#like I’ve said before I’m just tired of feeling like an obligation or a burden or like I’m not worth the time. | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

penfullofwordsaheadfullofstories · 4 years

Text

No Matter How Many Skies Have Fallen

A/N: I really have nothing to say for myself at this point.

Sequel chapter to this fic here, if you’d like to catch up.

Thank you to @caffeine-in-an-iv for being my incredible beta and to @maybege for letting me rant to you and giving me so many wonderful ideas when I hit my walls. Also to the Obi-Wan fandom in general: Y’all are some of the kindest, most supportive people I’ve ever encountered on this hell site. Thank you for your support and your content!

Pairing: Obi-Wan Kenobi x Force Sensitive! Fem! Reader (no Y/N)

Word Count: 11.9K (I lost all control)

Warnings: SMUT!!! Soft Dom! Obi rights, Also, Sub! Obi vibes, Foodplay (but not how you’d think), Inappropriate use of the Force, Voice Kink, Obi-Wan Kenobi’s Hands Appreciation Society, As Usual: Too Many Feelings For Porn, Emotional Competence Kink, Trust Kink, TW: Pregnancy, TW: A character draws blood on themself unknowingly

Title from one of my favorite quotes:

“Ours is essentially a tragic age, so we refuse to take it tragically. The cataclysm has happened, we are among the ruins, we start to build up new little habitats, to have new little hopes. It is rather hard work: there is now no smooth road into the future: but we go round, or scramble over the obstacles. We’ve got to live, no matter how many skies have fallen.”

-D.H. Lawrence

What infinite irreverence the galaxy has for Obi-Wan Kenobi.

As if his master and only semblance of a parent wasn’t taken from him when he needed him most.

As if a boy who needed a father wasn’t entrusted to Obi-Wan quickly following, far too young and full of his own loss.

As if he wasn’t thrust onto the pedestal of parenthood when he really only wanted to be a brother.

As if that isn’t what they became anyway, and as if that wasn’t the exact cloud that hung over the atmosphere of your lives ever since you’d arrived on Tatooine.

As if the being whose life signature resided in your abdomen didn’t throw a punch into each of those blooming bruises by its very existence.

Which is why, you knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that you couldn’t tell him yet.

Normally, it’d be no small feat to keep something of this scale from him. But these days, he’s so focused on having his shields up around you, keeping you from both being hurt by or helping with his torments.

You have to take great care to control your body language, because even when he’s shut off from you in the Force, his keen perceptiveness will pick up on something being off anyway.

The art of a convincing lie is having layers. If he senses your feelings and decides to dig, then only give up one layer, and he’ll stop looking.

In this case, it’s your worry over him. It is true you’re trying to shield him from feeling that, not wanting him to carry the burden of it on top of having to work through his own pain.

But it’s not everything you’re trying to hide from him. So you let a small projection of your fear over his well-being escape, like you’re losing control of your feelings. It’s enough to convince him, and something critical inside you dies at the victory every time.

He deserves your honesty, and you’ve never given him anything less until now.

You hate how well your strategic deceit takes root. Because only part is due to your talent as a liar. The rest comes from how much he trusts you.

You’re not stupid, though. You know it’s only a matter of time before the biological changes in your body betray you.

Obi-Wan said he needed time, and you’re going to give him as long as you possibly can before dropping this anvil on him, hoping the further he gets from it all, the better off he’ll be.

You could kick yourself for not being more careful. You hadn’t missed any dose of your herbal Ho’Din contraceptive. It was one of the few things you shoved in your bag with the mere minutes you had to leave Coruscant for good. It was from a reliable medicinal shop, and there’s no good reason it should have failed in any way.

But here you were anyway.

Of course, there are options that free you from the obligation of carrying the child to term. All are expensive, and Tatooine is sorely lacking in any trustworthy medical facilities. The alternative methods could put your own life in danger as well.

Even if it wasn’t, you’d feel so strange making that kind of decision without Obi-Wan. Not that he wouldn’t support whatever decision you needed to make for yourself if you did, but going behind his back is something you’re not sure his trust could recover from.

And really, far too much has been decided for him in his life.

The worst reason why you can’t bring yourself to move towards any solution that ends the pregnancy now, the reason you abhor, is because somewhere within you, despite the awfulness of the time and place, you want this baby.

You couldn’t give a definitive explanation for yourself, but you did. Undoubtedly

Obi-Wan doesn’t press when you ask to cease your combat training for a time, asking to start learning the new offerings of the Jedi texts instead.

He’s concerned when you tell him, but if he’s suspicious as for your reasoning, he doesn’t show it outwardly, at least.

The way he doesn’t even ask about why, though: It makes you wonder if he had a reason all of his own why he’d rather not fight, even in imitation.

The Jedi writings given to Obi-Wan by Master Yoda are often more cryptic and mystifying than logically applicable without deciphering, which you are at first annoyed by, but then strangely thankful for, as Obi-Wan verbally processes his understandings of it, knowing what he does of the Jedi way, and you adding your thoughts from the stance of fresh eyes.

The conversations distract wonderfully, and you savor any way you still get to connect with him.

You don’t push for the ways he doesn’t allow you to connect with him anymore. The way he won’t let you in his mind. Because now, you too have a reason to not let him in yours.

*******

When it’s time to go into town for supplies again, you make up some feeble excuse which you know Obi-Wan sees through as a lie, and this time, he does pry, eyes soft and concerned. He knows you love going to the markets. You simply explain that you’re tired, which is true enough to satisfy him, leaving you behind with a kiss on your forehead before you watch him saddle up your eopie and ride off.

You sigh, sagging against the closed door once he’s disappeared into the horizon. You do love the markets. They’re the most colorful thing the planet has to offer, textiles and rugs and shiny, hanging things.

But the spices. Fragrant and potent, usually so appetizing and intoxicating, you know would turn your stomach alone. And that doesn’t even account for the strange meats being cooked at different vendors, and Maker help you if anyone was selling raw meat of any sort today. You’ve done your best to keep your nausea at bay, at times even tapping into the Force for centering when the world felt like it was rocking. But you know the market would be too much, too many variables.

It’s not a fast journey, even on the eopie, and you don’t expect Obi-Wan to be back for hours. Which is why when you hear a knock on your door, the tool in your hand clatters to the floor, as does the remnants of your project.

You quickly grab one of the long staffs you and Obi-Wan had only begun to use in your defense training, trying to recall the lessons as adrenaline begins to rush through your veins. Tatooine isn’t known for its pleasant company, and if anyone was going to try to rob your home, now would be as good a time as any.

The knock sounds again, and you shout from the inside, “What do you want?!”

“A peace treaty in the form of baked goods,” comes the feminine voice, one you recognize.

Opening the door, you lower the weapon in your hand as Beru Lars blinks at you.

“I’m sorry, I thought you were…” You step aside, gesturing for her to come in.

She waves a hand, dismissive. “I understand.”

You lead her over to the small living area as you fix two glasses of water from the kitchen.

When you set them down on the table, Beru speaks. “I apologize for the intrusion, if there was another way of contacting you before coming here…”

“It’s absolutely fine, I’m glad to have you.” You smile in what you hope is an assuring way. “Although, I’m surprised at it just being you. Where’s Owen?”

Her eyes flick to the stone floor. “He um… doesn’t exactly know I’m here. He’s out on a business deal today.”

You feel your eyebrows go up at that, waiting for her to continue. But instead, she changes the subject. “Where’s Ben?”

“In town. We needed some things from the market.”

Awkwardness settles in as a conversation topic evades you.

She breaks the beat of quiet. “Here, I brought these for you.”

You take the basket in her hands from her, peeling back the thick woven cloth to reveal a simple form of bread. It looks so appetizing your stomach clenches, and you instantly realize you haven’t had anything since breakfast.

But then the smell hits you, hard and powerful, and stars, it’s just bread, there’s nothing that should do that about bread, but you’re on your feet in a minute, forsaking the basket on the ground as you bolt to the fresher, barely making it in time to the sonic sink before you start heaving.

In a moment, you feel soft hands at the nape of your neck, gently holding back the fabric of your shirt and blowing cool air as you continue to wretch.

By the time everything has settled again, you’ve dealt with the aftertaste in your mouth, and splashed on your face with a precious cup of cool water, hot shame rises in your cheeks at how this must seem to Beru.

You wipe at your face with a rag, half muffling your words when you address her. “I’m so sorry, I’m sure they’re absolutely delicious, It really has nothing to do…”

“How far along are you?”

Your spine straightens instantly, and you let the cloth drop to the floor.

“I… what?”

Now she’s the one to flush. “My apologies, it’s just that it’s known for being a very gentle bread, it’s one my mother used to feed me when my stomach ached. If that smell turned you... I just assumed, and I shouldn’t have.”

Your lips purse as you consider your options. It’d be easy to say nothing, or just to nod.

“Two months,” you hear your own voice answer despite yourself. You’ve never been one for easy anyway.

A surge of emotion wells up in you at even being able to speak it aloud, aloud to another human, and next thing you know, to your absolute horror, you’re crying into your hands as your shoulders crumple in on themselves.

Why now, of all times? In front of Beru Lars? Whom you know accepted Luke with her husband without question because they couldn’t biologically have any children of their own?

“I’m… so… sorry,” You manage to choke out through the sobs, disgusted at your own lack of control.

At some point Beru must join you on the floor, patting her hand soothingly on your back. “Shhh, it’ll be alright. You’ll see. It’s not so bad having a young one around, you and Ben have so much to look forw…”

“He doesn’t know.”

Her hand pausing briefly on your back is the only indication she gives of shock.

“Would he not be happy?”

You take a steadying breath in, trying to calm yourself. “I don’t know,” you whisper, small and almost frightened to let the room hear you say it.

It falls silent again, but it echoes around in your brain, bouncing against your thoughts until you feel the onset of a headache.

After you’re to a numb enough state to enjoy yourself, you and Beru make tea and bring it back to the living area.

She lifts her glass to yours, clinking them. “To secrets kept from men and the mischievous company they bring.”

Your head now throbs with pain, but you smile anyway. “Thank you,” you say to her, and you mean it so very much.

********

The next time Obi-Wan goes into town, you’re feeling well enough to go with him.

You’re not visiting the food portion of the market, after all, so you’re not as much of a risk to set your stomach off. He’s taken to fixing small machinery for trading with the Jawas recently, the extra income helping with the projects around the house.

There’s a trap door that you found within the first day of being there. The staircase carved out of the bedrock beneath the hut leads to a small room that has now served as additional storage and a place for Obi-Wan to work. It’s also quite cool during the day, so if you can stand the smell of the various meats hung to dry, you’ll sit down there with some sort of project, or even reading material if you come upon it.

So today, he’s looking for a few specific tools that will streamline his working.

It doesn’t take long to find a promising stall among the maze of shopkeepers, selling everything from trinkets to weaponry of questionable legality. Obi-Wan finds what he needs easily enough, and it looks like the trip is going to be as efficient as it is successful as you walk through alleyways with him.

At some point, he takes your hand in his, squeezing it gently, projecting an assuring strand of affection toward you. It’s such a small gesture, but you’ll never tire of the feeling of his hand clasped in yours.

You’re almost back to where the eopie, Rooh, as he named her, is stabled when Obi-Wan abruptly slows his pace, dropping into a stall. An alarm goes off in your head when you watch him pick up a frivolous trinket on a table that you know he has no interest in.

You open your mouth to inquire at his actions, but it answers itself once you see him glance out of his peripheral vision to where the holonews plays in the stall adjacent.

Battle footage on what you recognized to be Kashyyk at the presence of the many Wookies plays with the Emperor addressing the viewers in a very two-dimensional, sugar-coated, thinly-concealed threat to any other world that would try to resist occupation.

There’s wreckage and uncensored violence, and you turn your head away.

“May it be known that Lord Vader is quite capable and willing to help those into compliance that require assistance... “

The item in his hands crushes, ceramic tile cracking into his hands, breaking the skin and drawing out drips of red.

But he doesn’t flinch, doesn’t even seem to register the glass he’s pushing into his own hand. His eyes are wide and he makes a wounded noise from the back of his throat, eyes peeled to the holonews now, not even trying to feign disinterest.

His signature sparks, giving a flash and then a severe cry of anguish, and it hits you then. Pieces of information coming together as you feel Obi-Wan tear apart at seams.

Anakin Skywalker turned to the Dark Side, and Obi-Wan thought him dead. There’s a new Sith Lord now; the correlation and timing can’t be coincidence.

The Toydarian male behind the stall shouts something about paying for it in full, and you quickly hand over the credits with a glare.

You start to pull Obi-Wan’s other hand off the table, but you quickly realize your mistake in that.

The moment it isn’t holding his weight anymore, his knees start to give, and you’ve only a second to react, jamming your body under his arm to keep him upright. His momentum nearly pulls you forward, but you plant your feet and remember at the last second to call on the Force to assist you.

He seems to come to himself enough to walk somewhat as you steer him to the nearest alley away from the vendors.

He braces a hand on the stone wall, but even it isn’t enough as he drops to his knees. He doesn’t even seem to have the will to stand.

Crouching beside him, you place one of your hands on his chest.

“I…. I…” The tremor in his usually so crisp wording and steady voice crushes your chest, making it hard to breathe. “I failed him. I failed him.”

“Obi-Wan,” you start, trying to grasp at anything, everything to comfort him, not even thinking of how you can’t call him that here, even if there’s no one in sight.

If he registers your call, he doesn’t let on, continuing in his whispers to the wall. “He was burning. Burning, but I couldn’t do it. It would have been mercy to kill him, it was my mandate to do it, but I could not...” his voice gives out on the last word, and his shoulders fall forward in a shuddering inhale that transforms into a cut-short sob on its exhale.

“And now…” as the words pour from him, his shields fall, and so do the floodgates on his emotions, and it takes all the training you know to not be washed away in the torrential current of his grief. Does he even know he’s doing it, or has the insurmountable weight of his burden finally overridden his innate control over them?

“I’ve sentenced him to a fate worse than death.” He’s only barely choked out the end of his thought before his shoulders start to shake in earnest and he crumples in on himself as he begins to weep for his brother.

Giving no heed to the odd angle, you throw your arms around him. Trying to get your arms around his body is exactly the embodiment of the feeling of the moment, this anguish you don’t even begin to be enough to cover.

What could you say? What could you do? What would even begin to…

When you press your fingers to his temple, it’s light, a show of how unforced this is, how much he can say no if he needs. Because this isn’t for you. No, it’d be so much easier to not know the exact depth of his pain and rip your chest open with that knowledge. But you’re offering it, meaning it absolutely, desperate for him to take the hand offered to him. “Please let me in. Don’t do this alone. Let me…”

Then he’s pulling you in, not just letting you come in yourself, clinging to you like a person drowning. You remember to steady, to try to keep your own head above the water as wave after surging, overpowering wave of soul-crippling agony like you’ve never felt it engulf you in their surge.

You can’t hold out against it no matter how hard you try, so you refocus from centering yourself to pulling his signature into yours as you wrap your arms tighter around his torso.

And you begin to weep with him.

*********

The suns are drifting low by the time both of you have any intelligible thought, far too late to start the journey back to the hut.

At the inn, as Obi-Wan falls into the beginnings of a restless sleep, a thought emerges, clear and crisp in its awful truth.

You cannot tell him for a long while still.

*******

It’s different now. Because when he wakes in the night, he doesn’t give you falsehoods you see right through. He lets you into the terror and distortional dreams that all reside over one theme.

There’s silence in the first days after. Just silent tears and still embraces and the way time seems to freeze when grief is at its worst.

But then he starts talking. It comes in little pieces, then in larger ones.

The loudest thing his signature screams is guilt.

You tell him how it isn’t his fault, how Anakin is responsible for his own choices, but he just gives you a new reason every time as to why it is his fault, how he could have stopped it.

Because even in what he considers his worst failure, his verbiage is indicative of how it’s not his own image and pride hurting that he’s even considered. All of his thoughts, all of them, are on what Anakin needed that he didn’t give.

At first, it’s just impressions from his mind, unsorted, blurry thoughts and feelings, but it eventually begins to become words.

“After his mother died… I know that he blamed me. How couldn’t he? He told me of his dreams, dreams he knew were foresights, but I dismissed them, multiple times, at that. And the council… advised me against comforting him, but he… I… I did anyway.” His shoulders are forward, body sagging with unsureness that doesn’t fit him right in the slightest. “But it was far too late. I know there was something pivotal about the death of his mother, and I am...” he hesitates, seemingly not because he doesn’t know what to speak, but because he does. “Terrified. Terrified it’s all because I didn’t validate him sooner. If I had not...” His voice breaks off, as he shuts his eyes.

Fear is not something admired by the Jedi, you know. When he speaks of his own emotions, he speaks them like he’s confessing them.

And as he confesses and confesses, you comfort where you can, cry with him when you cannot.

*****

The swells of sorrow ebb and flow in their intense bursts and receding stillness, and despite the moments of not being able to breathe under the weight of it, there are miniscule, almost violating, hysterical intervals where smiles and life spring to the surface, gasping for air.

Or in this case, the inexplicable desire to dance.

You don’t even really know when you start, simply going about cleaning clothing in the sonic washer, and the next, some ridiculous, repetitive tune sweeps you to move your hips and feet, uncoordinated and graceless. The tune itself played from a datachip, scrapped with some pieces Obi-Wan was repurposing to make repairs. You’re not even familiar with the type of music, and it’s hardly the type of music you’d normally choose, but you find that today, it’s an improvement on the quiet that falls upon the house as Obi-Wan works outdoors.

The song swings into a bridge, and you slide across the stone floor, imitating something you saw in a music holo years ago, as you do, your foot catches on the rug you recently added, sending you fumbling for your footing. You eventually catch it before you fall, but as you look up, you decide to lower yourself to the ground anyway at the sight of Obi-Wan, leaning up against the door frame, watching you with an amused expression, the fingers of one hand tracing between his lips and chin.

You sit splayed as tactless and gangly as you danced and let out a short, startled laugh.

“Please, don’t stop on my account. I was quite enjoying myself.”

Maker, could you just hide under the rug you tripped over? “Please tell me you haven’t been standing there long.”

He pushes off his lean on the wall, crossing the room to you. “I won’t tell you lies, my love.”

Shame twists in your gut at his words, chasing the laughter in your throat away. But Obi-Wan extends a hand down, and you take it, letting him draw you to your feet.

He kisses the back of your hand before taking it in his, extending the clasp out to the side of your bodies as his other hand rests hot on the small of your waist.

“But I will join you, if you don’t mind a style change.”

“I don’t know how to dance like this,” you say, factually.

“Then allow me to teach you.” When you look in his eyes, they’re lined with the etches of heartache still, but there’s something else too, brimming to the surface.

“What, to this music?” You give your last, unconvincing protest.

He simply drops his forehead to yours, and the small sounds of the room fade to white as a sweet, moving melody replaces it. It’s not perfectly clear, and it takes a moment to realize that it’s because it’s coming from Obi-Wan’s memory.

The music has a distant, foggy quality, and it has potential to be eerie, but instead, it just lifts you into an ethereal feeling.

He steps, and your feet follow, not as graceful, but he makes it easy for you, the steps hinted out in his thoughts before taking them in actuality.

When you start to feel confident enough in the movements, you look up at him. “Does this mean I can teach you my dances next?”

He laughs, laughs, unabashed and with no emotion harbored under it, and some torn piece of your heart mends at the sound.

“Certainly not.”

You laugh too, even at the thought of him trying. The laugher rolls into a smooth quiet, and you let yourself bask in the feel of his body against yours, the press of his hand on your back as you rest your cheek against him.

Obi-Wan cradles you to him, forsaking the pattern of the dance as he encompasses you in his arms, lowering his lips to your cheek, then your mouth in a blazing kiss.

He takes your hand in his, lifting it above your head. Then you’re guided into a spin, and the room spins double with it as you abandon all endeavors of trying to get the dance correct. Your hand drops protectively to your belly before you can even think better of it, and by the time you know you’re not going to throw up, it’s too late. You already feel Obi-Wan’s unmistakable concern right before he asks, “What’s wrong?” extending an arm out toward you.

His complexion is ashen with worry, and when you don’t respond, you feel him start to reach out to your mind; a spike of panic zaps down your spine, and you’re suddenly not sure you’re not going to throw up after all.

Your shields crash down, not enough time for subtlety, and he retracts both his hand and inquiring tendril of energy as hurt and confusion shape his features.

You can’t do this. You can’t keep up this facade or cover this moment with a lie you know he’ll see through. But you can’t tell him either. After all the weight he’s carrying, the weight of the being that grows in you should be yours alone. You can’t thrust that upon him.

But it’s a delusion that you can keep this from him forever. You’re going to hurt him one way or another, and the weight of your silence and lies multiply every day you insulate him from the truth.

You take in a shuddering breath as dread settles into your bones. You know what you have to do.

Even as you slowly lower your shields, opening your signature, your mind screams at you in opposite directions, ripping you in half, and your hand shoots out to the nearest wall to stabilize yourself. How could you be so sadistic to tell him this? How could you not tell him? After all the trust you have in each other?

But he doesn’t take the invitation. “I will not touch your mind if you are still unsure you want me to,” he says softly but resolutely as he approaches you, but stays an unthreatening distance away, as if approaching a frightened animal.

No, no, no. You won’t have him being the one to sturdy you through this. You need to be strong, be ready, don’t force him to coddle you through the blast to his own chest.

So you dial down your own emotions and switch your absorption to amplifying the still tiny, barely recognizable life you’ve been carefully censoring ever since you heard it yourself.

You want to close your eyes, blockade the pain of both how it impacts him and how it will impact you, but that’s not how you two do things.

Summoning every iota of bravery and resolve running in your veins, you force yourself to look up at him as you watch understanding coat him.

His eyes go wide, and his hands clench and flex at his sides in an erratic, nervous pattern.

You can’t keep your signature open to his mind’s reaction, you just can’t. He’s seen enough, and you can put your shields up again. His face is enough to confront all on its own.

Obi-Wan steps toward you, slowly, dazed in a completely uncharacteristic way. With the way he seems to ever be prepared for the blows life throws at him, you hate how you have to be the harbinger for the second one that’s knocked him off his feet.

When he stops in front of you, he places his hands on either of your shoulders and looks into your eyes, searching for confirmation, and you nod, trying to not let fear seep into your expression.

One of his hands covers his mouth as he takes it in.

And then he’s sinking in front of you, off of his feet indeed, and onto his knees. You want to follow, ready to hold him through the heartache sure to follow, at the second child he didn’t ask for while he still grieves the loss of the first.

But his hands instead take purchase on your stomach, tightening the fabric of your tunic around the barely-visible bump before bunching it up and lifting, just enough so he can tilt his forehead against the skin there.

You can feel him reaching out, not taking him long at all to find what he’s searching for, and curiosity beats self-preservation at the last moment, prompting you to open your mind again, just for you to be able to catch elation coursing through Obi-Wan.

You don’t even bother trying to stifle your confusion as he looks up at you with glassy eyes.

Sinking to your knees to meet him, you take his face in your hands, trying to make sense of it all as he takes your hand in his. “I never... “ when his voice comes out unsteady, he clears his throat and tries again. “I never thought I’d have... That we could… didn’t occur to me that now...stars above, how long have you known?”

You don’t recall when you start crying, but tears are falling freely down your cheeks as you shake your head. “I’m so sorry. I… I would never want to keep something like this from you, Obi-Wan, but I couldn’t tell you, not with everything, not with all you already have…and i’m so sorry.”

“Oh, heavens, no. You should not have to do this alone. Please don’t keep things from me, even if you think it to be for my sake. We can…”

You fix him with a pointed, unamused stare. He exhales as he must notice his hypocrisy.

“Your point is well-put and taken, but the sentiment still stands. We’ll not keep secrets from each other anymore. Do we have an accord?”

Despite it all, you smile at his overly-formal phrasing, something you’d normally have a quip about if it weren’t for the concern still nagging at you.

“Are you not angry then? Or disappointed?” you watch him carefully, praying to any deity listening that he doesn’t concoct some half truth to placate you. His first instinct is always to protect, but you’d never want it at expense of his authenticity.

Bafflement marks his brow at first, then he takes your face in his hands. “Darling, no.” He says your name, gathering every bit of your attention. “I dreamt of you. During the war, when I was away. I did not sleep well, even then, but when I did, I’d sometimes dream of you, holding a child that I knew to be ours. When I woke, I would remember it so vividly, so painfully, because I never thought that was an attainable future for us.”

But that doesn’t need to matter if you… do you want this child?” His eyes are so full of hope, and it was the last thing you expected, but here he is laying it down on the altar of your preference, and maker, are you glad those two things aren’t opposing each other.

Because his hope and yours are one in the same, and once he knows it too, at your whispering, choked, “yes,” he’s clutching you in his arms.

And for the second time in a month, you’re both huddled on the ground in tears. The first, bowing under the mass of catastrophe. Now, at the glowing relief of the sprouting of a dream sown in tears, too tender before to even say aloud.

But now? You’re saying it, back and forth, from him to you as your walls fall, permitting him into your mind as he welcomes you into his, and finally you take true comfort once again in the home you’ve built in each other.

*******

The night after, you lie side by side, hand in hand, on a blanket splayed not far from the hut. The suns have sunken, but the pinks and oranges of their palette still paint the sky where it hasn’t yet turned to midnight cobalt. The light of the lantern gives off a similar hue, dousing everything in your reach in soft, warm hues.

It has taken Obi-Wan some convincing, being so out in the open with everything he had to worry about wasn’t his first choice, but you compromised for a small alcove in the rock formations which surrounded you on two sides. More easily defensible. Not that he needed it, but if he was cautious before, it was borderline unbearable now. With the added danger of the Empire knowing without doubt that he lived. With more than ever to lose.

So, he was in charge of safety, you were in charge of snacks. And if they so happened to be almost entirely comprised of those melons you couldn’t quite get enough of lately? That was no one’s business except yours. You brought a few things you knew Obi-Wan liked too, of course.

What little remains of the miscellaneous spread you push to the edge of the blanket so you can both lie down.

“I dare say it’s almost pleasant out tonight.”

You turn your head to him, a snort ready at him discussing the weather of all things, but it instead forms a cloud in your throat at the sight of him.

His eyes are closed, hair rustling in the slight evening breeze, a tranquil ease over his profile.

The small patches of grey in the part of his beard next to his ears catch the first glints of moonlight in a way the rest of his hair doesn’t, giving them away.

The mellisonant lowness of his voice brings you back to yourself, cheeks heating.

“I can feel you staring, little one.” He opens his eyes, leisurely rolling to his side. “Some say it’s quite impolite.” Slanting over you, he lifts a brow, daring your response.

“And is that a problem?” You look up at him through your eyelashes, feigning innocence.

Obi-Wan’s gaze follows back up to the stars, as he plays right along, pretending to have to think on it. “I suppose it depends.”

“On?”

“On whether or not you allow me to return the impropriety,” he responds with a coy smile, moving back to you, so close now you can feel his exhales on your cheek.

