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elysianslove · 4 years ago

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secrets that you keep; iwaizumi hajime

synopsis; in which his best friend is secretly a camgirl. part 1, part 2

pairings; iwaizumi hajime x fem!reader

genre; smut

trigger warnings; i highly recommend reading the first two parts before this. they’re only drabbles that introduce everything! anyways, this is absolute filth. don’t read this if any of the stuff mentioned could trigger you, please! masturbation, camgirl stuff, one mention of the word ‘daddy,’ self choking, degradation, humiliation, dacryphilia, unprotected sex, creampie, a lot of choking, accidental breathplay, not proofread unfortunately

she knows.

does she?

it’s an ongoing inner battle he’s been having for weeks now, ever since he’d been directed to that trending video of yours. he sees you in his dreams, hears you loud and clear, moaning and crying for him, and worst of all, he feels you, so perfectly, against his, around him, and it’s overwhelming in the worst way possible. even maintaining eye contact is tiresome at this point.

but he does wonder whether you know or not, more often than he should— were you deliberately calling out for him, in hopes that he’d find this video somehow? or had you said it because you’d assumed this is your safe place, that there’s no way he’d be able to find these videos? had it been a slip up? or, more accurately, multiple slip ups? what were the chances anyways, that it had been an accident, or unintentional, or intentional and he had been losing sleep over it, or that he wasn’t the hajime you were crying out for?

his heard hurt. awfully. there’s already the constant worry of regulating his breathing around you and cleansing his thoughts of anything he’d seen of you the moment you meet, but this added dilemma is in no way helping. every day that you text him for a coffee date, or a night out after a rather stressful week, or a night in at your apartment, and he agrees, his mind diverts immediately to where it shouldn’t as soon as he lays eyes on you. and the worst part of it all is how aware he is of how wrong this is. he knows it’s wrong to choose the revealing shirt over the other when you ask him for his opinion, just because he wants that effortless glance at your cleavage. it’s also so wrong of him to give a higher rating to that obscenely short dress than that other, knee length one because of the way your thighs squeeze when you sit. it’s definitely wrong of him to offer clasping your anklet, the one he’d gotten for you, the one that had been the dead giveaway to your secret online persona, just because your legs feel so soft against the rough pads of his fingers, when he resists the urge to trail upwards, upwards, upwards—

it’s fucking ridiculous.

he can’t believe just how deep of a rabbit hole finding one of your videos is, how it’s impossible to climb out and away, and even worse, how he keeps falling deeper. the one time he decides to jerk off to porn. it’s really ridiculous.

about a week ago, three weeks after finding that video of yours someone had uploaded— which had been taken down because of copyright, and hajime personally thinks that’s fair, considering there’s a reason you pay people to watch your videos and look through your photos, otherwise you would’ve taken the liberty to post everything for free yourself— hajime gives in, and subscribes to you. it’s with a randomized account name, something he tried his very best to make as anonymous as possible, so that it would in no way lead back to him. he doesn’t check in on your account as often, also having taken the time to turn off notifications and not have anything sent to his email, and it’s mostly out of shame. he already feels dirty enough having seen this much of you, even more that he’s fantasized about you. he’s not about to make it worse for himself.

every once in a while, though, especially days where he’s sure he’s completely free of responsibilities, he logs on, and finds your page. it just so happens that tonight, you’re hosting a live stream. swallowing his pride and shame, literally so, he shifts on his bed, sitting up straighter, and clicks to join.

he’d been a little late apparently, because you’re already bare, sitting on a chair. your legs are lifted up, knees bent and hooked over the chair’s arms, the camera angled to show everything, from your cute eyes to the flesh of your ass. there’s a vibrator in your hand, buzzing lightly as it hovers by your clit, dipping between your folds, sliding back up again to rub lazily at your clit. beneath you, on the chair, is a small damp spot, leaking from your cunt. hajime stops himself before his jaw falls slack at the sight of you, and instead, he clears his throat, gritting his teeth and watching carefully.

you’re not so talkative during your videos, just exclamations of pleasure and (the most beautiful of) noises, so he hadn’t expected you to be during your lives. to his surprise, you are, and it’s filthy.

whimpering lightly, you press the vibrator harsher on your clit, your other hand traveling up to squeeze at your breast. “m’so needy,” you admit with a soft pout, adding, “want you to tell me what to do, mmh.”

he’s assuming the ‘you’ is the audience, whoever’s willing to speak up, and it’s then that he notices the chat option. his eyes flicker curiously to it, hands twitching where they sit fisted at his lap as he sees the chat explode with orders and commands and suggestions for you.

one writes, stuff urself full, and hajime gapes.

another commands, wanna see u cry tn, and hajime privately agrees.

someone else writes, gonna squirt princess?

hajime’s hands twitch again, and he frowns, digging his nails into his palms. you’re ignoring all the suggestions, and it’s obvious because you’re reading through them, mouthing some of them, giggling at some, curiously gasping, ‘oh,’ at others, eyebrow quirking. the vibrator trails down to your hole again, and you experimentally dip it inside slightly, shivering visibly as the vibrations rush through you, and the moment he hears you moan so loud, he thinks, fuck it, and his hands reach for his keyboard.

choke yourself.

fuck, fuck, fuck, he did not just do that.

his heart is racing embarrassingly fast beneath his ribcage, loud and pathetically deafening in his ears as he watches your eyes read through the rest of the messages, and you’ve stopped mouthing them, your eyes are widening— which one are you at now? are you just going to ignore him? why wouldn’t you? of course you—

“you’d like that, huh?” you teasingly slur, a lazy, cheeky grin painting your lips, your teeth biting down on your lower lip and your hand— your hand—

it’s trailing upwards, upwards, upwards, until it finds its way around your throat, resting lightly, and just as he sees your fingers squeeze at the sides of your neck slightly, carefully, you pout at the camera, looking straight at him, and asking, “like this, daddy?”

a low fuck wheezes past his lungs, and his hand quickly presses down at the bulge in his sweatpants, squeezing and rubbing at his clothed dick as he watches you, entranced. people watching you with him have taken to thanking him for the idea, and to praising you, calling you a good girl, cursing, rapidly typing out something along the lines of you’re so hot i wanna fuck you so bad, and god, hajime hates that he relates to something as stupid as that.

your hips roll and your head falls back, hand not once leaving your throat. if anything, your grip tightens. you click on the vibrator, and the buzzing becomes louder, your moans with it, as if you were competing. you cry and gasp and sob, writhing in your own hold, your thighs tensing and your hole clenching around nothing as you harshly rub the vibrator against your clit. your cunt gushes and drips as you bring yourself closer to your orgasm, as you cry out a string of, “m’gonna cum, so close, so close!” and a mixture of lewd curses, until finally, you cum. you’re sent over the edge, legs swinging on the chair, high pitched squeals falling from your lips— which hajime can’t decide are real or not, or whether he wants them to be or not. you thrash and cry, tears, as promised to some other watcher, dripping down your cheeks.

the last straw however, is your comedown from your high, sobs hiccuping and muscles twitching, eyes half closed and body limp as you mewl out, “hajime, hajime, hajime,” like you’re not even aware you’re doing it. like it’s subconscious.

hajime swears again, a deep, low, “fuck,” and looks down to find a damp spot on his lap. he really came from barely any friction, all because of you. this really is as ridiculous as it gets.

the next time he sees you, there are the faintest of bruises on your neck. it’s not so obvious that just anyone would notice, but ever since becoming hyperaware of everything that is you and everything that you do, it’s hard not to have them be the first thing he sees. to ensure that the atmosphere between the two of you remains easy, he flicks at your neck and tuts with a smirk, asking you jokingly if you were in your hoe phase.

“so vulgar, hajime,” you sarcastically retort, teasing him. “you like calling me mean things?” and he has to avert eye contact because all his walls crumble so quick.

it’s just the two of you tonight, in his apartment, all your other mutual friends having cancelled at one point or another. it’s not an unusual occurrence; more often than not, the two of you are alone. however, it’s been a while since you’d been alone, privately. a while meaning ever since hajime had discovered your side hustle of a sort. he hadn’t been purposely avoiding this— no, maybe he has, but to be fair, he’s still yet to recover from the initial shock.

it also doesn’t help that since today had meant to be a relaxing night in, you’re dressed casual, but in the hottest fucking way possible. he hopes he hadn’t been blushing as hard as he thinks, and feels, he was, when you’d first stepped into his home. on your hips is a short, black skirt, flowing out to your upper thighs, where just above your knees start a pair of dark thigh highs, squeezing at your thighs and accentuating your legs as you strut around his apartment, feet bare of any shoes or slippers. he can’t decide whether it’s cute or just plain hot. somehow, with you, it’s both. your shirt is off the shoulder, a dark, navy blue bardot, and beneath it, peeking out to rest at your collarbones, is a black bralette. he can barely just see the intricate lace designs, but it disappears and dips beneath your shirt before he can see more of it.

you’re spread out on the couch, laying along it on your stomach, a pillow tucked in your arms and beneath your head, your clothed legs bent and swinging up in the air. he sits right by you, thigh right by your head, his body as tense as ever. it’s impossible not to be you, not with you in such close proximity to him when only a few days ago he’d watched you make yourself cum, and had heard you whimper out his name after. who can blame him, really?

with your eyes trained on the screen, he hadn’t been expecting you to speak up.

“iwa, what type of porn do you watch?”

he nearly chokes, eyes widening as he spares you a glance. your legs continue to swing innocently, your eyes unmoving, your voice unwavering. the suddenness of the question certainly threw him off, but it’s your nonchalance that really shocks him. but, considering everything, it really shouldn’t have.

“uh, what?” he offers weakly, wincing slightly at the barely there crack in his voice.

you sigh, shifting to sit up. you plant yourself on your knees, spreading them apart slightly to get comfortable, and shrugging at him. “i’m just curious,” you say. “or,” your eyes squint cautiously, your head cocking to the side slightly, “do you not watch porn?”

challengingly, his arms lift up to cross at his chest, and he doesn’t miss the way your eyes momentarily glance at the way his biceps bulge. it makes his confidence spike slightly, nervousness ebbing away. “what type of porn do you watch?”

you gasp dramatically, joking, “take a girl out to dinner first, my god.” he laughs, relaxing lightly at the banter, before his eyes fall back to you. you inch forward curiously, cautiously, still on your knees. now closer to him, you ask again, “seriously, i’m really curious! confirm my suspicions for me.”

“oh?” he quirks an eyebrow. “so you think you know?”

at this, you offer him a knowing smile, eyes slightly half lidded. you’re somehow even closer now, leaning towards him with your hands resting on the small space between you and him in the couch, helping you in lifting yourself up slightly on your knees as you say in a low voice, “baby, i think everyone knows.”

at the sight of you by his side, he feels himself shiver, and an idea invades his mind before he can even process it. “oh, do you now?” he’s not sure where this boldness is emerging from, especially with how cautious and shameful he’d been and felt for weeks now, but he accepts it either way, because the way you’re staring at him like that, he never wants to let it go. and although he wants to drag out this intense eye contact even longer, in order to do what he wants to do, he has to break it, reaching for his phone instead. unable to contain your curiosity, you peak over, watching with confusion as he types out a link.

the blood drains from your face when you recognize your page on his browser, and he’s logged on— he’s subscribed.

“what type of porn do i like to watch?” he wonders rhetorically. the phone is pushed aside, and he sits up straighter so that even on your knees, he looms over you. his eyes are skimming over you, along your body, up to your neck, to your lips, to your shocked, wide eyes. and just as his hand trails up to your throat, his palm resting at the base and one finger tapping lightly, he says, “the type where my favorite girl cries out my name when she cums for the world to see.”

the hand around your throat—

“you,” you breathe out, and finally, finally, when your brain makes sense of everything, your body relaxes, sags against him, leaning more into him until his hand’s properly wrapped around your throat.

with your mind hazing over, you reach over, and kiss him.

he meets you halfway, as if having expected it, lips pressing harshly against his. his hand tightens as he pulls you closer, lifting you up slightly and bringing you closer to him as his mouth parts, breathing you in, and kissing you deeper, lewder. you shiver and gasp, hands grasping at his wrist and forearm, not to push him away but rather to urge him closer, as you kiss him back just as eagerly. it seems like hours, with his hand around your neck, tight and a daunting reassurance, and your lips wet and hot against his, but eventually, his hand slides down, the other mirroring it, finding their way to your waist, squeezing and bunching at the skirt as he, with complete and utter and shocking ease, lifts you up off the couch.

you gasp as he stands up with you, your legs quickly wrapping around his waist as he pulls you to him. as he blindly walks the two of you to his bedroom, he breathlessly asks in between your kisses, “is this— you sure this is okay?”

with a sharp tug at his hair, you jokingly spit out, “iwa shut up.”

he tosses you onto the bed, allowing you a minute to strip yourself of your shirt while he slips out of his own, before quickly falling above you, caging you in with his arms as he kisses you again. “not iwa,” he quietly asks of you.

for a moment you’re confused, before everything clicks again— your slip ups— and your legs lift up, wrapping around his waist and pulling his hips closer to yours just as you mewl out, “hajime, please.”

god, he is way easier than he thought he was.

his entire body shudders above you, one hand lowering to push at your skirt to grind his hips down against yours until his clothed crotch meets your bare cunt and— holy fuck, holy fuck.

