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axels-corner · 1 year

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The pond where our story started (can we continue?)

Notes: This is my longest work to date, it’s also my 2000th post!! I had a lot of fun writing this, I had an idea of Kenric and Oralie both feeding ducks at a pond in September, and wanted to do a drawing for it when I got an idea to write this instead. I really wanted to focus on putting more descriptors, as well as not scaring myself with writing long fics like I usually do, and I think I succeeded, also I spell checked it but I might've missed a few since the majority of this fic was written before I went to bed because that's when I got ideas for it, I hope you enjoy reading it!

Characters: Kenric, Oralie, (Oralie’s mom is in a couple of scenes)

Words: 6338 words

“C'mon dear it's time to go home!” Oralie heard her mother call

“Coming just give me one second!” Oralie responds back throwing one last handful of birdseed to the ducks but in her haste to stand up she knocked her bag into the water. Her mother appeared behind her and placed a hand on her shoulder

“We'll get a new one this Atlantis and I'll help you re-do you're homework,” she wrapped an arm around Oralie's shoulder holding her pathfinder to the sky, so bright Oralie had to squint when looking into it, “now c'mon it's getting late we should get home.” Oralie nodded and glittered into the light with her mother.

It was Monday morning at Foxfire, she shut her locker holding all her books. Elwin had chosen the flavor for the lockers and she did not want to taste that again

“Ahh!” She tripped over her feet, behind her locker was a boy with vivid red hair, Kenric Fathdon, her academic rival.

“Oh, sorry, I didn't mean to startle you.” He said helping her up. The two weren't exactly friends so she asked the question that was on her mind

“What are you doing behind my locker?” He held out a bag

“I was at a pond this weekend with my family and my cousin fished it out of the water when he and my brother where playing tag. I recognized your families crest.” He pointed to where it was on her bag.

“Oh, thank you I appreciate it.”

“No problem, it's what I would want somebody to do for me if I lost my bag and they found it.” Just then the bell rang, Oralie nodded at him slinging her bag over her shoulder

“Well, I guess I'll see you around Kenric.” He waved as she walked away

“See you Ora!”

She didn't see Kenric for a while after that, well she saw him in the hallway, but they didn't have a conversation beyond a friendly greeting. Though she did see him at the pond and they would silently feed the ducks birdseed together, though no words were exchanged. That was until the summer before the elite levels.

They had both been out and where enjoying the quite silence, Oralie studying, and Kenric reading that they didn't realize that there was a storm until Oralie saw a drop land on the lake out of the corners of her eye. She looked up and saw the sky was a deep, dark, gray. It looked like what she imagined the void where conjurers stored things looked like. She turned to look at Kenric and just as they locked eyes rain started pouring out of the clouds. In an instant she and Kenric where on their feet as they ran for the forest, where they hoped that the trees would at least provide some cover. It didn't. The leaves were just thin enough that the water could still race through the leaves to the ground, like droplets on car windows. At least this time Oralie didn't drop her bag into the pond, not that it made a difference it was just as if not more soaked than it had been all those years ago. Kenric moved to go deeper into the forest

“C'mon the leaves are thicker deeper in the woods.”

“Why don't we just leap away?” Kenric didn't respond he just held his pathfinder up to the light, and it casted no path.

“The light isn't strong enough, we'll have to wait till this storm clears up. Trust me I've grown up in these woods, my parents taught me what to do in case there was a storm.” Oralie nodded following him.

After what felt like hours, though that probably had to do with her high heels that kept sinking into to the ground making every step feel like ten, Kenric stopped and waved his arms around like a magician.

“Welcome to my family's cabin,” He turned and smiled at her before continuing “we can bunk here for tonight and leap in the morning.” Oralie nodded, she had already texted her parents and told them what had happened so that they wouldn't be worried about her.

“So what do we do know?” she asked, noticing how he was looking around the area like he was searching for something.

“There's some food inside that we can heat up, but all the firewood would be soaked by now.” Oralie nodded looking around before her gaze found a tree that was so huge around the base, and stretched high in the sky looking like it could give the clouds a high-five with its leaves if it wished. And its leaves-the leaves where the most beautiful she had ever seen with a myriad of colors blending into a majestic ombré. The best part was that leaves where so thick with how age and since leaves hadn't started to fall yet that little to no water got onto the sticks lying below. Oralie turned to Kenric

“I have a plan,” she waited for him to look at her “you go inside and find a match or something of the like to light a fire, and the food, while I find some dry wood.” He nodded looking up at the sky, which could barley be seen, and yet the rain persisted through the gaps except on the thickest trees, he nodded

“Good luck Ora, I don't think anything could not get soaked in this weather,” he turned to go to the cabin but stopped and turned “Wait, I'll take you're bag inside so that it doesn't get more soaked, and maybe dry off a little bit, also,” he unbuttoned his cloak and held it out to her “I noticed you didn't have yours and you're going to be the one out in this rain so here you go.” She took the cloak from him, and handed him her bag, the same one he saved from the pond all those years ago.

“Thank you,” she told him fumbling with the clasp, she always had trouble with them it's why she preferred not to wear them, he pinned the cloak for her. They locked eyes for a minute, and it was like something straight out of a fantasy novel, the sun even seemed to brighten, until Kenric stepped back avoiding her gaze, clearing his throat, cheeks flushed pink

“No problem.” She swore that when she felt his emotions she could almost sens- nope shutting that thought down. She pointed over her shoulder ignoring how good he looked, how did she not notice before

“Well I better,” he nodded

“Oh, yeah and I better try to find the matches, and food, and stuff, it's been a while since we've stayed here so need to make sure the animals didn't get in.” She nodded, and they both turned and went to their job. As Oralie collected the dry firewood she could still feel how pink her cheeks where, did she like Kenric? That's ridiculous they were rivals, they were always trying to one up each other in class scores, but then what was that. It was like one of Kenric's novels he wrote where the two love interests kiss. She shook her head, how was she supposed to get the dry firewood to the cabin without it getting soaked? An idea suddenly popped into her head she took off the cape wrapping the fire wood in it so that the inside was against it and the already soaked outside was still facing out. Here goes nothing, she thought, time to test the water proofness of capes. She should've used that for her science project that they had to do for the science fair. She held her hand over her head like it would stop the rain, now would've been an awesome time to be a hydrokinetic. She ran to the cabin, as curious as she was on the waterproofness of capes it could wait until it wasn't protecting the only dry firewood she had seen. By the time she got to the cabin and inside she was shivering like she'd been frozen, she hadn't realized how much warmth the cape had provided until it was gone.

Kenric looked up from a small drawer with a box of matches in hand and the gnomish vegetables on the counter as she slammed the door open. She held out the bundle

“I found firewood, and it's dry.” Kenric smiled

“And I have the matches and food all we need now is to light the wood stove and we'll be good.” She nodded and moved to put the wood in the other room but Kenric shook his head and gestured for her to give him the wood, she raised an eyebrow but did. He took the cape off the wood and wrapped it around her shoulders again. “Let me handle dinner you look like you're about to become an ice cube, there are some blankets in the next room.” That sounded good to her, even with Kenric's cape she was still freezing, she went to the next room and quickly found the blankets he had been talking about, and wrapped them around her. They were warm like a hug, and soft like an animals fur. She went back into the next room and told Kenric about where she found the wood, and he talked shared stories about his cousins, younger brothers and his baby sister who had been born on the last day of Foxfire.

“She'll celebrate both graduating a level, and her birthday.” Oralie remarked, in return Oralie told him about her older sister, and brother. Talking about everything and nothing all night. As they lay with their heads next to each other at eye level Kenric asked

“Why do you get so serious about grades?” probably remembering when they really did act like rivals, and were not nice to each other, and Oralie yelled at him for destroying their partnered universe homework model, and he yelled at her for making them loose in physical education. She took a deep breath

“I want to be a councilor, I want to change our world for the better,” she turned her head and found Kenric staring at her, “That's why I don't date, and why I haven't even registered,” she watched him nod and as he started to look away she found the courage to say the words she'd been thinking all day “but,” his eyes snapped back to hers “I don't won't to loose what we have, I've never felt this way before.” He nodded

“Me too,” placing a hand on her cheek as they both where sitting facing each other now he asked “may I?” she nodded and they both closed their eyes as they where about to kiss the door slammed open and they both pushed each other away.

When Oralie looked up she saw that it was her older brother Aldwinn with Kenric's older cousin Aldwynn, they were roommates, yes it got confusing, and yes they took advantage of it in every way possible. Aldwinn's eyebrows were high on his face

“Are we interrupting something?” Aldwynn asked with a glance at his cousin. Both Kenric and Oralie shook their heads, protesting, pushing themselves off the floor, Kenric's face flushed bright red, and Oralie knew that hers matched. Aldwinn clapped his hands

“Well Oralie, mom and dad want you home, same with you Kenric.” He added onto the end turning to look at him. Oralie handed Kenric his cape back as they where leaving

“Here you go, thank you for letting me borrow it.” Aldwinn's eyebrows jumped even higher, and then even higher that she was afraid they were going to fly off his scalp if they went any higher when Kenric said waving his hand,

“Keep it, it looks better on you.” As they walked out Aldwinn leans in to whisper

“What was that about? Are you two finally dating took you long enough.” She shoved him playfully

“Shut up, and it's not like I can't say the same thing about you and Aldwynn.” Her brother's face turned a bright red, like he was a cartoon character. He shoved her back

“Whatever, I'll see you at home.” and with that he leaped away, Oralie gave one last wave over her shoulder before she did the same.

She was having a winnowing gala, she and Kenric didn't acknowledge or talk about what had happened that night in the cabin except for making a passing joke about it in rare occasion. Like when Oralie brought up that she was going to have a winnowing gale.

“I'm going to have a winnowing gala.” Oralie declared setting her tray at the table. Kenric didn't look up

“good morning to you too, wait I thought you wanted to be a councilor?” she nodded taking a bite of her food

“I do, but I want to see what's out there first, you know.” He nodded

“That makes sense.”

“I was also wondering if you were free Saturday to help me decorate?” He laughed before realizing she was serious

“I thought you hated my taste.”

“No I hate you're fashion and decorating sense, but I thought it would be more fun if I had a friend there.”

“You're parents pushed you into this didn't they?” Kenric asked, she sighed

“They just want to make sure I'm sure, they want me to get all five match packets.” She looked away, and Kenric took her hand from across the table, running his thumb along her knuckles, he smiled when she looked at him

“Of course I'll be there Ora.” He said using the years old nickname he had for her. Then the bell rang, and Kenric took one last bite of his apple shaped fruit, and threw it away. Oralie sat there realizing she was feeling they same thing she felt when they were in the cabin.

It was Saturday now and just as promised Kenric arrived to help her decorate the banquet hall for the winnowing gala. Currently he was hanging the streamers, while Oralie set up the snack tables. She looked up to see him leaning way beyond the ladder to pin another streamer on a beam

“You're going to fall.”

“No I'm not and even if I did you would catch me.” He shot her a wink, and right on cue confirming her prediction the ladder wobbled before falling sending Kenric with it. Without thinking Oralie caught him with the help of telekinesis, the force knocking them both to the floor. Though she was still holding him bridal style. Kenric's eyes opened slowly, and met hers

“Thanks, I thought I was going to hit the floor for a minute.”

“I'd never let you hit the ground.”

It felt like the night in the cabin, the world faded away leaving only the two of them, Kenric cleared his throat pushing himself away from her, and off the floor, before offering a hand to her

“We should probably keep decorating as much as I would like to keep staring into your eyes.” He turned away and picked the ladder back up and they decorated in silence. Oralie was dissapointed, but he was right, he wasn't on any of her match lists since he had decided not to register. They would be a bad match, but the more she thought about it, she didn't mind that. Her parents would have a fit if they heard her say it, but it was true. She took a deep breath pushing all thoughts of the bright red hair boy out of her mind. It was for the best.

It was night time. Oralie was standing outside greeting the guys from her match list. Some she recognized, some she didn't, none of them were the boy she wanted to see, though she knew it was impossible for Kenric to be here. She couldn't imagine dancing with all of the people on her list when she wasn't interested in any of them. She sighed as she greeted the last person before putting on a bright smile

“Hi! Welcome I hope you enjoy the gala!” The boy laughed

“You know in another life you would've made a great actress, not that you can fool me.” As his words processed Oralie did a double take. She hadn't even recognized Kenric, his hair was done with what looked like tons of hair gel, and the nicest tunic she had seen him wear, though it still clashed with the rest of his outfit, her mouth was still hanging open as he closed it “not excited to see me?” She snapped out of it

“No! It's great to see you its just, how are you here.” He winked at her like he did that afternoon

“Well there's no laws for winnowing galas, just rules, and those are made to be broken,” He rubbed the back of his neck holding out flowers, and in a quieter voice said “and I thought it might be nicer to have a friend,” then as if regaining his confidence the red faded from his cheeks “plus are you going to deny me the opportunity for an Oralie makeover?” She took the flowers from him “That would be nice, and I would never deny the opportunity to give you a makeover.” With that she grabbed his hand and they snuck upstairs, carefully avoiding everyone else. She helped him redo his hair, she was right, he had used the entire tub of gel

“Why would you do that?” she asked, he shrugged

“My brother said too.” She raised an eyebrow and turned so that he was staring at her “which I'm now beginning to think was a prank.” She laughed

“Well I guess we'll have to prank them back.”

“I suppose we will.” forty-five minutes and a makeover later, Kenric helped her do her hair, which she had pulled into a simple pointy tail

“How do you know how to do my hair but not your own?” Oralie asked looking into the mirror

“I help my little sister with her hair, I'm better at longer hair than short hair.”

“Than why don't you grow you're hair out?” He looked at the mirror meeting her gaze

“I never thought about that, I think I will,” he finished the braid “and we're done! What do you think?” Oralie touched her hair

“I love it!”

“Well you have your specialty, and I have mine.” He said, and she laughed

“We should do this before every party, I'll do the outfits, and you do hair.” He nodded

“I'd like that, it's better than getting ready by ourselves.”

“I had a question,” Kenric made a hum “what was that earlier?” he sighed and turned to face her

“Remember when I went to the kitchen to get us lushberry juice?” She nodded and he continued “Well I saw you're mom and she told me that we both want to be councilors, and we shouldn't distract each other with romance, plus we would be a bad match.” Oralie couldn't believe it, well actually she could, but she didn't focus on it right now

“Wait do you like me?” He flushed

“I know you want too be a councilor so I didn't want to say anything.” She laughed taking his face in her hands

“I like you too Kenric, I have since the day in the woods.”

“Really?”

“Really.” He took a breath before asking the question that needed addressing

“What now?”

“Well Kenric Fathdon,” their were butterflies in her stomach and she willed her hands to be steady as she took his. They were larger than hers, which made sense since he was taller than her, his hands felt warm, and right, like a puzzle snapping together. Just as she was about to ask-

“There you are Oralie!” she heard her mother before she saw her, when she looked at her, Oralie's mother wasn't looking at her but rather glaring at Kenric “what are you doing here?”

“Just leaving m'am.” Kenric said before transmitting to Oralie

I'll see you later. When he walked out the door her mother motioned for Oralie to walk with her

“Everyone is waiting for you, you can't let that boy distract you. Plus it's not like you can date any way, you'll be a bad match, as well as you both want to be councilors,” they stopped at the top of the stairs, and her mother took her hands “I don't mean to be harsh Oralie but I just want what's best for you.” Oralie nodded

“and what if Kenric is right for me?” Her mother sighed

“I would prefer if you were a good match but I would support you if that's what you truly want. I just thought you wanted to be a councilor.” Oralie nodded

“I do it's just, he's handsome and funny, and even his arrogance isn't as infuriating as it once was.” Her mother nodded squeezing her hands

“I understand, just try for me won't you?” Oralie nodded

“Ok.”

“Ok,” her mother repeated “thank you Oralie, now go get them.” Oralie nodded and descended the staircase wishing Kenric was descending with her.

The party was over and just as Oralie predicted she didn't like any of her matches, they were nice, and she would want to be friends, but not romantically involved. Oralie's mom put an arm around her shoulders giving her a one arm squeeze,

“Thank you for trying,” she looked over her shoulder and smiled, kissing Oralie's forehead “it looks like you have a visitor, don't stay up to late you two.” and with that she swept up the stairs, Oralie turned around and saw Kenric

“Hey Ora.”

“Hey.” Kenric looked around

“We should probably clean up shouldn't we.” Oralie nodded tossing him a broom

“Help me sweep?”

“Person with the smallest pile looses!” He declares

“Oh you're so on!”

They sweep, until all the trash has been collected into two even piles

“I think I won.” Kenric declared playfully, Oralie shook her head

“I think it was a tie.” Kenric laughed

“Are you sure?” Oralie laughed with him but stopped after a few seconds looking sadly around the room that had been full of music, noise and dancing just a few hours ago. Kenric gave her a one armed hugged hesitantly

“Hey, I'm no empath, but what's wrong?”

“It's not important.” She said looking away, he placed a hand on her cheek and she could feel his emotions love, happiness, and concern

“It seems like it is, what's wrong?” She sighed

“I just wish I could’ve danced with you, I had to dance with all the people I didn't and not the one I did.” Kenric let go of her hand and took her hand

“Who says we can't dance now?”

“But there's no music?” He used telekinesis and put a CD in the radio, human music softly played throughout the room

“Trust me.” he said, starting to lead her through a slow dance, at first it was awkward, she stepped on his feet, they almost tripped over the piles of trash in the room, but soon they fell into a rhythm. Oralie had dance partners before, she danced with hundreds people that night, but Kenric was better than all of them, it was like another piece of the puzzle fell into place. They could have been dancing for three minutes or three hours it didn't matter, as the CD winded down, they still danced even when it stopped. Her arms were around his neck and his arms were around her waist, their foreheads were pressed together

“Thank you.” Oralie said softly, their was only the two of them in the universe

“For what?” he asked in the same soft tone

“For this dance, it's the most amazing I've had all night.”

“I'm glad, considering I've never danced before.”

“You haven't?” Oralie asked unable to keep the surprise out of her voice

“Nope, just made it up as I went.”

“Well it was still amazing.”

They stayed that way for the rest of the night just swaying around the room foreheads together talking softly about everything, not a care in the world, not even that they were going to be exhausted the next morning.

Oralie thought that things would be different this time from the cabin but they didn't talk about her winnowing gala either. By the time blinked she had gotten all five of her match packets and had all her winnowing galas. Kenric's name had not been on a single one of them. Once the elite levels started the two drifted apart, with all the homework, and internships they barley had time to themselves. When they did it was never at the same time. It was like the universe was trying to keep them apart. Speaking of which she had to get to the universe, she grabbed her bag and ran out the door.

After class was over she had her government class, when she arrived she was surprised to see Kenric standing there as well

“Ah, Miss Oralie it's a pleasure to see you. I trust you know Kenric Fathdon.” She nodded slowly, setting her bag in the corner. She was confused usually classes were one on one except for physical education. The professor clapped his hands, he was an older man his ears were starting to form points, he had silver hair with blond roots showing, and glasses. “As I was telling Mr. Fathdon over here, as you two are about to graduate and you both are in consideration for the opening in the council,” Oralie's eyebrows shot up at that news, this was the first she was hearing about it

“If you wish to sign up here is the packet that you will need to fill out.” Oralie and Kenric nodded

“Thank you sir.”

“Yes, thank you sir.”

“You're welcome.” the teacher said and Oralie and Kenric walked out of his office.

“Do you want to hang out while we fill out the packets?” Oralie asked as they walked up the stairs to the dorms. Kenric didn't say anything, and when she turned to look at him he had stopped walking and was staring at her

"What?" Oralie asks staring at his face, he laughs

"You're joking right." When she doesn't join in and just glares at him he stops "wait, you don't really think you have a shot right?"

"Why wouldn't I?"

"Well everyone knows that empaths are just lie detectors and they already have one on the council, so they'll obviously go for the telepath." He said with an arrogant air about him, she had forgotten how annoying it could be. She also didn't think that Kenric was someone who looked down on others for their abilities

"You just wait Kenric Fathdon, I'll be a better councilor than you could ever dream of being."

"Yeah right.” He told her and after a long moment added, “well I guess that's it than huh."

"Yeah I guess it is." And without hesitation she turned and stomped back up to her room so angry that even someone who wasn't an empath could feel it.

Back at home after she finished retelling the story she turned to her mother who was sitting at the counter sipping a cup of coffee. She threw her hands in the air

"I mean can you believe him I never would've thought that he would be someone who judges what others can do based off of ability. I've gotten top marks on all my tests and am top of the class." The anger slowly started to fade, disappointment replacing it as she sat down in one of the chairs at the counter "what am I supposed to do now mom?" She heard her mom set down her ceramic mug, and her take a deep breath

"Look at me Oralie," she waited until Oralie did to continue "I think that you should apply." Oralie was surprised her mother had always supported her dreams, but she wanted her to be an emissary like her.

"But, before you said," her voice fades out as her mom said

"I know but I see now you have the passion, and the fire to change our world for the better, and you shouldn't let anyone convince you otherwise. You are so much more than a lie detector, than just an empath. You are Oralie, and I know even if you don't get elected this time you will in the future." Oralie smiled making up her mind

"Thanks mom, I know what I'm going to do now."

She went to the pond. It was a risky move considering Kenric might be there but she wasn't going to let him drive her away from where she always went to think. She grabbed the packet from her satchel, then made sure it was secure. No one would fish her bag out of the pond this time. She opened up the packet and the first three pages where surprisingly familiar to when she filled out her matchmaking packet. Age, name, when her birthday was, what she wanted to do, what her values where. Although the packet didn't have any of the romantic stuff the matchmaking one had which made sense. When she got to the last question she saw what it was, what is your ability? Without hesitation she wrote in empath never being prouder, she could care less what people thought about her talent she would prove the wrong. The last page of the packet was the rules of the councilors

I swear that if I become a councilor I will not marry nor have children, to make sure I can rule unbiased. I swear to do everything I can to help my people, I will rule because it's right and not for the fame and above all I will do everything I can to make sure the lost cities will prosper.

She read it what must've been a hundred times to make sure she was hundred and ten percent certain of what she was agreeing to before she signed her name. The next Monday she turned the packet into the same teacher that had given it to her and Kenric. As she placed it in his hand before he took it he asked

"Are you sure?" And with no hesitation or tremble in her voice she said

"Yes." He nodded taking the thick packet, he needed two hands to hold it.

"I just wanted to be sure because once they're handed in theirs no turning back." She nodded once more

"I am completely certain." The teacher nodded

"I will send you and Mr. Fathdon's packets in right away." Oralie gave a slight curtsy

"Thank you sir." She had never felt more sure of anything in her life, this is what she had always wanted, she pushed down the small part of her that was still in love with Kenric and walked out of the room, her mind made up, she was going to do everything to help her world.

Oralie was reading a novel and drinking a glass of juice before retiring to bed when she heard a knock at the door. Putting the book down but keeping her glass in hand she opened the door

“Councilor Kenric, for what do I owe the pleasure?” He fidgeted with the edge of his shirt like he used to do when they were younger, she closed her eyes and shut down the thought

“Um, may I come in?” He asked, she opened up the door wider

“Come in.” He nodded, and followed her to her sitting room. She sat in her chair that she had been reading in before gesturing for him to take a seat and asked

“What do you need?” Oralie asked cutting straight to the chase

“I wanted to clear the air. I'm sure you're wondering what took so long for you to get elected,” She nodded she had always wondered, because as far as she knew she was the only empath up for consideration. He sat up taller in the chair before continuing, “I'm the reason.”

“Why?”

“I can't tell you that.” He said, and she scoffed

“and why's that.”

“Because it's classified.”

“Well isn't that convenient.” she said, as he went to say something she held up her hand “I don't want to here it just leave, you know where the door is.” He pushed himself up from the chair and with no other words walked out. Tears burned Oralie's eyes, she felt like she'd been betrayed she and Kenric argued often, but she never thought he would go that far. She wiped the tears from her eyes refusing to cry over him. It didn't matter what was done was done, she couldn't change the past, but she would change the future with or without Kenric's support. She drank the rest of her juice, and went to put her novel away when she noticed that the page it was open too was of the two lovers getting a happy ending after everything. It had been a finals gift from Kenric when they were in level three after he had noticed her looking over his shoulder in his families cabin as he read. It was crazy how a couple years could change people's perception.

Years later Oralie sat at the pond, she and Kenric had finally made up and talked things through about two years ago and had slowly becoming closer like they were when they were younger. Oralie was tossing birdseed to the ducks, it was a nice spring day, she could hear the birds chirping in the trees and the creaking of the boards on the dock as Kenric walked up and sat next to her. He put his head on her shoulder, and she reached one arm up to play with his hair.

“Long day?” She asked he nodded

“Troll, goblin, ogre negotiations are the worst, they all want to kill each other.” She nodded sympathetically and kissed him on the forehead,

“I love you.” she whispered her head on his

“I love you too.” He smiled up at her. Out here they could just be, the rest of the council turned a blind eye since no one knew about this spot but them. According to Bronte

“At least they aren't still squabbling like school children anymore.” Suddenly Kenric perks up

“I almost forgot I have a surprise for you!” she raised her eyebrows

“What is it?” He offered a hand up

“I can't tell you silly, otherwise it won't be a surprise anymore.” he placed his hand in hers “just trust me, you'll love it.” She nodded and followed him as he led her deeper into the woods they didn't talk but she listened to the symphony called nature, the birds, the slight breeze whistling, the sound of the leaves and sticks under their feet. As she looked around she realized she was starting to recognize their surroundings like the tree she found the firewood under the summer before the elite levels. Just then Kenric stopped sweeping his arm across a bush, gently pushing away the branches to reveal a clearing with a rebuilt cottage. As she stepped into the clearing Kenric followed behind her. Her hands came up to cover her mouth and she pointed at the cottage

“Did you rebuild the cottage?” Kenric hugged her from behind resting his head on her shoulder

“Do you like it?” She spun around in the hug and hugged him back

“I love it!” The cottage was still a light blue but it had been fixed up, a reminder of their childhood when they would study together, and play base quest with the rest of their friends. Kenric nudged her arm

“I can't wait for you to see the inside.” She let go of the hug and walked to the door with him behind her. She looked inside and felt around for the light switch for a minute before finding it when she turned it on she saw the cabin had been redone. The counter, benches, and the rest of the furniture had been fixed up. There was a new bookshelf stocked with romance novels that both Oralie and Kenric loved to read. As well as soft blankets they had found when they went to the human world, she had wondered where they had gone. In the middle of the floor was a large red and white checkered with a picnic basket on top. Oralie turned to Kenric who was leaning against the door frame

“Is this your secret project?” He nodded hesitantly

“Do you like it?” She nodded

“I love it it's amazing!” He took her hand and led her to the blanket, and they both sat down. Oralie's dress flared out beneath her. He opened the picnic basket pulling out their favorite foods, mallowmelt, porcaroot pie, pudding puffs, and cinnacreme as the beverage. They were all perfect, she looked at him as she bit into the porcaroot pie, the sweet, smoky flavor mixing with the creamy texture for perfection.

“Did you make this?” she asked and he smiled

“Yeah, I wanted to do something special for you.”

“Any particular reason?”

“Today marks the ten year anniversary of you being a councilor.” She smiled

“You remembered.” He brushed a loose strand of hair behind her ear

“Of course I did.” His hand lingered on his face, and their eyes locked like they did all those years ago during the storm

“May I?” and with no one to interrupt the kiss this time she nodded they both leaned in and it was as magical as the stories had always described, and finally the puzzle of Oralie's life felt right, like a song settling in her heart. She wished that she could tell the little girl she used to be that everything would be okay, and she get a storybook ending like she'd read about. Even if it did involve minor treason. Everything was perfect.

Writing taglist (ask to be added or removed): @gay-otlc @fintan-pyren @almostfullnerd @you-have-been-frizzled @agent-azrail-pyren @official-kenralie-fanbase

#kotlc fanfiction #my writing #kotlc kenric #councillor kenric #kenric fathdon #kotlc oralie #councillor oralie

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orowyrm · 2 years

Note

is Laz still blind? How does he go about doing the usual Tenno stuff without his vision?

yep, that hasn’t changed!

it’s tough, especially since not everyone realizes he can’t see / is capable of providing easy alternatives, but he’s worked out a pretty good system over the years. while transferred into a warframe, he can use the frame’s optic sensors to ‘see’ if all else fails. most frames don’t have very accurate optics, since they’re made with sighted tenno in mind and therefore they’re not particularly good with detail, but he gets a general idea of what’s going on around him and who’s shooting at him from where, and generally tends to go for guns that don’t require particularly high accuracy to get the job done. so long as he’s got his handy dandy tenet envoy aimed in the general direction of his target, the radial explosion usually takes care of it.

he’s also got a heavily modified oculus that he can use outside of transference if he REALLY needs it. it siphons off his connection to the void and sends out a constant stream of short pulses of void energy, collecting the waves as they bounce back to build a general layout of his surroundings. these signals are then translated into a rough image and projected to him via a direct connection to his brain, bypassing the dysfunctional eyes completely and giving him a very vague, but still useful picture of his surroundings. however, he HATES using it. it’s uncomfortable, unwieldy, sometimes unreliable (especially in places with lots of interfering void radiation that needs to be compensated for), and the constant void pulses are very physically draining on him. he only ever wears it in combat situations, or if he’s going to have to be somewhere unfamiliar or dangerous without a friend to help watch his back.

in fully casual settings, though, especially in familiar places where he’s got the general layout memorized, he manages just fine!! sometimes with the help of Masha, his drahk. who part-times as both a war dog AND a guide.

she mainly assists with locating things or people he normally couldn’t find (such as a misplaced datamass or dropped piece of equipment), navigating crowds or unfamiliar places, and generally just moral support. she’s a dog of many talents! she’s also particularly skilled at disarming and grappling enemies, because she is Very Large and Very Strong. (she comes up to about laz’s elbow at the shoulder, and he’s like seven feet tall. so. she’s a Big Girl)

he’s also got a makeshift cane that’s pretty much just a sentient’s leg that he tore off in a pinch a few years back and just. kept using. he likes it. if it ain’t broke and all that, yknow. it doubles as a pretty decent blunt weapon, too, should the need arise. i forgot to draw it though and i’m tired so you’ll just have to imagine what that looks like, sorry. it comes especially in handy though because of his pathetic little toothpick hoof legs, which really can’t get a grip on polished metal flooring and can make him unsteady on uneven ground, so even in cases where he generally knows how to get around, he keeps it on him Just In Case.

in the case of inbox messages and the like, his ship cephalon, AUDRI, is actually just a rogue text-to-speech bot. she’s pure AI, unlike most cephalons. she assists him with navigating his ship and also reads off all of his inbox messages and any documents he’s gotta look through for missions and such. this, of course, means his lovely friends have a tendency to send him transcripts of the cock and ball torture wikipedia page and other such delightful things on a regular basis, usually the early hours of the morning, which she will happily recite all the way through while he lies awake in bed wondering how he got here and if the torment will ever end. she means well, though. we all love her.

#myart #ocs #laz

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kirascottage · 3 years

Note

hey! could you write a fluff fic of lip gallagher x reader? maybe something where he’s protective? love your writing! - nina <3

always choosing you

lip gallagher x f. reader

summary: lip saves you while at a party.

word count: 1.6k

warnings: soft and protective lip all in one, swearing, alcohol, mentions of trauma, non-consensual touching (just the waist), mentions of violence, kissing, mentions of sex (1x)

join my taglist here !

“Babe, this tastes disgusting.” You scowled while referring to the red solo cup in your hand. At your distasteful words, Lip’s head had whipped over to your twisted face, studying your wry grimace then looking at the poorly made drink most likely whipped up by a Sophomore that had no idea how to mix alcohol.

“Here, take mine.” Without a second thought, he quickly swapped the drink in your hand with his own, Vodka Cranberry. The drink he voluntarily handed you was a translucent shade of dull red and it fizzed at the top. Taking a sip, your brow arched in a consensus of the pleasant-tasting beverage.

To a family like the Gallagher’s, it was portrayed as a psychedelic for Lip Gallagher to be seen as a caring individual rather than a belligerent boy without any anger control. (especially to someone like Fiona) His emotional trauma merely enabling him to hide his concealed emotions from others, but like any other person, it took tremendous work that you were willing to put in.

“Hey, you wanna go soon?” His eyes naturally drifted around the party as he questioned you with a gentle hand sitting comfortably at your waist, his thumb moving slowly over the material of your shirt. “Sure, lower-class man parties are always a bummer.” You mutually agreed, glimpsing as to how his eyes travel across the room to a familiar redhead.

“I’m gonna go tell Ian, you good here?” His thumb pointed in a backwards direction as he walked the same way, you nodded in approval before he was off with his shoes tapping in sync to the music as he proceeded to the Kitchen while you stood in the living room against a wall.

It wasn’t usual for Lip to willingly leave you alone, especially in social situations like this one with intoxicated teenagers at your every corner. He once claimed a wannabe Tristan Dugray from Gilmore Girls would sweep you off your feet and carry you off to the sunset but you declared that would be spurious.

You picked at your nails for the first few minutes, growing bored as you waited, your fingers following the curvature of the cup along with the slight indentations and lines as your patience grew thin. Most likely Ian was stuck in a conversation with long-haired Milkovich, and he wouldn’t wanna leave just yet, his usual stall techniques including whining to his eldest brother.

Your evident impatience had swallowed you whole, eventually abandoning the remains of the drink at a battered table so your arms could cross in front of your chest and your foot tapped insanely quick against the floor. Now that tapping would've bothered anyone as the music vibrated through the drywall and the neighbours were nearing annoyance with the deliberation of filing a noise complaint.

As you were just about to set off to the kitchen, slender fingers gripped at your belt loops hauling you closer to the point your rear had struck the male stranger's chest.

