pipe smoke, and music.

Supper – 8:00–9:00 PM A cosy closing meal. Light stew, soup, or leftover from dinner. Sometimes sweets like custard or berry crumble. Eaten in slippers, by the fire.

MORNINGS: are for foraging and breakfast(s). AFTERNOONS: are for gardening, napping, wood-carving, or sewing by the fire. EVENINGS: are for long chats over tea, pipe-smoking, and songs sung softly in well-worn armchairs.

They treasure comfort, but not idleness. Their hands are always busy; baking pies, mending things, tending to bees. Joy is found in the making of life.

𝑳𝒊𝒇𝒆𝒔𝒑𝒂𝒏:

Most Hobbits lived longer life spans than Men, a race of which they might have been an off-shoot. The average lifespan of a Hobbit was about 100 years, though it was not unusual for a Hobbit to live as many as three decades beyond that. Hobbits reach maturity at 33. Thus, a 50-year-old Hobbit would only be middle-aged.

 They also have developed a keen taste in the smoking of Pipe-weed and blowing smoke rings.

𝑹𝒐𝒎𝒂𝒏𝒕𝒊𝒄 𝑨𝒔𝒑𝒆𝒄𝒕𝒔:

A hobbit in love is slow-growing and deep-rooted.

Courtship often begins with gift-giving; a hand-written recipe, a fresh loaf of bread or cake, a flower tucked into a coat. They don’t rush into love, but once it happens, they are steadfast. You’ll never want for warmth, nor for a second helping.

They prefer monogamy, and marry for life, forming quiet, strong partnerships where devotion is shown in action; sharing the last slice of pie, warming your feet by the fire, building a home together brick by brick.

Some Hobbit lovers are shy and blushy; others are bold as brass. But all are sincere.

𝑯𝒐𝒃𝒃𝒊𝒕 𝑯𝒐𝒃𝒃𝒊𝒆𝒔:

Gardening (especially root vegetables and herbs)

Pipe-smoking

Letter writing and keeping family records

Cooking and baking

Carving, embroidery, weaving

Folk dancing, fiddle playing, drinking songs

Birdwatching and mushroom hunting

Everything they do is an expression of home, of patience, and of gentle pride.

𝑭𝒂𝒄𝒕𝒔:

Not all, but most Hobbits cannot swim & do not like water

Every Hobbit family has a “genealogy book” kept meticulously up to date. They are obsessed with ancestry.

They give gifts to others on their own birthday, not the other way around.

Their love letters are often scented with pressed flowers or wrapped in ribbon.

"𝐻𝑜𝑏𝑏𝑖𝑡𝑠 𝑟𝑒𝑎𝑙𝑙𝑦 𝑎𝑟𝑒 𝑎𝑚𝑎𝑧𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑐𝑟𝑒𝑎𝑡𝑢𝑟𝑒𝑠, 𝑎𝑠 𝐼 ℎ𝑎𝑣𝑒 𝑠𝑎𝑖𝑑 𝑏𝑒𝑓𝑜𝑟𝑒. 𝑌𝑜𝑢 𝑐𝑎𝑛 𝑙𝑒𝑎𝑟𝑛 𝑎𝑙𝑙 𝑡ℎ𝑎𝑡 𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑟𝑒 𝑖𝑠 𝑡𝑜 𝑘𝑛𝑜𝑤 𝑎𝑏𝑜𝑢𝑡 𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑖𝑟 𝑤𝑎𝑦𝑠 𝑖𝑛 𝑎 𝑚𝑜𝑛𝑡ℎ, 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑦𝑒𝑡 𝑎𝑓𝑡𝑒𝑟 𝑎 ℎ𝑢𝑛𝑑𝑟𝑒𝑑 𝑦𝑒𝑎𝑟𝑠 𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑦 𝑐𝑎𝑛 𝑠𝑡𝑖𝑙𝑙 𝑠𝑢𝑟𝑝𝑟𝑖𝑠𝑒 𝑦𝑜𝑢 𝑎𝑡 𝑎 𝑝𝑖𝑛𝑐ℎ." —Gandalf, in The Fellowship of the Ring

𝑪𝒓𝒆𝒅𝒊𝒕 𝒇𝒐𝒓 𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒔 𝒈𝒐𝒆𝒔 𝒕𝒐: @fictionzet. Thank you for reaching out and inspiring me to do this! It's definitely going to be a series for the Races, places and events of Middle Earth!

[delilahsturniolo]

⟡ ݁₊ welcome to the end of the world! (please leave your sanity at the door.)

𝒊𝒏 𝒘𝒉𝒊𝒄𝒉 . . . four friends: nick, matt, chris, and you—find themselves stuck together at the end of the world, trying to survive a zombie apocalypse with nothing but their wits, a questionable supply of snacks, and zero emotional maturity. you’re just trying to stay alive without losing your mind—or falling for someone on the team.

𝒘𝒂𝒓𝒏𝒊𝒏𝒈𝒔 . . . violence, use of guns, kissing.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN: THE END OF THE WORLD, AND THE BEGINNING OF SOMETHING NEW.

read other chapters here!

the bunker is silent. not just quiet, silent. no humming machines, no creaking pipes, no groaning undead. the only sound is your heartbeat thudding in your ears. you walk slowly down the main corridor, matt by your side, weapon raised. nick, chris, and lana trail close behind. each footstep echoes like it doesn’t belong. the lights above you flicker, some dying, some barely hanging on.

“this place looks like a fallout shelter and a hospital had a messy divorce,” nick mutters. “what was this?” you ask quietly. “maybe the safe zone we were chasing,” matt says. “before it was abandoned.” chris hums nervously. “creepy how the world ends and the only thing left standing is a hallway full of bad lighting and regret.” you pause at the next door. swipe your hand across the control panel. it slides open with a low hiss. and what’s inside makes everyone stop.

beds. food. power. medicine. maps. weapons. a stockpile. a miracle. “holy shit,” matt whispers. “we found it.” but something feels off. the air’s stale, like no one’s been here in years. everything is ready, like they prepared for something that never happened. or something that happened too fast. lana walks slowly into the room, hands still clutched around the key. “my dad used to say there were people who knew it was coming. who built places like this. but most of them were cowards. they saved themselves and left the rest of the world to rot.”

her voice doesn’t shake. not anymore. you look at her. really look at her. not just a kid. a survivor. just like you. “what do we do now?” she asks, voice small again. matt’s hand brushes yours. and for a moment, you forget there’s blood in your hair. bruises on your ribs. a scar forming on your shoulder. you just look at him. his voice is low. steady. only for you. “we make something out of it.”

but peace doesn’t last long. the alarm shrieks before you even find the control room. motion detected.

breach: external perimeter.

you all freeze. “they followed us,” matt breathes. “how?!” chris snaps. “we lost them in the woods!”

“they knew this place existed,” you say. “they knew.” you bolt to the monitors, half are dead, but one flickers with a grainy image. the raiders. at the entrance. trying to force the door. lana grabs your arm. “there’s a back exit. a supply tunnel. we can use it to trap them, cut them off from both sides.”

nick nods. “worth a shot.”

“we split up,” matt says. “two teams. one defends, one flanks.” you catch his hand as everyone scrambles. your fingers curl tight into his shirt.“you’re not leaving without me again.” his jaw clenches. he wants to fight you on it. but instead, he nods. once. “together.”

the last fight is ugly. fast. desperate. gunfire echoes through the narrow halls. one raider goes down. then another. but they just keep coming. you and matt move as one, covering each other, watching each other’s backs. you duck. he shoots. he stumbles. you catch him. and when the smoke finally clears, when the last raider falls, bloodied and broken, there’s nothing left but the sound of heavy breathing.

you collapse together against the wall, bodies trembling, hands bloody, hearts thudding like war drums. “you good?” he asks between pants. you nod, tears stinging your eyes. “you?” he laughs. it’s breathless and cracked. “i will be.” and then he grabs you, pulls you in, and kisses you like you’re the last thing keeping him on this planet. it’s messy. desperate. more teeth than grace. but it’s real. you kiss him back like you’ve been waiting for it since the world ended. maybe you have.

later, when everything’s quiet again, you all gather in the main room. lana curls up in one of the beds. chris finally lets lieutenant whiskers nap in his lap. nick fiddles with a radio that may or may not ever work. and you sit with matt, shoulder to shoulder, watching the static on a monitor screen.

“what now?” you ask. he laces his fingers through yours. “we rebuild. we protect each other. we figure it out.” you lean your head on his shoulder. “and if this is it?” he presses a kiss to your hair. “then i’m glad it’s with you.” you smile. broken world. bruised hearts, but still breathing, still together. and maybe, just maybe, that’s enough.

the end.

© delilahsturniolo

💌: hihihi!! i posted an epilogue giving more closure go check it out!!

[lilyinavalley]

𝕷𝖊𝖋𝖙 𝕭𝖊𝖍𝖎𝖓𝖉 - 𝕿𝖆𝖎𝖌𝖆 𝕳𝖔𝖘𝖍𝖎𝖇𝖆𝖒𝖎🐯

ℭ𝔥𝔞𝔭𝔱𝔢𝔯 2 - 𝔗𝔥𝔢 ℜ𝔢𝔰𝔱𝔞𝔲𝔯𝔞𝔫𝔱

Do you want to know what happened with Taiga in the cut scenes of episode 16? Then Check it out...

Taiga Hoshibami x reader Ao3 Ao3 versione italiana Warning! Mildly suggestive Contents! flirting, drinking, smoking, kissing, rough kissing, gentle kissing, dancing, making out [Masterlist]

Taiga: “So why don’t you just stay here, kitty-cat?”

“Stay here?”

Taiga: “Time moves faster in here, doesn’t it? How long do you have left before you kick the bucket?”

“A little over three months…”

Taiga: “Then it’s thirty months if you spend them here. In the meantime, those henchmen outside can rack their brains trying to find a way to fix you. You just stay curled up in here and wait, kitty-cat. Smart idea, huh?”

