#so there was a struggle to match it ����

[mwphisto]

Simple things that turn LnDs men on~

Including: Xavier, Rafayel, Zayne, Sylus, and Caleb x reader. Reader is implied female but most can be interpreted however you please!

Warning, this post is 18+! Some lighter smut since my brain cannot handle anything else atm (I’m graduating university in 3 weeks)

Shifting banner from @cafekitsune <3

Xavier

Cuddling with you, seeing you sleepy and warm and soft in his embrace, under his blankets, in his bed. He can’t help it, you’re just so perfect, so sweet in this state. His hands can’t help but wander, sliding over your soft tummy, your thighs, eventually landing to cup your chest. His nose nuzzles into the crown of your head, inhaling your shampoo, and the next thing he knows? His hips are swiveling softly into the plush of your ass.

When you get mad. He’s not capable of explaining why his body has the reaction it does. Other than the plain statement of “you’re hot when you’re mad.” Which isn’t a lie, Xavier finds you so hot when you’re angry. Seeing you so passionate about something that it gets your blood boiling? He’s thinking of ways to get you to cool down. How easily he could switch the downward tilt of your brows into something far more… relaxed… pleased… blissed out…

Sitting on his lap is a definite way to get his attention. Xavier can get a bit lost in his hobbies, whether it be reading or scrolling articles on his phone. Sometimes the call of his name doesn’t snap him out of his trance. But you know what does? Settling your pretty self on his muscular legs, a smile on your lips, your hands cupping his cheeks and guiding him up towards your glittery eyes. The weight of you on him, the warmth, the surprise of his train of thought being interrupted, all of it has his heart rate spiking. Until all he can see, hear, and feel is you.

Rafayel

Matching his energy can totally catch the artist off guard — the absolute best way. To be blunt, you’re able to match his freak so well he can’t help but get turned on at how in sync the two of you are. His beautiful bride, perfect in every way. When you two are so effortlessly on the same page, he finds himself struggling to keep his composure. Luckily for him, you always seem to know what he’s thinking without him so much as saying a word.

Willingly being his muse just might send Raf into a coma. Seeing you sprawled over his couch, barely dressed so he can do some anatomy sketches has him shifting uncomfortably on his stool. Your sweet smile, delicate and skilled hands, the way you whisper his name while he scribbles on his paper with a rosy blush on his cheeks. You’re just so effortlessly beautiful it drives him insane.

Noticing the smallest details about him will get his head spinning. Rafayel harbors a lot of mixed emotions regarding his past and he loves you wholeheartedly but sometimes he just can’t… let go. When you take the time to get to know him — or as much as he’s willing to give you — and you actually pick up on things that go unsaid? His head is spinning, his heart pounding, the seal on his chest burning brightly. He wants to devote himself to you, it’s just part of his nature at this point. Eventually, he’ll work through it all and give into what he needs most…

Zayne

Your laughter sends his heart into a nose dive. He’s never been one for jokes, his dry humor often carrying him through. But when he says something that genuinely has you belly laughing, his name a sweet melody on your lips as you try and contain your giggles? He’s shifting his legs to hide the growing tension between his legs. You look at him with such adoration, so sweet and delicate, he has to reign himself in before frost creeps up his neck.

Giving him your full attention when he begins to ramble about nerdy medical things definitely causes the surgeon to lose his train of thought. You may not understand the scientific terms he’s using, and you may feel a bit bad when he has to explain them again with simpler terminology, but your attention is undivided regardless. And Zayne notices, of course he does. His heart is pounding as he rattles off all of his fascinations — such as new research he’s compiled about neonatal heart defects. You’re so engaged with him, nodding along and even asking him some questions. He’s fighting the urge to kiss you senseless. After a long day you’re so willing to listen to him ramble on about his research? He’s going to marry you, and fuck you senseless for being such a good girl.

Taking care of him, such as shaving his face or washing his hair will have Zayne be putty in your hands. He does so much for others, puts so much care and effort into making their lives better. It’s only right that you step up and do the same for Dr. Zayne. Though, bless him, he didn’t expect you to straddle his lap and shave him with a straight razor. Didn’t expect to be engulfed by the sent of your perfume as you settle your weight on his legs and glide the razor over his skin. It’s intimate, the proximity of your bodies is close enough to generate some warmth. He’ll lose it before you’re able finish one side of his unshaven cheek.

Sylus

Skinship with the leader of Onychinus is pretty special. Sylus savors every second of it, given that your hands rarely touch him outside of holding his waist when on his bike. The feeling of your fingers on his cheeks, your legs caging his as you sit together on the couch, your fingers intertwining with his. He’s a goner, so touch starved it’s nearly pitiful. He’s always been a man of composure, but god dammit you’re just so soft compared to him. You’re so warm and smell so good and you’re just so… you’re so sparing with your touches. As if you’re hesitant, not sure if he’d want your hands on him in the first place. Drives him so insane, he craves to hold you close but doesn’t want to push you before you’re ready.

Seeing you wear clothes he picked out for you has Sylus adjusting his collar and inhaling deep through his nose. His mark is on you, even if it’s not on your skin, you’re dressed so beautifully. You match him, compliment him perfectly. You look so breathtaking he has to mentally pat himself on the back for having such damn good taste. Seeing you feel yourself in what he’s picked does wonders for his already big ego. Seeing you twirl and smile as you admire yourself in the dress, the skirt, the pants, the shirt, whatever he’s picked out for you for the occasion. It gives him a sense of pride, like he’s done good, and it’s a genuine plus that you look so goddamn perfect in every outfit.

Kissing his knuckles nearly sends him over the edge one night. You had finished cleaning some wounds while his evol recharged and sealed the deal with a gingerly placed kiss on his battered knuckles. Sylus nearly sees stars because of it, such an overwhelming surge of possessiveness and heat flooding his weary veins that he nearly pops a hard-on then and there on the floor.

Caleb

Stealing his clothing is something you’ve always done. Something about it being comfier, softer, smelling like him. God he doesn’t even care for the reason, he just knows you look so divine in his shirt, his boxers, his hoodie. So cute and small compared to him, marked as his for anyone who has the gracious opportunity to see you in such a state. He guesses it’s only fair you steal his clothes, since he has a small — but growing — collection of your panties—

Relying on him 100% would put Caleb on cloud nine. Giving up your tough guy act and simply putting all of your needs on him would have him struggling to keep his composure long enough to actually see the tasks through. Could be something as simple as asking him to cut up some fruit for you, could be as complicated as giving your bike a tuneup. Regardless, Caleb is blissed out and glossy-eyed as he shows his love for you in his favorite fashion.

Slipping into his bed in the middle of the night has been something you’ve done since childhood. Bad dream, can’t sleep, anxious or stressed, Caleb’s arms have always been your biggest comfort. He waits for it, waits for the creak of his door and your quiet whisper of permission. He craves the dip of his mattress, the weight and warmth of your body next to his under his sheets. He has to be mindful of where his hips land on you, purely out of fear that you might feel something you’re not supposed to just yet.

[valtharr]

No, see, it's quite simple:

The US army is fighting the Roman Empire over the control of Las Vegas, so 250 year old Howard Hughes is sending a mailwoman out to deliver a poker chip to him, so he can upgrade his army of killer robots. But 250 year old Howard Hughes is betrayed by his protegé, a 50s entertainer in a checkered suit, who hires the mongols to help him kill the mailwoman so he can have the robot army. But a robot cowboy saves the mailwoman and brings her to an old west town under siege by a chain gang. The mailwoman makes her way to Vegas and gets embroiled in the power struggle, leading to her having to befriend and/or kill multiple factions, such as Knights With Laser Rifles, the aforementioned mongols, the mafia, fancy cannibals, xenophobes with access to high power ordnance, and Elvis.

Also, the mailwoman might end up becoming a cyborg, nuke a trade route or two, rob a haunted casino with a bomb around her neck, and help a mummy solve a tribal dispute.

Oh, and more minor things that the mailwoman might do is help religious zombies fly to space, put a new brain into a cybernetic dog, fight in (literally) underground cage matches, recruit some show acts for a casino, engage in corporate espionage, fight plant monsters, acquire access to an orbital laser, and take some photos. Oh, and recruit a sexbot, almost forgot the sexbot.

Crucified? You mean like in fallout new vegas?

[lovetei]

Hello! I love your writing! Are the requests open? If yes, could you do the headcanon MC/reader married life with Lucifer, Diavolo, Barbatos, and Simeon? (these four are my biases) Thank you! 😘💜

Yey!! I'm answering requests again let's go!!

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Married life with them, how does it go?

Versions: Lucifer, Diavolo, Barbatos, Simeon

Warnings: Grammar errors, spelling errors, no proofreading, readers gender is not specified

Links: Masterlist, Rules

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LUCIFER

People know you as 'THE SPOUSE' because whenever he's about to blow up, you will be there to stop him

Your relationship is the type where Lucifer will put you to sleep first then secretly wake up to do his work

Then he will be hit by a flying slipper

Then he'll look to his side and saw you sitting up on the bed

Brows twitching out of annoyance and eyebags under your eyes

You HAVE to be fierce at times

Lucifer is known to be under Diavolo's control most of the time, he works for him.

So, there are quiet a few restrictions on his actions.

He could be fucking popping a nerve and will still not be able to fight back because he has to keep up Diavolo's reputation good.

So you do it for him.

One time, someone gave a rude comment to Lucifer

Imagine being rude to Lucifer bruh

And that person was in a quiet important position

So of course, he has to laugh it of like "Ha.Ha.Ha.Ha."

And que MC suddenly clearing her throat giving the most fake laugh while wide eyed staring at the man like "HA HA HA HA HA" with the most fake smile

Yeah

He's the type to ignore murder but draw the line at disrespecting his spouse

And you're the type to look at him while eating and think "Look at my man, ain't no way he's a murderer."

He is.

If Lucifer will SOMEHOW be charged of murder, which he really committed, MC would hold up a large sign outsid the prison, if it hasn't burned yet, with the words "FREE MY MAN"

To be honest, his whole thoughts on you just revolves around "Baby, you're freaky and strange. It's freaking me out." but continues watching and supporting you anyways.

You're just messing with him

Like, let the man have a break

You're the type of spouse to make a jerking hips movement while he's lecturing you tbh

DIAVOLO

So fun

Just shits and giggles

You don't argue, you bashes his head on concrete and he takes like a man with a smile

One time, he saw you struggling with gardening and he went outside to mess with you.

He asked, "Is this guy bothering you?" and pointed at the soil

You looked at him confused but nodded

Then he started punching the soil

He refuses to do extra paperwork now because he believes you're like those dog like

You know

Those dogs that know when their owner is coming home

And he believes that if he doesn't come home on time

You'll start howling like a pug on anesthesia

Yeah

And your vibes to him is like

"You poor thing." (Deregatory) (Sexual)

But you're his dream spouse

When he was a child, he likes those spouse that protects their BIGGER spouse

And he said "I like my spouse scary. Maybe I'll marry someone like them and they'll kill everyone who's ever said a bad thing about me."

He did marry one

You guys are a power couple though

You would attend the parties on matching clothes, especially tailored for the two of you

And he would be smiling like a puppy and you would be beside him glaring at whoever tries to be rude to him

But YOU know that HE knows who's naughty and nice

He'll deal with them when you're asleep

BARBATOS

"Yes, Baby. Your emotional wall is high and impenetrable. Can we kiss now?" — MC

It's just like that

I don't make the rules

Yeah, he's calm and collected

He's so stressed with you, everytime.

You're the menace and he's the leash

After using your magic, you would be leaning sexily on a wall in front of him

Coughing out BLOOD

Saying, "How do I look? Do I look good?" *Cough* "Was that hot?"

It wasn't.

He stands with his canceled spouse

Like

If everyone else is standing in front of his door, bloodied and bruise

He'll open his door IF and ONLY IF you're the one who knocked, or Diavolo

Then he'll open it

Grab you

Close the door

Open it again

Grad Diavolo

And let the rest of them bleed to death

He just loves you so much

Sometimes... ONLY SOMETIMES

When you tripped on the stairs and a lot of people saw it

He'll turn back time

ONLY SOMETIMES

Maybe not so sometimes

And by the way

If he has to move to another timeline

He will marry you

Over and over again

SIMEON

If you think you can bat your eyelashes at him and get whatever you want

Yes

Yes you can

He's so soft for you it's insane

It's so hot how his ring would shine when the slightest bit of life bounces of it

How it's cold metal would hit your skin when he cups your face and kisses you

How he absent mindedly fidget with it when he saw anything that reminded him of you

He's so soft

Like a cushion

Ready to catch you everytime you fall

He's also kind of clingy

But

Yeah, clingy

Everytime he wakes up and you're not there

He let's out the MOST dramatic sigh and think "The world is quiet cruel."

Chill, MC's in the kitchen making you guys food

But if you're indeed not there

He takes his suffering out on his book characters

Sexy evil bad bitch × quiet shy Boi (that can be a psycho)

He's a 10 but he doesn't mind that you're crazy so he's a 20

If you ask him the "What would you do if I turned into a worm?"

He'll answer the softest shit, "I'll build you a worm sanctuary, and take care of you."

Of course, after he said that you'll look up to the sky and thank father for his magic seed or whatever

[revelboo]

i've been gone for just,,, 2 days man THAT IS A LOT OF POSTS IN 2 DAYS THANK U FOR THE FOOD UR HIGHNESS

xD sorry. I was home sick and I get bored easily. 🔞 mass displaced mech 🌶️

Scenario- play

First Aid x Reader

• Figuring out your freak matches his own? That you get a kick out of the danger of getting caught just like he does? Denta gritting behind his battle mask, he tries to keep his head still, hips barely rocking against you. He’d thought getting set up so no one would see what he’s doing or realize he’s mass shifted would be the hard part, but not rutting against you is killing him as he tries to focus on Red Alert giving a boring status update on the Delphi sector.

• Bent over a container on your belly, one of his hands is covering your mouth, the other petting and sliding against you where his spike is buried deep inside you. And that other bot you don’t know is droning on and on as you push back against him, grinding and rolling your hips to try and break First Aid’s composure. Knowing full well he’s going to get payback for it. Hear his venting hitch, hips flexing forward, trying to pin you better so you can’t move as he struggles to answer a question.

• He’s going to overload on the feed if you don’t stop and part of him wants to, spike pulsing imagining Red Alert’s expression if he realized what he was doing. That’s he’s fragging you right now. And his elbow smacks the edge of the container, spike driving deep at that thought. Sees Red Alert frown at him. So serious. ‘Problem?’ The other bot asks and he’s struggling against the urge to thrust, pushing himself back up as he hears your muffled laughter. “All good here,” he groans, voice strained.

• And his weight is carefully pinning you as his servos rub more urgently against you, playing with your slickness and you manage to get the end of one of the servos of his other hand into your mouth, tongue curling around him as you suck and he makes a noise that almost sounds like pain. “I’m getting some interference,” he snarls, reaching to cut the feed.

• Finally. Hips pumping urgently against you, he knows he’s not going to last long. “We’re doing this again,” he growls, hips snapping against you. “Every fragging conference call.” So much less boring when he gets to play. And you nip his servo, your cry muffled when you come for him, dragging him along with you until he’s overloading so hard his vision whites out for a klik, filling you with a strangled growl, he shudders. Before beginning to move again. So hard for you right now.

[woozinhos]

okay but like boxer hubby cheol with his pretty little wifey and them getting freaky after he won cuz he’s a champ 😵‍💫

My Champion|| Choi Seungcheol

Notes: stop I actually love this concept it’s so hot

Seungcheol steps into the ring, his muscles rippling under his skin as he squares off against his opponent. You watch from the sidelines, your heart pounding with excitement and pride. He moves with deadly precision, dodging and weaving as he lands blow after blow. His boxing skills are impressive, and you can see the crowd is captivated by his performance.

As the match goes on, Seungcheol gains the upper hand, finally knocking his opponent out in the final round. The referee raises his hand in victory, and the arena erupts in cheers. Seungcheol grins at you as he's presented with the championship belt, his eyes dark with desire. "Come here," he calls out, gesturing for you to join him in the ring.

You climb up to meet him, your heart racing as he pulls you into a passionate kiss in front of everyone. The crowd goes wild, but all you can focus on is the feeling of his strong arms around you and the heat of his body pressed against yours. Seungcheol smiles at you through the blood and bruises, his expression fierce and possessive. The cut on his nose and split lip only add to his dangerous appeal.

"I did it for you," he says, his voice rough as he holds you close. "Won the championship so I can provide for our family." You run your fingers over his bruised knuckles, your heart swelling with love and admiration. "You're incredible," you whisper, leaning in to kiss him gently despite his injuries.

The crowd continues to cheer and chant his name, but Seungcheol only has eyes for you. "Let's get out of here," he says, his hands roaming over your body possessively. "I need to celebrate with my wife." Seungcheol walks out of the arena with you by his side, answering questions from the press as he shows off his championship belt. His arm is wrapped tightly around your waist, a constant reminder of who he did all this for.

"I have to thank my wife for being my biggest supporter," he says, smiling at you. "She's been my rock through everything." The reporters clamor for more, but Seungcheol only has eyes for you. "We're going to celebrate now," he tells them, pulling you closer as he guides you towards his car. The paparazzi snap pictures of the two of you, capturing the moment of his triumph and your loving support. As you get into the car, Seungcheol turns to you with a hungry look in his eyes. "Time for my real prize," he says, his voice dripping with desire.

"You should really get those cuts looked at," you say softly, reaching out to touch his face gently. "They look painful." Seungcheol chuckles, catching your hand and pressing a kiss to your palm. "It's nothing I can't handle," he says, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "But if it makes you feel better, I'll get checked out when we get home." You nod, relieved that he's being reasonable. The adrenaline from the fight is starting to wear off, and you can see him wincing slightly as he shifts in his seat.

"You were amazing out there," you say, intertwining your fingers with his. "The way you moved... it was like watching art in motion." Seungcheol smiles at your praise, his grip on your hand tightening. "All for you," he repeats, his voice filled with affection. "Always for you." Seungcheol parks the car in the driveway and turns to you, his eyes dark with desire despite his injuries. "Let's get inside," he says huskily. "I need to show you how much I want you right now."

You can see the tension in his body as he struggles to contain himself, his hands flexing restlessly on the steering wheel. The sight of him so wound up is making you ache with need. As soon as you're inside the house, Seungcheol pushes you against the wall, his mouth claiming yours in a desperate kiss. "I need to be inside you," he growls, his hands roaming over your body as he presses his hardness against you.

"You're mine," he says between kisses. "My champion's prize." Seungcheol's movements are rough and urgent, his adrenaline still pumping from the fight. His hands are possessive and demanding as he strips you out of your clothes, not caring about the buttons that pop off in his haste.

"You drive me crazy," he mutters, lifting you up against the wall and grinding his cock against your wetness. "Watching you in the crowd, knowing you're mine... it makes me want to take you right there." You wrap your legs around his waist, clinging to him as he bites and sucks at your neck. "Take me now," you whisper, digging your nails into his shoulders. "I'm yours to claim."

He thrusts into you in one swift motion, groaning at the tightness of your pussy. "Always so wet for me," he grunts, setting a punishing pace as he pounds into you against the wall. Seungcheol's strength and stamina are evident in his rough lovemaking, his powerful body slamming into yours with every thrust. He's strong enough to hold you up against the wall with one arm, the other hand moving to rub your clit as he fucks you.

"You feel so good," he growls, his voice rough with exertion. "Like a dream come true." You can feel the power in his muscles as he holds you, his body rippling with tension as he approaches his climax. The cut on his lip has started to bleed again, the metallic taste of blood mingling with the salt of his sweat as he kisses you hungrily.

"Cum for me," he commands, his fingers working faster on your clit. "Let me feel you squeeze my cock." You gently stroke Seungcheol's face, mindful of his injuries despite the intensity of the moment. Your touch is tender and soothing, a contrast to the rough passion that's consuming both of you.

"Beautiful," you murmur, tracing the lines of his face with your fingertips. "My champion." The tenderness in your voice makes Seungcheol's eyes soften for a moment, his expression vulnerable beneath the layers of masculinity and strength. He leans into your touch, his movements becoming more gentle as he pushes you closer to your orgasm.

"I love you," he whispers, his voice cracking slightly as he fights to hold back his own climax. "More than anything." Seungcheol buries his face in your neck as he struggles to maintain control, his breath hot against your skin. "You're too good to me," he mutters, his voice thick with emotion. You can feel his body trembling with the effort of holding back, his muscles taut as he tries to prolong your pleasure. "Let go for me," you whisper, running your fingers through his hair. "I want to feel you lose control."

He growls low in his throat, his hips stuttering as he finally lets go. "I'm going to fill you up," he groans, his cock twitching inside you as he fills you with his cum. You follow him over the edge, your body convulsing around him as you come hard. The two of you stay connected for a moment, breathing heavily as you come down from your high.

Seungcheol slowly pulls out of you and carries you to the bedroom, laying you down gently on the bed. He curls up beside you, his body still trembling slightly as he holds you close. You cuddle up to Seungcheol, your bodies fitting together perfectly as he holds you close. He nuzzles your neck, inhaling deeply as he breathes in your scent.

"I'm sorry if I was too rough," he murmurs, his fingers tracing gentle patterns on your skin. "I just... I needed you so badly after the fight." You shake your head, pressing a kiss to his forehead. "You were perfect," you assure him. "Always are."

Seungcheol smiles softly, his eyes closing as he relaxes against you. "I'm lucky to have you," he says quietly. "You keep me grounded when I feel like I'm on top of the world." You run your fingers through his hair, massaging his scalp soothingly. "And I'm lucky to have a champion like you," you reply, your heart full of love and pride. "To call my own."

