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runariya · 2 months ago

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The Auction (JJK) • Chapter 6 FINALE

pairing: wolf hybrid!Jungkook x cat hybrid!female reader genre: mafia!AU, hybrid!AU, dystopian!AU, S2L, dark romance, slow burn, angst rating: 18+, MDNI warnings: foul language, angst, being held hostage, obsession and possessiveness, fluff, smoking, OC's parents are still shit, scorpion hybrid (sorry angel, I had it already written lol), multiple murder, mentions of bodies, semi-graphic description of beating someone to death, blood, wounds, explicit sexual content, smut, oral (m. receiving), JK whines a lot but not sub, unprotected sex, marking and bonding, knotting, love confessions <3, lmk if I forgot smth word count: ~ 3K

a/n: This work is purely fictional. All characters and events are entirely imaginary and do not reflect reality. No translations are allowed without permission. Thank you for understanding! 💕

1 • 2 • 3 • 4 • 5 • masterlist

Three things.

There are three things you realised while living with Jungkook.

One—you’ll never, ever, under any circumstances, humiliate him again in public. Not because he doesn’t deserve it sometimes, but because it’s the dumbest and most dangerous thing you could do. Not just for him and his whole organisation, but for you too—it puts your life at risk.

Sure, him killing someone in that nightclub didn’t change much, but his friends seeing him like that, howling, has strained their relationship, and you’re not sure how he’s managed to keep them in line since. You know killing them off wouldn’t be an option to regain his control though.

Of course, you’d apologised to Jungkook more than once, and he brushed it off like it was nothing, like even though you’d hurt him, he’d still forgive you.

Which brings you to the second thing you realised.

As much of a lunatic as Jungkook is, he’s kind and loving to you. After the branding—that was the first and last time he hurt you physically—he’s never laid a hand on you again or said anything cruel. You still don’t fully understand why he feels the way he does about you, but you’ll get the answers out of him soon, once he emerges from his study to join you by the fireplace.

Just yesterday, you’d asked Jungkook if you could call your parents. To your surprise, he let you without much thought, but stayed right beside you, insisting the phone be on speaker so he could hear.

The call didn’t last long, no. After a few rings, your dad picked up, and you couldn’t help but cry and call his name, only for him to hang up straightaway. You tried again, but no one answered after that.

That’s when you knew Jungkook had been telling the truth all along. And that’s when you finally saw him for who he really is: someone whose only goal in life is to keep you safe and loved, even if it started in a way you hated.

“Don’t think about it,” Jungkook says, sitting down next to you, his arm draped behind you on the headrest as he kisses your temple.

“About you being whipped for me?”

“That you can think about.”

He pulls you close, and you lean into him, soaking in his warmth and scent. The penthouse is still too cold for you; you only feel warm when you’re near Jungkook or the fireplace. One day, you’ll have to ask him to turn up the heating a bit more.

“Jungkook?”

“Hm?”

“Why me?”

There’s an ease in the way you both speak, in how comfortable he seems, and you wonder if it’ll last. Jungkook knows exactly what you’re asking, like he always does, so there’s no hesitation in his voice as his hand moves absentmindedly, tracing soothing circles on your shoulder.

“You don’t remember, do you?”

“Remember what?”

Jungkook stares off, a nostalgic smile tugging at his lips as he lights a cigar.

“Beomseok’s little shop around that dodgy corner. You were sixteen, I think. Always working, every shift it seemed, just to help your shitty family when you should’ve been enjoying life.”

You sit up, startled that he knows about your past.

“One of the many times I stopped by, you cleared out the whole shelf because a bug got stuck in your fur or something.” He chuckles, as if picturing it. “And I helped you. Always did after that.”

“The scrawny boy in the black hoodie and face mask! That was you?”

“That was me.” He nods, locking eyes with you, his gaze full of adoration.

“You made my life so much better back then.” You smile, your hand moving up and down his thigh.

“Back then, I swore I wouldn’t drag you into my world, but I’d keep you safe. Neither worked out, clearly.”

“But I’m safe,” you cut in, unable to bear the sadness in his eyes.

“No, as long as you’re with me in this world, you’re not.”

“Jungkook, I am safe with you,” you insist, determined, because it’s true. You’ve never felt safer than when you’re with him. Not back then, and not now.

Jungkook just nods, as if he’s not entirely convinced but doesn’t want to argue. It’s enough for now, you reckon, and with a bit of courage, knowing you’ve never thanked him properly for all he did for you, you lean in just as he takes another puff of his cigar and kiss his cheek.

“Thanks for saving me, Jungkook.”

He smiles, pulls you against his chest, kisses the top of your head, and mumbles, “Anytime, love.”

You know Jungkook brought you catnip just yesterday when he came back from ‘work’. You also know it should be with your baking supplies, but there’s no trace of it now. You’ve been through every cabinet twice by this point, even pulled out all the tableware just to be sure. But nothing.

There’s no way you’re going out now to buy the ones you’ve been snacking on up until a few days ago, especially after learning from some TikTok that they’re unhealthy because of… well, you don’t even remember anymore. But you’ve looked up a recipe since, and you need to bake some asap before the withdrawal hits too hard.

Knowing Jungkook definitely knows where the catnip is, and that he’s currently two floors down—a floor he’s actually banned you from entering, though he did give you the passcode, your birthdate, in case of emergencies—you head straight for the lift, figuring this is the very definition of an emergency.

You’re shocked when you step out; the floor’s empty of furniture, the walls bare, like an unfinished building. Still, you make your way to the only visible door, soft grunts coming from behind it, and you reckon it’s just his gym.

You walk in without knocking—and freeze, eyes wide at the sight in front of you. It’s not a gym at all, but a floor dedicated to torture.

There are several dead, bloodied bodies off to the side, with Jimin standing nearby, his bored eyes fixed on the brutal scene unfolding before him.

A man’s tied to a chair, barely conscious, as Jungkook, his back to you, hammers down bloody fists over and over into the guy’s face.

It doesn’t take long for Jungkook to stop abruptly and turn, his eyes locking onto yours in shock, sensing your presence before he even hears you.

“Leave!”

But you can’t tear your gaze away from the scorpion hybrid slumped in the chair—the very man who sold you at the auction. Looking again at the bodies, you recognise each one of them now.

The one who kidnapped you and every single person you crossed paths with during your captivity.

“I said leave!” Jungkook barks again, but when you meet his eyes, it’s not anger you see—it’s worry.

You just shake your head, walking silently over to stand beside Jimin, who doesn’t dare say a word. Jungkook looks unsure, but when you give him a nod, something shifts in his expression, like a curtain falling over his very soul.

He turns back to his victim, fists resuming their precise rhythm, as if nothing had interrupted him in the first place.

You’d always thought watching Jungkook work would make you sick, would make you feel something. And while there’s still anger bubbling inside you at the sight of the men who wronged you, you don’t feel much of anything else. There’s not a single part of you that’s repulsed by the sight of death caused by Jungkook, not even at the blood or the life slowly draining from the man in front of you.

Jungkook’s assault isn’t anything dramatic, either—it’s like he’s training on a punching bag, nothing more. No show, no curses, no shouting—just the unrelenting, wet clap of fist meeting flesh.

With one final uppercut, it’s over. The sickening crack of the man’s neck rings out, and Jungkook stops, panting quietly, his body still as he stares at what he’s done—for you.

“Let’s go home, Jungkook,” you call softly.

“You *are* home!” he snaps.

“I am,” you reply, your voice and eyes loving as his gaze meets yours, finally registering your words.

Jungkook’s tense muscles relax at that, and with a single nod, he walks with you to the door, keeping a small distance as he instructs over his shoulder, “Take care of the rest.”

“Yes, boss.”

There’s nothing said on the way back to the penthouse, and you reckon Jungkook needs a minute to calm down, adrenaline still too prominent in his scent. His clothes are soaked in blood, the smell slightly bothering you now, but it’s the ticking of his jaw and the worry in his eyes that has you more concerned.

Sure, you can read him—his eyes and scent give him away without much thought—but you never fully know what’s going on inside. He’s the first to enter the bedroom, and before you’ve even had the chance to close the door, he’s already disappeared into the bathroom and locked the door behind him.

You leave him be for now, giving him space to literally wash away his sins before you need to talk, not about the catnip, but to finally tell him what he means to you, to thank him.

It doesn’t take long before Jungkook emerges from the bathroom, towel wrapped low around his hips, happy trail on display, and for a second, you lose track of what you wanted to say, though you quickly recover.

“Sit down,” you say, already perched on the bed.

He’s hesitant, you can see it in the way his eyes dart around, but he still obliges.

Again, he doesn’t sit right beside you, leaving a bit of space you can’t stand. So, you shuffle closer, taking his hands and inspecting the split knuckles. There aren’t many, and the few that are split are minor, probably because he’s used to this—knows how to throw a punch without hurting himself.

“Thank you, Jungkook.”

“It’s not enough.” He shakes his head.

“It is.”

“It’s not.”

You think for a moment, and then it hits you. “You are enough, Jungkook.”

His head snaps to you, searching your face for a lie that isn’t there.

“You are enough. This is enough. I want to stay. This is my home, and you’re right—I don’t hate you.”

Jungkook’s hand reaches for your face, cradling it softly, as if he needs to touch you to believe it’s real.

“I love you, Jungkook, and I’m sorry for being difficult.”

“You’re not, love, never were.”

There’s a moment for everything, and you reckon this is the moment you want to kiss him, to be kissed by him. You press your hands to his bare chest, leaning forward until your breaths mingle, barely any space left between your lips and his.

You see his eyelids flutter shut, and with that, you close the distance, capturing his soft upper lip. It feels like your life has finally clicked into place, like you’ve been waiting for this moment forever without knowing it.

You straddle his lap as your tongue plays with his, not in a battle for dominance but as equals, moaning softly into the kiss like a song composed by only you. Occasionally, a whine escapes his throat, and you don’t mind in the slightest, knowing it’s just his genes, just as your purring is from yours.

“Please touch me, Jungkook.”

This time, he listens, his hands cupping your ass and giving it a firm squeeze, pushing your clothed cunt against his hard-on. You want him, want him to claim you, so you speed up the process of undressing, not only yourself but finally pulling off the towel around his waist while kneeling between his legs.

Looking up, your purring louder now, you meet his dilated eyes, seeing your reflection in his pupils. He wants you just as much as you want him, and the knowledge feels so damn satisfying, you can’t help but wrap your tiny hands around his thick cock.

Jerking him off is easy, his precum already slicking his shaft, making your strokes smooth.

“Yes, kitten,” Jungkook breathes, his eyes never leaving yours, too captivated by what you’re doing to close them.

The sight of him has you practically drooling, unable to swallow the saliva pooling in your mouth. It’s your cue to take him properly. You stick out your tongue, licking from his balls to the tip, then taking him all the way into your mouth until you can’t breathe anymore. Your purring gets louder from the taste of him, drawing an approving moan from his lips.

“Fuck, you’re so good to me. So fucking good, kitten.”

Spurred on by his words, you try sucking from your throat rather than your mouth, massaging his tight balls with the excess saliva as you gag slightly from his size. It’s exactly what he wants, what he needs, his abs clenching as his breathing becomes ragged in seconds.

You feel invincible, like a goddess, taking him in like a champ, not stopping until he grabs your face and pulls you back, both hands cupping your cheeks.

“Enough,” he pants, his eyes burning into yours as he helps you up, too dazed to do it yourself.

Jungkook’s mouth is on yours in an instant when you fall onto the bed, not caring about his own taste as he devours you, his tongue tracing along your lips and neck. He pauses there, snapping out of his instincts for a second, as if he’s debating whether to mark you.

“Mark me,” you moan, your cunt grinding against his thigh, pulling his head closer by his hair.

Jungkook doesn’t respond with words. Instead, he kisses your neck, squeezing your tit, his fingers toying with your nipple.

You never tire of the sight of his back, the way his muscles flex with every movement of his head, while his touch sets every nerve ending on your body on fire.

“Let me love you right first,” he murmurs against your lips, lining up his cock with your soaked cunt and pushing inside as he kisses you.

The stretch and burn are familiar, but it’s different now, with him finally touching you, holding you. It’s not rushed or wild like it was when you fucked yourself on him before. It’s slow and loving, his thrusts deep until he’s buried fully inside you.

Jungkook doesn’t stop kissing you, doesn’t stop kneading your breasts as he picks up his pace, his cock sliding out just enough to keep you connected before thrusting back in, uniting your bodies over and over again.

You love this side of him, love every side of him, and it’s all you can manage to moan, his name like a prayer on your lips. Not knowing how long you’ll last, even though you never want it to stop, you grip his head, pushing him up slightly to meet your eyes.

His brows are furrowed, his rosey lips swollen and shiny, begging for more kisses, but you hold back for just a moment.

“Please mark me, Jungkook.”

“I won’t control you, kitten,” he pants, his thrusts not faltering.

“No, please bond with me.”

Jungkook almost collapses on top of you, his whine so loud it drowns out the wet sounds of his cock driving into you.

“You sure?”

“Yes,” you cry out as he hits just the right spot.

You expect him to go for it immediately, but instead, he kisses your neck again, taking his time, almost reverent in how he prepares to mark you.

He takes one last deep inhale of your scent before finally sinking his fangs into your neck, growling, “You’re mine.”

The added rush of arousal from his bite, combined with the way his hips move faster, has you seeing stars behind your eyelids. You hope Jungkook feels the same, wanting to share everything with him.

When he pulls back to admire the mark, he kisses you again, harder this time, the taste of your blood on his tongue not dampening the moment.

“Mark me too,” he moans against your lips, his sweat dripping down his perfect nose onto your face.

Your hand runs up his back, tangling in his hair as he exposes his neck for you, and you guide him closer to your mouth.

Taking a deep breath, his scent making you dizzier than ever, you sink your teeth into his neck—not because it’ll do anything permanent, just leaving small marks from your tiny canines—but it’s symbolic, and that’s all that matters for both of you.

“I love you,” he whines out, and it’s your bite that gives Jungkook the final push. His cock swells even more, his thrusts becoming irregular. “Where, love?”

“Inside!” You mewl, the added sensation of his cock growing inside you pushing you over the edge too, your legs wrapping tightly around his hips to keep him close.

“Fuck, ___, I love you so much,” Jungkook shudders, coming just as forcefully as he entered your life, nearly paralysing you with the sheer amount of cum filling you.

It’s the last push you need as your orgasm bursts with his, your cunt clenching around him like second nature.

Jungkook starts to pull out, but you hold him in like a vice, wanting him to knot you and affirm again that this is final. That he is your finality.

There’s not much said but the soft love confessions whispered against your lips and skin, not much done but lying together, basking in the safety and love you’ve found in each other.

1 • 2 • 3 • 4 • 5 • masterlist

a/n 2: tysm for reading and being patient with updates 🥹 lmk what you think in any way you like! Character asks and drabble requests for this fic are still open 💕

Check out my other work here!

taglist: @jksusawife, @kookiewithluv, @justjkkkkk, @staytinyville, @jaiuneamesolitaiire , @ericawantstoescape , @mjuser, @sp1derk0ok , @fluttershyvanilla, @lachimolalajeon , @holylonelyponyeatingmacaroni, @llallaaa , @m00njinnie , @passionandsuga , @scuzmunkie , @lerasi , @11thenightwemet11 , @bts-ruu , @metalheadfangirl2001 , @unadulteratedwitcher , @qmsvpx, @minghaosimp, @kittycatkrissa, @weareatthebadlands, @fluttershy-vanilla, @bangtannie7, @closer-to-jungkook, @dreamcatcherluvr, @blueofocean

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tinartss · 7 months ago

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some of tin's fav haikavetham fics (fic rec list!)🍓🍓

hello all i've always wanted to make a fic rec list and i feel like i've collected enough hkvh fics to make one now LOL most definitely i am forgetting to include a lot but here are a few of my faves!

notes:

check tags before reading👍

most if not all are sfw bc that is my vibe

sorted from least recent -> most recent

was gonna add little comments to each but i'm now realizing that would take up a huge amt of space so. just know that all of these changed the trajectory of my life. thank u fic authors for all u do🫶

then who? by heartslogos (T, 27k)

“Let me,” Kaveh would say with his eyes, his head, his hands. Let him what? Let him in, let him speak, let him stay, let him touch and see and listen — All of the above. Has it not always been so, the two of them like this, Kaveh and Al-Haitham? Kaveh: not quite asking, not quite taking. Al-Haitham: not quite answering, not quite offering. - Al-Haitham has been confined to bed-rest for a month. Kaveh assists. Al-Haitham recovers, they both do.