Warmth blooms through you as you answer back, “You can always look, Obi-Wan.” You lift yourself to close the short distance between your face and his, pressing your lips together, which he deepens right away. Using the hand not supporting half his body off of you still, he fans out his fingers across your belly, towing the line between caressing gently and clutching protectively.

You pull your lips back from his as an uninvited slither of insecurity slips into your chest.

He senses it, of course, so you speak before he even needs to ask. “Are you really, truly, certain this is what you want? Now? I don’t want you to just say so because…and we could wait, we have...”

“I am,” he says, adamantly, before you even have a chance to finish. His eyes flash to the side. “I…” He rolls back onto his back, looking straight up as he talks seemingly half to you, half to himself. “There is not much I know for certain these days. Some days… I scarcely can remember who I am anymore.”

He turns his eyes back to you, unwavering. “There are seldom few things I haven’t questioned of late, and my love for you isn’t one of them. And from the moment I’ve known, from the very first instant you let me feel the life within you, my love for them hasn’t been one either.”

Your thoughts split into two, one wanting to lean into it, to take him for his word that’s always true, and the other cautioning you, telling you to keep distant and watch for the surface level honesty he gives that hides the brutal one he safeguards you from.

But you’re not hiding anymore, feelings unconcealed in your energy and on your face, so he leans back into you, grasping your arm in his hand, squaring your shoulders to him. You cringe at yourself when you know he’s heard the impression of you questioning. It’s redundant, but self-doubt always is. “Know, please know, my darling.” Taking your hand in his, he brings it up to his temple with an insistence that you have no desire to counter.

And it’s there. Right there and sparking in its clarity, right at the threshold of his mind as you enter it. How much he means his words, no holds barred, no cleverly crafted glazes to an unly underbelly of reality. His reality was this, how severely he craves starting a family with you. How much he already loves the being within you, how he looks forward to the day he gets to hold them in his arms.

The fear is there too, quiet, but not kept from you. The fear of failing as a father, unsure of assuming any role that resembled a mentor again, all-too-familiar with the ghost that will float over him in every lesson he teaches.

What shocks you there is his faith in you. In how much he’s already learned from you about the impact of open affection, in how you don’t let your feelings lead you, but you let them breathe, not suffocate them. It’s part of how he even can acknowledge his fears to himself and to you without berating himself under the too-simple phrase “fear leads to the dark side.” There’s truth in it, but also inaccuracy.

Because he’s afraid, and yet, there is so much light in the acknowledging of it to himself, and in that very act, it loses much of any power it could have had over him. Oh, how deeply he wishes he could have articulated that understanding to Anakin.

The pain is fresh, but so is his anticipation for the future, swirling together in a potent drink, and his throat bobs with the effort to swallow them down simultaneously.

He knows you’ll help ground him through it, he trusts you, even in his uncertainty in himself.

It breaks your heart but also warms it: the knowledge that he lets you into that place where he keeps the questions of himself, the place only you and the man who’s caused most of this doubt have been permitted.

With a thankful short farewell, you part from his mind as you know exactly what you want to do.

The remains of your snacks still rest on the edge of the blanket, including the shells of the deep purple-pigmented melons. The one draw-back to their delightful taste was how badly they stained your fingers. You had to break them into tiny pieces, plopping them into your mouth without allowing them to touch your lips unless you wanted your mouth to stain too.

But right now? The staining quality was just what you needed.

Although first you needed a blank canvas.

“May I take your tunics off?” you ask, sitting up.

Despite a short twitch of confusion and then interest, Obi-Wan follows, raising himself up into a kneel, slightly lifting his arms in compliance.

The paleness of his skin catches all the light of the lantern, highlighting your view as you slowly slide the fabric up and off, gliding your hands up the line of hair dipping below his navel as it becomes more exposed. It grants you a quiet, steep intake of breath from him and you suddenly give halt momentarily, distracted by the alluring appetite you’ve created.

No, you won’t give in. Not yet. He needs to know this.

You take one of the broken pieces of melon rind in your hand, where little tart bits of the fruit still cling, dribbling pigment, but before your finger makes contact with the taut skin of his chest, you pull back at the realization you might have bitten off more than you can chew.

How do you even begin to describe him? Obi-Wan is so many things at once, so many attributes, and every descriptor that comes to mind falls blatantly short of him.

Then you recall Obi-Wan going through the motions of Alchaka, watching his body fight to maintain the poses at times. Being such a personal practice, you felt honored that he let you see him go through the exercises, and even more honored that he opened up to you about the purpose behind it later. It was an exercise of both physicality and Force use, and the goal was absolute exhaustion. That was the destination. Trying, knowing from the start that he’ll fall short in the end, but doing it all the same. Because there’s so, so much to be said for the trying.

So you do. You bring the messy fingertip to his clavicle, smearing the first word you know to absolutely be true of him, as if starting the premise with a whisper of I know you’re even more than the sum all of these singular praises.

The word “complex” appears in your penmanship on his skin as you drag it to life. You look up to his eyes, and his curiosity is clear there, but also so is the tenderness that is elemental to any time he looks at you. And just like that, you have your next word.

Kind.

And at the way he flushes so lovely for you at that?

Beautiful.

You feel his protest before you see it, the objection in his signature, and you know you’re going to have to switch methods.

Just then, a droplet from where you’ve written the last word on his pectoral falls, down, down, threatening toward the hem of his trousers, but you’re fast, dropping your mouth down and catching it all on your tongue before it can stain the bleached beige of his remaining clothing.

When his stubborn revolt at the affirmation quiets in his mind in exchange for a flash of searing lust, you know exactly how you’re going to continue.

Because Obi-Wan Kenobi, general, warrior, negotiator, Jedi Master, legend, has rarely ever been affirmed as such, and he squirms under the thick blanket of his humility and deprivation anytime someone endeavors.

So you need his mind to be preoccupied enough, guards down low enough, so he can even hear the message get through.

When you place your hands over his waistband, locking eyes in inquiry, stopping when he hesitates, scanning the area around you, vigilant as always. Overly so now.

“We’re alone. And wouldn’t you be able to sense it if we weren’t?”

He looks down at you as he answers. “If I stay mindful enough to do so, yes.”

Good, he’ll be even less prone to fight you if he has some of his mind sensing outward.

You look back up at him with the facial equivalent of asking “well?” to which Obi-Wan sighs in response. “Very well then.”

With your familiarity with ridding him of clothing, it only takes moments before you can finally taste him where you want to, where he’s already hard and swollen for you.

You know you won’t be able to take him as much as you want, a recently-developed overactive gag reflex preventing you. But it just so happens to be convenient tonight, as the resulting taunt should have him right where you want him.

A gentle kiss, right to the head of his cock is all the warning you give him before taking the whole tip in your mouth, swirling your tongue around him, pulling a choked hum deep from his throat.

Oh, oh, Maker, have you done a grand miscalculation, because you forgot an entire factor in this equation: the way you have been borderline hysterical in hunger for him.

You’ve kept so much from him, and part of how you’ve even managed is starting to convince yourself of less than fact. Facts like how many times you’ve had to change underthings recently, physical evidence of desire unwilling to comply to your head’s demands. Facts like how you’ve literally had to bite your finger to keep the feelings at bay.

You’d expected changes in your body even before your belly grew, but this was one you hadn’t anticipated. In some ways, it wasn’t that different than usual. You never knew you could want someone with the breadth that you want Obi-Wan.

But this? Of late? It feels like it’s been amplified tenfold.

You’re not keeping any cards close to your chest anymore, but you do have to ignore your own body’s screaming cries as you complete this.

He needs to know.

Nerves still serenading his brain with feedback, you re-wet your finger with the purple juice and write the next words across his abdomen.

Wise.

Perceptive.

He’s caught on to your scheme by now, cued by the all-too appropriate addition of the last word, and he lets you know it, an impression projected, speechless but still unobstructed. He’s still powerless against it. Or rather, letting himself be powerless. Trusting you with the control he has left, trusting you in his vulnerable places. The places where he’s weak.

Strong.

The word spread over his right upper arm, where he’s obviously just that. But may the tint of the word bleed through his skin, may it run through his veins, because that’s how deep and deeper still that his strength runs. It’s in the way he doesn’t flaunt it. It’s in the way he chooses to wield it.

Gentle.

He closes his eyes, flinching at the onslaught of acclamation, and you dip your head down again, wrapping your lips around his cock, letting him slide to where you can take him comfortably, just starting to build a pace as his hips squirm in harmony with his suddenly erratic breaths. Oh, how you’d love to let him deeper, allow his cock past your lips beyond the teasing amount you can take now, but the little writhes his body gives in protest are enough to almost make you okay with how your mouth won’t agree with your ambitions. He says your name, groaned out in bliss as he cups a hand on your cheek.

His barriers are down, so it’s easy to hear when his deprecating thoughts quiet again, and you switch back to coloring him again.

You know the moment you look up at him that it’s a mistake, because he’s flushed, so torn, suspended in the limbo of your give and withdrawal, mouth ever so slightly open, tongue darting out to wet his bottom lip.

You’re only human, so before you draw anything else, you bring your lips to his, which is yet another mistake, because among the many things Obi-Wan is, he is a deep kisser, and as his tongue delves into your mouth, your will power takes a devastating blow.

You pull back, reeling at the reminder of how easily he can take back control, knowing you have to complete this before you let him.

Stars, how you want to let him.

For now, you need that control back, so you take him into your mouth again, filthily wet and not nearly long enough as you quickly pull back, watching in satisfaction as he heaves forward at the loss, correcting himself quickly back into straight posture.

With a smirk, you drag your slippery, pigmented finger across his lower stomach.

Disciplined.

There’s so many more words, so much more he needs to know, and if you covered every inch of his skin in the smallest writing it still wouldn’t be sufficient of all that he is.

Or you could whisper it all through the Force, embed it all in his mind.

But because you’ve been there, know his mind inside and out, you know every time he sees his own skin, all he sees is the red of blood on his hands. The blood of his brother.

And that’s exactly why you’re going to stain it in your own colors. Take back territory and push back the front lines that the army of guilt has taken over on him.

Your Jedi, ever-adorned in unassuming beige, now drips in the color of royalty.

Charming.

Humble.

Confident.

Steadfast.

You’re only left with enough space for one more word, and you want some sort of conclusion to it all, something to summarize the expanse of the man kneeling in front of you.

Nothing can.

But maybe, just maybe, one word encapsulates what he is to you.

Treasure.

This time you do chant it across his thoughts, prompting him to open his eyes and look at you.

Cerulean blue blinks open, slowly, almost painfully and nearly overflowing with emotion.

Thank you, is all he says, unable or unwilling to say it out loud, much too heartfelt and newly-budded for that.

You know his pain has older roots than those tended to in this moment, but you vow to yourself that you’ll never stop trying.

Lowering your mouth around him once again, you don’t tease him anymore, at least not intentionally, even though you still can’t take more than half of him.

“Look at you, you’re…” he hisses in a breath as you swipe your tongue against that vein on the underside of him. “Stunning. You’re doing so well, little one.”

The taste of him compels you as much as his words, seizes you in spice-like addiction, and how interesting it’s going to be explaining that taste craving to him, among your sudden adoration for those damn melons.

“Darling, I’m…”

You feel it in his energy before he says it, already pulling off, replacing your mouth with your hand, dropping your lips down even lower, mouthing at his balls, and the feedback is instant. An outpouring crest of his pleasure blasting outward as he lets out a depraved moan, netting his hands into your hair.

Your hand is wet and so is where he’s spilled on his still flexing and releasing stomach, clear white maring the lettering halfway through “disciplined.” You’d clean it with your tongue if you weren’t sure how your overly sensitive taste buds would react now.

It’s not the first time you’ve had sex since you’ve known you were pregnant, but it’s the first time since he’s known, and it’s the first time you’re not hiding the symptoms. Before, you carefully shied away from anything that might give you away, and between the preoccupation of everything on his own mind he was trying to keep from you and his respect for your boundaries, he never pressed. He had questions in his eyes, but you knew how to carefully reveal partial vulnerabilities to keep him off your trail.

Your chest flares at the memory.

We’re not hiding now.

It’s your chant, your reminder, your comfort. How nothing of this caliber will be kept between you again.

His eyes confirm it, sincere and exact as they fight to break through their dazed slipping.

Never again. His voice in your head is home, so consoling it can and has put you to sleep before.

Right now, it wakes you up in a different light, dowsing you in heat as Obi-Wan takes your hand in his, wiping it on a piece of his discarded clothing before wiping the spend off himself.

Then he’s taking your face in both his hands tilting you up before kissing you soundly.

I love you, he says across the wire that ties your minds, the wire that keeps growing stronger every day. So, so very much.

You say it back, a fact as simple as breathing. You love him.

You want him, borderline need him the way you need your next inhale, you don’t say, but he must hear it anyway, because that cocky little smirk that’s been gone far too long is back.

“Shall we do something about that?”

You’re about to just lift your shift dress up and off in response, but he halts you, grasping your wrists.

“Allow me.”

He pulls you into another sultry kiss, completely neglecting the task of ridding you of clothing.

Or so you think.

There’s buttons all the way down the dress, and you’ve never used them, always wondering at their purpose if it can so easily lift over your head.

At first, you don’t even know he’s doing it until you start to feel the coolness of the night air on your nipples. Opening your eyes, you pull back from him to watch as seemingly in thin air, your buttons undo themselves.

“You needn’t seduce me further. You already know how much I need you,” you gasp, breathless from the kiss.

Obi-Wan just gives a small smile as he drops a hand, dragging it down your side, then down your thigh. “Hm. So impatient. All this from just pleasuring me?”

Maker, he knows! He knows that you are. You always have been, and it’s not as if you weren’t projecting your feelings too.

When he reaches a hand between your thighs, parting them and making a single, tempting stroke through them, his fingers come back glistening.

“I should think you could feel that I am.” You let the tide of your frustration spill over into your connection to his mind.

You know he had to hear you, but he gives no indication that he did.

“Mm. Desire needn’t always be indicatory of impatience,” he punctuates his statement with a hand at the base of your skull, tipping your head back to expose your neck. “I need you to be patient, little one. Let me savor you.” And with that, his mouth makes contact with your neck at the same time his other hand plays with one of your exposed nipples.

You whimper at the attention, quietly pleading with him for more. Among the still slight changes to your body, this has been the most notable one. How sensitive your breasts have become to even the scrape of the fabric of your clothing.

And with the rough pads of his fingers working only one, leaving the other to pang in want...

“Obi-Wan,” it’s a prayer, a request. He doesn’t need his hands to cause sensation, and you’d beg him right now if he asked.

He lets up on your neck, only barely, lips moving against the now throbbing skin. “Answer me first.”

Clearing your throat, you give the most cogent response you can muster. “Depends on if you’re definition of savor is synonymous with torture.”

He locks eyes with you then, gently grasping a breast in each of his hands, dragging his thumbs over the nipples as you moan out your assent.

His chuckle is far too self-satisfied to be becoming of a Jedi, but you’re already too far gone to call him on it.

“Is that what you want, little one? For me to torture you so?”

An affirmative whimper is all the response you can give, and Obi-Wan reacts quickly, taking your chin in his fingers and tilting your eyes up to his again.

“Then you will be patient for me. Because I’m always happy to stop, and we can begin again when you decide to adhere.”

Your brain short circuits on the spot, and all energy is redirected much, much lower. His voice, stars above, his voice when it takes a commanding tone.

It’s intimate, it’s personal, and yet this game is almost inappropriately playful for how sincere the moment is.

But such was being loved by Obi-Wan. Full of dissimilar feelings that shouldn’t fit, but moved together in liquid consistency. Like metaphors that didn’t rhyme but still somehow gave their own life-giving rhythm, not dissimilar to the sound of his heartbeat when you lay your head against his chest at night.

Making quick work of the remaining buttons of your shift and underwear, he beckons you to join him as he lies back down, large, warm hands guiding you to turn around so you’re facing away from him.

You know that the purple stickiness of the fruit will smear from his body to yours like this, but you can’t at all bring yourself to care.

You gasp a sigh of relief as one of his hands finds your breast, brushing a knuckle over the too-sensitive nipple.

“Please.” Your whispered beg sounds pathetic, even to your own ears. But as you arch against him in a frenzied attempt at skin contact, Obi-Wan juts his hips forward, grunting into the exposed column of your neck, and stars, yeah, maybe he didn’t find that so pathetic after all.

“What do you want, darling?” His voice doesn’t divulge any desperation, and for only the hundredth time do you envy his immaculate self-control.

“You know, don’t pretend you don’t.” Leaving any doubt to the wind, you push your chest against his barely-touching hand.

“Specificity can be a virtue; that I also know.”

You change techniques, driving your hips back softly into where he’s hard and insistent against your ass, hoping it compels him.

Then you simply… can’t anymore. You’re frozen, unable to move your lower half at all.

Tangling your desires into a knot and tucking it away, you find the mindfulness to reply. “Yeah, so is mercy.”

“Indeed it is. I shall concede when you do.”

You won’t win a battle of the wills with him. You’re not sure anyone could.

So you bring his hand over to your nipple. “Touch me here.”

You feel his smile without even seeing it as he starts tweaking the bud. “Like this?”

It’s so much sensation, all concentrated on such responsive flesh, that you want to beg for him to switch to touching you between your legs.

You haven’t even finished the thought when you feel his unmistakable metaphysical brush against your thigh.

Extending a tendril of your own energy, you invite him in, and he takes it eagerly, ever as eager if not more to be entwined with your mind as with your body.

He hears it all, the besottment, the arousal, the neediness. The panic that he might drag this out longer, that you’ll have to go a single minute longer without...

“It’s alright. It’s alright.” He sends soothing waves through your connection, and he swaps the positioning of his hand with the curl of power. He turns his hand so that the back of it runs through where you’re aching for him, gathering up your slick on the backs of his knuckles. You have to contort your neck to see what follows when he takes the hand back behind you, and your mouth goes dry when he sucks the knuckles in between his lips.

You want to hear, you want to know what he’s…

He’s welcoming you in, navigating you to the brink of his mental barriers, letting you take that final plunge into the unsuppressed fullness of your bond to each other.

Now it’s your turn to hear it: how his carefully constructed unaffected persona is not at all a match for his naked, wanton need for you.

And under that, the foundation on which that desire is built, not the product of it, is his love, his unyielding, unashamed, iridescent love for you.

It’s all you can do but to pour it back, affirming and soothing and calling his love into action with your own.

You both don’t want anything else except the most complete of entanglement, and that’s exactly what he moves to do, situating your bodies, hiking your top leg in the crook of his arm as you feel the initial breach of his body into yours, and all breath leaves your lungs in an exhilarating evacuation.

His audible gasp is an echo of his emotions, how he thinks he’s prepared for this onslaught of feeling, but how you take him off guard, how his equilibrium threatens to teeter every time.

The web of his consciousness enveloping you, it’s easy to pick out a single thought blaring within him: How much he adores the way you fit together. Your back against his chest, how your breast fits in his hand, how the snug joining of where his cock presses into your body sends you into trembles, how comforting your very presence is to his soul when he lets you in like this.

Tears, without warning, seep out of your eyes as he starts to move against you, slow and deep. You close your eyes, willing the powerful emotion away, but glimmers of light flash out behind our closed lids the moment you do, and how the kriff does he stay composed?

Anchor. Anchor against me.

He stills, letting you have a break from the barrage of pleasure blinding you as you search him out, looking for the cords of his intellect that seemingly both steam downward and beam upward, grounding him.

You find it, and you clasp on tightly.

But the moment he starts moving again, you lose sight of it all over again.

Your heightened hormones make your flesh so susceptible, and the tears start to fall again. Obi-Wan rolls your nipple in between his thumb and index, and he’s so good, and you’re so full, and you can hear his pleasure as your own, adding, doubling everything…

Scorching, electrifying heat speeds through your veins, hitting hard and fast, leaving you astounded and even more sensitive than before.

Obi-Wan’s signature spikes as your climax resounds through him, and you can feel the vibration of the wanton noises he’s making right where his beard scratches against your neck.

But he doesn’t allow it to overtake him, letting it run through him without resistance, making himself pliable but unmovable, keeping himself back from the edge.

You still have much to learn.

Because that control? Gives him the ability to not even stop, not even hesitate once, even at both yours and his own ecstasy flowing through him.

When he starts striking his hips hard into yours, the weight of him inside you dragging exactly in the right place, you start to cry in earnest. Obi-Wan stops for a millisecond, concern radiating off of him, even when he can hear how much you want this so clearly, has access to every little passing thought.

“Don’t stop, I’m fine, I pro…” He does just as asked while moving his hand down to your belly again, a soothing touch to his rough thrusts. Your eyes are blurred with wetness, overwhelmed with him.

He’s listening to it all, applying every micro-feeling of feedback into action against your desperate, post-orgasmic skin, hand switching back and forth from your nipples to loosely clutching your neck, Force energy focused on applying pressure to your clit.

“You’re doing so well, so good for me,” comes the wisp of his sultry tone, lips pressed against your ear.

Since you aren’t even thinking about changing position, you know it’s his own preference that has him withdrawing, guiding you onto your back.

There’s no inhibition this way, not the way there is when you’re on your side, no separation from your bodies being flush when he pushes into you again. You have to anchor in him, both mentally and with your fingernails clawing at his shoulder blades as your body starts into tremors.

He’s keeping the weight of his chest off of you, even though your belly is still barely swollen into distinguishable roundedness, and as much as you miss the contact, you can look into his eyes like this, can see the unfiltered attachment and all the weight of all the emotion he wills his body to not cave under.

But then the tremoring transforms into series of contractions throughout your body, centering through your slick core, and you thrash your head to the side catching a glimpse of Obi-Wan’s fingers clenching into white knuckles, grasping into the exposed sand from the blanket being bunched up.

He projects his thoughts across the tether to you, how thoroughly impacted by the very fact you’re carrying his child, how affected he is by every little thing about you, honored that he’s allowed to touch you like this.

You roll your hips back up into his, and that’s what it takes. His stuttering body is the lightning, and the searing, molten pleasure across your connection is the thunderous repercussion.

It completely overthrows you, and your body bows against him as his high instantly cues yours again.

You can feel him throb inside you at the very moment you do, his turn to experience the secondary sensory white-out of your mate’s climax through the Force, his shuddering shout meeting your breathy whines in the close distance between your mouths.

And he does kiss you then, soundly but with the haze of afterglow slowing it.

“Have you any idea how bewitching you are to me?” He breathes it out, and despite all the ways you’d normally scoff at such words, his eyes tell the story, and you listen to it’s truth.

His eyes hold that constant infiltrating study of you, the one that could be unnerving if his mind, still tethered to yours didn’t hold such amor, heart bleed such fondness that settles in the creases around his eyes.

How interesting it is watching someone as knowledgeable as him having such an inquisitive outlook on life, and being so frequently the object of those investigations.

Did the galaxy know her debt to him? Did she know the sum owed to inflicting the worst of life’s pains on someone who refused to let it build anything except an even gentler man of himself? When does she plan on repaying him? What does she offer in exchange for her cruelty of the hand she’s dealt Obi-Wan Kenobi?

Then the whisper comes, soft but crisp, from somewhere in the threads of existence around you, “Can’t you see? It’s you, child.”

You could argue it. You could scream how it’s not enough, how you’re not enough, how he deserves so much more from some dark insecure place inside you. Or how love shouldn’t be treated as currency in exchange for pain, how the galaxy could still have your fists if that was how it tallied.

But the finality of it settles in your soul, more impressionistic than in solid wording: there is no easy conclusion that ties the suffering of life into purpose, no experience that erases or mends its pain. But love. Love makes the complicated endeavor of trying to find purpose in the madness worthwhile.

Obi-Wan’s hum of agreement resounds in your ears and through to your head. His Force signature feels so familiar, so at home within yours and yours within his, that you’d briefly forgotten he could still hear you.

With all the strength still left in quaking limbs, you wrap your arms around him, and he melts into it.

The compassion of his soul hardly matches his war-ravaged skin, his guilt-ridden memories. Every good thing here came to be with a war waged, refined and not burnt away in fire at his sheer tenacity.

It’s a growing thing, blooming in the desert. The beliefs in both of you. Your love for each other. Your own trust in the Force.

Healing is no short journey, but her two sojourners here are determined.

And if that tender hope can blossom here?

Then maybe, just maybe: Tatooine is exactly the place for a baby after all.

*********

In the valley beyond the hut, a boy jets quickly away in some mechanical contraption he recently motorized, a girl in a similar vehicularized compilation of junk not far behind.

On the cliff’s edge stands Obi-Wan, eyes scanning the landscape intermittently for any sign of threat between longer affectionate looks at the children before him.

He turns, feeling your approach in his keen awareness as you set a hand on his shoulder from behind. His temples are now even thicker with sun-bleached silver, and his eyes wield the lines of laughter around them.

And you? You’re as roped in by his gravitational pull as you’ve always been.

He puts a hand over yours, clasping it to bring you in front of him, where he can still watch the children and encase you in his arms at the same time.

“Slow down, Luke! You’re going too fast!” comes the distressed cry of your daughter, Ahlina, drawing your attention away from admiring Obi-Wan and back to the valley. Her vowels curl in the same way her father’s does, but her more casual phrasing was certainly thanks to you. Luke shouts back at her, “Come on, keep up!” while he races on ahead.

Obi-Wan smiles, seemingly amused at a secret joke.

“They are much too young for this nonsense still,” he speaks, muffled slightly as he hides his lips in your hair.

“Probably,” you reply with an airy laugh.

Not long after, the engine on Luke’s small contraption gives out, jutting him off and tumbling forward into the sand.

“I told you!” Ahlina yells, her own machine coming to a halt not far away from Luke.

When they make it back up the cliff, Obi-Wan couches and opens his arms, and they both come running with smiles. They’re still young enough to be unshy about affection, and Obi-Wan knows to soak it up, closing his eyes in relishment.

Luke is the first to wiggle down, waving before running over to hug your leg, which you happily return, brushing some of the blonde mop of hair from his forehead. You adored the nights that the Lars let him sleep over.

Although the nights that Ahlina slept over at theirs certainly had their allure too.

“Can we have a snack, Daddy?” Ahlina asks, still happy to be hoisted up on one of his arms.

“Hm. Perhaps I can make some of those ahrisa sweet breads again?”

She wrinkles her nose. “Can Mommy make them?”

“Why not mine?”

“Because you always burn them.”

He bops a finger lightly on her nose with a smile. “Cheeky.”

She goes to bop him on his nose in return, but he catches the finger, holding it.

“Give it back!” she screeches through a giggle.

“No, no. I think I’ll keep it now.”

The suns are dipping low as you retreat into the hut, the two children running ahead, racing to gather the ingredients to help you bake the bread. Luke especially was an enthusiastic sous-chef.

You step to follow them, but Obi-Wan grasps your hand. You turn back to him, and he barely gives you a second before he joins his mouth to yours. Sliding a hand into the auburn beard, you open your mouth to him, letting his familiar taste permeate your senses.

He reluctantly breaks after a long moment, and you take his hand in yours. When you turn back to the horizon, the suns are dipping, blanketing the landscape in the most celestial light of the day.