“I don’t think it’s right to just sit around waiting without trying to find a solution myself.”

Taiga: “You really think you can do something? It won’t matter whether you’re there or not. Try as hard as you want, but what’s meant to be will be.”

He puts an arm around my shoulders, pulling me closer to whisper in my ear.

Taiga: “So? Don’t think about it. Just stay here with me.”

“Here with you…”

(If I stay here, I’ll have more time…)

(But… he’s right.)

“Would you really be okay with me staying here with you?”

He looks me in the eyes with an unreadable expression, holding my gaze for so long that time itself seems to slow down.

I try to meet his eyes, but the steam from the kitchen mixed with the smoke from the other patrons’ cigarettes starts to sting.

I blink to moisten my eyes, and by the time my vision clears, Taiga has already looked away. The answer to my question is, definitively, silence.

His lack of confirmation fills me with bitterness. After all, from his perspective, a life with me must seem terribly boring. Of course he wasn’t serious. Not to mention, I can’t live forever in this artificial city.

I reach for the tokkuri still full of sake that Taiga had ordered, but before I can even touch it, he beats me to it and starts pouring the drink into my cup, then into his.

We both raise our ceramic sakazuki and drink the sake in one gulp. The characteristic burn of the alcohol warms my throat and relaxes my nerves.

“You know, Taiga, we’ve known each other for a while now, and I’ve been meaning to ask you something.”

This time, I pour the sake for both of us. Without waiting for a reply, I continue, gently swirling the liquid in my cup.

“You know something no one else does, right? And I’m not talking about secrets… but the future. You often act like you already know what’s going to happen, yet you don’t do anything to change the course of events. Instead, you go on acting carefree, like nothing you do matters, and the outcome will be the same no matter what.”

I sip the drink more slowly, glancing at him sideways. He keeps his eyes fixed on the cook juggling pans in the kitchen, his head lazily resting on the back of his hand.

(You really don’t like saying what’s on your mind, huh?)

I huff and, still waiting for any reaction from him, I down a few more cups of sake. When I feel the alcohol hitting a bit too hard, I set the cup down on the counter and nibble on some kataifi shrimp from one of the many dishes in front of us.

Taiga: “You’re right. I can predict the future.”

His sudden statement throws me off. I turn toward him, eyes wide.

He pulls a Chinese pipe from his jacket pocket, lights the tobacco with a match, and brings it to his lips. A puff of white smoke drifts out, reaching me too.

He lowers the slim gold-and-wood stem from his mouth and leans in dangerously close. The intense smell of burnt tobacco floods my nose.

Taiga: “Want proof?”

His gaze is too intense, his lips too close, my heart beating way too fast.

(I really shouldn’t have drunk so much…)

“Okay, show me.”

I look at him expectantly. He brings the golden tip of the pipe back to his lips, squints playfully, and smokes deliberately slowly.

Once the last wisp of smoke escapes between his sharp teeth, he places his free hand on my cheek, rubbing my cheekbone in gentle circles with his thumb.

Taiga: “Now I’m going to try to kiss you, and you’re going to slap me in disgust.”

His serious look vanishes as quickly as it came. He bursts into loud laughter, even doubling over with a hand on his stomach. The hand on my cheek slaps the counter repeatedly. I must look completely stunned — as do the other customers who’ve turned around at the commotion.

(Very funny, truly hilarious.)

He begins to calm down after a full minute. When he finally stops laughing, he throws his head back, catches his breath, and looks at me again with a mocking grin.

Taiga: “Ahhh, teasing you is way too much fun, ki—”

Before he can finish the sentence, I grab his shoulders and capture his lips with mine.

At first, Taiga freezes, but when I run the tip of my tongue along his lower lip, he responds with a breath-stealing hunger.

He sets the pipe down on the counter, grabs the back of my neck with one hand and wraps the other arm around my waist, pulling me toward him. I slide off the stool and in an instant, I’m pressed against his chest, positioned between his open legs.

He doesn’t give me a moment to breathe. He kisses me like he wants to devour me — merciless, overwhelming, almost intimidating.

When I feel I truly need air, I push him away firmly.

(I don’t want to die of asphyxiation ahead of schedule.)

Just before our lips part completely, he nibbles on my lower lip, teasing the sensitive skin with his sharp teeth—gently enough not to draw blood.

I open my eyes and find Taiga breathless, eyes shining. The Chinese lanterns above us cast a golden light across his sharp features, highlighting the faint blush creeping from beneath his eyes to the tips of his ears.

Taiga: “You surprised me, kitty-cat. Didn’t think you had it in you.”

(Neither did I… I definitely drank too much.)

But letting go isn’t so bad after all. Taiga’s right. In a few months, I might not even be alive anymore. What’s the point in holding back? Better to make bold choices than die full of regrets.

“I could still surprise you.”

The hand that had been resting at the back of my neck slides up, fingers threading through my hair. His black-polished nails tickle my scalp, sending a shiver of pleasure down my spine, ending in a soft moan.

Then his hand pulls away and the strands fall softly over my shoulders. He continues playing with my hair, running it through his fingers.

The laughter from the men playing Mahjong, the clinking of silverware, and the murmur of other diners create a carefree, lively atmosphere I haven’t experienced in a long time.

Taiga turns toward the others with a slight smile.

Taiga: “See? It’s not so bad here, after all.”

He picks up the pipe he’d left on the table and brings it back to his lips.

Temptation wraps around me like ivy—climbing my limbs, curling in my hair. Once it takes root, it’s hard to pull out. It suffocates you until you vanish from the world’s sight.

(No… I can’t stay here.)

“They say some things are beautiful because they don’t last. I think that no matter how fascinating Shi San Long is, even you would get bored eventually. Besides, if you stay here, who’ll run Sinostra’s casino?”

I say with extreme irony.

Taiga: “Ahhh, you’re right. Who’ll spend all of Lulù’s money in gambling?”

We both burst into a liberating laugh.

Taiga pulls me close again, wrapping an arm around my shoulders. Still smiling, he rubs his nose against mine and whispers:

Taiga: “Kitty-cat, come with me. Let’s have some fun before we leave this place.”

(As if he hasn’t been doing his own thing since we got to this city…)

When we step out of the restaurant, it’s already late at night. The narrow alleys of this district are bathed in the neon lights of various shops.

This hour belongs to the youth, who hang out for a good time. The streets are full of laughing groups, couples holding hands and hurrying—likely on their way home.

Taiga keeps me close with an arm around my waist. Together we weave through the twisted alleys of Shi San Long, trying not to bump into people.

(Mostly to spare the poor souls from Taiga.)

The evening breeze tousles our hair. Taiga’s long ponytail, which magically appeared with his clothes when we crossed the door, sways gently with the wind.

Without thinking, I reach out and grab the ponytail, letting it slide across my palm.

Taiga: “Do you like me with long hair? If you say yes, I might consider growing it out when we get back.”

He pulls me even closer, pressing my abdomen to his side.

Not intimidated, I take the initiative too, wrapping my arms around his neck.

“Didn’t you want to have fun? Come with me.”

I grab his hand and pull him into a place that looks like a nightclub. We descend a dark staircase; with every step, the muffled music grows louder.

At the bottom, I open a heavy black door and we’re greeted by a room packed with people swaying to the beat — hot bodies intertwined under strobe lights.

Without hesitation, I pay for two entries and rush with Taiga into the center of the dance floor.

We’re so tightly packed that we barely have space to move. I start swaying to the pounding rhythm while he stands still, his face masked in flickering darkness.

I turn my back to him, grab his arms, and wrap them around me. With my hands over his, I start guiding him with my body.

Finally, he begins to move too, sliding his hands along my hips, up and down my curves. I let my head fall back onto his firm chest.

Our heated gazes meet, and I turn back toward him.

I cup his face, rest my forehead against his, and we keep dancing like that—noses brushing, his hands exploring my shoulders, then down, tracing my waistline with his thumbs, lower, and lower… stopping on my rear.

I close my eyes and give in to the moment. I focus on the music rattling my eardrums, his body pressed against mine, and his scorching breath brushing my lips.

When I open my eyes again, a new song is playing—more upbeat this time. The crowd moves more frenetically, and we nearly get separated.

We get swept up in the energy, and Taiga grabs my hand, raises it, and spins me. Then he pulls me close to his chest, leaning in toward my ear.

Taiga: “Having fun, kitty-cat?”

He shouts to rise above the deafening music.

“Yes.”

I dance until I’m exhausted, until every joint aches, until my skin is soaked with sweat and my hair sticks to my forehead.

Drained, I collapse into Taiga’s arms—he hasn’t left me for a second.

“Let’s get some air.”

Without another word, we head for the exit.

Compared to when we arrived, the street is much emptier now—it must be really late.

I lean against a wall and let myself slide down to the ground.

“Ahh, I’m so exhausted. Can we go back to the inn?”

Taiga remains standing in front of me with his arms crossed.

Taiga: “I want to go somewhere first.”

“Alright, but wait a sec—”

Without giving me a moment to rest, he lifts me up, tosses me into the air, and catches me in his arms, one supporting my back and the other under my knees.

“Again?! Taiga, you have to stop throwing me into the air!”

He answers with a satisfied laugh and then jumps onto a trash bin.

“Where are we going?!”

I scream in fear, but I’m completely ignored, as instead of answering, Taiga is too busy doing parkour over pipes, balconies, and air conditioner vents, apparently trying to climb to the top of a building.

(Ahh, I give up.)

I wrap my arms around his neck and close my eyes, hiding my head on his shoulder, trying not to think about the reckless leaps he’s making dozens of meters above the ground.

Taiga: “Don’t be scared, open your eyes, kitty.”

He says this once we’ve come to a complete stop, still holding me in his arms.

I open my eyes hesitantly and loose the tight grip I had on him, almost choking him.