Asked and Answered by heartslogos (T, 55k)

It begins in the House of Daena, or at least, Kaveh thinks that that’s where it should begin. If one were to trace the flow of events backwards, it would lead to this moment. If Kaveh were Al-Haitham, he would insist on going further back. Further. Further. Further. All the way back, to the literal beginning of all of time and creation, possibly. But Kaveh’s brain only has enough room for so many creations at any given moment, and the works of others — while inspiring — historically don’t get students passing grades. Or even grades at all. When thinking about one’s relationship with their soulmate, it seems natural to think to a first meeting. A first introduction. Well. This can be said for any relationship. It all begins with that first brush — a name, given; a silhouette, glanced; a voice, heard.

the truest forms of love by heartslogos (T, 29k)

“Nahida said that the moment you touch the seeds is the moment you must stop speaking,” the Traveler says to him, standing between Al-Haitham and the door of the simple, small hut that is to become his and Kaveh’s for the foreseeable future. “Is there anything else you want to say?” The beak of the swan is foreign, cool and strange. Al-Haitham struggles not to flinch away from it as it slides along the side of his jaw, his cheek — imploring and fretful. One last and ineffective plea. Al-Haitham feels the warm weight of solid muscle around his neck, his shoulders — the fidget of wings, the beat of a heart. Al-Haitham’s fingers sink into soft feathers and the bones and muscles of a bird shift against his hands as he holds Kaveh close. What is there to say? Why bother to say something to someone who cannot say anything back? “Stand aside,” Al-Haitham says, slowly lowering Kaveh to the ground. “The sooner I begin, the sooner it ends.” - A story loosely based on the fairy tale of "The Six Swans".

house of cards by luminvies (T, 21k)

There is a scrap of parchment he'd created and abandoned all the way back when the two had been attending the Akademiya together. Sometime between then and the first month he has to move in with Al-Haitham, the list gets crossed out, scribbled over, crumpled up, carefully unfolded again, and revised. The working title for his tireless troubles: Ten Reasons You Cannot, Under Any Circumstances, Fall In Love With Al-Haitham.

…And how Kaveh falls anyway.

through the grapevine by katarasvevo (G, 3.8k)

Theories are passed around in the form of whispers: Professor Alhaitham probably said something that angered Professor Kaveh. Professor Kaveh, unable to let the insult slide, decided to take revenge by interrupting his precious class time. A prediction goes around that in less than ten seconds, Professor Alhaitham will proceed to offend Professor Kaveh even more with a tactless comment, which will lead to Professor Kaveh and Professor Alhaitham murdering each other. The whole class will walk out today without needing to write the test, having been traumatized by the tragic demise of the two professors. It is not a very pleasant line of thought, but it is sadly the only logical outcome.

In which everyone is convinced Professor Alhaitham and Professor Kaveh are sworn enemies, unaware that their relationship isn’t at all what it seems.

the kübler-ross model on romance by luminvies (T, 10.8k)

Kaveh smiles up at the stranger. "Sorry, he's right! I am taken. By him. But he doesn't know it yet." What. "Wait, what did you mean by that?" Al-Haitham asks faintly. "Oh, that?" Kaveh scoffs. "You're a little dense. Obviously, I meant exactly what I said. I wouldn't want to be kept by anybody but you." "But we are—" Al-Haitham trips over his words, trailing behind Kaveh as he walks purposefully through the city. "We aren't. Together. Neither of us has confirmed anything of the sort." Kaveh gives him a derisory look. "And what, we don't act like it? Some things don't have to be put into words to be understood. Ah, I forgot. Haravatat. You probably wouldn't accept anything else any other way." "It is not logical to make assumptions without empirical evidence." "You scholarly types," Kaveh mutters. "Always so particular."

So. Al-Haitham is in love with Kaveh. This has got to be somebody's fault.

Cue the five stages of grief.

The Fall by heartslogos (M, 131k)

In the third generation of Lord Sangemah Bays when all is but a dream, Lord Kusanali, from their divine seat in the Sanctuary of Surasthana stirs and reaches their hands to the sky. They arrange their fingers to capture a square of sky, humming and singing to themselves as they put the patch of star and moon and cloud through the divine calculus before they translate it into the tongues of men to be made knowable, and perhaps even understandable — and with great fortune, actionable. “Summon the court,” Lord Kusanali says, “The Third Face of God has spoken. Hear the Word through me and make your peace. For the God Kings only ever speak thrice on any given subject.” The court of Sumeru crowds the Sanctuary of Surasthana. “That which waits in the Palace of Alcazarzaray can only be absolved through a union of souls and an exchange of hearts, a lifelong journey that ends only in death.” Lord Kusanali translates. And then, beatific, “What you need is a wedding.”

set alight by celestialfics (T, 2.3k)

Since he was young, Alhaitham has followed a self-imposed, unspoken rule not to touch other people unless strictly necessary. Over the years, there have been two exceptions. One was his grandmother, whose side he would cling to as she read him books on the living room couch. She would pet his hair, and he’d lean into the touch, not unlike a kitten blissfully being groomed by its mother. The other exception was an Akademiya upperclassman named Kaveh.

transparent night by kurigohan_to_kamehameha (G, 9.4k)

“Sir, kindly do not obstruct us,” says the matra sharply. “We are in the midst of carrying out an arrest.” “An arrest?” repeats Kaveh, incredulously. “You’re arresting him? You’re arresting him? Why, what in Teyvat has he done?” The Archon Rescue Operation is going as smoothly as it possibly can — that is, until Kaveh returns prematurely from his desert trip, and runs into Alhaitham at the absolute worst possible moment. Of course he would.

this is what happens in the absence of small-talk by pencanze (T, 17k)

Haitham and Kaveh, whose travels are leading them in opposite directions, meet as strangers in a caravanserai—a travelers’ guest house. Because even opposite directions have a point of intersection or overlap, don’t they? Some might even call that point a headfirst collision. And another thing about opposite directions: they still run in parallel, even long after they’ve crossed.

trishna by kurigohan_to_kamehameha (T, 8.2k)

Down the seventh-floor passage in Vahumana, past the statue of the sage Zolfikar, and behind the third door from the left; inside a small, abandoned seminar room in the Sumeru Akademiya is a mirror cursed to show the viewer their heart’s deepest desire. Kaveh’s father smiles at him, slowly, so Kaveh can see it happen; the corners of his mouth quirk upwards and his eyes twinkle. He’s moving, alive. Kaveh hasn’t seen his father smile – not the expression itself, preserved in an old Kamera shot he kept in his sketchbook, but the very action of smiling – in almost ten years. An Alhaitham/Kaveh X Mirror of Erised AU

if they ask my gain from this world’s harvest by patchy (T, 16k)

In the silence that follows, Alhaitham seems to interpret the end of the conversation. He takes a step back into his bedroom and starts to shut the door. “I’ll pay you tomorrow,” Kaveh forces out, his voice cracking embarrassingly. The door pauses in its trajectory. Kaveh takes a deep breath. “But this is the last time,” he continues in a lower voice. “I’ll be out of your space by the end of the month.” Alhaitham pushes open the door.

The House, The Home, You and Me by sonotfine (G, 11.9k)

Alhaitham's books-hoarding situation continued to grow out of control. Kaveh magnanimously decided to offer to build a new house for him, with enough space for his ego and the books too. This was fine by Alhaitham. And, of course, he wanted it to be a house for two. -- On moving out of the old, moving on to the new, and moving forward together.

what it means to point true by luminvies (T, 9.8k)

It is biologically impossible for a man to replicate technological functions. As much as Kaveh (and colleagues) like calling Al-Haitham an index of niche and generally insignificant information on legs, he will never quite live up to the title. Here's a novel one: people must have taken to thinking of him as a human compass because they always seem to come to him when they're looking for Kaveh.

is that what I look like? by kurigohan_to_kamehameha (T, 3,8k)

Alhaitham grows a beard. Why? Who knows.

Three or Four (Or Possibly Five) Easy Steps to Living Harmoniously With Your Roommate by Bgtea (T, 28.7k)

The truth of the matter is, Kaveh has no idea how to read Alhaitham. He prides himself on being an expert at understanding people, his empathetic heart lending him the capacity to relate deeply with those around him (oftentimes to his detriment). But with Alhaitham, there is nothing for him to read; no clues from his cool expression for him to grasp. The man appears stoic all the time even during their petty bickering. Honestly, when was the last time Kaveh has seen the man do anything except smirk or frown? Does Alhaitham feel happiness? Has he ever seen the man laugh? Kaveh's mind is drawing a blank on the latter and it...bothers him deeply. -- Kaveh devises a plan to get Alhaitham to smile by being aggressively nice to the man (and also maybe if he makes Alhaitham happy, he can score a discount on his rent or something). Alhaitham thinks Kaveh ate some mind-altering mushrooms and is, understandably, confused and mildly afraid.

in weal and in woe by kurigohan_to_kamehameha (G, 26.7k)

“Oh, right – Alhaitham.” Kaveh claps a hand to his forehead. “Cyno, if you see him at the Akademiya tomorrow, don’t mention this to him, would you? I haven’t told him yet.”

“Told him?” Cyno asks slowly, a wary glint in his eye. “What exactly haven’t you told him?” “That I’m getting married,” Kaveh grimaces. “I wanted to tell him myself – I suppose I do want him at the wedding after all, you know – but I didn’t get a chance yet. You know what it’s like, trying to have a conversation with him.” It is a truth universally acknowledged that a single man in possession of a good fortune must be in want of a wife. Kaveh is a single man. That's about it, really. or: the one in which Kaveh gets married, but not to whom you think.

the hypothetical shore by heartslogos (T, 10k)

When Al-Haitham was still a student in the Akademiya he wore his hair long. As long as Kaveh’s is now, perhaps a little longer than that, even. But unlike Kaveh's, Al-Haitham’s hair was just as quiet as he was, just as cool — like a stream of silver water, fresh from the mountain pass. To this day Kaveh remembers the exact moment he thought he might be falling in love with Al-Haitham and that, perhaps, it might not be such a terrible thing.

de insomniis by liyuen (M, 32k)

Kaveh and Alhaitham live together. Nothing ever happens. Nothing ever hurts. But sometimes, when Kaveh watches Nahida idly finish her homework, he gets the feeling that he’s forgetting something important.

Kaveh must have fallen asleep at his desk again, the morning light hitting his eyes like a slap. He blinked at the soft green blanket over his shoulders. When he stumbled into the hall, Alhaitham was sitting in the living quarters with his back to him, soundproof earpieces alit. He had a stupid moment where he wanted to call out to Alhaitham. What would he even say? ‘I’m having some trouble.’ ‘Is the blanket yours?’ ‘You were right, I’m in over my head.’ ‘Can you hear me out?’ ‘Help me. Please, help me.’ Stupid. He yawned and went to stumble his way to the kitchen. From his periphery, he thought he saw Alhaitham turn towards him with a look like he wanted to say something. But that, too, surely was just a very nice dream.

The Importance of Interruption by theSealby (T, 8.6k)

Years. It has been years, yet it could’ve been yesterday they were sitting side by side, thigh to thigh, eye to eye, filled with a contentment that their future selves have lost. Maybe it would be enough to have that again. Maybe correctness has no place here—has never been the ultimate goal between them—and Alhaitham finds himself asking a very different question than intended. “How would you like to come home?” ✥ Alhaitham loathes interruptions. (All except one).

To Dream in Shades of Green by Intensely_Reading (T, 55k)

“There are three suitors who you can romance in this game. You must complete all your requirements with one of them." “Who are the three potential suitors?” Kaveh asks warily. “Your three suitors are Tighnari, the blunt Palace Chamberlain; Cyno, the standoffish Captain of the Royal Guard; and Al-Haitham, the acerbic Duke of Vultur Volans.” There's a new invention from the Yae Publishing House that turns a user's dreams into light novel stories. Kaveh has the (un)fortunate pleasure of being one of its first users. Too bad it dumped him in a romance game.

The Theorem of Narrow Interests by lumielle (M, 36k)

Kaveh clicks his tongue. “Well, I hope you are also aware that with all these requirements, you don’t get a set (A+B), or even (A+B+C). Yours is a set comprised of the entire Sumerian alphabet!” Kaveh has had enough of Alhaitham always loitering around the house. In an attempt to get Alhaitham to go out more often, he jokingly tells him to start dating someone. Much to Kaveh’s shock, Alhaitham agrees—and promptly assigns him as his personal matchmaker. And even though Alhaitham’s requirements for his ideal partner are annoyingly specific, Kaveh refuses to back down from a good challenge. He’s confident in his abilities—that is, until his own feelings start getting in the way…

Precipice by viiparyas (M, 37k)

Lately, his heart staggers at a precipice, just one breath from toppling over. Into what, he doesn’t know. After everything, after everything… He can’t help but melt easily into the intimacy between them, whether it’s by his design or not.

Kaveh has won fame and renown through Sumeru, witnessed the dissolution of a corrupt government, traveled from the trenches of homelessness to the pinnacles of a fairytale paradise. And yet something deep between his ribs screams, more, more, more.

or, Kaveh discovering what he truly wants and finally reaching for it. (Spoiler alert: it's Alhaitham)

nazar by pencanze (T, 13k)

It’s like they’re in a globed world of their own, trapped within a glazed bead. Shatterproof, soundproof, impregnable and unbreakable to anyone else—anyone besides themselves. (On superstitions, friendships, and other things that shatter.)

case study of the scribe by Jazer (T, 25.5k)

"The consequences of obtaining knowledge is the overwhelming feeling of loneliness. "

In which Alhaitham realizes that a peaceful existence does not have to mean a lonely one.

People keep coming to Al-Haitham when they want to know where Kaveh is. Al-Haitham would be lying if he said he didn't know why.

silviculture by sunsmasher (T, 13k)

Kaveh’s face is bright, young, flushed, freckled, happy. He’s wearing an Akademiya uniform and is as tall as the last time Alhaitham saw him (fifteen minutes ago) which means he’s an inch or two shorter than the last time Alhaitham saw him, because the uniform boots are heeled. He’s staring at Alhaitham with the aforementioned flush spreading like dye over the silk of his cheeks. “Kaveh,” Alhaitham says. “Don’t freak out. I believe I’ve been displaced in time.”

spitefully yours by luminvies (T, 6k)

Dear Al-Haitham, I propose that we meet this Friday at sundown on the southeast edge of the city bordering Avidya Forest. This is a marital engagement. Please come prepared with your sword at the ready. With spite, Kaveh Al-Haitham sets down the letter, letting out a long sigh. After all, isn’t the answer to dealing with domestic disputes not marriage? Isn’t that entirely contradictory to the issue?

Kaveh sends Al-Haitham martial summons to sort out their issues. Unfortunately, he makes a small error in the letter.

The Art of Misunderstanding by Anonymous (M, 7k)

"Kaveh didn't consider himself to be vain. Yet he was becoming increasingly, upsettingly aware that most associates would disagree. Vanity, by definition, refers to an inflated sense of self-importance and pride in oneself. A vain person may believe themselves to be the best in the room. They may find it absurd that all eyes do not fall on them the instant they make themselves known. A vain person may put themselves on a pedestal, believing themselves objectively skilled in their field. And though Kaveh had trust and confidence in himself as an artist, he was caught entirely off-guard to hear that others thought of him as vain." ------ AKA, Kaveh misunderstands when he overhears an upsetting conversation between old classmates. His assumption is that they are attacking his character and commenting on his personality. In reality, they're talking about his looks. Everyone picks up on it, save for Kaveh himself.

Illness, Drowning, and Other Minor Inconveniences by EulerIHKH (G, 11k)

Faced with a uniquely difficult client, Kaveh is reluctantly forced to look for help in the one architect he considers more capable than himself: his mother. But soon enough, the turmoil of Kaveh's personal life begins to seep into their professional correspondence, forcing him to reevaluate his career, relationships, and identity.

love haitham and kaveh....love these fics....so many talented writers...thank you authors <33 def missing a bunch bc my organization on ao3 is horrendous but i can update this or make another list at some point....also i would highly appreciate any recs tyy🙏

( + bonus not rec but self promo of a hkvh fic i tried my hand at writing last summer but never shared oops. here she is if you're intrigued

a comedy of errors (T, 6.7k) )

#haikaveh fic recs #kavetham fic recs #fic rec list #haikaveh #kavetham #genshin impact #this was so fun #if anything's incorrect like the summary or ratings please lmk!

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moondirti · 1 year ago

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animalic (6)

← chapter five // series masterlist

pairing: miguel o'hara x f!reader rating: mature word count: 4k summary: misery makes good company warnings: enemies to lovers, forced proximity, angst, i mean it guys, miguel o'hara is really not nice in this one, fighting, death/extinction, morally questionable characters, weapons of mass destruction, implied drug withdrawal, reader is given a backstory notes: apologies for what's to come. it's okay if you hate me after

“Don’t move. You’ll make it worse.”

There’s a warm hand cupping the back of your head, callused fingers spread to steady the junction between it and your shoulder. It’s the first thing you notice when you wake; that, and the breath fanning across your face.

You think it odd. Signs of life pound beneath you like the febrile concoction of a dream, burning hot in emphasis that you’d survived. A heavy pulse behind your brow, the headache pinching at every sense until they all dim to conductive static. Your tongue, pasty on the roof of your mouth. The hind of your arm itches, the urge running bone-deep, humming from flesh gracelessly torn apart by a gutter. When you shift to examine it, a fire roars up your neck, the smouldering pain robbing you of any effort.

(The only other time you’d been this uncomfortable, you were bitten by a spider the third month of your internship with Alchemax. The puncture site didn’t burn so much as the delirium that followed.)

“What did I just say?”

And, there’s that voice. You find it difficult to discern its more unique attributes, words muffled from behind the wavering pane of your lucidity – yet, even still, it stands as the most tangible thing present. Deep, resonant. Smoked with a ruggedness you can feel in your teeth. It doesn’t occur to you why it seems so unfamiliar; perhaps it’s the fact that you catch it through its source, your ear pressed to a muscled chest. Or, that’s it’s whispering.