The planet’s eyes aren’t harsh in the way you used to see them. They’re still intense, and frequently unforgiving.

Perhaps they never changed. Maybe only you did.

But as they sink now, you give a silent, partial farewell, knowing they’ll greet you again in the morning.

Because if Dark’s patience is infinite?

So is the promise of the return of the Light.

Tagging upon request: @million-dollar-legs

#obi-wan kenobi #obi-wan kenobi x reader #obi-wan kenobi x you #obi wan kenobi x reader #obi wan kenobi x you #obi-wan x reader #obi-wan x you #obi wan x you #obi wan x reader #obi-wan kenobi smut #obi wan smut #obi-wan smut #obi-wan #obi-wan x oc

560 notes · View notes

bloodpacks-archive · 3 years

Note

How about 3 with Jumin if it's not too much?❤

hey!! thank you for sending in the request, it’s never too much!! I will say, this one gets a little horny, but if you want one that’s sweeter or doesn’t have anything suggestive in it please send in another request and I’ll so happily fulfill it!! I’m in love with this man and I’ll so gladly write anything, this is just what came to mind :)

daybreak | jumin han

warnings: like i said above, sheeeesh (horny), which is now my official tag for not smut but like. getting there. it’s mainly just suggestive, and jumin kinda does some stuff but nothing we aren’t familiar with here on this dear blog. maybe like. a lil angsty. for a moment

word count: 1.9k. i am so sorry.

She wakes before the sun has risen, before the place where Jumin lays becomes nothing more than warm sheets and a dip in the mattress. Sunlight doesn’t spill in through their blinds, but instead the softer color of dawn, a deep blue settling somewhere in the sky.

For once, Jumin still lays next to her. He sleeps on his stomach, one arm wrapped around the pillow beneath him while the other is loosely slung over her. She moves closer to him, curling into the soft warmth of his body. It’s so rare that she gets even a glimpse of this these days, so rare that she doesn’t just feel his lips press against the crown of her head before he leaves.

It’s been hard at the office these last few weeks, to say the least. He doesn’t return home until late into the night—the other night when she waited for him, she heard him drop his keys just outside their front door, heard the soft curse fall from his lips. So she had opened the door for him, and saw him standing there, keys in hand, eyes already half-shut from the ride home at 2AM.

He hasn’t overworked himself like this in a while, hasn’t forced himself to the brink of complete exhaustion in so long that it had begun to feel foreign to her, but now she notices the way he sinks into their bed as if he’s never slept before. She hears the breaths that escape him, so steady and calm. As she moves closer to him, his arm wraps tighter around her, his hand settling in the middle of her back.

She doesn’t dare disturb him, doesn’t dare to move or make a sound. She allows him to bury himself into her, to hold her as close as he wishes. She’s missed this, anyway.

It’s been lonely. She’s been busy, too, but it’s never the same. She’s had meetings and she’s been working closely with the RFA, but whenever she comes home, it’s only to Elizabeth the 3rd’s quiet meows, the soft pat of her paws against their floors. She tries to stay up for Jumin most nights, she really does, but only last night he hadn’t returned back home until nearly 4 in the morning, and by then she’d fallen asleep in their living room. She only woke when Jumin had begun to carry her back to their bed, to which he’d apologized profusely.

Yet now, he’s so peaceful, so unaware of the world that lies around him. His brows aren’t furrowed together, the wrinkles that his stern expression forms in his skin have smoothed out. And he’s warm, most of all.

He only ever warms when he sleeps—most of the time, his hands are bitten by a chill just as hers are. Sometimes, when he returns home he’ll bring his hands under her clothes, placing cold fingers against the warm skin of her torso. Part of it is to rid himself of his chills, but the other part is to see the shock on her face, she knows, to hear her gasp his name. It’s always followed by his laughter into the crook of her neck.

But now his hand is warm against her exposed back, and she finds herself burying her face further into his skin. She wishes for him to stay like this, not forever—she’d never ask that of him—but if only for a few more hours. She wishes for him to sleep past the sunrise, to pull her close and lay in bed, even if only for the morning.

But he won’t. He’ll wake as the beginnings of sunshine peek through their windows. He’ll stir at even the suggestion of daybreak, leaving her to feel cold in his abandoned sheets. So she doesn’t dare waste a moment, she gazes upon his resting face, memorizing the way he looks when he isn’t burdened with work. She’ll know this look, she’ll have it dedicated to memory until she could draw its picture only with charcoal and paper.

She wants so much more from him, but it’s hardly fair for her to ask him such. She can beg for him to rest longer, but he’ll only think about the people at the office who have to pick up his slack. He won’t ever rest, he won’t be able to not think about C&R when he has the livelihoods of so many people on his shoulders.

He used to be able to rest easier about that. Part of her wonders if being cold was a gift for him, if maybe he needed it to stay sane. But God, was he ever really sane back then?

Hesitantly, she raises a hand up to his face. She pushes a piece of hair that’s fallen into his eyes out of the way, brushing it back until it falls with the rest of his hair. He stirs at her touch, and she halts her movement, one of her fingers stuck trailing behind his ear.

He lets out a quiet groan and turns so his face is stuffed into his pillow. He pulls her closer once more and she stifles laughter, moving so her hand instead plays with the hair at the base of his neck.

He mumbles something into his pillow, and now it’s too much for her to hold back her quiet laughter, leaning closer to him as soft breaths escape her lips.

“You’ll have to repeat that one, my dear,” She says, and he brings his face out of the pillow to look at her, his eyes still ridden with sleep.

“Your hands are cold,” He repeats, his voice gravelly and low, words slurred together. She goes to move her fingertips away from his skin, a regretful look sure to be apparent on her face. “No,” He continues, and she stops. “No, I’m sorry, it’s nice. Please, keep doing that.”

With a soft smile on her face, she obliges, her hand returning to the base of his neck to play with the hair there. As her touch comes back to him, he takes his hand off of her back to where her other hand rests between them on the pillow. He twines them together, feeling the chill of her fingertips against his. His touch spreads a warmth beneath her skin, and she can do nothing but bask in it, a grateful sigh leaving her lips at the feeling of his hands upon hers.

He pulls her hands to his lips, pressing a soft kiss upon her knuckles, and then he starts to move. She lifts her arm away from him, expecting him to get up and start to get dressed, but instead he only shifts so he’s laying on his side. He brings his hand closest to the mattress up so her cheek can rest on it while his other hand dips below the sheets, choosing to rest on her thigh—just below where her nightgown ends.

“Look at you,” He hums, and then runs his thumb over her cheekbone. “I’ve truly been graced by you.”

Heat dances across the skin of her cheeks and she leans into his touch. He laughs at her movement, but it’s a tired kind of laughter, one that’s softened at the edges.

“Jumin,” She replies, her voice dusted by a warning and an air of scolding, but it’s lighthearted, a smile pulling at her lips.

“Something to say, my love?” He whispers, leaning forward until she can feel his breath against her cheek. She only hums in response, shaking her head and turning into the pillows. She feels Jumin’s laughter against her, and then feels as he shifts again, moving so he can press his lips against her jaw and her neck.

He’s delicate in his touch, sweet against her skin. His warm breath spreads against her cold skin until she’s left shivering into his touch. As his lips fall down her neck, his hand on her thigh trails up, dragging her silk nightgown along with him, until finally he arrives at her hip. Though she’s covered by the sheets, she feels cold air run along her skin, only calmed by the touch of Jumin’s warm hands.

At her waist, he digs his fingers into her skin, but his lips sigh into her neck between kisses, slowly working his way down to her shoulder and collarbone. She says his name and he stops, pulling away to look at her.

“You’ll be stressed if you’re late to work, maybe tonight-“

Jumin cuts her off with a hum. “Not going today,” He mumbles, already having returned to the skin of her neck.

“What?” She asks, pulling back to look at him. He’s surprised at the movement, his eyes a little wider and his brows raised slightly above their normal placing, but then he closes his eyes, pursing his lips together.

“Right,” He says, more to himself than to her. “You were asleep last night so I didn’t tell you then, and I forgot to text you.” His hand on her hip begins to trace comfortable patterns against the flesh there, his thumb moving back and forth as he speaks. “I stayed late last night to finish up today’s work since I was already a little ahead. If they need anything, they can call me of course, but I’ll be doing any emergency work from home.”

Joy settles somewhere in her bones, begging her hands closer to him even as they lay in his hair. Any worry, any time spent trying to think of how to tell him to take a break seems so unneeded now. He knows how to take care of himself, it’s taken him so long, but he’s learned it. So now he lays in front of her, entirely hers for the day, no one else’s.

So of course, she can’t help the way she breaks into a smile, and she surges forward, wrapping her arms around his neck and pressing her lips to his. She catches him by surprise again, but it doesn’t take long for him to fall back into the rhythm. He shifts them until he hovers on top of her—one arm propping him up while the other stays on her waist. He pulls away from her to go back to trailing his lips down her neck—almost determined in the task, but she interrupts him again.

“Wait,” She says, and he pulls away again, looking up at her with concerned eyes. They flit over her, looking for something wrong. “You’ve barely slept and you have all day, shouldn’t you rest?”

Jumin hums slowly and then brings his lips down to her collarbone, kissing the flesh there before answering.

“Later,” He says, and then moves to her shoulder, lightly running his teeth along her skin. “I have something I’d like to attend to first.”

She sighs contentedly at that, allowing his warm hand to crawl up her waist, raising her nightgown further up her body.

And so she melts into his warmth—his lips, his hands, and his voice covering every single inch of her that he can.

#jumin han #jumin han x reader #jumin han x mc #mystic messenger fic #mysme fanfic #mystic messenger #Anonymous

64 notes · View notes

maybe-theres-hope · 3 years

Text

Of Will and Wildflowers, Part 3 (Final)

It’s here! Thank you so much to everyone who encouraged me: @oquinn53, @reyeslonestar, @howtosingit, @a-l-ias, @mtnofgrace, @descending-into-the-crazies @pragmaticoptimist34 if I forgot anyone please let me know!

Special thanks to my husband for reading this and making sure all my typos were gone :)

Tarlos | period drama/grudging acquaintances to lovers | Part 3/3 | This part: 10,877w | Total: 33,427w

Part 1 | Part 2

Read on AO3

Mr. Strand,

I hope this letter finds you well, and that your journey home was swift and uneventful. The entire house has been mourning yours and father’s departure since you left us. Mamà is convinced the lights are dimmer without the ambience of your father’s amusing anecdotes.

Elena has been lamenting the fullness of the house as well. She is easily bored without some new distraction every fortnight, but she swears she will convince you to visit again someday. I dare say we all will thank her if she can manage it.

In deference to our conversation, I will not try. I know you would not appreciate my needling.

Raquel cannot be bothered with the mundane occurrence of the comings and goings of visitors while she daydreams of castles and knights, so her opinion has not been asked. She still insists on helping Mrs. Smith in the kitchen, and Mamà still insists on having fits about it.

I must agree with my sister and mother, however. The house is a little less bright these days. Usually we can count upon sunlight and laughter to get us through the day, but those seem fleeting of late.

Flor misses you as well. She’s ornery when I ride her, as if she remembers a more beloved companion and I do not measure up. We lament your departure together when we meander the grounds.

Jimena is not often in the stable, so her opinion has not been ascertained either.

But enough of our melancholy!

How is it to be home? Travel can make us all weary, and you seemed so tired even before you set off. I hope you are feeling better in your own comfortable surroundings. Texas will always welcome you, but I know how good it is to feel your own dirt under your shoes. Please tell me something joyful, so that I can remember your face in gladness.

Your friend,

Christina Reyes

My dear friend,

As I sit beside the fire tonight, I am reminded of our last conversation. I am evermore grateful that you are taking on the no doubt immense burden of being my confidant while keeping our correspondence regarding these matters private from your family. Do not mistake me, if you at any time feel as though your obligation to me is taking precedent over your cherished feelings of love toward your family, please by all means give me but a word and I will cease my incessant pining.

Oh how I pine, dear Christina. There is not a day that goes by that I don’t think of the sound of rolling grass and smell wildflowers where there are none to be found. The city is bleak these days, and dark. What once was a welcome cacophony of life and commerce is now to me a teeming mass of sensation that I can barely stand for more than a moment. I long to feel the shift of earth under Flor’s hooves again, and for the caress of the soft breeze against my cheeks.

But enough of that for now. You asked in your letter for something joyful. My father has secured a deal with a contractor out West, and his—our line will stretch right to the Pacific, culminating at the coast. A fully developed coast to coast line, my father’s dream. It makes me so happy to see him so elated when he talks of it, and of me taking over it in time. I do not like to talk of him being gone, but it is inevitable he says. Men grow old, and pass on. He says what matters most is that we make a mark on the world we can be proud of, and that we touch people in ways that matter.

I cannot help but think that I have done neither.

I apologize again for my melancholy. When I sit to write to you I never intend to make you sad. Please, rejoice for my father and his accomplishments, for they reflect on me as well. I will take comfort in his happiness, and you can take comfort in my feeling it. That is enough for now.

Your friend,

TK Strand

TK,

I must address the most pressing concern from your letter immediately. You have touched us all, please know that. Please do not think you have not made a mark on the world, for our home would not have been the bright happy place it was while you were here without you to provide that light. Every day is a little darker, as I’ve said before, without you and your father in our midst.

Everyone is a little darker. Especially my brot

But enough of melancholy, as you said. I am delighted to hear of your father’s immense accomplishment. We are all so proud to be a part of it, a part of the future. I shall like to make the journey coast-to-coast someday on it, to me that would be such a wondrous thing!

I was wondering, would you tell me what Manhattan is like? I do admit I’ve only ever thought of it as bleak and loud and harsh, but surely folk as amiable as yourself and your father cannot come from such harshness. So please, tell me an anecdote of your days since you’ve returned. I’d love to hear of anything joyful. It would provide a balm to the monotony of country life.

Thinking of you always,

Christina Reyes

Dearest Christina,

Thank you for saying such kind things. I’ve always felt as if I were on the periphery of life. I’ve skated through it mostly by way of parties and luncheons with people who have little to talk about other than themselves. I’m just now getting to a point in my life where I do want to make a mark on the world. I know I can do that partially when I inherit my father’s legacy, and I intend to do it the utmost justice. But I find myself adrift in that I do have family and friends who love me, however…I do not have a love that speaks my heart’s language. A love that is built of trust and companionship and intimacy.

Please do not chide me for saying such things, we are friends and I feel I can talk about these delicate subjects with dignity. I thank you for your discretion.

But yes, as it stands, I have made no such mark on the world, have no such intimacy with which to grow old. I feel that the things we do in life do have a way of defining us, but they are far overshadowed by the people we choose to love.

In the past, I have chosen poorly, through no one’s fault but my own. I hope one day I can remedy that. But right now I feel, as I said, adrift. There is no one to hold me fast to the world, no one strive to do well for, after my father is gone. And I fear I may never have, as I have ceased looking. I cannot bear it at this moment.

Forgive me, my dearest friend, I have ignored your other request until now. Manhattan is much as it always is, loud and harsh, as you said. But most days it is a good distraction to hear the hustle and bustle outside my window. I do miss the Park and the promenade, but lately I haven’t felt well enough to venture out. I keep to my father’s study in our townhouse in Midtown while he visits the office near Gramercy and keeps me informed.

As I haven’t got a joyful anecdote from the days since our return, I will relate to you one from the past that is near and dear to my heart. When I was a young boy of about ten, my mother—God rest her soul—took me to the waterfront one day when my father was stolen from us with work. We gazed out over the Hudson, and even in my young age I tried to imagine that, just across the water, began the vastness of the North American continent. I used to try and picture what the land was like, what exotic treasures it held. I had never been anywhere, though my father had been to Chicago and Philadelphia numerous times.

I used to picture rolling hills, vast grasslands, and roaming livestock. I had been told most of the rest of the States consisted of farmland. I had never actually seen a bovine in person, but I had seen drawings. I childishly thought of it as one big zoo where all the animals roamed free, and the air always smelled crisp and clean. I imagined it was beautiful.

Funny thing is, I know now that that little boy of ten was at least partially right, at least about one particular place among that vastness.

I hope I have made you joyous,

TK Strand

My dear friend,

Your letter has made me joyous, in some ways. I wish you could have seen our home with childlike eyes, but alas I think it was better suited to you as you are now, and I’m glad you have experienced it and that it was to your liking. It truly means the world that you think of it as beautiful.

However, I have cause for concern where you have mentioned you have not been out, that you are unwell. Pray, please let me know how you get on, we all worry over you so. I happened to mention that excerpt of your letter at dinner, and I fear I may have incited a frenzy. I am humbly asked by my siblings to enquire after your health. Please tell us what ails you, so we can worry properly, and send up our prayers. I know we cannot do a thing for you, as far apart as we are now, but you are always in our hearts.

Mamà tells us that our business with your father is nearly finalized. I look forward to a ride on the line, hopefully with you as my guide. I must make the journey near winter, for I long to see snow. I’ve hitherto only read about it in books, a delicate powder that falls from the sky and blankets the world in white. How marvelous a sight must it be!

Be well,

Christina Reyes

Dear Christina,

As for your family, please tell them I am alright. I did not wish to frighten them or you, and I’m sorry for that. Please trust that our cook keeps me well with sandwiches and fruits when I am able to eat them. Everything is well when father is around to take up my time with business discussion, and as I said I am well distracted most days by the cacophony of the city outside.

I will venture out soon, I think, as my friends and acquaintances grow weary of my absence and I have left them all to their own devices for quite long enough, I suspect. I presume to know what they will want to discuss—an incident that took place just before our trip to Texas—it will be a drain on me to talk about it regardless. But I cannot put them off forever, I love them too much to deny them my company when they wish for it. Perhaps I’ll take a walk with one of them tomorrow, even if the air of the city is not nearly so keen and invigorating as the air of the country I have run from.

Please give my best to your family, I hope I have not caused anyone undue grief. I will only talk of happy things from here on out, when I eventually find them.

With affection,

TK Strand

P.S. I believe you know deep down what truly ails me, so I’ll not speak of it further lest I lose all dignity.

Mr. Michaels, the butler, stopped TK on his way to the dining room, handing him a card on a tray. He read it and smiled. “Miss Marwani called on you earlier, I told her you hadn’t yet come down. She left her card.”

“Thank you, Michaels. Will you send her a message that I’ll be free after luncheon today? I know it’s been so very long since I’ve made time to see her.”

“Yes, my lord. I dare say all your friends and acquaintances have been calling on us nonstop since your return home. But I trust it’ll take you a moment to get back into the swing of things after…your trip.”

TK smiled sadly. He knew what the butler was going to say before amending it. He’d been an absolute wreck after finding Alexander and the footman and had left for Texas only two days later. The entirety of the household and all of his friends must think he’s still in a melancholy state because of the slight.

If only they knew the truth. He might tell some of them, but only a select few he could trust. Michaels was a good man, and hadn’t overstepped. He’d practically raised TK since his father was so busy with the rail when he was younger. He knew the man was only looking out for his happiness.

“Michaels?” he said before turning to go on to the dining room for breakfast.

“Yes, my lord?”

“If you were faced with a time limit on a decision that governed your whole life, would you wait until you’d found the right solution? Or would you take the first viable solution to come along?”

TK knew that Michaels knew exactly what he was talking about, but was too polite to call attention to that fact. “I think if it were me, I’d examine every detail of each choice before deciding on the one most beneficial to my life in the long run. After all, some decisions are for a lifetime.�� With this, he gave a small reproachful smile to his once young charge.

“Yes, well. What would you do if you’d found the right solution, but it turned out to be impossible?” TK’s eyes looked up in earnest at the butler, whose expression had turned kind and commiserating.

“I do hope you don’t think you’d found the right solution to this problem just before your departure?” It was obvious Michaels thought Alexander was far below TK even before the scandalous tryst was revealed.

“No, no. Nothing like that,” TK reassured. He was pensive for a moment, caught in his thoughts of rolling pasture and wildflowers, their scent dancing across his senses even from miles away. “I thought I had found the right avenue during my time away. It seemed a nice thing, a wonderful thing actually. I daresay my hopes were quite built up for a time. But in the end it proved, as I said, impossible.”

Michaels gazed at his young master for a moment, unmistakable pity in his eyes, but TK didn’t comment on it. He was too miserable.

“I hold the utmost confidence that the right choice is out there for you. But, my lord, you will never find it unless you leave this house eventually. I am glad you’ve decided to start breakfasting in the dining room again, and I know that if you do go out later today your color might begin to return. I worry for you, my lord. I hope I am not impertinent to say so.”

“No, no Michaels. You’re not impertinent. I know I’ve been ghastly to be around these last few weeks, and I do hope to remedy that. To begin…moving toward the future, no matter how much I wish I knew its contents.” TK gave the butler a sad smile before turning away again, the weight of all he wished for still on his shoulders and bright, luminous brown eyes on his mind, no matter how much he wished they’d fade.

“I know you’re still mourning Alexander and his licentious ways, but I promise you, you can do much better. His family isn’t even that well connected! He’ll be a faint stain on your past and nothing more.”

TK looked over at his friend, the navy ribbon on her silk evening bonnet getting caught by the light breeze weaving through the Park. Her dark eyes held an intense shine as they often did when she went on a tirade. He let himself smile at her ability to be both vicious and diplomatic.

“Marjan,” he chided gently, “his family owns three quarters of the orange trees in the country! I wouldn’t say he’s not well connected. Half of Florida bears his family name in some capacity.”

“Oh, to hell with that,” she spit delicately. TK was also impressed by her proficiency in cursing with a velvet tongue. “Then he should be sent off to oversee them. Rid this city of his stupidity. Even further! Florida is too close, send him to the West Coast! Let him disappear. Society will be all the better for it, mark my words."

TK was brought up short by the mere mention of the opposite coast, since thoughts of that region gave in to thoughts of a certain eligible bachelor which gave in to thoughts of his intended that TK desperately wished was his own intended and—

It must have shown on his face.

“TK, my friend, trust me. He is nothing of consequence.” Her voice had turned gentle again, not the outrage on his behalf she’d been spouting for the past few minutes. TK could not help connecting her statement with his thoughts, even if she was off the mark at the moment.

“I know that. It’s not him that unsettles me; he is firmly in my past and I shall not revisit my temporary lapse of judgement in giving him even a small parcel of my affection.” He patted her hand that rested in the crook of his arm as they walked leisurely around a small fountain, the sound of bubbling water serving to soothe his psyche for the time being.

She was silent for a moment before she tugged them to a pause on a semi-crowded knoll. “Then, pray tell, what has you so blue? Ever since you returned from the South you’ve been distant. I thought at first it was just lethargy left over from the long journey, but it has been over two months! I fear I shall never see you smile again as before. Please tell me what troubles you? Is it your father?”

Marjan was a close friend, and as such, she was privy to some news about his father’s health. The man wasn’t in immediate danger, but TK had confided in Marjan that his father had taken to being more…forceful in his demands that TK take a more active role in the business. He had a persistent cough but no fever as of yet. The doctors did what they could to alleviate the annoying ailment—as his father called it—but they all knew Owen Strand was beginning the downslope of his life. At nearly fifty years of age, he was nearing the last stretch of life expectancy and sometimes TK could see it plain on his father’s face. It made him apprehensive for the future, not to mention the fact that still stood: he had to marry before he could take over the business.

And that thought brought him back around to his other melancholy. For if the desired recipient of his affection would return said affection, he’d be happily married yesterday. But alas, it was not to be.

He dreaded a letter from Christina detailing an engagement. He knew it was coming soon, and he’d tried to resign himself to it. Perhaps she wouldn’t even tell him. After all, he’d asked as much of her. Nothing of Carlos, none at all; that had been his request.

“It is, partially, my father’s health that concerns me,” he said as he came out of his thoughts and back into the conversation at hand. “However I…”

“What is it?” Marjan asked when he refused to speak further after trailing off into silence. “What makes your heart ache so? I can see it in your eyes that it is your heart that is broken. If it was not Alexander, then who?”

Trust Marjan to read him like a book.

“I met someone. In Texas. Oh, Marjan—“ he paused a moment and could not help a smile crawling across his features at the thought of his week spent in bliss, before it all came crumbling down. “He is the most wonderful, kind, and beautiful creature I have ever met. At first I thought him a cad, as our first meeting was less than cordial. But upon learning why he felt as he did, I was persuaded to understand and to admire his candor. He spoke of his home with love and deference, and it was such a treasure to be shown the land with such a companion.”

He closed his eyes for a moment and pictured the apple orchard. Marjan caught his flush and smiled.

“And so? When shall we expect an announcement?”

TK’s smile quickly dimmed to a grimace, now tasked with completing the story.

“An announcement will not come, I’m afraid. He is betrothed to another. I found out on our second to last night in Austin, and I must confess I did not handle it well. I made a complete fool of myself and I’d like to never repeat it by seeing him again.”

“Wait, he did not tell you he was spoken for? And he courted you just the same and let you think you had a chance?” Her voice was angry and TK sought to soothe it with the truth.

“Truthfully, he never actually courted me. We were thrust together by circumstance, and he was a perfect gentleman throughout. It was I who read too much into each interaction, each conversation, each dance held in his arms. It was I who was a complete fool to let my feelings show on my face to all his family when they all knew nothing would ever come of it. I feel so stupid, Marjan. I practically begged father to cut the trip short. But…” he paused again, thinking of the dust kicking up behind Jimena’s hooves as Carlos rode out to meet their carriage after they’d already set off. The small bud of Indian Paintbrush was still blooming in a jar of water next to his bed.

“But?” She prompted.

“There were some moments where…where I could swear that he…but it was obviously a trick of my imagination. His betrothed is a marvelous gentleman, beloved by all, and he would be a fool not to accept an eventual proposal. As I said, it is well and truly over and out of the question that my pursuit would yield any happiness.”

Marjan was silent while they resumed their walk, her hand steady in the crook of his arm. Eventually, she spoke softly. “Well, I must admit I am glad this melancholy is not on Alexander’s account, but I also must admit I am saddened by this turn of events. I know you to be a perfect gentleman, and I have always wished you could find someone as wonderful as you to share your life with. I know you’ll do great things and I know you want someone to share those triumphs with. If this man is who you feel is perfect for you, why not fight for him? It is not in your nature to give up so easily.”

“That’s just it, Marjan. He is perfect, and honorable. Which is why I could not jeopardize his honor by asking him to abandon a promise he made before he met me. I would never forgive myself if his good name was tarnished.”

They walked in silence until the end of the lane, where they turned to leave the Park and hail a carriage back to Marjan’s home up the avenue.

When TK returned home later in the evening, Michaels stopped him in the entryway and held out a tray. “This came for you while you were out, my lord.”

TK took the proffered package and stared at it in confusion. The return address from from Christina, but usually all she sent were letters. This parcel was still small, the shape of a single letter, but thicker. It weighed little, giving no clue as to its contents.

“Thank you, Michaels. Is dinner set already? Do I have time to change?”

“You should, my lord. I shall call for you in about half an hour. Your father is in the parlor already, if you wish to check in with him, now you’re home.”