The view takes my breath away—we’re on the tallest building in Shi San Long. The city stretches out for miles below us like a spiderweb. You can clearly distinguish the dimly lit residential areas and the nightlife districts, glowing like tiny worlds of light in a universe that is still asleep.

“It’s beautiful.”

Taiga lets me go, and I walk toward the edge of the rooftop. The air is much crisper up here—a cold shiver runs up my spine and spreads to my arms, which I quickly cross over my chest to try and gather a bit of warmth.

Taiga: “Doesn’t seeing everything from up here make you feel invincible?”

He doesn’t offer me his jacket, but he does pull me into a hug from behind.

“So we came up here just to inflate your ego?”

A smile softens my expression, and another loud laugh makes his chest shake. I finally start to feel a little warmer.

I turn around and wrap my arms around Taiga.

“Thank you.”

I stand on my tiptoes and kiss him.

I kiss him lightly, trying to express all the gratitude I feel for these moments of peace he’s given me.

I kiss him passionately, so he can feel the fire that runs through my veins every time he touches me.

And then I kiss him tenderly, because I’m not ready yet to put a name to the feelings that tickle my heart every time we’re together.

When I pull away, I look into his eyes without saying a word.

A single tear falls down my cheek and disappears into the darkness of the night.

The Room <-PREVIOUS NEXT-> The Walk

Dividers by: @dollywons and @strangergraphics-archive

[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

[candiedspit]

SARAH & THE GREAT BIG NOTHING

The world was against me that summer; all the worries hung on my back like a bag of rice, a monkey that kept banging his golden cymbals in my ears. There wasn’t much on my plate. A few numbers at work, an email or two. The parents calling from New Hampshire. The rosebuds are so delicate in the sunlight. And the garden, you’ve got to see the garden. I worried about the worms in the rain. I worried about the pollution in the skies. I worried most about the girl I was seeing who was lost in the dark woods. I felt zapped even saying her name out loud. 

Sarah, my statuette shrouded in deep mist. I loved her on the moon. I loved her in the wobbling Ferris wheel train at Coney Island. But she was lost, more than most. When I touched her, I was reading braille. I couldn’t explain it well when Edwardo–the only friend I had, the only person I felt comfortable talking to, everyone else was alien and couldn’t ward off evils as he could–asked about what she was like. Sarah was a man at dusk staring into the heaving bleeding sunrise. Sarah was a chandelier fallen to the ground, the shrieking and the clunks of glass. Sarah was a year older than I was and wore her age like a purse dog. There was a stock market crassness about the way she dressed. I saw her in long silk skirts and delicate dresses, golden bangles and purple tights. But when we spoke, she turned small. 

They would have put me in the freak show, I told her once as we laid on my carpet, naked and smelling of listerine and sex. If they could see me prancing in the fields, I’d be put in some kind of hospital. 

Sure, but you’re alright, she told me. I’m the one with the second head, the cranium sawed in half and screaming about comedians and smoking Cambodian scent out of a pipe. I’m barely alive. I can’t speak. I’d have to be thrown into a cage until the speech came back like starved dogs to a piece of chicken on the road. Do you know? That feeling?

What feeling? I asked, watching the fan spin in endless circles above us. 

It was Sunday evening, and the upcoming week mocked me. The burnt coffee machine and the quiet politics that came along with typing numbers in an office with other broken people. Anna hands me paperclips and winks. Anna is nothing. Anna is blonde dust. But during her lunch break, Anna turns herself on with fantasies of poking me with a pen, the blue crooked mark the pen might leave. 

The feeling that the room might shatter beneath you, Sarah said. That the drinks might spill and you’ll be the clown everyone knew you were. And through the windows the sun is dark and depressed, hardly hanging there. That everything is black? That you can try and slash through the trough of green, the huge leaves, the warfare. But you’ll be left alone in a field, dumbly holding a gun you don’t know how to use. And the nation doesn’t know your name. That someone is smoking in the theatre? That everything is delicate and you might make the wrong movement. 

What do you do with that feeling? I asked, removing an eyelash from her cheek with my fingers. 

She was a red-head. She had long arms. She played piano in clubs, sometimes. And did makeup for stage actors other times. She had her things. I had my things. I liked the time we spent together, but I never wanted to leave. What’s another day? A couple? The numbers could wait. The numbers would always be there. I wanted to keep her with me on a keychain, in my coat pocket. I asked her for a piece of her hair and I kept it in a love box on my coffee table. Sometimes, I smelled it when I needed peace. It was often that I needed peace. My little red princess. Only she could dial the sound down. Only she could win the game. I needed her like I needed seasons. 

I like to drink about it, she said. It’s awful but I love the wobbles, the holding of walls, the dribble of flavorful laughter about nothing. I love anything like that. I tried being a monk. I held myself in the apartment for twenty one days eating nothing but saltines and tuna, writing down what I felt in a notepad, meditated and waited for the rush of elevation. 

Did it come? I asked. 

That’s the thing, she said. I did my best and nothing happened. I couldn’t defeat the beast. So, I tried the opposite. I went to bars and fucked in Times Square, in some green-lit bathroom. I drank until I couldn’t see. I did pills that made me forget days. I let someone stick a needle in my arm. But the beast would not leave. I have a beast and I must live with him. And Frankie? 

I looked into her eyes, the color of a clean pool table. I was touching her stomach and felt her voice travel through her skin. 

Yes? 

I think you have a beast, too. 

I thought about this. The nothing I felt. I went to Japan once. And felt nothing among the bright, dirty lights and the live squid in my mouth. And felt nothing most of the time. An ailment?

Hm, I said. What are we to do about this? 

Things like this need patience. And acceptance. Have the moments. Go to the lake when it’s frozen and worry that you might fall through. Go to the woods and run your hand over the wild moss. Go to Russia and listen to the foreign, beautiful language. But understand that it is not within you to feel these things. You are a glass. You are meant to be filled and then emptied again. It is painful. It is a ring of hell. But there’s beauty in it, too. 

I love you, I said. That is one thing that I know for sure. 

And I do too, she said. But we’re going to live long and empty lives. Are you ready? 

I nodded. And kissed her chin and kissed her stomach and legs and ankles. I loved her scent, like marmalade and a cold sweat. 

In the years ahead, we made snow angels and broke mirrors and swam in the black oceans and dressed like royalty and begged on the street and watched the neons of every sunset and lived in a farmhouse and ate lollipops in South America and saw plays and took cabs and dressed like clowns at funerals and I loved her and I loved her and we never beat the beast but we gave him a rough time. At the end, I buried her first, then went home and ate a bullet. 

It was the best thing I ever did.

[serpentface]

How do the Wardi like their tobacco? Smoked in a pipe, in a room, a classic cig? They've got so many different kinds too, is the use commonplace or more just for certain occasions/people?

The variety of smoke delivery methods stem in part from the biggest external cultural influences/movements of people into the region. The proto-Finnic and proto-Wardi peoples both had long established use of smoking pipes prior to first contact, though the former mostly made pipes from bone or wood and the latter mostly made pipes from bone or clay (the former also Probably brought cultivated tobacco with them as they dispersed, but this strain appears to have gone extinct and smoking broülje (adapted as ‘birolge’) is now preferred amongst most Chenahyeigi-speaking peoples). Burri influence introduced the concept of the cigar/cigarillo, either smoked on its own or with a bone/wood/clay/reed/metal holder, though the leaves of the native janaët are a little too small for neat wrapping and this never fully caught on. Yuroma migrants brought traditions of reed or wooden tubes that were stuffed with the ground leaves and smoked that way, often elaborately carved and/or decorated with beads.

First: Ceramic pipe shaped like a man smoking a pipe shaped like a man smoking a pipe. Second: Ceramic pipe shaped like the front half of a khait. Third: Simple painted wood pipe with 'legs'. Fourth: Imported Burri cigar and holder made to resemble maize (top view). Fifth: Yuroma style beaded reed pipe, meant to be stuffed with tobacco for smoking. Can also double as a cigarillo holder.

The most common Wardi smoke delivery method is still the pipe, usually ceramic, wood, horn, or bone. The typical style is long and straight, with even the simplest pipes usually having ‘legs’ so they can rest upright and potentially double as incense burners. Ceramic pipes with decorative figurative elements are popular but very fragile, often reserved for special occasions or to be used as grave goods. These are intended to be smoked with two hands to support the bottom-heavy weight, and are too fragile to transport and usually kept at home. The simple but effective reed tube has become increasingly popular (mostly among peasantry) for its ease of transportation, and the practice of carving and beading reed pipes is retained in the Erubinnosi subculture. The highest quality imported Burri tobaccos are transported already in cigar form. These are luxury items and usually smoked with holders, which are status symbols/fashion items/potential backup weapons in Bur but mostly novelties here.

As mentioned in the other post, tobacco is considered to be a potent medicinal herb that energizes the body and calms the mind via ‘strengthening’ the heartbeat and encouraging healthy bloodflow, and used in a large number of medical treatments. It is commonly chewed for energy during physical labor, which is also considered a medicinal use (though is often functionally recreational). There’s no proscriptions against purely recreational use, though non-medicinal smoking of tobacco is intended to be something worked into the schedule/formal occasions/social life rather than something you do whenever the hell you feel like it, and a degree of thoughtfulness, moderation, and gratitude in this act is expected.

Recreational smoking usually occurs in the evening after daily bathing, and is considered to be a social activity and mildly weird to do alone. Sharing a pipe is a common ice-breaker with strangers, often being used to initiate formal meetings and introductions. It is most commonly done after dinner (considered to help aid digestion) while still seated with one’s family/guests, with a pipe being passed around to everyone present (aside from very small children, though most people allow their kids to at least Try to take a drag starting around the age of 5). One of the expectations of hospitality in the as hachoäm code of virtue (will get to a post about that someday) is that tobacco (or broülje) should be offered to guests along with food and wine.