“Hey! What the fu—“

“What’re you doing here all alone?” You attempted to harshly to move away at the poor tone of male seduction but the firm grip on your denim loops was restricting you from such.

“You see, I'm not alone so if you’d—“ You gestured impatiently to his hand with a curt glint in your tone whilst looking back at him; but, he cut you off with a brisk ‘S’alright, baby. I’ll take care of you.’ And no intention of letting you go.

You huffed with a squirm as his disengaged hand grasped at your waist where the emptiness of Lip’s hand had formerly been. “I have a fucking boyfriend—“ You inevitably began to yell over the music at the boy you could recognize as Clint Eastwood from your English class with a drunken smirk plastered onto his features.

This time it wasn’t his slurred voice cutting you off once again, it was a familiar rage-ridden Gallagher. “Get your hands off my fucking girlfriend.” Lip’s baritone became hoarser by the word as his hands hastily gripped at the boy's collared shirt whilst you stumbled by Ian who had briskly caught your arm hoisting you upright.

“Sorry! Dude, I didn’t know she—“

“Really? I clearly fucking heard her say she had a boyfriend,” His scowling brows drew together tightly and his lips pursed at the boy's face trembling in justified fear; as the scene grew larger with frequent yells occurring from Lip, most attendees of the party queued in on the scene.

“I guess idiots like you don’t know how to take a fucking hint.” Lip would’ve severely beaten his face in till Clint was due a trip to the ER but your magnifying grip at the back of his torso was enough to subdue his nerves and release the male off to the side and make his way to the car while gripping your hand the silent way there as the music grew fainter.

The car ride was silent, Lip’s hands gripped the wheel hard enough for distinctive marks to melt into the leather of the disk-shaped circle. He was well indeed sober, the only drink he had consumed was the one he had given to you and mostly full when it came into your possession.

When the car paused in the Gallagher driveway, wordlessly, Ian had left the car to give the both of you a moment, cautiously entering the chaotic household where most of his siblings had been asleep; Fiona being the only one awake where she had been watching a movie with V as Debbie laid on her lap. Yet, Lip hadn’t even moved his hands from the ignition; he had barely even blinked or twitched.

“Lip,” Your voice whispered, filling in the empty void of the vehicle. He silently looked over with his head slumped against the head seat, “What’s wrong?” Another whisper, your fingers rested comfortably on his knee.

“I just—“ He sighed, “—I don’t like the way he was touching you. Nobody should touch you like that.” He paused thoughtfully amid his heated sentence, clearly hesitant. Though, you remained silent as you were taciturnly aware that he was nowhere near finished.

“What if he wasn’t a creep and it was some guy that could offer you so much better than I could. I don’t want you to get hurt, but I also don’t want to hurt you.” His cerulean optics drifted over to his knee where you had been drawing circles over the denim, his anxious eyes remaining focused before you spoke up and his attention had diverted back to you.

“So don’t.” You offered a faint smile, “You’re not your parents, Lip. Take it one day at a time, if you don’t want to hurt me then you’re not going to.” You shook your head as you spoke.

“You could’ve knocked that guy into oblivion but you didn’t, and I know why you didn’t. I’m not gonna push you; Just take it day by day with me, okay?” He lethargically nodded in response, drinking in your words slowly as they enveloped his brain in a tight squeeze. Your monologue clinging to his mind as he would require those words later on.

Silently, you drifted your eyes back to the house, your eyes retaining on the Gallagher residence as he spoke. “Stay the night?”

You returned your head back to him and grinned in response, pecking his lips a few times before hopping out of the car as he followed. Trudging towards the wrought gate as he gripped at your hand, gently leading you through his house but pausing once to wave at Fiona which she reciprocated with a gleeful nod and a wave.

You had thought you entered his shared room rather quietly, changing into a shrunken pair of basketball shorts and a navy blue sweater both of which had belonged to your boyfriend. As you climbed the bunk, an adolescent boy had begun speaking with sleep lacing his words, “You better not be having sex, I'm trying to sleep.” Carl finished with a snore as he shuffled.

You both hastily muffled your laughs whilst cautiously climbing into the top bunk where his sheets laid messily due to him not making his bed the morning prior. You took very little time situating yourselves, the tip of your chin laying on his shoulder, and you were laid on your stomach. Meanwhile, his arm curled around your back and his stomach had faced the texturized ceiling.

You both laid there silently for a few minutes, maybe even a half-hour. Most likely Ian had passed out on the couch, and Carl’s snores had filled the room so it was a guarantee that it was safe to speak without any eavesdropping.

“I’ll always choose you.”

For a moment you thought he was asleep as well by how still he remained, till his face had carefully turned millimeters from yours. “I don’t care if it’s an Italian mafia man or some belligerent idiot from English class. I’ll always choose you, Philip Gallagher.” You muttered into his shoulder, a tinge of minor embarrassment creeping stealthily up your neck at the sappy confession.

“I’ll always choose you, too.” He whispered back, he wasn’t much for words but he could always muster up a considerable fraction of what you meant to him. Kissing the tip of your nose, he whispered again whilst placing his chin on your forehead. “Now go to sleep, or you’ll be bitchy in the morning.”

taglist: @miiamour @bugswrld @zzzfour @black-rose-29 @sprucewoodlover @bloodyrockwork @myalupinblack

#lip gallagher fic #lip gallagher fanfiction #lip gallagher x reader #lip gallagher #shameless fandom #shameless x reader #shameless headcanons #shameless fluff #shameless fic #shameless smut #shameless fanfiction #shameless #lip gallagher fluff

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angstama · 3 years

Text

god knows you tried | manjiro (mikey) sano

pairing: bonten!mikey x reader

genre: angst

warnings: heartbreak, attempt suicide(?), original characters/manga plot (pls do not read if you haven’t read the manga D: ), mentions of religion, implied sex (no smut ok!)

summary: god knows you tried your best. if only mikey knew how hard you’re trying too then perhaps this love wouldn’t hurt as much as you thought.

words: 1823 words

a/n: i think this sucks but... i hope you enjoy it! <3

god knows you tried.

you watched the ex-toman boys eagerly catching up with takemichi quietly, hands resting against your chin as you took in the rare sight in front of you with a sad smile etched on your lips. this was the happy ending that mikey had sacrificed for everyone but himself.

“a penny for your thoughts?” mitsuya asks, plopping down next you on to the stone steps. that’s right, it’s june 19th 2018, toman’s formation day anniversary and everyone had gathered around to re-open the time capsule from twelve years ago. “hm? nothing much. just missing a particular someone.” you hummed, dragging your fingers across the ground to draw a heart. mitsuya nods understandingly, knowing not to pry any deeper anymore and for that, you’re thankful.

crouching down, you hesitantly picked up the the blue coloured envelope you left behind twelve years ago. unsure if you’d wanna read the contents of the letter your naive self written back then. with a deep breath, you slipped open the cover. revealing a photo of candid photo of you and mikey leaning on each other asleep with your mouths wide open taken by emma.

dearest y/n,

i wonder what you’re doing right now?

are you perhaps finally studying in film?

has that idiot manjiro finally proposed to you?

or are you the one who proposed to him?

“y/n, you’ll be with me for a long time right?” mikey asked, staring at the very sky that you both loved oh so very much with your hands intertwined. having grown up with each other since young had pretty much given you both the illusion that the two of you will always be a part of each other’s world. and you hoped with every inch of your heart that mikey wants it to be that way forever. “of course. you’re my heaven and home mikey. i wouldn’t go anywhere else without you by my side.” you squeezed his hand in assurance, knowing that at this very moment, mikey was at his most truthful and vulnerable self with you.

whatever it is, i hope that you’re living the happy life with him that you’ve been dreaming of.

signing off,

toman’s honorary member, y/n l/n.

everyone was silent. even hakkai who had been making fun of everyone’s letter kept quiet. the boys knew how much you loved and you still love mikey. each opting to give you the concerned and sympathetic look. you could feel you heart breaking even more for you knew you weren’t doing anything that you had hoped for back then.

you felt mitsuya’s comforting hand softly grabbing onto yours. “well that’s depressing,” you chuckled softly, wanting to get rid of the awkward tension in the air as soon as possible. “let’s grab some ramen, i’m starving.” and with that, you let your feet drag you away from the heavy atmosphere with your head hung low.

perhaps the hurt wouldn't be as painful if you weren’t the only one who knew what kind of path mikey had chosen to go down. you see, when mikey turned his back against all his closest friend, you had the privilege of staying as his only constant thanks to your stubborn nature but even with that, you weren’t enough to keep him away from his dark impulses. mikey chose the path to destruction and the only thing that you could do was watch from the sidelines and be there when he shows up at wee hours of the night to borrow your body. but you didn't mind. it was during these most intimate moments with mikey that you finally get to feel a piece of him again when he spews the words of “i love you” so effortlessly.

god knows that you tried.

“mikey those aren’t good for you.” you frowned, snatching the capsule away from his hand seconds before he could flush it down his system. “what the fuck y/n?” the angered male snaps. you felt yourself falling and back colliding against the hard ground. opening your eyes, you see mikey pining you down with nothing but void darkness in his eyes. “i’ll fucking kill you if you do it again.” mikey taunts, he was serious and you know it.

“then kill me mikey.” the words slipped out of your tongue instantly. you were tired. tired of trying. you don't know what else can you possibly do to help mikey anymore. mikey says nothing but got off you. he dusted himself and without sparing you single glance, he showed you his back again, walking out of the door where sanzu was already holding open for him. “get her home.” you heard him say.

it’s been a week since you guys opened the time capsule. nothing much had happened since then except you’ve been spending more time with hina considering how she’s often over to mitsuya’s studio for gown fitting. you admired and envy her love story with takemichi. but who were you to complain? you were lucky enough that mikey still wanted you around. so it shouldn’t hurt so much when you sae her adorning the beautiful wedding gown that mitsuya had spent months on tailoring.

you let out a tired yawn, stretching your arms above your head as you finished touching up the last few bits of editing on your laptop. you looked over at the calendar on your table, a pink heart circled over today’s date and smiled. “mitsuya, i’m gonna knock off first okay?” you announced, tidying up your table and reaching out for the bag of the familiar favourite deserts of a certain male.

mitsuya nods, “thank you for your hard work y/n”. he flashes you a smile, eye slowly trailing to the white plastic bag dangling from your side as you waved goodbye, back facing him and walking away. “you’re going to see him aren't you?” you stopped in your tracks. “i know he never left you. plus you got a bag filled with dorayakis and taiyakis. that’s pretty obvious.” mitsuya chuckles. you always knew mitsuya to be perceptive but it never once occured to you that your best friend who is also your boss would ever catch on to the secret you’ve been hiding for twelve years.

“how did yo-”

“be careful y/n.” mitsuya waves you off, going back to whatever he was doing. a fond smile creeps onto your lips as you watched mitsuya working hard. “thank you mitsuya. for everything. really,” you whispered, but loud enough for the dual dyed coloured hair boy to look up again when you walked away.

you made your way towards the secluded vip section of the club through swarms of body swaying around you until you saw the familiar tall pink haired male standing outside the golden door.

“hey sanzu,” you greeted, barely audible over the loud booming music. you were about to push the door open when sanzu towers over you immediately, denying you of your entrance. you looked at sanzu in confusion, “it’s me, y/n. i’m here to see mikey.” you said loudly, voice straining to over power the background noise. “ i know. but mikey will not be seeing anyone right now.” he retorts back.

surely mikey knew that you were visiting tonight right? after all it’s your anniversary date. you tilted your head at sanzu. not fully understanding what he’s saying. to say that you’re feeling absolutely livid would be an understatement right now. you’re too tired, angry and broken hearted to process anything anymore so you exploded. you only wanted to see your boyfriend. was that a very difficult request?

“sanzu,” you said lowly, eyes staring blankly into his and as if on cue, you brought your knees to his precious manhood before making another high kick at him, bringing him down. it was a technique that mikey had taught you when you were younger and attending martial arts lesson together with baji. god you missed baji so much.

“y/n because you’re short, you can do this instead.” mikey suggested smugly, kneeing poor baji’s little friend before swinging his legs much more harder than he intended to at baji’s profile when he bent forward. the main point was to get your opponent to lean forward so that your legs could reach high enough to create an impact on their skull. you eyes lit up in excitement, “wow! that’s so cool! let me try it!” you jumped impatiently. turning towards mikey to execute the exact same move. “wait n-! AHH,” mikey’s eyes widened, and before he knew it, you had completely knocked him over.

that day, as mikey and baji lied down with pain still intact barely moving an inch, shinchiro only gave you a thumbs up and praised you for taking down the invincible mikey. you were the only one who could do that.

“sanzu, i’ll see my boyfriend as and when i’d like to.” you said curtly, eyeing sending daggers at him lying on the ground before stepping over him to swing the door open, revealing your petite self to the other bonten’s executives and hostess who were staring at you in surprise.

you don’t see anyone else but your lover who’s currently sitting in the center with two pretty hostess sitting by his side. you don’t hesitate and begun walking towards him. “get your hands off my man.” you said calmly. there was tension in the air and from the corner of your eyes, you could see the executives slowly getting up to leave as if on cue.

“aren’t you as stubborn as always,” he raises a brow as you settled down next to him, pouring the bag of dessert on the glass table in front of you. you smile softly, grabbing a packet of taiyaki and handing it to him before grabbing one for yourself too. “happy 14th anniversary mikey.” you mumbled softly before grabbing a bite. 14 years, that was how long you two had been together for. “mhm. happy 14th anniversary y/n.” mikey hums, allowing you lean in close to him and resting your head on his chest.

you take in the scent of mikey for you knew that this is going to be the last time you’re going to be able to hold mikey close to you. you didn't want this moment to end but you were too tired to continue on and see what's going to happen the next when you go back to just another normal day. you held tightly to the gun you hid in your bag, shutting your eyes tightly.

“hey mikey,” you called out. you never thought you’d see it again but you saw a flash of endearment in his eyes when you called him. “i love you so much, promise you’ll take care of yourself alright?” you smiled warmly before pulling the gun out of your bag and putting it against your head.

god knows you tried.

god knows you did your best and now you’re going home.

bang!

#tokyorev x reader #tokyo revengers #mikey x you #mikey sano #mitsuya takashi #toman #chifuyu matsuno #mikey x y/n #fanfic

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luvluvnitrodynamite · 3 years

Text

jealous jujutsu kaisen characters <3

ft. itadori yuuji, gojou satoru g/n!reader (sfw, with some suggestive themes in gojou)

itadori yuuji - watching itadori get jealous is a bit cute, if you're being honest. i mean, take what happened in the grocery store yesterday. ~ "yuuji, we're out of rice," you say to him, re-checking your list. "we're out of rice??? impossible. i just had some yesterday." you sigh. "be that as it may, that doesn't change the fact that we don't have it anymore. can you grab it really fast?" he pouts a bit. you're not sure if he genuinely doesn't want to leave your side or if he's just stalling to remember where the rice aisle is. regardless, you don't want to stand here all day. "yuuji, i'll give you a kiss as a reward if you get it for me." he perks up immediately, giving you a grin and a thumbs up before dashing in the opposite direction. you smile to yourself. itadori may have been an idiot, but he's your idiot. the thought warms your heart. you push your cart of the produce section and into a large selection of rows, choosing one closest to you. you seem to be in the tea aisle. oh good, you think. we've been out of tea for a couple of days now. you peruse the section, picking up some green tea. you get some chamomile as well, stacking the boxes carefully so they won't get crushed by fruits. mmm what about chai? you search the boxes, only to see it's at the very top self. you reach up, fingers just barely touching the platform it's on. you can't even brush up against the box. you try standing on tiptoes, looking a bit silly as you try to extend your body beyond its natural length. you're thinking maybe you should wait for itadori to get back when a different hand easily plucks the box off the shelf. you follow the hand to its owner, to see it belongs to a tall guy about your age. he's cute you suppose, but it's no itadori. still, you smile sweetly and charm him with a "thank you! there was no way I was going to reach that." He smiles broadly back at you. "No problem," he replies. "You like chai tea?" You want to be polite and he's nice enough, so you respond "definitely! I don't know if it's my favorite, but it's a staple in my pantry." He blushes a bit, and scratches his hand behind his neck. "Yeah, same," he says. "There's actually a really nice café that opened up a few blocks away from here. They make a mean cup of chai, and they have these delicious little cinnamon rolls that go really well with them. If you're free any time soon, do you want to try one with me?" You open your mouth to politely turn him down when you feel a protective arm wrap around your waist. You turn your head to see a pink-cheeked itadori glaring at the stranger. he does look mad, but you also think he just looks so cute. ah, the duality of man. "oh, hi yuuji! did you get the rice?," you ask him. you have priorities, after all. "yeah," he says, not moving his arm or his gaze. "who's this, love?" oh, he's really jealous if he's pulling out the love. you try to defuse the situation. "oh, this guy just helped me get some tea from the top shelf. thanks again!" you say. the guy was not expecting a wild itadori to emerge from the tall grass, and is trying to figure a way out. "no problem," he repeats. "i'll see you around, yeah?" without waiting for a response, he puts the tea in your cart and walks away. "did you know that guy?" you ask, as itadori relaxes and puts the rice in the cart. "no, but it sure looks like you did," he says, a bit annoyed. "yuuji, are you jealous?" you tease. "no! of course not!" he retorts. his cheeks are still pink though, and now he's looking around like he expecting another guy to run through and sweep you up in their arms. you decide to take mercy on him, and tug one of his hands in your own. "hey, don't i owe you a reward for getting my rice?" he perks up, and flicks his gaze almost imperceptibly towards your mouth. you sweetly press his lips to his cheek, and smile innocently when he gives you an annoyed look. you turn around to go the cart, only to see that the tea guy has returned. itadori sees him too, and he looks mad again. however, instead of confronting him, he looks at you and says,

"c'mon, i meant a real kiss." he gently places his hands on your face and pulls you in. it's a light, yet passionate kiss. the rhythm is slow and soft, but there's a definite intensity behind it. his tongue has just swiped your bottom lip, entering your mouth when you remember that you're in public. you pull away and glance at the end of the aisle. the guy is gone. you glance at itadori. he is grinning triumphantly at you. you smile in spite of yourself, going back over to the cart. "yuuji?" he comes over, wrapping his arms around you and placing his head over your shoulder. "yes, my love?" "you got the wrong kind of rice." ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ gojou satoru - a jealous gojou is not a good gojou. if you think he's annoying normally, it's about to get so, so, so much worse. ~ "satoru please!" you beg. you're feeling desperate now, there's no other way out. you two have gone to the park for a picnic to savor one of his rare days off. the spot you chose was warm and sunny with few people around; the day was supposed to be lovely. and it was, at least for a while. you had spent just the last hour cloud-watching, peacefully pointing out odd shapes in the sky. really though, you were just taking an excuse to lay on his stomach and talk. you two get so little time together like this that you try to savor every moment. however, in your analysis of a banana-shaped cloud far on the horizon, you noticed a familiar shape. the shape of your ex, to be precise. you stiffen, and gojou notices. "hey," he says. "what's wrong?" you don't respond immediately; your mind is swirling with schemes to avoid them. if you guys packed up now, could you go without being noticed? no, you were too close. could you hide? no, there wasn't anywhere to duck behind. you had to stop time somehow, but how? gojou waves his hand over your face. "hey? everything ok down there? have you gone into the void?" he asks. you start to glare at him, but then his words hit you in the face. the void. he can draw your ex into the void while you make a hasty getaway. you sit up, dropping your angry look and switching to a more saccharine one. "satoru," you start. "can you do a favor for me?" he gives you an easy smile. "of course, anything for you," he replies. "great, can you trap the person in the white shirt over there into the infinite void?" that certainly gets his attention. "i'm sorry, what?" he asks incredulously. "ok, so that's my ex over there. things ended kind of...awkwardly, and I just don't want to deal with this right now. could you trap them into the void before they notice me?" "i don't think the relationship was the thing that was awkward love. maybe you should just, you know, face the problem head on?" he suggests. "it can't be that bad. and even if it is, at least it'll be entertaining. actually, i'll give you two some privacy!" he says cheerfully, and promptly leaves. that brings you to your current predicament. you could be responsible and mature, but that would involve getting over your breakup. you may have slightly understated the awkwardness of the situation. truthfully, you got dumped and you pined over your ex for weeks afterward. you especially did not take it when when you were being broken up with. you begged them not to leave you while crying, making quite the scene in the restaurant they had chosen. now, with no lingering emotions, you just feel guilty and embarrassed for how you acted. but that was in the past, and you could move past that as long as it wasn't walking up to you. and now with gojou walking away, and them walking up...oh no. oh no oh no ohnonono. you take a deep breath in, and breathe out. i'm not the same person i was then, you think to yourself. this thought steadies your nerves; in fact, maybe gojou was right. you have been wondering what they’ve been up to, after all, and you might stop feeling guilty if you apologize. a bright and cheerful “hey!!” jolts you out of your thoughts; there they are. “hey,” you respond, a bit less cheerfully. you push yourself up off the ground to

greet them, and are a bit surprised when they pull you into a hug. it’s a more intimate hug than you would have guessed, with their hands snaking around your waist and gently cradling your head. they smell...nice, you think to yourself. as you pull away, you feel watched. you’re not sure from where, since you can’t see him, but you know gojou is watching you. well, good. he refused to help you out of this mess, so maybe you’ll make him suffer a bit. neither one of you say anything for a second.. “so….i guess how are you?” they ask you, smiling. “i’m great,” you reply. “how are you?” you ask. “good.” you stand there, neither one of you wanting to interrupt the delicate silence. “so,” you both say at the same time. you guys laugh, and just like that, the weird silence dissipates. “you go first,” they say to you. “well, i just want to say that i’m sorry. i know breaking up was probably hard for you, but i think i just made it harder by, you know, being unable to let us go. that was unfair to you and it definitely made things harder for me, so i’m really sorry about that.” “oh, wow,” your ex say, a bit surprised. “well, that sort of contrasts what i’m about to say. i was going to say that you were right.” huh? what? you furrow your eyebrows together, and stare back with a bemused expression. “i was right?” you venture. “about...what?” your ex sheepishly scratches the back of their head, giving you an embarrassed smile. “about us, i mean. you kept telling me that we were better together, and that we would only be unhappy apart. i know it’s been a while since we were together, but lately it’s all i can think about. i….still think i love you.” well, that was a bombshell. you just stare at them, stunned into silence. “sorry, i know that this is way too much for just meeting again; you just looked so beautiful and it reminded me of when we were together and i just miss being together and -- ah, i’m rambling like a crazy person now, aren’t i?” they wryly ask. you giggle. “just a bit,” you respond. they take your hands into theirs, tracing their thumb lightly over your skin. their eyes are honest, and their face is hopeful. “i know this is really sudden, but would you maybe want to get dinner with me soon? you don’t have to, of course, but…?” they pull one hand out, and drift it up to your face, caressing your jawline with such care that if you were not previously engaged, you might have melted into their arms right there. but you already had a boyfriend, even if he was an annoying one. you thought briefly about pretending to accept their offer, just to needle him, but decided against it. instead, you just kindly smiled at your ex, and pull their hand from your face. “this is really sweet,” you say. “but, unfortunately, i’m already taken.” their face falls, but they quickly mask it with a smile. “ah, i get it. someone as amazing as you would get snapped up fast. it was just my mistake to let you go,” they say, pulling back. “well, why don’t we start over with this. how about instead of a romantic dinner date, we just get coffee sometime. no love attached,” they add. “sure,” you respond. “i have been wanting to know what you’ve been up to.” “same here, how about tomorrow at 11?” they ask. “it’s a date!” you joke. “now, what’s a date?” you hear a familiar, slightly pouty voice from behind you. of course. why wouldn’t gojou appear at the worst possible time. you turn to your boyfriend, who has a shit-eating grin on his face. he’s planning something, but what? “hey ‘toru, this is my ex." you face your ex. "this is my boyfriend, gojou satoru." your ex smiles at him, blissfully unaware. "nice to meet you. we were just planning on getting some coffee soon." “oh, is that so? you’re not trying to steal my love away from me, are you?” there’s no threat in his voice, no hostility, but all the same your ex seems to pick up on his vexing energy and straightens up a little bit. “no, of course not,” they say. “hmmm, i believe you. but all the same, i could have sworn i heard talk of

a date. that reminds me love, weren’t we just finishing up on a date ourselves?” you sigh. “yes, we were.” turning to your ex, you turn back to say goodbye. that, however, is cut off by your lovely boyfriend picking you up and throwing you over his shoulder like a sack of flour. shocked, you pound your fists against his back. “gojou satoru, put me down right now.” gojou ignores you, instead sticking one hand out to shake your ex’s hand. “sorry to cut this short, but we simply must finish our date back at our place. wish i could invite you, but this is a more private activity.” he cheerfully states. mortified, you start kicking him and hitting him even harder. “ ‘toru! put me down so i can dump you right here and now!” “ahh, can’t have that now. we’d best get going so that someone learns a lesson, see you around!” with that and a quick sweep down to gather the picnic supplies, gojou carries you kicking and screaming out of the park. once outside, he puts you down. “satoru, what the absolute hell was that??? that was so embarrassing!” you cry out. “it was your idea to let me deal with that, and then you swoop in once it’s all taken care of? now they’re going to think i’m...i’m... i don’t even know what they’ll think of me, but i’m sure it won’t be positive!” “shhhh,” says gojou. “you might make a scene.” if you were mad before, well, now you’re apoplectic. “a scene???? i might make a scene?” you spit out seethingly. the entire way home, you tear into him for embarrassing you in front of your ex and an entire park full of people. finally, you get home and you drop the j-word. “and all this because you were just jealous??” now that you’ve dropped the threshold of your front door and pulled the trigger, gojou’s entire demeanor shifts. he drops the picnic supplies and picks you up again, but instead of going over his shoulder you’re now up against the wall. you instinctively wrap your arms and legs around him to keep from falling, skillfully intertwining your bodies together. his blindfold has slipped off, and now his piercing blue eyes are pouring into yours with a powerful intensity. your previous angry words slip off into the void, as you’re transfixed by the way he’s staring at you. he leans forward to rest his forehead against yours, the tips of your noses just barely touching. “yeah,” he breathes. “i got jealous. i let an ex come up to you and try to take you away, and i only sat there and watched. i knew you would never cheat on me, but i just got annoyed with myself for encouraging that. you mean too much to me to just let you be taken by someone else, so i really wanted to get you out of there as fast as possible. so, yeah, i’m sorry for embarrassing you. let me make it up to you?” it’s hard to say no in this position, but you try to hold your resolve. “satoru, you just can’t do that. promise me you’ll never do that again?” he’s still looking at you with that seriousness, so he replies “yes” with uncharacteristic sincerity. there’s nothing out of character though about the way he moves in to kiss you though, full of desire and need. you fall into a steady rhythm, a sweet push-and-pull of dominance flicking between you two. gojou suddenly takes over, and just as suddenly, he pulls away and starts carrying you to the nearest flat surface. “let me show you how much you mean to me, yeah?”

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theonewiththefanfics · 3 years

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Thick And Thin (one-shot)

Synopsis: He never thought his wife would ever even think about divorce. They had problems, which is why they were at marriage counselling. But he never knew her heart had broken a long time ago. And he’d been the one to break it before they even got together.

Pairing: Harry Styles x fem!Reader

Genre: aaaaaaannnnggggssssttt baby, just wanted to write something that’d rip your heart out :)

Warnings: swearing, pain, kinda depressive (??), can’t think of anything else really, but please let me know if there is, also not my best work lol :D

Word count: 7102 (let’s start off the New Year with loads of pain :) )

Italics are flashbacks

“I want a divorce.”

Never in Harry’s life did he think he’d have to hear those words. Not after everything they’d been through, not after all of the effort he’d been putting in to save their relationship.

Those words had not only stunned him but their marriage councillor, the woman’s mouth open mid-word, as she tried to comprehend what was happening. Harry was fairing even worse. It was like his brain was short-circuiting, synapses broken and no longer sending any signals.

“Mrs Styles, I know it’s difficult,” the therapist tried to diffuse the situation. “But the reason you’re here is to avoid this specifically.”

“I don’t remember how you smell anymore,” Y/N continued not listening to the woman, voice like a black void, but her Y/E/C eyes rimmed with tears. “Or taste. I don’t remember how it feels to have you pressed up against me or what it’s like to hear your voice. I… I don’t have anything to cling onto anymore.”

“It’s why we're here!” he cried through clenched teeth, slipping on his knees before her, hands grasping Y/N’s in a vice-like grip. “It’s why we’re trying.”

The laugh she let out was detached and without any love. “We tried it your way, Harry.” She’d never called him Harry before. It was always Lover. “And it’s not working for me. It hasn’t from the start. We’re… we’re so unhappy. And I don’t want that for you or for me. We deserve happiness. But I don’t think we can give that to one another anymore.” She took in a shaky breath, looking down at Harry’s hands in her lap. “When I thought of it, at first I felt horrible. I wanted to throw myself off somewhere, but the more I sat on that thought, the more relieved I felt.”

He couldn’t believe what he was hearing, didn’t want to believe it. “Relieved?” The word felt like acid in his mouth.

“Yes,” she nodded. “Relieved. Because this choice won’t make us hurt one another anymore. This gives us a chance to have a fresh start.”

“I don’t want a fresh start! We said – we said through thick and thin.” He was grasping onto the last straw he could find. “This is the thin, but we’ll get through it.”

“Harry, I already broke through the thin. And now I’m drowning. And when the thick comes, I’ll either be frozen under it and watch you walk further, or I’ll surface somewhere, and I don’t know on which side of the shore I’m gonna be on and where you’ll be. And if you try to get me, you’ll start drowning too. I don’t want that.”

“But that’s what marriage is! Going through the tough shit together!”

“Harry… I already asked Lionel to draw up the papers. The first draft is done.”

His blood froze in his veins.

“When you said to sit down and write one thing that makes me happy about the relationship,” Y/N was looking at the therapist now, “about the person, I – I couldn’t. Because I kept thinking back to the start, to the beginning. That’s what made me happy. But now…” She glanced at Harry. “If there was one thing, I couldn’t do to you, not in a moment like this, is lie. I just… I don’t remember how to be happy with you.”

***

They’d started out as the cliché of best-friends-lose-contact-only-to-be-reunited-and-not-let-their-chance-pass-by-and-fall-in-love. She was ten when she’d moved in next door to him and he was twelve when he’d seen the three vans full up to the house, a little girl hopping out from one of them. Harry watched as she rushed up the doorstep and put in a key, unlocking it and a new chapter of her life with it. Little did he know she’d unlocked a new chapter of his life as well.

She was the new kid at school, and despite the fact that he was a year above, he sat down next to her at lunch.

“ ’M ‘arry,” he said through a mouthful of a sandwich. “Saw you move in yesterday.”

“Yeah,” she nodded. “I’m Y/N.”

And that was the start of a blooming friendship.

On her eleventh birthday, he gave her a handmade bracelet. She gave him a kiss on the cheek as a thank you, making Harry blush all shades of pink and red.

He was thirteen when he had his first real kiss on his birthday. Y/N had simply tried to peck him on the cheek, but he’d turned his head, and her mouth had ended up on his. She’d walked away with a shy smile and ears on fire.

She was thirteen when a boy first asked her out. Harry was the first person she told him about it. That was the first time his heart broke.

When he was fifteen, he got his first girlfriend. Y/N was fourteen when her heart broke for the first time.

And then he'd gone on X-factor and with that forgotten about her. She called him, texted him, messaged him on social media, but usually, she’d maybe get only one picture or a small ‘miss you too’ as a response. So, after a whole year apart, she gave up. What was the point of trying to save anything when he didn’t want to?

He moved on and became an international superstar. Y/N moved on and graduated top of her class, got into her first-choice university, and graduated with a first as well. He had some relationships here and there, while Y/N had had a steady relationship since the second year of uni, but when she decided to go to a different one for her masters they amicably broke up.

Eight years later she was sitting at a café in London, laughing with her ex-boyfriend and catching up, as he explained how what Criminal Minds showed wasn’t really what was taught in his criminology degree classes.

“I’m still saying I dated real-life Spencer Reid,” Y/N chuckled, sipping on her gingerbread latte. “Don’t give a shit, I need something to flex with.”

Harry had then walked inside the café, shaking off the snow from his boots when a familiar laugh he hadn’t heard in ages invaded his senses. It was almost like he’d stepped into a dream.

When his green eyes befell on the owner of the voice, he had to take a double-take. Somehow in his brain, he’d expected the fifteen-year-old teenager, a t-shirt of his face on her body, as she’d cheered him on when he’d gone onto his first concert as part of One Direction to be sitting in the chair, not the grown-up woman.

He’d still checked in with Y/N through what she posted on her social media, but as much as he’d promised not to have the celebrity life sweep him away, it had. Harry sometimes had two concerts a day, and he barely had a moment to take a bite of food. And he hated to admit it, but Y/N simply slipped from his life. And he didn’t bother to put in the effort to pull her back.

A huge wave of guilt and longing rushed through his body as he glanced at the woman, her face lit up by joy as she and the man before her continued on with their conversation.

Someone tapped on his shoulder, making him turn around and face another customer. “You gonna order anything?”

For a moment Harry stuttered. He could walk away without inserting himself back into Y/N’s life, but he didn’t want that. He’d missed her. Harry didn’t even realise how much he’d missed her.

“You go ahead.” He motioned with his hand. “I’m still thinking.”

Harry took in a deep breath and then walked towards where the pair was sitting.

The man’s eyes flitted up to see who was towering over Y/N, only for them to widen, and his mouth hang open.

A sense of pride filled Harry's chest at the reaction and maybe quenched a little bit of the jealousy invading his body. He used to be the one who made Y/N laugh until she had to tell him to stop or she’d pee herself. He was back to take up the role.