[walble]

Your Future Partner

Paid Readings | Ko-Fi

This is meant to be a fun, general reading, so it may not resonate with everyone. Take what resonates for you and leave the rest behind! Please take a moment to breathe, focus on your intuition, and choose the photo that calls to you. Each holds a unique message for you!

𐙚 • 𝑃𝑖𝑙𝑒 1

Your future partner is someone who brings a sense of hope, renewal, and inspiration into your life. They're likely to come into your world when you're healing or stepping into a more authentic version of yourself. This person carries a calming presence and seems to ignite a quiet optimism in you, as if things are finally aligning after a period of uncertainty or difficulty. They're drawn to your inner light and may even reflect that light back at you, encouraging personal growth and emotional clarity.

They likely avoid unnecessary conflict and prefer peace over chaos. Their presence suggests a breath of fresh air in your romantic experiences—someone who isn't here to play games or stir up drama. Past relationship patterns or internal struggles that once caused you stress begin to settle in their presence. This is someone who chooses communication over avoidance and is mature enough to let go of power struggles, making them emotionally supportive and level-headed.

Initially, there might be a hesitancy or emotional block on your end, perhaps due to past heartbreak or a fear of making the wrong choice again. But this person’s clear intentions and decisive nature will help you see things more clearly. Their actions will speak loudly, and they’ll show you that love doesn't have to come with confusion. You'll begin to trust yourself more around them, and that clarity will make it easier for you to open up.

They are intelligent, assertive, and driven—likely someone who charges forward when they know what they want. They might have a bold personality or a quick wit, and they’re not afraid to speak the truth. This person values honesty and progress, and once they decide to pursue you, they’ll do so with purpose. The connection may progress quickly once it starts, carried by strong communication and mutual respect. This person enters your life like a gust of wind—clearing the fog and pushing both of you toward something meaningful and transformative.

𐙚 • 𝑃𝑖𝑙𝑒 2

Your future partner is likely someone who has recently come out of a period of isolation or deep introspection. They may have gone through a transformative experience that forced them to confront their inner world and now they’re ready to step back into life, more self-aware and open. This person may have previously struggled with indecision or being stuck in their ways but is now making an intentional effort to take control of their life and act with purpose.

They are charismatic, skilled, and driven—someone who knows how to use the tools at their disposal to create opportunities and make things happen. There’s a sense of passionate energy around them, like they’re on the verge of starting something exciting, whether it’s a creative pursuit, a new project, or even a fresh chapter in life. This person will bring a spark into your world, not just emotionally but also through shared experiences and dynamic energy.

There’s also a feeling of wholeness and completion surrounding this future connection. This person may have traveled a long personal journey to get where they are, and now they’re ready to share their life with someone who can match their energy and growth. Your relationship with them will likely feel like the closing of an old chapter and the beginning of a new, meaningful one—with potential for long-term harmony, success, and mutual expansion.

𐙚 • 𝑃𝑖𝑙𝑒 3

Your future partner may initially come across as someone who has struggled with trust, communication, or immaturity in the past. They might have gone through a period of confusion, overthinking, or being unsure about their direction in life. This could stem from lessons they had to learn the hard way—perhaps from saying too much, too little, or not knowing how to navigate emotional conversations. When you meet them, they might still be healing from past experiences that shaped their perspective on love and connection.

They carry a deep emotional scar—perhaps from heartbreak or betrayal—that has forced them to confront their own vulnerabilities. This pain, while still present, has molded them into someone more self-aware and introspective. They're not looking for surface-level affection. Instead, they’re seeking something that brings balance, truth, and fairness into their life. They're serious about love and are ready to approach it with a sense of responsibility and integrity.

When they come into your life, the connection will feel undeniably strong. It’s not just romantic but deeply soulful, something that aligns with your values and your heart. There’s a feeling of choice and commitment between you both, one where mutual respect and emotional honesty play a big role. This person won’t shy away from showing you how much they care or from stepping into something meaningful with you.

They’re also generous—not just with time or resources, but with emotional effort and energy. This person values equality in relationships and wants to give just as much as they receive. They’re someone who believes love is a two-way street, and they’ll make sure you feel valued and supported. Their journey hasn't been easy, but it’s made them someone capable of deep, sincere love—ready to build something real with you.

[antianakin]

I'm not sure Obi-Wan actually... knows? He's not in the room when Anakin gives them to her and she ignites them, so while I imagine Obi-Wan's aware that Anakin kept them and has been maintaining them and such, there's nothing to me that indicates that he knows what color they are now, and every interaction he has with Ahsoka afterwards is over a holo call and she doesn't have her lightsabers ignited during those.

The creepiness of it I think is mostly subtextual and comes from the audience's understanding of Anakin and the way he tends to view love as a possessive thing. His gestures can often SEEM very sincere and sweet at first glance, but with another look or two or three, you start noticing some weird undertones. TCW has quite a few scenes like this, mostly with Padme, and what's interesting is that they ARE different than the way they're done in the films. In the films, the creepiness factor is WAY higher in a lot of ways, and the balance is honestly kind-of off there, too, just in the opposite direction, and it's nearly impossible to understand why Padme would even LIKE him when he just comes off entirely as an overdramatic selfish creep. TCW keeps those scenes a LOT subtler and so the sweetness takes center stage and the creepiness only comes in if you go back a few times, maybe as an older person with the added perspective of age and experience, and pick up on the subtext and the ways in which the things Anakin says can SEEM sweet but really are disrespectful or possessive or both. He's using all the right words in the right tone of voice but it's the motive that's flawed.

The lightsaber color change is clearly intended to have Ahsoka's sabers match his own. If we go with the idea that the color itself doesn't really have any meaning to the Jedi and the word of God explanation that they are still her sabers and all Anakin did was like... shift it three degrees to the left to change the color, then there's nothing SUPER invasive or offensive about it. It's a little weird, one of those things you roll your eyes at a little because it's kinda like Anakin handed her matching PJs or matching Jedi robes or something because why NOT match? It's kinda stupid, it's a little cringe, but whatever, they're still her crystals and the lightsabers still work and the fact that Anakin's kept her lightsabers with him as well as continued to maintain them shows how much she meant to him and the hope he kept around that she would one day return. Even the color change is, in some ways, part of that gesture of hope that she'd one day want to come back.

The creepiness comes in when you realize it's more about him and how he feels than about Ahsoka at all. The creepiness comes from Anakin seeing Ahsoka as HIS. He wants a visible symbol that she is HIS Padawan, he wants to BIND her to him in a way everyone can see. She left him once, and he views that as a disappointment, a failure. And not even necessarily HIS failure, but Ahsoka's failure. That deleted scene where he talks to Obi-Wan makes it pretty apparent that, on some level, he's disappointed in what he perceives as Ahsoka's failure. Taking her lightsabers with him and changing the color to match his own is just another sign of how Anakin is upset that Ahsoka left HIM and how bad he is at letting anyone go and how possessive he is towards the people he claims to care about.

It actually makes sense to me that Ahsoka doesn't react to this as something creepy. She's never had to experience Anakin's possessive behavior before, she has no concept of just how much Anakin struggles with letting go and attachment and how fucked up he is by her choice to leave. She doesn't have the context through which to find the creepiness in this gesture. As far as Ahsoka is concerned, with what she knows of Anakin, this is just a big brother doing something a little cringey as a prank at worst. It's a little embarrassing perhaps, but it shows that he missed her. The creepiness SHOULD only really be visible to the audience at this point. YOU'RE the one who is supposed to be bringing the context of what you know of Anakin to this scene and recognizing all of the ways in which Anakin means this gesture, even the ones Ahsoka is incapable of seeing.

And in the same vein, that sweetness is equally as important to the scene to get across. The whole point behind Anakin is that he isn't some monster with no redeemable qualities to him. The whole point is that there was a lot of good in him and a lot of good intentions and real genuine care for people, and that all of it got twisted up by his fear and his pain and it consumed him step by step until he took that last leap over the cliff into the darkness completely. Before that, it's mostly meant to be simmering underneath the surface. But if there isn't a good person in there that you can see and recognize, then his choice to come BACK in ROTJ has a lot less impact.

Obviously the issue here is that the scene leading into this one is Jedi critical as all get out, we know Filoni has a massive boner for Anakin as the "greatest Jedi of all time" and the ways that impacts Ahsoka's own greatness, and that the balance between Anakin's goodness and his darkness is probably the narrative that is the weakest across the films and TCW. TCW does it a little better but only because they turned Anakin into Obi-Wan with slightly more anger issues and so he feels a little more likable most of the time, but he's also not... Anakin anymore in some ways, which is a whole different conversation. But it can be hard to view this moment without some of those other pieces of context, and so it can feel like the creepiness that Filoni claims is intended to be there is intentionally being overshadowed by the sweetness because of Filoni's personal bias.

We are also seeing this particular moment THROUGH AHSOKA'S EYES, she is very much the point of view character in this scene, and so it makes sense that SHE sees it as an embarrassing but sweet gesture, even if WE know that there's some darker shit behind it. Because that's the whole emotional core of the rest of this arc. WE know that Anakin is four days away from committing a genocide. WE know that as Ahsoka is taking out Maul, Anakin is falling more and more into darkness. WE know exactly what Ahsoka hears in her vision even when she doesn't. WE know exactly how Anakin abandoned her to die as we watch her fight her way through her own men. Ahsoka barely understands what's happening and has no idea of Anakin's involvement in it and the betrayal that just happened, BUT WE DO, and that's literally the entire driving force behind WHY it's emotional in many ways. It's why that last image of Darth Vader going to that planet and finding her lightsaber is meaningful at all. He knows he betrayed her, he knows he abandoned her to die, he knows that whatever happened here is his fault, and he has to live with that knowledge. Ahsoka gets to wander off in ignorance, but Anakin never does.

Ahsoka's ignorance is the tragedy, and that tragedy begins right here, with these damn lightsabers and their new color.

So there's ways I think this scene works, I do think that having it land both sweet and creepy is pretty par for the course for how a lot of Anakin's scenes go (especially with the big three: Padme, Obi-Wan, and Ahsoka) and that the creepiness IS meant to come more from your own knowledge while the sweetness comes from Ahsoka's limited knowledge, but Filoni's personal biases that we all know about and are bringing to this scene as well make it feel like that sweetness is perhaps getting overemphasized and so the creepiness factor isn't coming across the way he thought it would.

Anakin changing the color of Ahsoka's lightsabers is such a weird writing choice to make because it honestly makes zero sense with everything we've been shown or told up until then about how lightsabers work.

In the Gathering arc, we see all of the kids pick up what appear to be pretty similarly colored white crystals, but they don't all end up with the same color lightsaber. We hear them discuss the importance of choosing the design of the hilt to suit them, but never once hear them discuss any importance to choosing the COLOR of the saber. There's never any indication that the Jedi can choose the color of their saber, it's effectively chosen for them when they're led to a crystal to begin with.

The only other times we know someone can change the color of a crystal is bleeding and purifying which requires a lot of effort and appears to result only in red or white blades.

So for Anakin to have changed the color of Ahsoka's sabers from green/yellow to blue, either we need to completely discount that worldbuilding and assume that the hilt provides the color somehow and can be engineered differently, or Anakin somehow found two new crystals that he was able to confirm were blue and replaced her crystals with the new ones.

The option was there to just have Anakin have adjusted the design of hilt if they wanted to have Anakin do something to her lightsabers that was invasively sweet in a typically Anakin sort of way, to make them match his and Obi-Wan's more or something. Or if they wanted it to be genuinely sweet, he could've just given her back the sabers normally. And instead, they just... threw out everything we ever knew about the lightsabers just to give Ahsoka sabers that they were going to have her throw away in 3 episodes anyway and never get back. I don't really see the point of it when the lightsabers have no emotional impact upon anything.

[cherrygarcia-07]

Easter with the Reids🐰💗

(Please pretend its still Easter I was too sick to get it out on time😭)

Spencer will do anything to make his little girl happy and is determined to give her the most perfect Easter he can! Between Easter egg hunts and bunny shaped pancakes, he will stop at nothing to put a smile on her face.

pairing: dad! spencer x wife! reader (featuring aunt penelope & the team)

genre: FLUFF!! spencer worrying about being a good dad and doubting himself, then more FLUFF!!

word count: 7.5k (yeah ik woah)

notes: i named the daughter SORRY it was too hard to avoid it </3 feel free to rename her in your head // idk Spencer just loves his family so much i love him😭💗 // very dramatic pancake making to follow

masterlist

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You sighed and glanced up at the clock on the wall. 2am. You and Spencer had been painting little plastic Easter eggs for hours for the egg hunt Rossi had (begrudgingly) agreed to host in his garden. You would have begun painting hours earlier except a certain little someone had watched Rise of the Guardians before bed and was insistent on staying awake to catch the Easter Bunny and his entourage of holiday mascots’ visit. It had taken Spencer a while and a lot of patience to convince her to go to sleep and it hadn’t been long since he tucked her in and kissed her goodnight. And so here you were in the middle of the night, hunched over a mess of paint and pens and glitter, matching expressions of deep concentration on both of your faces as you got to work.

You gave yourself a moment to stretch, raising both arms above your head with a dramatic sigh before redirecting your attention to the half finished egg in front of you. As you picked up your paintbrush, Spencer let out a frustrated grunt beside you and set his own brush down on the table with a thud.

‘These eggs are so tiny, I keep smudging the paint with my hands.’ He grumbled, voice low and raspy with exhaustion.

‘She’s four, honey. I don’t think she’s going to care that much.’ You replied, taking the egg from him and turning it in your hand to inspect the damage.

‘I just want them to be perfect for her.’ He said softly, tired eyes focused on where he’d smudged a yellow polka dot. ‘She’s so excited for today, I don’t want to let her down.’

The worry lacing his voice made your heart ache. Spencer was undoubtedly the most devoted father in the world but you knew that his own upbringing meant there was always a sense of anxiety and self doubt itching away in the back of his brain that he never seemed able to dismiss. He dedicated himself to seeing through every moment of his daughter’s life, no matter how small or mundane, with the utmost care and with every ounce of unbridled love in that big heart of his, however this meant that anything short of perfection weighed heavy on his mind and brought a wave of guilt crashing over him. He was never able to convince himself that he was enough, and despite the immeasurable love he had for the tiny life he held so dear he struggled to believe that he was the father she deserved.

But luckily, he had you.

With a gentle smile, you picked up the paintbrush he had discarded and steadied the egg in your hand. A tranquil, comfortable silence passed between the two of you as you carefully painted over the yellow smudge until the polka dot began to resemble a little cartoon-style chick. You glanced up at Spencer next to you as you reached for the black pen on the table, laughing quietly at the trademark furrow in his brows before turning back to the chick and finishing the details.

‘Voila!’ You held the egg up proudly, a grin on your face as you showed off your work before handing it back to Spencer.

He let out a breathy laugh as he took it, turning it over in his hands admirably. ‘I don’t know what I’d do without you.’ He mumbled, exhaling with relief as you watched the dark clouds of guilt disappear around him.

‘Paint subpar Easter eggs, apparently.’ You teased, nudging him lightly with your shoulder.

‘My fine motor skills apply to playing chess not to arts and crafts.’ He replied, nudging you back and making you giggle.

‘Why do we have to paint eggs for Easter anyway? It’s so much effort.’ You grumbled.

‘I seem to recall someone saying this was their favourite Easter tradition.’ Spencer replied, raising an -amused eyebrow at your thinning mood.

‘Not at two o’clock in the morning it’s not.’ You yawned, leaning over to rest your head on his shoulder.

‘If you’re actually curious, there’s a few different beliefs and stories surrounding the origin of the Easter egg tradition.’ He paused to press a feather light kiss to your hairline and you let out a content hum before he continued.

-

It was 3:15am by the time you both finished and decided to drag your worn out selves to bed- though the temptation to give in and fall asleep right there on the table was hard to resist.

At long last you were cosy in bed, sleep pulling you more and more in every second that your face melted further into the pillow and your husband’s arm fell heavier over your waist, but you could sense that something was still on his mind. You rolled over onto your other side so that you were face to face, noses almost brushing against each other and your eyes darted over his face trying to make out his expression in the dim street light creeping in through the gap in the curtains beside your bed. His fingers twitched against your waist, a tell tale sign of his restlessness, and almost instinctively your own fingers found their way to his hair, gently combing through his soft curls as you pressed a reassuring kiss to the tip of his nose.

‘What’s going on up there, doctor?’ You whispered in a sleepy voice, tapping the side of his head with your finger.

‘I was just thinking…’ He trailed off with a sigh before shaking his head. ‘It’s nothing. Get some sleep please, honey.’

‘Spence, talk to me.’ You spoke softly, but with a hint of firmness in your voice.

‘You’ve been up all night, I don’t want to keep you up any longer.’ Spencer replied in a similar whisper, his voice was soft and calm but you could sense the fragility in the wavering of his words.

‘I’ll survive.’ You pulled your hand from his hair and let it trail down to his chest, rubbing soothing circles over the fabric of his pyjama shirt.

‘You know, sleep deprivation is much more dangerous than people realise. Its short term effects reduce cognitive performance and can induce headaches, nausea, anxiety and more, but its long term effects-‘

‘Spencer. Stop deflecting. What’s wrong?’ You cupped his face with your hand, forcing him to meet your eyes. Hesitantly, he licked his lips before speaking.

‘I was just thinking that she’s growing up so fast.’ Ah, you thought, there it is. ‘I was thinking about her first Easter, when she couldn’t talk or even walk yet. She was so small, it still hadn’t really sunk in that she was ours.’

A loving smile spread across your face, your mind replaying the same memories over in your head. ‘I remember it. Penelope was more excited than us, and brought all that chocolate that Charlotte couldn’t even eat yet. I think you ate it all, actually.’

Spencer scoffed, laughing under his breath as he shook his head against the pillow. ‘Wow. Inaccurate. I did not eat it all.’

‘Hmm…’ You pulled away from him slightly, biting your lip and rubbing your chin in exaggerated thought, ‘you definitely ate most of it. I don’t remember seeing a single drop of chocolate left for me.’

‘Well I seem to recall Penelope bringing a pack of Hershey’s Kisses that I never saw again.’

‘Wasn’t me. They must’ve gained sentience and ran away.’

The both of you were giggling like a couple of school children at this point, giddy as you tried to keep your voices quiet. Spencer tightened his hold around your waist, pulling you closer towards him until your noses were barely millimetres apart again.

‘Do you remember her outfit that day? The second I saw her I’d never been more grateful for an eidetic memory in my life.’ Spencer whispered, his voice warm and thick with affection, his eyes glassy and dazed as he envisioned the scene before him, love spreading through his chest as he reminisced.

-

You’d surprised him with her costume. A week earlier you’d been out shopping with JJ and Penelope in preparation for the holiday. While Charlotte was still too little to really participate, JJ had a whole day of events planned with Henry and so the three of you were scouring stores for everything ranging from buttons and ribbons for arts and crafts to sprinkles and candy for baking delicious Easter goods. It was in one of these stores that your eye caught on a fluffy little onesie hiding away at the back of a shelf, abandoned by somebody else and tossed aside instead of being put back where it came from. Curiosity itching at you, you picked it up and discovered fluffy, floppy little bunny ears and a fluffy, fuzzy little tail on the back of it. You felt your heart swell in your chest as you pictured your baby girl bundled up in the silly little outfit, tiny white paws kicking wildly as even tinier fingers curl around the soft, plush sleeves. You hadn’t realised how long you’d been stood there, daydreaming with a dopey smile on your face until you heard the clacking of Penelope’s heels approaching behind you.

‘There you are! We were looking all over for- oh!’ Her voice grew quiet and affectionate as she spotted what you were holding in front of you. ‘Oh, honey I can see the lovey-dovey wheels turning in your pretty little head.’ She reached out a jewellery clad hand to roll the soft fabric between her fingers.

‘Penny, I have to, right?’ You cooed, adoration dripping from every word.

‘If you don’t buy it for her, I will. I can already see her chubby little cheeks and her little hands and her little smile and- oh my gosh, I’m tearing up.’ Penelope fanned her eyes with her hands, batting her eyes up at the ceiling dramatically as you chuckled.

Fast forward to Easter morning, you could barely contain your excitement as you dressed Charlotte. You couldn’t help the smile stretching from ear to ear, cheeks aching though you could barely register it amongst the joy radiating through you. Absentmindedly, you began cooing sweetly, not even sure what you were saying- not even sure you were making sense- as you picked up your adorable baby girl, peppering her rosy cheeks with kisses as she squealed and giggled, her voice airy and light like a fairy.

Holding her tightly to your chest, you made your way downstairs to your husband. You found him in the kitchen, his back to you where you stood in the doorway as he hunched over a crossword book on the counter. He was still in his pyjamas, hair tousled and messy from a good nights sleep and the aroma of coffee danced around the morning air from the steaming cup next to him. It hit you like a hurricane- the sheer love you felt. It overwhelmed you in the best way, ready to knock you off your feet where you stood as it took over your senses until all you could see, hear- feel- was affection so strong it brought tears to your eyes and a lump to your throat. Your breath hitched as you glanced between the man you loved more than anything you could comprehend and the precious life you created together bundled up in your arms, her fingers clutching the cotton of your sleep shirt tight, like she needed to hold you just as much as you needed to hold her.

Taking a deep breath to steady yourself, you began to walk towards him, your socks padding along the floor beneath you. With a free hand, you reached out, gently shaking Spencer’s shoulder and he turned to face you, already wearing a lovesick smile before his eyes even fell on you.