“fuck, you slut.”

you gasp at both his words and the feel of his bulge pressing down against your clit, his lips meeting your neck instead. “you do like calling me mean things,” you say, and he scoffs, his hand traveling upwards to squeeze at your breasts instead.

“you like me calling you mean things,” he notes, and you let out a muffled moan as he pinches at your nipples through the bralette, lips biting and sucking at your neck.

“i do,” you pant, arching up into him. “i do, i do.” his hands are fumbling at your chest, and god, they’re so large, so big and warm and harsh, it’s fogging up your brain.

“yeah, yeah, fucking whore,” he growls, pushing himself slightly on his knees, hands tugging at the bralette. his fingers dip past, gripping the fabric tightly, and as he says, “can’t fucking— take this shit— off,” he tears through it, knuckles whitening as he pulls it away from your body, or what’s left of it. the frills of the ruined bra fall off the edge of his bed, and he watches your wide eyes and gaping mouth follow it, so he grabs at your jaw, twisting your gaze away from it and grunting a low, “shut up.”

you pull away from the kiss, breathing heavily as you say, “that was so fucking hot, hajime,” before kissing him again. he parts his mouth as you lead him to you again, tongue easily meeting yours.

it’s a messy kiss as he slips himself out of his sweatpants, taking his boxers with it and discarding them somewhere in his room. his cock slaps against his stomach, a single string of precum messily staining his tan abs. your eyes are quick to gaze down, lips painted a dazzling grin as his hand finds his cock, squeezing at the head and smearing his precum along.

“knew you were fucking big,” you gasp, eyes trained on him as he strokes himself above you, and he is. he’s so big, thick and heavy, and veiny and your mouth waters at how that’s going to feel when inside of you, stretching you out so good, so much better than any of the toys you had at home. “i thought,” a squeal hiccups out of you as both of his hands grab at your hips from beneath your skirt, one sticky and warmer than the other, “about you all the time.”

your confession draws his attention, and when he’s pulled you close enough, two of his fingers trail to your cunt, quirking an, “oh?” just as he dips his fingers inside. the lack of resistance he’s met with is surprising, and he chokes out, “did you stretch yourself out before coming here? fuck yourself on some fake cock?”

tightlipped, you moan, brows furrowed and back arched into him. god, his fingers were not enough. “yes, yes,” you gasp, head falling back. despite not needing to, he still fingers you, his thick digits fucking into you slowly, driving you insane by the second. “yes, i— pretended t’was you,” you whine loudly. at your words, he curls his fingers inside of you, twisting his wrist and pressing his palm directly on your clit.

“do you always?” he lowly asks, dipping closer to you as he fucks his fingers deeper. his fingers were inside of you, the cunt he’d spent over a month marveling at through a screen, the pretty pussy his dick had drooled over for hours. you’re real, as real as ever beneath him falling apart, making a mess of your black skirt, drenching it with your arousal.

you moan out a hum, nodding dumbly as his fingers vibrate with the intensity of speed inside of you, your toes curling in your thigh highs and face twisting to press into his mattress. “always,” you cry out, like a promise. “always think of you— hajime!”

it’s an unexpected orgasm, hitting you so fast and quick that it’s outright dizzying. it has you lifting your hips up into his fingers and palm, grinding and trembling, your legs falling and spreading open, shaking wildly by your side and above you as he fucks you through the orgasm.

“hajime, hajime, hajime,” you chant, words trailing off into tiny sobs and shuddering breaths as your hips slowly fall back onto the bed, body still trembling with aftershocks.

you’re fucked out beyond words already that you genuinely don’t feel a thing until he’s pressing inside of you, the fat head of his cock stretching you out. he’s really no match for your toys, and if seeing him hadn’t been enough confirmation, the feel of him pressing inside of you definitely is. he doesn’t ease himself in slowly, urgently grabbing the back of your thighs with either hand, keeping your legs spread for him as he bottoms out.

“fuck, fuck, knew you’d feel so good,” he grunts, brows furrowed harshly as he digs his fingers deeper against the flesh of your thighs, forcing your legs closer to your chest, and somehow pushing himself even deeper within you. you whine and mewl, toes curling and uncurling and legs trembling. “knew it the moment i saw your pretty pussy creamin’ around that thick cock.”

at the reminder that he’s watched and witnessed you, multiple times, that he’s subscribed to you willingly and curiously, you clench down around him. you feel him twitch inside of you, groaning loudly as he falls closer to you, your legs falling to his waist.

“you like knowing i was watching you?” he sneers, his hand reaching up and gripping at your face, squishing your cheeks and forcing a pout on your lips. your eyes nearly fucking cross as he rams into you, his fingers digging into your jaw. “you like that i fucked my fist every night to you? to your pretty cunt and your pretty noises and your pretty face— yes, good girl, that one.”

your eyes do cross this time, spurred on by his words, your tongue peaking out through the small gap he allows with how harsh he’s gripping your face. he’s pushing out little mewls and cries from you, but otherwise, you quite honestly feel braindead.

“fuck, you’re a gorgeous little slut,” he gasps. “all mine to fuck and use.”

you’re quick to nod rapidly, whining and moaning for him as you grip at his biceps. you’re choking on your breath as you struggle to keep up with him while he fucks you into the mattress, so fucking hard and rough that you’re sure there’ll be an indentation of you once you leave. you can feel your cunt gushing, and you can hear it too, squelching loudly with every thrust of his hips, every time his cock fucks into you. your skirt feels sticky and gross, and so does the rest of you, but you’ve never, never, felt this euphoric, this blissed out.

your stomach tightens impossibly, the tension gradually increasing as your walls tightly squeeze and clench at his cock. slowly and surely, the pressure within you increases, your hands flying to hajime’s arm, the arm whose hand grips your face, which quickly moves to your throat at your simple gasping warning that you were close.

“gonna cum, gonna cum, hajime, fuck!”

he tightens his grip, pressing harsher on the sides of your neck as your eyes shut tightly, your head falling back once more.

“yeah, come on, show me how pretty you look cumming on a real cock,” he whispers by your ear, using the hand that’s around your throat to lift up your head, before roughly pushing it back down, squeezing tighter. “you like it this rough?�� shit, shit, you’re tightening.”

you scream, voice cracking and broken as he slams into you again, his hips grinding against yours momentarily, pelvis hitting your clit— and you’re gone, thrashing in his hold, fat tears streaming down your cheeks as you sob and heave, your body shaking uncontrollably beneath him, hips shaking as your orgasm rocks through you. it’s not a few seconds later that he’s spilling inside of you, accidentally pressing his palm down against your throat as he cums, blocking your airway momentarily.

“hngh,” he gasps deeply, cock twitching inside of you as he cums, hips barely grinding. you’re gasping, a little painfully, struggling to take in any air as he blinks dazedly, before he finally takes notice. “shit, shit, i’m sorry.”

his hand flies away from your throat, and you inhale sharply, coughing lightly as air fills your lungs all too suddenly. the strength of this man, holy fuck.

“i’m so sorry; are you okay?”

chest still heaving, you fall onto the bed, body relaxing as you try and regulate your breathing. “s’okay, i’m okay,” you reassure him, hands reaching up to pat at his cheeks and comb through his messy, sweaty hair.

he leans forward, pressing a kiss to your forehead, and it’s so endearing that you nearly forget he’s still inside of you. but you feel the shift of his cock, feel his cum slowly start to ooze out of your cunt, and he winces from the oversensitivity, shifting away to instead pull out of you. his soft cock falls from your cunt, a steady flow of his cum following. hajime has to physically resist from reaching out to fuck it back into you.

“i’m sorry i wasn’t careful ‘nough with the—“ he makes a gesture with his hands around his neck, “—the choking.”

you laugh lightly, tiredly, hands slowly caressing at his sweaty biceps. “stop apologizing,” you reassure him again, shrugging with a small smile as you add, “just be more careful next time.”

his breath gets caught in his chest, and he only softly exhales when he falls on the bed, to your side, carefully repeating, “next time.”

from beside him, you lift yourself up on your side on your elbow, palm cradling your head, trying your best not to wince in pain. “hajime?”

he spares you a glance as he mumbles, “hm?” opting to stare at the ceiling and contemplate whether what had just happened was real life or not.

“do you wanna do a video with me?”

he all but chokes.

end note; please this took me like 4+ hours. please please please don’t flop, and more importantly, i really hope i don’t disappoint. i know this has been a long awaited piece, so i’m praying and hoping you guys love it.

love you all, mwah <3

#haikyuu smut #iwaizumi smut #iwaizumi x reader #haikyuu x reader #iwaizumi hajime x reader #iwaizumi hajime smut

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witchyangela · 4 years ago

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Team Edward vs Team Jacob? ( or Maybe it can be that deep)

Unless you’ve been totally removed from popular culture these past few years you have heard about Team Edward vs Team Jacob. It was everywhere for a while and it was one of the things that both drew people to twilight and drive people away. It also, while not inventing love triangles, added a huge amount to their popularity and prevalence in fiction (particularly YA). The other most famous love triangle in YA is of course from the Hunger Games.

However if you ask any self respecting Hunger Games fan about it, they will tell you it’s more than just that, that Peeta represents peace and rebuilding while Gale represents retribution and destruction (at their most simple) and Katniss choosing between them is in fact her choosing her future. This symbolic view of love triangles is rarely discussed Re. Twilight, and with good reason as it’s unlikely Smeyer intended one to be there. However I think, that twilight can be read in an equally allegorical way, so please take a trip with me to find out what’s beyond team Edward and team Jacob.

The very first question, is what do Edward and Jacob represent? The most obvious answer in life and death. Language describing Edward is full of metaphors describing him as cold, as drug like, as painful. Smeyer describes Bella feeling “withdrawal” when she is away from him. Jacob however is associated primarily with the sun and with warmth. There’s also the factor that physically Edward is dead, he has no heartbeat, doesn’t grow, doesn’t eat human food. Whereas Jake has a quick heart beat, grows more quickly that the average human, and needs to eat more human food. In this way Jacob seems to represent humanity at its most extreme, he is more human than Bella, Edward is less.

However this falls apart around eclipse, when Jacobs warmth becomes “burning” however it’s wildly accepted that Smeyer changed Jacobs characterisation drastically in Eclipse, even reverting back to his og characterisation in Breaking dawn. So If we take away that element then Edward and Jacob representing life and death makes sense. However Bella choosing death over life is wrong, right?

Well maybe not. At least not in Bellas mind. From the first line of the series we know Bella is borderline obsessed with death. She is distressingly self sacrificing, the first line of the entire series is her deciding to die “in the place of someone ( she) loves”. And throughout new moon Bella continues to be self destructive. It’s interesting that the famous cliff dive, is to get towards Edward in the form of a halluncination. And she is saved by Jacob. This scene shows at its most basic that Bella leaping towards Edward is her jumping to her death. And yet she chooses it. So it’s fair enough to say that Bella doesn’t particularly want to live.

Which is why Edward is the one she chooses. He offers the option for her to stop aging, to have to never make the difficult decisions that come with age. In many ways Bella choosing Edward is a symbolic death. But it’s also a very attractive prospect for a teenager anxious about aging, with a complex about responsibility. Which let’s face it lots of the people reading twilight were. Choosing Edward is easy because her is an end to all problems. Wheras while Jacob may offer solutions too through friendship and warmth. His path requires effort.

Which is why I think that Life and Death might be too reducative. When in reality they represent Stagnation and Recovery. Bella is put in a position where if she chooses Jacob she will have to work on herself. With him she is actively building the bikes, which are a fairly obvious metaphor. They were broken by someone else, but by putting time and effort in they can work again. Which is very much what is happening with Bella in New Moon, she feels broken but begins to put in work to put herself together.

Continuing the metaphor, in eclipse Edward presents Bella with his own motorbike. It’s fancy, fast, and ready to go. It doesn’t require work to be put in. And Bella sees it how the audience does. That it doesn’t meant the same as it doesn’t have the same love put into it. It isn’t the motorbike that matters but the time spent building it. And again and again Edward and Jacob are shown like this. Jacob gives Bella a wolf charm he spent time and love carving, but Edward gives Bella a diamond, that’s flashy but has no real meaning.

So she should have chosen Jake right? Well yes but it’s not that simple! Bella is clearly vulnerable and what she thinks she wants is what Edward is giving, something ready made, a perfect family, wealth, security, but she doesn’t see that they’re as empty as the bike Edward gives. She could have these things with Jake but she would have to work for them, would have to put effort into making his friends like her rather than have them be her “best friend” immediately. And putting work in is what makes things matter, as I established, but Bella doesn’t see this, she sees the security of the Cullens and is blinded by its flashy-ness. And Jacob can’t compete. Bella wants the end product immediately and he is a work in progress.

So what does this mean? If Bella chooses death and refuses to recover her ending is surely a tragedy? Well maybe! But it’s easier to understand once you look at it from the Mormon perspective it was written from. Because Edwards symbolic death isn’t a end. It is a beggining, and from then on its “paradise”. Bella choosing death is just a fast track to heaven. And hey, why bother trying to make your time on earth good when you know what comes next will be a thousand times better?