“You okay there, Dan?” she chuckled. “Don’t tell me there’s a ghost behind my back. I told him not to walk out of the flat wit –“ Y/N had turned around and almost choked on her drink. “Oh my god, Harry! Oh – hi!” She jumped up hugging him, feeling how his body shook with laughter at her reaction, strong arms weaving around her middle. “Holy shit, it’s really you!”

“Yeah, ‘s me. Who else?”

“I didn’t know you were back in the UK.”

A warmth spread through his chest, as he reluctantly pulled away from the hug. “Been checking in on me?”

Y/N rolled her eyes, sitting back down, but pulling up a third chair for Harry to sit upon. “Dan’s a huge fan.” She motioned with her head to the man. “When we first started dating, I thought he was only doing it because we used to be friends, and he hoped I’d set you up or something.”

Harry masked the choke of envy by clearing his throat and letting out an awkward chuckle. “Hope I’m not interrupting a date or something.”

“A catch-up date, but not a date date.” Dan lifted his brows at Y/N, who gave him a ‘don’t start this’ look to which he threw up his hands in surrender. “I’m just making conversation.”

“You’re being annoying, that’s what you are.” Y/N flicked a crumb from the table towards him.

It was in that moment that it truly hit how much he’d missed, and it hit him hard he no longer knew the person who once was his best friend.

“You’re different,” Harry said, looking over at her trying to keep the lump in his throat from making his voice break.

Y/N shrugged, eyes twinkling. “I mean it has been almost a decade. I do hope I don’t look the same as I did then. Otherwise, the pain of braces was of no use.”

“No,” he chuckled shaking his head. “’S not that… It’s like you’re a different person.”

“I grew up,” she said, sipping on the last bits of her drink. “ ’M not the same fifteen-year-old you saw last.”

He nodded and bit his lip. But the thing was, Harry wasn’t the stupid sixteen-year-old that left the fifteen-year-old her either. This time, he wouldn’t let the chance at happiness pass him by when he could’ve had it all along.

***

He sat across from Y/N at the large marble table and watched, heart bleeding out in his chest as she put her signature on the papers, her attorney fishing out something from his briefcase and handing it to her under the table. He saw her shoulders shudder before she placed a maroon rectangle with a golden inscription on it in her own purse. Harry wanted to vomit. It was her new passport, where her surname no longer matched his, where he no longer existed, inscribed into the document as her spouse.

“Mr Styles?” Y/N’s lawyer pushed the papers his way, the pen laying atop them. “’S your turn.”

‘Your turn’, as if it was a game of spin the bottle or UNO.

“Don’t make me,” he choked out, pleading with Y/N one last time. “Please don’t make me do this. Don’t make me give up on us.”

Her words were worse than a knife to his soul. “You can’t give up on something that’s no longer there.”

When they’d been at the stage of negotiation, he’d kept pushing for giving her at least half of his income, to give her one of the houses they owned together, but she’d turned everything down.

“I didn’t marry you for your money, Harry.” He’d expected her voice to be full of venom, but it wasn’t. It was sad, resigned. “I don’t want what you’ve earned.”

“Let me give you at least something.”

“I don’t want anything from you. If it makes you feel any better, you can donate whatever amount you wanted to give me. I don’t care. All I want from this is for you to sign the papers.”

“And if I can’t?”

Y/N sighed, looking down at the table. “Don’t make this harder than it has to be.”

That’s when her attorney had cleared his throat. “Mrs Sty – Y/L/N. Legally, according to the prenup, you are entitled to half of Mr Styles estate as well as twenty percent of all his earnings.”

But Y/N just shook her head. “I only signed those documents because that’s what he and his agent wanted. I never asked for it or anything or the sort. Donate it, for all I care. Buy a new house, Harry I literally don’t want to know what you do with your money.” Y/N took in a sharp breath and calmed herself down. It’d been the first time Harry had heard any sort of emotion from her since she'd spoken those horrible words. “I just want this over with.”

And now, he was at the moment of the end. He just never thought their story would end with broken hearts and ripped up futures.

His handwriting was barely legible at best of times, but right now it seemed as if a toddler had tried to forge it with how much his hand shook. When the pen dropped, so did his shoulders, and he saw Y/N’s drop as well.

Harry’s with weight from the love lost, Y/N’s with relief, for now their broken hearts wouldn’t hurt one another no longer.

His lawyer handed him over a new passport as well, where Y/N was no longer written as his spouse. The urge to rip it to shreds was almost uncontainable. He hated it more than the divorce papers.

***

They’d been dating for a little over two years when he decided to propose, only every plan he had was miserably ruined by some outside force.

The first time he’d decided he’d do it at a romantic dinner. Harry had found out Y/N wasn’t a fan of huge romantic gestures, so he wouldn’t get on one knee and draw everyone’s attention. He’d simply take her hand in his, kiss her fingers and ask.

But as they’d sat at the table enjoying their meal and talking, he noticed Y/N become quieter and quieter. A frown morphed on his face.

“You alright, Lovie?”

“Umm,” Y/N’s brow creased even more, and she dropped her fork. “I umm I don’t know. ‘M feeling kind of funky?”

“What’dya mean?”

“I – “ Y/N opened her mouth but didn’t manage to get anything else out as she jumped up and rushed towards the ladies room.

Harry quickly dropped his own utensils and rushed after her, not bothering with the yells of the woman who was looking at herself in the mirror, while his girlfriend threw up her guts inside one of the toilets.

A member of the staff had run to see what all the commotion was about, but when he saw Y/N half inside a stall, half outside, Harry’s hands keeping her hair away from her face, he went back out and immediately grabbed the first aid kit they had in the kitchen, handing it to Harry along with a cold wet towel.

Y/N shuddered, leaning against the stall wall sweat glistening on her face, as he pressed the damp cloth against her skin. She gave him half a smile. “Told you not to get the shrimp.”

“I’ll get the cab, Lovie.” He smoothed away the once meticulously styled hair, which was now stuck to her damp skin.

But she shook her head. “Not yet.”

“Why?”

“Because I’m about to puke again.”

In the end, she threw up two more times, her stomach really not agreeing with the entrée. The waiters kept apologising the whole time, and the chef had stopped cooking, the restaurant immediately taking action and refunding everyone who’d ordered anything with shrimps in them.

When they’d gotten back home, Y/N was so tired and felt so sick, Harry could only help her get out of the dress, clean her up with a warm towel and wrap her up in her favourite pyjamas before curling up together on his bed and falling asleep, making sure if there was a moment, she felt nauseous again, he was by her side. She needed his help more than he needed to propose.

***

He threw himself into his work like a madman. Day and night, he was either at a studio, on a filming lot, in between meetings or interviews. The media buzzed about how his marriage had fallen apart, even though Y/N hadn’t made a statement or spoken a word to anyone, and neither had Harry. But he guessed the emptiness of his ring finger gave everything away.

He refused, however, to speak on it. As painful as it was, he was still in love with Y/N. She hadn’t chosen to be in the spotlight, it was Harry’s world, not hers, so he respected her decision to be quiet and remained so himself, save for one single post his management had asked for him to put up. It'd also been the last time he'd spoken to her.

All he received was a simple text message 'do what you have to do'.

A couple of months down the line though, something came up, and Harry couldn’t keep his tongue behind his teeth.

It was an article in The Sun, a photograph of Y/N plastered all over the front page with the words ‘Gold-digger Y/L/N finally seen out after divorce with Harry Styles.” He’d snatched the paper right off the stand and flipped it open, frantic green eyes scanning the words.

‘Despite it only being two months since the two childhood ex-best friends broke up, Y/N Y/L/N was already seen in the company of a man, sharing a drink, and giving one another flirtatious smiles. An inside source tells us, how she hadn’t even been that upset about the divorce and has been going out and having fun with many male companions, one of them being her ex-boyfriend from university times.’

‘Harry Styles, known for his time in the pop boyband One Direction and for his solo endeavours in music as well as dabbling in acting, broke everyone’s belief in true love after being seen in public without a ring. This prompted an announcement that the four-year relationship and two-year marriage to who was once his best friend had ended and the two had decided to get a divorce. Although the post showed a picture of their silhouettes holding one another with their foreheads together, and his statement showed nothing but love and respect for his then-wife, sources say Y/N had been controlling and obsessive over her then-husband and hadn’t wanted him to leave to pursue his career, stifling his growth.’

He didn’t bother to read any further, as he pulled out his phone, calling Jeff immediately to figure out how to make all of it go away, how to do at least one thing right.

“They’re dragging her name through the mud!” he sneered, not even caring he was bumping shoulders with people, and if the paparazzi would dare spin a story of the state he was in at that moment, he’d sue each and every one of them personally. “I have to do something. Fuck, Jeff, I love her! I can’t let them paint her like this. Y/N – “ he choked back a lump. “She never asked for this. Didn’t ask for anything. And that man – that was Dan, okay. I know him. Yes, he’s her ex, but they don’t know anything!”

“Harry I’ve sent them cease-and-desist letters already.” Jeff tried to ease him. “But… she’s no longer your concern Har.”

The words hit him like a bullet and ripped a hole in his chest just like one of them would. “You might still love her,” Jeff’s voice was solemn. “But Y/N is no longer yours to protect.”

“I can’t just let them talk shit about her,” Harry whispered back.

His friend sighed on the other side of the line. “I know. Which is why we’ll deal with it. But you have to start letting her go.”

***

The second time Harry wanted to propose was about a month later, and Christmas was right around the corner. They’d decided that Christmas Eve would be spent with his sister, her boyfriend and Anne, while Christmas Day they’d go to Y/N’s side of the family.

Although they’d settled on one gift each, Harry had been carrying around that small box for what felt like an eternity. And it wouldn’t really be a gift, given how he’d wrap it and hang it in the tree.

“It’s an ornament,” he’d say to her, a smug smile on his lips, as Y/N would roll her eyes at him. “Just because it has your name on it, doesn’t mean it’s immediately a present.”

And then she’d open it, and would gasp, and Harry would slide down on his knee, press a kiss to her ring-free finger before asking that fateful question.

But just like before, his plan didn’t come to fruition.

He’d asked his mother to hang up the little box, so there was no chance of Y/N seeing it in his hands, but what he hadn’t thought of was Gemma’s boyfriend had decided on the exact same plan of action.

When Michal had dropped down on his knee, Harry’s sister’s trembling hand in his, he couldn’t do that to them. As much as he wanted to marry Y/N, he couldn’t take away Gemma’s moment. So while Y/N was preoccupied with looking at the gleaming diamond on Gemma’s finger, Harry plucked down the box from where it’d hung and placed it on the side no one could see, before he could put it in his bag.

“ ’M sorry, honey,” Anne had said to him over coffee the next morning. “I didn’t know Michal would do that.”

He’d just shaken his head, no hurt in his heart. “Great minds think alike. Our moment will come. ‘M happy for Gem. Besides, if he hadn’t done that anytime soon, I would’ve needed to have a stern talking.”

***

What his sister said to him made him think he had to be living in a simulation, because it couldn’t be true. Y/N couldn’t be getting married. Not this soon. Not ever. Not to someone who wasn’t him. It had been barely a year since he’d signed the death sentence to his own happiness.

Harry shook his head. “You’re lying. Tell me you’re lying, Gem.”

“I’m not.” Her voice broke as she said it. “I saw her at a café. Saw the ring… the man who gave it to her. Harry, I’m so sorry.”

His mind reeled with questions he wasn’t sure he wanted answers to. Was that why she’d really divorced him? Had she been cheating on him and just needed an excuse out of their relationship to jump into the new one? He was away so much on their relationship, he wouldn’t have been surprised if someone else had swooped in and tried to win her heart.

Harry’s mind was one of the greatest things he’d been blessed him, but also one of the worst curses bestowed upon him, as it weaved a story of Y/N and the man who’d now put a gleaming ring on her finger.

He was away, like always, doing something he could do another time. She was on her own, keeping their bed warm with just her body, fighting for their relationship on her own, while he made plans once more to go to a different part of the world and leave her behind again.

Y/N pulled herself out of the bed, sighing and rubbing her face. She opened their closet only to be greeted with Harry’s half empty. Maybe that was the moment she decided to find someone who’d fill it and wouldn’t leave it permanently empty, Harry conjured up.

She’d dress in a soft jumper and some jeans, a large cardigan hanging over her body and would go to a café for her morning drink. And that’s where she’d meet him. The stranger that would take her out of the lonely life she’d been living. The stranger that would make a smile bloom on her face and her heart stutter once more. The stranger who would show her the love Y/N deserved to have.

Harry had to shake his head to get rid of the thoughts before they ventured into a worse territory.

No. Y/N wasn’t like that. No matter what, she would never cheat on him. She had enough dignity for herself and respect for him, even though in his own mind, Harry didn’t think he deserved it.

Although he didn’t have a right to, nor was it the sanest move (and if someone saw him doing it, there would probably be a slew of articles), Harry got into his car and drove to where Y/N’s apartment was, and when she opened the door after hearing seven loud knocks, he stepped inside without even waiting for her to invite him.

“You’re getting married?”

She crossed her arms. “It’s none of your concern.”

“It’s been barely a year! I refuse to believe you’ve moved on so fast.”

Maybe he was kidding himself, and Y/N truly had, but as much as their marriage had fallen apart, he did have the honour of having known her and having figured some things out deeper than others would.

Y//N scoffed. “I was proposed to. And I said yes.” The words were like venom entering his veins. “If I wasn’t, then I wouldn’t have agreed to it. And as I already said – it is none of your concern.”

Harry stood there, watching as she dragged a hand down her face, eyes flitting everywhere he wasn’t. It told him everything he needed to know.

“You’re not happy,” he whispered stepping forward and reaching for her hand. “I know how you shine when you’re truly happy. This isn’t it. Why are you doing this?”

“That doesn’t matter.”

Harry was so confused, at a complete loss at what Y/N was saying. “So, you’ll what? Get married to him and be miserable? Why the hell did you divorce me then?”

Y/N sighed. “Being unhappy with him isn’t as unbearable as being unhappy with you. Because with you, I know what it feels like to truly fully loved. Which is why it broke me when you stopped.”

“I never stopped!” Harry whisper yelled, anger coursing through his veins at her words, because they were lies. “Why do you think I dragged us to marriage counselling? Why do you think I kept fighting for us? For you?! You were the one that gave up!”

“You weren’t there when I needed you.”

Harry blinked rapidly, not understanding what she meant.

“You left me for ten years. You forgot all about me until that day at the café. Not once did you message me or call me or even send fucking snail mail. I was the one putting in all the effort, I was the one who was trying to keep you in my life, but you didn’t want it. Just like it was when we were married.”

Rage bubbled under the surface, but he kept it at bay. That was not how he’d get Y/N back. “How?” he asked calmly. “How did I not want it?”

She scoffed shaking her head. “It was the same as it was ten years ago. With the movie, the new album... You were always at the studio or hanging out with your castmates. When I asked for you to free up one night, one single night, you didn’t come back until three AM, drunk off your ass, and I had to take care of you. I asked for one night. And you didn’t even give me that. So forgive me for not feeling like you still loved me.”

“Why didn’t you talk to me then?!”

“I did!” This was the first time he’d ever heard Y/N yell, before kneading her lips tightly together and then continuing more quietly. “But you never heard me. Not really. You heard what I asked, and promised to be there, but when the time came… something more important always came up. Something that always deserved to have the promise you gave me to be broken.” Y/N gave him a sad smile. “Do you remember when you first asked me out? And I said no?”

Harry nodded. “You said that we just got one another back and didn’t want to have anything rip us apart again. Didn’t even want to chance it.”

“And you said it was exactly why I should give us a chance. That we’d finally found one another again and shouldn’t let the opportunity go…” She tilted her head. “Guess we should’ve listened to me. I included.”

He couldn’t believe her. “Is that really your takeaway here? You were right?”

“But I was.” Y/N shrugged. “Look at where we are now. You forgot me for basically ten years.” She shrugged, stepping away. “Give it some time, and you’ll forget me for the rest of your life. Besides, we’ve not known one another longer than we have. So, it shouldn’t be that hard.”

“Why did you then? Go out with me?” Harry swallowed the lump in his throat. “Get married to me?”

For a moment Y/N just looked at him, Y/E/C eyes boring into his green ones. “Because I’d once again convinced myself I was important to you, just like I did when we were teens. And in my head, I had dreamt up that maybe I’d be important enough for you not to forget me.”

***

The third time did the charm though.

They were both sleepy, under the covers of Harry’s bed, eyes barely keeping open as they were determined to finish Elf.

Y/N had her cheek pressed against his chest, bare body next to his naked one. She hated sleeping in pyjamas (unless they were staying over at one of their parent’s places,) because she said it made her feel like the clothes were suffocating her. Harry didn’t like sleeping with pyjamas because all he wanted was to fully feel the skin of his lover next to his.

Snow fell behind the large windows of his London penthouse apartment, covering the city in a white blanket. It rarely snowed there, so he watched with warmth in his heart as the flakes fluttered to the ground.

It was all so calm, so serene, that Harry realised that’d been the moment he’d been waiting for. No need for fancy dinners or present it as a loud gift. Being together was a gift enough.

“Lovie?” he asked, nose hidden in her hair. “You awake?”

All he received in answer was a small hum. She was on the verge of passing out, but this was the moment, so, he whispered the question, voice so low as if he was asking the dark to marry him not Y/N.

He couldn’t look at her, afraid of what she might say, afraid she might say no, think back to the times he wasn’t there for her, think of all the reasons why he wasn’t good enough for her, and would only bring her sorrow.

“Lover.” Her voice was as soft as a summer’s morning. “Look at me. Please.”

It was one of the most frightening things in his life, as he did so.

Y/E/C eyes met green. What he saw on her face allowed his heart to calm down a little.

“Is the Sun the closest star to us?”

That he hadn’t expected. “What?”

“Does it rise in the East and set in the West?”

“Y-yes?”

Her hand cupped his cheek, and he melted against her. “Then why are you asking me a question you know the answer will be the same as to those?”

“Can I put the ring on your finger then?” He was more excited than about anything in his life.

Y/N shook her head, bringing his lips to brush against hers. “Don’t need a ring. Just need you to kiss me.”

***

The wedding was far away from the city so that no one from the press could even think about following her or her entourage. The guest list was small, compared to the three hundred people Harry’s and her wedding had had.

Anne had told him not to go. He wasn’t invited, and neither was she or Gemma, for obvious reasons. As much as Y/N loved them, she knew it’d hurt the two women, but it would hurt Harry more. So seeing her stepping out of the car, dressed in a cream wedding gown, a veil covering her face, made flashbacks appear behind Harry’s eyelids.

She’d worn an off-white gown before as well, dusty rose to be exact. And Harry’s bow tie had matched it. Y/N had never liked the thought of wearing white at her wedding.

“Listen, if it’s white, I’ll most definitely spill something on it,” she’d told him as both of them had been flipping through some wedding magazines. “You know me. But if it’s some other colour, there’s a bigger chance no one will notice when that happens.”

It didn’t seem right to him. It was like a bad fever-dream like he’d had that one time, and Y/N had had to listen to him babble about the hallucinations dancing in front of him because of the high temperature.

Her gaze remained on the ground, or maybe on the bucket of white roses in her hands. She hated white roses.

A woman in a pale blue dress straightened out the back of Y/N’s dress and the train of it, and he watched as her mother came to stand beside her daughter, giving her an elbow to grasp onto.

All he wanted was for Y/N to be happy, and it hurt to think it wasn’t with him because Harry believed it was supposed to be him.

He took in a shaky breath and got out of the car just as Y/N had walked up the steps and disappeared behind the double doors.

It was going to be him.

***

Harry knew he wasn’t the best husband in the world. He was away for a lot of time, and as conceited of an excuse it was, his job did entail going out to parties, mingling with other people living the high life, and being seen with certain celebs.

Y/N was never one for it. She always supported Harry, but she didn’t like going out and spending time with people who didn’t care for her existence. Well, maybe they did, but only in a sense that she’d been the lucky bitch who’d snagged up the Harry Styles.

But if there was something Harry did was love, and he loved wholeheartedly, which is why it absolutely destroyed him when he’d gotten back home one evening and heard Y/N crying in their bathroom.

She’d never tell him, but it was because no longer did his pillow smell like him. Harry had been away for so long, that the essence of him that’d soaked into their sheets was no longer there. And it broke her to pieces.

When he’d get home, he’d be so tired, he’d crash on the couch, only tiptoeing his way into their shared room to go to his closet and get some clean clothes in the morning. He’d look over at his sleeping wife and allow a blissful smile to bloom on his face at the sight.

He was so lucky to have Y/N back in his life. He was so lucky she’d accepted him and fallen for him as he’d fallen for her. He’d silently move over and press a kiss to her temple, before going back down and off to work once more. Only he wouldn’t see the dried tears on her cheeks.

So, when he’d found her curled up in the tub, hands in her hair, face hidden by her knees, frame trembling like leaves in a storm, he instantly dropped to his knees, ignoring the sharp pain shooting through his bones, as he pulled Y/N into him.

“I can’t, Harry,” she choked out, shaking her head. He knew it was bad. She never called him by his name. “I can’t do this. I’m so alone. Even when you’re here, I’m alone.”

Harry had had his heart broken before, and always he wondered afterwards if someone took it out of his chest at that moment, what kind of a sound would it make. Or maybe it wouldn’t. Maybe it’d be as silent as the tears running down his face at Y/N’s confession.

“Maybe,” he swallowed harshly trying to keep his whole body from shaking, from showing the fear her statement instilled in him. “Maybe we need couple’s therapy.”

“What?” her eyebrows had shot up to the middle of the forehead.

“Y/N, we’re clearly having problems. I – I know I need to work on things, but you’re also not telling me how you’re feeling. Maybe we just need some help.”

She didn’t really know what to respond. In her mind, Y/N had somehow conjured up an image that if she ever got married, they’d be happy. Sure, they’d fight and have rows, but they’d always be able to work things out on their own. Not once in her life, did she ever think she’d need to go and see a marriage counsellor to help her save her marriage.

Her own parents much like Harry’s had gotten divorced. Hers had tried therapy. It’d been their last resort. It didn't work. So, when he’d mentioned it to her, that’s what made her decide it was truly over.

Y/N nodded, bringing him in for a hug, and felt his body melt into hers with relief.

She’d try, for Harry, but her mind was already made up.

***

So he stood outside the doors, listening for the line of ‘if there is anyone who opposes this union speak up now, or forever hold your peace’. His hand grasped the handle, ready to push, but… he couldn’t. He’d ruined her happy ever after once before. He couldn’t do that again to her.

Tears streamed down his face as he pocketed his hands and ventured away from the ceremony. The ceremony where the love of his life was promising to cherish someone else, to fight through thick and thin with someone else, to make someone else happy, while her own happiness suffered.

Harry sat in his car, waiting for her to exit, a smile on her face as she’d hold the hand of who now was her husband. That'd be the moment he'd let go of her. But when the doors sprung open, she was alone, hands clutching onto the front of her dress, as she rushed down the steps and back inside the car she’d arrived in.

For a second he sat in his vehicle, stunned beyond belief at what had happened, at what, as horrible as it sounded, he hoped had happened. When a man, hand in his hair ran outside as well, the same woman in the pale blue dress rushing out with him, Harry knew.

He was basically a madman on the road, breaking almost every possible law as he tried to catch up to the car Y/N had jumped in.

His mind raced with the possibilities of where she could’ve gone. The airport, her family’s summer house in Winchester, honestly anywhere in the world, but Harry shut up his mind, and allowed his heart to make the decision.

It didn’t seem like Y/N had premeditated fleeing from her wedding, which meant she’d need her stuff. And that meant going to her apartment as quickly as possible before someone came to look for her.

The way he parked was probably illegal leaving the car basically in the middle of the road, but Harry didn’t care much as he frantically rushed up the steps of her apartment complex. He was scared that if he knocked, she wouldn’t open, thinking it might be someone from the wedding, but he didn’t need to be afraid of it, as he saw Y/N, her hair still styled as it had been for the ceremony, dressed in jeans and a t-shirt, a suitcase in hand exiting from the flat.

“Why didn’t you do it?” he breathlessly asked, startling her and making her drop the keys.

Y/N’s eyebrows furrowed. “What? What are you doing here?”

Harry stepped closer, hand cupping her cheek, insides trembling from all of the emotions coursing through his body. “Why didn’t you do it? Marry him? Why didn’t you say yes?”

“I – “ Y/N choked on her words. “I couldn’t say yes. It didn’t feel right.”

“Why?”

“Because it wasn’t you, I was saying yes to.”

That was all Harry needed to kiss her like he'd done once before. And this time, he wasn’t going to let her go. He’d made that mistake twice. He would never repeat it again.

“I love you,” he cried through a laugh. “I love you. I love you. I love you. And I’m never letting you slip through my fingers ever again.”

“How can you even think about loving me again after what I did to us?” she asked, pulling away from his lips.

Harry chuckled, shaking his head. “You’re talking like I ever stopped. Through thick and thin. It’s what we promised. Think and thin, my Lovie."

***

A sixteen-year-old Harry and a fifteen-year-old Y/N laid outside in the grass of Harry’s garden; eyes trained onto the dark night starlit sky above. It was the day before his life changed forever as did hers.

“Do you believe in soulmates?” Harry asked, trying to catch a glimpse of a shooting star.

Y/N scrunched up her nose. “No. I don’t think I do. And I don’t think I want one.”

“Why not?”

“What if they’re old and in their thirties? Or dead?”

Harry snorted at her response.

“And you?” Y/N turned her head to look at him. “Do you believe in soulmates?

He bit his lip and nodded. “I think I do. I think it’s two people who’ve been brought together, and no matter what happens will find their way to one another. Through thick and thin.”

"And what if one of them breaks the other's heart?"

"That's the thin." He looked at her. "And you don't give up then. It's when you need to love them even more."

Tags (crossed out wouldn’t take):

Everything tags: @lumelgy @palaiasaurus64 @supernaturalbaesduh @breezy1415 @crazy--me @thatawkwardlittlefangirl @sea040561 @staryeyedgirl @deathbyarabbit @s-c-a-r-e-d-po-t-t-e-r @reblogger-not-a-blogger @m-a-t-91 @dalilx @i-need-a-hero-i-need-a-loki @maladaptive-ninja-returns @averyrogers83 @in-the-end-im-still-trash @gallifreyansass @dewy-biitch @avxgers @unlikelygalaxygiver @magicwithaknife @ollyoxenfrees @bnhvrdy @tvwhoresblog @celebsimagines @thatkindofgurl @sj-thefan @teenwolflover28 @lestersglitterglue @im-squished

Harry Styles tags: @sarcasticallywitty15 @breezykpop @girlboss99 @harrystylesdoesntknowiexist @alliyjane @sirtommyholland

A/N: Happy 2021 everyone! Hopefully things are better this year, and everyone stays safe and sound.

P.S. my tags are always open :)

P.S.S. please don’t repost my fics on other platforms without specific written permission. Reblogs are a okay :)

918 notes · View notes

ura-writes · 3 years

Text

Trampolinist

Summary - You’re a player who jumps from server to server, often revisiting several and always trying to find access to new ones. When a victorious game of duos Skywars on Hypixel wins you an invitation to one of the most famous yet exclusive servers in the community, you find a world you never knew existed, allies you’re not certain you can trust, and enemies that may not be just that. Oh, yeah, and an anarchist piglin hybrid.

(c!technoblade/server jumper!reader)

Basic warnings: minor blood, swearing, light threats

A/N - hello! I decided to start this series as a result of a sporadic idea at midnight after quite an odd dream. Some information you might need:

A few select people can jump servers without using portals, and you (the reader) are one of them.

Some servers are public and some require invites. Hypixel and a lot of the other bigger servers are public, while SMPs such as the Dream SMP are private and require an invite.

Jumpers, as they are commonly referred to throughout the series, still require an invite to private servers, though some have figured out loopholes to this process and actively exploit it, earning the title of “Crashers”. You have figured it out but don’t use the ability.

The rating for this series is 14-15+, most likely including minor to graphic descriptions of blood/injuries, violence, swearing, minor manipulation and death.

There are select groups of people who hate Jumpers and actively try to perma-kill them or get them source-banned from servers, leaving them stuck in single player and isolation.

From the author:

This will be in second person.

There will be no use of Y/N or (Y/N) or anything along those lines. I understand some people use them as a descriptor, but in my opinion, it looks a bit messy/choppy.

Feel free to criticize, though don’t be super harsh.

Also gl free to point out spelling mistakes.

I love love LOVE feedback! Gimme it! Please! /lh /gen

Anyway, those are the basics that you need to know! For now, at least… hehe.

Enjoy the first part!

-ura

——

The familiar particles signalling a personal portal opening in the lobby sends a few people scattering, but most just move to the side, though there are a fair few that stay to watch the person step out of the rip in reality.

The person stumbles out, cursing the deities to high heaven, brushing dirt and sweat and even a bug off of their face, certainly looking a bit worse for wear.

This was certainly not what the audience was expecting. They were expecting a prim, proper or at least somewhat distinguished person to step out of the actively sparking spiral, as most Jumpers are that way, even just a bit.

Nope.

“What are you looking at?”

The people step back a bit, noticing the sword the person clutches in their hand.

That person is you.

“Fuck off, would you? You probably see Jumpers on the daily! Fuckin’ annoying.” you grumble, sheathing the sword at your side. “Fuck… is this Hypixel?”

With a cursory sweep of the attire of the people surrounding you and buildings towering over everyone, you determine that yes, it is, in fact, Hypixel.

Of course, that may have also been the big-ass sign in the sky with the server’s name on it. That too.

With a sigh and a wave of your hand, you pull your inventory up. The typical “please place your personal belongings in a safe place before playing a match, otherwise they may be wiped.” message pops up when you do. You huff, wave your fingers to dismiss the text. Not like you’ve been here a hundred thousand times or anything like that.

The Netherite blade at your side, your armor and any sentimental belongings you have on you go straight into your enderchest, categorized in one of the shulker boxes designated specifically for this purpose.

As you walk along, trying to sort your inventory out (fortunately the server provides a free repair and replace to anyone’s clothing, as yours are beaten pretty much beyond self-help), deciding what match you might want to play, the crowd that was surrounding you quickly scurries off with a few screams.

A quick glance upwards catches your gaze on a red and white nametag.

Huh. Don’t see those often.

Whispers of the name you can’t quite see from where you stand rapidly reach your ears, ringing with slight familiarity.

Dream.

Odd. The masked man doesn’t often come onto public servers, mainly sticking to his own private server, named after him. The Dream SMP. How egotistical.

Without another glance towards the fan-people, you select a game idly. The blue text pops up in front of you, confirming your want to play the match.

Skywars Duos.

Before you know it, you’re whisked off to the arena, a bit dizzy from your landing, but fine nonetheless. The timer for the start slowly counts down, ticking slowly as people pop into existence with increasing frequency.

A presence behind you alerts you to your teammate. You nod at them just as the beeping of the final ten seconds counts down.

After a few repeated sessions, most being losses, you decide on one more match before you head to a tavern for the night, preferably one with a view.

This time you’re the second one to arrive. And for once, you take a longer look at your teammate.

He’s the guy everyone was freaking out about a few hours earlier… what was his name again? Dr-something. Or was it a Tr-something? Ah, who knows. It doesn’t matter as long as he’s good. You don’t bother to look at his nametag; he’s probably just some hotshot who thinks he’s all that.

“Not going to freak out?” he asks you. You snort at the question, shaking your head with a glance at the timer.

“Just here to kick ass.”

“Fair enough,” he replies. “You any good?”

A laugh from you echoes as the beeping of the countdown starts.

“We’ll see.”

The barrier below you drops, sending you hurtling to the floating island below. You quickly hit the ground, rolling into a crouch while your teammate raids the chest beside you, tossing a few bits of armor and a stone axe as well as a golden apple, which you catch and nod gratefully.

The hood on his head drops when another player attempts to take him out of the game. He ducks, barely avoiding the glimmer of the enchanted sword, sweeping her legs out from under her. The enemy player narrowly rolls out of the way with her shield being knocked out of her hands into the dark blue void below the floating island.

She curses loudly as his axe lands beside her head, kicking it to the side.

In that moment, you shove her hard off of the crumbling stone, jabbing your axe in her shoulder for final measure. Her falling figure flashes red with the loss of hearts, and eventually, she disintegrates into dust, the announcement of her tag being eliminated in the chat making you smirk.

“Well, you are good.”

You send him a smirk and collect the spoils of your kill, mostly a few potions and the iron blade, tossing a few of the former to your teammate and splashing a speed potion on yourself.

With practiced movements you begin to build to the middle islands, your teammate throwing the occasional snowball at any approaching enemy players, even knocking one off their bridge. The message of their death rings in the chat, being the fifth elimination.

The chests there contain better loot, even a diamond sword and chestplate, a strength II potion and a Power I bow with fifteen arrows. You take the bow and chestplate (with permission from your teammate, who gladly takes the sword and potion) and book it to the center chests, almost laughing at the amount of snowballs and arrows lying there.

“Well, I’m not complaining,” you muse.

You hear a yell of your tag, quickly spinning around to block the swing of an enchanted axe, their teammate quickly turning to gang up on you after finishing off another person.

Great. You’re fighting two people now.

Swing, duck, dodge, swipe, duck, swipe, block—shit, you got stabbed! Two hearts disappear from your health bar, sending a flurry of curses flying from your lips.

But luckily, your teammate is fast enough to eliminate the weaker of the two.

The tables turn.

The clash of blades, splash of potions and grunts of pain quickly move to the edge of the center island. It’s two verses one now, and the three of you are the last competitors in the match.

Block the swing, return the blow, duck, block, dodge—

A sudden stab in your shoulder alerts you to an arrow stuck in the skin there, slowly depleting your health.

It’s merely a distraction.

The enemy player barrels into you, sending you stumbling backwards right at the edge of crumbling gravel.

Poison becomes your downfall.

The smack of another half heart.