‘Happy Easter!’ You grinned, lightly bouncing Charlotte on your hip, making her bunny ears flop either side of her face.

Spencer’s eyes widened as you watched him forget how to breathe for a second, his jaw dropping in a mix of surprise and awe before his lips stretched out in a wide grin, matching yours. He let out a light laugh, rising from his seat and bending his knees slightly so he was level with her.

‘Where is my daughter and who is this funny little bunny rabbit?’ He tickled her belly as he spoke, delighting in the way she wriggled as she squealed and laughed in response.

‘Do you like it?’ You asked, shifting her position on your hip slightly.

Spencer held his arms out in front of him, gesturing for you to hand her over to him, your hands brushing as you did so sending a jolt of happiness through you.

‘I think this may be the cutest thing I have ever seen in my life.’ He replied, his eyes stubbornly fixated on Charlotte as if she were the only thing in the room and they twinkled with an indescribable rush of emotions as he admired every detail of her cherubic face.

-

Feeling drowsy, you hummed lazily as the two of you shared your memories of your baby girl as she grew older with each story until you were back in the present day, burrowed together in the comfort of the night while she slept in her own room just down the hall from you.

‘I just can’t believe shes four already.’ Spencer mumbled, slightly melancholy as he traced sleepy circles on your hip with his fingers.

‘I know.’ You took his hand in yours, lifting it from your hip to your lips and pressing a reassuring kiss to his knuckles. ‘But just think, this is the first Easter she’s really going to be able to join in, which means we’ve got years worth of new memories ahead of us, right?’

‘Yeah, you’re right.’ He sighed, pulling your hand to his own lips to return the favour. ‘You’re always right.’

‘Of course I am. Now get some sleep, sweetheart.’ You kissed the tip of his nose before rolling back onto your other side, your back against Spencer’s chest as he wrapped his arm around your waist again. His curls brushed against your skin as he leaned into you and you felt a kiss on your shoulder as the two of you finally drifted off to sleep.

-

Spencer woke first in the morning, eager despite the very few hours of rest. As always, the first thing on his mind was Charlotte. He carefully withdrew his arm from around your waist, slowly pulling away from you to avoid waking you up. Despite being deep in sleep you let out a disappointed whine at the loss of his touch, a loving smile growing on Spencer’s face as he watched you hug your pillow in an attempt to replace his absence.

He quietly padded down the hallway until he stopped at a door decorated with a sticker-covered purple sign that read ‘Charlotte’s Room’ in glittering letters. He pushed open the door, wincing as it creaked at the hinges before it opened enough to reveal a cosy array of fairy lights and stuffed animals, pink walls and layers of patterned blankets swaddling a sleeping little girl. Spencer’s heart swelled as his gaze fell on the mess of curls spilling out in every direction over a heart shaped cushion, the only sound in the room the delicate breathing of a child far away in dreamland. Her fingers twitched where her hand rested next to her face, eyelids fluttering as her eyelashes cast light shadows on rosy cheeks. Spencer tilted his head slightly, watching in awe as her nose scrunched up in the same way his did so often and he wondered what it was she was so vividly dreaming of. It took everything in him not to wake her up with an ambush of cuddles and kisses, aching to smooth down her tousled hair and hear her bubbly laugh against the crook of his neck as he held her close. Instead, he opted for picking up the stuffed rabbit that had fallen on the floor through the night, fixing its pastel bow tie before tucking it in beside her, smiling at the way her hands instinctively found its soft fur and pulled it closer before he leaned over to plant a kiss on her forehead.

Downstairs, Spencer found himself in the living room fidgeting with the Easter basket the two of you had put together the night before. Sat inside a wicker basket was a rather generous selection of sweet treats and candy (that of course would be given to her in moderation- as terrible as Spencer was at saying no to his baby he was adamant about her health coming first) and taking up the rest of the space sat an adorable lamb plushie wearing a mint green ribbon around its neck. If you were being completely honest you’d bought it because you’d found it abandoned in an unrelated aisle of the store and felt bad for it, not because you thought Charlotte particularly needed it, much to Spencer’s skepticism at your instant emotional attachment to an inanimate object. Despite his sarcastic remarks, he couldn’t deny the way the silly sight of you carrying a stuffed animal in your arms and telling it all about it’s four year old owner-to-be made his heart flutter and soon enough he was at your side, rambling about the symbolism of lambs’ association with Easter (which you knew was his quirky way of accepting it into the Reid household).

Suddenly, the melodic jingle of the doorbell rang out through the room, pulling him from his mind and to his feet as he made his way to the front door, quickly adjusting the bunting on the wall that read ‘Hoppy Easter’ as he went. Through the glass stood the unmistakeable silhouette of blonde curls and colourful clothes, the clattering of jewellery on its wrists sounding out as the door swung open.

‘Well good morning, Sleeping Beauty!’ Penelope’s sugary voice sang, taking in Spencer still in his pyjamas, bed-ridden hair sticking up at the back of his head.

-

‘Not that I’m disappointed to see you but where’s your lovely family?’ She asked as her heels click-clacked through the house towards the kitchen where the decorated eggs waited to be picked up and taken to Rossi’s.

‘They’re still in bed. I’m letting them both sleep in.’ Spencer ran a hand through his curls in a poor attempt to calm them. ‘We were up half the night painting all of these.’ He gestured to the eggs on the counter.

‘Ugh, I just love seeing you all domestic and husband-y. It’s like seeing a double rainbow or watching a flower bloom, it just brings me so much joy.’ Penelope chirped, ignoring the sarcastic eyebrow raise pointed her way. ‘I can’t wait to see my baby genius. I swear if it wasn’t illegal I would totally just pick her up and take her home with me.’ She sighed, glancing at the photo of her stuck to the fridge with a ladybird magnet.

‘You know, I’m not sure how I feel about discussing kidnapping my only child.’ Spencer deadpanned, pouring himself a cup of coffee (his second of the morning) and perching on a counter stool.

Penelope scoffed and waved a hand in the air. ‘Oh, relax. It’s just me.’ Another eyebrow raise. ‘Uh, hello? Her favourite Aunt Penny who she loves and adores? She would be just fine- we’d make bracelets and paint eachothers nails and bake cookies and watch Disney movies and-‘

‘Garcia.’ He cut her off before taking a long swig of his coffee.

She sighed again and slumped down onto the stool next to him. ‘Fine, fine I guess you can keep her.’ She rested her chin in her palm sulkily before muttering under her breath like a grumpy teenager, ‘it’s not like you get to see her everyday of your life or anything.’

Spencer chuckled into his mug and pulled the basket of eggs on the counter towards him, subtly redirecting the conversation. This perked up Penelope and she straightened up in her seat immediately, clapping her hands together.

‘Oh, yes! I wanna see what you made!’ She bubbled as she began rooting through the basket, ooh-ing and ahh-ing as she inspected stripes and polka dots in every colour, eggs with silly faces scribbled with pens, even ones covered top to bottom in glitter that stuck to her fingers when she put them down- not that she minded, of course, practically everything she owned was covered in glitter anyway. However, amongst the pile of pastels and patterns one specific egg caught her attention.

‘Doctor Reid,’ she began, holding up an egg covered in mathematical equations with a puzzled look on her face, ‘what is this?’

Spencer’s nose scrunched up sheepishly and he placed his coffee cup down tentatively before responding. ‘I was beginning to run out of ideas, I had to switch to what I know.’

‘And you think the Easter Bunny is running around leaving equations on its eggs for the children of the world?’ Penelope teased.

‘I mean,’ Spencer started, shifting in his seat and shrugging as he rested an elbow on the counter, ‘if you think about it there’s probably a lot of mathematics involved in what the Easter Bunny does. You’d have to calculate the ratio of eggs to children as well as how many eggs would be needed per area taking into account which areas have a higher or lower amount of participating families, not to mention-‘

‘My dear boy wonder you know I love you but it is way too early in the morning for this.’ Penelope groaned, patting his shoulder in a friendly yet slightly exasperated manner before returning to the basket. She continued digging around until her hand found the almost-disaster egg that you had saved earlier, gasping as she lovingly rubbed the little chick with her thumb.

‘Oh look at this little guy!’ She swooned, lifting it closer to her face to get a better look. ‘I’m tempted to steal this one for myself! I have the perfect spot for it on my shelf between my mini ducky statuettes- Mrs Quackers III would just adore it.’

‘I can’t take the credit for that one, I’m afraid.’ Spencer responded, an amused smirk playing on his lips at her colourful babbling.

‘No duh, I know your adorable wife’s work when I see it.’ Penelope mused as she carefully popped it back in the basket, resigning to not stealing anything (or anyone) from the Reid house today.

The two of them chattered for a small while longer before Penelope rose to her feet, picking up the basket and making her way back to the front door with Spencer following behind. As she walked to her car she turned to face him as he stood in the doorway, blowing kisses to him and making him promise to give Charlotte a big hug from her once she woke up. With a final shout of ‘oh, and for the love of the Easter Bunny brush your hair’ she was gone.

-

Unbeknownst to Spencer, despite his best efforts to let you sleep in you had woken too not long after him, thanks to the mini-him down the hall.

Eyes still closed, you began to stir as you felt the mattress dip next to you, not heavy enough to be Spencer but enough to grab your attention. With an embarrassing amount of effort, you managed to open your eyes only to find a pair that looked just like your husband’s, only on a much smaller face, staring back at you.

‘Good morning, sweetpea.’ You said, voice hoarse. Still half asleep, you pulled an arm out of your warm bedsheets to pull the little girl in for a cuddle.

‘Morning.’ She replied, equally as sleepy as she wrapped her arms around you, nuzzling into your chest like a kitten.

With a content sigh, you gave her a squeeze before littering the top of her head with kisses, wishing you could stay like this with her forever.

‘How did you sleep?’ You asked as you rested your chin lightly on her head.

‘Good. The Sandman gave me dreams about the Easter Bunny.’ Clearly she still had last nights movie on her mind.

‘Ah, that’s good.’ You chuckled, deciding to humour her. ‘We wouldn’t want Pitch Black ruining our plans for the day, right?’ She shook her head lazily against your chest in agreement.

‘Where’s Daddy?’ Charlotte croaked, pulling herself up to look at you again.

‘Gosh I don’t know.’ Humming, you raised a hand to her hair, smoothing down her messy morning curls. ‘Maybe he ran off to start the egg hunt without us.’

‘Daddy wouldn’t do that.’ She pouted, offended on his behalf that you would even joke about such a thing.

‘I don’t know…’ You pondered playfully, biting back a smile at the look of horror on her face that you would ever question his character like that. You loved how much she loved him. ‘He can be pretty competitive.’

Before she could protest, the familiar sound of Penelope’s voice, muffled but undeniably hers, rang through the air and snapped Charlotte out of her mood. In a flash, she was sat up on her knees, hands clasped together in excitement at the sound of her auntie.

‘Aunt Penny!’ She exclaimed, beaming from ear to ear.

She began to jump to her feet, but you were quicker- you had to distract her until the eggs you painted were safely off the premises, it would break Spencer’s heart if she were to lose her faith in the Easter Bunny this early on in her life. Standing in front of her, you bent down to pick her up, resting her on your hip as best as you could now that she was so much bigger than that first Easter.

‘Now wait just a second! We can’t start our day without our fancy new outfit now, can we?’

Success.

Her warm, brown eyes lit up, sparkling like a sky full of stars as she giggled with excitement. A smile that looked just like her father’s lit up her face, sending an immediate rush of love through you. She’d picked the outfit out herself a week before and had been asking you every day since how long there was left until she could finally wear it. Pleased with your distraction, you carried her to the bathroom as she swung her legs either side of you, clapping her hands and squealing with girlish glee the whole way there.

-

As he closed the front door and headed back into the house, Spencer heard stirring upstairs, followed by the sound of running water and as if on autopilot his feet carried him to back to the kitchen, ready to make breakfast for his favourite little girl.

Humming to himself, he strolled over to the fridge, pausing for a second to admire the photo of Charlotte pinned to it- a permanent step in his every day routine. She was 3 years old in the photo, smiling a big toothy grin at the camera with pink icing from a cupcake smeared on her nose as a result of her diving face first into it to take a bite. Spencer laughed fondly to himself, remembering how she’d giggled and batted him away when he tried to wipe it off.

He pulled open the fridge door grabbing strawberries, blueberries and a carton of milk, closing the door with his hip before dropping everything onto the countertop. He’d had the ambitious idea to try and make a bunny rabbit out of pancakes, whether or not he could pull it off was something he decided not to worry about just yet. Charlotte was used to him drawing silly faces in whipped cream, or arranging fruit on top of the pancakes instead but actually trying to shape the pancakes was uncharted territory for him.

Spencer shook his shoulders out and rolled his pyjama top sleeves up as he grabbed a pan and got to work. Making the batter was the easy part, something he had down to an art having experimented and figured out the exact measurements of each ingredient needed to create the perfect texture with just the right amount of mouth watering sweetness, he didn’t even need to think about it as he moved. In the blink of an eye the mix was finished and ready to go, but all the momentum drained from his body like water down the drain as his eyes fell on the pan.

He exhaled dramatically, wringing his hands and muttering under his breath in an attempt to psych himself up. He reached out a shaky hand, grabbing the handle of the pan with a great deal of uncertainty. Baby steps, he thought, baby steps. His fingers twitched around the handle a few times before he tightened his grip, faking confidence. A bead of sweat formed on his brow. Spencer heard his heart beat in his ears, felt the lump in his throat as he took a deep breath and glanced over the batter sitting in the bowl next to him.

Spencer faced danger on a regular basis. He’d stared down the barrel of a gun as it pointed straight at him. He’d lay in hospital beds and on surgery tables countless times. But this? Making the perfect pancakes for his daughter?

This scared him more than anything.

It was very serious business. Swallowing the fear, Spencer’s other hand scooped the pancake mix, trembling slightly as he held it in the air above the pan. Finally he moved, pouring one big circle- the bunny’s face- onto the pan in a swift motion before releasing the breath he didn’t realise he’d been holding. He gulped, biting his lip anxiously as he began to move again.

Steady.

Steady.

STEADY.

Well. It was something.

He had tried to add two smaller, slightly more oval shapes to make the bunny’s ears but they came out rather shaky, rather… lumpy. Spencer sighed, trying to echo your voice in his head telling him Charlotte won’t care and reluctantly, he continued the steps, flipping the pancake over occasionally before sliding it onto a plate.

He’d shifted his focus to chopping up the fruit for decoration when he heard muffled voices coming from the stairs, followed by two sets of footsteps growing louder as they neared.

‘Are you ready to show Daddy your outfit?’ He heard your voice say, and suddenly the disastrous pancakes were forgotten.

‘Yeah!’ A sweet voice cheered, making his heart soar.

After what felt like an eternity of joyous anticipation, the two of you finally appeared in the kitchen doorway, hand in hand with matching expressions of happiness on your faces.

‘Ta-da!’ You sang in a twinkly voice, waving your hands and waggling your fingers in Charlotte’s direction as she ran ahead of you, stopping in front of Spencer and proudly holding out the skirt of her dress for him to admire her outfit.

She was wearing a beautiful white dress trimmed with heart-patterned lace that matched the heart shaped buttons fastening it from the waist up. From the waist, the skirt flared out in a way that twirled side to side as she swayed on her feet, which were clad in white ruffled socks and mary jane shoes. She wore an impossibly soft blue cardigan (which she had picked out because ‘Daddy wears cardigans’), sleeves ever slightly too long as they hung on her hands in an endearing manner. On the left side, right over her heart, was a picture of Peter Rabbit wearing his own little blue jacket. Charlotte’s curly brown hair was tied up in two charmingly messy braids, secured with ribbons matching the colour of her cardigan. But Spencer’s favourite part was the bunny ear headband that sat atop her head, white like her dress and flopping with every tilt of her head. He blinked back tears, envisioning that first Easter, the way the bunny ears of her tiny onesie bounced in the same way as she sat bundled in the arms of the woman he loved.

‘You look beautiful.’ He spoke finally, his voice small but completely enamoured.

‘Wait! You haven’t seen the best part!’ Charlotte squealed, sticking her arms out and spinning round in circles as her skirt fanned out around her, twirling with her as she moved.

‘Woah!’ Spencer exclaimed, reaching out to stop her before she got dizzy. He took her hand, spinning her at a gentler pace as she laughed. ‘Man, you’re really putting my outfit to shame.’ He said, gesturing down at the pyjamas he was still wearing.

‘She’s been waiting all week to show you that.’ You beamed, stepping towards the two of them before affectionately running a hand through his hair.

‘Oh well it was certainly worth it, my pretty princess.’ Spencer gushed as he scooped Charlotte up in his arms and carried her over to where her breakfast waited. ‘And I have a very special surprise for you too.’

‘Pancakes!!!’ She yelled, clapping her hands together as he lowered her down onto a stool.

‘Oh wow, they’re… interesting.’ You winced, narrowing your eyes at the lumpy shapes on the plate, drowning in strawberries and blueberries in a half attempt to disguise it.

‘It’s a bunny!’ Spencer objected, the pitch of his voice rising slightly in a way that had you stifling a laugh.

‘Is it?’ You placed your hands on your hips, tilting your head in an exaggerated manner as you egged him on.

‘Yes, see-‘ He was at your side suddenly, defensively pointing at the plate as he explained his art. ‘There’s the face, the ears are up here and that blueberry right there is its nose.’

You shook your head, biting your bottom lip as you hummed your disagreement, holding back a smile at the mix of embarrassment and offence on his face.

‘I think it’s cute, Daddy.’ Charlotte piped up, picking up the blueberry nose and popping it in her mouth.

‘At least someone appreciates art when they see it.’ Spencer muttered, quickly flashing a smug smirk in your direction before turning back to your daughter. ‘Thank you, sweetheart.’ He leaned down, pressing a kiss to her chubby cheek.

‘Yeah, yeah just go and get dressed, Picasso.’ You jested, poking him in the ribs through his pyjama shirt, gazing after him adoringly as he obliged and began to head out of the kitchen.

-

Later that day things were in full swing at Rossi’s place. Everyone was still waiting for Morgan’s arrival before starting any activities and with the kids not being allowed outside yet lest they find any Easter eggs ahead of the hunt, things were very lively indoors. Rossi lingered in doorways making sure child-sized hands stayed away from the plethora of expensive items adorning his house, having been kicked out of his own kitchen by Penelope who was decorating an array of baked goods with the focused precision of a surgeon. Emily was leaning against the counter, watching her work with a glass of wine in hand (‘What? I’m helping.’ She’d said with a shrug when you’d shot her a raised brow). In the living room JJ and Hotch had their hands full trying to settle an animated debate between Henry and Jack regarding the very serious issue of whether Batman or Spiderman was cooler.

You were sat on the couch, thoroughly entertained as you watched on while re-braiding Charlotte’s hair after it had come undone as a result of the busy behaviour that simply being a four year old entailed. She sat between your legs perched on the edge of the couch, legs swinging back and forth contently. Spencer was sat next to you, sipping his (now) fourth cup of coffee and happily answering the 1001 questions your inquisitive daughter had about the holiday. It was one of the things you loved most about her; of course every young child is curious, but Charlotte had clearly inherited her father’s insatiable passion for knowledge and you felt so lucky to have a partner who was so selflessly enthusiastic and so patient in answering as many questions as she could fathom.

Spencer was mid speech about the Swedish legend of Easter witches when the sound of the front door opening caught Charlotte’s attention, her head swivelling to the living room door as Morgan strolled in like he was the main event.

‘Hey, baby Reid!’ He called, crouching down as she leapt up from the couch, hair half braided, and ran to meet him.

‘Uncle Morgan!’ She cheered as the two of them exchanged the handshake routine they’d made up together that one time he babysat her not long ago.

‘Wow, look at you!’ Morgan stepped back, chuckling as she showed off her outfit again, twirling her skirt with pride like she had earlier that morning.

Penelope’s muffled voice rang out from the kitchen having overheard his entrance, ‘she looks like a little porcelain doll, my heart can’t take it!’

‘You’re not looking too bad yourself, dollface.’ He grinned as you got up to give him a hug in greeting.

‘What about me?’ You heard Spencer ask sarcastically from behind you on the couch.

Morgan crossed his arms, sucking the air in through his teeth and feigning distain before dryly answering, ‘I think you could do better, kid.’ Spencer solemnly shook his head in response, patting his heart with one hand but holding back the playful smile pulling at his lips that way he always did when he was trying to deny that he was actually enjoying Morgan’s antics.

Rossi, on the other hand, seemed quite frankly relieved that he finally had a reason to kick everyone out into the safe open space of the garden, clapping his hands together once- loud and dramatic- to get everyone’s attention before calling out,

‘Now that we’re all here could we kindly get out of my house and into the garden, thank you!’

-

Penelope made her way down the line, handing out three pastel coloured baskets to Henry, Jack and Charlotte, ruffling each of their heads as she went. Charlotte was overcome with excitement, rocking on the balls of her feet, eyes twinkling as she squealed to herself. You watched on happily from where you were sat on the bench, your head resting on Spencer’s shoulder.

‘Is it immature of me to want to join in?’ Emily sighed as she sat down next to you.

Across the table, Morgan scoffed and she narrowed her eyes at him irritably. ‘Please, you’re way too competitive, you’d leave nothing behind for the kids.’

‘Oh, and you would?’ She bit back, voice drawn out and teasing.

Your eyes bounced between the two of them like you were watching a ping pong match.

‘I’m sorry, since when were we talking about me?’ Morgan retorted. Even Hotch had the ghost of a smirk showing on his face as the two of them bickered like siblings.