You’ve never heard him whisper. Not to you.

The need to retaliate swells once you realise who holds you. It’s nothing productive, not the string of questions you should be asking – what’s happening, where are we; but it’s the only natural instinct that overcomes you. When you attempt to make good on it, though, the clutter of jokes, gripes, and snubs tangle in your throat, emerging as little more than a groan.

And the act wears you more than it probably should, exhausted tremors wracking your frame. A tender ache ripples from a point on your ribcage – separate from the area you’d fractured at the quarry. The pressure here is more centralised, a focused bruise you locate the source of with a wriggle of your elbow, when a rock comes loose and clatters to settle underneath you. It joins a mound of similar rubble, a pseudo-cushion of chalky cement broken off the larger slabs surrounding you.

You assume they do, at least – based on what you can tell of the terrain behind your back. In reality, you have no means to confirm your circumstances. The space around you swims in ink-blot darkness, the type that is almost material, where sheer absence of light could be considered an element of its own. You squeeze your eyes shut, then widen them, and find that there’s no difference between the two.

So – dark, dusty and… cramped. You’re positioned across Miguel’s lap, his legs running under and perpendicular to yours. Neither of you can stretch them to their full extent, however, forced to cross and bend in unwieldy ways, tangling further in each other's limbs. Your clothes are worn out enough to allow you to detect when any surface of his body – tense abdomen and thick thighs – twitches, thrumming with a molasses-slow tension that starts to diffuse through you.

Not a scenario of his own choosing, then.

But the turn of events that might’ve converged to this are lost on you, white noise fluffing the space they’d evacuated. Last you recall, you were staring down a cop car, the lingering comfort of a child’s trust filling you with a remarkable sort of purpose, that which you cannot place. Had you acted against that convict? Or left it up to the man cradling you?

As if on cue, he speaks.

“You’re trapped under a collapsed building.”

He says you like he’s not a confounding variable in this equation. You know it’s meant to single your blame in this, stranding it somewhere where you can brood without cross-examining him or why he’s here too. It nests on a well of guilt you keep suppressed for good reason, irking you in a particularly special way.

“Figured that out for myself, thanks.” Despite the trouble you put into getting the retort out undisturbed, it ends up sounding more unconvincing than not. Miguel waits for the coughing fit you have afterwards to subside before pitching in his acknowledgment.

“Did you, now?”

Little shit isn’t even trying to hide his sarcasm.

You ignore him, continuing with your scepticism. “I’m just wondering why we’re still here.”

Because it’s a genuine conjecture. While you’re not a part of the educated camp in spider-hero abilities – being so clueless to the extent of your own – you’re far too familiar with that infamous super strength. You’d sensed the difference for yourself; your increasing aptness in carrying hefty weights, the fluidity with which you cruise through life, physically unperturbed. And you’ve been on the receiving end of the spectrum too, your skin littered with scars that point to the sheer power of your companion.

A few tonnes of demolished concrete should be a walk in the park for him.

He clicks his tongue like it’s obvious. “I pulled under a steel arc in time for the debris not to crush us. If I disturb this pocket, or try to rearrange a tunnel, then I run the risk again.”

The logic makes sense, as much as you hate to admit it. Of course, that doesn’t stop you from picking at the contrivances in his language. It was you when discussing what went wrong, and now it’s I when it comes to the out. You realise it’s probably unintentional. Somehow, that makes it worse. He must truly believe you’re nothing beyond a malevolent fuck-up; some villain willing to sacrifice herself for the greater demise.

(The latter might have its validity. It’s the former you hold issue with.)

Likewise, you also ascertain an easy fix to all this – on account of your spectral properties. And, if you were a better woman, it would’ve been feasible. Phase out, crawl through until you breach the open, get help.

It’s long since been established that you’re not that person, though – and you’ve come to accept your own incompetence. You don’t mean to die here; you’re not sure if you want him too either, for all your ire. But your immateriality is a fickle thing, recurring at the most inopportune times, in the smallest increments – a potential problem for the doubtlessly long crawl it’d take to escape. You don’t want to imagine what would happen should you solidify within the walls.

Resignation seems easier than tempting it.

Miguel must recognise the option as well. As it stands for him, he can’t afford to let you go, nor is he desperate enough to trust you yet despite it. You don’t bring it up then, maintaining the upper-hand by his misunderstanding of your capacity.

(Maybe you are evil.

Or, just tired.)

“That’s okay. I think it would be funny if we passed like this.” You pitch, nudging your cheek to urge the smile clearly lacking in your tone. There’s no humour behind your choice of phrase, and it’s a jarring step back from where he’d been, expounding himself. You suppose it might be a clumsy distraction from the exact gravity of your predicament, yet even that rolls over in your brain, not quite satisfactory to dissolve as truth. “It’ll make a nice story for the people who dig us up.”

His chest puffs, filling with an irritated inhale. In the same movement, his fingers constrict onto your cranial base; it has the adverse effect of bracing your neck for the sudden shift, minimising the soreness triggered by any activity. You decide to take it as the warning it’s meant to be instead.

“Eres patética.” He murmurs, sinking back down. You wince when his clutch weakens, pain flaring. “And whiplashed.”

You purse your lips, critical. “I’ve had worse.”

“Sure.”

“My arm–”

“Will be fine.” As if to punctuate, he reaches for the wound. A clink sounds when he taps it. “Used the nanotech off my suit as a bandage.”

You should have caught that it doesn’t sting like it would’ve if exposed. Similarly, his hands are gloveless. Bare – while the rest of him isn’t. You’d felt the dry surface of his palm, the fixed warmth it emanated, but for some oversight, you hadn’t considered that he was touching you. Skin-to-skin, the simple size of his fists dwarfing you in every measure.

A stone lodges in your throat.

“Did– How’d you know?” You pry, referencing the perpetual tenebrosity you’re suspended in.

What he replies with shouldn't shock you, not as much as it does. But the air’s shifted to a nuanced degree, a hesitation substituting loud anger. It's the awareness that he's just as tuned in to you as you are him, sympathetic to try and redirect you off the brink of death. Or, more likely, it’s the poignant impression of his fangs, wedged in your flesh, his tongue lapping up the very same path.

(And the wanton moan it’d triggered.)

“I could smell the blood.”

Oh.

Truthfully, you’ve no clue whether you respond aloud or keep your contemplation close to your psyche. He admits it almost… awkwardly, like it’s a condition he’s not so fond of himself. Yet it’s one that reverberates in the strained silence, plucking at taut strings that stretch with every passing second. You play it on repeat, stewing over the way in which he spoke; the diction, the stressors, the slight roll of his accent.

I could smell it. I could smell you. The blood.

Your life on the run hardly ever allows for moments like these. Over the past year, stress has anchored itself by the dock of your being, streamlining a flow of cortisol to every major organ. Continuity hinges on an alertness to the forces propelling you, and while the occasional wisecrack can alleviate some effects it has on your health, you don’t have the luxury of sinking into whatever fear bolsters it all.

It’s with him, though – hanging from a crane, or cornered in a pen of his own design. Only ever with him are you slapped with the resounding, festering distress of your own weakness. It consumes you, gnawing on your gut with its brutal teeth, tearing away the indifference you’d built around your systems. How dissimilar the two of you are; a girl unwilling to fight for even herself, and a man capable of wrapping a slash in the dark.

(He could smell it. And he can probably see, too.

By just how much does he outmatch you?)

“You’re welcome.” Miguel growls. You scold yourself for your elongated reticence, the pace of your heart overtaking the anxious torrent of thoughts that pump through you. It’s good practice to thank the man who’d saved your life four times over. Be that as it may, does it really count if he’s the reason it was necessary to begin with? He’d dropped you off that crane, he’d swung you a hundred feet high. Him, him, him.

You curl your tongue, desperate to quell the barrage of resentment that escalates at his prodding. Despite it pulling you from your rapid dissociation, your fight-or-flight peaks, forcing you to face a confrontation you don’t need. There’s nowhere to run – presently, you’re moored into place, his physicality and unique provocation blocking the possibility all together.

You scoff to placate the spiralling desire to argue.

It doesn’t work.

“For what?” You hiss.

All too quickly, his legs spread, creating a trough for you to slide down into. When your ass hits the unforgiving floor, you involuntarily cringe at the contrast it poses to his leg. A calculated effect, you’re sure – so too is the newfound freedom of his grip releasing your head, the crossing of his forearms pushing you away from the post his pecs provided.

It’s what you wanted, to distance yourself from his overbearing stature. And he manipulates it to his own favour; you’re made to bear your burden, the agony of your injured state tripling as if to exclaim: ‘see?’

Touché.

Nevertheless, it palliates your memory. The chill of the earth under you spikes your nerves, clearing the brume overcasting your day previous. You’d driven a car into that symbiote based on a groundless hypothesis; bold, any scientist would tell you. Yet, as far as your perception extends, it worked.

“Selfish.” He announces, far from discrete. It’s so unlike him that it smites the ego beginning to coagulate at your remembered success.

Your eyes snap to where you assume his face is, squinting like your glare makes any difference. “Excuse me?”

Undeterred by the threat inherent in your tone – that which is all talk – he persists. “Who do you think you are exactly, Wraith?”

The interrogation holds a dangerous quality; again, it feels out of place, a spirit tugging at the strings of his hollow self.

“Don’t call me that.”

“Why? What would you prefer? Anomaly, banshee? You drag death behind you like it’s a curse, only you’ve opted into it. I told you it wasn’t our place to interfere, and you had to push it–”

He can be jaded, or subtle. Oftentimes, he’s dismissive and passively rude.

But Miguel O’Hara is never heedlessly hostile. Not like this.

“That wasn’t my fault, asshole. I fucking glitched!”

“¡Órale, estás bien pendeja! Nothing ever is, of course! Has it never occurred to you to take a good look in the mirror?”

The irregularity scares you. Your voice breaks with it.

“O’Hara–”

“Because I’ll tell you what I see; a girl who can’t face what she’s done.”

“You don’t know me.” You shake your head, tamping the stiffness in your shoulder. It does nothing to exercise the sharp unease that flays you alive.

“A self-serving criminal who refuses to listen.”

“I d– I tried.” Hiccupping, the edge worsens.

“You’d have gone back home–”

“There’s nothing left for me there!”

“Like there is anywhere else? You��ve devastated them!”

“Stop it–”

“Wrecked entire worlds! I’ve been the only one holding it all together,” He yells, pushing his knees closer to one another. You’re slowly crushed in the process, thighs drawing up to press against your torso. “You’re no victim. You’re no hero.”

“Stop it!”

“Tell me I’m wrong!”

Feverish tears slice down your cheeks, spouting to escape the pressure that balloons within you. Your lungs tighten alongside it, heart aching. It’s progressed past the point of prevention – no longer do you retain control of how this turns out. All you can do is drift; a feather, seized in this tempest, stirred by a disembodied man.

When you don’t respond, preferring to preserve your energy for the sobs that rip from you, he inches closer. You sense it when he repeats himself, his hot breath lining the shell of your ear.

“Well,” His claws sharpen, grazing the small of your back. “Am I?”

His lisp is more pronounced like this, fangs extended to affect the natural position of his mouth. It warps the undertone, like a pool does light, and sends it back more viscous than ever. He’s uninhibited – an addict missing his fix.

It’s almost impossible to choke the admission out against the hatred churning your stomach. When you unhinge your jaw, it’s a credible wager that you retch all over yourself instead.

“No.” You manage to warble, a mixture of snot and wet misery streaking down your chin. Your wrists stay plastered, allowing the mess to mask your countenance, tucking between your legs in a childlike attempt at comfort. Cruelty crackles – self-propagated now – assaulting your faux-confidence until it plummets to a fraction of what it was.

Cursed. A wraith – haunting the multiverse with her unfinished business.

There’s nothing left to declare as his impressions are confirmed. You both mark it, this changed, spoken into existence by your divulgence. By some miracle, if you were to slip his capture, it’d be no more of a victory than the gore crusting your fingernails. Proof for his belittlement; that you truly are so inconsiderate as to further endanger the lives of millions.

(Would you be able to live with yourself?)

You relapse, agonising over the past week. Not a victim – you’d taken advantage of him with a kiss for an unsure opportunity. Not a hero – you’d punched a robber and gotten a civilian killed in the process. You’d run over a murderer and buried several under an early grave.

(Can you live with yourself?)

And home–

Trapped, you boil in a pond of your transgressions. It’d been a long time coming – your fault, in fact. You should’ve noticed the water was gradually heating.

There’d been a dam of careful construction at this bank, stacked tirelessly over the several nights you’d been given to think on what you’ve done. To prevent your clear culpability from catching up to you, to blind others to it too. He’s right, but not about all things. You’ve memorised your reflection at this point. Put it in a line up, and you’ll point your place in hell with facile certainty.

So, there’s no need to admit anything else. Regardless, his sabotage compels you to. Here, loitering purgatory with the one person who’d never understand; what harm could confession do? His opinion of you skims rock bottom, and you’ve no hope at seeing a priest before you rot.

Forgive me, for I have sinned.

“I’m not innocent.” You start. “Never have been.”

Alpha Centauri, that was the goal.

Located only four light years away, it’s the closest star system to Earth; with suns Rigil Kentaurus, Toliman and Proxima Centauri forming a trinary network. All main sequence stars – like humanity’s very own Sol – orbited by suspected habitable exoplanets. With the average chemical rocket, it’d take upwards of six thousand years to get there.

There lay alternatives, of course. Nuclear fission, with an energy yield of almost zero from its original mass. Fusion, ten times as efficient – still, not nearly enough. Ion accelerators, sunlight capture. Interstellar arks were of no interest; no, you’d wanted to achieve extrasolar travel within your lifetime. Warp drives and hyperspace – all theoretical.

As an undergrad, you’d settled on matter-antimatter collision.

The latter, antimatter, exists as an inverted twin to ordinary subatomic particles, with flipped states on every front. Antiprotons – negative protons with oppositely directed magnetism, and positrons – positively charged electrons. When the two meet their counterparts, their entire mass is converted into energy. And, when such annihilation is modelled within engines, a ship can accelerate to ninety percent the speed of light.

Therein subsisted your only chance to touch the stars.

Of course, like all hypotheticals, it came with its own array of issues. No natural reservoir of the substance is known, and producing at least one tonne would take more power than mankind has used in all its history. Moreover, it’s near nonviable to store. Any container that has ever touched regular matter would only cause preemptive decimation.

You wrote papers and studied computer-generated prototypes. You argued with professors, and attended pro-conferences. Months worth of minimum wage were blown on trips to Argentina, where the neighbouring system can be spotted through a telescope, winking above the horizon. When it all started to appear fruitless, you caught wind of Alchemex’s exploits within the field.

It was a young company, hobbling on its feet after a rocky merger with Oscorp. But they were daring, and rich, endeavouring into categories that most deemed nonprofit. You’d applied for an internship, waited months to hear back. By some cosmic karma, it turned out to be good news when you eventually did.

They were already working on manufacturing the antimatter. It was your suggestion that encouraged them to use magnets to store it within a vacuum.

It looked auspicious. It had been.

Then, you were bit.

The spider was from another division – radiation, you suppose. By some breach on account of a more negligent temp, the critter had found its way into your improvised cubicle. And so the story goes; it’d champed down on the webbing between your thumb and forefinger, before promptly suffocating under the cup you’d snared it in. The area stung for a while, venom having directly found your veins. Yet, by the time you’d returned to your dorm, your immunity seemed to have diluted its effects.

Until, you’d gotten sick. The hysteria was slow to consolidate, starting as a sore throat. You’d used your one day off then, ignorant to just how bad it could get; because the fever only deepened, lesions on the lining of your oesophagus oozing ichor into bile. Your doctor waived the possibility of tuberculosis, mistrusting the notes your instructors sent with you, complaining of in-class fainting bouts.

You couldn’t miss work, though. Never. Not when you were so close.

So you stuffed sheets of pills in your pockets and braved each shift with trembling joints. You’d no friends to notice your suffering, and for such an ambitious company, overtime was expected. Sweating through multiple layers of clothing, you kept an eye on your poster of the galaxy and lagged on those long nights. At the rate you were going, you genuinely dreaded a life cut short before you could realise your objective.

If nothing else, it urged you to work harder.

Your first milestone came at the one kilogram mark. A party was hosted to celebrate, billionaires invited to gather around the vessel which held such a revolutionary feat. Despite your interloper status, you’d been summoned too, to play big girl scientist and present Alchemex’s future course of action. Your affliction was improving, and you were the inspiration behind the project’s advance. It felt like the biggest night of your career.

(‘Magnets! What a genius solution.’ From a nobel prize runner up.

‘That ambition will get you far, mark my words.’ The CEO’s cousin.)

In truth, it was the last.

Because the antimatter had taken centre stage, security slackening with its continued stability. So long as the magnetism wasn’t tampered with, so long as the vacuumed vessel remained airtight, things looked to be fine for your speech. You’d cycled through every known variable, staring down the container, a champagne flute tucked in your sweaty palms.

Your skin prickled.