As one last resort, you grip onto the block with one hand, the other dangling with your bow into the void. Gritting your teeth, you do your damndest to drag yourself up, the poison wreaking havoc through your body and strength.

Shit. I’m not going to survive this, am I?

The one-handed grip on your bow tightens, nocked arrow slipping between your dirt-covered fingers.

You make a decision.

Just as the enemy player comes over, smirking but low on health, you let go of the block, drawing your arrow back as you fall into the void.

The broadhead meets its mark just in time, signalling a victory with a dragon appearing underneath you right before you hit the death line. A sigh of relief escapes your lips; you direct the dragon upwards with a rush of gratefulness soaring through your body. Respawning isn’t a pleasant process.

Twenty or so seconds later, you appear back in the lobby with your teammate at your side. The lobby is nearly empty, only a few people milling around, most having traveled elsewhere or checked into a tavern or hotel.

“You’re good. We could use you on our side.”

“ ‘We’?”

Two other figures appear out of seemingly nowhere, one wearing white-rimmed black sunglasses with a blue hoodie, the other a bandana and a white hoodie with flames on the front of it.

Your fingers twitch at your sides, calling up a portal in your mind, ready to dash through it at the slightest hint of a threat. Sparks form by your palms, their signature color drawing the leader’s attention.

“Calm down. I have no interest in killing you.”

“Doesn’t seem like it,” you retort. “Three versus one isn’t exactly fair y’know.” The sparks grow brighter; though they are primarily used to call up portals, they can deal quite a blow to anyone who forcefully comes into contact with them.

Dream (you now read off his nametag, getting sick of referring to him by random aliases) extends a hand in front of his body. Something hovers in it, glowing a soft white and reading something you can’t quite make out.

“It’s not going to kill you.”

Bandanna laughs at that.

“Reassuring,” you snap, taking a closer look at it.

Invitation: Dream SMP

Active?: Yes

Expires: Never

Taken aback, you sputter out a few jumbled sentences before asking why they’d invite you of all people. Sure, you may be okay at Skywars, but that doesn’t warrant an invitation to literally the most exclusive server in the network.

“Uh—what?”

You take a quick glance at the two others, noting their tags are red and white as well, reading Sapnap and Georgenotfound.

“You don’t have to accept.” Dream steps forward to set the glowing orb in your hands. “Just know that we picked you for a very good reason.

How… interesting.

“Is it ‘cause I’m an inactive Crasher?”

The three stiffen at the moniker used for the infamous Jumpers, the ones who figure out ways around the system, the lines of fate that make up the different servers, finding loopholes that not even the best Mender can. They exploit them, gaining almost god-like abilities on the server only to wreak absolute anarchy on the infrastructure until the admin can step in, if they haven’t been eliminated from the system or perma-killed already.

From what little you know about the Dream SMP, you know the admin is a god of sorts, mostly staying out of the way but occasionally fixing matters that need it. Otherwise they stay… wherever gods stay.

“No,” George pipes up. You note his accent, odd and slightly out of place, but not unpleasant. “You being a Jumper does help, however.”

You’ve heard of elusive servers where Jumpers have access to a lot of power and near-unlimited resources, though no one can quite figure out why. Those servers are typically entirely anarchy.

“Yeah, sure.” But you clutch the invitation closer to your person anyway. It glows a bit brighter at the increased contact.

“Think on it.”

Those words echo through your mind throughout the rest of the night, in your bed, subconsciously in your dreams and into the next morning.

It’s no easy decision. You know you’ll be dragged into all sorts of politics, conflict and battles unlike the Skywars ones you usually find yourself dealing with.

Your hand grips the glowing ball a bit tighter, reading the same three statements engraved on it repeatedly until the words are branded into your mind.

And then it disappears.

“Invitation accepted.”

#mcyt x reader #reader insert #xreader #x reader #mcyt x you #technoblade x reader #dreamwastaken x reader #Trampolinist: Series

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no-droids · 4 years

Text

Dove

Part 2 of 2 of The Locked Door Series

Rating: Explicit

Word Count: 19.7K i apologize for NOTHING

Warnings: DUBCON ELEMENTS, SMUUUUUUT, religion kink, virgin kink, authority kink, degradation kink, praise kink, age gap, ohhhhh the list goes on y’all been here long enough

A/N: I have nothing to say for myself this time im sorry

***

Obi-Wan feels like he’s going to be sick.

Dinner in the grand hall was difficult enough, forking down mouthfuls of expensive food he’s sure was absolutely marvelous, if he could’ve tasted it. The s’Ziscari clearly splurged on the celebrations—expensive food, expensive decor, expensive everything, down to the silk napkin he studied and fiddled with under the table as he awkwardly waited for you to finish your plate.

He felt uncomfortable, absolutely. He’s felt uncomfortable ever since he shuffled into this blasted, Maker forsaken robe not long after he left your quarters earlier.

Not black, no. Not like yours. Not like what appears to be an overwhelmingly vast majority of the people he’s encountered so far this dreadful evening.

No, his robes are blue.

A strong, eye-catching royal blue, covering his body in waves of fabric—softer than anything he’s ever worn before and leaving him feeling incredibly exposed. The far more practical robes he traded for these atrocious garments are made of a thick, scratchy wool, a testament to the Jedi’s philosophical rejection of fine or expensive materials. And, against all logic—to somehow make matters even worse, the sash tying this uncomfortable piece of attire closed has no place to clip his saber, unlike the leather belt he usually wears. As a consequence, he’s left simply carrying it around by his side.

Granted, for some unknown reason, his robes are still far thicker and longer and more protective than the… stars, the ultra-thin black silk wrapped around your body, but Obi-Wan is so self-conscious about his appearance that he’s not even allowing himself to look at you. Obviously that doesn’t stop him from refusing to leave your side the entire night, and he finds himself rather grateful that only a very few number of s’Ziscari are fluent in Basic, if only to provide him with a valid excuse to socially detach.

Of the very few people he’s noticed wearing robes resembling his, they’re all far younger than him—much closer to your age than Obi-Wan’s, and stars, everything about this celebration is unbelievably unnerving to him—including, if not most of all, your response to it. One of the reasons he knows the food was grand, apart from the immaculate plating and lavish dinnerware of course, is because you momentarily excused yourself from the seat next to him to dish yourself out a second helping.

Even now, even in the skybox seats of this distressingly packed arena, Obi-Wan struggles to keep down what little food he could eat while you stand tall next to him and seem completely unbothered by the situation—and by the Maker, it bothers him. He isn’t used to this. He’s used to you being the emotionally turbulent one, the one whom he has to pacify, and it twists his stomach with the way the roles have suddenly found themselves reversed.

“I think the blue looks nice, by the way,” you lean sideways to mention casually to him, and he knows. He knows you’re just jesting, just trying to lighten the mood, but he feels the bile rising up his throat at the fact that you even commented on it aloud. “Fitting. Matches your saber. Your face, though.” The smallest hint of a smile tugs at your cheeks. “It’s beginning to match the color of mine.”

“Thank you for that, young one; your sense of humor is positively delightful,” Obi-Wan gripes, clutching the metal hilt tightly in front of him with both hands while he gazes out at the stadium before him, bustling with black hooded figures and a rare flash of blue. It does not escape his notice that in complete contrast, your arms are loosely meeting behind your back, your saber dangling in one hand while the other lazily holds your wrist. Your body is… open. Draped in garments somehow equally as opaque as they are revealing, presented to the wide panoramic view of the audience and stage with no qualms whatsoever.

“Wonder who I got it from,” you ponder with a tilt of your head, and… fair point. “How long is this thing supposed to last anyways?”

“Stars—‘this thing’ can’t get over with soon enough,” Obi-Wan grumbles, his eyes anxiously flicking down at the empty stage in the center of the audience. He’s struggling with butterflies and nausea like he himself is meant to have a starring role in this debauchery. “They’ll have… acts. Plural.”

“Heavens,” you sigh under your breath, and oh yes. He agrees.

He’s also painfully aware that he should be using this free time to continue contemplating his decision about… matters concerning later this evening with you, but he’s already feeling massively overwhelmed as it is. Right now, it’s all he can do to just breathe and attempt to face one trial at a time.

But then, as if the Maker is feeling just particularly malicious this evening, Obi-Wan’s stomach drops when something quiet flashes in the Force and the roar of the enormous crowd instantly falls to dead silence. The ominous sign rockets through him and while a Jedi should not know fear, this might be the closest he’s ever felt to truly terrified.

“Ooh, dramatic,” you whisper, but regardless of your laissez-faire attitude, his heart is positively pounding as he watches the figures of robed Force sensitives slowly file out onto the stage, and everything inside him lurches at the realization that—

They’re all wearing blue. Every single one of them is clothed in fabric that matches his current attire, the one that made him feel like a blot on the landscape the entire dinner and subsequent mass pilgrimage to the arena. A bright splash of color in the midst of an almost inescapably giant ring of black.

You’ve stopped talking. Truly, he has no idea if that’s a good or bad thing, not right now. The Force sensitives join hands and create a ring in the center of the stage while every single person in the arena sits in perfect silence, and Obi-Wan feels dizzy. He’s not getting enough air right now, but he doesn’t even want to breathe too loudly and somehow draw even more attention to himself.

Two of the blue robes break off from their fellow acolytes and meet in the middle of the circle, and to simply avoid having a heart attack, Obi-Wan very purposefully chooses to ignore—like he’s done multiple times this evening—the subtle flicker of curiosity he experiences at the significance of the color blue and what it symbolizes to the s’Ziscari. He can’t even bear to watch the way the two of them slowly lean in and allow their lips to touch from under their hoods.

Maker, if he turned his saber on and stabbed himself with it, could he convince you it was an accident? Probably not—no, definitely not, what a stupid thought to have—

“How does she wipe?” He hears your voice whisper, and Obi-Wan’s facial expression immediately screws up in confusion.

He turns to you, his tone equally hushed but the bewilderment sharpening his consonants. “How does who what—?”

Only—you’re not even looking at the scene unfolding in front of you. Your expression is just as confused as his is, but instead of looking down, your chin is lifted and you’re staring directly across the arena at the viewing booth opposite to yours. He still has no idea what you’re talking about though, not until he follows your line of sight and sees the way s’Zerthia has her jaw propped up in her hands on her throne, looking bored as usual, and how the length of her newly manicured fingernails curves halfway up her scalp from this angle.

“That’s dangerous,” you remark quietly. “They’re like talons. Gaudy little weapons she always has attached to her that she decorates, makes them seem less vicious than they actually are. I see them. I certainly don’t envy whoever she picks tonight to—”

You cut yourself off with a bit lip smile and turn your face away from him, and Obi-Wan is almost mystified by how casual you’re able to be about this.

“Whomever she picks to…?” He trails off with a sigh. “Do I… Do I want to know?”

“Never mind,” you tell him quickly, lifting your chin once more while still clearly trying not to laugh. You’re trying not to laugh, while… while that is happening in the center of the audience. “It was, uh… tasteless.”

He blinks, wondering what that could possibly mean. Everything about this is tasteless, the entire thing is just an absolute nightmare coming to life.

Though, after a moment of silence, Obi-Wan soon realizes he much prefers it when you fill the void.

“Members of the Royal Court take turns doing it for her,” he eventually replies, decidedly looking anywhere but where the man is slipping the blue robe from the woman’s body. It takes you a second to register to what exactly he’s referring, but when you finally do, you snort. It’s too loud. A few heads closest to your isolated seats turn as Obi-Wan very quickly thrusts his elbow into your ribs. “Quit being disrespectful,” he hisses under his breath.

“You just—!” You quickly clamp your mouth shut and face forward again, trying not to smile in an appalled sort of way. But then—“Oh,” you blurt, not loud enough for anyone else to hear in this open setting but still loud enough for him to glance around and be slightly anxious about it. “Oh. Wow. I wasn’t… expecting…”

Obi-Wan’s eyes automatically flick down to the couple, only just long enough to catch a quick glimpse of stark nudity in the center of the arena before his gaze immediately bounces back up again and focuses on the incredibly interesting steel beam currently propping up the Queen’s viewing box, clearing his throat. “I… did warn you.”

“Well, yeah, I expected them to…” Your hushed voice trails off and you stay quiet for too long, too long to imply you’re still formulating an end to your thought. You’re distracted by something, but then you appear to snap back to your senses and immediately clear your throat. “I just wasn’t expecting… the, uh. The… positioning.”

He says nothing in response. It… it doesn’t give him great comfort, wondering how you could possibly know enough about this type of profanity to have expected a different sort of positioning. The stark contrast between the color of his ceremonial robes and yours still remains completely unspoken, but it quietly pulls at the back of his mind nonetheless.

“What about it?” Obi-Wan immediately hears himself prompt and oh, no, this is completely inappropriate. Not only should he not be encouraging this kind of talk with you, but he also shouldn’t feel so… so negative, not about something so personal to you and something that’s certainly none of his business. Regardless, he… still has this buried, unexplainable desire to know the truth about it. Regardless of the indirect way he’s attempting to go about it, he wants to know the truth about whether or not you broke your oath, and while he recognizes it’s completely improper of him, the urge is still strong enough to manifest itself using his vocal cords.

“Oh, I don’t know, it’s just… It’s…” He doesn’t even have a visual reference for what you’re attempting to find the words to describe. He doesn’t want to. He just wants to know what you think about it. “…Bold,” you finally settle on.

Bold. It’s bold. Perhaps Obi-Wan wouldn’t be analyzing your verbal responses so closely if he had something more interesting to look at besides the general coliseum-like structure of the large outdoor stadium, but there’s a certain horizon he just won’t let his eyes dip below right now and unfortunately for him, being so high up above the crowd, the upper hemisphere of his visual field remains relatively dull.

“Who would've thought,” he eventually sighs, blinking up at the star-splattered sky now and attempting to see if he can use the Force to break off a piece of a satellite and have it impale him in a tragic accident. “Considering the s’Ziscari are such a conservative bunch.”

His eyes soon wander back to s’Zerthia, and—Obi-Wan startles to find her staring directly at him with a thin eyebrow dangerously quirked. She motions two long fingers in a V shape at her eyes and then points down towards the stage, her expression expectant and waiting.

Obi-Wan’s teeth hurt at how hard he clenches them together, his jaw flexing but the thick blanket of his beard doing well to conceal it. She’s playing with him, he realizes; he can see the hidden smile on her lips all the way from here.

Maker, maybe she’s right. Maybe he’s—maybe he’s being ridiculous about this. This is fine. This is fine. His stomach feels like it’s all his food might come up at any second, but he’ll do it, he’ll look. He can at least just look, right?

His gaze slowly begins lowering, trying to take in just a few things at a time so as not to overstimulate himself. Thousands of s’Ziscari lining the seats of the arena, almost every single one of them dressed in black. Lower still—the platform leading up to the stage. A perimeter of blue figures now sitting down in a circle and then, at its center, a… a naked man and woman.

Obi-Wan’s heart pounds as he struggles to comprehend the sight, never having laid eyes on a nude woman before. She’s on her elbows and knees, forehead lowered and resting against the floor, and the man kneels behind her, one hand holding her hips and the other wrapping around his—

Stars, Obi-Wan wants to end it all. Right here. His aim will be true.

But then… oh, no, he’s an idiot. He’s a complete dullard, because he forgot. Consumed by his own sheer anxiety and unease, Obi-Wan stupidly forgot an extremely crucial detail of the incredibly little he’s been told about the Sh’inzith.

—the projecting.

All at once, he’s nearly knocked over by the strength of the two Force sensitives at the center of the arena as they deliberately cast their minds out across the entire audience, presenting every sensation and fleeting thought they’re experiencing in all its intensity. Obi-Wan immediately works to reinforce his mental shields as soon as he feels the shockwave about to hit, but there’s thousands of Force sensitives present—all of them congregated into one relatively small area, all of them tuning into the same two signatures and then suddenly… amplifying them back until it’s impossible for him to shut out.

“Oh, uh—” he just manages to hear you mutter through the whirlwind, just the slightest hint of panic in your voice peaking through the symphony of whispered thoughts and pulsing sensations coming from the stage, “—that isn’t good—”

Obi-Wan abruptly stumbles backwards and gasps at the awful, wretched feeling of something brunt pressing up hard against somewhere elusive, somewhere he’s never felt before towards the lower part of his body, and his mind fights viciously against it as he feels you spin around and reach out for his rapidly retreating figure.

“Wait, no—it’s okay, M-Master, it’s okay, it’s—” your voice cuts off and your hands suddenly fist into the robes at his chest, your forehead dropping to his shoulder against the sharp sting just continuing to push and push and push, “—i-it’s okay, it’s oka—”

He trips over his feet in the chaos and falls back on complete instinct and you’re so tightly attached to him that you’re yanked forwards with the momentum, the two of you plunging to the ground in a clumsy heap of grunts and tangled limbs. Obi-Wan immediately starts crawling backwards across the floor underneath you, still trying to escape the horrible, inescapable sensation digging into a part of his body that doesn’t seem to exist, but it’s like you’re of the same mind—you’re scrambling forwards in the same direction trying to get away from the same thing, frantically attempting to calm him and simultaneously deal with the agony yourself, and then suddenly—

Oh—oh, Maker—

Suddenly something gives and surges in, and then Obi-Wan gasps—his elbows buckling under him and as the both of you drop down onto the floor because stars, it’s nearly blinding with impression. Not only the aching, hard fullness stretching sharp and deep somewhere in his lower abdomen—but now a new sensation. A tight, wet silk he feels swallowing him between his legs, concentrated on a part of his body that… does exist, a body part that’s currently pressed up right between your spread thighs.

“Fuck,” you moan hot against his throat, trying to find somewhere to brace yourself next to his shoulders and push yourself up off him, and he tries—Maker, he tries so hard not to, but his hands shoot out to grab your hips before he even knows what he’s doing and then he’s dragging his lower body up into yours on instinct alone, clamping his eyes shut and groaning out a desperate sound he’s never heard himself make before as his head drops against the floor.

It’s staggering. It hurts. He can't even hear your muffled noises anymore, not over the roaring encompassing his mind and body. All he knows is that your hips quickly jerk back and grind down into his in response, sending Obi-Wan reeling while you bury your twisted cry of pleasure and pain into his neck.

The sound of it breaks through everything else.

Obi-Wan’s hands shake violently as they suddenly release you and then frantically shove at your shoulders, trying to push you off without hurting you. He can’t think, he can’t see, he needs to leave—

“Get away,” he rasps desperately up at the sky, blinking his eyes wide but somehow not seeing anything in front of him but blackness. “St-stars, get away from me—”

Suddenly you’re flipping off his body and onto your back next to him, too quick for it to be a mechanical movement alone, and he doesn’t even have the space in his mind nor the processing capacity to figure out if he Force pushed you off him or if it was you who did it to yourself. He just clambers to his feet and stumbles away in a terrified, graceless retreat, bent in half, limping and gasping and fighting for every step he takes.

***

Your Master was right to leave as soon as possible, you think. You were wrong to linger here for just a second to try and gain your bearings, because the more you work to grasp and attempt to organize them, the more mindless and disorienting they become.

You eventually have to heave over and drag yourself after him.

The further away you get from the arena, the easier it becomes to block the projection, but Maker, it’s exhausting. You’re resigned to start out with a crawl—one of those Jedi Core crawls you haven’t had to do since the Academy but this one exponentially slower, forehead dropped down and eyes closed, just focusing on alternating shifting your elbows and your knees forwards and dedicating the rest of your mental energy to just isolating your mind from the debilitating assault.

Consulars don’t usually see much of war—you tend to do absolutely everything in your power to avoid it. It’s the Guardians who experience the horrors of combat most often, who deal with ambushes and onslaughts from enemies of the Republic. But Maker above, every merciless thrust into that poor little virgin at the center of the arena is like a blaster shooting directly at you, but then couple it with the thousands of reflections and ricochets in robes lining the bleachers? You’re in the trenches of a deadly battle you had no idea was even about to break out and you have no weapon of defense besides retreat.

When you finally get far enough away to be able to push yourself upright as much as possible and continue staggering back to the palace on two feet, you have no concept for how long it’s been. You can still feel the projection vibrating and clawing sharply at the edges of your consciousness, but at least the majority of your thoughts are your own now, and it gradually becomes easier and easier to focus and speed up to a clumsy run.

Though, no matter how successful you eventually are at muffling the vibrant sensations and thoughts of the two Force sensitives behind you—when they cum, you stumble down to your knees again and have to bite the back of your fist to keep from screaming.

Maker, it takes you a minute to recover. You don’t even cum, you just feel it—the burst of energy from the Force in every direction, the violent explosion from the stadium that feels like it should fracture the ground beneath you.

You’re able to get up after a moment, if only because they decide to take mercy and finally cut off the projection. You know that it’s a temporary relief, that they’ll likely be at this all night, but you hope the palace will be far enough away from the arena to block out the sensations completely. You wonder if Master Kenobi felt that through the Force or whether he was too determined to block it out that he was able to simply ignore the nuclear missile that just detonated less than a few miles away from him.

You force yourself forwards and you want to hurry, you do—but strangely, in your wild state of exhaustion, stark reality is almost as debilitating as swimming through that endless madness was. It’s quiet around you but the noise of still air pulses deafeningly in your eardrums after breaking free from such a thick mental filter separating you from your surroundings. You still have your lightsaber clutched in your hand, Maker rejoice, and your thin robes are skewed awkwardly across your body, but you eventually find your way to the doors of the palace.

Though, trying to navigate the empty halls back to your Master’s chambers takes you longer than it should. His signature is cloaked spectacularly, concealed to a mere speck you wouldn’t even know was there if you weren’t so closely acquainted with it for more than a decade. You follow the flickering pixel of blue light through the obstacle ridden darkness, adjusting the front of your robes with one trembling hand while you wipe your brow with the other, closing your eyes and doing your best to take deep breaths. He’ll be spiraling right now. He’ll need a boulder to cling to in this tsunami, solid ground to stand on while the stars are falling out of the sky.

You… find him in your quarters instead.

The door is open and his handsome profile is to you, the thick fabric stretching over his broad shoulders now an agreeable light cream, familiar and telling of his intentions. His hands are moving. Setting something down on your bed—your robes, you soon realize. He’s laying out your Jedi robes neatly for you across the fur blanketing the large mattress.

Master Kenobi begins speaking as soon as you step foot into the room, the tone of his voice very clearly impatient after having waited for you for so long.

“Change out of those ridiculous garments,” he tells you hastily, neatly laying out your leather belt across your dark tunic without even turning his head to look at you properly. “We must leave. Quickly. Also—tell me you didn’t forget your saber at the arena, because if so, I’m afraid it’s lost to us forever now. Ilum is only three days from here, perhaps we can stop there on the way back to Coruscant to find you another kyber cryst—”

You drop the hilt of your lightsaber on the floor and step forward, cautiously reaching out for his figure as he continues to ramble. “Master, I—”

Your hand is thrown to the side with a subtle flick of his wrist and you instantly jerk to an abrupt halt, holding your palms out in front of you and keeping completely still while he spins around, his jaw slack and staring at you wide-eyed. He takes a few steps away from you in shock.

“I’m sorry—” he immediately gasps, reaching out towards you even though the rest of his body is still desperately evading yours. “Stars, I’m so sorry—that was just… That was excruciating, young one. Why would anyone ever willingly—?”

“It—it doesn’t always—” you cut yourself off just in time, clamping your jaw shut before you can finish your sentence.

“We must leave,” he says once more as he turns back to your mattress, not appearing to hear you at all and shaking his head, far too frantic to sound like he’s just reminding you alone. “We can’t do that. I can’t do that—”

“It doesn’t always have to be—” Maker, what is wrong with you? Your heart kicks up in your chest and somehow stutters to a halt at the same time. It’s the lingering effects of the assault your mind just experienced coupled with your desperate urge to console him that’s making you so utterly careless, you realize, it’s making your tongue loose.

“Stars, what do you mean?” Master Kenobi finally snaps, and your blood runs ice cold. “How do you know that?”

It takes the sum of all your years of training to keep the raging hurricane of emotion from showing in any capacity. You feel like he’s holding his saber to your neck with how dangerously little you’re even allowing yourself to breathe right now, how utterly and completely still you’re holding yourself in front of him.

Lie, a little voice in your mind supplies quietly, the little voice you keep locked inside an impenetrable box of everything you are but have never been allowed to confront, haven’t been allowed to openly think just in case someone is listening too closely. Lie. Lie, right now. Your silence is giving you away.

Only—you can’t. You shouldn’t. It’s not fair to keep this from him, not when you’re asking him to do something so structurally compromising to his belief system. If… if you tell him the truth, perhaps he won’t judge you too harshly. Perhaps he’ll feel… reassured, knowing he’s certainly not the first Jedi to break a sacred vow when he felt times were desperate enough.

Besides. This might be the only secret that could potentially get you kicked out of the Order, but… it still isn’t your worst one.

“Because.” The word is out of your mouth before you can rethink it, barely above a whisper. “I… know.”

He doesn’t respond, and no.

No, you were wrong. You were wrong to tell him the truth, and the look on his face immediately shoots panic through your whole body.

He doesn’t look reassured.

He looks… alienated.

“‘It doesn’t always?’” Your Master eventually repeats back to you, and fuck—the implication is instantly clear. The implication is made so clear from the sharpness in his tone, the hard edge to it as he rounds out the vowels in the last word that makes your heart twist and throb in your ribcage. He might as well have just asked you how many times you must’ve violated your code of honor to know the difference.

“It’s not.” You clear your throat and flick your gaze up to the ceiling, feeling like he’s using the Force to squeeze your chest in on itself. “That was the absolute worst possible sensation that can be felt during… It’s—it’s not like that. It won’t… be like that. Not.” Are there tears coming to your eyes? “Not… with me.”

Utter quiet. So quiet that if you really concentrate, you can hear the distant sounds of the arena continuing on with the Ritual without you. You bite hard at your lip and wait for him to say something, anything. Yell at you, tell you how disgusted he is, banish you from the Order.

Instead, Master Kenobi quite suddenly… deflates. He sighs—not a heavy, exhausted one, but a soft one. A quiet, accepting sort of sound.

He slowly lowers himself to the edge of the mattress and closes his eyes, running both hands through his hair, and it’s just enough to give you pause. You glance over at him, trying not to let tears fall beyond the plateau of your lower lids with the frantic downward movement of your eyes, and you’re only just barely successful at it.

“It’s alright,” he says gently. “It’s… it’s alright, young one. I… suppose I am in no place to judge. Quite… quite literally,” he murmurs, gesturing to the space around him with a lazy wave of his hand. Maker, his figure is too watery and unfocused to make out his facial expressions, but you don’t want to blink to clear your vision just in case a sudden downpour escapes. “It’s none of my business and I shouldn’t have asked. You’re… not my Padawan anymore. I should have no reason to… even care at all, really.”

There’s something that feels… major in that, something monumental yet incredibly well hidden, but you’re still too full of blind panic to interpret it further. Your breathing is shaky and you wonder, quite stupidly and not for the first time in your life, if it’s somehow possible to use the Force to evaporate the water in your eyes before it turns into tears.

“I am certain it took place in your younger years, a long time ago,” he continues calmly when you don’t immediately say anything. “You did always have a… a rather unconventional relationship with the rules.”

Your only response is a quick jerk of a nod. Yes.

“Yes,” you immediately agree, hoping your tone sounds convincing enough through the lingering tremors. “It was… a long time ago. I’ve changed, since then. Grown up in many ways.”

It’s his turn to nod, and you manage to calm down just slightly. You’re still breathing too hard and you’re a bit too braced, too much of a stance to truly feel like relief, but your heart rate is beginning to settle back into a somewhat acceptable rhythm.

Master Kenobi looks over at you, and he says absolutely nothing about the traces of water still glistening along your eyelashes. He just smiles softly and pats the space next to him.

You cautiously make your way over to him after a moment, feeling more unsure now than you’ve felt this entire mission. You leave at least a half a foot of space separating the two of you once you carefully sit yourself down on the mattress, and you can’t even look in his general direction. You just focus on the long, draping sleeves of your black robe as you look down at your hands and wait for him to speak first.

“Sometimes,” he eventually sighs. “Sometimes I… feel like you’re the person I know best in the entire galaxy, you know. I’ve… I’ve known you far longer than I ever knew my own Master, young one. I picked you out of thousands, and I’d do it thousands of times again. Sometimes—especially since the day of your accolade and subsequent absence, I feel like I can know exactly what you’re thinking, even from across an entire star system. And yet somehow, you… always surprise me. Even after all these years, I am just. Consistently surprised by you.”

You don’t know how to take that. You just sit there in a guilty silence, still unable to turn your head or offer any sort of response.

“I chose you as a Padawan because you surprised me, you know,” he reminds you quietly. “I had certain expectations for you, and you did not meet those expectations. Instead, you presented an alternative I’d never before considered, an alternative that forced me to reevaluate you—and by extension, myself—far beyond what I had previously. That is not a bad thing. It has never been a bad thing. As is made blatantly obvious by the fact that I’m the one currently standing in the way of saving lives, and you’re…not.”

Maker, this is thin ice. You don’t know what to say that’ll express hesitant agreement with his sentiment without making it sound like you’re not apologetic for breaking your oath. You’re… well, you’re not, not really. His response itself is causing you to feel far more turmoil than any legitimate regret for your actions.

“It was—” On instinct, you almost say it was a mistake regardless of the conflicts you’re just so happening to encounter on this mission, but something stops you. You suddenly remember your place here, your goal. To save the galaxy from the Separatists’ reign. And, by extension… sleep with your Master. You can’t call it a mistake if you’re going to ultimately try to convince him to do the same thing. So instead, you scramble to finish your sentence with a different thought, knowing his full attention is pinned to you right now. “…A long time ago,” is all your exhausted mind is able to come up with.

“Yes,” he gives you a small, companionable smile. “It’s alright. Your prior lapse—or, well… lapses in judgement… will forever be safe with me.”

And still, you don’t feel relief. Not when Master Kenobi very quickly appears to look uncertain.

“I… apologize,” he offers after a moment, “if. If I ever made you feel like… like you could not confide in me about any struggles or… or urges you may have been experienc—”

“Maker,” you suddenly interrupt with a frantic wave of your hands, everything cringing inside you, “Maker, we don’t have to do this. None of it, it’s okay. Know what? Let’s just go home—screw the galaxy, I don’t care, just stop talking.”

He snaps his eyes over to you, a sudden bark of laughter escaping him before the rest of his face even seems to register something was funny.

It evolves. Eventually he’s covering his face and stifling ridiculous little snorts behind his hands, trying to apologize in between the chuckles but laughing even harder. It’s almost like… just a form of pure stress relief for him. So far beyond traumatized that it’s revealing itself in a slightly hysterical way, even if what you said wasn’t hysterical at all.

“Now you have a mere glimpse into what my experience has been like today,” he finally tells you with a sparkling grin once he composes himself, lifting his chin as he looks at you and scratching his beard with a quiet flicking sound. “Shall I keep going? If this mission has taught me anything, it’s that no matter what, things can always get worse.”

“They don’t have to.” You say it without thinking, the gentle reprieve caused by his laughter flowing through you in waves and making you throw caution to the wind. The four words serve to shut him up quite quickly however, even though it was the opposite of your intent, and your smile drops. Maker, just freely conversing with him about these things is navigating a minefield for his mental state.

“You… you say that, and yet even—” Master Kenobi eventually responds, cutting himself off with a cough. “Even the things I’ve heard are meant to feel… pleasant, were just.” He shakes his head and blinks his crystal blue eyes over at you. “By all accounts. Agony.”

“I know,” you nod. “I know. Projecting that specific situation was… sadistic of them. A distortion of the truth. Probably rooted in deep tradition, but also a great scare tactic if I ever saw one, playing with us by presenting the absolute worst of it before anything else. It won’t hurt. At all. I promise. In fact—I-I can make it feel—”

Maker, you don’t even finish your sentence, but you must think the general idea loud enough for him to understand. You don’t actually have a specific word in mind—good, great, amazing, euphoric?—and yet, something quiet settles over you two at the silent implication, the mere whisper of the possibility of you pleasuring him.

And him… allowing it.

“Master, I—”

“Don’t,” he quickly tells you. “Don’t call—You don’t have to… call me that. Just for right now, it’s. I don’t—” he takes a breath that sounds shakier than it looks, and then he paints an easy, fake smile on his face following the exhale. You recognize that smile anywhere, though. While you’ve never seen him wear it before, it’s the smile that politicians make when they’re about to present a lesser truth to you, a smile shown to you in negotiations all the time that signifies something… hidden. He’s hiding something, something important, and you have no idea what it could possibly be. “I don’t feel like I even deserve to be called that right now, young one. Perhaps you should be the Master, and I the learner.”

“Ah yes, the circle is now complete,” you can’t help but jest in return, wanting to keep the tone light even though the subject matter is heavy. “Is now when we trade lightsabers?”

“Indeed,” he smiles, this time more sincere, and… you can’t pinpoint when exactly it happened, but it appears you’re physically closer to each other now than you were when you first sat down.

“Do they, uh… actually expect us to…” You clear your throat and wave a hand around, “…Project the entire time like that?”

Master Kenobi quickly shakes his head. “No. s’Zer—Queen s’Zerthia informed me that. Ah. For us, projection will only be necessary during the… well, she called it the ‘closing ceremonies.’”

Your eyebrows shoot up and you nod. “I… see.”

It’s like you can physically feel his body start to break out into a cold sweat next to you at the sudden… realness of it all, the realization that it has to be getting late. Close to midnight, if you’re not already pushing it. It’s come time to make a final decision, you both know it. You want to console him, offer him some kind of solace or reprieve, but stars, you just don’t know how, not when you’re this much of a mess about this, too, but for entirely different reasons. You don’t have a single clue how to make him feel better about any of this.