“Was he missing me? Did he need something?” TK wondered, a little worried.

Michaels smiled. “No, my lord. He was actually quite content all day, and was happy that you’d gone to call on Miss Marwani. I only say to check in because he probably hopes to hear how happy a time you had.”

TK smiled sadly. He knew he was worrying his father with his refusal to leave his own rooms for the past weeks. It saddened him further that he could have possibly made his father’s condition worse by stressing him. He vowed to himself to make a better effort to get back into real life sooner rather than later. After all, as he’d told Marjan earlier, there was nothing to be done about…Mr. Reyes. That was well and truly over, in fact it had never begun. There was no reason to pine after a man who did not do the same for him. TK was worth more than that.

Yes, he must convince himself of that, and quickly.

“Alright, Michaels. I’ll change quickly and meet him. Thank you,” he said with a small nod. Turning to ascend the stairs, he started to unwrap the small, delicate parcel Christina had sent. As he entered his rooms, his efforts revealed that there was, in fact, a letter inside. However it was nestled atop a small folded square of cloth, delicate and airy and fine.

Setting the letter aside for the moment, he unfolded the fabric to reveal that it was a handkerchief, finely made and embroidered in bright colored thread. The edges were a gleaming yellow, reminding him of sunlight. On one corner, no bigger than his thumb, was the most intricate rendition of a yellow wildflower—he recognized it almost instantly.

He moved to sit on the nearest surface, which happened to be the edge of his bed. The pads of his fingers caressed the tiny design reverently, as if touching it would somehow unravel all the thread that comprised it. As if by acknowledging that it was there, it was already in danger of disappearing. There was no doubt of the reference used—he had seen so many of those little yellow blossoms on his journey around the Reyes ranch. The breath left his body as his mind’s eye conjured a bright smile and the smell of clean sweetness on the air.

After he’d regained some of his composure, he picked up the letter. It was shorter than most of her other letters, which stood to reason as he’d just received her last one a few days ago and he’d yet to answer it. She must have sent this just behind her previous one.

Beloved TK,

I hope you are well. I know I have just posted a letter to you two days ago, but I saw this in a shop window and immediately thought of you. I know how you enjoyed the wildflowers around our home, and I wished for you to have a reminder of them—especially one less prone to wilting than the genuine article.

You are always in my our thoughts, and I wished to keep us in yours. Please, think of Austin when you hold this token, and know that you are so dearly missed.

Yours in heart,

Christina Reyes

TK stared. It seemed as though the letter had been written in some sort of haste, as it was unusual for Christina’s hand. The letters were slightly more slanted, and the spaces between paragraphs larger than her delicate way. Even her signature was off, as if it had been written by a proxy. And the contents…she’d never called him a beloved friend before. Well, no, it wasn’t even friend. It was just “beloved”.

He wondered if she was growing melancholy herself for some unknown reason. The letter seemed sincere, but heavier than her usual correspondence, as if she was feeling his absence more acutely in this instance.

Furthermore, he wasn’t sure he’d told her about what the wildflowers meant to him. He’d thought that was something he and Mr. Reyes had shared between themselves for the short time they’d been acquainted. But perhaps her brother had recited a few of their outings to her, and remarked on TK’s fascination with the surrounding flora of the country.

Perhaps.

He concluded that the whole parcel was a product of a hastily made decision when she’d seen the handkerchief in the window, and the oddities contained within the letter were the result of her haste to get it posted while she was still in town that same day.

He gently tucked the gift into a box next to his bed, giving it one last longing stare before closing the lid and beginning to dress for dinner.

“We’ve had a letter from the Doña,” his father said over luncheon a few days later as he perused said letter which Michaels had handed to him upon their arrival in the dining room. “It seems her agent agrees to our terms, and they are sending a liaison with the documents to finalize.” He set the page down on the table and picked up his glass of port. “I do believe we are almost settled with the entirety of the preparations, and we can begin construction early next year!”

“That’s wonderful news, father,” TK said quietly, his tone not matching his words. He was looking down at his plate with no intention of picking up his fork, so he missed his father’s knowing and saddened expression.

“It is. Another piece of news that I’ve gathered from earlier today, is that the Vanderbilts are throwing a ball tomorrow night. Well, I suppose Mrs. Vanderbilt is, at any rate, and Mr. Strickland asks if you can accompany him.”

“I don’t know, father. I’m not sure I’m feeling well enough to socialize on such a scale. I’ll be a bore to everyone there and then you will have to answer for my behavior.”

“I don’t think you’d be a bore to Mr. Strickland, surely. He’s been asking after you these last few weeks. I daresay he plans to eventually kidnap you from your rooms if you do not answer his calls. Surely he’ll want to hear how you’re getting on?” His father’s transparency was apparent, but TK did not call him out on it.

“I don’t know, father. I’m not quite well at the moment so I probably shouldn’t be gallivanting about at parties.”

“You are unwell because you refuse to eat or see sunlight,” Owen said, not unkindly. His next words were suffused with affection and it only made TK’s heart ache more. “My son, I worry for you. The whole household does. Mrs. Talbot says you only ate half the small sandwich she brought you last night. And you haven’t touched your soup yet since we’ve sat down. I worry you’ll be skin and bones before long.” His words weren’t scolding, only concerned.

“I’m sorry to worry you, father, and the servants. I just find it…difficult to keep anything down. It all tastes like ash, and I know that description would never do Mrs. Talbot’s cooking justice.” At this, he made a gamely attempt to sip a spoonful of soup, and found his assessments confirmed. He swallowed anyway, and kept the grimace off his face with great effort.

“Tyler,” his father said in that affectionate tone once more, “You must try to move past your heartbreak. I know that’s what it is,” he said as TK made to interrupt him, “I know it when I look at your face and see only sadness. I know it when I hear from Michaels that you have not descended the stairs all day while I’ve been at the office. I know it because that single flower is still thriving at your bedside.” At this, he had the decency to look only slightly chagrined. TK said nothing.

“I looked in on you a few nights ago. You didn’t come down to dinner and I was worried you’d gone hungry again. Your sleep looked restless. I also noticed a letter from Miss Christina.”

“You went through my things?” TK said without any real malice. He knew his father meant well but he had put a lot of private thoughts into those letters and Christina had answered them in kind.

“I only ascertained that she wishes to see snow. You should take her up on her request to ride the line once it is finished. I know she would love to see you again. And maybe by then, it will be less painful for you.” Owen’s face was drawn.

“Maybe, in a year or two. For now I am content with her letters.”

“What does she write of her brother?” his father asked.

“Nothing, because I asked her not to,” TK replied. He again missed his father’s pained expression of concern as he took another forced sip of his soup from his spoon. His hand trembled slightly at the most direct mention of Carlos since his talk with Marjan earlier in the week.

Owen seemed to take this answer as a plea to end the subject of conversation. He simply watched his son silently, wishing he could help ease his pain and knowing he was unable.

“Mr. Cartwright has not stopped staring in this direction since we sat down,” Paul remarked over the swell of the music, another quadrille beginning causing cheers and the shuffle of feet to the dance floor.

“Perhaps he’s trying to figure out a way to ask you to dance,” TK answered as he sipped his brandy. Paul was a dear friend, and he was happy to be in his company, he just wished it didn’t have to be surrounded by laughing couples and a revelry he felt entirely apart from.

His friend gave him an incredulous look. “Are you serious? He’s been shamelessly staring at you,” Paul countered. “He’s practically mapped out every thread in your coat, the cad.”

“I doubt that. No amiable gentleman would give me a second glance as I look now. Maybe a few months ago, but not now. I’m well aware the color in my cheeks and the bulk of my frame have left me. The servants, my father, you, and Marjan remind me every day of that. How could I be any object of desire?”

It had been a full week since his first venture out of the house with Marjan—and nearly three months since his return from Texas—and TK was trying for his friends’ sake to get back out into the world. Hence accepting the invitation to a ball at the home of some debutante or another of their set, with Paul as his moral support should he feel the need to flee the social setting at his earliest convenience. TK was still trying to get used to other people around him being so happy and carefree when he himself wished to crawl into his bed and remain there until the second coming.

He knew full well that his behavior wasn’t healthy. He’d made the decision himself to try and get past his heartbreak, lest it cripple him forever which definitely could not happen if he wanted to give his father any peace of mind.

“My friend,” Paul chided kindly, “you’ve always been a vision, sought after by many a connected suitor. You haven’t lost your appeal I can promise you. We harp on your well-being because we care about how you’re feeling on the inside, and the outside is a good testament to that. I dare say it’s made you more desirable, at least to those who’ve mourned your absence since your trip, that you’ve stayed away. It inflates the intrigue.” He gave a small chuckle that TK tried to match.

“Well I’m afraid Mr. Cartwright will have to find another object of desire. I do not believe I could content anyone as a courting partner as of now. I need a bit more time to settle back in, I think.” That was as diplomatic as TK could be about it. The reality was that he’d still been unable to remove thoughts of Mr. Reyes from his mind, and it grew more difficult every day. He absentmindedly reached into his jacket pocket and rubbed the delicate fabric of the handkerchief between his fingers, feeling the bumps and valleys of the embroidery, and almost smelling the sweet scent of the country in the air.

He hadn’t noticed he’d closed his eyes until he felt a brush of air next to his face as a reveler approached their table.

“Hello, Mr. Strand,” Mr. Cartwright beamed. It seemed he’d worked up the courage to approach after all.

“Good evening. Are you enjoying the festivities?” He answered, attempting cordiality.

“Of course. And yourself, Mr. Strand? Wouldn’t you better enjoy things in their midst than here on the periphery? Fancy a dance on the next waltz?” The man sounded so eager that TK almost obliged. But his honor would not let him lead the man on.

“I’m afraid I’ve quite exhausted myself already,” he said, even though all he’d done was make one round and plop himself into his current seat since arriving. “I do apologize for being unavailable, but I’m sure there is someone else dying to catch your hand for a waltz. Please let me do them the favor of leaving you available.”

It was almost comical the way the man’s face fell, but TK was not in danger of showing any glee at it on his face. He understood far to well the melancholy of unrequited affection. But alas, he could not feign interest at the moment, so he let the man trudge away with only a bit of guilt.

“He’ll get over it,” he said when he caught Paul’s glance.

“But will you?” It was clear he wasn’t talking about Mr. Cartwright.

TK didn’t answer. He could not.

The day of the arrival of the Doña’s liaison dawned and once again TK could barely face the sunlight. He wished with all his heart that he could place the blame on too much of the good-natured debauchery that plagued his set when they got into their drinks, but he knew he could not. He’d barely partaken in a full glass of brandy with his father after dinner the night before.

He felt some guilt at not hurrying down to meet the man at his father’s side, as would be expected of an only son in position to run his father’s business someday, but could barely bring himself to nibble at the scones Mrs. Talbot had sent up the night before.

Sooner or later, however, he knew he must face the day. He finally got himself dressed near luncheon time, deeming his appearance presentable enough for a middle manager he’d never meet again.

He straightened his collar and pulled his lapels taut just before Michaels announced him upon entering the parlor. As he surveyed the scene before him, his stride halted, all breath left his lungs, and the color drained from his face.

Seated on the settee across from his father and wearing the most disarmingly beautiful smile, eyes dancing in the sunlight filtering in through the damask curtains, was Carlos Reyes.

The man had clearly just been given some wonderful news, though TK couldn’t imagine what his own father could have told him to elicit such a response, but it was plain on his face that he’d just been told something truly delightful. However, when his eyes strayed to the entrance to the room upon Michaels announcing TK’s presence, the smile on his face faded slowly to a deep concern. TK didn’t miss the subtle perusal of his person, Carlos looking over his face with a slight furrow of his brow that grew deeper the longer TK stood there dumbfounded.

Mr. Reyes, of course, was the first to remember his manners, though his employment of them seemed over the top to TK. He’d jumped up and nearly ran over to TK, taking his elbow in hand ever so gently as if the touch was nothing. As if it didn’t send TK’s whole world tilting.

“Mr. Strand! I…please, sit. Should I fetch some water? You look like you’ll be ill any moment…” He sounded almost…afraid. Not disgusted and annoyed as TK thought he might have been upon their next meeting. After all, TK was the one who’d made a fool of himself by pining like an imbecile in front of the Reyes’ family and friends. He could only imagine how much Mr. Reyes regretted their time together, now that he’d had a few months to ponder it.

“I’m alright, Mr. Reyes, thank you,” TK managed to croak out as the man ushered him to a chair across the room, seemingly careful as not to touch him.

He must be master of himself! This was almost more embarrassing than what had initially transpired between them in Texas. “I…hadn’t known that you’d be coming as your mother’s agent. I was only…surprised to see you. Here.” He forced his lips to stop moving.

Mr. Reyes’ face had yet to lose it’s pinched brow and shining eyes. What TK had initially catalogued as fear now looked like…concern. But that was impossible. Only, maybe not, since Mr. Reyes was a quite honorable and sensible man, and TK knew he looked gaunt and lifeless on his best days lately.

Turning to look at his father, TK only noticed that he too was focused on Mr. Reyes, and TK couldn’t quite place his expression. He’d been smiling as well when TK entered, and now he seemed a bit subdued but no less mirthful. It was an odd juxtaposition. Just then, he turned to his son and gave him a gentle smile.

“Well, I must be off. Quite a bit to get finalized with the documents you’ve brought me.” He stood and offered a hand to Mr. Reyes. “How long did you say you’d be in the city?”

“A few days, sir. I had hoped…well, my mother wishes me to return with everything in order,” he answered cryptically as they shook. His face was hopeful though TK couldn’t think why. They had pretty well come to a mutually beneficial agreement through correspondence. The rest was simply formality at this point. He couldn’t think what else would need to be settled.

“I’m sure she does,” Owen said with a smile and another odd look at TK. He could not figure what to make of the exchange, but truth be told he was still reeling from Carlos—Mr. Reyes, he reminded himself—being in his home so unexpectedly.

His father was turning to him next. “Tyler, would you be a gentleman and show Mr. Reyes about for a bit? I’m sure he’d like to stretch his legs after his long journey. You could take a taxi to the Park?”

TK fought the urge to gape at his father. He expected them to be…alone? What would they even discuss? TK wished the Turkish rug’s threads would open up and sew him into the floor.

He was however, as his father said, a gentleman, and he could not let his manners slip no matter how much he wished to be anywhere but alone in the confines of a taxi and then in the beautiful intimacy of the Park at dusk with Carlos Reyes.

“Of course, father. It would be my pleasure.” Somehow the words left his lips without a tremble. Or so he hoped. He did not think his father could be so cruel, knowing TK’s heart.

Mr. Reyes looked half ecstatic and half terrified. TK could relate whole-heartedly.

As Owen bid them good night and made to ascend the stairs to his study, TK slowly turned to look at his circumstantial companion. Here they were once again, thrust into each other. TK thought back to that first morning they’d toured the ranch together; Mr. Reyes had been cordial, despite their initial meeting and his own hesitation about the Strand’s business with his family. He’d been courteous and knowledgable about the land, wishing to give TK a good impression which TK in turn appreciated.

He vowed to himself he would attempt to do the same when showing Mr. Reyes his own home.

With somewhat renewed countenance, TK took a breath. “Well, shall we, Mr. Reyes?” His voice barely shook. The man in question gave him a fond smile that melted TK’s very soul.

“Lead the way, Mr. Strand.”

The taxi ride proved to undo all of TK’s borrowed confidence. Sitting so close their knees brushed reminded him of riding through the apple orchard, which in turn reminded him of Carlos’ hand in his, which set his heart fluttering and mind whirling, which led to an awkward silence the likes of which TK never wanted to experience again. Mr. Reyes was waiting for him to speak, it seemed—as TK was ostensibly his guide in this place unfamiliar to him—and he was thoroughly incapable. All that accompanied them was the clap of the horses’ hooves on the stones and both their nervous breathing.

When they arrived at the southwest corner of the Central Park, TK paid the driver and slipped out before Mr. Reyes could offer him a hand. He knew not what he would do if he felt that warmth upon his skin again in his current state. The other man looked a bit let down, but TK dismissed it as a trick of his longing imagination.

They entered and set about the promenade which, even at this time of the evening, was still thronged with late perusers. As they walked among the fresh grass and beautiful tree lined paths, TK did his best to drum up the wherewithal to speak, to offer some manner of conversation lest he seem rude in his silence.

“I suppose it looks rather…artificial to you,” he said quietly.

Mr. Reyes startled a bit, apparently accustomed to TK’s lack of voice thus far, but he recovered quickly with an eager smile turned to his companion.

“Not at all! It’s all very…whimsical I think. This beautiful bounty of nature preserved in the middle of all that stone and brick. It’s…peaceful.”

“Yes,” TK thought aloud. “It’s quite serene. The further in you go, the less the city outside of it seems real. The sounds and smog melt away and you just feel…” he trailed off, words failing.

“Like we’re in our own little Eden.” Carlos’ eyes were like pools of shining dark chocolate in the gaslamp light. Sweet and alluring.

TK could only nod dumbly, and try to look away. He accomplished it with much difficulty.

They walked in a much softer silence for a time, passing a couple of people TK recognized from parties and balls around the city, but they never stopped to converse with anyone. Mr. Reyes seemed to want to keep his company for himself, which TK could not think what to do about, so he remained passively quiet.

About half an hour into their journey, his companion spoke.

“I’ve actually got something I’d like to…well, first there’s something I…I need to tell you.” Carlos’ face was unreadable, but his tone was quiet and reserved. TK’s heart clenched painfully. Carlos had been in an odd countenance since his arrival, and TK could only attribute it to the awkwardness surrounding his ridiculous assumptions about Carlos’ feelings and the utter embarrassment of his departure from Texas.

“Oh?” was all he said, suddenly breathless with an ache he could barely stand.

“I’m not sure if you were informed when you last visited, but—” he paused for so long, TK turned to look at him at his side, wondering what halted his speech. His face was still unreadable, but his voice now had a very slight tremble to it. TK tried to keep his own face open, so that Mr. Reyes felt safe to continue.

“For several years now I have had an...understanding. With a gentleman from California, with whom my family is quite acquainted.”

The vice around TK’s heart clenched cruelly at the reminder. “Yes, Mr. de Castillo. Your mother and sisters—and some of those from the county—told me about him. Quite admired, he is, by all.”

“Yes…” His voice trailed off into silence again, and this time when TK sneaked a look he seemed troubled. TK wished he could put the man’s fears at ease, that if he feared a faux pas in tearing down TK’s feelings that he needn’t worry about it.

But that would have been a lie.

“Yes,” he said again, going on. “We’ve actually been courting these last months, not long after yours and your father’s departure.”

TK took the blow as best he could, with a calm countenance, when really he wished this torturous conversation would end so that he could limp back to his bed and curl up in misery until the second coming. Why on earth did Carlos feel the need to do this? Weren’t they settled in being apart from each other? No more than business acquaintances?

The thought alone dealt his heart another painful blow.

“About a month ago he—he called on me to...state his intentions.” His voice sounded flatter than TK would assume from a happily engaged man. Still, he tried to inject some light into his own tone when he answered.

“I am so happy for you, Car—Mr. Reyes,” he said with as much enthusiasm as he could muster which, admittedly, was not very much at all.

However, his tone must have belied his utter devastation because Mr. Reyes abruptly stopped and gently tugged him to the side of the path, so that they would not impede other couples on the promenade. TK almost swooned at the touch.

“I’m sorry?” the other man said, a look of confusion and slight hurt across his beautiful eyes. TK was now confused as well.

“I...I only wish to convey my happiness on your engagement. You must be thrilled to have your future finally settled. Not only must it be a relief, but with such a fine gentleman as I have heard.” Carlos’ hand was still lightly holding onto his upper arm, and though it pained TK in the worst way to do it, he ever so deftly maneuvered his body so that the contact was dropped.

“I think that...well I...that is…” Carlos was staring at him, that hurt look growing in his brown eyes and TK wanted nothing more than to take it away but he didn’t know how.

“Mr. Strand—TK,” he said so softly that TK could hear his own heart beat in the silence. “I think that you have...misunderstood me.” TK had been staring at a spot over Carlos’ shoulder until then, unable to meet his eyes any longer for fear he’d burst into tears in the middle of Central Park, but at the plea he shifted his watery gaze back to sink into the pools of liquid chocolate in front of him.

“Mr. de Castillo—Fernando, that is—has proposed marriage to me, it’s true—” In the minuscule pause between these words and the next set, TK felt his heart slow to a stop with the inexorable weight set upon it by this conversation, “—but I have turned him down.”

And at this, that traitorous heart gave one slow, painful beat of hope that TK was powerless to tamp down.

When he could find his voice, it was to incredulously say, “Whatever for?”

Carlos reached down to take TK’s hand in his, and TK was sure he was trembling like a sheaf of paper caught in the wind. He brought it between both his hands, brushing the knuckles ever so lightly—so much so that TK was sure he’d imagined it.

“Because I could not marry a man that I do not love, and I do not love Fernando. No matter how much of a wonderful and kind gentleman he is, and no matter how ashamed and saddened it made me to tell him so. But I cannot betray my own heart.”

TK’s legs were going to give out any moment. He had no other thought in his head but staying upright, using that tentative hold on his hand, still gentle as ever, as his anchor. He dare not let his thoughts follow themselves to any conclusions.

“The truth is, TK, my heart belongs to another. It has for some time, and I was too stubborn with misplaced loyalty to give it a say. That is, until now. Which is why I imparted the information to you.”

TK kept staring into the man’s eyes, wondering if this was all some dream he’d tumbled into in slumber. He was sure this must be his own mind conjuring the conversation, guilty as it was of yearning for it.

“I wish to apologize for taking so very long to come to my senses. I always strive to be honorable, and for a time I thought that meant that I must remain true to Fernando. But I’ve been made to realize that my thinking was wrong.” TK could only take the words in stride, adrift as he was on the roaring sea of his emotions.

The man continued, while TK himself was made to listen to the most illogical combination of words his brain could have come up with in his current state. He was still convinced he was dreaming. Carlos reaching down and taking both his hands did nothing to bring him out of said state. Furthermore, it made him feel as if he was about to float away into the stars, unmoored as he was except for those twin points of contact.

“You are the most optimistic, brilliant, engaging creature I have ever known. Your smile could light up a room if every candle failed. I find myself riveted any time you’ve got an anecdote to tell, and in these months of not hearing your voice I have conjured it in my dreams more times than I care to admit.

“I wish to spend the rest of my days making you smile and laugh, waking with the morning sunshine just to see how it dapples your face, and admiring you from across the dinner table every single evening for the rest of my life. TK, if I have been mistaken, and you do not return my affections, please stop me from making a further fool of myself.” This he said with a little nervous chuckle that cut straight through TK’s very soul. He looked up through his lashes at TK, nervous.

TK, in turn, was struck dumb by the confession. Carlos apparently took this as a queue to continue to the most preposterously happy thing that had yet to be uttered in this very winding conversation that had had TK’s heart in knots since it began.

“Mr. Strand. If I have not been remiss in my assumptions of your affection, I urge you, no I beg you to consider my humble plea. Would you consent to be my husband? It would make me the happiest man in the entire world.”

TK felt himself take in a slow, careful breath. It took several moments for him to find his voice, and then it was only to utter on a half-expelled gasp, “Truly?”

“Yes, truly,” was the nearly equally breathless answer.

Again, it was a struggle to find volume behind the utter euphoria that had overtaken him, but soon enough, he pushed the words out in a little more than a whisper, lest he accidentally shout and call undue attention. “Then, yes. Yes!” Tears were already warming his cheeks and chin, but TK didn’t care a wit. He went easily as Carlos embraced him tightly, feeling warmth suffusing his entire body at every place they touched.

Before long, they had to part, lest they invite accusations of impropriety.

“I…I had thought…well it doesn’t matter now I suppose,” he stammered, thoughts swirling with emotion and unable to tamp them down. Not wanting to.

“I apologize again for taking so long. Your smile, your face is all I’ve thought about for months. The moment you were gone my heart sank to the deepest depths.”

“Mine as well,” TK admitted. “I have…neglected myself these last few months, I’m afraid. I thought I could learn to forget you in time, but alas…”

“When you entered the parlor, I was distraught to see you looking unwell. Please, I beg of you, please take care of yourself. I don’t know what I would do if…”

“I know. I apologize for my appearance. I did not mean to give you cause for concern.”

Carlos briefly reached up to touch TK’s slightly sunken cheek. “I hope you can forgive me, for it is my silence that has caused you such distress, but I also find myself elated that you feel the same as I do. I can still scarcely believe it.” His voice was rising with happiness, and TK felt drunk on it like the sweetest wine. “I must admit, though, I cannot claim full responsibility for coming to my senses. Christina was quite adamant that I was being an imbecile.”

TK looked down at the ground for a moment. “I…asked her—no, begged her really—not to speak of you in our correspondence.”

“She told me. It’s why I—“ Carlos stopped abruptly, looking chagrined.

“What is it?” TK asked.

“Well I…I knew you did not want to speak to me, but I just had to…that is I…I sent you…something. I wrote a letter and signed her name to it. She laughed about it later, but she called me an utter fool for not being more courageous about it.

TK halted in the middle of the path. Immediately, he knew. He reached into the inside pocket of his jacket, pulling out a delicate fold of linen edged in bright yellow. He held it gently in his fingers, caressing the soft folds that had cemented themselves after so long kept in his pocket.

Even in the lamplight, he could see Carlos’ face flush slightly.

“I wanted to court you properly, but circumstances were…well. In the end I was cowardly about it I suppose.” He ducked his head bashfully.

“I think, deep down, I knew. I didn’t want to let myself believe, but…I’d never spoken to Christina about the wildflowers.” TK’s own voice was reverent.

“She told me that. When I told her what I’d done, she told me you would see right through it.”

“You called me beloved…”

Carlos looked deep into his eyes. “Yes.”

TK nearly swooned again, new tears dripping down his cheeks which were positively sore with how much he was smiling. He tucked the treasure back into his jacket.

“We’ll have to tell my father, I suppose,” he said after a time, absolutely giddy as they began to walk along the path again, back to the streets toward the Strands’ home.

“Oh, I wouldn’t worry about that. I’ve already gotten his blessing,” Carlos answered with a smug grin to answer TK’s astonished expression. “That’s what we were talking about earlier today, before you interrupted us.”

“Well, you’ve thought of everything haven’t you?”

“I think I’d like very badly to kiss you, but I’ll hold off. Wouldn’t want anything to jeopardize your good opinion of me, would we?’ His smile was absolutely radiant. TK thought to himself that if this were to be his life, staring at this gorgeous face full of love for all his days, he’d never be unhappy again.

The fire was dying down and Carlos finally moved to take his leave.

“Must you go?” TK couldn’t quite keep the pout from his voice, but at least now, he did not care too much if Carlos heard it.

“I’ve stayed too long as it is, people will talk,” he answered with an indulgent smile as TK walked him out of the parlor and into the hallway. The servants had long gone to bed, so it was up to TK himself to help Carlos on with his coat.

“You’re my fiance now,” he said, glowing all the while and unable to help it. “People will have to get used to the fact that I want to be around you every waking moment of the day without pause.”