But if you remember that post that said “an immortal will never love as a human loves because love is about survival”? Yeah that’s the real Edward / Jacob divide. Eternity is impossible to comprehend, and maybe this is just me but even a “perfect forever” sounds like it would be unbearable. Jacobs version of a happy ending may be shorter and less complete but like the bike and the wolf charm it’s also more real. So it’s easy to understand why Bella, Smeyer, and many readers chose Edward, as a fantasy it’s unbeatable. But if I had to choose? Team Jacob forever!

#oh this is crazy #twilight #bella swan #edward cullen #jacob black #twilight saga #twilight meta #i call this can you tell what my belief sytem is from this meta the game show #tw suicide mention

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lilkermit14 · 3 years ago

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Lavender & Mint

Fem!reader x Pero Tovar

Synposis: In the conventional village of Cullfield lived an unconventional woman who served as an apothecary for the townsfolk. Stubborn and set in her ways, the woman of three tens remains unmarried and childless and plans to continue as such for the rest of her life, much to the horror and confusion of the village. But this unconventional woman has some surprises in store for her when an unconventional man named Pero Tovar rides into town, an event that will change both her and his plans forever—and may flip Cullfield upside down too.

Notes: Idk why I kept mentioning poop complications this chapter but I’m sorry and enjoy. It’s been a while but the CHAPTER is here. Please reblog!!!!

General Warnings: minor injuries, slow-burn, eventual smut, blood, childbirth

For this chapter: Non-sexual references to poop, mention pregnancy, murder, implicit brief reference to infanticide or child abandonment, pre-marital pregnancy and it’s complications in the 1400s, religious “morals”.

Chapter 5: Garlic

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“When was the last time you passed bowels, Mister Ashdown?” you inquire, pressing on the old man’s stomach knowing you have found the root cause of his stomach issues. He blinks for a moment thinking as he lays on your observation table, before telling you, “quite some time I’m afraid.”

“I see,” you move your hands away putting your hands on your hips, “well, it seems that you just have a case of constipation––burdensome but not something hard to fix or that will have you laying on your deathbed.”

“You sure?” he asks, almost confused, moving to rise up from the table by himself only for you to come to his assistance. You clarify yourself, “Yes, you have many signs that point to it. It can be caused by a lack of competitive foods in your diet and is more likely with old age.”

“I’m not that old,” He interjects, but you compete, “Yes, but you're old enough for a blockage sir––you’ll be glad to know you’ll live to be truly old as long the burden is treated.”

He huffs now in a sitting position with legs dangling from the table, “so what do you have so i’ll shit.”

You huff at his language, “standard garlic will help move the process along, and I’m suggesting you make sure to eat more greens and berries to clear your system.”

You always assumed that you were let free to discuss any matters with your patients when they were the only ones in the shop, as no one else resided in your residence besides you. But that arrangement had changed and you were not the only one that resided in your home, “If my cock and bowels stop working just have someone put me out of my misery.”

You turn rigid and scandalized to see the face of Pero Tovar standing in your back entrance of the shop—entered unbeknownst to you through quiet steps and a lack of clear view. Mister Ashdown has no qualms defending himself, “I’m only five tens and if my cock doesn’t work how is my wife pregnant?”

You want to scream having to hear this conversation and did certainly not want to be reminded of the conversations you were subjected to by Farrah Ashdown. When the woman at four tens and five found out she was pregnant she spared no expense in telling you how it happened. You opted to rush him along before you could get his account of what he does with his wife, “okay sir here’s your supply get going now.”

“Enjoy the shit,” you hear Pero say and before mister ashdown can respond he is out your door. You turn to Pero fury and rage evident on your face as you are prepared to let the flames of hell loose on him. All he has is a stupid look on his face as he lets out the word, “what?”

“You bastard,” you begin pointing your finger at him moving towards him with menace in your voice towards a man that stands unbothered, “you do not talk to ANY of my clients in such manner especially in my shop.”

“Why is that hermosa? I would be rude to that man outside of your business, what makes your apothecary different?” He queries again with that name, only increasing your anger and distaste for him at the moment. With clenched teeth, you answer him, “I don’t care what you say to Mister Ashdown in town, but my shop is a place of respect––a place where anyone can come for health problems even if they are embarrassing. I want people to know they won’t be judged here because if they feel like they will be, they will come when it’s too late and I can’t do anything for them.”

Pero raises his brow at you, but lets you continue your rant uninterrupted, “When my mother was still alive, a young woman at ten and six came to us complaining of diarrhea, something she was embarrassed to talk about because it was gross and she did not want suitors to find out. Turns out she had sickness from a miasma––we took one look down the town well and discovered a deer had fallen in and died overnight.”

“That was lucky,” he comments, still invested in your story despite the vile nature of talking about excretion. You continue, “Yes, and we may not have caught it so soon if she didn’t come to us. The sickness is fast acting, in hours many more villagers could have been sick, but it was only her––and she lived.”

“Lived?” you smile at his question feeling pride at the healing powers your mom had and hope you live up to, “Yes, the sickness causes dehydration quickly but if you keep the person well hydrated and area clean to prevent reinfection––they will live. This summer she gave birth to her third child at my aid.”

“So their trust is important to you?” you give him a simple nod, glad he is understanding what you were asking of him. You turn to clean up the materials you had brought out to examine Mister Ashdown, not realizing that Pero was not done with questions, “Like how that woman came to you the other day crying in distress?”

You freeze––you had really thought the interest in Mariam had ended when William had first asked you about her the day after asking if she was okay. You nodded and told him it was just feminine needs and didn’t serve much interest in men, something that usually turned men away from asking questions. Well not Pero Tovar I guess, “Why was she crying?”

“It’s a complicated matt––”

“Things of safety are something I have to worry about you know,” He interjects, and you turn your head looking at him to see something serious cross his face, “I have to keep everyone in this village safe––you in particular hermosa––and I want to know if theres something you need to tell me.”

“Part of gaining trust is not telling personal information,” you counter, pulling together to formulate a lie, “It’s nothing of safety she was upset about something––she’s a friend of sorts to me.”

You can tell he doesn’t buy it––he can probably pull the full story together even though you doubt he’s heard a single thing about Mariam’s husband beating her––but he accepts, slouching and learning against a table in thought, “William and I may go for a short hunt––there's not much action in this town I’m afraid and we could use some fresh game.”

You nod, “If you catch any pigeon, I know how to handle it so it's not gamey.”

He huffs, “We're not very good hunters I’m afraid, so you’ll probably only get that or rabbit.”

–––––––––––––––––––

Pero Tovar had useful traits to him––like getting you pigeons––but he was mostly an annoyance. His mere presence always had you on edge, as you waited for something, something from him. It was usually something he said but if not it was his scent or stench rather of pine and something that was him. It was also his sloppy manner, the way he seemed raised with no table manners as he ate all your meals. He spoiled Mite, petting him and feeding him table scraps much to your despair. He was also too loud, his boots filling up the cottage and shop with noise, something that never usually happened.

You lent some time today to make more bread for the household, settling at your dining table and working the necessary ingredients for dough together. Mite lays in the corner, not doing his job as per usual and watching you with some sort of interest in the mannerisms of bread making, but he was likely just hoping for more food in the future. Kneading dough you begin to imagine the dough is Pero kneading your frustration into it. You press and it is his stupid broad shoulders that take up too much space. You pull, it’s the curls on the nape of his neck that are too unruly and untidy. You slam it down, it’s that stupid smile that appears on his face when you have entertained him. God you hate Pero Tovar.

“You may want to stop before you overwork the dough sweetheart,” You stop and see Mildred Becker staring at you with an amused look on her face. You huff Jesus, what does she want, “Sorry for my state, I didn’t hear you enter.”

“Don’t worry I understand too well––I always work out my anger into the dough,” you chuckle a little thinking about how a woman with too many children works out anger the same way as you––you definitely hate Pero Tovar, “I just stopped by because I’ve been meaning to talk to you about something.”

You perk up, “Is Cateline suffering from baby blues again.”

“No, No thank the lord––we’ve been watching over her better this time,” Mildred rounds off, and you remember despite the grievances she gives you, she is a good mother to her children. She was the first to notice that something was wrong with her daughter after the birth and came to you to talk about it. From there Cateline was able to recover and enjoy motherhood, “Something with your house guest Pero Tovar has come to my attention.”

“What did he do,” You ask, prepared to beat Pero Tovar with your broom, but Mildred settles you, “nothing he did, just something someone is doing around him.”

You raise your brow at her beckoning her to continue, “You know Stanislava Rolfe?”

“Of course,” you affirm, surprised she is asking you such a question when you have treated everyone in Cullfield five times over. Mildred continues, “Yes well, She has begun to work at the Inn as a barmaid––she did well with charming Balthasar I guess.”

You were wondering why a poor farmer's daughter’s career path interested you, but you didn’t interject, “I happened to take a quick ale there with my husband, when I noticed something with her and Pero Tovar. You see she appeared extra flirtatious with him––and although barmaids usually are flirty with men in hopes for extra coin, it was more intentional.”

You frown, how could such a beautiful young girl be interested in such a disgusting brute, “Why is she interested in him?”

“Who knows? Many of the girls around Cullfield were excited to see unfamiliar battle-hardened men I supposed,” She ponders for a moment, “all we do know is that she is likely interested in him.”

“I don’t think he is interested in taking a wife,” You contest, brushing aside that Pero would have feelings for the young girl of two tens. Mildred just gives you a hardened stare, “He doesn’t have to be interested in matrimony to want something from her.”

“Was he showing interest back?” you dig trying to figure out the full extent of what you are formulating must be a whirlwind romance. Mildred hums, “no I suppose not, but sometimes men take persistent interest as a way to have a good time.”

You bite your lip remembering that Pero did not fornicate with prostitutes but barmaids, and feel a ball of ache and pain in your stomach at the thought. Mildred instates, “I came to you about this because I want you to try to stop it.”

“Stop it?”

“Yes, make it clear he is to not have such guests,” Mildred explains, and you can tell by her tone and expression you are in for some sort of story, “You know well enough that things go arigh when an unmarried woman gets pregnant, right.”

“Of course,” you remember the chaos that erupted in families when one of their daughters ended up pregnant, and the hasty weddings that came from it. But Mildred had a different story, “although most of the time it gets swept under the rug with a quick marriage and everyone just chooses to ignore it––horrid things can happen when there's not one.”

Mildred sits down at the nearby table, in clear thought of something dark and you go to sit down at a nearby chair, “When I was about ten and eight, and old enough to understand these things, a girl was taken advantage of by a soldier in our village. She was ten and six, and him far older so he should have had the wisdom not to mess with her. What mattered was after it happened, he left with his troop and was never seen in my home village again. She got pregnant, and tried to hide it at first––her mom was dead and she had no older sisters or aunts to go to, so she was afraid to go to her father. When it became too obvious, hate inspired awful things in the leaders of the village, and by the time she gave birth it accumulated.”

Mildred takes a moment to pause, emotions brewing inside her and you feel yourself frozen in place, “she tried to talk to them, pleading, saying he pressured her––persuaded her, but they all pointed and said witch and condemned her son too. She was burn’t at the stake, and her son––well he was never seen again.”

A pause fills the air as you sit in shock, digesting what Mildred has told you, “I’m sorry you had to witness that.”

Mildred huffs, “I’m sorry too, I made sure to get a husband that would get me out of that village and landed a good one on the way––I had seen what that village did to women and children for the sake of moral value and did not intend to stay so my daughters could see too. Adultery is a two person crime that only one party, the feminine one, receives punishment for.”

“So that's why Pero and Stanislava are of such concern to you?” You assume, and Mildred nods, “Although I think Cullfield is of better standing, I don’t desire to find out what they would do if such a case erupted. The girl may be doing this because she intends to capture a man with a better job, but mercenaries rest for a few women and not those of ten and eight.”

“I can understand her intentions I suppose,” you contemplate, believing that she doesn’t hold much true interest in him, but for a better life. Mildred hums, “so is there a chance you can talk to Pero about it?”

“I already established that he is to not bring guests into my home, and I doubt they would find a secluded enough place otherwise,” you reassure, standing up, “I can even remind him today if you would like.”

“That would be good,” Mildred agrees, joining you in standing and allowing you to guide her to the door, “be on the lookout too if you see her come preying––even though he lacks true interest.”

“I will,” you say, and somewhere in your heart you feel prepared to beat Stanislava Rolfe with your broom instead of Pero.

________________

Gardening was no easy task but it was the most necessary task the runner of an apothecary and a household had. Today your tending to crops was more focused on your food supply rather than collecting the necessary ingredients to keep your shop running. You're pleased to see that the last of your harvest grew well, and know that your winter stock will last even with your house guest. You had already pulled out all the carrots, and beets, and had shucked the vines wounding your house of beans and brussel sprouts. You were now left to work at the tough vines of the gourds and squash, planning on leaving the single pumpkin for Pero to handle––who should be on his way home from helping Balthasar with something at his inn.

Standing up with the final gourd in hand––you see something that fills you with immediate displeasure and sickens you to your core. Pero is walking up to your house pursued by Stanislava. You don’t quite know why you feel this angry at him; maybe it’s because you gave him explicit reminders on conduct or maybe––something else. Seeing the near, and well hearing Stanislava, you attempt to think fast to try to get her to leave. Greeting them both in an unnatural kind manner, “Pero, Stanislava, greetings.”

Pero gives you an immediate strange look while his shadow is oblivious and greets you back, “I was just telling Pero this wonderful stor––”

“Oh I must ask how is your rash healing up,” You feel like clapping your hands over your lips the moment the words fly out of your mouth. Stanislava stops in her tracks staring at you blankly, “what?”