The glass smashed to the floor. In your embarrassment, you’d brushed it off as clumsiness prompted by the perspiration – notwithstanding your recount, having seen the drink fall through your mass. Did it matter, though? You couldn’t put it past your illness to cause such hallucinations. It was impossible, a trick of sight.

The festivities progressed, yet the tingle of your nerves didn’t subside. Anxiety – you chalked it up to common apprehension. So, when your boss announced your name for all to hear, and the agitation flared, it wasn’t alarming. You could think of nothing else anyway, honed in to the address you’d practised all morning.

Good evening, ladies and gentlemen.

Your gut flipped. Your vision blackened.

The steps lost depth; you stumbled up them with all the grace of a hunted fawn.

Today–

Your skin prickled once more, and you collapsed. Through the antimatter’s vessel, through the floor.

There’s nothing to recall after that. Not for a long while.

“I don’t become intangible.” Your brow bone rests on the curve of your knee, body curled in a foetal position. “My particles merely… find the best way through something.”

Miguel has remained eerily quiet throughout your chronicle. You try not to let it dissuade you.

“So–”

“Some came in contact with the antimatter.”

“Yeah.” You murmur, moved by an unnamed emotion. “It detonated, naturally, with a force roughly equivalent to a nuclear bomb. Wiped out everyone in the city upon discharge, then everyone in the state with its impact. Or– maybe, I don’t know. I was discarnate for weeks – the explosion had no effect on my immaterial self, and the radiation couldn’t hurt me when that spider damn well sought and failed at it already.”

You hug yourself tighter.

“I only witnessed the winter that followed. The blast was large-scale enough to trigger firestorms and a global climate cooling – similar to the one they scare you with when talking about nuclear warfare. Crop failure, famine. Millions died and my home devolved into cataclysm. It was mass extinction,” You school yourself, waving the snivel crawling up your nose. “Because of me.”

An end by starvation or infection, confined to this tomb, seems a perfectly fitting penance.

“Explain this to me, O’Hara – what just providence made me spider-woman to a barren land?”

chapter seven →

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ohthewh0rror · 1 year ago

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ETERNALLY YOURS.

˚₊ ⋆ ☠︎︎ ⋆ ₊˚ prompt — The follow up to ‘I’ve Dug Two Graves For Us, My Dear.’ Now that your marriage has been irreparably damaged, where do the two of you go from here?

Pairing: Tom Riddle x Reader

Word count: 2k

A/N: I changed my mind after writing a completely different ending. At first I wanted to make it angst-filled and unhappy but I keep writing sad stuff, and you guys deserve a break. Thank you to my best friend Madie for proof-reading/editing this once again and to @brooklynscherry-z for helping me get a better understanding of Tom & Mattheo’s lore. Anyway, I hope you guys enjoy this (much shorter) continuation to ‘I’ve Dug Two Graves For Us, My Dear”!

“A letter arrived for you this morning, Y/N,” came the soft voice of your great aunt Delia, her wrinkled hand holding the letter out for you. For a second you were confused, unsure of who would have sent you a letter, especially at such an early hour, until it dawned on you.

Your husband.

A pang of hurt hit your heart at the thought of him. It had been two months since you had seen or spoken to him and though you hated him, another, smaller, part of you missed him terribly. He had been your first love and dearest friend, and his infidelity wasn’t enough to completely erase the love you’ve held for him since the two of you were only seventeen.

As you held the letter in your hands you contemplated not opening it, to instead toss it in the trash and forget it ever arrived. You eyed the entrance to the kitchens, the trash was right through that door, you could throw it away and leave the contents of the letter a mystery. But, as you turned the letter over in your hands, you felt curiosity eating at the back of your mind, beckoning you to open the letter and dissect its contents.

‘Well…it couldn’t hurt,’ you thought, gently unfolding the parchment. As your eyes skimmed over the opening of the letter, you soon realized this was not a letter you should read in the company of others. Folding the letter back up, you looked at your aunt, asking “may I be excused?”

Her eyes darted between the parchment and your eyes, and she looked as if she wanted to ask you something but she waved you off instead, wordlessly telling you that you may take your leave.

You gave her a nod of gratitude before heading to the room you were staying in, trying your hardest to seem normal. Once you entered your room, you made sure to lock the doors and cast a silencing charm for good measure. You did not want your aunt to hear you in the event that you became upset.

Sitting at the desk in the corner of your room, you unfolded the letter and began to read it once again.

Dear Y/N,

I hope this letter finds you well. It has been two months since I have seen or spoken to you, and I must admit that I miss you more than I thought myself capable of. I understand that what I did was unforgivable in your eyes, but I hope by telling you everything it will help you process what is going on so we may move forward from this.

A year ago I approached Bellatrix with the proposition of conceiving and carrying my heir. I explained I did this out of a need to produce an heir and you had not been able to get pregnant yourself. Once she had the child, the child would be ours to raise, she was merely going to be a surrogate of sorts; she understood and agreed to the terms and from there we began the affair.

She finally fell pregnant 6 months ago with a boy. While I should've told you about my plans before approaching her, I most definitely should have told you once she was with child. I am sincerely sorry that you found out the way you did. I wish I could have told you myself, under better circumstances.

Please consider coming back home so that we may be a proper family.

Eternally yours, Tom

You felt a few tears slip out and drip from your eyes onto the parchment, smearing the ink that stained the page with its terrible words. Oh how you wish he hadn’t written to you. His answers did not bring any form of acceptance of his actions, only further heartbreak. It was hard for you to comprehend how he could have sex with her and then return home to you as if all was normal.

“Reducio,” you muttered, shrinking the letter. You carefully folded it, being sure not to rip it, before you got out of your seat and made your way to your closet. On the top shelf, in the furthest corner, sat an intricately carved wooden box with flowers lining the top and sides. The initials M.R sat right above the lock. You conjured a small stepping stool, but even with the stool you were still unable to reach it, leaving yourself to blindly swipe your hand across the shelf till you finally felt your fingers bump the edge.

With what you were looking for finally in your grasp, you got off the stool and went back to your desk. You sat down again, reaching towards one of the desk drawers, and pulling it open to retrieve the small key for the box. As soon as the lock clicked, you opened the top, revealing an empty interior.

The box was made to hold important milestone objects and keepsakes for your son. You planned to fill it with your own letters and pictures so that you could look back on it when he is older and no longer needs you, to remind yourself of simpler times. You hadn’t planned on putting anything related to Tom in there. The thought of him was far too painful, and you didn’t want to taint the little bits of happiness within.

Taking the shrunken letter you placed it in the box before sliding off your wedding ring and putting it on top of the letter. As you closed the box once again, you felt as if you were also closing the metaphorical lid on your marriage. You wouldn’t grace Tom with your presence, a simple letter would have to suffice as you decided you were going to effectively cut him out of your life.

Dear Tom,

I will keep this letter simple and to the point. I appreciate your honesty and your willingness to take some form of accountability for your actions, as I know it’s not something that comes easy to you. But, I will not be returning home nor will we be playing at being a happy family. If you want to be a family as badly as you say, then leave our marriage intact but let us live separate lives. Don’t worry, I do not plan to date or remarry, for you are my first and final love.

That all being said, do not contact me again unless it is with divorce proceedings.

P.s. congratulations on the heir you always wanted.

Sincerely, Y/N

Putting your quill down, you read over the letter one more time to be sure this was what you wanted your final words to him to be. Satisfied with what you wrote, you got out of your chair once again and left the room, heading towards the back garden where you knew the owl belonging to your aunt would be.

Walking into the small building that housed her owl you saw the bird, Chipp, still here and not away delivering mail for your aunt. You gave Chipp a few treats as a thank you for going out in the cold for delivering this letter for you before holding the letter out for the owl to take. Chipp happily took the parchment and flew off to take the letter to its recipient.

That was the last time you spoke to Tom. As the months turned to years, Tom became a distant, painful memory.

11 years later

“Mattheo! Wait up!” You called out to your son, as he excitedly ran ahead of you. You were winded trying to keep up with him, trying hard not to lose him in the crowd of teary-eyed mothers and nervous children. When you finally caught up to him, you grabbed him by the shoulder, halting him. “I understand you’re excited, but will you try not to run off,” you were panting slightly, “I would at least like to tell you goodbye.”

Mattheo looked exasperated, trying already to seem too cool to tell his mother bye. “But mum—” he started, trying to justify his running off. “No buts; now, let me see you,” you said, motioning him to turn around. He groaned, turning around to face you. You held him by his arms in front of you, “listen, and actually listen to me for once; listen to your professors and don’t cause trouble, I know how—” you paused mid sentence when something out of the corner of your eye caught your attention.

It was your husband.

Your husband, who you hadn’t seen in 11 years, with a young boy standing beside him. The two of you locked eyes and you felt a wave of discomfort hit you. How could you have been so stupid? Of course he would be here, his son and Mattheo are close in age, they’d obviously go to school together.

You decided to skip the speech and quickly walk further up the platform, trying to put more room between you and Tom. You didn’t want Tom to approach you and attempt to talk to you or your son. Mattheo didn’t need to go through such a confusing altercation on such an important day. This day was only about him and you wanted it to be special.

Once you put a satisfying amount of room between the two of you, you stopped and your son decided to ask why that man was staring at you. Waving him off, you explained, “he’s just someone I used to know, that’s all.” Mattheo looked like he had more questions, but you didn’t give him the chance to ask them. Instead, you gave him a parting kiss on the forehead and told him goodbye before all but pushing him onto the train.

You backed away and watched Mattheo walk further into the train before he finally disappeared from sight. You felt your eyes well up with tears at the reality of your son leaving for Hogwarts, giving you definitive proof of how old he was getting. It made you wish you possessed a time turner, just so you could go back to the beginning and do it all over again.

As you shuffled back toward the exit, you were lost in thought over how Mattheo would do at Hogwarts. What house would he be in? Would he make friends? How would he do academically? You were so lost in thought that you hadn’t noticed someone closing in on you until it was too late.

You felt a hand wrap around your bicep and pull you back slightly causing you to stumble into their chest. You whipped around, about to give the owner of the offending hand a piece of your mind when you saw who was touching you.

Tom looked at you, and though his face remained neutral, you swear you saw a glint of hurt in his eyes. He released your arm only to place a hand on the small of your back, “walk with me, Y/N?”

You hesitated for a second before giving him a small nod and walking with him back towards the entrance to platform 9 ¾. There was a moment of tense, awkward silence before he spoke.

“What is his name?” Tom asked. You thought about whether you wanted to tell him or not, as you knew where this conversation was headed.

“Mattheo,” was all you said. Not giving away his full name, as you weren’t ready to admit you’d given him Tom’s last name.

Tom went silent again and you looked up to see him deep in thought. Not wanting to make the situation any more uncomfortable by just staring at him, you looked away, waiting for him to speak once again. Though, once he spoke, you wish he had kept the awkward silence between you two.

“Have dinner with me tonight.”

Taglist: @the-sweet-psycho @mypolicemanharryyy @jessysfangirlworld @homan-oid @motherofdragons1998 @theeslutintheroom @pasta01 @lovefks @mwahbella @storminacloud @brooklynscherry-z @eri-s-big-sis @eversei @tomhollandisabae @rlblackbarbie @cyphah @cookielovesbook-akie

#tom riddle #tom riddle imagine #tom riddle x reader #tom riddle x y/n #tom riddle x you #take it #I’m going to bed

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m4yasnotthatcool · 1 year ago

Note

Can we have Andrew and Reader have a life after the events of the game (In the Bulletless Decay route)?

Reader would be an exchange student who would have gone to stay with the Graves family, but in the end she ended up being another 'victim' of the game's circumstances.

She would be a type of person who was indifferent to almost everything, cold-blooded, with somewhat sociopathic tendencies but with a kind heart.

Okay, let's do this, after Ashley's murder, Andrew and Reader finally got fake teeth and moved somewhere far away, but with all the recent traumas and along with the fear of being abandoned.

Andrew started to have possessive tendencies, a little clingy, toxic, manipulative towards our 'poor thing' Reader and that would result in them having children in the future, to keep her trapped in the coffin with him.

ANDREW GRAVES X F!READER

(a/n: okay so i think i understand what u mean, sorry if its not what you expected, im a little(very) rusty rn at writing) NOT PROOF READ!

okay so first of all, Ashley never liked you, and thats part of the reason Andrew liked you sm

like, yea, he always does whatever his sister wants him to, and he hated himself for falling for you

but there was just something about how you were so indifferent under almost any circumstances (oh how he enjoyed seeing you crack under the pressure when you ate the cultist!)

your cold blooded outer shell was something intriguing to him

he wanted to study you

he wanted to get to know you.

did he care about you from the begining? ha, no.

of course he didnt

his sister hated you, so he hated you too

she was afraid you'd steal him from her so he didnt give you the chance

a couple of days into the quarantine is when he'll finally give in and start talking to you

and low and behold, he loved you from the first interaction

you were just so interesting!

he, of course, felt guilty for going against his sisters wishes, but he still would spend mre and more time just talking to you

after killing ashley i think he would just be in denial

for a really (REALLY) long time he would just wait for her to come back, even tough he knows shes not going to

after somehow getting away and finding a permanent place to stay, you two got in a relationship

both of you had abandonment issues you should treat, but neither of you felt it was necesary

from the start he didnt let you talk to anyone else but him

at first it was something you despited about him, feeling it was too clingy. you needed space, you needed privacy

but at one point those needs started fading away

he would tell you "you dont need anyone else but me. im the only one who is capable of understanding what you went trough! and you're the only one who can understand what I went trough. but its alright! dont worry about me! just worry about yourself and what you want. its not like you care about me anyway."

so you belived him

you didnt need anyone else but him

you told him you didnt want kids

thats one of the many topics you talked about when you met

you didnt feel they fufiled any particular need of yours and you didnt want to have them if you were just going to regret them after

he managed to change your mind

after having your 2nd child with him, you were so far gone that you remained just and empty shell of the person you used to be

the lines between you two started bleeding into eachother and so he absorbed your presence

you were no longer yourself

you were just who he wanted you to be all along

he still loved you of course

also i feel like he would get a lot of his manipulation skills from his sister

or whatever is the feeling he gets thats closest to love

he just needed you to stay

and whenever it seemed like you were ready to fly away, he would cut your wings

________________________________________

final a/n

i know its bad dude, im sorry 😭

if you were to ask me right now what i just wrote i couldnt tell you (like im fr rn)

if you want me to try to re-do it just ask (if u didnt like this one that is)

so uh

thx for asking

and sorry its bad lmao

here are the other fandoms i write for!

have a nice rest of ur day/night!

#andrew graves #andrew graves x reader #x reader #fanfiction #the coffin of andy and leyley #tcoaal #fanfic

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focusonkayjay · 5 days ago

Text

between the ride and the roses (3)

Pairing: Jungkook x (f.) Reader

Genre/Tags: biker/ motorcycle shop owner! jungkook x flower shop owner! reader, enemies to lovers, opposites attract, slow burn, angst, smut, fluff

Series summary: There's an insane turn of events when your calm and peaceful life is intruded by Jungkook, a biker boy who sets up his loud business right next to your own. Your paths cross under unlikely circumstances, starting with a clash of personalities but gradually you find yourself establishing a deeper connection with the annoyingly attractive biker jerk. You both have no idea what's in store for you guys as you try your best to put up with each other.

Word count: 3.8k

Chapter Warnings: argument, jungkook is mean, OC is mean. both have high egos.

A/N: part 3 is here <3 i'm having sm fun writing this. also, i got this anonymous ask which stated i was using chat-gpt for my stories. i didn't like the tone of their message so i blocked them. however, i just want to say i have not used chat-gpt for my stories. i take time out of my day to type this story because i really want to put content out there that people might enjoy reading. i want to make stories that i have always wanted to read, but never found. truthfully, i did use chat gpt for the names of a few flowers, plants and bouquet combinations though, because i'm not a professional florist and i have no idea about flowers. i hope that's understandable. anyways, thank u for reading. let me know your thoughts :)

part 3: blooming grudges

The sun is setting, painting the street in hues of orange and pink, but the peace you’re so badly yearning for is shattered by the rumble of motorcycles and boisterous laughter right outside your shop. It’s been a week since Jungkook’s shop had started running and it has surprisingly quickly become a hotspot for bikers to gather in the evenings. The constant noise and chaos spill over into your once-quiet corner of the neighborhood.

You have no idea what they do and what the point of all these gatherings are, but you dread it every single time you hear a bunch of men lounging outside your shop.

As the evening progresses, you’re in the middle of arranging a bouquet when the sharp crash of breaking pottery jolts you out of your work. Heart pounding, you glance outside and see one of Jungkook’s biker friends near the sidewalk through your window. Still confused, you stand up and storm out to see what the hell had happened.

Anger surges through your veins as you spot the man casually standing there as if he didn’t just knock over one of your handmade ceramic pots off the display stand that was right outside your shop. “What the hell is wrong with you??!!?!” you snap, glaring at the man and then at the jagged pieces of your pot just lying there, near his feet.

The biker barely spares you a glance, shrugging nonchalantly. “Relax. It’s just a pot.” he says.

“Just a pot?” you repeat, your voice rising. “Do you have any idea how much time and effort went into that? Or do you only care about things you can rev or ride?” you feel your heart thumping as your anger skyrockets.