Tobacco is usually smoked with full inhalation, rendered less severe for recreational use via cutting with other herbs. Most tobacco blends include pleasant smelling dried herbs and flowers, commonly camiche, rose, lavender, or catnip. Medicinal blends are often cut with other herbs too as necessary, though you're rarely going to be lucky enough to be prescribed something that smells good and goes down smoothly.

There’s a grand total of 10ish strains of tobacco (from three total different species) at least Accessible via trade, though only a few are actually grown here on any significant scale. Most of these are received from Bur and from the Dehiamenmanwe league of Yuroma city-states, though other tobaccos are Occasionally obtained from other eastern seaway/White Sea traders. The imported strains vary in expense/ease of acquisition from ‘special occasion for a commoner’ to ‘special occasion for nobility’. Most Yuroma-derived strains are the former (many of them can be grown here, though not at enough scale to meet demand) and all of the Burri-derived strains are the latter (none grow well here and are almost exclusively acquired as imports). Accessibility also depends on whether you live in/adjacent to a coastal city that receives these trade goods. If you live far inland and away from any major river/land trade route, smoking foreign tobacco is likely to be a once in a lifetime occurrence, if ever.

Two separate Nicotiana species are grown in and imported by Bur. The zhisequi tobacco is native in part to Kosov. It has a higher nicotine content than janaët but is not Overwhelmingly strong, with most users finding it to be potently energizing while also having a calming mental effect. It is mostly used recreationally, though it is also assigned the same (but Stronger) medicinal effects to janaët. It’s pretty expensive even IN Bur (largely a hot-summer mediterranean climate) because it only grows well in year-round humid conditions (such as the montane forests found in parts of Kosov), and is an a luxury item in Wardin. The average person (on the coasts) can afford to smoke it maybe once a year AT MOST, and it’s commonly reserved for new year’s celebrations. It’s more accessible to the nobility, but even then is treated as a special-occasion smoke, with janaët being more appropriate for everyday use.

Choqui tobacco is from the tropics, though arrived in Bur several hundred years ago and is now the most widely cultivated form of tobacco there. It adapts well to these subtropical conditions and can handle cool winters, but cannot survive wholly dry summers and is thus very difficult to cultivate in Wardin on more than tiny scales. It has a Very high nicotine content and taking a hit will generally cause a notable head rush, which a lot of the Wardi populace finds unpleasant and thus will extensively cut it down with other herbs. The fact that most Wardi smokers’ first instinct in trying a choqui cigar will be to take a full lungful and then almost DIE tends to be found very funny (the typical Burri method of smoking is to work through a cigar slowly, and the smoke is sucked into the mouth rather than inhaled). Choqui is notable for being the only tobacco widely recognized as having negative effects on pregnancies (this is not usually attributed to other tobaccos). In both Bur and Wardin, its use is discouraged during pregnancy, or alternatively Prescribed along with abortifacient herbs to better the chances of miscarriage when abortion is desired. This one is cheaper than zhisequi, but still much too expensive for frequent use and treated as a luxury.

The Yuroma city states have a very long history and wide scale of tobacco cultivation and have developed a variety of strains (originally derived from the same species as the janaët), some of which can be grown in parts of Wardin and some of which are too humidity-dependent and mostly received as imports. The Dehiamenmanwe league of city-states is the only one Wardin trades with on a regular basis, which supplies most of this tobacco (as well as, more importantly, turmeric and ginger).

The most popular Yuroma tobacco strains are uugai yashet (‘rice tobacco’) and uugai imeshli (‘horse tobacco’). Some of the former was first brought here by Yuroma migrants (along with rice itself) and is still widely grown in the semi-permanent marshlands around Erubinnos, but the average person receives it as an import. Uugai imeshli has a slightly higher nicotine concentration than janaët; uugai yashet is about the same but has a headier taste and is generally considered to smell better. They are less expensive trade goods than Burri tobaccos, in large part due to arriving via safer and easier White Sea coastal tradeways that operate year-round (crossing the Mouth seaway can be very hazardous in the winter, and there's more piracy going on in there). The average person can get ahold of Yuroma tobaccos and smoke them for special occasions multiple times a year (if living near the coasts).

The native janaët tobacco is, by far, the most accessible to the average person. It is widely cultivated and can be found growing wild, though has somewhat picky growing conditions and (while Relatively drought tolerant) is one of the first native cultivations to fail in prolonged droughts (though among the better-tolerant of rare flood years). It is less accessible and less hardy than the broülje plant (not a tobacco but a nicotine-containing shrub from a fictional Solanaceae subfamily) which is Not widely cultivated but is a mega-common wild shrub that tolerates a variety of growing conditions. Broülje has a lower nicotine content than the janaët and its smoke is generally considered to smell a bit unpleasant, but it forms the majority of the average person’s non-medicinal stimulant use. Most people will keep smoking mixes that are 2:1 broüje to janaët (plus other herbs) and will reserve pure janaët leaf for moderately special occasions (once a month, on holidays, when guests are visiting, etc).

[b33zlebubz]

Ingydar | light

joel miller x reader | mdni 18+ | ao3

previous | next

tags: reader uses she/her pronouns, blood gore and death, mentioned cannibalism, sexual tension, frostbite/hypothermia, amputation, everyone is touch-starved

You're a loner in the woods. A ghost story to the kids, a tale of caution to the hunters. A rumor of smoke on the mountain and a glow between the trees. Joel Miller finds himself tangled up in your story and slowly discovers that you're not nearly as dangerous as you've made yourself out to be.

Joel’s breath fogs out into the chill of the winter air in heavy clouds as his eyes scan the white of the valley below.  If he thought everything was dead before, he was wrong.  The storm seems to have brought on a whole new stillness to his home; trees choked in white, branches broken and buried.  Ice coated thick over layers of snow.  The sun is out now, bright and bleak in the baren, pale-blue sky.  It irritates his eyes.

Not a thing moves, not even the wind.  As if time itself is frozen stiff.  There’s just the steps of the horse underneath Joel’s feet and the quiet breathing of Ellie in front of him, wrapped in blankets to keep the worst of the chill off until they get back to Jackson.  Warmth radiates off her skin in waves, no doubt a fever. 

He’s tired.  More so than he’s been in weeks.  He should tell off Ellie for what she did, though a part of him supposes it's his fault she snuck out.  At the worst possible time, of course, tired of being cooped up by his orders.  Another line in the long list of reasons Ellie might want him gone, he thinks.

He’s got too much on his mind.

His hands are still red and numb with early frostbite, though the warmth you supplied him with helped ease some of the bone-deep ache on his knuckles.  His face still stings from the intensity of the snow whipped at his face all night, but he’s almost certain Ellie is worse off; if her sneezing and shivering is any clue.

Still, it never stopped her from talking.

“She seems nice,”  she pipes up suddenly.  High voice rough and nasally with illness.  “A little feral, maybe, but nice.”

Joel sighs hard and heavy.  He realizes he could only hide his visits with you for so long, and he can feel the teasing coming on before it even begins. 

“‘Been around here a while.  Don’t think she likes much company.”

“Well she seemed pretty welcoming for you,”  Ellie comments, tilting her head back to look at Joel.  “You been busy, huh?”

Joel stays silent.  Ellie leans into him, smiles, and he tries not to notice.  Tries not to acknowledge the unexpected embarrassment that creeps up his spine, like he’s been caught in the middle of something forbidden.

“Your silence speaks volumes, Joel.”

He sighs again, “it’s just hunting.  ‘Been showing me some spots in exchange for pot, that’s all.”

She rolls her eyes,  “oh, but when I go smoke weed with girls—”

“Ellie.”

“Alright, alright,”  She huffs a laugh.  Joel finds himself envying her strange ability to find humor in anything, even when her face is still pink with hypothermia and hands clutch shakily at the blanket around her.  She elbows his side gently through the blankets.  “Just teasin’ you.  Sheesh.”

He only grunts, and there’s a few moments of blissful quiet before she speaks again.

“Should bring her to town sometime,”  Ellie offers.  “Considering she’s probably not eating people, if you’ve been hanging around her.”

He doesn’t reply.  Not when her words rub him unexpectedly wrong.  Not when the image of you consoling Ellie the night before still fills his mind, like at one point you might’ve once been gentle.  Loving.  Something not so clipped, cold, and untouchable.  The smile you offered him before he left—tired, but warm—lingers heavy in his head.  Not something you’d flash just anyone, not something fleeting.

Something of trust.  Something of attachment.  Something not like you at all.  Or, at least, the version he’s gotten to know.

It sticks with him more than he’d like.  Like a dream his brain just won’t let go, it sits in the background of his thoughts like thick syrup.  Draws him in to you, makes him want to go back even when he just left.  See that smile again.

He doesn’t reply, but he lets the idea fester in his mind anyway.

***

Joel’s visits become more frequent, after that first night.

He shows up uninvited, usually.  Sitting at your desk or working on something random that needed done around the lookout.  Oftentimes you'd hike up and catch him cutting firewood, organizing your shed, or breaking the ice off your steps from the chill the night before.  You even caught him chasing one of your escaped chickens down, one afternoon.

You’d make dinner.  Eat.  Sometimes drink or smoke, but always talk.  Well into the night, sometimes, until laughing and talking turned into huffed breaths into his mouth.  Pressed against the counter or the softness of the bed.  Sometimes, even still at the table. 

Neither of you talked about it, really.  Just an exchange of services.  Fleeting warmth in long cold.  He was always gone by morning, and you never held it against him. 

Until one day he isn't. 

The morning is hazy.  Soft, as you breathe and turn over in bed to the sound of the fire crackling and the birds chirping outside.  Golden sunlight floods in through a crack in the heavy curtains and falls over the one remaining blanket on your bed.  The others have been kicked off over the course of the night, likely strewn across the floor in favor of the dying fire and the warmth of the body next to you.

As usual, Joel’s already awake.