“The one I gave you the ointment for––on your groin,” Oh my God what were you doing.

Stanislava turns bright red, “Good thank you––I––I have things to tend to at home, good evening you two.”

Stanislava hurries off, and an amused smile erupts on Pero’s face, “thank you for finally scaring that crow off––she’s been yapping my ear off with nonsense for weeks––I guess you're my scarecrow.”

“Excuse me?” scarecrow, you were going to kill this man. He smiles, a genuine smile, “Yes you scared off my crow––like a scarecrow would. Plus you're covered in leaves right now.”

“Do not call me that”

“Fine mi espantapájaros”

“I swear I’ll smother you in your sleep”

“Is that a true promise for you? Like how you promised not to tell customers private information yet just shouted about the crow’s crotch rash,” at that your body works on it’s own, taking the gourd in your hand and flinging it at Pero’s chest. It was a magnificent shot, and caused the vegetable to break and splatter it’s internal organs onto Pero’s chest and neck. Pero steps back from the impact and looks down on the goop he’s now covered in, “Now, no good espantapájaros does that.”

You press your palm to your face, “Just cut the pumpkin for me and bring it inside, you could use a good bath anyway, your stench is disgusting.”

“I do not smell,” he retorts, and you ignore him, bringing inside your harvest. You really do hate Pero Tovar.

----------------------

Apothecary’s feelings––hate or nah yall?

Garlic is use to treat a lot of ailments in Arab traditional medicine, including heart disease, high blood pressure, arthritis, toothache, infections, and––as seen in this fic––constipation. Listen, I know the constipation part is true because I ate a pesto made with raw garlic and LORD did I shit. Anything else, not quite sure but hey worth a shot if you are desperate.

It is also seen as an immune booster for colds and coughs––in fact if you are congested from a cold putting a clove of garlic in each nostril can clear that shit OUT.

Garlic is also believed to help asthma symptoms. IDK if it actually is true but that’d be iconic because my mom loves garlic and she has asthma.

Garlic is my favorite seasoning. I put it in my soup. I put it in my eggs. I put it in my ramen. I put it in my burgers. I put it in my cooch––

taglist:

@poenariuniverse @harleyamidala @yespolkadotkitty @storiesofthefandomlovers @babybelou @legally-a-bastard @computeringturtle @clydesducktape @sixties-loser @buckysalefty @april-14-blog @prettylittlegoldfish @softpedropascal @maybege

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robininthelabyrinth · 4 years ago

Note

Hi :) For prompts, do you see any situation where Wen Qing and Lan Xichen could genuinely fall in love with each other? Like, not just political marriage of convenience or whatever. Would it be a thing of being drawn in by their fellow older sibling-ness? Or maybe lxc's competence kink meshing well with wq noticing that he isn't as much of a vanilla peacemaker as his usual front suggests? I think it could be quite an interesting pair but I've never seen it done before, I'd love to see your take!

“Xichen,” Lan Xichen’s uncle said. “Show Young Mistress Wen around.”

Lan Xichen smiled the way he’d been taught to smile, bowed the way he’d been taught to bow, and offered his arm the way he’d been taught.

The little girl in front of him did not seem especially impressed.

To be entirely honest, he thought he might like her just for that.

“So,” she said as they walked through the garden. “What did you do in a past life to deserve this?”

He sniggered, then tried to stop. Levity wasn’t disallowed, to be precise, but it wasn’t really encouraged, either.

“It’s bad for you to restrain laughter,” Wen Qing said. “Venting of emotions is a key part of maintaining a stable mind and a healthy body. Trust me, I’m a doctor.”

“You’re seven.”

“Says the eight-year-old. And anyway, I’m going to be a doctor. I’ve already started reading books and taking lessons. Just you wait!”

“Xichen,” Lan Xichen’s uncle said. “Show Mistress Wen around.”

“How’s the doctor thing coming?” he asked her as they walked along the pier by the river. “Still taking lessons?”

“Yes, of course,” Wen Qing said, and made a face. “I live in the Nightless City now, you know. Not just visiting sometimes – Sect Leader Wen insisted, saying it was a better place to develop my talent.”

She sounded wistful. Maybe even regretful.

“Sect Leader Wen probably wants you to be a good role model to his sons,” Lan Xichen said.

“You mean Greed and Malice?”

“Malice and Greed, I’d say,” Lan Xichen said. “Wen Xu is older, after all.”

“I thought your sect had rules about talking behind other people’s backs,” Wen Qing said, but she was smiling again, as he’d hoped.

“There’s an exception if it’s both true and helpful to know,” he said. “You have to be able to prepare yourself for dealing with people, after all. I think you’ll be a wonderful doctor.”

“I hope so,” she said, and looked a little downcast. “I can’t even heal my own little brother.”

“Neither can I,” Lan Xichen said, thinking of Lan Wangji’s grief – his silence and solemnity, so uncharacteristic for his age. He had never quite recovered from their mother’s death. “Maybe we’re just too young.”

“I’m going to grow up as fast as I can, then,” Wen Qing said. “Race you there?”

“Xichen,” Lan Xichen’s uncle said. “Show Doctor Wen around.”

“Congratulations,” he said to her as they walked through the crowded streets. “I understand that your paper on the development of the golden core in early stages was extremely well received.”

“It was,” Wen Qing said, looking pleased. “It’s a difficult area of study, but I wanted the reception it would get – there aren’t that many women practicing as doctors, you know, so we have to try harder.”

“I would think the opposite would be true, with novelty acting as a draw..?”

“Novelty is novelty, but with doctors people want to feel reassured. They don’t want something new.”

“I suppose that’s fair.”

They walked in a comfortable silence for a while, browsing through the stalls in search of presents for their younger brothers. Lan Xichen occasionally wished he had Nie Huaisang as a younger sibling – so easy to shop for – and when he mentioned it to Wen Qing she laughed and agreed.

Sometimes, nothing more needed to be said.

“Xichen,” Lan Xichen’s uncle said. “Show Lady Wen around.”

“I heard you’re going to be competing in the archery competition later,” she said as they walked along the edges of the competition grounds, a dirt path that twined through the foothills of a desolate mountain chasm.

“I am,” he said. “I’m still counted as part of the younger generation since my uncle is acting as sect leader.”

“But soon it will be you,” she said, and her gaze was fixed firmly in front of her, not looking at him at all.

It surprised him how much he missed it – her frankness, her cheer, her solemnity, her pleasant silence.

She reached out abruptly and he stopped, looking at her.

“You should hide some of your family’s books,” she said, still not looking at him. “Whatever you can, and quickly. Just in case.”

And then she started walking again, the same casual stroll, and it was as if she had never said anything at all.

Lan Xichen added bravery to the list of her qualities and followed.

“I’ll do what I can,” he said, thinking of the trouble it would cause with the Lan sect elders. Thinking of the trouble something like this – a warning – could cost her. “In the meantime, tell me about your planned course of study in Yiling. Are you focusing on any particular type of medicine this time?”

Wen Qing looked at him then, and her eyes were grateful.

“Actually,” she said, “I was thinking of designing my course around whatever illness were most prevalent in the region –”

“Xichen,” Lan Xichen’s uncle said. “Take charge of the prisoners.”

Lan Xichen very nearly handed off the work to Meng Yao – no, he was Jin Guangyao now, and he ought to remember that. He was tired after that final battle, after all the work they’d done, the losses they’d suffered, and he knew Jin Guangyao would do the work efficiently and well the way he always did. Anyway, the Jin sect was less damaged than they were, and could afford it, and Jin Guangyao wanted the opportunity to do something well to show his father his merits.

But then by happenstance he’d seen Wen Ning’s face in the crowd and realized that he couldn’t.

Jin Guangyao had been disappointed, but Lan Xichen had insisted, and as one of the heroes of the war Jin Guangshan couldn’t exactly refuse him. In the end, the Wen sect remnants came under the control of the Lan sect.

He set up the new village they would reside in himself – fenced in, but on good land, ready for growth – and soon enough other Wens came drifting out of the darkness to take shelter with their remaining kinsmen, just as he’d hoped.

“Any chance you can show me around?” Wen Qing asked, and Lan Xichen turned to face her with a widening smile. She looked tired and was too thin, the marks of the imprisonment that Jiang Cheng had reported on not yet faded, and yet he had never been happier to see her. “If you’re not too busy, Sect Leader.”

“Uncle,” Lan Xichen said in a tone that brooked no argument. “I’m going to show my wife around now.”

#mdzs #lan xichen #wen qing #my fic #my fics #short #venusdebotticelli

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yuyupowers · 3 years ago

Text

aristocrat!yunho

aristocrat!yunho x fem!reader

genre: fluff, angst

trigger warning(s): description of an anxiety attack, brief description of death, memory loss. let me know if there’s anything else!

author’s note: i swear this wasn’t supposed to be this long sdkjflds

none of the pictures are mine!

for reference, i’m using british peerage (hierarchy). there are five ranks: baron, viscount, earl (count), marquess, and duke - the highest being duke, and the lowest, baron.

eldest son of a duke

okay, so

among nobility, the jeon family are well respect but considered to be a bit,,,eccentric

they adhere to all the social expectations expected amongst nobles, but their attitude towards non-nobility is what sets them apart

though most noble families are polite when interacting with non-nobility, they generally try to keep their distance; avoid their company, if possible

not the jeong’s

it wasn’t unusual to see duchess jeong knitting in her tea room with maids, merchant’s wives, or whoever else wanted to come

to see gunho running around with his friends, a pack of street urchins, low, and middle class children

to see yunho in the market helping one of the many older couples haul their cart into place

his family had managed to find the delicate balance of being “normal” enough not to suffer social ostracization, yet “odd” enough for people to dismiss their “peculiar actions” as “typical jeong behaviour”

now, onto the loml yunho

perfect gentleman pt. 2

extremely charming and a great conversationalist

no matter how awkward or shy the other party may be, yunho has this way to draw them out of their shell

(just ask mingi)

excels physical and hands-on activities (i.e. hunting, horseback riding, swordsmanship, etc,,,)

average in terms of book smarts

so while wasn’t about to lead the next technological revolution, he wasn’t “stupid” either

rather, i’d argue that yunho’s brilliant in non-traditional ways

his quick wit and ability to think on his feet is part of his charm

but his greatest strengths are his observational skills and emotional intelligence

able to discern people’s emotional state easily and quickly

he’s someone who’s kind, bright, and genuinely cares about other people’s problems (sometimes a little too much)

a natural leader - people tend to flock towards him

between him and mingi (who despite not acting like it, is extremely book smart), they’ve got all bases covered

(+ yunho’s willingness in using unconventional methods to gather information)

that’s actually how he met you

or rather, “found” seems more appropriate

see, he has an excellent rapport with the street children

being six foot one and offering shoulder rides does wonders

and because he wants to stay updated on what problems the people around him are dealing with, he gets the children to “report” to him if they find or hear anything unusual

(the children are more than eager to play spy, especially when there’s candy involved)

one day while taking a stroll, one of his kids ran up to him totally out of breath

he wheezed something about a “mysterious lady” before grabbing yunho’s hand and dragging leading him to an alley quite far away

to say he was surprised was an understatement

most of the time, his kids brought amusing but mostly useless information to him

(even if he is more than content listening about the cute squirrel they fed earlier that day)

usually they didn’t lead him to an unconscious woman lying in the middle of an empty alley

(yes, that’s you)

hurrying to your side, he drops down and checks to see if you’re alive

other than being unconscious and getting some dirt in your hair and on your clothes, you seemed to be okay

gingerly scooping you into his arms, he tells the little boy to fetch the doctor and bring him to the jeong manor

fast forward a couple hours and you’re roused from your unconscious state by the sharp smell of ammonia mixed with lavender

blearily, you rub your eyes and blink once, twice, before your vision finally clears

then panic

you don’t recognize where you are or the two faces that hover by your bedside

sensing your anxiety, yunho smiles warmly speaks in a soothing tone

“hey, hey, it’s okay, you’re in a safe place. my name’s yunho and this is dr. adley. i found you unconscious in an alley.”

and though you’re very confused and still mildly unnerved, you can tell this yunho guy is genuine

“,,,okay.”

so you settle into the (extremely comfortable) four poster bed and let the doctor examine you

except now it’s time for panic pt.2, but ten times worse because why the hell can’t you remember anything?!

you can’t even remember your own g*d damned name !!

to make things worse, there doesn’t seem to be a reason why you can’t remember anything

no bumps or injuries anywhere on your body

and chances of a robbery gone wrong, a kidnapping, or a failed assassination attempt were very unlikely since you were dressed in commoner’s clothes

disquieted by your alarm and the doctor’s confusion, yunho slips out of the room and returns after several minutes

the doctor, offering apologies to both you and yunho, says he has no idea what’s wrong or what could’ve happened to you

all he can suggest is to rest and hope that your memories eventually come back to you

your burry your face into your hands, a whirlwind of frustration, confusion, and fear brewing in you

apparently nobody, including yourself:

knows who you are,

where you came from,

why you were unconscious,

and why you lost your memories

to top it off, you have no money

…

just when you were about to idk,,,scream and/or punch something-

you feel two large hands engulfing yours, lowering them from your face

taking a seat on the edge of bed, yunho offers a faint smile as he idly traces lines from your wrists to your fingertips

a surprisingly soothing gesture

“,,,i know you’re overwhelmed right now, but please don’t feel as if you have to do this on your own. i talked to my mum and dad; you can stay here until either someone finds you or your memories return. in the meantime, we’ll help you out as much as we can, yeah?”

and though you’re in no position to argue, your first instinct is to decline because though you’re amnesiatic, you still have common sense

what kind of family, wealthy or not (actually, especially wealthy), lets a complete stranger stay in their house?

do these people have no sense of danger?

but yunho is as stubborn as he is kind, and this was how you ended up staying with the jeong’s

(you insist on working to earn your stay, much to yunho’s dismay. in his head, unless it helped in recovering their memories or, unfortunately, was necessary for survival, who would make an amnesiac work?)

the first couple of days were awkward

duke and duchess jeong had briefed everyone in the manor about your situation, but when making casual conversation, lapses in memory and uncomfortable silences were inevitable

“oh, i adore this purple! hey, what’s your favourite colour?”