‘Kids, behave yourself or you’ll both be in time out.’ JJ chimed in, jokingly glaring between them.

Next to you, you noticed Spencer had gone quiet, a distant look on his face and you could tell he hadn’t been paying attention. You frowned, pulling yourself up to look at him properly.

‘Spence, what’s up?’ You pried quietly so the others wouldn’t hear. ‘And don’t tell me it’s nothing again.’

He glanced between you and the table for a moment, debating what to say before giving in. ‘She’s younger than Henry and Jack.’ He trailed off and you nodded for him to continue. ‘I don’t want her to be discouraged if she doesn’t do as well as them.’

A sympathetic exhale escaped you as you rubbed his shoulder and met his gaze. It was a blessing to have a husband who doted on your child as deeply as he did, who poured his heart out every single day without hesitation so that there wasn’t a doubt in her mind for even a second that she was his whole world, his whole universe and everything beyond it. But you knew it meant he carried unnecessary weight on his shoulders. Spencer knew logically that the occasional sadness, disappointment, hurt and all those negative emotions were normal and even healthy to a person’s development and that they were all just a part of life, but since becoming a father all he saw when she pouted her lips or when tears spilled from those big brown eyes was the little boy he once was who had to feel those negative emotions all too often. He wanted nothing more than to make sure his little girl never felt the way he did, and it clouded his judgement sometimes.

You leaned in, lightly kissing his cheek before beginning softly, ‘you have to stop worrying about her.’

‘I know, but-‘

‘But you’re getting in your own way, honey. It’s her first real Easter and you’re going to miss it if you don’t let yourself enjoy it.’ You moved your hand from his shoulder, snaking it up the back of his neck and loosely tangling it in his curls, pulling him ever so slightly closer towards you.

‘Just look how excited she is,’ he nodded towards where Charlotte, Jack and Henry were all running around together waving their baskets in the air as they waited for the hunt to start. ‘I want today to be perfect for her.’

‘And it will be.’ You let your hand fall from his hair, cupping his face instead and forcing him to meet your eyes. ‘Because she’s spending it with you.’

-

Another loud clap from Rossi drew everyone’s attention, heads turning in unison to where he was standing in front of the three children.

‘Who’s ready to hunt some eggs?’ He called, rubbing his hands together.

Three loud cheers filled the air.

‘Just remember; be careful, have fun and for the love of my peace and wellbeing no fighting in my garden, alright?’

Three heads nodded vigorously, desperate to get started.

‘Ready…’

The kids all jumped slightly, the buzz of the moment rushing over them.

‘Set…’

A dramatic look of determination took over their faces.

‘GO!’

In an instant they were off, running out in every direction as fast as their legs could carry them. The adults table became a spectators corner- everyone was throwing out commentary, pointing and whooping every time one of the children found an egg in a patch of grass or behind the trunk of a tree. Charlotte’s short legs moved slower and covered less ground than her older rivals, but she didn’t let it stop her as she darted around inspecting every nook and cranny and you couldn’t help feel proud (and the tiniest bit competitive on her behalf) every time she added a new egg to her basket. Spencer seemed to be allowing his worries to disappear, instead whooping and cheering alongside everybody else and shouting words of encouragement across the yard. He laughed, bright and loud- the sound warming your heart, when he noticed her picking up the egg he’d covered in maths equations and he delighted in the way her brows furrowed in confusion for a second before she shrugged and tossed it into the basket.

While the hunt started with a rush of energy, the momentum soon began to slow as there were less and less eggs to be discovered. Eventually it slowed to an almost uneventful pace, the three kids wondering around more perplexed than anything and Rossi decided to put them out of their misery and call time before their kid-size patience wore too thin.

Once they had all returned and lined up again, it was clear Charlotte wouldn’t be taking home any trophies but the beam of joy on her face was all you needed. When all was done, she immediately ran over to the two of you, jumping up into Spencer’s lap and leaning her back against his chest as he wrapped his arms around her in a tight hug.

‘I found so many eggs, Daddy!’ She boasted, picking up the one covered in equations and holding it in the air for you both to see.

He took the egg from her, turning it over in his hands and inspecting it like it was his first time seeing it. ‘Yes, you did, you were amazing out there!’

‘Did you have fun, baby?’ You asked her, smoothing her hair down where it had started to become untied again from all the running around.

‘Yes, I did!’ She squeaked and you nudged Spencer’s arm lightly with yours in a reassuring motion. ‘I want to play again.’

‘Well, we’ll just have to wait and see what the Easter Bunny hides for you next year, huh?’ Spencer grinned, already thinking about what he was going to paint for her in a year’s time.

‘I can’t wait!’ Charlotte bubbled, leaning further back into Spencer to tighten the hug even more.

‘Me neither, sweetheart.’ His voice was quieter now, thick with pure love and he pressed a kiss to the top of her head before turning to you with a lovesick smile. ‘For next year, and every year after that.

-

[therealsilvermist]

Please please please do a billie x martial artist reader where billie thinks she can beat the reader in a fight but reader takes her down way too easily, finneas films it and it goes viral

An- Hi!! So sorry about taking a while😅 I started my new job and it’s kind of kept my hands full but I hope you enjoy this!!

TW- none, all fluff

Billie being the gym rat she is herself understands your love for martial arts. She loves seeing the way you can counter act someone else’s moves again you. The way you can grab and yank someone onto their back before they can even blink.

Seeing you win so many matches makes her feel like she could take you on. Surely you wouldn’t or even couldn’t be that quicker than her. Billie was quick with her feet and everyone knew that. And with the mix of her going to the gym and working out she believed she could take it.

She was wrong.

So wrong.

Painfully wrong.

“Come on, baby! Please!” Billie pleads in your ear. You both have arrived back home and you had just finished a shower. “No, babe, I’m not gonna do that and I’m not gonna hear you complain about losing either” you tease under your breathe. Heading into the kitchen, leaving Billie to sit on the couch alone.

Being met with silence is not what you expected. Billie always had a comeback, she loved getting sassy with you. Especially if it got some reaction from you.

This remarks shocks Billie. Mouth wide open, words lost and shock potent. “I could beat you, Y/N and you know it, you just don’t want to lose” Billie yells back from the couch.

Finneas was hanging out as well in the living room. Quietly watching the interaction between you and his little sister. Thinking the whole ordeal was cute he grabbed his phone and started recording quietly from the sidelines.

“You think, you can beat me?” You ask, interest peaking. You both knew that you have won many matches and have never really lost before. The more you watched her blue eyes looking back pleading into yours, you knew you would give in.

“Okay, fine, let’s do it, babe” you say putting down the cup of coffee/tea you had in your hand. Quietly making your way over to her. You stand in the center on the living room, getting into position.

Billie hopped up from the couch quickly. She was grinning and chuckling under breath. You loved that she was confident but you also loved that she was excited. Billie proceeds to take off her jewelry and put her hair up. Getting ready for her win that she believes is hers.

Finneas, still quiet and snickering in the back ground couldn’t wait for this. He knew Billie stood a chance but not against a trained martial artist. Not someone who takes classes for this specifically, and he couldn’t wait.

Before you could say anything Billie quickly charged at you, wrapping her arms around your waist trying to bring you down to the floor. Seeing as this doesn’t work, Billie somehow manages to flip herself upside down while clutching your waist.

This ordeal causes you and Finneas to let out a boisterous laugh. “What are you doing?” Finneas struggled between laughs. “Is this how you think you’ll win? Turning upside down and hanging on like a koala?” You asked, peaking down at her, seeing her flushed face and determination.

Billie ignored you both and continues to try and manipulate your body to go to the floor and lose. Shifting her body to both sides trying to cause you to lose your balance.

“May I try something babe?” You ask. Billie peaks up as best as she can from behind you. Somehow she managed to slide from in front of you, to behind you latched on.

Before she could answer you reach down and grasp her wrists from your legs and pulled her from between.

Catching Billie off breath before she can counter, you grab her right arm, gently twisting it behind her, gently kicking her knee from out behind her, causing her to go to the floor.

Before you could turn her onto her back, she turns around, grasping your hands with hers. Now kneeling with you on the floor. Just barely sitting, balancing on her tailbone.

“No, I’m gonna win” Billie grunts out, she was so persistent you couldn’t wait till you could give her a kiss.

Despite her obviously losing and not winning, the hard core belief that she would win brought Finneas over the edge.

Billie was clearly on the floor right about now. Back fully pressed against it but still putting up a good fight. Phone still in hand, capturing the entire moment between you two.

As you both wrested each other, you manage to grasp both her wrists in one hand pinning them up above her head, using the other to hold her down. “Are you done, Billie” Finneas asks, face red from laughter, you look back down to Billie seeing her flustered face.

Realizing the position you were in, you bring her hands down to her chest, where you let them rest, reaching down and giving her a kiss on her plump lips.

“Are you done, baby?” You ask, the tips of your nose connecting, Billie nods her head, giving you one more kiss before pushing you off her.

Before you can react she’s on top of you, trying to get your back to hit the floor, you counter it by grabbing her by the waist and hold her in the same pervious position.

“Okay, are you done now?” You laugh out, Billie was stubborn and hated losing, but the little pout on her lips were too cute. “I guess” Billie says rolling her eyes. Reaching to wrap her arms around your neck pulling you into a deeper kiss.

Finneas keeps recording, making sure to save it to his phone. Posting it into his story, not before asking you both. Finneas knew that this relationship was special between the both of you. He dreaded the thought of people trying to come between you both. Seeing this as a chance to show everyone how cute you both are together.

As the story stayed up on his instagram the fans started to freak out.

“Look out cute they are!” Some of the comment would say, “oh my god, Billie clearly lost but refused to accept it” or “if they break up love isn’t real.” The fans were always so supportive and loving.

Billie loved posting pictures of you both together and reading the sweet comments. She also would get jealous when the fans started to speak about how hot you are, how hot it was that you could flip her on her back so quickly, “my girlfriend” she would mumble under breath.

“Yes, your girlfriend only” you would say pulling her closer into your arms, giving one last kiss on her cheek.

[rillils]

Don't forget that Steve and Bucky also match in Infinity War, something that HAD to have been done on purpose, because there's absolutely NO WAY they didn't see each other at all in between Steve's missions as Nomad. Meaning Bucky intentionally wore an outfit that not only matched Steve's in color (the dark, dirty blue) and ALSO called back to his Howling Commando jacket via the design of it (which Steve must've been head over heels for bc Bucky looked STUNNING in that jacket)

These two are married, your honor!!

MELES MY LOVE, THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR BRINGING THIS UP BC IT'S MY FAVOURITE THING ASGHDAGSH 💖💕💖💕💖💕

Like THERE 👏 IS 👏 NO 👏 WAY 👏 that this wasn't a conscious decision on Bucky’s part. He absolutely did it on purpose and canon practically provides us with proof of that!

I mean, let's take a step back here.

I think it's not only safe but also pretty legit to assume that Bucky didn't participate in any of the missions Steve and the team went on, considering that:

1) he didn't trust himself to stay out of cryo (much less out of Wakanda) for too long until he was finally free from the trigger words;

2) once that happened, he was only focused on recovering, resting (in T'challa's words) and finding some calm (in Bucky's own words);

3) he didn't even get the new vibranium arm until earlier that day, and fighting without it would have put him at a disadvantage.

Now, while he was healing and enjoying his skype sessions and conjugal visits with Steve, he wouldn't have needed a suit like this, or any tac gear; nothing beyond the comfy work clothes we see him wearing earlier in the movie. So where does this suit come from? He definitely didn't have it on him when he and Steve first made it to Wakanda.

there's absolutely NO WAY they didn't see each other at all in between Steve's missions as Nomad. Meaning Bucky intentionally wore an outfit that not only matched Steve's in color (the dark, dirty blue)

I LOVE YOU because fuck yes they MUST have met during that time, and fuck yes he absolutely saw the state Steve's suit was in.

He probably watched it happen, month after month, visit after visit, noticing how Steve had ripped the star off his chest. How the red of the stripes had faded into a muddy brown, how the white was now a dirty grey.

How Steve still kept his shield harness, even when the shield itself was long gone - maybe out of habit, maybe to seek that sense of security it gave him after so long wearing it like a second skin. Maybe feeling the ache of this phantom limb, carrying the ghost of its weight on his shoulders still, but never regretting leaving it behind for Bucky - just like Bucky could never bring himself to regret staying by Steve's side throughout the war, and losing all he lost afterwards.

And I may be reading too much into this (hell, I'm willing to read a whole fucking essay into this), but can you really tell me that THESE

don't remind you, even in the subtlest way, of THESE??????

Which is why, I insist: IT WAS DELIBERATE on Bucky's part. It was so fucking deliberate I'm going to cry, honey.

Because at some point, either on the same day this battle happened or sometime before that, probably sensing that something bad was coming, Bucky acquired this suit. Maybe he borrowed it, maybe he bought it off someone. He could have gotten a brand new one, right? Instead, out of all the things he could have worn, he picked this: the blue jacket, the brown pants, all of it well-worn and stained, just like Steve's.

Perfectly matching Steve's suit.

Perfectly matching the suit Bucky used to wear way back in the day.

And it makes me wanna sob, because this is Bucky after the trigger words. This is a Bucky who has been living among people who know perfectly well who he is, but they don't treat him like a danger, like a weapon, or hell, like a name from a black-and-white past.

This is a Bucky who has been reclaiming his own identity, who has been struggling to find himself again, to discover who he is now, in the new century, after everything he's lost.

And I believe Bucky's telling us who he is, right here. No matter what year it is, he is Steve's man. He wears Steve's colours. He fights with Steve, for Steve, always. This is where his loyalties lie, and he's proud to show it off, to anyone willing to look.

I think in that sense, it is also very much a declaration of love. And it's so fucking romantic, okay, because!! Here, at the end of the world?

He's paying homage to their past, while reaffirming in the present that today, and for every day ahead of them, until the end of the line, until that future they were always walking towards hand in hand, he belongs with Steve. Come what may.

Also don't even get me started on how they're growing out their beards and hair TOGETHER 'cause I'll never stop fgdjgsjshdk

In conclusion: THESE BITCHES ARE SO MARRIED THAT THEY GOTTA MATCH EVEN WHILE MARCHING INTO BATTLE, THANK YOU FOR COMING TO MY TED TALK *drops mic*

[maddieandangel]

Consider: character-exclusive trinkets.

[thefallenangel2008]

Actually, no, hold up, I just woke up and the stangst is ready to go. Maybe Ford watches Stan's memories because... Because he wanted to see. Maybe he just just wanted to remember what the good times were like, maybe understand his brother just a little bit more. And he sees the times from when they were children, playing, laughing, impersonating eachother to get out of detention or boxing matches. It was fun, he remembers...

Then he sees Stan during his homeless days. His lowest points in his life. He sees Stan struggling to get by the next day, killing people for money, selling his body for drugs, him trying to phone Ford but chickening out the last second (so these weren't phone pranks?) And Ford has to skip those years because dear Moses, he can't- he can't.

He sees Stan working on the portal every night, wearing himself down for 30 years straight. And Ford just has to watch. Stan went through all of that... And Ford just feels guilty. So guilty. Because... He can't fix it. He can't make it up to Stan. They can't like, I don't know, maybe sail the world together. Because at least, all that suffering wouldn't have gone to waste. But he's dead.

Ok, but like, what if there was an AU where Stan died when Ford shot him with the memory gun. Maybe deleting his entire mind caused fatal brain damage and he died. But he still doesn't remember anything. His spirit has no memory of who he is or about anything. So the Axolotl picked him up, a brave and lost soul, and made him the spirit guardian of Gravity Falls, making sure he keeps evil away from the town. For some reason he's very attached to that cabin just outside of the small town and the people and the kids who regularly go there, especially to the old man who looks almost exactly like him, save from the extra fingers.

Maybe the Mystery Shack still runs under Soos' care, because that's something Stan worked for his whole life. Closing it and basically ruining everything Stan worked for for 30 years... Didn't sit right with anyone. Maybe Ford goes on boat sailing alone, on the Stan o' War II, as a way of honoring Stan and their equally dead dream to sail the world together. That's why everything happened in the first place, didn't it? The kids when they go back home have to explain to their family, to their parents and grandpa Shermie, that "Grunkle Stan had a stroke and died" (this came out funnier than intended).

Maybe next summer happens. To spend time together and create happy memories. Because that's what Stan would want. They all go to visit Stan's grave, and Stan stares at them. Because he knows them, he knows he knows them, but he can't remember how or when.

Anyway, @babyblankyerror I think you'll like it. :)

[mswyrr]

The canon tragic ending of Snowbaird isn't a depiction of "What if Peeta betrayed himself and his true love and had to live without Katniss?" it's a depiction of "What if Katniss betrayed herself and her true love and had to live without Peeta?"

People want to make the parallels restricted by gender, boy compared to boy and girl to girl, but Everlark is actually a gender reversal of Snowbaird -- Katniss is the traumatized survivor who is tempted by narrowing the world down to necessity (and shutting off her own aliveness because it hurts and it's a risk to survival) and Peeta is the philosophical artist whose very presence and being invites her to open up and allow herself to feel alive inside, to take the risk of that, instead of merely surviving.

Their conversation before their first Games really drives this home:

"Who cares?" indeed. And "While I've been ruminating on the availability of trees, Peeta has been struggling with how to maintain his identity. His purity of self" is very reminiscent of conversations Lucy Gray and Coriolanus have where she's the poet, the philosopher articulating the carefully thought through inner life of the soul, and he's the person of action and pragmatism whose default in the face of exploring his own soul is often "Who cares?" Does that put food on the table? Will it keep us alive?

These qualities are meant to be in union -- they're meant to save each other. People can't actually lead a full life without developing both things (their soul and feelings and capacity for reflection and their capacity to act and be pragmatic in the world to physically survive) and being in cooperative union with others who have strengths where their weaknesses are.

Katniss and Peeta start off their first Games each seeing something different as most important -- the thing their personalities tend to make them focus on -- and it is only in their cooperative union that they are able to set the toppling of the entire tyranny in motion. Their cooperative union heals what the ruin of Lucy Gray and Coriolanus' similarly potentially fruitful union (life turned to death; food to poison) broke in the world.

Jungian concepts of the anima/animus can be gender essentialist--including requiring that someone's personality tendencies "match" their gender or else it's pathologized, which is so gross and inaccurate and bothers me as a queer woman deeply-- but if we think of these as natural components of all people that naturally vary regardless of someone's gender and need to be in balance, then -

Peeta is Katniss' anima--her dandelion in the spring, her pearl, her sunset orange gentleness that inspires her soul to come out from hiding, to reflect and feel-- in the same way Lucy Gray is Coriolanus' anima, whose music and her very being and her prioritizing of inner truth and reflective philosophy has the same effect on him. They become more themselves with their true love. The parts of themselves that hide, that they've drained energy away from in order to focus on survival, come to life.

And they are their beloveds' animus -- which is why Coriolanus goes from being a protective active agent of their survival when in a better place with Lucy Gray to becoming Bluebeard, the (attempted?) wife killer, in the worst case scenario. "[B]oth the demon and the savior are two aspects of the same inner power [of the animus]" (Marie-Louise Von Franz, Archetypal Dimensions of the Psyche, Page 282) and:

"Many myths and fairy tales tell of a prince, who has been turned into an animal or a monster by sorcery, being saved by a woman. This is a symbolic representation of the development of the animus toward consciousness." ~Marie-Louise Von Franz, Archetypal Dimensions of the Psyche, Page 281

Coriolanus devolves away from consciousness rather than evolving into a productive and balanced union -- he's a prince toward Lucy Gray early on in their relationship, saving and protecting and cherishing her, who becomes a beast rather than a beast who becomes a prince. (If he'd had a journey into being "cursed" by Gaul and becoming a beast BEFORE they met they could have had a happy ending where she's the heroine in a romance with her animus -- which is basically the majority of what the most beloved m/f romances are under the hood btw).

Oh and all of this is why Peeta is not and never was Katniss' "moral instructor"!! -- yes, instead of survival, his priority is inner reflection and truth. But he is not activating anything within her that wasn't already there, just in hiding and waiting to feel invited to come out and unfurl and live. She drained energy away from those parts of herself because (like Coriolanus) she was literally starving and had to put everything she was into surviving if she and those she loved were going to physically live. She does seem to be a naturally more pragmatic person -- but a healthy pragmatic person allows themselves more than mere survival. She's not choosing to be sermonized at by a "moral superior" -- she's choosing to embark on exploring and enriching her own inner life in partnership with someone who is strong in areas where she has been weak -- and when Coriolanus let himself embrace the peace and reflection that Lucy Gray seeks he wasn't finding anything there that wasn't a natural part of him too.

And both couples basically can represent (this is back to Jungian ideas) an individual human's inner psyche -- in chaos and ruin or in balance. Each of us has parts of ourselves that are in hiding and parts that dominate. And we all need to walk a path toward balance with those things. So, by splintering apart one union like that, Collins is doing something psychological and even mythological -- symbolically splintering the parts of a healthy self, splintering a balanced marriage union, and dividing core forces in the world that could be productive and fruitful against each other. So - the land becomes cursed. It all turns to poison because these forces aren't in balance. And then she shows the liberatory power of those forces, through Katniss and Peeta, fighting to be in loving union despite everything the curse and sickness of the land and the symbolically dead "Fisher King" president throws at them.

[sweetvoidstuff]

Where You Belong - Part 1

Jungkook x Reader I Werwolf x Werwolf I Mates I Slow Burn I Asshole JK I Supernatural Romance I Yoongi I Violence

Summary : A festival meant to bring unity turns into something far more intimate when you catch the eye of a wolf who never intended to fall. Torn between the freedom to choose and the instinctual pull of a mate’s bond, you face both emotional and political pressure from the pack and outside forces. As loyalties are tested, the question lingers: will you run, or will you stay and claim your place?