He stirs, just a little, whenever you shift under the covers.  Throws a heavy arm over your waist and tugs you closer just as your eyes flutter open.  You doubt he’s even fully awake as he presses a soft kiss to the muscle behind your shoulder, another against your spine.

The warmth that floods your mind knowing he stayed surprises even yourself.

“Morning,”  you murmur, voice hoarse, and you barely get a grumble back before he’s shifting again.  Running his hand over the curve of your waist, burying his face into your shoulder.  He’s hard again, and he nudges your legs apart to make room for it, the insatiable bastard.

You hum softly, closing your eyes.

“Sleep well?”  He mumbles, kissing the word into your skin.  You sigh at the feeling and the gentle pulse it shoots between your legs, weak from last night’s excitement.

“Yeah,”  you answer.  Sleep came much easier, these days.

He grunts quietly as he slides himself into you once more.  He’s much more gentle, now, than he had been whenever you started sleeping together.  Movements slow and tender.  It makes your breath rougher than anything he pulled from you before, makes you clutch the pillow harder under your head.  He keeps kissing you, slow and soft, up your neck and back down again.  You grunt quietly, barely a breath, and he shushes you gently.  Pulls you closer, runs a comforting hand through your tangled hair.

Your orgasm comes quick, but it's quiet.  Easy.  Warm.  Washes over you in gentle, dizzy waves instead of the tsunami of feeling from nights before.  He pulls out with a breath, running his member in long, sticky strokes up and down your lower back.  You doubt you’d be able to get pregnant, between his age and the state this winter has left your body, but you both stay careful anyway.

You run your hand back through his hair, fingers scratching his scalp, and he groans into your skin as he spills against your back.  Relaxes into you.  You both bask in the silence, in the quiet, for a few moments.  Whenever you finally shift away, go to grab a washcloth, he grunts softly.

“You alright?”  You murmur.

“Come home with me,”  he whispers, for the second time, as if the orgasm pulled the very four words from his chest.  Come home, he says, as opposed to the hesitant come down he offered you before.  As if you already lived there.  As if you somehow already integrated with civilization, already shared a place with him and his family.  A subtle change in tone, but a change nonetheless.

Or maybe that was wishful thinking.

Maybe it’s the sex clouding your foresight, the warmth or the exhaustion, but your mouth runs before you can stop it.

“Okay,”  you sigh into his skin.  “I’ll come.”

***

Jackson is an intimidating thing.  Always has been, probably always will be.  Billowing smoke from campfires and repaired H-VAC.  Electricity that pumps a warm haze between the mountains at night, visible from miles in any direction.  People always filtering in and out of the gates.  Some stay, others pass through within several days.  Or weeks.  Months.

Up close, it's bigger than you thought. 

Wooden walls tower high above your head as you wander in at Joel’s six, Ingydar underneath you.  Your heart thunders loud in your ears as, immediately, a commotion stirs at Joel’s return.  Guards hustle to and fro, confused.  Rightfully so, you suppose.  You’d be disoriented too if the town contractor came back unannounced with an urban legend in tow.

The guards are startled.  Reluctant.  High-strung as Joel calls out and they open the gates, clutching guns tight to their chest.  Two raise their weapons, keeping them trained on you.  A simple precaution, but instinct makes you spring your rifle up, anyway.

Joel immediately sputters, batting the muzzle of your weapon off-target,  “easy.”

Despite the tightness in your throat, you do as you're told, forcefully lowering the weapon to your lap.  Keeping it in a vice grip, fingernails picked down to the point of pain.

You’re quick to realize they have a system for newcomers.  A cordycep test, first and foremost, a little device with a needle before you even reach the gates.  It aches where they prod you with it, leaving your arm stiff at your side.  After proving you’re clean, they reach for your weapons.

“Fuck you,”  you growl, nearly interrupting a poor Tommy, who actually flinches at your tone.  Rightfully so, after how you had reacted upon speaking to him for the first time.  A guard is quick to step in, expression tightening, barely opening her mouth before Joel steps in front of you.

“It's just protocol.”

You grind your teeth.  “Joel.”

“Nobody inside has weapons,”  Tommy explains, leveling you with his understanding but expectant stare.  “It’s a promise.  Can’t make exceptions.” 

Joel’s hand settles on your shoulder, reassuring.

“‘Wouldn’t have brought you here if I didn’t know it was safe,”  Joel insists, quiet against your ear.  “We can leave whenever you want.  I promise.”

You shoot him a look he returns with patient eyes.  Despite how fast your pulse rages in your ears, his words offer some solstice.  A gentle reminder that although you’re gunless, you’re not stuck here.  You take a breath, take a second to tell yourself that this will be good for you.  People and community.  You did it before and you'll do it again, this time a little differently.

Still, the expecting gaze of three people makes your hands shake as they slide over the strap of your rifle and duck it over your head.  Place it in Tommy’s arms.  Joel squeezes your shoulder.

You’d be lying if you didn't half-expect something less quiet, shoulders tense enough to cause a headache as Joel leads you carefully into town.  Although you can’t say for sure exactly what you expected.  A curious crowd, maybe.  Expecting and accusing.  At least one person you’d recognize from Ingydar.  Suffocating questions and immediate hostility.

You’re met with none of that.

People stop to look, pausing in their day-to-day business talking with friends or hauling supplies, but eventually carry on.  Maybe the occasional welcome in from passers by as you walk with Joel at your back, but nothing else.  You’d be lying if you said you weren’t high-strung the whole way to a building just inside, though.  A rehab center for refugees.  Quiet.  Empty, aside from a few volunteers and injured who kept to their business, averting equally as bewildered eyes.

It’s surreal.  A working ceiling fan above your head.  Windows cracked open to allow the cool breeze to stir the cream-colored curtains.  A desk with two chairs scattered with boxes of various supplies of all kinds.  You feel almost rude; quietly padding in with muddy boots and a dirty coat, trying not to take up any more space than you need to.

You let out a quiet breath, running your hand along the clean wood of the desk.  Basking in the quiet and wondering how they hell they did it; clean this place up.

Joel steps in behind you, your bag over his shoulder.  “Nice, isn’t it?”  

“More than nice,”  you murmur in response.  “It's impossible.”

He hums, amused as he watches you take it all in.  The normalcy that had once amazed him just as much, a time capsule of peace.  An oasis amongst chaos.

“There’s running water, too,”  he chimes in, and you perk up once more.

“You’re fucking with me.”

He smiles and nods towards the door on the other end of the room.  You quickly pad over, nudging the door open to be met with a bathroom.  A clean shower, a working, white porcelain sink.  Cream-colored curtains over a cracked window, fluttering from the chilly breeze.  You blink before turning to Joel.

“Can I shower?”

He chuckles, dawning one of the warmest smiles you’ve ever seen from him as he nods.  “Knock yourself out.”

You spend what must be an hour under the hot water, letting it run over your skin and through your hair.  It's heaven over sore joints, working free the chill that has burrowed itself deep into your bones over the course of the past several, freezing months.  You could cry at the feeling alone, feet meeting the linoleum whenever you step out with steam wafting off your skin.    

A woman is there whenever you step out of the bathroom.  Maria, you assume.

“You must be who bruised Tommy’s ribs,”  she says, lighthearted.  A tick of a smile tugging at her lip and a gold ring in her nose.  You shake her hand hesitantly and its firm.  Confident. 

“Yeah,”  a beat passes as you shift your feet. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be,”  she waves it off, padding across the room to the table covered in supplies.  “He probably deserved it.”

She pulls out a chair and gestures to it.  You linger there in the doorway, tense and confused as you rub at your arms, fidget with the ends of your sleeves.  Joel’s hand finds your back and you blink, turning to him.

“Go on,”  he encourages, quiet.  Only for you.  “She won’t bite.”

You take a breath.  Step forward before hesitantly seating yourself in front of her.

She talks.  Tells you about her place here in Jackson as a leader, and you find yourself steadily relaxing as she runs her hands through your hair.  A stern, proud, gentle woman you’ve come to respect deeply just in the half an hour or so you grow to know her.

You clutch the rough of your jeans in your hands as you stare down at the wooden floorboards between your boots.  A lightbulb buzzes above your head and the sound of it is foreign.  Familiar, but distant.  A memory come to life.  Paired with the warm light that cascades down over your legs and feet, the wisps of hair over your eyes and the clip of the scissors, you feel generally unreal.  Stuck in a dream, as you get your hair cut semi-professionally for the first time in over ten years.

“You’ve been here longer than anyone,”  she says.  “‘Remember spotting your lookout just a few days after settling.  Didn’t realize anyone actually lived there until Ellie found you.”

You huff.  Closing your eyes as she tilts your head down.

“Found is a funny way of putting it,”  you mutter, still bitter.

“You didn’t hurt them,”  she says, as if she expected the opposite.  Not because you were you, per say, but maybe just because that was how things were, now.  What anyone would have done.  You don’t take offense to it.

“They were kids.  Only took what they obviously needed,”  A moment passes and you look up to meet Joel’s gaze for a moment.  “One of them was Joel’s, anyway.”

“You two know each other long?”

You shake your head softly.

“No,”  you murmur.  “Just seen him around.”

The image flashes through your mind again; Joel meeting your gaze through the scope of your rifle.  Brown eyes exhausted in a way that was deeper than poor sleep and shit weather.  Shocked.  Wary.  Surprised.  It's much different than how he looks at you now, all softer edges and a relaxed kind of tired.

“He talks about you often,”  Maria says over your shoulder, stealing you from your thoughts.  Dark hands steady as she snips at split-ends and tangled matts.  “Says you were a ranger.  A good one.  Know the mountains better than he does.”

“Can confirm,”  she tilts your chin to your left as you speak.  “Saved his dumbass too many times.”

“Jesus,” Joel huffs from where he lingers in the doorway. 

She scoffs, gently tugging your hair this way and that.  Joel meets your gaze for a second before rolling his eyes at your remark, although he smiles just the same.