“,,,i uh,,, don’t know.”

“,,,i’m so sorry-”

but awkward has never a problem for yunho, and you quickly grew fond of the gentle giant

“since we don’t know your name, can i call you little sun? since i found you on a sunny day and you’re little-”

“yunho, not everyone can be six feet tall”

“six one, actually”

“,,,”

true to his word, he does his best to help you recover your memories

roped mingi into helping

when you finished your tasks for the day, he’d bring you to all sorts of places, trying all sorts of things

on a hunting trip with yungi, you discovered that: a) you’re proficient in horseback riding, b) you have astounding aim, and c) you’re surprisingly agile

yunho, who’s always been penchant towards athleticism, was delighted to have someone to compete with

mingi just grumbled. sure he was clumsy, but how did someone with no memory beat him?

while helping the gardener, you found out that you have a rather extensive knowledge of flora

yunho jokingly (kinda) suggested that maybe you were a huntress

mingi bombarded you with questions and quizzes about plants

find out what kind of plant you are by decorating your dream room

hoping that you’d run into someone or somewhere familiar, yunho would take on walks all over the city

during your walks, you learned that you preferred nighttime (while he preferred the day), that you found solace in being alone (while he preferred company), that you liked sweet things (while he preferred chips)

a month,

two,

six months passed liked this

you made progress, but you couldn’t stop the bitterness from bubbling in your chest; negativity spreading through your veins like toxin

sure, you consider your favourite colour to be a precious memory in its own right

but who cares about what your favourite colour is when you can’t remember your own name?

you were vexed by the fact that, at this point, you know more about yunho than yourself

even if learning about him made your heart flutter

just a little

and the nightmares

the nightmares

they drove you crazy

you never remembered what you’d dream of, but every night, without fail, you’d wake with tear stained cheeks and sweat soaked clothes

tonight was particularly bad

normally, when you woke, you’d force yourself to take several deep, calming breaths until your breathing evened, grab a glass of water, then crawl back to bed

today, you couldn’t breathe

no matter what or how hard you tried, your heart wouldn’t stop pummeling against your ribcage;

your blood wouldn’t stop rushing between your ears, creating a cacophony no one else could hear;

wave after wave of nausea would slam into your gut

your vision’s blurring

oh god

you’re gonna pass out

you’re gonna pass out and forget the memories you worked so hard to remember and all the memories you made and you’re gonna forget yunho and mingi and-

suddenly, much like the first day, two large hands engulf your own, idly tracing lines from your wrist to your fingertips

“little sun, it’s me, yunho. your yunho. focus on my hands and voice, yeah? i’m right here.”

he continues to murmur sweet nothings until finally, finally, your heart settles back in your chest, your breathing levels, and your vision clears enough to see yunho

your yunho

and in this state, one look at his kind eyes is enough for the tears you’ve been holding in all this time to spill over

because though you cry in your sleep, you never let yourself cry when you’re awake

too focused on chores, too focused on remembering, too focused on trying to get some semblance of control over this uncontrollable situation

without a word, he pulls you into his chest and runs his fingers through your sweaty hair, offering the sound of his heartbeat to anchor you back to this four poster bed when you were ready

but g*d, does it break his heart to see you cry

he expected to hear you wail, to take the brunt of your fists as you pound his chest

but he hears nothing

instead, he feels your tears soak his shirt, feels how you tremble in his arms

and that is so much worse.

it takes long minute for you to stop crying, and another for you to feel composed enough to detach yourself from yunho’s (now soggy) chest

you’re sure you look awful

puffy eyes, blotchy cheeks, and a runny nose

(and you feel embarrassed that yunho witnessed your breakdown)

but he thumbs away the remaining tears from your cheeks and murmurs that he’ll be right back, returning with tissues and a glass of water

and a new shirt

he hands you the glass of water, tosses your used tissues in the garbage, and climbs underneath your (technically his) covers, patting the space beside him

when you too find refuge in the warm blankets, he pulls you back into his chest

his arm acts as your pillow as he kisses the crown of your head, murmuring into your hair

“wanna talk about it?”

it takes you several moments, but you eventually tell him about the negativity seeping into every inch of skin

the nightmares you never recall keeping you up at night

the irrational feeling of stupidity because you can’t remember who you are

yunho silently, attentively listens to you as you spill your heart

and if he hadn’t pulled you so close, you might’ve seen the weariness in his usually carefree features

the conflict and hollowness brewing in his normally inviting eyes

but by the time you finished talking and pulled back, the expression was gone and the familiar smile you adored so much was back in place

“tomorrow, let’s go to the place where i found you.”

a faint smile bloomed on your lips because though this wasn’t the first time you visited, it was a reminder that you weren’t alone

that no matter how the chances dwindled, yunho would remind you that it was never zero

it was hope that got you through the night

the two of you have never done anything that could be considered anything but platonic

much to mingi’s irritation

but just for tonight, yunho decides to be a little greedy

he kisses your forehead, your cheeks, your nose, your eyelids, you wrists, your palms, your knuckles, your fingers

anywhere he can reach,

except for your lips

you’re emotionally exhausted and vulnerable; he’d feel like a dick if he forced a decision - especially an emotionally fraught one - onto you right now

he threads your fingers together, murmuring soft promises: you’ll remember who you were, you’ll be okay, you’ll find your way again

and you finally let the exhaustion, the steady rhythm of his heart, the rise and fall of his chest, and the warmth and comfort that is yunho lull you to sleep

the next morning is a cold one

gusts of wind bite into your skin as you curl in on yourself, trying to preserve any remaining shred of body heat

noticing this, yunho tucks you under his arm with a sheepish smile and flushed cheeks that were definitely red because of the cold and not because he was flustered

cute

a peaceful silence falls between you two as he leads you to the alley

and since it was early, the only sounds that accompanied you was the quiet patter of your footsteps and the chirps of birds reluctant to travel south

feeling like it simultaneously took too long and not long enough, the two of you arrive

an odd smile settles on yunho’s lips

,,,was that bitterness?

“,,,here we are.”

interrupting your train of thought, he takes your hand and leads you to where he found you

g*d

you could feel it

somewhere in the back of your mind, something almost tangible was shoving its way forward

you’re so close, just a little more and-

suddenly, a chill that had nothing to do with the weather ran down your spine

before you could understand what you were feeling, yunho shoved you behind him and parried the dagger aimed for his chest

a gruff looking man only a little shorter than he stood before him

his clothes tattered and dirty, skin littered with scars, hair and beard scraggly and matted, he looked like one of the many men that inhabited the slums

but those men were sagging skin and bones, never knowing where or if they would get a next meal

this man was muscular

and judging by the familiarity of his actions, this clearly wasn’t his first assassination

the two men, unable to disengage, snarl as they continue to press into each other

much to your surprise, when you were about to jump into the fray, the assassin screams at you

“YOU ‘UCKING WHORE, WHAT ARE YOU DOING?! KILL HIM!”

big mistake

because not only is yunho clever and athletic, he’s one lucky bastard

in the brief second the assassin’s attention was diverted, yunho ducks

his weight and moment carries him forward, and he stumbles,,,right onto yunho’s blade.

yanking both his blood soaked short sword and body away from the assassin, the man crumples to the ground

but until life is drained from his eyes, he bores holes into your head, message clear: kill him

a deafening silence weighs down upon you when the man stops breathing

even the wind stills

yunho stands there, a far away look in his eyes as he grips the short sword

blood is splattered all over his hands, across his cheek

it trickles from the hilt, down the blade, and eventually drips onto the ground beneath him

snow begins to drift from the gray skies, landing on his hair, his cheeks, his eyelashes, his coat

as if trying to comfort him

as if trying to wash the blood away

and you?

you couldn’t move.

not when the floodgates had opened and a torrent of memories threatened to pull you under

you knew who you were

you were yn, born to a peasant mother who died at birth and a father that abandoned you soon after

a ghost of a person, and unknown assassin raised by an unnamed noble who resented the jeong’s for their wealth, their nobility, and their favour with the royal family despite their peculiar attitude

nothing but a tool

a tool told that if successful, he’d grant you wealth and freedom

but that if you failed, he’d kill you himself

…

the assassin wasn’t after yunho, he was after you

a warning to finish the job, or else

…

you couldn’t stop your hands from shaking

and yunho,

your gentle giant, yunho

envelops your hands in his, idly tracing lines from your wrist to your fingertips

there’s no comfort this time.

not when he drew lines of blood across the back of your hand, not when you searched and couldn’t read anything expect for this sad smile on his ordinarily open features

“,,,do you remember?”

“,,,”

“,,,you knew.”

he did.

his suspicions appeared early on, spurred by your unusually good marksmanship, agility, and uncanny knowledge of plants

specifically poisonous ones

he turned to this “unconventional” ways of gathering information

starting off with his kids,

then some trusted tclose contacts

but when nothing - and he meant a questionable amount of nothing - turned up, he left the legal sphere and delved in the underground; the black markets

yunho has people who owe him favours - people who’s debts he’s paid off, who’s fights he’s fought on their behalf

it took a few months, but eventually he got the information he wanted

marquess yoo who openly showed his distaste for the jeong family “released his pet into the wild”

but the jeong’s were not stupid, and they were loved

when yunho’s father confided to some close acquaintances about the predicament they were facing, they took matters into their own hands

they never meant to hurt you

only to capture you and talk you out of killing, bribing you with money, protection - threats, if necessary - if you testified against marquess yoo

but somewhere along the way, things got messy

it ended with an unconscious girl lying in the middle of an abandoned alley; three grown men running away because oh dear lord, she’s dead; and a child leading yunho straight to you

letting go of your hands, yunho goes to kneel beside the man he just killed

closing his eyes, he mutters a prayer for the (not so) poor soul who unknowingly got himself tangled in this mess, and grabs the dagger

it feels like someone doused you in ice as yunho walks back to you

horror morphs on your face as he gently - why was he always so gentle? - wraps your fingers around the hilt and places the blade against his neck

the smile that you love so much but currently hate rests on his lips as he cups the side of your face with his free hand

his thumb idly brushes against your cheek, eyes twinkling with adoration as he drinks in every last detail of your face as if,,,

as if,,,

he’s ready to die

“no one knows we left this morning and no one knows we’re here; not even mingi. if you kill me, you’ll have enough time to collect some of your reward and run away.”

by now your hands were shaking so much that if yunho didn’t have his hand wrapped around yours, you would’ve dropped the blade

but as the snow floats down and lands in your hair, in his eye lashes, in the fog of your shared breaths, in the space between you,

here to witness a great tragedy

you both knew,

that one of you has to die.

#ateez yunho #yunho #jeong yunho #ateez #ateez hongjoong #ateez seonghwa #ateez yeosang #ateez san #ateez mingi #ateez wooyoung #ateez jongho #ateez fanfic #ateez fanfiction #ateez fluff #ateez angst #ateez smut #ateez headcanons #aristocrat!ateez

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theloveclub-18 · 4 years ago

Text

She’s just a friend

summary: you and Ransom decided to try that friends with benefits thing

pairing: Ransom Drysdale x reader

word count: 1947

warnings: explicit language, mentions of sex, but no actual smut, little angst

A/n: please do not copy, rewrite, translate or post my work anywhere. No permission given to copy, translate, rewrite or post my work.

———————————————————————

It was 3:15 a.m. when you opened your eyes. Ransom was lying next to you with his arm around you waist. You took a deep breath and tried to put out of his embrace, but he only held you closer. You should’ve not stay through the night and leave by the end of your fourth and last round.

Yeah, sex with Hugh Ransom was good, even more it was absolutely fantastic. You always thought about how maybe he ruined you for other partners. This man was so ridiculously good in it. What you also thought about was how maybe you should’ve known better and never agree for that friends with benefits thing. In your defense you really needed an emotional discharging and he’s always lookin’ so fucking sexy, so you just gave up, when he so casually asked you about it after a couple glasses of whiskey few months ago.

But now god knows how much you regret it because you fell and fell hard for that “asshole”. Well, actually he’s not that bad it’s more about how he wants other to see him. And they do. They all believe in it, his image of arrogant cold hearted jerk. Ransom is a jerk in fact, but sometimes you see things that others don’t. You see a broken boy who tries to cover his vulnerabilities by venom observations and jackass demeanor.