Before the man can respond, Jungkook suddenly steps out of the crowd near his shop. His leather jacket gleams in the fading light, and his dark eyes flicker to the broken pot before landing on you. “What’s going on?” he questions, his voice low and calm, but there’s an edge of warning to it.

You point at the shards of pottery. “What’s going on? One of your friends just broke my pot and doesn’t even have the decency to apologize!” Jungkook looks at his friend, who just shrugs, then back at you. “It was an accident.” he dismisses, his tone clipped. “I’ll pay for it.” he continues and you watch his friend just leave the scene, completely unbothered.

You laugh bitterly, shaking your head. “Pay for it? Do you think that solves everything? This isn’t just about the pot, Jungkook. Every night, this street turns into a circus because of your shop. My customers can’t park anymore, and now your friends are trashing my things.” you begin, moving your hands as you speak, unable to remain calm anymore.

His jaw tightens, and he takes a step closer. “Look, I’m sorry about the pot, but don’t act like I’m the reason your shop isn’t doing well. Maybe it’s not the noise. Maybe people just don’t care about overpriced flowers.”

Your breath catches, his words cutting deeper than you expect. “Wow,” you say, your voice trembling with anger. “You really think you’re better than everyone, don’t you? Just because you’ve got your flashy bikes and your little gang of followers?” you ignore the way your heart twitches at how he had just disrespected you and your business.

His expression hardens. “Better than everyone? No. But at least I’m not the one blaming other people for my problems. You’re so focused on what’s wrong with my shop, but maybe the issue isn’t me. Maybe it’s you.”

Your fists clench at your sides. “You have no idea what you’re talking about. I’ve been here for years, building this business from the ground up. And you waltz in, turning this neighborhood into a mess, and act like you’re doing everyone a favor?” you see red as you fight with him, unable to contain the flow of words that are spilling out of your mouth.

Jungkook’s voice sharpens and he doesn’t hold back. “You think I don’t work hard? That I haven’t sacrificed everything to make this shop work? You don’t know anything about me. But sure, keep throwing stones from your little glass house.” he counters harshly.

“Oh so you can say anything about my business, but i can’t? You can talk about me like you know me, but i can’t?” There’s venom in your voice as you argue and Jungkook clenches his jaw, trying to calm himself down.

The tension between the two of you is suffocating and each word cuts like a blade. As an awkward silence fills the air, you shake your head. “You’re unbelievable.” you breathily say. “You don’t care about anyone but yourself.” you add.

“And you...” he fires back, “care so much about your damn shop that you can’t see past your own damn ego.” You look at him with your lips parted, unable to come up with a comeback. You feel your eyes sting and nothing makes sense anymore. You hate it here. You hate him.

Before you can respond, one of the bikers calls out to Jungkook, and he turns away, his shoulders tense. He doesn’t bother looking back at you and just leaves.

Fuming, you crouch down to pick up the broken shards of your pot. Your hands tremble as you scoop up the jagged pieces, and a sharp piece slices right through your finger. You hiss, dropping the shard as blood wells up from the cut. Your eyes tear up as you watch your finger bleed. You were so done with this man and his stupid shop.

Ignoring the sting, you finish cleaning up and head back inside, pressing a tissue to your finger. You flip the sign on your door, deciding to call it a day since you weren’t really in the mood to face any new customers. You retreat to your counter, where you slump into your chair, frustrated, exhausted and seething.

Inside Throttle and Torque, the atmosphere is much quieter, now that the bikers have left. Jungkook leans against the counter, his expression stormy as he thinks of the interaction he had with you 4 hours ago. Yoongi, Jimin, and Hoseok sit nearby, watching him with varying degrees of curiosity and amusement.

“You look like you’re about to punch something.” Jimin says, breaking the silence. Jungkook scoffs, running a hand through his hair. “It’s that flower shop owner again. She’s impossible.”

“Y/N?” Hoseok grins. “What did she do this time?” he questions. Jungkook glares at him. “One of the guys broke her pot, and she went off like it was the end of the world. Then she starts blaming me for everything—says I’m ruining the whole street. Like it’s my fault her shop isn’t getting customers.” he speaks, his tone filled with annoyance.

“Isn’t it, though?” Jimin teases, earning a sharp look from Jungkook. Yoongi, raises an eyebrow. “Sounds like there’s more to it than just a pot.” he states.

“She doesn’t get it hyung...” Jungkook says, his voice growing louder. “She acts like she’s the only one who works hard, like I haven’t busted my ass to get this place running. And then she has the nerve to call me selfish? Like she knows anything about me.”

“Sounds like she hit a nerve.” Hoseok snorts, a smirk on his face. “Shut up,” Jungkook mutters, but the irritation in his voice betrays him. “She thinks she’s so perfect, but all she does is complain. It’s like she’s looking for reasons to hate me.” he rolls his eyes.

“Maybe she is.” Yoongi says, his tone thoughtful. “Or maybe you’ve already given her enough reasons to hate you.” he continues. The room falls silent, and Jungkook scoffs, pushing off the counter. “Whatever. She’s not worth it.” he dismisses, not wanting to think of you or the raging encounter he just had with you.

the next day; The morning sun spills through the large windows of your flower shop as you rearrange a fresh batch of chrysanthemums. Despite the beautiful blooms around you, there’s a heaviness in your heart. Last night’s argument with Jungkook replays in your mind, his sharp words still stinging.

The little bell above the door jingles, pulling you out from your trance. You turn to see a man walking in—a face you recognize from the group that always lingers outside Jungkook’s shop and sometimes with him as well. “Hi.” he says, his voice calm but kind. “Y/N, right?”

You blink in surprise. “Yeah… and you’re one of Jungkook’s friends, i suppose.” you say, moving away from the flowers as dry your hands on your apron. You notice how his eyes fall on the bandage wrapped around your finger, so you quickly hide it by crossing your arms over your chest. He pretends like he’s seen nothing and nods, his hands tucked into the pockets of his leather jacket. “I’m Yoongi. I came here because I wanted to talk to you, if you don’t mind.” he says, his voice tender.

Your instinct is to put up a wall, but something about his tone disarms you. “If this is about last night—”

“It is.” Yoongi interrupts gently. “But not in the way you think.” He steps closer, his gaze steady but non-threatening. “I’m here to apologize. On behalf of Jungkook. And… the idiot who broke your pot.”

You blink again, caught off guard. “You’re apologizing? Why?” you gulp, something about this, not sitting right with you. “Because he won’t.” Yoongi says with a faint smile, though his tone carries a hint of seriousness. “Jungkook’s stubborn. He knows he messed up, but he’s too proud to admit it outright. And, well, someone has to try to make things right.” he admits, blinking his eyes.

Yoongi observes your expression, noticing how you still look quite unconvinced. His face softens as he continues. “Jungkook’s not a bad guy, Y/N. He just… rough around the edges. Give him time. He doesn’t always know how to handle things. He gets defensive when he feels cornered.”

“Cornered?” you echo, frowning. “I wasn’t cornering him. I just wanted some peace.” you defend yourself. “I know.” Yoongi agrees. “And I think, deep down, he knows it too. But he’s been under a lot of pressure with the shop, and sometimes he lashes out without meaning to. Not that it excuses anything.” he adds quickly. “You didn’t deserve what he said. Or how he treated you. ”

His honesty surprises you, and for the first time, you feel a part of the weight lift off from your chest. “Why are you telling me this?” you suddenly ask, eyeing him even though, deep down you’re trying your best to believe everything this man says.

“Because I think you’re both better than this petty back-and-forth... interactions.” Yoongi says simply, shrugging. “And maybe, if you understand where he’s coming from, it’ll help. Or not. I don’t know. I just thought you deserved an actual apology, even if it’s not from him directly.” he finishes, flashing you a small, kind smile.

For a moment, you’re silent, processing his words. Then, to your own surprise, you smile faintly. “You’re a good friend, Yoongi.” you softly say, earning a chuckle from him as he scratches the back of his neck. “Someone’s gotta keep him in check.” he grins.

After a moment, he steps back towards the door, pausing before leaving. “Take care, Y/N. And if he steps out of line again, let me know. I’ll knock some sense into him.” he nods at you and you laugh lightly, the sound easing some of the tension in the room. “I’ll keep that in mind.” you say, waving at him.

Jungkook sits on the edge of the counter, a wrench in hand, intently focused as he works while Jimin, Hoseok, and Yoongi lounge around. The conversation flows between them, lighthearted at first, until Yoongi brings up his visit to your shop.

“So....” Yoongi begins casually, “I stopped by Y/N’s shop today.” he says. Jungkook freezes for a moment, his eyes narrowing. “What for?” he asks, trying to sound as nonchalant as possible.

“To apologize.” Yoongi replies, leaning back in his chair. “On your behalf. Figured someone had to.” he adds. Jimin snickers, while Hoseok whistles low. “Apologizing for Jungkook? That’s new.” he laughs as Jimin gives him a high five.

“Very funny.” Jungkook mutters, but his attention stays on Yoongi. “What’d she say?” he questions and Yoongi shrugs. “She wasn’t exactly thrilled to hear your name, but we talked. She’s not as tough as she seems, you know. She’s just… tired. Your shop and the noise—it’s really messing with her.” he explains calmly.

Jungkook doesn’t reply, his jaw tightening. “And she’s hurt, by the way.” Yoongi adds, his tone sharper. “I noticed her hand. I guess she cut her finger while picking up the broken pieces of the pot your friend broke yesterday.” he explains.

The guilt that had been simmering in Jungkook since last night, suddenly boils over. “Why didn’t she say anything?” he snaps, more to himself than to his friends. “Maybe because you were too busy arguing with her to notice,” Yoongi retorts, his voice calm but firm. “She’s not your enemy, Jungkook. Stop treating her like one.” he says gently, hoping the younger one understands.

The room goes quiet, the weight of Yoongi’s words settling over them. Jimin and Hoseok exchange a glance, sensing the tension. Jungkook exhales heavily, tossing the wrench aside. “I didn’t mean to hurt her.” he admits quietly. “I just—” He stops, frustration lacing his voice.

“You don’t know how to back down,” Jimin finishes for him, a teasing edge to his tone. Jungkook glares at him but doesn’t deny it. Instead, he leans back against the counter, running a hand through his hair. “What else did she say to you?” he questions Yoongi. He smirks slightly. “Wouldn’t you like to know?” he asks, wiggling his brows.

Jungkook’s glare intensifies, and Yoongi chuckles. “Relax. She was civil. We just talked about you a little and that’s all. She thinks I’m the ‘good friend,’ by the way.” he smiles to himself.

The comment makes Jungkook’s stomach churn with something he doesn’t want to name—guilt, jealousy, maybe both. He stays quiet as the others laugh, his thoughts swirling.

He’s messed up, and he knows it. And now, the thought of you opening up to someone else, even Yoongi, twists something deep inside him. For the first time, he wonders if the damage he’s caused can ever be repaired.

It’s just another day—or at least you hope it will be. After the pot-breaking incident a week ago, things between you and Jungkook have only grown tenser. Though Yoongi apologized to you on behalf of his actions, you were still very annoyed by the way things still hadn’t changed.

His friends still gather outside his shop in the evenings, their bikes parked so close to your store it’s nearly impossible for customers to walk in without squeezing past them. You’ve been trying to keep your head down, avoiding any unnecessary interaction with Jungkook.

However, despite the ongoing tension you can’t help but notice how hardworking Jungkook is. For a brief moment, you feel a twinge of guilt as you think about the bad blood between you guys. Maybe you need to start putting your differences aside and try to get along with him.

You shake your head, telling yourself not to think about that. You leave that thought for another day, when you’re less busy and have more time to waste.

A new shipment of flowers and pots arrives after about an hour. You’re juggling the chaos of directing the delivery workers when disaster strikes. One of the crates slips from a worker’s hands, scattering flowers and dirt all across the curb—and, unfortunately, onto one of the shiny motorcycles parked outside Jungkook’s shop.

You barely have time to assess the mess before Jungkook storms out. His face is a mask of irritation, and his voice cuts like a blade. “What the hell is this?” he immediately snaps, gesturing at the scattered soil and dirt-streaked bike.

You sigh, already bracing yourself. “It was an accident. We’ll clean it up right away.” you calmly say, knowing damn well this wasn’t something you were about to get to away with. “An accident?” he repeats, his tone laced with disbelief. “You really need to start taking responsibility, Y/N. You can’t just keep saying it’s an accident every time you screw something up.” he angrily says.

Your frustration bubbles over. “Excuse me? This is the first time I’ve caused any inconvenience to you. Meanwhile, your friends park their bikes outside my shop every evening, blocking the entrance, and I don’t say a thing!” you argue.

“Oh, here we go...” Jungkook retorts, his voice rising. “You’re always whining about the bikes. Maybe if you managed your deliveries better, this wouldn’t have happened.” he scoffs loudly.

“Don’t turn this on me!!” you snap, stepping closer. “You act like this street belongs to you and your gang of bikers. Maybe if you had a little consideration for others, we wouldn’t even be having this conversation!” you stomp your feet at the last word, wanting this interaction to just end. But were you going to be the first one to stop? no.

Jungkook’s jaw tightens, and for a moment, you think he might say something even harsher. But he just shakes his head, his expression dark. “You know what? Forget it. Clean up your mess and stay out of my way.” He coldly says as he turns around and walks back into his shop, leaving you standing there with your hands clenched into fists.

After the chaos of the day, you’re sitting in your shop long after closing time, staring blankly at the broken pieces of another pot that lays lifeless on a piece of paper on your counter —a casualty of the earlier mishap. You close your eyes, feeling an overwhelming sense of exhaustion.

Yoongi’s voice echoes in your mind from the other day, when he’d come into your shop to apologize on Jungkook’s behalf after the first pot-breaking incident. “Jungkook’s not a bad guy.” Yoongi had said, his voice calm and reassuring. “He’s just… rough around the edges. Give him time.”

You had wanted to believe him. For a moment, you even thought there might be a chance for you and Jungkook to coexist peacefully. But now? Now you feel stupid for ever entertaining the idea. Jungkook has made it perfectly clear that he has no intention of meeting you halfway.

You sigh, rubbing your face. You didn’t like how this whole thing had been affecting you. It was draining and just sooooo not worth it.

Forcing yourself to get up, you clean up one last time and then proceed to lock up the shop, so that you can finally head home. As you begin your walk home, you notice how the streets are quiet, the faint hum of distant traffic is the only sound accompanying your footsteps.

Your thoughts are heavy, clouded by everything that’s happened. The arguments, the pot-breaking, the way Jungkook’s words today had stung more than you wanted to admit. You wonder if you’re overthinking things, but the lump in your throat says otherwise.

You hug your jacket tighter against the cool night air, eyes focused on the pavement in front of you as you walk briskly towards your house.

Jungkook stands outside his shop, ready to lock up he watches you walk down the stairs at your entrance and cross the road, not noticing his presence at all. His chest feels tight, an unfamiliar mix of guilt and something he can’t quite name. He doesn’t like how things escalated today. He doesn’t like the way your voice cracked when you argued with him.

As much as he hates to admit it, he knows he’s been unfair. It wasn’t just about the dirt on the bike or the delivery mishap—it was the way you stood up to him, pointing out how inconsiderate he and his friends had been. You weren’t wrong.

He steps away from his shop, just to get a clearer view of your walking form. He watches intently, observing the way your shoulders are hunched slightly as if the weight of the world rests on them. The sight stirs something protective in him. It’s late, the streets are too quiet, and he knows better than anyone the kind of dangers that can lurk around in the dark.

For a split second, he considers calling out to you so that he can offer you a ride home. But then his pride kicks in, the argument from earlier replaying in his head. His ego won’t let him take that step—not yet.

Instead, Jungkook makes a quick decision. He leaves his bike parked outside his shop, shoves his hands into the pockets of his jacket, and starts following you from a distance. You walk briskly, your mind elsewhere, completely unaware of the quiet footsteps trailing behind you. Jungkook keeps his distance, making sure to stay out of your line of sight.

His gaze scans the dimly lit street, the quiet unnerving even to him. He can’t help but feel protective as he watches your small frame move through the shadowy paths. Every now and then, he glances around, hyper-aware of his surroundings.

He follows you for several blocks, his pace matching yours but always a few steps behind. When you pause to adjust the strap of your bag or check the time on your phone, he stops, leaning casually against a lamppost or pretending to examine something in a shop window.

You finally reach your building, pausing to fumble with your keys at the front door. Jungkook stays back, watching as you disappear inside. Only when he hears the click of the door locking do his shoulders relax slightly. He lets out a long breath, rubbing his nape as he turns to head back towards his shop.

As he walks back, his mind is restless. He thinks he’s ridiculous for following you all the way home just to make sure you reach safely. “Why do you care so much?” he mutters to himself, kicking a loose pebble on the sidewalk. But he already knows the answer, even if he’s not ready to admit it.

When he finally reaches his shop, his bike still waiting where he left it, Jungkook glances once more in the direction of your shop. A strange mixture of guilt and something warmer lingers in his chest. He doesn’t know what to do about it, so he just sighs, climbs onto his bike, and decides to head home.

While he rides back home that night, a quiet resolve settles in his chest—a growing realization that maybe, just maybe, he owes you more than just a silent apology.