Word Count: 35K (all Parts)

Masterlist

A/N: Hi! I’ve been meaning to post this one for a while, but I kept going back and forth on it. Life got a bit hectic, I got sidetracked, and took a few days off—so it took longer than planned. It didn’t turn out exactly how I first imagined, but for now, I’m calling it done. Maybe I’ll revisit and rewrite parts of it in the future, who knows. In the meantime, I really hope you enjoy it—please be kind, but I also welcome honest feedback.

Well, I wanted to post this as one, but Tumblr won’t let me…again... so I’ll be posting Part 1, Part 2 and Part 3 back to back. Sorry about that! Hope you still enjoy it!

Part 2 I Part 3

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The air was thick with the scent of wolves—dominant, eager, waiting for the blood and spectacle that the Great Festival promised. Fires burned high, casting flickering shadows on the hardened faces of warriors, their fur bristling under the golden glow of the full moon. Packs from all across the region had gathered, their strongest fighters ready to prove their dominance.

You had never belonged here.

The festival was a celebration of strength, a chance for alphas to assert their power, for betas to prove their worth. And yet, here you were, thrust into the lineup not because of your skill or beauty or alluring scent but because Jungkook and his friends thought it would be amusing to watch you struggle.

"Try not to embarrass us too much," Jungkook sneered, arms crossed over his broad chest as he loomed over you. His sharp brown eyes glowed faintly in the firelight, his lips curled in the smirk you had grown to hate. "But don't go down too fast either. Wouldn’t want the others thinking our pack raises cowards."

His friends snickered beside him. Jimin clapped a hand on Jungkook’s shoulder, his grin wide. "If the beta kills her by accident, at least it'll save us the trouble."

It was the same cruelty as always, the same reminders that you were nothing in their eyes. The only omega in the lineup, your presence was already an insult to the tradition of the festival. Not just an omega, a half-blood with barely any pheromones, You had been chosen simply because, should you fall, no one would care.

But you cared.

Your father had taught you better than that. He had taught you that strength wasn’t just muscle or dominance—it was resilience, skill, and the will to stand when others wanted you on your knees. And right now, in front of the whole festival, you would not kneel.

The first match of your pack had gone to Jungkook, as expected. He had torn through his opponent without breaking a sweat, his wolf a fearsome sight of black fur and burning rage. Jimin had followed, his win just as decisive. Now, it was your turn.

Jungkook’s voice was low, meant only for you, Jimin, and the betas standing nearby.

"Request to fight in wolf form."

The weight of his words pressed into you, unspoken consequences laced between each syllable. He didn’t bother explaining himself, didn���t need to. You already understood. A fight in wolf form was chaos—claws, fangs, and wild instincts taking over. It would drag the match out longer, and that’s all Jungkook wanted from you.

A spectacle. A joke.

Not giving him a reason to lash out at you, you only nodded. Submission, on the surface. But your decision had already been made.

Stepping into the ring, your heart pounded against your ribs, adrenaline pulsing under your skin. Min Yoongi, a beta from another pack stood across from you, relaxed but watchful, the golden glow of his eyes sharp and curious. He was smaller than most betas, lean rather than bulky, but you weren’t fooled by that. He had no stake in your humiliation, no reason to hate you. But he would fight you seriously—that much you could tell.

The elder overseeing the match raised his voice, echoing across the festival grounds. "Omega, how will you fight?"

Jungkook’s burning gaze drilled into the side of your face, Jimin beside him watching expectantly. They thought they had you cornered, controlled. That you’d obey, as you always had.

You turned to the elder and, with a steady voice, declared, "Human-to-human fight."

A hush fell over the gathered wolves. While fighting in wolf form was a spectacle, but fighting as humas was always more brutal.

Jungkook cursed under his breath, barely audible, but you felt it like a lash against your spine. His fingers twitched at his sides, his entire body stiff with frustration. You weren’t supposed to do that.

Jimin clicked his tongue in irritation. "Loves making things harder for herself, doesn’t she?"

Yoongi let out a quiet exhale, tilting his head slightly. His gaze flickered between you and Jungkook, your pack, taking in the way the air crackled with silent fury. His lips curled just slightly, as if amused.

The elder hesitated for only a second before nodding. "Very well. Human-to-human combat it is."

Jungkook said nothing, but the rage rolling off him was suffocating. This wasn’t just defiance. This was a direct, rejection of his order. But with the entire festival watching, he had no way to retaliate. Not yet.

And that was enough for you. Now he couldn’t make a joke out of you. They needed to look at you.

The moment the fight started, you dropped into a boxing stance—knees bent, fists up, weight balanced just right. It wasn’t the stance of a desperate omega trying to survive. It was the stance of a fighter.

Yoongi’s golden eyes flickered with intrigue before he lunged.

He was fast. Most betas were. But you had spent years dodging, training. You saw the way his shoulder twitched before a punch, the slight shift in his weight before a kick. You blocked the first hit with a quick guard, absorbing the impact, then pivoted to avoid the second.

A sharp jab came for your ribs—you twisted, catching his wrist mid-motion before driving your own fist into his gut. Yoongi exhaled sharply but laughed under his breath.

Jungkook had expected you to crumble within seconds, to be thrown around like a ragdoll, but you weren’t going down easy. You weren’t going down at all.

Each punch you took, you gave back just as hard. Like your father had trained you too.

He had done it not because he wanted you to fight, but because he had known—before you even understood it yourself—that the world around you would never be kind. You were a child of love, raised by a human mother and a wolf father, but love did not shield you from cruelty. Your peers had never accepted you. They rejected your scent, your blood, your place among them. And though your father had tried to seek help, even from his oldest friend—Jeon Hyunkook, Jungkook’s father—the response had been... disappointing.

All he could do was make you strong.

So, he trained you. Relentlessly. In secret. In the quiet hours of the morning and the long stretches of night, he taught you how to block, how to counter, how to never cower, how to never take a hit without returning one twice as vicious. You didn’t want to fight your pack – but he made sure if you ever needed to, you could.

And now, as Yoongi came at you again, fists cutting through the air with practiced precision, you moved the way your father had taught you. Your body absorbed the impact of his blows, but you struck back just as hard, just as fast.

Jungkook, from where he stood, froze.

It was the stance. The positioning of your feet, the way your weight shifted with every hit—it was familiar. It wasn’t just some random street-fighting technique. It was his father’s.

The same stance Jungkook had been trained in. The same one he had watched his father and his father’s best friend use when they had sparred together in their youth.

For the first time in years, Jungkook saw you with something other than disdain.

He saw you in awe.

The realization hit him like a hammer to the chest. You weren’t just throwing punches wildly, trying to survive. You were trained. Disciplined. Dangerous.

And the fact that he had never noticed before—that he had spent years mocking you, pushing you down, underestimating you—made something twist inside him.

Jungkook clenched his jaw. His nails bit into his palms as he watched you, his pulse pounding.

Who the fuck were you?

And why the hell had he never seen you like this before?              

Jungkook was still as stone. His hands were clenched so tightly that his nails dug into his palms, the muscles in his jaw flexing. His entire body was tense, shoulders squared, but his face—his face was unreadable.

Jimin, standing beside him, glanced over and smirked. He had spent years watching Jungkook sneer at you, ridicule you, not caring that the pack treated you like dirt beneath their paws. So, naturally, he assumed Jungkook’s silence was rage.

He chuckled, low and amused, before tilting his head toward the fight. “Man, this is embarrassing,” he drawled, loud enough for the surrounding wolves to hear. “An omega actually putting up a fight? What’s next, they gonna start challenging alphas?”

A few of the betas snickered.

But Jimin wasn’t really trying—his words lacked their usual venom. Because the truth was, you weren’t losing. And it was hard to mock someone who wasn’t just surviving but holding their own.

Still, he tried.

“Maybe Yoongi’s just going easy on her,” Jimin mused, tilting his head. “Bet he—”

“Shut the fuck up, Jimin.”

Jungkook’s voice cut through the air like a blade.

Jimin blinked, caught off guard. “What?”

“I said shut up,” Jungkook snapped. His eyes were sharp, dark, something unreadable burning beneath them. Jimin studied his expression, confused. Jungkook’s usual cocky smirk was gone. He wasn’t sneering, wasn’t watching with amusement. He was just... watching.

Jimin’s lips parted slightly as he realized it. Jungkook wasn’t mad. He wasn’t disgusted. Jungkook watched you fight—his own father’s technique in every block, every strike, every calculated movement—he had to face a truth he had never considered before.

You were by far a normal omega, but you weren’t nothing.

In fact, your technique might even be better than his own.

Because while Jungkook had always had his strength, his dominance, his powerful wolf to fall back on, you never did. You had no overwhelming physical advantage, no alluring sent to bewitch, no natural-born dominance to carry you through a fight. Every skill, every movement, every counterstrike you delivered had been honed through sheer necessity.

You had never had the luxury of relying on brute force.

You had only ever had your precision.

And that made you lethal.

Jungkook’s smirk had long since faded. He was frozen, watching the fight unfold with something that wasn’t amusement anymore—it was shock. Disbelief. You were an omega, the weakest of the weak, someone that normally would be protected, but here you were, fighting like you had something to prove.

Maybe you did.

You barely felt your feet hit the ground before you were launching forward, meeting Yoongi’s charge. Flesh met flesh. His fist slammed against your ribs, rattling your bones, but you didn’t buckle. You didn’t fucking falter. Instead, you twisted with the impact, riding the force, and then swung back—

CRACK.

Yoongi came at you again, but this time, you met him halfway, slamming into his chest with a hard shove. Your voice tore from your throat before you even realized you were screaming—

"If you want me down, you have to do fucking better!"

Jungkook felt the words strike something deep inside him, because he knew—he knew—that you weren’t screaming at Yoongi. You were screaming at him, the boy who had spent years mocking you. At the Alpha who had made sure you stayed beneath his boot. At the pack that had treated you like nothing more than a whisper of a wolf, a mistake of mixed blood, something not even worth the dirt beneath their paws.

And yet—here you were.

Standing in the ring. Thriving in the fight.

You weren’t just holding your own.

You were fucking commanding it.

Yoongi, to his credit, only grinned. His gaze burned with something wild, something dark and delighted. He lifted a hand to his lip, swiping away the smear of blood, his teeth flashing as he let out a short, breathless laugh.

“Oh, fuck yes,” he exhaled, nodding at you.

Then, without another word, he launched himself at you again.

Your fist connected with his jaw, snapping his head to the side. His mouth split open, blood speckling the air, but the bastard only grinned.

He moved fast—too fast. You barely had time to register his next strike before pain exploded along your temple, a white-hot flash in your vision. You staggered back, breath heaving, sweat dripping into your eyes, but you refused to give him another second.

You lunged.

Your knee rammed into his gut, forcing a guttural grunt from his throat. Yoongi gritted his teeth, hands snapping out like a viper—he grabbed you by the wrist, twisting viciously, but you let it happen. Let your body move with it, rather than against it, spinning into his hold.

Then you drove your elbow into his ribs.

He let out a sharp oof, his grip loosening just enough—just fucking enough—for you to wrench yourself free. Your feet barely hit the ground before you struck again.

A left hook.

A right jab.

A kick to his side so hard his breath hitched.

Yoongi laughed through the pain, his eyes burning like dying embers in the torchlight.

“Fuck, you hit harder than most of the alphas I’ve fought,” he panted, wiping blood from the corner of his mouth.

His hand came away red.

So did yours.

Your knuckles—split open. Raw. The skin torn, blood dripping down your fingers in sluggish trails. Every punch you threw sent a fresh wave of pain up your arms, but it wasn’t enough to stop you.

Because Yoongi looked just as bad.

His own knuckles were just as ruined, just as bloody. There was a gash above his brow, leaking a slow, thick trail of crimson down his cheek, and his lip was swollen where your punch had landed earlier. His breath came sharp, chest heaving, sweat dripping from his chin. His silver hair was a mess, strands sticking to his forehead, tangled and wild.

And fuck—you were sure you looked just as wrecked.

Your head throbbed. Your ribs ached. Sweat stung your eyes. You could taste blood in your mouth—bitter, coppery, your own and Yoongi’s.

And yet—

And yet, your lips curled.

A slow, dangerous, feral grin.

The rage. The hunger. The fire in your blood that they had tried to smother since the day you were born.

And Yoongi—Yoongi fucking loved it.

“You could give up?” you asked sweetly.

You flexed your bloodied fingers. Lifted your hands again. Set your stance.

And Yoongi did the same.

“And miss this?” a gummy smile so contrasting to your situation appeared on Yoongi’s lips.

A sharp strike to your stomach—your body bent, but you retaliated with a brutal uppercut, sending Yoongi stumbling. You barely had time to straighten before he came back at you, his foot hooking behind your ankle, trying to take you down—

But you caught yourself—barely—your fingers scraping against the dirt, twisting your body at the last second to break free. You didn’t stop moving, even as you saw Yoongi’s fist flying straight for your face—

You ducked. Just in time.

His knuckles whistled past your ear. Your hair whipped in the force of the motion, and without thinking—without even meaning to—you laughed.

A breathless, wrecked, exhilarated laugh.

Yoongi’s sharp gaze snapped to you.

And something flickered in his expression—recognition. Understanding. Approval.

And then—he laughed too.

Just like that, it was no longer just a fight.

Jungkook, standing on the sidelines, did not know what the fuck he was feeling.

Couldn’t understand why his fingers were digging into his crossed arms.

Couldn’t comprehend why the sight of you—bloody, grinning, wrecked but refusing to fall—was making something in his chest coil, tight, too tight.

He should have been irritated. Furious. Should have wanted to throw you out of the ring himself for the audacity of standing toe to toe with a beta.

But instead—

Instead, he watched the way you grinned through the blood and sweat.

The way your eyes burned, your whole body thrumming with fire.

The way you and Yoongi relished the violence, reveled in the clash of fists and force, as if the rest of the world didn’t even exist.

And it made something dark and possessive curl in his stomach.

Why the hell couldn’t he look away.

Jimin shifted beside him, still watching the fight, and huffed. “They’re really enjoying this, huh? Kinda twisted for an omega, don’t you think?”

Jungkook’s teeth ground together.

Yoongi hit the ground hard.

The impact sent a shockwave through the dirt, dust kicking up as his back slammed against the packed earth. You didn’t let him breathe.

The moment he fell, you were on him.

Your thighs locked around his waist, knees digging into his sides, pinning him down with everything you had left. His wrists were caught in your hands, shoved down against the dirt beside his head. His breath was ragged beneath you, his chest rising and falling in rapid heaves, muscles taut as if he was considering another attempt to throw you off—

But he didn’t.

For the first time in the fight, Yoongi’s struggle faltered.

For the first time, he couldn’t move.

Your breath came in ragged gasps. Sweat dripped from your chin onto his bruised chest. Your arms ached, your knuckles raw and split, smeared with his blood and your own.

Even the elders hesitated, as if their mouths had forgotten how to form the words. As if their brains refused to process what had just happened—that an omega had just taken down one of the strongest betas in the tournament.

The murmurs rippling through the crowd, disbelief crackling in the air like static before the elders finally—finally—called it.

“The winner—”

Their voices barely registered.

Because beneath you, Yoongi grinned.

Grinned.

Like a wild thing, like he was thrilled that you had just slammed him into the dirt and stolen the win right out of his hands.

“Shit,” he panted, his chest rising against yours, breath fanning across your face. His eyes, dark with something you didn’t quite understand, locked onto yours, something dangerously close to admiration. “That was fun.”

Jungkook felt it like a stone in his gut. This was their victory. Your victory. But as he watched you sitting over Yoongi, the way your chests heaved in sync, the way Yoongi looked at you—not like an omega, not like a weakness, but something precious like an equal—

His jaw was clenched. His lips pressed together, nearly bloodless. His dark eyes, normally sharp with ridicule whenever he looked at you, were unnervingly blank.

He should have been satisfied.

You were a win for the pack. A win for him. Not the weak, undesirable omega without a scent he thought you to be. He was supposed to look at you and feel triumphant—they had pushed you into this fight as a joke, an amusement, and now, you were something to be paraded around.

But all he could focus on was you and Yoongi.

Too close.

The way you hovered over the beta, smirking, panting, wild, covered in sweat and blood—

And the way Yoongi grinned right back at you.

Like he saw you.

Like he fucking wanted you.

Your arms ached. Your knuckles burned. Your ribs protested with every breath, but none of that mattered. You had won. With a final exhale, you rolled off Yoongi, your body hitting the ground beside him, sweat and dirt clinging to your skin. The fight had been everything. Raw, violent, unhinged—but for the first time, it hadn’t been survival.

It had been yours.

Beside you, Yoongi groaned, the sound thick with exhaustion but laced with satisfaction. “Fuck,” he muttered, running a bloodied hand through his sweat-dampened hair. “Haven’t had a fight like that in a long time.”

You let out a breath that could almost be called a laugh. Your body was shaking, but not from fear—from the rush, the fire still licking at your veins.

Yoongi shifted, groaning again as he pushed himself up into a sitting position. Almost instantly, his pack was there. Hands reached out to help him, guiding him upright, murmuring words of approval, of camaraderie. They even respectfully nodded at you.

And your pack?

Nothing.

Not a single hand. Not a single voice.

Jimin, standing beside Jungkook, scoffed. “Well, that was fucking unexpected.” His tone was light, amused, but there was an edge to it. “Guess even mutts can learn a few tricks.”

Jungkook didn’t respond.

Jimin’s smirk wavered slightly as he glanced at Jungkook, expecting to see him pleased—expecting to see that familiar condescension in his leader’s gaze.

But Jungkook’s expression was strange.

Unreadable.

His jaw was tight, his body coiled like a wire pulled too taut, his eyes locked on you and Yoongi.

Because Yoongi was reaching for you.

Still breathing hard, still wearing that goddamn grin, Yoongi turned toward you, extending a hand.

You hesitated.

Not because you didn’t want help—but because no one had ever offered it. And Yoongi must have noticed because something flickered across his face, something that almost looked like understanding. He didn’t move his hand away, just waited.

So you took it.

Yoongi’s grip was firm, warm, grounding. He pulled you up, steadying you when your legs threatened to buckle from exhaustion. And yet, he didn’t let go.

Not right away.

His fingers lingered, thumb brushing over the bloodied skin of your knuckles, something unreadable in his gaze.

And Jungkook hated it.

His hands twitched at his sides, the muscle in his jaw jumping as he watched the way Yoongi held onto you for just a second too long.

And then, to make it worse—to make everything worse—

Min fucking Yoongi opened his mouth.

Yoongi leaned in slightly, voice low but sure, eyes locked onto yours as he said—

“You should come with me.”

Before you could answer, Jungkook was suddenly there.

At your side.

It wasn’t aggressive, not like the countless times before when he had shoved you to the ground, knocked you aside like you were nothing—like you were less than nothing.

This time, it was gentle.

A simple brush of his shoulder against yours as he stepped closer, a slow, deliberate motion. Not enough to push you, not enough to hurt. Just enough to touch.

Just enough to get his scent on you.

The contact was brief, but the effect was immediate. His scent clung to your skin, seeping into you like a brand, the undeniable mark of an alpha on an omega. And not just any omega—you.

The weak one. The freak. The nobody.

For years, your pheromones had been barely detectable—too diluted, too faint, the consequence of your human mother’s blood. No one had ever tried to scent you before. No one had ever wanted to.

And yet, Jungkook just had.

You stiffened.

His voice was low, controlled, but sharp as a blade.

“She’s already claimed.”

Yoongi turned to Jungkook, his gaze unreadable.

You turned too, but unlike Yoongi, you didn’t hide your confusion.

What the hell had he just said?

What the hell had he just done?

Your pack didn’t want you. Jungkook sure as hell didn’t want you. He and his friends had made that clear for years—mocking you, pushing you down, humiliating you. Reminding you at every turn that you were beneath them, an omega barely worth acknowledging. They had treated you like a burden since the day you were born.

And yet, the moment someone—anyone—saw you, Jungkook took it away.

You could almost laugh.

Not because you actually found this funny, but because what the fuck else were you supposed to do? It wasn’t like you had planned to pack your things and leave.

No, you were sure that they would’ve already had your things packed for you.

But now? Now you weren’t even allowed this?

Jungkook wasn’t looking at you. His eyes were locked onto Yoongi, his expression calm—too calm. Like steel pulled so tight it was moments away from snapping.

“Claimed?” Yoongi’s voice was slow, skeptical.

His gaze flickered from you to Jungkook, sharp with something dangerous. “That’s funny,” he said lightly. “Because for someone who’s supposedly claimed, she looks just as confused as I am.”

Jungkook didn’t respond.

His jaw was locked tight, his entire body radiating something just barely restrained.

Jimin, still at his side, gave a half-hearted scoff. “Hah. Well, she’s not as worthless as we thought.”

Jungkook’s head snapped toward him so fast Jimin actually stepped back. But before anyone could challenge him further, a new voice cut through the tension.

Namjoon.

From the other side of the ring, the beta’s alpha—Yoongi’s alpha—had been watching. And now, the moment Jungkook spoke those words, he stepped forward.

Jungkook did not look at him.

But Namjoon looked at Jungkook, hard.

“You don’t get to throw that word around lightly, Jeon,” Namjoon said. His voice was even, calm—but beneath it heavy with authority, there was a weight. A warning. “She isn’t claimed. And if you’re saying otherwise now, you better have a damn good reason.”