“I just,” you rush before you lose the nerve, “I want you to know that—e-even if you feel like you’re somehow alone in this, you’re not. Okay? I’m… I’m really nervous, too. I don’t… I don’t actually know what to do at all right now. I don’t know whether to respect your apprehension or tell you it’s unfounded. I don’t know if I should remind you what’s at stake here or whether I should avoid mentioning it at all costs. I have no idea what position I should take, but I’ll—I’ll take whichever one you want me to.”

And it’s odd, because when you first launched into your confession, Master Kenobi gradually began to look more and more relieved, but at a certain point, something just goes horribly wrong. You don’t know what you said, but whatever it was, it seems to rocket through your Master and suddenly his breathing stutters.

For a moment, you think he’s going to reach back, yank your neatly folded Jedi robes up from the mattress and push the dark fabric into your hands. Tell you he’ll meet you at the docking bay posthaste, tell you not to linger, tell you that the mission was a failure. But then—

“Before,” he suddenly says, the word almost startling you with how abrupt it comes out sounding. Almost like he wasn’t quite expecting himself to say it either. “Earlier today, you asked… you asked if there was anything you could do to… make this easier.”

“Yes,” you prompt immediately. He won’t look at you, and for some reason your heart begins beating faster and the inside of your thighs are getting warm.

“I… I’m not sure I’ll be able to go through with this,” he admits with a whisper, his voice sounding so quietly reluctant, like he doesn’t want to say the words aloud but is forcing himself to. “But… the Council put you in charge of negotiations.”

Your eyebrows furrow, trying to understand his implication. What does that have to do with anything? Is he saying that you’re supposed to be in charge, and therefore he’s defaulting to you? “I’m not sure I—”

“The Galactic Republic…” Master Kenobi enunciates very, very pointedly, still unable to look at you, “…put you in charge of negotiations.”

Specifying—or in this case, generalizing—doesn’t help much. “I’m still not—”

“Maker, for—for the good of the Republic, young one,” he presses under his breath and finally flicks his gaze up to meet yours, sounding urgent and torn in equal parts. “Negotiate.”

Stars, negotiate with who? With—with him? For the good of the…? Is he asking you to somehow reason with him beyond what you’ve attempted to do already, or persuade him to do what’s right for—?

Maker—Master Kenobi is asking you to seduce him.

Shock paints your expression blank and his eyes instantly evade yours once more. You have to sit there for just a second and double-check that you’re not dreaming. None of this seems real. All of it seems like an incredibly elaborate illusion of the Force, ever since you first laid eyes on him at the start of this mission. You know you missed him but stars, did you truly miss him this terribly? Your longing must rival something fierce to unconsciously conjure this wild of a scenario. Is he actually here right now? Have you been speaking to a ghost? Are you actually here right now? Are you going to wake up any second and remember he’s thousands of lightyears away and has been for years, risking his life on the front lines of galactic war while you’re left to play politics and negotiate treaties behind the scenes?

These thoughts aren’t safe to have in normal interactions with him, but nothing about this situation is normal, and while you know Master Kenobi has years of experience reading your signature, he most likely won’t be able to gauge the specific details of your thoughts when you can sense how intensely he’s focused on guarding his own chaotic mind from you.

So you let yourself think. If only for a second, you sit next to him and allow yourself to just… think about him. About how much you care for him, how desperately you ache for him—you let all these improper longings finally have their moment with you. You let yourself confront it, crack the lid of the hidden box tucked away behind your consciousness and brave it, because if there was ever a moment to do so, it’s right now.

Your heart starts slamming up against your ribcage and your hands feel like they’re tingling. He wants you to convince him to have sex with you. He’s asking you to corrupt him. He wants you to negotiate the galaxy’s survival with the last man standing in the way of its prosperity—a good man with strong, immovable morals, a man who understands the consequences that follow integrity around and won’t be easy to tempt.

“This was a bad idea,” suddenly comes Master Kenobi’s voice, quickly backpedaling after too long of a silence. “I shouldn’t have said that. Forget I said that, we should just g—”

“Would you like to meditate?” You immediately ask him on a complete whim, shuffling back towards the middle of the mattress for the second time today. You’re careful to make sure he doesn’t see you carelessly flick your neat robes to the floor with the Force, clearing the top of the large mattress. “Let’s meditate.”

“Stars,” he breathes, shyly his head turning to follow you, “I’d love nothing more, but there truly just isn’t any time—”

You find it easier than you thought it’d be to pull a playful face at him, crossing your legs and straightening your spine. “Please, you’re a Guardian. You blue sabers practically invented battle meditation, did you not?”

He looks skeptical for a moment, as he has a valid right to be. “Is this a battle?” He eventually asks over his shoulder.

You say nothing in response to that, instead using the Force with a flex of your finger to tug at the loose cream fabric of his robe at his elbow. “Come on, it’ll do us good.”

He looks conflicted for a second, but then ultimately decides to humor you. “Alright,” Master Kenobi finally agrees, turning around and crawling towards you on the mattress, and you’re just quick enough to stamp down a flicker of arousal at the mere sight of it. “It won’t hurt.”

“Of course it won’t,” you agree with just a bit too much air in your voice, but he doesn’t seem to notice it. He just seats himself directly in front of you, facing you, crossing his legs close enough to yours that your knees barely touch, and—

—Maker, he’s lovely.

You purposefully let yourself think it as his eyes slowly fall closed and he takes a deep breath, beginning to tame the wild tempest of his mind. You let the word flitter around your thoughts without instantly repressing it like you always do, and just the mere act of allowing yourself to acknowledge the truth is freeing. He’s lovely. He’s lovely. You could scream it.

Your eyes trail down the lines of his ever softening, tranquil expression, not even bothering to pretend to meditate for his benefit this time. Your gaze roams shamelessly across his face, the way his hair is combed back away from it. The sandy, masculine beard leading down to the thick column of his throat, the broad lines of his shoulders draped in pale fabric, the way his chest slowly moves as he breathes. Lovely. Lovely.

And then you go… lower.

His abdomen is stretched long with how upright he’s sitting, his flawless meditation posture. His thighs are spread wide in this position, pants stretched tight into an elusive drum over his crotch and preventing you from truly seeing anything—but stars is it a thrill even just letting yourself look.

Especially knowing that the more his mind works to compose itself, the easier it’ll be for him to hear you.

You keep thinking, growing bolder the more you’re left alone with this box wide open. You think about how lithe and strong his body is, how it would feel under your hands. You think about all the different things you want to show him, all the… the mind shattering pleasure you can give him if he’ll allow y—

Master Kenobi says your name without opening his eyes.

It doesn’t sound the way you expect, though you don’t really know what you expected it to sound like. A sharp, frustrated bark? An exasperated, pleading attempt to get you to stop?

No—none of those. It’s a quiet, low growl of a sound, and the clear warning in it absolutely burns a hole through you like he picked up his lightsaber and used it instead.

You take practiced breaths, trying to calm yourself down. Stars, he just said your name, he’s said it so many times before, and yet hearing it in his mouth with that tone in this context feels like he just strapped rockets to your ankles and told you to stay put. You’re impatient. You’re turning yourself on, working yourself up, trying to get to where you can actually make a move on him after dedicating so many years to desperately repressing the longing to do so. Once he told you to negotiate this deal with him, however, it’s as if every ounce of the impeccable self control you’ve practiced so spectacularly throughout most of your life slowly started to unravel.

Reaching out tentatively so as not to startle him, you wrap both of your palms around the bend of his knees and squeeze gently. Master Kenobi displays no physical signs of—well, anything really, keeping his body completely rigid under your hands with no noticeable alterations in his breathing pattern. Biting your lip, you begin to slowly rotate your thumbs, making sure to keep your movements slow and perfectly symmetrical. Complete relaxation is your ultimate goal here—coaxing your Master into a serene state where physical contact is desired, not obligatory. He's so uncomfortable with the concept of intimacy in and of itself though, from the way his eyebrows start to furrow and his spine begins gradually tilting back and away from you, it's almost as if your ministrations are dampening rather than fueling.

“Relax,” you murmur, and stars, even though you make it sound quiet and gentle, it’s like the melodic lull of your voice appears to startle him more than if you’d just spoken normally. Maker—it’s counterintuitive; how are you supposed to turn someone on when the mere state of being turned on turns them off? “Relax with me, it’s okay—”

“But I just can't, young one,” he suddenly implores, his voice pressed up tight in his throat, his cerulean eyes popping open in frustration and something else—an honest, heartfelt emotion that's strikingly less familiar to you, even after years spent by his side: deep, hot, stomach-wrenching guilt. You watch your Master’s palms run the length of his thighs; back and forth, back and forth—almost like a nervous tick, you think—and it’s oddly endearing, if not increasingly concerning. “I just can't, this is all so wrong. Don't you understand? E-Even if the Council did provide a—well, a rather admittedly ineluctable blessing for this downright ludicrous endeavor, i-it’s… I don't…” He takes a deep breath, and visually, it looks like he's attempting to collect his thoughts and composure, but you know your Master all too well. You know what he's really doing, and at this point, it's almost… frustrating.

“What are you so afraid of?” You clutch his knees and whisper quietly, interrupting him before he can verbalize whatever perfectly logical reason he's trying to formulate as to why you both should leave the planet immediately, what he's going to say to the Council if they ever inquire as to why negotiations ultimately failed. He jerks his head up sharply to look at you.

“The Jedi fear nothing,” is his automatic response, though his previously intense gaze strays slightly from yours after a second of too much eye contact. “Fear is the path to the Dark Side, you know this.”

“And yet you are afraid,” you remark calmly, studying the way he’s turned his face away from you completely now, how you can still see his jaw clench under the thick beard with his profile shown to you like this. “I—I’m trying to understand, Master, but I—I don’t. Even if this mission were half as important as it is, your loyalty to the Order would follow you right into an early grave. But this?” You remove a palm from his knee to gesture between the two of you, the mattress beneath the both of you, “fulfilling this mission and these terms to save the entire galaxy is too ‘downright ludicrous’ for the Great Negotiator? I don’t believe it. Tell me what you’re really afraid of.”

Only, he’s suddenly moving—away from you. Turning and planting his palms to fur, beginning to climb to the edge of the bed and sweep his legs around under him, and your voice has an unintentional edge to it when you address his back.

“Do you know how many lives over I owe you?” You ask, and he jerks to an abrupt halt, feet just shy of stepping on the floor. “Do you have any idea the stockpile of mortal gratitude you’ve amassed from me? How many times you’ve risked your death to save me from mine over the years—can you count them? I have. I know my debt to you, I know the weight of my life piled on top of itself over and over again. I remember each and every one of them like they happened yesterday, and not once did you hesitate even slightly, let alone the way you’ve hesitated today.”

”And?” Master Kenobi quite suddenly snaps over his shoulder as he grips the edge of the mattress, sounding sharp but not necessarily directed towards you. “What is your point?”

“My point is that if you’d so readily trade your death time and time again to prevent that of even one other person, let alone a difficult Padawan who caused the Order nothing but grief for years, then what is it that makes the deaths of trillions—” you nearly say preferable to bedding me before you realize how incredibly harsh that would sound, but something about the way he seems to tense his shoulders and curl inwards implies he was following the general cadence of your agitated signature more than the specific content of your words.

He says absolutely nothing, but he doesn’t move to drop his feet to the floor, either. If only you could punch a proverbial hole through his practically indestructible mental barriers, you'd see the real reason he's so flustered, why he's purposely attempting to deceive you. Unfortunately for you though, they feel like they're made of triple-reinforced beskar, a countermeasure gradually increasing in strength the more you try to probe.

But then—all at once, something clicks. Something… fundamental. An understanding.

Your Master is a gifted negotiator, yes. But more than that.

He wields a blue saber. Not a green one.

He’s a Guardian. A warrior. He fights. It’s something that has never truly been part of your nature, no matter how much you struggled with it over the years—but it is a part of his, no matter how exceptionally he’s been able to mask it for even longer.

So, all at once, you stop pushing. Your signature abruptly pulls away from him, gives him room to breathe and simply hovers within your own personal space, unassuming and careful not to disturb him. You see your Master lift his chin and straighten his spine slightly, immediately noticing your absence and the constant pressure you’d been applying, and you honestly can’t tell if he relaxes or tenses up even more because of it.

Finally, when you feel like it’s been long enough, you slowly reach out and gently place your hand on his arm. This time, there’s no underlying motivation attached, no inherent desire for him to fulfill any sort of obligation. Just a warm, companionable gesture to reinforce the simple knowledge that you’re both in this together, for better or worse.

Please tell me, Obi-Wan, you quietly whisper to him through the Force, allowing your tone and energy to transfer through your open palm and into his troubled spirit as softly and gently as you possibly can—a caress more than anything even close to a sentence or inquiry. Your usage of his first name is entirely unprecedented however, and your Master sucks in a sharp breath in response.

I don't… But then the subconscious, half-formed thought fades away almost as quickly as it’s offered to you from behind the solid, unyielding fortress of his mind. “W-what are you doing?”

You bite your lip, wondering how honest you should be with him right now. Though, you suppose, if you truly want him to confide in you, you should at least meet him halfway.

“You’re the locked door,” you finally settle on. “This is me knocking.”

Obi-Wan turns around and blinks at you, looking for all the stars in this galaxy like that was quite possibly the last thing he expected you to say. You can see the frantic thoughts pass through his eyes almost as if the clear blue was completely transparent, likely remembering all the times you’ve leaned on him for guidance, listened intently and learned from his wisdom and experience. And now you’re a fully grown woman patiently offering him your ear, wondering if you’ve earned enough of his trust for him to do the same.

“I’m afraid I’ll form an attachment to you.” The words tumble from his mouth even though his body all but whips away from you in the process. “It’s unreasonable for the Council to expect this from me. From us. I’m afraid our relationship will forever be tarnished from this, that neither of us will ever be able to go back to the way things were before. I’m afraid that regardless of whatever decision I make, I won’t be able to carry the guilt on my conscience and continue to call myself a Jedi and Guardian of the Republic. But mostly, I just—I-I—”

Your heart is pounding as Obi-Wan buries his face into his hands and his muffled voice groans raggedly, “—I’m afraid I’ll like it. I’m afraid I’ll want it again, and again. I’m afraid it’ll follow me back to Coruscant, that I’ll save the galaxy but spend the rest of my days aching for something I’ll never be able to keep, and that’s petrifying. Desire, passion, selfishness, possession; all of them lead to Darkness, and I can—I can feel it right now. Your soul is so gentle, so peaceful, and yet you… you inspire such Darkness in me, dove.”

Maker, you’re trying so hard. So hard to keep your legs from clenching together at the utter desperation in his tone, how his breathing has picked up now that the words have ripped themselves out of his throat, like the whole thing was physical agony even just to say. You have to take a second. You’ve been so patient this entire time, but stars—this one makes you need a moment. You’re so glad his eyes are clamped shut behind his fingers right now because yours lose focus trying to mask the absolutely debilitating wave of arousal that sinks down hot through your stomach.

Even when you regain the ability to speak, the ability to form a safe and proper response to the bombshell he just dropped on you completely evades you.

You purposefully don't say that you're already helplessly attached to him, that the colors of the galaxy somehow lost their brilliance the day you graduated to Knight, the day you left his side. You don't say that you want this so badly you can feel it in your neck, that it would probably break you in half if he said no to this now. Though it's the honest-to-Maker truth, you know discovering this information will only cause your Master to further distance himself from you, and somehow that thought alone is a million times worse than being denied the opportunity to be this close to him. Even… even if what you end up sharing is more emotional than physical.

So you take a deep breath to center yourself, and choose your words very carefully.

“A compromise, then.”

Obi-Wan suddenly raises his head, turning around to look at you and blinking twice. “A what?”

“You told me to negotiate. What do we do as negotiators, hm?” You raise an eyebrow, giving him a gentle smile and trying not to curl your fingers into the fur underneath you with how hard it is to conceal your burning arousal. Do it for him. Do it for your Master, you’re in l—you… care about him, and you care about the things he cares about, even if doing so feels like it’ll rip you apart. “We compromise. Yes? So, let’s find one.”

He shakes his head. “I don’t see h—”

“If you were to…” You cut him off and look down, trying to find the most delicate way to phrase this. “If you were to… find other means to bring yourself to completion, would you be able to convince anyone listening that I was the one doing it?”

Obi-Wan doesn’t even blink this time. He just stares at you, holding himself like a statue in front of you. Finally, he seems to find himself. “I… I don’t—I don’t know if I can.”

“You’re stronger in the Force than anyone on this planet, Master,” you encourage softly, placing a hand back on his arm and squeezing this time. “I’ve felt it.”

“N-No,” he practically hiccups. “No, I mean I-I… I don’t know if… if I can.”

Your eyebrows narrow, a mixture of confusion and concern coloring your expression. “If you can…?”

He looks back at you almost desperately, his eyes practically begging you to figure it out so he doesn’t have to say it. Finally, Obi-Wan sighs, seeming to collapse in on himself with its intensity. “I—I’ve never… purposefully reached completion before,” he admits. “I’m—I’m not sure how to.”

Your eyes widen, wanting to kick yourself for making assumptions. Of course. Of course he’d follow his oath to its strictest interpretation, why would you ever think otherwise? “Oh, y-yes, of course not,” you stutter, sounding incredibly stupid and perfectly mirroring the embarrassed flush also painting your Master’s cheeks, “I didn’t mean to imply—”

“It’s alright,” he holds up a hand. “We simply… view such things differently. So long as you do not pass judgment, then neither shall I.”

You nod and look down at your hands, wondering how else you can attempt to tackle this predicament. “What if I…” You blink slowly, almost wanting to keep your eyes closed in case he’s offended by the idea but figuring you should have them open to read his responses. “What if I… don’t touch you?”

Now he just looks confused. “I’m sorry?”

You blush and clear your throat, obviously phrasing this wrong. “If you can modify the context of your projection, then I can… get you there. Without touching you.”

“How could you accomplish such a thing without tou—” Obi-Wan immediately cuts himself off when you lift your hand and close your eyes.

His thigh. The right one—you focus on it. There. Right above the bend of his knee folding over the edge of the mattress, you concentrate all the energy from your fingertips and reach out, connecting the two together. And then you take a deep breath and begin to draw your attention slowly upwards.

Your Master’s breath catches in his throat as you use the Force to delicately trail further up his leg, not laying a single hand on him as his muscles start to visibly tighten and quiver.

“Young one, I—” His breathing stutters when you keep your hand raised but let your head tilt and drop down towards your shoulder with your energy, slinking down the inside of his thigh like water and getting dangerously close to his— “Stars, hang on—”

You blink your eyes open at him and continue concentrating right there, letting your focus melt warm and thick along the muscle and squeeze it—

“Maker—” Obi-Wan gasps and drops his head back, his legs nearly spasming apart. “Maker, hang on, I…”

“Do you…” You breathe tightly, flicking your eyes down to the way he’s fisting the fur under his hands and subconsciously flexing his hips up just the slightest bit. Even though the Force, his body feels good. Strong, sturdy, and braced tight under your attention. “Do you want me to keep doing this? I can… go higher.”

“You can…? The—the Force isn’t—” Obi-Wan groans, his eyes clamping shut, “—isn’t meant to be used in such… in such… If I’m to break my oath, young one, it needn’t be so… so blasphemous—”

Trying to conceal the hot sparks of arousal deep in your stomach, you simply allow your metaphysical hand to continue resting right at the juncture of his hip and thigh, waiting for a real answer. You bite your lip and wait for him to tell you to either cut it out or to keep going. He doesn’t even have to say it out loud if he doesn’t want to—he can just slide it under the impassable door still separating him from you, the door you’re eventually going to get him to unlock himself.

His back is to you, so you can only see a bit of his face from this angle, but you can hear him loud and clear when he opens his mouth and whispers to you, barely louder than a breath. “Go higher.”

Adrenaline rockets through your veins and slowly, your fingers curl in thin air while your gentle energy wraps itself around his cock.

Both of Obi-Wan’s hands instantly fly up to his face and he releases a tight, longing whimper into his palms, and you feel almost as desperate as he sounds. You can sense the ghost of his thickness in your hand, and the way he’s already throbbing for it is like pure spice to you.

You can’t stop your crossed legs from shuffling and rotating your body to face his hunched spine more directly, just taking a second and allowing him to adjust to the sensation of you just holding him between his legs like this. Your fingers rest gently along his pulsing skin while he hides from you, and if only to get a little bit more of a reaction for your own sake, your thumb just barely angles to delicately brush up under his frenulum.

Obi-Wan shudders and makes a choking noise behind his palms, and oh good Maker, you really want to see his face. You know it’ll probably never happen unless you take your own initiative, but you also don’t want to overstep and snap him out of this blissful reverie. Still, something compels you to be so gentle about it that he hopefully won’t even notice.

You start to slowly work the length of him and squeeze his cock a bit more firmly, but a tendril of your energy slowly slithers upwards, so quiet and full of caution that it hardly even counts. Very carefully, you start to flatten the lifeforce from your other palm over his stomach and trail it up, gradually urging him to stretch his slouched figure upright and then eventually start to tip backwards, never once letting your focus on his throbbing erection falter.

Your courageous efforts bestow prosperous rewards. Obi-Wan’s hands drag down the length of his face and he makes it almost too easy to keep pressing him back—back back back until his muscles give up what little fight they were putting up against it and his shoulders are dropping down to the mattress, his head falling into your lap.

“There we go,” you whisper under your breath, just loud enough to softly encourage him if he’s listening but avoiding a break in his focus if he’s not. “That’s not so bad.”

“It isn’t,” Obi-Wan gasps up at you, his eyes tightly closed but his jaw slack and his handsome features screwed up in rapture. “Oh, no, it’s… it’s really… rea—good.”

You bite your lip and your cunt flexes hard between your legs without your permission, feeling so empty. If you’re being honest, only touching him through the Force causes your hand to become increasingly bold, also feeling too empty. Obi-Wan’s head rolls to the side and he pants hot air against the thin black fabric covering your thighs as you tighten your hold around him just slightly and start to move up and down his cock in earnest.

“Fuck,” he whispers, the dirty word and rasp in his voice contrasting brilliantly with the proper Coruscanti accent and the crisp enunciation behind it. “Fuck, this feels so good, I—”

His fingers grab at the fur covering the mattress top and pull at it, his adam’s apple bobbing sharp along the arching column of his throat as he groans and twists his head around in your lap. He confesses it like it’s so wrong, but it can’t be wrong when he fits so perfectly in your hand? How can this be wrong when it’s the only pleasure you can possibly give him that’s anywhere near close enough to match the way you feel when he’s around? Even then, it’s but a fraction.

Your gaze flickers briefly from his face to check your progress with his body, and—stars, there’s a startling wet spot staining the front of his pale trousers, his cock tenting up shameless and needy for you to ache and throb just as desperately for in return. Fuck, he deserves this, he deserves more—

“I can—I can make it better—” you can’t help but gasp, your eyebrows slanting upwards with need. “Oh fuck, I can make it so much better than this for you, Obi-Wan—”

“You…?” He blinks his stormy eyes open and sounds like he’s about to explode. “This can be—” he chokes out, “—better?”

You can’t stop yourself. Your pussy is clamped up so tight between your legs and Maker, you want to reward him for being so good to you, give him true adoration instead of phantom touches. You don’t think before you’re moving out from under him and slinking down onto the floor, slipping in between his spread thighs. You use the Force with a bend of your finger to tug his pants down just enough, just enough to let the swollen tip of his cock peak through the waistband, and then your head is dropping into his lap as you let it slide into your hot mouth.

Obi-Wan lifts his head and snarls at you—and something across the room shatters as you widen your throat for him and slowly sink down his length, curling your finger to stretch his hemline further as you go. His fingers aren’t gentle when they fist into your hair and neither is the way he immediately twists it sideways, feeling like he’s trying to pull you off and shove you down on him at the same time.

You’re stuck between going as slow as you physically can to drag this out and giving him the best oral you’ve ever given to make him dream about this for the rest of his life. You want him to want this as badly as you have for so many years. You want him to fall into this Darkness with you, to crave you and what you can give to him so much that he’ll never want to leave you again.

So you make it wet. You make it soft and slow and wet, switching between sucking gently at the tip and swirling your tongue around it, and then inching his length down your throat and swallowing around the thick girth of it once you can’t fit anymore in your mouth. Obi-Wan is just an absolute mess about it—he can’t sit still, he’s tugging uselessly on your hair, whimpering out his bliss into the quiet room while you close your eyes and ignore his squirming, just taking your sweet time enjoying him and the way he feels.

He tastes exquisite. Maybe it’s just because all your broken, stupid brain can think right now is slightly varying forms of my Master’s cock is in my mouth and it’s fucking leaking while you slowly nurse from it with your tongue, but stars—he tastes exquisite.

He’s swollen. Throbbing. Aching for you. Releasing precum from the tip like his body is producing way too much of it after decades of neglect and just needs to get it all out at once. Shifting and writhing underneath you but managing to never move his hips or cock a single inch away from the soft attention you’re giving him. You can feel his smooth skin pulse against your tongue as you continue your lazy pleasuring, finally giving him what you’ve both been denied for so long and steadily swallowing down the spoils of your endeavors.

“—Wait, wait, Maker—stop,” you faintly hear gasped from above you not long after you even begin, and it takes the sum of all your efforts to unlodge his throbbing cock from your throat and pull away from him.

“I’m sorry,” you exhale automatically, trying not to slur your words as a bit of drool slides down your chin. “I’m s’sorry, Obi, I should’ve asked before I—”

“Something’s… n-not right,” Obi-Wan interrupts you and lifts himself up to his elbows, his abdominal muscles heaving and a wild, frenzied look in his startlingly bright eyes. “My stomach was—I-I felt—”

Heat blooms through you along with a realization, and your eyelids begin to droop slightly at just how sexy it is—the fact that this man, this fully grown, red-blooded, warrior of a man is currently teetering on the precipice of his very first ever orgasm, and you’re the only one with the power to give it to him.

You shuffle backwards slightly, grabbing hold of his thighs and squeezing to get his attention. “Hey. It’s okay, relax.”

Obi-Wan nods his head vigorously down at you, the exact opposite of relaxed.

“Listen to me,” you urge quietly, trying to ignore the sight of his thick, swollen cock twitching restlessly against his abdomen, precum still steadily dribbling at the tip. Is your mouth watering? “This is it. You’ll need to start projecting when you’re ready. It’ll be tricky, but not impossible. You’ll just have to imagine you’re inside me when it happens.”

Obi-Wan shakes his head vigorously from side to side, vehemently opposed.

“No, I don’t—” He croaks, “—I don’t know what it’s like, I won’t be able to—”

“Doesn’t my mouth feel similar at least?” You ask, looking down at his cock once more.

“I-I—” Obi-Wan sputters, “I don’t know, young one—you tell me!”

Okay, well. He… makes a valid point.

You settle back on your knees even further, gazing at your Master thoughtfully. His chest continues to rise and fall with heavy breaths, a thin sheen of sweat coating his temples and a mild flush high in his cheeks, but his eyes have regained a bit of their focus. “You can just try to imagine the, uh,” you try, your cunt nearly convulsing with burning need at the mere sight of him, “the same positioning and sensation from… earlier?”

“Alright, I can…” Obi-Wan nods, though his hands are shaking. “I’ll do the best I…”

You can’t help but lean forward to press a soft, encouraging kiss to his thigh, and he jerks under your touch. You try it again, receiving the same result, and it makes you pause for just a minute longer.

“I’m nervous,” he blurts unceremoniously after a moment of stillness, as if you hadn’t noticed. “Oh stars, I’m nervous, I—”

“Obi-Wan,” you let your voice lull, your hands squeezing gently around the bend of his knees once more. “Calm down. Clear your mind.”

He hiccups and you wait. You wait with your mouth a few inches away from his cock, waiting for his breathing to slow and for him to follow your lead.

Can you hear me? You murmur through the Force, and he quickly whimpers and nods. Focus your thoughts.

You gently kiss at his tensing thighs once again, and he doesn’t flinch away from you this time. His breathing slows into a calmer, steadier rhythm, letting you trail your lips gently along the curve of his leg.

Will you let me try something? You ask after a moment, opening your mouth just the slightest bit to brush your tongue out and taste his skin.

“Y-Yes,” Obi-Wan says quietly, his breath stuttering through the word.

And—perhaps you shouldn’t have, but you give him something; a suggestion, more than anything else. You give him a… visual. A reference to guide his mind through the Force.

You, still in your black robe, slowly standing up from between his legs. Widening your stance to straddle his lap, pull you robes up just enough, and then adjust your hips just slightly over the head of his cock.

Obi-Wan inhales sharply at the vision, his eyes clamping tightly shut against it in vain. He can close his eyes, turn away, hide his face all he wants—he can’t escape the way your body looks as it slowly begins to sink down on his.

At the exact same time, you lower your mouth around his cock once more, and you try to make it as close to the sensation as possible. You don’t even move your tongue, you simply lift your soft palate and close your lips around his girth, beginning to carefully bob up and down along his length in time to the image you’re conjuring of you riding him.

Only, you already feel his balls tightening up and his body starting to go rigid with tension once again, and you can sense him still wanting to resist his approaching orgasm. It’s okay, Master, you encourage quietly through the vision, it’s okay, just let it come easy.

“I—I’m not—” he shakes his head back and forth against the bed frantically, his breathing getting shallower and almost immediately picking back up to where it was before you stopped. “I d-don’t want—”

Stop fighting, you tell him, continuing to mimic the sensation of him thrusting into your aching, neglected cunt with slow and steady movements of your throat. Don’t run from it, let it take you.

He grits your name tightly in response and subconsciously begins to rock his hips up to match your unhurried pace, his ragged breathing gasping out into the quiet room and gradually increasing in volume and desperation the longer he stubbornly tries to hold out against it.

You know not strong enough to use the Force to coax it out of him. You can’t alter your technique and break the illusion, either. So you have to resort to desperate measures.

There’s enough remaining wherewithal to your mind that prevents you from permanently damaging his clothing when you tear his robes open with the Force and allow the metaphysical image of yourself to rip them apart with your hands. Obi-Wan gasps when both versions of you reach up his bare torso at the same time and dig your nails into his chest.

Master—you demand, taking his cock down your throat as far as you can go and then clawing hard down his stomach—cum.

And thank everything good and right in the universe that he remembers at the very last second to start projecting, because being this close to someone as strong in the Force as Obi-Wan when he finally succumbs to his first taste of the Dark Side is just a fucking atomic missile straight to your nervous system.

It’s all you can do to just remember to keep swallowing.

The projection he casts out through the shockwave is utterly flawless—brilliantly composed, looking and feeling so authentic and overwhelming even from this distance that there should be no issue at all convincing any s’Ziscari in the wide vicinity who are tuning in right now.

Except—then you hear it. Through the roaring pleasure of his thoughts, a flicker of his subconscious he’s unable to mask through the mind blowing bliss.

Is she…? Maker above, she’s drinking it—

A ragged groan tears through the silence of the room, his cock pulsing spectacularly on your tongue. He just keeps cumming, and cumming, and so you just have to keep swallowing, and swallowing. You suppose you should’ve expected this from a fully grown man who lived a life of celibacy, but what would typically be a rather short moment with anyone else subsequently goes on long enough to where Obi-Wan is actually able to lazily raise his head up from the mattress and simply watch you continue to swallow his load, dazed and reverent in his stare, glassy blue eyes trained on the hypnotic movements your jaw and throat make around him. The remaining traces of whatever visual he attempted to maintain immediately flicker out of existence, replaced instead by the sight of your mouth around his cock, diligently taking down each rope of cum he gives you.

When he finally stops throbbing, you reluctantly let his cock fall from your mouth and slowly stand up as the botched projection fizzles out completely. His gaze eventually follows the movement like he’s on a five second delay.

“So, uh…” Your voice is hoarse. “We… need to have sex.”

“Alright,” he agrees dreamily, his eyes lazily dragging down your body. “Alright, we can have… I… Wait, what?”

“You, uh. I know it wasn’t intentional, but you might’ve, uh…” You shuffle awkwardly from side to side, wondering why you’ve chosen now of all moments to become shy with him. You’re literally still savoring the taste of his release in your mouth. “You might’ve accidentally projected a very specific thought towards the end there and let everyone know that we weren’t actually doing what we’re technically supposed to be doing.”

“What did… what did I think?” The question would likely be nonsense in literally any other situation, but you understand. And truthfully, for the life of you, you can’t find it within yourself to feel even a little bit mad about it, not when it means you can continue doing this together. You can’t even conjure up a single shred of disappointment in his failure, it’d just be a lie.

“Doesn’t matter,” you assure him, your heart continuing to pound. You know you should make your next move now while he’s still so loopy, the post-orgasm bliss causing his signature to vibrate with pulsing endorphins as he blinks up at you slowly from the bed. “Though we won’t be able to do it for a little bit, just uh. Just for general… anatomical reasons. But that should’ve at least counted for… initiating the Ritual, so I don’t think we have to worry about time anymore.”

Obi-Wan just stares at you, his Force signature feeling more serene and spaced out than you’ve ever sensed before. Oh Maker, how you wish you felt the same. You swallow thickly, still tasting his hard orgasm on your tongue, and then try not to clamp your thighs together with how embarrassingly turned on you are. Anyone with any experience whatsoever would know exactly what you’re going through with just a mere glance—you’re biting your lip with your entire body is subtly crumpled in towards your swollen, neglected pussy—and your Master has been watching you struggle through it this entire time.

“Are you alright?” He asks dumbly, finally managing to at least push himself upright, still completely unaware or unconcerned at his softening cock on full display for you and your starving libido. “You’re… shaking.”

“I—won’t die,” is the only serious assurance you can make to both him and yourself right now that’ll ease your suffering the smallest bit. The last thing you want right now is to come on too strong and snap him back to his senses, bringing everything back to square one. “Just, uh… r-really worked—worked up. Trying to just. C-Cool it?”

Your fingers flex at your sides because no matter what you try, you just can’t stop thinking about his. They’re right there. They’re so close, so strong and thick and—

“Aren’t you…” He trails off, letting his head tilt and then drop to his shoulder with a combination of confusion and exhaustion. “Aren’t you going to…?”