<- part 2 // part 4->

#jungkook fic #jungkook #jungkook fanfic #jungkook x reader #jungkook fluff #jungkook angst #jungkook smut #jeon jungkook #bts #bts jungkook #bts fic #enemies to lovers #jungkook fanfiction

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ranhaitanisgf · 11 months ago

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🤺back🤺🤺🤺back i say🤺🤺 it’s my turn to request something for hana’s event🤺

may i please request a scenario with baji + flower shop in which he goes to buy his mom flowers as an apology but doesn’t know what to get, so he just picks out random flowers that actually mean everything except “i’m sorry” so you help him out?

by the way, you don’t have to write this part, but i just thought it would be cute if he develops a crush on you and you see him at a different flower shop buying a small bouquet and you think he’s betraying you, but later he shows up at your shop, awkward and stiff, with that same bouquet to ask you out because his mom said that’s the proper way to do it. just wanted to share that little add-on with you!!

— baji keisuke // flower shop // love at first sight

☆ ˎˊ˗ heyyy ... arba idk if ur still active IM SRY THIS TOOK ME SO LONG i disappeared D: we miss u come back ... also this idea was sooo cuteeee arghjhghjghjhg i actually went soo overboard w this but it was too good!!

☆ ˎˊ˗ fem!reader implied

☆ ˎˊ˗ wc ; 2.2k+

masterlist || 2k masterlist

you’d had your eye on him since he’d walked into the store.

it wasn’t for any particular reason aside from the fact that he seemed to be feeling wholly out of place, which made you giggle a bit as he shuffled around, muttering and grumbling to himself as he awkwardly looked at different bouquet arrangements.

he definitely didn’t seem like the type to be buying flowers either; his long dark hair and overall brusque demeanor didn’t exactly give you the impression that he was someone who would go around buying flowers, (and was that him that pulled up on a literal motorcycle?! he seemed like he was around your age!!).

under normal circumstances you would have gone up to assist, but you decided to sit back and see how this boy was going to play this one out, (he was really cute, but if a cute boy like him was in a flower shop, he was undoubtedly buying flowers for his girlfriend). it was quite the entertaining spectacle to see him walking around, his eyebrows pinched together as he tried to find something that he found suitable. at one point, he even seemed to phone someone for help, though he hung up rather quickly after yelling that he definitely was not buying flowers!!

after minutes and minutes of walking around, he finally picked up two bouquets of flowers; geraniums and tansies. you had to restrain your laughter as he walked up to the register, damn near shaking to keep yourself from bursting out into giggles.

“d-did you find everything, pff--ahem! did you find everything alright today?” you had let your giggles slip through on accident, and even though you tried to cover it up with a cough, you could tell that it failed immensely from the ticked off look on the boy’s face.

“you’ve got a lot of nerve to be laughin’ at me-” he started, the deep tone of his voice taking you off guard.

“n-no! i’m not really laughing at you per se…well, kind of.” you tried to explain. “see, okay, do you know what flower language is?” the boy quirked an eyebrow at this, giving you the sort of look that says go on. “well, it gives flowers different meanings, y’know? so unless you’re trying to pick a fight, i really wouldn’t suggest using these flowers.”

“...what do they mean?”

“geraniums and tansy flowers together…you would be calling the person stupid and then be declaring war on them.” the boy’s amber eyes widened, his lips pressing together in a thin line as his brows furrowed together once more. “if you’d like, i can suggest flowers with a more…caring meaning for your girlfriend.” the boy’s eyebrows shot up at your words, making you wonder if you’d said something wrong.

“girlfriend? these’re for my mom.”

“oh! sorry, i just assumed-ah, never mind. now, let me see…” you stood up from your seat, gathering the flowers in front of you in your arms and coming out from behind the counter. after you put the flowers back, you looked around for a moment, a few ideas floating through your mind.

“hmm, why are you getting her flowers?”

“...’cause…” he mumbled a bit, making you lean in a bit.

“what was that?”

“‘c-cause! i made her cry…” despite the fact that his voice had raised a little bit, all you could sense from him was embarrassment and shame, especially from the look on his face, (he almost looked like a kicked puppy). the sight made you smile softly; it wasn’t often that you got genuine customers like this, so you were going to make it your mission to help him.

“alright, give me one moment…” your eyes flicked throughout the store, taking a few moments to weigh different options before making a decision. you ended up grabbing three bouquets; white tulips, daffodils, and some small filler greenery with bits of baby’s breath.

you walked back behind the counter, setting the bouquets down in front of you. the black-haird boy had followed you aimlessly around the store, eventually ending up back in front of the register. there was a kind of quiet curiosity in his eyes as he watched your practiced movements, (truthfully, you weren’t used to someone watching you do bouquet arrangements with such an intent stare).

“i’m doing this for you right now because i want to help you, but for future reference, you usually have to call ahead a day or two for this.” a smile played on your lips as you unwrapped the flowers in front of you, glancing up a bit to look at the boy.

it was only for a moment, but his amber gaze staring right at you caught you off guard, making your heart skip a beat. you immediately looked back down, busying your hands and trimming the leaves off of the flowers. the rest of your work was done in silence; trimming the end of the flower stems, arranging them in a way that looks pleasing, opening some of the flowers to match the rest. it was relaxing work, so much so that you almost forgot about the boy in front of you.

almost.

the whole time you were working you could feel his gaze on you, looking up a few times just to look back down immediately. you felt a little bit anxious throughout the process, hoping that he would deem your work acceptable enough for his mom, (your anxiousness was also from the fact that a very cute boy was watching you, but that was aside from the point).

you finished the final step, delicately wrapping the flowers in a thick brown paper and securing them in place with the tie of a thick ribbon.

“there, all set! what do you think?” you asked cheerily, admiring the flowers you had put together. in your mind, you thought it looked pretty good, but it wasn’t your opinion that mattered here.

“yeah…they look good.”

“yay! i’m glad you like them!” you handed the bouquet over to him, a rush of happiness flooding through you at his approving words. “i hope you’ll come again!”

“wait, how much was this?” he started to pat around his pockets for his wallet, but you shook your head.

“don’t worry about it, it’s on me! just make sure to come back if you need more flowers, though i hope it’ll be for a better reason!”

“i will…” he stared at you for a moment, a questioning look in his eyes. “hey, if you keep looking at me like that i’m going to take it back, so go apologize to your mom!” you ushered, waving bye to him.

“thanks.” if you weren’t looking closely, you probably would have missed the small smile on his face before he left.

˗ˏˋ ☆ ˎˊ˗

“isn’t that…” you squinted a bit, walking a few steps closer to get a better view. sure enough, there he was! the same black-haired amber eyed boy who you had helped last week, in another flower shop!!

“oh my god, that total traitor!!” you huffed. “i told him to come back if he needed more flowers…” you watched as he got handed a bouquet of flowers, shaking your head in disdain. when you saw him head for the exit, you immediately panicked, scrambling away from the scene and jogging the whole way back to your shop.

despite the fact that you had only seen him once, you still felt a bit of disappointment at the fact that he had gone to another flower shop, even when he’d said he would come back. maybe you scared him off?

i didn’t even say anything weird though…

your thoughts kept you quite occupied while you were preparing the shop for open, though they were a bit burdensome when you happened to prick yourself on some roses, too distracted to be paying attention to the thorns properly.

after some of the bouquet orders for the day, you flipped the sign on the door to ‘open’. you were about to go back to sulking behind the counter, but a glimpse of black hair outside caught your eye.

looking closer, you realized that it was the same boy! he was seated on his motorcycle, chatting his a blonde haired boy who you assumed was his friend.

maybe he had realized that the flowers from your shop were better!

however, your gaze narrowed when you realized that he was holding the same bouquet you had seen him with earlier, making your mood sour immediately.

was he coming here to rub it in your face or something?!

while you were busy glaring, you started to notice that his blonde haired friend was gesturing and pointing wildly towards your shop, seeming to be shouting at the black haired boy about something. while you were still a little bit sour, you began to be intrigued by what was going on, contemplating going out there to see what all the commotion was about.

the thought immediately perished as you made eye contact with the blonde, who could clearly see you staring at them through the windows of your shop. the two of you stared at each for a moment before you darted away from the glass, rushing back to behind the counter as you prayed that he didn’t actually see you, (he definitely did).

“well, whatever! i helped him out and he went to another flower shop--so what!!” you muttered to yourself, throwing your hands up. “that’s the last time i ever do a nice thing for someone!!” you grumbled, preparing the flowers for the rest of the bouquet orders you had to do.

it was a practiced routine at this point, so you were able to arrange the flowers properly without putting much thought into it, using it as busywork to take your mind off of things. you weren’t sure why you were so upset about the fact that this boy went to another flower shop, but it certainly wouldn’t help you to let it get in the way of things.

hearing the bell to the door chime, you chirped out a ‘welcome in!’ as you continued trimming and arranging flowers, being careful this time to mind the thorns so that you didn’t get pricked a second time.

“uh, hey.” the deep tone of voice immediately made you look up, feeling as if you would have snapped your neck if you looked up any faster. you shook off your nervousness, (and excitement) going back to what you were doing as you tried to look casual.

“well, you’re back. whatever you want isn’t going to be on me this time because you betrayed me.” you said cooly, a bit of a frown on your lips.

“betrayed--what? uh, anyways, i just wanted to give you these…” he cleared his throat, holding out a bouquet to you. when you finally looked up and took a good look, you noticed that the tips of his ears were red, (should you be having hope right now…? no, stop it! get a hold of yourself!). “and, uh, i got them with that flower language thing…”

“what…?” you leaned forward across the counter, inspecting the flowers in the bouquet a bit closer. “calla lilies and white camellia’s…” looking up at the boy’s embarrassed and somewhat flustered expression, you paired it with the meaning of the flowers, and…

ah…

immediately, you felt your heartbeat speed up and felt the apples of your cheeks heating up, leaning back and looking away. you fiddled with your fingers for a moment as you tried to think of something--anything, really--to say.

“i…uh…how, um, how did you come up with this…?”

“my mom said it was a good idea…” he shifted a bit, his arm still holding out the bouquet of flowers. “if you don’t want them, i can jus’ take them back-”

“no!” you grabbed the bouquet from him, smiling a bit too much, (you couldn’t help yourself though). “you’re giving them to me, so they’re mine now, right? you can’t take back a gift! and-and just hold on for a second!” you left without another moment to spare, running into the back and scrambling for a piece of paper. you picked up a nearby pen, quickly jotting down your name and number and then running back out, a big smile across your face.

“here!” the boy in front of you grabbed the slip of paper, his amber eyes examining it before he smirked a bit, showing off the sharp bits of his canines.

“(y/n), is that right?”

“yes! what’s your name?”

“baji. baji keisuke.”

˗ˏˋ ☆ ˎˊ˗

bonus:

“baji-san! how did it go!?”

“i need a yakisoba right now, chifuyu…” baji grumbled, sitting on his bike and leaning back.

“did you get rejected?!” chifuyu asked, a look of grave anticipation on his face.

“no!! she thought i betrayed her flower shop because i went to another flower shop! your idea was shit!” chifuyu’s face went pale at that, his mouth hanging wide open.

“i didn’t think about that…”

“yeah, this is the last time i take advice from whatever weird manga shit you got this from.”

“...”

“i mean, she said yes, right? a win is a win!”

“...shaddup.”

(chifuyu proceeded to pay for the yakisoba outings for the next six months.)

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postoctobrist · 3 months ago

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Hi November

I love your work but you don't seem to have a great grasp of PACE. Anyone can conduct a PACE interview, it is just asking someone questions. Asking in a way that complies with PACE Code C (adapted to fit the circumstances) makes it less likely that evidence obtained will be found to be inadmissible but there are no guarantees either way. Loads of non-police organisations investigate crimes and they all conduct PACE interviews: HMRC, HSE, Environment Agency, SFO, ICO, CMA, private companies, local authorities (btw, law enforcement functions of councils might make for a good episode if you know anyone who is starting a podcast about local government).

There are a few differences between police and non-police interviews. I’d be surprised if they spelled that out, but My Local Bobby can’t arrest suspects to interview them so a suspect has to attend voluntarily and they can just leave if they want (and maybe be subject to adverse inferences at trial as a consequence). And suspects still have the right to legal advice but the police station duty solicitor scheme doesn’t cover them so they have to arrange it for themselves.

I’d be surprised if My Local Bobby weren’t sometimes skirting the law in practice but their policies will be legal. That isn’t much comfort of course, and in any event it doesn’t matter as no one is going to do anything about it apart from the occasional civil claim from a suspect who fell down the stairs.

xxx

law school was a while ago and I didn’t graduate it, what can I say. for what it’s worth I think my larger point stands and there’s still a difference between HMRC interviewing me under caution and Sainsbury’s security doing it

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jetii · 1 month ago

Text

Event Horizon

Chapter Fifteen: Memory

Chapter WC: 8,365

A/N: I hope you enjoyed the fluff from the last chapter because....

Previous Chapter | Next Chapter | Join the Taglist | Masterlist

Coruscant, 21 BBY

Meet me in the Archives. I think I've found something that could be of interest to you.

You read the message from Obi-Wan for the fourth time, your brow furrowing as you study the words. It's short and vague and frustratingly unspecific. t's not like Obi-Wan to be so cryptic, and you can't help but wonder why he's keeping this particular discovery a secret.

You lean back against the wall behind you and glance around the hallway, searching for any sign of the man in question. There's no one here, the halls empty and quiet. You've been waiting for almost twenty minutes now.

Obi-Wan isn't usually late. In fact, he's often the first one to arrive at meetings, and the only one who consistently comes on time. But today, he's nowhere to be seen. You frown, turning back to the screen in your hand and rereading the message once more. It doesn't make any sense.

Something that could be of interest to you.

You can't help but roll your eyes. Obi-Wan can be so dramatic sometimes. You're half tempted to go looking for him. Maybe he's gotten lost in the Temple somewhere, or maybe he's decided to take the scenic route, and you've been standing around like an idiot waiting for him to show up.

It's been a long week, and your patience is wearing thin. The Council has been pushing hard, sending you all over Coruscant on assignment after assignment. It's been a struggle to find time for anything else, let alone the mystery that Obi-Wan has been keeping under wraps.

Your jaw clenches at the thought, and you sigh heavily. You're tired and cranky and frustrated, and the last thing you want to do right now is wait around for Obi-Wan Kenobi.

The two of you haven't spoken much lately, not since the battle on Saleucami. Things have been...strained between the two of you, and it's left a tension in the air that neither of you are willing to address.

You don't blame him for it, but you can't help but wonder why he chose now of all times to contact you. To ask to meet with you. It seems strange, considering the circumstances, and the last thing you want is to put yourself in a position where things become even more complicated than they already are.

It's not that you're avoiding him, per se, but...well, maybe you are. Maybe you have been. A little. You're just not ready to deal with this. With him. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

You don't know what's going to happen between the two of you, or if there will be a resolution, or if things will simply remain as they are. For now, you're content with letting the situation play out, and seeing how it unfolds. It's better than making any rash decisions.

And besides, it's not like Obi-Wan wants to talk about it, either. He's been just as distant and guarded as you have. There's no indication that he's thinking about what happened, or what might have happened, or where the two of you might end up. If anything, it seems as though he's just trying to pretend it didn't happen. Or, at least, ignore it.

Which makes sense, really. That's what the two of you have been doing for the past ten years, after all. Pretending that nothing's going on between the two of you. Avoiding any sort of confrontation or discussion.

But, things have changed.

The war has changed.

You've changed.

The both of you have.

You're no longer the naive, idealistic younglings that you were when the two of you started this...whatever this is between you, and the reality of the galaxy has come crashing down around you. It's not the same anymore. The innocence is gone, and the illusion of peace is shattered, and everything has become infinitely more complicated.

Maybe it's time for the two of you to acknowledge that.

To confront what's going on between the two of you, and what could happen, and whether or not either of you want it to. Maybe it's time to put an end to the secrecy, and the dancing around the topic, and the pretending that things aren't the way they are.

Maybe it's time to accept that the two of you are never going to be more than friends.

The thought fills you with a strange sense of relief.

It would be a weight off your shoulders, and the constant worrying about what might happen would be gone. There would be no more wondering if things would change, or what could happen. It would be over, and the two of you would go back to the way things were. You would just have to figure out how.

A familiar presence fills the space around you, and your eyes snap open to see Obi-Wan striding toward you. He's dressed in his robes, his cloak billowing behind him, and his hair is messy, his face flushed. You can tell by the way his shoulders are tensed that he's upset, and you have a pretty good guess as to why.

"You're late," you call out, a small smirk pulling at the corners of your mouth as he draws closer.

"Yes," he replies curtly. His brows are drawn together, his lips pressed into a tight line, and his expression is hard. "My apologies."

Obi-Wan doesn't stop walking until he's standing directly in front of you. He stops a few inches from you, close enough for you to see the creases in his brow, the faint shadows under his eyes, and the worry lines on his forehead. He looks like he hasn't slept in days.

"Everything okay?" you ask cautiously.

"Of course," Obi-Wan sighs, though his expression betrays him. "What makes you think otherwise?"

"Because you look like shit, and I can feel your unease from a mile away," you deadpan. He glares at you, and you raise a brow. "Seriously, what's going on?"