Of course you tried to talk to him about it, talk about what he went through, but it usually never worked out. Though one time after another family event you saw something in his eyes, a speck of sorrow and you let yourself to hope that this is the moment when he’d finally open up. It also was the moment when you knew how much you loved him.

But as soon as this thought slipped through your head, Ransom changed in face, as if he read your mind and he didn’t like what he saw. He stand out from the nice and warm bed and headed for the kitchen saying you should probably go home. He didn’t come back to the bedroom and soon you left his apartment with tears on your face.

You had nothing to blame him for. It was pretty clear from the start that he didn’t want anything serious from you or from anyone else. Ransom said he didn’t believe in such things like love and relationships but good fuck was something he believed very much.

So were you. At least for the first couple of months.

But then you did the stupidest thing you could ever do...you let yourself hope for more. You’ve started to notice his lovely glances from across the room and the way he always try to hold you whenever other guys where approaching you like he was marking you as his. How he was laughing at your stupid jokes and watched your favorite sitcoms with you.

It was three weeks later when you came to the local bar with your coworkers to relax on friday night after a hard week and spotted him flirting with some pretty girl at the table. You remembered her, she was the girl who takes care of his grandfather. Ransom was in white sweater that you gave him this christmas and the girl in cute little dress, well, she was really gorgeous one with big puppy eyes and the sweetest smile you’ve ever seen. You knew you can’t compete.

He didn’t even notice you there and even if he did what’s the matter. He’d probably just say hello and walk away. You tried to calm yourself down and stop being so jealous, because you have no rights for it, but still it was breaking your heart.

The next day when you came to his apartment to take some of your things, you heard something you wish you’d never heard.Ransom was talking on phone when you walked in.

-“Yeah, man, you know she’s just a friend to me...yeah, I know-I know but hey you know i’ll never settle down for anyone...ahahahah...yes, even for Megan Fox”-Ransom laughed and you left as fast as you can.

And you were just a friend indeed and nothing more. You felt like you was the biggest fool on earth for believing that you really had a chance with someone like him.

You crying all way home and when you finally get there, you thought about how you going to end everything with goddamn Ransom, because of how much pain it caused you too be so close with him yet so far.

However now you laying in bed with the same man that you promised you’d never sleep again with, while he’s holding you close to his chest. Yeah, sometimes things doesn’t work the way you want them to.

You look at his peaceful beautiful face and wonder how would it feel to be loved by this man. To spend your life by his side.

“Well”- you think to yourself - “I guess we’ll never know”. And with that you slowly remove the blanket and get up from the bed careful enough to not wake Ransom up.

You stand a little bit too long in front of the front door and hesitate to leave, cause you know that this was probably the last night with him. When you get in the car you finally feel how hot your tears are and how heavy is this weight of unrequited love on your chest.

Days go by and you slowly started to live without him. You told your roommate Sarah never let him in again and blocked his number. You thought that maybe you doing something wrong and maybe you should’ve been happy with what you had. But then again you remembered that you’d never be more than a fuck buddy to him and he made himself pretty clear saying this to some of his friends just a couple of days ago.

“It’s time to move on”-you were thinking as you walked into some fancy restaurant for set up date that was arranged by Sarah. She said he’s very sweet and a doctor, so why don’t try it? Maybe this guy Mark is all you’ve dreamed for?

The guy is the complete opposite of Ransom. He’s not that tall, but very nice and lovely. He also have a pretty blonde curls and dark brown eyes that mean nothing to you, cause they’re not as deep as Ransom’s. You really try to enjoy the date, but all you can think about is how the man in front of you is not Ransom.

-“So what’s the guy’s name?”-Mark said.

-“What do you mean?”-you said with confused look-“What guy?”

-“The one you want to see on this chair instead of me”- he said with weak smile and understanding look- “Sarah told me about you wanting to move on and forget about «the jerk», but now i see you everything but ready to move on, so please tell me about it and maybe i’ll can help”

You gasped and thought about how your friend didn’t lie about Mark being kind and maybe a little too much kind to you.

-“Listen, I don’t think it’s a good idea to discuss it right know, cause...”- you started, but get interrupted by Mark.

-“No, Y/N, I obviously can see that you not mentally here right now and that’s okay, it took me a long time to recover from my previous relationship too so i don’t wanna push you into something, you know. We can just have dinner like a good old friends and talk about our ex’s”-he smiled-“So feel free to start”

-“Okay”-you said still trying to proceed what he just said-“Well, i don’t wanna say his name and he wasn’t even my boyfriend. We just had sex with no strings attached”

-“But you get attached?”-he asked with a sad smile.

-“Yeah, and now i’m fucked”-you replied.

-“What did he say ‘bout your feelings?”-Mark asked as he sipped his wine.

-“Oh, no. I didn’t tell him about my feelings”-you said with sad eyes and tired smile-“I didn’t lost my mind completely to say to Ransom Drysdale that i love him with my whole heart and probably will never be able to not”

-“You love me?”-you heard a familiar voice behind you back and wished you could’ve just disappear.

-“I think I should go”-Mark said and hurried for the exit with a small smirk.

When you turn around you saw Ransom.

He looked worse than the last time you saw him. He looked tired and his beautiful blue eyes were full of so many things, that it confused you so much that you didn't know what to say.

-”Please, Y/N, tell me”-he said-“You love me?”-he looked so broken inside and desperate for my answer.

-“I...”-you hesitated for moment, but then decided to risk it all-“Of course i love you, Ransom, how can i not?”

-“Then why you left me?”-he said with pain in his eyes-“Left me in a middle of the night? Left me when i thought you are the one who’ll never do that.”

-“Because you didn’t”-you said with a small whimper feeling the weight on your chest again-“You didn’t loved me”

-“I did”- he said and finally you saw how red his eyes were-“And i do now”

-“Then why you didn’t tell me that? How was i supposed to know that when you started to close off every time i tried to bring something about feelings up?”-you said with a bitter feeling on you tongue.

“It was hard for me, okay? I’ve never told this to anyone before”-he said as his cheeks grew red-“Even to my mom when i was a child. I didn’t have a family when you can easily say such words”-Ransom took a deep breath before he could continue-“And then i met you and i liked you obviously. You became the light of my life. All those years I was living in a blur and never truly seeing things the way they where. I was a fool, because every time i was so afraid to ruin what we had, i wasn’t sure that you could ever feel the same. Y/N, i’m not a good guy and i’ve done a lot of bad things, but you were the only right thing in my life and i was afraid to admit it..”

You didn’t let him finish as you land your lips over his in a most gentle kiss you’ve ever had. You felt him smiling through the kiss as he was grabbing you closer and pulling you into another and more intimate kiss.

-“Is that mean i have a second chance?”-he said with a hopeful smile between the kisses.

-“No”-you said furrowing your brows only to meet his confused gaze-“Just kidding, of course you have, i don’t wanna lose you again”-you chuckled as you put your arms on his chest and looked into his ocean eyes, thinking that maybe you are the lucky one and you will be able to find out what it is like to be loved by Ransom Drysdale.

#ransom drydale x you #ransom drysdale x reader #chris evans x reader #chris evans imagine #chris evans x you

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pallanophblargh · 3 years ago

Note

Maybe I’m misunderstanding but are you not doing art anymore or taking commissions anymore? And are moving away from it all together?

I’m still doing art, and will likely always find myself loosely involved in artistic flavored endeavors, but I’m coming to a very postponed realization I should not have tried to make it a career. For the record, that’s not what I do for my income, it’s more my “side job.” Attempts to float myself solely on freelance illustration went very poorly and I don’t think I ever recovered in a way that mattered: it’s what I get for not being relevant, competitive, prolific, or competent in the field. Also, I didn’t want to keep ruining something I used to love. Also, chronic major depression/anxiety/other undiagnosed problems. The list of excuses are endless!

I have opted to take on fewer commissions by raising my prices this last year since I can’t successfully manage free time anymore and things are not going well with my mental health, which means it’s been challenging to get properly into Art Mode and I’m currently wrestling a pretty sizable art block. Between that and agonizing guilt at not working fast enough…. Yeah. You know where this goes.

This wasn’t meant to alarm anyone, as I do intend to keep dabbling in art/commissions/doodles. But i also really can’t pretend I’m ever going to take art seriously as a career anymore. Time is getting away from me, and unless I or the industry change, or I come across unnaturally good luck, it’s unlikely I’ll ever truly get to call myself a full time illustrator. Besides, there’s absolutely NOTHING wrong with being a hobbyist.

To be clear, this isn’t meant to be a sob story or an attempt to get pity, don’t feel bad for me! I just like to be truthful and speaking about these things sometimes helps me to own up to things I’ve been trying to ignore. All I really need is patience as I struggle-bus my way through the commissions that are on my plate: one way or another, they’ll get finished! And as always, never ending gratitude to all of those who have trusted me to make art for them for all these years. Y’all rock my socks!

#April attempts answers #text post #artistic woes #I don’t want commissioners to ever think they’re a burden because they’re NOT #it’s a personal problem made worse by depression and art block and isn’t a reflection of the commission itself #sometimes I worry people get the wrong idea when I’m whining about things being hard #I’ve been blessed to have great clients #these last few years have been hard on lots of us so I’m just joining the party #gotta bust this block soon it’s making me so angry

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cassava-49 · 4 years ago

Text

Sleepless

Being a superhero has its cons, like the lack of sleep. During free period Marinette was sleeping in the library where she was supposed to be researching for her report to be passed the day after tomorrow, but since Hawkmoth seemed to have a lot more free time, he decided to send akumas even at night. The young girl slept peacefully not minding the other students since she was at the very back and secluded area of the library. However, not everyone who comes to the library knows this place but an anti social bookworm might.

Felix had just escaped from a group of fangirls. You just take one photoshoot with Adrien and now you're being chased by his fangirls and your own, he thought to himself. He decided to go to his sanctuary, the library. He greeted the librarian and headed towards the back to enjoy the peaceful atmosphere. What he did not expect was to his classmate sleeping in his area. He looked at Marinette as she peacefully slept there with a silent smile and sweet closed eyes. He then sighed and decided to sit on the opposite desk to read.

...

Marinette woke up to find that the was a piece of paper on her desk that had summarised the discussion on the book with a note saying that she should get more sleep. She pondered on who placed it there for her. She looked around to find that know has been around the area. She then smiled and silently thanked whoever summarised the notes for her.

The next day, Marinette had to wake up around seven since Hawkmoth decided to start the day with an akuma attack. The fight finished arrive 7:50 giving Marinette a quick run in her house and to school. With last night's and this morning's akuma attack, she lost five hours of sleep. During class she half listened since she can't possibly focus at the task at hand. After what seemed like an eternity, class finally came to an end. She was walking home when she saw plopped on one of the park benches was a blond who had a book over his face. She neared the sleeping figure and recognized him. "Well, I guess even Felix sleeps anywhere," Marinette commented to Tikki. "He must have had a sleepless night as well," Tikki replied.

She then flew to his face, covered by a book. She then let out an audible gasp at this. "M-Ma-Marinette," she stuttered. "I think I know this book," she said in a series tone. Marinette then took a close look at it as well. "What book is this Tikki?" she asked. "It's not just any book. This book is the book of the miraculous," she exclaimed. "Wait, you mean this book is all about the miraculous?" she asked for verification, to which Tikki nodded. "Why does he have it?" Marinette pondered. "The guardian lost this book years ago along with the butterfly miraculous. I fear that the book is in Hawkmoth's possession," she replied. "Are you saying what I think you're saying?" she asked hesitantly. Tikki nodded to confirm her theory. "But we can't be sure yet. I'll search him," she said as she began searching Felix for the brooch. "Tikki wait," she says a bit too loudly.

Felix stirred from his sleep and slowly removed the book from his vision to find a panicking Marinette in front of him. He groaned and said, "This is the thanks I get from the person who stole my spot on the library just to fall asleep." She then blinked for a few minutes and recovered. "You what?" she finally asked. He then let out a deep sigh and sat right up and replied, "Nothing." Feeling awkward about the situation Marinette says, "So, what's that book about?" Catching his attention, he then felt a surge of panic and quickly put it back in his bag. "Nothing important," he says as he gathered his things to leave. "Wait!" she says in a panicked tone as Tikki left. "I didn't find the brooch," she said. Marinette quickly clamps her up by catching her in her bag. This makes Felix freeze and turn towards her. "Was that a kwami?" he asked. "N-no," she stuttered. "Come with me," he said as he took her arm and headed towards the bakery.

"Marinette, oh it seems like you brought a friend," Sabine said as she saw her daughter come inside with a classmate. "Good afternoon Ma'am, I'm Felix Agreste. I'm here to help Marinette with her essay since she needs a copy reader," Felix smoothly lied. "I'm Sabine, Marinette's mother. Thank you for helping her with her essay," she introduced herself. "Alright, you kids head upstairs and I'll bring you snacks," she says as she ushered the two upstairs. Once in the living room Felix dropped Marinette's hand and asked, "Where's your room? I believe that it's safer to talk there," he says. She then led him to her room and offered him to sit on the chaise while she sat on the chair by her desktop.