“To what?” You prompt shortly, your hands suddenly clenching into fists to deal with another violent wave of arousal at how unbelievably drunk he still looks. Maker, you did that. That’s all you.

“s’Zerthia said all—” Obi-Wan murmurs, blinking long lashes lazily up at you, “—all Jedi must… participate.”

Fuck. Just hearing him provide you an excuse to give into the boiling arousal causes you to suddenly break out into a sweat. You don’t know if he wants you to get yourself off or if he’s indirectly implying he wants to help, but you’re so far beyond desperate that you jump at the chance as soon as he so much as hints at the opportunity.

Very slowly, you move forward and lift one trembling knee to brace next to his thigh on the mattress, and then carefully swing your other leg over his lap, lowering yourself into a straddle in the same exact position he attempted to project earlier. You’re so unbelievably cautious about his cock, making sure you don’t accidentally touch it and jolt him awake. Instead of your newfound proximity scaring him away like you feared though, he stays so… docile. Still so relaxed from his very first orgasm that he even rests his large palms over the thin fabric covering your thighs, letting the loose silk drape and fold over his hands as he drags them up and down.

His eyes follow your trembling fingers as you work at the knot tying the material around your body, your cunt throbbing between your legs at how he’s just… staring. His eyelids are dipped slightly, breathing so calm and slouched under you, pliant and waiting.

The thin fabric slowly parts only enough to reveal the valley between your bare chest to him, and you watch his eyes fall down the thin strip of skin and catch on the dark line of your panties riding low on your hips. Maker, you can’t help but remember his terror at even glimpsing the two acolytes taking off their robes earlier—the way his eyes bounced around and how his cheeks lost whatever color they had left to them as soon as he finally made himself look. Now, though. Now he can’t seem to drag his eyes away from the soft flesh of your tummy, the way your nipples are still covered by the thin fabric of your slightly parted robe but are impossible to miss while your breasts subtly move with your breathing.

You gently call one of his wrists to your hand with the Force and Obi-Wan is either mentally or physically too weak to resist your will. He allows you to catch his hand and slowly lead it downwards with both of your smaller ones to the part of your body that’s longed for his attention for years, though now it’s absolutely weeping for it.

You don’t want to scare him. You don’t want to scare him. Oh Maker, you need him to be brave for you right now, or at least just continue to be stupefied. You can work with stupefied, but you cannot work with panic, especially when you feel your own wanting to rise up the more you drag this out.

When the tips of his fingers brush against the waistband of your panties, Obi-Wan’s hand pushes under it without your guidance.

You’re throbbing. It’s been years in the making. Unable to stop the way your thighs contract and you lift your hips against his palm as it steadily curves down the slope of your soft curls, the sight of the finish line so within reach makes you reckless and too quick. You can’t help it. When he gets hesitant and eventually slows down to a halt right above your slit, you don’t even think before you’re suddenly giving his wrist an abrupt shove with the Force, pulling his hand down before he’s ready and forcing his middle finger deep through the soaking cleft of your pussy.

Your shameless moan of his name comes out sounding so grateful—you pour everything you have into it and sag into Obi-Wan’s chest at the feeling, but he startles and all but rips his hand out of your underwear before you can stop him. He was a hair’s breadth from touching your clit and the denial of it—the sudden turnaround from your goal is just so massively overwhelming that tears suddenly spring to your eyes.

You can just barely make out the sight of him staring down at his trembling hand between the two of you, your slick shining wet and hot along the length of his finger.

“Stars,” he rasps, blinking his wide, sapphire gaze up to yours—and then he quite suddenly looks alarmed. “Did I—Did I hurt you?” Obi-Wan gasps, his energy beginning to outright seize with distress while you blink rapidly and try not to crumble on his lap.

“No—I’m sorry, it’s just—I’m just… oh, fuck, I n-need it,” you stammer. “Oh fuck, I need it Master, I’m so sorry—I’m trying to be calm but—”

“What is it, little dove?” He urges, reaching his hand up to your face and flicking his eyes back and forth between yours, sounding almost as panicked as you do from your desperation. “What do you need?”

“Oh stars, Obi-Wan, I need you to just—” You can’t fit anything into words, a tear finally making its way down your cheek when you clamp your eyes shut in frustration. You just need him to understand, to give you what you’ve been craving for so long—but when you blink your eyes back open, his troubled expression has suddenly resolved itself.

Your Master’s hands immediately grab tight to your hips and twist you around, easily tossing you back up onto the mattress. The jostle of bouncing back into the soft fur startles you, but not nearly as much as when he climbs over your body and braces an elbow next to your head, gently placing the tips of his fingers to your temple.

He pushes carefully but firmly against your natural mental barriers, flexing the energy shields inwards gently enough to not hurt you but with enough force to let you know he’s entirely capable of breaking through should you refuse to let him in.

So you do. You let him in without a single thought, never mind a second one. Obi-Wan gasps as your shields all but collapse for him that easily, and then he’s finally breaching the surface of your thoughts.

“Oh—Maker above, little one,” he grits almost immediately, his forehead dropping to your shoulder and his other hand wrapping tight around your arm as he struggles to acclimate to the blinding distress you’re experiencing. “Collect—” he groans as your cunt clamps down at the rasp of his broken voice, “—collect yourself. I can’t—can’t think—”

Oh, no, it’s too much. It’s way too much, even just having him inside your head without being able to read him in return—it’s too much for you. You start hyperventilating and instead of wanting him out, you just want to drown out the sensation of everything else. The endlessly pulsing, aching throb between your legs that you’ve been dealing with for so long, the way you can feel his cock dragging against your tummy from this angle and how much you already want it in your mouth again, the way your nipples are so hard right now that even this soft fabric feels so rough and sharp against—

Your robe suddenly rips itself off your chest, and you whimper up at the ceiling as you dig your fingers into thick fur and writhe under him, almost completely naked and just desperate for him to do something, to at least just use his hands or his mouth to make you feel bet—

Obi-Wan’s head drops and his blazing mouth opens hot around your nipple, his tongue rolling soft and slick up under the hard bud.

You choke out the first part of his name and you barely even have a flicker of a thought—a brief flash of a rabid, baser desire you’re not even able to consciously recognize before you feel his jaw opening and his teeth closing gently around it, biting down just hard enough to make you spasm bright and urgent between your legs. “Oh, fuck—”

As soon as you feel the pleasure and twisting ache spark deep in your core, Obi-Wan flutters his eyes shut and wedges his hand back into your panties, humming low in his throat when your legs jerk apart for him.

This time, your clit is the very first thing he touches.

He zeroes in on it. The tip of his finger starts to rub it exactly how you’d do it to yourself, exactly the right angle and speed and pressure that your body suddenly feels massively overheated and dizzy from it. It blindsides you. It makes sense he’d be able to do this, after all, but for some reason, the whole thing just absolutely blindsides you.

“Maker,” you whimper at the ceiling, soft and pitched high in your throat, eyes rolling back when Obi-Wan gently bites down on your nipple again and continues to work to relieve you even as every muscle in your body feels like it’s tightening up.

“Stars—” he whispers when he pulls away, “This—this feels incredible, Padawan.”

You moan and roll your hips against his hand, on cloud nine at just how he’s slowly allowing himself to become filthier with you, to lower himself in all his righteous beliefs and descend into delicious sin with you, and—

—wait, did he just…?

Your cunt clamps down hard with realization as he continues massaging your clit better than you’ve ever even done it yourself. Maker, it shouldn’t turn you on so much but it does, hearing that word in this context. Padawan. Padawan, holding her legs open while her Master explores her pussy. Padawan, moaning desperately as her orgasm buzzes deep down inside with a rising, threatening resonance. Padawan, Padawan, Padawan—

“Oh, you liked that,” Obi-Wan remarks tightly, taking a second to tug on your clit. You nearly start to cry again, your insides pulling up and going rigid at the sensation. “I heard it, little one. You like it when I call you that?”

“Oh I like it when you do f-fucking anything,” you choke out helplessly, your words starting to slur together. “Oh fuck, you’re so amazing, you’re so good at everything, you’re the best Jedi in the whole entire galaxy Master, you’re so much better th—”

“My, you’re agreeable like this, aren’t you?” Obi-Wan grits, his touches growing stronger and quicker and rocketing you straight to the edge of madness. “Shall I take that to heart, my darling little Padawan? Or did you say such flattering things to the oth—”

“Wait!” You suddenly exclaim, desperately trying to push his hands away. “Oh, nonononono—wait, wait, wait, I—I-I’m about to cum—I need to—”

His hand yanks itself out of your underwear once more and you take giant, gasping breaths and try to compose yourself at least somewhat, but then your Master is quickly scrambling down your body and using the Force to rip your panties down your hips—

“Obi-Wan, wait—” you choke out, “that isn’t—you don’t… h-have to…”

He looks up at you, dark brows furrowed in confusion.

“I’ll be able to—y-you don’t—” You have to take a few gasping breaths and remember how to speak Basic. “I used my mouth on you before because I… I wanted to. If—If you don’t want to do that, you don’t have to. It’s not… oh fucking stars above, it’s not n-necessary.”

“Are you telling me this because you don’t want me to?” He immediately asks, though you both already clearly know the answer to that considering how exposed your wild thoughts are to him right now.

“Ah, no I, uh… I just.” You try to clear the thickness from your throat and you feel your body tremble while you focus as much effort as possible into trying to explain. “I just want to be sure I’m not taking advantage of you, that’s all, I—I want you to know the truth about these things. It’s not… necessary, b-but.”

“But.” He repeats the word meaningfully as he glances back down at your weeping cunt, nodding slowly to himself.

And then your Master leans in, flutters his eyes shut, and slides his warm tongue deep into the seam of your pussy with absolutely no hesitation whatsoever.

“Obi—Wan—!?” You gasp, somewhere between a squeak and a squeal, your entire upper body launching upwards around his head as your clit is immediately enveloped into a slick, dexterous furnace.

Hold still, you hear his voice warn through the Force, sounding so much closer than you’ve ever heard him before. Whether that can be attributed to the fact that the command came directly from wherever he is inside your head or whether it’s simply because his tongue is now tracing gentle circles around your clit as you whimper pitifully into the quiet of the dimly lit room, you’re not sure. All you know is that his mouth feels like velvet between your legs and his beard is scraping across your thighs and your fingers have buried themselves in his hair without your conscious permission.

Hold still, young one, he urges once more, but you just close your eyes and moan shamelessly at it this time, opening your legs wider for him. His voice, it’s… it’s maddening like this, coming directly from your own thoughts. Deep, precise, somehow sounding so true, so much clearer and full-bodied without your pesky ears in the way. Your hips are subconsciously rolling slowly against the lower half of his face when Obi-Wan apparently decides he’s had enough.

An invisible energy wraps around each of your individual limbs and snaps them against the mattress without any warning. You whimper high in your throat, arms and legs held so firmly against the bed with the Force that your internal struggles aren’t able to be translated outwardly; he doesn’t allow your body a single centimeter to move under him, no matter how hard you fight it. Which means you have to lay there and just take the way Obi-Wan’s hot mouth continues to lick and kiss at your clit slowly, taking all the time in the universe to properly explore you between the legs he’s forced apart.

“Obi—” you croak breathlessly at the ceiling, feeling a familiar heat start to burn hot and tight through your core, “Obi, I—I have to p-project—before I—ah!—before you—before you ma-make me cu—ugh, f-fuck—I have t-to—”

Then project, he encourages simply, gently fluttering his tongue over your clit. You gasp and he hums, murmuring through the Force once more to you. We’re not hiding anymore. They’ll all know I’m using my mouth on you like this. It’s alright. Let them know.

You realize you’re going to cum the second you hear your Master’s voice say the words using my mouth on you like this while he slowly sucks on your clit, and you barely have enough wherewithal to gulp in a giant breath and begin projecting your signature as far across the palace and surrounding city as physically possible before your body shatters hot into searing euphoria under him.

Obi-Wan groans deep in his throat and holds you perfectly still under him as you cum with a ragged, hoarse wail of his name, giant waves of white hot bliss beginning to radiate through the Force from you with spectacular power. The contractions are so much more pronounced when it’s one of the only sets of muscles in your body he’s granted permission to move. It’s like everything is concentrated and multiplied there because of it. You can feel each individual spasm your floor muscles make as they convulse against his tongue, how each blazing shot of ecstasy that shatters through your body wrings more and more wetness from your cunt into your Master’s mouth.

Never. Ever ever ever. Has anyone done something so mind blowingly sexy to you. Nobody. Ever. He’s a virgin, you frantically remember as Obi-Wan purrs softly into the folds of your pussy while it cums all over him.

Your thoughts, young one, you can just barely make out his voice remind you gently, just as gently as he sucks on your clit through the aftershocks, somehow sounding even more aroused than he did before.

After allowing your projection to flicker out of existence with a putter, you’re completely dazed. Incapable of moving regardless of the way he keeps you pinned with the Force long after he pulls away, slowly moves back up your body and waits while you work to regain your bearings. You don’t even want to open your eyes right now, knowing he’s looking down at your peaceful expression while you work to catch your breath. You’re too stupid with pleasure you almost don’t even process the soft touch of something against your lips.

You’re lovely.

The thought is so quiet you don’t even recognize it isn’t your own. Not until he keeps pressing his lips to yours so sweetly, not knowing to do anything else when your mind is too fractured with ecstasy to unconsciously act as his compass like before. Everything is innocent and gentle and not reminiscent of the fact that the robes you’re both wearing are wide open and your mouths tasted of each other even before he kissed you.

Instead of melting into the soft touches, though, they just start to burn you alive, the thick fog of your orgasm clearing more and more with each gentle press of his lips and your need for him steadily growing. He’s kissing you. Master Kenobi is kissing you for a few precious, heart stopping seconds at a time before pulling away, pausing to look at your face each time to make sure your eyes are still closed, before leaning down and carefully pressing his lips to yours again.

The only part you can’t stand is that he won’t even let you move your jaw to kiss him back.

Kiss me, Obi-Wan, you urge desperately through the Force, not wanting to interrupt to speak.

“I am, little one,” he replies between kisses, and the sincerity in his tone tells you he’s not purposefully teasing you. No, this is him kissing you, genuinely, the only way he knows how to.

Let me— you start to struggle in earnest against his hold on you, —please, let me—

The warm breath from his nose puffs softly against your cheek with a quiet little sound from far back in his throat, and then you suddenly gain the ability to move from the neck up.

You immediately part his lips with yours and Obi-Wan pulls back just the slightest bit in response, but your neck lifts up to compensate as you lick deep into his warm mouth. He gasps at the foreign sensation and loses his concentration for a split second, enough for you to break free of it completely. Your hands quickly fly up to cradle his face as soon as they can move and your fingers hook around the thick beard blanketing his sharp jawline, urging him back down into you.

Your legs come up to wrap around his lower back and he sags against your strong will with a needy groan, dropping down closer and obediently keeping his mouth open for you to taste. As soon as he presses his body into yours, his cock strains and drags against your lower stomach, already throbbing hot and leaking precum along the soft hills of your skin.

Maker, you want it but somehow you… you don’t. You just want to savor tonight as long as you physically can, keep holding him and kissing him like this for another few hours at least before you try to take his cock, but he’s unintentionally grinding it against you while his tongue shyly dances with yours, needy and already raring to go in his own timid way.

Do you want it, Master? You finally murmur to him, running your fingers through his hair and gently biting his bottom lip, scooting your hips up to let him rub himself against something better than your tummy. You feel… ready.

The only response you get from him is a shuddering, helpless moan into your mouth and you hold him tighter to you, grinding your still sensitive cunt up against his cock while he pulls hard at the soft fur next to your head. Your feel your soaking pussy lips part around the solid curve of his length and gradually coat the underside of him in slick with every gentle circle and roll your hips make, and Obi-Wan finally pulls away from your mouth to drop his forehead to your neck.

“Yes, I—” he moans into you skin, “Oh stars, I want it.”

With a gentle wave of your hand, you use the Force to drop his hips down to the proper angle and tilt the head of his cock to line him up perfectly.

And now this is the part you don’t want to rush. This is when you take Obi-Wan Kenobi’s virginity. You’ll savor just being able to remember this for the rest of your fucking life. You’ll see him in Council meetings years from now and be reminded that you’re the only person in the galaxy to know the thickness of him as he rests heavy up against your entrance, the way his voice presses deliciously tight in his throat as he gasps out into the quiet room. You’re the only one who will know that sound, that sound is yours, that sound belongs to—

“Padawan,” he grits, hips stuttering into you while you wrap your arms around his shoulders, “your thoughts—”

You groan up at the ceiling and your pussy tightens at the reminder that he can still hear you, but your body is just too bold and desperate for it. Your thoughts begin to flare bright, growing more possessive by the second, and you can’t even wait for him this time. Every single muscle in Obi-Wan’s body goes rigid when you tighten your grip around him and roll your hips up into his cock, letting it break you open nice and slow.

It stretches you wide with a deliciously sharp fullness and pleasure rips through you as Obi-Wan instinctively tries to lift off you and away from it, but you’re clinging too tightly to him. Your whole body hovers off the mattress to stay with him.

“You said—” he gasps, “—it wouldn’t h-hurt—oh—”

“It doesn’t,” you groan, continuing to tighten your legs and hoist yourself up, lifting your hips to take his cock deeper inside you. “Oh, Maker, it feels so fucking good, Obi—feel it—”

His elbows shake where they’re locked and braced against the mattress but he drops his head and holds strong like this while you work your muscles to take him as far as you can from this shameful angle. Your body feels like it’s on fire while you desperately cling to him and the length of your robe brushes against the mattress while you just keep trying to get him deeper inside you—

Suddenly something grabs hard at your hips and tries shoves you downwards and off his cock, but you want it too badly. You summon the hidden strength of your energy and then channel it into your legs where they’re hooked around the curve of his lower back.

Obi-Wan chokes at the unexpected resistance and his elbows buckle, dropping you both down to his forearms with a jolt, but you’re too busy mentally clashing with each other for it. The result is… well, it’s maddening.

Every time your pussy is able to swallow him more than halfway, you pull back and let his energy shove you down his length—but then dig back in right before you drop completely and use the Force to bend your legs and fight the uphill battle to his cock once more. Your Master gasps, beads of sweat gathering at his temples while you fight him with every ragged breath in your body to keep fucking him.

Except—he’s the fighter. And you should’ve known.

You’re no match for the sudden blast of energy from him, easily hinging your legs apart from around his back and then ripping you down off his cock with a wet sound, bouncing back down into the mattress once more.

In order to stop the desperate tears of defeat from coming to your eyes, you immediately clamp them shut and twist your face away from Obi-Wan’s, but he makes a low growl and uses the same ferocious royal blue energy to keep your knees pinned open and wide against the bed.

And then drops his hips and rocks back into you, giving you those last few precious inches of his thickness you weren’t able to get at before. It hits sharp nirvana up inside you with his thighs pressed tight to your hips like this. His name rips itself from your throat while Obi-Wan clenches his jaw and starts to lose himself in the pleasure, holding you down into the bed with the Force while he allows your desperation to guide him to the perfect angle and speed to sate you.

He’s so gifted, so strong in the Force, he’s able to use your mind as his anchor and give you pleasure beyond anything you’ve ever experienced. And in return, you want to do the same to him. You want to read his thoughts, instantly be able to give him everything he never knew he needed—

“You do,” your Master chokes out, “darling, you already—”

Everything inside you surges up at the admission, aching that much harder to hear him, to hear everything the way he can hear you. The tips of your fingers find his temple, slick with sweat, and you press just hard enough to tell him your intent.

“Let me in,” you whisper, wicked arousal swirling tight in your lower muscles as they start to bear down on his cock.

“I—I can’t—” Obi-Wan gasps breathlessly, “I can’t—”

“Open—open the door, Master,” you beg, “please, open th—”

“Fuck,” he cuts you off, his voice rising in pitch while his his hips snap just a little harder against yours and his rhythm falters, “—It’s too good, Padaw—I’m going t-to—stars, are you—are you r-ready?”

Some terrifying, swirling darkness manifests itself deep in your thoughts. It rises up, part of the desperate, hidden subconscious that you’re typically capable of stifling. No, it says, don’t let this be over. Not yet. You don’t want to go to sleep alone, wake up and remember you’ll never have this again. You need there to be a next time, and a time after it.

You try your hardest to push the longing downwards when you recognize it, but your Master is too quick, too talented to deceive when he’s this close to you. He easily plucks it from your mind and expands it, enlarges the chaotic string of thoughts until you feel them pulsing at the edges of your consciousness.

And then Obi-Wan sees it all, immediately playing out in your memories as you helplessly watch on. Every desire you buried for him unearthed, every whimper you stifled with the back of your hand when you touched yourself at night and thought of him amplified. The years of repression, the blind hope that simply ignoring it would make it go away. How hard you worked to deaden the burst of affection that radiated through the Force when you finally saw him after two years apart. The circumstances behind the night you lost your virginity—not a long time ago, as he suggested before, but only just last year. So desperate in your loneliness and longing for his presence that you began routinely sneaking around and fucking other Knights—Guardians with blue sabers whose souls were just marginally close enough to Obi-Wan’s, and you thought of him the whole time. Every time.

But, perhaps, worst of all. The… fantasies.

He sees himself dropping to his knees and congratulating you for passing your trials by burying his tongue inside your warmth and telling you how proud of you he is. He sees you opening his trousers and slowly licking his cock while he meditates, trying to get him to break his concentration. He watches the two of you fucking in every conceivable position, how incredibly ready you always are to take him when he needs it. Most importantly, he recognizes your inherent, blazing desire to drag this out as long as physically possible, to permanently brand every moment in your memory to get you through his impending absence.

And then… then Obi-Wan does something unexpected. Something incredibly uncharacteristic.

You watch as he morphs the fantasies right before your eyes. He's still on his knees with his head between your legs, but now he’s telling you how proud he is of you for negotiating the mysterious, confidential deal that ended the Clone Wars. You’re licking his cock as the ship autopilots itself through the week-long journey back to Coruscant from s’Ziscari, letting him slowly cum in your mouth as he sprawls lazily in the captain’s chair. He’s taking you against the wall of your quarters after a mindless and dull Council meeting; you’re riding him quietly in his bed after lights-out at the temple; he’s rubbing your clit while he sits behind you and advises you on matters concerning your own Padawan you’ll be choosing sometime soon, two fingers deep and squeezing a bared nipple when he whispers in your ear how much he absolutely adores you.

Thoughts that aren’t your own begin to fill the empty spaces of your mind, a lovely pale blue tenor to harmonize gorgeously with the soft green alto of your own consciousness. The resulting color of your combined energies fills your soul with Light, a stunning turquoise of a color you’ve never loved more, one you wish you could live in for the rest of your life.

For every debased thought of yours he sees, he shows you one even more revealing. The way he used to dream of you at night, especially after a close battle where many Jedi and Clones fell, and then he’d wake up in a cold sweat with an erection pulsing feverish and so terribly shameful between his legs. How he tried to shove a pillow down there once to somehow relieve himself of the aching hardness, and then had to rip it away and launch it across the room with the Force when he realized he’d been dragging himself against it and thinking of you.

“I’m gonna—cum—” your voice scrapes across your throat, and you can already sense him throwing his beautiful consciousness out like a net. You match him with what little mental strength you have remaining, wrapping your arms around his shoulders and your ankles around his lower back and pulling him down into you.

Obi-Wan’s energy keeps swirling a brilliant aquamarine with yours, presenting his every subconscious thought to you, one right after another, so quick you can barely keep up. How he’ll always be with you, no matter what. How the Maker himself won’t be able to drag him away from you now. How quiet jealousy still tugs at his heart just thinking about the fact that you broke your oath—before you both could do it together.

Everything swells up inside you and you scream when it finally crashes over, your blended signatures sealing themselves together permanently and then detonating in a debilitating shockwave that ripples the air around you. You’re blinded and deafened by its vivid energy, powerful and dazzling every shade between blue and green and Light and Dark, all balanced perfectly together.

You lay there in the gentle afterglow afterwards and feel your pussy still clamping tight to him, pulsing in random intervals while Obi-Wan slouches into you and every muscle in his body trembles with the comedown. Everything is right. Everything in you sparkles.

“Stars, Obi,” you start chuckling up at the ceiling, the sheer joy overwhelming you and bringing tears to your eyes. “Stars, did we just—”

“We just won the Clone Wars, my dear,” he slurs into the crook of your neck while his cock still throbs inside you, and you can feel the exhaustion creeping up his spine, every single thought in his mind completely dead at the moment.

“How long do you… do you think it’ll take before it’s over?” You ask quietly, brushing your fingers through his hair. Obi-Wan groans and buries his face deeper into your neck.

“Few months, maybe. Time for s’Ziscari…”

He stays like that for just a second, and you press your nose to him and breathe him in, marveling at how utterly gorgeous his signature is right now. Clear blue with the lightest touch of teal, rippling like quiet water in a crystal calm riverbed.

Lovely.

You keep softly playing with the hair at his nape, and then quickly wrap your arms around him when he goes to try to brace his forearms next to your shoulders and lift up just the slightest bit.

“Wait, don’t—it’s—” You bite your lip and feel him sink back down into your body without another word, clearly having only attempted it for appearances. “This is good, let’s just… stay for a second.”

He doesn’t respond, he doesn’t even move, and—a few months, you think. A few months of his absence, of wondering where he is but never being able to ask. It burdens your heart, but you understand it’s necessary.

The Council may… grant me a position with a more permanent location after this mission, he responds quietly to your dip in the Force after a moment, too tired to even talk anymore and exhaustion weaving his every thought. On Coruscant.

Your heart pangs with sudden hope, and you know he can feel it. “They would do that?”

I could ask to oversee the s’Ziscari’s assimilation into our ranks, he offers alongside a stifled yawn into your collarbone.

He’d… request that? To be closer to you? But why?

He doesn’t hesitate before offering the words to you simply, not even considering them before they’re the only thought in his mind. Because I care for you more than there are stars in the sky. I always have.

Lovely.

No, no, not even, that’s just. Love. By itself.

“Yes,” Obi-Wan murmurs softly into your neck, and your soul feels like it grows wings.

You both lay there in silence for a long time after that, and it takes you even longer to realize he hasn’t succumbed to sleep yet, even as the aching fatigue weighs heavy on his back. He’s resisting it, keeping his eyes purposefully open against your neck while yours are blissfully shut.

“Master,” you eventually whisper up at the ceiling, and his cock twitches inside you. Oh stars, you’ll have to remember that. “Go to sleep.”

I have one more confession. The thoughts are slurred and distorted, barely conscious as he desperately tries to outlast the sleep trying to pull him under. I didn’t even want to mention it before because I didn’t know how this was all going to go, but… He blinks slowly against your neck even as his eyes droop, only just a few seconds from passing out with exertion. The Sh’inzith lasts six days, dove.

Your eyes pop open in shock just as his finally fall shut, and Obi-Wan stops fighting.

#WE OUT HERE #obi-wan kenobi x you #Obi-wan Kenobi X Reader #obi-wan X reader #obi-wan x you #smut #fanfic #no-droids

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the-infamous-coat-of-baron-zemo · 3 years

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Fall Into You | Laszlo Kreizler x Reader

Alright my friends. Here is my latest piece of insanity.

It is completely raw and unedited. So, if there are a ton of mistakes, I apologize in advance.

What a whirlwind thing this was. I literally only planned to write the last little bit at the end, that was the entire premise and then 7000 more words came along with it.

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This is a partial crossover fic.

TFATWS | The Alienist | Dr. Strange | Loki | universe all mushed together in bits and pieces.

But mostly The Alienist.

Hopefully the characterizations feel okay. Dr. Kreizler and John Moore can be a bit tricky to write and I've never written them before. So, please bear with me on this.

Buckle up. It's going to be a doozy. Kinda.

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Word Count: 6,900 - ish

What happens when you wind up 124 years into the past and meet a relative of Baron Helmut Zemo's?

A lot.

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

It was early evening and you were perched on one of Dr. Kreizler's fine couches, in front of the fireplace, reading a book.

You were waiting for Stevie to drop by and drag you to some musical street performance not terribly far from Dr. Kreizler's residence. Normally, you would have stayed hidden indoors, but you took a liking to the kid when you first met him, and decided you couldn't let him down.

Hopefully Stevie wouldn't drag you out too long, otherwise Dr. Kreizler would start to worry. Although, he would never outright admit to it, but it was the subtle things he did that indicated his concern. Or perhaps it was annoyance. That wouldn't surprise you either. You were loud and very talkative. He'd probably grateful to have to leave his house; so he can finally get some peace and quiet.

Dr. Kreizler always kept to himself and rarely made a display of his feelings to anyone, but you were a good friend of his in the short time you had come to know him. So, you got little peeks into what lay hidden away.

He was gracious enough to allow you stay in his home until you could figure out a way to get back to your own time. One minute you were talking to Wong inside Dr. Strange's sanctum in New York, and the next a portal opened up underneath you and you were falling.

After travelling through an empty void that seemed to go on forever, you finally exited through the other side, which landed you in front of a police precinct. You had looked around after picking yourself up and realized you were in quite the pickle. It didn't take a genius to figure out that this was not your New York.

People were starting to stare at as you took in your surroundings. You initially thought it was because you had randomly fallen out of the sky, but realization had dawned on you; it was because of your clothing.

Ah, yes. You suppose compared to what all the other women were wearing, you were a sight to behold. Jeans, a forest green blouse, and short brown leather jacket, would draw some attention, when all the other women were dressed so conservatively in dresses. You laughed nervously backing away from the small crowd on the sidewalk. You calmly but quickly darted over to a newsie holding up a paper for sale.

You paid the kid a dollar and snatched the paper out of his hand. Not paying attention in the least to his shouts of joy on making so much off of one measly paper, but you were too focused on finding out what time period you were in.

You caught the date at the top of the newspaper: April 1st, 1897.

April Fool's Day.

Typical, something like this would happen to you. Joke's on them, as someone is going to have a hell of time trying to figure out where you went. You're quite sure Wong was trying to sort through what happened and had already calling Strange.

Well, you hope he had.

You put down the paper and tried to think of what to do, but a small crowd of people were still stopped and whispering to each other, pointing in your general direction.

One man was gesturing in your direction and started shouting, but not at you.

"Hey Kreizler, this one looks like a crazy. Should probably haul her off to Bellevue!"

You raised your eyebrow at the man, but didn't say anything, instead choosing to turn and see who he was yelling at.

A very well dressed man wearing a bowler hat was walking down the steps of the police precinct in a rushed sort of manner. He had a cane with him, and it appeared his right arm was tucked against his body as if protecting it. A few steps behind him there was another man darting to catch up with him, also well dressed and carrying what seemed to be a sketchbook.

The guy on the street had yelled at the gentleman in the bowler hat again, which you had assumed at this point was Dr. Kreizler. As the two men reached the bottom of the steps and were about to step into their carriage, the incessant yelling had managed to grab Kreizler's attention. At least it seemed so, because the man with the cane had paused and turned his attention towards the direction of the yelling.

You could see from his body language he wasn't all that interested, but when his eye-line landed on you, he backed away from getting inside.

The other gentleman that was accompanying him, the one with the sketchbook, said something to him, but Dr. Kreizler just waved him off as he started to walk over to you.

Great.

You look over to the rude gentleman that had now drawn even more attention to you and gave him an unappreciative stare.

You steeled yourself, ready for whatever this stranger was going to say to you, but your guard had dropped slightly upon getting a better look at his face.

No way.

This was not possible.

The man that had come over to you was the spitting image of one genius, criminal mastermind and general pain in your ass, you knew all too well. One who's currently locked up in The Raft.

If it wasn't for the beard, you'd swear you were looking at Baron Helmut Zemo.

As Dr. Kreizler stopped a few feet from you, he tilted his head to the side and eyed you warily, but not unkindly.

That head tilt, a family trait for sure. Zemo had to be some distant relative of this man in some way, there's no chance they aren't with how closely the two resemble each other. She'd have to make a trip to The Raft and ask him about it sometime, if she ever got back home.

"My dear, you seem out of sorts. Are you alright?" the man inquired, gazing at the small gathering of people and then back to you.

"I kinda stick out like a sore thumb, yeah?" You laughed as you answer his question, peering down at your outfit.

"Quite," he replied.

You saw while he may be cautious around you, you've seem to grab his interest with the scrutiny and intensity of his gaze.

"If I may introduce myself, my name is Doctor Laszlo Kreizler," the gentleman stated.

Ah, so this was indeed the man who was being called out from the street. You noticed he didn't extend his hand in greeting, but then again perhaps it wasn't a pertinent gesture for the time period either. So, you didn't take offense to it.

Your eyeline moved behind Dr. Kreizler and could see his friend at the carriage watching with interest, but also growing impatience.

You gave a kind smile as you introduced yourself and added, "Thank you for humoring the nosy man over there, but I'm not in need of a doctor. I'm terribly sorry for interrupting your day."

"Not in the least. And I may be a doctor, but I am an alienist more specifically," Kreizler explained.

Your eyebrows shot into your forehead and then contemplated his title. An alienist? Where had you heard that before? If you remembered correctly, an alienist was someone who assessed individuals for competence?

Oh.

The shouty man had mentioned Bellevue. Okay, now you understood.

"An alienist! That term is...." you paused trying to think of a better way to phrase you response. "The term is outdated where I'm from. Instead we simply acknowledge your specific doctorate profession as psychologists, since the very definition of what you do is to study the mind and behavior of individuals," you answered, satisfied with your explanation.

"Outdated. How intriguing. Perhaps we could continue this conversation away from prying eyes and gossipy busy-bodies?" Kreizler asked.

You wouldn't be able to read it on his face, but you can tell you've piqued his interest even more so now with his body language. And his eyes had this sparkle in them as you spoke of his profession so specifically.