Jungkook’s muscles coiled beneath his skin.

You could almost feel the conflict raging inside him. He was trapped. If he admitted the truth—that he had never given you a second thought before today—then you would have the right to leave.

To leave him.

To go to Yoongi.

And that, apparently, was something Jungkook was unwilling to let happen. His hand found your wrist. A grip on your wrist, tight, possessive.

Jungkook still didn’t acknowledge Namjoon.

“We’re done here,” Jungkook bit out, finally breaking his silence. “She needs her wounds checked.”

“Come on,” he muttered, already pulling you away. Already making the choice for you.

You tried to yank your arm back. “What the—?”

“Your wounds,” Jungkook cut you off, voice flat. “I’m checking them.”

You fought him.

Not outright—you weren’t that reckless. But you resisted.

Jungkook’s grip was tight around your wrist as he dragged you through the festival grounds, his body tense, his pace relentless. You pulled back, twisting your arm, trying to slip free without making a scene.

But his hold didn’t budge.

Not once.

Your breath came ragged, your body protesting every movement. The fight with Yoongi had left you battered—your lip was swelling, the metallic taste of blood coating your tongue. You could feel it—warm and sticky—dripping down your cheek from somewhere near your temple. Every step made your ribs ache, your knuckles screamed, and still, Jungkook pulled you forward, unyielding.

You didn’t speak.

The medical tent loomed ahead, tucked at the edge of the festival grounds. When Jungkook reached it, he finally stopped, releasing your wrist with a sharp exhale.

For a moment, you considered questioning him.

But then you saw his face—his expression sharp, his gaze hard, his whole body radiating a quiet, dangerous frustration. And suddenly, your words caught in your throat.

Your whole body hurt. You didn’t want a confrontation.

So you stayed silent.

But Jungkook wasn’t.

“You went against my order.”

His voice was low, but there was no mistaking the anger behind it.

“You were supposed to fight in your wolf form.”

You blinked.

For a second, you thought you had misheard.

Of all things—was this what he was pissed about? Not that you had won, not that you had shown a strength none of them ever thought you possessed, not that another pack’s beta had seen value in you and openly invited you to leave—but that you had disobeyed? Really?!

A humorless chuckle left your lips.

Your shoulders shook with the force of it, your lungs burning. Your hands moved before you could think—pushing your hair out of your face. The motion sent a fresh wave of pain through your battered knuckles, and you winced.

But the movement disturbed the air.

And with it, your scent.

Jungkook froze.

He hadn’t meant to inhale, hadn’t meant to care—but he did. It was barely there—soft, subdued, almost fragile. Not like the other omegas—not thick with honeyed warmth, not something that lured or demanded attention, not an instinctual pull. Delicate but lingering. It smelled like something distant, something just out of reach. Like a memory trying to surface—gentle earth after the summer rain, the faintest trace of something cool and sharp, an undertone of metal from the blood that still ran from your wounds.

It had never been enough to catch his attention before. Never been enough to register.

But now, with your sweat thick in the air, with your blood mixed into it, he could smell it.

Under his scent.

Under Min Yoongi’s scent.

It was gentle. It was inviting. It was meant to protect. And it made his head spin. Jungkook’s jaw tightened. His stomach turned. Had he really never noticed before?

Or had he noticed—but never associated it with you?

Jungkook swallowed hard, shifted where he stood, suddenly restless. He hated this.

Hated that he could still smell Yoongi on you. Hated that Yoongi had touched you, that his scent had settled into your skin, that he had smiled at you like you were something worth looking at, something worth keeping. Hated how he had to fight the instinct to pull you closer. Hated how he had to stop himself from brushing against you again, grounding you in his scent until nothing else—no other pack, no other alpha—could ever stake a claim on you.

Jungkook shifted his weight, rolling his shoulders as if trying to shake something loose, but it didn’t help.

You didn’t even look at him.

Instead, you were staring at the ground, lips parted slightly, split, breathing still labored from the fight. When you finally spoke, your voice was quiet, but steady.

“…I’m sorry for disobeying.”

Jungkook’s fists clenched. The words were soft, too soft.

You weren’t trembling, you weren’t crying, you weren’t begging—but somehow, this felt worse.

You straightened your posture, shoulders squared despite the obvious pain it caused you. Your voice didn’t waver.

“I’ll take whatever punishment you see fit, alpha,” you continued, “but I thought… I thought a win would be more beneficial for the pack.”

Jungkook just stared.

His stomach turned again.

You weren’t wrong. A win was beneficial. Even he had to admit that you had fought well—fought harder than anyone had ever expected.

And yet, here you were. Apologizing.

Not for failing. For not being weak.

Something twisted deep in Jungkook’s chest, an unfamiliar kind of discomfort. Because they had set you up for failure. But you went anyway.

And how had they repaid your devotion for your pack?

By letting you bleed alone.

By not even coming to your side when you won for them.

His stomach twisted, the weight of it all sinking in.

But then—he saw your eyes. The way you weren’t really looking at him at all.

That distant look. That lingering pain. That longing.

Like you were already thinking about something else.

Someone else.

You were already calculating your next steps, weren’t you?

Taking your punishment, enduring whatever he threw your way and then—what?

Maybe you’d go to Namjoon. He had seemed open to the idea of taking you in. Maybe you’d go to Yoongi. He had invited you. Maybe—for the first time in your life—you could be wanted somewhere.

And why not?

Jungkook understood why Yoongi had done it, what had made him say those words so openly—but the thought of you considering it made Jungkook’s hands curl into fists. Now that he got a whiff of you he didn’t want to lose it.

And you were considering it.

Jungkook’s breath caught.

He felt like an absolute fucking asshole.

His jaw locked. His shoulders stiffened.

He could force you to stay.

He was Alpha. His word was law. You were part of his pack.

He could put his claim on you by force—not Yoongi, not Namjoon, not another soul in this fucking festival—would ever dare question it.

But for once… he didn’t want to make it worse for you.

He didn’t know what to say.

Didn’t know how to fix this.

Didn’t know how to make you stop looking so—like that.

That look in your eyes, that quiet, tired sadness, that distant acceptance that told him you had already started imagining your life somewhere else. Somewhere away from him.

And fuck, he hated it.

He hated that he felt anything about it at all.

Jungkook wasn’t supposed to care. He wasn’t supposed to feel this tight, aching something settle in his chest when you stood there, avoiding his gaze, looking so fucking alone.

His hands curled into fists at his sides, body taut with something too tangled to name. He didn’t understand. He didn’t get why his pulse was loud in his ears, why his throat felt tight, why he cared.

Then, without thinking—he stepped closer.

Not aggressive, not like before. Not like he was trying to intimidate you. But something else. Something… unsure. Something unfamiliar.

Something hesitant.

For a split second, his body tensed. But then you shifted—just slightly, not a step back, not a step closer. And it hit him all over again. Yoongi’s scent on you.

Jungkook didn’t like that.

Didn’t like that Yoongi’s scent had been there first. Didn’t like that he hadn’t been.

So he did what his instincts told him to.

Slowly, carefully—he lifted a hand, hesitating for a fraction of a second before he touched you.

Not rough. Not like the harsh, punishing grips from before.

Gentle.

Warm fingers brushing over your wrist before trailing up, barely there, a question more than a touch.

And when you didn’t flinch, when you didn’t move away, when you only exhaled a slow, uncertain breath in confusion—he closed the distance.

He pulled you against his chest, his arms wrapping around you in a firm, solid embrace.

Your body stiffened immediately, breath catching, and for a moment, he thought you might shove him away. But then—slowly, cautiously—you exhaled, your muscles gradually unwinding as you settled against him.

Jungkook barely resisted the urge to bury his face against your neck.

To inhale deeply, to mark you with nothing but himself.

Instead, he tightened his hold just a fraction, protective, grounding.

Claiming.

It wasn’t the same as scenting you. But it was something.

Something that said—stay.

· · ────── ·𖥸· ────── · ·

The female wolf approached, her scent warm and neutral, a balm against the suffocating weight of Jungkook’s presence. You barely heard what she was saying, barely registered the way she reached for your arm, gently guiding you deeper into the tent.

You were just relieved to be away from him.

Jungkook and his friends had spent years tearing you down, humiliating you, making sure you knew exactly where you stood. So why? Why had he hugged you, brushed his scent onto you twice in such a short amount of time?

It made no sense.

And you were too exhausted to try and make sense of it now.

Behind you, footsteps entered the tent. Yoongi. He also came to the medical tent.

He looked like shit. Bruised and bloody, his lower lip split from where your knuckles had caught him. His cheekbone was swollen, and his dark eyes flicked toward you as he exhaled, sinking onto a nearby cot.

“Fucking hell,” he muttered, rolling his shoulders back. “You sure know how to land a punch.”

You huffed out something between a laugh and a groan, wincing as the healer inspected your lip as she moved you along. The sting barely registered. Your body was too numb, too exhausted.

Your mind reeled as you stepped into another part of the tent, the fabric shifting behind you, cutting off the weight of Jungkook’s gaze. You weren’t naive enough to think that this moment of peace would last—Jungkook wasn’t one to let things go. His scent was still clinging to your skin.

You shot a final glance over your shoulder that made you lock eyes with Yoongi. Yoongi eyes linger on you, posture relaxed despite the open wound on his brow still sluggishly bleeding, offering you a parting nod before you disappeared from his sight.

Jungkook tensed at that, his entire body coiling like a spring. But he said nothing, only watching as you left.

For now, you could breathe.

Meanwhile, the air inside the tent was thick enough with hostility to chock on.

Jungkook stood with his arms crossed, his shoulders drawn tight. He had been tense ever since the nurse got you, since Yoongi had stepped into the tent. Namjoon stood beside him, expression unreadable, while Jimin —fucking Jimin—, ever the mood-breaker, let out a scoff and shot Yoongi a smirk.

"Man, I still can't believe it," he snickered. "You really lost to an omega? That’s embarrassing."

Yoongi didn’t even blink.

"If that omega had been fighting you, your sorry ass would have lost too," he shot back easily, not even dignifying Jimin with a glance

Jungkook stiffened.

Jimin wasn’t expecting that answer.

He rolled his eyes, trying to recover. "Yeah, sure—”

Yoongi didn’t take the bait. Instead, the beta smirked, his gaze sharp as he glanced toward Jimin.

"You can suck a dick, man," Yoongi interrupted lazily, his tone bordering on bored. "If you really think that fight was a joke, then you're a bigger dumbass than I thought."

Jimin's expression darkened.

Jungkook's fingers twitched.

Then, Yoongis tone dropped, words hitting their mark like a well-placed strike. “If you’re too stupid to realize how fucking amazing she is, then she’s wasted in your pack.”

Jungkook froze. The words rang out like a challenge. Because for some reason, Yoongi defending you like that pissed him off more than Jimin mocking you.

Much more.

Too much.

Jimin’s expression twitched, irritation flashing in his eyes, but Jungkook barely registered it. His mind was still repeating the last thing Yoongi had said.

She’s wasted in your pack.

Something deep inside him—something primal—recoiled at the thought.

Yoongi had been watching you the entire fight, had taken every single one of your hits and still looked like he would’ve gone another round with you just for the thrill of it.

And then he had the fucking nerve to tell you to come with him.

No.

Jungkook couldn’t let that happen. Because there was something gnawing at the edges of his mind—a realization that he refused to let fully form.

He needed to put Yoongi in his place.

To tell him to back the fuck off.

To stay away from his omega—

Fuck.

The thought struck like a whip, burning through his mind like fire.

Mine.

His teeth clenched so hard his jaw ached.

He hadn’t meant to think that.

Hadn’t meant to let it form.

His fingers twitched at his sides, and for the first time in his life, he didn’t join in on Jimin’s mockery.

Because he couldn’t.

Because he knew.

Yoongi was right.

You were too strong to be treated the way you were.

And yet.

Yet, he was standing here, fists curled at his sides, listening to someone else talk about you, see you, acknowledge you. Someone who wasn’t him.

And it fucking bothered him.

Namjoon, standing beside him, must have sensed the shift. His gaze flicked toward Jungkook, voice even. “Don’t start a fight.”

Jungkook’s jaw clenched.

What the fuck was happening to him?

He forced himself to unclench his jaw. Forced himself to relax his stance.

Namjoon was right. And yet.

As he stood there, chest tight, body rigid, waiting for you to return, he couldn’t shake one singular, suffocating thought.

You were considering leaving.

· · ────── ·𖥸· ────── · ·

The female wolf had been kind—efficient but distant, the way pack healers usually were when tending to someone who wasn’t truly their own. She patched you up, wrapped your bruised ribs, cleaned the gash on your lip, and handed you a bowl of cool water and a cloth.

“You can wash up before you go,” she had said, then excused herself.

You should have been relieved to have a moment alone, but as you ran the damp cloth over your skin, wiping away the grime of sweat and blood, you hesitated.

The scent.

Yoongi’s scent still clung to you from earlier, faint but present, threaded into the fabric of your torn clothes. But the one that lingered strongest was Jungkook’s.

It had settled on your skin like a second layer, a stark contrast to how he had always treated you. His scent was warm, rich, something inherently dominant and grounding—comforting, even.

And that was the problem.

You had never thought of Jungkook as comforting.

The scent didn’t belong on you. He had no right to leave it there, and yet he had—twice.

Huffing, you pressed the cloth to your neck and scrubbed it away.

Even though a part of you—a tiny, traitorous part of you—had liked it.

But you weren’t naive. You didn’t understand why he had done it, and you weren’t about to let yourself read into something that wasn’t real.

As the last traces of him faded from your skin, you took a breath, forcing down the unease curling in your stomach. You were bandaged and clean. Ready to go.

Except…

You weren’t ready to step back into that tent.

Not with him. Not with Yoongi. Not with Namjoon, whose invitation still hung in the air, the one you weren’t sure you’d refuse.

So you did the only thing you could.

You slipped away.

Before leaving, you stopped by the healer. “Please let Alpha Namjoon and his Beta know that I’m grateful for the invitation. I’ll make a decision soon.”

And then, before the suffocating weight of that tent could pull you back in—you disappeared into the festival night.

· · ────── ·𖥸· ────── · ·

The moment the healer returned to the tent to take care of Yoongi and relayed your message, Jungkook stopped breathing. Everything inside him went still, frozen in the suffocating grip of one brutal, searing thought.

You were considering leaving.

His ears rang. His pulse pounded against his ribs, his veins, his skull—too loud, too hot.

And then—white-hot rage.

The fuck—you slipped away?!

The fuck you would tell some other fucking beta that you were considering his offer?!

Something deep inside him snapped, cracked open, left him bare and fucking raw. His body locked up, every instinct screaming at him to move, to find you, drag you back, remind you who the fuck you belonged to.

To him.

It shouldn’t have been true. But it was.

His omega.

His fucking omega.

Not Yoongi’s. Not Namjoon’s. Not anyone else’s.

His.

Across from him, Yoongi grinned—grinned, like he already had you.

If it wouldn’t provoke war with Namjoon’s pack, he would have put the smug bastard down right then and there.

Beside him, Namjoon must have sensed it—the impending explosion—because his voice was a sharp, cutting warning.

“Jeon.”

His head snapped toward the alpha, feral.

“Don’t. Fucking. Start.”

His breath was harsh, uneven. He forced his body still, forced himself to stay put, forced himself to swallow down the hurricane raging inside him.

But his hands wouldn’t stop shaking.

He needed to get away from Yoongi’s fucking stare,

Jungkook moved before he could stop himself, shoving past the tent’s threshold, out into the cool night air. The night air was cold against Jungkook’s skin, but he barely felt it. The weight in his chest—the suffocating, clawing sensation pressing against his ribs—was all he could focus on. His lungs burned from how hard he was breathing, his body rigid with tension as his mind reeled over the situation.

You were gone.

You’d slipped away.

And Jungkook was unraveling.

It wasn’t just that you’d walked off. It wasn’t just that you had managed to leave without him noticing. It was that you had done so after telling another beta—not him—but fucking Yoongi that you were considering the invitation. Leaving. The word lodged itself inside his chest like a knife twisting between his ribs, making it hard to think, hard to breathe, hard to fucking stand still and not go feral with the need to find you.

Jungkook's fingers curled into fists at his sides. His instincts clawed at him, screamed at him to hunt you down, track you, drag you back where you belonged. He didn’t even know what that meant anymore—all he knew was that the idea of you slipping further from his grasp was driving him to the brink of madness.

And then—

“What the hell is wrong with you?”

Jimin’s voice cut through the thick haze of rage flooding Jungkook’s system, sharp and irritated.

Jungkook’s head snapped to the side, eyes locking onto Jimin with a barely restrained snarl curling in his throat. Jimin stood with his arms crossed over his chest, a scoff on his lips, looking at him like he was some kind of deranged idiot.

“Seriously, why the fuck do you even care so much?” Jimin asked, incredulous. His gaze burned into Jungkook like he was trying to see into his mind, trying to pick apart the tangled mess of emotions that even Jungkook himself couldn’t fully understand. “Sure, she’s not as weak as we thought, but she’s still—”

Still an abnormal omega.

Something inside Jungkook snapped.

The next thing he knew, Jimin was pinned against a tree.

Bark cracked under the force of Jungkook’s grip as he shoved Jimin back, forearm pressing into his throat. A startled grunt left Jimin’s mouth, his hands flying up to grab at Jungkook’s wrist, but he wasn’t struggling. Not yet. He was stunned. His wide eyes stared into Jungkook’s, searching, trying to process the sheer fury he saw there.

Jungkook’s voice was low, guttural, dangerous. “Say that again.”

Jimin blinked. “What—”

“Say that shit again, Jimin.” Jungkook’s fingers curled tighter in the fabric of Jimin’s shirt, his grip unforgiving. “Say she’s ‘abnormal’ one more fucking time.”

The growl that rumbled from Jungkook’s chest was borderline feral. His body trembled with the effort to contain himself, to not let his instincts rip Jimin apart.

Jimin, to his credit, didn’t back down. He let out a breath, his expression shifting from shocked to frustrated. “You act like you hate her half the time,” he bit out, his voice rough from the pressure against his throat. “You—”

“You ever say that shit about her again,” Jungkook breathed, voice guttural, deadly, “and I’ll fucking break your jaw.” The words left Jungkook’s mouth before he even realized he’d spoken them.

Jimin swallowed, but there was no mistaking the disbelief in his scent—disbelief and realization.

A heavy silence settled between them.

Jungkook’s breath was uneven, his heart hammering like war drums in his chest. He didn’t know what the fuck he was saying, what the fuck he was feeling—only that it was true.

He didn’t hate you.

But he had made you think he did—for years.

And that was worse.

Jimin’s gaze flicked over his face, looking for something—understanding, maybe. Clarity. But all he found was frustration. Confusion. Possession. Jungkook finally released his hold, stepping back abruptly. Jimin sucked in a sharp breath, rubbing at his throat, his brows drawn in exasperation.

“Shit,” Jimin muttered.

Jungkook didn’t wait to hear what else he had to say. He turned, his body thrumming with tension, his instincts screaming.

Find her.

That was the problem, wasn’t it?

You were impossible to track by scent alone.

Jungkook’s breath came faster, his chest tight with something dangerously close to panic. His mind raced as he moved through the festival grounds, scanning every inch of the crowd, turning over every fucking stone. He checked the food stalls, the bonfires, the gathering circles—but you were nowhere. His frustration mounted with every passing second, the suffocating weight of the unknown pressing down on him.

And then—

He saw you.

At the edge of the festival.

Watching.

His feet halted. His breath hitched.

But he didn’t run to you.

Not yet.

Because, he saw what you were watching.

A small group from your pack—your own pack—laughing together, eating from a food stall, talking and joking and existing without you.

Like you weren’t there.

Like you weren’t one of them.

Jungkook didn’t move. He didn’t breathe. He only watched you.

Watched the way you lingered on the edges, distant, separate, apart. Watched the way your shoulders slumped just slightly, your fingers curling into the fabric of your sleeves—as if holding yourself together. Watched the way your eyes, usually sharp, usually guarded, turned soft with something somber.

Something that hurt.

And fuck—

Jungkook felt it.

Felt it in a way he had never let himself feel before.

Because deep down, he knew.

You might have been an outcast even without his bullying, but he sure as hell hadn’t helped.

Any chance you might have had at forming bonds with others—with other omegas who could have been open to you, to your differences—he had crushed with him and his friends being so openly against you.

And now, you were considering leaving.

Because you had no place here.

The air left his lungs.

And then—The wind shifted.

He caught your scent.

Subtle, light, but there.

Familiar. Calming. Now that he knew what to look for.

You felt it before you saw it—the weight of his gaze, the shift in the air. A tension, thick and charged, creeping up your spine like an unseen force tightening its grip around your throat. Your body reacted before your mind even had time to process it, muscles coiling, senses sharpening as if bracing for a fight, a command, a punishment.

And yet, when you turned your head, expecting the familiar sharpness of his scorn, the arrogant sneer that usually curled his lips, what you found instead was something entirely different.

Jungkook was walking toward you, but not like he normally did—not with the sharp, purposeful strides of an alpha ready to corner their prey. His movements were slow, measured, careful. Like he was approaching something that might spook, something fragile that he didn’t want to risk losing.

And then—he raised his hand.

Not to grab you. Not to pull you. Not to force you into submission.

But to hold it palm-out, a silent request.

Stay.

Your stomach twisted, confusion bubbling in your chest as your instincts warred with your logic. This was wrong. This wasn’t how Jungkook acted. He didn’t ask—he took. He didn’t approach with caution—he cornered. And yet, here he was, standing a short distance away, his body visibly tense but his expression void of cruelty.