“Yes, but no one knows that yet and I wouldn’t want to besmirch your good name.”

“When will I see you again, then?” He slid the overcoat onto broad shoulders, nearly letting his fingers linger a bit too long for propriety.

“I’ll call tomorrow to meet with your father again. We do have actual business to finalize after all. You’ll be there, won’t you?” Now it was Carlos’ turn to pout a bit, and TK was powerless against it.

“Of course. Well, I’ll say good night.” He looked up into the face of the most beautiful man, the man he was going to spend the rest of his unbelievably happy days with.

“Good night, my heart,” said Carlos, reaching up a hand to caress TK’s face so gently it caused an aching pang in his heart. Slowly, carefully, he moved his calloused thumb across TK’s lips, back and forth a few times as if trying to memorize the shape of them. TK gave a small shudder.

“My, Mr. Reyes, you’re being very forward.” He couldn’t help smiling. As the man had not removed his hand yet, TK pursed his lips ever so slightly, bestowing a chaste kiss against his thumb.

Carlos chuckled softly, covering an intake of breath. “Now who’s forward?” He was smiling so wide it looked as if it hurt.

“You’re my fiance,” TK answered against the warm skin, the word still feeling like glistening honey in his mouth, “I can be as forward as I like.”

“God in heaven, I want to kiss you.” Carlos looked like he might do it, but restrained himself as a gentleman should. They’d pushed the bounds of propriety enough for one day, TK supposed. Though he would have welcomed it gladly, as clandestine and salacious as it would have been. After a few more strokes, Carlos finally dropped his hand from TK’s face. “This will have to do for now, I suppose.” He took TK’s own hand in his and laid a gentle kiss against his knuckles.

“But not for long?”

“No, my heart. Not for long. I won’t be able to do with a long engagement. I will perish before I make it to the church if you make me wait for more than a couple of months.”

“I’ll see what I can do. But my father will want to invite the whole of New York, so you know.” He couldn’t help a roll of his eyes, however fond the gesture was. His father loved a good party, and the marriage of his only son—finally, he would probably say—was sure to prove one for the ages.

“Ah, yes, and we mustn’t forget the entirety of the county back home, if my mother and Christina have anything to say about it,” Carlos said with another fond chuckle. “You have her to thank, by the way. For getting me out of my head and back on solid ground. My sister is your champion in sickness and in health. That is, until I get to call you my husband.”

TK shuddered again at the mere word.

“I really should go,” Carlos said again. He made no move toward the door.

“You really should,” TK prompted. He moved to open the door, and finally they broke their gaze from each other.

As Carlos stepped out, he turned to smile one last time and it turned TK’s stomach into a whole flock of butterflies. “Good night, dearest. I’ll call on you and your father tomorrow.”

“I will be dying a slow death until that moment breathes me back to life,” TK lamented.

“As will I.”

TK watched him walk away into the night before finally closing the door against the chill of the Manhattan midnight. For several long moments, he simply leaned against the door and caught his breath, giving thanks to all the forces that managed to bring the two of them together so favorably. He’d have to write to Christina the moment he woke in the morning.

#tarlos period drama #tarlos #tarlos fic #911 lone star #of will and wildflowers #brooke writes #IT'S DONE GUYS #enjoy :)#I'm going to sleep now

33 notes · View notes

wondernimbus · 4 years

Text

breathe — draco malfoy

pairing: draco malfoy x female!reader

prompt: her death leaves behind a void in draco’s chest nothing can ever fill.

t/w: death and mentions of anxiety

requests are open. please refrain from plagiarizing my work!

Five months.

He's gone five months without her. And he's determined to keep going—he has to. He has to.

But goddamn does it bloody well hurt.

—

In the middle of a quiet cemetery stands a boy in a black suit and a cluster of white roses clasped in his hands, eyes staring but unseeing as he stands over one of the countless tombstones with his heart in his throat and what feels like a gaping hole inside his chest.

"I miss you."

Snow falls from the sky. Bits of it sink deep into the fabric of his suit, fall into his hair, some onto his face. But Draco doesn't feel it, the bite of the cold. His knuckles may have turned a pinkish red from the frost and his blond hair may have turned stiff from the flakes of snow stuck in it, but he doesn't feel cold.

He's been cold for five months now. He can't feel it anymore.

"It's been a while, hasn't it?"

It has, says the voice inside his head that keeps him company when he feels the loneliest—when the pain becomes too much to bear—the voice that he knows isn't real and hates that it isn't. The one that sounds painfully like her.

"Yeah," Draco continues, bottom lip trembling, and it's not because of the snow. "I'm doing okay." He lies. Keeps lying. "I think I'm getting better."

He's not. He can't get better, not when he sees traces of her everywhere, even when she isn't really there.

He sees a wooden desk and remembers her with her head bowed over a sheet of parchment, tongue poking out of her lips in concentration as she chides him—"Not now, Draco, I'm studying"—he pulls out an old chessboard from the crevices of his closet and remembers her grinning in triumph over winning a particularly intense chess game even though he lost on purpose—he walks past a park and remembers lying on the grass in the Hogwarts courtyard with his head in her lap and her fingers raking through his hair as she told him Muggle stories of love and tears and laughter and everything in between. Stories with happy endings; so unlike Draco's and hers.

He squeezes his eyes shut; tears fall and trickle down his cheek onto the ground, joining the bundle of snow at his feet.

"Life hasn't really been the same since—"

A sob tears its way up his throat and out of his lips before he can even think about suppressing it.

"—since you left."

With his other hand—the hand that's not grasping onto the bouquet of roses like it's a lifeline—he wipes his tears away aggressively, almost angrily.

"I've started talking to myself a lot lately even though I know you're not going to respond because I've been so used to you being here to listen and now you're not."

Another sob. Pathetic, says a voice inside Draco's head. Not her voice. Never hers. She would never make him feel bad for feeling things—no, she'd crouch down next to him on the floor, wrap her arms around him and say "Everything's going to be okay, love. I'm right here with you. Right here" and he'd look up at her and start crying even harder, because in a world where his parents expected too much from him and he was never good enough, he had her.

Or, well. He used to.

Draco clenches his fists, nails digging crescents into his skin as his breathing gets uneven and the air suddenly feels too tight. He tries to ground himself by inhaling through his nose and exhaling through his mouth and repeating the process—

"That's it, love. Keep breathing. I'm right here. I'm not going anywhere."

Draco took another shaky breath, trying to focus on her face even though her features were blurred and he didn't quite know where to look through the tears obscuring his vision.

Panic attacks. He hated them. Hated the hand that felt like it had reached straight into his chest and started squeezing. Hated the tears that slipped out of his eyes almost automatically.

"It's okay, Draco. Breathe with me."

He inhaled deeply, closing his eyes, shoulders trembling from the effort. "You're doing such a good job, Draco," she said gently. Draco let out a long, shuddering breath. "You're doing so well. Now breathe. Breathe with me. In through the nose, out through the mouth—that's it, love, keep going. In through the—the—" her voice broke. Draco couldn't see it—and maybe it was better that way—but she'd started crying at some point.

"In through the nose," she continued, swallowing back a sob. "Out through the mouth. I love you, Draco. You're gonna be okay."

"I know you'd probably get mad at me for this if you were here, but sometimes.. well.. sometimes I find myself wishing I was dead."

And even though there's no one around that's listening and Draco is the only living, breathing soul among the countless graves, he feels exposed. Bare. Like he's laid his biggest vulnerability out for the rest of the world to see.

"I wake up everyday," he says slowly, a crease in between his brows, "I stare up at the ceiling for a little bit. And then I get up, eat, sleep. Get up, eat, sleep. Over and over and over again."

A pause. "It all just seems so.. pointless," he bows his head, staring at his shoes as though he's ashamed. And he is. He's ashamed that he's like this—because he knows that if she were here (which she isn't, says that annoying little voice at the back of his head) she'd smack him upside the head and say

"Don't be ridiculous, Draco," she rolled her eyes, glancing up for a brief moment before transferring her gaze back to the textbook in her hands.

Draco fell quiet again, staring into the embers of the fireplace. Maybe it hadn't been the best idea to ask her to drop everything and run away with him on a whim.

A few seconds passed in silence. She looked up at him again out of concern to find that he hadn't moved at all. A twinge of sadness plucked at her chest and she sighed, closing the book with a soft snap as she set it down on the floor.

Draco lost himself in his thoughts sometimes. It wasn't a common occurrence, but she'd seen it enough times to know how bad it could get inside his head. It was a side of himself that he only felt comfortable enough showing to her and her only—a side that he'd kept well hidden under the facade of arrogance he always had put up.

It was when he would start thinking about—well—everything. How he never seemed to match up to his parent's expectations no matter how hard he tried. He'd think about his obligations as the heir of one of the oldest pureblooded wizarding families. He'd think about his future and wonder if he deserved one with her with that dirty mark on his wrist.

Usually it would take quite a while to snap him out of his reverie, but tonight Draco seemed more lost in his thoughts than ever before. When she got up from the carpet to sit down next to him on the couch, his eyes were still hazy and unfocused. "Draco," she murmured, sitting with her feet tucked underneath her as she turned to face him. "Draco?"

Her hands reached out for Draco's, fingers slipping into the spaces between his own of their own accord. At this, he blinked, his gaze clearing, and looked at her.

"Love," he breathed quietly.

She pursed her lips in a small smile, squeezing his hand in hers. "I'm here," she told him, basking in the silence of the Slytherin common room, only interrupted by the sound of her and Draco's breathing and the crackling sounds from the fireplace. She shifted on the couch to make herself more comfortable, leaning the side of her head on Draco's shoulder and ignoring the ache of sadness in her chest that would always come when Draco felt down.

"Galleon for your thoughts?" she whispered.

Draco unlaced her hand from his to slowly trace the lines on her palm with his index finger. "It'd take much more than a galleon, love," he whispered back, and there was a ghost of a small smile on his lips, but it was blanketed by the worry etched deep into his face.

The corners of her mouth tugged up into a sad smile. There was nothing in the world that she wanted more than to rid Draco of all the worries plaguing his head. He'd grown up surrounded by so much despair and for years he had no one but himself to carry his burden with, but now here she was. And even though she'd already done everything she could to help him—and she continued to do so every single day—it never felt like it was enough.

"You know you can always tell me everything, yeah?" she said quietly, looking up at him from the corner of her eyes.

Draco, with his gaze fixed on their hands, nodded. "Yeah."

"I mean it. Always."

He smiled, and it was a real one this time. "I know."

The snow has stopped falling. Draco tastes tears, hot and salty, on his tongue.

"I'm going to keep going, though," he tells her. Hangs onto the tiny sliver of hope he has that she is out there somewhere, listening. "I'm going to.. I'm going to keep getting up and eating and sleeping until it doesn't feel so tiring anymore. Okay?"

Silence. "Does that sound good, love?"

Like shouting into a canyon and waiting for an echo that would never come.

"I know that's what you'd want," he says quietly, gritting his teeth. "For me to keep living. Not to give up. So that's what I'm going to do."

"Don't give up."

Draco snorted out a laugh. "Shouldn't you be telling yourself that?"

He was sitting with her at their usual table in the library; the one right by the window near the restricted section. She had a Potions quiz tomorrow—Draco being the "smartass" he was (or so she called him), didn't need to study, but she did. Him being her boyfriend, he'd offered to tutor her, unaware that it was easier said than done. She just couldn't, for the life of her, get the terms right.

She scoffed. "I don't need to tell myself that. I won't give up no matter what—you, on the other hand.."

Draco scrunched his nose. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"I'm just saying you have a tendency to stop trying and call it a day."

"That is a lie."

"Is not."

"Well, I suppose it depends on the task—if it's tutoring you, then anyone's bound to give up.."

"Hey!" she reached over the table to smack him on the shoulder. He swiftly dodged, laughing. She rolled her eyes but couldn't suppress the smile on her face as she sat back down. "Maybe I should be getting a different tutor."

"Or maybe you should just be studying harder."

"Or maybe you should actually be trying to teach me—"

"I am!"

"—without giving up halfway!"

Draco huffed. "Okay. Fine. Let's try this again. What's another word for wolfsbane?"

"Um," a pause. "No idea. Okay. I'm sorry."

He let out an overly dramatic sound of complaint.

"Don't give up, Draco," she reminded him, fighting back a laugh. "Don't give up."

Draco crouches down next to the grey tombstone already decorated with all sorts of flowers from friends and family and places his own set of white roses right next to her name. With hands that won't stop trembling, he pulls out a tiny box from his pocket.

"I was supposed to give this to you after the war," he says quietly, presses his palm to the snow under which he knows she's resting, looking as breathtaking as she always has with her eyes closed.

"I wish I could've given it to you when I had the chance, but.."

"Don't do this to me, love."

Draco couldn't think straight. He gathered her into his arms and cradled her the way he had done countless times before, except this time she wasn't smiling up at him with a familiar sparkle in her warm eyes—no, she was limp and cold and her eyes were open but unseeing.

"No no you can't—you can't do this to me—" Draco was gasping for breath that wasn't there. Choking on his tears, he shook his head repeatedly, rocking back and forth on the ground, "Look at me, love, you promised you wouldn't leave—"

In the middle of a destroyed hallway, with the battle of Hogwarts in full fledge all around him, a boy in bloodied robes and an entire ocean caught between his lashes knelt on the ground, cradling the only person who had ever mattered to him in his arms as she did exactly what he was begging her not to do—

"You can't leave me like this, love. Don't leave me like this, please please—"

—and died.

Left him. Just like that.

In the middle of the empty cemetery, a boy in a black suit kneels next to a tombstone, hands shaking as they gingerly set down a small, golden ring on the grave marker. Pulling out his wand, he whispers a spell and enchants the beautiful golden band to stay there for as long as the world exists.

Draco closes his eyes, inhales through his nose, exhales through his mouth.

And then he leaves.

Just like that.

1K notes · View notes

lala-ladybug · 3 years

Text

Healing Hands: Chapter 8

You brush your teeth. now BOOM orange juice. That’s life.

Jasonette Sword Art Online AU

Read here on AO3

Chapter 8: Adrien Elizabeth Agreste, we do not have "plenty of time"

Tag list: @iloontjeboontje First | Previous | Next

Marinette was tired. Sure, she didn’t have to be class president, worry about akumas, or study for the baccalauréat, but she was more tired than she’d ever been in Paris. She’d been running herself ragged with training day after day for weeks, waking up earlier and going to bed later than everyone else.

Even her Order was starting to worry about her.

“Hey Mari, let’s go shopping! I’ve heard there’s a really posh fabric district on level 8.” Chloe wheedled as Kagami poured them both a cup of morning tea. The blonde had a sharp look in her eye that meant it was more serious than just a shopping trip, but Marinette wouldn’t budge.

“Sorry Chlo, I want to level-grind so I can prep for tomorrow,” Marinette shrugged and grimaced at her friend. She hadn’t picked up a needle in months, chances were slim to none that she’d start now. And tomorrow was too important to skip training.

Adrien came in from the garden and traded glances with Chloe. He sat down next to Marinette and said softly, “You really don’t have to overwork yourself this much, you know.” He gestured to the four of them and Luka, who sat plucking at his lute. “We’re all here right alongside you, and we always will be.”

Marinette forced a smile. “I know,” she replied. And she did, really. But it was still so hard to let herself relax, even for a moment. She felt more burdened here than as Ladybug. At least back home all they had to do was wait for the next akuma attack. In here, every second not actively spent fighting in the dungeons or leveling up was another second lost in the real world. Another life lost, too.

The newspaper had daily progress updates and blurbs about quests, but every month it also put out a death toll. There were so many names. A good month only had a few dozen. Marinette always read them all, whispered their names to herself as a reminder to keep fighting.

“I should be heading out,” she gulped down her tea and rose from the table. Ignoring the worried faces of her friends, she packed a bag and shouldered a full quiver of arrows. She waved without turning to look behind her and left through the door to the stables.

The roan stallion, playfully named “Rouge” by Nino, had taken a liking to her, so that was the one she saddled up and mounted. They rode into town, where Marinette touched the teleportation obelisk and directed their destination to the thirteenth floor.

She shielded her eyes against the bright sun. The heat rolled off the clay buildings in shimmering waves, carrying with it the scent of spices from a nearby market. In the distance, she could see rolling hills of sand stretching on for miles. This floor was the highest that was open, but the dungeon wasn’t scheduled to be beaten until the next day.

Despite their best efforts to defeat each level by themselves, the Order quickly found that other guilds fought right alongside them. They were much more competent than the Parisians had given them credit for, for various reasons. The game cultivated a cutthroat culture where limited resources served as selfish motivations for players to do as they pleased. Some groups wanted to help, just like them. Others wouldn’t think twice about abandoning allies to save their own skins. Above all, no one wanted to be left behind, not after the fiasco of the first level. And of course, everyone wanted to go home.

When she wasn’t talking strategy with the other guilds, Marinette trained hard to increase her level. She was nearly at level 20, and wanted to be at her absolute best for the dungeon battle. She’d read in the paper that morning that there were scorpion monsters lurking out beyond the limits of the villages. They would be perfect practice.

She spurred Rouge onward down the stone road that wound through the dunes. They’d barely made it out of sight of the village before, sure enough, waist-high black scorpions started tailing them. Rouge tossed his head as he trotted along, sensing something was amiss.

Marinette nudged him into a gallop, which he gladly obliged to get as far away from the threat as possible. But a glance over her shoulder revealed that the monsters were doggedly following. Their pace sped up enough that she could hear the clacking from their many legs scraping over the stones of the road.

Twisting in the saddle, Marinette fired at their pursuers. Her archery skills were her favorite thing to practice. The ranged attacks and versatility were similar to her yo-yo, and moving targets only made it that much more of a challenge.

Her arrows hit their marks, and she didn’t have to turn her head to see the congratulatory loot windows popping up in front of her to confirm it.

More scorpions approached from the sides, which made it even easier to pick them off. Rouge seemed to be enjoying the exercise, never flagging as they bolted across the level. Fending off enemies left and right, dodging fast-paced obstacles, feeling the wind rushing in her hair....

It was the closest she had come to feeling like Ladybug since the game began.

She fell into a rhythm that allowed her mind to wander to Tikki. How was she holding up? Had she found another holder? She would probably need one.... The Order hadn’t talked about it, but they all knew that Hawkmoth likely wasn’t taking it easy on a city devastated by so many deaths and disappearances.

Marinette frowned and swallowed against the lump in her throat. All of the Miraculous holders were here and there was no one left to distribute new ones. She felt so stupidly careless to have left Paris completely undefended.

The next arrow that found its mark sank deeply enough to reward her with a level-up.

Eventually, they reached another village. They stopped for water and some lunch, then kept going onward. By the time the sun was setting, Marinette had reached level 20 and was well on her way to achieving level 21. She felt more ready now, the physical activity having calmed her nerves somewhat.

She and Rouge teleported back to the house just in time for Alix, Kim, and Max to serve dinner. Marinette raised a questioning eyebrow at Luka. She could’ve sworn they’d taken their turn to cook dinner just a few nights ago. Her friend just sighed and mouthed, “Lila.”

Ah, of course.

Lila did deign to come downstairs, allegedly from the girls’ bedroom where she had to take a nap because her vertigo was acting up. Which it only did when there was something she didn’t want to do.

Marinette was the first to serve herself. She piled some of the food from the kitchen onto her plate and took a seat next to Alya. Her best friend was chatting with Adrien and Max about the game plan for the boss fight tomorrow. Listening in to get the context for the conversation, Marinette took a bite of the potatoes.

It was bland.

Terribly, awfully bland.

She hid her face as politely as she could, then stood to retrieve spices from the cupboards in the kitchen. She applied them liberally to her own plate and then to the rest of the serving platters before anyone else could try them.

Upon rejoining her friends at the table, she heard Adrien and Kagami once again shut down Alya’s pleading to join them in the fight. Of their guild of classmates and friends, the Order comprised the only members they’d allowed to fight in the dungeons. Marinette knew her civilian friends were more than capable, hell she’d trusted many of them with a Miraculous at some point or another, but the chance of them getting hurt and dying in the game was too great to take risks.

“What if we just stayed with the support teams? I don’t want to get in anyone’s way, but if there’s something I can do to help I want to do it!” Alya protested.

Kagami shook her head sharply. “Absolutely not. Even the support teams have sustained damage in prior fights. You should leave it to us.”

Lila sat down smoothly on Alya’s other side. “What makes you five so much more competent? Everyone knows how clumsy Marinette is.” She waved a casual hand.

“Well, Kagami and I fence together, and....” Adrien started explaining but trailed off.

“Chloe has been bringing me and Luka to her self-defense classes back home,” Marinette blurted out. She internally cringed at the questioning looks Chloe and Luka gave her. “There’s so many akumas near us at home, we thought it might be a good idea.”

Oh Kwami, she hated lying to her friends. But she couldn’t put them in the line of fire. If something happened to one of them, she’d never be able to forgive herself.

Luckily, it seemed like they’d bought her half-truth.

“Really?” Lila raised her eyebrows.

Well, most of them had.

“I hope that’s really the reason and it’s not just because you guys are hoarding all the loot you get from beating the dungeons,” she sniffed, leaning forward slightly to look directly at Marinette.

Marinette’s stomach dropped. To even think that they could be so greedy and manipulative....

“Oh come on, there’s no way our friends would ever do something like that.” Alya gently put her arm around Marinette. “My bestie is our Everyday Ladybug, and I’m sure she’s going to do her best to help get us out of here.”

Nino and the others spoke up about their support for Marinette and her Order, but she tuned them out. As grateful as she was for her friend’s support, Marinette couldn’t help but feel even more overwhelmed. Being called their “Everyday Ladybug” only served as a reminder of how much they all depended on her.

She finished her meal and quietly thanked Alix and Max (Kim was busy arm-wrestling Adrien). While washing her dishes, she felt herself nodding off. Rouge still needed to be brushed after their long ride, so she shook herself awake and trudged to the stables to do that.

Luka and Chloe were waiting there for her, to her surprise. Luka was already working to brush Rouge’s coat, and Chloe wordlessly took Marinette by the shoulders and firmly guided her upstairs to their room.

“Hey, wh--” Marinette tried to ask before Chloe shooed her up to their loft beds.

Chloe followed her up and said, “You need to rest,” then began tucking her friend in.

Marinette made an effort to protest, but the quilted covers invited her to give in to her heavy eyelids. So she let her friend fuss over the sheets and straighten the duvet.

She hardly remembered whispering her thanks before falling asleep.

* * *

The next morning, Marinette woke from a dreamless sleep. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d slept so long, or so well. She yawned and stretched with a groan, blinking blearily at the large circular window in front of her.

The window spanned nearly the height of the two stories in the girls’ room. It cast shafts of swirling dust, gilded in the morning sun, across the beds on the floor below. She and Chloe had thought at first that they’d drawn the short end of the stick when Lila had insisted they be the ones to take the loft (the extra climbing would be awful on her knees, you know how it is), but in her grogginess Marinette took a moment to appreciate it.

From her vantage point, she could see clearly out into the front of their yard. The hills of their spread-out neighborhood sloped downward to reveal the mountains in the distance beyond the limits of the main town.

As she watched, small songbirds flitted between the apple trees lining the path. She could hear their soft chirping in the distance, as well at the hum of the beehive that had been growing in their eaves.

Today was an important day, she knew that much, but why...?

Oh no.

A glance at the clock embedded in her player menu revealed that she’d overslept. She was late.

She threw the blankets off and quickly dressed, hopping in place to tug on her boots. She slid down the ladder and rounded the corner of the landing on the stairs, terrified she’d missed her team leaving to fight the boss.

Adrien’s bubbling laughter followed by Luka’s soft chuckle told her otherwise. She breathed a sigh of relief and slowed her pace down the rest of the stairs. Thank Kwami.

In the kitchen, Adrien was holding a yellow hairbrush high above Chloe’s reach while she pouted and jumped to try to grab it. Kagami shook her head while Luka snuck up behind them and plucked the brush out of Adrien’s hand.

Chloe huffed at Adrien when Luka handed it back to her. She began brushing out her already-perfect hair, chastising him. “You know this is my travel brush. I’ll need it for after the boss fight! Kwami knows how utterly ridiculous it will look after that.”

Kagami noticed Marinette's arrival and sidled up to her, hands clasped behind her back. “Can’t imagine why she was ever Queen Bee,” she said drily. Marinette put a hand to her mouth to hide her smile. Kagami’s practical sense of humor had only grown the longer her friends had “corrupted” her, as Adrien liked to claim.

“Melody!” Luka smiled warmly, greeting her with a wave. Adrien and Chloe stopped their play fighting to look at her. They crossed the room in an instant, Adrien’s hands placed lightly on her shoulders and Chloe grasping her hands. “How are you feeling?” she asked.

“Better than I have in a while, thank you Chlo,” Marinette smiled at her friends.

Adrien glanced over her head to check the clock in the kitchen. “We still have plenty of time, why don’t you have some breakfast.”

“Adrien Elizabeth Agreste, we do not have ‘plenty of time,’” Marinette retorted. “I’ll take some food to go.”

Lila, sitting with Alya on the couches nearby, gave them a questioning glance. Alya quickly explained, “His middle name obviously isn’t actually Elizabeth, but it’s way funnier to pretend that it is,” before hopping up to give Marinette a quick hug.

“Be safe,” she whispered into her hair, holding her tightly for a few seconds. Marinette gave her a tight-lipped smile as they parted, then caught the apple that Kagami tossed her.

They opted to leave the horses, in case some other players tried to steal them while they were busy with the boss fight. The five friends walked to the teleport kiosk in town.

Marinette felt tense and nervous, but couldn’t help relaxing in the presence of her carefree friends. They all joked and made horrible puns (thank you Adrien) the whole way to the thirteenth floor.

Surprisingly, they didn’t run into any other guilds along the winding, cobbled roads of the thirteenth floor. They must have already been gathered at the dungeon since they were approaching the designated meeting time. Marinette hoped they would wait.

The entrance was an ornately carved archway framing a spiral staircase. The steps led into the depths below the shifting dunes. There were lit sconces every so often, affixed to cavities in the curved walls. The steps were made of glass, but the overlapping flights of stairs didn’t clue them in to how deep the passage went.

A hot draft blew up and scattered the sand at their feet. With a glance to her team, Marinette led the way down.

Their boots had little grip on the glass steps, and they had to grip both walls to try to avoid falling. Adrien cracked one too many jokes about it being a “slippery situation” and earned himself a hearty slap on the back that sent him reaching the next landing a little sooner than he would’ve hoped.

Marinette only paid half-attention to their antics, devoting most of her brain power to going over the plan. Pamphlets in NPC shops said that this boss had ranged area attacks, which wouldn’t mean much until they saw what exactly it could do. She hoped that the extra upgrades she’d given to their armor would protect them from whatever projectiles that could possibly entail.

While her small squad would lead the assault, archers would back them up and hopefully be able to counteract the boss’s ranged attacks. Healers were on deck, of course, and there were plenty of defensive lines with shielding capabilities.