"Nothing important," he grumbles, looking away. He turns his head and glances at the doors leading to the Archives, his brows drawing together. "Just a disagreement with the Council."

"About what?" you ask, frowning.

"Nothing," he replies firmly, his tone final.

"Really," you mutter. "Because it's never nothing with the Council."

He looks back at you, his gaze boring into yours, and he shakes his head. "It's not important."

"Okay," you agree slowly.

You stare at each other for several moments, neither of you willing to break eye contact first. He seems determined to avoid talking about whatever is bothering him, and you're not about to force him. Especially not in the middle of the hallway.

"Alright, fine," you relent, dropping your gaze. You turn away from him and start walking back down the hall. "Whatever. If you don't want to tell me, I'm not going to push it. But if you're going to drag me here and then act like this, I'm not sticking around."

"Wait," Obi-Wan calls out, catching up to you. He grabs your arm and turns you around, and his grip is surprisingly gentle. "Please, don't go. Just..."

"What?"

"I didn't ask you here to argue," he says softly, releasing his hold on you. His eyes drop, and he runs a hand through his hair, his voice weary. "And I apologize if I gave that impression. I didn't mean to upset you."

"Apology accepted," you reply, and you give him a small smile. He returns the gesture, and his shoulders sag. "So, what did you want to talk about?"

"There's something I need to show you."

"What is it?"

Obi-Wan pauses, and his gaze drops, his voice hesitant. "It's...difficult to explain. It's better you see it for yourself."

"Okay," you say slowly, raising an eyebrow. You're not sure what to expect, but you're intrigued, and the tension has melted away from his posture. "Show me."

"Come on," he says. He turns and begins walking towards the door again, motioning for you to follow. "Let's go."

The two of you make your way through the Archives, winding your way through the maze of shelves and stacks. You can hear voices drifting through the aisles. People talking, laughing, mumbling under their breath as they browse through the rows upon rows of data pads, scrolls, and other ancient artifacts. It's always crowded in here, especially during the afternoon, but it's not as busy as usual today.

You follow Obi-Wan, keeping pace with his long strides. He doesn't look back, and you don't ask him any questions. You just let him lead the way, content to simply watch his back.

You can sense the tension in his posture, the stiffness in his stride. Through the bond, you can feel his frustration, his anger, his fear. His emotions are raw, unrestrained, and they hit you hard, like a wave crashing into a cliffside, threatening to break through the surface. He's trying to control them, but he's struggling.

You can't imagine what's causing it. He's been through worse, fought harder battles. But this is different. It feels more personal, somehow. Like there's something weighing on his mind, something he's not sharing with you.

"We're almost there," Obi-Wan murmurs, glancing back over his shoulder at you.

"Almost where?" you ask curiously.

"The Vault," he replies. He stops in front of a set of massive stone doors, and he turns to face you, his expression serious. "Don't touch anything."

"I won't," you assure him, holding your hands up in mock surrender. He stares at you, his eyes narrowed, and you raise a brow. "I'm serious. I won't. You know me."

He nods, satisfied, and reaches out, his palm resting on the stone surface. He closes his eyes, and a second later, the doors begin to slide open, revealing the dark interior of the Vault beyond. You stare, wide-eyed, as the entrance yawns open. The room is enormous, at least three times larger than the Council chambers, and the walls are lined with shelves upon shelves of glowing holocrons.

The sight takes your breath away. You've never been inside this vault before, restricted to only the twelve members of the Council, but you've heard stories. More than once you've tried to convince Obi-Wan to tell you about its contents, but he's always refused. And now here he is, opening the door and inviting you in.

"This is incredible," you gasp. You feel giddy, like a child on Life Day. You can't keep the excitement out of your voice as you turn to him. "I can't believe you're letting me do this."

"I can't let you touch them," he cautions, his tone low. "But, I can let you see."

"Oh, I understand," you reply quickly, nodding eagerly. You glance at him, and the serious expression on his face gives way to a small, amused, smile. "I won't touch anything. I promise."

He chuckles and steps aside, allowing you access. You hesitate, not quite believing this is happening, and then, with a deep breath, you step forward, the doors closing behind you.

Your eyes dart around the room as you walk, taking in every detail. The energy radiating from the collection of knowledge is intoxicating, and you find yourself drawn in. You can't resist the urge to reach out and touch a holocron sitting on a nearby shelf.

"Don't," Obi-Wan warns sternly.

You yank your hand back and turn to him, your eyes wide, your cheeks flushed with embarrassment. "Sorry."

"It's alright," he sighs. He runs a hand over the back of his neck, and his lips curl into a small, weary smile. "I know you're curious."

"Always," you agree. You glance around the room, taking it all in, your gaze wandering across the various shelves and displays. It's fascinating, the sheer amount of knowledge that has been stored here, and you're overwhelmed. You could stay here for a hundred years and still not uncover all there is to know, and you suddenly find yourself jealous of the Masters who have access to this place, the endless hours spent researching, learning, studying. It's a shame the war has cut their time short.

"This is incredible," you say to yourself, your voice barely above a whisper.

"I'm glad you think so," Obi-Wan says softly.

His voice pulls you back, and you turn to him. He's watching you closely, his expression guarded, his arms crossed over his chest. You can feel his trepidation, his uncertainty, his concern, and you wonder if he regrets his decision.

"If it's too much, I can leave," you offer, feeling a pang of guilt. "I don't want to make things harder for you."

"No," he interrupts as he holds up a hand. He shakes his head, and his shoulders relax slightly. "Stay."

"Okay," you agree, giving him a reassuring smile. You cross the room and stand in front of him, reaching out and gently placing a hand on his shoulder. "Thank you."

"Of course," he replies, and there's a warmth to his voice, a hint of the old Obi-Wan beneath the tension. He takes a step closer and lifts his gaze to meet yours, his eyes soft. "Now, if you'll follow me."

You nod, and he motions for you to follow him, leading the way deeper into the Vault. He guides you through the aisles, and you can't help but marvel at the sheer size of the place. There are hundreds, maybe even thousands, of holocrons in here, all arranged neatly, the energy buzzing in the air. You can feel it pulsing through the walls, seeping into your skin. You have to force yourself to hurry after his quick steps.

"I've been working on something," he tells you, his gaze fixed ahead of him. "After our talk, I decided to do some research."

"Research?" you echo, frowning, and then your eyes widen. "You mean about Yaddle?"

"Yes." Obi-Wan stops and looks at you. "And I think I may have found something."

Your jaw drops. He's done what?

"Seriously?" you ask incredulously. You blink rapidly, trying to process the information. Blood is pounding in your ears, and your palms are starting to sweat. "What did you find?"

"It's complicated," he says, turning and walking deeper into the room. "But it's a start."

"A start to what?" you demand. You grab his arm and spin him around, your eyes searching his face. "What are you talking about?"

"I was reviewing some older files when I came across her logs," he explains. "There was an entry dated the week before she went missing."

You draw in a sharp breath, and your stomach flips, your mind racing. Yaddle had a habit of recording her thoughts. She did it to help her remember things, and it was her way of making sure she wasn't missing anything important. It was a habit she'd tried, and failed, to instill in you, though she'd made a valiant effort.

You'd scoured her quarters for her logs and any other clues the day you returned to Coruscant after her death, knowing how important the device would be to you. Despite nearly tearing apart her quarters, you'd found nothing, and you'd assumed it had perished along with her, lost forever. But now, according to Obi-Wan, he'd managed to recover the very thing you'd been searching for.

"Where is it?" you ask quickly. Your grip tightens on his arm, and your eyes widen. "Is it here?"

"It is," he says, nodding. "I haven't listened to it yet. I thought you might want to do that first."

You stare at him, speechless, and you feel tears pricking the corners of your eyes. A lump forms in your throat, and a warm, overwhelming, wave of gratitude rushes through you. Obi-Wan's expression remains stoic, but his eyes are warm and sympathetic, and he gives you a small, encouraging, smile.

"Obi-Wan," you choke out, and then you launch yourself at him, wrapping your arms around his waist and hugging him tightly. "Thank you. Thank you so much."

He stiffens in surprise, but after a moment, he relaxes and wraps his arms around your shoulders, his grip loose and gentle. He sighs, and you can feel his breath tickling your neck.

"You're welcome," he murmurs, his voice low.

"I don't know how I can ever repay you for this," you whisper, pulling back and looking up at him. Your gaze locks onto his, and his eyes search yours, his brows furrowing.

"You don't have to," he assures you. He takes a step back and clears his throat, his voice returning to its normal timbre. "Just...listen to it, and tell me what you think."

"Okay," you agree, swallowing hard. You nod, and he motions for you to follow him across the room to a large, metal case. You watch as he places his palm against the side of it, and it clicks open, the lid swinging upwards. He reaches inside and pulls out a small, metallic disc and offers it to you.

You recognize the device immediately. It's an audio recorder, the kind Yaddle loved to use, and seeing it makes your chest ache. You reach out, taking the object gingerly in your hands. The metal is cool, smooth, and familiar, and the sight of it brings back memories of the last time you held one.

"She gave me one just like this," you say softly.

"Really?" Obi-Wan asks.

"Yeah," you confirm. You turn it over, running your fingers along the surface. "She said she wanted me to keep it so I could practice recording my thoughts."

"You still have it?"

"I think so," you tell him, and you smile sheepishly and shrug. "I'm sure it's buried somewhere in my quarters. Never used it once."

He laughs, and you turn to him. "That doesn't surprise me."

"Thanks," you grumble, rolling your eyes. You hold the device out to him. "Can you play it?"

"Yes," he confirms, reaching out and taking the recorder. He turns it over, inspecting it closely. "Though, I'm not sure how loud the volume will be. We'll have to get close."

"That's fine," you reply, moving closer. You stand beside him, leaning in until your shoulder brushes against his, and look at him. "Let's do it."

He nods, and a moment later, the air fills with the sound of static. It crackles loudly, and the two of you lean closer, straining to hear. There's a burst of white noise, and then silence. For several seconds, nothing happens. The only thing you can hear is the sound of your breathing, the beating of your heart.

"Come on," Obi-Wan mutters, and then the static stops. A bright blue light flares to life, and the image of Yaddle appears, hovering in the air between you.

She's sitting in a chair, her hands resting on the armrests, her legs crossed. It's been so long since you've seen her, your heart aches, and you can't stop the tears from forming.

"Begin log," she says, her voice smooth and clear. Her eyes are closed, her expression serene, but there's a tightness around her mouth, a crease in her brow. You know that look well. She was upset, agitated. Worried.

You can feel Obi-Wan's eyes on you as Yaddle speaks, her soft and steady voice reciting the date and location of the recording before she launches into her message.

"I've been thinking about the future a lot lately," she begins, her eyes still closed, her tone contemplative. "About my life. About my purpose. I've lived a long time. Longer than most."

The image flickers, and her lips press together.

"I've seen many things. Seen them through the eyes of others. Learned what they've learned, experienced what they've experienced. But now, I find myself wondering if it was worth it," she continues. Her voice grows quiet, and her eyelids flutter open, her gaze drifting across the room. "These are troubled times. I can feel the darkness growing stronger, threatening to overtake everything I've worked so hard for."

You frown, exchanging a concerned look with Obi-Wan.

Yaddle had sensed the Dark Side before the Republic had even known of its existence, before the Clone Wars had begun. She'd warned the Council of its presence, of its intentions, and no one had believed her. You'd seen the disappointment and frustration on her face when they'd dismissed her words.

It had hurt her deeply, and you'd hated it, but she'd brushed aside your anger, insisting it wasn't important. That they would learn the truth eventually. You suppose she was right about that.

"The Jedi Order is strong, but it's not strong enough," Yaddle continues. "I fear the end is near. And it is up to us to decide whether we fight against it or embrace it."

Her eyes fall to her lap, and her shoulders slump. She looks exhausted, defeated. You've never seen her like this before. She's always been confident, steadfast. Unshakable. Now, she seems so small. Fragile.

“Today, Master Qui-Gon Jinn appeared before the High Council. He spoke of an encounter with a Sith lord." Her voice lowers and her face contorts into a scowl. "He claimed that this…being was trained in the Jedi arts, and that he possessed a great power, a power which could only be wielded by one who knew the true nature of the Force."

She pauses, her eyes drifting towards the ceiling, her lips pressing into a thin line, her brow creasing as she continues, "The Council believes this to be a falsehood. They have dismissed the idea outright, claiming that the Sith have been extinct for millennia, but there is no denying that something has changed. Something dark has come over our galaxy."

Yaddle lets out a long breath and her shoulders slump, her body sinking into the chair as she returns her attention to the camera. "I spoke with Dooku today. He expressed his frustrations with the Council and their reluctance to consider the possibility that this Sith Lord is real and that he is a threat to us all. It is nothing I haven’t heard from him before. We've had this conversation many times over the years. But today, it was different. Today, I felt the conviction of his words. The depth of his belief."

The mention of Dooku catches your attention, and your eyes widen. Your hands clench into fists at your sides as you find yourself leaning closer to the hologram, hanging on her every word.

"Dooku has a point. He always does. If there is even a chance that the Sith are alive and well, we have to take action. But the Council is not listening. They won't even consider the possibility."

Her voice is rising, anger entering her tone, and you feel the same frustration bubbling up within yourself. You know exactly where this is going, and you have to bite back a growl as her expression darkens.

"They're too busy worrying about their own affairs, about maintaining their positions of power, their influence over the Senate, the courts, and the public. They've forgotten their oaths, forgotten their duty."

You can feel her eyes on you now, and you shift uncomfortably, feeling exposed. She's looking right at you, her eyes piercing through the years and across time and space.

"And they've forgotten the people they serve. We've become a broken institution, corrupt and ineffective. I can no longer abide by the Order. The time has come for me to leave. To do what I must."

You close your eyes and exhale a long breath, her words washing over you, sinking in. It's not a surprise. You'd expected it, and yet, it still hurts. There's no bitterness or anger. Only sadness.

"I'm not sure when, or if, I will return. I have much to reflect on, but one thing is clear: I can no longer stand idly by and watch this tragedy unfold," she continues, and she straightens in her seat, her expression softening. You can sense the warmth in her gaze, the pride and love she feels for you.

"As for my Padawan, I hope she will forgive me for leaving her behind. She's young and impulsive, but she has a good heart. I trust that she will find her way, no matter what path she chooses. She has always been capable of so much more than anyone gives her credit for. I can only hope that she will remain true to herself, and that her journey will bring her peace."

Her eyes shift from the camera, and she smiles faintly. You can almost see her now, the memory of her vivid and clear in your mind. Her small, wrinkled face. Her soft, kind voice.

"May the Force be with you," she whispers, and the image dies in the dark.

The room falls silent, the sound of your breathing loud in the emptiness. You stand frozen, staring at the space where Yaddle had just been. You're trembling, tears streaming down your cheeks, and you're not sure if you're going to laugh or cry.

It's not fair. It's not fair.

You know that, but the anger, the sadness, the guilt is still there, and it hurts. The weight of it is crushing.

"I'm sorry," Obi-Wan offers softly, his voice far away.

You shake your head, unable to speak, and the room spins around you, your vision blurring. You pull away from him, staggering backwards and clutching your chest.

"I need to go," you choke out. You turn and walk towards the door, ignoring his calls.

You're barely aware of him following you. You're barely aware of anything except the ache in your heart, the pain that threatens to tear you apart. It's too much. Too much.

You run out of the Vault, pushing past a group of younglings, muttering an apology. You make your way through the hallways, ignoring the looks from the other Jedi, the confused and worried stares. You just need to get out. Away from the Temple, away from Obi-Wan, away from everyone.

You push the front doors open, stumbling out into the cold air, the chill biting at your skin. It doesn't stop you. You race across the courtyard, towards the entrance of the Temple. You have to get away.

But the further you run, the more the memories flood back. Her smile, her laugh, the way she would tease you. She'd always been so gentle, so patient, so understanding. The only one who had never lost faith in you.

And now, she's gone. And it's all because of him. Because of Dooku.

You stop in your tracks, breathing hard, tears streaming down your cheeks. You're furious, and you want to scream. You want to rage and throw a tantrum and curse the world for taking her away. The dark, cold rage builds inside you, filling every inch of your being, and you grit your teeth, clenching your hands into fists.

You feel Obi-Wan approaching before you see him, and you turn to face him, your eyes blazing, your hands shaking.

"No," you snap. "We're not doing this. I'm not doing this."

You start walking again, heading for the edge of the courtyard. You can feel the eyes of the temple guards and the other Jedi on you, and it only makes you angrier. How dare they look at you like that. They have no idea what it's like to lose someone like this. To have your entire world torn apart.

"Where are you going?" Obi-Wan asks, his voice strained, his concern radiating through the bond. "Slow down."

"Go away," you mutter.

"I'm not leaving," he insists, quickening his pace to keep up with you. He's trying to stay calm, but his voice is tense, worried. "Let me help you."

"Leave me alone!" you shout, spinning around and glaring at him.

Obi-Wan freezes, his eyes widening, and you feel a pang of guilt, but it doesn't last long. You can't think straight. Your emotions are overwhelming, drowning out everything else. You're angry. Sad. Scared. Confused. And you have no idea what to do with all these feelings. They're tearing you apart, ripping you to pieces.