“Anyway,”  her voice turns sincere.  “Your help is appreciated, really.  Wouldn’t have made it through the winter without it.  Or found where that horde is.”

You think about the box on your doorstep.  The pig-headed, nervous determination in Tommy’s eyes whenever you first met him earlier that winter and the first time you talked—really talked—to Joel.  How he’d go on and on about the funniest thing his new nephew did, drunk at your table.  How Maria would rip into Tommy.  How happy they seemed, his brother and his in-laws.

It brings a strange relief, a hesitant satisfaction knowing you helped a family prosper even just a little, donating meat or offering advice.  Hunting or otherwise.

“It’s nothing,”  you murmur, dismissing her praise as she smoothes a hand through your hair. 

She turns you in the chair towards a mirror to your right and you blink back at what stares back at you.  Clean hair, evenly cut and brushed.  Skin clean of sweat, mud, or snow.  Eyes tired but brighter, now.  You’re skinnier than back then, but it steals the breath from your lungs just the same: recognizing yourself.  Staring back at something not quite what it used to be, but familiar.  Familiar enough to stall your breath. 

“What do you think?”  Maria asks, just as you realize your eyes are wet.  You blink, wiping at them, trying to remember the last time you were reduced to tears over something so stupid as your hair.  Years.  Decades, maybe.

“I—good,”  you speak around the heavy lump in your throat, righting yourself.  “It’s good.”

“Joel?”

“Hm?”  He blinks, surprised when he’s pulled from his thoughts and back into the conversation, then softens when his eyes land on you.  Shoulders relaxing over crossed arms.

It sits unspoken between you both; the change in your relationship.  Heavy but comfortable during small moments of silence, softening words and causing touch to linger.  Like it's been happening all along, settling into it easily.  You and him—it’s easy.  Natural.

You see it, then, sitting in that chair as he grapples with his words for a moment.  Shifts his weight.  Clears his throat.  That maybe there is more for you out there beyond endless silence and the golden ring on your finger.  That maybe, just maybe, you could get used to this. 

He nods once.

“Beautiful,” he offers.  Quietly.  Unexpectedly.  Hesitantly and maybe a little choked, but still sincere, even as he ducks his head away as he says it.

***

Joel sits in his usual spot in the town hall, late that afternoon.  Back against the wood of his chair and a cold drink in his hand.  He traces the edge of it with his finger as he watches the people around him, talking under the beat of a slightly out-of-tune guitar and the quiet feedback of a microphone.  

He never used to come to anything like this; preferring the quiet whine of the space heater on his front porch over the laugh of inebriated teenagers and small talk of the adults.  Not until his brother started loring him out every month or so, forcing him to get acquainted with the rest of the commune.  Socialize.  Joel still can’t decide if he’s grateful, but people still generally prefer the bright company of Tommy just the same.  Leave him to his devices unless they need something.

Usually, he’d convince himself that he was just here to keep an eye on Ellie.  That he doesn’t choose to come out here because the house is too quiet and his thoughts too loud, that it's simply too dark to do much else.  But while normally his gaze is on the teenaged girl currently getting her hair played with by a tipsy Dina, he finds his eyes equally drawn to where you stand.

You’ve relaxed quite a bit since he brought you in.  More than he ever thought you would.

You’re still wary, lingering in corners and disappearing into shadows like a stray dog too stubborn to socialize.  A little blunt and fidgety in conversation, maybe, but otherwise fine.  Not quite as stuck to his side as you were when you got here.  Smiling a little, even, as you talk to Maria at the bar and sip on a drink—although that would just be the alcohol dampening your nerves.

He doesn’t even realize he’s been staring until Ellie disappears from her spot and suddenly slides in beside him, burnt arm reaching for his drink to take a sip off it.  It looks better, nowadays.  Bright pink fading to bumpy, rough skin stretched over her forearm.  Joel turns his nose up at it every time he looks at it too hard, feels a fierce sorrow in his ribs every time he sees it, but he supposes he would've done something similar much sooner if he were in her shoes.  The sun does get too hot in the summer for long sleeves.

“You just gonna stare at her all night or are you actually gonna say something?”  She says after a moment, prying him from deep in his thoughts.  

He sighs, long and heavy.  Rolls his eyes and shakes his head as he takes another sip of his whiskey.  Bitter and woody, it burns the back of his throat on the way down.   “The hell’s with you and my lovelife recently?”

“You bring home a chick like that and expect me not to get curious?”

He furrows his brow and tries to ignore how embarrassment flickers hot under his skin, “‘chick like that’?”

Ellie lazily nods her head in your direction, where Maria pulls a quiet laugh from your throat.  Joel follows her gaze, watches you.  Wondering, for a second, if seeing you in public before the outbreak would’ve been similar—leaning against the counter with tired eyes and an easy smile.  At a bar somewhere, maybe, or at some concert.

“Like Tess,”  she clarifies, and it pulls another sigh—longer, heavier—from his throat.

Tess’s death hurt more than he ever figured it would.  Yet another relationship fucked up, there for years and never acknowledged.  Warmth never truly returned, never appreciated until it was pried from his hands.  Joel would be lying if he said you didn’t remind him of her sometimes; clever and resourceful.  Funny in a blunt kind of way, even when things didn’t look so great.  Determined.  Strong.

But this was more than just that.  Something deeper.  An understanding, maybe, that he wouldn’t find anywhere else in the room.  A feral part of him that still fears the worst, that still stays up at night on his porch with a gun because he can’t stop thinking—paranoid just like you.  

“Tess was a long time ago,”  he says, even and low, because explaining what it's not is far easier than what it is.  “This is somethin’ different.”

Ellie believes him, because for once she doesn’t fight him on it.  Just nods thoughtfully and sits for a moment, watching Joel’s face as he tries to keep his eyes everywhere but where you stand beneath warm fairy lights.

“Well…”  Ellie leans back as she pulls him from his trance again, smiling that smile that means Joel is about to take the piss.  “If you’re not gonna make a move on her…”

Joel shoots Ellie a look, appalled.  She only grins wider.

“I’m joking,”  she says, and rests her head against her fist, smug.  “Unless—?”

“Ellie.”

“Still joking.”

Joel shakes his head, waves her off with a huff of a breath and the tick of a smile.  Moments like these were rare nowadays, where things weren’t so complicated.  Weighted.  Where him and Ellie could just talk, like this.  And while a past version of him would’ve shut such a topic down immediately, he lets it sit.  Relishes in the teasing he misses so dearly, now that she doesn’t need him.

Until Dina calls her name and the moment is gone.  She stands, but before she runs off, she gives his shoulder a playful smack.

“Go talk to her, dumbass,”  she says, and fuck him, because he downs the rest of his drink and does just that.

***

“You want me to…”

“Dance with me,”  Joel says, and a part of it sounds like he’s forcing the words from his throat.  A question that seems harder for him to say than anything he’s asked of you so far.  He rubs at his neck nervously as he shifts his weight from one foot to the other, nervous—just as he had been earlier, after your hair was cut.  “Just for a bit…if you’re willin’.”

He says it like it could be a chore for you, like you didn’t come here just because he asked.  But you don’t say all that.  Just blink for a moment and look at Maria for direction.  She shrugs and gestures vaguely towards Joel, your conversation about the tunnel forgotten.

“By all means.”  

You nod and set your drink down.  Step towards him shyly.  The band continues its slow beat, a cover of a song you distantly recognize, and although the instruments aren’t great and most of the songs sound the same, hearing live music again is strange.  You didn’t think you ever would again.

Your arm rests over his shoulder, the other finds his hand.  Rough from his work.  Fingernails clipped too short from picking at them endlessly, they hold you carefully just the same.  One hand clutching your own, the other resting at the small of your waist.  You smile, just a little, huffing in amusement as you both struggle to find your footing.

“Enjoying the music?”  You murmur.

He shrugs, hums thoughtfully as he runs his thumb over the side of your hand.  “I could do better.”

The thought of Joel on stage is enough to pull a quiet scoff from your throat.  

“Singing?”  You question, raising an eyebrow.  “Or playing?”

“I wouldn’t be caught dead singing up there.”

You shake your head, reaching up to pull at where the collar of his flannel is flipped over.  “What a shame.  I’d pay money to see that.”

He chuckles, warm and deep.  “Maybe one day.”

You feel strangely shy under his stare, warm under your skin from more than just alcohol.  A familiar kind of nervous that pulls flashbacks up from deep in your mind.  Dancing in the firewatch tower with Markus, drunk and carefree.  They don’t bring as much sadness as they used to, just a quiet kind of resignation.

“You doin’ alright?”  Joel asks, checking in.  Patient.  Kinder than you deserve, and you shake the memories from your head and reel yourself back into the present.

You nod a little.

“Yeah,”  you breathe, relaxing.  “I’m alright.”

“Not overwhelmed?”

“Oh, definitely,”  you breathe.  “But I’m warming up to it.”

A moment passes as you both sway back and forth.  You feel people looking, eyes lingering on you and Joel through the crowd and the fairy lights.  Curious.  Joel’s hold on your hand tightens just a little—grounding.  Soft with you, now, despite being all hard edges and clipped words towards almost everyone else.  Like he’s a completely different person than the man who pointed a gun at you just a few months ago.

“You n’ Maria talkin’ about the tunnel?”

You nod, “she wants to check it out.  See if there’s a way we can block it up or redirect the infected away from Jackson, somehow.”

“‘Could be possible.”

“Yeah.  It's getting a team there and back that’ll be difficult, putting together a plan.”  You mutter, thinking.  “She wants my help leading it.”

He lets out a breath, thoughts dancing behind his eyes as he intertwines his fingers with yours.

“Yeah, well,”  Joel runs his calloused thumb along the cold of your ring, fidgeting with it gently.  “Don’t gotta think about all that right now.”

You sigh softly, “that’s true.”