More and more guilds were joining the front lines as the people started to band together. Meetings were no longer the exclusive events they once were, and the plans of when and where to attack were placed in the paper. That meant they’d have some wild cards. Marinette frowned as she considered where they would fit in.

She sighed. Again, they probably wouldn’t know until they were in the thick of the fighting. A glance upward revealed that they could no longer see the daylight warping through the glass steps above them. It couldn’t be that much farther, though it was odd that the air around them was getting hotter, not colder, the farther they went.

Adrien cocked his head and he gestured for the others to quiet down. The five of them had retained some of the attributes lent to them by years of consistent miraculous use, and his hearing was better than most of theirs. They proceeded carefully.

Marinette began to hear it too, a low murmur that sounded like....

Players, dozens of them, were waiting for them at the foot of the stairs. She let out a breath she didn’t know she’d been holding.

They were scattered about the long, tall antechamber with golden walls that glimmered in the soft torchlight. Arches, like the one at the entrance far up above, supported the ceiling. Three-meter tall pillars displayed vases and other beautiful decor. There was an open doorway at the opposite end of the room, but they couldn’t see anything beyond it but darkness.

The gentle pressure of a hand at her back told her Adrien was standing by her side. She made eye contact with one of the other familiar guild leaders and made her way over to him and his team.

“Hey Danny, are we the last to arrive?” She greeted her American friend. He ran a hand through his cropped dark hair and his icy blue eyes met hers. “Hey Mari. Nah, we’re still waiting on Crimson Dragon.”

His raven-haired friend Sam shook her head. “They’re always late,” she muttered.

Next to her, their other friend (Tucker, if she recalled correctly) shrugged. “But you gotta admit, they always deliver!”

Marinette had to agree with him there. Thanks to the programming in the system, everyone in the game spoke and understood the same language. That meant that the Miracle Workers had wound up working with both Ghostbusters, Danny’s guild, and Crimson Dragon on several occasions even though they both spoke English as their native tongue. She had to admit she was impressed with how well they did. Unorthodox as they were....

“‘Sup party animals!?” A loud voice echoed down the stairwell. The whole room of players turned to look at the small figure sliding to a halt, boots squeaking against the floor. He tossed the hood of a bright red cloak back and threw up finger guns. “Miss me?”

Next to Marinette, Chloe scoffed in a way that said she most definitely did not. Jake was... quite the eccentric character. The rest of his guild, two very embarrassed-looking girls and a tall boy, descended the stairs as well to join their leader.

“About damn time!” Someone spoke up from the back. Jake’s head whipped around and his eyes flashed. Beside her, Danny winced at his hotheadedness. Before anything worse could happen, Marinette gave Luka a meaningful look.

He gave a sharp, loud whistle that drew everyone’s attention to them.

“Listen up people! We all know the plan. Is everyone ready?” Marinette raised her voice to reach the whole chamber. The atmosphere shifted to a laser focus, and she saw grim nods as people drew their weapons and potions.

A glance to Adrien confirmed that it was time. “Let’s go.”

She and her Order led everyone through the great doorway, and into the unknown.

The boss’s room was an enormous, golden circle lined with torches that flickered to life as soon as she stepped onto the glass floor. She could barely see the far wall of the round chamber. Levels of glass flooring circled up to the dome high above their heads, carved into the walls. A few alcoves dotted the walls, but other than that there was hardly any cover to be found, which was concerning.

A whispering noise thrummed through the chamber, made louder by the acoustics of the massive room. Marinette held up a hand to halt the movement of everyone behind her. She listened intently for the sound to happen again.

It didn’t take long, and it was getting louder now. She jerked her head to Adrien and Kagami, who started silently directing groups to assume their stations. While they moved, Marinette cast her eyes around the chamber. Where was the boss?

A loud hissing sound seemed to come from the floor, and then--

Shattered glass erupted from the floor at the center of the chamber. A colossal golden snake with red eyes reared up and bared its fangs at them. This had to be it. Marinette yelled, “Scatter!” and they all ran for it.

It struck right where she had been standing only moments before. Her boots slipped on the glass as she scrambled to gain purchase and hoist herself up onto the nearest alcove. She managed to do it just in time, the boss snapping at her heels.

She raised her shield and distantly heard Kagami shout for the archers to take aim and fire. A volley of arrows fell on the great beast, and Marinette twisted sideways and crouched to take cover under her shield. Loud hissing meant at least some of them had found their target, and to their credit only a few missed and bounced off of her shield.

“Hey, you big ugly worm! I bet you’re all hot air with nothing to show, huh?” Adrien was bravely doing what he did best. Distracting the villain so that Marinette could come up with a plan. She risked a peek from over her shield to watch the snake whip around to face Adrien, who stood a few levels up on the opposite side of the chamber.

It leaned backwards only to shoot forward a few feet, opening its mouth wide. Screams echoed from the people it faced. Oh Kwami, what was that?

Marinette bolted to her feet and raced up the sloping pathway, trying to get a better angle. She stopped and her eyes widened once she could finally see what was happening.

A cone of air coming from the maw of that thing shimmered with heat. She looked in horror to see that Adrien was shielding himself and the civilians around him as best he could, but those he couldn’t reach shouted in pain as their armor began to melt off. The glass around them started to sag and they screamed louder as the floor bent beneath them.

A blur of motion jumped onto the head of the snake from high above. That was Chloe’s signature move, and sure enough it was her. She landed hard enough to knock the boss’s head down to the ground, its body collapsing probably from sheer surprise.

Or maybe it needed a cooldown time? Shit, this wasn’t good. They knew nothing. They were underprepared and overwhelmed.

Mariniette coughed as sand fell from the faraway ceiling at the impact the beast had made when it fell. Below her, Chloe was hacking away at the monster’s face with her flail. It gave no warning before snatching its head back to knock her off her feet and coiling its tail around her. Marinette cried out wordlessly as her friend was trapped in a matter of moments.

She was still squirming when the monster bared its fangs and let loose another breath of boiling air directly onto her.

Marinette could only watch as Chloe's golden armor heated to a bright red and began to melt, her friend still squirming to get out. A desperate cry fell from the blonde’s lips as the hot metal touched her skin, and still the snake kept going.

She flashed a look to their party’s health bars and saw Chloe’s dropping fast. Too fast. Marinette grabbed a specialized arrow and drew back her bow. When she let it loose, the arrow exploded into goopy foam. She’d aimed perfectly, and the snake’s closed mouth was soon covered in the quickly hardening substance.

She pushed off from the wall and jumped. There was a moment when she was suspended in the air where time seemed to slow down. She saw the snake loosen its hold on Chloe and writhe in confusion. She heard the deafening cries from the wounded, and her name on Adrien’s lips. From the corner of her eye, a glint of metal flashed and she felt a split-second of coldness.

Then the moment was over, and she was tumbling onto the snake’s sinewy form and hoisting Chloe up. She half-carried her as she bounded away from the monster. She could see it shaking its head in her peripheral vision. But that wasn’t important right now.

Luka was waiting for her in the antechamber, out of the boss’s reach. He and several other healers already had potions at the ready. Marinette didn’t wait to see how many it would take to save her friend. She ignored Luka’s shouts and ran back into the monster’s room.

* * *

Well, Jason had finally convinced his stupid brothers to fight on the front lines. But the fact that they expected him to fight with them? Laughable.

When they made it to the dungeon, he had left them in the dust, or sand as it were. He was scouting up onto the higher levels of the paths that led up to the top of the dome when it happened.

Some girl was caught in the hold of the boss, a snake with apparently really fucking bad breath. He tensed as it blew a torrent of hot air right on her, but before anyone could move an arrow flew out and hit the beast smack in the mouth, releasing some foaming substance as it did.

Movement on his level caught his eye a few feet away. Jason stilled and observed as best he could without moving.

Some creep was wielding a metallic blowgun, aiming it dead ahead at the--

No, not at the boss. At the person who’d just fired the arrow, the person who had just jumped into the air and left themselves wide open.

He didn’t even think, he just tackled the sneaky bastard. In the commotion, they dropped the dart they’d been about to fire and it sank into their own leg.

As Jason watched, it didn’t take long for green tendrils to start appearing under the person’s skin. They clawed at their leg, but the movements grew weaker by the second.

And then they stilled.

Jason’s eyes widened as he watched them dissolve into pixels. As he watched his own name in the upper corner of his vision turn orange, indicating a player-kill.

Well shit. Dick was going to be pissed.

* * *

Marinette felt calm. Her hands had been shaking when she’d handed Chloe off to Luka, but now she felt nothing but a cool, calculating rage. As she stalked back into the chamber, she saw the boss struggling under another wave of arrows fired from all around the chamber.

A glance upward and a once-over of the pathways spiraling up the walls of the chamber confirmed all she needed to formulate a plan.

Marinette drew her knives and flicked her wrists. This monster was going to regret that. She broke into a sprint and slashed around the body of the snake. It was fast for its size, and it tried to keep up. But she was faster.

Arrows rained down around them, sticking out of chinks in the beast’s scales like some twisted sea urchin. The boss worked furiously to try to unstick its jaw, but as cracks appeared in the substance holding its mouth closed Marinette distracted it with a particularly deep slash.

It wasn’t ready, not yet.

“Get back to the antechamber!” She yelled to the other players. Most of them ran, but some-- Danny, Jake, her Order-- hesitated.

“Go!” She egged on the monster to move towards her, away from the door, giving everyone a chance to escape. “I have a plan.”

They reluctantly followed the others as they left her alone in the dungeon. Adrien paused, asking her, “My lady, I help with--”

“Go.” She growled, glaring at him as best she could while battling the serpent. He gritted his teeth and retreated with the others, but stayed within view of the battle.

Good. Now she could put her plan into action.

Marinette sheathed her knives and pulled out her bow, then dashed to the sloping walkway. The snake pursued, seemingly going after an easy target running scared.

When she’d nearly reached the carved alcove, she fired an arrow with a cord attached to it. The cord was a special elastic design that could retract but couldn’t be pulled to be any longer. It landed high above her and anchored itself into the wall with a distant click. Then came the tricky part.

Marinette turned toward the giant snake and ran at it. Its red eyes burned with rage and the cracks deepened in the hardened foam still leashing its mouth. Still holding onto the other end of that cord, she gave it a sharp tug that sent her flying through the air, far above where the monster had expected her to be.

The leap carried her to the opposite side of the circular walls. She neatly landed on the walkway about two stories up from the ground. The snake gave a muffled hiss of fury and set out on the bottommost level, steadily approaching her as it wound around the cavern.

Marinette let the cord go and started running.

She kept an eye on the monster, firing a regular arrow at it every now and then to keep it angry. That didn’t seem to be a problem. What would be a problem is if she timed everything wrong, or if the snake caught up to her, or if the ceiling wouldn’t--

No. There wasn’t time for doubt. She had faith in herself, and she could almost hear Tikki’s little voice cheering her on. She thought of Chloe and pressed on even harder.

The beast got close enough that she could smell the reek of it before she fired another corded arrow and launched herself across the chamber again. She gained even more height, and continued the climb to the top.

This only made the boss angrier, but she could tell that it sensed victory. There was nowhere left to go once she reached the top. Nowhere but down, that is.

A third corded arrow brought her to the uppermost levels, and then it was only a short run before she reached the edge of the dome. She was panting for breath and her legs were aching with the effort of so much running, but she wasn’t done yet.

One steadying breath in. Two.

The serpent had nearly reached her. Marinette could see it rounding the final curve that would bring it to her level. She drew her bow back and aimed it at its mouth, counting it out in her head.

She held until the beast was nearly upon her, then fired. The arrow was tipped in lead, and easily broke through the already-breaking foam. Immediately after, she fired an arrow directly above her. It hit the apex of the structure holding back all the sand above them.

The beast looked up at the mass of sand falling on it and opened its mouth to fire a hot stream of air.

Marinette didn’t stick around to see how it would play out. She fired one final corded arrow to the side where she could see an alcove in the wall. And there she stayed, facing the wall and shielding her face from the sand pouring into the chamber behind her.

Finally, the avalanche slowed and then stopped. Only then did she risk stepping away from the wall and peering down to see if her plan had worked.

The snake was laying on the floor of the chamber below her. Its form was contorted and broken, speared by great spikes of glass that it had created itself. As she watched, it faded into glowing dust, and a screen popped up in front of her displaying her cut of the loot.

She sighed with relief. Then raced back down as fast as she dared on the dusty glass, anxiety twisting in her gut. She had to see if Chloe was okay.

If something happened to her....

Her thoughts turned to the worst as she neared the bottom of the chamber, no matter how she tried to stay positive. Her hands were shaking when she finally made it to the glass floor and, carefully avoiding the glass spikes, picked her way over to the arch leading into the antechamber.

Adrien was waiting there for her. He embraced her and said, “Don’t scare me like that again,” then let her go to see Chloe.

Tears were brimming in her eyes as she saw her friend, still lying prone on the floor with her head on Luka’s lap. She looked up when Marinette came into her view and sat up with a wince.

“Well,” she said. “I made it.”

Marinette burst into sobs at that and collapsed by her friend’s side, hugging her tightly. She heard Luka softly telling her that Chloe had been at 1 HP, but all the healers put everything they could into bringing her health back up.

It only made her cry harder.

And as she held her friend close, she thought to herself how she would do anything to keep this from happening again. How she couldn’t stand to see her friends get hurt anymore. How she had handled the boss on her own.

There was no Maman and Papa, no Tikki, no Order that could help her. She was alone in this fight, and that was how it had to be.

First | Previous | Next

#healing hands #jasonette #sword art online au #virtual reality #maribat #maribat fic #batfam #batfam fic #yj fic #young justice #young justice fic #yj

30 notes · View notes

milkybonya · 3 years

Text

senior - friend - lover

Warning: mentions of drinking, but reader in this fic does not want to drink and does not drink, food mentions

Pairing: college!Jinjin x (gender neutral reader who is shy, has a hard time saying no)

Word count: 3.5k

Note: This is my entry for the Valentine’s day collab hosted by @kpoppwriter ! It was inspired by prompt 12: “You don’t have to if you don’t want to”

what i listened to while writing: I Like You by DAY6

On your first day at university, you got lost a total of three times, were late to all of your classes because of that, and you almost missed an important, required meeting for all first-years of your program. Almost.

As you were rushing back to your dorm, tired of the long day that you had just endured, you felt a hand gently grab your arm and stop you from moving forward. You almost grabbed the hand and twisted it out of anger until you looked up and realized who it was.

“[y/n]... right? You’re a first-year, no?” the person asked. You couldn’t quite remember his name, but you knew that he was a well-beloved senior in your program. During Welcome Week, he had been leading most of the events.

“Yeah, that’s me!”

You didn’t dare to ask his name, not wanting him to know that you had forgotten.

“I’m Jinjin. I’m sure you’ve seen me around,” he said, giving you the answer to your question without you even needing to ask.

“Yeah!” you say again, not sure what to say. This was the first time a senior in your program was talking with you one-on-one, so you didn’t want to embarrass yourself.

“I see you’re heading towards the dorms. Have you forgotten about the mandatory meeting for first-years?”

You gasped, eyes shaking as you realized that you had, in fact, forgotten. Jinjin smiled, his soft eyes disappearing into pretty crescents.

“You know how to get to the building, right?” he asked.

Your heart was racing. There was just one simple answer to that question… no. But for some reason, you had such a hard time saying that word. You felt like that word burdened whoever you were uttering it to, and for that reason, you always obliged with whatever came your way.

“Yeah!” you said for the third time.

“Okay, get there soon! It’s starting in five minutes,”Jinjin said, walking off and waving goodbye.

You pretended to walk towards this building, having no clue which one it even was, until Jinjin told you that you were going the wrong way.

“It’s okay. I actually have some things to do near there, so I can walk with you,” he said, leading the way.

How embarrassing, you thought to yourself. Now Jinjin knows that you pretended to know where you were going…

“It’s hard to ask for directions, right?” Jinjin asked you, walking with his hands in his pockets.

“Yeah…” you said, again.

“It feels like you’re a tourist even though you’re just a student on campus. But don’t worry, everyone here understands. We’ve all had to ask for directions before. Once, I asked for directions and it turned out I was standing right in front of the building I needed to find!” Jinjin explained, laughing softly. The sound was contagious and you laughed along. Your shoulders, that had been tense this entire time, dropped, and you felt yourself relaxing for the first time that day.

After that day, you tried your best to avoid Jinjin because of how embarrassed you felt, but somehow, the two of you would always run into one another. It would never end at just ‘hello’.

You were at the campus bookstore the next day, picking up some textbooks that you needed when someone tapped your shoulder. When you turned around, there he was. The boy who you’d embarrassed yourself in front of the day before.

“Hello! Are you picking up some books?”

You nodded, awkwardly returning to the shelves to scan them. Again, you weren’t sure what to say to your senior, but also again, Jinjin had a strange way of making you feel comfortable around him.

“Oh, don’t buy those books, [y/n]. It’s not worth the cost…” Jinjin said, pointing to the heavy load in your hands. When you blinked up at him, waiting for an explanation, he sighed.

“I doubt you’ll read them… But if you really want them, do you want to borrow mine? I still have them and they’re as good as new!”

“That would be great… How much should I pay you?”

Jinjin laughed.

“I said borrow. You can borrow them - there’s no need to pay!”

“Really?” you asked.

Jinjin leaned against the shelves and smiled, nodding.

“Can I drop them off at your dorm later today?” he asked.

When you nodded, he excused himself and walked towards a different part of the store. Thanks to Jinjin, you left the store empty-handed. It sounds sad, but actually, you were saving a lot of money thanks to him!

Just as he promised, he met you on the main floor of your residence building with a lot of books in his hands. It looked heavy, so you offered to help, but he said he didn’t need any.

He walked up three flights of stairs (the elevator was broken), so by the time you had reached your room, he was sweating a ton. His veins were showing and his muscles protruding. He was such a cutie… you hadn’t expected him to be fully built with muscles.

He collapsed on the floor of your room once he placed the books on your desk, leaning his head back against your bed frame.

“Are you okay? Let me get you some water!”

When you brought him some, he chugged it all in one go and gasped for air once he was done. For some reason, that made you laugh, and Jinjin frowned at you.

“Is my pain funny to you?”

You pressed your lips together, shaking your head ‘no’.

“Anyways, there’s going to be a party for our program so we can introduce the first-years. Do you want to come?”

Gosh.. there it was. Another instance where you wanted to say no but just couldn’t. Why was it so hard for you to say ‘no’ in the most crucial situations?

“Uh… sure!” you said quietly. You weren’t fond of parties. Being a shy person made it hard to interact with strangers. Even if the people at the party weren’t really strangers, since they were all in your program, talking to them and socializing would be hard.

Jinjin scanned your face with his eyes.

“You don’t look like you want to go, though.”

“What? No… that’s… not true.”

“You look like I’m forcing you to go somewhere…” he said, squinting at you.

“You don’t have to come, [y/n]. If anyone asks, I’ll just say… you were studying?”

“But it’s only the first week… there isn’t much studying to do!”

“Shhh, I’ll tell them you have a quiz you’re worried about,” Jinjin said, standing up and waving away your worries with his hands.

“But-”

“Don’t worry, [y/n]. I’ve got it covered.”

“[y/n], you said you’d treat me out to food as a thanks for borrowing my books, right? Can we go eat somewhere today?” Jinjin asked you over the phone.

“But I didn’t… say that…”

“Oh, right… you didn’t. I wasn’t trying to make use of your inability to say no or anything! I swear! I was honestly just trying to find an excuse to have a meal with you but… you don’t have to treat me if you don’t want to!”

“Jinjin, you don’t need to make any excuses for having a meal with me. I’m always down to share a meal.”

“Really?” he asked, his voice somehow sounding like a happy puppy.

In the evening, the two of you went to a pizza place just outside campus to indulge in junk food. Things were getting stressful with exams approaching, and there was nothing like pizza to make you feel better.

When Jinjin asked you if you liked a certain flavour of pizza, you couldn’t help but agree, even though you hated that flavour the most. You just didn’t want to upset him…

He noticed the way you nibbled and tried to hide the fact that you were almost gagging on the taste. There was a soft thud as he dropped his pizza onto his plate.

“[y/n]... you don’t like this flavour, do you?”

“It’s fine!” you said, trying to take a big bite but struggling.

“It’s clearly not…” Jinjin noted, taking the pizza from your hands, his warm hand brushing against yours as he put the pizza away.

“Tell me what kind of pizza you want right now and I’ll go get it,” he said, pushing back in his chair, the legs scraping against the floor.

“You don’t have to!” you said, also standing up nervously.

“No, [y/n]. You don’t have to. Please, when you’re with me, don’t ever worry about anything. Only do the things that you want to do.”

You could hear your heartbeat flooding your ears as he said this. How did he have the ability to make you feel so comfortable?

When he ordered the pizza that you wanted, he watched as you ate with heart.

“Why aren’t you eating?” you asked him.

“I’m full,” he said, continuing to watch you. You found it awkward to eat as he watched, so Jinjin continued to eat his own pizza despite saying that he was full just moments ago.

“Wait… so why did you want to eat today so badly?” you suddenly asked Jinjin.

“What do you mean? I thought you said I didn’t need a reason to want to eat with you?”

“I’m just curious now,” you said, slyly taking a bite of your pizza.

“I just wanted to see you…” Jinjin mumbled in-between mouthfuls of food.

“Hm?”

“Nothing… I’m just hungry,” Jinjin said, taking a big bite of his food.

Once the second semester began, more people had picked up on your struggles with saying ‘no’. In group projects, all of the workload was forced onto your shoulders. People dragged you to parties and events that you didn’t want to nor had the time to attend, and you were sick and tired of everyone. Everyone except for Jinjin, of course, whom you’d managed to grow extremely close to, despite him being your senior.

“Give me your phone,” Jinjin demanded, crossing his arms over the library desk.

“Jinjin, calm down-”

He snatched it from your hands before you could finish your sentence and sighed once he saw the messages on your screen. Then, he began furiously typing a response. You leaned forward and tried to reach for your phone, but Jinjin wouldn’t let you have it. He only gave it back once he was done typing.

“These rascals… [y/n], I’ve told you to say no when they make excuses for not being able to do the work.”

“It’s hard,” you whined, eyes widening once you read the nasty response Jinjin had written.

This is a group project and there will be no free riders. I know you’re all lying. Everyone will do their part as we decided, or else you’ll get a zero as I’ll be showing the professor these lies that you’ve all messaged me.

“Jinjin, this message is so scary.”

“You have to be scary for them to take you seriously!” Jinjin says, his loud voice earning him glares from a couple of students.

“I know it’s hard… Whenever you get these messages, tell me and I’ll reply for you, okay?” Jinjin tells you.

As the two of you returned to your studies, you noticed a part of Jinjin’s forearm glowing. The ceiling of the library was all glass, so the sunlight was able to shine down sometimes. Today, the sun had decided to bless Jinjin.

Acting on your sudden urge, you stretched out your arm to poke Jinjin’s forearm, right where the sun’s rays were shining on it. He looked up after your finger collided with his skin, confused.

“Look, the sun’s shining on you!” you pointed out, amused. Jinjin smiled seeing your reaction to something so simple.

“You used to be so scared of me… now you even poke my arm?” he asked.

“Oh… I’m sorry!” you said, retracting yourself away from him and returning to your notes. Jinjin watched you for a few moments as you tried to study, admiring your beautiful face from only an arm’s length away.

“Drink up drink up!”

Glasses clinked together inside the warm pub, the sound echoing in your ears. Once everyone’s glasses met their lips, the only sounds that could be heard were the murmuring of chatter that filled the slightly busy space and something sizzling in a pan far off towards the kitchen.

You took a sip of your glass of water, trying to hide it from all your college friends. They were quick to catch on, though.

“It seems like [y/n] isn’t drinking tonight,” the person next to you said, pushing your glass of water forward for all to see.

“Do you think we’re a joke, [y/n]? We came to this pub to drink!” another person said.

“Yeah, if you’re not going to drink, then pay for the bill.”

Your heart was racing. Once again, a moment where you wanted to say ‘no’. You needed to say no but just couldn’t.

“Okay, okay!” you gave in.

Everyone cheered.

“Someone, fill a glass for [y/n]!”

Jinjin, sitting across from you, started to pour the contents of a bottle into a shot glass. Of all people, you would not expect him to do this. But when he handed it to you, he gave you a wink while smiling from ear-to-ear. Though you’d only known him for a year now, you knew this meant you could trust him.

Taking a deep breath, you lifted the glass to your lips, tilted your head back and downed its contents.

Water.

It was water.

You laughed to yourself when you realized, but your friends just thought that the ‘alcohol’ was cheering you up.

“That’s right!” the person next to you said, nudging you.

Jinjin filled your glass two more times with water until everyone stopped paying so much attention to you. Then, the two of you stepped out for some air.

“I thought you were trying to help me learn how to say no,” you told Jinjin, who pulled the hood of his hoodie over his head.

He smiled. This boy seriously never stopped smiling at you.

“That was an emergency. I knew it would be hard to say no when everyone was staring at you like that, so I thought I’d give you a hand. Was that so wrong of me?” he asked you, pointing dramatically to himself.

You shook your head, pushing him slightly. He pretended to stumble, making you laugh.

“Just know that if you ever don’t want to do something, you don’t have to do it. Especially when I’m around,” Jinjin said. The hanging lights from the exterior of the pub were making his crescent eyes twinkle.

“I know. You tell me that everyday,” you said, feeling embarrassed. Sometimes Jinjin acted like he was your dad or something.

“And I should. Until you understand that, it’ll still be hard for you to say ‘no’.”

He gently patted the top of your head before heading back inside, leaving you there in the chilly air. But the air didn’t feel so cold anymore, especially after he patted your head like that.

“What if left… wuz right and right… wuz lefht?” Jinjin asked, waving his arms around wildly and almost falling over forwards.

“Jinjin please stop walking away from me and just hold onto my shoulder so I can get you home safely,” you whined, chasing after him for the seventh time.

After getting angry at your friends for trying to slip alcohol into your glass since they realized you’d been drinking water, Jinjin yelled at everyone at the table and declared that anytime anyone made you drink, he’d down the drinks for you instead. Now, you were left with a very drunk Jinjin to carry home.

“If lefht iz right then am I wrong?” Jinjin asked, finally stopping and facing you.

His knees were bent in a weird way and his small frame looked so adorable in the massive hoodie he was wearing. While he was distracted, you raised his arm and wrapped it around your shoulder, holding him by the waist so he wouldn’t escape.

“Nooooo!” he squealed, squirming and trying to run away again.

“What is your problem?! It’s me, [y/n]! Why do you want to run away so badly?”

“That’s the problem. You’re [y/n] and… when…. When you hold me like thissss… I… get….. Confused!” he suddenly yelled the last word, making you jump.

“Confused? Why?”

Then you realized that your hand was wrapped around his waist.

“What do you mean?” you quietly asked.

“[y/n] I like you! So stop… confuse… confusing me…”

“But Jinjin, I like you too…” you admitted, your heart swelling.