Though you felt you could trust this man, you couldn't take the chance that he might, in fact, lure you into his carriage and ship you off to the nearest mental institution, such as Bellevue Hospital.

You'd be lying if you weren't equally intrigued by this enigma of a man standing before you. The resemblance to Baron Zemo was uncanny, and that alone made you want to find out more about him; however, Zemo was not to be trusted as far as you could throw him. Though he did have his moments. You'd give him some credit. Doesn't mean distrustful behavior runs in the family, but it also could. It was a difficult decision.

Your eyes narrowed assessing Dr. Kreizler as you came to decision.

"Shouldn't you give me a mental health assessment test before asking a complete stranger to travel off to who knows where with you? Why shouldn't I be suspicious you aren't going to drop me off at the nearest institute? No offense," you replied warily.

"Thank you!" the man with the sketchbook at the carriage shouted at both you and Dr. Kreizler, clearly in agreement with your answer.

You snickered at his sarcastic reply, but attempted to cover your ever growing smile by coughing.

The corner of Dr. Kreizler's mouth ticked up in a smile as well.

"No my dear, if anything you've just proven you're at least slightly more sane than my counterpart, Mr. John Moore," Dr. Kreizler shook his head and jutted his thumb behind him.

"Heard that Laszlo!" Moore responded with indignation.

"That was the point John," Dr. Kreizler answered back with dry wit.

Yeah, she liked him already.

"Shall we?" Kreizler turned slightly to gesture to his carriage.

You sighed internally. Why the hell not? You had nothing better to do and no idea what your next move should be trying to get home. Dr. Kreizler would no doubt be curious about your attire and that alone with most likely bring up a slew of never ending questions. You'd have to be careful how to explain your situation and make sure what you revealed was limited, but truthful. You wanted to tell him the truth about where you were from, but you needed to word it in a way that doesn't make you out to be a crazy person, but present the information with facts and evidence that Dr. Kreizler could not refute. Luckily you had some tech with you that could prove your point rather efficiently should the need arise you convince him of what time period you come from in the future. 124 years it a length period of time. It would be difficult for anyone to accept your explanation, but Dr. Kreizler seemed to be different. Let's hope you aren't wrong about him.

"I accept your offer Dr. Kreizler, thank you," you spoke kindly.

You were formally introduced to Mr. Moore and to Stevie before getting in the carriage. Mr. Moore seemed uneasy, but went along with Dr. Kreizler's acceptance of you. He was a trusting friend of his, you could tell right away. And something told you, Dr. Kreizler was a tough nut to crack and didn't seem to be the type of person who might have very many. Only a close few.

"What made you decide to take Dr. Kreizler up on his offer so quickly," Moore asked standing outside the carriage as Stevie was getting the horses ready.

Dr. Kreizler had held the door open for you and waited patiently.

You looked at Dr. Kreizler before turning back to Mr. Moore, "You mean besides his sparkling personality?" you winked and got in the carriage.

John leaned into Kreizler before adjusting his hold on his sketchbook and climbing into the carriage himself.

"Oh, well I like her already Laszlo," he grinned incessantly and gave Kreizler a clap on the back.

You saw Dr. Kreizler bend his head down in amused exasperation as a small huff of laughter sounded with the movement. He sighed somewhat dramatically before getting in the carriage and closing the door.

"You know, I've never actually ridden in one of these before," you say slightly awed.

Both Moore and Kreizler gave you confusing looks before Dr. Kreizler used his cane to tap on the rear enclosure signaling Stevie to head home.

Home. Well, this should be interesting indeed.

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

You closed your book with a snap and slumped into the couch you were perched on. It had been six months, since that day. Six months, you've been trapped in this pocket of 1897.

You had reflected back on how well John and Dr. Kreizler had taken the explanation you were from the future. As you told your story, your only requirement was that they wait until the very end before asking any questions. That gave you the chance to be very methodical about how you explained the future and how it was you ended up in 1897, which to be fair, you don't know exactly how that portal opened still, but magic was involved to say the very least.

It was oddly reminiscent of when Loki used the space stone, which gave her pause. All the infinity stones had been destroyed, and yet you knew that there was an errant 2012 Loki running around the universe with one. It is plausible, he could factor into this, but how or why you, you have no idea.

After you had explained your fanatical circumstance, to help prove you weren't absolutely off your rocker and have Dr. Kreizler change his mind about you, you showed them your phone.

Yes, there may not be any service available, but you could still access all your photos and videos and holographic imagery, etc. That was what allowed John and Dr. Kreizler to accept your story; paired with your unique clothes; they had a surprisingly open mind. John had gaped like a fish for a good 10 minutes before Dr. Kreizler told him to get over it already. John was somewhat outraged that he wasn't more shocked by your existence. But like all things, Dr. Kreizler took everything in stride, which was quite a relief to you. He was incredibly understanding and offered a room in his home to you until you were able to get back to your own time. You made a promise to Dr. Kreizler that you would never lie to him, about anything. It was the least you could do since he opened up his home and essentially part of his life to you.

You understood why he was an expert in his field. His patience and intellect allowed him to be open-minded and grasp concepts others word merely scoff at. However, there was another side to that coin; he was also closed off, and could at times, be calculating and manipulative. Though, none of these traits were used in any nefarious manners, they were there all the same.

He reminded you of Zemo to be sure in this regard. Some personality traits apparently do get passed down through the generations. In some ways, after meeting Dr. Kreizler, you felt you knew Helmut Zemo a bit better. And somehow, you missed him. Not that you were ever particularly close to him, but the time you spent with him in Latvia with Sam and Bucky forever altered your opinion of him.

So while you've been living at Dr. Kreizler's residence, in your spare time, you had been working different avenues of how to achieve ways to get home. You couldn't just solely rely on your friends to get you out of this mess. So, while Dr. Kreizler was at work, you enlisted the help of Stevie to run down leads of potential scientist and gathering of general information of the time period to help you put together some sort of road map. None had turned out to be very promising.

You had, over time, gotten more acclimated to living in 1897, though you mostly refused to wear the clothing of the time period. John Moore would always comment about how you would draw attention in the public eye, should you dare to go out. But you refused to give in most of the time, saying that 1897 would just have to catch up to your fashion sense, and you weren't about to apologize for it. If you were going to be stuck here, you were going to be stuck here, comfortably. You fondly remember Dr. Kreizler's reaction. He seemed pleased, possibly proud of you in that moment. Probably because you had refused to conform to the times, and set your own rules to live by. Not giving in to anyone.

The question lingered, how exactly did you get away with living in this time without having to dress in the clothing of the period? Well, a friend of yours, Scott Lang, had gifted you a device that allowed you to chose one object to shrink and return to it's normal size. So, of course, since you traveled so often with the Sam, Bucky and the other Avengers, you chose your wardrobe. You were just thankful you had it on you already when you got dumped into that portal. So, essentially you had all your clothes with you, making things a bit easier.

Life was not fast paced here, which made things a bit difficult for you. You were used to always being on the go, another crisis to fight through, another area of the world that needed help. But here, here everything was, for the most part, quiet.

It drove you nuts sometimes. Made you antsy. You managed to weasel your way into helping John, Sara and Dr. Kreizler on one of their serial killer cases recently to pass the time. Dr. Kreizler was unhappy at first. You were able to prove your usefulness though with advanced techniques and theories on how to potentially catch the killer in question. Be that as it may, Dr. Kreizler still seemed grumpy, if that were the correct word to use, about you working on the case. You confronted him about it one evening, but he glossed over the whole thing. He was holding back, but what that was, you weren't sure. Maybe he still didn't fully trust you yet. It was a fair assumption, but he was always so hard to read. Though you've managed to get a few good laughs out of him from time to time. Those were the days that really made you smile. Seeing him happy, as most of the time he was always so guarded. It made you feel like you and Dr. Kreizler shared this little secret when no one else was around.

Dr. Kreizler let himself relax ever so slightly around you, but it was far and fleeting. On rare occasions. You savored all those memories and tucked them away. Everyone was so refined and conservative in their mannerisms. You missed just wanting to hug someone. You craved some sort of physical affection, and it was hard, realizing just how different the times were from the future. They weren't terrible by any means, but the social norms of the times had been trying on you, to say the very least. Dr. Kreizler, ever astute, had picked up on this.

He had been gracious enough to offer himself if you ever needed to hug someone. This had been roughly 4 months into your stay at Dr. Kreizler's. You both had gotten more comfortable around the other, and even had a routine of sorts. You had thanked him for his offer, and told him you would not abuse the privilege he had bestowed on you.

Something told her there was more to it, but you hadn't dwelled on it, you were simply appreciative of his friendship.

However more recently, it was more than just friendship you felt. You kept squashing your feelings down, telling yourself this was the worst possible time to develop feelings for someone. Especially someone like Dr. Kreizler. There would never be a happy ending. At some point, you would return home, and that would be that. But there was that nagging sensation in the back of your mind, reminding you, you might not ever get back home. You tried to reason to yourself that you were possibly transferring some of your fondness of Zemo to Dr. Kreizler because of how he reminds you of him. But then you were just lying to yourself. Dr. Kreizler was a person all on his own and one of a kind. You knew better, you were just fighting yourself tooth and nail to live in denial a bit longer.

Footsteps from the kitchen were headed in your direction knocking you out of your musings.

You twisted on the couch to see Dr. Kreizler had returned home from his institute.

"Dr. Kreizler! Good evening," you voiced into the low lit parlor room.

"Good evening to you as well, I trust your day was fruitful?" Dr. Kreizler inquired, coming to rest on the opposite end of the couch.

"It was, thank you. I was somewhat restless earlier, so I took it upon myself to work on the cryptogram the killer left his last victim, with the hopes of figuring out his next location before he strikes," you sheepishly stated.

Dr. Kreizler ruefully smiled at you and shook his head. At one time, he might have gotten upset, but he had been taking your antics more in stride, and you managed to be helpful providing much needed information. So, he'd act unhappy, but silently was thrilled.

"And did you uncover anything useful?" Kreizler queried, he got up from his seat and walked over to the chalk board.

"Not completely, I believe I've broken the code word and the book that the killer has been using to write his cryptograms, but I have yet to comb through all the evidence to gather the page numbers, line and word number to crack the full message. I planned on working on it when I got back with Stevie later this evening," you happily expressed while fidgeting with the watch on your wrist.

"Impressive work. And what book has our killer been using?" Kreizler asked, eyes still going over the work on the board.

"Mary Shelley's Frankenstein. You'd think we could have figured that one out sooner given our killer's eclectic methods of murdering people," you answered sarcastically.

Dr. Kreizler bent his knees in utter annoyance, "Of course it is. Of course. How ridiculous to have missed such an obvious choice."

You smiled knowingly. He was irritated he hadn't figured it out sooner.

A companionable silence continued for a few minutes after his outburst.

Dr. Kreizler was still staring at the board with mild interest when he spoke next, "May I ask you a personal question?"

You had just reached over to place the book on the coffee table next to you when he asked his question and you froze mid motion.

Dr. Kreizler generally didn't push too much into your personal life, so this was somewhat out of left field for him. Never-the-less, you recovered after a beat and placed the book on the table.

"Of-of course Dr. Kreizler. I told you I would always be truthful with you regarding anything. Please, go ahead," you answered, motioning for him to continue.

"Why do you always regard me as Dr. Kreizler and not by my first name?" he questioned softly, almost hesitantly.

This was not the question you thought he would ask. There were a million questions he could have chose, but it was this one he went with.

This really was personal.

You glanced down at your hands sitting in your lap as you pondered how to answer his questions. You could lie about it, and he'd be none the wiser, but it's not who you are. And you promised.

Dr. Kreizler went on to further express his inquiry with a bit more confidence, "You call John Moore by his first name and the same with Ms. Howard, including our other friends we work with, but not me. Why?"

You opened your mouth to answer him when the front door slammed open and Stevie came barging in.

"You ready?" he exclaimed loudly. Stevie was clearly excited at the prospect of showing off his musical talent. "Oh, excuse me Dr. Kreizler, I didn't realize you'd gotten home yet. Thought you were working late," Stevie took off his hat and looked sheepish as he apologized for the disruption in his home.

You sighed. This was your saving grace. You could probably make an excuse and make a run for it with Stevie. You mulled over what to do, battling with the decision.

"Hey Stevie. Nice to see you too! Go on outside, I'll be right there. I just need to put my coat on," you laugh at his enthusiasm.

He nodded at you and dashed back down the hallway and out the door. You could hear one last shout as he exited, "Okay, but don't be too long, we're going to be late!"

Dr. Kreizler gave a look of displeasure at Stevie's unrefined outburst, but didn't say anything as he knows his antics all too well from over the years.

You stood up grabbing Dr. Kreizler's attention.

"Walk me to the door?" you ask, jutting your head in the direction of where your coat hangs.

"Do you plan on providing me with an answer?" he kindly jabbed as he nodded his agreement to follow you out.

You outwardly sighed, trying to figure out how to best answer his question. As you both walked to the front door, you start to answer him.

"Okay, so I address you as Dr. Kreizler 33% of the time, because you deserve the respect that comes with that title. You went to school for many years, and you earned it. So, it's only fair to address you as such," you tell him confidently.

A completely reasonable and partial explanation, you thought.

You both reached the front door, and you grabbed your jacket. Dr. Kreizler, the gentleman that he is, assisted you in putting your coat on. You gave yourself a once over in the mirror, making sure you looked okay before heading out.

You caught Dr. Kreizler staring at you in the mirror as you adjusted a stray hair that had fallen onto your face.

"You look lovely," he quietly voiced.

You turned to face him as he had opened the door for you and stepped outside.

"Thank you," you said, a bit bashful by his sudden compliment.

His expression had gotten softer and his eyes were glowing in the evening lit night.

Your resolve was crumbling even more so now.

"And the other 67%?" Kreizler softly spoke, head cocked to the side.

"Hey - Miss! We need to be going!" Stevie cried.

You turned to Stevie and hollered, "One mo, Stevie! Don't lose your head!"

"I'm sorry I have to go otherwise Stevie is going to have a coronary," you apologized to Dr. Kreizler.

You walked down a few steps, but stopped. You couldn't not answer him.

You go up a step but not completely back to where you where standing in front of Dr. Kreizler. You inhaled a deep breath and exhaled before continuing, looking up to see Dr. Kreizler eyeing you with slight confusion and anticipation with your hesitance to answer his question in full.

"And the other 67% of the time, I call you Dr. Kreizler because..because," you drifted off closing your eyes. You open them again with quiet resolve shining through, finding your confidence. You take another step up to now stand just a foot away from where Dr. Kreizler was.

"Because, I love you Laszlo. And I use your professional title as a barrier, to - to remind myself I have boundaries. It's just easier to separate you this way or well, to keep myself living in denial," you quietly and defeatedly said, laying it all out for him.

You wanted to open your mouth to say something else to him, to let him know it was okay he didn't feel the same way, but you could never quite form the words that needed to come out.

The shock was written clearly on his face. You had completely gob-smacked this man. His eyes had widened considerably and his jaw had gone slack from your answer.

But he never said anything back. You weren't expecting him to.

So instead, you did what you did best. Ran.

"You've got your answer. I-I really have to go now, I'll see you later," you stuttered out, suddenly drained from your revelation.

You took one last glance at Dr. Kreizler before making a mad dash for it with Stevie.

You were gone before Dr. Kreizler recovered from what just happened. And you never got to see the expression on his face after.

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

#the alienist #laszlo kreizler #laszlo kreizler x reader #helmut zemo x reader #tfatws #helmut zemo #mcu fic #crossover #my writing

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arts-and-drafts · 3 years

Text

Linger (Hermit Tommy AU)

(A discussion about scars. This one has been in the bucket for a long time, and it's finally done! Enjoy!!)

TW: Permanent injury, bodily harm, scars, overdose mention

Tommy's in pain.

The hermits mistook his ever tense posture for wariness, his pinched expression seeming only a front to those Tommy distrusted. They hope it will ease with time, and they are patient.

They turn out to be right. Slowly, Tommy gets used to them, relaxes, smiles more and yells less.

But he's still tense, and his face still twists occasionally in what the hermits start to realize is hurt rather than intimidation after completing simple tasks like lifting shulker boxes.

It's False who notices Tommy's not right handed.

He's a damn good fighter, as dirty as his shots are and as rough his technique is. Tommy fights like his life depends on it, and in that situation there's no room for fancy footwork or skillful swordplay. But looking impressive is not a requirement for being good at PVP, and the scuffed up teenager is a prime example of that.

Tommy's scars are evidence that he just encountered someone better.

Besides his crude offensive, False notices he's also clumsy. Tommy always draws his weapon with his left, and yes, he switches to his right as soon as it's in his hand, but as sporadic as Tommy likes to be, that doesn't add up.

False sees him get jumped by a creeper, once, and in the miniscule time alloted to attack, Tommy drew and swung with his left. Instinctually.

False then sees him grimace when the creeper explodes, and he drops his weapon to knead his left shoulder. That is when it clicks.

"Tom." False tries to sound casual on break from sparring with the kid the next day, watching him carefully from her periphery while she feigns busying herself with her water bottle.

Tommy grunts in acknowledgment, and False takes a breath.

"How come you always switch to your right when you're fighting?" She treads carefully. Tommy doesn't like it when the hermits pry, and he definitely doesn't like it when they're as observant of him as False is.

Thankfully, it doesn't look like Tommy reads into the question too much. "I'm right handed." He says simply, and False knows it's a lie, but his nonchalance would absolutely fool her if she didn't know the truth.

Now is when False would normally nod, and change the subject. But Tommy's hurting, and a part of her just can't let that go.

"See, you're not." False says lightly, abandoning all pretense. Tommy tenses next to her, more than he already is.

"You draw with your left. You wouldn't do that if you were right handed. Why don't you fight like that?" False asks. She doesn't grill him on how he got hurt, or why he hides it. She's being risky enough as is with her flat-out asking, and she's not certain she'll get an answer from the kid if she pushes any further.

Tommy swallows, and his left hand flexes unconsciously. "It, uh. Hurts." Tommy says. False waits patiently.

"I got hit. There. By a Wither, y'know." Tommy continues, and False finally feels a different emotion than calm worry. Sympathy and slight horror twist in her chest, and she's thankful she doesn't need to speak so Tommy can keep talking.

But he doesn't talk, and instead pulls off his shirt in the most difficult way possible since he moves his left arm as little as he can. False's eyes widen as blackened skin is revealed, spreading over the poor kid's entire left shoulderblade and down his arm and chest, dangerously close to his heart. If False were to touch it, she'd know the skin would be cold and dead, barely hanging on to Tommy's body anymore.

False lets out a horrified breath instead, feeling as if the wind got knocked out of her lungs.

There is no cure for being withered, if you don't have milk on hand directly after a hit. Those marks stay with you for life.

But Tommy is 16. Tommy has barely started his life, and he's already bearing an injury that will last with him until the end of his time. False feels bile rise in her throat. Whether it's cause of grief or anger, she can't tell. All she knows is that Withers aren't made on accident. There is a story here.

A story she has no right to know.

"Gods, Tommy, I'm--I'm sorry." False utters helplessly, because she just doesn't know what else to say. Tommy stiffens.

"Not your fault." He says curtly, his words edged with a familiar tone of sharpness that he takes when he feels someone is taking pity on him. False scrambles to save the situation.

"Scar's had some run ins with a Wither. Impulse, too." False comments, and pretends not to see Tommy's face flicker in surprise.

"I'm sure they have some tips, if you're interested." False continues, holding back the desperation she feels with every drop of willpower she possesses to not scare Tommy off. "You'd be a much better fighter if you could use both hands." She adds gently, and a wave of relief crashes over her as Tommy's eyes light up with recognition of opportunity.

Tommy utters an eerily mischievous laugh that False can't help but smile at. "Ohhh-ho, I'm gonna be so fuckin' powerful--they call me dual blade Innit!! I'm gonna dual blade your ass!"

False laughs out loud at that, the icy horror in her chest loosening for only a moment. "Void help us." She comments sarcastically. "Go on then, see Scar first. He's got magic crystals that I hear are good to help pain."

Tommy's face flickers, so quickly that False barely sees it before it's gone. But the expression was bare exhaustion, a kind of weariness that False has never really seen before.

False could guess that Tommy's been in pain for most of his life. No wonder he's tired. No wonder he nearly overdosed on gapples for the absorption they provided when exposed to the hermit's infinite supply. No wonder he doesn't move quickly unless he has to.

Several things click into place as Tommy pulls his shirt back over his head, and the conclusion leaves a lead weight in False's gut.

It's not her business to know what happened to this boy barely old enough to attend MCC that gave him lifetimes of scars both inside and out. She knows her fellow hermits who have been her friends for years have secrets they will never share, and she's made her peace with that a long time ago. For Tommy, it's no different.

But as False watches him gingerly make his way down from the top of her base to the portal, she just wants to know why that fate was seemingly a deserving one for a child to bear.

END.

#meraki post #hermit tommy au #tw drug mention #tw injury #tw scars #fond of this one #hermitcraft fic #dream smp fic #kind of

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crash-cinematic-universe · 3 years

Text

tiger lilies, self destructing, and richard siken

pairing: peter maximoff/reader

summary: to peter maximoff, love is an anomaly that scares him more than anything else. however, you might be able to help him overcome his fear.

warnings: language! but that’s about it. kind of cheesy at some points but yknow what im not lactose intolerant

notes: this is the monsterous fic thats been kicking my ass this past week (6.2k words babey!!!) i was originally going to add ~~steamy~~ section to this one but i decided against it to make it readable for those who don’t wanna see that kind of stuff. if you want me to separately publish that then just lmk!! (if any of yall wanna talk about richard siken to me then please do, his work is so good)

taglist: @stranger-names , @gooseyhouse , @parkersdarling

To Peter Maximoff, physical affection has always been a touchy subject-- no pun intended. His speed is a blessing, but also a bitter curse. He moves at the speed of sound, bouncing off the walls and tearing up the roads; he moves impossibly fast, and no one ever tries to catch up with him. People get tired of Peter rather quickly, not bothering to get attached to him when they know they can’t keep up.

That’s why it’s so jarringly startling when you decide to stick around. When faced with the grand decision of throwing in the towel and leaving Peter behind or sticking around and trying your best, you chose the latter. It was surprising, to say the least. Peter waited patiently for the distance between the two of you to start growing; he waited for the void you once filled to open up again. However, the void never emptied, and the distance never grew.

To anyone else, this would be a wonderful experience. Knowing that you wouldn’t be left behind or forgotten about would be comforting to anyone else in Peter’s position. However, this did the exact opposite for Peter. He wasn’t comforted or relaxed, on the contrary, he was always on edge. The future was cruel, and the mystery of it all felt like torture.

To quote the great Richard Silken, “Someone has to leave first. This is a very old story. There is no other version of this story.” Peter lived and breathed by this ideology, that everyone he loves would have to leave eventually, whether it be by their own volition or not. It was obvious that you didn’t plan on abandoning ship anytime soon, so Peter decided he’d take matters into his own hands. If you weren’t going to be the first one to walk away, then he’d be the one to run away from you. He soon came to learn that loneliness was at its most bitter when you’ve come to taste the sweetness of love.

Love was a strange, complicated beast that Peter Maximoff had never dealt with before. If he were to be completely honest, love scared him. It scared him more than dying scared him. To Peter, death was an escape. Death was the end of a tiring journey, it was safe and simple and easy. Love was the opposite, it was the mouth of a dragon and the edge of a blade. It was the beginning to something so fragile and powerful, something that could end in flames.

Peter realized he loved you on a summer afternoon. The sun was shining and you were in the shade. He sat down next to you, and within minutes Kurt and Ororo appeared at your side. They seemed so put together, so sure and strong. Peter felt out of place-- he felt as if he were standing outside of a cabin looking in through the window at your wonderful friendships. He watched with his nose pressed against the glass as you walked across the room and opened the cabin door to let him in.

Peter realized he was in love with you in the middle of the night. A thunderstorm raged outside the mansion walls and raindrops kept time as Peter walked down the hallway. You were sitting on the floor of the common room next to a dying fire, a book clenched tightly in your hands. For a moment, he just stood against a wall and watched you. As creepy as he felt, a part of him believed he’d ruin your night by making himself known. He was okay with being a fly on the wall if it meant he’d get to see you. Peter wondered if there was a world where he had the pleasure of knowing you, without you having the burden of knowing him.

Still, you saw him. And you knew him. And you waved him over with a smile. He felt the urge to run, to leave you here alone with yourself, but he stayed put. Then, one step at a time, he moved forward. He got closer and closer before he found himself standing at your feet.

“You’re welcome to stay,” you told him. He believed it. Peter sat down next to you, letting his shoulder brush against yours.

“What’re you reading?” He asked. Peter already knew what you were reading, he read the cover of the book the moment he sat down, but he still wanted to hear it from you.

“Crush by Richard Siken,”

“Oh. What’s it about?” Peter already knew what it was about. He’d read it at least fifty times.

“It’s kind of hard to explain. I’d much rather just read it to you and let you decide for yourself,” Peter’s stupid little heart lurched, and he almost cried at the thought. He held it together, though.

“That would be nice,” He said softly.

“Sorry about all the writing in the margins, I can’t help myself sometimes.” Peter scanned the sides of the pages, marveling at your notes. Some of them were reactions, littered with exclamation points and question marks and bold letters. Some of them were underlined phrases and little doodles-- most notably a little drawing of a chameleon on a tiger lily. He loved them.

“It’s okay. Literature is meant to be marked up-- what’s the point of reading if you don’t get to share the love?”

“That’s a good point,” You grinned. Then, the reading began, and you allowed Peter to rest his head on your shoulder as you read to him. Even though he’d heard the poems a billion times by now, they sounded brand new coming from you. He listened closely. You were arriving at his favorite part, “You are Jeff” section 24.

“You’re in a car with a beautiful boy, and he won’t tell you that he loves you, but he loves you...” You read on, not noticing the way Peter’s eyes had shifted from the book you were holding to your face. Peter’s mind wanders, and he curses himself for missing the lines you were reading “... You’re in a car with a beautiful boy, and you’re trying not to tell him that you love him, and you’re trying to choke down the feeling, and you’re trembling, but he reaches over and he touches you, like a prayer for which no words exist, and you feel your heart taking root in your body, like you’ve discovered something you didn’t even have a name for.”

Peter felt like he was going to cry. You kept reading and he kept looking. It was getting late, and Peter was getting tired. Your voice had softened and slowed, and the fire that was burning in the fireplace had all but died. Peter was the one that fell asleep first, and you followed closely after. Both of you had lingering smiles on your faces.

Intimacy is an odd thing, isn’t it? Thinking critically, intimacy is just vulnerability with more layers. It’s the closeness between people, it’s allowing yourself to connect with someone you care about. It’s stripping yourself down to muscle and bone and hoping the other person doesn’t let you bleed out. It’s a level of trust that is more than closing your eyes and falling backwards; it’s closing your eyes and letting them push you over the edge into the unknown, and trusting them enough to know you’ll be okay when you hit the ground.

It didn’t take long for Peter to realize that he had trouble with being intimate with other people. Too many times had trusted someone to push him over the edge, only to realize he’d be shattered when he hits the ground. After that, he decided intimacy was overrated. It’s not like anyone was going to have that kind of relationship with him, anyway.

Of course, then you came along and uprooted his entire worldview, like you had with everything else. He found himself thinking about you at every waking moment, which inevitably led to him… thinking about you at every waking moment, if you catch my drift. Sure, intimacy involves more than just physical intimacy, but Peter knows he can’t ignore the feeling that rises in his stomach whenever he’s around you. For the first year or so of your relationship, Peter became very familiar with the feeling of an ice-cold shower.

What Peter didn’t take into consideration was you. For some reason, Peter struggled to understand the fact that you were just as attracted to him as he was attracted to you. It was no secret that Peter was insecure, but he never really realized how much his insecurity affected his relationships. If he couldn’t love himself, how could anyone else? Peter is the only one who gets to see his persona in its truest form, and every time he has to avert his eyes. It’s safe to say his physical appearance has been the cause of very many painful-- and occasionally tear-filled-- sleepless nights.

He told you this. He told you everything. He told you about Erik, he told you about his childhood, he told you about everything he loved and hated and feared and yearned for. That ordeal alone was scary enough, knowing that at any moment you could decide you didn’t want to deal with him anymore, but as always, you stuck around. You told him everything. You told him about your family and your struggles. You told him about everything you loved and hated and feared and yearned for, and not once did Peter even think that he wanted to walk away. This is the kind of intimacy that, over the years, Peter had struggled with less and less.

Still, it was the sexual aspect of intimacy that freaked him out. It was a beast he’d never dealt with, a feat he’d never faced. That being said, as every day went by Peter became more and more… frustrated. He didn’t know how to approach the subject, so he'd just let the subject approach him and wing it.

And as he sat on his bed watching as you twirled around to Tears for Fears “Everybody Wants To Rule The World”, Peter realized he didn’t have much to worry about.

“Dance with me, dollface,” you laughed, reaching out for him. You looked like someone straight out of a movie, the lim blue light coming from Peter’s arcade machines illuminating a halo above your head. You put Molly Ringwald and Emilio Estevez to shame. Peter took your hand, grinning like an idiot as you twirled him around.

There he was, dancing in his mother’s basement with his favorite person in the entire world. He wasn’t a great dancer, and neither were you, but that didn’t matter. Peter was dreading this visit-- he hated the idea of being back in the basement that made him feel like a failure. But you assured him that you’d be there with him, and that getting to see his family would make it all worth it. His family isn’t what made it worth it, though.

“Brain Damage” by Pink Floyd came next, slower and a bit more somber, but still danceable. Your arms shifted to around his neck, pulling him closer than he already was. Somehow, you ended up with your back against the wall as the song came to a close. He kissed your forehead, then your cheek, then your lips.

“I love you,” Peter spoke softly. This was a small victory-- he’d been so scared of the mere idea of loving someone. You were the only one who got to hear his love confessions. They were for you, and for you only.

“I love you too,” Peter would never, ever get tired of hearing that. Knowing that you love him is enough to keep him going for a hundred years. And he knows the odds, he knows that love is rocky and painful as much as it is beautiful. He knows that love can feel sweet in the beginning and go sour overtime. He knows that first, second, third relationships don’t always work out. But he thinks this is going to work out. And Peter doesn’t think this will ever go sour. Maybe that’s his blissful ignorance talking, maybe he’s jinxing it, but at this moment, he doesn’t care. Right now he is at his happiest, at his most content.

“You wanna watch a movie?” You asked softly, pecking Peter on the cheek. He could feel the warmth radiating off of you, and Peter grinned. In an instant the tv across the room began playing the opening credits to the first movie that popped into his head.

“The Breakfast Club?” You questioned. Peter shrugged.

“What can I say, I’m a sucker for a good coming-of-age kind of movie,”

You sat against the headboard of Peter’s bed, allowing Peter to settle beside you. Your head rested on his shoulder, and he was quick to grab your hand. Peter loved the closeness. Over the past year, he’d come to realize he was a very affectionate person. Previously, Peter hadn’t known soft, physical love; the only time anyone would ever touch him would be as punishment or defense, not love. Love. Peter had gotten more comfortable with the idea of love, because when he thinks of love he thinks of you.

Every good story has a villain. A villain that you love to hate, or hate to love. A villain you can sympathize with, a villain you can’t excuse, a villain that the mere mention of makes you sick to your stomach. An unexpected villain. An obvious villain. A villain that’s just trying his goddamn best. Sometimes the villain is defeated, sometimes the villain changes their evil ways. Sometimes the villain dies and the crowd cheers.

Peter Maximoff never thought he’d be the villain of his own story. He tried his hardest to be a good person, but there was always that side of him that made him afraid. He was like an explosive; whenever someone got too close, he’d detonate and destroy everything around him. It was a self-defense tactic, albeit counterproductive.

It killed you to see him that way. He told you about the relationships he’d lost to himself. He told you about the abandonment and the loneliness. It broke your heart. He tried to distract himself, drowning himself in work so he’d never have the opportunity to ruin what he had with you. Peter Maximoff was a walnut tree; every time he planted his roots and began to grow, he’d kill anything that grew too close. However, the constant working started to wear Peter down.

It started with the late nights. He’d collapse next to you at four AM, knocking out the minute his head hit the pillow. Still, he’d be awake before you were, already scrambling around trying to complete various tasks. He was like a machine that was running from it’s problems. The late nights turned to all-nighters, and the few hours Peter managed to salvage set aside for sleep had shrunk to a few minutes at a time. He didn’t eat anything with even a hint of nutritional value. At this rate, he was going to work himself to death.

The worst part? Peter knew what he was doing. He wasn’t stupid. He just needed to shut up the little voice in his head that urged him to act out. The entirety of his childhood, Peter destroyed what he created. The need to be isolated, the feeling that he deserves to be alone spread throughout his body like a cancer. He locked himself away in the basement, trying desperately to stay out of everyone’s way so they wouldn’t shut him out. People tried to coerce him out of his cave, to pull him out of the bottomless pit he threw himself into. Peter saw them as the sirens trying to lure him into the ocean of loneliness, and he wasn’t going to fall for it. In his eyes, anyone who tried to help him were the villains of his amazing, heroic tale. Fortunately for him, one by one, they started to give up on helping him. They thought he was a lost cause; a fucking loser who was destined to wallow in his own self-pity until he died. At first, this was a triumph. He defeated them, he outwitted the sphinx and slayed the dragon. But a part of him hated himself for becoming the worst-case scenario that every parent feared their child would grow up to be.

He pulled himself out of his pit and back onto his feet, all by himself. It was hell on Earth, but he did it. That cancerous feeling of uselessness retracted back into itself, now residing in the place next to Peter’s heart. However, that horrifying fear of becoming a burden began to grow again, this time when Peter was in his mid-20s. He began to overcompensate, and that led him to where he was; always on the brink of collapse, running on nothing but coffee and twenty minutes of sleep. In return, Peter got to have friends. In his mind, that was fair. In your mind? Not even close.