A moment of quiet passes and it's not awkward.  Charged, maybe, but not awkward, as he holds your hand and sways gently.  You catch something out of the corner of your eye, a familiar face.  It's gone as soon as you catch it, though.  

“Hey.”

“Hm?”  You hum, meeting Joel’s gaze again just in time for him to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear.  A small gesture, but it makes you feel warm all over just the same. 

He keeps his voice low.  Deep brown, tired eyes gazing down at you like you’ll bolt if he moves too fast, like a skittish animal.  He clears his throat and visibly swallows, runs his thumb over the curve of your hand. 

“I reckon we should talk about it.”

You blink, half-listening, eyes scanning the room over his shoulder for that face.  “About the sex?”

“More so…”  he clears his throat.  “More so us.  What you want this to be.”

You purse your lips, eyes flitting back to focus on him.  He squeezes your hand, nervous.  You feel your heart flutter in your chest, unsure how to navigate it all.  Really, you haven’t given it much thought, just slipped into it easily.  Let Joel’s feelings seep in deep without resistance because maybe some part of you was tired of being alone.

“I ain’t the best partner,”  he tells you softly, like it's a warning.  “Not easy to get along with, I know it.”

“Well, I can’t say I’m all there either.”

He huffs, but it’s short lived.  He means it, what he’s saying, and something about it makes your chest ache.  The fact that he thinks he’s hard to love.

“‘Guess you got me there,”  he murmurs, and smiles.  It's contagious, and you find your cheeks are warm when he pulls you close. You wrap your arms around his neck as you both sway slowly, easily.  Chuckling when you trip over each other's feet.

“You’re drunk,”  you say into his shoulder, amused.

“You’re drunk,”  he teases against your ear.  “Lightweight.”

“Hush.”

“Never, sweetheart.”

Your eyes flicker open, adjusting your head so that you can see over his shoulder.  People talking, drinking, eating and lingering.  Laughing, smiling, caught up in their own world.  It was easy to forget about the world outside, about the dead stumbling through Ingydar.  The buzzing dread that worked itself into the atmosphere and made a home there is somehow absent, here, and you begin to understand why people do this.  Try to recreate the old world.

Then, your eyes land on a man.

You catch his gaze, blue and piercing from a corner.  A drink in his hand he keeps in a vice grip, knuckles white against the glass.  Your blood runs cold through your veins as your eyes meet, locked together across the room.  Staring right through your skin.  Familiar.  So familiar it makes your heart drop clear down into the earth.

“You should move here, if we’re gonna be somethin’,”  Joel says, soft.  His words fall on deaf ears.  “Stay with me.”

The man across the room’s eyes narrow in on you.  A million things unspoken as he pushes himself away from the wall and saunters towards the exit, eyes trained on you until they aren’t.  Until his hand touches the door and he disappears outside.

Suddenly, everything is too much.  The lights too bright and people too loud.  Walls suffocating, Joel’s gentle hands harsh.  Dizzy.  Spinning.  Constricting.  Panic wells in your stomach, climbing your spine and blooming through your skull.

“I need some air,”  you croak, sliding free.  Stepping away.  Joel’s contact lingers, his hand pried from yours as you power through the crowd towards the door.  If he protests, confused, you don’t hear it.  Barely register it.

Warm fairy lights and music give way to a dark, cold rain.  Static in your ears and pinpricks across your skin.  Your heartbeat in your skull, you stumble and run.  Run until your calves sting and your chest hurts.  Run until your hands meet the cold wood of the East wall.

You retch.  Hands shaky and wet against the cold wood.  You can’t catch your breath.  Not even when you lean your forehead against the freezing wall, cold water tapping on your back as you tremble.

A hand grabs the back of your shirt and you yelp as you’re yanked around and slammed back against the wall.  Blue eyes inches from your voice.

“Hey, kid,”  he rasps, voice deep and quiet and angry.  Breath seething through rotten teeth.  “‘Been looking for you.”

Your mind scrambles for his name against the searing pain in your skull, fingers digging into your neck.  Memories of the older man fleeting and distant, his name escaping you.  He was retired, military.  Had a son that worked at the lake.  You go to talk, maybe ask what this is about, but the look on his face and the burns up his forearm answer the question for you.  His hand clamps down harder on your neck and tears prick your eyes.

“I’m—”  You croak, and he punches you.

The first one hurts.  Rings loud in your ears and turns your vision dark.  When it comes back, you’re in the mud, spitting blood to the dirt.  He’s looming over you with blood on his fist and you barely get the chance to lift your hand before he grabs the front of your shirt and spits in your face as he talks.

“My son was in that fire,”  he snarls, face red.  “The entire fuckin’ town coulda lived if it weren’t for you, you know that?  A whole fifteen people.  Farmers.  Hunters.  Useful people.”

You try to fight, try to scramble away, but you can only muster the strength to shift your legs dumbly.  Open your mouth and choke on the words.  He yanks you closer.

“Fucking say something.”

“I did.”  You manage to spit through your teeth, voice shattered and painful.  “I burnt it down.  All of it.  Didn’t look back.”

He clenches his bloody fist again,  “do you regret it?”

Markus’s face flashes through your mind again.  Dancing with him.  Smoking with him.  Learning the stars and sticking at his side through it all, leading the people of Ingydar.  Planting food, talking by fires, listening to records.  His safety.  Having that arm to hide behind until it was ripped away.

You clench your jaw.  Bare your teeth against the throbbing pain in your skull.  Your chest is warm, flickering with stubborn anger and something darker, uglier.  Something that fills every inch of your body as you squeeze dirt and mud in your palms.  Stare your punishment with piercing blue eyes down hard, stubborn.

“You fucking murdered him,”  you tel the truth.  “No.  I don’t.  I don’t.”

It only makes him angrier.

“Been waiting fucking years for this,”  the man seethes back.  Raising his bloody fist, scarred knuckles shifting before everything goes blank again. 

You lose track of how many punches you take.  Eventually, they all blur together.  You try blocking them, raising your hands.  Kicking and squirming.  But somewhere along the way, you stop seeing the point.

You deserve this.

You don’t know how long you lay there.  How many hits you take.  All you know is your vision goes dark around the edges and you can’t open one of your eyes.  It’s cold.  It’s dark.  Everything hurts.  You think you’re crying, but you’re not sure.

Until it’s over.

You just barely catch it through bleary eyes, the dark blur that bursts out from around the building.  Takes the man on top of you and slams him to the ground.  The instinct to get away finally rears its head and you sputter, shifting upright as the ground spins and tilts beneath you.  You manage to get yourself against the wall, but you can’t see.

The scene before you unfolds in flashes.

Joel.  Beating the man senseless.  Your eyes are locked on him, each punch he lands equivalent to each one he landed on your face.  You swallow, flinch at every crunch and every shout until your mind comes back to you.

“Joel,”  you rasp.

He doesn't stop.  The man cries out.

“Stop!”  You shove yourself up, scramble over to Joel’s shoulders.  “Fucking stop that’s enough!”

When you finally tear him off, the man at your feet is unresponsive and bleeding.  Red swirls with the brown mud under his head, busted open at the temple.  Nose gushing over his mouth and into the dirt.  Staining blond, balding hair crimson.  

Then, Joel’s face fills your vision.  His hands come to your face.  Warm, soothing, as he turns your head this way and that before pulling you close.  His shirt sticks to your face whenever he holds you, strong hands soothing over your back as his erratic heartbeat pounds in your ears.

“I got you,”  he says, breathing heavy.  You clutch his wrists, grounding.  Trying to calm your raging pulse.  “I got you.  S’alright.  He’s out.”

Tears well up in your eyes before you can stop them,  “he’s dead, Joel.”

Joel glances back towards the man, seeing the truth to your words whenever the rise and fall of his chest is shallow, damn near absent.  He swallows heavily between breaths, panic dancing in his eyes for a moment before it's gone.  Mouth opening and closing.  Before he can say anything, you turn away from his hands.

“You killed him.”

His jaw ticks.  “He was gonna kill you.”

“Good,”  you shove him away, shift to stand.  “He deserved to.”

That makes something in Joel’s eyes flash, hair getting plastered to his face from the rain as he stumbles upright.  Boots squelching in the mud as he steps towards you.

“He deserved to?”  He growls.

You huff, shake your head and decide it's not worth explaining.  You step away to leave, but Joel grabs your arm.

“No,”  he breathes, low and heavy.  “I’m not lettin’ you run from this.”

“I have been alone here for sixteen years,”  you tell him pointedly, voice cracking.  “I murdered my town.  Burnt it to the ground.  And now him—”

You gesture to the man unconscious in the mud.

“I’m not gonna drag you down to my level, Joel.”

He swallows heavily.  The distant sound of guitar sounds muffled under the rain, and even more dampened by the ringing in your ears.

“They don’t have to know shit,”  he says to you, brow furrowed as he steps closer.  “I’ll make sure they don’t know.”

You let out a breath and turn away, exacerbated.  Pull your arm from his grasp.

“That’s not the issue,”  you insist.  

He follows you, hovering over your shoulder.  “Then what is?”

“The issue is he’s dead!”  You damn near yell,  “and it's my fucking fault!  All of it is!  He started a new life here away from it all, found safety whenever I took it from him.  And I come back and he watches me get welcomed.  New clothes, a shower, food, alcohol, dancing—”

Your voice cracks as a lump in your throat lurches.  Tears roll down your face.  You swallow and force yourself to continue.

“He deserved to kill me,”  you manage, looking up at Joel and spitting the words out through your bloody teeth.  “I deserve it.”

Joel only stares at you, wide-eyed and speechless.  Chest rising and falling.  There’s commotion some ways away, someone female yelling for Joel, voices far off on the other side of town.