This man was the only person who made you feel comfortable when you were around him. He had become such a close and dear friend, he was cute as heck and every time he’d pat your head, somehow that was enough to make your heart do a million cartwheels?

“No, no, [y/n]. It’s okay. You can sayyyyyy. No. You can. Ssssay it,” Jinjin grumbled, still continuing to walk along with you.

“But Jinjin, I mean it this time. I really do.”

Jinjin let out a strange gasping sound and then went quiet, leaving you alone with your thoughts while you dragged this man’s heavy body to his apartment.

What was the use in telling him in his drunken state that you liked him, anyway? It’s not like he would remember. Oh, well. At least you knew he liked you back! But how in the world would you bring this up tomorrow…

February 14th. The next day was Valentine’s day. You had to confront Jinjin about his drunk confession on Valentine’s day of all days?!?!

You woke up in a seated position, your head resting against a bed frame. Then, you remembered that you had walked Jinjin home last night and he didn’t let you leave, so you had been trapped in his room until you fell asleep.

Beside you, Jinjin was still softly snoring in his white t-shirt, so you got up and tried to make some breakfast. Just after a few minutes though, Jinjin immediately woke up.

“[y/n]? What are you doing here?” he asked in his raspy voice. His low tone made you shiver.

“Do you not remember last night?” you asked, trying to sound confident.

“No… we were out drinking! And those stupid friends of yours were forcing you to drink… Then I drank a lot…. And then?”

“And then?” you urged him.

He didn’t answer.

You sighed in relief. He’s forgotten!

You heard rustling and Jinjin got up and walked to the bathroom. Or at least, that’s what you thought he was doing, but he actually left the house.

When breakfast was ready and you couldn’t find him anywhere, you got concerned and began to call him. No answer.

You sat at the small table outside his kitchen, sighing at the food in front of you. Where had this man left in his pyjamas?

After a few minutes, you heard the doorknob turning and Jinjin walked in… with a whole bouquet of flowers in his hands. Your first reaction was to laugh, because his hair was a mess and his face was so puffy and tired, but this man was holding the prettiest flowers… it was irony in the flesh.

“[y/n],” he said, kicking off his shoes and cutely hobbling over towards you.

“What is it?” you asked, still trying not to laugh.

“I’m sorry that it turned out this way, but… I like you.”

Hearing that just made you laugh even harder - why were you laughing so much today? Just the fact that this man had already confessed yesterday without knowing and was doing it today too… for some reason that was funny.

“You’re laughing?” Jinjin asked, starting to also laugh himself.

“Okay, yes, I know. It’s Valentine’s day and I should have done something better, but when I woke up and you were next to me, there wasn’t much I could do! I had different plans… I was going to confess to you right when I saw you, and I was planning to look nicer than I do now, but-”

“You look great,” you said, your laughter having ceased now.

“Are you being sarcastic?”

“No, I swear. These flowers are so pretty, too.”

“Did you hear anything I said?”

“Yes, Jinjin. And I heard you yesterday too, when you drunkenly said that you like me.”

“I… said that yesterday?” Jinjin asked, his legs giving out as he fell onto the chair across from you.

“Yes, you did. And… you were really cute,” you said, mumbling the last part.

“Well, what did you say?” Jinjin asked, awaiting your response.

“I…” You froze. It was easier to tell him how you felt last night when he was drunk and out of it, but now you were afraid.

What was there to be afraid of when Jinjin already liked you?!

You took a deep breath before speaking.

“I said I like you too?”

“Really?” Jinjin asked, standing up and excitedly running around his tiny dorm.

You laughed, watching your senior and now boyfriend yell while the food in front of you continued to get cold. Weirdly enough, even the flowers looked like they were smiling at you.

68 notes · View notes

luytenae · 3 years

Text

Again, JakuRamu kisses

It's been a long while since I've last felt this involved in a ship, and I'm proud to see how the love I have for them is helping me to write. Writing has always been a hobby of mine, but it's been a very, very long while since I kept writing with consistency. So, with these kisses prompt I found, I'm making them kiss in every single way I can! I truly hope you're enjoying these as much as I do!

Kiss number 14: casually

Jakurai was a devoted doctor. No matter the situation, he was always ready for his patients; whether it was serious or just a small scratch. Deep down, he felt like it was his duty, that he had the obligation to do so; as if saving as many lifes as possible now would make up for the ones he had taken in the past. He carried this heavy burden in silence, wearing a tender smile as his past weighed in his heart.

Today was an usual day: another busy shift at Shinjuku’s Central Hospital. Nurses up and down the corridors, patients waiting for their diagnosis, and busy doctors walking around with coffees in hand, ready to continue their jobs. Jakurai waved goodbye to his most recent patient –a 12 years old girl who had to undergo surgery not that long ago, and was there for a check-up– and her mother. As soon as the door closed, he let out a soft sigh. It wasn't out of exhaustion, but still had a bittersweet feeling. The young girl could have ended up in a coma if it hadn’t been for Jakurai’s surgery, and it made him think. Think about Yotsutsuji.

What could he do for him? What should have he done? The doctor still had no clue. And it pained him, not knowing. Everything was clear now with Ramuda, so why didn't the answers come? He was seen as a “Superman”, but still, he wasn't able to save the boy he treated as his own son.

Lost in thoughts, the vibration on his phone was what made him exit his mind. He looked at the lit screen, reading the clock on it. Right, it was now his break. Diligently, he woke up from his chair, tidied the room, and proceeded to go out for lunch.

It was a clear day, and the sun was shining brightly outside. The doctor took a seat by the window in the cafeteria, opened his lunchbox and started eating its content, savouring each part of his meal. Some colleagues passed by, started a little bit of chit-chat with him, and after a couple of minutes said their goodbyes, following their day and fulfilling their duties. Jakurai decided to take it easier and enjoy his break a little bit more, since his next appointment wasn’t until the next hour. He had plenty of time to clear his mind and refresh. He wasn’t tired, but still needed a little rest.

After changing clothes, he went out for a quick stroll around the surroundings of the Hospital. He happened to walk by a 7-Eleven, which, per se, wasn't something remarkable. Instead, what made him enter the shop was what he saw from the corner of his eye when he was about to walk past the store: a familiar pink head going through the sweets aisle.

“Amemura-kun?”

As if answering to the call, said head quickly moved, changing his field of vision from the chocolate bars to the doctor, trying to locate where did the voice come from.

“Ahaha! It’s the old coot! Whatcha doin’ here?”

Ramuda replied as soon as he made visual contact, leaving a box of strawberry flavored pocky inside the basket.

“That should be my line. What are you doing in Shinjuku?”

Ramuda smiled, trotting to an apparently shocked Jakurai. Once he was by his side, he grabbed his hands happily, leaving the shopping basket aside and shaking them joyfully.

“I juuuust happened to be around here! You see, a lovely lady from Shinjuku is gonna be a model for my next collection, and of course I had to go and take her measures, y’know? After that, I saw this 7-Eleven had some good deals on sweets and I wasn’t throwing away my shot! Look, look! Isn’t it totes amazing?! ✩”

The designer motioned to the basket, showing with pride what was going to be his purchase. Jakurai frowned at the sight of so many sugary items, and sighed as he shook his head.

“You are hopeless, Amemura-kun…”

“Why do you say that now?! Boo, stop being a party pooper!”

Nonetheless, even after reprimending his habits, Jakurai accompanied him to the cash register, picking up a couple of items he knew were on his shopping list.

“Well, now that you’ve made me company during my shopping spree, the cool and cute Ramuda will walk you back to the hospital! ✩”

The doctor laughed tenderly, giving his partner a short headpat.

“Sure, Ramuda. Let’s go, then”

The pink haired man nodded triumphantly, and, with his free hand, he grabbed Jakurai’s, walking down the streets by his side. The taller man replied with the same gesture, holding his hand back and walking at Ramuda’s pace. They walked down the streets with ease, as Jakurai knew his city as well as the back of his own hand.

Ramuda still had a difficult time at reading people, but he now had a couple of basic concepts. However, Jakurai was another thing. They knew each other way too well by now, and although his understandings of social context and manners were still poor, he could feel how the doctor was more at ease when nobody was keeping an eye on them. As if Jakurai was trying to make Ramuda appear more well-mannered in front of people and strangers; since he knew well that, deep down, the doctor tolerated –and even followed– his antics. Ramuda shrugged his shoulders, deciding to leave the topic for now. That’s just how he is, he thought. And he wouldn’t change nothing about his beloved doctor. For him, it was enough to make his gloomy mood dissapear for the day.

Sadly for the couple, their little stroll came to an end when they stopped by the main entrance, where Jakurai bid Ramuda farewell. In a sudden rush, the designer grabbed his coat before the doctor could go inside, raising to his tiptoes and making him bend over. The taller man didn’t have a minute to counteract the actions –not that he was planning on doing so– and, as soon as Ramuda felt the distance was enough, he left a soft kiss on Jakurai’s lips, caressing his cheeks during the process. The lilac haired man kissed him back, taking that casual gesture with pleasure. He wouldn’t mind getting used to kiss him goodbye, after all.

“See you at home tonight!”

After a quick hug, Ramuda waved him goodbye and left the hospital, probably going back to their flat. To their home.

Jakurai smiled, knowing that, at the end of the day, he would not come back to an empty house. Once again, his beloved designer managed to help him clear his mind with his carefree behaviour, somehow letting him know that he also deserved to rest.

“I can’t wait to go home, then”

#hypmic #hypnosis mic #ヒプノシスマイク #hypmic ramuda #ramuda amemura #hypmic jakurai #jakurai jinguji #jakuramu

20 notes · View notes

mintvender · 3 years

Note

Hello! I really love your idea! The boys' reaction when Y/N overworks and basically locked themself in their room/chamber? Hope this isn't too much! :D

Glad you’re enjoying them, love! Of course this isn’t too much, it really excites me that you are comfortable enough to even consider sending in an ask. Anyways, enjoy 😊🌿🌿💚💚

Harem!Au

BTS’s Reaction to Y/N Overworking and Locking Themself in their Chamber

Masterlist

Kim Taehyung

Taehyung’s would definately be worried but there’s a part of him that also understands that as the ruler, you are obligated to continue your work under any circumstances. Since the L/N dynasty is still relatively new, there will be many dangers that would approach and you have to do your part to protect the country. Taehyung, with his mastermind would try his absolute best to help you but as a consort, he can’t really do much as a consort is traditionally not allowed to be invested in politics. However, none of you really care considering how you became the ruler with male concubines ( an act that breaks the gender roles). Knowing that, you won’t just bring him into office with other ministers as it would bring more harm than good so you guys settled for yours’ bedroom and talk about the problems there.

As Taehyung is a very observant person, he would notice your sudden fatigue or pale expression at times but would not comment on it, knowing that you would refuse his claims. As a result, he would subtly inject himself in between you and your pile of work like the little minx he is, and offer you little treats to help you relax. At night, he would intentionally be much more affectionate; hugging you and pulling you onto the bed and cuddle you, trying to hypnotize you to sleep. However, this plan has a catch; his physique is too frail to even pull you. Many would think that as a tall and lean male, he would at least have the ability to pull you but unfortunately, brute strength is not his area of expertise. It was also one of the many reason why he was bullied as a child ( like a sack of potato). When he realized that he does not have the strength to do so, his immediate reaction was to pout and complain how tired he is and want to cuddle with you. Of course, Y/N could never resist his adorable expression even after seeing grow from a starved child to a young adult, so you willingly lead him to the bed and cuddle.

The little minx then continued his plan and as you guys talk about future plans, he began curling himself in your hold and melting into you. Seeing how comfortable he is, you slowly began to relax as well until both of you are both in dreamland, finally getting some rest.

“ Y/N-iee, get up! I’m tired and don’t have the strength to pull you. Let’s cuddle in bed and talk about whatever.”

Kim Namjoon

As your personal physician, he would know right away that you were obviously sacrificing your sleeping hours to work considering how similar you are to a panda. He would then warn you about the effects of overworking when he had the chance to examine you for your monthly checkup. Namjoon would then making you consume medicinal tea to help you relax while working. He would stand by your side, refusing to let you work until you had finish your bowl of medicine. Knowing that if he were to be firm, you would eventually listen ( courtesy to years of working with you). Because of his position, he could use that as a reason to be with you more often, claiming that you will work yourself to death.

As he is in your office more frequently, you would find yourself relax when in his presence and more often than not have a conversation going between the two of you. Considering how knowledgeable he is, the two of you can even talk for hours before even realizing how late it already is. This would be a never ending cycle for the both of you during this time, not that you both really mind the change. Even if you decided to lock yourself inside your room, Namjoon has the special to persuade you to either go out or let him in to help you.

Different types of oils and herbs that specializes in calming an individual would be kept on the little table on the side of your desk for Namjoon to used whenever he is there.

“ Y/N, drink this. No, don’t even think about finishing your work until you have finish this bowl entirely.”

Jung Hoseok

Unlike Namjoon and Taehyung, Hoseok got to know you only after you became the ruler so he does not have the opportunity to spend that much time with you. He also does not have your permission to enter your private chamber or office like the others so he just can’t just barge into your office like Taehyung usually does. Considering how he was taught, Hoseok would be more worried in losing your favour than worrying about your health. He just assumed that you are used to it considering how experienced you looked when dealing with the ministers. This is one of the situation where he would have to use his status to meet you; asking his wretched father to secretly ask you for a private audience. As time continue to pass by, his anxiety would only grow until the letter that you had personally written came to his doorstep.

Desperately holding on the letter, he praced his way to your chambers along with the guards that was assigned to him. When he finally got there and the guards were dismissed, he finally understood why you were so distant these past months. Piles of scrolls and manuscripts are piled onto seemingly every crevice of your office, with you working on another from your desk in the far back of the room. Skillfully he made his way over to you, sitting down on the chair once you have made a spot big enough for him. His palms began to sweat when you asked the reason asking for an audience, while the calming scent caused his adrenaline to spiked when he acknoledged that his reason was somewhat unreasonable. When you saw how he looked somewhat conscious, you asked again in a gentler voice, trying to calm him. After his heartbeat had decreased to a better rate, his mouth then ran rampage with his reasoning until you had to intervene, claiming that you were too busy and apologized for making him feel this way.

Satisfied that he was not neglected, he finally realized the condition of your office and offered to help you organize them. And with that, you find yourself a new little helper who is brighter than the sun, itself.

“ Y/N, where should I put this? There? Alright!”

Min Yoongi

With how your first private encounter with him went, you had granted him the permission to enter your courtyard when needed. As the previous dynasty’s crown prince, let’s say that surviving in the current one alone was not an option for him. As a result, he had came up with countless reasons to try to remain by your side, desperately afraid of being neglected yet also a bother. Yoongi knows that he has no power and is probably smaller than a sand particle, weak enough that the smallest gust of wind would send him flying across the field. As a result, he became your little office helper whenever he comes over to visit which was quite often.

Recently, Yoongi had picked up that you had seem particularly pale. Your eyes sometimes unfocused itself and your expression is simply horrid. Of course, he knew that you were working extremely hard but it was naive of him to think that you will be alright. His actions of trying to help can vary depending on the day. It could be from offering you a little smiles while helping you to desperately hanging onto you, begging you to stop working. To some others, it might seem very exaggerated but to him, after seeing how his father had died so easily, he imagined it would be as easy for you as well. With that being said, he can even be considered to be your little nanny who would be taking care of you during this time.

However, with him being there Y/N would most likely not be able to work for hours straight. Seeing him running around helping you while carrying a pout would distract most definitely you too many times.

“ Your majesty, y-you need to rest! Let me take care of this mess. I-I’ve been trained for this so trust me, your majesty!”

Jeon Jungkook

Jungkook is probably the only one who has a reasonable purpose of being by your side that frequently. However, he would most likely not be able to notice your change in demeanour until much latter than the rest as he takes his job very seriously, not wanting to disrupt you and only standing outside your room to guard it. He is also quite young and is used to not care about anyone except for himself so he might come off as naive at times. Jungkook finally noticed how overworked you seem when Taehyung asked about your scheduled. Poor bunny got yelled at by the consort for this when he just calmly listed out your schedule. After that he realized that maybe your schedule is a little too hectic but when it is accompanied by your accidental night shifts, it is too much.

Jungkook then began to squeeze himself between your schedule; interrupting different ministers that have questions after an audience, intervening your time with your desk to force you on a walk, etc. When it is time for your guys’ lesson, he would consciously move you guys outside to a better environment, claiming that your office is too cramped. At this time, he would try his best to soak up the information faster to not burden you more.

At times, Jungkook would sneakily leave small meals by the window for you, knowing that if he were to bring them directly, he would not be able to explain his reasons. Of course, Y/N knows this but they find it too cute to let the bunny know about his mischievous actions.

“ General Yoon, please save your opinions for another time. Your majesty has been working non-stop and now needs some time to rest. Please ask for a private audience next time. Now please excuse us.”

Kim Seokjin

Poor Y/N, the moment Seokjin gets notified about your recent habit, he would act like he is the emperor instead of you so good luck. having gone through years of haggling, the merchant seems to have a bountiful amount of energy when it comes to yelling at you. From yelling at the cause to the short and long term effect of you neglecting your health would drive Seokjin to lecture you nonstop. He would only stop after seeing how tired you are. The day after that, you were gifted a chest full of cosmetics and herbs from him.

Instead of asking for a public audience to suggest a trading plan, Seokjin would first ask for a private one to discuss it with your beforehand then go to a public one before finally deciding if it would be successful or not. For him, this plan would not only be better as it gives you and him more time to think, it also gives him the opportunity to be with you more. Considering his personality, your private audiences will be nothing but serious. You guys would not only talk about different plans but also spend time, bonding with each other as well!

As the wealthy merchant Seokjin is, he would bring different items he plan on trading with yours to your chambers to help you visualize the products better. He would deliberately leave some of the ones he think would suit you the best, claiming that he accidentally left it there but never really coming back to get it.

“ Do you think you are a child? You are old enough to know your own limits but what did you do?? YAH! Listen to me!”

Park Jimin

Jimin might be flirty but he isn’t naive. Recently, his attempts of wooing you seems to go through one ear and exit the other so he obviously know that something is wrong. At first, he thought that the problem is in him. Jimin tries to change himself to your liking but it doesn’t seem close to be hitting the mark. Slowly he began to cling to you, wanting to know what is stopping the two of you from bonding with each other. So like your first night, he sneaked into your private chambers. Unexpectedly, he found himself confused if he was really in the right room. Compared to his first night with you, the room was far too messy as of right now. The only space that was not occupied by stacks of paper was your bed that was currently being squished by you. Jimin slowly approached your tired form, finally understanding what had been happening these past months.

As he is quite affectionate, Jimin could not let himself waste this chance to cuddle you. The next morning, you worked up with your legs tangled with his, confused how he managed to get in with Jungkook guarding outside but deciding to not question it considering that he is not a threat. Jimin would sleepily flirt with you, teasingly saying how clingy you were towards him last night which was probably the opposite.

From that day on, Jimin would appear in your chamber at unexpected times during the day to cuddle you or to hug you. This of course would distract you but it is a welcome distraction.

“ You were hugging me so tightly that I thought I would suffocate. Of course, you can always do that to me. As long it is you~”

~MintVender

#shio-yuki #asks #harem au #bts reactions #bts imagines #bts scenarios #bts seokin #bts yoongi #bts hoseok #bts namjoon #bts jimin #bts taehyung #bts jungkook #mintvender #bts x reader #bts x y/n #Ot7

56 notes · View notes

47-shades-of-hitman · 3 years

Text

In Your Likeness | Chapter 1 - Common grounds

Chapter 1 | Common grounds

Chapter warnings: Violence, blood, political conflict

For all tags, see AO3 : GoingHaywire

For more information, join my Hitman related Discord server

“Welcome to Jerusalem, 47.” Diana Burnwood’s voice stated through Agent 47’s earpiece. He stood as usually taciturn and obedient, analysing his surroundings. On the expanse of his head laid a kippah, donned as a distraction, out of place compared to the crisp black suit barely matching it.

But then, men of Jewish descent had no set appearance, so no one would question him too much. Not when he was in the holiest city of them all.

“Before you, you see the building of The Knesset, which holds the unicameral legislative branch of the Israeli government. Naturally, a restless country like this one has a fair bit of security around its political buildings. Despite its youth, this land holds secrets, one of them going by the name of Ewald Cohen. A powerful Jewish man, currently seeking aid for a wicked plan dabbling into force-migration. Long story short, he pleas for a Palestinian removal act. Our client wants him out of business, as to be expected. And so, it shall be done. Good luck, 47. And remember, I know it’s unlike you, but no unnecessary blood, especially not in there. It would mean a lockdown of the city, and the last thing we need is ourselves blowing our own cover.”

Agent 47 let his icy eyes take in every inch of the building before him – yellow brick, like a large box placed in the middle of a city, yet it had something of a temple – something ancient, like Jerusalem itself. He was not one for pretty architecture, though found interest in knowing how to get in – and out.

The way he looked now, he knew there would be no way that he could get past security without being frisked – if he took the main entrance, that was. Metal-detecting gates would be too troublesome at the moment. And without the correct papers, he wouldn’t get past the front desk, not with all those guards around.

The first thing one would notice was the plenty presence of soldiers, standing on watch. Judging by the stance of one of the younger men, 47 deduced that the change might soon be there. He should take advantage of it, knock one of them out and don a disguise. In the crowd, he’d be hardly noticed.

Deciding it the best approach, he made his way to a more secluded area, successfully knocking out a guard after distracting him, and put on his uniform. He discarded of his suit and the kippah by stuffing them into the stranger’s backpack, hiding the unconscious body of the soldier in the shrubbery. 47 brought the backpack with him, going forth.

In the distance, doors opened. Right in time, he thought to himself, creeping back to the place where the guard had stood. A new row of guards went up to the ones standing at the gates, freshly uniformed and without dark circles under their eyes, like the ones that the men at the gate had been sporting.

A wordless exchange, 47 mimicked his temporary peers with a gesture to the side of the head, saluting them. One of them raised an eyebrow, unfamiliar with the piercing blue eyes meeting his.

But then, the IDF stood never still in the stream of new guards, with drafted soldiers in their late teenage years obligated to serve a short time. There would be new recruits every time of day, so there lingered no long suspicion.

He followed them inside, proceeding through the halls until they stopped at what seemed like a canteen. It had never been so easy to march into such an important building with an automatic weapon in hand.

“I hadn’t noticed you taking over Adam’s shift.”

Agent 47 had already taken off the boots he had been wearing - a size too small - when he noticed that he was being spoken to. Before him stood a young man, no older than twenty-five, a toothpick between his chapped lips.

“Oh, yes. Adam felt ill so I was sent to take his place.”

“I don’t recognise you.”

“I haven’t been here for long.”

“You don’t seem to be drafted, either. What’s a man of your age doing in the lowest rank?”

47 sighed, feigning exhaustion. “Listen, yadid. I’ve been standing all day and I’m tired.”

The young man let out a scoff. “I’m not your friend, old man. Well then, guess your age is getting the better of you. Have fun returning home with your walking stick.”

“Shlomo!” a man of higher status called, sending him a warning glare. “Stop picking on our new recruits.”

With a shake of his head, the young soldier named Shlomo, so it seemed, stalked off.

Agent 47 was soon done dressing himself, hiding his pistol in the safety of his suit. He arose and set to the exit, pushing way through the business of the canteen, ignoring cheers to stay a bit longer, and was soon standing in the main hall.

A trained hitman like him had no trouble in making his way to the conference room. Diana stated through his earpiece that it would be plausible that the target would be roaming around there, for she had figured out that his so called bill of Palestinian removal was moving up in the list of cases to be discussed.

47 moved stealthily through the halls, successfully knocking out every burden in his way. He remembered what Diana had said – no unnecessary damage, just Mr Cohen. This city was desired and dangerous, and he knew. Any other important politicians meeting their end would mean disaster. Not that 47 ever caused collateral damage, anyway, unless utterly necessary.

A waft of the smell of blood pricked in his nose when he turned the corner, immediately pressing himself against the wall to eventually stay out of someone’s line of sight. Silence, but the scent was there, and he was certain that it didn’t come from his own doing.

“Tread carefully, 47.” he heard through his earpiece, his handler noticing as well that something was off. The smell, the eerie silence, almost as unnatural as 47’s own movements, stiff and overly calculated.

Something was not right. The air was denser than usual, for where he was usually the threat, he experienced uneasiness, like he was in danger as well.

It was a feeling unfamiliar to him – what was causing him such a notion?

Then, noise from the room where he was creeping next to.

He proceeded on through the hall, momentarily focussing on what was going on in the adjacent room. Noise, albeit stifled. A whimper, though muffled, so it seemed. Footsteps… He pressed himself against the wall a bit tighter, trying to listen in on what was going on in the main room.

A soft rustle of fabric whilst someone slipped through the heavy doors at the end of the hallway, closing them as quietly as they could.

Clad in dark, supple cotton and leather, hooded, a pine-green sash hanging over one of their shoulders. The insignia on the fabric was immediately recognisable. From under the hood, a pair of piercing eyes shimmered as they moved to look behind them, alarmed by his proximity.

Agent 47 moved instantly, alerted by their presence. This had never happened before, despite the feud he had sometimes heard about. Now that he encountered one of them for himself, things ought to get clearer. He didn’t hesitate to draw his gun, silencer tightly screwed onto the front.

The stranger had noticed him, too. A small, silver handgun laid in a gloved hand, barrel pointed right at him.

“Well, well…” the figure stated, female, judging by the sound and pitch. “How interesting. A hitman and an Assassin walk into a foreign parliament building. Says one to the other—”

“Who are you?” 47 interrupted, making the Assassin chuckle.

“No, you’re ruining my joke. Says one to the other—”

Agent 47 clicked the safety off of his gun. “I asked you something.”

She stepped closer, the sound of her thigh-high boots muffled against the carpet. “Let me counter that question, sir .” Her voice was thick with disdain. “You work for the ICA, do you not? Actually, don’t answer that question, I know you do.”

She halted in front of him, their guns still aimed at each other. She sniffed nonchalantly. “Do you see this insignia, sir?” She pointed at the buckle on her belt, then the one on the gauntlet around her arm. Its blade was stained with fresh blood.

“The Brotherhood of Assassins.” 47 said.

“Correct. Listen, sir. I know what you’re here for, but I suggest that you walk straight out of that door. I arrived here first. Deed’s already done.”

Agent 47 held his stoic expression, unfazed by the gun aiming at him. It wasn’t like his opponent was scared, either.

“Who is your contract?” he asked her.

“Does it matter? Whoever you’re after, they’re dead. Get out, before I stain the carpet unnecessarily. Would be a shame if your pretty eyes were to be closed forever, too. Poor Mr Rosenthal didn’t know what was coming to him. He had nice eyes as well. They’re dull, now.”

47 pressed the barrel of his silencer against her forehead. With a gentle nudge, he forced the hood off her head. It revealed the female Assassin to be younger than him, (h/c) hair conveniently pulled back into a braid.

“Shoot me, then. It would be unwise, though. The world lacks good Assassins.”