Your gaze flickered over him warily, taking in the way his nose subtly twitched, the way his brow furrowed just slightly. You knew what he was doing. Smelling the air. Searching for something.

And when he didn’t find it—when his jaw ticked just barely, when his fingers curled the slightest bit before he forced them to relax—you understood.

You had washed off his scent.

The realization sent a strange kind of satisfaction through you. He didn’t look like he like it—not one bit. His scent had been stripped from your skin, erased as if he had never laid claim in the first place. But then, another realization hit just as quickly, one that made something deep inside you twist.

Yoongi’s scent wasn’t there, either.

Jungkook’s eyes flickered over you, assessing, processing. His expression barely shifted, but you knew him well enough by now to see the signs—the small, fleeting flicker of relief in his gaze, the way his shoulders lost a fraction of their tension. He hated that his scent was missing from you. But at the very least, no one else’s remained either.

You swallowed hard, torn between wanting to question him and simply pretending he wasn’t there at all. You didn’t get the chance to decide before he moved, his body lowering with an ease that felt unnatural for him, for what you were used to.

Jungkook sat beside you.

Not in front of you, not looming over you, not crowding you into submission.

Beside you.

And then, for the first time, he looked at his pack the way you did.

You weren’t sure what was more unsettling—the fact that he was sitting next to you without hostility, or the way he wasn’t part of the fun. Just watching the others with you. He wasn’t sneering. He wasn’t acting like the untouchable alpha you had always known him to be. He was simply watching. Watching them talk, watching them laugh, watching them exist together in a way you never had.

It made something sharp wedge itself inside your chest.

You didn’t know what to say.

You didn’t know what to expect.

This entire situation was too strange, too wrong. You weren’t used to being this close to Jungkook without fear. Without waiting for the ridicule, for the belittlement, for the inevitable moment he reminded you just how different you were. How much you didn’t belong.

And yet, the silence stretched. And it never came.

Instead—

“I’m sorry.”

The words were so quiet, so impossibly foreign, that you almost didn’t recognize his voice at first. Your body went rigid. Your breath caught in your throat. Your brain struggled to comprehend.

Jungkook didn’t apologize. Jungkook didn’t admit fault.

And yet, he was sitting here beside you, his gaze still fixed on the pack in front of you, his posture stiff but open. And he had just apologized.

It took a moment for you to understand—to even believe it.

But then, he continued, voice low, rough, edged with something that sounded almost hesitant.

“I misjudged you,” he admitted. His hands curled into loose fists against his thighs before he forced himself to relax them. “You’re not weak. You were just you.” His head tilted just slightly in your direction, eyes searching for yours, but you refused to meet them, your own gaze locked forward, jaw tight. He exhaled through his nose, fingers twitching. “Your scent…” His voice grew quieter. “It’s calming.”

Something inside you twisted.

You didn’t respond.

You couldn’t.

Because what the fuck were you supposed to say?

This was the man who had spent years making you feel like nothing. The man who had made sure you never had a place in your own pack, who had crushed any hope of you ever forming connections, who had made you feel like you were something to be ridiculed, avoided, dismissed.

And now, he was telling you he had been wrong.

That he was sorry.

That your scent—the very thing they had used to demean you, to remind you of how you didn’t belong—had calmed him.

Your lips parted slightly, but nothing came out. Your hands clenched against your lap, your chest tight with too many emotions, too much history, too much fucking pain.

The silence stretched between you, thick, suffocating.

Jungkook waited.

For an answer. A reaction. Anything.

The silence between you stretched impossibly long, thick with something neither of you could name. Jungkook had never been a patient man, but for once, he did not demand, did not press, did not try to force an answer from you. Maybe he thought you wouldn’t answer him at all—maybe a part of him feared you wouldn’t. And yet, even if you had chosen silence, he wouldn’t have left your side.

But then—you spoke.

Your voice was quiet, slow, careful. Not hesitant, not weak—measured.

“I am an omega,” you said, your lips parting just slightly before you pressed them together again, licking them as if trying to decide whether or not to keep speaking. You weren’t looking at him. Wouldn’t dare look at him. Not Jeon Jungkook. Not the alpha, not the son of your pack’s leader.

Not the one who, with his friends, had made sure your life had been nothing short of awful.

Not the one who had scented you today—twice.

Not the one who had apologized.

And yet, despite the fact that you refused to meet his gaze, you didn’t stop talking.

“Even unpure, I am still an omega,” you continued, the weight of those words pressing against your tongue, curling around your ribs. “I am unwanted in my own pack. Unclaimed. But I was invited.” You exhaled slowly, staring at the people in front of you, at the way they laughed, how they leaned into each other with ease. How they had everything you didn’t.

How they had never once thought to include you.

Your throat felt tight, but you forced the words out anyway.

“I was invited to join Yoongi,” you said, nodding toward them, toward everything you could have. Toward everything Jungkook had helped make sure you could never have here. “I could finally have something like this.”

Jungkook followed your gaze, watched the pack through your eyes, saw what you saw. Saw what you had been missing for so long.

And then, you turned to him.

For the first time since this conversation started, you finally looked at him.

“Why would you apologize now, Jungkook?” The words were soft, but sharp, piercing straight through him. “Can’t you just… let me go?”

Jungkook felt his lungs seize, felt something inside him coil so tight it hurt. He couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think. Couldn’t speak. Because—fuck, he understood. He understood exactly what you meant, exactly what you wanted. He understood the words you were saying, the quiet plea hidden underneath them. And at the same time, he didn’t.

Because no.

He couldn’t let you go.

Jungkook clenched his jaw, fingers curling into fists against his thighs as something ugly, something primal, twisted inside him at the mere thought of you leaving, of you running to another pack, of you going to him.

The image of Yoongi’s hand gripping your wrist, of his scent lingering on your skin, of his invitation—his fucking offer—wrapped around Jungkook’s ribs like barbed wire, sinking deep, tearing at his insides, making his vision darken at the edges.

He hated it.

Hated the idea of you walking away. Hated the thought of another pack looking at you, claiming you, seeing what he had been too fucking blind to see. And for the first time, he let himself acknowledge the thought that had been clawing at the edges of his mind, the one he had been too fucking scared to face.

What if you weren’t just his omega?

What if you were—fuck.

What if you were his mate?

And he had ruined it before it could even begin?

A slow, shaky breath left his lips, his fists clenched so tight his nails bit into his palms. He turned to you, and when you finally met his gaze, his dark eyes were filled with something heavy, something raw—something real.

Vulnerability.

“I can’t,” he admitted, voice rough, edged with something dangerously close to desperation. “I can’t let you go.”

You didn’t interrupt him.

You listened.

And Jungkook realized—you were giving him something he had never given you.

A chance.

A chance to explain. A chance to fix it.

A chance he didn’t fucking deserve.

Jungkook had never struggled with words before. He had never needed to. He was an alpha, the future leader of his pack—his presence alone commanded obedience.

But as he looked at you now, sitting stiff and guarded, waiting for him to say something worth listening to—for once, words failed him.

He didn’t know where to start.

Did he start with the moment he really saw you? The moment when the scent he had ignored for so long finally reached him properly, made his head spin?

The moment when Yoongi’s bloodied knuckles had slammed into your face, when you had spit blood onto the ground and still stood your ground?

The moment he realized that—fuck—you weren’t weak, weren’t something lesser, weren’t something meant to be mocked or scorned?

“I’m sorry,” Jungkook finally said, his voice lower than before, rougher. He wasn’t looking at you. Couldn’t. Not when he felt this exposed. This bare.

“I’m sorry that it took me so long to realize it. To really see you.”

He exhaled sharply, shaking his head as he forced himself to meet your gaze.

“I don’t think I ever wanted to see you,” he admitted, voice raw. “Not really. I told myself you were lesser. That you were different. That the way the others treated you was just—how things were supposed to be. I never questioned it. Never questioned myself.”

He hesitated, inhaling deeply, gathering his thoughts before continuing. “But when you fought—when you stood your ground—I realized I had never actually looked at you. Never tried to understand. And that—” his jaw clenched, hands curling into fists at his sides. “That was my fucking mistake.”

A muscle in his jaw twitched, his expression tightening with something close to frustration. Not with you—with himself.

Jungkook had spent years pushing you aside, treating you like something beneath him, something unworthy of his attention. Now he couldn’t ignore you.

Would never ignore you again.

He inhaled, your scent reaching him, steadying something inside him. The realization had been clawing at his insides since the moment he finally noticed you, since he finally let himself notice you. And still, it was terrifying to say out loud.

Jungkook hesitated. Then—

“I don’t know what this is,” he admitted, his voice quieter now, his eyes flickering across your face, searching for something he couldn’t name. “I don’t know if I—if we—” He exhaled harshly, shaking his head. “I just know that I can’t let you go.”

Your breath caught.

Jungkook swallowed, his fingers twitching at his sides before he finally gave in, getting closer—not to crowd you, not to intimidate, but because he needed to.

“Maybe,” he said carefully, slowly, “if things had been different—if I had been different—I would have figured it out sooner.”

Your brows furrowed. “Figured what out?”

He swallowed. Hesitated—

“I could see it,” he murmured, his voice thick with something you didn’t recognize. “I could, can see myself being your mate.”

Silence.

Your heart slammed against your ribs.

You stared at him, stunned, shocked, unsure whether to laugh or cry or push him away.

Jungkook… wanted to be your mate?

Jungkook, the alpha who had spent years making sure you knew your place, now wanted you?

The idea made your head spin.

Your scent spiked with uncertainty, and Jungkook felt it, saw it in the way you shifted, in the way you didn’t reach for him, didn’t lean closer despite the way his body was pulling toward yours.

But you didn’t reject him either.

Jungkook clenched his jaw, exhaling harshly, as if trying to settle something inside himself. “I don’t expect you to believe me,” he admitted, voice rough. “I don’t even expect you to forgive me.” His fists clenched at his sides, his whole body tense. “But I don’t want to lose you.”

Your lips parted, but no words came.

You didn’t know what to say.

And Jungkook, for the first time in his life, looked at you and realized—he was afraid.

Afraid that he had ruined this before it had ever begun.

His hands twitched at his sides, fighting the urge to reach for you, to grab your wrist and drag you closer, to scent you again. He wanted to. Fuck, he needed to. It wasn’t right, you walking around without his scent, without something that marked you as his. If someone else came near you, if someone tried to—

No.

He wouldn’t force it-you.

Not this time.

Not until you wanted him to.

Jungkook swallowed down the instinct, forcing himself to push past it. He got up, took a step back instead, motioning toward the festival.

“Come with me.”

You hesitated.

Jungkook didn’t blame you.

But after a moment, you moved.

You fell into step beside him, neither of you speaking as you walked deeper into the festival. Music and laughter filled the air, scents of grilled meat and spiced drinks curling into your senses. The sounds of packmates laughing, bonding made something tighten in your chest, a dull ache you had long since grown used to.

Jungkook saw the way you glanced toward a small food stall, the brief flicker of interest before you shut it down.

It was so natural, so ingrained in you to deny yourself.

Before you could pull away, before you could convince yourself you didn’t belong here, Jungkook was already moving. He pulled you toward the stall, barely giving you time to react. The vendor greeted him with a knowing smirk, already preparing something without needing to be asked.

Jungkook glanced at you, watching your reaction carefully.

"You haven’t eaten, have you?"

You tensed but said nothing. You didn’t want to admit it.

Jungkook scoffed, nudging you lightly with his shoulder. The touch was warm, careful. Not rough, not demanding. Just—grounding. Before you could argue, the vendor handed Jungkook two portions, and he pressed one into your hands, giving you no choice but to take it. You stared down at it, unsure of how to respond. Jungkook didn’t push. He just started eating his own, as if this was normal. As if it had always been this easy.

The food felt heavy in your hands.

Not because of its weight, but because of what it meant.

Jungkook had never done this before. Had never even come close. No mockery, no sharp-edged words hidden behind smirks, no underhanded glances exchanged with his friends at your expense. There was no cruelty, no trick lurking beneath the surface, waiting to snap around your throat the moment you let your guard down.

And yet—you hesitated.

Because it didn’t make sense.

Because this—this warmth, this softness, this small moment of normalcy—couldn’t be real.

For years, Jungkook had seen to it personally, had mocked and humiliated you whenever the opportunity arose. Why would he stop now? Why would he suddenly be so… kind? Did he really want you as a mate? Were you really meant for him?

It was easier—safer—to assume this was another joke. Some elaborate, twisted game where he played nice just to see if he could break you in a different way. But when you looked at him, at the way he just stood there, eating his food like this was something he had done a thousand times before, you couldn’t see it. There was no glint of amusement in his eyes, no carefully hidden malice behind his actions.

He wasn’t laughing at you.

And that made something uneasy twist in your stomach.

Because it meant you wanted to believe him.

And you didn’t know how to feel about that.

Jungkook nudged your shoulder lightly, his voice pulling you from your thoughts.

“You fought. You should eat,” he said simply. His tone was different—calmer, like this was just an obvious fact. “That’s what the others do, isn’t it? They celebrate. They enjoy the festival. You should too.”

You let out a breathy, humorless laugh, shaking your head.

“I don’t really do that,” you admitted, voice quieter than you intended. You forced yourself to keep your gaze on the food in your hands, unwilling to meet his eyes. “I don’t really… have someone to do that with.”

Jungkook stilled.

For a long, heavy moment, he didn’t say anything. But you felt it—the shift in the air, the weight of his gaze as it burned into you, the tension that coiled so tight it was suffocating. His throat bobbed, a muscle in his jaw clenching as something dark flickered across his face.

Because this—this was his fault.

He had done this to you.

Maybe not alone, but he had made sure you were alone, had pushed you so far to the edges of this pack that there was no place left for you. And now—now, he hated it.

Hated that you looked at your own pack with longing, with that quiet, resigned acceptance of your isolation. Hated that you had been forced to convince yourself you didn’t want something as simple as friendship.

His fingers twitched at his sides, his shoulders tight with the urge to reach for you, to pull you closer, to—

Jungkook swallowed hard, his voice coming out lower, rougher.

“Then celebrate with me.”

Your breath caught in your throat, fingers tightening around the food in your hands.

Jungkook must have sensed the shift in the air—or maybe, for once, he was just paying attention.

Because instead of letting the weight of your words settle between you, heavy and suffocating, he did something unexpected. He exhaled sharply, rolling his shoulders back as if physically shaking off the tension. Then, with a pointed tilt of his head, he motioned toward the festival stalls ahead.

“C’mon,” he said, his voice lighter now, easier. “Let’s do something fun.”

You hesitated, still off-balance from the strange, unfamiliar warmth of the moment before, but Jungkook didn’t wait for an answer. He grabbed your wrist—not hard, not demanding, just firm. Certain. And before you could think to pull away, he was already leading you toward the stalls.

The air around you shifted as he walked, the tension from before unraveling with each step. The festival’s bright lanterns cast a warm glow over everything, their light flickering against the deep hues of the night sky. Packmates bustled around, laughter and cheers blending into the rhythmic hum of music. It should have felt suffocating, overwhelming even, but somehow, Jungkook made it lighter.

Like you could actually breathe.

He stopped in front of a game stall—a simple one, lined with targets and darts, where the prizes ranged from cheap trinkets to extravagant stuffed animals far too big for anyone to reasonably carry around. Jungkook crossed his arms over his broad chest, surveying the prizes with an exaggerated air of contemplation before glancing at you.

“So,” he drawled, his tone dipping into something playfully arrogant, “what should I win my omega?”

Your heart stopped.

Jungkook must have heard it too, because the moment the words left his mouth, his entire body went rigid. His eyes widened a fraction, and then he fucking blushed. A pink hue crept up his neck, dusting his cheeks, his usual confidence cracking just enough for the moment to hang between you, raw and unguarded.

You stared at him, stunned.

Not because of the claim—no, that wasn’t what shocked you the most. It was the way he reacted to it. The way it had slipped out so naturally, so thoughtlessly, like it was something he had already accepted, something that was already settled in his mind.

Like it was something he wanted.

Your stomach twisted.

It was too much. Too heavy. Too real.

So you did the only thing you could think to do.

You looked away, fixing your gaze on the prizes as if they were the most interesting thing in the world. “Whatever’s fine,” you muttered, trying to evade the weight of the moment. Trying to evade the mere thought of being his.

Jungkook nodded stiffly, the blush still lingering on his face. But internally—internally, his mind was a fucking mess.

Because "whatever" wasn’t fine.

Not when it came to you.

No, he wanted to get you the best fucking prize there was. The biggest, the best, the one that would make everyone look twice and know exactly who you belonged to. Because he had already decided—whether you realized it or not—you were someone he definitely wanted as his mate. And that meant you deserved the best.

His lips curled into a grin, the usual cocky tilt of his smirk returning as he grabbed the darts, rolling one between his fingers before glancing at you.

And for the first time ever, your heart fluttered.

Just a little.

The realization made your stomach flip. Made your breath catch in your throat.

And then—the spell shattered.

“Hey, look at this,” a voice sneered from behind you.

You stiffened immediately. Too immediately.

Jungkook’s grin fell the second he saw your shoulders go rigid, the way your fingers curled around the hem of your sleeves. The way you prepared yourself.

He turned, eyes narrowing at the approaching group—packmates, his packmates. And the moment they saw him standing beside you, standing with you, their expressions twisted into something ugly.

“Oh, come on, Jungkook,” one of them laughed, clapping a hand against his shoulder. “Really? You’re making it too easy.”

Another chuckled, arms crossing as he eyed you with an amused smirk. “What, is this your new way of keeping her in line? Pretend to be nice, get her hopes up, then drop her harder than before?”

Jungkook’s blood turned to ice.

He barely registered the words—all he saw was you.

The way your breath hitched. The way your fingers curled tighter. The way your body tensed as if bracing for impact, as if you had already accepted their mockery before it had even fully left their mouths, as if you believed them.

Like you had done this a hundred times before.

And Jungkook—hated it.

Hated the way you didn’t fight back, hated the way you still defaulted to this, to expecting it. Hated that you were more than capable of wiping the fucking floor with half of them but you still—still—

Instinct took over.

Before he could think, before he could stop himself, Jungkook moved.

A step forward—not away from you, but in front of you.

The shift was immediate.

The laughter faltered. The sneers wavered. They weren’t expecting that.

Because never—not once—had Jeon Jungkook ever placed himself between you and them.

The air turned thick, charged with something heavy, something dangerous.

Jungkook didn’t say anything. Didn’t need to. He just stared.

And for the first time, his packmates hesitated.

Because this wasn’t the Jungkook they knew.

The Jungkook they knew laughed at you, mocked you, threw you to the wolves because it was fun, because it was easy. This Jungkook wasn’t laughing.

This Jungkook was looking at them like he was one second away from tearing their fucking throats out. His jaw clenched, his shoulders squared, his presence radiating something that was no longer just posturing—it was a warning.

And still—still, he hated that it had taken him this long to feel this way.

Hated that only now did the need to protect you consume him.

That only now, when it might already be too late, did he realize you had always been worth protecting.

The packmates who had been so quick to sneer, so confident in their mockery, suddenly found themselves hesitating, uncertain. Their eyes flickered between Jungkook and you, as if trying to make sense of what they were seeing—as if they couldn’t comprehend the sudden change in him.

Jungkook could practically hear the gears turning in their heads, trying to fit this moment into the narrative they had always believed. Because in their eyes, there was no way—no fucking way—that this was real. That Jeon Jungkook, their golden boy, their alpha, was actually standing between them and you.

He could feel their confusion, their disbelief, thick in the air between them. And then—the moment of hesitation broke.

One of them scoffed, shaking his head. “Alright, Jungkook. We get it.”

Another smirked, though there was a flicker of unease in his expression. “Yeah. You had us for a second.”

Jungkook’s jaw ticked, his muscles coiling tight.

They didn’t get it.

And when they turned to each other, exchanging knowing looks, their laughter starting up again—as if this was all just some elaborate new joke at your expense—something inside Jungkook snapped.

His voice came out low, dangerous. “Do you think I’m joking?”

The laughter stopped.

Jungkook took a slow, deliberate step forward, his expression dark, his presence suddenly suffocating. The easy confidence that usually radiated from him was gone—this was something else entirely. Something cold, something sharp, something that carried weight.

“You think this is me fucking around?” His voice was quiet, but it carried, slicing through the air like a blade. “That this is just some new way to mess with her?”

No one answered.

Jungkook let out a sharp exhale, shaking his head. “You don’t get to laugh.” His gaze cut through them.

One of them shuffled uncomfortably, but before they could speak, Jungkook cut them off.

“I mean it,” he said, voice like stone. “You don’t fucking laugh at her again. You don’t talk down to her. You don’t fucking touch her.”

A pause.

“You do, and I’ll make sure you regret it.”

It wasn’t a threat.

It was a promise.

Silence stretched between them, thick and charged. And then—one by one, they backed down.

Jungkook didn’t move until they turned, murmuring amongst themselves as they walked away, their laughter now uneasy, their jokes less certain. He heard the words slip between them, muttered under their breath—“This is just Jungkook’s new game. Give it a few days.”

Jungkook’s teeth ground together.

He wanted to tear the thought from their skulls. Wanted to shake them until they understood—until they saw what he saw, felt what he felt.

But it was too late.

And as he turned back to you—the shift hit him like a blow to the chest.

You were staring at him, your body stiff, your expression carefully blank. But it wasn’t the usual guarded neutrality you wore around the pack.

This was different.

This was wary. This was uncertain.

Jungkook felt his stomach drop.

No.

He had felt it before—just for a second. That fragile, delicate moment when you had started to let your guard down, when you had begun to step into something lighter with him, something that almost—almost—felt safe.