You've always known, deep down, that this was how it was going to end. That you were going to lose her. It had always been inevitable. But knowing doesn't make it hurt any less.

You take a deep breath and close your eyes, focusing on the Force. You try to reach out and connect with it, but the energy is faint, distant, and it slips through your grasp.

"Just go," you plead, your voice cracking.

"No," he says, and he takes a step closer, his eyes locked onto yours. "Not until we talk."

"I don't want to talk," you say through gritted teeth.

"I know," he replies gently. "But, you have to."

You shake your head and turn away, refusing to meet his gaze. Your whole body is shaking, and you're fighting the urge to lash out, to break something, to scream until your throat is raw.

"Talk to me," Obi-Wan coaxes, reaching out and placing a hand on your shoulder. You stiffen, the contact making you flinch.

"Fine," you snap, pulling away from him. You spin on your heel and march away from him, heading for the gates. "You wanna talk? Let's talk."

He sighs, and you hear him running after you. You keep walking, your feet pounding against the cobblestones. You're not sure where you're going, but the idea of standing in the shadow of the Temple is more than you can bear.

You pass through the gates and head down the street, ignoring the curious glances from passersby. You're not in the mood for them. All you can focus on is putting one foot in front of the other, trying to stay calm.

"What's going on?" Obi-Wan asks as he falls into step beside you.

"I don't know," you admit. You stop and turn to him, your chest heaving, your fists clenched. "I don't understand."

"It's okay," he assures you. His voice is low and soothing, and you feel the tension in your shoulders relax a little. "Just breathe."

"I'm breathing," you huff, glaring at him.

"No, you're not," he retorts. He puts his hands on your arms and you bat them away, but he ignores you, gripping you firmly and holding you in place. "Take a deep breath. In through the nose, out through the mouth."

"Stop telling me what to do," you grumble, trying to pull free, but his hold is strong, his grip unrelenting.

"Then stop fighting me," he shoots back. He sighs, his tone softening. "Please, just breathe. That's all I'm asking."

You hesitate, then comply, inhaling slowly, the cold air burning your lungs. You let out the breath, and then another. He nods approvingly.

"Better?"

"Not really," you mutter.

"Come on," Obi-Wan says, gesturing towards a nearby bench. "Sit down."

You glare at him, but do as he says. He sits next to you, and the two of you fall into a heavy silence.

You're still fuming. Anger is coursing through your veins, making your pulse race, your muscles tense. Your leg bounces uncontrollably as you stare at the ground, trying to process what's happening.

You've had a lot of emotions since Yaddle's death. Pain, grief, guilt, regret, shame. But the anger has always been the most persistent, the hardest to let go of. It's the only thing that's kept you going, kept you fighting. It's the only thing that's made you strong.

You need it. Without it, you'd have given up long ago. Without it, you'd have fallen apart.

But now, in this moment, sitting next to Obi-Wan, surrounded by the beauty of the Temple, the serenity of the gardens, the anger is fading, leaving you empty, hollow.

It's terrifying.

"How am I supposed to deal with this?" you ask him quietly, turning your head to look at him.

"What?" he asks, his eyes darting towards you.

"This," you clarify, gesturing between the two of you. "How do I deal with it? How do I move on? How do I keep going?"

"You're asking the wrong person," he tells you, and he looks away, staring off into the distance. "I haven't figured it out yet."

You huff a bitter laugh. "Some comfort you are."

"Sorry," he says, glancing at you. He smiles wryly. "I'm trying."

"Well, try harder," you grumble, and he chuckles, nodding.

The two of you fall silent again, and the sounds of the city wash over you. There are people shouting, laughing, talking. Vehicles whizzing past, horns blaring. The sun is starting to set, and the air is growing colder, a chill wind blowing through the streets. You shiver, wrapping your arms around yourself.

It's peaceful. And it's strange.

The two of you have rarely spoken about her, or the loss. You've never really shared this moment together, never had the opportunity. The wound left from his initial dismissal of your suspicion was deep, and though he's apologized and you've forgiven him, since then, it's always felt like an unspoken rule between the two of you to avoid the topic altogether.

But, now, sitting here, in the quiet, it's all you can think about. The anger, the sadness, the regret. It's all too much, and you don't know what to do.

"Can I ask you a question?" Obi-Wan murmurs, looking over at you.

"I suppose," you sigh as you lean back against the bench, looking at him warily.

He turns and looks at you, his eyes meeting yours, his brow furrowing slightly. "What do you want?"

"What do you mean?"

"You know exactly what I mean," he says, his gaze narrowing. "You said it yourself. You can't go on like this. So, what do you want? What do you need?"

"I..."

You trail off, unsure of what to say. It's not a question you've ever had to answer before. It's not something that's ever mattered.

"I don't know," you admit.

"Think about it," he suggests, his tone gentle.

You look away, staring at the ground, your jaw clenching. You've spent so much time trying not to think about these things. Trying not to think about what you want, or what you need, or how you feel. It's easier that way. Safer.

But the truth is, it doesn't make you feel any better.

The truth is, the only time you actually felt better was when you told Rex the truth. When you told him everything about what happened after Yaddle's death and the reason why. When you opened yourself up to him, allowed yourself to be vulnerable. To feel.

And it helped. More than you could have imagined.

What does it mean, then? What does it mean that the only time you've actually felt better was when you weren't trying to suppress your emotions? When you were allowing yourself to experience them, to feel them?

What does it mean that the only time you've felt happy was when you were with him? When the two of you were alone, exploring the city, enjoying each other's company, forgetting about the war and the galaxy and everything else that comes with being a Jedi.

When the two of you were together, you didn't have to worry about the future. You didn't have to think about the past. You didn't have to pretend to be something you weren't. You didn't have to pretend to be anyone or anything other than yourself.

And it was the most liberating thing you'd ever experienced.

Maybe that's what you need.

Maybe that's what you want.

To feel. To be yourself. To stop pretending.

You sigh and close your eyes, taking a deep breath. The sun has set now, and the courtyard is quiet. A few birds are chirping in the trees, and the air is crisp and cool.

It's beautiful. Peaceful. And it reminds you of the day Yaddle died.

That night, the air had been cold and clear. The moon had been bright and full. You'd stood on the balcony outside your room on Naboo, staring at the stars. You'd felt the same way then. Alone. Confused. Lost.

Now, here you are again, feeling the same way. But this time, it's not the loss of Yaddle that's causing it. It's the realization that you want something. Something you can't have. Something you've never allowed yourself to even consider.

Obi-Wan shifts next to you, his expression guarded. He's waiting for an answer. An answer you're not ready to give. Not yet.

"I've never had a choice," you say instead.

It's the first time you've said it out loud. The first time you've admitted it to yourself. And it's not a lie.

The life of a Jedi is one of service. Of sacrifice. Of duty.

You've never had a choice. Never had the luxury of deciding who you want to be or what you want to do. You've always been forced to choose between the Order and yourself. Between the Jedi and your own desires.

And that's a burden no one should have to carry.

You open your eyes to find him staring back at you, his brow furrowed in concern. "There was never a chance for me. The Order took that away the second I was born."

"That's not true," he objects, shaking his head. "You have choices. You can choose what to do with your life, where to go, who to be. You have more freedom than most people."

"Yeah, I have a choice between following orders and being punished," you snort, and he frowns.

"That's not—"

"Don't," you warn. "Don't lie to me."

"I'm not—"

"Yes, you are," you insist. "You know as well as I do that this is all there is. The Order is my life. The Order is all I have. Everything else is just...not possible."

He doesn't reply, and you shake your head, letting out a frustrated sigh.

"Look, I know you want to help," you tell him. "And I appreciate it. Really. But there's nothing you can do. This is the way it has to be. What I want doesn't matter."

He opens his mouth to speak, but closes it, his jaw clenching. You can feel his frustration, his helplessness. He wants to argue, to tell you that it's not true, but he knows it's useless. He knows that it's pointless. That you're right.

The two of you sit in silence, the only sound the rustling of the leaves overhead. It's getting colder, the temperature dropping quickly, and the night air is beginning to bite at your skin.

You're tired. Exhausted, really. The adrenaline has faded, the anger replaced by a deep weariness. But the idea of heading back inside, of returning to the Temple, is too much. Too soon. You don't move, and neither does Obi-Wan.

"Do you think about it?" he asks after several moments. "The life you could've had."

You huff a humorless laugh. “All the time.”

Obi-Wan starts, his head turning toward you quickly, his eyes wide. He stares at you, a shocked expression on his face. "Really?"

"What?" you ask, and you shrug. "It's true. I think about it a lot. It's impossible not to. Don’t you?”

"I used to," he admits. "Before my Knighting. Now, I try not to."

"Why not?"

"Because it doesn't matter," he tells you. He sighs heavily and shakes his head, running a hand over his beard. "It doesn't matter what I would've done or where I would've gone. None of it matters. Not now. What matters is who I am, and what I've done. Where I am now."

You stare at him, and you feel a pang in your chest, an ache in your heart.

"It's easy to get caught up in the past, to think about all the things we could've done differently, the choices we could've made," he continues, his voice quiet. "But the truth is, there's nothing we can do. We can't change the past. All we can do is move forward. Accept the present for what it is. Try to make the best of it."

You nod slowly, absorbing his words. They resonate with you, but a part of you wonders if they're directed at himself, if he's trying to convince himself as much as you.

"Besides, even if I had a chance at another life, I'm not sure it would be worth it," he adds.

"What do you mean?"

He looks at you, a sad smile tugging at his lips.

"If I hadn't joined the Order, I would've never met you,” he says softly, his gaze searching yours. “I would’ve missed out on so many incredible experiences. On so much joy. So much happiness. And, selfishly, I can't imagine a world where I don't have you in my life."

"Obi-Wan," you breathe, a lump forming in your throat.

“I know,” he laughs, and you can see his cheeks turn pink. He turns away, looking out at the garden. "I'm not very good at this, am I?"

You chuckle and lean closer, pressing your shoulder against his.

"Maybe not," you agree, and he lets out a snort. "But, for what it's worth, I'm glad I have you in my life, too. Even if you are a pain in my ass."

"Oh, please," he scoffs. "You love me."

"I do," you muse. You smile and close your eyes, enjoying the moment. The silence stretches on, comfortable and familiar, and you let out a contented sigh. Obi-Wan leans against you, resting his head on yours, and the two of you remain like that, sitting side by side, lost in thought.

After several minutes, he speaks.

"Earlier, when I asked you what you want," he says quietly, breaking the silence. "I was hoping you'd tell me the truth."

You shift, leaning back and looking at him. His eyes are closed, his expression thoughtful.

"What are you talking about?" you ask.

"I think we both know what I'm talking about," he says. He opens his eyes and turns to you, a sad smile on his face. "You deserve to be happy, and I want that for you. If that means stepping aside, if that means letting go, I will."

You stare at him, your eyes widening, a knot forming in your stomach. You swallow hard and look away, your gaze falling to the ground.

"Obi-Wan," you start, but he holds up a hand.

"No, let me finish," he insists. He takes a deep breath, and then continues. "I care about you. More than you know. And, if the war wasn't happening, if we were just two people, living normal lives, I would ask you to be mine. Because you deserve a chance at a real life. You deserve to be loved."

Your chest tightens, and your throat burns. Tears well up in your eyes, and you blink them away, shaking your head.

"But, as things are, that's not an option," he continues. He turns his attention back to the garden, his voice soft. "I don't know how this will end, but I do know one thing: it's going to hurt. Whether we win or lose, whether we survive or not, it's going to hurt. So, whatever choice you make, just...don't wait. Don't waste any more time. You deserve happiness, and I want you to have it."

"You can't ask me to do that," you say, your voice strained.

"I can, and I am," he replies, turning back to you. "You know I'm right. There's no sense in dragging this out."

"What about you?" you ask, your eyes searching his. "You deserve happiness, too."

"I know," he nods. He gives you a rueful smile. "But, that's not up to me. I can't choose who I fall in love with. But, I can choose to put your needs above my own. And, right now, I think that's the best thing for both of us."

You stare at him, your eyes stinging, your throat aching. He's right. He's always right.

"Before," you start. "With the Council..."

"Yes," Obi-Wan sigh, rubbing his beard. "They're concerned. And, they're right to be. They've noticed the way I've been acting lately. The way we've been acting. I don't know what they'll do if it continues, but I suspect it won't be good."

"I'm sorry," you apologize.

"It's not your fault," he assures you, and his expression is serious. "We were careless. Both of us. We've always known it could never last, and yet, we let ourselves get carried away."

"You were a little more careless than I was," you point out, and his cheeks turn red.

"I'll admit, I may have been a bit reckless," he admits sheepishly. "But, you were the one who started the whole thing."

"I did not!"

"Oh, please," Obi-Wan scoffs, and a smirk plays on his lips. "You were all over me the first time. Don't think I didn't notice."

"You're the one who kissed me," you retort, and his smirk grows.

"And it was a good kiss," he declares. He nudges you with his elbow. "You have to admit, you enjoyed it."

"Fine," you grumble. "It was a good kiss. Satisfied?"

"Yes," he chuckles.

You roll your eyes, and the two of you share a laugh. The tension eases, and a heavy weight lifts from your shoulders. You hadn't realized just how much pressure had been building, how much you'd been carrying around. You'd always known it wouldn't last. Always known there would be consequences. But, hearing him say it, admitting the truth, somehow makes it easier.

"So, where does this leave us?" you ask.

"Honestly, I'm not sure," he sighs. He leans back against the bench and gazes at the stars, his brows furrowing. "We're still friends. That hasn't changed. And, I still care about you. More than I should. But, whatever this is, whatever it could have been it's over. For both of our sakes."

You nod, biting your cheek, and you glance at him out of the corner of your eye. "And the bond?"

"We can still use it," he replies. "But, we have to be careful. No more emotional outbursts. No more impulsive decisions. We need to keep our distance."

"Yeah," you sigh. You look at him and smile. "I'll try. No promises, though."

"No," he chuckles, and he returns your smile, a hint of amusement in his eyes. "I didn't think so."

The two of you sit together for a while longer, talking, laughing, reminiscing. It's good, and it's exactly what you need. A reminder of who you are, of who he is, of the relationship the two of you have shared for so long. It's comforting. Familiar.

When the air turns cold and your teeth begin to chatter, you decide to head inside, back to the warmth and safety of the Temple. Obi-Wan walks with you, his arm wrapped around your shoulders, a smile on his face.

As the two of you reach the entrance, he stops and pulls you into a hug, holding you close.

"Whatever happens," he whispers in your ear. "I'm here for you."

"Even if..." You trail off, thinking of Rex, and he nods, giving you a knowing look.

"Even if," he promises, and his arms tighten around you, pulling you closer. You hug him back, burying your face in his shoulder. The two of you stand there for a moment, wrapped in each other's embrace, and a wave of relief washes over you. It's not the same. It's not the same, and it's never going to be. But, it's enough.

You pull back and look up at him, a smile on your lips. "Thank you."

"Don't thank me," he tells you. He releases you, stepping back and placing his hands on your shoulders. "You'll always be important to me. No matter what."

"And you're important to me," you reply. "Even if we're not together, we'll always be family."

"Always."

"I'm sorry," you add.

"Me, too," he says, his expression pained. He closes his eyes and shakes his head. "I don't know what I was thinking. This was a mistake. It shouldn't have happened. We should've—"

"Obi-Wan," you cut him off. "It's not your fault. We were both to blame. And, for what it's worth, I don't regret it. Not for a second."

"Neither do I," he murmurs, and his eyes meet yours, his gaze soft and affectionate. "It was good while it lasted."

"Yes," you agree, and the two of you exchange a small, sad smile.

You look away, your gaze drifting towards the sky. You watch the clouds drift across the horizon, and your eyes trace the lines of the buildings, the speeders, the faint glow of the stars. It's so beautiful, so peaceful.

You’ve never felt more at home anywhere than you have on Coruscant, for all its flaws and problems. This is where you belong. This is where you were meant to be. And, even if you can never have everything you want, you have this.

"Are you going to tell him?" Obi-Wan asks, drawing your attention back to him.

"No," you answer without hesitation. "He doesn't need to know. It wouldn't change anything."

He frowns. "You don't know that."

"No, I don't," you agree. "But, I can't. I can't do that to him. He deserves better."

Obi-Wan studies you for a moment, then nods, his expression serious. "You're a good person."

"So are you," you reply. You take a deep breath, and you step back, moving out of his grasp. "I should go. It's getting late."

"Yes," he agrees. He reaches out and squeezes your shoulder, and his eyes search yours, his brow creased in concern. "Will you be alright?"

"I think so," you tell him. You force a smile and shrug. "Eventually."

He smiles sadly and releases your shoulder, and you turn, heading back into the Temple. You can feel his eyes on you, his worry, his guilt. It's a struggle not to look back, not to break. But, somehow, you manage. You keep moving, and eventually, the weight of his gaze fades, replaced by the comforting hum of the Force.

It's a comfort, but it's not enough. You know it never will be.

Still, it's better than nothing. It's better than being alone.

And, for now, that's all that matters.

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#the clone wars #captain rex #clone captain rex #captain rex x reader #rex x reader #roy writes #event horizon #you don't know how relieved i am this chapter is out #i probably could've edited it more but i just want it free from my brain #next few chapters are going to be a journey #at least we'll have rex tho

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