Felix locked the trap door and sat on the chaise. "You're Ladybug aren't you?" he asked with a stern voice. "Why should I tell you?" she asked, still suspecting him to be Hawkmoth. He then sighed and said, "Plagg, you can come out." He called but the only thing he got was, "I'm sleeping." He then sighed and took out a piece of camembert, then a black creature came out of the bag to eat it. Felix looked at Marinette's reaction waiting for a response. "Tikki you can come out as well," she said with her head down. "Sugar cube," Plagg squealed as he tackled the red kwami. "Let go. You smell like cheese," Tikki exclaimed.

"So, you're Chat Noir?" she silently asked. "Yes. It seems like it My queen," he replied with a very Chat Noir like grin. "How did you come across with the book?" she asked calling onto her Ladybug courage. "Well this book isn't really mine. I think I saw Adrien with this book earlier in the library, but then I saw it with this Italian girl at the park. She threw it in the trash can and forgot about. So I took it to give it back to Adrien but it seems like it will be more useful for us. I must have fallen asleep reading it," he explained. "Are you saying that Adrien was in possession with this book? You do know this could be a lead to finding Hawkmoth," Marinette said. "I'm well aware of the fact that it will be our lead to him," he said reading her eyes. "I'm not implying that Adrien's Hawkmoth, but I'd say that my uncle is," he added. She then furrowed her eyebrows and began thinking. "You're right. Mr. Agreste is a very reserved man who's distant even towards his own son," she said. "Not only that if you look closely at his logo and the interior design of the mansion there are a lot of clues that could confirm him to be Hawkmoth," he added. "Good observation kitty," she complimented earning a playful grin from the blond.

He then stood up from where he was seated and made his way to her. "Well, now knowing your identity, it will be impossible for you to escape this time," she says as he crouched down to her level. "Now Purrincess I think I know who my competition is now," he said as he used his index finger and thumb to raise Marinette's chin to face him. This caused her to go bright red. Red enough to compete against her suit. Summoning all her Ladybug strength, she was able to push him away with her her fingers on his nose. "Not so fast kitty. Now that I know your identity it gives me the leverage to avoid you," she teased. He then gave his cute pout and chuckled.

#miraculous ladybug and chat noir #felix pv #felinette #marinette dupain cheng #felix agreste #my fic #fluff #felinette fluff #felix x marinette #tikki #plagg #plikki #kwami #reveal #different take on volpina

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penfullofwordsaheadfullofstories · 4 years ago

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

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sevenkittensinatrenchcoat · 3 years ago

Text

Those Six Mistos: Bustopher Jones

This ended up ridiculously long

Vienna Misto hears the song start up and he jumps for joy and claps his hands together.

Skimble tries to keep Misto away from Bustopher. Misto follows Bustopher around and pulls his tail. Skimble catches him and shoves him back. Misto continues to have as much physical contact with Bustopher as possible. That is clearly his goal. Bustopher doesn’t seem to notice that he’s even there, not even when Misto nearly pounces on him and Skimble has to, once again, intervene.

Misto dusts off the hat Bustopher sits on with his tail and is able to stand next to him during his solo. Skimble stands on Bustopher’s other side, leaving the toms standing near Misto to handle his antics. Without decent close-ups, I have no idea who these toms are. I can barely identify most of the characters in this version anyway. I believe Coricopat is there and he seems to actually be pretty chill with Misto.

Misto preens and poses during Bustopher’s solo. When some of the kittens get close, he turns to Skimble in protest, as does the cat next to him, who I’m just going to guess is Alonzo.

After the solo, Misto appears to flap his hands while also seeming ready to swoon. He recovers to do his Most Gentlemanly Bow. Bustopher doesn’t notice. He applauds the solo, looking right at Bustopher as he begins to fall backwards, but he catches him, with help from Coricopat and Skimble.

After this point, Skimble becomes The Tom Who’s Losing It, dragging Bustopher to walk past the line of other toms he set up for inspection. Misto is thrilled to be walked past, but he stays put.

Vienna Misto, despite normally being played older than the other Mistos in this set, acts like an over-excited kitten around Bustopher. But, then again, so does Skimble. Since Skimble isn’t behaving any better than Misto, it doesn’t make sense for him to be worried about how Bustopher will react to him. I think Skimble views Misto as competition for Bustopher’s attention. Bustopher only pays attention to either one of them when they force him to, so nobody wins.

This is probably the prototype for all the other Bustopher/Misto interactions it will be compared to.

…

Paris Misto preens a bit when the number starts up and runs over to where Bustopher is about to appear. He, along with Skimble, lead Bustopher to where the camera can see him. If you can’t tell, in Broadway-based productions, Bustopher Jones is about, among other things, Misto and Skimble competing to get senpai to notice them. As soon as they’re both visible, Skimble shoves Misto away from Bustopher. He was just strutting around behind him and not making any trouble.

Misto gets in a brief fight with someone in the background, who I think might be Alonzo, because everyone’s determined to prevent Misto from having any fun in this number. Skimble catches him near Bustopher again and they continue to squabble. Bustopher hasn’t noticed any of this, another reoccurring theme.

Misto bats at Bustopher’s tail. This is the first time he’s done something that it makes sense for Skimble to scold him for. Skimble drags Bustopher over to the hat so he won’t notice Misto’s antics. Misto runs after them and dusts off the hat. He gets his usual spot beside Bustopher during his solo, on Bustopher’s right, next to Coricopat. Coricopat doesn’t fight with Misto.

During the solo, Misto cannot stay focused, sometimes listening, sometimes looking the void behind him, sometimes preening, and sometimes trying to imitate Bustopher. After the solo, he dances with the other toms and the fact that he’s the only one whose mouth isn’t moving stands out. He’s very quick to help when Bustopher falls.

There’s more bickering between Misto and Skimble. This time, Skimble won’t let Misto wave at Bustopher. Skimble lines up the toms and practically flings Bustopher into them. When Bustopher passes him, Misto waves to him, trying to get his attention, but he doesn’t notice.

…

Zurich Misto gets into some sort of disagreement with someone right away. He doesn’t know what he’s supposed to do and Skimble drags him into place, teaching him how to bow properly. He practices his bow again behind Bustopher’s back and then runs to grab his tail, possibly trying to get his attention so he can see his New and Improved Bow. Skimble runs in to stop him and they argue over it for a bit. When Skimble’s back is turned, Misto pulls Bustopher’s tail anyway. He’s mute. He can’t just call him. He doesn’t know how else to get his attention. Skimble runs in to distract Bustopher before he notices Misto and leads him to the hat for his solo.

Misto dusts off the hat and takes his usual spot on Bustopher’s right. Bustopher still doesn’t know that it was Misto who pulled his tail, so he’s fine with this. When the kittens roll in, Misto gets upset, but Skimble runs to take care of it.

Plato and Coricopat get up to something in the background that looks very close to making out. Misto notces and tries to direct their attention back to Bustopher, because they’re supposed to be listening to his solo.

After the solo, featuring another moment where everyone but Misto is singing and he’s not sure what to do about that, Skimble teaches Misto how to walk in a certain way. He’s putting a lot of effort into helping Misto impress Bustopher, instead of competing over it, a unique feature from the previous two.

Misto and Skimble run to catch Bustopher when he falls. Bustopher appears to elbow Misto off of him shortly after, and whatever happened, Misto cringes away. He shakes his head and scratches his ear, once again looking kind of lost, before Skimble leads him to the line of toms, standing between Coricopat and Plato, which is worth noting due to their previous interactions. Bustopher passes the line, correcting Plato’s posture slightly. Misto has a big smile when Bustopher finally looks at him, but Bustopher decides this is something that needs to be corrected. Zurich Bustopher is a dick.

Misto cries and Plato turns to comfort him. Misto appears to recover pretty quickly. The moral of this story is that it’s okay if senpai rejects you, as long as you have a good friend.

…

Buenos Aires Misto runs around hugging people, specifically Jenny and Jelly, when he realizes that Bustopher’s coming. He kitten crawls a bit and then has a talk with Skimble, Bustopher’s other biggest fanboy. Skimble is the one who has no idea what he’s doing in this version, sitting on the floor and nodding while Misto does his Most Gentlemanly Bow.

Bustopher has Skimble dust off the hat before he sits down to begin his solo. Misto is in his usual spot, but he starts further away from Bustopher than he does in other versions. Bustopher beckons Misto closer until he’s practically on top of him and directs the solo to him. Misto silently squees over it.

Skimble starts pawing at Bustopher to get his attention and Bustopher elbows him to stand back. Misto notices that Skimble has upset Bustopher and hisses at him, leaning on Bustopher while he does it, showing off that he has Bustopher and Skimble doesn’t. Skimble hisses back and the exchange has the vibe of two bickering children sticking their tongues out at each other.

Everyone’s allowed to get close to Bustopher towards the end of his solo. Misto gets Alonzo’s attention to make sure that he’s in on this. Skimble enjoys a brief moment of being close to Bustopher before getting waved away again. By pawing at him for attention, Skimble has proved himself to be a nuisance.

Misto and Skimble both wrap their arms around Bustopher at the end of the chorus and he waves them both off this time. They’re both still close enough to catch him when he falls. Skimble forms the line of toms and then interrupts Bustopher’s flirtation with Jenny to get him to walk past the line right now. Misto does what he usually does when someone’s bothering him, turning to Munk to get him to do something about it, which he doesn’t. Skimble shoves Bustopher past the line when he won’t move fast enough. Misto tries complaining to Munk again, but he soon gives up and kitten crawls to watch Bustopher’s fake golf swing. Bustopher is now more interested in flirting with Jenny than he is with either of them.

This version is generally hilarious, with this Bustopher being the opposite of Zurich Bustopher, showing favoritism towards Misto.

…

1998 Misto loses interest in whatever was up with Grizabella, running up to greet Bustopher immediately. Bustopher is busy examining his reflection in his giant spoon and doesn’t notice. Still, Misto is fine. He runs off to make sure that everything is perfect. He gets all the toms arranged as a group, still in a very good mood, before going back to the tire where Munk is to ask if he did a good job.

Misto realizes that he’s now stuck behind the other toms and he’s too tiny for Bustopher to see, so he runs around the group and blocks Bustopher’s path to do his Most Gentlemanly Bow. Bustopher turns to the nearby Asparagus, seeming at least a bit impressed and greets Misto with a Formal Hand Touch.

Bustopher attempts to leave early and Misto slides after him. Jelly gives him a Disapproving Look, but Munk stops Bustopher to help Misto out. Misto still pulls on Bustopher’s tail though. When Bustopher turns around to see who was pulling his tail, he knocks Misto backwards and is briefly concerned for him. He decides to stay for a bit longer to Misto won’t have a nervous breakdown. Skimble gets the hat and dusts it off. As Bustopher walks towards it, Misto kitten crawls beside him.

Bustopher begins his solo and Misto cannot stay out of his personal space. Bustopher gently waves him back, not calling attention to his mistake. Misto pretends to be okay and then does some preening. He covers one hand with the other to prevent that hand from touching Bustopher, because his limbs no longer obey him.

Bustopher turns to Misto briefly and touches his wrist. Misto is hanging on Bustopher’s every word, but after the wrist touch, he turns to the various other toms and points at himself, bragging about being special. When Bustopher turns back in Misto’s direction, he must once again control his disobedient paws, which appear to want to flap now.

Everyone starts singing and Misto has fun until the kittens edge closer. Misto warns them to stay back. Munk does literally the exact same gesture. They don’t look at each other, so no one is mimicking. They’re just both completely in sync.

For the last line of the solo, Misto leans towards Bustopher, eyes closed, imagining all the tasty food he’s describing, especially the rice pudding. He licks his lips and then scratches at his ear, possibly nervous that Bustopher might’ve seen the lip lick, which is not a very Gentlemanly thing to do.

During the chorus, Misto does a bit more preening and posing. He turns to Asparagus, not noticing that Bustopher is about to fall backwards, because he’s now too busy gossiping. He turns around to save the day at the last second and keeps Bustopher from falling off the stage. He then rushes to line up all the toms, once again having to make sure that everything’s perfect. Plato wonders why this kid is allowed to boss them all around, while Munk seems to find the whole mess endearing.

Misto leads Bustopher to the line, walking behind him in what he considers a “proper” way. It goes way more smoothly than the line formations of other versions. For the finale, he waits for Skimble so they can follow Bustopher together.

NOTE: 1998 is the only London-based production in this set, so you can see some staging differences. In Broadway-based productions, Misto and Skimble host Bustopher’s visit while Munk just stands back. Misto and Skimble usually bicker enough that you’d think Munk would intervene, but he never does. In London-based productions, it’s Munk and Misto who host Bustopher, with Munk managing to hide the fact that he’s as excited as Misto is. Unlike when Skimble is heavily involved, there’s no bickering.

…

Troika Misto runs off to gossip with Plato while everyone goes to greet Bustopher, stepping into the crowd a moment late. All the toms bow in unison and then the crowd splits up. Misto goes to Skimble who helps him get cleaned up a bit. He lets Skimble take the lead in hosting Bustopher and takes his usual spot for the solo. Unlike the usual arrangement, Munkustrap is next to him.

During the solo, Misto hangs on Bustopher’s every word. His paws keep circling his thighs like he’s trying not to touch them. As Bustopher describes delicious foods, instead of 1998 Misto’s one big lip lick, we get several smaller ones, including when rice pudding is mentioned. It looks like this actor had seen the 1998 version and was trying to do something similar, with both the lip licking and the “paws keep doing weird things”.