It was almost sickening, the way this woman lacked fear of death despite being so intimately involved with it. She spread her arms, dropping her gun to the ground. “Go on.” she pressed.

Agent 47 narrowed his eyes. Why wouldn’t he? Her (h/c) hair framed her taunting face, a wicked smirk spreading over her lips. “You’re hesitating…” She pressed her forehead a bit firmer against the gun. “Why… Are you… Hesitating…?” Her voice had become a whisper.

Agent 47 tilted his head slightly, taking her in completely, trying to calculate her next move. The odds were all against her, so why was she so cocky? Her (e/c) eyes shimmered in the dim light of the spots mounted on the wall, playful almost, careless.

“I thought your Brotherhood trained more capable Assassins.”

“Oh, but I am. I’m the best one they have, mind you.”

“Hence the way you act.”

She let out a chuckle and pursed her lips slightly. “Oh, alright… I know when I can take risks. Really, mister. I suggest you turn around and walk out that door, because I am not afraid of you.”

Slowly, he lowered the barrel of his gun. Gaze fixated upon her still, he took a step back. He towered well above her, yet she knew no fear of death. Quite the contrary, she laughed it in its face.

Agent 47 sighed, gesturing at the door leading away from him. “Get out now and I’ll let you live.”

The Assassin remained nailed to the ground, hands folded on her back now, staring at him unfazed.

“It’s officially against the rules to kill people who aren’t involved with the target.” he dryly stated,

“Let me guess. The unofficial version is a lot bloodier?”

“No one will question my disposal of one of a rival organisation’s puppets.”

“Says the man working for the ICA. If there’s a puppet here, it’s you.”

For a split second, it threw him off-guard, something that had never happened before – but now it did, and before he could bash the back of his gun against her temple to knock her out, he was blinded by thick, grey smoke. He coughed, disoriented, staggering backwards as a light laugh echoed through the halls, just as taunting as her gaze had been.

“Too late…” she sang, “Sorry, should’ve pulled the trigger. By the way, you aren’t the only one with rules like those. The reason why I let you live. Don’t forget to close the door after you leave, sir. It would be disastrous for the electricity bill.” The sound of her boots was faintly audible, and when the smoke died down, 47 remained on his own, opting to not go after her.

He straightened his tie, sighed deeply, and proceeded to push on through his mission.

“What can you tell me about her?” he quizzed Diana when he was about to push open the doors.

“She comes from the Brotherhood of Assassins. I believe she’s from the (L/n) bloodline. The ICA has encountered them more than once. Truly dangerous, those ones. I suggest you keep an eye out, 47. You never know who lingers in the shadows.”

He wrapped his gloved hand against the handle of the door, holding his gun close as he pushed it open.

“Didn’t she mention a contract named Rosenthal? Who was that target?”

“Yes, she must’ve mistakenly thought that your contract was on his head, as well. No, Ser Isaac Rosenthal is – or was, in better terms now - a Templar mole infiltrating the Israeli government. Turns out, they have found out his true identity. As you know, the Templars are the sworn enemies of the Brotherhood of Assassins. Focus on the matter at hand, 47. You should hurry now, before people come looking at what’s going on.”

The stench of blood became even more pungent when 47 pushed on through the heavy doors, being met with several dead bodies, adorned with red slits on their throats. Carefully, he stepped over the corpses, identifying them one by one.

“None of them is Cohen.”

“That means that she hasn’t stolen our kill. That precludes further feud along this path. So, I suggest you make haste. This is taking way longer than it should and people will catch up.”

The agent walked out of the room again, seeing no other exit than the one where he entered. He went to the large hallway again, trying to blend in as well as he could. Where he had left his soldier’s disguise to be in the hallway right in the army’s canteen, he now chose the façade of a rich businessman.

Scanning the crowd, he tried to find Ewald Cohen. It wouldn’t be too difficult, for the man’s bulky build could hardly be missed. Somewhere in the back of the building, he could hear people panicking, presumably caused by the finding of five dead men.

“Find him, 47, and be quick.” Diana spurred on before the line quieted again.

It took a few minutes to find Cohen’s office, where said man was dictating a letter to his secretary. The young woman penned along rapidly, frightened to lose her job if she didn’t.

“…However, where the amendment of freedom lay, I must counter that we are a state of sovereignty and thus allowed to proceed with removing… Hey, what was that?”

The clink of the coin 47 had tossed onto the tiles pulled him out of his speech. “Go look.” he ordered his secretary, sighing as she stalked off to check out the noise. Cohen sat in his chair, folding his hands on his large stomach. His chair creaked dangerously and the man seemed out of breath from just walking.

With an aim like no other, 47 pointed his gun at the hook of the painting that hung on the wall above Cohen’s desk. He took his shot – the hook broke and the large canvas fell onto the bookcase below with a dry thud.

Ewald looked behind him, eyes widening at the sight of the canvas toppling over, crashing down on top of him. The chair creaked under the unfamiliar pressure, finally giving out. Cohen fell from his seat, landed on his butt and thus, cracked his spine. The weight of the painting suffocated him, killing him in mere seconds.

The secretary returned richer a penny – the sound that left her throat proved imminent doom. Silently, the Agent who just successfully killed his target slipped out of the room, away from possible suspicion.

“Ewald Cohen is eliminated. Good work 47. Now, proceed to leave the building, and make sure that you aren’t caught.”

47 frowned, unsure of why Diana would add such a thing after her sentence. She never told him to watch out after an elimination, trusting him to be discreet as always.

He slinked up a few flights of stairs, trying to act natural whenever he passed by some people. His strangely stiff composure would give him away one day.

The door to the rooftop wasn’t too hard to find, marked with a unevenly blinking exit-sign right above. He went through it, hearing it click in its lock behind him. Upon stretching his shoulders to prepare himself for his climb down, a voice behind him spoke;

“Why didn’t you do it?”

Agent 47 had his hand on his gun right away, aiming it at the source of the disturbance. There she stood again, unfazed by the threat of death, (h/c) locks blowing in the wind. The light of the lowering sun cast a curious hue over the odd scene.

“Beg your pardon?”

“Why didn’t you shoot me?” she clarified.

“I am aiming my gun at you right now.”

“That’s beside the point. You didn’t do it before, and that’s interesting.”

47 took off the safety. “I should have.”

The woman smiled, her eyes shimmering with amusement. “Oh, please. There’s no suspense. No build-up leading to an all-concluding finale. No stand-off, no time-pressure.”

Diana’s voice interrupted the Assassin’s monologue. “What is taking you so long? A car is waiting for you.”

“I’ve ran into a bit of trouble. I’ll be right there.”

The woman scoffed, smirking. “A bit of trouble, you say? Is that all I am to you? I am offended… Thoroughly.”

“The rival Assassin…” Diana deduced, “Let her be. We don’t need another war right now for the world’s sake.”

He lowered his gun at Ms. Burnwood’s command.

“What is your name?” Assassin (L/n) asked him.

“Names are for friends.”

She stepped closer, once again halting at an arm's-length away from him.

“In that case, my name is (Y/n) (L/n).”

She held out her hand, waiting for 47 to shake it.

He eyed it, and then took it, unsure of what to respond.

“So, what’s your name?” she repeated.

“I don’t see why that is any of your business.”

Diana grew impatient. “Will you hurry?” she rarely lost her composure like that – perhaps it was the sudden appearance of the Brotherhood of Assassins.

Agent 47 just kept standing like he did, releasing her hand, frozen in place.

“Whatever your name is, I have a message for you.”

(Y/n) leaned closer, decreasing the volume of her voice to a whisper. “You’re in my country now. This is my city, these are my streets, and whatever Templar activity you’re involved in, I will shut down personally. The ICA claims neutrality, but I know better. You shouldn’t mess with the Brotherhood of Assassins, agent.”

She deeply inhaled, looking him in the eye. “If I see you once more, I will kill you.”

(Y/n) stepped back slowly, and then a bit quicker. “Hope we’ll never run into each other again.”

She ran to the end of the building, flinging herself off the side, gloved fingers soon gripping the edge, disappearing out of sight.

He clenched the gloved hand she had shaken into a fist, whispering a reply. “Likewise, Miss (L/n). That fate will do all to prevent that from happening.”

He was unsure of why he said that, for it could be taken two ways – that fate would prevent them from meeting again, or that it would prevent her statement from coming true.

Whatever it was and whatever caused the foreign twist in his stomach, he knew that he had to move again soon before Diana would call again and cause a scene at his unusual tardiness.

Spinning on his heel, he walked to the edge, onward.

#Hitman #agent 47 x reader #Agent 47 #Assassin's Creed X Hitman crossover #assassin's creed #Long fic #slow burn #In Your Likeness #IYL

35 notes · View notes

percywinchester27 · 4 years

Text

A lot like ‘Us’ (Part-6)

Word count: 3.5K

Pairing: Sam X Reader AU

Warnings: fluff, feels

Series Summary: Y/N Y/L/N is eager and honestly, still in awe that she managed to get herself an acceptance from Stanford Law School. On the face of it, her life seems as put together, mysterious and independent as one might hope for. On the insides, she carries the burden of past that haunts her till date. Seemingly, she’d left it all behind; that is until she sets foot in the class of the Law School’s youngest, most promising professor.

A/N: The story employs two different timelines. The present timeline for the story takes place in 2014. Please let me know what you guys think :)

Beta: @deanssweetheart23 I love you, babe <3

A lot like ‘Us’ masterlist

“This is fun!” You rolled the ball along the lane. It didn’t even reach halfway before sliding to the side.

“You actually suck!” Jack exclaimed somewhat surprised. “You weren’t lying about that.”

Sticking your tongue out at him, you let him pass to the aisle, carrying another bowling ball. He knocked out 2 pins in the first strike.

You cheered for him as he drew another and in his second turn knocked down four more.

He triumphantly pumped his fists in the air and you high fived him. “That’s more than either of us have accomplished this evening.”

Jack threw a wry look at the girl he had been eyeing all evening. “I don’t think I’ve impressed her.”

The girl in question was a pretty blonde and you had definitely seen her check Jack out at least once. Jack was actually quite good-looking with his soft brown hair and a guileless smile.

“You know what I think?” You winked. “You should go talk to her.”

“Noooooo,” he backed off real quick. “She’s never going to want to talk to me.”

“I’ll bake you those cookies I gave Cas if you do it!”

He made a face. “Aw Y/N! You’re not playing fair.”

You shrugged. “It’s a one time deal. Take it or leave it.”

“You drive a hard bargain.” He glanced at the girl once. “I get the cookies even if she doesn’t agree?”

“Sure do. You just gotta ask her out!”

He gave you one accusing look, then walked over to the girl at the counter. You watched as she smiled sweetly and he nervously scratched his neck. After a few minutes, he came back waving a chit and a huge, disbelieving grin on his face. “She gave me her number. Can you believe that?”

“Whoever would have guessed.” You feigned disinterest.

“This is such a win-win. I got a date on Sunday and I get the cookies,” he sighed happily.

You wanted to reach out and shuffle his hair, so you did and Jack wrinkled his nose at you.

The two of you grabbed a quick bite at a fast food trolley and walked home teasing each other about how sucky the bowling was.

“I thought the ball was going to drag you with it that one time,” Jack said as you opened the door to your apartment.

“Know what?” You said conspiratorially. “I did, too.”

You waved a goodbye and then locked the door behind you, exhausted in the good way. The moment your head hit the pillow you were fast asleep.

**************************

14th August 2008

“C’mon, Y/N, you can do better than that,” Jo encouraged and you threw the ball hard. It still landed at her feet.

“I can’t do this,” you gave up, going to sit under the tree in the park. “I’m tired.”

Jo sighed as she sat down beside you. “It’s been almost a month since your Gran… you know… You can talk to me.”

“There’s nothing to talk about,” you muttered, plucking the grass at your feet.

She laid back on the grass, staring into the bright blue sky. “It’s just that I know you’re hurting- I know it, but if you don’t tell me what to do, I can’t help you!”

No one could help you. Help could only be given in times of a disaster or a problem. There was no help for the last person left alive in the world. No one was coming for that person… just like no help was coming for you who were the last one left in your world.

“There you are!” Dean Winchester was walking up the small hillock, a wicker basket in his hand. He looked damn good in that leather jacket, the sunlight making his hair glint golden.

You gave Jo a questioning look and she smiled guilty. “I uhhh… arranged for a surprise picnic for us. Dean offered to get us sandwiches.”

You wanted to feel annoyed with her. The last thing you needed was to pretend to smile for company. Dean had been exceptionally kind to you, but you didn’t want to make him a victim of your isolation driven lethargy.

“Hey,” Dean said, his eyes softening when he saw you. “How’re you doing?”

“I’m fine, thank you,” you said automatically.

He pushed the wicker basket towards you. “Jo said you liked muffins. Now, we tried baking some, but they come with health warnings.”

“We?”

“Sammy and I,” he said, jerking his head sideways. You saw Sam coming up the hillock with a thermos in his hand.

You sat up straight.

You hadn’t seen Sam since your return to Lawrence for good and felt a bit ashamed about how you had behaved at the funeral, clinging to him the way that you had throughout the night. The brothers had walked you to the house and stayed over along with Ellen and Jo. They had left with Jo before you were up the following morning.

Ellen had stayed with you for the better part of that week, helping you tie the loose ends. She absolutely refused to leave till you agreed to come with. After a while of resisting her, you had given in. Who was left here for you anyway?

After returning to Lawrence, you mostly locked yourself in the room, rereading the books you had bought with you. It was immature and highly inappropriate to be this unhelpful in someone else's house, but you couldn’t bear the pitying looks in everyone’s eyes. Sam had come by once or twice. You had pretended to be asleep each time after hearing his voice downstairs.

Now, you didn’t have a choice but to talk to him.

“We’ve already pulled out the death by muffins, I see,” he said, sitting down next to his brother. He looked up and your heart almost leapt out of your chest. You had forgotten just how good-looking he was… and then when he was looking at you like that...

“We tried, Y/N,” Sam said apologetically. “We really did. Asked the recipe from Karen and all, but they just taste weirdly bitter.”

“It’s too much chocolate,” Jo said, wrinkling her nose as she took a small bite out of one innocent looking muffin.

“Here, you wanna try some?” Sam offered, looking so hopeful that you automatically took it from him. When your fingers touched his, it felt electric.

It was awful. The bitterness wasn’t the rich bitterness of chocolate. It was excess baking soda. It left the insides of your mouth feeling desiccated.

“Well, you’re officially the bravest person I’ve ever met,” Dean declared, his face twisted in absolute disgust. “What did you eat the full thing for?”

“It’s not that -”

“Bad?” Dean asked, revolted. “It’s disgusting. Satan’s rear end tastes like that. We only brought them with us to see we could feed them to the ducks! Sammy and I bet money on that.”

He looked so horrified that you laughed with a mouthful of the muffin, the crumbs sputtering out of your mouth, in all their caustic horribleness. Once the laughter broke out, a fit overtook you and you fell back into the soft grass laughing till tears rolled down the sides of your eyes.

“You guys suck at baking,” you coughed in between the chortles.

“Yeah, Y/N is our resident baker. Her cakes and cookies are to die for!” Jo lauded. You punched her in the arm lightly to stop her from praising you.

“Maybe you can teach us,” Sam said, and there was an undercurrent to his voice, warm and inviting.

“Alright you crazy kids hang around here with the basket,” Jo said. “We’re heading out for a while to the diner. There’s a couple of things we have to pick up for mom. Don’t hog the muffins.”

You sat up straight, realising that laying around like that wasn’t displaying any sense of propriety.

“Will you be alright?” Jo asked, worry lining her forehead.

“Yes, don’t worry about me.”

Jo still looked concerned as she walked down the hillock and disappeared from view.

You closed your eyes, and before Sam could utter a word, said, “Listen, I’m really sorry about how I behaved at the- the funeral. It was anything but appropriate to put you through that. I’m really sorry.”

When Sam didn’t say anything, you opened your eyes, albeit reluctantly.

He was staring into the distance, not at you. When he finally spoke, you couldn’t place the tone of his voice. “Is that really how you feel?”

“What do you mean?”

He regarded you closely, the wind ruffling his hair. “I was under the impression that me being there helped you- even if just a bit. But if all it did was make you feel sorry, then maybe I shouldn’t have come.”

“It did help me,” you said quickly. “Really. The mere thought that there was someone who wasn’t there because they had to be there was more help that I can even begin to explain. I mean Aunt Ellen and Jo are family, and though they didn’t know Gran too well, they still had at least some level of obligation to be there. And it was so thoughtful of Dean to drive Jo. But not a single person was there only and only for me, except you. Trust me, you got me through that evening.”

“Then why are you sorry?” He asked, perplexed. Though he appeared relieved at the same time.

“Because,” you said, resigning to finally saying it out loud. “It doesn’t justify clinging to you like that. It was really kind of you to come, but I think I overstepped my boundary.”

“Y/N,” Sam said, placing his hand on top of yours. “I didn’t come there from the kindness of my heart. I came because I was worried about you. It was driving me crazy thinking about how you were. I had to make sure with my own two eyes that you were okay. I’ve known you for what, a week? And even then, drove all the way across Kansas to just see you! And you think you overstepped boundaries?”

“As wrong as it sounds, I was really glad to see you. I don’t regret a minute of having you next to me. I think it kept me standing throughout the dinner,” you said in a low voice, not meeting his eyes. “The next day a few women brought casseroles over and they asked about you. I didn’t know what to tell them.”

“Not that you needed to tell them anything, because it was none of their business,” Sam said through gritted teeth, “But aren’t we, at least, friends?”

At least.

People didn’t want to kiss their friends, and you wanted to kiss Sam. Very Much.

“Thank you for being there, Sam,” you said, instead of replying to the question. “It meant a lot to me. It still means a lot to me.”

“What’re you going to do now?”

You shrugged. “Hope for an acceptance and then apply for a student loan. Then I can get out of Ellen’s hair.”

Sam braced himself against the smooth grass with his other hand- the one not laying over yours- resting it behind his back. This way, his torso stretched out, his t-shirt hitching up just a bit to reveal his belt. You tried your best not to look.

“You know Ellen and Jo don’t think like that,” Sam reasoned. “Jo was so worried about you. She still is.”

You sighed. “I know she is. This isn’t them. I’m just not comfortable. I just miss Gran so much, and I hate that I wasn’t there for her. I know I couldn’t have done anything to prevent it. It was a stroke and it was instantaneous, but I just can’t help feeling guilty… like if I had been there, I could have stopped it somehow. “

Sam didn’t say anything to contradict your words, didn’t try to oppose you in any way or tell you how you shouldn’t be feeling this way. He knew that one couldn’t control the way they felt. He simply put his hand on your shoulder, something he had done a lot that other evening. It was comforting and more familiar than it should have been. Your body simply accepted his touch now.

“She left the house to my name, or so a lawyer told me. He said I should sell it and use the money for college. I don’t want to sell it like it was a shack that didn’t mean anything to anyone. I want to keep it and turn it into a bakery one day, so someone who loves baking as much as Gran did can run it one day.”

You didn’t understand why you were telling him any of this. Maybe because you knew Sam wouldn’t preach or discredit any of your words. He simply listened. Listened and understood, not just what was spoken but also that which was left unsaid. He stroked the back of your hand with his thumb, the feel of his skin on yours felt calming.

“So what did you bet on?” You said after several moments of silence, raising the muffin from hell and waving it in front of him.

“That the ducks would eat it.” His mouth quirked up. “I don’t have high hopes, though.”

“We should at least try,” you suggested. “Ducks are vicious creatures. They just might eat it.”

The ducks did not eat it.

You tried throwing small pieces into the little pond in the park, and Sam tried chasing them much to your entertainment, but the ducks were smarter than you gave them the credit for.

“Blood fiends,” you glared as a couple of them flew off.

“You don’t like ducks?” He asked, amused.

“I was 6 when a duck attacked me. They are monsters.”

Sam laughed as the two of you made your way to the bench in the park. It was the same bench where he had taken you the first time you had met him. You could see the bar across the shrubbery in the distance.

When you looked back at Sam, his cheeks were slightly pink and so were the tips of his ears.

“Hey,” he said, his hand tucking his hair behind his ear. “Do you want to go out for dinner sometime?”

“Like a date?” You asked, surprised.

He licked his lips. “Yeah. Like a date.”

Sam was clearly nervous about this, absurdly more than you were. “That sounds nice,” you said.

“How about Saturday?” He asked, then laughed a short laugh. “I mean. I would have wanted to go sooner but I’m flying out of town.”

“It sounds great.”

Then he said those words that made your heart melt. “Y/N, I can’t wait for Saturday.”

**************************

“Damn, woman! You can bake.” Meg came hovering out of her room still in her pajamas. “This is what heaven smells like.”

You smiled at her over the fresh batch of cookies you had pulled out of the oven.

“Y/N! It smells like a Bakery in there. What are you doing?”

It was Kevin, shouting from the balcony.

“Come out here!” He yelled, and Meg opened the glass doors of the balcony wide.

“In a minute!” You shouted back, replacing the tray with a new one in the oven and adjusting the dials.

Both Jack and Kevin were in the window, looking like they had just woken up. Even the undergrads seemed to be out on their balconies downstairs. You could hear the muttering.

“I’m baking cookies for everyone,” you announced, leaning against the railing.

“And by everyone, you mean...?” Asked Meg.

“Just everyone,” you waved your hand vaguely. “So far there’s 138 and counting. I’ve been up since six.”

“You’re mental,” said Meg.

“Those cookies were just for me!” Said Jack at the same time as her.

Pam, who was just entering the apartment from what must have been a night shift at the bar looked up at the assembled crowd.

“What the hell?” She shouted. “Y’all are really this jobless first thing in the morning, huh?” Then she paused to sniff. “What’s that wonderful smell?”

“Y/N’s baking cookies for everyone.” Kevin was kind enough to provide her with an answer.

“Don’t you have better things to do than feed these idiots?”

You grinned down at her. “There’s a whole batch for you.”

“Well, God bless your soul, you sweet child,” she said and disappeared under the awning.

You were sure to pack some cookies with you while leaving for the first day of your job.

The Robert Crown Law library was starting to feel homely enough by this point, thanks to having spent so much of last week there for the Civil Procedure assignment. The Librarian on duty was supposed to overlap her shift with you for today and tomorrow, so you could be trained. Molly was sweet and really helpful. The library was fairly empty today. It was easier for her to run you through the bookshelves and their arrangement, the basics of handling the data centre and the ultra-systematic cataloging. Molly insisted that she take the desk duty for the day while you familiarized yourself with everything. Back when you had worked as the library assistant in TU, you had always considered yourself to be lucky to get paid for spending time amidst so many books. That hadn’t changed.

“We’re really lucky with the Law library,” said Molly. “The other libraries are a mess, especially the big ones. People keep calling there all the time, and even visitors are allowed without appointments. Law library only gets our usual crowd and very few people are a particular pain in the ass.”

Molly was a final year student. She had taken a break after her second year to backpack across Europe. Apparently she really didn’t have any anxiety whatsoever about her career. Whatever the case was, she was super chill.

“These cookies kick ass, by the way,” she hummed after taking a bite out of the one that you had offered. You smiled and bent down to retrieve the tags.

“How’s it going, Molly?”

You stilled.

“Sam!” You heard Molly squeal. “You’re back again? Spending an awful lot of time here these days, aren’t you?”

“Oh, it’s the loneliness,” he said in a mocking voice.

“Y/N, What’re you doing down there. Get up,” Molly called.

Slowly you got to your feet.

Sam straightened like a rod at the sight of you. He was wearing flannel today over a pair of jeans, which shocked you because you were so not used to seeing him in anything except suits. It made him look so young. Not like your Sam, or the professor you distanced yourself from, but painfully somewhere in between.

“Sam, this is Y/N. She’s the new odd-shifts librarian,” Molly introduced cheerfully. “Y/N, this is Sam Winchester. Does he teach you?”

She turned to Sam. “Do you teach her?”

“Uhh-”

“Oh, of course you don’t remember her name, even if you do teach her. It’s been like two weeks,” she prattled on. “Do you take a class for the first year?”

“Civil procedure,” he said curtly, not sparing you a single glance. Then he spoke to Molly. “Can you grab that book I was reading yesterday? I think I asked you to keep that one aside.”

“Sure. Here,” She handed him a Code violation handbook from under the table. He promptly turned away from the table, heading straight for a bench that did not have a view of the Librarian’s desk.

It hurt. It hurt like a whiplash each time he ignored you. Pretended that you didn’t exist. And it sucked that you couldn’t even blame him for it.

“Isn’t he amazing?” Molly sighed after Sam.

“Sure,” you muttered, going back to retrieving the cards.

“It’s not unusual for professors to be here, but Sam’s been spending an awful lot of time in the library since the past few weeks. I wonder what’s up.”

You avoided the whole section of the library where Sam sat, sticking to the computers and going through the database cataloging. It wasn’t long before Sam was back at the table.

“Actually, can I take this book to go?” He asked.

“Leaving already?” You heard the thrumming of keys as Molly entered the book’s name in the directory of issued books.

You did not turn around to peep, and the desk was almost out of earshot anyway.

“That’s it, then?”

“Thanks, Molly.”

“Hey, you want to grab a cookie before you leave?”

“Sure!”

You heard the crumbling sound of the wrappers and then a crunch.

There was a pause. In an almost imperceptible voice, so low that you had to strain your ears to hear it, Sam said, “Tell her these are lovely.”

Blood rushed to your ears, and you did not hear the rest of the interaction. You didn’t even go back to the desk again till the end of the shift. By the time you returned, all the cookies were gone and Molly was humming to herself softly, completely having forgotten about passing on the compliment. She waved at you as you left for the day and you waved back absentmindedly.

Tell her these are lovely.

He knew. He just knew.

*******************************

A/N 2: Last slow chapter!!! Yay. Things start escalating pretty quickly after the next chapter. No playing footsie. ;)

TO THE FIVE OF YOU WHO LEAVE COMMENTS- Y’all are the ones keeping me posting, really. You RULE!

PLEASE let me know what you think of this story?

If you want be tagged, you can send me an ask or add yourself to the taglist here.

Or here’s my side blog @percywinchester27-writes. You can give that blog a follow and turn the notifications on to know about updates.

ALLU taglist:

@feelmyroarrrr @gabavaldman @im-a-light-child @cosicas-cuquis @bllyjianne @hoboal87 @i-is-for-inspiring @daughterleftbehind @wackiekebab @mylovelydame21 @dancing-the-hellfire-rumba @superbadassnatural @bellastellaluna @babypink224221 @badlittlehabit99 @anathewierdo @sams-bubblegum-bitch @damn-it-now-im-obsessed @fandomoverdose666 @superstarmarvel @atc74 @aiofheavenandhell @rebel-author-chick @death-unbecomes-you @cookiechipdough

#lawyer!Sam #professor!Sam #sam winchester x reader #sam x reader fluff #sam winchester reader insert #spn fanfiction #sam winchester fanfiction #allu6 #a lot like us 6 #Ana writes ALLU #Ana writes Sam #anawritesspn #anawrites #q

114 notes · View notes