You turn.  Like a scared animal, you bolt for the stables to retrieve your horse.  Put some distance between yourself and Jackson before they spotted and questioned you.  Boots sliding in the mud as you abandon Joel in the rain and pooling crimson at his feet.  Heart thundering in your ears, tears stinging your eyes.  Anger red hot in your limbs as you bolt for the gates and disappear into the rain once more.

He doesn’t follow.

previous | next

@astrid-sorensen

[wynnyfryd]

Trailer park Steve AU part 26

part 1 | part 25 | ao3

cw: period-typical homophobia, recreational drug/alcohol use

He’s marching over the grass with a couple of varsity guys; two on his left, two on his right; V-formation like a flock of geese. Jason's at the head of the group, self-assured purpose of a leader, and it’s weird, seeing this little runt all grown up. The kid used to worship Steve; used to follow him around practices like a lost puppy, called him Captain before he’d even earned the role.

“Is this freak bothering you?” Jason asks. His voice is harsh, winded, winding up for a fight. Steve can see it in his stance: the tightening of his jaw, the clench of his friends’ fists. Plant your feet.

Steve’s gotta shut this shit down before it goes where it always does. Smashed plates, broken bones. All pissing contests flow toward the ocean or whatever.

“Nah, man,” he answers, standing up to dust himself off. The coke zips under his skin, makes him jittery and hot. Hard to play it cool. “We’re good. Busted my ass on the rocks; Munson was just helping me up.”

Munson. Like they’re buddies. Like Eddie’s thumb isn’t still damp from Steve’s tongue.

Jason doesn't seem to buy it. Little pastor-cop in training, he narrows his eyes and turns on Eddie. “Were you following him, Freak?”

Eddie's eyes flash in warning, a muscle jumping in his jaw. Steve shifts his weight to stand in front of him, and his fingers twitch around empty air. He wishes he had his nail bat with him; kind of wants to glue the handle to his palm.

Never know when monsters will come crawling out of the woods.

"Well?" Jason barks, "Answer me!"

His lackeys all pipe up then, the guy to his right sneering, "Not so talkative without his lunch table to stand on, is he?"

"Look at him shaking," adds another.

"Think he was trying to do some Satanic ritual shit while no one was looking?"

"I don't know," says the guy on Jason's left. "Looked like they were sucking each other off to me. Hey, maybe Harrington’s turned fag.”

“Andy!” Jason warns, and Steve—

Steve staggers forward with three arrows in his chest. One for every letter of that stupid fucking word that's been haunting him for years; raging fire in a black box in the far reaches of his brain, belching thick, black smoke, singing his fingertips whenever he gets close enough to touch it.

He wonders if Andy can taste the sulfur in it, too.

“No, go on,” he seethes, voice deadly calm when he lays a hand on Andy’s chest. Steeple his fingers, tips his chin. “Say it again; don't think I heard you right.”

Andy swallows hard, grinds his teeth; tenses to square off for the fight, but Jason throws an arm in front of him. "Easy," he says.

Easy. Down boy.

Andy snarls and backs off.

Jason lowers his voice, searching Steve's face. "You sure you're good? Can't be too careful with..."

His gaze slides over Steve's shoulder, his nose wrinkling in disgust. Steve's never wanted to risk a concussion more. "I'm fine," he grits out, balking at the diplomatic bullshit that's about to slither from his mouth. "Really. Thanks, though, man; appreciate you looking out for me."

Jason gives him a serious nod. "Any time."

—

“So, uh…” Eddie squints at Steve once Jason and his goons run along. His arms are hugged tight around his middle, and he's biting his lip; nervous jiggle of his leg. “How, um— How are we playing this, exactly?”

Steve scrubs at his face; swoons where he stands. Feels like all the blood's drained out of him without the adrenaline to prop him up. Goddamn, he's still so drunk. “Playing what?” he asks, confused.

Whatever it is, it’s already been played, hasn’t it?

Fight’s over; Steve’s exhausted. He just wants to go home.

But then Eddie shakes his head and tuts softly at the ground, his expression gone sour and sad, and there it is again. That feeling that Steve’s fucking everything up somehow.

He’s so tired of that feeling.

Slowly, so slowly, he reaches out a hand. Skims Eddie's side; leather jacket, bony hip, and then he hooks his pinky finger into the belt loop of his jeans. Tugs, just a little. Not hard enough to topple him, just—

Enough.

He hopes.

—

part 27

tag lists in separate reblogs with the tag "#trailer park steve au taglist" if you'd like to filter that content, comment and let me know if you want me to add you tomorrow (21+ only, please confirm your age if you're asking to be tagged)

[bodhrancomedy]

The Bard Who Returned to Fairyland in Search of a Name by Bodhrán M.

It was the ferryman who met the bard first, a beardless lad in a ragged cloak, broadbrimmed hat, and carrying nothing save an iron knife and one small pack across his shoulders. He watched with mild interest as the bard picked his way down the grassy knoll and onto the black-wood of the small dock, coming to a halt directly before the little boat.

Neither of them moved for a long while. Somewhere in the distance, an eagle screamed. 

Finally, the bard spoke.

“I wish to cross the river,” he said.

The ferryman leant on his oar and regarded him with rheumy eyes, pushing a lank hunk of wire-grey hair from his face. “Is that so?” he replied. “Do you have payment, my boy?”

“Yes, I do.” The bard withdrew a coin purse from beneath the green cloak.

“Coin won’t do, boy. Not what I dabble in.”

“I know,” the bard said quietly. He had an odd voice, the ferryman noted, with no hint of fear or trepidation or awe. “I bring seashells from the coasts of Ireland,” he continued, “filled with the songs of the selkies. I bring spices from the borders of India and China with many healing powers beyond that which we can understand, and a trollish crystal gifted by the giantess-queen of Iceland. I deal as little in money as you do.”

The ferryman was impressed, even if he didn’t show it. He dug a filthy black pipe from a salt-encrusted pocket and stuck it between his teeth. He waited, but the bard made no move to light it for him. Finally, he took a tinderbox from another pouch (this one being an oilskin gifted many years ago by a Swedish princess) and struck a spark.

“So,” the ferryman said, his words curled about the billowing black smoke, “you know what is across this river?”

“I know.”

“And yet you wish to cross it.”

The bard shrugged, almost as if to say that the statement was obvious enough that it did not need to be said. “Have I brought enough to pay for passage?” he asked.

“Of course,” the ferryman said as he stepped aside to allow the man to board.

But the bard did not. Instead, he gripped the brim of his hat and pulled it further down over his eyes. His voice was as steady as before, but lower and intertwined with steel. “Both ways?”

The ferryman’s eyes narrowed.

The bard stood there, waiting for an answer, one small hand on his knife.

Hemming and hawing, the ferryman felt a sting of disappointment and suspicion in his gut. He had ferried more hopefuls across this river than he had ferried back and there was almost nothing which he liked more than the faces of those who had returned to his boat having not taken the first precaution. They had thought ahead enough – many of these wanderers and seekers of mysteries and gold – to have gotten his word not to throw them into the cold water or have their treasures taken before they reached human land again, but they had not thought about payment for the return journey.

But seashells and spices were twice the payment for a crossing – and he had never owned a troll-crystal before. He’d heard that they could outshine the sunrises even in the frozen northern plains, that they were rainbow stars from deep within the ground. It would be something to treasure in the dark.

It was through gritted teeth, therefore, which he gave his answer. “Yes,” the ferryman said.

The hat bobbed as the bard nodded. “And I will reach each shore in the same condition as I board your boat, sir? Each way.”

“Yes,” the ferryman agreed sullenly. Then he thought and tried to not brighten in anticipation.

The bard either did not notice or did not care, but he stepped aboard with the ease of one used to the pitch and swell of river boats. He sat in the prow, half-turned so he could look across the water and still see the ferryman.

Clever, that.

Carefully, the ferryman untied the mooring rope and then pushed off the knoll with his oar. He began to pull through the water with broad, powerful strokes and so it was a matter of minutes before they reached halfway.

It was then that the ferryman felt safe in speaking again. Too soon and sometimes the young fools would see the error of their ways and pitch themselves into the water. Once you reached halfway, you were falling into enchantments rather simple cold. It did make him laugh, sometimes, to see them flail and splash their way back to safety. He liked to wave at the ones who lived, standing sopping wet and humiliated on the dock, and sing mocking laments at those who did not.

But he did not think that this young man would do so. Still, he waited.

“You off to fairyland, boy?” he asked cheerfully, “Here to see for yourselves the wonders your bardic forefathers taught you? To see if they’re as real as they say?”

The bard tilted his head and the ferryman saw a flash of white teeth from beneath the hat brim, bared in a savage grin.

“No, sir,” the bard said, “I am not merely going to fairyland, sir ferryman. I am going back.”

“Well, that’s a thing!” the ferryman exclaimed. He rubbed his chin with his free hand and added, “Not many people wish to test their luck twice.”

The bard shrugged again.

“And why have you returned?”

The hat tilted back and suddenly the ferryman saw the bard’s face clearly for the first time. It was even younger-looking than he’d expected, suntanned and heavily freckled, but harsh and set in furious determination. “That is my business and my business alone, sir ferryman,” the bard replied in cold tones. “For I know what you are as we have met before, and you told me in the mistaken belief that we would never cross paths again. And I know that changelings would do what they can to gain favour in the eyes of fairyland’s mistress. I would not give up my slightest advantage to satisfy your curiosity.”

Knocked back a little by the intensity of this speech and suddenly slightly afraid of why he would not remember this young man, the ferryman opened and shut his mouth a few times and said nothing in reply. He rowed on in silence, feeling sweat prickling on his brow. Either this passenger was a grand sorcerer of some great power, or he was an overconfident boy with a head full of stories. But he could not place a finger on either option without some unease. Neither felt right.

“It was curiosity, nothing more,” the ferryman mumbled. “I meant no harm in asking.”

“But you did mean harm in knowing,” the bard replied lightly. “And you could make harm in telling. I am no child, sir ferryman, and I understand how this all works.”