You managed to catch him in his bedroom as he was in the midst of simultaneously scribbling in a notebook and reading an open novel. Peter Maximoff would always be the most beautiful person in the world in your eyes, but at that moment, he looked like hell. Your plan seemed foolproof, but then again, you weren’t sure what you were walking into. Lately, Peter didn’t seem like himself. Probably because of the lack of sleep.

“Peter?” He looked up at you, eyes half-lidded. “I got you something.”

“You did?” A sleepy smile was all he could muster, but that was google enough for you.

“I did. It’s to mark exactly three years since I first met you,” you sat down on his bed, placing the small wrapped book right next to you. Peter glanced at the calendar on the wall-- oh god, you were right. It’s been three years to the day and he forgot. He deserves the title of “World’s Worst Boyfriend”. Scott will probably be upset that he’s losing his title.

“What’re you up to?”

“Finishing up some old work I’ve been putting off,” he punctuated his sentence with a yawn. “Some of my old work and some of Hank’s, too.” “Why are you doing Hank’s work?”

“He seemed stressed about something, thought I might help clear his head,” The sentiment is sweet, you’ll give him that.

“Alright, well, can we talk for a minute?” Alarm bells went off in Peter’s brain. There has never, in the history of the universe, been a good conversation that started with ‘can we talk for a minute?’ or any of it’s cruel variants.

“Actually, I’m kind of busy right now, can this wait?” It was obvious that the answer to that was no, but still, he felt the need to ask.

“Not really, no. It’s important.” Peter saw the next few seconds playing out in his head. The inevitable had come to fruition; you realized that you could do better, and now you were cutting him loose. He couldn’t blame you, not really, but that didn’t mean it wasn’t going to rip him to shreds. He realized that whatever you brought for him was most likely a parting gift. How sweet.

“Oh. Alright.”

“Well, I’m going to give it to you straight,” you sighed. “I’m worried about you, Peter.”

Oh. He’s heard this speech before, he knows the spiel. He can vaguely recall a guidance counselor telling him the exact same thing before Peter decided to call him a slew of expletives. The tar pit in his chest began to grow.

“I’m fine.” This was a lie. The first lie in a long chain of lies that Peter was about to tell to you, his favorite person in the world. He loved you, but in that moment his vision clouded over. You weren’t the person he loved and cherished anymore, no, you were just another faceless blur that provided a temporary escape.

“Really? I feel like you’re pushing everyone away, you’re pushing me away.” Peter was becoming more and more irritated by the second.

“I told you, I’m fine. I’m not pushing you away.

“Don’t lie to me,” your voice is firm and unwavering. “You don’t sleep, you almost never eat-- I don’t think I’ve seen you stand still for more than three minutes once in the past month--”

“That’s just how I am,” Peter huffs. He wanted this conversation to be over. “That’s not your problem.”

“Your wellbeing is my problem, Peter, that’s the whole point of being friends with someone. Even more so now, because you’re my partner and I care about you--”

“Then stop,” Peter rolled his eyes. He's more irritable than normal-- most likely because he hasn’t slept in days. He could almost feel the venomous arms of isolation creeping around him. It’s a sick pattern, he knows; every time someone gets close to him, he feels the need to self-destruct before they lose interest. Even now, even after all this time, Peter’s still powerless against the poison in his veins.

“What?” You’re losing your reserve and your stature. He can tell. You’re slouching and picking at the cuticles on your thumb. It’s almost as if he’s been shoved into the back seat, and is now being forced to watch as a stranger takes the wheel and crashes the car. So much frustration, so much hurt, and it’s all coming out right now, onto you. Peter already regrets this entire interaction, but still, he manages to spit acid.

“Stop caring. Just leave, I know you want to. I know every night, you lie awake and think about all the different ways you can leave me in the dust. Not that it would matter to me.” This is another lie. Your eyes flash with hurt, but you stay put. You know he’s just being an asshole because he’s exhausted and too stubborn to admit that you’re right. He’s egging you on intentionally, trying to get you to snap and walk away.

“Peter, god, I love you but sometimes you can be so...”

“So what? C’mon, be honest with me,” He huffed.

“Frustrating,” You surrendered. The poise you once held was gone. “I know it isn’t your fault-- I know you’ve trusted so many people so deeply and been betrayed or sold out and I know you’ve loved so many times and been thrown to the curb without a second thought. But I don’t know what I can do to convince you that I’m here for you, and that I love you. I’ve tried everything, and it feels like I’m talking to a brick wall. I want to make this work, but I need you to work with me.” It’s evident in your voice that you’re desperate. You’re just hoping you’ll get through to him, somehow. “I need you to want it as bad as I do-- hell, I need you to want it at all.” Here it comes--

“You ever think, maybe, I just don’t want you to be that person for me? I’ve spent my life being independent, my entire existence so far has been built around the fact that I’m going to end up alone. People come and people go-- people like you and Charles-- and they tell me they care. They tell me that they love me and that they're here for me. And then they get tired of me and they leave. I wish that you would just leave me the fuck alone and let me live in solitude,” There it was. The lie to end all lies. The words tasted awful coming out of his mouth, and the whole ordeal left his mouth tasting very… sour. Peter had to look away, he couldn’t look at the expression on your face.

“Fine. If that’s what you want.” Your eyes never met his, but you paused before you exited the room. “I know you’re probably just… I don’t know, going through something, but you’re being an asshole. Don’t talk to me until you’ve sorted your shit out. Enjoy your solitude.” You left the room impossibly fast, your fists clenched so tightly Peter feared that your nails would break the skin on your palms. He struggled to keep it together-- why the fuck did he do that?

Peter collapsed onto his bed, and it’s only then that he realized you left behind the gift you got him. A part of him thought he should return it to you, but the other part of him urged for it to be opened. He tore the wrapping paper off before he realized what he was doing. The hardcover book the wrapping paper concealed was handbound, the cover littered with your beautifully familiar handwriting. In big, bold letters The Best of Poetry in the Humble Opinion of Y/n L/n was scrawled at the top.

Peter vividly remembers a late night you spent talking to him. You told him about your favorite poems, outlining each and every little detail you loved about them. Some of them he’d read already, some of them he hadn’t, but all of them sounded like artwork coming from you. He opened the front cover, and you’d written something else on the inside.

“In the words of the wonderful Peter Maximoff, ‘What’s the point of reading if you don’t get to share the love?’. This is me, sharing the love.”

Carefully, Peter opened to a random page in the book. He saw the notes in the margins and the doodles and the exclamation points and before he knew it Peter was on the verge of tears. He was barely containing himself, and then he read a specific annotation you made.

He had opened to the first page of “The Worm King’s Lullaby”, one of your all-time favorites. A specific line was underlined, one that Peter was all too familiar with: “Someone has to leave first. This is a very old story. There is no other version of this story.” Beside it, you wrote:

“As much of a genius Mr. Siken is, I have to disagree with this. If you love someone enough, you’ll never leave them and they’ll never leave you. Even if they die, even if things don’t work out, you’ll always have a little part of them to carry with you. Carry this part of me with you, Peter. Not that I plan on leaving anytime soon.”

That was it. The floodgates broke. Everything that Peter had held back came pouring out-- the past 10 minutes finally caught up with him, and they hit him like a bus. He sat in the corner of his bedroom, his knees pulled up to his chest so tightly he thought his legs would snap. Peter wanted to rip all his hair out or punch a hole in the wall or hold his head underwater until he was nothing but an obituary and a headstone. His chest burned and the pit of despair inside his chest had overtaken his system, and he hated himself with a burning passion. Why did he do that? Why did he do that? Why the fuck did he do that?

Peter Maximoff had his breakdown in solitude, revealing in the fact that he was, undeniably, the villain of his own life.

As it turns out, ‘getting his shit together’ is much harder than Peter originally anticipated. He's trying, he really is, but it's hard. Especially without you there. Peter knows that he fucked up, and he knows that he needs to work for your forgiveness. And don’t worry, he’s going to work for it.

It had only been a week, but the entire mansion could tell that something was off. Life just wasn’t the same without the randomized gusts of wind that would knock people off their feet; no one had been seriously injured or had something stolen from them. The whirlwind that was mansion life, while still chaotic, lost it’s fun.

Charles tried to keep things running smoothly, but he was an old man and didn’t exactly understand you and Peter. People would knock on your door every now and then, but you didn’t answer. You were much too busy analyzing exactly how much of a bitch you were being-- realistically, the answer is 0%, but you didn’t see it that way. No, from your perspective, you saw Peter having a mental breakdown and you ditched him. Pretty shitty move.

What you didn’t realize was that Peter was doing the exact same thing, however, the blame falls mostly on his shoulders, and boy does he know it. He’s been scripting his grand apology, trying desperately to find the right words to express exactly how sorry he is. Peter was never very good with words-- it’s always too hard to know if you’re going to say the wrong thing and mess everything up. Although, it’s hard to see how the scenario could get any worse.

He made the executive decision to start with “I’m sorry”-- a solid start to any apology. Sure, he could stop there, but Peter realized that he’d probably need more to win back his partner. So, he managed to scribble down a few more lines on a tiny notecard he was supposed to use for studying. Oh, what a wondrous redemption arc this would be; Peter gets into a fight with his wonderful partner and ruins their relationship and then struggles to come up with a coherent apology.

“I’m sorry about what I said, that was shitty. I shouldn’t have said that.” Peter’s eyebrows furrowed in frustration. God, he was going to die alone, wasn’t he? Maybe this is the cruel punishment the world is dealing to him, the universe is deciding that Peter’s redemption arc would be better if it, well, didn’t exist. Even so, he isn’t planning on giving up or giving in just yet.

He scrapped what he had so far and started at the beginning once again. His 9th grade english teacher would tell him to write about what he knows, and though he doesn’t know much, he’s an expert when it comes to himself. Peter knows how he feels about you, he knows how sorry he is, and he knows that he really, really, really wants you to know that he didn’t mean a word he said about not wanting you. Peter knows about love, at least a little bit, and he realizes he’ll need more than just words.

His mind drifts to that night, years ago, in front of the fireplace. He vividly remembers a tiger lily and a chameleon scribbled in the margins of your book. Realistically, Peter couldn’t get his hands on a chameleon, but a tiger lily was a different story. In high school, Peter took a botany course because he thought it’d be easy. It wasn’t, it was boring as all hell, but it seems like his slacking paid off. He knew tiger lilies were indigenous to Asia, but they’d become quite common along New England-area roadways.

Peter grabbed his jacket and took off, tearing through the roads like his life depended on it. In less than 10 minutes, Peter found himself in the middle of New Hampshire drenched in rain. In hindsight, he probably should’ve checked the weather before leaving. Nevertheless, he takes off into the small wooded area that laid passed the road’s end. Dozens of mushrooms dotted the muddy ground and mossy rocks clouded his peripheral vision. The rain begins to lighten as he spots a bright orange tiger lily peeking through the remains of a tree stump. He sprints over to it.

The tiger lily is bloomed and beautiful and Peter can’t tear his eyes away from the wide array of speckles and splotches and color. It’s pristine, but some of the petals are torn or wilting. The roots stretch into the stump below it, and Peter leans closer. The stump is old and worn, fungi and bugs eat away at the base next to a large hole where a family of worms reside. The stump is ugly, sure, but it’s useful. It helps keep the bugs fed and keeps the worms warm. There’s a metaphor here somewhere, but Peter is too distracted to find it.

He gently picks the flower and spins on his heel, taking off once again. The rain makes it harder to run, but it’ll take a lot more than water to stop Peter. By the time Peter gets back to Xavier’s the flower is a little crushed, but it’s still somewhat pristine.

He has the flower, he has the apology, and now all he needs is courage. Thankfully, that courage comes quickly as he instinctively knocks on your bedroom door. He probably should’ve stopped to collect himself, but he was riding a wave of adrenaline that wouldn’t come back.

“Go away, Jean,” You called from inside. You sounded tired, and it made Peter sad.

“It’s-- uh-- it’s not Jean,” Peter can hear your hesitant footsteps approaching the door, and suddenly the courage he managed to build up drained. His hands are shaking by the time you open the door. You look up at him, and Peter looks back at you, and suddenly everything is much harder to do. He looks down at his feet.

“Hi.” Your voice is hoarse, but clear.

“Hi.” Peter’s voice is uneven and quiet. You stand there in silence for a minute before Peter pipes up again.

“So, uh, you’re probably still mad at me and I get that, but I just want you to hear me out. I-If that’s okay,” You nod slowly, and Peter takes a deep breath. He thinks about the written apology that sat in his coat pocket, and he makes the last-minute decision to forget about it. He’ll speak from the heart, or, whatever people in rom-coms do.

“I’m sorry. It was really shitty of me to get angry at you because you were worried about me-- although, I guess shitty is an understatement. Everything that I said about, yknow, not wanting you or Charles or anyone else around anymore wasn’t true. I need you guys, and I love you guys and it was unfair of me to push you away. Solitude really sucks. I guess I’m just not very good at navigating relationships,” He exhales, and his chest shudders. “I understand if you don’t want to be with me anymore, I just thought I should make it clear how I feel.” It’s only then that he remembers about the tiger lily in his hand. “Oh, and this is for you.”

“A tiger lily?” you smiled softly. “These are my favorite-- how did you know?”

“I’m just observant, I guess. You usually draw them when you’re bored, I figured you’d like to see one in person,” You gently took the tiger lily in your hand. The silence that hung in the air was deafening, and Peter realized that was probably a bad sign. His chest drops just a bit, and he takes a small step backwards.

“I guess I should probably leave you alone--” Peter can’t get very far, because you immediately jump forward and wrap your arms around him. Eyes wide and heart pounding, you can feel Peter’s arms lock around your waist.

“Thank you,” You whispered. “Please don’t go.” Peter was smiling so hard his cheeks ached, and a horrible weight had been lifted off his shoulders. The close-contact was refreshing; he didn’t realize how much he missed it until that moment. He was pretty sure he would never, ever let you go. Not again.

To Peter Maximoff, physical affection has always been a touchy subject-- that is, until you came along. You proved to him that he deserved physical affection, that his mutation and his personality and weirdo quirks didn’t make him lesser or unlovable. Peter Maximoff deserved love, and you were the one who never failed to love him.

You sat on a wooden chair in front of the fireplace, reading to the group of children sitting at your feet. The emotional lines of “Snow and Dirty Rain” fell from your lips, and with every turning syllable the small group would listen just a little bit closer. Peter did, too, desperately trying to hear every single word you said. Class was almost over, and once the students were dismissed you’d probably stop reading.

“I made this place for you. A place for you to love me. If this isn't a kingdom then I don't know what is,” Your eyes tore away from the page to look at the kids at your feet. They fell upon Peter, and a smile erupted on your face.

Peter vaguely recalls the twisted idea of love that he held as a teenager. He thought love was a dragon to be defeated, a battle that could be won or lost. It’s clear now that love is the opposite-- it isn’t a fight or a battle or a thing to be conquered. It’s more like a flower; it needs to be cherished and cared for in order to grow. Sometimes the flower wilts and dies, and that’s natural, but sometimes the flower lasts for a lifetime.

Love wasn’t a dragon or a knight, it didn’t have a hero or a villain; it was much more like a tiger lily and a tree stump.

#Evan Peters #peter maximoff #pietro maximoff #pietro maximoff x reader #peter maximoff x reader #wandavision #xmen fanfiction #xmen

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literaila · 3 years

Note

If you’re still doing requests, what about a loki x reader where he plans a date around asgard? Pure fluff as he tries to impress reader

a perfect sort of different

loki x gn!reader

a/n: went with more of a “loki moments” type thing but. it was very fun to daydream..sooo.

the pure rush of colors was magnificent.

it felt like so many things, so many bright lights flying past you at once, so many seconds condensed into not even one, and so many smiles lived through the blur of everything.

you’d been worried about the Bifrost— loki spoke of it with a brilliant smile on his face, mischievous glint in his eyes. but now, seeing it for yourself, you understood that look.

and you felt a little dizzy.

loki is holding onto your arm when you regain composure and look around, you’re barely aware that he’s the only thing holding you up.

it’s different here, strange. your eyes are squinted, tired from all the colors but you still manage to look around.

strange.

“—darling?”

your head tilts to look at loki, whos staring at you with all the confusion of a mighty god. he must not even realize how disorienting the bifrost could be.

“yes?” you whisper, surprised by how your voice sounds. it’s different, strange, but feels smooth. you smile as you breathe out, enjoying this sensation.

loki looks amused when you meet his eyes again, and finally, he lets go of your arm, turning around.

your eyes drift past him, to the walls, the floor, the weird thing in the middle of the room, and finally, someone else.

you hadn’t even noticed the person standing there, proper-like, sword in hand. he’s staring at you, eyes a strong, strange type of gold. he doesn’t look unkind, but still, your smile is hesitant.

you wish there was a directory for this sort of thing.

“thank you, heimdall,” loki quips, not bothering to look over to the man, and walking past without a breath.

his strange tone of voice doesn’t escape your ears. you stare after him, his long immortal strides, noting the tension in his back.

“shall i let your father know that you’re here with— ahem —your guest?” the man, heimdall, calls after him even though he’s not that far away yet.

he’s not looking at you anymore, so he can’t see your confused face. you sense some tension.

loki spins around with a smile, too big to be real.

“better not,”

and then he’s walking again, leaving you behind, standing there looking all too small. accidentally— you hope.

you turn to the man with his beautiful gold eyes. he’s already looking at you, waiting for whatever he knows you’re about to say. your eyes dart to loki for a moment, meters ahead of you already, and you look at heimdall again with an apologetic face.

“thank you,” you say quickly with your strange chilled voice, and then, before he can respond, you’re running after loki.

he walks far faster than you do— curse his long legs — and it takes a moment to catch up. luckily, he stops when he notices you approaching.

his face is void of anything.

“bad blood?”

loki, stood in front of you, gives an unamused look at your words, then looks forward to the-

oh, wow.

if you’d thought the bifrost and the man were strange— this would be miles away. the sight in front of you has your jaw-dropping, your breath wavering off as you stare.

it’s bright, so bright, and gold gold gold. it looks like a place from a story, a fictional thing that people on earth could never dream of seeing. it’s so-

wow.

it would be embarrassing to burst into tears right here, wouldnt it?

loki seems to be thinking the same thing because he leans down to grab your hand, distracting you from your thoughts of sobbing.

“do you like it?” he wonders, nodding toward the castle, the gold, the colors. it’s all very overwhelming. beautiful.

“it’s very…” you cant stop staring, cant think long enough to finish.

your eyes are glued in front of you.

“very what?”

and to him.

his blue eyes are awaiting your response, and his hand soft and cold in yours.

“just very,” you whisper.

he rolls his eyes, breaking your lovestruck thoughts. bastard.

“that doesn’t make any sense, dear,” he chides, taking a few steps forward and pulling you with him. he ignores the scoff that follows his response.

you observe the sky, clearer than you’ve seen before, the mountains which you hadn’t expected, the buildings and the still-movement all of them are making.

it’s only takes a few more seconds for you to finally look down—

—and jump away from loki.

he’s looking over at you with curious eyes, wondering where you’ve gone, but you’re staring at the ground.

eyes wide, face shocked, wondering how in the nine realms you didn’t notice this earlier.

it’s a rainbow, yes, so how are you walking on it?

“am i going to die?” you blurt out, moving backward, not really looking where you’re going. all you know is that you need to get off this rainbow.

you cant believe loki wouldn’t have warned you before, cant believe that you’re still alive even now.

“darling-“ loki is calling, you don’t listen. “darling, darling—“ his voice gets louder, nearing you. “hey-“

he’s grabs your arm, pulling you to him, his breath against your face. his grip is stronger, but his voice is stronger “you’re only going to die if you fall off,”

it’s then you notice how close you were to the edge of the bridge.

oops.

you look up to loki, now rational enough to be still, and wince at his scowl. embarrassing mortal, you are.

“sorry,” you say and take a step back. the ground is firm beneath your feet. you probably should’ve noticed that before.

another eye roll.

okay, so maybe you definitely should’ve noticed that before. and— yup, loki is still glaring at you.

“i’m okay now,” you promise, smiling and taking a step closer to him. loki doesn’t relent, turning his head away.

you kiss his jaw anyway, loving the quirk of his lip you can just barely see out of the corner of your eye. he’s not a very sly god.

you peck up, until you can just barely meet the corner of his lips, and then he’s turning his head, meeting you halfway.

forgiven, then.

“you are absurd,” he says, his eyes so very kind, the antonym to his words. he runs two finger tips under your jaw and then looks away.

“sorry,” you repeat.

loki just laughs, moves the two of you closer to the middle of the ‘bridge’, giving you a pointed look. he’s never going to let that go.

then the two of you are walking, towards the castle, towards the gold, towards the beautiful place in front of you. you’re not sure how loki is so calm, how he can keep his eyes off of any of this for even a moment.

when you’ve almost reached the end, loki starts telling you about the bridge, about its prosperities, it’s history. he whispers things about the skyline in your ear and guides you toward the beautiful place.

it’s all very wonderful. peaceful, somehow, something you’d never thought you’d get to experience. especially not with him.

you’re almost there though, the buildings, the people, when you feel a cold blur cover you.

your clothes are gone, in their place, a blob of leather and cloth.

“loki,”

he doesn’t stop, moving ahead with your hand still in his. you notice his clothes, once a shirt and some jeans, now transformed into leather and more leather.

and… horns? gold horns?

appealing, yes. ridiculous, yes.

“your highness, almighty god, care to explain?”you call, after removing your hand from his, and crossing your arms. he’s not supposed to magic you without warning.

he doesn’t even attempt to look innocent, instead fiddling with the clothing at your waist— admiring it almost.

you huff.

“darling, you can’t except us to wear… that here, honestly. you’d be executed at the gate,” he waved a hand, completely ignoring your face.

dumb, cute, bastard god.

he tries to pull you again but you snap back. “nuh-uh, junior, you don’t make any sense,”

“i don’t make sense?” his amused eyebrow is not helping.

“explain,” you say, instead of elbowing him.

he sighs, throws his head back, rolls his eyes and looks up. all within two seconds. you might’ve appreciated it if he wasn’t being so convoluted.

he sighs again. “we’re trying not to draw any unwanted attention, darling, hence the clothes,”

you stare at him for a few moments, his impatient, ridiculous face.

and then “you’re literally wearing horns,”

“they’re comfortable,” he says, as if that’s any explanation at all.

“they’re horns,”

“custom fit” he says with a stupid prideful face. again, any other time it might’ve been endearing.

you look behind him, to the palace you cant wait to see, to the noises you can hear.

“…aren’t you like a prince here?”

“well, technically, darling-“

but you don’t let him finish, instead you take one step past him and interrupt. “also, you like— bask in attention all of the time. you practically live for it,” you continue to walk, expecting him to follow.

“i do not ba-“

“don’t try and deny it, loki, lying doesn’t look good on you.”

“i’m the god of lies,” loki huffs, and doesn’t utter another word. you’re sure he’s crossing his arms and pouting.

after a few moments of silence, you’re beginning to worry that you’ve actually hurt his feelings, but then he sighs again.

“shall i take them off?”

you roll your eyes at that, watching his hand go up to his head, stopping him with the gentle tap of yours

“no, love, then people won’t notice them,”

you walk forward, laughing to yourself when loki doesn’t follow. a part of you wants to look back to see the look on his face, but the other part doesn’t want to give him the satisfaction.

it doesn’t matter though because loki only pauses for a moment, and then he’s running to catch up to you and looking down upon you with a smirk.

“does that mean you like them, then?”

loki’s room is… unexpected.

you’d guessed about the rows of books, the dark colors, the large expanse of space. it wasn’t that hard to guess after you knew about his decorating skills.

but this… something about this is warm.

maybe it’s the large glass windows you hadn’t thought of, maybe it’s the light they bring in. maybe it’s the view of the bifrost, maybe it’s just some magic asgardian thing,

but still, you loved it from the moment you’d walked in.

it was him, you supposed, there wasnt much that could keep you from loving it.

still, loki’s tour of the room (big, yet smaller than you’d thought it would be) was your favorite part.

“this was my favorite dagger, before my mother gave me the one at home,” and “yes that is a trophy— no, darling, we dont need to talk about it-” and “you think thats funny but i spent most nights away from bed,” (you’d hit him for that one (( “sneaking!” he’d promised))

it was wonderful to hear about his childhood, no matter the grey-tinted glasses he looked at it through.

and now, standing at his library while he sits in the chair next to you, you cant stop smiling at the books you cant read.

“whats this one?”

“that one is illusion-casting,” he answers, and he has a book in his hand— another title you cant read —but the two of you both know that he hasnt looked away from you once.

“i should burn it,” you mutter, familiar with the name and the magic.

loki smirks, you refuse to look and see but he is, and sings out a quiet “ ‘fraid you’re a bit too late,”

“this one?” you demand, voice louder now. you ignore the snake slithering over your finger tips. he won’t win that fast.

“that one is a work of fiction,” he says, standing up to grab it from you. the snakes disappear in an instant. he flips it from the front to the back, studying it carefully. you’re sure you see him gulp before he says “its about frost giants.”

you’re familiar with that name too. and you know, you would’ve been able to see it even if you didnt, that its a bad reminder for loki. something about it is causing that dullness in his eyes.

“it is?” you whisper, moving closer to him to observe. you still cant read it, but something about the feel of his skin is comforting.

“its asgardian, obviously,” he looks up, closed off face. “not very pleasant,” he whispers to you.

his words send pricks down your heart.

you’d known this would happen when he’d invited you, stuttered out his invitation with his silk voice. you had guessed that too— that asgard held bad memories for him. that there was a reason, before maybe, he hadn’t wanted to come back.

until now, of course. he was excited to show you around.

still, there must be something to get that look off of his face.

you grab the book from his hands, placing it back on the shelf as carefully as possible. you move back, smile— slightly sad —on your face. loki is watching, but you’re not sure if hes really there.

so, you move closer, grab his hands before stepping into his chest.

you’re looking into his eyes when you ask “should i burn that one too?”

and he doesn’t move. he doesn’t breathe in or out. he just stands for a moment.

but you can see it— the twitch of his nose, the subtle change in his eyes. you can see the life return to his brows, the colors flooding his cheek.

you don’t mention the blue, the tint, the composure he’d lost. you won’t speak of it until he does.

and then, within another moment, with one sharp inhale of breath, loki’s smiling.

and it’s wonderful, it’s amazing, and you’re quick to return it. you hope it’s your words, hope that loki can already hear the unspoken ‘i accept you’ you’re sending to him.

you hope just this once that he’s reading your mind, that he knows how highly you think of him.

it takes one more second for loki to grab at your waist, to stare at your lips until he cant take it anymore and he— gently —claws at your face.

his lips are yours and his hands are running across your skin, across the clothes he’s made for you, all over until you’re breathing once again.

you want to pull back and look at the color of his eyes, but you don’t want to move. you cant move away from him now.

with gasps of breath, warming hands, loving eyes you can see when loki finally does pull back, the two of you are smiling.

at least, right now, you’re enough to shove away the memories.

“yes, darling,” he whispers with his lips centimeters from yours. “you should burn them all,”

you laugh and loki groans into the next kiss. he’s fast and slow and hard and soft and pulling away…

“we should burn them all,” he corrects, eyes attached to yours.

you scoff though, instead of returning his lovely look, and move away. “i quite like the look of some of these,”

“you cant even read them,” loki complains, reminds you with a smirk.

you glare at him, pulling out another book. he’s right next to you, leaning against the shelf and watching you with observant eyes.

“doesn’t mean i’m going to burn them all just to feed your pyromaniac tendencies,”

loki laughs, maybe at you, maybe at your words.

but still, when you look over to him again, you can’t help but laugh back.

“…if i married you, would we share the title of ‘the god of mischief’?”

it was a serious question.

loki’s reaction was not helpful in the slightest.

he’s sitting next to you, laughing— cackling at your words.

the two of you have been leaning against the bookshelf for a while now, not noticing the time that’s passed while you discuss, talk and read.

well, loki reads, you listen.

you been enjoying the stories he tells you, both his and others, enjoying the way his mouth moves when he reads, the way his eyes flick up to yours every couple of moments. the smile that lights up his face after those few seconds of eye contact.

you enjoyed his bursts of energy, the moments when he’s reminded of something and so he pauses the story and tells you something else instead.

you’ve enjoyed all of these hours on the floor.

and no, you’re not exactly sure how the subject has come up, but still.

the scowl on your face is not playful.

“that’s not really how it works, darling,” loki says in between the laughs he still can’t seem to keep in.

he’s got a hold of your hand, and so, with the maturity of the adult you are, you snatch it back.

it’s only then that he looks up with betrayal in his eyes. his lips quirk at the look on your face moments after.

bastard.

“fine,” you say with practiced ease. “i didn’t want to marry you anyway,”

without another look at his face, you stand up, sore from sitting on the floor for so long and stretch.

loki is quick to follow, turning your head to make you look him in the eyes.

“pardon, darling?”

your smile is malicious. “you didn’t hear me?”

loki quirks an eyebrow at you and moves your head down only slightly. he moves his hand against your forehead.

“are you sick, my dear?” he asks with all the fake curiosity he can muster.

hey wait— where did he even learn that?

he laughs again when you force his hand away.

“you’re infuriating,” you say, glaring at him.

loki smiles, charming once again, and leans down. “i am the god of mischief-“

“heard that one before-“

“-and i will share that title with you, if you’d like.”

and then, he’s across the room before you even get the chance to make another comment.

god— he’s so beautiful when he’s laughing at you.

“what do you think?” he asks, playing with your wrist in his delicate hands, moving your hand to his liking.

it’s been a long day, you think.

“about what?” you whisper back, teasing that smooth sensation on your tongue, feeling the weight of your eyelids.

his bed is wonderful. soft, silky. and even if the scent is slightly different— you can still tell it’s him.

“me,” loki murmurs. “here, this place, my home.”

he’s giving you options, you know, and still. there’s only one real answer.

it’s all been very disorienting. from the very moment, you stepped foot here, from the moment loki asked you to come. it’s been fast, and slow, and a blur of everything.

every moment has been scattered with confusion, and while happiness, excitement, and curiosity lay beneath that— it’s still the biggest thing.

it’s so different here, so strange, so sweet. loki is different here too— someone you don’t know, but recognize so well.

there’s so much to mention and just not enough words.

so, you don’t know what to say when he asks.

loki seems to notice, he’s looking in your eyes which are cast off to the side, and he can see the hesitation.

“if it’s bad, i’m sure we can find a memory loss spell,” he says.

you laugh and he delights in the sound. he keeps going.

“or we can go back down to midgard, and you can tell everyone i kidnapped you, and then you’ll never have to see me again.”

“technically, you did,” you say, looking at him, watching his facial expressions.

he laughs. “i did,”

theres a moment after hes done speaking, pure silence.

loki gives you a minute to think, traces the skin under your eyes while he waits. hes been paitent-- uncharacteristic -- and you still dont know what to say.

“i feel like i’m dreaming,” you blurt out, carefully watching for his reaction.

he doesnt answer, doesnt meet your eyes, only hums.

hes waiting for more you know.

you sigh. “i’ve been worried that i havent woken up all day- that you’re upset because i stood you up, and missed out on all of this.”

loki looks then, looks at you, looks closer.

“this is all so surreal, loki, so different.”

he smiles, and you’re not sure if its good or not. you’re both tired, you can tell, you’re both exhausted, you’re both drained from all the laughing, and you’re both so happy.

or, you hope he is. you know you are. how could you not be?

maybe you should tell him that, too.

“a bad sort of different?” loki asks before you can speak again. hes moving up, lifting his head from your stomach and moving to meet you, to hold you.

you’re smiling once again, a tired sort of smile.

“nothing different about you is bad,” you tell him, you whisper into his mouth when you move up to kiss him. you wrap your hands in his hair, pull him as close as possible.

its such a lazy kiss, but you cant help but think that its your favorite one of the day. you feel loki’s hand on your neck, feel him pull you in too.

you match each other, in breath, in movements, in whispers between kisses, in softness and warmth.

when you move back, when you look at him again, when your eyelids are falling but hes holding you up--

when you move back, you cant stop yourself from speaking again. “you dont think my different is bad, do you?”

its sort of a rhetorical question, but maybe its not. loki is going to answer, either way, you know.

“your different is perfect,” he confirms and pulls you in deeper once again. hes pulling you under the water, holding you up in the sky, making you feel so different here, so different in his bed, in his home, in his arms.

a perfect sort of different, you know. now, and then and forever, maybe.

“are you still dreaming?” loki asks when he pulls back. he says it like hes trying to prove to you that you arent. like hes trying to prove to you that this is real, that he is real.

“maybe,” you answer back, close-lipped smile on your face. “but, you know.”

loki stares, his head lifts up as he waits.

...and then you dont say anything. you’re just breathing, matching his stare.

“i don’t” he protests, a demand in its own way. softly, he kisses between your brows.

you smile, softer at his touch.

“i dont mind dreaming, as long as you’re here,”

maybe its not the answer he was expecting, or maybe its shocking, because the look he gives you is not what you were expecting.

you laugh and lay back against the pillows, knowing that he’ll follow, knowing that you’re both going to fall asleep like this and it’ll be perfectly okay.

you’re supposed to stay here for a while anyway, today was just a start.

loki, kisses you again, once more for now, desperate and hard and unlike the kisses from before.

its a blur of colors before he lets you go again, a blur of hope and excitement and wonder and every emotion he lends you.

you’re so tired, you know.

he whispers something in your ear, says your name again, calls you ‘darling’ for the last time that day.

it's a different kind of sleep. strange, shallow. in his arms, surrounded by these sheets that you’ve never felt before. surrounded by this place that you’ve never been. cuddled in the arms of someone you’ve always known.

perfect.

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