And now, just like that, it was gone.

His throat bobbed as he tried to figure out what to say, how to fix this, how to reach you again.

“Hey,” he said, voice softer now, quieter. “Are you—”

“Why did you do that?”

Your voice cut through him—not angry, not accusing. Just... uncertain.

Jungkook hesitated. He could still feel their words clinging to the air, their doubts sinking into the space between you. This is just Jungkook’s new game.

Fuck.

How could he make you believe him when even his own packmates didn’t?

He swallowed, forcing himself to meet your gaze, to hold it steady despite the way his chest ached.

“Because they were wrong,” he said simply. “About you. About me.”

You inhaled sharply, but you didn’t look away.

Jungkook’s hands twitched at his sides, desperate to reach for you, to do something—anything—to ease the wariness in your eyes. Instead, he took a slow breath, forcing himself to think. To find something, anything, that could break the tension, that could pull you back from whatever edge you were teetering on.

Then, suddenly—he knew.

A spark of something familiar flickered in his chest, and he let out a breath, forcing a small, lopsided grin.

“C’mon,” he said, tilting his head toward the game stall behind him. “I still owe you a prize, don’t I?”

Your brows furrowed. “Jungkook—”

“Let me win you something,” he interrupted, stepping closer—not enough to overwhelm, just enough to ground. “It’s only fair, after all.”

You hesitated.

And for a moment, he thought you might refuse.

But then—slowly, cautiously—you nodded.

Jungkook’s chest loosened just the tiniest bit.

It wasn’t enough. Not nearly.

But for now—for this moment—it was something.

For the next two hours, Jungkook did everything he could to make you feel comfortable.

He made it his personal mission, dragging you from stall to stall, challenging you to games he was far too skilled at—only to pretend he wasn’t, just to see the flicker of determination in your eyes as you tried to best him. He let you win once, and when you narrowed your eyes at him suspiciously, accusing him of letting you, he only smirked and shrugged.

(He had let you win. Of course, he had. But he wouldn’t admit it, because he liked the way it made you scoff and roll your eyes, the way it made you—just for a second—drop your guard.)

He won you prizes. Too many. More than you could carry. Every time you tried to refuse, he would only smirk, placing them in your arms with an ease that left you grumbling under your breath.

And he got you food—again.

The first time, you didn’t protest. The second time, you huffed but accepted. The third time, you stared at him, bewildered.

“Jungkook.”

His grin was all too pleased as he handed you something sweet, a smug glint in his eyes. “Eat.”

You exhaled, shaking your head. “I’ll explode.”

A beat of silence. Then—the quietest huff of laughter.

It was barely there. So small, so fleeting.

But it was real.

Jungkook’s breath caught, his heart hammering so hard he thought it might betray him. Because fuck, he wanted to hear nothing else. He wanted to hear you laugh again. And again. And again.

His grin softened into something else entirely, something genuine. Something he didn’t think he had ever shown you before. “Then I guess I’ll have to carry you home when you do.”

You scoffed, nudging his shoulder lightly—but you took the food.

Jungkook ached at how easy this felt.

For the first time, he felt like he was on solid ground with you.

His moment shattered the second Yoongi appeared.

It was subtle at first—just a flicker of movement in the corner of your eye, a figure leaning against one of the wooden stalls. Arms crossed, gaze steady, watching.

But Jungkook felt it the instant you tensed.

The warmth between you both—the fragile, tentative peace he had spent the past two hours carefully piecing together—vanished. The soft laughter, the playful bickering, the easy moments he had crafted, gone in an instant.

Jungkook watched—seething, helpless—as you looked at Yoongi and smiled.

Not forced. Not polite. Real.

A smile you hadn’t once given him.

His jaw clenched so hard it ached.

Yoongi pushed off the stall, moving toward you with a familiar ease that made Jungkook’s stomach twist. He walked like he belonged at your side, like he had the right to step into your space without hesitation.

Jungkook had spent the last few hours carefully earning every inch closer to you. Yoongi didn’t have to.

“You seem to be enjoying yourself,” Yoongi said, his voice smooth, measured.

Jungkook bristled.

Because Yoongi was looking at the prizes Jungkook had won you. At the way you were carrying more than you could possibly hold, arms full of his gifts, his offerings, his proof that he was trying, that he was changing, that he was someone you could trust.

But Yoongi—Yoongi was amused.

Like it was a joke.

Like Jungkook was a joke.

“I suppose I am,” you replied, adjusting the weight of the prizes in your arms.

Jungkook clenched his fists.

He wanted you to say it was because of him.

And then—Yoongi touched you.

It wasn’t casual. It wasn’t nothing.

It was deliberate, under the pretense of checking your injuries.

His fingers brushed against the inside of your wrist, barely there, light but firm, enough to feel the warmth of his skin against yours. Enough for his scent to cling.

Jungkook’s vision blurred. His body tensed, instincts screaming, but he couldn’t react. Not yet. Not when you didn’t seem the least bit bothered.

But Jungkook knew better.

Yoongi’s fingertips lingered too long. His eyes flickered too knowingly. And when he spoke—when he murmured, “I thought only you had left a mark on me, but my ribs still hurt with every breath I take”—it was too much.

Jungkook barely contained his growl.

Then, you chuckled.

You chuckled.

Jungkook’s nails bit into his palms.

“You did get a few good punches in,” you admitted, casual, easy, like it didn’t kill Jungkook to see you so comfortable with him. “I’ll feel them for a while.”

Jungkook wanted to rip Yoongi’s hand off of you.

Instead, he clenched his teeth and forced himself to breathe.

Yoongi hummed, finally releasing your wrist—but the damage was done.

His scent clung to you now. Not just faintly, not just a passing trace—it was fresh. Strong.

And you—you didn’t even notice.

Jungkook exhaled slowly, forcing himself to stay still.

To not grab your wrist, drag you away, wipe the smell off you himself.

Jungkook exhaled sharply, the back of his jaw aching from the tension he held.

He could feel his wolf pacing, snarl curling at the edges of his mind, demanding—fix it. Remove it. Make it right.

Yoongi didn’t seem to notice. Or maybe he did. Maybe he just didn’t care.

“Have you thought about what I said?” Yoongi asked, his voice quieter now. More serious.

Jungkook’s chest tightened painfully.

Because he knew exactly what Yoongi was asking.

Yoongi had asked you to leave.

To come with him. To his pack. To his home.

And now—now he wanted your answer.

Jungkook forced himself to look away, to breathe, to keep his hands at his sides and not tear you away from Yoongi and demand that you never fucking leave.

“I want to wait until morning.”

Yoongi’s head tilted slightly, gaze sharp. “Morning?”

You nodded, shifting on your feet. “When the packs leave the festival grounds.”

Jungkook’s heart nearly stopped.

You weren’t saying no. But you weren’t saying yes.

You were giving yourself time. Time to think. Time to question whatever this was. To understand your feelings. And maybe, to say goodbye.

One thing became clear to Jungkook in that moment—he wasn’t going to waste a single second he still had with you. Because if you were still questioning him, still wondering if he was loyal to you—if you had a place within your pack that had made you doubt him so easily—then he would prove it to you.

He would make you stay.

Jungkook finally exhaled, stepping closer—not aggressively, but firmly. The air between him and Yoongi was tense.

“This conversation can wait until morning,” Jungkook said, finality in his tone.

Yoongi raised a brow, gaze flickering between the two of you before he exhaled. He didn’t say anything else, but Jungkook could feel the doubt in his stare. Then, Yoongi tilted his head, considering something.

“We’re having a BBQ later,” he said, his eyes flickering between the two of you. “You should come.”

Jungkook stiffened.

Yoongi wasn’t talking to him.

He was talking to you.

And you—you were actually thinking about it.

Jungkook didn’t let you answer.

“We already ate.”

The word cut through the air like a blade, sharp and final.

Yoongi raised a brow, gaze darkening, but Jungkook didn’t care.

He was done.

He was done with the way Yoongi looked at you. With the way Yoongi spoke to you, like you already belonged to him, his pack. With the way you let his scent stay on you.

The way it twisted something deep in his gut, something raw and uncontrollable.

Yoongi held his stare for a long moment, unreadable. Then, finally, he sighed, lifting his hands in a mock surrender.

“Your loss.”

Jungkook said nothing. Just turned. It was pure instinct when he ushered you away from Yoongi, away from the weight of his gaze, away from the scent he had left on you like a stain Jungkook couldn't fucking ignore. When he finally stopped, it was in a quieter part of the grounds, where the festival noise hummed rather than roared, where the air wasn’t thick with the weight of too many bodies pressed close together.

He turned to you, his expression unreadable. “Show me your wrist.”

Jungkook exhaled sharply, eyes flickering over your face, searching, as if looking for something he couldn't quite name. Then, just as quickly, his gaze dropped.

To your wrist.

To the place Yoongi had touched.

His jaw tightened.

Before you could react, before you could even question it, his hand reached out, hovering just above your skin.

"Show me," he muttered.

You blinked, still rattled, still trying to process what just happened.

"What?"

"Your wrist," he said, voice low, edged with something unreadable. "Where he touched you."

You hesitated, instinct screaming at you to pull away, to leave before this became something you couldn't take back.

But—fuck.

He was looking at you like that again.

Like you were important. Like you mattered. Like you were something he could lose.

And for some stupid, ridiculous reason—you wanted to be just that to him.

Still, you slowly lifted your wrist, offering it to him, confused. Wary.

Jungkook didn’t immediately touch you. Instead, he let his fingers hover over your skin, the warmth of him so close, yet not quite there. You expected something rough, something forceful, something to remind you exactly who he was.

But instead—

He was gentle.

His fingers brushed against your pulse point, barely-there, softer than you ever thought him capable of.

And then—his expression shifted.

His brow furrowed, frustration flickering over his features as his thumb ghosted over the spot where Yoongi’s scent still clung.

A sharp breath left his lips, his throat bobbing as he swallowed.

“You barely smell like yourself,” he muttered, voice tight. “Not with the festival, not with—” he cut himself off, jaw clenching. “I can’t—fuck, I can’t even smell you properly.”

His gaze snapped to yours then, dark, searching.

“Let me fix it.”

Your stomach dropped.

“What?”

Jungkook’s fingers twitched. His grip on your wrist didn’t tighten, but he didn’t pull away either.

“I want to lay my scent over his,” he said, voice steady, unwavering. “I want to—” he hesitated, inhaling sharply before forcing himself to continue. “I need you to smell like me again. Please.”

Your breath hitched.

Because—no.

No, no, no.

This wasn't happening.

This—this whole thing, this night, his sudden kindness, the games, the way he looked at you, the way he touched you—

The scenting. The gifts. The food, earlier. The way he had asked. The way his voice had softened when he said it, like it was something that actually mattered.

This—this was how Alphas behaved around their omegas. How they courted their mates.

And Jungkook had to know that.

It couldn’t be real.

It had to be a joke.

A cruel, twisted joke.

Even for Jungkook.

“Are you—” your voice faltered, cracking as you shook your head. “Are you serious?”

His jaw tightened.

“You’re telling me you suddenly care?” your voice was sharper now, rising, your heart hammering. “After years of treating me like shit—this? This is what you expect me to believe?”

Jungkook didn’t look away.

“Yes.”

You scoffed, taking a step back, forcing him to let you go. Losing some of the gifts on the ground.

“This is cruel,” you whispered, something raw bleeding into your voice. “Even for you.”

Jungkook flinched.

For a moment, just a brief moment, you saw it—the flicker of something in his expression. Guilt.

And then, just as quickly, determination.

“No,” he said, firm.

You blinked, startled by the intensity of his voice.

“I don’t want you to think that,” he continued, his tone rough, almost desperate. “I know I have no fucking right to ask for anything from you, but I swear—I will spend every single fucking day proving to you that I mean it.” His breath was uneven, his eyes dark and unreadable. “That if you even honestly consider staying—I will be the best goddamn mate you could ever have.”

Your heart stopped.

Mate.

He said it.

Not as a joke, not in passing, not with a smirk or a cruel edge—he meant it.

He actually, genuinely meant it.

Your stomach twisted, breath shaking as you tried to process his words.

Because this—this was too much.

This was too real.

And Jungkook—Jungkook must have realized it.

Because just as quickly as he had spoken, his gaze shifted.

Softened.

And then, he sighed.

“I didn’t mean it like that,” he muttered, rubbing a hand over his face. “Fuck—I didn’t mean to scare you.”

You said nothing, still too caught up in your own spiraling thoughts, still trying to understand what the hell was happening.

Jungkook hesitated, then looked back at you, his voice quieter this time.

“I love your scent,” he admitted, the honesty in his tone knocking the breath from your lungs. “I just—” he exhaled sharply, shaking his head. “I hate not being able to smell it.”

His throat bobbed, his fingers curling into fists at his sides.

“I hate that he covered it up.”

Your chest ached.

Because—fuck.

He really, really meant it.

You were shaking.

And you didn’t even know why.

Jungkook’s presence was too much.

His words. His touch. The weight of his gaze pressing down on you like a storm, making it hard to breathe, hard to think, hard to stay standing.

Your mind felt like it was folding in on itself, twisting with every word Jungkook had said, every inch of space he refused to give you. The festival, the laughter, the distant hum of celebration—it all turned cruel.

The festival had felt warm before, alive with laughter and the scents of grilled meats and spiced sweets. The lantern lights had flickered gently, welcoming, the hum of voices wrapping around you like an embrace. The way walking, talking with him through it made you feel like you belonged.

But now?

Now, the sounds of the festival felt cruel.

The laughter in the distance mocked you.

The warmth of the festival fires burned too hot, too close.

The prizes Jungkook had won you hung heavy in your hands, their weight an anchor you hadn't asked for. The small stuffed wolf, the silly little trinkets—they meant nothing. But Jungkook had won them for you. Had looked at you with something akin to pride when he handed them over, grinning like it was the most natural thing in the world.

It wasn’t.

He was too much.

All of it—too much.

You were still shaking.

And Jungkook must have realized it.

Your scent changed, the shift barely noticeable under the layers of festival smoke, grilled meat, and—worst of all—Yoongi. But it was there.

And it was panic.

Jungkook’s heart clenched. His instincts screamed at him to fix it. To calm you, to make you feel safe—to make it stop.

His own body went rigid.

Because fuck.

That was the last thing he wanted.

All he had wanted—all he had been trying to do for the past hours—was make you feel safe.

So, slowly, carefully, he moved.

So slow, you didn’t realize it in your panic.

Like he was approaching a startled animal, as if the slightest movement could send you bolting.

And then, before you could fully process it—his arms wrapped around you.

Engulfed you.

It wasn’t desperate. It wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t demanding.

It was careful.

And it was warm.

Shielded you.

One arm wrapped tight around your waist, the other pressing between your shoulders, tucking you against him. Firm but careful, his touch uncertain but solid—so solid.

You froze.

Because what was this?

What the hell was this?

He didn’t try to scent you. He wouldn’t. Not without you allowing it. But he had to do something.

So instead, he just—held you.

His breath, steady and warm, brushed against your ear, his voice low, soothing as he whispered. Low, steady words against your ear, softer than you thought he was capable of.

“You’re okay.”

You weren’t.

“I’ve got you.”

He shouldn’t.

“Just breathe.”

And you hated him for it.

Hated that his voice was soothing. Hated that his arms felt safe. Hated that you felt wanted. Hated that you were longing for this. Hated that he smelled calming. Hated that, despite every inch of your mind screaming at you to pull away—

You didn’t.

Instead, your breath hitched, throat tightening as something inside you cracked.

You sniffled.

A small, tiny sound—barely there.

But Jungkook heard it.

Felt it.

And his whole body tensed, muscles locking as if a single wrong move could shatter you completely. His Omega was crying.

His Omega.

Fuck.

It didn’t matter if you hadn’t accepted it yet—if you were still fighting it, still trying to deny what was standing right in front of you.

Because fuck—

You were crying.

Not sobbing. Not wailing. But the quiet, shaking kind.

The kind that hurt.

And he would not let you go through this alone.

--------

Part 2

[writeriguess]

Hiya! I LOVE your work! Im currently on crutches, and I was wondering if you could do a Kirishima x fem reader where reader has crutches please? If not it’s totally fine!

Lean on Me

It had been a long day at UA, and despite your injuries, you still managed to make it through the halls with a determined expression, your crutches tapping rhythmically against the ground. You’d gotten used to the balance, but it still wasn’t easy.

"Hey, hey, hold up!" A familiar voice echoed behind you. You didn’t need to turn around to know who it was. Kirishima, as always, was loud and enthusiastic. He caught up to you easily, his broad grin immediately making you feel a little less weary.

"What's up, Eijiro?" you asked, trying to sound nonchalant, even as your muscles ached from the effort of moving around.

He reached out, gently tapping the top of your crutch, his grin widening. "You know, you're making crutches look cool. Like, I didn't think it was possible, but here you are, owning it!"

You snorted, shaking your head. "Yeah, sure. I'm definitely the most fashionable crutch user here."

Kirishima chuckled, moving to your side to walk with you. "For real though, you good? You've been pushing yourself all day."

You raised an eyebrow, glancing at him with a smile that didn’t quite reach your eyes. "I'm fine, just a little tired. Nothing I can't handle."

"That's not what I mean, y'know." Kirishima’s tone softened, and he matched his pace with yours. "You’re not used to all this extra work, so let me help you."

Before you could protest, Kirishima reached down, easily lifting your backpack off your shoulder, and slung it over his own.

"You don’t have to do that," you said, feeling a little flustered at the gesture. "I can carry it."

He just laughed again, his warmth filling the air around you. "Nope. I insist. You’re already doing enough with those crutches." He nudged your arm with his elbow. "Let me make it easier on you."

You couldn’t argue with that, especially when the weight of your backpack was starting to drag you down. So you just sighed and leaned on him a little as the two of you continued down the hallway.

The quiet between you didn’t last long. Kirishima turned to you, a serious look crossing his face for a moment. "So, for real… You sure you're not pushing yourself too hard? I can see you wincing sometimes when you walk, and I’m not okay with that."

You felt a warmth spread in your chest at his concern, but you shook your head. "It's not bad. I just… don’t want to be a burden. You’ve already done enough by walking me around today."

Kirishima stopped in his tracks, turning you toward him gently by the shoulders. He looked down at you with that soft, earnest expression he reserved only for moments like this. "You’re never a burden, (Y/N). Don’t even think that for a second. You don’t have to do everything on your own."

His words made your heart flutter, and you bit your lip, feeling that familiar warmth spread to your cheeks. "Eijiro, I—"

"Hey, you’re my friend, right?" His voice was so full of sincerity. "That means I’m here for you. I’m not letting you struggle alone."

You hesitated, but then allowed yourself to lean on him more. "Okay, okay. Maybe I’ve been trying to do too much myself."

Kirishima smiled brightly, the smile that always made your heart skip a beat. "Good! So, from now on, I’m gonna help. Anything you need, I’m here. Crutches? I got you. A hand with classwork? I’m your guy. Need a break from walking? I’ll carry you if I have to."

You let out a soft laugh at the last part, and Kirishima’s goofy expression made you feel at ease. "Alright, alright. You really don’t have to carry me, but I appreciate the offer."

He puffed out his chest, beaming with pride. "It’s a heroic gesture, (Y/N)! Let me show you the true meaning of teamwork!"

"Your sense of humor is something else," you teased, nudging him lightly.

"Hey, I try," he said with a wink, and you couldn’t help but smile in return.

He then adjusted your crutches as you moved forward, making sure you were steady. "But seriously, if you ever need me, just let me know. I mean it."

You nodded, feeling more supported than you had all day. With Kirishima by your side, you didn’t feel quite as helpless as you had before. And maybe that’s all you really needed—someone who cared enough to stick by you through the struggle.

"Thanks, Eijiro," you murmured, feeling a warmth in your chest that wasn’t from the physical exertion.

He grinned, bumping his shoulder against yours. "Of course, (Y/N). You’re my best friend. Always got your back."

And just like that, you felt a little lighter, knowing that with his support, you could make it through anything—even on crutches.

[ofeliaxoxo]

shoutout to @versains for sending me this AND shoutout to that one anon because i shall now...rpf this..

but actually that first clip is one of the all time charlos clips to me. it inspired one of my fanfic scenes like it is absolutely vital to me. im so obsessed with it. because carlos and whoever is off camera are into it they're Watching, carlos is struggling to remain seated. like hes in this fucking moment. and charles literally isnt. hes trying to be and its so clear he just isnt lmao. hes like yeah guys i care about this a lot too;) now if you could just engage with me for one second look how much i react and care now if you could just tell me whats going on tho that would be great. carlos is in paroxysms and charles is fixing his hair... and this ties into what was said before by others about charles and quality time. hes like ok yay lets watch ur thing:) it would be one thing if he was bored as fuck but he WANTS to be into it he wants to join in hes talking to them in spanish (i may be vividly wrong about this, is it spanish?) but they're too involved to pay any attention

and then the second clip he's just conked out asleep lol. his passion as a spectator is evident...

Charles who is pretending to be into it for his mannn hes like NO you may not go with the lads to watch the football. i am fucking coming too. hello. will you waste our precious time together on this earth bring me to the bar with your friends. and carlos is like ok sure babe i didnt think you cared but obviously come along. and charles is all hyped up just mirroring everyone else like YES we are DOING THIS because hes trying to match carlos's energy

it gets to the point where carlos is like ok come watch this with me since you dont want to miss it. but once it's just the two of them Charles is lulled to sleep almost immediately he doesnt want to watch he just wanted to sit in arms reach where carlos can pet his hair