Misto bows and preens a bit during the next chorus, with Munkustrap, while also doing some preening, supporting him. Misto briefly gets distracted posing and almost misses Bustopher falling backward. Munk, Misto, Skimble, and Alonzo all crowd together to preen, pose, bow, and generally show off for Bustopher’s attention. I think they’re grooming themselves. This turns into the line of toms, with Skimble sort of organizing it while not paying that much attention.

Bustopher walks by the line and everything goes smoothly. Misto joins Skimble to watch the golf swing and they both seem quite proud of themselves.

#mr mistoffelees #bustopher jones #skimbleshanks #munkustrap #cats vienna #cats paris 1990 #cats zurich #cats buenos aires #cats 1998 #cats troika tour #wtf skimble #zurich misto needs a hug #misto is gay and autistic

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baepsaesbae · 4 years ago

Text

Pag Lubog Ng Araw || When the Sun Goes Down

Pairing— Jeon Jungkook x reader

Genre— SMUT, Angst, Enemies to Lovers au, Delinquent gang au

Warnings— Oral (f receiving), face riding, explicit unprotected sex, somewhat rough sex, fighting (they engage in fisticuffs quite a bit), swearing

Word Count— 2.4k

Summary— The gang leader of an enemy group has been getting on your nerves. This town ain’t big enough for the both of you.

A/N— Thank you @dollwithluv for requesting! I hope you like it! I got kinda carried away with this one oops. You can still request drabbles up until the end of the August with this post

“Is that all you got, Jeon?” you spat in his face after blocking a powerful kick.

“I’m going easy on you. Just testing out the waters,” Jungkook smirked before landing another blow, knocking you aside.

Now it’s your turn to show off. With your balance regained, you launched forward to unleash a flurry of fast punches and jabs on Jungkook’s torso. That made Jungkook stagger backwards, but it wasn’t nearly close enough to knock him down. And so the scuffle continued.

You and your gang of girls ruled this town, striking fear into any man who dared looked your way. Or so you thought. Recently, a rowdy group of boys were looking to expand their territory--directly into yours. Of course, you weren’t going down without a fight. Literally.

“You idiots get lost! We’ve been here for ages,” one of your posse members yelled over your skirmish.

“Why don’t you ladies just move aside? You’ll be under our protection once we take over. You guys can even continue patrolling like you normally would. The only difference is that you’d be flying under our banner, so to speak. That ain’t too bad, right?” one of the boys from Jungkook’s band of delinquents (you believe his name was Seokjin) tried to reason.

“Over my dead body!” you screamed as you exchanged blows with Jungkook.

“That can be arranged,” Jungkook gritted his teeth.

“Get em boss!” underlings from both sides cheered.

10 minutes later, both you and Jungkook were battered and bruised. Jungkook’s lip was busted and your nose was bleeding. Both sides concluded that the match was a draw.

“You’re tougher than I thought,” Jungkook acknowledged.

“I’ll knock your ass to the ground and beat you to a pulp next time,” you threatened with a menacing glare.

“So feisty,” Jungkook chuckled as he spat out blood.

Back at your gang’s headquarters (an abandoned shack that you refurbished), your friends tended to your wounds.

“You have no idea how badly I wanted to jump in and smash his skull in,” Nayeon tsked as she bandaged your hands, “But I know you would’ve hung my booty above your fireplace if I meddled.”

“I appreciate the concern. He roughed me up pretty good, but I’m sure he’s licking his wounds right now too. Plus this is a leader to leader thing. You are my girls, and I’m gonna fight for you till the very end,” you gave them a thumbs up with a smug smile.

The girls cheered and applauded for their fearless leader. They know that past your tough exterior, you’re a fiercely loyal kind hearted person. Most of the gals joined your group after you saved them from being harassed or abused by various men. If there’s one thing you hate, it’s misogynists. Or maybe just men in general.

Both gangs practically tiptoed around each other for the following weeks while their leaders were still recovering. You tried devising plans to run them out of town. Your gang was bigger, so you’d definitely win in an all out war against seven guys. But you quickly brushed that idea aside, not wanting to endanger your crew.

“We gotta have another showdown,” you concluded during a gang meeting.

“What?! You got so hurt last time. There’s no way we could let you--”

“Shut up! What ___ says goes. You know that,” Nayeon silenced the complaint.

“Sunmi, bring this letter to the Bulletproof Boy Scouts. I still can’t believe they named themselves that,” you snickered as you handed her a paper with a formal challenge scribbled on it.

“Uh, boss, I don’t think we’ll need to send that letter,” someone called out from the back after there was a pounding on the door.

“Open it,” you commanded.

Standing on the other side of the door was a pretty boy whose smile lit up the room. No one would believe that he’s in a delinquent gang, you barely could. But then again, it seemed like that gang only recruited models with a penchant for violence and mischief.

“Hey pretty ladies! I’m Jimin. I come on behalf of the leader of the Bangtan Boys. He wants a final showdown. Only him and ___ are allowed in the specified location while they fight. He said the rest of us can brawl outside if we felt like it, but I’ll leave that decision up to the audience. Here’s our official note of challenge,” Jimin handed a crumpled receipt to the nearest girl, “Sorry, that was the only paper we had on hand,” he apologized sheepishly.

“Sundown two days from now at the vacant warehouse huh? Sounds fine to me. Any rules?” you raised a brow at Jimin after reading the challenge aloud.

“I dunno. That’s all the boss discussed with us. Figured you two would make it up as you go. In terms of weapons, Jungkook prefers to use his hands,” Jimin answered.

“So practically no rules. I can roll with that. See you boys in two days,” you shooed the messenger away.

“Are you sure about this? You’re finally starting to recover--”

“Gear up. You’re gonna help me spar,” you interrupted Nayeon. You didn’t have any time to waste before the rematch.

~The Day of Reckoning~

Your girl gang surrounded the warehouse. They weren’t happy about leaving you alone, but they were ready to keep anyone else from interfering. You tapped your foot impatiently as you waited at the front.

“Is this heaven? There are angels as far as the eye can see!” one of the boys whistled as soon as they pulled up.

“I wouldn’t count on that, Tae. These gals would probably stab you in your sleep and steal your wallet or something. Not like you have any money in there anyway,” Jungkook teased.

The group of boys sauntered through the crowd of sneering women until Jungkook stood directly in front of you.

“Let’s settle this once and for all, you piece of shit. Loser skips town,” you asserted.

“Works for me. I’ll hate to see you go,” Jungkook’s tongue quickly darted to lick the corner of his mouth. The action was meant to be intimidating, but it stirred something inside of you. You tossed the feeling aside; he was the enemy. And you’re about to kick his ass.

The warehouse smelled like mold mixed with wet dogs. It was dark. The only light source was the sun’s rays that shone through cracks and holes in the walls or from the partly torn off ceiling. It was already dwindling. Jungkook loudly slammed the door behind him. You led him to the middle of the building, turning to face him before the fight could start.

“Hope you enjoyed your time here,” you taunted.

“We did. We like it here better than our own hometown. You sure you don’t wanna just let us take over? I won’t have to ruin that pretty face of yours,” Jungkook offered again.

“Fuck off Jeon,” you scoffed before throwing the first punch.

You found yourself locked in a repetitive pattern of offensive and defensive moves. Jungkook’s attacks felt heavier, but you moved even faster. It seemed like both of you had reserved your full strength last time.

Jungkook’s last punch knocked you off balance. He took the opportunity to knock you to the ground, effectively pinning you under him. He leaned close to your face and smiled maliciously down at you as he assumed that his victory was assured. He was wrong.

You banged your head against his with as much force as you could muster. In a flash, your positions had been switched. Jungkook groaned in agony under you as you tightened your hold on him.

“Surrender, or I’ll pulverize you,” you threatened.

“Let me tell you something first,” he wheezed.

You reluctantly moved closer to him, but were on guard just in case he tried to headbutt you.

“Closer,” he demanded.

“No fuck you--”

Jungkook used the last of his strength to repel his upper body towards you to plant a rough kiss on your lips. You looked at him in shock, releasing your grip. Jungkook placed his hand on the back of your neck and pulled you towards him, stopping you just centimeters in front of his lips.

“Sorry, I couldn’t help myself. I have a thing for strong women,” he whispered.

You lunged forward and knocked Jungkook flat on his back as you kissed him ferociously. The taste of blood was tinged with desire as the kiss deepened. No one could deny that Jungkook is a handsome boy. Seeing him all beaten up made him even more attractive to you, especially knowing that he’s tough enough to compete with you.

“You know, I thought you looked cute with a busted lip,” you said when you broke the kiss.

“I’d look even cuter if you busted on my lip,” he winked, “Ride my face, ___. Please,” he added.

“What? Right now? I’m all sweaty because we’ve been fighting and--”

“I don’t give a shit. Let me taste you. Unless you’re uncomfortable, of course,” Jungkook showed his decent side.

“In that case,” you say as you slide off your pants.

You kneel above Jungkook’s face, your clothed cunt hovering inches away from his open mouth.

“Come. Here,” Jungkook roughly pulled you down onto his mouth.

He licked wide stripes along your panties, soaking them with both his saliva and your arousal. Ripping the measly piece of material off, he dove nose first into your pussy. His tongue explored your folds, making you squirm. He placed a strong grip on your hips to hold you firmly in place. He moved his arm to let his hand rest right above your pussy.

Without warning, his thumb began to circle your swollen clit. You whimpered at his touch. The pace of his thumb synced up with his tongue as he shallowly dipped it into you. You could feel something ball up within you. No doubt your climax was on a one way express train pummeling towards its final stop. Destination: All over Jungkook’s face.

“Jeon I--I’m gonna” you shuddered.

“Lay it on me baby,” he said, muffled by your pussy.

A euphoric high took over your body a couple of intense seconds later. You were tingling from your nose down to your toes as you weakly dismounted Jungkook. He licked around his mouth, savoring your cum.

“I guess you’re right, you do look better after I busted all over your lips. And face. Sorry bout the mess,” you laughed.

“You could let me fuck you if you really wanna make it up to me,” Jungkook suggested as he palmed his groin.

“Do you fuck as well as you eat pussy?” you inquired as you sat beside him.

“Only one way to find out. You down?” he propped himself up by his elbows.

“Fuck me senseless, pretty boy,” you requested.

“Sure thing, except,” Jungkook pushed you onto your back, “I’m on top this time.”

Jungkook shimmied out of his pants, revealing his already hard dick. It wasn’t too girthy, but it was long. You had a feeling he’d hit all the right places with ease. You were still sopping wet, so Jungkook slid in without a problem. He took his time feeling every inch of you before finally bottoming out.

Jungkook began to fuck you harder, making your entire body shake with each impact. Your wanton moans mixed with his grunts as he snapped his hips faster. His hand snaked its way from your chest up to your neck. He placed a harsh grip on the sides and smiled down at you with satisfaction. Normally you’d enjoy this, but not today. Not with Jungkook.

A quick jab at his side prompted him to release you and nearly double over. Before he had the chance to cuss you out, you flipped him over, reclaiming your rightful place. You ease yourself back onto his cock, bringing him back to a blissful state.

You rode him like your life depended on it. Your hips had a mind of their own as they rocked back and forth. Jungkook groaned with pleasure as he rested his hands on your hips. You began to fuck him with a purpose, changing your pace.

“Whatcha doin?” he moaned.

“Spelling my name on your dick. Now it belongs to me,” you answered proudly.

“Oh fuck, is that so? Are we dating or some shit?”

“Shut up and we’ll figure it out post nut,” you hushed him.

You brought up your knees and squatted over him with your feet on the ground. You bounced up and down and let yourself get lost in the moment. Your carnal voices harmonized and echoed throughout the abandoned warehouse. The sun had finally set, now replaced by the pale moonlight.

“Baby keep going, just like that. I’m gonna cum. Wait fuck should we be using a con--uuuggghhhh,” Jungkook didn’t get to finish that sentence.

He exploded into you, his warm seed shooting up into you. You bent over to kiss him once more. What was meant to be a quick peck turned into a heated makeout session.

“Give me a little bit before I can fuck you again,” Jungkook said once the kiss broke.

“We have more pressing matters to address. Uh, what exactly should we do now? I don’t know if we can really declare a winner or a loser,” you pointed out.

“I’d say we were both winners today,” Jungkook nodded.

“Interesting…” you thought out loud.

“What?”

“Are you still open to combining forces? Only this time, we’d be on equal footing. We can make a stronger gang together,” you suggested.

“I don’t see why not. Everyone is outside anyway right? Let’s go break the news,” Jungkook agreed.

“We both look like shit. And we smell awful,” you observed.

“Eh, it happens. They gotta respect their leaders no matter what, right?” Jungkook shrugged.

Both Nayeon and Jimin fell into the warehouse as soon as you opened the door.

“We weren’t doing anything!” Nayeon said quickly.

“We were just wondering if one or both of you were dead, so we tried to see if we could hear you guys and…” Jimin couldn’t maintain eye contact with either of you.

You pushed them aside and walked out to face the delinquents that were eagerly awaiting the official verdict.

“Listen up dirtbags! Starting today, we will be combining forces. We are now one gang, and we’re gonna be the strongest gang this country has ever seen!” you announced.

“You hear that boys? We’ll be seeing these angels on the regular!” Jungkook chimed in.

“What the hell?!” was the resounding response as Jungkook grabbed you by the waist and locked his lips with yours.

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